Part 30 (2/2)
”I swear on the Pope's legs I have not touched the bugle all day.”
I slept soundly that night.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 6, 1944.
ON THE JOB AT 8.15. BITTER COLD. THROUGH THE BUSHES MASKING OUR POSITIONS WE CAN SEE THE SNOW ON THE HILLS ACROSS THE GARIGLIANO.
We were supposed to dig a Command Post, but No! No, we find a super cave right near the gun positions. So, instead we have to dig a cookhouse; this took most of the day. We dug into a bank under the supervision (Super?) of Vic Nash. There is nothing so invigorating as an ex-Old Kent Road pastry cook tellin' you how to dig a hole.
Hands and feet are freezing, the only way to get them warm is dig. By five o'clock it was too dark to see. We returned to the billet and luxurated in the warmth inside provided by an old Italian device, a large stone the size of a millstone, with a countersunk hole in the middle filled with charcoal, that burnt brightly with a minimum of smoke. It was all very quiet here, but at night we hear how close our infantry were by the night exchanges of machine-gun fire, just over the brow of a hillock behind us. At night we would hear the grumble of vehicles bringing supplies for the 'build up', and a sound that always made me feel ill, infantry men coming up the line, the unending trudge of what sounded like hollow boots and the occasional clank or clink of some metal equipment, and most distinctive, that ring of an empty metal tea mug. I used to wonder how in G.o.d's name the High Command could keep the movement of a quarter of a million men secret...I always had the feeling that Hitler knew exactly where I was all the time.
On this the coldest day of the year, we hear that bitter fighting is going on for Vittori, and we are now only five miles from Ca.s.sino.
The days that followed were all the same, digging. To speed up the process more gunners arrive to dig at night! Mail is slow in coming up here owing to the traffic congestion and the one-way road system.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 7, 1944.
What's this mess approaching at dawn. It's a fully s.h.a.gged-out Gunner answering to the name Edgington. ”Arggggggggggg,” he collapses into our billet. ”What a b.l.o.o.d.y caper...up at four o' bleedin' clock, half a mug of cold tea, a spoonful of egg powder and now this bleedin' c.r.a.p hole.” He drops his kit.
”Welcome home, young ma.s.sa,” I said. ”De plantation ain't bin de same widout you.”
”Ohhhhhh,” he groaned as he fossicked in his pockets for f.a.gs. Seeing him nigh to death my heart was sore afraid, so I scrounged an extra mug of tea, then sat him on his big pack. ”Now tell mummy, was there a rude boy at school today?”
”I refuse to be cheered up,” he said. ”There'll be no smiling Harry till about mid-day.”
”No? let me help you keep that way-there's b.l.o.o.d.y great holes in the ground to be dug, and you you have to dig 'em in the crippled position otherwise Jerry can see you.” have to dig 'em in the crippled position otherwise Jerry can see you.”
He is soon with shovel, and the wind whistleth through the seams in his underpants, and he liketh it not. A young Italian boy from the village came up and did some digging for us-as a mark of apprecation we gave him a few V cigarettes that would stunt his growth. We get a visit from the village barber; in an immaculate white jacket, he cut the hair of the entire mob. He was very thorough, snapping hairs in ears and noses. He went away, his pockets bulging.
”It's mad,” said Edgington, ”paying for something you don't want.”
Captain Sullivan comes up to poke around. ”Mmm-yes,” he said. ”Was it worth the journey?”
JANUARY 8, 1944.
MY DIARY: MY DIARY: WEATHER WARMER. DIGGING. WEATHER WARMER. DIGGING.
JANUARY 9, 1944.
MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING AND SWEARING. DIGGING AND SWEARING.
JANUARY 10, 1944.
MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING AND SWEARING. DIGGING AND SWEARING.
JANUARY 11, 1944.
MY DIARY: MY DIARY: DIGGING FINISHED. SWEARING STOPS. DIGGING FINISHED. SWEARING STOPS.
At last. We could relax, but still all movement had to be minimal and carried out under cover. Nash used to hold a piece of cardboard over his head. He was desperate for an officer to ask why, but it never came to pa.s.s. One fine morning he says, ”I must have a look at Jerry's lines. It's a nice clear day, the view ought to be good.”
He was right, the view was so good he got a Jerry bullet over his head, and a terrible telling off from Sgt. Jock Wilson.
”You want tae giv awa' oer position? You stoopid little c.o.c.kney c.u.n.t!”
We had done all the digging and were now to excavate our own G truck billet. Down a small bank we find an ideal spot, and start to dig. We make it almost a room-size excavation, we roof it with corrugated iron, prop it up with poles, some canvas to waterproof it, a camouflage net on top along with dressing of bushes and branches. With loving care I I tunnelled out a large chimney, and had a fire going to dry out the interior. Edgington's sketch shows the method of excavation at that site, and my drawing shows the finished job. What I needed for a bed was a good piece of wood. Now, Gunner Nash had mentioned a ruined church across the road. tunnelled out a large chimney, and had a fire going to dry out the interior. Edgington's sketch shows the method of excavation at that site, and my drawing shows the finished job. What I needed for a bed was a good piece of wood. Now, Gunner Nash had mentioned a ruined church across the road.
”There's catacombs, you can see 'em through the floor.” Yes indeed, Nash saw Milligan disappear down that hole; soon hurling upwards were numerous bones, skulls, rocks, etc. as I searched for a coffin lid. Eureka! I got three, and soon I was lying on it in grand style; the others I gave to Deans, and one to the telephone exchange for the duty signaller to lean against.
[image]
Method of digging a dug-out
JANUARY 12, 1944.
Troops in front of us are our old friends the Berks.h.i.+res and a new mob, The London Scottish. Heard ITMA on Radio this evening. Corny b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Heard Henry Hall, corny b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Have laid in a good supply of firewood. Made two more oil lamps, now in niches inside of our dug-out. Knocked off drum of Derv Oil from parked lorry. Enough to last us a month. Swopped soapy cigarettes with Italians in exchange for eggs. Had a marvellous evening meal, boiled the eggs and floated them in our beef stew and potatoes, ate it sitting on my coffin lid. I gazed long in the fire, and listened to Deans holding forth about the war! ”It must must end soon,” he says. end soon,” he says.
”Why?”
”Because I want want it to.” it to.”
”If wanting wanting to is going to end it, I wanted it to end the day before I b.l.o.o.d.y joined.” to is going to end it, I wanted it to end the day before I b.l.o.o.d.y joined.”
”I'll tell you when it's going to end,” said Fildes in between mouthfuls. ”When we've flattened every German city and every German, that's the way it will end.”
”I think he's going to lose, but we can't afford to let up here, he knows he's going to go on retreating, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.d only wants revenge in the form of our blood. The blokes running their war would rather burn Germany to the ground than surrender, they'll only surrender when they have to, and that goes for those little yellow f.u.c.king creeps the j.a.ps.”
”Oh Christ,” said Deans. ”I'd forgotten about them, it'll be just our b.l.o.o.d.y luck, when we've finished Jerry off, we'll be s.h.i.+pped off to the b.l.o.o.d.y jungles...it's never going to end.”
Down on the plain there is a burst of MG fire, trained ears recognise it as Jerry's, there's response from tommy guns, two patrols have clashed, life and death, more shooting, and I slide another spoonful of dinner in. I really can't get it all together, us dining, them dying...A head pokes through the black-out, it's gambling-mad Bombardier Marsden.
”Pontoon?”
”p.i.s.s off,” we said.
<script>