Return to Unit. Return to Unit.

RTU? That had me, so I sang it to a Novello tune 'RTU again whenever spring breaks through.' (Groans).

He blinked and made me sign a piece of paper that in as many words said, "We have tried to kill this man but failed."

"You will be ready by 0830 hours and take the unexpired portion of your day's rations."

Unexpired rations? The mind boggled. I started a series of farewells and looked deeply into the eyes of all the nurses with a look that said quite positively, "You're lucky I never screwed you," and they looked back with a smile that said, "When you've been promoted to Captain, knock three times." rations? The mind boggled. I started a series of farewells and looked deeply into the eyes of all the nurses with a look that said quite positively, "You're lucky I never screwed you," and they looked back with a smile that said, "When you've been promoted to Captain, knock three times."

OCTOBER 1, 1943.

It's a mixed day, a souffle of sun and cloud. Outside the 76th General a 3-tonner truck is waiting like a wagon at the Knacker's Yard. A short squat driver with a squint in his left eye 'finds' and calls our names out from a bit of tacky paper. "Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan?" General a 3-tonner truck is waiting like a wagon at the Knacker's Yard. A short squat driver with a squint in his left eye 'finds' and calls our names out from a bit of tacky paper. "Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan?"

"Yes, that's me," I said. "Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan."

He calls out the names of several more soldiers of the King, who at the sight of them would abidicate. I enquire where we are being taken.

"Corps Reinforcement Camp." He p.r.o.nounced the word 'Corpse'. An Omen.

We all climb over the back of the tailboard, there's no roof, only the supporting struts. So started a journey of much boredom. Come, let us start.

I look at the vacant stares of my travelling companions, all infantry men, they have my sympathy. We drove for half an hour, during which they never said a word.

"Like a f.a.g," I said to one.

"Ta," he says.

That's half his vocabulary gone, I thought. He was Irish. The roads are tired and dusty, tanks have ground away the surface, after half an hour we pa.s.s through Battapaglia.

"We're going South!" I said.

Still no sign of animation from my companions. The buildings we pa.s.s are all much like I originally described, the colours usually white, pale blue, deep blue, sometimes a light pink, cl.u.s.ters of shops, small one-man affairs, all looking pretty run down and shabby. There are goods for sale but none luxury. There's bread, vegetables, seasonal fruit, apples, walnuts, grapes, figs; 'Casa de Scarpa' show a poor variety of shoes, looking very pre-1939, what was I talking about? I I was a pre-1920 model myself. was a pre-1920 model myself.

What was I doing in this war? it's only three years old, I'm older older than the war! it's not fair! how can a three-year-old war understand a man of twenty-five? We are pa.s.sing fresh-painted army signs, Base Ordnance Depot, Town Major, REME Workshops, and what's this? VD Clinic? So soon? Isn't love a wonderful thing? What isn't a wonderful thing is sitting in this b.l.o.o.d.y lorry with seven Australo-pitheci. British PoWs didn't give information when tortured by the Gestapo because they didn't know how to talk. than the war! it's not fair! how can a three-year-old war understand a man of twenty-five? We are pa.s.sing fresh-painted army signs, Base Ordnance Depot, Town Major, REME Workshops, and what's this? VD Clinic? So soon? Isn't love a wonderful thing? What isn't a wonderful thing is sitting in this b.l.o.o.d.y lorry with seven Australo-pitheci. British PoWs didn't give information when tortured by the Gestapo because they didn't know how to talk.

"Dat town was called Battapaglia," said the Irishman.

The act of speaking five consecutive words so exhausted him, he laid down. We pa.s.s Italian Military Policemen, looking scruffy and unshaved; they were performing helpful tasks like guarding German PoWs, whose a.r.s.es they kicked in revenge, but they were getting weary of repeated insults from allied soldiers giving Fascist salutes with cries of "Mussolini-Spaghetti!" Suddenly the sky blackens, great thunder clouds congregate, the temperature lowers, spots of rain fall. The Irish soldier then makes an incredible prediction.

"I tink it's goin' ter rain."

Immediately a deluge started.

"See?" he triumphed.

With no cover, we sat huddled in our greatcoats.

"Are you alright in the back there?" came a voice from the cab.

"Come on in the water's lovely," I said.

The journey seemed endless. "Where in G.o.d's name are they taking us?"

"I tink," said the Mick, "dey are just querying us."

As quick as it started the rain stopped, the sun came out. Soon we were all steaming like wet laundry. At mid-day the lorry arrives at a field of tents, fronted by a farmhouse; there is a sign: Corps Reinforcement Unit. We are shown into the HQ office. A Corporal seated behind a desk: "Name? Number? Religion? Regiment?" He tells us, "You are here to await pick-up by your regiments."

"How long will that take?" I said.

He frowns. I've broken the code! "Well, I don't exactly know, so far no one has picked up anybody, we've only been 'ere for a week, so it will take a while for 'em to find the location. There are tented lines, two men to a bivvy. Part 2 Orders are posted on the board outside."

We walk along the line of muddy tents. I find an empty one. I see men walking rapidly with empty mess-tins; food! I follow. We arrive at a field kitchen. Food??!! Two slices of cold bully beef, a carrot, a boiled potato. A mug of tea, two biscuits. No mess tent, eat where you stand. I see an intelligent face, his shoulder flashes, HAMPS.* We get talking, name Arrowsmith, was on the landings, sh.e.l.l shock. He looks a little like Ronald Colman, slim, about five foot seven, intelligent, sensitive.

"It's simple arithmetic, the longer you are alive in action, the nearer you are to getting to your lot. You see, I think, I rationalise, and that way you see only too clearly your death approaching. If I go back to my mob, I'll never see Blighty again. I came ash.o.r.e with B Company. At the end of three days, me, the sergeant and one private were all that was left. We were given replacements; two days later, me and two of the new replacements are all that's left. I mean, it's on the cards; one night we are on patrol, we brush with a Jerry patrol, a grenade explodes on a tree next to my head, I don't remember any more till I wake up in an ambulance. The quack says it's concussion and I'll soon be alright. Alright? The c.u.n.t! He's talking about the outside! what about up in here? here?" He taps his head with his spoon, it sounded hard-boiled. "That's where it all happens, and inside me it says no go no go."

We go back to our tents.

"Can't sleep in this b.l.o.o.d.y thing," says Arrowsmith surveying his muddy bed.

I suggest we look around for a dry place.

"Dry?" He laughed.

"You don't know what Basenji means do you?"

"What?"

"Never mind." *2/4 Hampshire.

We squat in our tents, smoke and talk. At this Camp there was a morning roll-call at 7.00, breakfast from 7.30 to 8.30, then Parade at 9.00, the rest of the day you did what you could with a muddy field and two hundred tents. There was no transport, no entertainment, no money. The boredom was unbelievable. I mean, if a man sneezed, it was considered entertainment. The camp was about three hundred yards from Red Beach, Salerno. For the next three days Arrow-smith and I just foraged around, collecting walnuts and looking for war souvenirs. We had the occasional bathe, but the water was getting that first autumnal chill that made swimming nippy.

The Pioneer Corps were on the beaches collecting war salvage, all middle-aged men. We talked to them. Why did they join up?

"Anyfink ter git away from the bleedin' wife."

They are all old soldiers, some from World War 1, they are well organised. At lunch they light a fire on the beach, and are soon frying eggs and bacon.

"Like some grub?" says their Sergeant.

"Christ, yes," I said.

[image]

Salerno Beach. Soldiers treasure-hunting. 44 The Sergeant is a Londoner, he's about fifty, big, burly and used to be a fish porter at Billingsgate.

"I wos gettin' fed up, so I fort, 'ave a go in the Pioneer Corps. When they knowed I bin a sergeant in World Woer I, they makes me a sergeant right away, so strite on I'm orl rite fer lolly."

He tells us about the 'perks'.

"The CO 'e says, go orf and get some salvage, so we takes a day's rations, bully bread cheese an' all that, we p.i.s.s orf somewhere and swop the bully and cheese fer Iti eggs or chickens, an' we live like fightin' c.o.c.ks, but,", he giggled, "we don't do no fitin'."

For two days we met them on the beach and gave them a hand picking up empty ammo boxes, sh.e.l.l cases, and were rewarded with marvellous grub; the last day they brought three bottles of white Chianti, we got back to the Camp that evening very merry. We had also solved sleeping in the mud. Three hundred yards east of our camp in a field, I spotted a small hut on legs; these are apparently farmhands' resting places during the hot harvesting season, made of straw, with wooden slats for the supporting skeleton. It was lovely! dry and warm. We slept very cosy that night.

But all good things come to an end, in this case a cigarette end; we set fire to the place. The glow drew the attention of the enraged farmer and we had to grab our belongings and, wearing only our socks and shirt, run like h.e.l.l for the camp. We were stopped by the sentry, who had us taken to the guard room. The guard Sergeant asked what we were doing 'runnin' round half b.l.o.o.d.y naked'.

"Our gra.s.s hut caught fire," explained Arrowsmith.

I couldn't speak for suppressed laughter.

"What gra.s.s 'ut?" says the Sergeant.

We had to tell the story and he put us on a charge for absenting ourselves from the camp. Next morning he forgot all about it. Well, not exactly, during the night he was convulsed with terrible pains in his side, he had a perforated appendix and was hurried to the hospital, so next morning I presume he had forgotten us. The subsequent guard commander said, "p.i.s.s off." The boredom was getting me down. One grey morning I asked to see the OC.

"What for?" said the Corporal.

"It's about Basenji."

"Wait here."

He knocked on a door. A very crisp voice shouted, "Come in."

Opening the door the Corporal said, "There's a Lance-Bombardier Mirrigan wishes to see you, sir."

I was ushered in. The OC was a Major. He was a bright red. He wore his hat. Under a bulbous nose was a pepper and salt cavalry moustache. His chin was a ma.s.s of small broken veins, he blinked at twice the normal rate, and from time to time sniffed what was a running nose. He would be somewhere between thirty-eight and ninety-seven, it was hard to tell. He was writing an aerograph letter which, on my approach, he hurriedly covered with a blotter. Silly sod.

"What do you want?" he said curtly.

"This will come as a surprise to you, sir, but what I want is a job."

He looked at me, blinked and sniffed.

"A job?" He stressed the word and said it again. "Job?"

"Yes, sir."

"Being a soldier is is a job." a job."

"Well, I want a job on top of that job."

"What kind of a job?"

"Any kind, sir, it's the boredom here, it's driving me mad." kind, sir, it's the boredom here, it's driving me mad."

"You think you're alone? What's your army trade?"

"Wireless operator."

"Well, I'm sorry we don't have a wireless set for you to play on-"

"Any job, sir, otherwise I will desert."

"Desert? Look, go to the Q stores, see Bombardier Logan, tell him the Major says you are to help him."

I saluted and left him to his aerograph. As I closed the door behind me, I heard him give a gigantic sneeze and say, "b.u.g.g.e.r!"

Bombardier Logan turned out to be a Scot; he didn't have a face, just an area under his hat. His eyes, mouth and nose were all in conflict as to who should be in the centre. It turns out he was an ex-boxer. By the look of his face, every punch had got through. His ears were mangled fragments of gristle and skin. He was partially deaf, but then he was only partially human. He was from Glasgow, and spoke with an accent no one understood, not even himself. He walked stooping forward, his arms hanging ape-like, a square head with real corners on it.

From eight in the morning to eight at night I worked. There was nothing else to do, if there had been I'd have done it. He took pity on me and said, "Ye karn harve some T chaists tae mak yer sael a baed." ("You can have some tea chests to make yourself a bed.") He permitted me to sleep in the same room. It was dry and had three hurricane lamps in, so at least one could read in bed. Having nothing to read didn't help. By day he talked to himself in Scots gutteral-interspersed with s.n.a.t.c.hes of Scottish folk songs-it nearly drove me insane.

The Scotts have taught the bagpipes to the Canadians, the Australians, the Indians, the Gurkhas, the South Africans, the Rhodesians; even the Chinese! they've got a lot to answer for. This Bombardier couldn't converse-saying h.e.l.lo to him had him completely baffled. Every night he regaled me with stories of his boxing prowess. He'd had two hundred fights. I asked him how many he'd won, he said "Seven." He showed me a picture of his wife. She looked like she'd had two hundred fights as well; she had-with him. What he really needed was a head transplant.

Suddenly, with no warning we have to move. A back-breaking twenty-four hours loading stores on to lorries, again in the pouring rain. The Major (his name escapes me, but I think it was Castle) must have felt pity, for as the Bombardier and I sat in the empty storeroom, soaked, he brought in a bottle of whisky, and poured a liberal amount into our tea mugs.

"You've worked very well, Millington, I appreciate it, it's been a b.l.o.o.d.y hard boring time setting up this unit, we've had b.u.g.g.e.r all co-operation, all the stores, etc., have all been rushed up to the front lines, that's why the food's been so b.l.o.o.d.y awful, but this place we're moving to, things will be much better."

Well, that was nice. First comforting words I had had for weeks. Before he left he said, "Before we leave tomorrow, any questions?"

"Yes sir," I said. "What's Basenji?"

He frowned. Walked back a few paces towards me. "What's what?"

"Basenji, sir, what's it mean?"

"I've no idea...is it an Italian word?"

"I don't know, sir."

He stood a while, then turned and left in silence. The Scottish Bombardier drained his mug. "It's an Afrrrrrican dog," he said.

"What is?"

"Basenji...it's an Afrrrrican Dorg...it can nay bark."

My G.o.d...he knew what Basenji meant! "How did you know?" I said, desperate to find out. knew what Basenji meant! "How did you know?" I said, desperate to find out.

"I wus bitten by one in South Afrrica."

"Where?"

"I tod yer, South Afrrrrica."