LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig No	Caption	End of Chapter
[1]	No 19 Wireless Set (From Official Operating Manual)	2
[2]	Mailed Fist Emblem of the 6^th Armoured Division	3
[3]	Sketch of Constantine by Lord Tedder	3
[4]	Anti-tank and Tank a) M10 Self Propelled Anti-tank gun b) M4 Sherman Tank	3
[5]	Gun in Harbour with Canvas Lean to.	3
[6]	Track Changing	3
[7]	Sketch from Deck of the Ascania at Bone	3
[8]	Sketch from Inside of Tent at Piedimonte d'Alife	4
[9]	Sketch Made During Heavy Shelling at Cassino	5
[10]	Some Comrades in Arms a) Sergeant Bert Spanswick in front of No1 gun (Bedford) b) Arthur Lee and Wife Doris (taken about 1955) c) Harry Coppins (Lieutenant Tug Wilson's driver)	7
[11]	Map of the Campaign of the 6^th Armoured Division in Italy	7
[12]	Photographs Taken at the 10^th Convalescent Depot in Rome a) Fred Chappell (on left) and myself with a trooper from a tank regiment (name not now known) b) Me	14
[13]	1997 Press Cutting about Footballer Tom Finney	15
[14]	Impression of Bridge in Scarperia Pass	16
[15]	Whip Track a) Photographs from Near Fontanelice b) Clearing Snow from Whip Track: A Contemporary Sketch	17
[16]	Wireless Messages as Recorded by Me in Gun a) 18^th and 20^th April 1945 b) 22^nd April 1945	20
[17]	Guns on Tank Transporters (Sketch from Memory 20 years after)	21
[18]	End of War Thanksgiving Cover of 8^th Army Order of Service with Divisional and Corps Emblems	21
[19]	Photographs of Horses at Bleiburg a) Horse Troop in Front of Stables b) Me on Sandy	24
[20]	Copy of Last Page of my own Release Book	27
[21]	Sketches from O2E Gazette (by me) a) Reception b) From Alamein Camp to Dover c) Soldier to Civilian	28
[22]	Sample Clothing and Equipment Record a) Form H1157 page 1 b) Form H1157 page 2	Tailpiece
[23]	Action at Bondeno:Map	Postscript

PREFACE

The title of these memoirs refers to my wartime self as an “unknown soldier". This expresses my strong sense that those long ago days were so totally different from the rest of my life that they were experienced by someone else. Although the account was written some 20 years after the war, it is based on notes made at the time. I should add moreover that the drama of the events had such an impact that my memory of them and of my thoughts and emotions remains surprisingly clear even to this day.

It may be helpful to mention here that prior to my time overseas described in the following pages, I served for about a year in England during which I was trained as an artillery signaller. I was in fact called up to the army 4 months after leaving school, aged 19, in July 1942 and enlisted at Milton Barracks Gravesend on the 3rd of December of that year, where I underwent 6 weeks of basic infantry training. I was then posted to the 37th Signal training Regiment, Royal Artillery at Burniston Barracks in Scarborough for 6 months and thence after 6 weeks in an artillery regiment at Alford in Lincolnshire, to the Royal Artillery Grand Depot in Woolwich where the story begins.

N.H. 1997

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The level of interest in the original edition of this book prompted the printing of this second edition in which the opportunity has been taken to include the following new material:

Figure 15a

Some photographs from Fontanelice

(Courtesy of Signora Maria Monti)

POSTSCRIPT

An account of a tank action at Bondeno reproduced from the regimental history of the Lothians and Border Horse.

(Courtesy of Mr Kevin Fitzsimons)

N.H. 2004

1. VOYAGE INTO THE UNKNOWN

It all happened 20 years ago. To look back to those times is a strange and wistful feeling. Once it was a great adventure which stirred the imagination as it beckoned from a mysterious future. Then as I moved through those eventful years into a long unknown it was so intensely real. And now that reality can only be seen from a distance ; nothing can ever bring it closer. But that very distance casts for me a powerful spell. Some moments are remembered with such sharpness that it hurts to see how clear they are but how far away. Such a moment occurred on the 11th of November 1943. I was a young artillery man in a crowded mess hall at Woolwich barracks. It was the eve of our departure for an unknown port of embarkation. A mixture of brooding and noisy singing betrayed the nervous excitement of those present. Strange fancies of high seas and battles in far off lands mingled with thoughts of parting beneath the mock normality of a rousing song ('Roll me over in the Clover') which I can still hear ringing across the years from yesterday. A few stirred by the power of the moment stood on the tables and led the singing. It was this that imprinted the scene on my memory.

It was dark when we picked up our kit to march as draft serial REOFY to the station. Nobody sang as we swung through the almost deserted streets. We gave way to our thoughts. At each end of the column a lantern was carried. Those swinging lanterns I can also still see. The journey into active service abroad had begun. As I look back I know what lay ahead. Then I could not know. We didn’t even know the port of embarkation let alone the destination overseas. A few days ago we had drawn tropical kit from the stores but without sun helmets. The previous draft had been given sun helmets and rumour said they were bound for India.

Somehow I could not quite take in the idea that I could actually be about to voyage into such distant lands almost certainly to be launched into the grim realities of front line service in a foreign field. This idea was so completely outside all my experience that I could only think of it with a vague tingling of excitement. But I remember that I was keenly aware that a sudden and inexorable change was about to take place in my life. That overnight the past twenty years would be left behind. Until a year ago school days and home life were the sum total of my existence. This life and all its familiar haunts was about to vanish for a time which stretched unpredictably ahead into the distance.

We boarded a special train which threaded its way by a devious route round to the main line to Glasgow. I remember little of the journey north except the last bit. It must have been near midnight as the train rolled along the banks of the Clyde and at this point my memory becomes quite clear again. I can still see the faces peering from the back windows of houses and waving, wishing luck to the boys on their way to the war. I thought of all the films I had seen with train loads of troops on their way to the front and felt vaguely heroic. As we approached Greenock we could see a convoy of ships standing far out in the Clyde and I felt an extraordinary excitement at the prospect of boarding a troopship. For months with endless delays I had known that I was due for embarkation but had never quite digested that it would actually happen. I had visions of long and boring formalities and even remembered stories of troops turned back at the last minute. But it all happened very quickly. The train pulled into a small station adjoining a quay. We lined up on the platform, picked up our kit and marched onto a waiting tender which was soon steaming out to one of the troopships. From the deck of the tender the Cameronian towering above us as she rode at anchor was an imposing sight. I was filled in that moment with a powerful sense of the drama that was beginning.

On board, wandering through a maze of passageways, clambering down steep ladders into a crowded stuffy hold I still remember clearly how suddenly I felt lonely and trapped, perhaps a little frightened as the reality of the situation replaced the glamour and heroism.

The oppressiveness and sense of claustrophobia as I found myself like a sardine among 300 others in the same hold was aggravated by the fact that the ventilation was not yet working. Confusion reigned. I could not think of sleeping though it was 3 o’clock in the morning. I wondered when we would get our next meal and when our life would begin to find some sort of pattern. Were we to be left to work out our own existence in this sweaty chaos?

The precise sequence of our shipboard life is no longer so sharply imprinted on my memory. I content myself with recording some of the impressions and events which have survived.

It must have been at quite an early stage, maybe even during the first memorable night that the loudspeaker system announced our destination which was Philippeville, a port in French North Africa. This caused a buzz of speculation about what might be in store for us. At this time the fighting in North Africa had ended and the Italian campaign was well under way. Fierce battles were raging round the monastery of Monte Cassino which the Germans had established as a crucial stronghold. So it seemed that we must be bound for some North African reinforcement camp in which to be prepared for despatch to units at the front in Italy.

I believe it was on the same occasion that we were issued with letter forms and told we could write home ( subject to censorship) to say that we were going abroad but not to mention our destination. I can remember how the writing of this letter caused a new and stark awareness of what I was leaving behind without any idea of returning. At this time the adventure had no foreseeable ending and it did not even occur to me to think about the chances of coming back. The prospect of the voyage to North Africa and what might await us there fired my imagination sufficiently however to dispel much of the nostalgia and homesickness.

But this mood of expectancy was considerably frustrated when we discovered that we were to remain in the Clyde for several days before beginning our voyage. We lay at anchor in fact for four days feeling like prisoners in our crowded and uncomfortable quarters. Throughout this tedious period of waiting the ventilating fans were still not working and the atmosphere was almost unbearable.

During the whole of our period on board, our daily routine consisted of 3 meals and 2 boat drills. The drills involved mustering all troops at boat stations on deck, once in the morning and once in the afternoon. Each muster was a parade in which a roll was called and an inspection made of life jackets, emergency rations and other regulation equipment. The opportunity was also taken to make sundry announcements and give briefing on emergency drills. It was compulsory to wear great coats on these drills since, as we were informed, death due to exposure was a greater danger than drowning. Because of the large number of men involved in these drills they usually occupied most of the morning and afternoon and during this time every inch of deck space was packed with troops standing patiently sometimes singing, mostly just waiting.

The remainder of the day was spent down in our stuffy hold or waiting in interminable queues for rations or washing facilities. At meal times we sat at our tables so tightly crowded that we could not put our arms at our sides but had to hold them awkwardly in front of us.

In the evenings preparations for bed began early as there was not much else to do and it was important to stake a claim to a sleeping space in good time. At this point the crowding became most acute. The entire hold space was criss crossed with interlocking hammocks slung from specially provided bars. Every inch of floor and table space was also covered with sleeping bodies.

Most evenings however I was grateful to discover that it was possible to steal up on deck for a short time and to find myself surprisingly usually almost alone on these occasions. These brief escapes into the clear night air were greatly cherished and are among my most vivid memories of the voyage. While we were in the Clyde it was strangely tantalizing to look across to that homeland aware that soon I was to leave it. On one occasion I remember that I watched a signal lamp winking in the distance and being a trained signaller was able to read a message about a mine laying exercise to be conducted that night.

Then at last one morning we awoke to find ourselves well out to sea with no land in sight. We were informed that we were heading for a rendezvous with the rest of the convoy (presumably from Liverpool) somewhere northwest of Ireland. On all sides, other ships could be seen steaming at about 12 knots with a destroyer escort weaving in and out at much greater speed.

During the first day the sea was rough enough to cause widespread seasickness and in the crowded conditions the results were pretty repulsive. I was rather proud to be one of the few unaffected but earned only the doubtful reward of having to help clean up the mess. Emptying buckets through the sluices nearly overcame my resistance!

After the rendezvous we plodded out to the Atlantic on some devious course no doubt designed to evade enemy submarines. We could not know just what route we did take but I suppose we must have sailed quite far west towards Canada as it took about 10 days before we reached Gibraltar which we appeared to approach from the south west.

Those ten days were all much like each other. Boat drills twice a day, eating and sleeping in cramped quarters, queuing endlessly for rations, washing etc, other ships on all sides, destroyers weaving in and out. Each evening I made a brief escape to lean over the rail watching the foam swirl past and thinking of the future. Was it in the Mediterranean only or in the Atlantic too that I saw with fascination a glowing green phosphorescence twinkling in the waters of the bow wave?

From the time of reaching Gibraltar my memory is more vivid. As we approached it the loudspeakers announced our position and informed us that there would be no further practice drills; any further alarms would be the real thing.

We slipped through the straits at night and I remember watching a beacon flash the letters GR in Morse from the direction of the rock whose outline was dimly visible. In the direction of Africa the flickering lights of a town were visible. There appeared to be no ‘black out’ and the movement of traffic could be seen. From the sea it rather resembled the dancing of fireflies, a sight with which I was to become familiar in Italy.

As I watched it occurred to me to wonder what sinister eyes were watching the passage of our convoy which surely must have been visible from both shores. That night I specially remember watching some phosphorescence and some fish weaving along close to our bow.

Next day we were in the Mediterranean which was green and rather rough, the roughest part of the voyage in fact; not at all the way I had pictured the Mediterranean. The coast of Africa remained visible in the distance so our destination must have been getting near.

I think it was early that afternoon that the alarm system sounded ‘Action Stations’ and we knew that some real attack or danger was imminent. There was perhaps a little more than the usual bustle as the much practised drill was enacted. In our hold we had merely to sit with great coats and full equipment including life jackets at our mess tables. Some units had to go up on deck and man anti-aircraft guns and we could hear them clambering up the narrow stairways.

It wasn’t long before the sound of gunfire could be heard and occasionally some heavier explosions, bombs or depth charges maybe. At first there was an uneasy tension. It was frustrating not to be able to see what was happening and faintly disturbing to realise that we were all shut in below the waterline.

There was much noisy talk and presently an enterprising bombardier persuaded someone to play a trumpet and led some singing. I suppose it must have lasted an hour or two during which suspense and a trapped feeling lurked behind the singing, interrupted from time to time by a more than usually heavy explosion. There was one which made the whole ship shudder.

When it was all over, a short account of the action was given over the loudspeaker. We had been attacked by 8 or 9 German aircraft (Focke-Wulfs) using a new type of radio controlled bomb and one ship of the convoy had been sunk. One of the aircraft had been shot down by a gunner on our ship. Later we spoke to some of our men who had manned the guns and seen the whole action and were told that other aircraft were also shot down by fighters.

Late that evening we reached our destination, Philippeville and stood at anchor outside the harbour through the night. Very conscious that the enemy must now know our position we felt rather anxious especially when we observed that Philippeville was without any blackout.

But all was quiet and next morning I was early on deck to be greeted by the pleasing freshness of the sea air so welcome after the stuffy hold and eager for my first clear view of a North African town. It was indeed a fine spectacle with a colourful vista of white buildings, red rooves and the gold speckled green of orange groves.

The Cameronian lay just outside the harbour bar wallowing peacefully at anchor, the throb of the engines stilled at last. The rest of the convoy had left us except for a majestic 2 funnelled ship called the Duchess of Bedford which as I looked was just steaming slowly through the harbour entrance, her rails thronged with soldiery ready to disembark.

Shipboard routine continued as usual that morning until we weighed anchor and began also to head round towards the harbour entrance. Conscious that this was an historic moment I joined the crowd of craning necks and climbed up one of the davits to a point of vantage. It was a most exhilarating experience to be among the throng of eager faces that looked down from the decks of the Cameronian as she steamed proudly into Philippeville harbour.

At this moment the loudspeaker system began to announce the order of debarkation which consisted of a long sequence of serial letter codes each referring to a particular draft of men. Somewhere in the middle came the letters of my draft, REOFY which was to stay on board till the following day. (I still clearly remember those code letters which remained stencilled in large white letters on my kit bag for many years afterwards.

It was not long before we were made fast alongside a quay which lay rather far below the deck on which I stood. I watched with fascination as the disembarkation began. First to go ashore was a draft of Royal Armoured Corps. Heavily laden with full equipment and kit bags on shoulders they looked precarious threading their way down the long steep and narrow gangway hanging down the ship’s side. Some wisely allowed their kit bags to be thrown down onto the quay leaving their hands free to steady themselves.

The operation was smoothly organised and the stream of men in full faultless battle order, like so many toy soldiers, seemed never ending. Each draft as it was completed formed up and marched along the quay into the town. As I watched squad after squad march contentedly away, perfect and complete fighting units, as yet untried, I wondered where they would all end, how many would return to England and when. And for myself what adventure lay ahead? I was filled with curiosity and anticipation. It is so strange to remember that at that time all the memories which now follow had not yet happened.

2. CHATEAUDUN

While the Cameronian disgorged these toy soldiers, the Duchess of Bedford was being loaded. She was a fine looking ship with funnels and superstructure towering over the dingy warehouse under the stern. She was preparing to ferry troops over to Italy.

On Philippeville station next day I talked to some of these troops. Most of them had just come from an artillery depot far up in the mountains called Chateaudun. Some were making their way back from hospital; others had landed in Philippeville about two weeks before from England and were now on their way to join units in Italy. I began to think perhaps it would not be long before I too was on my way and had visions of returning in another fortnights time to embark on a troopship Naples bound.

From my conversations I gathered that Chateaudun was a pretty desolate place and my impatience to be finished with these tedious preliminaries and join a fighting unit was renewed. If I could have foreseen the 10 dreary weeks I was to stay in Chateaudun I would have despaired.

The first day on Philippeville station was a foretaste of the frustrations in store. Our train consisting entirely of cattle trucks was already waiting in the station due to leave in about an hour but the engine was being repaired and indefinite delay was forecast.

The morning passed. Time dragged in spite of entertainment provided by the native fruit hawkers in their exotic robes so strange to my eyes. The corner of the station nearest the town was full of life; noisy haggling for tangerines and the skins littering the ground; occasional angry scenes when offers were rebuffed. Small but aggressive native boys pressed shoeshines on reluctant troops and shouted obscene English phrases. Perhaps they did not know what they meant.

Afternoon came but still no engine. We collected scraps of wood and did some cooking; a drop of tea and some tinned stew. I wondered if life in French North Africa was always so vague and primitive. Everyone seemed quite resigned to the complete uncertainty and makeshift nature of the transport arrangements.

The train finally pulled out of Philippeville as twilight fell. As the cattle truck into which I had been herded lumbered roughly into the African night my mind lapsed into weird speculations, still trying to digest the fact that after all the long waiting I was now finally serving on foreign soil. It quickly became dark and I could not distinguish the passing scenery but that only strengthened the vivid impression of mystery still cloaking my image of the ‘dark continent’. At first I sat with my legs dangling out of an open door drinking in the magic of the night air, and this was one of those sharply remembered moments, almost as clear as yesterday but so long ago. Later we arranged ourselves for sleep as best we could among the piles of baggage.

In the small hours of the morning I woke to find the train had stopped and it was now bitterly cold. Boots and elbows enclosed me on all sides. Harsh reality replaced the dreamlike qualities of the day before. Then with a jerk the train began to rattle and rumble its way up into the Atlas mountains and I dozed fitfully.

When we finally reached Chateaudun at about 6 o’clock in the morning, my legs were numb and weak as I staggered out of the truck. The scene which met our gaze was like some weird projection of the fantastic imaginings of the night before. We saw an other worldly expanse of scrub and cactus clad rock and dust which could have been a moonscape, especially striking in the eerie light of breaking day. The whole atmosphere was dreamlike again but very vivid. As we waited for transport to fetch us we inspected our surroundings and from this time I still carry a fleeting memory of an American soldier sitting on top of a fuel train smoking a cigarette! As I watched he leant into the open hatch of a tanker with his cigarette dangling from his mouth to fill his lighter.

At about 9 o’clock, transport arrived and we trundled across the barren surreal landscape for about 8 miles until we saw a tented camp sprawled across a dusty plateau engulfed in the dusty peaks of the Atlas mountains. This was our destination, the ‘Royal Artillery Transit Depot (RATD) known as Chateaudun, though Chateaudun was in fact the name of the nearest town about 12 miles from the camp. By the time we arrived, the sun had ‘clicked’ over the horizon with disconcerting suddenness and it was now uncomfortably warm.

At the camp, the routine of checking in was the same as in any army station at home or in the remotest outpost. Number, rank, name, religion, civil occupation to be recited, kit checks to be endured and finally heavy kit bags lugged to our quarters which were in this case 160 pounder tents..

In those first days, Chateaudun was for me seen only as a stepping stone towards the reality of war. It fitted quite well my picture of a reinforcement camp and I was deeply impressed by numerous signs and symbols marking the imprint of the 8th army already a name filled with the glamour of its great victory at the battle of El Alamein. The army emblem was a yellow cross on a white shield with a black background and this was to be seen on shoulder badges, trucks and signboards on all sides and also on the shields of a number of 25 pounder guns standing as mute reminders of desert battles whose names were inscribed on them. I was tremendously stirred by all this and wondered whether I should presently be drafted into this historic army.

My curiosity about this was heightened as I mingled with many 8th army soldiers awaiting to return to their units at the front in Italy. No doubt there was much bravado in their talk about life in action but gradually I began to piece together a picture of how it might be. In spite of their lurid stories, most were anxious to return to Italy, to escape the desperate, impersonal boredom of the transit camp and rejoin the comradeship of their units. They admitted however that it was restful to be free from the constant sense of danger, not always alert for the sound of approaching shells.

For the first week we lived a carefree life. Inevitably in such a camp with so many miscellaneous troops passing through, discipline was slack. Parades were almost optional and meal times vague. My chief memory of this time is queuing in the crowded canteens for meals and for tea and cakes or of lounging in the sun. We went to bed early as lights were not strictly allowed in the tents. We learnt many small ways of achieving a degree of primitive comfort. We made candles illegally from cotton waste in mosquito ointment, butter or even boot grease. Petrol lights made from cigarette tins were also common. These were plentiful since we each received a free tin of 50 cigarettes every week.

We also had to learn how to derive the maximum warmth from the three blankets with which we were issued as it always got bitterly cold at nights. I developed my own special way of interleaving the blankets into a well sealed bag, reinforced by a great coat on top and a pair of trousers underneath.

At the end of that first week, I was informed rather to my disgust that I was to be retained in the camp for a course of training as a ‘driver/operator’, a more advanced rank than my present ranking as a ‘driver/signaller’.

At the same time, many of my companions from England were called out for drafting to an unknown destination probably in Italy. I listened wistfully to the catalogue of names then so familiar; men I had come to know through sharing many hardships in the past few weeks moving on again out of my memory; birds of passage, only a few of whom I can now recall with fleeting glimpses. Next morning I watched them climb into the trucks which came to take them away. Their time of waiting was ended. Perhaps tomorrow they would board a troopship at Philippeville. But for me another 8 or 9 weeks of waiting.

Gradually I resigned myself to this dreary prospect and even came to find a certain strange fascination in this new kind of experience. I discovered with some satisfaction that most of the candidates for the training course were drawn from serving units and I mingled with men from all branches of artillery many of whom had operated under battle conditions. The course was interesting and included intensive instruction in the servicing and driving of quite a wide variety of vehicles as well as familiarisation with two new types of wireless set. One of the latter, known as the 19 set (See figure [1]) was in fact later to be operated by me in many battles still undreamed of.

Among the vehicles we learned to drive was the bren carrier, which ran on tracks and was very treacherous to handle. Unknown to me then, this training also was to be put into practice during the battles ahead.

We drove through the most exacting conditions of mud and rough rutted tracks and across deep gullies or wadis. We went out in groups of 3 or 4 in each vehicle taking turns to drive. While waiting for my turn I was often regaled by tales of life in action and my picture of this life gradually became more real. Mostly I rode together with 2 eighth army signallers both drawn from the same unit then serving in Italy. I still remember them quite clearly; the older one, Jock Taylor a Scot of about 40 with a rich dry humour, the younger one, Taffy Williams, a Welshman of about 23. Both had served together from the outbreak of the war and had seen service through France before Dunkirk and North Africa and had many tales to tell. I cannot recall many details but they told about every day life with a fighting unit; how everyone learned to do many jobs, cooking, wireless operating, driving, firing the guns, observing, listening, waiting. These two had spent much time manning wireless sets in observation posts. These are positions usually on high ground, well forward, exposed and isolated, spotting enemy movements and controlling the fire of guns. They had also done much driving across difficult and dangerous country up steep and winding mountain tracks. Their stories were mostly of domestic life in their unit. I learned about the personalities of their officers and the impact of front line conditions on human relations, all told with the wry humour of Jock and the gentle bravado of Taffy. The only detail which has somehow remained in my memories Taffy telling of the first dead German he saw as he came into an observation post and how it made him feel sick. I wonder what those two are doing now.

Slowly the bleakness of Chateaudun became something which I now recall with sharp nostalgia. It was so remote, so other worldly, so charged with the drama of great armies. There was a quality of rarity about my experiences in those weeks which can still stir something deep inside me.

I remember in this way the evening when I was assigned to a duty known as Chateaudun town picket. This picket of half a dozen men was driven to Chateaudun about 12 miles from the camp across the barren dusty landscape and instructed to patrol and police the streets.

It is difficult to explain why I have recalled this as a special memory because there was no great adventure. Perhaps it was partly because I had been in the isolation of the camp long enough that this glimpse of civilization excited me. But more than that it excited me because this town of Chateaudun was so obscure, so different and so far from anything I had ever seen. We walked slowly around the streets in pairs. In the centre of the town was a market bustling with natives in their robes still so strange to my eyes. The outskirts were quiet with large luxurious houses belonging no doubt to the French colonial population. We finished the evening in a bistro and sat listening to some Frenchmen in air force uniforms singing French drinking songs. One of these has stuck in my mind to this day although I never heard it before or since. This song somehow symbolises for me that evening. It was a rare event in a far off place.

On another occasion I was detailed for duty guarding the detention compound, a sinister barbed wire enclosure with some tough and desperate looking cases wandering around inside. Between shifts we talked to some of the permanent guards and heard gruesome tales of the hard discipline which the prisoners had to endure. Shifts of duty were the usual ‘ 2 hours on and 4 hours off’ throughout 24 hours. At night it was bitterly cold, during the day when off duty I dozed fitfully in the hot sun.

Then there were some days when to my amazement it snowed and I recall how pitiful it was to see the few native peasants who wandered near the camp walking around with bare feet in the snow. In general however there was no great sympathy between troops and natives. each regarded the other with deep suspicion and not without reason for there was much ruthlessness and dishonest bargaining and no little stealing on both sides. The natives were all known to us derogatively as ‘wogs’.

Mostly I remember it as hot dry and dusty. On a typical day just after breakfast we would walk slowly the long trek from our tent at one end of the camp to the parade ground of the training centre at the other end about a mile distant. I have a rather special memory about the regimental sergeant major who conducted the morning parade prior to the days training. He was a small cocky Scot (from Argyle and Sutherland Highlanders I believe) and he strutted around with such aggressive swagger. But the supreme thing about him was his voice. In all my army years I never heard an ‘eyes front’ remotely like the one he sent ringing on a powerful descending note from one end of the camp to the other. At the end of the day, came the long trek back to our supper and an evening probably in the canteen or lounging in our tents.

From my tent companions who changed from time to time as drafts came and went I remember only one. He was a bombardier of abut 35 formerly a physical training instructor. What I remember about him chiefly was that he found my attitude to life in the camp to be a huge joke. I think what appealed to him was my flare for laziness and a certain ingenuity in scrounging and devising small comforts. I was always last out of bed in the mornings and frequently missed morning roll call. I remember how he roared with laughter when I arrived back from the cookhouse one evening with a large supply of boxwood tucked under my shirt for lighting the fire in the tent. It was quite a surprise for me to acquire this reputation, so different from the shy schoolboy of only a year ago, and I was rather pleased by it.

Then after about ten weeks of this strange life, the training was completed and we were on stand by for posting to units. A few days later, after supper I heard the now familiar chant of the orderly reading a list of names and numbers for draft. This time my name was there “.... 886 Gunner Hogben.... “. Next day after the routine medical inspection and kit check, we assembled ready to move beside the 3 ton trucks which had come from our future unit to collect us. The unit was in fact the 72nd Anti Tank regiment of the 6th Armoured Division. At last here was something to which I could belong and I felt a strange pride as I studied the white mailed fists on black grounds which were the divisional emblem (See figure [2]) and were neatly painted on each truck. Soon I would sew this badge on the shoulder of my tunic.

There was almost a sense of homecoming as I climbed over the tailboard of the truck. No longer was I to be a stray bird of passage but a fully fledged member of a fighting unit now resting and regrouping near Philippeville, after serving through the gruelling North African campaign.

I think we all breathed a deep sigh of relief as we finally rolled out of that camp for the last time and watched the long lines of tents stretched across the dusty plateau fade away down the dusty road. Farewell to that rare experience in that far off place! And what now?
3. ROBERTVILLE: THE MAILED FIST ADVENTURE BEGINS

That ride to my regiment in Robertville will never be forgotten. The discomfort of a crowded 3 tonner was lost in awe at the magnificence of the scenery coupled with the strange fancies which the occasion inspired. Though I had been in North Africa for 3 months I had seen very little of the country other than the dreary barren plain and surrounding rocky peaks of Chateaudun. But as the sun burned low, we emerged from this dusty desert into that very remarkable French town of Constantine. The weird beauty of it did not shine in its full glory till we began to roll down the winding mountain roads leading out of town. At this stage I saw through the back of the truck a panorama of inconceivable grandeur. Constantine has been built at a great height and stretches across a rocky gorge reminiscent of the grand canyon ( or so I imagined though I have never seen it). It seems to perch precariously but proudly on this rocky prominence and the bridge which spans the gap looks fragile by comparison with the giddy depths below. Quite recently I came across a sketch from Lord Tedder’s memoirs of this bridge (See figure [3]) ; it evidently impressed him too.

The beauty of the scene was greatly enhanced by the lighting effects produced by the sun which was by now sinking behind the hill on which the town stood. A mist of light of a delicate pale purplish hue seemed to flood the valley which fell away to the right. Meanwhile the town in our rear stood out in an impressive silhouette crowned by a statue which seemed to declare the wonder of the scene.

But still we rushed on down the hill into the gathering night gradually descending from the mountains towards the coastal plain where Robertville, our destination lay.

It was still quite dark when finally we rolled past a white belted sentry at the Regimental headquarters of the 72nd Anti-Tank regiment. I felt sleepy after the long ride but it was not late and after being shown to our tents in 111 Battery, we went down to the canteen for a meal. I contemplated my new home with mixed feelings. There was a pleasant homely feeling among the company assembled in the small Nissen hut, but I felt so much a stranger in their midst. In previous camps it had been easy to settle in with all the others who were also strangers. But here I realised was a small body of men who had no doubt come a long way through many hard experiences together. How long would it be before I could feel a part of them? What fortunes would I share with them?

In the tent that night, a lad from Newcastle, with whom we were to sleep until allotted to troops, treated us to yarns from the battery’s exploits in the North African campaign. He told how his mate had saved a truck and its occupants by achieving some difficult feat of repair under heavy shell fire. He also told that B troop( known as ‘Baker troop’) to which I was later assigned had knocked out the first Mark VI (‘Tiger’) tank of the war in a battle in which they had accounted altogether for 7 German tanks.

Next day I was appointed as wireless operator of No 3 gun in Baker troop. I was introduced to the ‘No 1’ (gun commander) Sergeant Stevens a splendid person for whom I rapidly acquired a great liking and admiration. He was capable, friendly and cool as a cucumber in all situations. I had a look at the gun a self propelled 3 inch naval gun, effectively a tank (See figure [4]) with the code name ‘ Berwick’ painted on the front. This was an American vehicle of a class known as ‘M10’ which was not very common and I had never seen one before. In my training I had been accustomed to towed ‘field guns’ and this tank like monster not unlike a German Mark VI ‘Tiger’ with its long sinister looking gun barrel, was most impressive to me.

I climbed into the wireless operator’s seat beside the driver at the front, now to become a sort of ‘home’ to me. A heavy steel hatch with a periscope was provided as a door or lid. A seat which could lower or raise me through the hatch was also provided and beside this a No 19 wireless, the type I had first met in Chateaudun. Considerable agility was needed to clamber up to the hatch and no mean strength and knack to open the lid. It was some time before I learned the trick of opening it from the inside.

Later that day I carried my kit into ‘Baker’ troop lines and found a place in a bell tent occupied by a bombardier and a gunner. For the first few days there was not much conversation. In the evenings the bombardier was always on duty as barman in the canteen and he slept late in the mornings. The gunner seemed a naturally quiet type who would lie on his bunk dozing or meditating. They were not unfriendly but I felt very conscious that they belonged and were part of this well seasoned troop but I was still a stranger, a ‘new boy’. In those first days I went through the daily routines which for them must by now have been such a familiar, permanent and well ordered existence; they seemed so completely at home in this life.

The routine was controlled by a system of whistles marking the times of parades; 4 blasts half an hour before, 3 blasts a quarter of an hour before and 2 for ‘on parade’. First parade of the day was a roll call before breakfast. This was a very informal affair attended by many bleary eyed, unshaven and still in the underwear in which it was customary to sleep (pyjamas were quite unheard of). After breakfast there was a more formal parade when the day’s programme, if any would be announced. Mostly this would be a morning spent on routine tasks such as servicing equipment, interrupted by the usual canteen break and followed at midday by a light meal known as ‘Tiffin’. After Tiffin came siesta time and then another parade and further routine duties till time for supper the main meal of the day. Finally there would be an evening spent in the canteen or dozing in one’s bunk.

A large part of the time was spent in the ‘battery lines’, rows of tents for sleeping, a Nissen hut for the canteen, a parade ground and a vehicle park where all the guns were arrayed. These were the basic ingredients of so many army camps anywhere in the world. In this case the elements were primitive, the parade ground a square of dry dusty barren earth, the whole landscape all around dry and dusty. But it all looked rather permanent and civilised.

Occasionally we ventured in the evenings down the dusty track to the Regimental Church Army canteen also in a Nissen hut but larger than the battery one. Occasionally too there were ‘liberty trucks’ running to Philippeville. A few days after my arrival I was fortunate to be allowed to go there and watch the final of the divisional football championship between the Ayrshire Yeomanry and the 17/21st lancers. This event made a big impression on me.

On the journey there in the back of a 3 ton truck I had a chance to see a bit more of the surrounding countryside. My memory of this is not very clear and is mainly of dry dusty roads lined with palm trees, orange groves and here and there small groups of rather primitive native huts.

The great impact of the occasion was the football match and the scene in the football ground. About two thirds of the entire 6th Armoured Division ( a division is about 15000 men) must have been there, all in immaculate battle dress proudly wearing their regimental badges and Divisional ‘mailed fists’. The proudest of all were the Ayrshire Yeomanry, a regiment of field artillery whose team were the winners. Their rivals, the 17/21st Lancers were a tank regiment formerly a cavalry regiment which had earned the nickname ‘Death or Glory’ boys and whose official badge was a skull and crossbones.

And the spectators included other famous regiments such as the ‘Lothian and Border Horse’ wearing black berets with golden wheat sheaves on pale blue background, another tank ex cavalry regiment. Distinctive also were the tall guardsmen from the 3rd battalion of the Grenadier Guards, from the Welsh Guards and the Coldstream Guards altogether forming the first Guards Brigade and boasting great fighting records. That sea of eager faces and immaculate ‘mailed fist’ uniforms made a great and unforgettable spectacle and made me proud to wear the ‘mailed fist’. These were to be my comrades in arms and those famous names were soon to be such familiar ‘household words’ sharing in many dramatic experiences. As I watched them I felt again how seasoned they were, a brotherhood of arms to which I was not yet really initiated, did not yet belong. I wondered too as I had done watching the ‘toy soldiers’ marching away from the Cameronian, what was in store for them and how many might never return home. I returned to Robertville with a strong awareness that the 6th Armoured Division was a rather special division and this awareness grew stronger in the next few years. Indeed, I still believe this.

Two or three days after this when I had been in the regiment still less than a week an even more powerful experience which gave me a foretaste of the Division in action and a chance to win a status of belonging. It happened because ‘Baker troop’ was selected to represent the battery in a divisional exercise or ‘scheme’ planned to last a week and to simulate battle conditions as closely as possible.

I collected a few personal belongings and a roll of blankets and made my way to the ‘Berwick’ (No 3 gun) where I joined the other 4 crew members. I slung my blankets into the improvised rack at the back and began nervously checking the radio equipment to ensure that everything worked and that the batteries were charged. I cannot now remember the precise sequence of events that week, but the atmosphere of it and many individual events I recall now as if it were yesterday. The overall memory is of continuous cold rain and of rumbling relentlessly night and day along wet muddy tracks, eating and sleeping in wet and cold conditions but learning fast to know and respect my crew mates and their simple good humoured but capable mastery of all the difficulties we met.

Of the ‘battle plan’ and our part in it I learned very little. Much of the time was spent pounding along in our ‘roaring monsters’ in column of route, following the gun in front. Occasionally the order came to deploy and we would swing off the track into positions where we would attempt to camouflage the guns. I imagined that our role was to answer the calls of other regiments to give them anti-tank protection. In fact however, wherever we halted or deployed, we mostly took the chance to snatch meals or brew tea. The positions in which we made these pauses were known as ‘lagers’ or ‘harbours’ and during the week we made a rather wet and bleak progression from lager to lager.

Whilst on the move I sat with my head through the hatch beside the driver, rain pelting into my face and headphones over my ears maintaining wireless contact with the troop commander’s ‘Honey’ tank and intercom contact with the other members of the crew. To maintain radio contact it was necessary from time to time to carry out an elaborate tuning procedure or ‘netting drill’ consisting of a sequence of jargon code transmissions during which each operator on the network had to make very exact adjustments of his controls, lock the required frequencies and report signal strength. The frequency locking was ingeniously designed so that it was possible to jump or ‘flick’ from one locked frequency to another and thus to operate on two different frequencies such as troop and battery simultaneously. When not otherwise in use, the second channel was generally locked on BBC which could be clearly received and was much appreciated by other crew members who could hear it on the intercom.

Three of the crew, the No 1, the bombardier and the loader were seasoned campaigners (but together for the first time) and expert at improvising rudimentary comforts in face of the most inclement conditions. The loader, an ex farmer with a delightful sly humour specialised in cooking and brewing tea and was quickly nicknamed the ‘Quartermaster’ by the bombardier, ‘Blondie’, a swashbuckling lad with a flare for coining nicknames and a shock of coarse blonde hair. The role of Blondie was as gun layer. he had a distinctive scar on his nose which he jokingly pretended was a battle scar. Actually it happened when he fell on a grating outside the canteen one drunken Christmas eve. The driver was like myself unseasoned. In fact to my surprise I discovered that though he had joined the regiment before me, he had left England after me. He was quite young but a splendid driver with professional experience as a long-distance lorry driver in civilian life. He had a splendidly mock-boastful way of telling stories from his past which I found quite entertaining. I also marvelled at his handling of the massive ungainly ‘tank’ in such adverse conditions. As the week progressed the tracks we followed became more and more deeply rutted with slimy treacherous mud. This could be a serious hindrance to the movement of long columns of heavy tanks and made heavy demands on the skill and concentration of the drivers.

During the week opportunity was taken to try the effectiveness of fitting devices known as ‘grousers’ in countering the mud problem. ‘Grousers’ were sets of steel spreader bars to be fitted to the existing track links to widen the contact area and give better support and grip. In the last few days, frequent orders to fit, remove and refit the grousers caused much grumbling especially as they were not only troublesome to fit but also did not prove very effective in operation. The result was a slower rougher ride and we preferred to rely on the driver’s skill in negotiating the mud.

Looking back now, I believe that week was rather realistic foretaste of life in action, lacking only the presence of a real enemy and the constant sense of danger from being under fire. It was life on the move from lager to lager, improvising rudimentary amenities under difficult conditions, never quite knowing what was going to happen next or what our part in the whole complex operation might be. Sometimes we got into firing positions lying in wait, ‘hull down’ (i.e. hull concealed), gun trained on the bend of a road ready to surprise an unwary enemy tank. Much of the time though we did nothing in particular other than cooking, improvising shelter and camouflage and fitting grousers. At nights we were often on the move to take up positions before dawn, the danger time for attack. When not moving at night, we took turns at sentry duty. Each gun mounted its own sentry every night and cut a pack of well worn cards for choice of shift. First or last shift was favoured and I preferred the first. Each sentry woke his own relief and passed him the watch.

As the week wore on I began to gain assurance and the crew gradually worked out some kind of routines and a sense of being a team. At each lager we began to know how best to improvise a shelter using a 12x12 foot canvas sheet which we erected as a sort of ‘lean to’ against the side of the tank (See figure [5]) ; we anchored and supported this with a selection of crowbars, shovels and pick handles which we soon learned to keep together in an easily accessible place.

Then the ‘quartermaster’ would get busy improvising a fire with petrol poured onto earth shovelled into a perforated tin can. Tea was brewed and meals cooked using standard packaged rations. Each gun crew (5 men) got a 14 man ration pack to last 2 and a half days. These contained mostly tinned foods such as steak and kidney puddings, corned beef, meat and vegetable stews (known as ‘m and v’ for short) also biscuits, chocolate, cigarettes and matches and (how civilised) toilet paper.

Often as we began to settle into a lager there would be a sudden change of plan and orders to move again. Often too as we rolled relentlessly along in column of route there were unexplained pauses awaiting further orders. Perhaps they might be due to a ‘minefield’, a ‘blown up bridge’ or ‘unexpected enemy resistance’ or leading vehicles were stuck in the mud. A tea can was often hastily heated and bundled from pause to pause until it finally boiled and tea was made.

There was incidentally some wireless operating for me to do but not much. Most of the time I just kept the headphones on waiting for instructions to halt, move, check tuning or find the BBC.

At last after seven days, orders came to return to the battery lines at Robertville. Still cold and wet and weary from much loss of sleep we were all pleased at the prospect of returning to a slightly more comfortable existence. For the homeward journey, I agreed to let Blondie, the bombardier sit in front in my wireless operator's seat beside the driver.

In a burst of high spirits the drivers cut across country, racing each other towards Robertville. I took up Blondie’s usual position in the open topped gun turret and felt greatly exhilarated as we pounded and buffeted our way across the rough still wet and muddy terrain, like a ship in a rough sea. Wind and rain drove into my face but I found it only rather refreshing. Our driver soon pulled into the lead and we all cheered.

Then suddenly came a more than usually large ‘puddle’ which turned out in fact to conceal a deep gully. Berwick plunged in, breasting the mud in a mighty wave of brown slime and submerging at an alarming rate. Bob, the driver and Blondie were coated from head to foot in mud as it poured in through the hatches, some of it even going over the top of the turret. understandably both Bob and Blondie quickly decided to abandon their seats and began to climb up onto the turret. Once Bob’s foot came off the accelerator pedal, the engine stalled, the exhaust being by now wholly underwater. Berwick was soon bogged down in about 6 feet of muddy water.

It all happened very quickly. Our exuberance vanished and we found ourselves surveying a dismal silent murky scene. The roar of the engines was stilled and everywhere there was thick mud; we were marooned in a sea of mud, wet and cold mud; and it was still raining. Poor Blondie, sitting in my wireless operator’s seat was wettest and muddiest of all. Even his hair was slimy with mud.

The other guns, seeing our plight, stopped and the crews gathered round. What was to be done? The troop commander Lieutenant Wilson known by the nickname ‘Tug’, conferred with some of the sergeants and it was decided to try and tow us out. Strong steel cables carried for this very purpose were shackled to special towing eyes on the front of Berwick. The ends of the cable were then shackled to 2 of the other guns and with much revving of engines they each strained and roared side by side like two powerful cart horses, but all their struggles were in vain. Berwick lay wallowing scarcely moving in her bath of mud while the cables tautened and tensed in an alarming way. And still it rained.

After an hour or so it began to get dark and eventually it was decided to postpone further attempts until the next day. Orders were given however that the gun should remain manned all night and this thankless task fell to ‘Steve’ (Harry Stevens) the No 1 and Bob the driver. I felt heartily sorry for them but they put a brave face on their plight. Blondie, the Quartermaster and I were each assigned to one of the other guns for the journey back to battery lines.

At last at about 9pm, cold, wet, tired and hungry we rumbled thankfully into the gun park. I climbed down with my pack and blanket roll and a real feeling of home coming. After dumping our kit in our tents we reassembled in the canteen where a hot meal was waiting. As we entered there was a roar of welcome from the usual crowd from the other 2 troops of the battery sitting over their evening drinks. News of our experiences had evidently travelled ahead of us and there was much shouting and good humoured teasing for the crew of Berwick.

In that moment I suddenly felt that I at last belonged to this company. The sensation was a bit reminiscent of the occasion when I played my first match in my school football team: Perhaps I thought too of that football match in Philippeville when the 6th Armoured Division was arrayed before me and I felt like a new boy.

Next day we went out to resume salvage attempts on Berwick. A new approach to the task was now proposed. The 2 towing guns should be in tandem and not side by side as on the previous night. This idea proved successful and slowly but surely Berwick was pulled out of the mud and back to battery lines.

For the next few days the crew of Berwick spent all their working hours cleaning out the mess. At first it seemed a hopeless task as the mud was everywhere. But we set about it methodically each doing an allotted part. For me it was a splendid way of familiarising myself with all the complicated details of the layout and I found myself probing into an endless succession of lockers, compartments, recesses, nooks and crannies which I had not yet seen. The floor plates of the turret were taken up revealing an array of storage spaces as well as an array of batteries which had to be changed. The operation of changing batteries proved to be a strenuous affair since they were very heavy and had to be manoeuvred by an ingenious improvised lifting tackle through narrow and tortuous gaps around the breech of the gun. An important part of my assignment was the cleaning and checking of all wireless equipment. This included in addition to the transmitting and receiving set, the wiring of the intercom system and all the associated earphones and microphones, as well as a box of spare valves, fuses, carbon brushes, bulbs and the like.

Working away with rags and oily brushes cleaning out the inside of the gun turret, I amused myself wondering what further adventures I was destined to share with this gun and its crew. The war in Italy seemed remote from this quiet North African hillside yet I realised that the recent reinforcement and intensified training programme of the Division, coupled with the approach of spring suggested that all this weight of armour might soon be thrown into some new offensive. But everything looked so settled and permanent. The idea that in a few weeks all these tanks might cross the water to an Italian port was hard to visualise.

Sitting by the wireless set checking the dials and meter readings I tried to picture the old Berwick rolling across some battle torn landscape in Italy. How would it be? Like the past week I supposed but with real shelling and minefields, real enemy tanks, machine guns and snipers. How would I react to these?

Gradually every piece of equipment and every smallest corner of the whole gun was cleaned and checked and we looked with pride on our handiwork. And then we returned to normal battery routine.

I think there were another 5 or 6 weeks of that settled routine. Tumbling out of bed each morning for a roll call, the whistles blowing for parades, mornings spent servicing equipment, occasionally drill or physical training; Tiffin the light meal at midday, a siesta period and routine duties then our main meal, an evening in the canteen and early to bed.

All this within the battery lines. These were 3 rows of 160 pounder tents on a dusty hillside marked off by drainage ditches, the canteen a Nissen hut, the parade ground a square of dust, the gun park 3 rows of guns lines up in the dust. These things quickly became the familiar background of my life, my home. Gradually I got to know more about my companions especially my tent mates. From the gunner, Fred Bass I learned that he was just 2 days older than me and that he used to be a ‘clicker’ in a shoe factory. He also had 2 girl friends back home, one of whom, the attractive one had gone off with an American. The other was dull but loyal.

I soon found Fred to be a most friendly and agreeable companion and gained a great respect for his simple placid imperturbable outlook on life. He seemed to be much in demand for the tedious and unpleasant ‘fatigue’ duties to be performed in any camp. His name was often on the tongues of the sergeants and bombardiers looking for volunteers for this and that. Uncomplaining except for a few good humoured curses he would do the job, but not with more exertion than was absolutely necessary. Like me he appreciated his bed and often lay on it dozing, saying nothing. In the mornings he and I were usually last on parade and usually looked rather dishevelled.

The bombardier, Reggie Lockwood, the only other occupant of our tent was about 35. As a civilian he had run a plastering business and used to commute every weekend on a motorbike from London to York. I saw less of him than of Fred because of his preoccupation with canteen duties. Most evenings he came to bed very late and rather merry. In the mornings he was excused parades to attend to canteen affairs. One morning I remember, he asked me to add up the canteen accounts for the previous evening and as a result I was very late on parade. Someone must have answered the roll for me however as I was not missed. I learned from Reggie that Fred had been one of the gunners who had fired on the first German ‘tiger tank’ ever to be knocked out. It seemed that this placid dozy fellow was a cool and accurate gun layer not to be ruffled by shells and tanks any more than by the shouts of sergeants and bombardiers. Reggie was sometimes temperamental but generally he was good humoured and occasionally regaled us with tales from his past or invented stories such as the exploits of the ‘crutch division’, an imaginary army of one legged paratroopers who were all quite mad!

Part of the process of settling in was that I had to make myself an improvised bed; it was a matter of prestige to have one. Here was scope for ingenuity, scrounging and assembling the necessary materials, canvas from some old tent and a few stout pieces of wood from ammunition boxes or large packing cases. After a first attempt which collapsed ignominiously I eventually succeeded and was rather proud of my handiwork.

Every week or two came a turn of duty on the regimental guard and soon I learned that in spite of the informality of some of the routine, the standard of turnout for guard mounting parade was very high. As in most army units, the smartest man on parade, the so called ‘stick man’ is excused from actual guard duty and competition for this concession was rather keen, at least in some quarters. Being by nature untidy I never considered myself to be in the running and strove only to avoid being actually reprimanded or punished for some lapse, and this attitude was heartily shared by Fred. Indeed the ‘stick’ usually went regularly and monotonously to certain predictable smart ones.

When the mounting parade was over the proceedings became informal again and it was not unusual for the sergeant commanding the guard to do a shift of duty himself. Also it was understood that the last shift, in addition to making a round of early calls for cooks and the like, lit the cookhouse fires and made the tea and porridge for breakfast.

During these weeks of routine following the adventure of the Divisional manoeuvre, I recall only one rather unusual event which was the occasion when a live pig was slaughtered by a sergeant who had formerly been a butcher. It was a gruesome spectacle. The pig was hoisted by a pulley onto a tree so that he hung head down from one of his hind legs and the knife was plunged into his throat. I still remember rather vividly the shrill squeals and convulsive movements of the death throes which continued for some time after he appeared otherwise dead.

Then one day after about six weeks in Robertville, there was a ‘muster parade’ (a full muster including cooks, batmen etc) and an announcement was made that the Division would shortly be moving. Our destination was not mentioned but Italian dictionaries were recommended. It was now the beginning of March 1944 and it seemed clear that the Division was to join in a Spring Offensive which was surely being planned to try and break the grim German resistance. Anchored by the deadly stronghold at Monte Cassino, the German ‘Gustav line’ had withstood heavy and determined attacks throughout the winter. Carpet bombing by American ‘Fortresses’, continuous shelling and repeated onslaughts by British, American, Indian and New Zealand troops all failed to breach this apparently impregnable position.

The announcement caused some excitement but was not unexpected as we all knew the situation in Italy. For most of the battery the prospect was of return to an already familiar kind of existence. For them, Robertville had been a restful interlude, a pause to regroup, and now, back to action.

For me however it was the eve of a great adventure; at last my burning curiosity about life at the front was surely going to be soon satisfied. But, looking around at the orderly lines of tents, the canteen and the solid array of guns and other armour making up 111 Battery of the 72nd Anti-tank regiment, the imminent move was difficult to imagine. And then I tried to picture it for the tremendous weight of armour and equipment of the whole 6th Armoured Division (a battery has about 150 men and a Division about 15,000). My mind boggled at the thought of all this being transported across the sea to Italy. Just to see how this mammoth operation was actually to be executed would surely be an intensely interesting experience.

The immediate effect on routine was a heavy programme of work preparing vehicles for the move and getting them into battle order. First of all the whole battery of 12 ‘tanks’ had to be track changed, a task which I soon discovered was very hard labour (See figure [6]). Each replacement track was delivered in 8 sections of 10 links and each such section taxed the strength of 6 men to lift it.

The changing operation was begun by laying and assembling the new pair of tracks on the ground. Apart from the strenuous physical effort required to drag each section off the delivery truck into its position, a great deal of brute force was needed to join them together. Obstinate and rusty nuts and bolts all had to be persuaded by heavy blows from 14 pound sledge hammers. when this was done a second gun equipped with cables was used to tow off the old tracks and at the same time tow on the new ones (already joined at one end to the old ones.) This complete operation for each gun was a very hard day’s work for two gun crews and that was not quite all. When the new tracks were on, the gun had to be ‘run in’ for 30 miles and then have a link removed from each track and both retaining nuts on each of the 79 remaining links on each track checked and tightened where necessary. Some of the nuts actually dropped off during the running in process.

After track changing a number of battle modifications had to be made. Some of these were carried out personally by gun crews to suit individual requirements. For example, a number of ingenious ways of increasing storage space for bedding, rations and personal equipment were improvised; ammunition boxes were bolted along the sides and a large bedding rack welded onto the back. In front of my wireless operators seat I built a little folding table for ease of writing and organising my log of wireless messages and decode material.

One particular modification which was compulsory was the fitting of baffle plates over the exhausts. This was partly as a protection for a vulnerable spot but mainly to prevent the downward directed exhaust from throwing up tell-tale clouds of dust. This modification was carried out for each gun at the regimental ‘Light Aid Detachment’ (LAD) who had to work all night by the light of arc lamps to complete their task.

The whole divisional area was thus a hive of industry, and within a week of hard methodical work a tremendous transformation was achieved. All the guns were track changed, cleaned and painted ready for active service. Most of the huts, canteens, stores etc... had been pulled down and loaded on trucks. So, towards the end of the week, that permanent look had begun to fade and presently only a few essential tents remained.

Finally, an announcement was made that the move would take place next morning. All tents were struck except for two marquees in which we were to spend the last night. Plans for the move were outlined. The port of embarkation was to be Bone and the majority of the battery was to travel there in a convoy of 3 ton trucks leaving very early the next morning, reveille being at 4.0 a.m. An advance party with most of the transport was to be the first to embark. The guns and drivers were to travel separately and cross later on a tank landing craft. Our port of debarkation in Italy was to be Naples.

I took a last look round at what had been the battery lines, now just a dusty North African hillside with a bare network of drainage ditches and discolourations where the rows of tents had been and 2 marquees.

I still have a rather clear memory of that last night in the marquee. The whole battery was all herded together with kit all packed and an air of suppressed excitement. Our improvised beds had all been loaded into the guns and so we had to lay on the ground. A game of ‘tombola’ (now known as ‘Bingo’) was organised and afterwards we talked far into the night; but eventually we slept.

As to the journey to Bone, my memory is less clear. I suppose the convoy left so early that it was still dark and my senses were still drowsy. Glimpses of the embarkation at Bone are however still printed on my mind. Our troopship was the Ascania and I remember looking down from her rail onto a quayside lined with warehouses. I still have a roughly scribbled sketch (See figure [7]) of the scene with the name of a French trading company painted along the roof of a warehouse.

But my memory is by no means as vivid as that of the unforgettable scene at Philippeville 3 months earlier, when I had watched troops embarking for Italy. In those 3 months I had been slowly transformed from a starry eyed spectator into an initiated if not yet seasoned participant.

4. PIEDIMONTE D’ALIFE

Arrival in Italy was another of the very intense moments which I can still relive as if it were yesterday. My picture begins with a vivid impression of standing on the foc'sle of the Ascania as she steamed across Naples Bay. It was a bright clear day with blue sky and rich blue sea only slightly ruffled by the stiff breeze that tingled in my face. On the port bow the island of Capri rose sheer out of the blue water, the rocky profile outlined with that sharp clarity characteristic of the Mediterranean never seen in England. Ahead lay the harbour of Naples and to starboard the peak of Vesuvius. What a splendid scene this was and I was quite entranced by it. In spite of the bright sun I had to brace myself against the cold whipping of the wind; but I stood there transfixed, oblivious of others around me looking in wonder. So this was Capri, Naples, Vesuvius of which I had often read and seen pictures. I suppose it must have taken about half an hour to steam across the bay into the harbour and I stood there gazing at Italy feeling more like a passenger on an expensive cruise than a soldier on his way into battle.

From the sea, Naples itself was a picturesque sight with its multitude of pastel coloured stucco buildings drenched in bright sunlight, arrayed along the waterfront and climbing and terracing up to the heights further inland. As we moved slowly into the harbour I could see that the waterfront stretched across quite a fashionable looking part of the city. Then as we edged closer still I noticed that there were 2 or 3 other ships in the harbour and they were all berthed against the sides of sunken ships. Then presently the Ascania came alongside a ‘quay’ which I quickly recognised as the hull of a hospital ship for it was all painted white with a large red cross blazoned on it. It was a strange sensation to walk down the gangplank onto the side of a ship.

A convoy of 3 ton trucks from the advance party waited near the quay to take us to a temporary camp which had been established a few miles to the north of Naples. From the back of the canopied truck we were not able to see much of the city as we rolled through it.

My chief memory of the camp is of the pitiful groups of hungry eyed Italian women and children who hung around begging for scraps of food. Some had fruit to sell, others searched among our garbage for any morsels to fill the pathetic little tins which they carried. It was clear that the Italian people were suffering great hardship and deprivation and we learnt that the Naples area had been particularly badly hit by poverty and disease including a severe typhoid epidemic caused by contamination of the water supplies.

We felt a great sympathy for these unhappy people and especially the children. We gladly bought the fruit and nuts which they had to sell and I remember particularly our delight in finding they had apples; we were so heartily sick of the tangerines and dates with which we were sated in Africa.

None of us spoke more than a word or two of Italian and communication was difficult. It was refreshing however to notice a genuine feeling of friendliness so different from the hostility and suspicion between us and the native population in North Africa. I recalled in contrast the aggressive and treacherous tangerine sellers on Philippeville station on the day I had landed there; I also remember being followed by a small boy threatening me with a penknife because I didn’t want my shoes polished by him. Here in Italy everything seemed friendlier, greener and fresher.

Another memory of that camp was that we arrived there on my 21st birthday so I remember that the date was the 23rd of March 1944. This new year of my life began also a new stage of my progress towards the front line.

The same evening the guns arrived in Naples harbour and a party was sent to meet them and escort them back to camp. This event was evidently noticed by the Germans since at the very moment of arrival the docks were heavily bombed. Fortunately no one was hurt but it was a bad moment for the drivers.

I am not sure how long we stayed in that camp but it was not more than a day or two. From there we moved to a small and rather picturesque mountain village called Piedimonte d’Alife about 40 miles farther north where a more permanent camp was established. The guns were again transported separately and we travelled in the backs of 3 ton trucks. I recall that our journey took us across the Volturno river which, while I was still in England had been a scene of bitter fighting. I remembered the newspaper stories of events which had then seemed so remote; and now here I was crossing that ‘far off battlefield’ so I regarded it with some awe, a stretch of Italian countryside scarred by war.

On all sides the tell tale marks left by armies on the move could be seen, the crisscrossing of tracks scored by the milling of tanks and supply convoys, fields heavily beaten and muddy with the tramping of encamped soldiers, buildings damaged by shelling. The bridge across the river had been blown up by the retreating Germans and we crossed on a military bridge known as a ‘Bailey Bridge’ erected by royal engineers using standard frameworks. Altogether it was a rather stark and desolate scene. Our journey also took us through the largish town of Caserta in which a number of headquarter units appeared to be stationed and army signs were to be seen on all sides.

Piedimonte d’Alife was some 20 or 30 miles behind the front line still running through Cassino, but near enough for us to hear quite clearly the sound of gunfire. So at last, more than 4 months after leaving England I was within earshot of the fighting.

But now the tents (See figure [8]) were erected in orderly rows and very quickly the old battery routine of Robertville, with its whistles and parades was reestablished.

Yet it wasn’t quite the same. For a few weeks everything did seem quite permanent again but the front line was no longer remote and we knew that any day our turn might come to join battle.

So our daily routine was injected with intensive new training programmes with a clear awareness of the urgency to be prepared for the impending action. An important change of role now made known was that our guns were to be adapted for use as field artillery in addition to the present anti-tank commitment. This called for a number of modifications to the guns as well as special training in new skills. Field guns have to be able to lay fire on remote targets by direction from a forward observation post. The necessary sighting facilities were added to the guns by the ingenious device of fitting a mirror under the teeth used for rotating the turret ring to set the direction, and a clinometer to be placed manually on the breech for setting the range.

Among the new skills to be learned was the technique of laying off the range and direction (the direction was known as the ‘switch’) on specially marked blank map grids. As a wireless operator with basic ‘field artillery’ training, I was selected to be instructed in this task, normally performed by a specialist known as a ‘G.P.O. Ack’ (Gun position officers Assistant). Essentially the requirement was to determine the range and switch from map references supplied for the gun position and the target. A special board (known as the ‘Artillery Board’) equipped with a pin to mark the gun position and a pivoted steel ruler swinging round a calibrated steel arc, was supplied for this purpose. It did not take me long to learn the procedure and I was soon able to take part in practice ‘shoots’.

In spite of this new sense of purpose and urgency in our daily programme and the sound of gunfire in the distance, there was also an extraordinary atmosphere of peacefulness about our life at Piedimonte. In leisure hours we walked into the village, mixed with the people in a rather friendly way and also explored the delightful mountain scenery all around. The environment was much more civilised and pleasant than in North Africa. In peace time Piedimonte must have been a tourist resort and we found a disused funicular railway probably once having served as a ski-lift.

Our camp was quite near the north side of the village and on the other side a narrow track wound along a deep valley beside a clear mountain stream and then climbed tortuously up into the mountains. I still have a vivid mental picture of that track beside the stream and I also see in the picture, Italian women kneeling by the water doing their washing in specially provided troughs. Then one day we ventured far up that narrow track and found a quaint little village hidden away at a great height. It was as if we had suddenly crossed into the middle ages and the reality of war was another world. The village was entered through a medieval style gateway and I remember watching some Italian women approach it up the steep track walking gracefully with heavy loads on their erect heads.

But each night we heard the gunfire and the sky to the north was lit with the flashes of the guns and the glow of flares. And from time to time we heard reports that some regiments of the Division had already gone into action. Among the first to go were the Ayrshire Yeomanry, winners of the Divisional football championship in Philippeville, a regiment of field artillery. Also soon in action was the brigade of guards, Welsh Guards, Coldstreams and Grenadiers who were reported to be in positions near Cassino. But our peaceful routine still continued; whistles, parades, training, guard mounting, servicing equipment; evenings in the village, walking in the mountains.

Then came a new development; the battery transport was assigned to help in fetching ammunition from a rear depot to a Divisional supply point nearer the front. Each day a truck, a driver and a driver’s mate went from the battery and we took turns in acting as driver’s mate and helping with the loading at the depot. I was given a turn at this, riding with Bob, the driver of Berwick, in a 3-ton truck back about 40 miles to the depot at Nola near Naples. It was a full day’s work but I welcomed the trip as a break from routine. It was a long and dusty ride back to Nola but travelling beside the driver was more comfortable than roughing it in the back to which I was more accustomed.

The ammunition depot covered an enormous area with pile upon pile of boxes containing shells of all shapes and sizes. It was hard work loading our assignment as each box needed our combined strength to lift and I remember that it was a very hot day.

We drove back tired but content and with a feeling of freedom; we could roll along at our own pace, admiring the countryside and we were completely our own masters for that day.

Then there was the day when my turn came for a trip in a ‘liberty truck’ to Naples, together with Fred Bass my tent mate from Robertville and about a dozen others. This time we were crowded into the back of the truck and the ride was not so pleasant. In Naples we spent a rather weary day wandering about the streets looking at the shops, depressed by the miserable poverty on all sides. We saw children touting for their 'sisters’ ; ‘my sister got English music, eggs and bacon...' they would chant. We also saw more agreeable sights such as the San Carlo opera house and beside it the royal palace with the harbour and bay close by. I still have a faded photograph of myself taken by a back street photographer on that day.

But the most dramatic memory was looking south across the city from the top of a hill and noticing that Vesuvius was actually erupting and sending a jet of bright red flame like some giant firework into the sky. As we drove back to Piedimonte late that evening we could see that flame still glowing far away getting smaller and smaller as we rolled northwards.

5. BAPTISM OF FIRE AT CASSINO

Then on Easter Sunday it came quite unexpectedly, a sudden call for ‘Baker’ troop to go into action at Cassino. Presumably because of the experience we gained in that week at Robertville, Baker troop was to be the first of the 3 troops in the battery to be sent into action.

I still remember very clearly that Sunday afternoon. It was pouring with rain and most of us were dozing on our bunks. Then gradually a voice penetrated our consciousness and it was chanting ‘Baker troop prepare to move’. Dopey faces peered out of tent flaps and wondered what sort of joke this was. But it wasn’t a joke it was hard and persistent reality. ‘Prepare to move... within an hour...a hot meal may be collected from the cookhouse in half an hour... prepare to move.... Baker troop prepare to move.‘ the voice persisted.

At first we were a bit dazed but we soon realised we must rouse ourselves to some urgent action to be ready in an hour. There was so much to do we scarcely had time to wonder what our mission might be, but it was known that our destination was in the neighbourhood of Cassino.

Some of the troop were in the village and had to be hastily ferreted out and brought back. Meanwhile we all set to work packing a few essential belongings and carrying our kit up to the gun park. Last minute checks were carried out on the gun and its equipment. The heavy rain made this a rather dreary task though we were too preoccupied to notice this very much. When all was ready we went to the cookhouse to collect a hastily cooked meal and within the prescribed hour we were in fact all set to move off. One by one the engines roared to life and we rolled out onto the road heading northwards. Because of the driving rain I had my hatch closed and sat on the ‘floor’ in the turret with the rest of the crew. I remembered that first week in Robertville and how then too it had been so wet.

As we rattled and rumbled steadily further north I was roused by curiosity to stand up and poke my head out of the turret and into the teeth of the rain. Presently I began to notice signs that we were getting nearer to the fighting area. Troop concentrations and wagon lines became more numerous and the landscape more desolate and scarred by the milling of tanks. As darkness gathered gun flashes and flares could be seen much more vividly and the noise of gunfire could sometimes be heard even above the roar of our tracks.

When we finally turned off into a harbour area and dismounted, the rain had abated and it was a clear starlit night. Tea was made with a splash of rum as a token that this was a rather special occasion, the eve of battle. As we sipped our mugs of tea the troop commander ‘Tug’ Wilson briefed us on the plan of action.

It seemed that we were to be the teeth of an anti-tank trap for which the ‘bait’ was a Sherman tank in a position high up on Mount Cairo to the north of Cassino monastery. This tank had in fact already been knocked out but had been placed in a position where it was hoped a German tank would be lured into attacking it. This position known by the sinister sounding name of ‘Phantom Ridge’ was within about half a mile of the German lines and could only be reached along an exposed route passing very close to the town of Cassino still held by German troops.

Our function was to lie in wait for the ‘tiger’ and ‘deal with’ it if it appeared. We were to move up to this position under cover of darkness the following night and an officer from a forward regiment was to come and act as our guide on this tortuous and vulnerable journey. it sounded as if a rather dangerous adventure lay ahead.

We cut cards for sentry duty and I got first shift. Not knowing how near we now were to the front I felt a little nervous as I prowled around in the starlit clearing among the ghostly shapes of the guns and a few trees. To the north I could see the gaunt silhouettes of the mountains. One of these was Monte Cassino and on it grimly determined German troops, ordinary human beings but our enemies. Behind it was Monte Cairo our destination for tomorrow night. The thought filled me with awe.

And all the time there was the spasmodic roar of guns, the flashes of the flares, more vivid than before and a new sound, the chattering of machine guns echoing in the mountains. The fighting line was certainly not far away.

Then after about an hour I heard the noise of an engine and saw dimly through the trees a jeep approaching. Nervously, rifle at the ready, I stepped into its path and challenged the driver who turned out to be the officer assigned to act as our guide. I directed him to the troop commander and resumed my vigil.

During the next day we remained in this same harbour and had the chance to take stock of our surroundings in bright sunlight. To the north Monte Cassino could now be clearly seen and we could discern the famous monastery looking down from its commanding height across the valleys on either side; it was a formidable and sinister stronghold brooding over its enemies. Long months of intensive shelling and bombing had failed to dislodge the grim and watchful Germans from this impregnable bastion of the defensive position known as the ‘Gustav line.’

Looking towards these mountains in broad daylight listening to the roar and chatter of artillery and machine guns the prospect of penetrating to some advanced position north of the monastery seemed even more forbidding. I do not remember just how we passed that day but I recall very vividly the tense moments as twilight fell and we stood round our guns lined up behind our guide in his jeep ready to move off. Now finally I was poised on the brink of battle, about to experience my ‘baptism of fire’.

It was indeed a pretty dangerous journey. As we threaded our way along narrow winding dusty tracks, the light faded and the sound of gunfire grew steadily louder. Some of the noise was drowned by the roar of our engines and the rattle of our tracks but I could see the flashes of guns and the glow of flares becoming more intense. Presently I noticed that we were skirting along the side of a mountain rising sharply above us on our right. And below on our left was an inferno of stabbing flashes crossed by the sinister bright yellow threads of tracer bullets from machine guns floating through the gathering darkness. This was in fact the town of Cassino, the focal point for the savage fighting which had been raging for so many months.

We had been warned that at one point our route passed within half a mile of the town and that at this point our only cover would be darkness. My memory o