大象传媒

The last time Mount Vesuvius erupted was during the war: shortly after the Allies had entered Italy, in 1943. At that time I was stationed in the coastal town of Castellamare, about halfway between Naples and Salerno. We were billeted in the buildings of a vinery.
Hot ash from the volcanic eruption was heavy and far reaching, and I knew it to reach Salerno, some thirty miles away from the Mount. The Engineers were called in with bulldozers to clear streets and roadways, and I well remember having to wear caps and capes continually to protect us from the dust.
Three days prior to the eruption, I had, with a lorry load of soldier colleagues, visited the very top of Vesuvius. We drove halfway up the volcano, and then walked the remainder of the way. A guide was essential, as the lava was bubbling in pockets even then. An enterprising local Italian was ladling the bubbling lava, forming round moulds with an inset coin, then selling the hardened ones. One of which I brought back to England, when I returned in 1946.
Coming from Boosbeck, a small mining village in East Yorkshire, I was enlisted in the R.A.S.C. (Royal Army Service Corps), the transport corps. Full title after training at Alfreton, Derbyshire, Lance Corporal, B. Platoon, 7th Infantry Brigade Company, R.A.S.C. 1st Division.
My unit consisted of about ten lorries, transporting the usual essential supplies of food, petrol and ammunition. But one of the many strange loads that we had to transport were mules, up into the mountains of Italy.
At this point in my war service I had been promoted to sergeant, and was also attached to the 1st (or possibly 3rd) American Division at Anzio (north of Naples). My work here was transporting to the war front, General Kesselring's The Gothic Line. We did eventually break through in the Autumn of 1943, travelling on to Rome, Florence, and as far north as Bologna.
My recollections of serving with the Yanks were trading their cigarettes for our beer or whisky, and their K. rations for a British supply box. We were so fed up with the corned (bully) beef, that we actually buried large quantities of the tins, at points that I could possibly still find.
One soldier that I travelled with regularly, turned out to be the son of an American Indian Chief.
It was somewhere at this point of time that I recall our occupied area being bombarded from the air with German propaganda leaflets. They consisted of pen and ink drawings of girls dancing with American G.I.s. The females were depicted as scantily dressed, in basques, stockings and garters, the G.I.s in uniform. The wording said something like, "look what your wives and girlfriends are up to, back home".
Far from it having a demoralising affect ,on me and my mates at least, it gave us a good laugh. I'm sorry that I never brought a leaflet home with me.

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