大象传媒

These memoires were written by my father, Victor Hathaway who has since died.

I worked as a carpenter in the town of Walsall. The job was varied and i worked with a great bunch of lads. We had few cares but that was to change.

Prime Minister Neville Chamberlaine declared War on Sunday 3rd September 1939. On that day I was working with Frank Woodfield, we were fitting black-out screens to the windows of Lloyds Bank on Walsall Bridge and we watched the local detachment of the Territorial Army mustering outside. Frank was depressed about it all, but it was all exciting to me. My father had fought in the First World War and had been badly wounded at the Battle of Vimy Ridge. He was shot in the face, the bullet entering one side and exiting the other, the scars of which he carried for the rest of his life. And now it was to be my turn. I joined The Second Battalion of The Noth Staffordshire Regiment - Royal Artillery.

I remember during my training we were out in the fields and we did a mock attack and captured a position. These exercises always took place over ploughed fields and after the charge we would all be knackered, the Sgt would order 鈥淒ig In...Dig In鈥� and we would go about it half heartedly. The instructors always said 鈥淲ait 鈥榯il you do the real thing - you鈥檒l dig in a bloody sight faster than that!鈥�

And they were absolutely right, as we were to discover.

Fear and the instinct for self preservation can give a man strength - even when he thinks he鈥檚 exhausted.

The average age of the men was twenty. All conscripts with the Royal Artillery undergoing intensive training prior to postings to overseas units or to the huge twenty-first army group massing in the south of England in preparation for the second front.

Charlie Davenport was one character. A big, raw-boned farm worker from the North. When asked 鈥淗ow are you Charlie?鈥� he would always reply 鈥淢iddlin鈥�. He, like me , had been transferred into the infantry (2nd Battallion North Staffs) from the artillery. He was wounded at Anzio by shrapnel and I never saw him again.

Bill (Ginger) Hancox was another. From Hill Ridware, Staffordshire. He was small, about five foot two, but he played the piano like a dream. If there was a piano in the pub Ginger never had to buy a drink. He had an infectious chuckle and I liked him a lot, we were great friends.

Joe Edge was born in Old Hill, Dudley. I met him early on in the Royal Artillery. I had the bottom bunk and he had the top one. When the time came to make our beds he would say 鈥淭hee 鈥榚lp me to mek mar bed an鈥� arl 鈥榚lp thee to mek thine!鈥�.

Sam Jones from Wolverhampton was a big chap who looked like he鈥檇 been in a few scraps in his time but he had a very high pitched, screechy voice. I remember him snoring once during a lecture on aircraft recognition. I had to give him a gentle dig in the ribs!

Bill Nichols, also from Wolverhampton was a small thick-set man, his job was to look after the large boilers full of spuds and vegetables for dinner. He had an enormous appetite and always referred to the CO as the 鈥楳erjer鈥�.

I started out on Ack-Ack 3.7 guns - a wonderful piece of engineering, the breech block was taken out every day (my job) and oiled. No rag was allowed! the oil had to be applied by bare hands, it was a pleasure to run ones hands over the gleaming steel. The gunner, a north-country man, used to make ash-trays from the discarded caps of the shells, his charge was 2 cigarettes each!

The battery was stationed at Torpoint, Plymouth and usually we would be called out two or three times each night - almost always false alarms. The first two men to reach the gun would take the layers positions, one for elevation and the other for line. There were 11 men in a gun crew. No. 1 The command sgt, No. 2 layer for line, No. 3 layer for elevation, No. 4 Fine Setter, No. 5 Breech Operator, No. 6 Rammer and the rest ammunition numbers.

After weeks of false alarms one night proved to be different. We fired for hours on end, the gun pit was full of shell cases and I think we all enjoyed that night. In the spring of 鈥�43 everyone was given medicals and within a few weeks most of us were posted to different parts of the country. I was sent to Norton Barracks, Worcester to join the South Staffs Regiment. I was soon to discover that life in the Infantry was vastly different to the Royal Artillery.

In my platoon was a man named Quantrill who kept to himself and was much victimised by a bullet headed NCO with the absolute rank of Platoon Sgt Major.
There was a daily early morning cross-country run of about 5 miles and Quantrill invariably collapsed before completing it. It was not surprising as he was a man in his mid to late thirties who had been accustomed, in civilian life, to office work. We discovered later that he was a partner in the firm of Quantrill-Smith, Estate Agents of Sutton Coldfield. Quantrill never went for meals but was visited every week by his wife who would bring him a large parcel. Suddenly, near the end of our training he was moved away. Someone said that he had been posted to Intelligence Corps.

Middway through our course I snuck home and remember having a glorious Saturday night supper of Cottage Loaf with Stewed Rabbit. No-one in the world could make Rabbit Stew like mother, it had just the right amount of sage and whatever else she used to give it that distinctive flavour. I was marked AWOL of course, and recieved 14 days SB which meant rising early every day for inspection at 6.30am and cookhouse fatigues every evening, usually peeling mountains of spuds!. It didn鈥檛 worry me too much though!.

At the end of primary training we were sent to Lincolnshire for intensive training. This was really tough, much harder than anything we had faced previously. One consolation - the food was good and plentiful. We did forced marches of 5, 10 and 15 miles and practised street fighting in the bombed area of Grimsby.

It was early February 1943 and bitterly cold on the bleak windswept plains of Lincolnshire. Hut number eleven was identical to scores of others in the huge sprawling camp, occupied as were the others, by about thirty men. The days training over, most men (if not on guard duty) were grateful for the warmth and comradeship of the hut. Those with money would depart for the NAAFI to indulge in a 鈥榯ea and wad鈥� or a game of 鈥榟ousey-housey鈥�.

Notices had been pinned up around the camp announcing a forthcoming boxing tournament. Anyone interested was invited to submit their names to HQ.
In hut eleven Private Churcher announced that he wouldn鈥檛 be putting his name in as it wouldn鈥檛 be fair - 鈥淚鈥檝e been in the Ring see...Ex pro, No it wouldn鈥檛 be fair鈥�. Private Coombs, Green and Askew could scarcely hide their disappointment, they had suggested he put his name forward in the sincere hope that he would get a pasting.

Churcher was older than the rest, about twenty-eight, five feet ten inches, fourteen stone, flattened,broken nose, small scar on the left cheek, juttering brow, brown hair and protruding grey eyes. Since arriving in the camp he had established a dominance over the occupants of hut eleven. His lurid tales of gory battles in and around the pubs of his native Durham, his vague references to 鈥榯he ring鈥� together with his physical appearance, all combined to give him a 鈥榯ough guy鈥� bruiser image which he exploited in full. He would demand, and get, cigarettes from whoever produced a packet. In card games he would blatantly change the rules to suit his particular hand, any protests would be loudly shouted down.

Within the hut Churcher鈥檚 word was law, no-one dared question it. Without a friend and feared by all, he nevertheless appeared to dominate all within. One man in particular was singled out consistently to bear the brunt of Churchers鈥� offensive insults and jibes - Robbie Coombs, a sandy haired, thin Lancastrian with protruding upper teeth.

It happened suddenly and without warning. Churcher was delivering a particularly nasty stream of abuse and insults directed at Coombs who suddenly launced himself at the big man with such verocity that in fifteen or twenty seconds it was all over. Robbie turned to receive the congratulations of all in the hut. He was patted on the back 鈥淲ell done Robbie鈥� shaken by the hand 鈥淪erves the bugger right, had it coming to him鈥� - 鈥淗ave a fag Robbie鈥� - 鈥淵ou fixed him Robbie鈥�

Churcher had sunk onto his bunk under the onslaught. He looked smaller, harmless, vulnerable, sad even. He knew, as all the hut knew, his reign was over.

At the end of our two weeks we embarked for Liverpool on the 鈥楨mpress of Australia鈥�, which was a huge luxury liner that had been converted to a troop ship. The convoy sailed out into the Atlantic and we saw no land until 7 days had passed, Then we passed through the Straits of Gibraltar, we were issued with tropical kit and had to start taking 2 mepacrine tablets a day as protection against malaria. Whilst on board I never ate dinner. It was mostly Pork, very fat pork and the sight of these lumps of fat swimming in what appeared like a huge tub of slurry turned my stomach over. I tried to get extra bread at tea-time to make up, and I bought buns from the Naafi shop.

The second week at sea I lost all my pay within an hour of drawing it - playing cards, some obscure game which I can鈥檛 remember now, however I scoured around the ship and found enough empty bottles lying around which had deposits on them to make up some of the loss. After another 3 days we were sailing into Naples Bay. After a few hours we were taken by lorry to the huge tented camp south of Monte Cassino

It was a huge camp and we could hear gunfire from the battle of Monte Cassino like the rumble of distant thunder. Every night, at the 1800 hours parade, names would be called. These men would be taken out by lorry the following morning. There were two places to be sent to, Monte Cassino or the Anzio beach head - both were dreaded.

Our first night in camp, some of our group were called and left the following morning. Ten days later the rest of us were named and we went by lorry to Naples where we were loaded onto an American liberty boat. I prayed that we would not be torpedoed as it had taken hours for us all to get in through tiny holes on the deck, I thought of the hopelessness of trying to get back out. We sailed that night and reached Anzio by the following morning.

After disembarking we were left waiting in the dock area for hours, eventually we moved off to join the battallion HQ. The first thing we noticed were lorry loads of bundles wrapped in cloth, these were the latest batch of bodies. The whole area was utterly devastated. I鈥檇 never seen such destruction. The break-out from the beach head had started, we were to join the company the following morning.
When we asked about the others of our group who had come here ten days previously, we were shocked to hear that three of them were dead and one badly wounded.

The following morning we had to travel some distance to catch up with our company as the break-out had been very rapid in the end. And after four months of bitter and heavy fighting, the beach head was no more.
Patrols were sent out every night and these were what we all dreaded because some of the officers who led the patrols were known to be looking for medals. Things were fairly quiet, just the occassional barrage of mortar or shell fire. I remember once walking across a cornfield we came under heavy fire.

It鈥檚 difficult to describe the feelings you have in circumstances like this, with shells landing all around; bullets whizzing past; deafening explosions; people shouting, calling, screaming.... during this attack a number of our patrol were wounded and killed. I will always remember coming across the body of an Infantryman, one of our patrol, with the back of his head blown completely away. The officer took off his tags to hand over to the War graves commission.

The 1st Division was taken out of the line for a rest after the break-out. We were indeed fortunate to have joined them at this time. The 2nd Battalion North Staffs, of which we were now members, had suffered heavy casualties in the four months of fighting. We were the eighth batch of reinforcements they had had.

We had a brew up and a tin of delicious bacon while waiting to move up from the waterfront. The tin of bacon was American and had been obtained from a GI in exchange for two bottles of English Beer. It was streaky bacon, every slice exactly the same length but the flavour was marvellous, I鈥檝e never tasted better. The American GI鈥檚 were very extrovert, they would give up huge parcels of what they called candy for a bottle of our beer. I never liked them much but they were always very generous.

Many weeks went past before we were suddenly told to get packed and parade in FSMO at 06.00 hours. Again it was a long ride in the lorry, in convoy, to the north. The fighting had now moved to the outskirts of Florence, we slept in the open that night, and at dawn moved off in battle order. Our objective was a monastry on a mountain overlooking Florence. The sun was very hot and the sweat ran freely. It was very quiet until we were about half way up the mountain, which was heavily wooded, suddenly all hell broke loose and we came under heavy mortar fire. We all threw ourselves flat on the ground.

After a few minutes, while the barrage continued, I looked up and saw our Platoon sergeant, a stocky , hard man from Derbyshire called Burton, walking calmly around! This had a marked effect on us and most of us felt the panic subsiding.

The barrage ended as suddenly as it had started, there were no casualties and we continued our climb up the moutain. Immediately on reaching the summit the order was given to dig in. It was difficult as the ground was very rocky, but we managed to dig small slit trenches deep enough for a certain amount of protection. Our position around the monastry was shelled daily and there were some casualties, all from shrapnel. I saw a corporal who was hit in the shoulder going away in the medics jeep, he was sitting up then, but died the same day.

We held the position for about 6 or 7 days and were then relieved by the 4th India Division Ghurkas, wonderful little troops, always laughing and skipping up the mountain like little children. Shortly after this we moved into the city of Florence unopposed and occupied a museum.

There was no fighting here and we soon moved out of town to the north. It was then that a German prisoner was brought to us. As he was marched through the large room that we were in. He stared hard at us with a look of absolute contempt. He had cold, pale blue eyes and was completely unafraid (he escaped that night!)

It was about this time that the news came through that we were to get a new Major to the battalion. He was coming from Greece where he was reputed to have been leading a group of Partisans behind enemy lines. He arrived eventually and certainly looked the part: a big man with a drooping black moustache and a deep, gruff voice.

We were soon to learn that his reputation was false. Two days after joining us we were ordered to move off at dawn along a road with steep banks on either side. Before long we came under fire, The Major who was leading the column threw himself to the ground and the whole column came to a halt. The CSM, a tall craggy faced man from Walsall immediately took control. He ordered the Major to the rear of the column and led from the front himself. The following day saw the departure of the Major and he was not seen by us again.

Progress was slow in the mountainous terrain, mules were used to carry a lot of the stores and ammunition and we slept when and where we could. Patrols were a regular feature of life and no one looked forward to them. Mick Ingles from Darlaston had volunteered for sniper duty some time before, but was killed in action. The section I was with was sent on a reccee patrol in the mountains. Nothing much happened until we went through a gap in a hedge. Suddenly we came under intense machine gun fire, the dreaded Spandeau LMG which was a very rapid firing machine gun, much faster than our Bren Guns. We were pinned down and could see the bullets ripping into the bank a few feet away. Luckily the firing stopped and we were able to slip away.

Another patrol went out the following day and a little fellow from Lancashire was missing when the patrol returned. Volunteers went to look for him and eventually we found him lying on his back with a small hole dead centre of his forehead, no blood. and no other marks. This was the pattern of the war in the mountains, known as the 鈥楪othic Line鈥� There were no big battles, no rapid advances, the terrain wouldn鈥檛 allow it.

The battalion would have five or seven days in the line and then we would be drawn out for a couple of days, usually to the artillery positions which were very noisy 25 pounders. We looked forward to this because it meant having bread and fresh vegetables again. In the line we would live on 鈥榗ompo rations鈥� which were very good, all in tins, but only biscuits, no bread.

During this time it occured to me that some men are made for war. There were certain well known officers and men who were much happier in the line than out of it.

One such man was a Welsh Lieutenant named Arnold. He would say how he looked forward to being in the line because of the excitement and not having to wash!

It is impossible to tell how a man will react under fire. Often the tough looking ones will crack and the quiet weedy man can quite often stay remarkably calm. My own conclusions were that the majority of ordinary men hated the war and were very, very frightened - certainly true in my case.

We all longed for the end of it and yet in the autumn of 1944 it seemed a long way off.

It was October now and getting very cold at night, there was also a lot of rain, which made life even more miserable. We had occupied some farm buildings near a mountain village, I wasn鈥檛 on forward position and considered myself very lucky as I had found myself a barn with straw in it and lay down to sleep.

I awoke at dawn, but felt very weary. I could hardly raise myself off the floor. As I urinated in a corner I noticed that my water as brown, but I was too weary to bother too much about it. I attended morning sick parade, The MO told me to get my things together; and within an hour I was in a truck along with a few more assorted occupants heading south to the SA advanced field hospital. The following morning we were on a Dakota, flying south, in 2 hours we were in 67 British military hospital, Naples. I had infective hepatitis.

The MO in the hospital said there was a lot of I.H. about probably caused by the lack of fresh food. Within a few days I was feeling much better and loved the hospital. It was marvellous sleeping in a bed again and with sheets!, and also the peace and quiet. I could not understand it when I heard the troops in Naples moaning and complaining about trivial little things, to me it was shangri-la.

While in the hospital I was medically examined and downgraded, and so my days with the 2nd Battalion were over.

Italy is a lovely country of mountains and rivers and lakes and sun. Someday I should like to go back and visit some of the places again. Especially the little places like Torre del Greco, and maybe the cementary at Anzio and the Colliseum at Rome.

I was demobbed in late 1946 and home for Christmas.

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