´óÏó´«Ã½

Part 11 Boarded HMT Thalma in Taranto.

Conditions aboard her were similar to the others. This was to be another visit to Egypt, to be used in
Security patrols during a Conference. Nobody within the lower group knew who they were.

A large house on the outskirts of Cairo was to be provided with top security, how important it was nobody in the ranks knew. Their job was to as far as possible patrol shoulder to shoulder through the grounds. It was not until July 2003 when information in the Welch War Diaries was given that he knew that it was Prime Minister Churchill and his foreign Secretary Anthony Eden who were to be protected. Wish they had appeared in person, what a memory that would have been.

This was a nice cushy number with large gardens that were well set out and looked as if they could supply a whole range of goodies for the whole of Cairo. Strict orders were given not to touch any of the eatable things growing there. Within a short time ways were found to taste a few of the delights. 'Monkey' nuts straight from the ground were the favourite, beautiful rip figs were a good second for taste. Trouble free plus those few little extra goodies made it one of the best jobs, to be regretted when it was time to move out and it all finished.

It was an area of strange contrasts between ancient and modern. Within short distance of these tramcars running a city service in another direction loaded camels making off in another. Spectacular Pyramids were a short distance away to look at with little knowledge of their purpose, but somehow they intrigued him. The main road with its transport to Cairo divided the House and the Pyramids. Duties over, the lads returned to the bivouacked camp near the main road. There was nothing much to do except watch the passing traffic on the main road and look at the Pyramids nearby. Much too soon, once again the Welsh were on the move.

Exact timing of this trip evades me; that protection duty had been enjoyably boring and negative. Just getting up in the morning and having a nice walk in the house grounds and the army camp surroundings seemed at the time to be a long way to come to pick a few ground nuts and the odd fig.
The easy tempo of this guard duty changed, with the whole detachment being moved to the Alexander area. There were lots of rumours ranging from going back to Blighty. Truth of the move was given a short time before being moved into the desert.

Greek Mutiny.
Our authorities had expected and were preparing to suppress the mutiny of the Greek Brigade billeted in open desert, and the Greek warships tied up at the Alexander docks under the watchful eyes of the Royal Navy. Perhaps this was the Welch Regiment’s primary job to be available at this time of the mutiny.

There was nothing very romantic about it as they marched off to surround the Greek camp. As with all these events fear of the unknown takes over. Maybe fear is nature’s antidote to all the other nasty things happening, being cold is forgotten, never a trace of hunger but always dry in the mouth. All the body functions are put on hold, stiff upper-lip and all that sort of stuff purely cinema.
No one near to him spoke; things happening around took on new dimensions. Every shape or shadow became an enemy with a gun. By the time the parameter of the camp was reached there were numb feelings but no relief from the fear of entering that blasted camp and disarming the troops there. Thank God once again, things had gone alright. The night was bright and very cold, which was normal for these parts. Vary lights and a few small arms firing in the distance started it off. Within a short time the operation was over, all the tents were empty. Reaction to it all was a quiet thanks that there were no casualties in this area, and real sadness felt that it was our own people.

Reason given later was that they wanted to fight in their own country. There was sympathy from the rankers he had talked too, they were not our enemies. Perhaps it would have added to Allies problems by the Greeks placing their country first, but wasn't that what we were all fighting for. It was not important enough to be included in the war's history and never reached the paper headlines. What happened to them, and was there any casualties?

All this over and it was back to training and some leave. The leave period was full of memories to the repetitive exercises banging off a few rounds of ammunition. Dreams of home as the orders were made to move, once again the now familiar sight of Alexandra, and within a short time the Welsh Regiment was on their way back to Italy. Maybe the movement of the ship and the weather was pleasant enough to bury any of the other discomforts aboard her and spent most of the time relaxing in the sun. Time was plentiful, thoughts constantly returning to home and that longing for a good fresh pint of Brain’s Dark beer with a young lady hanging onto a half-pint and just talking seemed to fill in the time.

Porto San Georgio is one place remembered with affection; it had every thing and became attached to one of the Italian families. Somehow it all came together by meeting the man of the house at one of the locals. Things livened up between the two Welsh soldiers and the man singing ‘O Sola Mio’ standing on top of one of the tables. Free flowing wine and song had bonded them with their Italian host and made them into one and returned to his house to continue the celebrations.
It was a start to some very happy periods. The lady of the house was the ideal mother figure with a very round figure and about five feet high, her smile and attitude made her that something special to me. She treated all the noise in the house with an air of indifference and did what she could to prepare a meal with large bottles of vino rosso placed in the centre of the table to wash it down. There would be no guarantee that they would get the same reception as the night before, money was short but an American blanket and cigarettes were available, they would be more than enough to pay for a return visit. Black Market was almost the normal thing and once again to provide the main currency to pay for the meals and wine.

In the early days the training was to prepare them for the battle of the Gothic Line. Life wasn’t too complicated at the time, just moving around the country side with ever more training. Then things were about to change.

August 1944.

Troops were assembled in a field to be briefed on the forth-coming action and could see the leaders at the front shouting out orders and waving their hand about. It had the set pattern of more activity from these little big men that always heralded the arrival of the main person. Before his arrival juxtaposed leaders above the local leaders buzzed around trying to gain first place; Red Caps moved quickly around and about the place to protect the strong and chastise the weak. At last it had reached its peek of non-sense as the motorcade came into sight. No mistake about it, the boss man’s transport stood out decked in little flags and things waving about it. Of course in his fleet lesser cars carrying the cortege of staff officers with their pretty red markings was there to add their sixpenny worth. All was set for the big announcement, a bit more hand waving and the order to break rank and ‘Gather around’ was given.

The pep talk.

For a while there was silence from all, and then the big man addressed them all. Well it was joyous news that they were going to have a little get together with the 98 Panzer Division and others. The General was bursting with joy; "Men we are going meet our friends the 98 Panzer’ and others". If talk could win the war, then what they were getting was the full treatment. Nothing to it, our German ‘friends’ were sitting up in the high ground over-looking the road and the jolly fellows shouldn’t be there. We are going to teach them a lesson. It was all going to be so simple, use anything as transport; even use bicycles if they were lying around to go up that road to open lands beyond with Rimini and Ancona
The lad casts his mind back to the early days of the foxhunting C.O. who loved it and thought everybody else did. This one too may have relished the idea but the three cheers at the end of the briefing were purely a reaction to the command to cheer.

Plans of the General didn’t work out; instead of going around the high ground it had to be cleared. Using that mountain route certainly needed more than push bikes. The first unfortunate casualty remembered was an NCO who within a short distance of his transport had dismounted and stepped off the road and trod on a box mine. Very little blood was lost; the boot on that foot was missing the toecap up to the tie-up. What was left of the foot a senseless black mess? At the time it looked no more than a Blighty one.
He seemed to give up the Ghost without a fight as he lay there on the stretcher. It was just another misfortune to add on to all the other things. Life is strange as it unfolds, this man’s body was almost whole and yet he died. Why? People with dozens of pieces missing returned to this world with their minds a little dented but still survived.

These are Memories of a day that he was told to report to a church that was being used as an observation post. There had been action with a number of casualties and was ordered to patrol the area looking for any survivors and to look for the furthest causalities that lay near to a cluster of farmhouses. The big problem was that it was full day light.

As always the church of that village occupied the highest ground. Within a short distance a small cluster of houses. From the village boundary the road from it fell away in a slow downward curve, and then rose again to another farm site. Observations made from the Church thought it warranted a closer inspection. He was available and had arrived at the church to be given the search orders. The possibilities of what to expect were not ones that could be answered. What was certain was that the road that had to be walked along passed the enclosed burial ground on his right? It was about a quarter of a mile in all.
It was a beautiful sunny morning. Wasn't too long a walk before the farmhouse was reached? Just outside laying on the top of the bank in a firing position the body of a chap he knew and called out to him, hoping to get a reply and moved to join him. There was no sound or movement but didn't want to believe what he was seeing and went to his body. It must have been a quick death, nothing about him had moved, helmet placed at the right height over his eyes his rifle still held in the hands in the right place. Touched him to make sure, but the skin said it all, his face and hands were so cold, and features the colour of white marble. Somehow every thing about him had relaxed. Though recognisable, his features had changed the ears and nose was darker as if someone had stuck them on to make him whole again. There was nothing that could be done for him, said a few silly words and left.

The most eerie thing about this horrible place was that every thing about it was so quiet but had another look around to see if there was anybody else, and started the return journey. Sad and sick with the sight of that cold marble like figure he somehow resisted the urge to turn and run. Imagination placed a gun behind every window and bush. Fear almost took over but some how hung onto the orders to search the ground for any survivors.
A visit to the enclosed cemetery was a different kettle of fish. Our people knew that the enclosed cemetery had been used for a first aid post and made his way to the opening in the high wall and observes what lay behind it. The place was littered with the dead of our people. Maybe their idea for choosing this site may have been that the surrounding walls would give some of protection to the first aid post, if that was their reason then it looked to have opposite results; blasts of the mortar shell had been contained within its walls. Nobody laying about the place had survived; he could only mutter to himself, ‘You poor bastards’. His brain freed itself from this devilish spectrum and gave the hurry up sign to himself to move out, it was no place to hang around in and it was time to be off again. Looking to the left he spotted one of our lads tucked up in a hole. A live one seemed out of place, but it was some relief to have some company to return to the church. The survivor looked shook up and was very distressed. Body wise he was sound, they looked at one another, the survivor with that sensation of being found and the lad with that pure feeling of being alive! No words were spoken but the expressed body language said to get the hell out of the place.

The church observation post poking out from the top of the hill seemed to be a million miles away, the luck for the pair of them was still holding on and off they went. There were no problems in walking to the observation post. Officer and the men within the observation post (Church) looked to the returning soldiers. Saluting out of the way, the two soldiers got on with their stories. Most of the action had already been observed and confirmed that the man with me was the only survivor. Relieved that he was in the comparatively safety within the walls started to prepare for the return journey. Job done the survivor is left behind to fill in more details and hr was given orders to return to base. What was to happen next proved that the Gods were truly on his side.

The Return Journey.

It had all gone so well that the open area around the church looked trouble free to cross to reach the houses a little distance from it. Things were so quiet that there seemed time to look at the empty houses in a forecourt some distance away. Outside one of the houses a dead civilian lay. He looked to be a man about fifty and almost bald. His death must have taken some time for it looked as if he was conscious enough to have tried to use his arms to soften his fall. His wrinkled face drained of most of it colours tilted to one side, the very hot weather had speeded up the decay of the body. What was so awful about that man’s body were the flies and other things that were feeding from the mouth and eyes?

During this small delay there was time to think about the things around and the body of the old gent. It seemed so wrong that a civilian should be so dead. Soldier casualties seemed less ‘barbaric’. Why does the clothing being worn mean so much between right and wrong? Why hadn't someone at least covered the body to give it some sort of protection? Within seconds the unspeakable good fortunes was coming to an end and was running like hell for his life. There was the un-mistaken noise of mortar fire and the blooded things were popping off around him. Everything now was on automatic with no real thoughts registering on what to do except run, it was all so ridiculous; by all the rules he should have been dead. This was a valley of death and the good Lord had spared him. When able to think he realized that he must have been under observation by the enemy all the time while doing this reconnaissance. Why did they hold their fire? Even with all the mortar bombs that were being thrown, why was it ineffective? What did it take to kill that poor old civilian? It seemed little, but his survival nothing more than a miracle.

Mortar fire stopped as swiftly as it had begun its silence more deafening. The leisurely walk had changed into the fastest speed that could be got from the over-worked legs. Returning to the base house was as uneventful as the out going journey. It seemed impossible, there were no damp places on his body, and remained unmarked, maybe missing out the place not talked about.

Sitting down in a partly destroyed house now his billet with that ever welcomed mess-can of brew were lots of thought about previous patrol actions. The relived memories were fresh enough to send a shudder down the spine.
Death was now becoming acceptable, ludicrous thoughts filled the head about the dead ones that always looked so dead; there was nothing about these bodies that represented a living thing. His personal disturbed thoughts were only tempered by saying this was war and his enemy that dead bungle of flesh in a different uniform had to be destroyed. As quickly as the thought came it changes again and wonders what sort man made up that wasted life?
A burnt out tracked vehicle lay there at the road junction leading back to the company head-quarters with body remains. It was becoming the almost accepted scenery, but the smell of burnt flesh made the eye turn to this destruction of a fellow human being. It looked as if a phosphorous hand grenade had landed on the lap of one the soldier’s and had burnt the flesh and innards right down to the white bone making the dead man’s last moments an un-measurable torture. His hands partly destroyed and distorted in an effort to free himself from this devilish thing.
A picture held of a hopelessly torn body was bad enough but could be even worse if that body still held onto life. Cutting meat from a leg of lamb is almost impossible even now. Any pleasure from seeing and smelling an animal being cooked over a fire now makes him physically sick.

This was to be another Day that had changed to night when the orders were given to move back to a rest area. Scenery on the way back changed not a bit, stinking dead animals and the odd dead German. Some with their uniform intact except for the places distorted with open wounds floating on the surface of their grey uniform. There were other bodies with limbs missing and other ends of the limbs often black with the flesh and cloth hanging in strange patterns. The most repulsive things that horrific smell of death that hung there in the nostril (especially in the hot weather) and the assortment of flies and things swarming all over the wound.
If the foot part was missing it was more than possible he had stood on a wooden box mine, possibly one of there own. This mine was a curse to every one making them in wood made them impossible to detect with the mine detector machine. It was a mine that was designed to maim not to kill. Once it had been laid it recognised no race or colour; anybody was their victim. Seeing that particular foot wound was always a warning to all to tread lightly.

Rest area a burning farm.

He arrived, in the night to the burning farm rest area, Its burning buildings stood out from the surrounding country side that were for forever changing in shape. Burning timbers well a light and sending showers of sparks into the air. Smoke from the fires softening the shapes on the floor. Empty stretchers and things now discarded were left laying around the open spaces in the farm yard.
As near as possible to the wall loaded stretchers set out and placed under what was left of the roof to give what protection to the covered bodies laying on them. As he moved closer he was curious to see ‘what lay beneath the bloody blankets? What little cover from the weather was available he shared with a stretcher.
It was the one dry spot he could find, a space left on a stretcher already containing a body turned on its side. From this position his tired body and mind focused onto the stretcher next to him and looked more deeply at the hand that rested on the side of the stretcher. Noticing the man’s complete stillness he was terrified in case the thing beneath the blanket grasped his hand. Silence was punctuated by other ominous sounds, flickering burning timbers changing the shadows on all things around him. Add to this the sound of occasional crashing of masonry and things breaking the silence and wondering what else could collapse?

The spilt blood from the dead soldier was no longer a bright red but now brownish in colour lifting the blanket he could see the head wound carrying the useless bandages. It looked as if they had been placed there to hide the wound rather than to control the bleeding. Dangling from the open front of the shirt the all important identity disc lay exposed by the medics to record rank, name and number. His open mouth showing his teeth with streaks of moisture like the poisoned snail trails issued from the corner of the soldier’s mouth. This hunk of man made mess was as dead as dead as it could be, but as live as could be in the depths of mind of this tormented over tired young soldier.
Tricks played by the flickering burning timbers of the farm building changed the shape of the dead soldier. Now a silence between them spoke words that only the two soldiers would understand. Would it be his turn in what ever time he had left to be turned into this useless mess in this bloody war?

Pulling away from this dead soldier, he this civilian in army uniform the survivor drifted away from this futile world and was now was being buried in the factual world of burning timbers and rotting smells. Nothing can be done to return this victim stretched out before him. Why had this one out of the many lying around aroused so much passion? Perhaps the dead soldier wasn’t at rest; for no other reason than it seemed to be the right thing to do, he covered the uncovered arm. With a final tidy up of the clothing stood up and saluted the body.

Italy wasn’t all blood and guts; his war was in no-way as bad as the lads in the Far East or the D-Day landings were. When the weather was good it was bloody good, the rest camp set up in Rome must have been one of the best-organised in Italy. There was so much to enjoy. Rome and the Vatican were just a few places to visit.
The Vatican a neutral state was open to all, non- believers and the devoted. Walking up the many steps prepared for all the wonderful things to see. No firearms were allowed to be carried. It was strange to walk freely with Axis Nationals. Entrance to St.Peter’s of indescribable man made beauty. The magnificent carved figure of St Peter dominated all other things around. Pilgrims over the many years paid their homage to him and the Church by kissing the foot of his statue. Details of the foot had been worn away with their continuous kissing.
All ancient buildings carried those special feelings of good and evil. His inner feelings with this visit were that of being overwhelmed with it all. Mosaic pictures that reflected three dimensional figures were beyond belief in design and construction. Black columns were a magnificent sight that looked if they could only have been created and not carved out by man. His own official religious needs were limited to compulsory parades and Sunday school when he was young. Standing amongst all this splendour and watching other people at their devotions encouraged him to think. How could this new found spiritual world and the countless hours of mans industrial effort be necessary to this Church and to his own spiritual needs?

Would Jesus Christ have approved of such a collection of wealth when so much poverty existed outside its gates? The figure of Christ on the cross always fascinated him. A man driving nails into the hands and feet of another person was beyond his understanding. Would any of these people in their finery standing around be able give a reason for such human actions? If they had the key to peace why didn’t they push it out in to those fields within miles of them? To his right people sat waiting the arrival of the Pope. People of many races now at peace with one another, it made no sense to what was going on within a few miles this place.

The Pope arrived, not being Roman Catholic the young lad was unable to participate fully in the service. In some ways it helped, again it gave time to think. Would this be the way his Christ would want to preach his teachings? There was no answer for him. Goodness from this visit was at least that all this part of the world was at peace with one another. Watching other people responding to the Priest and his reading from the written word was able to join in some of the official religious responses. It was an unforgettable experience, for the first time it showed that in some way it was possible for all nations to live in peace.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.