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The evening of 13th July 1943 saw us winging our way across the Mediterranean, en route for Sicily, to capture a vital bridge at Primasole in Catania. The journey was uneventful until the pilot took evasive action, to counter an attack by a German plane, then as we approached the coast of Sicily, we were fired at by the Allied invasion fleet, because we had strayed into a forbidden zone. The pilot again took violent evasive action, pitching us forward to the floor of the aircraft, an ominous sign for the course of the coming battle. As we crossed the coast we stood up in formation and hooked up our static lines. I was jumping number two, after the 2nd Lieutenant, and so had a perfect view through the doorway. Although it was around ten pm and would normally be dark, the landscape seemed ablaze with what seemed like burning undergrowth and haystacks, and I could clearly hear the noise of anti-aircraft gunfire above the roar of the engines. First, a red light and then the green and we were clear of the aircraft and although descending quite rapidly, we seemed to be drifting apart. I hit the deck in regulation fashion, but quite hard and as I looked up I could see the telltale trail of tracer bullets, curving upwards toward the remainder of the stick, who were still suspended in mid-air. As I gathered in my parachute, I realised that two of my rigging lines had been severed, presumably by these selfsame tracer bullets. Standing up, I looked for my 2nd Lieutenant, but in vain and I never saw him again. Together with the remainder of the platoon, under the leadership of our platoon sergeant, we set a course for our objective. On the way we encountered a number of Italian troops, some with suitcases and all eager to surrender. Leaving them protesting bitterly, we proceeded on our bearing, with the sounds of battle growing every more acute as we neared our objective. Our strength, once we assembled ready for the assault on the bridge, was far below the planned total, consequently the objectives and composition of forces to accomplish them, were urgently revised. I found myself in one of the groups assigned to the assault and seizure of the bridge.
We proceeded in single file, myself in the rear, along an embankment, sloping down from the road, the other side of the road consisting of a long row of high factory type buildings, which we understood were occupied by our own troops. Suddenly a speeding vehicle passed us; almost before we could appreciate this threat to our plan, the vehicle, following a loud explosion, burst into flames, accompanied by the screams of pain as the occupants perished. A little further along a figure, standing in the middle of the road above, proved to be an Italian soldier, who was ignored by those in front of me. My instinctive reaction was that it would be dangerous to leave him behind us, with him knowing the strength of our force and our direction of advance, so I climbed the embankment and motioned him to come with me. Without warning, a grenade landed between us and exploded; blood from my facial wounds saturating my smock. A figure in familiar garb approached; "Where’s S company mate ?" he said. "Sod S company, I’m bleeding to death !, where’s the MO ?", I replied. When the MO had bandaged my wounds and given me a shot of morphine, I was directed to join the growing band of wounded, some distance along the riverbank, amid the tall, abundant reeds. We remained there the rest of that night, all the next day and the following night, periods of constant torment from the ceaseless bites of mosquitoes, interspersed with frequent sounds of enemy activity, sometimes nearby, sometimes in the near distance. We received word that the relieving force of British troops was close at hand. Sometime later we hear the familiar sound of battle in the vicinity of the bridge, then on the opposite bank there emerged the welcome sight of a British armoured vehicle.
En route to Alexandria, on a Red Cross ship, one of the badly wounded soldiers was informed that a blood transfusion was imperative, if he was to live. The fact that he was a German SS soldier and that the blood he was to receive was British, was unacceptable to him, so he rejected totally that proposition, consequently he became the only burial at sea that I have witnessed.
The ward to which I was assigned in the hospital at Alexandria was totally American, except for myself, so when General Eisenhower toured the ward handing out ‘Purple Hearts’, it is not surprising that I was included as a recipient. The mistake however was noticed and in a very short time my award was rescinded.
Because the battalion was again under strength and destined to play a leading role in the invasion of Italy, my stay at the hospital ended very abruptly, happily recovered from a serious bout of malaria, resulting from the mosquito bites sustained in Sicily, but before any major surgery could take place, I rejoined the battalion in good time to play my part.

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