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A TRANSPORT OF DELIGHT

It was the autumn of 1944. Italy was basking in hot sun. The fields were parched, the smaller rivers mere trickles of water. I was in charge of the 56th Division Prisoner of War Cage, located in a battered farmhouse about a mile away from divisional headquarters, somewhere in the Po Valley. I had been warned that there was to be a ‘push’ along the line, and I had spent the evening packing up my office.

That night, the guns seemed to fire continuously. My troop had to take cover in our dugout at about 3 a.m., when a lone German plane came over to bomb the guns nearby. However, the ‘push’ went ahead, and next morning I was given the signal to move with headquarters to our new position.

The enemy had retreated about ten miles, to the next river valley, and Divisional Headquarters were already established in a farmhouse set in a pretty wooded copse. I was shown a spot on a map. It was a road-makers’ depot not far away, and I and my lot set off to find it.

The little complex of buildings was just right for our purpose. It had obviously held German troops just the day before. I set up our billets in the main building, with my interrogation office in a sort of reception room.

I was unpacking my papers and office equipment when Teagle, my driver/batman, came in all excited. ‘Come and have a look at this, sir!’ he shouted.

The last time I had heard this shout, he had led me to a nearby village distillery which had been machine-gunned by retreating Germans. Raw brandy had been spurting out of the giant vats. We had quickly gathered up all jugs and containers we could find, and filled them with the liquid, only to find that it was virtually undrinkable!

Today, Teagle took me to a lane round the back of the depot, where he had found a car, crashed in a ditch. I carefully examined it for booby traps, but it was clean, and we got our truck round and pulled it out of the ditch on to the road.

It was a Fiat sports coupé in military camouflage, with a German unit sign and military numberplate painted on front and rear. The passenger compartment was loaded with books, some 300 to 400, all copies of a hard-back entitled ‘War-torn Roman Lands’, the memoirs of a German War Correspondent. They were covered copiously with blood. The driver had obviously been shot trying to get away, and had probably been taken off to a military hospital.

I rescued a few books that had escaped the driver’s wounds, and set about cleaning the car up. Teagle was a great help. He was a good mechanic, and soon had the engine ticking over. There were a few problems — ‘She’s a bit temperamental,’ he said,’ a real bambina!’ The name stuck. ‘Bambina’ was what we always called her.
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The engine was quite smooth, but the gears were a bit tricky. Bambina had a three-speed ‘crash’ gearbox, and second gear was sometimes difficult to find. I had to judge the moment of clutch engagement very finely. Apart from this, she was quite serviceable, if somewhat sluggish on hills.

The problem now was — what to do with her. I had for some time envied some of the more senior officers who were proudly driving ‘liberated’ vehicles — mostly military Volkswagen. These had been repainted with British markings, such as the 56th Division’s black cat symbol, and an Administrative Officer had issued a Retention Certificate, which was displayed on the windscreen. As a mere lieutenant, I would certainly have to hand Bambina in, and some major or colonel would soon be driving this lovely sports model proudly around.

We decided to conceal the car in a small barn on the premises I was using, and Teagle ‘borrowed’ some paint to black out the German numbers and markings. Two days later, I inspected his handiwork. Bambina now sported a very professional-looking number plate purporting to come from Rome, as well as a camel — the sign of a number of 8th Army ancillary units. The Retention Certificate was simple — I just typed one out and scribbled a signature on it. No one in the front line area was going to question a signature from Army HQ, even if they could decipher it!

The next time 56th Division came out of the line for a rest, I got Bambina out of her hiding place and, carefully avoiding the headquarters convoy, drove down to our forward depot in Rimini. When, after a short rest, the division went back into the front line, I was able to display ‘the little car my commanding officer has lent me!’

Bambina was the envy of my fellow officers, and I took to wearing a red silk scarf — the latest fashion for 8th Army officers!

She did good service for me. I drove from south of the River Po right up to Venice and beyond and then into Austria. The mountains there proved to be too much for Bambina, and one day the gearbox just gave up altogether. Teagle did his best, but, other than finding a new gearbox, there was not much he could do. His temporary repair lasted a day or two. Sadly, we abandoned Bambina on an Austrian hillside. I expect she was soon cannibalised for spare parts. Teagle and I drank a few jars of Austrian beer to send her safely to her mechanical heaven!

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