大象传媒

Beach鈥檚 War Chapter 3 鈥� the Final Battle to take Monte Cassino

Note: A volunteer on behalf of Fred Beacham has entered this story, the author has seen and agreed to the People's War House Rules.

The journey across country from the Adriatic front was long, tiring and at times very frightening. The standard of driving the trucks, around some of the winding and hairpin bends, made our hair stand on end. Many times on the journey, we banged on the rear of the cab and in unison called out, 鈥淪teady on Johnny, we don't want to get killed before we get there!鈥� We did pass the odd truck or two that had gone over the edge and in the end, we slumped down on the bed of the truck and hoped for the best!

The journey seemed endless. En-route, there were no stops, so we took it in turn to urinate out of the back of the truck. This was a far more difficult feat than one would imagine. It was no joke trying to hold on to one of the canopy bars and urinate over the back whilst ones stomach muscles were otherwise engaged in trying to keep an upright position. Several of the men, despite the fact that they were virtually bursting, could not go whilst the truck was on the move and they spent ages holding it in their hands, in a vain effort to go without success. It was not funny at all, except to those of us lucky enough to go almost at will.

We arrived at a still unknown destination at around midday, on, or about, the 8th or 9th May 1944. Sometime during our short stay, Major General Leese told us, during a 'Montgomery' style meeting what we were going to do. Standing on a jeep, he told us that we were going to be part of a battle to take Monte Cassino. The talk filled us with confidence. He outlined the fact that over 1,600 guns of all types would saturate the enemy positions in the form of a creeping barrage of artillery fire. All we apparently had to do was to cross the river in rubber boats and follow behind the creeping barrage of artillery fire and more or less mop up any resistance that was left, if any. Tanks would soon cross the river in our support and plenty of aircraft would be available the next day to assist our advance on the way to Rome and would destroy the German forces that were surrounding the Allied forces, pinned down at the Anzio bridgehead. I must confess that the way he spelled it out, I felt that nothing could go wrong and that everything would to use today's jargon, be 鈥� a piece of cake.鈥� How wrong could I be!

The attack was scheduled to start at 11 o'clock at night, on the 11th May, 1944. On the night of the 9th/10th, we carried and concealed our rubber boats, camouflaged with bushes and branches, along a narrow track to the edge of the Rapido River. This was to be our starting point that I later found out was about three-quarters of a mile to the east of a village called San Angello. We then retired to our daytime position, about a mile from the river. We hid in a vineyard with extra camouflage nets placed on some of the vines to prevent us from being observed from the Monastery, as the Monastery of Monte Cassino seemed to loom over the whole area. Forbidden for the whole of that hot day was any kind of movement, so we were very glad to catch up on some sleep; play cards in small groups and to seek the now welcome shade of the grape vines.

The artillery fire was extremely light on both sides during the whole of this day, and the most prominent sound was that of the spotter plane that seemed to fly constantly around the area. We were always pleased to see the spotter aircraft, as they had the effect of stopping the enemy artillery from firing. Dusk seemed to come very rapidly that day, and I was glad that I had lost nearly all my cash whilst playing cards. It usually happened, that one man finished up with practically all the platoon's money in his pocket; it was generally felt that this would be unlucky for the winner. In fact, some of the men deliberately put large sums on in an effort to lose and pack in the game.

As it darkened, we moved around a little more freely in our immediate area. We were given some hard tack to eat, biscuits that were as hard as bullets, so hard in fact, that one could almost break ones' teeth on them and some cheese.This was followed by a tin of corned beef (Bully beef) and a small tin of iron rations. Our water bottles were checked to see that they were full and by about 10 o'clock, we were ready to go.

Sometime during our training period, I had volunteered to be the Platoon's machine gunner, as no one else wanted the job. In consequence, I was approached by my Platoon Officer and after being given a drink of rum, (that time I did, in fact, drink it) I was detailed with my number two, a fellow called Bill Balsdon to go down to our side of the river near the crossing point. When the crossing started, I was to give cover, or return fire, as and when it was required. As I was the Bren gunner, I wore a camouflage smock under my equipment.

We left together ahead of the Platoon and made our way to the crossing point. I selected a point about 25 yards or so to the right of the actual crossing point. We lay on the edge of a fast-flowing river, and I set the sights of the gun to fire at around 600 yards. Bill got his ammunition magazines ready. By that time, as it was about 10 minutes before the start, I got out a bar of chocolate, which I shared with Bill, and in the almost complete silence, broken only by the buzzing of insects and the sound of crickets, we waited.

I looked at my watch, which had been synchronised with everyone elses, just prior to leaving and more or less dead on time, it started. It was positively awe inspiring, the entire sky, as far as the eye could see erupted in light and sound, as the thousand, or more guns fired. The shells approached us from the rear like a hundred express trains running passed us at a hundred or more miles per hour and the far bank erupted to the sound and sight of orange flame as the shells struck.

Immediately our troops began to place their boats in the water and the first one started to cross. The shells whined overhead incessantly and it was difficult to hear anything above the din. I saw the first of our troops start to clamber up the fairly short, but steep bank on the far side. Then the enemy replied and large mortar bombs started to explode all around us followed almost immediately by heavy artillery fire. The enemy infantry opened up with his machine guns and tracer bullets whipped and whanged their way a few feet over our heads. I prepared to return fire, but, as our troops were now in my line of fire, I was unable to do so. I could see them reasonably clearly, moving forward, just across the river and all we could do was to watch as the machine gun bullets arched and swathed across the crossing point. The enemy had obviously fixed their machine guns to fire on fixed lines, to cover this crossing point. Had I known where that particular machine gun was located, I could have returned fire, if I had positioned myself to the left of the crossing point, instead of the right.

The amount of artillery being fired now by both sides was tremendous, and a gradual mist and smoke started to envelop the battlefield. Mortar bombs were continuing to fall around us. The bullets were flying in droves about us. It was becoming increasingly apparent that I would not be able to return the enemy's machine-gun fire from this position. What is more, there was a real prospect that at any moment, one of the mortar bombs would find its mark, smack in the middle of our backs. I suggested to Bill that we find somewhere, a little bit safer and he agreed. We crawled back a relatively short distance from the bank and found a large shell hole; it still smelt strongly of cordite, but on the presumption that no two shells fall in the same place, we stayed put. The shelling continued unabated and it was whilst we were in this shell hole that we heard a cry for help, coming from somewhere to our right. It was a plaintive cry, repeated again and again, 鈥淗elp me, I鈥檝e been hit.鈥� We had orders not to stop for the wounded, as the Red Cross stretcher-bearers would deal with him. We did not go to the aid of this person, and it may well be that he was killed in the continuing enemy bombardment, for after a few minutes, the cries stopped.

Time seemed to stand still. The artillery fire advanced on the other side of the river. I whispered to Bill that it was about time to make our way. Despite the heavy machine-gun fire, which still slashed across from the enemy positions, we stood up and made our way the short distance to the crossing point. It was difficult to find anything at all, due to the thick mist and smoke laid down by our and their artillery. This mist enveloped the whole area and we stumbled. We nearly fell into a mass of shell craters that now pitted the riverbank. The officer in charge at the crossing asked us who we were, then shepherded us the short distance to the river where we were to cross. We both slid down the bank and into the small rubber boats, along with several others and in no time at all, we were clambering out on to the far bank. The mist was now so thick, with visibility down to about eight feet, that I, for one, felt thankful the Germans could not possibly see us.

The artillery fire had moved even further on with the immediate swish-bang having changed to a constant moaning sound as the shells flew overhead. The German machine gunners to our immediate front had almost stopped firing, possibly so as not give their positions away. I found myself, after walking a few yards, standing still for what seemed an age, without moving at all. I started to feel anxious, as I half expected the machine guns to gun me down at any second. After a short while we were given a whispered 鈥榦rder鈥� to catch hold of the bayonet scabbard of the man in front. We started to move off in slow motion. At the time,it seemed to me, that we were going around in a circle. After a relatively short distance, no more than thirty yards, we stumbled into what later turned out to be an irrigation furrow. The furrow was about two feet wide and a foot deep, and we went no further. We again received 'orders,'whispered from man to man, to get into the furrows. This I did lying full-length in one of them.

Time passed slowly with shells still constantly moaning and with spasmodic bursts from the enemy machine guns whipping by overhead. The strange thing about being fired at was seeing the tracer bullets seeming to travel so slowly as they came towards you, and then to increase in speed at a rate as they cracked by. If it was not for the fact that someone was trying to kill you with them, it was at times beautiful to see.

We were still in the same position when the dawn broke, for reasons that I still do not understand. There we were stretched head to toe, as in a massive, long, open grave; unable to move at all, without the risk of being shot down. The sun was out in all its glory. I was thankful that the long grass and peas, sown early, helped to give our narrow trenches some degree of cover from the enemy. What the hell had gone wrong during the night? As far as my immediate colleagues and I could see, with our backs to the river, we found ourselves in a position, whereby we could not advance. I felt a sense of anger and fear, especially as several shells started coming in on our positions. The sun grew hot and started to beat down on our backs. We drank a little water from our water bottles and occasionally, I even dozed off. I did not feel at all hungry and even if I had, I think I would have been afraid to reach into the pack on my back to get it as I felt I would probably have gotten my hand blown off.

At about 11 o'clock that morning, there was a sustained burst of enemy machine-gun fire and a sudden tinkling sound that at that time was associated with someone kicking a chamber pot under the bed. Everyone in our area burst out laughing. A short time afterwards, Sergeant Jock MacGregor, a gangling, fair-haired Scot crawled by; blood was streaming down his face from a wound across his forehead and he said as he passed by, 鈥淕ood luck chaps!鈥� I could clearly see what had made the chamber pot sound. The rim of the British steel helmet is doubled back for a quarter of an inch and a bullet had struck his helmet, just above the eyes and been deflected across his forehead. I do not know to this day, if he made it back to safety or not, but we wished him good luck in return as he crawled away.

This incident prompted the man whose studded boots were near my head, to ask me if I was married, and I told him that I was not. He asked me if I would do him a favour and being more than a little puzzled, I asked him what it was. He then asked me, in case of being killed, if I would look after a photograph of a girlfriend. He would not want his wife to know about it, if the photo was sent home with his possessions. I said that I would and he handed me a small photograph of an ATS girl in full uniform. I cannot remember who the soldier was and I have never seen him since the battle. Of course, I still have the photograph, and many times over the years, I wondered who she was, where she lived and what happened to that man. Does she ever think of him?

That day passed ever so slowly. We could hear the sound of almost continual shellfire, which I later found directed at the Royal Engineers. I did not envy them their job of attempting to get a bridge across the river at the village of San Angello, about a half-mile or so to our left. The sound of the small spotter plane overhead was a comfort to us all at that time and indeed throughout the rest of the war as far as the Infantry was concerned. I take my hat off to the pilots of these small machines, although I must confess to feeling rather envious at times at the moment, when they departed for the safety of the bases.

That evening the fading light seemed never to arrive and when it did, it brought no comfort to us. The enemy machine guns opened up again at intervals and kept us firmly in our places. The night dragged and the next day found us no further on, totally pinned down by machine-gun fire. On the third night at about 2 pm, our Officer crawled along to us, and whispered our 鈥榦rders鈥� for the coming morning. At about 11 o鈥檆lock, we would make a frontal assault on the enemy positions. The Company鈥檚 two-inch mortars were to fire at the positions from the flanks. We were to rush the positions whilst they did so. On delivering these instructions, he crawled away again.

I reflected on what I had been told. I wondered what good would two-inch mortars be against a well 'dug-in' and virtually unseen enemy, when a barrage of a thousand guns had failed to achieve the same result. My stomach turned over at the prospect.

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