大象传媒

February 1944 and we were virtually static about one third up the back of the leg that is Italy鈥檚 Adriatic coastline. As well as being leg-shaped Italy also has a mountain range - the Appenines running down its centre for most of its length. This sorted out the order of battle for the Italian Campaign very nicely; 5th (mainly American) army to the west, 8th (mainly British) army to the east of the Appenines.
From the banks of the Sangro River we of the 8th Army waited and asked ourselves 鈥淲hat鈥檚 so special about this place Cassino that鈥檚 giving the Americans this sort of trouble? Finally, from across the mountain range we were asked, somewhat less than politely, 鈥淚f you want to get this war moving again you鈥檇 better pack up whatever you鈥檙e doing and give us a push鈥�.
Once a holding force had been delegated to look after the Adriatic 鈥渟hop鈥�, we took off, heading south by west, with me in my usual role as one of the 5-man breakdown vehicle crew. It was our job to bring up the rear and keep a watchful eye open for stragglers. A steering gear fault on our own vehicle kept our first day's progress down to 30 miles or so with the result that we were well pleased to limp into Foggia and, after putting right the mechanical wrong, negotiate what proved to be a very comfortable billet for the night.
Now finding ourselves half a day's travelling behind the rest of our crowd we attempted to remedy this situation by making an extraordinarily early start the following day and by mid-morning, now well advanced into the Appenines, we came across them - attempting to put right the ravages of the overnight weather. It seems that they had parked overnight in open country on a mild (for February) evening and slept mostly on or under vehicle tailboards. A blinding snowstorm had swept the area within the hour before dawn so that, at the time we turned up, pathetic attempts were being made to dry sodden bedding, kit and soldiers. Light snow was still falling and it was quickly established that no further movement westwards was planned for that day.
We, dry and fed, watched with feelings close to guilt as the day wore on until one of our own number pointed out that, if freak snowstorms were the order of the day - or night - might not the local weathermen be saving the next one for the small hours of the following morning and, with the benefit of hindsight, shouldn't we five be doing something about it?. (Unless driven by desperation we never over-nighted in our own breakdown vehicle which was awash with towing chains, lifting gear, tool chests etc. the tools of the breakdown trade).
Options as to where the night might be comfortably spent were being considered when interruption came in the form of the faintest of train whistles - and, with it, a ready made solution.
"Look," I said, "train whistles mean trains and it's well known in Italy that every mile or so along the railway track a lineside house is provided for the family of the man whose interest in life (I'd always supposed) was the well-being of that section of the line."
"So!" came the chorus from the other four. "So," I continued, "we find the line and just walk along it until we find one such place, talk nicely to the proprietor and arrange for us to return later this evening to spend the night in good old bricks and mortar. You'll see - a handful of V's (a particularly foul army issue cigarette that was nevertheless highly-coveted by the nicotine-starved locals) our bedding and a hurricane lamp should be all that is required."

With little difficulty the single-track line was found and, there being no reason to walk in one direction rather than the other, we set off northwards. Sure enough rather less than half a mile of such trudging brought us to the very red-bricked place I had in mind and within minutes we had introduced ourselves and the deal was clinched - their lounge for the night in exchange for 20 V's. We were somewhat taken aback by the size of the family, twelve at a rough count not including mother who was upstairs (perhaps understandably) resting.
On returning to our company lines the mid-day "bully stew" was downed, with each of us five sworn to silence as to where the night was to be spent.
We had timed our arrival for the night's lodging for eleven p.m. and turned up to the minute upon which, at their father's bidding, the entire family fled upstairs. We made our beds on the floor and prepared to settle for the night. Seconds later - whoosh - we weren't alone any longer. From every direction mice came swarming across the floor, making merry with our prostrate forms. Afterwards I swore they'd been paraded in threes, military style, behind the skirting boards just waiting for the word "go".
Now with still vividly clear memories from childhood of mice-infested bedrooms I recalled my mother鈥檚 warning about mice being known to be carriers of disease. Leaping to
my feet I hastily arranged nine of the plentiful supply of rush-bottomed chairs (thank God for large families) into four each side facing inwards and one at the head. Quickly I transferred my bedding to this elevated position and re-settled. Success? - never! Up the chair legs they came scurrying, seeming to treat this new arrangement as a test of initiative. Had I trudged a mile and a half for this?
In the gloom I saw that my comrades had completely enveloped themselves to the point of suffocation within their blankets, although, from their muffled tones they sounded very much less than happy with the situation.
Minutes later and I had decamped, exchanging the rodent-ridden interior for the stygian-black freezing outdoors, transferring the nine chairs one at a time and setting them up in the same fashion but now some yards from the front door. Thus, some twenty minutes after reaching the house I found myself self-evicted but mice free. Wearily I slid between the blankets and, despite the cold, soon nodded off.
Some hours later I slowly came to, uneasily aware that 'something' had caused my arousal - something, that by the second, was reaching through my fuddled thoughts until realisation dawned. The ground's shaking, it's getting worse and I'm sleeping through my first earthquake. ... Earthquake? Of course, they had them here in Italy, didn't they? Why shouldn't they have one while I'm there - like now.
And now this bed of mine is rocking to the point where disintegration of the nine chairs must soon follow. With horror-filled eyes I peered through the gloom, expecting by the second to witness the first chasm when I suddenly flung myself from my bed and watched dazedly as, emerging from the blackness, a train swept by, clearing the far side of the bed by inches. Ye Gods - a train! The last thing I'd taken into account that night. Dawn's rosy light showed clearly that I had innocently stacked my chairs across the raised wooded section used for line crossing.
There was one consolation - it didn't snow that night!
Recalling that night鈥檚 events later I did wonder what my parents reaction might have been had the worst happened. On receiving news of my being 鈥榢illed in action鈥� might they have not been left a trifle bemused by the explanation 鈥渒illed by a passing train as he lay in his
产别诲.鈥�?

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