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It was perhaps not until the middle of 1943 that the higher echelons of the British Army deemed us finally to be trusted, believing we would not give comfort to the enemy by letting them know where we were. They seemed to know all that already without us telling them, but in any case we could now inform our friends and relatives that we were indeed in sunny Italy.

Italy, that land of wine, women and, particularly, song, which always delights the travel agents. Invariably, though, they do not mention the torrential rain that, on occasions, teems down like proverbial stair rods on unsuspecting tourists.

Hit by a mountain

One particular experience of Italian rain caused us to miss an important battle. We were hit by the side of a mountain that was washed down, naturally, in the middle of the night. It took us a whole week to clean and make ready for battle a 180-unit tank brigade of 40-ton Churchills. They always took a fair bit of cleaning, as did our blankets, personal effects and so on.

The method of sharing our whereabouts with relatives and friends was by using a 6"x8"green envelope, which was unsullied by the ubiquitous blue pencil of the censor. Thus we could make our news and views known to all and send little trinkets home, as long as they were not too bulky.

Missing, presumed wounded

The point being made particularly in our correspondence was that not one of us was anywhere near the awful fighting that was going on at the time. It must have been quite a shock, therefore, to the many parents who received telegrams from the War Office that their Johnny had been Killed In Action — or was missing, presumed wounded, as in my own case.

Like all new things, however, the green envelopes became commonplace. We were rationed to one per month. None the less, a fair bit of trading went on between lads, who had stuff to send home, and others who did not have stuff to send anywhere.

Get back ‘toot sweet’

These envelopes were brought into play one day in the middle of a battle. Our driver, Charlie Bailey from Keighley, north Yorkshire, reported that we were running low on petrol. If we didn't do something about it we could very well come to a rolling halt in front of the business end of an 88-mm anti-tank gun. In all probability, this would be attached to the latest model of the German Tiger tank, the invulnerable Tiger II or King Tiger (Konigstiger) in fact. They were known to be in our locality.

Our commander, Trevor Williams from Barnsley, south Yorkshire, saw the wisdom inherent in Charlie’s report. He called the squadron leader, Major Lyall Lusted from Dorking, Surrey, asking for permission to leave the battlefield. This was very reluctantly given, on the understanding that we were to ‘Make sharp and get back toot sweet.’

The Gunga Din

We pulled out of the line by some half a mile and called B-echelon for fuel and water and so on, with full instructions as to our whereabouts. The Gunga Din (water truck) was first on the scene, driven by a new and very inexperienced driver, who pleaded with us to be as quick as possible.

Owing to the dust he had kicked up by his bad driving, the enemy decided to liven things up just then by stonking us with a couple of Nebelwerfers or rocket launchers. These were way off target, but the water-truck driver didn't understand this.

The next thing we knew was that he’d thrown his truck in gear and gone careering off into the sunset with four spigots fully open. As he did so he laid a water mat all over the road, preventing the dust from rising. This was, of course, exactly what he should have done on the way up.

How not to refuel and maintain a tank

The fuel truck appeared. Our driver, Charlie Bailey, thought that it would be a good idea if we could point the tank down the hill in order really to fill up both tanks, which each held 90 imperial gallons. He’d get on with maintaining the main brakes, steering brakes, clutch and so forth.

We did as he requested. Harold Whattingham of London, the co-driver, was in the driving compartment, and Harry Gray, our gunner from Halifax, Yorkshire, Trevor and I took care of the fuel intake. We did this most expeditiously, of course, in order to get back into battle as soon as possible.

Swallow dives off a Churchill tank

Charlie started to bleed the main brakes and called to Harold to pump them. Harold called back to say that he couldn't do this as the hand brake was on. ‘Quite right,’ shouts Charlie, ‘I'd forgotten that,’ and he started to replace the bleeder nipple and tube. At this juncture the 40-ton tank gave a lurch. Harold, in his infinite wisdom, had released the hand brake.

Four men simultaneously executed swallow dives off the back of that tank as if an Olympic starting-gun had just fired. We gazed in wonder and trepidation at Harold, who was pumping out the fluid from the main brakes in an effort to slow down the monster.

His efforts were all to no avail. The tank, gathering speed, made its relentless way down the mountain side. At the bottom it literally flew over the near ditch and landed on top of a jeep, which, by this time, was driver-less. Its front end embedded in the far ditch, and the tank finally shuddered to a halt.

Losing a tank, not by enemy action

As we were pondering the predicament, the squadron leader happened upon the scene. We could only stand to attention and listen to his marvellous use of the English language. Many of the wonderful words he used were foreign to us at that time.

His tirade was tame, with hindsight, in comparison with the reaction of the brigade commander. He arrived on the scene and began to bewail the fact that he had lost a tank and crew, and not by enemy action. He went off, finally speechless, after some 15 minutes.

Not a restful night

We prepared a meal and set about getting some sleep, confident that someone would deliver us a new tank in the morning. It was not a restful night. A battery of 5.4 medium guns, which had dug in around us, set up a barrage that seemed to last all night.

A while later the driver of the flattened jeep came up to us with what we considered, under the circumstances, an inappropriate request. Did anyone have a spare green envelope? he wondered. He was then the subject of some derision and abuse until we thought to ask him why. His reply was classic. He wanted, he said, to send his jeep home to his mum.

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