大象传媒

September 5, 1944 was the ninth anniversary of our total commitment - the day when Minna, this Danish girl whom I had met in a Dolomite mountain-refuge, had agreed to abandon her country and live with me. Now I had to end my letter of love with: 'After nearly two years my interesting job has finally and irrevocably dried up. For the first time in my Army career I am "awaiting a posting". It is rather exciting, in a way, when you don't know for whom you will be working the week after next! I expect the long arm of the Pay Corps will reach out and grab me at last.'

Brigadier Rabino, Banking and Currency Adviser, Algiers, to whom I had been confidential clerk, had been recalled to England - with Paris his eventual destination. As pre-war boss of the Westminster Bank's HQ in that city, he was invaluable. He was frank with me. He would have liked to keep me with him and was endeavouring to get me transferred to the Royal Army Service Corps but I knew, and I think he knew, that this was a lost cause.

Meanwhile Radio London had announced that the 'flying bomb era' had ended. I was sceptical and awaited more reliable news from Minna. A return to normality? But the gulf between our experiences seemed to widen month by month. Some of the more thoughtful among us in Algeria had suggested, half-seriously, half-jokingly, that demobilised soldiers would need rehabilitation courses to fit them for 'normality'. I felt I would be content with Minna for my guide, introducing me to the fact that there were beds, that beds had sheets and that tea need not be drunk from a tin mug.

On 17 September I arrived at No. 2 Command Pay Office, Maison Carr茅e - I was under Pay Corps control for the first time in nearly two years. The given wisdom among we soldiers was that all whose surnames fell within A to K would be sent to Greece, while the L to Zs would go to Italy. In Greece, we heard, our Pay Corps mates were wedged between two rival gangs of 'patriotic' thugs who were trying to kill each other in the name of liberation. Nothing changes: Byron had the same problem.

I shared a dirty room with another sergeant, locating and destroying four fleas on my palliasse. But, as I told Minna, there are always compensations. My grubby room commanded a splendid view of the sea in all its moods. My only duties were routine - guards and the like. This was an unhappy place for the 'permanent' staff. One Warrant Officer was well-hated. As he came out of the Mess one evening, standing outlined against the light a bullet smacked into the woodwork beside his head. Searches. All rifles withdrawn and examined. All bullets counted. No culprit discovered. No-one 'knew anything'.

Radio London's 'end of the flying-bomb era' story was a lie. In late September South East England experienced a series of mysterious explosions which caused heavy casualties. The official explanation was that the flying-bombs had caused damage to gas-mains. Not until November did the Government admit that the Germans had perfected a new and deadly weapon - a rocket-propelled missile travelling at incredible speed. These landed without warning like lightning from a cloudless sky. No defence possible. They were named the V-2s. Attempts were made to destroy the sites from which they were launched but most of the Allied air forces were concentrating on the destruction of the still powerful German Army and its communications.

Later` it was calculated that at least six fell each day and the casualties were reaching many thousands. We in Africa were kept misinformed. We were told that the advancing Allies had already demolished many of the launching-sites. Minna permitted herself no mention of this new peril. The word 'V-2' did not appear in her correspondence until mid- 1945.

My last letter from Africa (24 September) told Minna that Major Gosling had promised to ring her on his return to England with my Brigadier and concluded: 'Darling, the news has been so good lately...' I posted this just before climbing into a lorry with all my impedimenta. I knew where I was going. This sergeant within the L-Z group was bound for Italy.

We assembled, dockside, by the Ville d'Alger...an old friend last seen in Oxford Street - in the Academy Cinema where Jean Gabin, surrounded by police, kills himself because the ship is bearing away his lady-love. That was Pepi le Moko that was! Today she was bearing me away to Italy. I shall never forget sailing within what seemed an arm's length of the rocky Isle of Capri. Then the view of Vesuvius and the Naples bay familiar from a million postcards.

Naples dockyard had been bombed and the buildings were hollow shells. We, the Pay Corps draft, formed up on the quay and waited. It was raining. No-one dared to say 'See Naples and die.' After a couple of hours we climbed into truck and roared volcano-wards noting that many streets were placarded 'Off Limits - danger of typhus.'

'Yes. I am on the right continent at last!' I wrote from a transit camp in what would have been the shadow of Vesuvius had the sun shone. 'After an incredibly calm passage I arrived at an Italian port (which must be nameless) and was whisked away to this camp some miles out of the city I must not mention. The camp is situated in a low-lying vineyard area and after heavy rain is a sticky morass. I spent the night under canvas and discomfort; my bed Mother Earth, her chilly embrace discouraged by my ground-sheet. The rain continued all night and I awoke to find my tent (which I share with what seems like a football team) a little island surrounded by overflowing drainage trenches. The morning was fine and I was one of the lucky ones granted a day pass to the port of arrival.'

My interest in Naples was minimal. I wanted Pompeii, but it was 'off limits'. There had been looting by the Yanks. Doubtless Yanks wishing to go to Pompeii were refused because of looting by the Limeys.

Central Naples seemed undamaged - wide streets and a number of pompous palaces. One of these, about the size of Buckingham Palace, had been commandeered for the use of British 'other ranks'. From the lofty vestibule a wide staircase ascended into infinity. It was of marble and army boots clattered up and down, raising echoes in the painted ceilings where nymphs and satyrs disported in 'all-but' situations. There were lounges, bars dispensing tea and sticky cakes - also a luxurious bath-house, worthy of ancient Rome. Here I showered gratefully, removing the last traces of Africa.

To explore a foreign city without a map or guidebook is tantalising. Add to this an overnight inter-continental transition and I spent the day in a daze. I climbed to am old fortress which stood on a hill. There I enjoyed the famous view - the terrace, the town, the bay and the volcano. Descending I threaded a maze of narrow streets where washing hung on lines extended from house to house and where dark-eyed children with classic features eyed me and begged for cigarettes and chewing-gum. There were queer little old shops crammed with curios.

My feet were aching and I thought it time to return to camp. I went to the palace and enquired about a lift to the Transit Camp . Which one, I was asked? There were three. I was clueless. I consulted the Military Police but they considered all soldiers as potential deserters or idiots. I was in the second category and agreed with them. The likely road out of town was suggested and I began walking, thumbing for lifts and being doused as they ignored me. The road ran between ruined buildings and gloomy lanes, some with the typhus sign. There is something sinister about a strange city at night - the Chirico touch.

Five hours later I stumbled into camp, my soaked battle-dress clinging to me like a lover, my boots squelching, the rain outdoing all previous malignity. Ten minutes later my pass would have expired and I would have been on a 'fizzer' (conduct prejudicial to military discipline). While locating my tent I fell thigh-deep into one of the overflowing drainage trenches. That despised tent seemed a snug little home of rest as I dived into its unlit interior, stripped naked and towelled down. I awoke to a bright morning - fighting fit and very hungry.

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