大象传媒

FRANK'S CHRISTMAS PIG

This story was submitted to the People's War site by John Hughes, a volunteer for Three Counties Radio, on behalf of his father in law, Ken Derrick, and has been added to the site with his permission. Ken fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

鈥淎鈥� Squadron of the 44th Battalion, Royal Tank Regiment, was in Italy, between Taranto and Monte Cassino, just before Christmas 1943. We all knew each other and had been together through the campaign in the Western Desert. Teamwork is important in tanks and we all looked out for each other. Besides, most of us came from the same place, a bit like the Pals Battalions of the First World War. We were from Bristol, home of many great people such as Brunel, Samuel Plimsoll, John Cabot, and Frank Bidwell, our cook.

Frank was a tram driver before the war. Afterwards, he worked with me in the cattle cake mills down by Avonmouth Docks, but he was restless and went to Australia to make a new life. There he set up as a builder, becoming successful and eventually specialising in window and door construction and installation. He was an unforgettable character who used to say that, if he didn鈥檛 spend a fortune every year coming back to the Regimental reunions, he would be a rich man. But he hardly missed a year until his death in 1999. He was much missed by all who had met and known him.

All who knew him remember him for his good humour and energetic, no nonsense, approach to life. In this story, he used initiative and skill to give us all, officers and men, a rare treat that cold and dreary Christmas.

Frank decided that A Squadron, at least, deserved a good meal. He went off and reappeared later with a large pig on the end of a length of rope. The Major asked where it had come from and Frank replied that he had bought it from a farmer. This was accepted as a reasonable explanation and, as we watched with growing interest, Frank proceeded to cut off the end of a 40 gallon oil drum and, having placed it on a sort of hearth made from stones and rubble, filled it with water. Our contribution was to gather firewood, while Frank despatched the pig by skilfully cutting its throat. We were all battle hardened, despite our youth, and accepted this as something that had to be done. Similar things were happening between humans every moment in the war and we had seen more than our share of blood and suffering.

As the water was coming to the boil, Frank directed us to build a sort of tripod of timbers over the oil drum and we lowered the deceased pig into the bubbling water. Unfortunately, we were too hasty and dropped the carcass. Displaced water poured over the lip of the drum and put out the fire. But we鈥檇 done enough for the moment and Frank was able to scrape the bristles off, once we鈥檇 pulled the pig out of the oil drum.

The next step was to make a spit and relight the fire. We took turns to rotate the carcass, which began to emit a long forgotten smell of roasting meat. We also had to keep our turns on guard duty during the long cooking process, because we were in the front line. Then it was time to eat a memorable meal, the like of which we had not seen for years. Frank cut up the meat and made sure that those on guard duty were supplied. The officers were most impressed at the initiative and standard of cooking and enjoyed the pork as much as we did. In all, the pig provided food for seventy troops and we lived on the crackling for days afterwards.

However, the following morning, the Major called Frank to his tank, where an irate farmer was demanding to know what had happened to his pig, which he said had been stolen the day before 鈥� or at least, it had gone missing. All of us had a whip round, contributing enough to pacify the farmer and satisfy honour for all, but at later reunions, the story of Frank鈥檚 Christmas pig would always be told and we could still taste the best roast pork of our lives.

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