大象传媒

This is the story of John B.Goodwin (Jackie or Jack )No.2383276-enlisted 11/12/41.
Driver with J section, Signals 78th.Div.
Died 9th. June 2005-Aged 84.

My Dad didn't talk much about the War till rather late in life, by when he was a bit vague about names and dates. He didn't say much about the horrors, more of the comradeship. As a child I remember him growing angry if we were fussy about food and talking of starving women and children. By the end, he said, he'd just wanted to get home and back to normal life. I think he later regretted having lost touch with some of his close friends and wondered what had happened to them.
His first unpleasant experience occurred not far from his home town of Ardrossan, when, after boarding a troop ship between lines of Military Police at Greenock(Gourock?),the ship lay off Ardrossan in the Firth of Clyde for about three weeks. He lay on board on a hammock in extremely cramped conditions, nauseated by the smells of vomit and faeces. Neither a sailor nor a swimmer, he said he often felt like jumping over the side and trying for home. Eventually they sailed, to disembark in North Africa. There he remembered marching till he dropped, so exhausted that he fell asleep on the concrete where he lay.
Dad was the driver of a 'lucky' truck which he kept throughout the War. Somewhere in Tunisia in 1942, his unit was camped, Trucks parked on a sandy up-slope, when the cry went up "jerry's coming".
All Hell broke loose and they had to retreat. Fortunately, Dad said, he had angled his wheels so that they faced slightly downhill when he parked. This allowed him to drive off quicker than many of his companions. Soldiers leapt or were hauled aboard from all directions; anything that could be was jettisoned to make space for another body as they scrambled to safety under heavy bombardment.A G.I. squashed into Dad's cabin, stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it. He didn't stop smoking till he was in his seventies.
Always a gambler - perhaps why he was so superstitious about his truck - Dad and a mate were delighted by a trip to the races in Cairo/Alexandria? where the 78th. Division were based after being taken out of the line in Italy. The track was a train and a taxi ride from the barracks. They were even more delighted when Dad had a big win on the tote after betting on a horse carrying a jockey so small, Dad said he looked like a little monkey perched on his horse. However, on collecting his winnings,Dad was warned to be very careful and not to hang around the track. He became aware of an unsavoury gang of locals beginning to gather.
He approached a couple of well-built M.P.s for help. Escorted to the exit, they gave the M.P.s a substantial tip and hailed a taxi. According to Dad, their taxi was pursued all the way to the station by the cut-throats and they were lucky to escape having their throats slit!
Among Dad's photographs is a postcard of the Corso Nationale, Termoli on the back of which is written, "WHERE WE NEARLY HAD IT."
I don't know if that was the scene of another of his lucky truck incidents. His truck broke down and had to drop out of the convoy.The truck which took his place was blown up and Dad became convinced he had to hang on to his lucky one.
Although he had dreadful memories of Monte Cassino, he recalled pleasanter times in Italy too. He talked of driving at night in the Italian hills, often guided by torchlight, only to be appalled in daylight at the ravines they had crossed unwittingly on bridges that were little more than two planks.
He said he didn't know what the Italians did to food but, that whenever they were billeted with a family and handed over their rations, wonderful meals were produced far superior to any the army cooks managed.
My Dad always made brilliant chips - even in the army apparently.Once, when his unit was snowed up in some Italian hill town, a supply of potatoes was discovered in a cellar. Someone made chips which Dad complained were disgusting only to be told to see if he could do better which of course he could! He thereby became chief chip maker for the remainder of the stay so avoiding potato peeling. This was one of his favourite stories.
At the end of the War, Dad was stationed in Austria waiting to be demobbed. Memories here were of "shopping" trips into Italy for presumably "black-market" goods.
Soldiers armed with a shopping list for the whole company would drive into Italy and stay overnight at a vineyard. After several crashed trucks on the return journeys, Dad, as the only non-drinker, became the designated driver. This was when he purchased the nylon stockings and silk pyjamas he was later able to smuggle home to Mum and her sisters. In later years, he often mused that maybe he should have gone into buying and selling instead of returning to his pre-War trade of plumber.
The other highlight of his time in Austria was football. Competition was fierce and Dad, from a family of football players was in his element.He said he was a lazy player but a lucky goal scorer. It seems his team even fielded a German P.O.W., possibly a professional in civilian life, who was on strict instructions not to speak.His team was doing well in the league when Dad's demob papers came through. Despite, he said, being offered some inducement by one of his superior officers, to postpone his release, Dad couldn't wait to return to his family.
My father died in June of this year(2005)and how I wish I'd asked him more and recorded the details of his stories when he was alive.
A few years ago,I applied for his service medals something he would never have done. He received four: the 1939-45 Star; the Africa Star,1st.Army; the Italy Star and the War Medal 1939-45. He wore them once,for a photograph.

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