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Colin Abrey’s account, written in 1997 (this account is linked to the account of Dennis Abrey, Colin's brother. See A6982167 for Dennis's account):

It has taken ages to write an account of ‘my war’. Most people nowadays, fifty-two years later, are really not interested. Perhaps that is why I, like many others, refrain from talking about it.
I am now almost 74 years of age. I remember joining up in 1942; the war was in its third year. I enlisted at Colchester in the Le Cateau Barracks. My regiment was the Hampshires. I was, at the time, 18 years and 11 months old- one month short of my 19th birthday.
A completely new way of life opened up for me and, yes, it was rough going. I was quite fit and took it very well. I think that bugle call resounding round the barracks will always haunt me. When it sounded we would leave our palliasses, stuffed with straw from stables nearby. We would then head for what were old horses troughs which had a pipe with a series of brass taps placed at intervals. Trying to shave shoulder to shoulder was no mean feat. This would often result in many a bloody chin as we rushed through our ablutions.
A hectic six weeks of training which involved bayonet charges, shooting and throwing hand grenades. Oh, yes! I also learnt how to drive a bren gun carrier, a small, tracked, armour-plated vehicle. Route marches daily. A normal march was a minimum of twenty miles. I learnt a trick from an old soldier that was to soak my feet in soapy water before a march, and put them straight into my boots. I can honestly say it worked. After a march my feet felt really great…and bone dry.
A posting to Ashton-Under-Lymme (Lancashire) from Colchester followed. I had Christmas 1942 in the Ladysmith Barracks. This was home to the Manchester guards. From there I was posted to Kent, and served in a machine-gun unit near Rochester. Then in 1943, I found my self at Kings Cross station, ready to board a train for Leeds. At Leeds we assembled and took the night train to Scotland. I arrived at Greenock, near Glasgow. We were assembles at the dockside and then went aboard the waiting convoy ships (in my case, the ‘Duchess of Richmond’). In all, there were fourteen ships in the convoy. As we sailed down the Clyde hundreds of well wishers waved us goodbye.
Our journey took us out into the Atlantic and around Ireland, then eventually through the straits of Gibraltar. We finally arrived at Algiers in North Africa. We were marched past General Weygand’s garrison at a Foreign Legion post, then in sweltering heat were directed into the desert to Phillipville. We pitched cam en route only to be shot up by a savage German air attack. Incredibly there were no casualties, praise be to God! We finally arrived at Bone. Then another embarkation awaited us. This time we boarded an Indian ship called the SS Ragula. It was to take us to Augustus in Sicily. We had a nightmare voyage, as a U-boat followed us. We had to cut engines and heave-to, drifting and remaining silent until it got tired of waiting. No-one spoke or moved around. This lasted for about an hour, until the danger had passed (During the sixties I was walking down the High Street in Hastings. I happened to looking an antique shop window, and saw the SS Ragula’s brass bell. It was priced at £80. I rushed home for the money, but would you believe it- the bell had been sold. I would have loved to have owned it, as a memory of the war).
We disembarked at Augustus, and went to a position on the slopes of the volcano, Mount Etna (which was smoking). The lower slopes of Etna had vines growing in the fertile soil. We were told to stay under the cover of the vines, which were loaded with juicy, black grapes. However, tragedy struck us when a Messerschmitt came down low over us and machine-gunned us. One chap the same age as me, who had been on the same ship, had both legs cut off and dies. Three Spitfires chased the plane out to sea, circled him as if they were playing cat and mouse, and shot him down into the sea.
We were then able to move on. We followed a long, hot and dusty road to Porto Teresa, just below Messina, and assembled in a small lemon grove west of the city. Yes, I did pick the lemons.
A restless air hung about us, and rumour was rife. We were soon to find out what was in store for us. We were split up into platoons.
The platoon sergeants assembled us on a very sunny day, and we were ordered to fill in our wills- a small page at the back of our army service book (AB 64). The book also gave our name, rank and number- all we would give if captured by the Germans (Incidentally, I still have my AB 64). I made my will out to you (Dennis). It was £2 Post Office savings, and my push bike. The platoon sergeant then gathered them up in a waterproof bag. A short walk from the lemon grove and we found a group of landing craft waiting for us. I must confess although I was exited, it was of a nervous nature. The thought had not escaped me that at the age of 19 I could be killed.
We boarded the craft and headed across the straits toward Reggio. From the shores of Sicily to Italy is not all that far. We were all doubled up, crouched behind the ramp which we would run down on landing. It was comforting to be holding my Lee-Enfield rifle, loaded and ready. I was carrying110 rounds of .303 bullets and several hand grenades. As we landed on the Italian shore, flying fishes in silver, red and gold flung their wriggling bodies onto the sands, then drifted back into the sea with the surf. As we swept through the streets of Reggio in Calabria, sporadic gunfire was going on all over the place. The Germans were not expecting us and they were retreating. We followed them for twenty miles. We let them go, as we had to regroup and count our losses, then wait for other reinforcements to catch up with us.
Water was at a premium. Many wells had been poisoned by the retreating Germans. The local people informed of this. They were also helpful in showing us streams that had drinkable water, so we were able to fill our water bottles up. Temperatures were in the high eighties. Soon we were off again, our direction east to the Adriatic coast. We made camp in the bombed-out railway station of Foggia. There disaster overtook me.
I had developed malaria. But what was worse, I had also contracted pneumonia. I became very ill and delirious. In October I was whisked away to a hospital ship called the ‘Leinster’, and stretchered off at Valetta in Malta. The harbour looked like a stunted forest, with the funnels and masts of sunken shipping sticking out of the sea. A pilot came aboard to negotiate the ship through the wreckage, so that a landing could be affected. From there an ambulance took me to the hospital, sited on a hill at St Paul’s Bay. I had an abscess on my lungs, as well as the malaria. I almost became a permanent resident of that island; I had not been expected to last till morning. I fortunately survived a temperature of 107 degrees. Sister Turner- how could I ever forget her? - sat by my bed through that night when I was critically ill and held my hand. I believe she was my guardian angel- she played no small part in my survival. I had weighed eleven and half stone; I came out of the hospital weighing nine stone.
On 1st January 1944 the ships in Valetta Harbour heralded in the New Year, then I was on my way back to the war in Italy from Sliema. The ship docked at Taranto, and after much travelling I reached my unit at Lanciano. It had been snowing for some days on my arrival. There was a fierce tank battle, and the town was engulfed in for, sleet and snow.
I had lost my unit and was trying to make contact with it. Unfortunately, I walked into a trap and found myself surrounded by panzer tanks. These were all around Lanciano. I felt something smack into my neck. Someone picked me up and got me back through the German lines. I’m still a bit hazy about what happened to me. I stumbled down some steps and found two surgeons, stripped to the waist, operating on some wounded. I had a huge lump of shrapnel which had severed my thyroid gland. Soon I found myself in a convoy of those old square shaped ambulances, heading for Barletta. After what seemed a forever journey I was delivered to a hospital there.
The hospital was packed with wounded- even in the corridors. As mine was a neck wound I was able to walk. An orderly said ‘Follow me’, and I just walked straight into an operating theatre. ‘Get on the table’, the surgeon directed. I said ‘What about my clothes and boots, sir?’ He replied ‘It’s your neck I’m bothered about’. My rifle was placed under the operating table. I awoke later on a stretcher in a corridor, with my rifle beside me. I comforted a mate who had been blinded by a shell burst, and wrote a letter to his wife, warning her of what had happened. Two days later, with a heavily bandaged neck, I started to walk the 50 miles back to Lanciano, where the Germans had retreated. I had to make my own way north to rejoin my unit. I slept in bombed out ruins and even looked for old potatoes in gardens- anything to alleviate my hunger. I was cold, my neck ached, and I was far from home. What would I have given for a bed with white sheets and, yes, a hot water bottle.
On the way, a Canadian tank regiment took me in, fed me, and gave me a place to sleep. I could not believe my luck. They were the salt of the earth, praise the Lord!
I eventually found my regiment- or what was left of them- at Loreto, where we enjoyed a short stop at Loreto. Forgive me, I now digress. If you ever get the chance, please visit the church there. The Cottage of the Virgin Mary is built in its centre. A place of pilgrimage for many, it attracts people from all over the world, similarly to Lourdes in France.
From Loreto we headed for Cassino. There are some things I will not talk about. The battle for Monte Cassino was my worst nightmare. General Alexander sent us a message saying a barrage would be directed on the monastery. It had served the Germans very well as an observation post and they had shelled anything going along Highway 6, which led to Rome.
We had dug in, and my own particular slit trench was about three feet deep. For two days and nights the anti-aircraft guns pounded the monastery. There was very little left of it. The Poles took it, and we followed in after them. During the shelling I had torn part of my khaki shirt up and stuffed the pieces in my ears. The noise was horrendous.
My neck wound opened up again, and from a makeshift runaway I was carted aboard an American Dakota at Rome airfield on 6th June 1944. Just before then a British officer drove up in a jeep and said ‘The second front has started!’ The plane whisked me away to a hospital at Naples. I was then transferred to a hospital at Caserta, where an operation saved my life. I returned to Cassino, then entered Rome, even peeping in St Peter’s and the Coliseum- the lions had long gone.
Later we had some leave, which we spent in Florence. I remember that there was only one bridge across the Arno, and it had some small shops on it. I found out your (Dennis’s) lot were in Forli. I hitchhiked and got lifts until I finally reached Forli, where you were sitting down for breakfast. I went with you to Cotignola, a small village. I believe you had an officer who liked to point a sword to lead the way. I met your mate, who was a fair-haired chap of about 6 feet. I believe he shot himself.
I got a lift back to Florence, where I was in deep trouble with my sergeant- as I had not said where I was going. I said that it was compassionate as I had not seen ‘me bruv’ for a long time, so he let me off. I believe I only saw you the once.
The sale of a 3-ton Dodge was arranged between myself and a sergeant, and we lived like lords for weeks. We were lucky not to be put in the ‘glasshouse’. Bologna was where I did time in a 12th Century prison (complete with straw on the cell floors). It resulted from when I had a drink and hit an American. I was arrested by two redcaps who slung me head-first into their jeep. When I woke up I was in total darkness, with no boots, no belt and no AB 64. They eventually released me- they did not like me as I had been sick in the back of their jeep. I suggested that being slung in head-first could have caused that, which did not go down very well. I got fourteen days.
I crossed the River Po, which was in flood. Eventually when I arrived in Milan, where it was time for regrouping again. I waited for a group of us to go back to England. By then it was October 1945. I arrived home just two or three days before you. I was given until December in England, then I was posted back to Italy. I believe you saw me off in London. I arrived in southern Italy at a place called Molfetta. Then after Christmas 1945 we sailed from Bari to the port of Piraeus in Greece. We ended in Athens, where we were used as a peace-keeping force from January 1946 to November 1946.
I was demobilised in April 1947, and my ‘demob’ number was 49- a number I frequently use on the pools or lottery. I was proud to be a member of the Hampshires, nicknamed ‘the King’s Tigers’.

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