implanted dysentery germs on almost everything that came out of the ground. “Gyppy gut,” as Eighth Army veterans called it, soon became epidemic amongst us too.
Late on July 16 we were again on the move as part of a fearfully slow and tedious convoy snaking and writhing its way higher and higher into increasingly arid mountain country. The roads were lean-gutted and tortuous and, to make matters worse, the retreating Germans had systematically demolished every culvert and bridge so that traffic had to slow to the merest crawl at a multitude of rough diversions. Nevertheless, by noon next day we had reached the recently captured town of Piazza Amerina.
Traffic congestion in the narrow, winding streets halted the truck carrying me and my platoon in the main square. Spotting a public water faucet I nipped out of the cab to see if its contents were drinkable; for if we had learned one solid lesson so far in Sicily, it was never to miss a chance to fill one’s water bottle. When a Royal Engineer sergeant assured me the water had been tested and was potable, I yelled at my section corporals to grab some water bottles from their men.
The four of us were crowded around the ornate cast-iron spigot when I became aware of the presence of a tall, dignified officer in serge dress uniform complete with shiny brass buttons and gleaming Sam Browne belt. He was as remarkable an apparition in that outfit, time and place, as a king in a chicken coop. Assuming that he must be some very senior variety of staff officer, I glanced at him nervously, expecting a reprimand for having let my men leave the truck; but when he spoke it was to quite a different point.
“I say, old man, would you mind awfully if I took your photograph?”
The question seemed so out of place that even Mitchuk grinned, and I heard Hill ask under his breath: “Jesus, have we got ourselves a movie star?” I was too nonplussed to reply, and our driver was gunning his engine as a signal that the convoy was moving on, but I must have nodded acquiescence. In any case, a picture of me, dust-caked and clad in stained and torn shorts and bush shirt that had not been changed since leaving the Derbyshire, eventually graced the august pages of the London Illustrated News.
I had encountered my first British war correspondent.
We had gone only a few miles beyond Piazza Amerina when we were signalled off the road. We piled stiffly down from the trucks and broke out the compo rations, but before we could eat, the officers were told to report to Alex Campbell who was breathing fire and brimstone, his eyes glaring as fiercely as ever despite or perhaps because of the pain his wounded arm must have been giving him.
“Third Brigade’s been stopped about six miles up the road,” he told us exultantly. “Whole advance is bogged down and there’s just one way to bust it open. First Brigade’s going to make a right hook through the mountains and cut the highway behind the Jerries at a place called Valguarnera. Find it on your maps... got it? Right. Well, the brigadier has picked the Hasty Pees to do the job... and the CO’s picked Able Company to lead the way.”
DUSK HAD FALLEN before Lieutenant Colonel Sutcliffe is-sued his operation order. It was a tall one! In darkness, and without prior reconnaissance, we were to feel our way across many miles of mountainous wasteland, descend upon the German-held town of Valguarnera, cut the road in front of it and then, without benefit of tanks or heavy weapons, drive out the enemy garrison.
We platoon commanders had precious little time to study our maps, which were badly blurred copies of sketchy Italian originals. What little we could glean from the spider’s web of contour lines which covered them made it clear we would be traversing such a manic confusion of gorges and pinnacles that even the native Sicilians seemed to have left the region trackless. At any rate, the maps showed not so much as a dotted line which might have
Late on July 16 we were again on the move as part of a fearfully slow and tedious convoy snaking and writhing its way higher and higher into increasingly arid mountain country. The roads were lean-gutted and tortuous and, to make matters worse, the retreating Germans had systematically demolished every culvert and bridge so that traffic had to slow to the merest crawl at a multitude of rough diversions. Nevertheless, by noon next day we had reached the recently captured town of Piazza Amerina.
Traffic congestion in the narrow, winding streets halted the truck carrying me and my platoon in the main square. Spotting a public water faucet I nipped out of the cab to see if its contents were drinkable; for if we had learned one solid lesson so far in Sicily, it was never to miss a chance to fill one’s water bottle. When a Royal Engineer sergeant assured me the water had been tested and was potable, I yelled at my section corporals to grab some water bottles from their men.
The four of us were crowded around the ornate cast-iron spigot when I became aware of the presence of a tall, dignified officer in serge dress uniform complete with shiny brass buttons and gleaming Sam Browne belt. He was as remarkable an apparition in that outfit, time and place, as a king in a chicken coop. Assuming that he must be some very senior variety of staff officer, I glanced at him nervously, expecting a reprimand for having let my men leave the truck; but when he spoke it was to quite a different point.
“I say, old man, would you mind awfully if I took your photograph?”
The question seemed so out of place that even Mitchuk grinned, and I heard Hill ask under his breath: “Jesus, have we got ourselves a movie star?” I was too nonplussed to reply, and our driver was gunning his engine as a signal that the convoy was moving on, but I must have nodded acquiescence. In any case, a picture of me, dust-caked and clad in stained and torn shorts and bush shirt that had not been changed since leaving the Derbyshire, eventually graced the august pages of the London Illustrated News.
I had encountered my first British war correspondent.
We had gone only a few miles beyond Piazza Amerina when we were signalled off the road. We piled stiffly down from the trucks and broke out the compo rations, but before we could eat, the officers were told to report to Alex Campbell who was breathing fire and brimstone, his eyes glaring as fiercely as ever despite or perhaps because of the pain his wounded arm must have been giving him.
“Third Brigade’s been stopped about six miles up the road,” he told us exultantly. “Whole advance is bogged down and there’s just one way to bust it open. First Brigade’s going to make a right hook through the mountains and cut the highway behind the Jerries at a place called Valguarnera. Find it on your maps... got it? Right. Well, the brigadier has picked the Hasty Pees to do the job... and the CO’s picked Able Company to lead the way.”
DUSK HAD FALLEN before Lieutenant Colonel Sutcliffe is-sued his operation order. It was a tall one! In darkness, and without prior reconnaissance, we were to feel our way across many miles of mountainous wasteland, descend upon the German-held town of Valguarnera, cut the road in front of it and then, without benefit of tanks or heavy weapons, drive out the enemy garrison.
We platoon commanders had precious little time to study our maps, which were badly blurred copies of sketchy Italian originals. What little we could glean from the spider’s web of contour lines which covered them made it clear we would be traversing such a manic confusion of gorges and pinnacles that even the native Sicilians seemed to have left the region trackless. At any rate, the maps showed not so much as a dotted line which might have
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