Time at War by Nicholas Mosley Page A

I should stay with the London Irish. And this was granted.
    The situation in Italy was now that the Germans had been pushed back to the mountains north of Florence, but still some distance short of Bologna and the northern plain. Here the Germans had planned and constructed their last-ditch defensive position, the Gothic Line. But it was not yet the end of September and there was still time, it was thought, to break through before the winter rains made movement difficult. However, the Allied armies had been seriously depleted by units being takenaway for the somewhat pointless landings in the South of France in August; and the German armies in northern Italy had been reinforced – although this was not known to the Allies at the time. The Allied command thought that with one more push the German resistance might collapse. Hitler’s orders were, in fact, that there should be no vestige of collapse anywhere, whatever the cost. Then, to cap all this, the rains came early. By the start of October roads and tracks in the mountains were becoming a quagmire.
    The Irish Brigade made their way up the eastern coast past Termoli to Fano, and from there turned inland to Castel Del Rio on the road between Florence and Imola. The roads here were narrow mountain tracks with a cliff face on one side and a precipice on the other; these were difficult enough for trucks and heavy lorries to negotiate at the best of times; if any traffic was coming from the opposite direction, or if a vehicle broke down, then movement became impossible. Once, when the truck in which I was travelling spluttered to a halt and was holding up the huge column behind us, I got out to see what I might do to help the driver who had his head under the bonnet as if sheltering from the rain. I said, ‘What’s wrong’ He said, ‘The fucking fucker’s fucked.’ This seemed a sufficient as well as poetic description.
    After another hold-up in the dark, I remember clambering at the last minute unseen into the back of the truck that was carrying my platoon, among whom were some newly joined reinforcements; and one of these asked of no one in particular – ‘What’s the officer like then?’ I was sureI was going to hear something nice. Then after a while a voice in the dark just said – ‘Greedy.’
    When we finally arrived at our destination, a village by a rushing mountain stream, we heard, through a mixture of briefings and rumours, that there was a German strong-point in the Gothic Line that was holding up the Allied advance to the plain, rather as there has been at Cassino in the Gustav Line six months ago; and it was to be the task of the 78th Division to take it. This strongpoint was known as Monte Spaduro.
    Spaduro was not quite the last mountain ridge before the northern plain, but it was in front of this that the Allied armies were getting held up because it dominated the valleys leading up to it. On the Allied side there had been a shuffling of divisions between the Eighth Army based on the east coast and the Fifth Army in the west, in an effort to make up for the depletion of units for the landing in the South of France. But the arrival of German reinforcements had so far made this breakthrough impossible. And now there was the rain.
    When the 2nd LIR left their trucks after the long drive from the eastern coast, we were off on a three-hour slog up slippery footpaths; then into waterlogged slit trenches at our destination. We were on a ridge facing and overlooked by Spaduro. There was regular shelling. Around ruined farm buildings were dead and decomposing farmyard animals; they swelled and burst, releasing stench. And at night there was still the ‘game’ of going out on patrol with instructions to find out about enemy positions; in fact, going as far as seemed reasonable and then sitting beside atree and watching shadows and listening to rustlings. And having spent enough time in what might be taken