to be looking for enemy positions, we came back through our lines where there might be different people on sentry duty from those who had been there when we had gone out, and so there was a danger of their mistaking us for enemy and opening fire. Then we would report back to battalion headquarters â no sign of enemy activity â which was true enough; and we trusted that everyone would understand the rules of the game. This was a time when the most pressing threat seemed to be that of dysentery, but this was seldom serious enough for one to be carried away on a stretcher.
Other formations had been trying, and failing, to take Monte Spaduro. Now it was the turn of the Irish Brigade. It had for long been army lore that no one should move in the mountains except at night: daytime activity simply brought forth accurate machine-gun, mortar and artillery fire. But even at night in any settled position the enemy would have worked out their fixed-line fields of fire, and any attackers were likely to have become stuck in the mud of a valley and so would be sitting targets even in the dark. The rumours were that other formations who had attacked Spaduro at night had failed ruinously because of this. But it seemed that Allied headquarters did not know what else to do.
Squatting in our tiny six-foot by three slit trenches, nothing much seemed to matter to us except the shelling and the rain. The Irish Fusiliers, it was said, had been sent into a full battalion night attack on Spaduro and had had to retreat with many casualties. The Inniskillings had beencalled away to do a diversion elsewhere. This left the London Irish for any further attempts. But by this time the shelling on our inadequate trenches was so constant that we hardly cared. One shell landed so close to the top of my trench that the edges caved in and my backpack was riddled with shrapnel, and the book I was currently reading â I cannot now remember what it was â had a piece of metal embedded deeply in it. At least I might be able to tell the story after the war about how it had stopped my being pierced to the heart.
One night we had gone down into a valley to give support to one of the large-scale attacks; we could see nothing, we got embedded in the deep mud, we seemed to be under accurate machine-gun fire from some forward enemy position on our right. We stayed where we were for a while, then struggled back.
The machine-gun fire had appeared to come mainly from a semi-ruined farmhouse and buildings on the spur of ground that stretched for some 600 yards between the enemy and our positions. From these buildings accurate fire could be directed on fixed lines at the flanks of anyone in the valleys. We could see the farmstead in daylight if we were careful not to raise our heads too far. It began to dawn on everyone that Spaduro would never be taken unless the crossfire from this outpost was eliminated. On the map the farmhouse was called Casa Spinello. The London Irish were given the task of mounting a night attack on Casa Spinello â not head on, where there were likely to be minefields, but once again round the valley at the side.
I think everyone in Mervynâs company thought this would be useless; we would get stuck as we had got stuck before. Nevertheless, off we went the next night in the driving rain. This time we had not only to get down into the valley but supposedly up the other side and this, in the cloying mud, proved to be literally impossible. And of course, our efforts alerted the Germans in Spinello so that machine-gun and mortar fire came down on us where we were now in the open because we had been trying not to shelter but to attack. And because we were frightened and almost didnât care any more, we tended to huddle together; so we suffered a regular toll of casualties. One of them was Christopher Cramb, the young South African volunteer who had been with me in Rome. He was standing next to me and called out loudly â
Other formations had been trying, and failing, to take Monte Spaduro. Now it was the turn of the Irish Brigade. It had for long been army lore that no one should move in the mountains except at night: daytime activity simply brought forth accurate machine-gun, mortar and artillery fire. But even at night in any settled position the enemy would have worked out their fixed-line fields of fire, and any attackers were likely to have become stuck in the mud of a valley and so would be sitting targets even in the dark. The rumours were that other formations who had attacked Spaduro at night had failed ruinously because of this. But it seemed that Allied headquarters did not know what else to do.
Squatting in our tiny six-foot by three slit trenches, nothing much seemed to matter to us except the shelling and the rain. The Irish Fusiliers, it was said, had been sent into a full battalion night attack on Spaduro and had had to retreat with many casualties. The Inniskillings had beencalled away to do a diversion elsewhere. This left the London Irish for any further attempts. But by this time the shelling on our inadequate trenches was so constant that we hardly cared. One shell landed so close to the top of my trench that the edges caved in and my backpack was riddled with shrapnel, and the book I was currently reading â I cannot now remember what it was â had a piece of metal embedded deeply in it. At least I might be able to tell the story after the war about how it had stopped my being pierced to the heart.
One night we had gone down into a valley to give support to one of the large-scale attacks; we could see nothing, we got embedded in the deep mud, we seemed to be under accurate machine-gun fire from some forward enemy position on our right. We stayed where we were for a while, then struggled back.
The machine-gun fire had appeared to come mainly from a semi-ruined farmhouse and buildings on the spur of ground that stretched for some 600 yards between the enemy and our positions. From these buildings accurate fire could be directed on fixed lines at the flanks of anyone in the valleys. We could see the farmstead in daylight if we were careful not to raise our heads too far. It began to dawn on everyone that Spaduro would never be taken unless the crossfire from this outpost was eliminated. On the map the farmhouse was called Casa Spinello. The London Irish were given the task of mounting a night attack on Casa Spinello â not head on, where there were likely to be minefields, but once again round the valley at the side.
I think everyone in Mervynâs company thought this would be useless; we would get stuck as we had got stuck before. Nevertheless, off we went the next night in the driving rain. This time we had not only to get down into the valley but supposedly up the other side and this, in the cloying mud, proved to be literally impossible. And of course, our efforts alerted the Germans in Spinello so that machine-gun and mortar fire came down on us where we were now in the open because we had been trying not to shelter but to attack. And because we were frightened and almost didnât care any more, we tended to huddle together; so we suffered a regular toll of casualties. One of them was Christopher Cramb, the young South African volunteer who had been with me in Rome. He was standing next to me and called out loudly â
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