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By Root 215 0

Italian device, a large stone the size of a millstone, with a countersunk hole in the middle filled with charcoal, that burnt brightly with a minimum of smoke. It was all very quiet here, but at night we hear how close our infantry were by the night exchanges of machine-gun fire, just over the brow of a hillock behind us. At night we would hear the grumble of vehicles bringing supplies for the ‘build up’, and a sound that always made me feel ill, infantry men coming up the line, the unending trudge of what sounded like hollow boots and the occasional clank or clink of some metal equipment, and most distinctive, that ring of an empty metal tea mug. I used to wonder how in God’s name the High Command could keep the movement of a quarter of a million men secret…I always had the feeling that Hitler knew exactly where I was all the time.

On this the coldest day of the year, we hear that bitter fighting is going on for Vittori, and we are now only five miles from Cassino.

The days that followed were all the same, digging. To speed up the process more gunners arrive to dig at night! Mail is slow in coming up here owing to the traffic congestion and the one-way road system.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 7, 1944

What’s this mess approaching at dawn. It’s a fully shagged-out Gunner answering to the name Edgington. “Arggggggggggg,” he collapses into our billet. “What a bloody caper…up at four o’ bleedin’ clock, half a mug of cold tea, a spoonful of egg powder and now this bleedin’ crap hole.” He drops his kit.

“Welcome home, young massa,” I said. “De plantation ain’t bin de same widout you.”

“Ohhhhhh,” he groaned as he fossicked in his pockets for fags. Seeing him nigh to death my heart was sore afraid, so I scrounged an extra mug of tea, then sat him on his big pack. “Now tell mummy, was there a rude boy at school today?”

“I refuse to be cheered up,” he said. “There’ll be no smiling Harry till about mid-day.”

“No? let me help you keep that way—there’s bloody great holes in the ground to be dug, and you have to dig ‘em in the crippled position otherwise Jerry can see you.”

He is soon with shovel, and the wind whistleth through the seams in his underpants, and he liketh it not. A young Italian boy from the village came up and did some digging for us—as a mark of apprecation we gave him a few V cigarettes that would stunt his growth. We get a visit from the village barber; in an immaculate white jacket, he cut the hair of the entire mob. He was very thorough, snapping hairs in ears and noses. He went away, his pockets bulging.

“It’s mad,” said Edgington, “paying for something you don’t want.”

Captain Sullivan comes up to poke around. “Mmm—yes,” he said. “Was it worth the journey?”

JANUARY 8, 1944

MY DIARY:

WEATHER WARMER. DIGGING.

JANUARY 9, 1944

MY DIARY:

DIGGING AND SWEARING.

JANUARY 10, 1944

MY DIARY:

DIGGING AND SWEARING.

JANUARY 11, 1944

MY DIARY:

DIGGING FINISHED. SWEARING STOPS.

At last. We could relax, but still all movement had to be minimal and carried out under cover. Nash used to hold a piece of cardboard over his head. He was desperate for an officer to ask why, but it never came to pass. One fine morning he says, “I must have a look at Jerry’s lines. It’s a nice clear day, the view ought to be good.”

He was right, the view was so good he got a Jerry bullet over his head, and a terrible telling off from Sgt. Jock Wilson.

“You want tae giv awa’ oer position? You stoopid little cockney cunt!”

We had done all the digging and were now to excavate our own G truck billet. Down a small bank we find an ideal spot, and start to dig. We make it almost a room-size excavation, we roof it with corrugated iron, prop it up with poles, some canvas to waterproof it, a camouflage net on top along with dressing of bushes and branches. With loving care I tunnelled out a large chimney, and had a fire going to dry out the interior. Edgington’s sketch shows the method of excavation at that site, and my drawing shows the finished job. What I needed for a bed was a good piece of wood. Now, Gunner Nash had mentioned