Mussolini_ His Part in My Downfall - Spike Milligan [49]
“San Domenico?” he repeated, “lots of Sans in this country.”
“Yes, sans fags, sans money, sans every bloody thing.”
Behind us we can see Monkey 1 Truck, Webster’s face showing occasionally through the windscreen wipers. Behind that a line of our vehicles at varying distances. A sign, “You are travelling over this bridge by courtesy of the USA 345 Bridge Building Co.”.
We could do with more of this, ‘These shell-holes are by courtesy of the 74 Medium Regiment’ or ‘This devastated landscape comes to you by courtesy of the 5th Army,’ or a sign pinned to oneself, ‘This crummy battle dress comes to you by courtesy of our mean bloody Quarterbloke’.
Jerry has made a thorough job in blowing all the bridges, every one we cross has been laboriously replaced with a Bailey. Total weight of a gun plus the Scammell is nearly twenty-five tons; they have to slow up when crossing, and gradually the light trucks pull ahead of the gun convoy. The torrential rain forces us to pull down the back canvas of the truck.
Muddy conditions
We have stopped (big deal), we hear raised voices, a large lorry has slidden off the road. The driver’s face covered in blood, he is being hauled up from below; other mud-saturated figures are helping him into another truck; they all have to shout above the roar of the deluge. It’s like a school for the deaf. We are off at a snail’s pace. God knows how drivers can cope.
“Can you see where you’re goin’?” calls Hart through to poor Driver Masters.
“No,” comes the reply, “I’m driving in Braille.”
It’s about mid-day, or if you go by the light, midnight. We have been halted on a road; to our right, looming over us are Monte Santa Croce and Monte Mattone, both over 600 to 1,000 feet. They run east to west on a range that ends up near the coast with Monte Massico, 800 feet. “They ought to keep the draught out,” says Hart. All that day we were truckbound by rain; if and when the bloody stuff stopped, we debussed and stretched our legs. There is no sign or word of the cookhouse.
“I think under the circumstances we should surrender,” I said.
Somehow the cooks have managed to juggle up a hot meal, a temporary affair of two lorries about ten feet apart, with a canvas spread over to cover the area between. In it they have done the impossible. HOT DINNER! As I collected mine I told Ronnie May I was writing to Buckingham Palace to recommend him for an award.
“Never mind the bloody award,” he says. “Ask them for some fucking matches that aren’t damp. I have to sleep with mine in me pocket, otherwise this bloody mob wouldn’t get any hot grub.”
“Let me help,” I said dramatically. “I would consider it an honour to sleep with your matches tonight.”
Bombardier Fuller explains. “When this bloody rain stops, we got to dig the Command Post over there—” He points to a small land area about thirty feet below us in a valley. “We dig into that bank, the ten line exchange will go in that cave to the left—” he indicates a small cave “—and to the left of that, I think there’s a cave big enough to take the Monkey Truck Mob.” Poor Fuller, he’s up to his eyebrows in mud; riding a motor bike in this weather is like going over the Niagara Falls in a gas stove.
The rain stops. I found a bank on the road, under the cover of a large tree; with my motley collection of boxes, tins, boards, etc., I rigged up a bed and got my tent into position. It was very damp, but at least I could kip in the ‘dead’ position. The proximity of passing traffic to my bed was but a few feet, however, I had a ‘home’. Before turning in, I listen to the BBC Overseas six o’clock broadcast:
“The Germans are pulling out to pre-prepared positions called the Gustav Line.”
Mussolini is in Verona as head of the Provisional Fascist Government. The Russians continue their relentless advance even in midwinter. How do they do it? Here we were standing still: a German Propaganda Poster of the time reflects our predicament.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1943