My own attitude to the war at this time was that it was just something to be got on with – no more questions about ethics or justification. And it seems that my father did not go on about the war much now either: he was thinking about what he would say or write when it was over. He had professed to be a fan of Nietzsche but he was also now a critic. His line was that what Nietzsche had seen as the ‘Will to Power’ was a comparatively primitive affair; what was demanded of the ‘higher type’ of man was rather a ‘Will to Achievement’. I had not been able to read much Nietzsche yet (his books were almost unobtainable in wartime England) but it seemed to me that my father had got his own reading wrong: what Nietzsche was on about was not the ability to exercise power over other people, but a power (if this was the word) over oneself. That is, one needed the ability with part of oneself to observe and be critical of other parts of oneself: and by this possibly to reorder them. But this my father did not seem to have recognised – although he did have the capacity, sometimes, to laugh at exaggerated parts of himself. I don’t think I talked much with Mervyn about Nietzsche, but Mervyn seemed to me to illustrate, with his quiet and amused irony, more of what Nietzsche meant by a ‘higher’ man than what had been envisaged by my father. I didn’t talk much with Mervyn about my father; in later life he would say about him just – ‘A man should have the courage to say what he thinks.’
In my own letters to my father during my time in Egypt I was still plunging about on difficult and not very well thought-out ground; but usually in efforts to understand the daft predicament of war in which I found myself –
I think the Hellenists of the 18th and 19th centuries shrank from the acceptance of ‘horror’ in nature because they did not realise what far greater potentialities for horror there are in the unnatural man. To a sensitive spirit of this generation the ruthless sense of doom in nature is not a quarter so horrifying as the miserable sense of futility when in contact with the ‘unnatural’ man of the present day. Anyone who has fought in the last two wars must realise this. It is incredible that there are sane men who believe that by renouncing natural life they can alter it or be immune from it. But could they not learn to make deals with it?
And then –
There is an interesting man in my Company called Desmond Fay who before the war was an active communist. He is intelligent and very reasonable; and when we feel earnest enough we talk of this and that. And the more we talk the less is the difference that I can see between the conceptions of the communist and the fascist corporate state. But then the only training I have had in the theory of Fascism was in the Pamphlets that you sent me when I was to debate on the subject at the Abinger [my prep school] Debating Society.
In one of the letters that I wrote to my father at this time there is a short passage blacked out, intriguingly, by the censor. I had been describing my often hilarious week’s leave in Cairo, and the last sentence before the blackout was ‘The best sport of all was being rude to the ignoble staff-officers of GHQ’.
To my sister, who had been wondering rather dolefully whether she should have a go at reading Nietzsche, I had written that my favourite line in Also Sprach Zarathustra was – ‘I would believe only in a God who knew how to dance’.
8
When we arrived back at Taranto in September I found that there was now a Rifle Brigade battalion in Italy, and a formal request that I should rejoin it. I was dismayed at the prospect of having to get to know, to become trusted by, a new platoon again – and indeed, a new set of officers. And of course I did not want to lose my relationship with Mervyn. Also I had come to appreciate the anarchic style of the London Irish, and did not want to go back to what I remembered as either the ‘stuffiness’ or indeed the affectations of the Rifle Brigade mess at Ranby. So I told this to Mervyn, and we consulted with our CO, Bala Bredin, and he put in a formal request, backed by the brigadier and a personal plea from me, that 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 taken away 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 sure I 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 a tree and watching shadows and listening to rustlings. And having spent enough time in what might be taken 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 – no sign of enemy activity – 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 been called 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 – I cannot now remember what it was – 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 – not head on, where there were likely to be minefields, but once again round the valley at the side.
I think everyone in Mervyn’s 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 didn’t 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 – ‘God have mercy on my soul’ – and then fell and died. Mervyn was trying to get through on the radio to demand permission to withdraw, but he was told to continue with the so-called attack. Then, to his eternal credit, Mervyn decided to ignore this order and on his own initiative he led us back up the slope on our side of the valley, carrying our wounded and those we could of our dead.
When Mervyn was summoned by the colonel and the brigadier to report on his withdrawal, he said that they did not seem to understand the futility of their tactics: we would never take Spinello – nor indeed Spaduro – with cumbersome numbers of men sliding down into a mud trap at night and there remaining helpless while they were shot at from Spinello. What was necessary, he said, was for a small force of men to set off while it was still light by as direct a route as possible to Spinello, keeping as far as they could just under the shelter of the spur. Then, when they were as close to Spinello as they could get like this, they could attack running fast across open ground. This should happen shortly before the regular time of stand-to at dusk, when it was almost inconceivable that the Germans would be expecting an attack, so uncommon was any movement by day, and in fact it was possible that the Germans would be sleeping. Then if this attack on Spinello was successful there would be a chance of a major night attack on Spaduro succeeding.
The colonel and the brigadier listened to Mervyn and said – ‘All right, you and your company try it.’
One of the other platoon commanders in our company was the young communist from Liverpool, Desmond Fay, with whom in Egypt I had argued amicably about communism and fascism. Desmond had been brave during the advance from Cassino, and had been awarded the Military Cross.
Now, when Mervyn gathered us to tell us of his plans, he suggested that Desmond should go out in the early afternoon with just one or two men and try to find out what was the situation in Spinello – how many Germans were there and what were their defensive positions. If possible, he should bring back a prisoner who could be questioned. Then, if Desmond’s information was satisfactory, I with my platoon would lead an attack to capture the farmhouse and buildings – still in daylight, but just before the time when the Germans could be expected to be standing-to. Then if my attack was successful, the rest of the company would come up and we would hold Spinello during the night while the inevitable German counterattacks came in, and while a large-scale Allied attack on Spaduro would go in, this time with a chance of success because the crossfire from Spinello would have been eliminated.
This scheme seemed to me both mad and yet, as it had done to Mervyn, to make some sense. But I wondered – Why has Mervyn chosen me to do the attack? Then – Oh yes, I see.
When I told my sergeant and my section commanders of this plan they too naturally thought it was mad: had we not been told never to move into the view of the enemy in daylight? I explained: Yes, but they will not believe that we could be so mad; they will not have properly woken from their daytime sleep; they will think they are dreaming. My section commanders and sergeant looked at me as if they thought they or I might be dreaming.
From a certain vantage point we could just see, by lifting our heads carefully, the farmhouse about a quarter of a mile away along the spur; some ruined farm buildings were on this side of it. We had a few hours to wait before Desmond set off on his patrol, after which it would almost certainly be our turn to go. We could pass the time by making sure that our weapons were in proper order. I had myself by this time acquired a Thompson sub-machine gun, which had the reputation at critical moments of being likely to jam. But not, surely, if one took enough trouble. There was time also to ruminate on the bizarreness of fate.
When I had been taken prisoner and had succeeded in my decision at any cost to try to escape, I had been helped by good fortune and by Mervyn. Then later, when I had been wounded south of Cassino, Sergeant Mayo, who had taken over from me, had been killed. I had thought – All right, I am very lucky! But sooner or later there will be pay-back time. Something further will be demanded of me: either my luck will run out, or there will be some test why it should not.
So is not this now the sort of task that I have wanted, or needed, ever since most of my platoon were taken prisoner without firing a shot, even though I had managed to escape? I have needed a chance to show in a positive way a break from the cynical attitudes of my past; from the negative tendencies of my history. When Mervyn had come to tell me of his plans for my attack he had murmured, ‘This is an MC job.’ This was army jargon for an assignment which, if it succeeded, might result in one’s being recommended for a Military Cross; if it failed one was likely to be dead.
So had Mervyn an instinct for what I might require?
(You think people don’t ruminate on such things at such perilous moments? What else do they think about?)
Desmond Fay’s patrol was amazingly successful. He went out
with just his sergeant and came back with a German prisoner who had been half asleep in a trench by the farm buildings. The German talked: he said that Spinello was held by about thirty men during the day; at night they were in contact with troops on the hills behind who came up with more machine-guns. There was some good news in this in that it seemed the Germans might not be in good heart if the man had been taken and talked so easily; but thirty men was a lot for my depleted platoon to take on, and would not the capture of this prisoner mean that his colleagues would now have been alerted? My platoon was down to fifteen men, what with sickness and injury, and when it was time for us to form up I wondered if there would be any who would say they could not go on. There was, in fact, only one, a senior corporal who lay in the bottom of his trench and said he could not move. I talked with him for a time and then said – All right, don’t. He would not have been much use in a platoon that was otherwise behaving so admirably. But I think we all felt we might be on a suicide mission.
I had two lance-corporals, Tomkinson and McClarnon, who with their sections would go with me into the attack. My sergeant would be with the Bren gun of the third section to give us covering fire. The rest of the company would be ready to give more covering fire if necessary from the hill at the back.
Desmond was to start off with us to show us the way he had reconnoitred, keeping out of sight of the farmhouse by moving under the brow of the spur. But even here we would be in full view of the Germans on the hills beyond – so was it true they would be sleeping? Then, for the last hundred yards or so, we would have to break from the cover of the spur and run to the farm buildings across open ground; if the Germans had been alerted, this is what was likely to be suicidal.
We moved off in our meagre crocodile quite openly, like people hoping not to draw attention to themselves if they show sufficient insouciance. On our right we could look across the valleys that stretched away towards Imola and the promised land of the northern plain. For the first time in weeks the rain was holding off; it was almost a beautiful evening.
Time at War Page 8