Then came the attack on the Gustav Line, a line that stretched from the famous Monte Cassino down the Liri and the Garigliano to the sea. Our sector was on the Garigliano about a mile from its mouth and here on the eve of my father’s birthday I built and operated a ferry. At the end of January came the landing behind the German lines at Anzio, and with it the wildly optimistic hope that Rome was about to fall. Alas, the beachhead got stuck. The Germans counter-attacked even more strongly than they had at Salerno and 56 Division had to be withdrawn from the Garigliano and shipped from Naples to reinforce the besieged garrison. We were at Anzio for six weeks and during the middle two of them acted as infantry. During our stay we neither advanced nor retreated, merely weathered the storm; and we were indeed glad to get away alive. We returned by ship to Naples, drove to Taranto, where another ship took us to Egypt for a badly needed rest.
Then followed leave in Cairo, training on the banks of the Suez Canal, more training near Gaza, a visit to Jerusalem, an exercise that took us from the Sea of Galilee down the Jordan to the Dead Sea (where we had a swim), and finally more training up in Syria. My furthest north was Beirut, where I got my hair cut. Then the long drive back through Palestine, across the Sinai Desert to Port Said, and thence by sea to Italy. We were now in Eighth Army. At Rome we were inspected by King George. At Assisi we paused to make our final preparations. At Pergola I celebrated my 24th birthday with a Bailey bridge. And then, a little to the south of Urbino, near Fossombrone, overflowing with optimism, we hurled ourselves at the German’s Gothic Line. Our optimism lasted ten days, and as the grapes ripened again, came the bloodiest of all our battles.
Near Sant’ Arcangelo on the edge of the Plain of Lombardy I was wounded. I was evacuated to Fano where a piece of shrapnel was taken out of my head, then flown to a hospital at Barletta. I convalesced among the trulli of Alberobello and sometime in December rejoined the Division at Forli. I spent a short time with HQRE and eventually moved to 221 Field Company as Information Officer. It was now January and the fighting had died down: rain and extensive flooding made movement very difficult. In April came the spring offensive that was to bring the campaign in Italy to an end. 56 Division was on the coast north of Ravenna and advanced up both sides of Lake Comacchio and through the ‘Argenta gap’. By the end of the month all was virtually over. We crossed the Po without opposition and were at Rovigo on the Adige when the Germans surrendered. Thence we hurried to Trieste to keep the peace between the Italians and the Jugoslavs.
I was at Trieste for just over a year, returning to England and civilian life in time to celebrate my 25th birthday with my parents at Cotchford.
8. War – The Adventure
I had just recovered from malaria and was enjoying a week’s sick leave in Tripoli when I learned that 56 Division was to take part in the invasion of Europe.
Oh, how my heart leapt at the news – as it had leapt back at Sible Hedingham when I was asked if I would like to accompany the Division overseas, and as it had leapt at Kirkuk when we received orders that we were moving to the Middle East for an important operation. But our voyage from England had taken us only to Iraq, and our journey to Africa had given us only the last few days of the Desert War. As yet we had done very little, and nothing to be especially proud of. We had yet to prove ourselves. Now at last was our chance, for this was surely the ‘Second Front’ that everyone had been talking about, clamouring for, for so long; and we were to be the spearhead of the attack, the vanguard of a mighty army that was to sweep across Europe. All that we had suffered hitherto – the boredom and the depression – served now only to intensify our feelings of excitement and elation. All was well. We were not a third rate Division fit only for garrison duties. The High Command had faith in us, and we would not fail them.
Such were my emotions, and the emotions, I suspect, of most of us; and so, as we set about preparing ourselves for ‘D’ Day,3 our lives were filled with a sense of purpose. We were on the move again. We were riding the crest of a great wave that was fast heading for the shore. As yet the precise location of that shore was unknown. But the wave had a name. Its name was ‘Avalanche’, and the very word set my blood a-tingle.
Thus an important part of me was seeing myself not as an individual but as a member of a vast body of men and was feeling a thrill of pride that I wore the Black Cat on my sleeve. Never mind what I personally did or failed to do. History was about to be made. The Black Cat Division would be making it. And I would be there. 56 Division poised at Tripoli; the Light Brigade lining up at Balaclava; the British and French armies before Agincourt: the mood is the same. Bugles call, drums roll, voices shout, metal rings against metal, and slowly, rank by rank, section by section, company by company, we move into place A pause, a moment of silence and then . . . we’re off! And as we surge forward and fling ourselves upon the enemy, we know no fear. We are not ordinary men with ordinary emotions. We are in the grip of a new and strange and wonderful emotion and it intoxicates us. Flashing swords, rattling machine guns: only the weapons are different. The thrill is as old as Man.
Yes, whatever happens afterwards, it starts as an adventure; and certainly I joined most enthusiastically in the general excitement. But there were moments when I had to admit that my own particular share in the adventure was going to be extremely modest. While the subalterns in the Field Companies were spending their last few weeks in Africa arming themselves with grenades and Bangalore torpedoes, practising leaping into the sea and dashing ashore through the waves, I had little to do but sit in my tent and feel envious. There was nothing special that I needed to practise. No one was likely to need a Bailey bridge on the beaches. So I had to draw what consolation I could from the fact that I was at least to be in the Company’s Advance Party – under Captain Bertram – that I and my bridging lorries would be travelling in a Tank Landing Craft (which had a glamorous sound to it), and that we would be going ashore soon after dawn. Here was something to cheer me up. To have been in the Rear Party, to have travelled in a troopship, to have landed tamely long after all the fun was over: that would have been misery!
So, as the great fleet crossed the Mediterranean, I was feeling happily heroic.
Once we were safely, away from land, sealed orders were ceremoniously opened and we learned that our destination was a place called Salerno not far from Naples. Apart from a storm, our voyage was uneventful.
My lorries were lined up on the open deck and with them was a troop of anti-tank guns. I had a bunk in the wheelhouse and, some kindly organization having provided a small library, spent idle moments reading Hugh Walpole’s Jeremy at Thrale, and then – with a few more idle moments still left – went on to Mr Perrin and Mr Traill: but alas there was not time to finish it, for, at 3 o’clock in the morning on September 9th, the great Avalanche swept ashore. Five hours later Lieutenant Milne, stepping daintily from ramp to sand, didn’t even get his boots wet.
Here then is one aspect of the adventure of war, one mood that infects us. It is a mood that carries us, high-spirited, through the preparations for battle and into the battle itself, and it is a mood that entirely obliterates fear. How long it lasts and whether it ever recurs will depend on our individual fortunes. The fighting at Salerno was very fierce and many must have quickly moved to the second side of my triangle, from adventure to horror. But I was lucky. Bridges were not wanted and so I had little to do, and having little to do, I did not therefore make a very important target for the German guns.
The mood that carried me to Salerno, though it evaporated temporarily during the dull days that followed, quickly reasserted itself when we finally burst through the ring of mountains and spilled down into the Plain of Naples. Now came the Great Advance, the road choc-a-bloc with vehicles, looking like Oxford Street during the rush hour: a gigantic, solid, steel caterpillar grinding and crunching its way forward, and I a part of it, caught up in it, I, too, with my bridging lorries, leaving the rest of the Field Park far behind, all on my own now, grinding my way forw
ard with the tanks and the carriers and the guns. Oh, it was indeed marvellous to be there.
Thus we advanced, almost unopposed, to the Volturno; and, once through the mountain pass, I was racing ahead to provide the bridges that enabled the advance to continue. Yes, I was lucky. This part of the Italian campaign might have been designed especially to suit the Bridging Officer of a Field Park Company. Never again in Italy were so many bridges needed. Night after night I was providing them. And when at last we moved into a different sort of country, out of the plains and into the hills, away from broad tarmac roads among narrow, stony mountain tracks, when at last no more Baileys were needed, then (so it almost seemed) the High Command said: ‘Milne’s job is over. He can now be posted to a Field Company.’ And I was, and the adventure continued.
But what about the enemy, you may ask; what about the fighting? It’s easy to enjoy it all when you’re not being shot at.
True, but an exploding shell doesn’t necessarily bring the adventure to an end. Indeed sometimes quite the reverse.
There was a game we used to play at school in which, greatly daring, we danced over the borders of our own home-ground on to the free-for-all ground in front of us. ‘Can’t catch me! Can’t catch me!’ we cried as we danced forward, inviting pursuit. ‘Oh, can’t I!’ cried the other fellow. And then the chase, scampering, dodging, until, if we were lucky, flushed with excitement, panting with exhaustion, we were safely home again. This was the game we played with the Germans. Of course, the stakes were higher. But the stakes were high anyway; so there was nothing to lose making it into a game. There were two forms: in the one you hoped you would not be seen; in the other you hoped you would not be hit. The first was best played at night; the second in daylight. And since I played both on the Garigliano – and something else besides – it might be worth while to see what happened there.
It will be remembered that the Garigliano formed the seaward end of the Gustav Line. We reached it in December and by that time I was commanding No. 1 Platoon of 220 Field Company.
I can’t remember now the name of the village we had moved to. It might have been Laura but I rather think it was one a little further to the south. At any rate it was down in the plain and the climate was noticeably milder. The move from Roccamonfina was a move sideways, not an advance. The advance had got stuck at Monte Camino. We were now regrouping, ready for the big attack. In front of us the ground was flat and open. Somewhere ahead was the river, and here, if anywhere, was the line that separated the two armies. Beyond the river the plain continued a short way and then came the mountains. We could see the mountains, which meant of course that they could see us. So there wasn’t much we could do in daylight – except enjoy the gentle, mellow peacefulness of our surroundings. Only at night did we become soldiers, sallying out to work on the various tracks that criss-crossed the plain and led to the river.
Then came my first patrol.
It was, of course, to the river. For the river was the first obstacle to be crossed. Deep and slow, it flowed between high banks some two hundred feet apart – and somewhere along its course we had to construct a ferry. Where? That was the question. Our maps gave us a clue. Aerial photographs gave us another. But only by going to have a close look could we be quite sure. So, on a succession of nights, one or another of us went. I was still fairly new to the Company, not very experienced, and so it was only natural that Major Smith kept the most likely place for his own visit, did the thing in style, swam the river and won the Military Cross. The place I was sent to look at was never, I guess, more than a faint possibility. It was where the railway bridge had been demolished: there and another place about fifty yards upstream.
I dressed for the part: jersey in place of tunic and something woolly on my head. Some of us wore special shoes with rubber soles so as to make less noise, but I never did, for I had a sort of superstition about my boots: I felt safe in them. Then I set out, calling first on the infantry Company that was looking after that section of the front, to pick up my guides. Not only would they know the way but, more important, they would ensure that whatever happened on the river I was at least not mistaken for a German on my return. All was quiet, they said. No German patrols had been reported on our side of the river. Good. We’ll be gone about an hour.
I was now crossing that strip of land that separates the two front lines. In the First World War it was called ‘No Man’s Land’ for it was a land inhabited only by corpses, and anyone who ventured there risked becoming a corpse himself. I can’t remember what we called it in Italy if indeed we called it anything. I’ll have something to say about it later. Here let me say only that at night it was utterly silent, utterly deserted and, so it seemed, utterly untouched by the noisy, messy battling armies that flanked it on either side. I was on a narrow track that ran between raised banks, heading for the river, feeling (of course) very excited, looking (had anybody been watching) probably mildly ridiculous. For I was – or felt I ought to be – ready to take instant action should a patrol of Germans be lying in ambush behind the next tree. Thus I advanced with knees slightly bent, pistol in hand, and my two guides following behind.
About fifty yards short of the river we stopped. Here I went on alone, moving very cautiously on hands and knees. Yes, we had come to the right place, for there was the tangled mass of the bridge, half in the water, half out – and totally obstructing any possible ferry. However, let me at least be able to say I had done the job properly: very gently I pulled myself forward to the water’s edge and dipped in a finger. . . .
Such was my first patrol. I had not been spotted, and I returned home safely, feeling very pleased with myself.
Then came the big attack. More guns, Major Smith told us, would fire tonight than had fired at the opening of the Battle of El Alamein: and immediately I felt a return of the thrill I had felt before Salerno.
My Platoon was to build and operate the ferry. It was late evening, already dark, and in the darkness we were making final preparations with the lorry that was to carry our equipment, when the Hour came, the Conductor brought down his baton, and with a crash the whole percussion orchestra sounded forth. The noise was terrific, thumps behind us as the guns fired, flashes and crashes ahead of us as the shells exploded, and the sky above scratched all over with lines of tracer. I had heard it before like this one night at Salerno. It was like a symphony: lasting as long, the instruments almost as varied – for each type of gun has its own individual voice – and the effect every bit as dramatic and moving. Then I had been in the audience, no more than a listener. Now I was a participant; and so, as we made our way down to the river, my Platoon on foot, the lorry creeping along beside us, it was as if we were marching to the sound of drums and cymbals, and my feeling of intoxication reached its climax.
We built the ferry. Things went wrong, of course, because things usually do go wrong. It doesn’t greatly matter. Indeed, it is often quite a good thing, for the more there is to think about and worry about, the less time there is to feel afraid. On this occasion our lorry – for reasons, best known to its driver – went into a ditch and couldn’t get out. So all our equipment had to be carried the last two or three hundred yards. However, all was ready on time. In fact it was the infantry who kept us waiting. For it was not until 8 o’clock in the morning that the far bank was reported clear of Germans and we were able to cross over and complete work on the other side.
Thus the ferry, and all told it provided me with a good range of experiences until, very suddenly, very unexpectedly and, as it happened, quite pleasingly dramatically, I left it.
It was about a week later. I had been doing something on the far side and was returning in my jeep. There were three or four vehicles ahead of me waiting to cross; and as soon as I had joined them we had our first shell. It was quite a small one, as shells go, and it travelled in a leisurely way so that you could hear the thump as it was fired and then the singing as it approached, before the crash that announced its arrival. The vehicles backed
down the track out of the way, but I stayed by the river – I forget now why, possibly because I was in a hurry to get across. One shell isn’t much to worry about and there might not be any more. But there were; and then happened an incident that in retrospect – and I have reflected on it many times since – still leaves me wondering, groping for an explanation.
There was a ditch beside the track that would provide the cover I needed while the shelling lasted. I got into it and stood there waiting for the thump that would announce the approach of the next one. Two other soldiers were in the ditch with me; I was facing the river and they were behind me. Then something told me that it would be better to face the other way. Perhaps I wanted to see who my companions were or perhaps I wanted to face the gun so as to hear it better. I began to turn round: a simple enough thing to do, something I must have done a million times before, and no particular difficulty doing it while standing in a ditch, but this time I found myself moving rather more slowly, rather more thoughtfully than usual. Weight on to right foot, left foot off the ground, left leg turned, then gently lowered – as if I were on the parade ground learning it by numbers. . . . And as I lowered my left leg I heard a sound. No, not the boom of the gun that I had been listening for; something much nearer, much more unexpected, much more menacing: the sound of metal against metal coming from beneath the sole of my foot. Metal studs clinking against something metal on the ground. I knew what it was at once, drew back my foot and looked down; and there sticking out of the ground, quite meaningless unless you were familiar with them, scarcely visible even then, were three little black wires about an inch long, the three prongs of the igniter that the Germans used on their ‘S’ mines. A tiny push, the merest fraction of my full weight, and the igniter would have exploded.
The Path Through the Trees Page 7