Where Have All the Bullets Gone? (20 page)

DIARY:

OCTOBER 2

Big Parade, Bossman Cometh! Quick! hurry! no time to waste! Panic! Chaos! What’s it all about? Helpppp! Field Marshall Sir Harold Alexander, GCB, CSI, DSO, MC, ADC, SAC, VWXYZ, is to inspect us. We are all drawn up in serried ranks in Alexander Barracks Square, the Great Man drives into view. Taa-raaa! Much saluting, handshaking, pointing, nose-picking. He is led up the steps and appears at a balcony overlooking the square. He opens his mouth to speak and a blast of thunder and ice-cold rain drown and drench him out. He is soon back in the building and from within the balcony room a voice, with a note of hysteria in it, shouts out to the now drenched troops: DISMMMMSSSSS. We all run for cover. End of parade. From the windows we watch his car fill up like a bath tub. For those who believe me not, here is an excerpt from the official version.

The Field Mashal’s car passed the guard of honour and came into the square, Sir Harold was met by Brig. J. H. Woods,
C.B.E.
, and escorted to the platform outside the concert room windows, and then it all happened.

The black clouds which had been gathering for a half-hour suddenly broke and huge rain-drops fell. It was typical of a Commander who invariably has shown the greatest consideration for his troops that he immediately directed the parade to be dismissed to shelter. The men scurried to doorways and under trees, waiting a while on the chance of still hearing the Field Marshal, but the storm was
too much and he drove off

In true British Iconoclastic style, the quadrangle rang with gales of laughter. Anything that pricks the balloon of pomposity is fair game for the Anglo Saxon.

England Home and Beauty

Y
es, I was going home to England and taking my beauty with me. I sent a hasty note to Harry.

October 5

DIARY:

TRAIN LEAVES MADDALONI AT 09.00 HOURS

A crowd of over a hundred, some even older, are waiting at the siding. Sgt Prosser is my travelling companion. It’s sunny, we are all in a holiday mood.

“Here she comes,” says Prosser looking up the line.

“And there she goes,” I say, as it goes right past.

Finally a string of Wagons-Lits clank slowly into place; a scramble of khaki porridge as we fight for seats. Len and I sink down in corner seats opposite each other. It’s Sergeants only, but ah! ha!, I have added a third stripe to my sleeve. A shuddering clanking as the engine is coupled, a jerking start as the engine gets up steam; gradually we gain momentum and in ten minutes rejoin the same line in Caserta. Much points changing and shouts from the railway men, and we are set fair for Rome, a hundred miles north. Thank God I had Len for company, not one of these NCOs would talk, save for an odd grunt. “Any minute now,” I said, “they’ll go Baaa.” They brought to this sunny day the atmosphere of a Coroner’s waiting-room.

All rail journeys are identical — looking out of windows, yawning, walking up corridors, smoking, the occasional exchange of conversation, sleeping, scratching, smoking, reading. We pass through war-torn Sessa Arunca, a long tunnel through Monte de Fate, the country alternates between mountain and plain. I prefer my countryside plain, don’t you? Through Minturno, the area where I had last been in action. I point out Colle Dimiano.

“That’s where I was wounded,” I tell Len and the entire carriage. “Did the Sergeant kiss it better?” says Len.

Midday, and we are on the plain approaching Cisterna, to our left the Via Appia, up into the Alban Hills dotted with white crosses from the Anzio break-out. By one o’clock we are hissing and chuffing into Rome Central Station. “Half an hour,” shouts a voice. We debouch and stretch our legs, then taking from the vendor’s trolley, stretch our teeth on sticky gooey cakes which look like noses boiled in treacle.

The platforms are scurrying with Romans, all looking like unshaven Barclays Bank managers in Cricklewood. The supply of pretty Italian girls seems endless. “They must have a factory round here,” says Len, eating what looks like a dried mango with cockroaches stuck on it. We both agree that to eat continental pastries you should be sedated or blindfolded. A sloppy thin, violently ugly Railway Transport officer comes a-clumping and a-shouting through a bull horn: “All Liap Pwarty number Twenty-six bwack on the twain.” We had stocked up with French bread, cheese and boiled noses in treacle plus a bottle of Chianti. The guard’s shrill whistle, unlike British guards’, plays arias from
Madame Butterfly:
he’s still blowing when we’ve left the station.

We are not hungry, so we start to eat the bread and cheese right away. The prognosis is we should be in Calais at exactly ‘some time tomorrow’. When I wake up the train is speeding past Lake Bracciano; at the level crossing a crowd of peasants stand with open mouths. It’s getting colder. So is mine. We can see snow on distant mountains. We plunge into long dark tunnels then into bright sunlight, into Umbria and through Viterbo, once in misty yesterdays an Etruscan Citadel. We are climbing, the windows are steaming up, we turn the handle from Freddo to Caldo, and soon we are nice and Caldo. Darkness descends, dingy yellow light bulbs illuminate the carriage. Heads are nodding, time for beddy-byes. I see there’s room under the seat to sleep, I squirm underneath, bliss, there’s a heating pipe behind me. While the dodos sleep upright, I sleep the sleep of an angel, be it fallen.

A merry Jiminy Cricket Castrati voice is calling: “Wake up, wake up…we’re in Milan.” “Bollocks” is the response. It’s eight o’clock on a very dull cold morning which I see through a sea of legs and boots. The smell in the carriage is like an uncleaned chicken coop on a hot day. Rasping smokers’ coughs greet the morning. Milan station stands gaunt, grey and steely cold in the early gloom. The platform is almost empty save for vendors. We drink their exquisite aromatic coffee, banging our feet, expelling steam on our breath.

“How did you sleep?” I ask.

“Sitting up, didn’t you notice?”

He hasn’t slept well, because he hasn’t slept at all. What did he do?

“I read the
Corriere delta Sera
.” He doesn’t speak Iti, but when you’re awake all bloody night, it’s amazing what you can manage. “All Liap Pwarty number twenty-six bwack on twain.”

He’s still around! With my ablution kit I spruce up in the toilet. What the hell, why not? I strip off for a stand-up bath. The train is on a dodgy bit of track. Trying to wash one leg while standing on the other, the train lurches and one leg goes down the toilet up to the groin. It’s the nutcracker suite. I exit to a queue of strained faces: “Been ‘avin’ a bloody barf?” says one micturated voice. Why should I tell these rough soldiers that, quite apart from crushing my nuts, I have partaken of Italian train waters and my body is now snow white and ready for leave.

What’s this? A buffet car has been added? Len and I wobble along the steamed-up corridors past the odd dozy soldier. It’s very nice, bright and clean with white tablecloths and friendly waiters. Our waiter is fat and looks suspiciously like Mussolini. He smiles. We order egg and chips. He stops smiling.

The scenery is now ravishing. Cobalt-tinted lakes, blue mountains with snow caps, pine forests, cascading gorges, all displayed in bright sunshine. However, in the Sergeants’ carriage, it is overcast, raining, with heavy fog. An RTO Sergeant holding a clipboard is checking our documents and counting heads. God, this is exciting, this is what got Agatha Christie going on continental train murders. “She should have travelled Southern Railways in the rush hour,” says Len. “That’s murder
all
the bloody time.” We’ve come to a sudden halt. I get off the floor. A look out of the window shows gangers on the line, some shouting ‘twixt engine driver and gangers. Finally shouts and a whistle blowing, we chuff chuff forward. We proceed in fits and starts, starts and fits, then farts and stits.

And lo! there was darkness on the land. It was called the Simplon Tunnel. Icy cold air squirts through the crevices in the trousers and fibrillates the Brinjalls. Soon we are out of war-torn Italy into peaceful money-mad Switzerland. Customs officers have boarded at Domodossola and are checking Passports. “Piss Pots…all Piss Pots pleasea,” they are calling. Two enter our cabin. No, we are travelling on the King’s Warrant and don’t need Piss Pots, but wish them well in their search. The lighthearted banter and laughter between Len and myself brings facial sneers, constant nudges and silent stares of hatred from our fellow passengers. People are like that. If you don’t understand them, hate them. What better species to drop the Bomb on! Alas they outnumber us.

The suburbs of Basle. What’s this? Union Jacks hanging from the buildings and signs: ‘Vive Tommy’. When the train slows, they foist apples and almond cakes on us, girls run alongside and hand us flowers. A quick look into my scratched steel mirror tells me why. I am still beautiful. I lean forward from the window to show my medal ribbons, and just in case I point to them.

Basle station is like Waterloo without the crap. We are greeted by another RTO Officer: “LIAP party twenty-six? The train will be here for an hour. Refreshments have been laid on at the station buffet, no charge, just show your rail pass.” Despite ‘no charge’, they all charge to the buffet. What a lovely surprise to hear the pretty waitresses saying, “We ‘ave for you, ze Collation of Coldness.” Lovely — can they whistle the Warsaw Concerto to complete our happiness? But what a difference. Cold Collation here is different from Cold Collation in Catford. Here it’s great slices of turkey, a whole lettuce, great dollops of thick egg-bound mayonnaise, chunky brown bread. And here was a moment of delight: one of the grim miserable sergeants bites the thick chunky bread, his teeth come out in it, and he goes on eating.

“So, the we’ll-be-in-Calais-some-time-tomorrow isn’t going to materialize,” says Len, not fancying another night of upright somnabulism.

“Can you hear horses galloping, Len?”

Len listens. “No, I can’t.”

“Oh, that’s the second time today.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “It’s time you had leave. Look, this is Switzerland, you could seek asylum here.”

Back in the compartment of miserable bastards, Len consults his map. “We are about 450 miles to Calais.”

“Any advance on 450? Do I hear 460? Sold then to Sgt Prosser for 450.”

The Sergeants all steam with hate. I gain satisfaction from knowing that bloody ugly wives with faces like dogs’ bums with hats on are waiting for them. Ha ha ha ha! It’s getting still colder, but not as cold as Collation. Dinner? The white tablecloths are victims of sloppy eating and shunting. Would we like egg and chips? says Mussolini — if so you can scrape it off the table. Nay, we’ll have some pasta. He has a heart attack. He runs screaming to the chef telling him of the breakthrough. I hear the kitchen staff singing hymns. Mussolini returns with steaming plates of ravioli. Tears come to his eyes as we eat it.

Night has encapsulated us, semaphores of light flash past the windows like speeding fireflies. We pause a while over our coffee and brandy and think of my parents possibly drinking watery Horlicks, eating the cat, and listening to the nine o’clock noise in rented accommodation. Was I really going back to that? Yes I was. I should have got off in Switzerland.

We return to our compartment. All the repulsive Sergeants are laughing and joking, but stop the moment we return. They smirk as we sit down and I wonder what’s fretting at the smooth surface of their delinquent minds. I crawl under the seat to last night’s sleeping niche and turn off to the sound of iron crochets of train wheels. While we slumber, the land of Jeanne D’Arc is slipping by in the D’ark.

Awake, My Pretty Ones

T
he sun is streaming through the carriage windows. Poplar trees are flashing past, the French countryside is a swirl of autumnal hues.

“Bonjour,” says Len, as I arise from le floor. “It’s temps pour le breakfast.”

The buffet car is crammed with bleary-eyed, travel-weary soldiers. The smell of fried breakfasts wafts along the corridors; they’ve started queuing, we must be getting near England. Appetite improves with waiting. Our turn. What would the messieurs like? Hot bread rolls? Oui, oui. We must be in France or luck. There’s
real
unsalted Normandy butter on the table. We watch it melt on the hot rolls, heap on marmalade. “Le Life is Très Bon,” says Len. He confers with his le map. “Ah, we passed Chaumont in the night,” he says. Help, Doctor, Doctor, I’ve been passing Chaumonts in the night.

We are coursing the side of the historic Marne river. To our left the verdant plain of Champagne. Blue overalled vignerons are harvesting the grapes. The train slows down into Epernay. My God! Champagne vendors on the platform! It’s only ten o’clock in the morning, we’ll be pissed by twelve.