Testimonianze

F. B. Cliffe

from HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN FIELD SERVICE 1920-1955 (George Rock)

Chapter VII - ITALY 1 - Termoli, Volturno-Monte Camino, Trigno-Sangro-Ortona

accustomed  to it. The Captain spoke up in a quiet, almost pleased voice. 'There he is, now.'

"A whistle and an explosion. Our first Jerry shell! It was followed by several others, all landing about one-quarter of a mile away. That night was a restless one. The thunder of the barrage kept waking us. The occasional whistle and explosion of Jerry's shells kept waking us. Next morning, asking Sandy what he thought of the barrage, we were unbelieving when be replied 'What barrage?' Yet after a few days we realized he had been quite sincere about sleeping through it. Amazing what you can get used to.

"That evening, four of us were brewing up when Jerry again began to sing. We were unlucky this time: 4 wounded, 2 dead. The best friend of one of the dead men refused to believe him really dead. He felt for the body's pulse, said very little. Offered a drink, he refused. He hung around the outside of the RAP for hours-standing in the moonlight lonely and lost. . . .

"This Field Artillery was a crack regiment. . . . I was glad to be with Englishmen like these in action. Their casualness helps to calm jumpy nerves. Typical was the comment, when Jerry was dropping a number of shells in the neighborhood, 'The cheeky bastard! I suppose he'll be drawing his rum ration from us tomorrow'. . . .

"Since the battle was static, we were situated in that little valley during the entire month. The main road to the front ran diagonally across the valley, crossing a small stream on a Bailey bridge which had quickly been put up to replace the muddy diversion. Behind us the road clung to the side of the mountain, winding its way back to the rear positions. Our valley---with its artillery, key Bailey bridge, and vital road---was a popular Jerry target, and we were in a good position to watch the occasional daytime shelling of the road. As shells whistled over our heads, we would grudgingly applaud a good shot, hoping none would drop short ---into our camp.

"One night an officer had to be brought back from the Regiment's observation post. This was always up forward with the infantry. With the road up under observation, we made the trip after dark. The OP was 300 yards from Jerry machine-gun nests. There was to be an attack that night, and a great number of guns were plastering the mountain ahead. If being on the sending end of a barrage is impressive, being that close to the receiving end is bewildering. The whole Camino mountain seemed to jump under the impact of the shells. . . .

"Our Regimental Headquarters centered around the yard of a thoroughly bombed farm. The house was a pile of rubble, but its stones were useful for road-building, its timbers kept fires going. The only building left was a stone structure whose last inhabitants had been pigs. Its 10 sties sheltered a great assortment of people. An ack-ack crew and a battery cooked there, the RAP was at one end, the medical staff slept in it, and on a rainy day it seemed that the whole regiment was using it as a drying room. The roof was patched tolerably well, letting in only driblets rather than torrents of rain. Upon arrival we cleaned the place thoroughly, but for a long time a certain aroma hung in the air, reminding us of the nature of the last inhabitants. But we spent many pleasant evenings in our pig sty, sitting around a fire, talking, writing letters, brewing up.

"The country surrounding our valley was beautiful. . . . However, a more intimate acquaintance with the country brought a rapid disillusionment. The ruined villages were pathetic piles of stone, bits of furniture, torn books, all tumbled together. The old peasant women living like animals. Begging and desperately needing, they would cry 'poco mangiare' to all the soldiers who wandered through the village. The kids with bare feet walking in the cold mud. And the mud itself: magnificent mud; rich, brown, sticky, clinging, bogging mud. You had to admire the stuff. It was the essence of that which good mud should be. Day and night, vehicles plowed into it, bucked through, got bogged, were dug, winched, and manhandled out. BBC described the country as 'unfit for man, beast, or mechanized vehicle.'

"On moonlight nights, though, one was actually transformed. Especially beautiful was that half-way waiting time of dusk. The little valley became a mystical, almost hallowed region. Haze settled slowly, softly, into the lowest spots. A farmhouse across the valley, its rough lines erased by darkness, became a story-book castle. The last glow of the sunset subsided and was soon supplemented by the rising moon. The valley waited quietly. The moon rose, bathed the valley in its own mystic light, leaving weird shadowed areas. Your mind wandered far away. This region was no longer a place where men participated in a crazy pattern of killing other men, and you were dreamily convinced that this halfworld was reality. You were lost, deluded, satisfied simultaneously.

"But a cloud darkened the sky. The flashes and reports began again. A new barrage had started. You came back to the world of men sharply. The crazy pattern of killing was still crazy, but it was real. You were shivering a little and hurried inside to help the others brew up."