Monte Trocchio, 14 May 1944
We went to bed at 0010 hours and were up again at 0200 hours on that Sunday morning of 14 May.
The CO and the recce group left at 0315 hours and I brought the battalion up to 0430 to its concentration area behind Monte Trocchio. Trocchio was a small ugly feature in comparison with its neighbour but it was very useful just now beside the river – the one and only bastion and rampart possessed by the attackers.
The Royal Air Force had a command post up there, with fighter bombers permanently on call by whoever needed their services. And their presence was evident enough as, time after time, whole squadrons screamed down on to invisible targets ahead and sheets of flame went skywards as they did so.
In the ordinary way, we were rarely conscious of our aircraft and we took their activities for granted. I never thought that air attack on the forward positions of either side achieved very much and I very much doubt if our pilots did so now, but the morale effect was splendid and they added to the general din, concluding by racing back a few hundred feet over our heads to collect more of their horrific missiles.
Our airmen had been occupied for months in attacking the German approach routes and, once the battle started, their principal task was the prevention of all forward movement by the enemy in, or onto, the battle zone, at least in daylight. A few days later, we would see for ourselves the devastating effect of their practices.
Here at Trocchio, utter chaos reigned. As it provided the last cover from view before reaching the Rapido, somewhat naturally, it was heavily congested with assorted troops, tanks and vehicles all heading for the crossing points. Forward movement, by then, had slowed to a crawl as the enemy artillery observers had naturally concentrated on the bridges and had already hit a number of them.
But the German gunners had plenty to spare for Trocchio. It was a cheerless stunted spot and the hillside looked as though a hurricane had struck it. Seared and torn under the shelling, one would remember the destruction – and the satanic hiss of the splinters as they ripped through the olive trees every few seconds. For several hours that afternoon, Monte Trocchio was a screaming madhouse with this and own guns, in serried ranks behind it, replying in kind.
Conversation for a while was hardly possible.
The troops lay up where they could in this inferno and, eventually, the CO joined us again. Here, I sat with the Brigade O Group, while Pat brought us up to date. Ion then went on again over the nearest Rapido bridge with his recce group and I took the battalion on after him.
Down near the Rapido, the fog of war was literally complete as the whole area was thick with smoke and I doubt that we would have found the bridge at all without the morass of tank tracks, debris and, I am afraid, quite a number of our dead to mark the route to it. I also wondered how on earth we were going to link up with my CO in this opaque murk around us. Fortunately, the canisters were blowing straight down the river and, after a while, we emerged from the smoke screen in to the olive trees and folds of the western bank. Here, there was reasonable cover and, apart from the shelling, life suddenly became more spacious and hopeful. The Skins were up there ahead of us somewhere.
We were over the river by 4pm with the troops and with the bridgehead scarcely a quarter mile deep, bullets were whipping in to the ground all over the place as the forward posts of the enemy shot it out with their opponents of the 4th Division. Our riflemen required no further encouragement to dig in and, fortunately, they found this easy as they tore in to the soft loam of the glen bottom with their entrenching tools.
The rest of that evening, from about 7pm onwards, I was occupied with Ivan Yates in getting our mortars, ammunition and anti-tank guns over the river – thirty vehicles and half a dozen 6 pounders towed by jeeps. Eventually, the bridge subsided in to the river while we were doing this, which was hardly surprising after the 16th/5th had travelled that way with forty or more tanks. Thereafter, everything had to be manhandled and this was necessary, too, beyond the river as the tracks had vanished into mire. Finally, we reached the battalion again, more or less complete, just as it was getting dark. Ion produced some rum and then took me on with him to Brigade HQ for briefing for tomorrow.
Our brigadier was residing happily in a comfortable cellar which had been vacated by the late tenants a few hours previously. Before his arrival, it had been occupied by the local Hun commander. Pat handed me over one rather battered looking member of the opposition that he has found somewhere and, after a few minutes chat, I walked back with Ion to his own HQ, which was in another German dugout in a nearby bank.
I stayed with Ion for an hour or so talking about the battalion and everything under the sun, in addition to the task ahead of us. There seemed rather a lot at stake just then. At the end, Ion made several pleasant remarks apropos of nothing and, finally, he said, ‘John, you old devil, it is high time we went.’ So I said goodnight to my CO and wished him luck – certainly the strangest goodnight ever with that infernal racket going on from one end of the valley to the other. As I left, there were flickering lights, flashes and streams of tracer as far as the eye could see and noise like nothing on earth.
Going back with my rather dizzy prisoner, I handed him my rum flask, which the wretch promptly emptied. I must say he certainly appeared greatly improved afterwards and became quite talkative. I drove back in my jeep with him and, according to my recollection, handed him over to Ivan when I reached B Echelon. I cannot remember what happened to him after that, though Ivan was apt to take any intelligent looking prisoner on to the strength when it suited him – and did so, if they were MT fitters, as a matter of course.
The next task was getting B Echelon, that is the battalion’s heavy vehicles, forward and supplies up for tomorrow’s requirements. This was achieved without difficulty, as the Germans, by then, were no longer interested in the eastern bank of the Rapido. By early morning, our machines were all tucked safely away in the trees by the river bank.
In the meantime, Bala Bredin was just about to unleash his Inniskillings in the first phase of the Irish Brigade’s assault. The main defensive zone of the Gustav Line lay there thick and in depth slap across our front with so far only its forward posts wrenched out of the system.
The Inniskillings, the 27th Foot, being the senior Irish regiment, led the ball in most operations as of right. Prince Charles Edward may have lost Culloden through disregard of such protocol, but Pat never made such errors with the Irish Brigade. In consequence, the Skins were exceptionally experienced in coping with the shambles commonly found at the start of most of our battles.
The 14th of May 1944 in the Gustav Line was no exception.
Bala mentioned that he had taken the Skins over the water without undue trouble and had linked up with their tanks just as we had done. But they were only a few hundred yards from the river – and the locality was still in hot dispute with the opposition. Bala met the bridgehead commander on the river bank and naturally enquired where his forward posts might be. The gallant brigadier, the commander of the remains of the 10th Brigade, evidently remarked that he would be interested to know that himself and, waving a hand airily in the direction of the firing said, ‘ Your guess is as good as mine, old boy.’
Gustav Line, 15 May 1944
The situation at first light on Monday 15 May was still a tense one and, at our end of this vast battle, the enemy seemed for a while to be well on the way to winning it. However, one factor stood out amidst the chaos – that beyond doubt, the Irish Brigade was now over the water and so were the 16th/5th Lancers. Other factors in the Cassino sector were secondary to this one, and as we were leading 78 Division at this time, the point of decision, the fate of the battle here could well be determined by our conduct.
Elsewhere, the Polish attack on Monte Cassino had failed with heavy loss, and that evil pinnacle still frowned down upon us, though now from a different direction. Our guns were still managing to keep it partly under smoke, but total denial of observation over the valley was impossible. The beastly Mont was now looking straight up our tail – standing up like a Highland crag with the local mist swirling round it.
But whatever the enemy might see from their mountain tops, at the deck level in the valley we, like Cardigan at Balaclava, could see virtually nothing. Reliance on air photos had its shortcomings, and with their deceptive tendency to indicate all ground as flat, it is hardly surprising that the landscape was quite different to what we had deduced from them. There was no substitute for map reading. The countryside was quite closed in, with forward visibility usually only a few hundred yards at best, and often nothing at all owing to the trees. The terrain, in fact, was a vast arboretum, solid with fruit trees and other shrubs set in a maze of small hillocks and dips with boggy bottoms to them. The cover in this respect was quite good, but in fact it was ideal defensive country for the enemy – though the drifting smoke and the mist patches soon made aimed fire impossible to both sides.
Another tributary of the Rapido, the Piopetto, unfortunately had not been identified as a major obstacle. This stream ran in diagonally across our front from the west, and joined the main river way over on our right. The importance of it was not appreciated until the 16th/5th tanks got bogged in it, and further bridging operations became necessary just at the wrong moment.
Several indifferent roads traversed across the valley, and one of them ran along it parallel to Highway Six and massifs, which flanked it. This was the direction in which our attack was pointed – straight through towards Aquino airfield, until the moment came to strike sideways and sever the enemy life line to Cassino. Roads, junctions, cross tracks and anything in the nature of a defile were one and all heavily mined by our thorough opponents, either with anti-mines or AP canisters strung together – or both. The enemy had also saturated the draws and valley bottoms with these infernal devices, and anywhere else that their nearby posts could not see to shoot in to.
In planning the Inniskilling attack, Bala had rejected a night assault owing to the likelihood of slaughtering the luckless survivors of the 4th Division, who were scattered about in his path, but the principal factor was that of the Piopetto, which looked like denying him his support weapons as well as the tanks until our sappers could bridge it. However, he had found an OP with some forward vision over the little river, and gave out his orders in the last light with a view to a dawn attack the next morning.
Having accepted this as the best that could be done, Pat then found himself peremptorily ordered to launch the attack immediately, and so the Inniskillings were committed to battle at midnight regardless of the problems just mentioned.
To begin with, Bala was separated from his tanks by that wretched stream, but as he had been ordered to carry his objective – the Cassino to Pignatoro road, which crossed the front a half mile on – by daybreak, the devoted man set off with the Skins unaided.
The moon rose at 0130 hours and the Inniskillings were in motion by 0300. By this time, the enemy artillery had quietened considerably and the Skins raced over the first features before the garrison knew what was happening. Before first light, however, they ran in to solid opposition with heavy machine gun fire coming in to them from all directions.
At dawn, they found themselves in standing corn, covered by a thick blanket of fog, with German tanks, equally blind, milling about all round them. Bala ordered a halt at that stage until he could get his own tanks up and his squadron commander joined him on foot while the divisional sappers were hastily bridging the Piopetto. By 0800hrs, they had miraculously done this, and the 16th/5th at last got their tanks up through the murk – led on in one instance by Bala’s batman, Fusilier Mitchell. They then joined up with the forward companies and went surging ahead, cutting down all opposition in their path for a while.
The enemy resistance naturally intensified as the morning progressed and, by midday, the Skins could do no more. As the attack ended, every German gun in the vicinity opened up on them, the intensity of the reaction showing immediately that the 27th Foot had touched the heart of the matter, as they had often done before. Their situation was critical. Half of their 16th/5th tanks had been destroyed, they were stuck in a minefield ringed by anti-tank guns, and had lost upwards of seventy of their men, mainly from their two forward companies. But there were enemy dead everywhere, and they had captured a number of guns and sixty prisoners. They had also taken their objectives.
The Inniskilling attack, at this stage, was a deep finger thrust and was, therefore, in dire peril until it could be deepened and broadened further. In the meantime, the enemy, from front and both flanks, concentrated their harassing fire upon it, recognising the threat and knowing the thrust was mortal unless they could stop it. According to German accounts, their 10th Army HQ now threw the whole of its reserves into the battle, and the 90th Panzergrenadier Division was sent in to back stop their sagging line in front of us.
It was now our turn.
After getting the rest of our vehicles over the river, I went up to our support company and remained with our mortars and the anti-tank guns, who were closed up and parked a short distance from Brigade HQ – and here we stayed as the minutes ticked by, waiting. In the meantime, the enemy defensive shelling coming down on our front reached an intensity exceeded by nothing in my previous experience and I knew that our companies were having a very rough time. They were due to go in to the attack with the Lancashire Fusiliers of 11 Brigade coming up beside us later that night to widen and extend the breach. This was the second phase of the programme and, unless swiftly carried through, the Inniskillings had little chance of holding, or even surviving.
Unfortunately, as the crisis approached, the enemy shot all too true and, while we were waiting there, they brought all to cessation on the start line in those last tense minutes.
Ion Goff was down, mortally wounded, and a few minutes later the CO of the 16th/5th, Colonel John Loveday, followed him. By the time I reached the Tac HQ shortly afterwards, the battalion had already suffered heavy casualties in the fire storm, including Geoffrey Phillips, Ken Lovatt the signals officer and most of the signallers, who were with him.
Jerry Cole, of course, sent me a message immediately and I went back with his orderly – with a brief prayer for Divine protection which was certainly now to be needed. I stuck my head in to Brigade HQ on the way and the only response was a cheerful wave and a grin from Jimmy, who knew that explanations were pointless and was appalled by nothing anyway. He said to hold everything and call up Pat as soon as things were in hand again.
Passing the RAP, I looked in on the carnage momentarily, and here found poor Geoffrey Phillips, Geoffrey whispered a brief account of what had happened and, on my part, I also breathed a few words to our good doctor. Rhys (Lieutenant Gwilym Evans MC RAMC) and his assistants needed their reserve powers just then, with the place crammed with shattered riflemen and more were still coming in. He was shipping some of the desperate cases out on our carriers – strapped across the tops of the machines on their stretchers. The RAP, itself, was operating in the base of a once substantial building, now wrecked like all the others. Fortunately, it was virtually hidden from the front, owing to the banks and folds around it.
Reaching the Tac HQ on the ridge in front of me, thank God I found Bala and Paul Lunn Rockliffe, our battery commander, there to greet me. Bala had already been in touch with the brigadier. They were waiting for me with Jerry and, true to form, Bala was filling the momentary vacuum, knowing his presence was needed.
His arrival was not accidental. Fully aware of his own straits with the Skins, he had sensed trouble behind as well as all around him, and he knew he must personally brief Ion Goff. Bala had crawled most of the way back down a providential ditch – with machine gun bullets whipping across the top of it for most of the way. ‘Otherwise, it would have been like deer stalking,’ he commented. Finally he reached the Rifles’ Tac HQ. The scene had changed since I left it. Their O Group, what remained of it, were scattered in the nearby ditches and the ground was littered with their signallers and others. Every set was smashed save Paul’s and he, of course, was carried on normally with his guns. Otherwise, matters were at a dead stop. I got through to brigade on the gunner rear link, and Rollo (Lieut-Col RS Baker DSO, CO 17 Field Regiment RA) answered.
Bala then gave me his picture of the Skins’ situation, what he knew about the enemy around us – which was a great deal – and what he thought was now required of us. In consequence, I was fully informed by the time Pat arrived with his instructions and I undertook to lay on the assault at 730pm. Our orders were to strike parallel to the Inniskillings’ attack, diverging slightly from it and thrusting nearly a mile beyond them.
Pat was as lucid and helpful as usual in spite of the incessant screams of shells ripping over our heads in both directions. He knew that both his forward battalions were in trouble but he in no way pressed me beyond pointing out our exposed position and the danger of delay. This, of course, I realised – that the enemy had to be hit again while reeling, otherwise it was only a matter of hours before his counter thrust slammed in to us. Pat, I think, was more concerned to know how the Rifles were reacting to their troubles – and put bluntly, whether they could rise above them – and fight back. Well, that was my job to deal with – and mine alone. Neither of us need have worried.
The immediate problem was that of reconnaissance, and it had to be skimped owing to the lack of time remaining. More important was the need to establish personal contact with every sub unit of the battalion in their posts. Had it been the Faughs, one could have taken things for granted but, at that stage, I simply did not know how the Rifles were coping or even if they could cope at all in view of what had happened. These were simply my thoughts, whether justified or not, and mutual reassurance was therefore essential. Troubles like this on the start line had been known to end in rout – and no regiment in the land was immune to it.
The enemy shelling was very heavy and they were plastering our company positions one after the other with mortars as well – but there were times in life when one is conscious of immunity. Our riflemen had, at least, dug themselves in effectively.
After my brief reconnaissance, Jerry called the O Group in – in ones and twos at a time. Fortunately, they all reached the Tac HQ safely, crawling up the ditches like Bala had done, and their instructions were quite brief though mostly given individually. Paul, however, remained throughout. There was little problem in dealing with the essentials. The objective given to us by Pat was a defended hamlet, Sinagoga, on the Colle Monache ridge, the centre point of a string of fortifications. These lay about a mile ahead of us though invisible from our positions – and how we achieved their capture was our affair, as our dear brigadier never failed to point out.
I assigned stolid old Desmond Wood, with H Company, to the centre line, Mervyn and E on the left, and Peter Grannell with G on his other side – with Colin Gibbs clearing up behind us with F Company. Peter had succeeded Geoffrey – in no way abashed by the responsibility now thrust upon us. With us, and strung out in a comforting line behind my HQ, were the dozen tanks of A Squadron of 16th/5th and beside me, I had their commander Angus Dubs who, like Peter, and myself for that matter, had suddenly found himself in the saddle – standing in for the fallen. Between us, we figured that the best way of handling the problem was to send our riflemen in behind the barrage with the tanks motoring behind them waiting for the opposition to disclose itself. After that, the lancers could be relied upon to do all that was necessary.
I was not so worried about getting into the place as I was about holding it when we got there. In consequence, the latter part of my orders was devoted to the tasks of our battalion mortar platoon, the machine guns and our 6 pounder anti-tank guns. We also seemed to have half the Kensingtons in tow, with Harvey Shillidy (Captain HS Shillidy, Princess Louise’s Kensington Regiment) and a mixture of 4.2” mortars and Vickers. Colin Gunner was lurking about somewhere with the latter and, as I soon found out, was liable to turn up in the most unexpected places, usually those which other people preferred to avoid.
Paul Lunn Rockliffe, now beside me, was our battery commander of the 17th Field Regiment. This artillery regiment was permanently assigned to the Irish Brigade and regarded itself as a part of it. Each of its three batteries normally operated with the same battalion and so Paul had an unusual view of his duties with the Irish Rifles. At the end of our orders, he insisted on coming around all the rifle companies with me and never was that companionship more welcome.
Thereafter, Paul was my right arm and this relationship existed similarly in the other two regiments with Paul’s brother battery commanders.
With our immediate task, Paul had to ensure the satisfactory coordination of the fire plan and, moreover, control it as the operation unfolded. He had to stay at my side and call his guns, and all others available, onto whatever targets we found necessary to flatten in the course of the battle. For this purpose, we had the marvellous device of gridded air photos, with indexed and numbered targets already registered. From the artillery point of view, one could fight the battle straight off the air photos.
At 630pm, Jimmy came on the air, asked to hold everything, and said Pat wanted to consult. Jerry promptly radioed suspension to all concerned and when I arrived at Brigade HQ shortly afterwards, I was both surprised and pleased to find the divisional commander there. The general gave me the warmest greeting with a number of nice remarks. Then he and Pat said that our attack was to be deferred until first light. General Keightley mentioned that this was no fault of the Irish Brigade and, although the need was great to act now, there was a greater need to get the Lancashire Fusiliers up beside us and broaden the front of assault. This could not be done in the time available before nightfall.
We then went into details of the fire plan.
I knew John Mackenzie (Lieut-Col JA Mackenzie DSO MC) the CO of the 2nd Lancashire Fusiliers – we were in adjoining studies at Sandhurst together. I knew, too, that there would be no trouble in that quarter, whatever the outcome of tomorrow might be.
Paul assigned me a tank, ‘You’ve got to get used to the idea.’ He said. ‘You can’t command this kind of outfit without one’ – and certainly, as an armoured mobile command post, a Sherman with its radio equipment was without equal. One could talk to the companies, the squadron and the guns, and not least the brigade commander, virtually simultaneously. They could also talk to you. And all concerned heard everything – including the enemy. Besides, that smooth 75mm gun, and the besa beside it were comforting in their own right.
Sergeant Edgell of the 16th/5th reported to me with his chariot at nightfall.
From darkness onwards, enemy defensive fire began to wane and became spasmodic.
Desmond and Colin Gibbs came in to ask some questions during the late evening and, at one stage. Corporal Telfer appeared, fussing anxiously about feeding us. What he was doing in the front line I cannot think, but I am afraid on this occasion, we were hardly responsive. Rum was adequate for all our requirements just then and I think my companions, Paul and Jerry Cole, found it a satisfactory diet too, as we discussed what had to be done when the sun rose.
Preliminary action, at least, was not required. Fortunately, our forward companies were already in position, dug in on the start line, and all they had to do was to get up from their posts when the time came and go forward behind the barrage.
Sometime after midnight, we lay up in the command post, formerly the embedded position of a German anti-tank gun and slept for an hour or in spite of the racket going on around us. Strangely enough, I recall the slight sounds and chats from our signallers beside me rather than the pandemonium going on outside the dugout. Zero hour was finally fixed for 0900 to allow time for the Lancashire Fusiliers to prepare their part in the operation. They had only come in to the sector at nightfall and had seen nothing of the ground so far. They, also, had to reconnoitre and plan.
Gustav Line (Colle Monache), 16 May 1944
“At first light, I called the company commanders in again and we ran over the final details and timings.
Slap in front there, a quarter mile distant, the Pignatoro road stretched away across us. Beyond it, the ground was thick with mines and covered in depth by a ring of 88s. So I sent the pioneers out under their admirable officer, The ‘Guvnor’ (Warrant Officer, PSM, W Fraser), in the half light of dawn, to disinfest where possible. Thereafter, it was his task to follow down the centre line with H Company and ensure that there were gaps for the tanks – and see them safely through, should it be necessary. Fortunately, the German anti-tank minefields were easily visible at the time, with most of the mines on the surface.
As the last livid seconds ticked by, true to form, the whole of the divisional artillery’s seventy two guns opened up virtually simultaneously – so perfectly timed that the reports of individual guns were lost in the avalanche of projectiles screaming over our positions. Seconds later, the medium batteries further behind us joined in and the landscape ahead just vanished under pitch black thunder cloud, pierced by the dancing orange lightning of the shell bursts.
In a minute or two, the whole scene in front of us and the blue sky over it were blotted out in smoke and flame and dust. Thereafter for a while, no speech was possible in the open – but thank God for the headphones and Pat’s quiet voice coming through.
Seemingly nothing and no one could live in that holocaust but I knew very well that they could. I knew too the resilience of our adversaries tucked away behind their concrete. They would be manning their guns within seconds of the barrage ceasing, those who still lived, as they had shown time and time again in defence of this sector and never more so than in their epic defence of Cassino itself.
It would not do to hang back and I warned all three of the companies to close up on the barrage regardless of what the cost might be.
I was immensely relieved to see H Company and some of E got to their feet and move steadily forward. The rest were beyond my vision. That sight was decisive. Once started, I knew now that all would be well. Pat knew that too, and said so when I reported moments later.
The 16th/5th Lancers did not move until our men reached the first rise several hundred yards ahead. Then, the tanks motored slowly forward to cover them on to the next lot of hummocks. This was the signal for German reaction and the enemy replied with massive concentrations pitched well inside the line of our barrage. It was mostly blind firing on their part, but effective nonetheless, and time after time there were the vicious orange flashes of their 5.9s bursting amongst H Company. However, during this critical period, a lot of the German artillery was shooting high and much of their fire was coming down round the tanks, which were relatively immune save for direct hits. Unfortunately, F got a good many of the overs. As the reserve company at that time, Colin’s men were well in the rear of the others.
The German mortars, including their beastly six barrelled variety, the Nelebwerfer, joined in next, though I never consciously noticed them in the smoke and dust from our own shell explosions. Our barrage was moving forward at about a hundred yards a minute, according to my recollections, but it paused for longer periods on the known German posts. None the less, a number of them were in action immediately our guns lifted and H suffered severely, both from their spandaus and from the shelling. In front of us, there were wrecked buildings scattered across the whole of the battle zone and, as a centrepiece to it, were the loose conglomeration of houses, which formed the hamlet of Sinagoga. All of them were fortified and tracer was streaking across in all directions like jets of fire outlined against the black backdrop of the barrage.
The initial ordeal of the forward companies was brief enough as they raced over the battlefield. To begin with, our opponents in open trenches were easily collared as our men were in to them while they were taking cover. However, the buildings were a different matter and, whenever we saw our men held up, the supporting 16th/5th tanks worked up to them and literally pulverised the opposition by direct fire at very close range.
I must say that the tanks’ 75 was a marvellous gun and a single shell from it was sufficient to bring down a large part of the front wall of a house. Sergeant Edgell had got through half of his ammunition by the time we were in to Sinagoga – doing just this. Also the tactical coordination of the tank troops was very impressive with one of their number hull down and shooting as the others crept forward in the smoke. In a number of instances, the enemy were trapped in their basements and cellars with the tanks on top of them before they knew what was happening. In other cases, I noticed the garrison ran for it after a few direct hits – those of them who were still in a position to do so. Some may have got out unseen but our men were too close on to them in most cases and there they had the first glimpse of triumph – the sight of a flying enemy and knew then, and forever, who had the mastery.
While this stage lasted, I think a great many of our opponents were shot down under the fire of the tanks’ besas. The Lancers were often waiting for them and were on to them in a flash when they ran for it in small parties or gruppes. Sometimes, there was only one or two – racing into the corn or the nearby buildings with our tracer hosing after them.
Unfortunately, the enemy had inflicted heavy damage before the rout started.
Our riflemen in the forward platoons had gone down, one after the other, as H Company closed. Both their commanders, Mike Clark (Lieutenant MOW Clark MC) and Geoffrey Searles (Lieutenant Geoff Searles, who was an American commissioned into the British Army) were among them. Mike lay there dead and Geoffrey gravely wounded in those last few yards. Before H broke in to their village, they had lost over half of their number, including all their company subalterns and most of their NCOs. Desmond, however, remained though his signaller died on top of him as both dived for cover. Desmond Woods concluded his attack on the village supported by a single sergeant and a few remaining corporals.
E Company’s experience was little better. Both of Mervyn’s subalterns were hit at the beginning of the attack and a dozen others of his men went down as it ended. Among them were Sergeant Mayo and Corporal O’Reilly who died in the assault – both distinguished veterans and both with the Military Medal.
The German anti-tank defence was quite ineffective. We forgot all about their mines and never even noticed them and their guns in the zone of attack were either caught unmanned or with their crews dead or injured under the barrage. I do not think they fired a shot until the last phase of the battle when they showed what might have happened all too conclusively.
When we got up to Sinagoga, the intact garrison on our open left flank, across the Piopetto to the south, made themselves a progressively greater nuisance and we came under heavy and persistent machine gun fire from them. As the barrage tailed off, with our men fighting in the objective, Paul turned the 17th Field on to one target after another on this side, but he only achieved a temporary suppression. As soon as one lot went silent, others opened up. Finally, several German tanks joined in and we had to send one of the Lancers’ tank troops over to deal with them. The rest of the 16th/5th were used to carve our way in to Sinagoga and here we lost several of our machines in rapid succession.
The Germans had some armoured self-propelled guns tucked away behind the buildings at the back of the village and the first indication of their presence was a series of colossal explosions as they opened up with their 88s. The scene in front of us changed instantly from smoke and dust to searing sheets of flame as one tank after another took the full impact of German HE fired in to them at short pistol shot. They had clobbered all the leading tanks within moments of our getting in to the place.
One of Desmond’s NCOs, Corporal Barnes (Corporal JA Barnes) took his handful of men charging through the village, perhaps unconscious of the nature of his opponents, but just at that moment unsupported. The situation was chaotic anyway with running Germans dodging everywhere and both sides firing like mad with small arms. Barnes and most of his section were shot down before he reached the SP leaving behind him a legend of desperate bravery for the Irish Rifles.
But as more of our men and two or three of our tanks broke in, the garrison began throwing in the towel. By then, a dense pall of oil smoke hung low over Sinagoga and part of village was burning.
As I came up myself, a number of German riflemen came charging through the thickets beside me. Sitting in the turret top, I drew on the nearest with my pistol and, at that moment, his rifle went sailing out of his hands, hit by I know not what. The poor man promptly collapsed on to the ground quite unhurt, but with his last reserves of courage or energy clearly expended. Fortunately, the rest of his friends did likewise, showing again the effect of the herd instinct when men, under duress, are leaderless.
Here, I met a much battered Desmond with the scanty remains of his company. A bare dozen of them were visible – smothered in brick dust and their eyes the only bright thing about them. They were barely indistinguishable from their adversaries who had subsided among them, weapons tossed anywhere. As the minutes ticked by, the firing died away around us and we knew we had discharged the task that Pat had given us.
No one would ever doubt again what our riflemen could do. They had been fighting for over four hours.
I complimented Desmond and, while we were talking, we both of us realised that resistance in the village had ceased. Until then, I had said nothing to Pat since the outset – but Paul had done so continuously to Rollo Baker, his own CO, and Rollo was at Pat’s side throughout. Between the two of them, they could follow the battle without much comment from myself. When I finally got on the air to my brigadier from Sinagoga and told him where we were, I only had his usual laugh – dry cackle really – and he said he didn’t doubt it, but that my next task was to stay there and he warned me that our presence would be swiftly disputed.
I knew, by experience, that any thrust in to the German guts like this one would produce massive reaction but Pat, in fact, had already taken forestalling action. He and Rollo soon had coordinated harassing fire coming down way out across our front on the approaches but the first counter attack came in from our open left, along the Piopetto. It was very quick in getting under way and was driving in well before our counter measures were properly organised.
Our own men were still engaged in ferreting out German survivors under a hail of badly aimed MG fire from the Piopetto and elsewhere. In the thick smoke and dust, I don’t think our new assailants could see much but they had no hesitation in plastering Sinagoga, oblivious of their own men still in the place. On our part, we could hardly breathe or see in that opaque fog of dissolving brick dust.
There were badly injured and dying men from both sides scattered helplessly round the village. A number were burned beyond all hope – tank crews, both lancers and Germans and two of the Vickers teams from the Kensingtons, shattered by direct hits. Enemy medical help arrived unsought and unasked as Rhys, our MO, and his German opposite number toiled together in the carnage. And their stretcher bearers appeared like magic among our own parties, instructed by no one but equally devoted. Later, when it was possible to get anyone out, the German doctor saw to the carrying parties, snapping out strings of orders impartially to both sides in both languages. That help, too, was willingly given by our late antagonists – if it could be said to be willing, with their NCOs screaming abuse at their men and rushing them off at the double.
Ken Daly brought his mortar detachments careering in behind the tanks. Carrier borne, they were the first necessity, providing mobile close range fire power with an intensity only governed by their gun numbers’ ability to fling the bombs down the barrel. Long together under Ken and his sergeant, Ogilvie, their habits were a way of life and they would have rapid, accurate and destructive fire on its way in minutes from getting their base plates down. By 2pm, they were engaging the intruders.
Then Colin Gunner’s remaining Vickers’ teams joined in, with his and our own machine guns working together under Charles Bird, the Rifles’ MG platoon commander. Most of the weapons had to be sited in buildings, firing through blown up windows and shell holes, as the corn hid all at ground level. One of Colin’s weapons had already been ground to pulp under a tank and two others destroyed by shell fire together with their crews.
For perhaps an hour, the battle continued across the Piopetto. Then E Company became involved as the jagers crept up through the corn and our riflemen became sniping targets whenever they showed themselves. Finally, the four tanks of the 16th/5th troop joined in and the situation became very confused with both sides mixed up together in the standing corn.
At one stage, Mervyn found it necessary to hammer on one of the tank turrets with a rifle butt before he could interest its preoccupied commander in E Company problems. The real trouble just then was the corn itself. At its full height, nobody could see anything either from a tank or anywhere else and Paul finally confessed that he could do no more with his guns without hitting both sides.
Our assailants came over the river in considerable strength, with a number of tanks to back them but their efforts were not coordinated and their counter attack gradually petered out. Their infantry could have crawled up to us with impunity, had they chosen to, but by then they had had enough. Most of them lay up in the corn, invisible alike to us and to their own feldwebels and beyond the reach of either. The 16th/5th troop did well and from hull down positions, they engaged one target after another as they appeared over the rises. That pleasant waving corn was full of burning wrecks afterwards and the black smoke here too drifted slowly across our vision, obscuring all things beyond it.
Elsewhere, there was a great deal of noise from the Lancashire Fusiliers’ onslaught away on our right.
John Mackenzie’s men were supposed to have gone in parallel with own attack, but I don’t think it happened and the two operations tended to separate. However, we soon became aware of their presence and, whatever troubles there may have been elsewhere, there was nothing for us to worry about in this, the northern flank.
Due to some quirk of fate, G Company, who was on that side, had escaped most of the enemy defensive barrage that had wrought such havoc with the other companies. In consequence, up to that point, they were relatively unscathed. However, in the closing phases, they began to get cut up by two or three German tanks, which had escaped notice in the long gap between ourselves and the Fusiliers. Again, the Lancers came to the rescue with their No 2 Troop, who spotted one of the German machines in the lee of a burning building and carefully stalked it from behind another one. There were a number of flat reports, one after another, from their 75s, followed by the brazen clang of armour piercing shot striking. Then, the dying German tank commander was adding his funeral pyre to the blazing building alongside. The other machines crept out under cover of the smoke and were away, when our rifleman reached the place.
Here and elsewhere in this battle, the German armour were not in their best form and, save in Sinagoga, they rarely fought to a conclusion. However, perhaps no one would have done so after subjection to the kind of barrage that they had suffered that morning.
With the last of the support weapons mounted and a ring of anti-tank guns round the village. H and F Companies resumed the battle and pushed on a further half mile in to the evening twilight. They were covered by Angus and some of the tanks as they did so and the enemy dissolved in front of them. These, the 90th Panzergrenadiers, had only just arrived in the sector, but here in front of us only broken and fragmented sub units remained – broken moreover in spirit, if only momentarily.
Neither company again suffered their experiences of the morning and the enemy went silent or ran for it as soon as our guns opened on them.
Sinagoga was the heart of the defence in our sector, or so it seemed. Finally, all the long ridge of Colle Monache was in our hands, so we reined in the tanks, put out our pickets and motored slowly back to the village.
Colin Gibbs stayed out there with F Company. Though not in the limelight in this action, his company had just as rough a time as the others had done. His men had suffered heavily from shell fire and they had pulled in a good many prisoners in the wake of the assault as well as being actively engaged in its bloody conclusion.
As the dusk deepened, the battlefield itself quietened, though raging fires erupted wherever the eye could see. There was a scent of victory in the dewy evening air, although a faint one. We had paid dearly enough for it, if cost signifies when great matters are decided. We had lost over a hundred of our NCOs and riflemen, nine of our officers and twenty or more from the tank crews and supporting units. But we had sent back a hundred and twenty prisoners and the pioneers and others had the grim task of burying about a hundred of the enemy, with our own men, on the battlefield. Nine German tanks were also counted – pathetic smouldering wreckage, often enclosing the charred remains of the men who manned them.
Mayo (Sergeant EC Mayo MM) was buried where he fell by his own men of 8 Platoon. They put up a cross there with a tender message of affection scrawled on it for their sergeant.
As we came back in to the cover of our shattered village, I found Clanachan waiting for me in the darkness. He was sitting solemnly in my jeep and prominent in the back of it was a jorum of run, sent up by Rodney or our devoted quartermaster. Both of them had quick intuition for the essentials – and very necessary too as the black aftermath of battle descended on those who had survived it.
Telfer appeared out of the gloom later. ‘Are you ready for dinner, sir? The adjutant wondered…’
Whatever Jerry might have wondered, I don’t think we did justice to our mess corporal that night. Back behind the village, that excellent man had a snowy white table cloth set out, even if it was draped over a plank perched on a couple of ration boxes. Here, our supporters joined us one after another. Angus came in, having drawn back his squadron at nightfall and talked to his tank crews after afterwards. He staying drinking rum with us and Ivan arrived too on his way back from the companies. He had come up with the battalion’s jeeps as soon as he knew we were in to our objective. In consequence, every man in the forward positions had a hot meal that evening – those that wanted it, and most of them did. They were more case hardened that their temperamental officers. Angus and Paul and I talked on into the night, reflecting on the day’s events – and conscience jabbing at all of us. There was a tinge of reaction somewhere.
Jerry Cole joined us at intervals. For most of the night, he was glued to the radio, as brigade gathered in the news that they wanted and the BM spelled out our new instructions.
The Faughs were cast in the star part for tomorrow.
Piumarola, 16 May 1944
The 78 Divisional plan for Wednesday 17th was to carry through the momentum of our attack, reaching out to Aquino, which was hard up to and part of the next fortified zone of defence – the Hitler Line. Aquino was over four miles ahead, but in between lay the substantial and heavily defended village of Piumarola with a string of outworks around it.
Elsewhere, on our immediate sector, there was something of a vacuum, as the area was lying between the two fortified lines, though it was now filled with the broken up remnants of yesterday’s fighting.
The Faughs now had the task of getting up to Piumarola, and could reasonably expect some rapid success. The German organisation on our immediate front appeared to be failing and, opposite our forward companies, there were signs of disintegration. However, the failure in spirit, which occurred here and there at the end of our attack, could no longer be counted on.
Colin Gibbs had sent a fighting patrol forward at nightfall and the other companies had standing pickets spread out at varying distances round at our front. Before the night was done, most of them found themselves pulling in lost jagers wandering about, a number of whom were retreating from other parts of the front including Cassino. Also during the quieter periods, when shelling was intermittent, the noise of German transport – and the dull murmur of distant tracked vehicles on the move – was incessant.
Coming back to us on the still night air, the faint reverberation of enemy activity would keep our sentries wakeful. And the periodic arrival of respectful German visitors, brought in by the companies for interview and refreshment, kept Frankie Lyness wakeful too. It was the IO’s job to deal with our prisoners.
The Irish Brigade had, at this stage, surged forward over three miles since the crossing of the Rapido and, for practical purposes the left, the southern, boundary of the advance was determined for us by the River Piopetto. On the other, the northern side, ran Highway Six, the road to Rome, flanked by its mountain buttress of Cairo and the rest – with its infamous citadel, the monastery, standing up like a beacon at the gateway.
South of the Piopetto, the enemy had been ignored save for repelling that counter attack last night and suppressing them with fire, whenever it was necessary afterwards. We were now far beyond them but, as they could prove a menace, Pat was given the Lothian and Border Horse as a flank guard on that side. This cavalry regiment, also equipped with Shermans, had the additional assignment of ranging far beyond Piumarola, up to the next line of defences, when they had seen the Irish Brigade safely in to the place. The Lothians, in fact, were expected to break in to the Hitler Line – if they got half a chance – before the garrison was ready for us.
Our task, the Rifles, was in the first place to provide the Faughs with a satisfactory jumping off point for their attack and then join in thereafter in exploitation of it when they had reached their objectives.
At midnight, James Dunnill came in to my command post. He began by patting me on the back and remarking, ‘I hear you like being a rifleman, John,’ and as I handed him some rum, he went on, ‘Anyway, they wouldn’t have gone for you like that if you didn’t.’ After a few more similar reflections, James got down to the Faughs’ affairs and I told him and his O Group what I knew, including the lessons learned from our own battle.
During the night, James moved his men up to the immediate rear of our forward positions and, here, his company commanders could talk to ours. The night was relatively quiet – reaction and exhaustion forcing a pause on both protagonists.
There was smoke drifting everywhere over the battlefield but the night was a bright one under the vivid lights of the stars. Later the moon came up, bathing the smouldering landscape in its brilliance, until the settling smoke gradually turned in to fog and shrouded the destruction above us.
The Faughs’ attack began at 0700, heralded by the usual crash of the barrage. It had been interesting watching these experienced veterans moving up and I talked to Jimmy Clarke, and some of D Company, while they did so.
D Company was, as usual, leading the attack with C alongside. This time, it was our turn to sit and wait as we could not be called forward until the next phase – not unless the Faughs failed, which was unthinkable.
Experienced or not, the Germans swiftly showed what they could do, given a few hours’ breathing space to recover.
Stiffened up by paratroopers, they were fighting back viciously within minutes of the barrage coming down and their own counter barrage and mortar DFs followed with deadly accuracy on the start line.
Robert Gill, the 16th/5th squadron commander, mounted his tank by command post in those last few minutes. A quarter of an hour later, two of our stretcher bearers brought him in to the RAP apparently asleep – though he had died instantly from some invisible shell splinter or perhaps at the hands of a vigilant paratrooper. Lawrie Franklyn-Vaile, commanding C Company alongside Jimmy, followed him moments later. Nonetheless, the Faughs battled on as usual and their combination with the 16th/5th proved decisive, as ours had done.
After breaking through the initial crust of resistance, the enemy began to give way and, four hours later, the Faughs were in on their objectives on Massa Cerro. Three quarters of a mile beyond them lay the road to Rome and this, Highway Six, the Via Casalina itself, was the last route left to the enemy from Cassino. It was under Faugh mortar fire before the day was done.
By midday, matters had gone so well that Pat ordered the rest of us to come up on the left of the Faughs and, at 2pm, gave the Inniskillings the task of storming Piumarola.
Until then, the Skins and ourselves had a quiet enough morning as the enemy were concentrating all their hate on the Faughs but, at midday, when we were in motion ourselves, all this changed. From then on, the enemy were in a position to watch us closely and both regiments were subjected to continuous harassing fire.
The usefulness of Monte Cassino to the enemy, left far behind in our wake, had now largely lapsed and its occupants, like those on the Piopetto, were beginning to think about pulling out. But with those OPs lost to them, we were now in clear view of the German gun positions around Piedimonte and all the other hill positions which flanked it. They were now looking down on us just like the Russians had done on Cardigan’s men at Balaclava. And the enemy would not be easily shifted from them either – not so long as they held on this fortress, this second Cassino and pivot to their next string of defences. Perched up on its hump like the monastery and seemingly impregnable, it dominated all around it – like Rye’s splendid lookout over the flats of Sussex.
It was more than a bastion – it was the anchor itself of the eastern of Adolf’s Line, which by all accounts was more horrific than the now fragmented Gustav.
When Bala got his men on to the Massa Cerro beside the Faughs and had probed gently forward with his scouts, he linked up with some of our cavalry, who had just run in to heavy opposition. Here, a quarter of a mile from Piumarola, he found the Lothians waiting for him and, beyond them, some resolutely manned SP guns and other German armour – also waiting for him.
For the Skins, this was an encounter battle and, putting down a heavy concentration on the village, they sailed in with the 16th/5th, attacking the village itself and swinging round to the north of it. The attack went in at 545 pm as Bala says, ‘with an almost indecent rush’.
By 6pm, they were in on their objectives and, of all enterprises undertaken by the Irish Brigade, there was never a quicker one than this one. In an hour’s fierce fighting, the Inniskillings had carried the place and sent back a hundred prisoners, all from the 1st Para Division. They left behind thirty five of their own men in achieving this feat. Listed among them was Bala himself, hit in both legs though, as their commander conducted the battle thereafter tied to the bonnet of his jeep, he could hardly have been said to be left behind.
When the Inniskilling attack was going to his satisfaction, Pat got on the air to us, told us what Bala was doing, which I knew anyway through Jerry’s eavesdropping and then requested me to get the Rifles up in the bed beside the Skins.
Our task was to seize the river line on the open left of the village- and here we would again be meeting our ill-natured neighbours on the other bank of the wretched stream. If ignoring people is the height of insult, the German defence system to the west of the Piopetto must have been full of gravely upset Teutons by that time.
Our attack went in without any preliminary preparation and the battalion had simply continued its forward movement without pausing – more like an advance guard action than a staged assault. And we left our guns silent until the opposition declared itself.
As we got under way and came up to the Piumarola road, I met Bala coming back. He was still strapped on to his jeep and was quite exuberant, though his complexion did not bear looking at too closely. We exchanged greetings and talked for a few moments; then, as we went our separate ways, he called back, ‘…and watch out for their tanks.’
John Kerr would look after the Skins well enough betimes, and often enough too – until his chief was mended. And indeed, he had already done so as the Inniskilling attack reached its splendid conclusion. John was the Skins’ senior company commander and he left his niche in the tale of the Irish Brigade as well as in the hearts of those he served with. Eighteen months previously, John was a warrant officer and he owed his unusual rise to equally unusual personal qualities. These included the supreme one of an ability to cope with a crisis, however extreme and however violent. Flung into the saddle that wild afternoon, he saw the Inniskillings through several such. He never counted the cost and he had the art of winning battles.
A few hundred yards further back, John’s battered CO was seized by the Faughs’ stretcher bearers and rushed in to the expert care of their rugged medical sergeant, Bert Baker. Bert was one of the Faughs’ indestructible characters and most of the hierarchy of the Irish Brigade passed through his hands sooner or later, including several of his own doctors. His present master was Eric Rawlings (Captain E Rawlings RAMC) and the Faugh RAP was well worth calling on with those two present.
When the brigade was attacking, it was usual for the rear battalion to supply the medical base for the forward ones, so that the latter’s medical staff could provide mobile service further forward.
Bert said of his RAP that day, ‘Splendid place. Best RAP we ever had. Culvert under the Piumarola road, armour plated one end where a blown carrier had fallen over it.’
On our left, E and H Company went ahead rapidly and, in fact, hit thin air. An hour later, they were in on their objectives on the river bank and well beyond, unchallenged save for the shelling, which never slackened in intensity until dusk. By then, the enemy artillery was pulling back ahead of the Skins. Perched overhead as they were, the German OPs could see down and through the olive trees – and no movement escaped them. Only intensive smoke could have helped us and, to be effective here, our gunners would have had to have smoked out the whole of Monte Cairo.
G Company hit trouble immediately. Colliding with some of the 1st Paras at the southern end of the village, they were greeted by a storm of machine guns fire as one Spandau after another opened up, firing long bursts together. Peter’s men dived for cover as the earth went up in fountains round them and they lay up there for a space until their opponents paused for breath our sought new targets. They then began worming forward and we soon heard their brens in action.
For some minutes, the fire light intensified. Sparks flew in all directions across the evening sky and the nearby trees and buildings splintered under the hail of bullets slamming in to them. Then the din increased as several German tanks joined in; they were well hidden and firing from behind the houses, but after a while some of our own tanks started to close in and stalk them, working cautiously up the draws until they could see their targets.
At the end, Paul put down a series of concentrations from the whole of the 17th Field, adding smoke as the enemy fire began to slacken. There were a number of flat reports echoing back from the buildings as our tanks engaged – mostly hidden in the smoke – and their shots no doubt fleeting. But several times, there was the strident clang and scream of flying lumps of armour. Gradually, the brazen uproar died away, but the glow of burning vehicles remained and thin streaks of jet smoke drifted over the sky above them.
As the dusk descended, Peter’s riflemen got in to the place and the battlefield gradually quietened in to intermittent explosions and rifle shots – and, for a while, total silence followed. Later, we knew that this action, rearguard action really, had been a final effort with the Germans racing to get their guns out. From their point of view, it may have served their purpose, though the Skins’ swift action prevented the full benefit of the delay. Nonetheless, the enemy had fought the action according to the book – and economically too. There were just quite a couple of companies and a few tanks and it had required the whole effect of the Irish Brigade to overthrow them.
Perhaps, we had not done so well after. We had collared fifteen of the paras and killed a few more but we had lost twenty five of our men and most of these were from G Company. Among the prisoners were several jagers of the Hermann Goering Division whom we had last met in Africa. Their presence on the front was ominous.
During the night, the forward companies lay behind their weapons in fitful rest. In the small hours, there was a sharp flurry in E Company’s sector with a wild furore of Very lights, grenade explosions and scattered rifle shots. Mervyn’s men had apprehended a small German patrol milling about in their midst – or more probably a lost gruppe retreating through them accidentally. A few minutes later, they found themselves in possession of a couple of badly battered and disgruntled paratroopers. The rest of their friends had fled.
Significant to the day of the 17th May had been the rapid movements of the division and the manner of the Irish Brigade’s handling. All three regiments and the support units were in motion together for most of the day and they were also involved in violent action for much of it. As a CO of one of them, I was never conscious of the slightest pressure from our commander who, at all times, drawled his instructions to us in the bored and disinterested manner which he sometimes affected. But however Pat gave out his orders, laughter usually found its way into the procedure somewhere.
At one stage, the German commander was screaming over the radio for one of his detachments to retreat. There were some of his guns, I think, and the man couldn’t hear the order. Our people could though, and were happily receiving both of them. Eventually the oberst worked up into a frenzy of rage with his luckless subordinate and Pat observed mildly to the general, ‘…the least we can do is to signal his orders on for him.’
Pat said later. ‘Our wireless communication was excellent throughout…thanks to the signallers who manned the sets at Bttn HQs under pretty hair raising conditions. We all got pretty good on the wireless and learned to express ourselves briefly and to the point…what the German intercept services thought of our methods, I do not know, but the general told me we had badly misled our own monitoring staff whose job it was to listen in to forward nets – and pass back what was happening to Corps or Army. They could never make head or tail of what we were at…and were most indignant’.
A few days later, I learned that the enemy services were referring to the Irish Brigade’s regimental commanders and other chiefs by their Christian names.
The following day, Thursday the 18th, opened quietly. I now know that it was a day of transition when the enemy’s purposes centred solely on getting their men back. Scattered from one end of the front to the other, there were pockets of determined soldiers who had managed to stay put but were now outflanked. This was now the situation on both flanks of the Irish Brigade, though the German hill positions to the north were not exactly outflanked. The enemy were pivoting on them.
Up to this point, although the German defence system on the Rapido had been shattered, their forces were still largely intact. And they had inflicted heavy loss as well as suffering it. Until now too, the withdrawal after their lost battle had been an orderly one and swinging their line on Piedimonte, they could begin the whole process again one stage back.
There was one weak point – the reliance on the Gustav defenders for repeating their performance in the Hitler Line and I think we were too close on to them for that to be possible. They never had time to organise it and the events of the next few days showed up the misconception. There should have been adequate forces already posted to cover the general withdrawal in to these rear defences but maybe there were not enough troops to go round just then. Those two divisions held back at Civitavecchia might have made the whole of the difference.
At first light, I sent a patrol southwards from E Company over the river and, an hour later, we knew that the sector was empty. The enemy had got their guns out under the cover of their men at Piumarola and the Piopetto garrison had also vanished unscathed during the night. The Germans had not done badly. They had done better still on Monte Cassino.
In defence of the monastery, while we were fighting in Piumarola, the German 3rd and 4th Para Regiments had held the place against all comers and the Polish attack had been finally and irrevocably broken. General Anders now had nothing left. But after that final effort, the Paras were now isolated. As the Faughs swung sideways up to the Via Casilina, their lifeline rearguards were finally severed.
Then, and only then, the German 10th Army withdrew its Paras and they too slipped away in the night over the hills with none to gainsay them. We would meet them again.
At dawn on the 18th, the gallant survivors of the Polish Corps launched a further assault on the monastery hill – and not a shot was fired to deter them. The Polish flag was hoisted over the ruins. A few desperately wounded paratroopers remained there, abandoned by their own side in the certain knowledge of succour and the Polish flag flew above them. If this was victory, it was also chastening.
We remained in the vicinity of Piumarola for the rest of that day, the 18th and, during the morning, I sent out a further patrol westwards from our positions. But all that F Company could find was a rather scruffy jager, who had clearly got lost.
Not a shot was fired at us all morning and in this strange lull, hardly a gun opened up in the whole of the sector. Of course, both sides were now in the full surge of movement and both were desperate to reorganise for the next trial by battle. Our army was pulling its tail in for the next stage and bringing its entire artillery strength forward, whereas the Germans were frantically getting theirs dug into new positions behind them. There was something of a race as to who would be ready the first.
Pat Scott and John O’Rourke came to lunch with us, a pleasant relaxation under an olive tree with most of us perking up and becoming interested in food again. The mess corporal dispensed rum and lime to our guests with his usual elegance. The mess was well equipped with silver for such purposes. It never occurred to me to question its origin.
Pat said at the conclusion. ‘By the way, John, I have been considering the question of the command of the Rifles and, in accordance with my favourite policy, I have decided to do nothing. You are, therefore, stuck with the job.’ There were a few other remarks, which ended in a series of chuckles. These, I correctly interpreted as referring to my introspective habits as a Faugh and I told him that my views had changed recently.
On that Thursday afternoon of the 18th, I found time to write home and mentioned,
‘….and in any case, I am torn between two loyalties. These lads have gone well for me that I should be very sorry to leave them – on the other hand, the Faughs are the Faughs – or perhaps the thing is indivisible and it is just the Brigade that counts….and Pat is delighted with everything so far. We are relaxing a bit today and Clanachan has just arrived with my kit. We removed our socks for the first time for days. Mine nearly stuck to my feet….Our various supporters and co-operators are perfectly delightful. My chief gunner is one Paul Lunn Rockliffe, who is quite one of the nicest chaps I have come across. Others, I can’t mention but one gets to know, in a few days, friends for a life time under these circumstances…By the way, we had butter for breakfast today – best Danish…’ (which was usually only available to the Wehrmacht in 1944).
During the afternoon, Ivan brought all our B Echelon vehicles up to Monte Serra, just behind us, and the regiment was now concentrated again for the first time since the start of the battle. This, too, was the case with the rest of the brigade.
That evening, one of our subalterns arrived – John Barker – with fifty riflemen reinforcements, and very welcome, too, as we had lost over double that number in the last few days. John was a gangling young man with less to say than some of our Rifles’ officers but ready to listen. He was by no means abashed by his surroundings. He was all right and so were the men he brought with him.
I posted John to the pioneer platoon and his first assignment was working round the battalion area, with Harry Graydon, burying the German dead. The padre attended to the spiritual aspects while the Guv’nor and his minions did the rest. Harry and Dan Kelleher were full occupied just then with this part of the aftermath.
Bill Hood and John Hunter, two other Rifles’ subalterns, also joined us at this time. These three were powerful reinforcements and they all, in their way, left their mark in our little history. They were all alike in one respect – quiet and assertive, but each of them was made of granite. It is a pity there was only three of them.
This batch had a happier reception than most reinforcement drafts. It was gorgeous spring evening in exquisitely beautiful surroundings and the regiment, itself, was in stupendous heart in consequence of what it had just done. Also, it was quiet and peaceful, with the lovely evening disturbed only by the noise and chatter of our warriors.
I held my battalion orders at 430pm and at 630, Pat Scott called in his own O Group. This, in reality, I soon found to be a cocktail party as well as being an orders group. It was held in what Pat described as a subterranean palace – the late HQ of the opposing general – and it was certainly the finest and most comfortable underground fortification that I have ever seen. Magnificently furnished, it even included ventilation shafts.
In the course of the party, Pat told us what he wanted of us tomorrow. We had got to move forward again and cover the north side of 78 Division’s thrust in to the Hitler Line and this would take us on to the Via Casilina when we reached our positions. In the meantime, we were required to seize another defended village, Aceto, on the way there.
The weather turned during the night and the following morning began unpleasantly. The routes assigned to us were impassable, even with jeeps, and broken up previously by shell fire, they turned to thick mud under the torrential rain, which pelted down on us. The battalion was on the move at 0300 hours and we reached the vicinity of Aceto at 0730, over two hours late. In the meantime, the village had been evacuated by the enemy and the rain had turned in to thick morning mist with the landscape around us smelling like an aquarium and dripping like one too.
That thick mist came to our rescue as the enemy began progressively to register the new targets that we were providing.
Pat came on the air at the same time as they opened up on us, requesting me to push straight on over Highway Six and giving detailed advice as to what to do when we got there. He added a number of map references which included indexed numbers on the air photographs. Unfortunately, the opposition registered a direct hit on my Tac HQ while he was speaking. As a result, hit through neck and head, Paul collapsed across my map board, streaming blood over the air photos pinned to it – and over all else as well. Brick rubble and pulverised plaster showered down on us for a minute or two and the conversation with my brigadier was temporarily confused. Pat became quite vexed at my apparent lack of comprehension and, with untypical petulance, made some remark about what did I think our air photos were for anyway if I couldn’t see the ground. He knew about the fog, of course. I then explained their temporary un-serviceability and requested him to send me another gunner. My brigadier paused for a moment just then and, with his instant reactions, said, ‘I’m sending Rollo up to you. He knows you all and you can work it out together.’ And after a further pause, ‘It will do him good.’
That German battery had earned its keep from the Fuhrer, for a few minutes later, they got John Lockwood too, Paul’s number two and the only other FOO just then. It was an expensive morning for the 17th Field.
An hour later, we were astride the Via Casilina and, as we arrived, the air cleared like magic. I swung my glasses round and looked at Monte Cassino – too far distant to discern, but one flag, at least, was flying over the monastery. I had never seen a German one there.
I wrote out my comments at the time:
‘The mists cleared and the view, to say the least, of it was awe inspiring. Just in front of us was Piedimonte, perched up and being slammed by our heavies and burning fiercely. Hanging miles up over our heads was the monstrous mass of Monte Cairo. Talk about domination. Monte Cairo, of course, we knew from Castellone days when we were south east of it. Here we were due west and at the bottom of it.
The mountain, itself, is most impressive and has the same atmosphere of sinister foreboding as Longstop, only on a larger scale. To the south of us was the black mass of Monte Cassino and, perched on top of it, the monastery, looking white in comparison and very strange and silent. One got an inward satisfaction at seeing it thus and, looking at it from the north, after having sat so close to it on the other side for so many weary weeks. It was odd seeing it quiet, when in the past there was always a pall of smoke over it, dotted by the red black bursts of our shells.’