The night of the 22nd was relatively quiet with both sides licking their wounds. The only flare up was at midnight when one of Ronnie’s pickets was set upon by a German patrol in front of E Company. The reports of their rifle shots echoed back to us and we knew that something had happened, but the enemy disappeared in the shadows and no one seems to have been hurt.
F Company, five hundred yards up the road to Pescia, still held the tactical strong point of Casa Montemara and the enemy sat there round it, dug in both in the corn and the paddock, the ditches and the outbuildings – and, at least another company of them came in during the night. Something went badly wrong when they let us in there, but there was a burned out SP in the orchard with its crew lying dead around it. Others of the garrison could have bolted when that happened and the German commander may not have known of the mishap, nor that this door through his forward posts was open.
This day, the 23rd, was a day of stalemate as the 8th Army girded itself together for a fresh lunge forward and the 78th Division did likewise. In furtherance of the plan, the Irish Brigade was ordered to renew the attack with the first stage of capturing Pescia and Ranciano. The two townlets were a mile ahead of us, with a shallow depression lying between them and our present positions. Beyond them, the ground fell away, down to the river Pescia, a sluggish and shallow water course, and barely an obstacle even to tanks. It oozed its way eastwards a further half mile on, and emptied into Lake Trasimene away on our right.
I went up with Frankie in the morning to see Colin and study the ground from the Casa. Colin met us at the back of his demesne – we had crawled the last few hundred yards. It was deceptively quiet and the white fronted buildings beyond us glinted wickedly in the sunlight. We spent some time on the first floor of the house, searching the landscape with our glasses and well back from the windows – with our own snipers lying beside us. There was an occasional rifle shot but nothing else just then, and no signs of life showed in spite of the watchers all round us. F Company’s men were scattered about in the building – and brewing tea as usual. Colin produced some for us as we sat on the floor and discussed our problems.
But whether they were Colin’s problems or mine, I was not quite sure and I was much embarrassed.
Pat had given me the intention – that the Faughs would attack, at the dawn following, from the springboard, which we provided and, once well and truly launched, the Inniskillings and ourselves would come up behind them on either flank. But the Faughs would be the spearhead. In the meantime, we had to come to a heart searching decision with Colin Gibbs and it was hardly one I could press.
Colin was nearly a mile in front of the rest of the Irish Rifles, whose sector now looked like an isosceles triangle with F Company at the apex of it. Colin’s position, although isolated, was the key to the next operation and dominated all else round it.
Unfortunately, our adversaries realised this too, and the opposing oberst now had at least two companies in occupation of the same territory. Therefore, the opening barrage of 78’s divisional artillery had to start on a line through Casa Montemara or else the main attack could hardly begin.
I described the tactical problem to my rugged company commander and offered to withdraw F Company a quarter of a mile back to safety. Colin said, ‘Colonel, I would like to talk to my chaps,’ and went off to tell them what I had just said. I stayed there drinking tea with some of them while he did so. He did not take long. Then he said, ‘Sir, you must begin with the barrage on this place, but we would like to stay. It has good cellars and we will go in to them at zero.’ Colin, therefore, took the decision, which no senior officer would have ordered – not in a British army. But, undoubtedly, it was the right one.
He went on, ‘I’d rather know it was our guns than be out there in the open under their counter preparation.’
Thus, Colin resolved his choice of evils with no more hesitation than I have described and the choice, itself, rose from his initiative in seizing Montemara in the first place. And so it came about that an Irish Rifles’ company commander with a subaltern, a handful of NCOs and thirty odd riflemen, elected to stay in their posts when the whole of their division’s artillery put down their wrath upon them.
I went back thoughtfully to my command post wondering who I would see of F Company next morning. Then I called up my brigadier.
Pat came forward and joined us for lunch. It was not a quiet one as the nebelwerfers were sending over their beastly messages of hate every few minutes. On our part, our aircraft were busy with their rockets and other missiles as Harribombers and Thunderbolts went over in relays and building after building went up in the colossal spumes of their explosions.
James Dunnill came up during the afternoon. We went forward on to the ridge beside E Company and studied the panorama together. There, in front of us, the whole scene unfolded with all its gorgeous beauty – and menace. We studied it together but, as usual, there was not a sign of the enemy – only the solitary dots of a few stretcher parties on their errands of mercy. One had just to deduce where they were likely to be, and memorise the scene, for most of it would fade out under bombardment when the dawn came.
I told James that we would have our tanks and all the rest of our support weapons on the ridge at daybreak, to see them on their way. He came in for a drink with us on his way back and stayed for a while as his O group came in. With our main HQ now resident in Sanfatucchio, we had quite a lot to offer.
That afternoon, the enemy at Montemara made further efforts to eject their co-tenants in the Casa and a few of them actually got in to the main building after crawling up and tossing grenades in. F Company, however, fought it out as usual and eventually found themselves with two or three tattered and badly injured jagers and several dead ones. But they had lost as many of their own men – and numbered in the casualty list was Alan Parsons, their gunner, with a bullet through one leg and a lump of grenade through the other one that took part of his boot off. Alan remained at his post.
The night was disturbed, as it usually was with both sides expectant. Sometimes, one could sense the German tension. Shelling was incessant and the enemy worked steadily round our sector with their mortars.
At 0415, I went forward on to the Pucciarelli ridge with Frankie, parking the tank hull down, as I thought, in the half light. Then Douglas joined us there with several other tanks, including one or two that he had salvaged somehow. In the meantime, our companies sat tight in their positions and I sent messages of cheer to Colin – and said we were all thinking of him.
At 0530, the barrage came down with the crash and roar that carried one words away. That lovely morning and the bright landscape in front of us vanished together into the maelstrom as shell after shell erupted across the front and the black clouds of the explosions drifted across the battlefield. Then the medium regiments joined in – but not on Montemara. That, at least, I owed to Colin.
A quarter of a mile back on the ridge, our Vickers was firing in to the murk and the tanks sniped intermittently with their 75s until the smoke hid all beyond it.
The enemy reaction was slower than usual but, when it came, the intensity of the DFs was scarcely less than our own barrage. Most of it fell on the ridge – on us, that is – and as the Faughs were already concentrated beyond our positions, they lost hardly a man in these critical moments. Drawing the enemy fire was never an Irish Brigade practice, save accidentally. But this was the case just now, and it would be a useful topic when next in the Faughs’ mess.
The concentrations on our ridge were coming down like an avalanche and my tank shuddered under two direct hits, virtually simultaneously. There seemed to be rather a lot of blood about, mostly the WT operator’s. Then, a Canadian voice floated up from below, questioning the wisdom of our present location. We edged back cautiously and, for a space, stopped firing. We had to anyway. The Faughs, thorough as usual, had drowned the area in smoke and we could see nothing. However, some vigilant Teuton had taken his chance. Probably, he spotted the flashes of our 75s.
I noticed that Douglas had pulled back a few yards too.
Thereafter, we moved up and down on the nearside of our ridge, reappearing in different places, but these evasive measures were soon superseded by the progress of the battle.
B and C Companies led the Faugh attack and they had the same splendid support from the CAR that our boys had had. The Germans do not seem to have stood for long anywhere until Ranciano was reached and, up to that time, they relied largely on a string of SPs scattered across the front, backed by a number of tanks in support. Only the high ground was held in strength.
Dickie Richards (Major GL Richards MC MM, The Royal Irish Fusiliers), with B Company, had come up to Ranciano in the late morning though he had not actually got in to the place. There had been several contests with German tanks and two or three of them were left burning on the battlefield afterwards, which was some small comfort to our Canadian friends. Until then, most of those oil fires were from our own machines.
In the meantime, F Company had survived the holocaust at Montemara and Colin was on the air, soon after the barrage lifted. Colin Gibbs was unknown to express emotion but, nonetheless, a tinge of something was discernible as he drawled back to me over the radio. There was a colossal amount of oil smoke and flame blazing skywards over Montemara and, for all I knew, F Company’s fortress, by now, could have been a vast crematorium.
The fires, in fact, were his transport and he had lost most of his machines, which were tucked in there behind the buildings. They had suffered seven direct hits from our own guns, but lying up for the most part in the cellars until the barrage lifted, only a handful of his men had been hit. And few of these were serious.
Moreover, they had the last laugh. Most of the enemy garrison were by-passed in the Faughs’ attack and, as the latter went ahead, Colin set about the Germans in the nearby buildings with his 6 pounders. With no other distraction owing to the German preoccupation with the main attack, he succeeded in bringing down large chunks of the masonry on to the occupants beneath and, when the demolition had proceeded to his satisfaction, he rushed a dozen of his men across. Hardly a shot was fired and I don’t think the enemy ever saw them coming in the thick smoke and the dust. Colin brought eighteen stupefied prisoners out of the wreckage. The rest had fled and nobody could see to shoot at them. Seven of his own men were casualties and we had also lost one or two from Fitz’s gun crews.
By 3pm, Neville Chance (Captain NF Chance, The Royal Irish Fusiliers) had taken C Company in to Pescia and was now embattled with the opposition, who were trying to eject them.
Jimmy Clarke had taken D Company in behind them – with Sergeant Robinson continuing his long career with 17 Platoon, this time as its commander. Robbie said that, hitherto, he had put up with most forms of ill treatment at the hands of the Germans but at Trasimene, they had a new experience. As they moved in open order across the valley, the air over their heads turned in to a tornado of fire and explosions as a nearby flak battery set about them with air bursts. Robbie said that he had never heard such a racket in his life – four barrelled 20mm anti-aircraft guns, and ‘Thank God, they couldn’t depress the muzzles sufficiently to sweep the ground with them. My chaps dived for cover to start with, but soon realised it was much safer to race on ahead and get out of it.’
Robbie mentioned that he was sent on forward of Pescia with 17 in the last stages and, mixed up with the tanks of both sides, witnessed some classic shooting by the CAR. ‘They hit one of the German Tigers with their 75s. The first shell hit the flash jacket on its gun muzzle, the next went through it like butter just under the base of the turret, a third was lower still in to the body and fuel tanks and this set it on fire immediately – and the fourth blew off one of its tracks. Three of the crew bailed out and were shot down immediately by the tank’s besas as they did so.’
Robbie said that when he last saw the blazing wreck, the remains of its commander were hanging out of the turret top and its other three crew members lay dead around it.
Thereafter, D Company continued with its task of disinfesting between the two towns.
The Faughs had suffered lightly so far, as in the whole course of the attack, until the last phase, the German artillery and other heavy weapons had been putting down most of their fire behind them. But there were unpleasant shocks from those deadly SPs. Their highly skilled gun teams were progressively engaging every building in turn, which they thought might be occupied. Moreover, one only had to have an aerial or other radio antennae projecting from a window and the German observers would soon spot them with their high powered glasses.
Therefore, we should not have been surprised when Brian Clark, the Faugh adjutant, was sent flying across the room and his radio shattered by an 88 practising sniping. Brian was talking to the brigadier on the air at the time. Pat complained afterwards about Faugh rudeness and not using correct signing off procedures.
We have several similar incidents and my own HQ had half a dozen AP shells through it from a Hun tank. The Germans then switched on to the nearby Kensingtons’ mortar OP and shot down one of their warrant officers, Sergeant Major Gray, who was spotting from it.
By midday, with B Company closing on Ranciano, it was time for us to move forward and clear up along their western flank.
We began by taking the tanks across on to that side and, as Douglas probed forward, he had some fine shooting with his besas on small groups of German infantry on the move – probably left in the air by the Faughs’ progress and escaping sideways. I sent Peter Grannell with G Company forward with him. The ground did not lend itself to protracted resistance between our own ridges and the Ranciano – Pescia line, so it is not surprising that the enemy chose to hold the sector mainly with mobile units and armour.
On our own front, the situation was slightly different as the terrain was more broken up with a succession of small folds and ridges. Peter reached his position about a thousand yards on from F Company in the late afternoon without any serious fighting. He picked up a few prisoners on the way through and, among them, found a dead hauptmann with a feldwebel and a number of others – fallen, no doubt, to Douglas’s besas.
During the afternoon, I moved my own HQ across to Casa Montemara and the other companies also came forward in to nearby buildings. Life was not so bad. And the Faughs had done well. Much had been accomplished and the cost had been light, though they had lost Dickie Richards before the day was over. Neville had also been hit in Pescia.
They had sent in over sixty prisoners. John O’Rourke examined some of them and was responsible for disseminating their tales. Among them were a few German queries – usually on the subject of why Irish soldiers were fighting for England, which was something that always fascinated them. Amongst the answers had come, ‘Ah, we’re not particular who we fight for,’ and ‘….sure, we didn’t want to see the English beat.’
All four of the Irish Fusilier companies were now positioned to the north of us, while we lay to the left and the rear of them. In the late evening, their Bttn HQ was established about a quarter of a mile north of my own at Montemara. I was, therefore, in close touch with James Dunnill as well as with own people.
That night passed uneasily. Ranciano had not given in without a last ditch struggle but the Faughs had it in firm grip at nightfall.
The Irish Rifles were now in the role of a flank guard and, out to the west over those hillocks, anything could be happening. The Irish Brigade thrust was still a finger deep one with its own flanks open. To the east, however, we were becoming secure, with the Skins moving rapidly forward alongside the Faughs – and beyond them were the comforting waters of Lake Trasimene, glinting like silver in the starlight.
The patrol programme that night was found exclusively by G Company, who alone remained in reasonable strength. Peter took out a deep sweep westwards and soon found the opposition on the move. They lay up for one party, who surrendered peacefully when invited to do so by Irish voices out of the darkness. G Company picked up a few more fugitives on the way back and arrived in at midnight with over a dozen – and a strange mixture too. Engineers, jagers, panzergrenadiers and the odd medical orderly. The PGs were new boys on this sector – 14 Regiment had just been drafted in and that meant something.
Our brigadier appeared the following morning to study the battle ground for himself and, by the time he arrived, the sector had quietened. There was intermittent shelling to the north on the line of the Pescia, but hardly anything on our front beyond occasional rifle shots.
During the morning, James had gone forward to visit his companies and, while we waited for him at the Faugh HQ, Pat talked to me at some length on my own.
He said firstly that the Irish Brigade had shot its bolt for the time being. He pointed out that three of our own companies could only be numbered in dozens and the Skins were not in much better condition. Only the Faughs remained. Moreover, the rest of the 78th Division was far more battered than any of us realised. Because of this, we would now be withdrawn from the line when the present action ended. He then said that we were being packed off to Egypt to recuperate.
I exploded and said that this was a terrible thing to do when the enemy was reeling and we all knew what would happen if they were allowed the chance to recover. The 78th Division had the experience and capability to keep the Germans on the run and no formation in the whole of the 8th Army could do that better – nor prove its equal when we came to those mountains looming up on the north. I was sure they could not do without us, that the decision was disastrous and I still think so.
Pat said that he agreed all this in spirit and knew it was true, but he also thought that some pause was necessary as the men were getting exhausted and, in any case, another battle like Trasimene was impossible with our present fighting strength. ‘Kef el Tior was justified as it ended a campaign, but this one was by no means ended.’ Finally he remarked, ‘… and I’m not having the Irish Brigade ruined in the meantime – not if I can help it.’
However, the fates had not yet done with us.
Pat went back at midday, while I stayed on with Brian for a bit, before returning to my own HQ. Brian mentioned being out of touch with his CO for the last two hours – but there could be a thousand reasons for that and, although odd, I thought nothing of it when I left.
The battle was still surging round Ranciano both west and north of the town. Unfortunately, as James motored up in his tank to his forward troops, he missed his turning a half a mile north of us and swung off towards Badia, where the road took its long curve westwards.
Brian signalled me after I came back and said he was worried as James had never reached B Company. The penny dropped then. I picked up my driver, jeep and Clanachan and raced back to the Faughs’ HQ. Brian was waiting for me, propping the door up and with his arms folded. Looking at each other as I dismounted, we both knew, without further words, what had happened.
We studied my map together.
Brian called after me as I got in to the jeep, ‘I wouldn’t go far up there, sir – it’s pretty thick with them’ – but I knew that for myself after Peter’s adventures during the night.
The Badia fork was half a mile forward and, here, the lesser Ranciano road continued on to the north. Here, solitary tank tracks headed westwards in the thick white dust, like the footprints of the yeti in the Himalayan snows. How did he do it – with the northern route lying thick with our vehicle tracks.
I followed the tank tracks for a mile in eerie silence, knowing the answer and knowing too that this was no-man’s land. Clanachan sat in the back of the jeep with his rifle – stolidly indifferent to this or any other atmosphere.
Eventually, I stopped for a space, while the driver reversed the machine on the open hill top. A straight half mile of white road stretched out in front of me in gentle descent and the next hamlet’s roof tops glinted where it disappeared. I lay up with my field glasses for some minutes – and listened too. But the long strath was empty of all things save tension and one’s imaginings – and we could be sure of being watched. The tank tracks ran on westwards through the chalk dust – two even lines to the limit of vision, perhaps to eternity.
I see them still.
Back at the Faughs’ HQ, I discussed briefly with Brian and, after considering the course open, I soon realised that he was the only Faughs’ officer, immediately to hand, who was capable of taking over. Brian certainly had no doubt on that point either, so I told him to get on with it and that I would square it with Pat. I then called up Brigade. Brian was only twenty three; not that it mattered – in his case.
James had his IO and Douglas Anderson, the battery commander, with him. They were about two miles down the Badia road where the enemy were waiting for them – perhaps incredulous but certainly prepared. The tank was clobbered instantly with a rocket bomb, though fortunately none of them were seriously hurt. James was temporarily stunned and they never had a chance, though Douglas was out of the tank and into the corn in a flash. Unfortunately, he was spotted while doing so and the local CO had to call out all his available jagers, before finally catching him several hours later.
Douglas said later that his enterprising captors managed to get the tank going again and eventually one of them drove off in it.
The Germans now had the chance to repay much overdue hospitality and they did so handsomely. Douglas and his CO were entertained to dinner that evening in the German divisional HQ mess, with their own chief gunner as the host.
Douglas Anderson, sometimes known as Duffy, had a temperament that could accept most buffets of fate and even appreciate them on the basis of ‘sufficient unto the day.’ His record was long enough anyway to have no regrets – and so was James’s. Later Douglas found himself Ian Lawrie’s brother in law. As for these shafts of fate, who knows? He could, as well, have met a five nine with his name on it in the mountain battles round Florence.
As far as we were concerned, the battle of Trasimene was now near its ending, though hard fighting lay ahead for the rest of the army before the German grip was broken.
In the meantime, our 36 Brigade was pushed through us over the Pescia with a view to exploiting. They did not quite get far and they suffered heavy losses in the process, including that of their commander, Brigadier James, who died in the attack. Trasimene was an expensive battle – as the Romans found there too with their Carthaginian intruder.
For that matter, no one among the antagonists would ever forget that Italian spring – which began at Cassino and, for us, ended now.
As we cleaned up round La Villa and the Badia hillocks on that afternoon of 26 June, one of our companies was twenty strong, two others had thirty and one, G, had fifty. A hundred and eight of our men had been hit in the last four days’ fighting and three times that number since the onset, six weeks back. But only four of our riflemen were missing in the whole course of the campaign.
Accurate assessment of German loss was rarely possible save by counting the dead – and the prisoners. We had captured over three hundred and buried nearly as many and that is all we can say.
John O’Rourke ascertained from our prisoners that, after Sanfatucchio, the two German infantry regiments, who opposed us there, were amalgamated in to single battalions.
The following afternoon, some writing was necessary – to our next of kin and, for obvious reasons, to the CO of the 11th CAR, Bob Purvis, with a message of tribute.
I wrote home:
‘My dear Pop,
I fear it is longer than usual since I last wrote. We have been busy…The warriors are in splendid fettle and very bucked with themselves.
Our present residence is not up to our usual standard – and the lavatories do not work. A pity one cannot always have Marquesas’ mansions – as in our last, where the nobleman offered me a letter of introduction to the Duke, his brother, who owned a similar castle several objectives ahead…Perhaps, he thought our sense of chivalry would constrain….too heavy inroads on his brother’s cellar when we got there.
Have seldom seen so much livestock – all wandering loose and enjoying their freedom. There are crowds of loose rabbits eating the cabbages and some dopey looking geese wandering around the streets, also hens, chickens and baby ducks.
There are even young pigs wandering up and down in deserted gardens. They all look quite happy if somewhat bewildered. Many will find their way rapidly in to our cookhouses.
Our village (Sanfatucchio) is a sorry sight and one feels guilty that we did it all as it must have been one of the prettiest places on earth with what was once a lovely old church….Some stouthearted Wops are just beginning to come back…one of my companies is in one of the most picturesque farms (Montemara) I have ever seen. Really up to date and the owner must have been rich. It is made up of a number of buildings, which for a couple of days were equally distributed between our boys and the opposing team.
We hauled in amongst others a rather nice gunner officer, who was a much better type than many we have taken recently….he was most interesting and polite, not unsavoury and truculent as is common among many junior Bosche officers now. They seem to be either like that, else completely cowed.
Life is more peaceful now and will grow more so. I think we have ended on a high note.’
And on the 28th:
‘….tonight we are having a farewell party with Douglas McIndoe, my squadron commander – and all his merry men. Like all their type, any show with them is a pleasure. They are…fearless. Our chaps couldn’t fail to go when set the example these chaps set. One of them, when things were at their worst, got out of his tank with a bottle of vino to resuscitate one of our platoons, who were taking it heavily. Their padre and MO were also to be seen walking among our chaps, always in the most unhealthy places.
The regiment has got in to all the papers as result of our last…..our boys’ tails are higher than they have ever been for this has been more of a man to man nature than anything previous….the results were ….conclusive.
Our present farm is.…unspoilt. It is owned by a genial family, who are all out to make us comfortable. They are now busy plucking three geese for tonight’s party….the whole battalion had goose for dinner last night….we have now all bathed and got clean clothes on, which is a great feeling – also sleeping in pyjamas. Pat looked in, very cheerful, when I was having my bath….’