'Stretcher-bearers': (20) In transit

In Transit

Failing to act immediately to rejoin the unit after my recovery from jaundice was a big calculated risk. I certainly wanted to return to the unit with the minimum of delay, but felt that it would be safer for the four of us to travel back together when we were all well, rather than to strike out on my own. If the others had not recovered after a couple more days, I hoped to hitch a lift up to Messina and then mingle with men crossing the straits. Anything was preferable to lone stays in a series of transit camps.
So I planned to fill one day hitch-hiking to the splendid Greek theatre at Syracuse, wearing battledress over my hospital pyjamas. If stopped and searched I could then plausibly plead insanity, since few patients would opt to visit Greek theatres.
Collecting rations for the journey was easy. I poured a mug full of tea into my water bottle, packed a bacon sandwich saved over from breakfast, added one jam sandwich and a bar of ration chocolate.
Slipping away to a flying start after breakfast, I was on the road by 8.30 a.m. and had picked up my first lift by 9 a.m. This took me to the outskirts of Catania. At 9.10 a.m. I stepped into an army truck going all the way to Syracuse.
At 11.30 a.m. The driver dropped me near the Roman amphitheatre which was completely deserted. I made copious notes at the back the diary, spending over an hour in the massive building. Then I sat down and had my picnic lunch.
The Greek theatre was marked with the sign in English "Out of Bounds", but I was determined to see it, so climbed through, to be rewarded by the impressive sight of it gleaming white in the sun, one of the largest and most beautiful of all Greek theatres.
After spending another hour there and taking more notes, I made for the mines in which the unfortunate Athenians were imprisons in 415 BC Unlike them, I was still free to hitch-hike back to the hospital to face the music, if necessary. Nobody had noticed my absence.

Italy, 2nd visit.
Disembarked at Taranto and marched to Y transit camp, where conditions as regarded housing, sanitation, meals and discipline were reasonably good. Food, in particular was first class, one large slice of bread and margarine being doled out for each of the three meals per day.
Bread had been a luxury ever since the North African days. We had it for only two short spells in Sicily and then it was always dry and sometimes mildewed.
Free one afternoon, I walked into Taranto, the famous Tarentum of Roman times. As I passed some ruined houses skirting the town, small parties were still dragging bodies from the debris and the smell of death was in the air. This brought back vivid memories of the worst incidents in the Sicilian campaign.
During the walk I reflected on the opportunities that transit camps offered men to avoid returning to the battle line.
Being "lost in transit" was not uncommon. Some of these "lost" men must have wanted to return to their units, but, probably owing to some clerical error, had not been recalled. On the other hand, some COs may have decided that they did not want certain men back in their units. There was a third small group of men quite happy to be "swinging the lead." Some may have been front line troops, prepared to assume anonymity rather than to be sent back to more active service.
Then there were those who found new jobs. Even from our small Field Ambulance unit D---------left us in Sicily, after applying successfully for posting as an operating room assistant, while later on a new member of our party became an officer's batman in a transit camp.
The rest of us were not tempted. We had told the colonel that we wanted to return. Put at its very lowest, we wanted to be back in the unit with friends and, above all, to make written contact with home again. Home was a link with sanity. In addition, in my case, Classics books offered an intellectual challenge and a bolt-hole from the reality of war.
Taranto, built around two natural harbours, had contrasting areas. The old town, drab, blitzed and fly ridden, centred around the inner harbour with its filthy narrow streets crowded with fruit sellers and shellfish vendors. The upper town, commanding a view of the outer harbour, was clean and modern, with straight streets and high buildings.
Although the war had only recently passed on from Taranto, I was able to buy some macaroons from a shop in the main street before returning to camp, since the skies were now threatening.
Back at camp, we had barely finished entrenching our tent when rain fell in torrents on our olive grove. Before long there were widening pools of water everywhere. Fortunately the trenches kept our tents reasonably dry.
That night we were given orders to move out next morning at 3.30 a.m. They believe in early starts from transit camps. We went to sleep hoping it would be fine. It was not. We breakfasted in the rain and then paraded. It was almost pitch dark and the roll call was not a success, added to which transport that should have arrived to take our kit bags and blankets to the station did not materialise.
After considerable delay, during which we became very wet, we were ordered to march to the station, some two miles away, carrying kit bags and bedding. This was no easy task, particularly since the road was flooded in places and kit bags weigh quite heavy, even when dry.
Eventually we huddled into those dry corners of the blitzed station that still remained. We were soaked to the skin.
Our train was very slow, forced by previous bombing from the air to divert from line to line. We covered 20 miles in two hours and arrived at No.2 Corps Reception Unit. Rumour had it that this too had previously served as a POW (Prisoners of War) camp. We were employed on fatigues, useful or otherwise, all that day. We were also marched to every meal, over 400 of us, to form closely packed queues, to receive reasonable food, if lucky, some 15 minutes after starting to queue. The longest I waited was 35 minutes, the shortest just under 10 minutes
Thinking that food would be served much more quickly from two separate queues, I found that there were enough dixies, tables and serving utensils before asking the officer inspecting the meals whether I could make a suggestion about the serving of meals. Great tact is required on such occasions. He replied that he would be pleased to receive any suggestions made in writing and handed in to the sergeant major. So I acted upon instructions and passed the written suggestion to the sergeant major. He deliberated inwardly before grudgingly admitting that the plan might be feasible. That evening and from then onwards there was still one long queue.
We left two days later. The only redeeming feature of that camp was that, in a coppice nearly, crocuses, wood anemones and daisies were growing at the same time, even in October. Browning's "Home-Thoughts from Abroad" flitted momentarily into the mind. Both the season and the flowers were quite wrong, but I recalled the poem word for word, having learnt it by heart at school, and blessed my old teacher, Welsh Dyffedd Parry, a genuine lover of poetry.
Once more we clambered into a train to make a journey of some 60 miles, still not aware of the serious dislocation that the Italian railway system had suffered We left at 10 a.m. and reached our destination at 3.30 p.m. the following day, having spent all night in the carriages.
The journey had hilarious moments. Our driver made a habit of stopping between stations to pick up friends. He was never content to pass through any station once. At Bari, he shunted backwards and forwards, passing through the station eight times in all.
During some of the stops we fortified ourselves with tea, courtesy of the driver. He would obligingly blow off boiling water from the drainage pipe into our mugs.
He allowed some of us to climb up into his cabin.
On another occasion he met some railwaymen and Italian soldiers en route, uncoupled his engine and drove off with them, leaving us stranded with his fireman, who promptly removed his jacket, rolled it up to serve as a pillow and went to sleep with his head on the rail.
Unfortunately, our tin of dry biscuits contained livestock - the weevil variety. Some were hungry enough to tap these beetles out, a practice common enough in naval sagas. Others were more intent on reaching their units in good health.
Spending the night at Foggia, where the station presented the worst signs of strafing I have ever seen, we left next morning for Camp Corps by lorry and then passed on to 8th Army Ration Dump, where our ration truck picked us up and took us, at long last, to 11 Field Ambulance.

We had been away from the unit for just over five weeks. I shall do my level best not to report sick again.

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