'Stretcher-bearers': (35) Attached to the Lancs and theRecces

Attached to the Lancs & the Recces

We returned today to posts just forward of the RAP (Regimental Aid Post) and received orders to descend into the valley to pick up a Lancs body that had been out three days, but the regimental M.O. cancelled the order, sending word that he himself would be spending the night with us at the advanced RAP, since there was a possibility of casualty work because a patrol had been sent out. He had decided to leave the body until daylight.
He arrived about an hour after the patrol had departed. He told us that the hill which a Lancs platoon had taken and lost again three days previously was now the objective of 11th Brigade, instructed to take it at all costs. The Recce (Reconnaissance) patrol was being used as a diversion. It made a welcome change to be informed exactly about what was planned, and the MO's presence was also a bonus.
At about 9.30 p.m. we settled down to snatch some sleep, fully clothed except for our boots, but about midnight were startled into wakefulness by the chattering of two, and later three, Lewis guns. At first we believed that we had been surrounded, but were soon told that our guns were firing on fixed lines and were merely part of the general attack.
Both the patrol and the main attack were completely successful, Jerry having swiftly evacuated both features.

Today, 19.10.44, we went down to pick up the body we had left yesterday. It had now been lying unburied for nearly four days and I shall not describe out task . War is a heroic business when described in newspaper cuttings and films. In reality, it stinks.
A fine, sunny day with good prospects. Jerry is shelling, but miles away, and life is peaceful.
We are now attached to "A" squadron of the Recces (Reconnaissance). They have just buried another body, a Jerry, where he lay down the hill. They are kind-hearted and bear no malice, a unit with several odd characters.
First, there is the "drunk" corporal, whose speech is slurred and manners those of an inebriate. We were assured that, in spite of his senseless burblings, he was in reality quite sober.
Bill Bates, one of the officer's "bodyguards" and a despatch rider in his spare time, is a burly six-footer with a fearless gift for repartee. The only difference between officers and men, he states, is that the former wear green hats. He must be thinking of peace time. At present we all wear steel helmets.
Yesterday, when an officer, in all ignorance, attempted to tear away some brushwood which we had used to camouflage our tent, Bill Bates cried out "What the bloody hell, sir! You can't do that! Well, I'll be b--------!" Whereupon the lieutenant replied, "Oh. sorry", and made himself scarce.
Bates' father had been left without parents when five years old. He had wanted Bill to join the army, as he himself had done.
"You should join up, Bill, " he had said.
When Bill, conscripted and on leave, had decided to overstay it, his father had changed his mind and said, "You should get out of the army, Bill."
Bates had been in a Liverpool gaol twice and on numerous charges in the army. He explained that he had once been a corporal, was given a week's leave, and returned a fortnight later to be "busted" (demoted to private).
"Bomber", as he is called, was an actor in vaudeville before the war, excelling in mimicry, especially of goldfish. He also suffers from the common complaint of being irresistible to women. In that respect he claims the power of a magnet. Unfortunately for him, he has no opportunities here to prove his boast.
Another joker in the Recce pack is the hypochondriac, who visits the medical orderly each morning to ask if his bag, for which he had indented, has arrived. The bag contains nerves, his own supply, he asserts, becoming scarce.
Sometimes he indents for wrenches to loosen his screws (rheumatism).
Norman Walton, alias the "Mucker", specialises in peculiar misstatements and jugglings of words. His Italian consists of near English equivalents. "Come state" = "How are you?" becomes "Come and start me". "Prego" = "Not at all", is changed to "Pregnant". He has a wealth of less savoury approximations.
The MO of this unit fully maintains the standard. He tries to be efficient, but is both absent-minded and eccentric. A very pleasant man of about 26, he resembles a student much more than a qualified doctor.
At the outset of hostilities he worked in an ATS (Women's Army Territorial Service) camp, where he must have developed his old-fashioned bedside manner, that seems so out of place in this environment.
He remarked to us jocularly "When you eat your muddy meal, see that you wash your hands afterwards." Chance would be a fine thing.

We awoke to find the weather crisp and dry. From my supine position, now in a barn close to a farmyard, I could see through the branches of a walnut tree a steel blue sky, almost cloudless, and realised that we would have a fine day for once. Everything was peaceful
I went to fetch water from a stream which trickledover in a bank and, on returning, stopped to watch a gaggle of geese paddle past in single file, very trim . In the meadow close by half a dozen turkeys, red and grey, were jerkily plucking at the grass on their way down to a culvert. A few hens appeared, and started to cross a hedge to meet them. Chained to a stake close to the hedge was a solitary ram surveying the scene and bleating.
The sun came up and shone through the trees upon small round haystacks, the muck heap and small children by the cottage door.
I lighted a fire, put on it our jam tins filled with water for shaving and later went for breakfast. After that I took a closer look at the farm. The meadow outside it was pock-marked with mortar holes, trees were chipped with shrapnel, trenches were dug in sheltered places. Round fox holes - the Americans tended todig these instead of slit trenches - were almost completely camouflaged and haystacks had burrows dug out of them, enough to shelter a man.
Mud was inches deep, churned up by the hooves of pack mules. On the bank was a box, partially covered with a sack, labelled "Booby trap".
Night fell and Jerry became busy again, causing us to run twice from the barn into the house for shelter.

25.10.44.
Today, just after lunch, he mortared us, sending over five very near. Shrapnel hit the cookhouse door and we saw it cutting through the trees from our shelter in the (farmhouse) doorway. These mortars were too close , although their barks were worse than their bites... must be getting used to them.
Moved on yet again.
Have suddenly felt the longing for tea and cakes - any good old afternoon tea, taken at ease, a second cup ready - relaxed by the fireside. It is only a weak dream, but it persists.
We moved off again after an early tea at 3.30 p.m. and marched up small mountain tracks to our new positions. Steady drizzle set in for the night , growing in volume as we marched. It grew dark suddenly and we were hampered as we struggled up a mule-frequented track, slipping in deep mud and out of breath.
We were now marching almost in silence, broken only by squelches, oaths and the whispered "Wire!" as we tripped over unseen lines laid by the Signals Corps.
At length we reached Rear Headquarters where the Regimental Aid Post was to be established. Four of us were left here . The remainder advanced with "A" squadron of Recces to within 800 yards - as they reported later - of the German lines. Now four of us with a corporal were sent forward to two slit trenches, part flooded, shallow, dug into loose clay. We marched a considerable distance to reach them.
By now it was driving a blizzard, so three of us bundled into one slit trench and two into another. We opened our stretcher and placed it over the trench lengthways. Heavy rain made this protection unsatisfactory, so we removed our gas capes and put them over the top as well. The sides of the trench began to cave in, but, as guns were firing very near, we did not venture to abandon it. So we sat there with soaking stretcher blankets spread over our steel helmets.
I was with Peel and Cpl Walton. Peel was chewing gum with chattering teeth, wet through.
We were on a hill slope facing Jerry lines, but could not see him because another hill, on which was a Lewis gunner, separated us.
The air was continuously ringing with shells in flight, machine gun fire - Spandau and Smeiser - and the hornet drone of shrapnel dropping around.. Peel was more nervous than usual, but Walton was first class. He quietly sang to us the song of "Three old ladies locked in the lavatory", not unlike our present predicament, to divert our attention. However, mortars were landing very close and we were lucky that the last in a batch of about a dozen was a dud. Perhaps it was a shell. It came at us suddenly, like an express train, but, just as we were expecting a blinding explosion , it slithered into the mud with a swish and was silent.

Letter home dated 30.10.44. " ... in the 'Teach Yourself Italian' I have now completed lesson 26 - there are thirty in all - and am making progress. For example, at one farmhouse, I picked up some useful military information, at another I treated a girl for impetigo. In return was given two eggs and some walnuts and, as we marched meal-less that night in the rain, the walnuts came in handy.
We are with a very good M.O. He is a bit slap-happy and absent-minded. Today he remarked , 'well seriously, you chaps, if anybody ought to be lousy by now, it's me!'. We have not had a change of clothing for a month Expecting better times soon."

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