Summer Times is the Journal of the Old Scarborians Association

after experiencing the rigid defence of the
Germans on the Catania Plain, where they
seemed to take supernatural punishment
and still were able to return scathing fire, we
all expected our attack to be strongly re‐
sisted. We thought we would be sitting
ducks crossing the straits in landing craft.
I had now been put in charge of the mortar
platoon, which had six carriers, on each of
which was mounted a three‐inch mortar.
There was also a motorbike for the sergeant.
Mortar carriers were low in priority for land‐
ing – foot soldiers first, tanks and then carri‐
ers on which were mounted Bren machine
guns.
From the shore, we watched our troops
crossing the turbulent water of the Straits of
Messina, waiting every second for the Ger‐
man shells and machine gun fire to blow
them out of the water. But nothing happened
– not one shot! Even as the craft approached
the shore, we awaited some kind of trap, but
again nothing happened. Then, through
binoculars, I saw our troops go ashore and
be embraced by Italian civilians. The Ger‐
mans must have gone.
I crossed in a tank landing craft, but when
we hit the shore, my bloody carrier would
not start. I had to leave it and commandeer
the sergeant’s motorbike, so that I could try
to keep in touch with our forward troops.
The next few weeks were like a holiday – hot
sun, blue skies, beautiful scenery, lots of vino
and no superior officers – for I had found
there was no chance of contacting the for‐
ward troops.
As we advanced, the Tedesci, as the Italians
called the Germans, blew the bridges. On the
west coast, the railway line ran just below
the road, so the explosions cracked the roads
on to the railway line, making both impass‐
able to vehicles. Then there were long de‐
lays before the Germans could be winkled
out from the hills, so they were able to send
heavy fire on anyone approaching the
45
bridges. This meant that the sappers could
not erect their Bailey bridges till they were
freed from gunfire.
In a few places, I managed to manhandle my
motorbike round the obstructions and, to‐
gether with the carrier officer, also on a mo‐
tor‐bike, we left our carriers miles below.
The rich civilians who lived in magnificent
houses overlooking the sea had long since
sought safety elsewhere, so we broke into
their houses, slept in their beds, and bathed
in the sea at least twice a day, while in the
distance we could hear the sounds of battle.
This, unfortunately, was not to last, because
when the bridges had been re‐built behind
us, the mortar carriers caught us up and,
soon afterwards, we rejoined the Battalion.
Shortly before reaching Paolo, the direction
of our attack was changed away from the
coast and into the Apennines. Again and
again, blown bridges grounded our carriers.
Nevertheless, on one occasion the Colonel
wirelessed me to bring up the mortars to
reinforce an attack. As he must have known,
we could not bring up the carriers, and the
mortars and shells were too heavy for the
platoon to manhandle.
I wondered how he imagined I could carry
out his order. Then someone suggested
horses. I toured the nearest village on my
bike, but no farmer had any horses. Then I
spotted about a dozen mules in a field. The
farmer was very loath to let me have them
until I wrote on a piece of paper: ‘The British
Army promises to pay after the war the
equivalent of £1 sterling for the hire of each
of the twelve mules’. Signed General Mont‐
gomery. The ‘General Montgomery’ did the
trick! He would harness them and accom‐
pany us.
We loaded them up and set off over the hills.
The leading mule, led by the farmer, was the
only one to behave itself, and only then
when the farmer beat it about the legs. Of
the rest, some rolled their eyes and kicked,