Part III

Now the prodigals returned to the parental British 1st Army and added their mite of aerial protection to the push northwards up the Italian peninsula.

But one remained. At the time I was enjoying one of my frequent bouts of malaria/sand-fly fever; I emerged from delirium to learn that my unit had been abruptly shipped off to other seats in the theatre of operations. Instructions had been left that upon recovery I should obtain a flight as soon as one became available and rejoin my unit.

So I was not only a prodigal but now an orphan, however temporarily, and a solitary one at that. But by no means an unhappy one, considering, among other matters, I would be spared another sea journey. Experience had convinced me that I was among the world's worst sailors.

Military eyebrows were raised when I presented myself to the authorities and requested a seat on an aircraft bound for Sicily. The army are suspicious of servicemen travelling individually, and to actually ask for something rather than await their pleasure is anathema to their delicate sensitivities. However, I did get onto an American transport plane together with around eight or nine others, mostly army top brass who exuded a distinct whiff of H.Q. After a brief general exchange of greetings these latter coalesced into a huddle over matters military of so esoteric a nature as to soar into regions beyond the ken of a mere radar operator.

But my next-door-neighbour, a civilian, turned out to be a seasoned U.S. war correspondent with a more down to earth approach that kept us chatting for the rest of the flight. On the way we touched down at Malta, but I can recall little of the hour or so spent wandering around the island's airstrip except an impression of bleakness and inactivity.

The scene changes — I pick up a photograph. It is marked 'Catania', and in it I am sitting on the balcony of our billet, head in hand, scowling convalescently at Mount Etna in the distance. It regards me innocently but can't prevent a tell-tale wisp of smoke creeping out.

I glance at other photographs of places visited on our Italian odyssey, and the memories come flooding back? In haphazard order: Crotone in the toe of Italy, Caserta near Naples, Lanciano on the Adriatic coast, Rome, Milan, Legnano, et al —

Abruptly in October 1944 we were bundled aboard a troopship in Bari and rushed off once again to an unknown destination; however, since the Allies had occupied Athens on 14th October not much guesswork was needed. Accordingly we landed at Piraeus, port of Athens.

Things started badly, at least for me. The lorry that brought our personal belongings from the ship to the billet proved to be one kitbag short. I had two kitbags, one mostly clothing, the other containing treasured items ?? diaries, various writings, photographs and suchlike. An unkind fate pointed its finger at the latter.

Having gone through North Africa, Sardinia, Sicily, and Italy, all 'enemy' countries, without a single loss, to have something stolen in the first moments on Allied territory seemed to be taking quirkiness just a little too far.

Matters didn't improve: on our journey down to Cap Sounion we were fired upon, a single rifle shot; whether out of ignorance on the part of some member of the Greek resistance regarding the German withdrawal or by way of a welcoming gesture, we were unable to decide.

Our role was to keep an eye on Crete, still occupied by the Germans, though whether by choice or otherwise was unknown. The impression current was that they knew when they were well-off. Nothing untoward came from that quarter.

But Nature chose to be the villain instead. My malaria returned and I found myself back in hospital ?? the 97th General Field hospital. But this was not a huge marquee with rows of tightly-packed beds and patients being broiled in their own sweat, but what I assumed was one of the leading hospitals in Athens, taken over by the British army. A large impressive building in extensive grounds in seemingly open country, so presumably on the outskirts of the city. For reasons that will soon be apparent, I never had the opportunity to explore beyond the grounds. Sadly my experience of Greece was limited to a few hours in Piraeus and environs, some weeks in a remote and desolate region south of Athens, and hospitalization.

But my sojourn in the 97th General furnished some of the most dramatic and memorable of moments.

Pleasant ones first, starting during convalescence when I became one of the group usually known as the 'walking wounded', a term that covers a fairly disparate collection of individuals. It was a nice surprise to find the medical staff largely consisted of English nurses of about my own age, all with the rank of lieutenant but referred to as 'Sister', on their first overseas posting and it seemed having quite recently completed their training. I think they were also volunteers — for overseas, that is. They were surprisingly naïve and a little apprehensive, but to us they represented one of the sweeter aspects of the war; paradoxically we patients found ourselves slipping into the role of caring for them, trying to shield them from the grimmer side of things. In our ward we made a self-appointed group of four (I glance at one of the snaps that survived and see myself, a sailor, and two paratroopers, so all services get a look-in), to assist wherever we could. All English, but only by chance, considering our ward was a parade of democracy in action.

There were representatives from all the armed services, civilians, German and, later, ELAS prisoners. (ELAS were the main Greek resistance organisation throughout the German occupation.)

In the next bed to me was a German POW with whom I took the opportunity to brush up my schooldays' German. A baker in civilian life, unmilitary in the extreme, he was obviously glad to be where he was after realising he would be treated as a human being. As a 'walking wounded' he could have walked out of the hospital at any time, since there were no guards. But he didn't.

And there was Topsy. A Greek child somewhere between 8 and 10 years old, supposedly assisting in the kitchen ?? whether officially or not no-one seemed to know — but who spent most of her time around the hospital. She would pop up here, there and everywhere, appearing to have carte blanche as a kind of mascot. The reason was easy to see: she had the most stunningly beautiful face one could imagine, and a smile that was like a benefaction. She became the chief recipient of my NAAFI purchases of toilet soap, chocolate etc, highly-prized throughout the indigent Mediterranean and used in exchange for local produce. Homage I suppose to beauty wherever found.

Out of the blue a new battle began. Civil war broke out in Athens on December 6th between the so-called Greek government and ELAS (mostly left-wing) who opposed a return to the old monarchy. Rightly or wrongly the British paratroopers were ordered to attack the ELAS. Opinion in the hospital generally regarded this as a mistake. As it proved, a costly one.

So we found ourselves right in the middle of another war. One day a mortar shell landed on the forecourt, plumb on the red cross painted there. Windows and nerves suffered but no-one was hurt. It was unclear which side was responsible, though generally assumed to be an accident.

Jeeps began to arrive with dismal regularity, laden stretchers on their bonnets, and our poor nurses had their hands full. Now the 'walking wounded' really got into the action carrying stretchers etc. If I was affected I can only imagine the feelings of those young girls? And all so unnecessary.

There was one moment of comedy which could easily have ended in tragedy. In the hospital grounds and quite near the main building was a house used as HQ by the general commanding the British forces. A machine-gun was mounted on the roof, though we didn't know this until after the incident. When it suddenly started firing, all who were able to rushed to the windows and outside to be greeted by a scene straight from an action film. A solitary ELAS soldier running for dear life up a nearby hill with the bullets spattering at his heels. He gained the summit and dropped out of sight apparently unhurt. We released our collective breath; we'd all been rooting for him?

Suddenly events took an uneasy turn. The HQ had been evacuated, and we were told we were now in enemy territory — though of course still neutral under international protocol.

Shortly before Christmas a group of armed men, grim-faced, bands of cartridges draped around them, and with a strong suggestion of mountain brigand, appeared at the hospital. The ELAS had arrived.

Ostensibly they had come to see how their wounded were being treated, but no doubt also to have a general look around. Their presence did nothing to reassure the nursing staff, who showed a certain disinclination to deal with the intruders. The nurses' appeal to us was not in vain, though some of the 'walking wounded', myself included, by this time more or less fit, were in the dubious position of approximate patienthood. In normal circumstances we would have returned to our units, but couldn't do so because we were in effect prisoners of the ELAS. Wisely, we retained our hospital garb. So three or four of us acted as escort to a small selection of enemy soldiers around the hospital. Contrary to expectation in some quarters, the ELAS proved to be strictly correct in every detail of military convention. As things were one felt they were more tolerant than they needed to be.

There was one sticky moment when we came to a locked door and the officer in charge asked for it to be opened. I had no idea what the room contained. Someone produced a key. The room was chock-a-block with hand weapons of every kind, plus the corresponding ammunition, taken from wounded servicemen.

We awaited the explosion. Incredibly, the officer shook his head, gave a wry smile, murmured something which we took to be a Greek tut-tut, and closed the door.

On January 5th the fighting in Athens ended. The sick and convalescent were evacuated to Taranto in Italy by hospital ship. No ordinary vessel this but the Principessa Giovane, a converted Italian luxury liner which gave me one of the most cosseted periods of my life.

The cabins were wonderful, the food was superb, the attendants looked after us to an almost embarrassing extent. The wounded of course deserved no less, but we fitter ones felt slightly guilty. I know I did. However, we didn't let it interfere overly with our enjoyment.

The sun shone, the sea was blue rather than wine-dark, and flat as a mill-pond, and for the first and only time in my life I wasn't seasick.

End of Part 3