22 Battalion[electronic resource]Henderson, JimCreation of machine-readable versionTechBooks, Inc.Creation of digital imagesTechBooks, Inc.Conversion to TEI.2-conformant markupTechBooks, Inc.Mary Westonca. 1500 kilobytesNew Zealand Electronic Text CollectionWellington, New ZealandModern English, WH2-22Ba
Publicly accessible
URL: http://nzetc.victoria.ac.nz/collections.html
copyright 2004, by Victoria University of Wellington
2004630518Official History of New Zealand in the Second World War 1939–45Illustrations have been included from the original source.22 BattalionHenderson, JimWar History Branch, Department Of Internal AffairsWellington, New Zealand1958Source copy consulted: Defence Force Library, New ZealandOfficial History of New Zealand in the Second World War 1939–45
Prepared for the New Zealand Electronic Text Collection as part
of the Official War
History project.
The digital edition of this book was sponsored by Mary
Weston, daughter of General Sir Howard Kippenberger who
served as one of the Editors-in-Chief of the Official
History of New Zealand in the Second World War.
All unambiguous end-of-line hyphens have been removed, and
the trailing part of a word has been joined to the preceding
line. Every effort has been made to preserve the Māori macron
using unicode.
Some keywords in the header are a local Electronic
Text Collection scheme to aid in establishing analytical
groupings.
NZETC Subject Headings1958EnglishNew Zealand World War II History22 Battalion28 October 2004Colin DoigAdded name tags around names of people, places, and organisations.31 August 2004Jamie NorrishAdded link markup for project in TEI header.27 August 2004Jamie NorrishFixed footnote six on page 38 and footnote thirty-nine
on page 49. Corrected typo in caption
following page 68 ("Decembe" to "December"). Corrected typos
in captions following page 100 ("Minqar im" to "Minqar Qaim";
"pipe Band" to "Pipe Band"). Corrected order of photos
following page 68.11 August 2004Jamie NorrishAdded missing space in footnote on page 148. Corrected
note markup.2 August 2004Jamie NorrishAdded funding details to header.30 June 2004Jamie NorrishAdded missing text on page iv. Changed head and figure
markup of foreword.3 June 2004Jamie NorrishAdded full TEI header.21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCText-proofing of a sample of the text21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCConversion to TEI.2-conformat markup21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAdding scripted markup21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAddition of encodingDesc21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAddition of bibls21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAssembled all images21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCCreation of derivative images21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCValidation of TEI21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCValidation of names21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCConversion to Unicode (utf-8)21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCPromotion to production21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAddition of text to access control21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCHarvest into Topic Map21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCChecking of text using browser21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAddition of text to corpus21:18:41, Tuesday 7 August 2007NZETCAddition of text to Library Catalogue14:49:50, Tuesday 23 September 2008NZETCMake text available on NZETC website14:10:42, Tuesday 4 August 2009NZETCPreparation of EPUB (and other formats such as DaisyBook)14:04:02, Wedsnesday 4 August 2010NZETCIndex the text into SOLR to allow searching
22 Battalion
Official History of New Zealand
in the Second World War 1939–45
22 BattalionJim HENDERSONWAR HISTORY BRANCH
DEPARTMENT OF INTERNAL AFFAIRSWELLINGTON, NEW ZEALAND1958printed and distributed byWHITCOMBE AND TOMBS LTD.
christchurch auckland wellington dunedin
hamilton lower hutt timaru invercargill
london melbourne sydney perth geelong
Out of all this comes I think a humbleness towards those chaps
attended in their first moments, an awareness of knowing that they
always put on a very brave front and conveyed so much in a look
or simple gesture when given that first attention and a cigarette,
and invariably never to acknowledge the possibility of a ‘homer’:
the hardest part seemed to be having to leave mates behind-that
thought of return.
Men will even give their lives if only the ordeal does not last long
but is soon over, with all looking on and applauding as though on
the stage. But active love is labour and fortitude, and for some people
too, perhaps, a complete science.
—Dostoevsky (The Brothers Karamazov)
The faith in the heart of a mustard seed is the faith of a mustard
tree, the force in the heart of a drop of water is the force of a waterfall. And when one hopes, all mankind hopes with him. For I am
all mankind and I am in every man.
—V. Anant (Birth of the Lord)
The authors of the volumes in this series of histories prepared under
the supervision of the War History Branch of the Department of
Internal Affairs have been given full access to official documents.
They and the Editor-in-Chief are responsible for the statements
made and the views expressed by them.
Foreword
by lieutenant-general the lord freyberg,
vc, gcmg, kcb, kbe, dso
It is a great pleasure to be able to write a foreword to the
history of the 22nd Infantry Battalion.
The 22nd Battalion came overseas with the Second Echelon
at the time of the overthrow of France. It was shipped to
England and took an active part in the Battle of Britain. Towards the end of 1940, when the threat of invasion was past,
the 5th New Zealand Brigade came back by sea and arrived
in the Middle East early in March 1941, just in time to join
up with the rest of the New Zealand Division and take part
in the campaign in Greece. This campaign ended quickly, and
after evacuation from the beaches near Athens the Battalion
was taken to Crete, where it fought right through the short
campaign. The Battalion was given the most difficult task of
all, to try to hold the Maleme airfield.
After Crete had fallen, the Battalion took part in a series of
successful actions in the Libyan campaign (1941) in the operations about Bardia and in the advance to Gazala.
After that campaign the Division moved to Syria and stayed
there until the middle of June 1942, when it moved back to
the Western Desert and took an active part in the defence of
Egypt. The 22nd suffered heavy casualties when it was overrun by the 15th Panzer Division at Ruweisat Ridge. It fought
again with distinction at Alam Haifa and Alamein. It was then
decided to turn the 4th Brigade into an Armoured Brigade,
and the 22nd Battalion was converted into a Motor Battalion.
It came across to Italy with the rest of the Division and had
a long record of fighting in the Italian campaign.
At the end of 1944, with the end of the war in sight, the
Division was short of infantry, and the 22nd Battalion was reconverted into an infantry battalion and formed part of the
9th New Zealand Infantry Brigade. It fought with distinction
near Rimini, at Faenza, and in the very successful battles that
ended the war in Italy, where it attacked and fought from the
Senio right through to Trieste. The Battalion then went with
J Force to Japan, where it was disbanded.
The Battalion had a series of very capable Commanding
Officers, who led it with great dash and skill. Colonel Andrew,
VC, brought the Battalion from New Zealand and stayed with
it all through 1941. He was succeeded by Colonel John Russell,
who was killed at Alam Haifa, Colonels Campbell, Donald and
O'Reilly, who commanded the Battalion with distinction.
This excellent history tells a story which should be widely
read. I hope it will have the success that it deserves.
Deputy Constable and Lieutenant-Governor,Windsor Castle7 November 1956
Preface
The author, on ending his two and a half years' task and all
too conscious of so many brave men and acts unrecorded,
wishes particularly to thank Brigadier Andrew, VC, Colonel
A. W. O'Reilly, Majors Stan Johnson, R. E. Johnston, Bob
Knox, Keith Hutcheson, Len Turner, and Captain E. B.
Paterson, Padres Thorpe, Champion, Martin Sullivan and Sergel;
R. R. Foreman, Mick Bradford, Bart Cox, Stewart Nairn, Lloyd
Grieve, George Orsler, Bob Grant, Ian Ferguson, John Collins,
Doug George, C. H. Stone, and many others for ungrudging
and generous help; Tom De Lisle (unit historian, who blazed
a brave preliminary trail through a jungle of war diaries);
branches and officials of the 22 Battalion Association (especially
Taranaki); the anonymous war diarist who covered the Alamein
attack; the understanding and patient Editor-in-Chief and staff
of the War History Branch; and ‘my wife Jill who stoically endured every campaign of the Battalion.’
Contents
pageforewordviiprefaceix1these were the men12maleme, crete343libya, 1941844into 1942 and syria1315minqar qaim1486disaster on ruweisat1627alamein1858to italy2199across the sangro23410cassino26511la romola30512adriatic33713casa elta38414‘hell of a crack’41315japan450appendix: rugby memories461roll of honour467summary of casualties474honours and awards475commanding officers476index477
List of Illustrations
FrontispieceGerman Tiger tank captured at La Romola, 31 July 1944NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Following page 68Original officers of 22 BattalionL. W. Andrew collectionSecond Echelon men parade for showers, TrenthamC. BoyerBorax, the unit's mascot, on parade in EnglandA. H. De LisleSir Cyril Newall inspects 22 Battalion in England,
December 1940L. W. Andrew collectionLooking east from the exit of the gorge on the eastern
side of Olympus PassW. G. McClymontGreece: a troop train moves through the mountains towards the front
Looking towards Mount Olympus from DholikhiC. W. HawkinsThe evacuation from Greece—5 Brigade troops on HMSGlengyleGerman planes burning on Maleme airfieldE. K. S. RoweAerial photograph of Maleme airfieldBritish OfficialGerman troops waiting to embark for CreteCaptured German filmHelwan, July 1941: Lieutenant-Colonel L. W. Andrew and
his battalion on return from CreteNZ ArmyBringing in German wounded, November 1941G. SilkCaptured members of B Company at BardiaGerman film, G. Order collectionBren carrier with German machine gun, Gazala,
December 1941W. C. Hart collectionLieutenant W. C. Hart, Les Murphy and Jack Weir rest on
the way back from GazalaW. C. Hart collectionPlaying cards under the olive trees at HaifaRev. T. E. Champion collection17 Platoon's camp on the Syria-Turkey borderD. R. Hodgson collectionCaptain Fred Oldham shaving in the Syrian desertA. H. De Lisle22 Battalion digs in at Minqar QaimW. A. WhitlockA meal at KapongaA. H. De LisleSgt Keith Elliott, VCNZ Army (H. Paton)Troops debus the day before the attack on
Ruweisat RidgeR. M. Jaspers collectionGeneral Freyberg joins Captain MacDuff and members
of B Company in a mug of tea, 26 October 1942C. F. Whitty collectionTanks burning on Miteiriya RidgeC. F. Whitty collectionUnloading supplies at Sollum, November 1942C. F. Whitty collectionMoving through the minefield at Siwa Road, November
1942C. F. Whitty collection22 Battalion Pipe Band, Maadi, 1943R. Moody collection22 Battalion prisoners of war at Stalag VIIIBL. PahlOfficers of 22 (Motor) Battalion, Maadi, June 1943Mess queue during the march from Maadi to Burg el Arab,
September 1943I. FordFollowing page 268‘Biwies’ at Burg el ArabJ. Lewis collectionGoing ashore at TarantoNZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Aerial view of the crossroads to Castelfrentano and
Guardiagrele in the Sangro River area, January 1944NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Brigadier Inglis chats with members of 2 Company
at SalarolaA. H. De Lisle8 Platoon, I Company, just out of CassinoJ. C. Cullimore collection12 PlatoonA. H. De LisleSnow-capped Monte Cairo and the Monastery guard
the junction of the Liri and Rapido valleysF. H. Williams collectionThe courtyard of the castle at Vicalvi, June 1944NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)La RomolaC. S. Barnden collectionPoint 361—the battalion's final objective in the advance
to FlorenceC. S. Barnden collection12 Platoon before the move to the AdriaticA. H. De LisleI. F. Thompson receives a wireless message, Rimini,
September 1944NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Following page 300D. Charlwood prepares a meal near RiminiNZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Panther turret captured by 22 Battalion near Rimini,
September 1944P. W. Hector22 Battalion rugby team which won the Freyberg Cup,
December 1944NZ Army (G. Bull)A village priest brings in refugees from German-occupied areas near Faenza, December 1944NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)D Company headquarters, January 1945Unit photographerA machine gun covers the Senio stopbank,
January 1945P. W. HectorThe attack across the Senio River begins,
9 April 1945NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)QM trucks at Massa Lombarda, April 1945R. CostelloDon Horn, Sid Benson and Major Reg Spicer with a
mortar captured at the Reno River, April 1945K. J. MacKenzie collectionFerrying trucks across the Piave, April 1945R. CostelloGerman prisoners pushing their vehicles near Trieste, May 1945NZ Army (G. F. Kaye)C Company parades in Trieste, May 1945R. Costello22 Battalion controlling the Japanese repatriation centre at Senzaki
Resting during manoeuvres, November 194622 Battalion War DiaryLt-Col J. T. RussellRev. T. E. Champion collectionLt-Col T. C. CampbellNZ ArmyLt-Col D. G. SteeleD. G. Steele collectionLt-Col H. V. DonaldNZ Army (G. F. Kaye)Lt-Col A. F. W. O'ReillyA. F. W. O'Reilly collectionLt-Col W. B. ThomasNZ Army (G. F. Kaye)
List of Maps
Facing pageGreece1Crete35Egypt and Cyrenaica101Central and Eastern Mediterranean135El Alamein169Southern Italy235Northern Italy301In textPageOlympus Pass positions, 5 Brigade, April 194112Fifth Brigade, Maleme, 20 May 1941365 Brigade positions around Bardia, November 1941101The Attack on Gazala, 12-16 December 1941125Eastern Mediterranean13521 Panzer Division encircles Minqar Qjaim, 27 June 1942151Ruweisat Ridge, dawn 15 July 1942171Miteiriya Ridge, 5 and 6 Brigade positions, dawn 24 October 1942202Sangro River-Orsogna area, November ig43-January 1944241Salarola junction, 2 December 1943249Cassino269The Advance to Florence308Attack on Monticelli, 14 September 1944342Advance to Rio Fontanaccia, 23-24 September 1944359From the Fontanaccia to the Uso, 24-26 September 19443664 Armoured Brigade's attack to the Savio, 19-20 October 1944377Casa Elta attack, 15 December 1944, and advance to the Senio394From the Senio to the Adige, 9-27 April 1945422From Padua to San Dona di Piave433
The occupations given in the biographical footnotes are those on enlistment.
The ranks are those held on discharge or at the date of death.
CHAPTER 1
These Were the Men
This, after all their travelling, was the most important
voyage of the lot—the voyage to Greece. Twenty-second
Battalion was sick of ships, tired of delays and rumours and
endless route marches and moving on again, impatient of other
men (sailors, airmen) protecting them, fighting the war for
them. Now they had crossed the Mediterranean to Greece, a
crowded train had taken them far into the north, and as the
Germans struck from the vassal state of Bulgaria, they moved
quickly into the mountains, into the woods and shadows of
Olympus Pass. They prepared defences as best they could
(barbed wire, weapon pits, a few mines) and shortly before
midnight on 14 April 1941 they heard a faint echo and throb
which grew and surged into a roar of engines as the enemy
came up the road to Olympus.
They were about to become infantrymen. This time, nobody
would be in front.
I would like to tell of the days in Trentham Camp, when
Lieutenant-Colonel Andrew, VC,
Brig L. W. Andrew, VC, DSO, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Ashhurst, 23 Mar 1897; Regular soldier; Wellington Regt 1915-19; CO 22 Bn Jan 1940-Feb 1942;
comd 5 Bde 27 Nov-6 Dec 1941; Area Commander, Wellington, Nov 1943-Dec 1946; Commander, Central Military District, Apr 1948-Mar 1952.
addressing the first parade
of his battalion, said: ‘My name is Andrew: A-N-D-R-E-W.
There is no “s”. And I'm the boss.’ How men would watch
their officers, rather pale in the face and obviously shaken,
leaving the Colonel's midday conferences. Colonel Andrew was
a strict (too strict, some say) disciplinarian; he saw to it that
his battalion drilled and route-marched like no other battalion
in 2 NZEF. Right from the start this tall, lean man with a
stiff black moustache was determined that his battalion would
be welded into a unit (‘22nd. Vrai et Forte! Second to None’),
armed with what scanty weapons we had in those early days,
and doubly armed with the armour of self-discipline.
And soon they were calling him ‘February’ because of his
automatic sentence when rules were broken: ‘28 days’ detention’.
Trentham: the first big step: the foundation for what was
to follow: ‘that air of adventure and great things to come
period of life’. Then gradually, very gradually, getting further
away from home and nearer the enemy through weeks of sailing,
marching, or being mucked about, then maybe a distant air
raid or war damage, then the sound of artillery in the distance,
gradually getting closer, then seeing the first enemy shell
land….
The men found Trentham ‘so suddenly different from what
I had been used to: the place which created the atmosphere
in which we were to live for so long. The general expression
of chaps going into camp (“We're in the army now, so—'em
all”)—those laughs we had at PT—the first roll calls and
one-stop-two—mess parades and growling about the food—
learning to salute and say “sir”—quiet talks by our brand
new N.C.O.'s: “You do the right thing by us chaps and
Corporal X— and I will see you right”—the early risers
roundly cursed, the man with “that terrible laugh of his”, the
sleeper who ground his teeth horribly—all that folding blankets,
polishing brass and rushing to get on parade in the morning
—the tremendous indecision whether greatcoats would be
carried and groundsheets worn or vice versa—the RSM's voice
—the bullring (“Never walk across there, it's sacred ground
and it would be more than your life is worth”)—picking up
paper and cigarette butts on cold mornings—… arms inspections—the first day on the rifle range (some hit the target and
some didn't)—fatigues—final leave—vaccinations—exploring
the ship—looking at Mount Egmont fading in the distance
(it was the last we saw of New Zealand) and wondering how
long before we would see it again, that's if….’
I would like to tell of the voyage to Britain, defiant and
alone (but all voyages are the same)
Yet this 5th Reinforcement troopship memory shows the link across the years:
‘The OC Troops was Col. Turnbull, an old Dig whose pet aversion was long hair.
After one particularly sarcastic lecture he rocked the whole show by referring to
many as “Enaus”—talk about a flap—never heard that one before—much speculation until eventually a definition came up: “A woolly looking animal with long
matted hair, probably lousy.” The reaction was terrific and in a matter of hours
every conceivable sort of hairdo appeared—bald types, top-knots, cowlicks and
some furrowed like a ploughed field. Col. Turnbull was OK though, and I well
remember on disembarkation at Tewfik, as he was standing watching us pull away
in the barges a wag sang out: “Hooray, Enau.” The old boy lifted a hand and his
emotion was evident to all and had a sobering effect—his own memories probably
of similar circumstances 27 years before.’
; of the English hospitality
and the church of Hollingbourne in Kent, where the vicar,
Rev. E. A. Norman, hung the battalion flag, and it hangs there
still today; of the German armada winging in over Kent as the
Battle of Britain opened, and the battalion waiting on the
coast by Maidstone for the invasion which never came; of the
night when the battalion suffered its first casualties in a bombing raid when Ian Holms
Pte I. S. G. Holms; born Featherston, 27 Aug 1913; nurseryman; killed in action 27 Oct 1940.
was killed and three others wounded;
and of the long voyage, past the Cape of Good Hope again,
to three brief weeks in Egypt before embarking for Greece.
But all this was preparing for war—an elusive war which
seemed to sidestep the battalion. This would take up many
pages, which instead will go to longer descriptions of the battalion in battle, and what men remember there. For a battalion's task is to fight, a battalion is a battle-axe in the very
forefront of the fray, and the infantryman's lot is privation,
great bleak stretches of boredom and wasted time, danger,
fatigue, teamwork. And great pain cannot be described: the
mind will not remember.
Colonel Andrew had learned all this the hard way, first as
a lance-corporal in the First World War when he won the
Victoria Cross at Warneton Road, near Messines. Leading two
sections, he seized a machine gun and charged on to take a
second machine gun. Then, taking a private with him, he went
on another 300 yards to take a third machine-gun post and a
nearby strongpoint in the cellar of an inn called ‘In Der
Rooster Cabaret’. After the war he served with a British regiment in India and became a Regular soldier in the New Zealand Army. With his route marches, his curt ‘28 days’, his insistence on discipline—discipline—discipline (although his
successor, Lieutenant-Colonel Russell,
Lt-Col J. T. Russell, DSO, m.i.d.; born Hastings, 11 Nov 1904; farmer; 2 i/c
Div Cav 1941; CO 22 Bn 7 Feb-6 Sep 1942; wounded May 1941; killed in
action 6 Sep 1942.
would win devotion
from a totally different outlook), Colonel Andrew worked for
(or demanded) ‘that pride in unit’ which would create a particular spirit of its own, a collective strength and unity which
can be spoken about by many but which can be known only
by the rifleman.
Out of a battalion numbering about 32 officers and 740 men, only about 350, or
less than half, actually went forward with rifle and bayonet, automatic weapons,
radio set, and first-aid equipment.
It would lead to an officer speaking with a
jealous possessiveness of ‘my boys’, so that certain officers, lying
freshly wounded in hospital, would be as merry as crickets until
the news came: ‘The Battalion's going in.’ Then they would
fall silent, wondering if the men who had taken their places
would be sufficiently shrewd, would not underestimate the cunning German, would take full care of ‘my boys’. And at times,
all through the restless night, these men would cry out or mutter
encouragement, warnings and advice as once more they led
their men forward in their sleep.
It would lead to a man jumping on to a grenade to lose his
life in attempting to save his companions; it would carry a
man forward when mentally and physically he was utterly
incapable of further exertion. When Captain Young
Lt-Col R. R. T. Young, DSO; Richmond, England; born Wellington, 25 Jun 1902; oil company executive; CO School of Instruction Feb-Apr 1943; CO
28 (Maori) Bn Dec 1943-Jul 1944, Aug-Nov 1944; wounded 26 Dec 1943.
made an
‘impossible’ escape in the desert, his main thought was ‘to get
back to my battalion at any cost’. The first New Zealand officer
to escape from Germany (Colin Armstrong,
Maj C. N. Armstrong, MC and bar, ED; Wanganui; born Wanganui, 12 Sep 1910; barrister and solicitor; p.w. 27 Nov 1941; escaped (from Poland) Oct 1943;
2 i/c 22 Bn Nov 1944-Jun 1945.
an original member of the battalion) would write in his book, Life Without
Ladies, that escapers ‘have justified themselves in their own eyes
and in the eyes of their people and their regiments.’ Another
officer, shockingly wounded, refused to die ‘because—well, I
was determined to live: call it by the old military term “Maintenance of the Aim” if you like.’ It would make a man, wounded
in action and receiving rough yet tender care from his comrades,
write: ‘At that moment I was proud to belong to 22 Battalion.’
And it would lead to Colonel Andrew himself admitting: ‘In
the presence of these men, one felt humble.’
The battalion also would produce a man who gave trouble
before going into action, and who on the night of one attack
fell sobbing and completely demoralised near the start line
while shells exploded about the poised platoon. Two other men
‘were about to go too’; if they went, most of the platoon would
crumble. After some straight talk, insisting that the man was
going in whatever happened, the platoon officer seized him
by the neck, held him erect off the ground, ‘and tried to shake
some guts into him, but in vain.’ So, towing him by an arm,
they dragged him along the ground, along with them into
battle. This man, later sent back to a cold reception from the
same platoon, on his own initiative took complete control of
the platoon and led it to success in a night of chaos when all
its leaders were lost or wounded. This man has every right to
consider himself among the great men of the battalion.
But the backbone of any battalion is no heroic figure but
the ordinary man (‘He's the one who counts,’ as Colonel
O'Reilly
Lt-Col A. W. F. O'Reilly, MC, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Dunedin, 24 Apr 1906;
schoolteacher; CO 22 Bn 22 Nov 1944-24 Mar 1945; twice wounded.
says), who quietly leaves his civilian life, quietly and
steadily performs his army duties, and then, just as unostentatiously, disappears into civilian life again. Such a man is a
private who has contributed a great deal to this book. He
expresses the feelings of most New Zealand soldiers when he
writes: ‘Anyone would think by the way I write that I really
enjoyed the war. But nothing could be further from the point
as I don't think anybody could hate war any more than I do.
And as for army life—I could never picture myself taking it
up as a career. Still on the other hand there were those good
times, and I have always liked travel. And there was that comradeship which I haven't experienced to the same extent in
civvy street. In fact when I first got home I never wanted to
have anything more to do with the previous four years—it
wasn't until a few years later that I started to take an interest
in what had happened. But now I have even read quite a few
books on World War 2 and look forward to going to reunions.’
He later writes: ‘To my mind, two things which showed up
the wrongness and hell of war: when we were together, the
Platoon or Company, some of us may have stopped to wonder
how many of us would come through. Then one day a shell
or something would come over and we would hear that so-
and-so had been killed. Then you would realise how often it
was that one of the best had gone (not that you wanted to
pick out anyone else to take his place). But until then you hadn't
given it a thought that he would die. Sometimes he was a well-known character, but more often—it seems—he wasn't well-known. But as soon as he had gone the atmosphere in which
we lived our lives changed, and you realised that the part of
that atmosphere that was missing now had, before that, been
filled by so-and-so, and his passing had left something missing.
‘Another instance was the shelled or bombed village or town.
I remember especially once in Italy we were going along in
the trucks to take up a new position and just before we entered
a town we stopped, and immediately we heard a hell of a
racket just ahead—Jerry was shelling hell out of the place—
just a continuous crashing cracking and crumping. When it
stopped we moved on through the town. The dust was everywhere—just like mist forming in the evening (it was evening),
and the smell of dust, explosives and rubble (any who have
experienced that smell will remember it) lying on the still warm
air. A dead cow. And about half a dozen Italians—some men
and women and one or two children—standing or walking by
some rubble—their heads down taking no notice of us and
looking pretty dazed. They looked as though they may have
been looking for something. The old saying came to mind: “We
call ourselves civilised”. It wasn't only that it was happening
in Italy but in so many other places—and could happen in
N.Z.—and yet no one wanted it to happen.’
It is difficult to describe or define this collective strength and
the feelings of men for their battalion. ‘Scotch’ Paterson,
Capt E. B. Paterson, MC; Howick, Auckland; born Edinburgh, 3 Jun 1911;
company managing director; wounded 8 Aug 1944.
who
during his two years with the battalion rose from corporal to
company commander and won the MC, writes:
I think a man's consciousness of the battalion varied with both
the rank he held and his length of time in it. I know as a corporal,
for my first two months the idea of the battalion was more or less
as we would now look upon the world—its limits extended beyond
your immediate horizon. You did not actually seem aware of anything outside the battalion—the rest of the army, or the Division,
were too far away from your ken altogether. Other companies in
the battalion touched your consciousness only vaguely. Your immediate world was bound up, not even so much in the company as in
the platoon.
‘And not without reason,’ writes Colonel O'Reilly, ‘for when the battle's joined
in an infantry attack, things are really over to the platoon. Time and again Company Headquarters lost touch, but in the morning following the attack, the platoons
were on their objective.’
The platoon was the fighting unit, the unit you actually lived in,
and even that was brought down to a small world in the section.
You ate with, slept with, fought with those in the section. You knew
those in the other two sections and you relied on them in a fight to
support you and help you as two distinct units in the same way that
your own section working as a unit tried to help the other two. You
didn't know, however, the chaps in the other sections with anything
like the same degree of intimacy. Generally in a battle you felt the
strength of the platoon rather than the battalion.
On the other hand, by the time the battalion started in Italy as
I knew it, the battalion had established certain traditions. The old
hands in the platoon, maybe a corporal, a sergeant, maybe one of
the privates in a section or the driver of the platoon truck had
stories of men who had gone before. I well remember the scathing
comment of our platoon sergeant to one of us who had offended in
some way or another: ‘You'd never get away with that if Les Andrew
was here.’ It was a real rebuke.
On the other hand too, while we seemed to be intensely proud
of our platoon, we were equally so of the company and, in a larger
way, of the battalion. You didn't want to let the company down—
although ‘Company’ didn't mean so much a group of men in my
mind at the time, as a stern looking soldierly stocky man, who for
all his apparent ruthlessness would duck and dive his way through
every night without fail, under at times really terrific shell and small
arms fire, to our positions in Cassino with a sandbag full of hot pies
baked for the boys by Terry the cook somewhere in B Echelon [the
non-fighting part of the unit]. Haddon Donald
Lt-Col H. V. Donald, DSO, MC, m.i.d., Legion of Merit (US); Masterton;
born Masterton, 20 Mar 1917; company director; CO 22 Bn May-Nov 1944,
Mar-Aug 1945; four times wounded.
used to arrive that
way about midnight as a rule, and would go round in the dark,
stand beside one of the boys as he peered through a hole in the wall
out into the dark, and call him quietly by his first name or his nickname, thrusting a very squashed but very, very acceptable pie into
his hand. ‘How's it going, Noel?’
I should think there would be quite a number of men who never
knew much more than the men in their section before they headed
home on a hospital ship. On the other hand a great many more,
staying long enough to see the battalion out of the line a few times,
would come to know at least the company or to get a broader view
of the battalion and identify themselves with it as a unit. As you
climbed in rank, of course, you automatically came into the picture.
However, though you knew you depended on the artillery, on the
tanks and all the supporting weapons behind you, I think, going into
an attack, the strength you felt you really relied upon was the strength
of the platoon, since you knew that as a last resort that may be all
that was left to you. An instance of this was the attack on La Romola
when in the confusion such as I had never known before or since—
smoke, dust and noise—the attacking force of 3 Company was really
for a great part of the night a number of small bands of men, each
group carrying on up the hill not sure whether there was any of the
rest of the company left or not. We all met up eventually near the
top, but for a time I doubt whether anyone realised there were any
others still on the go.
Later in Italy after a few spells out of the line there were opportunities to gain a battalion outlook—helped no doubt by such things
as the brigade sports meetings—the training period at Fabriano when
the NCO's of the battalion were able to get together for a fortnight
on their own—company farewells to chaps going home, and so on.
I have always thought that ‘the old hands’ were really the men
who won the war. They knew the fighting when things were tough,
when it was the men rather than the materials which carried the
day—when the end of the war was just nowhere in sight at all and
yet men carried on doing sometimes almost incredible things. These
were the men (privates and nco's in the early days) who carried that
fighting spirit on into their units as nco's and officers in the times
that I knew. They were the ‘old digs’—you could tell them by their
eyes.
These were the men, still untried in battle, who awaited the
German now at Olympus.
* * * * *
Twenty-second Battalion's path to the battle-front had been
long and devious.
First battalion parade at 7 p.m. on 18 January 1940 at
Trentham. Men from these districts form the companies: A,
Wellington; B, north of Wellington along the west coast; C,
Hawke's Bay and Wairarapa; D, Taranaki. First route march
on 7 February from Trentham to Wallaceville bridge; ‘casualties were not numerous,’ notes the war diary. The battalion
pipe band, six drummers and six pipers under Lance-Corporal
Cameron,
L-Cpl E. S. Cameron; Wanganui; born Scotland, 28 Dec 1908; clerk.
leads the march. (The pipes had been presented
by New Zealand Scots through the president of the Highland
Society of New Zealand, Mr E. D. Cameron, who later worked
to replace pipes chopped up in Greece.) The battalion marches
through Wellington on 27 April, and sails
The officers when the battalion embarked were: CO: Lt-Col L. W. Andrew; 2 i/c: Maj G. J. McNaught; Adjt: Capt P. G. Monk;
IO: Lt W. W. Mason; MO: Lt W. M. Manchester; QM: Lt T. Thornton;
Padre: Rev. W. E. W. Hurst; RSM: WO I S. A. R. Purnell; HQ Coy: Capt E. F.
Laws, Lts G. G. Beaven, E. J. McAra, D. F. Anderson, M. G. Wadey, H. R.
Harris, 2 Lt L. Leeks. A Coy: Capts J. W. Bain, J. Moore, Lts W. G. Slade,
R. B. Fell, G. C. D. Laurence. B Coy: Capts S. Hanton, T. C. Campbell, Lt S. H.
Johnson, 2 Lts C. N. Armstrong, T. G. N. Carter. C. Coy: Maj J. Leggat, Capt W.
Bourke, Lt K. R. S. Crarer, 2 Lts H. V. Donald, E. E. Tyrell. D Coy: Maj J. G. C.
Leach, Capt I. A. Hart, Lts W. G. Lovie, L. B. Clapham, 2 Lt P. R. Hockley.
Reinfs: Lts E. T. Pleasants, E. H. Simpson, 2 Lts B. V. Davison, F. G. Oldham,
C. I. C. Scollay, J. L. MacDuff, T. R. Hawthorn.
from Pipitea Wharf
on 2 May in the 43,000-ton liner Empress of Britain, with ‘Borax’,
a fox-terrier mascot, smuggled aboard.
The convoy increases off the east coast of Australia: the Queen
Mary joins the escorted ships now carrying some 8000 New
Zealanders and 8000 Australians. Shore leave at Perth. The
convoy is diverted south in the Indian Ocean on 15 May to
reach Capetown on the 26th. The battalion's first decoration
and first death: John Ormond
Capt J. D. W. Ormond, BEM, m.i.d.; Waipukurau; born NZ 8 Sep 1905;
farmer; wounded 20 Apr 1941.
dives overboard into swift and
shark-infested waters in an attempt to rescue a sergeant (from
1 NZ General Hospital), and is awarded the BEM; Norm
Traynor
Pte N. S. Traynor; born NZ 13 Apr 1913; electrician; accidentally killed
28 May 1940.
dies of head injuries received ashore. A short call
at Freetown to refuel (France falls, Italy enters the war).
On 16 June the great convoy sails up the Clyde to anchor off
Gourock. To Mytchett (near Aldershot): route marching, training, finding the rations slender, and a visit by King George VI.
In July battle dress replaces brass-buttoned uniforms (‘giggle
suits’). The battalion's first ‘mechanised move’ in double-decker buses on 11 July to ‘Hog's Back’. In August the Second
Echelon's ‘100-mile route march’. In mid-August the Battle
for Britain begins, and early in September Mr Churchill
pays a visit. To Warren Wood and Hollingbourne (six miles
from Maidstone, Kent), to coastal positions awaiting the
invasion which does not come. Men make their first acquaintance of English farming methods ‘and some of them never got
over it.’ As Lieutenant Freddie Oldham
Maj F. G. Oldham; born NZ 6 Nov 1912; bank clerk; wounded 24 Oct 1942;
killed in action 30 Nov 1943.
wrote:
And why the man in front of horse?
His father taught him to, of course.
Bombing delays leave trains. Colonel Andrew to late comers:
‘You know that trains are likely to be delayed. You should
have left a day earlier. 28 days' detention.’ Manoeuvres, the
troops rather bewildered and critically short of equipment, with
London Division (men with flags represent tanks). On the night
of 27-28 October a bomber jettisons its bombs: one man killed,
Private Ian Holms, the battalion's first death from enemy action,
and three wounded in A Company. To winter quarters at
Camberley, near Mytchett Camp, ‘responsible for countering
any action by enemy parachutists or other airborne troops’.
Camps left by other units in an ‘appalling state’; Brigadier
Hargest
Brig J. Hargest, CBE, DSO and bar, MC, m.i.d.; born Gore, 4 Sep 1891;
farmer; Member of Parliament 1931-44; Otago Mtd Rifles 1914-20 (CO 2 Bn
Otago Regt); comd 5 Bde May 1940-Nov 1941; p.w. 27 Nov 1941; escaped Italy, Mar 1943; killed in action, France, 12 Aug 1944.
in a letter congratulates 22 Battalion on the most
creditable ‘striking contrast’ with its late quarters—and asks
for fifty men from the battalion to clear up other units' litter.
At the foot of the letter Colonel Andrew notes: ‘I wonder
whether it will continue thus throughout war service with the
5 Bde in this war.’ More route marches to the skirl of ‘The
Pibroch of Donald Dhu’, the battalion regimental march.
Advance party of sixty-nine (including Lieutenants Clapham
Maj L. B. Clapham; Opunake; born Tokomaru, 10 Jul 1917; motor mechanic;
wounded 20 May 1941.
and Anderson
Maj D. F. Anderson; Wairoa; born Ashburton, 19 Mar 1911; stock agent;
wounded 24 Oct 1942.
) leaves for the Settler and Elizabethville at Liverpool in mid-December. Early in a freezing New Year the battalion sails from Newport, Wales, in the ‘Drunken Duchess’
(or Duchess of Bedford), and reaches Egypt on 3 March after a
hot, cramped voyage with poor food. Three weeks in Egypt,
then the battalion, packed into the small steamer, Hellas, sails
for Piraeus harbour, near Athens, Greece.
* * * * *
The battalion had moved back to Olympus from Katerini
on 8 April 1941 (two days after Germany declared war on
Greece), to join Major Hart's
Maj I. A. Hart, m.i.d.; born NZ 24 Oct 1904; barrister and solicitor; died of
wounds 2 Nov 1942.
large advance party preparing
weapon pits in the gorge. The battalion plugged the gap between 23 Battalion, on the steep right flank, and 28 (Maori)
Battalion on the equally rough left. They straddled the main
road leading south to Athens. Along this road through the gorge
the main attack would come. Close by were a turbulent river
and the Petras tuberculosis sanatorium, partly German staffed
and, curiously enough, not evacuated.
Everyone worked hard, putting finishing touches to existing
weapon pits, preparing new ones, improving bush tracks, and
entrenching. Reserve ammunition, rations, and quantities of
barbed wire came up along steep, winding mule tracks. Anything approaching a road would be destroyed when the enemy
drew near. The pioneers, under Lieutenant Wadey,
Capt M. G. Wadey; Wanganui; born Wanganui, 3 Apr 1913; foreman
plumber; wounded and p.w. 23 May 1941.
bridged
the small Elikon River for emergency access to C and A Companies; signallers with Lieutenant Beaven
Maj G. G. Beaven; Auckland; born Palmerston North, 12 Apr 1910; clerk,
NZR; wounded 22 May 1941.
put down telephone
wires linking companies and Battalion Headquarters. The battalion held a complicated position almost two and a half miles
long over very rough, wooded country. A deep ravine to the
right of the pass road severed the front, which was cut up further by steep faces, rock, and loose shingle. As one man said:
‘It was hellava country to wire …. A very tough, wiry,
stumpy bush smothered in thorns grew along the faces, and
we tied all these bushes together with barbed wire. This made
pretty tough obstacles almost impossible to get through.’
Every platoon had taken up front-line positions and the only
reserve was the pioneer platoon. Battalion Headquarters was
back about a mile by the main road. A Company (Captain
Hanton
Maj S. Hanton, ED; Wanganui; born Forfar, Scotland, 6 Aug 1908; printer;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
) linked up with B Company 23 Battalion on a ridge
just south of and overlooking the white-walled sanatorium. A
Company men ‘felt rather peculiar’ digging weapon pits in full
view of potential enemies, the German members of the unmolested medical staff. C Company (Major Hart) followed the
ridge north of the sanatorium to the Elikon River. Across the
deep, wooded ravine B Company (Captain Laws
Maj E. F. Laws, ED; Wanganui; born Napier, 9 May 1904; accountant.
) barred the
main road. Eleven Platoon overlooked the main bridge spanning a side stream and had a forward post perched in the cliff
face. This platoon was covered by 10 Platoon, alongside on
higher ground. Twelve Platoon, on still higher ground, was a
little further back. Finally D Company (Captain Campbell
Col T. C. Campbell, CBE, DSO, MC, m.i.d.; Waiouru; born Colombo, 20 Dec 1911; farm appraiser; CO 22 Bn 6 Sep 1942-18 Apr 1944; comd 4 Armd Bde
Jan-Dec 1945; Commander of Army Schools, 1951-53; Commander, Fiji Military
Forces, 1953-56; Commandant, Waiouru Military Camp, Dec 1956-.
),
linking with the Maori Battalion, was astride a most inferior,
no-exit road leading to a settlement called Skotina. Lieutenant
McAra
Lt E. J. McAra; born Dunedin, 5 Apr 1906; commercial artist; killed in
action 20 May 1941.
set up his mortars on an outcrop nicknamed ‘Gibraltar’. He had trained his mortar men to perfection, and the
steep-fronted outcrop covering the front was an outstanding
mortar position. The battalion Bren carriers camped alongside
the road by Gibraltar. Twelve Platoon of 27 (Machine Gun)
Battalion, taking up high ground behind C Company and
covering most of the land between the road and the sanatorium,
supported the battalion. Two-pounder guns of 32 Battery 7
Anti-Tank Regiment supported B Company and elsewhere.
Incidentally, none of these anti-tank guns covered the approaches to the front. They would come into action (cold comfort for 22 Battalion's riflemen) only when the companies were
overrun. This siting of the guns was the fashion after the French
and Belgian débâcle, and one anti-tank gunner dryly remarked
that a tank ‘would have to be dropped by parachute before he
could have a crack at it.’ About three miles back the 25-pounders of 5 Field Regiment, experiencing trouble with crest clearance, completed the supporting arms.
The crisp air and the solid work gave yet more zest to men
already fighting fit. ‘Never,’ noted one officer, ‘have these
fellows been more cheerful or willing.’ It was spring, and a
strange clicking noise, like slithering pebbles, alarmed many
a lonely sentry in the night until New Zealanders discovered
the tortoises were mating. Here and there little patches of
primroses, hyacinths and violets grew wild among fir and cypress woods, and looking up, a man could glimpse the snowy
peaks of Mount Olympus. Stories, not of ancient gods but of
deer on Mount Olympus, sent a hunting party from 14 Platoon
out one evening, and after an arduous climb, when only tracks
of deer were seen, the hunters returned with a plump calf:
‘mistaken for a fawn’ was the excuse. It was expertly quartered
and boiled in a benzine tin, and the veal handsomely supplemented the platoon's rations, for food was not plentiful at
Olympus. Even a sackful of sodden dog biscuits found in an
old ammunition dump were boiled into a mash and eaten by
B Company.
Delicacies came the way of 9 Platoon when, on the cold, raw
night of 10 April, the German medical staff of the sanatorium
stole away undetected, leaving the patients helpless. This was
discovered in the morning by Lieutenant ‘Snowy’ Leeks,
Maj L. Leeks; Melbourne; born Wanganui, 22 Nov 1914; insurance clerk;
twice wounded.
who
had been suspicious of the place for some time. Some 5 Brigade
trucks evacuated the patients, and 9 Platoon enjoyed hospital-baked bread, rabbits, fowls, pork, and even a peacock. Some
titbits went back to Battalion Headquarters ‘to appease the
old man’. A case of brandy and cherry brandy quickly disappeared into water bottles, none reaching ‘the old man’.
Later on, strange sounds (quite unconnected with the brandy)
from the sanatorium vexed patrols: doors banged suddenly in
the night, and prowling dogs knocked over objects inside the
empty rooms.
Good Friday (11 April) dawned wet, cold and misty, and
next day, when the enemy was still out of sight, the CO called
off all except routine duties to let men light most welcome fires
and dry out sodden clothes and blankets. Padre Hurst
Very Rev. W. E. W. Hurst, m.i.d.; Dean of Dunedin; born Moira, Northern Ireland, 17 May 1912; p.w. 24 May 1941.
held
a small, simple and impressive eve-of-battle communion service
in his tent at the top of a ravine. That night more rain and
snow made conditions worse, turning roads and tracks into
quagmires and adding to the wretched plight of the refugees,
who a few days earlier had been allowed to pass, but now, with
the enemy expected any time, were given short shrift and sent
back the way they had come. Mixed among the refugees were
swarthy little Greek soldiers (some carrying their shoddy boots
and trudging along barefooted) in khaki uniforms recalling
1914-18 fashions. The Greek troops were let through the road
block, together with a weird piece of Greek artillery, a lumbering cannon on six-foot wheels drawn by an exhausted old
engine.
The last peaceful day passed—Easter Sunday (13 April
This day Capt Monk became 2 i/c B Coy, 2 Lt MacDuff replacing him as
Adjutant; Capt Campbell (2 i/c B Coy) took over D Coy; Maj J. Bain (D Coy)
had been evacuated sick.
).
Down by the riverbed Padre Hurst celebrated Holy Communion, using a large square stone for his altar in a natural
sanctuary, with the men sitting round on boulders in a natural
church. Many a man carried the memory of this Olympus
service with him until the end of his war days.
At 2 p.m. on Monday an enemy reconnaissance plane droned
slowly over the pines and cypresses concealing 22 Battalion,
and from that time onwards similar aircraft flew over 5 Brigade's positions, scorning the quite ineffectual fire from light
automatic weapons and impudently swooping so low that the
Iron Cross markings and sometimes the pilot himself were seen.
Three hours after the first German scouting plane appeared,
B Company watched the last Divisional Cavalry vehicle clatter
back; then the three 22 Battalion Bren carriers in front of the
road block were withdrawn, and an hour later the plunging
echoes from the last demolitions faded and died in the darkening mountains. The road bridges ahead were smashed, the
fifteen long months of training and preparation were ended,
and 22 Battalion, alert beside its weapons, faced the enemy.
The motor-cycles, headlights glaring, swung into sight. Before
they braked to a stop in front of the demolition, 11 Platoon
(Lieutenant Armstrong) opened fire with its Bren guns, and
the startled vanguard shrank back leaving, as was discovered
next morning, five wrecked motor-cycles, some with sidecars
and all with weapons, lying about the road. Simultaneously
advanced troops made a show of force across the front by firing
indiscriminately from machine guns, pistols and spandaus.
Tracer streamed and ricocheted through the night. Then the
firing died down and stopped, although enemy transport (still
using headlights freely) could be heard and seen collecting
strength further back. Two Germans blundering into wire received a ‘pincapple’ from Cam Weir.
Pte T. C. Weir; Otorohanga; born Taumarunui, 16 Sep 1908; labourer;
wounded and p.w. 16 Apr 1941.
Sentries in the forward
posts kept very much on the alert.
The next day (15 April) was rather an anti-climax. After
breakfast (in name only) news spread officially that Olympus
would be abandoned in the night. Although few men in the
battalion knew this at the time, another German force, after
invading a helpless Yugoslavia, had advanced through the
weakly defended Monastir Gap, in the north-west. Any further
advance would leave the whole Olympus range defences outflanked and cut off from behind. The Allies were to pull back
urgently, first to the Olympus-Aliakmon River line and then
to Greece's narrow waist at Thermopylae, where (they hoped)
a solid stand could be made on a short front. Two-thirds of
Greece would be lost in this sweeping withdrawal south.
News that 5 Brigade was to retreat to the southern end of
the pass in the night was rather a surprise, for the day was
fairly quiet, apart from short exchanges of fire in the early
morning and some shelling in the afternoon. It seemed that
the enemy, checked for the time on the road, was trying to
find a way round the flanks. Shortly after breakfast 22 Battalion
heard the Maori Battalio's mortars to the left open up for
half an hour to engage and drive back ‘five enemy tanks’,
actually tracked troop-carriers. Later from the right came the
sound of 23 Battalio's mortars engaging an enemy patrol, and
25-pounder shells passed overhead to scramble transport and
debussing troops.
Twenty-second Battalio's main labour of the day went into
preparing for the withdrawal, which was expected after nightfall. The companies started packing out some gear by mules
When this had been done, according to army regulations an acquittance roll had
to be made out for the muleteers. ‘There's nothing funny about trying to make an
alphabetical roll of scared mule-drivers when you don't know their language,’
recalls K. R. S. Crarer. ‘The roll never got more than half done.’
down slippery bush tracks to the road behind the front, where
trucks would take over. Unnecessary stores were destroyed,
and Barney Clapham, the transport officer, ‘very worried about
repercussions’, chopped up the battalion bagpipes.
An example of resourcefulness about this time was given by
the driver, Jack Hargreaves,
Pte J. R. C. Hargreaves; Te Whaiti; born Gisborne, 12 Oct 1912; millhand; wounded Nov 1941.
who loaded C Company's 15-
cwt truck with ammunition and the most important parts of
the company's stores, and attempted to get the truck out along
the partly built track (all access roads now were held by the
enemy). Starting off alone, Hargreaves got the truck not only
along the primitive track but also through scrub and rough
country before he was forced to abandon and destroy it. Tramping out alone, through miles of strange, rough country and
forest, he rejoined his unit.
Back in the battalion lines in the late afternoon the scream
of shells over forward areas showed that the enemy, making
full use of his reconnaissance planes still cruising over the pass,
was groping for the well-concealed 25-pounders. Soon the battalion would develop an accurate ear for shells, instantly distinguishing between the sound of an ‘inne’ (a shell heading
for your area) and the report of our own guns. Many a soldier
was almost indignantly surprised when the enemy suddenly
varied his range, and loud reports in the battalion area showed
that the 22nd was under enemy shelling for the first time. The
few’ 14-' 18 men in the battalion (no doubt wondering whether
they could stand up to it for a second time) found they recognised instantly the different sound between close and ‘safe’
shells – and also between rifle fire and machine–gunning:
bullets going pss–pss–pss were safe; bullets pinging, cracking or
buzzing like bees were close and dangerous. Colonel Andrew,
inspecting positions, heard one Kiwi advise another: ‘You
watch the old man. When he ducks, you duck.’ These random
shells caused two casualties, Sergeant Dillon
WOI D. G. Dillon; Patangata, Hawke's Bay; born NZ 12 Nov 1911; labourer;
wounded 15 Apr 1941.
(Battalion Headquarters) and Private Wright
Pte S. A. Wright; Hamilton; born Auckland, 16 Mar 1918; linesman; three
times wounded.
(a signaller attached to the
mortars), neither of them severely wounded.
An hour after the shelling started a verbal message from
Brigade said: ‘Hold everything 24 hours’; the retreat was postponed. In the evening mortar fire over the battalion area
caused no casualties. ‘Practically all the boys were awake all that
night,’ writes one man, ‘very few got more than an hour's
sleep, practically all our nerves being strung up so that we
heard many noises that we would not have noticed normally.
Excitement was pretty general and every Jerry patrol that
approached us was warmly welcomed.’
Late in the night, between midnight and 2 a.m., D Company's turn came. The company (left of the road and linking
with the Maori Battalion), with the rain, scrub and broken
ground, had a tough job covering the wire and minefield along
the whole of its front. Parties could be heard stumbling against
bushes in the darkness. Sergeant Jerry Fowler
2 Lt T. G. Fowler, MM, m.i.d.; Cambridge; born Kapuni, Taranaki, 16 Oct 1909; storeman.
fired his 2-inch
mortar towards one party and was annoyed at derisive cries
in English of ‘You'll have to do better than that!’ D Company,
thinking this a ruse to discover their positions, lay low, and in
the morning found their wire cut and all their carefully laid
mines by the little bridge removed—a game piece of work.
Soon after daybreak on 16 April the main enemy attack
began in an attempt to shoulder a way up the main road
through 22 Battalian in the centre. Tom Logie
Sgt T. Logie; born Scotland, 24 Jun 1905; butcher; killed in action 16 Apr 1941.
was the first
in the battalion to die in battle. Suddenly shelling began, short
of Headquarters Company's cookhouse in a dry riverbed. The
Colonel's batman, ‘Shorty’ Lawless,
Pte E. Lawless; Wellington; born England, 7 Aug 1914; seaman; p.w. 1 Jun 1941.
went to ground in a
muddy patch and lost the Colonel's pot of tea. Company Sergeant-Major Fraser,
WO II H. T. Fraser; Lower Hutt; born Wellington, 19 Feb 1902; motor
driver and salesman.
an old soldier, realised the shells were
falling short and began to laugh. ‘Twice again “Shorty” and
the tea parted company amidst uproarious laughter. [A minute
later a] shell landed right in the cookhouse. Tom was killed
almost instantly and another lad [Jack Tregea
Pte J. Tregea; Christchurch; born NZ 29 Nov 1914; moulder; wounded 16 Apr 1941.
] was hit in
the elbow.’ As the shells increased, Doctor Longmore
Maj L. H. V. Longmore; Christchurch; born Wellington, 19 Nov 1909; medical practitioner; RMO 22 Bn Dec 1940-May 1941; p.w. 21 May 1941; repatriated Nov 1943.
hurried
to the cookhouse while Padre Hurst and Sergeant Drake
Sgt J. Drake; Wellington; born Wellington, 26 Nov 1915; dairy inspector;
p.w. 21 May 1941.
collected his instruments. ‘We hurried back to find Tom just
passing on, and the Doc performed an immediate operation
to remove Tregea's forearm. It was a brave and skilful job,
well done and well taken,’ noted Padre Hurst. ‘I gave the
soldier the cigarette he asked for about two minutes after he
had been sewn up. How quickly great fun, our first fear and
I suppose reaction to it in laughter, became real tragedy.’
Meanwhile B Company, spotting tanks (and no mistake this
time) and other vehicles approaching, called for immediate
concentrated artillery fire in front of 11 Platoon, and as the
shells cracked down Lieutenant McAra's men, until now ‘not
wasting ammunition on scattered targets’, swung their mortars
into action for the first time, pumped 137 rounds into the knot
of men and vehicles taking cover under a cliff just between C
and B Companies on the Petras road, and claimed about a
company of men and two armoured vehicles. (They were very
innocent in those days; a company of men takes a lot of killing.)
After his 3-inch mortar detachment had been driven out by
heavy shelling, Sergeant George Katene
Lt G. Katene, MM; born Porirua, 27 Sep 1915; labourer; killed in action 7 Dec 1943.
of the Maori Battalion, whose conduct won the Military Medal, immediately
opened up in another position. Others saw the artillery ‘making
hits galore, really grand shooting’ along the road, and again B
Company's approaches were clear, until five German tanks
at 7 a. m. crawled to within 400 yards and pasted away at 11
Platoon with machine gun and two-pounder cannon.
A fine description of the battalion first meeting enemy tanks
is given by Corporal Andrews
Sgt A. W. Andrews; Napier; born Hokitika, 4 Dec 1910; contractor.
of the hard-pressed 11 Platoon:
‘I yelled out to the boys that three tanks as big as houses had
come up, they laughed, but when the little tank pulled aside
and the big fellows weighing somewhere about 35 to 45 tons
came into sight they changed their minds, but they were not
in the least downhearted—in fact Herb [Burgess
Pte H. H. Burgess; born NZ 21 Sep 1909; farm manager; killed in action 16 Apr 1941.
] gave the
old crown and anchor cry of “Shower’ em down, shower’ em down!”
[The tanks eventually came to within 100 yards of 11 Platoon,
opened fierce fire, then withdrew.] Each of these retirements
heartened the boys and I now think that at the time we fully
believed we had them licked. We most certainly hindered them,
but the more we fired at them the more we gave our positions
away and the Jerry was not slow in getting our positions to
a foot.’
Swept with fire, the platoon had to sit tight and take it.
Alan Murray
Pte A. C. Murray; Feilding; born NZ 21 Feb 1913; plasterer's labourer;
wounded 16 Apr 1941.
lost a thumb; Jack Tustin
Pte J. R. Tustin; born Raetihi, 17 Nov 1912; shepherd; killed in action 16 Apr
1941.
was mortally
wounded across the thighs; Herb Burgess and George Peacock
Pte G. H. Peacock; born Taihape, 24 Jan 1902; labourer; died of wounds 16 Apr 1941.
died at their post, manning their Bren gun to the last. The
only real threat to the tanks was the indirect artillery fire
(which now moved these tanks only 200 yards or so up and
down the road) and the chance of a fluke hit from a mortar.
The two-pounders were too far back to fire. The battalion's
only immediate defence against armoured vehicles was the
‘elephant gun’—one Boys anti-tank rifle to each platoon—Brens
and rifles. Men now were even more sceptical about the value
of rifle and Bren fire against tanks. At this time, on B Company's
immediate front and within 800 yards, were about forty
vehicles including one medium tank, other lighter tanks, and
many tracked vehicles used for troop-carrying. Out of sight a
great mass of enemy transport, tanks, and troops had piled up,
stretching from the pass along the road back to Katerini, the
first three miles mainly made up with tanks, tracked troop-carriers and motor-cycles.
Soon the infantry knew only too well that more mortars had
crept up to join the fray. The troubles of the riflemen increased
again when too many 25-pounder shells seemed to be landing
too close to the forward weapon pits (the guns, firing over 3000
rounds this day, were having much trouble in clearing a ridge
further back), and B Company with some relief received
Lieutenant-Colonel Fraser,
Lt-Col K. W. Fraser, OBE, ED, m.i.d.; Eastbourne; born Scotland, 1 Nov 1905; asst advertising manager; CO 5 Fd Regt 1940-41; p.w. 27 Nov 1941.
CO 5 Field Regiment, who set
up a special observation post, contacted the guns by radio,
directed fire himself, and soon quietened the mortars.
At 8.40 a.m. a strong enemy tank attack was launched again
up the road. These tanks had been hidden in trees and scrub
not more than 600 yards from the front. Colonel Fraser, seated
in the open on a folding chair, ordered ten rounds' gunfire.
The gunfire and tanks arrived at the same spot simultaneously
in a cloud of dust and smoke. Infantrymen saw the attack
splinter and smash. At least ten vehicles, including an ammunition truck and at least one tank, were knocked out—the tanks
were supported by infantry. Then another tank and an ammunition truck went up, the truck being credited to hard-working Private Whibley
Cpl S. W. Whibley; Upper Aramoho, Wanganui; born Wanganui, 3 Nov 1914;
labourer.
and his Boys anti-tank rifle. ‘In
actual fact,’ writes Whibley, ‘we were under the impression
that a shot from the Boys had entered the visor of the tank,
for when I fired it ran off the road and started to smoke.’
(B Company, reporting on the Boys rifle in action, said it
‘embarrassed tanks’.)
The hard-pressed 11 Platoon
Second-Lieutenant Armstrong received the MC, his citation reading: ‘His
platoon was placed in the path of the enemy's advance and successfully resisted
[on 15-16 April] the combined efforts of motor cyclists, AFV's and infantry to
penetrate his position. It was largely due to the example of 2 Lt. Armstrong that
the action was successfully fought.’ B Company had suffered 13 of the battalion's
19 casualties at Olympus.
was rushed by three tanks at
9.18 a.m. One tank charged straight down into the hole left
by the demolition. The platoon disposed of the crew. The two
remaining tanks tried to cross the demolition, apparently attempting to use the first tank as some sort of bridge. Failing to
do this, they sprayed B's front. The battle continued throughout
the morning, mainly in the central sector. At one stage 11
Platoo's forward post in the cliff face had to be withdrawn to
another position further back. The men stuck to their position
until their post was virtually shot away from underneath them:
tanks had fired at the weapon pit until the soil below the parapet
collapsed.
Under such pressure B Company, curtained by fire, between
9.30 and 10.30a.m. suffered further casualties: Johnny O'Brien
Pte J. O'Brien; born Maketu, 27 Jul 1913; labourer; killed in action 16 Apr 1941.
(a Maori) and Doug Wilson
Pte D. Wilson; born Petone, 4 Jun 1904; assembler; killed in action 16 Apr 1941.
killed; Sergeant Joe Mahar
Capt J. Mahar, m.i.d.; born NZ 31 Oct 1913; contractor; wounded 16 Apr 1941.
and Privates Harnish
Pte C. J. Harnish; New Plymouth; born NZ 1 Oct 1916; lorry driver; wounded 16 Apr 1941.
and Lovett
Pte C. S. Lovett; born NZ 8 Dec 1899; stoker; wounded 16 Apr 1941; p.w.
28 Jun 1942; died of sickness while p.w. 12 Feb 1945.
wounded. Corporal Jack
Hagen
Sgt J. M. Hagen; born NZ 14 Nov 1910; labourer.
later led a party back in a brave attempt to bring out
the dead and bury them. As this party moved forward Paul
Donoghue,
Pte P. P. Donoghue; born Petone, 7 Apr 1916; clerk; wounded 15 Jul 1942.
a volunteer from Headquarters Company, opened
up with a Bren to give covering fire, but drew such a response
that the party finally was forced to give up.
On the battalio's right flank a company of infantry attacked
C Company to test defences between the sanatorium and the
river. Fourteen Platoon drove them back, and at dusk the
enemy was heard digging in. Activity in front of A Company,
further right, was small, and it didn't seem that the neighbouring 23 Battalion positions were being pressed heavily. Across on
the other flank 28 Battalion, holding one big attack in the forest,
also gave some help to D Company 22 Battalion. From 3 p. m.
onwards activity on this company's front increased. All through
the afternoon a D Company sniper, Barney Wicksteed,
L-Cpl B. M. Wicksteed; New Plymouth; born Wanganui, 22 Mar 1918; clerk;
wounded 29 Aug 1942.
had
prevented enemy pioneers from working on the smashed bridge
in front of B Company. In the dusk a force estimated to be a
battalion strong gathered in the scrub on a 1000-yard front.
Twenty minutes later a tank got across the demolition and
turned towards D Company, halting where the mines and the
wire had been interfered with in the night. The tank made no
efforts to close in on the weapon pits but hampered D Company's movements with persistent fire. Small groups of infantry
attempted to reach the steep valley between B and D Companies. Later, at 6.30 p.m., an armoured troop-carrier crossed
the demolition and took cover under a bluff in front of B Company. The troops aboard went to ground in the valley between
B and D Companies. No further attempts were made to get
through 22 Battalion, which during the afternoon and early
evening had more wounded: Privates Christiansen
Pte R. A. Christiansen; born NZ 18 Apr 1918; railway fireman; wounded 16 Apr 1941.
and Meek
Pte D. J. Meek; Stratford; born Scotland, 20 Aug 1918; foundry labourer;
wounded 16 Apr 1941.
(D Company) and Sergeant Ford
Sgt A. G. Ford; Gisborne; born Auckland, 4 May 1917; carpenter; twice
wounded; p.w. 27 Apr 1941; repatriated May 1944.
and Private Weir (B Company).
Two men missing believed killed, Privates Norris
Pte R. Norris; born NZ 6 Mar 1909; tinsmith; p.w. 16 Apr 1941.
and
Peterson,
Pte A. H. Peterson; born NZ 16 Oct 1918; painter; p.w. 16 Apr 1941; killed
while p.w. 3 Dec 1942.
were captured.
The wounded, particularly Jack Tregea with one arm,
showed great fortitude during the move back over rough tracks.
The stretcher-bearers had a rough time handling stretchers
through scrub and wire and up and down hills. At one exposed
spot below B Company headquarters the stretcher-bearers had
to leave cover, cross the road swept occasionally by enemy fire,
and crawl through wire with stretcher and casualty.
Fortunately the enemy did not press forward after dusk. The
strenuous six-mile withdrawal to the mouth of Olympus Pass
succeeded. The night was impenetrably black, the ground precipitous and bush-covered, every mule track a morass, and at
any time the enemy might press on and cut things up. Companies gradually thinned out as more and more heavily burdened riflemen trudged back, until last of all the Bren-gunners
left for the rendezvous behind the RAP on the road. From
8.30 p.m. tired men began passing the check post carrying practically all their arms, ammunition and equipment, and slogged
on through the mud and up the pass road. Flares going up on
each flank showed where the enemy was following the withdrawal, but after a while darkness, the rough going, and demolitions brought them to a halt.
Forward posts of C Company (the nearest in a straight line
to the check post) took over three hours to reach the road.
Platoons had to come out in single file carrying rifle, pick and
shovel, and as much ammunition as possible, and sweat up a
steep hill covered with scrub and stunted bush to reach Company Headquarters. From here they scrambled down a narrow
track greasy with mud (a jibbing donkey, acquired by a signaller, was flung over a cliff here), crossed a valley and creek,
and then, in many cases actually on hands and knees, climbed
up the other side on to the main road. The rearguard could
hear the Germans talking when the last of C Company left
Company Headquarters.
Half of D Company might have been captured if it had not
been for Captain Campbell. The company destroyed everything which could't be carried, and left a few booby traps
behind (a grenade under pack straps was a favourite trick).
Then the first party moved off at dusk in a heavy mist and rain
while the German mortared the track out. However, contact
guides posted through the bush to lead out the second half
moved off by mistake with the first party. The rest of D Company spent an exhausting
A. G. Lambert recalls: ‘Old Bill Norm had the old anti-tank rifle, damn
heavy to carry. To dismantle it he threw the bolt away and carried the darn
rifle for miles before he threw it away. His language was rather choice when one
of the boys mentioned the fact he could have swapped loads with the same
effect.’ A wounded Bren-gunner, D. J. Meek, leg smashed, was accidentally left
behind: ‘the worst half hour I've spent in my life as I thought the Jerries wouldn't
worry about one wounded prisoner, and I thought they would torture me or
something like that. I sure was glad to see four chaps return for me.’
night in total darkness trying to
find the way out through dense bush and over precipitous
country. Finally, the last men hit the pass road at 3 a.m.
B Company, the last company to move, started off under
heavy fire. The shelling may have been partly due to the din
made in extricating Wally Harrison's
Pte G. W. A. Harrison; born NZ 18 Apr 1911; motor assembler; wounded 16 Apr 1941.
truck, stuck down a
bank. Despite the shelling B Company withdrew with little
confusion, Sergeant Charlie Flashoff
Sgt C. Flashoff; born London, 3 Jul 1902; depot storekeeper; wounded and
p.w. May 1941.
showing great coolness
as he stood by the sunken road repeating reassuringly: ‘Take
it easy, chaps. Help your cobbers up. Take your time. Just
round the corner you'll be safe.’
A section of pioneers under Lieutenant Wadey and Second-
Lieutenant MacDuff,
Col J. L. MacDuff, MC, m.i.d.; Nairobi; born NZ 11 Dec 1905; barrister and
solicitor; CO 27 (MG) Bn Sep 1943-Feb 1944; 25 Bn Feb-Jun 1944; Adv Base
2 NZEF Jun-Jul 1944; Supreme Court judge, Kenya.
with a carrier, remained by the prepared demolition by a check point just behind the old positions.
The detonation was delayed because the three officers and forty
men from D Company had not checked through. Finally, at
1 a.m. on 17 April, Colonel Andrew, satisfied the D Company
party would not be coming out that way, ordered the engineers
to blow. They also blew the pass road in seven places.
On foot and (if lucky) by motor transport,
One party, told to get into the first empty truck reached, struggled on in the
downpour until an empty truck loomed up on the side of the road—a civilian
truck, obviously commandeered. Thankfully the party clambered in and waited
for the convoy to move off. Some slept, others waited anxiously. Eventually Lieutenant Clapham (transport officer) and Sergeant Bob Smith appeared on motor-cycles and told them all transport had gone. The red-faced soldiers found they
had parked in a useless old civilian truck jacked up on blocks of wood and without wheels.
the battalion
moved back from Olympus while shells from 25-pounders
whistled overhead to the enemy positions. Vivid muzzle flashes
cut open the darkness. At 4 a.m. most of the battalion had
reached Ay Dhimitrios, wet, cold, hungry and exhausted—and
very much wiser men. When reporting to General Freyberg,
Brigadier Hargest wrote of 22 Battalion's ‘steady withdrawal,
absolutely to time, without any excitement. They had borne
the heat and burden of the day.’
Four explosions, ripping the road ineffectively apart, delayed
the invader and signed off the stand at Olympus, which had
cost the battalion fewer than two dozen casualties.
The retreating infantry, trudging along in the downpour,
heard the first demolition explode after midnight. The second
went off at 2 a.m., when most of the battalion was well on the
way to Ay Dhimitrios, at the south-western end of the pass.
The next, fired within two hours, disturbed none of the exhausted soldiers' sleep,
‘We were sited in defensive positions before dawn and told to dig in on the
barren rocky hillside,’ writes a lieutenant. ‘This we were too exhausted to do,
and all except the sentries lay down and slept on the sodden ground with no
covering except their greatcoats. I can remember thinking that the weakest of us
might easily die of exposure that night, but I was gratified when each one responded
to a shake and made short work of a very welcome mess-tin of bully stew.’
and by the time of the final explosion,
at 7 a.m. on 17 April, B Company, moving along like sleepwalkers through the little village of Ay Dhimitrios, rubbed their
eyes in astonishment. It looked like a dream, something quite
out of this world: the few women moving about the cobbled
streets all wore nineteenth-century crinolines. B Company, with
next to no sleep, was back on duty again, moving up the hillside through the village and standing to against the expected
German follow-up. In the thin rain and sleet Jack Hagen, like
many more of his comrades, huddled miserably under a sodden
blanket for shelter, while one man dozed and another kept
watch.
Not long after dawn the battalion, united again, moved back
about three miles, partly on foot and partly by truck, and
formed alongside the Maoris a new line at the head of the pass.
Here weary, muddy soldiers revelled in hot food again, sent
up from B Echelon together with mail from home, some of the
letters no more than four weeks old.
At 3 p.m. the battalion (less A Company, staying for an
hour's rearguard) was moving south fast, bunched under the
canopies of 4 RMT Company's three-tonners and enjoying
tinned fruit taken from abandoned dumps—the first time tinned fruit had been on the battalion menu for months. Many
of these lorries showed signs of strafing and bombing, a pointer
to what might lie ahead on the way down to the Thermopylae
line. Luckily the rain and the mist round Olympus had held
off the Luftwaffe, for the battalion had been swallowed in a
great river of army traffic scurrying south, soon swollen (at the
crossroads by the hamlet of Elevtherokhorion) with heavily
laden trucks, carriers, and guns getting out from the northern
end of the collapsed Olympus line. But so far the road surfaces
were good, and about dusk the battalion passed through Larisa,
the first town the men had seen thoroughly devastated from
the air. First an earthquake (promptly taken advantage of and
exploited by Mussolini's airmen) had struck the town; then
came the Luftwaffe. Torn buildings sagged into streets heaped
with rubble and gashed with craters and here and there flames
danced on splintered beam and blackened ruin. Private
Hilder
Pte C. J. Hilder; Wellington; born Wellington, 10 Sep 1910; machinist;
wounded and p.w. 29 Apr 1941.
remembers the storks among this desolation. ‘You
could see them on their nests, up on top of the remaining chimneys.’
Tom De Lisle
WO I A. H. M. De Lisle; Te Whaiti; born Wellington, 14 Aug 1904; company director.
wrote: ‘Despite the fact that they knew the
troops were withdrawing, the Greek people were kindness itself, producing boiled eggs, wine and bread for which they
staunchly refused to accept any drachmae in payment—not by
any means the last example of Greek loyalty and kindness.’
But other men remember Australian hospitality by this wrecked
town, and Lance-Corporal Cleghorn
Capt A. A. Cleghorn; Wellington; born Morrinsville, 11 Mar 1915; insurance
clerk.
notes: ‘We carried out
an exchange for tinned beer. The exchange was effected in
transit, with a man sitting on the bonnet of the truck tossing
tins to the Aussies in the back of their transport, and catching
tinned beer in exchange.’
The headlong retreat from Olympus (‘We fled like the Ities
in the desert’) was now about to tax the patience of 5 Brigade.
From the Olympus line the brigade was ordered to go by the
coastal road to Volos, where it would form a rearguard. But
only a few hours after the brigade had left Olympus orders
were changed suddenly, as the coast road was impassable. The
brigade was to use the main road and turn east to Volos beyond Lamia. Some groups learned of the switch in plans at
Larisa, and some did not, for communications were poor and
under great strain. Trouble for 22 Battalion began in the night
at Pharsala, about 20 miles south of Larisa. The night was
pitch dark. The road, in grade and width like a metalled
country road in New Zealand, was suddenly knotted with
traffic tangles.
This road, Larisa-Lamia, had been reserved exclusively for Australian traffic.
New Zealanders were switched on to it as an emergency measure, and here and
there were roundly abused for trespassing.
Near Pharsala (‘the father of all traffic jams’), some military
police tried to switch New Zealand units off the choked road,
and here Colonel Row
Brig R. A. Row, DSO and bar, m.i.d., Legion of Merit (US); Upper Hutt;
born Christchurch, 30 Jul 1888; Regular soldier; 1 NZEF 1914-19 (CO 3 (Res)
Bn); comd 8 Bde, 3 NZ Div, Mar 1942-Dec 1943.
(a New Zealand officer attached to
Anzac Corps Headquarters) quite innocently added to the confusion, thereby starting a rumour of a ‘Fifth Columnist New
Zealand officer’. The Colonel, acting on instructions from
Anzac Corps, used a petrol company's road map (the kind given
to unsuspecting tourists), which showed a comfortable road
leading east to Volos, to divert some of 22 Battalion, who found
to their dismay and disgust that the road after a while petered
out into an ox-track. It seems that about 200 men from the
battalion, including Major Hart, went this way; the trucks
dumped the riflemen in the dark and made off to gather more
soldiers in the north. Lieutenant Donald (14 Platoon C Company) refused to be diverted anywhere and safely reached the
Molos area nearly a day ahead of the battalion. Furthermore,
Donald's group gathered enough canned beer from an abandoned canteen ‘to give every man in the Battalion two cans,
and every man in C Company, six cans.’
Another part of the battalion, A Company, was hopelessly
lost, and vanished (on paper) for twenty-four hours. The rest
of the battalion, strung out and scattered among the scurrying
transport (it was now 1 a.m. on 18 April), carried on down the
main road south to Lamia, in the last hours of darkness striking
a packet of trouble on the hilly pass before Lamia: another
traffic jam, trucks piled up on the narrow road, some over the
side, transport banking up, several trucks on fire. Flames could
have drawn night bombers; certainly the daylight would draw
attacks on the helplessly stalled transport. The sheltering dark
would not last much longer. A path was cleared by tipping
trucks ahead over the bank (Battalion Headquarters truck went
over too). So the greater part of the battalion got through to
Lamia.
Some groups were near Lamia township (but do not seem
to have suffered any casualties) when the Luftwaffe struck.
‘Our attention was drawn to the raid by the local peasants.
We were driving along and couldn't of course hear the planes
for the truck engine. Suddenly we noticed the people in the
fields rushing frantically away from the road and taking cover.
We got out of the truck just in time to see the Stukas circling
over the town and then peeling off one by one in their dive.
Most impressive.’
At Lamia air raids were by no means the only headache.
Here Major Laws and B Company (ignoring orders to change
direction at troubled Pharsala) were now switched east to
Volos, the original destination; so was Major Leggat
Lt-Col J. Leggat, ED; Christchurch; born Glasgow, 19 Dec 1900; school-teacher; NZLO GHQ MEF 1941-42; GSO I Army HQ (NZ) 1942-43; headmaster, Christchurch Boys' High School.
with
most of the B Echelon transport; so also were Colonel Andrew,
Second-Lieutenants MacDuff and Hawthorn,
Capt T. R. Hawthorn; Auckland; born NZ 24 Mar 1914; school-teacher;
wounded 20 May 1941; p.w 22 Jul 1942.
and others, and
‘at Volos we were loudly cheered by the inhabitants, who seemingly thought we had come as their saviours—and just as noisily
condemned when we retired.’
At Volos the hunt for many missing platoons began. The
rearguard at Volos was now unnecessary, and the battalion
was ordered to Molos. MacDuff, Hawthorn and others, on
motor-cycle and in truck, roamed far afield, collecting isolated
parties which were stranded, lost, or marching south, and
killing sheep on the way for provisions. Suffice it to say that
somehow, by good luck and much hunting, the battalion, here
and there running the gauntlet of daytime air raids, gathered
together safely again at Molos, the final destination, by 19
April, and was resting thankfully after digging deep slit trenches.
The New Zealand Division, now in its last week in Greece,
was guarding an area including the famous Thermopylae pass
where heroic fighting took place between the Spartans and the
Persians more than 2000 years ago. Fifth Brigade units, making
the best possible use of trees for cover and camouflage, prepared
positions for holding the coast road and the foothills south of
Lamia and the Sperkhios River, which ran along the whole
length of the front, cutting through a marshy plain.
Enemy planes arrived over the area about breakfast time
on Sunday, 20 April, hunting and blasting away, coolly bombing and strafing the road and scouring the battalion area from
as low as 200-300 feet. Formations of the RAF were said to be
on their way, but none arrived. The brief appearance of four
Hurricanes over the bay during the morning was most heartening, and later when one suddenly reappeared and shot down
a Junkers into the sea, as one man the troops along the front,
regardless of exposing themselves, rose from their trenches to
cheer. It was hateful—humiliating—sticking to a hole in the
ground, unable to hit back.
Soldiers, calling the RAF ‘Rare as Fairies’ and much worse, spoke bitterly
about the total lack of air cover in the move to the Thermopylae line: the Air
Force tartly replied that soldiers should have ‘levelled their ignorant criticism’ at
their own commanders who choked the roads with endless columns of MT and
should have withdrawn ‘exclusively by night’.
Around noon bombing caused
the first battalion casualties since Olympus. A few men had
bunched together to draw their rations. One bomb collected
a group of D Company, killing five and wounding six—more
than half the casualties at Olympus in one blow.
Casualties in the midday bombing were: Killed: 2 Lt G. D. McGlashan,
Sgt J. S. H. Dring, Cpls A. E. O'Neill and G. M. Sandiford, and Pte L. B. Bosworth. Wounded: 2 Lt J. D. W. Ormond, L-Cpl A. T. Blakeley, and Ptes D. L.
George, A. G. L. Lambert, all of D Coy. Pte J. Cockroft (of Bn HQ and
attached to the company) was fatally wounded. 2 Lt D. H. Nancarrow (C Coy)
was wounded by a bomb splinter.
‘This was the first really low-level bombing I personally can recall,’ writes one man. ‘The fact I can best recall is being able
actually to see the bombs drop away from the fuselage of the
plane and come down in a long curve. One seemed to have
plenty of time to watch and then duck below ground level in
the slit trench.’ But another man felt this way: ‘Bombing is
pretty uncomfortable. You can see the black dot (usually three
of them) detach itself from the plane, turn slowly over and then
come apparently straight down to you. Its screech gets louder
and louder. You bitterly regret that you grew so large and then
there's a bang 50 or 60 yards away.’
Thermopylae, for most of the battalion, meant taking up defensive positions near the Springs of Thermopylae—a spa with
a hot sulphur stream—digging and wiring, working away until
air sentries gave the alarm of enemy planes heading in, taking
cover, changing position a little, watching artillery open up at
the enemy feeling out across the plain, and diving to earth
when shells came back. Lights blazing, German transport
streamed down the hill behind Lamia all night (21-22 April).
The battalion watched, started counting, and soon gave up,
but no attack gathered after dawn. In mid-afternoon on 22
April Colonel Andrew, returning from a brigade conference,
passed on the news that Greece, with the Germans now bursting down below Albania on the opposite coast, had capitulated.
All British forces were to be evacuated. Sixth Brigade would
remain with the artillery at Thermopylae, but 5 Brigade was
to go at once. Immediately word went round to stop work on
positions and rest as much as possible. All gear except the material a man could carry was to be buried or destroyed without tell-tale signs—fires, for instance, were prohibited. As if in farewell
twelve Messerschmitts appeared, one by one breaking formation and diving at selected targets, spraying explosive, incendiary and tracer, then continuing the dive to almost tree-top
level as they left. Ignoring air activity and orders to stay put,
a Royal Horse Artillery officer, who had camped near C Company, slipped off in his truck and returned with it laden with
tobacco and cigarettes from an abandoned Naafi. The supplies
from this well-remembered Englishman lasted some men well
through Crete.
Under cover of darkness 5 Brigade moved back 17 miles to
Ay Konstandinos, on the coast. Major Hart commanded a
rearguard of sorts for 5 Brigade. With Second-Lieutenants
Leeks and Carter
Capt T. G. N. Carter; Lower Hutt; born Warkworth, 25 Jun 1916; law clerk;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
and fifty-eight men, together with a party
from 23 Battalion, Hart and his force stayed, the group from
22 Battalion spreading out and pretending it was a brigade,
and the 23 Battalion party holding a bridge ahead on the main
road from Lamia. The carrier patrol group (nineteen altogether
now, and under Captain Denis Anderson) patrolled dank river
flats in front of the Thermopylae-Molos line, hearing in the
night thousands of frogs, the weird cries from some night birds,
and watching the twinkling lights of the German transport
coming down to Lamia. Except for a minor flurry round the
bridge the night was peaceful. From dawn until noon on 23
April enemy planes cruised above Thermopylae. In mid-afternoon the party by the bridge dealt with about eighteen Germans
on motor-cycles, and later fired on an attempt to cross the river
towards dusk. Then the whole of Hart's force was pulled out,
‘fortunately for us 12 hours before the battle commenced,’
wrote Hart. ‘I think [Brigadier Barrowclough
Maj-Gen Rt. Hon. Sir Harold Barrowclough, KCMG, CB, DSO and bar,
MC, ED, m.i.d., MC (Gk), Legion of Merit (US), Croix de Guerre; Wellington;
born Masterton, 23 Jun 1894; barrister and solicitor; NZ Rifle Bde 1915-19
(CO 4 Bn); comd 7 NZ Inf Bde in UK, 1940; 6 Bde May 1940-Feb 1942; GOC
2 NZEF in Pacific and GOC 3 NZ Div, Aug 1942-Oct 1944; Chief Justice of
New Zealand.
] felt he should
do so as we were not part of his brigade, and he didn't want to
see us scuppered protecting him after our own brigade was
safely away.’ Hart's infantry were taken by the carriers into
Molos.
At Molos the carriers and the infantry in Hart's party split up. The infantry
from now on stayed with or near 6 Bde's headquarters until evacuation south of
Corinth Canal. Although once taking up an anti-parachute role very briefly,
they did not go into action; they reached Port Said on 2 May in the Comliebank
and Thurland Castle.
The carriers at Molos gave protection to a demolition party under Lt-Col G. H.
Clifton, joined Divisional Cavalry near Athens, filled up with petrol from the
Divisional Cavalry dump, and then made south towards Corinth until one by
one the motors failed. Picked up by truck, the carrier men missed the action the
Divisional Cavalry fought against parachutists at Corinth, and Anderson and his
men, carried off with 6 Bde, were soon back in Egypt.
Meanwhile, all through this day (23 April), the bulk of the
battalion rested under cover in the olive groves at Ay Konstandinos, secure from the searching Luftwaffe. One party,
boots off, slept soundly on a pine-covered slope until Tom
Barton
L-Cpl J. L. T. Barton; Masterton; born NZ 25 Jun 1911; shepherd; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
bellowed, ‘Get out! Get out!’, starting a mad, cursing
scramble over thorn and thistle. Nothing happened. The party
limped back to find that a falling pine cone and not a grenade
had struck Tom in his sleep. He had warned his comrades with
what, happily, was not his last breath.
The battalion drew reserve rations and enough petrol for
150 miles from a neighbouring supply depot. Up with the
rations came a dozen brown demijohns of rum. In the cold
and wet of Olympus men had been told there was no rum in
Greece. Considering rum would increase the dangers of the
night drive ahead, the CO ordered Tom Hawthorn into action.
Swinging a mean pick, the Intelligence Officer despatched the
lot.
The battalion pulled out at 8.30 p.m. on a nine-hour run
over 140 miles to another olive grove near Athens. Headlights
were used most of the way. The troops passed through Athens
in the early dawn and felt a useless pity for the abandoned
Greeks. Their last day in Greece (24 April) went by under the
olives. German pilots prowled overhead, but found nothing.
Men, bitter and apprehensive, reduced their packs to the bare
minimum, ate heartily from reserve rations, stored away bully
and biscuits in overcoat pockets, and passed the time sleeping
or playing cards. Drachmae notes, now thought worthless, were
gambled away recklessly or were used to light cigarettes and
pipes. Trucks not needed in the shift to the beach in the night
were ruined by draining away all oil and water, flinging grit
into the petrol, and then running the engine hard until it seized,
when picks added the finishing touches. Some of these trucks
had not covered 2000 miles.
At 9 p.m. that night 22 Battalion set off on its last drive in
Greece. Twenty-one members would remain behind as prisoners, but exactly how and where these men were captured is
not clear.
22 Bn's casualties in Greece were:
Killed in action or died of wounds12Wounded19Wounded and prisoners of war4Prisoners of war1752
The running rearguard of Greece – more running
than rearguard – was over. Inside the trucks nobody talked
much. The 20-mile run ended a few miles short of Porto Rafti
(‘D’ Beach), head over heels into the final flurry of a bewildered
campaign, ‘a hellava schemozzle: liaison officers bustling,
yelling, rushing round in circles, kicking out the headlights,
demanding men sling away arms and equipment—orders and
counter-orders from every Tom, Dick and Harry.’ The battalion had taken great pains to keep all its rifles, essential equipment, mortars and precious radio sets, yet in this confusion of
orders all the radios and some rifles were dumped.
Some embarkation officers had taken far too literally an order from General
Wavell that in quitting Greece men were to take precedence over arms. Those
radio sets, wantonly dumped on Greece's shores, might have changed the story
of Crete.
‘These
b—s going over our trucks and equipment forced us out
of our trucks too early and left us, tired enough as we were, to
footslog several miles to the beach. But everything went perfectly down by the shore where the landing craft lay.’
Out in the darkness waited HMS Glengyle and HMS Calcutta.
‘One followed the queue down to a mess deck where the Navy
was dishing out big mugs of Navy cocoa and fresh bread on
a slab of bully beef, while a matelot flourishes a jar with a
“Mustard, laddie?”
‘Safe again in the hands of the Navy.’
CHAPTER 2Maleme, Crete
Of all the days of the war one stands alone in the minds of
the battalion. The day is 20 May at Maleme, Crete.
Twenty-second Battalion's area had the same kind of features
as the rest of the coastal strip round Canea, which is near the
north-west corner of Crete. Foothills of the main mountain
range came down towards the sea, and the battalion position
included two spurs running north and south. ‘Crete was a wonderful place, almost every inch cultivated with grapes, olive
groves, orange groves, and grain,’ wrote Sergeant-Major
Pender
WO II J. S. Pender; Kawau Island, Auckland; born Sydney, 8 Apr 1894;
fitter-engineer; NZ MG Corps 1914-18.
‘To get on the high ground and see the various squares
of different-coloured cultivation was a wonderful sight.’ In
Captain Thornton's
Lt-Col T. Thornton; Wellington; born Waihi, 24 Aug 1910; clerk.
view: ‘The lack of a thousand-and-one
Army forms was a Godsend.’
On the north the battalion's boundary was the sea with a
sand and pebble beach unaffected by tides. Between this and
the foothills was the airfield. Crete had no good airfields. To
the east of Maleme airfield lay the hamlet of Pirgos (often called,
mistakenly, Maleme). Pirgos, marking the battalion's eastern
boundary, was typically Greek. The dome of the Orthodox
Church rose above the houses, which were flat-roofed and
crowded. The streets were narrow, dirty, smelly. The western
boundary, the Tavronitis River, had a gravel and boulder bed
600 to 800 yards wide. The ‘river’ itself was only a shallow
creek, like some of the smaller snow-fed rivers of Canterbury.
The area west of the river was not defended
‘I am quite certain that Col. Andrew remarked after the visit [of Brigadier
Hargest] that he pointed out the need for troops across the Tavronitis from 22,
but for some reason, probably lack of troops available, this was not put into
effect.’—Sergeant F. N. Twigg, 22 Battalion Intelligence Sergeant.
Had the Maori
Battalion been there instead of in a relatively quiet area five
miles to the east, Crete might not have fallen.
Much of the flat land in the battalion's area was covered
with groves of olive trees sixteen to eighteen feet high. The
groves gave almost complete (though rather obvious) cover from
the air. The hillsides were terraced with stone banks and planted
with grape-vines, the chunky, black trunks two to three feet
high and in full leaf. These vines were terrors for tripping up
a man in a hurry. The broken land, the olive groves and the
vineyards made it impossible to find a spot which gave a good
view of the whole battalion area. This prevented development
of supporting fire. To make matters worse small ravines, ten
to forty feet deep, fanned out from the bottom of the eastern
spur to the coast.
Mention should be made of the Fleet Air Arm men at
Maleme, for criticism still comes from several quarters of
‘leaderless and demoralised mobs’ of airmen milling most disconcertingly about the battalion's area when battle was joined,
for indeed they were a hindrance from the infantryman's viewpoint.
In February 1941 aircraft from the Illustrious (heavily divebombed west of Malta the month before) were transferred to
Maleme, reinforced by fighters from Egypt, moved to southern
Greece, and in five weeks sank five Italian ships, damaged five
more, and attacked Brindisi. The squadron returned to Maleme,
now under RAF command (it should be noted), the Swordfish
and Blenheims returned to Egypt, and the Fleet Air Arm and
RAF pilots took turns in flying the handful of Hurricanes,
Fulmars and Gladiators. On 17 May only one plane, a Hurricane, was airworthy;
‘The garrison was expecting eight more Hurricanes with fresh pilots on 20 May
(Lt-Cmdr Black had been sent back to Alexandria to fetch them), but before
they could reach the island the airborne invasion began.’—Fleet Air Arm (prepared
for the Admiralty by the Ministry of Information, 1943), a booklet which shows
that the Fleet Air Arm men generally acquitted themselves well ‘against hopeless
odds and impossible conditions' in the tragic twilight of Maleme.
it was piloted by Lieutenant A. R.
Ramsay, RNVR, who had shot down two enemy aircraft the
day before. This steadfast officer's testimony will be given later.
The battalion, a little over 600 strong after the campaign in
Greece, marched into the Maleme area at the end of April, and
‘from about 8 May until 20 May he [German aircraft] gave
us a shake-up about every couple of hours,’ noted Major Jim
Leggat. ‘You feel terribly naked swimming in the sea if a plane
is machine-gunning.’ At dawn and dusk everyone stood-to:
from 5.30 a.m. to 7 a.m. and from 8.15 p.m. to 9 p.m.
A strong attack on Crete was expected from sea and air. On
17 May troops heard from Intelligence ‘that Jerry would attack
on that day, the 17th, or the 19th and would bring 15,000
troops by parachute and 20,000 by sea.’ Fifth Brigade, holding
a position running west from Platanias to the Tavronitis River
and extending up to two miles inland, was charged with ‘a
spirited defence…to counter attack and destroy immediately.’ Altogether, representatives of fourteen formations and units
Royal Navy, Royal Marines, Fleet Air Arm, Royal Tank Regiment, Royal
Artillery, Royal Australian Artillery, New Zealand Artillery, New Zealand
Engineers, 21, 22, 23 and 28 Battalions, 27 (MG) Battalion, Royal Air Force.
Colonel Andrew had made several unsuccessful attempts to gain some sort of
co-operation from the RM, FAA, RAF and Bofors gunners in his area. The RAF
camp near the bridge seriously impaired 22 Battalion's defensive perimeter.
were concerned in defending Maleme airfield. Commanders of
the New Zealand units and detachments met in conference in
the Maleme Court House on 11 May so that, in Brigadier
Hargest's words, the defence would ‘be properly co-ordinated
and confusion avoided when an actual attack takes place.’ The
COs of 22 and 23 Battalions had already met three days before
to arrange SOS signals ‘should other means of communication
fail.’
Twenty-second Battalion's task was to hold the airfield and
its approaches. Fifth Brigade had laid down: ‘In the event of
a major landing being made on the drome, support and reserve
coys will be utilised for immediate counter-attack under cover
of mortars and M.G. fire….If necessary support will be
called for from 23 Bn and should … [communications fail]
the call will be by “verey” signal (WHITE-GREEN-WHITE).’
Twenty-first and 23rd Battalions, in addition to holding their
areas, were to be prepared for counter-attack on the airfield.
These two units were within about one and a half miles, south-east and east, of Headquarters 22 Battalion. Twenty-eight
(Maori) Battalion, as well as holding its area round Platanias,
was ‘to be available for counter attack’. The order was that 22
Battalion's position would be defended at all costs: obviously
no plan of withdrawal was considered.
The battalion's positions looked on the map roughly like the
mark of a deformed left foot four and a half miles round, a
considerable distance, and enclosing an area hopelessly large
for all-round defence by twenty officers and 592 other ranks.
About thirty all ranks had been evacuated sick just before the
invasion. Headquarters Company,
Three Bren carriers with drivers in charge of a corporal were on loan to 22 Battalion from 1 Battalion, The Welch Regt. As the battalion's carrier platoon had
gone to Egypt from Greece, the crews for these carriers were supplied by 2 (Anti-Aircraft) Platoon under Lt J. Forster. No. 3 (Carrier) Platoon men who
had been
left behind in Greece later escaped to Crete. They were Cpl Jim Hurne (soon
evacuated sick) and Ptes Jack Weir and Maurie Cowlrick. They manned a fourth
carrier (which had been salvaged from a sunken ship at Suda Bay) and fixed
up a Bren gun ‘with a bit of olive branch and a piece of tin.’ The second carrier
had a Bren, and the remaining two had Brownings without sights, so tracer was
used to give direction.
The three escapers mentioned above had pushed off from Argos in a Greek
boat. They made down the bay (no rudder, rowing) and pulled into the shore
for cover when planes came over. Landing on an island, they broke down the
chapel door which yielded a rudder—of sorts. On another island they stole
another boat with a useless engine and a sail and made their way to the tip of
Greece, struck two islands (Kithira and Antikithira), and in eight days made
the western end of Crete. Rations and water were slender (a glass of wine and
a small boiled egg apiece were all they could manage for their first meal in Crete);
‘Jack Weir had a hunch (correct) over navigation. He was a born bush-mechanic.’
turned into a rifle company,
was in and around Pirgos village; a platoon was away guarding
the Air Ministry Experimental Station (a radar station). C
Company was firmly planted about the airfield. D Company
covered a bridge by the airfield and extended half a mile southwards along the east bank of the Tavronitis River (the western
bank was not defended). A Company held high ground overlooking the riverbed and airfield; this high ground included
a 300-foot hill called Point 107, and by this point was Battalion
Headquarters. B Company was holding a ridge south-east of
Point 107. The battalion, therefore, held and encircled the airfield and the vitally important Point 107. Telephones connected each company headquarters to Battalion Headquarters,
but all lines were cut and useless when the blitz ended. An
untrustworthy radio linked Battalion Headquarters with 5 Brigade Headquarters, four miles away to the east.
A brief glimpse at the enemy is necessary. Credit for the idea
of invading Crete by air is claimed by General Kurt Student.
Student had the tables turned on him at Arnhem (4600 aircraft in this airborne
operation). Watching ‘an immense stream’, he exclaimed: ‘Oh, how I wish that
I had ever had such powerful means at my disposal!’ See The Struggle for Europe,
by Chester Wilmot.
The operation (code-named MERCURY) was commanded by
Colonel-General Alexander Löhr. Despite close air reconnaissance and some espionage, the Germans did not locate the infantry positions accurately (our camouflage precautions had
not been in vain), although their estimate of ten days for clearing Crete
The Allied strength in Crete on 20 May was:
OfficersOther RanksTotalRoyal Navy25400425British Army6661439715063Mobile Naval Base Defence Organisation (Royal Marines)9218491941Royal Air Force61557618Australian Imperial Forces32762136540Greek Army and gendarmerie268999010258New Zealand Division3817321770218204072742547
This total includes Layforce (commandos),
800-strong, which landed on 24-27 May.
was only four days short. On the other hand, although they had planned to take all four main centres on the
first day, none except Maleme was captured within a week or
ten days. Organisational difficulties postponed invasion from
15 May to the 20th. Some 22,000 men were chosen for the
whole operation, including mountain troops who could not be
landed unless an airfield were captured or the sea route secured.
On invasion day the four spearheads (about 10,000 men) would
land from the air in distinct groups spaced along the northern
coast of Crete. Nearly one-third of them would descend in the
Maleme sector defended by 5 Brigade, where 22 Battalion, holding an area three times larger than that of 21 or 23 Battalion,
would meet the brunt of the attack later in the day. (More
paratroops would actually land in 23 Battalion's area; 22 Battalion would receive not only paratroops but almost all the
glider troops, and would later have to withstand the pressure
of two whole paratroop battalions which had landed and assembled out of reach on the undefended ground to the west.)
Winning an airfield immediately was vital: only then could
reinforcements arrive. The Germans clearly realised that, with
no suitable ships and without control of the seas, the capture of
an airfield was absolutely essential to success in Crete.
On invasion day the Assault Regiment,
A German regiment approximates to a British brigade. Four battalions of the
regiment (less two glider-borne companies committed in the Canea area) landed
at Maleme.
the élite of the invasion
force, descended on Maleme. First came the gliders,
probably forty of them, carrying about 400 men altogether (excluding the pilots). The glider troops, about to suffer 75 per
cent casualties, were superbly equipped—whereas 15 Platoon,
awaiting assault on the most westerly tip of the highly prized
airfield, had grenades of jam tins filled with concrete and plugs
of gelignite with fuses.
The Assault Regiment, Student's pride and joy, was to take the
airfield and Point 107. A detachment from III Battalion plus
some of its Regimental Headquarters, which grated down in
belly landings just south of the Tavronitis bridge, was raked
and cut with heavy fire (from D Company), but took the bridge.
The detachment's commander, Major Braun, was among those
killed. A second company of the Assault Regiment landed its
gliders at the mouth of the Tavronitis River and made towards
the airfield, but was halted and held (by C Company), and its
commander, Lieutenant Plessen, also met his death. The third
party of gliders (a battalion headquarters and a company)
came slanting down along the south-east and south-west slopes
of Point 107, to be dealt with effectively by Headquarters Company and B and D Companies, and again the commander,
Major Koch, was killed.
Soon after the gliders descended, in came the regiment's
paratroops, about a dozen men spewing out of each fat Junkers
52 at heights of 300 to 600 feet, some firing as they descended,
‘indiscriminately certainly, but keeping our heads down.’
Glider crews could rally quickly and fight as a team, but paratroops, scattered as they were, took longer to group together.
Three battalions of paratroops came in over Maleme. Two of
these battalions landed in comparative safety in undefended
land west of the Tavronitis River along the coast road leading
west from the bridge and out of 22 Battalion's reach.
Less one company, which landed almost two miles inland, up the river well
beyond the New Zealand area.
Here
was the generous reserve of strength for continuing the assault
on the airfield. The third battalion of paratroops, descending
all unaware of its grisly doom west of Pirgos village and fairly
close to the coast, was cut to mincemeat by 21, 22, and 23
Battalions and an engineer detachment—two-thirds slaughtered with all their officers.
The commander of the Assault Regiment, General Meindl,
soon to be severely wounded by 22 Battalion this day, pressed
all available men into two assaults, one by the bridge and the
other a right hook which crossed the river south of 22 Battalion
and aimed north to Point 107. This two-pronged attack led
to the crucial fighting of the day.
Twenty-second Battalion war diary: ‘Maleme. 20th May.
Usual Mediterranean summer day. Cloudless sky, no wind,
extreme visibility: e.g., details on mountains 20 miles to the
south-east easily discernible.’
The daily hate followed the dawn. For days the bombing
had been increasing steadily. Flying low, fighters and bombers
raked vineyards and olive groves. No 22 Battalion men were
injured. The planes turned to the sea and the men prepared
for breakfast, but again the air-raid siren sounded from the
mysterious Air Ministry Experimental Station tucked away up
in the hills. The time was now nearly eight o'clock. Cursing men,
still hungry, had just taken cover in trench and under trees when
twenty-four heavy bombers appeared, the first of an endless
fleet, wave upon wave, bombing, strafing, diving. The approach of the fleet was first felt through the ground rather than
noticed from the sky, one man remembers. The whole of 5
Brigade's area received an unprecedented rain of bombs, particularly 22 Battalion's area, with an estimated 3000 bombs
falling round the airfield. Dust and smoke billowed up; the
earth shook with explosions; trees splintered; slit trenches caved
in (in one substantial five-man trench only Joe Chittenden
Sgt A.J. Chittenden; Waitara; born Wanganui, 17 Apr 1914; baker; wounded
20 May 1941.
survived); men, dazed and numb with the fury of the assault,
bled from ears and mouths. ‘The silence after the [blitz],’ writes
Sergeant Sargeson,
Lt A. M. Sargeson; Hawera; born Hawera, 9 Jun 1915; clerk.
‘was eerie, acrid and ominous.’ Says Sergeant Twigg
Lt F. N. Twigg; Hastings; born Feilding, 2 Sep 1914; shepherd; wounded
3 Oct 1944.
of the intelligence section: ‘The immediate countryside before densely covered by grape vines and olive trees
was bare of any foliage when the bombing attack ceased and
the ground was practically regularly covered by large and small
bomb craters.’
A thick blanket of dust and smoke rising hundreds of feet
blurred or blotted out many a man's view. Under cover of this
the gliders and then the paratroops came in, and most of them
were down by nine o'clock.
The majesty of the arrival of this armada and the descent
certainly awed but definitely did not demoralise the New Zealanders. Action came as a relief—almost a grim joy—after
cowering under cover for a fortnight of air raids, and the remark, ‘Just like the duckshooting season!’, was widespread at
the time. Indeed the First World War was worlds away from
this unique invasion, in which the enemy, the artillery, and the
machine guns came from the sky, and a solid front no longer
existed; each man was a front in himself, and the enemy could
strike from in front, from both flanks, from behind, separately
or simultaneously. In this new war the very moments were
precious; in those first deadly, vulnerable ten minutes hundreds
of paratroops were slain as they swayed and stumbled and
groped and grouped over 5 Brigade's ground.
Captain Campbell (D Company): ‘My first thought was
“This is an airborne landing”. I still have vivid recollections
of the gliders coming down with their quiet swish, swish, dipping down and swishing in.’
Private Fellows,
S-Sgt N. N. Fellows, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Wellington, 6 Jun 1918; salesman.
(HQ Company): ‘The first thing that met
my startled gaze when I looked out was the descending paratroopers. My throat seemed to get very dry all of a sudden and
I longed for company.’
A lance-corporal parachutist from Hamburg: ‘My parachute
had scarcely opened when bullets began spitting past me from
all directions. It had felt so splendid just before to jump in sunlight over such wonderful countryside, but my feelings suddenly
changed. All I could do was to pull my head in and cover my
face with my arms.’
Some gliders landed on the terraces stretching from 22 Battalion's headquarters down to the beach north of Pirgos; some
landed in the valley east of Battalion Headquarters; most landed
in the gravel bed of the Tavronitis River, above and below the
bridge. No aircraft landed on the airfield on 20 May, but a few
troop-carriers landed on the beach late in the day.
The Luftwaffe crossed the coast a mile or more west of the
airfield—out of effective Bofors range—and flew inland at about
500 feet. The two 3-inch anti-aircraft guns on Point 107 could
not tackle effectively such low-flying aircraft. The planes turned
towards Maleme in a broad swing, skimming low over A and B
Companies. The slow troop-carriers do not seem to have been
fired at by all of the ten Bofors round the airfield, an angry
point with the infantry at the time and later.
This was probably due in part to casualties among gun crews during the
blitz. By no means alone in his opinion, Lieutenant Robin Sinclair (15 Platoon)
is emphatic that some Bofors were out of action through faulty or missing parts.
Captain Johnson speaks of a late order (19 May) telling certain guns to move
positions slightly before opening fire again. Nevertheless some of these guns were
still firing at 3 p.m., according to 5 Brigade war diary. One 22 Battalion man,
Bill Hulton, says: ‘I have great admiration for [Bofors crews] and also for the
Jerry pilots who attacked them. On many occasions I saw Stuka pilots diving
down the fire of these guns, and had no misgivings as to whether I would have
had the guts to withstand such a gaff.’
Glider and parachute troops numbering probably 500 (perhaps 600) landed in 22 Battalion's area, and at once the day's
battle splintered into a confused series of individual actions by
the companies, which are best followed by attempting to trace
each company's experiences in turn. One enemy group landed
by Pirgos village itself in Headquarters Company's area.
Headquarters Company (Lieutenant Beaven, three officers
and about sixty men, mostly administrative staff not previously
riflemen) was completely isolated all day from Battalion Headquarters. It was at once cut off when several gliders silently
swam down between it and Battalion Headquarters, followed
by perhaps ten, perhaps twenty, plane-loads of parachutists
plus a small field gun. A second wave of parachutists fell about
mid-morning. The invaders suffered severe losses, but the well-equipped survivors rallied to form awkward strongpoints in
grape-vines and trees. These strongpoints made movement very
difficult indeed. Within an hour the company suffered its most
severe loss of the day. Sergeant-Major Matheson's
WO II J. Matheson; born Scotland, 16 Jun 1905; tinsmith; died of wounds
20 May 1941.
platoon,
out on a limb to the south, was cut off and overrun. Details are
slender, but a survivor, Regimental Quartermaster-Sergeant
Woods,
Sgt J. Woods; born Melbourne, 25 May 1897; motor-body builder; wounded
and p.w. 24 May 1941.
describes the scene: ‘Over comes the Hun with Stukas,
Junkers and gliders, not mentioning the 109s. By the time the
Stukas and 109s had left us the air round about seemed to be
alive with Junkers, and believe me the birds that flew out of
them were pretty thick. They looked impossible as the odds
must have been easily 15 to 1.’ Shooting was good until grenades
got the front trenches, Matheson received his mortal wound,
and the platoon position fell.
Private Cowling
Pte N. M. Cowling; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 1 Nov 1913; market
gardener; wounded and p.w. 21 May 1941; repatriated 1943.
tells of Matheson's stand. Just before the
invasion broke, Matheson ordered Corporal Hall
Cpl W. S. Hall; born Carterton, 21 Feb 1907; salesman; died of wounds
21 May 1941.
and Cowling
over to the company cookhouse on fatigue. They had covered
about half the distance when ‘we came across two signallers
who said “The game is on you two, use that spare slit trench.”’
From the slit trench, facing towards Matheson's men, Cowling
saw ‘quite a few paratroops in this area, they were all easy meat,
those that came around…. the Transport Platoon were using
machine guns. Boy, and weren't they using them too! We later
found out they were enemy stuff they had conquered.’ Matheson's men held their own with ease until the Germans got a
good footing in an adjacent brick barn. Then the story changed
abruptly. Fire and grenades from this commanding position
brought the end. In their slit trench Hall and Cowling bagged
several paratroops (one, caught in an olive tree, dangled helplessly but fatally only six inches from the earth), and at one
stage Hall said: ‘Hey, you're having all the fun, let's change
ends for a while.’ But after the capture of the barn snipers shot
Hall through the right eye, and then Cowling was hit and
fainted. He was picked up by Germans next day and, together with about a dozen other wounded, was taken to the
battalion RAP, which had been captured by that time.
Even after taking Matheson's position, the enemy got no further towards Pirgos village; he was content to retain small
patches among the olives and try to edge westwards along the
coast to the focal point—the all-important airfield. Headquarters Company continued to hold Pirgos. Company Sergeant-Major Fraser was annoyed that anti-personnel mines
covering approaches to the company area had not been primed
so as to allow any relieving counter-attack complete freedom of
movement. He and Lieutenant Clapham had hastened to the
company's western defences to encourage men to leave trenches
and fire at paratroops in the air. This encouragement was not
needed by a section commanded by the First World War
veteran, Jack Pender, an armourer sergeant attached to 22
Battalion. Pender, with his corporal, Hosking,
S-Sgt H. P. Hosking; Feilding; born Feilding, 24 Apr 1917; watchmaker.
had recently
been mounting Browning machine guns out of aircraft in various
other battalion positions. His section covered paratroops falling
twenty-five yards along the front. Very few of them landed
alive. But two automatic weapons, set up in a blind spot, gave
trouble all day.
Satisfied that the company's western front was holding well,
Lieutenant Clapham, this time accompanied by Sergeant
Charlie Flashoff, next set off to the east, to Corporal Moore's
Sgt A. W. G. Moore; Wellington; born NZ 25 Oct 1903; driver; wounded
26 Jun 1942.
section, on the right flank near the sea and forward of Company Headquarters. Clapham and Flashoff were wounded and
incapacitated by grenades. Moore's post held out, and so did
another strongpoint by the beach commanded by Corporal
Hosie.
Cpl A. J. Hosie; Mauriceville; born Petone, 19 Sep 1915; soap worker.
Hosie's men had an anxious time when, about 4 p.m.,
a large party of Germans marched down by the beach towards
them, ‘but a three-inch mortar [actually a 75 millimetre French
field gun of C Troop 27 Battery] landed about six bombs right
smack on top of them, and what was left took cover in a house
on the beach.’ The seaward posts kept survivors pinned down
until dark.
Padre Hurst and a group of ‘cooks and bottlewashers’, manning a small defensive position and soon using up the few rounds
of ammunition they possessed, were joined by Jack Pender, who
ducked back to his armoury and returned with a bucket of
bullets. ‘They kept us going till we moved out. Also with his
help we got a German field piece going and he cleaned up a
machine gun nest in a cottage—that was our greatest triumph.’
The field gun fired again at dusk.
The afternoon seems to have been relatively quiet for Headquarters Company. Twice during the day Private Fellows
prowled around Pirgos quite freely, once filling his tin hat with
eggs ‘and dropped the lot when a Jerry fired, missing my ear
by about 1 ½ inches', and once ‘finding two of our privates in
sole possession of the church, Arthur (“Wog”) Alexander
Pte A. W. Alexander; born Masterton, 19 Jan 1912; mechanic.
and
Frank Mence,
Sgt F. V. Mence; New Plymouth; born NZ 24 Dec 1913; tile maker.
who drank the holy water and complained
about tadpoles.’ After an anxious morning the company commander, Lieutenant Beaven, seems to have remained confident.
Beaven, his telephone wires cut, his signallers prevented by fire
at 10.30 a.m. from further attempts to contact Battalion Headquarters by visual methods, had been in touch but once with
the outside world. A cool and resourceful runner, Frank Wan
Pte F. M. Wan; Wanganui; born Hawera, 8 Mar 1918; railway porter;
wounded 21 May 1941; p.w. 1 Jun 1941; released 20 Jan 1945.
(his companion signaller, Bloomfield,
Pte G. Bloomfield; born Scotland, 14 Aug 1908; carpenter; killed in action
20 May 1941.
dead),
Attending the dying man were stretcher-bearers Trevor Wallace and Ray
Kennedy. The two found ‘that the stretcher needed so urgently was being used
as a bed by a driver, yes, we had to get [him] to part with it. Bloomfield, past our help, died shortly after we got him on the stretcher. We placed him in a deep
dry watercourse handy to Coy HQ, an area we'd selected to place wounded.’
had come from
one and a half miles away to report that Wadey's platoon at
the AMES was not in contact with enemy troops. That was all.
Beaven sent runners to Battalion Headquarters and to B Company. None returned. The day dragged through in complete
isolation. Three hours before sunset Beaven wrote this concise
report and gave it to the indefatigable Wan, who was captured
but hid and preserved the report in his boot until the war ended:
Paratroops landed East, South, and West of Coy area at approx
0745 hrs today. Strength estimated 250. On our NE front 2 enemy
snipers left. Unfinished square red roof house south of sig terminal
housing enemy MG plus 2 snipers. We have a small field gun plus
12 rounds manned by Aussies. Mr. Clapham's two fwd and two
back secs OK. No word of Matheson's pl except Cpl Hall and
Cowling.
Troops in HQ area OK.
Mr Wadey reports all quiet. No observation of enemy paratroops who landed approx 5 mls south of his position.
At dusk the enemy began collecting and calling the roll
where Matheson's forward post had been. Forming a gun crew
and manning the small field gun, Pender, Fraser and Hosking
fired at point-blank range against the assembly point. ‘That
quietened them down quite a bit,’ said Pender. They were as
cheeky as hell, shouting out to each other and giving orders,
but the field gun quietened them down except that orders
turned to squeals and yells, which was very good.’
After dark a party of five went out to find that B Company
had gone. Beaven checked for himself, found this true, but
being reluctant to leave, held on until towards 2 a.m., when a
party from 28 (Maori) Battalion passed through towards the
airfield and returned in about half an hour. This sent Headquarters Company on the move too. In the night as the withdrawal began the captured German field gun got its own back
with the last shot it would ever fire for 22 Battalion. Somebody
stumbled against and fired the gun. The recoiling piece smashed
into a man who cried: ‘My bloody leg is gone!’ Taking their
four wounded with them (there were also three dead, apart
from Matheson's platoon), Headquarters Company left Pirgos.
Kennedy
Pte R. G. Kennedy; Taumarunui; born NZ 30 Dec 1914; plumber.
and Wallace
Sgt T. G. Wallace; born NZ 21 May 1911; farmhand.
had some trouble in getting volunteers to help the wounded: ‘however several Aussies, probably
ack-ack gunners, did a grand job.’ Charlie Flashoff, sorely
wounded, lay on the stretcher; Barney Clapham, supported
with a comrade on either side, struggled along. Another wounded man was taken in pick-a-back relays. Unhappily, somewhere
about dawn, they ran into German light automatic fire. Ordered
by someone to leave stretcher cases, Kennedy and Wallace
joined others in the party and headed towards 23 Battalion
area. Pirgos was handed over to the enemy, ‘why,’ writes
Private Fellows, ‘I have never been able to find out. At no time
during the night or day had Pirgos been occupied by the
Jerries. A few had come through and a few stayed, but only
the dead ones.’
C Company (Captain Johnson
Lt-Col S. H. Johnson, ED; Wellington; born Whangarei, 5 Oct 1910; school-teacher; p.w. 27 Nov 1941; joined Regular Force; Director AEWS, 1953-.
) had a strength of just over
100, including signallers and stretcher-bearers, seven Brens,
six Browning machine guns ‘borrowed’ from unserviceable
RAF planes, nine tommy guns, and no mortars. Thirteen
Platoon (Sergeant Crawford
Sgt J. McM. Crawford; Gisborne; born Scotland, 10 Apr 1910; carpenter.
), verging on to the beach, covered the northern end of the airfield; 15 Platoon (Lieutenant
Sinclair
Capt R. B. Sinclair, ED, m.i.d.; Waipawa; born Gisborne, 3 Jan 1918; clerk; wounded and p.w. 20 May 1941; escaped Jul 1941; invalided to NZ Nov 1941; served 22 (Mot) Bn, Italy, 1944.
), facing the riverbed and the bridge, held the western
end and was to halt any attack coming across the almost dry
riverbed; 14 Platoon (Lieutenant Donald) and Company Headquarters, by the southern end of the airfield, would hold any
attack coming from inland. A counter-attack by 23 Battalion
was expected. In C Company's area there was one serious weakness: a large number (about 370) of Air Force, Fleet Air Arm
and Naval men (MNBDO
MNBDO: Mobile Naval Base Defence Organisation.
gunners), despite (it should be
remembered) repeated requests by Johnson and Andrew, did
not come under 22 Battalion's command. They retained their
independence almost to the point of absurdity; even the current password differed among the three groups. Furthermore,
not one serviceable Allied aircraft now remained in Crete.
Many a soldier still wonders why this unwieldy group was not
briskly cleared out of the way and the airfield destroyed.
The reasons are discussed in the Crete volume of the official history of New
Zealand in the Second World War.
All sections, amply stocked with ammunition, were well dug
in in partly covered slit trenches, two or three men to each
trench. Mines were laid, but on strict orders from Force Headquarters were never primed because they might have blown
up friendly Greeks. There was another weakness: at the south-west corner of C Company's position, where this company
ended and D Company began near the concrete and wood
bridge crossing the Tavronitis River, the RAF had its tented
camp. The camp and the large number of airmen about it
made it impossible for 15 Platoon to tie up thoroughly with
the northern platoon of D Company: ‘one good defence line
would have run straight through the officers' mess—unthinkable!’ Straight through this weak spot the Germans came.
The breakfast-time bombing, raising a sudden, blinding dust-cloud round C Company's positions, killed five men and
wounded one in 14 Platoon and Company Headquarters close
by. The dust hid the arrival of the first gliders: Company Headquarters saw no gliders at all. When the air cleared, men looking east saw the blue-grey uniformed, swaying paratroops landing round Pirgos (Lieutenant Beaven's area), and plenty more
were coming down to the west, over the riverbed, from about
800 yards south of 15 Platoon up to the river mouth and even,
fatally, into the sea itself.
Almost simultaneously an attack began from the riverbed
against the twenty-three men of 15 Platoon. Shingle banks running north and south gave good cover. These glider troops
directly in front of the platoon developed increasingly heavy
fire. But the platoon, stoutly resisting, held on, halting an attack
after the Germans are said to have taken the anti-aircraft guns
in front of the platoon. ‘These guns lacked certain parts and
did not fire a shot,’ says Lieutenant Sinclair.
Captain Johnson cannot understand this statement. He recalls all 10 guns
firing regularly on days preceding the invasion. He had hoped that some of the guns
could have been silenced, resited, and then could have taken the German by
surprise if an airborne invasion began.
The views of men who still stoutly maintain that the anti-aircraft guns did not
fire on invasion day can be summed up in the words of CSM H. Strickland.
Gliders, troop-carriers and parachutists, ‘an ack-ack gunner's dream, they were
sitting shots but there were no shots. All due respect to … [D. M. Davin's
Crete] the guns didn't roar into action, not at Maleme. There was an order that
they were not to open fire, and they didn't.’ Perhaps one day this controversy
will be investigated and settled.
‘The parts were
to have arrived days before the battle. Crews didn't accept our
suggestion to prepare positions near ours, and only two survived
the blitz. These two joined Lance-Sergeant Vallis
Sgt T. H. Vallis; born England, 17 Jan 1915; farmer; p.w. 20 May 1941.
in his pit.’
The sergeant accepted a helping hand with a Browning automatic salvaged from a plane and mounted on bits and pieces
of aircraft. The sights were a conglomeration of soap, chewing
gum and screws. With unlimited ammunition Vallis fired this
gun until it was white hot—and then still kept on firing.
Next the Germans, having been checked on the front, swung
slightly to attack on the northern end of 15 Platoon (Corporal
Haycock's
WO I F. B. Haycock, m.i.d.; born Auckland, 10 Dec 1915; Regular soldier;
p.w. 1 Jun 1941; escaped Jul 1941.
section), aiming towards the western section of 13
Platoon near the beach.
The one phone link between C Company and Battalion
Headquarters was out—bombing had cut the telephone wires.
Signals for assistance in an emergency had been discussed (15
Platoon once had considered hanging a white or coloured cloth
on a tree, and other men in the battalion remember vague
suggestions of waving copies of the Weekly News), but none of
these rather futile arrangements was made final, and perhaps
just as well.
So from now on messages had to be sent by runner. At 10 a.m.
Captain Johnson, believing the enemy was boring through the
north flank of 15 Platoon to 13 Platoon, unsuccessfully sought
permission to counter-attack with the two I tanks, which were
dug in and camouflaged between 14 Platoon and Battalion
Headquarters. These carefully hidden tanks, Colonel Andrew's
trump card, were to be used only as a last resort. Unaided,
therefore, the two northern platoons held this attack.
While the northern enemy party opened its at first unavailing attack against Corporal Haycock's area to the south, a far
more formidable party, leaping and firing from behind one
protecting pylon to the next, had crossed the riverbed and
seized intact the concrete and wood bridge over the Tavronitis.
The first crack in Maleme's defences was now being made.
About 11 a.m. the enemy began his first attempt to drive a
wedge between C and D Companies in a thrust on Battalion
Headquarters. He was now in the vulnerable RAF camp, a
cat among pigeons, and 15 Platoon, pinned to its positions,
was now under fire from south, west and north. ‘Yet,’ says
Sinclair, ‘with plenty of good targets and an interesting attack,
we were not unduly worried. We seemed to be holding our
own, so we just hung on and hoped. New uninitiated troops
do not know much fear.’
The German spearhead, planting parties by the camp to fire
across the airfield towards 13 Platoon by the sea (a long way,
but movement on the opposite side of the airfield was clearly
visible), moved on towards Battalion Headquarters, on Point
107. In front of the enemy, making matters worse, went unarmed airmen, either demoralised and fleeing or being driven
deliberately as a screen. As the Germans, with the airmen in
front of them, neared Battalion Headquarters, Captain Johnson
sent Lance-Sergeant Keith Ford
WO II F. K. Ford; Gisborne; born Auckland, 26 Jun 1913; clerk; p.w.
Jul 1942.
(14 Platoon) and his section
across to help. Colonel Andrew sent them back with the words:
‘You look after your own backyard—I'll look after mine.’
After returning to Captain Johnson, Sergeant Ford and two
men were sent out once more, across the angry airfield to 13
Platoon. They used what cover they could find in approaching
the eastern edge of the landing strip where it was narrowest,
then ‘ran like hell’. One man, Private Porter,
Pte R. E. Porter; born Australia, 11 Jun 1918; labourer; killed in action
20 May 1941.
was lost
on the way. Thirteen Platoon was to take a more active
role by joining and supporting the hard-pressed 15 Platoon,
still holding out in the middle section and at Platoon Headquarters. But the enemy (near the river mouth on the northern-most positions of 15 Platoon), firing heavily across the airfield
towards the sea, made any such move impossible. Johnson could
not check why no advance was succeeding. He could see fire
from the RAF camp area, but not that from the river mouth.
By this time, noon, Lieutenant Sinclair (15 Platoon) had fainted
through lack of blood, and his batman, Jim Farrington,
Pte J. Farrington; born NZ 6 July 1905; miner; killed in action 20 May 1941.
had
been shot through the head. Although hit through the neck,
Sinclair had kept going for an hour, trying unsuccessfully with
tracer and incendiary bullets to ignite a petrol dump alongside
a stack of RAF bombs.
Near Sinclair a soldier had given his life in one of the most
gallant acts in the history of the battalion. When a grenade
landed in his trench, Lance-Corporal Mehaffey
L-Cpl J. T. Mehaffey; born Wellington, 20 Jun 1916; civil servant; killed in
action 20 May 1941.
unhesitatingly
flung his helmet over it and then jumped on it in an attempt
to save the lives of his two comrades. Both of his feet were
blown off and he died soon after. Mehaffey was recommended
for a posthumous Victoria Cross. ‘His behaviour and gallantry
throughout the entire scrap until his final act of sacrifice was
indeed of a high order,’ wrote Captain Johnson.
Before continuing the company story, here is a fragment from
13 Platoon. Forbes-Faulkner
Sgt K. J. Forbes-Faulkner; New Plymouth; born Auckland, 16 Nov 1914;
timber worker.
had the north-west section of
13 Platoon (that is, closest to 15 Platoon), with his headquarters
in the small chapel. The field of fire was to cover a landing by
sea. He writes: ‘In checking with the Aussie Bofors crews, their
password and ours was not the same, nor did either coincide
with the Fleet Air Arm…. On the morning of the invasion
the Aussie Bofors gun did not fire a shot, I don't know the reason
why. We were a fair distance from most of the activity, and the
first intimation that we had that they were close to us was when
we saw a Hun hop into the Bofors pit and cover the gun with
a Swastika flag. Joe Hamlin
Cpl J. Hamlin; born Wellington, 6 May 1915; shepherd; accidentally killed
Nov 1955.
shot him as he came out.’ The
westerly half of the section held their own at first; later in the
day they were taken prisoner and marched off. The rest of the
section held out in their pits, getting ‘a few more as they moved
towards the chapel, probably thinking it was defended, but
from our position we nicely enfiladed them at about 25 to 50
yards.’
About 2 p.m. a spirited lieutenant from an English light anti-aircraft battery led eight men (two ‘bomb happy’), survivors
from his troop of Bofors guns by the south-east edge of the
airfield, into Company Headquarters. They volunteered to join
C Company as riflemen and were armed. Captain Johnson
carries on the story:
‘At 3 p.m. [Johnson is two hours out: the attack began just
after 5 p.m.] the long and eagerly awaited order to counter
attack with support of the two tanks arrived from Battalion
Headquarters. I had discussed with the tank troop commander
the day before just how we would work together. The troop commander, believing the Germans would have no anti-tank weapons capable of hurting a Matilda, feared nothing except enemy
soldiers on top of his tanks. He asked that his tanks should be
kept sprayed with small-arms fire. I asked how we on foot would
communicate with the tank. He told me to press a bell at the
back of the tank, and the tank commander would open the
turret and talk. When the counter attack started, contact was
attempted with the tank crews. Nobody answered the bell.
[Throughout the entire war, no tank man ever seemed to answer the bell, and the exposed infantryman had to hammer
vigorously on the tank with rifle, tommy gun, or metal helmet
before the turret would open suspiciously.] Lieutenant Donald
commanded the attackers on foot: 14 Platoon (about 12 below
strength) was organised as two sections with a third section of
gunner volunteers. The tanks left their concealed positions at
3.15 p.m. [5.15 p.m.] and moved west past Company Headquarters along the road towards the river in single file about
30 yards apart. The first tank proceeded up to the river, firing
as it went, until it stopped in the riverbed.’
Sinclair, regaining consciousness for most of the afternoon,
saw the tank ‘go down under the big bridge and out a little
further west where it came to a halt. The place was seething
with enemy plainly visible in the long grass. They seemed uncertain what to do.’
Johnson continues: ‘The tank went no further. Apparently
the turret had jammed. The crew surrendered.’ [This comment
is based on a report given Johnson by Corporal ‘Bob’ Smith,
Sgt A. G. Smith; born Pahiatua, 3 Mar 1918; driver; wounded and p.w. May 1941; escaped Aug 1941; died Taumarunui, 29 Dec 1948.
who was subsequently a prisoner of war employed on the airfield before escaping to Egypt. Sinclair has another version:
some sort of anti-tank rifle burst through to the engine, the crew
at pistol point were forced to service the damaged part but
instead ruined it permanently. ‘From where I was,’ Sinclair
goes on, ‘I thought this business with the tank and the men
was futile. Of course I could see more perhaps of the opposition
lying in wait.’
‘The second tank turned about before reaching the bridge
and came back past Company Headquarters on the Maleme
road,’ says Johnson. ‘It had not fired a shot. Bellringing was
unavailing. When the second tank turned 14 Platoon was under
withering fire from the front and southern flank. Their position
was hopeless. Those who were able to withdrew, using the lee
side of the tank for shelter. Donald, himself wounded, led only
eight or nine men back, most of them wounded, from this brave
but disastrous counter attack. The English officer (unfortunately I never learned his name) was killed in this attack after
pleading with me to let him take part and lead a section.’
It was obvious now that the Germans were well consolidated
—they did not waste time digging in, nor had they need to.
Johnson sent a runner to Colonel Andrew with the disturbing
news that the counter-attack had failed. Fifteen Platoon
Doc’ Fowke was apparently the only man to escape from 15 Platoon. He
crossed the centre of the airfield after dark and rejoined Company Headquarters.
Most of 15 Platoon were wounded or killed. He brought news of Mehaffey, whom
he had nursed with two others in their weapon pit until they died.
and
the western section of 13 Platoon seemed to have been overcome; 14 Platoon was practically finished, and the cooks, stretcher-bearers, and Company Headquarters staff alone could not
hold the inland perimeter of the airfield for long. The company
would probably hold out until dark, but reinforcements would
be needed then. The CO replied in his last message to get
through to Johnson on 20 May: Hold on at all costs.’
Speaking of his men, Johnson pays a tribute to Company
Quartermaster-Sergeant Vaughan,
WO II W. T. Vaughan, m.i.d.; New Plymouth; born England, 21 Jan 1903;
shop assistant.
who worked untiringly to
supply food and water, and says: ‘The surviving men were in excellent heart in spite of their losses. They had Not had enough.
They were first rate in every particular way and were as aggressive as when action was first joined.’ He also speaks movingly
of the performance this day of all the men in his company,
mainly from Hawke's Bay and Gisborne: ‘I'll never know men
like them again.’
Late in the afternoon two Ju52s attempted to land on the
airfield, but the mauled company was by no means carrion
yet. All weapons opened up and the planes, spitting back small-arms fire, swung out to sea.
From after dark until midnight German patrols were active
in the neighbourhood. In the night no C Company patrols
could contact Battalion Headquarters. Its old area was now
found to be occupied by Germans, a severe shock indeed.
Simultaneously (and here is another instance where the fate
of the airfield hung delicately in the balance), a company 114
strong from 28 (Maori) Battalion came confidently right to the
eastern edge of the airfield and failed by a furlong or so to
contact C Company. This would be bitter news to C Company
men when they heard some days (or, in some cases, several
years) later of the Maoris' thrust. The company now believes
the Maoris came to within but 200 yards of Company Headquarters and 14 Platoon, but halted by the knocked-out Bofors
guns, and hearing only the shouts and tramplings of noisy
German patrols, concluded that the airfield had fallen and
pulled back. The position of Company Headquarters and 14
Platoon was marked clearly on maps in the hands of other battalions and even as far back as Creforce Headquarters. Had the
Maoris made contact, C Company is confident that with Maori
reinforcements it would have held out all next day (21 May),
still denying the airfield to the enemy, despite the certainty of
heavy casualties. In that event, the story of Maleme would have
changed with a vengeance.
For three hours after midnight patrols failed to find A, B and
D Companies. A man conspicuous for his one-man patrol activities was Peter Butler,
Sgt P. F. Butler, m.i.d.; Whangarei; born Auckland, 22 May 1917; driver.
over from Headquarters Company; his
explorations were of paramount importance and greatly helped
the evacuation from the airfield. Reluctantly convinced that
no support was coming, now that the battalion apparently was
gone, and believing that his few remaining men on the inland
side of the airfield could not withstand the inevitable dawn
attack, Johnson, after conferring with Donald, decided to withdraw at 4.30 a.m. on 21 May. The lateness of the time is worth
remembering: dawn was approaching. Johnson and his company had stuck to their posts nobly: their withdrawal from the
fateful airfield was a bitter reward for their day of steadfast
defiance. A runner went to tell 13 Platoon and returned saying
the place was bare.
13 Platoon, cut off, made its own way back after dark, greatly assisted by Bob
Bayliss, then a private—a clear example of a natural leader coming to the fore
and assuming control successfully when everything looked hopeless. Deducing
(with German voices everywhere) that Company Headquarters had been captured, the platoon made its way east of B Company area and rejoined the company early next morning.
Every man removed his boots and hung
them round his neck. Critically wounded men were made as
comfortable as possible and left with food and water. The southern wire round 14 Platoon's defences was cut and, in single file,
the wounded interspersed here and there, they set off. One
man was practically carried, stooped over the back of a friend;
another crawled all the way to 21 Battalion on his hands and
knees. No stretchers were available; the party could not have
carried them in any case, for they had to be prepared to fight
their way out. They
The total number to leave 14 Pl and Coy HQ area at 0430 hrs was approx
40 made up of about 14 unwounded, and the 14 wounded C Coy men and about
12 RAF and LAA troops. En route we picked up perhaps a further 12 mixed
troops, some 22 Bn and some FAA; but we dropped 6 including the CSM Bob
Adams, Cpl Smith 14 Pl, and Cpl Earnshaw Coy HQ. On the ridge we picked
up 13 Pl approx 15 strong. The above figures are not accurate, but they are as
near as I can remember. My check in 21 Bn area about 1100 hrs, after I had got
all our wounded including Donald off to the 21 Bn RAP gave me 27 unwounded
… C Coy men…. half of us had dysentery in a rather severe form. Donald
did an excellent job—as always—clearing local area on ridge and covering the
withdrawal of the wounded. He did not receive a decoration here, but I certainly
recommended him for one for his magnificent behaviour and gallant leadership
during the continuous period of 30 hours.’—Captain Johnson.
went past the snoring Germans to the
right, through the vineyards separating C Company from A
Company, up to A Company's deserted headquarters, on to the
road, up the hill past a grounded and ghostly glider until, after
dawn, they reached a wood near 21 Battalion's positions. As
they fell dead-tired under the trees, German planes began the
morning hate.
D Company (Captain Campbell) had about 70 men, supported by two machine guns of 27 Battalion on makeshift mountings,
an uncertain number of Bren and tommy guns, and no mortars.
The right boundary included the bridge over the Tavronitis
River. Near here 18 Platoon (Sergeant Sargeson) was placed;
17 Platoon (Lieutenant Jim Craig
Maj J. W. C. Craig, MC and bar, ED; Tauranga; born Gisborne, 22 Aug
1911; accountant; p.w. 21 May 1941; escaped Jul 1941; served with MI9
(A Force) in Greece; recaptured Jan 1942; escaped (Italy) Sep 1943; served with
partisans in Ligurian Mountains Sep 1943-Dec 1944.
) was next, with 16 Platoon
(Lance-Sergeant Freeman
Sgt V. Freeman; Halcombe; born Perth, Aust., 4 May 1913; shearer and
farm worker; p.w. 21 May 1941.
) further inland on higher ground
on the company's left flank. The last two platoons looked down
on to the riverbed and across to flat ground on the other side.
About a quarter of a mile south was an outpost, a platoon from
21 Battalion.
As the platoons were out of touch with each other during
the day, their experiences will be treated in turn.
The most northerly platoon in D Company, 18 Platoon, 30-
odd strong in Greece and wasted to only twenty-two by 20
May, was extraordinarily thin on its vital ground. Throughout
20 May Sergeant Sargeson had no contact whatsoever with
C Company (on the airfield, on the platoon's right flank) or
even with his company's remaining two platoons.
On the point of breakfast-time ‘it suddenly became expedient
to keep your head down while our slit trenches concertina-ed
in and out under the grandfather of all blitzes.’ Hard on this,
Sargeson recollects, ‘the planes were literally wing-tip to wing-tip and all disgorging a skyful of multi-coloured parachutes.
… I remember being fascinated by the spectacle and remarking to Corporal Bob Boyd
Sgt R. McL. Boyd; Ohura, King Country; born NZ 5 Oct 1910; van driver;
wounded 29 Jun 1942.
who was beside me: “Look
at that Bob, you'll never see another sight like that as long as
you live”—and Bob's reply, eminently practical and much
more useful to the cause as he picked up his rifle, “Yes, and
if we don't shoot a few of the b—s we won't live too bloody
long.” ‘
Any scattered paratroops who had overshot their intended
mark west of the river to land near 18 Platoon's positions were
dealt with; but detachments from the great bulk of the invaders,
landing well out of range, formed up as the day grew older and
attacked in orthodox fashion as well-equipped infantry. Eighteen Platoon's two-man picket on the bridge (Smale
Pte H. Smale; Whenuakura, Patea; born Napier, 6 Aug 1912; labourer;
wounded and p.w. May 1941; repatriated.
and
Barrett
Pte E. Barrett; born NZ 30 Oct 1918; casual employee; killed in action
20 May 1941.
), according to plan fell back towards a position near
the RAF cookhouse to cover the bridge from there with a Boys
anti-tank rifle which Arthur Holley
Pte A. E. Holley; Waingaro; born Hawera, 26 Dec 1918; farm labourer; wounded and p.w. 20 May 1941.
had devotedly lugged out
of Greece. Barrett was killed and Smale soon wounded and
later captured, and this tenuous grip on the highly important
bridge was almost immediately lost. Corporal Neil Wakelin's
Cpl N. L. Wakelin; born NZ 30 Nov 1912; lorry driver; killed in action
20 May 1941.
group obviously could do nothing about the bridge, under
which, protected by pylons, an enemy machine gun and mortar
(subsequently identified by a dud round) promptly took post
and offensive action, pinning down and pounding the handful
of defenders in the two nearest pits (Gillice's
Pte A. Gillice; born NZ 14 Mar 1905; labourer; p.w. 15 Jul 1942; died of
sickness while p.w. 11 Feb 1945.
and Minton's
L-Cpl F. J. Minton; born Carterton, 10 Apr 1915; labourer; died of wounds
23 Nov 1941.
).
Accordingly, by mid-morning, with the noise of battle unabated,
Platoon Headquarters saw the first minute fall in the avalanche
which, starting at Maleme, would sweep the British from Crete:
through the dust some 250 yards away a few of these men were
being shepherded through the wire and dazedly gesticulating
back not to fire. One of these captives, Arthur Holley, writes
of their severe bombing, himself being blown up with a grenade,
and of casualties widespread among his companions.
Sargeson, checking up, found Wakelin ‘all right, and agreed
that his position and mine were now the front line. We knew
nothing of C Company. Warfare continued spasmodically with
a fair bit of activity directed at us from the M.G. and mortar
behind the bridge. However, no direct frontal assault was made
and we sat tight. If the enemy had realised how thin we were
I don't doubt he would have dug us out but we parried shot
for shot and I suppose he was guessing—or else was busy with
C Company so that he could later outflank us.’
In the late afternoon, expecting an evening assault on what
now was clearly the left flank of the whole airfield position, the
sergeant went back (‘encountering no one except carnage’) to
Company Headquarters, to be told by Captain Campbell that
reinforcements were nil. The platoon had in fact received reinforcements at the beginning of the bombing: fourteen RAF
ground crew, as arranged. These fourteen men, willing enough
to be sure, were of no use, quite untrained as they were for any
infantry task and hopelessly ill equipped, with no rifles and
perhaps a few. 38 pistols. All clad in deceptive blue, they were
hastily camouflaged by New Zealand greatcoats in the boiling
sun. Nearly all were wearing light shoes which were soon in
ribbons.
Returning to his platoon and learning that Wakelin's post
had been in close action, Sargeson investigated with Corporal
Boyd. Two survivors overlooked in their hole (Nickson
Pte W. Nickson; Halcombe; born NZ 28 Feb 1916; labourer.
and
Velvin
Pte E. G. Velvin; Eltham; born Eltham, 28 Aug 1919; butcher.
) told how, surprised from behind, Wakelin and Doole
Pte W. Doole; born NZ 12 Jun 1913; farmhand; killed in action 20 May 1941.
had been led down to the canal and apparently tommy-gunned. When the four got back to Platoon Headquarters, darkness
was approaching. Sargeson ‘decided that I could not prevent
infiltration in the dark and that rightly or wrongly, I would
not sit out on a spur but would withdraw my few men and
consolidate with the rest of the company. And believe me we
literally tiptoed away into the night and heard quite clearly
the enemy moving in behind us (the Germans' habit of calling
to one another in the dark advertised their presence).’
They ‘were a little disturbed’ to find the rest of the company
had also withdrawn a short distance, and Captain Campbell
and Company Sergeant-Major Fowler, with no information
on the situation generally, were about to send a two-man patrol
to Battalion Headquarters.
While watching the gliders come in 17 Platoon saw seventeen
land along the dry riverbed of the Tavronitis. The first one
grounded on the hillside between positions occupied by Captain
Campbell and Lieutenant Craig. At least five of the occupants
were killed or wounded, and Craig with his batman, Bert
Slade,
Pte H. J. Slade; Dannevirke; born Dannevirke, 6 Nov 1912; labourer; p.w.
1 Jun 1941.
were returning to their position with two unwanted
prisoners when ‘a Jerry machine gun opened up and settled the
problem for me, missing both Slade and myself but copping
the two prisoners dead centre.’ Craig and Slade felt sure they
had cleaned up the occupants of the glider, but the balance
(four) were glimpsed making for the ridge just above them and
disappeared in the direction of the coast gun. The full crew of
a glider, hidden by a slight promontory, advanced together
towards Allan Dunn's
L-Cpl A. D. Dunn; Stratford; born NZ 3 Jan 1914; storeman; p.w. 21 May
1941. Dunn writes that he later escaped ‘and spent three months searching
around Crete for Transport back to Egypt…. [Because of] the heavy strain on
the villages where these staunch people were trying to feed so many and mostly
due to the severe punishment the Germans were handing out to those people
caught assisting British Soldiers I decided with my companion, Pte D. Grylls,
that on information which we had received we would try and find our way back
to Greece and on to Turkey. After exchanging our uniforms for Civilian clothing
we contacted a chap with a sixteen foot boat and rowed our way back to Greece
landing at a Coastal Village…. After resting there for three days we decided
to press on to Turkey, quite easy really, but we had picked up an English Soldier
at the Village who wanted to tag along with us and did, but his lack of fitness
started to hamper our progress and in allowing a rest on the outskirts of a Town
we were invited to the Police Station where we were Jailed and sold to the
Italians….’
section, but the section posts of Tom
Walsh
Cpl T. Walsh; Wanganui; born Wellington, 14 May 1914; labourer; p.w.
15 Jul 1942.
and Kettle
Cpl H. A. Kettle; Waitara; born Waitara, 17 Mar 1918; baker; p.w. 21 May
1941.
(the latter receiving ‘marvellous assistance
from a couple of Air Force chaps [who] were great shots and
knew no fear’) got the lot. ‘Our firearms were most inadequate,’
comments Kettle. ‘My section was issued with a Bren gun a
few days before the blitz, with instructions not to fire indiscriminately with it as it was necessary to conserve ammo. We
obeyed this instruction most explicitly unfortunately, for it was
discovered upon attempting our first burst at the enemy that
the gun was without a firing pin.’ They gathered enemy equipment, including a spandau, which gave good service until ammunition ran out at 12.30 p.m. Barney Wicksteed did good
work as a sniper.
Tom Walsh's section, with one trench blown in by a bomb,
was fully occupied in firing at its front, the riverbed, ‘but,’
says Danny Gower,
Lt D. Gower; Stratford; born Patea, 14 Nov 1917; labourer; wounded 16 Dec 1941.
‘Tom Walsh suddenly turned round with
his tommygun and dropped three Germans suddenly behind
us, the three enemy coming right out of the olive groves. We
took turns then facing front and rear, but after a while there was
not much doing.’ Sergeant Forbes-Faulkner
L-Sgt C. F. Forbes-Faulkner; born South Africa, 2 Mar 1909; baker; p.w.
1 Jun 1941.
saw across the
riverbed Greek civilians being used methodically ‘during the
day as cover while the Jerries organised themselves.’
As far as 17 Platoon is concerned, there seems to have
been only one casualty; scattered paratroops (about twenty
fell in the platoon area) had been quickly knocked out; the
positions apparently held firmly all day, but movement in
the afternoon brought fierce and most accurate fire from across
the riverbed. ‘No. 17 Pln had a fairly easy time of it most of
the day,’ writes Jim Craig. ‘As my position gave me a clear
view of all my positions and I was expecting at any time to
receive orders to counterattack, I did not deem it advisable to
stray very far from my Platoon H.Q. where I could be contacted by Coy. Cmdr. or Bn. The sections seemed to be O.K.
and had quite capable section commanders and I kept in contact with them by runner, however I now feel that on looking
back I should have perhaps taken matters into my own hands,
as we had cleaned out what enemy had come our way, in the
nature of Paratroops and Gliders, and made a counter attack
to retrieve No. 18's lost position, but it would have left our own
position and the right flank of 16 Pln wide open.’ About 6 p.m.
(according to Pat Thomas
Pte P. A. Thomas; born Stratford, 28 Jan 1904; timber worker.
) a runner began visiting sections
with an instruction to move back to Company Headquarters
in groups of two or three, for the enemy had the area covered
with machine guns.
On the left flank of D Company, 16 Platoon held positions
on the hillside overlooking the dry riverbed, with a good field
of fire but out of sight of the rest of the company. The platoon
commander was Sergeant Vince Freeman. The pounding from
the air was severe; there were bomb holes everywhere, but not
one casualty. ‘There was not a tree standing in my area and
our trenches were half filled in,’ writes Corporal Pemberton.
Sgt W. G. Pemberton; New Plymouth; born NZ 6 Dec 1911; driver.
‘“Windy” Mills
Cpl A. A. Mills; born NZ 15 May 1905; waterside worker; died of wounds 22 Jul 1942.
had a Boys anti-tank rifle tied up in an olive
tree,’ recalls Harry Wigley.
Pte H. Wigley; born New Plymouth, 4 May 1917; labourer; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
‘He had ideas of shooting at troop-carrying planes. I don't think that gun was ever found, nor
the tree it was tied to.’
Stray paratroops (their chief object apparently was keeping
the riverbed defenders occupied while the main force beyond
landed and organised) soon were cleaned up by 16 Platoon,
which dealt as well with two stray gliders, and also, the platoon
fears, with several blue-dressed RAF men (‘our big worry’)
escaping into the hills. A furiously swearing Private Gilbert,
L-Sgt C. R. Gilbert; New Plymouth; born NZ 14 Nov 1911; painter and
paperhanger; wounded 3 Oct 1944.
his Bren full of dirt from the bombing, had to take it down, clean
it, and assemble it before opening up with marked effect on
gliders and their occupants in the riverbed. But every time the
gun fired it sent up a cloud of dust which drew heavy machinegun fire and mortaring from the enemy quickly grouping across
the river. Two guns from 27 (MG) Battalion gave a spirited
performance until ammunition ran low in the afternoon. A
wounded machine-gun officer (Second-Lieutenant Brant
Maj P. A. M. Brant, m.i.d.; Fiji; born Durban, South Africa, 3 Jul 1907;
Regular soldier; wounded 20 May 1941.
) was
given first aid in Sergeant Freeman's pit: ‘he was offended because I pulled his identity discs out to check up just who was
behind me. Wanted to know if I thought he was a Jerry.’
Apart from bursts of counter-fire from across the river, the rest
of the morning for 16 Platoon passed ‘rather quietly…. In the
afternoon there were no targets offering … nothing of interest’; it was ‘a reasonably quiet day and [the platoon] handled
what there was around.’ Germans had worked up to under the
riverbank in front of the platoon but came no further, content
to call out in English, ‘Come down here, Comrade’. ‘They
desisted in this when someone invited them to stick their—
square heads above the bank and he'd give them Comrades.’
‘That night,’ writes Pemberton, who was in charge of half
of the platoon, ‘16 Platoon was sitting very snug and in control
of the position, and in the early morning I was surprised when
Tom Campbell contacted me and said we were moving out
as we could not contact the rest of the Battalion.’ The platoon
suffered but one casualty all day: Private Simpson,
Pte J. B. Simpson; New Plymouth; born NZ 30 Aug 1916; butcher; wounded
20 May 1941; p.w. 1 Jun 1941.
shot in
the foot. ‘We had hoped that the 21 Battalion would have been
allowed to have come down towards [16 Pl] as we were undoubtedly undermanned, and in a real manpowered charge
early in day could have swung the tide,’ summed up Sergeant
Freeman.
At Company Headquarters some men were redistributed into
section posts in the immediate area. Here Captain Campbell's
exasperating day from sunrise to dusk (at 8 a.m. his signals
post had a direct hit from a bomb) was by no means over: the
hardest decision would soon face him. Now, after dark, Sergeant-Major Fowler
Jerry Fowler, after paying a warm tribute to the way a nearby 27 (MG)
Battalion section under Corporal Gould covered the bridge, sums up: ‘the whole
of Don Coy held out the whole day and did not move from our original positions
until night, and only then when we had found out that Bn HQ had fallen back,
they evidently thinking that our Coy had been overrun. We were not overrun,
and had more than held our own with all enemy landed or advanced into our
area. In my opinion our Coy Com. Capt. Campbell put up a very good show
and proved himself a very fearless and brave soldier. The soldier on that day
whom I will always remember is our Coy runner Mick Bourke of Stratford. He
did some very grand work that fateful morning, and his personal bravery I will
always remember.’
and another soldier picked their way to
Battalion Headquarters. ‘It was evacuated, all right. But where
had they gone?’ Campbell continues: ‘From a conference held
before the action there was the plan that we would congregate
south if we lost the drome.
The airfield was to be held at all costs; no alternative scheme is mentioned
in available official records. This was purely a D Company plan. As far as the
whole battalion was concerned, the airfield was to be held at all costs; but, remembering the lessons of Greece, Campbell had thought it wise to have an alternative
plan and had instructed his platoon commanders to re-form to the south ‘if the
worst happened’. The precaution availed D Company nothing.
Then I thought that my company
position might be wanted as a sort of pivot round which a
counter attack could swing, especially if the battalion had
pulled back to the south. I took stock of wounded nearby.
They knew nothing of a counter attack. I decided to pull out.
It was then 3 a.m.’
The situation among perplexed, weary, hungry and thirsty
men was not improved by someone suddenly shouting, ‘Every
man for himself!’, for morale had fallen flat with the news that
the battalion had gone. Remnants of 18 Platoon with Sergeant
Sargeson went far south on a hazardous expedition. Some of
17 Platoon with Lieutenant Craig began making south along
the riverbank, were blocked, moved towards Point 107, and
at sunrise were surrounded and captured. Company Headquarters, 16 Platoon and various strays followed Captain
Campbell along a track running due east, skirted a party of
sleeping Germans, met Captain Hanton and other mystified
groups from the battalion, and at daybreak were nearing the
protection of 5 Brigade's lines higher in the hills.
‘Farewell to Maleme aerodrome and some fine cobbers,’
wrote Sargeson.
A Company (Captain Hanton and Lieutenants Fell
Lt R. B. Fell; born NZ 8 Nov 1910; motor mechanic; killed in action 20 May 1941.
and
McAra
Because the battalion had no mortars, McAra had gone to A Company as a
platoon commander.
; exact strength and weapons unknown), with the task
of all-round defence, held its fire until parachutists were about
100 feet from the ground. Twenty-two Germans who landed
alive in A Company's area were accounted for. Hanton, moving
about, ‘saw dozens of corpses on the ground or in the trees….
During the lulls the men grabbed any German stores that landed
near them. There were canisters of gear, food, motor cycles and
even warm coffee from Hun flasks. The detailed organisation
of the force amazed us at the time; we had not realised that
so much care could be taken to win a battle.’
After breakfast, which had been delayed in the blitz, Lance-
Corporal Chittenden and Bill Croft
Pte W. H. Croft; born NZ 6 Apr 1916; freezing works labourer; killed in
action 20 May 1941.
had just returned to
their pit near the coast gun when, unknown to them, the four
German survivors from the glider came over the ridge. As
Chittenden and Croft reached their trench Croft's ‘first reaction was to ask for a smoke,’ says Chittenden. ‘Producing
tobacco I was passing some to [Croft] when I noticed his hands
slowly rising and a look of alarm on his face. Looking upwards
I was soon aware of the cause. Four Germans, tommyguns in
hand, were standing at the end of the trench beckoning to us
to get out.’ Croft, rising, received a full and fatal burst; Chittenden next knew that he was grappling with the German leader,
rolling over and over, then was stunned by a heavy blow (a
shot, or shots). Soon recovering, he walked off for first aid,
and but for his wounds would have convinced nobody that
four Germans were in the immediate vicinity. What happened
to these four Germans is not known. Company Sergeant-Major
Harry Strickland
WO II H. J. C. Strickland; born England, 31 Jul 1904; foreman; wounded
and p.w. May 1941.
‘was in our Company Headquarters area,
not a German in sight, there was a bang, I was on the deck
[a stretcher case] wondering what the hell had happened.’
Then along the ridge Lance-Sergeant McWhinnie,
L-Sgt I. B. McWhinnie; born NZ 7 Nov 1916; clerk; killed in action 20 May 1941.
with two
or three others, was bailed up, disarmed, and driven ahead
until rescued, probably by one of the parties sent out from
Battalion Headquarters.
The next excitement came when Germans from the captured
RAF camp began moving towards Point 107: there seem to
have been two such sallies within two hours, each time with
RAF men in front of them. These men, some with their hands
up and crying ‘Don't shoot! Don't shoot!’ probably were being
used deliberately as a screen. Both parties did not get far, for
each time they were dealt with by men from A Company and
Battalion Headquarters. The first skirmish was over quickly,
and here Regimental Sergeant-Major Purnell
WO I S. A. R. Purnell; born Auckland, 21 Feb 1914; Regular soldier; killed
in action 20 May 1941.
was killed. The
second advance, beginning about 11 a.m. with a larger screen
of RAF men, also ended when the Germans behind the screen
came under fire.
‘From then on, there was the odd firing and movements from
below [from the airfield and environs] but nothing of vital importance as far as we were concerned as a company,’ says
Hanton. ‘Later on I tried to see how Fell and McAra were
getting on in their platoon positions to the south. Neither a
runner, nor myself later, succeeded in getting through. About
lunchtime the CSM, Strickland, was shot through the stomach.
… For the rest of the day, a comparatively quiet time. I
don't recall being worried at all over the company's position
and casualties.’
At 5 p.m. orders reached Company Headquarters that reserve companies of 23 and 28 Battalions would arrive by 9 p.m.,
and at that time the company was to pull back to the RAP
ridge, and further back at midnight. Orders would come about
the second move. ‘Was amazed to hear of it,’ wrote Hanton.
‘Things were not bad with me and T. Campbell whom I met
next morning did not go out of his way to suggest that he was
in hot water exactly.’
After dark A Company moved a little eastward to the RAP
ridge. A runner took news of this move to Fell and McAra,
and possibly during this move Fell, silhouetted against the skyline, was killed. The company stayed at this RAP ridge until
the early hours of the morning. From there runners had been
sent out on both flanks, north and south, to contact C and B
Companies. Both returned to say they had gone quite a distance without meeting anybody. ‘All the time I had the gnawing
feeling that I was all on my own,’ says Hanton. ‘I got the troops
that were left, there might have been 50, and began marching
down the RAP road, south-west, away from the coast,’ to meet,
greatly to their relief, Campbell and a party of D Company
men. After hiding in a gully for most of the next day, the united
party went on and reached a new line being formed by 21 and
23 Battalions.
At Battalion Headquarters Colonel Andrew considered the
blitz worse than the 1914-18 artillery barrages: ‘I do not wish
to experience another one like it.’ He was wounded slightly:
‘a wee piece of bomb that stuck in above the temple, and when
I pulled it out it was bloody hot and I bled a bit.’ A man nearby
heard the angry Colonel exclaim: ‘We'll go out and get these
b—s when the bombing stops.’ In the smoking and dusty
aftermath no paratroops landed between Point 107 and the
two ends of the airfield, but several gliders did, between Battalion Headquarters and Headquarters Company, coming down
among dust curtains still hanging from the bombing. No glider
troops fired on Battalion Headquarters, and the paratroops
were too far away. For fifteen minutes pot-shots were taken at
an enemy group about 700 yards away, near a dry watercourse
towards Pirgos village. Two gliders were within 200 yards of
Battalion Headquarters; their crews lay hidden and doggo
among the plentiful cover of vines until the late afternoon.
An hour after the landing the erratic No. 18 wireless set was
working again, and at 10 a.m. reported to Brigade the landing
of hundreds of paratroops in the riverbed and further west.
‘It was now so quiet that we [Battalion Headquarters] were
walking round freely,’ records Major Leggat, who goes further,
saying he ‘was a bit bored from the lack of movement. Things
were a bit quiet round Bn Hq and I went up to the top of the
hill where I could hear a few shots.’
These shots came from a gunner enterprise. On the hill just
above the two 4-inch coast guns, Lieutenant Williams
Capt L. G. Williams, m.i.d.; Silverstream; born Christchurch, 2 Jun 1909;
draughtsman; wounded and p.w. 22 May 1941; repatriated Nov 1943.
of 27
Battery had an observation post which soon became useless for
observing and directing fire when communications failed. By
10 a.m. the Germans were into the RAF camp, and soon a few
had moved on into a clump of olive trees containing the RAF's
RAP. From this grove the first advance (a tentative affair) began probing up the lower slopes of Point 107 in an area apparently not covered by A Company. Williams and another artillery officer, Lieutenant Cade,
Col G. P. Cade, DSO, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Hawera, 10 May 1909;
Regular soldier; 6 Fd Regt 1940-41; CO 6 Fd Regt1945; Director RNZA 1948-54;
CRA and GSO I NZ Div, 1954-57; comd Malaya Force, 1957-.
quickly grouped together
straggling British gunners
Watching the blitz, Williams saw British gunners (4-inch, 3-inch and Bofors)
plastered and blown from their posts by bombs: one second-lieutenant remained
alive among the officers on the 4-inch guns. This answers criticism by the infantry,
who could not understand why the Marines on their two 4-inch guns did not fire
a shot. In any case, the guns were sited for firing out to sea and could not sweep
the critical western bank of the river where the Germans were massing.
and airmen (one defensive position
was along a stone wall), sent a runner to Colonel Andrew for aid,
and then prepared a bayonet attack. Some men stuck knives on
their rifles. ‘Very soon a large party (30 to 40) appeared
variously uniformed, and partly uniformed men with hands
above their heads, many terror-stricken, all yelling and pleading
with us not to shoot (meaning at the enemy) but to let them
come on or they would be shot in the back,’ writes Twigg, who
was ordered on to the hill when the attack began. ‘Among
these men were some of our Bn,’ including the battalion provost
sergeant (few men would wish a provost sergeant such a fate),
Gordon Dillon, and Sergeant McWhinnie. ‘When any defences were seen the Jerries just took one or two of us and
pushed us ahead onto the defence. The Jerry doing it put a
Luger in your back and just pointed. It was easy to understand,’
writes Dillon. ‘They would keep close behind in case of shooting. It was well planned and with the intention of pushing
into our positions.’ He adds: ‘Some damn good shots picked
the three Jerries off.’
Descriptions from various viewpoints now understandably
enough clash, but clearly, with ‘astonishing ease’ the gunners,
three or four men with Major Leggat, and Twigg with a few
signallers dealt with the very few Germans behind this distressed screen and restored the situation. But the sally had cost
Sergeant-Major Purnell his life. ‘During all this time [from
10 a.m. to at least 11 a.m.] parties of men were moving about
on the aerodrome and the hill, and it was quite impossible to
know who was who; there was a great deal of shouting back
and forth and the ubiquitous adjective was the best countersign,’
noted Lieutenant A. R. Ramsay, of the Fleet Air Arm.
A similar assault occurring perhaps three hours later was
only partially checked, but this time military etiquette was
deliberately flouted. Petty Officer Wheaton (an electrician
working on the airfield) and a RAF man, on capture, were
given a red swastika flag by a German officer, ordered to march
in front of a group of German tommy-gunners, and to shout
to parties to surrender. Flag in hand, the hapless petty officer
was driven forward until, with a sudden dash for liberty, he
landed in a trench where New Zealanders, firing an automatic
weapon, drove back the enemy and rescued the airman, now
badly wounded. As this drive began, a Marine officer came
down from the hill, spoke of ‘a screen of captured RAF men’,
and urged Palmer
Sgt G. H. Palmer, DCM; Dannevirke; born Christchurch, 27 Aug 1916;
shepherd.
to take his Bren carrier up to the gun
position. ‘We had been told not to move the carriers without
orders from Colonel Andrew,’ Palmer relates. ‘I suggested to
the officer that he got permission from Battalion Headquarters.
Private “Sandy” Booth,
Cpl B. A. Booth; Waipukurau; born Waipukurau, 11 Feb 1911; grocer;
wounded 26 Oct 1942.
who was present, offered to gather
a party of men and take them up to cover the gun position. He
gathered a party of about 20 RAF and Anti-aircraft men telling
them it would be better to fight on the hilltop (Point 107) than
be killed like rats in the olive grove.’ A few followed Booth to the
top of the hill.
Meanwhile, back at Battalion Headquarters, with all telephone wires cut and useless, messages and information came
and went laboriously by runners or patrols who performed
many acts of devotion to duty. The four Bren carriers seem to
have been overlooked for patrol work. The Colonel himself
(and by now some impression should be emerging of the atmosphere and handicaps under which he was working) tried to
get through to Headquarters Company, and later went towards B Company to see the situation there for himself. Brigade
reported over the air that the enemy was landing in New Zealand uniforms—false—but this was at exactly the time when
leaderless groups
In fairness to these men it should be said that by the afternoon a large part of
the ill-armed congregation of displaced airmen, sailors, and gunners had sorted
themselves out into some shape on the south side of Point 107. Lieutenant Ramsay
(RNVR) says: ‘The F.A.A. had taken up positions directed by a combination of
their own inclinations and any officer who appeared to know anything about the
situation—Col. Andrew was occasionally seen for instance—but no one loved us
or took any interest in us….’ The group in the afternoon ‘had a pretty bad
time, but when dark came the situation seemed safe but highly uncomfortable
except for the West side of the Hill which was now completely occupied by
Germans.’ With no information and no guides reaching them in the dark, they
nevertheless remained on the southern slopes of Point 107 until 4 a.m. (21 May),
an indication that the group, although bewildered, was not demoralised. At
4 a.m. they struck out for the hills further inland. Ramsay's report continues:
We didn't know where our own people were.
We didn't know where the enemy were.
Many people had no rifles.
Many people had. 30 rifles and no ammo.
Everyone was desperately tired, thirsty and hungry. We had no food
and no water.
We had no objective to make for.’
Matters did not improve when the party did manage to contact the New
Zealanders in 21 and 23 Battalions' areas. From then on, unwanted, ‘without
any understanding of who was who’, they were shuttled disconcertingly from one
unit or group to the other until carried away in the general retreat east to Canea.
of displaced airmen were milling about
Point 107, another vexation to the commander upon whom
the pressure of events increased mercilessly throughout the day.
No news at all came from Headquarters Company at Pirgos
perhaps at any time a German thrust would come from the
east. At 10.55 a.m. the Colonel asked Brigade by radio if 23
Battalion could contact Headquarters Company. Accordingly,
17 Platoon of 23 Battalion made towards Pirgos, but did not
reach Headquarters Company, for the latter was firing on all
movement. (Yet it should be remembered that Wan got
through on his first mission.) Unfortunately, Colonel Andrew
was never given any indication that his Pirgos men were still
holding out zealously. In the same message seeking information
about his Headquarters Company he reported that otherwise
‘line was still intact and [the Battalion] were holding everywhere.’
Pressure mounted steadily as the afternoon began and the
drama of the airfield and Point 107 moved towards its climax.
A few minutes after noon Battalion Headquarters wirelessed
Brigade that enemy guns and heavy machine guns were firing
at them from west of the river. In the early afternoon mortaring
and strafing (presumably from the ground) was heavy, some
of A Company were seen beginning to move back beyond Battalion Headquarters, saying that a strong enemy force was
moving up between A and C Companies. (The southern posts
of A Company did not move.) At 2.55 p.m. Battalion Headquarters reported to Brigade that ‘position was fairly serious
as enemy had penetrated into Bn H.Q. area’, and at 3.50 p.m.
‘left flank had given way but position was believed to be in
hand’. Headquarters appealed for news of its HQ Company as
reinforcements were ‘badly needed’. Perhaps it was then that
Andrew asked Hargest for a counter-attack and was told that
23 Battalion was engaged with paratroops (23 Battalion area
was clear by 11.40 a.m., when companies were out hunting
paratroops). So denied support and with no reserves due to the
large area the 22nd covered, Andrew made his last throw, the
two tanks, and to his bitter disappointment watched the attack
fail. At 6.45 p.m. Point 107 was bombed by five planes. Major
Leggat now saw the Luftwaffe resuming close support, for by
now the enemy knew his spearheads had reached the top of the
hill, and planes machine-gunned areas forward of that. Brigade's last recorded message from 22 Battalion (7.25 p.m.)
‘… asked for immediate assistance and reported their casualties as heavy….’
The counter-attack by 23 Battalion, freely discussed before
the invasion, was widely expected, and when it did not come,
the feeling of bewilderment and isolation increased. Apart from
A and B Companies, nothing was known about the fate of the
rest of the battalion or the brigade. The enemy, growing in
organisation and confidence, challenged movement. Hidden
enemy parties took heart. Practically all news was unreliable,
just rumours. A hitherto most reliable man, suffering great
strain, reported that D Company was wiped out.
‘The morale of Bn. H.Q. officers and men [in the morning]
was good, and I consider up to the standard and far better than
in the latter years of the war,’ writes Twigg. ‘The O.C. and 2 i.c.
showed signs of strain during the day, and I put this down to
lack of news and information concerning their own troops and
the position in general. I am sure that the bombing or their
personal safety did not concern these officers, but the responsibility was great.’
The brigade plan did not seem to be functioning; the CO
had little information; neither wireless appeal nor the distress
flares had brought the counter-attack; the enemy had exploited
to the full the weakness of the defences by the RAF camp, over
which the CO had little control; only A and B Companies
seemed to be left, and these appeared likely to be overwhelmed
with the dawn. Colonel Andrew therefore told Brigadier Hargest
that he might have to withdraw, and he understood the Brigadier to reply: ‘Well, if you must, you must.’ By this—which
may have been about 6 p.m.—Andrew meant a short withdrawal from the top of Point 107; he still intended to deny the
enemy any use of the airfield.
Leggat takes up the tale: ‘Just before dusk [sunset was 7.50
p.m.] McDuff (I think) and I followed the CO to B Coy's HQ.
We went up the road past the glider, which gives some idea of
the quietness of the situation. Here we used Armstrong's slit
trench and blanket and went into a huddle. Crarer
Lt-Col K. R. S. Crarer, m.i.d.; Gisborne; born Wellington, 24 Nov 1909;
accountant; seconded to British Army, 1942.
tells me
the Signaller had still his set with him but was having no luck
in getting through. A company of 23 Bn under Carl Watson
Lt-Col C. N. Watson, MC, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Tinwald, 8 Jan 1911;
school-teacher; CO 26 BnJun 1942; 23 Bn Jun-Jul 1942; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
came through about 9. I took them across the road. McAra
said he would put them in position (he was killed 5 minutes
later).’
The Colonel had decided to withdraw the rest of his battalion to B Company's ridge to anchor a flank and to reorganise.
But on reaching the ridge he ‘found the enemy had pushed
round my flanks further than I had expected, and I had to
make the decision to withdraw to the 21/23 Bn line and this
I did before dawn.’ ‘This decision must have been made about
10.30 p.m.,’ notes Major Leggat. Runners went out with news
of the withdrawal, but only B Company knew of the move.
Leggat went on to Brigade Headquarters by carrier to report
‘that we were officially off Maleme’, and Hargest, asleep and
in pyjamas, ‘was absolutely surprised and unprepared.’ Similarly, when Captain Crarer (B Company) passed at the end of
his company through 21 Battalion, ‘Colonel Allen
Lt-Col J. M. Allen, m.i.d.; born Cheadle, England, 3 Aug 1901; farmer;
MP (Hauraki) 1938-41; CO 21 Bn May-Nov 1941; killed in action 28 Nov 1941.
was surprised and totally ignorant that any withdrawal was to take
place.’
The day had opened, and ended, with complete surprises.
Yet the most bitterly surprised would be the four companies,
mauled but still in position below in the darkness, still holding
on and unaware ‘that we were officially off Maleme’.
B Company (Captain Ken Crarer, with Lieutenant Armstrong acting as second-in-command; exact strength and weapons unknown): 10 Platoon (Sergeant Bruce Skeen
Sgt B. Skeen; born Wanganui, 12 Nov 1907; linesman; killed in action 22 May 1941.
) was to
the south, 11 Platoon (Corporal Andrews) to the north, and 12
Platoon (Lieutenant Slade
Lt W. G. Slade; born NZ 12 Jun 1907; clerk; died of wounds while p.w.
23 May 1941.
) to the west. This company's task
was an all-round defence of the area; to tie in with A Company
and to protect two machine guns placed slightly to the north;
to prevent any attack coming over the hill to the west and down
to the airfield. In the last two days the company area had received its share of bombing and strafing. Pilots paid particular
attention to machine-gunning the road.
The parachutists came in in a line running from the north-east of B Company across to the southern area of D Company:
‘As each flight of troop-carriers (3) emptied its load of about
a dozen troops per plane, a fresh flight carried on extending the
line until they were dropping directly over and beyond us. By
this time the Browning was smoking hot and I was frantically
reloading and spraying the Jerries as they continued the line
to circle the drome.’ They fell thickly around the area where
Slade's platoon was in position, and this platoon seems to have
remained isolated all day.
Yet within half an hour of the drop Slade's cook came over to Company Headquarters badly wounded in the face, ‘painting a grim picture of Slade's area
being wiped out’. Slade is believed to have been killed in a German plane which
was shot down while evacuating severely wounded prisoners to Greece.
When Slade was wounded, Corporal Jurgens
Sgt B. D. N. Jurgens; Naike, Huntly; born Taihape, 22 Sep 1918; farmer;
wounded 29 Oct 1942.
took command. Andrews's platoon got all but
three of the paratroops who were dropped within 200 yards,
‘and one of my NCOs, L/Cpl. Elliott
2 Lt K. Elliott, VC; Pongaroa; born Apiti, 25 Apr 1916; farmer; twice
wounded.
took a couple of men
despite the standing order that no man was to leave his trench
and went down into the valley where several Jerries had landed
among the trees and cleaned them out. Keith Elliott got wounded in the arm and a tommy gun man, Tommy Thompson
Pte T. J. Thompson; Foxton; born Waihi, 25 Jan 1909; labourer; wounded
20 May 1941; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
got one through his right leg. [Elliott's excursion probably took
him to within 400 yards of Matheson's platoon at Pirgos.] As
Elliott's venture proved to be the way to handle paratroops I
sent out half the platoon at a time to scour our area and bring
in all the machine guns, pistols, tommy guns and grenades that
the Jerries dropped in containers. There was a container after
every fourth or fifth man.’
A glider ‘sneaked in on us’ and dropped below the road between B and A Companies. Two men with a captured German
machine gun ‘poured belt after belt into the glider’; a sniper
wounded Johnny Adcock
Pte J. C. N. Adcock; New Plymouth; born NZ 4 May 1914; labourer;
wounded 20 May 1941; p.w. 28 Nov 1941.
before he was himself killed.
Crarer says: ‘Apart from a bit of sniping and several prisoners
surrendering, and an occasional drop during the day, the area
remained comparatively quiet—a lot of shooting to the west
where enemy parties were gathering. Communications with A
Company were visual and by liaison. We had a carrier which
had made two trips to Battalion Headquarters by early afternoon. I tried to make contact with Slade's area by sending two
patrols forward, but they were shot up and did not get through.
[Slade, alone at Platoon Headquarters, was wounded but dealt
valiantly with three Germans with an anti-tank gun. Allan
Holley
Pte A. D. Holley; Wanganui; born NZ 31 Aug 1917; railway porter; p.w.
1 Jun 1941.
says that from 10 a.m. onwards the hill was clear, and
from early afternoon everything was quiet.] We had good
liaison with Lieutenant McAra (commanding a platoon in A
Company) who early in the day came over saying he'd been
kicked out of his area, but he later on collected stragglers and
before lunch re-established himself in his area.
‘There was no platoon attack, or no organised attack, on B
Company. Casualties, not heavy in the company, would not
have reached ten. [11 Platoon had three lightly wounded men.]
We had all sorts of weapons; all fairly well capable of looking
after ourselves. Any runners coming to our area before midnight would have found us at home.’
Australian and English stragglers from the airfield were
‘sorted into some sort of shape, organised into sections, given
what enemy equipment they could raise, and that night
organised a complete defence of the perimeter of Armstrong's
and Sergeant Skeen's areas.’
By dusk all four Bren carriers had landed up by B Company's
area. During the morning Privates Jack Weir
Pte J. Weir; National Park; born Aust., 10 Feb 1912; driver.
and Maurie
Cowlrick
Sgt M. C. Cowlrick; Napier; born Napier, 19 Dec 1918; clerk.
volunteered to drive up the road to form a road
block on the right of B Company, and ‘the only firing was at
odd paratroopers.’ Then two more carriers came up. Earlier in
the day the Browning from one had been used for firing on
paratroops in Headquarters Company area; later it was used
to scatter a party of enemy attempting to retrieve a supply
container on the ridge behind Headquarters Company. Although they were right on the road, the carriers were not
strafed because the crews covered them with parachutes. About
8.30 p.m. the fourth carrier (Palmer's) made its second and
final trip up to B Company's area. Weir and Cowlrick were told
that if 23 Battalion support did not come, ‘Maurie and I were
to wait until the last man would tell us he was the last man,
only he didn't.’ The two stayed until nearly daylight. All the
carriers were put out of action before being abandoned; apparently more or less forgotten, they had served little purpose this
day.
Just after dark Captain Watson, with A Company 23 Battalion, came into B Company's area and was ordered by Colonel
Andrew to take up a covering position in Captain Hanton's
area. He wanted a guide and McAra said: ‘That's my area.
I'll take you in.’
Corporal Andrews writes of his first inkling of the retreat:
‘At ten minutes to eleven that night I received word that I had
to have the platoon ready to move out and clear a village nearby
[half a mile directly south of B Company] and to guard the
Battalion through the village. Up to that time we had no indication that the position was so serious.’
Crarer goes on: ‘Battalion HQ came into our area after dark
and decided to withdraw at midnight. The withdrawal was
OK. We got a message round to Slade's platoon by the shouting
of orders round the chain of posts.’ Colin Armstrong led 11
Platoon (Corporal Andrews) out first, then Jurgens brought
out some of Slade's men. Slade couldn't be moved and was left
with food and water. ‘These chaps came out down the track and
south of 21 Battalion's area. Then out came the last platoon,
Skeen's (No. 10).’ The rearguard in the village saw the remnants of the battalion pass through safely and then followed
along behind: ‘Indeed, every few yards we passed dead paratroops and even then they had begun to stink.’
Thus the battalion withdrew and the invaders of Crete
gained the airfield they had to have to continue the assault.
The chapter of misfortunes and misunderstandings which led
to Colonel Andrew's fateful decision has been related.
‘Let me say at once, I do not for one moment hold Col. Andrew responsible
for the failure to hold Maleme; he was given an impossible task, and he has my
sympathy,’ writes General Freyberg in a letter to the author in January 1956.
‘I take full responsibility as regards the policy of holding the aerodrome. I did
not like the defences of any of my four garrisons. I would have put in another
Infantry Battalion to help Andrew, but it was impossible in the time to dig them
in. The ground was solid rock, neither did we have the tools. Puttick, Hargest
and I must bear our share of responsibility for the defensive positions that were
taken up at Maleme, which were as good as we could hope for under the difficult
circumstances.’
All
next day 5 Brigade sat like a man bemused when the fate of
the invasion of Crete, in the words of German commanders
concerned, ‘balanced on a knife edge’.
General Ringel, who commanded 5 German Mountain Division, and General
Sturm, who (as a colonel) commanded the air landing at Retimo, made the
following comments on an official German study of the Balkan campaign: ‘The
passive attitude of the British Command in the neighbourhood of the important
air-landing base of the Germans, Maleme, was decisive for the loss of Crete.
The British were satisfied with firing against this landing place instead of recapturing the airfield in a counter attack immediately after the first landing. This
would have made the landing of the 5th Mountain Division with transport
machines impossible and would have doomed the parachutists so far landed in
Crete … no sufficient naval material was available for a German invasion by
sea in the entire Aegean.’
A counter-attack was in fact mounted on the night of 21-22 May, but it was
too weak and too late. German officers are
told in the course of their basic training that in battle ‘It is
better to do the wrong thing than to do nothing.’
Remnants of 22 Battalion joined the defence line of 21 and
23 Battalions next day. In the late afternoon the last original
22 Battalion post was evacuated: the AMES guarded by Captain Wadey and his well-armed platoon of pioneers. The radar
station, a mile inland from Point 107 and on high ground, two
knolls with a saddle between, covered about half an acre and
contained two RAF officers and about fifty airmen. Two painfully conspicuous 40-foot wireless masts were encircled by barbed wire. The equipment was very ‘hush-hush’, and not even
Wadey saw inside some of the vehicles.
Two signallers, complete with flags, were attached for communication with Battalion Headquarters. ‘When the show
broke, despite many wearying hours of flag waving they never
made contact with the Battalion,’ says Wadey. The pioneers,
untroubled by paratroops, shot up a glider which landed within
range. In the afternoon Ju52s were seen crash-landing up the
coast. Wadey ‘couldn't understand why something was not
done about this’, so accordingly the two runners, Privates Wan
and Bloomfield, were sent to Headquarters Company to link
up, get information, and report the troops massing from the
crash-landed 52s further up the beach.
The night passed uneventfully except for a large body of
troops marching past the station. This was a sizeable part of
22 Battalion on the withdrawal, but no word was passed to
Wadey. About 10 a.m. on 21 May stragglers and wounded gave
the first reports of the battle and the withdrawal. Later, shots
were exchanged with isolated groups of Germans. A private
had gone back to 21 Battalion for information and failed to
get any, so Wadey went out himself, later walked into Colonels
Andrew and Allen, with Major Leggat and Captain MacDuff,
and was told to hold his position at all costs, for the airfield was
to be counter-attacked that night. He returned to find one of
the RAF officers wounded.
Private Parker,
Not traced.
with a section in an outpost outside the
wire, reported enemy flag-waving (ground to air communication), fired, and checked this activity, but soon (perhaps 3.30
p.m.) the bombers turned to pound the mound, a concentrated
target with the vehicles, the masts and the circle of bright new
barbed wire. ‘We received what the battalion had had all the
week … the whole hill was heaving in smoke and dust …
one of the Stukas seemed to be going to drop right on us …
this one carried a bomb, orange in colour, under the belly. I
saw it leave the plane and dive for us and knew it was going
to be close.’ This was the end. The pioneer platoon and the
RAF detachment withdrew from the AMES. With a compound
fracture of the leg, Wadey fainted and regained consciousness.
He and other casualties from the mound were carried to the
21 Battalion RAP, where they were welcomed by Padre Hurst.
When Headquarters Company had pulled out of Pirgos towards dawn on 21 May, Padre Hurst, with twenty walking
wounded, eventually reached 21 Battalion's RAP, where Captain Hetherington
Capt O. S. Hetherington, MBE; Rotorua; born Thames, 3 Apr 1903; medical
practitioner; p.w. 23 May 1941; repatriated Sep 1944.
was in charge. The doctor had arrived by
caique from Greece before battle commenced, and had been
equipped by enemy supplies dropped in his battalion area. In
a cottage turned into an RAP they worked for three days before
capture. During that time a young German officer, Tony
Schultz,
The Padre gave Schultz his wife's address in case a letter could be sent saying
the New Zealander was captured and alive. Schultz, later captured in the Desert,
spent the war in America, returned to Germany and, wishing to become a teacher,
entered a university in the British Zone through a reference from the Padre. He
is now a teacher and happily married. Padre Hurst has a photo of the wedding
group.
wounded in the forearm, gave valuable help. He
doubted if his comrades would recognise the Red Cross. To
save the lives of the wounded, sixty British and ten Germans,
a swastika flag was made by cutting up a red flannel petticoat
(found in the loft) and fixing it to a white sheet. Lashing the
flag to two poles, Hetherington and Hurst hoisted it above the
hedge until firing ceased and slates stopped flying from the
roof. Then a party of Germans, which Padre Hurst thought—
perhaps mistakenly—was a firing party, lined up against a wall
all who could stand. ‘An officer made a fiery speech in German
and we thought we had had it,’ says Hurst, ‘until a wounded
officer we had tended called out from his stretcher in the corner
of the yard. He told how well we had looked after him and his
men and we were reprieved. A nasty moment.’
About the time the AMES was attacked, more wounded
were falling into enemy hands down in the valley. The battalion's medical officer, Captain Longmore, had remained at
the advance RAP, close to the airfield, and had put through
fifty-five to sixty casualties by 3 p.m. An hour and a half before
dusk he was ordered by Colonel Andrew to evacuate the post:
Battalion Headquarters was going back. Led by a battalion
officer and carrying the wounded, they moved ‘up hill and
down dale’ towards 23 Battalion's lines. There was an acute
shortage of stretchers. A severely wounded man carried on a
blanket recalls ‘a man on each corner struggling along in the
dark, bumping and stumbling over things they couldn't see.
I survived the bumping although I don't think I was supposed
to.’ Morning found them camped in a clearing with 160 stretcher cases and walking wounded, among them Lieutenant-
Commander Beale of the Illustrious, and later some wounded
paratroops. Their officer guide left to collect stretcher-bearers
but did not return. ‘The injured made a white circle from RAP
gear,’ writes the doctor, ‘and all the crowd sat inside it. Planes
flew all round but we were never hit, although bombs dropped
all round.’ Twice they tried to get out messages and failed.
At 5 p.m. they were taken prisoner.
Through these next two critical days, 21 and 22 May, the
enemy kept up contact all along 5 Brigade's front. When not
bombing and strafing, fighters circled positions, a bomb poised
menacingly under each wing. Troop-carrying planes, heedless
of fire, began landing methodically on the airfield about 4 p.m.
on 21 May. Perhaps sixty planes landed on 21 May with about
a battalion and a half. More paratroops came down west of
the riverbed. Those men from 22 Battalion who had reached
21 Battalion's lines waited all night with flares ready to guide
RAF bombers on to the airfield. None came.
The RAPs used up the last dressings; food and water ran
low or ran out altogether; the smell from the dead became
sickening. Enemy parties probed south and behind the brigade.
When flares suddenly went up in the dark from a ridge, accompanied by yells from gathering Germans, an exhausted 22
Battalion man ‘felt like when the police gave me a summons
once.’ Yet at midnight on the 21st a great wave of gratitude
went out to the Royal Navy from the weary men huddled in
the hills above Maleme, for the watchers saw a furious display
of searchlights and blazing guns: our warships were smashing
and routing completely an attempt to land seaborne forces and
equipment.
Before dawn on 22 May the counter-attack on Maleme airfield was launched by 28 (Maori) and 20 Battalions, the latter
coming up from behind Galatas after an unfortunate delay.
Consequently the attack, timed for 1 a.m., did not start until
about 3.30 a.m. From the start line, two miles east of Pirgos
village, the two units carved their way along the coastal area
with plenty of grenade and bayonet work. One company (D
of 20 Battalion) succeeded in reaching in triumph the eastern
edge of Maleme airfield soon after daybreak, but mortars,
machine guns and air attack gradually forced it back. The
remaining troops battled into Pirgos village, but this was the
limit of their advance. Some men from C Company 22 Battalion,
The term ‘C Coy 22 Bn’ covers remnants of C Company and others from
22 Battalion; the same is meant by ‘D Coy’ in the following paragraph.
with a company from the 23rd, joined the Maoris in
the melée round Pirgos.
Over to the south-west, at 7 a.m., 21 Battalion's turn came
to play its part in the counter-attack. Not under cover of darkness but in broad daylight the battalion achieved a spectacular
advance, which showed how thin the Germans still were on
the ground: in three hours it had partly cleared a corridor a
little over a mile long towards Point 107. D Company 22 Battalion, which was operating with Colonel Allen's force, continued to push on until the leaders had nearly reached their
old riverbank positions. Confirming this, Pemberton and Clem
Gilbert (with Fred Palmer
Pte F. Palmer; born New Plymouth, 3 Feb 1910; labourer; wounded and
p.w. 22 May 1941.
wounded in their section) say:
‘It was a hard struggle back after getting so far.’ However,
planes had continued to land with more troops, who were
rushed into the line, and about noon—when reliable news came
of the failure of the counter-attack along the coast—advanced
parties had to be pulled back. ‘They had used incendiary bullets
on us and a whole patch of grain was set alight.’ In the late
afternoon increasing enemy attacks from ground and air forced
the 21 Battalion attackers back to their original positions.
As night came enemy infiltration increased; to the south
strong enemy forces were working round 5 Brigade, whose last
hours in the Maleme area were at hand. Men of the battalion
were scattered among front-line units, and one of them records:
‘… gave up hope, didn't feel bad though, except thought
tough on Mum, Margaret and everyone. Talked to B., he felt
the same…. Waited and wondered what feels like to be
killed. Heard firing and yells from Maoris about 100 yards
away. Had chased Jerries off; could not believe true. Spent
night on watch, half hour each, too tired for more, put tin
hat where would fall on rifle and wake me up if dozed and
nodded head. Told everyone in front were enemy.’ But temporary relief of a kind was coming. In the early hours of 23
May withdrawal was ordered and began, to the angry surprise
of many, though to have remained would have meant disaster.
The next day (23 May) the brigade, hounded and chased
from the air, split into small parties, and now in serious danger
of being cut off altogether, drew back into the east, sheltering
behind 4 Brigade, which was defending Galatas. Villagers on
the way bravely ‘smiled and waved but there were tears in
their eyes.’ Fifth Brigade Headquarters looked grotesque with
abandoned band instruments lying about. ‘We weren't keen
on music by that time, only a little hungry,’ wryly comments
a D Company man. The condition of the men is indicated by
this note: ‘Crossing stream … found several Jerries in water,
smelt awful, had drink anyway.’ Just after this, by the little
coastal settlement of Ay Marina, a small and most welcome
party returned unexpectedly to the unit. Private Follas
Pte L. G. J. Follas; born Levin, 17 Oct 1910; painter; wounded and p.w.
26 Jun 1942.
and
one or two others from the battalion had been serving a few
days' detention in the Field Punishment Centre in the Maleme
sector when the invasion began. Collecting automatics and ammunition from canisters falling providentially near, the inmates
and guards (sixty altogether) zealously dealt out punishment
to paratroops, took prisoners, hunted snipers, and gave valuable
protection to a nearby troop of New Zealand guns, whose
officer, Captain Snadden,
Maj J. P. Snadden, MC; Wellington; born Te Kuiti, 24 May 1913; salesman;
twice wounded.
would say: ‘When we put a shot in
there, you get everyone who runs out.’ In the general withdrawal a few in Follas's group collected a donkey, loaded it with
four spandaus, carried the ammunition themselves and, after
taking part in a brisk skirmish yielding twenty prisoners, met 22
Battalion survivors in the afternoon. ‘What have you been pinching this time?’ asked Colonel Andrew, viewing approvingly
the donkey, the spandaus, and the ammunition. (On the subsequent retreat to Sfakia the donkey, already a well-known
personality in the battalion and called ‘Sweet Nell’, was hit
during an air raid and had to be shot.)
Behind the defenders of Galatas the battalion was just over
200 strong—enough for two companies under Hanton and
Campbell. Their task was to defend Divisional Headquarters
against parachutists, to defend a ridge which was part of the
reserve line, and to counter-attack if needed. For two days the
remains of the battalion stayed in these reserve positions, dug
by other troops earlier and giving protection from spasmodic
strafing. Movement was cut to a minimum, and troops were
prohibited from opening fire on aircraft so that positions would
remain concealed, an order hard to obey, particularly when
one aircraft, nicknamed ‘George’, regularly swooped so low
that the pilot's features could be seen. This passive attitude,
for those unable to hit back, was most depressing.
The air attacks increased on 26 May, and the pressure continued on the sorely tried front-line units, by now forced back
a mile behind Galatas after defiantly but briefly reoccupying
the town at dusk in a last desperate bayonet charge. Twenty-second Battalion group's turn came in the afternoon of the
26th, following rumours (false) of an enemy break-through towards the coast. The battalion moved from its reserve positions
along the ridge and across a road to help plug the rumoured
breach. This emergency move, doubly dangerous in daylight,
was cancelled half-way through, but not before men in
Hanton's group were strafed in a ditch and had suffered ten
casualties.
In the night the battalion joined 5 Brigade's retreat south-westwards of Suda Bay, Colonel Andrew and Major Leggat
taking turns at the front and rear, but unfortunately the battalion split into two separate parties in the darkness. A brief
stand was made in rearguard actions on 27 May on a line
known as 42nd Street (this was a mile west of Suda village)
and again at Stilos, seven to eight miles back on the road
leading inland into the mountains and on towards the south
coast.
One day was very like another. ‘All day you lay hidden in
trees nibbling anything you could get. We struck a few trucks
that had been hit and had some broken biscuits. No tea of
course for we couldn't risk fires…. On other times we
marched at night and into the dawn till the first plane was
heard and that was the sign to take to the trees. You never saw
such hills. The road had a good surface but went … [zigzagging endlessly] and you seemed hours in going half a mile.
Two nights I think to get to the top—just with your head down
and your tongue hanging out because there was no water.’ At
Stilos on 28 May men, worn out and gaunt through long
marches, little sleep, poor food, and the day-long blitzes,
learned that their destination was Sfakia, on the south coast,
about 40 miles by the twisting road. They rallied in the morning
for the last and the roughest trek of all, heading into the dry
and dusty hills.
Survivors still say there seemed to be no end to the road up
‘Phantom Hill’. Men, exhausted and ill, were held together by
dogged endurance and the encouragement of their comrades.
Mate helped mate. ‘The discipline on the march was a credit
to the Brigade,’ says 5 Brigade's diary. One man felt he was
going to crack. Colonel Andrew casually sat down beside him,
and on learning where he was educated, yarned away quietly
about school-days at Wanganui Collegiate. ‘I was OK after
that.’
They hid up on a rocky, pine-dotted hillside near the beach.
From here and there more parties and members of the battalion
turned up.
Sargeson's party, after hiding all day on 21 May above Maleme in a long,
overgrown ditch, had tiptoed out undetected when night fell, and their luck
holding, succeeded in making through the rocky ranges ‘rather like a bit of typical
NZ mountain bush country I suppose, not so much bush.’ They shared one tin
of M & V, spoonful by spoonful, between 14 hungry, weary and ill-shod men.
One man sucked a raw egg. After reaching a village four miles from Souriya
Bay, on the south coast, other escapers attempted and failed to reach Sfakia
(already rumoured as the point of evacuation) by boat. Sargeson's party then
made for Sfakia, following roughly along the rugged, arid coastline and suffering
from hunger and thirst. Shooting a small goat and boiling it in salt water in a
petrol tin found on the beach, they also drank the briny soup. ‘We learned that
the pangs of hunger (which we had somewhat abated) were a trifle, compared
to the punishing agony of thirst.’ That night, on a ridge, investigating the sound
of croaking frogs (‘Hallucination perhaps’), they found neither swamp nor water.
A day later, almost beyond care, they stumbled on a stream. Four scattered Greek
settlements provided enough slender food and water to see them to Sfakia at
7 p.m. on 31 May, and only when on the minelayer Abdiel did Sargeson eat his
army emergency ration: ‘I had argued that while I could still walk I could keep
that concentrated can till I reached more desperate straits.’
Major Leggat thinks that here came one of the
most dramatic moments of his life: ‘… we were told they
couldn't take us. No one spoke for quite a while and then we
just rolled our pipe tobacco in our newspaper cigarette-paper’;
and the major concluded his letter home: ‘You can see that
it was not the glorious affair that the papers write about. All
you needed was good feet and the ability to go without water.’
Instead of embarking, the weary battalion suddenly had been
ordered to take part in the final rearguard, remaining ashore
to cover the last evacuation that night, 30 May. Captain Stan
Johnson writes:
After the exhaustion of the fighting of the preceding ten days,
the incessant bombing and strafing, the frequent withdrawals and
rearguards, the casualties, the lack of food and of sleep, and with
that hollow feeling in one's stomach resulting not only from the
knowledge of failure, but also from the feeling of having been let
down some ten days earlier, when the counter-attack at Maleme
did not eventuate as promised, this was almost a knockout blow!
How to tell our troops, those gallant fellows who had given of
their all so uncomplainingly, that Egypt was not for us, that we
were to fight on till 10 a.m. the next day? It speaks volumes for the
morale of the Battalion and of the integrity and loyalty of the
soldiers that not one man anticipated the order by leaving his post
during the night.
The next day, spirits soared with the news that more ships
were returning to Crete and that the battalion, after doing a
final beach-perimeter and control-point duty, would be evacuated.
Half an hour before midnight on 31 May the battalion began
embarking, every man shaved, every man fully equipped (for
those without gear equipped themselves from cast-aside
material). Whalers, assault landing craft and motor landing
craft took troops to the waiting ships: the minelayer Abdiel,
the light cruiser Phoebe, and the destroyers Jackal, Kimberley,
and Hotspur. Colonel Andrew and two other officers were the
last aboard. In Egypt he wrote the last two pages which closed
the battalion war diary for May 1941:
This record for May 1941 is of a young battalion which had been
‘blooded’ just a month before in Greece and was called upon to
withstand a ‘blitz’ of the utmost fury and intenseness, fight against
terrific odds, suffer severe casualties, and undergo tests of endurance
and morale that many a veteran unit does not come up against
throughout its service. Nothing which was encountered by units of
the 1st N.Z.E.F. can compare with the period 20/31 May 1941,
and yet I am glad to be able to report that this young battalion
proved they could ‘take it’, give plenty in return and remain as a
useful unit to the last day.
The casualties
The battalions casualties on Crete were:
Killed in action and died of wounds62Wounded65Wounded and PW81
Two of whom died of wounds while prisoners.
Prisoners of war94302
for the period 20/25 May were 53% and for
the month of May 62.35% of strength….
Many lessons have been learned and we should benefit from
these in future actions. We know now that we can deal with the
enemy even with his tanks and/or aeroplanes, that he does not like
night work or the bayonet, and that on the ground he is no match
for our men. Even though we had to withdraw for eleven days we
had our ‘tails up’ in defeat.
CHAPTER 3Libya, 1941
If I ever get a chance to grab a soft job I'll do so.
—Private 6971, immediately after Greece.
I hope I get back to the old Battalion. I'd hate to go
into a strange unit. It's one's old cobbers who make the
existence of an infantryman reasonably happy.
—Private 6971, after some weeks at Base.
‘Cairo,’ writes Bob Foreman,
Pte R. R. Foreman; Carterton; born Carterton, 7 Jan 1918; farmhand; twice
wounded.
‘the city which seemed to
stand apart—the boom town. If you wanted to go on
the bash what better place than Cairo—arguing with and
cursing and swearing at George Wog—bright lights—a great
variety of food and drink—the Pam Pam—a few chairs flying
— and bottles—then came the Red Caps to spoil it all—jokers
running down troops from other countries fighting in the desert
(were the troops furthest from the line the loudest in their
criticism?)—shoe shine boys (remember those ones who would
pester you when you didn't want your shoes cleaned, and then
rub a patch of blacking on them?)—hawkers (wallets, photos,
obscene and otherwise—crude little books containing very crude
stories written in unconsciously humorous English—fountain
pens, watch straps, etc., etc.). Wogs saying such things as “You
come with me Kiwi—I show you….” Walking down to
Bab El Louk station and passing Wogs smoking hubbly-bubbly
pipes—a whiff of burning incense when passing some doorway
—Arabic cafés blaring forth native vocal and string music from
a radio and fat Wogs sitting at tables drinking (say) coffee
(black in small cups). Cane crates full of fowls, piles of veges.
—hunks of raw meat covered with flies—those native pancake
sort of things—donkeys (four legs two ears and a nose sticking
out from under some enormous load, or a Wog sitting on the
donkey's rump and the donkey always looking the picture of
dejection). The Wog driving his cart and sitting at the front
with his wives in a group at the back and dressed in black with
veils. Walking round the streets, shops and places where you
could get nearly anything at a price—Wog kids meeting you
and then running after you yelling “Backsheesh-ana-muskeen-marfesh faloose” (then, finding themselves out of luck and the
object of abuse, as a parting shot: “New Zealand bastard!”).
Then in the bazaar—they said it was safer if there were three
or four of you together—masses of tall Wogs in flowing dirty
white robes—some of them carrying sticks—out of the hot dusty
sun into a cool dark little shop (maybe you wanted to buy some
stockings or tapestries)—then out into the blinding sunshine
again—Wogs with something wrong with one eye—a Wog with
no legs, just wheeling himself along the street on a trolley: a
trunk, two arms and a head. Sometimes he would stop and get
off his cart and move himself along with a loping motion on
his arms and the bottom of his trunk, the way a monkey sometimes hops along on its front legs. And small Wog eggs with a
taste of their own. And always Wogs shouting and arguing.
Gully-gully men—Wogs with flies clustered round eyes and
mouth and not bothering to brush them off. And traffic roaring
and honking their way along the streets, especially those taxis,
they drove with one hand on and off the horn. And the trams,
packed full and other Wogs clinging onto the sides. (It was the
same on the trains—full inside—and more Wogs sitting on the
roofs of the carriages—robes flowing and fluttering in the wind.)
And all those tales of mystery about the Dead City. (And tales
of trams bought and sold.)
‘But often you would get dressed up in your “Groppi-
Mocker”, with maybe a camera slung over your shoulder, and
make for the N.Z. Club (via YMCA, Wog bars, and Maadi
train). Then a hot shower, more refreshing than a cold one
even in hot weather. Then a feed (that very good ice cream
at the Club), and then off for the afternoon to—say—the zoo
or Mohamed Ali Mosque (something worth seeing I thought)
or the races at Gezira or Heliopolis—you only usually went
to the Pyramids once (got your photo taken sitting on a
camel), and if you felt energetic, climbed to the top; also stood
for a minute and looked at the Sphinx. (Also wondered just
how they got those great blocks of stone all the way from the
quarry.)
‘Then maybe back (by train or sometimes taxi) to Maadi.
If it was still daylight and hot, well what better than a nice
cool meal at the Maadi Tent—those ladies of Maadi who ran
it won't be forgotten by one Kiwi. (Then back to the pictures
at Shafto's or Pall Mall: reels put on in the wrong order and
frequent breakdowns: waves of insults, whistles, etc. each time
it broke down. Also Andrews Sisters singing “Rumboogie”
while you waited for the pictures to start at the Pall Mall.)
And as you left the Maadi Tent there were all those Jackaranda
and Flame trees putting on a great display of blue and red,
and maybe a Kiwi having a round of golf. And if you came
back by bus, taxi or lorry, remember that bump at the railway
crossing? And the Berka (no comment)?’
Men new to Cairo, walking out of the New Zealand Club
and wandering aimlessly down streets and around corners,
would suddenly stop, realising they were completely ‘bushed’.
The best plan was to call a gharry, say ‘New Zealand Club,
George’ with the utmost casualness, and hope no circling of
blocks would add a few more ‘ackers’ to the fare. Newcomers
soon found the heat and sweat played up with leather watch
straps; they bought metal ones (and arguments would start:
‘Now if you're smacked on the wrist…’). And the sudden
discarding of money belts, so zealously worn and guarded in
camp and in troopship. Some had their hair shaved off—a
regular fashion early in the war—or were tattooed, waking in
the morning with heavy head and groping for sweet, cold water
in the tall-necked earthenware zeer, and discovering that other
dull ache was some clumsy or blatant tattoo. The once-over at
hairdressing establishments: haircut, shave, shampoo, vibrator-massage, nail manicure, and so on.
Pestered by a hawker to buy something at, say, 50 piastres,
and offering perhaps five or ten just to be rid of the trader.
But ‘George’, game to the end, haggling, until finally: ‘Right
New Zealand. You my very good friend—I give it you at your
price.’ And the Kiwi saying in disgust: ‘Christ, George, I don't
want the bloody thing.’ Many bought sunglasses, and how
quickly these were discarded. Others bought bottles, all sealed
and wrapped in cellophane and ribbons and labelled with a
well-known brand of Scotch whisky, but when opened it tasted
like methylated spirits; and search as much as a man could,
no trace would be found where the glass had been tampered
with and repaired. Gradually other men grew more civilised
in their drinking habits, and ordered and drank such things
as ‘gazoos: very nice, very sweet, very clean’; ate water melons;
got used to the paper boy (Mail or Gazette) shouting remarks
about diseases (not entirely unknown within the 2 NZEF itself)
affecting Mussolini and Hitler and, sometimes, for a ten-acker
bribe, even a distinguished New Zealand commander or two.
The Naafi canteen ran ‘housie’ and sold eggs and chips fried
in oil, and Stella or Pyramide beer, invariably drunk from cut-down beer bottles. The company canteen (when company canteens were established) had its radio blaring happily (‘the beer
ran out on one occasion and we got in Zibbib, with disastrous
results to one Kiwi from Gisborne’). Bits of spare time were
also passed dozing in the tents, or running each other down,
or playing cards.
‘Sometimes somebody would get heartily sick of it all and
really go on the bash. Then in the dead of night we would
hear approaching noises—songs—laughter—curses. Then one
voice would break away from the others and make roughly in
our direction (‘You are my sunshine, my only sunshine….’). Then
the next second the whole tent would jolt as a thud was heard
outside. Then would follow a stream of curses at the offending
tentpeg—then the voice would become more distant and finally
die away in the distance, probably to enter at last its own tent
—telling the victims in there just what it thought of them, amid
much shuffling and fumbling….’
‘Yes: Egypt and the desert: I hated it,’ writes a veteran.
‘The other countries I saw all had their redeeming features,
but Egypt had so very little and I liked it least of all. A climate
and landscape as uninteresting as any I could imagine. You
hear of beauty of desolation:
He remembers only one spot where he saw both beauty and desolation together:
‘… coming up the Red Sea (inky and oily looking in a stifling hazy heat). The
coastline of Egypt was on our left: rocky, mountainous and barren looking. It
had a reddish glow about it; you could almost imagine it glowing hot. It had
beauty of desolation.’
well it had the desolation….
I didn't even see those great sand dunes you see in pictures
(except maybe a patch in the Sinai), but mainly flat desert
or sombre wadis (valleys) and escarpments. And so little sand
and so much dirt, dust and broken bits of rock lying about,
plus camelthorn. Some said the sunsets were beautiful, but I'd
say I have seen plenty better at home. Then again some said
that the evenings had “something”. But there again I'd say
that it was only relative: how many times in the desert have
we waited longingly for the evening to come?’
June began with the weary survivors landing at Alexandria
and going on to the desolate outskirts of Garawi Camp (near
Helwan, a few miles south of Maadi), a very bad camp, ‘arid
and bare as a sow's paunch’, with no facilities, rice three times
a day, no fresh vegetables, and a sugar shortage. The Intelligence Officer, Sam McLernon,
Capt S. M. McLernon; Gisborne; born Gisborne, 14 Jul 1913; civil servant;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
suggested grinding the rice
to make it more palatable; but this made meals more leather-some than ever. The rearguard from Greece welcomed comrades back. The stories, reunions, arguments, laughs, and
sudden silences began. So did weapon training and the endless
route marches (full water bottles carried, but nobody allowed
to drink). One platoon, slogging through dirt and sand, met
a peanut vendor—and hawkers used to appear in the most
surprising places, even during ‘highly secret’ moves. The
soudani-seller cried: ‘Hitler no bloody good, Mussolini no bloody
good, but peanuts very bloody good.’ They ignored him, and
as they headed for home, heard the farewell cry: ‘Hitler no
bloody good, Mussolini no bloody good, and peanuts no bloody
good.’
The reinforcements, 365 of them, marched in, bringing the
battalion's strength up to 30 officers and 752 men. ‘And what
a splendid lot of men they were too,’ says Colonel Andrew.
‘They'd had home affairs to wind up and leave in order, and
once this was done they turned to soldiering. When they came
to us they were keen to learn. The veterans took them in hand,
taught them and wised them up. They settled down excellently.’
Here is the first impression of a reinforcement, Private Price:
Sgt R. D. Price; born Tolaga Bay, 26 Jun 1914; farmhand; wounded 27 Jun
1942; died of wounds 9 Aug 1944.
‘The first parade after the reinforcements had been posted to
their various Companies, he gives us all a heart to heart talk:
“You are in the 22nd Battalion, yes, 2nd to none, and I'm
tough, bloody tough. Old February, that's me—Twenty-eight
Days—ask any of the old hands, they'll tell you. Don't think
you can go sick and get out of it….” The old hands had told
us beforehand practically word for word what he would say….
Our Company Commander is a hell of a good sort, Major
Hart….’
The Colonel was not satisfied with the appearance of his
battalion. He cancelled all leave until camp lines were left
clean and tidy, bedding and equipment laid out properly for
inspection, guards and pickets knew their duties and performed
them smartly, and men dressed properly on parade. Furthermore, to the delight of other ranks, officers were given brisk
rifle drill for several mornings.
One Saturday morning the men were straggling back to camp
after an unusually hot march. The Colonel appeared and
shouted: ‘March like soldiers!’ A muffled voice retorted: ‘Oh
shut up you silly old b—.’ That afternoon, instead of Cairo
leave, away they went on a second march, Colonel Andrew
first saying, ‘I may be a silly old b— but I'm the boss'
and then setting the pace. No veteran will ever forget that afternoon's march, and stories of that day used to frighten off reinforcements from 22 Battalion. ‘But by God,’ a veteran writes,
‘we prided ourselves on being able to walk any other outfit
into the ground—and we could. An officer, Tommy Hawthorn,
used to bounce along, leading his boys, with his eyes half closed,
the son-of-a-gun could walk indefinitely.’
After a few weeks at Garawi the battalion moved to another
camp, Kabrit, by the Bitter Lakes, three-quarters of the way
down the Suez Canal and about 16 miles from the tarnished
port of Suez. This was no holiday resort: enemy bombers knew
Kabrit, and all tents (eight men to a tent) were dug down three
feet. They stayed here for a month. Fifth Brigade was grouping
together for advanced training. On the lake and on the Canal
they practised invasion exercises in shallow landing craft. ‘These
ALCs are something like a steel barge, one end opens and the
platoon goes aboard, Nos. 1 and 3 Sections first and No. 2 last.
All sit down in rows, the door is pulled up, and away we go.
The ALCs are…. for landing purposes only. There are
ships fitted with special davits and the ALCs are carried aboard
these. Then about three miles off the shore the Mother ship
anchors, and each crowd man their ALC and are lowered over
the side, and away you go, either get lost or land on the wrong
beach. We put in two days on one of these ships and did a few
practice landings and then the whole business was called off.’
Perhaps it was just as well that the plan to make a surprise
landing behind enemy lines in Libya was abandoned.
Meanwhile, men who had lost all their personal gear in Crete
were wondering whether they would be compensated. They
learned now that they would: 50 ackers (10s.) apiece. Officers
seem to have received full compensation, and one is known to
have received £46.
From Kabrit they went on to Ismailia, marching a third
(14 miles) of the way in a day, one of the worst marches put
up by the battalion, with feet giving out all the way. Platoon
commanders had to go on a punishment march next day. Nobody fell out from 3 (Mortar) Platoon, 7 Platoon (A Company),
and 14 Platoon (C Company). Paul Donoghue and a comrade
marched the full distance with recently stitched heads.
The unit, now on guard duties with the rest of 5 Brigade,
had the bad luck to camp in Spinney Wood, a filthy spot, a
good example of some of the wretched places a battalion can
be landed in. RASC traffic, using extensively a road through
the camp, sent dust flying in all directions. One row of tents
huddled between a highway and a railway. A train ‘with square
wheels' jolted past every night. The Camel Corps only too
obviously occupied an area to the south. Near that was a row
of native hen-houses. Any attempt at migration was baulked
by a wireless station to the west, the Royal Marines to the north,
and the main railway line to Port Said to the east. Within this
blighted area sprawled a contractors' canteen (no Naafi), a
dhobi with clothes-lines and living quarters, native latrines
and washing places, traders' hovels, and a native barber shop
—all this in a dusty patch smaller than 20 acres, where 774 men
lived in tents jammed together, their guy ropes interlacing.
Precautions against the swarming flies were negligible; cooks
found their quarters dirty and primitive, and with no mess tent,
men had to draw their food and carry it to their tents. The
camp was set in a malarial area. Every night jittery natives
streamed through the lines to avoid air raids on Ismailia. And
an outbreak of plague in Port Said stopped all leave.
Colonel Andrew, who could storm as fiercely for his men as
against them, sent a vibrant report to Brigade, but fortunately
the battalion stayed here only a fortnight.
There were two compensations: a train containing crates of
beer became derailed, an extraordinary coincidence, beside the
camp (while the canteen contractor joined pillagers about the
train, other enterprising soldiers rifled his canteen); and working parties sent to unload boats on the Canal often returned
laden with tinned delicacies. With visions of luxuries, C Company landed the hay and wood line: no job was dirtier or
thirstier. Officers of 23 Battalion were entertained at a hilarious
party, at which Colonel Andrew sat back smilingly and said:
‘If I were 10 years younger I would be in there.’ Suddenly,
with a whoop and a yell, he dived into the struggling mass ‘and
took as much subduing as anybody.’
The next move, 280 miles away into the desert, into ‘the
blue’, was to Kaponga Box. While approaching their destination, near Alamein, a few men noticed a slight rise in the sand
and rock. It didn't look much. This modest ridge was known
as Ruweisat—a dark and tragic place for the battalion one
year later. Kaponga Box, where 5 Brigade settled, was a patch
of desert encircled by low sandhills, intended to be turned into
a horseshoe-shaped fortress—not a Beau Geste one with walls
and loopholes, but a camouflaged, almost invisible fortress with
strongpoints and trenches on the surface and underground
tunnels and rooms. Fifth Brigade sweated away preparing these
amenities. Little showed above ground. The idea was that
should the enemy sweep down from the frontier and approach
Alexandria, the fortress garrison, amply supplied with food and
ammunition, could sally out and harry him from the flanks.
This ‘Box’ outlook, together with schemes of flying ‘Jock
columns', was a fashionable but unsuccessful idea, abandoned
in mid-1942.
The battalion set to work to build a series of ‘keeps’. First
the section built its keep, modelled along the lines of those
which had proved their worth round Tobruk. Once the section
keeps were finished, they were wired round to form a platoon
keep, and then, finally, a company keep—that was the theory,
anyway. There was no continuous line—rather a chain of company keeps, about 400 or 600 yards apart. The men worked
away in the rock and sand, hacking out holes of all shapes and
sizes with many curses and blisters, four hours in the morning
and three hours in the afternoon. Charlie Brock
Sgt K. R. Brock; Invercargill; born NZ 9 Jun 1908; labourer.
and his
pioneers were well to the fore. Indian sappers and men from
7 Field Company, New Zealand Engineers, gave brief assistance, blasting into layers of hard limestone which had very few
fissures. Sometimes they struck enormous, tough boulders. ‘A
Company found some good fossils; one day a rabbit bobbed
up, God knows what it lived on, but it was knocked on the
head with a spade.’
The battalion picks and shovels, although plentiful, were
made from poor stuff: ‘on the hard rock the pick just bounced
off and turned back and looked at you.’ The battalion's forge
was kept busy. Help arrived in the shape of twenty crowbars
and Spaulding hammers.
By mid-September good progress had been made. Parties
took spells and briefly bathed and basked on the coast. Ploughing back to the Kaponga Box through fine, sandy dust left the
troops dirtier than ever. Water was not plentiful—‘1 ½ gallons
a man a day for all purposes', read the official ration, but all
of this except half a water bottle for each man went to the cookhouse. The soldier washed, cleaned his teeth, and shaved with
this ration of half a bottle, and ‘if any was over he was able to
have a good drink.’ Canteen stores had to be brought 40 miles
away from El Daba. Canteens opened with slender and quickly
exhausted stocks of English, Australian and Egyptian chocolate,
tinned fruits, boot polish, shaving tackle, biscuits, English
lollies, cigarettes, tobacco, and Chinese beer (‘Ewo’, with the
yellow label, from Shanghai); on the average a man received
half a bottle each week, ‘and all other luxuries in the same
proportion.’
‘Flies were the greatest army of all,’ wrote Tom De Lisle.
‘At their worst they accompanied the moving soldier, and made
his arms ache with waving to ward them off. At their mildest
they were still there in ones or twos to torment and annoy. No
matter what remote spot the battalion moved to, nor how
quickly, no sooner were the preliminaries of bivouacking engaged in when the vanguard of the fly army arrived. Flies and
sand! Sand and flies in never ending quantities.’
To keep the men in touch with civilisation a Cairo daily newspaper brought out a special Western Desert edition which
arrived by air a few hours after publication. Half-hearted
attempts to prosecute Egyptian war profiteers made wry reading. The NZEF Times brought the home news every week; a
picture propaganda magazine, Parade, turned up too; and the
YMCA cinema unit toured here and there, screening tirelessly
‘Topper Takes a Trip’.
For all its bleak environment the life was better than at base
camps. ‘I think that at Kaponga the troops were fitter and
healthier than they ever were before or since,’ says Colonel
Andrew, ‘and we should have gone direct from there into
action.’ Other men, remembering ‘the terrific desert sores’,
disagree firmly. ‘Gerry Fowler could tell you of some battles
with desert sores and septic fingers,’ notes a stretcher-bearer,
‘and how nearly every “cocky” in Taranaki provided ointment
and liniment and the Lord knows what through parcels for
D Company.’
At Kaponga, first thing every morning before starting his
daily jobs, Padre Thorpe
Rev. D. D. Thorpe; Christchurch; born Little Akaloa, 16 Nov 1908; Anglican minister.
would go across the desert plateau
away from the unit's position to read the Psalms and Bible
readings for the day, ‘and to pray for the men and for our
people at home, and that I might be of some use. At the time
about which I speak things were pretty bad with the Allies;
I tried to see the world situation from a moral and spiritual
point of view. How else could we pray? And of course there
were great moral issues at stake, and it was important that we
should keep that perspective in view. Otherwise we would not
have right motives, when coming back after the war, to rebuild
our nation on more secure moral foundations. It seemed, as it
really was and is, a critical crisis in the story of mankind—with
the rise of Nazi-ism, as an evil, destroying force and with plenty
enough soul-less materialism corrupting our own people. With
this background of thought, I prayed for the springs of spiritual
renewal within our people, and of course within our own men
of the 22nd Bn. Stretching away for hundreds of miles was the
desert, barren and lifeless, and symbolising to me in a very real
way the desolation in the heart of man that gave rise to such a
ghastly war. Moreover, Egypt itself depressed us by the corruption and slums (tho’ in the worst slums I had found inspiration
when I saw Christian love in missionary centres). Tho’ I knew
God's promises, could I ask for “a sign”?
‘My prayers seemed pretty hopeless. But then I remember
I took a hold on myself, and stood up and prayed, accepting
God's promise that those who pray believing are already
answered. Then there came over me an assurance that whatever the barren appearance to the contrary, God had not forgotten man and his need, and His mighty purposes were working
out. I turned to the Psalms of the day and the words were to
me a direct message to confirm what I felt: “I am well pleased
that the Lord hath heard the voice of my prayer, that He hath
inclined His ear unto me, therefore shall I call upon Him as long
as I live!” Verse after verse applied to our situation and to me.
‘As I arose to go back from my meditation, something
attracted my attention. Nearby on one of the dead-looking
camel-bushes was an exquisite, wax-like flower, the only sign
of life that I had seen in that vast dead desert. Then, nearby
I saw a similar tiny, pink flower; and close by me I saw a little
track in the sand behind a white snail-shell. All through the
hot summer these snails had sealed themselves off with a waxy
substance and had gummed themselves to camel-bushes. Intrigued by tiny signs of life I walked around for some hundreds
of yards, and found not a sign of anything more; nor did I when
moving around our position that day. Here was the “sign” I
asked for. To me it was a way in which the good Lord said to
me, that in the moral desolation of man He was still sovereign
over His universe, and He would bring forth springs of life in
the midst of man's failure. It was as real to me as if He had
spoken by voice; and I knew I could help bring a new moral
strength of purpose to those who were in the midst of the conflict.’
October
The battalion's senior officers at the end of September 1941 were: CO, Lt-Col L. W. Andrew; 2 i/c, Maj T. C. Campbell (Maj J. Leggat had gone to GHQ MEF). HQ Coy: OC, Lt F. G. Oldham. A Coy: OC, Capt J. Moore; 2 i/c, Capt E. T. Pleasants. B Coy: OC, Capt E. F. Laws; 2 i/c, Capt E. H. Simpson. C Coy: OC, Maj I. A. Hart; 2 i/c, Capt R. R. T. Young. D Coy: OC, Maj G. L. Mather; 2 i/c, Capt K. R. S. Crarer.
brought an end to fortress work. The Division was
to train for mobile desert operations. The rest of the Division
was now by the coast at Baggush Box, and 5 Brigade would
join it there. In any future attack, as Brigadier Hargest pointed
out during a visit, the infantry would be carried in motor transport up to the assembly point. Sometimes men might be carried
into the fringe of the attack itself and debus under fire.
After a church parade on 5 October the battalion moved
off in convoy, bound for Baggush, and travelled 25 miles westwards over the desert before bivouacking for the night. One
man's impressions read: ‘Movement of a big formation in the
desert is like a convoy at sea. As far as the eye ranges are motor
vehicles big and small. They roll and dip with the undulations
in the sand. The carriers forge along as escorts—like destroyers
—and suddenly one will dart away, speeding to the head of the
moving mass of vehicles, or to some point which needs watching.’ Before tea-time next day the battalion covered 50 to 60
more miles to a gaunt escarpment scattered with mines at
‘Baggush by the Sea’, as the parodies of ‘Sussex by the Sea’
described the dusty, flea- and bug-infested oasis. From here,
after a month, big formations of New Zealand vehicles would
move out, the Division would assemble and move towards
Libya, one force moving in one body, nearly 3000 vehicles and
over 19,000 men, in all its power and majesty, for the only time
in its life. But first, something had to be learned of exercises,
traffic discipline and manoeuvre. And time was running short.
News came through of a gallant escape from Greece. Early
in July Second-Lieutenant Craig had broken out—the first
officer to escape from his camp—from a prisoner-of-war cage
near Athens. Two months later he and three companions
reached Crete via Antiparos. Engine trouble set in, and for
twenty-four hours they drifted near Port Spinalonga. From
there they set sail to Alexandria. The boat was small, and they
suffered great hardship. They reached Alexandria on 8 October,
and Craig, who had shown great fortitude all the time, went
back to underground work in Greece.
The troops practised, with map and compass, navigation and
movement and speed over the desert by companies, by battalion, and then, for three days, by brigade. They moved at
night without lights. They learned to scramble from 3-ton
lorries, and to attack swiftly and in orderly fashion. B Echelon
(administration, supplies, sanitation) rehearsed its own movements and checked over rationing arrangements. A sergeant
recalled the panic which set in back home when his family of
four drove off for a Sunday picnic. ‘Now we've got 800 men to
feed and care for on the move, dammit,’ he wrote. They went
through the motions of practising protection against aircraft
and sudden raiders, both on the move and when halted for the
night. Engineers gave talks and demonstrations on various types
of mines and booby traps. A practice took place on the range
with live grenades (Lieutenant Davison
Capt B. V. Davison; Lower Hutt; born Wellington, 25 Oct 1914; traveller.
was injured here).
Then General Auchinleck (who had succeeded General
Wavell after the first desert victories) took the salute at a parade
at Sidi Haneish station, ‘the best gallop we had for a long time,
luckily we moved along in our own dust storm.’ Admonishing
7 Platoon's commander, Peter Hockley,
Maj P. R. Hockley, ED; Lower Hutt; born Napier, 2 Dec 1917; clerk; now Regular soldier.
for untidy lines,
Colonel Andrew pointed to a lumpy old sandbag, aimed a
vigorous kick at it, and found it was full of solidly set cement.
Some members of the battalion were allowed to see New Zealand play the Springboks, provided they marched with full
equipment and ammunition. Other units went by truck. They
saw the All Black, Jack Sullivan,
L-Cpl J. L. Sullivan; New Plymouth; born NZ 30 Mar 1915; truck driver; wounded 27 Jun 1942.
of D Company, score the
only try of the match. Another All Black, Captain Arthur
Wesney,
Capt A. W. Wesney; born Invercargill, 1 Feb 1915; clerk; killed in action 23 Nov 1941.
of 26 Battalion, converted Jack's try and kicked a
penalty goal. He had two more weeks to live.
Padre Thorpe records in his diary the last two days at
Baggush oasis:
Sunday, 9-11-’41. Expectancy in the air as I go from place to
place among barbed wire and mines taking little services, before
moving up into action….at the services in each place little
messages for the occasion. After each service around a rough altar
at the back of a V8, they come to kneel in brown dust for Holy
Communion.
8 am: A Coy; 8.30: B and C and Holy Communion; 9.15: HQ
and D and Holy Communion. Then as fast as rough desert will
allow, along the flat to 21st Battalion HQ escarpment with Major
Harding
Brig R. W. Harding, DSO, MM, ED; Kirikopuni, North Auckland; born Dargaville, 29 Feb 1896; farmer; Auck Regt 1916-19; CO 21 Bn 1942-43; comd 5 Bde 30 Apr-14 May 1943, 4 Jun-23 Aug 1943; twice wounded.
to a great parade of 21 Battalion HQ at 10.15 am. All
ready. Again through the service is a sense of things to come, of
committing those we love to God, of asking guidance and strength
to go out into the fortunes of battle, ‘O, God, our Help in ages past’;
Lieut.-Col. Allen gives the last message and we arrange for Holy
Communion early tomorrow.
I called at HQ and saw Padre Sheely
Rev. Fr. W. Sheely, m.i.d.; Te Aroha; born Hunterville, 5 Oct 1907; Roman Catholic priest; p.w. 28 Nov 1941.
(R.C.) and went on to
23rd Battalion HQ for lunch with old friends….On to YM for
as many primuses as they could sell me for the platoon trucks. To
22 Battalion Headquarters and franked a pile of letters. To 28th
[Battalion] for more primuses. Back in a cloud of dust to the deep
concreted dugouts of C.C.S. for final visit to sick men including
Padre Read,
Rev. S. C. Read; New Plymouth; born Invercargill, 24 Aug 1905; Presbyterian minister; National Patriotic Fund commissioner, UK, 1944-46.
Doc. MacGregor
Capt K. P. L. MacGregor; Frankton; born Hamilton, 8 Oct 1911; medical practitioner.
—all anxious lest they get missed
out of the coming offensive: visit to Transport 22 Battalion, up
rocky escarpment to C Coy to give latest news from BBC, treacherous journey, along escarpment again to A Coy among whom I
was living at the moment, and then quiet in the dusty, concrete
gun-emplacement which is my home and my spiritual fortress, to
sleep.
Monday, 10-11-’41. A cold shave in darkness and away to 21
Battalion as light comes. Lieut.-Col. Allen meets me in battledress—
which from now on replaces for all of us the scanty drill shorts—
and we choose a rocky waadi against the escarpment. I open the
back of the car and set out the silver vessels on the simple altar.
One by one a few faithful come and stand in the cold wind for the
simple service. As in all these last services there is the special thought
for those in authority, for decisions on which shall hang the issue
of the day, and the life or death of many. (I did not realise then
[Padre Thorpe subsequently wrote] that the 21st Battalion was to
be so badly mauled at Sidi Rezegh, that among the killed would
be the C.O. now kneeling for his last Holy Communion, and that
Padre Sheely with many prisoners would be in German hands.)
But here we commit all to God, rise to our feet and on with the
day's work. Breakfast at 21st Battalion's officers' mess, back to A
Coy by 8 am, away with the Ration Corporal, some 12 miles up
the road to Naafi for emergency supplies, cigarettes for the wounded,
wine for Holy Communion. Back for lunch, last letter to R—,
and till 3 pm franking a great pile of innocent letters which may
be the last. Called at the R.Q.M. for an extra water tin and a petrol
tin, go to the Transport for petrol, to D Coy for extra blankets and
emergency ration. Mess in A Coy's officers dugout, BBC news,
silence and prayer, get anti-gas ointment, finish!
They were off on Armistice Day. ‘Some idiot from Div H.
or Base had the happy thought of sending us a lot of red poppies
to buy. We didn't subscribe very much. Seemed a very “We
who are about to die” stunt.’ Away they went, a motorised
fleet, streaming up the coastal road, leaving behind the rehearsals in vain by the Canal, the hen-houses and humiliations
of Spinney Wood, the navvy work at Kaponga. They were off,
77 vehicles among 5 Brigade Group's 1006 lorries, trucks, cars,
carriers and guns. They were off, 700-odd men, a twenty-sixth
of the New Zealand Division, a hundred-and-sixty-fifth part
of the newly formed Eighth Army's 118,000 men and 17,600
vehicles going towards battle.
The idea behind this campaign, the Second Libyan or
CRUSADER campaign, was to drive the enemy out of North
Africa. Libya's two northern provinces, first Cyrenaica then
Tripolitania, were to be captured in turn. The first step, which
was to be taken in November, was not the relief of Tobruk
(this was incidental to the plan) but the destruction of the
enemy's Armoured forces. Once the armour was shattered,
General Auchinleck, holding Cyrenaica easily, hoped to advance into Tripolitania.
Out in the desert from Mersa Matruh, 22 Battalion rested
quietly while the other units of the Division moved into position.
General Freyberg arrived from Baggush after jotting down in
his diary: ‘Thirteen to dinner last night; part of 13 Corps, and
left on adventure 13th November.’ When they were all in place
the New Zealand vehicles formed an oblong 12 miles long and
8 miles wide: 2800-odd vehicles, 200 yards apart, each with a
camouflage net to break revealing outlines and shadows. They
rested, silent and still, waiting the word to go.
The word came. The oblong crawled forward, the Division
moving as one entity for the first time in its history, early on
Saturday, 15 November. Vehicles, still spaced 200 yards apart
in case of enemy bombing, stretched from horizon to horizon,
an unforgettable sight.
Speed was set at seven miles in the hour, for the ground with
no roads whatsoever was humpy and patched in low, wiry
camel-thorn, the sand piled and packed in small hard cones
about its roots. It was no joy-ride for the riflemen, jolted,
bumped and bashed together, stiff at times from the cold,
travelling under conditions which would have brought serious
trouble to any transport firm carting farm animals. Yet ‘the
morale of the Division was at its peak, a level never surpassed,’
writes a New Zealand historian.
They covered 60 miles this day, dug in, and settled down for
the night, all lights banned except in the carefully blacked-out
office trucks. Daylight movement was cut to a minimum, and
all through Sunday they lay low, undetected. Evening brought
intense activity. Vehicles drew in and closed up for the 25-
mile night move. Green-shaded lamps, planted a mile or so
apart, marked the route ahead.
Flags marked the route in the daytime. The celebrated New Zealand black-diamond signposts, which would stretch across North Africa and then up Italy to Trieste, had not yet appeared.
The guiding lamps were
placed and tended by provost who had gone on ahead, had
done their work, and then had taken cover. The centre of each
brigade moved along this route. The trucks ran into soft sand
in the darkness, concertina movements began in the column
—now fast and lurching, now crawling or halted.
Vehicles, halted in their tracks in the night, fanned out to
200-yard intervals at daybreak. To allow for this sudden expansion, gaps of several miles had been left between the brigades. Men heard of an eve-of-battle message from Britain's
Prime Minister saying: ‘Now is the time to strike the hardest
blow yet for final Victory, Home and Freedom.’
They moved again in the night. This was no orderly move,
but a hectic scramble. Last night's bruises doubled. The route,
not well chosen, lay across soft sand, small depressions, rocky
rises and other obstacles. Trucks fell back and then, their
drivers hoping against hope not to ram the vehicle ahead, raced
forward to hold position in the darkness. The night, pitch dark,
was slashed wide open with great sheets of light from a thunderstorm in the north. The brief flashes, momentarily lighting up
the desert and dazzling drivers, revealed trucks, roaring angrily,
disappearing into dust clouds. And the dust-caked riflemen,
cooped together under the lurching canopies of the three-tonners, felt like dice in a shaker.
A party from D Company went out in the afternoon to guard
engineers cutting a 300-yard gap in the wire barrier along the
Libyan frontier. (This barrier, no defensive measure, was to
keep Mussolini's Senussi from straying.)
The next night, tangling with the trucks from another battalion, the 22nd moved into Libya.
Inside the frontier, south of the chain of enemy forts, the
New Zealanders, unmolested, waited in full battle order. With
airfields soggy from recent rains, the bulk of the enemy air force
remained grounded. The Division's move, both to the frontier
and 12 miles farther north in the afternoon of 19 November,
seemed to have been undetected by the enemy. English armoured vehicles and tanks arrived, most inoffensive looking at a
short distance under their camouflage of false canopies. The
complete and cocky confidence of these Englishmen, ‘some knee-high to a grasshopper’, made a deep and permanent impression
on the New Zealanders—this and the fact that the English
soldier was always short of sugar.
Before the New Zealand Division began its major operations,
deadly fighting raged over a huge area of desert. Tanks hid
hull-down behind any protecting rise, or charged from out of
the sunset. One by one the engagements ended in flames, with
oily smoke billowing above the horizon. Anti-tank guns claimed
most tank victims. By the afternoon of 22 November the
Germans began to get the upper hand. Our battle plan allowed
dispersion of our armoured brigades, which were defeated one
by one. The German properly co-ordinated all arms in his
panzer divisions, but many of the British tank officers thought
they could ‘go it alone’.
The New Zealanders were not to be sent to hem in the
frontier forts from the west until the enemy armour had been
at least neutralised by 30 Corps. Tobruk garrison also was not
to start its break-out (to join hands with 30 Corps) until the
battle of the armour had reached a favourable stage. Both
events seemed to have arrived on 21 November, when Tobruk
garrison started its push towards Ed Duda and the New Zealand
Division resumed its northward advance. The auguries, however, had been false. The battle of the armoured brigades and
panzer divisions began to turn in favour of the panzers by the
afternoon of 22 November. Early news of the fighting was
optimistic and the enemy's losses greatly exaggerated.
The order for action, soon to affect the battalion, came early
on 21 November. The forces to the north—the strongholds of
Bardia, Sollum and Halfaya—were to be blocked from the
west, completing their isolation, for already the Indians had
hemmed them in from east and south. Fifth Brigade, screened
by the Divisional Cavalry, was to cut Bardia from Sollum.
Fourth Brigade would move north too, while 6 Brigade remained for the moment in reserve.
The battalion
These sub-units came under the command of 22 Bn: 28 Bty 5 Fd Regt (for a day), one troop 32 A-Tk Bty, 2 MG PI, one section 7 Fd Coy, 1 detail (eight men) 5 Fd Amb.
formed up at noon and moved off towards
the north. The brigade's three rifle battalions were carried on
lorries of 309 General Transport Company, a British unit
borrowed for the campaign. They travelled steadily for about
four hours, meeting nothing more formidable than a heavy
rainstorm, and halted about four miles from Sidi Azeiz, not a
settlement but merely a landing strip and a junction on the
worn caravan trail known as Trigh (track) Capuzzo. The trail,
faint and in some parts quite obliterated by drifting sand, runs
from the border to south of Tobruk, and far into the west.
Twenty-second Battalion was to capture and hold the track
junction near Sidi Azeiz, and prevent any enemy movement
east or west.
The cavalcade of 1000 vehicles had scarcely halted after
covering 20 miles when the battalion was ordered to push on
and take Sidi Azeiz immediately. Sidi Azeiz was deserted—but
only just: from what men saw of dugouts and hastily abandoned
articles lying about it appeared that the enemy had left in a
hurry only a little time ago. Potatoes were still cooking on untended fires; a lonely wind scattered letters from home, curious-looking magazines and writing material. A Divisional Cavalry
squadron, striking the first blow of the campaign, had raided
the place, taking about fifty prisoners, lorried infantry and
gunners, including a startled Italian officer in his bath. The
enemy had not attempted to return. The battalion at once
organised to meet any counter-attack, and all companies went
quickly into position. Captured material included four Breda
guns and large quantities of ammunition, seven trucks, two
motor-cycles and a great wad of paper money. The carriers
found a treasure trove inside an aircraft fully loaded and ready
for flight. The night was peaceful.
While the battalion continued digging in next morning
during heavy rain at Sidi Azeiz, D Company left to probe the
outskirts of Bardia itself, 11 miles north-east. With the riflemen
went seven carriers, a troop of anti-tank guns, and a detachment of two mortars. The small force had been told that 23 Battalion was ‘rolling up the opposition’ on the road running north
from Capuzzo to Bardia. D Company's urgent task was to head
them off and round them up by Bardia's crossroads just before
the Italians reached the protecting defences. The battalion war
diary says that Major Campbell was to ‘push forward as far
as cross-roads outside Bardia and withdraw without getting into
serious fight’, but Campbell got no such impression. If he had,
he would have pulled back much sooner; for the crossroads
were actually inside the Bardia defences.
Lieutenant Bob Knox,
Maj R. R. Knox, MC, m.i.d.; born Scotland, 10 Jun 1910; carpenter; twice wounded.
with his seven carriers, went well
ahead in arrowhead formation, his task to contact the enemy,
find his strength, flanks and position on the ground, engage him,
and radio back all information to D Company. The carriers,
keen to reach their objective before 23 Battalion appeared,
pressed on, flushed a party of Italians, simultaneously came
under fire, suspected an ambush, directed the Italians where
to make for, and swung off on a wide right-flanking circuit to
the outer defences of Bardia, ‘a sea of barbed wire in which
there was a kind of gateway,’ Knox writes. ‘I of course moved
through this opening and noticed hundreds of men in uniform
about 100 yards ahead and to my left. Some were standing,
others just lounging around. I remarked to my driver C. G.
Watson
Pte C. G. Watson; Lower Hutt; born NZ 25 Apr 1905; tractor driver; wounded 12 Dec 1941.
that these men must be the 23 Battalion who had
beaten us to the job.
‘“Like hell!” says Slim Watson. “These Bs are Ites!”
‘Being doubtful and wanting to make sure, I told him to
drive closer. The Ites just stood and looked at us, apparently
under the impression that anything mechanical was German.
‘When we get up about 60 yards from them I realise what
has happened. I remember adjusting the sights on my Bren
gun and putting it on to single shot. I aimed at one poor fellow
who was standing smoking a cigarette. I pressed the trigger
and strangely enough two rounds went from the gun and the
fellow dropped, having collected both. Of course everyone else
in the vicinity dropped out of sight into slit trenches which I
hadn't noticed.
‘I next stood up to yell charge (like a bloody fool), and then
for the first time discovered that I only had three carriers under
Sergeant Hart
Lt W. C. Hart; born NZ 10 Jul 1910; roofer; killed in action 21 Sep 1944.
with me, the other three having captured the
prisoners and taken them back to D Company's headquarters.
‘I sat down behind my gun and opened up on a German
staff car which was moving off as fast as possible. No sooner
had I opened fire than all hell broke loose, so informing my
driver to get out through the gateway I told my wireless operator
to contact D Company and tell them the news.’
The carrier party, passing through ‘their smallfire stuff which
was buzzing around us like a swarm of angry bees', took cover
in a handy wadi, untouched by heavy shelling but reached by
mortars ‘which really didn't seem to be very heavy.’ This wadi
indicated a fairly safe way back towards D Company.
Meanwhile D Company, now about seven miles on from Sidi
Azeiz, rounded up the party of Italian prisoners, and continued
the advance in vehicles in desert formation according to the
drill book. Almost immediately down came heavy artillery fire
from the left. The trucks drove on until the fire grew too
accurate, with mortars joining the fray, and were then sent
back while the company deployed and continued on foot over
bare open ground in a determined attempt to reach the crossroads. The men were plodding on through an area marked
with various large heaps of stones and large drums. The enemy
was now ranging on to these identification marks, mortar fire
was extremely accurate, ‘landing among us like raindrops’,
and here several casualties, including Charlie Smith,
Pte C. B. Smith; born NZ 12 Jan 1919; clerk; died of wounds 5 Jan 1942.
were
incurred. Many were actually knocked over by the blast but
were otherwise unhurt. ‘Mac let out a wild yell, and there
bouncing along the ground with terrific leaps was the nosecap
of a shell–we stood fascinated and watched its progress past
us—then carried on and walked the rest of the way—funny
how the tension had gone.’ Soon they ran into machine-gun
fire. More were wounded. Fortunately at this moment badly
needed cover seems to have been detected by Lieutenant Bill
Lovie
Capt W. G. Lovie; born NZ 17 Feb 1899; journalist.
and 16 Platoon on the right.
Major Campbell (known as ‘pooch’ because of his frequent
orders to ‘booten up your pooches’) writes: ‘I seized the opportunity as a rain shower moved across us to quickly change
direction right with the whole company and seek the cover of
a very low ridge. I am quite satisfied that this completely foxed
the enemy defences which, being unable to find us, thereafter
left us severely alone.’ An attempt to bring up the transport
and resume the advance as another shower approached, however, brought a further hail of fire. The platoons deployed and
Campbell settled down to observe what he could of the enemy
defences, intending at nightfall to withdraw the company to
Sidi Azeiz. Foot patrols failed to contact 23 Battalion: the radio
at this stage failed to get through to Battalion Headquarters.
Knox had now returned to the company area, placed his
Bren-gunners on the ground to a flank where enemy positions
could be picked out quite easily without binoculars, then went
back to report to Battalion Headquarters, and returned under
heavy fire. He met Corporal Caldwell
Lt W. A. D. Caldwell; Gisborne; born Gisborne; 27 Nov 1919; clerk; wounded 15 Jul 1942.
who, although exhausted with little sleep in the last forty-eight hours, cheerfully
volunteered to guide him to Company Headquarters. There
Knox passed on the Colonel's orders: ‘Tell Campbell to withdraw his company immediately.’ It was now between four and
five o'clock. Knowing a move now (instead of waiting for dusk)
would bring casualties, Campbell questioned this order. But it
was confirmed and so he carried it out, himself bringing up the
rear. He adds: ‘No sooner had the first section of the leading
platoon poked its nose round the corner from our hideout than
the symphony commenced. However, everybody moved steadily
and we had very few casualties in this withdrawal. I think we
had only one man killed…. There were one or two wounded
though not seriously, and we were lucky to have got away so
lightly.’
The waiting trucks, just out of shell range, were a welcome
sight to D Company, and soon, travelling by truck and Bren
carrier, most of the men were back with the battalion again at
Sidi Azeiz, where important information was passed on promptly about the gun positions, the estimated calibre of the guns,
fields of fire and range. In the battalion's first action in Libya
four were killed (Crompton,
Lt W. J. Crompton; born NZ 3 Oct 1917; salesman; killed in action 22 Nov 1941.
Redpath,
Pte T. A. Redpath; born Auckland, 19 Jul 1911; miner; killed in action 22 Nov 1941.
‘Shorty’ Sangster,
Pte C. Sangster; born NZ 4 Nov 1909; farmer; killed in action 22 Nov 1941.
and ‘Sandy’ McClintock
Pte A. J. McClintock; born NZ 5 Dec 1915; labourer; died of wounds 22 Nov 1941.
) and fifteen wounded, a high cost for
eleven Italian prisoners. The men ‘had behaved magnificently’
under fire; Private Laurie Corbett,
Pte L. G. W. Corbett; born NZ 5 Jan 1919; transport driver; deceased.
who had coolly driven an
ammunition-laden 8-cwt truck under fire to pick up wounded,
recalls these two incidents:
‘I remember seeing a fellow (I think his nickname was
“Irish”) coming out with his full equipment, pack, rifle, etc.
and marching with his head high in the air. He had the lower
portion of one side of his jaw cut wide open with a shell splinter,
but apparently he wasn't worried very much about that because
he just went past me and smiled.’ And: ‘Tom [Campbell] was
lying on the ground with bullets hitting the ground in front of
him. He was obviously the main target because of his dress
which was a white trench-coat. He also had a great big map
board with him. I told him to throw the coat away, but he
said it was “too cold”. Hell! The sweat was pouring off my nose
which was pretty close to the ground.’
As the company cleared the line of shells the Medical Officer,
Captain Volckman,
Maj W. G. Volckman, m.i.d.; Leeston; born Oxford, 26 Jul 1902; medical
practitioner.
was waiting with the greeting: ‘Have you
anything for me?’ ‘He was in a trench coat, his fore-and-aft cap
sideways on his head, and a more striking resemblance to
Claude Raines with his hands in his pockets would be hard to
find. “By jove,” said someone, “you look just like Napoleon.”
The name stuck, and he was always referred to after that as
“Nap”.
In two three-tonners just after dark, Donald and his platoon
(14) from C Company went back for wounded who could not
be found or were isolated by particularly heavy fire during the
withdrawal. Near the spot the platoon left the trucks and walked
forward cautiously. ‘It was pitch black,’ writes Donald. ‘We
had to comb the ground close to the defences. We left one
section at the trucks: too many men would have been difficult
to control. We spread out in a long line about five yards between
men, almost the limit of visibility, and started to comb the
ground systematically. It was very eerie with the searchers calling out in hushed voices the names of the missing men, with
flares meantime going up intermittently from the Italian lines.
Everyone froze when the flares went up, and we felt as if we had
been stripped to the skin, but not a man moved, although every
moment we were expecting the dread chatter of a machine-gun.’
Then Donald received a shock. A grinning face under a
shock of curly hair poked over his shoulder, and a Scotch voice
said: ‘Hullo.’ It was Jock (‘Haggis’) Lowe,
L-Sgt J. T. Lowe; Waipukurau; born Scotland, 10 Jun 1906; labourer.
flatly disobeying
orders to stay with the trucks. Donald reprimanded him. ‘But
you're bloody pleased to see me, aren't you?’ said Jock. ‘Yes,’
said Donald emphatically. With Jerry Fowler and Jock playing
a notable part, they collected every man. For their work in this
action and previous campaigns, Campbell was awarded the
MC and Fowler the MM.
In the west a dramatic change had begun. The armoured
corps had suffered heavy losses, while the sortie from Tobruk
had halted. This affected 5 Brigade and, in its turn, 22 Battalion. At 2 p.m. on 22 November (while D Company was still
pinned down before Bardia) this signal reached Divisional
Headquarters from 13 Corps:
Leave minimum troops to observe enemy Bardia and send remainder your troops to clear up north Bardia-Tobruk road, and
advance on Gambut which enemy aircraft still using. Advance
west will best assist plan.
For 30 Corps was beaten, and 13 Corps had to do its best to
link up with Tobruk as well as isolate the frontier forts—a makeshift arrangement and no part of the original plan. For the rest
of this ill-fated and confused campaign the New Zealand Division was split into two parts: 5 Brigade, by the frontier and
under fire from the forts, was soon to be buffeted by raiding
panzers while 4 and 6 Brigades battled about the gaunt slopes
of Belhamed and Sidi Rezegh in the Division's bloodiest fighting
of the entire war.
In 5 Brigade's tasks along the frontier forts
21 Bn moved westwards with Divisional Headquarters and 20 Bn, and 5 Bde
was down to three battalions: 23 Bn at Capuzzo, 22 Bn on the way to Menastir,
and 28 (Maori) Bn at upper Sollum. Together with 4 Indian Division, 5 Bde
was to keep the frontier forts isolated. For the time being it was out of the question
to capture Bardia, lower Sollum or Halfaya.
22 Battalion
was concerned with Bardia, a somewhat meagre port but important as an anchor of the frontier defences. It now held a
reinforced brigade of Italians stiffened by Germans and appropriate artillery.
The battalion (briefly without B Company, which did not
move on and join up until after dark) set off towards Bardia
on 23 November, which dawned to the rumble of heavy gunfire and flashes far to the south. Moving seven miles north-eastwards from Sidi Azeiz, the battalion came to the 150-foot-high
escarpment stretching past Bardia, and took over from 20 Battalion, which the day before had dug in on the escarpment and
fanned out below to sever the Tobruk-Bardia road. The new
position, a few miles west of Bardia garrision, was reached about
noon. Occupation was delayed by a scuffle between 20 Battalion and a hotch-potch of enemy with half a dozen lightly
armoured, half-tracked guns (mistaken for tanks). Then 20
Battalion streamed away to the battle in the west, and the
22nd, piling up stones in front of slit trenches to improve the
defences, was in position by 2 p.m. Some men, while digging
in, noticed thermos-flask bombs scattered about. Late in the
afternoon transport was seen towards Bardia; shells from the
garrison burst harmlessly on the escarpment a mile away. Here,
firmly planted among rock and sand in the area named Menastir after a nearby well, the battalion stayed for five days,
masking the Bardia fortress from the west and cutting the
coastal road from Tobruk.
At Menastir A Company took up position forward by the
crossroads below the escarpment, C Company was placed to
the east, and D to the west, on the escarpment, both with a
platoon of medium machine guns. Headquarters took up the
central position with the field artillery to the south. Twentieth
Battalion's prisoners were sent back to 5 Brigade, which was
now setting up its headquarters at Sidi Azeiz. B Company
stayed at Sidi Azeiz as a guard for Brigade Headquarters, but
was called back briefly to the battalion during the night.
Colonel Andrew was expecting ‘a bit of fun’ in the morning.
B Company arrived in the B Echelon area and settled down
as a reserve company.
The ‘bit of fun’ arrived at breakfast time on 24 November:
‘Oh, they're only our blokes,’ said somebody, and breakfast continued until interrupted by sudden mortar, machine-gun and
rifle fire.
What looked like two companies of Germans attacked from
the east. They were difficult to spot. They advanced directly
in front of the sun, and did not open fire until within 1000 yards.
The battalion immediately manned all defences and turned the
attackers back with heavy counter-fire from all weapons, the
artillery, Bofors and anti-tank guns opening fire at a range of
1500 yards over open sights. B Company, from reserve, set out
after the enemy until he reached his transport beyond the ridge.
The counter-attack halted, but Bob Bayliss
WO II R. J. Bayliss, MM; born Hastings, 8 Feb 1909; shepherd; killed in
action 26 Oct 1942.
had not had
enough. With Jack Adeane
Sgt J. J. Adeane, Gisborne; born NZ 17 Oct 1919; clerk; wounded 26 Oct 1942.
and another he chased five Germans for a mile, finally forcing them to ground. Bob, with a
man on each flank, went in with his tommy gun. He shot two
in the last 30 yards, and then the German officer emptied his
Luger at him at point-blank range and missed. Bob, who
brought the officer (‘a truculent b—’) and two other captives back with him, won the MM.
The action, in which five soldiers were wounded, lasted about
half an hour. Nine prisoners were taken, several enemy dead
were buried, and spasmodic shelling of the ridge continued
without any further enemy attack. A private ‘spent the hot
moments in a hole feeling homesick and a bundle of nerves.’
Fifth Brigade's policy now was to harass with strong patrols
the enemy in his isolated forts, and to keep him guessing.
Accordingly, after finishing the rudely interrupted breakfast, a
fighting patrol from 14 Platoon (C Company) moved out, reconnoitred the enemy defensive positions outside Bardia, and although under heavy artillery fire, edged to within a thousand
yards of the main defences and to within a few hundred yards
of an outpost. The patrol returned unscathed with useful information (including the heartening news that 20 to 30 per cent
of the enemy shells were duds) and a little brandy, spare water,
and socks, all picked up in a small deserted Italian camp. A
Company seized an incautious Italian truck at the crossroads.
B Company (less one platoon), supported by carriers, went out
on a long sweep north of the coastal road, covered 32 miles,
‘an uncomfortable trip, no place for lorries’, rounded up six
Italians, and on return received a rude welcome from a two-pounder gun in A Company's area. Many a man spent a restless night hearing imaginary shells. A few night bombers passed
overhead.
Defences were well strengthened (more digging, more rocks
piled up). Next day (the 25th) was quiet, with reports of enemy
armoured fighting vehicles on the prowl. The precautions were
just as well. The tanks with 5 Brigade had left the day before
for Sidi Rezegh because General Godwin-Austen believed ‘the
battle will be won in the forward zone’. At dusk Brigadier
Hargest radioed from Sidi Azeiz and said an awkward situation had arisen in the south. (An enormous German cavalcade
of 2000 vehicles had suddenly been reported coming up from
the south, from Sheferzen, near where the Division had crossed
through the frontier wire.) Hargest was sending his non-fighting B Echelon, supply columns and Divisional Cavalry B Echelon to 22 Battalion for protection. Probably he would follow.
B Company, not without misgivings, was sent back to Sidi
Azeiz to give Brigade Headquarters protection. Rumours buzzed all through the night.
At dawn on the 26th the battalion made ready for action.
All vehicles moved to the foot of the escarpment, joining transport which had arrived from Brigade Headquarters.
Among those reaching 22 Battalion from 5 Brigade were 27 RASC men who
had been recaptured; they confirmed that 40 enemy tanks and some MT were
west of Sidi Omar and were believed to be making for Bardia.
The
artillery moved in closer, taking up a position in the centre of
the perimeter, and the guns swung their dark muzzles out towards the bare desert. Carrier patrols scouted south-west for
six miles but saw no enemy movement.
Meanwhile Peter Butler, Tom Hood
Pte T. M. Hood; Auckland; born NZ 27 Feb 1914; carpenter.
and Bill Greig
Pte W. J. Greig; born NZ 28 Sep 1918; lorry driver.
, who
were driving south for supplies, were about 18 miles south of
Brigade and Sidi Azeiz. Suddenly like a rocket over the ridge
soared a truck. The English driver slowed up momentarily to
stutter: ‘T-t-t-tanks!’, then shot on again. They ignored the
nervous fellow. Then one of the party, strolling up to the ridge,
looked down on to a swarm of hostile fighting vehicles. Despite
the Tommy's flying start, the three 22 Battalion men passed
him and beat him to Brigade. Well before this, in the early
hours of the morning, a 22 Battalion patrol stationed at Sidi
Azeiz had reported to Brigade Headquarters. This patrol, led
by Lieutenant Barton,
Capt D. G. Barton; New Plymouth; born Marton, 14 Jun 1912; bank clerk;
p.w. 27 Nov 1941.
reported what seemed to be a powerful
enemy force camped across Trigh Capuzzo and about five
miles west of Sidi Azeiz. This made at least two strong forces
approaching Sidi Azeiz.
The balloon went up at 10 a.m., preceded spectacularly by
an Me110 sweeping over the battalion at a height of less than
50 feet—some men fired their first shot of the war against this
plane. A big enemy convoy (15 Panzer Division) appeared from
the dusty south-west and moved, apparently without end, along
Trigh Capuzzo towards Bardia, between the battalion and
Brigade Headquarters' area. Fired on by the forces at Sidi
Azeiz (a few carriers, some 25-pounders with little ammunition,
and machine guns briefly engaged the column with little success), the host swung towards Bardia and came under fire from
guns in 22 Battalion's area. Vehicles were too well spaced to
suffer much harm, and the convoy, estimated by the battalion
at between 700 and 800 vehicles, was intent on reaching Bardia.
Two enemy armoured cars on the ridge 2000 yards east of the
battalion made off when shells landed near them. Major Tom
Campbell, watching through binoculars, suddenly exclaimed:
‘Good Heavens! Our water cart has joined the procession!’
This was only too true. Abruptly, to a sprinkling of fire, the
water truck left the convoy and came wildly into New Zealand
territory. Ted Jaggard
L-Cpl E. H. Jaggard; Palmerston North; born Wanganui, 17 Mar 1906; farmhand.
jumped out and, half smiling, stuttered:
‘—! Made a mistake, thought they were South Africans by
the sun-helmets. Cows started shooting’—a long speech for him.
Then, quite apart from the main convoy, another force
appeared: enemy armoured fighting vehicles coming in from
the west at the foot of the escarpment. This second force was
coming from Gambut with repaired tanks and supplies for
15 Panzer Division, but it did not get through; it was driven back
by F Troop 32 Anti-Tank Battery, which scored direct hits.
The 22 Battalion group now included four 25-pdr guns (one troop of 28 Battery
had gone with B Company to Sidi Azeiz), four 2-pdr anti-tank guns, three Bofors,
and 12 Vickers guns (4 Coy27 (MG) Bn). All contributed handsomely towards
staving off the enemy.
Vehicles in the main convoy were still passing at dusk and
in fact not long before midnight one group came close to 14
Platoon C Company (all standing-to), an English voice called
‘Hullo’, someone opened up, and away they went. The entire
German Army seemed to be on the move. Dumbfounded over
events, every man knew one thing: he was in for a hot time tomorrow. In short, 5 Brigade, intent on isolating the frontier forts,
was now thoroughly isolated itself. Rommel, confident of victory
near Tobruk, had boldly but foolishly sent all his armour circling south-eastwards, then north, in a massive raid to wipe out
forces menacing the frontier forts. (Incidentally this period,
24-26 November, was not a bright spot in Rommel's career.
Not a single well-prepared or well-directed operation was laid
on during this time, and at Sidi Omar7 Indian Brigade defeated and crippled the tank regiment of 21 Panzer Division.)
The tables were turned. The raid did not succeed, but up and
down the frontier, confused and despairing lightly-armed and
non-fighting units (including 13 Corps Headquarters) milled,
fled, or were gathered up by the raiders.
‘Hargest in hopeless position but Corps HQ won't let him
move,’ noted Ray Salter,
Pte R. Salter; Russell; born NZ 7 Jun 1918; greenkeeper.
of Battalion Headquarters, in his
diary. The Brigadier certainly was not prohibited from moving
his vulnerable headquarters from Sidi Azeiz; he intended to
move to Menastir on the afternoon of 27 November, but this
was too late. Captain Simpson
Capt E. H. Simpson; Marton; born Marton, 11 Feb 1908; farmer; p.w.
27 Nov 1941.
of B Company, at Sidi Azeiz,
recalls that Hargest's orders ‘were to hold the landing strip at
all cost and there we were. Who was actually responsible for
the defensive plan I cannot say but I am sure it was aimed at
a threat from the West and South and must have assumed the
continual stream of vehicles making for Bardia were broken
remnants rather than a coherent force merely going in to refuel.
‘I have always considered that the “vehicle discipline” at
Brigade Headquarters was shocking during the few days we
were there. Anyone wanting anything seemed to drive into the
middle of the area and the congestion at times round the actual
Headquarters vehicle was a shock to anyone trained by L. W.
Andrew,’ says Simpson. In fact, the conglomeration of Brigade
Headquarters vehicles attracted attention, invited attack, and
made defence most difficult. A small, uncluttered force might
have had a chance of holding the airstrip, which was of no
interest to the Germans.
B Company (Captain Stan Johnson, with Captain Simpson
as second-in-command), with a troop of four guns, had left
Menastir in the darkness of the evening of 25 November to give
protection to Brigade Headquarters. The company came into
Sidi Azeiz from the north, and at once 11 Platoon (Colin
Armstrong) was detached and sent to the south-eastern perimeter. With his two other platoons (12 Platoon, Lieutenant
Barton; 10 Platoon, Sergeant Andrews) and the 25-pounder
troop, Johnson took up a position—it was too rocky to dig in
—just south of the airstrip. Very lights rose to the south and
west: ‘we could hear vehicles moving very close, swarming
around.’ Barton, with his platoon, went west along the Capuzzo
track to get an indication of what was coming that way: Captain Hamish Simpson, with a foot patrol of half a platoon,
moved south among vehicles in the dark trying to identify
sizes and types, and so did Armstrong's men. All returned
safely before dawn.
‘The sight of that desert at dawn was amazing,’ says Johnson,
‘thousands of vehicles seemed to be going in all directions,
milling north south east and west: you could get lyrical about
it: they seemed just like a poor mass of lost Ities. A few came
towards us (the three guns and 10 and 12 Platoons), we let
them come right up, these strays, and we grabbed them when
they got out of the cab. Three came in like that, one after the
other—Germans. Open fire? God NO! Guns quiet.’
In the afternoon of 26 November the host got under way,
ignoring Sidi Azeiz, and streamed north and east towards
Bardia. In trucks, 10 and 12 Platoons, with the three guns,
went raiding to the west along the fringe of this mob, ‘just like
a fox-terrier running up and down beside a herd of cattle.
Down trails, out riflemen, a few quick shots at a few vehicles,
then up and off fast. As we would let rip with a few rounds,
now and then out of the mass would come a tank or two—
there would be a dirty spit of a shell beside us (funny, they
shelled us and didn't use their machine guns), then we'd run
like hell.’ The handful of raiders, suffering no casualties, dug
in in the late afternoon on the western perimeter. B Company
patrols in the night (26-27 November, a night without flares)
definitely found and reported tanks, ‘many tanks’, barely one
and a half miles east of Brigade Headquarters. Their engines
were running. Johnson was rather surprised that he was not
accordingly moved over to the east.
The storm broke after dawn on the 27th: ‘a beautiful day
but things look black for us.’ The enemy had spent the night
mostly outside Bardia. An urgent request to 13 Corps (shortly
before it went off the air) for bombers had resulted in a lone
RAF plane flying over at sundown. At 7 a.m. forty tanks,
infantry and guns of 15 Panzer Division bore down from the
direction of Bardia on to 5 Brigade Headquarters at Sidi Azeiz.
While standing down after dawn and preparing for breakfast, the troops heard the klaxon alarm sound, and simultaneously the attack started. The line of armour halted at a
handy distance, from which their guns and machine guns
smashed into the vehicles. Johnson, by the brigade command
truck, quickly got 10 Platoon from the western perimeter.
‘The fire was really belting in but not one casualty as they
came across, some 400 yards tightly congested with vehicles.
The cool sergeant [Andrews], a very able platoon commander,
lay down with his men next to me, calmly placed a grenade to
his right, another to his left, handy, offered cigarettes and lit
them, while spurts of sand were all about. Terrific concentrated
fire.’
Sergeant Andrews gives his impressions: ‘By this time the
air was thick with smoke from … burning trucks (ours) and
as the smoke lifted at intervals I could make out the outlines
on the horizon some 300 yards away of the turrets of about
two dozen tanks. At the sight of these the old tail went down
properly [yet he prepared to use his grenades and wished he
had anti-tank sticky bombs]…. Then the force of the attack
increased and the first wave of tanks came tearing through
about 20 yards apart. Fortunately this wave stopped firing as
they came near and passed without inflicting any further casualties … while this was happening the second wave of tanks
had moved up closer and were spraying our area with machine
gun bullets…. the guns stopped when I looked up to see a
lot of chaps between us and the tanks with their hands up and
Brigadier Hargest surrendering to the tank commander. Well
I was stumped….’
Over to the east in 12 Platoon Private George Orsler
Sgt G. W. Orsler; Gisborne; born Marton, 7 Mar 1911; motor-body builder
and painter.
glimpsed tanks in a brief pause after initial severe shelling:
‘Hurrah we thought our tanks have arrived and chased him
off—but no they are Jerries, they are firing at our anti-tank
guns—hell this looks grim, what shall we do now…. [His
section-leader, ‘Snow’ Bateman,
L-Sgt J. A. Bateman; Levin; born Eketahuna, 19 Dec 1912; P and T Dept
linesman; wounded 27 Nov 1941; p.w. 15 Jul 1942; escaped Italy, Sep 1943.
was hit by a burst of machinegun fire] while a mortar lands close in a cloud of dust and the
section huddles behind the truck wheels in an attempt to get
cover. Then someone spotted an abandoned MG pit, and we
all dived in. It was an anti-tank rifle (Boyes) and one of the
boys had a go at a tank commander who is half out of his
turret—he misses and a double Spandau drops towards us—
did we flatten—I'll say. Luckily he did not fire and turned off
just before reaching us. Another Jerry tank coming from the
other side gave us another turn but he too was not interested
in us. Then a direct hit by an enemy mortar on a nearby 25
pounder startled us, and we forgot momentarily about tanks.
When we peered through the dust and smoke once more we
saw Jerry infantry and motor cyclists rounding up our chaps
everywhere—we exchanged thoughts hurriedly—will he shoot
us or not—will we put our hands up like the others or lie doggo.
We had little time to think, so reached for the skies. One chap
near a truck filled his tunic with a few rations and dished them
out to us to hide round our persons—we were now prisoners
“‘Von line” shouts a Jerry with a tommygun, and we obey
quickly. In searching us a young Nazi pulls out a 36, his face
whitens and carefully he places it on the ground a few yards
away—we nearly laughed.
‘Then we were ordered to a large group some 200 yards away
from the scene of the battle. A grim sight it all was with burning vehicles and equipment everywhere. We were ordered to
sit down and told that if anyone stood up he would be fired on.
In the meantime the Jerries got busy to salvage as many
vehicles as possible.
‘By midday we were well searched and our long march to
Bardia began….’
Fifth Brigade Headquarters, suffering about ninety casualties, was now out of the war with some 47 officers and 650
men prisoners, counting four officers and the surviving men
from B Company, which had suffered two killed and about
six wounded. Among the officers, Captains Johnson and
Simpson, Lieutenants Armstrong and Barton, were taken to
Italy by submarine; the men (‘We were the cause of amusement to hundreds of Ites and Jerries', after trudging under
guard to the fortress) were herded together, and after being
meagrely fed in Bardia's bleak compound, were liberated when
the fortress fell early in the New Year.
Meanwhile, at Menastir, 22 Battalion listened to heavy firing
from Sidi Azeiz, saw in the distance the fires and smoke,
wondered about the fate of companions in B Company, and
thought gloomily, ‘our turn next unless a miracle happens.’
A message came through: Brigade Headquarters was being
attacked. Then silence. In vain they attempted to make contact again by radio and despatch rider. Sidi Azeiz must have
fallen, and a second despatch rider, Gunner Dobson
Gnr G. R Dobson, MM; Lower Hutt; born NZ 6 Jan 1912; truck driver;
wounded 26 Oct 1942.
(14
Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment) set off to check up. He approached Sidi Azeiz, found the smouldering camp occupied,
and was captured when his motor-cycle was shot from under
him; he soon escaped and was awarded the MM for his bravery
on this excursion.
Menastir was not troubled in the morning, but a second
attempt by the Germans to get supplies and repaired tanks
through from Gambut was foiled by the guns. The German-
Italian armour was recalled urgently to the Tobruk front. One
division (15 Panzer) was to return south by way of Sidi Azeiz
and Trigh Capuzzo, and 21 Panzer Division, which was severely
mauled and without its tank regiment, was to travel by the
coastal road. The battalion group succeeded in delaying 21
Panzer's return for a day by forcing it to deviate south by Sidi
Azeiz.
The first of 21 Panzer appeared an hour after noon when a
large enemy convoy made westwards along the flat below the
escarpment. The convoy halted, opened fire, was dispersed with
vigorous artillery and machine-gun fire, and took refuge in
rough country north of the road. This group probably detoured
later by way of Sidi Azeiz.
Half an hour later a much stronger force appeared and attempted to sweep away Menastir's opposition. These enemy
troops and vehicles, on the ridge about a mile north-east of
Battalion Headquarters, launched a heavy attack with artillery,
mortars, machine guns and rifle fire. The brunt of this attack
was borne by artillery, medium machine guns, and the left
forward company (C Company), some of whose men consider
this shelling and mortaring the heaviest they ever experienced.
Dick Goodall
Pte B. C. Goodall; born NZ 19 Nov 1918; shepherd; killed in action 27 Nov 1941.
and Percy Hunt
Pte P. W. Hunt; born NZ 24 Nov 1917; storekeeper; killed in action 27 Nov
1941.
were killed. Major Hart,
wounded in the back of the head, refused to leave his post.
Sergeant Viv Hill
2 Lt V. D. Hill; Fernhill, Hastings; born Hastings, 10 Jan 1911; farmer.
was knocked unconscious when a shell
landed eighteen inches from his head and passed within a foot
of his nose as he lay on his back in a slittie. Although the side of
his face swelled up, turning from black and blue to a greenish-yellow, he carried on with conspicuous bravery. Another man,
twice knocked unconscious by shells landing two feet from his
trench, escaped with burst ear-drums. One 25-pounder received a direct hit, killing four of the crew; two other guns were
hit shortly afterwards.
Enemy infantry, attempting to close in under cover of this
shelling, were checked by unabated fire from the defenders.
The Vickers and the artillery (two-pounders, four 25-pounders,
and three Bofors), exposed though they were, played a most
active part. The fight continued for two and a half hours, by
which time the enemy had had enough and halted the attack.
To the surprise and relief of 22 Battalion he withdrew (to take
the Sidi Azeiz route) and the night was fairly quiet.
Meanwhile large enemy columns were streaming out of
Bardia and westwards through Sidi Azeiz. That afternoon and
into the night the signallers worked hard trying to get in touch
by wireless with outside units. No replies came back. The battalion, still periodically under shellfire, was isolated.
Earlier in the day—whether in the afternoon or morning is
not quite clear—tracked vehicles could be heard creaking and
moving about (though few men cared to raise their heads to
see for themselves). Lieutenant Donald called out: ‘Here's your
chance, 14 Platoon, get out your sticky bombs, here come the
tanks.’ No tanks came in—they were engaged by the two-pounders and one of them was disabled and its crew captured,
the other escaping—which was just as well; for the sticky bombs
had neither fuses nor detonators.
The inevitable threat during breakfast came again next day
(28 November), within two miles of Battalion Headquarters.
One hundred vehicles halted and diverted the battalion's attention by going through the motions of an attack to cover an
enemy column moving south-westwards from Bardia, and then
withdrew. ‘Well,’ notes one soldier's diary, ‘the miracle has
happened, Jerry has suddenly left us unmolested, he must have
been in a terrible hurry for he left us without firing a shot. We
are not out of danger yet as we are cut off from the outside
world so anything may happen yet.’
They were out of touch with the rest of Eighth Army, although the gunners
(remnants of 28 Battery) at Menastir had been in touch by wireless with 27 Battery
at Capuzzo, which had called up the CRA 4 Indian Division.
The battalion's situation was critical. Ammunition, water,
and supplies were very low, not enough to see them through
a sizeable attack, although roving carriers collected a little food
from an old enemy camp. Everyone had been on half rations
for two days, cigarettes and tobacco were vanishing, and Lance-
Corporal Butler noted that the evening meal on the 28th was
a cup of tea only. Wounded and prisoners had to be moved.
Men were dazed or sore from concussion.
The battalion's chances of carrying out its task of preventing
enemy movement to and from Bardia now had practically
vanished. Colonel Andrew, lacking ammunition, unable to
fight effectively, and seeing his food vanishing, had little choice
but to move south to contact 4 Indian Division. The decision
to move through ‘pirate country’ was not easily reached.
Deviations had to be made to dodge enemy columns; at any
stage the battalion, without tanks and with few carriers, was
liable to run into enemy convoys; and above all, the final leg of
the course was between two enemy camps. This allowed the
navigator only a small margin of error. If he failed, the battalion and the attached units had every chance of joining B
Company in Bardia's prison pen.
The arrangements for the move were made by the second-
in-command, Major Greville.
Lt-Col A. W. Greville, m.i.d.; born NZ 5 Aug 1897; Regular soldier; comd
Advanced Party 2 NZEF, 1939; DAQMG 1940-41; CO 24 Bn Dec 1941-Jul 1942;
killed in action 22 Jul 1942.
He had four hours to marshal
more than 220 vehicles, most of them stragglers and strangers
sent to the battalion for protection.
Brigade and Divisional Cavalry echelons, Brigade LAD, a British general
transport company, RAF, postal unit, YMCA, and AIF.
Each vehicle, under cover
of darkness, had to be brought up a single and very steep track
which climbed a hundred feet up the escarpment. The last truck
groaned up the narrow track, and all of the vehicles were marshalled into position in less than three and a half hours. Transport began forming up just west of D Company from 6 p.m.
onwards. An enemy truck appeared and was seized by a section
of carriers; it contained seven Germans, some of them wounded,
and two wounded British soldiers, one of whom died almost
immediately.
At 10 p.m. all lay in the hands of fortune—and in the hands
of the navigator, Second-Lieutenant Sam McLernon, who performed his exacting task brilliantly. The convoy was under way
half an hour later. Cloudy conditions made navigation difficult; parts of the route were quite unknown and rough. Yet a
good speed was kept up. Drivers picked their way to the west
of Sidi Azeiz, and at one stage an enemy truck attached itself
to the column before becoming lost again. Twice the completely blacked-out column halted during the night while
German columns moved across its track. The convoy arrived
safe and sound close to Sidi Omar four hours later. Dawn
brought gunfire close by, but whether from friend or foe nobody could tell. The battalion made contact at last at 7 a.m.
with the Divisional Cavalry, which handed instructions to
Colonel Andrew, who learned that he had been appointed to
command 5 Infantry Brigade.
The raiding panzers, their visit to the frontier over, were
now delivering the coup de grâce in the Tobruk sector. The bloody
fighting at Sidi Rezegh and Belhamed ended with the remnants of 4 and 6 Brigades being driven from the approaches
to Tobruk. The Division had suffered over 4000 casualties in
killed, wounded and prisoners. Some units sought refuge in
Tobruk; the remainder broke through a gap in the encirclement and withdrew to the south-east. All but 5 Brigade (which
remained under command of 4 Indian Division) were ordered
back to Baggush.
During 29 and 30 November 22 Battalion occupied positions
east and west of Fort Musaid and reinforced 23 and 28 Battalions in the Capuzzo-Musaid-Sollum sector, which was not
attacked. ‘Been digging all day, ground very hard and rocky
and blisters galore but the thought of Jerry's accuracy with
his mortars etc. makes me dig deeper.’ With Colonel Andrew
now commanding 5 Brigade, and Captain John MacDuff acting as Brigade Major, Major Greville took over 22 Battalion.
At the end of November 5 Indian Brigade took over the
Capuzzo-Musaid-Sollum position, freeing 5 Brigade to move
on to Menastir on 1 December, when once again Bardia was
blockaded from the west. This time, much to the 22nd's satisfaction, a whole brigade would be waiting at Menastir to give
a warm reception to any enemy movement to or from Bardia.
The battalion, patrolling towards Bardia, stayed on the familiar
escarpment and sited supporting weapons with great care. A
little to the north the Maori Battalion dug into the flat below,
facing towards Tobruk and not far from 23 Battalion, which
was also astride the road but facing Bardia.
Stubborn Bardia, still holding out, continued to range its
guns over the Menastir area. A party under Captain Young
reconnoitred the outer defences of the fortress. Major Campbell led a scavenging party to an abandoned camp—spare parts
and equipment had been lost when Sidi Azeiz fell—and collected much-needed petrol, spare parts and tools for the LAD,
and a few blankets and tents for a small ambulance unit. In
fact, the unit now rather resembled a mob of hawkers. Clothes
were stiff with dirt and sweat; most of them had not been
changed for a fortnight. The afternoon of 2 December turned
cold and wet, and little wretched groups with no shelter huddled together over inconspicuous fires, usually in benzine tins.
But things certainly warmed up next morning (3 December),
when companies were warned to stand-to in a cold, driving
wind. Two large columns of enemy were reported on the way
to the relief of Bardia. One column met its doom to the south
towards Sidi Azeiz at the hands of an Indian column—100
dead and 100 prisoners.
The other column, 100 to 200 vehicles according to one
estimate, came carelessly down the coastal road from the direction of Tobruk. The unsuspecting enemy actually drove into
the first Maori positions on the flat before fire was opened on
the whole of the column by all weapons within reach. Colonel
Andrew had insisted that his brigade hold fire until the last
possible moment, and none could play that game better than
the Maoris. Wrecked vehicles blocked and tangled transport
in many sections of the road, and the enemy fell into confusion
with crippling losses, his documents telling of ‘withering fire
from well-concealed positions on the escarpment…. the hail
of fire.’ In cramped and fireswept positions, enemy 75-millimetre guns and mortars had great difficulty in swinging into
action to return the fire and support advancing infantry, which
in any case got nowhere. Under the cover of smoke some took
to the rough country on the northern side of the road, but were
rounded up by a few infantry and carriers. Fire from 28 Battalion (luxuriating in a field day), plus machine guns and
heavier supporting weapons of the brigade lined along the
escarpment, inflicted severe punishment. Twenty-second Battalion, enthusiastically giving maximum fire support, had a
grandstand view of the rout. Care had to be taken when Bardia's
guns reached out over the escarpment. Some of the battalion's
vehicles on the move panicked and were hit in the ensuing
scramble, which was brought under control by an engineer,
Sergeant McQueen,
Sgt E. J. E. McQueen, DCM, m.i.d.; born India, 20 Dec 1904; seaman;
wounded Nov 1941.
who later received the DCM. Late in
the afternoon the enemy managed to escape under the cover of
smoke. He left behind some killed and prisoners, estimated to
be as many as 260 and 120 respectively. Fifth Brigade had
ended its last days along the frontier with a dramatic coup,
which incredibly enough cost only one man killed and nine
wounded. Many fires burned far into the night.
Orders for a move back to the Capuzzo-Musaid-Sollum area
gave no time to bury the dead or to salvage battlefield debris.
These tasks were taken over by the Divisional Cavalry and
South African units providing the relief. The move back to
Musaid early on 4 December proved more deadly to 22 Battalion than the previous day's fighting. The column, after
travelling for about half an hour, came under shellfire from
the guns of an Indian force between Sidi Azeiz and Bardia.
A carrier raced towards the guns to call off the shelling. The
Indians, expecting an attack, could have been misled by the
number of captured German and Italian vehicles in the column,
but the general situation in any case was complicated and confusing. A sergeant records the ‘terrible lack of recognition
signal’, and two days later he noted: ‘Just heard that 12 of
our tanks put out of action by RAF. Not surprised—no co-operation.’ Wherever official news is meagre, unconvincing, or
lacking, a host of grey rumours scurries in, attempting to fill
the fighting man's need for information.
Fifth Brigade's guns struck back at the unrecognised Indians
(‘We got one of their guns and a gunner. Regrettable’), and
to make matters worse enemy artillery from Bardia joined in
the bombardment. Avoiding cannonades from friend and foe,
the hapless battalion, zigzagging its course, finally reached
Musaid to occupy, when further shelling died down, positions
left by 5 Indian Brigade. On the way an Indian shell, striking
a 22 Battalion truck, fatally wounded the driver, Jack Towers,
Pte J. R. Towers; born Palmerston North, 19 Dec 1918; fabric roofer; died
of wounds 4 Dec 1941.
and another man, Lance-Corporal Wellington.
L-Cpl W. R. Wellington; born NZ 31 Aug 1918; car painter; died of wounds
29 Dec 1941.
A badly
wounded German prisoner endured the ‘wild dash, enough to
finish off the toughest [but when taken off the truck] he still
clung to life and not a whimper out of him.’
The battalion stayed five cold days at Musaid, writing home
rather shaky letters, puzzling over all the recent moves ‘just
like a game of draughts', and learning the fate of 4 and 6 Brigades. ‘I think,’ wrote one man in words which were only too
painfully true, ‘they are split up too much and taking Jerry
too cheaply.’ The first rum ration in the campaign arrived, a
quarter of a cup each. Cold, cutting winds interrupted sleep,
rain soaked blankets and equipment, and touches of ‘Wog
guts' were common. Men got to know well a big gun, possibly
a naval gun, which fired regularly from the direction of Halfaya.
The Musaid-Capuzzo area is remembered for this gun (‘Hellfire Herman’) and for an old Italian plane set in the parade
ground.
Apart from occasional shelling the only brush with the enemy
was at a well, Bir el Silqiya. Here a party under Lieutenant
Donald lay in wait to capture a staff car and five prisoners,
and souvenirs—binoculars, compass, cameras. On the way out
Bill MacKenzie,
Sgt W. H. MacKenzie; born Havelock North, 7 Jan 1906; farmer; killed in
action 8 Dec 1941.
a prominent and hard-working Bren-carrier
sergeant, was killed by mortar fire. A German prisoner, an
officer speaking perfect English, asked Jack Ford
Sgt E. M. J. Ford; Masterton; born New South Wales, 29 Oct 1906; freezing
worker.
why the
New Zealand troops were two different colours: ‘he said they
were frightened of the Maoris as he heard they were cannibals
and ate their prisoners.’ At Musaid a rather battered gramophone came into its own. All through the campaign Gordon
Couchman
Sgt G. Couchman; Waverley; born Wanganui, 27 Feb 1918; truck driver.
had kept it and a few records wrapped carefully
in a blanket and stowed in the back of a carrier. On occasional
peaceful nights the gramophone would start, and heavily muffled men would drift in from the darkness. ‘She was a bit
scratchy and a bit sandy, but she worked. Those songs were
“Ave Maria”, “La Paloma”, “The Desert Song”, and Richard
Tauber … singing “You are my Heart's Delight”.’
Major Greville left to command 24 Battalion. Colonel
Andrew and Captain MacDuff returned to the battalion when
Brigadier Wilder
Maj-Gen A. S. Wilder, DSO, MC, m.i.d., Order of the White Eagle (Serb.);
Te Hau, Waipukurau; born NZ 24 May 1890; sheep-farmer; Wgtn Mtd Rifles,
1914-19; CO 25 Bn May 1940-Sep 1941; comd NZ Trg Gp, Maadi Camp,
Sep-Dec 1941, Jan-Feb 1942; 5 Bde 6 Dec 1941-17 Jan 1942; 5 Div (in NZ) Apr
1942-Jan 1943; 1 Div Jan-Nov 1943.
took over the brigade on 9 December.
Colonel Andrew had faced and overcome many difficulties.
Working with little rest, he had gathered about him and welded
together an efficient brigade headquarters which received ‘perfect loyalty and assistance’. His greatest difficulty was forming
and maintaining a supply column, and he gave special mention
to the hardworking 17 LAD. For ‘outstanding courage, skill and
leadership … through a very difficult 14 days', Colonel
Andrew was awarded the DSO.
After marching (the Colonel was back again!) ten miles to
Sidi Azeiz, the infantry boarded troop-carrying lorries of 4
RMT Company, which had come down unescorted from
Tobruk without meeting any enemy bands, a good omen for
the move into the west on 9 December.
After being relieved by two South African battalions 5 Brigade, 3213 strong (22 Battalion totalling 536), in 13 Corps reserve, was to continue the westward advance from Tobruk. By
8 December the enemy, short of supplies and greatly weakened
by losses, had raised the seige of Tobruk and was withdrawing
to partly prepared positions at Gazala. Thirteenth Corps was
to break this line and prevent the enemy from escaping. By
this time British forces were getting the upper hand. The enemy
continued to withdraw westwards from Acroma.
Fifth Brigade's first clash with the enemy since leaving the
frontier came on 11 December, during the move to Acroma,
17 miles west of Tobruk, a slow, cautious move because mines
abounded. Twenty-second Battalion stayed in reserve this day
—when Lloyd Bailey,
Sgt L. G. Bailey; born Balcairn, 19 May 1918; baker; died on active service
11 Dec 1941.
a most promising ‘I’ sergeant, was
killed in a motor-cycle accident. Twenty-third Battalion moved
ahead, clearing a path along the Derna-Tobruk road, and at
noon the Maoris got under way with a dashing attack west of
Acroma, charging with the bayonet and capturing over 1000
Italians at a cost of sixteen casualties.
The enemy stood in the Gazala area on 12 December, covering the withdrawal of vital supplies. His line, a series of strongpoints which ran from south-west to north-east for several miles
at right angles to the Tobruk-Derna road, proved hard to penetrate. Furthermore the Luftwaffe, close now to its airfield bases,
was back in strength again. Fifth Brigade faced elements from
four Italian divisions. Twenty-third Battalion remained near
the coast; next to it was 28 (Maori) Battalion, then 22 Battalion, and on the left flank 5 Indian Brigade, with all the remaining armour gathered further south.
Moving up from reserve on 12 December the battalion made
a tedious, trying, and dusty trip and crossed one area liberally
sprinkled with thermos-flask bombs, which wounded Lieutenant Bob Knoxand his driver, ‘Slim’ Watson. ‘The carrier slewed,
everyone ran out to them, running through thermos bombs,’
said Gordon Couchman. ‘I tell you we walked back mighty
gingerly.’ A surprise attack from the rear by four Heinkels damaged a truck. As the battalion dug in for the night, the gunfire
ahead increased. To the south-west a British force was engaging
a strong enemy position. The Intelligence Officer, while circling
on reconnaissance with two carriers, accepted the surrender of
a pocket of 150 despondent Italians and handed them over to
the British.
Battle was joined on the morning of the 13th,
A small yet important point: before action a YMCA truck found the battalion,
which had been critically short of tobacco and had ‘smoked anything that looked
like a cigarette…mighty welcome, it certainly helped the chaps.’
and in the
course of a three-mile advance the battalion twice ran into
enemy fire. The infantry immediately debussed, A and D Companies fixed bayonets and moved forward to the attack, while
C acted as their reserve. Heavy fire from front and flanks pinned
the infantry down, but D captured a post and took twenty-four
prisoners, equipment and weapons. The remainder of the column, hurried by heavy shelling, moved into a depression, and
headquarters was set up at Bir el Geff. Here, with much satisfaction, the Bofors guns shot down three enemy planes.
As the attack by A and D Companies developed, an enemy
strongpoint was detected on the right flank. This was causing
a great deal of trouble, so C Company, under Major Hart,
attacked at 2 p.m., theoretically supported by artillery and
twelve I tanks, though the tanks were late and the guns seemed
to be mainly in enemy hands. The company advanced in open
order with two platoons forward and one back. No shots were
fired, and 100 Italians were taken out of trenches. Then the
tanks came up, the enemy artillery opened fire, ‘and from then
on until the Company reached the escarpment perhaps 600
yards further on it was one rain of shellfire, remarkable in that
one man only was wounded. Plenty of the chaps lost skin, but
that was as close as it came.’ The enemy equipment destroyed
included four guns.
Indignation was widespread over two deliberate misuses of
the white flag by the Italians. Shortly before the attack some
carriers had gone forward. A white flag was raised, and one
carrier approached. Suddenly the flag was lowered, and fire
from 20-millimetre guns and machine guns raked the carriers.
An anti-tank bullet in the forehead killed Alan Merrick,
Cpl A. Merrick; born Christchurch, 2 Mar 1917; salesman; killed in action
13 Dec 1941.
and
a shell smashed a carrier's engine. On the same day Lloyd
Cross,
MajL. G. S. Cross; born Dunedin, 20 Nov 1918; Regular soldier.
setting his platoon off in the advance, hurriedly detailed Private Kirschberg
Cpl H. M. Kirschberg; Hastings; born Taihape, 31 Mar 1917; clerk; three
times wounded.
and two others to bear left and pick
up some Italians who were waving a white flag. ‘But Private
Kirschberg never arrived there, the miserable hounds wounded
him,’ writes Mick Kenny.
Sgt H. W. Kenny, m.i.d.; Tawa Flat; born Johnsonville, 29 Dec 1917; machine
operator; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
Enemy fire continued briskly from surrounding ridges, halting any further movement. The three companies consolidated
as best they could, but digging in was hopeless, just a matter
of getting down a few inches.
In this attack ‘we stretcher bearers were caught on a piece
of high open ground and as always—due we believe to the
stretcher being taken for an anti-tank rifle—came in for some
particular attention, and there is vivid memory of undoing
webbing to get closer to the ground, and ages spent in moving
the stretcher forward so that one could rest the edge of one's
tin hat on it “hidden from view”, and painfully slow work
edging stones onto their ends while the least movement brought
long bursts of machine gun fire—but Oh! what security when
a stone the size of a dinner plate was in position! The old
“stern-sheets” never before or since have assumed to one's mind
such major proportions, but the greatest injustice of all really
seemed, at the time, that nature had to be so cruel as to assert
herself and nothing could be done about it—if one wanted to
live a little longer.’
The battalion did not advance next day, 14 December. The
Maori Battalion, nearby, had taken Point 181 in the night with
almost 400 prisoners. Along the Gazala front a tank attack was
driven back, bringing the total of enemy tanks knocked out in
the last two days to twenty-two. In the morning Colonel
Andrew, while on reconnaissance and checking positions,
found his left flank dangerously open—the Buffs had been overrun by a German counter-attack. This called for greater vigilance and brought a heavy strain on to the battalion's patrols.
Although assured protection by the armoured brigade, at no
time could the battalion make proper contact with it. After his
tour the CO issued a special order calling for aggressive fire at
every opportunity: ‘just sitting passively in trenches [sic] will
be of no assistance whatsoever to other units on our flanks.’
Here, on a totally black night, Padre Thorpe set out, counting the 2000 paces and hoping to strike the forward positions
without walking into the opposition. His faint ‘Hullo’ was heard
and answered, and in the pitch darkness men gathered round
an historic chalice he carried for the communion service.
The little portable communion chalice, which Padre Thorpe carried in its case
in his battledress pocket, belonged to his grandfather, Archdeacon R. J. Thorpe,
who came to New Zealand in the ‘sixties from Ireland, and was a member of the
Volunteers in New Zealand. He carried it on horseback in backblock districts.
It was handed on to Padre Thorpe's father, the Rev. F. H. Thorpe, who carried
it in his saddlebags when he used to ride the 230-mile-long South Westland parish
when there were scarcely any bridges; the clergyman could and did shoe his own
horses.
Although under a different command, 5 Brigade was now
working in co-operation with a Polish brigade. Polish officers
who, it was pointed out, ‘have a lot of debts to pay’, reported
to 22 Battalion before taking up positions about two miles east
of Battalion Headquarters. The Brigade Commander and the
CO reconnoitred the Polish positions, and early next day the
Poles prepared to attack in the north. Twenty-second Battalion's task was to give them the utmost support with artillery
fire and other weapons, and then to advance and take over
ground won by the Poles.
Accordingly, the battalion's attached artillery opened heavy
fire at 3 p.m. In the meantime, however, the Poles, without
letting the battalion know, had changed their zero hour to
3.30 p.m. Half an hour's artillery work was wasted, and on top
of this the Polish artillery shelled the battalion's anti-tank positions. When the attack did begin the enemy, thoroughly
roused, replied hotly. Off to a bad start, the Poles advanced
slowly, but at dusk, when the shelling eased up, no call had
been made on 22 Battalion to support them. The battalion
was not too pleased at events anyhow.
At dusk D Company, under Captain Young, was sent over
to join the Maori Battalion, which had made further advances
(yielding 180 prisoners) this day in the Point 181 area. The
CO, seeing his battalion being whittled away and concerned
about his open left flank, recorded his disapproval of this move.
However, a piece of good work had been carried out by a
platoon from C Company. Enemy guns, firing on the flat, had
ranged on the Poles during their attack. British artillery had
accounted for most of the gun crews, and the platoon finished
them off and destroyed the four enemy guns.
‘“Tiny” Revell,
WO II B. J. Revell; Hastings; born Wellington, 24 Jun 1915; civil servant.
our Quartermaster,’ recalls a D Company
comrade, ‘had the unenvious job of bringing up our rations and
had to walk in carrying two containers: he came in for a lot of
unwelcome attention and repeatedly disappeared in shell bursts
till we wondered if he would ever make it. Many times we
thought “Tiny” had “had it” but he duly arrived, out of breath
and strange to say fair hopping mad. He wasted no time—
dished it out—then picking up the dixies proclaimed loudly
in most forcible language that the So-&-Sos couldn't hit the
biggest man in the NZ Army (“Tiny” weighed at that time between 19 and 20 stone and was built in proportion)—and “I'm
going to walk back this time and to Hell.” He did, and apart
from an initial burst of machine gun fire they left him alone!’
At daylight on 16 December A Company attempted to silence
an enemy strongpoint on the left flank. The position held, and
artillery fire was concentrated on the area. The Poles, now
really under way, made steady progress during the day, aided
by C Company with long-range Bren and spandau fire. When
a report was received of a strong enemy force, about 800, forming up by the open left flank, an extra section of machine guns
moved over, but no attack came. The concentration was broken
up by intense gunfire. The Poles rounded off a good day's work
by attacking Bir Naghia after dark with supporting fire from
C Company. The post, deeply dug in and concreted, was cleared at bayonet point. Twenty-second Battalion's carrier patrols
reported much transport movement: the enemy seemed to be
withdrawing.
Private Duffy
Pte S. Duffy; Lower Hutt; born Durham, England, 6 Mar 1919; salesman;
wounded 23 Apr 1944.
recalls an incident this evening in A Company. A barrel of cognac had been discovered, together with
‘a German motorbike which would only just go, and Corporal
Lloyd Williams
L-Sgt L. Williams; Lower Hutt; born Greymouth, 22 Nov 1917; clerk;
wounded 24 Oct 1942.
and Alan Mutton
L-Sgt A. B. Mutton; Wellington; born Australia, 8 Nov 1913; duco-sprayer;
wounded Jun 1942.
were doubling on this bike,
Alan driving, Lloyd on the back. Well Lloyd had a pocketful
of Italian grenades and would drop one behind him every now
and again. Of course Alan didn't know this, he thought he was
being shelled or something. It was quite a while before he woke
up to it. We had a great view of it from a nearby rise.’
The 17th brought warm, bright sunshine—and a great peace.
D Company came back from the Maori Battalion, which had
moved forward the day before to cover any advance from the
gathering enemy force, 800-strong. The Maoris and D Company, after long and weary plodding, ran into fire and were
shelled again as the force withdrew following our bombardment.
The Maoris suffered fifty-eight casualties. D Company had two
men killed and ten wounded, including one man wounded in the
lobe of an ear: ‘We tried to keep the chap with the hole in the
ear as a showpiece but the darn thing healed up quickly, so no
free beer for that back in Taranaki!’
The second Libyan campaign was over for 5 Brigade which,
in the words of the commander of 13 Corps, ‘has enhanced the
remarkable reputation enjoyed by the New Zealand forces.’
The enemy had withdrawn in the night, and the New Zealanders took no further part in the pursuit into the west. The
battalion had suffered seventy-seven casualties, including
twenty-three dead, forty-four wounded, and ten prisoners of
war (of whom one was wounded). In the Division (4594 casualties) one officer in every three and almost one man in every
four had become a casualty during those bloody three weeks.
Of the many prisoners taken by 5 Brigade, the Italians outnumbered the Germans by 100 to one.
So back to Baggush where the Division waited, back over
the dusty old trails the ancients and the caravans had used, to a
cold Christmas Eve at El Adem and a short service to mark
Christmas Day—‘a bleak, windy morning, it seems sarcastic
to say “Happy Xmas”. There is a smell and taste of petrol in
my cup of tea and it needs a lot of sweetened tinned milk to
kill it.’ ‘Someone attempted to improve (?) the bully beef by
boiling it with sauerkraut and nearly poisoned the lot of us.’
Then back to Sidi Azeiz, where men wondered about B Company comrades, and into Egypt again, to a smothering dust-storm: ‘Our faces were unrecognisable, powdered all over [with
dust] … the awful wind….’ Down to the railhead, and
so by train to Baggush.
But they took the lid off the place on New Year's Eve. The
Division, decimated but together again, showered the night sky
with German flares, exploded Italian grenades, even fired
several 25-pounders out to sea, alarming nearby English units
which stood-to to repel a seaborne invasion. As midnight came
in over the little oasis ‘the boys pulled down the colonel's tent
and demanded a speech, but Colonel Andrew, taking this in
good part, would not address the gathering until he was
properly dressed,’ writes Doug George.
L-Cpl D. L. George; New Plymouth; born NZ 5 May 1917; cycle mechanic;
wounded 20 Apr 1941; p.w. 15 Jul 1942; escaped Italy, Sep 1943.
‘He then fired several
Verey flares in spontaneous reaction (and so did Captain John
MacDuff, setting fire to a bivvy), and regarding his collapsed
tent said: “I will crawl into the b— thing as it is.” But they
held him in such estimation that they decided to re-erect the
tent for him.’
CHAPTER 4
Into 1942 and Syria
‘Christmas made everyone forget for a while the prior miseries of two cigarettes per day, stony ground to sleep on, a
few bits of salvaged canvas, with iron or old doors to keep out the
weather. The latrines were crude, so was the cookhouse. Men
were seen following their mates to pick up cast away cigarette
butts. Hunger drove many to behave like pigs at mealtimes—
pushing one another about to scrape out empty dixies, etc.
Everyone lost weight with dysentry, and medical treatment
was poor….
‘… by 4 o'clock on 4 January, everything of importance
was set on fire or blown up by the enemy, and by daybreak
we were told that Jerry had surrendered, and our column would
be in, in an hour or so—cheers by all. About 9 o'clock the first
armoured vehicles arrived—our own Div. Cav. What a welcome, what food they gave us, and once more we were free.’—
George Orsler, of B Company, liberated when Bardia fell to
the South Africans.
From the Western Desert the battalion went back to the
Suez Canal area again, to tents at Kabrit, where 200 reinforcements arrived. At a railway station on the way down Mick
Kenny had a small tin left over from the rations. He told Arab
beggars to hold out their hands, and leaning out of the carriage
window, gave them all an equal share—of golden syrup. ‘The
way the [angry] Wogs moved their hands reminded us of accordion players.’ Elsewhere, in another part of the battalion,
a man produced a precious tin of coffee and milk ‘and about
17 of us brewed up and drank it out of rusty tins. The thing
that impressed me was that the owner had not the slightest
thought of drinking it himself, he shared it automatically, we
were soldiers now.’
At Kabrit they practised for seaborne invasion again, and
once again the plan (or ‘boy scout exercises’, as a good many
New Zealanders considered them) was abandoned, much to
the relief of 5 Brigade's new commander, Brigadier Kippenberger,
Maj-Gen Sir Howard Kippenberger, KBE, CB, DSO and bar, ED, m.i.d.,
Legion of Merit (US); born Ladbrooks, 28 Jan 1897; barrister and solicitor;
i NZEF 1916-17; CO 20 Bn Sep 1939-Apr 1941, Jun-Dec 1941; comd 10 Bde
(Crete) May 1941; 5 Bde Jan 1942-Jun 1943, Nov 1943-Feb 1944; GOC 2 NZ
Div 30 Apr-14 May 1943 and 9 Feb-2 Mar 1944; 2 NZEF Prisoner-of-War Reception Group in UK 1944-45; twice wounded; Editor-in-Chief, NZ War Histories,
1946-57; died Wellington, 5 May 1957.
who gives this opinion of the battalion at the time: ‘22
Battalion had a good record, though it was unhappy at having
lost its Maleme position in Crete—after very heavy casualties—
and it had a grouch that it had not been fairly treated in decorations. Les Andrew, unfortunately, was going; but I had my
choice of John Russell or another good officer to succeed him,
chose John, and had no worries thenceforward.’
Infantry Brigadier (Oxford University Press), p. 113.
For some time now the battalion had known it would be
losing ‘February’. Before the Libyan campaign some men had
called at his tent to see him about a rumour. It was true all
right, said the Colonel, and he was leading the battalion through
just one more show. His last show was over now. The battalion's
war diary reads for 3 February: ‘This was a sorry day for the
22 Bn for it paraded to say farewell to its original and much respected CO., Lt. Col. L. W. Andrew, who is shortly leaving on
his return to N.Z. Lt. Col. Andrew inspected the whole Bn
from 0845-1000 after which he said a few words of farewell and
asked the troops to live up to the traditions of the Bn whether
on leave, in base or in action. After wishing his men the best
of luck, Lt. Col. Andrew took the salute whilst the Bn marched
past. At lunch-time, he dined with the sergeants and spoke
some encouraging words to them.’
‘Not one man on the parade felt anything but regret now
that the time had come to say goodbye to a man whom they
had always admired, loved and respected, despite the “February” and the 28 days,’ wrote Tom De Lisle.
The Colonel left, but his influence went on to Trieste, where
his outlook and memories of his veterans were recalled in a
poem attempting to humble some irresponsible horseplay by
newcomers to the battalion. When speaking about this man
in years to come, some would say he, with his discipline, was
an anachronism—a 1914-18 hangover. Others, probably the
majority of men who had served under him in the lean, hard
years, would say with affection: ‘There was never another like
Old February, or Old Wirewhiskers', and at reunions even
notoriously meek men would be found hopefully claiming as
a mark of distinction to have served ‘28 days under Old Feb
ruary’.
The total number of men who served 28 days' detention in 22 Battalion's first
year, although clearly a 2 NZEF record, cannot be given because the Part II
Orders are missing from the unit records for most of 1940.
The battalion's new commander, from Divisional Cavalry,
was the son of Sir Andrew Russell, who had commanded the
New Zealand Division in France. John Russell took over the battalion in time for combined operations: a move down the Suez
Canal and, after a night off Port Tewfik, a brief mock assault
off Ras el Sudr, a small promontory in the Red Sea. A Company stayed at home; B and C boarded the familiar HMS
Glengyle, and D packed into HMS Princess Marguerite. The men
came back from their invasion practice to learn to their disgust
that they were booked for Libya again—Rommel was moving
out from El Agheila towards Gazala—so back to Libya and
to El Adem, near Tobruk, went 5 Brigade, which this time
crossed the frontier in farcical fashion. The convoy had halted
for tea within a couple of miles of the wire. The column began
moving over the remaining two miles into Libya as night came
in, but something slipped up, a bemused driver brought his
truck round to the rear of the convoy, and other trucks following other tail-lights deftly turned the convoy into a great circle.
The circular convoy, a little dizzy, did not make Libya until
midnight.
The brigade resignedly dug in on the escarpment south of
El Adem to protect the aerodrome and Trigh Capuzzo if the
enemy broke the Gazala line. The front ahead remained quiet;
no raiders appeared. Untroubled, the brigade built its second
‘box’. Blasting, digging, wiring, minelaying (13,000 mines taken
with full authority from Tobruk's defences), salvaging and
camouflaging, interrupted by an air raid or two, continued
until March, when after a heavy flood and a sandstorm the
brigade thankfully made its way back to Maadi.
A pleasant surprise awaited in Cairo, at the New Zealand
Club, where ‘the staff was now NZ girls running the Club.
What a difference they made, it was like a touch of home again,’
wrote Dick Bunny.
Pte R. A. Bunny; Masterton; born Masterton, 20 Sep 1907; labourer; p.w.
15 Jul 1942.
‘They were all so pleasant and everything
was clean and a strong contrast to my previous visits when the
Wogs held sway.’
At a brigade parade General Freyberg, presenting awards
won in Greece, Crete and Libya, decorated these four 22 Battalion men: Colonel Russell, DSO (won while with the Divisional Cavalry), Major Campbell, MC, Captain Donald, MC,
and Sergeant Bob Bayliss, MM. Soon afterwards, early in
April, the battalion set off for Syria to join the rest of the
Division.
The night before the battalion left Maadi a party returning
from the pictures saw to their joy near the Pall Mall theatre
the door of another battalion's cookhouse swinging wide open
—too good to be true—a trap, perhaps? So one member, pre–
tending to be drunk, reeled towards the open door calling
blearily for ‘Jack’. Nobody lurked inside. Doubling up, the rest
of the party carried away cases of tinned peaches (a desert
luxury), several sacks of sugar, flour, and quantities of tea. The
loot was distributed far and wide. Next day, as the party pulled
out for the green pastures of Syria, men looked back innocently
on the turmoil in this unit's area: redcaps darting here and
there, copious interrogations and note-taking, startled and
angry groups denying and protesting.
Most of the men (600 of them with four tons of baggage)
left by train. They took with them a new padre, Rev. T. E.
Champion,
Rev. T. E. Champion; Petersham, New South Wales; born Auburn, New South
Wales, 23 Mar 1908; Anglican minister.
after saying goodbye to Padre Thorpe (troubled
with failing health), whose ‘fearless and untiring efforts for the
comfort and assistance of the troops’ were noted appreciatively
in the war diary.
While a few drove north in lorries, most of the battalion
travelled in carriages from Maadi, not too comfortably either,
some getting down under the seats and sleeping on the floor
while others stretched out in the luggage racks. They crossed
the Canal at Kantara by ferry, entrained, stretched out in box
wagons, passed through more uninteresting desert, which at
last gave way to poor grazing land, tufts of grass here and there,
and a wandering Arab herdsman with a few sheep and goats.
Slowly the land improved: little houses of sun-dried bricks were
set in fields divided by prickly-pear hedges. Then the train
clattered into the fertile coastal plain of southern Palestine,
past field after field of ripening oats, and citrus orchards bordered by tall cypresses. ‘What a relief all this was after the desert:
the greener the country became, the higher the boys' spirits
rose, we were just like a mob of school kids. We could easily
imagine the feelings of the Israelites when after wandering 40
years in the desert they discovered this valley.’ In fact, this trip
north to Syria was stored away fondly into hundreds of memories, to nourish many a soldier in the accursed summer at
Alamein, and also in the dead days of prisoner-of-war camps
so soon to envelop many a man now free.
Gaza railway station, the first stop in Palestine, swarmed
with young Arabs carrying every imaginable container (buckets, baskets, kerosene tins, big jam tins and even chamber pots)
piled with oranges to be exchanged for bully or cheese. Here
New Zealanders probably ate the largest amount of fruit in
the shortest time in their lives. Soon the floor of every truck
was covered with oranges and grapefruit, ‘absolutely delicious,
so juicy and so full of flavour. As soon as they had sold all they
carried, they rushed off to the side of the station and got another load and as soon as they got to the train they were empty
again. This must have gone on for over half an hour, and we
were eating them all the time and throwing the skins outside
till when we moved off the ground around the station was red
with skins. My only regret was that I couldn't have sent some
home to you.’
A day and a night passed at a transit camp near Haifa, a
small port with oil refineries on the flat and suburbs of stone
buildings sprinkled on surrounding hills. Some 22 Battalion
men, without money, lazed and read or slept under the olive
trees. Others went to town and found it rather ‘stereotyped,
not much evidence of individuality’; the native quarter was
much cleaner and healthier, with not so much bleating for
baksheesh; on the sides of the streets lay huge piles of oranges,
and ‘the girls especially the Jewesses were very attractive and
would at least look at us and that is more than the white female
pop. of Cairo did.’
As the battalion travelled on up the coast the Lebanon hills
gradually grew nearer. Fields were being cultivated or were
covered with fruit trees and bordered with cypresses and gum-trees. ‘I'll never forget the sound of wind in those bluegums.’
In one field an Arab toiled with wooden plough and an ox or
donkey; in the next a Jew on a tractor hauled a double-furrow
plough, perhaps helped by Jewish girls dressed in shirts tucked
into baggy bloomers. Everywhere spring flowers appeared,
‘purple and white daisies, red poppies and yellow buttercups all
mixed together. In the garden of some peasant I saw the most
wonderful roses I have ever seen. The biggest blooms possible
and every colour of the rainbow. Just past this are the remains
of an old aquaduct built by the Romans and nearly obscured by
vegetation.’
John Collins
L-Cpl H. J. Collins; Winchester, South Canterbury; born Wellington, 4 Nov 1919; school-teacher; wounded 19 Apr 1945.
saw and was amused at ‘an Arab dressed up
to kill riding a pushbike and he passed another Arab on a
camel and gave him a look as much as to say “Why don't you
travel in a civilised way?”’ Yet occasionally an old village
would be passed, unchanged over the centuries, where the
women carried water jars on their heads and did all the work
while the men sat in the sun and gossiped. ‘That appeals to
me, I think it should be introduced into NZ after the war.’
Later, while on leave in Palestine, Collins, like many New
Zealanders, was deeply impressed with the farming, financial
and social aspects of community life in the new Jewish settlements, the remarkable achievements of voluntary labour, the
efforts to improve cultural backgrounds, and especially the
community care and upbringing of children, which freed
mothers from much drudgery and developed self-reliance and
initiative in the children. In the midst of world warfare many
New Zealanders thought deeply about this simultaneous welding together of Jews from many races—Americans, Poles,
Russians, Germans, French and Palestinians. There is on record
at least one 22 Battalion man, a Gentile, who thoroughly enjoyed himself, ‘away from anything to do with the Army’, by
working in a Jewish community settlement while on leave.
Where Palestine ended, the hills, covered in scrub and spring
flowers, came right down to the coast. Buses took the battalion
across the frontier into Syria, which was less highly cultivated
and rockier; the hillsides were terraced or patched with olive
groves, with here and there old ruins and Crusaders' castles.
Then the orchards and vineyards increased again, with wayside cafés selling fruit, wines, and liqueurs at ridiculously low
prices. ‘The trousers the Lebanese wear are something like
riding pants, but the seat is all baggy and reaches nearly down
to the knees. They certainly would be comfortable but a bit
draughty in the winter.’
The travellers paused briefly in a transit camp by Beirut,
where pay, changed into Syrian pounds (about eight to £ 1
sterling) gave sadly brief sensations of wealth. The last leg of
the five-day journey began with the switch to the mountain
railway and the unforgettable climb of 5000 feet in three stages
over the Lebanon Mountains, almost to the snowline. Villages
and towns with grey walls and red-tiled roofs, well known to
wealthy tourists, were passed. The curious little train toddled
along at about 20 miles an hour, sometimes pausing gratefully
while wood was cut for the boiler. Many sat on the roofs of
their ‘dog boxes’ or cooked meals on primuses inside. The train
reached the top about noon and slowly began spiralling down
to the green and beautiful Bekaa valley.
‘That rail trip was the highlight of the trip to Syria,’ wrote
Lieutenant O'Reilly, ‘the wild flowers growing in profusion beside the track, the mountainside on its lower slopes liberally
covered with trees, the steep little valleys, terraces built in almost impossible places to conserve a few square yards of soil,
the mulberry trees and vines and orchards, those attractive
looking villages with their square houses of clean stone, the
holiday resorts of Syria, the snake-like twistings of the railway
up the mountainside, the magnificent view as one looked back
down towards Beirut in the blue setting of the Mediterranean.’
In a siding at Rayak box wagons waited, a good sight until
soldiers saw only too plainly that the previous passengers had
been cattle. The trucks, not washed properly, were a disgusting sight and smell. The medical officer (Captain Volckman)
insisted on clean trucks; some arrived, and the trip went on,
through country that changed to poorer, stonier soil, with far
fewer crops and stunted fruit trees, but mostly herds of sheep
and goats. The fact that sheep in Syria followed the shepherd,
and were not driven as they are in New Zealand, intrigued
everyone. The people, mostly Kurds, lived in curious mud huts
shaped like beehives. Workers along the railway lines gladly
accepted army biscuits tossed out by the travellers. Lorries
waiting at a small station soon took the battalion to its destination, Afrine camp, north-west of Aleppo, early in the afternoon of 14 April. A and D Companies and some Headquarters
Company men promptly went off to the forward posts to relieve 24 Battalion.
The Division, resting, building defences, and acting as occupying troops, was to guard and improve the defences of this
north-west corner of Syria, through which ran the main road
and railway, northwards from Aleppo into Turkey. If the
Germans invaded Turkey, 22 Battalion, perched up on the
frontier (and now briskly exchanging rice for eggs), would have
a grandstand seat.
Syria had endured more than her share of invasions. After
the First World War the country, wrested from the Turks, had
been handed over to the French as a mandate. Now British,
Australians, and New Zealanders had joined the French in
Syria, and the Syrian himself was experiencing rather a lean
time. Groups of natives, patient, silent and dignified, clustered
at unit cookhouses, waiting for scraps. The Army took over
distributing flour in Syria, and the New Zealanders were responsible for doing so in their areas. The shortages and semi-famine in some places were due, not to the French administrators, but to Syrian merchants cornering the market. Occasionally bands and parades marched to and fro to impress
the Syrians, and certain establishments were ‘closed on religious days as a gesture of respect and goodwill.’ ‘The Syrians,’
wrote one 22 Battalion man, ‘conduct themselves with a dignity,
reserve and courtesy which are in marked contrast to the
servility of the Arabs in Egypt. Not once since arrival have I
been asked for baksheesh or its Kurdish equivalent.’ The New
Zealanders soon learned that the French were not liked ‘because they treat us Syrians as though we are Algerians.’
Battalion Headquarters was just outside Afrine, and the
camp looked down into the pleasing valley of the Afrine River.
The mountains, the river, the creeks (actual waterfalls ‘that
we could stand under stripped off’), the grass and the growing
crops all around seemed miraculous after the desert—‘too good
to be true, the Army is cooking something up for us I'll bet.’
Wildflowers were abundant, especially red dwarf anemones,
and as John Russell summed up, ‘the longer they leave us here
the happier we shall be.’
Nevertheless a curious little incident had happened on the
way up. The carriers, which travelled under their own power
part of the way, had stopped at dusk by one of the most beautiful little settlements their crews had ever seen. The local café
was in keeping with the surroundings: a stream ran past tables
where drinks were served, and here the men sat at peace and
marvelled, ‘until we got too much in, someone was sick into
the creek, then another fell in. When we came out of that place
everything had changed, we were just drunken soldiers again,
yelling our heads off.’ The settlement so unexpectedly—like
certain other places met during the war—had revealed only
too clearly the loneliness of a soldier's life. Despite all the
violence and the movement of troops the settled life of the
world went on just the same, ‘and we were only soldiers drifting by’, not the main act, but just a sideshow.
Afrine camp was well spaced, with fairly comfortable iron
huts containing stoves, which meant the luxury of morning and
afternoon tea regularly. One night a sudden storm swept down
the valley, and men half asleep in their beds lay listening to
an unfamiliar, yet typically New Zealand noise: rain on a corrugated iron roof. Afrine village, 34 miles from Aleppo, was
the administrative centre for about 350 settlements spread over
mountainous country along the Turkish border. Troops worked
in with the French gendarmerie and the Garde Mobile—and
sometimes borrowed their horses for brief and exhilarating
gallops.
Roads and tracks led out from Afrine to frontier posts along
the rough hillsides and down in the valleys. Here the battalion
held strategic positions.
Two companies and a few detachments occupied each sector and changed round
once a fortnight. They were in two sectors:
Northern Sector: Meidane Ekbes (where the railway crosses into Turkey), North
Tunnel, the Fort (guarding the railway viaduct and the south tunnel), the Saddle
(a height over the Kara Sou valley, neatly divided by the frontier) and Radjou
(forward area HQ) on the southern side of the Saddle.
Southern sector: To the south-west, El Hammam (viewing the border and
Lake Antioch), Katma (8 miles north-east along the road to Aleppo, by a railway
tunnel). Towards the end of April more detachments occupied posts at two main
railway bridges in the Afrine-Radjou area.
Sentries and patrols watched bridges,
railway lines, roads and tracks. ‘Guard duty on the Turkish
border: 2-hours duty at night and an hour by day and free for
the rest of the day…. a great job,’ wrote Private Price, of
C Company. ‘To hold up all lorries, cars and so on, examine
visas, and write down all particulars in a little black book.’
Hidden demolitions and road blocks were planned to smash
communications should invasion threaten from the north. Yet
further back engineers, supervising great labour gangs of Syrian
men and women (‘babies on their backs and carrying stones
on their heads’), hustled about building, improving and making
roads and bridges—which would make it all the easier for an
invader once he was safely past the frontier.
Probably the pick of all jobs in Syria—excepting, of course,
the running of a company canteen—was guard duty at the
station of Meidane Ekbes, the last stop of the famous Taurus
Express before it passed into Turkey, a ‘cushy’ job indeed ‘until
Jack Sullivan arrived with a fund of PT exercises to shake us
along a bit. The train used to burst forth (about a mile away)
from the tunnel in a cloud of smoke, then come whistling down
the grade for all the world like a Hornby model in a stagelike
background.’ Many a section here ‘acquired’ foreign currency
and goods which were either prohibited in Turkey—or which
the troops stoutly maintained should be prohibited in Turkey.
One over-zealous searcher was still on board when the express
crossed the frontier; he was ‘lost’ for some time. But the New
Zealanders were not the only collectors, for Doug George reports how ‘two of us were talking to our officer on the station
platform one sunny day. Suddenly, past us swaggered a local
villager. He was clad in an Army shirt plus two pips on each
shoulder, issue “Bombays” rolled up, and a pair of “Star” football socks—a leading New Plymouth Rugby club—capped off
with a pair of sandshoes. We pretended not to notice him of
course for reasons which should be obvious to anybody!
Here a platoon would line the rails to prevent passengers
leaping away while a British intelligence sergeant went through
the train. The search never seemed to last more than half an
hour. This imperturbable sergeant, who had lived most of his
life in Turkey and other Eastern countries, spoke about four
or five languages and confidently went about his job of screening the travelling public. His name may have been Baker; he had
escorted American tourists on trips before the war. Geoffrey
Mather
Maj G. L. Mather; born England, 4 Feb 1906; school-teacher.
‘marvelled at the speed with which he sized up the
motley group of passengers, the rapid interrogation, and the
hauling out of the train for further questioning those who had
given themselves away or looked suspicious. Bearing in mind
his high linguistic qualifications, his valuable local knowledge,
and his soldierly bearing, I thought how well Britain has been
served overseas by her soldiers and others—many of them junior
rank like this sergeant whose work must have had a high security value.’
Up at the Fort they used a small donkey for bringing up the
stores from the road below, and for carrying the Padre's kit
from place to place. The Padre remembers ‘not uncommon’
cries, as he lead the donkey along, of ‘Dad is the one with the
hat on’.
Apart from that in the odd shop and café, there was very
little fraternisation between members of the battalion and the
local inhabitants in Afrine. A detachment of the Transjordan
Frontier Force based between Aleppo and Afrine sent patrols
up to the Turkish border and also kept an eye on the Kurds
who, having been exploited by landlords for generations, had
taken to brigandry. This detachment invited the battalion's
sergeants to its mess on hospitable and lively occasions (a prominent warrant officer had to spend a few days in hospital). Some
men, invited to nearby villages, were embarrassed, first by the
strange-tasting and highly seasoned food (the eye of an animal
was considered a delicacy), next when no knives or forks appeared, and last at the pained looks when every scrap of food
was not eaten. Captain Young recalls ‘a most sumptuous repast with the headman “Mukta” of the village in the loft—
above the goat house’. Officers had been asked to spread friendships, and at Radjou Mather diplomatically notes how he ‘entertained local chiefs or whatever they were called at my HQ, and
was in turn the recipient of excellent hospitality, dispensed with
Eastern charm and generosity.’
Closer understanding was not confined to Syrian relationships. ‘Russell Young was, I think, a territorial officer, and took
some time to find the level of the boys, so much so that at The
Tunnel he called the chaps together and asked them if anyone
would oblige by letting him know some of his faults—he would
be available in his digs. The beer ration was right, and some
went in and had a fair dinkum pow-wow with him. It was not
long after this that he not only knew every man in the company
but his Christian name as well—it is safe to assume that later
on the boys would have followed him clean to Hell if he wanted
them to, and he earned the name of “Brigham Young”.
Easily the busiest men in Syria were the medical men. The
regimental aid posts gladly offered a rough and ready medical
service, complicated by language difficulties. Suffering Syrians
would point to their stomachs and make agonised faces. ‘The
local government doctor in Afrine (paid by the Syrian Government) was rather a casual sort of chap—most of his medical
instruments were rusty and he had no stethoscope [he placed
an ear against the patient's chest],’ writes Padre Champion.
‘His son was studying to become a doctor at Beirut. I hope he
was more efficient than his father. One does not wonder that
many of the local people had no confidence in the local medico
and preferred to come to our RAP.’ Keen and ready for anything, one RAP sergeant prepared to deliver a child, ordered
hot water galore, and looked very excited at the prospect of
a new case. Unfortunately the doctor walked in and diagnosed
the case—not a baby but a large watery cyst.
Sgt C. K. Bradford; Tolaga Bay; born Gisborne, 15 Sep 1908; taxi proprietor;
wounded 4 Dec 1943.
who
was working with Malcolm McKenzie,
L-Cpl M. M. McKenzie; Hastings; born Dannevirke, 28 May 1918; bushman.
‘one day when apparently we had gained the confidence of the people a woman
was brought to us with a very inflamed foot accompanied by
another woman and three men.
‘The feet of course were stained to a deep russet brown and
I hit upon the idea of painting the swollen part underneath
with iodine, when a pus sore could be seen. She couldn't put
the foot to the ground, so taking the bull by the horns, [I]
decided to lance—no lance only a cut-throat razor—advanced
on that when with delighted cries from the men and a wild yell
from the patient the latter was borne to the floor, the foot held
up invitingly by strong hands, and there was nothing for it but
to proceed. With plenty of yells from the helpers to drown the
anguish of the woman the job was accomplished successfully
—much to my own astonishment! We bound it up and away
they went all smiles—no conversation, everything by sign language as we had nothing in common.
‘Some days after the sentry on the building sent word up
that a deuce of a crowd was down below and thought he recognised the woman by the bandaged foot. She came up loaded
with all sorts of veges., eggs etc., and walked about us to show
how she was cured—debbil-debbil gone from the foot, we learned.
From that day on we had no peace and the things we were
asked to tackle would make your hair curl.
One party came in with all the upper teeth infected including the roof of the mouth—a respirator was required on that
one! A sort of scalpel was obtained from a French woman's
manicure set and in we went, but that one never came back—
God only knows how the deuce it panned out—you'd have to
see it to believe it.’
The variety of cases was in keeping with the primitive life:
a nine-year-old boy with half his forehead almost lifted off by
a kick from a donkey; an unfaithful wife of a hillman, who had
attacked her with axe and dagger, fractured her skull and stabbed her by the collarbone; a Kurd, involved in a feud, who had
been shot by a Mauser rifle in the leg, ‘an awful mess, he did
not cry out, he was a brave man.’ Medical men visited nearby
villages and went further afield, climbing up and down hills
to reach caves where the sick (and weakling infants) needed
attention. ‘To my surprise and joy the little baby lived,’ notes
Sergeant Cassidy.
Sgt W. N. Cassidy; Whakatane; born NZ 3 Nov 1914; truck driver; twice
wounded.
Busy though he was Captain Volckman spent much time
grinding coffee beans and frying them in a pan with a dash of
mustard, ‘making a liquor which he bottled, and served us well
later in the desert—a great brew really.’
Leave parties went down to Aleppo: Select Club (for officers
only); Select Café (warrant officers and sergeants), and Palace
Café (other ranks). Some managed to travel further afield, to
Damascus and Beirut. The Kiwi Concert Party and YMCA
movies came along, and 5 Brigade Band gave several good concerts. Extraordinary band music brought heads out of huts and
round corners when Boy Scouts, who were strong in Syria,
paraded outside the battalion orderly room for inspection by
Colonel Russell in gratitude for motoring them to some festival.
After much discussion it was agreed that the scout band was
playing our National Anthem.
A good deal of time passed in cards, letter writing, swimming
(keeping an eye out for water snakes and freshwater crabs) and
reading. A man who secretly enjoyed comics and received
bundles of them from home now wrote: ‘Lay off the comics
though as I'm beginning to lose prestige round here.’ Some
went off dynamiting a few tasteless trout out of the creeks—
Corporal Pat Hughes
Cpl P. G. Hughes; Hastings; born Wellington, 26 Jul 1914; clerk.
was among the pioneer fishermen-grenadiers. The trout, a bit like our New Zealand perch, or a cross
between a mullet and a trout, weren't much good.
Sixteen much-envied men were chosen for the Ninth Army
Ski School course in the Lebanons. The skiers might have been
used as alpine troops in the Balkans, for a thrust towards Germany through Greece was being advocated by Mr Churchill at
this time. Anyhow, of the sixteen skiers, three qualified: Sergeant Cross
Lt E. K. Cross; Wellington; born NZ 31 Aug 1915; commercial traveller;
twice wounded.
and Privates Tilbury
Pte H. Tilbury; Otaki; born Lower Hutt, 25 Jul 1911; market gardener.
and Bunny. Tilbury says:
‘That month at the ski school was the toughest I have ever
put in, counting a lot of skiing, tramping and deerstalking
before the war. Most of the time we were running round with
a rifle and pack.’ Bunny recalls the dumping of an unpopular
canteen sergeant, an Australian, in the concrete pool outside
the Cedars Hotel. He adds: ‘It was not so very long after leaving
the ski school that I had a big fall (without skis) and landed up
800 or 900 feet below ground in a Polish coalmine [as prisoner of war].’
Health was good in Syria's bracing climate. Strict precautions, including the ridiculously cumbersome ‘Bombay
bloomers', were taken against malaria. On some hot nights
mosquitoes hummed like a swarm of bees. The local drink,
arak, was prohibited. Inflamed with arak (‘a destroyer of intellect and constitution’), a drunk gave one company its liveliest
moments on the frontier by sending boulders crashing onto the
orderly-room roof at Radjou. The incident was closely followed
by a debate at the YMCA: ‘Is the early closing of hotels in
New Zealand in the best interests of all concerned?’ ‘John
Russell walked in and asked if he could have a go, and turned
on quite a speech about how we in NZ and NZers in particular
needed education in our drinking habits—he was for longer hours
and supply from refreshment rooms, grocers, etc., and finished
up by saying that he did not like the idea of being told when to drink. Sort of get it where, when and how he wanted it.
Most of us supported that realistic view. He was a favourite,
and it was nothing unusual to find him either in front or behind
in the mess queue.’
Incidentally, as the result of too much liquor, one night a
small party from the battalion put on a wretched guard in
Aleppo: ‘This was an unfortunate night,’ writes D. L. George,
‘anyhow … at least two were matted. One fired a burst of
Tommygun up the street, and another fell asleep at Bn. HQ.
Duly we appeared before John Russell. After hearing evidence,
his large benign face looked stern enough, but he, with a twinkle
in his eyes, gave the culprits a very light punishment. I remember this incident particularly, because it sheds light on John
Russell's big-hearted character.’ A day or two after this the
Colonel was writing home ‘… I like the look of my team more
every day and guarantee that when our turn comes they will
give a good account.’
Indeed, the days in Syria were drawing to a close. The first
week of ‘intensive training’ round Afrine camp began with
Corporal Ray Mollier
2 Lt R. Mollier, MC; born Wellington, 7 Jun 1917; draper; wounded 24 Oct 1942.
doing the sprint of his life when a rifle
grenade, instead of soaring, just trickled from his rifle. The week
ended with a mobile-column exercise with carriers, a few anti-tank guns and a 3-inch mortar detachment. A Syrian scorpion
‘made Haddon Donald jump quicker than any enemy action
ever did. He had sat on a stone to which a scorpion considered he
had priority. The last we (of C Company) saw of our commanding officer was making post-haste to the RAP.’
On the brief manoeuvres in the desert beyond Aleppo convoy movement, flag signals, and embussing and debussing were
practised but these seemed to consist mainly ‘of being packed
like sardines in the back of a truck with your mate's rifle sticking
into your ribs and then rushed at full speed to a supposed enemy
position, at which point the truck driver would spin the truck
around on full lock and then pull up dead. We were now supposed to scramble out as fast as possible in full kit and deploy.
Here again we began to feel that shortage of drinking water,
especially after having had our fill of the precious liquid for
the previous six weeks.’
The war diary for May ended with these words: ‘Whatever
the immediate future may hold, the Battalion is in good heart,
ready to play its next part in the struggle to end aggression.’
Unhappily the next move meant misfortune for most. On
the night of Sunday, 14 June, after the first day of the brigade
manoeuvres in the Syrian desert, Gough Smith,
Pte G. W. Smith; Masterton; born Masterton, 4 Apr 1914; farm manager; p.w.
15 Jul 1942.
hip in a hole
in the sand, wrapped in a blanket, was looking at the stars when
‘Og’ Wood
Lt O. G. Wood; born NZ 20 Feb 1912; warehouseman; killed in action
24 Oct 1942.
(15 Platoon) loomed up in the darkness: ‘Can you
chaps all hear me? Word has just come through from the brigadier that the manoeuvres are off. We are moving on to join
the Division at Baalbeck tomorrow. The Brig. stressed the fact
that there is absolutely no panic, but we have to be over the
canal within a week.’ Smith goes on to record: ‘The silence was
broken by a dozen questions, curses and groans. “Are we going
into a stink?” “Has Jerry broken through?” “Trust the Pommies to muck it up.”“Well wouldn't that rock you?”“—the
—desert”“Shut up and hear the rest.” ‘Og’ resumed his
confidential lisping: “That's all we've been told but I suppose
we are going up ‘the Blue’; if we do it'll be into a defensive
position behind the lines. The Brig. said there is no panic. This
is purely a precautionary measure….”
At the end of the next thirty days the battalion would have
slept in about twenty-five different places. From the hills of
northern Syria the battalion, dismayed at the black news of
disaster following disaster, moved a thousand miles, south then
west, into the Western Desert, and the last of a thousand rumours about returning home died abruptly. There, in the last
week in June, the New Zealanders would take their stand
against the enemy driving deep into Egypt. The words of John
Collins, writing home when he reached Syria, were only too
true: ‘The grapevines are just beginning to sprout, and I suppose by the time the grapes are ripe we shall be a long way from
here.’
CHAPTER 5Minqar Qaim
Two days after Tobruk (with 30,000 men, great dumps of
equipment, stores, weapons, ammunition, and all its old
legendary bravery and defiance) had crumpled between dawn
and dusk, 22 Battalion, with 5 Brigade, camped down by
Mersa Matruh at the end of the five-day dash over almost
1000 miles from Syria.
4 and 5 Brigades went to Mersa Matruh; 6 Brigade stayed in reserve at Amiriya,
near Alexandria. 22 Battalion's LOB party (under Major T. C. Campbell) was
A Company and the 2 i/cs of the other companies, who went back to Maadi,
where they stayed for a month.
The Colonel, the company commanders
and the battalion Intelligence Officer, travelling independently in a two-day race from Syria, had gone on ahead for an
urgent conference in Maadi, and then were given very brief
leave until the battalion approached Alexandria. Two officers,
Bob Knox (of the carriers, recovering from his wound in Libya)
and the Intelligence Officer, Sam McLernon, were in Alexandria when they heard that Tobruk had fallen: ‘The news
was a shocker and we really could not believe it,’ writes Sam,
clearly indicating the feeling of humiliation and impotent rage
which now swept the Middle East. ‘Bob and I were having a
few in the Hotel Cecil with a Danish Captain off a small ship
that had been plying back and forth between Tobruk and
Alexandria for many many months, and they both cried with
rage and shame when they learnt of the rapid fall and the loss
of so much equipment that [had taken] so much time, labour
and danger … to build up.
‘The trip from Alex. to Mersa Matruh will always remain
in my memory, as we saw a sight that most of us hope never
to see again—the British Army in rout. There are no other
words to describe it. An endless stream of traffic for scores
of miles, with drivers with their feet on the accelerators with
obviously only one stopping place, Cape Town. Twenty-five
pounders and quads, trucks, ambulances, anti-aircraft guns,
A.S.C. trucks, all jumbled up together and heading eastwards.’
Others, travelling by rail, recall armoured vehicles in the
jumbled mass too, undamaged tanks were pulling out, ‘and we
going in with our tin-can carriers—depressing, to say the least.’
‘Our chaps kept asking what the story was, and all we could
answer was “they are just regrouping, we will be O.K.” What
a miracle that the Huns could not get up their fighter force,
because if they could have, the casualties would have been
stupendous.’
For its first two days at Matruh the battalion, placed between
21 and 23 Battalions, dug in and spread out thinly over old
1940 ‘defences’—old trenches, rotting sandbags, useless mine
fields, old gunpits, old strongpoints half buried in the sand,
supported by a dozen naval guns set well back in pillboxes.
Soldiers reported that the breech-blocks from many or all of
these guns were missing. Something else was missing too: a
plentiful water ration. Men found the daily allowance inadequate after the abundance of water in Syria. A few scattered units of Eighth Army lay between the New Zealanders
and the enemy, now in high triumph and on the point of
crossing the frontier. Meanwhile the battalion watched a
beaten Eighth Army pouring back in full retreat—a rabble.
As General Freyberg wrote: ‘The Army had, for the moment,
disintegrated.’
On 24 June the enemy entered Egypt, and the idea of a
serious stand at Matruh—if it ever had been contemplated and
planned seriously—was given up. General Auchinleck, relieving General Ritchie and taking over direct command of Eighth
Army, ordered a delaying action only, to cover the Army's
retreat to Alamein. Part of this action would be fought south
of Mersa Matruh, and south into the desert went the two New
Zealand brigades in the light of a half moon, a long column of
lorry-borne infantry, guns and Bren carriers—but no tanks.
Enemy bombers struck shortly before a halt in the night: the
nearest bomb landed about 20 yards from a 22 Battalion truck,
wounding Sergeant ‘Tangi’ Moore, and Privates Alf Adams
Cpl A. S. Adams; Gisborne; born Gisborne, 18 Aug 1910; station hand;
wounded 26 Jun 1942.
and Jack Scandlyn.
Cpl J. T. Scandlyn; Te Karaka, Gisborne; born Napier, 25 Jan 1913; transport
driver; wounded 26 Jun 1942.
Elsewhere in the Division two or three
men were wounded.
Digging in began at daylight on 26 June in some of the
hardest rock it had ever been the battalion's misfortune to
strike. Then orders came for another move (a veteran in his
diary ‘cursing the army, the desert, and the day’), and again
the brigade headed south, ten miles to the bare escarpment of
Minqar Qaim. Here, about 25 miles south of Matruh, the
battalion took up a position facing north and west on the top
edge of the escarpment, about 100 feet high and running east
and west—an outcrop known later, and with very good reason,
as ‘Iggri Ridge’.
Iggri: an army term taken from the Egyptian for ‘hurry off’
. Positions were dug
Mortar men, with obvious reluctance, set up ‘a Heath Robinson device for
knocking out tanks': the new Spigot mortar, freshly issued in Matruh and with the
usual remarkable reputation. ‘It not only kills the soldier, but the next of kin as
well,’ glumly remarked one sceptical mortar man. This ungainly weapon (four
long legs had to be pegged to the ground) was used for only a few practice shots
at Minqar Qaim—the mortar men with some relish spiked theirs before leaving
the place.
yet again, and rocks were
piled up protectively at once, a minefield was laid round the
western and southern boundary, and the carriers, circling some
six miles south, confirmed that troops of 5 Indian Division were
holding ground on the battalion's flank.
The battalion then, on the extreme western flank of the Division, awaited the enemy. Before dusk the troops saw away
towards the sea a huge black mushroom of smoke grow up
from the desert—demolitions.
The first New Zealanders to strike the enemy at Minqar
Qaim seem to have been carriers from 22 Battalion—Fred
Oldham was now in charge of the carriers with Knox acting as
patrol leader in charge of three carriers. About eight o'clock next
morning (27 June) Knox's patrol, some eight miles north-west
of the Division's position, sighted first one, then two more 3-ton
trucks acting suspiciously a mile away. All had canopies on
them. Another patrol of three carriers was to take over at 9 a.m.
‘I told my boys to retire slowly towards our gunline so that if
I did strike something heavy I would have a shade of odds in
my favour. We led them slowly towards home and every time
I stopped my carriers these trucks turned around tail on to me.
This confirmed my suspicion that they had some heavy armament under the canopies. When I got within three miles of
home the trucks went off in the direction from whence they
came. Seeing my relieving patrol coming I made off for home
and on contacting my opposite number, Sergeant Murphy,
Sgt H. J. Murphy; born NZ 2 Nov 1924; clerk
. I
told him of all that I suspected and also that after reporting in I
intended to suggest to Fred Oldham that we take all carriers out
and go to work on these three trucks. While I was telling Fred
Oldham, in came Sergeant Murphy and told us that he had
been ambushed by these same three trucks and had two carriers
shot up. Dick Geenty
Pte G. R. Geenty; born Waipukurau, 20 Dec 1917; farmhand; died while p.w.
25 Aug 1942.
… was left on the field as dead. I
think he turned up in a POW camp only to die there. He was
a great little fellow. Roger Barton
Sgt R. B. Barton; born England, 4 May 1919; farm labourer; wounded 2 Apr 1944.
was the means of saving the
lives of all concerned. He very bravely stood up in the remaining carrier and using a Browning gun taken from a crashed
aeroplane, he kept the three trucks under fire while the crews
from the two disabled ones climbed aboard and so were brought
safely back.’ The two damaged carriers, which were abandoned,
probably were responsible for an excited Italian radio message
intercepted a few minutes later. An Italian patrol was reporting
back over the air that New Zealand vehicles had just been
discovered in their area.
This was the battalion's (and 5 Brigade's) only brush at
close quarters with the enemy throughout the entire day. Soon
after the attack on the carriers shells began falling on the
brigade area, and this continued off and on all day. German
medium guns gave our outranged artillery a heavy pounding,
but the New Zealand gunners did most creditable work against
motor transport and other thin-skinned vehicles when, at
10.30 a.m., an enormous convoy, a mile wide, appeared far
away in the northern haze, and an attack seemed to develop.
‘Their transport covered the desert, roaring eastward, each
truck trailing a long streamer of dust which finally mingled
with the others in a huge cloud.’ The most serious aspect of
this attack was that most of 5 Brigade's transport, which had
laagered about a mile from the battalions, moved hastily eastwards and sped off again when tanks completed the encirclement of the Division. The battalion's padre, in the fleeing
transport, noted: ‘13 tanks, 2 Bren carriers and an armoured
car came up the waadi in the direction of our transport.
“They're ours.” Several tanks began firing. “They're Jerries!”
Was there a scatter? I have never seen so many trucks start off
on such a mad rush.’
In the 10.30 a.m. attack tanks pushed forward but were held
and driven back by the artillery. The guns, hard at work, held
off the enemy all day. The enemy probably was content with
encirclement—plenty of time next day to deal with this trapped
force. A tank battle flared up in the afternoon south of the
battalion's defences, but what the result was nobody knew.
About this time, judging from the sound of the enemy guns
and the direction from which the shells were coming, it appeared that the whole of the New Zealand Division was
surrounded. At least one New Zealander was heard to remark
to his comrade: ‘Well, and how do you think the b—s will
get us out of this little lot?’ A man said to his section leader,
Corporal Hill,
Cpl K. R. Hill; born NZ 15 Apr 1909; farmer; died while p.w. 29 Jun 1942.
‘Things are getting a little rough round here.’
Hill replied, ‘Yes. Have a nip,’ and to the other's surprise produced half a bottle of Scotch. ‘I had a nip all right. Poor Rowe
went missing in the breakout, I only hope he was able to finish
the Scotch before the desert claimed him.’
In the afternoon shelling brought casualties to the battalion,
among them Rhys Price with broken jaw and teeth, stumps of
teeth buried in his tongue, and several body wounds.
Rhys Price after his discharge from hospital needed plastic surgery: ‘He should
never have gone back to the front,’ says a stretcher-bearer, ‘but such was the
shortage of good battle-experienced NCOs (and of course the spirit of the man
himself) that he went to Italy and was killed there.’
Wounded
men, who were gathered up by the hard-working medical units,
would have to endure a second ordeal in crazily bouncing
ambulances a few hours later.
Towards evening news came that after dark troops would
gather at a certain place, a path would be cleared, and then
(although this last order does not seem to have been known by
many other ranks) the Division would keep going until Kaponga
Box was reached, nearly 100 miles away at Alamein. Because
the battalion's B Echelon and troop-carrying transport had been
chased off and scattered, all gear except personal arms was to
be dumped. Someone recalls ‘John Russell saying quietly:
“Drop this: drop that: you may have to fight your way out”.’
Officers threw away bedrolls and kit—and other ranks ‘quickly
snaffled their grog.’ The men of the 22nd, following close behind other battalions clearing the way, were to take their chance
and swarm on to anything with wheels—anything from cooks'
trucks to water carts, even ammunition wagons and field guns.
While these preparations were going on, an interesting little
incident, a good omen for the coming charge, showed how
boldness could secure success. Colonel Russell had sent Sam
McLernon and a section about 400 yards north of the escarpment to act as a watching party. The night was fairly dark,
and soon the party saw one of our own three-tonner lorries
move up and stop about 100 yards away. A few minutes later
Knox, with his carriers, appeared casually and said all was
quiet. Next, men climbed out of the three-tonner ahead, lit
cigarettes and leaned against the lorry, yawning. McLernon,
armed with a revolver, and his batman, Morris Nicol,
Pte M. H. Nicol; Palmerston North; born Pauatahanui, 15 Jan 1905; barman;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
with
a rifle, strolled towards them. ‘We were just about up to them
when all of a sudden the truck started up. The men hopped
onto it, opened fire, and … disappeared in the darkness. The
episode showed clearly how by pure cheek one could approach
the enemy's lines without difficulty.’
By about nine o'clock that night, most of the surplus gear
had been abandoned. All the carriers were loaded to the top
with 3-inch mortar ammunition. Then someone, thinking ‘What
about the mortars?’, found that they had been made useless by
running a truck over the barrels. No time remained to unload
the carriers, so away they went fully loaded with bombs when
the shadowy figures of the battalion began moving down from
the escarpment on to the plain below. A man was ‘beginning
to whimper as though given prescience of his fate in the next
few minutes.’
The closely packed column of hurrying men raised a white
cloud of dust in the misty moonlight. They spoke in whispers,
feeling that the enemy must be able to see and hear them. ‘We
were marching in threes,’ writes Gough Smith, who stubbornly
retained his pack and blankets, ‘continually changing our
positions as some halted to drop packs or hurried up from behind to fill gaps, and in those changes of position deciding our
immediate fate. I was talking to Dick Bentley
Pte R. C. Bentley; born Fiji, 20 Dec 1916; storeman; died of wounds 28 Jun 1942.
and those about
me, cursing and making jokes, but secretly oppressed by forebodings and the eerie light. A long line of Brens and trucks
loaded with ammo passed us only a yard or so away, keeping
in the shadow of the escarpment. Suddenly I was enveloped
in a rosy cloud full of flying stars. I began to stagger towards
the ground; we were being shelled; I wasn't hurt. A terrific
blast caught me sideways and knocked me flat. I came struggling up from terrific depths of blackness, my lungs striving
for air.’
Anti-tank mines which had been placed about 5 Brigade's
defences were supposed to be lifted for the retreat (Brigadier
Kippenberger writes: ‘I gave special, and I thought clear,
orders for lifting our minefield’;
Infantry Brigadier, p. 133: ‘Brig. Kippenberger used to go around all the men
during the action at Minqar Q aim and inform them of all that was happening,’
notes one 22 Battalion man. ‘That of course was a great boost for morale and was
really appreciated by the men.’
this was not 22 Battalion's
responsibility), but this had not been done previously. The
close columns of infantry were marching under the escarpment when a carrier tried to pass on the left of the infantry
and exploded two mines. The blinding flashes and two great
explosions were only a few yards from the marching troops,
‘and many of us thinking “Christ the sods are on us and throwing bombs”—the scatter, most moving up the escarpment like
goats and some throwing themselves towards the direction of
the enemy.’ Havoc and a fortunately brief panic broke out,
while the wounded cried out pitifully. At least twenty-five men
were lost here; how many belonged to 22 Battalion the records
do not show. John Riddiford's
Capt J. S. Riddiford; Martinborough; born Takapau, 17 Feb 1913; farmer;
wounded and p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
platoon (No. 14) certainly
suffered: so did 15 Platoon, in which Frank Algie,
Pte F. H. Algie; born NZ 4 Aug 1918; herd-testing officer; killed in action
27 Jun 1942.
Dick
Bentley, Jim Bryson
Pte J. O. F. Bryson; born Woodville, 16 Oct 1918; porter; killed in action
27 Jun 1942.
and Harold True
Pte A. H. True; born NZ 16 Sep 1916; labourer; died of wounds 28 Jun 1942.
were killed and twelve
others wounded, among them the All Black, Jack Sullivan.
The battalion's carriers picked up a number of severely wounded men and placed them on top of the mortar ammunition
which had been packed in the carriers.
The men rallied and eventually reached 5 Brigade's forming-up area, where every vehicle had been pressed into service,
nose-to-tail in long columns. Men scrambled on and into the
nearest vehicle.
‘There was no panic, but all sort of formation was lost and
at this stage the 22nd Battalion was definitely not a fighting
unit. Some scrambled on quads, some on anti-tank guns, some
on Bofors as well as the artillery and three tonners and Pick
Ups,’ writes Sam McLernon.
After midnight 4 Brigade, which included the Maori Battalion, began the valorous attack to clear a path to the east,
along which 5 Brigade was intended to follow. While 4 Brigade
was still in action, the 5th and the rest of the Division got under
way. ‘We soon moved off quietly and if ever we in the convoy
cursed a vehicle it was a Grant tank that was chuffing along
on one cylinder, shooting out flames from the back and making
a terrible noise. We felt sure that every German from Benghazi
to Mersa Matruh must have heard it.’
Brigadier Inglis
Maj-Gen L. M. Inglis, CB, CBE, DSO and bar, MC, m.i.d., MC (Gk); Hamil
ton; born Mosgiel, 16 May 1894; barrister and solicitor; NZ Rifle Bde and MG
Bn 1915-19; CO 27 (MG) Bn Jan-Aug 1940; comd 4 Bde 1941-42 and 4 Armd
Bde 1942-44; GOC 2 NZ Div 27 Jun-16 Aug 1942 and 6 Jun-31 Jul 1943; Chief
Judge of the Control Commission Supreme Court in British Zone of Occupation,
Germany, 1947-50; Stipendiary Magistrate.
(since late afternoon replacing General
Freyberg, who had been wounded in the neck) wheeled his
formations to the south, away from the fighting. After they had
safely covered about a mile and a half, they struck a laager of
about a dozen closely packed German tanks. Flares went up,
and then a hail of cannon and automatic fire came down on
the New Zealanders. ‘We were moving along nicely when all
of a sudden the fun started,’ says McLernon. ‘The convoy
stopped and troops debussed and waited; all the while the
tracers and mortars hailed down, but strangely enough the
casualties were comparatively light, thus proving once again
that at night at least 99% of troops must fire too high.’
‘Chaps illuminated by the intensity of fire, and tracer, red
hot shell, hanging on in all manner of places, Bofors gun barrels,
etc.—the terrible screams of those in the ambulance which
caught fire—the terrific clatter of the Grant tank beside which
Malcolm McKenzie sheltered when once we halted only to
have a shell hit the turret and knock it from its bed,’ writes
Mick Bradford. ‘The German stretcher-bearer walking down
towards our truck with Nicky Nicholls
Pte G. W. R. Nicholls; Inglewood; born Inglewood, 14 Jun 1915; farmhand;
wounded 15 Jul 1942.
from Inglewood and
myself looking at him in stupefaction and asking each other
what the Hell he thought he was doing—and the column
moving off again with a mad dash to get on board again forgetting the Hun—helping hands from “Tiny” Revell—feet in a
dixie of stew—and shell shot passing through our truck canopy
from front to rear and hitting the one behind killing some and
then the realisation that our wagon was being towed by an
artillery quad! Holy Sailor.’ Inside the truck ‘with all that
holocaust around us … Tarrant
L-Sgt P. M. Tarrant; Feilding; born Eltham, 17 May 1916; dairy farmer;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
said very quietly: “You
know Mick it doesn't do to have your own brother in the same
outfit as yourself”.’ Incredible as it may seem, a man saw a
small shaving mirror and picked it up, remembering that a
comrade needed one.
Keith Hutcheson
Maj K. R. Hutcheson; born Wellington, 25 Jan 1914; school-teacher; wounded
24 Sep 1944; died 1956.
remembers a man running after a vehicle
crying ‘For Christ's sake stop!’ until he dropped, still pleading
in vain; tracer ‘hitting tanks and shooting straight up like sparks
from a grindstone’; and how Colonel ‘Gussie’ Glasgow
Col K. W. R. Glasgow, DSO, ED, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Wellington,
15 Nov 1902; headmaster; CO 14 Lt AA Regt May-Dec 1941; 5 Fd RegtDec
1941-May 1943; OC Tps 6 NZ Div May-Aug 1943; GSO I NZ Maadi Camp,
1944; Rector, Scots College, Wellington.
appeared, ‘standing up in his stationwagon, gesturing his hand
round to the right, in a most exposed position, the wagon crawling round at about 5 m.p.h. A very gallant act.’
‘The troops had of course debussed, and when the transport
moved on, they just grabbed any vehicle that happened to be
close,’ McLernon continues. ‘Some were run over and others
were killed by enemy fire, but the casualties were much less
than appeared possible. My Corporal, Rowan Hill, was killed
that night. The milling mass of trucks reminded me of a cattle
stampede in a corral, as all of a sudden, they all followed the
leader, Colonel Glasgow, and dashed straight through the
enemy. Without Colonel Glasgow's inspiring leadership our
casualties would have been terrific, as no-one except him seemed
to react quickly enough to the tornado of enemy fire.’
Describing the night as ‘unreal and eerie as a nightmare’,
one survivor from 15 Platoon writes: ‘Strings of incendiary
bullets and shells tore across our front. Trucks burst into flame.
Fireballs lit up the scene. The convoy halted. The firing became heavier and men began to leap from damaged vehicles.
A staff car raced up the line, an officer hanging out of the
window. “Turn to the right, swing to the right!” he yelled.
There was a gigantic roar of motors and the whole line as one
swung to the right and raced forward … an incendiary shell
splashes off a Grant tank like a drop of water … strings of
tracer ripped about our heads or bounced about the desert.
There were many ghastly sights. Men jumping from stationary
trucks were knocked down and killed by the stampeding convoy. A string of explosive bullets passed down the length of
Ike Benn's
Pte I. Benn; Masterton; born England, 20 Nov 1907; labourer; twice wounded.
truck, blowing off his neighbour's head in passing.’
Knox says: ‘All hell broke loose and one of our Bofors guns
which had been captured by the Hun opened up but apparently couldn't be lowered enough to strike any of the carriers
as we were too close. The tracers just kept buzzing over our
heads but they hit plenty of the larger vehicles. Suddenly every
vehicle moved as one and I can still see Quads and limbers on
my left moving quite fast with soldiers running to get a hold on
any part of them even to the gun barrels. Trucks and ambulances were going up in flames everywhere, and all were crowded
as we had lost our B Echelon that morning. All I did was follow
the vehicle in front and kept going. Hell what a stampede. We
travelled all night and at dawn I was able to take note of what
was happening. We were being led by a staff car in which was
Colonel Glasgow. He organised the column and did a wonderful job. Every time he saw a strange column he prepared for
action and then sent me ahead to contact the various strangers
who were really much like ourselves—lost. No doubt if we had
contacted the enemy Colonel Glasgow would have given him
a hot reception even with the weapons we had …. he is one
of the many good leaders I have met in the Army.’
Knox's description is typical of the experiences of other fit
men in the battalion that night and next day. The plight of the
wounded lying on the mortar ammunition in the bucking carriers can be left to the imagination. Men who had passed
through the advanced dressing station had been loaded into a
few ambulances and lorries, some of which were hit or caught
fire. Private Price, a stretcher case in an unlucky lorry with
about twenty walking wounded, got to his feet and, despite his
smashed face and multiple wounds, ran and caught an ambulance.
After striking the German laager the columns had split up.
One group, led by Brigadier Inglis, had turned to the east
towards Alamein; the group which turned west and was rallied
by Colonel Glasgow headed to the south and then eastwards
to Alamein.
Many of the men of 22 Battalion, scattered and mixed with
other units, moved with Colonel Glasgow's column. Other
stragglers, in groups and patches, ‘split up, b—ed up, and
far from home’ as one man put it, followed on, advised here
and there by Colonel Russell, who was driven by Jack Hargreaves. In the break-through inferno, with his men spread
about the convoy, the Colonel of course had no command.
‘I pulled out onto a flank to get my bearings and see what the
trouble was, while the convoy swung about and disappeared in
the night again. Owing to the noise of so many vehicles it was
not hard to tell where it was and eventually I found myself
with a bren carrier and five burning trucks alone on the spot.’
He set a course between two enemy positions ‘and crept off as
quietly as we could …. they opened up on us….I told
the driver to step on it. … suddenly we shot out into space
but fortunately we landed on all four wheels and kept going.
About half an hour later we ran into friendly patrols [and]
pushed on in the direction of the noise of the main convoy.
When the light came we found that we had been following a
different outfit altogether and in spite of searching high and
low could not find our people at all, everyone but.’ In the
afternoon he picked up B Echelon, directed it to the east,
continued the search for his men, and pulled up at the divisional
rendezvous at dusk. ‘What a day.’
Borrowing petrol and water wherever possible, climbing into
less precarious transport if lucky, the freed brigade began drifting into the divisional rendezvous near Kaponga Box; ‘and
Kaponga meant food and water and rest—we thought.’ Here
the battalion, assembling and watching with surprise the arrival
of yet more comrades who had been ‘definitely’ captured or
killed, formed into shape again. ‘Next morning,’ says one officer,
‘it was amazing: there was the battalion back and intact and
organised and ready again, a good lesson of the wonderful
recuperative powers the Army had—and Freyberg's circus in
particular.’ Yet, with blankets and all personal gear lost, the
effect of the break-through, the privations and shock would
nag increasingly at men over the next trying fortnight. Another
officer writes: ‘The morale of my boys was very low at this
stage. After all most of them had been chased out of Greece
then Crete, and by now had thought Egypt was next on that
list. However they soon got over that and came good.’
An indication of the trial ahead comes from Padre Champion's diary:
We are now in our third and last line of defence. God help us.
We cannot tell how our men fared in the battle last night and
things are still very confused. Organisation on our part seems very
poor. Monday, 29 June: We were bombed last night…. Tuesday:
We were heavily bombed last night. … at 3 pm a bad dust
storm…. Wednesday, I July: A lot of gunfire all around this
morning. Some say the Yanks were 15 miles away last night with
mechanised stuff. [This proved to be wrong.
A rumour based on the arrival of some United States specialist troops to study
tanks and armoured tactics. They later manned some British tanks in action.
.] Many bombers came
over during the night. Friday [in 21 Battalion's RAP, under heavy
mortar fire.] At midnight I buried two men…. Saturday….
numerous shock cases—some cried like babies. They went through
hell…. Jerry bombed along the skyline today and got a few of
our trucks but we bombed him and got a few of his. Sunday 5 July:
….buried…. [two men, not from 22 Battalion]….Monday:
… a lot of shelling going on today. I am the only padre available
for 21, 22 and 23 Battalions at present…. Tuesday:Plenty of
artillery fire in the morning…. Wednesday: Things seem very much
quieter…. Thursday: The units seem very scattered. Gunfire all
day. Friday: The morning opened with awful amount of gunfire—
very deafening. The news seems better. They say the Aussies took
700 prisoners last night…. buried Cpl. Baker
Cpl W. G. Baker; born Auckland, 30 Oct 1918; shunter; killed in action 10 Jul 1942.
(22 Bn) and Pte
Benny
Pte A. H. Benny; born England, II Jul 1908; fertiliser worker; killed in action
10 Jul 1942.
at night. I slept near Brigade HQ, at night. About midnight
there were many flares being dropped from planes—which we
thought were ours. The Transport officer for 22 Bn came and told
us to be on the move in 1/4 of hour (the Jerries were a few hundred
yards away we were told later). The flares were German ones—
they were looking for us! We travelled all night. 13 July… many
shells… two cooks were killed… buried Berry
Sgt E. G. Berry; born NZ 6 Nov 1915; hairdresser; killed in action 13 Jul 1942.
and Sawyers
Pte J. H. R. Sawyers; born England, 16 Feb 1909; cook; killed in action 13 Jul
1942.
…. Wednesday 15 July: [at 23 Battalion RAP] The morning
dawned with much fighting—wounded men poured in, numerous
Italian and German prisoners, 2,000 for the day…. bombed
twice…. 23rd [Battalion] doctor went up to the front to help
with wounded—he is a game man…. buried three men, one was
corporal Creagh
Cpl L. E. Creagh; born NZ 6 Apr 1913; bootmaker; killed in action 15 Jul 1942.
of 22nd…. lost an ambulance in the minefield
last night.… 16 July: Padre McKenzie
Rev. J. W. McKenzie, CBE, MM (First World War), ED, m.i.d.; Auckland;
born Woodend, Southland, 1 Jan 1888; SCF 2 NZEF 1941-44; Chaplain Commandant of the Royal New Zealand Chaplains Department.
(Senior Presbyterian) and
I buried 8 men who were killed at their post (anti-aircraft gun)….
at night shells passing both ways over our heads and all about us.
17 July: … conducted services over 9 men [from 23 Battalion]
who had been buried hurriedly [the service was at the request of
Lieutenant-Colonel Romans
Lt-Col R. E. Romans, DSO, m.i.d.; born Arrowtown, 10 Sep 1909; business
manager; CO 23 Bn Jul 1942-Apr 1943, Aug-Dec 1943; twice wounded; died of
wounds 19 Dec 1943.
].
The Padre now hears that 22 Battalion, almost wiped out,
is withdrawing to reorganise; he stays with the remaining two
battalions in the brigade; morale is improving. But by 23 July
(when 6 Brigade had been crippled) ‘things have all gone wrong
again because the tanks did not go in and support the infantry
at “first light”.’ The front quietens, but the flies are ‘extremely
bad … awful … too numerous to have a service ….
beastly flies … one of the Ten Plagues that never left Egypt!’
CHAPTER 6
Disaster on Ruweisat
For the first two weeks of JULY 22 NZ BN played an active part in
the battle of EGYPT on the EL ALAMEIN front. Then on the morning
of JULY 15 after a successful attack the BN was involved in a disaster
On RUWEISAT RIDGE ….
22 Battalion war diary
‘They won't come in hundreds, boy, but in bloody thousands.
The air will be full of ‘em. We're too small and we can't
retreat. All we can do is kill off as many as we can before we're
killed off ourselves.’ This, in confident, cheerful undertones,
was the prediction of a veteran of Greece and Crete to a new
reinforcement, Private Hewitt
Sgt R. W. Hewitt; Carterton; born Palmerston North, 23 Feb 1909; farm
manager; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
The two were on guard in case
parachutists descended to attack large dumps in Tura Caves,
near Maadi Camp, well behind the Alamein line. As the two
looked up into the darkness, far to the west 22 Battalion was
breaking through at Minqar Qaim.
No parachutists, no gliders, fell on Tura or Maadi. The two
men, exploring round the cliffs and hoping to knock over a
fox, disturbed large owls living in the rocks: ‘big bad-looking
brutes three or four times as big as our moreporks that glared
at us with horrible yellow eyes.’ Newspapers, heavily censored,
arrived with ‘a big photograph of Freyberg, who had been
wounded, with a caption saying something about “Old Soldiers
never die.” But I don't think it cut much ice. We knew plenty
of young soldiers who had died, and knew plenty more were
going to die before this damned war was over.’
They went back to Maadi Camp booked for the Western
Desert and the Alamein line—Hewitt was to take his place
in 22 Battalion—and ‘I can tell you the old Naafi got a hammering that night. You would think the boys were all off to
NZ instead of the battle. It was a different thing in the morning
when we were wakened up in the dark and the effects of the
beer had worn off. One poor devil put a bullet through his
foot.’ A good breakfast (the last good breakfast ‘for the duration’
for so many of these reinforcements), a long line of ASC transport, 800 piling in, and away with the dawn, a few … firing
off shots and an angry red-faced officer darting about in a
truck attempting to nab the culprits.
‘It was a lovely day for a drive down the Nile and into Cairo
where everyone was starting the day's work. The streets were
pretty crowded, while those who had not left home looked out
of the windows or came out on the balconies to give us a wave
and a “thumbs-up” or “V for Victory” sign. The people of
Cairo haven't much love for soldiers as a rule and I don't blame
them, but that day they gave us a good hearing. We were really
reaping the kudos due to the Div. So the cry went up “The
Kiwi—Good Luck, Kiwi,” and we, a handful of dumb infantry, felt we were going forth to save the greatest city in
Africa. As the convoy strung through the crowded streets the
boys were in good form, some still firing shots and others leaning
out with bayonets trying to tent-peg watermelons that were
stacked up on the Wog carts.’
In the Nile Delta the cotton was in flower and the old fellahin
were working away thrashing their corn. About 4 p.m. (pretty
hungry, for the rations had gone astray) the reinforcements
drove into Alexandria: ‘much nicer than Cairo, cleaner and
fresher with beautiful gardens and palms. The people here again
gave us a great hearing and all the most beautiful women in
the world seemed to be waving and smiling on us. But they are
a pretty mixed crowd, and the yarn goes that they all had
swastika and Italian flags ready to give the other boys as good
a welcome.’ Past the harbour fortifications and on to a succession of enormous dumps: wrecked planes, wrecked guns, and
so on. ‘What a hell of a waste it all seems.’ In the Naafi at the
Amiriya transit camp the reinforcements met 6 Brigade men
fresh from the desert: ‘I have never seen so many bottles of
beer with the tops off at one time.’
On the road again by daylight, ‘our belts tightened up a
notch or two for breakfast. The road was now crowded with
stuff going up. Convoys of artillery, tank transporters (huge
trailers with many wheels) and trucks of all sorts. I'm afraid
most of the convoys we saw were going up empty and coming
back full!’
Aussies, a good sight ‘with their hard dials and cheery grins’.
A big notice read, ‘Are you prepared to act if ambushed on
this road?’ (Some optimists, or pessimists, loaded their rifles
here.) Through an Arab village to the old cry of ‘Eggs-a-cook;
eggs-a-bread!’, then into the Western Desert proper, flat and
stony and bare, passing ‘more and more trucks and tanks until
they seemed to be everywhere. I saw more trucks that day
than I have ever seen in my life. All over the desert in all
directions there seemed to be trucks and transport parked.’
Flights of up to twenty Kittyhawk and Hurricane fighters
swooped reassuringly overhead; sometimes a lone fighter skimmed a few feet above the desert, flashing past between 300 and
400 miles an hour. On over the flat, truck-dotted desert. A lone
New Zealander working a huge bulldozer drew wisecracks
about Public Works Department. ‘On we went slow but sure,
and by evening, when we camped down among tanks and
trucks in what someone called the third line of defence, we
could hear the artillery hammering away and could see the
flashes over the Western horizon.’
Guides, taking them next morning past a nose-down, tail-up
Stuka, led the way to the New Zealand positions. ‘The noise
of battle was getting louder all the time and we passed a big
main dressing station or clearing station with its big red crosses
all over the tents. The drone of planes brought a beautiful sight
of 16 bombers—Bostons—wonderful as they roared overhead
all silver in the sunlight and in perfect formation and so close
it looked as if you couldn't put a pin between their wings.
Behind, above and round them raced and dived the vicious
little fighters, their escorts.’ Under a bit of a ridge was B
Echelon, a sort of headquarters for battalion transport, quartermaster stores, and cooks' trucks. The New Zealand mobile
canteen (the YMCA was really on the job at Alamein) turned
up, and Hewitt bought ‘a large tin of pineapple to take up to
the boys.’ Battalion transport took the reinforcements to Battalion Headquarters under another ridge a few feet high. Hewitt
walked off past an anti-tank gun to his new home: No. 2 Section, 13 Platoon, C Company, 22 Battalion. ‘In the line the
section is everything as you can eat, live and die together so to
speak.’ He dug in smartly, ‘but I must say I got a hell of a
shock when I first saw them; if ever men were done to a frazzle
they were. They were thin, their eyes sunken, and what with
no shave or wash for days (the water question was an appalling
disgrace) they looked awful. No doubt the Div. had had a
hard time….’
Yes, a hard time in the last fortnight. A restless fortnight of
movement by day and by night, of digging in only to move
and dig in yet again, short of water, shelled and bombed as
the heat and the flies and the gritty dust increased while the
two armies, in a land they loathed, circled like boxers in the
first round of Alamein.
With the rest of the New Zealand Division 22 Battalion had
retreated non-stop after Minqar Qaim to the Alamein line, to
join 6 Brigade near Kaponga Box, the strongpoint the battalion
had helped to make in the autumn of 1941. Stragglers, each
party ‘absolutely the last survivors’, came in. After reorganising
quickly, the battalion totalled up its Minqar Qaim losses: 10
killed, 33 wounded, 14 missing (prisoners of war). Some got
heat prostration: ‘I vomited. Everything was spinning round
and round. The remedy for this was salt water and bicarbonate
of soda, and in 20 minutes I was as right as a bank.’ After all
the alarms and excursions Frankie Flynn
Pte F. J. Flynn; born Dannevirke, 15 Jul 1916; hotel porter.
a cook with the bad
habit of filling the burners while one might still be going,
burned down D Company's cookhouse: ‘With a terrific Woomph!
the whole outfit was enveloped in flames—blew up—terrific
screams from inside the flames then a wild figure on fire leaped
towards us….we rolled him in the sand and jacked him
up.’
Panzerarmee, slowed but not stopped by actions at Minqar
Qaim and Mersa Matruh, rolled on until it met the South
African Division entrenched in the Alamein Box. Knocked by
the South Africans, the attackers veered south, overran an
Indian brigade, and pressed eastward along Ruweisat Ridge
to the north of the New Zealanders. When Panzerarmee was
halted by British troops on Ruweisat Ridge, New Zealand gunners fired from the southern flank. Ariete Armoured Division,
swinging out on the panzers' right, got nipped off by the gunners
and 4 Brigade. New Zealand Division was told to get up north
of Kaponga Box to catch the rest of the Italians as they pulled
back, and to annoy them in the flank. Fifth Brigade, toiling
through soft sand, got there first, laid on an attack into the
El Mreir Depression (unoccupied by the enemy), was bombed
and Stuka-ed heavily, and advanced no further. Patrols went
out in the night (6-7 July).
Fourth Brigade came up on the west, but before the two
brigades could really come to grips with the enemy the Division
was told to pull back (a truck blazing fiercely lit up most disconcertingly 22 Battalion's transport moving out), and both
brigades went back several miles, abandoning Kaponga, which
had never been fought for.
The Division, now deployed around Deir el Munassib, was
told that 5 Indian Division (on the right) and the New Zealanders were to capture Ruweisat Ridge, about nine or ten
miles to the north. So first of all, under shellfire, they made a
short advance to Alam Nayil, the springboard for the attack
on Ruweisat, six miles away. ‘This was a proper rag time one
and only the Almighty knows how we managed it,’ wrote
Colonel John Russell, ‘but when the light came we were only
about half a mile out and within the hour we were all in our
right places. Long enough to dig in and then move again—
this time towards Jerry which was definitely good…. It was
a most impressive sight to see the fellows advancing under shell
fire with never a falter. A Tommy officer who was with me at
the time said, “Well, I've seen that sort of thing on the pictures
but I never expected to see it in real life….” ‘
Ground at Alam Nayil was held and occupied without close
fighting. Three days of indecision on high passed. Twenty-second Battalion shifted positions several times. Each time
weary, thirsty, dusty riflemen had to dig fresh slit trenches and
positions. They were still digging away when the reinforcements from Maadi found them. ‘Did we,’ asks one 22 Battalion
man, ‘move 17 times in a fortnight, or 14 times in 17 days?’
This indeed was the opening of The Hard Summer, with the
Eighth Army sprawling like some battered and dazed giant
boxer up against the ropes, almost all but the spirit itself beaten.
But despite disasters and indecision and errors which will be
discussed and debated in higher level histories, the spirit of the
sorely tried British and Commonwealth troops was not extinguished
among disillusionment, unnerving rumours and
occasional near-despair. Here, simply by holding on, the
Eighth Army won the first victory of Alamein. Those who
burst through in October in triumph to sweep the Axis from
North Africa should remember the veterans of July, including
those who, through no fault of their own, received the immediate and bitter reward of the prisoner-of-war camp.
The picture may have seemed clear enough to higher authorities, but to the weary and wondering men in the ranks the
two weeks of movement after Minqar Qaim were as incomprehensible as the doublings and trackings of a hunted animal.
‘It was all very baffling to us, but we took Tommy's [Captain
Hawthorn's] word for it that each move was related and part
of the game of chess we were playing with Jerry. So things went
on and whenever it seemed that we must crack up altogether
under the strain, a quiet day or a cool night would give us
enough reserve of energy to carry on for a few more days.’
An excellent summary of this period is given in his prisoner-of-war diary by Gough Smith, who had served in the second
Libyan campaign: ‘The food was plentiful enough: bully stew,
M & V, tinned sausages, rice—but the water ration was not:
we usually were too dry to eat all our rations. I cannot stress
too strongly the terrific nervous and physical strain to which
we were now subjected. It sounds dull and unimpressive on
paper.’ The ration of three mugs of tea a day and a full water
bottle, and the rest going to the cooks, was cut to three mugs
of tea not full and about three-quarters of a water bottle, and
the food was thick and heavy. The summer heat of the desert
was trying, to say the least.
They had no bivouacs or shelter (lost at Minqar Qaim). ‘As
our movements from now on were almost continuous and every
stop meant digging in, more often than not we dug in three
times a day.’ The desert was far more rocky than sandy, digging was invariably hard, most of the movements were under
shelling and occasional bombing, and turns had to be taken
on guard duty at night. ‘One's limbs were heavy and languid.
Each cup of tea eagerly awaited was tossed straight down, not
seeming to reach one's stomach but to be sucked up by the
body on the way down. We seemed to make light enough of
it all and to be able to joke and laugh over our woes, and it
was not until our reinforcements arrived some 10 or 12 days later
that we realised into what a pitiful physical plight we had
come…. I do wish to make it clear what strain we were
under and also what a fine spirit prevailed through it all….
The New Zealanders could always rise to an occasion and that
kept us cheerful and firm throughout our troubles and the
stupid, conflicting, lying pep stories with which we were
pestered.’
One of the troubles of this period was that the men were
not given sufficient authentic news, and rumours and weird
stories abounded. Even the long-suffering Orsler was writing
home: ‘Browned off, browned off, that's what everyone's talking.’ Another original member of the unit was writing: ‘We're
like the tikis with their tongues hanging out—so b—y dry.’
In fact, the pipeline from Alexandria to the front now supplied
the equivalent of the population of Wellington. The limited
amount of water coming forward was enough, provided it was
distributed correctly, but at this time there are indications that
the water was not well distributed throughout the battalion.
There were delays in distribution (often the enemy bombed
water points when trucks had congregated together), and the
preciousness of water was not always realised and sometimes
abused by more comfortable troops just out of the danger zone.
Little consolation can be taken from the fact that the enemy,
with more than twice as far to bring water, suffered much worse
troubles.
Two hours after dawn the sun was blazing down on the
attackers preparing for the assault on Ruweisat. The night had
been cold and the food and the greatcoats had not arrived.
This, and the changing of positions, earned the place the name
of Gafu Ridge. For breakfast Private Hewitt produced the
pineapple (‘You ought to have seen their eyes pop out’). Some
men's slit trenches were found to be too close together, so
several trenches had to be dug again further apart: hard, exasperating work among the heat, the hard rock and the stones.
Enemy crews out of sight returned to their guns, shells began
tearing through the haze, men dived to their little, six-foot-long slit trenches and took cover face down, fists clenched under
chins or palms pressed against foreheads, gritting their teeth
and sometimes dragging at a cigarette. Small stones fell on
sensitive backs, ears rang with concussion. The new men soon
learned the different sound of shells, whether they would pass
on or land alongside. The artillery and the Air Force hit back
vigorously, the fighters wagging their wings first to one side
and then to the other, to view all the earth below and to display their circular identification marks on each wing-tip. The
racket died down, and at 3 p.m. the battalion moved back
about three-quarters of a mile. It was going, after twenty-one
long days in forward positions, into reserve, and would follow
on the heels of 21 and 23 Battalions as they advanced in the
attack. The move meant digging yet another lot of trenches.
Everyone suffered from thirst, and the reinforcements bitterly
remembered seeing on their way up B Echelon men washing
their dixies out with water. Hewitt records hearing ‘one soldier
of considerable experience say he doubted if men had ever been
in worse condition for battle.’
When the new slit trenches had been dug, the news came of
a three-mile move back in the night. That night a party, including sappers, under Lieutenant Riddiford, went out to decide if an enemy minefield a mile away was alive or a dummy.
The engineers, who were lightly armed, were assured they
would not be left behind in an emergency. They found the
minefield (somewhat hampered by the RAF dropping flares
which silenced ‘the Italian chatter, movement and arias’). The
mine-detectors failed to work. On the way back to Battalion
Headquarters the patrol passed, as one man wrote, ‘a pleasantly
formidable array of British tanks … the first I had seen since
Matruh. Checking of minefields and the presence of tanks
seemed to add up. We were all sick of running away and knew
that with a little armour we needn't do it. Front-line soldiers
in their innocence are notoriously optimistic.’
Next day, 14 July, was ‘a terrible “day of rest”: heat, thirst,
smell of dead. Everyone sprawled about longing for sunset.’
The battalion dug in again before sunrise and hoped for a quiet
day; everyone was thirsty, and a soldier wrote: ‘I didn't think
I would ever have come down to licking secondhand blankets
but I got a little dew off them and thought it worthwhile.’
The burnt-out remains of enemy trucks and guns were scattered
near the battalion, and scrounging parties went out for water,
sticking bayonets into radiators and any tins and drums lying
about, or shaking water bottles ‘alongside stinking shallow
graves, just a heap of stones or a sandbag or two over the body.
We found tins of biscuits, grenades and rifles, Spandaus, Bredas
and ammo of all sorts, tins of oil and God knows what else, but
never a drop of water.’ The shelling began again, not so close
this time, but the heat was as bad as ever and inescapable—
blankets propped up for shade would have drawn Stukas. One
or two men made patches of shade with bits of cane baskets
(for carrying ammunition) picked up round the broken guns.
In any case the skies opened about lunch-time: ‘the ominous
roar and rumble of bombs fairly falling out of the sky and then
a hell of a row as we all opened up at a flight of Stukas: the
loud bang-bang of the Bofors guns, the rattle of the LMG and
the crackle of rifle fire. They soon passed out of sight and all
was quiet again.’ Men lay about, listless, thirsty, sweating in
what shade they could find, until in mid-afternoon they heard
that the attack would be on—no doubt about it this time—in
the approaching night.
One soldier writes: ‘It was a famous advice, difficult to remember exactly but
impossible to forget. It ran: “The Australians on the right flank are putting in
an attack. If the attack is successful, we shall attack. On the other hand if the
Australian attack is not fully successful, we shall attack. If another British-Indian
group does something else we shall attack. And if all these things don't happen
we shall withdraw to a line 14 miles in rear.” The soldiers said “Why the …
don't they just say we're going to attack and be done with it?” The statement
became a pattern for army humour. [At this time men felt] the show was going
badly. Men, without seeking to know all that had been at Tobruk, cursed South
Africans because they could see the captured transport Jerry was using, and we
were being shelled with our own [captured] twenty-fives. The infantrymen
accepted it; that is all infantrymen can do; but the feeling was current that we
were enacting a glorious Gafu.’ Another rifleman writes: ‘We were told the
Jerries were in a hell of a mess from lack of water and were too weak even to
bury their dead and that the RAF were going to bomb hell out of them until
11 pm when we would go in and clean him up easily. It all sounded very nice
on paper.’
‘Late in the afternoon Tommy told us
that we were going into a grand attack that night. Everything
down to the last detail had been thought out, it was going to
be a roaring success. The Division would sweep in, in a silent
midnight march, dislodging the enemy from Ruweisat Ridge
and link up with the Indians and Aussies to wipe Jerry completely.’
Extra water arrived with the evening rations, and ‘I felt
ready for anything. The extra water cheered everyone, a whole
extra German watercan (about 41/2 gallons) to each section,
though as Joe Bunny said they were fools not to have given it
out sooner instead of letting us all get into such a mess.’ In the
fresh night air the men set about preparing for their attack
confidently.
Dusk came down over the desert. Twenty-second Battalion,
without its promised rum ration and now under Major Hanton,
moved up towards the start line and the six-mile plod through
enemy country to near Point 62, in the blackness on Ruweisat
Ridge. A long attack indeed, a task which would have taxed
the strength of even fresh troops. This trying distance would
have been impossible for Colonel Russell, whose feet had been
troubling him lately (‘Bad news. The boys reckoned he would
be hard to replace,’ wrote one of his men), and already Jack
Hargreaves was driving the Colonel back to hospital, where
on 16 July he wrote home: ‘… the absolute devil… Col.
Christie
Col H. K. Christie, CBE, ED; Wanganui; born NZ 13 Jul 1894; surgeon; OC
Surgical Team, Greece and Crete, 1941; OC Surgical Division 1 Gen Hosp1941-43; CO 2 Gen Hosp 1943-44.
who is looking after me is confident that he will turn
me into a marching soldier in a week or two so things aren't
too bad. But it almost broke my heart as it looked as if things
were really going to start in the right direction for a change.’
The battalion would go in 300 riflemen strong. They would
not lead the attack but follow on, mopping up, about 1500
yards behind 21 and 23 Battalions. C Company would be forward on a wide front and the two other companies hard behind,
B Company on its right rear and D Company on the left rear.
Anti-tank guns, thirty-six in all (six-pounders and the two-pounder infantry anti-tank guns), were intended to follow close
behind 22 Battalion, but in the darkness during the forming
up the guns, which were distributed across the front in various
places, did not join up. Only the four six-pounder guns under
Mick Ollivier
Capt C. M. Ollivier; Kaikoura; born Christchurch, 27 Aug 1918; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
were with 22 Battalion when the fateful dawn
broke.
Fifth Brigade had a lane 4000 yards wide between 4 Brigade
on the left and the Indian brigade on the right. Fifth Brigade,
with 850 riflemen, was about to attack on a 1000-yard front,
leaving a 3000-yard gap between it and the Indians, a gap
which would be scoured out (in theory) by British tanks (2
Armoured Brigade) at dawn. The British tanks also were to
assist the anti-tank guns in protecting 5 Brigade's right flank,
where 22 Battalion would be digging in. That was the plan.
A low-flying plane, flashing navigation lights on and off,
flew over the start line dramatically as the attackers moved off,
and roared straight towards Ruweisat Ridge, drawing tracer
and flares and roughly indicating enemy strongpoints in the
distance. Many infantrymen believed that this plane signalled
the advance to begin. Silently the 550 riflemen of 21 and 23
Battalions pushed ahead into the darkness. It was 11 p.m. Then
22 Battalion (‘hearteningly orderly and resolute looking,’ their
Brigadier wrote) went forward in light fighting order of rifle
and bayonet, Mills grenades and sticky bombs. Private Hewitt
entered his first attack:
‘It was all quiet and orderly, we just trudged along over the
sand. I can't say I was very excited or even very scared. One
felt that one had been at that sort of thing all one's life. As we
moved in closer the Jerries and Ites started up the odd bursts
of machine gun fire as if they were a bit uneasy about things.
Then the fire became more prolonged and after a few flares
had been put up they started giving us all they had. Big mortars
came whistling over to land with nasty bumps and shattering
explosions beside us in the dark, while at times the night was
lit up with flares and tracers from different types of shells and
bullets, also a burning truck or two.’
Fighting began at midnight and continued here and there
until past 4 a.m. With the first crash of fire, coloured flares and
tracer slashed the darkness. Soon the uproar in front increased
with hoarse New Zealand shouting and frightened cries, and
as the companies came on to the fringe of the first fallen outposts, they clearly heard the old familiar ‘Mamma Mia!’ from
stricken Italians. ‘I don't blame them either, it must be bloody
awful to have to face a night attack.’ Enemy guns and mortars
reached out blindly into the night, ‘overs’ cracked down to
send dust and fragments of rock flying, and Hewitt, jarred by
a near miss, found ‘it was nice to hear Joe's quiet voice call to me
out of the darkness and ask if I was all right. Next instant there
was a terrible crack as a shrapnel shell exploded in the air over
the front of our section and it was then my turn to enquire after
their health.’
As the battalion progressed behind the attackers, past the
moaning and crying wounded (mainly Italian) whom the
stretcher-bearers would find, the ominous noise of tanks could
be heard, first from the right flank and then passing across the
line of attack. These were thought to be British tanks. They
were not.
‘We were moving forward in slow easy stages spending
waiting time on our stomachs while mortar landed about
us … The Battalion commander insisted on halting the
Battalion each time with the word “Stanna”….”
Suddenly ‘machine gun bullets came zipping past our ears.
That put the wind up me all right. I hated the sound of those
bullets, but can laugh now when I think of myself and old
Jack Scully
Pte J. P. Scully; Carterton; born NZ 12 Jun 1905; labourer; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
who was in front of me; how we walked along
with our heads instinctively bent down as if we were trying to
keep off the rain!’
Plodding on mile after mile, one man, Gough Smith, notes
how he grew uneasy, feeling ‘that the enemy retreating before
us were leading us further and further into a trap. We passed
abandoned guns and tanks. Nothing was destroyed, we merely
plodded on….’ He felt the tank crews might be lying in
hiding, waiting to follow up and attack at daylight. But most
men who glimpsed the outline of tanks would have taken it for
granted that they were British.
The battalion now began running into more prisoners and
small isolated groups from the forward battalions. Even on a
night like this came a wry tinge of humour. ‘Shorty’ Jury
Pte H. W. Jury; New Plymouth; born NZ 12 May 1916; labourer; p.w. 15 Jul 1942.
—
‘one of those blokes who, when doing rifle exercises, gives one
the impression that either they or the rifle are trying to climb
one another’—stopped by a group of men ‘with what then
must have been the smallest prisoner ever, and after an inquiry
as to what he had, and the usual “Ruddy so-an’-so”, he shoved
off—literally—just moved forward expecting the bloke to read
his mind. There was an agonised grunt as the bayonet prodded,
and Shorty took after his charge like a man in for the polevault.’
‘Challenges and password (Speights) were much flung about,’
notes Roy Johnston.
2 Lt R. H. Johnston; Pukerua Bay; born Taihape, 7 May 1915; civil servant;
p.w. 15 Jul 1942; escaped Italy, Sep 1943.
‘We could hear no sound of attack on
our left flank. The right seemed quiet too. The impression was
that whether by design or otherwise the attack was converging.
There were flares going up on our left flank. In due course we
were advised back that they were success flares. Our forward
march was continuing but slowing. We saw enemy dead and
some of our own. The men were tired and many were sleeping
every time they went down. It continued that way all night—
challenges, password, prisoners going back—occasional flares
on our left—“success signals”.’
Hewitt's section had passed ‘odd trucks, guns and even a
tank or two and we heard someone calling in the darkness “Are
you there Kiwi? Are you there Kiwi?” It could have been a
cunning Jerry, anyhow no one answered him. Suddenly I
stumbled on a huddled form in the darkness and Jack Scully
said “See if he has any field glasses or a Beretta,” so I rolled
him over thinking he was dead and a horrible groan came from
the poor brute and he felt all soft and warm.’
So it went on until the battalion had covered about six miles
(some believe more
In any night attack, understandably enough, some always feel they have advanced
too far. After capture, the prisoners were hurried due west, below 4 Brigade on
Point 63, and were seen by members of the brigade (‘They're only Eyeties anyhow,’ said the man behind a distant machine gun in 4 Brigade); therefore the
unit could not have advanced further than it was supposed to, and this is confirmed by movements of Sergeant Elliott's platoon, records of 8 Panzer Regiment,
and 23 Battalion's positions.
), and ‘there seemed to be doubt developing as to our position,’ says Johnston. ‘[We] were a little bit
uneasy about things, also there was a machine gun firing a
stream of multi-coloured tracers across the way we had come.’
‘Then a dog barked at us out of the darkness,’ adds Hewitt.
‘There was something foreboding about the damned dog plus
the machine gun that kept firing unmolested on our flank.’
Here Major Hanton was ordered to extend his battalion over
a 1200-yard front facing north, and to contact 23 Battalion,
700 yards ahead. The Brigadier, on a carrier driven by Couchman, came hurrying past: ‘Hurry up and dig in before light,
boys.’ Behind the battalion, in the direction it had come from,
several posts now began firing. A rumble of tanks from the left
flank was reported.
‘Dawn found us on a slight feature looking down to a shallow
basin … in daylight we moved into the basin. We were
halted. We were told to dig in,’ Johnston continues. The time
now would be about 5.15 a.m. ‘No one could inform us as to
our front, or direction of anticipated counter-attack. We were
told to dig in anywhere. The men were being very philosophical
about it all but there was confusion. Soldiers trained … to
do … what they were told “dug in anywhere” … there
were but limited fields of observation and fire. Short distance
to the front of our advance lay a small escarpment’—the almost
imperceptible rise that was Ruweisat.
‘Those with shovels and picks,’ writes Hewitt, ‘started digging while the “diggers” who had nothing to dig with built up
rough little shelters of stone. I had a few rocks in front of me
and even one or two on each side which was better than nothing. Suddenly there was an ear-splitting crack and a fiery projectile flashed past a few feet above ground and got a direct
hit on a truck in front of us which promptly went up in flames.
[A brief duel with a six-pounder anti-tank gun begins] while
all we could do was to lie low, as the shells just seemed to be
skimming our heads. The noise was appalling, it seemed to
strike through one's ears into the very brain.’ George Tosh
Pte G. M. Tosh; born Scotland, 3 Jan 1910; labourer; killed in action 15 Jul 1942.
was shot dead. Gough Smith, like everyone else, ‘never thought
of our being captured. Our tanks would appear in a moment,
or our guns would open up, more anti-tank guns would appear.
Something must happen.’ It did.
The tanks, thought to be eight altogether, advanced on to
the doomed 22nd, one group coming from the south towards
the battalion's western flank, the other swinging to the east.
They made shrewd use of natural cover, the early, misty light,
and a dust haze. Ollivier's six-pounders opened up, but the
four guns were overwhelmed in a matter of minutes, while the
startled riflemen (many of whom at first mistook the indistinct
tanks for the expected British armour) lay low, or tried to open
a brief, hopeless small-arms fire from open ground or from
scarcely begun slit trenches.
A furious, impotent Hewitt ‘had never had one single lesson
in recognition of tanks of any sort. I had once seen a German
tank in Maadi and had wanted to go over and have a good
look at it, but was told to pay attention to the lesson in hand
which happened to be a new method of changing step on the
march by an ex-Christchurch dancing master.’
He describes the end of his battalion: ‘It was all very bewildering to have tanks coming in from the rear and they now
had their machine guns going all the time to keep us down.
As I said before I had a few stones in front of me but none
behind me, and I can tell you I felt pretty bare and exposed
in that quarter! One platoon on our right that was near a bit
of a ridge got up and made a run for it, they had of course to
run a hell of a gauntlet of machine-gun bullets, and it was
pretty grim to see these men running with dust being kicked
up all round them as they fell or dived to the ground and then
up and on again.’ These were Keith Elliott and his men, and
as they began running men shouted: ‘What the hell are you
running for—they are our tanks.’
‘The tanks having knocked out our guns came rumbling and
clanking towards us with nothing to stop them…. We could
do nothing but keep hoping some of our own tanks would turn
up to the rescue…. A big Mark IV was only about 70 yards
off me by this time and I was feeling like a fly in a web or
Bob Semple's wheelbarrow, and wondering what the hell to
do next…. Some of our chaps were right under the damned
monster, and I can still see clearly the silly little bits of white
paper they waved for a white flag. Then all seemed to rise up
out of the desert with their hands up.’
The men, numbed and dazed (‘It was a possibility we had
not thought of’: ‘I think we all felt rather silly and self-conscious’: ‘the horrible shock of that moment when the first of
our chaps leapt out of their holes with hands up’), were rounded
up quickly, for the Germans ‘were in a great hurry to get us
out of it.’ One tank commander said ‘with the best Conrad
Veidt English: “For you my friends, the war is over.”’ Another, sitting up on the turret, looked ‘cool and efficient with
his ear-phones still on his helmet and an eagle and swastika
on his right breast.’ Some riflemen had been escorting back
about thirty Italian prisoners, but ‘the boot was on the other
foot, the Ites now helped line us up and they didn't fail to see
the joke.’ Fourteen officers and 261 other ranks were now ‘in
the bag’, including four wounded who were considerately
treated. Apart from these prisoners, the whole of the Ruweisat
action had cost the battalion one killed and eighteen wounded
(two of whom died later). Several men, including Major
Hanton, were roughly handled when they refused to give up
personal possessions, yet such treatment was exceptional, and
‘a friendly Italian sergeant showed great approval of a photo
of June and the kids.’
Now the sudden bewilderment was ending, many a man
realised and continued to realise bitterly that ‘It was a humiliating and disgusting sight. Someone somewhere had let us down
badly.’ Shepherded by the half-dozen tanks, the prisoners were
on the point of moving off when a German called sneeringly:
‘It's a long way to Tipperary!’ Back came the defiant reply,
half sob, half snarl: ‘It's a longer way to Cairo, you bastard!’
As the captives trudged off through the dust, the sun came over
the horizon.
On a slight rise on the far right flank of the battalion 11
Platoon, commanded by Sergeant Keith Elliott, saw four tanks
swinging round to the east. Infantry were running behind them,
and about the time when the startled onlookers began identifying white crosses on the tanks, the firing started. Elliott, although wounded across the chest, cried out to his platoon to
move 400 yards ahead to the semi-cover of a slight ridge.
This account of Elliott's exploit is based on an interview he gave Mr R. Walker,
of War History Branch.
Swiftly the three sections (led respectively by Corporals
Garmonsway,
2 Lt R. F. Garmonsway, DCM; Rangiwaea, Taihape; born Taihape, 29 Jun 1911; shearer.
West
Capt A. B. West, m.i.d.; born Hastings, 29 Nov 1916.
and Staines
Cpl L. C. Staines; Palmerston North; born New Plymouth, 4 Jul 1916; Regular soldier.
), eighteen men in all,
reached cover in time to see the four tanks close in from the
east on 12 and 10 Platoons and march them off at a smart clip
to the west.
Moving another 400 yards north to a second small ridge, the
platoon saw New Zealand troops and, after Elliott's chest
wound had been dressed, took up a position on their far right
(castern) flank. Here the platoon came under the command of
Lieutenant Shaw
Capt R. A. Shaw; Taumarunui; born NZ 8 Jun 1912; commercial traveller;
twice wounded.
of 21 Battalion. A distressed lance-corporal
appeared and said that his officer and batman were lying out
in front, the officer with an eye shot out and bleeding badly.
Elliott, leaving Corporal West in position, went out with
Garmonsway's and Staines's sections. They were soon under
fire from a post about 500 yards ahead, and Garmonsway on
the right flank was held up by more firing from the east. Elliott
ordered Garmonsway to press home an attack in that direction.
Elliott now began his own attack ahead, the first of a series
of charges which won the Victoria Cross, five enemy strongpoints and some eighty prisoners. With the sergeant were only
three men (everyone else was more than fully occupied as it
was): Lancaster,
Pte J. R. Lancaster, m.i.d.; born Gisborne, 16 Sep 1918; wounded 24 Oct 1942.
Jones,
Sgt R. G. Jones, m.i.d.; Auckland; born Manunui, 2 Dec 1913; policeman;
wounded 15 Jul 1942.
and Smith.
Pte L. H. Smith; born Canada, 16 Jul 1914; stableman; wounded 4 Sep 1942.
As they closed in to
within 50 yards of the first post ahead, the eleven Italian defenders signalled surrender. While they were dismantling an
anti-tank gun and some machine guns, they were fired on by
another post 100 yards directly ahead and from yet another a
little to the right and further on. Smith was now sent back for
reinforcements. Elliott, Lancaster, and Jones captured the next
two posts ‘fairly easily’. The three men now had about fifty
prisoners. They set about dismantling and wrecking more
enemy weapons.
However, from the north-west, from a gently rising slope,
fresh fire was directed at them. Shepherding their prisoners
again with them, the three New Zealanders advanced against
this fourth post over 100 yards away. The attack was well under
way when another stream of fire burst from yet another direction, from behind and from the west about 200 yards away.
Leaving Lancaster and Jones to attend to matters in front,
Elliott on his own dashed towards the new threat from the west,
but was forced into cover alongside an abandoned water truck.
From there he sniped at the defenders until all were on the
point of surrender, except the machine-gunner who, sticking
to his gun and keeping the deserted truck under fire, succeeded in wounding Elliott in the thigh. Elliott recovered from
the shock of this wound in time to see a sniper on the escarpment hampering Jones and Lancaster. He fired at and winged
this sniper, and then, turning to his own pressing problems,
dashed to a small hummock, threw a grenade and charged,
eliminating the machine gun and its faithful operator and
taking about fifteen prisoners.
Weak from his wounds (another bullet had creased his knee—
his third wound—and furthermore he was fresh from hospital
after a bout of malaria), Elliott rejoined Jones (now wounded)
and Lancaster in time to help wipe out the fifth and final post.
With their captives (including two German medical officers and
several German other ranks) they made their way back slowly
to Corporal West's position, where Garmonsway and his party,
in a spirited second front of their own which won Garmonsway
the DCM, had silenced three machine-gun nests and taken a
German officer and a sergeant, two Italian officers and sixty
Italian other ranks. By noon 11 Platoon's tally was 140 prisoners and perhaps thirty killed and wounded.
Indian troops were now spreading out over ground ahead.
Elliott was taken away to an Indian dressing station.
The infantry had carried out their task of taking Ruweisat
Ridge, but without the support of tanks
This is no consolation to 22 Battalion, but critics may care to consider that
a week later the British 23 Armoured Brigade burst right into the German lines in
the vicinity with eighty tanks; only eight tanks came out.
or anti-tank guns
could not be expected to hold their positions against the swift
and aggressive action of the German tanks. The eight tanks
which overran 22 Battalion were those of 15 Panzer Division,
which had not been located before the battle; the assault had
passed through the area in which they had been laagered.
Moving to get out of the way when they realised that the
Italian positions had been carried and that they were isolated,
they ran into 22 Battalion before it could deploy or dig in.
Perhaps even that would not have mattered if the anti-tank
guns, which had been ordered to move with and behind the
battalion, had been in their correct position.
Twenty-second Battalion accordingly suffered the consequences. The unit did not suffer humiliation and captivity
gladly, and the bitterness of the Ruweisat men against their
senior officers and the Army in general lives on still today. As
it was, the captives who trudged off into long, bleak years of
hardship and captivity would be denied even the cold comfort
that their fate had served as a warning to other New Zealanders.
Later that very day 19 and 20 Battalions (and a week later 24
and 25 Battalions) shared the same grim fate in the Division's
darkest hour.
The prisoners, after being lined up and searched hurriedly,
were marched through the heavy sand for one and a half hours
before the first brief halt was called, and suffered ‘thirst and
fatigue such as I had never known’. Some when captured had
a few drops of water left in their bottles; others had none. ‘If
only they would give us a mouthful of water—our mouths were
dry and tongues were beginning to swell. I for one drank water
out of the radiator of an old [derelict] truck. The water was
rusty but what did that matter it was at least liquid.’ An old
groundsheet was rigged up over one man who was ‘in a very
bad way’ through thirst; at least he would have a little shade.
Another man hastily buried his wife's letters in the sand: ‘Better
left in the sand of the desert I thought than in the hands of
the enemy.’ Searching the captives again, a German intelligence officer found, but did not confiscate, a song book.
‘Has it the “Siegfried Line” in it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I am sorry, but you won't be hanging any washing out on
the Siegfried Line, but we will be hanging ours out on the
Alexandria Line.’
The march resumed for another one and a half hours. ‘Many
of the boys half crazed were behaving badly, rushing up to
every Jerry and beseeching him for water.’ One man tried to
stop trucks on the road. Another fainted. Men don't know how
they made the last two miles. ‘I began to have visions and
imagined that someone was holding a cup of water to my lips.
I would come-to with a start to find my lips pursed as though
in the act of drinking.’ Trucks arrived (the men got about half
a pint each of petrol-tainted water) and took them to the Daba
prisoner-of-war cage (British built), and their first food for
twenty-four hours: three ounces of biscuit and half a mug of
water.
Next morning they were herded forty to fifty into each lorry
and guarded by grinning and vindictive Senussi and Italians.
‘I now had begun to feel a hatred for my enemy.’ The Germans
had been reasonable. The prisoners were taken past Mersa
Matruh, Sidi Barrani, and Tobruk to the insanitary, overcrowded Benghazi cage, ‘The Palms’: hunger, lice, dysentery.
Dick Bunny, who had once belonged to 13 Platoon C Company,
wrote: ‘There was no room for any exercise and we just lay
under the palm trees and gazed at the blue sky above and the
stars twinkling at night, thinking of the space and the freedom
that was in the heavens above.’ In November they were shipped
to Italy, and later were taken to Germany.
At El Daba, when almost every man was too exhausted even
to think of escaping, Captain ‘Brigham’ Young escaped; ‘a
wonderful performance,’ writes a captive comrade, ‘as he had
had no more water than the rest of us for the last 12 hours, that
was nil.’ The whole of the battalion, captives and remnants
alike, rejoiced in Young's escape, for somehow it seemed a
symbol of defiance when all hope had gone. Another prisoner's
tribute reads: ‘It was possible to escape that night. We were
only 40 miles from our own lines but only one man had the
guts to venture out, exhausted, thirsty and starving as he was;
that was Captain Young. Good luck to him!’ ‘Brigham’ Young,
when asked to describe his escape in detail, says he was ‘on the
lookout for a chance to escape because
I had told my own men on previous occasions that
it was a duty to escape if possible.
I could think of nothing worse than years in a prison
camp.
I cannot take indignities lying down and would have
despised myself had I not made the attempt.
The thought of my wife wondering and worrying.
I just had to do something.’
On the march stragglers who looked as if they were contemplating escape had been warned that if anyone began wandering away he would be shot. At El Daba, outside the cage,
the officers were separated from the other ranks, but Young
had removed his pips on the march. He says:
I waited until about half the other-ranks had been interrogated
and put behind the netting. We were only about 20 yards from the
guards' hut which appeared to be unoccupied. I wandered (casually,
I thought and hoped) over to the hut and entered unobserved.
Hanging on the wall was a water bottle full of coffee—I poured it
into my own empty bottle and pocketed a small packet of biscuits
lying on the table. I was relieved to get out and rejoin the others
unobserved. Heartened by this success I wandered over a few
minutes later to a small heap of kerosene tins (two high, I think)
close to the guards' hut, and still appearing to be unobserved I
lost no time in getting down behind them and hard up against them.
I suppose my tensest moment up till then was waiting for a burst
of machinegun or rifle fire had I been noticed. After a minute or
two I felt safe and more relieved than I can tell. I felt that my best
and safest course was to go to sleep, which I promptly did. Some
time later, it was almost dark, a staff car drew up on the other side
of the tins and someone got out—not six feet away. This woke me
up. I remained there an hour or two longer. All was quiet save for
two sentries, whose beat finished some yards away. I was facing
south; the cage entrance and the sentries were to the left (east) of
me.
I crawled away from the tins, perhaps 300 yards to the right.
Now I could see neither the cage nor the sentries. That night I
headed due south by the stars. Once I thought I had run into their
lines—I think they were vehicles—soon after I started. I gave them
a wide margin. I walked till daylight—an estimated 15 miles, maybe
more. I wrapped myself round a small desert shrub for the day.
The flies were annoying. A few planes overhead.
The next night I continued south for another 15 miles and it
was the following evening, soon after I had started out, that I came
across a number of damaged and abandoned Italian vehicles, and
from the wreckage salvaged the welcome tin of meat extract which
I opened with a pocket knife I still had. Soon after I encountered
the Bedouins but before that I had my biggest fright: I saw two
soldiers resting on their rifles and apparently looking at me—perhaps
100 yards away. I didn't move for some time and then started to move
on. They kept looking and even, I could have sworn, turned their
heads to continue watching me. But nothing happened and I moved
on as quickly as possible. Obviously I must have been seeing things
due to my tiredness, and I certainly didn't go closer to find out why
they took no action. I was pleased to get away.
Then I saw objects in the haze in the distance but decided I was
again fooling myself. But gradually they took shape, camels in
charge of two Bedouins. One was menacing and covered me with
his rifle from about 100 yards away. I sat down and didn't move.
He continued to aim at me, all the time shouting. His companion
was far more reasonable and friendly, and seeing I was unarmed,
approached. He gave me three sweets and ran off and filled my
empty water bottle; what a blessing! He waved his arm across an
arc to the north and indicated to me that the enemy—my enemy—
were there. He accepted my knife as a present, smilingly but a little
reluctantly. I wonder if he still has it.
That night I walked south-east for ten miles to make sure I had
gone round the enemy, and then due east for another ten miles, and
was at dawn dismayed to find myself among a ‘B’ Echelon. This I
think was on the edge of the Quattara depression. I was watching
one vehicle down in the wadi when I saw two men facing me,
perhaps 200 yards away, near another vehicle. I moved away and
as soon as possible got down into the wadi and under a large bush.
I had been there only a moment when I heard voices above, stopping and moving away. I assumed they were suspicious but not
sufficiently so to make a detailed search.
That was my worst day. The flies were at their worst under that
tree [sic] and with enemy vehicles around I had to keep quiet and
out of sight. That night after dark I set out again with some trepidation. I heard voices in a number of directions but was soon clear
away. I was very tired now and had to sit down and rest every half
hour. I travelled north-east that night which I hoped would skirt
the enemy and take me to our lines. But all the time I had the fear
that we may have withdrawn a long way and that if so I wouldn't
make it. The ground here was very uneven and I was stumbling
forward. It was an effort to continue. About 3 am I supposed it was
I missed falling into a trench by a foot or two. Immediately there
was a hubbub and excited Italian shouting. I thought the best thing
I could do was to pretend to be a German; knowing a little German
and hoping they didn't I said a few words which together were
meaningless, and stumbled on a little more quickly than before. I
expected bullets to come whistling round but nothing happened.
I was heartened now because I had hopes that I had come through
their front lines and our own may not be far away. But I couldn't
be sure. Soon I was startled by a challenge close by. I could see two
figures but didn't hear what they said, or was too startled to take it
in. They stood silently there. It was now or never and I advanced
towards them. 25 Battalion sentries!
During his capture and escape Young had lost over one and
a half stone; he was down to just under nine stone. He had no
head covering against the summer sun except a handkerchief
used as a hat occasionally in the daytime. He longed incessantly
for a drink of milk (a curious desire, for he seldom touched milk)
and thought longingly of an iced gin at the Maadi Club. ‘My
inspiration was the satisfaction I would get of having achieved
something worthwhile—and of making my wife happy. But it
was certainly worth it and under similar circumstances I would
risk it again.
‘My main thought was to get back to my battalion at any
cost. Yes, I was determined. I prayed once or twice for the
necessary strength to see it through.’
Another man captured at Ruweisat Ridge, Sergeant R. J. G. Smith, who twice
tried to escape on the way, was taken to Mersa Matruh to repair the truck of an
Italian padre (‘a man of sterling character’). German mechanics would say: ‘I
wonder if the padre's truck is still running?’, to which the stock reply was: ‘Even
if it isn't running, I bet the padre is.’ Finding Smith had been in Crete, two
veteran German soldiers entertained him with ‘Stuka juice’ (any strong liquor).
Choosing his time, and storing away provisions and water, Smith escaped. After
many hardships, when water ran low, he placed a small stone under the tip of
his tongue, sucked it constantly, but was tortured with thoughts of water: ‘I
would think of a thousand rivers running to waste in the sea, all the freshwater
lakes with perhaps people nearby not even noticing them or attempting to drink
them dry. I couldn't understand why they didn't want to put their heads in all
this water with their mouths wide open just drinking all the time. I thought of
my old sergeants' mess with bottles of cool beer stacked up in dozens, standing
there doing nothing, with nobody drinking them. Unbelievable that such things
could be….’ After 17 days and 18 nights Smith, in a state of collapse, walked
into an Italian bivouac on the extreme southern flank of the Alamein line. Maintaining that escape in the desert is worse than being adrift at sea in an open
boat, he says an escaper's only friend is his two feet, and he wholeheartedly agrees
with these words of the aviator, Charles Lindbergh: ‘You never see the sky until
you've looked upwards to the stars for safety.’
CHAPTER 7Alamein
In a letter he wrote home on 22 July 1942 Lieutenant-Colonel
Russell said:
Well, I've got the story of what happened now and it's a sad
one to say the least of it as I'm pretty well short of three companies and my headquarters; fortunately all the specialists were
a bit behind and so escaped the mopping up. I gather two Jerry
columns of tanks one on each flank caught them as they were
moving up at first light and as they were unsupported at the
moment simply rounded them up and put them in the bag—
the whole show taking ten to fifteen minutes—tragic but very
few casualties thank goodness so we will get them back in time.
Please God we will be back on Jerry's tail and have him cleaned
up before he can get them shipped away….I feel very sad
about it. Had I been there I gather there was nothing I could
have done and most likely I should have been in the bag too….
I've got a very good foundation to build on…but I have
lost so many good young officers and NCOs to say nothing of
men….’
‘After the Battalion was captured I applied for transfer from
stretcher bearers as the whole “guts” seemed to have gone out
of the outfit and no 16 Platoon and all: just couldn't bring
myself to settle with the new chaps—Mac felt the same—think
most of us did.’—Mick Bradford.
‘That's the finish. I'm not training any more bootmakers for
the b—Jerries. Just as they were starting to be handy, too’.—
Battalion bootmaker, Corporal Jack Lines,
Cpl J. T. Lines; born West Coast, 27 May 1905; boot repairer.
whose five recently
trained bootmakers had been captured.
Twenty-second Battalion had gone into the field on 22 June
720 strong. Then 125 (A Company), left out of battle, were
sent back from Mersa Matruh to Maadi, where they stayed
during the Minqar Qaim and Ruweisat actions. Before the
attack on Ruweisat Ridge the battalion's casualties in killed,
wounded, and missing (120) were nearly balanced by reinforcements numbering 106. Casualties in the next few days were 278,
most of them prisoners. After Ruweisat the battalion had only
about thirty riflemen left in the field, but men from A and B
Echelons, the anti-tank, mortar and carrier platoons totalled
273. They went back to Maadi, where A Company was waiting;
157 reinforcements arrived, and at the end of July the battalion's strength was 28 officers and 577 other ranks.
During the first fortnight in August the battalion was still
taking shape and reorganising in a Maadi undergoing the purge
of its lifetime: many a New Zealander was jerked from ‘a sweet
possie’ and dropped in the front line before he had gathered
together his hitherto most serviceable wits. By 18 August the
unit had been built up to the strength of three rifle companies
and Headquarters Company.
The company commanders and seconds-in-command were:HQ Coy, Capt
K. R. S. Crarer, 2 Lt J. P. Farrell; A Coy, Maj D. G. Steele, Capt P. R. Hockley;
B Coy, Capt J. L. MacDuff, Capt A. J. Young; C/D Coy, Capt D. F. Anderson,
Capt F. G. Oldham.
The next day the move back to
the Division began, ‘up the Desert Road in the middle of a
scorching day, and as we stood in the front of the tray looking
ahead over the cab the wind came up in our faces in hot gusts
off the scorching asphalt—it caused my lips to crack and bleed
in the week following this at Alamein Box.’
In the last month, both armies having fought to a standstill,
positions had changed very little along the 35-mile Alamein
line, which stretched from the coast almost due south to the
treacherous sands of the Qattara Depression, impassable for a
modern army's heavy vehicles and armour. The Alamein line
(groups of minefields, holes, gun emplacements, strongpoints)
still barred the way to Alexandria, 60 miles away.
The New Zealand Division, in a square about five miles
across and just south of Ruweisat Ridge, remained on the inland or southern flank of the line. The troops dug laboriously
deeper into the stubborn rock, strengthened positions, gunpits
and minefields, and endured with growing exasperation the
flies, the blazing mid-summer heat, and the regular attacks of
dive-bombing Stukas. Sickness, particularly yellow jaundice and
dysentery (‘Wog guts’) spread, but despite the great heat sun-
strokesunstroke was unknown at Alamein. With some men the slightest
scratch meant another desert sore, which took a long time to
heal and attracted the flies. Some men seemed to get desert
sores (or septic fingernails) for no reason at all; others apparently were immune. This summer was the worst period in the
Division's history; veterans who went on into Italy look back
and say: ‘It was easily the worst, without question.’
However, a clean wind was beginning to blow in the desert.
‘The scientific soldiers were now to come from England,’ wrote
Brigadier Kippenberger. General Alexander took over command of the Middle East Forces, and General Montgomery
(‘the man who really put the ordinary soldier in the picture’,
as many men describe him) took over the Eighth Army. The
new—the startling new—head of Eighth Army declared, ‘there
will be no withdrawal and no surrender’, and underlined his
words by sending the transport many miles back behind the
Alamein line.
Montgomery visited 22 Battalion on Sunday, 23 August,
two or three days after the reorganised battalion had taken its
place in the New Zealand fold again and settled down at the
front. He impressed everyone by his quick and confident manner. One officer in the battalion says: ‘Within a few days a new
spirit was abroad. His greatest success was the raising of morale
of the troops, and with the raising of that morale came his
success.’ Another man considered him ‘rather like a jockey’,
which certainly can be taken as a tribute from a racehorse-crazy country. Tom De Lisle recalls how the commander,
‘deceived by Private Harry Sansum's
L-Cpl H. M Sansum; Wellington; born Barry, Wales, 13 Jan 1905; clerk.
(Signallers) frail appearance, asked Harry if he felt all right.’ The signaller replied
he had never felt better in his life. The General smiled and
passed on, and ‘later the boys chided Harry on a golden opportunity lost. As one of them said: “Why, when a big shot
like that thinks a man's crook, he's as good as back in Taranaki!” ‘Men of C/D Company ‘were in slitties, under cover,
lookouts posted, when we were called together in a hollow
square. The general wanted to see, and be seen, by all his men.
All of the officers were presented to him.’
When the battalion returned in late August to the New Zealand Box, near Ruweisat, where a most trying fortnight would
be spent, it was given the eastern flank (a reserve position) to
defend, and came under the command of 132 (British) Brigade,
which was under New Zealand command at this time. Fourth
Brigade, smashed and broken, would take no further part in
the desert war. The battalion, scarcely shaken down into shape
and now changed almost beyond recognition, fell to on the old
familar task: digging in on hard, rocky ground—sometimes
helped briefly by pneumatic compressors—wiring, filling sandbags, piling up rocks, siting 3-inch mortars and two-pounder
anti-tank guns along the front, carving weapon pits and slit
trenches.
A veteran still rather shamefacedly remembers a particularly deep slit trench he dug there: ‘that slit trench, of all the
hundreds one must have made, is called to mind notably for
the fact that it was very evident of “fear”, and is marked too
by receiving there a telegram of all things of the death of a
member of the family—how anybody could be bothered to
deliver it at such a time and place speaks a language of its own.’
Flies, heat, thirst and dust, in that order: that was the curse
of the New Zealand Box, which brings to mind a weary picture
of the constant waving of hands in front of faces all day. ‘Putting our hands over our mugs of tea to keep the flies out, and
waving our bread and jam in the air between bites, which stopped them getting stuck on the jam but didn't stop them from
settling up near your shoulder and crawling down your arm to
get at it.'Some, holding tea and food in front of them, walked
briskly into the breeze, which the flies disliked (but breezes
were very few). Best of all was to clear the little two-men bivvy
(some had dug-in bivvies here), leaving the flaps up at each
end and covering them with mosquito netting ‘so what breeze
there was could come through. Then lay down on your back
for a bit of peace, and let the sweat from your chest run down
your ribs in cool dribbles. But the flies got in again sooner or
later.’ Early-rising flies, a little dopey and hard to shift, were
up before sunrise; by sunset most of them mercifully would be
gone. The flies (strongly attracted by moisture, went for eyes,
mouth, sweat and desert sores) were dark in colour, gave the
impression of having cast-iron heads, and were about the size
of a New Zealand housefly (not, mercifully, as large as a bluebottle). Men hid from the tormentors in slit trenches covered
with groundsheets, but the stuffy heat soon drove them out
again, more exasperated than ever.
Dusk came like some great sigh of relief over the entire battle-front. Newcomers to the battalion, placed in turn on night
picket and pacing their unit's area in the Box, learned how
easily a man could lose his bearings (a landmark would be a
stunted bush or a small pile of stones) and get lost in the bare
sand with only an odd patch of camel-thorn and an occasional
vehicle looming out of the darkness. A feature of the Alamein
line, of course, was that little if anything showed above ground.
When lost, a man had to make a mental note of where he stood,
and then strike out hopefully in various directions until he came
to something familiar. Another night task, until the end of
August, was lighting special beacon-flares (tactically placed tins
filled with kerosene-soaked sand). This was for the benefit of
certain night flyers in the RAF. Off to kindle his beacons at
most uncomfortable hours every night went Sergeant Cyril
Whitty,
WO II C. Whitty; Christchurch; born Christchurch, 23 Oct 1913; salesman.
of the intelligence section, leading his grumbling and
swearing helpers, and insisting that nobody went to sleep or
neglected his flare.
‘I think the most exciting thing in those days were the dogfights which took place above us. The chaps standing and looking up and cheering and shouting encouragement. The dive
to earth (usually trailing smoke), the eruption, and a second
or so later the sound of the crash. It was also good to watch our
ack-ack following an enemy plane: sometimes you wouldn't
see or hear the plane until he was quite near, but you knew
where he was by listening to and watching the ack-ack. Then
it was very satisfying to watch those bombers that day when
our Bofors caught them dawdling over our lines and shot down
most of them. I clearly remember one of these bombers. You
could see a flash on his right-hand motor as a shell hit it, and
then for a fraction of a second nothing, and then the whole
motor burst into a ball of orange flame.’
Allowing for dogfights, Stukas, shelling and so on, the battalion soon found the line much quieter. The Axis forces, still
most confident of victory, were massing for their final thrust
towards Alexandria. Few enemy prisoners had been taken along
the entire front for two weeks, so in the night of 25-26 August
the Maoris swept back from a characteristic raid with thirty-five Italians, the first New Zealand offensive operation under
General Montgomery. By this time Rommel's next attempt to
master Egypt was expected: his last throw, probably coming
on the inland flank and brushing past the New Zealanders'
positions. All preparations had been made to meet this attack;
the thrust deliberately would be allowed to penetrate east until
yet more positions would be met. Then, blocked in front, hampered by intricate minefields, and pounded from the flanks and
from the air, the raiders, out on a limb, would have no choice
but to withdraw from the trap. And furthermore, this plan to
turn at last the Axis tide in Africa would work.
On the night of 31 August-1 September 5 Brigade and 132
(British) Brigade changed positions, and with this change 22
Battalion (not moving) came again under 5 Brigade's command. Before the brigade had fully settled into positions, the
codeword TWELVEBORE arrived, and this celebrated Eighth
Army order was read out: ‘The enemy is now attempting to
break through our positions in order to reach Cairo, Suez, and
Alexandria, and to drive us from Egypt. The Eighth Army bars
the way. It carries a great responsibility, and the whole future
of the war will depend on how we carry out our task. We will
fight the enemy where we now stand; there will be NO WITHDRAWAL and NO SURRENDER. Every officer and man must continue to do his duty as long as he has breath in his body….
Into battle then, with stout hearts and with the determination
to do our duty. And may God give us the victory.’
Within twenty-four hours 22 Battalion, at the Box's ‘back
door’, was liable at any moment to be in the front line. In
fact, although the by-passed New Zealanders were not attacked
in the eastward ‘victory drive’, some Germans must have
penetrated close to the south-eastern corner of the Box, for
German mines were found laid there afterwards.
The Luftwaffe staged a particularly lively night: ‘I suppose
some of the planes could have been ours but I should think
nearly all of it came from Jerry,’ writes a private in 13 Platoon.
‘He started soon after dark and the last plane went back with
the coming of first light. I don't remember any time during
the night that there wasn't at least one plane flying around.
There were flares, bombs, butterfly bombs [their first appearance,
vicious things leaping like jumping-jacks from the opening canister] and strafing. Early in the night he dropped three
flares quite near us and they seemed to hang in the sky for a
long time….I was surprised by their brightness—I remember I could quite easily read the words in an old Auckland
Weekly in the slittie beside me. A rear-gunner busily fired bursts
trying to provoke a target, but not a sound came from the
Bofors or anyone else that night. A plane … [dropped butterfly bombs]: there was a gobbling and crackling noise and
all these sparkling lights appeared on a patch of desert: depending on how many you could see they looked like the lights
of a big town or a prison camp at night.’
Fortunately for 22 Battalion the British armour to the east
held firm, and Rommel began to withdraw. Now came the
turn of the New Zealand Division to strike, in the night of
3-4 September, and to ‘harass’ (a favourite non-committal sort
of word in the first half of the war) the withdrawing forces. The
New Zealanders were to attack to the south and hurry along
Rommel's withdrawal. The 132nd Brigade went in on the
right, 5 Brigade on the left; 22 and 23 Battalions were warned
to be prepared to follow up the Maoris and 21 Battalion, which
led the attack. One company from 22 Battalion (B Company)
had the role of guarding a party of engineers who were to follow
up the Maoris and lay a minefield. The attack wasn't the full
success pictured: after adventures and alarms in the night B
Company and the sappers didn't get far enough forward to
lay the minefield. Before dawn the Brigadier ordered B Company to dig in behind the Maoris and called the rest of 22
Battalion up to join it. A mine blew a wheel from the intelligence truck and Lieutenant Webster
Maj J. L. Webster, m.i.d.; born NZ 24 Dec 1912; agent; wounded 4 Sep 1942;
died of wounds 20 Dec 1944.
was wounded. After
daylight C/D Company had joined B, and the two companies
formed a line on a ridge through which the Maoris withdrew.
A Company remained in reserve with Battalion Headquarters,
about a mile to the rear. Supporting 22 Battalion were said to
be the few remaining Crusader tanks of a squadron of 50 Royal
Tank Regiment, which had been severely mauled in the night.
The battalion had the Maoris' anti-tank platoon as well as
some six-pounders in the neighbourhood.
The battalion was not into position before daylight. Several
platoons were shelled as they moved up (‘I remember the tiny
bits from one airburst “ticking” on my tin hat’), but they moved
on and dug in as quickly as the rocky ground would allow. The
anti-tank guns were up with them, reassuringly, but during the
morning several platoons were moved forward, moving, digging and moving on, and thereby getting further away from
anti-tank protection.
Before this an artillery smoke screen had been ordered to
cover the Maoris' withdrawal. Parties of Maoris began drifting
back through the smoke: ‘I'll always remember them. They
were coming back in anything from singles to small groups,
swaggering and strolling along with happy carefree faces, and
not seeming to have a care in the world… seemingly back
from a cross-country stroll rather than a slaughtering match
down in the depression.’ The Brigade Commander noticed the
whole of 22 Battalion's area ‘under heavy fire from tank guns
and 88's. I was pleased to see how little notice anyone appeared
to be taking. After all, they were only small shells.’ One man,
Hec Jensen,
Sgt H. R. Jensen; Dannevirke; born Dannevirke, 12 May 1919; grocer.
nicked in the buttocks, would have disputed this
statement.
No sooner had the Maoris pulled back to the 22nd's lines
than there were obvious signs that the enemy was going to
attack. Shelling, mortaring, and machine-gun fire increased.
About noon enemy infantry and a few tanks advanced towards
the slight gap between B Company's and C/D Company's
positions. Seventeen Platoon, well advanced and badly placed,
had not dug in properly and had no anti-tank protection, ‘when
we saw what appeared to be a section of Jerries with their hands
up marching towards us before tanks coming on towards us in
a pincers movement. We were very exposed.’ Private Orr,
Pte H. S. Orr; born Wanganui, 3 Sep 1918; labourer; died of wounds 13 Sep 1942.
a
Bren-gunner, had an arm severed and later died.
Artillery support was called for, but the enemy was very
close before the shells fell. The positions were in ‘horribly flat
and exposed country’ on the forward side of the ridge and could
be seen from two or three miles away. Exact movements are
not clear, but with the spectre of Ruweisat upon them again,
two platoons from the makeshift C/D Company got up and ran
(it happens even in the best armies) over the crest of the ridge
to shelter. When the enemy thrust was held up by the anti-tank guns, the men were ordered back to their positions, but
when the next wave came they withdrew again.
This hasty retreat is seen through the eyes of a new reinforcement, whose impressions of first going into action could
be typical of many new men experiencing their first action on
this day.
After arriving at Maadi from New Zealand he had listened
to men from the battalions ‘talking about their narrow escapes
and laughing about it—laughing about things they must have
thought far from funny at the time of the happening. It didn't
sound so bad. So from then on till my first action I felt more
confident. (They didn't say that after a time you could feel
sick of hearing that “crump” followed by those wicked bits of
shrapnel whining away—and think of all the misery they were
causing all over the world.)’ When bombers flew over the base
areas at night, he heard the sound of bombs dropped and saw
‘those wonderful fireworks displays’—it was really exciting.
‘Then joining the battalion and moving up to Alamein (I
noticed that whenever we stopped as we neared our destination
jokers always seemed to be inclined to get a shovel and start
digging, also at different times on the way you would see somebody now and again just glance up around the sky). But to
me—well—it was an adventure. And it was in the Alamein
Box that I saw my first enemy shell land, just over in the minefield a hundred or so yards away, and our sergeant said we had
better get near the slittie—but I was in no hurry.
‘And from then on with dogfights above us and bombing in
different places all around—and all that shelling while moving
south to take up our positions on top of the escarpment overlooking Munassib—it was all adventure.’
Now comes the retreat.
‘Then we saw those Jerries forming up and then start advancing across the flat towards us—and I was enjoying every minute
of it—I had no nerves at all. (After all what show had fifty or
a hundred Jerries and a few tanks advancing across a bare flat
got against a battalion of us, sitting in slitties and looking right
down on top of them? If I'd looked around I would have noticed
that we didn't have any tanks at all.) Then I noticed jokers
around me keeping their heads well down—but I wanted to
get a good look at these Jerries I had heard so much about.
The bullets started to clip the rocks in front of me and fly past
my head, so I thought: well they ARE a bit close—I'd better
keep my head down a bit.
‘And—well—from then on things started to deteriorate. The
tanks came up the ridge round the side of us (one stopped and
a figure appeared standing up in the turret having a good look
around and taking all the time in the world to do it). But I
was still quite happy.
‘But then someone says that we're getting out—and that's
where the rot set in—running back there—with swarms of
bullets tearing past me—going the same way as I was (like the
hare—they were—I was like the tortoise—and running flat
out), and looking and sounding a bit like swarms of angry
bees—saying to myself: “Well it's here—they can't miss me—
I wonder what it'll feel like”—and waiting for it—and shrugging my haversack up on my back in the vain hope of some
protection. And—well—to finish the story—I never looked forward to going into action with the same glee after that!’
When one of the platoons reached the shelter of the anti-tank guns (Sergeant Danny Gower gamely lugging the stricken
Orr out with a fireman's hoist), Colonel John Russell, collecting Orr in his jeep, ordered the men back, but to return now
seemed impossible, so they halted in front of the guns. There
the shelling intensified and the platoon suffered seven casualties
within half an hour. One man, dazed with blast, realised he
was walking round and round a gun in circles, but ‘we were
set once we got back to the anti-tank line for three tanks were
knocked out by the Maori anti-tank gunners in double-quick
time.’ The attack was beaten off by concentrated fire from the
Divisional Artillery: ‘shells rained down like pepper out of a
pepper-pot, the desert seemed to brew up, terrific.’
The enemy pressed his counter-attack spasmodically for
nearly three hours, but against the heavy artillery fire from the
large number of New Zealand guns in the Box he finally gave
up about 3 p.m.
Corporal Len McClurg,
Sgt L. T. McClurg, DCM; born Chatham Islands, 19 Mar 1918; labourer;
wounded 4 Sep 1942.
in the noon attack, had controlled
his mortars admirably when the enemy closed in towards the
battalion positions. The accurate and intense fire of McClurg's
men (‘They played their mortars to an unforgettable rhythm,
like a piano’) halted them until the artillery SOS fire broke up
the attack. McClurg, with great coolness, had moved repeatedly
to and fro over 100 yards under heavy fire directing and observing the ranging and fire of his own mortars. In the afternoon attack the corporal, although wounded in three places,
carried on with his duties until this attack was beaten off. He
won the DCM. Another cool man was Corporal Lacy Craig,
WO I R. L. Craig, MM; Otorohanga; born Mangaweka, 28 Apr 1905;
farmer.
with a most advanced section screening an anti-tank gun. When
the tanks were 200 yards away, Craig held his section firm, and
the anti-tank gun, working at top efficiency, held off several
tanks. Among other men who distinguished themselves this day
was Captain John MacDuff, actively and reassuringly keeping
groups in contact and moving about freely in most unpleasant
conditions.
In the night the RAF, dropping flares, revealed German
transport huddled together in a gap in the minefield ‘and let
them have a lot of bombs. We could see trucks being blown up
and ammunition exploding in the dark.’
The New Zealanders moved back that night, and within a
few days British and Greek troops had taken over the New
Zealand Box. When the confused battle of Alam Halfa was over,
nobody was quite sure who had been ‘harassed’ the most.
The news of the withdrawal that evening was like a reprieve,
and the weary trudge back through the sand began. All next
day (6 September) the men rested, heartened by the news that
the Division was going on leave, and with ‘Colonel Russell
wandering round, sitting down and yarning with chaps for their
point of view.’ Overhead a large air battle raged, and eight
unidentified aircraft were shot out of the sky. A Hurricane
fighter crash-landed half a mile east of A Company, and the
South African pilot (who received attention at the battalion
RAP), thinking he was in enemy territory, was found smashing
the last of anything at all useful, much to the disgust of souvenir
hunters. In the afternoon three Stukas were shot down in another air battle.
That evening came'the incredible news, a call for all officers
to attend the funeral of Colonel Russell.’ After sadly telling Brigadier Kippenberger he would have to give up command of
22 Battalion because his feet were seriously troubling him again,
John Russell went to visit an English friend in 132 Brigade.
Returning in his jeep, he saw a Bren carrier in difficulties. It
had run over and exploded a mine. The Colonel walked forward to help the crew and trod on another mine. ‘The manner
in which he met his death portrays his true character,’ reads
22 Battalion's war diary this day, ‘he was always willing to help
those in difficulties.’ After the long weeks of disaster in the
desert and the misfortunes of 1941, the tragic death of this most
human commander seemed an almost unbearable blow. It was
hard to fight down the feeling that the battalion was unlucky,
perhaps even a doomed battalion. But, with this last sad blow,
the fortunes of 22 Battalion were to change. The days of defeat
were over.
‘Sad beyond words’, that evening, in a New Zealand war
cemetery, the General, the Brigadier and all the battalion
officers attended the burial conducted by Padre Champion,
who thought’ it seemed so sad (in the dark) to be laying to rest
so great a soldier with such a simple service. I thought of those
words written about the burial of Sir John Moore: “Not a drum
was heard, not a funeral note”.’
In his last detailed letter home, written at the front a fortnight before his death, the Colonel had said: ‘… [heat and
flies] but it's the same on the other side of the wire. It's grand
to get back to the Division again and be in the picture. One
never knows what is happening when one is away from it….
It was a great sight coming up, to see the stuff stacked up behind us gives a great feeling of confidence in the future….
We had the new Army Commander around my area yesterday
and he was most impressive—looked as if he knew his own mind
and meant to see things were carried out on the dot. Small,
quiet spoken and tight-lipped with an eye that saw more than
the obvious so I shall be surprised if he does not produce the
bacon. This W.D. [Western Desert] has certainly produced a
number of bowler hats for British Generals and by the process
of elimination we must get the goods soon….
’… my word what a lot of problems there are going to be,
to be squared up after this show. It's very interesting yarning
to the boys under these circumstances for you get so much closer
to them in the field when you share their grub and jokes along
with the hardships, and the one thing that they are all emphatic
about is that no political differences or class warfare must be
allowed to interfere with the comradeship built up under these
conditions. That the RSA must never be used for political
ends—but the carrying into all shades of life the camaraderie
learnt in the field. How many of us will remember this five
and ten years after? DV we will learn our lesson once and
for all this time—but the human animal is very wayward and
delights to go his own way regardless of his fellow man….
I shall have to stop as the light has almost gone and it's definitely
no lights by request at night in these parts.’
Colonel Campbell again took over the battalion. Then came
the long gruelling trek out, manhandling stuck vehicles to the
‘rest area’, 37 miles west of Alexandria. For a treasured fortnight the troops rested by Burg el Arab, an unforgettable contrast with its clean white sand, the Mediterranean, and the old
picture-book desert fort said to have been used in filming ‘Beau
Gest’. There was no desert, no flies, no thirst, no war at Burg
el Arab, but plenty of time to laze around, to forget some things
and remember others, to enjoy hot showers, clean blankets, free
cordials and biscuits and cups of tea from the YMCA—and,
of course, swimming, resting, visiting Alexandria and Cairo
with and without leave. ‘When I had my first bath the sight
of so much precious water made me feel like drinking it!’ Men
just back from four-day leave to Cairo could be picked out at
the beach by the appearance of their faces, eyes and hair. They
watched movies, and saw with genuine pleasure and pride first-class shows by the Kiwi Concert Party, ‘which showed what
New Zealanders really could do musically etc. if they got cracking.’ Then back to work, about 20 miles south into the desert
for special training in a ‘hush-hush’ locality known as ‘Swordfish area’, where a pet dog gave birth to a litter of pups; and
Private Alf Adams remembers how soldiers came from all over
the desert, like the wise men following the star, just to look at
those little live pups. Here D Company was formed again, and
the following officers now commanded companies: A, Captain
Hockley; B, Captain MacDuff; C, Captain Donald; D, Captain
Anderson; Headquarters Company, Captain Farrell;
Capt J. P. Farrell; Hastings; born Australia, 9 Apr 1912; land agent and
valuer.
and
Support Group, Captain Knox. Major Steele
Lt-Col D. G. Steele, OBE, m.i.d.; Rotorua; born Wellington, 22 Mar 1912;
farmer; OC A (NZ) Sqn LRDG 1941-42; CO 22 (Mot) Bn 18 Apr-11 May 1944;
27 (MG) Bn May-Nov 1944.
became second-in-command. The 23rd September brought the great news
which the battalion, and B Company especially, had been
waiting for impatiently: Keith Elliott had been awarded the
Victoria Cross for valour on Ruweisat Ridge.
The Division rehearsed for its attack in the Alamein line
which would follow a month later. The New Zealanders would
approach the front under cover of darkness, send back all tell-tale vehicles, rest all next day dug in and out of sight, go forward again when night returned, and attack in the moonlight.
The real assault would go forward on Miteiriya Ridge, to the
north of the fateful Ruweisat, and for the rehearsal a patch of
desert closely resembling this ridge was chosen. Conditions were
made as authentic as possible: minefields (which the sappers
swiftly cleared and marked), live ammunition, smoke, tracer,
wire, and movements of units duplicated as exactly as possible
the assault which was to be made a month later.
At 7 p.m. on 24 September the battalion climbed into its
vehicles and moved 11 miles westward along a prudently lighted
track to 5 Brigade's assembly area, a rough, dusty ride with the
going bad, many vehicles sticking and churning in soft sand.
Dug in and keeping as still as possible, the companies rested all
next day. In the afternoon the Colonel and the Intelligence
Officer joined the Brigadier's reconnaissance of the area chosen
for the divisional attack exercise, and placed guides in the battalion forming-up area. That night the battalion marched six
miles to where the guides took companies to selected areas,
where they dispersed and dug in before midnight. They stood-to for an hour at dawn, and company and platoon commanders
made reconnaissances for the night-attack exercise. At 8 p.m.
the battalion moved to the start line at a gap in the minefield,
where the companies deployed on a 600-yard front in this order:
D CompanyB CompanyA CompanyC Company
At 11 p.m. the battalion advanced 2660 yards to the second
start line, which had been secured by 23 Battalion ‘attacking’
ahead. Here the battalion front was extended to 1200 yards,
and now, with nobody in front, 22 Battalion, advancing close
behind the artillery barrage, ‘attacked’2400 yards to the final
objective, where positions were organised. The success signal
was given at 2 a.m., and the supporting weapons brought up
into position. At dawn the battalion was ready to deal with any
theoretical counter-attack. Then General Freyberg held a conference of all officers and NCOs down to sergeant to discuss
and criticise the exercise.
While the battalion went on a route march, Support Group
practised weapon training. Lance-Corporal ‘Pluto’ Hulme's
2 Lt I. G. Hulme; born NZ 1 Aug 1914; clerk; wounded 3 Aug 1944.
two-pounder anti-tank crew practised loading live rounds. ‘It
was quite safe, the firing mechanism had been removed. During
smokeoh someone replaced the firing mechanism—there was
nothing surreptitious about it, the crew were standing around
fiddling with the gun as guncrews do, trying the sights, the
traverse, firing mechanism. After smokeoh, back into the training. “Action left!” A live round was rammed home, the gun
swung round on to the RAP truck with a bigger queue than
usual because of the current route march. “Action Right!” The
gun swung round on to the 2 i/c's tent: still no fire order.
“Action Front!” The gun came round on to the colonel's tent.
“Range 700.” “Zero.” “Fire!” And Private Fred Putt's
Pte F. E. Putt; New Plymouth; born NZ 9 Apr 1919; farmhand.
foot
pressed the firing pedal.
‘The well trained gun crew observed the shot. Right on the
mark, but high, it cleared the tent, ricochetted from the ground,
and away into the blue. Then it flashed home to everybody
that the damned gun was not supposed to go off, at least not
then. Apparently the battalion, still on route march, was marching in single file because everyone seemed to think the shot
went directly over his head. From that time on, Private Putt,
alone among our eight, and later sixteen, guncrews enjoyed
the rank and title: “Gunner”.’
When the Division's rehearsal for Alamein was over (further
rehearsals on a smaller scale would, of course, follow), the battalion moved back a few miles in a dust-storm and prepared
for the brigade ceremonial parade due on the last day of the
month. Sixteen Platoon of D Company was two minutes late
for the rehearsal parade: beer, in short supply and very precious, was stopped for the whole company. A deeply disturbed
meeting delegated Jack Sullivan (canteen representative) to
tell the OC that 16 Platoon was prepared to take any punishment (except the beer cut), and it was considered unfair to
penalise the whole company. The decision remained, but D
Company helped themselves to their beer ration just the same.
An alarmist felt that the company ‘would be up for mutiny’.
After next morning's parade Colonel Campbell arrived, inspected the company, and asked the men to try to bring back
the spirit of the old ‘Don’ Company he once commanded.
Then, sending all officers away, he said: ‘Sit down men, and
you may smoke.’ When everyone was comfortable he went on,
‘Now tell me all your troubles—what's all this business about
the beer?’ The Colonel listened patiently, asked why they had
not gone to him, and finally said he wanted no more such
nonsense. He then appealed to the old hands to give newcomers
all possible help, saying that any reinforcement wanting advice
should never hesitate to approach an old soldier. ‘The company
fully appreciated this tactful and understanding manner of
dealing with the situation,’ sums up Tom De Lisle, ‘and felt
that their old OC had endeared himself more than ever to the
boys of his old company.’ Touches like these were not uncommon between senior officers and their men in the New Zealand
Division.
The big parade for General Montgomery passed off happily,
a spectacular and heartening sight. The General took the salute,
and pinned the VC ribbon on Sergeant Keith Elliott's chest,
the DCM on Corporal Ron Garmonsway, and the OBE on
Major Steele (which he won while commanding the New Zealand squadron of the Long Range Desert Group). Addressing
the parade through a microphone the General said: ‘A magnificent spectacle. I've seen you in action and on parade you're
equally good. You've killed Germans before and you'll kill
them again.’
On 19 October, when the battle was drawing close, Padre
Champion took a service, preaching on Luke, XII, 2: ‘For there
is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that
shall not be known.’
‘This is the big day and tonight the big show begins. I am
writing this in a large slit trench which was conveniently dug
by Australians previously,’ wrote Lieutenant Wardell.
Capt R. Wardell; Masterton; born Masterton, 21 Dec 1910; farmer; wounded
24 Oct 1942.
’ It is a
beautiful day, sunny and not too hot so far (10.30). Haddon
Donald and other company commanders have been out on a
reconnaissance and has just been over to tell me what he has
seen. So far I don't know what time zero hour is, it is always a
last minute secret. We have buried all our gear except what we
stand up in, and it will be collected later.
‘A lot of shelling is going on and our planes and German
ones are having a scrap right overhead about 20 thousand feet
up. I have just been round my men, they are joking and confident about tonight and so am I. I cannot take my diary with
me so this will be the last day I record until we get our gear
back after this scrap. If it is not continued….’
All along the front the Eighth Army was about to attack.
This was the plan: 30 Corps between the coast and Miteiriya Ridge, was to
attack with (from right to left) 9 Australian, 51 (Highland), 2 New Zealand and
1 South African Divisions. South of 30 Corps, 13 Corps was to make diversionary
attacks. Two lanes were to be cleared through 30 Corps' sector for the passage
of the armour of 10 Corps; the southern lane, through 2 NZ Division, was to
cross Miteiriya Ridge. 2 NZ Division was to secure the north-western portion of
this ridge with 5 Brigade on the right and 6 Brigade on the left. 23 Battalion
(right) and 24 Battalion (left) were to capture the first objective, the foremost
enemy defences, and in the second phase of the attack 21 and 22 Battalions
(5 Brigade) were to pass through 23 Battalion, and 26 and 25 Battalions (6 Brigade)
through 24 Battalion, to take the final objective (the ridge). In both phases the
Maoris were to mop up behind the assaulting battalions. The engineers were to
clear gaps through the minefields and mark lanes for 9 Armoured Brigade (under
the command of 2 NZ Division) and the supporting weapons.
The New Zealand Division was to attack south-westwards to
secure the north-western portion of Miteiriya Ridge and clear
a wedge-shaped patch roughly two miles wide and three and
a half miles deep. In 5 Brigade 23 Battalion, setting out at
9.35 p.m. (five minutes before the opening bombardment),
would lead the attack, advancing about two miles to capture
the first objective, the enemy's foremost defences, just through
the first enemy minefields. Then, at five minutes before midnight, 22 Battalion (on the left) and 21 Battalion (on the right),
after moving up 23 Battalion's cleared lane, were to take over
from where the 23rd had left off and attack for about another
one and a half miles. In 22 Battalion D Company was on the left,
C in the centre, B on the right, and A Company in close reserve.
Battalion Headquarters' forward group would follow the
rifle companies: Rear Battalion Headquarters would be further
back with the head of the Support Column.
Although the strength of 22 Battalion was 35 officers and
628 other ranks, actually less than half of these (310 all ranks)
would take part in the attack, and the great burden of casualties would fall, not on the battalion as a whole, but almost
exclusively on the riflemen; 129 all ranks from Support Group
were to follow into position immediately the attack succeeded.
One man (who found the Alamein attack not as terrifying
as some actions he had been in), remembers the reassurance of
‘all the signs of the attack about to take place before official
word reached us—that word was confident, and I think we
felt confident too—although there were some mutterings about
our tanks. We heard about the great mass of our equipment—
guns, tanks, 25 pounders and everything to the last detail seemed
to have been taken care of. The picture was confidence—with
sometimes just a slight doubt.’
The evening meal—the coolness as the sun set—the full moon
rising in the east—the YMCA Mobile Canteen arriving and a
man buying a tin of tomato juice, ‘What a wonderful drink it
was to quench my thirst and I felt remarkably good although
rather nervous—and expectant. We wondered among ourselves just who would and who wouldn't make the objective.
But there was none of that dread fear that I have experienced
on one or two other occasions. When you feel sick and watery
in your stomach or when you can't eat anything, things are
getting bad then.’
Padre Champion remembers the moon ‘peeping out from
behind a bank of clouds at 5 minutes to 7 p.m. like wishing us
“good luck”.’
That evening, 23 October, ‘we had a good meal of stew after
dark and then back to our platoon areas,’ continues Wardell,
writing up his diary after the battle, ‘where we saw to the rifles
and Bren magazines, primed grenades and a last general once
over of all our weapons. Then at 8.40 my platoon joined 14
and 15 and we were soon going through … [a British minefield] through which sappers had cleared a track.’ They were
soon just behind 23 Battalion, poised for its advance to the first
objective beyond the first enemy minefields. ‘…dug in and
waited for the barrage from some of our 800 25-pounders to
begin. Approx 200 opened up behind us [at 9.40 p.m.] and the
row was terrific; they fired about four shells a minute and kept
this up for four hours.’
‘And what a sight!’ adds Mick Kenny. ‘Red flashes all over
the place, the air became thick with dust, smoke and burnt
cordite. The sound of the Highland Bagpipes and the Maori
Battalion doing their war cries. What a scene! Something we
can't ever forget.’
‘The shells bursting blew up a large enemy ammo dump and
at one time an ammunition truck went sky high and disintegrated on the way down,’ Wardell wrote. ‘This was clearly
visible against the continuous glow of shells bursting. The 23
Battalion went off the … [start line at 9.35 p.m.] and the
attack started….
The 900 medium and field guns certainly opened the heaviest bombardment
so far in Africa—but only 104 guns covered the New Zealand front, each gun
firing on a lane 24 yards wide and increasing later (as the New Zealand front
widened) to 46 yards—in fact, despite the shellbursts and the dust clouds, a very
thin barrage for the infantrymen.
‘All this time we had waited flat on the ground with shells
whistling over our heads in incredible numbers; the blast from
the bursting shells was so great it was hard to breathe as the
wind was knocked out of your lungs. Never had Alamein known
a night like it. Warships were shelling the enemy from the sea,
and our bombers roared overhead dropping enormous loads of
flares and bombs.
‘For a moment during the lull we heard the pipers from the
Black Watch [the Highland Division was on the right of 5
Brigade], it was a grand sound and an inspiration to us all.
Our zero hour [10.30 p.m.] had come and we had our ration of
rum which Og Wood and I gave out to the platoons; then we
formed up and away to the [first] start line. Still the bombardment went on—it seemed incredible that anyone could live
through it; we were soon to find out that they could. They were
very well dug in.
‘After about 600 yards of perfectly flat desert we came to the
[British] minefields and wire entanglements [through which
gaps had been cleared], it was brilliant moonlight and we could
see the mines and anti-personnel mines on iron standards about
a foot above the sand with trip wires to set them off; because of
the moonlight we were able to see the mines and trip wires.’
The battalion advanced for forty minutes on a compass
bearing of 245 degrees, or practically west-south-west. The men
were moving over the ground cleared by 23 Battalion and the
Maoris, the latter in a mopping-up role; they had met no hostile
fire so far, but closer and closer grew the flashes and noises ahead
of machine guns, mortars and shellfire. After forty minutes they
saw purple lamps. This was the forming-up area, on 23 Battalion's objective, carefully lit up and marked in advance by
the Intelligence Officer, Lieutenant Butchart,
Lt D. J. W. Butchart; born NZ 3 Jan 1916; journalist; killed in action 24 Oct 1942.
and his party,
who had followed close behind 23 Battalion. Here a signal was
received from Brigade that 23 Battalion had been held up
(actually it had gone on beyond its objective), and Colonel
Campbell told all companies to be prepared for opposition
earlier than they had expected. Shell and mortar fire was being
met, and some casualties were caused by shorts in the New
Zealand artillery barrage.
The companies fanned out into extended line. The main
attack for 22 Battalion began from the second start line (23
Battalion's objective) at fifty-five minutes past midnight.
The attacking companies were well into position in relation
to the artillery barrage, now bursting in a violent wave close in
front of them. The advance continued at the rate of 100 yards
in three minutes, with contact being kept between Headquarters
and the companies. Elements of 23 Battalion met falling back
on the left flank said that they had struck heavy opposition
further forward. D Company, which had lost contact with 26
Battalion on the left flank, reported that it was held up by
strongpoints previously reported by 23 Battalion. C Company
went in, wiping out all opposition, and the advance continued.
‘The enemy now opened up on us with everything they had,’
Wardell continues, ‘and their fire was withering. They were
obviously expecting us in spite of the utmost secrecy of our
previous movements. It seemed impossible that anyone could
advance into this fire, but we did. By now we were going
through thick dust like fog caused by bursting shells and smoke
from bursting shells; it was pinkish to look at as tracer bullets
winging through all the time made it so. The enemy used tracer
a lot and it was actually possible to avoid machine gun tracer
and you could see where it was going and walk beside it as
they were firing mostly on fixed lines.
‘We returned their fire with Bren and rifle fired from the hip,
also Tommygun. Then a mortar shell landed almost at my feet,
blew me up into the air and when I came to I was quite allright, but Hori Toms
Pte H. Toms; Rotorua; born Taihape, 14 Sep 1917; farm labourer; twice
wounded.
my batman had blood pouring from a
wound gaping in his hip, and his leg all twisted and broken.
Then Adams
Pte C. C. Adams; born Palmerston North, 19 Jun 1908; labourer; died of
wounds 24 Oct 1942.
got hit badly and his trousers on fire. Sergeant
Reidy
Capt D. M. Reidy; Palmerston North; born Waipukurau, 28 Apr 1912; canvasser.
and I ripped them off. Then Lofty Veale
Pte W. L. Veale; born Auckland, 3 Sep 1910; waterside worker; twice wounded.
then
Simmonds
Pte A. G. Simmonds; born Wellington, 28 May 1906; iron moulder; wounded
24 Oct 1942; killed in action 2 Dec 1943.
and a few more got wounded, and our stretcher
bearers following up did great work. We pushed on all the
time. The creeping barrage was crashing shells overhead and
bursting about 200 yards in front of us. On we went and now
right in front of us was a large German machine gun pit with
about 7 or 8 Germans firing with all they had; we charged
them with Brens, Tommys and grenade and finished them off.
Then on again. We had come a long way by this time and still
the fire was terrific. Then we were going through a very heavy
cloud of dust and smoke, and I got a most terrific whack on
my shoulder and a burning pain and I was on the sand again
with blood running down my arm onto my chest.’
Contact with the companies was now becoming increasingly
difficult because the dust and smoke hanging over the battlefield made visibility bad despite the full moon. Another complication now set in. Some of the attackers advanced too fast
(the rate was 100 yards in three minutes), and when the 25-
pounders opened up after the next lift, ‘the shells tore down
and crashed around us.’
Wardell was now out of the battle, so another man takes up
the tale: ‘There was much ducking and diving around us as
we got back behind them. The dust and stuff from the barrage
was dimming the moon, and it wasn't always easy to see or
keep contact. At least two of us got out of position, saw an n.c.o.
from the company behind us, asked him which company he
was, and he jumped in the air and jabbered and roared and
we were treated to the finest exhibition of “scone-doing” we
ever saw in the army. He was waving his arms around in the
air and by what we could make of it he reckoned we should
be further ahead.’ The two men regained their places and
carried on, a little peeved at perhaps being mistaken for
deserters.
‘I don't think we noticed half the stuff coming our way
because of the noise of our own guns. But now and again you
would notice a man stagger or fall or do something that told
you he had been hit—then a chap near spun round, dropped
his rifle and grabbed his ankle and said: “The bastards have
got me”. Then one of our jokers a few yards to my left and
slightly in front of me, he must have spotted something for as
I glanced his way he was standing with his legs well apart, and
just as I looked there was a flash right between his legs and
just in front of him: he seemed to pull back a bit but then
carried on again. Now and again we passed the dead body of
one of the enemy—each lying in its own special position.’
Despite the dust clouds the advance halted according to plan
at the pause of the artillery barrage at 1.40 a.m. Colonel
Campbell visited all the company commanders and, finding
that C Company had suffered heavy casualties, ordered A
Company to take over a forward role in the centre, with C
Company moving back into the reserve position. D Company
was still on the left. Lieutenant Wood had been killed and two
other officers wounded in C Company, in which only thirty
other ranks remained to take part in the final phase of the
attack. Corporal Lacy Craig had become the commander of
his platoon, and was discharging his duties with considerable
skill and judgment.
B Company (on the right), extraordinarily enough at this
stage, had met no opposition, but one of its men had been
killed and another wounded.
The advance was resumed at 1.55 a.m. into heavy shell and
mortar fire and some machine-gun fire. Mick Kenny in A
Company saw it like this: ‘To be advancing and seeing tracers
coming towards you, hissing past, shells bursting around, being
met by whizzing dirt, seeing comrades blown over, challenging
dugouts, getting Ities out at Bayonet point, over-running dugouts and to be fired at from behind—what a night! However,
Lieutenant O'Reilly who carried on, although wounded, got
us to our objective—a great effort for a wounded officer.’
About this stage a particular enemy machine gun, firing on
fixed lines, kept putting short strings of tracer at an angle
through the battalion's line of advance. A man in C Company
(which was following behind A Company) could ‘see several
points of light appear far ahead and sail gracefully and quite
slowly towards you, then as they got near you they would seem
to speed up and dart past then go serenely on until they disappeared somewhere behind. It came to the time when I had
to pass through its line of fire so I kept a sharp lookout ahead
then got onto the other side as quickly as possible without getting out of line too much.’
Soon victory was within grasp, for at last the battalion was
moving up the northern slopes of Miteiriya Ridge itself. Rear
Battalion Headquarters group joined the forward headquarters,
and the mopping-up party from 28 Battalion was in close and
thorough attendance at the rear. This detachment from the
Maori Battalion also gave brief and invaluable attention to the
wounded, thrusting dropped rifles in the sand bayonet first as
a guide for stretcher-bearers. A wounded man remembered the
dead ‘surrounded by great dark patches in the sand, their faces
looking ghastly in the moonlight.’
B Company still kept touch with 21 Battalion on the right
flank, but contact with the centre company had been lost just
short of the ridge. B Company had suffered further casualties
by this time, losing two killed and twenty wounded. As the
leading infantry, thinning fast but undaunted, crested the ridge
they struck intense fire from enemy machine-gun posts which
were not at that time hampered by the artillery barrage.
Quickly sizing up the situation, Captain MacDuff placed some
of his Bren guns in position to return the fire, and rushed the
remainder of his men virtually on to the edge of the barrage
with great skill, stamping out the enemy practically before the
artillery had lifted. This swift action undoubtedly minimised
casualties in the rest of the battalion and enabled it to reach
its objectives according to plan. For this action MacDuff won
the Military Cross.
By now all companies had met strong opposition, and heavy
duelling with automatic weapons was taking place on the battalion front. A Company, in the confusion of the attack, had
eased over to the left, and just before reaching the final objective met Battalion Headquarters. This company also had
suffered during the assault: one killed, twenty wounded and
seven missing so far, and every man with his own particular
narrow-escape story. ‘On one occasion while we were lying on
our stomachs waiting for the barrage to lift I felt what seemed
like a worm give a wriggle in the back of my shirt—only it
felt hot.’ Later this man found that the bullet, after entering
the top of his haversack, had gone through a packet of army
biscuits (‘incredible’) and then a tin of bully, and had broken
in two; one part had passed out through the bottom of the
haversack, and the other fragment had smashed the haversack's
buckle.
D Company had lost touch with 26 Battalion after moving
through the wire, and the relative positions of A and D Companies
in the line of advance had been reversed. C Company
(despite its losses and its return to reserve position) had again
gone forward with D Company, and all four companies took
part in the advance to the final objective. D Company struck
its first enemy posts at 2.20 a.m., but these and further enemy
strongpoints were routed until the final objective was gained.
Even then the company did not halt—the same company which
had been appealed to over the ‘beer strike’ four weeks ago. D
Company (and, in fact, most of the battalion) attacked a further
600 yards, taking sixty prisoners, while C Company also moved
forward and accounted for a number of prisoners, as well as
killing many of the enemy remaining in their pits.
During the advance over the ridge Battalion Headquarters
had been seriously depleted and divided. The wireless set had
gone astray and communication with Brigade lost, while A and
C Companies' sets were out of action. A company from 23 Battalion (which had overshot its objective) was met, but luckily
these troops made themselves known very quickly.
In the final stages of the attack the battalion endured intense bombardment from mortar and airburst shells, but by
2.35 a.m. all the companies had reported reaching their objectives. Unfortunately the men carrying the rocket flares were
either wounded or missing, and not until 3.15 a.m. was Colonel
Campbell able to fire the success signal. The attack had gone
entirely to plan and the objectives detailed in operational orders
had been taken. A further 600 yards of enemy territory also
had been exploited successfully, many of the enemy killed, and
some 150 prisoners taken. Throughout the attack the battalion
had not strayed from the correct axis of advance and had been
under full control and in contact with Headquarters. The Intelligence Officer and his party, doing exceptionally good work
in the marking of the forming-up areas and in laying the start
line, had contributed to the success.
The casualties, 110 altogether, undoubtedly were heavy, but
considering the opposition and the final success, these losses
were not thought unduly high. Nevertheless, one man in every
three in the actual attack had become a casualty—such is the
lot of the infantryman. Further grim work was ahead, for the
companies still had to consolidate. Although they had advanced
an extra 600 yards, they now drew back, and while consolidating,
still under heavy shell and mortar fire, suffered more
casualties. Captain Donald (C Company), who had been
wounded earlier, returned to the field after his wound was
dressed, and was wounded again. Lieutenant Butchart, who
had stayed with the forward companies after laying out the
start line, was killed while trying to raise Headquarters over a
No. 18 wireless set; the shell also killed the signaller alongside
him.
The battalion had consolidated by 4.30 a.m., with its foremost positions about 1000 yards beyond the crest of Miteiriya
Ridge, and Battalion Headquarters was established on the reverse slope by 5 a.m. Prisoners taken during the attack were
handed over to the most helpful and capable A Company
Maori Battalion, under Major Bennett.
Lt-Col C. M. Bennett, DSO; Wellington; born Rotorua, 27 Jul 1913; radio
announcer; CO 28 (Maori) Bn, Nov 1942-Apr 1943; wounded 20 Apr 1943.
The battalion stretcher-bearers had worked nobly, their work being exemplified
by cool and fearless Corporal Frank Blackett,
Sgt F. J. Blackett, MM; Lower Hutt; born NZ 16 Sep 1913; engineer.
who won the
Military Medal. In charge of the stretcher-bearers attached to
B Company, Blackett collected, attended, and sent out all of
the twenty men wounded in the company during the attack,
and also attended the wounded from other companies who
could not be moved. He and his fellow stretcher-bearers were
under extremely heavy shell and mortar fire. When tied down
by enemy fire towards the end of the attack, Blackett dug in
his remaining wounded until he could shift them. Next day,
returning to his company, he did not spare himself and moved
round under machine-gun fire to bring in further casualties.
Just before dawn on 24 October the most welcome sound of
the ‘Scorpion’ group and battalion support party could be
heard approaching from the rear, and then, true enough, the
sound of tanks. The Colonel sent a party to comb a strip of
ground to the left of a marked minefield at the foot of the ridge.
The party found this patch clear of mines. The first twelve to
fifteen tanks got to the strip safely, but the next tank, foolishly
taking a short cut to the right, ran on to the minefield. Others
followed, and four were crippled. Vehicles streamed up and
milled about this place; some suffered the same fate. The whole
of the battalion area was still under heavy shelling. The support
weapons, delayed by the minefield further back, were late in
arriving, and only two two-pounders were able to get into
position. The remaining anti-tank guns and medium machine
guns were forced to go into position behind the ridge, for the
forward positions were being heavily and continually shelled.
The Support Group had met its own difficulties getting up
and into position, as Bart Cox
Sgt B. A. Cox; Christchurch; born Christchurch, 10 Sep 1909; accountant.
explains:
The barrage still shattered the night. The assault troops had
moved forward long since. Support Group were given the order to
move. The long slow crawl forward—nose to tail—losing the vehicle
ahead in the dust—the gap in the minefield [cleared by New Zealand
sappers]—the wrecked Scorpion blocking the cleared track. The
long hours—barrage still thundered—D.A.K. [Deutsch Afrika Korps]
and Italians spat back fitfully. The sky lightening as dawn broke,
and just as it became light the sudden activity as Support Group
were diverted to the right and through the gap cleared for 51st
Highland Division. [This diversion prevented trouble ahead where
the four tanks were shortly to be crippled.]
Trucks and carriers trailed through the dust of the gap, swung
left again, and raced across the front in daylight. Jerry threw everything at them, they should have been a perfect target—a gunner's
dream. Then into the comparative shelter of the ridge. ‘No. 1 gun
here.’ ‘No. 2 there’ and so on. Our long training stood us in good
stead as ramps were flung into position—guns eased onto the ramps—
wheels locked into position—ramps stowed away—ammunition off—
and away went the portees.
‘Dig in.’ ‘Just a minute, we'll have to change your position.’
‘Pack up again.’ ‘Can't they ever make up their … minds?’ A
jeep draws up—the gun is hooked on—a few boxes of ammo. flung
aboard—shovels and picks—and away goes the gun and two men.
Two more walk across carrying rifles and bren—the fifth man
stacks up the gear left behind and makes his own way. The shells
still scream over, odd ones coming close.
The new positition is about 20-30 yards back from the ridge
facing a break—just a shallow depression breaking the line of the
ridge. By no means a good anti tank site, but our tanks haven't come
up (they never do) and that gap must be covered. It's a one shot
position—either you get him in the belly as he breasts the rise or
—you've had it. Hope he doesn't sit hull down and stick his gun
through, but he couldn't do that—on a slope the other side—
couldn't depress his gun sufficiently—we hope. Dig, Dig, Dig.
No.4 plods back and forth. A box of ammo. and a pick—another
box of ammo. and the cleaning rod—and so it goes on.
‘Here come our tanks.’
Looking back they can see clouds of dust and occasional glimpses
of tanks through the dust. One or two draw up close and sit hull
down behind the ridge. Someone yells ‘Hell, look at that.’ A long
line of tanks breaks through the gloom. One, two, three—no use
trying to count them as they appear and vanish in the gathering
dust.
‘They can't be ours. Too many of them.’ To old desert digs who
have waited so often in vain for our tanks to arrive it seemed too
good to be true. But it is true, and they are ours—an endless stream
pulling in to form a wall of steel along the ridge where a short time
before a lone 2 pounder crew weighed up their chances of a lucky
belly shot as the first Jerry tank came over the rise and then—
curtains.
It was The Dawn for the New Zealanders, for the Eighth
Army, in many more senses than one.
‘Scorpions’ flailed and cleared a path through the minefields
on the top of the ridge. A number of tanks from the attached
armour moved through. A small tank battle developed. Battalion Headquarters, now within twenty yards of the gap in the
minefield which had become the enemy's target, had a hot
time until 10 a.m., when it moved a little and set itself up on
the reverse slope of the ridge.
A glimpse of the ‘small tank battle’ mentioned above was
seen by Bart Cox:
[Some Royal Wiltshire Yeomanry and Staffordshire Yeomanry]
tanks lined up on the ridge—others in the narrow area between
ridge and minefield. Odd ones burning. A Crusader manoeuvring
near the R.A.P. hit a mine—crew baled out, but tank did not brew
up.
Spasmodic firing. Officers sitting on ground with maps behind a
tank. A runner dashes up, comes to attention, salutes, hands over a
signal, stands at attention while officer reads message. ‘What, salute
in the middle of a bl… battle’ a New Zealander gasps in horror.
‘B… must be mad.’ The runner took a smart pace forward,
accepted a reply from the officer, saluted, wheeled and doubled away.
Discipline took on a new meaning to sundry old desert digs.
A tank is hit and brews up over the ridge. The crew bale out and
stumble back to safety, their hands and faces burnt horribly. Their
faces are black—seared—except for those queer white patches around the eyes where the men had screwed up their faces as the
blast hit them. Their hands are burnt and useless, they hold them
up in front of their chests. They do not say much—just stand mute—
shocked—in agony.
Willing hands lead them away to a jeep, and their officer speaks.
‘These good people are going to take us to the R.A.P. Very good of
them. Is the seat of my pants still on fire? Would someone mind
putting it out for me? Can't use my hands. Well, don't waste time
lads, and hurry back, THERE'S MORE KILLING TO BE DONE.’
This morning ‘Tiny’ Revell, D Company's quartermaster,
in his most conspicuous lorry driven by Jack Ford, made a trip
up to the battalion with Captain Crarer, who told Ford ‘to
pull up in an area littered with weapons of various kinds,
greatcoats, and one or two bodies. There were two or three
tanks quite close with their crews sheltering beneath them and
one valiant Pongo was boiling his billy, for shai, on yet another
that was still burning. Crarer said we were to pick up everything in sight and await his return.’ ‘Tiny’ Revell continues:
‘The Pongos proceeded to remonstrate with us in their language,
begging us to take our something 3 tonner elsewhere before the
88s got the range. Unfortunately the 88s were quick off the
mark and loading that truck lives with me yet. We did it between shell bursts and in the process discovered two terrified
little Eyeties hiding under some discarded greatcoats: two unwilling workers added to the party. Just then a light tank or
A/c. came on the scene with Freyberg standing up through the
hatch complete with binoculars. “Who is old—with the red
hat?” said the nearest Pongo. “That's ‘Tiny’ Freyberg the
G.O.C.,” I said and Jack and I started work again. We were
stooping at the tail of the truck to raise it when a shell burst
painfully close, blowing both of us over and throwing shattered
rock etc. into the truck. When the terror left me I found that
I had snuggled under a blanket covering the body of Arnold
Widdowson
Lt A. F. Widdowson; born Timaru, 29 Apr 1913; farm labourer; killed in
action 24 Oct 1942
…. I promptly stood up and Jack Ford called
out to me “Are you all right Tiny?” At the time Freyberg's
tank was stationary a few yards away and the G.O.C. turned,
waved, said “I'm fine”, and the Pongos said: “Ee what a Fred
Karno's Army.”
A First World War song, sung to the tune of the hymn ‘The Church's One
Foundation’, went like this:
We are Fred Karno's Army,The ragtime infantry,We cannot fight, we cannot shoot,What earthly use are we! etc.
Fred Karno was an English Edwardian music-hall comedian, an artist in the
portrayal of comic inefficiency, whose acts rose to a climax of misunderstanding,
hopeless confusion, disintegration and despair.
The battalion expected a counter-attack at noon. Twenty
to twenty-five enemy tanks, with infantry in support, had moved
in to within 400 yards of its front. The situation looked critical.
When two tense hours had passed, it became obvious that this
move was only for the purpose of establishing forward infantry.
The tanks in support of the battalion, as well as the artillery,
fired continuously during the rest of the afternoon. Hostile shells,
machine-gun and snipers' fire brought further casualties among
the forward companies: ‘terrific mortar shells bursting in
the air spitting death as the shrapnel fell down.’ A nearby
couple were not as lucky as the observer just quoted. ‘Bob and
I in the same slittie: the next thing I remember was waking to
find my tin hat jammed down over my ears (the sandbag-covering stuff on it was ripped to threads). I think we were
only stunned for a few seconds. When I looked at Bob he was
looking at me as though he was just coming to his senses too.
We looked at each other, collecting our senses, and then I saw
blood all over his face and hands, then he gave one look at his
hand and said: “Aw, hell.” ‘
Support Group, about 500 yards to the rear and slightly to
the right of Battalion Headquarters, also came under heavy
shelling. At 6 p.m. D and C Companies were ordered to withdraw over the ridge to behind Battalion Headquarters. Captain
Oldham, who had taken over command of C Company, while
moving back over the ridge trod on and exploded a mine. One
man was killed and six wounded, including the captain.
The signallers laid lines to company areas during the night.
The battalion anti-tank guns and attached machine guns and
six-pounders moved into forward positions. Two two-pounder
and two six-pounder anti-tank guns were held in reserve. The
‘Q’ staff, established with A Echelon, arrived at 8 p.m. with an
unforgettable hot meal. The padre, under constant shelling,
got up safely too, and the RAP was set up within a mile behind
Battalion Headquarters. Lieutenant McKirdy,
Capt C. McKirdy; born NZ 25 Apr 1917; clerk.
with an A
Company patrol, passed beyond the foremost positions and
returned to report enemy minelaying parties 1000 yards in
front of the battalion.
Except for the sentries, the troops settled down to snatch as
much sleep as possible, marred by intermittent shellfire and
bombing attacks by single enemy planes on the tank unit's
headquarters over to the left. Pickets on duty all through the
night reported no particular alarms. Soon, however, A Company was to suffer unnecessarily. It was mistakenly relieved by
a unit from Sussex Regiment and then was ordered back again.
‘What a royal welcome Jerry gave us when he saw us going
back still in broad daylight: mortar fire, machine-gun fire—
the air was blue, not only with smoke but with oaths—someone
had blundered.’
5 Brigade received a warning order in the evening of 24 October that it was
to be relieved by 133 Lorried Infantry Brigade next day. No such relief took
place, but the expectation that it would caused some confusion in 22 Battalion.
B, C and D Companies were withdrawn to the transport area near Brigade
Headquarters on the morning of 25 October, and only A Company (MacDuff)
remained on the forward slope of Miteiriya Ridge. The following morning (the
26th) A Company, believing that it was to be relieved, also withdrew, but was
ordered to return while on the way out. C Company was disbanded and its men
were absorbed into the other three rifle companies. On the night of 26-27 October
B Company went back into position on the ridge. D Company protected a party
of engineers laying mines in the evening of 26 October and went into position
behind Battalion Headquarters next morning.
One man at a time dashed across the open
ground. ‘Bluey’ Sapsford
Pte E. S. Sapsford; born Wellington, 31 Mar 1912; postman; killed in action
26 Oct 1942.
was killed and two wounded. Slit
trenches, when reached, of course were full of the English troops
until they pulled out. A lull—a sergeant called out to keep heads
down, then'suddenly a resounding bang—the dust clearing…
poor “Tich” Tichborne
Pte F. T. Tichborne; born Australia, 15 Aug 1914; slaughterman; killed in
action 26 Oct 1942.
had copped it. That night we wended
our way to see Captain Hockley and reported to him our misfortune, and Captain Hockley that night read the last rites for
“Tich” while his comrades gathered around.’
Another sad loss that day was Sergeant-Major Bob Bayliss,
one of the battalion's outstanding soldiers. He was killed while
trying to silence an anti-tank gun.’… and it wasn't hard to
picture his effort, or the reason for it,’ wrote somebody who
afterwards visited the scene, ‘because hard by the position was
a British tank with the crew still inside looking very calm in
their death.’
No counter-attack broke on the battalion's front. The stolid
British tanks (now winning their spurs back again with the New
Zealanders) fired most hearteningly at any enemy objectives
from hull-down positions on the ridge. Signallers worked untiringly
to keep their lines open. C Company, cut up, was disbanded, its men sent to the three remaining rifle companies.
Lieutenant Cross took over command of D Company, which
moved briefly out to protect a minelaying party of engineers.
A Company (which suffered two casualties through bombing
in the early hours of 27 October) extended its area to cover a
gap where a platoon from 26 Battalion had been captured.
The shellfire ‘wasn't so bad at first—just one shell at a time,
I should think about a minute between each, but as time went
on and each one landed in the area somewhere near a slit
trench, it began to get on the nerves. One would come over and
crash down somewhere around. If it was close you would see
(from where you were lying in your shallow slittie) a ragged
thin dirty coloured cloud drifting through the air; sometimes
it cast a light shadow as it went across the sun. Then you waited
for the faint first whispering sound of the next one, then the
sound would increase in volume and down she would crash
again. Then there would be momentarily a feeling of relief that
that one didn't have your name on it, but then you started to
wonder where the next one was going to land. This type of
shelling (I thought) was the worst on the nerves of all the
enemy's ways of making war which I experienced.’
General Freyberg visited the battalion again on 27 October
and inspected with Colonel Campbell the land ahead of
Miteiriya Ridge. Arriving alone at B Company headquarters,
he joined Captain MacDuff and members of B Company in
a mug of shai, waved towards a distant tank battle, and remarked: ‘Out there history is being made.’ Vicious shelling
spread later in the afternoon, but an advance party from the
Transvaal Scottish reconnoitred the area, and news that the
battalion was to be relieved was confirmed at 11 p.m., when
the battalion changed over with the South Africans, embussed
in RMT lorries, and drove back via Star track to the rest area
before dawn. ‘And has anyone ever noticed how peaceful it is
just to lie back on the good old desert sand and let the good old
sun shine on you?’
Miteiriya Ridge had given the battalion another hard knock
with 25 killed, 114 wounded, 12 missing: altogether 151 casualties. This was the battalion's last, and most creditable, battle
in the desert.
Breaking the Alamein line took eleven bloody days. The Axis
defences sprawled back four or five miles. Four nights after
seizing Miteiriya Ridge, the New Zealanders were withdrawn.
Eighth Army kept up the pressure, but no signs of a break-through came until after 2 November when Operation Supercharge, controlled by New Zealand Divisional Headquarters,
smashed through to Tell el Aqqaqir (north of Miteiriya Ridge)
under an even heavier artillery barrage. A decisive tank battle
ended the days of Rommel's victories in Africa. British tanks,
heedless of casualties and opposition, swept forward most gallantly, charging, fighting, and overrunning enemy positions
and guns; and on 3 November the headlong stampede back to
Libya began. Next day the New Zealanders moved out through
the breach in pursuit.
Eight days later, on 11 November, one year exactly after the
move from Baggush towards the frontier forts, 22 Battalion
crossed over into Libya, then turned to unloading work at the
port of Sollum. There three small raids by three unescorted
bombers on 15 November brought three casualties, one of
whom, Lance-Corporal Stone,
L-Cpl J. N. Stone; born Wellington, 16 Apr 1908; market gardener; died of
wounds 16 Nov 1942.
died of wounds next day.
General Freyberg arrived with the news that the battalion
would be turned into a highly mobile unit attached to the New
Zealand armoured brigade being formed in Maadi. Before
9 a.m. on 17 November 22 Battalion was heading east, >Maadi-bound, its days of desert campaigning over.
The convoy pulled into Maadi Camp, passed Shafto's theatre,
turned left, passed 4 Brigade's area, the Church Army hut,
and continued out into the ‘tiger country’ of ‘U’ Area, right
alongside the camp prison, known as ‘Rock College’. It was a
desolate area—a few tents were up, piles of others waiting to
be erected, a few cookhouses, but it was to be ‘home’ for the
battalion for almost a year.
‘Next day a parade was called,’ writes Sergeant Bart Cox.
‘We were to be inspected by Brig. Inglis. Gear was to be
cleaned—rifles and bayonets were to be removed from their
cocoons of oil, rust, and sand—boots to be polished. It was
hopeless to try to improve the desert-stained battlestained
clothing, but an effort must be made.
‘The day of the parade arrived. Subalterns gazed horror-struck at the array of dusty, creased and stained uniforms, battered glengarrys covered with soot and oil, and the rifles and
bayonets!!! (No comment.) Senior officers were tight lipped.
Most of the officers and men had at some time or another
served under the Brig., especially when he was in command of
the Training Depot. They recalled with horror those battalion
parades when every Company had been inspected in detail,
and after each Company was inspected its O.C. had been instructed to march away the shattered remnants of his command,
while the Brig., the light of battle in his eyes, swept on to the
next victims. Officers and men recalled these events—the men
not so vividly, for they had little to lose—but to the officers the
outlook was grim. “Bunty” Cowper
Capt W. H. Cowper; born Dannevirke, 27 May 1912; farm manager; killed
in action 1 Jun 1944.
summed up the position
when he looked at one of his men—recoiled—came back for
another look—and said, “No matter what the Brigadier says
to you, don't say a word unless he asks you a direct question.
Then agree with him, agree with anything he says. Only thing
you can do in a case like this is to hit him over the head with
your rifle. Better not do that.”
‘But they did not know the Brig. Those old days in 32nd
Battalion, they had been raw recruits—new officers. He had
been hammering them into shape. Now they were his boys—
part of his command—they were trained men—this was different.
‘On battalion parade things went as usual, only more so. It
seemed as though officers and senior N.C.O.'s conscious of the
obvious deficiencies in their men's appearance would make up
for it by immaculate dressing and drill. Came the Brig—General Salute—etc. etc.—and here it comes!—but no, instead of
inspecting his men, he stood in front of them, beckoned with
his hands and said, “Close in, I want to speak to you.” And
he spoke to them, welcomed them to the 4th Brigade, told them
of future plans, and apologised to them. Yes, Apologised! He
explained that although he knew 22nd were to come under
his command, he did not know until the advance party arrived
a few hours before the Battalion, that we were on the way. So
he apologised because our tents had not been erected, because
the area was not prepared for us. He thanked us for the parade
and departed amid a flurry of salutes. And the pent up breath
of every officer, held since the car with the blue pennant first
rolled up, was released in one long Phew!! And 22nd Battalion
was received into the bosom of 4th Brigade.’
CHAPTER 8
To Italy
And we went on doing more training and more route marching
with now and again the usual fatigues, guards, etc.: groups
dotted round the area on lectures, weapon training, and so on,
and on such occasions rifles weren't always within reach.
These pages are based upon the recollections of a number of men who served in the battalion.
At this
particular time a ‘blitz’ was on over rifles left lying around by their
owners. So one day groups looked up, grateful for the diversion of
Colonel Campbell marching towards Battalion Headquarters, a
rifle in his hand, and a soldier, without rifle, hurrying along behind
and rapidly closing the gap. Another real funny sight in the army
I reckon was when one-stop-two was in progress and a group of men
were marching along with rifles at the slope and an order was given
(say one that wasn't heard properly, or say an unexpected order for
change of direction), and you saw about half the men turning one
way and half the other way. If ever men looked ridiculous it was
then—all marching in opposite directions—so intent—with rifles
sloping back.
Small groups, given compasses, would be sent out at night with
a bearing and the distance in yards to some rock. All going well,
they looked under the right rock and found a slip of paper with
further directions. So it went on (usually about four rocks), and
then home. One night a party from 2 Company, on the last lap
looking under various rocks, found a bundle of notes, about £6.
Discreet inquiries brought nothing, the finder took his friends to
the canteen, and this, for at least twenty New Zealanders (‘it looked
suspicious’), was the greatest unsolved mystery of the Second World
War.
When the battalion received its own trucks, tinned foods
were collected for section boxes. Soon each ammunition box
was well stocked with stores, ranging from lowly bully beef,
margarine, cheese, evaporated milk (‘Pet’ brand), milk powder,
condensed milk, coffee-and-milk preparation and ground coffee
to such delicacies as tinned fruit, toheroas, and oysters. Evening
snacks grew in variety, quality and quantity.
The officers' mess had a cook beyond description and praise.
In the evening he would come to the officers, wait respectfully
until he caught the eye of the Adjutant, and murmur:’ Dinner
is ready when you wish, gentlemen.’ The Adjutant, waiting an
opportunity, would tell the second-in-command, who at his
leisure would inform the Colonel. ‘Of course this priceless cook
had to leave us on furlough, to be replaced by an unpolished
Kiwi. The first night he took over, in collarless grey shirt, he
burst in among the officers, pointed a hairy arm accusingly at
Colonel Campbell, and shouted gruffly: “She's cooked!”’
And some days we went bumping on the trucks across the desert
to those wadis at the back of Maadi and ‘attacked’ various positions,
firing our small arms as we ran. When we did those ‘attacks’ certain
ones of us had to lie down as we were ‘shot.’ Old ‘Cactus’ said:
‘X—was a good officer. When we did those “attacks” he used
to yell out at me “Lay down! You're shot!“early in the “attacks”—
he could see I couldn't keep up to those young jokers.’ And sometimes, while mucking about out there, we would stop and pick up a
bit of fossilized wood (pieces lay thick on the ground in patches)
and wonder how long it was since trees grew in this God-forsaken
patch of desert. And we used to go for swims at Maadi baths (sometimes we'd route-march down) and to concerts (often by famous
stars) at EI Djem.
Larry Adler, the famous American harmonica player, gave a show,
and when he finished General Freyberg got up (this was after the
end of the African campaign) and made a very appreciative speech.
He ended up by saying: ‘And thank you again, Mister—er—er—’
(somebody next to him whispered in his ear)’—er—yes, Mister
Larry Adler.’ And Larry Adler then got up and made a very appreciative speech, and ended up by turning to the General and
saying:‘And thank you again, General—er—er—’ (and the boys,
overjoyed, roared'Freyberg’) ‘—er—yes, General Freyberg’
And we received reinforcements. Received them with no outward
show of enthusiasm. It wasn't till they showed that they fitted in to
the team that they became one of us. Then we stopped calling them
‘those new jokers’.
A young officer arrived from the Pacific (where he had taken
the war very seriously; he was making the Army his career)
and joined the battalion. What he saw and heard shocked him
professionally: discipline wasn't tight; sometimes there seemed
to be no discipline at all; everyone was living on past achievements; judging by their behaviour certain officers obviously
could not hold the command (and respect) of their men when
it came to the crucial test of battle. It hurt him, and finally in
March 1943 he wrote home to his wife: ‘Perhaps I am mistaken
but sometimes I feel that some of the officers here don't quite
accept me because I haven't been in action yet. Sometimes the
attitude of certain members of the mess makes me mad….
Some of these birds who have been here for a while have a
horrible complex, they know everything and just can't be
taught. If a few of them would get a little less shickered and do
a little more work it would do the world of good. I'm no wowser, but they drink far too much round here and if you can tell
me men who do that can do a decent job of work, well, I'll
eat my hat….’
His opinions'certainly were shaken a bit’ by the performance
of officers and men on the 100-mile route march before the
Division embarked for Italy, and shortly after his first battle
in Italy he was writing home critically to his wife: ‘I must say
some of these new reinforcements turning up….’ So it has
been since the first reinforcements joined in the first tribal wars.
One of the things that first struck me [another man, not the
officer] when I joined the battalion was the rough and ready ways
of the jokers—especially in their dress. Later on I had more time to
think about it. And it appeared that among the many styles in the
mess queue the one that was most popular was something like this.
On the head a cap-comforter or a balaclava pulled down and then
turned back up until it came to about the ears. (These were worn
when the weather was cold.) In the hotter weather if you wore a
shirt it was worn loosely, hanging from the shoulders down over the
top of your shorts (not tucked in) and unbuttoned down the front
(to clearly show your identity discs). Then on the feet you wore
either tennis shoes or boots and socks (no hose tops or puttees).
Glengarrys weren't popular, but sometimes you would see a lemon-squeezer [felt hat]—but not worn in the orthodox boy scout or Base
style—but usually with the crown dented in all round and minus
badge and usually minus puggaree. (And sometimes, as a salute to
our sister Dominion across the Tasman, one side of the brim was
turned up.)
Then there was all that moaning that went on regarding the
front-line troops, B Echelon, and Base—the first throwing the dirt at
the second—and the second throwing the dirt at the third. And, just
quietly, how many jokers joining the battalion saw one action and
then got into B Ech smartly, there to enjoy all the changes, sights
and freedom of battalion life without running any great risk, especially after Alamein and our air superiority, and then thoroughly
abused all at Base, with its tediousness, red tape, etc.? I often wonder,
if Base wallahs had been given the choice of staying where they
were or going to B Ech, how many would have stayed at Base?
Also, if B Ech had been given the choice of going either to Base or
the front line, how many would have gone to the latter? Of course
I don't mean that they were all like the above by any means.
But at Maadi (before going to Italy) we togged up, and the dhobi
did improved business as we went to Cairo on leave in our neatly
pressed KD shirts, shorts and slacks—with a handkerchief tied neatly
round your neck. And a lot took to wearing shoes and those long
turned-down socks—and some went so far as to buy a pair of desert
boots.
And how many injections was it you were supposed to have if you
fell in the Nile? Was it 20-odd?
In the line, very often, the section and platoon were your whole
world, while when out of the line you got to know more of the
company. This was especially so now at Maadi. We visited the company cookhouse three or more times a day, had our canteen, and
over the first part of our stay there received no reinforcements—and
everyone was well and truly established in and part of the company
—you knew everyone in your company to a lesser or greater extent.
And you knew more than just their faces. You knew the way so-and-
so walked or talked, how so-and-so held his pipe, or how so-and-so
always wore his glengarry on the top of his head—all their little
mannerisms. But of those in other companies, well, some faces you
knew, but most of them were strangers; no especial personality
behind that face, only what you imagined.
Those Headquarters guard duties at Maadi were no picnic. Carefully groomed, boots highly polished, clothes clean and well-pressed,
lemon-squeezer hat just right, I was scrutinised critically by the
officer of the guard, then carefully appraised of whom to salute,
and how to salute whom, and warned to execute all movements
with snap. By the time the guard change was made I was wet with
sweat, and felt like a limp rag in the terrific heat of this brilliant,
shimmering, midsummer's day. Left to it, however, I determined to
try to uphold the tradition that the Kiwi can rise to the occasion
when necessary.
After a few brisk movements—nobody in sight—I realised it was
siesta time. Good show! Me for the awning most of the time. Now,
everyone will recall that this awning, situated midway along the
sentry's beat, was a high wooden framework, covered at the top and
part-way down the sides and back. The shade it offered was very
acceptable even if there was no breeze. Retiring to the shade I was
thankfully standing'at ease’ under the awning, idly conscious of
Shafto's ugly bulk on my right, EI Djem on my left, and the water
tanks standing stark on the hilltop ahead and above me. It was a
grand chance too for a scratch: amazing how many embarrassing
parts begin to itch with perspiration when there is little chance to
attend to them.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of an officer approaching, and noted that he was entitled only to a ‘slap of the butt’. He
was rather close, and I'd have to get weaving to be at'the slope’
by the time he reached me. As I swung the rifle (with fixed bayonet
of course) to number two positition, that damnable bayonet stuck
deeply into the awning framework! Hell's teeth! Was I in a fix? I
duly slapped the butt (of the skewered and suspended rifle) which
was down around waist high now, and the officer solemnly returned
my compliment, but his shoulders were shaking visibly after he
passed.
Only one man in the battalion could not read or write.
Only two other men knew this, the first ‘guide’ who read and
wrote for him (in strict secrecy), and another who took over in
Italy. This man hid his illiteracy most cunningly; he pretended
to read newspapers and letters. On one occasion, when an
officer brought him a cable, all eyes turned expectantly towards him. ‘He's had it now,’ thought the ‘guide’.However,
he opened the envelope, ‘read’ the cable, and said: ‘Boss, I've
had it, I've just got to go home. Old man died. I've got to run
the farm.” Rot,'said the officer. The man replied: ‘If you think
I'm a liar, you read it then’, and handed over the cable. The
officer read aloud: ‘Many happy returns, happy birthday.’
Everyone roared with laughter; the ruse was not detected.
‘Snow’, a well-known character in the battalion, for weeks on
end ‘was quite the gentleman’. But sooner or later he would decide
to go to Cairo for the afternoon, and off he would go, quietly and
orderly. And most times, it seems, that would be the last we would
see of him until he came out of clink; he was several times in Rock
College [the New Zealand detention centre] and once in Abbassia
[the British punishment centre, where New Zealanders were sometimes sent]. It appears that when he arrived in Cairo he would
meet up with some other chaps and they would start on a round of
the bright spots. Soon Snow would be getting under the weather
and starting to assert himself. Then it would be only a matter of time
before either they got mixed up in trouble, or their money ran
out—usually both these seemed to happen. When he was broke,
Snow would look for other means of support, and no soldier in the
Allied armies was safe from him. Anyone from a general down might
be good for a few ackers. Finally one of his escapades would bring
him into contact with the Redcaps, and that would be that. One
day he came back with his hands bandaged up. It appears that he
and his cobbers decided to brighten the town up by setting off a
few flares or Very lights or something. They were putting on a good
display and Snow was just lighting one when somebody yells out:
'Stick to your guns, boys!’ and Snow hung on to his. Official explanation: burnt with a primus.
Bert Leuchars
Sgt A. J. Leuchars; Wellington; born Wellington, 11 Jul 1914; accounts clerk.
arriving home from leave with a tropical palm in
a small wooden barrel he'd acquired from outside some Gippo
café. It certainly did give our tent a very homely appearance. And
Lieutenant Dave Whillans's
Lt D. M. Whillans; Ruapuna, Ashburton; born Dumbarton, 19 Dec 1910; policeman; wounded 14 Jul 1942.
troublesome monkey, and the armourers’ dog, Snifter, which was run over by a tank just before Italy.
Some of the boys had been celebrating the night before and at
next morning's parade one at least was still feeling the effects of his
heavy night. Jimmy Jack,
Sgt J. G. Jack; born England, 13 Jan 1915; fur dresser.
the Canadian Kiwi, might have passed
inspection if the officer, as a good soldier should, had kept his head
erect and eyes straight ahead. But then inspecting officers are either
not good soldiers or else they don't stick to the rules. Even the most
junior of junior subalterns would not have passed Jimmy as correctly dressed. His web gear was correct. Rifle and bayonet? Yes.
Hat and badge? Yes. Shirt, KD? Correct. Boots, puttees, sox? Yes.
Need we continue?
One junior NCO had a particularly good rifle. It was always
clean and never rusted, never tarnished—a quick pull through and
a dust over with an old shaving brush, and it was ready for any
inspection. Needless to say its proud owner guarded it as his most
prized possession, although he had been known sometimes to lend
it to his best friends for guard duty. One morning on company
parade, Major Dennis Anderson announced that he would
inspect A Troop. Naturally he spotted the good rifle, examined it,
admired it, and complimented the NCO. Next day, as he rushed
out to parade, the same NCO tried to pull his rifle through. ‘Tried’
was right. The same pull-through that slid so easily through the
rifle could not be coaxed or forced through the piece of rusted iron
he held in his hands. He stopped, horror-struck, amazed—it was
not his rifle—worse, it obviously belonged to one or other of those
notorious rifle neglecters. In his haste he had grabbed a rifle belonging to either a cook or a driver. No time to go back, but anyway
lightning never struck twice in the same place. Yesterday'Maudie’
had inspected A Troop, today it would be B, C, or D. Brush up
the outside—she'll be right!
Company parade, and ‘Maudie’ announced—horror!—A Troop
would be inspected. Other troops would move off independently
to their respective parade grounds. Came the usual, ‘For inspection
—Open order—March!” For inspection—Port arms.’ And then,
instead of inspecting the troops in that position—after all, the
outside of the rifle might possibly have passed—he gave the order,
‘Examine arms.’ That was the last straw. Now nothing would
save the day—everything was ruined—that expected second stripe
would be just a myth.
Down the ranks came the officer, peering, taking a rifle here and
there—holding it to the light—even Egypt's most brilliant sun on
the clearest day would never—could never—send the faintest glimmer
through the dust and rust of ages collected in that bore—this
particular Sword of Damocles took the form of a lump of wood and
old iron fashioned in the shape of an S. M. L. E.—and closer came
fate—three men away, two, one—here it is.
Mr. Anderson, fine officer that he was, looked at the NCO,
smiled, said: ‘You're the man with the good rifle’, and passed on
with never a glance down. And that's how I became a corporal and
finally a sergeant—just luck!
A German recce plane often came over Maadi. You would first
see him away to the north as a vapour trail—sometimes, when he
got nearer, you would see him as a black speck. Then, when he got
near Cairo, some heavy ack-ack would open up and you would
see the tiny puffs many thousands of feet up—but not nearly high
enough to worry Jerry. Then he would gradually turn left in a
great half-circle and move north in the direction of the Canal, and
finally disappear away to the north—it would take him some time
to do this circuit. No planes could reach him until a specially
equipped Spitfire was rigged up, waited, and then, after a long
chase, shot him down towards Crete, so the story went, just under
50,000 feet. For a little while this lone flyer was sort of missed, in
a way.
I had spent two years in the infantry and had only recently
transferred to the Anti-Tank. At long last a change from the eternal
rifle—Bren drill—2-inch mortar—bayonet. I could name all Bren
stoppages; I knew why that small hole had been drilled in the gas
chamber, how many turns in the rifling of the Short, Magazine,
Lee Enfield, Mark—what does it matter.
The battalion was in Maadi, changing from an infantry to a
motor role. For weeks we had been going through the same old
grind: maintenance—gun drill—PT—route marches—rifle drill,
etc., until at last even the new role began to pall. And then it
happened. I was summoned to the orderly room.'Salute the orderly
room as you enter, soldier!” Sorry, Sergeant-Major.’ (The longest
way up and the shortest way down—wouldn't it?) I was told I was
to be sent on a course. What, me go on a course? What a relief,
anything for a change. ‘By the way, what course is it, six-pounder?’
‘No, as a matter of fact it's a platoon weapons course.’
Perhaps that helped brown me off slightly, but a short time later
I was doing a drop of Maori PT—flogging the sack, no less. The
other members of the team were sleeping, nattering, and what have
you, and one man, curse him, was doing a spot of dhobi-drill. He
had set up a primus and was boiling up some KD. I've admitted
I had cause to feel browned off, but not homesick, so there was I
day-dreaming, when through the door drifted just a smell—an odour
if you like. It brought it all back. Home, the family getting ready
for work or school, Mum in the laundry boiling the copper. I
reckoned I was just the average soldier, tough if needed, but I was
now ready to burst out in tears, and all because I could smell
boiling soapsuds.
Sometimes on manoeuvres water would be drawn in two-gallon tins. As was to be expected, some men drew more than
their share, leaving the others to go short. Captain Knox instructed'Hicko’ Broughton
Pte H. C. P. Broughton; born NZ 12 May 1912; labourer; twice wounded.
to supervise the issue—make sure
every truck collected a fair share. Next evening Captain Knox,
as he passed, saw the men drawing water tins and asked
Broughton if everything was under control. ‘Hicko's' answer
broke up the nearby mess queue.'She's right, sir. Some's got
it, some ain't, she's right!’
Part of the battalion, together with some tanks, went on
manoeuvres into the desert. Anti-Tank Company, less one
troop, was in an infantry role. That one troop, except for the
NCOs, was composed of reinforcements whose anti-tank training was far from complete. What little experience they had was
with six-pounders, but the powers that be decreed that ‘for the
purpose of the exercise’ two-pounders would be used.
Naturally the exercise required that the guns be loaded and
unloaded from the portées, and any gunner knows that is not
a job to be undertaken lightly by an inexperienced crew—
certainly not to be attempted as a fast movement. Grave misgivings were felt by the NCOs concerned, but the alternative
was to be in an infantry role, and everyone knows that there
is only one thing worse than being an infantryman in action,
and that is being an infantryman on manoeuvres.
The portées raced into the field. ‘Action!’ Ramps—hand-spike—wheels—winch—and by the grace of God, the guns were
on the ground and dug in. The No. 4s put the Benghazi burners
on for tea. Whistles blew, flags waved, and the manoeuvre
ended. The signal to form convoy was given—easy enough for
the infantry, but not quite so simple for a gun commander with
a ‘green’ crew and a two-pounder on the ground. A first attempt
resulted in a jammed hand. Just then the water boiled and the
gun commander naturally called a halt for a mug of tea.
This lack of activity seemed to displease some of the higher-ups, and a jeep was despatched to inquire into the matter. The
inquiring sergeant, satisfied that all would be well in a few
minutes, rejoined the convoy. The tea was disposed of and the
crew went back to the loading just as a second jeep, this time
with an officer, called to inquire after the well-being of the
troops. The loading went on apace and eventually the last
portée joined the convoy, amid glowering glances from certain
officers. Whistles blew, flags waved again, and in column of
route the convoy cleared the battle ground.
Next day on company parade Captain Donald'discussed’
the events of the previous day, touched briefly upon the efforts
of certain acting infantrymen, discoursed for a few minutes on
the sight of these stalwarts advancing in battle order, carrying
primuses, Benghazi burners, billies and sundry impedimenta
usually seen only among motorised units, and thus he worked
up to bigger things.
‘One gun crew took a long time to rejoin the convoy. Is the
gun commander here?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What was the cause of the delay?’
Now, I could have told him about the jammed hand and the
‘green’ crew, but I knew that officers liked observing events through
binoculars. I knew that binoculars—several pairs of them—would
have picked out the tea making and tea drinking, and I pictured
myself making excuses, floundering through explanations—on company parade, too, so I took a deep breath and said, ‘We were just
ready to load the gun when the billy boiled, so we had a cup of
tea.’
Never before or since have I seen Haddon Donald at a loss for
words. I strongly suspect I had stolen his thunder. ‘My God! My
God! The Brigadier, the Colonel, tanks, trucks, guns, all waiting,
andyou—you made a cup of tea. Don't ever do it again—don't
ever do it again.’
The quiet chuckle that stirred the ranks didn't help the good
captain either, and if he ever sees this story I hope he forgives me,
but secretly I think he enjoyed these little events which indicated
what I believe to be the way Haddon would have his NCOs act.
I don't think he liked commanding ‘yes men’ and when I reflect
on the NCOs who served under him, I feel that was how he had
‘brought them up’—independent thinkers, yes, but great NCOs—
on the surface ‘Maaleesh’ experts, but always on the job….
A few minutes' reflection must engender a great respect for the
man who selected many of them and who trained many of them—
and above all, the man who controlled them.
So 22 New Zealand (Motor) Battalion, the only motorised
battalion in the Division, took shape over almost a year, a
tedious year at Maadi Camp. It was an independent, self-supporting group with its own vehicles; it would become a
highly mobile force with particularly strong fire power, both
offensive and defensive; it would train and hold itself ready to
exploit at the shortest notice any breach in the enemy line, by
following up fast before the enemy had time to reorganise, aiming to win and to hold fresh ground until other units arrived.
Its duties would include, as Brigadier Inglis had pointed out,
protection for the tanks by day and also in the night when they
were laagered together; mopping up after a tank attack, and
winkling out the enemy from positions inaccessible to armour.
It would be strongly armed with its own anti-tank guns and
machine guns.
The new battalion, 35 officers and 730 other ranks, contained fewer riflemen and a great many more drivers and technicians than the infantry battalion: 237 other ranks carrying
rifles and light automatic weapons as against the customary
350 riflemen in other battalions. The companies changed from
four infantry companies to three motor companies (1, 2 and 3
replacing A, B and C), and an anti-tank company replaced the
former D Company. Each motor company, in the original
establishment, was made up of a company headquarters, scout
platoon (with eleven Bren carriers), a medium machine-gun
platoon armed with four Vickers, and two motor platoons,
making a company strength of 6 officers and 158 other ranks.
One 3-inch mortar was attached to each company. The Anti-
Tank Company (7 officers and 146 other ranks) included four
troops, each troop with four two-pounder anti-tank guns, which
were exchanged for six-pounders before the battalion left for
Italy.
In point of fact the Italian countryside would not permit the
battalion to use its mobility to any great extent. The extra
carriers and medium machine guns would be withdrawn after
the stalemate at Cassino, but the battalion would keep its
mobility and independence where fire power was concerned to
enable it to play a fluid role up the Adriatic coast in close
co-operation with the tanks. The New Zealand Division eventually was really a motorised division, but whereas other battalions had to borrow vehicles from the ASC to shift troops,
22 (Motor) Battalion, until shortly before the final thrust in
Italy, always had its own transport under command and was
designed to play a mobile role.
With the arrival of vehicles of their own the infantrymen's lot
improved a great deal. For example, riflemen now had a chance
to store away and take with them a little food. As one man put
it: ‘Any officer with a batman, or any small group such as
artillery or anti-tank which carry their own rations, must inevitably, although they may not realise it, live much better than
a large body. There are all sorts of little odd drinks and things
that all add up. And if a full belly holds hunger in contempt,
so does an extra mug of tea or so make one a little careless of
what the next man is going through.’
Men went off to a wide variety of courses (usually about 9
officers and 120 other ranks were away on courses at any given
time) at the New Zealand School of Instruction and the New
Zealand Armoured Corps Training Depot, to learn all about
the tasks of driver-mechanic, driving and maintenance, motor-cycles and maintenance, platoon weapons, enemy weapons,
mortars, range-takers, Intelligence, Vickers machine guns,
signals, radio, anti-tank gunnery, and minelaying. A long-overdue service was introduced to the companies in December,
when members of the intelligence section read summaries (some
of them quite accurate) on the progress of the war, the exploits
of the Eighth Army, and current events. Manoeuvres grew
longer, from hourly to all-day affairs, and then to exercises
spreading over several days. Carrier, medium machine-gun and
motor platoons trained to work together. More use was made
of radio-telephony during these schemes. The Anti-Tank Company practised with live ammunition, and ‘Gunner’ Fred Putt
pushed away happily at his pedal. Sherman tanks of 4 Armoured
Brigade gave a demonstration ‘indirect fire’ shoot. Brigadier
Gentry
Maj-Gen W. G. Gentry, CB, CBE, DSO and bar, m.i.d., MC (Gk), Bronze Star
(US); Lower Hutt; born London, 20 Feb 1899; Regular soldier; comd 6 Bde
Sep 1942-Apr 1943; DCGS (in NZ) 1943-44; comd NZ Troops in Egypt, 6 NZ
Div and NZ Maadi Camp, Aug 1944-Feb 1945; comd 9 Bde (in Italy) 1945;
DCGS 1946-47; AG 1949-52; CGS 1952-55.
lectured in the Pall Mall on lessons learned from the
last of the fighting in North Africa. Companies held shoots and
tactical exercises.
In an exercise with 18 Armoured Regiment, 4 Company, its
guns concealed and camouflaged and using shells with paper
wads,‘destroyed’ ten tanks for the loss of two guns. Reinforcements were given most realistic training (no limit to the amount
of ammunition used), and were toughened up over battle
courses. More than 200 members of the battalion who had not
taken part in the battle of Alamein were conducted by Captain
Hockley round areas where the battalion had fought. They
passed through the desolation the veterans knew, and the story
was pieced together and told to them.
It sounds a busy time, but the time dragged painfully: ‘I
don't know what we would have done with our spare time if
it wasn't for the pictures. We soaked away time at the movies,
they were wonderful time-killers, but towards the end we were
getting sick of them too.’ And a diary notes: ‘Saw some films
shown in the mess tonight. One, [produced by the] New Zealand Film Unit, made me think of the times I'd sat in the old
Majestic with Eth. and watched the same things. Got quite
homesick. Oh for a large chunk of NZ butter and a bit of green
grass!’
Sports played a big part in the battalion's life. Enthusiasm
reached new heights as the unit gained victories against all-comers with monotonous regularity. The rugby team won the
4 Brigade competition and overran Composite Training Depot
(winners of the Maadi Camp competition) by 17 points to 4.
Five leading members played for 4 Brigade and were also in a
2 NZEF side: H. W. Kenny, L. R. Thomas,
2 Lt L. R. Thomas; Johnsonville; born NZ 29 Jun 1916; canister maker.
P. P. Donoghue,
R. Newland
Sgt R. A. Newland; Wellington; born Masterton, 16 Jan 1916; farm labourer;
wounded 24 Oct 1942.
and T. Fowler (a football injury laid up Jack
Sullivan for some time). When cricket came round, Sergeant
L. R. Thomas and Lance-Corporal McCall
Cpl A. T. McCall; born Ashburton, 5 Apr 1919; clerk.
established a
Middle East Services record for opening batsmen: 207 runs in
105 minutes in an unbroken stand. Some of the best performances of all (even including the efforts of the battalion men
yachting on the Nile and the Herculean tug-of-war team) came
from Captain Johnston,
Maj R. E. Johnston; Burnham; born Wanganui, I Jan 1918; Regular soldier;
wounded 15 Dec 1944.
who won the 880-yard events at
widely competitive Cairo and army athletic meetings.
At Maadi the best news for many was the announcement that
all the married men and some of the bachelors in the First,
Second, and Third Echelons would be going home on furlough
(the Ruapehu and Wakatipu schemes). On 6 June the first draft,
including 5 officers and 133 other ranks from the unit, sailed
away in the Nieuw Amsterdam. Before their departure they made
a presentation to Mrs Chapman at the Lowry Hut. Their
spokesman, Bob Turner,
Pte R. Turner; Napier; born Scotland, 23 Feb 1910; timber worker.
remembered that soon after the battalion had reached England Mrs Chapman had equipped her
van (a gift from her father, Mr T. H. Lowry, of Hawke's Bay),
and from her house in Wokingham had daily visited the various
units with cups of tea, little snacks, cigarettes and chocolate.
Her service had been continued in Kent (and at Camberley),
and when supplies had become limited she had ‘adopted’
mainly 22 Battalion and the Divisional Cavalry. She had sailed
to Egypt in the Empress of Britain and had carried on with the
mobile canteen until the Lowry Hut was built. ‘And when we
came off Crete, exhausted and bewildered, she was there on
the wharf at Alexandria to greet us with her smile, her understanding, and her comforts.’ (Apart from a few months on
furlough in New Zealand in 1944, Mrs Chapman was with the
2 NZEF from 1940 until after the end of the war.)
An officer wrote in June 1943: ‘Excitement over here is
intense at the moment and morale could not be higher. God
help the next mob that strikes the Kiwi. Brig. Kippenberger
drew a striking comparison and paid the Div a great compliment when he said that it was fast becoming known and compared with such great units of history as Napoleon's Old Guard,
Caesar's 10th Legion and Crawford's [sic] Light Div on the
Peninsula. The Div has a wonderful name over here but the
General impressed on us that it must not go to our heads, and I
don't think the boys will let it do that. They are as proud as
punch in their own funny way but become reserved and quiet,
like all New Zealanders, when they get in a crowd.’
The training period had its quota of accidents and misfortunes: one man was killed and eleven wounded by the explosion
of a 68 grenade; Sergeant Tom Steele,
Sgt T. Steele; Waitara; born Stirling, Scotland, 19 Mar 1911; Regular soldier;
accidentally injured 16 Apr 1943.
a veteran of 3 Company, lost a hand when a prepared charge went off; and Lieutenant Talbot
Lt W. A. Talbot; born South Africa, 27 Dec 1906; salesman; died on active
service 22 Apr 1943.
(battalion transport officer) died in hospital
after a sudden and brief illness. A party homeward bound in
a truck after a football match and smoke-oh at 2 General
Hospital, Kantara, was swept by a burst of fire from the opposite side of the Sweetwater Canal. No trace was found of the
mysterious assailants who had wounded four men in the truck.
When the battalion was fully motorised the Division struck
out on a 100-mile route march on 7 October along the desert
road to Burg el Arab: ‘Last time we had been that way a year
ago the wind came up in our faces in hot gusts off the scorching
asphalt….’ The marching was done at night because of the
heat, but it was still stifling and deadly monotonous, as night
marches generally are. The battalion was the only unit to complete the march fully, and furthermore had far fewer casualties than any other unit, as Brigadier Inglis noted appreciatively.
Four Company (nicknamed ‘Corps d’ élite’) put up the best
performance. Time and again on the weary march the company's signature tune was heard: ‘The Blue-ridged Mountains
of Virginia’, invariably led by Don Agnew.
Pte D. Agnew; Waitara; born NZ 29 Mar 1906; barman.
The marathon march took seven nights, about 15 miles being
covered each night. After the hourly ten-minute halt'so many
of us on restarting would appear to be walking on hot bricks
for a while. The pads of our feet became very tender…. And
we used to spend a long time watching that cookhouse light
while on the march. But as the road ahead was level and
straight we could never tell just how far away it was. We knew
it was our stopping place.’
‘As time wore on we found the only decent diversions were
grizzling and singing,’ recalls Tom Grace.
Cpl T. P. Grace; born Christchurch, 17 Mar 1905; bank clerk; wounded
27 Mar 1944.
’ Grizzling made
our tired feet worse but singing eased the pain—so sing we did,
every song in the book, and when we ran out we made them
up. Each night we halted for hot cocoa. Somebody hit up Bill
Butler
S-Sgt W. J. Butler; born Masterton, 10 Dec 1918; farm labourer; killed in
action 29 Mar 1944.
(the “Q,” bloke) for a hunk of bread apiece to go with
the cocoa. “She's right, I'll jack'er up,” said Bill, but for two
nights no bread. The third night, after putting our heads together, we insisted Bill Butler walk with our troop for a bit.
To the tune of “The Quartermaster's Store” we burst into:
There'll be bread, bread, so Bill Butler saidOn the march, on the march.There'll be bread, bread, so Bill Butler saidBut we got——all instead.
‘That fixed it—we never did get the bread.’
One man is still amazed at receiving an issue of strawberry
jam on the march. He had quite forgotten such a delicacy remained in the world.
Much credit for the success of the march goes to the pipers
of the band, whose pipes had been replaced by Scots' gifts from
New Zealand. ‘They marched and played and carried along
many weary bodies which might otherwise have faltered,’ said
Colonel Campbell. One stalwart in the band was Johnny
Meikle,
Cpl W. J. Meikle; Wanganui; born Scotland, 27 Sep 1911; carpenter; honorary pipe-major, 22 Bn, Jan 1943-Aug 1945.
who carried on with enthusiasm when three of the
original pipers, Sergeant Jock Lowe, Private Jock Mackay,
Pte W. R. Mackay; born Eltham, 17 Jan 1918; labourer.
and Lance-Corporal Dick Moody
Cpl R. Moody; Napier; born Ohingaiti, 15 Sep 1910; motor mechanic.
returned home on the
Ruapehu scheme.
At Burg el Arab the battalion did a little more training
(including Technique, the Division's last exercise in the desert,
and the last familiar flap with vehicles stuck in the sand),
received injections against various diseases and a course of pill-taking against malaria, went on route marches and another
night march (Con McManus,
L-Cpl C. P. McManus; Hamilton; born Lower Hutt, 22 Sep 1905; clerk;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
of I Company, covered ten
miles with a hangover and entered into the legendary figures
of the battalion when Neil McNeil
Pte N. McNeil; born Woodville, 7 Aug 1921; truck driver.
discovered him at dawn
clumping valiantly along with his boots on the wrong feet),
and voted in the General Election in New Zealand. A severe
sandstorm howled in farewell from dawn to dusk on 10 October,
and a week later the battalion embarked at Alexandria. Laden
like a mule, any man who sat down was cast by his burden, and
a comrade gingerly lending a hand sometimes overbalanced
himself. But at last, up the gangway and off to Italy.
Shipped in three groups: A (Colonel Campbell) in Llangibby Castle, II, 951 tons;
B (Major Donald) in Nieuw Holland, II, 696 tons; C (Captain Oldham) in Letitia,
13,000 tons. Lieutenant C. R. Carson followed later with the vehicles.
Each man carried aboard his blanket roll, winter and summer clothing, personal
gear, weapons and ammunition, respirator, bivvy tent (shared between two), anti-malaria ointment and tablets, emergency ration, and an empty two-gallon water can.
CHAPTER 9
Across the Sangro
InItaly the battalion was under fire for twice as long and
suffered more losses in killed and wounded than in all the
other campaigns put together. An officer (who served in the
line from Sangro to Trieste and was decorated for gallantry)
writes: ‘So far as 12th Reinforcements onwards were concerned
I know there was a tendency for people to say: “No fighting
spirit”, “Things aren't what they used to be”, etc., etc., in the
same way as we of an older generation deplore the younger
generation coming on. Looking back I wouldn't think it justified. The young territorial going into his first action went into
it with gusto, and in most cases he went in intelligently, using
his training which he had had for three years before in New
Zealand. As the end of the war became more apparently within
reach there may have been a certain amount of “If we don't
make a noise, he won't,” but that depended more on the attitude of the men in charge of them, than the men themselves,
in my humble opinion anyway.’
Out of Alex., like Fremantle and Colombo, the buildings seem
to gradually sink beneath the sea—no hills around to let you know
there was land there [writes a 22 Battalion soldier]. They said we
kept close to the North African coast and the other coast of Sicily
and Italy because there may be subs around. We got several glimpses
of the old desert coastline—the last near Derna—they said it was
anyway. Nearing Taranto we were quite close in and it looked good
to see the green hills and the large white houses on the lower country
near the coast—we were rather disappointed with the houses when
we landed however—they didn't look nearly so good close up.
Taranto too looked allright from the boat, but was disappointing
when you got into it. Dirty—nothing much to see—nothing much
to buy—vino—pictures of Taranto and a few useless articles—
many shops had their shutters up. (Generally speaking the further
north you went in Italy the better the living standards became.)
Not many people in the streets. Later on they were to come out
again—then the signorinas walked the streets in their best frocks.
And very attractive some of them were.
Off the boat and we set off on the march to our area.
Appointments in 22 (Mot) Bn on arrival in Italy were: CO, Lt-Col T. C. Campbell; 2 i/c, Maj H. V. Donald; OC 1 Coy, Maj P. R. Hockley; OC 2 Coy,
Maj R. R. Knox; OC 3 Coy, Maj F. G. Oldham; OC 4 Coy, Maj L. G. S. Cross.
It wasn't
very far but we had a fair load up and it was quite a warm day.
(Somewhere along the way someone said that they had been talking
to a chap who had arrived a week or so earlier and he said it was
good—never got any hotter than this.) When we got out into the
country it was good to see all the green of hills and fields and the
winding country roads. Like something you remembered long ago.
Then to our area. Grass around your bivvy—and inside it—
sunlight sifting through the cool pines—how strong they smelt—
kicking an unseen stone in the grass as you walked along. You felt
like throwing your chest out—no stinking desert here.
Up next morning—birds whistling in the trees—dew on the grass
—a fresh tang in the air. The atmosphere. Yes it was different from
the desert. Then some marches and fieldcraft. (You thought back
to Trentham and playing hide and seek among those trees over by
the racecourse.) Then somebody found the vino factory and soon
there was a steady string of jokers—a water tin (or hastily rinsed
petrol Jerry can) in each hand going to get them filled. Later the
grass died in circles where they had been sick.
Then those roaring open-air fires at night and the smell of pine
smoke. We sat around these in the evenings and sipped ‘purple
death’ and yarned. It reminded you of pictures of pioneers of North
American backwoods—firelight on your face—tall dark pines at
your back.
One night someone mentioned that it was 23 October and many
of us thought back to the happenings of this time one year ago—
and wondered just how much further on we would be this time
next year. It was something new to look back on one whole year
of progress.
Then on the trucks [4 November] and speeding north—cool wind
in your face—across the undulating rocky country which stretches
nearly to Foggia (this area covering the heel of Italy you could call
rather poor and rocky—but it was covered in vegetation—and we
had just come from the desert). Slabs of rock gathered from
around and about and built into low stone walls. (If you walked
along there in the summer you would glimpse the flickering of tails
and then the moving of heads as snakes watched you pass.)
Around Monopole area we passed through that district where
all those picturesque houses are—like beehives—something picturesque and really outstanding I thought. Church, house or barn—
they all had the same white walls and the round pointed roofs.
‘Trulli’ houses I think they called them. (Remember those very
large flocks of birds swooping over the countryside just north of
Taranto?) We were still pretty new to the Italians and they seemed
to have changed to their new role pretty quickly. They gathered
along the roads and in the villages and towns and we got some
enthusiastic welcomes from them as we went along. The signorinas
greeted us with that come-hither wave—with the palm of the hand
facing upwards. They had forgotten they had just been our enemy.
At Foggia we saw our first bombed European town—rubble everywhere and many walls of buildings—if you looked through the
windows from the street you could see blue sky. There were many
of Musso's farm settlements around here on the flats—each house
the same—big square looking things with words on the walls—they
looked like some official buildings or something.
Onward they went to a beautiful wide valley near San Severo.
Here the battalion spent ten days, getting into shape and
training in fieldcraft, the men using their bayonets to cut down
thistles. Signaller Jim Selwyn
L-Cpl J. R. Selwyn; Lower Hutt; born Auckland, 28 May 1918; printer.
discovered that hundreds of yards
of cable had been taken to mark out football fields, which were
then marked with an old Italian plough dragged behind a jeep.
In this area rations were supplemented with lamb, fowls,
turkeys. Soon the men felt that they were being overcharged
for black-market turkeys. They promptly put the Padre to
work on price control. The Padre now was Martin Sullivan
Very Rev. M. G. Sullivan; Dean of Christchurch; born Auckland, 30 Mar 1910.
(‘Joe Ghost’ to the officers). ‘Jimmy,’ began the Padre. ‘We
are not happy about the price your friend is charging for the
turkeys.’
‘Oh, Signor, everything is honest and fair. Tony he buy them
and sell at very small profit.’
‘Now, Jimmy, I do not think you're telling me the truth.’
‘Si, si, Signor. That is the truth. I swear. I no deceive you!’
‘Look here. You know who I am, don't you?’
‘Yes, Signor: you the Priest.’
‘Well now, Jimmy, you know what happens to people who
tell lies to the priest.’
Jimmy (scared): ‘Si, si, Signor, I know.’
‘All right. Now Jimmy, I'm asking you as a priest: did your
friend steal those turkeys, or did he not?’
Jimmy (after a significant pause): ‘Honest to God, Mr.
Priest, I think he pinch them.’
Then on the trucks again [16 November] and moving north.
Through Termoli—plenty of battle scars on the buildings there—
they said the British landed there some weeks ago. It was good to be
sailing along in the trucks in the refreshing air. It could have been
an autumn afternoon in NZ—sunshine and cloud and no wind—
when somebody pointed ahead—and away to the north we could
see a range of high mountains covered in a mantle of fresh snow.
We were passing through rolling green country—more attractive
than further south. [The battalion turned inland soon after the
Trigno River, where there were new Bailey bridges and an immense
traffic jam—the convoy travelled a mile and a half in three hours.]
The road that we were on was a bit on the narrow side for two-way traffic—it hadn't been made to carry the hordes of army
vehicles now on it, and bad ruts had been worn in it. Also it was
built up quite a few feet above the surrounding fields. So if you
moved over too far on to your own side when passing another
vehicle your truck was liable to pop up onto the ridge that had
been formed between the rut and the greasy sloping side—then
there was nothing to stop it sliding down right off the road. And
this is precisely what we did—turning over on our side as we did so.
One moment we were all sitting on the gear—the next moment I
remember being flung across the truck and lying helplessly with
a bren box on top of me: the gear was now on top of us. Jack …
was the only one of us free to move—the rest of us had to just lie
there. He extracted himself from some gear and then proceeded to
free us one by one, and as we got up we set to work too—flinging
such things as webbing, rifles and water tins out the back as we
went. We finally got to the front—two pairs of legs sticking out
from under some gear—gave them a yank—and we were all out—
just a few bruises.
In hilly country the roads wandered along the tops of ridges
(they did this in so many parts of Italy), not along the valley bottoms
as usually in NZ. These hills were dotted with farmhouses, from
here north through Italy, but in the far south, from Taranto to
near Foggia, most of the people lived in villages or towns and came
out to the fields each day to work—a relic, they said, of the old
days of brigands and robbers, not so long ago either. [Strung out,
the troops struggled into Furci, where they stayed for two cold
nights, with their bedrolls unrolled on the ground.]
We were sitting around talking before turning in—we heard
faintly something away to the north. We listened—and sure enough
it was that old familiar sound bump-bump-bump. It was about a year
since we had heard the arty in action.
Waking in the morning to feel a cold damp drizzle falling on the
side of your face (this was something new)—pulling the blankets
up over your head to keep it off—it was cold on your cheek—just
a few more winks.
Being woke up at night to do your two hours on—sitting out there
in the silent blackness—just occasionally the bark of a dog from
some farmhouse: down in the valley or across on the other hill.
(They had said the other night that a patrol had been given away
by dogs barking—one dog had barked, then a little later a bit
further along another barking, and so on, tracing the path of the
patrol as it moved along.) So you listened to see if there was any
pattern in this lonely fitful barking from different directions. But
not this time—say just one very faintly up some distant valley, then
one just down the hill below you and loud, then one away over to
the right. It was a bit cold. And sometimes, sitting there in your
greatcoat and webb, hunched up, your rifle between your knees,
or your Bren sitting up in front of you on its bipod—you felt miserable. And you thought and thought—the things that had happened
to you since you went to the Drill Hall (to join the rest of the chaps—
Trentham bound) that day years ago—what was going to happen
in the future—those plans when you got home (?)—what were they
doing at home now—right this minute. Then you worked out what
time it was now in NZ (the hour, that is, as far as what day it was,
well you had probably forgotten what day it was in Italy).
Then you wondered, say, if the mailman had been yet—if so-and-so
still had the mail run—what that joker was doing now who used to
drive the mail car—he'd got turned down (‘footballer's knee’) but
he still played football (there had been some gossip at the time).
Old what's-his-name had flat feet but had talked his way in: was
flat-feet the mug? I suppose in ten years time old ‘flat-feet’ though
would feel a bit better than the other chap. It'll soon be shearing
time—back in the old shed, eh—losing some sweat. What's happening to all those young people who used to go to the dances—I
suppose you'd see a lot of them again when you got home. (You didn't
know then, but when you got back so many of them had vanished
—before the war you knew so many—after the war, so few.)
Usually there were two of you together and if the sky was clear
you could have a look round—find the north star—or argue which
one was it. Or if conditions were satisfactory, get down in the
corner and have a few puffs. In the first few minutes you still felt
sleepy and thought: ‘Hell nearly two hours to go—what a —’.
Still often the time went quite fast. But at other times…. Sometimes when you were short of sleep you would find that you would
have to do something to stop from dropping off. On the few occasions
when I was like that I found it a good idea to kneel or sit with my
legs doubled up under me—any awkward position—so that you
would have to keep moving each time your legs started to ache—
the more often you moved the less chance you had to doze off. But
still—now and again the old head would drop forward—then up
smartly—then you would say to yourself: ‘I'll just watch that bush
there in front—that one with the piece sticking out the side—I'll
just keep watching that and thinking about it.’
‘It goes up there and around there and down the other side.’
‘It goes up there and around there and down the other side.’ You
would keep saying this to yourself over and over again, and think
you were doing all right. But then up would come your head again,
and you would realise that you had been saying it and going off to
sleep at the same time. There was nothing for it: get into a more
awkward position.
On the next move, from Furci to the Montagnola area (six
miles in a straight line but much more by the tortuous road),
22 (Motor) Battalion was given the task of protecting the
Division's left flank on its advance to the Sangro River. The
task was not difficult, for the enemy was intent on pulling back
to his winter line beyond the river, which the Eighth Army
was about to attack. The road toiled up through the hills—
rather like the Manawatu Gorge. Just before reaching Montagnola it led over the brow of a hill and dipped steeply down
into the valley, winding down a forward face to a bridge
at the bottom and up the other side. Apparently an enemy
rearguard had observation posts on high ground at the far end
of the gorge. In this tricky spot, when running the gauntlet,
the battalion came under fire for the first time in Italy. Conversations between sergeants and drivers went something like
this:
Sergeant:‘Jerry is continually shelling the road—as soon as we cross the crest we come under his fire, we go like the hammers of hell—non-stop—till we reach the bridge. The bridge is in against the opposite side and he cannot reach it, understand?’Driver:‘What happens if I get hit?’Sergeant:‘You just keep on going, boy, till you get to the bottom.’
One driver, a Cook Islander, ‘Tip’ Kea,
Pte T. A. Kea; Rarotonga; born Rarotonga, 18 Jul 1919; clerk.
‘had a high pitched
voice and a giggle even higher than the voice. He rolled his
eyes and giggled. One by one the trucks pulled away and on
to that forward slope. Tip giggled, a note higher. A shell landed
ahead, Tip giggled, his eyes opened wider and his foot already
hard down on the gas went down harder—the floor boards
bulged. Another shell, a higher giggle, more eyes, more foot.
‘One landed on the road ahead. Again the formula, giggle,
eyes, foot. Around another bend—Hell!—How did we miss
that Bren Carrier—the Carrier crew diving into the ditch. By
now the gun on tow was airborne and the accelerator must
have been dragging on the road. The next one landed on the
road practically under the muzzle of the gun—stones and debris
flew past the cab windows. Tip's eyes really opened this time,
his giggle reached a note that would have shamed Galli-Curci
—and he really took off.
‘Later shells seemed only incidental—they were dropping behind anyway—all that mattered was to hang on—and then
the bridge and safety—a smoke. Any smokes alight when we
crossed the brow had long since been chewed and swallowed.’
Nobody was hit; everyone was at least startled. One shell
landed in front of the bonnet of Len Turner's
Capt L. O. Turner; Feilding; born Feilding, 23 Apr 1921; saddler.
jeep; another
passed under the RAP truck. Carl Ring,
Maj C. C. Ring, m.i.d.; Auckland; born Auckland, 19 Apr 1914; medical practitioner.
the medical officer,
coolly slowed down his jeep to pick up a tin hat. ‘Well, I thought
someone might need it,’ he explained afterwards. Ahead a group
of officers selecting company positions had their own worries—
mortars. Crouched behind a rather meagre haystack, Ken
Joblin
Capt H. K. Joblin, m.i.d.; Marton; born Hunterville, 6 Nov 1909; bank
officer; wounded 18 Apr 1945.
drawled in his deep voice: ‘How thick do these damn
things have to be to stop one of those things?’
This was certainly no place for a motor battalion—better for
mountain goats. The battalion was on one ridge, and across
the valley a village, Tornareccio, was occupied by the enemy,
who was also along the opposite ridge. The valley was very
deep, and the ridges were a mile or more apart.
The supply side was difficult: everything had to be man-handled, and when atrocious weather settled in the place became a quagmire. ‘We nearly proved that a jeep with four
chains could climb the side of a house. (From now on we were
to get used to hearing a new sound—day and night—army
lorries with chains on: clank-clank or clatter-clatter—right through
till the following spring.)
‘By now we had been surprised several times in hearing
English spoken by Italians in unexpected places: “Hullo boys”
(they usually said that), then a few pleasantries, and someone
would get the vino. They usually had worked in America and
returned to spend the last years at the scenes of their childhood.’
The battalion stayed on its front opposite Tornareccio for
three days, and was engaged in patrolling and general defence
work while the enemy withdrew. Explosions echoed through
the mountains as the Germans carried out demolitions. One of
the first reconnaissance patrols was under Sergeant Williams,
Sgt H. C. Williams; born NZ 8 Jul 1908; herd tester; twice wounded.
who was soon to be wounded near San Eusanio. The patrol
picked up an Italian for a guide and struck off boldly in the
rain along a road, the Italian leading—with his umbrella up!
They found that the enemy had just left Tornareccio, but the
little village was badly booby-trapped. A party led by Lieutenant Were
Capt P. B. Were; England; born Te Aroha, 13 Apr 1919; student; wounded
24 Oct 1942.
cleared away these obstructions.
The time was ripe for the New Zealand assault over the
Sangro. Twenty-second Battalion carried on northward with
no undue alarms to a ridge (‘Grandstand Hill’) overlooking
the river and with a view right down to the river mouth. This
halt lasted a week—the Sangro, rising in flood, was holding up
the crossing.
The battalion, now in reserve, waited while the Division
poised below near the bank where a tributary, the Aventino,
and the Sangro met about 15 miles from the coast. All bridges
had gone. The shingle riverbed was scoured with channels,
some trickles, some 50 yards wide, the water from a few inches
deep to up past a man's waist. Ahead stretched a small flat
which ended at an escarpment 150-feet high, and beyond this
cultivated ridges climbed towards Castelfrentano. The battalion's area was thickly populated. From now on the troops
were to become very ‘casa-conscious’. In theory the casas
(houses) were good in the hot weather. Most of them had thick
walls of stone which took the greater part of the day for the
sun's heat to penetrate, and after dark they radiated this heat
well into the night. The theory might have worked if there had
been good doors and windows. In winter the houses, with their
high ceilings, were cold, draughty and bare; the cold was intensified of course when a chunk of the roof or a wall was missing.
As casas were plentiful, almost everyone managed to get under
cover. So did the opposition: ‘Looking across to the enemy lines
you couldn't see a thing; you would have sworn there wasn't
a Hun in Italy.’ In fact the almost uncanny emptiness of a battlefield is one of the many surprises a recruit receives on reaching
any front. Nevertheless enemy gunners had the southern side
of the Sangro well in range. On 24 November Privates Benge
Pte J. W. Benge; born NZ 16 Mar 1922; garage assistant; wounded 24 Nov 1943.
and Pearse
Pte A. A. Pearse; born NZ 9 Mar 1921; farm labourer; died of wounds 25 Nov 1943.
(2 Company), just after finishing a cup of tea,
were looking down on the river they would never cross. Shellbursts grew closer. Benge ‘didn't go flat to the ground but
crouched down with my knees bent, and my body bent as far
as was possible forward. The next thing I remember I was flat
on my back, and on trying to get up found to my surprise that
I couldn't.’ A piece of shrapnel had entered his back and had
come out near the hip. Pearse died in the night.
‘The road rose steeply from the Sangro River and wound up
the side of the hill to Casoli,’ recalls a corporal. ‘4th Brigade
occupied the side of the hill and the flat to the river. Parked in
the olive groves flanking the road were hundreds of vehicles—
jeeps, pick-ups, two-tonners, three-tonners, portees, carriers and
so on.
‘Up the road toiled a small group of civilians. A small group
that paused frequently, then plodded wearily upwards—a pitiful little group—three old men and two women—carrying a
coffin.
‘And no one thought to run out a vehicle and give them a lift.
No one thought to? More than likely most of the troops who saw
them were too moved to do other than fade away as discreetly
as possible.’
Near Grandstand Hill the seed was sown for true co-operation
between tanks and infantry. An early task was manhandling
quantities of shells up a steep hill for the tanks. Major Donald
moved his company down into 20 Armoured Regiment's area,
and platoons and sections ate and slept and talked with tank
crews. Mutual understanding spread; the tanks and the infantry began to appreciate each other's capabilities and limitations, and by working together became confident in one another.
Co-operation between all arms (at last) would become one of
the main strengths of the Division in the advance through Italy.
Squadron after squadron of bombers ‘softened up’ the
defences across the river. The Luftwaffe was a dead duck—
except for one or two brief sallies. The battle of the Sangro
opened on the night of 27–28 November. The terrific barrage
awakened every 22 Battalion man—they knew their turn was
only a day or two away. Nothing could be seen in the pitch-black night except gun flashes. Below the battalion New Zealand infantrymen began wading through the icy water. Climbing, digging in, and climbing on again, the muddy troops pressed
forward up the defended slopes towards Castelfrentano. The
battle and the bombing continued all next day. Late in the
afternoon some German prisoners passed by, many of them
youths of eighteen, several of them badly shaken and weeping.
In the night Hewitt
Pte J. Hewitt; Dannevirke; born Dannevirke, 10 Nov 1918; farmhand; twice
wounded.
of the carrier platoon was sleeping in
an Italian house with some Bailey-bridge engineers when a shell
with an armour-piercing and high-explosive head (nicknamed
'spud-digger’) ‘landed so close to an engineer and myself that
the heat of the explosion singed all our hair and took eyebrows
and eyelashes right off.’ The previous day the Italian householder had asked Hewitt if the German would return over the
Sangro, and he had replied: ‘Not bloody likely’. The Italian,
beaming, had moved a haystack, dug deeply and unearthed
nearly all his worldly belongings: dishes, cutlery, wine, and a
lot more. ‘He grinned at me saying “Tedesky he no get”, and
the whole family came out and carried it all inside. Next night
the house was blown to pieces, his two bullocks stabled under
the house killed, and all his labour wasted.’
The next day (29 November) 19 Armoured Regiment's tanks
and 24 Battalion seized the Barone feature. The Italian campaign proper was about to open for 22 (Motor) Battalion,
whose men watched this assault with even more interest; for
this was where they were going. Colle Barone (on the Division's
extreme left flank) was a steep, partly wooded, partly cultivated hill which guarded Route 84, the main road from the
riverbed to the ridge where the town of Castelfrentano perched.
Sixth Brigade's advance, swinging slightly to the right, away
from Route 84, was leaving the road clear for an advance by
18 Armoured Regiment and 22 Battalion. This move, along
Route 84 then westward to Guardiagrele, was intended to bluff
the enemy into thinking a main attack was coming up the highway. This (it was hoped) would draw off enemy troops while
the main attack made straight towards Castelfrentano.
Twenty-second Battalion crossed TIKI Bridge (built by 8 Field
Company under heavy fire and bombing) over the Sangro late
in the morning of the 30th and made towards the Barone
feature.
‘During one halt tea was made and a hurried lunch taken.
Troops sprawled on the grass at the sides of the road eating,
drinking, and smoking. Had they enjoyed a higher status in
the scale military a photo would, in course of time, have appeared in the N.Z. papers and inevitably the caption would
have contained some reference to an “al fresco meal”. Apparently no one more lowly than the top brass rated this “A.F.M.”
caption.
‘Up the road towards them slowly worked a group of engineers sweeping for mines. As they approached each vehicle
the crew obligingly gathered up their benghazi burners, munga
boxes, mugs of tea, and what-have-you, and stood aside while
the sappers made sure they had not been sitting on a nest of
Teller or “S” mines. Reassured the men returned to their previous positions and resumed their interrupted meal.
‘Good to know the “ginger beers” are on the job.’
Behind the battalion, in column after column, came the
artillery, followed safely by 18 Armoured Regiment's 28-ton
tanks—just four tons more, in theory, than the bridge would
hold. Vehicles bogged down in the mud on the flats across the
river where strips of ‘corduroy’ road (bundles of faggots) had
been laid in the worst patches. One by one they were extricated
and joined in their slow ‘start—stop—start’ progress following
the advancing infantry. A man in Support Group remembers:
‘Groups of Italian peasants lined the road, the elders trying to
coach the bambinos in a monotonous “Viva Engleesi!” “Viva
Americano!”—at that stage they could not make up their minds
who we were. Individual efforts by the youngsters favoured the
”Choccolatta” “Cigaretto” “Bisquite” approach. One old Tony—
a veritable, if venerable, cheerleader—waved a flag, hopped
about the roadside, and quavered his vivas until the necessity
to sidestep a racing jeep, wave, hop and quaver simultaneously
proved too much for him and he toppled over backwards into
a ditch. When last seen his flag was still fluttering bravely, his
two boots supported by skinny legs waved in the air and a
stream of feeble “vivas” rose from the depths of the ditch.’
The battalion moved up into the Barone feature. While company areas were being chosen, Captain Knox and Lieutenant
Gardiner
Lt N. C. Gardiner; Wellington; born Wanganui, 15 Sep 1914; clerk; wounded
30 Nov 1943.
(the latter evacuated) were wounded in identical
places, cheek and arm, by the same shell. Meanwhile Major
Fred Oldham (3 Company's commander), ‘one of the most
popular and best loved officers’, went out with a sergeant and
found and marked a minefield. On his way back he stood on
a mine, could not get clear and, leaning against a bank, shouted
to the sergeant to take cover. He did, but there was no cover
for Oldham.
‘Five of us, including the C.O., went out to bring him in,’
writes an officer. ‘We went down a slope in single file, twenty
paces apart, one behind the other. The place was full of mines
and we had not the faintest idea how to avoid them. I was
following the C.O., when he turned over his shoulder and said
in his quiet voice:
‘“Keep absolutely still. I think I am standing on one.”
‘We retraced our steps and the engineers finally brought
Oldham back, so that we could give him a decent burial.
‘The sequel of the story is an interesting one. The place was
full of mines and the one the C.O. was standing on was the only
dud in the whole nest of them.
‘That very day, incidentally, the boys brought down a Nazi
plane. They were bitter and angry over Oldham's death. I
shall never forget the sight of the young, arrogant German pilot
who parachuted out. He struggled over the rough country until
he came to the road and then he sprung instantly to attention
and looked at us with utter defiance. He was a fine figure of a
man; black hair and wearing a blue, polo-neck jersey. We lost
Oldham and rescued this fellow. We all felt we knew who had
the better bargain; death is frequently discriminating in its
choice.’
As the battalion settled in Haddon Donald set off with Mick
Bradford (soon to be cut down by a shell splinter, ‘embedded
in the fifth cervicle as a constant reminder of the “good old
days” (?), and a pension—small!’). The pair, armed with a
couple of revolvers, followed a road which Divisional Cavalry
had under observation. A track led to a group of silent buildings. The two topped the track, a door flew open, Bradford
leapt like a startled stag, and among kisses and cries of ‘Americano! Americano!’ Donald went down in a flurry of arms, male
and female. That night a patrol from the battalion found Route
84 clear ahead to the first junction, two miles on, which was
mined. Turning west at the junction the patrol crept towards
San Eusanio, but stopped at the sound of German voices.
The battalion pushed up the highway early on 1 December.
One Company met tanks from 18 Armoured Regiment and
advanced up Route 84 (the infantry at first riding on the tanks)
until after two miles the mined area brought a halt by the turnoff to San Eusanio hamlet, 2 Company's objective. Houses
handy to the road were booby-trapped. The body of an engineer sergeant lay in a doorway. Severe shelling stopped any
further advance for the day, and 3 Company, with the battalion's 3-inch mortars and anti-tank guns, came up to protect
the tanks overnight. This was not a pleasant place to camp;
the narrow road prevented dispersion. One man had been killed
and four wounded in the battalion and eight tanks damaged,
one of them being a complete write-off.
Colonel Campbell, dashing across some open ground, suddenly hunched his shoulders and ducked his head. A shell swept
across his back and burst a few yards away. Had he run upright, it would have taken his head off. (The Colonel went
through the war without losing more than his little finger in
a jeep accident.) Exploring the road ahead in the night, a
party of infantrymen and engineers under Second-Lieutenant
McNeil
Lt J. H. McNeil; born NZ 2 Jan 1920; labourer; killed in action 31 Jul 1944.
found that the Germans had blown up a house to
block the road a mile ahead. Cutting some trip-wires across the
road brought immediate fire and flares. A platoon under
Second-Lieutenant Monaghan,
Lt H.J. Monaghan, MM; Eketahuna; born Eketahuna, 24 Jul 1918; labourer;
three times wounded.
with tanks, turned west to
find San Eusanio clear, and stayed in possession of the settlement. In the dark the carriers were also making towards San
Eusanio by a narrow lane, with Shaw
Capt J. T. Shaw; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 31 Dec 1921; painter;
twice wounded.
in the leading carrier:
‘On reaching the track Lt. Hart
Lt A. W. Hart; Masterton; born NZ 17 Jan 1918; garage proprietor.
our platoon commander
directed me down it, ‘he writes. ‘As I was moving off quite
happily he casually said: “Be careful Jack, it's bound to be
mined.” I found it not a pleasant feeling to be in a carrier
moving along a narrow mined track in pitch darkness.’
Within a few hours the battalion would be in the thick of it:
‘Most unpleasant, ‘as Brigadier Stewart
Maj-Gen K. L. Stewart, CB, CBE, DSO, m.i.d., MC (Gk), Legion of Merit (US);
Kerikeri; born Timaru, 30 Dec 1896; Regular soldier; 1 NZEF 1917–19; GSO 1
2 NZ Div, 1940–41; DCGS 1941–43; comd 5 Bde Aug-Nov 1943, 4 Armd Bde
Nov 1943-Mar 1944, 5 Bde Mar-Aug 1944; p.w. 1 Aug 1944; comd 9 Bde
(2 NZEF, Japan) 1945–46; Adjutant-General, NZ Military Forces, 1946–49; CGS
1949–52.
said later.
Early next morning
Early on 2 December 24 Battalion entered Castelfrentano. The Division next
aimed to make for Orsogna, on the next ridge, but the New Zealanders were unable
to capture this town.
the tanks left their laager and, supported by 2 Company, advanced unopposed except for shellfire until an anti-tank ditch barred the way just before the
junction of Route 84 and the road to Guardiagrele. A bridging
tank (a Valentine with a detachable bridge clipped to it) arrived and filled the gap, 2 Company occupied the junction at
10 a.m., and 3 Company came up in strength to the position.
‘There were Huns running in all directions but the tanks didn't
miss much.’ The road, now turning left and running along a
ridge leading westward, was most exposed and at the mercy of
guns on higher ground towards Orsogna. The infantry, digging
in on the slope facing towards Orsogna, soon came under what
seemed to be almost direct fire from 88-millimetre guns.
‘Things were just fair to muddling for some time. We withdrew
to the reverse slope.’ A little group, on the point of sitting down
to enjoy a plump chicken left simmering in a pot, was sent
packing—and still hungry. A Divisional Cavalry car came skidding down the road. An officer stuck his head out. ‘Want to
know anything?’
‘Yes. What's it like?’
‘Not so bloody good.’
About 4 p.m. the Brigadier arrived in a flurry of dust in his
little scout car, strode into Battalion Headquarters, placed his
map on the table, pointed to a place about ten miles away, and
said: ‘San Martino, go there!’
The trouble was that the road ran on the wrong side of the
ridge in full view of Orsogna; some of the eighty-eights must
have been firing over open sights. The nine tanks of B Squadron
18 Armoured Regiment clattered along the exposed road, the
infantry walked steadily, and the A Echelon vehicles followed
in bounds—prompt bounds. Mountains of earth soon began
flying in all directions, and the tanks hit back in grand style,
their cannon wreathed in great red flashes, ‘moving in line
ahead like battleships firing broadsides.’ The tanks and the
infantry, attacking with spirit, thrust west on an advance which
continued well after dark and certainly took the enemy rearguards by surprise.
Two Company continued in the lead until the tanks were
halted by a demolition two miles on. The company pushed on,
while bulldozers went to work to mend the road. With a steep
bank on the left and an abrupt fall to the right, these demolitions
were most effective; drivers showed much skill in passing them.
Night fell. A group of Italians, who had come out from hiding,
were in a circle holding hands and dancing for joy. Their faces
beaming in welcome, they shook the hands of passing soldiers.
A massive haystack, blazing in the dark, lit up the road uncomfortably. Bob Simmonds, a veteran of Greece and Crete
and now the Padre's batman, had paused to pick up a greatcoat when a salvo of five shells arrived. Simmonds died instantly, and a truck and motor-cycle ahead were blown to
smithereens, leaving intact, oddly enough, just one jerrican of
exceptionally good vino.
Another demolition blew up before 2 Company, where the
road ran past a small village, Salarola. The men came under
fire from the west of the village, and here Captain Nancarrow
Capt D. H. Nancarrow; born Hawera, 4 Jan 1910; school-teacher; killed in
action 2 Dec 1943. Nancarrow's batman, Private G. R. Elgar, ‘whom, characteristically, Nan looked after as if he were doing the batting himself’, was wounded
with him. ‘Come on! We've got them on the run!’ were the captain's last words.
Unseen by 12 Platoon, a German motor-cycle combination on the other side of
the demolition coasted silently downhill to the crater's brink, opened fire at point-blank range and fatally wounded the officer.
died from a full burst of bullets in his hip. Captain Knox, at
the rear, his arm in a sling (the shrapnel had been removed
without anaesthetic), heard of ‘Nan's' death, pressed forward,
borrowed a tommy gun, and led the company with conspicuous
gallantry which won him the MC. The heavily taxed men, on
the move since early morning and under constant shellfire, were
now almost asleep on their feet, but the end was not yet in sight.
An enemy tank covering the second demolition blew up, and
2 Company went on, surprising and seizing a German battalion commander and two men on the way. The German
officer was described as the battalion commander of 26 Panzer
Division, and his loss was a bad blow to the enemy division.
When captured he was directing the withdrawal of his last
rearguards.
The company worked its way round a sharp bend past the
village, and at the junction of a minor road leading south a
third demolition went up. ‘All of a sudden this big red flash
leapt up in front of us with a roar. (One of the chaps said “You
could feel it in your guts”.) Then we heard a roaring noise from
the direction of the “blow” and as we listened it moved out
towards us like a ripple on a pond when a stone is thrown in.
It took us a moment to realise just what it was—the stuff coming
down again—then we ducked our heads under cover—two or
three of us got under the eaves of the nearest building—a
moment later great junks of sticky clay and mud were plopping
and thudding down around us.’
This decisively halted the main advance and virtually ended
22 Battalion's progress in the Sangro campaign. The indefatigable Knox led a party to find a way round this last crater. A
dozen or more men still kept going, now in bright moonlight,
until near the Guardiagrele-Orsogna crossroads. At first they
moved ‘along between the big square Italian houses: on our
right their fronts were in shadow, but on the left they faced
right into the moonlight with black squares for windows. We
looked up at them inquiringly but they remained silent: the
only noise we could hear was the crunch of our boots on the
road.’ Near the crossroads they could hear metallic clinking
like a sledge-hammer striking metal stakes, voices, and the noise
of a vehicle. (One report says this crossroad was found to be
heavily mined.) They withdrew. Back near the demolition they
were challenged by grenade and tommy gun from a house (‘I
was sitting hunched forward with my head down and some tiny
fragments made a tinkling noise on my tin hat’), returned the
fire, withdrew, and grouped together by the demolition to dig
in fast. Two hapless members of 11 Platoon, leaping for cover
from sudden firing nearby, landed in a latrine pit.
Men who took part in this advance believe that the battalion,
with the enemy caught off-balance by the speed of the advance,
could have reached Guardiagrele if bulldozers had quickly filled
in the craters for the tanks. By dawn of course the enemy was
prepared, his many guns and mortars waiting.
When the tanks appeared, the third demolition—about 40
feet wide—was too much for them. They laagered in Salarola,
protected by 3 Company. Headquarters 22 Battalion reached
Salarola at 2 a.m. on 3 December, and the battalion formed a
line by the village, where it would stay, two miles short of the
Guardiagrele which it would never reach. The transport,
while coming up on the road, had suffered from shelling.
Casualties for the day were two killed and six wounded.
No direct part in this day's tenacious advance along the road
to Salarola had been taken by 1 Company, which had a different role—a left hook from the south, starting not far from
the Barone feature. The company, with tanks and a Divisional
Cavalry detachment, probed westward past San Eusanio, where
it had spent the night of 1–2 December. The road, poor and
steep (the countryside descended steeply on each side), climbed
the Colle Bianco ridge. At the top of the ridge the track turned
east, to run behind a prominent feature which the rest of the
battalion and the tanks would attack next day (3 December).
This feature was just beyond Salarola village. The wretched
going hampered the tanks, and at Colle Bianco the force was
shelled severely by seven guns. The tanks, aided by fighter-bombers, silenced the guns. ‘Lieutenant O'Reilly was standing
up and having a “shufti” through his glasses when a fair bit
of stuff landed close by. Calmly keeping on looking, the lieutenant remarked… “Don't worry. It doesn't hurt till it hits
you.” ‘This became a proverbial saying in 6 Platoon.
The guns having been silenced, a patrol went forward with
sappers who were seeking mines in the path as far as the junction with the main road near Salarola. This junction was where
the third (and final) demolition had ended the battalion's advance. The patrol reported the path as far as the junction clear
of mines by 11 p.m. One Company spent the rest of the night
A light moving in the darkness perplexed this party until they found a distraught
Italian farmer, who said that his cow was about to calve and he had to attend
to her. Keeping a stealthy eye on the farmer, the infantry found that he was
hiding money and personal treasures.
just below the crest of Colle Bianco, and stayed in position there
most of next morning before joining the battalion. After dawn
the company, watching the feature beyond Salarola village,
saw the troop of New Zealand tanks just below the crest. ‘Every
now and again,’ writes Lieutenant O'Reilly, ‘they would crawl
to the crest, let fire, and move back. They were taking a lot of
mortaring—Major Green,
Maj H. M. Green, m.i.d.; born England, 3 Sep 1905; sales manager; died of
wounds 3 Dec 1943.
acting C.O. 18 Armoured Regiment, died of wounds received here—and we thought that Jerry
had that position well taped. Just how well we were to find out
later that day, and in the days that followed, when we were in
position there….’
Now that 1 Company had joined the battalion again, it was
hoped that a swift advance would carry on to the next, and
important junction, a mile further on, which led to Orsogna.
This soon proved to be impossible.
A small village stood at the fork, and a steep bluff (Colle
Martino) rose behind it. Tanks went on to the crater to cover
this objective, and at 8 a.m. on 3 December 3 Company, supported by a heavy artillery concentration, went forward to
assault. But the tanks on the road drew heavy shellfire; 3 Company was soon held up, and 2 Company, close to the tanks,
was forced to keep under cover. The enemy at the fork was too
strong, and within an hour the attack was abandoned. Tanks
covered the withdrawal and helped bring back casualties; tired
infantrymen trickling back ‘had that ruffled dirty weather-beaten look that you see at times.’
In the afternoon the tanks shelled Guardiagrele and the road
fork; the artillery shelled but did not silence enemy guns, and
the mortars and guns vigorously engaged positions along the
road. A night patrol led by Second-Lieutenant McNeil found
the fork more heavily manned by night than by day, and the
attack towards Guardiagrele was cancelled.
The battalion's casualties in this sector during 2 and 3 December were ten killed and twenty-five wounded. The signallers,
exposing themselves as they faithfully carried out their tasks,
kept open the battalion's troublesome telephone line (five miles
long and often cut by shells) to 4 Brigade Headquarters.
‘The manner in which our sigs kept our lines of communication open was
something to be remembered. Wading through snow waist deep, searching for
lines and repairing lines under murderous shell and mortar fire, did not deter
these men.’
The battalion's anti-tank guns, after a great deal of strenuous
manhandling, had worked hard engaging targets, preparing
for tank attack, and withstanding shelling and mortaring.
‘Les Whiting
Pte F. L. Whiting; born NZ 17 May 1920; assistant seedsman; died New Plymouth, 12 Aug 1947.
had a favourite expression during heavy shelling. He would turn to us with a quizzical expression and say:
“D'you know Jerry's a bloody rotten shot, isn't he. He hasn't
even hit us yet.”
‘Norman (“Cordite”) Kriete,
Pte N. H. T. Kriete; Wellington; born Wellington, 26 Oct 1916; packer.
a crossword-puzzle fiend, used
to work away in his slittie or casa during shelling, and often
when there was a momentary lull his voice would hollar out:
“Hey! What's a word starting with H that means—?”
‘The veteran “Pop” McLucas,
Pte H. S. McLucas; born Auckland, 8 Feb 1900; commercial traveller;
wounded 3 Dec 1943.
badly shot through the
chest, given a shot of morphia, and lying on a tabletop during
shelling, was heard to remark slowly: “Do you know, I was
through the first World War and three years in this one and
never been hit. My old woman told me I was a bloody fool to
come away this time—I think she was right.” ‘
Young Teddy Smith,
Pte E. P. B. Smith; born Taihape, 4 Sep 1922; clerk; died of wounds 3 Dec 1943.
mortally wounded in the back and
in intense pain, ‘managed to pass the odd wise-crack before he
was taken away. As we put him in the ambulance he opened
his eyes and looked up at Stan Dempsey,
Pte S. J. Dempsey; born NZ 11 Jul 1920; civil servant; killed in action 14 Dec 1944.
who was our guncrew cook (an excellent one at that), and said with a slow
smile, “Cheerio, Stan, you were a bloody rotten cook anyway”,
and closed his eyes for the last time. He died an hour later.’
‘I didn't know so much of life could be crowded into seven
days,’ writes Captain Johnston, describing the battalion's week
at Salarola. ‘We were constantly shelled and mortared with
Hun efficiency. Looking back on the sallies we did, they seem
like a motion picture. I can still see the tanks trying to push on
and we were going in on our feet. The fire was terrific and you
could hardly see tanks for earth and flame and smoke—but
luck was against us, and a good many of my old platoon made
the big sacrifice here. [Hercock
Cpl M. Hercock; born Pahiatua, 20 Feb 1919; farmhand; killed in action
3 Dec 1943.
and Joe Hawkes
Pte O. J. Hawkes; born Waipukurau, 16 Jun 1905; contractor; killed in action
3 Dec 1943.
killed, and
several others wounded, including ‘Shorty’ Bremner.
Pte N. C. Bremner; Lower Hutt; born Feilding, 10 Jan 1919; labourer; twice
wounded.
] The
first day (3 December) when the tanks appeared over the ridge
we could hardly see the things, mountains of earth (he was firing
some terrific stuff, big guns) and flame and the tank boys
working their guns as fast as they would go. They gave the impression that they would be blowed if they would chuck it in.
I saw one tank get four direct hits (high explosive), it didn't
hurt a bloke inside, and with the tracks burst they just ran her
backwards down the hill on her bogies. They are great tanks
these of ours and our boys have confidence in them. The forward platoons couldn't move for the fire, they couldn't even
stick their heads up. It's funny how in all this you manage to
think, I suppose you have so much to think about you haven't
got time to worry.’
The battalion held its ground for four more days, ‘and I
reckon we gave as good as we got.’ One day the enemy ‘did
Battalion Headquarters over for an hour flat out.’ The house,
on a reverse slope, was just too hard to hit, but the chimney
came down in a smother of plaster, soot, dust and debris. This
day Harry Sansum, cool as a cucumber, did a conspicuously
good job in aiding the wounded.
‘One night we were sitting in our slitties, no sound of action
anywhere, when faintly from behind Orsogna bump-bump
bump-bump-bump—on and on it went (you hardly ever heard
his guns fire.) We said: “Christ, some b—'s in for it.” I didn't
think to ask myself “Is it us?” Then the moans got closer and
closer and then came right in on us (“Hell! It's us!”). Then
down in your slittie and lie there, blinking or eyes shut, and
just hope for the best. Then for a minute or so he really plastered
us. Then it just died out and we got up and looked around—
you could smell the smell of explosives all right—the air was
thick with it. “If I ever get out of this I'll never growl again,”
said one chap….’
Over the northern bank of the Sangro was a stretch of road
known to all as the Mad Mile. ‘We used to watch the new
chums drive sedately up to the brickworks, and on receipt of
an air burst from Jerry we saw these drivers transformed instantly into demons of speed whose times over the remaining
distance would have put them in top class at Silverstone. Incidentally the cooks (who had a clear view of the Mad Mile)
used to lay bets with one another as to whether I would make
it when I went up with the rations.’
After being relieved by a British parachute battalion on the
night of 6–7 December, the battalion drew back to a ‘rest’
area
Major D. G. Steele returned from furlough in New Zealand to resume his
appointment as 2 i/c; Major Donald assumed command of 3 Company.
still handy to the Castelfrentano-Salarola road. Some
men camped near the gunlines, ‘and every time one of the
blasted things fired the crash came in the door and out of the
window and the darn place shook as though it was an earthquake.’ The gun crews were Scots: ‘good jokers: “Come and
have a cuppa tea Kiwi”—made you feel like one of themselves
—no fuss. The radio always going, and jiving round the room.
Those guns would fire at night and we would sleep right through
it. Yet in the daytime if they fired without you knowing that
they were going to, they'd give you a hell of a start. We slept
pretty soundly after Salarola.’
Except for 8 Platoon, 1 Company (which had taken over the
exposed left flank along a jeep-wide track roughly between
San Eusanio and enemy-held Guardiagrele) went back into
crowded billets in San Eusanio, whose inhabitants had given
the company and tanks a great send-off when they passed
through a few days before.
During daylight between 11 and 22 December 8 Platoon had
a section stationed in a house about half a mile forward. Three
or four houses grouped around were occupied by Italians. ‘On
the afternoon 21 December a very excited Italian came bursting in with the news that a Jerry patrol was in a house about
200 yards away and heading our way,’ writes N. W. Lash.
2 Lt N. W. Lash; Dannevirke; born NZ 4 Nov 1921; farmhand.
A
corporal ‘posted a Bren and rifle facing the approach and himself used the attic window with a tommygun. His tommygun
firing was to be the signal to let go everything. Strangely enough
the patrol walked quite confidently down the track with their
weapons at ease. Three privates, we could see them plainly, and
a lieutenant with Iron Cross on the tunic [who later proved to
be an English-speaking cadet officer and who gave information
which was thought to have washed out a scheme to attack
Guardiagrele]. Approaching the corner they brought their
weapons to the ready and we let them have it at 30 yards. Two
were killed and we took the other two, wounded, prisoners. Our
officer Jack Monaghan arrived to see what it was all about and
took the two prisoners away.’
Captain Johnston later wrote home how he met one of these
wounded at the RAP, on the stretcher. ‘I looked over the Doc's
shoulder and there was a beautiful fair haired blue eyed kid;
I blurted out “Christ it's only a child.” The Doc was doing
something but the kid was looking at me all the time with wide
open eyes. He kept on looking at me and then raised his arm.
I did a funny thing. I caught him by the wrist. Then he said:
“Where am I shutze, where am I shutze?” He thought he had
been shot in the abdomen. I ran my hands over his body but
assured him he hadn't been shot there. He just looked at me
and said “Praise be to the Lors.” He had been shot through
the chest, the bullet going under the right breast and out his
back. It was a shocking wound and must have got one of his
lungs. The Doctor sewed him up there and then and the little
blighter never said a word. I hope he lived. I've seen fellows
talk a lot then treat a wounded German like a nurse would.
I must have done the same.’
Both wounded prisoners died on Christmas Eve.
A much different story about this area is told by another
officer in the battalion: ‘They called him Harry the Yank. The
reason for that was, of course, that he spoke American. We
were never sure whether he was not a Fifth Columnist and our
doubts always remained. He was a Station Master in charge of
a tiny village and we used to go up to his house at night, about
twelve of us, and play trains. Harry would wear his Station
Master's hat and wave his green flag, and, grown men though
we were, we used to go round hanging on to each other's waists,
making appropriate noises. Perhaps in a way this was a link
with home and children.
‘Some of us had an interesting experience one night at Harry's
place. Just before 9 p.m. we noticed that several of the women
folk slipped from the room: Harry said they had gone to Church.
So one or two of us followed them and we found a large assembly, mostly women, gathered round in a stable with the
lowing oxen nearby. They were saying the Rosary and they
had done that night after night for a couple of years, because
there was no resident priest in the area. One of the women led
them in the devotions. It was a humble setting and somehow
doubly sincere and impressive.’
The rest behind the immediate front line continued.
The ‘San Severo Club’ was formed after the first Salarola action. One evening
in an Italian casa, over a few drinks, new lyrics were composed to the tune of
‘Ball of Yarn’—a song introduced by 2 Lt Earl Cross. Each verse was about one
of those present on that evening, plus a few of the other officers of the company.
Captain ‘Bunty’ Cowper was the head, and others in this club were Lts J. H.
Dymock, C. R. Carson, F. R. Wheeler and E. K. Cross, Sgts Butler and Kerrigan,
and Ptes Ancrum, Hudson, Agnew, O'Brien and Hanley. The song was sung on
many a convivial evening after that occasion. The ‘San Severo Club’ was the
forerunner of other such clubs in the battalion: another memorable club was
the ‘Goums Club’. Veterans have many nostalgic memories of these gatherings.
Carriers helped 20 Armoured Regiment to move ammunition;
a platoon went off to protect artillery observation posts and
sound-ranging specialists; machine-gunners did turns of duty
in Salarola; many stood-to in slushy outposts on the alert for
German night patrols sneaking down from the ridges.
The gleaming eyes of a cat gave Sergeant Cassidy one of his
greatest shocks in the war, and the same goes for Bill Walsh,
Pte W. M. Walsh; Napier; born NZ 25 Dec 1918; labourer; wounded 25 Mar
1944.
who trod on a dog. Another sentry recalls: ‘Tiny and I sitting
in a slitty in the middle of the night and arguing as to which
lines a fire was burning in…. Then the talk got round to other
aspects of war. Tiny (the Sangro was his first action) said he
was afraid of pain. He didn't think he could stand it if he got
hit badly. Poor old Tiny, he needn't have worried, he got a
direct hit from a 170 m.m. or something just north of Rimini.’
The battalion kept ready to move on, once the enemy weakened, to attack up to the junction of the Orsogna-Guardiagrele
road—but the enemy grew stronger, if anything, and no break-through took place. Eighth Army was bogged down for the
winter. A stalemate spread over the Adriatic front.
Christmas came. In A Echelon's cookhouse Lieutenant Dave
Whillans held a Christmas party and generously offered
liqueurs all round. Bottles emptied rapidly, fresh ones arrived
to be drained even more quickly, but nobody seemed much
happier until the medical officer joined the party. He took a
small sip:‘How long have you been drinking this stuff?’ The
‘liqueurs’ turned out to be a cough mixture laxative heavily
laced with cascara. Translating instructions on the labels, the
doctor
‘The Medical Officer at this time (like the padre) was a more popular man than
a lot. When you visited him he heard your story before he decided whether or
not you were malingering. So many gave you the impression that they reckoned
you were lead swinging before they knew anything about your ailment. It didn't
go over too well when you had been crook for, say, a day or two and knew you
were damned crook.’
read out to abashed soldiers just how many spoonfuls
should be given to expectant mothers.
Roman Catholics from 22 Battalion and other nearby units
went to midnight Mass in the church at San Eusanio. The
organist rather startled the congregation by playing ‘Now is
the Hour’ on three occasions. ‘We found out later that he had
learnt it from the Kiwis who were billeted with him. He was
under the impression the song was New Zealand's national
anthem.’
On Christmas Eve Mick Kenny went over to visit his brother,
a lieutenant in the Maori Battalion. ‘We had a grand evening
and had been singing our own Christmas carols all in harmony
—during a lull in our singing we could hear in the distance the
voices of Germans singing “Silent Night”—then the Maori boys
started singing with them. The next day we were into things
again. I have thought more of this incident perhaps than any
other, especially at Christmas when I hear the singing of carols.’
Padre Sullivan has his own Christmas story: ‘We took over…
[an Italian's] house and established an R.A.P. in it. That
meant that he and his wife and his little boy had to live in the
stable below. He was a small farmer, with a tiny piece of land,
two or three scruffy sheep and a few poultry. We were there
at Christmas time and this old boy (at least he seemed old)
spoke English fairly well. He came to me one day and said,
“Would you read me some story from the New Testament?”
‘I said I would and he gave me a copy in the Italian language, so that when I read from it his wife and boy would be
able to follow it. Each morning for about a week I was in the
habit of coming down to that stable and reading him some
passages.
‘Christmas came upon us while we were there and the boys
in the Company thought they would like to do something for
this small family and so they held a tarpaulin muster. One
way and another a number of gifts were collected; many items
of food and something each for the mother and the father and
the boy. At night they stole down and, while these three people
were asleep, they filled Christmas stockings for them. When I
went down on Christmas morning, the small family was quite
overcome with joy and the old man invited me on this occasion
to read the story of Christmas. I did, and I was never more
moved by it. The tears in their eyes as they listened to this immortal tale was a sight which somehow seemed to bring it alive.
There was a father, a mother, a small boy, a stable filled with
straw and a couple of lowing oxen in the corner. The wheel of
history seemed to have made a full turn. In the midst of war,
we were at peace.’
New Year's Eve: a blizzard. It was bitterly cold. Men in
outposts had a wretched time. ‘Hardly any good days now,
mostly cold and miserable with snow on the ground a great
deal of the time.’ But New Year's Eve was happy enough for
some members of 2 Company, cosy and warm with a plentiful
supply of vino before a roaring fire inside a casa. ‘There was a
feeling among us of mellowness and goodwill to all men.’
Back to the line they went, delayed by snow blocking the
road, on the night of 3-4 January. The snow, thick on the
ground, was a lovely sight, but it soon palled and the increasing
mud was cursed steadily.
‘During this winter the old Army boots took a thrashing.
Jokers coming from outside in the mud and snow took off their
boots as soon as they got inside and put them by the open fire
to dry. But many were put too close and so suffered damage.
We also started building our own diesel stoves. Fuel drip-drip-
drip from a tin into a metal container—a steady sizzle and a
roar—and the smoke and fumes going up the chimney which
protruded out a window (many round food tins wedged one
inside the other with the ends cut out). She didn't always work
too well though—the place that thick with fumes and smoke
that you could hardly see or breathe. But when you got one
really revved up she just glowed red hot and threw out a terrific heat: you wondered how all that heat came from that tiny
trickle of diesel. Of course—there was a chance she may blow
up on you.’
On the second visit to Salarola 3 Company occupied the
village, thoroughly prepared the buildings for defence and
carried out some ingenious schemes, which included bricking
up lines of communication between houses, making holes in
walls between rooms and holes in floors upstairs with ropes for
quick descent. Efficient booby traps and signal systems were
arranged, and all sentry posts were co-ordinated. The men,
skilful now in not exposing themselves when need be, became
highly efficient sentries; few people could move far without
being challenged, as a senior officer (pig on back) and ‘Joe
Ghost’ (fowls in hand) found out.
‘On watch during the day (there were two of us together)
we would stand back from the window of the upstairs room of
our casa and search with our eyes for any sign of movement in
the enemy area. We had a good view of Orsogna (its tower
bombed, shelled and blasted but always intact) and the ridge
stretching down to Guardiagrele, and we would go methodically from one building to another in both towns, and the odd
buildings scattered around (remember that casa sitting on its
own just on top of the ridge where the road from the crossroads
reached the top of the hill just before entering Orsogna?). But
never could we two see the slightest sign of movement. He must
have seen plenty of movement in our area at times (“This mess
queue's going to get a shock one day”).’
Civilians were cleared out of the no-man's-land ahead (‘What
a nuisance the poor wretched devils are in wartime’), and
Major Donald became in effect the mayor of Salarola. According to custom he appeared on the balcony of Company Headquarters at 10 a.m., a time when enemy guns could be relied
upon to remain silent. Then local inhabitants sauntering past
would doff their hats and bow. All village disputes were brought
before the ‘mayor’ to be settled. Gifts flowed into Company
Headquarters, and at one stage the larder held four pigs, two
lambs, six fowls, dozens of eggs, bottles of good wines, and fat
cheeses. Officers began collecting walking sticks, and vied with
one another to produce the nobbiest or the most crooked.
The booby traps laid around farmhouses in no-man's-land
collected in the first night half a dozen sheep and two horses.
A few snow capes arrived for patrolling. Before this a man
might have improvised camouflage by using long white petticoats taken from empty houses. One patrol set out as an experiment in ordinary battle dress, made a wide sweep, and was
almost into Lieutenant O'Reilly's platoon area before being
detected. A group of officers, watching with binoculars in
brilliant moonlight and icy clear air, had failed entirely to see
the figures in battle dress.
Six Platoon (thought to be the first medium machine-gun
platoon of 22 Battalion to fire at the enemy) held a remote
outpost on Bianco ridge. Rations and ammunition came up by
mule train from San Eusanio to Bianco village. A carrying party
from the platoon covered the last three-quarters of a mile in
deep snow and atrocious going. The platoon kept busy on
sentry duty and patrolling. Shooting was done from positions
well forward. A suitable place would be reconnoitred by night,
the gun section would move into position well before dawn and
return after dark. Fresh positions evaded spandau fire and mortaring.
The most exacting work at another advanced post is described by Corporal Paterson. A greater contrast with desert
warfare is difficult to imagine. This post, at the top of a minor
ridge, was about a mile from the cliffs on which Orsogna stood.
Into these cliffs the Germans had dug innumerable holes. An
observation post was manned by a British medium battery
officer and his wireless assistant in the one room that remained
upstairs in a small two-storied house. Downstairs were two
rooms, one more or less intact and the other badly holed. These
two rooms were occupied by a section of infantry as a guard,
which was changed under cover of darkness every forty-eight
hours.
Once inside the house the guard spoke in whispers only and
showed no lights until relieved. The intact room was just large
enough for seven men to lie down, each with one blanket; the
holed room was used as kitchen, guard posts, lavatory and
entrance to the house. The Germans, who had dugouts only
200 yards to the left of the outpost, were under the impression
that the place was derelict and quite unoccupied. Nonchalantly
they would climb out of their holes as daylight came and stamp
around in the snow, swinging their arms to warm themselves
and generally stretching themselves after a cramped night in
a slit trench. To preserve the illusion that the house was unoccupied, the infantry had strict instructions not to shoot except
as a last resort and to let inquiring Germans enter the house
and deal with them silently inside.
Paterson's section (from 15 Platoon) lined up in the snow,
which was a foot to 18 inches deep, and with a guide set off to
relieve the British paratroopers about a mile away. ‘We were
accompanied by our platoon commander 2 Lt. Ian Thomas
Lt I. L. Thomas, MC; Ruatoria; born Christchurch, 30 Apr 1917; fat-stock
buyer; twice wounded.
and the company sergeant-major, Scott.
2 Lt E. M. Scott, m.i.d.; Masterton; born Dannevirke, 21 Nov 1916; shepherd
and drover; wounded 17 Jan 1945. Every other night Scott took relief parties off to
the ruined house. ‘Somehow, by the way he walked, or it may have been in the
set of his chin, as he strode out wielding a heavy walking stick, bareheaded as a
rule or with just a beret on, he gave a powerful feeling of confidence and well-being. He seemed to be quite fearless and matter of fact, perfectly confident and
capable of dealing with any situation which might arise.” Paterson, meeting Scott
in hospital in January 1945, told him of the great confidence he had given ‘us
lesser lights. Scott, much amused, said that far from feeling as confident and
fearless he was always internally between a—and a shiver until he got back into
the lines.’
We crept up to the
house on its blind side and relieved the paratroopers who wasted
no time in getting out and dismayed us a little by their obvious
anxiety to leave the place behind them as soon as possible. (We
found out afterwards that whereas we had 48 hours there, they
apparently had much longer.) Ian Thomas and “Scotty” saw
us comfortably in and departed, promising to call again in a
couple of days' time. We had a couple of primuses and tins of
potatoes, carrots, etc. which we cooked up during the day, together with odd cups of tea, and generally felt fairly comfortable. However about 9 p.m., towards the end of our first 24
hours there, a blizzard started to blow. The temperature dropped to much too cold and soon as we did our turn of picquet
duty in the kitchen we found ourselves standing in something
like a wind tunnel with the snow driving straight through from
the big hole in the wall (facing the Huns opposite) and out the
hole in the wall behind. There were two of us out in this at
about 5 a.m. (daylight usually came up about 6 then)—when
we saw staggering towards us on the blind side a solitary figure.
In the driving snow it seemed to appear then disappear again.
Remembering our instructions not to shoot we waited while
the hair at the back of my neck anyway sort of rose, and we
both wondered how far in we should let them come, and how
many we should deal with. One of us woke the others and we
all stood to. The figure eventually more or less fell into the
room. It was Ian Thomas in a state of almost collapse. He was
shaking violently with the cold. We rubbed him hard for a time,
then with my greatcoat on we persuaded him to lie down and
warm up with practically all the other blankets on him. It was
some time before the shivering stopped. We asked him what on
earth had brought him out walking on a night like this. He
said that he wanted to see how his boys were getting on, and
make sure we were all OK. He had started off about 9 p.m.
and had only got a few hundred yards when the blizzard came
up. However the thought of turning back had apparently just
not been considered. In the finish he was falling face forwards
on the snow to make a track for himself through the drifts which
had piled up so high that he was almost out of his depth in it.
By this means he managed to make the 1500 yards or so in good
time—about 8 hours' solid going. Within three or four hours he
had recovered his usual vitality and was joking, laughing and
generally enjoying himself thoroughly—in whispers of course
for the blizzard had gone and all was quiet again and Jerry
very close.’
Intermittent shelling and mortaring still plagued the battalion area, but with no very serious results. A wiser battalion
suffered only very few casualties compared with those during
its first stay in Salarola. With the deep freeze the front had
quietened down a lot. The most serious casualty took place on
17 January when a direct hit on a jeep killed all four passengers:
Lance-Corporal Jock Downing,
L-Cpl T. J. Downing; born Napier, 5 Dec 1919; shepherd; killed in action
17 Jan 1944.
Privates Laurie Parnell,
Pte L. A. Parnell; born Wellington, 20 Aug 1914; clerk; killed in action
17 Jan 1944.
Garry Romley,
Pte G. G. Romley; born NZ 10 Mar 1918; shepherd; died of wounds 18 Jan 1944.
and A. W. Morris,
Pte A. W. Morris; born NZ 9 Nov 1911; farm labourer; killed in action 17 Jan
1944.
who were returning about
11 p.m. from playing poker at Transport Platoon headquarters.
All except Romley, who died soon afterwards, were killed instantly.
‘A vivid memory of the next afternoon,’ writes Jenkins,
Pte W. Jenkins; Palmerston North; born Dunedin, 9 Oct 1917; jockey.
‘when we buried them just off the road, was the number of
Italians present. Although quite a bit of shelling was going on,
no one stirred even a little while the two padres, R.C. and
C. of E. were reading the services.’
Shelling increased in the next few days. ‘Lying in the bunk
at night listening to all the different noises the Jerry shells
landing in the vicinity made. Some made a tinny crisp sort of
crash, something like breaking glass. Some a deep-voiced crump.
Some sounded more like a crack. There seemed to be many
varieties—with some you would hear the whine—with others
just the burst.’
As the shelling increased so did rumours of an imminent
move—and on the night of 18-19 January the much-discussed
relief took place. The men were warned repeatedly to make no
noise whatsoever. An English regiment from 4 Indian Division
came in, and with headlights flashing on and off, trucks roaring, and men shouting, ‘did everything but tell the Hun a relief
was on. They set to work to park their vehicles—revving engines and gear changes as they drove up alleys—much shouting
and advice to drivers: “Right hand down.” “Eeee, chum, you
nearly took—corner off building,” “Easy mate,” etc., etc.,
and backed blaspheming into possies. Jerry didn't take any
notice of it all—just the few usual ones in the vicinity. And we
‘oved quietly onto the road and away.’
CHAPTER 10Cassino
From a stalemate in the east, at Orsogna, the battalion went
to a stalemate in the west, at Cassino.
Devastated Cassino lay at the foot of Montecassino (about 1700 ft high), topped
by the famous monastery, soon to be bombed. Cassino blocked the way into the
Liri valley. Here, on the western side of the Apennines, British, American and
French troops of Fifth Army had hoped for a quick break-through from Cassino
to the great prize of Rome, less than 70 miles away. These soldiers had fought
their way into the Volturno valley, which led into the Liri valley near Cassino.
But the mountains drew in, the evil winter weather descended, and the enemy,
firmly entrenched in his rugged Gustav line, fought back with defiant courage
and skill. Here, into the Volturno valley came the New Zealand Division in the
first week in February. Three weeks later 22 Battalion learned that its old desert
brigade commander, Major-General Kippenberger, now commanding 2 NZ
Division, miraculously escaping death but losing both feet, had trodden on a mine
on Monte Trocchio. He was succeeded by Brigadier G. B. Parkinson.
As the Sangro area
differed from the desert, so Cassino differed from the Sangro.
The memory of that chaotic heap of dusty, stinking rubble
burned itself into the nerves and minds of New Zealanders as
no other place did in the war. Here some men glimpsed what
they felt could be the setting for future wars. As Doug Froggatt
Pte D. R. Froggatt; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 30 Mar 1922; postman; twice wounded.
writes: ‘Just gaunt walls pitted with shell fire and surrounded
everywhere by heaps of masonry and stone and over all a pall
of fine choking dust and the smells of stagnation and death.
Great gaping bomb craters each part-filled with water. Everyone in Cassino got as far below ground as possible and most
platoons were well below shell-penetrating depth. Stand to at
dawn and dusk was the regular thing and then men crawled
up top and stood to arms. Of course there were always some
poor blighters on watch throughout the day but even these
contrived to be well hidden away.’
For several days they had travelled, over from the Sangro
to bare olive and oak groves round a little town a few miles
south of Cassino, Piedimonte d'Alife, where they arrived one
morning. One man continues the story:
Some of the usual stops and starts on the way. Cold … but
fine. (Getting out of the lorries at some of the stops after daylight
and stamping and jumping round to try and get warm—especially
the feet—looking up and down the road and up at the bold looking
hills—winter over the countryside—everything calm and rigid looking—the hills and the leafless trees beside the road and in the fields
standing out black and clearly defined against the clear watery
sky—a faint layer of smoke haze girdling a hill—hands in your
pockets—cold on your cheeks, an icy feeling at the tip of your nose.)
At Alife, mornings raw but fine: leave to Pompeii
A wall of Pompeii had an ancient Latin notice: ‘It is a wonder, oh Wall, that
thou hast not collapsed under the weight of so much nonsense’. Throughout Italy,
as the months dragged by and the front seared its way north, the old tradition
of slogan-scribbled walls lived on: DUCE or DUX, now defaced and out of fashion,
together with VEDERE, VIVERE, VINCERE or COMBATTERE. VIVAS were abbreviated
to a w-sign (which the dissenter inverted into an M sign), VIVA STALIN (always
correct and plentifully supplied with hammers and sickles, or stencil of Lenin),
CHURCHILL (CHURCHIL or CIORCIL) and ROOSEVELT (RUSVELT). Nobody attempted
to viva Generalissimo Chiang Kai-Shek (or, oddly enough, Hitler, it seems).
WELCOME TO THE LIBERATORS varied once or twice with LONG LIVE DEAR OLD
ENGLAND; LONG LIFE TO THE USA; HURRAH! BOYS! HURRAH! and YOU ARE WELL
COMMING. Peaceful signs ran to GOOD CLEAN BARBERS, and VERY BEST LAUNDRIES
and FAST WASHWOMAN. Among Allied signs (varied and many) were two which
nobody ever understood: WASKI POST and PUNKT RAT. The Allied Military Government of Occupied Territory, joining the fray as a mere amateur, posted well-meaning signs reading AMGOT, but these were again abbreviated (and hastily,
too) to AMG because, so the story runs, amgot is Persian for something unspeakable connected with a dog.
and see bodies
of men and a dog in the positions they were in when overwhelmed
by the eruption. On the way back someone says ‘There's the Isle
of Capri’, so we move to the back of the truck and look round the
edge of the canopy for a shoofti. Some training among the olive
trees—heard the sound of gunfire away to the north.
Then to Mignano—a night trip and cold as hell, greatcoats on
and blankets round us—boots on the steel tray—feet numb and
sore with cold—out of the trucks first thing in the morning at
destination—onto ground hard as iron—no white frost—but ground
frozen hard—no mud until ground thawed.
At Mignano: a group of jokers gathered in a circle and looking
at a man in the centre—then up would go his arm and all faces
would follow it skyward—looking towards heaven—then all down
together and stares at the ground: two-up: a common sight. And
those Mignano echoes—some of them had a ringing metallic sound
—rising or falling in tone as they reached across the valley. It also
had a noise something like wind blowing through a wooden barrel.
How the echo from the U.S. guns used to crash around the various
mountain sides. A gun would fire and one echo would bang against
the nearest face and then move up the different crags and gullies—
almost dying away and then coming on more loudly again as it
reached another steep face. And while this was going on, other
echoes would be doing the same thing—all at different times—on
other mountain sides—getting further away as you listened—just
like waves breaking on rocks. Sometimes you wouldn't hear the
gun at all—but an echo would come surging up the various mountain sides. I thought that this echo effect had a tendency to make
a shellburst sound louder in the hills of Italy than in the flat desert.
Clear days—windy days—and nearly always cold days when rain,
driven by a bitter wind, pelted down, and turned the area into mud
and water (we got to work one day and metalled a track into our
area for vehicles using, I think, rubble from the village). It nearly
always seemed to be cold and windy—and we were in bivvies. And
at night the wind rushed and flapped round the sides of your
bivvy—cold and draughty….
It was a calm and sunny morning however when we were returning from a route march and saw the bombers making for Cassino
and then saw the masses of brown and black smoke billowing up
from the Monastery—then heard the trembling rumble of the bombs.
(From a distance bombing sounds very like that rumble which
comes at the beginning of an earthquake, and we had an earthquake
while at Mignano.)
Our area at Mignano
Here New Zealanders came into closer contact with American troops and
bartered successfully for large-collared American jackets. An officer relates: ‘The
Yanks, after their custom, had provided almost every known amenity. In the
centre of an area which they occupied, stretching for what looked like almost an
acre, there was a vast series of marquees strung together. This was the American
mobile bath unit. The procedure was most exact.
‘We New Zealanders, after first having taken advantage of it without permission, were finally granted authority to use it. That was allowed because the
Yanks appeared to have no option. The men lined up and entered the first
marquee. As they did so, they took off all their clothing and each man put it in
a huge canvas bag, which was received by a courteous G.I., who gave him a
duplicate disk by way of receipt. Then slowly the group of male nudes made its
way along duckboards, up the steps and into a series of shower cubicles, which
ranged from very hot to cold. Each one was visited in turn and, as the individual
soldier came out of the last one, he was met by another courteous G.I., who
handed him a huge towel. Still clutching his disk he dried himself, passed it on
to a third waiting American and received his bag of clothing back, de-loused,
fumigated, one almost thought dry-cleaned. He dressed and went out the far
end of the last marquee. The pièce de résistance needs to be described. This
whole business went on to the accompaniment of music. In the far corner a
lanky G.I. worked the gramophone and changed the records. What will be his
answer to his growing son, who now keeps on asking him: “What did you do
in the War, Daddy?” ‘
lay in a valley between the rugged hills
to the NE and ‘Million Dollar Hill’. (It was called that, they said,
because it had cost a million dollars to capture. Some of the jokers
climbed to the top of it and when they came back said that it had
plenty of signs of a slogging match having passed over it, it was very
rocky.) After one storm it was mantled in snow down to the foot.
As a landmark it completely dominated our area and every time
you looked around—there it was. It seemed to have something
threatening about it—there were more around like it—and Jerry
held some of them.
But it wasn't all bad. Sometimes on a clear evening (it would be
nearly dusk in our valley) the sun shining from behind Million
Dollar Hill would strike the barren rocky hillsides on the other
side of our valley—heather or some such thing growing from between
the rocks. And the hills (or mountains) would take on the most
vivid hues I have ever seen—pinks, blues, mauves and reds. (Like
you read about in books—but I had never noticed that hills did
that until then—nor have I really noticed it since. But these colours
were vivid.)
And we used to go for route marches along the road through the
area occupied by the tanks (and we used to go to Mobile Cinema
shows in that area too).
Yes—and on a route march too—or you may be going on trucks
somewhere—you would often pass through another unit's area. And
maybe you would see some one from that unit whom you knew—maybe you had seen him often—but maybe you had heard in letters
from home that he had come over in one of the latest reinforcements
but you didn't know to what unit he had gone. Then suddenly
you would spot him. And you would yell out something—say—
‘How's things at Bush Valley?’—or— ‘Have you been to any dances
at Waikikamukau Hall lately?’ (some question like that). Then up
would go his head and he would search frantically with a surprised
questioning-eager look. But it was hard for him to spot you—in
the mass of other jokers or looking out from under the canopy of
the back of a truck. And the last you saw of him he would still be
looking seriously in the direction of the road. And you could
imagine him a few seconds later turning away and scratching his
head and wondering who the hell that was— ‘Must be somebody
local’—and thinking the same thoughts again—say that night or
next day.
And then the day some of us did a lot of tearing around over
there near the foot of Million Dollar Hill for the movie cameras
‘In the fullness of time,’ writes a sergeant, ‘newspapers and periodicals from NZ
reached the Div. What photos! What comment. “My God! What these boys
must be going through!” “Look at that brave man charging through the smoke
with a rifle and bayonet!” “Great men on the bayonet, these NZers!” “These
men have seen hell”.’
—
maybe we would get our pictures on the newsreel showing us
attacking Cassino—this ‘attack’ we did quite a few times before
the real one. And in that area one day some of us tried out the
relative merits of the Piat and Bazooka on the walls of a ruined casa.
And wasn't it here that one day some Messerschmitts or Focke
Wulfs went tearing past and disturbed a ‘shoofti plane’ going about
his leisurely business, and he darted down into a gully—smartly.
And then once again out would go officers (jeep, overcoat and
map case) to another conference. Then a fresh story of how the attack
was going to be carried out. Then rain again—and that was that.
Twenty-second (Motor) Battalion was to speed forward and
exploit in the breach once the break-through came. But no
break-through came. Days of waiting grew into weeks, and the
battalion was nicknamed (for a little while) ‘AMGOT’ (Allied
Military Government of Occupied Territory). Officers and
men studied superb aerial photographs taken from all heights
down to as low as 200 feet. They studied these photographs,
built models, demolished them, then built them from memory.
Men were lectured on the positions of all standing landmarks
and tasks allotted to each platoon. They hoped men would get
to know the general layout of a heap of rubble which once
housed 24,000 Italians. The fresh rubble converted ‘mousetraps into bastions of defence,’ the Germans said, so very truly.
Other New Zealand battalions had fought bitterly and
bloodily in the ruins: their stories, and stories of the defence,
came back to the waiting battalion. By now three-quarters of
the town was captured, a foothold won on Monastery Hill,
and a bridgehead gained across the Rapido River. New Zealand infantry, battling around where Route 6 led through the
town, won the Botanical Gardens and reached the threshold of
what was left of the Hotel des Roses and the Continental
Hotel, two of the last remaining keypoints of the town's defences. These two hotels were near the end of the town where
Route 6—that broken road a man would never forget—making
a sharp turn, led to the entrance of the prized Liri valley. Soon,
before this brilliant German defence, flesh and blood reached
the limit of endurance. Two days before 22 Battalion came into
Cassino the attack was given up for the time being; positions
so far won would be held in the ruins. The road to Rome
stayed closed. The battalion would go in, not a victorious force
on the hunt, but merely in a holding role.
And all this time—the battalion had been waiting its turn
for more than a month—orders and moves had been changed
and changed again. ‘The battalion's going in.’ ‘Ready in an
hour.’ ‘Ready in half an hour.’ ‘Cancelled.’ ‘Going in tomorrow.’ ‘Keep ready to move.’ ‘Prepare to move.’ ‘Cancelled….’ Day after day. Nerves wore down. The suspense
preyed on men's minds.
We sat down in the mortar truck—canopy down against the
cold—and lit the old primus to make the usual billy of steaming
coffee. (‘When she's boiled and you've put the coffee grains in, put
her back on until she bubbles up again—that's what makes it.’)
Everything was cold and bleak looking—the weather and the outlook. We seemed to have come to a dead end. Everything had looked
so bright when we arrived in Italy. (Strike through Pescara, then
across to Rome, then a powerful drive up the peninsula to the
southern borders of the Reich—a German sergeant taken prisoner
at about the time we crossed the Sangro had the cheek to say that
we would fight many more battles before we would get past Italy—it
was in the paper.) Now all that had gone. Bleak cold—mud and
rain—wind and snow—nothing but slogging. And old Tedeschi
[Italian for ‘Germans’, often abbreviated to ‘Ted’] never gave an
inch—if he was forced off some place and thought there was a
chance to get it back—back he would come—as though it was the
last ditch. Shelling, mortaring and spandaus going brrrrp brrrrp.
(How many times during our days in the battalion did we hear
that latter sound?) (‘Aw well, I suppose she'll come right in the
spring’— ‘The bloody tanks can't get off the roads, that's the—
trouble’) ….
‘Highway Six: that last strip into Cassino,’ says a 22 Battalion company commander.
Battalion appointments at Cassino: CO, Lt-Col T. C. Campbell; 2 i/c, Maj D. G.
Steele; OC 1 Coy, Maj A. W. F. O'Reilly; OC 2 Coy, Maj R. R. Knox; OC
3 Coy, Maj H. V. Donald; OC 4 Coy, Capt W. H. Cowper.
‘Transport, moving only at night,
would turn into a sideroad. There you would debus with your
weapons, some ammo and a couple of blankets, and make your
way into Cassino on foot as the transport turned, ready to go
back. That was the Mad Mile, a most unhappy stretch, a dead
road in the daylight, no movement except at night, for the
enemy had that road exactly taped, down to the last yard.
Every now and then there'd be a burst of mortars, especially
on places where bridges had been over small creeks or depressions. We moved very swiftly along the Mad Mile, I can tell
you, always in single file, always well spaced, and the outstanding impression was the smell of death—sweet, sickly—a
terrific stench there. The trees were blasted and broken on the
sides of the road, and big craters were everywhere, most of
them filled with rainwater. A ditch, handy to the side of the
road, gave urgent cover. The Mad Mile was not only covered
directly down the road but also to the left: spandaus somewhere
over towards the Continental Hotel.’
A member of the battalion, who takes his religion seriously,
writes: ‘This was a moment lived … [on the fringe of the
town before 3 and 4 Companies went into position]. It was a
Communion Service held in the barren room of an Italian
house. Outside the mortars were falling with heavy thuds.
Inside about twenty men were kneeling in their battle-dress
uniforms. The Chaplain had no robes save his own stained
and dirty uniform. For a Chalice he used a dirty, chipped
tumbler and for a Paten to hold the bread, he had a shallow,
cracked enamel dish.
‘Many of those men were attending their last Communion
on earth. The service was stripped bare of every possible external, but all those who attended it felt they were near to the
heart of reality. It takes a war sometimes to reveal the truth
to us.’
Battalion Headquarters and 3 and 4 Companies moved up
Route 6 to take over from New Zealand infantry on Saturday
night, 25 March. The night was dark; fine rain falling made
observation difficult. As the men approached the town, the
fire became more intense. Flares threw a bright light for a few
minutes then died away—smoke drifted across the road—shells
crashed around or screamed overhead—tracers whipped by,
seeming to drift in the air when seen at a distance (‘Jerry was
firing straight down the road, tapping out tunes with his damned machine gun’)—occasionally a close one sent every man
flat on the ground.
Near its destination the head of the column halted for some
reason; in the darkness this was not noticed until actual contact
was made with the man in front. This action, telescoping down
the line, left the men anything but dispersed. At that moment
an enemy mortar bomb landed and exploded in the centre of
the group, killing two and wounding fifteen. Immediately the
battalion moved forward again, while the stretcher-bearers
began evacuating the wounded to the RAP. Sergeant Cassidy,
of the carrier platoon, who attended to his mates and helped
them along to the RAP, notes: ‘Among those the bomb collected were our platoon officer Des Orton
Lt H. D. Orton; Onewhero, Tuakau; born NZ 20 Feb 1916; farmer; wounded
25 Mar 1944.
(throat), my driver
C. G. Nikolaison,
Pte C. G. Nikolaison; born Whetukura, Ormondville, 25 Aug 1911; deer
stalker and lorry driver; killed in action 25 Mar 1944.
Max Rogers
Sgt M. A. Rogers; born NZ 2 Aug 1916; twice wounded.
(hindquarters), Dave Patton
(hand), and myself (leg and chin). Poor old Nick, as we called
Nikolaison, was killed, together with G. S. Bygrave.’
Pte G. S. Bygrave; born NZ 10 Aug 1920; farmer; killed in action 25 Mar 1944.
‘Harry
McIvor
Cpl H. McIvor, MM; Hastings; born Scotland, 16 Feb 1919; labourer.
was very good and helped us all a great deal despite
continuous shellfire,’ writes another casualty, Private Jarmey.
Pte A. B. Jarmey; born Wellington, 23 Feb 1922; clerk; wounded 25 Mar 1944.
Corporal Kirschberg
Cpl B. K. Kirschberg; Hastings; born Wellington, 23 May 1918; shop assistant; twice wounded.
‘was quite silly for a while from blast.
Private H. McIvor helped me back to the underground RAP,
and hence I was sent back as far as Wellington last stop.’ Des
Orton (his platoon had gone to ground and remained there)
recovered his senses and struggled to his feet with a typical
remark: ‘Come on you b—s—let's get cracking. There's no
future in lying around here!’
After this unsettling experience Battalion Headquarters and
4 Company Headquarters were set up in the crypt of a ruined
church; 3 Company Headquarters was about 200 yards further
west in a roofless church—just large pillars surrounded by four
bare walls, ‘a great place for sunbathing!’ A knocked-out
German tank lay nearby, its dead crew, later buried, scattered
outside it.
‘A number of priestly garments all beautifully embroidered
lay amongst the ruins and some of these were salvaged, shaken
out and used to wrap tommy and bren guns to keep the all-penetrating dust out of the mechanism. There was also a statue
of a child with outstretched arm in one corner of the Church
and just before first light on our first morning in the town I
sneaked round the corner and walked into the outstretched arm
—God what a fright….’
Each headquarters smelt abominably—German bodies were
found later under the rubble. Walkie-talkie sets and field telephones buzzed incessantly as they kept contact with Battalion
Headquarters and each platoon. Living mostly in low cellars,
men developed what they called the ‘Cassino Crouch’.
Men coming in were guided to their positions by their
opposite numbers in 21 and 24 Battalions (‘like sending a blind
man into a boxing ring to fight’). The battalion, in a holding
role, was to defend a slice of desolation about 350 yards by
300 yards; the most advanced positions were within 200 yards
of enemy strongpoints. In the night the enemy briskly shelled
the battalion's new positions, but nobody was injured.
Dawn found everyone burrowed under cover in the rubble
and ruins. ‘The Monastery looked most formidable as one looked
up with your head thrown right back enough to put a crick
in one's neck.’
Four Company (its anti-tank men acting now as infantry)
settled down in about the centre of Cassino in what they nicknamed the ‘Timber Yard’. ‘We had quite a bit of fun getting
to our final destination under “Bunty” Cowper, our 2 i.c., who
was delighted at the chance of leading us in.’ As they crept
along in single file towards the Timber Yard, Jerry fired multi-green flares: ‘our training all went by the wayside, for instead
of standing dead still trying to look like a tree stump we imitated
startled rabbits.’ Men dived for cover in all directions. Cliff
Hatchard,
Cpl C. E. Hatchard; Hawera; born Normanby, 21 Jun 1921; electrician's
apprentice.
making a rapid reconnaissance in heavily hobnailed boots, trod on several hands. One victim took two days
to coax a glove off his badly-skinned hand. The darting men
drew heavy mortar fire for about an hour, but 4 Company's
only casualty was Fred McRae,
Pte F. E. McRae; Napier; born Auckland, 6 Aug 1917; labourer; wounded
25 Mar 1944.
with a splinter in his big toe,
‘but a homer.’
The Timber Yard consisted (like most of Cassino) of a fair
depth of rubble and scattered chunks of 12 by 12 inch timber,
varying in length from five to fifteen feet. These pieces of timber
made most useful shelters. Men with the utmost caution reinforced their burrows and hide-outs by lifting broken beams and
making shallow slit trenches a foot to two feet deep. Some went
further. Sergeant Valintine
2 Lt D. A. Valintine; born Cambridge, 17 Apr 1922; clerk; killed in action
30 Jul 1944.
and Stewart Nairn,
L-Sgt S. McL. Nairn, m.i.d.; Hawera; born Hawera, 24 Sep 1920; shop assistant; wounded 30 Mar 1944.
for example,
gouged out a small dugout at the bottom of a large bomb crater.
They dug with hands and odd utensils, for they had lost their
shovels on the way in, thanks to those notoriously alarming
airbursts. At night they salvaged heavy timber and placed it
across the dugout, which was 6 ft. long, 3 ft. wide and 3 ft.
deep. They packed three feet of wet clay on top and covered
the wet floor with a gas cape.
Most of the platoons, well down in the cellars, debris and
rubble, passed most of the time in the darkness or semi-darkness, or in artificial light from lanterns or battery lights. ‘This
state of affairs was much preferable to being in amongst the
stuff that was flying about up top.’ Battalion Headquarters was
always lit up in the Crypt. Some men didn't see a German all
the time they were there. But snipers definitely were about;
it was never safe for a man to show himself at a window frame.
Often the air was murky with smoke as well as dust. ‘Smoke
bombs came over with a soft wooosh, and something detached
itself and plopped down.’ Holes in the broken walls provided
lookouts, sometimes masked by muddy blankets. ‘One automatically listened to the discharge of the missiles from the
nebelwerfers, paused and heard their arrival. Every day, with
a charmed life, it seemed, our friend the shufti plane came
lazily overhead. By day the scene was one of rocks and ruins.
There was noise but the only movement came from the stretcher-bearers of the Indian forces. At night the interchange of
shells above our heads seemed more perceptible and bright
flashes of light came from those which struck the hillside around
the monastery. Broken tiles slithered and clattered incessantly
and now and then, with a great thud, a shell would burrow
into the ground as if seeking entrance to our shelter in the
ruins. Towards dawn the enemy could be heard talking and
laughing and apparently chopping wood. In the rubble I found
a tourist guide to Italy, so I read the chapter on Cassino.’
Shelling and mortaring continued without casualties during
the battalion's first day (26 March) in Cassino. Our heavy guns
shelled the Hotel des Roses. From the severely damaged building enemy stretcher-bearers carried out wounded. Probably
the building was still occupied after the shelling because the
stretcher-bearers returned and did not come out again. This
happened frequently. In the night Captain Baird
Capt C. H. Baird, m.i.d.; born NZ 2 May 1918; medical student.
and his
RAP party arrived to take charge of the RAP at Battalion
Headquarters.
One hardship, the men in forward positions soon found, was
that the enemy was too close to allow lights, or small fires to
warm up food and keep out the chill. The usual method of
making a cup of coffee and milk was to tip a little of the precious
water from water bottles into the mess tin and, with the aid of
broken-up methylated spirits tablets called ‘META’, heat the
water and add the coffee and milk. Someone improved on this
‘with a really brilliant idea, painstakingly collecting perfectly
dry sticks, lighting a fire that did not smoke in the least, pouring
tins of stew, potatoes and carrots into a half-kerosene-tin, and
heating it up. While bringing our share to us, one came over,
and, although the concoction was full of grit … it was “à
la Savoy!” ‘This experiment seems almost unique: very few
fires, no matter how small, were lit deliberately in Cassino.
Early on 27 March enemy tanks were heard moving on Route
6 by the Baron's Palace, voices drifted across from near the
Hotel des Roses, and at dusk two effective ‘stonks’ were brought
down to stop a tank moving by the Continental Hotel. This
day twelve casualties, none of them fatal and all of them among
the luckless 4 Company, came from the explosion of one shell.
Most of these men, dead tired, had had a trying night, and
except for those on picket were trying to snatch some sleep.
Until dawn they had been on carrying tasks, and the same job
was to be repeated that night.
A Troop had carried out casualties. At that time the German
artillery had made the Bailey bridge spanning the river just
out of Cassino quite impassable for all traffic, even jeeps. The
wounded had to be carried out about a mile and a half to
a corner where the ambulances took over. The troop was lined
up and paired off, two men to a stretcher. Just before the trek
out began at midnight, stretcher-bearers were told that some
stretchers held wounded, some dead. Bob McCarthy
Pte J. R. McCarthy; Wellington; born Christchurch, 18 Dec 1920; clerical
cadet; wounded 23 Dec 1944.
and
McKinnon
L-Sgt H. F. McKinnon; Palmerston North; born Rongotea, 9 Feb 1919; truck
driver; wounded 27 Mar 1944.
‘bent over to lift up our stretcher case, took a
good look at our burden who was completely covered by a
blanket, and saw him lying deathly still—a corpse. Neither of
us said anything. On our journey our “case” didn't move or
murmur, so firmly convinced he was a “dead ‘un” we gave him
a ride that was anything but gentle. Approaching the demolished bridge we ran into a really good mortar stonk. We
just dumped our stretcher and flattened out, not giving much
thought for our case: he was dead anyhow. Imagine our surprise and horror as we lay there to see the head of our “corpse”
pop from under the blanket and say quite calmly: “Don't
worry about me boys, run and find yourselves some cover.”
Needless to say we sheepishly got up to assure our friend it
was quite O. K. and we'd give him a much better ride for the
rest of the trip.’ The wounded and dead delivered, A Troop
loaded up with water and rations for the return journey, which
again was anything but quiet.
These were the men who now were trying to sleep in the
cellar of a shell of a building. Outside was a Sherman tank,
engaged in observation-post work for the artillery, and the
Germans had been trying to get it with ‘Terelle Bill’, a big
gun sited up Terelle way. A minor annoyance had been bugs,
but most of these had now been killed with some German
chlorine tablets found in the cellar. About two feet of the top
of the cellar wall facing the enemy was above the ground, and
this is where the heavy shell struck. Part of the building fell,
the cellar filled with dust, ‘and poor old Jerry was abused in
no small way while we were dragging ourselves outside,’ wrote
Brian Leach.
Pte B. T. Leach; born Marton, 11 Feb 1919; P and T Dept linesman; wounded
27 Mar 1944. ‘I would like to add the fine work the VADs did, some of them
were real angels and really spoilt us,’ writes Leach. ‘I will never forget the days I
spent in hospital in Bari, some of my cobbers would go down town and smuggle
up wine to me. Believe me, I used to get quite merry in bed. I was well looked
after as the nurses would smuggle the empties out for me in the mornings before
the Sister came on duty.’
‘Sick of living like a rat in the cellar,’ Small
Pte L. J. Small; Gisborne; born NZ 28 Feb 1917; printer; wounded 27 Mar
1944.
‘had gone up into the sun, come what may. Boy, it sure came!’
He was helped into cover, where someone said ‘Give him water.’
Up went Small's water bottle and he almost choked to death:
it was full of rum, a legacy from a jar procured in Taranto.
The two most severely wounded were Wally Nicholls
L-Sgt W. H. Nicholls; Palmerston North; born Auckland, 31 Aug 1913; carpenter; wounded 27 Mar 1944.
(feet)
and Sid Tsukigawa
L-Sgt S. N. Tsukigawa, MM, m.i.d.; Balclutha; born Balclutha, 21 Jul 1918;
printer; twice wounded.
(elbow). The latter, ‘our outstanding
soldier, returned to the Battalion,’ notes a comrade, ‘but could
never bend his elbow more than halfway. Fortunately he was
T. T., so it was an inconvenience only when firing a tommygun.’
Among the others wounded were the troop commander,
Earl Cross, and Corporal Faull
L-Sgt L. H. Faull; Stratford; born New Plymouth, 27 Jul 1913; dairy farmer;
twice wounded.
and Paul Potiki.
Cpl P. F. K. Potiki; Wellington; born NZ 11 Sep 1918; clerk; wounded 27 Mar
1944.
In the confusion Cross and Forbes McHardy
2 Lt G. F. McHardy; born Palmerston North, 22 Dec 1905; sheep-farmer;
killed in action 28 Nov 1944.
got their boots mixed, each
putting on a pair for the same feet. ‘Had anyone been standing
at the time,’ says McKinnon, ‘he would have been cut to
ribbons. Those unhurt in the troop did a great job in helping
those of us who had copped it. They were all great chaps and
I'm one that can truly say that I'm proud to have belonged to
the 22nd Battalion.’
Another casualty, Corporal Grace, was helped by Frank
Kerrigan
S-Sgt F. N. Kerrigan, m.i.d.; Hastings; born Portobello, Otago, 21 Apr 1910;
carpenter; wounded 27 Jun 1942.
(‘calm and unruffled as usual’) to the RAP, where
Kerrigan noticed ‘Colonel Tom Campbell doing the rounds
and looking 20 years older than his years—worry and lack of
sleep were telling their tale—my sympathy went out to him.’
The wounded were carried out that night, the road was shelled
as usual, and Leach, a stretcher case, reports: ‘The two carrying
me said if the shells came any closer they would put me down
as I would be quite safe being so close to the ground while they
ran for cover. I told them I would be quite OK, but felt far
from happy. However the shelling ended as quickly as it started.’
Next day (28 March) anti-personnel mines were laid in front
of 15 Platoon, and a patrol (one of the very few patrols in
Cassino at this time) from B Troop 4 Company contacted the
Buffs on the left flank. ‘Lofty’ Veale, to his horror, saw a mortar
shell come through the window of his broken room, hit the
wall—and fail to explode. But a fragment of flying stone gave
him a painful black eye.
A tank moving by the Continental Hotel brought down two
prompt ‘stonks’: the artillery, now expert in ‘stonks’, could blanket
any chosen area within a matter of four minutes. At breakfast
time 3 Company saw to its surprise a fairly large party of civilians making their way towards the Hotel des Roses on Route
6 leading out of the town; on the brigade front another party,
about thirty men and women, were seen later on. A warning
shot brought a most unusual ‘white flag’ when a woman bent
down, removed an undergarment, and waved it vigorously. At
dusk a party of twenty enemy moving from the Hotel des Roses
to the Continental was shot up by D Troop 4 Company and
the artillery.
At odd times outposts glimpsed enemy stretcher-bearers who
seemed to be replacing tired and hungry front-line soldiers with
fresh ones. Some thought bulky greatcoats concealed belts of
ammunition. Although a sharp watch was kept on these stret-
cher-bearers, and some soldiers urged action (‘I was dying to
pull the trigger’), it is doubtful if they were fired on. It is also
doubtful whether they were abusing the Red Cross.
Heavy concentrations of enemy artillery and mortar fire on
29 March drew counter-shoots. D Troop fired on and brought
casualties to an enemy party by the Hotel des Roses. That
night, when Battalion Headquarters marched out (1 and 2
Companies of the battalion relieved the others in Cassino the
next night), misfortune visited the carrying parties going back
down Route 6.
By now carrying parties
The carrying parties going out from Cassino used to wait at the crypt, which
served as Battalion Headquarters, until about 1 a.m., to carry out any casualties
to the ADS.
were growing wise to the ways of
Route 6. After dark they brought up food, water, ammunition
and sometimes letters from home—a weird destination for letters
from quiet suburban homes and country farms on the other
side of the world.
Letters home, of course, were written from within Cassino itself. Private
492769's letter, which eventually found its way to his wife in Hastings, contains
this classic sentence: ‘That oil question on the car seems to bother you but when
you can't see any oil at all on the dip-stick that's the time to worry.’
‘The last straight, only about 400 to 500
yards, seemed like a mile or so when one walked it for the first
time, and every little noise seemed almost to wake the dead.’
The carrying parties dumped their loads at Battalion Headquarters and took back any wounded, empty water tins, bags,
and so on. Their destination, Battalion Headquarters, was
underground and had a small, sandbagged entrance which unfortunately faced towards the enemy. One carrying party
reached this narrow entrance, found it awkward to get through
because of the bulky packs, and was hovering on the threshold
‘when Jerry let fly with a few mortars and we were literally
blown through the hole by a near miss.
‘“Gee! That one was close!”
‘“Everyone OK?”
‘We were OK, but it was close.’
Carrying parties began recognising the systematic way the
German went about shelling Route 6 and the town: first the
station, then the bridge, the church, and so on. Listening for
a circuit of his shelling, men picked times to get going on to
the next ‘safe’ area, and waited there until it was time to move
again. Their inspiration was camp—and bed. And perhaps
something more: one man, for instance, volunteered for a
carrying-party trip one night just to take a particular friend
a bottle of whisky. Every night a ballot was taken among B
Echelon men for eight to fourteen carriers.
This night (29–30 March) some men had drawn a third turn
before others had drawn a second at carrying supplies into
Cassino, and some of those picked for the third round objected
to going in. Sergeant Butler, who had made two or three trips,
said he would go in place of one of the others.
‘While awaiting to embuss I looked around at the various
carrying parties who were preparing to go up in three-tonners
to a rendezvous [approximately a mile] from Cassino,’ writes
Orsler. ‘They were being sent on their way by their mates who
had perhaps been in the carrying party of the previous night
and who really knew that it was the worst part of the Cassino
undertaking. There were many grim faces, but still the occasional wit who just had to bleat like a lamb as he climbed aboard
the three-tonners which did resemble a NZ sheeptruck.
‘The road was very busy this night; we passed some 15–20
trucks loaded with metal waiting to run in and dump their
loads into the holes and rivers where shelling had ruined the
bridges. The moon was getting brighter each night. This night
a few clouds gave us cover but sometimes a clear moon would
catch us in the open with no cover. Snipers were also busy.
We arrived safely at the church after a jittery trip.’ The moon
was still bright for the trip back. The carriers left in lots of
three. Orsler was among the last three. ‘Picking our chance
we made the dash over the open 100 yards or so in full view
of Jerry to a heap of rubble, once a building, which gave us
cover to get our wind. Then off to the bridge which we had
to bypass because the engineers were pulling down its remains.
In the hurry I ran onto the bridge and saw a chap (one of our
4 Company mechanics) dead across the steel frame. Hurrying
back off the bridge and around the side, I soon caught up with
the other two, and we were told to get going fast as Sergeant
Bill Butler had been wounded and Jerry was giving the place
hell, and it looked like IT.’
By this first Bailey bridge Jensen
Pte J. E. Jensen; born NZ 14 Jan 1917; shepherd; killed in action 29 Mar 1944.
was killed and Sergeant
Butler wounded in the arm. Engineers working on the bridge
sent their RAP man to fix up Butler and provided a stretcher.
Barney Beckett
Cpl J. O'B. Beckett; Tauranga; born Christchurch, 23 Jun 1904; mercantile
and insurance manager; wounded 29 Mar 1944.
took the front of the stretcher, two engineers
took the rear. ‘We got a fair way along the road,’ writes Beckett,
‘and were just about to put the stretcher in a jeep when a shell
appeared to land right beside the stretcher. The jeep beat a
hasty retreat. Butler and the two engineers appeared to be dead,
and I was pretty well knocked about. Then Sergeant Franklin
Sgt A. A. Franklin, m.i.d.; Te Kuiti; born Hong Kong, 11 Oct 1905; farmhand.
turned up, fixed a field dressing on me, carried me over to a
derelict tank, hunted back the jeep, and took me to the A.D.S.
Those engineers were very good chaps and had no need to help
us as there should have been our own chaps about. I am also
very grateful to Sergeant Franklin.’
Just after he had heard that Butler was wounded, Orsler
and his two companions were ‘literally blasted off the raised
road … and after finding all of us, still able to say “OK get
going”, we [moved] off again to make a dive for cover a second
time about 100–150 yards further along. After this we lost no
time in getting out of range but Jerry seemed to follow us for
a long way up that road that night.’
The three men reached the RAP outside Cassino to find, to
their astonishment, that nobody else had arrived, ‘so we had
grim feelings for the others. About 20 minutes later we drank
cocoa and biscuits. During this time the first stretcher cases
arrived…. Things were grim. To think that Bill Butler had
to get a double wound and then afterwards [be] killed was a
bit too much and it kind of knocked all of us. We had cursed
our luck on the way out, but now were counting our lucky stars
that we were there at all. Well that was how things turned out.’
Back in Cassino strong shelling began early in the afternoon
of 30 March, and later increased in intensity, ‘so much so that
we felt something brewing.’
That night the enemy attacked the railway station but was
driven off by 26 Battalion. Shells bursting within five to ten
yards of 22 Battalion's positions started sudden storms of dust
from the rubble. Men's heads now were becoming quite sore
through long wearing of steel helmets. Suddenly Stewart Nairn
found himself ‘lying flat on my back on the floor of the dugout
half covered in clay and splintered wood. Through a gaping
hole in what had been the roof of our dugout I could see the
sky in a haze of dust. Looking towards the end of the dugout
I could see “Fudge” Valintine gazing at me with a look of
amazement and pain. He was clasping his right heel in one
hand and he uttered after a pause: “Jesus Ker-ist. I'm hit.
How are you?” He said the words very slowly and it really
sounded rather funny.’ They waited five hours, until dark,
before reporting to the doctor. ‘In that period we smoked three
and a half packets of cigarettes: Lucky Strikes: 20s.’ The
wounded safely made the trip out that night, by-passing ‘the
first Bailey Bridge, on which many soldiers had been killed,
without any difficulty, although our hearts were in our mouths
expecting one to land on the decking, which was well taped,
at any moment.’
For the carrying party coming forward up Route 6 earlier
that evening, the story was different. ‘Towards evening I saw
our clerk “Kai” Thomson
Cpl W. S. Thomson; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 2 Feb 1911; public
accountant; wounded 28 Jun 1942.
coming down the road with the
good news that I would have to be in the carrying party again
that night.’ Douglas ('Slim’) Calman
Pte D. T. N. Calman; born NZ 19 Feb 1919; carpenter; twice wounded.
accepted with mixed
feelings. ‘Something told me that I may not be back so unconsciously I packed up my gear and left it in the truck….
Before moving off Bob Knox produced a bottle of rum, and
I certainly needed Dutch courage right then. We got cracking.’
After debussing, each man was loaded up. ‘Hell! What a load:
a large carry-all on each back and a two-gallon tin of water in
each hand.’ All was very quiet as the party set off along Route
6 heading towards Cassino. After a while, moving along a
built-up road lined on each side with the remains of trees, they
gradually approached what looked like a heavy mist. Later
they discovered this was smoke from canisters and shells which
were being fired by our artillery. Each man just followed the
man in front and hoped he knew where he was going. It was
very still. An occasional burst of machine-gun fire could be
heard. Many a man ‘was a bit dry in the mouth.’
Just as they reached the bridge into the town, the hush was
broken by a terrific bombardment which landed on the left-hand side of the road. Luckily the carrying party was on the
right, but most of the men were knocked off their feet. ‘I found
myself flat on my back, cast like a sheep, as I had a valise full
of rations on my back,’ Calman continues. ‘“Snow” Absolom
WO II R. H. Absolom; Linton; born NZ 2 May 1914; shepherd; now Regular soldier.
came to the rescue and in the darkness we heard a voice. It
was Major Milne
Maj J. Milne; Otautau, Southland; born NZ 24 Oct 1913; farmer; twice
wounded.
who was fairly badly wounded. “Snow”
assisted both of us to the RAP … no praise is too great for
those medical blokes when a man is in need.’
One and 2 Companies took over. ‘As we climbed into the
trucks, the rum issues came to light, thereby disproving the
story that the cooks had swiped it during our days of waiting.
Everyone was tense with the knowledge of the dangers ahead
on Route 6. The trucks drove a little too far and we were very
smartly debussed to confront a lone donkey, half-obscured by
mist. Then began the journey as it has been described: past
an occasional form on a stretcher, sometimes ours, sometimes
one of the enemy; past the burnt-out tank, off the road into
the sticky clay where the Bailey bridge lay whole but tilted to
one side. A brief halt by the church. And all the time the sound
of artillery, the whistle of bullets overhead, the chatter of
spandaus and the sickly-sweet smell of the dead around us. To
the left, up the main “street”, skirting the top half of a dead
priest, into the ruins of a once smart villa.’
‘I passed one of our company laid out on a stretcher,’ wrote
Geoff Knuckey.
L-Cpl G. F. Knuckey; Hastings; born NZ 24 Mar 1910; builder; wounded
22 Sep 1944.
‘They had left him as he had passed on and
God bless him and all the others who died on that stretch of
road.’ While being evacuated in a three-tonner Milne ‘looked
back just as a star shell burst over and lit up Cassino, and there
it was, framed in the truck's canopy, like a mouthfull of broken
teeth, my last and unforgettable glimpse of the war.’
The two companies spent, with only two casualties, the first
week of April in a quieter Cassino. The tension still remained
of running the gauntlet on Route 6 ‘living like a louse in the
stinking rubble’, and in watching out for enemy parties prowling
in the ruins after dark. As Brian Leach summed up: ‘I
don't know which I would have sooner done: carried rations
in or sentry duty: both were rather nerve wracking.’ ‘I had a
hard-shot private in my company,’ writes Knox, ‘who had
broken every law in the army. One night he arrived in the
carrying party with a note stating that he had volunteered for
the job. In my eyes he rehabilitated himself although he was
afterwards just as bad a soldier. Hell! He still visits me.’
‘The interminable rustling of those damn gas-capes at night
as the picquet just relieved, tried to settle down,’ writes Bob
Grant.
L-Cpl R. W. Grant; born Dunedin, 11 Feb 1907; hairdresser.
‘Everything outside “moved”, there were all sorts of
“noises” outside too, but still that ghastly rustling went on until
one felt like screaming.’ He goes on to describe a night on
picket:
Wakened from fitful sleep to full consciousness, stiff and cold
from lying on unyielding ground, to face that weird half-light called
night-time in Cassino, the uncanny silence seemed like a cloak. The
noise, to me, was preferable. It had substance, was solid and somehow comforting. The silence was wholly sinister.
Vague recumbent figures behind one, stirring in restless sleep,
seemed to make a terrific din, and, straining to see or hear any
outside movement, one felt like yelling ‘Quiet! damn you! Stop breathing! Someone's sneaking up on us! That bloody tree stump is moving
That pile of rubble is a Jerry patrol! Quiet’!
Whew! It's OK. That is a tree stump, and that pile of rubble is
a pile of rubble. But I could have sworn…. I should be relieved
soon. What's the time? Hell! my watch must have stopped. I've
been here more than 20 minutes. No! it's going. Twenty minutes….
That's a Jerry peering over what's left of that wall on the skyline!
If it is, he can see me! I could pick him off easily, only mustn't
give our positions away. No. It's only a piece of broken masonry.
A staccato, snarling burst of Spandau imprints every cold, single
round on one's spine. Ugh! Then in the distance comes that comforting sound of a Vickers ‘pop-pop-popping’ away, on a fixed line.
Good old M.G. One relaxes, and the mind wanders to more pleasant
things. Hope Sam's making out alright with 25. Not a bad mob
that. Of course 22 is just…. That damned stump is at it again!
Relax feller. It's still a stump. I wish my vision wasn’ so restricted.
A bit monotonous. Where was I? Oh, yes, 22 is just the best. About
time that lupin was sown for green crop at home. Wonder how the
garden is…. There are some figures out there. I can see and hear
them, coming this way! Better call Scotty—he's awake anyway,
and after a good look says: ‘She's right, Bob. It's the Old Man
coming over. I'll wake the boys for Stand To!’ Cheers! The night's
over. Nothing to worry over now. But I was afraid earlier. Afraid
of an awful silence.
Yet, despite the intense strain of sudden shells, or silence, or
mortars and snipers (‘I'll never forget the face of one of our
platoon commanders bringing his men out of Cassino: a dead,
expressionless face, and crouching behind them cradling a
tommy gun and weaving backwards and forwards like an
animal, the strain had been so great’), despite short rations and
water, despite smoke, dust, and next to no sleep for a week
(‘too noisy in the daytime, too scared—semi-isolated as we
were—in the night’), the men still produced a grim Cassino
brand of humour.
One of our tanks was stranded and abandoned in the main
entrance to the convent next door to the ruined church. From
the ruins men walked through a doorway and there, suddenly
poking a man in the face, was the muzzle of the gun. When a
few men of the Coldstream Guards (their boots muffled in
sacking) arrived to get the run of the ropes two days before
their unit relieved the battalion, the New Zealanders politely
stood aside to allow a Guardsman through the doorway. Just
at that moment a 22 Battalion man, fooling around inside the
tank, traversed the gun right on to the Guardsman, ‘who froze
before our eyes.’
But at least one laugh could have been enjoyed by the
Guardsmen. When four relieving Guards officers came in, ‘the
leader towering about the 6' 7? mark, the other three in the
vicinity of 6' 5?, Lt. Monaghan started to show them the layout
and advised me [Private Lee
Pte E. N. Lee; Waitoa; born Durham, England, 1 Nov 1920; printer; wounded
17 Oct 1944.
] to be alert as they were so big
they must hit something. A few seconds later there was a huge
crash and I went to investigate and found the lieutenant picking himself up from a heap of tins. The Guards' changeover
was perfect.’
While guiding in a relief party, one 22 Battalion private
‘couldn't resist putting on the “old dig” act. The young officer
in charge had an outsize bedroll on his back. I told him and
his party to follow me closely—where the challenge points were
—to run when I ran—and that I had to judge exactly the
period between Jerry's precision stonks! I admit that I ran
most of the way, but was a little ashamed when on arrival the
officer dropped his burden and collapsed on it, perspiration
literally running off him.’
Sid Meads
Sgt S. Meads; Rangiwahia; born Rangiwahia, 18 Apr 1911; farmer; wounded
2 Aug 1944.
(1 Company) relates how on the last day ‘everyone was feeling happy huddled in a low cellar just in front of
the two hotels when Lee Bridgeman
Pte L. H. Bridgeman; Tariki, Taranaki; born NZ 8 Feb 1920; farmhand;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
picks up our officer's
(Gordon Stuckey
2 Lt R. G. Stuckey; born Manukau, 29 Jun 1921; clerk; wounded 28 May 1944.
) Verey pistol. Pulls the trigger and swish—
out pops a flare and it ricochets round the cellar and burns out.
Smoke everywhere. Coughing cursing men. One, Arthur
Aldridge,
Lt A. F. Aldridge; born Napier, 3 Apr 1914; stock agent; wounded 14 Apr 1945.
thought it was a 36 grenade and held up a gas-cape to protect himself with. Smoke billows out and then the
Jerry hate starts and carries on for an hour or more. Bridgeman
a very subdued man and needless to say all we others too.’
Haddon Donald wanted to know why a group of his men
hadn't shaved for four days. A safety razor with one rusty blade
was unearthed, and eight men used it. ‘A quick dash out with
a Jerry helmet for water from a nearby shellhole, some Lifebuoy
soap, and agony upon agony. O.C. very gratified.’
Knox found a silver chalice in Cassino about the time the
battalion pulled out, and offered it to the 2 Company man
who came out of Cassino and down Route 6 in the fastest time.
They left in single file, about ten yards apart. Knox, leaving
last, was the only man to catch up with the man in front of
him; he won the Cassino Handicap, plus cup.
The battalion had seen the last of Cassino town itself, but
was to stay near Cassino for the rest of April. The men came out
to a countryside in spring: wild flowers were out in the fields,
and buds bursting on the vines; the fields never looked so green.
The battalion moved four miles to the south of its old position
in Cassino town. On the way back the lorries were very exposed
in places where the road was raised by embankments, and
there were patches of fog too. Then the battalion entered
lightly wooded country.
Its new front, 3000 yards long and fairly quiet, lay on the
eastern bank of the Gari River, into which the Rapido flows.
Here patrols were active, some of them soon moving across the
river and cautiously feeling into enemy territory. This work
(the battalion's casualties for April were 4 dead and 11 wounded) drew a compliment from the Brigade Commander, Brigadier Inglis, when 22 Battalion finally left its river line.
The new position was a beautiful place: ‘that beautiful green
of the new barley, and a fair amount of clumps of bushes so
you could move carefully by day. There was just the odd shelling and mortaring, otherwise pleasant enough. We were still
in full view of the monastery, its ruins still watched us, wherever
you went you always had the impression that the monastery
was watching you.’ By night it was an uncanny place: ‘mist
swirling around and bullfrogs croaking—just the setting for a
Hollywood mystery picture. Dry area. Niente vino.’ Here, no
matter how damp or dismal or dangerous the night, Forbes
McHardy always arrived after midnight ‘with a big billy of
tea for his men: it was terribly appreciated.’
The battalion was not far from the hamlet of Zuparelli,
which was little more than a group of houses in one block.
Civilians still lived round Zuparelli, but when the French
Moroccan Goums took over on the left flank the Italians immediately sent their women away.
‘Number One Company, in reserve in Zuparelli, grew very
fond of an old patriarch there: alert and erect when you saw
him from behind, but when you faced him he was about 80,’
recalls a battalion officer. ‘He had a son, about 50, just the boy
about the place. The old man was very intrigued by the boys'
false teeth and was keen to get a set. In vain we tried to get
him to be more careful about occasional shells—throughout
the Italian campaign, Italians seemed to think shelling was
meant exclusively for soldiers, not civilians. So one night old
grandad collected it. Now this family's wheat, tomatoes and
so on were all locked away jealously in the attic. Old grandad
had not allowed his wife or son the keys. When grandpa died,
much to the amazement of the boys, decrepit old grandma (who
we thought had really had it), then came to light and, rejuvenated, took over office—and the keys. The son, aged 50, was
still the boy about the place.’
Men of 2 and 3 Companies stood-to by night in prepared
positions and lived in buildings by day. In the fortnight they
were there the battalion's mortars fired over 2000 rounds. The
first casualties came on the fifth day (14 April), when a platoon
commander, Lieutenant Revell,
Maj A. H. Revell, m.i.d.; born NZ 3 Oct 1908; farmer; twice wounded.
and three other ranks exploded a booby trap. Revell was hit by several pieces of shrapnel, and Sergeant Bradbury,
Sgt G. R. Bradbury; Clive, Napier; born NZ 23 May 1911; carpenter;
wounded 14 Apr 1944.
hit in the neck by a piece as big
as a pea, was amused later to find himself listed as wounded.
The place contained many sorts of booby traps, which the
companies neutralised ‘and replaced with ones of our own.
These were mostly “Silent Sentries”: flares fixed to a steel rod
and spring-loaded, so that when a tripwire attached was fouled,
up went the flare, lighting up the surrounding countryside.
These were used as a warning of approaching enemy patrols.
Another type used was a primed hand-grenade placed in a
milk tin, or round tobacco-tin, and a long fine wire attached.
When this wire was tripped, the grenade was pulled from the
tin and exploded.’
Two Company's position had been attacked three times
before by strong enemy patrols, which apparently had crossed
the river by some subtle method. The patrols kept dry and left
no tracks. Knox decided to move forward all positions right to
the water's edge, and a capable soldier, Sergeant McClymont,
2 Lt J. D. McClymont; born England, 18 Sep 1915; sheep-farmer; killed in
action 15 Apr 1944. (McClymont, who had been recommended for a commission,
was gazetted posthumously.)
took up a position in a heap of rubble by the water. He kept in
touch with Company Headquarters by phone.
Putting down phone wires in pitch dark (wrote T. Hegglun), some men ‘had
a lot of fun, falling into all the shellholes, tripping over everything, raining like
hell, and what with wading about in the river and falling in the mud I'm in a
hell of a mess. Spent rest of night just in overcoat…. burnt blasted boots and
socks drying by fire.’
The next night
(15 April) McClymont asked to be allowed to take a patrol
along the riverbank towards where he had heard Germans.
The sergeant organised his patrol and set off bravely to his
death. His patrol and a German party met head on. The leaders
opened fire at point-blank range: both McClymont and the
German died instantly. A badly shaken patrol reported back
to Company Headquarters, where Knox organised a new patrol
‘and one of these young lads who had been in McClymont's
patrol offered, despite his shaken condition, to lead me to the
spot where McClymont had fallen. This he did very well. We
found both bodies and brought the sergeant's body home. I
recommended this guide for a decoration but I don't think
anything came of it.’
Only a few weeks before his death Jim McClymont had
written this poem:
Rain falling dismallyEvery tree drips mournfullyLike the sad ghosts of happier bygone years.Why can't man live peacefully?Why must he war eternally?Lord, grant that the years to come may beUnmarred by strife and painThat she at last may share with meSunshine as well as rain.
Doug Froggatt, the signaller, writes: ‘3 Company in this
position had a listening post down near the river. This consisted of a hole dug in the side of the road and suitably camouflaged. A telephone wire was run to the post and as soon as
possible after dusk each evening two men would go there, connect a telephone and sit out the night in silence and in sweat.
I can well remember giving vent to considerable profanity
when, after the patrol had gone to the listening post and no
contact had been made by phone, one of us signallers was detailed to go and see if the line had not been cut by shellfire.
Wrapping boots in sacking (something everyone who went
down to that post did) one would creep down the road tommy
gun under arm. Frogs were abundant in roadside swamps, the
night being filled with their love songs (it was early spring).
Suddenly all frogs would cease to croak and dead silence would
descend. It was at such times that the tommy gun was held a
a little tighter and the sweat ran down the forehead in spite of
the coolness of the weather. Although it was necessary for 3
Company Sigs to make that trip a number of times no break
in the ‘phone line was ever found and always at the end sat
two B— soldats who had put the earth wire on the wrong
terminal or plugged the earphones in the microphone jack (we
were at this stage using wireless remote control units as telephones).
‘One night whilst sitting on the 10 line Telephone Exchange
switch-board (to which we had 19 lines connected) a light above
the listening post line came up and on answering it a whispered
voice asked for Company Commander, Haddon Donald. “The
trump” was soon put on and the following conversation ensued:
OC:“Yes”.Whispered Voice:“We can hear some Germans moving down here in the swamp, Sir!”OC:“In the swamp! In the swamp! What's the good of them in the swamp, I want them in the bag—get cracking!”
‘Sometime later the light again came up above the listening
post line and a whispered voice said, “Tell the Major they got
away, will you?”
‘Hell—who'd be an infantry Private again?’
An engineer officer briefly with the battalion failed to cross
the Gari. He found that the current ran about ten miles an
hour and thought there was some danger of being swept away.
Nevertheless on 20 April Lieutenant-Colonel Steele (CO of the
battalion now that Colonel Campbell had left on furlough for
New Zealand) told 2 and 3 Companies' commanders that patrols
would cross the river. Shortly after this the enemy heavily shelled 3 Company and 15 Platoon headquarters. Private Tama
Pte R. Tama; born NZ 27 Sep 1920; general labourer; killed in action
20 Apr 1944.
was killed outright, and Private Mollier,
Pte F. H. Mollier; born NZ 10 Feb 1904; auctioneer; died of wounds 21 Apr 1944.
gravely wounded,
died next day. After dark the patrols set off to the river. The
patrols from 2 Company didn't get across; they found the water
too deep and the current too strong, but 3 Company's patrols
were successful at two places.
After the first attempt patrols (‘faces blackened, proper commando outfits like’) from both companies successfully crossed
over each night until 24 April, when the battalion was relieved
by the Indians. Strangely enough the first 2 Company officer
to cross was a very poor swimmer. Once across, patrols left
ropes in position on each bank to help future reconnaissances.
One patrol successfully used rubber boats. A boat was swamped,
but the officer and corporal, undaunted, swam the river. Only
once did these parties run into resistance. A patrol which was
to cover Lieutenant Jock Wells
Maj J. Wells, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Dargaville, 4 Jan 1911; bank officer.
crossing the Rapido on a
rubber pontoon drew mortar and machine-gun fire. Although
the party sheltered in a safe-looking sunken road, four men
were evacuated: Privates Duffy, Dumble,
L-Cpl W. Dumble; Napier; born Meeanee, 17 May 1912; farm manager;
wounded 23 Apr 1944.
Heald,
Pte L. J. Heald; Lower Hutt; born NZ 18 Sep 1918; moulder; wounded
23 Apr 1944.
and Rule.
Pte R. G. Rule; Wairoa; born NZ 10 Jun 1918; shepherd; wounded 23 Apr
1944.
Robert Rule, badly wounded in the mouth and with ten teeth
knocked out, remembers ‘after they gave me the needle and
had me on the stretcher ready for the ambulance, I braced my
arms against the stays and refused to let go, fearing they were
putting me in my Box for St. Peter before I was ready. There
is one thing I would like to mention as a Maori in a Pakeha
Battalion. I fully appreciate having served alongside mates such
as they were—our platoon officer Jock Wells was tops.’
The battalion took some pride in mastering the river. Men
patrolling the enemy side discovered a severe tank obstacle:
a deep ditch quite overlooked in the plans for the coming attack.
(Photographs from the air did not show up this ditch as a
serious obstacle. Information from the 22nd's patrols led later
to the ditch being bridged by tank bridgers.)
A company cook, Terry Miles,
Sgt T. U. Miles; Halcombe; born Feilding, 26 Mar 1914; farm contractor;
wounded Dec 1943.
was plagued by rats. He
slept in the cookhouse, a downstairs room which once housed
grain. Rat traps were not an army issue. A sympathetic signaller collected a number of old wireless batteries and fixed up
a small tin of food and a sheet of tin. ‘The idea was that the
rats had to stand on the sheet of tin and reach up into the food.
As soon as the rat standing on the plate of tin touched the food
tin, contact was made and whacko she bumped. The first night
the idea was used proved a real nightmare for Terry. Rats and
blue sparks shot all over the room and next morning the tin
plate bore many scratch marks where rats had taken off with
great acceleration. Admittedly no dead rats were found but
thereafter, however, no more rats were seen or heard.’
For another month Cassino held out. Meanwhile 22 Battalion left the river and reorganised, changing from a motor
battalion proper to a motorised infantry battalion. During this
time a sergeant, an ammunition-truck driver, and George
Orsler went back for a trip to Piedimonte. Orsler writes: ‘Here
Sergeant X [name withheld] had become friendly with an
Italian girl of 25–30 years—quite a nice piece too she was, and
he being in charge of rations could easily do a big line and
Sergeants were better than Privates, etc., in the eyes of the
Fair Sex, but somehow this girl must have fallen for X in a
big way. For when the three of us arrived back there the girl
was at church but her friends were still at home. They were
pleased to see us again and asked after X, telling us that this
girl had felt and dreamt that he had been killed, so we told
them it was true, and they cried and told us not to tell the girl
when she came back from church. So we were on our guard
and held back our news. The girl arrived in due course and
was pleased to see us and asked for X. We said he was too busy
to come today. But no, she said, that was not right, she was
sure he was killed. We said “No”, then: “he was hurt.” She
was sure. We said yes he was wounded and in hospital and
would be out soon. No, she said, that was lies. X was dead. We
could not convince her otherwise, so asked her how she knew.
She told us that on the night of … she had seen X killed in
her dreams at the exact minute he was killed and that first he
was wounded and later killed by a German mortar bomb. It
seemed so real that we could not see how she could know so
much had she not been there but it was all true to the exact
detail and she, in a straight line, was more than 15–20 miles
away. We had to admit that what she told us was true, every
detail. I have heard of similar experiences but this is the only
one I personally have come in contact with at its happening.
This is true and may be fantastic but the other two of the party
will verify my words.’
Once the battalion was out of the line by the Rapido River,
parties went on leave, some making south to Bari, others (the
lucky ones) heading off for a first-class holiday on the beautiful
Isle of Ischia off the Gulf of Naples—another Capri without
San Michele. The island had offered similar hospitality to
German soldiers. The scheme: the battalion supplied the food,
the little hotels cooked it, and the cost of board, two shillings
a day, was paid from regimental funds.
The island was now a Royal Navy rest camp. The naval
officer in charge was Lieutenant-Commander McLennan, who
had visited New Zealand. Fourth Brigade started the ball rolling by sending over small parties. Then Division grew interested. Brigadier Crump,
Brig S. H. Crump, CBE, DSO, m.i.d., Bronze Star (US); Lower Hutt; born
Wellington, 25 Jan 1889; Regular soldier; NZASC 1915–19; Commander NZ
ASC, 2 NZ Div, 1940–45; comd 2 NZEF (Japan) Jun-Sep 1947; on staff of HQ
BCOF and NZ representative on Disposals Board in Japan, 1948–49.
Commander of the NZASC, made
a good job of arranging the organisation, accommodation, and
control of New Zealand troops in Ischia.
From Naples a little steamer took leave parties to the island's
lovely little port, almost a complete circle, the remains of a
drowned (and, happily, long extinct) volcano. Men went on
a couple of miles to Casamicciola. On the way they passed over
a few hills and looked back to a glorious view: the harbour, the
blue Mediterranean, Naples, and Vesuvius away in the distance.
‘It was not a camp as a soldier knows it,’ writes a staff-sergeant. ‘There was no reveille, parades, or queuing up for meals.
No sleeping between blankets on hard beds. Just the reverse.
The men were all accommodated in quaint old-world hotels
or more modern villas. Built of stone they were large and cool.
All had their gardens and open courtyards or balconies almost
entirely shaded by the dense foliage of grape vines [where
sometimes] meals would be served during the heat of the day.’
Good wines were sold most of the time in the villages, but
the pensions sold wines and liqueurs to their guests at any hour
(a service by no means overlooked by the visitors). Yet not
once were the authorities troubled with drunkenness, and of
the 950 New Zealanders who passed through this rest camp,
only one was banished ‘for unruliness’.
The soldiers swam, sunbathed, and loafed about on a good
sandy beach; they hired sailing boats, canoes or row-boats,
bought grass hats and souvenir baskets and model boats woven
from seagrass, lazily watched the swallows in the daytime and
the fireflies at night, and clip-clopped in old gharries along
sleepy little streets and out into the orchards, vineyards and
olive groves, all circled by an unruffled sea. Invigorating mineral
baths could be taken in several imposing buildings, where for
ten lire (sixpence) a small room could be hired with a large
marble bath and a full-sized mirror.
They ate plenty of good fresh vegetables and fish, and fruit
too—big grapes and cherries. A few gathered up enough energy
to climb 800 feet through woods and tall firs to the top of a sleeping volcano, Mount Epome, where the view (or exquisite liqueurs at a tiny monastery with its rooms tunnelled out of solid
rock) made the effort well worth while. A bootblack (rewarded
with a meal) guided one party: ‘the track ended with the pine
woods and we had to trust in our leader as he skirted plantations of corn and beans. Shy peasant girls were caught looking
up at us after we had passed them at their work; the men did not
even give us a “Giorno” in greeting. At the edge of the crops
sticks some three feet high carried a small trap, baited with a
green twig. Each time our guide came up to a trap which had
caught a bird he gravely transferred the bird to his overcoat
pocket and gently reset the trap.’
Some managed to arrange a small dance or two, but hawkeyed chaperones watched every move. A school-teacher (from
an outlying village), who had been in the United States, brought
a party of girls and their families along to one 22 Battalion
dance. It wasn't much of a success. The visitors' main interest
was the supper. It was very difficult to prise any of the girls
away from the supper table for a dance. ‘They played sad havoc
with our rations,’ reported Major O'Reilly glumly.
Three days and four nights the holiday lasted. Then it was
goodbye to the little villas and hotels with the big vases and
bowls overflowing with flowers: the Internazionale (Mario and
his wife), Miramonte (‘Madame’—was she pro-Axis?), Valla
Igea (‘John’), Yacarina, Canetti, La Camera.
‘On the last night before our leave finished I went to bed
early: the vino had taken another victim,’ writes ‘Shorty’
Kirk.
Pte R. H. Kirk; Napier; born NZ 1 Jun 1922; apprentice mechanic; wounded
2 Aug 1944.
‘My cobber, Bert Clifford, hardened and seasoned,
could not be beaten, he would not give in to vino. Finally he
came in and woke me up. “Hey Shorty, would you like a feed?”
I said faintly “Rightoh Bert.” Bert returned with a couple of
fried eggs in his hands. I looked at Bert and said nothing about
“Where's the plate?” or such like. But I could see something
was troubling Bert pretty bad. This island by the way had a
terrible lot of lizards on it, they were really thick. But anyway
Bert was pretty far gone, and the next thing I could hear was
Bert's hands fumbling all over the top of the dressing table.
“What's wrong Bert?” Bert replied: “Aw blast these lizards.
I'll catch them in the morning.” Poor Bert, he did have it bad.’
At a parade of 4 Armoured Brigade General Freyberg presented Bob Knox with the MC he had won at the Sangro—a
popular award, for Bob (shortly to be invalided home because
of ill health) knew his men not only by name but by nature too.
It was Bob's custom to read out routine orders to his assembled
company, and his interpretation of orders was characteristic. ‘No
rubbish,’ he would read, ‘may be deposited in the lines.’ Then
he would look up and say: ‘That means you, Smith, Brown and
Robinson.’ Reading orders about discipline, Bob would pause,
then add those which would be enforced rigidly. If anyone
thought he was incapable of doing so, he would be pleased to
meet him at the back of his tent after the parade, to decide who
was the better man.
The General pinned on the decoration, paused, spoke a few
words, then moved on. Everyone wanted to know what Freyberg
had said. ‘Well,’ explained Knox, ‘he told me that it was a very
nice decoration, which I thought was damned decent of him
seeing it was the only one he didn't have himself.’
Battalion officers held a dance in the main post office at
Caserta and invited the sisters and VADs of 2 General Hospital
to help things along. Entertaining themselves further afield,
some went on picnics to the coast near the mouth of the Volturno River. Swimming in the water in the nude was marvellous. One picnic party looked up to see a maimed United States
Liberator, returning from a raid, falter then smash into the sea.
Still vivid in many minds is the obvious desperation with which
the crew were jettisoning everything movable as they passed
overhead, fighting in vain to win a little height on two engines.
Strong swimmers, led by Sergeant ('Strip’) Teaz,
Sgt A. S. Teaz; born NZ 21 Oct 1915; aircraftsman; died of wounds 11 Jun 1944.
went to the
rescue and brought ashore two drowned airmen.
While the leave parties enjoyed freedom, the rest of the men
settled down into the new arrangement of three motorised infantry companies and a support company. This reshuffle virtually wiped out the Anti-Tank Company. Still more infantry
were needed in Italy and mechanised troops were of little use
when war stagnated in the hills. Then the battalion trained in
tank and infantry co-operation (SCONEDOER, this exercise was
called) with the armoured regiments, suffering three casualties
—three men of 2 Company caught in our own fire. On one
such manoeuvre 1 and 3 Companies skirted Alife. The tanks
laid a smoke screen at one stage of the attack to enable the
infantry to get forward, the smoke shells passing waist high
through 3 Company, which took off to a man and sheltered
in a ditch full of blackberry until the manoeuvre was safely
over.
Training with the tank men continued. Simultaneously,
volunteers were coached in special work on reconnaissance
patrols, while selected officers went about lecturing on and
demonstrating mines, explosives, signals (the No. 38 set),
patrols, and river crossings by rubber assault boats. Here
Arthur Fong
L-Sgt A. S. Fong; Greymouth; born Greymouth, 12 Jun 1908; linotypist.
heard the most gracious remark ever made about
the atrocious ‘V’ cigarettes: an Italian purchaser explained to
a friend that the ‘V’ meant Virginia tobacco.
But (as more than one veteran prophesied) this training was
of little use in the last week of the month. The battalion was
sent into a dead-end, the mountains about four miles north-east of Cassino, to hold very steep country. Here, for the first
time since Olympus, the battalion depended on mules for supplies. Here, too, came the curious sensation, while staying in
the same place, of being in the front line one day, and miles
behind it the next. The battalion was out of the picture. A
heavy offensive began on 11 May, and within a fortnight the
Gustav line yielded and broke at last, thanks mainly to the
Goums finding their way through the mountains into the Liri
valley. This spectacular drive, surprising friend and foe alike,
took the enemy from behind. He was in trouble enough, too,
in front. Simultaneously the Poles, backed by New Zealand
artillery, attacked the Monastery, and British troops, with New
Zealand armour, cut bloody Route 6 behind the ruined town.
By 25 May the Liri valley lay wide open, and the hunt up
the peninsula to Rome swept forward.
Two days before this 22 Battalion, which all the time had
been expecting a dashing part in the break-through, was being
tucked away quietly among the trees and woods and brave red
poppies in the hills, a mile north of Sant’ Elia Fiumerapido,
A town which had been knocked about somewhat (one man writes). In one of
the churches the statues of the saints were undamaged and somebody had placed
them in the pews, facing the altar; the local cemetery was of interest to the
observant. A book of records showed when several bodies had been interred in
the special plot until they were ready for exhumation [they were taken out and
placed] in a linen bag in the small compartments in the cemetery wall. A building
at one end of the central walk contained hundreds of bones—the heads in one
stack and the rest in another. One marble plaque in memory of an Italian youth
bore a bas-relief of the departed riding his motor-cycle. No famous last words
were quoted. The rough soldiery took delight in ringing the cemetery bell at
odd times. ‘Many of the tombs had been broken into before our arrival….’
well towards the source of the Rapido River. Units of the
Division were stationed here after their Cassino ordeal. One
and 3 Companies had to march a good way into position in
the dark to relieve the Cape Town Highlanders. It was raining
too and the country was rough. Supplying these hillside positions was tricky. From Hove Dump jeeps took over, grinding
along a steep, rocky exposed road. Some 22 Battalion drivers
joined this jeep train briefly. When jeeps could get no further,
mules took over. The Cassino line petered out here in the
mountains. From rocky peaks and sangars, outposts watched
one another while the main fighting went on below round
Cassino.
For six days (23–28 May) 1 and 3 Companies stayed above
Sant’ Elia Fiumerapido, a rough area of stunted trees and
hard rock. Men fitted themselves into crude depressions high
in the hillside, around which the South Africans had built low
walls of loose rock. To tired eyes the trees and bushes moved
in the night like enemy soldiers on patrol: ‘and the countless
fireflies—all their lights going on and off at regular intervals.’
For the first four days the companies met shelling and mortaring, which one night killed a man, the only 22 Battalion
death by direct enemy action in this place, Private Strang,
Pte J. S. Strang; born NZ 27 Aug 1914; farm contractor; killed in action
26 May 1944.
in 3 Company's headquarters area. On 27 May, after careful
patrolling, they found the enemy had gone.
A mile in front of the battalion's positions lay the village of
Valleluce, hidden in woods. Shelling and mortaring was still
going on at this time, but on the night of 25–26 May Lieutenant Mullinder,
Lt E. F. T. Mullinder; born Taihape, 30 Dec 1917; school-teacher; died of
wounds 28 May 1944.
with thirteen men, reached the village to find,
after creeping stealthily from house to house, that both enemy
and civilians had flown. A little later the lieutenant, with Lance-
Corporal Lange
L-Cpl D. W. C. Lange; born Gisborne, 14 Jun 1920; proof reader; killed in
action 26 May 1944.
and Private Leighton,
Pte E. G. Leighton; Helensville; born Auckland, 15 Jun 1919; sheep-station
hand; wounded 26 May 1944.
walked into a booby
trap. All three were wounded. A party began carrying the
lieutenant, the most seriously hurt, back on a heavy door to
battalion positions. Lange rested one hand on the side of the
door to help himself along. Dave Hannah,
Cpl D. Hannah; Hawera; born Scotland, 2 Jul 1911; slaughterman; wounded
26 May 1944.
bent over on the
back of the door, changed places with his comrade, ‘Mac’
Shotter,
Pte M. J. Shotter; born NZ 11 Sep 1922; exchange clerk; killed in action
26 May 1944.
and 15 yards further on another mine ‘went up right
under us’, killing Shotter and Lange and wounding Hannah
and Hodges.
Pte V. L. Hodges; Manaia, Taranaki; born New Plymouth, 24 Feb 1915;
farmhand; wounded 26 May 1944.
Stunned and wounded in the head, Hodges was
helped to the RAP by ‘Nuts’ Medway,
Pte L. J. C. Medway; born NZ 23 Jan 1922; shop assistant; killed in action
30 Jul 1944.
‘and from there I
don't remember much except a lot of needles and getting carried
in and out of the ambulances.’
Blown from the door, the unfortunate lieutenant died two
days later. After this the rest of the party gave up the idea of
remaining overnight in the village, which, a member of the
patrol notes, was ‘the most poverty stricken I have ever seen.
It was alive with fleas. Trip-wires and traps were everywhere,
even in the church. We saw a violin case lying only too prominently in one cottage and dared not touch it. In another a
locked cabin trunk begged to be opened. We passed it by, only
to learn later that a braver or more foolhardly soldato had
inquired within and found—a dead cat.’
That evening the enemy, getting rid of stocks of ammunition,
shelled Sant’ Elia and the jeep-head for the last time. After
dark Lieutenant Monaghan led a patrol a mile north of
Valleluce, wove safely through a minefield, and hid n thick
undergrowth as a shadowy party of forty enemy soldiers filed
past within 25 yards. At dawn (27 May) further patrolling
detected empty positions. After this another patrol under Lieutenant Bright
Capt T. N. Bright, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Gisborne, 10 Jun 1917; bank
clerk; wounded 4 Dec 1943.
pushed on to the summit of Cifalco, on the
battalion's left flank, and found more abandoned sangars and
dugouts. Next day other patrols came back with the same story:
clearly the enemy now had abandoned the top of the Rapido
River valley. The only casualty in these patrols was Second-
Lieutenant Stuckey, who was wounded by a booby trap.
That was the last day in this place. The two companies
marched back to Sant’ Elia Fiumerapido, where the Rt. Hon.
Peter Fraser, meeting the battalion on an informal visit, spoke
about the 2 NZEF and rehabilitation plans. A few nights before
this a battalion man had been yarning about prospects in a
new job that was waiting him back home. Three or four comrades were sitting about in the calm dusk of an Italian evening.
The conversation had drifted to news of home. This man pulled
out his wallet and handed round photographs of his young wife
and small baby, of his parents, and the new home which was
waiting his return. ‘Somehow,’ writes Padre Sullivan, ‘we came
to know the people he spoke about, and began to share something of their lives, and his.
‘The next morning at 7.0 a.m. we buried him. There were
only three people at the grave, which was dug out on the top
of a mound and overlooked a valley below, with whole fields
of red poppies blowing gently in the breeze.
‘Just as the simple service began, up staggered one of his
friends, who was en route to the front line. He stood there, a
big, hulking fellow, heavily accoutred as for war, tin hat on
his head, rifle in one hand, and in the other he clutched half a
dozen wild red poppies. He was dumb and inarticulate, but
this tribute he felt he must pay. There could not have been a
simpler cortege. It is doubtful if there could have been a more
splendid one.’
All over the western Italian front the German was now in
headlong retreat, pulling back fast over 200 miles to his next
fortified line south of Florence. Other victorious units near the
coast pressed on up the Liri valley; the New Zealanders, working northward further inland close to the Apennines, would
not reach Rome (which fell on 4 June), but were to halt at
Avezzano, about 50 miles north-west of Cassino. They cleared
rearguards, removed cunningly concealed mines and booby
traps, and patched up smashed roads and bridges. This took
about a fortnight; by 9 June the first troops were in Avezzano.
In this New Zealand advance 22 Battalion, again disappointed at not being used as a motorised battalion, moved
almost 20 miles due north, through the little town of Atina,
and went into position just below Alvito. Shortly before the
move began (Sergeant Bart Cox recalls), ‘the boys with an eye
to loot no doubt, were venturing further and further afield.
‘Sergeant-Major Frank Kerrigan to one of the troop sergeants: “Is your jeep here?”
‘T.S. “Yes.”
‘S.M. “Can I borrow it?”
‘T.S. “What do you want it for?”
‘S.M. “There's a little portable organ in a church just up
the road. Just the thing for the Padre. He'd like it.”
‘T.S. “But Frank, the Padre wouldn't use an organ you had
pinched from a church.”
‘S.M. “Wouldn't he? That's all you know. Look, I'm a
bloody Doolan but I know your Padre better than you
do. If I get the organ he'll use it.”
‘Fortunately the road proved impassable, even for a jeep, so
the good Padre was never put to the test.’
Near Alvito the battalion stayed from 1 to 12 June, for the
first three days protecting the right flank of the advancing
Division (5 and 6 Brigades were thrusting towards Avezzano).
The first three days brought shelling, and then the enemy and
his mountain guns had gone. On the first day his shelling
‘killed a very fine fellow, a character, Captain W. H. (“Bunty”)
Cowper, acting OC Support Company. He spoke in quick
staccato style, he was very good on the foraging side of army
life, and he ran a most unorthodox company headquarters.
Bunty's death was bitter to them.’ When shells began plastering
a crossroad Cowper, Sergeant ‘Strip’ Teaz, and Walker
Pte U. B. Walker; Levin; born NZ 24 Mar 1911; butcher; twice wounded.
ran
into a cave for shelter. Fragments flying from a shell bursting
about eight yards away killed Cowper and wounded his companions. ‘“Strip” Teaz was a damn fine man and a grand
soldier, and our whole platoon were sorry when he passed out
in hospital in Caserta a few days later.’
Among the last enemy shells to fall in the battalion's area
was one which ended Private White's
Pte C. J. White; Palmerston North; born Wellington, 31 May 1919; warehouseman; wounded 3 Jun 1944.
war days. He was washing his feet at the time and had his right leg pulverized while
still holding it. White remembers ‘how I yelled like hell for
my cobbers as I was afraid another shell would land and finish
me off.’ Spun around by the concussion, he recalls how the
shattered leg ‘felt as though it was “corkscrewed” in the cobbled road.’ Bed-boards (six-foot planks) were placed across a
jeep to take the stricken soldier to the RAP. A dud shell landed
five yards in front of the jeep on the way down to the doctor.
During this time no visible sign of the enemy was found by
three patrols, one sent out by the carrier section, the others
under Second-Lieutenants McHardy and Henderson.
Capt V. G. Henderson; Tawa Flat; born Featherston, 30 Mar 1919; clerk.
Then,
on 3 June, five Honey tanks, a troop of Shermans, and 11
Platoon 2 Company, with Captain House
Capt A. House; born Lower Hutt, 15 Nov 1913; warehouseman.
in command,
pushed six miles north, shot up an enemy observation post and
saw abundant signs of recent occupation but actually saw no
enemy troops, although the armour, skirting ahead of the infantry, came under shelling late in the afternoon.
This ended 22 Battalion's brief role in the advance. Support
Company moved up to billets in the orphanage at Alvito (the
cold showers here were most welcome). The village, the late
headquarters of the German 5 Mountain Division, was the wealthiest and least damaged settlement the battalion had met so far.
Looking back to this day, a veteran writes: ‘After the desert
environment (which seemed a fitting place for a battle) war
seemed to clash with the atmosphere of Italy—the countryside
and weather from spring to autumn seemed too beautiful and
peaceful for that. I remember the morning we moved up to
Alvito. There was a stop just before we got to the place and
everyone was standing round the trucks waiting in the sun and
taking in the Italian spring at its best. There wasn't a murmur
of war anywhere. Then all of a sudden—like a train coming—
a big shell came over the hill and crashed down on the Orphanage. It completely broke the spell and someone said: “What
a b—of a thing to do on a morning like this.” And I was in
perfect agreement.’
‘Small Italian towns can be funny places,’ writes another
member of the battalion. ‘Under the late Benito Mussolini's
regime they were all over-organised. Alvito was no exception.
It had a Director of Art, a Director of Music, even a Director
of Education, I believe. They gave us a concert in the small
theatre, one in the afternoon and one in the evening. The
Director of Drama took over the programme—pathetic—but
the Battalion compere thought that we had to give local morale
a boost, so he came on to the stage and said in English: “This
won't be much of a show, but give it all the support you can.
We shall start with a frightful tenor, but give him a good hand.”
‘The tenor came out and, before he could sing a note, he
was given an ovation. Schubert's Serenade followed: the trouble
was that he was so overcome with his welcome, he would not
stop singing. The compere went on the stage again and said:
“Break it down you fellows: there are other items and you have
overdone it with this bird.”
‘We eventually got through with a one-act play in Italian,
interpreted by one of our people who spoke the language, and
“Penny Serenade” was sung by a young Italian girl with a
“penny” voice. At the end of the afternoon's show, the Director
of Drama came forward to the compere.
‘“They were a good audience,” he said, “but you forget
that I speak English.” ‘
After the first show the actors and actresses were told: ‘You
must be here at 7.30 p.m. If you arrive five minutes late, the
show's off. And we will give you supper.’ They were there at
7 p.m. with all their families, obviously because food was in
the offing. ‘To our embarrassment and chagrin, our lighting
system broke down and we were unable to start until 8.15 p.m.
The show went off with a bang, thanks to the co-operation of
the troops. Then came supper. The girls were beautifully
dressed, even to lacquered finger-nails, but they were very
hungry. It was a sad sight to watch them stick their bare arms
into the Army cookers and pull out handfulls of baked beans.
It was a pity that Mussolini could not have seen that.’
Alvito town rose up from the foot of a knoll and looked down
on a checker-board of fields spreading away down the valley
towards Atina, a pleasant place marred by the tragic death of
Private Wood,
Pte B. J. Wood; born NZ 28 Dec 1921; farmhand; accidentally killed 11 Jun 1944.
of Battalion Headquarters, who accidentally
shot himself in the head when removing his tommy gun from
its case in preparation for a route march. He was buried next
to ‘Bunty’ Cowper.
Here came the news, first of the fall of Rome, then ‘the thing
for which we had been waiting for years: The Second Front
as we called it. The authorities said we shouldn't call it that,
that we were really The Second Front, but we still stuck to it
instead of invasion. So when we heard we all went down and
gathered round the radio, and it sounded very like what you
expected it to sound.’
‘What made me the most bitter?’ asks Lloyd Grieve.
Pte L. G. Grieve; Auckland; born Auckland, 28 May 1906; grocer; wounded
27 Sep 1944.
‘Hard to say. Neither discomforts nor delays, cold or mud,
booby-traps or soya-links. I think, perhaps, the wounding of
a non-combatant, the small boy in the Liri Valley whom I
found playing with some German detonators and who, before
I could intervene, blew the flesh from the fingers of one hand,
exposing the bones like small twigs on a branch. War was not
an army on the march; it was all the wounded and suffering;
it was shooting a German in the arm and then using one's own
field dressing to stop the flow of blood; a crazy adventure to
the man in battle, a dread horror to the civilian.’
From here the battalion went on to rest. One soldier wrote:
‘This “rest” business you hear about is really only a lot of hard
work for us, training, etc. They never leave you alone for long.’
For several weeks the Division rested and trained at Fontana
Liri, near Arce on Route 6, 55 miles short of Rome. The dour
struggle for Cassino was over. The battalion had not been
heavily engaged—its casualties were 13 dead and 57 wounded
—but the approaching battle for Florence would be a different
story.
Padre Sullivan has the last word on Cassino:
I suppose the war floated over the heads of some men like a warm
wave. They seemed to go through the business without any idea of
what was involved. My little batman was such a one. He enlisted
under age in order to be with his brother, but he never at any stage
understood the significance of the conflict. He seemed to live in
another world. The incident I am about to record seems incredible,
but it is true.
We had been in Alvito for some time and he was driving me back
to Caserta to No. 2 Hospital. We were obliged to pass through
Cassino and, as we came down the hill to go through that shattered
and forlorn looking place, I said to him,
‘Walter, what is the name of that town below us?’
He looked out of the cab of the truck and pondered for some time.
‘You've got me beat,’ he replied.
‘Stop the truck,’ I ordered him. He did so and we got out.
‘Now,’ I said, ‘it could be one of the four following places. Alvito,
Montecorvo, Mignano or Cassino.’ It obviously could not be any
of the former three, but Walter did not seem to think so. He reflected for some time.
‘It's Alvito, of course,’ he replied, and mark you, we had just
left that town, having spent a fortnight there. I got him by the
ear and led him to the side of the road and said:
‘That is Cassino, my boy. Take a long, long look. It is now burnt
into our national history. If you remember nothing else about the
war, remember that.’
Knowing him as I do, I am willing to bet that is all he has remembered.
CHAPTER 11La Romola
‘My Dear—, You say that Fred— tells his wife what he
does every day. Well, when we are not in the line camp life is
much the same every day but front line work is different.’ —Private
492769, writing home on 30 July 1944.
And jokers coming back from Rome and talking about—woman
—St. Peters
‘Only a war could bring this about,’ writes Lloyd Grieve, ‘four Japanese in
American uniform standing quietly in contemplation of the High Altar of St
Peters.’
—vino bianco—woman—Appian Way—muscatella
—Victor Emanuel Memorial—woman—Vatican City—cognac—Olympic Stadium—woman—Borghese—Anisetta—Cistine
Chapel—woman—catacombs—hair-cut, shave, shampoo, nail manicure—1400 Lire—Romulus and Remus—vermouth—souvenirs—
woman, etc., etc., [writes Bob Foreman].
In all my memories of various cities Rome stands out as something
different. Although it was Italian it seemed to have dignity. There
was a difference between Rome and Cairo—they both had their
own personalities. Cairo was a place for fun and games—among
other things. Rome—among other things—was a place where you
could take it easy and enjoy the luxuries of life—something further
removed from the army than was the case with Cairo. And in Rome
you saw all these things which you had heard about since childhood.
And the women—so many had just taken on the oldest profession
in the world. And so many of them still had the charm and looks
of their upbringing—their new job didn't show—as yet—in their
appearance (as it did in places like Egypt). We asked one young
girl in a bar one night (she went about her job still as a new chum)
why she had started on this career. And her reply was the same—
I suppose—as hundreds of others would have been: ‘I've got to
eat.’ You had to have something more than a bit of money to live
in Rome—after the upheaval of war. And after seeing all the other
places in Italy which we have seen—Rome seemed clean and—
well it seemed to have dignity. Everyone seemed to have something
to say about Rome—anyway you couldn't go home and say you
hadn't seen Rome. [At the Apollo Cabaret English military police
would beg New Zealand officers forming scrums with Springboks:
‘Don't scrum sir! Sing!’—to no avail.]
The traffic didn't rush and bustle as much as in Cairo—but
remember those rowdy diesel engines and their clattering exhausts
—everything from great Fiat lorries and buses down to those little
Fiat three wheelers. The streets reeked of diesel fumes. All day the
din would go on—and keep going on till after midnight—then it
would begin to slacken so that by about 2 am there would be short
intervals of silence between the comings and goings. Then up till
about 5 am there would be as much silence as there was clatter
of exhausts (as gear changes were made), coming through your
bedroom window at the NZ Club. But after 5 am the noise started
to increase again so that by about 7 am they were in full cry once
more. (And the motor scooters added their quota of noise.) Then
there was the Italian orchestra at the Club—they played well but
had a rather limited repertoire (the signorina singing ‘Trotta, Trotta
Cavelina’ etc.—the boys liked it.)
Back at our area we mostly sang (with a bit of vino) the songs we
had sung since we had gone into Trentham. The army songs such
as ‘Who'll do it this time’, ‘Star of the Evening’, ‘Sweet Violets’,
etc. were always to the fore—together with one or two of the latest
song hits and one or two Italian songs some of the boys had just
learnt. As the session got going a lone voice would be raised in such
melodies as ‘Mountains of Morne’, ‘Shake hands with a Millionaire’,
‘Granny's Highland Hame’, ‘Will my Soul pass Thru’ Ireland’ etc.,
etc. Then towards the end of course there would be ‘Now is the
Hour’. But there were two song hits which came out at the beginning
of the war and which seemed to always stay at the top— ‘Roll out
the Barrel’ and ‘Bless ‘em All’. (How you cursed that song if you
were stone cold sober and trying to get some sleep at about midnight
when there was a party going on next door.) But now there was a
new song which had been rising in popularity and which now
stayed at the top for the rest of the war. At first you had it sung in
English (‘For you Lili Marlene’) but soon you could also have it in
Italian (‘Conte Lili Marlene’) or German (‘Mit einst Lili Marlene’).
I heard that some of the Italians were quite surprised when we
came to Italy and went round singing a German army song half
the time.
The first verse of one version begins: ‘Outside the barracks, by the lantern light /
That's where I'd stand and wait for you at night. / We would create a world
for two. / I'd dream of you the whole night through. / Of you Lili Marlene, of
you Lili Marlene.’
‘There was a German grave near the road in the Battalion area and it was
said that an Italian girl used to come regularly and put flowers on it. Some said
she should be hooted out of it or given a bullet while others took a completely
different view of it.’
And the drunks…. You would hear them coming back over
the ridge from a ‘session’ somewhere in the early hours of the
morning and shouting at each other. Then there would be a long
pow-wow at X's bivvy and finally all would be quiet. Next morning
X would be full of remorse. He would utter such remarks as: ‘I'm
no good—I've let you boys down again, I'm not fit to be with you
boys'—and he would sit in the sun looking utterly dejected. And
he would have a job to find his clothes. Often something was missing
completely—maybe his boots, or maybe his shirt, or then again
his false teeth. But a few nights later he would be off again.
Then off on another route march … with locusts or cicadas
or what ever you call them kicking up a hang of a din in the trees
and a continuous scuttle of lizards in front of you as you walked
through the grass—two sounds so very typical of an Italian summer.
(One joker swore he had a pet lizard which came to see him every
morning.)
Then out to hospital with boils and carbuncles—rejoining on the
Arno.
An American sergeant, James P. O'Neill, armed with notebook, pencil and Leica camera, came to visit the battalion at
the end of July. The battalion had moved from resting near
Rome and had travelled 270 miles north, over the dusty
countryside other soldiers had captured, and on beyond Lake
Trasimene. Here a ring of mountains stood between the Allies
and Florence. In this mountain stronghold the German was
fighting a savage rearguard action before falling back to his
formidable Gothic line, which was taking shape behind
Florence and stretching across the Italian peninsula from coast
to coast.
The Division's task was to drive the enemy from the hilltops commanding Route 2, which led into Florence. Twenty-second Battalion was in the act of taking a hillside village,
La Romola.
Sergeant O'Neill arrived to write an article, ‘Kiwis in Italy’,
for his magazine Yank, ‘The Army Weekly. 10c. By the men …
for the men in the service.’ Already he had photographed one
mess queue and had prepared the caption: ‘Fighting Kiwis in
Italy line up for their chow. It's corned willie and, inevitably,
a chipped mug of tea.’
At the command post O'Neill met the Adjutant, Captain
Carson,
Maj C. R. Carson, m.i.d.; Palmerston North; born Palmerston North, 19 Nov
1916; merchandise traveller; BM 4 Armd Bde Nov 1944-Mar 1945.
‘a dark, good-looking Kiwi, with grey rings under
tired eyes and a sad, cynical grin.’ He moved on to find Colonel
Donald, who was trying to fix up a bath for freshly wounded
Major O'Reilly. ‘We didn't give Bert O'Reilly a bath after
all,’ Donald complained. ‘Some of those crazy Maori jokers
stole the bathtub.’
The night's objective for the battalion was the town of ‘El
Romula’ [La Romola], and a farmhouse directly across from
it and in front of a hill. The artillery was to lay down a heavy
barrage and then the infantry was to move in. The attack
would begin at 10 p.m. on the 29th.
The American was sent off to 11 Platoon, which was in
reserve. He was introduced to the cook, Alec Gillon,
Pte A. A. Gillon; born NZ 14 Aug 1909; grocer's assistant; killed in action
22 Sep 1944.
a Taranaki
'sheepherder’ preparing ‘a baffling mess of everything [30 tomatoes, 16 fresh eggs and 2 rabbits] …. it is miraculous what
you sometimes get out of a combination like this.’ The visitor
contributed a tin of peas and a packet of lemon-juice powder.
His impression of New Zealanders took shape: ‘They wore no
helmets, preferring their berets or stray Itie hats: they were
all a deep, healthy tan and most of them wore no shirts. They
looked like especially healthy members of a 4-H club [American
equivalent of young farmers' club], except for the hollows under
their eyes and the dark tense lines that marked their tan complexions.’
After dinner Gillon and ‘another ex-sheep-herder from
Palmerston’, turned on a haka; a keg of chianti was tapped;
the talk drifted to ‘the shielas (girls) back home and when they
would see them again’; and the American was promised toheroa
soup next day.
But in the morning 11 Platoon, needed in the final assault
on ‘Romula’, had left for the line. Captain Carson explained
the attack and said the men were moving on to a farmhouse
at the foot of the hill.
‘A small Kiwi [Padre Sullivan] … straw-coloured hair and
freckles, and he wore a freshly laundered shirt’ was collecting
names for a burial party. The American went forward to watch
the farmhouse, under fire from a Sherman, fall. Mortars started
a barrage and a platoon moved forward.
‘When they were about 300 yards away, the mortar barrage
stopped and the platoon opened up with small arms. Then the
men started to run toward the house. They were about 50
feet away when a grenade blew up in front of them and one
of the Kiwis went down. The rest were almost up to the house
when two civilians crawled out of a cellar hole and began running away. The Kiwis didn't pay any attention to them. Both
of the civilians started down the rise: they got about 20 yards
and then one stepped on a mine and went up in a cloud of
dust. The other kept running.
‘Now I could see dark forms come out of the cellar. They
were Germans, about 15 of them, and they all had their hands
up. Four Kiwis started to hustle them back to the rear. The
rest of the platoon disappeared into the house.’
O'Neill then returned to the command post. ‘When the
hill at last fell, a man said: “At least we're one bloody hill
closer to New Zealand.” ‘
The staff correspondent, his story finished, packed up and
moved on to other places, other stories.
Before its attack on La Romola the battalion, laden with
superb peaches from an orchard in the assembly area, and
glimpsing a tired King George VI driving past from a visit to
the front, had searched, checked over, and occupied the hilltop hamlet of San Casciano (some sniping and shelling) on
27 July.
The battalion was preceded
They left from the rest area round Siena. Battalion Headquarters was at Vagliagli, in a twelfth-century palace built by a pope, now the seat of a junior nobleman, Terrosi-Vagnoli, who occasionally invited officers to dine and once remarked
in French: ‘You will notice that I insist on the servants wearing white gloves
when waiting at table. I cannot bear their touching the food with bare hands.
Don't you think it a good thing?’
Within a few days King George VI visited the front. ‘What uplifted me most
during the war?’ writes a member of the battalion. ‘The King of England with a
dirty face. He came to see us one day—the next we were in the line. I saw no
ceremonial parade; I wasn't at an organized “cheering-point” on the route. But
to look out of the window of an Italian farm-house (where I was on guard over
the family) and see our dust-covered monarch drive slowly by convinced me that
“old George was a good bloke” and brought to light an unexpected patriotism
which must have been lying dormant within me all the time.’
by a force clearing the way
called ARMCAV, which included 2 Company under Major
Keith Hutcheson, the first troops into San Casciano. ‘We saw
our divebombers deal a terrific blow on San Casciano,’ wrote
Hutcheson. ‘One moment the town looked smiling in the sunlight. Then came our bombers and a sickly yellow pall of dust
and smoke arose. As the dust cleared away we could see the
town leering in ruins.’ The company next moved on to occupy
Spedaletto, a hamlet further north, where it was relieved by
23 Battalion. The company, heavily mortared and shelled
during its spearhead advance, had met with casualties, the
first being Lieutenant Tom Wauchop,
Lt T. S. Wauchop; born NZ 2 Nov 1909; solicitor; killed in action 25 Jul 1944.
found face down in
long grass, killed instantly by a mortar fragment.
The occupation of San Casciano on 27 July cost two men
killed and five wounded. They were caught on a long, sweeping
bend of the road curving uphill to the town. Most of the men
crowded together on the leading tank jumped down into the
water-table between the tank and the bank when the first shell
arrived, but Philip Mason,
Pte P. A. Mason; Feilding; born Feilding, 24 Nov 1920; farmhand; wounded
27 Jul 1944.
a wireless operator, who had his
earphones on and was facing in another direction, was slow to
move. He was wounded by the fast-following second shell.
Private Watt,
Pte J. S. Watt; Kimbolton; born Kimbolton, 21 Aug 1909; farmer; wounded
27 Jul 1944.
‘being a new chum didn't know what to do, but
the others all said: “Get off the—tank into the ditch.” Just
as I was bending down to jump off I felt a stinging pain in the
throat, but thought it was a flying stone till, landing in the
ditch, I found blood was pouring out.’ Fraser McGirr
L-Cpl I. F. McGirr; born Wellington, 11 Aug 1921; tennis racket finisher;
killed in action 19 Oct 1944.
promptly
bound up Watt's dangerous wound, ‘and after that I always
took a dim view of riding on the outside of a tank. Even now
the smell of a diesel engine brings the scene back.’ Doug Shaw
Cpl A. D. Shaw; Southland; born NZ 12 Apr 1922; farmhand; twice wounded.
and Davidson
Pte G. Davidson; born NZ 26 Jun 1912; farmhand; wounded 27 Jul 1944;
killed in action 21 Dec 1944.
were wounded simultaneously.
San Casciano stood on a ridge just over 1000 feet above sea
level. North of the town the land, dotted with olive trees, dipped
down over two miles to a narrow valley with a creek and a road,
an attractive enough sight in peacetime. About half a mile up
the steep slope on the other side stood the cluster of houses
called La Romola, and a couple of miles on from that a ridge
called La Poggiona. Within the next few days the battalion
would storm both La Romola and La Poggiona, key positions
in the final defence of Florence—a bloody assault over a week
which would cost 26 dead and 80 wounded.
Beyond San Casciano heavy firing came from the hills. These
new defences, called the Paula line and particularly strong in
guns and mortars, were held by experienced troops including
4 Parachute Division and 29 Panzer Grenadier Division. But already
Florence (declared an open city) was in sight; its twinkling,
tantalising lights could be seen in the distance from certain
hilltops at night.
Now working with squadrons of 4 Armoured Brigade, Divisional Cavalry and other units, the battalion was about to meet
particularly bitter fighting.
Battalion appointments were: CO, Lt-Col H. V. Donald; 2 i/c, Maj D. Anderson; OC 1 Coy, Maj A. W. F. O'Reilly; OC 2 Coy, Maj K. R. Hutcheson;
OC 3 Coy, Maj G. S. Sainsbury; OC 4 Coy, Maj L. G. S. Cross.
But the men would shoulder their
trials with distinction, many an unblooded reinforcement fighting with almost a veteran's skill. Also, for the first time in Eighth
Army's history, a German Tiger tank, a massive 60-tonner in
full running order and complete with crew, would be captured.
By dawn on 28 July 3 Company was past San Casciano and
holding the ridge overlooking the valley which lay between
the battalion and La Romola. Vehicles moving along the road
in the valley were mistaken for ours, and a tank major remarked
happily: ‘We'll be in Florence tonight—the 19th are through!’
A section and three tanks prepared for a descent into the valley
to investigate a blown chunk of the road. They were to find a
detour; if nothing happened, the rest of the platoon would come
down and up the other side to occupy La Romola. Divisional
Headquarters was under the impression that the Germans were
pulling back steadily.
‘It was a rather chilly grey morning with the sun just breaking through to give promise of a fine day when the tanks went
off with the section under Corporal Max Rogers,’ writes
Second-Lieutenant Paterson. ‘Across the valley there was no
sign of life at all—everything was absolutely quiet and still,
almost eerily so. We watched the tanks wind down a narrow
rutted track into the valley below, then trundle along the road
at the bottom for a hundred yards or more to the edge of the
huge hole in the road where the turnoff to the village joined
the main valley road. The tanks stopped, Max Rogers spread
his men out around them and they lay down. The three tank
commanders climbed out of their turrets and were walking
over to look closely at the hole in the road. Suddenly like a
broadside from a huge battleship, the whole hillside opened
fire simultaneously—88mms, mortars, spandaus, small-arms
fire—everything seemed to come out at once from the whole
area of the hill opposite. The tanks burst into flames in the same
time as you would count 1—2—3…. The shelling continued
very heavily for some time and from then on right through that
day and night and next day and part of the night until the
La Romola attack it was intermittently heavy to light almost
without let-up.’
‘Don't put it there: Jerry can land them on a threepenny bit round here,’
Johnny McNeil warned a heedless guncrew digging in near his platoon in the
night. At dawn ‘Jerry hurled a packet that destroyed gun, ammo and Munga
box.’ A white-faced guncrew emerged and listened respectfully to Gordon Benton's
quiet and thoughtful statement: ‘Well chaps, I've just made a firm resolution. If
there is another war I'm not going to it.’
Rogers's section vanished; the ridge was drenched with fire,
and in fact during this day (28 July) all of 3 Company's
vehicles would be shelled out of commission. Everyone on the
ridge scrambled for cover in a church, where later a solitary
tank man appeared, after worming his way up a shallow gully,
with the news that, although one or two were wounded, most
of the men were safe in a house partly sheltered by a small spur.
Tom Kriete, in his Red Cross carrier, most pluckily drove
down and gathered up the wounded near the tanks, firmly
refusing to take an armed officer with him and saying reproachfully: ‘It's against the Geneva Regulations.’
Among the rescued wounded was Ian Riddle,
Pte I. G. Riddle; born Hawera, 28 Apr 1915; farmer; died of wounds 28 Jul 1944.
‘a fine chap,
quiet, reserved and solid. He died later from his wounds,
although by the cheerful way he greeted me [from the stretcher]
I never guessed that he was wounded so seriously.’
After a scratch breakfast (sour red wine, stale bread, and
lengths of that smoked sausage often seen hanging from the
ceilings of Italian farmhouses) Rogers's section, one by one at
erratic intervals, dashed outside, over open and horribly exposed ground, into the shallow gully, and so safely up to the
church—all except hapless ‘Lofty’.
Lofty unfortunately had jumped down into the nearest shelter, the deep ditch
on the German side of the road, instead of running with the others to the ridge-protected casa. Lofty stayed in his ditch, some 20 feet below a German position,
all that day and late into the night, getting away about midnight after listening
to a steady rumble of German conversation for some fifteen or sixteen hours.
Efforts to persuade Tom Kriete to pretend that Lofty was wounded and to rescue
him failed dismally. ‘Against the Geneva Conventions’, said Tom firmly and
repeatedly.
Major Sainsbury
Maj G. S. Sainsbury, m.i.d.; Frankton Junction; born 30 May 1909; solicitor.
remembers the sectioning drily report
‘that in their opinion Jerry had not gone.’ At that moment
Colonel Donald arrived in his jeep and entered the church.
A ‘stonk’ came down and collected his jeep, ‘so’, adds the Major,
‘I think even he was convinced.’
Three Company spent the rest of that day and the next in
and around the church while the heavy shelling continued, and
suffered some casualties. ‘No breakfast, Sweet Fanny Adams
for the rest of the day, rather miserable actually.’ To the right
1 Company, less exposed, advanced some of the way towards
the valley, at the cost of three men wounded by the same
mortar bomb. Several units, including 1 Company, made their
headquarters in a sturdy three-storied building hidden in trees
and believed to be invisible from the other side of the valley.
In fact, a New Zealander was light-heartedly strumming a
piano when a shell bit into the top story. This was the start of
half an hour's shelling which didn't seem to much affect this
solid building. This fire could have come from a Tiger tank
near La Romola.
During the morning of 30 July a reconnaissance patrol under
Sergeant Allan Clinton
Sgt A. O. Clinton; born Taihape, 21 Jan 1911; farm labourer; died 11 Jun 1956.
went out ‘to establish the position of
the enemy—in other words, to draw fire. It soon did. While
creeping out of the ditch the four men were fired on. They
decided to run back to a house about 400 yards away, and were
running together when Ingpen
Pte N. L. Ingpen; Dannevirke; born Feilding, 4 Dec 1922; bank officer;
wounded 30 Jul 1944.
broke away and ran up
through some maize, ‘and the next thing I knew my leg started
to go at all angles and … I was at the house with the other
boys, to whom I owe a terrible lot, and to Graham Bassett
2 Lt G. M. Bassett, MC; Palmerston North; born Wellington, 23 Jul 1914;
farmer; wounded 18 Oct 1944.
and the boys of No. 7 Platoon for their great friendship.’
Lieutenant Monaghan had gone to an observation-post
position in houses just over the top of a ridge in 3 Company's
area. While looking over the ground of the next night's attack,
he was caught in mortaring and severely wounded in the
stomach. He returned to Company Headquarters full of apologies for getting wounded and reluctant to lie down. ‘Jack was
a first-class fighting soldier and 1 Company greatly missed him,’
notes a comrade. Jim Maclean
Lt J. N. Maclean; born NZ 2 Mar 1919; bank clerk.
took over the platoon. That
night a tank officer reconnoitred to the stream in the valley and
found the banks too steep for the tanks to cross.
By 9.30 pm [an officer writes] we had our orders for the attack
[that night at I a.m.] …. I was held back by George (‘Gharry
George’) Sainsbury after the conference for further orders. I was
told to send an N.C.O. and two men, equipped with a 38 set [a
portable radio] to the village of La Romola. They were to go to
the village, find out if it was occupied, count how many Germans
were there and radio the information back, then return and rejoin
the platoon in time to move off [to the start line] by midnight. I
was to send good men since apparently the information must be
reliable. I protested to Major Sainsbury stating that as the answer
was obvious since we were even then being heavily shelled, and
there was a great deal of machinegun fire coming over from the
village and its surrounding area, it was a futile waste of men. I told
George that although I had never before refused to obey an order
I would do so now.
He reasoned with me, explaining that it was an order from
Divisional Headquarters so far as he could make out, and that he
liked it no more than I—that nevertheless it would have to be done.
Apparently Div HQ had the word of two Italians that the Germans were pulling out and the authorities did not wish to waste
the ammunition involved in a barrage. If the Hun was pulling out,
the barrage could be called off, I then told George that if it had
to be done, it was no job for an NCO and though I didn't want to
do the job there was no alternative other than for me to do so. He
reminded me that I'd have more work to do before the night was
out, so once more I tried, suggesting that a spare officer he had …
should be sent rather than an NCO, but orders were orders and so
I returned, raging and disconsolate to my platoon, hurrying to
give them as much time to do the job as possible and rejoin us—
although I doubted whether they would have a ghost of a chance.
It was then about 10.30 p.m.
I selected Corporal Edwards
L-Sgt A. Edwards; born Woolwich, England, 10 Mar 1922; sheep-farmer;
wounded 30 Jul 1944.
—we called him Eddie Edwards—
a keen, conscientious, thoroughly reliable and fearless soldier. To go
with him I picked what I thought to be two of the most enterprising
and reliable men—‘Fudge’ Valintine and ‘Nuts’ or Jack Medway.
These two were friends and were as keen and fine a couple of chaps
as I knew. I called them out as soon as I arrived at the platoon,
telling the others to get ready for a move at midnight.
I gave them (i.e., Medway, Edwards and Valintine) their orders,
reducing it to my own terms, namely:
they had to go towards the village and establish the fact that it was occupied. First contact with the enemy would establish this and observation from where we were would establish the width of area of occupation.
They were not to take the radio set as it would only hinder movement and I could see no reasonable opportunity of their using it anyway.
They were to travel light with only personal weapons.
They were to return to the platoon as soon as possible, making their way back to us as soon as they had established contact with the enemy.
I emphasised this last point as being important, pointing out that
a recce patrol was useless unless it came back with the News. Having
compromised with the authorities and my conscience as best as I
could I saw them go, feeling profoundly disturbed. I then went in to
give the rest of the platoon the orders for the attack. Just before we
moved off at midnight word came to me that Eddie Edwards had
crawled in on hands and knees, with his feet badly smashed and his
scalp badly wounded, and the information that Fudge and Nuts were
dead. A shell had got them not 200 yards down the hill. Three
days before that, Nuts, in a moment of conversation, had told me
how lucky he had always been in having such a wonderful mother
and family at home, and how he thought that if a man had to
finish up his life this way he reckoned it would be worth it for a
family like his. He may have known something—I don't know.
I didn't tell the boys as we moved off what had happened.
Intense shelling covered the start line while the platoons
crept, dodged, and ducked into position near it as 1 a.m.
approached. Three Company would cross first, with 1 Company following directly behind. Three Company's start line
was between two roads on the left; 1 Company would spread
out to the right and make directly for La Romola. Two Company would cover the left flank round the road leading south-westward from La Romola to Cerbaia. The attackers were to
advance under the barrage, which was to lift forward 100 yards
every five minutes. From a crest in the rear Vickers guns of
27 (Machine Gun) Battalion began their supporting fire.
A company commander says the ‘German defensive fire was
very intense in that V-shaped valley—very—it filled the blasted
valley—it was horrible.’ Says a platoon commander: ‘The
noise, dust and smoke was terrific and hardly seemed to increase when our own barrage opened up since it had already
about reached the ultimate limit.’
Into this went the battalion as the hands of illuminated
watches circled round to one o'clock. Subalterns and sergeants
yelled to their platoons to get cracking.
Three Company was ‘hashed about’ by shells or mortars
on the start line. Its left-hand platoon (No. 14), with an enraged Triss Hegglun,
Lt T. F. Hegglun; Blenheim; born Marton, 29 Jul 1915; builder and bridge
contractor; wounded 3 Dec 1943.
had been dealt a heavy blow on the
way to the start line, so only a small number from this platoon
got away into battle, Peter Mitchell
Not traced.
and Phil Powell,
Lt P. S. Powell, m.i.d.; New Plymouth; born Hunterville, 3 Nov 1913; salesman.
on
their own initiative, carrying on with a handful of men. Sixteen Platoon scrambled in to fill this gap, but its leader, the
cool and adventurous Johnny McNeil, was soon killed, and
Sergeant Mick Eades
2 Lt A. E. Eades, DCM; Woodville; born Pahiatua, 10 Jun 1917; labourer.
took control. Confusing matters further,
Second-Lieutenant Keith Cave's
Lt K. H. Cave; born Carterton, 2 Feb 1912; grocery manager; killed in
action 14 Apr 1945.
platoon (which was supposed to be with the rest of 2 Company), somehow caught
without shelter, dived into a fairly deep ditch, mixed with 13
Platoon, and bemused that platoon when it rose and moved off
into the attack. The remaining platoon in 3 Company (No.
15) on the right broke contact in the middle (Ian Thomas with
one half, Sergeant Bill Windsor
Sgt W. C. Windsor, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Wellington, 2 Oct 1917; butcher
and driver; twice wounded.
with the other), but by running in the darkness somehow managed to link up again. Doug
Froggatt, the attached signaller with a radio set, was severely
wounded just past the start line and lost his radio. (Elsewhere
an overwrought man, believing units were being massacred,
seized a radio and attempted to call off the attack until he was
forcibly restrained.)
One Company, with very similar problems, and with 6
Platoon lost all night, was also ‘b—bewildered’, as its OC,
Len Turner, tersely and graphically describes it. Turner was
given command in battle when it was learned that Major
O'Reilly had been hit in the head near the start line. The Major,
bleeding profusely and surprised at the violence of the shelling,
saw and heard no more that night of his three platoons attacking up the hill. Refusing to be evacuated, he stayed with 5
Platoon, the only platoon in 1 and 3 Companies which remained intact entirely throughout the night.
5 Platoon (Arthur Woolcott) had the task of getting the tanks up the valley
road and into the village while the rest of 1 Company attacked up the hillside.
Demolitions almost instantly halted the tanks, which decided to follow at dawn
if possible. By the demolitions O'Reilly joined Woolcott for the night. Progress
along the valley road was slow for 5 Platoon, which had to search numerous
houses under heavy mortar fire but met little resistance from ground troops. Before
reaching the village at 5 a.m. the platoon took a spandau nest and two prisoners.
Lance-Corporal A. D. Mclntyre, the only casualty, was wounded in the knee.
Two Company,
while forming up, was not only mortared, separated and to
some extent tangled, but an impudent German almost offhandedly tossed a bakelite grenade into Company Headquarters
for good measure.
The wonder is how the attack succeeded at all, and how La
Romola fell: ‘it was a time of incomprehensibility to most of
us.’ To describe the attack as a co-ordinated drive would be
false. The assault became a matter of small groups all moving
up on their own, none quite sure whether they weren't the only
ones left on the task. Determination (which is the very basis of
courage) won La Romola. Everywhere radio links failed. Men
were isolated, sometimes for hours on end. In this dark and
violent night visibility was poor enough (only a few feet) without the constant fog of sour-smelling dust and smoke thrown
up by the shells. But the enemy was misled too: several parties
of Germans, absolutely convinced that the attack had failed,
walked innocently into captivity or death.
The first man to win his way into La Romola was Lieutenant Ian Thomas with 15 Platoon (3 Company). This won
him the MC. His citation mentions how ‘His courage, his cheerfulness and his complete disregard for his personal safety were
factors of great inspiration to his men. On two occasions the
platoon was pinned down by heavy fire from machine-gun posts.
Lt. Thomas himself charged both [posts] and with his tommygun killed or wounded the defenders and the advance continued.’
In the afternoon before the attack, Sergeant Johnny Hughes
L-Sgt J. A. Hughes; born Wellington, 23 Jun 1916; butcher; killed in action
15 Dec 1944.
and another man from 16 Platoon had gone out on reconnaissance, but had been held up in the creek. Fifteen Platoon
was not supposed to go forward until it heard from this patrol,
but at night no news had come so the platoon advanced. ‘Getting off the startline was the worst part,’ says Bill Windsor.
‘We met shelling and counter shelling in the creek, keeping
touch in the platoon was tough, but we got ‘em up there.’
Pushing on up the hill they lost contact, reached the first house
half-way up, were shelled and fired on by a machine gun (near
the house), which was cleaned up. Here Phil Wevell
Pte P. S. Wevell; born England, 1 Jan 1911; farm labourer; killed in action
31 Jul 1944.
was
wounded, and was killed by a second machine gun while making
his way back to the house. The second nest was cleaned out
(Private Wilson
Pte T. R. Wilson; Hastings; born NZ 17 Mar 1920; freezing worker; wounded
31 Jul 1944.
was wounded), and on the threshold of La
Romola 15 Platoon was held up for a good two hours in the
second house, which was not occupied, and was trying to make
contact with the other platoons.
About 3 a.m., when Thomas's platoon was occupying its
two-storied building on the fringe of La Romola, a burst of
Bren-gun fire directed questioningly above the roof brought
shouts from Thomas's men of ‘Stop that Bren, you silly b—s'
and 13 Platoon's survivors emerged from the gloom.
Thirteen Platoon, when the attack opened, had gone up a
ditch in single file, its men two or three feet apart in the dark.
This ditch led up the hill, and Paterson, tellingly indicating
what others too were enduring, goes on: ‘After a couple of 100
yards the shelling got so intense that I thought for a time we
had overrun our own barrage. I accordingly halted the platoon
for two lifts [of the barrage] while I tried to judge which way
the shells were coming and whether there was any difference
after the next five-minute lift. There wasn't, and several shells
seemed to come from the front so I passed back the order to
move again.’
Probably at this moment several shells landed at the back
of the platoon. Private Gordon Nilsson,
Pte G. L. Nilsson; born NZ 31 May 1915; farmer; killed in action 31 Jul 1944.
‘a fine comrade’,
Private ‘Buck’ Cruickshank,
Pte R. J. Cruickshank; born Ohura, 10 Oct 1922; truck driver; killed in action
31 Jul 1944.
Corporal Terry Molloy
Cpl T.W. Molloy; born NZ 15 Nov 1916; watersider; killed in action 31 Jul 1944.
and
others were killed. Sergeant ‘Massey’ Wood
S-Sgt E. E. B. Wood; Auckland; born Christchurch, 13 Jul 1914; insurance
agent; twice wounded.
and Private
Fitness
Pte G. R. Fitness; Wanganui East; born Auckland, 8 Mar 1921; farmhand;
wounded 31 Jul 1944. (Fitness made an amazing recovery in an English brain
specialist's ward in Rome.)
were among the wounded. Private Maidens,
Capt A. K. Maidens; Pahiatua; born Taradale, 10 Mar 1912; bank officer;
wounded 31 Jul 1944.
wounded
in leg and arm, survived being buried by another shell a moment
later. ‘Massey’ Wood, who had been told before the attack to
do what he could for any casualties, now had his hands full:
Corporal Max Rogers and Private Doug Baty
Sgt D. Baty, m.i.d.; born NZ 27 Apr 1920; shepherd; three times wounded.
helped him.
Wood carried Fitness, slung over his shoulders, until he reached
the stretcher-bearers, ‘although at the time…. thought it
of litt e use except that Fitness was still breathing.’ Sergeant
Rhys Price, calm and steady, gave efficient aid to the wounded
that night.
When the ditch ended, 13 Platoon, now only eleven strong,
spread out in open order and advanced in a long line. Paterson
goes on: ‘Meanwhile we advanced our 100 yards each 5 minutes, having long before given up any idea of dodging shells
but watching for fixed line Spandau fire which seemed to be
sited at intervals along our front from somewhere over on our
left. When observed we'd wait for a burst, then run across its
path before the next burst came. So we went on in leaps and
bounds. With five men on either side I'd get up, shout “Come
on you b—s” or some such edifying words of encouragement
while “Richy” [Private Richardson
Sgt A. H. Richardson; Wellington; born Auckland, 5 Feb 1922; clerk.
] who carried a useless
38 set automatically, of his own accord, took on the job of
platoon sergeant, running like a sheepdog from one end to the
other of the line, making sure that all the blokes heard in the
din, and all moved off together. As we went on the shelling
seemed to subside then virtually petered out, with only spasmodic Spandau fire’, as the little group drew near Ian Thomas's
building. They joined forces, tried vainly for an hour to make
contact with Company Headquarters or the tanks by radio,
‘during which time odd Huns appeared from time to time and
disappeared with an odd grenade or so.’ A small group from
14 Platoon appeared, took over Thomas's prisoners and then,
as the first streaks of dawn were starting to show, Thomas and
Paterson, to the left and to the right, moved off again, each
with the remnants of his platoon and without tank support.
‘In this fashion we arrived at the village of La Romola
They contacted Company Headquarters and were given their positions to hold
in the village; they called the platoon rolls and tried to find out what had happened to the missing men (about a dozen from each platoon), and felt it was a
grim morning; they boiled up the emergency ration in a big pot of water and
added a bottle of old cognac; they posted pickets and fell asleep.
just
as daylight came up and brought us back to a world of comparative reality.’
Soon after the attack opened, and with 14 Platoon smashed,
16 Platoon crossed the road in the valley ‘and advanced up a
fairly steep incline under streams of German tracer…. We
were in extended line led by Lt. Johnny McNeil and in trying to keep well up under our own barrage found ourselves
too far to the left of our line of advance, so veered over to the
right and suddenly found ourselves amongst the hail of shells
which were dropping short. We went to ground, me [Sicely
Sgt J. F. Sicely, m.i.d.; Wanganui; born Marton, 25 Sep 1921; farmhand;
wounded 31 Jul 1944.
]
with wireless set on the ground in front of me. No sooner were
we down when a shell hit an olive tree almost above us, and
in the darkness I heard a voice I recognised as Ces Murfitt's
Pte C. S. Murfitt; born Kapuni, 29 Dec 1919; farmhand; killed in action
31 Jul 1944.
saying: “Oh God, Oh my God let me die”, and immediately
he died. A minute or two later another shell landed very close
and I collected a piece of it in the right thigh. I called to
Johnny McNeil who came over with Wally Wicken
Pte W. A. Wicken; born England, 4 Dec 1912; labourer; killed in action
31 Jul 1944.
to help
me take the wireless gear off. While they were leaning over me
another shell landed almost on top of us and both Johnny
McNeil and Wally Wicken were killed, all I got was a blast
of earth on my head.’ From this moment Sergeant Mick Eades
took over the platoon and succeeded in leading it by daybreak
into its La Romola objective. He won the DCM and (a high
and well-deserved honour very rarely made in the infantry) an
immediate commission in the field in recognition of his further
brave work in the following five or six days.
‘Altogether it was a sticky affair and I feel we suffered more
casualties than we deserved,’ sums up Major Sainsbury. ‘I
remember that … along came an English Arty Major and
Sgt. [commandos] who had been detailed to trail along with
us to see what an Infantry attack was like. I saw them on the
starting line and then the fun started and to this day I don't
know what happened to them but I hope it was good experience for them.’
Len Turner tersely describes the attack by 1 Company, which
had crossed over the valley and formed up to the right of 3
Company, with 6 Platoon on the left, 8 in the centre and 7 on
the right (5 Platoon, under Second-Lieutenant Arthur Woolcott,
2 Lt A. H. Woolcott; Wellington; born Havelock South, 26 Oct 1911; mechanic.
went up the valley on a right hook with the tanks):
‘Time passed swiftly, H Hour arrived, Major O'Reilly did
not return as planned (knew something must be wrong), we
kicked off on time. Hadn't gone 25 yards … [before] Alan
Viles
L-Cpl A. R. Viles; born Feilding, 19 Aug 1920; farmer; killed in action 31 Jul
1944. (‘A grand lad who was always a great source of strength in action—cool
and resourceful,’ writes one of his officers.)
was killed outright by shell…. A bastard barrage
was on, infantry nightmare, you know, advance say 1500 yds
and then pause, and move off at right angles…. Everyone
was a bit jumpy about this, you didn't dare ease over to the
right too much! Time moved on…. I have never seen grapevines more thickly planted, they seemed about 15 feet apart,
strung on tight wires, you had to wriggle thru, no show of
bursting thru: wires too tight. Barrage leapt ahead. Rec'd wireless message from Arthur Woolcott to take over 1 Coy as Major
[O'Reilly] wounded, very sweet, no link to Bn Hq, no runners,
no “I” bloke, no nothing, just very intensive enemy harassing
fire. Called Lt. “Junior” McLean
Capt R. W. McLean; Wellington; born NZ 15 Jan 1909; line erector.
and Sgt Mick Kenny 8 pl;
Graham Bassett and Sgt Alan [Clinton] 7 pl; Sgt Seddon
Sgt R. Seddon; Dunedin; born Dunedin, 5 Jan 1912; school-teacher; wounded
14 Sep 1944.
6 pl;
together. We had a natter. Decided “up the grapes”, “push on
regardless”. After a while, the grapes won; meantime 6 Pl, Sgt
Dick Seddon now O.C., had veered a little to the left along a
slight ridge, and lost contact; another “O” group [conference].
Outcome: I would lead, Graham Bassett second, the remains
of the Coy in single file in an effort to get to the objective.
‘We pressed on, ratted a few Jerry positions, and as dawn
broke (first light) were in the right-hand outskirts of the village,
approx 200 yds from the objective, and b— bewildered.
Dispersed men in house, as heard fire and someone coming, it
was Cpl Jack Shaw and 5 PI, luckily, more or less as planned.
Major O'Reilly wasn't far away, he looked like a pirate,
bloodied head bandaged and shirt, and greyer than ever, and
looking fierce (he had reason too!). I told him the situation,
and when I mentioned casually I had lost 6 Pl, holus-bolus, I
thought he was going to dance the can-can.’
With the wounded major they moved on to the objective; 6 Platoon drifted
in by sections. By 10 a.m. 1 Company was together again, a few missing. Reaching
La Romola, one small group under Sergeant Dick Seddon ‘came upon quite a
solid type of casa, we had to get in and the door was locked or jammed so we
bashed it down with our picks and shovels, and what do you know, the front of
the place had been blown in by bomb blast. A fool is born every minute: we
must have been born all together.’
Probably 3 Company occupied the left end of the village and
1 Company the right end at the same time. Twenty-one prisoners were taken and probably fifty to sixty of the enemy had
been killed. The battalion had lost 1 officer and 7 men killed,
1 officer and 21 others wounded. La Romola, undefended in
the daylight, turned out to have just one fairly long winding
main street and plenty of short streets. It was set on a ridge,
with a church tower at the left end, and the many gullies leading off the main ridge reminded some of a miniature Orsogna.
When 2 Company was mortared in the creek-bed, Company
Headquarters had no choice but to advance alone and ahead
of the starting time (to prevent congestion further back) and
for an hour lay in no-man's-land behind a most inadequate
haystack. The fire intensified. Two guns firing short in the
barrage brought casualties. Finally, after the lost and scattered
men had been gathered together, all the platoons came within
radio touch. The leading platoons were led by Second-Lieutenants Vic Henderson and Keith Cave. Their first objective
was a white house, then ‘a sort of palace’ 400 yards to the
left, and finally some houses on the crest of a hill, 600 yards
beyond. Landmarks, tracks, and a road were difficult to find
and identify.
As the men crossed the road towards the first objective,
severe mortaring brought several ugly casualties—somebody
panicked and raced along the road almost screaming for
stretcher-bearers, but Hutcheson, grabbing him by the wrists
and squeezing them hard, told him to get on towards the white
house, which he did. The white house, eventually located, was
found clear of enemy, ‘thank God.’ The ‘sort of palace’ turned
out to be full of terrified civilians, for ‘the air was noisy with the
covering fire of our MMG's and the bursts of infantry weapons.’
Company Headquarters was established here as four stranded
Germans surrendered. The platoons on the top of the hill met
sharp resistance but occupied their objective and took several
prisoners. They spent the rest of an anxious and bewildered
night standing to, but although there were bursts of fire all
round, the company's front was not attacked.
Next morning 11 Platoon 3 Company (Sgt Jock Wells) recovered the bodies of
six men from 7 NZ Anti-Tank Regiment, who had been buried when a nearby
house blew up. La Romola was still being shelled fairly heavily: ‘it was a case
of picking up a brick or two at a time, and each shell brought down odd rubble
from the upper structure. The men of my platoon worked splendidly.’
Shortly after dawn a 5 Platoon party began a routine search
which yielded one of the most spectacular prizes of the Italian
campaign, a trophy certainly on its own amongst the New
Zealand Division's battle prizes. Lieutenant Arthur Woolcott,
with a small party including Lance-Sergeant Ken Stevens,
Sgt K. M. Stevens; Wellington; born Masterton, 10 Jul 1921; warehouseman;
wounded 21 Sep 1944.
Lance-Corporal Kevin Dillon,
L-Cpl E. T. K. Dillon; Wellington; born Greymouth, 4 Apr 1908; clerk;
wounded 21 Sep 1944.
and Private ‘Snow’ Dodunski,
Pte G. P. Dodunski; born Inglewood, 19 Jun 1920; farmhand; wounded
2 Aug 1944.
crossed over to the right of the road on the fringe of La Romola
and began searching an inverted ‘V’ of houses. Approaching
the top house, the lieutenant and Dodunski burst in the door
and raced inside, while the rest sped round the sides of the
house and, said Stevens, ‘nearly had kittens on the spot. We
ran clean into a Tiger tank. An odd olive branch (camouflage)
was on the top and the long gun was sort of pointing to the
ground. We stood like geese.’ Presently Dillon circled the monster (‘its tracks were so big it seemed unfair’), and as it now appeared to be abandoned, began climbing onto it ‘when up comes
the lid. Before I could surrender, the German did, with three or
four others. We were very tough once they put their hands up.’
The elated patrol (describing the crew as ‘good chaps, surprised by that night's attack, and also they'd probably had the
war’) escorted their captives into La Romola, each with a
neatly packed blue bag similar to air travel ones. Woolcott,
going through the tank, found it in perfect order, and tank men
later took it away (the company's number chalked on it) towards B Echelon.
Noel Bird
Sgt T. G. N. Bird; Waipukurau; born Hastings, 25 Dec 1917; farmer; wounded
23 Dec 1944.
writes: ‘We'd been stonked rather heavily in
the night and from a distance it would sound like a large
counter attack. Of course messages had flown, and at first light
the Tank Recovery Unit were on their way out with their
valuable prize, the Tiger. But in our B Echelon it was seen
through a grey misty dawn on its way down the road towards
them. Someone announced that Jerry had broken through:
after that, chaos. Our so-called heroes became sprinters of
almost world class, but hardly dressed for the occasion. The
return to duty was not quite so heroic.’
A new padre for the battalion, Padre Sergel,
Rev. P. C. S. Sergel, Silver Star (US); Hamilton; born Eltham, 11 May 1907;
Anglican minister.
witnessed the
panic as he drove towards Rear Divisional Headquarters, saw
the tank, then learned of its capture, and thought, ‘This 22
Battalion have got something.’ He reached the battalion area.
A little cemetery was made outside a chapel, and ‘unfortunately
before we moved from there the grassy spot was quite filled with
graves. I was impressed by the flowers which the local Ites laid
on each grave, and when I called back weeks later I found that
fresh flowers were still on each grave. Despite the fact that their
homes were smashed and half or all their worldly goods were
destroyed, they realised in some inarticulate way that these
Kiwis from a far-off land had given their lives for them.’
Padre Sullivan left the battalion for England. ‘He was a
most understanding personality, and many of the chaps stopped
a punch in the ribs for using bad language in his presence,’
writes Bob Grant in a typical tribute. ‘We didn't have to call
Church Parade—you couldn't keep the chaps away. His packing case draped with a Union Jack, topped with a wooden cross,
dressed in his holy raiment, Padre would just talk, not preach,
to us. He told us the Bible stories in a way that made their
meaning clear, and where it was possible to have singing, chose
hymns every denomination would know. He always became so
absorbed in his narration that, before long, a corner of the flag
would be lifted, and Padre's foot would be resting on the box
as he pressed home the various points he decided to make.’
At 11 p.m. on the night of 1 August (‘the old story, momentum
lost,’ comments Captain Len Turner,) the battalion began a
two-pronged attack from La Romola, 1 Company (with 2 Company in close support) aiming for Tavernaccia, a hill to the
north-east, and 3 Company attacking La Poggiona ridge, within a mile and roughly north of Tavernaccia.
On the start line 1 Company again met with disaster. Eight
Platoon became badly cut up by shellfire: Frank Deehan
Pte F. H. Deehan; born NZ 13 Feb 1904; labourer; died of wounds 2 Aug 1944.
was
mortally wounded, Private Borthwick
Pte T. J. Borthwick; born Taumarunui, 14 Oct 1918; labourer; killed in
action 1 Aug 1944.
killed, and several
others badly wounded. In vain Harry Mohr
S-Sgt H. W. Mohr; born NZ 16 Sep 1914; shepherd; wounded Oct 1944.
and Sid Meads,
hobbling about, put a rough tourniquet on the stump of
Deehan's arm. Seven Platoon was on the start line and another
platoon, probably 6 Platoon, was passing to get into position
‘when a shell (we still think it was one of our shorts) landed right
by us.’ Casualties altogether were about a dozen.
Ridges and steep-sided gullies disorganised the company,
which was caught in our own barrage for about twenty minutes, thanks to the nature of the ground. Though scattered and
dazed and also hampered by wire—grape-vines strung across
the line of attack—the survivors pushed on to Tavernaccia. A
large two-storied house, with a tower on top of it, appeared
on the hill; it was surrounded by a cyclone fence six feet high
which enclosed some three acres. Enemy shell and mortar fire
increased, small-arms fire ‘was pretty fierce’, and the building
was occupied, with 5 Platoon in a house further on the right
flank. This platoon, losing contact half-way during heavy
mortaring, had pushed on independently to its objective. A
German had picked up the platoon's call-sign on the radio and,
claiming to be the commander of 6 Platoon (Len Turner),
insisted that Arthur Woolcott halt his attack. When the voice
could not give his own nickname (‘Tich’), Woolcott went on
with his men. Two Company, very tired, reached its objective
but was heavily mortared as it consolidated at dawn. The tanks,
up by daylight, drew some heavy shells.
Three Company, lining up to take La Poggiona ridge, had
been depleted by the La Romola attack to three platoons: 13
Platoon (Lieutenant Paterson), 15 Platoon (Lieutenant Ian
Thomas) and 16 Platoon (Sergeant Mick Eades). Lieutenant
Triss Hegglun (of the late 14 Platoon) acted as company
second-in-command in the field.
The start line was 100 yards or so on from the village on
the Poggiona side. The time was 11 p.m. A barrage was laid
on—100 yards every five minutes. The advance was to be along
the road which led to a group of buildings set about a square
courtyard, beyond which lay about 400 yards of open, flat,
slightly scrubby ground leading over to the hill feature, La
Poggiona, which was to be 3 Company's final objective. The
company was to be on top of the hill before daylight.
The barrage opened up; 13 and 16 Platoons led, then came
15 Platoon. Away they went, lying down at the 100-yard mark
while the barrage worked out its five minutes' pounding, then
up and on another 120 paces. Most of the trouble came from
houses bordering the road, which gradually curved and rose.
After about 800 yards the attackers were on a small ridge with
trees. Here our own shells certainly seemed to be hitting the
tops of the trees and bursting, ‘so that there was a constant
tinkle-tinkle, spatter-spatter of shrapnel and splinters on the
roadway around us.’ About now 15 Platoon was sent to ‘do
over’ a house on one side of the road; a shell struck the top of
a three-foot wall close by and wounded about five, including
Lieutenant Thomas, Corporal Dick Sheppard
Cpl R. J. Sheppard; Stratford; born NZ 6 Aug 1921; shop assistant;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
and Private
Ridding,
Pte A. E. Ridding; Wellington; born Wellington, 7 Aug 1922; bank officer;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
who mentions ‘the inspiration and confidence that
radiated from Lt. Thomas both then and during all previous
events.’ Sergeant Bill Windsor took over the platoon.
Up the long line passed a message from Company Headquarters to halt and allow the barrage to go for three lifts,
when it might clear the trees. Men crouched and lay in a
shallow ditch on the side of the road. The fifteen-minute halt
grew into half an hour, which was again extended on orders
from Company Headquarters in the rear. The barrage was
slipping away from the attackers. Much ground remained to
be covered. ‘The boys lying inactive on their stomachs were
not getting any great kick out of the situation. I wandered down
at intervals to see how they were getting on and was annoyed
to find one man out of his place in the line. As I bent closer to
see who this chap was (sitting up talking to another who was
lying flat with his tin hat stretched out to its extremes to give
maximum coverage) I found … Foll. Carrington
Pte F. A. Carrington; born Inglewood, 19 Feb 1921; draper's assistant; killed
in action 3 Oct 1944.
…
sitting as large as life, wearing instead of his tin hat an Ite sort
of greyish Panama hat at a rakish angle. He was talking nonsense, joking and laughing. I started to explain why every man
had to keep in his place, so that when we got up to move the
man behind would see in the dark just the man in front, and
so get up and move also. If the man in front wasn't there it
was too dark to see the next man again. Foll pulled me aside a
little and explained that the particular chap he was talking to
had been getting a bit on edge and he was simply keeping his
pecker up for him, and that at the first signs of movement he'd
slip back smartly to his place in the line. Knowing Foll I had
no worries on that score and left him still sitting there amongst
the very flat bodies, with my own pecker considerably uplifted.’
Eventually 3 Company was ordered on again, and by a group
of houses the barrage stopped. Fire (including a well-placed
spandau) from both the top and bottom stories of this group
of houses held the attackers. A stalemate was prevented by a
20 Regiment tank-troop commander, Second-Lieutenant Bill
de Lautour,
Capt H. M. B. de Lautour, m.i.d.; Wairoa; born NZ 27 Feb 1911; sheep-farmer.
who brought his tank forward and briskly rammed a house or two, while the infantry fired at top windows to
stop grenades being dropped down into the tank's open turret.
In this way the houses fell with a few prisoners. Dawn was
coming up fast, the barrage had long since stopped, and the
hill ahead was still in enemy hands.
Major Sainsbury decided to establish his Company Headquarters in the group of buildings and tackle the hill in the
evening. It was now almost full daylight, and Sainsbury knew
the approach to the hill lay across about 400 yards of cruelly
open ground; the men, who had had only irregular food scavenged from here and there and little rest during the last three
nights, were dead weary. A platoon sent 100 yards forward
to protect the buildings drew fire ‘from almost a half circle,
from about half right to full left—mainly Spandaus. From one
knob on the left alone I counted four streams of Spandau tracer
coming from a machinegun nest … in a few minutes bullets
appeared to bounce off the hard dry dusty surface rather like
a hailstorm. Before the holes were dug there'd be no platoon
to man them.’ The platoon ran back to the buildings.
Bill de Lautour offered ‘to shoot ‘em up the hill’ to within
30 yards of the top with his 75-millimetre guns and .5 machine
guns. With this help 3 Company got moving again, 13 Platoon
on the left and 16 Platoon on the right. The two platoons
advanced across the ground in a long extended line, the tanks
level with them and spaced at intervals along the line. The
tanks kept up a continual fire as they rolled along, ‘while Bill,
with his round, sunburned face (on which seemed a perpetual
grin) poked up above his turret, directed the fire of his troop.
His face was a great tonic to us, and so was his shooting.’ One
of many targets was the machine-gun nest of four spandaus on
a knob: three tank shells dead on this target silenced them.
Half-way across the flat, as arranged, the tanks stopped and
laid down a barrage for 3 Company to advance under to the
top of the hill. At the bottom of the hill some of the men ran fast
through a house with one wall damaged. One German ‘had half-turned you know to sling his grenade and I got him in the back,
I saw three neat holes, and as he fell and I jumped over him and
shoved on, I thought to myself: “Christ, you're good“, just like
that. And a bit further on I seemed to be outside myself, looking
at myself, and thinking: “Hell, is that me?” And then I forgot
it all and just shoved on up the hill.’
‘The ground rose steeply before us, with corrugations not
unlike the old Maori defences as they are today on our own
hills,’ writes Paterson (13 Platoon). ‘We started to run up,
firing as we went. There were quite a number of Huns on the
hillside and a good many more on the top. As the boys ran up
there was shooting for all, like the opening of a good duck
shooting season I should think. Everyone was greatly excited,
and the enemy began to drop their weapons and run as we
came to the top. We ran over the top and some distance down
the other side, with by this time the enemy in full flight.’
Now came the moment of exaltation, which one man describes in these words: ‘I stood there stock still, gripping the
tommygun like this. You seemed to feel the strength of every
muscle in your body. In front in their grey uniforms the Germans crashed away into the bushes, scuttering like great rats
—or like pigs—running away—unclean, evil they seemed just
at that moment in the early morning, you see. And it seemed as
if a great finger was pointing straight down at you, or—no, this
is closer to it—you were the tip of a great triangle of light shoving on into the darkness of a Europe the Hun had overrun and
fouled for all these years. And you were doing this, you yourself
were driving this darkness back, you were out in front, you were
part of this crusade or history or whatever it was—and then
some bloody fool fires his tommygun and we—off back up to the
top of the hill.’
This description was given at the end of a four-hour conversation. He felt
like this again for a moment once or twice before the war ended, but never with
the same fierce intensity.
Remembering an old instruction, ‘Never overrun your objective’, Paterson reluctantly called a halt to the victorious pursuit
and told his men not to shoot, for in front a good many Germans
seemed ready for surrender. A young German lad was seized
and told to shout to his comrades: ‘Schiessen nicht’, ‘Herein kommen’, ‘Wir schiessen nicht’, and so on, in the belief that the German's
accent would be more intelligible than a New Zealander's.
‘However he was terrified and his voice came out in a pitiful
kind of quavery wail. I roared at him: “Louder, you b—!”
He seemed to catch on, and a louder, more quavery wail came
forth, but to my repeated roars he could improve no more, so
I took up the burden of the song myself.’
Paterson describes the scene: ‘After a minute or two the faces
of the enemy began to appear, peering through the little bushes
and scrub amongst the light trees, and all over the ground for
some distance down we could see them beginning to rise and
put their hands up. Then one near us, perhaps 20 or 30 yards
away, stood right up and started to walk towards us with his
hands up. Just then unfortunately a youngster who had not
long before joined the company lost his head and fired a burst
of tommygun through the German's stomach at short range.
The rest turned and ran down the hill while we in turn ran back
to the top of the hill and started digging.’
The two platoons (13 and 16) had little time to dig in back
on top of the hill. (‘I suddenly realised that the mosquito-like
whines whipping about knee-high were actually bullets—brain
working a bit slowly,’ as one man put it.) The Germans, with
every justification enraged at their comrade's death as he was
surrendering, rallied swiftly and assaulted the hill fiercely three
times. Twice they were driven back by 3 Company, which was
shooting as hard and as fast as it could. As the third counter-attack broke the section on the left flank reported hearing the
enemy crashing through the undergrowth on the left; apparently he was starting to surround the company. After continuous firing ammunition was low: tommy-gunners and the Bren-gunners reported ‘Nearly out.’ Unwilling to be surrounded without ammunition, 13 and 16 Platoons retreated,
Paterson still (1955) reproaches himself for ordering this retreat. He did not
know that 15 Platoon under Sgt Bill Windsor was even at that moment starting
to climb the hill, and also that the tanks near the bottom of the hill held boxes
of .303 and tommy-gun ammunition.
section by
section, ‘down the hill up which we had run so enthusiastically
an hour or so before’—16 Platoon to Company Headquarters,
13 Platoon to cover the slope from inside the partly smashed
house at the foot of the hill.
Colonel Donald decided to take the hill in the late afternoon
with 2 Company, supported by a barrage from the 25-pounders.
About six o'clock the barrage opened up, catching 13 Platoon
still in its outpost. A smoke shell filled the wretched ruin with
fumes; the cap from the shell struck Tracey
L-Cpl B. L. Tracey; born Auckland, 24 Oct 1920; ice-room attendant; twice
wounded.
on the big toe,
and he cursed the artillery violently.
So the two platoons from 2 Company assembled in 3 Company's headquarters, where the RAP was also established.
‘Just as the platoons under Lieutenant Cox
Lt D. C. Cox; Hawera; born Hawera, 14 Jan 1921; clerk; wounded 2 Aug 1944.
and Henderson
were assembling at the startline,’ wrote Major Hutcheson, ‘we
were subject to one of the bitterest shellings I have ever experienced. Someone said they were our own shells and indeed
it seemed to be true. I could not get the CO on our own radio,
so climbed into a tank and spoke to the CO of the tank regiment
asking him to lift the barrage. Then my two platoons came
staggering back, shocked and disorganised, and with heavy
casualties. Lieutenant Cox had a badly shattered elbow, and
mutilated arms and legs seemed to be everywhere. I pointed
out that the barrage was over and that the attack must go on
but everyone eyed me grimly.’
Before his arm was smashed, Cox had got as many of his
platoon (10 Platoon) back as he could contact. Private Wicksteed
Pte D. Wicksteed; Stratford; born Stratford, 23 Apr 1922; dairy farmer;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
‘caught it in the knee joint. I gave a yell as it was very
hot as well as a jar as it stopped against the bone.’ Just before
Owen Bullot
Pte O. Bullot; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 3 Nov 1920; P and T
exchange clerk; wounded 2 Aug 1944.
was hit in both thighs, ‘the section were getting
out of the way fast, in between hitting the deck every time anything came in. Two of the chaps in front of me went down,
heads well down and stern ends way up in the air. In a lull
I could not help but laugh out loud; these two chaps looked back
at the sound of laughter, and the look on their faces very clearly
showed that they thought I had cracked under the strain.’
Over on the right flank some of 12 Platoon pulled back and
dodged some of the barrage, but among the platoon casualties
were Kane,
Pte N. L. Kane; Gisborne; born Scotland, 25 May 1922; student; wounded
2 Aug 1944.
Robert Nossiter,
Pte R. Nossiter; born NZ 22 Jun 1922; plumbing apprentice; wounded 2 Aug
1944.
Dick Perrott
Pte R. W. Perrott; Hastings; born Gisborne, 23 May 1922; orchard worker;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
and Clark,
L-Cpl L. A. R. Clark; Inglewood; born NZ 22 May 1920; farmhand; wounded
2 Aug 1944.
of
whom the last pressed down in vain into a shallow depression.
A carrier took Norman Faulkner
Pte N. A. Faulkner; Masterton; born NZ 18 Aug 1920; salesman; twice
wounded.
back to the hard-working
RAP, ‘and what a nightmare ride this was as we were shelled
all the way out.’ One explanation for this disaster is that the
only maps available were old Italian ones. Men advanced up
to the first track shown on the map, but the track was now
non-existent, and the men came on to the barrage line as the
guns opened up ‘and collected the lot.’ Men who were there
think that in a very few minutes about twenty were left on their
feet out of about 117, but very few if any were killed. Apparently
the majority were suffering from blast and shock, and the disorganisation was considerable.
Yet it will be seen that the act of a few men, probably no
more than a dozen, had a wide influence over the stricken 2
Company. On the right flank some of Corporal Tsukigawa's
men (12 Platoon) sat out the storm (no new orders recalled
them) and then moved forward towards the objective: the
ridge, which was across a gully full of pine-trees. Not being
able to see the rest of the platoon and not knowing everyone
had retired, this little force, led by the resolute corporal, advanced alone. Castell-Spence
Lt K. D. Castell-Spence, m.i.d.; Whatatutu, Gisborne; born South Africa,
10 May 1906; station manager; twice wounded.
writes: ‘We went down into the
gully and were going carefully up the face leading up to the
main ridge. We must have been about halfway up when Jerry
spotted us and opened up with a few bursts from a Spandau.
[Mel Jacob,
Pte M. H. F. Jacob; Wellington; born Ruahine, 21 May 1921; labourer;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
on the Bren gun, was hit.] We lay down and
tried to pick up where the fire was coming from.’ Mortar
bombs fell a little short. The men pulled back into cover in
the gully when the Air Force came over and raked the ridge
with cannon and bomb.
While this was going on, Second-Lieutenant Jock Wells's
platoon was down at 2 Company's headquarters and another
platoon too far back to use. Neither, of course, had been on
the fatal start line. ‘Suddenly word came in that Corporal
Tsukigawa's section had not come in but advanced up the
hill,’ Hutcheson continues. ‘This encouraged the men, and I
said, “Come on, we can't leave him up there by himself.”
Wells's platoon came quite cheerfully.
‘We spread out into open formation and advanced slowly
towards La Poggiona. One or two wounded were still sheltering
in hollows and I sent them back.’ Here men passed Private
George Ireland,
Pte G. F. Ireland; Wellington; born Masterton, 3 Jan 1918; factory hand;
wounded 2 Aug 1944.
who became almost a legendary figure. He
was grinning cheerfully and greeting passers-by with the words:
‘Gosh, I'm sure glad to see you. I'm on my last cigarette.’ One
leg was hacked through at the shin, but was hanging by an
inch or so of flesh at the calf. With his blunt bayonet Ireland
was trying to complete the act of amputation. (This incident
is fully authenticated by a number of astounded witnesses.)
‘As we reached the foot of the hill,’ Hutcheson resumes,
‘Corporal Tsukigawa and a couple of men appeared. He
announced La Poggiona clear of the enemy. Our barrage had
done some good after all. He joined our extended line [for his
work the corporal won the MM], and once more an advance
was made on La Poggiona. But by now the Germans had
returned again. They opened up with several spandaus. We
couldn't locate them through the trees, but as we plodded
steadily upwards we could see twigs being cut off and bark
nicked by their bullets a foot or so above our heads.’
They returned the enemy's fire, and soon most thankfully
realised from the elevation of his fire that he was withdrawing.
Slowly in line abreast, a few yards apart, they edged up the
hill to the top, probed a hundred yards forward in silence, then
suddenly met a rain of mortar bombs plus spandau fire again.
They pulled back just behind the crest of the protecting ridge,
just twenty-four men, and dug in frantically, using steel helmets,
knives and bayonets, two men to a trench. One man shared a
trench with Sergeant Mick Bougen
WO II E. D. Bougen, MM, m.i.d.; Raetihi; born Taihape, 18 Mar 1918;
farmhand.
: ‘I wonder if Mick knew
I wanted to lean on him heavily for moral support because he
was calm and placid?’
All night they sat and watched the skyline, and waited for
the counter-attack that never came. Parties from 2 Company
joined them on the ridge, then from 3 Company Sergeant Bill
Windsor and Second-Lieutenant Keith Cave arrived with their
platoons. In a peaceful dawn they looked down on Florence.
‘One thing I remember,’ writes Wicksteed. ‘When we went
into battle the olive trees were looking very nice, but when we
came out they were all stripped and ripped to ribbons with the
shelling that had gone on.’
With the capture of Poggiona the enemy's effective resistance
south of Florence ended. The battalion was given the chance
of carrying on the chase, but the CO decided that the men
needed rest more than the honour of being the first into
Florence.
Now that the New Zealand Division had pierced the Paula
line, the enemy had to abandon his positions south of the
River Arno, and the South Africans entered Florence early on
4 August, followed by a New Zealand column.
Later, while the battalion rested in Siena after a week in the
Arno River line, Colonel Donald sent this message to his men:
You have just passed through a period during which every one of
you has been put to the test in a way that some had never experienced
before. You have stood the test in a manner which has upheld the
best traditions of the 22 Bn, and I am proud of you. We have had
our casualties, 116 in all since 2 Coy started its successful advance
along Route 2, and some of the best and bravest are no longer
with us. This is one of the regrettable hazards of war, but we shall
not forget them.
There have been many instances of personal bravery that have
come to my notice, and many I am afraid which must inevitably
pass unnoticed because of the darkness and the fog of war. Some of
these men will receive the honour due to them, and we thank them
for bringing distinction to the Bn.
During the battle for Casciano, La Romola and Poggiona, you
did, singularly well, the same job as the other two NZ Brigades did
with three battalions. The strain was severe but you succeeded.
The 22 Battalion has fought many engagements through Greece
and Crete to the Western Desert and Cassino. Its face has changed
from time to time, but always there has endured the spirit of its
first commander, Colonel Andrew VC. He asked for and obtained
the highest qualities of courage and fighting spirit. I should like to
tell you that the successes you have achieved in the past three
weeks have been as great as any in the Bn's history and that our
old motto ‘Twenty second to none’ is still as deserved as ever. You
have done this. I am grateful to you.
On 6 August the battalion moved into a holding area south
of the Arno River and some six miles west of Florence, its last
battle area on the western side of the Apennines. Casualties
were light here. In the battalion's lines was ‘a beautiful palace,
built by Caruso and belonging to the Count of Michelo. I have
never seen a more luxurious dwelling. It was sad to see such
a lovely home gradually reduced to rubble by the German's
regular shelling.’
Johnny Begg
Pte J. N. S. Begg; Hamilton; born Scotland, 25 Apr 1916; labourer; wounded
13 Aug 1944.
(‘the only Kiwi screwdrivered in action’) was
hard at work in the darkness on 13 August when his 3-inch
mortar misfired. The usual misfire drill did not release the
bomb, nor did Ray Potier's
Pte C. R. Potier; Tuakau; born NZ 13 Dec 1921; farmhand; wounded 13 Aug 1944.
pounding on the barrel with a
pick handle. So Potier removed the firing mechanism and,
using a large screwdriver, attempted to push the bomb out.
He struck the cartridge, which exploded, but the bomb didn't.
‘The blast blew us all off our feet,’ relates Begg, who had
both hands at the muzzle impatiently waiting for the bomb
to slide out. ‘Old Paddy—my number three, was blown out
of the pit. I can still remember him cursing in real broad Irish!
Ray lost the barrel. It took off. I was told they found it 50
yards or so downhill, and that a patrol coming in thought it
was a new secret weapon of old Ted's, as they heard it whistle
away.’
The next night the battalion, due for a rest in Siena, was
relieved by Americans. The guide for one party says: ‘Down
the hill in Indian file we came to the main road and had to
turn right. In the middle of this track where it met the road was
a bundle of straw. Word came back: “Look out for the straw,
there might be a mine under it.” And the Yank in front of me
turned around to pass the word: “Look out for the mine, there
may be straw under it.” ‘
CHAPTER 12
Adriatic
Back from the Arno River by Florence to the area near Siena,
and standing in the cool shade of its old buildings on a hot
afternoon (something mellow about this place) it gave the impression of being full of memories and seemed to hint at a smell
of mosaics and varnish, with old fashioned lace glimpsed through
windows. A charming place [writes our 22 Battalion soldier].
And in our area we still did a bit of the usual growling, but
looking back surely there must have been many worse places to be
in at that time. Wind seemed to be a forgotten thing at that time
of the year in Italy. Every morning was the same—the sun burst
forth on a cloudless sky and the countryside took on that golden
dusty look of harvest time (it had started to look like that at Fontana
Liri)—but crowded everywhere by the greenery of such plants as
oaks, pines, fruit trees and grape vines—and they threw their black
mottled cool shadows over the roads and into the fields. And standing
looking across miles of sloping ridges to more ridges blue in the
distance on those long glorious afternoons it wasn't hard to believe
travellers when they said that Italy had some of the most beautiful
countryside in the world….
Then off in the trucks for a few days at the beach…. The air
seemed hushed under a hot breathless sun and the water in the bay
didn't even sparkle—its surface was too smooth for that—it just had
a smooth polished glassy look. We spent most of our time either
lying in the shade of the pines just off the beach or baking on the
beach or lolling in the more than lukewarm water. And someone
said ‘See those islands out there—well that big one in the middle,
that's Elba—and that one out to the left, that's Montecristo.’
Back at our area and then pack up, gear on the trucks and over
the hills and valleys of Italy on the dusty trail to Foligno—past
that patch of barren looking country, then later round historic old
Perugia. Next morning away again on the road from Foligno, and
soon we started to climb the Apennines—up up up the road wound.
But finally we reached the top. Here you naturally expected the
road to start winding down the other side, but instead it flattened
out and roved over undulating countryside for a number of miles—
a land of green fields dotted with casas which seemed to be completely cut off from the rest of Italy and at a height of over three
thousand feet—another land. (You remembered seeing the film
‘Lost Horizon’ before you left NZ.) Then we went down the other
side, right down to Iesi, and our area for the night. And by that
time, sitting looking at each other with our backs against the sides
of the tray—you could easily have imagined we were back in the
old desert once more—in our coating of fine powdery dust we
looked grey—just like the vegetation at the side of that and so many
other roads in Italy at that time of the year. Just like that Amiriya
dust.
And now [on the Adriatic, below Rimini] it was the grape season
(if all the lines of grape vines in Italy were placed end to end I
wonder just how many times round the earth they would reach).
And it wasn't hard—in many areas we went to—if you like grapes,
to find a place for your bivvy beside a row—and then what better
to do first thing in the morning than reach out from your bunk,
pick a bunch, lie back again and enjoy them—they sweetened your
mouth at that time of the morning. Near the roads they were often
covered with dust, but you wiped that off as you went along. And
there was plenty of other fruit to be had too. It was harvest time
for many things, among them a field of tomatoes, an acre or so of
them right beside our bivvies at Fano—big red smooth eggshaped
ones weighing down the plants. Many a Kiwi boot must have
trodden the ground around those plants, but when we left there
after some days, you couldn't see where we had been.
Then there were all those days when we used to route march
down to the beach—swim and sit on the beach—have our midday
meal and return in the trucks in the afternoon—pleasant memories.
And as we moved up the coast in short hops the arty always
booming away in front of us got louder as we got nearer the front line.
And always we were hearing of success and hope—how well the
Poles and Canadians were going—at first Pesaro had fallen and
one after the other coastal towns fell—not far to Rimini—and once
that fell we would be through his line. And then—there wide open
before us—there was no mistake this time—would be the Po Valley
or Lombardy Plains—something we had been waiting for ever
since we arrived in Italy. Of course we had heard tales like that
for so long, but this time there was no doubting it—you only had
to look at a map of Italy. Our tanks would soon have the country
they had waited for. The Brenner Pass was mentioned. (But no one
mentioned that it was September and—well—we knew what winter
was like in Italy—and what would it be like in a month or so?)
And these tales weren't very old when, if you took notice, you could
feel a change in the air. Those white afternoon clouds were just a
little less white and a little more grey and were inclined to spread
across the sky. And the thunder storms were a little less thunder
and a more steady rain fell from them. And the breezes were just
a little cooler—and the air was warm and soft but not hot. Soon
those clouds would become very grey and spread right across the
sky on many days. And as the thunder died out so the rain would
fall more steadily and more often. And the cool breezes would
gradually become cold winds. And then often they would lash the
rain against canopies and bivvies with a sharp pattering noise—
then swish under tailboards, and carry on to the hard stone casas,
driving in doorways and windows and brushing round corners.
Little more than a month ago the scene had been a calm one of
blue green yellow and gold, but now the colours were becoming
drab.
‘Ah well—think I'll hit the sack—best place on a night like this.’
‘Pretty good on the backs down racket aren't you, soldier.’
‘I dunno about that—if there's anything worth going to see I'm
a starter—not like you on Rome leave—too tired to get off your bed
and go to see the things of historic importance.’
‘Christ a joker needed a rest after climbin’ that bloody great
staircase—anyway it's the first time I knew you had things of
historic importance tucked away in your valise.’
‘Now listen here dig I've said time and again that just because I
don't smoke and you jokers do, it doesn't mean I have to go without
the benefits of a cigarette issue—anyway you're too bloody lousy to
eat your chocolate.’
With the fall of Florence about two-thirds of Italy now was
cleared. But here the Apennines angled directly across Italy,
almost from one coast to the other, and in the ranges and rough
heights and canal-cut plains the German manned yet another
formidable line—the Gothic line, a belt many miles thick
of minefields, concrete emplacements sheltering guns, and the
steel-cased turrets of Panther tanks mounting their deadly
75-millimetre anti-tank guns.
This line, slanting across the face of Italy, ran from Pesaro
(on the Adriatic) to just north of Florence. It had only two
weaknesses: one was the rough Futa Pass (between Florence
and Bologna), in the Fifth Army's area. The other weakness—
and this was where the Eighth Army and the New Zealanders
would battle again—was the narrow strip of coastal plain on
the Adriatic end of the line. This small plain was thoroughly
prepared to meet assault. From Pesaro a band of seaward
fortifications ran back for 30 miles to Rimini. The enemy
defences took advantage of the foothills running down towards
the Adriatic and of an ever-increasing mesh of rivers, ditches
and canals. Once past Rimini the Gothic line would be turned
from the east, and the Po valley entered.
September found the New Zealand Division around Iesi,
back on the eastern side of Italy again. The new positions on
the Adriatic coast were about 110 miles north of the previous
year's Sangro River positions. The New Zealanders reached
Iesi as the Canadians made their first dent, a ten-mile dent,
in this end of the Gothic line. Swinging left behind Pesaro, the
Canadians fought their way into Cattolica. The Poles took
Pesaro on 2 September. Slowly—death, destruction, and desolation mounting as Eighth Army's losses averaged 155 killed and
600 wounded every day for a week—they ground like some
great bleeding glacier towards Rimini, with Canadian Corps
on the coast, 5 British Corps in the middle, and 10 British
Corps in the higher foothills and mountains.
One Company 22 Battalion and the supporting tanks were
the first New Zealanders (apart from the artillery) to go into
action against the Gothic line. The company joined battle on
14 September, two days after a renewed offensive all along the
Adriatic front, when the Germans reported ‘an absolute wall
of shellfire … ploughing up the whole countryside and carpeting us with bombs …. he is tearing into it…. Our casualties are even higher than at Cassino.’
Some recent arrivals took a look at the front from Gradara
Castle. ‘Standing on the top we could get a great view of our
front line a few miles to the north. We could see (in the dusk)
the tiny sudden flickers as various guns of our arty fired on
different parts of the front—they were flickering almost continuously somewhere. (Was it that evening that we also saw the
Navy firing from out at sea—we saw that happen several times
and sometimes saw Jerry retaliating as spouts of water went up
near the ships.)’
The grey, semi-swamp land stretching ahead, cut up by
roads, canals, ditches and hedges, was the hunting ground of
a most sinister German weapon, the nebelwerfer, or ‘cloud
thrower’, now described by Bob Foreman, who soon was
to be out of the war when a bomb from his own mortar
exploded against an overhead branch of a tree swaying in the
wind: ‘A little while after we had turned in (in a casa) there
was this sudden screech-crash all in a fraction of a second (an
88 I suppose)—it sounded as though it just went past one wall
and burst about a chain away. (It's funny how these little
things stick in your mind, but I'm sure the room was silent
before the shell came—and was silent again for a few seconds
after it burst. But the latter silence seemed different to the
former. Was it that unconsciously you had heard breathing in
the first silence, whereas everyone held their breath for a second
or two in the second silence—I wouldn't like to say. It was a
silence of hesitancy.) We had just settled down again from
this disturbance—and then we heard them start winding up
“Minnie”. (We used to say “winding up”—what caused
that noise anyway?) It would be hard to describe that winding
noise—something remotely like a nearly flat battery turning
over the engine of an old Ford car—but it must have been a
hang of a noise when you were standing beside it. Then the
moan as the rockets set out on their journey—something like
those multiple air raid sirens—but with a steady pitch. We heard
them gradually getting closer as they lost height—then the
distant “Bash” as the first one landed—it sounded more than
a quarter of a mile away. Then—like some enormous giant
striding across the countryside in hobnailed boots and taking
strides chains long—they marched towards us. Bash-bash-
bash-bash-bash—each one getting louder and finally (at this
stage between the last bangs there was a fumbling noise within
the room—I think others doing the same as I was—starting to
reach for my tin hat) one last big bash as the last one landed
about, say, five yards from the wall of our house.’
Twenty-second Battalion joined the Adriatic campaign in
mid-September. The unit, for a while the most advanced of
all New Zealand battalions, drove up a traffic-crowded highway, Route 16, to the town of Riccione on the afternoon of
13 September.
Here Captain C. N. Armstrong returned (via Italy, Germany, Poland, Sweden, England and New Zealand) to his old unit, temporarily going to Support Company. Captured in Libya in 1941, he received a bar to his MC for many escapes from PW camps which led finally to freedom in Sweden. After furlough in New Zealand, he volunteered to return to the war. Among reinforcements were several old members of the battalion, including Dick Kendrick and Ted Bassett who, after being taken prisoner at Ruweisat, escaped in Italy and went home before rejoining the battalion.
Battalion appointments were: CO, Lt-Col H. V. Donald; 2 i/c, Maj D. Anderson; OC 1 Coy, Maj A. W. F. O'Reilly; OC 2 Coy, Maj K. R. Hutcheson; OC 3 Coy, Maj G. S. Sainsbury; OC 4 Coy, Maj L. G. S. Cross.
Ahead 3 Greek Mountain Brigade, fresh from training in
Syria and in the line for the first time, had run into difficulties
in attempting to take a group of farm buildings and the settlement of Monticelli. Veterans of 1 Parachute Regiment and
Turcomen (some captured Russians and White Russians who
had gone over to the German side) had taken their toll of the
inexperienced troops, who so far had suffered 172 casualties.
Twenty-second Battalion, settling down behind the Greeks, had
first of all a simple task: to plug the gap if the enemy broke
through. The enemy didn't break through, but part of the
battalion went into action just the same. The Greeks, and 22
Battalion behind them, were under 1 Canadian Infantry Division. Next day a big attack to the north began, aiming to take
Rimini from the west and to win a crossing over the river above
the town. The Greeks, though dogged enough, got nowhere,
so the Canadian general promptly called for a 22 Battalion task
force to give the Greeks ‘moral and physical support’. This
set 1 Company (Major O'Reilly) on the move.
‘As we were moving up, my first time in …,’ Private
Price,
Pte H. D. Price; Hastings; born NZ 7 May 1924; grocer; wounded 2 Oct 1944.
a remarkably honest man, relates, ‘in the distance I
heard the bang of artillery and as we had been told that you
could hear the shells coming towards you I heard the whistle
and made a dive for the ground where I lay shaking like a leaf
until the other jokers started to laugh. They then asked “What's
the matter, Shorty? They are our own shells going over.” But
that didn't worry me because I still hadn't got over the shock
of hearing them.’
When the men were under way, tanks from B Squadron 20
Armoured Regiment came in too. The company's task simply
was to protect the tanks. Had the infantry been expected to
bolster the attack, the whole battalion would have gone in.
Eight Platoon (Second-Lieutenant Avery
2 Lt F. H. Avery; Te Awamutu; born Auckland, 4 Apr 1924; storeman.
) followed Greek
infantry and some of the tanks over vineyards into the smoke
and dust-covered remains of farm buildings, Monaldini, which
fell easily enough as they were defended by only two spandaus
and a handful of troops. Before the tanks arrived, a New Zealand tank officer on reconnaissance ‘admired the spirit of the
Greeks who were firing [on the farm buildings]. From time to
time some of these men rushed out of a house, fired a few rounds,
and then dashed back into the house before the answering
mortar stonk could catch them in the open.’ After the farm
buildings had became ours, 7 Platoon (Lieutenant Bassett),
with tanks, moved up the road to attack Monticelli settlement,
but the enemy pulled out as the platoon drew near, leaving
behind a badly wounded German in a building. ‘The place
was a wine-making centre,’ recalls Bassett. ‘I remember the
immense wine casks which completely filled one of the buildings. We were all rather perturbed next morning to see large
notices outside the building proclaiming in German the place
to be infested with typhus—this after we had occupied the
place overnight.’
When they had settled into their new position, Bassett's men
were able to see the enemy's defences, which had been dug
behind the surrounding fences. The platoon commander
thought they were perhaps the best constructed positions he
had seen. They were well camouflaged, and stretched for about
half a mile up the road as well. As Private Jamieson
Pte W. G. A. Jamieson; Lower Hutt; born Mangatainoka, 30 Nov 1904; branch manager, clothing outfitters; twice wounded.
walked
across a stone courtyard, ‘There was a hell of an explosion and I
was hit in the forearm. I stuck my hand into my trouser pocket to
get my tin of cigarettes and cut my hand on a piece of shrapnel
and needless to say, no smoke.’
The two attacking platoons had had a fairly easy time that
afternoon, but not so the rest of the company, which was getting into position about 500 yards east of Monticelli and preparing for a descent on the place if need be.
‘We were walking along a track (in a sort of canal) in single
file like a lot of ducks when the mortar dropped through the
trees, bursting in the water and sending water and mud in all
directions,’ writes McNeil.
Pte K. A. McNeil; Coromandel; born Coromandel, 8 Mar 1912; farmer; wounded 14 Sep 1944.
Lance-Corporal Astwood
L-Cpl L. H. Astwood; born Wellington, 12 Nov 1920; clerk; killed in action 14 Sep 1944.
met his
death here, and eleven others were wounded, all from this one
bomb. McNeil goes on: ‘The wounded were quickly attended
to and shifted to an Italian house nearby where the badly
wounded were despatched as quickly as possible. Our main
difficulty in getting out was getting through the Greek guards
who were inclined to be trigger-happy and very jittery.’ Hit
on the back of the right hand, Sampson
Pte M. K. Sampson; Whangarei; born Waitara, 11 Nov 1906; clerk; wounded 14 Sep 1944.
‘could have sworn it
was blown off, but was not game enough to find out for myself,
so I asked my friend Bernie Spranger
L-Cpl B. G. Spranger; Omata, New Plymouth; born Stratford, 16 Nov 1922; farmer.
right next to me to tell
me if my hand was missing. The cheering words came back:
“She's right Snow, it's bloody well there alright.”’
The badly wounded had just been hustled under cover when
five mortar bombs came over like a pack of hounds. Sampson,
exposed, ‘curled up in my tin hat … scared stiff, and I think
my hair must have pushed my hat up 2 inches.’
On the way back to a Canadian casualty clearing station
the wounded had to take cover again, this time in a dugout
where Germans had been living for weeks. ‘It was filthy,’ one
wounded man remembers, ‘and stank worse than rotten eggs.
In this dugout, among the wounded, our company commander
Bert O'Reilly was busy among us, doing his best with the Greek
interpreter, calling for stretcher bearers, and passing on the
odd encouraging word.’
By 9.30 p.m. the New Zealanders were firmly settled in little
Monticelli for the night. At dawn a patrol from 7 Platoon found
San Lorenzo (a short distance up the road) unoccupied.
The Greeks now aimed for the Rimini airfield, about a mile
away. The first advance of the new day was made in the centre
by 1 Greek Battalion (followed by 6 Platoon), which crossed
the Marano River before 10 a.m. and reached a house before
machine-gun fire from the airfield's fringe sent them to earth.
Early in the afternoon all of the Greek Brigade went forward
after the armour had been relieved by tanks of C Squadron 18
Armoured Regiment. Fighter-bombers appeared to pound the
western side of the airfield. First Greek Battalion again had to
halt just short of the airfield. Directly at this party came strong
bazooka and machine-gun fire; from the left, at the bottom of
the airfield, a self-propelled gun fired back, joined by shells
from the right from a well-protected Panther turret. One by
one the New Zealand tanks edged along a line of hedges, trying
to avoid this fire. A New Zealand tank was hit and two gallant
tank men, (Lieutenant Collins
Capt P. L. Collins, MC, m.i.d.; Hastings; born Wellington, 1 Jan 1917; warehouseman; three times wounded.
and Sergeant White
Sgt L. C. White, m.i.d.; Onehunga; born NZ 11 Oct 1914; motor driver; wounded 15 Sep 1944.
), ignoring ammunition on the point of exploding, dragged out the
trapped driver from among the shambles. Thirty-six enemy
were killed, a dozen prisoners taken, and the force camped for
the night near the southern end of the airfield. In the dark a
sudden flash and explosion to the right announced the end of
the Panther turret: its crew had destroyed it before withdrawing.
Third Greek Battalion (attended by 7 Platoon) captured the
hamlet of Casalecchio. Only the church continued to hold out
until the artillery got on to it, and then a Greek platoon, plus
tanks and the escorting 7 Platoon, took the church—or what
now passed for a church. Fire from the airfield stopped any
further advance for the day. The Greek Brigade's right-hand
battalion, 2 Battalion (and 8 Platoon) made a short advance
up the main road to the Marano River. The day had cost the
Greeks thirty-three casualties: losses in 22 Battalion's company
were slight.
This day, forsaken amongst shot and shell, a cow stood by
a well bellowing for water. Private Devereux
Pte E. Devereux; Rapahoe, Runanga; born Southland, 27 Mar 1904; gold miner; wounded 21 Oct 1944.
grabbed her by
the neck, pulled her into the door of a casa, and started to milk
her. The Greeks were delighted; a sergeant swore that he never
saw a cow milked before (and never expected to see one milked
again) with mortars dropping around.
Any attack up and beyond Rimini airfield would be useless
until 2 Greek Battalion drew level with the airfield, so next
morning (16 September), sweeping the area before them with
machine-gun fire, the infantry came up to link with 1 Battalion
on the left. The remaining Greek battalion advanced 700 yards
on the left flank. Rimini airfield now lay within the brigade's
grasp, but in hangars, buildings, and houses round about defiant
snipers and mortar and machine-gun crews had survived the
bombing. The field itself, about a mile square, was covered by
fire and thick with mines, and further back another shrewdly
dug-in Panther turret made deadly use of a perfect field of fire.
To the left of the Greek Brigade Canadians were battling
against fanatical resistance from Coriano Ridge.
This Panther turret fell next day as 2 and 3 Greek Battalions
slowly began working their way up either side of the airfield.
Skip-bombing by six aircraft left the turret unscathed, but
Lieutenant Collins (6 Platoon was with his tanks) was determined to get it. While the guns smothered the turret in smoke
shells, Collins took his tank west, turned to face the turret and,
when the smoke thinned, pounded home seven deadly direct
hits. The crew fled from the ruins and the lieutenant received
the MC.
In a parallel drive during the next three days, 2 and 3 Greek
Battalions (accompanied by 8 and 7 Platoons)—and fresh tanks
from C Squadron 19 Armoured Regiment—reached out to
enter in triumph and drizzling rain the city of Rimini early
on 21 September. Although they had had their share of fighting,
the success of this advance was due to the furious fighting inland, where the Canadians were shouldering the burden of the
assault.
Who was first into the ancient and undefended city of
Rimini? The New Zealanders say ‘New Zealanders’, and the
Greeks say ‘Greeks’. Twenty-second Battalion's war diary says:
‘At first light a tk tp comd of the 19th, accompanied by 2 Lt.
Avery, recced fwd along Route 16 into Rimini, and returned
to lead their men fwd before 0800 hrs…. [On the fringes of
Rimini both Greek battalions] paused to raise and salute with
reverence their national flag in a tribute to comrades who had
fallen…. Meantime, the New Zealanders pushed on and if,
therefore, the BBC announcement of the capture of Rimini by
Gks alone was a trifle in error, the error was, perhaps, in tribute
to the gallant Greek dead, trifling.’
It is clear that a handful of New Zealanders (8 Platoon 22
Battalion and 11 Troop 19 Armoured Regiment) were first
into the old city and reached the main square (the Piazzo
Cavour, where the Town Hall stood) before the Greeks. It is
certain the Greeks (2 Greek Battalion) were the first to enter
the new part of Rimini, called Rimini Marina, a summer resort
on the coast and about a mile from the old city square. Nobody
disputes that the city fell to 3 Greek Mountain Brigade at a
cost of 314 casualties over thirteen days. ‘I was glad,’ wrote
General Alexander in his despatches, ‘that this success had so
early brightened the fortunes of that heroic country which had
been the only ally to fight by our side in our darkest days and
that a new victory in Italy should be added to the fame won
in the mountains of Albania.’
In Rimini's town square Avery and his platoon were joined
about half an hour later by the 11 Troop tanks (delayed by a
river), which parked by the Town Hall. Then came the first
of the 3 Battalion Greeks and, says a Greek operations summary,
‘at 7.30 a.m. the Mayor of Rimini informed Captain Apostolakis
that he was ready to hand over the town. The handing over
protocol was therefore drawn up, in Greek, English and Italian.’
The city had taken a battering from bombers, artillery and
naval guns, especially on the coast; some most pleasing homes
and villas had been badly knocked about. Buildings south of the
canal yielded a few prisoners and ‘the silence of desolation’. Then
one by one citizens began emerging: from buildings, from basements, from sewers.
Beyond Rimini the battalion would find the countryside more
open, with more land in pasture. Vineyards had not entirely
disappeared, but generally the picture was similar to farmland
on a plain in New Zealand. Many of the fields were hedge-lined, and as this was marshy land, most roads were bordered
by deep ditches—ready-made trenches if they ran in the right
direction. Here and there stood odd clumps of trees, perhaps
near a big house, but compared with the country the battalion
had passed through earlier in the campaign, the landscape was
relatively bare of trees. Some of the casas ‘were still inspiringly
solid’, but the newer type of farm villa, with the stable attached
to the house, was often built of hollow tile-like bricks, which
as Major O'Reilly remarked, ‘come hell or high water, gave
protection only in the case of high water.’ In the days ahead
some of the battalion in a reserve position would have to occupy
one of these hollow-brick houses for a week when the shelling
and mortaring were heavy. ‘The only habitable part was the
stable which ran along the back of this house,’ one man recalls.
‘We shared the stable with four cows that were a picture of
placid contentment even during the heaviest shelling.’
References to rivers in this region should not bring to mind
a picture of pleasant meandering streams with tree-lined banks.
Rivers past Rimini were nothing but ditches on a grand scale
with ugly steep banks from 12 to 20 feet high. The New Zealanders had not left the hills far away—they rose on the left
about two or three miles away. (In the hills British soldiers
fought with distinction, several times outflanking the enemy
and forcing a withdrawal on the narrow plain below.)
The weather at this time was abominable. Dark clouds hung
like a pall over the most depressing front. The nebelwerfer
wailed over sodden landscapes where corpses of men and farm
animals lay in the mud. Adding to the melancholy atmosphere,
artificial moonlight appeared—massed searchlights focussed on
the low clouds—the reflected light bathing the land ahead in
a weird, purplish half-light. Clouds of dust and debris from
shelling rose up like wraiths in the artificial moonlight. Soldiers
remember a couple of rum issues—a rare event indeed—and
probably the miserable conditions called for the rum.
Twenty-second Battalion scarcely paused in Rimini. That
night (still 21 September), in the cold and the pitch dark, the
battalion, now gathered in force, went over the Marecchia
River, just above Rimini. At last the time had come to show
how swiftly an attack could be mounted by a motorised battalion.
Colonel Donald's orders group did not disperse until
6.30 p.m.: at 7 p.m. troops were beginning to cross the river.
Two bridges crossed the Marecchia. One was a destroyed railway bridge by the coast, and a little further inland an old Roman
bridge (built in 27 AD, and left intact by the enemy) went
part-way over the river—a modern bridge which used to carry
the road the rest of the way across had been blown up well and
truly. Round this part-Roman, part-modern and part-ruin
bridge, the battalion would wade across, 1 Company (O'Reilly)
on the left and 2 Company (Hutcheson) on the right. Spandaus
had stopped any of Hutcheson's daylight patrols from testing
the river, and because of this 2 Company would have a miserable crossing, but in 1 Company's case all went very well
indeed, thanks to Sergeant Hughan.
Sgt F. J. Hughan, m.i.d.; Carterton; born NZ 13 May 1911; twice wounded.
He and a few men had
found and reconnoitred a safe crossing place west of the demolished bridge. This sent 1 Company off on a detour which
circled about 200 yards to the left, crossed the river and then,
under cover of the northern stopbank, took it back into position
alongside Hutcheson's sopping men, who somehow managed
to flounder through their unexplored part of the river. Then,
side by side, the two companies would advance, attacking over
a mile to a watercourse called the Fossa Turchetta. Canadian
troops—who a little earlier had made a crossing of their own
further up the river and were now finding that the crossing
was becoming well gummed up by mud churning and spreading from a tangle of transport and tracked vehicles—would
link up with 1 Company near the watercourse. New Zealand
tanks would come up to the 22 Battalion attackers once the
engineers had fixed a ford across the river.
Houses thickly dotted the land ahead and gave good cover
to the enemy machine-gunners and riflemen waiting to meet
the advance. Dug-in Panther turrets with 75-millimetre guns
and machine-gun posts lay around the little settlement named
Celle, at the crossroads south of the watercourse. There 1
Parachute Division lay in wait for O'Reilly's men. To the right,
nearer the coast, Hutcheson's force would clash with well-equipped troops from 303 Grenadier Regiment and 162 Turcoman
Infantry Division, who would make the best use of fortified villas,
minefields, and fortifications which had been intended to smash
any invasion from the sea.
New Zealand tanks, belching flame, for twenty minutes
pounded enemy hideouts over the river. As the tanks fell silent
the infantry waded into the river at 7 p.m. Thirty-five minutes
later one German general told another over the phone: ‘The
enemy is building up for a new main thrust along the Via
Adriatica towards Ravenna. We must have fresh troops there,
because the Turcomen can't be used again except as second-line troops….’
Most of 1 Company crossed easily, although one or two men
had to swim in some parts. Hutcheson, on the seaward side of
the smashed bridge, was in difficulties. The spot he chose to
cross had been recommended by a Canadian officer: ‘No more
than two feet deep,’ he had said with assurance. On the other
side a bomb had smashed the steep, smooth, ten-foot-high retaining wall protecting the riverbank. The attackers could scale
this broken part, but unfortunately another bomb had blasted
a crater in the riverbed too. ‘As the company (hungry, for the
hot meal had not got up in time) forded the river in the pitch
dark of a cloudy evening every man must have had the experience of plunging into a hole four feet deep,’ Hutcheson recalls.
‘With great difficulty I raised both arms and managed to keep
dry my map board and walky-talky wireless. The Sigs. men
were unable to do this with the heavy 22 set they were packing
in on their backs, and the soaking put it out of action.’
Ahead of Hutcheson had gone an advanced guard which
was to silence the spandaus immediately ahead. Two spandau
crews were seized without mishap, and 2 Company (except for
the hole) crossed safely.
Both companies now were across. The heavy mud was thick
on their boots. One Company was getting into position for
attack when someone from Intelligence told Lance-Corporal
Kevin Dillon (incorrectly) that the attack was to go in from the
top of the stopbank. Dillon's section in a few moments reached
the top of the mound and walked almost on top of a machinegun nest. From a range of ten yards a startled machine-gunner
opened up, wounding Dillon, Dick Goodall,
Pte R. J. Goodall; born NZ 10 Jul 1923; shepherd; wounded 21 Sep 1944.
and Jack
Wallace
Pte J. J. Wallace; born NZ 26 Jul 1919; cabinet maker; killed in action 21 Sep 1944.
all in the legs, while Sergeant Stevens, further back,
was hit in the chest. Wallace, unlike the others, didn't lie flat
on the ground, but partly rose, attempting to crawl away, and
died instantly, shot through the head. Promptly shouting
‘Follow me!’ (to rally some new members of the company who
were bemused by the sudden flare-up), Corporal ‘Jock’ Cockburn
Cpl O. S. Cockburn; Oamaru; born Lovell's Flat, Otago, 24 Jan 1922; labourer; wounded 25 Sep 1944.
charged the machine gun from the flank, silenced it,
killed two and dragged out a third German badly wounded.
He then looked round—nobody had followed him! (A few nights
later Cockburn, after some good work searching houses on his
own, was hit in the eye and the elbow: his soldiering days were
over. Alongside him Lloyd Grieve, bleeding from the head,
gathered up his badly holed No. 38 radio set and carried on
until daylight. ‘The set's aerial and my rifle and the shovel
caused no end of bother in the wired rows of vines.’)
The attack began. They charged over the stopbank. One
Company advanced in extended order on the right of Route
16. The cumbersome No. 22 radio set, carried by two men and
cursed steadily throughout the night, not once raised Battalion
Headquarters. They could have left the thing in the river.
When 1 Company charged over the stopbank, the enemy
opened up, but his forward positions were quickly wiped out
and three prisoners taken. The company's only casualties in
this first charge were the one killed and three wounded in
Dillon's misadvised group.
The company moved forward steadily in the dark, showery,
muddy night. Boots soon became ponderous and heavy with
further accumulations of mud. A section led up the road by
Bob Ferris
WO II R. Ferris, m.i.d.; Blenheim; born Picton, 11 Apr 1921; grocer; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
silently clashed with one or two enemy. One man
seized a German in a headlock and captured him after a brief
tussle. Another man fell into an Italian cesspit full of straw,
water and manure, and continued to advance, only the whites
of his eyes showing. An uproar flared near Celle crossroads,
where a wounded prisoner was taken by Corporal Joe Coppell.
2 Lt J. W. Coppell; Herne Bay, Auckland; born Auckland, 17 Jan 1922; interior decorator.
He was one of a party of Germans moving down Route 16
in the direction of Rimini; the rest escaped in the gloom while
Max Tarr,
Cpl M. J. Tarr; Tuai, Wairoa; born Dannevirke, 11 May 1922; farmhand.
tears of rage running down his face, swore at his
Bren gun, which had every stoppage possible. (About an hour
later the same Bren got away seven magazines in about as many
seconds.) Near Celle a man watched ‘the spectacular arrival
of the enemy shells which glowed salmon pink—probably
armour-piercing.’
‘When we were just on the Celle junction, a tracked vehicle
was heard moving slowly and quietly down the highway towards the junction from the left,’ says O'Reilly. ‘Fire was
coming from the west just beyond Celle, so we assumed it was
an enemy vehicle and opened fire on it when it was a few yards
short of the junction. It stopped immediately and there was
a grand silence. Investigating, we found it was a Canadian
carrier. The crew had made a fast getaway, so 1 Company did
not establish friendly contact with the Canadians!’
Eight Platoon, weaving up to the right of the cemetery, met
with no enemy opposition and settled down on its objective
about 1 a.m. without contacting the enemy. Five Platoon,
taking prisoners and killing stragglers in the dark, also reached
its objective. Six Platoon, however, was held up by the railway
line; it was weak in numbers and had lost its officer, Wally
Hart, an original member of the battalion and not long back
from furlough. He had been mortally wounded while charging
a spandau over the railway line. Norm Callesen,
Sgt N. F. Callesen, MM; Shannon; born Hamilton, 26 Oct 1921; dairy farmer.
Reeve
Collins
Pte S. R. Collins; born Wanganui, 9 Feb 1922; clerk; killed in action 15 Dec 1944.
and Ray Gurney
L-Cpl R. Gurney; Wanganui; born Wanganui, 7 Sep 1915; slaughterman; wounded 2 May 1945.
picked him up and placed him on
a stretcher. Hart was ‘a truly fine chap, all man, and a great
soldier, we were all more than sorry to hear the news.’ Ken
Hansen
Pte K. Hansen; Petone; born Wellington, 23 Aug 1923; farmer; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
and Bob Ferris were wounded close by, the latter in
and about an eye, which was promptly and effectively dressed
by Brian Douglas
Pte B. F. W. Douglas; Hastings; born Wellington, 8 Feb 1922; clerk; twice wounded.
and retained its sight.
A dead-tired 7 Platoon (just back with the company after a
mopping-up job in Rimini) now came through and ran into
severe fire from a Panther-type turret manned and heavily
defended by Germans. While his section blazed at the strongpoint, Corporal Reeve
2 Lt M. N. Reeve, MM; Te Puke; born NZ 20 Sep 1920; farmhand; wounded 21 Oct 1944.
charged across open ground, met a
shower of hand grenades, and in turn lobbed back grenades until
the enemy bolted. With no spare men to occupy the strongpoint, Reeve and his section had to press on to the watercourse.
The enemy quickly returned and opened fire again. This fire
perplexed the company commander, who knew 7 Platoon
already was well past this area. He sent over a party from 6
Platoon, but it was spotted, and two particularly good men
fell wounded, Lance-Sergeant Roberts
Sgt A. W. Roberts; Te Aroroa, Gisborne; born Timaru, 13 Apr 1911; freezing-works foreman; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
(Hart's right-hand
man) and Private Revell,
Pte W. R. Revell; born NZ 11 Sep 1922; tannery employee; twice wounded.
while Joe Coppell, in a furious one-man charge, almost succeeded in capturing the strongpoint
alone. As soon as possible Reeve and his men were brought
back and attacked yet again so resolutely that the enemy
(estimated at twenty) fled once more, leaving several stricken
men and six prisoners. Reeve received an immediate MM.
One Company consolidated about its objective. One officer
and one other rank had been killed and eight other ranks
wounded for a bag of thirty paratroopers and thirty abandoned
spandaus. The velvet blackness made it impossible for the company to scour all the area from the river to the watercourse,
and later five Turcomen (162 Infantry Division) were rounded
up by the Medical Officer, Captain Baird—a characteristic
touch. The doctor's ambition was to have his RAP the most
forward one in the Division. The battalion's Red Cross carrier
did heroic work this night.
Over on the right 2 Company moved up parallel with the
railway line as fast as it could, leaving mopping up until daybreak. Minor tussles took place with Turcomen holding fortified houses. The beach area was heavily fortified against assault from the sea: three or four heavy naval guns in camouflaged concrete emplacements disguised as ice-cream stalls faced
out to sea, and land round about was mined thickly. In one of
these minefields 10 Platoon foundered. Mines abruptly exploded
in quick succession at chest height, a horrible sensation. Lewis
Pte J. Lewis; born Northern Ireland, 8 Mar 1903; labourer; killed in action 22 Sep 1944
.
was killed; Roy Lorrigan,
L-Cpl R. B. Lorrigan; Cambridge; born Palmerston North, 17 Jan 1922; clerk; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
Jim Hill,
Pte J. Hill; born Kaitangata, 20 Jun 1911; woollen mills employee; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
Knuckey
Knuckey was taken to 3 NZ General Hospital and within a day or two ‘in came General Freyberg to see the wounded and displayed the wound [caused by an aeroplane accident] in his side. Very proud of it he was, just like a big schoolboy watching all the time to see there were no sisters about as he was not supposed to be out of bed. He's a tough old stick though.’ A favourite time-killer in hospital (among the wounded) was to recall people and places—and pubs. Two stricken comrades one night traced and discussed all the pubs in Napier. Next morning one comrade, greeting the other with the customary ‘How are you?’, was told: ‘Lousy—I've got a hangover—those last two at the Albion topped me off.’
and Braybrook
Pte R. G. Braybrook; Gisborne; born Gisborne, 10 Mar 1917; farmer; twice wounded.
were among those wounded. Knuckey, wounded in the
elbow, blown face down into a creek and fearing he might
drown, heard the stricken Jim Hill say distinctly: ‘That's a
fine thing to do to a man.’ Second-Lieutenant Keith Cope
2 Lt N. K. Cope; born NZ 29 Jun 1919; Regular soldier; killed in action 21 Sep 1944.
and Clem Lawson
2 Lt C. S. Lawson, m.i.d.; New Plymouth; born Palmerston North, 20 May 1904; sales manager; wounded 21 Sep 1944.
were wounded simultaneously in the leg,
probably from the same mine.
Lawson goes on: ‘We then saw the enemy wires marking a
corridor in the minefield which led to some Italian casas. Finding one of these casas free of enemy troops, all wounded were
evacuated to the ground floor and others were placed on the
second floor and on guard around the building. Lieutenant
Cope and I limped along this corridor, each having an arm
across each other's shoulder, and reached a point about 50 to
60 feet from the entrance door of the casa. We leaned on a
fencepost. Our sergeant, Ian Ford,
Sgt I. L. Ford, m.i.d.; Rapanui, Wanganui; born Apiti, 10 Apr 1914; farmer; twice wounded.
reported to Lieutenant
Keith Cope that all wounded were in, except the two of us.
‘Keith then instructed me to go in with the sergeant. I being
a friend of Keith's suggested that I would wait and go in when
he did. However it was not to be—fortunately for me. I will
never forget Keith saying “Orders are Orders, and you must
go in.” I immediately obeyed, and as I entered the door of
the casa there was a heavy explosion. Keith had not moved
his position. We had been standing on a mine which was set
off by some of our gang who touched a concealed tripwire.
Keith died after a few minutes.’
Harassed by this tragedy, Hutcheson ordered 12 Platoon to
consolidate in a house near hapless 10 Platoon. His two remaining platoons consolidated by the railway line, 300 yards short
of the objective, but from here to the watercourse the ground
was open and within the company's killing range. After midnight, thanks to 6 Field Company engineers, the tanks crossed
the Marecchia River.
The smashed bridge had taxed the ingenuity of the stretcher-bearers to the full and had severely tried the patience of the
wounded. The bridge was doubled up to a peak in mid-river
by the force of the enemy demolition. Up this a party of
stretcher-bearers shouldered each other, those at the foot of
the steep and slippery slope lying flat while the others clambered
over them. Those below were hauled up, hanging on each
other's feet, by the man suspended head first. The descent of
the peak was made something along the lines of a human rope
ladder. All this, with the stretchers as an additional burden,
went on in the dark while enemy fire sometimes fell round them.
On one steep slope of the broken bridge the medical men lost
their grip on Kevin Dillon, and down he slid, into the river.
They fished him out and carried on. Padre Sergel, characteristically and ingeniously, was busy in the river. Hearing that
a sergeant was badly hit and his leg broken, the Padre, his
batman (Home-Douglas
Dvr D. C. P. Home-Douglas; Levin; born England, 6 Jun 1905; farmer
.) and two others with plenty of rope,
had clambered across the river into 1 Company's fireswept area.
The stretcher party was well equipped. As a result of his
experience with cumbersome stretcher-work in Cassino, the
Padre had invented a shoulder-strap harness, which he later
learned had been standard equipment in the First World War
and apparently had been forgotten. ‘Our padre, a most practical man, had found a few good New Zealand oaths were the
best passwords on approaching some unknown place at night.’
Freely using this method, they eventually reached the stricken
sergeant, tied him into the stretcher, and ‘what a wonderful
difference it makes to one's nerves if there is somebody else to
think about besides oneself. And every yard further back gives
one an increasing sense of security.’ The broken bridge looked
quite impossible, so they struggled across underneath, among
boulders and mud, to the steeply sloping wall on the other
side, some twenty feet high. Here one man lay flat against the
slope, another crawled up him, and then Home-Douglas scaled
up these two human ladders to the top. Padre Sergel threw a
rope up to Home-Douglas, the stretcher was gradually hauled
up the smooth wall, and the sergeant was delivered to the RAP
in time.
Lieutenant Jock Wells, leading an early morning 11 Platoon
patrol along the seafront, ran into Turcomen, who were just
stirring, pottering about half-asleep and hanging out blankets.
One Turcoman, opening fire with an automatic, felled Small
Pte P. D. Small; Palmerston North; born Palmerston North, 26 May 1919; hardware assistant; wounded 22 Sep 1944
.
with a bullet just below the knee. Hutcheson saw six enemy
running along the beach, set after them with a couple of comrades, landed up by a big gun emplacement and bagged fifteen
Turcomen cowering in a nearby trench. The Russians obligingly pointed to a camouflaged dugout, where a solitary
German under-officer was added to the bag.
The party of wounded men, stricken in the minefield and
taking refuge in the casa, was not left in peace. At dawn the
men on the top floor repulsed an attack from the beach, and
even succeeded in collecting some prisoners. In the house Hill
and another were in a bad way, but the hot drinks made from
the issue of cocoa, milk powder, and sugar which each man
carried seemed to save Hill's life. Later in the morning the
wounded were taken away.
One of the wounded died unexpectedly in hospital some
days afterwards. His wound was not severe, but he developed
pneumonia through lying wounded most of the night in soaked
clothing. The battalion was still in summer clothing and battle
dress would not arrive for a fortnight yet. The body of the
dead man, Lewis, had remained in the minefield. After dawn
two of his pals, Gillon and Athol Jimmieson,
Cpl A. C. Jimmieson; born Masterton, 25 Jan 1916; farmhand; died of wounds 27 Sep 1944
. gallantly determined to bring back their comrade's body, returned to the
minefield. They met with disaster. Another mine exploded,
killing Gillon, and Jimmieson later died of wounds.
About 10 a.m. battle was joined once again, 2 and 3 Companies, with tanks, starting off up the coast towards the small
seaside resort called Viserba and the canal almost a mile away.
Just nine hours later, the Chiefs of Staff of Tenth Army (Major-
General Fritz Wentzell) and of Army Group C (Lieutenant-
General Roettiger) held this telephone conversation:
Army Group:‘I don't understand what is going on on your left.’10 Army:‘That's right… 303 Turcoman Regiment was there.’Army Group:‘But isn't the line at Viserba?’10 Army:‘It was. A strong enemy patrol with tanks broke through at Viserba….’
Twenty-second Battalion, with 19 Armoured Regiment's
tanks, was responsible for this part of the chat and for scattering
303 Turcoman Regiment, in the words of the Germans, ‘to the
four winds.’
Two Company made good speed up the coast road to reach in
half an hour the outskirts of Viserba, where the company
slowed up with a jerk. All the buildings and fortifications had
to be searched. By noon the company was about a quarter of
the way into Viserba. Heavy anti-tank fire swept the coastal
road, and north of the canal mortars and machine guns kept
the infantry on their toes. The tanks had to approach in the
open, so for a start the infantry went on alone. The infantry
would move on about 800 yards, while the enemy slowly fell
back in front of them. The tanks followed in bounds as soon as
the infantry reported that part of the road clear of anti-tank
fire, because ‘it would have been suicidal for the tanks to have
moved up before us or with us.’
On the way up there was a touch of comedy. One group,
spotting three or four enemy soldiers standing in the open a
couple of hundred yards away, covered them with a concealed
Bren, and waited. ‘They beckoned to us. We beckoned back.
We beckoned to each other for three or four minutes—neither
side opening fire. Then a section went out to stalk them while
we tried to keep them occupied, but suddenly they disappeared.’
In Viserba, just before tea-time, mortar fragments splattered
a courtyard, striking Corporal Burcher
Cpl F. A. Burcher, m.i.d.; Dannevirke; born Masterton, 29 Jun 1922; exchange clerk; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
in his back, face and
arm. Privates Ken MacKenzie,
Pte K. J. MacKenzie; Christchurch; born Waimate, 28 Jan 1922; shop assistant; wounded 15 Apr 1945.
Cliff Smith, and Tony Howie
Pte A. G. Howie; Wellington; born Wanganui, May 1922; civil servant.
dressed the Corporal's wounds. Late in the afternoon 3 Company settled down for the night by the canal. Starting off in
the morning, this company promptly ran into solid mortar fire,
which killed a tank troop commander. Then two tanks bogged
down in the soft ground. Until noon they hadn't got much
further on, but in the afternoon the advance improved and by
4 p.m. 3 Company had reached a factory. Private Herbert
Cpl R. R. Herbert; Palmerston North; born England, 27 Jul 1907; shepherd; wounded 22 Sep 1944.
had been wounded in a skirmish. A mortar had collected Mick
Eades, who says, ‘Sergeant Bill Windsor did all in his power to
help me and make me comfortable, in particular going to a
lot of trouble to hunt up an enamel basin while the mortars
were still landing.’ Despite his great need, Eades could not use
the basin, and his main thought then was ‘the boys must be
disgusted with me, asking for it and then not using it.’ He
records ‘My sincerest thanks and admiration to our doctors,
sisters, nurses and padres for their careful, efficient and cheerful manner in which they cared for us. Being in their care after
having been through a scrap or two and had one's nerves
strained to blazes is the nearest thing I knew to heaven.’
Near the canal both companies found the firing better. The
enemy hadn't attempted to hold Viserba and instead was
fighting a rearguard action and falling back slowly in the face
of the advance. Writing about the move through the centre of
Viserba, an officer notes: ‘Civilians were mostly barricaded in
houses. Though scared, they were cooperative. They presented
a difficulty though, as they were inclined to celebrate the
liberation, and wanted my troops to join in. The troops behaved well, but found Viserba interesting.’
From the crossing of the Marecchia the night before up to
the canal, 22 Battalion had suffered thirty casualties, including
two officers and four other ranks killed. During the advance
through Viserba about thirty enemy had been killed and 123
prisoners taken, many of them Turcomen.
This day wounded from all kinds of units passed through the
battalion RAP, where Padre Sergel ‘saw many struggles with
almost lifeless figures, but although one came to distinguish
between those with some chance and those with that dreadful
grey look of death in their eyes, I find that nobody died in that
R.A.P. that day. Some of the Germans were among the wounded, the Doc always took the most serious cases as they arrived
no matter what they belonged to. The walking wounded had
to wait.’
At midnight a mighty barrage crashed down, 400 rounds
a gun, and to the left, in artificial moonlight, 21 and 28 Battalions advanced towards the Scolo Brancona, another watercourse.
Fifteen minutes after midnight the battalion was away again,
still on foot and still with little if any sleep, on a big advance.
The force was small: 11 and 12 Platoons (2 Company) moving
across an undefended bridge over the canal and up the coast
road, and 15 and 16 Platoons (3 Company) on the left of the
railway line. Tanks went with them. They advanced unopposed,
and in an hour 2 Company was almost on to the river. Three
Company didn't have the advantage of travelling along a road;
some of the ground was soft, and a fog slowed down the men.
Pleased with his battalion's sprint, Colonel Donald was keen
to keep on going to the Division's main objective, the Rio
Fontanaccia, 2000 yards on from the banks of the Brancona.
His optimism was justified. The success of these battalion
attacks was due largely to the speed with which the infantry
followed up. The high pitch of training and co-operation between all arms reached by this time enabled 22 Battalion to
make plans and carry them out in the least possible time.
Furthermore, the battalion's extensive use of transport to bring
its men right up to the front line sent the fighting men, fit and
fresh, straight into the attack. By not pausing in Rimini but
going straight into the attack in the evening, the battalion had
kept the enemy pinned down all day without any chance of
reorganising. This also kept the enemy's guns on the move and
gave him little chance of registering on our troops or on Rimini.
The Colonel wanted to carry on, but Brigadier Burrows
Brig J. T. Burrows, DSO and bar, ED, m.i.d., Order of Valour (Gk); Christchurch; born Christchurch, 14 Jul 1904; schoolmaster; CO 20 Bn 1941-42, 20 Bn and Armd Regt 1942-43; comd 4 Bde 27-29 Jun 1942, 5 Jul-15 Aug 1942; 5 BdeMar 1944, Aug-Nov 1944; 6 Bde Jul-Aug 1944; Commander, Southern Military District, Nov 1951-Oct 1953; Commander K Force, Nov 1953-Nov 1954; Commander SMD, Jan 1955-.
said the 22nd was outstripping 5 Brigade too much. The force
crossed the shallow river (the tanks silencing small-arms fire
directed at 2 Company) and halted about 400 yards up the
road just after 3 a.m. Two hours later Major-General Weir
Maj-Gen C. E. Weir, CB, CBE, DSO and bar, m.i.d.; Wellington; born NZ 5 Oct 1905; Regular soldier; CO 6 Fd Regt Sep 1939-Dec 1941; CRA 2 NZ Div Dec 1941-Jun 1944; GOC 2 NZ Div 4 Sep-17 Oct 1944; 46 (Brit) Div Nov 1944-Sep 1946; Commander, Southern Military District, 1948-49; QMG Nov 1951-Aug 1955; CGS Aug 1955-.
(replacing for a few weeks General Freyberg, who had been
injured in a plane crash) ordered the 22nd on again. Its destination was the Fontanaccia—and no further. Within half an
hour the most advanced men were only 700 yards from the
stream. But here a tank went up, and a really virile bombardment of mortars, plus angry spandau fire, forced 2 Company
back into sheltering houses—just as one man ‘was thinking of
a stop and a cup of shai (lovely thought!)’
Further back, trouble loomed for 3 Company. Fifteen Platoon, nearing a house, saw a top window suddenly ablaze, and
Sergeant Windsor fell, hit in the shoulder. A Tiger tank crawled
away from the back of the house and withdrew while a bazooka
set one New Zealand tank blazing and knocked out the other.
The enemy in the house (content enough with two tanks to
his credit) didn't linger to meet the platoon attack, but heavy
mortar ‘stonks’ landed all round the place, ‘and things were
pretty lively for a few minutes, one of our men, V. Bransgrove,
Pte C. W. V. Bransgrove; born NZ 6 May 1910; tramwayman; killed in action 23 Sep 1944.
being killed,’ writes Watt.
In this fire Corporal Kain
Cpl M. G. Kain; Auckland; born Petone, 8 Oct 1905; warehouse manager; p.w. 23 Sep 1944.
and Lance-Corporal de Joux
L-Cpl E. H. de Joux; born Timaru, 5 Apr 1922; public servant; p.w. 23 Sep 1944.
volunteered to go forward with Kriete
Pte E. T. Kriete; Wellington; born Wellington, 26 Oct 1916; watersider; p.w. 23 Sep 1944.
to aid two seriously
injured tank men: an officer with a large piece of shell casing
through his thigh, the other man with a gash on the back of
his neck. Kriete thought to himself: ‘If I'm not careful here,
his spinal cord might get nipped in between the joints, and
that will be the end of him.’ They put this man face down on
a door to keep his neck quite straight, placed the officer on a
stretcher, and sheltered in the nearest casa, where Sergeant
Bill Windsor and a few others were taking cover. While attending to the wounded, Kriete heard Schmeisser bullets coming
through the door, ‘and then some unfamiliar people came
through the door. A thought seemed to strike me that we might
be a bit restricted in our movements from then on! How right
I was.’ The German party, commanded by a good-looking,
English-speaking officer, took over. This officer's main anxiety
seemed to be for ‘rememberances’ (souvenirs), ‘which made
him seem one of us. There was a disposition map from one of
the tanks on the ground, and we unobtrusively edged this
under some furniture with our feet.’
Heavy shelling continued. General pandemonium reigned
in the headquarters. Kriete, worried about the wounded officer,
‘could not do much about his loss of blood owing to the terrific
piece of shell casing through his thigh. His life was just steadily
dripping away. The Germans had only first aid equipment and
could not do anything owing to our heavy fire. The other one
was looking much better, his colour had come back, it looked
as if he would be all right. The officer seemed to be dead, could
not detect any breath or heart beat, so covered his face. I was
glad to see him die, in a way; to see him gasping for breath
and know you could not do anything for him was hard to take.’
Leaving the dead officer behind, the party moved back along
the long, dreary trail of the prisoner of war. Maurice Kain
writes: ‘Our interrogation at what would be the equivalent of
Div. H/Q was conducted by a very polished officer who had
been a farmer in Nova Scotia before the War and spoke and
behaved perfectly. On being given the usual P.O.W. answers
he sighed, turned to a well-bound volume and recited off who
we were, the Tanks we were working with, names of our C/O
and battalion officers, the route we had recently travelled (in
supposed security), and our supports on both flanks. He was
most insistent for information about the 9th Brigade and its
composition but as news of its intended formation had not
trickled down to our level it was no trouble to look completely
blank…. but he had all the gen. The next day's interrogation
at Forli where after marching through the streets and being
spat on by the local populace (could these be the same Eytes
as behind our lines?) we had a going over by the Bully type….’
‘… food was a bit scarce,’ says Kriete. ‘At one stop we
partook of boiled donkey. I cannot recommend it. Eventually
we crossed the Po, and so to Moosburg Camp. Our cattle-truck was supposed to carry 40, but there were 63 when we
got there, and I looked in a mirror, I fully expected my hair
to be grey, but it wasn't.’
Twenty-second Battalion, stalled by stiff opposition, was now
out on a limb: the CO sent Support Company up the coast road
to a handy position in case of emergency, but no crisis came.
Vigorous spandaus over to the left were silenced by tank and
machine-gun fire, and the makings of an enemy counter-attack
by the railway line was broken up. Over the whole front artillery
fire raged. The battalion mortars, hard at work on this attack
up the coast, were now feeling particularly ‘pleased at the way
we got each bomb away; each bomb seemed to go down the
spout and then away from each mortar at the same time—one-two-three, and so on.’
Lieutenant Doug Caldwell, the mortar officer, returned in
his jeep with a German prisoner. When he approached an
array of 25-pounders, Caldwell stopped the jeep. The German
asked: ‘How do you expect us to stand up against that? How
can you lose with the mass of weapons that you have?’ A soldier
hearing the remark writes: ‘I don't know if he ever thought
about Greece and Crete or tanks in the desert with 2-pounder
guns etc.—when the boot was on the other foot.’
Despite the enemy's frequent fire on 2 and 3 Companies, the
infantry and the supporting tanks (A Squadron 19 Armoured
Regiment) held on, and only five infantrymen were wounded.
Two Company had set up a rather precarious lookout in a
flimsy house, and here an observation post was manned to help
pick targets for the artillery and tanks. A man in this uneasy
building writes: ‘During that day, the 23rd., I felt exhilarated
by watching our tanks and artillery inflict so much damage on
the enemy. The platoon didn't occupy any of the rooms on the
north side, but upstairs they had opened or removed all windows
facing the enemy, and opposite them had knocked peepholes
in the wall from the next room, so that they could stand with
cover from view and a certain amount of cover from fire, and
observe the enemy. We had an excellent view of a three-storeyed building evidently being used as an OP. Here the
tank troop sergeant did some excellent work. With some fine
shooting he put a couple of rounds of HE through the roof and
upper storey to make the enemy run downstairs, and then
pumped a dozen or so rounds rapid (armour piercing and high
explosive) into the lower storeys. The building was evacuated
fairly rapidly. From the number of people we had seen moving
about there it must have been a headquarters of some sort.’
At this stage it might appear that the enemy more or less
comfortably and calculatingly pulled back in the night (instead
of being driven back) and plastered the battalion in the daylight
‘according to plan’. But the German, as always, would not go
back except under pressure, and the pressure was certainly
felt, according to German documents. ‘The speed of our advance
was largely due to the speed of his withdrawal,’ comments a
company commander, ‘and the speed of this was due to the
fact that we kept in close contact with him and didn't give him
a chance to consolidate. Events inland too might have made
him want to keep his line straight.’
Next day a dawn patrol found that the enemy had gone back
over the river, but he was moving purposefully about on the
far bank. Within half an hour New Zealand shells were bursting
on the north bank. The battalion's mortars, which had been
particularly active the day before, later pumped 300 rounds
across the river, and followed this up, working non-stop for
an hour, by plastering sixty rounds each on two targets. The
battalion, now due for relief, was kept for one more attack—
the bitterest and most frustrating of them all—on a one-company front across the Fontanaccia (little more than a wide
ditch) after eight o'clock that night.
The platoon leaders were away at a meeting, and there was a
certain air of unrest and tenseness in our digs. We older hands knew
in ourselves, tho' not in detail, the results of such a meeting; even
so we hoped we were wrong and would be going out of the line to
a rest area for a time [writes a man who would be a casualty himself
that night, Private E. O. Jones,
Pte E. O. Jones; born Wanganui, 28 Sep 1923; grocer's assistant; wounded 25 Sep 1944.
of 3 Company.] However we
settled down to laboriously cleaning our mechanism such as rifles,
tommyguns, Brens, and checking grenades and rifles. At the same
time we were anticipating our next move forward which to us
would inevitably result from the leaders meeting this day. The new
chums who had come up to swell our numbers were a mixed lot,
and I was allotted a young chap who was very green, and we set
about to put them at ease regarding their position and completed
their knowledge, the bits that can't be learnt from the old text book,
and certain little things of advice.
Everyone is quiet and solemn as we find ourselves on a start line,
Other accounts say the start line was anything but quiet.
a latitudinal road from the coast, and the eerie blanket of light of
the artificial moonlight along with the dark clouds and the sudden
stillness as we wait almost spellbound, gets you deep inside, and
then it's on; the Arty have commenced a bombardment of the
enemy positions, ‘poor Jerry’, which carries on for a good five
minutes. Then we're off. How we got over a very high hedge
directly in our front I don't remember, nevertheless we're on our
way—some thinking: to what or where?
My new mate on the Bren gun sticking close by me reveals a
strange look as the moon comes out for a second and I know then
that he has mixed feelings, and wondering if in his first show he'll
be brave, and not show cowardice, and then I give him some sweets
for we all get that taste in the mouth which seems to come from a
silage pit, it's so vile. The sweets help for a while and then the
chewing gum gets stale too.
We knew that Jerry or Tedeski wouldn't take long before he
comes out of hiding, for we older hands had experienced similar
approaches to him before this, and sure enough the quiet lull after
the shelling ceased, and we're settling down to a steady gait, was
broken by the scream overhead of the Moaning Minnie (Nebelwerfer
mortar), and fortunately a certain amount of warning was given
and next we find ourselves—Peter and I—in a ditch full of nice
comfortable water [Rio Fontanaccia]. However we were better off
than some of the other lads. Confusion reigned for a while and then
we are on the move again, and we pass a couple of bodies freshly
broken and are thankful for the blanket of night, tho' some poor
guy… hasn't many moments left, all we will remember will be
his haunting scream. Our medical orderly is a good lad and a busy
one too from now on until he himself later is stopped by a grenade.
Occasionally a reassuring voice can be heard giving encouragement to all in the deathly age we're going through and especially
does Jim Hanham
Sgt J. A. C. Hanham; Whangarei; born NZ 23 Jul 1922; farm labourer; twice wounded.
put new spirit into us as we find it at times
difficult to control ourselves from going berserk. We seem to have
been through all this barbarity before for countless years it seems,
and we think surely this isn't the age of Christianity or Christians.
And suddenly our thoughts are brought back to reality by a
Burrrr. Burrrr…. as a Spandau opens up and we realize it even
before we hear the clatter, for the dust alongside is whipped up
into a frenzy. And we know we have arrived at our enemies' positions, and ‘fun and games’ are about to commence.
There is a series of scrambling as the front section, having been
taken by surprise completely, are slipping back to better cover, and
we shoot off to the right across a paddock to the lateral road and
pile into the cover of the ditch and Peter and I are really in it. From
what we can make out the Teds are well cached in a hole just ahead
of us not more than 25 yards. While we were engaged Jim Hanham
manages to get even nearer and we hear a happy bark of his Thompson, and almost instantly the Jerries fire their last burst at us which
causes Peter beside me to scream horribly and then it is I realise
he has uttered his last sound on earth. He suffered little and was
never for one moment anything but brave. I never knew his surname
only that he was young in age, about 20 years….
Sixth Brigade attacked on the left, moving up fast through
the carnage wreaked by the crushing barrage, but over on the
coast 22 Battalion ran into serious trouble in its last night of
this action. Expecting the main attack would come up the
coast, the enemy laid the weight of his artillery on this area,
which was fair enough for 6 Brigade's battalions, but a dismal
business for the 22nd. Shells cracked and whined over the
start line, where the two companies were forming up to support the attack, and from only half a mile away two self-propelled guns hammered the road with solid shot. Great
showers of sparks flew up from the road wherever a solid shell
landed. One Company (on the right by the sea) and 3 Company
(on the left), backed by tanks, got painfully under way into
a storm of mortars and spandaus firing from shrewdly sited
positions on the low sandy ground beyond the Fontanaccia.
No Turcomen these, but paratroopers and panzer grenadiers
on the job with a vengeance. ‘Suddenly a terrible enemy stonk
came right down on our HQ [2 Company, just relieved on
the coast by 1 Company],’ Keith Hutcheson says. ‘We all
dropped below the window level and I was a bit slower than
the rest….’ Doctor Baird went up and returned with the
stricken major through heavy shellfire. At times Baird lay on
top of him to protect him. Armstrong now took over command.
At the RAP Hutcheson, almost unconscious, lips numb, vision
only a pinpoint, was given a transfusion of plasma. ‘I felt the
vitality returning to my lips, and I could talk again. Soon I
was feeling fine.’ But for days he lay near death.
Tanks couldn't spot enemy positions just ahead. Striving to
detect them, the infantry was flayed with spandaus. A hapless
platoon of 3 Company managed to make the Fontanaccia, and
the tanks floundered across too. Soon 3 Company was brought
to a final halt. Sainsbury feared his company was suffering
rather severely, and communications were almost hopeless—
the old story. On the right 1 Company painfully crossed the
stream and went a few hundred yards over sandy ground to
a large three-storied house by the beach. Here, about midnight, Colonel Donald reported to 4 Brigade that 3 Company
was stalled and 1 Company's tanks were baulked by mines
along the coast road. General Weir weighed the chances of
sending 26 Battalion to the 22nd's aid, while Donald, personally visiting 3 Company, decided it might be better for his
men to detour into the protection of 6 Brigade's area, then
turn to strike back at the enemy flank, rather than bulldoze
a way on this frontal attack. Three Company, however, made
a little more progress, and the idea of attacking from the left
flank was dropped. A tank with 1 Company was blown up,
and the engineers tried (with not much success, for the fire
was cruel) to clear mines ahead of the troubled tanks.
The German had a perfect crossfire of spandaus using tracer.
The ruined tank had struck a double Teller mine, and the
explosion and bits of tank hit nearby men and most of 5 Platoon
headquarters. ‘The Jerries were covering the minefield with
schmeissers, and while I was patching up Lionel Lapworth's
Pte L. H. Lapworth; born Wellington, 25 Mar 1906; airways clerk; died of wounds 11 Oct 1944.
stomach wound an enemy threw a hand grenade,’ writes
Corporal Tansley.
Sgt S. L. I. Tansley; Wellington; born Wellington, 18 Jan 1908; company manager; twice wounded
. ‘I was hit but we managed to fire-fight
the Jerries away: the RAP collected our wounded.’
Brigadier Pleasants
Brig C. L. Pleasants, CBE, DSO, MC, ED, m.i.d.; Wellington; born Halcombe, 26 Jul 1910; schoolmaster; CO 18 Bn and Armd Regt Jul 1942-Mar 1944; comd 4 Armd Bde Sep-Nov 1944; 5 Bde Nov 1944-Jan 1945, May 1945-Jan 1946; twice wounded; Commander, Fiji Military Forces, 1949-53; Commander, Northern Military District, 1953-57; Central Military District, 1957-.
came up to see for himself, but throughout a night of uproar the 22nd advanced not much more than
500 yards beyond the river. At daybreak casualties proved
much fewer than expected: eight in all.
Next day (25 September) the enemy decided to quit the
coastal strip, which was too exposed after 6 Brigade's advances
a little further inland. Demolitions sounded a mile away towards the settlement of Igiea Marina, and civilian refugees
straggled through with stories that the enemy, plus artillery
and Tiger tanks, was withdrawing back beyond Igiea Marina.
Acting quickly on this heartening news 1 and 3 Companies,
supervised by the CO, got under way again. Fighter-bombers
and artillery scoured ahead of them. The advance went well
to the river south of Igiea Marina, but near the water the
enemy mortars awoke again, especially round the partly damaged bridge. Early in the afternoon the battalion reached the
fringe of Igiea Marina, where (at last) 26 Battalion relieved
it. Major-General Weir expressed the highest praise for the
work the unit had done in the advance up to and then beyond
the Marecchia River. The battalion's casualties from Fontanaccia to Igiea Marina were sixteen: one officer killed and one
officer and fourteen other ranks wounded.
‘The battalion had performed remarkably well, and by the
speed of its advance broke through heavily defended positions
thick with gun emplacements, mobile pill boxes, mines, etc,’
summed up Colonel Donald, looking back over the operation.
‘With very few casualties it accomplished with speed what
might have taken perhaps weeks of heavy fighting.’
Padre Sergel was taking note of the refugees: ‘One morning
literally hundreds came flocking past, I intended to take some
snapshots of some of the more fantastic groups but their pathetic
and frantic expressions somehow deterred me. One could visualise the scene as they had hurriedly snatched together their
most treasured possessions as they left their homes in flight.
Some had donkey carts laden to the skies, others pulled carts
themselves, piles of bedding, odd pieces of furniture, ornate
family pictures, bird cages, poultry in crates, often the youngest
and oldest members of the household sat in state amidst all
this conglomeration. Other families had escaped with only a
few possessions clutched under their arms, and some came
empty handed. They had all passed through shell fire and
although during this particular morning most of the shells were
passing over from our twenty-five pounders, yet the shriek of
each missile added to their terror. We tried to tell them they
were safe, that the shells were British, but they were too dazed
to understand. One felt that these poor simple people in exposing their worldy treasures to alien gaze were exposing their
naked souls whose simple existence had been broken and shattered by war. But it was not all sad, I remember one stately old
man, whose upright walk showed him to be a veteran of some
former war, who boldly marched ahead of one group with no
possessions but on his head instead of a steel helmet was a well
known enamel article of bedroom equipment.’
After resting for a few days at Viserba 22 Battalion relieved
23 Battalion, under a clear sky and a full moon. Two Company
took over before midnight on 30 September, but 3 Company
was delayed a couple of hours. A fighting patrol twenty strong,
armed with grenades and bazookas, gave trouble ahead and
held up the relief, which cost the battalion two wounded. The
front was alive this night, and taking advantage of the clear
sky two rare German bombers flew over, sprinkling butterfly
bombs and high explosive to a violent barrage of anti-aircraft
shells (the New Zealanders alone fired over 2000 shells in a
few minutes). All over the front fire increased: ‘I stood and
listened and thought. Years ago we had been told that the
RAF—and later the Americans—were knocking his factories
out right and left—surely by now his arms production must
be well behind schedule, to put it mildly. And yet as you
listened all along the front it was crump-crash-crump-crump.
And it went on for long periods at a time. It made you think:
just how long can he keep going? I had never heard so much
Arty activity from him—at times he seemed to be doing all the
shelling.’
On the night of 1-2 October the battalion came under considerable enemy artillery and mortar fire. Before dawn a raiding
party of fifteen enemy attacked a forward platoon with
bazookas, killing one man and wounding three. ‘We are in
a house, a typical Iti outfit, with the barn for the animals
underneath and the living quarters on top,’ concludes ‘Shorty’
Price, a somewhat different man now from the one who began
the advance with the Greeks. ‘Some of the boys are up the
stairs watching out for the Jerries. A patrol comes back without seeing any Jerries. We have our pickets posted and think
we are in for a quiet night when all of a sudden we hear a
Spandau open up and our section leader Clarke
L-Cpl P. C. Clarke; born England, 28 Dec 1917; bootmaker; killed in action 2 Oct 1944.
who is standing in front of a double wooden door stops the lot. I hop up
to a window with my Bren gun to see what I could see and
there isn't a sign of anybody. I'm there a few minutes looking
out and the next thing I know is a terrific bang alongside me
and I fell to the ground. I looked down at my stomach and
saw blood spurting out like a fountain and I thought I was a
goner.’
Two patrols went out to reconnoitre the river front and came
back with details about the size and the condition of the stopbanks, the depth and width of the stream, and impressions of
enemy defences. There was not much to be seen of the defences
because the enemy was well hidden by the high stopbank on
the far side. In one place the river was seven to eight feet deep;
in another only eighteen inches to a couple of feet. The stopbanks were fifteen feet high, and between them was a stretch
of forty feet. Plank bridges crossed the Fiumicino in one place.
Guns, mortars, and machine guns kept going through the day;
one of their objects was to drown the noise of the engineers’
bulldozer busy on repair and demolition work.
A bright moon on the night of 3-4 October made patrolling
difficult and brought prompt machine-gun fire from an enemy
keeping a keen eye on the southern bank of the river. With
rumours of Germans on the prowl, a sentry's hair rose as rusling round a haystack grew nearer. Then came a shaky voice:
‘Don't shoot—it's only me.’ Taking no chances, his relief had
crawled all the way. The right-hand company (2 Company)
sent a strong patrol (10 Platoon) out and reconnoitred the
river front and confirmed that the forward slopes on the bank
opposite were occupied. Here came the best example of cool
courage that Lin Faull can remember. ‘Sid Tsukigawa (one
of the finest soldiers and gentlemen I was privileged to meet)
crossed this river in bright moonlight and avoiding a trip wire
on the river bottom climbed the far stop-bank and stood on
top and had a good look at the Jerries dug in on the reverse
side.’ But the patrol, hampered by the moonlight, later ran
into strong enemy fire by the river and suffered casualties. A
heavy artillery and mortar ‘stonk’ was called down on the
suspected enemy positions.
Donald had ordered Lieutenant Twigg to take his platoon
(from 3 Company) out at dusk, advance to the bank of the
Fiumicino, and attempt to ambush an enemy patrol, take
prisoners, and generally observe. Some time before the platoon
set out, however, a heavy ‘stonk’ came down on the platoon's
immediate front from our artillery. No change or cancellation
of orders was issued. As they expected, Twigg's party reached
the river to find the enemy standing to, and was engaged
immediately. Simultaneously the enemy laid down heavy
counter-fire. Fully expecting the enemy to follow up behind
his fire, Twigg sent his sergeant and the platoon back, but
stayed himself with two of his best men to observe the enemy
lines. Before reaching the platoon area the two men were killed
and Twigg, wounded, recalls ‘trying to decide (a bit dazed,
no doubt) which I should carry back with my one free hand,
my Thomson or a bottle of rum, which was to have been consumed once our patrol had succeeded. My mouth was pretty
well shattered, and the platoon sentry was rather inclined to
shoot me because I couldn't reply to his challenge.’ Pitying
Twigg, with his mangled mouth, in the ambulance was Sergeant Gilbert, who had recently returned to the battalion from
New Zealand and was now out of the war, partly paralysed
and in agony, the back of his neck gashed by a mortar-bomb
splinter. He was on the stretcher above Twigg in the ambulance.
Gilbert had been working out some accounts for comforts
which the platoon (Lieutenant Cave's) had just received from
Company Headquarters. A heavy mortar ‘stonk’ had burst all
round the house and one bomb had landed on top of a haystack just outside Gilbert's room. The only fragment to penetrate the house came through the transom over the door and
passed through the sergeant's neck. Private Pemberton
Pte E. A. Pemberton; Wairoa; born Wairoa, 10 May 1908; clerk; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
(who
afterwards lost a foot on a Schu mine) was one of the stretcher-bearers who carried the sergeant out. ‘We got a pasting on the
way. Several times we were forced to drop Gilbert and take
to earth.’
On the night of 4-5 October 10 Platoon
Among those on this raid were Lieutenant Revell, Tsukigawa, Ron Winstanley, Lin Faull, Alex Sinclair, and several others.
(well informed,
thanks to Tsukigawa's daring ‘look-see’ over the Fiumicino
the night before), crossed the river by La Chiusa, captured a
German from 4 Parachute Regiment in one dugout, and probably
killed two other Germans with grenades and tommy guns in
another. The other company, moving back to the scene of last
night's clash, spotted an enemy party carrying boxes—probably
mines—to the stopbank. They held their fire until these men
had gathered together and then killed three and wounded or
killed two others. The patrol next threw grenades at another
enemy party further downstream and shot up a house across
the river. One man was wounded in this patrol.
A high-velocity gun scored seven direct hits on one of the
battalion's positions and heavily bombarded Battalion Headquarters, but only one man was wounded. Eleven Platoon met
fire from an enemy patrol which was thought to have crossed
the river, but mortar and artillery fire checked any further
threats. The last day in this place was overcast and showery.
The changeover went quietly enough, except for traffic difficulties along slippery roads.
While the battalion rested in Viserba again, the New Zealand
drive to the Savio River began—a seventeen-day task. Once
the Savio was reached, all the New Zealanders would take a
well earned rest and leave the mud and the canals and the
wretched outdoor living conditions for clean and peaceful stone
houses tucked away in quiet little Apennine towns.
The attack, in the last autumn of the war, began with the
Canadians on the left lined up by Route 9, the New Zealanders
in the centre, and some miscellaneous units known as Cumberland Force over by the now unimportant coast. Fifth Brigade
crossed the Fiumicino River and by 16 October was nearing
the Pisciatello River. There 22 Battalion reappeared on the
scene and took over from 21 Battalion.
By this time the dust was back again, and great, rolling
yellowish-white clouds marked the paths of advancing columns
of all types of transport—trucks, guns and tanks. But close under
the surface the mud waited.
On the New Zealanders' right flank 22 Battalion, in a smart
advance in which two were killed and three wounded, came
to within half a mile of the Pisciatello. During the day (16
October) 1 Company marched across country and two small
rivers without opposition other than mortaring and took up
platoon positions about 400 yards south of Via Ventrata. That
night a patrol from 7 Platoon to Via Ventrata did not contact
the enemy—so far so good—and early on the 17th the company
moved forward and took up positions along the road. Orders
came to attack the enemy paratroopers, who were in a position
round casas about 400 yards ahead. Six and 7 Platoons got
their objective, but 8 Platoon was pinned down by spandau
fire. The tanks, which were called up, drew awkward fire from
heavy guns and blasted unsuccessfully at the spandaus. Under
cover of the tanks firing, a withdrawal was made to a deep
ditch, wide at the top but narrow at the bottom. Here they
were pinned down by mortar fire, then hit by a mortar bomb
which wounded Laurie Duffy,
Pte L. Duffy; born Durham City, England, 23 Nov 1920; printer's apprentice; died of wounds 17 Oct 1944.
Ernie Burch
Pte E. F. Burch; born NZ 28 May 1910; station manager; wounded 17 Oct 1944; died on active service 13 Nov 1945.
(in fifteen places),
and three others. They then retreated again, still under heavy
mortar fire, attacked again and took the casa objective from
the flank. Privates Grant
Pte A. A. J. Grant; born NZ 3 Jul 1921; meter repairer; killed in action 17 Oct 1944.
and John Harold
Pte J. G. Harold; born Pongaroa, 12 Dec 1921; fencer; killed in action 17 Oct 1944.
were killed.
In this charge 6 Platoon in particular staged a model attack
to seize firmly-held Casalini. A troop of tanks supported the
platoon, and with these tanks one section made as if to attack
from the front. Meanwhile Sergeant George Palmer led the
remaining two sections to the right flank, where one section,
owing to hedges and obstacles, did not see Palmer and his
section (a mere eight men) move off into the final attack.
Making the best possible use of cover, these eight men crept
undetected to within striking distance, and then charged into
the middle of thirty unsuspecting paratroopers. The eight men
seized the Germans' house while the enemy dived into their
trenches round it. The section then was able to shoot them
down from the second-story windows. Fierce fighting ended
with the enemy utterly routed, leaving four machine guns
behind as well as dead and wounded.
Further parties from 6 Platoon came up to hold complete
superiority over the ground. This smart piece of work was
described as ‘a copybook demonstration of the values of speed
and surprise’, but Palmer says: ‘The credit for this should go
to the chaps with me. I was lucky enough to give the right
orders at the right time and the section did the job.’
But trouble was looming for 7 Platoon, which was holding
a forward position on an open flank. After midnight a heavy
enemy ‘stonk’ and smoke barrage came down, particularly
round this platoon. Then, with bazookas, rifles and grenades
an enemy party, thought to number fifty, closed in and surrounded the house, which was defended by two sections under
Lieutenant Graham Bassett. In the following fight 7 Platoon,
tried to the utmost, fought back viciously. Bazooka fire smashed
into the casa's walls. Four men were wounded, including Bassett
himself, and with the No. 38 radio set soon wrecked, the defenders lost all contact with Company Headquarters. Ignoring
great pain from his wounds, Bassett kept control of his besieged
platoon and, as further casualties were suffered, overcame the
loss in manpower by cleverly altering the positions of his men.
For more than six hours and until well after dawn the enemy
continued to press. The platoon's grand defence beat off every
attack. With the coming of the longed-for dawn fire slackened,
but then another strong party returned, again enveloped 7
Platoon's house, and in the ensuing heavy fire-fight made skilful
use of haystacks and natural cover. Again 7 Platoon defied
the attackers until tanks and 6 Platoon moved up in support.
Then 200 yards away a white flag went up, and the exhausted
platoon collected a number of prisoners. At least eight enemy
dead lay about, and other casualties had been carried back
in the night. For his ‘quiet, cool leadership, and his complete
disregard for his personal safety’, Bassett received an immediate
MC. Seven of his men were casualties.
Bassett writes: ‘It was a platoon show: every member of
Number 7 played his part to the best of his ability and as I
would have wished him to.’ He pays tribute to ‘the excellent
work of Sergeant Ian Park
Sgt I. B. Park; born NZ 29 May 1922; stock clerk; killed in action 21 Oct 1944.
who was killed in a later action.
Park maintained the morale and discipline of the platoon after
my wounds made me hand over.’
That night Major O'Reilly, returning from a trip round his
platoons, was picking his way down a track leading to a casa.
From a top-story window Russell,
L-Cpl J. N. Russell, m.i.d.; born NZ 4 Sep 1920; truck driver; wounded 15 Dec 1944; killed in action 3 May 1945.
a tommy-gunner, spotted
the figure in the gloom. Now Russell favoured the big drum
magazine on his tommy gun, but the Major was dead against
it because of stoppages. He was always trying to persuade
Russell to use the short clip magazine. Spotting the unidentified figure approaching at 20 yards, Russell let rip with a
shower of twenty rounds. The officer survived, came uninjured
through the doorway, and told a shaking and apologetic
Russell: ‘If you shoot again at such short range, boy, and miss
you'll be taken off that tommy gun.’ An hour later Russell
was overheard telling a comrade: ‘Anyhow, the old b—
won't be talking about stoppages again.’
George Barnes
Pte G. C. Barnes; Hastings; born NZ 20 Feb 1910; barman.
and four comrades slept in a barn until
‘a terrible uproar: four Ites (two men and two women) on
the business end of a rope trying to assist nature in the birth
of a calf. The cow gave a convulsive heave, the Ites threw a
couple of buckets of water over her, and all screamed enough
to wake the dead, but George Barnes never woke or stirred.’
The battalion had arrived just in time for a spectacular
change in tactics: a heavily armoured right hook over more
than five miles of countryside to the Savio River, which flowed
more or less north from Route 9. This hook would smash the
front between the inland town of Cesena (on Route 9) and
Cervia by the coast, cut all roads below the river leading to
the coast, bring about the fall of Cesena, and free yet another
stretch of the highly important Route 9. More important than
all this, as far as 22 Battalion was concerned, was that for the
first time 4 Armoured Brigade would work all together as one
brigade. Previously its tanks had been split up under infantry
brigades in support of infantry advances. Now the tanks had
come into their own, in a drive of their own (in mud of their
own, too), and a company from 22 Battalion would support
each regiment. While the tanks shot up other tanks and strongpoints, the 22nd's men would protect them from attacks by
enemy infantry and light anti-tank guns. ‘We were going to
rush through like the Panzer outfits of the early days.’
In the darkness of the last hours of 18 October the artillery
flayed the banks of the Pisciatello. Two battalions crossed. By
mid-morning on the 19th two regiments of New Zealand tanks
were over. Some of the 28-ton Shermans crossed by ark bridges;
others, striking trouble on the mucky banks, crossed by other
bridges.
At 9.50 a.m., and to the very day exactly one year after the
brigade left Egypt after its months of training for just such an
assault, Brigadier Pleasants gave the orders for the tanks and
the 22nd to advance. Forward they went, 18 Armoured Regiment on the right with 2 Company 22 Battalion carried on the
tanks themselves. (‘OK for the tank commander inside the tank
with just his head showing,’ comments Ken MacKenzie, ‘but
what about the P.B.I. on the outer like lollies on a wedding
cake?’) On the left was 20 Armoured Regiment, with 3 Company.
Flat farmland stretched before them on their 2000-yard front,
dotted with houses and trees and criss-crossed with narrow lanes.
Further rain arrived in the night, but the ground was not yet
‘untankable’. The chief obstacles were mud and deep ditches,
and here good work was done by Sherman bulldozers hauling
out stalled tanks. During the day the armoured brigade won
almost three miles, at the cost of seven tanks knocked out and
twice as many bogged down. The enemy, startled at first when
tanks attacked instead of infantry, soon settled down to a steady
resistance. Frequently a tank would plug two or three 75-millimetre shells through a house, the infantry would rush the place
in extended order—three yards between men—and a flanking
section, leaving the others to deal with the front of the building,
would swing round, gallop to reach the rear and catch any
enemy escaping from the back door.
In this attack Private Watt wishes ‘to pay a tribute to some
of the platoon officers: the one and two-pippers who actually
led the platoons into battle: a platoon (often composed largely
of men like me, a bit jittery and not too sure of themselves)
prepared to follow anyone who would lead.’
Going up to the start line, Watt saw ‘Snow’ Pearce
Pte W. S. Pearce; born Auckland, 22 Jan 1913; carpenter; killed in action 19 Oct 1944.
hand
his wallet and a few little things to a comrade who was left
out of battle, saying: ‘Here, you know what to do with these.’
The advance at first was very quiet: men were resting by a
three-feet-deep drain when Cash
Pte R. G. Cash; Ngamutu, New Plymouth; born NZ 10 Dec 1919; dairy farmhand; wounded 30 Nov 1944.
‘got a very uneasy feeling of
being too high in the air’, so got into the drain. His neighbour,
Pearce, said: ‘What the hell are you getting down there for?
There's nothing—’. From out of the silence two shells landed.
‘Not even finishing what he was saying he fell on top of me
dead.’
The first objective, a road called ‘Cassy’, was reached, with
the German retreating under the cover of lively shelling.
Charlie Pollard
Sgt C. Pollard; Te Puke; born Wanganui, 4 Sep 1915; hardware assistant; wounded 2 Aug 1944.
had a large hole knocked through the brim
of his helmet, and ‘what a relief to bolt into those big stone
casas with the cattle standing quietly in their stalls in the one
room and the Ites in the next having their dinner or, more
often, down a hole under the floor.’ Watt continues: ‘As we
stood in that casa looking out the window at the shells and
mortars falling all round, I, and probably some of the others,
felt “this is too hot, we'll just have to shelter here for a while.”
But after a few minutes [the platoon commander, Maclean]
looked out the window at the shells falling and said to the chap
with the 88 set: “Send a message. On ‘Cassy’, pushing on to
‘Gertie’” [the second road and the second objective]. Then
turning to us all he said quietly: “Well chaps, we've got to go
on.” I don't honestly think I'd have the courage to go out that
door. But if a man like that was willing to lead, we were all
willing to follow. I take off my hat to men like that.’
‘In this tribute I would also include platoon sergeants like “Rocky” Long, our sgt at that time. When we were sheltering in a ditch with bullets flying he would always be the first to stand up and walk up the line saying: “Just stay where you are a minute or two and she'll soon blow over.”’
‘Gertie’ was reached, and cover taken inside casas, but a
short withdrawal was made after dark; the tanks did not like
the chances of Germans sneaking through with bazookas. The
three tanks with Maclean's platoon got bogged in a field; the
platoon went into a house, and the sections drew lots for who
would go first to dig a slit trench by each tank ‘and guard
those tanks under the heaviest fire I have ever experienced.
[McGirr and Lindsay
Pte J. D. Lindsay; born Wellington, 21 Aug 1909; bank officer; killed in action 19 Oct 1944.
were killed by a shell as they were crossing a ditch towards the bogged tanks.] I will never forget the
hush that came over the platoon and the look on the face of
our officer as he came into the room and said “They're both
killed.”’
Although the plan to occupy Calabrina and Osteriaccia that
day failed, the German was about to leave. Under cover of
heavy shells and mortaring, and to the sound of demolitions,
he began his move back behind the sheltering banks of the
Savio.
At dawn on 20 October patrols from the two companies
probed ground ahead of 18 and 20 Regiment's tank laagers.
The enemy was nowhere in sight. Calabrina and Osteriaccia
were deserted.
The armour now swung west towards the Savio River. With
the Canadians battling up Route 9 and forcing the enemy out
of Cesena, the enemy's main aim was to get behind the river
with all speed. Delayed by the swampy ground and the skilful
demolitions on the roads and particularly on the crossroads
(some craters could have held a cart and horse comfortably),
the armour took most of the morning to reach the Rio Granarolo
stream, where bridge-laying tanks went to work. From here
18 Armoured Regiment (on the right, accompanied by 2 Company) pressed on uneventfully almost to the bank of the Savio
itself by dusk. Twentieth Regiment (with 3 Coy),
A massive hedge, with perhaps a tank-trap ditch behind it, barred the way at one stage. Spandaus, too, were expected on the other side. Halting his tanks, the troop commander asked an officer to look through the hedge. Hearing the request, Fred Fisher, with his No. 38 set, and knowing of the possible dangers, ran to the hedge and had to be hauled out by his heels and ordered to sit down while the officer wormed his way through and viewed the other side. The officer writes: ‘He, in that instant was prepared to give me everything, literally, and not to me personally—I don't recall having seen him before this, for I had just come back from two months in hospital. He was prepared to do that for any of us. But there were so many things done like that amongst the companies….’
finding the
going more difficult, nevertheless drew level with them by
sunset. Keith Whisker
Pte K. C. Whisker; Palmerston North; born Feilding, 5 Oct 1911; farm labourer.
(3 Company) ran into a deep cesspit.
The platoon, mostly new reinforcements, had a tendency to
bunch when advancing. There was no more bunching against
Whisker, at least, that afternoon. The house where he fell was
full of Italians, among whom a woman gave birth to a baby
when the tanks shelled the buildings.
The battalion ran into little opposition, and at night the two
companies grouped about their tanks to protect them from
sudden attack. The hook was accomplished, but commanders
were worried about the right flank, which lay open to attack
from the coastal sector. During the day not one tank had been
lost, and twenty Germans were in the bag.
After midnight a patrol from 14 Platoon reconnoitred the
river area opposite 18 Regiment's front. Led by a sapper,
Lieutenant Skipage,
Lt L. T. Skipage; Durban, South Africa; born Featherston, 25 Sep 1912; structural engineer.
the patrol found the Savio a tough
proposition. The banks, high and steep, seemed impassable to
tanks; the water itself was about 65 feet wide and three feet
deep, and a Bailey bridge 130 feet long would be needed to
make a crossing. The patrol, although suffering no casualties,
did not gather this information undisturbed. By a partly
wrecked steel pontoon bridge a spandau post spotted the
infantrymen. Brens replied, and the work went on.
Next day (21 October) advanced patrols from the battalion
safely checked tracks running west to the river and consolidated
with the tanks, 2 Company with 18 Armoured Regiment
moving across to link with the Divisional Cavalry near Pisignano. That night every New Zealand gun handy to the river
opened up to fox the enemy while the Canadians further south
unsuccessfully attempted to cross.
Meanwhile 7 Platoon (led admirably by Sergeant Ian Park
after Bassett had been knocked out), again distinguished itself
in another Bassett-like stand. Sergeant Park, Sergeant Reeve
and his sadly depleted section had been sent up to aid a
knocked-out tank near La Rossa. The two sergeants, from a
drain, exchanged grenades ‘with our unpleasant neighbours’
until a call came from the back of the section that Germans
were cutting in behind the party. The two raced back to a
casa, where in the meantime others from the party had barricaded themselves in. A tommy-gunner killed two of the
advancing Germans as Private Devereux turned to thrust a
large table on end against the door. Devereux goes on: ‘We
climbed the stairs and Tedesky was out in canals and ditches
in front of us a few chain—maybe two chain. He let fly with
Spandaus and I got right onto him with the Bren. I got a
burst through the shoulder and I remember nothing till Tom
Dolan and Private Heffernan were treating me down the stairs.
Tedesky hit the door with a grenade, and Dolan shot him
through a small window. They said if it hadn't been for that
propped up door he would have got us all.’
Park, Reeve, and a few others entered the besieged casa.
Then, despite urgings to stay put, Park, Reeve and two privates
swept out and attacked round the casa; Park met his death
and a grenade wounded Reeve and Burlace.
L-Cpl E. J. Burlace; Dannevirke; born Woodville, 23 Aug 1913; farmer; wounded 21 Oct 1944.
The casa held
out until dusk, when the wounded were taken away. After
dark Major O'Reilly ordered 6 Platoon (Sergeant Palmer)
up the machine-gunned road to support 7 Platoon, which had
retired successively to one house, then to another. The loss of
the two NCOs, Park and Reeve, had led understandably
enough to a certain amount of confusion. Six Platoon found
the area lit up by blazing haystacks. One tank was bogged
down helplessly. Palmer (who received an immediate DCM
for his leadership this night and for his achievements on 17
October) swiftly organised 7 Platoon to give immediate cover
to the tanks and the ground ahead, and was preparing to
attack north when Maclean arrived with 5 Platoon to take
charge. This platoon and 6 Platoon occupied two neighbouring houses without fighting; Palmer and Lance-Sergeant
Coppell (who also was prominent this night) found no sign of
movement around bamboo clumps to the right.
Then twenty to thirty German paratroopers came down the
road to occupy the two houses. The two platoons waited, then
poured out a hail of fire. The battle was on, a confused mêlée
with violent firing on both sides. At times it was difficult to
discriminate between enemy movement and moving shadows
caused by flickering flames from the burning haystacks. Finally
the Germans crawled away up a deep drain, leaving behind
dead, wounded, bazookas and a machine gun. Private Lealand
Pte N. P. Lealand; born NZ 23 Jul 1908; clerk; died of wounds 22 Oct 1944.
later died from wounds, and the day had cost the company
no fewer than ten casualties.
Some 88-millimetre shells fell very close to the houses during
the night, and at one unfortunate stage the tanks were machine-gunning through the back door of 5 Platoon's house, much to
everyone's annoyance. A great deal of small-arms ammunition
was used during the night for defensive fire, particularly by
the tanks.
During the fracas round the house Private Hawley
Dvr R. J. H. Hawley, MM; born Dannevirke, 4 Jan 1922; porter.
won
the MM. Roving out into no-man's-land, if not into enemy
territory itself, in his ambulance carrier, Hawley had evacuated
the wounded in the first action and returned before the engagement with the parachutists began. This time he went out with
a stretcher party to bring in a wounded NCO lying 50 yards
from an enemy post. Burning haystacks lit up the place, and
there was next to no cover. While returning they saw an enemy
patrol following only 30 yards behind. During the attacks which
followed, Hawley volunteered to carry a message back to 1
Company headquarters, and he got through, despite the light
from the flaming haystacks and the enemy close at hand. ‘At
times,’ Adriatic campaigners say, ‘that blessed RAP of ours
was just about catching casualties as they fell.’
All through this drive up the waterlogged Adriatic coast the
Medical Officer, Baird, was well to the fore. A company commander says: ‘Only with great difficulty did one CO restrain
Baird from getting in front of the troops. On the occasion
Palmer was surrounded in the house, Baird brought his RAP
right up in front of a certain Company and throughout did
an excellent job.’
An officer who saw a good deal of the RAP staff writes:
‘One could relate at some length the story of our RAP and
its members under the leadership of the Doc. How we were
besieged one night when some German patrols infiltrated
round behind our lines. How we had a direct hit on the upstairs room where the doctor and padre were sleeping and how
they were half buried in rubble. How the RAP liberated several
villages ahead of the Eighth Army. How we made new routes
for our ambulances only to see them churned into impassable
quagmires by the 4th Brigade tanks. But of this I am sure that
never did a buttalion have such a medical unit. From Doctor
down to the humblest drive they could handle the most severely
wounded with the care and tenderness of a nurse, and deal
with the shirker and malingerer with the harshness of any
sergeant major.’
Another man remembered for his work, both spiritual and
with the wounded in the forward areas, was Padre Sergel. ‘He
usually ws around when chaps ran into trouble. One can
recall some touching and memorable church services held in
all kinds of places and under all conditions. There were times
at Communion when men couldn't kneel down for the mud,
and the padre himself was in gumboots.’ One man's impressions can be condensed into these few words: ‘The dying and
the frightened remembered him.’
A Canadian armoured division began to take over from
the New Zealand Division. Twenty-second Battalion, which
with the tanks had opened the New Zealand attack on the
Adriatic a month ago, featured in the last New Zealand action
here, entering and occupying by itself Pisignano, Borgo Pipa
and La Rosetta. Then away down the grey coast they went,
turnig near Ancona, then inland through Iesi to the peace
and quiet of the rest area high in the Apennines. In its second
period by the Adriatic the Division had 1125 casualties, of
which 188 came from 22 Battalion, just 100 fewer than those
during the Arezzo and Florence campaigns in July and August.
And so the New Zealanders ended their association with 1
Canadian Corps, which had broken the Gothic line, and, in
four weeks, had covered 14 miles of ‘ideal tank country’, which
unhappily had turned out to be little more than a reclaimed
swamp ideal for defence.
On the way back the convoys twisted past notices erected
by the generous Canadians. Twenty-second Battalion read, and
remembered fondly, one such notice which said: ‘Cheerioh
Kiwis all—nice having worked with you.’
CHAPTER 13Casa Elta
Astern note ended the routine orders for October. Vino,
poultry, pigs, cars and clothing had disappeared in
Fabriano, where the removal of furniture, fittings, and electric
light bulbs ‘will seriously prejudice the smooth running of the
theatres…. civilian women have suffered from the unwanted
attentions of drunken soldiers’', the local Carabinieri (police)
complained that their pistols and rifles had been taken away
from them, and ‘in the event of further incidents occurring it
will be necessary to move the Brigade from the built-up area
into the fields.’ Two men stealing a goose were chased by a
fierce old woman with a sickle, and a man taking cabbages in
the night comforted himself with the thought: ‘Anyway he
fought against us at Alamein.’
November was just into its stride with intensive training ‘and
much sporting activity’ when the battalion was changed from
a motorised battalion to a normal infantry battalion and returned to the 5 Brigade fold again, still retaining the distinctive beret. The difficult country in Italy, either mountainous
or low-lying and cut up with rivers and canals, had hampered
a motorised battalion in swift advances. Now, with winter
setting in (already a light snow had fallen), conditions grew
steadily worse. The only mobile operation the battalion took
part in up to this time in Italy was the advance to the Savio.
Everyone in the battalion regretted the change, ‘the degeneration’ as some put it, but there was just no choice. Anyhow, at
the end of an overcast and rainy November, roads and tracks
would be in such poor shape that at one stage anti-tank guns
would have to be towed into position from Route 9 by oxen!
So the men were posted back into ‘provincial’ companies
once again,
A Coy, Maj A. W. F. O'Reilly (and then Capt P. R. Willock); B Coy, Capt R. H. Spicer; C Coy, Maj L. G. S. Cross; D Coy, Maj G. S. Sainsbury. Lieutenant-Colonel O'Reilly became CO when Lieutenant-Colonel Donald left for England on furlough. On 17 November 1944 the battalion marched past in honour of Lieutenant-Colonel Donald and another former CO, Colonel Campbell, who became commander of 4 Armoured Brigade.
returning to the original plan: A Company was
manned with Wellington men, B with Wellington-West Coast,
C with Hawke's Bay and Wairarapa, D with Taranaki. The
loss of their liberal transport ended many comforts.
Fourth Reserve Motor Transport Company's three-tonners,
for the first time in Italy, took 22 Battalion away from Fabriano
on 24 November, away into the north, to the painfully advancing front, to relieve a British unit on the Lamone River, north-east of another newly captured town, Forli. Over the wide
Lamone River, its massive stopbanks cunningly terraced, tunnelled and fortified, lay the next prize, Faenza, destined to fall
before Christmas (with 22 Battalion thrusting out over most
trying country below the town) and to serve the New Zealanders as a winter base.
The battalion's new position, facing the Lamone River, was
a difficult spot. The enemy had converted Ronco settlement
just over the river into a stronghold, and held firmly in Scaldino,
east of the river and immediately north of the battalion's positions. The first task for the rested New Zealanders would be
to clear the Germans back over the river. On the battalion's
left was 23 Battalion; on the right, the Gurkhas. Until this
attack began, the battalion sent out vigorous patrols to investigate the river and its banks, to locate enemy positions, and
to spot minefields. Air Force support round Ronco ‘was excellent and very heartening to the boys.’ A party under Lieutenant
Ken Joblin (12 Platoon) penetrated a stopbank and was
promptly driven back by strong fire and grenades. One man
was killed, Private O'Connor.
Pte E. P. O'Connor; born NZ 8 Apr 1911; civil servant; killed in action 26 Nov 1944.
The next night (27 November) a small 11 Platoon patrol,
under Lieutenant Forbes McHardy, left to find the exact
number and position of spandau nests still remaining in a curve
on the eastern bank of the river. McHardy left his four men
to cover him, crossed the stopbank, and came right round behind this clump of enemy. Returning to pick up his men, he
paused for a final look, stepped right in front of a spandau,
and died instantly.
But thanks to this patrol, a surprise attack next night succeeded in driving the three spandau posts over the river.
McHardy's body was recovered, his tommy gun beside him.
Near here Private Beaven
Pte R. A. Beaven; New Plymouth; born New Plymouth, 21 May 1922; farming student; wounded 29 Nov 1944.
was wounded.
Along this riverbank opposition was heavy and vigorous,
and both sides brought down direct fire at the slightest provocation. In retaliation for 12 Platoon's use of a Piat mortar from
the top story of its casa, ‘a Panther tank sneaked up onto a
stopbank and blazed away until things got too hot for it. Its
gun hacked away at the top of our casa, 12 direct hits, like a
mad dentist attacking a tooth, and we [12 Platoon] were the
shrinking nerves, cowering in the basement. Two men were
bruised and shaken by falling masonry.’ Soon after this the
platoon was plagued by some of our own shells falling short.
Nor was the artillery too popular with the Gurkhas over to
the right.
Lieutenant Lin Thomas's fighting patrol round Rombola
in the night was fired on, and before identity could be fixed,
dawn approached and the patrol withdrew. Lin Thomas and
Bob Ferris carried out the one casualty, Private Kennard.
Pte D. C. Kennard; born NZ 15 Apr 1921; labourer; killed in action 28 Nov 1944.
Private McMillan
Pte J. G. McMillan; Dunedin; born Masterton, 16 Oct 1922; clerk; wounded 12 Sep 1944.
and another man on the right flank lost
contact, and with the coming of daylight took to the nearest
cover, a tiny hen-house, where they huddled all day with a
good view of the Germans moving about. When an Italian
came to feed his fowls in the afternoon, the two men asked him
not to give them away, but other Italians moving about the
farm ‘cast such fearful and curious glances at the hen-house
that by dusk the German sentries were beginning to give it
some close observation.’ While the sentries looked elsewhere,
the two wriggled down a shallow ditch by the hen-house and
escaped back to their platoon. Within two days the farmer's
wife was killed by our tank fire.
Information gleaned by patrols (the hen-house couple
stressed that the area was strongly held and heavily mined)
was put to good use at 8.30 a.m. on 30 November, when D
Company went into an attack to clear the pocket of enemy
ahead over the river. Working well with C Squadron 18
Armoured Regiment's tanks, the company pushed north-eastwards over 1200 lively (and muddy) yards, cleaning out a
corner along the Lamone and seizing the first two groups of
buildings (Scaldino di Sotto and Rombola), and continuing
until by noon three further groups of buildings were in its hands.
The enemy, answering with spandaus and mortars, held good
positions in houses and under haystacks, which the tanks methodically and most hearteningly shot up with incendiary and
high explosive. Joining in the attack, the battalion mortars fired
1130 rounds; supporting machine guns, 37,000 rounds.
The platoons, fairly widely spaced, worked independently:
Sergeant Massey Wood's platoon on the left, Second-Lieutenant Jim Sherratt's
Lt J. R. Sherratt; Pukeatua, Te Awamutu; born Gisborne, 11 May 1919; accountant.
in the centre, Second-Lieutenant Paterson's
on the right. The line of attack was roughly parallel with the
riverbank.
By the river Wood's platoon advanced briskly, but slowed
up once when civilians stampeded past (‘I couldn't help but
think of Barbara Freitchie as the old lady ran past with her
grey hair streaming behind her’) and when a plucky German,
found later to be wearing the Iron Cross ribbon, attacked a
tank on his own, firing his revolver and circling the tank
defiantly until wounded in the legs by grenades. The platoon
rushed its final objective, a large three-storied house near the
stopbank (apparently a German headquarters). ‘… the boys
were wildly excited and yelling loudly…. excitement ran
high’ as surrendering parties rose from ‘slitties’ and from under
a haystack, or fled through olive trees and smoke. The platoon
took the house and hastily sorted out positions to hold against
a possible sally over the top of the stopbank as rifle and mortar
fire spattered through the position.
In the centre the advance of Sherratt's platoon was handicapped through misfortune in a minefield. Near a disabled
tank two prisoners approached. One trod on an S-mine (escaping injury himself) and five men of one section fell either
wounded or severely shaken. Don Stoneham
Pte D. F. Stoneham; born NZ 3 Feb 1920; warehouseman; killed in action 30 Nov 1944.
died. Comrades
comforted Private White
Pte G. L. H. White; born Waikanae, 22 Feb 1917; stock driver; died of wounds 2 Dec 1944.
‘by telling him we had a date in
his favourite pub in Wanganui’, but his stomach wounds
proved fatal.
While to the left the two platoons cleared and occupied
ground to as far as Casa di Sopra, on the right Paterson's
platoon converged on Casa di Mezzo, a couple or so buildings
behind a crossfire from spandaus placed at intervals right across
the front, and where bazookas fired at the tanks. In this hot
spot Private Freddy Fisher
Pte F. S. Fisher; born Feilding, 21 Jul 1914; clerk; died of wounds 30 Nov 1944. ‘He was quite tall, slightly built, rather shy and a sensitive type—nothing of the tough, hardbitten fighting man about Fred, though the reason he was killed was really because he couldn't work his 38 set properly lying down—in fact they never would work properly when you wanted them to, whether you stood up or stood on your head,’ writes a comrade. ‘However, Fred had the 38 set and was determined to do the job properly, so he sat up in a very shallow ditch in the middle of an open paddock while we had mortars, 88s, bazookas and Spandaus giving us the works. Every time I looked round at him he'd be sitting up calmly fiddling with the dials, or trying to fix the aerial in a different fashion. To my constant: “Lie down, you silly b—Freddy,” he had the same reply each time: “She's right, I'll make the b— work yet.” Then the mortar landed and exploded almost in his face.’
(with the No. 38 radio set) met
his death. The only choice for Paterson's platoon was a frontal
attack.
The tanks softened up the defences, the 25-pounders delivered a small and uncomfortably close ‘stonk’, and then the
platoon went in, firing from the hip and taking the last 30
yards at the run. One section sprinted round the back of a
building to cut off escape. A hitherto unnoticed and silent
spandau, now slightly behind them, opened up most disconcertingly, but the nearest man, Private Trevor Selby,
Pte T. D. Selby; Tirau; born NZ 3 Mar 1923; farmhand; wounded 8 Dec 1944.
turned
immediately on the spandau, coolly walked towards it, and
put all thirty rounds from his Bren magazine into the chest of
the man operating it. ‘The other Hun who had been assisting
with the spandau put his hands up and was still green and
shaking violently when he marched away fifteen minutes later
with the other prisoners.’ Di Mezzo fell, and without much
further trouble the platoon went on to Casa di Sotto and
halted for the rest of the day in a large white building.
D Company in its advance had collected twenty-two prisoners (one of whom, a company commander, Lieutenant
Menkel, provided a rich haul of documents and a trace of a
minefield ‘pleasingly accurate’), had killed about as many, and
had lost two killed and seven wounded, one of whom, John
Oldfield
Pte J. P. Oldfield; Whenuakura, Patea; born NZ 29 Aug 1914; freezing worker; wounded 30 Nov 1944. ‘I went blind but realised I was hit and could hear myself breathing heavy and sort of shaking. Then I heard Ken Grey of New Plymouth yelling “Bring the stretcher quickly, old Jack has been hit….” [They cut his web equipment away, lifted him on the stretcher] and my sight came back in a flash … I could see the thick blood in the trench and also the tin hat with a slit on the top as if it had been hit with an axe.’ Carried under shellfire into a wrecked house, its roof still smouldering, Oldfield had a shell dressing tied on his head and a shot of morphia. Claude Waterland (of Patea) (‘He offered me a cigarette, I didn't care for one and haven't smoked since’) and another carried Oldfield through the paddocks to a Bren carrier fitted for stretcher cases. From the RAP (where Jack Quinn and his assistant cleaned him up) an ambulance took him first to the CCS, then to the British General Hospital at Rimini, where a special neurosurgical team instantly operated. ‘There were 17 different nationalities in the ward (mostly broken skulls) and Italian was the only language the patients could talk to each other. After several weeks there getting hell with penicillin injections and sulfa drugs, I flew back from Rimini to Bari by Douglas Air Transport with the Yanks. By ambulance to Barletta, and next night by ambulance train across Italy to Naples. I think the train had square wheels. I was sicker on arrival there than any other time.’ Seriously ill until March, he gradually regained the use of his limbs. To 2 NZ General Hospital at Caserta, convalescing ‘on good and plenty of NZ kai.’ To Bari Hospital, then home.
(felled by a mortar and distressingly wounded on top
of the head and in shoulder and elbow), made one of the
pluckiest recoveries in the history of the battalion. In action this
day for the first time were a high proportion of young reinforcements who won this tribute from a platoon commander:
‘[They] had obviously been well trained in their territorial
regiments before leaving NZ [and] worked beautifully together. They walked at their objective firing steadily from the
hip, their line straight and the distance of three yards between
men maintained evenly throughout. Actually it was a great
thrill to me to be there to watch them.’
Paterson's platoon went on in the dark night after Corporal
Cliff Hatchard and two others had scouted some 600 yards
ahead without striking trouble. They broke into and occupied
a large house (Gabadina) close to the riverbank. Before dawn
someone with a bottle of concentrated Horlicks tablets announced ‘Breakfast ready.’ ‘Now our Company 2 i.c. Capt.
Bob Wood
Maj R. MacG. Wood; born NZ 12 Aug 1914; clerk; p.w. 15 Jul 1942; escaped; safe with Allied forces 21 Dec 1943.
had only been appointed recently, but we had
seen enough of him to give the boys such faith in his ability
to find and feed us no matter what, that many of the boys
arrived with two dixies and a mug extended in the dark.’
At sunrise unsuspecting Germans directly across the road
stretched and settled comfortably around three spandau pits
and strolled round a small house. The platoon trained its Brens
on the spandaus, waited, then as two Gurkha scouts came up
the road, opened deadly fire while Paterson and Morrie
Reeve's section charged out to seize the house and most of
the dumbfounded occupants. Not quite half-way between the
house and the stopbank stood a haystack. Here two Germans,
lugging a machine gun, ducked down when they found they
hadn't time to make the 30 yards to the stopbank. Paterson
shouted, ‘Herein kommen!’ ‘Wir schiessen nicht!’ and then (inspired): ‘Wir haben panzer!’ Simultaneously a German officer
half-reared from behind the stopbank and started roaring at
the two men too. ‘It was very funny. The Hun officer, exceedingly annoyed, flung his hands in the air, shaking his fists, when
the two ran over to us.’
Inside the house the captives huddled on a heap of hay while
the platoon, munching ersatz chocolate and sweet biscuits, kept
the stopbank under fire, and jeered (in a friendly way through
wall ventilators) at Morrie Reeve, temporarily but harmlessly
shut out of the house.
‘I remember Morrie calling in mock desperation from the
cowshed wall alongside the house. We were all in a somewhat
hilarious mood.’ Sergeant Johnny Law
Sgt J. L. Law; Palmerston North; born England, 7 Apr 1914; carpenter.
got the 2-inch and Piat
mortars going and ranged with smoke bombs, which the men
inside the house thought was a German ruse to mask an immediate attack. Instantly they fired furiously, as did the enemy,
equally misled. Several minutes passed before both sides calmed
down. Finally the stopbank became quiet. The arrival of an
anti-tank gun had convinced the Germans that this was a
powerful force. But then heavy mortaring and shelling took
over. The Gurkhas relieved the platoon that afternoon, and
for his inspiring leadership Paterson (who before the war, as
a ‘student missionary’, had a small Presbyterian church for a
time) was awarded the MC.
The fresh ground was held for the remaining week in the
line, a week of patrolling and observing (sometimes with a
periscope) round the river. Rocket-firing Thunderbolts and
Spitfires strafed generously. Reacting promptly to rumours of
a vino factory nearby, Captain ‘Junior’ McLean, with jeep,
driver, and storeman ‘Hicko’ Broughton, found the factory
floor a foot deep in flowing vermouth. McLean and driver left
‘Hicko’ to guard the factory and sped back for tins to fill.
Returning, they ran into an anxious English officer dragging
a half-drowned ‘Hicko’ out of the doorway.
Slit trenches for standing patrols were dug along the ledge
of the stopbank, sometimes under fire: ‘The bullets kept whistling through the grass along the flat top of the stopbank a few
feet above our heads, and Sergeant Mick Bougen had a neat
bullet hole drilled through his beret.’ These slit trenches were
manned at dark, about 5.30 p.m., with Germans the other side
of the 25-foot-wide river. ‘It was a darned cold night and we
[10 Platoon] found in the intervening few hours since we had
dug the slitties about 2? of water had seeped in and our feet
were soon like blocks of ice. Each trench was occupied by two
blokes, one of whom stood on a firing step just above, so that
he could see across the top of the bank. Each pair did four and
a half hours before being relieved. We just stood and listened
and froze, and repeated the performance the following night.’
Fog came down to hide the river, which was rising after more
rain, and brief glimpses of logs and rubbish drifting past sent
out anxious alarms: ‘Enemy boats approaching!’ D Company
repulsed a genuine attack over the river one night. Sergeant
Tsukigawa (‘the man who brooded when left out of a patrol’),
taking a quick peep over the stopbank, was shot neatly through
the ear. Spandau fire badly wounded Sergeant Long.
Sgt R. T. Long, m.i.d.; Wellington; born NZ 23 Apr 1921; labourer; twice wounded.
Before
dawn four Germans, including a company sergeant-major,
came over under a white flag and spoke freely about positions.
Men sleeping on the floor of a casa had a rude awakening when
a shell burst in the top of a nearby tree. A window's shutters
were inconveniently open and three men collected wounds.
Pandemonium burst in a ‘Chinese attack’ in the night of
3-4 December, a hoax to draw attention from 46 British
Division successfully crossing the Lamone River further inland
to the New Zealanders' left. Bogus messages flashed between
brigade and battalion headquarters, and between battalions
and companies. Tanks crawled round in circles; signallers filled
the air with menacing tales and threats, parties pretended to
strike out over the water with bridging material. Every available weapon blazed away—one officer emptied his revolver
across the river. Guns and mortars lavishly fired smoke shells;
the enemy became thoroughly alarmed—and so did 10 Platoon,
bitterly complaining of being smoked out by 34 Battery. Smoke
made some men sick, and sometimes respirators were worn.
The enemy, of course, congratulated himself on foiling a desperate attack.
Eighteen Platoon, in luck, found quantities of eggs, and a
record batch of about thirty were frying invitingly in an outsize pan when suddenly an alarm came from an outpost:
numerous grey figures scurrying through no-man's-land to
disappear among trees. The eggs were abandoned, signals were
sent out, and a general alarm was given. The rumble of tanks
was soon heard, and then came the orders. The tanks and
infantry in extended line were to comb through the battalion
front. The net result of the operation: a flock of about forty
grey guinea-fowl!
The battalion, tramping down the muddy road in single file,
went out of the line on 8 December to billets in Forli. As soon
as it reached the rest area it had a most important engagement.
James Casson, a New Zealand war correspondent, writes:
An achievement of which the Battalion was exceedingly proud
was the winning of the final in the New Zealand Divisional Rugby
Championship, for which the trophy was the Freyberg Cup, on
8 December 1944. The competition was very closely contested and
the final roused as much interest in the Division as a Ranfurly
Shield match does in New Zealand. In the five rounds which ended
with 22 Bn and 2 Ammunition Coy level in points the Battalion
drew with 21 Bn, beat 5 Field Regiment, beat 25 Battalion, drew
with 2 Ammunition Company and beat Divisional Signals.
The playoff was in the ruins of a fine stadium Mussolini had
built in Forli.
On a bitterly cold, grey afternoon the teams lined out before a
crowd of 5,000 Kiwis for one of the most closely contested games
ever played by Divisional sides. Conditions were shockingly bad.
Except for two narrow strips of firm going on the goal lines the
ground was a morass.
The teams
Some of these players were or later became big names in Rugby. From 22 Battalion: Mick Kenny (Maori All Black), Vince Bevan (All Black), M. McG. Cooper (Oxford and Scotland), Jim Sherratt (‘Kiwi’ Army Team). From Ammunition Company: Bob Scott and Wallie Argus (both ‘Kiwis’ and All Blacks).
For the spectators, festooned over the ruins of the grandstand,
perched on vantage points on trucks, or lining the field, it was a
game to remember. Both sides played to attack all the time and
strove desperately to open play up. In such conditions there was
much scrambling, but everyone was giving it a go and play veered
rapidly from end to end of the field, with several very near tries
and never a dull moment. Despite their faster-moving backs and a
weight advantage in the pack of a stone a man the Battalion team,
for all but the last 10 minutes of the first half, looked as if they
might be beaten by lighter forwards who played magnificently
together as a pack.
Right on half-time a scrum was formed 10 yards from the Ammunition Company's goal-line. Battalion hooked the ball and Bevan
passed it back to Thomas, who drop-kicked a goal. It was perfectly
executed pre-arranged play and it gave Battalion a lead of 4-0 at
half-time.
Arthur Fong says: ‘There was only one reasonably dry patch on the ground, that being near the 25 yard line directly in front of Div Ammo's goalposts, and it was from this spot that Lin Thomas potted his goal.’
In the second half the Battalion forwards performed better and
the advantages of greater weight and speed were apparent. But
neither side was able to score and the game ended with the score
still: 22 Bn 4, 2 Ammunition Coy o.
After the game General Freyberg made a speech and started
to present the cup to the Ammunition Company captain. On
his mistake being pointed out, he said that he thought the
Ammunition Company deserved to win. Incidentally, 22 Battalion's team, coached by Jock Wells, had been withdrawn
from the line before the rest of the battalion. Progress reports
of the semi-final match against Divisional Signals had been
received in the line through one of the most unusual sporting
broadcasts ever made. Stuart McKenzie
Lt S. I. McKenzie; Palmerston North; born Palmerston North, 9 Jun 1906; public accountant.
(a son of N. A.
McKenzie of Rugby renown) borrowed a wireless-telegraphy
vehicle from Brigade Headquarters and throughout the match
progress scores were immediately passed on by field telephone
to the men in the line. At every telephone in the battalion
(no matter how remote or exposed the position) a listener took
down the latest score and relayed it to the expectant group
around him. ‘That was one broadcast which fooled the Hun
intelligence,’ commented Jock Wells.
Six days after the divisional final, 22 Battalion went into one of its hardest fought and most successful actions.
Fifth Brigade had relieved 46 British Division in its bridgehead
over the Lamone. Carefully 22 Battalion had gone forward into
a tricky position: along the main road past Forli, then to the
south-west, to a remarkably second-grade road running into
a valley with a broken railway line. This narrow approach,
under enemy observation, was ‘stonked’ regularly. Men went
part of the way in trucks then foot-slogged into position in the
daylight. Two men were ignominiously wounded when a dog
exploded a picket mine. This was ‘a hell of a place to attack
in: quite impassable for tanks. Rough going, few tracks, the
sudden drop and rise, and the creek would prohibit a regular
advance and a creeping barrage, so the Battalion decided to
call for concentrated artillery fire, to be brought down when
needed on special points. This worked OK.’ Most of the battalion could look across a steep, bush-covered descent to a
sharp rise ahead. Near the top of this rise stood the pocket-fortress of Casa Elta.
‘Casa Elta was the usual stone farmhouse, fairly large, two
storeyed, with a lean-to cow byre on the back. The privvy,
pig-pen, shed and manure-pit were on the left, slightly in front,
a well on the right corner of the house. About five small straw
stacks stood in the front yard, a few medium-tall pine (?) trees
well out in front where the steep slope down started. The whole
setup sitting on a nice little knob, a grand view to the right
almost to the Celle Crossroads it seemed (all along that fatal
minefield). To the front and left extra steep sides down into
gullies and then up onto ridges. The Jerry slitties were well
sited around the yard perimeter. I consider that one could move
from position to position almost without being observed,’ says
Len Turner.
A gruesome incident happened in C Company's headquarters
area. A civilian hospital had been set up in a house, identified
with the Red Cross. All soldiers were kept strictly away from
the hospital packed with sick and distressed refugees under the
care of a most competent Italian doctor. But a heavy shell
landed and exploded in the basement, killing and mutilating
many of the unfortunate civilians. A 5 Brigade Headquarters
sergeant (probably a security sergeant) worked gallantly,
evacuating the pathetic patients, but some civilians still lay
helpless in the hospital when the big attack started.
In the last hour of 14 December, 5 Brigade was about to go
forward past enemy-held Faenza to the little village of Celle,
almost in the foothills. Panzer grenadiers with tanks were waiting. The Maori Battalion formed up on the right, the 23rd in
the centre, and the 22nd on the left in the roughest country,
with at least two creeks and ridges to cross. Under artificial
moonlight the barrage of 420 guns began—and the enemy
immediately flung a vicious counter-barrage through ours,
about 150 yards behind it.
C and A Companies (left and right) moved off, supported
later by B and D Companies respectively. The battalion's objective that night was left open. If possible, it was to get to the
Senio River, 4000 yards away; if not, to the road running west
of Celle, about half-way to the river. As soon as the leading
companies slowed up, the others were to pass through. Nobody
had any idea that the 22nd's ground would be so strongly defended.
Already the enemy was blazing back with shell, mortar,
spandau and tracer. Here and there a man staggered or spun
round and fell after moving only a few yards. On the others
went, in sudden starts and dashes, pushing from house to house
over low but steep-sided ground until resistance reached a
climax on the side of a steep hill 800 yards away. This was
Casa Elta, farmhouse and barns converted into a stout fortress,
guarded with many well-placed machine-gun posts and surrounded by mines of every description—a place the battalion
would never forget. ‘The engineers said later that it was the
most thickly sown and had the greatest variety of mines that
they had encountered up to that time,’ writes a battalion
officer, ‘and that never had they seen so many footprints so
close to so many mines before’.
Piat mortar bombs began blasting the walls of Casa Elta,
but the enemy held on, hour after hour. Not until 4 a.m., when
it had been by-passed and attacked from the rear by hastily
assembled yet stubbornly persistent little parties from C Company, did this strongpoint fall.
The advance on the left to Casa Elta had been costly for C
Company, especially for 15 Platoon (left), which soon had all
its leaders wounded or killed. Lieutenant Brian Edinger
Maj B. S. Edinger; Wanganui; born Wanganui, 14 Dec 1920; printer; wounded 14 Dec 1944.
was
knocked out on the start line as he said ‘Come on!’; Sergeant
‘Doc’ Fowke
Sgt B. H. Fowke, m.i.d.; born NZ 19 Jan 1915; painter; killed in action 15 Dec 1944.
took over command; Johnny Hughes was platoon sergeant, and before long both these good men met their
deaths in Casa Elta's minefields. The isolated and virtually
leaderless platoon, still doggedly aiming for Casa Elta, now
split into three groups under Private Hugh Poland
Sgt H. F. Poland, m.i.d.; Hastings; born Hamilton, 30 Jan 1922; clerk; twice wounded.
(soon
wounded), Lance-Corporal Brian Galvin
L-Cpl B. J. Galvin; Auckland; born Wellington, 29 Oct 1922; manager; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
(‘Boom, up I
brewed’), and Private Ron Dixon,
Cpl R. H. Dixon, MM; born Wellington, 22 Jun 1922; machinist.
a natural leader who won
an immediate MM. Dixon capably grouped some of the shreds
of his platoon together, pushed on to the right of Casa Elta,
captured two defended positions and eight prisoners, severed
telephone wires, which isolated Casa Elta, and later joined the
last assault on the house.
Thirteen and 14 Platoons, which suffered lighter casualties,
also lost touch in the dark and mine-flecked night, but towards 3 a.m. small parties from both of these scattered platoons
were converging independently on Casa Elta from behind the
farmhouse. ‘… on getting to the rear we spread out in extended formation and attacked with our weapons firing and
yelling to make our numbers sound more than we really were,’
writes Lance-Sergeant Len Seaman,
L-Sgt L. F. Seaman, DCM; Raetihi; born Ohakune, 17 Jun 1921; butcher; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
leading about ten men
from 13 Platoon. ‘We captured several prisoners from an outbuilding to the left of the casa. My attention was then attracted
by movement behind the casa itself, and on moving round the
building I came in contact with one who was just too cunning
for me.’ Seaman was hit in the chest.
Groups from 13 and 14 Platoons had now met up and,
working zealously together, carried out the last of the skirmishing at close quarters round the casa's walls. One group from
13 Platoon had been delayed by heavy and accurate fire from
three spandau posts until Private Henry McIvor, an acting
section-leader, voluntarily stalked the first post and wiped it
out with his tommy gun, and went on to silence the second
post with a grenade when his weapon jammed. McIvor,
‘without [whose] acts of gallantry, no progress could have been
made’ by the platoon, received an immediate MM.
About the last act round the stubborn farmhouse came at
4 a.m., when five Germans approached it with a spandau.
Ces Carroll
Sgt C. Carroll, m.i.d.; Te Ore Ore, Masterton; born NZ 6 Dec 1918; jockey; wounded 4 Sep 1942.
(14 Platoon) raced into the courtyard roaring
‘Mani sopra!’ (Hands up!)—and with that his tommy-gun
magazine fell out with a clatter on to the courtyard. In a
mutually horrified silence, friend and foe looked at each other.
Then the Germans surrendered: some twenty Germans were
taken altogether at Casa Elta.
About an hour before Lance-Sergeant Seaman was hit, B
Company had passed through C Company's area, escaping
the minefield, but finding the going rough and muddy and
the enemy harassing fire heavy and accurate. Scrambling
through the creek, B Company slogged on up towards its first
objective, a steep tongue-shaped ridge slightly behind and to
the west of Casa Elta. Ten Platoon (Lieutenant Len Turner)
was on the left and 11 Platoon (Lieutenant Phil Powell) on
the right. A line of small trees ran down the ridge, and the
men, silhouetted by artificial moonlight, moved over the skyline fast as enemy spandaus opened up at very close range,
bringing half a dozen casualties. Showing up clearly on that
barren, steep face, B Company drew brisk spandau fire from
Casa Elta in its rear, where seven spandau posts were found
next day.
‘We tried a bit of fieldcraft but Jerry had the book with all
the answers in it. Here,’ says Len Turner, ‘Major Spicer
Maj R. H. Spicer, MC; Palmerston North; born Christchurch, 20 Apr 1910; salesman; CO 22 Bn 7 Aug-19 Oct 1945.
(OC B Coy) caught up and suggested we keep the enemy
amused with fire while 12 Platoon (Lieutenant Joblin, in
reserve) endeavoured to infiltrate between this setup and Casa
Elta. This they managed to do, and moved on to Casa Mercante. As this manoeuvre was going on all hell let loose at
Casa Elta, and we knew a short time later, as we received a
message to move on to Casa Mercante, that Casa Elta had
been captured by Sergeant Len Seaman and Co.’
After a sharp engagement Casa Mercante fell soon after
dawn to B Company, yielding altogether forty prisoners, including ten wounded. A good impression of the scene is given
by Ian Ferguson:
Pte I. H. D. Ferguson; Christchurch; born Gore, 14 Jul 1920; civil servant; wounded 17 Apr 1945.
‘Some of 10 Platoon were firing from the
hip in the middle of the road, and others were shooting from
behind the slight cover of the 2 ft hedge. From the house
flashes were … [coming] from all the windows and it was
obviously strongly held. It was a miracle none of our chaps
were bowled over, but it was certainly spectacular while it
lasted with grenades, Brens, Tommyguns and rifles all cracking and the Jerries returning our fire.’
Turning now to the battalion's right-hand sector, A Company's attack was opened by 6 Platoon (Lin Thomas) and
the doomed 7 Platoon (Captain Johnston). Thanks to the
rough ground, 6 Platoon arrived at the first objective, Casa
Ianna, a little behind the barrage. The house had forward
defences under haystacks. One section, under Corporal Tony
Clark,
Lt A. G. Clark, MM; Christchurch; born Christchurch, 20 Dec 1920; optical mechanic.
attacked from a flank while the other two sections fired
on the house, which was taken with no casualties. Corporal
Clark won an immediate MM through his leadership in this
flanking attack. Under fire from two machine-gun pits, he
personally went in with hand grenades and tommy gun and
silenced both. Six Platoon fired the haystacks and burnt two
cars hidden in them, and smoked out prisoners who were still
in their pits underneath. Altogether some twenty prisoners were
taken from this casa. The platoon was most fortunate in getting
safely through an undetected minefield in front of this house,
but 7 Platoon, in another minefield further to the right, was
not so fortunate.
Two further houses in 6 Platoon's line of attack were taken
with no resistance, ‘Jerry having flitted before we arrived,’
writes Lin Thomas. ‘The last but one in our area nearly turned
out to be a battle of friends. A platoon (I think) of C Company
on our left had got off course slightly and had taken this particular casa of ours. It was just breaking dawn, and still a bit
dusky, and they had a prisoner outside trying to entice some
stray friends into the casa when we attacked. The password
was yelled from all windows smartly, and what could have
been a serious situation turned into relieved wisecracks and
laughter.’
Eight Platoon, in reserve and lying on the ground, ‘heard
a grunt or moan from Sergeant Mick Kenny’, who was
wounded. Sergeant Arthur Fong took over the platoon. Soon
they learned that 7 Platoon ‘was “out the monk” with casualties,
so we had to take our right flank, after picking up one section
of Number 7.’ By now the enemy was falling back, abandoning a high bank criss-crossed with trenches and then a couple
of houses. Without any close fighting and with only a couple
of casualties, Fong and his 8 Platoon safely reached the Casa
Ianna area and stayed there.
Captain Johnston headed 7 Platoon. With him were Sergeant Jack Shaw and Corporal Callesen. The platoon was to
attack on the right flank of the battalion. It moved on to a
small flat, just behind our barrage of bursting shells, and lay
there until the barrage lifted. Here Doug Ellis,
Pte D. H. Ellis; Gisborne; born NZ 7 May 1922; freezing-works employee; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
the signaller,
was wounded in the hand but refused to go back.
The barrage lifted. The platoon moved into a gully. Four
‘shorts’ landed in quick succession just in front of Johnston and
Shaw, blowing both off their feet.
Up the slope, across a track, through a hedge, on to a forward slope, and there, just ahead, was the start line. ‘Across
on the next ridge we could see, by the light of the gun flashes
and shell bursts, our first objective.’
Half-way down the slope shells landed right on the platoon,
killing Reeve Collins and wounding others. ‘The noise was
terrific.’ Doug Ellis, again wounded (in the side this time),
still carried on. Regrouping, the platoon followed the horizontal line of anti-aircraft tracer directed straight on to its
first objective. Then the platoon stopped. A check revealed
that there were only eight left (including the wounded Ellis).
Shaw went back, but could not penetrate the shells blanketing the ridge.
In the lost party an exhausted man had fallen down in the mud and those behind him, thinking he was taking cover, had followed his example. When they got up again they were cut off by this shellfire, which also halted Shaw on the other side.
He returned and asked: ‘What do we do now?’
‘We're going on with the show,’ Johnston answered.
As they moved off again, Ellis went down with his third
wound, in the thigh, which would cost him a leg. Shaw and
Russell dressed the wound, noticed the radio set was a complete write-off, and placed Ellis in a small hollow where he
lay alone for seven hours.
They carried on to a hedge breasting a narrow road. Russell
and Quinn
Pte P. J. Quinn; Wellington; born Wellington, 28 Aug 1922; hairdresser; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
forced their way through, Wood
Pte E. J. Wood; Wellington; born NZ 29 Oct 1921; dredge hand; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
followed, with
Shaw a yard behind. Wood set off a mine the other two had
missed. Collecting his senses and struggling to his feet, the
sergeant saw McIntyre
L-Cpl A. D. McIntyre; Whatatutu, Gisborne; born Feilding, 4 Jun 1921; farm employee; twice wounded.
and another man stretched out on
the ground. The other man was unhurt, but McIntyre lost an
eye. They crawled together into a drain beside the road.
‘All this time Jerry was slinging shells into our area.’
Shaw, still dazed, his eyesight affected by the mine blast,
began wondering where Captain Johnston was. Then he saw
the captain. It took him a while to realise that Johnston was
crawling towards them.
With his signaller hit in the thigh and his radio set ruined,
Johnston in the meantime had run ahead to find the road and
make contact with some tanks faintly visible in the artificial
moonlight. He hoped that the tanks, in radio contact with
Battalion, would be able to raise and bring up the reserve
platoon of A Company, commanded by Mick Kenny. Johnston found the tanks out of action, their tracks blown off, and
their crews sheltering from fire. He set off to find the reserve
platoon himself. Several times the hedge barred the way.
Finally, he stood back and charged the hedge, struck a mine
hanging there, was blown high in the air, and landed on all
fours in a minefield. He began crawling through this minefield,
dragging a smashed leg behind him, and carefully feeling in
front with his hands—in his dazed condition he was under the
delusion that he could clear aside mines and make a safe path
for his wounded men to follow. He had crawled about 100
yards when Sergeant Shaw saw him. Disregarding faint warnings from Johnston, Quinn and Russell came out from the
ditch to join their captain.
‘How bad is it?’ asked Johnston, as they began aiding him.
‘Can you take it?’ asked Russell, and, reassured, replied:
‘Well, she's gone—your right leg.’.
Johnston, a prominent athlete, accepted the news calmly
and gave directions for shelter: ‘Up the road turn right, past
the tanks to the house on the left.’ Eighty-eight-millimetre shells
landed near the house, Johnston was pushed under a tank for
shelter, and Russell and Quinn found an 18 Armoured Regiment RAP carrier. They and the driver picked up the captain
and were about to move when another crash came, distinct
from the general uproar of battle. Quinn had set off a mine
and lost a foot. Russell and the carrier's driver were wounded
too, and the hapless Johnston for the third time within an hour
was hurled into the air and freshly wounded in the back and
legs and suffered a burst ear-drum.
The mangled men left in the carrier, the driver, wounded
in the thigh, insisting on driving. Johnston, his battalion uppermost in his mind, directed the carrier to 23 Battalion's headquarters (under mortar fire), where Lieutenant-Colonel
Thomas
Lt-Col W. B. Thomas, DSO, MC and bar, m.i.d., Silver Star (US); London; born Nelson, 29 Jun 1919; bank officer; CO 23 Bn 1944-45; 22 Bn (Japan) 1945-46; twice wounded; wounded and p.w. May 1941; escaped Nov 1941; returned to unit May 1942; Royal Hampshire Regt.
said he would radio 22 Battalion. Then, after passing through a mortar ‘stonk’ and crossing a bridge under
bombardment from enemy guns, the carrier shed both tracks
in deep craters. Tank men came to the aid of the wounded
who ‘had no more excitement after that,’ writes Sergeant Shaw.
Before he was carried away, Johnston, mastering his drifting
thoughts, firmly ordered Russell not to return to the wounded
signaller Ellis, but to find Colonel O'Reilly and tell him of the
platoon's plight. This Russell did, although bleeding, exhausted, and exposed to more fire. Following Johnston's
directions, Russell stumbled into Colonel O'Reilly's headquarters before the radio message got through from 23 Battalion.
Back on the other side of the mined hedge Corporal Callesen
gathered the lost men together and led them into an attack
on 7 Platoon's first objective.
Within an hour of A Company opening its attack, D Company was ordered to send a platoon forward to find A Company (all radio contact had been lost), to radio back reports,
and to try to keep radio touch with C Company on the left.
Sixteen Platoon, under Second-Lieutenant Charlie Deem,
2 Lt W. C. Deem; Inglewood; born Hawera, 6 Jan 1901; barrister and solicitor; died 3 Feb 1956.
went forward. ‘A dirty black night, the ground wet and greasy,
the going hard,’ writes Lance-Corporal Barnden.
L-Cpl C. S. Barnden; New Plymouth; born Onehunga, 16 Nov 1914; shop assistant; wounded 16 Dec 1944.
‘All the
way we had to run the gauntlet of very constant and accurate
defensive fire.’ Frequently the platoon had to stop and radio
its bearings back to headquarters. Each time it did this the
platoon was plastered with uncannily accurate mortars, which
‘brought out a lot of indignation from the boys who reckoned
that the enemy were on our wavelength and were merely following our route from our radio reports.’ But no casualties
came yet. ‘We first saw [Casa Ianna] through the blackness of
the night brilliantly lit by its surrounding haystacks and barns
which were well ablaze. At this stage the barrage had ceased
but the night was filled with small arms fire. On our left the
Brens were having a go at Casa Elta. There was a hell of a
noise coming from the direction of Celle. Everything was quiet
at Casa Ianna: A Company were in full possession.’ In extended order, ready for battle, the platoon crossed the creek
and climbed a rise safely
Men were startled to see next day that the whole area from the creek to Casa Ianna was smothered with mines and extensively trip-wired. Although many mines had been destroyed by the barrage, the area was still very deadly indeed.
into Casa Ianna, where A Company
was getting its breath back, and holding prisoners.
About one and a half hours after Deem's platoon left, the
call came for the rest of D Company. A guide led them in
single file in the dark over rough, wooded, and mined country
to A Company. ‘The grey dawn was just showing.’ The two
companies investigated and occupied buildings in the Casa
Ianna-Roba delle Suore area, taking more prisoners without
serious engagements.
Passing over the freshly-won ground, the New Zealand war
correspondent who had described the Freyberg Cup match
now wrote: ‘Fields and roads are pitted and torn with shell
holes; trees are broken and splintered and not a house in the
area undamaged. Many are reduced to rubble. In many the
Germans had torn holes in the ground floors and dug shelters
under the houses, stacking earth inside the rooms for extra
protection. Slit trenches around the houses emphasised their
determination to hold the positions. It was only the speed and
fury of our infantry attack, following a terrific barrage, which
smashed the German resistance…. The tiny village, Celle,
a miniature Cassino, with a church, a few buildings and earth
all round, was an indescribable confusion of wreckage….’
The companies stayed in position all that day, 15 December,
here and there taking part in minor mopping-up operations.
A few weary men in D Company, occupying a house full of
Italians, tried to persuade some of them ‘to do a spot of liberating themselves. I said we had come 15,000 kms to liberate them,
we still had a hell of a lot of liberating to do and many of the
men who had come with us were now dead or wounded. I
didn't think it fair to leave all the liberating to us since it wasn't
our country anyway. I then asked for some brave volunteers.
After a lot of talking—“too old,” “too weak,” “too young,”
“no weapons” etc. etc., two 15 year olds came forward, their
mothers trying to drag them back and everyone crying by now.’
Finally four, armed with German weapons, set off ‘and for the
first and last time we had the pleasing spectacle of Italians
marching forth to liberate their own country.’ The New Zealanders were excitedly accused of sending four Italians off to
certain death, but soon a great shout of joy arose: ‘our four
Italian heroes appeared, buttons bursting off chests with pride,
rifles prodding one tall German. As they came closer the German was seen to be the colour of his uniform on one side of
his face, a portion of the other side was missing, he seemed to
have several other holes in shoulder, arms and chest, also one
in the thigh. How he was able to walk was a miracle. He carried
himself like a soldier. He could still speak in a kind of whisper.’
To the amazement of the Italians the soldiers placed him on
a door, gave him water and cognac, conscripted four Italians
and threatened them with death if the German did not reach
the unit RAP.
In the mopping-up operations in the morning of 15 December
Crowe
Pte A. W. Crowe; Lepperton, Taranaki; born New Plymouth, 3 Dec 1921; farmhand; wounded 15 Dec 1944.
saw a spandau sticking out of a dugout, ‘so I reached
down and grabbed the barrel to yank it out and found a Jerry
hanging onto the handle, but before I could bring the tommy-gun up he ducked around the side, so we chucked in a couple
of smoke bombs and brought them out.’ But the smoke drew
shelling and ‘the old saying is quite right that you don't hear
the one that's got your number on it. I heard quite a few, then
Whamm! I was flat on my back. Old Tex Jones helped me up to
the boys.’ The mopping up continued.
More stretcher-bearers got to work after dawn, when a call
for volunteers among men left out of battle met with a grand
response. Because of the difficult country, mud, occasional shelling, and the menace of mines, some men did not reach hospital
in Forli until twenty-two hours after being wounded. Ned
Pemberton and three others (including an adventurous artillery
forward observation officer, Captain Horrocks,
Capt J. B. Horrocks, MC, ED; Auckland; born Auckland, 7 Jun 1920; law clerk; CO (Lt-Col) 9 Coast Regt RNZA, 1952-55.
who was later
decorated for his services) turned to rescue Galvin from the
minefield. They placed him on a stretcher, ‘both stood up, took
one step, and Boom, up we go again. Poor old Ned had his foot
blown clean off and the other knocked about.’ Pemberton,
calmly smoking a cigarette, was carried into the advanced dressing station and greeted the doctor with: ‘Well, she's a one
boot job, Doc.’
Crowe, who had been wounded in hand and leg, couldn't
help laughing. His stretcher-bearers, anti-tank men, ‘were all
armed with revolvers and red-cross armbands and the chap
out in front had a tommygun in one hand and a Red Cross
flag in the other, a real peaceful outfit.’ Among the last men
whom Anderson
Cpl A. F. Anderson; Masterton; born Carterton, 19 Mar 1923; carpenter; wounded 16 Apr 1945.
and his comrades picked up was Len Seaman,
who had been shot neatly through the centre of his chest and
was bleeding profusely: ‘we thought he'd had it.’ By now some
of the stretcher-bearers were worn out. There were about eight
men to each stretcher, one at each handle and the others taking
over at short intervals.
Colonel O'Reilly visited Casa Elta and on his way back
captured eight Germans coming out of a dugout near Casa
Ianna. The battalion was still rather confused about its own
casualties: the correct number for the attack was forty, including five dead—a hard blow in a bloody night. Many were
seriously injured in the limbs from mines. The battalion's
prisoners were eighty-four (including two officers), seventeen
of them severely wounded, and more men coming in as mopping up went on. All were from 36 Regiment 90 Panzer Grenadier
Division—tough, well seasoned, stubborn defenders, liberally
supplied with automatic weapons.
Faenza, having been outflanked, was abandoned by the
enemy in the night of 16-17 December. The battalion, solidly
supported by Air Force fighter-bombers working a few hundred
yards ahead, reached the Senio River, two miles below Castel
Bolognese, before dusk on the 16th. Captain Bob Wood, having
run the gauntlet through Celle, was waiting impatiently with
a jeep and trailer full of hot stew. The shelling and the ‘Moaning Minnies’ had been fairly heavy at times during the afternoon. Everyone was dog-tired. Most of the platoons had leapfrogged forward, occupying houses in turn. They were under
observation from Castel Bolognese, in front of the sector and
on the other side of the river. Plainly visible were the village's
church spires, and many a man thought to himself: ‘Feel a bit
naked with that damn church spire: great observation post for
Jerry.’
The RAP was radioed not to come up until dark, which
was not far off. ‘However not 10 minutes later there was a
commotion and a clatter … a Bren carrier was weaving
around the shell holes on the road, a chap standing up in it
with a beret on and smoking a pipe, directing the driver and
hanging on to a small Red Cross flag. The carrier was being
chased along the road by 88's which bounced either in front
or behind it on the roadway but somehow missed each time.
It was Paul Sergel. The Padre in leisurely fashion unstrapped
the stretcher from the carrier and loaded on the wounded chap
while shelling and mortaring continued heavily. He said it was
better not to wait till after dark as sometimes time was important with these casualties. The driver climbed in, then Paul idly
swung himself aboard, waved with his pipe in his hand and,
still standing, directed the driver back to the RAP while once
more 88s chased them all along that piece of road.’
Clearly the worst of the opposition was over. The battalion
had collected more captives, bringing its total prisoners since
the attack began to 124, nearly half of 5 Brigade's total of 284.
However, the river and winter would hold Eighth Army at
bay for many weeks. D Company found the river in front of
it 30 feet wide, in some places wider still. Sheer stopbanks
rose 12 feet high and had been blown here and there to flood
nearby land. Deep mud and marshy ground skirted the stopbanks, craftily mined as usual and threatening to crumble if
anyone tried bridge-building. Civilians said the Senio ran eight
feet deep at least, and other reports showed that tanks hadn't
a chance of crossing anywhere round about.
Low clouds and patches of damp fog drifted over the front
for the next few days. This mist was a double blessing to Ford
and his comrades. ‘Apparently the house we were in must have
been raided a lot for poultry (or gelenas), as there were only
about six chooks left round the place and as wild as March
hares. We'd no hope of catching them. The birds used to roost
in a tree in front of our house in full view of the enemy. One
misty afternoon the boys decided to rig a 36 grenade, with a
long string, in the tree where they roosted. In time the gelenas
came to roost, and all the boys’ mouths were watering expecting a feed of poultry next day. When the birds were all settled
round the grenade someone pulled the string; four seconds,
then an almighty explosion, it didn't get a single bird, only
blowing them out of the tree. They all ran away and that was
the last we saw of them.’
When the weather improved a little the enemy promptly
got on to houses in the front of 22 Battalion's area, shelling,
mortaring and bringing up tanks and self-propelled guns to
blaze away from across the river. ‘Blink your eyelashes and
the bastards would be on to us.’ Every house near the riverbank stopped direct hits, and in turn both the RAP and the
mortar platoon, just a little further back, were hit. The infantry lifted mines, observed enemy artillery, kept busy on flash-spotting, and sent back bearings to the artillery supporting
the battalion. The mortars and machine guns kept busy. Over
the ruined roads, through the mounting slush, ice and mud,
across soaked fields, the battalion carriers played a big part in
bringing up rations.
A piece of mortar passed through a window in a platoon
headquarters casa on 19 December and smashed Private
Mabbett's
Pte F. C. Mabbett; Rotorua; born Wellington, 22 Apr 1913; clerk; wounded 19 Dec 1944.
arm. He made his way out, cheered by a shot of
liquor on the way from Second-Lieutenant Bill Treseder.
Lt B. A. Treseder, m.i.d.; born Pahiatua, 12 Nov 1920; clerk.
The hospital sister apologised for the bed having only one
sheet. ‘Don't worry, as long as there's plenty of hay to sleep on,
replied the dazed private. He adds: ‘It was typical that when
I came to next day, there was Sergeant Tsukigawa to ask me
if I wanted anything, or could he send a cable home to my
people.’
A little incident now took place which impressed the officer
concerned ‘as typical of the men of the 22nd. War seemed to
bring these things out in a way that doesn't happen in peace
time.’ As with several other platoons, strength now was low—
his platoon, numbering eighteen, held two farmhouses along
the front, with nine men in each. Each house had three picket
posts to man, apart from any odd jobs which cropped up.
Everyone took a turn at picket duty, and everyone grew a
little ‘dopey’ from lack of sleep. The officer writes: ‘Our house
had a fireplace in the back where at night we kept a small fire
going to warm us—smoky chimneys in the daytime not being
desirable features of any place round there I relieved Pat
O'Carroll,
L-Cpl P. O'Carroll; Tikorangi, Waitara; born NZ 8 Feb 1915; freezing worker.
a Maori corporal in my platoon, at midnight. At
2 a.m. I came down from watching out into a cold drizzle of
rain to warm up at the fire before turning in on the floor. I
found Pat sitting gazing into the remains of the fire in a semi-
stupor. I sat down beside him and together we watched our
thoughts flickering in the embers. We had been in the line
some time so that our tobacco supplies were running out. I
had calculated that if I rationed myself to three rolls a day
I'd just about make out until we were relieved. We were all
about the same way. As I sat there I thought it wouldn't hurt
to have a cigarette before lying down for a sleep. I took my
tin from my pocket, rolled myself a cigarette, then passed the
tin to Pat telling him to have one. He took the tin, rolled himself a cigarette, and then passed it back to me. I slipped it into
my pocket again. We sat there a little longer, hardly speaking,
then I turned in. Next day, when I couldn't hold out any
longer, I took my tin out of my pocket again to roll a cigarette.
To my amazement it was half full of tobacco. I couldn't make
it out at all. I thought back … then I remembered passing
it to Pat. I tackled him: “Hey you—, what did you do to my
tobacco tin last night?” Eventually he admitted putting all of
his own into my tin, saying he'd given up smoking for a while
—claimed he often did—and thought I might like to have the
tobacco for which he had no further use, anyway.’
Consistent shelling spread over 21 December, a day which
began badly when one man was killed and three severely
wounded by mines just north of D Company. A riverbank
patrol (Les Raill,
Pte L. F. Raill; New Plymouth; born Waitara, 25 Feb 1923; clerical cadet; wounded 21 Dec 1944.
‘Snow’ Barratt,
Pte E. F. Barratt; born NZ 18 Dec 1919; engineering assistant; killed in action 21 Dec 1944.
and Gordon O'Donnell
Pte W. G. O'Donnell; Te Tawa, Inglewood; born New Plymouth, 26 Jun 1921; farmer.
)
was skirting the apparent edge of a minefield in almost total
darkness when Barratt exploded a mine, which blew off his
left leg near the groin. ‘We did our best to tourniquet this
terrible wound and then Gordon O'Donnell left posthaste to
fetch assistance.’ Time passed. Fearing O'Donnell had been
wounded on the way back and that Barratt might die from
lack of medical assistance, Raill gamely lifted his wounded
comrade on his back ‘but going up slight slope, shuffled onto
a mine, and that was that.’ Showing almost superhuman fortitude, Raill improvised tourniquets for his two smashed legs:
a tommy-gun sling and barrel on one leg, a tommy-gun magazine and braces on the other. Barratt had been thrown well
clear and did not speak or move again.
Help arrived. Raill was placed on a door and carried safely
from the minefield. Unhappily the party who recovered
Barratt's body, while returning along the track they had safely
used on the way up, exploded another mine which cost the
battalion two experienced and resolute soldiers: Lance-Sergeant
Lin Faull, who lost a leg, and Private ‘Blue’ Bowering,
Sgt L. A. Bowering; Frankton; born NZ 15 Apr 1921; electrician; wounded 21 Dec 1944.
who
lost an eye.
Raill writes of ‘the splendid work of the company stretcher-bearers who shared all dangers during attacks without the reassurance of lethal weapons in their hands. I was struck by the
demeanour of these chaps on several occasions and, when I
was hurt, the first person at my side was the RAP bloke who
strode rapidly down the easiest and therefore the most dangerous path as though there never was such a thing as a tripwire
or Schu-mine.’
During the four days before Christmas several houses occupied by the battalion were blown to bits. The whittling-down
process continued (the steady trickle of wounded men being
carried away was more unnerving than one quick blow), and
C Company had to quit a position when a casa was utterly
destroyed. The moment the men moved into their new place,
down crashed another exasperating ‘stonk’.
Three members of 15 Platoon fell wounded when their house
stopped a direct hit, and the platoon was then left without
NCOs.
The mortar men suffered too. Mick Condon
Cpl M. P. Condon; Waverley; born Eltham, 20 Dec 1920; farmhand; twice wounded.
‘was buried
under brick and rubble. I have to thank Hec McKinnon and
Fred Bowers
Pte F. J. Bowers; Motueka; born NZ 20 Jul 1921; clerk.
for clearing away the debris and getting us out,
and half dragging, half carrying me under Spandau fire to
medical aid.’ Among the ruins an old stove had split in half,
singeing the head of Allan Ainge
Sgt A. O. Ainge; born Dunedin, 8 Dec 1916; shepherd; died of wounds 23 Dec 1944.
before he could be rescued.
Bill McSweeney
Pte W. F. McSweeney; born Palmerston North, 6 Sep 1920; printer; killed in action 22 Dec 1944.
was killed outright, together with ‘Tony’,
the owner of the little farm, who had letters of gratitude from
escaping New Zealand prisoners of war whom he had assisted.
Another mortar man, Noel Bird, was wounded when the fog,
lifting over the front, increased enemy shelling. Bird had chosen
‘a nice cosy corner of the cellar for my bed, being the safest
part of the house as I thought. But as fate would have it, after
I was wounded Jim Cooper
Pte J. K. Cooper; born Killinchy, 13 Apr 1908; shepherd; killed in action 23 Dec 1944.
took my cosy corner bed and that
night was killed in it from a direct hit.’
One night just before Christmas, when a signaller in 15
Platoon's casa left his radio set and went outside, Private
Morgan
Pte I. G. Morgan; born Levin, 31 Jan 1923; student; killed in action 23 Dec 1944.
took over the set and died instantly when a mortar
burst through the kitchen window and ripped away the ceiling.
At daybreak the house was pounded to bits. Stew Shanks,
L-Cpl S. W. Shanks; Manutuke, Gisborne; born Gisborne, 14 Oct 1909; farmer; three times wounded.
Keith Martin,
L-Cpl K. Martin; Gisborne; born NZ 21 Feb 1922; machinist.
and one or two others were buried in rubble:
‘a terrible feeling lying there and wondering what was going
to happen next.’ Scooping away rubble, George Cade
Cpl G. W. Cade; Upper Hutt; born Wellington, 30 Oct 1914; foreman paint manufacturer.
suddenly raised two appallingly gory hands and said ‘Poor Stew.’
But the ‘gore’ came from a tomato sauce bottle. Filled with
anger and concern, Cade flung aside a massive rafter (it took
three men to move it later), and the three buried men, none
seriously injured, were freed ‘just when breathing was beginning to get a little difficult.’
Among the last casualties in this position was Private King,
Cpl G. S. King; Wellington; born Blenheim, 1 Oct 1918; school-teacher; wounded 26 Dec 1944.
wounded in the face by a stray spandau bullet when drawing
water at night.
Christmas Day was pretty quiet except for ‘stonks’ about
Battalion Headquarters and close attention to any movement.
The battalion machine guns fired 16,000 rounds, and the suffering mortars called it a day with a dozen bombs. But an early
morning Mass was conducted by Padre Callaghan
Rev. Fr. V. D. Callaghan; Lower Hutt; born Wellington, 9 Dec 1909; Roman Catholic priest.
at Battalion Headquarters for twenty-six members of the headquarters, a party from 27 (Machine Gun) Battalion, and a
handful of Italian civilians.
Every company planned to hold a carol service in the largest
room in the biggest house in its area. Padre Sergel started out
alone across country with his bundle of books and Communion
set, but even before he reached the first house the mortars were
on to him, driving him into a ditch, so the first service was late.
The next move was mostly behind cover. The third trip, again
in the open, meant a lot of ducking, diving and taking cover.
This service had to be held after dinner when the vino had
circulated generously, and although the carol singing was
superb, the faithful had to adjourn to an upper room for Communion. ‘The fourth company turned on a real Christmas
atmosphere,’ the Padre recalls. ‘It was held in the large ground-floor stable with cattle and donkeys in our midst, and most of
the boys were sitting on straw with a few peasants crouched
round a small fire in one corner. It needed little imagination
to feel we were back in Bethlehem centuries before. We realised,
perhaps for the first time, the background to that old, old story.
In the evening we built a big fire, and round this we sat as at
home, and we sang as best we could the old carols and old songs
of happier days. Our thoughts turned back to the Christmas
before in Southern Italy on the Sangro. How far we had
advanced since then! How many friends we had lost since then!
Then came memories of the Christmas before in Egypt, and
the one before that in the desert, and some could tell of others
even before then. And then we thought of those at home.’
CHAPTER 14
‘Hell of a Crack’
Without question the battalion agreed that No. 6, owned
by Charlie Merrylees's
Cpl C. J. Merrylees; Napier; born Waipukurau, 20 Dec 1908; stud groom; wounded 24 Oct 1942.
syndicate, was the greatest horse
since Phar Lap. No. 6 had just won four out of six races at
Forli, and £206 3s. 7d. was on the way to the battalion funds
in New Zealand, bringing the total from race meetings to £405
10s. 3d. Tommies (‘well down the drain but, game enough to
chase their losses, landed the mustard in the last race’), Kiwis, 5
Brigade Band, a sprinkling of Italians, and a cluster of bookies
rolled up to enjoy the Forli Turf Club's Winter Meeting. The
battalion had left the line on 27 December to rest in Forli. One
man struck exactly the right note by arriving in a classical
Derby hat. Running the meeting was a hard-working team of
sportsmen headed by ‘Kai’ Thomson, not a whit disturbed by
a broken collar-bone, Jack Sullivan, Mick Tatham,
Pte W. W. Tatham; Awakino; born Eketahuna, 6 Sep 1910; farmer.
‘Snow’
Absolom, George Sainsbury and Arthur Aldridge.
The horses stood six inches high and, complete with jockeys,
were fixed on stands. The ground was marked out with white
tape in draughtboard fashion, and the six horses lined up at
the starting post, on the fringe of the course, facing the first
row of squares. ‘They're off!’ And away they went, square by
square in turn, as the dice were thrown. In a hurdle race chocks
of wood lay here and there along the course. No horse could
jump until his number was thrown twice on the one roll of
the dice.
The routine orders opening the new year
While returning late from a social visit to the Divisional Workshops on New Year's Eve, Graham Hesp and A. C. McArtney struck tommy-gun fire near the Naafi theatre and ‘learned that the Gurkhas were having a bit of fun, hunted them up, told them we had been their targets, and chummed up well. It shows how friendships can be made.’
were unremarkable. Warning was given that a heavy blue X surrounded by
a thick blue circle was about to appear on many rather interesting shops, bars, buildings, clubs, restaurants and other places;
this new sign, soon so familiar to the battalion, would mean
OUT OF BOUNDS. One hundred and four thousand Christmas
parcels, posted late in New Zealand, would not arrive for another month. The House of Representatives, Wellington, sent
hopes for a speedy victory in 1945 ‘and their determination to
support you to the very end—Schramm.’ As for jerkins, leather:
‘The practice of using leather jerkins to provide sleeves and
collars and other additions to other jerkins will cease forthwith.’
The battalion's fifth birthday arrived. About twenty ‘originals’ went off to a get-together in C Company's casa. The battalion's health was just being proposed, and the speaker with
emotion was picturing the great day when, at a similar reunion
in New Zealand, 22 Battalion veterans would hear again the
voice of Colonel Andrew—when the door burst open, an Italian
crone appeared beneath a burden of washing, and in a high
state of excitement completely dominated both speaker and
reunion for several bewildering moments. The ancient washerwoman, it seemed, had blundered into the wrong house. some
explaining, persuasion, and soothing had to be done before she
departed.
The battalion went back to the line just in time to hear the
celebrated ‘Ghost Train’. The war had frozen all along the
Senio River. A heavy fall of snow covered the plains and made
patrolling difficult by hiding most traces of enemy minefields.
Later the freezing of the snow made silent movement almost
impossible. Patrols breaking through the frozen crust on the
snow could be heard 700 yards away. The weird glow of artificial moonlight hung over a dead landscape. There were multi-coloured flares, trip flares and parachute flares, or just great
empty silences. And tracks of men, tracks of dogs, leading to
and from wrecked houses and into dark clumps of saplings.
A day could pass with the temperature below zero, and mines
(including glass mines) were frozen solid into the ground. Sometimes the sound of voices drifted across the river: echoes of a
party, deep-throated snatches of ‘Lili Marlene’, or squeals from
a porker on the way to the cook's pot, or sounds of hammering,
sawing and digging from working parties. Over the frozen landscape moved white-hooded figures—patrols in snow capes.
On Monday, 15 January, a curtain of fog hung low over the
front, blinding the Air Force and hiding the soldiers. Then,
twice before midnight, 22 Battalion heard and reported the
sounds of puffing, the click of wheels passing over rails, the
sound of a slow-moving train travelling just across the river
in enemy territory. Men heard definite sounds of wheels going
over jointed tracks.
There was just one thing wrong. The men knew this only
too well when they made their reports. The railway line, the
bridges, the stations for miles around were smashed and quite
useless.
The night before, at tea-time, 21 Battalion first heard the
Ghost Train, doubted the sounds, but heard them again more
distinctly just before 9 p.m. Twenty-sixth Battalion also picked
up the strange noises. Reports went in to 5 Brigade Headquarters, and the Divisional Artillery shelled the ruined railway line across the river during the night.
Out of the fog on 16 January, 22 Battalion reported the train
four times: 9.33 a.m., 9.40 a.m., 2.24 p.m. and 7.20 p.m., and
again just after midnight. The Maoris, taking over from 21
Battalion, were the fourth battalion to hear the train. Then
gunners, Indians, and a British heavy anti-aircraft unit heard
it too. So it went on, to the end of January. Sounds suggested
that the train usually ran from ruined Castel Bolognese to
Solarolo, about 5000 yards.
Radar, which was now in use for pin-pointing mortars,
vainly attempted to track down a ghost. Special aircraft, once
the fog lifted, cruised hour after hour, searching, hunting,
photographing. Photo-reconnaissance men studied minutely
old and new aerial photographs reaching miles back into enemy
territory. The New Zealand Division's intelligence summaries
speculated day after day and drew no conclusion.
The puzzle, still unsolved, could be reduced to three questions. Did—or could—a train actually run somewhere near the
enemy front line? ‘No,’ said air observation. Was it an accoustics
trick? Did sounds carry so distinctly from ten miles away that
veterans on patrol were deceived into thinking the noise began
just a few hundred yards ahead? This seems unlikely. A German
trick perhaps: broadcasting records of a train moving? This
seems rather pointless, especially as General Polack, who commanded 29 Panzer Grenadier Division on the Senio from mid-December to 22 January 1945, later told an Allied interrogator
that no train ran near Castel Bolognese. No German heard
such sounds.
Patrolling, mine-sowing, and booby-trapping filled in 22
Battalion's fortnight on the snowbound Senio. It was a quiet
period, for Eighth Army was critically short of ammunition.
Casualties were rare. In snow suits on patrol, Second-Lieutenant Scott
2 Lt E. M. Scott, m.i.d.; Masterton; born Dannevirke, 21 Nov 1916; shepherd and drover; wounded 17 Jan 1945.
(commanding 12 Platoon) and Sergeant ‘Bunny’
Benson
Sgt F. G. Benson; Marton; born Wanganui, 6 Jan 1917; farmhand.
passed through an orchard and were worming their
way forward on their stomachs in very poor visibility. ‘Scottie’
wiped a drip from the end of his nose, and brrrrrrrt—a spandau
opened fire from 25 yards away. Off they went, back to the
orchard. Sergeant Ian Ford opened fire with a Bren from the
platoon casa to cover them. Both got back, Benson safely, but
Scott with bullets through both feet. The machine-gunners
supported a brief platoon attack by the Gurkhas. An odd
diversion began when a bored Bren-gunner started the fashion
of tat-tatting and beating out the first few bars of a popular
song. Indians on the battalion's flank frowned upon this flippancy, but Jerry gave it a go, unfortunately with little success.
His main machine gun, the spandau, with its high rate of fire
was inclined to purr rather than beat.
One man has good reason to remember this locality. While
digging a tunnel system underneath the platoon casa, he swung
his pick and out fell a bottle holding one hundred 1000-lire
notes. ‘Andy’ went on Rome leave almost immediately.
The mortar men were in fine fettle at this time, using the
2-inch mortar as a long-range mortar. Ken MacKenzie began
a poem which opened:
I think that I shall never seeA buona Mortar such as thee,With hungry mouth to sky outstretched,Steel pressed to earth's sweet flowing breast.Oh! gaping maw you cry to meFor white hot steel, for mungaree.
The battalion went out to Faenza, to billets in the main
square, and then on 2 February into a new New Zealand
brigade, 9 Infantry Brigade, together with the Divisional
Cavalry and 27 (Machine Gun) Battalion, converted to infantry. This new infantry brigade, commanded by Brigadier
Gentry, was to meet the need for more infantry in an over-mechanised division. It had to settle down, reorganise, and
train as a brigade with very little time to spare before joining
the Division. Concentrated and special training began back at
Fabriano, where most members of the battalion returned to
a warm welcome from the same families they had been billeted with on other visits. The red diamond shoulder patches
of 9 Brigade arrived, but the 22nd still kept the red flash under
the fernleaf cap badge, part of the dress during its 4 Brigade
days.
Before work started in earnest, Major Bob Wood and Captain ‘Scotch’ Paterson arranged a boisterous farewell for men
homeward bound in the Tongariro leave draft. Colonel
O'Reilly, Major Sainsbury, Don Agnew and ‘Kai’ Thomson
spoke of old days, old places, old faces. A happy evening ended
with the toast ‘Absent Friends’, musical items, and a couple
of fights. A battalion parade farewelled the ‘Tongariroites’ on
7 February. They numbered 113 altogether, and included men
who had returned from New Zealand furlough and 4th and
5th Reinforcements. In a little group apart paraded the old
originals, ‘who had borne the heat and burden of the days over
the long years.’ These veterans had been hitting it along for
a few days (some literally, as black eyes showed, and one was
in trouble for flattening a military policeman in the mud), but
they all mustered for the parade. They marched past steadily,
taking with them the last shadow of the old days—except for
Colonel Donald and Major Armstrong, both still with the
battalion. The battalion presented arms. Led by George
Sainsbury, away went the draft next day, to a rousing send-off from the pipe band—and many yellow smoke grenades.
Later the disabled General Kippenberger was similarly honoured (without smoke grenades). The battalion had served
under his command in the desert.
Two bands, the battalion's pipe band and 2 Ammunition Company's brass band, played during a battalion parade for General Freyberg, who presented medals to
members of the Freyberg Cup team. He paid a tribute to the fighting efficiency and record of the battalion and spoke highly of the leadership and soldierly qualities of Colonel O'Reilly, who next day was leaving for New Zealand on furlough.
March brought brigade manoeuvres, the first a demonstration attack by infantry supported with tanks. A and C Companies attacked, with B and D in close support. They covered
over a mile, the tanks firing impressively. Later, instead of
tanks, machine guns mounted on carriers gave support. This
was preparing the troops for fighting in settlements. Then they
moved below Fabriano, to near Matelica village. More manoeuvres improved tactical and administration details. Remaining
well out of the picture, to his profound relief, was Private
Murray Doyle.
Pte D. M. Doyle; Masterton; born New Plymouth, 15 Jun 1923; shop assistant.
When a fieldcraft exercise ended, Murray
had just one smoke-bomb left. When nobody was looking, he
hurled the thing into a patch of scrub and started an enormous
fire, which in turn started widespread inquiries … but Doyle
was never found out.
After this the Divisional Cavalry Battalion attacked silently
through 22 Battalion, and the 22nd carried out a night relief
of 27 Battalion. Difficulties, exasperations, and problems were
ironed out, but everyone capitulated before a violent thunderstorm one afternoon which turned the place into a quagmire.
The last exercises included an anti-tank shoot and an artillery
demonstration of a ‘murder’ and a ‘stonk’. Captain Spicer had
his much coveted, snow-white duffle coat ruined in full sight
of B Company's headquarters when a civilian emptied a pot
from a top window. At night each battalion in turn made a
500-yard advance under an artillery barrage. The safety distance was 200 yards. This exercise went off well: 9 Brigade
was almost ready for action.
And so in April, in springtime, the New Zealand Division
went into its last and most spectacular attack and advance of
the war. In a week the Division advanced 20 miles against
bitter opposition from some of the élite of the German Army,
to capture half of Eighth Army's grand total of prisoners.
Infantry, determined it seemed to avenge the frustrations and
humiliations in the niggling advances hard-won through the
mud on the wintry Adriatic coast, fought their way through
and mastered the best the Wehrmacht could throw against them.
A fresh division lay broken and smashed within thirty-six hours’
fighting. Then, in an advance scarcely pausing, the Division
led the Eighth Army north, from the plains past the Senio to
the Alps. Messages came from equally valorous units: Fifth
Army, and the seasoned, hard-hitting Americans in the hills
to the left by Bologna; Eighth Army, including the indomitable
Poles and Gurkhas, on the Adriatic plains. Such messages mentioned ‘a magnificent achievement’. The homeless army of
exiles, 2 Polish Corps, wrote ‘of your incomparable fighting
qualities.’
And in the hurricane of fire over the Gaiana Canal, 22 Battalion—together with two staunch defenders during the old
days in Crete, 27 Battalion and Divisional Cavalry Battalion
—avenged the bitter day when it was driven from Maleme
airfield. Again meeting paratroops (in the role of infantry, never
again airborne), 22 Battalion paid back the old score after
three years and eleven months.
Appointments were: CO, Lt-Col H. V. Donald; 2 i/c, Maj C. N. Armstrong; OC A Coy, Capt J. Wells; OC B Coy, Capt R. H. Spicer; OC C Coy, Maj L. G. S. Cross; OC D Coy, Maj H. K. Joblin.
The attack opened after weeks of intense planning and preparation. Across the Senio River the country stretched ahead
dead flat, rather like a great orchard, a green haze of vines on
wires, mulberry trees, willows, poplars, and here and there a
touch of fruit blossom. A strange new zoology of vehicles had
gathered: Kangaroos (Sherman tanks stripped down to carry
infantry), Crocodiles (tanks towing oil-filled trailers and hurling flames 100 yards or more), Wasps (flame-throwing Bren
carriers with a much shorter range), amphibious DUKWS
(called Ducks) for troop-carrying, Weasels (an amphibious type
of Bren carrier), and Fantails (amphibious tanks). Bridges
waited, ready to go up, some with names chosen after New
Zealand towns: Raglan, Woodville.
The 9th April was a beautiful day. The morning passed in
peace. One o'clock. Almost two o'clock. The hard, metallic
drone from a swarm of Liberators and Fortresses, wave following wave, high in the sky, all making for the Senio River from
airfields as far away as Foggia and Sardinia. From their bomb
bays fell over 200,000 bombs—not the crater-digging bombs
of Cassino, but small bombs to blast men and vehicles and cut
communications. With a growing roar the countryside erupted
into swirling dust clouds. Then came fighter-bombers and
rocket-firing Thunderbolts, seeking and searing all signs of
movement. Now the artillery, stronger in guns than at Alamein,
swung into action, raking the stricken countryside for four hours
with a quarter of a million shells. Then, in the red sunset, the
flame-throwers, the Wasps and Crocodiles, went forward, their
terrible jets of flame billowing out to 100 yards to sear the
stopbanks.
‘We are going to hit him a hell of a crack,’ General Freyberg
had said. They did.
Fifth and 6th Brigades went forward, and behind them the
tanks. Within three days they had won over four miles of
ground and were beyond the next river, the Santerno, even
more strongly fortified than the Senio but not strongly manned.
The furious assault had not given the Germans time to fall
back to the Santerno's defences. The new 9 Brigade originally
was to win and hold this breach over the Santerno, but this
had been done by 6 Brigade. Now came 9 Brigade's turn in
the big attack. Geoffrey Cox,
Maj G. S. Cox, MBE, m.i.d.; London; born Palmerston North, 7 Apr 1910; journalist.
watching men from this brigade
move forward, wrote
The Road to Trieste (Heinemann).
:
They marched along the roadside, ten to fifteen yards apart, moving
swiftly. Each man carried his pack, with the white enamel mug tied
under the strap and a shovel on top. The gear caught your eye
more than the man himself. Some carried, some wore their steel
helmets. Their rifles or Tommy-guns were slung over their shoulders.
Their black boots were grey with dust below the anklets which
bound in their battledress trousers, yet they left only rarely a footprint in the soft dust which was constantly powdered and coated
anew by the passing lorries and jeeps. Here a man carried a
stretcher; there the red cross of a first-aid haversack showed up
against the khaki; yet another man held the barrel of a heavy
machine-gun over his shoulder like a log. Behind him strode a
corporal with mortar ammunition, carrying the holder with its
three containers in his hand like a suitcase, grotesquely, for all the
world as if he were a week-ender hurrying to the train on Saturday
afternoon.
Their faces had the set, silent, apart, almost hypnotised appearance of men about to go into battle. Already these men moved in
another world, in the world of absorption in the fight and in personal
survival which started just over the river, ahead there in the mist
where the flat, crunching bursts of incoming mortar shells sounded
clearly. It was a world from which we in the jeeps and the passing
trucks were separated by no great distance on the ground, but by
an immensity in life. Across this distance they regarded us without
rancour, without bitterness, without even interest. One man called
some remark to a friend striding ahead of him, who answered with
hardly a turn of his head. For the most part they marched silently,
quietly, fatalistically, steadily, accepting but not pretending to like
this lot which events had thrust upon them. Above all one felt their
individual loneliness, their almost terrible apartness. They were not
individuals in the ordinary civilian sense, but soldiers caught up in
a something as wide and unchecked as an ocean wave. Yet amidst
this each remained, at this moment, alone in himself. No one else
now could carry the burden of responsibility which rested on his
shoulders like these weapons, this impedimenta, the dual responsibility for doing his task and if possible preserving his own life.
Twenty-second Battalion, 554 strong, had crossed the Santerno River before daylight on Friday, 13 April, and was ready
to go into action just beyond the smoking ruins of Massa
Lombarda, which had been occupied by 21 Battalion at midnight. On the way up, through the wreckage and carnage
where the New Zealand assault over the Senio had swept,
Shanks
Shanks, who was soon wounded in the shoulder, was evacuated in a Bren carrier. He slid out of the carrier when it stood on its tail to climb out of a ditch, but jumped up and, towing his stretcher behind him, caught up again. Twenty-four hours later he had had an operation and was far away in hospital at Bari.
‘came across an Italian woman sitting on the sunny
side of a house near a river and nursing a baby. She told me
the baby was three months old, yet that day was the first time
it had seen daylight. It had been born in a hole in the ground,
and had never been above ground until that day for fear of
bombs and shells.’ Another small group looked silently ‘at a
dead German gently cooking as his phosphorous grenades
burned about him. A tunic button burst off as we watched.
Then bullets flicked past us. We started back, then realised
we were under fire from a dead man's bullets exploding (from
the heat of the grenades) in his bandolier.’
Now, past Massa Lombarda, 9 Brigade came into position
on the left of 6 Brigade, with 22 Battalion on the right, Divisional Cavalry Battalion on the left, and 27 Battalion in reserve guarding the left flank. A and C Companies, moving up
in Kangaroos, led 22 Battalion's advance. Nobody could call
Kangaroo transport luxury travel. The gun turret and most of
its attachments had been removed from the old Sherman tank.
When the riflemen jumped down into the ‘pouch’ of the Kangaroo, they were confronted by all sorts of odd hooks, brackets
and shelves which stuck out from the walls and prevented all
of the six or eight infantrymen (bulging with equipment) from
sitting down together. ‘At first some of us did try to sit occasionally to avoid being engulfed by the choking clouds of dust
thrown up by the tracks on the roads,’ writes one Kangaroo
traveller. ‘However we soon discarded sitting in favour of standing because we could at least see where we were going, and
avoid the discomfort of being shaken up like cough mixture in
a bottle every time the driver turned off the road and lurched
into a ploughed paddock. Nevertheless I think everyone (despite
barked shins, bruises, etc.) was thankful for the cover they
afforded us.’
The day was an uproar of aircraft and artillery fire. Progress was good, with the tanks of 19 Armoured Regiment pushing out in front. Pockets of strong resistance soon turned up,
and the infantry left their Kangaroos to mop up. C Company
soon met stiff opposition, but the house finally fell, yielding
prisoners. A Company, mastering spandau fire from houses,
ran into a lively engagement at a house further on and took
seven prisoners. A platoon featuring in this attack made its
first bound to a lateral ditch some 50 yards ahead and halfway to the house. The ground was fairly open. Weaving and
doubling in extended line, the platoon reached the ditch and
dived in thankfully—all except Private George Hardy
Pte G. W. Hardy; Wellington; born NZ 24 Sep 1923; labourer.
who,
in full view of the enemy, calmly walked over a very narrow
plank. ‘For—'s sake get down!’ yelled Sergeant Forsyth.
WO I I. F. Forsyth; Waiouru; born Petone, 16 Jun 1917; transport driver; wounded 13 Apr 1945; RSM, Army Schools, Waiouru.
Back came the reply (‘as if from an armchair’) ‘No—Herman
will ever make me wet MY feet!’
On another occasion a comrade recalls that Hardy was ‘shouting corrections to fire orders to a German machine-gunner who was obviously trying to hit him. The method: “Down 50 you Herman—”, or “Slightly right, you Herman—!” It must have been Hardy's lucky war for no one appeared to get him in their sights and he finally made the grade.’
A troublesome anti-tank gun by a canal was sent packing
by concentrated artillery fire, and fighter-bombers took good
care of Tiger tanks lurking near the battalion area. Fighter-bombers are thought to have knocked out five Tiger tanks
here: ‘The Air Force did a great job right through.’ Our tanks
had a difficult time crossing canals, and after dark, under a
regimental barrage, the two companies finished their drive with
a short advance to Squazzaloco Canal (known as ‘Bitch’ on
the brigade maps), which gave a firm base for the attack coming
up on the Sillaro River after midnight. This day A and C Companies had won 1000 yards: the way to the Sillaro River was
open, but now the riverbank was lined by fresh troops of
278 Division.
Before the night attack started, A Company, pushing on from
the canal to the river and digging more and more rapidly and
with increasing alarm, reported that our own shells were falling
in the company area. ‘You are quite OK where you are,’ came
back over the radio, ‘it's only “Ted's” stuff coming in.’ ‘Then,
Sir,’ tersely answered 2 Platoon's commander, ‘we're … well
surrounded.’ The shelling thickened, and when the ‘stonk’
began, most of the company took to a casa ‘and personally from
that moment my sympathy has gone out to any man of any
nation who has had the misfortune to be under a 25-pounder
stonk.’
The house received a direct hit. Lieutenant Keith Cave
jumped to the hole and stood with his back to it, as if protecting his own men, and a second shell, landing in the same place,
killed him. Another death occurred here, and about ten men
were wounded. ‘Our radio at this stage was talking merrily
under a heap of bricks, and we were momentarily in a state
of disorder.’ When the ‘stonk’ lifted B Company (in reserve)
pushed through.
At 2.30 a.m. on 14 April another assault, which aimed to
reach and to cross the Sillaro River, began behind a heavy
barrage. Now came the turn of B and D Companies, which
had been in reserve. They swung into the attack in the night
and met little ground opposition but a great deal of shelling
and mortaring. By 3 a.m. they were pushing on to the stopbanks of the river.
The other two companies (A Company grouping together
again) followed up. A platoon from D Company, led by Lieutenant Doug Hayter
Maj D. G. Hayter, m.i.d.; New Plymouth; born Manaia, 30 May 1912; civil servant.
(with perhaps a few other men), succeeded in crossing the river, but not for long. A man in this
party, Jim Herbert,
Pte A. L. J. Herbert; born Waitara, 22 Jan 1922; cheese maker; wounded 14 Apr 1945.
writes: ‘I was wounded by machinegun fire at 10 to 5 on the morning of 14 Apl. on the south
stopbank of the Sillaro River during the advance which began
at the Senio River. At the time I was wounded we had crossed
the Sillaro River but found the north bank too hot to hold, so
were retiring to the south bank. I stopped the shot while crossing barbed wire entanglements. Another lad wounded at the
same time I knew as “Bung” Young;
Pte S. R. Young; born Auckland, 6 Mar 1923; factory hand; died of wounds 19 Apr 1945.
he died in hospital about
three days later.’
On either side of 22 Battalion, however, men from Divisional
Cavalry Battalion and two battalions of 6 Brigade held the
far bank. The river defied the 22nd all next morning. Heavy
shelling and mortaring covered its area, which was also raked
with spandau fire. Tanks over the river joined in this hot reception, most of which was directed with painful accuracy from
the little village of Sesto Imolese. But men kept busy on reconnaissance in preparation for the crossing that night.
After sunset (still 14 April) in a silent attack, 22 Battalion
crossed the supposedly knee-deep Sillaro River to take the
opposite bank and to plug the gap between Divisional Cavalry
and 26 Battalions. Men of B (right) and D (left) Companies,
which made the assault, were told that the enemy still held
the far bank, or at least kept standing patrols there during
darkness. ‘Soon as you climb the near bank (12 to 20 feet
high),’ they were told, ‘everyone must dash across the flat top
(about 10 feet wide) and the shelf below (about 18 feet wide),
drop down into the river, and cross as fast as you can.’
A B Company private describes the crossing: ‘A few minutes
before 8 p.m. we filed silently down towards the riverbank,
inwardly wondering what sort of a reception we would receive
on the other side. It was a quiet spring evening and as the
entire company spread out in an orderly fashion by platoons
in an extended line, I had the fleeting thought that it was “just
another exercise” when Lt. Phil Powell who had been standing
halfway up on the 20ft. stopbank waved his arm, and we were
off!
‘As we climbed the bank and ran across the top down on
to the sandy shelf below it was impossible not to feel like “sitting
ducks,” but the familiar tracer hadn't opened up on the far
bank and we dropped into the river. Some waded across and
some had to swim. I was carrying a Bren above my head and
found it quite an effort in heavy battledress to move forward
through the ankle-deep mud underfoot while the water swirled
around the top of my Bren pouches. When within reach of the
far bank I pushed the Bren up on the ledge, and on the second
attempt managed to scramble up after it. I moved forward
far enough up the sloping bank to see a house over to the right
from which a steady stream of tracer was pouring. I propped
up the Bren and had pumped off a magazine in that direction
when Phil Powell came along and told us to pair off and dig
in.’
With only two casualties in the actual crossing, the two companies held their own in the night against mortars and nebelwerfers, each company driving back a raiding party before
dawn. One occupant of a slit trench would stand guard while
his friend snatched two hours' sleep. McArtney,
Pte A. C. McArtney; Bulls; born Foxton, 1 Dec 1922; exchange clerk; wounded 14 Apr 1945.
who was
sitting on the floor of the trench while his companion took over,
writes: ‘all of a sudden the whole slitty collapsed upon us.’
Garwood
Sgt J. H. Garwood, DCM; Lower Hutt; born Wellington, 12 Feb 1921; store-man.
and another man dug McArtney out; his collar-bone was broken and his arm broken in two places.
On 15 April B Company found and cleared a gap of a few
hundred yards between its position and 26 Battalion, and
collected altogether fifteen prisoners. This action began when
Private Charlwood
Pte D. W. Charlwood; born NZ 30 Apr 1912; truck driver; deceased.
and Lance-Corporal Sinclair
L-Cpl W. A. Sinclair; born Dunedin, 6 Feb 1922; casein worker.
discovered
that this part of the riverbank was held by a German standing
patrol. Charlwood crept over the top of the bank and fired
through the opening of an underground trench, killing one
German. The others, surrendering, were shepherded out and
lined up for searching. They drew several interested spectators.
Exactly at that moment the battalion 3-inch mortars opened
up, the first bombs falling perilously short. Men still in their
slit trenches watched and grinned at others being beaten to
their trenches by some of the half-dozen prisoners. Soon after
this a party carrying rations made its way along the river
shelf and was about to wade into the river. A nearby spandau
snugly set in a bend in the river opened up, and Spooner,
Pte R. A. Spooner; Wanganui; born Hunterville, 15 Apr 1923; apprentice motor mechanic; wounded 15 Apr 1945.
helping ‘to take the good old stew across the river to 12 Platoon’,
was struck by two bullets. It was his twenty-second birthday.
Enfilading fire now swept down the river. Towards noon a
Wasp flame-thrower burned out this troublesome spandau
post. Aided by prompt ‘stonks’ on mortars and bazookas, the
two companies held their now firmly established positions across
the river. A party returning with prisoners was struck by a
mortar bomb, which wounded Lieutenant Rogers,
Lt A. S. Rogers; Lower Hutt; born Lower Hutt, 14 Jul 1916; warehouse assistant; twice wounded.
and Lance-Sergeant Mick Glen
Sgt B. G. Glen; Gisborne; born Auckland, 19 Dec 1919; bank clerk; wounded 17 Apr 1945.
took over 11 Platoon.
Orders for the evening attack were issued in mid-afternoon.
Twenty-seventh Battalion was to pass through Divisional Cavalry
on the left and, together with 22 Battalion, attack and continue
the advance over the Sillaro River, each battalion on an 800-
yard front. On the right 6 Brigade would attack with the same
programme.
At 9 p.m. (still the same day, 15 April) the artillery barrage
opened on the very second, and the whole of the New Zealand
line went forward. In the 22nd's area above Sesto Imolese A
and C Companies were in front, with B and D in support.
Dawn found them three kilometres beyond the river after much
resistance from small arms and snipers. Two lieutenants had
been killed: Bedingfield
Lt J. D. Bedingfield; born Wellington, 12 Sep 1920; student teacher; killed in action 15 Apr 1945.
and McCorkindale.
Lt K. J. D. McCorkindale; born Auckland, 9 Oct 1920; soldier; killed in action 16 Apr 1945.
Private Sherman
Pte H. J. Sherman; Te Kowhai, Hamilton; born Dargaville, 20 Nov 1921; farmhand; wounded 15 Apr 1945.
had been wounded by splinters in face and forehead when
a bullet hit the inside of his Kangaroo. In this attack C Company had pushed on in the dark until it was held up by Germans
firmly dug in along a roadway. One hundred yards from here
13 and 15 Platoons occupied a house and kept up a steady fire
until dawn. On the way Private Murray Doyle, winded by a
piece of spent shrapnel, had lost his rifle and was given a
German rifle and ammunition, but could not work the mechanism. During a brief lull the occupants of the house leapt in
alarm at a loud explosion in their midst. Murray called reassuringly: ‘It's all right—I found how it worked.’ At dawn, ‘for
some reason I have never been able to understand,’ Corporal
‘Mick’ Anderson, armed with a tommy gun, left the house,
walked straight to the Germans in their slit trenches, and demanded their surrender. Sergeant Jack Sicely (who had taken
over 15 Platoon when Bedingfield was killed) and others moved
up to support the corporal. As Anderson grabbed at an enemy
rifle about thirty Germans rose, dropped their weapons, moved
forward, and were collected. Then Anderson fell, his left arm
(later amputated) severely shattered by a concealed tommy-gunner.
It so happened during this night attack that one platoon had
taken a prisoner. A man, fierce in outward appearance at least,
was left alone in a house to guard this prisoner. Four Germans,
intending to surrender, approached. The guard promptly surrendered to them, despite their protests. To settle this awkward
situation everyone piled all weapons in the centre of the
room and agreed to surrender to the next party to turn up—
which happened to be New Zealanders.
As the attackers moved on after dawn, prisoners were sent
back in batches; it was impossible to keep count of them at
this stage. Fog made visibility poor, and the tanks were slow.
Once the Kangaroos had arrived (the Sillaro had been bridged
about 1 a.m.), however, the advance speeded up with B and
A now the forward companies pushing into a reeling enemy.
By midnight they had advanced another good distance, four
kilometres this time. The infantry exploited in their Kangaroos
in close co-operation with the tanks. In the last ten hours 22
Battalion had taken 116 prisoners and had lost two officers
killed and sixteen other ranks wounded in twenty-four hours.
Most of the delays were caused by enemy strongpoints and
through Kangaroos finding it difficult to cross canals.
At 6 a.m. on 17 April B and D Companies advanced at top
speed, limited only by the pace of the tanks and Kangaroos,
and halted once while fighter-bombers attacked Villa Fontana
on the battalion's left front. By noon the forward platoons,
covering six kilometres, were approaching the line of the Gaiana
Canal, strongly held by paratroopers of 4 Parachute Division.
Bridges were blown here. By 4 p.m. B Company was on the
near stopbank of the Gaiana.
The plan for the attack which gained the stopbank was for
the battalion's mortars to lay a smoke screen across the immediate front ‘which,’ Ian Ferguson notes ruefully, ‘was a flat
treeless plain without even a decent sized tussock for cover.’
Eleven and 12 Platoons were to advance right up to the forward stopbank in their Kangaroos, get out and dig in. Ten
Platoon was to clear and occupy a couple of houses about 80
yards short of the stopbank and give covering fire to the forward platoons busy with pick and shovel.
‘The smokescreen was duly laid,’ Ferguson continues, ‘and
the Kangaroos clanked under way under intense mortar and
small-arms fire from the paratroops. The smokescreen disappeared in a few minutes and we bumped and jolted along
with funereal speed until our Tommy driver ran us into a large
ditch. The Kangaroo pitched nose downwards and became
immovable. Everyone scrambled out and started to run forward in the open field to the nearest house about 120 yards
away. The whole section made it without mishap.’ Racing into
a room upstairs with his Bren, Ferguson soon felt ‘a jarring
sensation in my right shoulder and a momentary burning at
the side of my neck, and knew I had collected a burst of spandau
from the stopbank which knocked me over. The first bullet had
hit a nerve, and I felt as if I was having all my teeth drilled
together.’ Phil Powell cut away his battledress jacket and
applied field dressings.
Describing the scene on the stopbank, a 12 Platoon man
writes: ‘The Kangaroos stopped about 30 or 40 yards from
the stopbank. The first thing we saw as we jumped out of the
Kangaroos was a line of paratroopers’ heads and shoulders
above the bank, firing at us. Not one man in the platoon was
hit in the charge to the stopbank, thanks to the covering fire,
small arms, etc., from the Kangaroos and other sources. A hand-grenade battle then followed. Never have I seen anyone dig
so fast and furiously in all my life. The ground was like concrete. We cussed another crowd who had borrowed our sharp
shovels earlier, and never returned them. The paratroopers
seemed to have an endless supply of grenades which they rolled
over the bank. So to fool and annoy them (and also to save
our own supply of grenades) we would occasionally throw over
empty bully beef tins or sods of dirt…. [Privates Goodwin
Pte B. R. Goodwin; born Stratford, 25 Sep 1922; butcher; wounded 17 Apr 1945.
and Colin Ferguson
L-Cpl C. K. Ferguson; Heretaunga; born NZ 5 Nov 1921; clerk; wounded 17 Apr 1945.
were] wounded with grenade splinters. We
were lucky. The Teds fired two bazookas into a Kangaroo on
our left flank which burst into flames, causing the ammunition
on board to explode. The noise and heat was terrific.’
The firmly-held Gaiana line was stormed next night (18
April) in the last all-out New Zealand assault of the war. In
9 Brigade's sector 22 Battalion took over from 27 Battalion on
the left (next to the Gurkhas), with Divisional Cavalry on the
right. A tremendous barrage broke at 9.30 p.m. and then the
flame-throwers went forward to hose and lick the opposite bank
with deadly effect. After this the infantry went forward, C
Company on the right, A on the left, D mopping up, and B
on one hour's notice (and soon sending 12 Platoon to protect
the bridge-building engineers from an enemy thrust on the
right flank).
‘I saw this attack go in,’ writes Major Spicer, ‘the arty was
terrific, then the flame-throwers advanced to the bank in extended line, a Crocodile then a Wasp, at approximately 100
yards apart for the Crocodiles with the Wasps in between,
which gave a vehicle every 50 yards. The centre tank started
first, then the bank was just one sheet of flame, a sight never
to be forgotten.’
At 6 a.m. on 19 April they were three kilometres beyond the
Gaiana and midway between Villa Fontana and Budrio. Just
before dawn, as Headquarters Company began assembling on
the outskirts of Villa Fontana, a shell landed in the square
where Private Collins and an anti-tank officer were pulling up.
Collins, diving for cover, was wounded in the foot almost at
the threshold of the RAP.
Ballantyne,
Sgt D. B. Ballantyne; born NZ 6 Jan 1924; filer's assistant; wounded 19 Apr 1945.
using a Bren now that his No. 38 set was out
of action, was covering ‘Buff’ North and his Piat mortar. A
file of paratroops had been driven off, but a last straggler, using
a Luger, shot Ballantyne through the thumb and chest. After
lying wounded and alone on the stopbank for about six hours
a tommy-gunner, Phelps,
Cpl S. E. Phelps; born Carterton, 29 Nov 1920; slaughterman; wounded 18 Apr 1945.
was picked up by efficient stretcher-
bearers. ‘What a job they must have had considering the smoke
and fog that was hanging around.’ A small German patrol was
driven back by a grenade, which drew ‘molti schmieser fire’,
and Phelps, who had been dropped, ‘though I couldn't walk
before darn soon caught the stretcher-bearers up, and the only
regret was leaving my little bag of loot, and catching them up
with a perfectly useless Thompson sub-machine gun clasped
firmly in my hand.’ While waiting in a little brick shed for an
ambulance, the wounded Phelps watched and drew comfort
from ‘a very corpulent Major flat out digging a slit trench and
doing a great sweat. The air was blue when he was sent forward without enjoying his hard-earned labour.’
Casualties had been fairly light; there had been some confused skirmishes with much small-arms fire throughout the
advance. The toll of enemy dead was greater than any seen
so far by the battalion. A provisional count was made of the
dead; the figures are not remembered, ‘but it was terrific.’ The
artillery barrage had accounted for many; others lay by smashed vehicles and carts where the Air Force had caught them.
Every house and canal held its sprawling dead, and here alone
the infantry had succeeded: evidence was abundant. The paratroops were taking terrible punishment as the campaign drew
to its close. Many prisoners were taken. A Company collected
forty in one batch.
In the night C Company headquarters, caught in a heavy
‘stonk’, made a death-or-glory tommy-gun charge over 200
yards to take cover inside a house, only ‘to find themselves in
the open air again—with shells still falling—the “house” was
merely a shell—a front wall with nothing else,’ writes Bryan
Edinger. ‘The boys involved claim that the anticlimax was
such that in spite of the position, they all roared with laughter.’
At 9 a.m. B and D Companies passed through the leading
companies, in Kangaroos, and continued to advance until
brought to a halt while Divisional Cavalry cleaned up on the
right. Early in the afternoon the battalion moved on again,
and although hampered by gun and tank fire and tank obstacles, kept on to establish a line one kilometre short of Budrio,
where it was ordered to halt and 9 Brigade was relieved by
the 5th. In the past six days the battalion had advanced 15
miles and had taken over 300 prisoners of war, including 100
paratroopers. The battalion's first big battle had been against
paratroops at Maleme. Its last battle ended with the paratroops
routed and broken everywhere.
This last attack in which the battalion had taken part broke
the back of the German resistance. ‘Ted's had it,’
‘After all the slogging through mud it was a wonderful experience to get Jerry really on the run,’ writes J. S. Watt, now a learner-cook in the company cook-house. ‘It was a hectic rush trying to keep the meals up and no sooner would we start to cook a meal somewhere than the call would come “Pack up and on again.”’
everyone
was saying. The Poles soon afterwards took Bologna, and Allied
troops were breaking through in all directions. In force, Eighth
Army rushed towards the great Po River. Fifth and 6th Brigades soon crossed the next important river, the Idice, cutting
through a reeling, dazed, punch-drunk Wehrmacht. On 22
April the battalion, now in reserve, was on the move again,
crossing the Idice and then, in the afternoon, every company
mounted in Kangaroos, pressing forward mile after mile in
billowing dust clouds.
That night, with all four company cookhouses set up in
different rooms in the same building, the battalion gathered
for mess. A solitary plane droned overhead, and then suddenly
there was the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun and tracer came
streaming down: ‘Well! Talk about a stampede, as four or
five hundred men tried simultaneously to dive under trucks
or into shelter of any kind. A Wild West cattle stampede was
nothing to it, and whole containers of food were upset amid
shouts of “Put out those lights! You fools!” It was all over
within a minute, and a badly shaken battalion queued up again
for what was left of the food.’
They approached the Po next day (Colonel Donald soon
well away in front of his battalion), and passed by masses of
wrecked and burned vehicles recalling the debris strewing the
advance west after Alamein. Here one man saw ‘the most awful
sight of the war…. —a long team of Jerry horses that had
been probably pulling a heavy gun. The arty or Air Force had
evidently scored a direct hit, and they had been blown to bits
and rolled down a bank by the road, all tangled in their chains
and harness. A truly horrible sight that made me feel if we
must be so barbarous as to go to war, it is certainly wrong to
drag poor dumb animals into it.’
Crossing the undefended Po on 26 April the battalion,
advancing at top speed, within almost two days was into the
large road-junction town of Padua, where A Company, penetrating a troublesome area, rounded up thirty prisoners. The
New Zealand Division, leading the advance of Eighth Army,
and chosen for this role because of its great mobility, was by-passing many strong enemy formations and groups, some of
which surrendered quietly while others fought back briefly.
The partisans, taking over great mobs of prisoners and liberating towns and roadways ahead of the New Zealanders, aided
our advance a great deal—they liberated Mestre, for example,
on 28 April at the cost of 110 men.
Headed by 12 Lancers' armoured cars, 9 Brigade continued
its advance, soon met the autostrada and moved swiftly towards Mestre, an industrial suburb on the mainland opposite
Venice. Tanks of 20 Armoured Regiment and the Lancers kept
their guns busy, and B Company, leading the battalion, deployed briefly to gather forty prisoners. How to get rid of the
prisoners and continue the advance was a problem: transport
was out of the question, for B Company itself was squashed
into four three-tonners. Two civilians, given German automatic
weapons, agreed to escort the captives back but couldn't work
the automatics. A German stepped obligingly from the ranks
with a polite ‘Scusate’ (excuse me), and explained in his best
Italian how to handle the weapon. He then passed the automatic back to the civilian, who said ‘Grazie’. Everyone smiled,
and away they went.
Clearly the enemy had now disintegrated—at Mestre, like
some scene from a Charlie Chaplin film, a German force passed
under the autostrada just as the brigade group swept over the
intersection on the upper road.
Twenty-second Battalion (except for B Company) now led
the brigade in the race for the Piave River, and reached Musile
on its banks at 8 p.m. (29 April) in an attempt to seize any
bridges still standing. All bridges had gone, however, but a
ferry was working. C Company was ferried across and moved
into San Dona di Piave, while the other companies deployed
for the night in Musile. Meanwhile, an enemy force was reported nearby and C Company sent out a platoon to collect
it. Sixty captives were handed over to partisans, who had looked
after the innumerable prisoners taken early in the day. If no
partisans were handy, prisoners had just been left on the roadside, to be gathered up by somebody else. And so, established
on the Piave, 22 Battalion awaited further word for the brigade's next forward move in the race towards Trieste.
B Company, about to win one of the New Zealand Division's
most highly prized possessions, featured in a proud achievement
while the rest of the Division and the battalion raced on towards Trieste. The company had become the nucleus of Thodey
Force, under Colonel Thodey,
Col J. I. Thodey, DSO, m.i.d.; Perth; born Gisborne, 8 Dec 1910; life assurance officer; CO 21 Bn Jul-Oct 1944, May-Dec 1945.
9 Brigade's second-in-command. At MestreThodey Force, which included armour, detached itself from 9 Brigade and headed for Venice, which was
thought to have been cleared by partisans. One of the jobs
General Freyberg had given the force was to occupy and hold
at all costs the world-famous Albergo Danieli for a New Zealand Forces Club. The General, who had stayed at this hotel
before the war, loved Venice. At the back of his mind, as the
New Zealanders drove on past the Senio River, was the deter-
mination that his men would see Venice, as he had done, from
the very best hotel.
Venice gave Thodey Force a tumultuous welcome. The
Piazza D'Arrive (where roads end and canals take over) was
black with civilians who swarmed excitedly over the travel-stained New Zealand vehicles. Major Spicer, commanding B
Company, was kissed, garlanded, patted on the back, embraced
and treated like a conquering hero, and took ten minutes to
cover 100 yards. Apart from the embraces and kisses, the rest
of the force was almost overwhelmed with lavish gifts of wines,
liqueurs and spirits (including Hennessey's Three Star Brandy).
Venice (from the military viewpoint anyhow) was practically
under control. An English officer, dropped in advance by parachute, had helped to organise Venice's most competent partisans.
Ten and 12 Platoons bedded down at the Albergo Santa
Chiara, with A Echelon in a nearby garage—a garage de luxe,
a three-storied building with a ramp to take vehicles to the
two top floors for parking, and downstairs offices resembling
an hotel. Meanwhile Company Headquarters and 11 Platoon
left the wharf at the Piazza Roma at 5.15 p.m. (29 April) and
went by motor launch through the canals, heading for the Albergo Danieli on the Grand Canal. Colonel Thodey had gone on
ahead. Chugging along the waterways, the soldiers had gifts
showered upon them, while crowds thronged and cheered from
balconies where the winged lion of Venice and the Italian
tricolour hung. In the background occasional bursts of firing
showed that the partisans were still rounding up and eliminating fascists. Lance-Corporal Sinclair, falling overboard just
before the party reached its destination, reached the landing
place an easy first. Still more welcomes and demonstrations
awaited the party on the wharf in front of the Danieli, and the
hotel itself was ‘full of gorgeous blondes and brunettes, all
freely demonstrating their keen pleasure at the arrival of
British troops in the most affectionate manner!’
These exotics included the wife or mistress of many a fascist, for the wealthy of northern Italy had avoided the Allied bombing by sheltering in Venice. ‘It was a sight both brilliant and revolting,’ wrote a New Zealand Intelligence officer, ‘… I was glad enough to get away.’
Immediately
Major Spicer clapped a guard on the main entrance and
claimed the Danieli for a New Zealand Forces Club. Soon
members of B Company were busy explaining to all-comers
that this was New Zealand territory. One particularly senior
officer, checked and astounded, exclaimed: ‘Privates staying
at the Danieli! Why, I spent my honeymoon heah!’ About
eight o'clock this night Major Spicer, on his way back to the
Piazza Roma to arrange rations and administrative details,
saw the first arrivals of 56 London Division. Next day the newcomers formed up and marched impressively to San Marco
Square. Several Thodey Force men, on the sideline, ironically
hailed the ‘liberators’.
For the next few days B Company stood firm in the ‘Battle
for the Danieli’.
At 8 a.m. on 30 April Major Spicer was visited in his bedroom by a staff officer of 56 Division, escorted watchfully by
the B Company picket and very red in the face. He had come
to claim the hotel in the name of his division. Major Spicer's
good-natured laugh at this news did not improve matters. The
visitor explained that the New Zealanders had no right in
Venice: it was out of their area; they were trespassers, and he
would be glad if they would make arrangements to move at
once. The Major firmly declined. Such interruptions were frequent. Once Spicer was asked: ‘Was there a hotel the Kiwis
did not have in Venice?’ Colonel Thodey had stressed that New
Zealand Divisional Headquarters would be most displeased if
any individual claiming the Danieli ever got past Major Spicer.
Having first to deal with the picket and then with Lieutenant
Leatham,
Capt T. D. Leatham; Hawera; born Eltham, 5 Jul 1913; meter reader.
no one ever did. Another early difficulty at the hotel
was the custom of officers, mainly from the Eighth Army,
arriving and demanding food. Eighth Army had ordered that
no civilian food would be eaten by servicemen. So a picket was
placed on the restaurant, with strict orders to prevent soldiers
from eating there. This resulted in a brigadier, a full colonel,
and two majors of the British Army being shooed away by a
private from B Company. The enraged brigadier, appealing to
Major Spicer, was quoted the Eighth Army regulations. The
well-meaning offer of ‘a little bread and butter’ routed the
brigadier. In the final check-up, just before the hotel was officially taken over as the Kiwi Club, someone discovered that
many Kiwis had managed not only to dine and wine well, but
had said: ‘Charge it up to the New Zealand Forces Club.’ The
average meal cost 700 lire and the wines averaged around 250
lire a bottle. A fair debt had grown. The manager, told that
the soldiers had acted without authority, debited the amount
to the ‘liberation of Venice’.
The reason why the Danieli was selected by the New Zealanders goes back to Rome. General Freyberg was always
anxious to have good leave centres for his men, maintaining,
‘You can't treat a man like a butler and expect him to fight
like a gladiator.’ Denying the story that he spent his honeymoon
at the Danieli in Venice, but saying that he had visited the
hotel in the late 'twenties and 'thirties, the General writes (2
July 1955): ‘We were allotted the Excelsior Hotel, as a Club
[in Rome] and when we arrived there we found Americans with
a mounted Guard, who told us to buzz off, and they occupied
the hotel themselves for a Club. When we were going up on the
way to Trieste, we heard that the Americans were coming up the
road, and on their lorries had placards with Danieli Hotel. We
were not going to have a repetition of what had happened in
Rome, and I sent a Company of the 22 Battalion to occupy
the Danieli Hotel, and made Colonel Thodey personally responsible to me that he kept the Americans out.’
The most prominent citizens of Venice, including Italian
admirals and generals, generously entertained the New Zealanders at their new club. Soldiers quizzically heard how
Venetians always had been patriotic to Italy, not mere supporters of Mussolini. Some maintained they had suffered much;
others obviously were war profiteers. (Indeed, it was curious
that throughout the length and breadth of Italy, not once did
the battalion meet a fervent supporter of Mussolini.)
Nevertheless a corporal writes: ‘In Italy, a dead Mussolini seemed to be a more popular figure than a live Churchill, which was a disturbing thought. The Italian peasant, shopkeeper, professional man or student would admit that Mussolini “a prima”—before his thoughts and energies turned to conquest—did a lot for the people. Already they were persuading themselves that the good he had done would live after him while the bad had died there with him on the service station in Milano…. Although the whole land lay blasted by war, looted and disrupted, there was a feeling of confidence in the future. Each day provided a sufficiency of pasta and vino; each day there were willing hands to plant and cultivate, to replace and reconstruct the ruins.’
Meanwhile Thodey Force helped to restore order. Arrangements were made for Venetian partisans to deliver Germans
in lots of 120 to the huge garage in the Piazza Roma, where
B Company's other platoons guarded them. Prisoners numbering 2730 were handled like this. The morale of these prisoners
was high, but they were pleased that the war had ended with
them in British hands. On Monday, 30 April, news reached
Major Spicer that several islands in the Venetian Lagoon, including the celebrated island of Lido, still held enemy garrisons.
The garrison on the Lido pleasure resort, a long narrow island
guarding the entrance to the harbour, refused to yield to Italian
partisans. Learning that the German headquarters was in the
Albergo Warner on the island, Spicer called the hotel on the
phone and located the English-speaking German commander.
A conversation, remarkable for its extreme politeness, ended in
an invitation to take over the island. The Major, with a party
including Sergeant-Major Mick Bougen, visited the island,
received an overwhelming welcome, and left with six officers
and 350 German other ranks. Two nearby islands, Murano and
Burano, were also visited. The enemy had gone, but again
handsome receptions awaited these first Allied soldiers.
On the night before the company left Venice to rejoin the
battalion a grand ball—a combined farewell and peace celebration—took place in the Danieli's superb ballroom. As gaiety
reached a climax Lieutenant Leatham, astounded, saw a party
of six German officers and NCOs march through the door.
Rushing forward, Leatham learned that this party, with twenty-eight more in a boat outside, had arrived from an island 48
miles away. Without news or instructions for several days, they
had come to Venice to find out for themselves and walked
straight into the hotel. How they passed the sentry was a
mystery. The military police took over these gate-crashers, the
ball continued with extra zest, and the club added one large
diesel scow to its fleet of two pleasure launches.
Apparently the huge garage and car store in the Piazza
Roma also had held a German officers' canteen. Great quantities of rare and select wines were found. B Company, when
leaving for Trieste, was faced with an awkward choice: to load
cognac or ammunition? The soldiers soon made up their minds,
and Venice and all her old glories faded away behind the tailboards of the New Zealand trucks, to the comforting chink of
bottles galore on board. This, indeed, was how a war should
end.
With the war on its deathbed, the Division pressed north
and east, along its last road, Route 14, skirting the head of the
Adriatic Sea and leading to the port of Trieste. The last advance, 76 miles, was one long triumphal procession—flowers,
kisses, wine, crowds half-mad with joy and affection. Ninth
Brigade led the New Zealanders on this drizzling damp day
of 1 May, with a squadron of 12 Lancers scouting ahead. Then
in turn came two troops of B Squadron 20 Armoured Regiment,
A Company, D Company, and Battalion Headquarters, Brigade Headquarters, General Freyberg, C and Headquarters
Companies, and then Divisional Cavalry Battalion.
Yugoslav troops first appeared at 3.30 p.m. by the bridge
over the Isonzo River, where General Freyberg, Brigadier
Gentry and Colonel Donald met Marshal Tito's representatives. They conferred for about twenty-five minutes. Then the
Lancers and the armour pushed on, with 22 Battalion close
behind, to a tremendous welcome in the large Italian ship-building town of Monfalcone, where partisans and Yugoslavs
were holding processions in the main streets. The Italian flag
was now giving way to the tricolour and the red star of Tito's
Yugoslavia. The first fighting this day broke out near San
Giovanni, just beyond Monfalcone. By the crossroads the enemy
held strong coastal and anti-aircraft emplacements, while a
number of machine-gun posts covered road-blocks. A Company,
with tanks, attacked here while the carriers moved towards the
garrison on the coastal gun-sites. By 5 p.m. all firing had ended
and some 150 prisoners had been taken. The battalion and its
supporting arms had no casualties. Heavy rain set in. The
battalion remained in tactical positions, and patrols probing
forward found groups of enemy here and there, but by dawn
they had gone. D Company captured a motor torpedo-boat.
On 2 May, when the broken armies of the Third Reich in
Italy surrendered unconditionally, the last short advance began
at 8.30 a.m. with Divisional Cavalry Battalion, due to come
in on the 22nd's left flank later, following the battalion. The
enemy held out in Sistiana, but a small force of one infantry
platoon, carriers, and a troop of tanks pushed ahead, opened
fire, inflicted casualties and took eight prisoners. Despite warnings a British naval captain and an American naval officer in
a jeep drove up past the stationary column into heavy machine-
gun fire and were wounded, together with two members of A
Company, George Findlay
Pte G. Findlay; Lyttelton; born Scotland, 10 Oct 1918; seaman; wounded 2 May 1945.
and Ray Gurney. Air reports indicated that fighting was going on in the southern part of the city
of Trieste, now only 12 miles away. The plane, which had met
flak, noticed two small fires burning. The tanks opened up on
three enemy ships, and set one on fire and sank it. Moving on
again, the force halted briefly while the Air Force heavily
bombed positions in Miramare seaside resort. Divisional Cavalry now had branched off to the left at Sistiana, and following
a parallel top road, joined the advance alongside 22 Battalion.
A few of the Lancers and Colonel Donald next pushed forward into the city of Trieste, but Battalion Headquarters and
advanced men in D Company met machine-gun fire at a road
block on the Trieste side of Miramare. The tanks smashed this,
and by 4 p.m., after a wireless message from the Colonel, the
battalion and supporting forces were making a triumphal entry
into the city, some of them with extra transport, including a
form of German jeep with the engine at the rear, and several
dun-coloured trucks whose ultimate disposal shall not be disclosed.
The Division's long trek had ended. Twenty-three days after
the crushing barrage on the Senio, the Division had smashed
three German divisions to advance 225 miles.
A tumultuous reception met 22 Battalion, mixed with odd
bursts of rifle and machine-gun fire which failed to disperse
the excited crowds. Snipers were active in many of the enemy-held buildings in the city. Yugoslav troops and an armoured
column of old Honey tanks paraded the streets. Amid further
cheering from the citizens, Brigadier Gentry, closely followed
by General Freyberg, now entered the city. At 4.30 p.m. the
battalion, with D Company leading, and the remaining tanks
entered the square by the large Tribunale building. A Company
for the moment remained at Miramare.
Colonel Donald continued (without much satisfaction) to
negotiate the surrender of two garrisons, one in the Tribunale,
the other in a 700-year-old fortress called the Castello (or
Castle) San Giusto, on a hill in the centre of the city. With
armoured cars, Donald led C Company up the steep and winding road to the Castello, handed over the business of surrender
to Major Cross, and returned to the Tribunale. C Company
reached the castle, passed through the gates under a massive
stone archway, and entered a central courtyard where the
enemy garrison waited. A good deal of indiscriminate shooting
was going on, and a bazooka had been fired at one of the tanks,
but had missed. The Yugoslavs, threatening to shoot down
anyone attempting to enter the castle, left C Company alone.
An officer, with mixed feelings, watched this milling, encircling,
and threatening of different nationalities ‘and political odds
and sods of at least 5 to 6 distinct flavours. I felt disheartened.
I felt the war would never end.’
First the garrison piled weapons and equipment in one large
heap, while Sergeant-Major Mangos
WO II B. E. Mangos; Wellington; born NZ 5 Sep 1911; clerk; wounded 4 Dec 1943.
paraded C Company
and handed it over to Major Cross. The company, responding
to the dramatic atmosphere, drilled and moved superbly.
Opposite C Company the enemy garrison paraded, headed by
their commander, a naval officer who had served for four years
with U-boats in the First World War and for three and a half
years in the second. His parade came smartly to attention, and
as the commander saluted in the usual fashion, all his officers
gave the Nazi salute. C Company in turn snapped to attention,
and Major Cross saluted.
An English-speaking German regimental sergeant-major next
escorted Mangos on a tour of the castle, pointing out guard
positions and revealing formidable dumps of ammunition—the
garrison was well prepared for siege. A good deal of time passed
before all surrender formalities and arrangements ended. The
New Zealanders grew more and more hungry. Major Cross
gladly agreed to the commander's suggestion that the company
share a meal with the garrison. Around 11.30 p.m. in the old
castle New Zealanders and Germans, bitter enemies but a few
hours ago, lined up in the same mess queue for the old familiar
hot stew.
From time to time members of Tito's partisans had called
at the castle gate to demand entrance, but in vain. From houses
on higher ground partisan snipers had been shooting at movement within the walls. The captured force now suggested with
some enthusiasm uniting with the New Zealanders and fighting
side by side if the situation grew worse. Major Cross, suddenly
immersed in the intricacies and duplicities of peace, replied
non-committally. Next morning the garrison, under escort,
marched down the road to the waiting three-tonners. Howls
of protest and anger rose from the demonstrating partisans and
civilians, who demanded the prisoners. The New Zealanders
saw the Germans off safely.
At the Tribunale building the CO couldn't persuade the
enemy commander to surrender. By arrangement with the
Yugoslav commander, it was agreed that eighteen tanks from
19 and 20 Armoured Regiments would ring the building and
blast it from ranges of 20 to 50 yards. At 7 p.m. the tanks
opened up, blowing gaping holes in the walls and firing shells
through the windows. They kept up the bombardment for
nearly twenty minutes before Yugoslav troops and partisans
entered the building and rounded up the garrison.
Next night an Austrian civilian brought a message from the
lieutenant-general commanding the Trieste and north-west
coastal area, who wished to surrender his forces to the British.
The battalion Intelligence Officer, Second-Lieutenant Clem
Currie,
2 Lt C. S. Currie; Taupo; born Auckland, 6 Feb 1914; shop assistant.
Sergeant Morrie Klein
Sgt M. Klein; Melbourne; born London, 9 Aug 1907; manager; wounded 24 Oct 1942.
and the Austrian (to act as
interpreter) set off on foot, carrying a flag of truce made out
of a tablecloth. High up the hillside overlooking Trieste city
and harbour they climbed towards the General's well-guarded
villa. The rain fell steadily as the three men tramped over the
wet cobblestones. It was necessary to light up the flag in the
gloom. The electric torch, playing up, flickered infuriatingly.
The Germans were well dug in: the approach to the headquarters was covered by underground shelters and an elaborate
system of trenches. As the three moved forward in the darkness
they could see the faces of German soldiers standing by, peering
at them curiously. They hoped the Germans were sober.
Unhappily, the Austrian was somewhat deaf. He couldn't
hear replies to his frequent announcements of the party's mission. Fortunately Sergeant Klein's German got by. At the villa
the General eventually agreed to come down under escort and
discuss terms of surrender with Colonel Donald. With two of
his staff officers, he set off to the battalion's tactical headquarters in the Albergo Regina.
Near the foot of the hill a jeep waited, with the Intelligence
Sergeant, Charlie Simpson,
S-Sgt C. H. Simpson, m.i.d.; Wairoa; born Gisborne, 21 Oct 1918; farm labourer; wounded 30 Nov 1943.
alongside the driver. The Germans
got into the jeep. The others walked ahead. The only light was
the dull glow of the torch, which was still spotlighting the white
flag. Soon a Tito patrol challenged the party. Fast thinking
and double talk by Currie satisfied the partisans, who did not
trouble to investigate the passengers.
The surrender discussions took a long time. Two interpreters
were necessary, a German-Italian interpreter and an Italian-English interpreter. The German commander wanted to make
certain his men fell into British, not Yugoslav, hands. It was
decided to take him out to Miramare, General Freyberg's
headquarters. Freyberg conferred with Donald, did not see
the Germans, and arranged for the commander, his staff, and
his men of that particular garrison to be taken to a British
prisoner-of-war cage as soon as possible.
The party returned to the garrison and speedy evacuation
plans began. D Company arrived as escort and disarmed the
enemy. As dawn came into the sky Second-Lieutenant Currie
led a long column down the hill. Behind the Intelligence Officer
came the German general and his staff in eight cars, a German
truck and a motor-cycle, followed by eight of D Company's
trucks, and finally about 300 Germans on foot. Currie watched
anxiously in case the partisans intervened, but the garrison,
conducted by Jim Sherratt and his platoon, safely reached the
cages of Monfalcone.
During the first visit to the villa and while awaiting the
result of the negotiations, Sergeant Klein remained alone in
a room, with the Germans conferring next door. Although he
could not detect what was actually being said, he is convinced
that everyone joined in taking some form of solemn oath. The
commander would say a few words. Everyone repeated his
words. Again and again the commander would say something,
and each time came the mumbled reply. This ceremony went
on for a fairly long time.
One sane note at Trieste was the faithful YMCA service from
Roy Salmon,
Pte R. Salmon; born Auckland, 21 Mar 1910; shop assistant.
who in the year he had been with the battalion
had driven exactly 10,000 miles. Roy and his assistant (Wally
Church,
Sgt W. H. Church; Puha, Gisborne; born NZ 17 Apr 1922; farmhand.
formerly of D Company), distributing thankfully
received hot tea and buns during the last of the firing in
Trieste, were probably the last YMCA unit serving refreshments in the front line when the war ended in the Italian
theatre.
On the morning of 3 May, after receiving a message from
the commander of yet another German garrison at Villa
Opicina (a large village in the hills north of the city), A Company and tanks of A Squadron 20 Armoured Regiment moved
out to the area, only to find that the garrison was under siege
by the Yugoslav forces, who were firing when A Company
arrived. Captain Jock Wells, A Company's commander, went
forward with a German officer who had come out to arrange
the surrender. The partisans opened up with small arms and
mortars. A Company came under fire, and to the sorrow and
anger of the battalion, one very fine soldier, Lance-Corporal
Russell, was mortally wounded and Corporal Ahern
WO II D. F. Ahern; Wanganui; born Palmerston North, 17 Jul 1923; clerk; wounded 3 May 1945.
was
wounded.
Orders were given to advance to a large house just ahead.
Taking the two wounded, A Company joined the main force
of German soldiers. ‘And so began the strangest day of the
whole Italian Campaign,’ writes Lloyd Grieve. ‘Casualties had
been, and continued to be, inflicted on the Germans by Tito's
troops. It was said that their Medical Officers were working
flat out. Here we were, among armed Germans who greatly
outnumbered us, and subject to the same dangers in a private
war which was being prosecuted after the official cessation of
hostilities. Midday came and the Tedeschi lined up for a helping of potato soup. When they had filed past I borrowed some
mess gear and tried the soup too. Small groups formed round
English-speaking German officers who conversed brightly on
the course and ultimate end of the war. Most were of the
opinion that Germany and England should have allied themselves to fight against Russia—and that that day might even
come to pass. [Bob Ferris chatted with a German who exported tools to Bob's hometown, Blenheim.] The ORs were
mainly middle-aged and war weary troops (some Austrian),
too downcast to make conversation per medium of Italian.
‘It was not until well on in the afternoon that one of our
tanks, bearing a white flag, contacted the Yugoslavs and
brought their assault to an end.’
This distressing situation ended after visits by Wells to the
Yugoslav headquarters, when a Yugoslav officer and a British
liaison officer from these headquarters called at 9 Brigade
Headquarters. More parley ended with A Company and the
tanks pulling out, while the Germans were advised to surrender
to the Yugoslavs.
A Company and the tanks returned to Trieste. Twenty-second Battalion had fired its last shot in the Second World
War, and had suffered its last casualty.
‘Next day a small party of us set off to bury our dead comrade,’ adds Grieve. ‘The spot was outside the wall of a newly
set-up C.C.S…. a shallow grave was in readiness—shallow
because the body would later be removed to a war cemetery.
The circumstances of our comrade's death affected us profoundly. Mere words do not describe the memory of a good
companion, young and adventurous, reliable in action, cheerful
and unselfish as he lived amongst us. None of us said these
things; we all knew that these were our thoughts. Our sorrow
conveyed itself to a group of Italian peasants who, bareheaded,
quietly joined our service. Roman Catholic and Protestant,
countryman and foreigner stood humbly together in the presence and the mystery of death. He died when the war was over,
but he died in battle.’
The tension, apparent in Trieste from the moment the New
Zealanders appeared, swiftly increased, a tension which seemed
on the verge of erupting into a shooting war at any time. Tank
faced tank; Yugoslav and British sentries, remote and frigid,
guarded bridges, the harbour, and intersections; armed squads
marched through apprehensive streets plastered with photographs, posters and slogans: ‘Zivio Tito’, ‘Zivio Stalin’ (and
here and there, scrawled in competition, an occasional New
Zealand slogan: ‘Zivio Gentry’, ‘Zivio Kiwi’). The Yugoslavs,
overrun, humiliated and garrisoned by vindictive German and
Italian troops since early 1941, had risen in one of the most
remarkable and one of the most savage guerrilla campaigns
in modern history, at one time tying down more German troops
in their wasted countryside than the Allies were in Italy. For
centuries Trieste had been a disputed city, with a history even
more tangled than a battalion history. But to the New Zealanders, phlegmatic Yugoslavs (or ‘Jugs’), speaking an incomprehensible language, were pushing around Italians (‘and even
Ites were humans’) in a city predominantly Italian. It was
humiliating for an infantryman driving in a truck to be suddenly fired on, and sometimes, enraged, he fired back. This
‘peace’, with no relaxation, called for extra duties and tasks,
and men who were ordered to carry weapons with them even
on leave could not enjoy an evening's relaxation. Bored with
the whole business of slogans and parrot cries, one 22 Battalion
man had seized paste-pot and brush and slammed a poster on
to the chest of a Yugoslav—a significant act. For the New Zealand soldier, homesick and sick to death of a diseased and
decaying Europe, had suffered and endured enough. This was
one hell of a way to end a war.
Yet the tangle of Trieste can be over-dramatised from the
soldier's viewpoint, as the following incident (from a soldier
suddenly turned diplomat) shows. D Company occupied the
Hotel Continentale, near the centre of the city, and had fenced
off each end of the block with rolls of concertina barbed wire,
leaving at each end a narrow entrance to allow trucks in and
out. One day lunch was interrupted by the noise of nearby
spandaus and schmeissers. ‘Suddenly,’ writes a D Company
officer, ‘our street was jammed full of screaming civilians, as
[if] a huge river had suddenly been diverted into a little hollow.
One Italian male with tears streaming down his face grabbed
me by the lapels of my battledress and shouted in broken
English: “Save us, save us, Capitano, or we are all murdered!”’
Grasping his only weapon, a bright yellow, nobbly walking-stick, the officer thrust his way through the crowd and peered
round the corner. ‘Spread across the street, coming down at
a jogtrot, were about fifteen of Tito's boys and girls—they
looked about 16 or 17 years old—dressed in untidy battle-dresses of a lighter hue than ours, caps with red stars, and the
girls with their hair hanging down almost to their shoulders.
‘As they trotted along, as happy as children at a Sunday-school picnic, they let off bursts from their schmeissers in a
general direction of the crowds of fleeing Italians. As I poked
my head round they were starting a left wheel into our street.
Waving my stick in the air I shouted: “Aspete! Una
momento!” They understood about as much Italian as I did,
but it was the only language we had in common. They stopped
and clustered round. “Che fate qui?” I asked. “Shooting Fascists,” they said. “Dove Fascisti?” “There!” they said, and, when
asked how could they tell which were Fascists in such a big
crowd, replied: “Tutti Italiani Fascists!” Privately I quite agreed,
but stalling for time to think I said wisely: “Forse” (which I
think means “possibly”).
‘I then explained slowly and firmly that questra strada was
nostra strada Zelandese—that no-one: nienti altri soldati, niente
civili: was permitted on our piece of street. Now they had just
filled our piece of street up with civili, which I didn't like any
more than they did, and furthermore if they shot any in our
street they would make a mess which we would have to clean
up. Nienti bono. I said I didn't mind what they did in their
streets, but it was not allowed in our street. Therefore would
they please, per favore, go a little way back up the street and
refrain from shooting until I had emptied all the civili out of
our street? They laughingly agreed to do so and retired round
the corner, parting on the best of terms.
‘I then hopped up onto a truck and pointing vigorously at
our street shouted: “A casa, tutti, multo presto! Niente periculoso—
a casa andate via!” With a great surge, the crowd moved out of
the street, and about one-third of the solid mass of humanity
were out when the little bastards started shooting again—I
suppose the target was irresistible. I ran again to the end of
the street and shook my fist at them. They waved in friendly
fashion back. Then again I mounted the truck and bellowed:
“Andate a casa—multo presto !” This time they let the crowd go,
and within seconds the streets were empty. The manager of
the hotel, an unpleasant type, told me that evening that some
18 or more bodies were picked up round in the next block that
day. I could not vouch for the accuracy of his figures. The
whole incredible business was all over in probably less than 5
minutes. I could not say just how many would be in that crowd,
but if you jammed Queen Street full from Wellesley Street to
Victoria Street you would find about an equal number.’
During the month of tension in Trieste perhaps just one
drunken New Zealander could have started a first-class war
with the Yugoslavs. For most of that month only a small proportion of men from each company were allowed out of the
buildings they occupied. Recreation was difficult, although on
a sort of roster system swimming parties, visits to a gymnasium,
and so on were arranged. The cooks worked superbly to keep
the standard of food higher than troops had ever known before
in Italy. Despite this (in one typical company) 135 men, cooped
in a second-rate hotel built for eighty-five guests, found the
forced inactivity plus the chance of a shooting war starting at
any time most irksome and wearying on the nerves. And yet,
although the wineshops were open within a quarter of a mile
of the place and loot money was abundant, not one incident
occurred to the discredit of any man in the company—not one
case of drunkenness, not one fight—which speaks volumes for
the morale and the self discipline of the men of the battalion.
They left Trieste at the end of June, after camping in the
neighbourhood among hills and pines. (‘When do we go home?’)
For the last time the battalion moved along that beautiful coast
road past Miramare, up the hill and along the cliff-side through
the tunnels. Men, turning for a last look out across the calm
of the green Adriatic, thought of a similar, but colder, harbour
city far to the south: Wellington, where the battalion had
sailed away to war. (‘When do we go home?’)
When the New Zealanders left Trieste, one city newspaper
wrote: ‘How could we but love these boys who overthrew the
last Nazi and Fascist resistance in our fair city, and who were
our guests from May, their youthful pranks with our children,
their loyalty, and their democratic army. Goodbye, New Zealand brothers. We are happy that you are returning to your
country before you become corrupted like ourselves by this
sick place called Europe, where, if you stay, she would, with
her evil, gnaw into you all, as she has eaten into us. So, New
Zealand friends, goodbye, and please understand us.’
Southwards they travelled, with their memories and their
dust clouds, to the Tiber. They camped near the wrinkled old
city of Perugia, where they heard the news that Japan, twice
atom-bombed, had capitulated.
The total killed in the Second World War (according to Life's Picture History of World War Two): British Commonwealth, 452,570; USA, 295,904; USSR, 7,500,000; France, 200,000; China (since 1937), 2,200,000. Allied total, 10,648,474. Germany, 2,850,000; Italy, 300,000; Japan, 1,506,000. Axis total, 4,656,000.
The war cost New Zealand about £800,000 a day. An American statistician, Colonel W. P. Campbell, has calculated the cost of killing a German soldier in the Second World War at £12,500, which equals the cost of killing 66,000 soldiers in Caesar's time. The cost for one man over the years: in Caesar's time, 3s. 6d.; Napoleonic Wars, £750; American Civil War, £1250; First World War, £5250.
How quickly the last five
years, with all their hopes and agonies, seemed to shrink into
an old-fashioned war. Again they moved, to above Senigallia,
to a rest camp on the Adriatic, in August. Further drafts left
for home. ‘Then they lined the road and gave us a final sendoff.
Felt quite “full”—there are a lot of friends left there—real
friendships formed under fire—friendships that are not like any
other. They are a great crowd, and I was very sorry to leave
them.’
‘Home on Sunday,’ wrote a Wanganui man as his troopship approached Wellington. ‘Don't seem to be particularly thrilled—s'pose I will when I see the folks again though, but at present it seems to be just another port of call.’
As autumn approached, they returned to Perugia, then to
a winter camp near Florence, where some men left on official
leave to England. On 8 October Major Spicer paraded his
battalion. He explained that certain single men of 9 Brigade
would be going to Japan as part of ‘Jayforce’, New Zealand's
troops of occupation. The new force was organised quickly.
Lieutenant-Colonel ‘Sandy’ Thomas, the noted commander of
23 Battalion, took over a reorganised 22 Battalion. They sailed
from Naples in the Strathmore on 21 February 1946 for Kure,
Japan.
One officer, who had been severely wounded and mutilated
for life, writes in November 1953: ‘I don't think it was in vain
for it has been much the same down the ages. The British have
fought for their freedom and liberty in various wars and generations—and retained it. Or are we heading for the final great
onslaught before the true One World? Can we mix people of
different races and creeds? Perhaps it's the return of the Golden
Horde. One wonders and waits and I look at my three sons.’
CHAPTER 15Japan
‘… in dealing with the Japanese… [the British Commonwealth
Occupation Force] is dealing with a conquered enemy who, by
making war against us, has caused deep suffering and loss in many
thousands of homes throughout the British Empire. Your relations
with this defeated enemy must be guided by your own individual
good judgement and your sense of discipline. You must be formal
and correct. You must not enter their homes or take part in their
family life. Your unofficial dealings with the Japanese must be kept
to a minimum.’—Army directive.
19/3/46: Bits of Japan all around us…. Islands tree-covered
with yellow sandy beaches, and a little cultivation; houses of unpainted wood and grey slate roofs; more villages. They all look
grey… Kure is all grey, hills, towns and harbour.
21/3/46: Rumour: A Jap slapped a British-sailor's face with an
axe—he tried to swipe a purse, so they say…. Incident number
one….
22/3/46: Stepped onto the sacred soil. It's damn dirty. Marched
with band to Railway Station. Japs don't impress. I hope this
engine-driver isn't one of those suicide merchants…. [Later, after
the 170-mile trip to Chofu] Japan appears all the same…. Grey
slate roofs. Pine clad hills and rice fields. And dirty little Japs….
—Extract from a private diary.
After being warned against a variety of diseases (including
scattered cases of leprosy), food, vegetables, fruit, water, smuggling and black-market activities, and a Japanese whisky with
a heart brand in the centre of the label and mostly methylated
spirits inside the bottle (a product of Hiroshima Province), 22
Battalion stepped ashore in Japan early on 22 March 1946.
The only casualties were some kitbags burned in a railway
wagon fire, which had been started by a Japanese labourer
accidentally knocking over a candle. Headed by Colonel
Thomas and the pipe band (the Japanese remained inscrutable
even in the presence of bagpipes), the battalion marched
smartly through the desolate naval base of Kure, took the train
for six hours, travelled peacefully through Hiroshima (one
bomb, nearly one-third of a million casualties)
The bomb on Hiroshima (which with other towns had been warned in leaflet raids to evacuate civilians) brought 306,545 casualties: 78,150 dead, 13,983 missing, 9428 seriously injured, 27,997 with minor injuries, and 176,987 classified as suffering from sickness, privation, and lack of homes, food and clothing. ‘It somewhat took my memories back to the wreckage of Cassino and the twisted iron of Rimini,’ writes C. H. Stone, who, describing how the battalion first viewed the bomb's devastation in silent wonderment, adds how men ‘could not for a period fathom out how so much could be done by a single blast in such a short space of time.’
to the town of
Chofu, and took over the local barracks, which overlooked
mud flats and had been occupied recently by Americans. Early
next morning an apologetic advance party, delayed at Hiroshima, turned up at the barracks with rations, cooking equipment, bedrolls and kitbags. Army life was under way again.
The battalion was part of the British Commonwealth Occupation Force of 40,000, drawn from Australian, British, New
Zealand and Indian troops, who began arriving in February
1946 at Kure, six months after the Americans. Kure is near
the southern end of Japan's main island of Honshu, which is
almost 500 miles longer than New Zealand's North or South
Island. The New Zealanders' duties were to the west, where
they occupied Honshu's southerly province of Yamaguchi, a
province covering 2000 square miles and holding almost the
population of New Zealand at that time, 1,376,000 Japanese.
The New Zealanders took over three Japanese repatriation
centres, and supervised the repatriation of almost 300,000
Japanese soldiers and illegal Korean immigrants. Koreans
attempting to infiltrate into Japan seeking employment were
checked by strongpoints manned at certain coastal towns. New
Zealand patrols combed the whole province, detecting hidden
arms or war equipment, reporting war supplies for destruction
(one task of the occupying Powers was to see that Japan was
thoroughly disarmed), supervising local elections and civil
administration to some extent, and seeing that the orders of
the occupation were being carried out in offices and schools.
Japan, blasted, bombed and devastated, had indeed surrendered unconditionally. No armed rebellions had to be put down;
the use of armed force was not required. Of Shimonoseki's
150,000 people, 6000 were homeless, living with relations, in
public buildings, and in any shelter they could find. The daily
food ration was 297 grammes (ten ounces) of rice, beans and/
or barley.
On reaching Chofu, 22 Battalion was prepared for trouble.
Within a few weeks several million Japanese soldiers (it was
thought at first) would be passing through the nearby smallpox infected port at Shimonoseki at the rate of about 12,000
a day. ‘These soldiers are the cream of the Japanese Imperial
Army,’ an operation order stated, ‘and are reputed to be
arrogant and unconvinced that the war is finally lost for them.’
The Japanese Government was responsible for seeing these
returning soldiers off their ships, on to trains, and safely away
into the north. Nevertheless, riots or rebellion might break out
(the code-word for a state of emergency was PARADISE,) and
the battalion's task if this happened was to hold Chofu and
instantly clear out all Japanese. Detailed plans for this were
outlined and rehearsed, but the precautions were unnecessary.
The soldiers did not return by the million, and a greatly relieved Town Major reported in April. ‘Japanese say that the
Russians captured and sent to Siberia the major portion of the
Kwantung Army, and that the only members of this force
reaching Japan are a few escapees who entered through Hakata
and Senzaki, and who have provided this information. They
are of opinion that there will be few repatriates from Manchuria.
Since September very few Kwantung Army personnel have
reached Japan.’
A week after landing in Japan A Company had taken control of the whole Shimonoseki area, with Lieutenant Bell
Lt W. R. Bell; Auckland; born Auckland, 24 Sep 1921; law student.
as
Town Major (9 Platoon occupied the Jumpu-Ro Hotel complete with bar ‘and no 6 o'clock or Sunday closing’), and other
officers took similar posts at other centres. Equally promptly,
D Company (Major Wright
Maj L. W. Wright; Eastbourne; born Taumarunui, 10 May 1922; Regular soldier.
), taking over from an American
company, ran the Korean repatriation centre at Senzaki. D
Company put through about 2000 repatriation cases each
working day, and early in April drafted the highest daily total
of 6000. The Japanese worked in close contact with the repatriated people, and the New Zealanders supervised the
Japanese. New Zealand guards at first were mounted full-time
on the Korean compound (for some Koreans had no love for
the Japanese), but later guards were mounted only occasionally. Generally the company's duties (apart from the usual
patrols and raids on suspected areas) were to supervise repatriated people through medical and customs officials, and
to see to their accommodation and feeding in both compounds
—one compound held Japanese and the other Koreans. The
company was also responsible for keeping two temporary ferry
services running smoothly. Some twenty LSTs regularly
brought demobilised Japanese troops and families from
Shanghai (1200-odd on each ship); a former Inland Sea
pleasure ship (400) and a small ex-Japanese Navy warship
(100-odd) were on the Korea to Pusan run.
Most of the Japanese ‘had been away from Japan for several
years … they were very bewildered and were unable to understand the defeat of the Nation. The Koreans on the other
hand were all civilians. At first they were a mixture of voluntary repats. and deportees. In the main they were complete
families. With the passing time illegal re-entrants to Japan soon
passed the news that Korea was not the prosperous country
they knew and food was extremely short. As a result voluntary
repatriation almost died out…. [One party of 300 Korean
men] arrived at Senzaki dressed in old-style Australian Army
uniforms less hat. They had been forced labourers in either
Nauru or Rabaul…. [Apart from clothing and feeding them,
the Australians also had taught them a thing or two because]
they refused to return to Korea until they had been paid by
the Japanese Government. A deputation of them was sent to
Tokyo, where they were successful in their claim and returned
with a colossal amount of money which was distributed. The
period of payment from memory was about three years.’
Major Wright, in charge of the Senzaki area and in close
touch with Japanese authorities, at times ‘had the feeling that
a certain amount of back-chat was not what it should be and
enlisted the aid of an Australian sergeant called Kentwell who
was born at Osaka and spoke the language well. After listening
for some time, he addressed the gathering in their own tongue,
and thereafter if I was in doubt the presence of a strange soldier
had the desired effect.’ Strictly insisting that all hygienic regulations were carried out, D Company avoided the very real threat
of plagues from carriers of diseases from Asia. A cholera scare
was dealt with promptly by quarantining a boatload of suspects.
While A and D Companies settled down in their two areas,
the rest of the battalion undertook training (‘worse than when
I first went to camp’), guard duties, marches showing the flag,
pickets, and was prepared to take up action stations if trouble
threatened. Patrols began combing settlements house by house
and ranged over the countryside. By the end of April such
patrolling was well under way within each of the companies'
areas. The pitfalls of occupation were brought home to Private
Meggitt
Pte L. T. Meggitt; Tauranga; born NZ 16 Mar 1924; farmhand.
when a restaurant proprietor entertained him at a
party in the shop and later gave him a paper to sign. As a joke
Meggitt scrawled briefly at the bottom of the paper, pocketed
it, and was instantly surrounded by a hostile mob. He handed
back the paper, which was later recovered and was found to
read:
BCOF HQ KURE
To whom this may concern—this person has permission to use
his boat and has full authority from BCOF HQ.
Signed: CAPTAIN JAMES COOK, 1482.
Supplies of war materials discovered, seldom in large quantities, by battalion patrols included gas-masks, steel helmets,
belted ammunition, detonators, 3-inch mortars, aircraft engines
not properly wrecked, concealed aviation petrol, stores of explosives and hand grenades, material dumped at sea, swords,
rifles, mines and shot-guns. But within a few weeks patrols
found little to report or confiscate.
An extract from such patrol reports (in this instance, Lieutenant Kennedy and 12 men from B Company in a one-day search of Szuki town) reads: ‘Factories and Installations: (Wartime and present use.) Electric substation [map reference]; a flour and rice mill working under Jap Govt instructions; small engineering shop making rivets, nuts and bolts, and employing six men; Iron works, made machinery for coal mines during the war, now making iron pots, employs 15 men; two saw mills each employing 10 men; many pottery factories; a large iron foundry [map reference] employs about 60 men, made Jap mors [mortars] during the war, now makes parts for rly engines, searched by Americans last Sep, very modern machinery incl electric smelting pot, lathes, overhead crane, and its own power plant. Several caves had been dug in the bank surrounding the factory, but these appear to have been all blown in.’
The reactions of civilians
were recorded by battalion patrols: ‘extremely interested in the
activities of the patrol, but rather frightened when their premises
were searched’, ‘timid or disinterested’, ‘startled at first, but
soon became accustomed’, ‘kindly disposed…. Perhaps the
true Japanese reaction might be determined in these back areas
of Japan’, ‘Subservient and co-operative. Children obviously
coached to say little more than “Goodbye”’, ‘officials courteous,
civilians friendly and generally smiling.’ An officer notes that
during all his time in Japan he was never ‘able to lose a feeling
(with most Japanese males) that I was dealing with something
just slightly less than human in mental make-up … no common ground whatever.’
‘I should perhaps emphasise that prestige was a big thing
here,’ writes Lieutenant Bell. ‘We called it prestige (in English).
The Japanese called it face (in Japanese). And if there was one
dominant aspect, one controlling factor as far as my experience
in close contact with the Japanese official classes was concerned,
it was this business of “face”. By the time I was through I had
come to hate the word in whatever language it was used. This
may not have been a general experience. But there is no question it was there. And there is no question, either, that while I
was Town Major in Shimonoseki I was involved in a continuous, unrelenting, sometimes amusing, sometimes infuriating, but always difficult battle of “face”, which was the more
involved, perhaps, because neither side would ever admit that
it was in fact going on.’
Searches and patrols continued over the months, for Headquarters British Commonwealth Occupation Force, considering
it ‘foolish and dangerous’ to accept the apparently docile appearance of the Japanese, sent secret reports mentioning the
existence of militaristic and nationalistic secret societies and
organisations, moves to keep discharged officers and men still
in touch, and secret caches containing large quantities of military supplies (more were believed to exist throughout Japan).
Trouble was expected during the May Day celebrations.
However the rallies, hampered by rain, were well conducted
and orderly, the main theme of speeches stressing the need for
uniting labour and reconstructing Japan by hard work. The
Chofu audience, says an official report, ‘was almost military
in the passiveness of their listening and the precision of their
cheers…. Women questioned concerning the main topic of
the meeting and as to what May Day was for, were surprised
that their opinion was asked for and could give no answer
(giggling met most questions).’ Later, a general strike throughout
Japan was cancelled with no repercussions when General
Douglas MacArthur, the Supreme Allied Commander in
Tokyo, simply forbade strike action. ‘While God might be in
His Heaven,’ noted Lieutenant Bell, ‘MacArthur was in
TOKYO.’
The battalion found Yamaguchi province very different
from the Nile Delta or Italy. The hilly countryside was covered
with bush, fairly dense in places and about twelve to fifteen
feet high, an ideal sanctuary for snakes.
Between these hills lay small, flat, irrigated areas—paddy
fields—and these were the life of the country in every sense of
the word. Rice was grown in large quantities for food, saki
(liquor) and export, barley gave the Japanese their beer, and
the straw went into buildings. Only these flats were cultivated;
the 1000-foot-high hills were not used at all. Each farmer had
merely a couple of acres to look after, the government claimed
about two-thirds of his output, and his earnings came to only
a few pence a day (the Japanese soldier received 6d. a day,
the factory worker 8d., and the New Zealand soldier 25 yen,
or 8s. 4d.).
One soldier remembers how ‘the women did most of the
work, wallowing round knee-deep in mud and water planting
and cultivating rice, while the menfolk busied themselves with
as little as possible among the small jobs round about, or sat
and smoked the quaint pipe, which had to be replenished with
a fine, furry tobacco as each minute ticked away.’
In the middle of such an area houses clustered closely, eaves
practically touching, so no land would be lost for cultivation.
Gardens, if any, usually raised food. The average Japanese
house was a frail looking affair, mostly made from straw,
negligibly furnished but with ample cupboards and a domestic
altar on one wall. If a soldier did not remove his shoes in this
altar-room, a Japanese ran up with a few boards for the New
Zealander to stand on. Scattered here and there among the
hills on small flats were tightly-packed hamlets or small villages,
each with its own Town Major or Mayor (but no policeman),
a school, and a surprisingly large population. Each school, no
matter how small, had its own dental room, assembly hall, and
an asphalt playing area. Small clay roads divided the flats or
connected one clump of houses with another, and transport
was usually a small four-wheeled wagon pulled by a solitary
beast. Closer to the coastline larger towns appeared, varying
in size and about equal to New Zealand towns approaching
city status.
‘Here’, writes Stone,
Pte C. H. Stone; Morrinsville; born Hamilton, 30 Sep 1923; farmhand.
‘industrial works made their appearance
and in a big way, as I was once in an aeronautical and naval
factory which employed 10,000 workers. These wartime factories were of course stripped of their fittings and plant, and
were very spacious. Streets, excepting those connecting the
main centres, were not very big, asphalted and in need of repair. Sanitation was unheard of anywhere in the country where
I went, the refuse being collected and stored away in wooden
buckets with lids to ferment before being distributed on the
soil. Hence, living under such conditions, is it any wonder
disease is so prevalent? Traffic is fairly scarce, mostly pretty
dilapidated buses running beneath overhead powerlines where
once ran a tramcar. In these areas were to be found some clever
industrialists. [He instances the identical duplication of
American motor-car engines, and a small building filled with
intricate instruments for ships, all made locally.]
‘It was here the Japanese people were encountered most,
except perhaps on railway stations. Dress was usually informal
and general, the menfolk wearing a light-type cap with a big
peak, denim coat and trousers with a type of puttee up to
the knees. Sandshoes, black, constituted the footwear mainly.
Not very big in stature, the women donned a shirt with baggy
trousers so as to be able to squat down for a rest in preference
to sitting. A piece of board the length of the foot, with a plaited
flax-type piece of cord coming up between two toes and fastened
back along the sides of the board, solved the women's footwear
problem. Naturally, the dress of the Geisha Girl was of a different standard.
‘Generally the Japanese treated us with a watchful eye,
interested in all that was done, but did not create any hindrance,
hardly. Each patrol was accompanied by two or three policemen who sped around on 3/4s girls' bicycles, and an interpreter, who set about their respective jobs methodically. Time
and again, if a civilian was to be questioned and a policeman
was called in to help with proceedings, he usually had personal
details before the interpreter had told him what was going on.’
In common with the rest of the New Zealanders, the battalion
did not relish the role of occupation troops. ‘I don't think many
people really wanted to go to Japan. We preferred to go home,
or to England, or both, so that our outlook was probably a
little jaundiced.’ Most of them were men from the 14th and
15th Reinforcements, and few of them had been in action in
Italy. Agreements over occupation details and the final approval
of the United States Government had taken a long time, and
the men were tired of delays and false starts when at last the
ship had sailed from Naples on 21 February 1946. The voyage,
in muggy weather, was no pleasure cruise, with a measles
epidemic aboard stopping leave at Colombo, Singapore (where
135 measles and fever cases were sent ashore) and Hong Kong.
Extravagant propaganda about Japan made the final destination even more drab: the poverty stricken and devasted province
had no leave centres or pleasant clubs or restaurants, and few
if any comforts, despite the efforts of the YMCA. The language
was incomprehensible, tuberculosis and venereal diseases were
widespread, and the soldier's pay (at first merely 60 yen to £1)
went nowhere on the wildest of black markets. The men from
Italy took a sour view of Japan. ‘The dogged determination
to do as little as possible and to be as troublesome as possible,’
one new broom from New Zealand summed up in his report,
unfairly as it appears when one considers the detailed reports
of many patrols, and the amount of territory covered and examined by so few men. This outlook lasted until they were
replaced with volunteers from New Zealand in June, July and
August.
Noting a different atmosphere ‘with the change-over to young and enthusiastic volunteers’, Oliver A. Gillespie concludes in his War History volume, The Pacific: ‘The New Zealander, with few exceptions, made a reliable soldier for occupation duty—a duty which carried with it immense privilege and power among a people to whom obedience was implicit. He rarely departed from an attitude of fairness and decency and controlled with ease a population among which, in the Yama-guchi prefecture, he was outnumbered by 343 to one.’
Yet it should be remembered that the echoes of
Colonel Andrew's ‘Second to None’ still remained with the
unit: three officers and ninety other ranks representing the
battalion at the Anzac Day parade at Kure were considered
‘easily the finest of the 2 NZEF contingent in drill, dress, and
general bearing.’
The last spectacular action of the battalion's original J
Force men was a sweeping raid on Shimonoseki's black market
at the end of May. An unsavoury gang had cornered the rice
supplies, the life blood of the ordinary citizen. Bit by bit the
names of the racketeers were pieced together at secret rendezvous with disgruntled Koreans, special patrols, and ‘hush-hush’ interviews with anonymous victims. The raid, a complete
success, surprised and seized fifty-seven of the sixty suspects,
including protesting policemen who were thrust into their own
cells. Another clean-up of a different nature was ordered in
the prisons, when a visit to Chofu prison disclosed ‘… human
animals locked up in cages which were just large and high
enough to hold a medium-sized circus lion … a hideous
animal smell…. In semi-darkness and in a stench you could
cut through … [the warder said some of] those creatures
crouching in the distant corner of each cage … never got out
of those cages.’
Then, in the next three months, the men from Italy left for
New Zealand, except for a few who chose to stay, including
Staff-Sergeant Murphy,
S-Sgt J. M. Murphy, MM; born NZ 9 Apr 1906; waterside worker; died of sickness 18 Jul 1946.
who later died of sickness and was
buried at Kure. The old hands were replaced by young volunteers from New Zealand who, with rest camps opening, entertainment organised, and many trips under way to beaches and
beauty spots, entered into and accepted the new life with a
zeal which would have appalled any wartime campaigner in
the battalion.
September: ‘Intensive training … fieldcraft and platoon tactics … the necessity of saluting within the Battalion….’
October: ‘Patrolling … training … sport … pig hunting
expeditions have become popular.’
November: ‘… six days of manoeuvres…. Colonel Thomas
handed over command of the Battalion to Colonel
McCaskill….’
Lt-Col G. M. McCaskill; Raumati; born Temuka; Regular soldier; CO 22 Bn (Japan) 29 Nov 1946-7 Aug 1947; CO 2 Bn Aug 1947-Sep 1948.
In December Japanese children were entertained at Christmas parties. The next six months passed in patrols, refresher
courses, lectures, sand-table exercises, route marches, range
exercises and live shoots. In mid-1947 the strength of the battalion at Chofu was severely reduced by drafts returning to
New Zealand, and others were away on ceremonial appearances and duties with the Tokyo Guard of the Commonwealth
Force. On 15 July an astonishing routine order stated ‘that
Parasols and Umbrellas would not be carried by troops as they
are not part of the regimental dress.’ Indeed, the days of the
battalion were numbered now. Within a month, on 7 August
1947, 22 Battalion—the last of all the original infantry battalions of the 2 NZEF—ceased to exist, and was renamed 2
Battalion of the New Zealand Regiment. In September 1948J Force was withdrawn from Japan.
But the men returned to New Zealand with uneasy memories
of a teeming, inscrutable, brilliant nation crammed into a land
which was the Far East no longer, but the Near North, growing
closer and closer with every year that passed. They returned
with a memory of devastation unparalleled in any of the war
zones of Europe and Africa, and this memory too, refusing to
fade, crept steadily closer as time went by. But perhaps, among
these memories from out of the bloody years, something more
precious than all the other victories was stirring at last: the
tiny beginnings of a world conscience were returning with the
men of the battalion into all the scattered homes within the
remote islands of New Zealand in the South Pacific.
Appendix
RUGBY MEMORIES
[By Paul Donoghue, who apologises for any names of team-mates
omitted; these notes are written from memory going back fourteen
years.]
The11th January 1940 was the last day in civilian life for some
800 members of the original 22nd Battalion, and like many another
that day I had to decide just what gear to take to camp with me, and
it seemed perfectly natural to include football boots, socks, pants
and jersey in the equipment. The next morning saw us off to Trentham and throughout the day we were joined by hundreds from
Taranaki, Hawke's Bay, East Coast, Wanganui, Manawatu,
Wairarapa and Bush. In those early days Rugby was a common
bond and canteens and tents became places of reminiscences of
games won and lost, of players who according to the raconteurs had
never played a bad game, and it seemed that in the ranks of our
battalion we had the nucleus of a football team which could hold
its own with any pre-war Provincial team.
We were fortunate in having for our Colonel L. W. Andrew, VC,
whose interest in the game was great and whose pride in the whole
battalion as a team never diminished. We had a first-class referee
in Major Leeks, a first war Army representative in Major McNaught,
a real enthusiast in school-master Major Jim Leggat, and a well
known exponent of the game in Irvine Hart, later Major, who had
been half-back for Wairarapa in their palmy Ranfurly Shield days.
With these supporters as senior officers in the battalion there was
never any doubt in our minds that Rugby would take up a good
share of our relaxation.
I remember well the Colonel announcing one morning on parade
that he had received a cup from the people of Hawke's Bay for
inter-company football [somebody pawned the cup about a year
later], and that after these games had been played a team would
be picked to play the other battalions, and that we would beat them
too. This last statement made in the Colonel's brittle tones seemed
to me to resemble an order more than an expression of hope.
Our football gear went with us overseas. On the famous Newlands
ground in Capetown, Mervyn Ashman, Gerry Fowler and I played
for the Second Echelon against Combined Universities.
So to England. Our first inter-battalion game took place with
a memorable scoreless draw with the 21st Battalion, to be followed
by equally as exciting games with the Maoris, the 23rds and Artillery,
Anti-Tank, ASC, Field Ambulances, etc. Scores and results have
faded from memory, but I believe I am correct in saying that we
won more than we lost. These games were played in truly unique
conditions and illustrate the love of New Zealanders for their
national game. The Battle of Britain was being fought in the skies
and many a game was played in Kent beneath the machine-gun
bursts from Spitfires and Messerschmitts, while the spectators had
their attentions divided between football and the more grim game
being played above. Bren guns were set up on the sidelines as anti-aircraft defence, and many a time during a lull in the game we
would see fights to the death above us.
I think our teams in those days usually included Joe Simpson,
Taranaki; Bruce Skeen, Hawke's Bay; Ron Ayres, Hawke's Bay;
Gordon Couchman, Wanganui; Joe Patten, Taranaki; Morry
Stewart, Wanganui; Shorty Sangster, Taranaki; Keith Elliott,
Bush; Sammy Sampson and Fred Knott of Taranaki; Ewen
Cameron, Doug Bond, Doug Gollan, all of Dannevirke; Jack
Stewart of Hastings; Ron Newland of Bush; Merv. Ashman of
Hastings; Gerry and Tim Fowler of Taranaki; Eric Newton of
Poverty Bay; Earl Hunt, Hawke's Bay, and myself of Wellington.
One very enjoyable game was played against the Military College
of Sandhurst at Camberley. In this game Ron Ayres received an
injury which resulted in his eventual return to New Zealand.
Captain of this team in England was Gerry Fowler. We had several
representatives in the Second Echelon team which played on many
of the famous grounds of England.
They were just as good as infantrymen in Greece and Crete as
they were footballers—Joe Simpson, wounded in the leg, left behind
on Maleme—Doug Gollan, a sniper's bullet taking off the tip of
his nose, was also left behind, as were Ewen Cameron, M. Stewart
and Eric Newton, soldiers of the first order, all becoming POW's.
Poor Bruce Skeen died from a stray bullet in the only bayonet
charge in which I ever took part—much to our relief the Germans
fled. Bruce was truly unlucky. Major Dyer and Lieutenant Tifa
Bennett of the Maori Battalion led this charge—the gallant Major
armed only with a walking stick. Many of our football friends from
other units also became casualties. Sickened and saddened from
our experiences in Greece and Crete, we were still able to welcome
amongst our reinforcements many whose names were well known
in New Zealand Rugby circles and whose presence later on brought
the 22nd to the forefront of 2 NZEF Rugby.
Once we were on the football field rank ceased to exist, as I had
good cause to remember when playing with Major (later Lieutenant-Colonel) Tom Campbell. The Major, who played for us periodically in England, was once making a determined run down the
sideline and looked as though his progress would be stopped by
the defenders. I had come up inside of him and had a clear run
in. I was calling to him ‘With you Major, pass to me Major,’ but
all in vain as Tom careered on. Finally in desperation I called
‘Pass you selfish B—, pass,’ and he passed immediately and I
duly scored, and upon receiving the Major's congratulations no
mention was made of my doubting the legitimacy of his birth.
The Egyptian summer of 1941 and the November campaign in
Libya commenced, and one of our first casualties was beloved
Shorty Sangster, a first five-eighths of much guile. Another well-known footballer in Hartley Kirschberg of Wellington, who had
recently joined us, received a serious arm wound at Gazala in this
campaign. Some of my friends, Tom Steele, Tim Fowler, Keith
Elliott and Dave Barton amongst others, were captured and held
in Bardia for some weeks. All except Dave were released by the
South Africans on New Year's Day. Dave, being an officer, was
taken along to Italy with Brigadier Hargest before the town was
captured.
The week preceding this Libyan campaign saw a really great
match played on the sands of Baggush—2 NZEF versus the South
African Division, and in this historic match the 22nd was ably
represented by Mick Kenny of Wellington, Jack Sullivan, Taranaki
All Black, Dave Barton of Wanganui, and if memory serves me
right, Gerry Fowler, Taranaki.
The battle over saw us back in Egypt before doing a tour of duty
at El Adem, near Tobruk, and finally going to Syria. In this period
the 2 NZEF played a series of games in Cairo, Alexandria, and
Maadi, and the 22nd secured its usual quota of players in the team
namely Jack Sullivan, Athol Mahoney, Bush All Black who had
just joined us, Gerry Fowler and myself. We had at least one inter-battalion game in this period against the 21st, defeating them in
the Canal Zone. The sands were our home at this time and company football was the order of the day, and A Company commenced
to build up an unbeaten record which held for a long time. Later
on, in February 1943, A Company was known as No. 1 Company
and it supplied six members of the 2 NZEF team which defeated
the Rest of Egypt. The six were Mick Kenny, Lin Thomas, and
myself of Wellington, Gerry Fowler of Taranaki, Ron Newland of
Bush, and Dave Whillans, a man who represented Canterbury,
Auckland and Wanganui. Another well-known player, ‘Triss’
Hegglun, also joined the company about this time.
July the 15th was a fateful day for the battalion, most of its members being captured at the ill-fated Ruweisat Ridge. One of our
football team at least will always remember this day—Keith Elliott
gaining the Victoria Cross—and we were more than proud of his
achievement. Casualties were a penny a dozen these days and many
of us, including Jack Sullivan, were wounded. Athol Mahoney and
a well-known Hawkeapos;s Bay Maori All Black, Wattie Wilson, as
well as All Black trialist, Chris Anderson, were amongst those
captured that day.
The next few months were probably the most trying of our
infantry days and nobody was sorry when after the November
break-through at Alamein we were finally told at Sollum that we
were returning to Maadi to join the newly formed 4th Armoured
Brigade as their motorised infantry. Back to Maadi, where we were
fully reinforced, and upon joining our new brigade what could
bring more joy to a footballer's heart than to find a fully organised
Rugby competition in full swing. Before we had played a game
Mick Kenny, Jack Sullivan and Ron Newland were selected for
the Brigade and 2 NZEF sides, and later Lin Thomas and myself
joined them. Tim Fowler made the Brigade side, and never was
there a greater travesty of football selection justice than when Tim,
playing in the final trial to select the 2 NZEF team to play the Rest
of Egypt, not only scored three glorious tries but also outhooked
his opponent, and was then omitted from the final selection. We
were really amazed as well as indignant. Tim showed what a great
little sportsman he was by coming down to Alexandria to see us
play and cheer us on.
The battalion at this time was fortunate in obtaining an ex-All
Black and 19412 NZEF player, Jock Wells, in its ranks. Jock had
retired from the game but in his new role of selector-coach his was
the hand which guided us in the next few weeks to a record of
seventeen wins in eighteen matches, to the winning of the Brigade
championship, and to the defeat of the Maadi competition winners,
the Maori Training Unit. This game put the name of the 22nd
Battalion on the Harper-Lock Shield, a trophy now competed for
by Wellington Clubs.
At the commencement of this season Jack Sullivan was elected
captain and myself vice-captain of the team. After a game or two
Jack, nursing his recently wounded leg, injured the other one in a
game against the South Africans, and this resulted in the end of his
playing career. I, like the others, missed the brilliance of his play
and the joy of seeing his defence-splitting runs.
This team is my proudest football memory. Mick Kenny at full
back was superb. A machine gun in Italy prevented New Zealand
from seeing the real Kenny, but even on his return and only partial
recovery from a serious chest wound, Mick was still able to become
a Maori All Black. At this stage he always managed to get selected
for the big games in Egypt ahead of the later famed Bob Scott. Two
flying wingers in Tommy Walford of Hawke's Bay and a Captain
Young from Duntroon were real try getters, and after Jack Sullivan's
injury Joe Patten from our original team in England was a cool,
resourceful centre. Three others, Digger Down, a Maori from the
Rangitikei, Keith Elliott, and Mick Crawford of Gisborne, also
had several games on the wing. Their tackling was extra good on
the hard grounds, and Keith Elliott in particular had a devastating
tackle. His marking of the late George Hart, All Black winger, in
one game was classical. Jack Alexander of Buller (selected after
the war to play for the South Island) was second five-eighths. Jack
would always oblige with a penetrating straight run and at first-
five Lin Thomas was the guiding genius of the back line, and I
think the greatest compliment I can pay Lin is to say that I never
once saw him bustled, and the thrill of his left-footed drop kicks
always at a critical moment warm my heart yet. Noel Parris of
Manawatu was an efficient half until he had the misfortune to
break a leg, whereupon Ray Mollier and a youngster, Snowy
Leighton, deputised for him. So well were these boys playing that
All Black Vince Bevan, who had just joined the Battalion, was not
called upon to play.
The forwards were on a par with the backs. Diminutive, lion-hearted Tim Fowler to hook the ball, giant Maori Frank Kerrigan
and tough, fast Mervyn Ashman comprised a front row second to
none. They certainly lived up to the Colonel's motto ‘Second to
None’. George Murfitt from Taranaki, on one side, was a typical
Taranaki forward—he never tired, while Earl Cross and Dagwood
Jones, who played on the other side, were full of energy, and Tom
Reynolds, from the spud town, Pukekohe, Sammy Sampson and
Freddy Knott of New Plymouth all took turns in making a real
forward pack. Last but not least my co-lock, Ron Newland, who
was my partner in platoon, company, battalion, brigade and divisional Rugby—what a forward he was. His genial nature often made
his play innocuous. Ron was best when he was aroused, and I must
now confess that often I was the cause of his becoming aroused, as
I gave him a hefty kick in the shin or a full blooded punch in the
ribs. Then he would become a veritable Maurice Brownlie, and he
would tell me about how dirty one of the other side was. Such are
the depths to which a captain must sink to get the best out of a
gifted, easy going player.
The hard grounds were a constant source of injuries to our players.
In the few absences of Ron Newland I locked with a Poverty Bay
shepherd, Max Rogers, who was a man of great strength, which he
demonstrated freely. Shortly afterwards the first furlough party
departed for home, the Division for Italy, and we of the second
furlough party waited patiently for a boat home, during which time
I had the doubtful honour of being captain of the first New Zealand
Army team to be defeated in Egypt. The South Africans under the
captaincy of Kenyon, 1949-1951 Springbok skipper, beat us twice,
but upon my return home I was overjoyed to learn that a team
captained by Did Vorrath of Otago had reversed our losses. My
biggest thrill was to come later on, however, when one day as a
civilian in Hastings I read in the paper that the 22nd Battalion,
fresh from the front lines of Italy, had come back to win the coveted
Freyberg Cup—trophy for the Divisional champion football
team. The only points were scored from the trusty boot of
Lin Thomas in one of his inimitable drop kicks taken in a sea of
Italian mud.
My impressions of football in four years with the battalion are
of the happiest, and I can honestly say that no matter how hard
or tough the game not one of us ever made an enemy through football, and now at home many of us are not rich in a material sense
but are wealthy in our friends made in NZEF Rugby.
To illustrate the quality of the talent available in Egypt in our
unit, we were embarrassed by the return of three divisional players
who had been away at OCTU, Gerry Fowler, Dave Whillans and
‘Triss’ Hegglun, players any team would be proud to have—yet we
had to ask them to keep on playing in the base competitions as it
would be unfair to drop players like Murfitt, Ashman and Kerrigan,
who were doing so well. A too large crop of good players can almost
be as big an embarrassment as a scarcity of them.
Before concluding I would like to give the lie to a statement often
made that if you were a footballer in the Army you were protected
as far as the fighting went. Although we were ready to have a game
at the drop of the proverbial hat, the boys of the 22nd never missed
a campaign and many won decorations. There was our own Keith
Elliott, and from memory Tom Campbell, Ray Mollier, Gerry
Fowler, Frank Kerrigan, Mick Kenny and Tom Reynolds. Others
certainly deserved them as well. Infantrymen are simple souls with
a zest for life, and our team was always fortunate in having the
whole unit on the sideline cheering us on. To all loyal supporters,
to all our courageous opponents of all nationalities against whom
we played either on the luxuriously appointed grounds of Cairo,
Alexandria, Maadi, Capetown or England, or on the gritty, dusty
sands of the desert, we say thanks for the memories. I am sure that
every one of our unit who returned to New Zealand joins with me
in a heartfelt prayer for all those we left behind.
Roll of Honour
killed in action
Lt-Col J. T. Russell6 September 1942Maj F. G. Oldham30 November 1943Capt W. H. Cowper1 June 1944Capt D. H. Nancarrow2 December 1943Lt J. D. Bedingfield15 April 1945Lt D. J. W. Butchart24 October 1942Lt K. H. Cave14 April 1945Lt W. J. Crompton22 November 1941Lt R. B. Fell20 May 1941Lt W. C. Hart21 September 1944Lt E. J. McAra20 May 1941Lt K. J. D. McCorkindale16 April 1945Lt J. H. McNeil31 July 1944Lt T. S. Wauchop25 July 1944Lt A. F. Widdowson24 October 1942Lt O. G. Wood24 October 19422 Lt N. K. Cope21 September 19442 Lt J. D. McClymont15 April 19442 Lt G. D. McGlashan20 April 19412 Lt G. F. McHardy28 November 1944WO I S. A. R. Purnell20 May 1941WO II R. J. Bayliss26 October 1942WO II R. J. Rough18 April 1945S-Sgt W. J. Butler29 March 1944S-Sgt F. W. C. Thompson10 July 1942Sgt E. G. Berry13 July 1942Sgt H. J. Butler20 May 1941Sgt J. S. H. Dring20 April 1941Sgt B. H. Fowke15 December 1944Sgt R. P. H. Hocking28 June 1942Sgt T. Logie16 April 1941Sgt W. H. MacKenzie8 December 1941Sgt I. B. Park21 October 1944Sgt B. Skeen22 May 1941Sgt R. B. Spence20 May 1941L-Sgt P. D. A. Brewer31 July 1944L-Sgt J. A. Hughes15 December 1944L-Sgt I. B. McWhinnie20 May 1941L-Sgt J. Walker5 December 1943Cpl W. G. Baker10 July 1942Cpl J. W. Brown19 October 1940Cpl F. D. Condon3 December 1943Cpl L. E. Creagh15 July 1942Cpl C. J. W. Fanning24 October 1942Cpl M. Hercock3 December 1943Cpl K. R. Hill29 June 1942Cpl G. B. Ironside15 December 1944Cpl I. S. McDonald15 April 1945Cpl A. Merrick13 December 1941Cpl T. W. Molloy31 July 1944Cpl D. H. Neilson20 May 1941Cpl N. L. Wakelin1 June 1941Cpl J. Young3 December 1943L-Cpl E. Adams19 April 1945L-Cpl L. H. Astwood14 September 1944L-Cpl F. R. Brown15 April 1945L-Cpl I. W. Brown19 April 1945L-Cpl W. J. Charles20 May 1941L-Cpl P. C. Clarke2 October 1944L-Cpl J. T. Cooper20 May 1941L-Cpl T. J. Downing17 January 1944L-Cpl T. G. Gomer15 April 1945L-Cpl P. E. Herbert24 October 1942L-Cpl D. W. C. Lange26 May 1944L-Cpl I. F. McGirr19 October 1944L-Cpl J. T. Mehaffey20 May 1941L-Cpl A. E. O'Neill20 April 1941L-Cpl J. N. Russell3 May 1945L-Cpl G. M. Sandiford20 April 1941L-Cpl A. R. Viles31 July 1944L-Cpl F. J. Williams24 October 1942Pte F. H. Algie27 June 1942Pte W. H. Amner20 May 1941Pte F. A. Andrews18 April 1945Pte E. F. Barratt21 December 1944Pte E. Barrett20 May 1941Pte J. Bassett20 May 1941Pte R. T. Bedingfield16 December 1941Pte A. H. Benny10 July 1942Pte R. H. Berry28 July 1944Pte G. Bloomfield20 May 1941Pte T. J. Borthwick1 August 1944Pte L. B. Bosworth20 April 1941Pte A. L. Botica16 December 1941Pte T. O. Brandford15 December 1944Pte C. W. V. Bransgrove23 September 1944Pte I. E. Brisco3 December 1943Pte D. Brown2 October 1944Pte J. O. F. Bryson27 June 1942Pte H. H. Burgess16 April 1941Pte G. S. Bygrave25 March 1944Pte F. A. Carrington3 October 1944Pte W. J. Christian15 December 1944Pte H. McD. Clark1 June 1941Pte M. M. Coleman20 May 1941Pte S. R. Collins15 December 1944Pte C. L. A. Commins27 November 1941Pte C. C. Congdon20 May 1941Pte J. K. Cooper23 December 1944Pte S. J. Craven31 July 1944Pte W. H. Croft20 May 1941Pte G. L. Croxford1 June 1941Pte R. J. Cruickshank31 July 1944Pte G. Davidson21 December 1944Pte S. J. Dempsey14 December 1944Pte E. D. Dobson19 October 1944Pte W. Doole1 June 1941Pte J. P. Douglas26 October 1942Pte E. J. Dyer20 May 1941Pte H. R. Evans18 April 1945Pte L. L. Falconer24 October 1942Pte J. Farrington20 May 1941Pte D. S. Findlayson26 November 1944Pte R. C. Fleming27 July 1944Pte J. Franks27 November 1941D. L. Futter24 October 1942Pte A. A. Gillon22 September 1944Pte B. C. Goodall27 November 1941Pte P. H. Graham20 May 1941Pte A. A. J. Grant17 October 1944Pte L. L. Grant1 June 1941Pte W. J. Grant5 December 1943Pte E. A. Handley25 September 1944Pte J. G. Harold17 October 1944Pte O. J. Hawkes3 December 1943Pte A. H. Herrick24 October 1942Pte R. I. Hill20 May 1941Pte E. H. Hitchcock27 June 1942Pte I. G. S. Holms27 October 1940Pte C. P. Holman27 July 1944Pte W. H. Homer24 October 1942Pte P. W. Hunt27 November 1941Pte C. N. Jackson14 April 1945Pte J. E. Jensen29 March 1944Pte R. E. John28 June 1942Pte W. R. Johns20 May 1941Pte R. N. Johnson19 May 1941Pte S. B. Johnson24 October 1942Pte J. D. Keehan24 October 1942Pte P. W. Keeling4 September 1942Pte D. C. Kennard28 November 1944Pte T. M. Kilpatrick3 December 1943Pte J. Landreth5 October 1944Pte R. F. Lankshear27 November 1941Pte L. C. Laurenson20 May 1941Pte A. R. Lewis29 June 1942Pte J. Lewis22 September 1944Pte J. D. Lindsay19 October 1944Pte M. R. Lord20 May 1941Pte J. W. Luddon14 April 1945Pte F. McDavitt20 May 1941Pte W. McFarlane21 October 1944Pte N. M. MacGibbon20 May 1941Pte F. J. McGrath1 June 1941Pte J. D. M. McIsaac24 October 1942Pte D. J. McMinn19 May 1941Pte W. F. McSweeney22 December 1944Pte A. J. Magee24 October 1942Pte J. L. Martin27 June 1942Pte G. J. Mason24 December 1944Pte L. J. C. Medway30 July 1944Pte M. W. Midgley24 October 1942Pte F. K. Milham3 October 1944Pte I. G. Morgan23 December 1944Pte A. W. Morris17 January 1944Pte J. V. Mullany26 November 1944Pte C. S. Murfitt31 July 1944Pte C. G. Nikolaison25 March 1944Pte G. L. Nilsson31 July 1944Pte J. O'Brien16 April 1941Pte E. P. O'Connor26 November 1944Pte J. J. O'Neil1 June 1941Pte L. A. Parnell17 January 1944Pte W. S. Pearce19 October 1944Pte A. E. Pedersen20 May 1941Pte A. C. Pine20 May 1941Pte R. E. Porter20 May 1941Pte T. A. Redpath22 November 1941Pte W. Reid20 May 1941Pte C. Richardson26 July 1944Pte L. R. Ridling1 June 1941Pte T. Rochfort21 May 1941Pte E. B. Sandilands17 April 1945Pte C. Sangster22 November 1941Pte E. S. Sapsford26 October 1942Pte J. H. R. Sawyers13 July 1942Pte M. J. Shotter26 May 1944Pte A. G. Simmonds2 December 1943Pte A. G. Sirett14 April 1945Pte G. R. A. N. Smeath20 May 1941Pte A. J. P. Smith20 May 1941Pte D. I. Stantiall4 September 1942Pte A. Stewart24 October 1942Pte M. E. Stewart1 June 1941Pte D. F. Stoneham30 November 1944Pte J. S. Strang26 May 1944Pte E. L. Stuart27 November 1941Pte G. L. Sutton25 October 1942Pte R. Tama20 April 1944Pte W. G. Tapp20 May 1941Pte C. H. Tardieu10 July 1942Pte V. T. Taylor3 December 1943Pte F. T. Tichborne26 October 1942Pte G. M. Tosh15 July 1942Pte B. P. Tracey1 December 1943Pte E. Trewby21 May 1941Pte G. H. Tuffin31 July 1944Pte J. R. Tustin16 April 1941Pte D. A. Valintine30 July 1944Pte R. Waddington20 May 1941Pte J. Wallace21 May 1941Pte J. J. Wallace21 September 1944Pte W. Webster1 June 1941Pte P. S. Wevell31 July 1944Pte W. A. Wicken31 July 1944Pte S. N. Wigzell25 October 1942Pte A. D. Williamson20 May 1941Pte A. G. Willis1 June 1941Pte D. Wilson16 April 1941Pte G. M. Wright24 October 1942
died of wounds
Lt E. F. T. Mullinder28 May 1944WO II J. Matheson20 May 1941Sgt A. O. Ainge23 December 1944Sgt R. D. Price9 August 1944Sgt A. S. Teaz11 June 1944L-Sgt S. S. Keir25 July 1944L-Sgt R. H. Ludbrook12 August 1944Cpl J. W. Dickson24 October 1942Cpl W. S. Hall21 May 1941Cpl A. C. Jimmieson27 September 1944Cpl A. G. McIvor20 May 1941L-Cpl A. Dunbar12 August 1944L-Cpl H. A. Gibson24 October 1942L-Cpl F. J. Minton23 November 1941L-Cpl J. N. Stone16 November 1942L-Cpl W. R. Wellington29 December 1941Pte C. C. Adams24 October 1942Pte J. H. Aldersley15 April 1945Pte J. H. R. Anderson15 April 1945Pte R. C. Bentley28 June 1942Pte G. N. Best24 May 1941Pte R. McF. Bithell24 November 1941Pte R. C. Brock21 May 1941Pte D. F. Charteris24 September 1944Pte J. Cockroft21 April 1941Pte D. I. Cullen12 December 1943Pte F. H. Deehan2 August 1944Pte L. Duffy17 October 1944Pte F. S. Fisher30 November 1944Pte R. H. Flynn24 October 1942Pte O. R. Gatman28 November 1941Pte P. B. E. Goodman-Burke21 May 1941Pte E. E. Heenan24 October 1942Pte H. Hooper25 October 1942Pte N. R. Hunt18 July 1942Pte H. R. Jones1 June 1941Pte W. J. King9 November 1942Pte L. H. Lapworth11 October 1944Pte N. P. Lealand22 October 1944Pte A. J. McClintock22 November 1941Pte K. Marshall25 October 1942Pte F. H. Mollier21 April 1944Pte H. S. Orr13 September 1942Pte G. H. Peacock16 April 1941Pte A. A. Pearse25 November 1943Pte I. G. Riddle28 July 1944Pte H. R. Robertshawe17 December 1941Pte G. G. Romley18 January 1944Pte G. R. Rye3 August 1944Pte C. B. Smith5 January 1942Pte E. P. B. Smith3 December 1943Pte A. H. Towers4 December 1941Pte A. H. True28 June 1942Pte A. H. Vipond15 July 1942Pte E. R. Ware5 December 1941Pte G. W. Wells23 May 1941Pte T. Wells14 December 1941Pte G. L. H. White2 December 1944Pte J. H. S. Williams26 October 1942Pte R. E. Williams22 May 1941Pte G. Wilson25 May 1941Pte S. R. Young19 April 1945
died while prisoner of war
Lt W. G. Slade23 May 1941Cpl K. R. Hill29 June 1942L-Cpl A. G. Dingwall30 December 1941L-Cpl D. Russell28 February 1945L-Cpl E. H. Sheath8 December 1943Pte C. L. Anderson17 April 1945Pte J. BarronJanuary 1942Pte T. Broad28 June 1941Pte G. R. Geenty25 August 1942Pte A. Gillice11 February 1945Pte J. Love14 September 1942Pte C. S. Lovett12 February 1945Pte H. R. Oppatt23 May 1941Pte A. H. Peterson3 December 1942Pte J. Ross22 May 1941Pte B. C. Sampson17 August 1942Pte N. O. Wansbough15 June 1941Pte A. Williamson17 February 1945
died on active service
Lt W. A. Talbot22 April 1943WO II L. E. Hack26 April 1944S-Sgt J. M. Murphy18 July 1946Sgt L. G. Bailey11 December 1941Sgt G. J. D. Leece7 January 1944Sgt J. N. B. Ross25 August 1944Cpl C. E. Prestidge30 July 1945Pte E. F. Burch13 November 1945Pte J. H. P. Calson16 January 1941Pte J. S. Crothers19 September 1944Pte R. G. Fairbairn27 January 1942Pte L. M. Fearon19 November 1944Pte I. W. Feast25 May 1945Pte A. Haig12 December 1941Pte L. E. Harris13 June 1941Pte C. R. Hill29 September 1944Pte A. S. Jones20 August 1944Pte T. F. King8 August 1943Pte H. S. McLucas12 July 1944Pte R. C. Strachan11 October 1940Pte D. P. Thomson8 February 1942Pte K. A. Thomson22 February 1944Pte N. S. Traynor28 May 1940Pte L. J. Williams27 January 1942Pte H. T. C. Wilson27 October 1944Pte V. J. Wise18 September 1944Pte B. J. Wood11 June 1944
Summary of Casualties
killedwoundedprisoners of warOffrsORsOffrsORsOffrsORsTOTALGreece11321721954Crete2604614169300Libya, 19411223424678Egypt, 1942453919913291569Italy1311330432–3591—————————————————————total2126148751234881592
The killed include men who were killed in action or who died of wounds; the prisoners of war include 3 officers and 86 other ranks who were wounded before capture, and 1 officer and 17 other ranks who were killed or died of wounds or sickness
while prisoners of war. One officer and 26 other ranks who died on active service are
not included.
Honours and Awards
victoria cross
Sgt K. Elliott
distinguished service order
Lt-Col L. W. Andrew, VC
Lt-Col H. V. Donald, MC
member of the order of the british empire
WO II W. G. Jude
bar to military cross
Capt C. N. Armstrong
military cross
Maj T. C. Campbell
Maj J. L. MacDuff
Maj A. W. F. O'Reilly
Maj R. H. Spicer
Capt R. R. Knox
Lt H. V. Donald
Lt I. L. Thomas
2 Lt C. N. Armstrong
2 Lt G. M. Bassett
2 Lt J. W. C. Craig
2 Lt R. Mollier
2 Lt E. B. Paterson
greek military cross
Maj H. G. Wooller
distinguished conduct medal
Sgt A. E. Eades
Sgt G. H. Palmer
L-Sgt L. F. Seaman
Gpl R. F. Garmonsway
Cpl L. T. McClurg
Cpl H. J. Whelch
L-Cpl J. H. Garwood
military medal
WO I T. G. Fowler
WO II R. L. Craig
Sgt R. J. Bayliss
Sgt E. D. Bougen
Sgt N. F. Callesen
L-Sgt M. N. Reeve
L-Sgt S. N. Tsukigawa
Cpl F. J. Blackett
Cpl A. G. Clark
Cpl A. G. Gordon
L-Cpl B. C. D. Smaller
Pte R. H. Dixon
Pte R. J. H. Hawley
Pte H. McIvor
Commanding Officers
Lt-Col L. W. Andrew, VC10 Jan 1940-7 Feb 1942Lt-Col J. T. Russell7 Feb 1942-6 Sep 1942Lt-Col T. C. Campbell6 Sep 1942-18 Apr 1944Lt-Col D. G. Steele18 Apr 1944-11 May 1944Lt-Col H. V. Donald11 May 1944-22 Nov 1944Lt-Col A. W. F. O'Reilly22 Nov 1944-24 Mar 1945Lt-Col H. V. Donald24 Mar 1945-7 Aug 1945Maj R. H. Spicer7 Aug 1945-19 Oct 1945Lt-Col W. B. Thomas19 Oct 1945-29 Nov 1946Lt-Col G. M. McCaskill29 Nov 1946-7 Aug 1947
Young, Lt-Col R. R. T., 4, 94, 120,
128, 142, 181–4
Young, Pte S. R., 425
This volume was produced and published by the War
History Branch of the Department of Internal Affairs
Editor-in-ChiefM. C. Fairbrother, cbe, dso, edSub-EditorW. A. GlueIllustrations EditorMiss J. P. WilliamsArchives OfficerR. L. Kay
the Author:Jim Henderson, born at Motueka on 26 August 1918,
was educated at Nelson College. A gunner with 29 Battery, New
Zealand Artillery, he was severely wounded and taken prisoner of
war at Sidi Rezegh on 1 December 1941. He is the author of Gunner
Inglorious, wrote the official history of 4 and 6 Reserve Mechanical
Transport Companies, 2 NZEF, and is now with the Talks Section of the New Zealand Broadcasting Service.
The book was printed, bound and distributed by
Whitcombe and Tombs Ltd.