Next day we were all dressed up for the Commonwealth Service at the Cemetery we had visited previously. I had rung to confirm arrangements beforehand with the New Zealand contingent and we turned up in the maelstrom on time at 9.30. It was crowded with veterans and supporters from most of the Commonwealth participants, although I saw nothing of the Indians. The British and the Canadians were there in force. We wandered through the graves in the heat. The old digs didn’t march, which was a good thing. Just standing to in the sun was more than enough for some. The service was divided among the participating nations. A New Zealand honour guard fired the salute.
We met some interesting old blokes, some still very vigorous, but a good many in a worse way than Dad, who is certainly still reasonably strong. One man lost his medication and had to be shepherded constantly. A mate helping him in the shower slipped and broke his femur. There was a strong New Zealand nursing contingent and I saw them occupied helping someone suffering from the heat. Scrawny old body with oxygen mask and loosened collar, hands on knees, breathing grimly. I’m sure he wasn’t the only one. Like a lot of the others Dad sought shade, sheltering under a half grown tree with a cheerful old Wairoa Maori called Andy and a gloomy ex farmer from Masterton. Three ex cow cockies in a row, I said. Andy’s no cocky, said the third bloke. He’s a wharfie but he won’t admit it. I took a photo of the three of them lighting up and smoking.
Another Maori called Matson, a carpenter, reminded me of a boatbuilding character we knew called Norm. Matson had seen a lot of action at Cassino. Taken five bullets through the abdomen from a machine gun, he said, and one or two more through the leg. He still limped. One night on watch he’d seen movement out there — that far, a hundred yards or so. He was staring hard where he’d seen the movement, his finger on the trigger. I reckoned they’d seen me, he said. I was squeezing the trigger. Then it disappeared.
Turned out to be one of ours, he said. I would have got him alright. I knew the guy. He was having a shit. Lying on his side — you couldn’t stand up of course. Met him after the war, three big beautiful daughters up to here. Never told him.
He talked on. I’m gonna look for my pillow up under the hill, he said. A sack of grenades. I’ll bet it’s still there.
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They started talking about sex, somehow. You may not know this, said Dad, in a lecturing tone, but half the division got VD in Italy. Did you go to Naples? You could get a woman inside ten minutes, no problem. All these little kids in the street. You want my sister? You want my sister?
Yeah, said Matson, maybe more a man of the world than Dad, who always said the other blokes reckoned he was a mug. We had a chaplain round once, not ours, a Catholic too the bastard. Said if you felt the need it was alright to wank yourself off. It wasn’t a sin or anything. The bastards didn’t mind if there were casualties but it was a complete waste if we were out of the line because we’d copped a load.
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When I had the chance I asked Dad about the sex. No, he said. I didn’t want prostitutes — never have, if that makes me a mug.
I hedged around the issue a little more. Well, I knew I might die, he said, and I certainly didn’t want to die without having had intercourse with a woman. I made up my mind that if the opportunity arose with someone I loved and was prepared to marry — I’d do it.
There were two, he said. Colette and Olympia. I never got the chance with Olympia — I told you about that, didn’t I, but we were certainly keen.
I met Colette in Alexandria. We met some beautiful girls there. One of my mates was engaged to somebody important and we all got invited to a club — race course, swimming pool, everything. University students, diplomats’ daughters, businessmen’s daughters. All high class. Colette was one of them, French, and we got on really well.
One night I took her to a saucy night at the theatre. Do French girls act like that? I asked, squeezing her hand. Not the girls from the North, she said, squeezing back. But girls from the South sometimes do. Where do you come from, Colette? I asked. I come from the centre. We were both really keen and this was probably the only chance we’d get — but when the show ended Daddy was outside with a car to take her home, so that was it. After that she left Alexandria and I never heard from her until we were due to leave for Italy. She was coming to Alexandria and wanted to meet me. But we weren’t allowed to communicate with anyone so I couldn’t even write.
Suddenly the service was over and the bugler played the Last Post. Shaky old bodies stood to attention with tears in their eyes, as in mine. Then Reveille. As we were all stood there, still, with a sudden crack the volley rang out. I wanted photos of the show for Dad so I dashed over but my field of view was spoilt by an Italian girl posing against the firing party as her Mama took photos. There was more time later as the New Zealanders stood to with their weapons — legs braced, firearms at the ready across their bodies, a far more aggressive and imposing stance than the old “attention”. The British regimental band sweated over their music as the crowd laid wreaths and poppies. The bagpipes. Amazing Grace.
Dad and his two mates were sat sensibly again under their tree, cadging water off the attentive service people and smoking, comfortable with each other.
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It took ages to get them away to lunch as one old fellow had gone missing.
When they left we returned to our hotel to eat and then went back to join them. There was a huge group there and a pop-eyed old accordionist was leading a group of Italians singing. Inside, from their tables, the kiwis joined in on the old songs. A chauffeur from one of the limousines came over and started to sing something Neapolitan. He and the wild-eyed accordionist played and sang eye-ball to eye-ball while the crowd joined in behind them. When it was over the chauffeur ran through the cloud like a victorious soccer player, slapping palms and yelling. By now the Kiwis were going outside and the smokers were lighting up. The accordionist walked off, singing Lilli Marlene with Dad, who always said he had a better voice than Elvis.
The Maori soldiers performed Kamate Kamate to great applause, and even the crustiest old bastards said Jesus that was bloody good, tears in their eyes again, and mine. I wonder what the Germans think of that, said Dad. They used to do that at night sometimes in the lines.
Is that war dance? asked an Italian. It’s a challenge, said Dad.
Challenge? Come challenge?
I looked it up in the book but it wasn’t there. It means like this, I said, and shoved him in a friendly way and put up my fists. Understand? He looked worried and said non capisco. The Maoris were into an action song and old Andy got out and danced with them to great applause. There was a queue to pat him on the back and shake his hand afterwards.
There was a battlefield tour in the afternoon, but it was a waste of time. Perhaps because they were running very late they never even got out of the bus. Afterwards they stopped at a bar in the centre of town for refreshments before heading back to Terracina. The old digs were divided between those who wanted a beer and those who wanted an ice cream. I didn’t see anyone who wanted to renew their acquaintance with vino rosso. If we’d lived near a pub I’d have been a drinker said Dad. I was an alcoholic when I got home. In Tunisia we used to drink a gallon of that stuff each — every day.
While they polished off the ice cream and beer they climbed over a gun and a tank in the piazza, and picked on the young “historian” for not knowing what calibre it was.
I was reminded I was a pakeha while I was speaking to a Maori serviceman. A heavy-set older Maori came over to us as we were talking and butted in, ignoring me completely. I don’t think he was Maori Battalion.
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The following day there was a New Zealand-only celebration back at the Cemetery. Three Maori women in customary black, with green in their hair (one of them slender and elegant in high heels and black stockings) sang a waiata as we entered and shuffled into position in front of the flag, between two groups of graves. A few of us ended up near the flag behind the padres, and the Maori who’d frozen me out yesterday escorted the three ladies and another old fellow towards us. There was a nice moment as a pakeha woman embraced the elegant Maori, uncertain in her high heels on the soft green lawn. With them were some of the Maori servicemen. Move over, the heavy-set man said crudely. Move over. We’re going to sing hymns. Can you sing hymns?
Everybody obediently shuffled off except us, as Dad couldn’t hear. Opposite, the TV crews were set up and I couldn’t help but think the camera angles were spot on. One of the women cried perfectly as the Last Post sounded. There were tears from the Maori Major as it played, and a young woman soldier.
I admitted these unworthy thoughts to Dad. I can’t help thinking they were doing a good job of getting on TV, I said. Do you think that woman was crying or performing? Oh that was genuine alright, he said. I had to comfort her. So did the Major. I’d already decided the Major was a good sort.
I took some photos of Dad among them, one white face in the brown and green and khaki, with Montecassino above, his face serene and a little absent. As they laid wreaths the Maori ladies sang. While they were silent one of the pakeha began to sing sadly in a clear tenor. He can sing hymns, I thought, still pissed off. Indeed he could. He’d sung in such a measured (and loud) voice earlier in the service (when we all had a go) that we’d ended up half a line behind the rest of the gathering, like an echo.
Next stop was the railway station, where 144 men (out of 200) from the Maori Battalion had died in the unsuccessful February assault. It was taken by another battalion after the bombing of the town. We sweated through the official speeches, and translations, and then a survivor spoke, eyes glittering. So many British were here, he said, so many Poles, so many French and Americans. But this, this was our battle. He banged his stick on the platform. These are our memories. He’d led one of the teams, he said, their objective the machine guns set up in houses along the sides of the track. I want to tell you a few things you won’t read in the history books.
Keep it short, said an old dig. Christ we’ll never stop him now, said another, the buggers don’t know when to stop. They walked off muttering to the shelter of the station.
I was the last one out of here, said the old Maori. The books don’t say so, but you prove me wrong. Only five of my section came back. When we first attacked, and they started shooting, six of us jumped in the same hole. You find your own hole! we said to the last one. It’s funny what you remember.
They sang Maori Battalion March to Victory. Dad didn’t hear the grizzling but I told him about it. They’ve got every right, he said. They lost a lot of men here. They were good soldiers, he said. That Andy — what’s his name? — he’d give his life for you, make no mistake.
Some of our blokes got taken to when they crossed the Maori lines, he said. They didn’t give a damn about the Eyeties either. Just took anything they wanted.
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We left the old soldiers there, glad we didn’t have to deal with buses and admin and the stopovers to refuel every few thousand miles on their way home to New Zealand. It would have been interesting to hear more stories from the men, but after all I was here for Dad’s.