I've been given a box full of papers concerning my late sister-in-laws family and included are letters from her father Rev Watson Mathewson who served as a chaplain (padre ?) in the Middle East, Italy and Palestine. I'm gradually working through them and working out his movements. Amongst them is a typewritten transcript of one of them describing his time with the Scots Guards at Monte Cassino that I thought some of you would find interesting.
With some time on my hands, and remembering your “Tell me all” plea, and also because I would rather like to have a record of a very historic month before I forget it completely, I thought I would try to write out some of the main impressions that my first two experiences of action made upon me. I have been in two minds about writing them up because I don’t want to alarm you unnecessarily – not that there was much to get alarmed about – or to break the censorship regulations. However, since I emerged alive and well, and I guess that is your main concern, and since the action happened a long time ago, I think I can safely fire ahead. But I shall leave out all place names just to be on the safe side. This is the story of a mountain:- you will notice the Quentin Reynold’s touch – and on or off it, the mountain, with it’s monastery perched on the very top, overshadowed us continually. The Bn. Was up the mountain when I joined it on the 13th of November. I spent the night at our B. Echelon several miles back, where the Quarter Bloke and the Transport Wallahs live, and went up to B.H.Q. by jeep the next morning. I had seen and heard the guns firing the night before- my first experience of guns fired “in anger”; not that there was much appearance of anger on the faces of the men firing at an enemy which they could not see. But the explosions we heard on that mountain track were from enemy guns, and I realised then in a very much more vivid way than one does at home, even in an air-raid, that the enemy is real. We bumped along up the track through woods with shattered trees, shell-holes and slit trenches, and through ruined villages swarming with troops. A badly shelled house, probably shelled some days previously, finally gave up the struggle and fell in the road behind us. Sometimes there were graves with neat white wooden crosses by the roadside. But this was an old battle ground fought over weeks previously. The front really began when at quite a height we rounded a corner of the road and looked down on the enormous sunlit plain stretching to the sea and still in enemy hands. A notice “Don’t stop: you are under Enemy Observation” rather took my mind of the view which was really beautiful. So we raced along. Soon there was no further sign of troops - all dug in I expect – and I suddenly felt very lonely. We had the road practically to ourselves except for the occasional burnt-out lorries. Of course, there was no sign of the enemy, and I felt how utterly unrealistic the whole thing was - certainly not a la Journey’s End – that was still to come. The obvious thing to do seemed to be to stop and have a picnic on the grassy bank and admire the scenery – the kind of place mother would be in her element – but I was brought back to the brutal reality when a military policeman popped out of a seemingly deserted house in a small wood we had entered, and told us that Jerry was stonking the road ahead. I asked Johnson, the driver, what we ought to do, and he said we could either stop and wait or make a dash for it – which put me in rather a dilemma. So I asked him what he usually did, and he said he usually mad a dash for it, and that if we were hit travelling at 40 to 50 miles an hour we would be unlucky. So he stepped on the accelerator. As we emerged I heard a kind of dull thud in the wood on our right and realised I had heard my first enemy shell. We tore down the road, myself very conscious that probably many hostile eyes were watching our progress – as they no doubt were. We went so fast that we failed to negotiate a bend properly and slid into a ditch. But a jeep can get out of anything and we were bumping along again in a matter of seconds, myself holding on to the seat with one hand and on to my tin helmet with the other, and wondering what on earth you and the folks at home would feel if you knew. Half-a-mile or so further we rounded a corner, and knew that we were under cover again. Round that corner I had my first view of the mountain, and I was appalled to think that men were fighting up there among the crags and precipices – although apart from occasional little white puffs of smoke and the sudden sharp rattle of machine-gun fire, there was no sign of fighting. Think of the rockiest, craggiest and most precipitous mountain you have seen in Scotland and you will have some idea of this mountain’s horrors. The top peak, crowned by the monastery just visible to the naked eye, is well over 2000 feet high. The monks must have had all the seclusion and privacy they could desire up there. The only access from our side was by a mule track up the cleft in the centre – otherwise it was pretty well a case of cliff climbing. Access was much easier from the other side we were told, but of course that was in enemy hands. In face Jerry was sitting on the tops and as you can imagine had all the approaches very well covered. I say “tops” because the mountain had about seven distinct summits, many of the summits being really ridges (razor-back variety) almost level with the monastery feature. I might as well explain here the strategic importance of the mountain. It was part, and perhaps the most important part, of the German winter line held till February. The whole “massif” was a natural fortress with adequate supply dumps and roads in the rear. Caves and huge rocks furnished excellent protection to the snipers, mortars and that very deadly weapon , the Spandau or machine-gun – firing 900 rounds a minute. This fortress guards the road north, and on the other side is a vast plain giving excellent positions for tanks and artillery. And now back to the narrative. B.H.Q. was at the foot, in a farmhouse. I could hear the occasional crump of landing shells but felt reasonably secure there. This is just going to be about my battle experiences so I won’t pause to describe the people I met, but among the staff there was such general cheerfulness and irrelevancy, that I quickly forgot any fears I may have had. In fact, if anything, it was with a certain exhilaration rather than fear, that I listened to the bursting of the enemy shells – “incoming messages” they called them – not so very far away. Of course I realised that I had a lot to go through before I could really know what my reaction to being under fire was to be. I remember that we debated till quite late the future of South African politics, the only reminders of battle being the noise outside and the ringing of the telephone within. That night I slept on a stone floor in the building. I can’t say I slept well, but having had to sleep since in muddy ditches and open fields I have come to consider even a stone floor a luxury. During the night we heard the shells falling very near, and seemingly coming nearer, and next morning we discovered that one had actually hit the foundation of a gable of the house. But most of the shock had been absorbed by the soft earth and there was very little damage. The next morning I went by Jeep to our R.A.P. in the only whole house in a little village at the foot of the mule-track. On my way there I saw “death” for the first time – only a mule thank goodness. But more serious was the first human battle casualty – a wounded soldier brought into the R.A.P. I was glad to find that I was able to view quite dispassionately – although not without sympathy – the dressing of his wounds, and even was able to help a little. I have seen many worse since then and know that at least one of my personal problems is solved. Our men were up the hill and were suffering considerable hardships through exposure and enemy fire. They had been up, some of them, for five days, some for ten, and had done extremely well against strong positions. At one time they almost gained their objective. But there had been a good number of casualties – killed, wounded and missing – and it was decided to withdraw. The withdrawal was executed that night in pouring rain, and under cover of an artillery barrage. The men came off the mountain and down that dreadful mule track, bedraggled, footsore and very tired, all hoping they would never see the place again. I shall never forget their drawn, dirty, bearded faces as they plodded through the mud to their soaked tents that night. They were too tired even to curse. We went back to billets in various Italian villages for rest and training. During that period most of the talk was about the mountain, at first in retrospect, and then progressively as it became evident that another attack on the mountain on a much bigger scale was in preparation, in rather foreboding anticipation. I had had my baptism of fire, but it had been such a small sprinkling, that I probably didn’t at the time fully appreciate the hatred these men had for that mountain. There were conferences and discussions, and finally the order came to move. Maps and aerial maps littered the place and we were issued with Everest rucksacks (rather like my Bergen) for mountain climbing. We had to travel as light as possible. My kit consisted of one blanket, a troop’s greatcoat, mess tins, a mug, knife, fork and spoon, gas-capes, book of common order, and three days rations in tins. I also managed to get a leather jerkin which was to prove very useful. Our first night was spent level with our forward guns in an orchard. It was fair and cold, and the mortar-office, Dicky Buckle, and I slept together for warmth. Not that much sleep was possible. Our guns were putting up a terrific barrage on all the salient points of the mountain: and Dicky would insist on spouting poetry, especially a parody of his own on “It’s a long way…..” So I spent most of the night gazing across the valley at the mountain. Hundreds of tracer shells glided slowly over to explode on its lower slope; higher up were the flashes of H.E; soon the whole mountain was obscured in smoke. “Better the Jerries than me” I thought. The next day it poured, and Dicky and I crouched in a ditch with our two gas-capes rigged up as a tent. But it was impossible to keep dry – the rain came streaming through the holes under the armpits of the capes – and soon even our precious single blankets were soaking. That night however we got into a village where we stayed the whole of the next day, and managed to get our things dry before large wood fires. We spent most of the day sleeping and eating for we knew that we were due to put in our particular attack fairly soon. Meanwhile other units were attacking up the mountain slopes. News came filtering back of the progress of the fighting, and we were cheered to hear that one after another of the strong points, even the monastery, was falling into out hands. We were warned that zero hour for us was 12:30 a.m. that night. A special rum ration was issued. I was staying with the R.A.P. The R.A.P. Sgt. was a marvellous scrounger and came in with a small bottle of cherry brandy. He also found a bottle of olive oil, stoppered with a human finger! Orders were issued that all greatcoats were to be collected and handed on: we were going up without them. Needless to say I never saw mine again (not, of course my good one, but an O.R. one I had acquired). Promptly at 12:30 a.m. we left the village for the foot of the hill and started climbing by the mule track. It was warm work. Half-way up we were shelled but they landed on the reverse slope of the gulley spattering us with mud and stones, otherwise doing no harm. I remember very clearly the rattle of these stones on my helmet, and the strong of them on my hands. My mind rapidly explored every part of my body, but everything seemed to be functioning. Fortunately it was a beautiful night, but when we got to the top of the gulley, after a climb, which in single file and with much stopping and starting and scrambling over rocks, had seemed endless, we started floundering in the most awful mud imaginable. I was terribly afraid I was going to slip into it, so unmanageable and unwieldy was my pack, rapidly getting heavier. One fellow had a boot completely sucked off by it. Some of the blokes lit cigarettes when they got to the top under the impression that the monastery, which commanded the spot, was in our hands. But it wasn’t ! The cigarettes were quickly extinguished. We crossed the top left summit in the half light of morning and started climbing down the huge boulders and screes of the opposite slope towards out objective. It is going to be difficult to give you a picture of our movements thereafter without a sketch or a map, but I rather think both would be verboten. So you will just have to put your imagination to work. If we had stopped long on the top, which we did not, we would have seen in the background below us the great plain running north, with a river twisting down the centre of it. The mountain descends in a series of ridges towards the plain, each ridge a cliff not unlike Salisbury Crags. The first of these ridges was held by our troops, captured by them the day before. The second ridge towering above the plain precipitously was our objective. To reach it we had to descend into the first valley, climb over the first ridge, through the troops holding it, down into the next valley and then on to the top of the final ridge; and energetic though relatively simple operation, were it not for the fact that though the first ridge had been taken, the Germans on the right and left were in a position to fire up the valleys between. Other British units of course were coming round the mountain on both sides, but there was considerable opposition and their progress had been slow. It was almost light when we crossed the top and scrambled down the boulder-strewn slope into the first valley, finally to take shelter in the lea side of the first ridge. By some miracle we all got down safely. Jerry must have been at his breakfast. At any rate, although he opened up latterly with machine-guns and mortars on the slope, he was just too late in discovering what was happening. Once down, we dug in with the utmost speed, which meant choosing as big a rock as possible to shelter under, and building a sturdy wall of stones round one. Lying there we noticed to our horror that a small party of men – not our own – was winding down the slope which we had just descended. These poor boys had a terrible time. We watched their pathetic ant-like figures away up the slope, ducking, running and conferring together, till finally they took refuge among some huge rocks. Mortar bombs exploded in black spurts mercilessly round the spot, but as far as we could make out only one was wounded. Then it was our turn. Fortunately our position was rather inaccessible. Mortar shells crumped in the valley and Spandau and sniper bullets whistled up and down, while we hugged mother earth. It wasn’t anything like as terrifying and dangerous as it sounds. If you are well dug in, a shell can land very close indeed and do absolutely no harm. Once the mortar positions had been spotted by our observation posts their number was up, because our artillery dealt with them extremely effectively. An unlucky shell, however landed where three officers were, killing one, wounding another in the hand and the other in the head. This last was brought down to the R.A.P. and bandaged up. He was rather hysterical, but the doctor said as far as he knew it wasn’t a dangerous wound. However I hear later that he died in hospital. Diagnosis under these conditions is very difficult indeed. Various other casualties were brought in and skilfully treated, mostly legs and arms – all recovered. Then one serious case came down on a stretcher. He realised that it was serious – a chest wound – but was very cheerful. He asked to speak to me; and told me how his faith in God had grown since he had come abroad, and how he felt no fear whatever happened. The doctor thought that there might just be a chance for him if he were got away to an A.D.S. immediately; and one sgt. and several stretcher-bearers very bravely volunteered to go down the valley with him through enemy lines under cover of a red cross flag. I watched them with binoculars as they made their difficult way down the terraces towards the burn. At one point they were sniped at and they all went to cover, all that is, except the Sgt. who very bravely continued to wave his flag. I shall always remember that picture. The sniping stopped and they continued down the hill. Unfortunately a big battle developed before they got there and they had to retuned with the poor chap. By this time he was unconscious and remained so till the next afternoon when he died. At 9:30 that morning our attack on the ridge went in and was entirely successful, the objective being lightly held. We had very few casualties, among them an office whom I had got to know and liked. I did not go with that attack, but stayed with the R.A.P. the whole of the day as I had to be with those who needed me most. A nearby unit whose Chaplain was killed asked for my services, so I sighted a little cemetery near by and made arrangements for the burial of our very few dead and theirs. I had to take careful note of the location of the graves, and make sure that the bodies were identified. I had been rather worried as to how I would react to this kind of job, and was quite surprised when it came to the bit how easily I was able to take it in my stride. I had made up my mind that I was going to be entirely objective about the whole business, and I succeeded. When the fellow I mentioned died I was by his side. Two of us in the R.A.P. had by this time moved on – laid him out, went through his pockets for personal possessions, and wrapped him in a blanket. But all this inevitably made its impression on me, my first experience of death in this violent bloody form. Yet strangely enough the whole matter did not occupy my mind to any great extent in these days. My thoughts were very much more concerned with warmth, sleep and food. Mountain warfare fosters a terrific appetite. At every opportunity, even while shells are falling, the troops will be brewing up, that is making tea on a Tommy-cooker, a small meth stove not unlike your apparatus for heating curling tongs. But back to the story. The night which followed out descent of the first slope I spent with the R.A.P. The wounded had not been evacuated and could not be till the battle at the foot of the valley was won: It was impossible to take stretchers back up the slope we had come down. We huddled together for warmth, the doc, one of the orderlies and I, and having been without sleep the night before managed to doze off every now and then. The next day the R.A.P. moved on over the ridge and I stayed with the dying men – the wounded being evacuated in the morning – and continued the work on the cemetery. Darkness was approaching and all the bodies had not been brought in so I decided that the best course was to hold service for those buried, unburied and still to be brought in. It was raining throughout. I slept that night in the R.A.P. of another unit – ruined barn with a leaky roof. But I was very glad of that roof, because the rain began to fall torrentially. The next morning, however, was clear, and I made my way across the ridge in the next valley which as the result of our attack was now in our hands. I conducted a little service for the office I mentioned above. He had been killed, and was buried in a very inaccessible spot. I doubt whether I would be able to find his grave now without a great deal of searching. Then I visit the companies in their defensive positions on the second ridge and finally climbed to the summit. From there I watched as from a grandstand our planes dive-bombing a road and bridge in the plain below. After that my memory of the exact sequence of events has become a little hazy. I remember that we sent a patrol down to the German road in the plain, and I listened to its progress on the radio. I remember going to bed in a ditch, wrapped in two gas-capes, and being roused in the early morning. We were all going to climb down into the plain. What a scramble that was! There was no path to speak of and we had to jump from boulder to boulder, speaking in whispers and trying to make as little noise as possible. Jerry knew we were coming down, and we could see the Spandau tracer bullets searching for us. Fortunately he couldn’t get the right place and we watched the bullets spraying the slope on our right. At last we tumbled down on to the road and we spent – the R.A.P. I mean; the troops went on up the road – the rest of the night in the most uncomfortable ditch I have ever been in. The next morning we went on and established ourselves in a house very hurriedly evacuated by the Germans. We found piles of ammo. and German biscuit – they look like “Ryvita” but taste like cardboard. The story of the next few days as we moved forward to our final objective, a village which had been a German supply dump would bore you, and me, if I told it in detail. One or two things stand out in my memory, however: - a cured ham, we found and the wonderful soup it made, with vegetables and potatoes gathered from a garden: an Italian castle we took over with a library of the most beautifully bound books I have ever seen…a Jerry prisoner who lit my cigarette with his cigarette lighter – I would very much have liked that lighter but hadn’t the heart to take it from him (things like that are legitimate prizes of war) although I knew that the next man who saw it would make it his own….a surprising meeting with a file of Americans on a remote road, each American greeting us in the same terms “What d’you know?” and expecting no answer…. A warm arm sticking out of a heap of rubble, the sleeve was the German field-grey; when I saw it first there was a signet ring on the finger, when next I passed the place both ring and finger had gone. Things like that make it difficult for me to get enthusiastic about Italians…. a ruined Catholic church with a black negroid virgin and child, a grwat rarity. And then the day came for us to be relieved. (I’ll continue the episodic style, it covers the ground more rapidly). It was pouring rain and dark when we started the long trek to the rear. We went round the mountain this time, not over, slogging along in the mud…pack getting very heavy and rubbing the sore places on our bodies where we had slipped on the rocks…yet remarkably light of heart…the job done and well done…hour after hour. A single farewell shell burst with a clatter and blinding flash in a village we were passing through…we all dived for cover but no more came… an aged Italian sitting peacefully in the mouth of a cave: he was known as the C---- horror, he was dead and had been for days. Half-drowned we slithered into the village where our transport was waiting. And there, one last fantastic memory. A huge ruined church with a great hole in the beautiful gilded roof had been prepared to receive us. A great fire of broken pews and chairs had been made on the floor and round it we crowded. I shall never forget that sight…the huge bonfire reflected in the roof…the masses of dirty unshaven faces….eyes staring into the fire hypnotised by it….few words spoken…a lot of rum passed round…satellite fires in odd corners…three Jocks brewing tea up in the pulpit. I think we slept most of the way back in the transport vehicles. I remember stumbling up the stairs in the house reserved for us. A beautiful meal was ready. My bed was made and it wasn’t long before I was in it. We slept till lunchtime the next day. This letter has taken longer to write than I anticipated, and since I started it I have been sent to my new unit. From where I am now I can see what I think is the top of the mountain. I look at it frequently: I still find that it has for me a certain awe-inspiring fascination …
There's another short typed transcript of a later letter; "Extract from Watson’s letter dated 4.10.44. We are now permitted to raise the veil a little on our past activities, so to satisfy your curiosity I am going to give you a resume of my past movements. As you probably guessed the mountain I wrote about in a sea-mail letter was Monte Cassino. Thereafter, following my spell in hospital for jaundice, I was in some mild action on the Garigliano river, and not so mild on the Anzio Beachhead. When we came out we went right down to Taranto. Then you will remember I was posted to the C.R.U which moved up in stages from north of Naples to near Rome: at which point I joined the Gordons. I am now allowed to say that I have been in Florence during the fighting in that city. This was the experience I found so interesting – almost musical comedy, although perhaps musical tragedy would be nearer the mark. We were defending one sector of the city and to preserve the buildings were allowed to use nothing bigger than small arms fire. Jerry used shells but, I must admit, with discrimination. The fighting was largely street fighting, and it wasn’t at all healthy to wander round by oneself. Partisans with red scarves user to rush around and bump off former Fascists. Their habit of dumping bodies in our area was rather annoying because I had some bother getting them buried by the proper authorities. Snipers were frequent and I believe I was saved on one occasion by the Red Cross armlet I wear. The boys live entirely in houses and in many ways it was a most comfortable war. One several occasions I have seen the sentry sitting in a deep armchair by a window, his gun resting on the ledge. That was the front line. Visiting companies was rather exciting since there were always open streets to be “doubled” over."
A great piece of work but just to be clear, he was writing about events in the battalion in the build up to Cassino - in this case the actions of 2nd Battalion Scots Guards at the First Battle of Monte Camino which was an enormous mountain before Cassino. The battalion were then moved down to the coast to the mouth of the Garigliano for the 17-18 Jan 44 assault river crossing. 2nd Battalion Scots Guards never actually went anywhere near the Cassino feature. They could see it from the top of Monte Camino but did not ever fight there. Regards Frank
He would have come up this way from the village of Mieli. 167 Brigade at Anzio | Page 4 | WW2Talk He left 2 Scots Guards in December 1943 - do you know which unit he went to subsequently?
The 6 Gordons eventually but think there's another one too. It'll be a Scottish Regiment- he was Church of Scotland!
I'll have a look through the war diaries when I get home - given the mentions of Garigliano and Anzio it must be either a 5 or 56 Division battalion.
