Italy 1943-45

The Luftwaffe attacked and sank a British ammunition ship just off the port of Ban, Italy on the Adriatic coast. Our battalion was rapidly deployed from Foggia Air Field to Bari Italy to counter further bombing attacks. It was a minor port of entry for allied supplies. When we arrived a day or so later, bodies of burned British sailors were still floating into shore. Headquarters Company set up close to the harbor, and I had Sgt. Pezzula set up the aid station in a nearby empty house that was evacuated by its owners after the bombing raid.

We were attached to the British once more. Under their command we received rations, communications, orders, and of course, lessons on how to speak proper English.

Our battalion being designated “separate” meant that we were not part of a larger outfit like a division or corps. We were an “Army” unit, a single dot on the maps at Army headquarters. It also appeared that, when the Army was pursuing the enemy, we were left behind protecting an airfield or a port. (I suspect that very few of us were disturbed about that, other than the Colonel.) Literally, we were a bunch of “loose cannons.” But, as an unattached unit we had no “clout” in getting supplies, ordinance, clothing, and perhaps worst of all, turkey on Thanksgiving and Christmas Days.

When we arrived in the town of Bari, our colonel received the customary invitation to be introduced to the British commanding officers. This was a social sort of invitation that usually involved having a few drinks to become acquainted. The officers, such as intelligence, quartermasters and communications, would meet separately for serious establishment of function.

So, when the colonel received this invitation, he was very busy planning the distribution of gun sites, answering phone calls, planning the position of the motor pool, etc.

I was just lounging around in that new headquarters room with my hands in my pockets when all this was going on, waiting for any orders. I wanted to stay out of everybody's way and check out the “nudies” left on the walls that the British so generously left behind. I knew that Pezzula was going to get us a nice house for an aid station. He always got the best...

The Colonel called me over and said, “Captain (whenever he called me “Captain” it was always cause for concern), I want you to represent our headquarters officers to the British.” And he handed me his invitation. He said, “It's just across the street, and it should make for a pleasant evening.” He always spoke like a “gentleman,” as an officer should. I said, “Yes, Sir,” and accepted the written invitation.

I decided to invite our dental officer to go along with me. His name was Lieutenant Bingham, and he hailed from southern Alabama. He had a southern accent so thick as to be almost unintelligible. He called a thing a “thang,” etc. He was a bit short and chubby. He was always smiling and wore black-rimmed glasses.
I got my formal dark brown officers blouse out of my barracks bag, including the Sam Brown belt, and unsuccessfully tried to smooth out the wrinkles. I pinned and polished my caduceus insignia and captain's bars. Bingham dressed the same way.

So, we two properly dressed American officers went across the street to meet the British commanding officers.
We entered the ground floor room of the British headquarters. The building had a curve to the street side, with a side French door. All the little square panes of glass had been blown out with the recent German bombing.

We introduced ourselves to everybody and sat down not too far from the door on the curved side of the wall, facing the long end of the room. At the other end of the room was a table with a huge punch bowl and some finger sandwiches on dark British bread.

Bingham and I helped ourselves to some sandwiches and went back to sit down in our chairs. Shortly, the officer's “Batman” came around to give us cups of liquid refreshment from the punch bowl.

The ingredients of the punch bowl were responsible for what happened in the next 3/4 of an hour. It could not have been any longer than that.

I have no idea what the actual ingredients were, but it seemed to me it was made up of aged Italian wine (last Thursday), three parts low octane gas, Scotch whiskey, and who knows what else!

I took one sip and my eyes crossed. (I swear it.) Of course, I was never much of a drinker except for a little sweet wine on the Passover holiday.

Bingham, sitting next to me, had already polished off the first cup and was on his second and smiling broadly!

In about thirty-five to forty minutes, the room became rather noisy as the British officers playfully poked each other on their shoulders, laughed uproariously, and carelessly spilled the punch. It all seemed to come on so suddenly.

Formality simply turned to complete chaos! It was incredible! Bingham was laughing too, but nobody was talking to him. So, I nudged him and said, “Better not drink any more lieutenant.” He turned to me and said, “Captain, this is Graaate!” in his deep southern drawl.

It is what happened next which was totally incredible. The British colonel came in through the side French door, waved to everybody and went directly to the refreshment table to help himself to some sandwiches and punch. As he bent over the table, a British officer (I don't recall his rank), sitting several seats to my right, got up from his chair, went up behind the colonel and deliberately, grabbed each side of the little back split in his coat and ripped it right up to the neck.

Mind you, the Colonel did not have anything to drink as yet. He simply turned around and with no expression of anger or surprise on his face hauled off and hit the officer with a punch that sent him all the way back to his chair, across the slippery floor. I found myself sitting there with my mouth and eyes wide open staring at the scene. Then all hell broke loose.

Suddenly everybody started fighting and laughing. Bingham climbed up on a table and started yelling, “The British are coming! The British are coming!”

I remember yelling at Bingham, “No! No!” Then I ran out the side French door. Standing there looking at our headquarters across the street, I wondered what to do about Bingham. In just a few minutes, the Brits threw Bingham right out through the French door. Fortunately, the glass panes had been blown out. I literally dragged Bingham across the street to our headquarters, dreading what the Colonel would say to me tomorrow.

Would you believe it? He thought that it was fanny and just laughed it off. Apparently he knew the British Colonel.