The duties of an adjutant at Christmas are always onerous, but last year, in Alexandria, they were peculiarly so for one adjutant on account of Sappers Griffiths and Carlew. The adjutant’s primary duty on Christmas Day is to steer his colonel safely through the alarming succession of social occasions which custom and Christmas spirit make necessary. He has to keep an eye on the “old man” and exert tactful influence at little parties which start early in the morning, with company commanders, other commanders, with the R.S.M. in his luxurious little room, at the sergeants’ mess, and, of course, in his own mess.

At the same time the adjutant has to make sure that the complicated arrangements, for the Christmas dinner of the men are carried through, get the colonel to the football field to kick off in the inter-company final at 1000 hours, watch over the officers’ mess, and be available for any crisis which is very likely to arise over a family of about seven hundred celebrating soldiers. On top of all this there was, last year, the problem of Griffiths and Carlew.

These two soldiers were residing in the cells under close arrest awaiting trial by court martial.  They had been naughty in quite a big way, and their A.F. 122 showed that they had often been very naughty before.  So that when they asked the orderly officer a few days before Christmas if they could be allowed to leave their cells and join their seven hundred comrades at dinner on Christmas Day the answer given by the adjutant was a definite negative. He had enough to worry about, and their custody was his responsibility.    Sentiment is all very well over Christmas; goodwill towards men is more or less laid down- but not with such as Griffiths and Carlew.

On Christmas morning the adjutant left the colonel in the doubtfully safe company of his second in command, with the points of his speech to the men written on the back of a cigarette packet in his pocket, and went down to the guard-room. It had been arranged that six lance sergeants should relieve the guard between 1200 and 1400 hours so that the guard could dine with the rest of the men, the sergeants dining later at 1600 hours. The handing over was successfully carried out, the sergeants making bright remarks and the guard brighter ones.

“Any prisoners, sir?” asked the self-appointed guard commander. Griffiths and Carlew were opened up and displayed. The adjutant looked at them and went weak. Would they give him their solemn words that if they were allowed up for the dinner they would not get drunk and would return to the cells directly it was over? They would, honest, sir, they would. Would they realise that if there was any monkey business it would be a court martial for the adjutant? They did realise it. So they were liberated.

The long concert-hall was a bedlam of light-hearted soldiers, pledging each other in the abundant beer cheering, perspiring officers who were trying not to stain their jackets with gravy as they bore loaded plates, and booing the R.S.M. in the most hilarious manner as he poured out beer. In a corner Griffiths and Carlew sat together, amid a covey of friends, eating and drinking, probably the happiest pair in that happy little army. They exchanged a confident wink with the adjutant, who brought them a very large jug of beer.

Everyone cheered the colonel so much when he was hoisted on to a box to make his speech that all he could do was to shout “Happy Christmas” and raise a tankard to them all.

The meal, gargantuan as regards food and bedlamic as regards noise, came to its end, and the men went away to get their heads down for a few hours before setting forth in the evening into Alexandria for cinemas and clubs: all but a persevering few, about fifty, who gathered in little knots round beer barrels and sang lustily. Eventually they were ushered out, and only the Egyptian cleaners, well fed and very happy, remained. Then the adjutant thought of Griffiths and Carlew and with the R.S.M. hurried down to the guardroom.

They were both there. Griffiths sat at the table where the guard commander sits and Carlew stood at ease by the main gate, a steel helmet on his head, a rifle with bayonet fixed in his hand. He sprang to attention as the adjutant and the R.S.M. stood, slightly bemused, regarding him. Griffiths, the temporary guard commander, explained. When they returned as promised only one sergeant was on duty, and he had handed over his rifle and gone away, saying something about a darts match in the mess. The guard had not turned up and they had carried on. We were not to worry; they would carry out the guard.

The R.S.M. pulled the corporal off his bed in his barrack-room and asked after the rest of the guard. The corporal was embarrassed; he had just sat down for a minute and . . . He would muster his guard. Ten minutes later the guard hurried in, a little sheepish, but relieved to see that the R.S.M. was not his everyday self; he twinkled. They assumed their duties. Griffiths and Carlew looked slightly pathetic, standing in the guardroom

I’m afraid you’ll have to go back,” said the adjutant. “Very good, sir.” said Griffiths. He took the key from its nail and unlocked the cell door. “Get in, Jock,” he said, handed the key to the adjutant, and went in himself. “It was a fine dinner.” he said. The adjutant locked the door. At 1900 hours a Sudanese waiter came down from the officers’ mess with a tray loaded with two complete Christmas dinners, a new pack of cards, and twenty cigarettes. There were also four bottles of beer. So Griffiths and Carlew had two Christmas dinners. What is more, there was a brace of very good cigars under the napkins which the mess waiter had provided.

David Scott Daniell

The Manchester Guardian; Dec 18 1946

About lunch-time one day in July, 1944, a jeep came into our camp, drove cheekily between the tent-pegs right up to my tent, and the driver, an American officer whom I knew quite well, said: Say, lootenant, would the major and you come to supper with us to-night at head­quarters?” “Sure,” I said, “and thank you.” ” Good,” he said; “seven o’clock. We’ve got some music after­wards. Does the major like good music?” “Yes, very much.” He drove off, weaving his way between the tents while startled sappers watched him.

Our company was operating on the west coast of Italy, which was the American Fifth Army side of the campaign. So we had much to do with the Americans and we all got on nicely together. There was not much social life, as we were well forward, but sappers and G.I.s mixed affably enough, though each was envious of the other’s rations.

It was not until an hour later that we realised why we had been invited: it was July the Fourth and therefore Independence Day. We were reminded of this when the ration sergeant asked us to go to the ration store. There we saw a neat row of twenty-eight large turkeys: real turkeys, not tinned. The sergeant had laid them out reverently in a precise row, their necks straight out. The sergeant cook was there, and we were all awed. The field butchery and the bakery had not come up with us,  and for three weeks we had lived on tinned food, biscuits, and dehydrated potatoes. It seemed that an American truck had driven up, off-loaded the turkeys, left a message about “with the compliments of Uncle Sam for you Limeys,” and went away.

Being, like all Army cooks, a master at improvisation, our sergeant cook said he would manage for the evening meal if he could have a fatigue party of eight. Before the major and I went off to our supper we watched the men lined up for dinner, which was served at half-past six, with a light “tiffin” at noon. The men were, of course, delighted. The ration sergeant had managed to get hold of real potatoes, and beans made the second vegetable. Tinned fruit followed. The comments of the sappers, tired of bully beef and “M. and V..” rippled up and down the line. “Lend-Lease does it again!” “They aren’t real; they’re dehydrated and puffed up again.” “‘Got a wishbone, sarge?” “Where’s the Christmas pudding, eh?” A spirit of carnival was abroad, and, leaving his three hundred charges happy with their unexpected feast, the major drove me away to our supper party.

The headquarters of the Engineers Combat Battalion was a requisitioned villa on the outskirts of the devastated little town.  Feeling rather shy, we straightened ourselves up before we went in. We had put on Sam Brownes over bush-shirts in honour of the occasion, and leather and brass shone. Then an officer who knew us came out and took us into the dining-room, where three trestle tables were arranged in a “U,” and introduced us round. A corporal came in and said “You can sit down, gents,” so we did. We were put one each side of the colonel, and before he settled he announced, “Gentlemen, we have the privilege this evening of the company of two soldiers of King George.” He then introduced us by name, and everyone clapped. To cover my embarrassment I remarked to my neighbour on my right, “King George the Sixth, not the Third.” The observation was kindly appreciated and passed around.

It was a wonderful supper, or so it seemed to us. There was an enormous amount of turkey; legs and wings together in dishes and slices of breast in others. There were fruit drinks, and after the first course a cake which seemed to be traditional, and fruit and canned cream.   But it was not the splendour of the fare which affected us so much as the kindness and cordiality of our hosts.

As well as the warmth of the friendliness shown to us, a special kindness matching the occasion, there was a feeling of national pride, and although there were neither toasts nor speeches we were aware that the events of 1776 were alive in their minds. This made their genuine cor­diality to us two “soldiers of King George” strangely affecting.

Afterwards we all went to the little theatre of the town, which was damaged by blast and had a battered appearance among the ruins around it. To our amazement we learnt that the “music” was to be a recital by one of the world’s greatest violinists. By typically bold organisation they had sent a staff car 200 miles to Rome and had brought the master north to our little wreck of a town.. To have thought of doing it was courageous enough; to have succeeded was masterly.

The stage was lighted by two temporary lights and was hung with Army blankets. The great man came on to the stage, wearing British battle-dress, carrying his violin. There was a great deal of applause. He bowed and then said, in broken English, “Before I begin my concert I will play the National Anthem.”

Everyone stood up and we were especially stiff to attention out of courtesy to our hosts and the impor­tance of Independence Day. The artist raised his violin and then played “God Save the King.” The audience gave no rustle or movement, and stood in a most soldierly manner until the end. Then after a tiny pause everyone sat down. Our own thoughts were confused. “And now.” he said, “I will start with three little pieces, first Debussy’s ‘La fille aux cheveux de lin’ . . .” and the concert began.

 The Manchester Guardian; Oct 30 1946

I want to give my very good friend Antonio Lanave, who lives in Bari, in Italy, a pair of shoes – a simple proposition, but it has not proved to be so.

The project began two years ago. I became a friend of his, and when I had an hour to spare in the mornings I would park my fifteen-hundred-weight truck outside his house and knock at his door, a gaggle of Italian children standing around hopefully. The door would be opened by a patent wire-and-weight idea of Antonio’s, operated by one of his two devoted elderly sisters from the first-floor landing, and I would see Antonio standing at the end of the corridor, ready to bow when he saw who it was.

Then a pleasant hour would pass, sitting in his crowded yet neat little studio, crowded with things, not people. He would continue to work while I sat and watched and we talked as best we could, he having no English at all and I but a British soldier’s Italian. But we became great friends and we sat together and drank the delicious little aperitif his sister brought and the two or three little cakes or almonds. He is sixty-three, short and stout, with nothing unusual about him except his penetrating and questioning eyes. He is a veritable “maestro” and a painter of renown; his work is always highly competent and sometimes inspired. He wears a plain blue suit, a scarf loosely over his shoulders, and a plain cloth cap.

It was at one of such contented little visits that the question of shoes came up. I had a new pair of shoes, bought from the Officers’ Shop. They were plain, honest, brown English shoes, and he admired them with awe and respect. One felt slightly self-conscious about the Empire. His shoes, he pointed out, were not fine, strong, healthy leather, but imitation, mostly cardboard. They had cost a thousand lire. They were unobtainable then, and it was not possible to get them repaired. To such a pass had the Government brought things. Good shoes he loved; he worked on his feet and he suffered, with his feet.

When I left Bari to go to Egypt our leave-taking was sad. Promises to come back, the future peace, the return eventually to England for me; all these glad things were brought up to lessen the pang of parting. Then he produced his present, a genuinely inspired picture of my wife and baby, made from a photograph, the colouring learned by artful questioning at various times. It was a handsome present indeed. What could I give him? Perhaps some shoes? His face lit up. Yes, that would be handsome: some shoes and some dress material for his sisters? So the debt of honour was incurred and we parted.

In Egypt the unit had an ingratiating little Egyptian cobbler who willingly made shoes for the British officers. The size of Antonio’s feet was given to him and he set to work and from the finest leather made a strong, handsome pair of shoes. The carpenters made a box for them and they were joyfully posted, not direct to Antonio, because one lacks confidence in civilian posts abroad, or did when the shoes were sent off some six months ago. They were posted instead to a brother officer with a request that he deliver the shoes.

Two months later I left Egypt for home. A week after I had left the parcel of shoes turned up again at our camp in the desert. The brother officer had also left Italy for home, and the Army Post Office, a very efficient and tidy-minded branch of the Service, returned them to the sender. The orderly-room sergeant thereupon repacked them and sent them to England after me. At the same time a letter came from Antonio thanking me in courteous and fluent terms for the dress material, and for the shoes, which had not yet arrived. The dress material had been posted two weeks before the shoes, which had been announced in a letter.

Recently the shoes arrived safely here in England. A new parcel was made up. This time it was addressed to Antonio himself at his address, knowledgeably written backwards in the approved and very logical Continental style. We felt better when they had at last gone off, after their journey from Egypt to Italy, Italy to Egypt, and Egypt to England.

Three days ago the postman brought the parcel back, with a little label saying that “new shoes” are prohibited for export except under licence from the Board of Trade. After all this one could not give in, and Antonio has a great faith in the integrity of the British. It was therefore important for international relations, as well as for Antonio’s feet, to persevere. Application was made to the Board of Trade and a handsome form came back, which took some filling in, because the circumstances are not the normal ones. The price f.o.b. and the question of whether or not it was a “firm order” made the modest gift seem like a gross of seven-league boots. However, it is hoped that the Government will deign to license the export of this one pair of shoes.

There must be a moral in all this. It is a pertinent sign of the times that Antonio, a professional artist of position, should need a pair of shoes and that all this trouble should be so very much worth while; maybe it is an indication that nations should not let their Governments “stab” other countries “in the back-” Yet Antonio, who has spent his life quietly painting pictures and minding his own business, could not by the wildest stretch of imagination be considered a “war criminal.” He still has a gigantic canvas and frame, ten feet by seven, in the entrance hall of his house, from the days -when he was commissioned- and commanded- to paint a haughty picture of Il Duce. He never painted it; he just stalled until there was no need. The shoes have many difficulties to surmount yet, especially when they reach Italy. I feel that there will be more forms to be filled up, and very complicated ones, by Antonio. But if all goes well, one day Antonio will take his little eager steps to and from his canvas with his small feet well shod. The pains will have been worth while.

DAVID SCOTT DANIELL.

The Manchester Guardian; Jun 27 1946