Thursday, February 6, 2014




Under mortar fire on the Anzio bridgehead

Then the “moaning minnies” started. “Slit trench!” I shouted to Michael. The nearest was the one with the dead German in it: “Not that one!” Five yards further back was an empty trench; we leapt in, shoulder to shoulder. The moaning minnies grew louder; to drown them Michael sang his song, “The sons of the Prophet were hardy and bold and quite unaccustomed to fear”, “Abdul the Bulbul” his favourite.