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In Peace & War: A Civilian Soldier's Story

19 — Journeys Back

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19
Journeys Back

I have had several opportunities over recent years to revisit places I had been during the wartime campaigns and, of course, the memories came flooding back ….

Fourteen years after the war's end Ana and I visited Italy in the course of a trip to Britain and Europe. Our first stop was at Villa d'Este on the shores of Lake Como in the north where I had spent a relaxing few days at the end of the war. This magnificent hotel, which had catered almost exclusively for English visitors before the war, had regained its reputation for luxury and elegance, with extensive gardens and breathtaking views. For dinner that night an enormous baron of beef was wheeled in on a heated trolley so guests could choose the slices they preferred. The service was excellent and the surroundings delightful so we relaxed and enjoyed it.

From there we had booked two nights at the Danielli in Venice where some of the staff remembered us as their 1945 page 211 liberators. Unfortunately, for five days before we arrived, the Bora wind had been blowing consistently up the narrow Adriatic Sea towards Venice and, as a consequence, a large part of the city was under water. There was a foot of it in the foyer of the hotel and all the ground floor carpets had been rolled up and stored on the stairways. We approached the reception desk on duckboards and found it was business as usual as this was quite a common occurrence. We then drove to Trieste where I renewed several friendships made during our extended stay there at the end of the war. From Trieste, we fought the war backwards down the Adriatic coast, across to Florence, down to Rome, Cassino and across to Salarola back on the east coast once again.

It was intriguing to re-visit Salarola, the small village my company had occupied when it had become our front line during the winter of 1944. To improve our fortifications, there had been some damage done to some of the houses we were in, but this was minor compared to the destruction caused by German shellfire. The residents had treated us well with daily gifts of wine and food and I had been asked to settle minor disputes as judge and jury. The wartime damage had been repaired but there was little evidence of real progress in this remote community. No one seemed to be fluent in English so I did the best I could with my limited Italian. There were still a few of the original villagers living there and gradually their memories were jogged and there was a flurry of interest.

We had planned to stay the night in the village and explore its surrounds the next day, attempting to recognise the various buildings we had used and to pinpoint the enemy positions on the hillsides above. Disappointingly, I found this impossible: the rubble had been replaced with new buildings and the bare and broken trees had grown again or there were new plantings. But as we were exploring, along the street came a group of locals, talking excitedly, led by an elderly Italian page 212 wearing loose fitting clothes and a cloth cap. “Ah — Il Majore,” he exclaimed, clapping me on the back, and bursting into a torrent of the local dialect, of which I could not understand a word. The small crowd cheered and I began an exchange of phrases and gesture with my friend whom I had failed to recognise. Eventually, we managed to communicate that we wanted to stay the night, but with no accommodation in the village, this posed a problem.

The mayor was approached as only he in the village had a bath and hot and cold running water. He agreed to take us in as he had a spare room and we shared an evening meal of spaghetti bolognese with his family, washed down with a supply of excellent wine. We felt very welcome and the evening passed quickly with numerous visits from inquisitive neighbours who wanted to look over this strange couple from New Zealand. When it was time to retire, our host asked what we would like for breakfast and I indicated that toast with butter and marmalade, and coffee would be ample. There were some anxious glances and a quick discussion I couldn't understand, so with repeated “buona note” we went upstairs to bed. A hot bath would have been excellent but, as there was no plug in the bath or basin and the former showed no sign of recent use, we had to be content with a sponging down.

A magnificent rooster, with black, shiny plumage and a rich red comb, woke us in the morning with his imperious crowing, strutting amongst his harem in the backyard. Soon, up came our breakfast complete in every detail except that jam had been substituted for marmalade. Our host had scoured the village for butter after we had gone to bed and found the only small portion to be had. We packed up the car and prepared to leave for Naples, but our attempt to pay for our food and accommodation was firmly refused. “You saved many of our lives,” they said, “when you occupied and took control of our village during the war, and we are grateful.” They had page 213 remembered us as friends even though we had been enemies a short time before.

Our car was booked to be shipped home from Naples so, having delivered it, we travelled to Rome to fly home. We had thoroughly enjoyed our sojourn in Italy, but I had found it almost impossible to recognise the actual ground we had fought over 14 years previously. We had won the war but the cost had been high in human suffering and sacrifice. The many graves we saw with familiar names on the headstones bore mute testimony to this.

Out of the blue, late in October 1980, I received a telephone call from New Zealand's TV 2 channel asking if I would take part in a documentary to mark the 40th anniversary of the battle for Crete to be screened in May 1981. They would bring a film crew to my home in Masterton to record the interview. A British TV producer, Jeremy Isaac, had been hired to produce the programme which was to be filmed on Crete by a TV2 film crew.

Others to take part were Major General Sandy Thomas, who had been a subaltern in the 20th Battalion on Crete; Major Roy Farran, a gallant British tank commander who had spearheaded our New Zealand counter attack at Galatos; and a German general whose name eludes me. Thomas was coming from Australia, Farran from Canada and the general from Germany. Their expenses to Crete would be paid by the television company, but the budget did not allow for mine as well. However, it so happened that Ana and I had planned a trip overseas about the same time and, with a few slight alterations to our itinerary, we could fit in a diversion to Crete. This suited TV2 very nicely as my interview would be far more authentic if conducted on the spot.

I relished the idea of a return visit to Crete, so we booked to travel from Athens to Canea by boat and paid a deposit for page 214 our hotel room at Suda Bay. After several days in Athens — the high point being a visit to the Acropolis — we took a taxi to our ship at the port of Piraeus. When I mentioned the name of the ship, the taxi driver gave me a strange look but duly delivered us to where it was literally ‘high and dry’ in the dry dock. Another ship was found and our cabin was comfortable enough, but the lock on the door was broken. It would have been asking for trouble to leave the cabin open while we went to the dining room so we persuaded a reluctant cabin boy to bring a meal down to us. After a rough trip we landed at Suda Bay and hired a taxi to take us to our hotel. Once again, a funny look from the taxi driver and we discovered the hotel had been closed for two weeks for renovations. We found another place to stay, but did not get back the deposit paid to the first hotel.

Our new hotel was picturesque and delightful, right on the waterfront with fishing boats, nets spread out on the wharf, caiques constantly plying to and fro, and shops and interesting tavernas close by to visit. As the film crew was occupied elsewhere for a few days, we had time to explore. My first destination was the Suda Bay cemetery where most of the 62 men of the 22nd Battalion killed on Crete were buried. The cemetery was well kept and orderly and it was not long before we found familiar names on the crosses in the New Zealand section. I took several photographs and, in the course of my wanderings, came across a number of eucalyptus trees which were common in the Mediterranean. The Aussie boys buried there would appreciate that, I thought, as would their compatriots visiting the cemetery. But why not some New Zealand trees? I made enquiries and was assured they would be well looked after if I sent some over. So, on my return to Auckland, I arranged with Winstones Nursery to send over two kowhai and two pohutukawa shrubs to be planted at Suda Bay cemetery. Their arrival was reported to Winstones, but page 215 no-one I know has seen them at Suda Bay.

Wandering along the main street that evening we went into a lively looking taverna and when it became known we were New Zealanders most of the patrons wanted to buy us a drink. As we ate — and we tried octopus for the first time — there was a constant exchange of conversation and drinks with a large family party next to us. Angelo and Crisula Markoulis were entertaining their friends as they did every year during a pilgrimage back to Crete from San Francisco, their adopted home. “Tomorrow,” they said, “we are having a naming day — a christening party — here at 2.30pm, so will you come?” We accepted, not quite knowing what to expect. Next day Angelo was at the door to greet us and we were ushered to seats alongside him and his wife where he was presiding over a large table with about 30 people. As more came in off the street, Angelo, who seemed to know everyone, asked them to join us and the party grew larger and more boisterous as the afternoon progressed. The baby, having been toasted several times, seemed to drift into the background. By the evening there was no sign of the party ending, the whole taverna had joined in and everyone wanted to make a speech — in Greek unfortunately. A cryptic entry in my wife's diary for that day reads, “Back at 2.30 am; phew!”

Angelo and Crisula asked us to join them for lunch at the same taverna the next day and we duly went. There were only eight of us and the atmosphere was a bit more subdued.

“I noticed yesterday that you liked fish,” said Angelo,” so I sent out a fishing boat early this morning to catch a large one.” There are not many large fish in the Mediterranean, but the fisherman had been successful and it came in on a huge platter looking something like a seven kilo snapper. I had been attracted by a large glass container with half a dozen live crayfish crawling round in the water on the bottom, so Angelo asked it we liked langouste. “They're the same as our crayfish in New Zealand,” I said. “Then we shall have one”, and out he went to the kitchen, page 216 returning with the chef who chose a large one and, before long, it was on the table cooked and ready to eat.

“I went to the library this morning,” said Angelo,” and found a copy of your 22nd Battalion history. You're mentioned in it more often than General Freyberg.” “Maybe so,” I said,” but I probably didn't rate a mention in the divisional history.” He looked thoughtful, but not entirely convinced.

Angelo's story was a fascinating one. Fifteen years old, he was sent by his poor Cretan family to Athens to learn the shoe trade just before the war started. When it was over he married Crisula. There was no work for him on Crete so he raised enough money for their passage to the United States where they worked their way across to San Francisco. There Angelo set himself up in a garage and started to make ladies' shoes in the Greek fashion. He took a pair to an emporium in the city and the owner, who happened to be Greek, ordered two gross pairs of the shoes in a variety of sizes. Thinking he meant two dozen pairs, Angelo settled down in his garage to make them by hand. When the shoes had not been delivered a week later, the Greek merchant paid Angelo a visit and found him working away laboriously. Realising he was on to a good thing, he said to Angelo, “Now, if you'll make these shoes exclusively for me, I'll set you up in a factory of your own to make them.” The deal was done and the shoes proved to be so popular it was not long before a second factory was required to cope with the demand. Angelo made his fortune, his children all graduated from Berkeley University, and he and Crisula made a trip home to Crete every year, travelling with one of their Rolls Royces.

On our way back to New Zealand, Ana and I visited the Markoulis's at their home in San Francisco. Their mansion was set back in the middle of five acres of what had been the orchard district supplying the city with apples. A high wire fence surrounded the grounds and two enormous wrought iron gates were controlled from the house. After intercom identification, page 217 the gates opened and we drove to their front door. They had everything money could buy. Their trees had all been manicured and sprayed, including huge oaks and elms; their swimming pool was picturesque and their five cars, including two Rolls Royces, were immaculate in their garages. They were very generous to us, but something seemed to be missing. We concluded that they were happiest and more at ease when back home on Crete.

My wife's diary for Tuesday May 27 1989 carried an enigmatic note, “H to Maleme to be shot”. Doubtless she meant by the film crew and not by firing squad. Forty years earlier the latter might have been a possibility! The cameras were set up where my platoon headquarters had been and I was duly placed in position and told that, when answering questions, I could make gestures with my arms, but I was not to move my feet. The result must have been satisfactory as most of that part of the filming made the finished documentary and I heard reports from as far away as Scotland from people who had seen it. The producer had agreed to pay some minor expenses, incurred at their request, so I was asked to sign an expense account when the filming had ended. I noticed that the total charge, which was in drachma, had three too many noughts on the end of it, so I asked for a revised account before I signed. TV2 would never know that I had saved them quite a lot of money.

After the filming, I visited the German cemetery close by. Here I met George Psychoundakis whose fascinating book The Cretan Runner had been recommended to me. I was able to purchase a copy which he kindly signed for me. During the occupation of Crete by the Germans, George had learned to hate them as arrogant oppressors and he had joined a courageous band of messengers, who daily risked torture and their lives delivering letters, stores and information to the various Allied depots left behind after the evacuation, or built up later. Crete is a very mountainous island and George's work, much of it at night, involved difficult journeys over country even more dangerous page 218 because of the presence of unexpected enemy patrols. These messengers were superbly fit and able to carry out miraculous ventures in the heart of the mountains, keeping in touch with our various stations hidden throughout the island. George was awarded the British Empire Medal after the war for his loyalty and perseverance.

Life was tough in Crete and George had married and had a family whom he wanted to educate properly in Athens. Jobs were hard to find and the Germans found it equally difficult to employ any Cretans to take care of their cemetery, well set out near the Maleme aerodrome. George's needs were great and the salary offered good so, in spite of his prejudices, he took the job and was doing it well.

To re-trace our journey during the evacuation, we were able to travel by car over the White Mountains to the little fishing port of Sfakia where we had been rescued by the navy nearly 40 years before and I was amazed to see how small a beach we had embarked from. I think I identified the spot where Barney Clapham and I had run out of petrol on the top of the pass, but could see no sign of the mangled motorcycle below the cliff when I looked over! Many of our escaping troops, who had been cut off by the Germans, had made their way down to the south coast via the Samaria Gorge cutting through the White Mountains some few miles west of Sfakia, which could then be reached by a rough coastal track. After visiting Sfakia, I made this journey on foot down to the coastline and found the going reasonably easy, but was told the track along the coast to Sfakia was more difficult.

In recognition of the 50th anniversary of the Battle for Crete, in 1991 the New Zealand government decided to send a contingent of veterans to Crete to commemorate the sacrifices made by them and their contemporaries who had been killed or died as a result of that epic encounter. page 219 Applications were called for and a ballot arranged under the control of the Returned Services Association. Similarly, in 1992 a visit by veterans was arranged to the battlefield at El Alamein in Egypt which, for the Allies, marked the turning point of the war.

After the Crete party returned, I heard reports from some of our men that a number of those successful in the ballot had little justification for being there compared with others who had applied. Length of service, involvement in actual fighting, decorations awarded, previous ballots and other criteria were not considered. Crete was very different from most battles in that many of the rear echelon troops were caught up in the actual fighting. Even so, the statistics show that three-quarters of those killed and wounded on Crete came from the seven infantry battalions and they each lost nearly half their fighting strength. There is a big difference between the infantry soldier going into a night attack with his rifle, bayonet and a pouch full of grenades, and the clerk in the pay office or the postal section. Yet, in the ballot systems, soldiers in the pay office had equal chances of being selected with a veteran of several years' service who had been heavily involved in hand to hand life or death struggles.

When the decision was taken to send a contingent to Alamein, I wrote to the RSA suggesting that a merit system be used rather than a ballot but, with their egalitarian outlook, the RSA replied that, in their view, the ballot system was fairest. A merit system had obviously been put in the ‘too hard’ basket and, as a result, it was possible to be drawn in all the ballots of similar pilgrimages and, indeed, I am told this did happen

When applications were called for the Alamein visit in 1992, my friend Lloyd Cross and I decided to apply. We were both successful in the ballot and it was interesting to be taken through the process. There were 100 veterans, but to our surprise we found that 58 others tagged along with us, page 220 including two members of parliament, five selected notable veterans with two wives, including the president of the RSA and his wife, an army guard of 12, eight media staff and numerous others. This group was mostly given different treatment from the veteran hoi polloi; I suspect the government had something to do with this as the Minister of Defence was one of them.

We were to travel in two air force 727 planes which were quite suitable, but we also learnt that, far from getting a free ride, each of the veterans had to pay $1,000 for the air fare plus medical expenses, travel insurance, meals, passports, tour costs, etc. When we so-called lucky ones were told we were expected to contribute over $3,500 towards our expenses, some could not afford it and had to pull out with others taking their places. The total cost of the 10 day trip for the veterans came to about $4,000 or $400 per day. We were each provided with a free straw hat which soon disintegrated. I do not believe that the 58 hangers-on had to pay anything.

Without doubt, our New Zealand government is the most parsimonious of all Commonwealth governments when it comes to the treatment of its veterans and of its defence forces.

Why are our members of parliament so niggardly in their treatment of our veterans who have contributed so much to their country, and to our armed forces who are the guardians of our future? No one likes war but to transfer that attitude into government policy is extreme folly. Perhaps sometime in the future, a statesman will promote a more sensible and realistic defence policy for our country.

When we compared our treatment on the Alamein trip with the Australian contingent we found that all their expenses had been paid and they were to have an extra two weeks touring in Libya with visits to all the battlegrounds fought over after Alamein.

A stopover in Singapore on the way to Egypt enabled three page 221 of us to enjoy a lunch at Raffles Hotel preceded by one of their famous Singapore gin slings, a pleasant interlude, for which, of course, we had to pay. At Dubai, where our visit just preceded the opening of the luxurious Royal Abjar Hotel, we had a real boost. Prior to the official opening, the management wanted to give the staff a rehearsal to ensure that everything would run smoothly and we came along at the right moment to secure a night on the house at management's expense. This was perhaps the highlight of our trip. The service was exemplary, the food was fabulous while the accommodation and surroundings were out of this world. The foyer of the hotel was enormous with gardens and fountains tastefully placed. It was a contradiction in terms to see so much water and greenery being lavishly used in a country so arid and bare, but it showed us what could be done by an oil rich economy.

Lloyd and I were shown to our twin share suite, the centrepiece of which was an immense bed at least four metres square, with 24 cushions scattered over it. I had the feeling that, had I rung the reception desk with a request to find another room for Lloyd and to send me up a harem, this could have been arranged!

In the morning, we were whisked away to Alexandria — our destination. At the airport I was taken off by Cameron Bennett who was producing a TVNZ news item to send back home about the arrival of the New Zealand veterans in Egypt. As we were running a bit late, we did a fast trip out to the Alamein cemetery by car where I was asked locate some of the graves of men from my unit so the camera crew could produce a realistic film of the occasion.

On one of the first graves I looked at I saw the name ‘Sergeant Major Bob Baylis MM’, someone I had been very closely associated with both in my platoon and when I was in command of the anti-tank company, He had been killed page 222 shortly after I had visited him forward of our final objective in the early hours of the morning following the initial night attack at Alamein. I had been thrust into this interview without warning and found myself quite emotionally affected by the occasion and by the memories which crowded into my mind. I felt that I was not quite my normal stoical self, but managed to complete the interview, I hope, without discredit.

As dusk was approaching, we hurried back to Alexandria to discover a state of chaos at the Landmark Hotel — dubbed the ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ by one of our reporters — where we had been booked in for two nights. Whoever put us in that hotel should have been court martialled. By the time I got there, most of the worst problems had been sorted out and I had been given a small single room on the 13th floor. Neither of the two lifts was working but some kind soul had delivered my luggage to the room. There was a camp stretcher for a bed and a folding chair to sit on and that was all. In the communal bathroom, the lavatory had inadequate water. The shower — cold water only — would run for 30 seconds and stop for 30 seconds during which time you were supposed to soap yourself and be ready to wash off the soap when the water came on again automatically. The air conditioning gushed forth hot air only — the opposite to our requirements — and the food was so poor that some of us dined elsewhere. The canniest of the troops located the hotel where the VIPs were staying and reported the food and surroundings to be excellent there.

The following morning we were bussed out to the battleground where the 50th anniversary commemoration was to take place at the Alamein cemetery. We joined the Germans first, their imposing memorial a huge octagonal stone building to the west of Alamein, with all their dead buried within its walls.

There was little to be seen at Alamein except the cemetery building consisting of a forecourt leading in to the cloisters which contained the cemetery register. This then led to a memorial page 223 section and out on to a courtyard which overlooked the massive cemetery where 19,000 Allied troops had been buried. In the centre of the area stood the ‘Stone of Remembrance’ and beyond this, at the extremity, the ‘Cross of Sacrifice’. The cemetery building was quite impressive and the whole complex was orderly and well kept. As well as the German memorial, there was an Italian memorial and, near the cemetery, a museum, rest house, a 9th Australian Division memorial, a South African memorial, a Greek memorial — with a New Zealand memorial conspicuous by its absence.

Looking south the almost featureless desert, broken only by the low lying Miteiriya and Ruweisat Ridges, stretched for 30 miles to the impassable Qattara Depression. This had been the final defensive position where Rommel's all conquering Axis forces had been held up and eventually defeated by the Eighth Army.

Memories of that time crowded our minds during the service, at which wreaths were laid by the Duke of Kent, the prime ministers of Great Britain and France, representative ministers of Australia, New Zealand and Greece, together with a number of Allied veterans' association representatives.

We had been given a boxed lunch by our ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ which later gave most of us a serious bout of Gippy tummy or diarrhoea. I found myself with a bunch of Aussies while having lunch and we had a friendly discussion about the merits of our two divisions. The Aussies had built up a great reputation in their stubborn defence of Tobruk and had succeeded fully in their attack on the first night of the Alamein battle.

There was no other unit I would have rather had alongside me and I believe there was mutual respect amongst the group with whom I found myself having lunch. But they were not prepared to concede much in favour of the New Zealanders. Having had enough of this, I put the question to them: did they know why Jesus Christ was not born in Australia? None of them page 224 seemed to have an answer to this, so I told them that Australia had been favourably considered because it was a great country but, on closer investigation, they were unable to find three wise men, let alone a virgin!

From Alexandria we were taken to Cairo and a bus trip to the Pyramids which all of us had seen several times before. However, it was interesting to meet up again with the Egyptian ‘Wily Oriental Gentlemen’. Things had not changed much except the overpopulated city we had known had more than doubled its size. The taxi drivers were as mad as ever, driving with one hand while the other was continually blowing the horn. The driver would get you to your destination and overcharge exorbitantly, if he could get away with it. Meters were compulsory in the taxis but, if he could, the driver would charge each passenger the full amount. They had not changed, but were as good humoured as ever. It would have been fascinating to spend a few more days in Cairo but, even though we were paying for most of the trip ourselves, costs were being kept to a bare minimum, and it was time for the homeward journey. Most of us thought the pilgrimage had been worthwhile, but the organisation had been wanting and the government's contribution had been a disgrace.

My friend Lloyd Cross and I joined the ballot for the 60th anniversary of the Cassino battle in Italy in May 2004. The initial government decision was to take 25 veterans only and to fill the air force plane with hangers-on. After a public outcry against this blatant injustice, the numbers were doubled and Lloyd was successful in the ballot. Further public dissatisfaction resulted in the formation of two public-spirited organisations which contributed money and collected sufficient funds to send another 50 veterans privately. They managed to squeeze $2,000 per person from the government to help with the expenses of this second group.

The assistance given by ‘Our Heroes’, the Christchurch page 225 charitable trust, had been so appreciated that the trust, led by Greg Evans, decided to sponsor a similar expedition to Trieste in May 2005 to commemorate the final surrender of the Germans in Italy. Over 100 veterans took part, a few accompanied by their wives or family members to help carry the bags, and we also had doctors, nurses, and St John's Ambulance members as well as tour officials to look after us. It was planned that the government would contribute $2,000 towards the cost of each veteran who had not been on a previous trip, while those who could afford to paid their own way. However, for many the full cost was met by the trust, for which everyone involved was very grateful.

We landed in Milan and were driven in three buses to Trieste. At the formal reception held at the Teatro Verdi I was asked to address the gathering, after which I presented a New Zealand flag and a 22nd Battalion wall plaque to the president of the council, with a request that it be installed in the Tribunale building. Having described the entry into their city by the 22nd Battalion, with accompanying tanks from the 20th Armoured Regiment, I apologised for having disfigured their beautiful law courts with tank shellfire. After its restoration, the few remaining scars on the walls and pillars could well be regarded as a symbol of the liberation of the city from the Germans and the threatening Yugoslav army by the New Zealand soldiers.

I pointed out that before the New Zealand Division had reached Italy, their country had withdrawn from the war, so we had come as friends. As we were from a small country on the other side of the world we had no ulterior motives. Our object was to help stop Hitler's mad delusion of grandeur, get the job done, and return home to our families as soon as we could. We had come as friends and had left as friends, with much nostalgic feeling of goodwill towards them.

The welcome given us by Italians in the city was heart- page 226 warming. As soon as they identified us as New Zealanders, eyes would light up, followed by broad smiles, then hugs or hearty handshakes and expressions of gratitude for their liberation. At the wreath-laying ceremony at the Cathedral San Guisto I was introduced to Giorgio Vapretto who produced a book published in Italy with numerous photographs of New Zealand troops arriving in Trieste. One showed me in the process of locating the German strongholds on a map board, with a civilian pointing out the directions. Giorgio was so excited at having found someone mentioned in the book that instead of giving me a photocopy of the photograph he insisted I take the book — accompanied by a kiss on both cheeks. I have since received a postcard from him in which he told me that there had been letters in the newspapers suggesting a monument or memorial tablet be erected in Trieste in memory of the New Zealand soldiers. A touching thought.

After Trieste we travelled on buses to visit several cemeteries where old comrades had been buried and battlefields where we had fought. This included Udine War Cemetery, north of Trieste, where our 22nd Battalion recipient of the George Cross, Corporal David Russell was buried. Then to Venice, San Marino, Rimini and Riccione on the Adriatic coast, and inland to Montecatini, Florence, Bologna and once more to Milan, our departure point. Here we attended a service to Norman Quinlan, one of our group who had died in the Milan hospital after a heart attack.

We were very well treated by all the Italians we came into contact with, the hotels were excellent and our tour group organiser Ruth Sullivan did a first class job under difficult circumstances. The group's thanks must go again to Greg Evans and his charitable trust for giving us such a wonderful opportunity to bring back so many poignant memories on what, for many of us, is likely to be our last overseas adventure. Time and tide wait for no man.