Leave !....Glorious Leave !

Discussion in 'Veteran Accounts' started by Ron Goldstein, Sep 30, 2010.

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  1. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    One subject that all ex-servicemen/women must surely have in common was the granting of leave.

    I say "granting" because the Army that I remember, made a big point of telling you that you were never entitled to anything but the Army was gracious enough to grant you leave of absence.

    Leave came in all shapes and sizes.

    The smallest version was a pass giving you leave of absence for just an evening out of barracks and would have expired at 23:59 hrs, after which you would have been on a "fizzer".

    Then there were Day passes, as seen below on Page 50 of my Album and then there were the wonderous four weeks passes given when you returned to the UK on, for example, LIAP (Leave in Addition to Python).

    I had some cracking leaves in my time, perhaps other members will tell us about their own ones ?

    Ron

    ps
    I reserve the right to come back here as I find more leave stories with which to bore you :)
     

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  2. marcus69x

    marcus69x I love WW2 meah!!!

    I once spent a week at Catterick Garrison doing a 'look at life' course with the college.

    After being exhausted all day we used to enjoy going to the NAFFI for a few drinks which we all thought we were 'entitled' to.

    One night in particular, after a failed 5 mile run back to camp after being 'ambushed' by E company, the Sergeant wasn't best pleased with our performance.

    Everyone dared me to go and ask him if we could go to the NAFFI and in very polite words he told me, "can you FU#K".

    That put me in my place and made me realise that 'entitlement' just didn't exist in the army. ;)
     
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  3. Drew5233

    Drew5233 #FuturePilot 1940 Obsessive

    I once spent a week at Catterick Garrison doing a 'look at life' course with the college.

    After being exhausted all day we used to enjoy going to the NAFFI for a few drinks which we all thought we were 'entitled' to.

    One night in particular, after a failed 5 mile run back to camp after being 'ambushed' by E company, the Sergeant wasn't best pleased with our performance.

    Everyone dared me to go and ask him if we could go to the NAFFI and in very polite words he told me, "can you FU#K".

    That put me in my place and made me realise that 'entitlement' just didn't exist in the army. ;)

    No wonder no one is joining the Army :lol:


    I never got leave in Iraq and we were told you would only get compassionate leave if there was a death of a parent, partner or child.

    Weirdly, when I got leave on my other tours I couldn't wait to get back on tour after about 24hrs of being home.
     
  4. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Before I got my first home leave from Italy, one of the things I had been promising myself for some time were visits to the theatre.

    My month at home was jam-packed with such delights and on my return I made a montage in my Album of some of the programs.

    Note the vast range of shows I saw.

    Anything from Ivor Novello in "Perchance to Dream" to the static nudes at the Windmill Theatre

    Who dares to say that I ain't got culture :)
     

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  5. Drew5233

    Drew5233 #FuturePilot 1940 Obsessive

  6. Owen

    Owen -- --- -.. MOD

    Anything from Ivor Novello in "Perchance to Dream" to the static nudes at the Windmill Theatre


    Static nudes?
    Saw some of them when on a day's R&R on the Reeperbahn in Hamburg.
     
  7. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Andy
    Have you seen the film that was made about the Windmill Theatre with Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins?
    Yes, and enjoyed it.

    In wartime and shortly after, the rule for the girls was "Strip as much as you like but if you move then the show will be closed !".

    When my leave ended and I returned to my unit it was very much a case of "Tell us about the Windmill again Ron !"

    Don't like to waste this article purely on matters of the flesh so see my picture of another leave pass, this time to Florence. Note that the pass was only until 8pm, presumably to make sure we caught the lorry (known as the Passion Waggon) back to camp before lights out
     

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  8. Oldman

    Oldman Very Senior Member

    Ron
    Did you travel from Italy by train or sea? My father came by train from Austria through all the war ravaged low countries to Calais then Dover, London and home.
    his only comment was a month went too quick.
    Then returned the same way, apparantly they actually produced a booklet discribing the journey although if he had one I never saw it.
     
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  9. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Oldman
    Ron
    Did you travel from Italy by train or sea? My father came by train from Austria through all the war ravaged low countries to Calais then Dover, London and home.
    his only comment was a month went too quick.


    By train, just like your dad and if you look carefully at this pic from Page 20 of my Album you can see me looking out of the train window as we passed through Austria.
     

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  10. Gerry Chester

    Gerry Chester WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    O Group - late afternoon, Monday, 9th April, 1945

    ........Finally, the OC made it absolutely clear that radio silence must be observed prior to the attack getting underway which was set for 04.00 hrs. Later, Skipper gave me the wavelengths for the next three days with instructions to net as soon as possible after darkness fell. I set the net for 20.00 hrs but did not, as had been instructed, give the operators details for the following two days. For most of the evening we could hear the throb of aircraft engines on the way to deliver their loads upon the enemy - the sound of bombs exploding seemed to go on for hours.

    03.45 hrs, Tuesday, 10th April 1945

    All was quiet as the Squadron waited for the word to go. Suddenly, a jeep came to a screeching halt beside Ballyrashane, the driver bringing an urgent message for Major Sidebottom. Without waiting for an answer, the Jeep turned around speeding off whence it came. When Skipper finished reading it, he ordered Alan Hughes (the gunner) to run over to 2 Troop to tell Cpl Wiggins to report to him immediately. Then turning to me, he said the never-to-be forgotten words, "Gerry, collect your kit, you are going home on leave!" Skipper went on to tell me to wait at the farmhouse (which had been the Squadron's HQ) where transport would be coming to pick me up. A few moments later, when Jimmy Wiggins appeared, being so thrilled by the news, I almost forgot to give him the frequencies for the next two days!
    As I was walking towards the farmhouse (it was a couple of hundred yards away) the Squadron's tanks started to move. A few minutes later, the sound of their engines was no more and there I was, left in the dark, feeling both excited and somewhat lonely. Perhaps thirty minutes later, I cannot recall exactly when, with headlights blazing a Bedford 15cwt appeared on the scene. It was driven by a very excitable Italian whose job it was to deliver me to RHQ, located in Bagnacavallo. The Bedford's headlights not having caught the attention of the enemy, I was safely away on the first leg of a long journey home.
     
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  11. Tom Canning

    Tom Canning WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Oldman
    the popular route from Austria was truck to Villach - train via Udine - Padua - Vicenza - Bergamo - Milan - Dolomodosso - Sion - Martigny - Lausanne - Geneva where at 4a.m. we had a big Orange handed to us by young Swiss maids dressed in traditional costumes - on to Dijon and Paris then Boulogne to Dover - a very long journey but well worth it as two weeks of my LIAP were spent on a farm in Monymusk near Aberdeen - just eating and walking the land - strangely the return journey over the same route didn't seem to take as long !
    Cheers
     
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  12. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Leave was always looked forward to and always enjoyed.

    Whether it was a week's leave in Cairo or a day's leave in Venice.

    Just in case you get the wrong impression the Cairo leave was not spent in some posh hotel, that was reserved for the officers who enjoyed the luxury of Shepherd's Hotel.

    I remember that our billets were six men to a room, palliasses on the floor, in a tiny room off Soliman Pasha and no food supplied at all.

    We would be out on the streets from morn till night but the joy of not having to conform to military discipline for one whole week was enough for us and we lived it up.
     

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  13. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Day Leave in Rome

    One thing should be patently clear by now with regard to the obscene amount of my postings I have made on the internet in general and on this site in particular.

    I like to reminisce about WW2.

    Inevitably I have "favourite" memories or rather favourite memories that I have, over the years, put into print and this one has to be one of them.


    Day leave in Rome 21st June 1944

    The tailboard of the Bedford three-ton truck slammed down with a resounding crash, someone yelled, 'Everybody out!', and we all clambered out stiffly on to the baking pavements of wartime Rome.

    There were some 15 of us, all from the same Regiment, the 49th Light Anti-Aircraft Rgt. The time was 10am and we had just arrived after a bone-shaking three-hour journey from 75 miles north of the city.

    The date was Wednesday, 21 June 1944. Rome had fallen to Allied troops 18 days earlier when the American General Mark Clark of the 5th Army had been given the honour of formally accepting the city's surrender.

    Six days later, on 9 June, my unit had driven through Rome on its way North and we had been there ever since, figuratively catching our breath while the powers that were decided what our next move was to be. Someone up top must have said, 'Give the troops a chance to see what they've been fighting for,' and I was one of those who had drawn a short straw.

    I was not quite twenty-one at the time, had been in the Army since October '42 and abroad since April '43. I had arrived in North Africa just in time for the end of the First Army campaign, had been through the whole of the Sicily campaign and (in company with most of my comrades there that day) had been on the long slog north since the invasion of the Italian main land in September '43.

    In my wartime album I still have some snaps taken on the day so I don't have to think too hard to remember what I must have looked like on this scorching day some fifty odd years ago. I was slim in build, dark from successive summers in the Mediterranean and wore khaki drill, as it was officially referred to. My shirt was open necked, sleeves rolled up to the regulation length and I wore blankoed gaiters over my boots.

    On my right sleeve I wore a forked lightning badge to show that I was a wireless operator, and on my shoulders I wore the distinctive yellow battle-axe on a black background, which signified that I was part of the 78th British Infantry Division. My chest showed only one medal ribbon, that of the Africa Star and my pipe, a hangover from my civilian life, was clenched at what I obviously imagined was a jaunty angle.

    As I've said, the time was 10.00 hours, we had to be back at the pick-up point at 18.00 hours and the Sergeant in charge left us in no doubt as to the likely trouble we would be in if we missed the bus. Back at the camp we'd been given a leaflet that told us of some of the glories we were about to see and printed on the back of the leaflet was a reasonably accurate, if not detailed, map.

    I had no particular friends with me on that day, just the way the draw had worked out. This suited me fine however because even a cursory glance at the map had shown that I would have to go like the proverbial clappers to see even a tenth of what the city had to offer and what I had in mind for the day.

    We had been dropped off at a lorry park near the Colosseum and so this was an obvious starting point. I followed the early crowds into the amphitheatre and tagged on to a group that had managed to secure the services of an Italian guide.

    After a short while I slipped away to visit the cells underneath the arena where the slaves and early Christians were held prior to the games and their subsequent death. I have never considered myself to be significantly claustrophobic but the atmosphere in the dank, shaded quarters felt unbearably evil, and I was glad to get back out into the sun and the heat.

    Next stop was the nearby Forum where I wandered for a while before heading northward to the Victor Emanuel monument, known to the locals as the 'Wedding Cake' because of its garish architecture. Still heading north, I stopped for a while at the Pantheon and then the Trevi Fountain finally finishing up at the monumental steps of the Piazza di Spagna, where I rested in the shade and ate my haversack rations augmented by fruit and drink I bought on the spot.

    It was now time to head west, crossing the Tiber for the first time over the Ponte San Angelo to the castle itself, no time to hang around here because the nearby Vatican beckoned and I pushed on relentlessly.
    The Vatican was fantastic, all that I had expected, and I spent a few hours there armed with a guide book. It was almost 17.00 hours before I could tear myself away.

    The last item on my mental itinerary for the day was to find the Great Synagogue and, if I could, some fellow Jews. In anticipation of such a meeting I withdrew from my wallet a small brass Magen David (Shield of David) which I had acquired somewhere along the way and I let it hang from the buttonhole of my breast pocket.

    The map I had been using made no mention of the Synagogue but I had heard from a Jewish friend back at the unit that it was near the Isola Tiberina, the island that sits in the centre of the Tiber near the Campidoglio.
    After leaving the Vatican I re-crossed the river at Ponte Vittorio Emanuel, and then turned right to follow the embankment south until, almost wilting in the heat, I saw the synagogue on my left. It was huge, Moorish in design, with a large domed roof. I walked completely round the outside until I found a small side door that looked as if it was in use.

    After knocking a few times an elderly man, obviously a caretaker, let me in, and when I explained I was Jewish he let me wander around un-escorted to study the interior. There were no worshippers present and the stained-glass windows and marble pillars were all too much reminiscent of the Vatican that I had just visited. It was certainly a far cry from the Bethnal Green Synagogue where I had been bar-mitzva'd less than eight years earlier!

    After about twenty minutes I quit the cool interior to face the baking streets again after first asking the caretaker where I was likely to find other Jews. He told me to cross over the other side of the Tiber and ask any passers-by for the Jewish Quarter.

    In the event it proved unnecessary because immediately I had crossed the Ponte Cestio I saw a small whitewashed garage facing the Synagogue. What drew my attention to it was a large Magen David that someone had painted on its walls in black paint.

    More than 50 years later I can still feel the mental blow to the pit of my stomach on seeing this crudely painted sign with all its obvious connotations and its reminder of the photographs I had seen of Jewish shops in Berlin in the late thirties.

    I made my way into its dark interior and once my eyes had adjusted to the dark I saw a young man working on a car engine. 'Sono ebrei qui?' ('Are there any Jews here?'), I called into the darkness.
    There was a pause and then back in Italian came, 'Why do you want to know?' This, in the most unfriendly of tones. 'Because I’m a Jew,' I replied, and gestured, as if for confirmation, to the Magen David that was now dangling from my breast pocket.

    He came close, studied my face carefully, then the Magen David and then, all restraint aside, bear-hugged me as though we were brothers. He, I never knew his name, called out to someone deeper in the darkness who was old enough to be his father or his uncle and introduced me as 'Un soldato Inglese, ma Ebreo!' - an English soldier, but a Jew!

    Soon others joined us and each newcomer was solemnly introduced.

    'Are there any more Jews around here?" I asked.

    My new friend laughed and said, 'Come, I'll show you!'

    He wheeled out an ancient motor bike. I was invited to take the pillion seat, and we roared off along the banks of the Tiber.

    We didn't have far to go because I soon realised I was back at the Vatican. He parked his bike and pushed me forward towards the stalls that were selling religious objects. He called out to one of the stallholders and within seconds I found myself in the centre of a swarming, back-slapping crowd of men women and children, who proceeded to treat me as if I had just personally liberated Rome.

    The kids in particular were particularly interested in my presence and kept touching me as if to convince themselves that I was real. Their parents were content to fire non-stop questions at me, always ending with, 'Do you think the war will be over soon?'

    I spoke to my guide and tapped my watch face. I had already told him on the way that I had to be back at the pick-up point for 18.00 hours and the time was flashing by.

    He explained to the stallholders and then said to me, 'They want to give you a present (un ricordo),' and I could see that they wanted me to choose something from one of the stalls. The joke was that all of their merchandise was aimed to please good Catholics, and the numerous icons and crucifixes were hardly suitable gifts for this British Jew who was just about to leave them. The matter was soon resolved - one of the men pointed to my own Magen David still hanging from my shirt pocket. I took it off and handed it to him whereupon he promptly took a gold chain off one of the crucifixes and re-fixed it to my own charm.

    A roar went up from the crowd - honour had been saved all round and as I hung my ‘ricordo’ around my neck and waved my good-byes I was choked with emotion.

    My final call that evening was to another relative of my new found friend and as I drunk the obligatory glass of wine I listened to harrowing tales of what it was like to be a Jewish civilian in wartime Italy. I remember in particular their comments that life under Mussolini had been good even during the early days of the war, but that the horrors had started once the Germans had taken control in September '43.

    It was 17.30. I apologised to my hosts that I really must be on my way and we solemnly shook hands. My guide and I roared away into the gloom and with about ten minutes to spare I was back at the lorry park and looking for my transport.

    Later, as our ‘passion-wagon’ drove off into the darkening night, in the back of the truck it was noisy as everyone compared notes of how they had spent the day
    .
    There were of course the inevitable tales of booze-ups and female conquests although to be fair to my comrades of fifty years ago there were many there that evening who had obviously also enjoyed sights and experiences that they too would cherish for a lifetime.

    For whatever reason, I didn't tell the others about my own day, at least I said nothing about my meeting with fellow Jews and as the truck roared noisily northward, taking me back into the cocoon of life within a British army unit, I consoled myself with the thought that one day I would write it all down.
     

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  14. Oldman

    Oldman Very Senior Member

    Ron/Tom
    Thanks for sharing your leave journies, Like both of you my fathers diary is scattered with day in Florence, 48 hrs in Rome/Naples.

    Comment on duty in Aug 44 Driving Leave truck (Passion Wagon) late leaving due to RSM wanting last drink.
     
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  15. 2EastYorks

    2EastYorks Senior Member

    Ron, what a wonderful account, thanks for sharing. I can testify to how far you walked in one day to take all that in, having visited Rome on a number of occasions myself. Great stuff!
     
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  16. Tom Canning

    Tom Canning WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Oldman-
    Like Ron - I was also in Rome many times - first time was early in June '44 when I was priveleged to kiss the papal ring of Pius X11 - then after a while I was posted to Rieti base Camp and was able to haunt Rome every week end for a few Months - one highlight was to climb up inside the steeple of St Peter's to the golden ball near the top - and sit there with seven others for about one minute as it was baking hot- then on to the Parthenon to celebrate my 21st birthday where I watched the funeral cortege of Maestro Pietro Mascagni the composer of my Mother's favourite Opera - "Cavaleria Rusticana" - and heard for the first time the fantastic voice of Renata Tebaldi - who kept Callas in the shadows until she retired ....the Brigade concert with Beniamino Gigli at Caserta - all great stuff ....

    some great memories of that country - which still last after all these years - same in Vienna listening to a girl singing and rehearsing with the Vienna Philharmonic with Karajan and learning two years later that it was the great Dame Elisabeth Schwarzkopf...you couln't buy that stuff to-day ....

    Cheers
     
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  17. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    2EastYorks

    Glad you enjoyed the tale.

    My wife & I have been to Rome several times since those days but we now take taxis everywhere :)

    Ron
     
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  18. bern

    bern Senior Member

    I cant top those stories!. Just a memory that has stuck in my mind after all these years being out of the mob. As a raw recruit back in 1975, having just passed out of Pirbright we were told to travel home in uniform, I dont think its allowed now?. We poured down to the railway station to get our respective trains home. At the ticket office I handed over my travel warrant and the guy returned a ticket. Did they hand travel warrants out in war time?.
    Anyway the train to Waterloo was absolutely crammed packed but we all squeezed on. Then carrying our holdalls we seperated once again I headed toward Kings x and clambered on board a tired old diesal train. Nobody could move, it was standing room only the ticket collector pushed down the train checking tickets. He eventually asked for mine, looking at it his eyebrows raised, and he asked me to follow him. I did so wondering what was happening, smoke from peoples cigs wafted up and down the carriages causing everyone to cough.
    We entered the First Class carriage that was empty save for a few business men staring at me. "Sit yourself down then lad" he barked. Looking back at the conductor he had shuffled off. What was all that about I thought glancing at my ticket I noticed I had a First Class ticket!!!. The clerk at camp had obviously ticked the wrong box!. I wasnt complaining. I was handed a greasey British Rail breakfast which I crammed down my face as fast as I could save someone took it away from me. I know its not as interesting as others on here but it some small thing that stayed with me,
     
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  19. Ron Goldstein

    Ron Goldstein WW2 Veteran WW2 Veteran

    Bern

    Don't sell yourself short !

    It's a lovely story, which I hope will encourage others to make similar postings of their or their ancestor's leaves.

    On another matter, regarding my day leave in Rome.

    Owen has just asked me if I still have the chain.

    I have to say that regrettably that has disappeared over the years, but I did just now make what, for me, was a super discovery.

    Looking back over some later photos, such as the one below taken on leave in Cairo, I enlarged the photo and spotted the Magen David (Shield of David) charm still attached to my buttonhole just under my Africa Star ribbon.

    That has just made my day !
     

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  20. Auditman

    Auditman Senior Member

    Ron

    Please never apologise (even in jest) for the volume of posts that you put up on this forum. The same goes for all the "Vets".

    All of us here have a keen interest in WW2 and can probably spout out dates / battles / units to some degree at the drop of a hat. I have always held the belief that History is about people and what your posts, and the others, do is to bring history down to how it impacted on the ordinary squaddie, sailor, airman, seaman or civilian and long may such an approach continue.

    Post away and thanks

    Jim
     
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