Monte Cassino

Italy, 1956. Family holiday. I am 9.

My father guns the hired car up the steep mountain path, avoiding the deeper ruts. Exciting.

Unexpectedly, the speed dies. Dad steers the Fiat to the roadside and yanks on the handbrake.

I sense something is wrong.

My father steps onto the verge, bends forwards at the waist, trembling.

I have never seen him like this. I idolise him. A decorated war hero. A fine sportsman. A skilled surgeon. Now a much loved village GP. My best friend. A colossus.

I knew he wanted to revisit Monte Cassino. On the rare occasions I had overheard him talk about it to my mum I had heard the emotion in his voice. My childish instinct told me he had been involved in
something terrible there.

Now, here we are. Halfway up to the ruined Abbey. But what is happening?

My father drops to his knees. No! He is vomiting and shaking. Mum tries to leave the car but he waves her back with one hand. Instead, she turns round and kisses me.

"He'll be alright in a minute. He is so strong, your Dad. Don't worry."

I peer beneath her arm. He is still kneeling, but now he is praying. A deeply religious man.

"Our father..."

Suddenly, he rises, wipes his mouth with a handkerchief, gets back behind the wheel. He is calm again. The Dad I recognise and love.

With very few words spoken, the car turns and we make our steady way back down to the village at the foot of the mountain.

Fifteen minutes later we are enjoying tutti-frutti in Toni's gelateria. As if nothing had happened.

*

I learned much later that my Dad had experienced indescribable horrors during the battle.
I also came to understand Post-traumatic Stress Disorder.