Abbotsham Officer’s Patrol

In the brilliant sunshine, but with the threatening rain clouds scudding over the mountain tops, an officer and three men set off on patrol. Their commission was to find out if the Boche still occupied a village beyond the next range of hills.

Surmounting the first line of hill tops their hearts missed a beat for between them and the next summit, was nothing but sheer hard rock, not even a few clefts for protection. Occasionally there grew a clump of scrub growth. There was only one thing to do – crawl. Down on their side they went, rifles resting on one leg, and they pulled themselves over the open rocks. Bruised and soaking wet, they were able only to snatch a few seconds’ rest at each clump of gorse. At such a time, not even the grandeur of the Italian mountain ranges could compensate for the difficulties encountered.

Still they went on and with only a small hillock between them and their goal they took a last ‘breather’. Here the slopes were wooded and several gullies gave them friendly protection. With rising spirits and bodies they were now able to get on to their feet.

For nearly five hours this little band of men had been probing the enemy’s lines. Most of that time was spent either on their sides or on their stomachs but still they had the return trip to face. With the information, and more, which they had set out to collect, back they went. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they slithered down gullies and slopes. With the advantage of having covered the ground once, their progress was a little faster, but not much.

Wet through, but remarkably cheerful, these men arrived back at their company’s position in the darkness, some nine hours after setting out. That night, as a result of their efforts the Boche, who were snugly quartered in the village, had little rest, for our artillery thoroughly enjoyed the task of pounding such a splendid target.

And that night, too, Capt J R Strick, who led the patrol, had a minor disappointment. On their way out, these four men came across a cave blasted into the hillside. Obviously it had been used as a German dug out, and equally obviously it has been left in a hurry, for there still remained beds, blankets and food. Capt Strick, who comes from Abbotsham Court, near Bideford, North Devon, thinking salmon would make a nice change for supper, put a tin in the blouse of his battle dress. As he said “You can imagine my chagrin and annoyance, when I opened that tin and the salmon fairly leapt out, it was so bad.”

Capt Strick is the eldest son of Major-Gen J A Strick, CB, DSO, and Mrs Strick. Aged 25, he joined the Territorials just before the outbreak of war when a University student. He has been twice wounded – once in Sicily and now in Italy. He had previously served in other parts of the Middle East.

His father’s long military service included the campaign in Italy during the last war.

Full Gazette article dated 21 December 1943