Photographs: Operation Baytown, Invasion of Italy, 1943 (2)

Invasion of Mainland Italy, September 3, 1943 and Landings

at Charlie Beach, by Canadian 80th Flotilla Landing Crafts

The below photograph's heading at Imperial War Museum (IWM) - THE BRITISH ARMY IN NORTH AFRICA, SICILY, ITALY, THE BALKANS AND AUSTRIA 1942-1946

NA 6162 Original wartime caption: First casualties from the Italian mainland

arrive by Invasion craft at Messina. A stretcher case being carried ashore.

Credit - Photographer Leonard Chetwyn (link to Chetwyn's collection)

of the No. 2 Army Film and Photo Section (AFPUnit)

B-side of top photo (or a separate card?). Date - September 3, 1943,

D-Day Italy at the toe of the boot, e.g., Reggio di Calabria

Introduction:

Numerically, the series of 15 photographs shared in this post (i.e., NA 6162 - 6176, all found at Imperial War Museum (IWM) in England) follow directly on the heels of those shared (i.e., NA 6149 - NA 6161) in Operation Baytown, Invasion of Italy, 1943 (1) posted here on October 26, 2026, two weeks ago tomorrow. 

Why the big gap in time between Parts 1 and 2? "Literary license" I think it's called : ) Another series - very unique, I wrote all four parts and there's more coming(!) - was ready to go and I just couldn't wait to drop 'Bury Me At Sea' (1) into the "1,000 Men" blog. That's the honest answer.

Back to the series re "First Pictures of the Invasion of Italian Mainland." Some of the following photos are very significant as they concern Canadians in Combined Operations in a very direct way. Members of the 80 Canadian Flotilla of Landing Crafts appear in some shots aboard their LCMs (landing craft, mechanised) at Messina on the first and perhaps subsequent days of the invasion at the toe of the boot.

The 80th and 81st Canadian LCM Flotillas served during Operation HUSKY

beginning July 10, 1943 near Avola. The 80th served during Operation Baytown

beginning Sept. 3, 1943 near Reggio (R & R & R in Malta during August*)

Map from Combined Operations  by C. Marks, London Ontario, Canada

*R & R & R means Recuperation (from illnesses) and Rest (perhaps read some mail) and Repair the landing crafts after tough sledding between July 10 and August 7, 1943

LCMs were workhorses during WWII, at N. Africa, Sicily, Italy and France.

Off Sicily's coast at Pachino. Photo Credit - IWM

The following is from a newspaper interview of my father that appeared in The Brantford Expositor in December, 1943 or January, 1944:

SICILY “PLENTY HOT”

The Sicilian invasion he described as plenty hot. “We had 72 air raids in 36 hours,” he said. “We were bombed for three or four hours at a stretch, every night and every morning for a month, from the time the invasion started July 10.”

“We found the people of Sicily in bad condition, nearly starving. We practically kept them, with our own food. I saw boys 19 years old, only as big as Canadian boys of 11 or 12. They were begging for food all the time.”

EASY AGAIN

The Italian campaign was “easy,” so far as his share of the invasion was concerned, he said. “There was nothing to it. It was just a matter of walking in and taking over, after a 55-minute bombardment of Reggio Calabria, on the toe of the Italian boot, by naval guns and rocket guns.”

As recorded in Navy memoirs, i.e., "Dad, Well Done" by Gord Harrison, page 123

NA 6163 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Note: "At Messina" as in first photo may mean "at (the capital city of) Messina"

or "at (the metropolitan city of) Messina" which stretches down the coast

The metropolitan city (formerly 'province') of Messina includes Mili Marina, which was mentioned as a launching point for Allied landing crafts in Part 1 of this series of photographs.

Allied landing crafts (incl. Canada's?) depart from Mili Marina for Reggio

Photo from Allied Invasion of Sicily WWII Museum, Catania

Google Map view of the direct route from Mili Marina to Reggio

Leonard Chetwyn's photographs in the series continue under IWM's initial heading - THE BRITISH ARMY IN NORTH AFRICA, SICILY, ITALY, THE BALKANS AND AUSTRIA 1942-1946:

NA 6164 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

One can see in the above photo that there is a particularly distinctive coastline running south from the Red Cross or Allied ambulance along the east coast of Sicily. But not only is the coastline distinctive. So is the tall gentleman about 15m behind the medical crew. Is he a local Sicilian in his PJs and bathrobe with his morning coffee? Or an Allied officer overseeing the spacing of landing craft, mechanised (LCMs) on the beach behind him? Too hard to tell.

But what I can tell, from experience, is that the landing zone for the return of Allied casualties - from the very recent invasion of Italy (Operation BAYTOWN) at the toe of the boot - happens to include part of the eastern shores of Sicily home to Santa Teresa di Riva and Sant'Alessio Siculo, two lovely cities that are side by side in modern times (e.g., as of September 2023, 80 years after the WWII invasion of Sicily, then Italy).

'Modern day' photos of the 1943 landing zone, aka Charlie Beach:

2023: Fabrizio Sergi (left) from Santa Teresa di Riva and Paul Harrison

(London, Canada) exploring the same beach as seen in the WWII photos

Metal sculpture, the work of Nino Ucchino (uncle of Fabrizio S.)

Looking north from Santa Teresa di Riva, across Messina Strait to Reggio

F. Sergi (author, film maker, artist) and I share thoughts re Charlie Beach,

the book he is holding. Behind us, 'the Med' and Reggio di Calabria.

Photos from the collection of GH

Lt. L. Chetwyn's photographs in the series continue:

NA 6165 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Special Note: When I see sailors manning a landing craft (e.g., above, check(!), seven in a tight cluster), particularly an LCM (check!), I always take a careful second or third look in case my father might be one of them. And in the photo above, I will say "that the short guy farthest left - wearing his white sailor's cap - looks like Doug Harrison. I give him an 8 out of 10!"

NA 6166 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Special Note: I think that the "two walking casualties" above also appear below, first two on the left waiting for a light. I think as well that the location given, i.e., "(at Messina)", is not really meaningful. The shoreline beyond a second LCM (far right) is the same as earlier photos, e.g., NA 6164, that is at Charlie Beach, the shores of eastern Sicily at Santa Teresa di Riva, south of the city of Messina and Mili Marina.

The distinctive shoreline is very close to Sant'Alessio Siculo, lower left

The next photo is the last in the series by Lt. L. Chetwyn:

NA 6167 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

The next eight photographs in the series were taken by Sgt. Geoffrey Loughlin, a photographer with No. 2 Army Film and Photo Section, Army Film and Photographic Unit and at Catania:

Heading - INVASION OF ITALIAN MAINLAND

NA 6168 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Loughlin's photos are found at the Imperial War Museum and in this

series are dated 1943-09-02, the day before Operation Baytown began

Heading - THE INVASION OF ITALY SEPTEMBER 1943

NA 6169 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Original Caption : Troops from 51st Highland Division boarding landing

craft at Catania, 2 September 1943.

Heading - INVASION OF ITALIAN MAINLAND

NA 6170 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Original wartime caption: Men of the 2nd Inniskillings embarking

on L.C.Is at Catania.

NA 6171 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

NA 6172 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Heading - THE ALLIED LANDINGS IN ITALY, SEPTEMBER 1943: REGGIO, TARANTO AND SALERNO

NA 6173 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

Heading - INVASION OF ITALIAN MAINLAND

NA 6174 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

NA 6175 Imperial War Museum (IWM)

More to follow in the near future related to early training days re Combined Operations in Scotland in 1941, another series of Sgt. Geoffrey Loughlin's photographs at another Charlie Beach along the east coast of Sicily (even farther south than the ones shared above at Santa Teresa), and more news clipping from August, 1943 issues of The (Montreal) Gazette .

Above photo and its B-side are found at Imperial War Museum

Please click here to view Photographs: Operation Baytown, Invasion of Italy, 1943 (1)

Unattributed Photos GH

Story Time: Bury Me At Sea (4)

“Bury Me At Sea”: A Father’s Final Voyage

A WW2 Navy veteran’s request becomes a son’s great adventure

Part 3 of the story concluded as follows:

Today, though he has been gone for eleven years, (my father and I) are very close and have very much in common. But when he was alive we kept very busy with our own lives, including our homes, hobbies, sports and hundreds of other activities, and very seldom shared serious conversations about important matters. Such is life, my father would say.

About my ‘no worry, no hurry, Dad’ attitude in 2001, I say I got lucky.

As well, I say my mother’s death broke the history of silence between us and helped make the impossible possible.

* * * * *

The Impossible Is Possible

‘Round about 1953, during a Sunday drive on the only south-bound road out of Burgessville, Ontario the family car caught on fire. My mother expressed heated concern about the smoke entering the car so my father pulled over to the side of the road and hit the brakes. Everyone important to me jumped out of the car and, with me, stood safely in a nearby ditch. Dad then popped the hood and smoke flew everywhere.

The car caught on fire near the fiery red tip of the toothpick! GH

I was four or five years old at the time and cannot recall how long we stood in the ditch or how we got home. But I do know this - that car ride was the most exciting of my short little life.

The most exciting car ride of my adult life took place during the early months of 2001, not far from Burgessville as well.

My father and I were heading east together on Quaker Street, toward Norwich, and looking at a few of his bluebird houses located on a family farm that was also home to a wee golf course. Conversation was steady, friendly.

Exciting Ride 2: Quaker Street (blue line), runs east to west,

one mile north of where 'Norwich' appears above. GH

One of Dad's birdhouses on Bertrand's farm, Quaker Street

And he turned to me and said, “I’ve decided about where I’ll be buried.”

He could have picked a better road before telling me. Quaker Street is very narrow and hilly where we slowly cruised, not a shoulder within miles, just steep-banked ditches. I felt the moment was very dramatic but I sat still in my seat, didn’t white-knuckle the steering wheel and kept the car safely on the road. I just turned my head toward him for a second and nodded.

“I’m going to be buried in Norwich with Edith,” he said. He didn’t go into details.

Surely I said something wise and discerning, like “That’s a good decision, Dad” or “I think you’re doing a really good thing”, but I honestly forget if I even spoke a word.

In spite of my earlier thought, he couldn’t have picked a better road before telling me. Shortly thereafter we remarked on spectacular snow-covered scenery on the south side of the road where a railroad line from the Norwich Co-op to Woodstock used to be, where his mother used to walk to take meals to his father at the old tile yard. And a minute after that we passed the new Quaker Street cemetery where mother would be at rest in a few months.

With his decision made I felt relief. My family could go ahead confidently with plans for our mother’s interment and I could get final arrangements made related to particular notations and symbolic etchings on a double gravestone. And I found consolation in the knowledge that my mother’s burial wishes had been granted, that she would not be buried alone.

Had I been a wiser, braver son I might very well have turned to my father and asked how he felt about not being buried at sea, or what factors helped him choose the one over the other. But I wasn’t that son. While he was alive we never discussed the matter again.

After his death, however, it came up - and not out of the blue - one more time.

More to follow.

But first, more photos below of Doug Harrison's birdhouses at Bertrand's farm:

The Impossible Is Possible (continued)

With his decision made, plans for mother’s interment went ahead without any hitches, and she was buried at the Gordon Walker Cemetery on Quaker Street, Norwich in the spring of 2001, mere steps away from the remains of her childhood church.



For the most part, my father’s life and my own went on day by day without hitches as well. He kept busy with several activities at Parkwood Hospital, London (his last place of residence) and I kept busy with several of my own pursuits. And, as in the past, our lives generally intersected on Saturday afternoon at one o’clock. I’d drive to Parkwood to pick him up for coffee and a ride in the country and he would be waiting at the door, looking for me.

When we travelled together the atmosphere inside the car was warm, comfortable. Our first stop was always the same, a coffee shop at Commissioners and Adelaide two blocks from the hospital. We sought out and arrived at interesting destinations by slowly zig-zagging along backroads - south and east of London more times than not (towards Norwich perhaps... a homing instinct?) - and as the car meandered so did our talks.

During one we discussed selling the family home in Norwich. He made the final decision to ‘go ahead’, so I went ahead, sold the house, paid the final bills (with the help of my wife) and passed along the proceeds as he desired.

19 Washington Avenue, Norwich, 1917

While involved in the process I made a significant connection.

Upon seeing the house for sale, Mr. and Mrs. Byle, my father’s next-door neighbours, decided to buy the house for their daughter. I was as happy as a clam to sell the house quickly to people known to the family, especially my mother and father, and I was astute enough to set one informal condition.

“Mr. Byle,” I said, “Someday you’ll likely think about tearing down the old barn, and when you do, I want you to call me. I’d like to have some of the lumber from the inside walls.”

He agreed to call. We shook on it and we both filed away the agreement in the back of our minds. But I’m ahead of myself.

During another ride, after the sale of the house, my father told me a form of cancer had returned to him, and that he wasn’t going to fight it again.

“I can’t bear to go through any more operations. The cure is worse than the disease,” he said.

On that day, the implications of what he said seemed clear and I struggled to find encouraging or comforting words to fit the moment. I muttered something about how he at least could make his own decision with a clear mind (“That’s a lot more than others can do,” I said) and that I was proud of him for talking to me about it.

Gord and Doug stopped meandering long enough for a photo. 1969

"Cabbage. 17 cents each. Not bad, eh Dad?"  "If you like cabbage!"

As usual, more details were sparse, slow in coming. My brother and sisters likely know more about his actual condition then, and I’m sure the health care system is sitting on a tonne of informative medical files related to my father’s various aliments, but at the time we just drove on together, eyes on soothing countryside, down another road, around a corner and down another road, and around another corner and down another road.

My father died, none too peacefully, on February 6, 2003 in his room at Parkwood Hospital, less than two weeks after our last car ride together. The ground at his chosen burial site in his hometown was frozen and plans were made for another spring interment. During preparations, not one word or any thoughts concerning burial at sea were ever discussed.

I told my four siblings I would build a box for his cremated remains because I had the perfect lumber - but not, as things turned out, the perfect set of plans - on hand in my workshop.

More to follow.

Please click here to view Bury Me At Sea (3)

Doug Harrison (RCNVR/Combined Operations 1941 - 45) and members

of the Effingham Division at HMCS Stadacona, Halifax, late 1941

Unattributed Photos GH