大象传媒

No fuel barge could be caught in the port during daylight hours and no barge was to leave until all the precious fuel had been pumped out. Such orders were simple to issue. They sounded good. They were undeniable logical but the orders overlooked the lack of an effective pumping mechanism.

Several times a night as the precious cargo was pumped ashore into thirsty browsers, valves would break, pipes burst, washers and seals improvised from available materials would announce their imminent failure with a fine spray of fuel that would turn to a fountain very quickly if not shut down.

Nerves were strained by this dangerous, nightly ritual, unrelieved by a soothing cigarette. Smoking in such a highly volatile atmosphere would be fatal. Anyway, the fuel so permeated fingers, lips and lungs that it would take most of the day to recover any sense of taste. But the fuel barges were always away before the sudden arrival of dawn. The daily visits from the Stukas were never able to sink a single fuel barge.

Bob鈥檚 team could never understand the military logic that decided the best place to gather all the unexploded bombs was right beside these fuel pumps.

This story was submitted to the people鈥檚 War site by a volunteer from CSV Oxford on behalf of the late Bob Borthwick. It is a transcript of his own diary and he gave written permission for the material to be edited and published.

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