大象传媒

It was on the morning I left Hawick for the return, and final journey, back to Bovey Travey. The morning train to Carlisle left at 8.30 am. It was never crowded (in much later years the old Waverley line was to
close largely because of lack of traffic between Hawick and Carlisle) and this morning was no exception. As I watched the familiar Border hills roll past the window I had a strange feeling of finality. It wasn't emotional. It could feel nothing at all and I found myself asking why that should be. I never did get an answer. Perhaps it was that events were too big for just one solitary individual. What I did not know at the time was that it would be over three years before I was to see my familiar Border hills again. I don't know whether that would have been a comfort or not had I been able to see into the crystal ball.

ACTIVE SERVICE

At this point it is possible to bring in my War Diary.

I kept a day-to-day record of events after our landing in North Africa right
through to the final day of my demobilisation and the journey back to Hawick and home. That may sound rather pompous but it is a fact; this record was kept. In doing so I suppose that I must have broken a number of rules and regulations. Dairies were definitely not permitted. I believe that to be true but being in the Command Post helped and the fact that I had the diary was no secret. In fact, after a period of time I was encouraged to maintain the record on the strict understanding that I kept a box of matches handy and the books would be burned if things got too hot. Fortunately that did not happen. It got hot all right but I never actually needed to use the matches. After the War I had the diary typed and bound in book form.
(A copy is in the Library of Hawick Museum).

So now let the Diary speak for itself.

The story really starts on a still, starry, December night, the 21st of December 1942 when 60th Field Battery RA, embussed at their billets, Devon House, Bovey Tracey, Devon, and along with their sister Batteries 89th and 90th. Of the 23rd Army Field Regiment RA proceeded en route for active service overseas.
We entrained at Newton Abbott station and travelled overnight to Glasgow and before midnight on our second night of travel we were aboard ship at Glasgow docks. We did not sail immediately, however, but went down river on the tide next day and anchored off the Gareloch, eventually putting to sea in convoy two minutes to midnight December 24th, Christmas Eve. Few of us saw the actual going, however, we had slung our hammocks in the seemingly
full holds and when we extracted ourselves in the morning we were already well at sea.
Our voyage, strange as it may sound in that time of terrible danger, was singularly uneventful, except for the occasional dropping of depth charges by the accompanying corvettes, but we had no direct attacks on the ships themselves and after ten days at sea (which included the Christmas and New Year periods) we pulled into Algiers harbour on the 3rd of January 1943.
Debarkation was quickly carried out and we scrambled off the ship at 10 o'clock at night in a drizzle of rain to sleep as best we could in and around some loaded ammunition trucks on the dockside. Let me say that the first night on foreign soil was amongst the most uncomfortable I have ever spent, in or out of action.
Next morning we re-embarked on a naval assault craft, and after one more night at sea we landed at Bone, which greeted us with three of our own vessels ablaze in the harbour. However, our lucky star, which travelled with us through the entire campaign, was with us, for we got off safely and marched the two miles to the transit camp in full kit. Few will forget that march from the bombed harbour and through the shattered streets of Bone, with vendors of tangerine oranges shouting their wares around us and darkness rapidly closing in, whilst our kit weighed us down getting heavier and heavier with every step. It was pitch dark before we eventually reached camp and settled down as best we could in the marquees assigned to us.
We stayed seven days in the transit camp at Bone, dodging numerous air raids, off-loading our vehicles and preparing for our march up the line. Everything was ready at last and our first convoy from Bone started in daylight, but as we neared the scene of operations we had to travel by night and eventually we rendevoued at Terbrousouk. Another night march from there would bring us into action.
On the night of 17th-18th January 1943, we made the final march into action. A weird, unreal experience, fraught with dangers which none of us at the time fully realised. Our gun position was some eight miles from Medjes-el-Bab
and did not present any real difficulties in occupation for as the 2 I/C Major Redman put it, this was a piece of 'gentlemanly warfare.' He may have been right, but I don't think we believed him and we were just as scared as we could be in the circumstances.
During this period it was impossible to keep a day-to-day record of events for the simple reason that I had no book to keep them in. My diary was inside my kit bag and those were dumped amid the darkness and rain of Algiers dockside. Part of the weird and wonderful organisation which makes up war, however, delivered those kit bags safely to us not many days after we arrived in action and from there it was possible to keep a record of events.
When I penned those first few entries on that first gun position at Medjez, I little thought that I would be continuing the process years later, still telling the rather grim story of life, day in and day out, as it was served up to us through three years of campaigning, but I'm glad I did it now. The story, at least, is an honest one. It tells of discomfort, exhaustion, sometimes great relief, but perhaps most of all of fear. Let no excuse be made for that. We weren't brave, any of us, least of all myself but we were caught up in a stream of events and we had to do the job set for us according to our various abilities. We did not weigh the pros and cons of the situation; few had time for that. We just had to get on with the job as it was presented to us from day to day. That was all we could do. That was how we lived through those fateful years.

NORTH AFRICA

The very first entry in my War diary reads ...
"18th January 1943: Came into action near Medjez-el-Bab at night." The item continues. "Had a report during the day of enemy tanks on Plain travelling towards our positions. Counter action taken and reported that eight tanks knocked out."

So there it was. We had reached our first gun position in action. However,
the journey from the forward hide at Terbrousuck was not without incident, for me at least.
I was still saddled with MC 13, a motorcycle of doubtful reputation and much too heavy for me to handle. Anyway I was not a motorcyclist, or Don R as they were called and this the Army were quickly to find out. Our move to the gun position was made under cover of darkness. It involved passing through the small township of Medjez-el-Bab, after which we were told that there would be two very definite right forks, which would be clearly signed with the Battery number (which was a hurricane lamp under a four gallon tin from which the appropriate number had been punched out). Failure to observe these turnings could only have one result. We would ride straight into enemy lines.
As usual MC13 proved too much. I broke down on the outskirts of Medjez and as I watched in frustration and rising dismay, the remainder of the Battery crawled past me and disappeared into the darkness. What to do? As usual fate took a hand. The MT breakdown truck was bringing up the rear and had not yet gone through. I could signal him down if and when he arrived.
It must have worked out for I did get back on the road only to realise that I appeared to be fighting a solo war and I still had not spotted those two fateful right forks. I came to the first one. By now there was no clearly defined road - just a rough track, but the signal light was there. I glared down the 'left' fork but
could only see a matter of ten yards or so and following instructions I swung the bike over to the right and went on. The same thing happened half a mile further on but by now my confidence was coming back. This was strengthened by the fact that I passed a few friendly faces from one of the other Battery's in the Regiment, 89th. Battery, so I couldn't be all that wrong. I reached the final signal light to the Battery position and by then I knew I had made it. I never imagined that I would be glad to be 'home' in my own Command Post, especially at the outset of a very real war, but that was how I felt at that particular moment.
My CPO and the three members of my Command Post staff looked at me in amazement when I chugged up to the flap of the Command Post tent (not dug in as yet). They had convinced themselves that I wasn't going to make it.
Those events happened on the night of 18th January 1943. The diary records that we were still in this position on 2nd February and on that date we had orders to move. However, before we move from this first Gun position, the sad tale of the 'cookhouse in the wadi' must be told.
My involvement with war and active service had done nothing to dampen my ardour for a journalistic pursuit. In fact, if anything, it had made me all the more keen to follow my instincts to write. When the incident of the 'cookhouse in the wadi' came up, it provided the ideal opportunity. I wrote it up and sent it to 'Union Jack', the North African Forces newspaper. They published me in full.

'COOKERY NOOK' by L / Sgt. J W Murray, the Voice of Experience
"Wadis are becoming more and more famous in North Africa. They interfere with military operations, they crop up where they should not according to the map, and they house many a company and battery cookhouse.
And therein, referring to the last - mentioned, lies a tale.
Someone once said in England on one of the many courses set by our industrious Army Training Schools, "Always avoid gullies and wadis in North African countries. They are liable to play funny tricks at times.鈥�
How right they were.
Like many other units, we pitched our cookhouse, quite innocently, in a wadi. Everything was going fine and meals came up with amazing regularity.
Then a cloud came up followed by another, and another, until even the most optimistic could not but admit that we were in for a downpour. The downpour arrived. It rained harder and harder. The rain turned to hailstones. Gullies filled and overflowed. Where our cookhouse had been, we now watched with horror a rushing torrent with tins, dixies and boxes of 'compo' floating downstream.
However, our cook, by name Tommy Pratt, proved himself a hero. He summarised the situation in an instant and our tins of stew and pudding, already cooked, were saved in time and dinner that evening arrived as usual. Most of our cooking utensils, however, went astray and we travelled many a weary mile during the next few days looking for our missing cookhouse kit.
Now we cook in a safer spot. No more wadis for us. We have learned our lesson."

I made quite a name for myself in the Battery for this little effort. I was forthwith dubbed the 'War correspondent.'
But light relief was short lived. Our orders on 2nd February meant a hurried pack up, and I was to go forward as part of a recce party. We started at midday and travelled some eighty-five miles to an area near Maktar arriving in the early hours of the following morning.
By 4th February we were on the move again. I didn't mind as this 'hide' area had proved a hot spot with Jerry bombing and machine gunning. One bomb fell near H truck and I happened to be under it at the time. I received a severe clout on my tin hat. Happily it turned out to be a clump of earth.
The journey during the night of February 7th took us to Ousseltia Plain. This was another slog over awful roads and sometimes hardly more than a rough track and MC 13 was not helping at all. There was only one compensation. That particular journey was to prove the beginning of the end
for my ill-fated motorbike. The roads were so bad and the going so rough that the machine literally fell to bits under me. I made it eventually to the gun position, but during the journey I had to help to identify two dead officers who had run into a minefield. As it turned out they were not from our Regiment but it was my first experience of death in War and not very pleasant.
Having run out of petrol, I was again on my own 'lost in the wild' but an American sentry post came to my aid and as it was now pitch dark, I bunked down with them for the night and slept in the open.

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