大象传媒

Chapter Six: Life with the Cavalry

About the second week of the New Year (1942) I was discharged from hospital and returned to the Base depot at Abbasia. The last time any of my mates from the regiment had visited me they told me that in all probability the regiment would be going to Burma, and I presumed that by then they would have sailed.
I had taken it for granted that as soon as I was fit I would naturally follow them, but once at the depot I found out differently. It appeared that I was to be posted to a regiment in Egypt , to join one whose ranks had been depleted during the last battles. Although I had no desire to go to Burma I was sad to lose my friends and I had a very great respect for the regiment. I considered that as the position was I must make the best of it, and if I had to fight anywhere then the desert was as tolerable as anywhere else.
If it had not been for that blood clot I might well have been on my way to Burma with my regiment. What had happened apparently was that there had been a purge on the hospitals to release anyone that it was possible to, anyone thought fit enough for the coming campaign. My arm was still bound up as it was not completely healed.
I kept my eye on the notice board to see if anything had come up for me, but a week passed and there was no posting but in the meantime I was involved in a little local excitement. I was recruited to make up the crew of a Bren gun carrier as part of small force which surrounded the palace of King Farouk because it was rumoured that he was making an attempt to flee to Italy. However, after a few hours the alert was called off and we were stood down. Apparently it was too late: the bird had flown.
I had a surprising meeting one evening when on my way alone to Scots Corner, after saluting an officer as he passed I heard him call me 鈥淐orporal,鈥� and turning saw that he was beckoning me. As I went back to him I was wondering was I in some way improperly dressed or was my salute not up to standard? Because some young Base officers were strict on that sort of thing. As I approached I noticed that his head and neck were bandaged, even then it did not register with me at first that it was my recent tank commander.
On coming closer I recognised him, it wasn鈥檛 really until he spoke to me that I was certain that it was Lt Storey; my earlier disbelief was then dispelled and I believe that he was as surprised to see me as I him. We inquired of each other鈥檚 progress. It was considered that he would make a complete recovery; his broken neck was the most cause for concern apparently as his other wounds had then healed. He was also waiting for a posting although in his case it would not be until he was fit.
During our conversation he remarked on what a good team we had made and that it was such a pity that it had to be broken up. He thanked me for saving the life of himself and the crew. Before he left me he wished me luck and added that wherever he was posted he would immediately put in a transfer for both of us to be drafted to our own regiment in Burma. If that failed he would put in for me to be posted with him and on that note we parted.
I reflected on what he had said and realised that there was only a remote possibility of being able to join my mates and the regiment, but I relished the thought. However if that did not happen then he would try and get me posted to him. It was not ingratitude on my part, in fact I rather appreciated the interest which he had shown in me but I knew that if I was to go along with him I would forever be just an operator-loader and not again have the opportunity to command my own tank.
As regards promotion also, that would be limited. I had assumed that I would automatically be made full Corporal because I had as a lance-Corporal commanded a tank in battle, if only for a few days. I had no wish to spend the remainder of the war down in the innards of one of those steel chariots and not to know what was happening all around. I would too prefer to control my own and the crew鈥檚 destiny as far as that was possible, I wanted to make the decisions.
There were some officers and NCOs who were out for glory, I had seen the evidence, and the results of some of those foolhardy adventures which should never have been undertaken. There was one sergeant for instance who openly boasted that he would win the VC before the war鈥檚 end. In fact he had etched it out on his turret cover 鈥淪gt......VC鈥�. It was little wonder that his crew were always trying to transfer.
After careful consideration I decided to badger the Squadron office for a posting at the earliest possible moment; I guess they thought that 鈥渨e鈥檙e got a keen one here, just out of hospital and he wants to get at 鈥榚m again鈥�. That was not so at all, it was far from the reason, anyway it certainly advanced my posting because within two days I was on my way to a cavalry unit, the 8th King鈥檚 Royal Irish Hussars.
They had been in the Middle East for many years, certainly prior to the war, and had suffered a severe mauling in the last desert scrap. I was one of many of their new intake necessary to build up the regiment to full strength. They were camped at Beni Hussif, about four miles from the Pyramids and were waiting there for new tanks.
The driver set me down at the squadron office where I was greeted by Sergeant-Major 鈥楾opper鈥� Brown, MM, he informed me that with effect from that day I was promoted to full Corporal, and also that I had been 鈥楪azetted鈥� and therefore entitled to wear a Military Medal ribbon on my parade dress.
It was all a little overwhelming with so much happening in such a short time; I felt that I had joined a regiment with which, although no replacement for the 2nd Tanks, I could adjust and makes a contribution. The promotion then assured that I would again resume as tank commander.
My abode for what turned out to be almost a month was a tent in 鈥楥鈥� Squadron lines where I was accepted readily enough by those who were to be my new mates. Some of them had been abroad as long as the regiment, almost as dark-skinned as the natives. Each morning at Reveille when the 鈥榗har-wallah鈥� shouted 鈥渃har鈥� and we dipped our mugs into his bucket, there before us stood one of those great world wonders, the Pyramids.
There were several other regiments in camp, not all armoured but all in various stages of re-equipping, ready for the next push which everyone agreed would begin in early May. Toward the end of February our new tanks arrived, American Grants, Shermans and Stuarts. 鈥楥鈥� Squadron was allocated the Stuarts (鈥楬oneys鈥�) - a light tank with a 37-mm turret gun, little greater firepower than our previous 2-pounder.
The Grant and Sherman had a 75-mm gun; of the two the Sherman was most popular, the disadvantage of the Grant was that its gun was set so low down that the whole of the tank had to be exposed when required to fire, also it only had a traverse of 28掳.
Overall the men agreed that the new vehicles were superior to any we had been equipped with previously, and about equal in firepower to what Rommel had at his disposal. Our approval and confidence however was somewhat shattered when the American technicians who delivered them and who were instructing us on them assured us that 鈥�..our boys wouldn鈥檛 fight in those god-dammed salmon tins鈥� - that was their opinion. It was rather a set back but we still believed that they would do a job for us.
I suppose the camp held about a thousand troops in all and apart from the occasional Cairo pass there was little in the way of entertainment. There was a NAAFI and a cinema, the latter owned by an Egyptian. It was not at all reliable and broke down at regular intervals, we spent time looking at blank screens, or the film would be shown upside down; whatever the failure it was not possible to see a film through completely
The lapses in the programme when readjustments and repairs were carried out caused great choruses of boos and comments, and the longer the breakdown, so much greater was the uproar; as the shouting and noise increased it probably gave us more entertainment than the film which we expected to see would have done.
The medical officer dressed my wound and decided to arrange with the fitters to make me some form of protective cover for my arm, to guard against the bumps and bangs which are the lot of the tank men because however experienced a driver may have been it was inevitable that the sudden lurches would throw you against the steel interior; bruised and banged heads and bodies were a normal result. The cover turned out to be a covered sponge pad secured with metal straps, quite a work of art which I found very beneficial and continued to wear for a month or so until I was completely healed.
While in camp there I was able to witness how an Irish regiment celebrated St Patrick鈥檚 Day: it began as a sports day, which of course included a football match and then a donkey polo game (no horses being available) drinking lasted all day, beer glasses were in such short supply that pint bottles with the necks cut off were in use; what amazed me was that there was an issue of shamrock, however that was acquired in wartime Egypt is hard to guess.
The battle line had settled in an area of a line from Gazala to Bir Hakim, and the Afrika Korps there had been building up supplies chiefly from the port of Benghazi, preparing for their next attempt to capture Egypt. So once again, two great armies were heading towards the onslaught.
When we returned to the desert we dug ourselves in on the southern sector of the line in the area of Bir Hakim, just south of us were the Free French Forces. The regiment had leaguered on a large expanse of salt flats, miles of gleaming white level concrete-hard surface. The glare of the May sun made the effect more intense and mirages of great lakes shimmered in the distance.
Into this surface we dug pits large enough to sink our tanks and when covered with camouflage netting were hopefully invisible from the enemy spotter planes. The front line was composed of a number of fortified 鈥榖oxes鈥�; in front of us was a minefield and with the Indians patrolling our forward area we felt fairly secure from any surprise attack. In the meantime we finalised our preparations for the assault which we expected we would launch within a matter of a week or so.
We were so settled and content that a sports day was arranged and was thoroughly enjoyed; I played in a football match, but declined to put on the gloves; I was not yet ready to chance my arm as much as I would have liked to.
As it was thought that there was no immediate fear of an attack by Rommel, 鈥楤鈥� echelon were up with us and we therefore fed at the cook鈥檚 lorry in a centre position of the squadron leaguer: in the case of my troop about a quarter of a mile distance; the morning of 2nd June 1942 was no different from any other morning as we sauntered over to partake of our breakfast of what we guessed would be porridge, tinned bacon and tea.
It was a beautiful morning as they usually are at that time of year; we chatted on our way, with at that moment no particular thoughts of war, when suddenly shells rained down upon us. In a second everything had changed, there was a general stampede, everyone making for their vehicles, and over the ridge and bearing down on us were a mass of panzers, firing as they came on.
Our first problem was to get the tank out of the pit. It wasn鈥檛 easy because we had dug ourselves in so well. We did get out, pulling the nets behind us. There had been prizes given for the best camouflaged tank, and some of the Grants and Shermans which had dug themselves in so deep didn鈥檛 get out and were shot up where they were. In our case, after the crew had leapt aboard our driver after repeated attempts managed to pull out and away and then, believing we were clear, received a hit in the rear. We baled out and as we ran it blew up. We, like many others, had no opportunity to fire a shot and taking a quick look back there was a sorry sight because it seemed that the majority of the squadron tanks were already knocked out.
We had placed much hope in those new vehicles that were then ablaze or were a tangled mess; it was chaos all around where soft vehicles were trying to get out of range, myself and crew jumped aboard one of them and learnt that most of the others of 鈥楤鈥� echelon had been captured when elements of Rommel鈥檚 90th Light (infantry) had filtered round to the flank to take them in the rear. It was a full-scale attack and afterwards we learned that they had forced a gap in the minefield.
Every vehicle now as far as could be seen was moving in an easterly direction, although some sectors were able to hold on and put up a fierce fight. It was the prelude to a full-scale retreat. Our losses in armour were colossal and over 20,000 of our men had been taken prisoner; the breakthrough coming in the main in our position in the line put the whole of the army in peril, consequently there was a general dispersal.
Somehow we received word that Bardia was our reassembling point; elements of the regiment who, like ourselves, had become scattered before the rapid German advance, gradually came in. There were many different versions of what had happened, none of them too clear, but it was said that the Indians out on patrol during the night sent back messages to the effect that there were enemy troop movements, and again at first light but it appeared that for some reason they were ignored. Consequently we were caught totally unprepared.
There had been retreats in the past, as many as there had been advances, but none as thorough and disorderly as that one, but for all the disarray, and coupled with the swift advance of the Germans, at no time did any one of us think that it was possible for us to lose the war in the desert, but rather believed that we would get it right and end victorious.
There were lots of names bandied about to describe these dashes-back, such as the 鈥楪azala Stakes鈥�, the 鈥楤enghazi Harriers鈥�, the 鈥楳ersa Handicap鈥� - one which was directed at us and our regiment was 鈥楻ommel鈥檚 Delivery Section鈥�, this was directed at us when joining our leave truck one night in Cairo, it caused a good old punch-up with some infantrymen.
We were not situated in Bardia itself but in the bay, this was surrounded by steep rocky cliffs which were littered with caves. We had not much in the way of arms but what we could muster was set up against the possible invasion by parachute forces. Whether as a punishment or not we thought that it could have been when we were forced to drill for an hour or so on the top of the bay in the sun which was at that time of year very hot and to say the least uncomfortable.
We grumbled among ourselves and considered that we were being held responsible for a serious mistake by someone of high rank and we were being made to suffer. It didn鈥檛 do a lot to improve morale which was at a very low point anyway. Due to the unstable position of the army during that period the distribution of supplies was understandably disorganised, and our rations were down to a minimum, with little variation. What I drew for my crew was the inevitable tins of bully beef and biscuits, usually jam and sometimes sardines, and one water bottle each per day.
The advantage of being placed where we were was that we had access to the sea and the opportunity to bathe and rid ourselves of some of the sweat and grime of the desert. Everyone鈥檚 hair was far beyond regulation length with little hope of having it cut; our barber hadn鈥檛 turned up so we presumed that he must either be dead or captured. With the heat our matted lankey hair became uncomfortable and I thought before long someone would have to wield a pair of scissors and cut some off, however badly and whatever the result. I thought that I would do something about my own because it was becoming a problem and I devised what I thought was a brilliant way to ease it.
It was when drawing rations one day that the remedy was there at hand: sardines in oil, and so decided to use the oil to smarm my hair down much as the airmen used their Brylcreem. I was sure that it would be the meantime solution. Having done so it gave some relief, at least I could keep my hair out of my eyes.
The scheme unfortunately had its drawbacks though, I had for one thing overlooked the fact that fish oil would attract the flies which were numerous, one of the scourges of desert life; it was a constant battle to be free of them so that it was not very long before they paid attention to my oily head, and everywhere I went swarms of the pests followed me.
When I visited the other outposts in the caves I took them with me and I became most unpopular. After my first visit men would only speak to me at a distance and when seeing me on my way they would shout to one another 鈥渉ey up, Digger鈥檚 coming, bringing his bloody flies with him鈥� or other less affectionate terms such as 鈥渂ugger off, Digby鈥�.
After a while and not being able to be free of them I decided to go into the sea and to remove the offending oil, but it wasn鈥檛 a remedy at all, because after a good soaking the hair became matted, set in one solid piece. I could shape it pyramid-fashion, flatten it out so as to resemble a mortar board, do anything with it apart from washing it out. Eventually I settled for someone with a pocket knife who brought about some relief by hacking chunks off.
We received orders that we were to assist in forming what were called 鈥楯ock Columns鈥�; these were independent units made up of tanks, lorried infantry, artillery, signals - a real mixture of all sorts. Their object was to harass and hinder as much as possible Rommel鈥檚 headlong dash to Egypt.
Our method was to attack supply columns making quick sorties to attack and get out and to attack again, our priorities were the fuel and ammunition transport; often it was found that the German advance was further east than we were in retreat.
At no time were we pursued, we were shelled and machine-gunned. They were no doubt mindful of the distance at which their supply lines were stretched, and of the need to conserve what they had. As long as we continued to surprise them we got away with it and if we did hinder them a little we felt that it made our retreat appear a bit more dignified.
The greatest fear we had in these columns was the regular visits of dive bombers which brought back memories of the havoc which they caused in France in 1940. The difference then being that the desert has no hiding places such as ditches, woods or buildings, just a large expanse of nothingness.
They came without warning but then as they dived the sirens screamed, they skimmed the tops of the vehicles as they came out of the sun. We got away as far as possible from any vehicle as time would allow and dropped down breathless, trying to find the smallest of depressions, or to scratch away some sand. Too bad if the ground was stony, even the smallest piece of scrub to lay behind helped to make you feel that little more secure, while trying to become invisible.
On the occasions that I lifted my head the cannon shells could be seen piercing the sand in a straight line always certain that they were heading for you, it seemed that they couldn鈥檛 miss. They came several times in a day and having learnt from our experiences of their tactics we lay where we were for a time as it was their habit to come round again and again. When we did rise it was with heaving chests and dry throats.
Then it would be a matter of checking our losses, there were always some casualties; when doing so on one occasion a truck carrying injured men was hit; they had travelled some days with us so to give them as much protection as possible some of them had managed to scramble out and lay under the vehicle but they were all hit as were most of those who stayed on board.
They were all in a terrible state, we did what little we could for them. How many of them lived it is difficult to guess; there were no Medics in the area, but shortly after leaving them we reported their position to some South Africans who promised to take care of them. We tank men were not very brave when outside our steel cases, but nor were we brave enough to stay in them when Stukas were about.

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