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The following account relates to the uncompleted War memoirs of my father, Ewart'Taffy'Roberts(1918-2001).
Coming from N. Wales, he joined the 12th Lancers, and after his initial training in England, was sent over to France to join the regiment. However, he had to be evacuated from Dunkirk before he found them, and only physically joined them back in England after the full Dunkirk evacuation.
My father saw active service in N. Africa which is where these written memoirs end. His regiment was then posted to Italy where my father was wounded in the eye by shrapnel. After a month in hospital, he was then sent to Greece (where he met and married my mother in Salonika)
Most of his memoirs recount his personal memories as a young country lad preparing to be sent off to war.

I received my militia calling-up papers in, I think, May 1939 and went for a medical examination at Wrexham in August. When war was declared in September, I was a little upset that they didn’t send for me immediately. As nothing was expected to happen at once, my call-up was deferred until 7th November 1939. I was ordered to report to Mooltan Barracks, Tidworth, which order I duly obeyed and was enlisted as a Trooper and given the number 7899888. The squad into which I was posted was number 36 in the 53rd Training Regiment, R.A.C. The squad was composed entirely of fellow countrymen from the Principality, few of whom spoke Welsh, my mother-tongue.

The furthest point I had been previously from Trefnant in N. Wales was to Liverpool, where I had been with the butcher to see the then marvel of the Mersey Tunnel. The engineering wonder of the Tunnel itself did not impress me greatly, and my big memory is of Mr. George Williams, the butcher, scraping the bollards at the entrance and looking back to see them vibrating.

Finding Tidworth itself was an adventure before leaving my village. No school atlas had it listed, so a visit to Mr. Jack Levesley, the garage-owner, who sported an AA badge on his car was indicated. Good thinking! Mr. Levesley duly unearthed an AA map at once, and after some searching, Tidworth was pinpointed. Incidentally, Mr Levesley took a great interest in my military career from then on.

A new problem now arose — how to get to Tidworth. This was solved by a visit to the railway station, where the signalman/porter, after consulting thick tomes, worked out a route for me to take — Trefnant-Rhyl; Rhyl-Euston; Euston (underground) to Waterloo; Waterloo-Andover and thence to Ludgershall. My thanks went out on completeion of the journey to that signalman/porter, Mr Tom Price. At Ludgershall (end of the railway line), I was still about 3 miles short of my destination, but a serving soldier, observing the fact that I appeared lost or something, asked me to where I was bound. On being told Mooltan Barracks, Tidworth, he told me to accompany him and we travelled together by bus, and I eventually reported to the 53rd Training Regiment.

So far, what I have written had no significance with the war effort, but to me, as a country boy from North Wales, it was, I think, in retrospect, the most important period of my life. Here, I learned so much more than Denbigh Grammar School for Boys had even taught me. Living with 35 other men in one room, stripping naked for short-term inspections in full view of the other men, and seeing other men in a similar situation.

Previously, I had never met any persons like the military men who began to teach my squad to become soldiers. Our sergeant, whose name I regret to say I can not remember, was a father-figure. He yelled, bawled, ranted and raved, but, at the end of the day, he fretted over us. We were all members of the Welsh choir — we were the Welsh choir - and I remember well talking part in concerts. I was privileged to be asked to sing a couple of solos, but the outstanding item of our repertoire was “Widdecombe Fair”, sung in dialect by this lovely old sergeant of ours. We Taffs became Peter Davy, Peter Gurney, Dan’l Widden, etc, and I was ‘Arry ‘Awk!

Here, I also learned to march. Such phraseology as ‘about turn’, ‘stand at ease’, ‘salute the front’ (left or right) and so on became part of my brain. As I went on to learn to be part of a fighting machine, things like ‘ease springs’, ‘for inspection, port arms’, ’hornet 3 o’clock’ became almost terms of endearment! I began to enjoy army life, except P.T and had ambitions to become a Brigadier! However, as training came to an end, things were hotting up in France and so we ‘passed out’. This was a really frightening experience, as the amount of ‘bull’ seemed endless and pointless. We were told that the smartest half-dozen on parade would be ‘allowed’ to join the Regiment of their choice. Somehow or other, I was duly invited to the OC’s (Officer Commanding — Major commanding a squadron) office, shown a number of regimental cap-badges and told to choose. My choice lay between two — the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry and the 12th Lancers. The badge of the latter, being smaller, and therefore easier to clean, became my choice. So began my love affair with the 12th.

As I have already stated, things were hotting-up in France, so off I was sent, with others, to the R.A.C Depot in, I think, Lens, in France. After a few days I went off in a pick-up to join the 12th. A not un-enjoyable tour of France followed — names like Arras, Cambrai, Waterloo, Mons, The Menin Gate, etc, bringing back memories of school. “Oh, here yesterday”, “somewhere in the area”, “up north”, were stock answers to queries of “where were the 12th Lancers?” Hitler’s troops advanced, I had made no contact with my regiment, and I was evacuated from Dunkirk (which made me a Veteran). On landing at Folkestone or Dover (I forget which), I was put on a train and eventually ended up at Hamworthy, near Poole; and there I physically joined the Regiment.

On the morning parade, after being posted to B Squadron, I was detailed to ‘fall in at the rear of the Parade’. After the usual roll-call, the Squadron Leader enquired of the S.S.M (Squadron Sgt Major — a warrant officer, class 2, the most senior other rank in a squadron — 4 in a regiment, 1 per squadron) “Who is the man dressed in black?” I should mention here that I was dressed in the fatigue uniform of the fairly newly-formed R.A.C — black overalls which press-buttoned at the ankles (rather smart) and black beret. On being told that I was the reinforcement, I was then invited to visit the SQMS (Squadron Quartermaster Sgt — a sergeant responsible for quartermaster matters in a squadron, 1 per squadron) and be fitted up in a proper manner — khaki denims and side hat, not a bit as glamorous as the outfit I had been previously kitted out in. So, I ended up in No.6 Troop with Mr de Zoete (my Oficer), ‘Tich’ Richardson (Troop Sgt), and Cpl Bartholomew (Corporal).

In Hamworthy, the Regiment was re-equipped with fighting (!) vehicles — Beaverettes. These, I think, were standard-make motor-car chassis, with oak planking and sheet steel - half-inch thick plating. This Beaverette was a fast vehicle but very dangerous as the only visibility for the driver was through a slit about 9 inches by 2. Anyway, I was taught to drive one of these. Names of my fellow-troopers elude me at the moment, but it was a happy time. My peers were all regular soldiers or reservists who served their time pre-war, and I was regaled with many a tale which usually started with, “When we were in Egypt …” I also picked up a smattering of the unique army slang like ‘buckshit, shitface, ponce’ that the old sweats had picked up on their foreign service. I mention this only because I considered it part of my army education. My main ‘lecturer’ was an ancient squaddie named ‘Swede’ Andrews, who I think came from the Evesham area of Worcestershire.

Dear old Swede; he taught me to play cribbage to while away spare hours, and his method of correcting my errors was to tap me across the back of the hand with a thin piece of hazel — I became a fairly good crib player! Tpr Geordie Summers, a young soldier, was also a good mate early on, as were Tpr Jackson and L/Cpl Pat Sheppard.

I do not have many recollections of Hamworthy other than getting to know new colleagues and learning to drive Beaverettes.

Then came the move to Long Melford. July 1941, no.6 Troop were billeted in an old wool store directly across from the Bull Hotel. The various troops of the Squadron were quartered in various billets scattered about the village — the vehicle park, as I recall, was a bit of a distance from our quarters. There were many guard duties and Fire Piquets, but my mentor put me wise as to how to evade these duties. When SSM Lew Harper invited volunteers to join the boxing team, Swede advised me to join. Now, I had never previousy done any boxing, but the advice given to me to volunteer was sound. When detailed for Guard or Fire Piquet, my immediate response was, “On boxing training”, which meant that someone else did your job! Incidentally, in my first contest, and I think it was against Tpr Salmon of C Squadron, I was knocked out in the first round!

My Troop Sgt, ‘Tich’ Richardson, had by this time, been made some sort of impresario in fund-raising for the purpose of buying a Spitfire. I hope my memory of this accurate. Sgt Richardson made me his honorary assistant and between us we were quite successful. We ran some very good dances, which the local people enjoyed greatly, and we also raised a Concert Party. To me, the outstanding personality was Cpl Geordie Thompson who played a banjo or guitar; and the presentation of the singing of cowboy songs round a wild-west fire (an electric light bulb covered in red paper) was a knock-out item.

The R.S.M (Regimental Sgt Major — a warrant officer, class 1, the most senior other rank in the regiment — only 1 per regiment) at the time was Mr. Fox. The King inspected the Regiment around this time. We also had or, what appeared to be, a big ‘stand-to’ as rumours circulated that the Germans had invaded. Those troopers who had formed friendships with the local girls were ‘comforted’ by them during this stand-to which ultimately proved to be a big anti-climax when we were stood-down without even drawing ammunition, but it was fun!

One little incident stands out from Long Melford, and that is the experiment to form a troop of motor-cyclists based on the German pattern. Although I couldn’t ride a motor-bike, I was given a bit of instruction behind SSM Harper who was an expert rider. The first few miles while we tried to maintain some sort of formation was alright at 15-20 mph, but when Lew Harper opened the throttle and speed increased, I was one who fell off his bike and I was never asked to repeat the performance. The concept of ‘shock-troops’ didn’t seem to last very long either.

Suffolk was a pleasant experience, and I think the good people of Long Melford thought a great deal of good about the 12th Lancers. The villagers were very hospitable, and I remember with gratitude the kind couple who invited me into their home for a weekly bath, followed by a chat and supper. Alas, I have forgotten their names, and it is a cause of regret to me that I did not correspond with them after we moved on to the Reigate area of Surrey.

B Squadron was billeted in a country mansion, Bures Manor, set in a large park; a lovely house, panelled oak walls and a beautiful staircase. Troop training was indulged in on a bigger than usual scale, and I think it was here we were issued with the new Humber Armoured Car. It was a lovely vehicle. Our main duties then were to reconnoitre the roads leading to, or from, the south coast of England, and we had some lovely trips to places like Biddenden, Lydd, Rye, Tenterden, to name but a few of the ancient townships of Kent.

It was at Bures Manor that the powers that be ordained that I should become a wireless operator/gunner — I never thought I was cut out to be driver anyway. Along with others, I was instructed by Sgt Freddie Hunn in the mysteries and intricacies of the Morse Code — a system of communication which we as a Regiment, as far as I knew, never used. Anyway, prior to taking our trade test, our good sergeant left his test piece lying about on the table — we all passed our exam which meant a 3d per day increase in our pay, and the right to wear a W.Ops (Wireless Operator) badge on our sleeve.

Thereby lies a little personal anecdote. I had a female friend who was a nanny to some fairly important and wealthy person in Reigate. One evening, when I went to meet my friend to go to the twice a week ‘hop’, her employer chanced to open the door when I rang the bell, and, observing my trade badge, he opined that he was a signaller in the Home Guard. He informed me that he had a Morse-sending key in his study, and further still invited me to ‘send’ so that he could practise. At that time of my life, I was scared stiff of anyone who could ‘talk posh’, the fear due, I think, to the fact that I had a very Welsh accent and lilt. Pursuant to that fear, I thought such a gent must be educated, and consequently a very much better exponent of wireless telegraphy than myself. So what did I do, do you think? How did I overcome my inferiority complex? Easily — I transmitted a Welsh poem, or to be more accurate a Welsh verse. However, after the first few letters, I was told to slow down a bit and it proved that his proficiency was equal to about 4 words a minute, whilst I, without aid or cheating, could manage about 10. So pleased was my new friend with my effort that he saw Anne and myself off to the dance with a ten bob note as a reward. This ritual continued for several weeks, in fact every week until I left.

Whilst we were in the Reigate area, rumour abounded that there was a move pending. At this time I was given leave, at the end of which I returned to Bures Manor to find that B Squadron had departed, and that some Derbyshire Yeomanry were there. I showed my leave pass and was noted as having returned on time to the place whence I had departed one week previously. The O.C (Officer Commanding — major commanding a squadron) Derbyshire Yeomanry reported my presence to the 12th Lancers, and I was instructed to await transport. After 3 days, a 15cwt arrived and I was picked up and driven to Tidworth where the Regiment were under canvas. Imagine my consternation when I was charged with being AWOL. Although my pass had been stamped that I was with the Derbyshire Yeomanry, I was advised to agree the charge. I think that suggestion was made so that there would be no fuss as to why I had not been sent a telegram noting the place to report to at the end of my leave. Anyway, I was ‘awarded’ 7 days behind the guard, which brings back more reminiscences of ‘old soldiers’.

Bugle calls were the order of the day and whenever the bugle sounded, the old sweats would say, “Off you go, Taffy”. A quick run to the Main Guard Tent only to be told by the Sgt of the Guard that it was not a ‘jankers’ call and to bugger off, back to my own tent, to be made fun of by the ‘old soldiers’. This happened several times, so one day when the bugle blew, I decided not to go, only to find to my cost that it really was ‘defaulters’. That evening, I found myself peeling, what appeared to be a ‘slag heap’ of potatoes, enough, I thought, for a division. Of course, being on jankers meant plenty of mugs of tea, and somehow I think the old soldiers didn’t mind the little spit I’d had in the mug as my revenge for their mickey taking! Whilst on jankers, I made the acquaintance of RQMS (Regimental Quartermaster Sgt — a warrant officer, class 2, responsible for quartermaster matters — 1 per regiment) Butters (?) to whom I had to take tea. Later, when I had a little bit of rank, I never ever took tea from troopers.

The Regiment paraded for Field Marshall Lord Birdwood at Tidworth. I had never even heard of this senior officer who was venerated by all the real 12th Lancers. The old gentleman seemed to have a kind word for everyone, and his little conversation with me was, “Are you married, lad?” On my replying in the negative, he then asked, “Any children?” I replied, “None that I know of, Sir!” and he merely remarked, “Very good”. I don’t think he heard a word anyone said to him. I do remember him as a kindly-faced benign old gentleman, and if he’d had a fan club, I would probably have joined it.

It was here at Pennings Camp, Tidworth, as far as I can remember, that I was put into 4 Troop, whose troop sergeant was Freddie Hunn. I remember being detailed to drive a prototype Scout Car which steered on all 4 wheels, having a little trial run and then proceeding to The Oval, Tidworth with said Freddie Hunn in command, to be inspected by the Prime Minister, Mr Churchill. The old 4th Hussar had bit of a chat with Freddie and that was that. We never saw that Scout Car afterwards and I have a feeling that it never went into production.

A further move to Westbury, Wilts, occurred where troop training proceeded at a furious pace, very much work and it was obvious we were being prepared for something, but what? Embarkation leave; pith helmets; rumours of Norway, etc, then off to Avonmouth docks, Bristol. 4 Troop received a new troop leader, a Mr. Sutton Martin O’Hafferty Abraham, who was unfortunate in having me allocated to him as his gunner/operator. I took an instant liking to Mr. Abraham, a liking that was to turn to the greatest respect I have ever had for a person, or at least equal respect he shared with Freddie Hunn.

We embarked on the ‘Highland Brigade’, a ship I’ve always thought of in later life as one of Fyffe’s Banana boats; perhaps I’m wrong. As troops ships went she was small, having a displacement of about 10,000 tons. Two funnelled (one a dummy), she had a friendly crew and we began our journey to the Middle East full of confidence. The convoy assembled bit by bit and off we went. I was detailed to present myself at the dummy funnel as one of a number to act as anti-aircraft gunners (Brens mounted on brackets, welded to the circumference of the funnel) and sub-marine lookouts. Observing the convoy and its powerful escorts spread out over a large expanse of ocean, moving majestically, was indeed an inspiring sight. Our old friend, Rumour, had it that we sailed as near as 100 miles off the N. American coast following the coast south; then a dash to Freetown, Lagos, where we took on stores and were entertained by the locals diving for coins. Up anchor, and down to South Africa, where we were told, the convoy moved nearer to Cape Town in order that we would see Table Mountain, which is still etched in my memory.

On arrival at Durban in the Natal, we were met at the ship by some of the white settlers. Freddie and I were offered hospitality by a family, Mr and Mrs Evans, and their daughter, Gladys. The father was Welsh, the mother Scottish, and the daughter on the lookout for a husband! They lived in one of the Durban suburbs, Baragwanith, and they gave Freddie and myself a very kind and homely welcome. Dinner was a very formal affair — I don’t think Freddie and I had seen so much cutlery at one time, but I remembered having read in some magazine, “start from the outside and work inwards”. I have an idea that Freddie was as mystified as I was, but we got through the meal and tasted some wonderful food - ‘pawpaws’ stand out in my mind, and we had a wonderful three days.

To complete our journey to Egypt, we embarked on the “New Amsterdam”, a large 50,000 plus ton ship which had cleared out of Holland on the invasion of the Low Countries before she had been completed. Now a troop ship and being very speedy, she carried a very large complement of troops and did the journey from Durban to Port Tewfik in Egypt in four days. Whilst on board, I became friendly with a Sgt Day of the South African Air Force. He taught me a great deal about S. Africa and, as a result of meeting him and others, and in particular the S. African Armoured Car Regiment crews, my opinion of the white South Africans has been, and still is, one of great admiration for their loyalty to the UK in its hour of need. I wish now, that I had not lost their addresses so that I could write to reassure them that they are not alone now in 1989.

We had not been in Egypt long, about ten days or so, when we received our AFVs (Armoured Fighting Vehicles) back, had them modified and painted in camouflage for use in the desert, of which very few knew very little. A little tale circulated, and I cannot prove its veracity, that while moving in a long convoy to assemble on the desert road, that an Egyptian had been knocked off his bike by an armoured car. On hearing this on the wireless, SSM Harper enquired if the victim had been killed. On being told that it wasn’t certain whether the chap had been fatally wounded or otherwise, SSM Harper advised running him over again, as his funeral would only cost 50 accas or something, whereas a disability would cost a fortune. If that story isn’t true, it should be, as it sums up SSM Harper’s philosophy. On a future occasion, on being told the squadron would move slightly East of North, SSM Harper asked, “365o Sir?” He was a lovely chap, a real old Regular, as hard-boiled as they come, but despite his bark, a kindly man.

Early in December we set off for the ‘real’ war, and about the middle of the month we were in it. I remember that month, December 1941 very well. My birthday is on 23rd December and I remember asking myself what sort of bloody birthday are you going to have this year — that is if you see your 23rd year!

The desert was nothing like I’d imagined it to be. Having seen sun-tanned Ronald Coleman on a supposed desert of sand and palm trees, oases and thinly- veiled harem girls, I was disappointed at the scrub, rough going, damn cold weather — no girls, no water to spare, and terrible rations. We, in the fighting troops, did not do half as well as the people in the rear echelons as far as variety in rations went.

On 16th December 1942, the Regiment was in action in the desert. We had left Port Tewfik on 6th December after having camouflaged our armoured cars and made them as comfortable to live in as we could, but it took ages for us to move up and replace the old established KDGs. (Kings Dragoon Guards, another Armoured Car regiment)

We were in the 1st British Armoured Division, which included the 22nd Armoured Brigade and ours then, and through the N. African Campaign, was to be the eyes and ears of the Desert; we first of all came under the command of the 7th Armoured Division.

The composition of B Squadron was made up of six fighting troops and squadron HQ. Each troop consisted of 3 armoured cars, Humbers, each of which carried a .303 machine gun, and a .05mm armour-piercing machine gun which were fixed in the turret, and a Bren gun lying loose on the turret; two smoke dischargers, and a small quantity of no.36 hand grenades.

I was in no. 4 Troop, which comprised of the following personnel. Our first car was commanded by the Troop Leader, Lt. S.M.H. Abraham, with Jock Main (driver) and Nobby Clarke (W.Op/Gunner). Our no.2 was Sgt Freddie Hunn (Commander), Maggie Webb (driver) and Ernie Bates (Gunner). The third car consisted of Cpl Frank Prime, Arthur Orrel (driver) and ‘Taffy’ Roberts (gunner). The crews moved from time to time and also interchanged cars, for obvious reasons.

For me, it was my first experience of war — I didn’t know what to expect, but I was fully prepared to place my trust in my troop leader in whom I had great confidence in going forward to establish where the Germans were concentrating their armour. The enemy were, in fact, withdrawing, but information was so scant that no one seemed to know where they were, or what their objective was. We got mixed up in some sort of action — I don’t know to this day what I was or how we came by it, but I remember moving at great speed under fire. Whether it was from tanks, artillery or whatever, I, and others, had our baptism of fire on the desert. In the dash for safety, I remember having to abandon our armoured car and being picked up on the move by Tpr Charlie Wilkes. Wilkes drove the petrol and ammunition 3 tonner, and he drove through the shelling towards us. I jumped up onto the running board, the driver jumped on the other, and Freddie Hunn, who was commanding our armoured car, attempted to jump on to the back of the truck. As Wilkie put his foot down to get away, I yelled to him to slow down in order that Freddie could jump on. This Wilkie did, and once I knew my sergeant was aboard, I told Wilkes to get the hell out of it, and he succeeded in getting us out of the danger area. I regard his actions as being very courageous and worthy of some sort of award, but he never got one. In 1991, Mr. Charles Wilkes came back to the UK from Australia whence he had emigrated, and I had great pleasure in having him in my humble abode for a couple of days.

[Unfortunately, this is all my father wrote but I think he conveys an accurate feeling of his thoughts and memories up to this point - perhaps you are somebody reading this who can add a few more details!]

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