大象传媒

THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS
and other minor anecdotes of WW2
CHAPTER 1
By: Dennis 鈥淩ocky鈥� Renals

鈥淭here鈥檚 a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will鈥�
Shakespeare, 鈥淗amlet鈥�.

If you believe in fate, or kismet, or any of the other words that describes a destiny that preordains our lives, then you may find this story interesting. Of course, it could all be pure coincidence, but many of my own experiences have inclined me to believe that perhaps something may map our path through life, and this tale describes one of them.

First, I will briefly outline the events that lead up to my main story. Like most men, I am not good on dates, but at some time during the winter of 1942 I was being violently tossed about in the Bay of Biscay on the Cunard liner 鈥淪amaria鈥�, en route for Algiers as part of a convoy of reinforcements for the First Army. I was an RASC driver in a heavy transport company, although my main function was that of company clerk, because I was the only one who could type. I had worked very long hours getting the company鈥檚 documentation in order for overseas posting, and the C.O. gave orders that I was to be excused all duties for the duration of the voyage. When I was prostrate with seasickness I was glad to have no duties to perform, but it left me very out of condition for the route march - with full pack - of some 30 miles from Algiers docks to the farm that was to be our first billet in Africa.

The next day I produced the daily orders which included the standard item for units when they entered a theatre of war: 鈥淚t is an offence for any soldier to be drunk whilst on active service鈥�. That night about six of us very young swaddies tramped a couple of miles across fields to the nearby village, determined to have a drink, even though none of us as had ever had more than a half pint of beer in our lives. The village bar was still open, and the locals looked at us with some suspicion, and maybe some animosity too. We looked at each other, but none of us had any idea what to order, and then finally I pointed to a bottle on the shelf that had a nice name, it was called Marsala.

I was doing the talking as I was the only one who could speak a little French, and we were dismayed when the barman told me that they were going to close in 15 minutes. We were now men of the world, for we were soldiering in Africa just like the sweaty heroes we had seen in the movies, and we wanted a drink to be like them. So I ordered four drinks for each of us, which we downed one after the other in the 15 minutes we had left before closing time. I shall never forget that first experience of being drunk. We staggered back across those fields, with the world spinning around our heads. I kept repeating the slurred words 鈥淚t is an offence to be drunk on active service鈥�, which we all found hilarious. I drank no alcohol for the next three years, and I suspect that my companions were equally abstemious.

Our vehicles arrived some days later. They were semi-articulated lorries with a one-ton box behind the cab, and a six-ton trailer, the front of which was precariously balanced on the articulated ball behind the box. On the rough Algerian roads, often with a heavy load of ammunition on board, the trailer would begin to rock uncontrollably from side to side, eventually twisting over on the articulated ball, and finishing up on its side, bringing the cab unit with it. The unfortunate driver would then climb out of the uppermost window, fighter-pilot fashion. Luckily, I was given a Bedford truck, and did not suffer this indignity.

Once we were operational we spent a lot of time on the move, which meant that we often had no option but to sleep under our trucks at night. One very wet night I awoke to hear a very strange snorting sound in my ear. When I had gathered my wits I realised that one of the dogs from the nearby Arab village had taken a fancy to my blankets, and was inviting me to move over and make room for him. For a while I tried to resist, but his snorting noises got louder, and more aggressive, and eventually I surrendered, and gave up my warm bed to him.

Around April 1943, as the First Army鈥檚 campaign in North Africa was coming to an end, I was struck down by an attack of a benign variety of malaria. When I was discharged from hospital, instead of returning to my unit I was sent to a holding company, where I became one of three drivers who 鈥� in rotation - drove a Pick-Up truck filled with engineers into Bone Harbour each night. It was truly horrifying; what with bomb explosions and the retaliation of our antiaircraft guns, the noise just cannot be described. I would begin standing upright by the telephone that would tell me where to take the light rescue team, and I would finish sitting on the floor, literally driven downwards by the sheer weight of the tumult. I was very glad when I became part of a batch of reinforcements, and sent to Sicily. On arrival I was posted to a light ambulance company. I remember feeling proud that I was now a part of the famed Eighth Army.

The Sicily campaign was fairly uneventful for me, except that one day I was resting peacefully in a field, when suddenly I sat bolt upright because I remembered it was my 21st birthday. Now, I was probably among the youngest soldiers to have taken part in campaigns on two continents at that time, for I had falsified my age by adding one year to make sure that I did not miss what seemed likely to be the greatest adventure of my lifetime. I later discovered that Redcaps called at my home a year later, because I had not registered with my proper age-group. They left when told I was soldiering in North Africa. However, I think I was fairly mature for my years. My parents had separated when I was very young. I had learned to stand on my own two feet since the age of eleven. It was then that I went to live with a widowed grandmother in Harrow because my mother had become too ill to look after me, and my father was not in a position to provide me with a home.

In early September 1943 my unit was part of the invasion of Italy across the Strait of Messina. It was a memorable sight; waiting on the shore one could see an unbroken double line of landing craft sailing to and from Reggio Calabria. It almost seemed possible to walk across, so close together did they appear to be. A few weeks after landing in Italy I began to feel very ill. I tried desperately to keep going, but later I was found in a collapsed state near my ambulance, at the forward dressing station where our unit was working on the evacuation of wounded.

I have only fleeting recollections of the days that followed, and when I fully regained consciousness I was on a hospital ship, going back to Tunisia. At the time I really thought I was dead. Someone all in white was gently shaking my shoulder, and I saw that he was holding a plate with white bread on it, and some delicious looking food steaming gently. We had eaten nothing but hard-tack biscuits, bully beef and a horrid fatty tinned-stew concoction (eaten cold, two men to one tin) for a great many months, and the soft white bread alone made me sure I was in heaven.

I was told that the other occupant of my two-bedded ward was a German POW who had been wounded. He looked very young. I had volunteered to take lessons in the German language whilst I was in Northumberland, as part of the British Army鈥檚 optimistic preparations for the day we would occupy Germany. I tried to strike up a conversation with him in my very imperfect German, but he merely turned his back on me, and I didn鈥檛 try to make friends again. He was obviously a product of the Nazi Youth Movement.

I discovered that I had malignant version of malaria, which was much worse than the form I had contracted in North Africa. I spent several weeks in hospital in Tunisia, and then followed a very long spell in a convalescent camp. Eventually I was declared fit to leave, but given four weeks light duties. My journey back to Italy was on the Luigi Cadorna, a captured Italian cruiser. I can vividly remember that sea crossing, for the winter sun shone brightly on the magical blue of the Mediterranean, and I was filled with euphoria because young men of my generation could only dream about cruising such fabled waters. I recall mentally thanking the King for taking me to so many places I had only read about - or seen in Hollywood movies.

We landed in Taranto, and it is here (at last! you say) that my story really begins. When soldiers become detached from their units, the army uses a system of transit camps to reunite them. It was to such a camp that we were taken after disembarkation from the former Italian cruiser.

Although one always had plenty of 鈥渕ates鈥� in the wartime army, real friendships did not happen very often. By that I mean someone with whom one could exchange meaningful conversation, not just idle banter. My only real buddy so far had been a chap called Harry Mee, who stood next to me, in the rear rank, when we were on parade in Bulford basic training camp. He marched like a sailor, rolling from side to side, which was slightly off-putting when one was marching behind him. Over a period of time we became very good friends. We went through driver training, and then we were posted to a unit which later became part of the 9th Armoured Division, up in Northumberland. We were in the Hexam area when I was posted overseas, and I did not see Harry again until nearly thirty years after the war ended. But that is another story.

However, amongst those sharing a tent with me in a very muddy field on the instep of Italy, was an outgoing, boisterous private, with an accent that I thought was American. He seemed to latch-on to me, and I soon discovered that he was in fact a Canadian. He told me that he had volunteered to join the British Army when war first threatened.

Here I must break my story, as the whole tale is well over the 3000 words maximum allowed for this feature. Please go to THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS, CHAPETR 2 to read the mystery which surrounds the remarkable 鈥淐anadian鈥�.

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