大象传媒

It was Llandudno where my new Unit was forming and when I arrived to take them over, it was no real surprise to find that I was the only regular NCO there! Thirty-men, from eighteen to thirty-seven years of age, who had either volunteered or been called-up, and it was to be my job to train them and take them to Egypt.
They were a good bunch and keen to get on with the job of winning the war, and so, by November, 1940, we made the journey north-wards to Liverpool to embark on the second stage of the macabre presentation called 'war.'
I'll never forget that trip from the railway station to the dock where our ship was; it was about 6 a.m. and the usual vicious night-bombing had taken place and as we were marching through Dockland, the inhabitants were coming out of doors to greet us and cheer us on.
"Look at the poor b*s going to fight, never see them again" and such-like remarks, guaranteed not to raise the spirits.
Then one of them spotted a milk float, rushed over to it, grabbed a crate of milk and started to give it away to the troops. The other inhabitants followed suit and before you could say 'scouse' the float was empty and the milkman was dancing up and down with rage, and the troops were having an enjoyable time, drinking it on the march. The last memory of that area was one of the huge females chasing after a small boy, certainly no more than five years old and shouting,
鈥淐ome back, you little bd, if you don't come back by 10 o'clock to-night, you thieving s*d, you鈥檒l be locked out."
No wonder the Liverpudlians have a name for being hard!
We embarked on the 'Duchess of- " something, a Canadian Pacific ship, and sailed off, the same day that Coventry was 鈥榖litzed鈥�. We weren't told of this until we were well on our journey as they reckoned that the knowledge of this terrible bombing would make our morale very low, so we were sailing away from where the action was, to comparative safety. I wonder in view of the events to happen, what Joker thought that one up?
The ship was a dream! None of the rubbish about sleeping in hammocks in the hold or fetching your own food. No, it was cabins for all, the troops sleeping six or so to a cabin, depending on size and, as I was in charge of a troop-deck, my reward was a beautiful cabin, which I shared with another NCO.
The food was out of this world as the ship had been stocked up in Canada and we still had the civilian crew and stewards who served us in the dining room. Not for us the 'bully' stew or rissoles but instead the sole meuniere, chicken and the civilised dishes. In the first three days my eating resembled that of a big pig, as most of the troops were seasick and couldn't eat. Oh well, one man's meat is another's fish-food!
We arrived without hindrance at Lagos, ten ships sailing in convoy, and took aboard fresh water and some stores. We were all constantly dripping with sweat, without any effort on our part and we wondered how anybody could work and exert themselves in such an extremely hot, humid atmosphere. I understood that, in the early days of colonisation, the West Coast of Africa was known as the White Man's Grave due to the numerous deaths of Europeans there because of malaria and yellow-fever and many other horrible diseases.
By sheer coincidence I discovered that all my former Unit were on one of the other ships in the convoy; it was called the 'Andes' and we were to be re-united later in South Africa. Apart from the heat and the humidity, the thing about Lagos that I remember was that when the docks were washed down at night, the water seemed to be on fire, due to some luminous thing in the water, no doubt, but the effect was of scintillating jewels, pouring out of the hoses in a never-ending stream.
We left Lagos and continued on our way down the West African coast, still having a marvellous, 'beery' time aboard ship, and, by the Grace of God, without interference from the enemy, and so we sailed, day after day, night after night, until one day, after about a month at sea, a South African Air Force bomber flew over us and immediately the scuttlebutt was rife as to our destination.
To cut a long story short, the convoy split in two shortly after this visit, and five ships went to Cape Town, five ships to Durban, and, what is more, tied up at the dock alongside one another. We stayed there for four days and had two alternate days ashore, half aboard the ship and half ashore. At one time, my mates and self were fortunate enough to be off at the same time so that you can imagine that we had a right Royal time.
Everybody was paid a small sum of money each time they went ashore so there was money to spend, which, apart from buying your first drinks, wasn't needed at all, as the South African civilians were more than generous to the troops visiting their country; their homes were open to us, they took us on tours in their cars, with all meals thrown-in, and in fact nobody could have been kinder and more generous than these people were to us, particularly as their Country had a very pro-German movement whose extreme members wore little beards and called themselves what sounded like the 'Ossvar Brandweg.' I've probably got the spelling all wrong but please bear with me; anyway, some of these brave gents beat up a couple of Tommies, which was a very stupid thing to do, because the blokes in retaliation, gathered up some of these gentry and PLUCKED out their beards with their fingers!
After that there were no more incidents.

Our short holiday was over; we were once again on our way, up the eastern side of Africa on the Indian Ocean, to the Red Sea and eventually into the Suez Canal, sailing the full length and tying up at Port Said. And what was the first thing we saw there? A ruddy great red flag with the huge Swastika in the middle, the German National Flag!
To say that our plus was nonned was putting it mildly; apparently, as Egypt was not at war with Germany, they still allowed an Embassy to flourish and in, of all places, Port Said, where they had a grand-stand view of everything we were bringing to Egypt. It was closed later, but when one considers that at that time Hitler was driving down the Balkans to Greece, where we had sent an Expeditionary Force, they must have known in advance every tank, rifle and soldier which was likely to oppose them. I felt very bitter about this as I lost a lot of mates in that disaster; surely if diplomatic pressure couldn鈥檛 have closed the Embassy, a well-placed bomb could have; sometimes I think the British carry 鈥榖eing British鈥� too far.
However, as we said 鈥榗heerio鈥� to our shipboard mates we were de-barked and entrained for our various units, the end of a trip that had taken seven weeks to complete.
Our destination was a suburb of Cairo called Maadi, linked to the capital by a very good diesel train, something like the London Underground; trust the Signals to pick a handy spot for their Base Depot, a sort of Catterick in Egypt. This was the first time I ever saw any A.T.S. and they were in a barbed-wire compound in the centre of the Camp, patrolled by a 24-hour guard. Speculation was rife as to whether the wire and guard were to keep the troops out or the A.T.S. in. Personally I wasn鈥檛 bothered either way as there was the more important job of tasting the gyppo beer, to wit, Pyramid and Stella, which were a kind of chemical lager, but if one drank enough, did its job O.K. After a short while at Maadi we were moved to where the Pyramids were - Mena, and this was our first taste of what the Desert was all about.
Mind you, Mena was a properly organised Military tented and hutted town and conditions there bore no relation to life in an active service unit in the fighting part of the desert, known to the troops, when posted there, as 鈥榞oing up the Blue.鈥� About this time we were hearing rumours of 鈥榮pecialist鈥� units being formed, such as 鈥楲ayforce鈥�, a Commando unit, 鈥楶op- ski鈥檚 Private Army鈥� (PPA), 鈥楾he Special Air Service鈥� (SAS) and a Parachute Brigade.
It was then I made a decision to get into one of these units as this was what I really wanted, to get with the action, in this totally new style of warfare.
By this time I was a Vehicle Mechanic, a bit higher up the social and pay scale and this was nearly to be my undoing, as every time I applied to get into one of these units I was told that mechanics were the salt of the earth (sic) and couldn鈥檛 be replaced. What a load of bull. Admittedly we were a mobile army and without mechanics it would soon have ground to a halt, but all the mechanics weren鈥檛 asking to be moved, they were quite happy doing their job with the Brigade and had no desire to get anywhere nearer the sharp end of the fighting; quite right too, the Para isn鈥檛 everybody鈥檚 idea of fun, as it is a very dodgy job, and you have to want to be part of it, otherwise somebody who is depending on you might get his lot and that wouldn鈥檛 do.
But I digress. Mena Camp was literally at the foot of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, and many other lesser pyramids were there too, plus the odd Sphinx, and naturally we visited them on our days off. To our surprise, the sides of the Pyramid were not smooth but were of massive blocks of stone, each layer starting about two or three feet in from the layer underneath, so that it resembled a great stone stair-case. The steps were each about a metre high and we had to hoist ourselves up to the next step and so on; this we did until we reached the top, where there was a flag-pole and this too was in turn climbed and, at the top of the pole, the view was magnificent. The Nile Delta was laid out like a map and you could see for miles and miles. The height of it all was around 700 feet and it was one hell of a climb. It was a good job we were half cut or it would never have been attempted.
That night we went out on the town and had a good evening on the Nile house-boats; these house-boats were really floating clubs and Dance halls and one could have a really raucous evening, watching the belly dancers and drinking. I remember one particularly exotic dancer who was being cheered and clapped by the mixed audience of Aussies, Kiwi鈥檚 and a few gyppos; well, at the end of her dance she jumped straight on to the lap of a massive 鈥榙igger鈥� - his chair collapsed and he and the bint crashed onto the floor with a mixture of arms and legs, beads and tassels. The table overturned, beer was spilt and the inevitable happened -there was a massive punch-up, just like one of the western brawls.
We got out p.d.q. before the Military Police arrived, and eventually found ourselves on the road to Mena. A little later, as we were waiting for a tram-car, a fat object of a gyppo came 鈥榬iding by on a poor little donkey;
"Look at that great fat slob on that poor little moke" said someone.
"He is twice the size of the donkey" said another.
"I reckon it is the wrong way round," said the first, "surely a hulking great brute like that should be carrying the donkey.鈥�
We thought that this was a great idea and to cut a long story short once more, we made the gyppo dismount and, amid screeches of rage from him, pointed out the error of his ways and whilst a couple of us held him still, (he was very reluctant) the others lifted the poor wee animal onto his back and made him stagger off, carrying it into the night. We warned him not to put it down and then we disappeared towards Mena. I often wondered if the donkey was grateful.

The 鈥楤erka鈥�, a place of ill repute which, no matter how much they may deny it, was well known to every soldier who served in the desert. There was a ditty that the troops used to sing about it; here is the first verse (to the tune of 鈥楢bide with Me.鈥�):
There is a street in Cairo,
Full of Sin and Shame,
Shariah weg el Berka,
Is its evil name.
There is a lot more but as I don鈥檛 want the page to burn up it can keep. This Berka was, in reality, a long street of brothels, staffed by just about every nationality (female and male) under the sun. The place itself was a long street with European-type tenement buildings lining each side; each doorway was a separate brothel and was be-decked with flags of the nation they particularly wanted to attract. An Australian flag, with the legend 鈥榁isit Madame X鈥檚鈥�, painted on a large board. 鈥榃e served your fathers in the鈥�14-18 war, let our daughters serve the sons鈥�; or 鈥楢ll Anzacs welcome鈥�, 鈥楤ritish is best鈥�, 鈥榃elcome to the Jock鈥檚鈥�, 鈥楩orever Blighty鈥�, 鈥楥leanest house in town, drinks served afterwards鈥� and there would be a picture of Lord Allenby鈥檚 army, and so on. It was like taking a step into the past, with all the reminders of the 鈥�14-鈥�18 war.
This place catered for every possible vice, you named it and somebody would be willing to entertain, but on this type of thing they never got any change out of the 鈥楾ommy.鈥� It is my opinion that the general type of operation was 鈥榠n quickly, out quickly鈥� and back to the cafes in the more prosaic parts of Cairo, in case somebody from their hometown saw them there.
The 鈥榙iggers鈥� however, were a different kettle of fish; whenever they appeared all the girls used to disappear; I don鈥檛 know what they got up to but I feel that it was a case of the first one paying and the rest storming the ramparts, so to speak.
They weren鈥檛 at all popular. To get to the purpose of writing all this is because of an incident involving a Scottish soldier and a crowd of Kiwi鈥檚; apparently the Jock was wandering around the Berka, dressed in his kilt and half-cut into the bargain. Some equally half- cut Kiwi鈥檚 were also wandering about and they spotted this lad on his own, and thought they would have a bit of 鈥榝un鈥�. They pounced on him and after a short punch-up, removed his kilt, which one of the Kiwi鈥檚 put on. This, of course, was a deadly insult, not only to the lad and his regiment, but the whole Scottish race.
Some other Jock鈥檚 came along and joined battle with the Kiwi鈥檚, - some more Kiwi鈥檚 came along and joined battle against the Jocks, who, by this time, had sent for reinforcements to the cafe鈥檚, etc. So, also, did the Kiwi鈥檚.
In no time at all the Berka was choked with British on one side and Anzacs on the other, it was absolute chaos with bodies strewn about all over the place, the Military Police trying to restore order and both sides thumping them. The girls were hanging out the windows of their various houses, exhorting one side, or the other, to greater effort and heaving the contents of various bedroom utensils down onto the assailants. It was just like an old-time siege of Notre Dame, with dozens of Quasimodo鈥檚 pouring - not boiling oil - but hot something else onto the melee.
How do I know all this, you may ask yourselves? Well, as it so happened I had been visiting the Berka to see that my lads weren鈥檛 misbehaving themselves and that鈥檚 my story and I鈥檓 sticking to it.
The battle gradually grew less and less as the assailants slowly disappeared, taking their battered mates with them; it would not be fair to say who won but the Kiwi鈥檚 never tangled with the Jocks again.

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