大象传媒

EVERYDAY LIFE IN THE 8th ARMY

INTRODUCTION

My dad was in the 8th Army with the Desert Rats. He was a rifleman and radio operator in the KRRC in the North Africa campaigns in WWII under Montgomery. I remember him teaching me Morse Code as a kid. 鈥楧i-dah-di鈥︹�� he鈥檇 go and ask me what it was. I wish I could remember it all now. I don鈥檛 know how he did memorise it all even after all those years, but I suppose going through something like that it does stick.

I still have his army issue notebook. It is of a stiff card cover containing extensive notes about Morse, circuitry and radio valves and stuff. I still have his medals but, regrettably, I have lost his Desert Rat flashes he brought back when he was demobbed. I remember him explaining to me about the desert rat.

The Desert Rat was the jeroboam. The flash from his uniform was a black jeroboam, or desert rat. It was embroidered on a beige square of coarse cloth. He had two. One was taken by my uncle George to use as a template for my mum and dad鈥檚 wedding cake. George must have kept it because my dad never got it back. The other has since disappeared.

I have his War Office ID card for Mechanical Transport Drivers (Army Form A 2038) valid from 22/5/40 to 13/11/41 with his name and no: 6852157 (description) RFN B605 2nd Q.V.R. (K.R.R.C.). The 鈥�2nd Q.V.R.鈥� is crossed through and replaced by 鈥楤22 8th鈥� and something that I cannot quite decipher.

His Soldier鈥檚 Service Book mentions a Major Watson. His Release Certificate and testimonial is signed by a Major Cox at the No 4 Military Dispersal Unit and dated 4 Dec 1945.

His service medals include The Africa Star with a clasp marked 8th Army; The 1939-45 Star; The Italy Star; The France and Germany star; and The 1939-45 War Medal. He also earned some shards of shrapnel in his left arm, some slivers of which he carried all the way to his grave.

But I remember he never did like all that pomp and circumstance associated with war celebrations. He鈥檇 say, 鈥榃ar is something you have to do sometimes to put things right in the world; it鈥檚 not something you celebrate or glorify.鈥�

He was born in 1910, the year of the Great Comet. His date of birth was the 6th of June 鈥� the day of deliverance for Europe in those dark days of the Second World War. Curiously, he died in 1984 when that same Great Comet was sweeping in toward the sun upon its return. He died one night alone, except for a nurse spoon-feeding him with morphine, in hospital of a cancer that had been diagnosed by his GP as arthritis and, previously, as malingering!

I am going to write his memories as I heard them, in the first person, as though he is telling the stories for himself. Everyday life in the 8th Army wasn鈥檛 all fighting. Here are a few interesting anecdotes.

BACKGROUND

I was born in Brentford, Middlesex in 1910. We had to live on five shillings a week army pay. My father was in the army in India for many years. My mother had to work to make up the extra to live on. We were comfortable, but things weren鈥檛 easy. When I left school, there was the General Strike and all the unemployment that followed. You could be in a job one day, and then out on your ear the next because someone had offered to work for less money. No-one would stick together; that was always the trouble.

IMPRESSIONS OF THE LOCALS AND THE ETHNIC TROOPS

We used to take our sewing to be done by the Arab tailors. Their sewing 鈥� you鈥檝e never seen anything like it. It was invisible mending! As good as any West End tailor, only it didn鈥檛 cost you the earth. They鈥檇 neatly cut out a triangle of material and sew it in to make a flare in the trouser leg so you鈥檇 never know it was there.

They used to follow the Battalions around to make themselves a living. We'd let them brew our tea for us. It was a bit of cash for them and they had to make a living somehow with the war going on. The wallah-wallahs would soak the tea first to let the leaves swell and would always use boiling water. You鈥檝e never tasted tea like it.

If we were the poor cousins of the Yanks, the local population were still paupers compared with us. We picked up a bit of Arabic to get by. 鈥楢na-mashkeen ma-feesh valoose.鈥� We had to use that quite a bit with the beggars. It means, 鈥業 am a poor man, I have no money.鈥� Which was not untrue! And 鈥楤ardin bukra.鈥� And 鈥業mshi, Imshi awa!鈥� Which means, 鈥楤e off with you!鈥�

We learnt to respect the local culture. We struck up friendships with the Bedouin. They were the salt of the earth. They were generous and polite to a fault. It would have been an insult to them to refuse their generosity.

We learnt something of their customs. For instance, you should always burp after eating your meal. It shows you have enjoyed your food. It's polite behaviour! Once, we were invited to share some sheep鈥檚 eyes. They're considered a delicacy. As I say, we couldn't refuse; it would've been impolite. It would've been an insult! I had my reservations I must admit, but share them we did.

They're a very devout and proud people. We learnt something of their religion. I was astonished to learn that the Muslims believed in Jesus! But, as they said, Mohammed as prophet is greater.

To a Ghurkha, his knife is a sacred thing. He only draws it if he鈥檚 going to use it. And if he draws it, he must draw blood. If you ask to see his knife, he鈥檒l cut himself to draw blood.

I was making my way back into camp one time when a hand went round my throat and I felt a blade at my neck. It was the Ghurkha on sentry. He moved so silently, if I had been a Gerry I just wouldn鈥檛 be here. I didn't utter a sound but, somehow, although it was pitch black, he could tell who it was.

AND SOME IMPRESSIONS OF THE U.S. FORCES IN NORTH AFRICA

A German prisoner of war once said to me: 鈥淟uftwaffe come, you run; RAF come, we run; Yankee come, we all run!鈥�

Now, that wasn't an entirely unfair comment. The Yanks would fly so high you could hardly see them. They didn't want to risk getting hit. Just like specks they were. Any ground movement and they鈥檇 just dump their bombs and fly straight back to Tobruk in time to taste the nightlife. The RAF would always fly in and check first if they couldn't tell with any certainty who we were.

The Yanks had everything. Or seemed to. There was a real Cockney wide boy serving with us! He got us some of their army rations. He knew their Commanding Officer. Don鈥檛 ask me how, I don鈥檛 know, but he seemed to have his hand in a bit of everything. He even managed to get hold of some photographic developing materials and then asked if he could borrow a jeep to cart all the stuff over! And he got it! That really took the cake.

FOOTNOTES:

In later years, 'Sergeant Bilko' would always bring a wry smile to my father's face.

He had a profound respect for different creeds and cultures, which he also instilled in us. But I think that both he and those Muslims he struck up a friendship with would be thoroughly distressed and disgusted at these religious Nazis now becoming a plague abroad the world.

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