大象传媒

Prominent hills and mountains of North Africa were called djebel. One such mountain was Djebel Mansour, which stands out for me among all others. It was here that some of the most bitter fighting we had experienced took place. Djebel Mansour was in the hands of the German army who were well-dug-in when we attacked. After many hours of attack and counter-attack, we eventually forced our way up the mountain, crawling and scrambling up different paths under pretty intense fire, the bullets bursting on the rocks about us, throwing up little fountains of earth and stones. The deadly rat-tat of machine gun fire and rifle-shot reports sounded like whiplash. My breath rasped as I took in great painful gulps of air as we finally reached the summit, driving the enemy down the slopes at the far end of the mountain into the valley below. Realising that it was just a matter of time before the 鈥楯erries鈥� would put in a counter-attack, we lost no time in trying to establish our positions firmly on the mountain, whilst attending as best we could to the casualties we had sustained. The bodies of a considerable number of Germans who would take no further interest in the war lay strewn around, some caught in the oddest poses. One victim, probably a sniper, whose helmet had dropped off revealing a shock of blonde hair, was wedged in the fork of a small tree, his eyes staring wild and unseeing into space. He was suspended like a huge rag doll whose seams had come apart spewing mangled flesh through his tattered uniform, most likely the result of the cruel blast of a three inch mortar shell.

Not many hours later, we were on the receiving end of an attack by the deadly 鈥楽tukka鈥� bombers. I cannot imagine anything more demoralising to bleeding, weary troops. There is nothing one can do but hold tight and watch them plunge down from above like huge birds screaming their way earthwards, able to pull out of their dive only after they had jettisoned their bombs. The whole mountainside trembled with the impact of the exploding bombs, as earth, stones and shrubs were thrown into the air, half-burying us as debris beat a tattoo on our tin helmets. After this 鈥榮oftening up鈥� process, their ground troops started moving in with a counter-attack, throwing everything they had into the onslaught on our positions in the fight to regain the ground they had lost. Our number one gunner, Jock Miller, a Scottish lad, fell backwards into the mortar pit, shot clean through the head. He died in our arms not able to say a word, just a faint rattle coming from his throat as his colour changed from a deep tan to a greyish-white in a matter of seconds.

We were taking quite a hammering all round at this stage and getting desperately short of ammunition. Apparently the mules that were being used for transporting the ammunition up the mountain to us had stampeded in terror at the sight and sound of the shells landing close by. Their drivers, tall, lean Senegalese Africans, who were serving with the French North African forces being unable to check them.

Our position now became pretty hopeless, the Germans relentlessly fighting their way up the slopes and steadily closing in to gain a firm footing once again on the mountaintop. The order to fix bayonets was passed around and we expected at any moment to hear the command to charge, which would start the shouts of 鈥淲ahoo Mohammed鈥�, the battle cry adopted by the parachute troops which was to strike terror and dismay into the hearts of the enemy long before the campaign was over. The idea of the call came from the lads imitating the Arabs, who used to shout 鈥淲ahoo Mohammed鈥� to their donkeys when urging their animals into action.

However, instead of the order to charge being given, we were ordered to withdraw. It was hard having to leave behind many of the more seriously wounded but we had some consolation reasoning that they stood a better chance of survival if they were taken prisoner as they were in dire need of medical attention. They would get this from the Germans who were likely to send them to Tunis, which was only thirty or forty kilometres away, for hospital treatment.

We half-carried, half-dragged as many of the wounded that we could manage through the undergrowth, forcing our way into the bushes as a thunderstorm of gunfire bellowed among the hills. We groped our way down rocky slopes, some of the wounded bleeding profusely, screaming out in pain when perhaps an arm or a leg would catch in undergrowth or a rock. It was not easy to distinguish the wounded from the rest of us as we were all covered in blood; a gory sight, stinking of the sweat and dust of the past few days. We were assisted off Djebel Mansour by a contingent of the French Foreign Legion who set up a rearguard action, enabling the remnants of the battalion to be guided through a wide gully at the foot of the mountain. We shouldered our way through this ravine to the accompaniment of falling mortar bombs and eventually arrived very slowly indeed, with the shambling gait of thoroughly exhausted men, at a large olive grove.

After a while, we ceased to hear even the remotest echo of the battle. Licking our wounds, we took toll of the casualties which were considerable, about three quarters of the battalion having been either killed or wounded.

The Foreign Legion certainly did not cut the romantic figure I had envisaged of them. There was nothing uniform in their appearance as they seemed to be wearing anything they could pick up, but they fought courageously with a reckless abandonment, seeming to have practically every nationality under the sun in their ranks. I suspected that one would have quite a different picture of them under the severe disciplinary conditions at headquarters in Sidi el-Abbes in Algeria.

General Flavell, commanding the 1st Airborne Troops in North Africa, urged that the 1st Parachute Brigade should be withdrawn so that it could be brought up to strength with reinforcements and retrained as an airborne force of specialised troops. However, such was the general situation in Tunisia that we were moved about as infantry of the line, plugging up the gaps to help in the struggle to restore positions where and when it was necessary.

One such position was between Djebel Abiod and Sedjenane in which Lieutenant Colonel Jock Pearson, commanding the 1st Parachute Battalion, rallied his men including the cooks, clerks, batmen and everyone who was capable of holding a rifle, as we charged the enemy positions. The dark valley of this wooded area reverberated to the cries of 鈥淲ahoo Mohammed鈥�, which mingled with the reports of gun shots and mortar fire, until finally we regained our objective. The action took a heavy toll of casualties after some extremely heavy fighting.

This action was taking place about the time that Hitler, in one of his many broadcasts whilst drunk with power, spitting out his abusive threats of hate and vengeance, referred to the British parachutists as the scum of society, branding us as a military unit formed of ex-jailbirds and guttersnipes. He called us 鈥楻ed Devils鈥� because of the red berets we wore, many finding them more comfortable than our helmets in the hot North African climate. Hitler had threatened that none of us would be taken prisoner but we would be shot immediately we were captured. This proved to be just another of his idle threats.

These remote hillsides held some pleasant memories amongst the bad, such as the times we had singing sessions around the camp fire. Bill Windows, a hefty-built lad from Wembley, who saw to the food rations for our section, usually struck up a note while the tinned rations were being warmed. With his eyes half-closed against the wisps of smoke curling up from the fire, he would say 鈥淐鈥檓on Taff, how about a song?鈥�. Soon he would have us all harmonising to the popular tunes of the day like 鈥楽ierra Sue鈥�, 鈥楥hapel in the Moonlight鈥� and many others. This was of tremendous therapeutic value to us, relieving the tension that had been building up in our systems during this time, especially after the action at Djebel Mansour, when I felt as though my whole inside had turned to stone, completely insensitive to any feelings and incapable of appreciating anything funny or of laughing again, nothing but numbness filling my body.

A very strong sense of camaraderie was forged amongst the boys, each of us depending on the others for his existence. We ate, slept, shared the washing water when we were fortunate enough to obtain it and did practically everything one could imagine in each other鈥檚 company to the extent that our very souls were revealed to each other.

Searching among the bushes in the area of Tamara, we were met with appalling stench of death. The warm breezes carried the stink of corpses and guided us to a body which perhaps might have been overlooked, decomposing very quickly in the warm climate of North Africa. The smell of the decaying flesh as we searched the bodies for means of identification was nauseating. Bill Wilson said, 鈥淕o on Dai, have a cigarette鈥�. Being a non-smoker, I realised, as did Bill, that it would have helped considerably in the circumstances but I pushed away the packet which Bill held out. I thought that having gone so far without smoking, I certainly had no intention of starting just then.

We would perhaps find a photograph among the papers in the clothing of a body, a snap of a smiling, good-looking youngster, with a mop of curly hair. It was difficult to associate the lad with the pitiful, squelching heap we were burying. Sometimes we would find a body half-eaten-away by maggots, stripped of shirt and jacket by some local thief who would leave a trail of letters or pages from the soldier鈥檚 pay-book strewn about the place. These had to be collected along with the brown vulcanised-fibre discs which were stamped with the bearer鈥檚 name, number and letters denoting the religion to which they belonged, and passed on to the adjutant of the battalion, whose unpleasant duty it was to notify the unfortunate wife, sweetheart or mother. I remarked to Bill, on the way back to our position, how I kept seeing the smiling faces on the photographs of some of the lads we had just buried. 鈥淎ye,鈥� he said, 鈥渏ust think Dai, it鈥檚 possible that a wife or mother is at this very moment reading a letter just received from them full of good news and the joys of life; or they might still hear from them in a week or two what with the speed of the post鈥�.

Much of our movements, when filling the role of a 鈥榮top gap鈥� in different parts of the line were made in Troop Carrying (T.C.) vehicles. We had nightmare experiences when attacked by German fighters which 鈥榟edge-hopped鈥� along the hillsides, swooping on our convoys as we rolled along the dusty roads. Their cannon blazed away as the trucks screeched to a halt and we all poured over the sides from under the tarpaulin scattering in all directions, desperately seeking some means of cover as the fighters peppered the ground, throwing up little spurts of earth that chased along after us. My heart pounded on my ribs, my mouth as dry as a bone as I threw myself on the ground, my back feeling as large as a camel鈥檚, as I clawed into sand and rocky soil in search of a safe refuge in the earthy womb whence we came. My mind racing faster than my legs made me realise then how much the good earth meant to a soldier as he digs for cover under fire. I watched with some measure of relief when the Messerschmitts turned and made off over the nearby hills.

We returned to the trucks, a little shaken and dusty. Nearly half the occupants of one truck had been killed, not having had time to vacate the truck, the flimsy tarpaulin sheet being of no protection at all from the heavy cannon shells that ripped mercilessly through as the men frantically tried to get out. We pulled around the truck in front whilst the victims of the attack were being laid out in a row along the sandy verge until arrangements could be made for suitable burial.

We moved on again towards the positions that were assigned to us. As we sat looking at each other in a kind of stunned silence, I could not help but think of the tragic lesson we had just learned of the urgency of abandoning the trucks with all possible speed whenever the need arose. As if reading my thoughts, Big Frank鈥檚 large, fleshy features took on a pugnacious expression as he involuntarily glanced down at his torn trouser leg which exposed a bruised and bleeding knee cap. 鈥淚鈥檇 give that Jerry swine a sample of the real thing if I could get my hands on him for a few minutes鈥�, he said.

Needless to say, nobody needed to be reminded to keep a sharp look-out for enemy aircraft. Every pair of eyes scanned the skies from underneath the tarpaulin which we rolled up as high as possible.

What I found particularly nerve-racking were the 鈥榣istening patrols鈥�, which would comprise a N.C.O. and three men. The object of the patrol was to go out at night into the dead ground between our position and the enemy, lay 鈥榙oggo鈥� at some vantage point and give the alarm in the event of any movement of the enemy. This enabled our men to take full advantage of the night and snatch a few hours of much-needed rest. Two of the patrol could sleep while the other two kept watch in turn. The mind would play amazing tricks as one stared into no-man鈥檚-land. In the moonlight, the rocks and undergrowth would come to life and take on whatever shapes the mind could conjure up. I often broke out in a cold sweat when I thought I saw a German patrol moving stealthily towards us which turned out to be just a line of shrubs. It was always a great relief at first signs of daybreak as, stiff with cold and thankful to get our circulation going again, we made our way back to our own positions, where the company would be preparing to 鈥榮tand to鈥�, that is, being alert for a possible enemy attack, this period between lights being the most likely time to expect trouble.

In some places, where the nature of the ground was suitable, we would lay out a line of barbed wire in front of our positions and often a surprise attack in the dark would be foiled as we heard the screams of pain and terror from an unsuspecting patrol who had got themselves entangled in the wire leaving them at the mercy of our machine gun and rifle fire. Of course, this traffic was not all one way and many of our patrols sent out to reconnoitre were never seen again.

Relaxing one evening during a lull in our activities and much fortified after a meal of steak-and-kidney pudding, marvelling that such a grand feast could come out of a tin, we were looking from our lines across the little valley to the slopes beyond where we presumed the Germans were also taking things easy. Joe, with a good stretch, raised himself into a more comfortable position and, nodding in the general direction of the enemy, remarked, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 expect they wanted anymore to do with this business than we did鈥�.

Bill snorted, giving voice to thoughts that I was trying to frame, 鈥淥ch! A dozen or so of those bloody high ranking German officials in some government building, drunk with power and their own importance, raised their hands in favour of something or other and the German nation is plunged into war!鈥�

Big Frank raised his shaggy head and with Cockney good humour said, 鈥淭hey ought to shove 鈥榚m all, British and German, into a big arena and let 鈥榚m shoot it out among themselves. They鈥檇 soon learn to settle things in a more civilised manner!鈥�

Joe shook the dregs of a brew from his mess tin, giving emphasis to his words, 鈥淭hose blokes over there are fighting for the very same reason that you and I are fighting and that鈥檚 defending their homes, parents, wives, brothers, sisters and everybody and everything they hold dear from the enemy.鈥�

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