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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Reg Reid, and has been added to the site with the authors permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Lighter Side of War

By
Don Alexander

CHAPTER 17: Kairouan - A Holy City - June 1943

The French farmers reclaimed their farm and 133 Company of the 7th Armoured Division then moved down from Medjez-el-Bab to the holy city of Kairouan to meet up with backup units of the 8th Army. The city, spelt Khairwan on 1943 military maps, is set on a plain, very cold in winter, scorching hot in summer.

In the 7th century A.D. Muslim Arabs had conquered the Middle East and Egypt, then Okba, a companion of the prophet Mohammed, leading an army into Byzantine Africa stopped at this barren, arid place and legend has it that snakes and scorpions departed at his command, and his horse stumbled across a goblet which had been lost in Mecca. Water flowed from this goblet from the sacred spring of Zemzem in Mecca. Okba founded the Great Mosque in 671 in Kairouan and another companion of the prophet founded the `Barber's' mosque, so-called because he carried about him three hairs from the prophet's beard. His tomb is there as well as the mausoleum of the builder of the great mosque, with access forbidden to non-Muslims. Word got around 133 Company that four black GIs had violated the sanctuary of this holy place and next morning their heads were discovered on a wall nearby.

Hopefully this was a modern legend but Jews and Christians were not allowed and black Africans were regarded as slaves there until French troops arrived in 1881. It was said that seven visits to Kairouan for a Muslim were the equivalent of one obligatory pilgrimage to Mecca.

Our troops were urged to respect the local laws and customs and were ordered to bivouac just outside the city. There was to be no repeat of such disrespect as Victorian Scottish troops had shown in the Sudan by playing football with the `Mad Madhi's' skull. (Queen Victoria wasn't amused.)

Here in 1943 two men would dig a trench five feet wide x six feet long and three feet deep and put a tent over it - they became like the `burrowing' Arabs of the desert. The heat was blistering. The Sirocco blew hot across the camp; when Butch lathered up to shave he found the lather turned to powder. He had to get into a boiling hot cab to shave.

There was a whirlwind, fascinating to watch sucking up sand and whirling it into ever changing shapes and as it scudded about near them fascination turned to alarm as it veered suddenly towards them, lifting a lorry off the ground which burst all its tyres as it dropped down again. Lads shot off in all directions as it zig zagged around then fortunately it went on its merry way into the desert.

Wheeler commented, "I thought Churchill said it'd be the Jerries who'd reap the whirlwind." It was a welcome sight when either Dougie Pope's or Sid Porter's water wagon arrived at camp, even if the water was stale. And even if Dougie Pope pointed out they'd fare better if they were German or Italian prisoners of war.

He'd met an American driver at one camp and found that US wagons offered a choice of spring water, orange juice, cola or milk!

Latrines were simply trenches dug out with a plank across, which after a while were filled over with sand, and others were then dug out to replace them. Dysentery swept through the camp at one stage and so many lads rushed to sit on the planks that one broke under them landing them `in the shite'. Sordid but part of life's pattern.

Butch had excelled against the Arabs with his shooting prowess and now thought he would challenge them at another sport - bareback horse riding.

A little lad used to ride through the camp - gallop rather - on a black steed without a saddle. He made it look so easy that a knot of `A' platoon wallahs stopped their work loading vehicles in order to watch in admiration. Butch one day blurted out, "I could do that with a bit of practice ."

The Arab lad was beckoned over by Wheeler and there was some whispering and pointing and basic French, perhaps even, money was exchanged. Butch mounted the steed and had scarcely grabbed its mane when the lad smacked its rear and it galloped off. He clung on desperately, then slid around, hanging under the horse's neck, still grasping its mane for grim life, until it eventually slowed down and he could drop off without being trampled!

With the lads shouts, "Ride 'em cowboy," and "Butch Cassidy rides again," ringing in his ears he limped back, followed by the horse, making its way back to its young, grinning owner. "Now I know why cowboys are bow legged. They're allus on the verge o' crappin theirsens!"

Some of the lads including Butch sampled the local sticky date cakes and were cultured enough to admire the sights especially the Great Mosque with its 1,200 year old unusual three tiered square minaret topped by a ribbed dome. They weren't allowed in the prayer hall but could visit the courtyard half paved with marble, half with limestone and a sundial indicating times of the five daily prayers.

It was many years before the days of mass tourism and now the war was over in North Africa they assumed they would never have chance to pass this way again, so wished to make the most of it. The Romans and the Jews, the Normans, the French, even the Vandals had roamed and fought over these lands as well as Shi'ite and Sunni Muslim Arabs, now the British, Americans, Germans and Italians had fought in the country and would soon leave. RASC and 8th Army lads would wander the narrow streets within the high walls of the Medina as much to escape the blistering heat as to soak up the culture, and would meet GIs trailing Kairouan carpets they'd been persuaded they must buy.

Butch had the eye of a romantic, an artist, and when he learned that they were moving to empty police barracks at Sousse by the sea, he had a good last look at the sights of Kairouan to fix them in his mind - the Great Mosque silhouetted against the setting sun, the camel train far off in the desert, the mule train that came by the camp every day, one wizened old fellow in white turban and robes always asleep on his mule. Some of what Browning called `immortal moments', especially when one of our younger lads led said mule, with said sleeping Arab, out of the mule train, and turned the beast round so that it set off walking back whence it came. Surely not Wheeler again? Probably.

The other muleteers just grinned broadly and let their colleague disappear, still asleep, back along the desert trail.

Pr-BR

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