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The enemy fought various rear-guard actions in order to delay the chase and allow their main body to escape eastwards, because if we had caught them at Halfaya Pass they would have got the crunch, good and proper. As it was, no doubt the Desert Air Force was giving them some of the stick they gave us on the last run down.
On and on we went, travel by day, laager up at night and close together during the dark hours for protection. At first light (about 4 o’clock in the morning) we would disperse for safety, have some tea and food and wait for the order to move off once more. Food wasn’t too great a problem but it was monotonous in the extreme. Potatoes were a long-forgotten luxury and rice was issued in lieu, and what we used to do with that was put a couple of handfuls in gallon Thermos flask and fill it up with boiling water, then seal it down.
Tins of meat and veg or Irish stew or dead something or other, would be wired onto the exhaust manifold, and at the end of the day’s travel a hot meal was ready without the trouble of cooking it. We had rice with a bar of chocolate, rice with jam in it, rice with ‘bully’ (corned beef) in it and sometimes - just rice.
It truly is a miracle that we weren’t slant-eyed. For the fitters this was an ideal arrangement as every vehicle had to be declared fit to travel the next day and we were usually kept busy changing springs on the trucks, which had broken down due to the horrible terrain, we travelled over. Other repairs were usually done en route as we were the last in the convoy and were usually able to sort out the halt and the lame whilst on the move.
What did we eat for breakfast, you may ask? Eggs is the answer. Every truck worth its salt had at least one chicken in the crew; this also applied to the tanks, and the sight of a truck or tank unloading bedding rolls, food and a crate with chicken(s) in it was, to the uninitiated, a sight reminiscent of a gypsy troop, but the chickens usually delivered up the goods. Ours were fed on boiled Army ‘hard tack’ biscuits (to soften them) and tealeaves. Peculiar diet, but they thrived on it and produced the eggs. It was always one man’s job to put the chickens in their crate and load them into tank or truck; there was many a chicken that had more battle experience than their human counterparts. We also had fried bread and bacon (out of a tin, of course) one ascorbic (vitamin C) tablet and one yeast tablet. Green vegetables were non-existent and if we had had them there wasn’t enough water to cook them.
This reminds me of one time we did have vegetables of a kind that nobody had ever seen before, viz. the de- hydrated variety. Well, of all places to send that type of food) the Desert Army must surely have been the last, but of course, I expect that some chinless wonder back at Base thought; ‘Ah, de-hydrated vegetables; we will be able to load tons onto a truck saving space and supplying a need’. But they didn’t think of supplying the water as well to re-constitute the pestilential stuff. On four pints of water per day, two for the cookhouse (when there was one) and two for personal use, it didn’t leave any leeway for culinary experiments. A few blokes ate a little of it raw and, naturally, when they drank something with it, it re-constituted in their stomachs, causing them intense distress. That particular thing was hastily withdrawn and we all hoped that the person(s) who had thought that one up, would catch a particularly virulent dose of V.D. when next they had intercourse, but we did get ‘yams’ sent up to us: for the un-initiated this is a sweet potato and if you like your Murphies boiled in syrup and sugar added when on the plate, then you will love ‘yams’ but for the rest of us, with a normal British love for plain food, they were worse than the perpetual rice. Still, to be fair, if they were fried - and fried - and fried (as chips) they weren’t too bad. So how do you fancy a meal of Irish stew, with chips? We thought it was great then, the thought of it now makes me sick!
Corned beef, or ‘bully’ as it was known, wasn’t at all popular because of the regularity with which we ate it, but in many disguises; ‘bully’ fritters was the favourite, this consisted of a slice of ‘bully’ coated in batter but the flour for the batter was made from the standard issue hard-tack biscuits; they were smashed up with a hammer, rolled into powder with a beer bottle for a rolling pin, mixed with a little water, and hey presto, a batter that would end all batters. Truly it wasn’t bad at all - the fat we carried in a tin and the ratio of sand to grease in the mixture was about 70-30 in favour of the sand. The 8th Army surely ate its peck of dirt before it died, but in hot conditions you could open a tin of ‘bully’ and literally pour it onto your plate; that, and the flies that went with it, was not at all appetising.
If, by some miracle, the mobile canteens of the Salvation Army and the Church of Scotland turned up (yes, they followed us up the desert and did a wonderful job for the blokes), we would laager up for the day after a hard day’s fighting and driving, and, as often as not, the word would go round ‘the Sally Ann’s here’ or the ‘C of S.’ or both as the case might be.
The much-vaunted NAAFI supplied more stores to the Afrika Corps free by leaving their places, on a run down, for them to take over, than they ever sold to the forward troops; but the two I’ve named were always there and there isn’t an 8th Army man alive who wouldn’t sing their praises, God Bless Them.
If there was some flour aboard then it was ‘pancake night’ - this was just some flour and water, mixed to a mortar-like consistency (plus, of course, a little sand) and fried in the frying-pan; they were great and very filling indeed, and, followed by a hoarded bottle of beer, were manna to us.

On and on we drove, stopping for this and that rear-guard action until at last the Afrika Corps decided to make a stand of sorts at Derna and Benghazi, two nice-looking, cultivated towns, with plenty of greenery about. We laagered up at an ex-Army airfield outside Derna, called Tmimi and settled down once more to a static life whilst the build-up went on for the push that would take us to the end of the desert, namely Tripoli.
Eventually the push started and off we rolled once more, through Derna and by-passing Benghazi, going across the desert, hell-bent for Tripoli, which was eventually taken without a lot of bloodshed, and we took up station at Castel Benito airport, many kilometres south in the desert.
It was the hottest place I’ve ever been in, in my life; riding in an open truck was like standing in front of a blast furnace with the blast coming your way. I enquired about it later and was informed that the temperature there was second only to Death Valley in the United States, which was the highest-ever recorded in the world! No wonder we felt hot.
From here we were allowed a visit to see our fabled goal — Tripoli. It seemed a pleasant enough place; big beaches and nice buildings, with palm-tree lined streets and a reasonable climate, a lot different from the furnace we had left.
By this time the enemy had vacated Tripolitania and was ensconced behind the Mareth Line, beyond the border with Tunisia and was quite determined not to be moved. Frontal assault, we were told, would be suicidal, so, with the New Zealand Division, we were going into Tunisia the back way - through the desert, then a right hook and over the mountains, guarding the rear of Tunisia. By this time we had learned of the 1st Army’s arrival in Algeria together with a force of American troops whom we were to meet up with soon, and win a battle for them, but more of that shortly.
We were detached to the New Zealand Division and the plan was to turn left, go deep into the desert, turn right behind the mountains and, at the first pass in them, turn right again and be down on the plains of Tunisia, in an attempt to make the enemy retreat before his Army was cut in two; this we did. We fell upon them in a right jumble of tanks, infantry and ordinary vehicles; even our fitters’ truck opened up with a Spandau machine-gun that we had liberated from the enemy and I like to think that we provided many a German hausfrau with a widow’s pension that day.
We shouldn’t have been in amongst the melee, but desert war is like that, one day the Army would be in a position in copybook style, the next rubbing shoulders with the tanks and infantry of the opposite side. This was where we helped an American Armoured outfit, who were in dire straits, and pulled them out of trouble and secured the release of a lot of Yanks who had been taken prisoner; they were embarrassingly grateful, to us it was just a job of work, but they were eulogistic and to show their gratitude, gave us the whole of their weeks’ PX, (sort of NAAFI) goodies. A very generous race.
We didn’t capture the Afrika Corps then, as they disengaged and fled west towards Tunis and at Cap Bon we nailed them once and for all. It was a shockingly bloody battle, as it is very hilly there and they were at the top; the ground was like iron and couldn’t be dug to make slip trenches, so any Allied soldier caught there, got the chop but the result is history, and many of us had the most wonderful day of our lives, standing up on the cliffs, looking down on the Mediterranean, where the Axis troops were trying to do a mini Dunkirk.
I suppose it was cruel, really, but having suffered at their hands for so long, it seemed a pleasure to watch the small boats pull away and the R.A.F. would then buzz along and sink them, or the odd 25-pounder would thump them into smithereens. Revenge is very sweet, never mind what the do-gooders say. None of them got away.
After this, it was all over bar the odd fanatics who were holding out and preferred ‘death to dishonour.’ The 8th Army, that wonderful Army, with its magnificent fighting men, being the gentlemen that they were, obliged. It was a total victory and another German myth destroyed.
It was shortly after this that we met up with the 1st Army troops. This took the form of my truck being, as usual, miles behind the others, seeing a dusty column appearing in the distance, which our look-out, from his position on a settee (which we had liberated) tied on top of the vehicle, riding ‘shot-gun’ so to speak, could relax in comfort whilst travelling and at the same time spot anything that moved for miles around, due to the height from the ground - about twelve feet -complete with our Spandau on an improvised mounting. He gave the usual warning, as the enemy used our trucks as well as his own, and a vehicle detached itself from the main body to have a look at us.
It was obvious that it was a British truck as it was painted green (European colour, ours were yellowish) and beautifully clean and tidy and ours was filthy dirty, the windscreen wiped with oil and sand thrown on so that it didn’t reflect the sun, with small areas cleaned off for the driver to see where he was going, covered with ‘tatty’ camouflage and hung around with pots and pans, vehicle springs, spare tyres and all the paraphernalia of a mobile fitters’ wagon, not forgetting, of course, our settee tied on the roof and German machine-gun. The vehicle drew up about fifty yards away and we did likewise, but with the Spandau cocked. I got out, clutching my Schmeisser (sub-machine pistol) wearing the usual boots (no socks) shorts (no shirt) and beret and, like the vehicle, rather dirty. From the other truck stepped down an immaculate young officer, pale of face, long shorts, boots, ankle puttees, socks and shirt, well laundered, and a steel helmet, plus his equally clean and laundered troops.
I wish a picture could have been taken then, it would have shown, more than anything how different the 8th Army was from the rest of the British Army; we were desert fighters, who had adapted to our environment and maintained a discipline that was based on respect and comradeship and not on spit and polish.
The officer asked me who and what we were and I told him and he asked if the rest of the 8th Army was like us. The reply was in the affirmative and he said
"My God!"
Anyway, we all relaxed and put away the arms and invited him and his crew to have a brew in true Desert manner but he declined as his column was disappearing and he had to rejoin them. Before they left we cadged some tins of’ food from them, more to prove to our mates .
We eventually laagered up outside Tunisia; no more fighting to be done and were ordered to get ourselves and the vehicles cleaned up and made presentable to the rest of the Human Race and we were allowed a visit to Tunis.
When we got there, the scene was indescribable; wine flowed, literally in the streets and, as near as dammit, everybody was well on the way to getting stoshious . This was too good to miss and, naturally, we joined in and asked where the booze was coming from and were led to a vast wine storage place, where the stuff was flowing from the smashed-open casks, and the troops - and I mean all ranks - were filling whatever they could lay their hands on, with it.
At one time I used to believe that a Ghurkha never drew his knife unless he was going to use it or sharpen it. Perish the thought. We watched in astonishment as a couple of Ghurkhas, kukri in hands, were carving holes in these huge vats to allow the wine to flow freely. Ancient Rome must have been like this, only the women were missing, more’s the pity, so no orgy in its fullest sense. My mate and I managed to get hold of a couple of discarded milk tins and with a quick wash out in wine we joined the festivities.
It went on for several hours until we got wind that the Military Police were coming, so, collecting our bemused wits, we hi-tailed it back to the truck and sat in it like good boys -drinking our wine out of a jerry-can (water type) we had managed to get hold of and so back to our Camp.
Next we were told to be friendly to the inhabitants and to arrange a dance, with them invited, and as, at that time, I was able to speak passable French, having learnt it previously in France, was in much demand, going round the village, inviting people to our ‘do’ and this had a spin-off as the French sought me out to relay messages, etc. and in this way I got both my feet well and truly under many tables. It was a good life but short-lived as my expected recall to the Para came through and off I went, sorry to lose the companionship of men I had been through so many adventures with but looking forward to my chosen way of soldiering.

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