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This story has been submitted to the People’s War website by Anne Wareing of the Lancashire Home Guard on behalf of George Willis and has been added to the site with his permission…

The morning of April 4th 1943 dawned for me aboard a troop ship named the ‘Reina-del-Pacifico.’ The ship in peace had plied from the shores of Britain to South America giving luxury cruises to the wealthy. The opulent cabins had been stripped and replaced with mess tables, plus a multitude of hooks for hammocks, while the upper decks remained in tact for officer types.

I was reminded rather sharply that this was not to be a celebratory 21st birthday by a burly sergeant who barked, ‘Willis, galley and dig out the eyes of those spuds you lot are always complaining about.’ Come 5pm after about eight hours of this task; I was instructed by the Sgt. Cook to go back to my Mess, as enough had been done for the following days meals, hence I returned to my hammock and dropped off to sleep.

The following five or six weeks we spent zig zagging the North and South Atlantic avoiding U-Boats, the only respite being a two day call at Freetown for water etc.
The native bum- boats took full advantage of this to flog exorbitantly priced fruits to us half starved squaddies, who had not seen luscious fruit since 1939. It was hoisted up the ships side by means of a basket and line, money being lowered first, as they didn’t trust us lot.

My next sight of land was Table Mountain, as we steamed round the Cape of Good Hope to Durban. We were greeted by Perla Siedle Gibson, known by all the troops who docked there as the Lady in White, she sang patriotic in a rich soprano voice with arms outstretched, such as Land of Hope and Glory. Standing there alone at the narrow entrance to the North Quay, this motherly figure in white never missed a convoy from April 1940 to VJ Day 1945, no matter the weather or time of day, not even on the day she heard her eldest son had been killed in action with the Black Watch in Italy.

We disembarked and were transported to a transit camp some distance out of the city. We were allowed to go swimming at the beach from time to time, or on a short train trip to Durban itself, being warned to be back in camp before dark as it wasn’t safe to wander the streets after dark, as troops in the past who had disregarded this warning, had been found nest morning unable to take any further interest in the war, the Zulu’s didn’t like us much, we were white.

Come the end of June after a lot of speculation as to what theatre of war we were being sent to, we embarked on another troop ship the ‘Dunera,’ known by the peace time troops for it’s lack of facilities, being very much smaller than the ‘Reina,’ we christened it the ‘Altmark’ after a notorious Nazi prison ship and all that conjures up to those who experienced world war two. Fresh water was only available 7.30am to 8am and 5pm to 6pm. It was salt water at other times. What a business trying to shave in salt water if you were not first in the ablutions with thousands of troops on board.
Saltwater and soap produce a lather akin to wallpaper paste.There were rats running about in a huge 15-foot square flour bin and in the suffocating heat tempers got frayed with almost mutinous unrest. In fact we were kept below decks for quite a lot of the journey, which eventually ended up at Bombay and it was rumoured that a naval ship was to be brought alongside us to calm us down. We cruised past the Gateway to India and disembarked and were immediately transported to another transit camp that hardly any British soldier missed either in peace or wartime.

Ones greatest enemy there after the oppressive heat was the kite hawk, where when coming away from the cookhouse they would dive from the skies behind you and knock your mess tins containing your rations out of your hands knowing full well you would leave the food where it fell and a following bird would scoop it up and off course the flies, millions of the beasts.

About a mile from the camp, cut into the hillside there were some interesting Hindu temples, which were well worth the climb, this relaxation wasn’t to last and by August I found myself on a draft posted to a battalion of my regiment who were stationed at a village named Attur, in a state which is now known as Tamil Nadu. This unit had been in India since 1936 and we were now in August 1943 they were still polishing brasses and whitewashing stones and Indian followers, as they were known dancing in attendance to the needs of the unit. Just across the Bay of Bengal our lads were taking a hell of a licking at that time. How nice it was when reveille was blown for a naphi waler (barber) to enter the tent and proceed to shave anyone who wanted a shave in their charpoy (bed) and the char waler dispensing tea to all and sundry, all this for a small coin known as an anna. Next, outside for P.T. because later in the day it would be too hot. On ones return the Dhobi would have left your clean laundry on your charpoy, whereupon much cursing and swearing would take place if you had someone else’s shirt, corporals mixed with privates.

At this time South India unknown to the populace in UK was rife with political unrest, so we were duly dispatched to Madras for a show of strength, armed guards were placed on public buildings and main thoroughfares. It was somewhat disquieting to be instructed on how to deal with endemic civilians viz: shoot to kill only those nominated by a magistrate and woe betide if you shot the wrong person, you would find yourself on a criminal charge.

History has proven that behind the scenes negotiating for independence at the end of hostilities helped to quieten unrest and by November I found myself outside Bangalore on exercises where I managed to get 14 days leave to Bombay, what a treat to get away from army food and reside in the Toc H hostel and go to a Chinese for steak, egg, chips and tomatoes, the troops favourite next to chicken chow mein.

There was the infamous Grant Road, known as the cages, guarded at each end by MP’s, Redcaps. I never did discover whether it was to keep the ladies in or the lads out. Next a visit to the cinema, air- conditioned and wonderfully cool, but when one came out at the end the heat in the high nineties hit one like a sledgehammer.
Then there were the beggars and young children ‘Buckshee Sahib’ did get tiresome. Traffic holdups, mainly rickshaws and a few taxis, caused by sacred cows under no circumstances would one dare to move them.

All good things come to an end and my unit had moved in my absence, when I finally re-joined them they were jungle training in the Nilgari hills at a place known as the Nilanbur Forest near Calicut. What an experience, the monsoons had arrived, mud, mud, mud, in the food, in the bed, it got everywhere. This was a change from the arid areas we had come from. No more hanging up boots off the ground for fear of termites eating away the soles overnight, or having the bed legs in tins of water to keep the creepy crawlies from getting into the mosquito net. One vivid memory comes racing back of leading a night patrol to locate an imaginary enemy awaiting up a jungle track, being played by another platoon, when mistakenly what I thought was five men just visible by the moonlight striking through, turned out to be a female elephant who must have had a calf in the vicinity. With a shrill trumpet which echoed round the hills, she charged us and if it had not been for a huge clump of bamboo I sheltered behind, this account would not have been written. During this exercise my ears became badly affected by being wet and an infection set in resulting in the disabling deafness I suffer from to this day. The daily dosage of the horrid tasting anti-malaria tablets ‘Mepacrin’ is something never to be forgotten.

By the middle of December we moved on again back to Madras where we spent the Xmas of that year. How kind it was of our officers to serve us Xmas dinner a tradition I assume that exists to this day. It was about this time I learnt to swim, compulsorily I might add, if I did not achieve 30 yards my next leave would be somewhat delayed. I nearly drowned, but was fished out by a Corporal, who nearly succumbed, with my thrashing about. However I did get my leave in Bangalore in January 1944. There are few notable memories of this leave except an invitation from a wealthy lady of late middle age to give a lavish dinner to 6 NCOs and Warrant Officers. I cannot remember her name or face, but obviously she was the wife or widow of some high-ranking civil servant. What a sumptuous meal it turned out to be, at that time I felt a little out of my depth. But it is a memory I cherish.

I remember seeing my first mongoose and snake contest, of course the native had to have his palm well greased first. Walking round the park in the cool of the evening, admiring the wealthy Indian ladies in their colourful saris. On returning to my unit I observed and Indian burial procession passing by, what struck me rather vividly was the garlands and colour of the entourage with a following band playing native music on sitars, trumpets and drums, more befitting a wedding I thought.

Towards the end of March and close of my 21st year we had to take the war more seriously, we were assembled on a parade ground and formed square, bags of bull, just like trooping the colour at Buck House. Who was doing the inspecting, none other than Lord Louis Mountbatten, who, after inspection, climbed on a rapidly erected dais and yelled. ‘Gather round lads.’ We were aghast at this unceremonial command, then in a down to earth speech he told us he wanted us in Burma and that we would be going with less arms and equipment than he would have desired, this had been diverted to the Italian Front on the command of Churchill.

That was a long, hot, dusty train journey, three days, and then another three days on ferry boats. On sailing up the River Juma with broad mud flats on each bank, one wag let fly with his rifle at crocodiles basking there. ‘Wasting ammunition, take that man’s name,’ yelled an officer.

To conclude this saga, suffice to say I was one of the lucky ones.

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