大象传媒

After sixty-three years, with a party of 1st and 8th Army Veterans, I revisited Tunisia. A journey made possible by a generous grant from the 鈥楲ottery Fund鈥�. Our previous visit was made on a troopship. A converted passenger liner stripped of its former opulence and spaciousness to accommodate upward of four thousand or more troops, armaments, military equipment and supplies. The voyage from secret ports in wartime Britain to Africa, took ten days or more to reach the Mediterranean Sea. A long, long time ago鈥�.
Now in casual attire and a bit thin on top. Some of us limping along with the aid of a walking stick or on the arm of a carer. Now no kit-bag or Lee Enfield rifle to carry. No sergeant major to hassle us. Wives, sons, daughters, grandchild, or carer accompany us. From Gatwick airport we fly in the comfort of an A320 Airbus, on a scheduled flight to North Africa. Two and half hours later we land at Tunis 鈥� Carthage Airport 鈥� to be greeted by the representatives of 鈥楳idas Tours鈥�.
While our luggage is out on the coach, we arrange to convert our travellers cheques or sterling onto dinars. (You cannot take in or bring out, Tunisian currency). From the airport onto the four star, Hotel Diplomat. En-route we observe the hustle , noise and dust of traffic, crawling, snarling while drivers jockey to secure any open space on the wide dual highways. What a transformation from years ago. Not one jeep, or truck with big white star, in sight.
During the next seven days, we travel back in time. We visit all the cemeteries where those who we remember as mates rest in their perpetual youth. The headstones remind us of their age. Frome eighteen to early and mid twenties. Many 鈥榖it the dust鈥� in the late twenties to early forties. Officers and other ranks 鈥� undivided 鈥� all sharing the same silent parade ground.
At Beja war cemetery I stood by the grave of my former Commanding Officer, Lt. Colonel 鈥楬eaver鈥� Allen, killed leading us on our attack on Mahdi. It was an emotional time for me to kneel beside the graves of my brave and gallant friend, Sgt. Frank McAleer, D.C.M. and his mate, Lance/Sgt 鈥楶addy鈥� Bride. They rest near each other. Inseparable in death as they were in the Army. Locating Paddy鈥檚 grave was a problem though not an insurmountable one for, Robin Scott, our leader. Paddy 鈥� we knew him as Bryde 鈥� was how we read his name on daily detail. His headstone details him as Lance/Sgt W.M. Bride.
I pointed Tanngouche (my hell on earth) out to my wife. You recall the three attacks we made before finally seeing the enemy raise a white sheet. Of the lads who gave their all to capture a hill. For what? Tanngouche still dominates the mountain range. No scars of war from the tons of shells or pints of blood that once dropped on its rocky slopes.
Hideous and Longstop Hill are still there. Hideous was now a modern village, replacing the straw and waffle huts of tie gone by. Magrid, our Tunisian guide, informed me his father-in-law now occupies the nearby farm, once the homestead of a French family. Life goes on.
Steve, the tour lecturer at the Mareth Line, explained in detail Montgomery鈥檚 tactics during the final defeat of Rommel in Tunisia. Some of us collected pieces of shrapnel, from the 88mm shells from the battle. History brought to life.
This was a memorable and wonderful experience for my wife and myself. Everyone on this pilgrimage made it worthwhile. Two veterans in their nineties (one a holder of the Military Medal); the youngest 鈥榦ld soldier鈥� (81 years); one war widow and her son (they saw the spot and the grave of their husband and Dad). To them, Robin, Steve and Marnie, a former Queen Alexandra Nursing Sister, my wife, Doreen and I say, 鈥淭hank you all for this trip down memory lane.鈥�

The Torch still Brightly Burns.

Eddie Burke, 6th Bn. Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers.

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