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The following story appears courtesy of and with thanks to Arthur Cope, R. A. (T. A.) and Richard A. Cope.


As part of the 30,000-strong Army, under the command of General Sir Archibald Wavell, we had taken part in the rout of the ill-trained and badly equipped Italian army in the Western Desert. It was February 1941, and we were taking a well-earned rest in Benghazi, when we received orders to make the long journey back to the Delta.
There, we re-equipped and eight days later embarked on H.M.S. York (which was later sunk), for a high-speed voyage to Greece. On the arrival we were detailed to speed to the Yugoslav border with 1st Armoured Brigade, but almost immediately we had to take delaying action. We were then ordered forward again to give anti-aircraft protection to Australian and New Zealand troops.
Soon, however, it was obvious that we were no match for the might of the German armies and withdrawal was again undertaken.
Our troop of guns was travelling along a narrow road behind a large convoy of Greek army vehicles, when suddenly out of the sun, eight German Stuka dive-bombers appeared, dropping their deadly load and machine-gunning everything and everyone in their sights.
We were so taken by the surprise that we had no time to prepare our guns for 'normal action', but we at once began firing with the guns still up on their wheels. Although our 40mm shells caused some adverse effect, the Stukas dived and weaved about with ease. Their bombs were fitted with shriekers, which made a fearful scream as they hurtled towards the tightly packed vehicles on the road.
Very soon it was obvious that our gallant efforts were of no avail and we were 'sitting targets'. Our commanding officer shouted the order for everyone to scatter. Two colleagues and myself threw ourselves to the ground at the side of our gun carriage. We crouched tightly together - myself in the middle and the two members of my crew at each side of me.
Suddenly as we looked up, we saw THE bomb. It was screeching straight towards us. We closed our eyes and pulled even closer together.
There was a loud explosion, which temporarily deafened me, and I felt a sudden heavy thud in the middle of my back and a searing pain in my left knee. We continued to huddle together for what seemed an eternity and then as suddenly as they had appeared, the Stukas flew off.
Other members of the troop who had managed to run well clear of the road then hurried across to us. I was amazed to find the object that had hit me in the middle of my back was no more than a hard piece of clay thrown up by the bomb, and the damage to my knee was nothing more than a rather deep cut.
It was only then that I looked at my two colleagues who had not moved when I stood up. They were motionless, because they had taken the full blast of the bomb and had been killed instantly. I just stood there shaking uncontrollably and someone handed me a cigarette. I just could not believe it. Three of us had been huddled together as close as possible, and now I stood there relatively unharmed, yet the others had taken their last breath. Even to this day I marvel at my escape.
Three others had also been fatally wounded and we wrapped all five in blankets and buried them in shallow graves in the field with a quickly constructed cross for each. There was no time for a funeral service - we just stood with bowed heads and repeated the Lord's Prayer.
We continued our journey to woods near the coast and, on instruction from 'higher authority', we destroyed our vehicles and guns (again!) and headed for the beach (at a place called Marathon, I think), where for the second time in just over twelve months we waded out to sea to be rescued by the crew of a merchant ship and taken back to Egypt.
Although we suffered heavy casualties, we were far luckier than one of our other batteries who, when we sailed to Greece, had gone to Crete. Here, they were overrun when German paratroops landed there, and were either killed or taken prisoner.
Footnote: One of the young men killed at my side was 22 years of age. His 19-year-old brother had lost his life whilst fighting with the Army in Norway. They were the only children of a widow who lived in Clitheroe, Lancashire.

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