大象传媒

IN PLYMOUTH guard duty was a nightmare. There was no escape from the cold. After two hours on duty we spent four hours in a dugout. The ground was frozen with a crust of snow on top. We had a meagre ration of coal dust compressed into eggs with which to keep yet another inefficient stove going. The floor of the dugout was forever awash with several inches of water thawed from the subsoil by the warmth of our bodies. There were twins named Saville on guard with us one night. Twin number one decided he鈥檇 bail out the dugout. He only managed to bail out one tinful - all over twin number two who was standing by the dugout entrance. I hope the twins fought the enemy with the ferocity they fought each other. Another slight inconvenience was a sneaky high ranking officer who prowled about at night hoping to catch the guards off-guard. We weren鈥檛 having that. A plan was hatched. Some alert guards patrolling the perimeter of the airfield spotted a suspicious character approaching. They informed their colleagues who were manning a machine gun, a Hotchkiss actually, left over from WW1. A challenge was whispered quite clearly, 鈥淗alt! Who goes there!鈥�. 鈥淗ALT OR I FIRE!鈥� was finally given, followed immediately by a burst of red, white and green tracers. We all bent down to see, against the night-time horizon, this Scottish officer complete with kilt running into the distance as if old Nick was after him.

ANOTHER BONE of contention was the food. Old Sid Perkiss, the last of the old brigade, had somehow become the cook. We were cold, tired, dirty from the smoke-filled dug-outs and the food was inedible. The fat would congeal on the cold tin plates, even the tea would be stone cold in the icy wind from Dartmoor. It was decided that the next batch, about thirty of us, to go on guard should mutiny. This we did. At first, the young lieutenant in charge of the guard mounting thought we were having a joke. When we continued refusing to obey his orders he turned nasty. Out came his revolver, he was ranting about mutinous assembly and the rules of war. One wag shouted, 鈥淲hen you squeeze the trigger I鈥檒l shout bang鈥�. We could all see the revolver was not loaded. There was a stand-off until a senior officer appeared. He asked for spokesmen from us. No deal. Spokesmen could be labelled ringleaders. Eventually he solemnly promised the catering would improve and the tea would be delivered in hay boxes, i.e. insulated containers. Thus, old Sid Perkiss got his ticket.

OCCASIONALLY WE would venture into Plymouth, not to sample the fleshpots, maybe our funds would run to fish and chips, no, our main entertainment would be helping the ARP people to put out incendiary bombs on the roofs of tall buildings. One night we all had a shock. Jerry came over as usual, dropped a few incendiaries then he started the real blitz with high explosives. We saw several buildings hit around us then decided that discretion was more prudent than valour. Chaos and mayhem were the order of the night. Some streets were sealed off, a friendly copper would step out of the shadows to say, 鈥淪orry lads, no entry, unexploded bomb.鈥� We dashed into a pub that was hit, for shelter. Several buildings we tried to shelter in were hit. Finally, after sheltering in a hotel until buildings either side of us were hit, we decided to try and make our way back to camp. It was great to reach the sanctuary of our little wooden beds and sleep the sleep of exhaustion, even though each bed had thousands of rounds of ammo or hundreds of hand grenades stored below. Remember, we were Britain鈥檚 first line of defence.

THE ONLY other thing of note I can remember about Plymouth is the time one of our mob became airborne. This chap, guarding the aircraft, was desperate to get out of the cold. The only shelter was inside an open cockpit seaplane - a Walrus pusher type, i.e. the propeller was behind the wings. The inevitable happened. This chap crawled towards the back of the aircraft and as he warmed up so he fell asleep, exhausted. Around dawn the crew of two revved up the old Walrus and off they went on coastal patrol with their human ballast. Luckily, both the RAF and our officers found they had a sense of humour and the unauthorised airborne soldier was not put on a charge.

OUR NEXT step was Newton Abbot. Thankfully my life as a private in purgatory was about to change for the better. Discipline was really harsh. There were always about a dozen blokes in the guardroom waiting to be charged and at least a dozen who had been charged and were doing extra duties. Two names stand out from Stalag Newton Abbot, Sergeant 鈥淢oco鈥� White and Sergeant Major Hope. I met nasty Nazis who were nicer than these two sub-humans. Moco and Hope gave the regimental police the all clear to beat up some of the prisoners in the guardroom. The officers turned a blind eye to these unlawful procedures. My guardian angel made himself known to me about this time. You see, one couldn鈥檛 be a Young Soldier for evermore so, just before reaching the age of twenty, one could opt to transfer to another Corps or transfer to a service battalion of infantry. Along with three other chaps I had opted to try for the Royal Armoured Corps. I still remember their names. They were Hayward from Friern Barnet, Buffalo Hill from Woking and Tony Saberi from Lever Street, London E.C.1. After a couple of weeks of tests such as aptitude for things mechanical, things explosive, wireless/Morse code and general education, we were sifted. Sadly, poor old Buffalo and Saberi were returned to the hell hole of Newton Abbott. They were deemed to be 鈥榥ot mechanically minded.鈥� Hayward had set his heart on becoming a tank driver. I had thought about driving a tank also, but I was put off by some of the stories told by old tank crew men. My final choice, with a little help from my guardian angel, was to train as a despatch rider. This was accomplished after six weeks in which we also had to pass out on lorries, armoured cars, gunnery, Morse code and pistol-drill as opposed to rifle-drill. We did have a solid fortnight on motor-bikes, mine was an old BSA side valve. We were based at Tidworth and spent a lot of time rough-riding over a frozen Salisbury Plain churned up by tanks. Map reading, maintenance, riding along fast flowing streams (without stalling) and shepherding convoys were all included in the training. I was much happier than I had been in the PBI (POOR BEAUTIFUL INFANTRY). Old Snake is not forgotten. He was a few months younger than me so he had to soldier on in the infantry for a while. However, we did exchange a few letters. He told me how he was in detention with a chap named Hampton who had served time on a training ship. They knew about Moco White鈥檚 thugs, so Hampton told Snake to start punching if he heard the door crash open. Poor old Snake was a heavy sleeper. He heard the door crash open but by the time he had woken up, Hampton had lain three goons spark out on the floor.

THE LAST despatch from Newton Abbot concerns the manky Moco. The lads learned from one of the goons, who was sick of the rotten set-up, that Moco had gone out by himself one evening. A welcome-back party was arranged. Sure enough, around midnight Moco was spotted staggering home. He was pounced upon, punched, kicked and left lying in the road. Brutal, but rough justice. Old Snake was aggrieved. He didn鈥檛 get a lick in. In fact he received a kick on the shin from a wayward hobnail boot meant for Moco.

WELL, THERE we were. Trained up to the hilt, drivers, gunners, wireless ops and DR鈥檚, spoiling for a fight. We should have joined the Salvation Army. The War Office didn鈥檛 quite know what to do with us. We were moved into the posh barracks at Bovington where the floors were polished to a mirror finish and the grassy areas were clipped and groomed to bowling green standards. Apart from a spot of embarkation leave, our time was spent on kit inspections and yet more drill parades. A significant addition to our trousseaus was tropical kit, which consisted of lightweight shirts, shorts and topees. We were 99% sure we were being posted to North Africa. The 鈥渢reat 鈥檈m mean, keep 鈥檈m keen鈥� routine was relaxed for a couple of days when they let the DR squad loose on motor-bikes to disturb the peace of the Dorset countryside. Three would-be DR鈥檚 crashed of their own volition and ended up in hospital.

THANKFULLY OUR overseas draft was then moved into some scruffy huts at Lulworth. We were left much to our own devices so we purloined a few planks from the walls and floors of these already dilapidated huts to keep our home fires burning during the chilly evenings. The one snag in this life of lazy near-anarchy was a loud-mouthed sergeant. He would crash open the hut door on those dark chilly mornings, shout 鈥淲akey! Wakey!鈥�, then kick an empty fire-bucket almost the length of the hut. One morning the procedure was changed. The fire-bucket was in its usual place on the floor but it was full of sand. That nasty sergeant he didn鈥檛 even wave us goodbye when we left to catch the train to Gouroch or was it Greenock.

NOW THE chronological order of events gets a bit out of shape. Anyway, waiting for us on the Clyde was the luxury liner Queen Elizabeth. She was painted battleship grey which matched the 鈥榙reech鈥� Scottish weather. When the 15,000th passenger was safely aboard we set sail to the strains of 鈥榃ill ye no come back again鈥�, played by a lone piper. I thought 鈥渂limey mate, couldn鈥檛 you have chosen something more cheerful鈥�. We had the company of a Sunderland flying boat for the first two days out, then we ploughed a lonely furrow through the waves, zigzagging all the time. Democratically officers and nurses were located on the two or three upper decks, other ranks were located down near or below the water line. Democratically the upper-deckers were served posh nosh in a dining room whilst we had to carry our quality pig swill to our overcrowded cabins. When the ship was not ferrying troops to Egypt she was employed in ferrying American forces from the U.S.A. to Britain. This meant the ship鈥檚 canteen was replenished in America, so we were introduced to Coca-Cola out in the Atlantic. The least amount you could buy was a case of one dozen bottles. Cigarettes - Lucky Strike or Camels, one or two cartons of 200 cigs. each. Chocolate - one case or two, a dozen bars per case. We were beginning to like our American friends. We must have spent two or three weeks on board ship without encountering any enemy activity. There were several sombre moments which had to happen with so many people travelling in one ship. We witnessed a few quick but reverent burials at sea. There was another incident which caused a mate and I a fair amount of irritation. We were put on a charge by a prissy major and an equally prissy sergeant major - both cavalrymen. The heinous crime was missing a parade for PT. PT. what a laugh, it was a struggle to walk around the deck let alone run because of the mass of blokes everywhere. The court convened, we were literally on the mat in this posh cabin, up before these two prissy types. Suddenly the cabin door crashed open, we all turned round to see a mass of scrambled egg and fruit salad, i.e. gold braid and medal ribbons, in the doorway. It was the ritual of Captain鈥檚 Rounds. The Captain, he of the most scrambled egg and fruit salad, nodded to his number 2. This prompted number 2 to let loose a tirade of salty, naughty Anglo-Saxon, invective directed at the major and sergeant major. He was saying, in polite English, that all cabins should be empty during Captain鈥檚 Rounds, he didn鈥檛 give tuppence for our so-called charge, in fact the major and sergeant major could be put on a charge. During a pause for breath, he winked at us, cocked his thumb over his shoulder, a sign for us to go and then continued bawling at the two unfortunates.

WE EVENTUALLY reached South Africa where we called in at Durban and Freetown. Just a handful of people went ashore at Durban, probably on government business. A couple of months leave in Durban would have suited us fine. There was no blackout, it was a pleasure to see the place lit up and we were told there was no food rationing. One more ceremony had to be performed once we reached safer waters, that was to throw our topees (pith helmets) overboard. This had evidently become a tradition with the troops and what a merry sight it was to see thousands of topees bobbing in the ship鈥檚 wake. The ship鈥檚 Captain gave us a farewell speech in which he wished us well, apologised for the discomfort he knew we had suffered and made a few derogatory remarks about our officers. Thus we had our first smell of Egypt when we disembarked at Port Tewfik. A bone-shaking train ride, followed by a short march, and we were settled in our temporary home, Abbasia Barracks, Cairo. First impressions were the babble of foreign tongues, strange traffic noises, donkey carts and bullock carts mixed with the motor traffic. Second impressions were the smells of charcoal, tobacco, animal odours and, the ripest of all, a tannery where most of the leather dressing was done outdoors. Evenings were a little quieter, when we would lie in bed listening to the strange Arabian music drifting through the unglazed window spaces. For an encore we could watch the bats also drifting through the unglazed windows. They were welcome visitors, welcome to as many mosquitoes as they could swallow. My brother Charlie remembered Abbasia Barracks from his period of army service in Egypt. A few air raids, mainly in the Heliopolis area, reminded us why we were in the land of the Pharaohs. We had a final reminder when, one morning on parade a list of names was read out including mine. We were told to get packed ready to move up the blue, up the desert that is. A couple of trucks picked us up, about thirty of us, then we headed for the sharp end.

WE SOON left the chaos of Cairo behind and were in more tranquil scenery. Bullock and camel were yoked together pulling a wooden plough. Here and there animals, including donkeys, were attached to primitive winches or pulleys, drawing the precious water from wells to irrigate the sandy soil. All too soon we felt the hot breath of the desert. The trucks dumped us in a patch of rocky, gritty desert where about half a dozen trucks were parked. Some of us were destined to spend several hours there, awaiting further orders. The only shade was in the shadows of the trucks, of which we took advantage. Not for long. A corporal was sent out to ask us, quite politely, to 鈥淢ove out please, you are in officers lines鈥�. I wonder why they call old soldiers old sweats. Blokes were being whisked away in twos and threes. Jeeps and small trucks would zoom in, names would be called and off they would go in clouds of dust. I found myself, along with Trooper Hayward an ex-infantry mate, the last to be collected. Fortunately I didn鈥檛 have long to wait after saying goodbye to old Hayward. A sun-bleached truck with two old desert rats on board took me to my new home and new family, 22nd Armoured Brigade HQ. I reported in, told them I was a trained DR and was assigned for duty on a petrol truck. There were already two crew members on the truck, Jim Jelley a bucolic type from Gloucestershire and Gerry Gerrard a talkative old cockney, so old he was at least 40, and due to be soon returned to Blighty. I soon adapted to army life in the desert or desert life in the army. Within days I was entrusted with the occasional brew-up, soon I could make a bully stew with the best of 鈥檈m. Sleeping arrangements were simple. Up to six of us would spread our ground sheets by a truck, arrange our blankets and top it all with a tarpaulin in lieu of an eiderdown. We didn鈥檛 bother with pillows. The nights were very cold and sometimes dewy damp so the tarpaulin was a useful acquisition. One learned by experience to shake out ones boots and whip back ones ground sheet, but quickly. You see, to a scorpion a boot would equate to a cosy bungalow, a ground sheet would be a warm ground floor flat.

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