大象传媒

The Invasion of North Africa

On a bleak November day in 1942 we left Clydeside on board the 鈥楢rundel Castle鈥�, a liner of some 22,000 tons, for what was to us then an unknown destination. There was much speculation as to where we were bound in many sections of the troops on board; many wild rumours went about, always coming from a good source. The places mentioned covered practically half the globe but it was not until we were well out on the high seas that we were told officially that we were heading for Algiers and that the invasion of North Africa was about to begin. There was great excitement aboard and spirits ran high at the prospect of the adventure in store for us.

The voyage took about ten days, escorted by battleships, destroyers and cruisers. The huge convoy had to make a wide detour to keep clear of the Bay of Biscay and the U-boat menace, so much so that we edged fairly close to the coast of America. Many aboard experienced the dreadful effects of sea-sickness for a spell as the crossing became more tempestuous.

Bill Wilson, with whom I had struck up a friendship, and I, along with a few others, including 鈥楤ig Frank鈥� Garlick and Joe Waterhouse, Cockneys from Mill Hill and Bethnal Green respectively, were detailed for a working party on board ship, passing a lot of the time keeping the galley supplied with vegetables, etc. Joe, who had been employed at Covent Garden before being called up for service and had spent a couple of years humping bananas about, stuck his thumbs in, hitching up his trousers in a theatrical manner said, 鈥淣ow mates, I鈥檒l take charge here. This is right in my department鈥�. Needless to say, nobody agreed with him.

Big Frank, as he was affectionately called, was an ex-Grenadier Guardsman. In his early parachute training days, he had the misfortune of having his harness caught up in the rear of the aircraft just as he jumped. He was just hanging there on the end of the strap while the pilot circled a few times in an effort to shake him free but to no avail. Eventually it was decided to land with Frank hanging below. The parachute which of course had not pulled open, acted as a shock absorber to cushion the occasional bump as the aircraft came to a halt on the runway. Luckily he was not seriously hurt, but suffered a nasty shake-up with severe shock and a few bruises which needed attention.

Boxing tournaments and concerts were organised on-board ship with quite a lot of the leisure time spent playing 鈥楾ombola鈥� (bingo). Then, there were the regular daily sessions of life-jacket drill and periods of physical training on the deck for the troops. At night, we would be aft and lean against the railings, staring into the ocean. I was fascinated by the trail of phosphorescence left in the wake of the ship. Rocket flares were let off from time to time and when we first saw them we thought we were being attacked, but later learned, much to our relief, that they merely signalled a change of direction by the convoy.

Those continuous days at sea, seeing nothing but the sheer expanse of water day after day made me realise just how small and insignificant is man in comparison with the vastness of the world. When passing through the fifteen-miles-wide Straits of Gibraltar, which separates Africa from Europe, Corporal Silbury, an ex-Grenadier Guard who consequently kept up a constant banter with Big Frank referring to him as 鈥榊ou Big Ape鈥�, cried out, pointing in the general direction of the Rock, 鈥淗ey Frank, we鈥檙e not far away from your mates now鈥�, referring of course to the Barbary Apes. Frank, good humouredly, joined in the joke, and adopted a gorilla stance, arms swinging at his sides, and showed his amazing set of white teeth as he roared with laughter.

The previous night we had been talking about Gibraltar and how the Barbary Apes had been brought over to the Rock by the Moroccans during their long occupation many centuries ago. I tried to visualise the huge, formidable mass of grey rock which reached a height of 1400 feet and was a huge mountain of limestone rising out of the Mediterranean. Through the ages, it has been the keystone to many spectacular and historic events. We heard later that General Eisenhower had directed operations for the North African landings, in which we were involved, from a command post in a bastion tunnelled into the Rock.

We disembarked at Algiers in bright sunlight which brought to life the romantic picture I had envisaged of this North African port, with its cool, white-domed buildings and clear blue sky. The scene was like an illustration of a biblical scene. We were destined for Maison Blanche Aerodrome, a few kilometres outside Algiers. We marched through the streets of the city to the seemingly indifferent looks of the local inhabitants. My eyes burned with sweat as we tramped mile after mile in dazzling sunshine until we arrived eventually at the aerodrome, weary and exhausted, thankful for the cool of the evening which was descending upon us as the sun set.

Immobilised German aircraft of various types and sizes were strewn about the airfield, one or two of them up-ended, others sagging in the middle like pregnant ducks, victims of hand grenades planted in their belly by the withdrawing German forces.

We trudged slowly into the large hangar where we were to bed down for the night, appreciating the few hours respite allowed us before taking off at first light the following morning as we slumped down on to the concrete floor. Joe Waterhouse let out a groan, 鈥淒ai, my feet feel as if they鈥檝e been massaged with a couple of razor blades鈥�. I assured him that I had passed that stage hours ago and that my feet now felt as if they belonged to someone else, but before we could fall into a conversation about the anatomy of feet, Lieutenant Webster, the officer in charge of the mortar platoon, came dashing around with instructions for the job we had to do the next day.

Meanwhile, there was plenty of activity at the aerodrome. Aircraft, mostly American Dakotas manned by their American crews, which were to take us on our mission in a few hours, were coming in to be serviced and refuelled. Members of the R.A.F. parachute section, responsible for packing the parachutes, went to work day and night in a requisitioned cinema to repack over three thousand parachutes ready for action.

The 1st Parachute Battalion, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Hill, D.S.C., M.C., was taken by the 鈥�64鈥� Group of the American Air Force and dropped on a plain near the market town of Souk el-Arba, deep in the south of Tunisia. Our 鈥楽tick鈥� landed close to some hayricks at the far end of some fields which made up the dropping zone. Here a couple of black African farm labourers were working, their polished ebony faces glistening in the sun. At the sight of us, they dropped their pitchforks in abject terror, jumped down from the bundles of hay on which they were working and ran across the fields, making for the village as fast as their legs would carry them. We must have looked pretty weird to them, dressed in camouflaged jumping smocks with camouflage nets spread over our jumping helmets, dropping practically on top of them from out of the sky.

We soon got organised into our respective companies on the dropping zone. A couple of men had been severely injured and one had tragically fallen to his death with a long streamer of silk from his unopened parachute trailing uselessly behind him. These were the only casualties from what was otherwise a comparatively successful drop.

As the battalion moved into Souk el-Arba, we were met by a French Army commander and some of his men, who were obviously impressed and much heartened by our appearance and offered to join us. The assistance of a French intelligence officer, who could speak Arabic acting as an interpreter when Arabs were brought in for questioning, proved invaluable in gaining information on the whereabouts and movements of the German forces in the area. As we entered the village, a lone German bomber flew low over us, its black crosses clearly visible, probably returning safely to base from a bombing mission.

Life in these remote parts, where even the wheel is not frequently used on these sparse mountainsides, is certainly no bed of roses. Their very meagre existence amounted to keeping a few chickens, possibly a goat and the benefit of the little food they could grow from the hard earth.

On one occasion, an Arab was suspected of indicating the position of one of our companies to the enemy by marking the shape of an arrow pointing to the hillside they were occupying by ploughing or should I say scratching the ground with a primitive implement. From the air a German reconnaissance plane would be able to see the arrow of freshly-tilled earth clearly pointing the way.

We were soon to lose the services of Lt. Col. Hill who was badly wounded when he, together with his Captain Whitelock and two orderlies, attacked a couple of German tanks. After disposing of the first one with a Gammon bomb (so-called after Lieutenant Jock Gammon), the commander of the second tank raised his hands in surrender, but a few seconds later his machine gunner opened fire wounding both officers. The second tank was eventually knocked out. Lt. Col. Hill was awarded the D.S.O. for this action.

Major Pearson, previously a company commander, took over the command of the battalion. He was a heavily built, dark featured man, who hailed from Glasgow, a dour Scot, very curt and abrupt in speech and manner. He was not cut out for the parade ground type of soldier, a born active serviceman, who had the habit of dropping his head forward when he walked as if pondering over some problem. He was soon to earn great distinction in the field as a lieutenant colonel, gaining the D.S.O. and the M.C. in a matter of a few weeks. Bill Wilson related with amusement how, when on guard duty one night in our position in the hills, a figure appeared out of the gloom and when challenged by Bill 鈥淲ho goes there?鈥� replied with a growl from the darkness 鈥淵our bloody C.O.! Who do you think it is?鈥�

The nights in the hillsides of Tunisia were bitterly cold in contrast to the blazing sun of the day. Huddling together for warmth among the rocky slopes under the starry sky, awakening to the first light of day, gave us a great sense of communion which was a life apart from the peace and security we had experienced prior to the outbreak of war. This true spirit of comradeship, forged by the unnatural conditions of constant danger which became our life, each of us losing a little of himself, whatever walk of life he had come from in peace time, moulded the pattern of the soldier equipped to brave the elements of the heat and dust of the day and the cold bitter nights among those hills fighting for survival with the German army.

All we carried with us were our arms, ammunition and emergency rations as the main force of the 1st army that would be coming by road from Algiers with supplies of food and blankets was not expected to reach us for some days.

Our objective was to move on to the heights overlooking Tunis plain and establish positions around the area of Medjez el-Bab until the main forces of the 1st army joined up with us. The problem with this was that the Germans had the same idea and sent an airborne force, possibly from Sicily, with the same purpose in mind. So, in the early days, a state of guerrilla warfare ensued with a series of bloody skirmishes going on all the time. Sleeping in old disused locals鈥� houses among the rocks and hedgerows, anywhere that offered cover of some kind, it was only to be expected that we did not smell too sweetly, caked with dust and stained with sweat, a few weeks鈥� growth of beard on our faces as washing facilities were pretty hard to come by. When we did come across the occasional stream or brook, we went wild with delight, stripping off and after a thoroughly good wash, meticulously going through the seams of our clothes in search of lice, as many of us were plagued by the discomfort of 鈥榗rabs鈥� and other skin pests.

Bill Wilson and I, always on the look-out for something to supplement our rations, picked and ate what resembled corn cobs from an allotment kept by the local Arabs, which gave us both a violent bout of dysentery, leaving us feeling very weak and washed- out. This was a lesson we learned the hard way and thereafter took great care with what we ate and drank, ensuring that we boiled every drop of water, often after having scooped tiny newts and minute insects out of the mess tin before making our tea, the water perhaps having been taken from a nearby stream. Without fail, the tea tasted like wine to us.

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