- Contributed byÌý
- Warwickshire Libraries Heritage and Trading Standards
- People in story:Ìý
- Stanley Smith and S/Sgt. Sam McMillan
- Location of story:Ìý
- North African Western Desert, 1942
- Background to story:Ìý
- Army
- Article ID:Ìý
- A4091861
- Contributed on:Ìý
- 19 May 2005
During one of the countless moves in the ebb and flow of the war in the North African Western Desert we - a company of 50 or so troops - found ourselves in (luxury of luxuries) yet another camp site, but with one important difference. This one came complete with ready-dug fox holes! We never ceased to marvel that, despite the enormous number of holes dug by any one Company during the campaign and presuming that all other troops in the same theatre were themselves digging just as frantically, that the occasion when having moved camp you re-settled in an area of unattended fox holes just never happened. But this time was different.
They were fairly regular-sized holes except for one centrally situated monster which was all of 12 feet square and fully 15 feet deep. The interior was reached by steps dug down from the desert floor; niches cut into the walls served as bedside ‘furniture’. The roof being a vehicle canopy dragged across the top of the hole and weighted with sand around its perimeter. It was promptly commandeered by the five members of cookhouse staff.
While on late guard duty three nights later I spotted old ‘Mac’ (Sam McMillan, our Staff-Sergeant) emerging unsteadily from the senior ranks mess intent on regaining his own bed. Arial activity apart, the process of seeing the senior ranks bedded down was the only highlight of usually uneventful guard duties. ‘Mac’ as well I knew, was something of a handful when in his tots - surly when sober, almost childlike when tanked up.
I moved to speed his passage from mess to bed only to realize too late that he was heading - all 16 stone of him - straight for the canopied hole. He hit the banked sand and pitched forward just as I reached the canopy on the far side. Powerless, I watched fascinated as, for a moment or two, he lay full length in the centre of the still-taut sheet. Then, slowly at first but with increasing momentum, in they went - sergeant, canopy and sand. As it dropped the sheet seemed to envelope the still horizontal form.
I fancy I still hear the sleep-shattering howls of rage, fear and rank disbelief that went up both from the inundated occupants and the temporarily encapsulated drunk!
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