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The signallers' hut at Akranes, where we had moved to from Borgarnes, was situated almost at the water's edge, with only a rocky reef a few yards offshore to protect us from the sea. Compared with the hut at Borgarnes, it was much smaller, it was completely isolated, being the only one on that patch of ground, it was well away from the village, and because of these factors it lacked the closeness and the companionship of Borgarnes. Its smallness meant we were more cramped for space, but we accepted this without complaint, because the feeling in Les's water had been prophetic and we were destined for a premature return home and would not have to tolerate the cramped conditions for long.

The signal office was situated near the quay some distance from the hut and it, too, was much smaller than the one at Borgarnes but included a No.17 wireless set. Because we had not seen the type before, the wireless set was a source of great amusement to us, being no more than a small oblong box whose main controls seemed to be limited to a frequency dial, a volume control and an On/Off switch.

"That's your frequency for Reykjavik," one of the outgoing signallers had told us, pointing to an ink mark about a quarter of an inch wide at the top of the dial. "And it's very secret. If a ship passes between here and Reykjavik while you're transmitting the transmission cuts out until the ship has passed."

We found this to be quite true, for on more than one occasion when Corporal Benny Round or one of his signallers, who had been moved to Reykjavik from Blonduos, spoke to us the transmission went suddenly dead and we knew that a vessel of some sort had passed directly across our line of communication and we had to ask them to "Say again." We had a half-hourly contact. They called us on the hour and we called them on the half-hour. Benny had his own distinctive way of announcing his arrival on the air. "When I'm calling you - oo- oo - oo - huh -huh — hoo. " It was the most original and unmusical Indian Love Call of all time. Jeanette Macdonald and Nelson Eddy would never have recognized it.

One wild, blustery day, when the wind stirred the sea into restless activity and occasionally sent waves menacingly high up the side of the stone quay we heard, faintly above the noises of the wind and the waves, the droning of aircraft engines somewhere above the low grey canopy of cloud. We heard it for several minutes getting fainter as it receded into the distance then becoming louder as it came nearer, as though it were patrolling a specified area for something. As there had been no air raid warning and no ack-ack fire it was obviously known to be a friendly aircraft. Then, suddenly, a Catalina flying boat of Coastal Command emerged from the cloud cover, circled round inquisitively, and touched down in a shower of spray on the more sheltered half of the bay, where it bobbed about with the motion of the waves like a huge sea bird looking for lunch.

"Doug, take a lamp and ask them if they need assistance," Ashy called out, as we watched the Catalina being buffeted about. Grabbing a signalling lamp from the stores I hurried on to the quay and took up a position about half-way along it, where I had an unrestricted view of the Catalina. Standing with my feet braced firmly apart because of the wind I aligned the lamp so that the cross-shaped apertures at either end of the sighting tube were directly in line with the Catalina's port side gun blister, flashed ‘YE’ and waited for an answering ‘K’. Nothing happened. I signalled again. Still no reply. The wireless operator was either injured and could not reply or he simply hadn't seen my signal. I kept on signalling and waiting alternately until, to my great relief, the letter 'K' was flashed from the gun blister.

Being lashed occasionally by flying spray and buffeted by a strong wind that had had an unrestricted passage over many miles of open sea made correct alignment on the constantly-moving aircraft difficult for me to maintain. I did not envy that wireless operator. Having to move from one side to the other to keep me in sight and to hold his lamp steady to reply to my signals while trying to keep his balance on the constantly- heaving deck must have been very difficult for him, but he succeeded admirably. It was a slow process but I completed my message and he completed his reply. They were all quite O.K, and did not require assistance, thank you. I acknowledged, flashed them ‘good luck’ and signed off.

The Royal Navy used our signals office occasionally, usually to telephone sea conditions to someone in Reykjavik or Hafnafjordur. The weather had deteriorated considerably, for it was now mid-September, and although some days were bright and sunny and enjoyable others were wet and dreary and miserable and we could almost smell the chill of approaching winter.

One blustery day, when the sea in the exposed half of the bay was climbing up the sea wall and hanging curtains of spray on the buildings behind it, a young naval type wearing sea boots and a thick, white, roll-neck sweater, caused us some amusement when he included in his report: "Sea choppy."

If seas breaking over the tops of the quayside buildings were only "choppy" we wondered what one of his Force Nines would be like.

After our brief but uneventful sojourn in Akranes, October saw us back where we started - in Faeroese Camp at Reykjavik, on the first positive stage of our journey home. The weather had broken, and the wind and the rain had turned the dust of summer into the mud of autumn and made our life under canvas anything but pleasant. The adverse conditions soon dispelled the earlier disappointment of those who had looked forward to the experience of an Icelandic winter and thus completing their full tour of duty, and pleased those who had not.

In his pamphlet "The Northern Garrisons" Eric Linklater describes how the Icelanders' initial frosty indifference to our occupation of their island gradually thawed into friendly acceptance when they realised that the British soldier was not an imperial marauder but a friendly, warm-hearted individual with an innate love of home and children, and that it was the Icelandic children, with their innocent, trusting nature, who were the first to realise it.

We had arrived in Iceland just one year after the initial landings and had found Mr. Linklater's words quite true. We had encountered no animosity from the local population and had been greeted with friendly smiles and civility in shops and cafes wherever we went. If we happened to be in a cafe at six o'clock the young waitress would switch the radio on to the B.B.C. so that we could hear the latest news from home. All things considered, our brief sojourn had been a very pleasant one. The troops who had first secured the island to forestall the Nazis' intention to invade it as they had so ruthlessly invaded many other neutral countries and thus pose a very serious threat to our North Atlantic convoys, had done a wonderful Public Relations job, and as we leaned against the rail of the ship that was to take us home, and chatted with the Americans on the quay who were relieving us, I for one felt a twinge of regret at having to leave.

We had no idea why we were going home so soon, although the officers had probably been told, but the general opinion was that we were going to North Africa, and as no word came from higher up we could only keep on guessing and waiting.

Our unescorted voyage home took only three days, steaming direct from Reykjavik to the Clyde, as against the four-and-a-half days steering zig-zag course on the outward voyage. It had an air of anti-climax about it, most of our conversation being limited to our experiences in Iceland, guessing at our destination in Blighty and discussing the prospect of leave when we got there; and the June invasion of Russia by Germany added an interesting ingredient to the recipe of our conversation - the winter clothing for Iceland would come in just as useful for Russia!
The long train journey south was just as lively as the journey north from South Wales had been. From the stations we passed through it became obvious we were travelling towards London, and the London lads livened up considerably as we neared the capital.
"What station was that, Doug?" Charlie Clayton asked, as we roared through one on the outskirts.

"St. Mary Cray," I told him, having caught a glimpse of the name as we flashed past it.
Charlie grinned ruefully. "Cor, blimey, stop the train. I live not far from here."

We didn’t stop in London, but rolled slowly through the suburbs until well clear of the city, then we picked up speed again and rolled onwards to our destination - Gravesend, and Milton Barracks, the Regimental Depot of the Queen's Own Royal West Kents.
A week's disembarkation leave put us in good heart for the return to normal battalion duties - parades, fatigues, manoeuvres, schemes, exercises - but the manoeuvres were of short duration lasting no more than a day and seemed to be designed more for time-filling than for military necessity - and, of course, getting to know Gravesend and acquiring new friends among the civilian population on our free evenings out.

One evening, just after our return from leave, a rifleman from one of the other Companies strolled into our barrack room and asked, of no one in particular, "Is there a Signaller Burdon in here?"

I raised my hand briefly in acknowledgment and he came across. "I've heard you've got some tins of Nosegay you don't want," he said.

"Yes, that's right, " I replied. In Iceland I had asked for pipe tobacco in preference to cigarettes as my weekly free issue of smokes, and had received it without fail for several weeks until, one week, I was given a tin of Nosegay Shag instead. Nosegay was a cigarette tobacco, ideal for rolling your own but useless in a pipe. One good draw and the pipeful was gone. I had tried to get it changed but the Q.M. was adamant. I had ordered tobacco and tobacco I had got. So I had bought my pipe tobacco elsewhere and stored the Nosegay in my kit-bag. The news must have spread.

"Good. I'II swap you, tin for tin," the man offered. "I don't smoke, so when we were in Iceland I got cigarette tobacco for my old man until there was a cock-up and I was given pipe tobacco instead. He's always had Nosegay, it's his favourite, but he can't get it for love nor money now. So, if you're willing, I'II swap you tin for tin, my tobacco for your shag."

I was highly delighted to be able to get rid of my unwanted shag, and when the man returned with fourteen tins of Player's Gold Leaf my fourteen tins of Nosegay Shag were piled up on the bed ready for him. Out of two wrongs had come a right.

Some of us signallers had a refreshing change from ordinary duties; we were sent to West Malling Airfield, where we spent an interesting fortnight doing the airfield communications. During that time one of the squadron's Defiant night fighters was ordered up to try to intercept a German aircraft that was somewhere in the area. The Defiant's two crew members were back in twenty minutes, having located and shot down the intruder.

After our return to barracks two events which were to have a profound effect on the battalion happened within a short space of time. The Royal Air Force Regiment was formed, and volunteers from the army were requested to form the nucleus of fully-trained men in the new regiment until new recruits from civilian and other sources could be trained to the required standard of proficiency. The news caused great satisfaction and a gleeful rubbing of hands by those who saw it as a convenient means of getting out of the infantry, and included many of the signal platoon when Ashy told us the news. Ashy listened to their excited comments and prognostications for a while before dropping his verbal bombshell.

"But you signallers will not be allowed to volunteer. You are classed as specialists, and it cost the army a lot of money to train you. If the bloody R.A.F. wants signallers they'll have to train their own."

There was something vaguely familiar about those words, and they certainly had an instantaneous effect. Never was excited anticipation turned to deep disappointment so quickly. The signallers had to literally soldier on.

The second event happened when Arthur Chapman and I were doing switchboard night duty in the little brick-built office just inside the main gates. Just before ten o'clock I answered a call, giving the barracks telephone number as was the custom, and the caller asked, in an authoritative voice: "Is that the 179th Field Regiment, Royal Artillery?"
I had never heard of such a unit, but having had the need for security drilled into us from Day One I was not going to say what unit we were nor give the name of the barracks. The caller evidently noticed my hesitation, because he spoke again before I could say anything. "It's quite all right, operator. This is the War Office. We do know who you are, and we do appreciate the need for security. I would like to speak to your commanding officer, Colonel Watkins." That was good enough for me. I told him the colonel was out of barracks for the evening but that I could put him through to the Duty Officer if he liked. He agreed.

That call gave Arthur and me something to ponder about. What had the 179th. Field Regiment got to do with the 12th. Worcesters? The call seemed to suggest there was a connection of some sort, but what? Were we about to become field artillery? We had heard of other regiments being changed to a different role, and wondered if that was the reason for our early return from Iceland.

The unasked questions were answered a few days later, when a brand new, gleaming 25-pounder field gun appeared in the middle of the barrack square. The C.O. held a full battalion parade and explained that the War Office had been most impressed with our efficiency as an infantry battalion and had chosen us as one of the units to be transferred to the Royal Artillery now that the danger of invasion by the Germans was passed and there was now no need to have so many infantry battalions standing by. He thanked us all for our efforts under his command and wished us every success in our future role.

A battalion concert was organized as a sort of farewell party before the changeover became official, with Les Morgan as M.C. Knowing that Ted Maher and I were fond of "writing things" Les asked Ted if he would try to write a sketch or come up with a few original jokes for it, and suggested I should help him. We were given time off to do it. Not knowing of this arrangement, the sergeant who came bowling into the barrack room immediately after the Orderly Officer’s inspection and saw us lying on our beds apparently writing letters when we should be on parade was justifiably suspicious.

"What are you supposed to be on this morning?" he demanded of Ted.
"Nothing, sergeant," Ted replied, innocently.
"Oh, I see. And what about you?" he asked me.
"I’m helping him," I replied.
"Oh. O.K. Carry on, then." And away he went.

The concert was a great success. Les, who had an interesting line in patter and could always be relied on to raise a laugh without resorting to smuttiness, introduced Sergeant Jones, a Welshman with a pleasant tenor voice, as "that very rare specimen, a sergeant with a sweet voice." Besides the sly and not-so-sly digs at the officers there were some very good performances from men who normally never considered themselves as variety acts but who had agreed to "have a bash at it" when asked, and an original sketch whose blueness had been suitably diluted out of respect for the A.T.S. and other invited females in the audience. The concert ended with the entire cast singing our own battalion parody of "Strawberry Blonde" :-

"We started our days up at Burton-on-Trent Then the Twelfth moved on.
We moved down to Dudley and then to South Wales Then the Twelfth moved on.
With kit-bags so loaded they nearly exploded From Iceland we came to Gravesend.
When we're in the R.A we'll remember the day When the Twelfth moved on"

Familiar faces gradually disappeared as all the warrant officers and some of the commissioned officers were posted to other units, together with some of the time-serving soldiers who preferred to go to other infantry regiments and those who were being transferred to the R.A.F. Regiment. Our numbers slowly dwindled as the battalion broke up, then just as slowly increased as newcomers from other artillery regiments began to filter in.

On the 28th February, 1942, we were the 12th Battalion, the Worcestershire Regiment. The next day, the 1st March, 1942, we became the 179th Field Regiment, Royal Field Artillery, and swapped our attractive, elongated eight-pointed star cap badge for the small, brass, more mundane bursting grenade of the Royal Field Artillery.
The "Tricky Twelfth" had ceased to exist.

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