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continued from 9a

The battalion was entrusted with the responsibility of looking after an area normally held by a full brigade, a situation which not only showed how highly we were thought of by higher command but which resulted in our being scattered over a very wide area. Besides we nine signallers, and ancillaries such as cooks, etc., at Derwent Camp and "B" Company at another camp a mile further along the road at Borgarnes, there was a Company at Blonduos and another at Akureyri, both on the north coast, just below the Arctic Circle; and battalion H.Q. was at Reykjaskoli, many m1les north of Borgarnes.
In rotation round the hut our nine-man signal section were: Corporal 'Ashy' Warman, N.C.O. i/c., Ronnie Hall, Bert Haines, me, Charlie Clayton, Nobby Clarke, Arthur Mills, Lee Morrison, and Frank Handley. Having been the advance party Charlie and I had bagged the bed spaces nearest the stove, in the middle of the hut, with a view to the approaching winter, but Ashy, who had been too busy supervising everyone else to notice what was happening, failed to realize that they had left him the space nearest the door. And no one would swap.
Ashy was not the one to let a little thing like that worry him, though, and once the duty rosters had been made out and life in our new home began to proceed smoothly and pleasantly, he even became poetic . . .

Here's a tale about a mob
That's called the Sigs. Platoon.
A decent lot they are at heart,
They always are in tune.

They pull together very well
Although it's hard sometimes.
If anyone in trouble gets
He grins and says "Hard lines."

I'll name each one who's in our room
As each deserves a line,
And I am writing it for you
To pass away the time.

I'll start with Hall, a farmer's boy,
Or was, in civvy life.
Always moaning of his lot
And Beryl, his future wife.

Haines comes next, a Brummy true,
Always on the prowl.
Give him hammer, nails and wood
He'll always raise a howl.

Burdon's next, a cycling fiend,
Judging by his pictures.
But to wake him in the morning, well,
The bed and he are fixtures.

Clayton's next one on the list
And to him I'll give the odds.
Ask him what the Army's for
He'll answer "Char and wads."

Clarke comes next (we've got half-way)
And it's inclined to drag.
But all that he is noted for
Is Pontoon, Nap and Brag.

Now here is Mills, a bonny lad,
He's over six-feet-two.
His very favourite complaint is
"My leave is overdue. "

Morrison is next in line,
Another Midland boy.
Says '"When we end this blinking war
I'II get blind drunk with joy."

Randley is the last of all,
Born in dirty Stoke.
Tell him he's on cookhouse and
He'll treat it as a joke.

(Cpl. Ashy Warman. 28/6/41.)

It amused us all when he pinned it on the wall for our perusal and approval, and I made a copy of it for my army souvenirs. Some days later those of us who were not required for duty were detailed to go ‘on safari’ with Major Knott, our Company Commander, to climb the mountain at the end of the range across Borgarnes Fiord. At 10.00 hours we clambered into the three-ton G.M.C. truck and were driven a mile along the road to pick up the rest of the party, which totalled twenty-four, including Major Knott and the driver.
The ride was the roughest any of us had ever experienced. The road was full of ruts and potholes and we were bumped up and down on our seats continuously. The fact that our seats were loose wooden forms only added to our discomfort. As we approached a section where the water flowed swiftly across the road the driver slowed down a little as if intent on minimising the impact with the water, then, assuming it was only a shallow ford, he put his foot down and charged into it. He shouldn't have done it. The water was deeper than he thought and the truck hit it in a shower of spray like a lifeboat being launched. The front wheels hit the opposite side of the ford and leapt high into the air with the force of the impact, sending us all sprawling in an untidy heap of bodies and overturned forms towards the rear of the truck; and when the rear wheels hit it a moment later they bounced well clear of the ground and sent us sprawling towards the front of the truck. From then on we called that ford The Water Jump. What we called the driver was something quite different.
The road was as full of bends as it was of potholes and crossed and re-crossed the same stretch of water several times in its tortuous route, but we eventually came to the bridge that crossed the fiord and got on to the road parallel with the foot of the mountain range, finally coming to a halt near the foot of the mountain we were to climb. The time was then 11.45 hours. We had travelled twenty-three miles to arrive at a point only three miles from Derwent Camp as the crow flies and it had taken us an hour and three-quarters to get there.
As we clambered thankfully out of the truck and stood chatting in small groups rubbing the aching parts of our anatomies we cast occasional glances at the brown mass in front of us and waited for the next move. Having made sure we were all present and correct Major Knott told us we could make our own way up the mountain and offered five Kronor to the first man to reach the top.
One of the "B" Company men Bill King, a time-serving soldier who had joined up as a boy bugler at fifteen dashed off ahead of the rest of us as if intent on showing how easy it was, but after taking only two short strides up it he came to a sudden stop, knee-deep in small scree, to his great annoyance and our amusement. Those who had thought of emulating him changed their minds and took time to study the situation before deciding which rout to take; and as we started to move away in our various directions I saw masses of fat, luscious blueberries growing in the coarse grass. Shades of the Yorkshire Moor. Might as well climb on a full stomach, I told myself, and I tarried long enough to stuff myself with the lovely big juicy berries before ambling off in the wake of the others.
The small, almost dust-like scree that had brought Bill to a full stop made progress slow and difficult. Frequently ankle-deep and sometimes knee-deep in the stuff I slipped back continuously, perspiring freely with the exertion and the warmth of the lovely summer sun. I struggled slowly upwards, sometimes scrambling on all fours, always puffing and panting, legs aching with the unaccustomed strain of climbing, until I decided it was time I took a breather. By that time I felt as though I had been struggling up a brown snow mountain covered in deep drifts. I sat down thankfully and inhaled deeply. Obviously, I was not cut out to be a mountaineer. For me, Everest could wait.
The rest of the party were hidden from view in the folds of the mountain higher up but I eventually managed to catch up with Les and Bert, and Sammy Beard from "B" Company, who were having a prolonged rest before climbing any further.
Firmer ground provided better footholds and we made good progress as we got our 'second wind' and began to feel more like our normal selves. So good was our progress that we caught up with Ashy, Charlie, Nobby, and Frank who were resting on a flat section under an overhang and sat down with them.
The view from our elevated position was breathtaking. The bright sun transformed the North Atlantic into a scintillating mass of finely-corrugated silver, over which many seabirds wheeled and gyrated like so many aircraft in a dogfight. Away to the west an almost transparent mass of palest blue, barely distinguishable against the slightly darker blue of the summer sky behind it, made us realise that we were seeing the Greenland Ice Cap, over two hundred miles away. So captivated were we with the thought that we were seeing something strangely awesome yet undeniably enchanting for the first and, probably, the last time in our lives, that we could have stayed there all day admiring the cold grandeur of it; but we had to press on.
More loose scree again made climbing difficult and slowed down our progress for about three hundred feet. Then, suddenly, we were enveloped in cloud, a cold, grey, clammy mass that clung to our clothes and stuffed our noses like cotton wool. What a contrast. After perspiring freely in the warm sunshine we were now bitterly cold and wet, and although we had our waterproof ground sheets with us we were soaked to the skin before we could put them on. Visibility was reduced in an instant to a few feet and we had to keep well clear of the edge to avoid falling over. Reaching the summit soon afterwards lacked the anticipated pleasure and excitement, the all-enveloping cloud denying us the unrestricted panorama we had hoped to see, and after sitting under an overhang to eat our sandwiches we were not sorry when Major Knott gave us the order to descend.
Going down was as easy as going up was difficult. Major Knott had the only map in the party and led us down by a different route, following the course of a turbulent stream that rushed frantically through a water-worn cleft in the rocks before entering a narrow tunnel, where its muffled roar seemed to signify its displeasure at being so closely confined. It emerged further down the mountain and continued its headlong rush, occasionally cascading several feet in torn ribbons of lacy foam over rocky ledges into dark pools of unknown depth.
We paused many times during our descent to admire the mountain grandeur and the natural beauty of the rugged scenery and to marvel at the terrific noise of such a small and narrow mountain stream, but we were advised not to spend too much time admiring the scenery in case the clouds should suddenly descend further. The bottom was reached without mishap and some of us enjoyed another feed of blueberries as we waited for the stragglers to arrive. The whole party was down by 15.20 hours, and it was a rather tired and grubby-looking lot that climbed into the truck.
We returned by the same route, and despite our fatigue we sang all the way back to camp, where we arrived, tired but happy, and covered in dust, at 16.30 hours. A hot meal of suet pudding, meat, potatoes, and carrots, followed by apple pie and washed down with a pint of hot tea, restored some of our vitality. A steaming hot shower afterwards completed it. Our first Icelandic safari had been well worth the effort.
Not long afterwards the battalion suffered its first casualty. Colour-Sergeant Arthur Church, a time-serving soldier, and of considerable girth, was killed when the 5.cwt. P.U. truck in which he was travelling as a passenger overturned on a journey from Battalion H.Q. to Reykjavik.

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