大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Jock Watt. He fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

A self-catering holiday in North Africa.

In the words of the song, 鈥� A Tank Corps crew away up the blue a wearing of the green.鈥� . That was it, your own mobile home for four, kitchen, lounge, dining room and bedroom, a little cramped but it was home. Rations for four delivered to your door, unlimited fuel for cooking and only a mess tin, mug and spoon to wash up. Breathtaking conducted tours daily, at no extra cost, in an exotic ancient land of rock sand and sage bush. An adventure never to be forgotten.

From sunup to sunset was the longest day every day, start up the Tanks and spread out half an hour before daylight, no lights no fires no hot drink. If no enemy in sight as the sun rises, no orders to move, then brew up. Breakfast, what a lovely start to the day, unless of course you are in the light squadron and sent out on patrol, then it becomes hobson鈥檚 choice. Standing in the turret of a bouncing Tank trying to drink a mug of tea, hastily prepared by the crew whilst awaiting orders. That poor Wireless Op. underneath cursing the hot tea spilling down the back of his shirt as he tries to prepare our breakfast, jam and cheese on hard biscuits.
Yes, that was the pattern of the day whether in action or moving towards it. Brew up at every opportunity, there may not be another all day, and organized to perfection when stopped to refuel. An empty petrol tin with air holes at the side and top cut out is half filled with sand, soaked with petrol and lit. When the water boils, shade your face against the three foot flames, throw in a handful of tea and remove the dixie quickly before it all boils over into the fire. Tap the sides to help the tea leaves settle then pour the black liquid into the mugs. With sugar and tinned milk, the nectar of the Gods, accompanied by the music of screaming engines, rattling tracks and a moaning Wireless Op.

Flexible meal times, with the blessing of the enemy, allowed you the freedom to eat when you felt like it with a menu of your choice. You could have biscuits cheese and jam, biscuits with cheese or jam, or even a hunk of cheese, of course for a real treat how about a tin of bully beef all to yourself. Opened carefully to prevent the warm fat running down the operator鈥檚 neck and devoured quickly to ensure your fair share in competition with the flies. Add some grit thrown up by the tracks and you have the perfect balanced system, grinding the hard biscuits to assist digestion and keep the teeth clean. Of course fresh meat was always available, just like us the flies loved the sweet things and often paid the penalty, I never could tell the difference in taste.

On odd occasions the grocer delivered a real treat, tins of MacConachies Meat and Veg., but what about cooking when on the move ?. Never beyond the ingenuity of a hungry man, a hole punched in the top, curry powder blown in with a milk straw and jam the tin against the exhaust. Eventually, amidst the stench of burning cordite and rubber that gastronomic aroma of curried stew drifts across the battlefield like a breath of spring.

As the sun sinks slowly in the west the body sags gently with relief and the ears sharpen to the crackling in the earphones. Waiting for the order to withdraw, that signal which says you have survived another day but, in the light squadron, doubts still dwell deep in the mind. You could be ordered to stay on the battle line until dark, to ensure the Regiment is not followed to the parking area by an enemy patrol

Once parked in that tight 300 yards square the race was on to refuel, store ammo., clean guns, service the tank and collect rations. In the summer, with sunup at 0400 hrs., sunset about 2200hrs. and allow two hours preparing for next day, that left four hours for sleeping. Not quite; with the guard on each tank equally shared that left just three hours. But what about a cooked meal ?, with no fires or lights, not a hope unless you jammed some tins against the exhaust during the day. Sometimes a hot drink was available from a water can strapped to the exhaust, add some concentrated tea from a bottle you saved during the day and that was it. A search through the outside lockers may produce a long forgotten tin of sardines or something, not very exciting but different.

In that Laager, no lights meant no lights. Fitters struggled to carry out repairs with torch light under a tarpaulin but everything else was done by star or moonlight. Petrol was poured into two twin funnels, sixteen gallons at a time and a cloud of high octane fuel vapour hung in the air. On one occasion a sheet of flame burst from a tank turret and with it came one of the crew, the idiot had been using a petrol cooker inside the turret. The whole camp was lit up and we had to move once again to another area, naturally the CO. was furious and so were we all. At last, jobs all done and now for that relaxed last cigarette of the day, but what about our infantry outposts with orders to shoot out any lights. It was a curious sight to see men wandering around holding a fifty cigarette tin to their mouth, a simple answer, they were smoking. A cigarette was inside the tin and small holes in the lid gave access to the air without showing light.

Now what about that poor devil left on the ridge, sitting there until dark, No communication with imposed radio silence, and dreading the task of finding a 300 yard square somewhere to the east. With a map reference and prismatic compass his success was in the lap of the Gods, well the stars anyway. Simple, just line the Tank up on the right bearing, set up the gun or something on a convenient star and go for it. The driver would know the distance from his Tacho. , minus of course the usual 5 to 15% due to track slip depending on the ground condition which he could not see. I failed to find the laager more than once, drove round a half mile box in two directions, and just parked up on our own. Next morning as the sun rose, I could have hit the nearest Tank with a stone. Not a happy situation trying to refuel, collect rations and water from lorries on the move with miserable drivers reluctant to stop and risk losing the column. What a way to live.

Jock Watt. 3rd. R.T.R.

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