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Training
Week beginning Sunday 9th June 1940.
There was a colossal crowd lining the route to the station to see the 1st N.M.R. off for active service. I was in the first platoon. The crowds were enthusiastic like I have never seen them before. The first troops left just before eleven p.m. Derek and Jock and I grabbed a coupe‘ and pinched blankets and sheets and slept like Lords. The train raced through to Ladysmith without a stop. It was damn cold. The women’s auxiliary had grub to meet us with. The three of us were posted to the same bungalow.
That night the only warmth that the army offered us was one blanket each. It was freezing. The three of us slept together for warmth. The temperature dropped below 40° F. We have had intensive training and squad drill for three solid days. Italy has declared war and it looks good for us leaving for North Africa.
Our training has begun. It is mostly lectures on every subject possible. We have been issued with beds at last and of course make full use of them. The news in Europe looks bad. The French are finished from what I can see. The B.E.F. will be cut off. France has capitulated. Words fail me.
How right was my prophecy of a year ago. The French are nothing but a decadent race who lack all ideals of patriotism, who disgrace the very anthem they sing. That they should dare to make peace behind England’s back. They are finished as a nation. They have been annihilated as a race. The very fact that they should surrender when the enemy had barely occupied a tenth of their land leaves me with not an ounce of sympathy, but an uncontrollable feeling of loathing for the ....! The French hate England but they will be more than hating in a short while. The supposed friend and glorious ally that would fight to save Paris, that would fight to a finish against Hitlerism will soon be fighting for Hitlerism. The non-surrender and the death of the glorious French fleet is but another demonstration of the French hatred of us. The French have begged England now to rid them of their Empire, which is a damn sight more loyal than their mother country.
Have just been home for the weekend and had a marvellous time. Our training is still going on as usual, but we have been issued with gas masks, which are a curse, and we are now doing bayonet training, which is a bigger curse. We are gradually being issued with our proper kit. The movements of the Petain government put me in the hell of a temper every time I read of them. Everyone seems apprehensive that England will be invaded. This is stupid. I say now England will never be invaded. By that I mean the Germans will never actually land in a large scale, but might of course put out a few feelers and make a few practice invasions. But they would not dare to land. I have a ten shilling bet with Derek about it and I shall win it. Have again been home for the weekend and again I had a good time. Things are beginning to move now in Ladysmith and I think we will soon be off for another destination. And won’t we be pleased. Our training is as boring as ever. Kit is still being issued. We now have our battle dress or Maternity Jackets, and to crown it all I now have 3 pairs of boots. We will soon be having too much kit to carry. We have definite news that we are moving, and the general line of thought is Piet Retief. Yes we are off to Piet Retief tomorrow. Everyone is packed up and ready.
The ride to Piet Retief though rather boring and back breaking proved interesting as it was the first occasion I had entered the Transvaal. The northern Natal towns were friendly and hospitable, though Vryheid was rather cool.
Piet Retief… Hell, what a hole! The camp consists of straw huts with mud walls, and is situated about two miles from the town. The camp welcomed us with a wealth of dust and fleas. Our first job on arrival was to fashion ourselves beds from government stocks of timber. We do very little training and get plenty of rest.
In town on Saturday night had a bit of a spree with Derek. Place is like a blackout in the Congo. Derek, a friend and I wanted to clean a nationalist up but the police intervened.
Sensational news!!! We are off to Maritzburg tomorrow and thence to Durban on 5 days embarkation leave. The trip to P.M.B. was uneventful but the Vryheid women turned up trumps and gave us a feed on the station while most chaps had little or no clothing on. In Maritzburg we have been cleaning up and doing fatigues all day. Nearly missed the last train to Durban. Margaret was at the station to meet me having received my wire.
She’s a champ and has been a pal during leave.
5 days leave.
For five hectic days I have let loose all passions held up in me since mobilisation. One day at the races, the next visiting relations and friends, the next wining, dining and celebrating; then buying requisites for Kenya, then another day at the races. Every night it’s either a dance, a party, a wild orgy of drink or the flicks.
At least it is all over!! Here we are in Maritzburg kicking our heels waiting for the embarkation order.
We are getting hell laid into us during the day with manoeuvres, section leading and bayonet training. But at night it is a different tale. Leave is hard to procure, but we just walk through the guards when we like and they don’t attempt to stop us. Nearly every night I either go into PMB or tear down to Durban. Most of us are physical wrecks. Seldom do we see our beds before 2a.m. I have had a few affairs with some of my old flames and while under ’fluence have come into contact with two definitely below the belt women. Kath has been up to take me for a drive on Sunday and Margaret as well. We are being frantically issued with kit. Expect to leave anytime. Am sick of saying goodbye. Received news that we are off on Monday. Have told the firm and Mr. Woods has given me our representatives’ address in Nairobi. Had a spree with Derek on Saturday night and only got back just in time for roll call yesterday afternoon. Reveille to be sounded at four tomorrow morning. Went to service tonight.
An active service.
Monday morning when we entered the train we found ourselves for the first time on active service. Arriving at the wharf in Durban we found crowds to greet us. Everyone expected our ship the “Llangibby” to leave that evening but fortunately it didn’t and leave was granted. Met Jock on the wharf. He looked very fit.
Margaret was waiting to meet me with the car as I left the docks. We arranged to pick Jock up later and Derek, Margaret and I went home to wash and get ready for the Roadhouse. We had a fine time and got back on board ship an hour late. We have to sleep on deck because of lack of space.
On the morning of October 15, after much hustle and bustle, our ship being second in a convoy of four ships and a cruiser, weighed anchor at ten-thirty and slowly slipped away from the wharf. Waving crowds on the quay though penned up behind the barb-wire and railings began to wave even more frantically while on board some enthusiastic troops struck up popular tunes and gave the N.M.R. call. Further and further the distance stretched and the liner, as if unwilling to leave the relatives of its protégé bade a mournful farewell with three long blasts. And now the voices of the men began to fade until barely a score were singing “Wish me Luck.” In time these faded. In the throats of these well-trained men an unmoveable lump replaced the deep notes of Auld Lang Syne.
Meanwhile all was not well with the crowd. I have been told that every woman and even the men, though still waving their handkerchiefs stood silent — awe-struck. Then the national anthem arose as if by instinct amongst the sorrowful community. Men bit their lips, old men, fathers and veterans of the first war to end war; youths, brothers and pals; and women stood unashamedly with tears in their eyes and on their cheeks.
Well out into the Maydon Channel forged the convoy. In a quiet and removed corner I sat watching unable to stop or attempt to stop my flow of tears that sprung involuntarily from my eyes. Along the wooden quayside ran a woman, a young girl trying bravely to keep up with her brother, father or lover. But those which affected me most were the farewell salutes of British and foreign ships. As we passed, each one gave vent to a series of blasts. By now we were passing H.M.S. Royal Sovereign. All the jack-tars were on deck and they bade us farewell with three rousing cheers. Out across the bar we pitched.
Durban’s last adieu to her sons was a brilliant array of flashing mirrors stretching from Glenwood to Beachwood, transmitting a last message from civilian to soldier.
Soon, very soon, the bluff and all we had cherished slipped from sight behind a barrier of deepest blue. The next few days the ship was transformed from a luxury liner to a gambling hell. To kill boredom and melancholy men sought relief in cards, Crown and Anchor and drink.
Before the end of an uneventful trip we were drenched regularly every night on deck by tropical downpours. I did well at Poker, but most chaps lost heavily at Crown and Anchor. The day that Mombasa came into sight I was on air guard. A Hurricane and a Hartebeest flew over to welcome us and we docked safely in a climate that had Durban’s summer humidity and the tropical heat in perfect combination. Almost immediately we were put into waiting trains and then began perhaps the most monotonous journey I will ever experience. Momby impressed me as being pretty from the harbour and a likeness to Cornwall was existent on some parts of the coast.

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