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.

Another Day a New Life.

I feel the heat of the sun on my face and my eyes are closed, what a wonderful world this is. But wait a minute, something is wrong here ; the sun is up and I am still in bed. Struggling out of my bedroll in a panic I look around, the tanks are all spread out and the crews are wandering around. Thank God, I remember now, we have pulled back for a few days rest.

This is the life, wake to a mug of sweet steaming tea, the benefit of a well trained caring crew. Ah well, no time to sit around there is much to do, my bedroll was badly torn when I unwrapped it last night, I wonder what other damage was done. The mudguard lockers on one side look a bit battered, and it would be the side where we store the food. What a mess, a number of tins had been ripped apart including our last two tins of peaches, we bought them from the Naafi only a couple of weeks ago. Now look at them, floating in the bottom in a lovely sauce of peach juice, milk, chopped up bully and jam. Amongst the survivors, a tin of streaky bacon, well at least we can have breakfast and the fat will come in handy later.

That was it, get the priorities right, food then work, the tanks must be ready for action then we can rest. We had hardly finished breakfast when the Fitter鈥檚 Sgt. Sid Ever (Heather) was nagging us for a list of defects. He had to know how to disperse his four fitters to get as many tanks as possible fit, in the shortest space of time. It may be a period of rest and maintenance but, surrounded by a vast desert with unlimited scope for marauding enemy patrols, the thought of being caught with your trousers down was always in mind. Apart from a couple of engine and gun traverse problems, and a few nasty gouge marks on the armour outside, we had got away with it again till another day.

With all guns stripped and cleaned, ammunition racks and machine gun belts checked and refilled, and tank repairs well in hand, we spared a little time for self satisfaction. Mind you it was not all plain sailing, our fitters were the greatest but spares were not always available and engineering ingenuity (bodgeing) was often the order of the day. The wireless officer too had his nightmares, especially when only two new valves were issued in place of three duds he had sent back. Hard luck for some poor devil with no workable set, watching tanks moving around without a clue as to what the hell was going on, were we going to advance or beat a hasty retreat.

At the earliest opportunity for self indulgence, now the water truck was available, was a wash, a splash of clean water on the face was like a breath of spring. Now I have the problem of shaving off a week鈥檚 growth, damned painful with an old razor blade. Mind you it should be easier than the last time when we were issued with salted water and the soap felt like glue on your face. Someone in their wisdom had decided to salt the wells the last time we were pushed back and we paid the penalty when we returned.

Now we know we are back in the land of the living, a change of clothes has been issued. The removal of that smelly shirt with the wide salty sweat band up the back, which I had lived, worked and slept in for so long, took with it much of the built up stress and anxiety. That clean crisp new shirt, smelling of antiseptic, sliding over my body prompted memories of a Cairo massage parlour and the feel of a nice hole free pair of clean socks was a tonic to my acheing feet. Mind you the holes did allow a bit of ventilation and the smell was hardly noticeable amongst all the other pongs. My god how we must have stank in that heat with little water to spare for washing, and my best friend didn鈥檛 tell me either.

At last, the most important event of the day, the ration waggon is here, I wonder what goodies he has other than bully biscuits and rice. I hope he has some salmon, it is our turn to have a tin between the four of us, (normally issued one tin between ten men). He has been and gone and we fared very well, even a tin of Soya Sausage and, from the good Lord himself, a loaf of bread, what a treat. But what to do with it all, have a damned good stew up now or leave the best for some later day. Of course we could lose the tank tomorrow and all would be gone, so what the hell, lets live today and have a real treat.

Into the pot it all went, bully, a tin of potatoes, the sausages and some dehydrated onion and carrot liberated from a German dump. That aroma drifting across the desert could have come from Mother鈥檚 stew pot in the Scottish Highlands, memories of home and a gourmet delight. Now for afters, it could be the usual rice pudding I suppose with tinned milk and sugar but what about that loaf of bread. That鈥檚 it, slices of bread heavily coated with jam and cooked in the bacon fat from breakfast until the jam has soaked right through. Absolutely delicious.

Now things are really looking up, someone has dug a latrine and put a box seat with a lid over the hole, luxury indeed, although the usual walk across the desert with shovel and newspaper was a useful exercise. Mind you it can be dangerous first thing in the morning without checking carefully inside that box. When the sun goes and the desert gets freezing cold, the warmth coming up from below attracts scorpions and others vicious little sods. They don鈥檛 like being trapped inside your shorts when you pull them up and they let you know it.

All in all a day of freedom, from voices and atmospheric disturbance in your ears, searching the ground for any threat to your existence and wishing the day onwards to that haven of darkness. Even so, every visit of a staff car or dispatch rider brings new anxieties of what the hell are we in for only now, just a false alarm, but the fear and anxiety is still there. Ah well, we are not on guard tonight so we should have a good night鈥檚 sleep. What a way to live.

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