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After the end of the campaign in Tunisia in May 1943, our Signals unit was rusticating in Boufarik, near Algiers, enjoying not being shot at by the Afrika Korps, and not being bombed by the Americans (which had happened on one notorious occasion).

Our relatively relaxed routine was interrupted one morning when ten operators were told, at short notice, that they were to leave for a destination near Sfax, on the Tunisian coast, where there was an L of C unit. These were located along the major Lines of Communication - in this case, connecting Bizerta, the Tunisian HQ with Cairo, where there was still a large base. The work comprised the servicing of hundreds of miles of telephone cables, and maintaining long-distance wireless links. As can be imagined, this was essential but boring, and lively anticipation was somewhat lacking. We set off on the usual uncomfortable journey by three-ton open lorry, and eventually arrived, dusty and hungry. Then…

"TEN operators? We asked for THREE!"

That number volunteered, preferring a steady, safe job to future uncertainty and risk. Seven had to find their way back to Boufarik. By this time, our transport had disappeared, so, armed with travel warrants and 48 hours' rations, we first tried the local railway station, and found that a goods train, laden with repaired vehicles on flat wagons, would be leaving for Algiers in a few hours. Each installed in a cab, we set off.

It proved to be a slow journey. The steam engine was of classic vintage and inadequate pulling power. Before attempting a long gradient it would halt to gird up its steamy loins. These occasions were used to carry a dixie up to the engine, and the driver would co-operate by putting a steam hose in to boil the water for a brew. When the sun went down each evening and there was no suspicion of a halt, bedrolls were laid on the floors of the trucks. The ropes lashing their wheels to the buffers were not tight enough, the wagons jolted continually on the rough track, and the truck springs exaggerated these spasms. But we slept.

This slow progress made such inroads into the rations that we were reduced to picking the very tasty, but non-sustaining fruits of the prickly pear cactus which grew in profusion along the track.

Salvation came in the form of another goods train travelling in the opposite direction. It was in a siding when ours halted, and a quick investigation revealed several tarpaulined wagons laden with supplies for an American PX - their equivalent to our NAAFI. Small-scale but selective robbery refilled the depleted ration boxes with items of gourmet quality, and the rest of the journey was completed in a happily eupeptic condition.

Needless to say, nobody in Boufarik could explain the discrepancy in numbers which had so complicated the operation. But at least it fell into the SABU category - the Self-Adjusting Balls-Up. (The other was the dreaded NABU - the Non-Adjustable Balls-Up.)

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