On 24 November 1941, when this story begins, we were attached to 21 Battalion, which had been in action at Beir El Gubi. We’d had 70 casualties and been on the move almost constantly for about a fortnight.
My closest encounter with the enemy up to that time was when we went to bring out the wounded at Beir El Gubi, where I’d experienced some shellfire and small arms fire.
What followed is something I can never forget. Writing about it has served to help get it out of my system.
§
Ours was a 24 hours a day job, and although the pressure had eased during the past two days, I was still very tired. It had been a relief to come under the command of 6th Brigade. Since then it had been easy going, with less movement and, more important to me, we could use radio telephony, loud and clear.
George could take his full responsibility for operating the set, and I didn’t have to be constantly on edge, 24 hours a day, in case he missed something, and the Colonel had recognised our exhaustion and kindly provided his Batman, Len Hunter, as a relief driver.
Poor George was a thoroughly nice fellow but completely out of his element. He still couldn’t drive with any degree of confidence, start the chore horse, charge batteries, received Morse at a fast enough speed (he could barely recognise the call sign) or light a Primus. Nor had he acquired any skill with a pick and shovel, necessary to dig slit trenches.
A Linotype operator in civilian life, he was Battalion trained rather than having come up through Divisional Signals (“Div Sigs”). My temper, worse than usual, had done nothing to improve his confidence, and no doubt I’d made his life hell.
I had been exhausted to the point of not being able to remember when I’d last eaten or received my water ration. What sleep I’d managed had mostly been behind the wheel during stops in a campaign of constant movement.
A lengthy stop entailed refuelling and maintaining the truck, charging batteries, digging slit trenches, eating and attending to other necessities. And all the time the responsibility of driving and maintaining communications 24 hours a day.
I had lost contact with 5th Brigade Headquarters, who were now out of range of our transmitter. No one had taken the trouble to tell me how far away they were. Perhaps they didn’t know, or perhaps they had expected too much from the equipment, and so I continued with futile attempts to contact them.
After a discussion with the Adjutant, I had driven to a hilltop and there constructed an elaborate transmitter aerial. After a good two hours trying to establish contact I had to give up. Listening with earphones on for hours on end to static and other noises, with the volume control well up, does nothing for one’s nerves or temper. Communication was hopeless and I cursed the bastards who had made the 11 set, and those who expected us to use it.
In fact Brigade Headquarters had been overrun, and Brigadier Hargest and others captured.
The hilltop provided a spectacular view of the action. In the distance I could see what I took to be German transport with an occasional shell bursting amongst them. In a large depression below a tank battle was in progress. About half a dozen German tanks were in a central laager with our light tanks driving round and round them in constant movement, exchanging shots with the encircled Germans. I’d heard that German tanks had a killing range of miles, whilst our own had too close to within a few hundred yards to be effective. It reminded me of Cowboys and Indians, the Indians with their bow and arrows and the Cowboys with their guns. Looking behind me to the depression that contained, amongst others, our 21st Battalion headquarters, I was disturbed to note our four 25 Pounder guns all firing in different directions. I couldn’t see the targets but felt a little concerned about our prospects for the future.
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It was late afternoon on the 25th.
I didn’t have a clue as to our whereabouts except to know that Tobruk wasn’t too far away. In earlier days I had been able to keep a close tag on our movements. Radio operators and their equipment were reckoned to be valuable merchandise, so we had been given map reading instruction and provided with large-scale maps of the operational area in case we got lost. Both the Colonel and I were surprised to find that I possessed essential maps that he didn’t, so naturally he borrowed them. Len and I were sitting in front of our pickup when the Colonel came to give us our instructions for the night. George was on the set.
21 Battalion was to be used to drive a corridor through to Tobruk. Only essential vehicles were to advance with the infantry, and we were to be prepared to be cut off for several days from our own forces. Tonight we were to advance through 25 Battalion’s defensive positions, get in as close to the enemy as possible without arousing them, and attacked with the bayonet. Vehicles were to move as quietly as possible, and I thought — not a job for George!
It appeared to be an appropriate time to use our own personal rations. Len took off to tend to his Colonel’s needs and I fossicked out a tin of sausages and a tin of peaches we had been saving.
I couldn’t trust George with the Primus. He would either threatened to burn the truck down or, as he did on one occasion, stow a Primus, with the tap turned off, in our tucker box. The petrol expended with the heat, flowed from the burner and soaked everything. Poor George. I had exploded with temper.
This was to be a meal I would never forget. We were hungry, it was delicious and it was to become more so as I thought about it over the following days. Sausages and Army biscuits followed by peaches and a cup of hot tea. It was to be my last meal for a long time.
Later we travelled for miles in the dark. Towards the end of our trip we stopped while the Colonel had a lengthy conversation with Brigade Headquarters. George was on the set, with at least one other officer present and myself. I hung around to ensure that there were no problems. Some offices were apprehensive about using radio telephony in those days, and Colonel Allen was one of them. They found it hard to remember to say “over” after saying their piece, and would at times butt in with a remark or question while the set was still on Receive. I didn’t of course hear the conversation, but it seemed to progress reasonably satisfactorily. Reception remained good throughout the night. Here, I should note, that the disaster that followed was officially blamed on “a breakdown in communications”.
This was also the last time I was to see that fine gentlemen, Colonel Jim Allen. We drove on with Len alongside me and George on radio watch in the back.
Travelling in the dark without lights is not easy, and there were grumbles and growls from the 25 Battalion blokes as we passed through their lines. “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You’ll run over some bastard! What the hell’re you doing?”
Anxious moments, afraid that we might end up in a slit trench and crush someone.
Visibility was good enough for us to see the other trucks, and the infantry with bayonets fixed, advancing to the right and left and in front of us. With our truck on the left flank, the Battalion signals truck on the right and three others in between — one of these probably the Intelligence truck — I felt like we were leading 21 Battalion into action. The atmosphere was tense and we spoke in whispers. There was little battle noise to drown out our own, but as we were advancing down a very gradual, smooth and even slope, we were able to keep engine noise down to a minimum, and prospects looked good for a surprise close encounter.
As a new chum I had viewed the prospect with a good deal of concern and wondered what would be expected of me and whether I would be able to cope. It was a venture into the unknown in more ways than one.
§
We must’ve advanced several hundred yards before it happened — lucky for the Germans perhaps, and certainly unlucky for us. A few bullets started flying, and we stopped and some commenced digging in. Then mortars started flying and the second one hit the Battalion Signals truck, collecting a couple of Battalion signalmen and setting the truck on fire.
The game was up and a few bombs soon became a barrage. Not too bad at first, but sufficient to cause casualties to the infantry, who promptly scattered — where to I don’t know. The three vehicles in between us and the Battalion Signals truck took off to the rear as the firing increased.
What does one do under the circumstances? I hadn’t been briefed. I was in charge of the Battalion’s only communications link with Brigade, or for that matter with anyone else who could have been of assistance. If I took off as well, what bloody use would we be to anyone?
I decided to stick around, at least for a few minutes, to see what eventuated. Nothing did, except that two wounded infantrymen staggered up to me in the dark, one using his rifle as a crutch, asking to be taken out of it.
I bundled one into the front and one into the back of the truck, and then another one arrived. Pointing to our left rear he asked if we could pick up his cobber, who was badly hit?
I decided it was of no use staying any longer. Other than two abandoned three tonners to our rear, there were no other vehicles to be seen and no sign of life either. We would pick up his cobber and go.
Len and I found him about 50 yards away. He was badly wounded, with shrapnel wounds in each leg and the shoulder, and he begged us to leave him. We were not going to do that, and, to screams of protest, Len grabbed his legs and, with my hands under his armpits, we lifted him and staggered towards the truck. He was quite heavy.
Perhaps I was a bit naive about the effects of shell and mortar fire. At that stage I hadn’t seen the terrible injuries that they inflict. I had experienced a little shell fire, and at night had marvelled at the beauty of flying tracer, but had not witnessed the consequences. The consequences were just statistics recorded in the Battalion Orderly Room.
By now Jerry was well stirred up and in earnest, and bringing everything he had to bear on our patch of dirt. The mortar and shellfire became intense, and I swear almost every square yard of the area must have been covered during the next hour or so. We had gone but a few yards when Len went to ground, and I followed as of necessity. The din was appalling, and as we carried our cobber we could feel the draught of the explosions. Why we weren’t hit God knows, and I suddenly also became concerned about our truck. We couldn’t move and it was extremely vulnerable, although the barrage did appear to be concentrated in our immediate area, where the two 3-tonners had now caught fire. I screamed at the top of my voice for George to drive the truck out. Why I don’t know as he didn’t have a hope in hell of hearing me.
Miracles do happen though, for the truck took off in a hurry. I discovered why much later. George had received a message from Brigade — they wanted to speak to any officer, urgently. For weeks George went through the agonies of hell, imagining that I would think he’d abandoned us; and he was a man who wouldn’t abandon anyone.
§
Now we were on our own. Our wounded man was moaning, delirious and talking away to himself, and it was freezing cold. The Germans were firing everything but the kitchen sink at us. We were being plastered by mortars, shellfire, anti-tank guns, airbursts from anti-aircraft guns, and machine gun and rifle fire. The air was alive with flying metal.
Tracer hit the ground in front of us and ricocheted over our heads with a most wicked sound, and there was the indescribable growling, buzzing, horrible sound of flying shrapnel. Heavy anti-tank projectiles whooshed above our heads and occasionally hit the ground close by, each flying piece of metal changing its tune each time it hit an obstacle. The air stank with the smell of cordite.
By now we had a burning 3-tonner on either side, and one in particular was making its contribution to our little hell on earth with a spectacular display of exploding small arms ammunition and mortar bombs. We were lying flat on our stomachs. To lift one’s head would be immediate suicide.
It had to happen. Mortar bombs explode on impact and scatter metal fragments in all directions, which can cause horrific injuries. I don’t know how to describe the effect of one exploding twelve inches from your backside. There was a great flash of light — flashing stars, and bells that rang in my one good ear and settled to a steady, continuous, high-pitched note that hasn’t stopped since. Thankfully the volume reduced gradually over the next few days, but it’s still there today, not noticed unless I care to think about it.
As I recovered from the initial shock it seemed my body was one big ache. Len probably asked how I was, although I can’t remember. He never had a great deal to say. What I do recall is that he was cool, calm and collected — very determined and solidly dependable throughout.
I couldn’t tell whether I was injured or not. I had twice been kicked by a horse, once with both hooves in the pit of my stomach and once when a hoof caught me in the face, causing teeth to penetrate my left cheek. Now I felt as though I’d been kicked by many horses, and as I felt myself all over to assess the damage, I became aware that liquid was running down my backside and between my legs.
My God, I’ve pissed myself! No it can’t be, it must be blood — I’m lying on my stomach.
There was one area much more tender than the rest. My pants were torn and I’d lost a sizeable portion of my backside.
I’d often wondered how I would react under fire, and now I knew. I was wild, bloody wild, and I could have gladly killed every German and Italian on God’s earth.
In future I would know heart thumping, chilling, frozen fear. Time spent in Regimental Aid Posts, Advanced Dressing Stations, Casualty Clearing Stations and Hospitals would dispel my naivety.
Men crippled for life. Legs that looked like they’d gone though a shredder. Blind men. A former classmate about to spend the rest of his life in a mental institution. A nineteen year old with a permanently paralysed leg and a tiny bullet scar on his back and stomach. A youth emasculated. A burned man, delirious, completely covered in bandages except for holes left for essential functions. A few of the many.
Death was one thing: to be permanently maimed and disfigured was another.
But now I prayed for a rifle, some weapon to fight back. I was frustrated, a feeling I became accustomed to. Radio operators rarely vented their anger on the enemy. Their job rarely permitted it. Most often we were glued to our transmitters, feeling like sitting ducks.
How long we lay there I don’t know. Talk about hell on earth — not a bit of cover or any depression to shelter in. The Battalion Signals truck had burnt out, and the 3-tonner fires were dying down, though strangely there was still the occasional crackle of exploding 303 ammunition that had somehow survived the heat. The shell and mortar fire gradually diminished to a steady barrage from one mortar, and we became increasingly aware of small arms fire. The zip zip zip of small projectiles that we hadn’t noticed before. 25 Battalion were making their own contribution and the air was alive with bullets passing awfully close. Split seconds of anxiety as a stream of tracer came straight at you, and relief as it shot past your ear.
Then, wham! Another flash of light, and stars, and the sound of Big Ben striking the hour three feet from my head. A kick in the guts this time, like the very bad appendix pain I’d experienced when mine was removed years ago — a bullet in the stomach.
A reassessment was required. This was just bloody stupid. If we were going to die we may as well die trying to get out of this place. We decided to try using what seemed the only available method short of suicide. Our cobber lay on his back, and with Len and I hugging the ground on either side we crawled and dragged him along by his trouser pockets. This wasn’t the crawl that infants use but a nose and belly to the dirt job. Pushing ourselves forward with hands and feet and at the same time dragging the weight of the wounded man. Of cover there was none, the ground as even as the top of a billiard table. It was exhausting and it seemed to go on for hours — it must have done, because dawn was breaking when we were joined by Battalion Signal Sergeant Paddy Lynch. We didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or glad he’d joined us. Like us he’d been evading flak all night.
Daylight made things rather more difficult. I will be eternally grateful to the bloke who first invented camouflage, and for three months of infantry training. If we lay still we weren’t molested. If we crawled for a few yards we were seen and shot at. Lie still and, as the eyes came off you, you couldn’t be seen again as you blended into the background. So it went on, a short crawl and a prayer.
After a time we were too far away to be easily spotted by the Germans but were getting plenty of attention from 25 Battalion. I wasn’t pleased. Surely no self-respecting German would crawl so close to our lines in broad daylight! Somewhere to our left was a Bren Gun — the standard light machine gun used by British infantry. The conscientious Bren Gunner fired three short bursts and, as the closest, I had to cop it. A belt I’d manufactured out of webbing was shredded and cut in two, and my battle dress was the worse for wear. More seriously a furrow had been cut across the small of my back. A fraction lower and I would’ve died, or at least never walked again.
What next? I’d had about as much as I could take.
Paddy took over my task with Cobber, and I hastily put the three of them between me and the bloody Bren. I felt I most definitely needed a break. A few more yards and Paddy announced “I think he’s dead.”
Cobber was dead! I couldn’t and wouldn’t believe it. Not after all this. Not after dragging him for hours.
We left him. We left him.
Was he really dead? As time went by, and with much more stress to come, my mental state deteriorated, and for months I would fret about having left a wounded man. Had Paddy been right? Was he dead? Yes he was dead, no doubt about it. But even now, after all these years, I can’t write about these things without becoming emotionally upset.
We crawled on, and then, with a display of courage I didn’t possess, Paddy and Len came smartly to their knees, waved their tin hats and went down again. They did this twice, or was it three times, before the firing stopped. Thankfully we rose to our feet and alternately ran for a few yards, then went down again infantry style, until we were closer to our lines, at which stage we ignored the enemy fire and walked. After about seven hours of hell we reached the comparative safety of our own lines.
As we approached we saw that our infantry were dug into shallow trenches that followed the contour at the top of the rise — the rock hard ground didn’t permit anything elaborate. Slit trenches extended to our left in a semi circle and then continued in a more or less straight line for about 80 yards across our front. The line then turned again, extending away from us.
To our left two blokes were casually feeding bombs into the barrel of a mortar, and further to the left I spotted our friendly Bren Gunner. By now he would know it was us he’d fired on and I wondered how he felt about it.
In front of us, standing fully exposed, was an officer whom I was convinced possessed either a ton of guts or no imagination. As we approached he began to bellow fire orders to his riflemen, and didn’t seem too pleased to be interrupted. He didn’t want to believe that there could be more 21 Battalion blokes down there either. I asked him where the bloody hell he thought we’d come from. As we walked away he yelled another order, “Cease Fire!” so perhaps he’d had second thoughts.
§
About 200 yards further along the line we found the RAP (Regimental Aid Post) truck situated conveniently alongside the forward trenches. It was a 3 ton truck with a red cross draped across its canopy and another flying above the cab. Some humourist, or perhaps he was serious, said it was a Pioneer (engineers’) truck being used as a substitute, and that it was loaded with explosives. I could believe that!
Alongside and lying as close to the Red Cross flag as possible were at a guess about 30 dead and wounded. Not a happy sight. Someone should have got this lot on film.
Almost in line with the RAP truck, rifleman, Bren gunners and mortars were dug in their trenches, A few yards behind the infantry, and almost right behind the RAP, 25 Pounder guns were firing at German tanks and transport, both clearly visible. The guns weren’t dug in, the gunners only protected by the gun shields. The closest gun was being served by only two gunners, the rest no doubt casualties. The limber alongside had run out of ammunition, which they were now unloading from an open truck, and firing as they went.
There must have been a good deal of small arms fire, but to us it was comparatively peaceful after our recent experience. If there was any we ignored it, or at least I did. With Paddy and Len in attendance the RAP orderly enquired about my injuries. I dropped my trousers, and he put dressings on my backside and my back. Not being a contortionist, I couldn’t see how bad the wounds were — perhaps fortunately — but I didn’t feel too bad. I was a bit hesitant though, about lifting up my shirt to investigate the “appendix pain” for it promised to be a bit more serious.
“Where is it?” Asked to the orderly. There was no sign of an abrasion where the pain was. I anxiously lifted my shirt higher, and then a little higher, and nearly fainted as, with Paddy and Len supporting me, I saw a jagged hole about halfway up my rib cage. The orderly stuck some lint and plaster over it and Len and Paddy helped me to join the rest by the Red Cross flag.
I had always visualised an RAP as being a haven of rest, somewhere one could relax and be cared for. Not so! The wounded were well aware how helpless and vulnerable they were. Anyone with any sense and the ability to walk would surely have left long ago. Some of the poor beggars were in a bad way and I felt very angry about it, for the orderly could do little to help. Others were dead. I still had many lessons to learn about this bloody war, and I couldn’t accept the cruelty of the situation. Wounded, helpless, and in an agony of suspense, waiting to be hit again. Thoughts of mother, wife, home and loved ones; the life one had once lived and hoped and prayed to one day live again. This was war, and we were just unimportant statistics. As long as there weren’t too many in our condition, we would win this bloody battle.
Most of us were quiet, without conversation, waiting and hoping. There were moans and an occasional cry, as some lived again a delirious nightmare.
We lay there for an hour or two listening to the noise of the guns. I watched a tank, hit by our neighbouring 25 Pounder, spin like a top, and I joined in the general jubilation. Every now and again our numbers were increased, as another fell victim to the enemy.
It seemed inevitable that something must happen, and to me it was just a matter of time. Sooner or later there must be retaliation. Our 3-tonner, the guns, the limber and the open truck were all too prominent a target, the only vehicles in the area. A heavy mortar landed to our front, another directly to our rear. We were bracketed, and most of infantrymen will know what was to come next.
I have already tried to describe what a mortar does. Imagine what this one did. It landed somewhere in the middle of our pathetic group. There were pitiful cries of anguish, and a man crying desperately for his mother. The man next to me had lost his hand, and when I saw the jagged bloody stump of his wrist, I just couldn’t look any more. Len was on the spot immediately, helping me stagger to a vacant trench a few yards away, then returning to help with the rest of the wounded. I didn’t see Len again for months.
Someone drove the 3-tonner away. The bloody thing shouldn’t have been in such an exposed position in the first place. The mortaring continued, and two landed under the tailboard of the ammunition truck, bouncing it up and down, which caused me more than a little concerned, for my trench was just about 3 feet from the side of the back wheel. A direct hit on that truckload would mean the end, something I wasn’t ready to contemplate yet.
If I was about to die, I determined that it should be for a useful purpose, and that wouldn’t be achieved by lying in a hole. I was still angry about the plight of the wounded, for no one seemed to be doing anything about them. As a communications man I was sure there must be some means of whistling up transport to get them out, and it was just a matter of finding it. There was no means of identifying anything in the surrounding area — everything was dug in and out of sight — but there must be a Headquarters somewhere. Then I spotted in the distance, hundreds of yards away to the rear, a pickup truck with a transmitter aerial.
I crawled out of my hole, staggered to my feet and started to walk. Perhaps I was the only man standing, but whatever the reason I received almost immediate attention. Bullets kicked up the dirt around my feet and whistled past my ears, but I’d reached the stage where I just didn’t give a damn. The firing lasted about half a minute before they gave up. The officer directing this fire party apparently decided that enough ammunition had been wasted on this target. I said thank God for that, and staggered on towards salvation with increased confidence. It was a long and painful hike and I was doomed to disappointment.
It was a Divisional Signals truck attached to an artillery section, and, although I argued with them, the two operators maintained that they couldn’t communicate with anyone other than their own unit. I was bloody sure that I could have, one way or another, in spite of the difficulties, but they wouldn’t relent.
Why didn’t I try battalion headquarters, they asked, pointing back to where I’d come from. They didn’t display any sympathy. I didn’t show any obvious disability either, and wasn’t about to talk to them about my problems anyhow. I was thoroughly disgusted and set off to find the elusive hole in the ground that was Battalion Headquarters. Several times I had to get down as bullets zipped by awfully close, but I soon saw a radio aerial sticking up out of the ground and headed for it. I haven’t got that far when I stumbled across 25 Battalion’s telephone exchange in its dugout. The exchange was a metal box with a few cables going into the back, and connecting cords and plugs in the front. After much persuading they rang the Advanced Dressing Station and asked for Field Ambulance to send up transport for about 30 wounded. After a few minutes rest I didn’t feel too bad, and the stiffness had worn off a little, so I set off once again to the rear. I hadn’t gone more than a few yards when a Bren Carrier drew up alongside. It was Mr Money, the Intelligence Officer, looking for Colonel Allen, who they said had gone to try and extricate some of 21 Battalion who’d gone into a small gully to engage the enemy the night before. They’d heard vague stories that he’d been wounded, and were on their way to the ADS. He was, of course, dead, but we weren’t to know that. I climbed aboard to go with them and as we moved off felt a glow of satisfaction to see transport arrive and start to load the wounded at the RAP. The ride in the Bren Carrier was worse than walking, but at least I got there quicker. At the ADS I suddenly became jittery for some reason — nervy at any rate. A shell landing 100 yards away would flatten me violently to the ground, wounds and all. Reaction was setting in.
I didn’t stay there long. My wounds were dressed again and I was piled with others, including some from the 25 RAP, into a 3-tonner for a 7 mile ride to the Main Dressing Station Field Ambulance. A 3-tonner isn’t the best conveyance for fit men as it bounces over rough country, and for us it was bloody murder. At Field Ambulance they asked those of us who thought we were fit enough to carry on for another 3 miles to the Casualty Clearing Station, so we got out of the truck and lay around waiting for the next move. Things were getting a bit rough and the whole show was to move back the next morning. The not so fit men had been taken into tents and put on stretchers. I had decided to go on, but it wasn’t long before I was overcome by a dizzy spell, and, as I walked into the tent to tell them that I’d better stay, my legs collapsed under me and I almost passed out.
An Orderly and Italian prisoner helped me onto a stretcher and later gave us all a welcome cup of cocoa. They had no food for us, and as my previous meal and drink had been almost 24 hours earlier, I felt a bit hungry. I slept well that night, my first for over a week.