On the 5th December, 10 days after my last real meal, there was a church service, long to be remembered by those who took part in it. There was also to be communion, and whether it was the thought of bread and wine that attracted the crowd one is not to know.
It was well attended, and everyone who could walk or crawl seemed to be there. One thing is certain: everyone prayed with great sincerity for deliverance. The tiny flake dipped in wine was of little sustenance to our physical being, but in my case at least it was a spiritual boost, as I well remember.
I woke early as usual the following morning after another disturbed night of flares and bombs and freezing cold, to find to my great delight that there had been a “Scotch Mist” — sufficient to leave droplets of water on the tents.
With a spoon and bottle, I got busy scooping up those drops. They tasted foul, but they were wet. Never has a miser hoarded money as carefully and conscientiously as I gathered up those drops and poured them into the bottle.
The camp was very quiet — hardly a sound, which was unusual. I’d accumulated about 3/8 of an inch in the bottle when I heard what seemed to be a familiar sound. The unmistakeable sound of a Bren Carrier in the distance. Sure enough there it was to the North, just this side of the horizon. It stopped and I waited for the Italian reaction. Nothing happened and after a time it came closer and stopped again. Still nothing happened.
What’s going on? The Bren Carrier came slowly closer and I looked frantically around the camp to see where the Italians were. There were none to be seen. The bastards must have gone.
Gone they had, and we were free.
My memory tells me it was a New Zealand Bren Carrier crew that I talked to. The War History says it was 7th Armoured Division. My deliverance came from the North, theirs from the West — what does it matter? We were free!
§
Everything happened in a hurry.
I heard that a Padre was to lead those capable of walking to the British lines. Soon I saw a small party walking off in a Westerly direction, and on my own I followed them, with others in ones and twos trailing behind me.
How far we walked I don’t know.
In spite of everything it was probably one of the happiest walks of my life, still carrying my bottle with me. I found a small heap of lentils in the dirt, where someone had spilled them. Carefully I scooped them up, dirt and all, and put them in my pocket.
Never again would I waste food. Never again would I miss a meal, for subconsciously there was always the thought that it might be a long time before the next one. From then on my greatcoat pockets were kept well stocked with Army biscuits. I trained myself to manage on a much lower intake of fluids, and from then on the only thing that I drank in copious quantities was beer, when it was available, and of course wine.
Above all, I swore that never again would I be a prisoner of war. If by some mischance I fell into enemy hands at all costs I would escape.
§
For what happened over the next few days I must rely entirely on my memory with nothing to jog it along. My diary had gone with my truck. When our small party walked out we were also separated from the mainstream of wounded, so unit diaries are no help either.
In my letters home I made light of our adventures, but there was always sufficient information to enable me to recall what happened and when. My letters from immediately after this period, which my wife still has, were so butchered by the censor that there is literally nothing of any use left in them. There are some things however that one can never forget.
§
As our party arrived in dribs and drabs at the lines of our rescuers brew-up fires sprang up all over the place. Cocoa, biscuits, bully beef and whatever else was available were so generously provided to us by the most wonderful people in an atmosphere of kindness and goodwill that beggars description. I would partake of cocoa etc. at one fire, with heartfelt thanks to the providers, then move on to the next and repeat the performance. How much I ate and drank I don’t remember. Almost certainly it was too much.
The front line soldier is a wonderful guy, and I will be eternally grateful to them for being who they are, and for having had the privilege of associating with them. These people were probably members of the 7th Armoured Division, although I can’t be sure about that. What I do know is that, on all occasions during the war, I was welcomed as a member of the family wherever and whenever I encountered members of the 8th Army. What a shame it is that we can’t bring this same spirit into civilian life.
Later the Padre who had led us out held a short thanksgiving service. There were five of us including the Padre standing around in our small group. I hope our prayers were sufficient also for those not present.
Next I remember about five of us in the back of a half ton truck, bouncing along to our next destination, an M.D.S. or whatever it was. Sitting opposite me with his back to the cab was a man whom I believed to be Lt. Cairns, O.C. 21 Battalion Bren Carrier Platoon. His head was swathed in bandages, and on his face the agonised, horrified expression of a man living a nightmare. It was terrible to see. Someone, after our rescue, had given me a balaclava, which I offered to him. He refused to take it for some time, but I insisted, and he finally accepted. At least it made me feel better, and hopefully gave him some comfort too.
We arrived at the M.D.S. just on dusk and had a meal, after which I developed a most awful pain in the stomach. It was agony, and I realised that I hadn’t been to the toilet since before I’d been wounded. As a regular daily visitor to the toilet this was unique, and very worrying indeed. I won’t try to describe my experiences on that awful privy. One sort of balanced oneself on a rail, long enough to seat about half a dozen men, underneath which was a horrible stinking trench. Perhaps my experience could be described in medical terms, but in my own words it would be disgusting and unprintable, so I’ll leave it at that.
After the agony was endured, and thankfully ended, I went to the R.A.P. and begged the Orderly for some castor oil, my mother’s sole remedy for all problems of the stomach. I’d never imagined I’d be reduced to that — begging for castor oil. One Sunday as a child I’d run away from home to avoid my weekly dose, only to arrive at my Uncle’s in time to be given a dose along with my cousins. Dosing me was frequently a joint operation. Dad would hold me still while my Mother held my nose and poured the horrible muck down my throat. It was risky taking castor oil with my stomach wound, but anything was better than suffering such agony again, so I carefully avoided telling the Orderly about this complication, and drank it like a good whisky drinker downs his toddy.
To the casual observer there was nothing wrong with me, and as I did nothing to attract attention I didn’t receive any either. The injuries of others were only too obvious, and mine could wait, I thought. I paid dearly for that the following day, which was torture, the only way to describe it.
We left very early in the morning, one truck, on its own, in the wilderness. Six wounded in the back of a steel trayed, well-deck one tonner bumping and bouncing across the rough terrain. Two Indians, two Italians — all with no English — and two Kiwis. The Indians suffering in silence, the Italians constantly complaining, the Kiwis cursing from time to time. All alone in a wide expanse of trackless nothing, hoping that the driver and his companion had at least an elementary knowledge of navigation, and that this journey would soon end.
It went on for hours and hours. How far we travelled I can only guess. It wouldn’t be fair to the driver to say he was lost! We were somewhere in the desert, heading East, and so long as we didn’t have a breakdown or run out of gas, we were bound to reach a worthwhile destination. Don’t worry chaps.
It was uncomfortable to say the least. A raised section of decking about 8 inches high above each back wheel was the only practical place for me to sit. So I set my bruised but otherwise undamaged bum cheek on one of these, with the injured side hanging over the edge, my right hand clutching my stomach, my left arm hanging grimly onto the side of the truck and me looking in the only direction possible — to the rear.
I would guess we travelled well over 100 miles and probably at least 30 miles further than necessary.
The Italians’ moans and complaints rose to a crescendo of screams at one stage, so we hammered on the cab for the driver to stop. It sounded as though they thought themselves in imminent danger of sudden death but they wanted to urinate. It gave my backside a welcome break.
We stopped once more for a snack and eventually, very thankfully, after much suffering, arrived at Casualty Clearing Station. The wounded had been pouring in, most of them from Whistling Wadi, and the Doctors and Orderlies had been working like slaves for hours on end without rest or sleep.
It was a pitiful sight with wounded lying around everywhere, some of them in a shocking mess waiting their turn for attention. I think it was there, though I can’t be sure, that I had my first Xray.
A Sergeant was in charge, and when he’d examined the plates he asked me a few questions.
“Do you drink or smoke?”
“I don’t drink at all. I do smoke a little, although I haven’t had a smoke for weeks.”
“You must be an athletic type,” he said, “Do you take part in sports?”
“Yes, I do,” I said, “Not many can beat me over 100 or 220 yards. Perhaps one or two in the Division.”
“Well you must be remarkably fit to survive this bullet. Judging by the point of entry, it’s travelled through the full length of that part of your stomach, and you’re still here! It’s remarkable.”
He hung a label around my neck and gave me the X-ray plate, which ended up in my father-in-law Hugh McCarroll’s curio case.
I was very pleased and thanked God I wasn’t a boozer. I made up for it later!
I’d won the 220 yard and come second in the 100 yard sprints in the 15th North Auckland Regimental sports of 1940. Later, when I was far from fit, I entered the 100 yards event at a Divisional Cavalry sports meeting in Italy. A tote was being run and I didn’t have the nerve to buy a ticket on myself, so I asked Darky Harrison to buy one for me.
“Can you run?” asked Darky.
“Damned if I know,” I said, “I’m not very fit.”
Darky bought a ticket for me and one for himself. A man behind the tote remarked that those were the only two tickets that he’d sold, and on the strength of that, bought one himself.
I came second and paid 110 to 1, which I collected, plus the prize money, plus abuse from my mates because I hadn’t told them I could run.
It must have been the 9th December when I reached the CCS and received the first medical attention of any consequence. In fairness it should be said that I hadn’t sought attention, nor in the circumstances did I think it warranted — others were in greater need.
I’d been wounded on the night of the 25th/26th November, so no wonder the censor butchered my letters. The news wouldn’t have done much for morale at home. It seemed rather stupid, but I was given a stretcher, and carried around on it when necessary. I think it was the night of the 10th December that my turn came for the operating table. Stretchers were lined up all around the operating tent, as patients waited their turn. The table itself was under a huge lamp in the centre of the tent, and a cheerful New Zealand surgeon was doing his stuff. Someone said he’d been working for 36 hours with scarcely a break.
I can’t truthfully describe what went on on that table because I couldn’t bear to watch. What I can say is that I arrived at a very firm decision from what I did see. Not under any circumstances would I have an operation if I could talk my way out of it. I was lifted onto the table, stripped off and examined.
The cheerful Doctor said, “What’re your problems? How do you feel?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Do you think that bullet can wait until you get down to base?”
“Sure,” I said, “I’m okay!”
“Good, that’s fine,” he said, and the orderlies straightened my clothes and carried me out into a tent, where I spent the night.