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General Montgomery, the 8th Army Commander in Chief, once asked Corps Commander Horrocks which he would prefer — six Divisions with less than adequate communications; or five Divisions with first class signals.

Horrocks opted unhesitatingly for the latter, commenting that it was quite impossible to fight a modern battle without first class communications.

We were very well trained. Many of us had seen action in Greece and Crete, and several of us were to be decorated for gallantry by the end of the war. One received a bar to his Military Medal.

Every radio operator could send and receive 25 words a minute or better in Morse code, and we worked at those speeds.

Our linesmen distinguished themselves on many occasions during the war. They were rough, tough, and great soldiers. One felt one’s mates were absolutely dependable and felt an enormous obligation to be dependable too.

In normal conditions, and things were rarely normal in action, two radio operators were attached to each Battalion, in our case 21, 22, 23 and 28 Maori Battalions, which made up the 5th New Zealand Infantry Brigade. The Linesmen’s job was to lay and maintain telephone cables from Brigade headquarters to each Battalion and attached unit. This was an extremely hazardous job at times, and during the Libyan campaign, because of constant movement, almost impossible. In static situations lines were continually being broken by shellfire and the passage of tracked vehicles. Radio acted as a backup when lines were not operable.

The man who trained with me constantly on manoeuvres was a member of the Magician’s Society. Wilo was an expert at making things disappear, frequently to reappear later in Wilo’s possession. My first shocking experience of Wilo happened when we were in Perth, Australia. We were wandering through a Woolworths store examining the goods and looking for an interesting item to send home. At least that was what I was doing. We would pick up small items, examine them and put them back again. We didn’t buy anything. As we walked down the street afterwards, Wilo said, “Would you like one of these?” His pockets were full of items he’d palmed. One night, as we were laying in our bivvie, he asked me to feel his pulse. It was racing at about 120 bpm. He said he’d had polio as a child. How did he pass the medical inspection and get into the army? I had my suspicions, but decided it might not be trickery. After all I’d passed the medical in spite of being totally deaf in my left ear.

On the morning that we were told we were going into action, Wilo went to the RAP without telling me. I didn’t see him again for months. His pulse had begun to race again, and he was evacuated. He spent the rest of our desert days running Two Up and Crown and Anchor schools in Base Camp, where he worked in the Officers’ Mess. When we went to Italy his heart improved. Was his trickery discovered? Had it become lonely in Base Camp? In Italy he was attached to the Maori Battalion, which he systematically fleeced. When we were out of action he would arrive back from a night with the Maori, where he took part in running a Two Up school, with his shirt stuffed with notes. One never went short of anything when one was with Wilo.

Radio operators were in short supply and, when Wilo left, the only available replacement was from one of the battalions. George was to be my new offsider. George was a very good and conscientious man, but far from trained for the job we had to do. I had to teach them as we went into action. He had little knowledge or experience of the 11 Set, the transmitter we used, and he could barely manage 10 words a minute in Morse. He couldn’t drive, and had never tried. When George drove, he crashed the gears, got the truck stuck, and when told to speed up as we approached soft sand would very nearly catapult me through the canopy of the Signals truck. In desperation I would do the driving — only to be stopped by George because someone was belting out a call sign that he couldn’t read. So it went on. George died as a prisoner of war on the 22 December 1943.