It was now Thursday, 27 November. I was woken before daylight with another cup of cocoa. We were then loaded, this time on stretchers, on board a truck.
Although we had to take a roundabout route to avoid the action, it was a much more comfortable journey than the last had been. There had been casualties in the ADS area from shellfire during the night, and I had slept through it.
We were put into tents with a couple of blankets each, and a promise that next morning we would be evacuated through Tobruk, about 20 miles away. But Friday morning, the 28th, came with no hope of getting out. One convoy had been machine gunned and had had to return.
It has been a very cold miserable night. The ground isn’t as comfortable as a hospital bed, and two blankets don’t do much to help when all else you have is a torn and tattered battle dress.
One of the wounded was delirious, and thrashed around and cried out from time to time throughout the night. When daylight came we found he had bad shrapnel wounds in the hip and upper thigh. He’d torn off the bandages and his wounds were covered in dirt. We got someone to attend to him eventually, but it wasn’t until we’d had a good deal more trouble with him that he was removed. I doubt that he would have survived.
The rest of us weren’t too badly off, mostly leg and arm wounds as far as I can remember, though a man alongside me had three bullet holes through his lungs.
Sgt. Dave Clarke, the only man I knew, was suffering from a blast injury to one leg, which was well bandaged. He was unable to walk on it. Dave survived the war only to die on Mt. Erebus.
I remember little of the first 48 hours in the gully we called “Whistling Wadi” — probably trying to recuperate, and too exhausted to care.
There was a letter from my Mother in my breast pocket and I decided to read it. It wasn’t readable. The bullet that entered my stomach had cut it completely in half, leaving tattered remnants. My paybook had suffered also, almost cut through from end to end. I wondered if they contributed to saving my life? I was more than a little impressed.
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Even now, after 41 years, I find it difficult to think about the events of the following days without tears coming to my eyes. A helpless, wounded man has little knowledge of what is going on around him and relies solely on the scant information that comes his way. He reacts only to the events that affect him and to the rumours that he hears, some of which are true, some true but grossly exaggerated, some false — and, most of them, disturbing to say the least.
Here then is Whistling Wadi as I remember it — HELL!
Our tent was on a slight slope on the North Eastern extremity of the encampment, with only one bell tent lying between us and the open desert.
The medical centre was out of sight further down the Wadi.
Almost opposite, across the Wadi, was the Mobile Surgical Unit’s cookhouse, and to the left of that, about 100 yards away, the operating theatre. In between these, and beyond, a scattering of tents of all sorts extended down the Wadi.
On top of the escarpment, behind the operating theatre and clearly visible, was the burial ground.
To our left, on our side of the Wadi, were more tents, stretching as far as the eye could see. Close by were several slit trenches, which were continually occupied by some more fortunate than ourselves.
My experiences were necessarily confined to what happened in this area, for I had neither the desire nor much of the ability to explore further.
It was very difficult to find any sort of comfort. I tried to put aside thoughts of the damage the bullet might have done to my stomach with a certain amount of success, but I could only sit on one cheek of my backside, and as lying on my left side was all I could do comfortably, that soon also became most uncomfortable. The stomach pain wasn’t too bad so long as I didn’t attempt to walk too far. Others were in far worse condition, poor beggars, and I could count myself lucky.
The shellfire, so well described in the 2 NZEF Medical History, seemed to be almost continuous, and was much more terrifying than the injuries. We were completely unprotected.
Food and water must have been a problem right from the start, for on the 29th November I pencilled a note in my battered paybook: ”29th 1/4 lemon, no water.” In fact, it was a quarter of half a lime, or in other words, “1/8 of a lime, no water.” I remember sucking It, and then nibbling it off in tiny portions to make it last as long as possible.
I remember twice a day meals, each consisting of about two tablespoons of food, and perhaps a slightly larger quantity of liquid. Of the meal ingredients I can remember only semolina and peaches, and of the liquid portion only that there wasn’t sufficient to sustain life.
I queued up for meals with the walking wounded after the first two days. The orderlies had more than enough to do looking after the helpless ones and there was always the chance, though I don’t think anyone managed it, of doubling up!
On reflection, perhaps those who remained in the tents received more on the grounds of greater need. I hadn’t eaten anything worthy of comment since the 25th Nov., so the hunger pains were biting, soon to be overwhelmed by a raging thirst. The hunger pains eased after about three days, and from then on I became increasingly worried about my ever growing weakness, and a tongue and mouth as dry as dust. I would dream I was under a shower, holding my mouth up to catch the water, or I would be in a Bar sampling all the drinks.
To my left in our tent were two blokes who seemed to do nothing but talk about food and drink. It was an obsession. The food, where they’d eaten it, the drinks they’d enjoyed. I could have cheerfully wrung their necks.
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On the night of Thursday 28th November Germans came in from the East, released their prisoners down the Wadi and took over the Hospital.
The Germans were gentlemen and treated us very well indeed. A German Doctor came to see us and promised us we would be looked after. Their Doctors did a lot of work for our wounded. They took away our staff cars and pickups, and we were amused when they filled up their tanks with diesel, which immediately grounded them. When German gunners mounted their guns close to the Hospital, German Doctors had them removed.
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On Sunday 1st December, Italians took over from the Germans, who left taking many of our New Zealand Doctors with them, and leaving a number of South African Doctors to care for us.
The Italians were bullies, cowards and looters. Robbing and bullying unarmed, wounded men seemed to be their line.
They looted our water and food supplies, and took water bottles from our walking wounded. One morning at our 10a.m. breakfast, if you could call it that, the Italians very bravely rounded us up with rifle and bayonet, whereupon we were addressed by a bullying officer who demanded we give up all pocket knives, cameras and binoculars, and threatened to shoot any man who didn’t. Such a brave fellow he was, and certain of a quick end if we ever met him under different circumstances. He strutted around, stick in hand, making things as unpleasant as he could.
It had been their intention to march us out, but thank God someone talked them out of it. Many of us could only get around with difficulty.
The Italians mounted their guns under the protection of our Red Cross markings and blazed away using our Hospital as protection.
I could see four guns mounted on the rise just above the operating theatre and about 100 yards from me. They were having a wonderful time until our fellows replied with eight shells that tipped three of them onto their beam ends and sent the Italians screaming down into the Wadi, scared and panicking, to be followed later by several wounded. This I must say, we found profoundly satisfying.
The Italians were now dug in on each side of the Wadi, and continually ran down into the encampment when things got a bit hot for them. The shelling continued day after day, and there was a constant screech of shells passing overhead, and the sound of screaming shrapnel from those that landed close and in and amongst the tents.
Our bombers came over at night, dropping flares and bombing and machine-gunning the area. It seemed impossible for them to miss us, but miss us they did. They would drop flares all around the hospital and then open up.
Later many of us managed to have slit trenches. I think I had one for the last two days, and we would lie in them, almost frozen, trying to sleep at night. In spite of everything there was a wonderful spirit amongst the men, and you very seldom heard a complaint or a moan of pain from the badly wounded. Here I learnt a great respect for British guts.
We had to pay a price for the exchanges of gunfire, and we had our share of the shellfire exploding amongst the tents. One day we were hugging the ground in our tent, when the bell tent next to ours and about 3 feet away, stopped a direct hit from a 25 pounder. I had been talking to the six occupants a few minutes before, and now they were all dead.
We had had a narrow escape. About three shells had landed fairly close together. Our tent was riddled with shrapnel, all of which had passed over our heads. I cannot describe our feelings or reactions. When I emerged later the tent and its occupants had been removed, and all that was to be seen was bloodstained dirt.
We were somewhat cheered by the news that a tent of Italian wounded had also been hit, causing several casualties. Less heartening, we heard that a Colonel who had just undergone a major operation had also been killed. Our prospects were grim.
Death, preceded by mutilation and horrible suffering, was an ever present possibility.
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Little could be done for the wounded. Original dressings were left on, as supplies were running out, and only those with urgent needs received attention.
There were moments of satisfaction, seeing Italian casualties being carried down into the Wadi, and occasions when our Hurricanes flew up and down each side, strafing the Italian positions. How we cheered them on and how the Italians panicked, and ran down to us for protection.
The Italians helped themselves to our meagre supplies of food and water and generally behaved very badly. One morning I was sitting outside in the sun, viewing the situation, when I heard someone yell, “The Bastard’s pinching our water!” I looked round to find an Italian officer, about 40 yards away, coming towards me with one of our rusty one gallon water cans in his hand.
This made me mad, and I was determined that the cowardly sod wasn’t going to get away with it. I grabbed my mug and set out to cut off his retreat. I jammed my mug up under his nose and demanded some water! He didn’t understand English, but did understand, without doubt, what I wanted. If looks could have killed, he would have dropped dead.
I do believe he was scared of me, or perhaps he thought I was mad. Indeed, perhaps I was.
He hesitated for a moment as though thinking about it, then unscrewed the cap off the can and filled my mug.
He was about to screw the cap back on when a New Zealand Staff Sergeant arrived. He was angry, and I think could speak Italian, and after a heated discussion he took the can off the Italian officer, and they both walked away together, continuing the argument as they went.
I wonder if this was the Staff Sergeant mentioned in the Medical Unit’s History.
Back at our tent, I handed the mug to the first man I came to, telling him and everyone to have a sip and pass it around. When I got the mug back there was one mouthful left. It was brackish, but wet and wonderful — but not quite as enjoyable as my marvellous moral victory. My spirits were given quite a boost. That Italian officer wasn’t to know that a decent push from one finger would have unbalanced and toppled me over.
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One day, after a short tour of investigation, I returned to our tent to find one man gone. The man with three bullets through his lungs had volunteered to be evacuated. The walking wounded who wished to do so, could go. They could expect to walk about 20 miles, but they were promised food, water and medical care when they reached their destination. I decided not to be a starter. Our chaps weren’t far away, there was still a chance of being recaptured by our side, and I wasn’t about to put myself permanently in the hands of the Italians. Besides, I doubted I could walk 20 miles, and our cobber with the lung wounds must have been nuts to try it.
Later we were to hear stories about this party of wounded. As they dropped out on the march, from exhaustion, their injuries or both, they were shot. This was never confirmed, but I believe there must be some element of truth in it. The survivors were later rescued, and it was from them that the story emanated, although I didn’t ever meet any of them.
Lieutenant Colonel Dittmar and a party of others escaped, which cheered us all. They had apparently put a rotor back into one of our trucks and driven off in the night. We weren’t guarded so this wouldn’t have been too difficult — but for us to organise it seemed out of the question. Something to think about!
As one day of misery followed another, the possibility of survival appeared to become more and more remote. I began to worry about the effect my death would have on my family at home.
My mother was a very emotional woman, and I could imagine her making life hell for everyone around her if I should die. More particularly she would make my father’s and sister’s lives unbearable. So concerned did I become that I discussed it with one of the Padres, who did his best to reassure me.
As he put it, “Our memories, by God’s will, are mercifully short, and time will heal all sorrows and sufferings.”
True enough, and comforting.
Someone told us that a South African Negro had walked out of the camp and, not knowing where to go, had walked into the German lines and been promptly returned.
There was a chance that I could get away with this, and I spent hours thinking about it. There was no sign of activity to the North and the shellfire had died down. I didn’t know how far I would have to go, but inevitably, someone would have possession of the coast road, and more likely our chaps. Anything was better than slow starvation, and death in that hell hole.
If I could walk far enough, the worst that could happen would be recapture by someone who, hopefully, would share food and water. The Germans, at least, appeared to be more charitable. It was worth the gamble.
Next morning, very early, when all was quiet, and without advising anyone of my intentions, I set off to walk. Our tent was at the North Eastern extremity of the camp, and from there the ground rose gradually to the horizon, several hundred yards away. I was in sight of the camp for a long time, and as I got further and further away I became increasingly hopeful of success. I was walking over the top of the rise and still within sight of the camp when it happened. Approaching from the North was a German open pickup truck, I suppose the German equivalent of a Jeep. Two young, blonde Germans, who to me looked more formidable than Chicago gangsters, occupied it — one was driving, the other had a submachine gun in his hands and one foot on the running board. In seconds they were alongside and I had the Tommy Gun poked in my stomach.
I sincerely believe they would have liked to kill me, for they gave every indication of wanting to do so. There were anxious moments as I awaited my fate, all the time trying to appear as helpless and harmless, and pathetic, as possible.
There was a conversation in German and a decision arrived at. They piled me into the back of the jeep and within minutes I was back where I had started from. At least I hadn’t missed breakfast!
I related my unbelievable story to my cobbers in the tent, who didn’t seem to be all that interested. They had worries of their own. Mouths, tongues and throats were dry, and lips and tongues were cracking. Speech was difficult.
I’d seen one of our Medical Regimental Sergeant Majors clean shaven. He looked clean. The sight made me wonder how he’d done it without water? Water that was so precious? Perhaps it was a dry shave, and I’m now bound to believe it was. I knew him and in later life he became a very important man who made a valuable contribution in his own field. He’s dead now, so I can no longer ask him.
My neighbours had lapsed into silence. Food and drink were thought about but not now talked about. I wasn’t too happy either. I was very despondent in fact. The walk had shown up my deficiencies. I was dreadfully weak and the pain in my groin had given me hell.
Our prospects seemed grimmer than ever. Our artillery no longer seemed to be active and our hopes of recapture had almost gone. At nights we still had bombing raids, and flares to keep us awake, even if the cold didn’t. An early riser, I each morning watched the dead being carried out for burial, and wondered if and when my turn would come.
§
I continually fretted about the man Paddy, Len and I had left lying unconscious. Paddy couldn’t have thought him dead — or at least wasn’t sure. He’d laid his greatcoat over him to keep him warm when we left him.
Even after years of experience of war I cannot fully accept the economics of battle. The economics that dictate that a wounded man is no asset but a liability, and that further assets in the form of human lives should not be put at risk in an endeavour to save him. Rather, such assets should be used to the maximum in an endeavour to destroy the enemy, and that attention to the wounded is an important but secondary consideration. To me, then, to leave a wounded man unattended was unforgivable, and my conscience continued to punish me for months.