White Sand and Red Blood
Every town and village in Palestine had to be searched for weapons and rebels, and this was no easy task. One day we received orders to move to Jaffa, the place where the juiciest of oranges were grown. Though it sounded like a charming place, the houses in this poverty-stricken town were ramshackle and many were without roofs. Sanitary arrangements were nil and the residents lived in the shadow of a terrible disease called trachoma, which causes blindness.
We surrounded the town before first light and moved in at dawn. An odd assortment of weapons was found and lots of suspects were caged off in the market area, and a scruffy bunch of vagrants they were, too. We sat them all down in rows, and each in turn was escorted to a spot some few yards from an army truck concealed behind a large canvas screen. Inside the truck was an Arab informer, who was peering out through a narrow slit in the canvas. When the prisoner under questioning was a well-known bad boy, the chap behind the screen would tap the driver of the truck on the shoulder, and off to the ‘dangerous group’ the suspect would go, with much weeping and wailing. This went on for hours, and my job was to keep the prisoners on the move to and from the truck.
Jaffa, 1938: clearing up after the mobs.
Day after day our searches continued, well into the winter of 1938. We travelled from one crumbling town to the next, and spent Christmas in Jerusalem. Being a Catholic, I received special permission to attend a candle-lit carol service in the holy city of Bethlehem along with a handful of other chaps. It was a cold drive but well worth it, and I’m sure even non-believers would feel a presence in Bethlehem at Christmastime. Though the peace was there, the goodwill to all men was sadly lacking, and orders were that we had to carry our loaded guns into the Church of the Holy Nativity. It was sad to look around this holy place and see so many weapons of war, but I knew it was for our own protection.
The New Year heralded the departure of our commanding officer, Major General J.A.C. Whittaker, who’d been summoned back to the United Kingdom to take up another post. We were sad to see him go, for he’d been with us for a long time and was like a father figure. On his last day we paraded and cheered him on his way, and later stood to attention to await the arrival of the new commanding officer. My Bren was mounted on a tripod nearby, but unfortunately as Lieutenant Colonel John Moubray arrived, one of the chaps slipped off the wall he was standing on, grabbed my Bren on his way down and accidentally pulled the trigger. A burst of noise rang out as bullets and tracer flew into the air, lighting the sky like a firework display. Nobody was hurt but we were all left red-faced. The new commanding officer took it in good humour, and dryly remarked that he’d never before received such a welcome.
Nablus, 1938: trouble in Palestine.
Palestine, 1938: the Guards in charge of ‘Pam-Pam’ guns.
One afternoon a party of men were sent out on a recce up in the rugged Hebron Hills, some 20 or 30 miles south of Jerusalem. All was going to plan until one of the party’s trucks broke down. The unseen Arab rebels who’d been lurking in the hills saw this as their chance, and sniper fire rained down all around the stranded soldiers. Our quick-thinking troops managed to get their truck going again and made their escape unharmed; but as they rounded a bend in the narrow track, they were met by a line of boulders that the rebels had heaped across the road. Passage was impossible. The lads jumped off the trucks to attempt to push the boulders aside, but as soon as they stepped foot onto the gritty road, another volley of shots smacked into them from the hills, and poor unfortunate Sergeant Jack Langdon, a good pal of mine, was shot dead by a bullet to the back of the head.
Palestine, 1938: Paddy firing his gun.
Ramleh Military Cemetery, Palestine, 1939: the funeral of Sergeant Jack Langdon.
The sun had gone down by now and the desert was getting cold. In the East there was no twilight; it just got dark. Ammunition was low and with only one flask of water per man and no blankets, things looked grim. The lads huddled together beside their vehicles, facing every direction from where a possible attack might come.
Menacing jeers from the concealed Arabs echoed all around the darkened skyline.
‘Come on, Johnny!’
‘What are you waiting for?’
‘I think they’re afraid!’
Receiving no answering fire, the rebels presumed that the British were all dead, but they were badly mistaken. Our boys were simply waiting, dry-lipped, for the right moment in which to avenge their fallen comrade. With every crunch of sand beneath the rebels’ feet, the troops knew they were becoming surrounded, so they stayed as still and as silent as they could. As soon as the Arabs were close enough, the soldiers pounced. Within minutes it was all over; the rebels were killed to the last man.
Jerusalem in the snow, 1939.
The year 1939 had brought with it a blanket of snow that settled high on the hills, turning Jerusalem into a scene from a Christmas card. There were only a few weeks left for us in this trouble-torn country, and these were spent patrolling and searching every nook and cranny of the settlements. Though most people co-operated, there were still some who wished us harm, so we were supplied with special armour-plated trucks with sandbags packed on each side in the event of the vehicles running over landmines. Our driver, Guardsman Walton, christened our truck Helene after his wife, and we were sent all over the place in her.
One day we rounded up all the males in the village of Bethany to conduct our security searches, when all of a sudden crowds of weeping, wailing women surrounded us, demanding that their husbands were to be returned immediately. One of our chaps, Guardsman Stan Lee, was a bit of a comedian and he began attempting to entertain the ladies while we got on with our jobs in peace. He offered them rocks to sit on while he danced, told jokes and even serenaded a passing donkey. The women, it seemed, were less impressed than the braying jenny, and after a while stones began to fly at us. One well-aimed shot hit the regimental sergeant major on his tin hat, which sent him spinning.
‘Fix your bayonets and charge them!’ he cried in anger.
Some of the men began to obey, but one of our stalwarts, Sergeant Chick Bryant, refused.
Palestine, 1939: Paddy (crossed) and his men on patrol in their truck, Helene.
‘Not on your nelly, sir,’ he shouted, gesturing for the men to stand down. ‘These are innocent women.’
The crowd continued pelting us with stones and we stuck this out as long as we could before some of us snapped and lost patience. We took the women over our knees and spanked them like they were naughty children, which had the desired effect. The crowd suddenly backed away, allowing us to complete the task in hand. When we’d finished we handed the men back, and everyone went home happy.
There was no doubt that during demonstrations tempers were frayed and the hot young soldier, at the end of his tether, administered the occasional kick in the pants to the hostile Arab rebel. As unacceptable as this was, it was better than putting a bayonet through him or blowing his head off. I never witnessed a single act of cruelty by the disciplined and well-trained British soldiers, but I can relate some of the terrible things the Arabs did to the British. Two privates of the Black Watch Regiment were stabbed in the back one Sunday afternoon in Jerusalem. Then there was a British soldier who walked into a village by himself and was found the next morning on the roadside with his throat cut and a long line of ants eating his carcass. Another chap went to the outside lavatory in the dark and a rebel threw a grenade into the privy. Two young men from the Special Investigation Branch, not more than twenty years of age, were strangled in the Holy City. A man was shot while lying wounded in hospital, and one chap had a grenade slipped into his haversack and was blown to pieces. Things became so bad that we received new orders: shoot to kill; but I for one found this a difficult order to obey. One day in Jerusalem I gave a rebel the hardest smack in the mouth he was ever likely to receive, and let him go free. I was in hot water from my adjutant for a long time afterwards, but I was in the Holy City and could hear the church bells ringing. I simply couldn’t bring myself to kill him.
We received intelligence that a rebels’ hideout was concealed somewhere by the shores of the Dead Sea, so we moved down into the Jericho region, where we were ordered to search the entire area. The territory was vast and possessed an eerie calm that unsettled me. There were rocky peaks and hillside caverns all around us that led to who knew where. Not knowing where to start, or even what we were looking for, we spread out in smaller groups. My party entered a deep catacomb near an ancient settlement known as Qumran, and after a while I heard one of the lads calling out.
‘What’s this in here? Hello! I think I’ve found something!’
My men and I filed across to the spot where Guardsman George Nightingale was gesturing. He’d found a collection of stone vessels that were sealed at the top, resembling confectionary jars. There were about thirty in total, all caked in dirt, and it was clear by their condition that they’d been in this cave a very long time. As we began to inspect them we found they were stuffed with what felt like seeds. In the middle of each was concealed a kind of yellowing parchment, some of which was rather badly damaged.
‘This looks like wog writing,’ one of our brighter lads articulated, handing me one of the ancient manuscripts.
None of us could read the words and we hadn’t a clue what to do with them so we called for the company commander to come and examine them for himself.
‘Well, perhaps they were put here by the Palestine Survey Department,’ Major Pereira suggested, after careful consideration. ‘Leave them as they are, as they’re no doubt of some special significance.’
So, these precious relics of the past were left undisturbed for another three decades until the Dead Sea Scrolls, as they became known, were ‘discovered’ by a Bedouin boy, out searching for his stray goats. I cannot convey how many times over the years those immortal words ‘if only …’ have run through my mind.
April arrived, and after six busy and gruelling months in Palestine, we returned to resume our duties in Alexandria. Jack Davy had been busy while I’d been away and had managed to get us a thirty-minute slot on the Egyptian State Broadcasting System, the local radio station. My band mates and I were naturally over the moon by this, and when the exciting day arrived we all piled into the studio. With our eyes fixed on the red light that was to signal we were live on air, we began playing our signature tune, She’ll be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes, followed by a host of other much-loved melodies. Unfortunately, our enthusiasm ran away with us, and we raced through our programme with minutes to spare. To relieve the desperate DJ, who was frantically gesturing and mouthing ‘Carry on!’ we played chorus after chorus of our opening song.
Our little hiccup appeared to go unnoticed, and afterwards everyone said we’d put on a brilliant show. We even got headline recognition in the local papers. Wally Metcalfe, Jock Hamilton and Jimmy Norton were all mentioned by name, receiving special praise for their solo items. The best part was that the Merrymakers had given the 3rd Battalion good press in Egypt, and that meant the world to us.
It’s often surprising what a difference a couple of months can make. By July the papers were filled with news of a different kind. I was sitting in a tram on my way back to Mustapha Barracks after visiting my friends in Zizinia when the Egyptian conductor came over and pointed out an article in the local Egyptian Gazette. It stated that the Germans were preparing to invade Poland.
‘Well? What are you British going to do about this?’ he demanded.
I was unable to offer any kind of answer. The thoughts of a war were far from our minds. Had not Hitler, Mussolini and Neville Chamberlain all agreed there’d be no war? I’ll never forget the night when that wonderful news came through. We’d been invited to play for the British Royal Navy on board a ship in Alexandria Harbour. The deck had been rigged into a stage by the sailors, though all around one could see that preparations were in progress for a quick move in the event of war. The navy, at least, was ready.
Alexandria, 1939: the Merrymakers’ Harmonica Band, during one of their final performances. Paddy can be seen to the rear, on the drums.
At around 11.00 pm the captain came on stage and announced that an agreement had been reached between Hitler and Chamberlain.
‘I have returned from Germany with peace for our time,’ the prime minister had told the nation, clutching a folded piece of paper upon which was written the Anglo-German Declaration.
Great cheers rolled across the harbour as the captain relayed these words, and a feeling of relief washed over us all. My band and I were even invited to the wardroom for a celebratory drink, which we enjoyed to the full.
It was Sunday, 3 September 1939. I was off duty and lazing in a deckchair on the beach with a friend of mine from the Regular Army Reserve of Officers. The sea was calm and blue, and the sun was shining down on us. It was still summer here. My friend’s lovely wife, a German lady, had gone up to the promenade to buy ice creams for us all. The water looked tranquil and inviting, so I was about to suggest going for a quick dip when I suddenly heard something that made my stomach lurch.
‘Britain’s declared war on Germany.’
What did she just say? It couldn’t be true.
The words of my friend’s wife had sent my head into a tailspin. A chill spread throughout my body as though an unseasonably cold wind had whipped around us, causing the little hairs on the back of my neck to stand to attention. All along the beach people were looking alarmed and some were dashing back home.
‘So, what does a good soldier do now, Paddy?’ I heard my friend ask.
I didn’t know. We both rose to our feet.
‘Reports back to barracks, I suppose,’ I replied, though my voice didn’t quite sound like my own.
My friends returned to their home on the seafront and I made my way back to barracks. The guard commander quietly told me not to panic and advised me to go back to where I’d come from, as Egypt was a neutral country so the war didn’t affect us.
In Britain, however, things were changing at an alarming speed as her citizens prepared for the worst. Blackout regulations came into being. Air raid shelters were dug; children were evacuated from the big cities, and British troops were sent to France.
We in Alexandria waited with a prayer. The bitter truth was Britain wasn’t in a good position. We fell far behind Germany in terms of weapon production, and needed two things: time and allies. News was coming in that many countries in the Empire were lining up with us and I wondered if the Americans would hang fast, as they had done in the First World War. The Chamberlain government quickly gave way to one composed of all three political parties, and was called a ‘national coalition’. Mr Winston Churchill headed the government, and thanks to his motivational speeches on the radio, the British held firm. His vigour and determination was just the tonic that was needed at this desperate hour.
At Mustapha Barracks we were digging shelters and wondering how long we’d stay in Alexandria. We were just a few weeks short of completing our eighteen-month tour abroad and returning to Blighty. The war had changed all of that now.
On 11 June 1940 the Merrymakers’ Harmonica Band had been booked to make a final appearance. Standing in the wings at the Fleet Club, waiting to go on, the master of ceremonies announced to a crowded house that Italy had declared war against Britain and France, and their fighter planes were heading our way. He called last orders and bid the best of good fortune to us all.
The wives and families of our comrades were packed off to South Africa for their own safety. They tearfully left us at Sidi Gaber Railway Station, no doubt fearing that would be the last time they’d get to kiss their husbands farewell.
Just as expected, the Italians came over in droves that Saturday night and dropped plenty of bombs. Most of them fell over Sallum, a coastal village on the Libyan border, but a landmine exploded in a populated district and killed several people, mostly Italian civilians.
Taking our place in a larger unit comprising several other regiments, mainly anti-aircraft batteries, we slipped out of Alexandria in full battle order before first light. By now I was a full sergeant, and though that was a proud achievement, I was charged with the huge responsibility of safeguarding the lives of others. The thought of letting any of them down filled me with dread, but, as ever, I intended giving my best.
It’s strange what goes on inside a soldier’s head when he suddenly realizes that war, the thing he’s spent his entire life training for, is now at hand. Troops fight their best when defending their homeland, yet here I was, thousands of miles away from my own home, preparing to defend somebody else’s country. Even though Egypt was still neutral, the Egyptians were sitting on the frontiers with Italy, just waiting to be invaded.
Ali Maher Pasha, the Egyptian prime minister, was openly pro-German and I’m afraid to say that during the first few months of the war, Egypt assisted Germany in many ways. I even heard that King Farouk sent a personal telegram to Hitler, thanking him for preparing to invade his country. Whether there was truth in that, I cannot say, but the way I saw it, the Egyptians didn’t want or even appreciate our help, so why were we bothering to defend their country, risking our lives, when they were aiding our enemy?
We were told there were a thousand or so Allied troops dug in at Mersa Matruh, the great resort for the rich on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. We were to join them to help to defend the frontiers of Egypt against the advancing Italian Army, which by that time had a strong foothold in Libya. It was reassuring to know we wouldn’t be facing the enemy alone, and this was the motivation we needed to keep us going as we rolled on and on across the Egyptian wasteland.
At first glance the Western Desert looked deceptively peaceful, but the blazing sun burned down relentlessly upon us until the backs of our necks ached. After several hours the dust made our throats dry and water was scarce. The only provision we had in abundance was cigarettes, and I smoked and smoked until my tongue felt like fur.
The further we travelled the more amazed we became, as there wasn’t a single trench or a scrap of barbed wire in sight. In fact, there were no defensive preparations whatsoever; just sand and more sand, and the odd native riding on his donkey. To where he was going, goodness only knew.
We paused every so often and were told to prepare our own trenches, which had to be dug at every halt. I despaired at this job, for it felt as though we were digging our own graves. Out came our sand mats and shovels, and with sweat rolling down our bodies we heaved, shovelled and toiled beside the winding desert road, cursing throughout, as was a soldier’s prerogative. None of us could understand why this work hadn’t been carried out already, or why there was no evidence that thousands of Allied troops had already passed by. Surely, though, this was all part of the grand plan, and the real barricades were just over the horizon.
The truth was there were no defences, for there were no allies waiting for us. We were all alone; a very small force indeed, standing solo against some half a million singing foes, armed with all the modern tested weapons of warfare.
We entered Mersa Matruh late in the evening on 24 July 1940, and were surprised to find it was nothing more than a ghost town. Not a single soul was to be seen. This once thriving seaport had been reduced to a deserted settlement of roofless houses. The population had clearly evacuated before the bombs had begun to fall.
We brushed away our tracks to prevent the enemy planes from spotting us, and made our encampment for the night. The sun went down like a flaming red ball of fire, and that was when the sand fleas came out to play. We howled like wild desert dogs that night, but once I’d settled down in my ‘grave’, with my groundsheet at the bottom to keep out the damp, the itching didn’t bother me so much. With an army blanket as my pillow and my great overcoat covering me, I fell asleep, though I was awoken several times as the enemy droned overhead. I hummed a tune to keep my mind distracted as the occasional shell whistled across the sky and then thundered to the ground nearby. This explosion was the only ‘comforting’ aspect of shellfire: it was only after you heard it you knew you were still alive.
At dawn we found ourselves on the move again, this time to take up positions along the rocky escarpment that divided Egypt from Libya. Our mission was to hold fast for days, weeks, if not months, and keep the Italians at bay long enough for Britain and the Allies to spin a web in which to catch them on the Egyptian flats.
The Italians had barricaded themselves within a place called Fort Capuzzo, not far from the Egyptian frontier. This was our enemy’s strongest base in Libya, and thus one of our main targets. Having successfully managed to cut the water pipeline that fed into the fort, a secret ambush was planned, and our fighting patrol was sent in to attack. Without a sound they made their way forward towards the great stony fortress, and within seconds of reaching it our men began flushing the enemy out. The bombs from our aircraft rained down around the stronghold, and everything was covered in sand and debris. Thick columns of smoke billowed from the ruins, and we were elated by this early victory. Many of the Italian dead were left to rot, and with the heat and abundance of flies, getting too close to Fort Capuzzo wasn’t pleasant for a long time after the battle.
Summer was an ordeal in the desert. The sun beat down without pity and everything was red hot to the touch. ‘Shade’ was a forgotten word. Some of our chaps were struck down by sun blindness; and with the rays of the sun dancing across the sand, one’s mind conjured visions of refreshing silver lakes. I’d only ever read about the phenomenon of mirages before, along with the stories of circling vultures that followed the weary traveller. All of a sudden these things were no longer just myths printed on the pages of books; they were tangible hardships, ones that were now part of my everyday life.
Daily bathes in the sea helped to save our sanity but the salt aggravated our sunburn. I once saw a chap from our unit climb out of the water and peel an entire length of skin from his shoulder right down to his elbow.
Our water ration was one single bottle per day, and this was for all purposes. A morning shave was a painful art and a rub down with a damp towel served as a wash. The smallest cut left unattended could easily turn septic, though it was difficult to keep clean. Once our daily ablutions were over there was often very little left to drink, and what there was, was always red hot. Ice-cold beer was a distant memory, though various types of cigarettes were out on issue. We weren’t allowed to smoke after nightfall as a match could be seen up to 2 miles away, so we made up for a lack of nightly cigarettes during the daylight.
Daily fare consisted of breakfast, lunch and a main meal after sundown. Breakfast was half a mess tin of tea; one small portion of bacon; half a packet of army biscuits; and a slab of tinned margarine. Lunch comprised half a packet of biscuits; half a tin of bully beef; and a few sips of water. Our main meal was much the same as the one at midday, except the bully was boiled or shaped into something like an Irish stew.
Letters from home were few and far between, and letters out were always censored. Before we came out here I’d met a pretty French girl, Frannie, at one of our concerts in Alexandria. We’d only seen each other a couple of times, but one day, feeling lost and lonely stuck out in the middle of the wilderness, I wrote a love letter to her. I poured my heart and soul into every syllable of that composition. It took me hours, and a great many pages besides. When I’d finished the only officer available to censor it was a fat ex-ranker who wasn’t at all pleasant. With a grunt he took hold of my letter, settled himself down on a couple of petrol tins and read every word with seemingly utter mirth. As I stood to attention in front of him, watching the smug look spread across his face as he pored over my private words, I seethed with embarrassment. How I wished I had a match to send him soaring to kingdom come.
After what felt like hours, the officer finished reading and gave me a hard stare, before signing the pages with his pencil.
‘Shakespeare himself couldn’t have put it better,’ he remarked, dryly.
That did it. As he handed me back the letter I grabbed it from him, tore it into a thousand pieces of confetti, and marched off in a huff. I never heard from Frannie again.
August 1940 found the Battle of Britain in full swing. Though correspondence was slowly trickling in from parents and friends back home, we had no idea just how serious things really were. We were only just getting over the shock of hearing about our withdrawal from Dunkirk and it was something like a miracle to us to learn that some 200,000 British soldiers had been evacuated.
We were positioned in a cove on the edge of the Mediterranean Sea near a British stronghold called Sidi Barrani, east of the Libyan border. At about midday on Friday, 13 September I took a party of men over to the sea for our daily dip, leaving my Bren gunner on duty. As we were whiling the time away, digging crabs out of the sand with a stick, an Italian shell rocketed close overhead. When it landed, the whole earth began to quake. Unable to keep our footing, we fell to the ground and grasped hold of the sand in desperation as more explosions erupted all around us, some missing us by yards. The blasts were so forceful they lifted my entire body off the ground. We were under attack!
After a few moments we began to raise our heads. Puffs of smoke were issuing from the Italian escarpment, and we knew we had to make it back to the cove to re-join our company. We must have looked ridiculous as we scrambled to our feet, completely naked, and dashed across to our position, clinging on to our boots and uniforms for dear life. I remember thinking how awful it would have been to be captured like this, but we were spared that day, and made it back unscathed, save for a terrible ringing in our ears.
The whole of our forward troops were on the move back towards Mersa Matruh and there was no doubt in my mind that this was it: at last, the fly was being drawn towards the web, and he was buzzing over at an alarming speed.
The night was drawing in as we reached the perimeter of the deserted seaport. Having made it through the gates, we were met by a British major who told us to take up positions on each side of the road, as the town was set for a pasting that night and there was to be no movement.
The moon shone brightly after darkness had fallen. It was a clear night, perfect for bombing, and it wasn’t long before the drone of Italian aircraft could be heard. Dozens of them came over, and we were pelted left, right and centre. Fortunately no one was hurt where we were, but the brave Egyptian station master at the Mersa Matruh railway station lost both his legs. He’d refused to quit his job at the start of the war, and was later honoured with the MBE by the ambassador in Cairo.
At daybreak we were informed that the Italians had captured Sidi Barrani. This meant we were to remain in this devastated ghost town for the foreseeable future, and were to make all the necessary arrangements for a lengthy stay. My lads and I dug a big hole in the sand for us to reside in, and named it the Ship’s Hold. We divided our living space into two rooms, and sizeable ones at that. There were six of us in total and each had his own homemade wooden bed, three on each side. The other space we turned into a sitting room, complete with a wooden table and box chairs. Hanging on the walls were hurricane lamps; and we also dug a large WC at the far end of the dugout. We were relatively comfortable here, and one day I received a parcel full of books from my three good friends in Zizinia, so we started a lending library. Outside our back door we constructed a round gun pit with sandbags for walls. We cut a sloping ramp, like a tunnel, running up to the top with just enough room for two men to move up to the position where we could use our Bren to good effect.
My main job, while stationed at Mersa, was to man sentries throughout the day and night. The sentry on duty had a whistle on which he sounded short blasts in the event of aircraft approaching. However, we soon learned that the desert dogs were experts on aircraft warnings and would begin howling long before we heard the planes. One or two of the posts actually adopted a dog because they came in so handy at night when the visiting officer came round to inspect the men. The dog would start to howl, giving the chaps just enough time to hide the cards and money, as gambling was strictly forbidden.
After several long, tedious months our job began to get us down. Our numbers were slowly diminishing through sickness and injury, so I was loaned a Guardsman from general headquarters to help us out. His name was Frankie Ashton, and he lived with my men and me in the Ship’s Hold. One night Frankie’s turn came round for sentry duty so I gave him a gentle prod on the shoulder to rouse him.
‘Wake up, Frankie,’ I yawned, entering the Hold after several aching hours cooped up in the gun pit.
The Guardsman opened his eyes but made no other attempt to move at all. His face was blank and his gaze distant. I nudged and addressed him again but still he remained motionless. I suspected then something was wrong, for he was normally quick to his duties.
‘Come on, you lazy blighter, up to it,’ I said, a little firmer this time.
After a moment or two Frankie staggered to his feet, and without a word of acknowledgement disappeared towards the gun pit. Thinking nothing more of it, I returned to my bed. My mind soon began to drift and I must have dozed off. How long I was asleep, I cannot be sure, but what seemed like seconds later, Jock Hamilton came bursting in.
‘Sergeant!’ he cried.
‘What’s wrong?’ I croaked.
‘Frankie’s acting oddly. He’s … well, I think you should come take a look at him. I’m not sure what to do.’
As I followed Jock into the night air, I discerned the most beautiful singing I’d ever heard in my life. It was a man’s voice, but I couldn’t work out where it was coming from. It was as if the desert itself was singing, every note drifting around me in the gentle breeze. I couldn’t understand the words, for they weren’t English. Even the dogs were silent as they listened, entranced by this haunting lullaby. Jock led me into the gun pit, and there was Frankie in a theatrical pose belting out a ballad from an Italian opera.
‘That will do, Guardsman Ashton,’ I said. ‘Do you want to give away our position?’
‘It’s no use, sarge,’ Jock said. ‘He won’t respond. I’ve already tried.’
I had no idea what had come over my Guardsman but I knew I had to shut him up somehow. It wouldn’t have been surprising if the Italians had heard him all the way over at Sidi Barrani.
‘What is he doing?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Jock said, looking pale. ‘But the queerest thing is, sarge, Frankie can’t sing. Believe me, I’ve heard him try. And he’s never been to Italy, and as far as I know, he certainly can’t speak the lingo.’
This made no sense to me, for here he was, plain as day, serenading the life out of the Bren gun in fluent Italian. I walked over to face my unlikely Beniamino Gigli.
‘Alright, what’s all this about, Frankie?’ I demanded, but he did nothing to acknowledge he’d even heard me. I raised my voice. ‘Guardsman Ashton, you are on sentry duty. I order you to desist this nonsense at once and return to your post.’
All of a sudden Frankie wrapped his bear-like arms around my waist, picked me up as effortlessly as if I were a rag doll, and began swaying to the lyrics. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. What was going on? Normally Frankie was a shy, placid type of man. It was just as if he’d been possessed. With Jock’s assistance I was able to release myself from his grip, and we managed to steer Frankie back to his bed, where he rolled over and fell straight to sleep.
The next morning he rose for his breakfast looking as fresh as a daisy. He seemed to be acting himself but just to be sure I escorted him to the sick post. To my surprise, he returned moments later with a note saying he’d been diagnosed with stress and was to be excused duty for the rest of the day. I found this rather perplexing and went to have a word with the medical officer.
‘Lots of funny things happen in the strains of war,’ the medical officer asserted, after I’d questioned him. ‘This case isn’t unusual.’
Jock and I spoke to Frankie later on but he refused to believe a word we told him about the incident. In fact, he couldn’t remember anything at all about the night in question. He did, however, make a full recovery; so full, in fact, that his newfound gift disappeared back to wherever it had come from, and I’m sorry to say I never heard his beautiful singing voice again.
Since our withdrawal, Sidi Barrani had become one of Italy’s most fortified advanced posts. The entire area was defended by an assortment of anti-tank obstacles and anti-aircraft guns, the best technology had to offer; and our mission was somehow to recapture the town.
We weren’t too aware of the months of the year or the days of the week any more, but we could feel the weather was getting colder and suspected winter must be setting in. All that was certain was that we were preparing to slip out of Mersa Matruh under the cover of darkness and give those Italians the spanking they were asking for. My lads and I were attached to a forward company and knew it was going to be a case of ‘do or die’. Lieutenant Colonel Tom Bevan was commanding my force and if ever a man could move, it was he. Our company travelled west for what seemed like hours and eventually we went over the escarpment at a place called Sofafi.
‘Follow me and keep close,’ the major ordered; so away we went, further and further into the darkness, heading towards our fate.
We spotted derelict and dummy vehicles, placed at intervals here and there by our men so the Italians would think we were a stronger force than we really were. Drawing closer to our destination, we were instructed to move forward to a position and dig in some distance from the Italian strongpoints. With everyone in situation and our air force ready to fly in for the attack, everything seemed perfectly tied up, save for one burning question: would we live to see the dawn? All I could do was hope and pray.
At zero hour we moved forward on foot, but very little happened. We met no resistance, and it appeared as if the Italians had all cleared off already, which was worrying. Was it a trick? Sergeant John Toole from the Carrier Platoon volunteered to go forward with a vehicle to find out what was happening. He bravely entered one of the Italian forts only to find the place utterly deserted, or so it appeared. On his return journey the fort suddenly sprang to life with hundreds of fire-breathing Italians. Within seconds we were advancing, and boy, did we move. We ran into heavy bombardment from the enemy but my men and I managed to take cover behind a dip in the sandy hills. Wondering what to do, for there was no use just staying there, I called back asking if anybody had seen Lieutenant Colonel Bevan. A signal truck behind flashed a message in reply, and in so doing it gave away our position.
‘Take cover!’ I yelled.
We were belted with mortar fire. Ammunition whizzed over our heads, bursting at the top of the slope.
After what seemed like an age, the shelling and mortaring died down and my men were finally able to press forward. To our great relief, as we marched through the dusty air, we saw our forward gunners with their 25-pounder field guns belting away at the fleeing Italian Army. It was a sight for sore eyes.
The battle continued all day and well into the evening. By nightfall my little band of men were ordered to rest, though the thumping of shells, the thudding of bombs and the rattling of small arms could be heard all around.
Early next morning, after not much sleep, the jubilant-looking regimental sergeant major approached me.
‘It’s all over,’ he said with a smile and a mop of his brow.
This was welcome news.
‘What happened?’ I asked.
I could almost feel the anxiety seeping out of every pore in my body. Despite the odds, I’d survived, along with many of my friends and comrades.
‘The Wops have packed up, and we’ve taken about 6,500 of them prisoner. There they are, coming in now.’
Away on the road was column after column of prisoners being marched out of the bombarded town of Sidi Barrani. I couldn’t help but notice that almost all of them were carrying suitcases, as if they’d already packed in advance. We later learned that they were so sure of capturing Alexandria that they’d brought suitcases full of civilian clothes to wear when off duty.
The fleeing Italians left a great many things behind; and along with the prisoners, we’d also captured weapons, materials and other supplies. Of particular note was a huge collection of band instruments. It seemed we’d denied the Alexandrians a lavish victory parade by their Italian conquerors. I could have just imagined them strutting down Rue Corniche behind their massed bands, and it was satisfying to know that we, a small and ill-equipped force, had been their stumbling block. The whole of Sidi Barrani was littered with guns, lorries and tanks, and it took some time to get things under control. One or two of our lads found some peaked caps and matching coats, and astride Italian motor cycles they had the time of their lives, speeding up and down the town, giving the Italian salute to all and sundry.
The commander of the Italian forces was now in our custody. We nicknamed him General Electric Whiskers due to his large moustache. We were told our part in the war was drawing to a close, and the sooner we got the prisoners under control, the sooner we might move. I was detailed to escort a column of captives from Barrani to Mersa Matruh, where barbed wire compounds had been set up to detain them until they could be transported to the various prisoner of war camps that had been set up. This was no easy task, for there were thousands of prisoners and thousands more on their way. I began to wonder how on earth I’d achieve this hefty task.
At the main road leading towards Sidi Barrani, I spotted what looked like a broken-down Italian lorry, ideal for carrying troops in. The back was open and I could see the inside was stacked full of letters and parcels. I went around to the driver’s side to see if I could get it to start, and was surprised to find a tiny Italian soldier sitting there with a look of contentment spread across his face. I gestured for him to jump down from his seat, and he obliged. He was the shortest man I’d ever seen; he couldn’t have been any taller than my old mother.
‘Bonjourno,’ I bid him.
‘Come sta?’ he asked.
‘Molto bene, grazie,’ I replied. My Italian wasn’t fluent but I knew that meant ‘I’m very well, thank you.’
It turned out this chap could speak fewer English words than I could Italian ones, but through gestures and basic words I learned his name was Tony. He’d been employed to deliver mail to the Italians, and when the battle had started, he’d shut off the engine and stayed put. He wasn’t going to participate in the fighting, and had remained in that spot ever since.
He tried to explain his feelings with regards to Hitler, Mussolini and Winston Churchill by placing three matchsticks in the sand, one to represent each leader. He pointed to ‘Churchill’ and said: ‘Buono’, which meant ‘good’ in Italian.
His allegiance thus assured, we gave Tony the task of helping us load the truck with prisoners. Once it was full we all headed off for Mersa Matruh. The journey was long and tiring, and it took several trips over a couple of weeks before all the prisoners had been transported. Once the gruelling task was over, we thanked Tony for his assistance and allowed him to go on his way. He’d been a great help to us, and at the gates of the prison camp we waved as Tony marched off into the distance with his suitcase under his arm.
That night, the Italians dropped bomb after bomb on our camp, and we had to pack up and leave at top speed. How they knew our location was a real mystery; it was just as if they’d received a tip-off.