Into the Blue
After months in the wilderness our job in the desert was done, and the powers that be decided to send us to Cairo, where we were to be stationed at the British military barracks on base duties. A period of leave was granted before we departed, and setting off back towards Alexandria was my happiest moment in a long, long time. With my pay packet tucked neatly into a large wallet and my kit shining bright, I made my way towards the railway station.
The old desert train puffed and groaned its way across the dusty landscape, and when I arrived at Sidi Gaber Station I found that my friends at Zizinia had sent a car to collect me. I was driven to their home, where I’d been invited to stay for the next few days, and the very sight of it was like a mirage, rising up before me. I received a warm welcome from the Shakour family, who were all delighted to see me alive and well. I was able to put their minds at rest about the war, though heaven help me: the number of white lies I had to tell!
I had my first hot bath in months, and seeing my reflection again in the mirror was a most peculiar sensation. My whiskery face looked much thinner than I remembered, and extremely tanned. After changing into a loose summer suit and joining my hosts on the veranda, I savoured a delicious glass of iced Stella beer. It tasted like nectar. My bedroom smelt like fresh linen, and when I retired for the night it was a pleasure to climb into a soft bed and lay my head on a feather pillow.
The following day I telephoned one of my favourite dining places, which always offered a good cabaret show, to reserve a table for the six of us. I was astounded when my request was refused because the club was now out of bounds to ‘other ranks’. I soon learned a great deal had changed since I’d left Alexandria. Before 1939, officers and other ranks had never mixed in the same social circles, but the Second World War had altered a lot of things. The proliferation of all ranks in the city while on leave was generating friction at the local entertainment venues that were still open to everyone. This resulted in the authorities instructing the proprietors to admit officers and civilians only, excluding lower ranks of the army altogether. After everything we common soldiers had gone through in recent times, we now found ourselves being shunned so dismissively. One city centre bar even erected a sign declaring: ‘Out of bounds to dogs and other ranks’. The only places left open to the returning heroes looking to forget their troubles were the brothels and backstreet bars.
The one way of getting around this dreadful rule was to disobey orders by wearing civilian clothes. Joseph Shakour let me borrow one of his suits, and we boldly went ahead and booked a table at our restaurant. Though it was satisfying to openly defy the authorities, I kept looking around me throughout the evening, praying I wouldn’t bump into any officers who might recognize me.
Much was happening back home in England. The Battle of Britain was over. Our brave fighter pilots returned home victorious, full of spirit, determination and song.
We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line,
Have you any dirty washing, mother dear?
We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line,
’Cause the washing day is here.
Though we’d won the battle we were far from winning the war; and with the threat of a German invasion looming over every household in the land, the British public began arming themselves with anything they could lay their hands on. All eyes were cast in the direction of Hitler’s invasion barges that were supposedly moored up all along the North Sea coast, waiting to transport some half a million or so goose-stepping Huns to our shores; but the people were ready.
‘We shall fight on the beaches, in the fields, in the streets and in the hills. We shall never surrender.’ Winston Churchill’s pledge was on the lips of every man, woman and youth.
Yet Hitler stayed his hand. Germany’s failed attempt to destroy our RAF had, for the time being, at least, laid to rest any grand desire the Führer had of invading our Sceptred Isle. The fear that Churchill would fulfil his promise of setting fire to the English Channel if Gerry so much as put a single oar into the water was undoubtedly keeping the Nazis awake at night, but nobody seemed to know for sure if or when Hitler’s dreaded ‘Operation Sea Lion’ was due to commence.
It was the cusp of 1941, and we in the 3rd Battalion found ourselves stationed at Qasr el-Nil Barracks in Cairo, wearing out the barrack square with our hobnailed boots. The British Army hadn’t occupied these premises for forty years, and the generations of bugs that had settled there since the turn of the century didn’t take too kindly to our presence. Once a week we’d whip out our blowtorches and burn the blighters to a crisp, then scrub the floors from top to bottom so no marks would be left.
Thanks to the war, a great deal of money had begun pouring into the capital city. The ancient streets were thick with Allied troops on leave, and they all had one thing on their minds: spending their troubles away. As Cairo’s nightlife began hotting up, the locals started to become rich overnight. Honky-tonk bars opened up all across the city, and women down on their luck took to the streets, looking for battle-worn Tommies to kiss better. With so many thousands of troops on leave, the pimps and prostitutes began a roaring trade. The city found itself in a crazy state of slap-happiness, and things became so bad that at the height of the troubles a brothel was opened in more or less every other house on the main street through Cairo.
Egypt was the land of the quick-fingered, and pickpocketing was operated on a scale that could barely be imagined. Like in so many parts of the Middle East in those days, there was a growing resentment against occupation, and the best part of the Egyptian police force was focusing its resources on the universities, where hot-headed students were in a constant state of rebellion. The influence these boys had over the hungry masses meant that they were more or less running the affairs of the country, and this presented a grave threat to public security. Groups of well-dressed Egyptian students were regularly espied sitting outside coffee houses, sipping their drinks and talking in whispers as they observed the people passing by; and I often wondered if they ever attended to their studies.
With the police preoccupied, lawless thousands were running around the city unchecked, so my battalion was detailed to assist the military police on street patrols. Two sergeants would go out with one military police NCO; and as well as apprehending the local vagabonds, our duties included monitoring the conduct of the troops on leave. I lost count of how often I had to stop Tommy and tell him to do up his collar, or to swing his arms up.
Overall, I found Cairo to be a most unpleasant place indeed. The enchanting stories of pharaohs, pyramids and prehistoric treasures soon became obscured by clouds of flies, dirt and the ill intentions of so many of its citizens. I was marching back to barracks one day after attending a meeting at the local Royal Antediluvian Order of Buffaloes lodge when a scruffy young bootblack approached me.
‘Shoeshine, Johnny?’ he called out.
This didn’t please me in the slightest, as we in the brigade prided ourselves on cleaning our own.
‘Imshee, wallad,’ I replied, which meant: ‘go away, boy’.
To my disgust, the wallad spat all over my feet before vanishing into the crowd with a mischievous laugh. With mucus dripping over my toes, I had no option now but to get my shoes cleaned, so two young rogues began to polish them for me. Standing on top of two rickety footstools, and feeling rather silly, I waited as they rolled the bottoms of my trousers up and applied a liberal amount of sheen to my boots. Before they had chance to finish, the lads suddenly caught sight of an approaching policeman and away they fled at top speed, leaving me balancing in my bare shins several inches higher than the rest of the population. I was astonished when the passing constable finished off my shoes for me, and then held out his hand for payment when he’d done.
Further along the street I bumped into a rather suspicious-looking chap who flashed me a sinister grin.
‘Good for the stomach, Johnny,’ he said, offering me a smoke of the infamous hookah water pipe, which was no doubt filled with more than just tobacco. ‘Make you strong to fight the Germans!’
Needless to say I ignored him and carried on my way.
There was one particularly filthy area of the city that was home to the spies, spivs, thieves and murderers, all living in close proximity to one another. It reeked of sickness and decay; and it was here where a comrade and I were sent on patrol one evening. We couldn’t have taken more than a few steps along the road when an irate Greek came rushing up to complain that some Australian troops were wrecking his joint. We followed him along the grimy backstreet and up a flight of wooden stairs that led into a brothel. The long, dark corridor was lined with closed doors, and I shuddered to think what was going on behind them. As we passed, one of the doors creaked open and a pretty, painted face peered round at us. The girl’s golden hair was bunched up in ringlets on the top of her feathered head, and the scent of perfume was intoxicating.
‘Hello, shortie,’ she taunted, fluttering her long eyelashes at me. ‘How did you get into the Guards?’
I tried to ignore her giggles as we made our way towards the dimly lit bar at the back of the building, where we found a gathering of Aussie soldiers, somewhat the worse for drink. From the look of things they’d smashed a door in, and one of the patrons had a large purple lump billowing from his forehead. After a firm reprimand and a threat to report them to their commanding officer if they didn’t pay for the damage, the bother was settled; but just as we were about to leave I noticed the tallest Australian had his jacket undone.
‘Button up your jacket, soldier!’ I instructed. ‘You look a disgrace!’
The soldier, it seemed, didn’t take too kindly to a little British Guardsman issuing him orders. This gorilla of a man suddenly reared over me, revealing his enormous stature, and his icy stare morphed into a smirk.
‘Are you speaking to me, runt?’ he growled, to a ripple of laughter from the other Australians.
I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. In all my long career I’d never before been addressed with such disrespect.
‘May I remind you, private, you are …’
Before I could finish, the giant grabbed hold of my collar and lifted me into the air, almost raising me above his head. I thought he was going to throw me out of the window, but my screams of protest alerted him to the fact he’d succeeded in putting the wind up me. Without another word he set me back down, did up his jacket and strolled away down the corridor with his pals, all laughing their heads off.
I glanced sheepishly at my fellow sergeant.
‘In future,’ he said, ‘I’ll do the talking. No one will ever take any notice of you.’
Across the sea in Italy, Mussolini was still reeling from the crushing defeat of his army at Sidi Barrani. In need of a new legion of warriors to reinforce his dwindling numbers, the Italian prime minister looked to Germany for assistance. Upon Hitler’s personal command, a new expeditionary unit was formed. The Afrika Korps was an elite fighting force under the leadership of the decorated Field Marshal Erwin Rommel. His distinguished capabilities earned him the nickname ‘The Desert Fox’, for he was cunning, stealthy and certainly not a foe to tangle with.
It was springtime 1941. I’d just stepped outside the Al’ Americano after a few drinks with some pals, when we were stopped by a military police patrol.
‘Report to your unit forthwith,’ we were told.
This sounded serious, and soon everything became clear. Arriving back, we were informed that we were to return to the Western Desert post-haste. There was no time to lose, for the Afrika Korps were sweeping across the same region where we’d belted the Italians. Rommel had struck south of the Libyan city of Benghazi, pushing our forces back to the Egyptian border. We still held the Libyan port of Tobruk, though the fate of the soldiers defending the town hung by a thread. Several legions had tried to relieve the troops, but all attempts had failed, and Jerry had captured the Egyptian barracks at the top of Halfaya Pass, or ‘Hellfire Pass’, as we’d renamed it, making passage impossible. It was my unit’s mission to clear the way.
After a bone-shaking journey, we arrived at a place called Marble Arch in the midst of the Western Desert. We were all fighting fit, but still hadn’t learned to conquer the desert’s khamsins: scorching, unbearable winds that blew through the sands. The Arabs reckoned the devil himself was present during such sandstorms, and this I could well believe. We fell foul of these hellish weather conditions many times as the wind blew towards us at ferocious speeds. Many of the chaps were sick; nostrils, mouths and ears were filled with sand, and even our weapons became clogged with this wretched stuff. Movement was impossible and we were pinned down at Marble Arch for forty-eight hours while we waited for the storm to ebb away.
I’d managed to hang on to two bottles of Stella beer that I’d smuggled along with me. I buried them in the sand, hoping they’d cool, but each time I touched them the glass burnt my fingers. It was agonising to feel so desperately thirsty yet not be able to drink. I slumped to the floor in despair, feeling wretched, even wondering if life was worth living. I lay there for goodness knows how long, hating the bloody war and everything about it. Groans of misery were audible around me, but I hadn’t the will to care. The only consolation, if you could call it that, was that the enemy must have been suffering the same as we were.
On the third day the wind dropped and peace descended. With the sun shining down from the clear blue skies, it was difficult to believe we’d experienced such an unworldly storm. It was as if we’d awoken from the dead.
Jerry had firmly ‘dug in’ around the Sallum Barracks on the Egyptian frontier. As night fell, we slipped up the desert slopes to join the forward companies in a surprise attack. Our drivers were Indian, and unfortunately a mix-up in communication meant the timing of the attack didn’t go as expected, so our plan failed. Our own artillery ended up shelling our forward company, with several casualties. The whole operation was a complete disaster, and to top it all, the Jerries must have known we were coming, for their guns were fixed; they’d been waiting for us. Our lads were cut down as they charged into battle. We lost some fine men that night.
Morning dawned over the escarpment and few of our chaps had returned. One poor soldier was left gravely wounded between two sand dunes. There he lay in the searing heat, bleeding to death, until he was discovered some hours later, barely alive. The Jerry machine-gunners held fire while a brave Guardsman went out and brought him back. There was no Victoria Cross for him or the dying soldier.
I was ordered to move across to the extreme left-hand corner of the escarpment, where my men and I were to watch for any movement from Jerry. It was a pleasant morning as we drove across to set up our positions; one would have hardly believed we were in the middle of a war. Across the way, the exotic long-beaked birds were going about their business, warbling and probing into the sand in search of a tasty morsel or two as we began mounting our weapons.
Then, without warning, eight fearsome black shapes rolled up to the edge of the escarpment and belched fire towards our positions below. They were Jerry tanks. Within seconds we were surrounded by an inferno. Guns were knocked out; overhead shells burst into a thousand splinters that rained down around us, and our brave, dying gunners continued shooting as they went down. One of our weapons opened up and with its first two rounds it knocked out two of their tanks. These powerful war machines just rolled over the top of the escarpment as if they were toys.
I turned my truck around and raced as fast as I could across the salt flats to the commanding officer’s truck. I found him standing there, staring straight ahead.
I saluted. ‘Enemy tanks on the left, sir.’
‘Yes, I heard them,’ he said in a dismissive tone that clearly indicated that was the end of the conversation.
So, that was it. There were to be no reinforcements; my men and I were to face the enemy alone.
I dived back into my truck and took up a position covering the road leading to the escarpment, and there I waited, gun at the ready. I didn’t have to wait for long, but it wasn’t Jerry who came towards me. Our own trucks began rolling down from over the top, one after the other, all of them devoid of troops, save for the drivers. I stopped one and found a friend of mine from the Cairo days; we’d both attended the same Buffaloes lodge. He was covered in blood and was badly wounded, his arm hanging to his body by a string of flesh.
‘Jerry’s coming,’ he managed to utter in that, his dying breath.
It’s funny what the hands start to do before the mind begins to function. Before I knew what I was doing, I found myself tearing up the letters I had in my haversack. Some were from Rosie Malone, the girl I’d known in England, who’d sent me a few words since her beau had moved on; but most were from my mother. The same thought kept spinning in my head, over and over again: ‘At least if I’m to be taken prisoner, Jerry won’t be able to track down my loved ones.’
After what seemed like an age, the commanding officer gave the order for us to withdraw. For some reason or other, as we started to pack up and flee, most of the lads began laughing like drains. What there was to laugh about, I didn’t know, but before long we were all joining in. I think we just laughed for laughing’s sake; otherwise we’d have drowned in our own tears.
The year 1941 was drawing to a close and we were on the move again, though where to was anybody’s guess. Since the day we joined, we Guardsmen never asked questions; we simply did what we were told, knowing that one way or another everything had to end, either on a battlefield in the prime of our lives or as old men in our beds, having shared the stories of our great adventures with our grandchildren.
The grapevine had it that somewhere out west a secret allied army was forming under the command of a legendary figure named Vladimir Peniakoff who’d once worked in Cairo as an engineer for a sugar manufacturer. In his spare time he’d made a remarkably detailed study of the Western Desert. Popski, as he was dubbed, began instructing his own band of men on how to blow dumps, cut off the enemy’s supplies and pass valuable information back to the Allies. This legion went under the name ‘Popski’s Private Army’, and did much to help the war effort. Their first mission was to sabotage the Fox’s supply of fuel and other rations; and the knowledge that they were out there somewhere, hounding the Jerry wherever they could find him, lifted our spirits more than I can say.
Popski’s men were based at a place known as the Siwa Oasis, which sounded much more inviting than where we were headed. We were making our way towards Sofafi, a place that didn’t even deserve a name. It was bare, rocky and unremarkable, and where even the regimental sergeant major commented that if he’d known there were such places in the world, he’d never have enlisted.
In true Guards’ style we shook off any personal feelings and tried to make the best of this bleak situation. After an evening supper of the usual warmed bully and tin of tea, we sat around our ‘Fitted for Wireless’ truck and listened, entranced, to the heart-warming notes of our heroine, Vera Lynn. Next came the stirring words of Winston Churchill, urging us to tighten our belts by one more hole and carry on with as much grit and determination as we could muster. He was followed by the voice of Alvar Lidell, telling us the latest news from London, to which we listened intently before rolling ourselves up in a single blanket to keep each other warm and attempted to sleep.
Except for a few aircraft attacks, there was little excitement at Sofafi, and I was glad when we finally left. We moved further and further into the west, onwards to nowhere. We saw nobody as we negotiated miles and miles of nothing. Strange thoughts pass through the minds of men, especially during the stresses of combat; and as we travelled through the abyss I remember thinking this was the perfect place to build cities to house all the homeless people in the world. I left my thoughts in the desert wasteland, and we hurried on through the great swirls of dust that shot up around us. I swore that if I ever got through this war, I’d never again go to places where sand could be found.
We stopped and made camp as night fell, and, as ever, the stars hung like diamonds from a midnight curtain. They seemed so close it felt as if we could reach up and touch them. With a full and troubled mind, it was tricky to sleep. Remembering about a half-smoked cigarette somewhere in one of my pockets, I started to grope around. It was then I felt something slide past my hand with an ominous hiss. Striking a match, I saw I had two asps for bedfellows in my little hole in the sand. Needless to say, I quickly dug another hole.
The next morning reports reached us that there were four Jerry tanks patrolling the area, and we were ordered to keep a watchful eye open. Unluckily for us, the Jerries spotted us first, and as soon as we were in range they opened fire. Machine-gun ammunition exploded all around, and four of our gunners were hit. Gunner Sheldon, of the Royal Artillery, was seriously hurt. The bullets from the tank had ripped the flesh from his face, and he died in my arms.
I emptied his pockets into a large handkerchief and removed his two identity discs from around his neck. The brown disc was tied to the small bundle of belongings, and the other – the green one – I tied to his left wrist, as we’d been instructed to do in such situations. As I wrapped the dead gunner in a blanket, one of the other lads began to dig a grave. Together we committed his body to the earth and covered the remains. In my mind I was taken back to a time when my family and I were on holiday by the beach, and we used to bury each other in the sand for laughs.
When we’d done, I noticed an old photograph on the ground. I picked it up and was greeted by the sight of this poor young man smiling up at me. I knew at once it must have slipped out of his pocket. The cheery likeness had evidently been captured a few years before the war. He was posing hand in hand with his wife and two young children, a boy and a girl, strolling along a seaside promenade. I’ve never forgotten the image of their happy faces, nor the inscription on the photograph: ‘With all our love, darling. Pray God you will be safe and home soon.’
In that moment, if I could have got my hands around the throats of Hitler and Mussolini, they would have died much sooner than they were destined to.
‘Come on, Paddy,’ I heard someone shouting.
‘Get moving, sergeant,’ another voice commanded. ‘You’re holding up the convoy.’
The wind was howling and sand was biting into our cheeks, getting up our nostrils and in our mouths, but I was determined that my fallen comrade was going to have a headstone. So, together with the lad who helped me dig the grave, we constructed one out of an empty petrol barrel and painted his name, rank and number on it. We placed a couple of large rocks on top to protect the grave in the hope of keeping the jackals off. I recorded its coordinates on a map for sending to the Imperial War Graves Commission, so they could find him after the war and re-bury him properly, side by side with all his fallen brothers.
I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I just lay there, suddenly realising it was Christmas Eve and wondering if the man’s wife and children were decorating their tree in faraway England, thinking about Daddy and wondering what he’d be doing on Christmas Day.
I was standing by my truck, waiting to know what our next move was to be, when I was sent for by Lieutenant Colonel John Moubray.
‘Have you any idea what’s happened to my WC stand, Sergeant Rochford?’ he asked.
I blinked in surprise. The commanding officer always carried this wooden stand around with him wherever we went, for his own personal use.
‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t, sir.’
‘Then I’d like you to go and find out,’ he said, waving his hand in dismissal.
Perplexed, and having no idea where to even begin, I went to ask our medical officer, John Eyre, for advice, but he, too, was just as stumped as I was.
‘The last time I saw the wretched thing was yesterday, at our last position,’ he informed me, scratching his head.
Being a key witness, I took John to report back to the commanding officer, and he told him exactly what he’d just told me.
‘Well then, please take your truck and locate it for me,’ Lieutenant Colonel Moubray said, as if we should have thought of this earlier.
Ammunition was still falling and most of it was landing in the area where we last remembered witnessing the squatting-down of the commanding officer; but orders were orders, however dangerous or ludicrous they seemed. Dodging shot and shell, we combed the desert and duly found the lost WC, recovering it without injury. We expected at least a hint of praise when we returned in triumph, but even that, it transpired, was too much to hope for.
‘Make sure it’s not lost again,’ the commanding officer simply directed before dismissing us both.
Of all our wartime duties, guarding the commanding officer’s privy had to be the most ridiculous one of all.
It seemed, however, we had it easy. Back in Britain, the government was at the end of its tether with the Egyptian authorities, who were doing little to help us win the war. The British Ambassador to Egypt, Sir Miles Lampson, was ordered to give a final ultimatum to King Farouk. In short, he was to dismiss his pro-German prime minister, Hussein Sirri Pasha, and replace the entire government with a new regime. If Farouk failed to comply, he was to lose the throne. Naturally, the brazen young king was enraged, but Abdin Palace had been surrounded by a wall of British Army tanks and armoured cars with weapons that had the power to blow the palace to kingdom come, taking the Royal Family with it. Farouk had no choice but to agree. The wily Mustafa el-Nahas Pasha, leader of the Wafd Party, was duly appointed prime minister, for Britain was confident she could twist this chap’s arm if need be. Nahas had, after all, been one of the political leaders who’d signed the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty, thereby earning a degree of trust with the British.
By giving in so willingly to these demands, Farouk had hammered the first nail into his own coffin. The once popular young monarch was now being openly derided by his subjects for showing such weakness, and the ultimatum had served to breed even more hatred towards Britain. The young and impressionable Egyptian officers who were coming into the army were riled and angry. Gamal Abdel Nasser was among them, and he wasn’t one to take things lying down.