From Carbrook to Naples

WARTIME EXPERIENCES

1939 - 46

'The day War broke out', as comedian Robb Wilton used to say, was the day of the Straw family day out. We had hired a coach and were going to spend the day on and by the Trent at Laneham Ferry. It was a beautiful morning and a glorious day of warm sunshine and the bluest of blue skies. Before we left home we heard Neville Chamberlain's broadcast message to the Nation informing us that he had sent an ultimatum to Herr Hitler that if he did not cease hostilities against Poland a state of War would exist between Great Britain and Germany. We had not illusions as to the outcome of this request. Nevertheless the 40 odd Straws and their adherents set out determined to enjoy their excursion and each others' company regardless of what the future might hold. If War came today who knows when the family would be together again, and who would be missing the next family outing? And so we enjoyed the sunshine, the laughter, the shining river, the grassy banks and all the beautiful day, except for the sombre moment when, crowded round a cottage door we listened to the sad voice of Chamberlain announcing that no reply had come from German Chancellor and that therefore Great Britain was at war with Germany. 'Everything that I have worked for', he said 'Everything that I have hoped for, everything that I have believed in during my public life has crashed into ruins'. It was not a speech to rouse the nation: it was left to another, a greater man, to put courage into the heart of the nation, and stiffen its resolve. Such a man was Winston Churchill.

At the end of this momentous day we boarded the coach for home: as we drove down Prince of Wales Road, the whole Don Valley lay at our feet, clear and unclouded as it could be only on Saturday and Sunday evenings. This evening there was one great difference in the scene, at once comforting and disturbing; the valley was crowded with the grey, buoyant shapes of the barrage balloons turning gently in the light breeze and reflecting the glow of the setting sun.

During the night we were awakened out of a deep sleep by the wailing of air raid sirens. We had heard these during daytime trials, but in the middle of the night, between waking and sleeping, they had a sinister, bloodcurdling note not noticed before. At this time my cousin Alice was keeping house for Uncle Fred and myself. We dressed hurriedly and dashed across the street to the nearest Anderson shelter. Mr and Mrs Scarratt and several neighbours were already there and the burden of the conversation was that Hitler had lost no time in beginning his aerial attacks on Britain. After a short time, however, the 'allclear' sounded and we all returned to bed. The local morning paper announced that the alert was a false alarm. Was it really the result of a shaky finger on the button, or had the marauding planes been driven back and the 'false alarm' story invented for morale purposes? This is what we asked ourselves.

The next seven months were what were known as the 'phoney' war. The expected onslaught on Britain by the Luft waffe did not materialise. Hitler was too busy with Poland and with dividing the spoils with Stalin, while later he invaded Norway and Denmark. This latter campaign resulted in an abortive landing of British troops on Norwegian soil, and their dismal withdrawal ending in complete German victory. Our troops in France were kicking their heels, whilst the French were manning their Maginot Line defences in the mistaken belief that they were impregnable. On the 10th May 1940 news came that the attack on the West had begun and that German troops were streaming across Holland; that night the King sent for Winston Churchill and asked him to form a Government. The phoney war was over, a vacillating and ineffectual Prime Minister was replaced by a courageous and resourceful leader who would rally the Nation at its most crucial and 'finest' hour. But I am running ahead of myself. We shall reach the 10 May 1940 later in my story.

Some weeks after the beginning of the War I received notice that on a date in October I was to attend at the local Employment Exchange to be registered with the 22 age group for service in H.M. Forces. When I informed my boss of this he asked me if I wanted him to write to the appropriate authority claiming that I was employed on work of national importance (as the company itself was being engaged in forgings for the Air Ministry, Ministry of Supply and Navy). He was very pleased when I refused his offer and said that the company could surely find elderly incapacitated, or female clerks to take over my job, and that I would prefer to do my duty to the country in the Forces. I thus registered for War service giving, for my preference, the Army.

In December 1939 I was requested to attend the Cutlers Hall for a medical examination on New Years Day 1940. Just before Christmas I went down with the worst attack of influenza I can remember having. It was only two days before the medical that I felt able to get up and sit by the fire. I suppose I ought to have applied for a postponement but I attended on the appointed day and was adjudged A1 although my weight was down to 7 stones 7lbs (after 2 months in the army I was up at 10 stones, a stone heavier that I had ever been. The result, no doubt, of regular exercise, fresh air and no nonsense Army food).

THE ARMY

TRAINING IN HUDDERSFIELD

On the 18th January 1940, in the midst of the worse winter for decades, I was called up to the 2/7th Battalion of the Duke of Wellington's (West Riding) Regiment, Motto 'Virtutis Fortuna Comes', literally translated 'Bravery the comrade of Good luck', or more popularly 'Fortune favours the Brave'. A Regiment noted for long service in India hence its elephant lapel badges - and for it s prowess in inter-services Rugby football and boxing.

The morning was cold and grey with snow lying on the pavements as I walked up Clifton Street to meet Mr Hartle - Vera's father - who was to accompany me to the railway station, being on night shift that week. The only person I saw on the street was Mrs Rivers who said 'Good luck, lad, look after yourself'. I only needed the clothes I was wearing, so my little compressed paper overnight case contained only spare vest and pants, a clean shirt, handkerchiefs, writing paper and envelopes, shaving tackle, the New Testament they had given me at chapel, and a steel mirror my father had used in the trenches during the first World War. When we arrived at Victoria Station (no longer in existence) the platform was crowded with young men of my own age, all carrying little cases or parcels. Some were accompanied by their wives or sweethearts, or by mothers, fathers or other relatives. Vera would have liked to come and see me off but she couldn't get leave off work, and in some ways I was glad she was spared the ordeal. John Armitage came to say 'so long' which was very good of him. There was no one on the train that I knew but I struck up a conversation with a young chap who was being called up to the R.A.M.C. - Royal Army Medical Corps, cruelly nicknamed in the first World War ' Rob All My Comrades', because there were maliciously accused of robbing the dead or dying who came into their care. As many of these brave lads were conscientious objectors, Quakers some of them, this was a shocking calumny. Arriving in Leeds, we marched a mile or so to Gibraltar Barracks where we were to be sorted like so many letters and posted to our units (an undeliberate pun!). Having given my name and future Regiment I was told to wait around until my name was called. This was ten o'clock in the morning: at eight in the evening I was eventually called, together with about 20 others, and paraded back to the railway station. By this time I had experienced the novelty of drinking tea out of a mess-tin, and I had made a friend. This was a large, fresh-complexioned chap from Chichester, called Dougie Dart. He had been called up to Leeds from Hull where he had been working as a Customs Officer, boarding ships and searching them for contraband goods. In those days it was more likely to be tobacco, spirits, precious stones and silk than hard drugs. It is funny what the memory retains: I clearly remember him saying that when he first went in to digs he used to be terribly embarrassed putting out his laundry for his landlady because of what we now include under the euphemism 'biological stains'.

It was, of course, dark when we boarded the train for our unknown destination - could it be Cornwall or perhaps Scotland? and in the blackout we could see no names on the stations through which we rushed. We were not very long in finding out: the train stopped, two N.C.O.s came into the carriages, checked that we were all 'Dukes', marched us out of the station, and there we were - in Huddersfield! It was bitterly cold as we marched through the darkened streets singing, with youthful enthusiasm, to our destination. This proved to be the Yorkshire Dragoons' (Territorials) Drill Hall in Fitzwilliam Street, a medium sized hall with a stage at one end and a balcony at the other. It was about 10 o'clock.

We were ushered into a small sideroom where there was a heap of rough hessian palliasse covers: alas there was no straw left - what irony - and no more available that night. There were two dingy army blankets each, however, so Dougie and I decided to pool our resources by using the empty palliasse covers and two blankets to lie on, and two blankets to cover us, using our civilian clothes as pillows apart from our overcoats which we used as auxiliary blankets. As we were the last party to arrive the main part of the hall was pretty well covered with 'beds', so we made ourselves as comfortable as we could on the balcony and, as there was no sign of food or drink, decided to settle down for the night. I was in no way brimming over with contentment having left home and fiance for an unknown and precarious future - and being hungry into the bargain! Sleep, however, was not long in coming. But it didn't last very long!

About midnight we were awakened by shouts and the banging of doors: all the lights of the hall came on and in marched - a trifle unsteadily - an officer (the Orderly officer we discovered), and two Sergeants. After enquiring whether we were comfortable, which we were to a limited degree considering the lack of straw in our palliasse covers, he asked us if we had had supper, which we hadn't! He thereupon called out the cookhouse staff from their no doubt warm and comfortable beds and ordered them to make us cocoa and give us a doorstep slice of bread. I can't remember what was on the bread but whatever it was it was most acceptable and satisfied the pangs of hunger we had been trying to forget in sleep. After this we would have been happy to settle down to sleep again. But no! We were to be 'entertained' by the 'dis-orderly trio'. We had to join in singing 'Bless 'em all', 'Roll out the Barrel' and a new song to us which we were to hear hundreds of times in the next six years. This was 'The Quartermaster's Stores', an Army song of many and variable verses, often obscene, but with a constant chorus. Here is a respectable sample (adjectives can be changed according to taste or lack of it) -

Verse There were rats, rats as big as tabby cats
In the stores, in the stores
There was cheese, cheese that brought you to your knees
In the Quartermaster stores

Refrain My eyes are dim I cannot see
I have not brought my specs with me
I have no...ot brought my specs with me

The remainder of the impromptu concert consisted of dirty stories, and an impersonation of Adolf Hitler which would have been banned by any censor however broadminded. Like the Kaiser in the 1914/18 War, Hitler was first portrayed in the popular press as a much over rated figure of fun, and ended as a detested embodiment of evil. I often wondered whether this was a flaw in our national character, as witness the childish popular songs of the 'phoney' war, 'We're going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line', 'Run, rabbit, run' and 'Who do you think you are kidding Mr Hitler' etc but perhaps it was a strength and not a weakness.

Eventually the 'entertainers' ran out of steam, and we settled down again to sleep 6 am came too quickly and with it the exhortations of the 'Regular Army' N.C.O.s to 'rise and shine', 'get those cold feet on to the warm floor' and other less choice injunctions.

Bundles of blankets unrolled to reveal their occupants, heavy eyed and tousled-haired, scratching themselves, yawning and blinking in the light of the naked light bulbs. There was a general reluctance to move but the fear that something dire might befall us if the N.C.O.s returned spurred us into action. There was a rush to use the limited ablution facilities, and the difficulty in getting washed and shaved (in cold water) in such crowded conditions made me resolve to be up at the first notes of Reveille, or before if possible, to have a wash and shave in comparative comfort. I stuck to that resolve all the time we were in training. After ablutions an N.C.O. came round and showed us how to fold our blankets to Army regulation shape and size. Later, when we had got our full equipment, we were shown how they were to be displayed on and around the blankets for morning inspection. 'Stand by your beds' became the first order of the day after Reveille. Woe betide you then if everything was not squared up in military fashion, your spare boots gleaming brightly and the exposed buttons on your greatcoat dazzling with reflected light. We were beginning to know the true meaning of 'bull'. On this first morning, however, we were treated very gently: we were led off to the mess room and there allocated our tables, plain wooden trestle tables accommodating ten men. We were to take it in turn, on a daily basis, to be waiter to our mess mates: this was job I didn't relish at all. All eyes were fixed on the portions served out by the 'waiter' to ensure that no one received a larger portion of, say, mashed potatoes than anyone else, or that no-one was given short measure. This first morning, as we had not yet been issued with mess tins, we were given plates. The first course was porridge, sweetened, in the absence of sugar with black treacle! This was followed by bacon and egg, and fried bread, and a mug of very strong tea sweetened with condensed milk. At home there were quite a lot of things that I didn't eat, onions, carrots and cabbage being especially disliked. The Army cured me of all that ! Hours of hard exercise in the fresh air worked up tremendous appetites and I thankfully ate everything that was put in front of me.

After this first breakfast we were paraded into the drill Hall where we were to give our personal details to one of a number of N.C.O.s who were seated behind a long trestle table. Here we - were also given our Army number, one that is etched on my memory, 4618821. One of the questions asked was, 'Civilian occupation?'. When I answered 'Book-keeper', the eyes of the elderly sergeant in front of me lost their look of boredom. 'Good', he said 'You'll come in very handy when the flat season starts'. He was most disappointed when I explained the difference between a book-keeper and a bookmaker, and I'm sure I went down in his estimation. My occupation was remembered, however, a few weeks later when they set up a Battalion canteen and I was detailed to run it and keep the accounts.

It appeared that the formalities were now over: we were now definitely and unretrievably (short of a miracle) in the Army, though we were told on many occasions in the future that we were not b.... soldiers, but that, by God, they would make us soldiers before they'd finished!

Our next port of call was the Quartermaster's stores. Here we were fitted (ha ha) with our uniforms - one set of battledress and one of working denim - two vests, two shirts (no collars - or ties - for other ranks until 1945), two pairs of long johns, one pullover, one pair of boots, one pair of plimsolls, pair of braces, one forage cap and the cap badge to go with it. We were then issued with our steel helmet, greatcoat, mess-tins, cutlery, button-stick, housewife (no, not a camp follower, this one was -pronounced 'hussif' and was a hold all with thread, needle, pins etc for minor mending and darning operations), gas mask in exchange for our 'budgie boxes' and gas cape and groundsheet. Later in the day we attended at the Armoury to collect our rifles, Lee Enfields of 1914/1918 vintage which had been in store for years and which we therefore had to spend hours degreasing and cleaning before they could be used. This kind of chore, together with cleaning and shining of boots, buttons and bayonet scabbards etc were done in the spare time between tea and bedtime. Many were the hours sat 'boning' our boot toe-caps to remove the orange peel surface of the leather, with toothbrush handle, shoe polish and spit, to achieve the mirror finish so beloved by the sergeant major. The same technique was later applied to our bayonet scabbards; in this case the problem was to remove the grease in which they had been stored. It was some weeks before we got the latter, however, with the webbing equipment we needed to complete the fighting man's outfit: belt and strapping, large (back) pack, small (side) pack, two large magazine pouches - large enough for Bren ammunition magazines as well as clips of .303 rounds - and bayonet 'frog'. And I forgot one important item of equipment we received - the kit bag.

It didn't strike me at the time but I have since thought that it was more than a little unfair that someone of my height and weight should have had to carry the same weight of equipment as men much taller and heavier than I was. I must have been tougher than I thought!

The rest of that first day was given up to lectures and demonstrations on the use of our equipment, and we were initiated into the delights of square-bashing and arms drill, although the artic conditions outside continued for weeks on end and it was only towards the end of March that we could extend our training to include fieldwork and other essentially outdoor activities.

It was so cold that when we were able to venture out to do arms drill on the street behind the Hall, we could only manage five minutes of drill at a time before grounding our rifles and running up and down the street slapping each other on the back to restore the circulation in our hands and feet. Handling rifles in sub-zero conditions is no laughing matter. Similarly when we were marched down to the Public Baths for our morning P.T. session it was a matter of slipping, sliding and falling down rather than a disciplined march.

Midway through February the roads out of Huddersfield were in a very bad state and the road to Wakefield and Barnsley was completely blocked by snow at the village of Flockton. Huddersfield Corporation asked for the help of the Army to clear the road and we were sent, with a supply of Corporation shovels, and a packed lunch, to do our stuff (we were promised Union rates of pay, but what materialised was a packet of fags each - and I didn't even smoke!) When we arrived within walking distance of the blockage we found that there were drifts six feet high - no exaggeration. By lunchtime we were wet through but reasonably warm from our exertions spurred on by the sight of the local pub on the other side of the drifts. Our only amusement of the morning was the sight of our officer falling through the snow. He had been standing on the top of high drift giving instructions ignorant of the fact that one of his men, out of sight, was deliberately undercutting the drift to the point where the surface gave way. The officer landed on his feet, unhurt in all but his dignity! I suppose all the snow digging, two days of it, with the rest of our physical activities, P.T. etc was good stamina training. I know I had never felt so fit in all my life: I had even got rid of my previously chronic catarrh.

To return to that first week. When we were issued with our uniform we were given brown paper and string with which to send home our 'civvies'. Because we Sheffield chaps were nearer home than the rest of the 'intake' many of them from Hull - we were given a pass to go home on the Saturday lunchtime until 'lights out' on Sunday. This was a pleasant surprise and no one was more delighted than Vera when I walked through the door, resplendent in, and not a little self-conscious of, my brand new uniform. I had a different kind of surprise, however, when I arrived back in barracks at about nine o'clock on Sunday evening to give in my pass to the Orderly Corporal. There waiting for me was a particularly nasty corporal - an exception to the others - who said I was on a charge for being Absent without Leave, and for failing to report for cookhouse duties on Saturday night. It gave me great satisfaction to produce my pass, but I insisted in handing it over to the Orderly Corporal myself. I didn't want it to mysteriously disappear.

Most week-ends thereafter, however, I did disappear after morning church parade on Sundays to catch the bus to Sheffield. It meant I had only six hours at home but I felt it was worth all the trouble. Before I slipped off I made certain that I was not up on Orders for any duties or fatigues. You have to learn quickly in the Army to survive!

One thing above all others that makes life in the Army bearable, and often enjoyable, is the comradeship, the esprit de corps you find, and help to make, in your unit, section or platoon. I was very fortunate in finding, so quickly, a friend like Dougie Dart, but there were many others, some whose faces I can still see but whose names I can't recall. I do remember of course Harry Yates, whom I got to know because his mother was a colleague of Vera's in the Girls Brigade; Pat O'Brien, Gerry Winters whose father was a pawnbroker at Upperthorpe, Eric Smith whom I still see at the Victoria Hall, and a good friend who died, sadly, in his fifties, Ron Gibson. Other friends I met up with later in my service were Don Pashley, still in Sheffield, who was a contemporary at K.E.S. and Ron Eady, a professional entomologist at the Kensington Natural History Museum, who died suddenly about seven years ago. All these, and many more, helped me through the War as I hope I was able to help them in some way. My greatest friend, whom I met in the Dukes but from whom I was separated from 1941 until after the War, was Wilson Jackson, who now lives with his wife Bessie, near Bournemouth. Vera was godmother to their son, David, and I am godfather to their daughter, Diana.

But I am digressing. As the weather started to improve at the end of March our training took on a more outdoor practical and tactical aspect. We had done some small bore (.22) rifle shooting in the indoor range under the Drill Hall, but the time had come to do with real thing. We took the train to Slaithwaite (pronounced Slowit with the 'ow' as in 'how') and trudged up the steep and rugged path across the peaty Pennine path to Marsden where there was a full scale rifle range. When I looked at the distance between the butts and the targets on the opposite hillside I couldn't imagine how anyone could possible hit the target let alone the bull. I remember my apprehension as I took first pressure on the trigger before giving the final squeeze : how violent would the recoil be? I ought not to have worried, it wasn't all that bad, and my shooting was well up to average. It was a grey, raw day with the wind blowing the tops of the snow remaining on these sodden gritstone moors. More than welcome, therefore, was the hot cup of tea and the sandwich that was laid on for us in the shooting lodge. The most tedious part of the day lay ahead of us with the task of boiling out our rifle barrels, drying them and oiling them in preparation for the rigorous examination they would undergo on the morrow. (The first duty of an infantryman is to check the number on his rifle, he doesn't want to go to the trouble to clean someone else's).

Then came number of field exercises on one of the local golf courses. Some of these were at night and the results would have been hilarious had one not realised what tragic consequences there had been if it had been the real thing. A sobering thought.

About this time it was decided that the Signals Section ought to be brought up to full strength so likely candidates were chosen from the Rifle companies to train as signallers. Amongst the chosen few were we four Sheffielders, Harry Yates, Pat O'Brien, Gerry Winters and myself. We were therefore transferred to Headquarters Compony who were stationed at Milnsbridge a few miles outside Huddersfield. Here we began to study Morse Code, the operation of field telephones and the art of laying lines across the country. It was very interesting and I enjoyed the work but events overtook us and I never became a signaller.

The event that changed the direction of my service in the Dukes was the posting of the Battalion overseas. We were part of the 46th Division (the Oak Tree Division because of our shoulder flashes), and according to Orders this Division was going overseas, not as combatants but to finish its training which had been so badly interrupted by the appalling weather from January to March.

We were sent on embarkation leave in mid-April and returned to Milnbridge to complete our preparations for overseas service. The only thing I remember about this was a 3 mile march into Huddersfield to go through the gas chambers (So that we should know what the various poison gases smelt like) and the 3 miles march back all uphill - in full equipment including large pack, rifle and steel helmet and wearing (the last straw) gas masks. A Number of chaps fell out on the way back from sheer exhaustion. I made it all right, but I shall never forget the effort and agony of getting my equipment off at our barracks. All my clothes stuck to my body with perspiration and I was completely dehydrated.

Two days before we were due to leave Huddersfield, although at the time we didn't know our date of departure, we marched down to the station, this time more lightly equipped, for entraining exercises. A train was drawn up at the platform and the troops were in ranks facing the train. At a signal from the officer in charge the troops had to board the train as quickly as possible but in good order and array. The O-in-C had a stop watch, and he had us getting in and out of the train until he was satisfied with the time achieved for the manoeuvre. A good plan! But what happened on the day?

FRANCE 1940

On the 27th April 1940 we were told that we would be leaving Huddersfield on the following day. We should be ready to move off at such-and-such a time, but that on no account must we divulge this information to anyone else on the grounds of security. On the 28th April we marched through Huddersfield town centre, with colours flying and the regimental band and drums playing, and with half the population of Huddersfield and Halifax on the pavements cheering and waving us on! When we arrived at the station the platform was crowded with relatives and girl friends of the local boys. Officers, N.C.O.s and other ranks were busy embracing and saying goodbye to their loved ones and the subsequent entraining was a shambles. There was only one consolation, those of us with no one to see us off were able to entrain in comfort, monopolise the luggage space, and settle down in comparative ease with our boots off! So much for forward planning and security measures.

That evening we were in Southampton where we boarded a cross-channel ferry and as darkness was falling we steamed out into the Solent to the cheers of the dockers on shore. The night was dark, there was no moon, the sea was running high and a stiff breeze sprang up making it quite cold. I never found a spot where I could be wholly sheltered from the wind and I had a restless and uncomfortable night. I was not sorry, therefore, when dawn broke and I could see in the distance the French coast. Soon afterwards a solitary French aircraft came towards us from the land, circled round us and escorted us into Cherbourg harbour. I was on foreign soil for the first time, and at the expense of H.M. Government. There was no time to look around for almost immediately we had disembarked we were climbing into cattle trucks (10 horses or 40 men) and within minutes we were in our way. I took note of the towns we passed through so I had a rough idea of the direction in which we were travelling. Some of the names were familiar - Bayeux, Caen, Argentan, Le Mans, Nantes and some nineteen hours after leaving Cherbourg we arrived at the little market town of Blain about 20 miles north east of the seaport of St Nazaire. Our camp was about 3 miles from Blain and consisted mainly of Nissen huts. Ablution facilities were almost non existent, and for the first few days we did our washing and shaving from the river bank. After about three days we had improved the ablution and sanitary amenities by our own efforts, after which we settled down to enjoy the surroundings and the daytime weather, which was perfect. The evenings were pleasantly cool and, when not on duty, we would walk into Blain, have a coffee and cake in a bistro - or something stronger if you were inclined that way - and then stroll back to the camp. During the night it became progressively cooler, and we were compelled to add our greatcoats to the blankets that covered us. All through the night the croaking of the bullfrogs in the marshes kept up a constant cacophony. Every morning there was hoar-frost on the grass, and often on our blankets, and we shivered as we crossed to the ablutions - open on all sides to the air - for our wash and shave in cold water. I remember once reading a book where a Sergeant in the Guards said, 'You've never had a real shave until you've shaved in the open air, in cold water and with a blunt razor'. I know what he meant.

By mid-morning the sun had driven the mists away and melted the frost, and for the rest of the day it shone out of a blue and cloudless sky. In the afternoon it became unbearably hot and we were glad of the shade of the forest in which we were working, loading trucks with ammunition and petrol. We had been doing this work (our so-called training) for about six weeks when the news came through that on the 10th May the Germans had invaded Holland and Belgium, and so had 'turned' the French Maginot Line defence. Day after day we heard news of the Allied withdrawal towards the Channel ports. On the evening of 18th May we left Blain, once again with band playing and flags flying, to encouraging shouts from French people who we knew were very worried at the situation in the North. We left Blain by rail at 8 o'clock in the evening with rations for one day only, and arrived in Le Mans at half past four on the following morning: the station and sidings were crowded with refugees, including some Belgian soldiers, who were heading South and drew up alongside a British hospital train. We heard afterwards that this was the last train to get away from the fighting area, so we guessed that things were getting desperate. And yet, although we were travelling in very dark, cramped conditions on short rations and with little to drink, and although , when we took our turn at the open door, for fresh air and sanitary functions, we could see for ourselves the chaos that was developing on the roads and railways, in some strange way we felt curiously detached from it all as though we were watching a film. There was no sense of fear (this was confirmed in later conversation with my comrades), only a certain curiosity as to where we were going and how we were to be used. The thought that we might be going into battle never entered into our heads. We were really rookies, less than half trained and, as far as we knew, with little or no ammunition for our rifles, bren guns and our two Boyes anti-tank rifles. As we passed the trains travelling in the opposite direction to us, we received cheers and waves from occupants, civilians and military alike. The cheerful and smiling faces of the soldiers, many of them British, gave us a sense of optimism that everything was all right, although this was balanced to some extent by the appearance and demeanour of the civilians. There was a rumour going round, passed on as we enjoyed the occasional stop where we could stretch our legs, that we were bound for Le Havre, from where, as a non fighting unit, we were to be shipped back to the UK. Hope springs eternal! We found out later that our destination, in fact, was Bethune by way of Amiens, where we were to replace units driven out of their defensive positions by the Germans. However during the night of the 19th/20th we were diverted to Dieppe, as Amiens had been severely bombed and the bridge over the Somme had been blown up (most of the following account has been taken from the 'History of the Duke of Wellingtons Regiment' with my own experiences, in brackets, interposed at the appropriate points).

'Progress was very slow owing to the movement of the refugees and troops; but, passing through Dieppe, the Dukes arrived at Eu at 1400 hrs. on the 20th May. This town was in process of being evacuated. There were streams of

civilians refugees on the roads and many signs of aerial bombardment in the town. The trains moved on in the direction of Abbeville; troop trains containing French and Belgians (many of them waving frantically to us to go back the way we had come: despair and sorrow written on their faces). At one point (actually this happened more than once, on one occasion we ran into a wood for shelter - it was about this time that the reality of the situation hit us, and fear crept in) the Battalion was detained owing to an attack by German Bombers, and on approaching Abbeville we could see a vast column of smoke over the town. The roads were packed with refugees loaded with all their belongings (A few decrepit lorries could be seen, a few horse drawn vehicles, some bicycles, but for the most part the wretched people were on foot, some pushing wheelbarrows) - a pathetic sight, and one wondered whether one would be taking such a detached interest if these events were happening at home. The Dukes were now in the rear train of the Division, when it came to a halt on the outskirts of Abbeville. It was reported that the Germans had occupied the town, and a patrol sent forward located an enemy machine gun post only a short distance away (we heard the rattle of the machine gun as the Germans opened up at the patrol). The staff of the other trains in front had vanished and in consequence a senior warrant officer was put in charge of the engine driver and fireman of the Dukes' train and they were informed that they would not be allowed to leave. They became very excited, but eventually bowed to the inevitable and proved to be a couple of stalwart allies who did magnificent work.

We quote the reminiscences of the Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel G Taylor:

All the equipment of the unit and much of our transport was on the train and it was impossible to unload as we were halted on an embankment. The 2/6th Dukes were in the train next to ours and it was decided to hitch the two trains together and move back to a more suitable piece of ground which could be seen some 4 miles to the rear, contact had been completely lost with Brigade Headquarters and it could only be assumed that the leading train, in which they were travelling, had been captured.

It was now dark and the journey back was not without its excitements. Every few hundred yards, owing to the tremendous strain, a coupling between two trucks would break, and just before we reached our destination the complete floor was pulled out of the mess truck, depositing the staff and equipment on the line (you may guess how we felt in our cattle truck, without light and with no knowledge where we were going. Every time a coupling broke - and we didn't know that this was the cause we would be thrown together into a heap with arms and legs thrashing around in all directions, and one's equipment all over the place. The language had to be heard to be believed!).

It was decided to take up positions for all-round defence the 2/6th to the north west and the 2/7th (us) to the south east of the train (This meant sorting out one's webbing, pack etc and finding one's rifle. We didn't bother to look at rifle numbers until first light when we could see which rifle belonged to whom. And so we stood to all night, peering into the darkness towards where we were told the enemy was waiting: we had been issued with 10 rounds of ammunition per man. To our rear we could hear the crash of explosions and bursts of machine gun fire).

We were in touch with no other formation, had no supply line, not even a map of the area, until a batman from his kit produced a Bradshaw's Railway Guide of Central Europe, which was of the greatest assistance.

As dawn broke many armoured fighting vehicles could be seen patrolling the roads, and air activity developed as the morning wore on. We found later that at this time we were the only Allied troops between Abbeville and Dieppe which was some 60 kilometres to the S.W. Early in the morning the two Dukes units were joined by the 271st Field Coy., Royal Engineers under Major King. The pioneers, by breaking up trucks, constructed ramps by which they cleverly unloaded two utility vehicles. In one of these Capt. Gerrard and the French Liaison Officer, M Stelebourn, left for Eu to contact higher authority, and Lieut K Smith (our Intelligence Officer) and 2nd Lieut G W Smith of the 2/6th left in the other to reconnoitre Abbeville. Unfortunately the latter party ran into a machine gun position occupied by the Germans on the outskirts of Abbeville; Lieut K Smith was killed (our first casualty) and the others in the vehicle had very narrow escapes (This news filtered through to us as we waited for action and it did little to reassure us).

During the afternoon enemy air activity increased, and as the railway line to the south was completely blocked it was decided to withdraw to some wooded country which could be seen some 3 miles to the rear (What we were eating and drinking all this time I quite forget, but it can't have been very much. I do remember an issue of 2 cigarettes per man, as we lay in a fold of ground on the edge of a cornfield in the sweltering sun. Just my luck, I didn't smoke! Now had it been a bar of chocolate).

Daylight the following day showed that several trains in the vicinity of Fressenville had been mercilessly attacked from the air by bombs, cannon and machine gun fire. Some trains were civilian, others French military and one was a French hospital train.

The civilian trains had been evacuated in a hurry. Food and wine were still on the table (I wonder where it went to?), luggage was piled up on the racks and a few passengers had been killed. One of the trains contained all the horses of a French cavalry unit, but no troops. From that time the Bandmaster, who was acting as a medical sergeant, used a fine grey mare to carry himself and his medical pannier. The hospital train was filled with French wounded and we promised to do all we could to evacuate them. Behind this train two others were telescoped, and thrown into the tender of one was one dead man still holding his dog by the lead. The dog was jealousy guarding the body of its dead master. Later it decided to adopt the Battalion and remained with us until the end of operations (when we came upon the sight of these terribly damaged trains we saw for the first time the horrors of war: one cattle truck, filled with people, had been telescoped to a total length of not more than 10 feet, and the sight of the mangled bodies, compressed in so a short a space was horrific. Hanging upside down on the front of one of the locomotives, blown there, we surmised, by an explosion, was the body of a young woman, with only her vest on. Her clothes must have been stripped from her by the blast. As I walked the length of the trains to give a hand where I could, I noticed something in the long grass at the side of the track. When I went over to investigate I discovered the bodies of a little boy and a little girl, both, I would imagine, three to four years old. They were lying together, face upwards, and at first I thought they were sleeping. There was not a mark on either of them, their cheeks were still shining and rosy red, but there was a waxen sheen to them which gave them the look of two beautiful dolls. I could only assume they, too, had been killed by the blast. The sight of these two innocents upset me more than all the other horrific things I saw that day)

The Battalion took up a defensive position in the woods. The day was very hot and the supply of water was beginning to cause anxiety. A reconnoitring party was sent out to find a supply and at the station of Chepy-les-Valenes met a railway engineer and informed him of the plight of the hospital train. He said that a breakdown train was in the vicinity and if we would give him protection and help he would try and extricate the hospital train.

The whole Battalion volunteered for the task and a company stood by the train with their anti-aircraft guns. The railway engineers and the Dukes worked frantically, and with a huge crane and ropes pulled up and relaid the permanent way. This work was interrupted throughout by attacks from enemy bombers.

While the work was goin on Capt. Gerrard returned. He had contacted a British Headquarters, which was quite 'excited' to hear of a complete and fully equipped battalion (my inverted commas), and although they could not credit the fact that we were so near the Somme, they sent orders for us to retire to Dieppe as quickly as possible and take up a defensive position along the River Bethune. I (Lt Col Taylor) decided to extricate the hospital train and then withdraw by night marches to Dieppe, a distance of 50 miles (in fact our contingent actually started to walk to Dieppe: luckily as you will see, we finished by train).

Very little food had been available for the past three days, so a truck was sent to St Valery-sur-Somme. The railway engineers told us that a hospital there had been evacuated. The truck returned in a short time laden with invalid jelly, chicken breasts in aspic, and other delicacies not usually on the ration - they were all very welcome (my memory fails me at this point: or was it that only the higher ranks were the beneficiaries of this windfall?).

The day was sweltering (I do remember that!), but such wonderful work had been put into clearing of the line that it was evident that the hospital train would be pulled out that night. It was a tremendous thrill to everyone when the engine was hitched on and the train began to move slowly over the repaired tracks.

The engineer was delighted and he handed round the few bottles of French beer he had in his van - never did beer taste so good (to whom?). Over the beer he expressed his gratitude for our help and offered to save us our long trek to Dieppe if we could get into a small number of cattle trucks which were in the station.

We made the grade, packed like herrings; few trains have been driven so frantically. On two occasions men fell out going round corners, and at one point the floor of a truck was pulled completely out. The driver of the train was running no risk of being overtaken by the Germans: he drove as if he was on the footplate of the 'Flying Scotsman'.

The Battalion arrived at Dieppe at 0730 hours on the morning of 27th May. Many of the men had not slept for three days and rations had been very meagre, inspite of the windfall from the evacuated hospital at St Valery sur Somme (We were very dirty, very sleepy and extremely hungry when we arrived in Dieppe and marched, in good order, across the square and up the road that wound uphill from the town to the hill overlooking Dieppe. We had no transport so the heavy cases of Bren ammunition were shared out amongst us, to take turns in carrying them to our destination - where this was, and how far away we didn't know. As luck had it my turn came on the steepest part of the hill and I was glad when |I was eventually relieved of my burden. I felt I couldn't have carried it another yard).

(The Dukes were accommodated in the prisoners-of-war cage on the hill behind the town very conspicuous from the sea and the air, and an easy target for bombs and machine gun attacks - we always felt very exposed and vulnerable. In fact the first thing we did was to dig slit trenches around the Nissen huts in which we were housed for refuge when air attacks came - which they did!). Area Headquarters, which was situated in a medieval castle at Les Turelles, was very glad to welcome the Battalion, as the only other troops they had to form a defensive screen consisted of a small number of men who had been working on lines of communication, and a few military policemen.

Everybody was delighted to find major Jock Huffam V.C., acting as Provost Marshal of Dieppe, and his confidence and cheerfulness kept everybody in good heart.

It was decided that a reconnaissance of the area should take place on the day we arrived, and as a result of this the Battalion took over the line Dieppe - Arques - la Bataille the following morning.

At noon that day air-raid siren sounded and the Dukes experienced their first taste of dive-bombing, which was to become an unpleasant and daily occurrence during the remainder of the operations (The Germans had started to use 'screaming' bombs, and the sound of them coming down - giving the impression that they were coming straight at you - was more frightening than the eventual explosion. We had a sergeant, to name him would be invidious, who went to pieces when we crouched in our slit trenches and he never became accustomed to the effect of these bombs. Later, when he faced the onslaught of German infantry and tanks he was bravery personified. We had to face the ordeal of being dive-bombed several times a day for over a fortnight. Luckily we had no physical casualties though one young chap from Hull was sent south to Le Havre for hospitalisation and shipping back to the UK. We never heard whether he recovered from his 'shell shock', or indeed whether he reach Le Havre. The only time there was anything approaching panic was one evening when most of the camp was in the Canteen Hut. There was very little to buy at the counter, but it was a convenient place for a game of cards or a chat with friends who were not your hut mates. Suddenly, without any of the usually 'screaming' warning, there was the 'crump' of bombs falling in rapid succession, the hut shook violently and we thought the next bomb must surely demolish the hut and all of us who were in it. There was a mad dash for the only door, and there would certainly have been some casualties in the general melee had it not been for the stentorian voice of the Provost Sergeant, Sgt E Lees MM, a diminutive veteran of the 1914/1918 War, exhorting us - and calming us - with his 'Steady, lads, steady!'. The effect was electric, we stopped in our tracks. But it was all over; the planes had departed leaving only a number of large craters on the perimeter of the camp. We had, had a narrow escape).

On this first occasion - on our first day in Dieppe - the target was the shipping in the harbour: the bombing was very accurate and five ships, including a hospital was sunk. During this raid a batman asked his officer is he should get him a brandy, and when asked why, replied, 'I think it would do us both good, sir'.

The 2/7th were now part of the 'Beauman Force' which had its headquarters at Rouen and consisted of all British regiments that had not been caught in the Dunkirk pocket. The Dukes held a line from the coast along the River Bethune, joining up with the 2/4th King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry who were in Arques-la-Bataille area; they in turn joined up with 2/6th Dukes.

The 2/7th spent the next few days in constructing strong points, making road-blocks and generally strengthening the defensive position. Enemy air-raids increased in intensity and reports were receive of the presence of enemy mechanised and motorised forces in the vicinity of Abbeville and St Valery sur Some.

The 51st (Highland) Division, which had been in the Saar and had therefore escaped the Dunkirk pincer movement were moved over the Somme and with the assistance of the 7th Border Regiment staged a gallant but unsuccessful counter-attack. The Division then withdrew to the line of the River Bresle.

Following a reconnaissance by Capt. Gerrard on 29th May a party of Dukes was sent out the following day to salvage the Battalion train abandoned four days earlier. The men found that the train had been ransacked and all the officers' valises had been taken. It appeared that the enemy was not responsible; but most of the valuable stores had been looted, although the drums and band instruments were recovered, together with our packs and greatcoats. (I lost various items from my pack, including the First War steel mirror that had been my fathers').

The River Bethune was now the reserve line and the Dukes did their utmost to restore the morale of the civilian population, which had naturally been affected by the constant bombing and low-flying machine-gun attacks, and the reports of large German forces in the vicinity. On two occasions the band and drums beat retreat in the square in Dieppe and created tremendous enthusiasm amongst the French population.

The strength of the defence of the road blocks was increased by every possible means, anti-tank mines were laid on the coast road to Le Treport and Eu, and patrols were constantly sent out throughout the day and night. During one of these Lieut. T Birkhead was killed in an enemy attack.

The storm was gathering; the last elements were now leaving Dunkirk and soon the Germans, flushed with victory, would be rushing south to complete the kill. (I can truthfully say that I was the first man in the Battalion, perhaps in the whole of Dieppe/Le Havre sector to know about the Dunkirk evacuation and the scale of the operation. A small fleet of French coastal vessels had sailed into Dieppe waters from the north during the night. As dawn broke the leading ship started sending Morse messages by signal lamp to shore. Whom they were signalling to we never found out: fifth column activities were suspected at the time. Our duty signallers decided to take down the message, but, apart from a plethora of numbers the rest of the very long message was in French which they were not able to understand. Knowing from our stay in Blain (seemingly light years ago) that I could speak French they brought the message for me to translate before submitting it to the Officer on duty, who presumably passed it on to the Colonel. I don't know if this was the cause, but a few days later I was transferred from Signals to the Intelligence Section. The receipt of the message filled us with foreboding because we knew now that we were encircled. Le Havre had been taken to the south of us, and Dunkirk to the north).

At this time Battalion Headquarters was at Chateau Janvil, where a flying squad was always in readiness to investigate fifth-column reports. On 5th June aerial activity by the enemy was nearly non-stop and reports concerning the dropping of parachute troops arrived almost hourly. (That evening I was a member of a patrol through the streets of Dieppe and by the docks investigating reports from civilians that there was fifth-column activity in the town and that the church bell had been mysteriously rung just before an air-raid. We found nothing untoward, our only action was the repeated dropping to the ground when enemy aircraft flew over. For some reason I had been given a German Mauser pistol that evening and my only excitement and worry was deciding whether the safety catch was on or off. I could never remember the position so I was constantly taking off the magazine and pressing the trigger to see if it operated!)

The result of all these patrols was the capture of one German parachutist who was shot while descending but not seriously wounded.

No infantry or tank attack had so far tested the defence along the River Bethune. Intelligence reports arriving stated that the enemy was being held along the line of the Somme; these defence were still holding out two days later. (They were not to hold out much longer, however. The day after the last news reached us, Gerry Winters and I were sent out to establish an observation post on the high ground overlooking the coastal plain to the North-east of Dieppe. From here we had a good view of the sea and the sparsely wooded plain. Before we reached the high ground, however, we had to cross the main Dieppe to Le Treport road from a small copse shielded from the road by a high bank. As we climbed the bank we heard the sound of horses' hooves approaching at the gallop. Concealed behind a tree we awaited the arrival of what? An enemy cavalry patrol? (Our imaginations were working overtime and our hearts beat faster in time with the galloping hooves as over the brow of the hill and down the road towards us came a solitary white, riderless horse). When we reached the ridge we could see in the distance puffs of smoke and faint sounds of gunfire, but were too far away to see any action on the ground. Then we suddenly became aware that, about 300 yards to our left, across a ploughed field, was a battery of Royal Artillery. We began to walk across the field towards the battery when a voice hailed us from that direction, 'What the blankety blank do you thin you are doing? If you've got to come over here then get down and crawl'. When we reached the battery position (well camouflaged with netting and greenery) the commander tore us off a strip for endangering his position, but was able to give us information of enemy activity to the north which we were able to take back to Battalion. We had completed our first intelligence mission).

On the 7th June Lieut. Colonel Taylor assumed command of the Dieppe defence, and the same afternoon the Commander of the 152nd British Infantry Brigade visited the Dukes' Headquarters and stated that he was occupying a defensive position along the River Bethune on the right of the Battalion line.

On taking over, Lieut. Colonel Taylor decided to withdraw his forward companies to the west of the docks and the river, as these were the obvious anti-tank obstacles. By doing this his front was also decreased in length, and he took up a position with three companies forward: Z (my old company) on the right, W in the centre, and X on the left guarding the docks crossing. He arranged with the Sappers that demolition of the river and docks crossings should be in readiness should the situation demand drastic measures. Y Coy was in close support in the Chateau Rosendal woods, and HQ Coy (of which Intelligence section was a part) furnished mobile platoons which were being constantly sent off to round up parachutists. The aerodrome at Dieppe was rendered unserviceable by ploughing and the Army stores there were destroyed (I was one of the party of three sent to destroy these stores. When we entered the hangar containing the stores we were angered and disgusted. For a fortnight we had been living on minimal rations and hard biscuits and, those who smoked, on a very small ration of cigarettes; chocolates and sweets were non-existent as far as the rank and file were concerned. But here in the stores were literally thousands of loaves of bread, some now with mould on them, and boxes of chocolate, cigarettes, jam and many other kinds of provisions that would have lifted our morale and satisfied our perpetual hunger. And we were to destroy it all. We filled our battle-dress pockets with as much chocolate and as many cigarettes as we could, before dousing the place in petrol, setting a petrol trail, throwing a match in and watching the place thoroughly alight before reporting back to the unit. At least we had something to share with our comrades).

The Commanding Officer's narrative continues:

'On 9th June we received orders that we were to become part of the 51st Highland Division under General Victor Fortune, and that the Division should withdraw through us, after which the bridge over the Bethune at Dieppe would be blown. Subsequently we should be relieved by the 2nd Seaforths, and the Dukes Battalion and the 4th Seaforths would act as rear guard to the Division on the withdrawal towards Le Havre.

Severe fighting was in progress on the right flank, held by the 152nd British Infantry Brigade, on the night of 9th/10th June. Early the following morning information was received that the bridges over the Somme had been blown. Refugees passing through the Dukes' lines reported the presence of enemy armoured fighting vehicles in the vicinity of Neuville and at 1500 hrs German patrols began to test the Battalion line; these were assisted by mortar fire. The enemy displayed great daring and also lack of knowledge of the methods of taking cover and, as a result, suffered heavy casualties.

Meanwhile the 51st Division had passed through and the bridge over the Bethune was blown. Later a small fox terrier was seen on the other side, much distressed as it could not get home. (By this time we had evacuated the hospital camp on the top of the hill, and were temporarily given shelter in a large, empty hospital to await the withdrawal from Dieppe. We had just settled down to sleep for an hour or so when there came the biggest explosion I had ever heard. Not having been told of the impending blowing of the Bethune bridge we wondered, fearfully, if we were targets for a heavy artillery attack as glass showered on us from the shattered windows and plaster fell from the ceilings. We were relieved when there were no further explosions).

At midnight on 10th/11th June (shortly after our explosion scare) the withdrawal to motor transport at Petit Appeville took place without incident. To lessen the prospect of enemy interference the escape route followed second and third class roads; the truck drivers had been taken over the route twice to make sure that knew the way, and as an extra precaution guides were placed at each turning. This preparation paid a good dividend. As rear guard (luckily a fact unknown to us) we were the last battalion to leave Dieppe, but were the first to arrive, at dawn on the 11th June, as a complete unit, at Veules-les-Roses (a pretty little seaside village, with rose covered cottages - a favourite haunt of painters in happier days). The drivers and guides had done a grand job.

(I remember that journey most vividly. We were packed so tightly that no none could sit. I did my best to perch on the edge of the truck, but the canvas top was stretched so tightly across it that the many bumps and jolts, and the sudden stops and starts would have made it difficult in any case. We had been told to show no lights at all, but two N.C.O's who ought to have shown a better example, persisted in lighting up cigarettes, thus displaying lights, and at the same time polluting the already malodorous atmosphere within the truck. It was a most uncomfortable journey and it was a relief when we arrived at our destination, even if our first action was to run for cover as a wave of enemy bombers flew over - to bomb, as we discovered later, the 51st Highland Division who had reached St Valery-en-Caux where that were completely surrounded. I spoke to our driver who told me that several times during our journey we had passed the ends of roads in which enemy tanks were lying in wait. That they had let us pass could mean only one thing, they were sure we could all be rounded up in the closed-off sector we were approaching!) On arrival at Veules-les-Roses orders were received from the Commander of 152nd Inf. Bde for the Dukes to take up a defensive position from the road Blosseville-Bourg-Dun to the sea at Veule-les-Roses. Whilst carrying out a reconnaissance with his company commanders at 0530 hours the Commanding Officer saw a British destroyer lying about 2 miles offshore signalling with lamps. A mental note was made of this fact. Before going into position the Dukes were informed that French Alpine troops had taken up positions from Veules-les-Roses to the sea, thus shortening the Battalion front. The 4th Seaforths were on the right of the Dukes.

The roads were now packed with the remnants of the traffic from the 51st Division and many French units. The enemy had reached Yvetot, some 20 miles to the south, and, pushing north towards us, was driving all Allied troops through the defensive position. (At this time we rank and file were only aware of the coming attack from the north!). A heavy air raid on Veules-les-Roses at noon, in which incendiary and high-explosive bombs were dropped, added to the general confusion. The day was extremely hot; the village, well named, looked very beautiful, with most of the houses covered with rambler roses in full bloom.

(Battalion Headquarters were situated in an orchard some 300 yards from the village. From here members of the Intelligence section were sent out in pairs - on a shift rota - to help with controlling the heavy traffic at the cross roads to the north of Veules-les-Roses and also to report any suspicious activity and identities to Headquarters. When my companion and I reached the cross-roads it was the scene of indescribable chaos and confusion. Troops, mostly French, were arriving in droves, some on bicycles, some on motor-bikes-, lorries and trucks, while the majority were on foot, weary, bedraggled and spiritless. We were suspicious of the motorcyclists because there had been reports of German troops disguised in French uniform, but a French liaison officer who was with us vouched for their authenticity. (Unless he, too, was a fifth-columnist). Whilst we were on duty at the cross roads, we experienced the heavy air-raid mentioned above by the C.O. Luckily there was a makeshift hospital some 50 yards away in some wine cellars, and we were able to dash to comparative safety as the bombs rained down.

In the late afternoon we were told to evacuate the orchard and take up positions in a nearby sunken road to await the arrival of the enemy). The CO's account continues -

A Brigade conference was called for 1630 hrs. The strain of operations was now beginning to tell on everyone. During the conference half a dozen German tanks passed by, only two fields away. We were informed that our perimeter was surrounded and that it was the intention of the Navy to evacuate the Division from St Valery. Motor vehicles were to be destroyed, together with surplus stores. The 152nd Brigade would be withdrawn from the line immediately, and the Dukes, who were to remain in position till dusk, would - during that time come under the orders of the 513rd Inf. Bde.

Owing to enemy movement it was difficult to get back to Battalion Headquarters (the orchard). I arrived back to find the battle in full swing, with one company already being pushed back, but a very gallant counter-attack by the reserve company soon restored the situation.

The Battalion dispositions were, right Y Coy, centre W Coy, left z Coy, with X Coy in support near Battalion Headquarters in the sunken road in Veules-les-Roses. The enemy firepower consisted mainly of mortars, heavy machine guns and light artillery. A very large amount of tracer bullets were used, and these must have reduced the number of casualties, as the 'hose-pipes' of it could be seen, and could be avoided.

Enemy low-flying planes were constantly overhead and they dropped collections of small bombs with a delayed action which produced an effect like Chinese crackers. The tracer bullets had set nearly everything on fire, houses, barns, haystacks, so that one began to realise what was meant by the fog of war, the smoke from the fires combining with the dust thrown up by the bombs and mortar shells. Some 35 to 45 tanks were now attacking the Battalion front. The Dukes had no artillery or machine gun support, though they had been lent two 20mm anti-tank guns. Each gun fired one shot, after which that were put out of action by the German tanks. About 1700 hrs Z Coy reported that they were being heavily engaged by enemy infantry, and shortly after, following a mortar bombardment, a large number of light and medium tanks made an assault on the Duke's front. During this attack air activity and long range machine gun fire increased in the vicinity of Battalion Headquarters, making communication with the companies impossible.

The forward companies dealt heroically with the tank attack and the enemy withdrew, leaving five or six tanks which had been put out of action.

Following a lull of about an hour a violent artillery bombardment of the whole area heralded a mass attack of some 200 armoured fighting vehicles. After heroic resistance these pierced the Battalions lines and drove on in the direction of Battalion Headquarters. The Dukes suffered sever casualties during this action, but their pluck and determination won the respect of the enemy. A German officer told a platoon commander whose position had been overrun 'You are a very brave regiment'. The armoured cars did not reach Battalion Headquarters because of road blocks, and the vehicles swung left onwards St Valery-en-Caux along the main road south-west within the bridge.

In accordance with the orders he had received the Commanding Officer issued instructions that companies were to escape to the beach at St Valery as soon as darkness fell. He realised that the harbour there might now be occupied by the enemy, and the presence of a British destroyer off the beach at Veules-les-Roses was a comforting thought. As a last desperate measure it might be necessary to try and contact it.

As Battalion Headquarters were packing up, tanks were seen approaching the sunken road where the Headquarters were situated: the Headquarters evaporated quickly!

The Companies found great difficulty in negotiating the streets of Veules owing to the heavy shelling and the fact that most buildings were on fire. The officers collected the men in small parties and these withdrew independently to the beach. Dawn broke with a heavy mist over the sea, but in spite of this boats came ashore from many vessels off the coast and evacuations commenced.

Enemy aircraft did their best to interfere but they were driven off by fire from the ships. As the mist lifted enemy artillery opened fire on the beaches, but the Navy silenced these before any serious casualties occurred.

As the morning wore on the beaches were raked by machine gun fore, causing many casualties; but the majority of the troops got away. Many of the Battalion were wounded during this period and those most badly hit spent the next three or four years in captivity. Amongst these was L/Cpl. Dickinson who had some interesting souvenirs of the beach at Veules-les-Roses. He had been wounded in the arm and the chest and was lying on the beach when he received a sever 'kick in the pants'. In the hip pocket of his battle-dress he had about a dozen copper coins, French and English. A bullet hit the middle of them, bent most of them into fantastic shapes and even imprinted the inscription of one of the French coins on an English penny. Dickinson received only a slight flesh wound from this bullet.

(Apart from a few exceptions Colonel Taylor's description of events affecting Headquarters Coy. tallies very closely with my own experience. He could not have known the details of course, of every personal experience. I will, therefore, supply my own -

Late in the afternoon of 11th June we were called together, told of the seriousness of the situation, and told that we were to leave our exposed position in the orchard for the cover of a nearby sunken road. As we crossed the open field between the orchard and the sunken road we were the object of machine gun fire and we threw ourselves on the ground in automatic self defence. We were then on the scrub covered slope over the top of which we were to drop down into the sunken road. We were soon aware that the slope afforded us no protection from the enemy's fire because this was coming from the village behind us, so our entry into the sunken road was precipitate to say the least. Unfortunately on hitting the ground prior to this last rush forward my trouser knee was fouled by a patch of human excreta, with results that can be imagined. It was a battle scar I carried for many days.

We had not been in our new position for many minutes before intense enemy activity began, and we were soon in the thick of mortar bombs, artillery shells and heavy machine gun fire. Most of this went over our heads, and we were sheltered from the worst effect by the high walls of our sunken road. Nevertheless several bombs and shells fell into our position, and there were a number of casualties. Enemy low flying aircraft were constantly overhead: at first we thought that they were not attacking our positions, but several seconds after they had passed over their delayed bombs exploded with a sound like very loud Chinese crackers, shooting fragments of metal in all directions: some of these were like slim, nickel plated, bullets. These 'firework' bombs did little material damage nor, as far as I knew, any casualties to our troops, but they added a new, psychological dimension to the conflict. The effect of the attack on Battalion Headquarters by mortars, artillery, machine guns and aircraft pinned down H.Q. Staff to their positions and prevented communications with forward companies. The result was a certain deterioration of morale: it is not easy to be passive objects of aggression and remain calm and brave. If we could hit back it would have relieved much of the tension. As it was the most many of us could do was to keep our heads down, overlapping steel helmets, and to pray that none of the lethal projectiles had our names on them. Home was geographically far away, but very near to our hearts as we rode out of the storm. As darkness fell the Padre called us together during a lull in the noise of battle and told us that we had been instructed to withdraw to the beach at Veules-les-Roses, and put us in the capable hands of L/Cpl. Bill Gamble and L/Cpl Draper to lead us there. These N.C.O.s were regular soldiers who had seen service in India and the Middle East, and they were both Sheffielders.

The badly wounded were made as comfortable as possible, and left behind, with the Padre, to their fates in prisoner of war camps: the walking wounded came with us and most of them, like us, reached freedom.

L/Cpls Gamble and Draper had already, under enemy fire and avoiding enemy patrol, reconnoitred the village and beach area, and, in the darkness, had found a way down the cliffs to the beach. There was no other route to this than through the village itself. When we came to the edge of the village we found that most of its buildings were on fire, the flames lighting up the square and its off shoot streets with daylight clarity. The problem was to cross the square without being seen by the enemy: we did this successfully, one by one at irregular intervals - with our hearts in our mouths. Luck was on our side that night, we must inadvertently have chosen a time when the enemy patrols were busy elsewhere, otherwise we should have had little chance of escape.

It was with a great sense of relief that we re-grouped on the sea-ward side of Veules but this was tinged with some apprehension of what we might find on the beaches. The night was dark, and seemed more so after the light of the blazing village, as we gingerly made our way down the steep and narrow path leading, we hoped, to the beach. Soon we felt the scrunch of sand under our feet, and we knew we had made it! A mile or so to the south we could see the flames rising into the sky over the town of St Valery-en-Caux, from which came the sound of artillery and aerial bombardment. (We were to learn later that the bulk of the 51st Highland Division were trapped there: many were killed, but many more wounded and/or taken prisoner). Our first problem was how to spend 6 or 7 hours before dawn. Though the day had been hot the night was now cool, with a cold breeze blowing from the sea. We huddled as closely as possible to the foot of the cliffs where there was sufficient sand for us to hollow out to make shallow depressions to lie in. We were much too tense - and hungry - however to sleep and we spent the night talking and straining our eyes for signs of life out there on the dark sea. We were joined by members of a French unit, and I spoke for some time with one of them who had been a waiter in a London hotel. I shared amongst these Frenchmen the last packet of cigarettes I had 'salvaged' from the Stores I had helped to destroy. From time to time during the night we were joined by small parties of men from our rifle companies, from whom we heard the harrowing details of their encounters with German infantry and tanks, and the equally appalling experiences in trying to find a way down the high cliffs after the enemy had passed through their lines. A number of the men had been killed trying to reach the beach by fastening rifle slings together, but these had come apart sending men hurtling to their deaths on the rocks below, or, because in the darkness the height of the cliffs had been under-estimated, with similar results.

After what seemed an eternity we detected a pale light in the eastern sky, and a small party of us walked down to the water's edge, partly to stretch our legs and get our circulation going, and partly to see if there were any signs that help might be coming from the sea. Very soon the light was good enough for us to see that there were a number of vessels standing off shore, and to distinguish the shapes of destroyers from other types of shipping. Two medium sized steamers were particularly noticeable: we found out later that these were the L.M.S. steamer the 'Duke of York' and the 'Princess Maud' (ex Belfast - Heysham ferry), which carried our contingent back to Southampton.

It was not yet fully light when my good friend, Dougie Dart, decided to swim to the nearest ship - more than half a mile away - to see if the flotilla was British and, if so, to let it know that there were men on the beach - British and French - who would soon be in enemy hands if they were not rescued. If the vessels had been German, Dougie Dart would have been captured immediately, and we would have been prisoners in a very short time. Dougie stripped down to his underpants, left his other clothes and equipment with me, dived into the sea and struck out strongly for the ships. It seemed an age before we saw him again, swimming powerfully towards us. With teeth chattering in the cold air of dawn he pulled on his clothes and equipment, and went off to find an officer to give him the good news. Some months later, when the London Gazzette published a list of awards for gallantry in the St Valerie operation, I was disappointed that Dougie Dart was not in the list of men so honoured.

As soon as it was fully light we could see small boats approaching shore, but our jubilation soon turned to disappointment when a heavy mist came down, and the operation had to be postponed.

After a time the mist began to clear and the little boats were seen to be coming inshore: at this point enemy artillery began to bombard the beaches, and we all rushed back to gain the shelter of the cliffs and the huge rocks at their base. The enemy artillery were soon silenced by the guns of the distant destroyers. It was fascinating to witness the effects of the difference in speed of light and sound. First we saw the muzzle flash of the Navy's guns, then the express-train sound of the shells flying overhead and the explosion of the shells on the cliff-tops, and finally the sound of the naval guns firing the shells whose flight and impact we had already heard! When there was no resumption of enemy firing we prepared to be taken off. The tide had reached the seaward end of the solitary jetty so, in typical British fashion we formed an orderly queue on the jetty and the beach, restraining the Frenchmen who would have jumped the queue, but allowing them to retain their rightful positions in it. The first boatload had been taken aboard when the first wave of enemy aircraft roared over the beach spraying it with machine-gun fire and causing a number of casualties. At each attack the troops broke queue and raced for cover, but immediately reformed the queue on the jetty as if they were waiting for the next 'bus at home! This happened a number of times, and by the time my pals and I had reached the front of the queue we saw, to our dismay, that the tide had come in so far that the boats for which we were waiting were several yards behind us. We hadn't waited so long and so patiently, only to be cheated out of our turn by the tide, so we jumped into the sea, into six feet of water, fully dressed and with all our equipment. I managed to stay with my head above water long enough for a burly Canadian sailor to grab me by the back of my pants and haul me over the gunwale to land floundering on the bottom of the boat, completely waterlogged, with great loss of dignity but with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and relief. As I stood on the deck of the Princess Maud, dripping great pools of water, I was able to look round at the amazing scene. There seemed to be boats and ships everywhere milling around in feverish activity whilst the Navy destroyers stood a short way off like mother ducks watching over their broods. Suddenly we could hear machine gun and small arms fire sweeping the beach, and we could only guess at the number of casualties occurring there. Almost immediately after we saw the flash from artillery on the cliff tops, and suddenly the sea around us was erupting with exploding shells as the German gunners were finding their range. We were immediately ordered below decks,where we were very much more afraid than had we stayed on deck. We had been below for a few minutes, listening to the noise of exploding shells, when we heard and feel a tremendous impact. We've been hit!, we shouted, and rushed for the companion way. We had, indeed, been hit, just on the water line, but providentially the shell had not exploded and it was relatively easy to plug the hole with mattresses and make it fairly watertight with tarpaulins. As a result of this occurrence the Captain of the 'Princess Maud' requested permission to put out to sea without escort and to proceed, alone, to Southampton. During this long journey we stood to on deck with our rifles in case we were pursued by and suffered the attacks of enemy aircraft. I shudder to think what would have happened had we been attacked: as luck would have it the enemy was engaged elsewhere. (We heard later, mostly from Battalion comrades who had experienced it, that we were the lucky ones, sailing as we did direct to England. Most of the other ships and boats had predominantly French troops aboard so sailed south to Cherbourg and other French ports to discharge these troops. It was many days before the British troops embarked again for their journey home).

RETURN FROM FRANCE 1940

Southampton, with its massive air cover of barrage balloons, was the most beautiful and welcome scene of my life. I know now how the pope feels when he kneels to kiss the soil of a country he is visiting. I could have done the same. It was like awakening from a long and terrifying nightmare to find oneself safe in one's bed (Incidentally a few days after reaching UK our mail caught us up - after three weeks without any - and amongst it was a letter from Vera saying that on the night of 11th/12th June she dreamt that she had received a telegram saying that I was coming home. It was 12th June when we were evacuated from the beach at Veules-le-Roses. Coincidence, telepathy, or the constant wishing for something to come true. Who knows?)

We must have been a sorry sight as we trooped down the gangplank at Southampton; dirty, unshaven, red-eyed from lack of sleep (2 hours in 3 days), our uniforms crumpled and creased from rough wear and total immersion in the sea. There was a train waiting for us in Southampton station, and when we had boarded it members of the W.V.S. came round with paper cups of tea (more than welcome), sandwiches, an apple and a piece of cake. Despite not having eaten anything but a couple of squares of chocolate for 48 hours I had no appetite and could only manage to eat the apple.

In a very short time we arrived in Winchester, and were taken by 'bus to the camp of the Kings' Royal Rifle Corp which was a few miles out of town. There we were allocated tents, had the luxury of a hot shower and a much needed shave, and were given a meal, much of which I was then able to eat. I remember that I slept very soundly that night, but was awakened quite early by the sound of aeroplanes flying over the camp. These were ours, but in my half-sleeping, half-waking state I was momentarily filled with panic and I thought I was still in France with German planes coming to bombard us. This turning over of the stomach at the sound of aircraft lasted for many weeks. We were in Winchester for three days, but we had no duties apart from muster parades morning and evening. I was thus able to see something of this historic town with its Saxon associations, its statue of Alfred the Great, and its magnificent Norman cathedral. My first port of call was the cathedral, because of a family connection. Uncle Tom, who was killed in the Great War, was called up to the King's Royal Rifle Corps in 1914 and spent his first night sleeping in the open cathedral yard. I guessed that the cathedral would hold the regiment's Book of Honour and Remembrance, and so it did. I looked for a verger, and asked him if it was possible to see my uncle's entry in the book. There it was C.S.M. Straw, Thos. Hy (D.C.M.) and mentioned in despatches 1917. The verger, seeing the evident pride in my face, said he would leave the book open at that page for the rest of the day. Apart from some excellent canteens and tea shops, the only other things I specifically remember are Winchester College - in which I was interested because its motto 'Manners makyth man' had been adopted by my old Council School, and the lovely 18th Century mill close to the town centre through which the River Itchen rushes before winding through beautiful gardens alongside the city's medieval walls.

We had only been in Winchester for 3 days when the order came to move - again to an unknown destination. The troop train taking us followed a tortuous route as if it was bent on shaking off hostile pursuers. We first travelled west, then north west followed by north east, then finally northwards, at which time we were filled with hopes that our destination was somewhere in the vicinity of Sheffield. Sure enough, we eventually steamed into Sheffield Victoria, but we were to stay there for only ten minutes. In this time I rushed to the station bookstall, bought a postcard of Sheffield High Street, trams and all, with the buildings that were later destroyed in the Sheffield 'blitz'. I wrote a short pencilled, note to Vera, and gave it to a civilian, who refused payment for the stamp asking him to post it. I still have that postcard, Vera having saved nearly all of the letter and card I sent her during my 6 years of service.

Our eventual destination was Belle Vue Manchester, where we were billeted in the ballroom and did our drill in the vicinity of the zoo area where I am sure we were as much objects of curiosity to the animals as they were to us. Later in the War special precautions were taken to ensure that animals were not a source of danger to civilians in the event of air raids, but at this time the zoo was still organised on peace time lines.

It was possible at this time to obtain sleeping out passes, and I lost no time in applying for, and obtaining one. I conveniently forgot to say that I would not be using this in Manchester - which was the object of the concession. After the last parade of the day, therefore - at 1600 hours - I left Belle Vue to catch the train to Sheffield, arriving there about half past six, spending the evening with Vera, and, after a couple of hours sleep, catching the tram to the Victoria Station where I caught the train back to Manchester. I used to fall on my bed in Belle Vue, fully dressed, for about an hour before the bugle sounded Reveille. I did this for about 10 days before I had to call a halt and have a full night's sleep in bed. Eventually we were transferred to the vacant tram shed at Ardwick Green, where, to be ready to cope with enemy parachutists! We had to stand-to at dusk and dawn. And so 'Goodbye sleeping out passes', legitimate or otherwise (A few weeks later, now in civilian billets in Burnley, we heard the news that the tram depot at Ardwick had received a direct hit from an enemy bomb. I was beginning to feel that I was going to be a survivor).

The interlude in Burnley, billeted with civilians in a little terraced house near Burnley F.C.'s ground at Turf Moor, was a pleasant one. We were rather spoiled by the motherly soul whose house it was. I'm sure she spent more on us than the billeting allowance she received from the Army. There were three of us in this billet, Gerry Winters, Wilson Jackson and myself. Wilson was a great cyclist who had been chosen for Olympic trials before the War. He lost no time in collecting his bike and thereafter cycled over the Peninnes every night to see his girl-friend Bessie in Huddersfield. Then next morning, he cycled back to Burnley in time for the first parade of the day. The lengths we would go to to see our girl friends.

SCOTLAND 1940

All too soon we had to leave our 'cushy berth' in Burnley for fresh woods and pastures new. Our train journey this time took us through the lovely scenery of the westerly Yorkshire Dales, the Lake District and Cumbria and through lowland Scotland via Edinburgh and over the Forth Bridge into Fife, until, having crossed the county boundary, we arrived at Perth ' The Gate of the Highlands'. It was here, in the 'fair city', on the meadows of the North and South Inch, and on Kinoull Hill that our intelligence training really started, and where we began to learn the secrets of map reading, map making, field sketching etc in delightful surroundings and among very friendly and generous people.

I have never been able to get to grips with Sir Walter Scott, great writer as he was, but I knew his 'Fair Maid of Perth', and I was very fond of the Serenade from Bizet's opera of the same name (immortalised by Heddle Nash). I was interested, therefore, to be able to see 'the Fair Maid of Perth's House', which stands on the site of the house in which lived the original 'Fair Maid' in the 14th century.

We were not to enjoy Perth for very long. Within a few weeks we were on the move again, after handing over our 'warehouse' accommodation to a regiment of Polish cavalry. I remember one Pole stopping me in the street and asking the way to the 'Eemka'; it took time for the penny to drop; he wanted the Y.M.C.A.!

Our next home was on the north bank of the Firth of Tay, in the city of Dundee, one of the largest cities in Scotland, famous in the past for jute making, and for jam and marmalade (Mrs Keiller's renowned Dundee marmalade was first made in 1797). Here in Dundee, Headquarters Company was billeted in what had been a girls' reform school on Balgay Road. At the side of my bed space (still no beds) was a bell push with a sign that read 'In case of need ring for a mistress'. It must have been a hoax: I rang every night with no result.

The principal features of Dundee were the River Tay, with its famous bridge linking the counties of Angus and Fife and Dundee Law. The latter is a high, almost conical hill, overlooking Dundee to the south with marvellous views of the Tay and the Fife. To the east and north-east is the sea, with Arbroath visible on a clear day: to the north is rolling farming country towards Forfar - once the county town of Forfarshire, now called Angus, and Kirriemuir (scene of a bawdy Scottish song 'The Ball of Kirriemuir), and the foothills of the Grampian mountains. I remember Dundee Law for a very special reason. One night in early September, 1940, the whole Battalion 'stood to' from sunset to dawn, the Companies in various strategic position around the town. Six members of the Intelligence Section, including myself, climbed the Law in the gathering twilight and remained on watch through the night until the coming of a grey and cloudy dawn. During the night there was a great deal of aerial activity, and we huddled down in our 'capes' (dual purpose ground sheets) time after time as enemy aircraft flew over, seemingly armslength over our heads. The beams of numerous searchlights traversed the sky and occasional burst of anti-aircraft fire could be seen, and heard, over in the direction of Arbroath. At one point a searchlight was abruptly extinguished when a stream of bullets from a diving plane found their target down the searchlight's cone of light. A cold, damp, wind blew all night from the sea, and we were glad when daylight came and we were 'stood down'. It was many months afterwards that we were told the reason for our vigil: that night there had been an abortive sea-borne raid on the south-west coast of England and it had been feared that this could have been a diversion for a major enemy invasion at some other point or points on the shores of Great Britain.

In the last week of August Vera got leave from her work at Metro-Vickers and came to see me in Dundee. I had not seen her since the middle of June. She came with Bessie, Wilson Jackson's fiancee, who had wanted to come to Dundee but had been unable to because her father, wisely, had persuaded her not to come alone. She had never met Vera, but knowing of her through Wilson she wrote to ask her if she would accompany her to Dundee. Wilson and I were very happy at this arrangement and, when we knew the date, found accommodation for the girls with a Mr and Mrs Fraser at 18 Rosefield Street, not far from our billets. Mr Fraser was an engine driver, Mrs Fraser a jolly, buxom, apple cheeked lady of about fifty, who immediately took the girls under her wing and took good care of them during their stay, feeding then (and often Wilson and me) with substantial amounts of Scottish fare. They were allowed to entertain us in their bed sitting room, which was much better than holding hands in the cinema of an a park bench, though we did that as well. One evening the four of us were enjoying a kiss and cuddle in the bed sit when the came a thundering knocking on the door and a cry of 'put that lightout'. We hadn't the heart to go to the door and tell the air raid warden that the light had never been on! We were sorry to see the girls go home, but we had had a glorious week together, even though, some days, we were only able to meet them in the evening, after duties.

Thereafter we were always welcome at the Frasers, although we never visited them except by invitation. One occasion that I remember with special pleasure was an invitation to a Masonic 'Ladies Night', at which I sang for my supper, and Wilson's; when Mrs Fraser announced that I was to sing I saw the faces of two pretty young ladies fall. They had obviously had unhappy experiences of amateur singers. I was pleased to see, after my first song, that they were not displeased.

Around the middle of September the powers-that-be decided we were getting too comfortable in Dundee and moved us a few miles further north to the little country town of Forfar. A letter of mine dated 23rd September 1940 expresses my first reaction to this move -

'Personally I was very sorry to leave Dundee, I had made some very good friends there and also there was plenty to do on free nights. Forfar, on the other hand, is rather a dead-alive hole, the type of place where a Harvest Festival is considered an event. I may be prejudiced, however, by the fact that, yesterday, Sunday, was a particularly gloomy day; Sundays in Scotland are bad enough when the weather is fine.

Dundee had only two are raids while we were there, despite Lord Haw-Haw's claims that the docks are completely ruined. Forfar had been luckier still, it hasn't had an alarm yet, although a few weeks ago one of the Luftwaffe jettisoned a stick of bombs here whilst being chased by one of our Hurricanes. Luckily they landed in a turnip field and consequently did little damage - except to the turnips!'

Later I was to revise my opinion of Forfar to a certain extent, after meeting more of the people, and after tasting my first Forfar 'bridies'. Our favourite haunt in Forfar was a little cafe run by a retired footballer who had played for Sheffield Wednesday - and Scotland - and who had a delectable daughter. Thus there were three great attractions, the good fare, interesting talk about football and flirting with the lovely lassie - not necessarily in that order! Other memories of Forfar are the pre-breakfast runs around the loch in the semi-darkness, with hoar frost on the grass and trees. Our section chose to do this in preference to the Sergeant Major's P.T. sessions. I don't know if this was the right choice: all I can remember is that I had appalling stiffness in my thighs and calves which lasted for days and days. After 4 weeks in Forfar we moved south-west across Scotland to the market town of Castle Douglas in Kirkcudbrightshire, just to the north of the Solway Firth. My letter of 10 November gives my first impressions of Castle Douglas and of our initial activities there -

'We have been here three weeks now, having left Forfar on Friday 18th October, and these last three weeks have been weeks of intensive training. We have had route marches, company schemes, battalion exercises and Brigade manoeuvres apart from our routine stuff, and I must say that the Battalion chiropodist has had a busy time lately attending to blistered and sore feet - not excluding mine. We've had some pretty rotten weather since we came here, mostly rain and high winds, and these have contributed in no small degree to the discomforts of our training programme. Luckily we all have a full change of clothing, so - we don't suffer any ill effects from our many drenchings. We, the Intelligence Section, have a room and a kitchen in an evacuated house, and are lucky in having a couple of gas radiators which come in very handy for drying our clothes. Good use is made of them, too, when we have to scrub our webbing equipment in a hurry. Saturday night sees them festooned with rifle slings, respirator cases and straps, belts, bayonet frogs and anklets for Sunday morning church parade; many of them scrubbed at 23.00 hours on the owner's return from the cinema. I'm afraid I must plead guilty to this practice too.

As to Castle Douglas itself: although purporting to be the largest castle market in the south of Scotland, the town (giving it the benefit of the doubt) is quite small, consisting of three parallel streets, with smaller streets intersecting them at right angles. Entertainments are very few, consisting , apart from two public houses, of 2 cinemas - one of very diminutive proportions - and a Church of Scotland canteen. The cinemas change programmes three times weekly, but as we've already seen most of the films already it doesn't make much difference. However our section are hiring a radio, so we can always stay in and listen to that; in the meantime we play draughts and darts, write letters and read anything from Army pamphlets to 'Lilliput'.

Tonight I have my entertainment problem solved for me: I am on duty at Battalion Order Room (at hand with the Cipher codebook to decipher any messages that come through), a job which I don't mind because it usually gives me a chance to catch up on my correspondence.

We have a new scheme in progress here now. Each Company has sent a number of men to our section for training in Intelligence work with a view to them becoming snipers. This has put more work on our shoulders and I have already given half-a-dozen lectures on various aspects of Intelligence work.

There is a rumour in the ranks that we shall have a leave at Christmas, but this may only be wishful thinking....'

As a matter of fact, despite the inhospitable weather, we soon settled down to life in this sleepy market town, and, for a number of reasons, I began to enjoy myself. When the Battalion arrived in town, we were looked at by the natives with a certain amount of suspicion. They didn't immediately lock away their daughters, but I'm sure they kept a close watch on them and gave them strict warnings against becoming too closely involved with the 'brutal and licentious soldiery', especially the Sassenach variety! We certainly shocked then in a different way, when on the first Sunday, after morning Church parade and our Sunday dinner, we went out to the local playing-field and had a game of football. The heathen English desecrating the Sabbath day! Eventually a more liberal view prevailed when the good people of Castle Douglas realised that, after six days of hard work, we deserved some relaxation on the seventh. Whether the local clergy preached on the text 'The Sabbath was made for Man, and not Man for the Sabbath' I don't really know.

Throughout my Army service I found that the non-conformist Church parade always comprised the smallest number of men after the Roman Catholics. The greatest number attended Church of England Services not because they were all devout, or even practising, Anglicans, but because on being called up and being asked their religion they said 'C of E' because the majority of them had been baptised in an Anglican church and felt that they were nominally of that denomination. It was said that some men claimed to be Roman Catholic because there was always the possibility that there would not be a Catholic Church in the vicinity, and that they would, therefore be excused Church parades. I cannot see how this could be true because they would surely have been found out when, almost inevitably, they would have encountered a Catholic church or an R.C. priest. From my expereince R.C. soldiers almost invariably ended up on fatigues on Sunday morning if there was no service for them to attend. I have racked by memory but can think of no practising Jews in any unit to which I belonged. (Later in my service, and especially overseas - whether on active service or not - Church parades were discontinued, and it became a matter of personal preference or conscience whether one went to a religious service at all. Sometimes there were no services to attend, except, perhaps, on special occasions such as Easter, Christmas and New Year).

In Castle Douglas we non-conformists, few as we were, went to the Church of Scotland, which, to my surprise, was as near in liturgy and practice to the Methodist Church as it was possible to be, I felt at home straight away. In our number was my friend from Sheffield, Harry Yates, Gerry Winters and a man from the West Country whose name escapes me at the moment. After the service the Minister greeted us in porch and introduced us to his organist and choirmaster, a Mr Whiteley who, we soon discovered, was a Yorkshire man from Halifax. Many of Mr Whiteley's choir members had been called up, so not only was his church choir badly depleted but he was desperately short of tenors for his Choral Society. The result of our conversation with Mr Whiteley was the addition of two tenors, the West Countryman and myself, and one bass - a little Welshman - to both his church and lay choirs. We did not realise it at the time but our volunteering gained us a number of benefits and privileges. For example, on Mr Whiteley's recommendation, we were excused duties on the evenings of the rehearsals for both the church choir and the Choral Society. Then, on invitation, we became regular visitors to the Whiteley's warm and comfortable home where we enjoyed the comfort of steaming baths, good company and conversation, and generous hospitality in the shape of substantial tasty suppers. It was obvious that these country folk had sources of food unavailable to the majority of townspeople. Very enjoyable evenings almost invariably ended in songs around the piano, and then back to our spartan and uninviting billets.

At the same time as this my good friend from my home town - and previously co-student with me at Sheffield Commercial College - Ron Gibson, was billeted with a well-to-do family in their large and handsome house on the outskirts of the town. I had the good fortune to be invited to eat at the Saunders' house and to sample for a time the delights of a gracious living. The Saunders had two children, a boy who was an officer in a Scottish regiment and a daughter at home who appeared to be destined to remain unmarried. We played table-tennis in their spacious living room, as well as Monopoly, and on Boxing Day, 1940, after a sumptuous tea (which included a first for me - cold pheasant) we played at Nap for ha'pennies. I remember writing to Vera to say that I won half-a-crown on the night (1986 equivalents - at stakes of one-fifth of a new penny I won twelve and a half pence!).

At the beginning of December the Castle Douglas Choral Society held its Grand Annual Concert, a glittering and long awaited event for this rural community. I can only remember three of the choral items, 'Soldiers' Chorus from Faust', 'Comrades in Arms', and the 'The Revenge' (At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Glenville lay, etc). The soloist was a fine profesiional tenor from Glasgow who sang, amongst other favourite tenor arias and ballads, 'O Madchen, mein Madchen'. The hall was packed with the local gentry and civic notables, and with the townspeople all in their Sabbath 'best'.

I found out that Mr Whiteley was the local 'talent-spotter' from E.N.S.A. and I was flattered when he suggested that I should audition for a job with this Entertainment Association. I wondered afterwards what would have happened to me, both as to career and to my physical survival in the War, if I had travelled this path. As it was I preferred to stay with my pals in the battalion (fate has often a grim sense of humour. Vera had a friend and workmate at Metros, Elsie Latchford - she and her second husband Mick Brooker are still great friends of mine, and Mick was my best man when I remarried in 1983. Elsie married a man called Ron at the beginning of the War just after he had been called up into the army. Within a few months his firm, English Steel Corporation, obtained his release on the grounds of his being employed on work of national importance - which he truly was. Every year thereafter the firm had to re-apply for renewal of his exemption,and every year until 1944 approval was forthcoming. In 1944 something went wrong; for some unknown reason Ron was recalled to his regiment - after 4 years when, if I thought of it at all I considered him to be a lucky man. Within a very short space of time he was part of the allied invasion force and was killed on D-Day plus 2). Who knows the consequences of one's actions and decisions? If I had been fortunate enough to join ENSA would I have still survived the war?

The days moved slowly and uneventfully towards Christmas. Uneventful, that is, but for the dropping of a couple of bombs in some fields around Dalbeattie, where one of our rifle companies was stationed, and a confirmation service in the nearest Episcopalian Church. I mention the latter for three reasons: first, the confirmation was the adult confirmation of a number of our men: secondly, it was the first and only Anglican confirmation service I had ever attended: thirdly, out of the overwhelmingly superior number of C. of E.s in the battalion (actual and nominal) there was no one able or willing to help the little village choir in this important event. As a consequence it was left to us Methodist/Baptist/Presbyterians to come to the rescue! I doubt if the bishop was informed as to the motley composition of the choir.

A fortnight before Christmas the news broke that we were to have the seven days leave we had been yearning for since our return from France in June, and I was delighted to find my name up on orders for the first batch. We left Castle Douglas on the afternoon of Sunday 15 December and after a very slow journey, made slower still by our impatience to get home, our little band of Sheffielders finally approached Sheffield around 5 o'clock on the following morning. I clearly remember crossing Norfolk Bridge and having a very brief glimpse of Attercliffe Road towards 'Tommy Ward's' corner; there was a tram on the lines. 'Good', I thought 'the trams are running, I shall have no trouble in getting home', little did I know how difficult it would be! Humping my full equipment including rifle and spare blanket, towards the station exit, I decided it would be better to take a taxi home and be spared the effort of carrying all that weight to the nearest bus or tram stop. I was surprised however, at the surly attitude of the ticket collector when I enquired about a taxi 'You'll be lucky', he said, without further comment or explanation. When I emerged from the station there were no lights, of course, and no signs of life in the profound darkness of the cold morning. I decided that it would be easier for me to catch the Rotherham bus or tram, so I walked the length of Sheaf Street arriving at Exchange Street in time to see a bus standing at an angle to the pavement, as though it was just setting off. I ran as fast as I could, hampered as I was by my impedimenta and jumped onto the back platform. The interior of the bus was completely burnt out ! As I stood on the pavement completely out of breathe from my exertions I wondered what had happened to Sheffield, and what I should do next. I was not left in ignorance, or without help, for very long.

Out of the darkness appeared a man who, from his dress and the satchel he was carrying, was obviously on his way to work. He was surprised at my ignorance of what had happened to Sheffield and told me of the heavy air raids that happened on the previous Thursday and Sunday nights. Many people had been killed and injured, and there had been extensive damage to property and essential services. Whether the German bombing had been indiscriminate or inaccurate it was impossible to say, but the result was massive destruction of residential property and public buildings, while the steel works and manufacturing establishments were relatively unscathed. It could have been that the Luftwaffe's aim was to destroy the morale of the civilian population rather than concentrating its attack on the industries essential to the war effort. Whatever the aim, it failed on both counts.

My unknown informant asked me where I was going, and when I said 'Carbrook' he offered to escort me in that direction because he was bound for Tinsley Himself. It was as well he did because we had to make a number of detours to avoid unexploded bombs, and I would have been completely lost in the dark. He helped, also, to lighten my load by carrying some of my equipment, although I thought it prudent to retain possession of my rifle! I would have been up before a court-martial if I had lost that. Eventually we reached Attercliffe Road at Norfolk Bridge, and by this time it was beginning to get light. What a sight greeted me as I turned into the main road! Buildings on each side of the road were still burning, or emitting volumes of smoke, while firemen from all over south and west Yorkshire were busy fighting the fires or removing debris from the gutted buildings. Hoses, water, bricks and debris were everywhere, and the smell of smoke and escaping gas filled the air. It was only then that I began to be afraid of what might be in store for me when I arrived at Vera's. One of the firemen - from Wakefield Fire Brigade - called out to me as I passed, 'What are tha' doing here, lad, th'd be better going back to thee unit!' This did nothing to allay my fears.

For the next quarter of a mile, almost to the bottom of Staniforth Road, we picked our way through the chaotic conditions. By this time in spite of the coldness of the early morning, I was perspiring freely and, as I was able to see when I arrived at Vera's, the smoke and grime combined with the sweat to give me the appearance of a coal miner! As we approached Newhall Road there was less evidence of bomb damage and my spirits arose as a consequence of the hope that Carbrook had been spared the worst of the aerial attacks. At the top of Newhall Road, at its junction with Brompton Road, at what was normally the Attercliffe end of the Attercliffe to Southey Green route, we found a bus waiting to fill up. Instead of the usual service this bus was to make a circular tour covering Newhall Road, Brightside Lane, Weedon Street, Vulcan Road, Sheffield Road, and Attercliffe Common, to serve the industries of the area. It was with a sigh of relief that I parked my gear under the stairs and sank down into a seat. My benefactor got off somewhere in the Tinsley area, and I thanked him for his kindness. Minutes later I alighted from the bus at Metro-Vickers' gate and crossed the road to 513 Attercliffe Common, where Vera lived with her parents Mr and Mrs Hartle, her sister Edna and cousin Betty. Vera and Edna were getting ready to go to work, Betty to school. I was soon to hear of the nights they had spent in the air-raid shelter in the middle of the yard, or in the reinforced cellar two doors away, entered by holes knocked through the walls of 513's cellar and the one next door. It was in this reinforced cellar that three families had spent the dreadful nights of Thursday and Sunday, with plaster and coal dust falling on them every time a bomb fell nearby. The houses shook to their foundation, slates were blown away, and windows shattered when a gigantic land-mine exploded some 50 yards away, but there was no injury to life or person. Everyone was thankful to have survived these two nights but there was general apprehension as to the future.

Vera was not allowed leave from Metro-Vickers, having had the holiday in Dundee, so on the 5 weekdays I was home I saw her only in the early morning and after work in the evenings. She even had to work on the Saturday morning. It wasn't much of a leave: we were in someone's shelter every night as I did my rounds of uncles, aunties and cousins. (Woe betide if I visited Uncle and missed Aunty Y). One evening we went to Mr and Mrs Swallow's at Babur Road, near Norfolk Bridge, to see their daughter, Nora and her boy-friend, my cousin and best friend Cyril Lord. Cyril and Nora had gone to visit some other friends but were due back at about 8 o'clock to spend the rest of the evening with Vera and me. We never saw them: an air raid warning intervened and they spent the whole evening in one shelter, and we spent the evening with Mr and Mrs Swallow in their shelter. The all clear sounded about midnight and Vera and I had to walk the two and a half miles home down the shattered and deserted Attercliffe Road and less severely damaged Attercliffe Common. It was a bright moonlit night - the full moon, the 'Bombers moon' had been on the preceding Thursday night, to Sheffield's cost. Sheffielders always claim that Sheffield was saved greater destruction on the Sunday night because after a bright and moonlight start a thick mist came down and obscured the city from the sight of the German aviators.

It was during this leave that Vera and I decided to get married at the first possible opportunity, and I was determined to 'make' the opportunity by applying for a few days compassionate leave - better known to the lads as 'passionate' leave. But that is a later story.

I was greatly tempted to wire my unit and ask for an extension to my leave on the legitimate grounds that I had spent much of it helping two uncles and aunts to get their houses in order again after being bombed out, but I thought of my pals back in Castle Douglas still waiting for leave and I knew that if I didn't go back on time one of them would miss his leave. So, on Christmas Eve morning, of all times, I left Midland Station, with a very heavy heart, to return to my unit. The train was an hour late arriving in Sheffield and was full into the bargain, so, with a crowd of other people, civilians and servicemen alike, I had to stand in the corridor all the way to Leeds. Here I had to change for Carlisle and after half-an-hour's wait the train set off at 1 o'clock and arrived at Carlisle at 5 o'clock. Here, after another hour's wait I boarded the train for Dumfries, where I arrived at just after 7 o'clock. A melancholy journey almost ended in further dejection: when I arrived at Dumfries and changed trains for Castle Douglas I found to my dismay that my wristwatch was missing , the watch that Vera had bought me for my 21st birthday. I rushed back to the train I had just left and searched the compartment from top to bottom but without success. Perhaps I had lost it on the trains Between Sheffield and Carlisle! I returned disconsolately to the Castle Douglas train which was due out in 15 minutes' time, and sat there for 10 minutes. Suddenly the thought struck me that I should report the loss to the stationmaster, and dashed off to his office, where, to my great delight, I saw my watch on his desk. Some honest person had handed it in. I was just in time to resume my seat on the train before it steamed out.

I arrived back in my billet at around half-past eight to find the place gaily festooned with paper chains and other Christmas decorations (not at all consonant with my mood of depression) and with the remnants of a Christmas Eve feast on the table. I didn't really feel like going to the Battalion Dance, but the lads persuaded me, and I was glad I went because Wilson and Bessie were there, and I was able to have a good chat to them. Wilson had been in hospital for over three weeks, so in accordance with Army rules, he was being transferred to Regimental Headquarters. There he would be put on the 'Y' List to await a vacancy in one of the Battalions (Wilson didn't come back to the 2/7th, and I didn't see him for six years - at my homecoming party on leave from Italy, in August 1946 - although Vera and Bessie kept in touch, and saw each other occasionally. When David was born Vera became his godmother).

The next day, Christmas Day, 1940, we had a lie-in, to 8 o'clock, and I was looking forward to an easy day but 'the plans of mice and men gang aft agley', and I found myself on Cookhouse fatigues from 0830 hrs to 1630 hrs.

During this time, apart from a break for dinner - after everybody else had eaten - we peeled potatoes, washed disgustingly greasy tins and dishes, and made ourselves generally useful around the cookhouse. One or two members of our detail were a little worse for wear by the time dinner time came, after sampling anything alcoholic they could lay their hands on, so we let them sleep it off, we abstemious blokes and performed their share of the duties. They would have only been under our feet!

After a frugal tea - dinner had not been fully digested by then -I went up to spend the evening with Mr and Mrs Whiteley. We had a cosy evening around the fire, a good supper, and a good sing round the piano. We arrived back at our billets at 1.30 am Boxing Day.

There was no lie-in for us on Boxing Day. We were up at the crack of dawn scrubbing the billet out, giving the kitchen a thorough clean, and putting our equipment in order, all for Officer's Inspection after breakfast. Our Officer, Lieut. W.A.C. (Bill) Johnson looked very fragile when he arrived for the inspection, and we were not surprised when he failed to turn up after lunch to superintend our training. No doubt he had got his head down! During the afternoon, therefore, we took things easy ourselves, playing cards, reading etc.

Gerry Winters and I were invited to have tea with the Sanders where Ron Gibson was billeted. I have written elsewhere of what we did there, and how much we enjoyed it.

The day after Boxing Day was beautiful sunny day, after a severe frost overnight. Just the right weather for the transport exercise we went on: we were taken about 15 miles out into the lovely Lowland country, debussed then walked 7 miles before being picked up by the buses and taken back to Castle Douglas. Little did I know that in a few days' time I would be doing the transport bit in earnest; that I would be in the advance party for our next posting: destination, as usual, unknown to anyone under the rank of Sergeant. Before I left I said goodbye to Mr and Mrs Wheatley and Mrs Sanders and thanked them for their hospitality and their many kindnesses (I never failed to marvel at the generosity of the majority of Scots with whom I came into contact. One day, in Forfar, for example, our platoon was engaged in map reading practice on the local golf course when it started to rain: not the Scotch mist kind of rain, but the real 'stair-rods' variety. We made a dash for the nearest cover, which was a cottage some 400 yards away, and sheltered under the overhanging eaves. 15 minutes later, with the rain still pelting down, the cottage door opened and the lady of the house invited the seven of us into the parlour. There, in the centre of the room was an enormous table metaphorically groaning under the weight of all kinds of Scottish 'goodies', including some I had never seen before; Scottish pancakes and 'bannocks'. I can recommend Army life for people with poor appetites. Within a very short time there was little left on that table but crumbs. While we had been eating, the good lady kept us in conversation, asking each of us of our homes and families. She told us she was a widow and that her only son was overseas with his Scottish regiment. There was no ulterior motive to her hospitality but she was hoping that one of us could play the piano, because she had not heard it played since her son, a good pianist had left for overseas' service. Luckily we had a pianist - an excellent one at that - in Paul - who played a number of classical pieces (I can only remember one, Chopin's Minute Waltz) and then accompanied our singing of a number of English and Scottish songs. We had all gained something from this chance encounter with a most hospitable lady.

On the morning ot New Year's Eve, 1940, the advance party of the 2/7th Dukes left Castle Douglas for a destination somewhere in East Anglia - it turned out to be Kings Lynn in the county of Norfolk. Lt. Bill Johnson, Gerry Winters and I were in a truck open to the weather, and, being Intelligence Section, we headed the south-bound convoy.

NORFOLK 1941

It was a bitterly cold morning with a few snow flurries, and a leaden hue to the sky which promised more to come. Our route was by way of Dumfries, Annan, Gretna Green, Carlisle and south to Penrith. In a short time we were freezing cold, however much we huddled together in our collars-turned up greatcoats, and our hands and feet were numb with the freezing temperature and the icy draughts that played on them. It was with great relief, therefore, that we halted, just before noon, at a pub in Penrith for a warming drink. At this time, and for a long time to come, I was completely teetotal so I settled for a hot blackcurrant drink in preference to the spirits that the majority were drinking. The worst part of the journey was still to come, the ascent and descent of Shap in what had now become driving snow, with the fear of skidding and going headlong into the ravines alongside the road. The scenery must have been magnificent under its mantle of snow, but we were in no mood to appreciate natural beauty and we breathed sighs of relief when we reached Kendal and we began our descent into Yorkshire by way of Kirby Lonsdale, Settle, Skipton, Keighley and Hebden Bridge, to our overnight stay at the Regimental Depot in Halifax by this time we had almost forgotten that it was New Year's Eve, but we were reminded of the fact when the Officer in Charge called us together and said that all men who lived in the Halifax and Huddersfield area could go home for the night provided they were back at the Depot in time for the convoy to start out at 0800 hours the following morning. I asked the officer which route the convoy would be taking and when he said it would be via Doncaster and the A1 I promised that if I was allowed to go home to Sheffield that night I would be at a rendezvous point near Doncaster the following morning in good time to rejoin the convoy. My request was refused, mainly on the grounds of the 0800 hours start on the following day. Personnel, especially the officers and senior ranks, were so late in turning up on New Year's Day that we didn't set off until 1100 hours. I was blazingly angry, because I could have been back in Halifax well before that time had I been allowed to join my family, and Vera, in their New Year celebrations - muted though they must have been.

I remember that I went to the pictures that New Year's Eve, but I can't remember what the film was. I know I was in bed by 11 o'clock, the first and only time in my life that I didn't stay up to see the New Year in. I wished all my loved ones 'Happy New Year' in my prayers, and prayed, as I did every night, for a speedy end to this stupid war.

The following morning I fumed as 8 o'clock came and went, followed by 9 and 10, until we finally set off at 11 o'clock. We were so late that it was dark before we got anywhere near to Kings Lynn, and as we came through the Lincolnshire Fens the dark night sky was made eerie with the intermittent sweeps of searchlight beams: those a long way off gave the impression of distant sheet lighting.

We finally arrived in the market square of King's Lynn, and our truck stopped outside the Crown Hotel: it was nearly ten o'clock. Bill Johnson, and the other officers in the convoy, entered the hotel where, after a meal and a good drinking session, they stayed to sleep the night away. We common soldiers stayed with the trucks all night, taking turns to snatch the odd hour of sleep, and listening to the drones of enemy planes as they crossed the coast for some inland destination. Strangely enough I felt no resentment at this time that the discomforts of War were so unfairly shared. Would a conscripted soldier have the same attitude today? I doubt it. I always understood that it was a principle of Army life that an officer saw to the comfort of his men before his own: I'm afraid this isn't always true.

Our ultimate destination in Kings Lynn was the docks area. there we were accommodated in one of the two five storeyed grain warehouses that faced one another across one of the internal wet docks. I never saw such fire and air raid traps in my life. Though the exterior of the warehouses were brick built, the interiors were completely of wood and the only connecting link between the floors, and the means of exit and entrance, was by means of narrow, twisting stairs that allowed the passage of one person at a time, in one direction only. There were no ablutions or sanitary arrangements, except in the latter case, one large receptacle for urine. Any urgent night time call of nature could have disastrous consequences for the person concerned, and sometimes for his comrades. There were two incidents I remember well, one semi-humorous, one anything but funny. We were just settling down to sleep one night (still only on palliasses on the hard floor), when one of the chaps came in, obviously worse for wear. He collapsed between the blankets, only to jump up minutes later, and, in his drunken stupor, urinated on his pal who was sleeping beside him. There was no immediate reaction from the victim of this outrage, but when the perpetrator lay down again, his pal got up and returned the compliment! At the time it seemed poetic justice.

On the other, more serious,occasion, the Orderly Corporal, on his morning inspection, discovered a heap of human excrement in a corner of the sleeping quarters. Within a short time of reporting this matter, the whole Company was called out on parade to face a furious C.O. who demanded to know who the culprit was. No-one owned up to the deed, so the C.O. commanded that everyone should attend after-duties parades, and be subjected to punitive exercises until the man responsible for the outrage came forward and confessed his guilt. (I believe corporate punishment of this kind is against Queen's Regulations - King's at this time). In any case the perpetrator of the deed was probably too drunk at the time to remember what he had done. I attended the first punishment parade, and quite an ordeal it was, too. Marching, counter-marching, and running in full marching equipment with fixed bayonets and, for part of the time, in gas masks. There were only two more such parades after that, which I was fortunate to miss because of other duties, before the C.O. relented and discontinued the punishment.

I spoke earlier of the risk potential of the warehouses, and out forebodings were soon justified. One night, about 2 am we were awakened by a series of shattering explosions, the last of which was so tremendous that we expected the building to fall around our ears. We hurriedly dressed and in the darkness, negotiated the rickety, winding staircase and arrived at ground level on the edge of the dock. There, on the other side , was a heap of rubbish where the other warehouse had stood. It had been the billet of another unit, very few of whose members survived the direct hit. One fraction of a second earlier, or later because we didn't know the approach path of the bomber responsible for the attack, we would have been the recipients of the bomb, and these memoirs would not have been written.

It was with great relief when, shortly afterwards, Intelligence Section moved to a two-roomed, one storeyed building nearer the dock gates which had been the office of a haulage contractor. Here we were independent and somewhat a law unto ourselves. The main room was perhaps 18 feet square, with a small fireplace on the wall facing the outside door, and a door to the left of the fireplace which opened into a smaller room in which we slept and which held a couple of wash basins and an enclosed toilet. Our living room was undecorated except that the plastered walls which had obviously not seen paint or soap and water, for a considerable time had a number of posters and notices, and the odd out-of-date calendar stuck haphazzardly across them. On a shelf near the door were a number of old advertising leaflets, showing by concentric circles around the centre point of Kings Lynn, the number of miles, as the crow flies, from this point (I used one of these leaflets to convince the company clerk that Sheffield was not more than 100 miles from Kings Lynn, when this distance was ruled as the criteria for granting passes for 48 hours' leaves. I did this by drawing an intermediate circle between the 50 and 150 miles radii making sure that Sheffield was just within the 100 miles limit).

In the centre of the living room, under a solitary, naked electric light, stood a large battered table. This served us as our dining table when we brought bread, cheese etc from the Company cookhouse to make our own welsh rarebit, and to eat it in the more intimate fellowship of our seven man Section. At other times it served as our office desk, for letter writing ( a never-ending necessity) and for the occasional game of cards. There was never any shortage of coal for the fire so we were snug and warm in the evenings. It was worth the chore, which we took in turn, of cleaning the fireplace out and laying a new fire.

About this time there were reports of enemy paratroop activity, as a consequence of which the Intelligence Section had an extension to their duties. Every evening at twilight, and every morning at dawn we were on duty at out look-out posts. These were on the tops of the towers of various churches on the perimeter of Kings Lynn, and it was an eerie and often nerve wracking experience climbing the shaky ladder that led up to these heights, especially in the darkness and by oneself. I confess that on one occasion I was unable to find my way through the bell chamber of one church and up to the tower, and spent the next hour dozing in one of the pews until the transport came to take me back to the docks. I found that sitting in a church in total darkness is not the most comfortable of experiences.

On the subject of after-duties activities, we went fairly regularly to the pictures, and more often to a Church canteen, where there was not a great variety to the food they supplied, but where you could always get a good helping of beans on toast. It was here that our Bandmaster heard me sing, and invited me to sing with the Battalion dance orchestra. Shortly after this the Management of one of the local cinemas began arranging Sunday night concerts in which the first half was given over to professional entertainers of all kinds, and the second half featured the Battalion orchestra with myself as resident vocalist and with occasional local amateur artists. It was a little embarrassing to be billed as 'Jackie' Straw, but I could put up with this at the princely fee of thirty shillings per performance.

When we had been in Castle Douglas, immediately following my pre-Christmas leave, and during the first weeks in King's Lynn, I had constantly exchanged letters with Vera on the subject of getting married, and by January 10th we were making semi-definite plans, subject to two important provisos - could I get compassionate leave, and could Vera have time off from her war work at Metro-Vickers? As soon as this second question was answered favourably I obtained an interview with the Padre, and asked him to speak to the C.O. on my behalf, giving the suggested date of February 15th. He said he would be pleased to do so, that he foresaw no difficulties, and suggested that wee should go ahead with our plans. Our chapel in Clifton Street was unfit for use because of blitz damage so Vera asked permission to be married at Carbrook Central Hall, and the Minister the Rev Joe Henderson agreed to perform the ceremony there. We agreed the bridesmaids, my sister Muriel, Vera's sister Edna and Joan, my cousin Kitty's little daughter. The guest list was made up, the chapel schoolroom booked for the reception, the catering arrangements made, and my cousin and future bestman Cyril, went with Vera to but the wedding ring.

When all the arrangements had been made I suddenly realised that we were at the end of January and I still had received no confirmation of my leave from the C.O. I went, therefore, to see the Padre and as soon as he saw me his face fell and he was extremely embarrassed: he had forgotten to put my application to the C.O.! Here we were, a fortnight before the wedding day, with the distinct prospect that the only person who would be missing in church would be the bridegroom. I went hot and cold all over!

The following morning I had a visit from the Orderly Corporal 'Straw', he said, in what I thought was not a very encouraging tone of voice, 'the C.O. wants to see you in his office at 0900 hours. And don't be late'. I wasn't late; at ten minutes to the hour I was outside the Orderly Room, my mouth dry, my heart thumping, and with a sickly feeling in the pit of my stomach. At that moment I was wishing I had committed some serious but simple type of crime like begin absent without leave, desertion, striking a superior officer, or mutiny: anything but this delicate and complicated situation in which the Padre had placed me, and which assumed ever greater proportions as I thought of it. What if the C.O. refused my request? What humiliations my Vera would have to endure; the amused scorn of her workmates at Metro-Vickers, the snide remarks of neighbours; the coldness of friends and relatives cheated of a short period of relief form the greyness and austerity of wartime life; the cancelling of the arrangements for the service, reception and catering. Would we have to return the wedding presents?

I was aroused from my tormented reverie by the 'gentle' voice of the R.S.M. 'inviting' me to follow him into the sanctum sanctorum. At the trestle table that served as his desk sat the C.O., his face stern and unsmiling; a few yards away, sitting at right angles to the table sat the Padre, ill-at-ease, and obviously embarrassed.

The R.S.M. marched me to the table, gave me the command to halt, to take off my cap, and to remain at attention. I couldn't have 'stood easy' to save my life.

After what seemed an eternity the C.O. looked up, stared first at me, then to the Padre, then back at me. 'Well Straw' - I could detect no trace of sympathy in his voice, 'What's all this about wanting leave to get married?'. I opened my mouth, but he went on, 'Have you got to get married?' 'No', I stammered. 'Then what's all the bloody rush, can't you wait until your next leave?', he barked. I felt all hope draining away from me, and I said a silent prayer for help, hoping that the Padre was also doing his job and was interceding for me.

I decided that my only hope was to explain everything from the beginning and throw myself on the C.O.s mercy. I started with the disastrous post-Blitz, pre-Christmas leave, not telling any downright lies, but exaggerating some of the difficulties for better effect. I explained that the destruction of life and property in Sheffield had brought into sharp focus the uncertainty of the future, and had led Vera and me to the decision that we should snatch as much happiness out of life as we could possibly do. I played down the Padre's involvement in the critical situation I found myself in, and admitted that I was at fault in not bringing the matter up earlier. Finally I had to tell the C.O. that all the arrangements had been made, the most important of which was Vera's hard-won leave of absence for her vital War work. Even at this point there were no signs that the ice was breaking so I played the last card in my hand. I suggested that whatever leave he chose to give me should be deducted from the number of days of my next privilege leave.

The next few minutes were an age as I waited for a reply. Finally the C.O. spoke, and I can remember almost his exact words 'Well, Straw', he said 'I've listened to your story, and although it agrees with what the Padre had already told me, I still have the suspicion that you have come the 'old soldier' with me, and have put me in a position of being morally blackmailed by you. In the circumstances, however, I am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. How much leave do you want?' In the first flush of relief and thankfulness I blurted out '72 hours, Sir'. 'Very well', he said, 'I'll arrange it with the Adjutant - dismiss!'

When I went to see the Adjutant (one of the old Worksop College boys, like Bill Johnson, and most of our young officers - with whom I got on with very well) he told me I ought have asked for 7 days. 'Who knows', he said 'Where any of us will be when the next leave roster comes out'. He was right about one thing, when my next leave came my 72 hours extra leave had been forgotten.

On Friday, February 14th 1941, at around six o'clock in the morning I awoke with the feeling that it must be time to get up but was reluctant to leave my blankets to switch on the light to see what time it was. I lay in the darkness, half-way between sleeping and waking, trying to fathom a strange feeling of anticipation that continued to grow until, suddenly, I was wide awake and I knew! In an instant I was out of my bed (ground sheet, palliasse and rough army blankets), and had stumbled across a curled up sleeping figure, and had found the switch. The naked, unshaded, clear glass bulb burst into light to the groans of the other occupants of the hut most of whom, involuntarily or otherwise, immediately pulled their blankets over their heads to shut out this disturber of their peace, this invader of the only privacy they could now enjoy, the privacy of their sleep and private dream-life. On this particular morning I broke my usual habit of being first to use the wash-basin. Instead, whilst my comrades struggled to come alive, I got the fire going in the grate, brewed seven mugs of good strong tea, and stood by to help the other chaps to get ready to go out on a Divisional 'scheme' that was to last at least 3 days from Friday morning until Sunday night: and joy of unutterable joys, I was missing it!" Instead I had a pass in my paybook for 72 hours leave from after duty on this particular day until midnight on Monday which, with the extra time fortuitously provided by the 'scheme', less travelling time to and from Sheffield, would give me about 60 hours at home. No wonder I was in a happy and helpful mood, I was going home to be married!

After my comrades had left for the 'scheme' congratulating me on my forthcoming marriage and, in almost the same breath, calling me many uncomplimentary names for being so lucky as to dodge 3 days of tedious and exhausting manoeuvres, I hastened to get ready to leave. I set out to walk the not inconsiderable distance to Kings Lynn railway station with a light heart despite the weight of full active service equipment. I had a long time to wait for the train to Peterborough where, after a further hour's wait on the cold and draughty platform, I caught a train to Doncaster. The waiting process was repeated before I boarded what seemed to me, in my impatience to be home, the slowest train I had ever travelled on. The only light relief came on this last stage of my journey when I had the good fortune to sit beside a very pretty young lady who was returning from a visit to see her husband who was stationed somewhere in Lincolnshire. When I told her I was on 72 hours compassionate leave she asked me if my wife was expecting a baby 'I hope not', I replied I'm not getting married until tomorrow morning!' Permissiveness was not so common in 1941.

When I arrived at Vera's parents' home in the early evening, after being in transit for nearly 12 hours, and after a good tea, Vera and I went round the corner to see my parents. Although there was spare sleeping accommodation at Vera's I had to sleep at my parents', where I had to sleep on the settee downstairs, because it was not 'done' or it was 'unlucky' to see one's bride to be before the ceremony on her wedding day. Sleeping on the settee was no hardship to me; after sleeping rough for over a year it was a luxury to lie on a yielding surface: it was only excitement that kept me awake until sheer exhaustion closed my eyes.

The morning of the 15th February started inauspiciously as far as the weather was concerned, with a strong wind blowing from the north-east, and by mid-morning torrential rain beat against the windows, rain that soon turned to sleet. By noon, however, the rain had ceased, and when Cyril and I arrived at chapel at half-past twelve the sun was shining out of a clear blue sky. I was half-way down the aisle before I realised that I was still wearing my forage cap! (For the wedding I had bought a set of 'best blues' made to the correct military pattern by Burton branch in Kings Lynn, and I had been able to obtain the correct ceremonial buttons and 'flashes', together with the Regimental elephants for my collar lapels from regimental furnishers.

I had spent hours burnishing the buttons, flashes, numerals and elephants, together with my cap badge which had had over a year's attention already, until they shone like the sun (Early in my service I have found 'Silvo' gave much better results in respect of brightness than did the more commonly used 'Brasso', or that relic from the First World War - 'Soldier's Friend').

As Cyril and I waited at the front of the chapel, The Rev 'Joe' Henderson came out of the vestry and introduced himself. The chapel was now filled with fiends and relatives, and when I looked round I could see a fair number of colleagues from Firth-Derihon, including my boss Mr Wooldridge. The organ struck up the Bridal March and down the aisle came Vera, on the arm of her father, followed by her bridesmaid. I had never seen her so radiant, in spite of her shyness. The service, during which Cyril sang one of our favourite ballads, 'I'll walk beside you', passed as if in a dream, and we were soon outside in the sunshine receiving the good wishes of everyone around. We had no professional photographers and as far as I can remember none of our guests had a camera (at least I have never seen a snapshot of our wedding). Instead Vera and I, our bridesmaids, our parents and the best man had the usual formal wedding photographs, the whole group, and then one of bride and 'groom, taken at the studio of Auberon C Ward on Attercliffe Road.

We came back to the reception, held in the chapel schoolroom, and I was truly astounded at the meal that Vera and her mother had provided. There must have been an awful lot of sacrifices made, in cash and in rations, to ensure that the spread was worthy of the occasion. After the meal many of the guests, and all the family, stayed on to talk and to play games organised by Uncle Sam (the Straws were a great party game family - influenced no doubt by chapel socials). Later in the evening we repaired to my parent's home where we sat and talked, and joked, and laughed and sang. A modest amount of alcohol was imbibed - by a minority of the assembly - but the bride and bridegroom stood by their temperance principles regardless of the occasion.

Two of our friends, and very close friends of my Uncle Sam and Auntie Elsie, Ron and Olive Webster lived on Carltonville Road, some few hundred yards up Attercliffe Common. When they knew we were going to get married, they offered us the use of their house for the two nights we should be together before I had to go back to my unit. They would stay with Uncle Sam and Auntie Elsie in the meantime. We were very grateful for their offer - we couldn't afford to go to an hotel - and more than happy to accept it.

When, on this first night, we let ourselves into the house we had to be very careful about lights because of the black-out regulations, so we put out the living room light before opening the door that gave access to the straight flight of stairs that were enclosed by walls of the living room and the front room. We had prudently brought an electric torch with us and it was as well we had. The staircase was just one long steep obstacle course, with all manner of household objects littering the stairs and a maze of tape that criss-crossed its way up and across the stairs in every direction. I was not going to spend time unravelling the tangle, so remembering how Alexander the Great had 'unfastened' the Gordian knot by cutting through it with his sword, I soon found a large pair of scissors and snipped my way through the barrier. We found, too, that an 'apple-pie' bed had been prepared for us, with the added refinement of hidden fire-tongs, sweeping brushes etc and that a thermometer had been placed in that article of bedroom furniture necessary in those days of outside toilets. But love allows of no obstacles!

We were very fortunate in our choice of wedding dates. For the two nights of our 'honeymoon', there were purple alerts but no red alerts. That meant that the A.R.P. personnel were standing by in case of air raids but that enemy raider never approached near enough for the air raid sirens to be sounded. This was tantamount to affixing 'Do not disturb' notice to our bedroom door. The morning following our wedding day, Sunday, we spent quietly at Ron and Olive's enjoying our own company, and making plans for spending my next leave. We also discussed what Vera would do with the small allowance she would now receive, as my wife, from the Army, and we agreed that this would be banked, together with my allowance from work, so that at the end of the War (little did we know that it was over 4 years away) we should have some financial foundation, together with a small endowment I had taken out, to start a home of our own. Vera wanted to stay at work, both to occupy her time and to be financially independent. She had toyed with the idea of living near wherever I happened to be billeted, but we soon dismissed this as being an impractible idea.

On Sunday afternoon we joined our friends at the Bible Class, and we attended the Church service in the evening. It was just like old times, being together and holding hands in the prayers and sermons. We felt very close, even though parts of our minds were on the morrow when we would have to part again.

Vera had to go to work on the Monday morning, before I was ready to set off to catch my train back to King's Lynn. I don't think I ever felt so desolate, both after saying Goodbye and during the whole of the boring journey back. All I could think of was the wonderful two days we had spent together, and wonder when we should be together again. It was a relief to get back to the comradeship of the 'lads'; their ribbing and not-so-subtle innuendoes at least diverted my mind from the ache in my heart. That night sleep was a long time coming.

We were kept so busy, however, with 'schemes' and exercises that one had little time during the day to indulge in day-dreaming and self-pity.

For the many schemes we were involved in I remember three or four because of special instances or circumstances.

A short time after my return from leave in February we set off on a Divisional scheme on a cold, bright night at around 2200 hours. Our direction was almost due south, and soon our platoon truck passed through the cathedral town of Ely. Shortly afterwards we debussed and were marched over some fields and rougher terrain until we came to a low ridge overlooking what, in the light of dawn some hours later, was a swiftly flowing river some 50 yards wide. We rested on the ridge for some time, trying to forget our discomfort and coldness in brief snatches of sleep. Just before dawn an umpire arrived on the scene and explained that the enemy was just across the river, and that our task was to find him out and drive him from his positions. He gave us the zero hour when we had to leave our positions and start our advance towards the enemy lines, using such natural cover as was available to us. At about 0500 hours we made our move, and in a quarter of an hour we had reached our bank of the river unobserved (so another umpire told us). This particular time I was acting as the platoon leader and it was my responsibility to find a means of crossing the river. I took another member of the platoon with me and reconnoitred downstream. Within half a mile we came upon a bridge, so I sent my companion back to the rest of the platoon to bring them to the bridge. When we were all assembled I decided that we should cross the bridge singly, at staggered intervals, and was about to send the first man across when another umpire came upon the scene and told us that the bridge had been blown, and that there was no other bridge for miles. There were no boats to be seen, so we had no alternative but to try and cross the river on foot. But how deep was it, and how slippery was the river-bed? I sent the tallest man in first, then we all followed, rifles held aloft in one hand, the other hand holding the webbing of the man in front of us. It was all right for the tall men, Paul was over 6 feet tall, but by the time the middle of the river was reached the water was up to my chest, and the strength of the current was threatening to throw me off balance. Luckily we made it without mishap, and we stood on the bank, shaking our feet and legs in an effort to rid ourselves of some of the icy water. For the next couple of hours we squelched along the country lanes in pursuit of an enemy we never saw, until gradually we dried out, and some semblance of warmth returned to our bodies (None of caught cold, but some weeks later I started experiencing stiffness in one knee, which I put down to our watery experience. This eventually disappeared). Some hours later, about noon, we came to a village where another umpire told us that the exercise had finished, and that we should wait there for our transport. By this time, having had no breakfast - and precious little supper the previous night - with our wet and freezing river crossing and our hours of marching, we were ravenously hungry. The little village boasted one shop, the bakery, and there, in the window, were great slabs of layer cake. We pooled our meagre financial resources and bought as much cake as we could afford, and as much as the kindly baker could let us have in those days of rationing. Never had cake tasted so good, and never was it eaten in such record time. Eventually our transport arrived, in the shape of hired motor coaches, and we climbed aboard, most of us to sleep soundly until we arrived back at the base. We had our dinner at tea time, and I remember we did full justice to it!

The other three occasions were when we were stationed at Narborough.

The first of the these was in the Thetford area where a great deal of our field training took place. We left camp, our Section in the 15 cwt utility truck we used on these occasions. At 22.00 hours, and arrived some time around midnight at what we took to be a large estate, judging by the high walls that ran parallel to the road on which we were travelling. We entered by a large gateway, but once inside we could see very little of our surroundings because of the darkness of the moonless night. It was late June, but there was a distinct nip in the air. Our truck stopped in front of a long two-storied building which we later found to be residential quarters on the first floor above stables at ground level. It was not, however, anything we could see that made the first impression, it was the overwhelming perfume of honeysuckle. This filled the air, our nostrils and even our tea with its fragrance; I can never smell honeysuckle to this day without being taken back in memory to that June night! In the light of the early morning sum we could see that the whole facade of the building was covered with this beautiful and sweet smelling climber.

Every room but one on the first floor was locked, and it was the unlocked one that was to be our bedroom when we were not on guard, or patrolling the area. During the night the temperature dropped dramatically and, without blankets or greatcoats we began to shiver with the cold and we couldn't fall off to sleep. We searched the stable area for wood but without success, whereupon an officer who was sharing our room - a most uncommon occurrence - and who shall be nameless, kicked the panel out of two doors and started a fire with them (Several month's later the owner of the property claimed compensation for the damage done. As far as I know, there was no Court of Enquiry and no Court Martial, so the culprit was not brought to justice).

The following day was one of warm sunshine following the dispersal of the morning mist, and the scent of honeysuckle was overpowering flavouring everything we ate and drank.

On another occasion we set out to take part in a Divisional scheme, and arrived in a sleepy little village just before lunchtime. After dinner prepared in a field kitchen, our C.S.M. informed us that the exercise was not due to start until late evening that Sunday, so that we were free to sleep, walk in the countryside around and amuse ourselves in any way we liked provided we did nothing to annoy the villagers or cause damage to property, crops etc. Harry Yates, Gerry Winters and I were taking a stroll through the village when we came upon the Methodist Chapel, whose notice board announced that Sunday Service would begin at 3 o'clock that afternoon (this was common practice throughout the War when there were great difficulties in blacking out large areas of glass, and when people were not inclined to leave their homes after dark). We three decided to attend the service, which was conducted by a local preacher and was identical in form and content to the service we were used to at home.

After the service we were warmly greeted by the preacher, and then we were approached by a small, elderly lady, very neat in dress, and well-spoken without begin affected. 'It was lovely to see you boys in the Service', she said, 'Would you care to come and have tea with me at home?' We said we would be delighted, but that we should have to go and ask the C.S.M.'s permission. Permission being granted, we found the lady's bungalow, with its ordered garden and its tasteful decorations and ornaments. Tea was served on a large table covered with a snowy white linen cloth, the cups and saucers and plates were of delicate china and the bread accompanying the home-cured ham and salad was cut to a thinness that was in the greatest contrast to the doorsteps we had now become accustomed to. We finished off with home made cakes and preserves - beautiful! When tea was over we sat in relaxed comfort and talked to the lady of our homes, our lives and our experiences since we had been called up in the Army. After a time she asked if any one of us had noticed anything while we had been having tea. In fact I had noticed, with surprise, that she was wearing a gold brooch in the shape of our regimental badge. She then told us that, in the early 30's, she had been with the Dukes in Palestine as nanny to the Colonel's child. The Colonel had given her the brooch, when she retired just before the War broke out to return to live in her native Norfolk. So, once again, the long arm of coincidences stretched out to touch our lives.

On one of the longest exercises we ever took part in - one in which we travelled miles around East Anglia - we arrived late one evening in the Cambridgeshire town of St Neots. Our truck was parked in a side-street and we were told that we would be staying there overnight while the opposing 'armies' re-grouped before further action. It was a cold night and, as usual, we were hungry. Our only ration that evening was a loaf of bread between six of us - no butter or anything else to eat with it. A few days before, Vera had sent me a parcel in which there was a tin of apricot jam - of foreign origin - and I had had the prudence to bring this with me in my haversack., When we opened it we found to our surprise that the excellent preserve contained, as well as the fruit, the kernels of the apricot stones. This proved an excellent and tasty combination, and we thoroughly enjoyed our supper of reinforced jam! As luck would have it we found that we had parked outside a Methodist Chapel (God bless them!) and the noticeboard, as is normal, bore the address of the caretaker - a few houses down the street. Why should we sleep in a cold lorry when there was a chapel vestry or school room near at hand? Spokesman, as always, I knocked at the caretaker's door and presented my impeccable Methodist credentials. Of course, we had to have the C.S.M.'s approval, which he gave without hesitation. Soon we were all comfortable on the schoolroom floor: the fire was so hot that we could even take our greatcoats off and use them to moderate the hardness of the floor. We had just settled down happily to sleep when the door opened and in came, a little hesitantly I thought the C.S.M. and two other N.C.O.s 'You've shown good initiative, Straw', he said 'Do you mind if we join you?' The C.S.M. was virtually asking ME, a mere Lance-Corporal, for my permission. I said, 'Of course, Sergeant Major, you are welcome', and went to sleep in a glow of self satisfaction.

One exercise I remember very vividly, not because of any special circumstances, but because of the extreme physical discomfort it caused me. It was at the end of a day when we had charged for miles over ploughed fields and rough country, with field bayonets and wearing gas-masks (to me always a distressing experience). The last straw, and nearly the last of Straw, was the return march of ten miles to camp (making at least 20 miles on the day). This wouldn't have been so bad if, for the last 4 miles, we had not been subjected to what is called 'a forced march'. The pace of this was so continually high that with my length of leg, I was actually trotting for most of the time. When we arrived back at camp I rushed to be the first in the limited number of showers and I was so exhausted that I had to sit under the shower. I had really lost the use of my legs! I had to stay there so long that at one time there were two of us under the same shower, one comrade standing up and one sitting down. Because of the length and physical severity of this exercise we were excused duties for the following day. It was just as well: I slept until noon and then had to seek out the chiropodist for him to treat blisters honourably and hardly won!

Approximately eight miles east of King's Lynn, on the main road to Swaffham, East Dereham and Norwich is the village of Narborough. We were transferred here during May and were 'quartered', under canvas, in a wood just outside the village. A short distance away, in an adjacent copse, was stationed a unit of Scottish Yeomanry, and it was interesting to hear the difference between their trumpet calls, and the bugle calls to which we had become accustomed. It was quite pleasant living in the leafy shadows of the trees, and watching and listening to the abundance of bird life native to these woods. It wasn't too pleasant when it rained, however, because we had no boards in our tents and everything seemed to absorb the dampness - particularly our blankets - and we had to take more than usual care of our rifles to prevent them rusting. Our boots, also, would not shine to our normal standard, especially after being so regularly covered in mud.

When the sun shone, however, life 'under the greenwood tree' was very pleasant indeed. At this stage the Intelligence Section was issued with heavy 'sit up and beg', back pedal - braked, Army issue bicycles for patrol and reconnoitring duties., In spite of the strain on our leg muscles (thank goodness we were in Norfolk and not in the Sheffield area!) these bikes afforded us greater mobility, not only for our official duties but also for our free-time activities. On both counts we explored the district round Narborough and Swaffham to good purpose. A favourite run was along the narrow country lanes to Castle Acre some four miles from Narborough. This village lies within the outer bailey of an 11th century castle, of which only the earthworks and a 13th century gateway remained. The most impressive ruins, however, are of an 11th century Cluniac priory, including some fine Norman arcading, and a Tudor gatehouse. We were able to explore without let or hinderance! There were no tourists to get in the way! The main drawback to Castle Acre in those days was the lack of places of refreshment: one couldn't even get a cup of tea. Swaffham, on the other hand was a larger place with a tearoom, which we frequented, and at least two pubs, which we didn't. I can't remember if it was there in 1941, but the last time I visited Swaffham I was intrigued by the town sign which was incorporated in it an image of the 'Pedlar of Swaffham'. Legend had it that this pedlar travelled to London to throw himself into the Thames, but was dissuaded by a man he met on London Bridge. The stranger told him of a dream he had had in which he had found treasure in a village garden which he described in the detail. The pedlar recognised the garden as his own, and hastened back to find in it two pots of gold. We at least found a number of pots of golden brew here: tea of course.

Around our camp at Narborough, and especially to the south, were many air fields, and at night we would lie in bed listening to our bombers flying over head as they left on their bombing forays into enemy territory, to be awakened some hours later as the survivors returned - some of them, in the words of a wartime song 'On a wing and a prayer'. One early morning, before it was light, we heard 'planes coming back, when suddenly all hell let loose and above us, and around us, we heard the sound of shots and machine gun fire, followed, after a few seconds, by the sound of exploding bombs. It was one of our Sections duties to locate and report on any bombs dropped in our area, so the following morning we set out on our bikes to investigate. The bombs we had heard had been dropped on the airfield nearest to us so we had to obtain permission to enter R.A.F. establishment to do our search. When we asked at the guardroom what had happened earlier in the day we were told that the returning squadron had been followed in by enemy planes, but there had been no casualties and the enemy has been driven off by our fighters.

The only other exciting event I can remember at Narborough was the weekly visit of the mobile chip shop. It was worth the long walk into the village for the pleasure of sitting on a grassy bank, on a lovely summer evening, sitting and eating fish and chips - well salted and vinegared - out of a paper!

Towards the end of June we were on the move again, this time for a spell of coastal defence on the north coast of Norfolk. I had reconnoitred the route with Bill Johnson, our officer, when, as 'navigator' I had the embarrassing experience of missing the right road out of Fakenham which, for a small place, is a maze of confusing minor roads. All road signs and signposts had long been removed in the cause of security. After asking directions from a farm labourer, who was very suspicious and had obviously been warned about fifth-columnists, we arrived, without any further diversions, at Blakeney. A few days later I went on 7 days' leave so missed the official Battalion 'move out'. It was perhaps fortuitous, I might have led the convoy and lost the whole Battalion.

On previous leaves, much as I enjoyed seeing all my relations, I resented the time lost that Vera and I could have spent alone together. We arranged, therefore, to spend at least 4 days of my leave at my father's cousin's boarding house in Blackpool, and I had my travel warrant made out for Kings Lynn to Blackpool, via Sheffield. I was beginning to learn how one could bend rules without actually breaking them. Two days before I was due to return to Kings Lynn I received a telegram changing my return destination to Blakeney and authorising me to use the telegram as an extension to my travel warrant. When I enquired at Sheffield station I was told that the nearest route for Blakeney was via Kings Lynn in any case. I should change at Retford and Lincoln, and ascertain where else I should have to change. I was told here to change at March, only to be informed that I should have changed at Ely, where the train to Blakeney, via Kings Lynn would have arrive at about 2200 hours. By changing at March I would have a long wait for the next train to Kings Lynn where there wasn't a connection for Blakeney (actually the nearest station was Holt, some four miles from Blakeney) until 0600 hours the following morning. This was the milk train which stopped at every rural station, and it would be lunchtime before I reached Holt. I would be adrift, A.W.O.L., for at least 12 hours.

I spent an uncomfortable night, physically and mentally, on Kings Lynn station, the journey to Holt was as long and tedious as I was told it would be, and I arrived at Holt at 1130 hours. My enquiries about transport for the last four miles elicited no favourable response: there were no buses, no taxis, no nothing! In very poor heart, I set out to walk, with all my equipment, in the hope that I might thumb a lift from some passing motorist, tractor driver, drayman, anybody at all. The road was as empty as my hopes. After about a quarter of an hour, however, I heard a sound behind me and looking round I saw a bicycle approaching. It was our post Corporal who was returning from the station with the Battalion mail. How I had missed him I didn't know, but I suspected he must have been taking refreshment in the local pub when the train arrived 'Hello Jack', he shouted cheerily 'I heard this morning that you were adrift, your name's already up on Company Orders'. It wasn't very encouraging information. 'Let them know I'm on my way', I said 'I'll do better than that' he replied 'I'll get you to Blakeney earlier than you thought'. If you want a definition of esprit de corps here is one example - A man on a heavy Army bicycle, already heavily laden with his own burden, giving a lift on his backstep to an even more encumbered comrade, and pedalling him uphill and downhill for 4 miles on a hot summer's day. Greater love hath no man than this ...

When we arrived in Blakeney I found that our section was billeted in the, then empty, Blakeney Hotel facing the salt creek, marshes and the sea. The accommodation was fine but we still had to sleep on the floor. I was soon called before the C.O., to whom I explained the reasons for my absence and to whom I showed my pass stamped and signed by the R.T.O.s (Railway Traffic Officers) at both March and Kings Lynn. He considered I had been careless in missing my connections, and that I should have left Sheffield earlier that I had; I was sent back to my billet to await his decision (I suppose to let me sweat a little). After about an hour the Orderly Corporal appeared with a message from the C.O. that, because of my good record (of not being found out?), he had decided to drop the charge, but that I would have to watch myself in future.

Then followed three weeks of glorious weather, during which time we had a minimum of sleep and free time but which I enjoyed very much. I quote from a letter I wrote to my boss on July 23rd, 1941.

'.....Our Battalion has moved up to the Norfolk coast to relieve another unit who are badly in need of exercise in mobile warfare after being static for 9 months. It has been a nice change for us, too: we have had 3 weeks of glorious weather and we have taken full advantage of it. The only fly in the ointment has been, however, the amount of duties, guards, picquets, O.P.s and patrols etc which have had to be done, and a free evening has been conspicuous by its rarity. We have had less sleep here than at any time since France. We have certainly been on the 'qui vive'

Whilst on coastal defence our section has had quite a strenuous though enjoyable, time visiting the various Company positions, defence works etc on our heavy Army cycles. We are doing at least 20 miles a day in the course of other duties. The weather has been broiling hot, but we have had the consolation in the shape of lovely tea-room we have discovered, where we get a good cup of pre-War tea and cakes 'just like Mother made'. We have always managed, by some strange chance, to reach this place at morning 'break' time, 10.30 to 10.45 am when we'd cultivated a thirst and the effect of our breakfast porridge etc had worn off.

I've had a number of interesting trips since we've been here. The other morning 15 of us N.C.O.s started out from here at about 6.30 in two open 15 cwt trucks to attend a lecture in a Cambridge cinema on the subject of 'paratroops'. It was a beautiful sunny morning but with quite a 'nip' in the early morning air. The journey, through Sheringham, Cromer, Norwich, Thetford and Newmarket was exhilarating as we sped through the beautiful countryside in the calm and quiet of the morning. We reached Cambridge mid-morning and were ushered in to the cinema for this important lecture. As soon as the lights were down we fell fast asleep, try as we might to keep our eyes open. The effect of the early start, the cold fresh air of the journey and the warmth of the cinema all combined to defeat our desire to keep awake.

Actually I think it was rather a waste of precious petrol taking us 160 miles in all for a lecture that, we were told, lasted for 45 minutes. I must say, however, that I enjoyed the ride, and especially the good dinner we had in Newmarket on our way back.

On another day a party of us visited Norwich and I was impressed with the cathedral (the steeple, incidentally, is the second tallest in England after Salisbury), and other places of historic interest.'

During our tour of duty on this coast I attended two classical concerts at the Army camp in Weybourne. The soloist at the first concert was Maggie Teyte, the English soprano who specialised in French songs, and the soloist at the second was Olga Slobodskaya. Neither of the concerts was well attended and I felt somewhat sorry for these artistes that their efforts were so little appreciated.

One last memory of this spell on the Norfolk Coast. Gerry Winters and I were on cycle patrol one day, when, for reasons I cannot recall, we decided to leave our bikes and walk along the beach near Sheringham that was overlooked by a low cliff. We were walking under the shelter of the cliff when the two anti-aircraft guns above us - and which we had not seen beneath their camouflage - opened up. It was a good test for the condition of our hearts, but it couldn't have done our hearing much good. It was a long time before either of us could hear again.

We nearly had another heart attack when it was rumoured that the Battalion was to march back to King's Lynn, easily a two days march. Luckily it was only a rumour, and we all rode back.

Within a short time we moved again, this time to Hunstanton, where the Intelligence section were billeted in an empty private house overlooking the rear of a small cinema. From our room we could hear the sound track of whatever film was being shown.

There are only two things I remember of our stay in Hunstanton. One was an exercise in which we 'held' the water tower for 12 hours before being 'winkled out' by the enemy, and where later in the day we witnessed the death of one of our comrades and the wounding of another as they ran across a minefield which had not been marked by a notice on the side from which they approached it. We took it in turns to guard the perimeter of the minefield during all the night, and until the Engineers came, with their plan of the field, to remove the body of dead man.

The other memory is in a lighter vein. The local barber/hairdresser was a buxom young woman whose husband, the former barber, had been called up. It was a great novelty to have one's hair cut by a young lady, especially cushioned by her ample bosom!

About this time a Notice was posted stating that the Army was looking for men to train as mechanics for Radiolocation (later re-named Radar). Applicants should preferably have experience in electrical engineering, or have studied Physics. Being eligible on the latter ground I decided to apply, despite Bill Johnbson's pleas for me to stay on as Intelligence Sergeant. I was granted an interview with the Brigade Major, who had his office in the mobile caravan that was also his living quarters. He had a questionnaire in front of him which he filled in as I replied to the usual personal questions - Name, Age, Army No. etc When it came to School and I said 'King Edward VII School, Sheffield', he looked up with interest. 'Really', he said, 'I was at Leeds Grammar School - we used to play you at soccer and cricket!' The truth of the saying was borne out again 'It isn't what you know, it's who you know'. The only question he asked me was if I really wanted the transfer, and when I said yes, I was in!

Before my transfer came through the Battalion moved again. This time to Romney, on the Romney Marshes and by the sea, in Kent. Here we resumed our role as a coastal defence unit, and we, in Intelligence liaised very closely with the Navy and Coastguard Service, since the possibility of an invasion was always very real. It was very interesting to receive regular weather and tidal reports, and to judge from these the ideal times for an enemy to attack our section of the coast.

One afternoon a German Red Cross light aircraft crossed the coast near Dungeness and crash-landed on the shingle, not more than ten feet from the first defence of land mines. We were alerted by the coastguard and a party of us when down to where the 'plane had landed. The occupants were French, and I was able to talk with them before the Intelligence Officer arrived from Brigade Headquarters. If their story were true, they had stolen the 'plane from Le Touquet airport and had made a dash for it over the Channel. What was certainly true was that they had run out of fuel: they were lucky to be alive, either from drowning or from being blown up on our mines.

Every night at dusk we heard, and saw, our planes going over to drop their bombs somewhere in Europe, and we would wait to see, several minutes later, the searchlights and the 'flak' rising over the French coast. During the day there were many 'dog-fights' in the sky above us, and it was always a delight to see Hurricanes and Spitfires returning over the sea, doing their 'victory rolls'.

At last my transfer came through and I was directed to report to Leicester Technical College to start a basic Course in Radio, and Workshop Practice. It was with very mixed feelings that I said Goodbye to all my friends and I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. As things turned out I think I did, but I must say I was very sorry to leave the 'Dukes', with all the comradeship I had found in the Battalion, and all the good things, and the bad, that I had shared with my pals.

LATE 1941 TO 1946

R.E.M.E.

Before leaving the subject of the Dukes, however, I will quote the last reference to them in the Regiment's official history which perhaps justifies my transferring to another branch of the Army -

'The Battalion was not destined to see overseas service again. On returning from France in 1940 it was brought up to strength and served as a coastal defence unit in Norfolk and on the South Coast (as described by me above) before being converted in the early summer of 1942 to a tank unit - the 115th Regiment, Royal Armoured Corps. In September 1943 the Regiment went into 'suspended animation', but individual squadrons continued as Tank Delivery Units. A number of men were, however, sent to Catterick, where they continued their training. Later many were drafted to units of the 21st Army Group, following the heavy casualties in the Normandy landings in June 1944.

After reading the account of the Battalion's splendid achievements in 1940 - when only partially trained and poorly equipped - it is difficult not to feel that it deserved a better fate. Had it been given another opportunity to fight as a unit it cannot be doubted the the 2/7th Dukes would have earned a great reputation.'

It was early December when I arrived in Leicester and reported to the permanent staff of the R.A.O.C. who were stationed there for administration purposes. With me were two other 'Dukes' Jack Brearley and one whose name now eludes me.

Arriving at intervals throughout the day, until there was a full complement by early afternoon, were about 30 men from units all over the UK, including 2 'Jocks' from the Highland Light Infantry, a sergeant from Nottingham (Notts & Derby Regiment) etc. The muster parade over, the Sergeant in charge gave us a little lecture in which he warned us of the dangers we ran of consorting with the 'street ladies' of the town, most of whom had drifted into Leicester from other parts of the country. He told us that we would all be billeted with local families, and threatened heavy punishment to anyone that brought the Army into disrepute by their behaviour. He made great play of the fact that a number of landladies had complained of 'bed-wetting', and advised anyone with weak bladders to refrain from drinking after teatime. We were told that lunches would be taken in the College and the rest of the meals would be supplied by our civilian landladies, including Sunday dinner. We would be subject to the College staff for lectures and their times, but to the permanent staff of the R.A.O.C. for discipline and all Army matters. During the 16 weeks of the course (condensed from a one year R.A.F. course) we should have only one week-end leave, and there would be no leave at Christmas, although Christmas Day would be free of duties. The Sergeant from Nottingham was appointed senior N.C.O. of the student group - a lucky appointment for me as it turned out later.

We were then split up into groups and marched around the streets of Leicester to our various billets. Jack Brearley and I found ourselves billeted on the same family in Narborough Road. This family were London Eastenders evacuated because of the bombing, and their name was Goldstein. The parents were Russian Jews, escapees from the pogroms, and, even after 40 years in England their English was very minimal: it was difficult to know what they were saying. There were two daughters, unmarried, one in her forties and the other in her thirties and these were real Cockneys, and not at all Orthodox. The elder daughter, indeed, worked for a pork butcher, which accounted for the predominance of sausages and bacon in our diet. Although the old people were no longer practising Jews, they could not eradicate the Jewish tradition in which they were born and bred. The old lady, in particular, loved the taste of bacon but almost choked over every mouthful. The old gentleman, as far as we could understand him, was full of Jewish philosophy and wise sayings. All four of them hated Hitler with every fibre of their beings: the old people still hated the Russians as though they had been driven out of Russia only yesterday.

The front room of the Goldsteins' house had been turned into a bedroom by the addition of two double beds. One of these accommodated two men who were almost at the end of the Course that we should soon be starting on. Jack Brearley and I were to share the other. The other two men in the billet were Southerners, both from the Home Counties, and we found them very reserved, though not unfriendly. The Goldsteins didn't much care for them; they thought they were 'stuck up', and they deplored the fact that one of them was sent fresh farm eggs which he asked to be cooked for himself and his mate, without offering any to his hosts.

Our hours at Leicester College were very irregular. Sometimes we started lessons as early as 0700 hours, when we found it extremely difficult to keep our eyes open. Then there could be an interval without lectures some time mid morning after which lectures and lab work would continue until 1830 hours. Saturday was a full day of lectures, workshop practice (at which I was not very good) and laboratory work that started about 2000 hours, and continued until 2300 hours. The irregular hours were designed to accommodate as many students in the College as possible. The true reason for this could have been to train as many students as possible in the shortest possible time; vile rumour had it that the real reason was that the Principal was paid on a per capita basis.

Sundays were free apart from a muster parade at 0900 hours to ensure that no one had slipped away home without a pass. This seemed an insuperable problem until those of us nearest home saw a loophole in the precautions. The system was that roll was given to the senior student (in our case the sergeant from Nottingham already mentioned) who called out the names on the roll whilst the permanent staff member present kept a sharp eye out to see that no one answered twice to cover for an absentee. The solution to the problem was simple, provided that only one or two people were absent. If you wanted to slip away for a free Sunday you told the sergeant, who covered for you by the simple expedient of not calling your name out! It worked every time and the Sundays I spent in Leicester were very few and far between.

I was helped in my subterfuge in that, towards the end of the Saturday late night lab session, the lecturer would slip away himself, for a drink perhaps, or to see his wife or girl-friend, and would forget to return. As soon as he was out of the way I used to make my getaway. There was a train from London that arrived at about 2200 hours, en route for Bradford via Sheffield. I rushed down to the station, bought a platform ticket (for camouflage purposes in case there were M.P.s on the station; I would be waiting for my wife to arrive), then a train ticket for Sheffield. When the train stopped at Nottingham - a notorious place for M.P.s - I would go to the toilet and stay closeted (sorry!) until the train was on the move again. The greatest worry then, was the possibility that the would be an M.P. at the ticket barrier on Sheffield station. I was always lucky! One night I had a shock when I returned to my carriage after my usual Nottingham toilet trick to find an M.P. sitting in the seat opposite. The trick with M.P.'s was never to try and evade them if you had something to hide, but to go up to them and ask for their help in directing you to some destination, or for some other purpose. I immediately struck up a conversation, therefore, with my travelling companion and found that he was not on duty but was going home on leave - probably legitimate in his case.

After a couple of nerve-raking journeys, I suddenly remembered that I had the solution of the M.P. problem in my pocket. By a stroke of unbelievable luck the Army had forgotten to take my civilian identity card from me. From thereon I went home, and came back to Leicester, in 'civvies': no more skulking in toilets of fearing the sight of M.P.s. I was probably committing a particularly heinous crime, but I never considered that in my delight in being able to get home to see Vera even for a few precious hours.

I was usually around midnight when I arrived at the Midland Station, much too late for any transport (During the War Vera spent every Saturday afternoon and evening, and most of Sunday, with my cousin and her husband, John Armitage, at their home at Woodthorpe Road. They had two daughters, Joan and Maureen, who at this time were 6 and 3 respectively). Consequently I had to walk the three miles to Kitty's in the blackout, mostly uphill via City Road, and past rows of bombed out houses. It didn't need much imagination to picture what had happened to these houses, and to many of the people who had lost their lives inside them: it was always an eerie experience, hurrying past them in the pitch darkness.

Sometimes Kitty, John and Vera were still up when I arrived, but more often I had to knock them up, not too loudly so as not to disturb the children. John was already sleeping on the living room floor, as Vera was sleeping with Kitty, so I joined him in his make-shift but not uncomfortable bed. After breakfast and a good 'natter' Vera and I would catch the 'bus to Carbrook to have Saturday dinner with Vera's family before joining our friends and relatives at Bible Class in the afternoon. On my first two illicit 'leaves', I caught an afternoon train back to Leicester but thereafter I delayed my departure until late Sunday evening. This meant that I arrived in Leicester in the early hours of the morning, much too early to disturb my sleeping hosts and companions. Luckily there was sleeping accommodation for Servicemen on Leicester station so I was able to snatch a few hours' sleep before setting out for my 'digs'.

Despite the irregular and long hours spent in the College, I enjoyed learning about radio circuits and making primitive models of receivers and transmitters. I was not too keen on Workshop Practice, which involved filing, brazing, making joints, soldering, forging etc We were set a number of jobs to do within a certain time, and I always seemed to be behind with mine. I passed the Course, however, which was a pre-condition to passing on to the Radar Course proper.

We spent a lot of our otherwise free time in swotting up for the final examination, so our social life was virtually non-existent. The only occasions I have any clear recollection of were a Christmas party given by the Goldstein sisters and a dance at a Workingmens Club, at which I sang for my supper. I remember singing the then current hit song ' My lovely Russian Rose', among other popular songs. If we had free periods during the day, however, we were often glad to accept the hospitality of the local Workingman's Club by using their snooker facilities. At this time I was still completely teetotal so I couldn't reciprocate by adding to their till takings from beer: they didn't worry about that at all - we were always made very welcome. About this time I received, within the space of a few days, two Postal Orders. One was from the Temperance Society of which I had once been a member; the other was from the 'Railway Hotel', on Broughton Lane, which was patronised by my father and his brothers on Saturday evenings. What a crisis of conscience! Should I refuse either or both of them. I was no longer a member of the Temperance Society and, though still teetotal, was beginning to have ideas of what I meant temperance should entail (not only in respect of alcohol); on the other hand I was not a contributor to the profits of the brewer and publican. In the end I decided to accept both the gifts as I felt that it would be churlish to hurt the feelings of both parties who had been so kind in remembering me in this way! I don't think anyone would accuse me of rationalising my motives in this instance.

Part way through the Course, for some reason unknown to us, Jack Brearley and I were moved to another billet on the other side of Leicester. This was a smaller house but we were very much more comfortable than at Narborough Road. I've forgotten the name of the people, but they were very kind and made us feel completely at home. We used to smile to ourselves at the little lady when she talked, as she was always doing, of their 'blitz'. Leicester, at that time, had had only one short air raid during which no more than a dozen bombs had been dropped!

At last the Course ended, the exams were over and we were sent home on 7 days' leave prior to joining the Radar Course proper at North Berwick in South-east Scotland. Once again Vera and I spent 4 days of the leave at our retreat ion Blackpool. There was not very much to do in Blackpool those days: the town seemed to be given over to the Services and every day the promenades and the sands were the venue of hundreds of soldiers and airmen doing their 'square bashing' and physical training in surroundings and circumstances far removed from those of Huddersfield in January 1940. As usual the leave passed very quickly and I was soon on my way to North Berwick (The first thing people said when they saw you on leave was 'What! On leave again?', and the second was 'When are you going back?' It was all well meaning but very annoying to those of us who hadn't the opportunity, like the enquirers, to go back home to loved ones after the day's work).

I liked North Berwick from the start. It is pleasant little seaside resort, with good beaches and a fine golf link running the length of the northern beach. It was in the large hotel overlooking the golf links and the beach that we were billeted. It was not a 4 star hotel, because our rooms were furnished with rough wooden bunk beds, but the conveniences of such a hotel were still there for the Army's use - principally the extensive kitchen and the large dining room. Our particular room overlooked the links and sea, and it was very pleasant indeed to wake up to the view, and to see the sun shining on the sea. As it was summer we could even lie in bed until almost eleven o'clock at night, reading in the long Scottish summer night. The golf links were a favourite between duty haunt, although the low flying 'buzz' tactics of the locally based trainee fighter pilots - aimed mischievously at us earthbound squaddies - kept us on the alert against decapitation!

Four miles out at sea looms the impressive 350 feet high volcanic shape of the Bass Rock, a sanctuary for numerous sea birds - gannets, cormorants, puffins etc. and a land mass which caused us every kind of radar trouble. Whenever our transmitter was pointed anywhere in the direction of the Bass Rock, all we could get on our receiving oscillograph screen was a large 'blip' that was the rock itself. Any other signals, of aircraft, for example, were completely shut out by this dominating natural feature.

Our course was pretty intensive and some of the highly technical theory was far above my head - and I wasn't alone in this. It was however, extremely interesting, and most of us enjoyed the time we spent in North Berwick. At weekends there were many day trippers from Edinburgh and other towns in the vicinity, and it was a pleasant diversion to chat up the girls.

An interesting and prominent feature of North Berwick is Berwick Law, another volcanic rock, like the Bass Rock, which dominates the town at its height of 613 feet. At the summit, which has an arch made from the jaw bones of a whale, one has good views of the surrounding country and the sea, and of the Firth of Forth to the north and north-west.

Our course ended, and our examinations passed we were given 72 hours leave before joining a Radar workshop. Incidentally, a new Corps had been formed while we were in Leicester, we were now members of R.E.M.E. (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers). The lowest form of life in R.E.M.E. is Craftsman, but I retained my Infantry rank of Lance-Corporal.

After this short spell at home, during which Vera wasn't able to have time off work, I was ordered north again, to a transit centre in Edinburgh to await posting to a Workshop establishment. I was in Edinburgh for only two days but most of the time was my own so I was able to explore much of this handsome city, from Princess Street to Calton Hill (with its pseudo classical structures) from the High Kirk of St Giles to the prominence of Edinburgh Castle. When my move came it was to the little market town of Ladybank in the County of Fife. I seemed destined to stay in Scotland.

The Workshops in Ladybank were perhaps unique in that the Sergeant-Cook had complete control of his catering: there was no central depot from which foodstuffs were issued to him. He had a catering allowance which he could spend as he wished subject to the satisfaction of the Workshop's officers. He bought fresh farm produce from the surrounding farms, including some of the best beef I have ever tasted - both in and out of the Army - and his menus were always varied and inviting. Ladybank was the only place in the Army where supper was a good substantial meal in itself. We ate like fighting cocks.

Our work, too, was varied and interesting. As well as spells of duties in the workshops themselves, we went all over Fife, and into Angus servicing the many radar equipment units stationed on the Firth of Forth, St Andrews Bay and around the mouth of the Tay. Names like Burntisland, Kirkcaldy, Kinghorn, Anstruther, Crail, Monifieth etc spring to mind, when I remember those days of late summer and early autumn when we used to board our workshop truck and travel to all parts of Fife to calls for assistance from the sites. Just the type of work for working up a good appetite, with help from the clean, fresh air of the Scottish country and seaside.

On Saturdays or Sundays, dependent on which was our day off, we would often go to Kirkcaldy, our nearest largish town, to a cinema and, once, to the ice rink at Sinclairtown where I spent more of the time on my behind on the ice than on my feet! Kirkcaldy had been the centre of the linoleum trade, and was still engaged in making lino though to a lesser extent than before the War. Aunty Elsie had a friend from her Sheffield Creamery days who lived in Sinclairtown, a suburb of Kirkcaldy, and I visited her on a number of occasions. That autumn Uncle Sam, Aunty Elsie and Ron and Olive Webster came up to spend a week with the friend in question, so I was able to spend some little time with them all. We spent one evening singing Gilbert and Sullivan operatic choruses, and choruses from other operas we had given at chapel, such as Les Cloches de Corneville, Duke's Dilemma etc.

There were occasional popular concerts in the neighbouring village of Kingskette, and I remember one evening when Nat Gonella, the well known pre-War jazz trumpeter, brought a dance band to entertain us, and, of course, played several trumpet solos as well as leading the band.

Apart from work on radar we also had to do odd jobs around the camp. One day four of us were detailed to paint a pantechnicon sized workshop vehicle. Half way through the task we ran out of paint, so we drew some more from the Stores. The colours matched perfectly, but when the paints dried, we found that we had a large vehicle, one side and half the roof was gloss finish, and the other parts were matt. We said nothing about this, and hoped no one, especially our officers, would notice the strange appearance of the truck.

Part way through my service with this unit, a party of us newcomers were sent on an advanced Workshop Course at the Fife Mining College in Cowdenbeath. Advanced? I had barely passed my Elementary Course! The best part about the Course was that we were in civilian billets, and Les Dennis and I were billeted with a mining Deputy, and his wife and young son. It was really home from home, with good wholesome Scottish food, spotlessly clean bedroom and bed linen, and a really kind family atmosphere. One had to humour young Jamie, however, who was steeped in the Highland (Heeland) tradition, and had no time, theoretically, for Lowlanders and Sassenachs. While we were living with him, however he accorded us honourary Highland status on the strict condition we were sympathetic to Bonny Prince Charlie and the Jacobite cause. He was a grand little lad.

My co-lodger in Cowdenbeath was lightly older than I was, a married man with one child, and had been the Junior Classics master at a Public School prior to his call up. Like myself he was not particularly keen, or good at, Advanced Workshop Practice, and when we returned to our billets after a hard, and not very fruitful day, he would compensate for his lack of skill with file, soldering iron etc. by getting our his 'Herodotus' and reading about the Peloponesian wars in the original Greek. He was even more than I, a square peg in a round hole. It was not all work at the College, however, and we did have Sundays off when we could go into Kirkcaldy or Dunferline. The bus route to Kirkcaldy ran through Lochgelly, and we adapted a little verse, originally about Dolgelly, to read -

If you ever go to Lochgelly
Don't stay at the 'blank' hotel
For they've nothing to put in your belly
And there's no one to answer the bell

As to Dunfermiline, although an historic place, it was a dull place in which to spend a day off. It brought back memories, however, of poem I had read many years before which begin -

The king sits in Dumferling toune
Drinking the blude-reid wine
'O whar will I get guid sailors
To sail this schip of mine?'

We were happier in the Workshops of the Mining College than we had been at Leicester. Here in Cowdenbeath the instructors were all mining engineers, some of them brought out of retirement to do their bit for the War effort, and they were very kind and helpful to us so-called 'Craftsmen'. Years Later, 1971 I think, my first wife Vera, two friends, John and Anne Bell and I were having lunch in the 'Cherry Tree Cottage', near Mold in North Wales when we struck up a conversation with a man and his wife at the next table. It was obvious from their accents that they were Scots, and when they said that came from Cowdenbeath I told them of my spell at the Mining College there. Enter, again, the long arm of coincidence; the man had been one of my instructors. I had thought his face familiar, but had not really connected him with my past.

With the help of these good instructors we all passed our tests and returned to our units. In the space of a few weeks, however, I was again on the move. A demand had been made of our unit for 6 N.C.O.s to be posted abroad for radar units in the Middle East. (The irony of this was that, almost as soon as we reached Egypt we were stripped of our rank and sent to a station in Palestine that had no radar equipment. In fact, after all the time spent on training me in this field, I never again saw any radar equipment in the three and a half years I served abroad. Such are the inscrutable ways of the Army).

I was soon on my way to the transit camp at Cottingham, near Hull, where we were kitted out in khaki drill, and hung about killing time before our embarkation orders came through. We had no embarkation leave, but Vera was able to come over for a long weekend, and I was able to obtain a sleeping out pass. During the weekend in question we had a number of air raids, one of which necessitated us leaving the cinema, and on the Sunday night before she left for home on Monday morning Vera was taken ill with acute pains in the region of her kidneys. She managed to get home the following day, in great pain. Months later she was seriously ill in hospital with nephritis, and it was touch and go whether she would survive.

A few days after Vera's return our Orders came through, and we travelled overnight to Greenock, and on October 26th 1942, boarded SS Empress of Scotland on the first leg of a long tortuous voyage that ended at Port Suez on New Year's Day, 1943.

During the early hours of October 27th (Vera's birthday), I awoke to hear the rumble of the ship's engines, and to feel an unaccustomed motion that told me that the S S Empress of Scotland had left her moorings in the middle of the Clyde and was on her way towards the open sea. The 'Empress' was a very large ocean liner only slightly smaller than the Queen Mary, which, at this time was also in was service on the transatlantic route. She had been originally called Empress of Japan, and her pre-War sailing had been on the Pacific routes from the west seaboard of the U.S.A. to Japan, via Hawaii. Our sleeping quarters were on the lowest possible deck,with only the holds and engine rooms beneath us. We were, in fact, below the water line, and on our level we had the water tight doors which were constantly manned so that they could be shot in the event of holing by torpedo or other explosive device, thus maintaining the buoyancy of the ship by trapping air between each pair of doors. Our portion of the sleeping quarters were extremely cramped - when I first saw them I thought it was already full, but the ship's Officer who was allocating space crammed another dozen or so of us in, and we found that all the hammock space was taken, and that we poor unfortunates would have to sleep on the deck, with hammocks slung above us in a most perilous manner. The whole atmosphere was claustrophobic, and after a night's sleep, the air was rank and suffocating.

I was pleased to find out, therefore, that a certain number of bods would be allowed to sleep outside on the boat deck and sun promenade when we were in warmer latitudes, and even more pleased when I was put in charge of our contingent, which meant that I would be permanently in the fresh air at night. Every early evening I called out the names of the lucky people who, that night, could sleep out on the open deck, and saw to it that they took their bedrolls up on the top so that they could be in position before darkness fell. This was all right in theory, but when we awoke in the morning we usually found out that many more chaps had crept up under cover of darkness and that the deck surface was so covered that no one could move! If it rained during the night, which was very seldom, thank goodness, there was a rush to get below: in the circumstances I never bothered to go back to the sleeping area, but found a place in some gangway where there was more air and the temperature less stifling.

During the first days at sea many of the men were sea sick, in spite of the stability of the ship and the comparative calmness of the sea. Never having been sea sick myself. I cannot appreciate either the physical or mental distress that this condition causes, but I have a theory that the main cause is psychological rather than physical. It is the fear of being sick that does the damage more than the motion of the ship. I base this on the fact that my stomach is susceptible to outside physical forces eg roller coasters, swings, even fast cars if I am not driving, but, apart from the butterflies in the stomach and momentary loss of breath, I have no feelings of sickness. Whatever the cause, however, people do get seasick and there doesn't seem a lot that can be done about it.

Most of our R.E.M.E. contingent were allocated galley duties preparing food, washing utensils, serving at tables, which they retained for all the voyage, even when we changed ships at Durban. As an N.C.O. I had a fairly cushy time. Apart from responsibilities regarding sleeping on deck, I was in charge of the ship's library for part of the day, and I also ensured that every mess deck on our level had a fair use of the communal gramophone, and the limited number of records (one record was worn out by the time we reached Durban - the film music from 'Stagecoach'.)

For the rest of the time I was free to do what I liked, apart from the occasional parade, boat drill and P.T. session. There was no point in writing letters because they could not be posted. Indeed we were actively encouraged not to do so, because, if and when we reached a port of call before our ultimate destination, there would be such a quantity of letters that the postal authorities, and the censors, wouldn't have been able to cope with them. Time was spent, therefore, in reading, walking the deck, playing the occasional game of cards and draughts, and looking at the sea!

It is surprising how long you can look at the sea without tiring of the view. The sea is never the same from one moment to the next. A change in the strength or direction of the wind, a re-arrangement of cloud patterns, a change in the direction in which the ship is steaming, the time of day: all these things add variety to the sight of the constantly moving and undulating surface of the ocean. Even at night, a moonless night, whilst the vast stretches of heaving water are invisible to the eye, nearer to the ship you can see the wake, or the bow wave, glistening as the waves are broken into spray and glittering droplets. On a bright, moonlit night the sea stretches to the horizon, visible as so many thousands of points and flashes of light as the moonlight catches the crests of the waves, emphasising the darkness of the troughs between them. As you come nearer and nearer to the tropics you become aware of another spectacular phenomenon, especially on a pitch-black night, the glowing, scintillating fluorescence of the phosphorescent wake and bow waves of the ship. (At an earthier level, figuratively speaking, the 'heads' on deck which were primarily intended for use of the crew, were supplied with water pumped straight from the sea. The heads were in almost total darkness - like the rest of the ship, for security reasons - and the phosphorence caused when the toilet was flushed was quite spectacular, and, on the first occasion, unexpected).

Sunsets and dawns were almost invariably dramatic at sea, and nights unforgettable. The sky at night, as one lay on one's back on the open deck, was awe-inspiring; the myriads of stars wheeling and dipping above one as the ship tossed and rolled on its onward course almost seemed to be within touching distance, and their number in the immensity of the dark sky filled one with a sense of wonder at the vastness of the Universe compared with insignificant Man.

During daytime, at different latitudes, we saw something of the life that teems in the ocean. Schools of porpoises disporting themselves like strings of horses following each other over a succession of fences, flying fishes skimming over the waves like flocks of birds, large Portuguese Men of War, and other jelly fish, and, once afar off, the huge shape of a whale blowing as it came to the surface.

In the evenings we would sit in the canteen with a cup of tea and a bun. Stronger beverages could be had, but they were strictly rationed partly because the ship couldn't carry too large a store and partly, I'm sure, because of the danger inherent in a situation where a large number of men were living together in such close proximity. Nearly every evening there was a Housey-Housey session in the canteen, run by the couple of sergeants who must have made a mint of money out of their enterprise. The price was 3d. a card, and the prize was never more than £3, hundreds of men played at a time.

One night we had a Quiz and Spelling Bee, which I won. The prize was 50 cigarettes, most of which I shared amongst my friends. As I had won them, however, I decided to try one myself: this started me smoking, but I'm pleased to say, only in moderation. At this time, too, I started to grow a moustache, more out of boredom than anything to do with vanity (although I did think I looked too young for my years). I broke the smoking habit many times, and I last smoked - definitely the last smoke - 35 years ago: 55 years later I have still my moustache, but it is white now, not the jet black of my youth!

One evening I was walking from the dining room after tea to spend a little time in the N.A.A.F.I. when I bumped into someone I had known from my boyhood. It was Kenneth Bradbury, whose father had the printers' and stationers' shop just above Broughton Lane, on Attercliffe Common. After the War Kenneth went back to the printers, and I gave him quite a lot of work for concert tickets, posters etc. both for chapel and for work.

As well as Housey-Housey, and some completely forbidden Crown and Anchor, there were a number of illegal Brag schools on board. One man in our section was an expert in Brag (I nearly said he was an 'ace'), and won a great deal of money which he sent home when we reached Durban. On the next leg to Egypt, he won another small fortune, and this was despatched home, too. For the length of the complete voyage, from the Clyde to the Gulf of Suez, he paid one of his mates to sleep alongside him to safeguard his money: he always made sure that his was the hammock nearest the bulkhead.

As well as the Army there were R.A.F. and Naval personnel on our ship, and a number of Nursing Sisters, A.T.S. and Wrens. We were all strictly segregated, however, and we were had only occasional glimpses of the women on board, and these were from a great distance. No doubt they like our officers, were accommodated in comfortable cabins, and good luck to them!

For over four weeks we zig zagged across the North Atlantic in a great convoy, no doubt to the escape the attentions of prowling submarines. The thought of these was never far from our minds, especially when the alarm went, usually in the middle of the night, and we stood to on the boat deck, our kapok lifebelts (would they have worked?) in position, with our little tin of emergency rations tied to one of the tapes. We sometimes heard the muffled explosions of a depth charge as one of our accompanying corvettes went into action but, thankfully, we were never attacked.

We never knew exactly where we were on the ocean, although one day we were told that we were crossing the Equator. There were no Neptune ceremonies such as I had read of, and there were certainly no visible signs that we were crossing over the Southern Hemisphere. We could only tell by the sun that we were heading south-west, and this puzzled us: could we be bound for the West Indies, or were we going through the Panama Canal to join the Americans in their war against Japan? One of the Chinese crew came to our aid. (I must add, here, that the majority of the ship's crew were Chinese. Their quarters were in the same portion of the ship as ours, and we used to watch them at their favourite pastime - gambling. They played cards, mahjongg and other games that we couldn't recognises. They kept themselves much to themselves, and the only complaint that some of our chaps had against them - unfounded - was that they did something to the potatoes they prepared for us, that gave then a distinctive and peculiar flavour). This Chinese, who spoke minimal English, said we were going to Brazil. Why Brazil, we asked ourselves. We found out later that Brazil had just entered the War on the side of the Allies, so our visit, as well as for taking more water and certain provisions on board, was to show the flag!

A few days after crossing the equator, on a lovely Sunday morning I woke up to find that land was in sight, and not only in sight but near at hand on our starboard bow. It was land covered with thick green jungle that reached down almost to the water's edge. To someone, like me, who read 'Martin Rattler' a dozen times as a boy, and more recently Peter Flemings 'Brazilian Adventure', this was how I had pictured Brazil to be. In a few hours time we were lying outside the large harbour of a moderately sized town. Shortly afterwards a large motor launch came out towards us, with some distinguished looking gentlemen aboard (one was perhaps the British Consul), and a uniformed man who was obviously a pilot, for we were soon following the launch into the inner harbour and reaching our moorings. This was Bahia (San Salvador).

My first impressions of this pace, sketchy as they are because of the haste in which it was written, are from a short letter I was able to write to Vera from Bahia (written towards the end of November 1942, received in Sheffield 22 February 1943 - via Air Mail - on Active Service!)

'We sailed into this harbour yesterday morning. The town looked a very pleasant sight. White, yellow, red and green buildings rose up from sea level rather like the hotels and boarding houses of Scarborough. In fact they have similar cliff lifts to those in Scarborough. From where I am sitting I can see three or four churches and a couple of large hotels. On the slope up to the main level are numerous palm trees and other vegetation strange to English eyes'

As we stood on the ship's rails drinking in the scene, and dying to set our feet on terra firma again, the dockside filled with street vendors of all descriptions. They bought their wares on hand-carts, donkeys, barrows and in baskets.

Most of them carried fruit - oranges, bananas, pineapples and other more exotic fruits we didn't recognise. There were two drawbacks, first we hadn't any Brazilian currency, and second we had been forbidden to eat fruit because of the risk of infection. Finally the vendors started throwing oranges up to us, free of charge, and if you can imagine the height to which they had to throw to reach the deck of our gigantic liner you will not be surprised that many of the oranges failed to reach us.

Soon after we docked the ship's crew set to and opened all the portholes (securely shut and blacked out during the voyage) and all the hatches and passenger and goods entrances, to let in as much air and light as possible after such a long time of enclosure at sea. It was like being released from prison. It was, however, very hot and humid, with only a light breeze, so the full effect of the increased ventilation was not felt. That night we were all given permission to sleep on open deck but with one condition, we had to cover all exposed skin with anti-mosquito cream. This defeated the object as far as personal comfort was concerned because the cream effectively reduced the cooling effect of perspiration on the skin and, in the hot, sticky temperature of the Brazilian night our unexposed skin was subjected to self generated Turkish baths. After the first night we 'forgot' to administer the greasy, cloggy, protective cream and slept better in consequence.

There was, of course, no blackout in Bahia, and, on our first evening in dock, we were enthralled to see the town brightly lit, with its street lamps, the lights in shops, hotels and houses, and the brightly coloured neon advertisement signs flashing in and out on the facades of shops and hotels. After three years of blackout the sight kept us glued to the ship's rails until our own official lights-out.

The following day we were allowed on shore to stretch our legs and to show our new Allies a sample of the 'cream' of the English Army! It was in our best khaki drill, therefore, with webbing and rifles, that we stepped on to Brazilian soil for a ceremonial route march. We would have preferred to stroll around the town by ourselves, but obviously the powers that be had decided that it would not #be prudent to let hoards of brutal and licentious soldiery loose on the town, especially after four weeks at sea! Perhaps they were right. The only people allowed to go ashore unescorted were the officers and crew of the ship and, for some unknown reason, a contingent of Guards.

This first of our two marches ashore was through the poorer part of the town, and when I say poor I mean poverty-stricken. I had never seen human beings living in such impoverished and degrading conditions. Houses built with bricks were non existent. There were a few dilapidated and crumbling adobe huts, but the greater part of the dwellings - if I can grace them with such a name - were ram-shackle huts knocked together out of packing cases, sheets of old plywood, strips of old timber and the odd sheets of rusty, sometimes lace-thin corrugated iron. The dwellers in this shanty town were nearly all negroes - of all shades of colour from light brown to ebony balck. If we saw half-a-dozen people of lighter skin it would be an exaggeration. None of them could have lived in such conditions in British climatic conditions.

These poor people greeted us with great warmth and enthusiasm, and we soon had a following of grinning boys falling in behind us and aping our military bearing. What delighted the spectators most, however, was the sight of a black man, in British uniform, marching in the ranks of the British army. This was something new to them, and I am sure that the British went up immeasurably in their estimation. Brown, the man in question, was as black as the ace of spades, but he was English to the core and a proud Londoner. He, more than we others, was the object of the crowd's adulation and applause (There was a different story, several weeks later, in Durban, when to save Brown the humilation of being 'segregated' and refused admission to Forces clubs and canteens, he was advised to stay in camp for the duration of our stay in South Africa).

The following day we had our second, and last, excursion on shore. This time our orderly and disciplined march took us through the more affluent residential part of Bahia, and through the town centre. What a contrast to the previous day! Well-built houses, tidy gardens, prosperous and not quite so prosperous, white (well, browny white) people. Good looking women and girls; fine commercial buildings, of which many were banks, some of them of imposing height though not quite skyscrapers, giving a mini-Manhattan look to the town. And the most tantalising sight of all; well-appointed shops of all descriptions, their windows ablaze in the fast fading light of early evening, full of all kinds of attractive merchandise. As I wrote to Vera, 'I should have liked to have done some shopping. Who knows? I might have been able to get you some fully-fashioned silk stockings!'

On our way down the steep road that led down to the harbour we passed what was obviously a bordello. On the balcony were a number of 'girls' with three Guardsmen, obviously in their cups, who cheered, and jeered, as went by. Just at this time a sudden tropical storm broke, and torrential rain cascaded down upon us, drenching us to the skin before we could reach the shelter of the ship. I remember how refreshing this was after the hot and humid day. Crossing the Atlantic to Brazil we had not had many refreshing baths. Drinking water was rationed, whilst the salt water in which we washed and occasionally showered was only available for short periods every day. For our ablutions we were issued with salt water soap which was supposed to lather in the salt water. A likely story!

We were spared the experience of a future mate of mine. His ship, crossing the Indian Ocean, ran out of water, or was very short of it. One day heavy black clouds were seen approaching so the order was given that everyone should parade on deck with his bar of soap and enough water in his water bottle to use to lather his body. The ensuing storm would do the rest. Unfortunately the wind direction changed, by only a degree or so, but sufficiently for the storm to miss them and to leave hundreds of soaped, naked bodies waiting for a natural shower bath that never materialised!

We had no other excursions ashore at Bahia. The next day we weighed anchor and sailed out of harbour, only to drop anchor again some half a mile from shore. It was obviously the turn of another ship in the convoy to spend a few days at the dockside. This must have happened a number of times because we rode at anchor for over a week before the convoy sailed again, this time eastward towards Africa. There was just one more diversion on the day of the sailing. As we started to move away and we were having a last look at Bahia, a motor launch sped out towards us and delivered a Guardman who had gone A.W.O.L. during our time moored to the dock. What he had been up to during the week intervening we never found out, nor was it ever known what his punishment was.

The voyage across the South Atlantic was pretty uneventful, and life went on much the same, day in and day out: meals and parades, lazy hours in the sun, and practically every day the same as its neighbour. The weather grew hotter - apart from a short spell when we ran into mist and rain - and there was always great competition for the sleeping spots on deck. It was strange to think, in the heat, of England in the fogs, frosts and snow of winter.

Boredom was alleviated somewhat by film shows and these were almost invariably travel features. 'Australia Calling' was one: there were two films on New Zealand, and two each on Canadian winter sports and Hawaii. A class was started to learn Arabic and I enrolled on this. It was a good clue to our final destination!

One day, in the late afternoon, we saw Table Mountain on the horizon and we wondered whether Cape Town was our next port of call. As we crossed Table Bay we saw our first signs of War at sea. We had just missed seeing the actual incident, but there was wreckage over a wide area of sea, and we were in time to see some of the survivors of the submarine attack climbing aboard a destroyer by means of nets let down over the side of this South African naval vessel.

As we sailed on we guessed that we would be calling in at Durban, and we were right. As the 'Empress' sailed into the harbour we could see a group of people on the wall of the harbour entrance: and we heard a magnificent soprano voice singing 'Land of Hope and Glory'. We heard later that she greeted every troopship this way, both arriving and departing; she became a legend to all troops who passed through Durban.

After disembarking we boarded a train which carried us about 15 miles inland to a large transit camp. Here, after being allocated our tents we had a substantial meal. At every meal, here, there were unlimited amounts of bread and jam to fill any small corner left. The novelty to me was that the jam was made from grapes. It was of a thin consistency, however, compared with the jam I was used to. It probably too little pectin.

The temperature here was in the 100s, with correspondingly high humidity, and perspiration oozed out of every pore, even in the middle of the night. The morning after our arrival we had parades in the forenoon, then we were free to go into Durban. By the time we had walked the quarter of a mile to the railway station our khaki drill shirts were black with sweat. The first thing I did when I reached the city was to buy a letter folder with views of Durban on which I wrote to Vera, then I made my way to the G.P.O. to post it home. As I approached the postbox there who should be posting a letter but my cousin Eric Lord! The long arm of coincidence again. Eric was in the Navy and had been on a cruiser patrolling the Indian Ocean for the past two years. This day was the very first time his cruiser had put in at Durban. We spent the rest of the day together, visiting several canteens and bars, and visiting the cinema. I can remember the film, 'The Man who came to Dinner', starring Monty Woolley. We arranged to meet the following afternoon, but he didn't show up and when I went down to the harbour I found that the cruiser had sailed. When one considers the odds against meeting someone thousands of miles away from home, and the exact timing involved, our meeting was nothing short of miraculous.

We spent about 10 days in Durban, and thoroughly enjoyed our stay. We bathed in the Indian Ocean, and the size of the rollers made me wish that I could swim well enough to indulge in surfing. There was a lifeguard tower on the beach with a lifeguard who not only watched out for bathers in difficulties but kept a strict look-out for the dreaded dorsal fin that betrayed the presence of a shark. There were many things to see in Durban: for example the hill of the monkeys who would gather round any visitor in expectation of a treat. They had become blase about nuts and would only eat bananas. Of course there were always native Africans at hand to exploit the situation. Then there was the snake farm with all kinds of venomous snakes and a multitude of frogs around to provide them with easy meals, and a native keeper who walked among them and handled then with frightening unconcern. He told us he had been bitten so many times he was now immune to their venom.

Durban is the most English of African cities and around Christmas as it was they put on 'Messiah' at the City Hall. I attended the performance and was impressed by the soloists, one of whom was the soprano who had sung to us on arrival. She had a timbre very much like Dame Clara Butt, except, of course she was a soprano. The choir sang well enough but I thought them inferior to most I had heard in Sheffield.

The privately run canteens in Durban were magnificent, and if I could name my favourite, in terms of friendliness and the quality of the food they provided, I would have to say the Jewish Servicemen's Club. I never came upon another in all my six years' service to compare with it.

We were unfortunate in one respect: we had heard of the tremendous hospitality of the Durban people. Of soldiers being welcomed like long-lost sons into the homes of Durban families. We were not to receive this kind of personal hospitality. The contingent prior to ours (I will not name the regiment) had spoiled it for all subsequent units by their boorish and intemperate behaviour. It was not the last occasion when I felt ashamed of some of my fellow countrymen.

As I mentioned in my account of our experience in Bahia, our poor comrade, Brown, saw nothing of Durban or its amenities. We all felt deeply for him.

Just as we were looking forward to spending Christmas in Durban, where we would be assured of a good time, we received our Orders to pack up and move on.

This time our floating home was the 'New Amsterdam', a Dutch liner whose regular pre-War run was the Holland to U.S.A. crossing of the Atlantic. The 'New Amsterdam' was a magnificent ship, modern and well appointed (even to having escalators between the galley and the main dining room). She was spotlessly clean, and her Dutch officers saw to it that she remained that way. Our section were allocated cabins - six or eight to a cabin, but still palatial accommodation compared with that on the 'Empress' - and every day the Dutch officer of the day came to inspect the cabin and its adjoining shower room. If they were not up to its high standard, they had to be cleaned again - and no nonsense! The only drawback with the 'New Amsterdam' was its ventilation: being an Atlantic liner, most of the decks were enclosed, and this was a great disadvantage in the temperatures we experienced in the Indian ocean and Red Sea. Theoretically our cabin was air-conditioned, but the ambient temperature was such that the airconditioning equipment had little effect. When it was my turn to clean the shower-room, which was tiled from floor to ceiling, and every tile had to be clean, I had to strip naked to do the job, and even then I was running in perspiration. I must have lost weight on that trip.

We were given cabins because all members of our section were permanently on cookhouse (sorry! galley) fatigues, apart from us N.C.O.'s who had duties connected with meal times. There were so many men to feed that meal-times were arranged in shifts: three of four, I can't remember which. To avoid any confusion, and to obviate the necessity for long queues, each man was given a ticket with the times of his meals on it, each shift being designated by a different colour. The dining-room was four decks down from the promenade deck, and on every deck there was an N.C.O. to see that the only men with the requisite colour of ticket attended the appropriate meal shift. This time I drew the lucky straw (no pun intended), I was the N.C.O. on the top of the companion-way which came out into the fresh air of the top deck. The other N.C.O.'s had to spend the three hours of meal times below decks with no sea breeze to temper the stuffiness of their surroundings. It was a very boring duty, standing hours of every day saying ad infinitum 'What coloured ticket have you got?' 'No, your breakfast (dinner, or tea) is at such a time, come back later'. 'Sorry you can't use this companion way to go to your cabin (toilet, canteen etc) - use the companion way on the port side'. 'Sorry, Sergeant (Corporal, Gunner etc) I'm only obeying orders, you can't go down below from this point'. I was never actually assaulted because I was terribly polite to everyone but I was called all manner of names - all of them uncomplimentary. By the time everyone else had had his dinner I was ravenously hungry and my feet and legs were killing me. Invariably, however, the food was worth waiting for, and I suspect that the Dutch cooks saved us some special tit-bits. I never had a poor meal on the 'New Amsterdam', and Christmas dinner, especially, was delicious.

Among the troops sharing our voyage were some from South Africa, both white and black units. The white South Africans mixed freely with us British and most of them seemed decent chaps ( remember that only a few were stand-offish - I was going to say boer-ish, but I won't). The blacks, on the other hand were kept strictly to their inferior and crowded conditions and were subject to a very rigid discipline.

I remember standing on deck one night talking with a friendly Springbok, and asking him to point out the constellation of the 'Southern Cross' as I couldn't find it. When he identified it for me I was most disappointed, I expected the component stars to be of much greater magnitude and brilliance.

Our cigarettes ration at this time changed to the South African brands 'Cape to Cairo' and 'Needlepoint'. I was not yet a connoisseur of tobacco, but my mates thought very little of them. They had been accustomed, of course, to Virginia tobacco, and not the African strain. We were later to encounter much worse tasting cigarettes in the Middle East - Victory Vs. The natives wouldn't even accept them as presents.

Before leaving Durban we had been told that there had been a lot of enemy submarine activity in the Mozambique Channel between Africa and Madagascar. We got through unscathed, however, and there were no alerts (apart from boat drill rehearsals) to send us scurrying up to the boat decks.

The voyage up the east coast of Africa was uneventful and not particularly interesting in that there was not much to see. I was startled one night, however, a few days after crossing the equator, when the constellations overhead were once again the familiar ones of the Norther Hemisphere, to see from the Pole Star that we were no longer on a roughly northern course, but were travelling slightly south of west. It was only when I found a map in the ship's library on the following day that I realised that we had rounded the tip of the Horn of Africa and were sailing almost due west along the Gulf of Aden towards the southern end of the Red Sea.

The weather by this time was unbearably hot, and I can remember getting up from lying on the top deck to find I had left my impression in perspiration on the wooden boards of the deck. It was at this time that we were warned of the dangers of sun-bathing under these conditions of torrid heat from the tropical sun and, in fact, we were told that we would be 'on a charge' if we reported sick with sun-burn or heat stroke.

Our journey up the Red Sea was little more interesting because we could see one coast at least, but as this was the Ethiopian, and later the Egyptian coast, there were really no interesting features to see. We did see some shipping, however, but this mostly in the shape of native vessels and Egyptian dhows. The conditions in the Mediterranean had severely curtailed the number of ships making the southward trip through the Suez Canal into the Red Sea.

Christmas Day saw us at the beginning of our voyage from Aden to Port Tewfik (I see that the Atlases now call this Taufiq). It was a blazing hot day, and the Christmas Fare we ate seemed out of place in such surroundings and under such conditions of high temperature. During the morning there was a Church Service in one of the lower deck saloons, at which we sang the old familiar hymns and carols. I am bound to say that the attendance was very disappointing. My thoughts were even more with Vera and my folks at home at what is pre-eminently a family festival, and the day was tinged with sadness and home sickness. This, of course, was not confined to high days and holidays, though special days brought special memories, but was the constant background of a way of life that, on the surface, was filled with interesting new experiences. The mere recital of events could not convey the homesickness that was constantly nagging at out hearts and minds.

EGYPT AND PALESTINE 1943

On New Years Day 1943, we arrived at Port Taufiq at the southern end of the Suez Canal, and were taken off by launches because the 'New Amsterdam' was too large for the shallow waters of the port. It was a nerve-tingling experience transferring from the unsteady rope ladder to the waiting boat, with full equipment. I had visions of missing the boat altogether and sinking to the bottom of the sea., Once on shore we were taken by truck to the vast transit camp of Tel el Kebir: a wide expanse of burning sand and thousands of tents. (Tel el Kebir means 'The great hill' although I never saw a hill in the whole vicinity. 'Tel' is 'hill', as in Tel Aviv - the hill of Spring) - I learnt later that 'Tel' also means a mound over an unexcavated archealogical site.

We were in Tel el Kebir for a little over a week, during which time I never really mastered its topography. During the day we had parades, indulged in 'square-bashing', and attended lectures. One of the latter was on the health hazards of an area like the Middle East: malaria, sandfly fever, 'gippo tummy', V.D., and a disease I had never even heard of 'bilharzia'. This disease is caused by blood flukes which can enter the body - usually by bathing in, or drinking, contaminated water. The flukes are parasitic to a small water snail that lives, for example in the 'sweet water' canals of Egypt. When the flukes infest the human body they lay their eggs in the bladder. These eggs are equipped with a sharp hook which lacerate the bladder and the urinary channels causing haemorrhage which becomes apparent when the victim (predominantly man) passes water. It used to be the sign that the Egyptian peasant had attained manhood. Bilharzia is a very debilitating disease and was one of the reasons for the short life expectancy of the Egyptian fellaheen. We were told that if we ever fell into one of the canals we had to report immediately to the M.O. The treatment was a course of a multitude of extremely unpleasant injections!

After duties we were free to search out such amusement that suited us. There were shops run by native Egyptians where one could buy all kinds of novelties, souvenirs of Egypt etc., very much like the seaside shops at home. There were canteens and bars, and, the most novel thing of all, outdoor cinemas showing both old and up to date films, some of which we had seen at home and others that had only recently been issued. It was a new experience sitting under the star filled Egyptian night sky watching American musicals and comedies. This part of Egypt must have been particularly arid because we were never troubled by mosquitoes and, in any case, we had no protection against them.

I must confess to a sense of excitement that, against all my expectations, I was now in the land of the Pharaohs, of which I had read so much at school in both History and Geography, and in works of fiction by Sax Rohmer of which I had been fond in my adolescence. I hoped that I might one day go up the Nile and see the fabulous temples and palaces at Luxor and in the Valley of the Kings. In the meantime I drank in the atmosphere, including the smells, as only a romantic could.

At about this time I made a new friend who was to be my constant companion for all the time we were in Palestine, and a friend with whom, after a long silence after the War - when we lost contact - I corresponded until his untimely death in the 70s. This was Sergeant Ron Eady, a man slightly younger than myself. Ron, who came from Surrey, where his wife, Beryl, was still living, was well educated and a cultured man, and we had much in common, especially our love of Music, History and Nature. In civilian life Ron was a professional entomologist working on the identification, cure and prevention of insect caused diseases in crops in many countries of the Empire and Commonwealth. Everywhere he travelled with the Army he collected specimens of rare insects and sent them back to the Natural History Museum at Kensington. I used to accompany him, in our spare time, on 'hunting' expeditions, and learned a lot about the insect world.

As well as Ron Eady I had a number of other pals, some of who had been with me in the UK and others with whom I had shared the voyage from the Clyde. Of these I remember 'Smithy', a Scot from Lockerbie, who was a good footballer, John Oliver from Derby, Eric Landon from Clapham and Ernie Bennett from Cradley in Staffordshire. We usually went everywhere as a party.

On Sunday 10th January, 1943, we packed our gear, drew rifles from store, and after tea, at 16.45 hours, we paraded in full kit on the parade ground. Shortly afterwards we were aboard a train en route for Palestine. By midnight we had reached the station of El Qantara (the Bridge) on the eastern bank of the Suez Canal, and after the very cold journey we were glad to have supper on the station washed down with a mug of good hot tea. Despite the cold we managed to doze on the hard seats of the train and as dawn broke we crossed the border into Palestine. From that moment I never shut my eyes again all day: I was too interested in seeing this country which had been a part of my life in the pages of the Bible, and in my imagination as I read, or heard read, the stories of Jesus in the New Testament. We saw scenes that could not have changed since Biblical times: women drawing water from a well, men and boys riding donkeys, desert places with thorn and thistle, well cultivated tracts of land with oranges, lemons and grapefruit growing in profusion for miles on either side of the railway line. At our various halts as one of my Airgraphs home put it - we could buy the fruit from the natives at ridiculous low prices, even though they were robbing us!

Our journey took us through such well-known places as Gaza, Ascalon, Ashod, Jaffa and Tel Aviv and Caesara (not the Galilean town), and we arrived, at 1600 hours at the railway station in Haifa. Here we were glad to have supper, before being taken by lorry to the camp that proved to be our destination: Kiryat Motskin, a village about halfway between Haifa and the old Crusader Town of Acre, and half-an-hours walk over the desert to the Mediterranean sea. By this time it was dark, cold and pouring with rain. We were given a snack and then showed to our tents where, despite a shortage of blankets, we were glad to get our heads down, supplementing our lack of bedding with our greatcoats, and by wearing our pullovers in bed. The following morning I woke up to the sound of Revaille at 0515 hours, very cold indeed because the tent had not been properly tied up, but snuggled down under my assortment of bed covers until 7 o'clock. We found at this camp, that no one came round to harass you at Reveille. Provided you were at your duties at the appointed time no one worried you: it was up to you whether you missed breakfast or not (very few of us did!).

After breakfast we reported to the Regimental Office, the Quartermaster';s Store, Post Corporal, Orderly Sergeant etc. but had no duties allocated to us for the day. To my great disappointment there was no mail awaiting us. It was the beginning of February before any arrived: I had had no news from home since before our embarkation on the 27th October, and I was wondering how Vera was, especially after she had been so ill in Hull.

On this first day at Kiryat Motskin we had the opportunity of reconnoitring the camp area, and found that it covered a very wide area, at least 4 square miles. The tents for sleeping accommodation, and the Regimental huts, were in the centre of the camp, while the workshops, Wireless, Motor Vehicles, Tank Shop etc were all nearer the perimeter of the camp. After work, when it was always pitch-black it was no easy task to find one's way across the rough country to one's tent. At this time of the year the sky was overcast most of the time, and the occasional flash of lightning as we made our way 'home' illumined the scene for a split second before plunging us again into Stygian darkness.

On informing Regimental Office that we were Radar Mechanics we were met with wry smiles. 'Don't know why they've sent you here then', said the Sergeant, 'There's no radar in these parts, but we've got a Wireless Workshop. We'll have to allocate you to that section'. This they did, and for about six weeks we worked on all kinds of Wireless Equipment, being entrusted only with simple things like Aerial Control Units, Mine Detector circuits etc while the men who had qualified in Wireless Telegraphy repaired and re-assembled wireless sets from tanks and armoured vehicles, and sets used in the field. Incidentally the battle of El Alamein had taken place at the beginning of November 1942 - we heard the news as we sailed across the Atlantic - and the British Army, having decisively defeated the Germans and Italians was pushing west across Libya and Tunisia, finally to evict the enemy from all North Africa by the following May. All the Base Workshops in the Middle East, therefore, were working to replace and repair equipment of all kinds to support the troops out 'in the blue', as the Army called the North African desert. Sometime in February I heard the sad news of Alan Watts' death in an air battle over Benghazi. Alan was Joyce Watts' brother (the Joyce who worked with me at Firth-Derihon), and I had the difficult task of writing a letter of sympathy to Joyce and her mother and father.

During the greater part of January and February the weather in this part of Palestine was atrocious: rain, hail, thunderstorms and strong winds that threatened to blow our tents away. Although under canvas we were fairly comfortable: we had bed frames to keep us away from the ground and thus from crawling pests such as scorpions. Our very first task in the morning was to upturn our boots and shake them vigorously in case a scorpion had found a warm, comfortable bed for the night!

Food was passably good in camp, apart from a lack of potatoes: we ate our starch in the shape of boiled rice, and this soon palled. N.A.A.F.I. facilities were good, and little cinema showed a different film every evening. In one particular week we saw - Don Ameche and Rosalind Russell in 'The Femine Touch' -Shirley Temple and Jack Oakie in 'Youth Takes a Bow' -Joel McCrea in 'Espionage Agent' - Denis O'Keefe in 'Weekend for Two' - 'Lady be Good', which I enjoyed despite having already seen it four times - Constance Bernett in 'Service de Luxxe' - an excellent British film 'Next of Kin' - James Cagney, Ann Sheridan and Pat O'Brien in 'Torrid Zone'.

Haifa was ten miles away but we rarely had the time to go there in daytime. Sundays offered the best opportunity, if we were off duty then, and, because Friday was the Muslim holy day and Saturday the Jewish Sabbath, all the shops and entertainments were open on Sundays. Haifa was a mixture of modern-European and ancient Arabic. The native quarter was infinitely the more interesting in spite of and, probably because of, the prevailing din and confusion and the strange smells, particularly of human and animal excreta. Ron Eady and I used, sometimes, to go into town by the truck that took the Palestinian Jewish workers back home, and we used to enjoy the songs these young men sang, even joining in despite our lack of knowledge of Hebrew.

In Haifa we formed the habit of frequenting the Jewish club-cum-Concert Hall, where we were made welcome, moreso, I think, because few, if any, other British servicemen had ever entered its doors. By this time we had heard something of Hitler's persecution of the Jews but there was still a lot of anti-semitic feeling amongst the British forces. This Jewish club was called 'Betenak', which means 'Our house', and it was the focal point of Jewish culture in Haifa. We heard some first class musical recitals, mainly piano and violin, played by refugees from Hitler's Germany and Austria. On another occasion we attended a performance of Cav and Pag (ie. Cavalleria Rusticana and I Pagliacci) in the Haifa theatre, given, in Hebrew, by members of the Palestine Folk Opera Company. I wonder how many more non-Hebrews have had such an experience? Not many I should think.

In the Wireless Shop back at camp I worked with Don Kirk, Alf Causon, 'Jock' Livingstone, Bernard Roberts (robbo), Ron Eady and refugees Werner Strich, Hans Fischman, Ivan Diamant and Marcus -Don Kirk was a schoolteacher in Civvy Street, and came from Ikleston, home of my parental grandparents: he was a good athlete and a merry companion. Alf Causon was a Welshman married to a Bristol girl who worked at the same Food Office in Bristol as my sister Eveline. 'Jock Livingstone was from Dundee (of happy memory), and worked as an insurance clerk in London. 'Robbo' was from Southall, Middlesex, and had worked for the railway - he was engaged to Daphne Irons. Ron Eady I have already spoken of. Werner Strich, a Berliner, was a likeable lad. He was studying hard in his spare time to be able to take London Matriculation. His parents and a brother escaped to England where they are still living. Hans Fischmann was from Vienna, and I note in my diary that, although a little temperamental, he was very sociable and a good worker. Ivan Marcus - was a very pleasant German Jew, and a clever mechanic.

I am ashamed to say that many of our chaps resented the presence of these Jews and were not disposed to mix with them. I think one reason for this was not naked anti-semitism but the fact that these civilians were taking out more pay than we were.

Around this time we were given the opportunity to learn German, and about ten of us decided to do so. Our teacher, who came to the camp on Tuesday and Thursdays, in the evening, was a Viennese refuge called Frau Efron. Amongst her pupils was Ron Eady, Jock Scott (from Aberdeen), a chap called Voice, and Cpl 'Dickie' Toms - not forgetting me. Though we were serious in our wish to learn German, this did not prevent is from having a happy and sometimes hilarious time in our lessons. On three occasions we visited Frau and Herr Efron's flat in Haifa and enjoyed their limited hospitality as well as learning a little colloquial German. Herr Efron was a native born Palestinian Jew, very self effacing, but obviously proud of, and in love with his paler almost Nordic -looking European wife.

On February 14th 1943 I was sent with Reg Otters, 'Jimmy James' and several others of our unit, to Tira on a so called Training Course. The course was designed to brush up our knowledge of map-reading, the firing of various weapons - rifles. Lewis machine guns, mortars, grenades etc - to fit us for active fighting service should the need arise. We were to be hardened up after the easier living at sea, and our mainly sedentary life in the Wireless Workshop. We were, therefore, subjected to a rigorous regime of Foot and Arms Drill by a Guards' Sergeant Major who was very much a sadist, and regular sessions of PT. In addition to this we spent considerable time every day climbing up and walking over Mount Carmel, in whose shadow we were camped. I tried to imagine what could have been the spot where Elijah took on, and defeated, the priests of Baal, and was a little apprehensive, one day, when we were caught in a thunderstorm on the top of Carmel. I didn't fancy the idea of being consumed by fire! I was able to beat the censor for once by telling Vera in a letter that I had been on the mountain where Elijah had had his confrontation with the priests of Baal. It was highly probable that the censoring Officer was not very familiar with the Old Testament. A part of our night duties was guarding a large Vehicle and Tank Depot near the sea at Athlit. As soon as it was dark these vast buildings became the haunt of hundreds of crickets. It was difficult to find them to destroy them because they seemed to have the power to 'throw' their voices: they were never where you expected them to be.

We did have a sample of active service while at Tira. A band of terrorists attacked a village nearby and we were sent out to capture them. We found the village and saw the damage that had been done to it, but the terrorists had disappeared into the hills and we had no chance of finding them.

Immediately after the end of the Course we were sent on a week's leave to Jerusalem, thus fulfilling a lifetime's ambition of mine. Ron Eady was in our party, with 'Jimmy James' and Ron Carey.

On the morning of February 22nd we caught the ordinary civilian service bus to Jerusalem from the bus terminal in Haifa. We were on the back seat so it was a very bumpy journey over the rough roads of Palestine. The route took us through Nablus, the scene of much violence in the pre War troubles (and the ancient capital of Samaria), and then began its long climb to Jerusalem, passing through Jericho on its way. It was a dull day, which did not do justice to the landscape through which we passed, and by the time we reached Jerusalem it was raining. Our only diversion during the journey was flirting with a young and pretty English nurse sitting on the seat in front: it mustn't be forgotten that we had been deprived of female company for four months!

Having arrived in Jerusalem our first task was to find the Y.M.C.A. in Allenby Square and to book in for the week. We found the Y.M.C.A. but it was full, for that night only, so we were directed to the Church Army Hostel for our overnight accommodation and told to come back to the Y.M.C.A. for the following day's breakfast, and for bed and breakfast for the rest of the week. Sleeping accommodation at the Y.M.C.A. was in large dormitories, with double-tier bunks. And there was the luxury of clean white sheets, changed every day! As soon as we awoke an Arab 'boy' brought us a cup of tea to drink in bed, and took our boots away to be cleaned and ou trousers to be pressed. Breakfast was the same every morning - scrambled eggs, followed by toast and grapefruit marmalade - and it never palled. We soon found, moreover, that by judicious tipping we could obtain another helping of scrambled eggs, and unlimited cups of tea.

There were good facilities, too, at the 'Y', a pleasant lounge with an adequate number of writing tables: a games room with table tennis equipment, a barber shop, tailor and shoe-shine, and a little shop selling watches, souvenirs and photographic equipment.

Every morning, the first thing after breakfast, we had to report to the Military Police station. On the morning after our arrival I reported to the Corporal on duty and presented my pass. He looked at the pass and then looked up at me. 'R.E.M.E.' he said, 'How come you've got a Duke of Wellington's number and a 2/7th Dukes number at that?' When I'd explained the position, I asked the corporal how he knew I was originally from the 2/7th 'Easy', he replied, 'My girl friend's brother is 4618819, and you are 4618821'. His future brother in law was Wilson Jackson, my good friend! Once again the arm of coincidence.

On my first morning at the Y.M.C.A. I had another surprise; whom should I see in the dining room but 'Ollie Stone', nephew of Mr Clayton, one of our chapel members. He was on leave from his R.A.F. unit in Egypt. We had some interesting conversations about the 'old days' at home, and of our subsequent experiences in the Forces.

The weather was dreadfully cold, and it actually snowed one morning. This didn't prevent us getting around to see the sights, however, as the following excerpts from some of my letter home testify -

'26th February

As you no doubt know, the old City of Jerusalem is surrounded by massive walls with gates at intervals to allow you to enter. There are 8 gates ' 'Jaffa Gate', 'New Gate', 'Damascus Gate', 'Herod's Gate', 'St Stephens Gate', 'Golden Gate', 'Dung Gate' and 'Zion Gate': all of these were open to foot or vehicle traffic with the exception of the 'Golden' and 'Dung' gates. This morning 'Jimmy' James and I (Ron Eady had a stomach upset and had gone to see the M.O.) entered the City by the Jaffa Gate, past the crowd of of fruit sellers, beggars etc. and made our way towards the crowded street that lay ahead of us. We had barely walked 10 yards when we were accosted by an Arab boy of about 12 years of age, who offered to be our guide. Now the Old City is a pretty difficult place to find one's way about in, with its narrow, winding streets - tall buildings hemming them in places, while most of them are roofed in, allowing very little light and fresh air to get through, so we let the lad lead on. Down these narrow cobbled streets we went, Arab shops selling all manner of curious articles and foods on each side, and strange and often unpleasant smells assailing our nostrils. The streets were crowded with people: Arabs, some dirty, some comparatively clean in all kinds of Oriental and Western costumes: Jews in European dress and Yemenite Jews in their queer round black hats, a curl of greasy black hair hanging on each side of their faces. Along with these were Palestine policemen in their Cossack like astrakhan hats: Greek Orthodox and Russian Orthodox priests with their long beards and their veil adorned stove pipe hats: Arab women, sometimes, but not always, veiled but almost invariably carrying some heavy object on their heads: little Arab children with their parrot-cry of 'How do, George' to all British servicemen. Here and there could be seen the familiar khaki and air-force blue of the 'boys'.

Down seemingly innumerable streets and side alleys we went until we reached the famous Wailing Wall - a remnant of the western wall of the Temple Court - where Jews go to pray, women on the right and men on the left. It was a strange experience hearing the drone of prayers and seeing those that were praying bowing and swaying as they prayed. (For a new Jewish state, a re-built Temple, their suffering and dying brethren and sisters in Hitler's Europe?).

From the Wailing Wall as we went along the Street of the Chain to the Chain Gate of the Mosque of Omar, the Moslem mosque built on the site of the jewish Temple, but sacred to the Moslems as the 'Dome of the Rock', the place from which Abraham - their prophet also - ascended into heaven. We were not allowed in the mosque because it was a Moslem feast day, so we retraced our steps until we reached the Via Dolorosa. The Via Dolorosa is the way along which Jesus walked with the Cross from the Roman Judgement Place to Calvary to be crucified. Along it are 9 Stations of the Cross - places where certain things happened on the last walk of our Lord, and these are denoted by plates in the walls, on various houses etc. 5 other Stations are within the Church of the Holy Sepulchre itself, making 14 in all. 3 of these are marked by chapels, 1 by the altar of the Stabat Mater(statue of the sorrowing mother, Mary) and the last by the tomb itself.

On the Via Dolorosa itself is the prison in which it is claimed Jesus, Barrabbas and the two thieves were kept. We went into this, and also into the house of St Veronica who wiped Jesus' face with a cloth - the cloth thereafter bearing the image of His face.

Finally we arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where, after a longish wait, a guide arrived to show us around. We saw the various chapels and altars, some of which belong to The Greek Orthodox Church, some to the Russian Orthodox, and others to the Roman Catholic, Armenian and Coptic Churches. What strikes the eye in this church which claims to stand on the site of Calvary (There is another claim to this spot - but more of that later) is the extreme gaudiness of the images, icons, altars, trappings etc which seemed to my eyes to be out of place in a place of such holy associations. Had the various sects kept to simplicity in design - or better still - built their separate churches near the places of Crucifixion and Resurrection, and kept Calvary from any adornment, it would have been much more solemn and impressive (I know the reason given for building churches over sacred spots - to protect them from destruction and desecration by the infidels)

There are, however, many really remarkable mosaics and works of art in gold, silver and precious jewels. The statue of the Virgin, for example is smothered in many jewels and golden hearts, the gifts of many countries, kings, queens etc. It is estimated, indeed, that there are over three million pounds worth of jewels and precious metals in the Church (That was in 1943 - what would they be worth now in 1993)

We saw, in an underground type of crypt, the three holes in which Jesus' cross and the crosses of the two thieved are claimed to have been set, but we were not allowed inside the Tomb , because the building around it is under repair. Before coming out of the church we paid a shilling and were given a certificate and a minute piece of rock from the Tomb. I'll send them on to you, darling. We also attended part of an Armenian Service and came out with the bitter-sweet scent of incense in our nostrils. Give me Methodism anyday! (I was young then. I don't think I would be so opinionated today).

In the afternoon Bob and Jimmy went to the pictures, but Ron (largely recovered) and I went on another trip of sight-seeing, even though the weather was miserable. This time we walked down Suleiman Street to the Damascus Gate, entered the city, walked along King Solomon Street to St Stephen's Gate and left the city at this point. This brought us out nearly opposite the Garden of Gethsemane to which we walked over the Kedron ravine. This is another place they have spoiled by over-elaboration. Instead of leaving it in its wild state, as it must have been in the days of our Lord, it has been cultivated, paths have been made, and altogether it has been spoiled. Why do people have to alter everything?

Upon leaving the Garden we took the road round the City walls and, practically opposite the Golden Gate, but down in the valley we found two very interesting tombs, neither of them touched or adorned, the tomb of Absalom and that of Zachariah. These made more impression by being in their natural, if deteriorated state. We then walked round the City walls, passed the Dung Gate, and entered the City again by Zion Gate. Because Ron hadn't been with me in the morning, I took him through the Jewish quarter to the Wailing Wall, and from there to the Mosque of Omar, the Citadel, the Tower of David and back to the Y.M.C.A. via the Damascus Gate. A very enjoyable afternoon which cost us exactly nothing!

Today, love, we had another sightseeing tour. After signing on we went down to the Old City and entered, this time, by the New Gate. From there we worked round to the Jaffa Gate near to which stands the Citadel. The Citadel is the old strong point of the City - the part which was defended in the event of the City being attacked. It is very much like an old castle, having a moat around, and strong towers at strategic points. The building themselves are of diverse origin. Most of the remaining walls and towers were built by the Egyptian Mamlukes (about 1200 AD) but parts were built by Herod, the Romans, the Crusaders, the Arabs and the Turks. We had a good look around, and went back to the YMCA for lunch. After lunch I sent off your parcel (Olive wood boxes etc) and then Ron and I went to see the Garden Tomb, and Gordon's Calvary, which are outside the northern walls of the Old City.

These are thought by many, and were considered to be so by General Gordon of Khartoum, to be the sites of the real Garden Tomb and the true Cavalry, not over which those are built the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. An English lady showed us round and she repeated the very good arguments in favour of these being the authentic sites. Apart from it's being outside the city Wall (viz. There is a green hill far away, without a city wall etc) the hillside has various caves in it which, from the road, gives it the appearance of a skull (Hebrew - Golgotha: Latin - Calvaria). The Garden Tomb, one of a number set into a hillside, is what you would have expected a rich man's tomb to have been like in those days. Only wealthy men like Joseph of Arimathea could have afforded to have such a tomb carved, at great cost, out of the solid rock.

I am sending some mustard seed from the garden, with various other small momentoes. P.S. Enclosed an olive twig from the Mount of Olives.

My diary adds a little more information on the Garden Tomb which points to it having been a sacred place ' there are signs, moreover, of attempted desecration in the form of niches for Venus worship, and a Venus stone has also been found there'.

Letter 27th February, 1943 -

'This morning we visited the Rockerfeller Archaeological Museum. This is set out in various periods of Palestinian history from Lower Palaeolithic Age (Old Stone Age), through New Stone Age, Bronze Age, Iron Age, Greek period, Roman period and Byzantine period. I was very interested in the exhibits of prehistoric man (having given a lecture on this subject at K.E.S.). The museum itself is a lovely building and well worth the visit.

This afternoon Ron and I went to Bethlehem. There is a conducted tour from the YMCA, but it is much cheaper to catch the local bus, which costs 40 mils return, ie 10d. On reaching the Church of the Nativity we were deluged by a flood of guides but having become hardened to this kind of robbery without violence we successfully after a hard fight (figuratively speaking) got rid of our tormentors. Guides cost money, and our scanty purses wouldn't have been able to stand the strain. First of all we saw the Grotto, over which a church now stands, where Mary, Joseph and the Babe sheltered before fleeing to Egypt to escape Herod's 'Massacre of the Innocents'. From this spot we saw, in the distance, the Shepherd's Field and Herod's tomb.

From here we walked down to the Church of the Nativity, miraculously dodging the ever-watchful and ubiquitous guides, and entered the church unaccompanied - if only you knew what a persistent and annoying nuisance these guides are! They'd take your last mil!

We went down into the Grotto where, beneath the altar, a star set in the floor marks the spot our Lord was born. I asked myself again what I asked countless times in Jerusalem, 'Why couldn't they have ;left things in their original and natural state?' Also in the Grotto is the place where the 3 Wise Men came to offer their gifts to the Infant King. At this point we indulged in some sharp practice by standing behind some American servicemen and listening, free of charge, to what their guide was saying. The church of the Nativity is typically Greek Orthodox with gaudy trappings, coloured baubles, incense boats, chandeliers etc in much the same style as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

It was pretty chilly when we came out into the open air, so it wasn't long before we were back in the bus and heading back up the steep and winding road to Jerusalem. In passing we saw, on the outskirts of Bethlehem, Rachel's Tomb, and later, in the distance we could see the wilderness of Judaea and the mountains of Moab. After tea we went to the cinema to see 'The Son of Monte Cristo'. Nothing much in common with Bethlehem except the 'Cristo' in the title!

Well, love, our little holiday is fast drawing to a close. I wish you were here to see all these wonderful sights with me'.

It was on another bitterly cold day (remember that Jerusalem is at quite a high altitude) that we caught our bus for the return journey northwards to Haifa. I can remember little of the journey except that I was desperate, for physical reasons, to reach our half-way halt at Nablus! When we reached Haifa the temperature was noticeable higher than it had been in Jerusalem.

I must point out that Ron Eady, my companion for the most of our time in Jerusalem, was an agnostic. He was not, however, anti-Christian, but he looked at things with a more critical eye and from a mainly historical point of view. I learned alot from him without losing my basic faith in Christ and Christianity.

Not long after returning to Kiryat Motskin Orders were posted asking for volunteers for anti-malarial duties under the supervision of the M.O. This was just Ron's cup of tea, and I too, decided to volunteer. I welcomed the thought of exchanging, for a while, the confined life of the Wireless Shop working on tasks for which I had had no training, for a spell in the open air. Before I volunteered, however, Ron gave me a crash course in Entomology to prepare me for any questions the M.O. might ask me. We were both accepted, together with Reg Peters who I had come to know on the Regimental Training Course.

Ron was put in charge of the squad, and we were allocated half a dozen Arab labourers, with the foreman, a very large high-sided dray, and the two Shire sized horses. From then onwards we were on our own and very much a law unto ourselves subject, of course to Ron's disciplinary oversight.

Our first task was to survey, and map the area of the camp and a large expanse of surrounding country, marking in all the water holes, streams, marshes etc. where mosquitoes could lay their eggs and breed another generation of their kind. Our task, then, was to fill in any pools that were small enough to be treated in this way' and to spray any pools or marshes that were too large to fill in. At the time I wrote to my boss at Firth Derihon explaining what Anti-Malarial work was all about: here is an extract from my letter -

'As you, no doubt, know Malaria is carried by a certain genus of mosquito, the Anopheline, and, as in most cases in the animal world the female is the deadlier, so it is only the female Anophelis which sucks blood and carries the Malarial virus. The cycle is as follows: the female Anopheles, after copulation, needs human blood, and human blood alone, to fertilise her eggs. If she digs her proboscis into a healthy person no damage is done, apart from the irritation caused to the person bit. If the lady mosquito, however, takes blood from a person suffering from, or carrying, malaria, then the next time she sinks her proboscis into another victim she will transmit the germ to this person. And so a vicious circle is created.

All mosquitoes lay their eggs on water, either on vegetation or on egg rafts. The eggs hatch out into larvae (wrigglers) which live in the water but have to surface at frequent intervals to breathe air. After a short time the larva pupates, and the pupa itself (shaped like a fat comma) also needs to come to the surface to breathe. In about 10 days from the egg being laid the adult mosquito emerges, stretches its wings, and, if a female, carries on the 'good' work.

On the basis of the above facts, then, we can plan our campaign -

- fill in all small pools of stagnant water
- spray all pools which are too large to fill in, with anti-malarial oil. As well as having toxic properties, this oil clogs the breathing tubes of larvae and pupae. Also if a female mosquito lands on the oil she cannot take off again
- on marshy ground, and swamps where vegetation prevents oil spreading, toxic powders can be sprayed eg Paris Green
- all small tanks, fire buckets etc to be emptied at least once every 10 days (ie the egg to adult insect cycle time)

- In addition to the above measures, Adult Catching Stations can be formed and, for individual protection, mosquito netting, protective clothing, and creams used.

From March onwards the weather began to improve and I was pleased with my outdoor life. We worked long hours, sometimes longer than our comrades in the Workshops, and at times the work was physically exacting, but I enjoyed it. We struck up a good relationship with our Arab foreman and labourers, and even learned enough Arabic to conduct a reasonable conversation. These Arabs were always saying 'Yehudi mush quois' which means 'the Jews are bad'. I was continually trying to explain to them that there are good and bad in every race, but they would never accept this as a fact of life. For them it was always 'Yehudi mush quois, Arabi quois, Inglesi quois' and you couldn't make them believe otherwise. I am not surprised that the Arab/Jew conflict has never been resolved, the roots go very deep.

Under Ron Eady's tutelage we also learned more Natural History, and we were constantly finding insects and small animals new to us. In our digging (to fill in pools), we were continuously turning up snakes and lizards; in the running streams there were terrapins and water snakes, and often fluttering round our heads were large, magnificent, swallowtail butterflies.

As well as our outdoor work we used to inspect Arab huts and tents for living specimens of both mosquitoes and sandfly (the carrier of sandfly fever|), and capture them in test tubes. When we had this work to do we used to stick cotton wool soaked in formaldehyde into our stocking tops to discourage fleas, but it was never wholly successful and we were quick to undress afterwards and de-flea and have a shower. Not that fleas were confined to the Arab quarters: I have seen the sand of the floor of our tent literally dancing with the number of these jumping and biting creatures. When I was young I was always a target for fleas, and I used to come up in great, itching, lumps. I always said that if there was one flea in , say, a cinema, it would find me! Even then I preferred fleas to the other menace we had to contend with in the Middle East - bed bugs, the nauseating creatures; we had to have regular de-bugging sessions in Palestine, but these were nothing compared with those later, in Egypt. There, despite all our precautions - insect powder, legs of beds standing in tins of paraffin etc. - it was one long battle with these insects, one we never won. Every night we would sleep fitfully and itchingly until perhaps one o'clock in the morning when, in desperation, we would drag our groundsheets out into the open, and spend the night under the brilliant and so seemingly near stars. The pests used to get into everything: they particularly liked our gas masks, from which it was hard to dislodge them. Even in the clubs in Cairo you were not immune from their attention. You would be enjoying a comfortable chair when 'nip', you would feel a bite on your hand, or elsewhere, and look down to see a little brown creature disappearing into the woodwork or upholstery. I was once at a Classical concert in Cairo's American University in my best khaki drill, with my webbing belt newly scrubbed, and the brasses shined. I happened to look down at one point, to see a bug emerge from one of the brass strips that hold the belt at each side of the buckle, and then disappear again. I was most embarrassed at the possibility that someone else would see my 'guest' and it certainly destroyed my concentration on the music.

After a hot and tiring day at work, filling in holes, spraying pools, and walking miles, it was bliss to have a dip in the Mediterranean, even if this entailed a two miles walk across the desert to reach the beach. It was not easy swimming along this coast, the currents were so strong and the waves so boisterous, but just to lie down on the sand and the let the sea roll over you was heaven. We bathed every day, but Saturdays and Sundays were our favourite days, because we could spend so much time by the sea, even though, because we had to go back to camp for meals, we walked at least eight miles in the day. I was really fit, and bronzed, at this time.

On Sunday morning Ron Eady and I used to combine our walk to the beach with a 'specimen' hunting expedition, and would rarely return to camp empty handed. Sometimes it was a snake, sometimes a beetle, once it was a praying mantis, and another time a chameleon. We kept the mantis and the chameleon for a time before releasing them again to continue their normal lives.

One day I was in our tent by myself when I heard shouts from a neighbouring tent. I guessed at once what the trouble was, so I picked up the cleft stick that I carried on our expeditions and went over to investigate. There, in the tent, were four brawny men, standing on their beds, scared to death, while on the sandy floor in the centre of the tent was a snake, about 18 inches in length. I was a little nervous myself, because this would be the first snake I had caught, but I pinned the snake by the back of its head with my stick, and then picked it up by the same part of its body. Its body writhed round my wrist and forearm as it struggled to free itself, but I held on tight, and ran out to find my Arab foreman. When he saw the snake he made signs to me to transfer it to his left hand, not the easiest of manoeuvres but we accomplished it. Then holding the snake in his left hand, he flicked a piece of cloth at its head, and as the snake struck he jerked the cloth backwards thus pulling out its fangs. It was not a kind thing to do and I was sorry for the poor beast. I kept it for a while, and it was quite happy sleeping inside my shirt where it was nice and warm. We tried feeding it with all kind of things but it wouldn't eat: possibly because the food wasn't alive, and also because it had lost its fangs. Eventually we put it out of its misery: we preserved its skin, however, and I had it for a long time until it was lost during one house move.

In the third week of May I was informed that I was being posted to Egypt, and on Monday the 24th of that month I said a reluctant goodbye to Ron Eady and my other friends and left Kiryat Motzkin. We left Haifa by train at 1400 hours, and travelled all day on the coastal route by which we had come nearly 5 months before. It was a pleasant journey, and in between looking at the scenery I dipped into my Shakespeare and read Twelfth Night and A Midsummer Nights Dream. We arrived at Qantara at 0300 hours where we had a welcome mug of tea and crossed the Suez Canal at this point in moonlight as bright as day: a beautiful sight. Then on through Zagazig to Cairo which we reached at approximately 0900 hours. Transport was waiting to take us to Abbassia, the headquarters of 539 Workshops to the west of Cairo. I was very eager to see Cairo, having read so much of it, and the opportunity came that evening. I thumbed a lift into the city, and was quite impressed with what I saw. There was no blackout, because by now the War had moved a long way westwards (My diary reads 7th May. British 1st and 8th Armies take Tunis. American take Bizerta, 120,000 Axis troops estimated to be trapped in Cape Bon Peninsula).

I was surprised to find out too, how many Forces canteens there were in Cairo - eventually I sampled all of them. My favourite became 'Music for All', where you could eat to the sound of classical music, and which had a marvellous lending library. I remember borrowing, and reading, Doughty's 'Travels in Arabia Deserta', a very appropriate book to read in the circumstances.

We were told that we were being transferred to Workshops at Tura, but it was several days before we moved. On Thursday, 27th May, I got a pass effective from noon until midnight, and thumbed a lift, on a 15 cwt open truck, into Cairo. Already in the back of the truck was one soldier. We passed the time of day and started a conversation during which I was soon aware that his accent was definitely Sheffield. When I asked him about this he admitted to it, and we started swopping names of districts, shops etc. He said he was married and this his wife worked at Metro-Vickers. When I said that my wife also worked there his face lit up. 'Are you Arnold', he said, 'Betty had been asking me to look out for you ever since I came out here'. It was Leslie Parkinson, whom I had never met before, and we met by chance on the back of a 15 cwt truck on a dusty road on the outskirts of Cairo over 2000 miles from home. My Army service was turning into a series of coincidences and I was beginning to wonder whether I attracted them in some way.

I had been perpetually 'broke' since arriving in the Middle East, and I had asked Vera if she could send me some money via Thomas Cook's. I found Thomas Cook's in Cairo - not far from the famous Shepheards Hotel - but no drafts had come from England in my name. It was some weeks before the money came. This I immediately spent on some cloth to send home to Vera: she had a very nice two piece costume made from it.

That afternoon I went out to Gizeh to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx. I was escorted by the inevitable dragoman, who was very amusing, his English vocabulary having been enriched by contact with many clients from the Services. He was very knowledgable, however, and in contrast to the normal run of guides his charges were very reasonable; for once we didn't feel that we had been rooked.

I had supper that night at the Empire Services Club after which I stayed for the cinema show and saw Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland in 'Babes on Broadway'.

Eventually our transport arrived: we were taken to Cairo railway station by truck, then by train to our new camp at Massara. From Cairo the train follows the east bank of the Nile until it reaches Helwan (Arabic for 'Baths') some 25 miles south of the capital where the line ends. Massara is about 5 miles north of Helwan, and to reach it the train goes through the Cairo suburb of St George - named after the large Coptic (Egyptian Christian sect maintaining that Jesus had only a single nature in which the human and divine were united) church of that name, followed by the predominantly pre-War British military suburb of Mahdi, its streets of neat bungalows lined with flame trees, and the little town of Tura dominated by a huge works and quarry complex for the quarrying of limestone for building purposes, and the burning of it for agricultural and chemical use. From Tura to well beyond our camp at Massara the skyline is dominated by the Moqqatim Hills, tunnelled into for great distances from the year 2,500 BC approximately for the building of the step pyramid of Zoser at Memphis and the great pyramid of Cheops, and the other pyramids at Giza as its name suggests the step pyramid at Memphis (now Saqqara) is not a smooth-faced pyramid like the pyramids at Giza. The latter, like the step pyramid at Saqqara, are made of blocks of the local stone, from the Moqqatim Hills - but they are completed by being faced with dressed Tura limestone. From our camp, on the plateau between the Nile and the Moqqatim Hills, we could see the sources of the raw materials for the pyramids, and the Saqqara pyramid directly opposite the camp on the west bank of the Nile. To the north-west we could see the pyramids at Giza, a truly splendid sight, especially when silhouetted against the blood red rays of the setting sun.

For nearly 4000 years the mouths of the Moqqatim caves had been sealed by landslides, detrition and cliff falls, until at the beginning of the war in North Africa, the British commander in Egypt decided to have the caves re-opened as being ideal for his H.Q. storing of supplies, and for workshops. Not only would they be secure against attack by aircraft and artillery, but they would provide a cool environment for all purposes.

When we arrived they had been in use for three years, and small gauge railway tracks ran miles into the heart of the hills, through caves that had been widened and made higher. As well as our Workshops and Stores, the caves accommodated an R.A.O.C. Depot, a Royal Air Force unit, a Royal Naval establishment, a Military hospital and various other Depots.

In our portion of the caves, which was probably the most extensive of the lot, there were few hieroglyphics on the walls, but in one section there were a number of blocks, intended for pyramid building, that had not been completed, and one enormous block completely severed from the rock face, and still chocked up on wooden beams. The wood, having been under compression for thousands of years, was harder than the stone it was supporting. At one stage of my stay Massara I suffered an acute attack of tonsilitis, and was admitted to the Military Hospital a few caves to the north of our Workshop. On the cave wall opposite my bed was a series of hieroglyphics in prime condition as though they had been very recently completed. It gave one a strange feeling, especially in the middle of the night, to think of the ancient Egyptians and their slaves ( perhaps Jewish) who had used this cave two thousand years and more before Christ. Imagination has its disadvantages as well as its benefits.

My stay in hospital was quite eventful as it turned out. When the M.O. inspected my throat on admission he was quite worried at its condition and he decided to take no risks - he gave me a diphtheria injection, using a syringe with a very long needle, in a protuberant posterior portion of my anatomy. The very same day they removed, in great haste, the man in the next bed to mine on suspicion that he was suffering from small-pox! A short while after this the M.O. came to see me and told me that, in view of the possibility that I could be infected, he had decided to give me a vaccination. This he proceeded to do. I had felt very ill when I arrived at the hospital: I now felt half-dead, and quite uncaring whether I had small-pox or swine-fever! At around 2100 hours that night I began to experience an intolerable itching, and when I opened my hospital pyjama jacket I saw that I was almost completely covered in a roseate rash. I called for the orderly who ran to fetch the M.O. 'It's all right', he said after he had examined the rash 'It's only a reaction from your diphtheria injection, we'll soon put that right', upon which he produced another syringe and gave me an injection of adrenalin. The itching subsided, but my buttock, my arm and my throat remained sore for about three days. At the end of a week I felt very much better and went before the M.O. for a pre-discharge examination 'Your throat's all right', he said 'Let me look at your vaccination'. The blinking thing hadn't taken so he vaccinated me again! And that didn't take, either, a fact that I thought wiser to keep to myself.

Working in the caves was quite pleasant during the day, because they were comparatively cool, but when we emerged into the blinding light of the sun it was like stepping into a baker's oven. The rocks all around the bare, stoney and sandy ground reflected the glare and heat of the Egyptian sun, and we used to hurry camp-wards to get into the showers first and to change from our denim overalls into cooler shirts and shorts. There was one drawback, the showers were never cold, and a luke warm shower is not so refreshing.

Daytime temperatures at this time of year were too high for energetic exercise or pastimes, so we had our games and P.T. in the early hours of the morning starting before the sun was over the horizon and finishing in time to have a shower before breakfast. Our football matches were played at a fair speed, because of the sun-baked, grassless pitches, but apart from a few good footballers our teams were not very skilful. In the next compound to ours was a black Regiment from Kenya who were as keen on football as we were. We challenged them to a game which they won 7 - nil: without shoes. In bare feet on the concrete like pitch, they ran us into the ground. We hadn't a chance of catching them.

These black soldiers took over from us the task of guarding the caves at night, which was a relief to us because it was an eerie experience patrolling through the long tunnels switching lights on in front of you, and switching them off when you entered a new section. This was a frightening sensation which could have been caused by a surfeit of imagination. On the other hand ? Our Kenyan brothers, however, revelled in guards and all military 'bull' (when they shouted 'Halt' by jingo you halted. You daren't move a muscle unil they shouted 'Advance, friend and be recognised', and you never got past them, not even when they were on guard at the cinema, until they had seen your AB64. The greatest punishment their Officers could inflict upon them was to excuse them from guard duty: to them this was the greatest disgrace and disappointment.

One night, however, an Arab woman was smuggled into the Kenyan camp, and the fact was not discovered until daybreak. The ringleaders were taken away to some prison camp where I'm sure their punishment was very much more severe than being deprived of the pleasure of guard duty.

Occasionally a number of the black soldiers would be seconded to us to undertake menial duties. On one such occasion, when two 'askaris' came to work for us, we were interested to see their AB 64s. On one his religion was stated as 'Christian' - I forgot the denomination. On the other was the description 'Pagan'. I admit to a shock when I read that in cold print: we know there are such things as Pagans but it is startling to come face to face with a actual example of one. The 'Christian' who looked a rogue compared with the inoffensive looking 'Pagan' made a show of biting his own arm and pointing to his companion to convey the impression of cannibalism, at which the 'Pagan' became very angry. We tried to make peace between them as best we could.

Life at Massara was not so bad despite the long hours we worked, and the vermin we had to put up with. I have already spoken about the constant, losing battle against these seemingly endless and indestructible pests. Other pests were the monster cockroaches that used to join us at table, and the flies that pestered us without end or mercy. More insidious, however, was a pest we never saw; this used to plague us when we visited the toilet, but only at night. What it was we never found out, but we came to dread the sudden and painful nip it gave us. Funnily enough we had no trouble from mosquitoes, and never had to sleep under a mosquito net. We were saved by the absence of surface water in the camp, and the lack of vegetation. The Nile, too, was too far away to give us any problems.

On the camp were facilities for cricket and tennis: nets for the former and, unfortunately only one court for the latter, so there was constant competition for its use. The thing I missed most, however, was the daily dip in the sea. Eventually a company at Helwan gave us permission to use their staff swimming pool, and this was a weekly excursion that we all looked forward to and enjoyed.

The greatest advantage of being at Massara, however, was our proximity to Cairo and its delights. Massara railway station was 20 minutes walk away, and the train ride took half-an-hour, so we could be in Cairo by 7 o'clock most evenings and be back in camp by midnight (sometimes later), giving us at least 4 hours in the city. There were many times that I went to Symphony Concerts at the American and Cairo Universities, to arrive back at camp at 0200 hours and later, and still be up at our 0600 hours Reveille. I attended more concerts of so called serious music in my 14 months in Egypt than at any comparable period in my life. The Army was really proving to be my 'finishing school' and I was taking every opportunity it gave me to broaden my experience and, I hoped, to improve my mind.

Cairo offered a wide variety of entertainment and cultural facilities, and it was a dull fellow who couldn't find something in the city and its surroundings to interest and amuse him. The Service Clubs were first-class, not only for the food they offered, but for all kinds of amenities - music, games, cinemas, baths, laundries, barber shops, writing rooms and libraries of good books. My two favourites were 'Victory Club' and 'Music For All': the first for its cinema, showers and hair dressing services, the second for its food, classical music and magnificent library. There was another club, whose name eludes me at the moment (was it the Empire Club?), that was quite different in style for the others. It had been an Officers Club in the pre-first World War days when Britain had been closely involved in administering Egyptian affairs, and it had retained its Victorian/Edwardian appearance and atmosphere of a 'gentleman's' club. This club had an extensive library but the books were only for reading on the premises. I remember leafing through one book of British rule in Egypt and being shocked to find a well documented account, with many explicit photographs, of atrocities against the native population perpetrated by the British Army!

Cairo had its dangers, however, and it was not wise to frequent some of the sleazier bars and cabarets down the darker alleys of the city for all manner of reasons.

The most common source of danger, however, was from the 'shoe-shine' wallads whose persistence and aggressive tactics were a by-word in the Middle East. There you were, walking from the station towards the city centre with your nostrils full of the diverse and pungent smells of the Orient, and your ears almost deafened by the sound of Arabic music blasting out from hundreds of loudspeakers. Suddenly, around a corner, you come face to face with a band of shoe-shine boys. You try to ignore them, but, in a flash, they have you surrounded and one of them is saying 'Wanna shoe shine, George?'. You shake your head but quick as a flash one of the gang has splashed a blob of runny black polish on to your shoe. You are at first disposed to let the mess stay where it is and to walk on, but you change your mind when you see another urchin standing by with a brush dripping with the horrible black substance with the obvious intention of ruining your best, freshly laundered suit of K.D. You give in with the very best grace you can manage, and pay up when the job is completed.

The only time I saw a shoe shine boy bested was on a Cairo tram. A burly Scotsman had let his shoes to be shined after which he kicked the boy and his equipment off the tram, which fortunately for the boy was not travelling very fast.

The Cairo Tram Department, incidentally, profited very little from its British 'customers'. To the conductor's requests for fares the answer, almost invariably was 'Charge it to King George' or 'Put it down to Churchill'.

Cairo, of course, was full of troops at this time, and amongst the more boisterous of these were the 'Aussies' who, drunk or sober, always seemed to be in the centre of whatever trouble was going. The New Zealanders were a quieter bunch although the Maoris, of exemplary conduct when sober, were apt to go over the top a bit when they had had too much to drink.

There was a story going around at this time - probably apocryphal - about three Australians who tried to gain admission to Shepherds Hotel: one was a Captain, the other two were humble privates. When the commissionaire told the Captain that only he was allowed in to the hotel, the Captain said '...that for a tale', and left with his companions. A few minutes later the same three Aussies strolled through the hotel door into the foyer. The Captain had shared his 'pips' among the other two, they were all three second-lieutenants now!

My third Christmas in the Army was spent in Cairo. I wrote to my peace time boss just before Christmas and said, '...It is difficult to realise, in this land of almost perpetual sunshine, that you at home will probably be experiencing hard winter weather now - and with the blackout thrown in! Out here, although the street lighting is not up to peacetime brilliance yet, the trend is in that direction; it is a very pleasant sight to see the lights come on at dusk, and shop windows blaze out as they used to do at home. They have even started floodlighting the Opera House and Opera Square, too. I was sitting in a restaurant roof garden the first night this happened, and it gave me quite a shock - unexpected as it was'.

The roof garden was that of the well known Cairo restaurant, Groppis, and it was here that four of us had our Christmas Eve dinner. After dinner we sat for a long time, talking, smoking and drinking. I had had my ration, a brandy with the coffee, but my companions continued drinking, and as the choice was limited, finished off with a bottle of Advocaat. Actually had it been Advocaat I think they would have been all right but this was an egg nog of doubtful origin, and after we had reached camp and I had put my comrades to bed my troubles began. One after the other was violently sick and I spent most of early Christmas morning on mopping up operations. I have never smelt egg nog since that night without remembering, with nausea, Christmas morning 1943.

On Sunday mornings a friend and I started to attend the American Methodist chapel in Cairo, not far from Shepheards Hotel and Thomas Cook. This was like being at home, local preachers and all!

One Sunday a lady in the congregation came up to us after the service and, during a pleasant conversation, she asked us where we spent our leaves. The last leave I had had, some four months previously, had been spent in Palestine (I will write about that later). When I told the lady that, and said I had no idea when I should get another she said she would recommend us for a holiday at the American Methodist Mission Hospital, Assiut, if we so wished. The staff at the hospital could give accommodation to about 30 men at a time, and, for a number of reasons, they preferred to have British servicemen, especially if they had been recommended. When my next leave came up at the beginning of February 1944, I obtained permission to take it at a non-military establishment and I was accepted as a guest at Assiut.

I will let my letter covering February 4th to the 11th tell of my holiday -

Thursday, February 4th, 1944

Finishing work at 5.30 pm I rushed around, had a shower, collected clean laundry and finished packing. I said Cheerio to Jock, Mac and Robbo and with my pack on my back tied to which was a blanket, I hiked into town. Arriving there I toddled around to the Victory Club, had a shoeshine, haircut and something to eat (sandwiches, cake and coffee) had a chat with the chap I went on leave with last August, and finally walked along to the Main Station in Cairo to catch the 10.40 pm train. I had a compartment all to myself, and although I was tempted to stay awake and view the scenery by the light of the full moon it was rather chilly for one thing, and I was tired out for another, so, wearing my greatcoat I wrapped my blanket around my legs and stretched out on the seat. I woke up once to see a dark face looking at me from the carriage door, but I fell asleep again and I was soundly sleeping when the ticket collector shook me and said we would be in Assiut in a few minutes' time. I was lucky he did or maybe I would have gone through to Luxor! As I looked from the carriage window, there in the near distance, in the cold clear air of the morning stood the minarets, domes and towers of the capital of Upper Egypt! Soon the train was drawing into the station and as I came out into the town, I saw by the station clock that it was 6.30 am.

Friday, February 5th

They say that first impressions are important, but at that hour of the morning, with my mind still be-fogged with sleep and the main idea uppermost in my mind to find the Hospital, I'm afraid my only impression was that of a typical Egyptian town. The usual mixture of Eastern architecture, narrow smelly streets with animal dung abounding, and the animals themselves, young calves, goats etc. Here and there were typical Western business premises, and spacious villas standing in their own grounds, separated from the decrepit shops and houses of the lower class Egyptians only by high walls and the green space between these walls and the houses themselves. What did catch my eye, however, was the abundance of greenery, and the appearance of fecundity in this part of the country. Here the green belt each side of Mother Nile is quite considerable and contrasts sharply with the barrenness of the terrain around our camp at Massara. Trees and bushes abound everywhere, and as I now look out into the Hospital garden with its lawn shaded by bushes, its flower beds with marigolds in profusion, its tennis court and its ferns, it is only the palms amongst otherwise European flora that suggests Egypt. The weather, too, although warm during the day is not too hot for it to dispel the illusion of home, so everything, surroundings and all, should help in making this not merely a 'leave' but a refreshing and satisfying holiday. Well, I seem to have wandered a little from the track, so I'll go back again to early this morning.

I had no difficultly in finding the Hospital. It is only 10 minutes walk from the station and I had a rough sketch map given me by one of our chaps who had already been there. When I arrived a native doorman took me along to meet 'Mac', the Radiologist and Pathologist who also takes care of the visitors. He greeted me most warmly. 'Mac' is the type of person who makes you feel at home the moment you meet him. He is small - about my height - wears glasses and is a typical American right down to his drawl. Within a few minutes he had shown me to my room, and I was washing and shaving preparatory to having my breakfast.

Breakfast, love, like all the meals here (4 a day, breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea and dinner) is very good indeed. This morning it consisted of grapefruit, porridge made from native wheat, with abundant milk and sugar (extremely good), eggs and bread and marmalade. Bread, incidently is native style, flat and brown and very tasty, and, on account of its unbleached, unrefined nature, richer in food value than out anaemic white bread.

At the breakfast table I met Mrs Reed (American like all the senior staff), a small, grey haired, homely woman and very nice. I would say she was around 50. Also Helen Brownlees, the 'Head Nurse', tall, approaching middle age and still a spinster, very pleasant and exceedingly able, and Miss Fringer, an elderly little lady, very homely but fussy; she looks after the nurses as well as superintending the cooking. Then came Miss Cock, stoutish and approaching middle age, who is in charge of the lepers in the Hospital and in the nearby leper colony (contrary to the usual belief leprosy is not contagious - the germs can only be introduced into the body through open wounds).

In addition to the staff I met the rest of the chaps staying here, a mixture of Army, R.A.F. and New Zealanders, totalling about 30. Among these were six from our depot, of whom I had met only two before; a chap from Chelmsford called Tom Archer, my favourite and a married man with a little boy, a Sussex man called Dickens; a Welshman called Lew Jones and his friend Norman Derry. And now comes another of those amazing coincidences. I had a hunch that I'd met Norman before, and for an hour or so I racked my brains wondering where. I pride myself on my memory for faces and I was sure I knew Norman from somewhere. Finally I asked him 'Do you know', I said 'I know you somehow but I can't put a time and a place to it'. 'Do you come from Sheffield?', he asked. As soon as he said that I knew how I knew his face. 'Yes', I said 'And now I know why your face is so familiar, you were at K.E.S. with me'. I was right. He was never in the same form as I, being a year ahead of me, and he left in 1932 as against my leaving in 1934. Since he left to live in Bristol, it is thus 12 years since I could have last seen him. You can guess we had lots of chats about Sheffield and about Bramall Lane (He too was a Unitedite!).

After breakfast I signed the Visitor's Book (where my photo, with everyone else's, now resides in the Rogues Gallery), and I had my napkin assigned to me by Mac. Everyone has his napkin in a nest of pigeon-holes with his name under it, so there is no excuse for not having your own at meal times! Incidentally since this is a Mission Hospital, and all the staff, therefore, missionaries, grace is said or sung at every meal, and hymn singing is a favourite pastime, thus giving a very home like and Christian atmosphere to the place. What a difference from the Army, love, and what memories it brings back of home, chapel and loved ones. I am liking this place and its people immensely!

After the formalities, 5 of us took a taxi to the Sporting Club, which is on the opposite bank of the Nile to Assiut town. The Nile is crossed by the barrage, a structure whose main purpose is to control the flow of the water - especially at the time of the annual floods - but which also serves as a bridge. The barrage is over half a mile long, and on it one has a very good view of the river as well as Assiut on the West bank and its suburb on the Eastern bank which contains the Sporting Club, and the Mission orphanage (of which more later). At the Sporting Club, as on every subsequent morning of our leave, except Sunday and the day we were leaving, we had a pleasant and enjoyable game of golf - the pukka game with all the necessary clubs and paraphernalia, and as all of us, except one, were novices it wasn't so noticeable if we made a few bad shots. Being guests of the American Mission we were automatically honorary members of the Club, and could use the Club House and its facilities free of charge. The only cost involved was for loan of balls and tips for the caddies, and this came to 8 piastres (about 1/6d. for a full morning's recreation and enjoyment!)

Lunch was at 12.30 and tea at 4.30 and this day, Friday, we had both these meals, picnic fashion, aboard the Mission Houseboat on the Nile. Trying to eat salad standing up with one's plate in one hand and a fork in the other - American fashion - on the deck of a gently bobbing Houseboat is an Art I never really mastered! The Houseboat is used for visiting other missionaries in lonely villages up and down the river, supplying preachers etc., and has been in commission for over 40 years. At one time, in the beginning it was the home of Mrs Read and her family - this was before they established the Hospital, Orphanage and Schools in the town; below deck are 3 bedrooms, a lavatory, a bathroom and a kitchen and above there is ample space for living, so it is easy to see that in a climate like Egypt's it would be passably good home. We were moored to the river-bank, but during the afternoon we went a couple of trips out in the dinghy, and in the sunshine, with a breeze blowing across the water, it was very enjoyable indeed.

It is really wonderful the food they dish up here. Lots of salads, vegetables etc. but cooked and served up in so many diverse ways, with such a variety of sauces, mayonnaise etc. everything so wholesome and appetizing that you have no misgiving whatsoever when you try them. You know how faddy I was at home about vegetables: you'd be surprised to see what I eat here. Even onion, which I can't even eat in the Army and which, with marrow is the only vegetable that I now turn up my nose at, I can face and enjoy when served up in the tempting way they do here. If only Army cooks could be sent on a course of instruction here, there would be no further complaints! The surprising thing is that it is mostly local produce, tinned stuff is taboo, but what a difference when in the hands of capable and imaginative cooks. I hand it to the Americans, they know their cookery book.

We were back at the Lodge for dinner at 7 o'clock, after which we played Anagrams for a time, and then I was soon in bed, being tired after a fairly strenuous day and my previous night's travelling. So ended my first day of leave, and a jolly good day, too!

Saturday, February 6th

Lie in until 7.45, wash, shave and another glorious breakfast: I wish we had this kind of wheat in England, this porridge is delicious! After breakfast a short read in the drawing room while waiting for the rest, and then off to the Club for our morning round of golf. Back for lunch then off to the Girls' School for an afternoon's tennis. The weather is just right, too - it would be considered hot in England but to us now it is just comfortable, and we don't get too over-heated with the exercise, although we sweat a little.

Tea back at the Lodge, table tennis, wash and brush up, then early dinner because we are all going to the pictures. There is only one cinema in Assiut, and this shows both Arabic and English speaking films. Although only a provincial town Assiut boasts the second best cinema in all Egypt, bettered only by the air-conditioned 'Metro' in Cairo. We from the hospital have a batch of seats in the front centre of the balcony (special concession) and the film isn't bad at all. We saw it together, love, before the War, it was 'The Magnificent Fraud', starring Akim Tamiroff and Lloyd Nolan. And so to bed, my lovely, soft, white sheeted bed, and in a few minutes ZZZZZZZ.

Sunday February 7th

Up at 7.45, and down to breakfast with an appetite as big as your arm. Would be putting weight on if I didn't have so much exercise.

After breakfast we had a good walk, this time up the hills behind Assiut. These are honey combed with tombs and caves of some of the very earliest Egyptians. Some, like the larger ones are railed in, and contain hieroglyphics, and relics of the time, while old bones and fragments of pottery are scattered around practically everywhere. From the hills there are good views of Assiut, the Nile and the surrounding countryside - well worth the climb. Beyond the green belt the barren desert stretches for thousands of miles through Egypt, Libya and Sahara until it nearly reaches the sea in Morocco, at this point on the Atlantic coast.

On our way to and from the hills we had to pass through the truly native quarter of the town - narrow, evil smelling streets, no sanitary arrangements and children doing their business anywhere and everywhere. No wonder disease is such a problem out here, and it would be a greater problem were it not for the powerful sun which is a natural disinfectant. Even amongst such scene of squalor and filth, however, there were interesting sights: natives weaving cotton into coarse cloth on their primitive looms, flat native bread rising in the sun on large round earthenware platters (covered incidently by flies) and always at our heels little native boys and girls with flies clustered round their red suppurating eyes shouting 'Good morning, George', 'Baksheesh', or 'Sigareet'. And everywhere the glare of sun on sand, rocks and mud houses, making any patch of shade a welcome oasis.

Int he afternoon, after lunch, feeling rather sleepy, lay on the lawn in the sun and read fitfully. Eventually I shook myself, had a few games of table tennis with one of the chaps, and then joined a little party to visit Mac's Pathology Room and Laboratory. Here we examined slides, Xray plates, photographs and specimens preserved in alcohol, all appertaining to cases that had been treated in the hospital.

Some of the exhibits made one's stomach a little queasy, but nonetheless they were marvellously interesting. In particular, preserved in spirit, was an ovarian cyst as large as a football (no exaggeration) take from the womb of a native woman whilst she was with child. Two months later she had a normal healthy delivery. There was also a photograph of the woman before the operation - a terrible sight! Interesting, too, were the preserved foetuses of a pair of twins - almost completely formed - the result of a late miscarriage.

Dinner today was early for those who wanted to attend the evening service at the Methodist chapel in town. About half of our number went, and it was a typical Methodist service, very similar to our Clifton Street ones even to the local preacher (who worked in an American bank in town). It brought back many memories, and I had only to close my eyes to picture you sitting beside me as in the old and happy days. Five of us soldiers sang a quintet, a Bach chorale; we had only about 15 minutes rehearsal, so we were not perfect by any means, but it was not too bad.

After Church we came back to the Lodge, had refreshments, and sang hymns - from Ancient an d Modern to Moody and Sankey - until 10.30 pm. I'm afraid I was rather hoarse when we finished. A delightful day!

Monday, February 8th

Our usual morning routine: a taxi to the Club and a morning's golf. I always thought golf a stupid game, but there is a lot more to it than appears at first sight: I confess to taking quite a liking to it. This morning we ran into a little trouble: running parallel with the course is a large tomato patch (you don't need greenhouses here) into which two of us sliced our balls. The owners of the patch kicked up a dreadful hullabaloo about it, and we ended up by leaving one of the balls unfound. The rogues will eventually find the other and sell it at some fantastic price to some other golfer. Golf balls are at a premium here.

After lunch we hired cycles from a shop nearby and cycled out, across the barrage, to the Orphanage. Here we net Miss Thrasher - 'Momma to the orphans - the children themselves, Miss Clayton, an English lady in charge of the school, and had a tour of the nurseries, dormitories, schoolrooms etc. These missionaries are certainly doing a fine job of work - if only the Egyptian Government were half as helpful Egypt would be a far better place for children to live in. I'll send you some pamphlets, darling, which will show you some of the things we have seen. One can't help admiring the selfless spirit of these people - they are real Christians. I'm afraid that when we leave we have had collections at home for missionary work I gave without very much thought of what it meant. In future I shall always think of Assiut when I hear the word 'Missionary'.

There is one little laddie in the Orphanage who is especially bright, nice looking and fat. He is only two years old but very independent. He washes himself and can even speak a little English (Momma always talks to the children in a mixture of Arabic and English). I played with him for a while, until I was exhausted, by throwing him up in the air; he kept coming back for more. Incidentally his mother had been a former orphan who had married another orphan - she died soon after the little lad was born.

After tea, I wrote part of his letter, and after dinner I spent a quiet evening playing Anagrams before an early night in bed. There are now only 3 of us in our bedroom. One is a corporal and the other is a sergeant who is fine artist who has exhibited at the Forces' art exhibition in Cairo.

Tuesday February 9th

Once again, my love, the matutinal round of golf, each time some little progress in the standard of one's play, although it is strange that one day you can play like an angel, and the next day be abysmally inept! After lunch we came back to the Club and played tennis all afternoon in the warm sunshine. I'm gradually improving at this game too, but I am still very much a learner. I feel that lack of stature is a great disadvantage, especially in serving.

Feeling pretty sticky after the afternoon's exertions we all had a warm shower at the Clubhouse followed by afternoon tea, as it was too late to get back to the Lodge in time for tea there. We then had a pleasant stroll across the barrage with the sun setting behind the town, throwing the minarets and palm trees into silhouette, and burnishing the placid waters of the Nile into a sheet of molten brass. Darkness falls suddenly here - no long English twilight - but a noticeable dimming of the light until, in the West, a pale rose tinted after glow is all that remains of the day, and in the East, and above us, the stars appear in the indigo blue of the evening sky. No wonder poets enthuse over the mystic East and painters endeavour to capture the loveliness of the dawn or the mystery of the night.

Dinner finished, a few of us joined Mrs Reed and Helen Brownlee (champions as a result of long practice) at Anagrams, and then at 9.30 four of us went to the cinema to see an Arabic film. We understood but a few words of the dialogue, but the plot was easy to follow. It was the old, old story of a young girl singer, found in poverty by the rich maestro, trained into stardom by him, then accused of theft by the maestro's old discarded favourite, and 'framed' by her. The heroine's subsequent flight and the maestro's attempts to find her when he discovers that she is innocent. Then, the night of the show's opening, the refusal of the leading lady to play the part, and the timely arrival of the heroine to take her place. The show is a smash hit, Virtue is triumphant, the lovers are re-united, and everybody (but the villainess) happy!

The music and the dancing were the best part of the film; in our opinion anyhow. Arabic music has a tendency to grow on one after a long exposure to its subtle and, to western ears, often discordant cadences.

Wednesday February 10th

Our last game of golf, and the awful shadow of our impending departure hanging over our heads. It was colder this morning and a stiff breeze blew from the Nile, but by lunchtime it was warm again. Every day a few chaps are invited upstairs to lunch with the nurses, and today was my turn. The nurses are all native girls of 15 years of age upwards, trained by Helen Brownlee, and are very efficient. All their lectures are given in English so they are taught the language and most of them speak it quite well. They are, of course, brought up in the Christian religion and some of them, when they are fully fledged nurses, go back voluntarily to their villages where, as well as tending the sick, they become missionaries in miniature and tend souls as well as bodies. There are some very nice girls amongst them, in both temperament and looks, and you can see what a lot could be done with under-privileged people if they had the opportunities these girls have had. Of course their lives are not lives of ease, but they have comfortable quarters, extremely good food and are happy at their work.

During the afternoon we played tennis in the Hospital grounds, and after dinner we attended the Bible Class which is held in the school, and at which Dr McClenahan, the Hospital Surgeon, spoke of the work of the Mission Hospital, and an American lady from Luxor spoke of her work there. Our Services' quintet sang again, and in all we had an interesting and enjoyable evening. Norman, my K.E.S. friend, finished his leave today, and we saw him to the station to catch the 11.30 pm train back to Cairo. Sad thought that tomorrow we shall be on the same station at 1.30 pm waiting for our own train!

Thursday February 11th

Awoke at the usual time, had my last really good breakfast for some time, and then packed everything except my soap and towel. During the morning we had a stroll round the shops. I bought myself some handkerchiefs, and also some material which will eventually reach you, and which I hope you will like.

We had early lunch, then Mac saw us down to the station in the car, got our tickets for us, and said goodbye to us as our train, punctual to the minute, drew out at 1.30 pm. I watched the scenery for a long time; the fellahin (peasants) working in the fields, the villages flashing by palm groves, banana plantations, canals and irrigation schemes etc., but dust began to cover us and the compartment, so we had to close the windows, hot as it was. After that we read, and dozed. At 7.30 pm, it was dark as we arrived in Cairo, I had a wash, haircut and shampoo at a little place I know - I was horribly dirty and sticky after the journey - and then had a long awaited meal at a nearby restaurant. A short time afterwards I was catching the train back to camp: it was a tiring walk from the station with all my gear, and I was glad to stop and have a chat with Jock Scott who was on guard at the gate. By 11 o'clock I was in bed, and I needed no rocking to sleep.

And so ended my leave. A leave, which by its absence of military restrictions, and the fact that we walked around as we wished, and enjoyed a truly civilian background was more of a holiday than any I have spent out here. I have recommended the place to others of my pals, and three of them are going in the very near future.'

At the end of July I had my second, and last, week's leave in Assiut, but as my activities were very much the same as during the leave in February, I don't intend to go into them in detail again. There were two incidents, however, that are of interest.

First, the Hospital surgeon, Dr McClenahan promised to let us witness one of his operation, and we were looking forward to this experience with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. As it happened, however, no cases of simple surgery, like appendicitis, removal of tonsils or adenoids, cropped up during the week. The only operation performed during our leave was one for the removal of mastoids. Dr McClenhan explained that this was a particularly unpleasant operation, calling for brute strength and the use of hammer and chisels. He was afraid that he would have more trouble with fainting spectators than with the patient himself! I've no doubt that he was right!

Secondly, on the night before our departure the Mission Staff gave a party to which they invited all the nurses who were not on duty. We ate and drank (nothing alcoholic, of course) and played the kinds of party games that we had played all our lives at home (except, alas, Postman's Knock). As this was mid-summer the jollifications all took place out-of-doors, under the brilliant stars of an Egyptian night. At around midnight we sang 'Auld lang syne', said our goodbyes to our charming companions, and retired to our rooms. There was a thermometer attached to one of the trees in the garden. It read 100 degrees Fahrenheit!

Whilst on the subject of leaves I must go back, in chronological order, to a leave I had from after duties on the 28th August 1943 to 9th September. I had arranged, over the depot's internal 'phone to meet a certain Private Geoff. Turner at Cairo Main Station at 6.15 pm to catch the train together to take us to a rest camp at Nathanya, about 16 miles north of Tel Aviv on the Palestine coast. I had never met Geoff before; he was a newcomer to our unit, having spent many months in the blistering heat of Wadi Halfa, on the boundary between Egypt and the Sudan. We struck up an immediate friendship, we had so many interests in common. We waited for the leave train to arrive, which it did at 11.15pm, only 5 hours late! I seemed to have been asleep for hours when the train made its first stop, only to find we were only at Ismailia. It was an agonisingly slow journey, and a very hot one, as we crawled across the desert and coastal plain. We had one meal stop at Qantara and another at Gaza, and finally arrived at Tul Karm, the nearest station to Nathanya, at 11 pm. It was nearly midnight when we reached camp, 25 hours after leaving Cairo - a distance of not 300 miles! It was such a long, tiring and boring journey that my memory fails to recall anything pleasant about it. I do remember something unpleasant, however, a chap who, for miles and miles, and hour after tedious hour, reeled off a string of dirty poems, and even filthier stories. When we arrived at Nathanya I was greatly relieved to find he was in a different hut from Geoff, and me.

In the dark the camp was not very impressive, but in the light of day we found that it had its good points. Firstly we were only yards from the sea, with good bathing: then there was a good information centre, from which one could book tours to Jerusalem, Nazareth, Haifa and Tel Aviv at very moderate prices: there was a good N.A.A.F.I., an excellent lending library, a cinema-cum-theatre and an outdoor dancing floor (but where were the partners?). For the first five days I remained in camp, because I was awaiting word for Ron Eady in Haifa who was hoping to meet me here. Geoff and I spent our days bathing, reading, writing and patronising the N.A.A.F.I. It says much for inflation when I write in my diary 'Fruit drinks, pure juice, are excellent here but what a price! 40 mils (10d) for a small bottle!'

I read four books in as many days and it says much for my catholicity of taste when the books were; Aldous Huxley's 'Point Counterpoint, Margaret Rawling's 'The Yearling', Thomas Mann's 'Magic Mountain' and (this one I don';t remember) Otis Skinner's 'Dithers and Jitters'.

On Wednesday, 1st September I was in a party who visited a kibbutz near Tul Karm. It was a very interesting and educational experience. This was a mainly agricultural Co-operative, self-contained and self-sufficient, with just enough surplus to sell in the outside market to be able to buy the necessities of life (medicines, clothing etc) and a few luxuries. Everyone ate communally, as we did while we were there, and the children shared a communal life, seeing their parents only at the end of the day. There were a number of professional people, doctors, lawyers, accountants etc most of whom were refugees from Nazi persecution. Though highly educated and qualified people, they still had to share the menial jobs of the kibbutz; cooking, washing dishes, chopping wood and other household chores.

Two of the interesting things we saw in the kibbutz were an underground food and grain store which was maintained at a low temperature without refrigeration machinery, and the implements for the artificial insemination of cows. I had not heard of the latter technique in England: could it have been that Palestine was ahead of us in this?

The same night we had a visit from the Palestine Orchestra who gave an enjoyable and really professional concert, the programme of which included Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody No 2, Strauss' 'Tales from the Vienna Woods', Offenbach's 'Orpheus in the Underworld' Overture and Beethoven's First Symphony.

The following day I hitched a ride as far as the main Haifa to Tel Aviv road and caught the 'bus to Haifa, arriving in Kiryat Motzkin at tea-time. I was pleased to see Ron Eady, Bob Carey and other old pals, and I ate with them, went with them to the camp cinema and saw 'Citizen Kane' and slept in the section office.

The next morning Ron and I made an early start, hitched a ride into Haifa, and had a breakfast in the Garrison Club while we talked over plans for the coming week. Ron decided to spend his leave in Tel Aviv (our camp was fully booked), so we thumbed another lift, he to Tel Aviv and I dropping off at Tul Karm. The following day was Sunday, so we decided to meet again at Tel Aviv on Monday. Leave camp personnel were not allowed to stay overnight in Tel Aviv at week-ends to avoid overcrowding.

On the Sunday evening Noel Coward was due to entertain us at 7 o'clock, but he was detained somewhere and didn't arrive until two hours later. He got a rough reception when he finally appeared on the stage, but, like the true professional he was, he shrugged this off, and gave a polished, enjoyable one-man show for the next hour and a half. The applause when he finished must have compensated for the cold welcome he received on his arrival. I was glad I had stayed to hear him, because I was nearly driven away in the period of waiting by the quality of the 'talent' that volunteered to do their acts until Noel Coward appeared. Some of the material was disgusting.

Because of my trip to Haifa I missed another good concert at the camp: Jack Benny and Larry Adler in person.

On the Monday morning (6/9/43) I collected a pass allowing me to stay in Tel Aviv until Thursday, caught the bus, and arrived there mid morning. After reporting to the Military Police, I found Ron at the Services Club, where we had lunch. I then went along to the St Andrews (Church of Scotland) Hostel, where I booked bed and breakfast for 3 nights, before joining Ron in a refreshing bathe in the sea. That evening we went to civilian cinema to see the re-issued (with added sound track) version of Charlie Chaplin's 'Gold Rush'. After supper at the Church of Scotland canteen, we retired to our 'Hotel'. Bed and breakfast cost me 170 mils (3/6d) which was very cheap even by 1943 standards. The beds were very good, with clean white sheets (what a contrast to our rough Army blankets), and I was very glad that, as a latecomer to the hostel, I had to sleep on a balcony in the fresh-air. Every day in Tel-Aviv was spent in the same fashion: every morning on the beach and in the sea (it was on the beach that I first tasted corn-on-the-cob, and was not very impressed), lunch at the Services Club on the seafront, followed by a siesta until teatime, then, usually, a visit to the cinema. One afternoon, however, we were invited home by one of the Jewish hostesses at the Services Club - she and her family had been wise enough to flee Germany before the doors closed against Jews escaping to other countries. She had a lovely home, and we enjoyed this change from our usual Army, hostel, canteen, camp type of existence. We had a beautiful tea, a good conversation and later she played the piano - both her sons were professional violinists - and they have stacks of music. I remember her telling us that her father would only let her play the 3 'B's' when she was young (Beethoven, Brahms and Bach), but she had widened her repertoire since then. I signed her visitor's book before leaving, and in it I saw a signature of someone from Shirland Lane!

While at Tel Aviv we received the news of Italy's capitulation. The native population were visibly and demonstratively elated at the news: the British troops received it with their usual sang-froid. From the news a few days later it appeared that there would be a stiff struggled before the whole of Italy would be liberated from the control of the Germans and their Fascist puppets and supporters.

On the Thursday afternoon I reluctantly said Goodbye to Ron Eady and returned to camp at Natanya (this was the last time I saw Ron until 25 years later when I called in to the Natural History Museum at Kensington, and surprised him. A few years later he died suddenly, and I went down to Worcester Park, in Surrey to his funeral).

The following day we left Nathanya at lunchtime, waited two hours for the train at Tul Karm, and reached Cairo 24 hours after leaving Nathanya - an improvement of about 2 hours on our outward journey, but still terribly, boringly slow. The first thing on arrival was a shower at the nearest Services Club, followed by a substantial dinner. I arrived back at Massara to find quite a pile of mail awaiting me, which did much to soften the blow of returning to duties. There were 6 Air Mail letters and Airgraphs from Vera's Mother and Sister Edna, and one from my sister, Muriel. The thought of answering all these was daunting to say the least.

The day of my return was Saturday so I was prepared to have a quiet day writing letters on the morrow. I found, however, that Eddie Smith and another pal had booked to see 'Gone with the Wind' at the Cairo 'Metro' Cinema, and decided to go on 'spec', despite the long odds on getting in. I took all of my correspondence to read on the train, and writing material for replying to some of it in case the cinema was fully booked. When I enquired at the booking office my fears were realised, all tickets had been sold. I hung about the entrance, however, where the were a number of shady looking characters lounging about. After a few minutes one of the Arab 'spivs' came up to me and offered me a ticket at twice its face value, which I promptly rejected. The offer was repeated frequently at progressively lower prices until, a few minutes before the show started, I was offered a ticket at its cost price. I was so grateful I gave the poor chap a 100 mils for his trouble.

In October 1943 I was very worried because for some time I had no mail from Vera, and it wasn't like her: she wrote more regularly than I did. Eventually I received a letter from my Dad telling me that Vera had been very ill with kidney trouble, and that at his time of writing she was till in the City General Hospital. She was very much improved, however and was expected home within a week or so. My mind went back to the week-end spent in Hull prior to my embarkation when she had been taken ill with severe pains in her back: was the trouble starting then? It was some time before Vera was strong enough to write, but when she did she assured me that everything was now all right. It was a very worrying time for me: had I known in time how serious the illness was, I might have applied for a compassionate posting home. In that case I might have been on the D-Day landings, with what consequences?

It is now time for another coincidence. While we were in Massara we took it in turns to accompany our officer to Stores on the other side of Cairo to pick up supplies of one kind or another. One day my turn came and we set off in our jeep at an alarming speed. The officer's theory was that the faster one went over corrugated roads the smoother the ride would be. When we arrived at the Stores Depot, we stood in a queue waiting for our turn to be served. In front of us were a couple of sergeants from the Signals Depot at Mahdi whom I overheard talking of a new intake of N.C.O.'s flown back from Tunis after the North African campaign, for a refresher course. Purely on impulse I tapped one of the sergeants on the shoulder and asked him if there was a Sergeant Boyles in the intake. (Edwin was my cousin Alice's husband). To my amazement there was a Sergeant Boyles now at Mahdi, but whether it was the same the Signals sergeant, of course, didn't know. The following Sunday I caught the usual Cairo train, but got off at Mahdi and found the Signals Camp. I was directed to the tent in which a Sergeant Boyles was to be found. And it was Edwin! We spent a little time in Cairo together before he had to return to his unit 'up the blue' and we both remember eating at the Empire Club and seeing the film 'Dangerous Moonlight'. What a small world my service world turned out to be.

I had returned from one of my two leaves in Assiut to find a letter awaiting me from my cousin Eric, the same cousin I had met on the steps of the G.P.O. in Durban. He was en route for home leave after a spell of two and a half years in a cruiser on the Indian Ocean, and was in a Naval transit camp in Egypt, which he could only identify, for security reasons, as H.M.S. Phoenix. Would it be possible, he asked, for me to see him? As I had, that day, returned from leave, his request put me in a dilemma. However I had learned that he who doesn't ask, doesn't get, so I went to the C.O., with the letter in my hand. I explained the circumstances and asked for 48 hours leave. He nearly hit the roof! My previous experience paid off, however, for when he had cooled down a little, I suggested, very diffidently, that if he gave me this pass he could deduct the 48 hours from my next leave. Who knew where I had would be when that day arrived? My pass was granted, starting from after duties the following day.

But where and what was H.M.S. Phoenix? I suddenly remembered that there was a Naval Stores Depot in some caves half a mile away from ours, so off I went. When I asked at the guard post, the sailor on guard passed me over to the Officer in charge. He nearly had a apoplectic fit, when I asked him if he could give me the location of H.M.S. Phoenix! Didn't I know there was a War on? Had I ever heard of security? Did I want to be arrested? etc etc When I gave my reasons, however, I was told that H.M.S Phoenix was in the vicinity of the Bitter Lakes on the Suez Canal. I would have to make use of that limited information.

The following day I 'pinched' a few hours of my working day, having already collected my pass the day before, and was in Cairo by mid-afternoon and in Ismailia by late evening. Here I found a Y.M.C.A. where I had a shower to rid me of the dust and sweat, had a reasonable supper, and stayed the night. I was up at break of dawn next morning and was soon on the road that runs down to Port Suez, along the west bank of the Canal, between the Suez Canal and the sweet water canal that runs parallel with it. I had not long to wait before I got a lift in an Army lorry. The driver didn't know of a Naval camp in the area, but he would set me down at a convenient spot on the Bitter Lakes where there was a small bridge crossing the sweet water canal. I should ask from there. We duly arrived at the spot and I got off the lorry, thanking the driver for his help.

The bridge was there all right, but it led to a native village through which I should have to pass to reach the road beyond it. I admit to a feeling for apprehension as I approached the first huts. What kind of 'welcome' would I receive? I hadn't taken many steps into the village when I realised something was wrong. There wasn't a sound or sign of any living creature (except the pestilential and ubiquitous fly), not a man, woman, child, chicken, goat - nothing at all. I peered into the doorways of several huts, there was no one. More in curiosity than anything else, I retraced my steps to the opening in the huts by which I had entered the village. There, near the bridge and now facing me (it should have been turned the other way) was a notice which read. 'Danger! Bubonic plague!' I turned and ran back through the village to join the road at the other side, praying that there were no infected fleas lying in wait for a human host.

Having reached the road, deserted in the dusty heat of noon, I decided to go south and, after half-an-hours walk, was rewarded with the sight of the camp in the near distance. It was H.M.S. Phoenix, thank goodness!

At the guard house I explained my mission, and was asked to wait until my cousin, and the guard commander arrived. This they duly did, and I was given a pass to be on camp until 8 o'clock that evening. I mentally resolved to be away before that time. I had no wish to be stranded miles from anywhere, in the dark, with perhaps more bubonic plague infested villages to be negotiated. As it happened I had no need to worry.

Eric and I were very pleased to see each other, and we had much to talk about. I went into lunch with him and his mates: I was worried that I might be identified as a stranger because of my moustache (no one in the Navy is allowed a moustache alone: it must be a 'full set' ie beard and moustache) but I was told to say, if challenged, that I was Fleet Air Arm. At 'grog' time Eric's hut mates generously allowed me 'sippers', but the diluted rum was not really my cup of tea (not a good metaphor)

After tea, about 6 o'clock, I said I must be going, otherwise I might be stranded in the dark without any hope of getting back to Cairo. My new found friends, with Eric, would have nothing of this, however, and despite my pass for the camp running out at 8 o'clock - persuaded me to stay over night. We went to the camp cinema, and had a last drink in the N.A.A.F.I., and then they slung a hammock for me between the posts of the verandah outside their hut. It was a pleasant sensation swinging gently in my suspended bed, and I was soon fast asleep.

The next day I stayed until after lunch then said my goodbyes and went on my way. The khamsin was blowing, the hot sand bearing wind from the desert, and I was soon covered in dust, my mouth parched, and my clothes were sticking to my body. I waited on the Suez-Ismailia road for a long time, occasionally walking a hundred yards or so to stretch my legs, and was beginning to think that I was going to be out of luck when along came a jeep. I was relieved to have got a lift, but after a few minutes wondered if I had done the right thing. I have never had such a ride: my chauffeur had his foot down hard on the accelerator for the 60 odd miles to Cairo, not stopping nor slowing down for anything or anybody, and when we streaked through the occasional village we left behind us a scene of chaos, chickens, goats, people fleeing out of the way in total confusion. We reached Cairo in record time, in half the time I would have calculated, so much so that I had ample time for a much needed shower, and a meal at the Victory Club, before catching a train which got me back to camp at a reasonable hour.

About this time a great friend of mine, Audie McIver received news that is wife was very ill, and there was no one to look after his two children. He was given compassionate leave, being flown out to the U.K. Mac came from Stornoway on the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebridies and his family were in the Harris tweed business. His wife was in her home town of Inverness. I wrote to him but received no reply. I often wonder what happened to him.

In the middle of June 1944 we were on the move again; we heard that our destination was somewhere west of Egypt, but we didn't know whether it would be Tunisia or Italy. I was hoping it was Italy, a country that I had longed to see from my school days when I studied the Italian Renaissance.

I will quote from a letter I sent to my boss, with interpolations where I think they are necessary:

'.....we had the usual 4 or 5 days hustle before leaving Massara: inoculations, vaccinations, the making up of kit deficiencies, new scales of clothing, fortifying ourselves against malaria by taking mepacrine tablets, getting to know our new squad mates and N.C.O.s and generally making all preparations against the event.

When we did move it was by slow, very slow, train to another 'mob centre' (actually our old friend Tel El Kebir) where we were to await the arrival of the remainder of our convoy. Here we sweated under very inadequate canvas for 4 days, during which time we washed our K.D., soiled it with perspiration, washed it again and so on ad infinitum: until we left one morning at 0300 hours to catch the boat (At T.K. the toilets were a very long way from our tents, which caused great difficulties when the laxative effect of the mecrapin began to manifest itself).

We were among the first troops to board the trooper (the Polish ship S.S. Batory) and in consequence we were lucky to be berthed in cabins and not, as on the outward trip, packed below decks on the water line. Normally the cabin accommodation was for 2 persons but they held five of us comfortably enough, four of us on double tiered bunks and one on the deck. The few days we spent in harbour at Port Said were pleasant enough because we were allowed to keep open the portholes, but once under way these were shut. Thus although one slept like a log, the awakening wasn't too pleasant - it felt as if one had been sand bagged, and one's mouth stuffed with cotton wool. By and large, however, the trip was a very pleasant one: food was good, if unvaried, duties were kept to a minimum, and most of my time was spent in reading (when we could 'win' a book), lying in the sun, and doing my laundry. The latter wasn't such a chore because I went around in shorts and shoes only for most of the time.

As I've said before, the weather during this four days' journey was perfect. The Med. was like a mill pond most of the time and few people were seasick. The troops most susceptible to this were the South African native troops who were quartered on the top deck. They were a cheery lot, however, and kept themselves, and us, amused with their impromptu choral efforts - which were very good - and their happy child-like antics.


ITALY 1944 - 1946

It was almost with regret that we eventually landed in Italy, but it was marvellous to see fertility after the barrenness of Egypt, and if that strip of coastline wasn't old England, at least it was Europe, and we were 1000 miles nearer home. We stood off shore, in the gulf of Taranto as we found out later, just as the sun was setting, in a bowl of fire, behind the mountains of Basilicata and Calabria, their craggy peaks bathed in the last rays of the sun, their slopes already black in the shadows. The sea was like a crimson tinted mirror, dark only where the mountain reflected their looming shadows, while dotted here and there were the white sails of fishing vessels, their wakes sending out ripples to mar the mirror finish of the sea in their immediate vicinity.

We landed at a large Southern port (Taranto) which boasted a very fine harbour, some imposing Neo-classical buildings on the sea front, a genuine Norman fortress guarding the town, and very little else.

What shops were still open had very little to sell, food was unobtainable being extremely strictly rationed for the civilian population (most of them looked as if a square meal would have done them good. There were two Army canteens where, after standing in a queue for half-an-hour, you were able to buy a cup of mediocre tea and two cakes which to describe would be impossible. It was noticeable that all buildings that had once borne with Mussolini's image or name were defaced, and on many walls were white-washed signs 'Mussolini e il Fascismo' or 'Churchill, Roosevelt e il Democratismo' or other anti-fascist and pro-Allied slogans ('W' being short for Viva - long live and 'M' for its opposite Abbasso - down with). There is no doubt that the Italians are a disillusioned people, but I don't think Fascism has lost its grip on all of them. It is an accepted fact that the Italian Navy is still a stronghold of Fascism. We were only in transit here for 4 days, during which time I did a 24 hour guard and was almost eaten alive by mosquitoes. Egypt is comparatively healthy compared with the south of Italy with regard to these pests.

There was a particularly nasty incident on the second night of our stay here. One of our sergeants came back to camp late at night, considerably worse for drink. Walking through the line of tents he saw an old man - he must have been 80 - grubbing into the waste bins, presumably for scraps of food. The sergeant beat him up unmercifully and threw him out of the camp: he was in a dreadful state. We were discussing this in the tent the following morning and I happened to say that the sergeant ought to be ashamed of himself. I was immediately branded as a traitor, an 'Eyetie' lover, and many more things, and the Corporal in charge threatened to throw me out of his tent.
Later in the day the Corporal sought me out to apologise. He had heard the full story, and he now agreed with my sentiments.

When we moved out of our temporary home we moved in the early evening by train, and before darkness fell we were able to see something of the Italian countryside. What struck me was the fecundity of land and the use made of it. There seemed hardly a hundred square yards anywhere that wasn't growing something. There were grapes, peaches, pears, apples, apricots, lemons, sugar cane tomatoes and olives in profusion. Olive trees! I saw many in Palestine, but here in Italy the number is tremendous. It looks as if they say 'We can't grow anything else in this corner, we'll plant an olive'. No wonder the people use so much olive oil, or is it the other way round.

After we had left the coastal plain we ran into hills which, as we went along grew into mountain and by the time darkness fell we were moving along with a rock face on our left, and a sheer drop on our right, entering numerous galleries, the sides of which were hewn through at intervals to admit light and air. It was a brilliant moonlit night and we were able to see, hundreds of feet below us the now peaceful valleys with rivers, like silver ribbons, meandering through them. After a while Morpheus claimed us, and when I awoke about 0500 hours, we were just pulling into a coastal town (Salerno) where we stopped for a bite of breakfast.

Here we saw for the first time since we landed signs that fighting had taken place in this country. There was a great deal of bomb and shell damage to be seen here, and for the remaining portion of our journey (through Torre del Grecco, Torre Annunziata, Portici etc) we were never out of sight of crumpled girderwork, smashed masonry and uprooted railway lines - the type of 'scenery' familiar now to the inhabitants of most decent sized British towns. Unlike in Britain however, was the evidence of street fighting as shown by the marks of small arms fire on almost every building. Some of the towns and villages must have been tough nuts for our troops to crack. The defenders had every advantage - natural defensive positions in which a handful of men with automatic weapons could have held off an Army for long periods of time. You must have superiority in the air if you are to surmount these obstacles.

Here, too we saw refugees from the North, women and children, ragged, dirty and obviously hungry. The youngsters swarmed round the train like flies, desperation in their large brown eyes, begging for bread or chocolate or shouting the word that has become so common in our ears 'biskwits!' I'm afraid there will be many more such unfortunates before the war in Italy is over. There isn't much left of a town when Jerry leaves it, what with our artillery and bombing, and his scorched earth policy. I was speaking with a chap only the other day who had seen Monte Cassino, and told me that the famous Benedictine Abbey there was totally destroyed: there was scarcely one stone standing on another.

Finally, at around noon, having passed through Naples we arrived at Baia to find that we were not expected, and we got a distinct impression that we were not wanted. Baia is a little coastal resort from which one has a good view of the islands of Procida and Ischia, both in the world renowned Bay of Naples. Procida is the nearer, and is composed of four volcanic craters. It is the home of fishermen, market gardeners and vine growers, and it has a castle which is now a prison. Ischia, the Emerald Isle, is much larger, being some 25 miles in circumference, is dominated by the extinct volcano Monte Epomeo, and is green and intensely fertile. To see these islands silhouetted by the glorious sunsets of Italy is an experience I shall never forget. While we were in Baia we bathed in the sea almost every day, and it was a strange experience swimming with thousands of pieces of pumice bobbing all around one. The pumice, like the volcanic ash on which we camped a few days later was the result of the recent eruption of Mount Vesuvius, which still had a plume of smoke billowing from its crater. It was not wise to go too deep, however, because of the huge breakers and a terrifically strong undertow. One of our chaps, a friend of a Sheffielder who had taught him to swim while we were in Palestine, got out to sea and drowned, despite the heroic efforts of his friend to save him. Also, unknown to me for many weeks, Ron Boyles, the brother of Alice's husband, Edwin who, you may remember, met me in Cairo, was drowned in the Bay of Naples at much the same time. He was in a boat with some pals enjoying an off duty afternoon on the sea, when he fell overboard and was drowned.

Baia, or rather the seaward part on which our camp was sited was connected by a long tunnel to an Italian factory, now abandoned, which used to manufacture torpedoes for the Italian navy. I was on prowler guard the other night, covering the depot and its Motor park; I was given a sub machine gun, a weapon I had never seen before let alone fired, and was instructed to enter our end of the tunnel at intervals during my tour of duty and let off a single round into its pitch black depths. I had just performed this task and was enjoying the reverberations set up in the tunnel by my shot when a salvo of shots burst out behind me and seemingly towards me. I dropped to the ground, and lay there for some seconds before daring to get to my feet again. I reported the incident to the guard commander, a permanent member of the base camp, and he was quite unconcerned. 'It would only be ...', he said, 'He's a bit bomb happy after his experiences in the Western Desert: he does this most nights, he only fires in the air'. I don't think the chap was ever restrained or disciplined for his nocturnal activities. Incidentally members of another unit, previously stationed at Cape Bon in Tunisia, have recently joined us. Among them is a chap I knew at King Edward's, he was a year after me so we didn't mix much then. His name is Don Pashley, and his father is a Director of Kayser Ellison: I wonder if you know him? We have a lot in common so we are quite good friends.

On the 5th day of our stay in Baia we were split up into smaller sections and distributed amongst different units (sounds like N.A.A.F.I. bulk issue), our little lot travelling about 50 kilometres south, through Naples, to a camp at Pontecagnano, near Salerno.

At this camp we were under canvas in an orchard of peaches and apricots, and our flooring was a thick coat of volcanic ash from the erupted Vesuvius. Try and keep your boots shiny for parade in that stuff! It wasn't a bad spot, though; there were extensive orchards in our backyard, and a clear, clean river running by which had been partially dammed at one spot to provide a swimming pool for us. We were not allowed to settle long, however, for after 3 days, 6 of us, including Don Pashley and me, were posted back to the same unit from which we had come. Still we saw a little of the countryside on our peregrinations: old Vesuvius looking so innocent, with just a whisp of steam rising from his crater, as though he would never think of breathing out fire and glowing molten lava: a world famed bay, its blue water sparkling under the Mediterranean sun: and a fleeting glimpse of Pompei as we rattled through to join one of Musso's much vaunted autostradas.

'So here I am, settled at least for a short time, although I imagine that the farther north our Armies push forward, the farther we shall have to travel to keep up with them.

Since I've been here, I've been able to take a closer look at some of the surrounding places of interest (on Sunday if I have not been on duty). The principal, and most interesting up to now was Pompeii. I hadn't imagined the excavations to be so extensive, and I was certainly surprised at the wonderful state of preservation of some parts of this ancient town. The best preserved, of course, are the parts which were once covered over with volcanic ash; those which were the victims of lava-encroachment are not so well preserved. Particularly good were four villas in the aristocratic quarter. Of these most of the walls are still standing and the original decoration, mosaic floors, stucco wall decoration and painting in the distinctive 'pompeiian red', as well as such fixtures as hot and cold baths, the marble tables of the Atria etc are still in excellent condition considering the destruction of 24th August, 79 AD and the time that has elapsed since then.

Along the well defined main roads, still grooved with the passage of many chariots, can be seen the remains of the local wineshops with their large stone storage jars, and bakeries with their furnaces still largely intact. The chief attraction, however, as may be judged by the crowd always around the doors, is what the guide book euphemistically describes as the 'House of Ill Fame' - the lupanar. The guides are not so genteel and call a spade a spade, they seem highly delighted to conduct you round this Roman institution and display their command of English vulgarisms. This house of entertainment to which Roman 'bloods' probably resorted like Englishmen to their pub is not a large building, being roughly 15 yards long by 5 yards wide. It consists of two rows of small cubicles off a central corridor, each cubicle containing a stone coach, and having painted above its entrance a painting, as lewd as it was, I suppose, meant to be instructive. To judge by the male proportions the Romans could not have been cursed with false modesty. It is interesting that women visitors are not allowed entrance: this is one of Mussolini's directives that has never been countermanded. Perhaps AMGOT also wants to preserve the innocence of our Servicewomen's minds.

Having seen the Forum, the Temple of Apollo, the Basilica and several houses, including that of the Vettii, and having acquired a thirst and a hunger in the process, we left the excavations determined to see the remainder another time - and walked into the modern town for lunch. Here there is a new cathedral only completed, at great cost, in 1939. It is really a wonderful piece of work, but when one looks around at the state in which most of the Italian people have to live, it makes one wonder whether the money couldn't have been spent to better advantage.

At the moment life is not terribly exciting. Apart from Sundays it is a question of bed and work. Our working hours are so long that the is no time to go far a field, and the nearest N.A.A.F.I. - the erstwhile Royal Palace in Naples - is 3 miles away, and no public transport! The shades of Nelson and Emma Hamilton would probably turn in their graves to see the flock of English troops who frequent this place. It certainly makes a spacious and comfortable canteen. I'm pleased to say I';m keeping fit here, although the humidity doesn't suit me as well as did the drier heat of Egypt. I experience a certain loss of energy during the daytime and as for waking up at 5.45 am it takes more than the normal amount of will-power. However after this month we should be having fresher weather......'

Shortly after writing the above letter Don Pashley and I, with other members of our section, were transferred to 16 Base Workshops. These and our living quarters were in an Italian Army barracks in Corso Malta, which was off Via Nuova Poggioreale in the eastern part of Naples, near the Prison and not far from the largest cemetery in Naples. The living quarters were very spartan, but had the advantage of being reasonably cool, whereas the Workshops had low ceilings and were always, apart from in winter, much too hot.

The first day in Workshops we were surprised to see that quite a lot of civilians were employed there: some half a dozen men, and more than twice that number of girls, the average age of whom would be 18, the youngest being 16 and the oldest 30. I was put in charge of the girls, who worked on cleaning and repairing telephone equipment and mine detectors, so not only did I get to know then very well but, perforce, I learned a fair amount of Italian (some of it Neapolitan dialect) just by listening and repeating. I had a good foundation for learning this new language, however, having taken Latin, French and Spanish to School Certificate level. They were not a bad bunch of girls and, with one noticeable exception, they were hardworking, honest and friendly. My particular favourites were a 16 year old girl, Clara Montemurro, and her older friend, Ida di Lauro, and there was another very pleasant girl, Giuseppina, who, unfortunately, was not very bright and was the object of a certain amount of derision from the other girls.

Among the men was one whom I soon made friends withe, Rosario Barone, our first bond being that we could speak French together. Roger (pronounced Roshay the French way) preferred me to call him that because, although his parents were Sicilian, they had emigrated to Sfax in Tunisia (where his father became conductor of the town band), and, therefore they were all, technically, French. Roger was also proud of the fact that his grandmother was Maltese and, therefore, as he claimed, British.

Just prior to the War Roger had come to Naples to marry his Italian sweetheart and had been caught by the outbreak of War. Because he was not an Italian subject he couldn't be drafted into the Army, but because he was of Sicilian blood and married to an Italian girl he was not interned. He was in a kind of limbo! He found it almost impossible to get a job so he sunk what little capital he had in a radio sales and repair business. In the prevailing circumstances of a wartime Italy the business was a failure, and it was only the arrival of the Allied armies that saved him and family from destitution. When I first knew him he had a young family of four, and a fifth came along in 1945. Their first child, Rita, was a lovely little girl, but I didn't see much of her because she lived with her grandparents-her 'nonno' and 'nonna'. The second child was a sturdy little lad with features, and temperament that earned him the nickname 'il Duce'; his real name was Aldo. Roger worked with me on a number of jobs in the Workshops: we wired a low tension circuit in the workshop: the hardest part of this job was chiselling out holes in the reinforced concrete pillars to take the plugs for blocks to hold the power lines. It was not only hard work physically but perspiration ran off us as we worked in the heat that rose towards the ceiling. Another job, which we enjoyed, was installing subsidiary lighting in the Officers' Mess from which, incidentally, we fixed a light over their darts board. The perks of this job were the drinks to which we were treated from time to time.

While we worked Roger and I kept up a pretty constant conversation in French, from which I learned much of his personal history, and he of mine. He was always pressing me to visit his home to meet his wife and family, but knowing Roger, and the Italian temperament, I knew they would sacrifice what little they had to give me hospitality of which they would not be ashamed, so I refused for a very long time, until, to preserve our friendship, I eventually gave in.

From that time forward, duties permitting, I spent Thursday and Sunday evenings with the family, conversing with the children and 'Mamma' in basic Italian (which improved with practice), and with Roger in French. In the early days I used to arrive back at barracks, around midnight, mentally exhausted by my linguistic efforts. Apart from sitting around talking, having the occasional glass of wine and listening, fascinated, to the seemingly endless flow of words cascading out of the mouth of a young, female, neighbour (mostly about politics), we used to play games with the children. The children were always pleased to see me, for my own sake I like to think, but also because I used to take them my sweet ration. At this time too, I was in a none-smoking period (it lasted 2 years), so Roger benefitted from part of my cigarette ration, as did Mamma who, however, smoked only a little. I made it clear to Roger and his wife that they had not to offer me any food - I had always eaten already, anyway, before I went to their flat. The most I ever had was a few roast chestnuts, a taste of fennel root (finocchio) which has the texture of celery and the mildest taste of aniseed, and, at Christmas some 'confetti', which are small sweets, and not little pieces of coloured paper.

There was very little in the shops to buy the children for Christmas so I bought a game that was very much like 'Housey-housey', but was based on towns and cities rather than numbers, and supplemented this gift with sweets from my own ration and sweets that Vera sent from home.

One Sunday, just before Christmas, Roger asked me to meet him at Naples main railway station to travel with him to a friend's farm in the country. I thought this was just to be a pleasant outing. When Roger appeared he had a large, mysterious cardboard box under his arm. I didn't like to ask him what was in the box, and he didn't say. We travelled for about three-quarters of an hour on a local train that stopped at every small station. At one of these Roger said 'This as far as we can go, we have to walk the rest of the way'. During the walk - it was a sunny, cool winter's day, and it was very pleasant being out in the country instead of cooped up in the city - Roger explained to me that his friends were very poor and would have nothing to offer me in hospitality but a glass or two of their own wine. He knew that I rarely drank but he begged me not refuse the wine as this would make them deeply ashamed that they had nothing else to offer me. He warned me that the wine was very strong and would no doubt go to my inexperienced head: he added, however, that it was very pure stuff and that the effects would quickly wear off.

When we arrived at our destination I was appalled, not only by the dilapidated state of the farmhouse, if you could grace it by this name, but be the smallness of the area of cultivable land. The plot of an average allotment. On the plot were a few vines, an olive tree and a few rows of vegetables: it was barely subsistence farming. When I had the chance to speak to the farmer later on, he told me that he and his family had not eaten meat, or even pasta, in the past year! They had lived on the vegetables, olives and wine produced on the farm.

We were happily received by the farmer and his wife and children and I was a source of great curiosity especially by the latter.

Roger took his friend aside, handed him the mysterious box and said something to him which I could not hear. The farmer took the box, disappeared behind the house with it, and came back in about 15 minutes to hand it back to Roger. In the meantime the good lady of the house had poured red wine into verylarge glasses, and when the farmer returned we drank each others' health. By the time my glass was only half empty I had the strange sensation of being suspended not only in time but in space. It was not unpleasant but a little disconcerting, especially when I was thinking abnormally clearly in Italian but unable to pronounce it without slurring the consonants! I tried to refuse the second glass but my friend's warning glance stopped me in time. When my second glass was empty it was clear to my host that I was in no fit state to embark another, especially, as my friend told me afterwards I kept repeating the same phrase over and over 'Mi scusi, signore, non ne sono abituato'. I vaguely remember the children laughing at me and saying I was drunk 'guarda, l'inglese e ubriaco!', and I was, for the first and last time. I felt a little better when we were once again out in the open, in fact I felt happier than I had been for a long time, I was seeing the world through wine tinted spectacles. We managed to beg a lift to the nearest station in an open carriage, and by the time we caught the train the wine fumes in my head had dispersed, just as Roger had predicted.

Once on the train, with my head more or less clear, I asked about Roger's mysterious box. Very shamefully he told me the full story. With Christmas Day only two days away they had nothing for their Christmas dinner: the only solution to the problem was the children's Angora rabbit. Roger hadn't the heart to kill the rabbit himself so he had hit on the idea of getting his farmer friend to do it in return for letting him have the skin. He had got up before the children were awake, and before leaving, had left the rabbit hutch door open as if the animal had escaped or been stolen. On Christmas Day the poor beast would be cooked, and served up in such a way that the children would not recognise what they were eating. As far as I know the ruse worked, but who knows with children?

Roger's fifth child was born in 1945, another boy. A long time in advance I asked Vera if she could possibly send some good soap because it was unobtainable in Italy, and it would be of great benefit to Roger's wife and the child when the time came. I think Vera must have gone out begging soap from all our friends and relations, because a parcel came with enough soap to see Roger's wife through the first year of the baby's life. She was very grateful.

We had a big party when the child was baptised and I felt honoured at being the only non-Italian there: Roger and his wife would have liked me to be a godfather to the little girl, but I was not Catholic and the rules of the Church were against it.

When I think of the number of times I visited Roger's, walking the long way back to the barracks late at night, through the mean streets and alleys of Naples, with no other servicemen in sight, I must have been very brave, foolhardy, or just ignorant of the risk I was running. But nothing of harm ever came to me, and I saw nothing to alarm me except, perhaps, the sight of the enormous rats whose home was the principal sewer in Naples then uncovered and open to the sky as a result of Allied bombing. They disappeared, however, at the sound of my Army boots on the hard, lava blocked pavement.

Whenever I talked to Italians on the subject of Allied bombing, they all said virtually the same thing: they were not unduly concerned when the British were doing the bombing, the R.A.F. would circle around for ages searching for their military and commercial targets before releasing their bombs. The Americans, however, in their high flying 'Fortresses', swept over the city, dropped their bombs indiscriminately and left the scene in a hurry (I an not criticising the Americans - I am not, nor have I ever been, anti-American as many of our troops were; I am just reporting what so many Neapolitans told me).

Most Sundays, unless we happened to be on guard, were free days, which we utilised in differing ways. Mostly we would walk into the centre of Naples - this took us about 40 minutes - where we would stroll around, usually in the vicinity of the principal street, Via Roma, before going to the Royal Palace for quite an acceptable lunch. The Palace accommodated around 3000 people and offered a restaurant, snack bars, a wine lounge, reading and writing rooms, pleasant lounges, a library, news room, art room, billiards, table tennis, sound proof Music practice rooms, photographers, hairdressers, showers, tailors, valeting service, a cinema, information bureau, facilities for sending home flowers and fruit, and a sundries bar. All these in rooms where little Victor Emmanuel and his son Umberto, were wont to wander, and possible to wonder where Italy was going under il Duce. They were beautiful rooms containing fine paintings, murals and decorated stucco ceilings and the staircases were magnificent. From its fine roof garden-cum-terrace one had a fine view of the Bay of Naples and Vesuvius, and opposite the point of the Sorrento peninsula, tantalisingly near, but unfortunately out of bounds to all but American officers - the fabled and enchanting islands of Capri. The most impressive sight of the bay, however, was just before the invasion of Southern France. It was then packed with every conceivable craft, so that it appeared there was no room for any more. It says a lot for the shortage of German aircraft, and Allied air supremacy at the time, that no attempt was ever made to bomb this Armada, although there were 'recce' planes over from time to time. During one night it seemed that the guns of every ship in the bay opened up as a reconnaissance plane flew over, and the naval guns near our barracks nearly shook us out of bed. The next morning the Bay was almost empty of ships, the invasion force had sailed under cover of darkness.

After lunch on Sundays we would stroll along the sea front, past the little port of Santa Lucia (of Neapolitan song fame) with its Castel Dell' Ovo on the spit of land projecting from the port, along Via Partenope and Via Francesco Caracciolo, to the little port of Mergellina (now a bustling little port full of fishing boats, yachts and ocean cruisers and one of the embarkation points for the islands of Capri, Ischia and Procida). Between the promenade road of Francesco Caracciolo and the Riviera di Chiaia are the public gardens (la Villa Communale) with a world famous Aquarium which, alas, was closed until the War was nearly ended. We used to relax in the public gardens until it was time to return to the Palace for tea before writing letters and/or going to the cinema. Almost next door to the Royal Palace was the San Carlo Opera House, second in Italy only to La Scala Milan, where I saw, amongst others 'Carmen', 'Faust', 'Don Pasquale', 'Aida', 'La Boheme', 'La Gioconda', 'I Pagliacci', 'Cavalleria Rusticana', 'Barber of Seville', 'Mefistofele', 'Madam Butterfly', ' La Traviata' and 'Il Trovatore'. I heard many famous Italian opera singers, some past their prime like the soprano Toti del Monte, who still had a voice but not the figure and face to play 'Madam Butterfly', and up and coming young singers like the fine lyric tenor Ferruccio Tagliavini, and the incomparable baritone Tito Gobbi. There was no doubt that both of these would have a great future. In addition I attended many Sunday evening Symphony Concerts and saw famous conductors like John Barbirolli and Constant Lambert, and heard many fine pianists, violinists and concert singers. In short I filled my life with music as an antidote to the boredom and meaninglessness of Army life.

All this opera-going etc cost money, however, and I must confess that, on occasions and to my later shame, I sold my cigarettes on the black market to finance my musical extravagance.

As the War progressed the Army began to organise Sunday excursions, and I was quick to take advantage of this opportunity to see as much of Italy as I could. I remember most vividly my first ascent of Vesuvius. A party of us were taken by truck as far as the road could go, to the summit of the volcano. From here an Italian guide took us to the crater by a zig-zag route up the volcanic ash slope to the crater's edge. The trudge up this slope, and the passage down, was not without its dangers, because stones dislodged by the members of the party on the higher part of the path hurtled downwards at ever increasing acceleration and could, and did, inflict quite painful and bruising blows. On arriving at the summit one had magnificent views: seawards were the twin bays of Naples and Salerno, the Sorrentine peninsular, and the islands of the bays: inland was the rolling countryside of the Campania, with the Appenines in the background. Not a lot could be seen in the craters - the molten magna was hidden from view at our angle of sight - but sulphurous deposits could be seen on the inner slopes of the crater, and the choking sulphur smell was all around us in the steam and chemical fumes rising from the interior of this famous volcano. I wondered whether he was sleeping peacefully, or whether he was just resting and gathering strength for another display of power and destructive force. There is little wonder that Vesuvius, and all the other volcanic activities of this region, have entered into the psyche of the inhabitants of this part of Campania, giving them, on one hand, an understandable fatalism and, on the other, a natural, enthusiastic urge to live life to its full. The twice yearly hoped for liquefaction of the blood of San Gennaro in its phial in the Cathedral of Naples, may be superstitious hocus-pocus, but it is just another sign that the Neapolitans are always aware of the brooding malevolence of the natural powers that surround them. It is worth noting, however, that if, on the odd occasion, the blood fails to liquefy, it is not Vesuvius that is cursed but San Gennaro himself who is failing in his duty as protector of Naples!

On descending the mountain we rejoined the truck which was now parked outside one of the many farmhouses that dot the slopes of Vesuvius. It happened to belong to the owner of one of the vineyards cultivating the grapes from which are made the famous wine 'Lacrima Christi' (Christ's tear), a semi-sweet, almost invariably white, wine. Here we swapped our packed lunches with the 'contadini' for bottles of wine, and there was no doubt in their minds that they had the best of the bargain. Our 'bully beef' sandwiches must have been a welcome change from their dull, wartime, diet and added some much needed protein to it.

'.....: and after one day the south wind blew, and we came the next day to Puteoli (Acts 28 v 13)'

Pozzzuoli - the modern Puteoli - in in the volcanic area called the 'Phlegrean Fields'which extends in an arc along the Gulf of Pozzuoli, from Cape Posillipo to Cape Miseno. I can do not better than to quote the Michelin Italy on this area - 'Hot springs, steam jets and sulphurous gases rise from the ground and from the sea; lakes have formed in the craters of extinct volcanoes, and changes in the ground level are frequent'.

Pozzuoli, itself, which we visited first, is of Greek origin, but under the Romans it became the chief port of the Mediterranean. It was run-down and shabby when we saw it, but the fishing harbour was quite busy and the place had a certain charm. Just below the railway is the amphitheatre, fairly well-preserved, which is the fourth largest in Italy after the Coliseum, Santa Maria Capua Vetera and Verona. Near the sea is the temple of Serapis, formerly a market, the colonnaded centre of which was flooded when we were there, the columns bearing marks which witness to the many variations in ground level which have occurred over the centuries due to volcanic action. That the structure had been partially covered by the sea for many years is evidenced by the marine molluscs that encrust the columns to a height of 20 feet. (Pozzuoli now has other claims to fame - Sophia Loren was born here - I've calculated she would have been 12 years of age when I was there - and there is a large factory where they make Olivetti typewriters. I was speaking to one of the Olivetti agents a few years after the factory was opened and he told me what happened when his Company were recruiting labour. The criterion the applicants advanced for their suitability as employees was not their experience or skill, but the number of children they had to support. 'But, signor, you must give me a job, I have ten children and another one on the way!' Olivetti are very enlightened employers and I was assured that such claims received sympathetic consideration).

From Pozzuoli we travelled a short distance to Solfatara, the still active crater of a volcano which seemed likely to erupt at any time. The air was full of the smell of sulphur and the ground on which we walked was hot to the touch and sounded hollow when we stamped or threw anything heavy to the ground. At the edge of the crater part of the surface had caved in, uncovering beds of bubbling hot mud, and in the walls of the crater, now covered by bushes and rough scrub, were many fumaroles from which gushed jets of sulphur and carbon monoxide gas. When a lighted roll of newspaper was applied to one fumarole, smoke and gas issued from many more in the vicinity.

A few miles further west, near Cuma, one of the oldest Greek colonies and possessor of the famous cave of the Sybil (very much like the oracle of Delphi), is Lake Avernus, regarded by the Ancient Greeks and Romans as the entrance to the Underworld. On its bank we were shown a cave which the guide called the Cave of Dead Dogs. The explanation of this was that there was a concentration of carbon dioxide in the cave, which, being heavier than air, sank to ground level. We entered this cave but no one volunteered to lie on the floor to test the truth of the legend.

When we first joined our unit in Naples we had all put our names on a list for having a leave in Rome. The list was so long, however, that I never did achieve my ambition of visiting the Eternal City. When my turn for leave came, therefore, I had to be content with a week in a Rest Camp at Torre Annunzziata, on the coast some 20 kilometres east of Naples, and quite near to Pompeii. Torre Annunziata is the centre of the Neapolitan spaghetti and macaroni industry. Through the ages it was buried under the lava from Vesuvius seven times.

The camp was near the sea, but the weather, apart from one day and evening was very disappointing, and I didn't have a single bathe in the sea. There were a number of recreational facilities in camp, however, and it was a change to be free from the irksome restrictions of our barracks existence. From the camp we could see, on our left hand, on the peninsula pointing out to sea, Castellmare di Stabia, Vico Equense (where they sell pizza by the metre!), Sorrento and tantalisingly, the rocky shape of Capri beyond Punta di Sorrento. Six of our number (including a Jewish actor of whom more later), decided that, despite regulations to the contrary, they were going to set foot on Capri. They hired a rowing boat from a local fisherman and as soon as it was dark set off in the direction of their dream island. They had not gone very far when one of the Argonauts got cold feet, jumped overboard and swam back to shore. The remainder carried on, but they had under-estimated both the distance to Capri and the strength of the contrary currents and tide. At noon the following day they reached the Marina Grande utterly exhausted. In view of their condition they were allowed on shore for a meal and a rest, and then were ordered back in their boat for the return trip. Fortunately for them the current and tide were now in their favour: nevertheless it was a very weary, disgruntled and hand-sore quintet that staggered up from the beach many hours later to collapse upon their beds.

The Jewish actor I spoke of was a real character, and full of Cockney humour and resourcefulness. His favourite pastime on Sundays was to visit the American Air Force base on the outskirts of Naples and to persuade the pilots who were flying that day to take him as passenger. This led to a number of 'hairy' escapades. On one of these a plane was flying to Sardinia on some official American business, and was due to return the same day. Unfortunately there was a hitch in the arrangements after the plane had landed in Sardinia, and our actor friend spent three days A.W.O.L. which in Wartime, is a serious offence. Such was his charm and native cunning, however, he escaped with a sever reprimand. I don't know hat he said to the C.O.!

On the other occasion he was legitimately on leave and wangled a 'lift' in an American bomber back home to the U.K. This time he was lucky on two counts - first he was back in barracks before his pass expired: secondly while in London he bumped into one of our officers who had been sent home on compassionate leave. He made no bones about it but told the officer the truth. I'm sure the officer was impressed by the honesty and the initiative of our friend, because he did not report the incident when he re-joined our unit some weeks later.

During this leave I visited Pompeii again, and it never failed to impress me. It was on the evening of that day that we had a concert in camp given by Neapolitan musicians and singers and I remember sitting outside listening to the strains of 'Turn'a Sorrento', 'Santa Lucia', 'O Sole Mio', 'Cuore ingrato' etc, and drinking in the beauty of the warm, moonlit night. The moonlight was dancing on the water, the lights of Sorrento were twinkling across the bay, and there was magic in the air. But - I had not one to share it with me.

These leaves and excursions, however, were only brief intervals in the six day, ten hours a day, routine of our Army lives, however enjoyable they might be. Whereas working days were not unpleasant, indeed they were often interesting and enjoyable, guard duties and fatigues were nearly always intolerable. Guards, especially on winter nights - that can be very cold at times in Naples - were something I detested. Two hours on and four hours off may seem easy duty, but if you got the middle shift ie 8 pm to 10 pm, and 2 am to 4 pm you felt, at the end of the guard, that you had had no sleep at all. At our barracks on Corso Malta there were two gates to guard, one near the guardhouse, and the other at least 80 yards away. The far gate was always the worse duty because it was more difficult to arouse the rest of the guard in the case of trouble - and there was always trouble. One night I was on guard at the far gate and for some reason I hadn't my watch with me. That night time seemed to pass so very slowly and I was getting colder and colder. Eventually I was relieved, only to find, when I got back to the guardhouse, that the guard commander had slept on and had not awakened my relief at the proper time. I had done a stretch of four hours, so I had only two hours between my two stints. I was not too pleased.

On Christmas Day 1944, the Officers and senior N.C.O.s waited on us at table for Christmas dinner. We had never seen our Colonel in all the time we had been in Naples, but he made an appearance as we were eating our Christmas pudding. He turned out to be a big, bluff, hearty Yorkshireman but he didn't endear himself to me. After wishing us a Merry Christmas and asking if we'd enjoyed our dinner, he asked, 'Are any of you men for Yorkshire?' When I said, 'Yessir, I come from Sheffield' he looked down his Bradford nose at me and almost shouted 'Sheffield? Sheffield isn't in Yorkshire, it's in bloody Derbyshire!' That was the last time I ever saw him. If I ever did have the doubtful pleasure of seeing him again I would take delight in saying 'Bradford? Bradford isn't in Yorkshire, it's in bloody Pakistan!'

There was a chap in our Workshop who, although only a craftsman (the lowest form of life in R.E.M.E) seemed to be a law unto himself. What puzzled me was that he was never on guard or picquet, and that he didn't sleep in barracks. As soon as the day's work was over he left with the civilian workers and only re-appeared the following morning when we started work. He had a pleasant personality but kept himself to himself at work, and had no close friends in the Workshop. One day, however, we happened to be on a two-man job together, and he opened up to me a little. He told me that he had some kind of civilian business going in Naples (unknown, of course to the Army), that he had a flat and a woman to go with it, in town, and that he was making a lot of money. His surname ended in the letter 'y', but for business and financial reasons he had italianised his name to end in an 'i', and he had a mint of money in a Naples bank under this name. He said he was going to stay in Italy after being demobbed because making money in Italy was an easy business.

This cleared up some of the mystery but how did he get away with it from the Army discipline point of view? The answer came some months later, with a change in command. Almost immediately our friend was posted to a unit in a remote part of southern Italy, and the truth about him came out bit by bit, although we never heard the full story. It appeared that he had good contacts with both Army and civilian suppliers of all kinds of scarce goods, toilet requisites, medical supplies, drugs etc which he 'diverted' at great profit to himself and his illegal suppliers, to Italian civilian customers - some of whom were hospital administrators and private doctors. We deduced, then, the reason for the preferential treatment he received in our unit and why he was not subject to Army discipline as we were. Some person or persons in the unit were receiving their share of the profits of this man's good living for himself (this was one incident in one very small part of Army operations. How many more cases there must have been throughout the whole War and amongst all the Services? The cost to the country must have been astronomical)

Life settled into a pattern in Naples: work, guards, Sundays in town and by the sea, regular visits to the Opera, the odd dinner and tea at the Royal Palace, Thursdays and Sunday evenings with Roger Barone and his family, and almost every day the writing of letters home. Our section of Italian civilian girls had developed into a good team, almost a family one could say, and I became very fond of them in an avuncular way.

Then in the Spring of 1945 came the Order to move, and I am afraid there were many tears and lamentations from my 'girls' - 'We shall never see you again, Jeck (their pronunciation of my nomme-de-guerre). But, in fact, since 1975 I have seen Clara, her husband Luigi, her daughters Enza, Annarita and Antonella, her son in law, Pino and her grand-daughters Iliena and Claretta on a number of occasions. I went to see Ida di Lauro once in company with Clara, but in spite of many enquiries and searches in Naples I was never able to find Roger Barone and his family. Perhaps they went back to Tunisia.

After the most heart-rending goodbyes I left for a camp on the Adriatic, a few miles north of the seaside town of Senigallia, which itself is north of Ancona, the capital and major port of the province of Le Marche. Ancona is approximately 200 miles north (roughly) from Naples, but because of the chaotic state of the railways and roads in the northern half of Italy at that time, our journey was over 600 miles. From Naples we travelled north-east to Foggia, and then, via Barlettas, Molfetta, Bari and Monopoli to the port of Brindisi where we changed our train for a ship and a sea voyage of 350 miles to Ancona.

Our tented camp near Senigallia was on a little plateau overlooking the Adriatic, which was about half-a-mile away. Between the camp and the sea were our Workshops, and between these and the sea was the railway embankment. Inland from our camp. perched on its little hill like so many Italian towns and villages, was the little village of Scapezzano from which we recruited most of our civilian labour. These were mostly girls and young ladies because the men had to work their farms or their quarries. Among these were two sisters: the older one -perhaps 25 years of age - was known to the lads as 'Il Corpo' - the body - because of her generous proportions (both fore and aft), and the younger, and very much prettier, sister of 18 was known as 'Little Corpo', in that mixture of Italian and English used by the average soldier.

The weather by this time was almost unbearably hot, even by Italian standards, and our Workshops were like furnaces. As soon as work was finished, therefore, and before we ate, we would rush down to the sea for a welcome dip (I was going to say 'cooling', but that wasn't strictly true at 6 o'clock in the evening because the action of the sun had warmed the sea up by then). There was a regular pattern to the state and temperature of the Adriatic during our stay on this coast. At Reveille many of us - and I don't think I missed a day - would run down from our tents to the seashore. The sea would be as calm as a millpond, and it was always a beautiful sight to see the sun peeping over the eastern horizon. That first plunge into the sea was heaven, cool and refreshing after the stuffiness of the tent, and the water was crystal clear so that every detail of the sea bottom could be seen. From mid morning the sea became progressively rougher and the breakers roared more powerfully as they came into shore. It was very exhilarating bathing at this stage. From mid afternoon the sea began to calm, until by seven o'clock in the evening it stretched out to the horizon like a great sheet of glass. This was the time of day that we enjoyed our swim the least: the water was on the warm side of tepid: not very refreshing.

We had no canteen in camp, the nearest N.A.A.F.I. was in Senigallia three miles away, so we had to thumb a lift, or walk to get there. We had the occasional film show in camp, however, when the screen would be erected on the boxing ring in the field below, and on the landward side of, our camp. We sat on the hill-side which sloped down to the ring, giving us a good view of the screen. Apart from the film we enjoyed the sight of millions - and I don't think I'm exaggerating the numbers - of scintillating fire flies filling the night sky. I was astounded not only by their number but by the brilliance of each flashing light; I just couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw them.

During this stage of my service the War in Europe ended and rumours began to circulate about plans for demobilisation, and also - could it be true? arrangements to send long-serving men on leave in the U.K. V.E. day was hardly a day of celebration for us, however; we were confined to camp all day in case there were demonstrations by the civilian population. Demonstration by the civilian population? There may have been some in the large cities, especially in the North, where there were still conflicts between partisans and supporters of Mussolini's puppet government, but in Scapezzano where half the population worked for us and where we spent many a happy evening drinking and singing with them?

I'm afraid they had good cause to demonstrate - although they didn't - at the end of the stay, when we were packing up all our equipment and preparing to leave. One night two of our senior W.O.s took a jeep from the Motor compound and drove it up to the village. They told the men of the village that the jeep was surplus to requirements and offered it to the community at what they said was a bargain price. I don't remember the amount but it was a considerable sum for the villagers to find. The bargain was struck and the W.O.s left leaving the jeep with its new 'owners'. The next day the W.O.s reported the theft of a jeep, and the Military Police found it in Scapezzano. The villagers claimed rightly, that they had bought it in good faith, and pleaded with the M.P.s to let them keep it. After much, simulated, deliberation the M.P.s said they could keep it on the payment of another large sum of money. This the villagers were just able to raise and they handed it over to the M.P.s The next morning the M.P.s returned and took possession of the jeep! Even the least Italiaphile of our number was scandalised by this dirty trick.

After V.E. day the unit command started organising excursions for us, section by section. My section's first outing was to the castle of Gradara, a few miles north of Pesaro. This castle dated back to the 12th century and was in remarkably fine state of preservation. It had been restored in places, but most of the original furniture and fittings, ceilings, tapestries, carvings and statues were still intact, and there were some fine examples of medieval woodwork. Some chairs, tables and sideboards had been constructed without a single nail. At different times the castle (La Rocca) had been the property of the Sforza, Borgia and Malatesta families. It was during the Malatesta period that the Francesca da Rimini incident took place. Francesca was married to Gianni Malatesta, who was crippled in both mind and body: it was an arranged marriage as many were in the aristocracy of this period. Gianni's younger, and presumably more attractive, brother, Paolo, fell in love with Francesca and she with him. One night Gianni found them together in Francesca's bed chamber and killed them both. This story is immortalised in Dante's 'Inferno', where the lovers' punishment is to travel for eternity through the spirit world joined together by the sword that slew them. Gradara is thought to be the scene of this tragedy, and one could certainly imagine the event taking place against the background of gloomy splendour that the castle still possesses.

In the middle of May (1945) Don Pashley and I went on leave together. I will leave a description of this to excerpts from letters I wrote at the time -

'Since being in Italy I have wanted to visit Rome, and being due for leave when I arrived here in Senigallia, I applied to go there. Unfortunately there were no vacancies (again) so Don and I opted for 7 days' leave at a Rest Centre in the mountains, called Sarnano. In peacetime this was a Spa and a tourist centre for Winter sports and many British Army ski-troops had trained here.

It was a spectacular ride to get here, over narrow twisting roads through the hills. We crossed many gorges over most unsubstantial looking bridges: it was a long drop to the rivers below, and I pitied anyone who suffered from vertigo. Finally we saw the peaks of the Sibbilini range to our right, and, at 5 o'clock of the afternoon, we arrived at Sarnano.

Our 'hotel' (merely sleeping accommodation) is called the 'Carlton' and has 15 rooms housing a total of 30 men. There are 4 similar 'hotels' for other ranks, 2 superior ones for sergeants and 1 de-luxe 'hotel' for officers.

After a wash we went down to the 'Hanover' for dinner, and then had a stroll around the village, found where the bathing pool was, and had a glass of vermouth with two of our chaps who were going back to camp the following day. They 'filled us in' with all the information we needed about the place. We then had a bite of supper at Busty's Bar - 2 eggs and chips - before having a long walk around the perimeter of the village in bright moonlight, and turning in for the night feeling pleasantly tired.

After breakfast this morning we had a long walk along one of the deep ravines with which this area is cleft, and we are now sitting under a large sunshade in Spa Gardens listening to music played by a small Italian dance band. At this moment a young soprano, with a very sweet voice, is singing an Italian love song, while we sip ice-cold spa water served to us in little glass mugs inscribed with the name 'Sarnano'. As soon as our glasses are empty a pretty little signorina rushes to fill them again before we can say 'Si' or 'No'

In the short time we have been here we have found that the civilian population is very friendly, genuinely friendly, not just for what they can get, and I think we shall have a good, quiet, refreshing leave.

It is very hot here, and we are in K.D. shorts and shirt, with socks rolled down and sleeves rolled up. As I write the perspiration is making the paper stick to my hand. I think we shall go along to the swimming pool this afternoon, where I shall see if I've forgotten to swim (we did go, and we found that the pool had been formed by damming up a mountain stream. With the temperature in the 80s I have never been in colder water - not even at Scarborough. I dived in, and Don said he had never seen any one come out of a pool more quickly. He said it was like one of those films where someone dives into water, and then the film is reversed to show the diver seemingly jumping out backwards on to the diving board. The countryside around Sarnano is very pleasant indeed: deep ravines with streams meandering through them. Wooded hillsides - foothills of the Appenines - olive groves, vineyards and, on what little flat land there is, fields of corn.'

'.....Apart from one day in the mountains - of which more later - a typical day at Sarnano has been as follows -

0730 A cup of tea in bed (oh what a luxury)

0800 Wash and shave, clean boots

0830 Breakfast at the 'Hanover' (more often than not eggs, sausages and potatoes)

0930 Sitting in the Spa Gardens, or by the bathing pool

1230 Lunch and listening to the band

1400 A walk in the countryside and/or a session at the bathing pool

1700 Dinner and half an hour or so sitting on the verandah enjoying the fresher air of the evening

1900 A glass of vermouth at the Caffe dello Sport, and an hour of enjoyable conversation and discussion

2030 Egg and chips at Busty's Bar (Why do I never tire of this delectable dish?)

2100 A cup of tea at the C.W.L. (Catholic Women's League)

2130 A good walk in the moonlight (No signorinas)

2300 Bed and a good read before dropping into a deep and satisfying sleep......'

'Yesterday as a change for our fairly lazy life, Don and I elected to go on a trip into the Sibillini mountains, which form part of the Appennine Chain. A truck took us up to a small mountain village and left Don and I there, with rations, to call back for us later in the day. In front of us towered a fairly high mountain, the summit of which was hidden out of sight but which we wanted to reach. But which was the best, and easiest way up? As luck would have it there was a typical Italian countryman sitting on a low wall near the village fountain, so I approached him, and in my best Italian, I asked him for his advice on climbing the mountain. To my astonishment, he replied to me in English, but with a very marked American accent. He told us that he had emigrated to America many years ago, but had returned to die in his native country.

Upon his advice (although he thought we were mad to climb in such heat) we started the long ascent up a winding rock path, through forests of thick pine. Nearly three hours later, soaked with perspiration, but otherwsie quite fresh (they keep you fit in the Army) we reached a false peak, which hid a small plateau, and rested in the shade of a skiers' chalet. Here we ate our sandwiches and an orange, and looked around to see if we could find a spring or stream of cold water in which to quench our considerable thirsts. In a ravine nearby, and above us on the continuing ascent to the true peak, was quite a lot of snow but, as a result of sublimation there was no moisture to the gained from it (sublimation is the natural process in which snow changes from solid to gas without the intermediate stage of melting into water).

The next problem was which way should we go down the mountain? We could go back the way we had come, but that would be tedious, and a long job, so we decided to try the dry river-bed which ran through a deep gorge down in the general direction of the village from which we started. For half an hour we scrambled over great rocks and boulders and the odd tree trunk, and scrambled down loose gravel slopes, and everything seemed to be going well. The river bed had just entered a part of the gorge, however, where it was enclosed by unscalable rock walls when it gave a sudden drop of 30 to 40 feet. There were no hand or footholds in the rock made smooth by the rushing torrents of winter, so this and the fear that, even if we overcame this obstacle, there might be others, and worse, ahead, decided us and, unwillingly, we started the hot and strenuous climb back to the plateau. Several times en route we tried to climb our way out of the ravine only to be turned back by further obstacles. Finally, very tired and bathed in perspiration, we reached the plateau, and stretched ourselves out on the sparse grass for a short rest before making the descent.

The road had wound itself like a serpent up the mountain, which increased the walking distance considerably, so we decided to go down the mountain by the shortest possible route, that was, through the thick pine woods and cutting across the serpent's coils as we came to the section of the road that they represented. This, again, was all right in theory, and we did more than halve the time of the journey, but it was a great strain on our legs as we continually braked to reduce the rate of acceleration, and the effect on our heels was devastating as these were the only parts of our feet in constant and jarring contact with the ground. Many a time we had to use the trees to check our headlong flight down the steep slopes.

Finally, and thankfully, we reached the village, breathless, perspiring and with a burning thirst. As we approached the little village square we were rewarded with the sight of a spring of water issuing from the rock and splashing into a stone trough. It was ice cold and clear as crystal: never had water tasted so good!

We had just drunk our fill when a lady came out of the houses; it was a woman who served in the Caffe dello Sport in Sarnano. She invited us in, introduced us to her parents, and gave us each a glass of local wine. We stayed and talked, as well as we were able, until the truck came to take us back to Sarnano. That night we needed no rocking to sleep! Incidentally, as it was my idea to try to descend the mountain by the river bed route, I had to put up with some particularly slanderous remarks from Don for the rest of the week.'

'.....It is a remarkably well-run Rest Centre here at Sarnano: a lot of trouble is taken to make the men comfortable, and around 50% of the village people have been recruited to help the Army staff run the show. As the war has, of course, ruined the tourist and holiday trade, this is a godsend to the people, and they go out of their way to show how they appreciate it.

We were in Sarnano over Whitsun. I didn't realise this until Whit-Monday morning when we were awakened about 5 o'clock by the pealing of bells from every church campanile in town. From then on it was impossible to go to sleep again because every time you dozed off, off went another carillon, and so on until nine o'clock. The narrow streets were in a turmoil as we walked down to the central hotel for breakfast.

Stalls had been erected in every available corner, packed with every conceivable commodity from millinery through to poultry and even fried fish and pizzas. Round these milled the crowd, in holiday mood, some of them peasants from outlying villages dressed in their Sunday best; the men in their stiff, black, double breasted suits, the older ladies in their usual black dresses and kerchiefs and the young folk in a variety of colours and costumes. They seem determined, in the Italian manner, to enjoy this rare break from their daily round of work and the air was full of the sound of their voices, shouting, laughing, greeting friends etc. Few of the 'outsiders' had seen British soldiers so we were the object of much curiosity and appraisal, though I suspect that the signorinas had received strict instructions from 'Mamma' against taking too great an interest in us. Nevertheless if we said 'Buon giorno' once that morning we said it a thousand times, and finally, in self defence we went out to the swimming pool where we swam, read in the sun, and drank endless cups of tea made on the spot by a homely signora and served by her two daughters with whom we flirted unashamedly.

In the afternoon we saw a funeral procession; the coffin carried through the street, followed by the mourners with their arms full of flowers, and preceded by white surpliced, far from cherubic choir boys, a black robed crucifix bearer and a very grubby oldish priest who spat noisily every ten or so paces. Whether the expectoration was part of the rites or just a habit, I wouldn't know: I incline to the latter opinion it was well in keeping with his general appearance and demeanour.'

May 23rd 1945

'.....here I am at the end of a very quiet, enjoyable and relaxing holiday, and I am certainly feeling better for it.

Tomorrow evening, or Friday morning, we shall be leaving Sarnano for 730 A.B.W. at Senigallia. I am looking forward to receiving some mail after a week's absence from camp'

From my accounts of the leaves and excursions I had in Italy one would think we had a cushy time of it in R.E.M.E. That wasn't true by any means, we worked long hours in uncomfortable conditions, and we had to put up with duties that seemed to make little sense for, I suppose, disciplinary purposes. When I remembered my infantry days, however, and the dangers and hardships our front-line troops had had to endure in Italy and elsewhere I was thankful for my lot. After the War in Europe was over our duties became lighter, though not our discipline, and we were given more opportunities of seeing some of the wonderful places and things in Italy. Some men, including myself, took full advantage of what was on offer: many more were simply not interested and preferred to spend their free time in bars and canteens. This was their free choice and, though I thought they were missing out on wonderful experiences, I had no quarrel with them on that score.

20th July 1945

'We set off today, Saturday at 2.30 in the afternoon, in a 3 Ton truck, and came, via Fano, Pesaro, Rimini, Cesena and Imola, to the city of Bologna, the principal city of the province of Emilia-Romagna, a distance of 120 miles from our Workshops. Bologna is known as 'La Grassa' (the fat one) because of the excellence of its food products, especially its meats and its great variety of sausages (the English word 'polony' is a corruption of the name Bologna, as is the American 'baloney sausage'. Bologna also boasts the oldest University in Europe.

En route we stopped at the 'Dorchester N.A.A.F.I.' in Forli for tea, and arrived in Bologna around 8 o'clock in the evening. Unfortunately we had great trouble finding the Workshop at which we were to sleep, and we were not free to go into the town until 9 o'clock. We had time to have supper at the N.A.A.F.I., have an iced drink in an open-air cafe, a walk round the well-lit streets and main piazza, before collecting the truck to take us to our sleeping quarters. These were in the tank shop of the Workshop and I spent the night on the not very comfortable side of one of the tanks. Despite this I slept like a log from midnight until 6 o'clock. After ablutions and breakfast we went into town again, at about 9 o'clock, but it was so hot that we hadn't the energy to do as much sight seeing as we would have liked: also it was Sunday and many places of interest such as the Communal Palace (Palazzo Communale) and the Governor's Palace (Palazzo del Podesta), were closed.

From what I saw of Bologna, though, it is a very pleasant city, quite clean and bright, the people are clean and well dressed, and there appears to be plenty of entertainment. Before coming to Bologna I thought that only Pisa had a leaning tower. Bologna has two, both higher than Pisa's because built for entirely different reasons. Pisa's is the Cathedral's campanile (bell-tower). The Asinelli and Garisenda towers in Bologna were built by these opposing families as keeps during disturbances of one kind and another. Each family built its tower as high as possible for reasons of prestige.

I bought some photographs of the place, and I'm sending these and a box full of other snaps home soon - I've carried them about too long as it is....

In the kind of weather we experienced the journey to and from Bologna on the back of an open 3-ton lorry was very pleasant indeed. For much of the time we stood up, steadying ourselves by the cross members of the frame that normally carried the canvas cover, with our unbuttoned shirts flapping in the wind of the truck's onward motion, keeping us comfortable cool in the heat of the summer's day. We also had an unrestricted view of our surroundings. Until we had passed through Rimini we had the sea on our right hand (on the outward journey), and an uninterrupted view of the steep, craggy outline of San Marina on our left. San Marina is an independent republic (claiming to be the oldest in the world!): it was frustrating to be so near to it and unable to visit the place.

From Rimini we travelled north westwards to Bologna on the Emilian Way, the Roman road which eventually terminates in the city of Milan. At a little place near Cesena called Savignano we crossed the Rubicon. I knew about this from my History lessons at school. The Roman Senate, afraid that one day a General might arise to take control of Rome, decreed that no army was to cross the Rubicon from north to south. Julius Caesar defied this edict and marched on to Rome to become virtually the Emperor of the Roman Empire. Thus 'to cross the Rubicon' meant much the same as 'to burn one's bridges behind one'. Hence, also, as you will no doubt remember, the first lines to 'Take a pair of sparkling eyes' from the Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, 'The Gondoliers' -

'Take a pair of sparkling eyes, hidden ever and anon
In a merciful eclipse
Do not heed their mild surprise, having crossed the Rubicon
Take a pair of ruby lips'

A few weeks after my Bologna trip I had the opportunity which I grasped with both hands, to visit Venice. It was such a long journey that, in all, I only spent 36 hours there, but I would not have missed it for all the pasta in Italy. Our route took us through Bologna (already described), Ferrara (the ancient seat of the noble Este family) where I would have like to stay to see something of this historic city, and Padua. At Padua we stopped for a meal and someone had the sense to ask our driver to find the 650 year old Scrovegni (Arena) chapel, where we were able to spend half an hour admiring the marvellous frescoes painted by Giotto. Before arriving in Padua, however, we crossed the longest, and possibly widest river in Italy, the Po. We crossed this river by means of the pontoon bridge, or rather, a series of pontoon bridges - built by our own Royal Engineers, a magnificent feat. It was a strange experience travelling by truck over this long and gently undulating series of low structures so near the surface of the water, and so near, also, to the edge of the bridge. The sigh of relief at reaching the far bank was tempered only by the thought of the return journey, and the hope that the conditions would be no worse. My companions on this trip were 'Jock' Smith, and a corporal whose name eludes me at the moment.

When we arrived in Venice we parked in the Piazzzale Roma, after crossing the great causeway linking Venice to the mainland, and were given two options. The first was to go back to the mainland and stay, free of charge, at a nearby transit camp, the second was to find our own accommodation for the following two nights in Venice itself, at our own expense. Despite our modest means we chose the latter option. We had with us a day and a half Army rations, and to raise a little more cash we immediately sold these to some eager buyers. We then went along to an Army Information Centre near St Mark's Square and obtained the address of a little'pensione' not far from San Moise. She had only (the proprietress, that is) one room spare at that time, and that was the parlour, which was separated from an adjoining bedroom only by a thin partition, the bottom half of which was wood and the upper half glass.

It was quite late when we arrived at the 'pensione', but we were too excited to be in Venice to go straight to bed, so despite the lateness of the hour we had a preliminary exploration of the city, found a canteen open for a cup of tea, and returned to our lodgings well past midnight. Before we went out the 'padronessa' gave us a key, and asked us to be very quiet when we came in because in the adjoining bedroom was an English 'capitano' and his wife. We had never heard that even English officers were able to have their wives with them in Italy, but we gave him the benefit of the doubt (perhaps he had married an Italian 'signorina'?). Our doubts returned the following morning, however, when we rose at a very early hour (we were not going to waste our time in Venice in sleep) to find that the officer and his 'wife' had left.

This first day in Venice was, for me, a memorable one: coloured, perhaps by all I had read of 'La Serenissima' and by my own romantic nature and sense of history. There was little to be seen of any physical ravages of War - Venice had exerted its charm and significance on both sides in the great struggle - but the effects of War were evident in other ways - hotels closed, or converted into Army canteens: restaurants needing re-decoration; shops with little in them but the most expensive luxury goods, most of which had been in stock for many years. nevertheless the unique atmosphere of this Queen of the Adriatic shone through the drabness and greyness of wartime conditions, and there was that unparalleled light upon everything, that luminous amalgam of water and sky that defies description and analysis, but is immediately recognisable. I fell under Venices' spell and the very first time I saw her, and it is still upon me after the elapse of fifty years and five intervening visits.

Our tour of Venice was perhaps predictable it was our first visit and we only had a limited time at our disposal. Immediately after our breakfast we headed east to Piazza San Marco, and stood in the centre of the Square for some minutes to savour the atmosphere, the beautiful proportions of the square, the incredible facade of St Mark's Basilica, the lofty campanile, and the Gothic splendour of the Doges' Palace. As we stood there the Moor on the Clock Tower over the entrance to the Merceria raised his great hammer and struck the hour. We walked through the piazza to the Piazzetta with its two columns which form a gateway to the landing stage on the Grand Canal. Before us, across the water, stood the church of San Giorgio, on its island retreat, its dome and campanile etched against the sun, and farther away to our right, the imposing, majestic church of Santa Maria della Salute. From here we walked down, and over the shallow stepped bridges of The Riva Degli Schiavoni viewing the Bridge of Sighs on our left, and further on the church and school where Antonio Vivaldi, il prete rosso 'the red haired priest' taught the girls music, conducted their performance of his works and composed many of his pieces.

We then headed back to the square where, after a quick drink, we joined a party on a conducted tour of St Marks and the Doges Palace. So much has been written on these marvels of architecture and the works of art they contain that I don't intend to add anything else except to say that I can go back to them time after time without tiring of them.

After a light lunch and a short respite from pounding the hard floors and pavements we joined another party, this time to visit the islands of Murano and Burano. On the way to Murano we sailed past Venice's cemetery island of San Michele and actually saw a funeral gondola approaching the island's landing stage. A little later we went ashore on the island of Murano whose sole industry is glass making. Here we entered a glass factory and saw skilled craftsmen blowing glass for vases, wine glasses and other vessels and others moulding glass into all kinds of shapes; animals; birds etc. Our next, and last stop, was at Burano, a small fishing island that has been the centre of the Venetian lace industry for centuries. Here we saw the ladies of Burano, young and old, making lace at their open doors and in the street.

Returning to Venice proper we cleaned up before relaxing after a long and strenuous day over a leisurely meal while being entertained by a company of Italian musicians and singers. As we walked back to our 'pensione' all we could hear was the sound of our footsteps on the hard pavements of the 'calles'. Everything was quiet after nine o'clock, in sharp contrast to the Venice of today, especially in the holiday season.

We were due to rendezvous with our truck after lunch on the following day, so we had much to fit in our last morning: for example we had still to have the obligatory ride in a gondola!

After negotiating a price with the gondolier which, at the time and with our slender financial resources, we thought rather high( an infinitesimally small fraction of today's tariff) we settled down to enjoy a leisurely cruise along the 2 miles long Grand Canal. Starting out from Piazza San Marco we passed the Customs House and Santa Maria dell Salute on our left, the Ca' Grande (subject of so many painting and photographs) on our right, passed under the wooden Accademia bridge, passed all the wonderful, but crumbling Venetian palaces and reached the famous bridge, the Rialto, known to so many people from Shakespeare's 'Merchant of Venice'. From the Rialto, instead of following the canal to the railway station, the gondolier navigated his craft through narrow canals until we saw the Bridge of Sighs ahead of us, passed beneath it and reached the basin of San Marco again. All the time the gondolier kept a running commentary of facts and figures, some accurate and some very approximate. He told us of the hard time he had had during the War because of the loss of the tourist trade, and was obviously very pleased when the number of visitors began to increase, even though the majority of these were servicemen, like us, with not a lot of cash to spend. The younger generation of gondoliers, in contrast, have never had it so good.

On reaching the Piazza San Marco we had just enough time to visit a glass factory and showroom just behind St Marks itself. I saw here a set of wine glasses of simple but elegant design, and of egg-shell thickness: unlike most of the wine glasses on sale these were of plain, uncoloured glass and the simple design with which they were decorated were hand-cut into the glass. When I asked the price of the complete set it amounted to almost my annual Army pay! The salesman could see I was greatly taken by the glasses and allowed me to buy a single glass for, as he said, my private use when I went home. I lined a tobacco tin with foam rubber and the wine glass remained in it, intact and safe from breakage, for the remaining year of my overseas service.

After a quick meal at an Army canteen we returned to the 'pensione' to collect our few possessions and said goodbye to the 'signora'. She told us that we had been exemplary 'house-guests', and hoped to see us again sometime. It was almost 30 years to the day that I returned to Venice: I couldn't even find the place where we had stayed.

It was with regret that we left Venice behind us: there was so much more of it that we would have like to see, but we were grateful for what we had seen. It was certainly one of the highlights of my service in Italy. If only I could now see Rome! For this I had to wait 30 years!

But there was something very exciting waiting round the corner for me shortly after returning to camp, all men who had served a long time overseas were to have a month's home leave! Don Pashley was on the first party to go, and I gave him Vera's home address so that he could visit her and tell her how I was from first hand experience.

Then came my turn, and I hardly slept the night before we left on the long, overland journey home! We caught the train in Ancona and settled down as best we could in the cramped conditions of a compartment that had to accommodate eight men and their equipment. I was excited on two counts - first, naturally, because I was going home and would be there on my birthday, 25th August: secondly, because I would see something of northern Italy, Switzerland and France on my way. Our first stop was in the railway siding just outside Bologna. Here we stayed so long that we were worried that something had gone wrong with the arrangements and that our leave was cancelled or postponed. Eventually on officer came down the train and allayed our fears: news had just been received that the War in Japan was over (we heard of the Atom Bomb much later); why this affected our journey I have no idea, but I had long since ceased to wonder at the workings of the military mind. Eventually we arrived at Milan Central Station, a massive monument to Fascist, neo-Classical design. From here we were 'bussed' to a barrack-like transit centre where we stayed for the night. We had just time before lights-out to have a stroll round the centre of the city and to see the exterior of the high Gothic cathedral and the nearby Galleria with its shops and restaurants.

Next morning we resumed our journey through the lovely pre-Alpine countryside, passing the beautiful Lake Maggiore on our right, in the centre of which we could see Isola Bella and the other Borromean islands, while before us, ever drawing closer, were the majestic peaks of the Alps. The scenery grew more rugged as we climbed towards the Italian/Swiss border, and after a short halt at Domodossola we were soon approaching the Simplon tunnel. After what seemed an eternity in the subterranean darkness we emerged, blinking, into the sunshine of the Bernese Oberland and made a short halt in the station at Brig (when I was about 12 years of age I found, in a drawer at home, an old, dog eared, edition of a Baedeker guide to Switzerland which I read and re-read, fascinated by the descriptions of glorious and dramatic scenery. There was one phrase that had struck in my memory all down the years, one that evoked for me the very essence of this country I was now seeing, and which I never thought I would see, 'The eternal snows of the Bernese Overland')

From Brig the railway runs by the side of the swiftly running Rhone as far as Matigny where the two part company, the river turning south to Lyons and so on to Marseilles and the Mediterranean. The railway, on the other hand turns north to Sion and Montreux where we had our first view of Lake Geneva (Lake Leman to the Swiss), and the jagged peaks of Les Dents du Midi towering over the French side of the lake. We stopped at Lausanne for a short time and were impressed by the neatness and cleanliness of Swiss towns. Past Lausanne, on the lake-side, we saw the castle of Chillon immortalised by Lord Byron in him poem 'The Prisoner of Chillon' and shortly after wards the track turned north-west to cross the French frontier near Pontarlier in the Jura mountains, thence onwards to Dole, Dijon, Troyes, Reims, Amiens, Abbeville (memories of 1940!), Boulogne and Calais. We stayed overnight in Calais, and crossed to Folkestone the following morning. As soon as we arrived in London I checked the times of the trains to Sheffield and found I had time to have a meal before catching the train that would reach Sheffield by 2200 hours. It was sheer coincidence that the first restaurant we came to was an Italian one: the waiters were very interested to know how things were in their home country, and we were able to show off our command of their language. Before eating I sent a telegram to Vera to say I would be home between half past ten and eleven, and to meet me at home rather than wait about at the station. The journey from London was one of longest I can remember, and especially in the last stretch from Chesterfield to Sheffield. Vera had been at a family party at my Aunty Harriet's to celebrate the end of the War but was home when I arrived. I admit to feeling nervous as I knocked at the door, but this soon turned to happiness as the door opened and there was my wife to greet me!

The next four weeks were like a second honeymoon, but a better honeymoon because the fears and uncertainties of the was were now behind us and we could look forward to the future with hope and confidence. We spent many hours talking of and making tentative plans for when I came home for good. We would need a home, preferably our own, and, apart from wedding presents and the contents of Vera's 'bottom drawer', there were so many things we should need - furniture, carpets and furnishing and domestic items of all kinds. We estimated that we should get by with my Army gratuity, the part-salary that Firth Derihon had been putting aside for me every month, and what Vera had been able to put by out of her wages and the marriage allowance she had received from the Government. Vera's sister, Edna, said we could have two rooms in her house in Bawtry Road until we found a house of our own. Edna was expecting Roger at this time; he was born on the 8th October, three weeks after I returned to Italy.

I crammed alot into my leave. First of all we had a family party to celebrate Edwin's, Eric's and my home-coming, and then a birthday party for me on August 25th (my 28th). At the latter we all congregated at my mother's at 224, Bright Street, and, at one stage the men played a football match in the yard, which fortunately was rather a large one. Wilson Jackson, Bessie and David (aged 10 months) came over from Brighouse: I had last seen Wilson in Castle Douglas on Christmas Day 1940, after which he returned to the 'Dukes' depot in Halifax and was posted to another Battalion. During his service in Europe after 'D'-Day he sustained a severe injury to his leg in a motorcycle accident and has been lame ever since (this, however, does not prevent him cycling and taking part in road races. He still has great difficulty in walking, but he is still a better than average racing cyclist!) In our scratch football match Wilson had to be goal keeper.

It was grand to see all the members of my family, and Vera's again after three years of absence: many of them had aged somewhat in the interim, and my father, in particular, had gone very grey, although he was still only 50. What struck me most, however, after more than five years of living amongst men from all parts of the British Isles, was the broadness of Sheffield vowels, and local expressions that I had almost forgotten.

Because of the War I had missed four family weddings, - my sister Eveline, living with Aunty and Uncle in Bristol, had married John Hale: my other sister Muriel had married Roy Fittzen, Vera's cousin, Vera's sister Edna, had married Ernest Johnson, and my cousin Cyril had married Nora Swallow.

Eveline, who was expecting her first child (Yvonne was born in November, shortly after I returned to Italy: thereafter she had Kathryn in 1946, Elizabeth in 1949 and Simon much later in 1960) wrote inviting us to stay with Aunty, Uncle and herself for a few days. We had almost a week of seeing the sight of Bristol and the surrounding countryside in perfect weather, visiting, amongst other places, Cheddar Gorge, Clevedon, Weston-super-Mare, Bath, Wells and Gloucester. Aunty Lily was a trained singer, Eveline was a competent pianist as well as having a good contralto voice, Vera (although too modest to claim it) had a sweet soprano voice, Uncle William could sing a good tenor line, and I describe myself as a light baritone with a tenor timbre to my voice. It seemed the most natural thing to do, therefore, to spend our evening around the piano singing all kinds of things, from Opera, through Oratorio,ballads and hymns, down to the popular songs. We made a passable quintet and the results were acceptable: at least we thought they were.

Vera and I thoroughly enjoyed our stay in Bristol, the highlight of which we both agreed was the glorious day - in all respects that she and I spent alone together at Clevedon. The memory of that day is still fresh and green to me, and I shall always cherish it.

But happy days pass quickly and all too soon, it was time to put away my 'civvies; - those that still fitted me - and begin the long overland journey, through France and Switzerland, back to Italy. In retrospect it seems inconceivable that the Army should have expended so much money and effort in returning us to Italy when most of us were in Release Groups what would see us repatriated - for good - in the first few months of 1946. No doubt there were reasons but they certainly weren't apparent to us humble rankers.

The fact that the War was over and that I would certainly be demobbed early in the coming New Year did a little to mitigate the pain of parting, but it was very hard to say Goodbye after such a blissfully happy four weeks together. The only slight consolations for me - not shared of course by Vera - were the prospects of seeing again the beautiful scenery of France and Switzerland, and of joining my comrades again. I would have cheerfully sacrificed these pleasures to have stayed at home with my wife!

The return journey to Ancona was as uncomfortable, physically, as the outward journey but was an experience I enjoyed again because of my interest in, and appreciation of, the beauty of the scenery along the way. And I was seeing it from a new angle. It was good to arrive back at my unit, see my friends again and talk about my leave, and to forget my home sickness in the daily round of Army life. Then came another change of scene and a four week escape from routine into a taste of civilian study and occupation!

Some time before my home leave I had applied for a month's Course at the Formation College in Perugia to brush up some of my Commercial subjects prior to studying in earnest, when I got home, for the examination of the Chartered Institute of Secretaries. My joining instructions arrived very soon after re-joining my Unit: I was to report to the College on November 13th.

Immediately after my leave, however, I was put in charge of making an inventory of all the operating stores of the Base Workshop and arranging for, and taking part in, the packing of these stores for despatch to Central Ordnance Depot. This entailed wading through reams of Army 'bumph' to find correct military descriptions and part numbers, and there were many time when I became frustrated and annoyed at the often abstruse and seemingly illogical way the Army classified its items of stores. The job, however, required my total concentration and attention and, in consequence, the time flew. Just down the road a United States Army unit were preparing to move out. I don't think they were as conscientious as we were in dealing with their stores. Much of their equipment was burned on the spot, including ammunition and explosives which lit up the night sky and treated us to a firework display of unrivalled brilliance and explosive ferocity.

Before my session of study in Perugia I received a number of letters from Vera saying how ill she had been since I returned from leave. Eventually the cause was revealed, she was pregnant. I received this news with mixed feelings: joy that we were to have a child - my dearest ambition - and fear in case Vera's suspect state of health would not stand up to the strain of pregnancy. My letters of this period were full of solicitude and concern: I would have gladly taken Vera's place had it been biologically possible.

Happily Vera's general health dramatically improved towards the middle of the second month, and when I arrived home at the end of February 1946 on my demob leave she was remarkably well and radiant in the signs of her coming motherhood.

On November 13th 1945 we left Senigallia for Perugia in one of unit trucks. There were three of us, all from the Radio Workshops: Corporal Furneaux, who was going on to Florence to take a course in the Fine Arts; Corporal Pollin who was to take an Engineering Course in Perugia and Craftsman Straw who was to study Commerce.

The Formation College based at the University for Foreigners (University per gli Stranieri) - had 3 Faculties: Mathematics and Engineering, Commerce, and an omnibus one that catered for general subjects such as Drama, French, German, Economics, Geography etc The Art Faculty in Florence was exclusively for students of Painting, Music and Architecture. For my Commerce Course I took, as my specialist subject 'Company and Commercial Law' and a s subsidiary subjects 'Accounting' and 'Secretarial Practice'.

The Law Course consisted of (a) A General Introduction (b) The Law of Contract (most thoroughly) (c) Law of Agency (d) Contracts of Carriage - Common Carriers etc (e) Negotiable Instruments ie Cheques, Bills of Exchange etc (f) Bankruptcy and (g) Arbitration. A formidable programme for a four weeks' course.

Secretarial Practice embraced Company Law, Formation of Companies, Issue of Shares, Dividends, Minutes of Meetings, Liquidations etc. I had done most of this at pre-War evening classes, but the Course was good revision.

Accountancy I had studied prior to the War and there was insufficient time on the Course to go any deeper into the subject than I had done in evening classes, but it was a valuable refresher.

I will quote from a letter I wrote at the time:

'I had a marvellous time on this Course: the instructors were top-notch and amazingly helpful and friendly: the instruction was up-to-date and sufficient precis notes were supplied to make all but the slightest note taking unnecessary, so enabling one to concentrate on the lessons, and the atmosphere was perfect and a complete change from the usual Army methods of instruction. Once again we were somebodies, and were not talked down to as though one's mental age was 10, with an Intelligence Quotient of minus quantity., I learned quite a lot as well as re-learning some things which had become hazy with the passage of time. We had mid-term and end of term examinations, and I was satisfied that my results showed that I had not been wasting my time. As a matter of fact I did a fair amount of private study because I would like to be able to take at least part of the Intermediate exam of the C.I.S. in June and, if possible, the whole of it. I have already tentatively fixed a correspondence course with the Metropolitan College to that end'.

I enjoyed the journey to Perugia in spite of the cold condition in the back of the truck, especially when we were in the heart of the mountains, many times above cloud level. Our route took us by way of Ancona, through Iesi (a medieval town surrounded by a battlemented wall, and now noted for its slightly green tinted white wine, Verdicchio, which comes in its characteristically amphora-shaped bottle. To digress from this account of Perugia, I had once had a short spell in the Military Hospital at Iesi with an acute attack of tonsillitis. In response to an appeal for blood I had given the customary pint only to wake up the following morning with a raging sore throat and feeling as though I was dying. I dragged myself along to the M.O. who immediately ordered me into hospital. When I told him that I had given blood on the previous day he reported this to the Blood Unit in case my sample of blood was infected. It was in the hospital at Iesi that I met my first German prisoners of war: these were all pitifully young and vehemently, now, anti-Hitler).

From Iesi we started our climb into the mountains and through the Fabriano Pass to Fabriano itself where we stopped off at the N.A.A.F.I. for tea and sandwiches. We had been travelling through very mountainous country and for the most part above cloud level. The scenery was magnificent, mountains on every side, many of them with snow covering their peaks, some half hidden in the mists and clouds. At times we were travelling on narrow road, often bumpy and uneven, running along cliff faces or winding, serpent like, up and down the mountain sides. At others we were crossing deep gorges over insubstantial bridges or along more modern viaducts. It was not difficult to understand why it had been so difficult to drive the Germans out of their defensive positions in these mountains: the defenders had all the advantages. From Fabriano it was a gradual descent into the town of Foligno with Mount Subasio dominating the scenery on our right hand, and from here a fairly level journey along the plain until we started the long and steep climb to Perugia on its hilltop.

To the east, which was on our right we could see the famous town of Assisi nestling into the lower slopes of Monte Subasio, and I was determined to visit Saint Francis' birthplace and the scenes of much of his work and ministry as soon as I possibly could. In fact I had to wait until 1975 to do this when, after Vera's death on Boxing Day, 1974, I took my daughter Alison on a 14 days' tour of Italy. I was greatly impressed with Assisi and the marvellous atmosphere of peace and sanctity with which it was permeated. It seemed as if the spirit of Il Poverello was all around one and in the very air one breathed, and a verse of a favourite hymn kept repeating itself in my mind:

'Drop thy stil dews of quietness till all our strivings cease
Take from our souls the strain and stress, and let our ordered lives confess
The beauty of thy peace'

But I digress: We finally arrived at the college in Perugia around four o'clock in the afternoon, and after registering we were shown to our respective billets. After cleaning up we went along to the Dining Room for tea and here to our great surprise, we sat at a table and were served by waiters! What a change from our normal practice: no queueing up with enamel mugs and mess tins for four whole weeks and, even better, no washing of eating utensils in luke-warm water with great blobs of grease floating on the surface! After tea that first evening I met Corporal Pollin, who was in a different Mess, and, before supper in the Y.M.C.A., we did an exploratory tour of the town. Our first impressions were good. Perugia had retained its medieval appearance (latterly, I am told, it was largely spoilt by the modern buildings that conceal the old walls and much of the Etruscan and medieval remains). On our exploratory walk we found that the town was a maze of winding, hilly streets and numerous steep flights of steps. Houses were tall, and arches and bridgeways linked house to house and alley to alley. It was like being transported back in time and I would not have been surprised to have seen duels in the streets or some Perugian Romeo serenading beneath his Juliet's balcony. The main square, too, the Piazza 4 November, added to the authentic feeling of a medieval Italian town with its Great Fountain (Fontana Maggiore), its battlemented Priors' Palace and its Gothic Cathedral. In contrast to all this there were, in other, more modern, streets well lit and well furnished shops with a great variety of luxury goods on display - at extremely high prices! I could not imagine the ordinary Perugian citizen being able to afford to patronise these establishment: only successful black marketeers would have the necessary amount of Lire to have done so. Since my home leave, however, I had been very restrained in my spending and |I was able to but Vera a ridiculously expensive silk night dress and some baby clothes for our expected child.

Finally, on Perugia, an extract from a letter I wrote after I had rejoined my unit:

'Perugia is beautifully situated on the top of its hill, as most towns are in this part of the world, and it commands an imposing view of that part of the Umbrian plain through which flows the river Tiber. The plain here is only about 40 miles wide and across it can be seen the peaks of the Apennines, now wholly covered with snow. The nearest mountain has, on its lower slopes, Assisi, the birth place of St Francis, and so clear is the atmosphere most of the time that you would never think it was nearly 40 miles away. The most amazing sight is when mist covers the intervening plain and what appears to be a gigantic lake is broken only by, here and there, a spire or dome piercing it surface.

It is extremely cold here, the coldest weather I've experienced in Italy, and we have had some snow although it didn't stay for very long. As our billet and college have very inadequate heating we have been caused some discomfort: taking a shower has been the worst thing; it has taken a great effort of will to undress in the cold and draughty shower-room and towelling afterwards and dressing has been completed in record time.

It was, of course, ideal weather for walking and Cpl. Pullin and I took full advantage of every Saturday afternoon and every Sunday to acquaint ourselves with Perugia and its surrounding countryside. Unfortunately public transport was virtually non existent otherwise we would certainly have made the journey to Assisi, tantalisingly well within our view but physically out of reach.'

I was sorry when the Course came to an end, and to say goodbye to our instructors and the friends I had made during the four weeks of concentrated but enjoyable study. The end of term party - a fairly subdued affair for an Army celebration - was full of promise to keep in touch and to meet up again in Civvy Street (Alas, all unfulfilled).

During my stay in Perugia my Unit had closed down, and I was instructed to report to my Old Workshop (16 Base) in Naples. Consequently I had a very rough and extremely cold journey back to Naples via two ghastly and depressing transit camps. It must have been very boring because all I can remember of the journey was passing through Rome (but still never actually setting foot in it!), and seeing the ruins of Monte Cassino, a forbidding sight in the fading light of a winter afternoon.

It was typical of the Army that the second of the two transit camps was only three miles from 16 Base Workshops. I could have thumbed a lift to get there, but No, I was in transit and I had to have official clearance to rejoin my Unit. Every morning I looked for my name on the list pinned up outside the camp office, and every morning for a week, it wasn't there. By this time I had become adept in dodging useless, but onerous, Fatigues and duties and I would 'escape' into Naples using any kind of transport that happened along. In Naples I met up with my friends who were already settled in at 16 Base, and heard of the situation there. 16 B.W. had finished operating as a Workshop and all my old comrades were being employed on clerical and administrative duties, principally those connected with demobilisation documentation.

When I was finally 'released' from my 'in transit' condition and returned, with all my equipment and impedimenta, to my old barracks in Corso Malta, I found that all the worthwhile jobs had been filled and it appeared that I was condemned to a sentence of never ending fatigues, picquets and guards. Not a very pleasant prospect. The sergeant-in-charge was a small, round, pompous, bullying N.C.O. whom we christened 'Little Sir Echo' from his habit of repeating, verbatim, everything that his superior officer said to us. He was full of 'bull' and, as we used to say, as 'regimental as a button-stick'. He was responsible, however - unwittingly - for making my last three months in the Army the cushiest period of my military service by allocating to me for menial duties in the Quartermaster's Stores.

When I reported to the Quartermaster Sergeant I was relieved to find that cleaning duties were in the care of two civilian Italian ladies. The younger of these performed other duties for the Q.M.S. that were in no Army manual but which could be clearly imagined by those of us whose place of work was the office-cum-stores adjacent to the Q.M.S.'s quarters. The Sergeant in question was due for Release in the next 'demob' Group and had virtually opted out of all duties and responsibilities by delegating these to the junior members of his staff. My arrival had come at a most opportune time for him because the man to whom he had delegated 'Entertainment' duties had just left the Unit for demobilisation. When he knew that I had had Office experience, could actually type, and was interested in Music and Opera, he was overjoyed. I was immediately elected to be in charge of Entertainment, responsible to the Q.M.S. alone, and it was arranged with 'Little Sir Echo' that I was to be excused all other duties, fatigues, guards etc. I could hardly believe my good fortune!

The job itself was a sinecure. Every morning at seven o'clock a 15Cwt truck came to pick me up, and the driver and I went our round of Naples, picking up the morning papers and visiting the various cinemas and clubs to gather up to date information on the entertainments available that day. We returned to the Workshops where I distributed the papers to the Officers' Mess, Sergeants' Mess and the other ranks' dining rooms before collecting my breakfast (without queueing). Breakfast was followed by a spell in the Office where I typed lists of the day's, or week's, entertainments for displaying on all notice boards. I was then available to all ranks, and Officers' serv ants, who wanted to book seats for concerts or operas at the San Carlo Opera House, or at any cinemas where seats were reservable. Sometimes I would wait to have dinner in Workshops but more often than not I would go into Naples when I had completed my office duties and stay there all day, eating at the Royal Palace N.A.A.F.I., writing letters, exploring Naples and generally enjoying my freedom until evening when I would meet my friends and spend some time with them until the long walk back to Corso Malta and my so-welcome bed. Naturally, as I booked tickets for the Opera, I always booked for myself on a change of programme and I can honestly say that my appetite was never satiated: the only strain was on my meagre financial resources.

In spite, however, of my seemingly idyllic existence I was not particularly happy. Days spent entirely on my own eventually began to pall and time was going all too slowly towards demobilisation. Christmas 1945 came and went and I said of this in a letter home -

'I'm sorry to say that this Christmas has been a dull affair, the worst I have ever experienced. I think the business of Release is weighing too heavily on everybody's mind to allow much rejoicing. The best thing about it was the thought that it was the last Christmas in the Army for most of us'.

I was also wanting to get home to take care of Vera who was still not as well as she might have been. She had been advised by the Child Welfare Clinic to have our baby at the City General Hospital and had already made all the necessary arrangements to do so.

New Year, 1946, was heralded, in Naples, by fireworks. Our pre-War Guy Fawkes'Day fireworks had nothing on this New Year's Eve display put on by the people of this great city. The individual family displays matched the Neapolitan temperament: the explosions were more ear-shattering and numerous, and the lights were brighter and of longer duration than any I remembered at home. I suspect that a great amount of gunpowder and cordite had been 'salvaged' from Allied ammunition, and the effect was that of the beginning of a new war rather than the start of what we hoped would be the first peaceful year since 1939. The Army Fire Services were 'stood to' all night but, to everyone's surprise, they were not called upon in their official capacity. It was not safe to walk the streets at midnight, however, owing to the native custom of throwing old crockery into the streets at the stroke of twelve.

1946 brought other troubles to Naples in the shape of civilian disturbances. After years of near starvation, dire poverty and mass unemployment and after being demoralised by defeat and occupation, it was inevitable that there would be reaction when Peace finally came. The working class, especially, in the tradition of Italian insubordination and rebellion, had their political consciousness revived and were looking to the anti-Fascist groups - Socialists and Communists especially - for an amelioration of their condition. I saw no resentment against the Allies or any violence towards life or property of the occupying Forces (although there may have been some examples of this). One afternoon, however, as I was walking back to barracks through a deserted street, turning into the street was a convoy of laden trucks followed by a band of men running behind it belabouring the cases stacked on the trucks with poles and iron bars. I dodged into a convenient doorway until the angry column had passed. Luckily for me they were oblivious to everything but the task in hand. I wondered later what would have happened had I been noticed.

In January 1946 I received the information I had been waiting for: my Release Group, 26, were to be demobilised between the dates of February 5th and March 6th. I wrote home -

'I can only make a guess at my own particular demob date; I doubt if the War Office could do more because so many factors come into it: my age in relation to the ages of the rest of my Group, the weather at the time of my leaving the unit and entering the Transit Camp, and the transport available at that time. Friends of mine have been held up for as long as a fortnight or more, waiting for favourable flying conditions'

As it happened I came home on roughly the same land route as the one I had travelled on when I had come on leave six months previously.

I left Naples at the beginning of March travelling, as before, by crowded and uncomfortable (who cared?) train, via Rome, Florence, Bologna and Milan, to the Piemontese town of Novara. Here we kicked our heels in impatience for two long days. By this time my battledress was showing marks of its rough treatment on the train - lived and slept in as it was - and I was pleased, therefore, to come across an apartment with a sign outside 'Sarta - si fanno alterazioni' (dress maker - alterations done). When I knocked the door was opened by a pleasant, kind looking, young lady who was surprised to see an English soldier standing on her doorstep. When I explained that I would like my uniform sponged and pressed she asked me into her parlour, let me change into my denim trousers in private, and saw to my uniform while we enjoyed a pleasant conversation. All the time we were chaperoned by her baby of six months who gurgled away happily in her little cot. I marvel now that the young dress maker trusted me to enter her apartment. Perhaps I was still young and innocent looking!

That evening four of us went into the town centre in search of a restaurant. We found one with a very succulent looking joint of roast beef displayed in the window and decided that we should look no further. Disillusionment set in when we sunk our teeth eagerly into the juicy beef: it was pungent with garlic! After a few mouthfuls we could eat no more and left the restaurant to the great bewilderment of the proprietor who couldn't understand anyone leaving food for which he had paid.

From Novara we continued our journey northwards along the western shore of Lake Maggiore and through Domodossola to the Simplon Tunnel. On the Italian side of the Alps spring was well under way. What a contrast when we emerged from the tunnel at Brig in Switzerland! The Rhone Valley was filled with snow and the views of the surrounding Bernese mountains were breathtaking in their still wintry loveliness. Even here, however, there was a sign that spring had arrived: the greeny-grey waters of the Rhone were in spate from the melting snow and ice.

I can't pretend that we had a comfortable journey from Naples to Calais; there were too many of us to a compartment: the unlucky ones (which included me) had to sleep on the floor made only marginally less uncomfortable by bulky kit-bags from which bulged the hard and angular shapes of army boots and aluminium mess tins (one member of our party had bought a huge roll of silk in Italy and had discarded much of his kit so that he could carry the silk in his kit bag. His kit bag was so uniformly symmetrical - compared with the uneven and irregular contours of those of the rest of us - that it aroused the suspicions of the Customs Officers at Folkestone. As a result the silk was discovered and confiscated. There was no way that the poor chap could have paid the duty on such a quantity of silk!)

If the nights were horrors of boredom and discomfort, with fitful sleep, the days, on the contrary, were, to me at least, filled with interest and excitement. I couldn't bear to miss any of the scenery through which we were passing, and to play cards or read seemed to me such a waste of opportunity to see places and things that I had only read of or dreamed about before the War.

After Switzerland, the Jura mountains and the Cote d'Or, there were some dull, uninteresting stretches of line as we approached Calais, but even here memories were evoked of my short, but eventful, spell of service in France in 1946 before our lucky escape from Veules-les-Roses with the enemy literally breathing down our necks. As we steamed through Abbeville I remembered that this was the most northerly point reached by my battalion of the 'Dukes' before having to retreat south to Dieppe.

Any unpleasant memories, however, were soon dispelled by the sight of the English Channel and the distant but, on this day, the clear view of the white cliffs of Kent and Sussex.

DEMOBILISATION 1946

Eventually we crossed the Channel to Folkestone, from where we were taken to Aldershot for our 'demobilisation documentation' (even such Army jargon as this was as music to our ears). We were allocated bed-spaces in a grim Victorian Barrack block where a Sergeant on the permanent staff 'conned' us into contributing to his private retirement fund by 'inviting' us to enter a raffle for one of the most hideous pottery ornaments I had ever seen. He had an accomplice on his staff who, quite casually, suggested that the Sergeant could delay any man's demobilisation by losing documents or finding reasons for not submitting them to his superiors. At this stage we were not going to risk any delay in getting home for the sake of half-a-crown! The first day in Aldershot (we never ventured outside the barracks all the time we were there) was spent in all kinds of documentation - full War record, character assessment etc - and a medical examination. Part of the latter consisted of a test of our urine: having given a sample we had to sit in a long corridor which led to the laboratory to await the results of the test. Judge my alarm when, a few minutes after I had obliged, an orderly shouted down the corridor -

'Straw, 4618821, we want another sample of your water!'

My first thought was -

'Heavens! Is there something wrong with my kidneys'

I needn't have worried: the orderly had knocked over the glass containing my sample! Giving a second amount was no difficulty for me.

On the second day at Aldershot - in our impatience to get home 36 hours seemed an eternity - we were taken to Woking by truck, after receiving a pass and a railway warrant, to give in our Army gear and collect our demob suits, shirts, socks, trilby hat etc. My suit was grey with a chalk stripe: in my trilby I looked like a younger Al Capone! This civilian outfit was packed in a brown cardboard box tied with string. As we came out of the depot to walk to the railway station we were accosted by a motley crew of 'spivs' and 'wide boys' who offered us thirty shillings for our precious packages! There was obviously a market for these goods, and I have little doubt that there were feckless souls who gave up their birthright for the immediate satisfaction of cigarettes and beer. This would have been all right if they had clothes at home that still fitted them: I had certainly outgrown my 'civvies' not by an appreciable increase in stature (about three quarters of an inch), but in girth and chest measurement. I needed my free issue!

And so, after six and a quarter years I was home for good, but I was not officially a civilian for another three months, after which I was placed on Z Reserve, to be recalled to the Army if need arose. Until June, therefore I still drew my Army pay and had a document which allowed me reduced fares on the railway. This was used to go to Blackpool for a few days, and for a journey to Maine Road, Manchester to see Sheffield United play Manchester City. At some point of time in this period I also received my War gratuity. This, with what Vera had saved from her wages and marriage allowance, and what had accumulated in my part-salary account at Firth-Derihon was sufficient, at a later date, for the deposit on the first house of our own. In the meantime, because Vera was six month's pregnant, it was decided that we should live with her father and mother until the baby was born. We would then move in with Edna and Ernest (Vera's sister and her husband) at their house in Bawtry Road, Tinsley, until we could find a home of our own. Their 'front' room and back bedroom had already been cleared to accommodate our furniture and fittings, some of which Vera had already bought or ordered. We used our 'coupons' on a utility bedroom suite; the dining suite and easy chairs etc we had to buy at prices we could afford. An extra item of furniture we bought was a second hand R.C.A. radiogram - from John Kramer, John Bell's brother in law, which was a good investment from the entertainment point of view because we had little opportunity, or the cash, to go to the cinema or theatre.

After a fortnight's holiday, spent largely in shopping for the coming baby and for what we needed for our new 'home', I went back to the office at Firth-Derihon, where I was put in charge of the Accounts of the factory at Darley Dale that had been opened in 1942 at the instigation of the Ministry of Supply. Though I was not yet officially a civilian I had resumed my civilian occupation and my family responsibilities.

I was surprised at how quickly I adapted to civilian life: perhaps having a family so quickly helped the process, but six and a half years crammed with experiences could never be forgotten nor their influence obliterated. I endured many unpleasant things in the Army, but there were many plusses and many pleasures that I would not have wanted to miss. And I had survived: and so had my memories!

Anyone reading these memoirs of mine could be forgiven for thinking that, apart from the traumatic experiences of 1940 in the disastrous campaign in France, I had had a fairly 'cushy' six and a half years in the army.

Compared with the experiences of many servicemen this is true, though I know some who never saw active service and were never posted overseas, never separated from their loved ones for two and three years at a spell: separated in space as well as time.

In addition memory is selective and I have half-forgotten many details of extreme physical and mental discomfort experienced during these years, and times of deep depression when it seemed for example that the war would never end! The pain and worry of being thousands of miles from home when a loved one was seriously ill.

It should be apparent, too, that I made the best of every situation I found myself in and took advantage of every opportunity to see places and enjoy new experiences. I was determined to 'milk' the opportunity for all it was worth.

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