蜜芽传媒

Walthamstow Wanderer 3

By

Albert Augustus Crisp
November 1911 鈥� June 2001

I don't know the exact number of ships but the convoy was very large. The escort destroyers, more or less, formed a circle around us. We were very lucky, as it was uneventful, as far as action went. Nothing attacked us from either sea or air. Seasickness attacked me though; I could not stand the roll of the ship not no how. Sometimes a destroyer came near and one second it seemed to be almost level with us and the next down in a pit. I thought, how I would feel in those sailors鈥� places? In the "Mooltan" toiletry passed into a long trough and so, whilst doing your business in seclusion, the boat would roll, and you would see other chaps turds and occasionally false teeth.

Anyway we edged into the Atlantic and down to the Mediterranean Sea and through the Suez Canal. There was a hospital ship ablaze in the "Med". With - naturally, all lights out and no one allowed to smoke, it created a queer feeling, as though you were creeping through. During the day models of men and tents etc could be seen on the land as we cruised past North Africa.

Next we passed through the Red Sea, Arabian Sea and then to land at Bombay. Wurli Warli Camp, in Bombay, was a transit camp, where we lost touch with friends made on the ship and got sorted out for various destinations. Meals were served up in a big marquee and consumed in an adjoining one. Collecting a plate of dinner and one of sweet and getting the few yards needed to gain a safe seat, was tricky. You see, Kite Hawks (shite hawks) kept a sharp look out for unsuspecting rookies. They folded their wings and dropped like a stone to within a couple of feet of your plate, before pulling out of their dive. Most cases they got but little, because with a shock like that the plates went up in the air before they achieved their object. This act always had an audience of previous victims queuing up to get a laugh.

A lot of us went to Cawnpore.

When we left Bombay for Cawnpore by train the officer put me in charge of getting the tea going. I had to put tea leaves in a bucket and take some for the driver of the train. He wouldn't let me have the water for our tea until he had his. In order to get the water, he opened a valve, and steam hissed out and formed a miniature fog. When it cleared I could put the bucket under. All went well for a few buckets. Then tea ran low and I was directed to try and flannel the driver into getting my water first, as there wasn't enough for his share. He tumbled and shouted a lot of unintelligible obscenities and started up the engine. On panicking to scramble on a moving train before it picked up speed, I lost quite a lot of tea out of the bucket. I had a go at him but it made little difference. As a matter of fact, he stopped the train a little further on and ran across the fields. I was informed by the shoveller-on of coal that he wouldn't be long, he had gone to see his Bibi (wife). Anyway, it was an experience, as I thought an engine ran smoothly along the track, but I could see it kept bobbing from side to side, as there was play between the wheels and the rails.

There was a war memorial, built over a well, down which, years ago (in the 1800's) soldiers and their wives and children were slaughtered and dumped, after a church service. They went to Church unarmed, and the natives turned on them. Ever since they have always been armed. I think it was here that we got rid of our toupees and were given felt hats. I was glad of that, mine was too big.

Came across an old cemetery containing graves of British lads and most of them had been in there 20's. All but one had died of malaria, the odd one out a Capt. Lumsden had lost his leg to a shark - it stated so on the stone.

Every now and then we were lined up and an officer and a sergeant came along the ranks, the sergeant gave you a white salt tablet and a yellow mepacrine one (for malaria prevention). The sergeant gave out the tablets and the officer saw that you swallowed them. This seemed to peter out as you got northwards and finally stopped altogether. We were not to eat any fruit with skin broken and to see that the fruit when bought was dipped in the bucket of disinfectant. All big shops or stalls had a bucket nearby. It was a bluey colour. Some of the natives had a white forage cap and we were informed that these were Ghandi Wallahs. They're all some sort of a wallah! Most popular of course the "Char Wallah". Sad occasion here - Dennis Heaps - only about 20 was found dead. He had been beaten up. So we never went anywhere alone after this. It was here I learnt my first few words in the counting section. A soldier had been fiddled and had caught hold of the local and pointing to his lace holes in his boot said "malamlek, doe, teen, char, (understand, 1,2,3,4) I'll bury them right up your arse hole!"

They ran a quiz thing here. You paid 5 annas a ticket; you could have as many as you like, and for each ticket you had your name put on another ticket. Names in one box and tickets in another and off you went. When your name came out a question on the ticket had to be answered for a small money prize. When all the names had been picked out, any prize money not won, went into a kitty - the jackpot. When a person picked the jackpot ticket he had to answer an especially difficult question. This money never got won and the kitty got very big, so big in fact, that it caused blokes to moan that, their money kept going in the kitty and they may get posted and have no chance of winning. So it was altered, didn't matter what the question drawn was, on the stroke of 9 o'clock, the chap whose name came up, took the kitty if he could answer the question. Well, up it came and a tune was whistled and he had to name it. Practically everyone knew, but not him. When his time ran out, he was told it was "Colonel Bogey" and remarked, "I only new it as B-----KS AND THE SAME TO YOU"! Talk about an uproar of laughter.

I started work on Dakotas and was told that would be my work in future.

Then I went to Comilla where they seemed to have more than their share of vultures. This was more barren, nothing, like Cawnpore. A "Burra Sahib" ran the stores. When you bought goods, you received cardboard money as change. He had crudely stamped the shape and value of coins on cut up boxes that had contained packets of "Woodbine" cigarettes. When chaps were posted, it was always early in the morning and they always had a few annas in cardboard, which were worthless outside the camp. We kicked up a din and a plane was flown to Calcutta to get change. So we were told anyway! The change lasted about a week and then we were back to cardboard. I bet the Burra (big) Sahib made a fortune. Hundreds of chaps must have passed through that camp. The work was just the same as at the other camps.

I moved on to Singerbeel and seemed to be leaving populated districts behind. I got dysentery and was put in hospital. I was on fluids for a while and when I could have solids, it was chicken. I was looking forward to it, but it came up practically raw - horrible! On settling down again at camp I got on guard duty. Two of us went round together. At certain spots field telephones that you wound up were hidden. You phoned to the guardroom from each point. They knew the time taken to get from one to the other and so if you were overdue, they knew there was something amiss. The worst bit was along a stretch of railway line. You always though you saw a face peering over the embankment, but there never was anyone. You got a little tense.

Here the trees were removed and the ground levelled out and metal lengths of iron with 3鈥� to 4鈥� holes in it and made to lock together were laid down for runways use for aircraft.

It was here they tried a Yankee idea, but had to scrap it, as work got below par. They divided the hanger floor up, marking it out in equal sections. We were allowed so many hours in each section, then the plane was pushed into the next section. If you hadn't finished your work in time, and were caught working in the next section you were "bawled out" for being there. The maintenance was similar to that on most vehicles in one way, that being, a daily inspection where you looked at tyres, hydraulic fluid etc. Then after the plane had done a certain amount of flying hours, the daily checks plus looking at various bolts for play and the extinguisher behind the pilots seat etc. Then it got to the number of flying hours that demanded a major service. This entailed the jacking up of the plane, taking off the wings, elevators and rudder, taking up the floor, checking nuts, bolts, jacks, cables etc. It's worth mentioning that when starting in a hanger, you notice humorous, artistic posters pasted on all walls, such as a plane on its belly and also a sergeant on his, but underneath the plane. This is a warning that planes without undercarriage locking pins or not on jacks should not be worked on.

One day we were to be on the move and Yanks coming to take over. There was a cock up, we didn't go until later and the Yanks moved in. Some of our lads had been fighting over tins they had to use to get water in from a well. They were dehydrated potato tins cut down. There weren't enough to go round and some kept pinching others鈥�. On moaning, we were asked 鈥渨hat did we expect at the front鈥�. We were hardly at the front. Anyway before we moved, in came Yankee lorries with bricks, cement, pipes, cranes etc and in no time they had showers and were eating ice cream.

Agartala was next in line. It was Xmas and they managed a few tins of beer for the lads and managed a few photographs outside our basha. I actually got a letter here, but not good news, it contained news of George. My young brother George had been in the Royal Engineers but had been killed on the 6 June 1944 on Sword Beach, Normandy. He was 24. It had taken 6 months for this news to reach me. There had been a difference of opinion at home, as whether to tell me or not. But Mum had pointed out, that it would be worse if I came home and found him missing.

They had "chokedars", Indian guards, one under each plane, I say under, because they were always on their haunches. When you were on guard, you had to pass along and watch them as well. As you approached the first one, he would develop a cough, which passed right down the line - it was all too obvious and they called it the "Song of India". An amusing thing happened here, a young chap from Bow, "Ginger" Fern left his huge boots in the middle of the space between the beds. His bed mate, Harry Lewis from Rotherhithe, older and smaller, tripped over them and fell on his charpoy (bed) and got at the youngster, about his Gi-normous boots and feet. The youngster said his feet were good enough to beat the other over a mile and giving him 100 yards start. This was accepted. When they were satisfied, as to the 100 yards and mile, it took place. Not before a crowd of locals, giggling and jumping about like kids, had lined the "course". The youngster started off too quick and knackered himself and the other one won, but was as sick as a dog. It was 100掳F in the shade!

These two and an Australian friend of "big feet" and myself, went on leave to Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir. We lost a lot of time getting there. We had to go by train to Rawalpinde, not direct. Then a coach, a ramshackle old thing, took us part of the way up the Himalayas. I say part because, darkness set in and they stopped at a big old house, where we bedded down. We had a room each but didn't like the look of things or the blokes and decided to all kip in one room. About ten feet from the house was a wall about five feet high and a sheer drop down to a muddy river bed. I say river, it wasn't very wide, but there was a high wall 鈥� a dam, with a small square gap about four feet up from the muddy side. The other side had the water a little above the bottom of the square hole. All this we saw in the morning before continuing our journey, as we watched a local, smacking the mud about with his hands. Then we saw what he was up to, as every now and then water splashed through the hole. A couple of times a fish came through and the sloping of the mud threw the fish to one side on comparatively dry ground and he just picked it up. As easy as that!

The road up was very dodgy and there were hundreds of big oil drums, painted white and lining the edge. If you went through them, it was a long drop! Anyway we arrived safely. One of the first things we did was a boat ride - only a rowing boat. They put a few flash curtains in and four sticks up to rig up an awning to keep the sun off and then you get rowed down or up the river. This river, the Jelum, had several bridges, all wood. One was said to have been built by the Moguls and was hundreds of years old. Your destination was 1st, 2nd, 3rd or 鈥渘th鈥� bridge. While on the river, another boat pulled along side and one of them dressed in a brown suit and a red fez which wasn't worn there of course. He handed us a sheet of paper and said "My character". It was a gimmick and went " I so & so (can't remember his name) am a rogue, a vagabond, a cheat etc. Then it gave his address at the third bridge and told you his line of business, and went, hoping to see us before we left Srinager.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.