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Some time later we started a big build-up of armour, guns and troops, and shortly afterwards a big push started and this was mainly fought out as a huge tank battle at Sidi Rezigh where, although suffering heavy losses, they got Jerry on the run and once more we moved West, relieving Tobruk on the way, much to their joy. The place was a shambles and once more it made one wonder how men could possibly exist and fight in such surroundings.
So, for the second time, we advanced up the blue and, for the first time Rommel knew what it was to run but after a while the advance ran out of momentum and we settled down to the routine as before; unfortunately away from the sea this time but an awful lot nearer to Tripoli, which we all regarded as our Holy Grail. But it was not yet to be as Jerry, smarting under the hammering his almighty Panzers got from the 8th Army, started to reform, re-fit and generally get ready for another push, which would take him to Alexandria - or so he thought.
It is history that his massive push succeeded, and after some fearful tank and artillery battles, he broke through our lines and made a dead-set for Alex and, once more, we were fleeing eastward (with the fitters’ truck at the end as usual).
We were harried every mile of the way, and even at night, bombed and machine-gunned as we tried for a bit of rest, re-fuelling and necessary repairs to keep the vehicles going, as none of us had the slightest desire to abandon a vehicle that Jerry might later use against us. If a truck was beyond our efforts to get going, it would have the petrol drain plug removed, the petrol allowed to drain away and an oily rag set alight and thrown on the wet sand and up it would go. It broke our hearts to do this as usually it was a minor fault, but we just didn’t have the time, as the Afrika Corps were always a bit too close.
In the desert, sound carries a long way, but it isn’t possible to judge how far the noise of tank tracks have carried before you hear them, so discretion, when you are running away, is the better part of valour.
It was about this time that we came across the French Foreign Legion; or rather they came across us. They were heading east so fast that they passed us in a cloud of dust with much shouting of ‘La Boche’ and pointing backwards. Stupid bastards; what the hell did they think we were running for? To exercise our clapped-out vehicles?
Much later I learned that they were our rear-guard cover but they were re-directed further on, to where all the other Foreign Legion were, a place called Bir Hakim, where by all accounts, they put up a terrific battle and stopped Jerry from turning the 8th Army flank before we were safely behind the El Alamein line. The place where the Staff had decide that the Germans would be stopped, and stopped they were, thanks be, in the main by the ‘Diggers’ and ‘Kiwis.’
We had nearly reached the El Alamein line, when my truck was bombed and received a very near miss, which put it and us out of action. The vehicle was a mess, with blood and shit everywhere, but nobody desperately hurt. We were picked up by an armoured truck and dropped off at a casualty clearing station where we were patched up and, when I woke up, I was on a hospital train heading for Palestine.
The hospital was an Australian one and was very good and I was up and about in no time but no sign of my crew. Apparently there was a bigger cock-up behind our lines than in front of them, and that is saying something! All the Cairo Cowboys (probably an unjust title for those who weren’t actually in the Desert) were flapping, and it was seemingly a classic case of S.N.A.F.U (situation normal, all fouled up) and people like myself were shunted anywhere to keep Cairo clear. This I was told later, however there was me with the ‘Diggers’ and, as we were all wounded, they accepted me without any trouble. If I hadn’t been wounded and was, say, an orderly, I would have been all the Pommie Bastards that ever lived.
They were a great bunch of blokes and used to fall about when I would salute their officers and call them ‘Sir.’ But I am damned if I could throwaway all my years of training and not give them the recognition their rank should get, but the officers were embarrassed when I gave them compliments, especially if any of their own troops were about, who never gave them any, but the rapport between the ‘digger’ and his officer was terrific and, when called upon to fight, did so without question and ferociously too, as the Germans had found out to their cost.
When I was getting around a bit, the inaction was boring me stiff, so, after asking the hospital Commandant if he had any un-serviceable vehicles that he would like repaired, I would be happy to do them, or anything that would improve their running ability. He was a bit taken aback and, after a bit of humming and hawing, said O.K. So the time was passed nicely and most of their transport was overhauled, including the Commandant’s motorcycle, which hadn’t run since one of the blokes had ‘acquired’ it and given it to him as a present.
Aussies are like that, and soon he was riding about, as happy as a sand boy. At last it was time for me to be discharged from hospital and, by the way, it was with the Aussies that I first learnt to roll cigarettes. This was due to the fact that their tobacco ration was not in standard cigarettes but in cut tobacco form and you either learnt to roll or give up smoking, so the ‘roller’ was born and, since then, apart from a few places where it was not possible to get tobacco, I have rolled them ever since. That, and a habit of calling everyone ‘sport’ is what I inherited from our Colonial Dependents - they used to do their nuts when I called them that but all in good fun; as one ‘digger’ said;
“He isn’t just a Pommie Bd, but a Scotch Pommie Bd.�
When I left that hospital they loaded me with tobacco and other goodies. They were a rough, kind-hearted crowd and they were all due to go back to Australia as the Japanese were getting too close to their ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½land they were required and wanted to return to their own patch. I like to think that they all survived the war but as they say, ‘if your number is on it...’

Back at the Royal Signals base camp at Maadi I met up with a couple of my old mates, and was told about the death of my very best pal. I was absolutely shattered and just couldn’t believe it; me, the hard man, felt like crying - and did, a little.
It was the first time that sentiment had got the better of me, who had had many pals killed and severely disabled by this time. In fact, a roll call of our old ‘boozing school’ wouldn’t have had many calling ‘Present.’
That night we went out and got tanked up; it is the best way to get a malaise out of your system. Never brood, have your moment of sadness and don’t dwell on it; think of the good times and not the bad- it works too. I vowed that whenever I was in a position to do so, the Germans would pay heavily for his life.
Then I was told to report to the Parachute Training Centre at Kebritt and I was overjoyed; after eighteen months or so of repeated application and generally making a nuisance of myself it had paid off, but I had to drop a rank. So be it.
The training was hard and consisted of gruelling P.T. and Route marches and falling off the backs of trucks to simulate landings (sic) and, finally, the first jump out of the side entrance of a Lockheed Hudson. With my height (about 6 feet) and bulk with the parachute, I was wedged in the opening and couldn’t move but a friendly boot in the back sent me on my way. Falling made me frightened but not for long as a crack was heard above and the parachute opened and I assumed a parachuting position, as taught, and looked around in wonder. To say that I felt ten feet tall and the cleverest bloke in the Army would be an understatement; with the hot air rising from the ground the descent was gentle and easily controlled and, after a few seconds, landed gently on the sand.
I felt great, and watched a couple of trainees like myself, land and heard a stentorian voice bawling
“Gather up that (xyz) parachute and bring it in, if Your Highness will condescend to join us, that is.�
Hastily grabbing up the parachute and walking the few hundred yards back to base I felt so proud that it had been done. I’d made it!
Jump after jump followed and finally the coveted wings were won and I was returned, much to my disgust, back to my old Unit. It wasn’t that I’d done anything wrong, it was the Battle of El Alamein opening up and everybody who could be spared was sent to their old units and, as I didn’t belong as yet, to a Para Unit, back I went, but was told I would he re-instated as soon as possible if still in one piece -a crowd of charmers, weren’t they?
Parachutists took no part in the battle to follow but, as I discovered later, were to be saved for Sicily and Italy and I rejoined them before that in Tunisia, many months later.

The blokes welcomed me back and we had a good jug-up on an evil brew sent over by the Canadians. It was very strong, almost spirituous beer, and some of the makes were Frontenac, Black Horse and many others whose names I cannot remember now. It was a long time since I had seen my mates as I had been in hospital and then had my Para training and there was great curiosity over my wings (which nobody had seen before) and many questions to answer and to ask.
A new General had appeared on the scene; General Montgomery, and he travelled around the various laagers, giving ‘pep’ talks and handing out cigarettes. As Generals were very, very remote figures to us, it didn’t mean a lot. After all, since Wavell got the push we had had more Generals than enough, but we were assured that this bloke was the one to chuck Rommel out of the Desert and with really good equipment too.
The latter was true and a huge build-up began once more and, of course, the newly arrived Highway Decorators (soldier’s name for the 51st Highland Division, given to them because wherever we went, there would be a sign ‘welcome to by courtesy of the HD). Mind you, they had an axe to grind after St. Valery in France 1940 and grind it they did, they were ‘raring to go.’ By mentioning the 51st HD please do not think that other Divisions and Corps were second place, they weren’t by a long chalk. All the Units under the 8th Army banner did a wonderful job of taking on an enemy, whose Commander, Rommel, was being accorded an unhealthy admiration as an unbeatable General - but we had a better one.
The time came for us to line up at the starting points for the new offensive, and as tanks and guns were moved into position under cover of darkness, vehicles which were camouflaged as tanks, were moved into their vacated places behind the lines, so that the enemy reconnaissance planes would see no difference; clever stuff, and it worked.
Then the battle opened, with the greatest artillery barrage of all time and it really hammered the enemy into the ground; prisoners being brought back were stupefied. During the barrage the Royal Engineers went in first and cleared a way through the protective minefield in front of us, and laid white tapes to guide the tanks and infantry through the safe passages. Like all the others, they were very brave men.
The barrage eventually lifted and the infantry and tanks took on the so-called invincible Wehrmacht. For ten days the battle raged and at last the enemy broke and the Master Race took off and left the poor, numbed Italians without support and without even a vehicle. They were quickly put in the bag and the great pursuit began which was to end, this time, in Tunisia, with a join-up of both 1st and 8th Armies.
When my truck eventually got through the minefield and progressed westwards we saw, for the first time, the carnage of that battle. Burnt-out trucks, tanks littered the desert; arms and legs and trunks - with or without heads - were all over the place, and the smell was sickening in the extreme, especially the tanks with their incinerated crews. In one we looked in, an Italian light tank, there was only ashes and a grisly pair of hands, still grasping the steering tillers. Yeuck!
A truck, still smouldering, attracted attention from us, because it was a cookhouse truck, an open one, and the rear part was undamaged. This had to be investigated, as at the best there might be some food and water in it and, at the worst, we could get some cooking utensils for ours were in poor shape and few and far between.
Whilst one of the boys ransacked the back I spotted a frying-pan on the ground under the drivers’ seat, so crawling underneath I retrieved it, but in doing so noticed something was dripping on my hand, and, thinking that it might be petrol and therefore very dangerous. I grabbed the utensil and stood up; going to brush the wet spots off my hand I realised they were blood spots, and, wondering where they had come from, gazed at the driver’s seat and noticed, for the first time, a charred corpse, shrunk down to about 2 foot tall, which was still dripping blood on to the floor and through a hole in the truck onto the sand. This was what had dripped on me. I felt nauseated, but still took the frying pan over to our own truck - our need was greater than his.
The great chase went on, and once we got so far ahead that we had to stop and lie ‘doggo’ and I’m not talking of just my own vehicle but the complete Brigade. Apparently we hadn’t got the strength to intercept the German column over to our right. We learned later that it was the 90th Light Panzer Division (an old adversary of ours) so we crept into various wadis and watched it go by, two or three miles away, probably I on the coast road which runs, more or less, the whole of North Africa. I believe our Brigade Commander was spitting blood over this happening, but there it is, in war, as in peace, some you win, some you lose.

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