Chapter 9 Tales told by the AIF

DASHER

THE late afternoon sunshine was pleasantly warm and I was comfortably stretched out on the fringe of sand along Kalebes Beach, not far from the entrance of Suda Bay, when Dasher introduced himself.

He approached unobserved and intimated his desire to get acquainted by licking my bare feet. I hunched up on an elbow to take stock of my visitor. He took a couple of quick, defensive steps backwards, and sat on his haunches, stiffly prepared for instant flight.

Except for a white vest centred with a tufty whorl of hair like a duck's tall, he was completely black. It was the remarkable length of his body, indicating certain ancestral traits, that suggested his name to me.

His broadly spaced legs were no more than four or five inches 'long and the measurement from a restless knob of a tail to the top of his neatly erect head was nearly 3o inches. His neck and white chest were definitely bulldoggish, but the triangular ears and pointed head derived from another strain.

I spoke to him. Apparently deciding that I would do no harm, fie gravely thrust a damp nose into my outstretched hand. With the introduction thus over, he curled up beside me and promptly went to sleep.

He became my dog from that moment, and in the succeeding days on Crete he rarely left my side. When a cool wind from the sea drove me back to our camp in an olive grove running almost to the water's edge, Dasher followed unbidden. I managed to scrounge an extra tin of bully beef and a few biscuits from the quartermaster's limited supply. Our evening meal was quite a splendid affair. The appreciation Dasher accorded his share gave me an interest in a diet I had grown to accept as nothing more than a means to live. He treated the hard meat-flecked biscuits as a new type of bone. Later he developed a habit of burying them in all sorts of unlikely places, with all the intricate ceremony a dog gives to the concealment of the most delectable of bones.

Dasher displayed great interest in the blanket I spread at the foot of a gnarled old olive tree that night. His first reaction, as he gingerly walked on it, was one of stiff legged suspicion; but finding it softer than most of the odd corners he had hitherto slept in, he signalled his intention of staying for the night by making three or four complete about turns. Keeping a careful brown eye on me for any sign of disapproval, he tucked his diminutive legs under him and relaxed with a grunt of satisfaction. I couldn't resist the urge to pat him. Reassured, he tucked his nose into his chest and closed his eyes.

Blankets were then at a premium on Crete. One blanket was shared by two, and often three men. Their use was purely as a mattress, and we used to put on all the available before turning in for the night, removing only boots for use as a pillow. Before the advent of Dasher Bombardier John had been my bed mate. He was somewhat dubious about the addition of a dog to the already limited capacity of a single blanket. In the morning, however, Bombardier John enthusiastically agreed with me that the little warm body between us had taken much of the chill from the night air. He went even so far as to suggest that it wouldn't be a bad idea to persuade half a dozen dogs to sleep with us, if one could make such a difference to our comfort. So Dasher was installed permanently as our sleeping partner. It was always he who decided when blanket-spreading time arrived, and he was always first to bed.

Later, when the blitz started and we moved to a defensive position on a craggy hill overlooking the bright blue of Suda Bay, I lost the treasured blanket. Dasher rather resented the privilege I then had of going to bed first, because he had to wait for me to lie down in whatever spot I chose before he could stretch out against me. The comforting warmth of his friendly body was even more appreciated then. But those days were still to come.

Meanwhile, Dasher enjoyed himself as only a happy dog can, and I lavished on him all the care and attention Crete and circumstance permitted. I made arrangements for a Greek to deliver a pint of goat's milk each morning. This was always waiting in a treacle tin when Dasher woke. At meals he had his share of whatever was going, and developed a passion for bully beef. On one occasion our milkman brought a few eggs which I fried in olive oil in my mess tin. Dasher devoured four with great gusto before he was' satisfied. After that, whenever I visited one of the dozens of egg-and-chip stalls which enterprising Greeks had established among the olive groves within a day or two of the arrival of the ever-hungry Anzacs, Dasher always expected and received at least one egg.

In response to Major-General Freyberg's appeal to keep fit and tough, because the Germans were expected any day, the Battery went for strenuous route marches along the dusty roads winding through Crete's innumerable olive groves and colourless, scattery villages. Dasher always marched with us. Sometimes he would bound ahead to rest, panting, in the shade of a tree or bush until the column caught up with him.

Dasher had two intense dislikes-air-raids and a bath. Whenever the Stukas and Dorniers came over and our defiant anti-aircraft guns filled the sky with a fleecy confusion of white and grey, he would creep between my legs and sit there dejectedly trembling until the cacophony of guns and bombs had ceased. Often he watched the diving, twisting planes as though he understood their portent and the menace they carried.

The area round Suda Bay is twined about with a network of streams fed by crystal-clear water from melting snows of the vague, purple and white-capped mountains inland. It was to one of these delightful little brooks, with its lattice of luxuriant green and brown, that Dasher and I went for our daily bath. Despite the intense cold of the water I always enjoyed a plunge, but Dasher never failed to object most strenuously. Perhaps he didn't appreciate the shining black sleekness the dip gave to his coat and the liquidation of any accumulation of fleas. I'm sure no flea could have lived after an immersion in that freezing water.

Hard times came with the Hun, and Dasher became dependent almost entirely upon himself for recreation. Such games as lizard chasing and mad races with other dogs, which usually ended in snarling, snapping scuffles, occupied much of his time; but he would always return to me with a look in his eyes seeming to suggest that I should join in, too. He missed his morning milk for a while, and became leaner as the supply of bully diminished. However, he accepted the difficulties which came along, although some happenings rather puzzled him. On these occasions he was not sure whether he should be frightened or whether the whole affair was organised for his entertainment.

We withdrew from our position on the hillside one morning. During a day of ceaseless dive-bombing and machine-gunning by the Luftwaffe, we traversed the two or three miles to the valley below. At nightfall we were told that the Hun was to be held by a rearguard, and that all troops in the valley were to make for the coast on the other side of Crete. So Dasher and I joined the throng-military detachments and Greek civilian refugees-on the one road over the rocky mountain divide between the north and south coasts of the island.

I had become so accustomed to Dasher trotting along behind me that I did not notice his disappearance until I stopped for a rest after a couple of hours' steady plodding. When five minutes had passed and no Dasher had appeared, I realised something was amiss. I gave a low whistle-a signal which he had learned to recognise and answer with alacrity-and called his name, but there was no response. I walked back for nearly a mile, stopping every few minutes to whistle. But my search, hampered as it was by the darkness and continual movement along the road, was in vain. With a sense of very deep loss I decided to continue the southward march without him.

As the night wore on, walking became a mechanical motion of placing one foot in front of the other. With the ever-increasing number of stragglers dropping behind, the column, which had begun as a nearly solid mass, thinned out to a long line of weary men whose spirits drove them even when their bodies seemed incapable of continued effort. At dawn I was halfway through the pass. For two or three hours I slept on a heap of rubble by the roadside. As a result I gained new energy and decided to keep walking until 'planes drove me to cover. I was resting in the cool shade of a little village chapel, about ten miles from Spakhia, when the first 'planes -Dorniers-came over to drop their bombs wherever they thought troops were concealed. Shortly after midnight I arrived in a steep-sided, tree-covered gully within sight of the sea. There the rest of our regiment were assembled for the final march to the beach. Throughout the next day we remained there unseen by the 'planes constantly overhead.

At dusk we were organised into groups of fifty. We knew that the Navy was waiting for us. The thought of escape so near gave us a reckless disregard for the difficulties and dangers of the boulder-strewn, cliff-side track we chose as the shortest route to the beach. But the short cut proved to be the long way, and we eventually reached our destination too late to embark that night. We turned back to shelter in the hills.

A few of us found a cave inhabited by some Greeks, and here we stretched out among the debris on the dusty floor and slept. I awoke conscious of a terrific itchiness, which investigation proved to be caused by a score of prodigious fleas. They had feasted so well while I slept that they were too languid to hop away as I methodically caught and exterminated them one by one.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully enough. Towards evening I went down to the beach to discover what I could about future movements. While I was here Bombardier John, whom I had not seen since Suda Bay, walked up.

"I thought you must be about somewhere when I saw your dog," he said. I told him that Dasher was forty miles away, so far as I knew. And then, bounding over the litter of the beach, came Dasher-an elongated black streak that appeared to skim over the ground, so fast did his twinkling legs carry him towards me. The speed of his arrival launched him right into my arms as I stooped to receive him.

Wriggling from my grasp he leapt about in an ecstasy of delight, and wagged his tail with nearly enough violence to break his back, it seemed. He was a very lean Dasher, it's true, with ribs showing out as ridges along a now bedraggled coat. His once snowy vest bore the stains of a long, hard journey, although the duck's tail in its middle jutted forward as aggressively as ever.

My first thought was to give him a meal, and this presented a difficulty. However, a search yielded a small tin of bully, which Dasher, Bombardier and myself shared equally. Dasher gulped down his portion and appealed for more. I tried to explain to him that certain difficulties were in the way, but that he would eat again at the first opportunity.

That night-the fourth since the evacuation started-when I lay down among the fleas and dirt, Dasher took up his customary position with evident satisfaction. Sometime during the following day, while we were restlessly waiting for darkness, Dasher would doze. But if I as much as shifted the position of my feet he would be up in a flash, watchful and ready to follow me if I should move. He was making sure that he wouldn't lose me a second time.

Midnight found us on the crest of a steep hill waiting for the signal to descend to the barges drawn up along the beach front below. A muttered word from the leading officer, and the silent line moved forward.

Fearing that Dasher would be unable to negotiate some of the steeper drops, I tucked him under my arm before I began the descent.

Safety was discarded in favour of speed.

A careless jump threw me off balance and before I could save myself I was rolling over and over. I hit the beach with a terrific jolt. A sailor urged me to my feet and bundled me into a crowded barge on the point of pulling out from the water's edge.

When I fell, Dasher had slipped from me and had gone tumbling off into the darkness. My scattered wits returned as the barge slid towards the shadowy outline of a destroyer out to sea. This time I knew I would not see him again.

Crete is now a distant memory, but I often think of my dog and the simple, companionable part he played in my life at a time when lives were little more than desperate things for the giving and the taking.

I know Dasher, though, and I have no doubt that he will get along. Besides, the fact that he is indisputably Aryan should be an asset.

"SX1543"

Scouting

In the art of scouting, care must be taken not to show yourself to the enemy and to blend yourself with the surroundings the idea being to pretend you are not there.
Also to remember surprise attacks from the rear, wedges, and pincers movements, counter-attacks and also your flanks.....otherwise, remember the old motto: LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP ! >>>
ISLE OF CONTENT
SECRECY is one of the army's most effective methods of keeping spirits up; secrecy breeds rumours, and soldiers like rumours. In mid-Mediterranean, sometime in 1941, Australian troops travelling in a certain ship did not know whither they were bound. They suspected Crete, were wondering about Haifa, and hoped for Cyprus. Cyprus it was. None of us had been there, and nobody on board knew anything about the place. When the ship slid quietly into a harbour where ancient battlements circled the shore, where Gothic cathedral spires rose above the town, scarcely a man on board knew the name of the port. Since the description fits every seaside town in Cyprus, and in the interests of secrecy, the name shall not be revealed here. Then somebody found a handbook of Cyprus, and the details of an island that we had not thought of began to unfold before us. The island was large; and thickly populated; and fertile; and historic. It produced wine in terrific quantity -and sold it at ludicrously low prices; it made its own cigarettes and beer; the girls were pretty, and the population friendly. Thus informed, the Australians came ashore. Perhaps it was because the Cyprus police were wearing hats of the same shape as ours; but, at all events, the Australians took Cyprus to their hearts; and the Cypriots formed an affection for the Australians which was amazing. It showed itself through gifts from villagers, cheers in every town, helpfulness in training. The population, we found, was composed of people of Greek, Turkish and Armenian extraction. The language situation took about a week to master. We found that the words we needed were-or sounded like: Malista, or Nay, for "Yes." Oyhe, for "No." Gala, for "Good." Efkaristo, for "Thank you." Efkaristobole, for "Thank you very much." Evett (Turkish) for "Yes." Armed with this fluent grip of the local patois, our time in Cyprus went like a flash. We camped some distance out of Nicosia, the capital-a strange town of crookety, narrow streets, not built for army lorries. It had Greek-style houses with blue doors and white eaves; there were white banks and public buildings; innumerable mosques, Greek Orthodox churches and other places of worship. A town a-buzz with honking buses, bringing shoppers in from the hill villages, taxis weaving their way, and gharries clopping along the streets with musical bells to warn the pedestrians. The latter invariably walked in the roadway, for the sufficient reason that there were no footpaths in any part of the town. About the town was a moat, and a fourteen-foot thick wall, built by the Venetians. In the dried-up moat now were air-raid trenches, reinforced with stone from the ancient walls. The Australians soon settled down. There were four cabarets-two of them quite good; two cinemas, and innumerable cafes, coffee shops and bars. Those bars! After the first poor effect of finding an island where brandy cost two shillings a bottle and wine sixpence a bottle, we began to study the products of the country in a scientific way. When we go back to Australia, there will be many experts among us who previously did not know a sherry from a sauterne. In due course there was time to look round the island. We saw the picturesque town of Limassol, where Richard Coeur de Lion married Berengaria; and Famagusta, where Othello's Tower is the setting associated with Shakespeare's play. There were the ancient Roman ruins at Salamis, and the Knight Templars' headquarters at Collossi, the Buffavento, and St. Hilarion's Castle, and the ancient monasteries which dot the hillsides. The mountain of Troodos, and the modern hotels of Platres, where refugees were living at peace after escaping from the hell of Europe. There were breathtaking places; valleys of "Shangri La," where a contented peasantry tilled and terraced the hillside, growing pears and grapes, cherries and apricots; where cold mountain streams rushed down, followed the road a while, and then dived into oak-filled valleys. Then there were the plains, the great Messaoria, where the island's barley and wheat crops are grown. As we drove in battle buggies over these plains, the gaily dressed peasants would stop their work, lean on their threshers, and wave a greeting. At the little villages, people would crowd round our trucks, and press grapes and coffee on us. And the children would stand back, polite and deferential. How pleasant it was to come to a land where the word "backsheesh" was unknown, and where a child would have been rebuked by an elder for begging. We made friends in Cyprus, good friends. In the British community, and also among the Cypriots-particularly the shopkeepers and the police. We shall not easily forget the police band. They sent to Egypt especially to get the music of "Waltzing Matilda" to play to us. And we shall not forget those soft, moonlit Cyprus nights, when we listened to that band playing under the pine trees. Then came the news that we were to leave the island. Our feelings were mixed. We wanted to get back to our cobbers on the mainland. We hated to leave Cyprus where, despite the endeavours of Capronis and J.U.88's, we had had a wonderful time. The Cypriots were depressed. Long faces greeted the news of our departure. Gifts which we could not take away were showered on us. As we drove down the winding roads to the port, the people came out of their homes to wave us good-bye. When peace comes again to the world, many Australians travelling via Suez to England will break the journey at Port Said and turn north for a glimpse of the pine covered hills of Cyprus. "NX52009"

"FURPHY-FLUSHERS" OF TOBRUK

FURPHIES flourished among the troops of Tobruk. The slightest rumour was seized on with avidity and passed from mouth to mouth with amazing speed.

To combat this spread of ill-founded information and to cater for the garrison's ,craving for news, the publication of small news-sheets, containing a transcript of wireless broadcasts, was encouraged, and several were produced regularly.

Aptly termed "Furphy-flushers"-for they were most useful in flushing furphies so that they could be "shot on the rise"-these news-sheets became an integral part of life in Tobruk. They gave amusement, proved valuable in maintaining morale by helping to destroy the breeding grounds for rumours, and provided an authentic account of -current events.

Best known of these miniature newspapers was the "Tobruk Truth," which also bore the title of "The Dinkum Oil." Modestly presented, produced under great difficulties, with provision of a reliable news service to the troops its only object, "Tobruk Truth" itself became news. Its issue numbers mounted and the spirit which imbued its publication was acclaimed in the international press and featured in pictures and on the screen. "Always Appears" was the paper's motto. The words were an editorial ,command, to be followed in spite of bombs and shells, shortage of paper and ink, and the breaking down of wireless sets.

First issued on 16th February, 1941, early numbers were run off on the back of captured Italian army forms on a dilapidated duplicator. Later, a new duplicator was ,brought up from Egypt and this solved production problems until a 1,500-lb. bomb demolished the "press room," and a quantity of masonry fell on the "press." The machine was "bomb-happy" after that, but it could still be coaxed to work sufficiently to turn out the daily edition.

The "Tobruk Truth" grew rapidly in popularity, and, as its field of readers widened, copies were distributed with the rations. Stocks of paper were acquired from time to time, but never enough to provide copies for all. At the most, a little over 6oo copies were printed. These were passed from hand to hand and read until worn out.

Some units used to reprint the "Truth" for their own personnel, and the paper was even translated for troops who could not speak English. In some instances, where groups of men were gathered, they would choose one of their number with the loudest voice to read out the news as soon as it was received.

The editor, a Melbourne newspaperman, claimed to have listened to more wireless -sets than any other man in Tobruk in the course of his news-gathering. As set after set failed or was put out of action, he would track down another. By the end of the seventh month of publication, his ears were cocked alongside his twelfth radio.

On one occasion, the only radio available was in pieces, but the owner managed to link the various parts together just in time for the editor to tune in, with the set strewn all over the floor. Another time, with all wireless in the vicinity out of commission, he set out for a unit several miles away but became lost in a severe sand-storm. He reached a radio just as the announcer was stating that the worst sand-storm in years was raging in Libya!

Air-raids always had to be contended with, and the frequent insertion of "At this, stage Jerry arrived again and the wireless was cut off," was indicative of the editorial problems that had to be overcome.

Only one "extraordinary" edition was produced. It came, hot on the heels of the news, to announce the flight of Rudolf Hess to Scotland. Several enlarged editions were issued with special announcements. Normally the paper was of only two pages, and contained mainly the morning and evening B.B.C. broadcasts, with occasional local news. In June illustrations were introduced and from then cartoons based on current happenings became quite a feature. Advertising space was eagerly sought but always refused-except for one issue in which a concert by the combined forces was. announced.

Issued free, "Tobruk Truth" nevertheless acquired a price among the troops, and certain copies, like other limited editions, commanded a high figure in the Tobruk souvenir market. Tobruk has won an imperishable name, in the annals of the A.I.F. and it is certain that whenever a Tobruk reunion is held one of the toasts will be-"Tobruk Truth - Which Always Appeared."

A sand-bagged hole in the ground, a grit clogged typewriter and duplicator, a guttering candle, a decrepit radio, some swirling dust, a Staff Sergeant with no previous literary experience but the will and ability to write, and a battalion eager for news, with the whine of shells and the burst of mortars as noises off-and you have the setting for "Mud and Blood," another of Tobruk's "Furphy-flushers."

Conceived in Australia, born on a troop transport, and nurtured amid odd wadis and dugouts in Libya, "Mud and Blood" shared similar fame to "Tobruk Truth," and its name spread far afield. It was a more ambitious production than the "Truth," for it contained as much local comment, verse and cartoons as it did news.

But its circulation was less, being confined mostly to its unit. Incidentally, the name "Mud and Blood"' was derived from the battalion colours - Brown and Red.

The original intention was that "Mud and Blood" should be quite a literary master-piece, not only in contents, but also in production. When the unit left Australia it brought along a complete printing plant and stocks of paper. However, only two issues were made before the press and the rest of the equipment went up in smoke in a dive-bombing attack.

That certainly was the end of the press-but it was only the beginning of "Mud and Blood." On 28th April, the first edition was produced in the field, copies being sent to each front-line post. Since then the journal has been produced daily, as far as operations permitted. Circulation soared to 120 copies on one occasion, but 80 to go was the usual issue.

Like "Tobruk Truth," "Mud and Blood" also had a souvenir value, and when a copy had been read it would be balloted for and sent home, or to England, America or Malaya.

Oddly enough, a few of the file copies have travelled to Australia and back again to Libya. In the course of frequent moves, the editorial file became incomplete, and the editor appealed for duplicates. This resulted in several copies being posted back from Australia. Number ii is still missing from the file, but a copy is being held in trust until after the war.

In the early stages the editor wrote the entire contents. Then contributions were invited and quite a lot of literary talent was unearthed from the dust of Tobruk. To enliven the columns and heighten "reader interest," several competitions were conducted-for tall stories, limerick last lines, odes and-catching the most fleas.

For the flea contest the scale of awards was
- One bug 3 fleas
- One rat io fleas
- Three lice = 1 flea (easier to catch by far)
- One gazelle = 300 fleas
- One Iti prisoner = 200 fleas (plus all "catch" found on him).
Criticizing this table, which was laid down by the C.O., the editor considered it an anomaly that 300 fleas were allowed for a gazelle, and only 200 for an Iti prisoner, whereas it was well known that an Iti was much fleeter of foot than the gazelle, and was consequently harder to catch.

The contest was won by a company which romped home through bagging five prisoners. One of these, however, was under-size and rated only i5o fleas.

A frequent topic of conversation among the men of Tobruk was whether a special medal would be struck for the siege. In view of this, "Mud and Blood" decided to bestow its own medal-known as the "Mud and Blood Medal"-upon those members of the battalion adjudged worthy of the honour, such as for introducing the most fantastic furphies. The design of the medal is symbolical, having stamped upon it a shield, quartered, surmounted by fleas rampant, each quarter bearing respectively a tin opener, plate of bully stew, empty beer bottle and a dirty singlet. The obverse side bears a grain of dust.

The medal has already been awarded for a number of appropriate deeds, but will not be issued until after the war, when recipients will wear it at reunions.

Contemporary with "Mud and Blood" was the "Furphy Flyer," which included in its columns the latest rabbit and fox-skin prices. Another sheet was "The Newt." This began publication while its unit was in England, and blossomed forth in Tobruk with a 10-page annual to mark the battalion's first birthday. "The Newt" also brought out a monthly edition sponsoring the battalion's Mothers, Wives and Sweethearts' Club.

In Tobruk the pen was never mightier than the sword, but at least it added something to the spirit behind the might of arms. The "Furphy-flushers" which were so much a part of life in this spot in Libya, captured and preserved the atmosphere of the A.I.F. in word and verse which assuredly will be quoted in the years to come.

"VX16373"

"LITTLE SYD"

Talking of Diggers' pets. To relieve the boredom of camp life in Palestine, my cobber, Les, and I invented an imaginary "jeep" which we christened "Little Syd."

As well as being invisible, Little Syd had several other amazing qualities. He could be rolled into a round ball or folded into a four-inch square. He was equipped with a pair of hands, three legs and a tail and could be hung up anywhere, even in empty space. My mates and I became very attached to Little Syd, and those not in the know thought we were "bomb-happy" seeing us talking with airy nothing and apparently leading it about by the hand.

We fed Syd on the split portions of the atom, a supply of which we kept in an empty tobacco tin. Whenever Les and I went on leave the "jeep" used to accompany us. Considerable doubt was aroused in the minds of some of the Jewish waitresses in the cafes in Tel Aviv when we would draw up a spare chair from a vacant table so that Syd could sit with us while we dined. Sometimes it would be necessary to scold Syd for putting his feet up on the table or getting in the way of the passers-by. I shall never forget the look of bewilderment on the face of one Palestine policeman as Les and I stood at a street crossing calling to Little Syd, who was halfway across the road, trying to cross in the face of the oncoming traffic. We had a lot of fun out of Little Syd; he was inclined to be rather a high-spirited "Jeep" at times, especially when Les and I had been indulging in a few beers.

Little Syd was finally lost to us. My mate and I were selected to go to a refresher course at a School of Signals. (No doubt signallers from various units who attended that course, between 14th June and 4th July, '41, will recall how the antics of Syd enlivened our odd moments during the three weeks we were there. The "jeep" was a well-known identity.) Attending the course were a couple of dispatch riders from another Division, and they were envious of our possession of Syd. When the School broke up, and the Sigs returned to their respective units, these two kidnapped the "jeep" and took him away with them.

Les and 1, and other mates of our unit, were very upset at losing Little Syd; he had acquired a definite personality and we had become extremely fond of the cute little fellow; those who knew him will understand.

Well, just recently, I heard of his ultimate fate. It seems that in his new home they used to feed him on electrons (which, as experts all agree, is no proper diet for "jeeps") and I believe that some bad characters even used to dip the electrons in beer before feeding him, with the result that Little Syd developed a taste for Drink. Lacking proper care and attention such as he was accustomed to when with our crowd, Little Syd wasted away. He finally died from eating protons, which had become tainted through being exposed to the air.

Little Syd is buried somewhere in the Fourth Dimension, and anyone who knows the way there is at liberty to visit his grave.

ACTION ON THE PERIMETER

At Tobruk, our patrols were again active during the night. Enemy posts were successfully raided." - Official communiqué.

THE last quick, confused rush is through a darkness cut with the flashes of their fire. We are among their weapon pits now, and the enemy seem to be coming out of the ground everywhere.

The gun crews are quickly destroyed. As we move on to the next pit, no sound comes from the last. We disable the light Breda machine guns by holding the muzzles and smashing the butts on the ground.

Under cover of a burned-out Hun tank, I reassemble our little band of wreckers. There remain eight of us, including myself. Suddenly we are fired on by a machine gun, and I see what, until then, I had not noticed. There is another tank, dug into the ground, and it is from this that the fire is coming. Three of us approach it, and we are met with a fusillade of hand-grenades. I drop to my haunches, take aim with my rifle and pull the trigger. There is no response. The rifle has jammed.

I start to try and clean out the dust and sand, and, at that moment, something lobs clean between my feet. There is an explosion, a blinding flash, and everything goes black. I reel backwards, seeking some sort of cover behind a tiny mound of earth. I can see nothing. My eyes' , With my fingers I force the lids apart; but my fears are not altogether grounded, for I can see the barest perceptible outline of the tank in front of me. I see a figure move on top of it, and I see a little tongue of flame and simultaneously a bullet kicks up a spurt of dust at my elbow.

There is another blinding flash and I feel my rifle give a convulsive leap in my hands and then fall against my steel helmet. I feel along the barrel and find it a twisted wreck. So I'm unarmed, and right slap-bang up against the enemy position. I must make an effort to find better cover. My left leg is drawn up under me and my right stretched out behind all ready for a leap. The chap on the tank slaps another round down and it hums over the top of me. I hear him reload, and once again he fires. Getting horribly close now, and the cover I'm behind is negligible.

Gradually I gather nerve and sinew together and I'm up-with one momentous leap as planned. But the worst has happened. I have cramp in both legs! I stagger and totter away like a drunk; and with hand-grenades bursting close, I find a semi destroyed truck or something.

On the lee side I sit down and take out my water-bottle and have a good long drink. I begin to feel much better and try to work out a plan of action.

Suddenly, some few yards away I see a figure move. He begins to crawl towards me, and calls out in Italian. I have only my bayonet, which I removed from my mangled rifle. I answer softly, "Amico!" and he crawls nearer. When he gets close he sees that I am not one of his own troops.

"Christo!" he whispers. He isn't above eighteen years old, and with what seemed to me in my semi-blindness as the biggest eyes I'd ever seen. I think, "I can't kill a baby." So I say to him, "Bono, bono; soldato, Englesi," and he appears to be a little more reassured.

I know little or no Italian, and for the life of me I can't think of the word for "Where." I want to say "Where are the British soldiers?" So I compromise by saying "Italiano soldato la" and pointing towards the direction from which I'd just come, and then saying "Englizi soldato?" with a high note of interrogation in my voice.

It works, for he points towards the direction from which he has crawled. I say "Gratias," and offer my hand, first transferring my bayonet from it to my left hand. I see him draw back so I repeat "Amico." He grabs my hand, presses a damp kiss on to the back of it, and bolts for the lick of his life.

I hope they don't kill him. Perhaps he'll end in a prisoners' cage. He'd have a much better time there than serving under the Huns! Somehow or other one can't seem to work up a hate for the Dagoes as you can for the Huns.

After he goes I know only by the vague gesture of an out flung arm where our troops may be. The artillery are still pounding the heart out of the enemy. I am so nearly blind I can't even see the stars for guidance. It's no good staying here. I run -half stooped-for almost a couple of hundred yards, when there is a great crash and everything starts rocking and roaring round me.

For how long I am out to it, I don't know. Whether I just faint, or whether a shell lands next door to me, I still don't know. At all events when I regain what few senses I have left, I am miles from where I last remember being. My sight seems to have got worse. I put my hand in my shirt pocket and feel for the photograph of my wife I always keep there. It is still there, and I feel an enormous relief at that discovery. In the midst of this there cuts into my thoughts the sound of voices.

There is quite a stiffish cross-breeze blowing, and I can't distinguish what is being said, but it doesn't seem to be altogether English. Then I remember that we have supporting us some English troops who speak a very strong dialect. My heart is very high. I begin to make my way towards them, and now I hear a carrier coming up behind me. I turn round and throw up my hand. At least, I think, I can get a lift to the R.A.P. where they can do something for my eyes. The carrier rolls to a standstill and I hear a hinge wheeze. I think, carriers don't have lids or turrets to open. Then a voice speaks to me in German.

What he says, I'll never know. The lid slams down and a burst of machine gun fire rips over my shoulder. So close that I feel the breeze on my cheek. I fall to the ground in a heap - mainly, I think, because my legs just give way under me.

I hear the carrier grind away past me, and as it vanishes into the distance leaving me for dead, I breathe a sigh of relief that maybe could be heard several miles away. I get up, and after listening carefully make my way towards the voices I can still hear across the breeze.

I stop and shout "Hoi" The talking ceases and I shout again. And then for the ninety-ninth time that night my heart skips a beat or two. Someone calls "Oberleutnant! Oberleutnant!" I flatten myself on the ground, and crawl some thirty yards into a fairly thick patch of camel bush. Pulling several large bunches of it out of the ground I endeavour to cover my legs and back, and then, rather ostrich-like, push my head into another bush. Presently, I can hear them walking all round me, and talking, and one bright lad nearly gives me heart trouble for the rest of my life by walking within about two yards of my head. And then, once again, the artillery comes to the rescue.

I would definitely rather take a risk with the artillery than with the Huns. Much more definitely, as I haven't any means of protection. They are sending up Very lights all over the place, and the scene is so lit up that even I in my semi-blindness can see it. So I up and run, zig-zagging all over the place until I hit a barbed wire entanglement, and I don't think I even feel the barbs! I crawl through and start walking hard. After I've been going for a minute or so I hear a voice, loud enough to awaken the dead, yell "Halt!" At first I don't know whether it is friend or enemy. I am reassured very swiftly by some horrible epithets and the Great Australian Noun. I shout "Friend."

"Advance and give the pass-word." Pass-word? Can I remember it? I cannot! However I advance slowly and do a lot of explaining, as I go. They prove to be the X Battalion-our second line of defence in that sector. I could weep for joy! I climb on to the parapet of the trench, and for the second time that night go out to it.

I am out for about twenty minutes this time, and when I come to they ply me with questions and ask me, with rather a peculiar tone in their voices, from which direction I have come through the wire. I tell them and there is a stony silence for a second or two. Then they all shout at me at once, and I wonder what on earth I have done wrong. Very patiently they tell me that I have just run full-pelt through thirty yards of minefield, with about a yard between each mine.

They send a man back with me to the ambulance post, where they bind up my eyes and put me to bed with a hot drink. I am now in hospital as I write this, and the M.O. says that there is every possibility of my regaining quite normal sight within about a week or so from now.

I.W.H.

LESSON LEARNT

CODLIN was an inveterate fiddler, the very essence of a meddler who could not and would not leave well alone.

To those of us who associated with him, this wouldn't have mattered if he had confined his hobby to some useful purpose-to some harmless gadget, even. But no.

As Corky his pal and shadow observed, he had to pick on some flaming thing that was likely to send a bloke to blazes.

He had, in short, a yen for devilish contraptions.

Expostulation was useless, punishment vain. He attended parades and listened to warnings against the evils of meddling with captured ammunition and the disciplinary action that would follow such lack of sense. And forthwith went back to his devil's work.

It wasn't so bad when he "found," as he put it, the trim Breda anti-aircraft shell. We were in the Western Desert then, and he had the whole wide world to play in, We forgot our fraying nerves that time, and watched indeed with reluctant admiration as, squatting behind a boulder, his head down and his hands on its other side, he struggled to extract the "works" and make the dangerous toy safe.

"He's a moral to go up," observed Corky, watching with the calm detachment of a seer who is about to realise the consummation of the inevitable. "A moral.

Them things is dynamite." But with a grunt of triumph Codlin withdrew his hands, showed us the intricate, deadly fuse, the case from which he had extracted it.

He had confounded us, proved us tyros, shown us that he did contrary to our repeated asseverations: know what he was doing.

From that time, until he finally brought about his downfall, he gave us no peace. All kinds of madmen's devices were pulled apart under our unwilling noses. Death seemed very, very near. Nothing would stop him. our nerves were ragged from waiting for the inevitable explosion that was to hurl us to oblivion.

And then, in Syria, he found the mortar bomb. Black and blue it was, heavy and finned. There was, we admitted, truth in his claim that it was a bonzer little thing. We had to admit that it had a certain flowing line, a comeliness that belied its power to kill. But, for a long time, it was Codlin's match. Try as he would, he was unable to take it apart. No tool would quite fit. He shook it, showed us that it rattled, tapped it with his spanner. We told him of sympathetic detonation, of the fickleness of foreign ammo. All to no avail. His efforts in the past were as nothing to his determination to open this horror and "see what's inside."

One day he did open it. Screwed it apart and captured the heavy black grains of explosive that rolled from within. He seemed disappointed. "There's not much of it," he observed glumly, "p'raps it's only a dummy. There's not enough stuff there to blow a matchbox apart." We followed him as he scrambled down the stony hillside to the hideout he had established when we arrived. Here, on a patch of bare soil, he poured the explosive into a little mound.

"Now what yer going to do?" asked Corky.

"See if it'll burn," replied Codlin fumbling in his pockets. We urged upon him the virtue of lighting a little at first. "I know what I'm doin'," he replied briefly.

He lit a match and poked it into the heap. Nothing happened. "Struth, it's no dam' good," said Codlin, and leaning over, pushed another match into the centre of the pile.

There was a sudden, intolerable, blinding rush of flame. Flaring into the air like an angry geyser, it momentarily obscured the experimenter from our view.

Then he emerged to our startled gaze. He was a sorry sight. His eyes were popping with fright and amazement.

His eyelashes had disappeared, his eyebrows were black smears, his right arm was scorched and hairless, his face was grimed.

Corky surveyed his friend with grim pleasure. "This is the 'appiest day of my life," he said dispassionately. "P'raps that'll teach yer a lesson." Codlin was fumbling at his face, fiddling at his lips. "Did it burn me?" Then, "It did burn me," and rushed for the regimental aid post.

Three days later we visited him at the hospital to which they had taken him. Corky carried a mysterious parcel, wrapped in newspaper. Codlin's face was a mask of grease-his hand and arm were bandaged-his manner was strained. Corky handed over the parcel. With his good hand Codlin twitched the wrappings, unrolled the mortar bomb.

"I thought you might be lonely without it," Corky said calmly.

Codlin looked at his friend with a bleary, bloodshot, baleful blue eye. "You skunk," he said bitterly, and turned his face to the wall.

"VX21257"