Chapter 5 Robbie was a chameleon; What's in a name; I saw a Panzer attack;

ROBBIE WAS A CHAMELEON
	WITH the blistering Alamein sun reducing all but the slightest movements to feats of major endeavour, Smithy was trying to seek solace in sleep. In the confined space of his "doover" a single fly droned in happy circles. Occasionally it would swoop down for a perfect six-point landing and taxi to and fro along the tarmac of his forehead or cheek. Much wild swiping merely aroused the fly's sporting instinct and at last Smithy gave up. The fly settled on his nose and commenced a gymnastic workout. Smithy opened one weary eye and tried to focus on his tormentor. Suddenly a slender yellow-green streak flashed across his vision and the fly vanished.
Surprised he opened the other eye and found himself regarding a chameleon, which was sitting placidly on his pillow. Thus was the partnership born. Whatever his other attributes, and he had plenty, even his fondest admirer could lay no truthful claim to beauty on behalf of Robbie-to give him his name-the lizard. About six inches long, he was spindle-shanked, and, in spite of an incredible number of flies consumed daily, lean to the point of emaciation. Most of the time he was merely a small inert streak of camouflage, but when he did move was with the peculiar windblown twig gait common to his specie.s. Only. his beady telescopic eyes were active, swivelling in every direction for an unsuspecting meal, and his darting tongue. Let a fly land within a radius of twelve inches and, with a sudden blur of motion, the tongue would whip out and the fly would vanish. But to Smithy he was boon companion; recipient of a thousand confidences. No decision could be taken on any matter without first referring it to Robbie, silent repository of all secrets. Robbie's record of service was a brilliant one. Starting in a small way as fly-exterminator in Smithy's "doover", he soon graduated to the important post of keeper of the mess tins. At first he experienced some difficulty in getting his colour values right, but finally he achieved a perfect blend against the aluminium and from then on no insect could sully their pristine purity. Some time later he made the journey to Palestine as a decoration on the collar of Smithy's tunic. So successful was this that he was promoted to the position permanently. By night he would be deposited in a boot and by day he would cling to the tunic, an ever-vigilant and unfailing protector of his master's face. Life was not always easy. On one occasion his limp, stunned body was recovered from a six-foot slit-trench after Smithy had taken a header on the way home. He recovered, but for some days was unable to resume duty. One other evening, having assumed a rich amber hue to tone with his surroundings, he was reclining on a table in the mess when someone was careless enough to dump a sauce bottle on his tail. Though a comparatively minor accident, it evidently upset the camouflage mechanism of his tail, and from then on, no matter what magnificence his body colour attained, his tail remained a sombre ash-grey.

I SAW A PANZER ATTACK

TO-DAY we are to man a different O.P. (observation post) This one is well forward. It is the fifth day of the coastal battle.

We have breakfast at the guns and set off across a marshy depression to the sea, then eest along the coast for several miles. To our right the Mediterranean washes gently against the sand-dunes, only a stone's throw away; to the south the country is mainly low-lying and marshy. Soon a ridge, that same ridge where fighting has been so bitter in the last few days, shows up to our left. The western tip is Point 16 and then the long east-west rib depresses and rises to Point 33, the ridge finally petering out into enemy territory.

We must occupy an O.P. forward of 26.

We turn inland from the coast road towards 26, skirting wind-piled sand-dunes and roaring across salty depressions. These Bren carriers become unbearably hot after a few miles. Occasionally we see solitary crosses, sometimes in pairs. Maybe the graves are Australian, maybe Itie or German.

All about this area there are infantry positions. One can only just detect the spoor of the army, dug-outs and slit-trenches. In the desert armies disappear as if by magic. In the event of an attack this whole area would leap to life, vibrant, expectant.

We can detect the battery-commander's armoured car with its fat wireless mast. Jim halts in a well-concealed position behind the ridge.

We collect our paraphernalia, climb the bare ridge which is Point 26, and settle down in a slit-trench for the day's observation. We are on the forward slope. Back at the carrier Jack gets his wireless operating and runs out a remote control to the O.P. Aub, the OR sig, connects his phone to the gunline and another to the remote control.

The other two batteries also have O.Ps on this forward slope. One is to the north and the other is to the south of us, both within calling distance. Out in front, perhaps half a mile away, is Tel-el-Eisa station, held at the moment by our infantry.

Obviously it will be a hot day. The sun is well up and blazing hot. O.Ps. should be relieved in darkness and our arrival after sunrise is unpopular with the major.

The front is unusually quiet. Now and then mortar shells whistle over and burst south of Lis. We do little shooting. There is spasmodic shelling in the vicinity of our infantry positions at Tel-el-Eisa.

We open up on an enemy mortar O.P. which has been directing fire on to our infantry. We range accurately and go to "fire for effect". For a time the mortars are silenced. Later they open up again and as soon as they do we give them a few more rounds. They are hard to hit but we make them keep their heads down.

After lunch it is very quiet. This is the most pronounced lull I have known in the last five days. Down at Tel-el-Eisa there is no movement. I peer intently through glasses but can see no human being, only a faint shimmer shifting over the derelict tanks and vehicles scattered about the station. The heat haze reminds me of home, but at home the haze shimmers over wheat-fields and instead of the whine of shells there is the whirr of quail.

A jeep scuttles out to the station, moves around a little, and hares back to safety. It looks ridiculously small, like a desert insect.

We just sit there quietly. The O.P.O. passes a remark about the lull; maybe the Hun will throw in an attack. I return over the hill and mooch about a bit. Perhaps now it is nearing sunset there will be some shooting. I feel restless and go back to the O.P.

The first justification of my premonitory feelings comes when seven Macchis roar overhead and swoop down on Tel-el-Eisa to drop their bombs. After that it is noise and turmoil, more terrible than I had imagined to be possible.

In the distance we can see enemy tanks rolling towards Tel-el-Eisa.

Whole regiments of our guns open up on the tanks with terrific concentrations of gunfire. The sun is just setting and the attack has gathered full momentum. Behind us the guns belch flame and everywhere over the coastal sector I can see the darts of burnt cordite from twenty-five pounders.

In front the tanks are nosing closer to the station. Machine-guns are chattering all around us, anti-tank guns are barking sharply, and shells from enemy tanks whiz overhead. Enemy field-guns are putting down a deafening barrage along the coast.

This hellish noise is frightening. Overhead the sky seems filled with planes, Stukas, Messerschmitts, and Hurricanes. Occasionally the crump of bombs fills the air and shakes the earth, drowning all other noises.

Down at Tel-el-Eisa our infantry is taking a terrific pounding. The O.P.O. orders ten rounds gunfire, then twenty, then thirty. What a crazy symphony! In the dim light it seems unreal. I can see the dark shapes of the tanks nosing, around the station.

Our infantry gives no ground. Shells burst in and around his tanks, momentarily blotting them out with dust and smoke. I look up to see a Hurricane on the tail of a Messerschmitt.

I shall never forget the infantry about our O.P. Their unconcern and nonchalance is unbelievable. Their officers stroll about from post to post; a couple of chaps sit on the edge of a trench drinking beer while half a mile away a deadly battle is raging.

The tanks begin to nose south. I wonder whether this is part of the original plan or whether it is becoming too hot for them and they are pulling out of battle. Later I know.

The inferno of sound and dust and smoke and shells continues.

And then comes the order for us to return to the gun-positions. Damnation! Leaving a battle like this. Still, orders are orders, though we are all completely puzzled. We do not want to go. His tanks are turning; we've got him spiked. Surely this looks like desertion to our infantry.

We fan out and keeping as low as possible, go over the ridge to the carrier.

We feel sheepish. All about us infantry chaps pop their heads out of holes and grin at us. A shell whistles close and, like clockwork, every head disappears. It must look as if we're running away, the artillery leaving it to the infantry. We are still completely puzzled.

And then the bombers roar over. Down again as the first eggs burst, Jim and I together flop into the vehicle pit, grinning at one another though we don't feel like it. We expect it any moment because this is hot-too hot-and we pile in the last wireless battery and the last haversack and clamber aboard.

Slowly we rev towards the coast road and still there is the mad din, now partly drowned by the carrier engine. It is nearly dark now.

We turn right along the coast road and Jim gives her the works. Those guns we can see belong to the 2/8th; they look brave and defiant spitting out shells, while other shells of a different calibre burst in amongst them.

Noise and dust, dust and noise, acrid air and black clouds of smoke.

Just ahead of us more shells are bursting. Right on the road too. The earth around this part of the road is powdered and burnt black. Jim pauses until a group of shells bursts, then he puts his foot down on the boards. As he does so we squirm down into the carrier for cover and feel her spurt as the engine roars.

We get through all right.

A little further on we see the other carrier, which must have swung off the road and bogged down in the thick salt-crusted mud. We have a towrope. Soon the carrier is out and we find the gap in the minefield and those small scooped out holes all ready to receive mines in case of a break-through. Engineers are working on them.

Having negotiated the minefield we pause to light cigarettes. The barrage has not crept this far yet. Those smokes are good.

From every direction as we come out there are spurts of flame and our immediate aim is to find out which spurts belong to our guns.

We find them, and at the guns the noise is more violent than ever. The impression despite the darkness is one of untiring energy. The gunners, stripped to the waist and covered in sweat, blackened with cordite and showered with dust all mixed with sweat which runs in dirty rivulets down their faces, are happy.

They are happy because they have no time to think.

We hear the orders coming through from the command post. Those tanks, swinging to the east, must be drawing closer. They must have skirted the station. Their plan, modified perhaps, is now quite clear. The object must be to wedge eastwards and then turn north to the coast, cutting off the long finger reaching Out to 33. The following lorried infantry will mop up our men in the isolated finger.

I dash over to give a hand carting ammo. As I stagger over with an armful of shells the gun is fired. There is a roaring and a singing in my ears. I have forgotten my earplugs. Others on the gun have the same trouble in spite of their plugs. I can see rather than hear their straining and shouting to get orders through.

Although the gun is firing "Rapid", the only indication I have now is the vivid flash in the blackness, for my hearing is almost dead. One chap is carried away wounded. He fell cursing when a piece of shrapnel slapped through his foot.

A big jagged piece of shrap has cut through the shield of the gun and other bits have damaged the sights but the other gunners are unhurt. Stan is laying and might be sitting in at a tea party-bubble, line, line, bubble, steady as you like and with a cigarette we rolled for him drooping from his lips.

"Give 'em hell!" shouts Tich gleefully. Tich is a drover from Northern Australia and is thoroughly enjoying himself.

I can feel the heat pulsing out from the gun, which is red hot. Around the pit there is a mass of piled cartridges and ammo boxes are scattered in wild disorder. Shells whine over and I duck involuntarily but they are not close.

The range lifts. That means the attack is turned. One can sense the elation, the air is almost warmer with victory. The range lifts again and still the guns pound away.

Now I notice that over the coastal sector fewer guns are firing. Gradually darkness settles and suddenly the guns in our area stop. It is like a jolt. Only five minutes ago the earth lived and now, amazingly, it is dead.

The battle is over and once again the Hun has been repulsed.

It is not until now that I hear the reason for our withdrawal. The tactical situation had nothing to do with it. We have just been superimposed in this area and now we are to return to our own brigade. I feel much easier, hearing that. I didn't like the idea of coming out because they thought it was too hot for us, especially while the infantry stayed there and took it.

I pile aboard the carrier and we head east . . .

I have seen a panzer attack. I had a bird's eye view of it. I saw the bombers attack and then the tanks coming in and then the lorried infantry. just as it says in the Hun copybook too: Tanks will attack with the sun behind them. I saw Australian infantry stand up to the tanks; and I passed through an enemy barrage. I was bombed and I was shelled and I was frightened. And I saw those gunners, sweating, confident, calm, when at any moment the tanks might loom up on the ridge a hundred yards in front of us. They were grand to watch and somehow at the end of it all I felt very humble.

"ANON"