With the commotion over, I persuaded Spike to bed down for the first doze of a couple of hours whilst I took charge – a time-honoured bending of the rules. He agreed, and after divesting himself of most of his bulky kit he settled himself down on a groundsheet and blanket on the tent floor and was soon asleep. Not one of us had reckoned on the Orderly Officer coming back again, as he did half an hour later, though fortunately he was correctly challenged. “Guard! Turn out!” We had been caught literally napping. The turnout was a trickle as those who had been asleep fought off their drowsiness. Spike was well away: I had to shake him before I dashed out. I told him briefly I would take the guard commander position on the right so that he could have a few more seconds in which to don his gear, and slip quietly into my position on the left of the guard in the darkness and hubbub whilst I stalled the orderly officer.
He was not going to be easily stalled. The torch shone in my face. He swayed slightly.
“I suppose you realise, Kelly…”
“Jones, Sir,” I interrupted.
“…that you’re expected to be alert for 24 hours a day, and if you call that turnout being alert Kelly…” “Jones, Sir,” I said again.
“…you’re going to learn what a turnout …”
He stopped.
“Why do you keep saying, Jones?”
“It’s my name, Sir.”
“Oh, so it’s Jones now is it?”
“No, Sir”
“NO, SIR?” he echoed. “NO?” again.
“Well, I mean not just now Sir. It’s always been my name”.
“Then why did you tell me it was Kelly a few minutes ago?”
“I didn’t, Sir.”
“YOU DIDN’T?” He was echoing again.
“Do you realise what you’re saying, Jo-, Kell-...?” His voice trailed away.
“Yes, Sir. You were speaking to Corporal Kelly a few minutes ago. He’s Guard Commander: I’m NCO marching-reliefs. Corporal Kelly has had to go to the latrines and I have properly taken charge.”
His confusion compounded by drink, he decided that he would inspect the guard one by one again, and as I was about to fall-in behind his slow, staggering footsteps, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Spike, who had heard the goings-on, was wideawake and presentable, having slipped round the rear of the line. He surreptitiously pushed me out of the way, indicated that I should sneak around the rear of the sentries to my rightful place at the far end of the line, which I did, then himself silently followed the officer’s slow, pernickety process of criticising of each sentry’s faintly torch-lit appearance until he reached me. Seeing the two stripes on my arm he pounced:
“Ah! So you’re back at last, Kelly!”
“No, Sir, I’m Jones, Sir, and I haven’t been away.”
“You’re WHAT?… WHO?”
“Jones, Sir.”
“No, you’re not. You’re Kelly.”
“No, Sir, I’m Jones, Sir.”
“Then where the hell is Kelly?” he snarled victoriously.
“I’m right here, Sir” calmed Spike, sounding like a comforting night nurse answering the cry of a feverish patient, from less than a foot away from the left ear of a very bewildered officer. The effect was startling. I think he thought the DTs had finally got to him. He staggered off into the night, pausing and turning towards us just once to threaten that every one of the guard would find himself on a charge in the morning. We did not. Nothing more was heard of the incident about which, at the time, I felt furious, but which subsequently caused some mirth.
Chapter III
Deployment
The days after our final, gruelling, three day, fend-for-yourself exercise in the hills (and in the inevitable pouring rain), our confinement to barracks heralded the momentous journey to pastures new – Port Said. The transit camp at Port Said did not hold much appeal, either in anticipation or in reality. The nothingness of Port Said is reflected in the absence of any diary entries for the five days of our stay. Furthermore, I remember nothing of it except for its significance in the long road home from Asia to Europe.
On 1 February 1944 we boarded a troopship, the MV Dilwara along with hundreds, possibly thousands of other troops, thus suggesting a mass military movement rather than a stealthy landing of Specialist Forces. Guesses were limited therefore to Italy or Tunisia as a possible base for our operations but as always, guesses they had to be. There were even some optimistic souls who imagined we were destined for Blighty, to prepare for the ultimately inevitable landing in northern France if the war was going to be won. It was a theory which collected some credence as we sailed, then hove-to to assemble into a sizeable flotilla which, when it did move-off, proceeded only to Alexandria to merge with an even more substantial waiting convoy. Acclimatised to troopship conditions, and aware that our sailing westwards in the Mediterranean indicated a short trip, the horrors were relatively minimal. It was a fairly relaxing trip, allowing plenty of time for meditative stocktaking – a pleasing contrast in itself after what had been a couple of months of feverish activity. I could reflect on being pleased about many things. I derived considerable satisfaction from coming through the personal challenge of parachuting without anxiety, regret, or more importantly, injury.
Another measure of our good fortune had taken a little longer to positively manifest itself: I had been allotted a first class gun crew. There were four Scotsmen (three from the same heavy anti-aircraft artillery unit, who had already been overseas for three years) and a Cockney. The Scots were a delightful mixture of talent and personality, who were already close friends of deep understanding. Archie Lundy, a Lance Bombardier and therefore my deputy, combined handsomeness and athleticism with high intelligence and wit: he could be a voluble man, particularly where his principles were at stake. William Laird Brown, sometimes Bill, sometimes Tony (a derivation of Twinny – he had a twin brother) but more often Topper, displayed an outward appearance of calm and even (I always suspected, deliberate) slow-wittedness. This totally belied his keen mind, mischievous sense of fun, dedicated ideals, ready perception of duty and, perhaps even more so than Archie, his superb prowess. Both Archie and Topper would have become automatic choices for any football team, which the Battery, or even the Regiment, would field if ever we had come together again as a whole.
Bert Roger, their friend in arms of many years, was a vastly different kettle of fish. A droll, dour sage of a man, Bert was by far the oldest amongst us. Combined with his longer background of civvy-street working life as a stockbroker in Glasgow, his ubiquitous, tranquilising pipe and his economy of words and physical exertion, this made him seem like a displaced aristocrat. He succeeded in making one feel guilty for allocating to him any manual – or menial – task that might soil his hands. In truth, he never dodged his fair share but still managed to convey that he lived in a cruel world. His torpid approach to exercise and his slight, lethargic stature made me wonder admiringly about the suffering he must have endured during his parachute training. In Willie Kirkwood, the fourth Scot, we had a rogue. An undisguised product of the worst slums in “No Mean City”, Willie had the guile and cunning which every outfit needs for acquisitive, fair-share survival in an often cruel, competitive world. Charlie Winch, the final member of the crew, was a Londoner. After surveying the other gun crews I had no doubt whatsoever that I had fared best in the lottery. Our whole relationship was totally devoid