HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Seaforth News, 1943-03-25, Page 7THURSDAY, MARCH 26, 1943
THE SEAFORTT N 7WS
Battle in the Desert
We've never really dune it before
--that is, the vast majority of us,
There area very few who returner!
from France, the then from St. Val-
ery,'and they know what it was like.
They've had some, and have no
illusions at all. But we are new boys
with our spurs yet to be won, our
blood still thick from home, as yet
unthinned by the desert sun.
For two years we've trained and
worked and champed at the bit, im-
patiently eager to have a go at
Jerry. And now this is it, Half an
hour and the show will start.
A few thousand yards up in front
are all the Spandaus'(machine guns),
rifles, • and bayonets with the Jerres
behind them. Did they know we were
coming? I shouldn't think so; the
whole show has been kept secret. We
didn't know ourselves until a few
hours ago, It will be pretty rough
when he does know, and is just sitt-
ing there waiting for us. And he'll
have his mortars, too. We know
about those wicked things; the boys
from France tell us about them.
Oh, well, the hot meal was good,
and that lovely warm, contented feel-
ing that comes with plenty of stew
in the stomach lullsa lot of impish
fears. But it's funny to think it will
be the last meal for some blokes—it
seems a bit of waste somehow.
I get under cover and have a cig-
arette. The moon's getting richer in
color, so bright I can read my watch
easily, Nine -fifteen. Fifteenminutes
and we start moving.
I begin to wonder what they are
doing at home. They've just finished
the evening meal and the radio will
be on perhaps, not too loudly though
because father wants to read. They'll
have a fire too—it's pretty cold at
'home by now. I wonder if they're
thinking of us out here. Perhaps
mother as she sews can feel this sil-
ence around me at this moment. I
hope they're not worrying.
I climb out of my hole. It's time
to get the chaps together. From out
of the holes around me an entire
battalion emerges. A soft murmur of
many whispers comes across, and
'pere and there a clink as a shovel or
ick bangs against something. We
all carry a pick or shovel so that we
can dig in when we get on to the ob-
jective and wait for the counter-at-
tack.
There are plenty of whispered
curses and terms of abuse as serg-
eants and corporals pull the slowerr stoop as they go, others just walk•
ehaps into alertness, and, of course, along as though going to the Navy-
many wisecracks, Army Air Foree Institutes, It's a
I check up my chaps, and am sur- fantasy. All around us horrid red i
Prised at the nonchalant way words pnffs angrily belch out their lead
roll out of my mouth, Trunk. God for and steel bits. Shells are dropping
that—I mist put up a good show in all ;around. Now smoke spreads a
front of the fellows, Poor devils! pall' over everything,
They're pretty well loaded with My fellows seem O.K. It is absol-
packs, rifles, ammunition, shovels, 'utely useless talking to thein, as one
and some even have radio sets, voice can't begin .te compete with
Mine is a signal platoon, and we this cacophony of cordite and instru-
are going up with the battalion head- meats, The radio isn't working too
quarters, We okayed our radio sets well. We can get only one company.
eight days ago. Will they work when Something has happened in front.
we open them at zero hour? These Everyone stops and flings himself
radios are temperamental. down. It is spandau fire. The tracers
Two companies have moved for- criss-cross in front, and bullets
ward already, and we are next. I crackle over our heads, Jerry is
swing in front of my chaps, using a clever. The bullets are so close to
spade as a walking stick. It's like the ground that one goes through
walking down the steps, of a cricket the pack on my back.
pavilion with a bat in one's hand, a I look at the fellow a yard to my
bit nervous. I've been whistling to left, and my heart sinks and nausea
myself "Chattanooga Choo-Choo." comes into my mouth. It is the first
What silly words! time I have ever seen death, and It
We pass some twenty -five -pound is horrible. I lie still. The healon is
ers`dug in as their crews slave away easy, I just daren't move a muscle.
stacking up ammunition, "Those If only I. could go right down into
buzzards will get something tonight," the earth. I feel quite • lonely and
says my batman, plodding along•be- naked' with this mortar muck, and
side me. I grin back at him. I'm be- there's some air burst coming over.
ginning to feel fine now, and decide They're getting up and moving in
to walk around the platoon. front.
The radio carriers are sweating a 'Phe Spandaus sound silly, so quiet
bit. We are through the gap in our and musical compared with the crash
own minefield now, and still no of other explosions. A crash rings
sound to distinguish this night from near . me, and someone screams,
many another, Now we can deploy, "Stretcher bearer, stretcher bearer."
with two companies in front going The cry goes up all around.
left and right, and two behind cont- We move on. We must move on.
ing up on either side of us. It feels The battle demands it.
a bit lonely now. After all the Boche We are held up again and go to
is only just in front. ground. I am behind a small mound.
What's the time? As I look down It is six inches high, but these six
at my watch the barrage begins. inches mean as . much to me as six
What a noise! The guns just behind feet.
us roar and spit, and shells sizzle I still have my spade with me.
over our heads. I can't hear and I Mortar bits are flyinlg about, I put
can't think. I turn and shout to my the spade over my head. it gives me
chaps, "Come on, blokes, don't a'feeling of security.
bunch. Keep spread out." An awful smell! Is he using gas?
They aren't bunching really, but I I've no .respirator. No, it's not gas,
have to shout something just to con- it's just cordite and sand.
vince myself that the noise hasn't We're here for hours. I can't
deafened• me. move. I daren't move. Yet I must. I
A few more steps, and then it crawl to the radio set. Nothing do
starts, Hell comes downon us. The ing.,. Jerry has jammed it. The for -
Hun has started his defensive fire. ward companies are out of radio
The scene is ghastly. Behind us our touch.
guns spit on. There seems to be a The order comes, "Dig in: we can
tongue of flame darting round in a get no further." We dig. Down,
huge semi -circle. It is never still.: down in our holes.
Neither is this terrible noise beating The wounded are coming back
in ears. from the forward line. "Captain
still forward. Some Blank's dead, sir," the man with an
arm hanging limp tells me. This is
my greatest friend. I fall into my
our
We
are
moving
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The Seaforth News
PHONE 84'
hole. I can't realize Tommy's gone.
Only a few hours back we were talk-
ing together. I must have a fag. I
take a terrific mouthful of smoke
right down into my lungs.
Will Jerry counter-attack? What
is it like to be attacked?
Dawn begins to break. We seem
to be isolated. Then there is a rumb-
ling noise from behind us. Our tanks
are coming up. Oh beautiful, big,
shining tanks—lovely tanks!
So this is war. Now I know it.
The Mail From Home
r
By Flying Officer R. A. Francis,
RCAF Public • 'Relations Officer
,Overseas.
Just as life for the folks at home
Is a routine broken by certain ups
and- downs, so the day to : day pro-
' ,gram for an airman on active service
becomes a round of well established
duties, punctuated by moments of
high exhilaration and of despondent
loneliness.
These two states of mind may stem
from precisely the same origin - the
mail from' home.
How small a matter this may ap-
pear to some in Canada is evidenced
by the few letters which they write
to their sons or brothers overseas. Its
importance in the minds of others is
likewise shown by the steady flow of
letters, cards, clippings from the
home town newspaper, which turn up
at base post office overseas and are
sent on to the addressee.
The importance of mail to a man
who may have 8000 miles of water
and another 3000 miles of land be -
Itween himself and his family, is diffi-
cult to assess. It is a fact however,
which Air Force authorities• will sup-
port, that morale that mucll abused
word which means roughly the state
of mind of your men — is unmistak-
ably bolstered by a regular stream of
information from home through the
nails.
A few hundred words of family
news and local gossip on a sheet of
paper may not look very important
to the person who is home and close
to the things of which he writes. But
to the chap who is far from home in
some lonely outpost — or the biggest
bombing station in the land — it
means that he can think for a mo-
ment about the things he left' behind,
and about the things he will some
day return to.
It means that he has not been for.
t gotten, that somewhere people are
thinking of him, that someone misses
• him, is praying for his safety, Wish -
i ing him good luck,
BONES TO SCRAP HITLER
Scrappy, who takes his wartime duties very seriously these days, pauses
a minute for the photographer on his daily trip to turn in a bone he's been
saving to the local salvage collection depot. He has decided to help National
Salvage in their drive for salvage bones and fats in every way possible, and
let the fun of burying bones and digging them up again wait until the war
13 over.
That is what it means to him, whe-
ther lie's an air marshal or an AC2,
and whether he admit's it or not, It
means somebody has remembered —
remembered he would, like to know
whether the kid brother made the
second base spot on the sandlot team.
Remembered he was anxious about
his brown cocker spaniel, who had
caught her foot in a gopher trap. Re-
membered that he used to go down
to the foaming river. Remembered
how he liked to be the first in the
'spring ,to notice that the days were
getting longer.
He thinks about them and all they
stand for because they are his way
of life. They represent what he has
had before and what he wants to
have again.
There is only one way he can know
about them. That's, when the kid
sister, or the folks or the girl friend
Hazelton, Coleman or Chicoutimi, it
makes no odds. If the mail bag comes
bulging into the orderly room and
there is nothing in it for him, he is
the loneliest guy in the world.
A dozen lines from any member of
the family would have done the trick,
or an airgraph from the fellow he
used to work with down the street,
but he gets nothing and he wonders
if anybody ever thinks about him
at ;all.
Some other fellow gets a fistful! of
letters, a carton of cigarettes, an-
other gets a parcel with chocolate
and chewing gum, maybe some socks
and a tin of pork and beans — not
'much at home, but the difference be.
tween existing and living to a man
on active service station.
Oh sure, some will be torpedoed on
the way. An airman overseas is the
write and tell him, first to admit it. He also suggests,
Whether he is. from Halifax or tactfully, that a few more letters dis-
patched from the point of origin
would take care of the margin.
Back Is Fractured.
In 25 Foot Fall —
Norman McDonald, while working
with John Hunkin inside a silo on the
farm of B. W. Williams, of Deborae,
fell a distance of about 25 feet to the
ground and suffered a fractured•`baek,
a cut on the head which required
several stitches to close and' seine
broken ribs. Mr. McDonald and Mr.
Hunlcin were doing some cement `$e•
pair work to the silo and were stand-
ing on a scaffold. The former 'was
handling a large-sized chunk of de-
ment when the plank on -which- he
was standing tilted and he and the
cement were precipitated to the bot-
tom of the silo, on the floor of which
were pieces of the dislodged cement.
Fortunately the large piece of cement
landed first. The injured man Was
taken to London for an x-ray. It was
found that he had suffered a crushing
fracture of the bock. He will be sev-
eral weeks in a plaster cast.
"Dear me," do I loolt like that ?" A little dubiously, the new mascot of a
Pacific (leak lighter squadron of the R.C.A.F. examines the bull -dog insignia
which distinguishes the squadron. The mascot is Queen, a 14-mouths•old
English bulldog who holds the rank of Airwoman First Class, and whose
promotion to corporal or sergeant is expected soon. Queen was adopted into
the Bulldog squadron after the death of King, a full-grown bulldog for whom
the unit was named.