A true story, with some embeleshments, of when I was recalled to arms for the Suez Crisis in 1956

 

Loves Choice

Bitter sweet so long ago

 

I stood on Paddington station. I had to face a choice. At once good and deceitful. One train could take me to Swansea the other to my home town, which should it be? I pondered it a long time.

 

Part One
Lost in the Welsh hills

The convoy of army trucks wound their way round what seemed like mountain passes, but it was only Wales. I was in the lead vehicle and we were clearly lost. Not an unusual state of affairs in my life, but this was serious, to lose an army convoy can create serious repercussions. Like hanging for instance! We were on our way from Warminster to Swansea, well we were supposed to be but somehow we had become misplaced in the Welsh hills. 

 

I stopped the column for a reappraisal of the situation. Sqaddies, being what they are, piled out of their trucks and started to open up their emergency rations. These were for a real emergency, but to them it was just the chance for a meal break and a brew up. My heart sank even further; lost the a convoy and now all the rations gone, this was going to take some explaining away!

 

I look at the map. Very useful are maps, providing you know where you are! Well I was in Wales, that was good starting point, but where, this mountain road did not seem to be marked? Oh, yer, I had done the map reading course, and I had been a Boy Scout; orientation of the map that’s the thing. Like get it pointing north. Very good, but you do find a compass useful for that, and I was without. This required a bit of initiative.

 

‘You wanna cuppa sarge.’ A beaming face looked up to me in the cab. Why not I thought, this was in for a penny in for a pound.

 

One of the abiding characteristics of the English is they love a cock up which is not of their making and they can stop for tea while someone  else sorts it out. Sqaddies are past masters at taking advantage of this kind of situation, made more pleasurable when it someone of rank who responsible for it. Well I was the fall guy this time. I look back down the line of trucks as I nurse my can of tea. They seem to think it’s a Sunday school treat. I see them larking about, or, as sqaddies soon learn to do, lay around having a bit of shut eye. I notice with a sinking heart that all the emergency packs have been opened and scattered about. I wondered how one accounted for this. Quatermasters, who control these things, are sticklers for paper work to cover their arses, I thought mine was particularly bare. And then things got worse. A farmer with a tractor!

 

In a accent full of Welsh vowels I think he accosted us with,
‘You lost then‘
‘Naw, wer just sight seeing,’ came from someone at the back.
‘I leave you then.’
Realising the need for action and a bit of leadership I shout out
‘We are going to Swansea.‘
‘Not this way you’re not.’

To my surprise my driver leaned out of the window and spoke in  sing song speak to the farmer. He turned and winked at me.
‘We follow him then.’

 

I recognised the Welsh accent, but I was not comforted by the exchange. I had been to Wales on holiday and they have a fondness for taking the micky out of the English, to the point of being aggressive. They seem to blame us for past misdemeanours by King Arthur or somebody, and still carry the grudge. With a very doubtful heart I shouted back down the line to mount up, and I could not resist ’Wagons Role.’ I should have known better.

 

Tractors are best suited to farm tracks and the like, army trucks while having low gear four wheel drive are not, well not in the hands of inexperience and ’couldn’t care less’ drivers. The track before us narrowed, wheels started to ride up the verges, heavily laden trucks swung dangerously from side to side, threatening to turn over. We were laden with war materials, loss of these, on top of misuse of rations, would mean a court martial at least. And then he stopped, waved his hand in the general direction of  nowhere and turned into a farm gate, on his way home I had no doubt to sheep dripping and giblets, a favourite dish, I had heard, in the Welsh hills. But where were we, in the cack, so it seemed, and sheep cack at that?

 

Then I heard the unmistakable sound of a Sandhurst voice. I slid low in the seat to hide my sergeant’s stripes. There followed a typical army exchange.
‘And what are you doing here?’
A bit of quick thinking was required. I leaned out of the cab, my tunic discarded
‘An exercise sir,’ I responded with as much confidence that I could muster.
‘An exercise.’ A certain questioning sarcasm in the voice.
‘Yes sir, map reading you know.’
‘Really?’ Even more questioning, ’And whose in charge?’
‘The sergeant sir,’ I reply.
‘And where is he, might I ask?’
Indeed you might, I thought, where can he be other than looking straight at you?
‘He’s up the farm sir.’
‘And why might that be?’
Officers are taught to keep asking questions, partly to hide their own ignorance, but a good way of producing a slip up. And that what was I fast heading toward.
 ‘I don’t know sir, he’s been gone some time.’
This is the proper response because it removes responsibility.
‘Well,’ he said, with a certain relish, ‘When he comes back tell him to get off this range pretty quick, gunnery practice will start soonest.’
With that he turned his Jeep and sped off down the track.

 

Bloody hell I thought we must be up on the Brecon Beacons, I look at the map, how in hell did we get here? I look at the map, there was what looks like a track down to a main road. And so we start down. Send the message back; get in to four wheel drive, we are in for some fun.

 

 Swansea Docks   

 
 It is as well to draw a veil over the ensuing example of British army drivers at their best, suffice to say many a close shave was shaved. Army lorries are not the most agile of things and brute force is the order of the day when negotiating tight turns on hillsides, some having a steep drop on one side. But we made it, down onto what is called the Commercial road leading in to Swansea. And so we made it to the docks where vehicles where being lined up for loading on to ships bound for Egypt; we were going to recapture the Suez canal from that bounder Nasser.

 

In the confusion of the dock loadings and under cover of darkness I slipped away from the convoy, that is the truck I was in, and set about finding my unit. After some searching around the docks I find them. We are billeted, if that is what you can call it, in a small warehouse, with rough and ready bunk beds and worn-out table and chairs. We sit around dolefully waiting for someone to tell us what to do. Walking by the daily orders board I notice with something of a shock and consternation that I was the company guard commander for that night! I am not used to this since I am usually with an attachment to a fighting unit and they do the guards, Sacre Blue.  This could be a problem.

 

I assemble the squad by what is a makeshift guard house. This is a somewhat ragtag affair, not up to the usual spit and polish, made worse by the fact that everybody is carrying rifles, with ammunition! This is never allowed in peacetime in the REME, for that is what we are, engineers and whatnot, in my case a mechanic. Christ this could be dangerous, I had actually seen a guard in a war zone and there is a command; ’Port rifled for inspection’, this requires the bolt to be withdrawn for inspection.

 

The guard commander usually stand behind the guard just in case some idiot has one up the spout, as it is called, a bullet that is, and it accidentally goes off as they close the bolt! Those of you who know weapons we are talking the Lee Enfield, a superb long shot weapon, but an awkward old thing to walk about with in a dock area, I feared that this would cause some problems through the night.

 

A night guard duty is twelve hours from six in the evening to six in the morning, usual split in 2 or 4 hour shits. That is 2 on and 4 off, but the sergeant of the has to keep awake all night. I am awakened by an officer voice enquiring where was the Guard commander. Thankfully I am obscured from sight.

‘Out checking on the guard posts,‘ I shout in a suitably disguised voice.

 

I am on dangerous ground, to be asleep on guard is a court marshal offence in peace time, heavens knows what it is when on active service, which is what in effect what we were, a firing squad I shouldn’t wonder. I slide out of the bunk and holding my tunic my hand and slink out of the side of the hut in time to meet the officer coming round the corner. I salute.

 

‘All present and correct sir,’ I offer in my best army voice, aware that I had not the slightest idea where any of them were.
‘Thank you sergeant, have your men had a meal yet?
I look at my watch, geese, its two in the morning. I gather my senses.
‘Not since supper last night sir.’
‘Make sure they get something to eat and drink when they come off duty.’
‘I will sir.’ Never say no, or give an excuse, to an officer, but always offer some option.
’ Will the duty cook bring some?’ knowing full well that there is no such thing on this dockside.
‘Ah,’ he says, trying to think of a solution.
‘With your permission sir we could us the NAAFI wagon.’
‘Mmm, I don’t know about that.’
‘Well my men should have some sustenance.’ Notice the care of command on my part, and the offer to his intelligence. I continue, sensing his uncertainty.
‘I could send one of the off duty guards for something.’
‘Well, I’ll leave that to you then.‘ Notice the ‘then’, it passes responsibility for an uncertain situation to the recipient.
‘Righteo sir,’ I respond, accepting this dubious responsibility, salute smartly, and walk into the darkness, thinking to myself, I wonder where those wankers are, the so called guard room had been completely empty!

 

Now we are talking Swansea docks here, this is not a haven of peace and tranquillity, this is a warren of walkways through  warehouses, some empty, some with broken machinery, some alive with docker moving cargo, cranes swinging above cargo ships, well, alright, not at two in the morning, when there are more sinister forces at work. Although I had posted the guard, so to speak, I really had no idea where they were.  In essence they were to guard army vehicles and their contents. This they failed signally to do.

 

 As I made my way round the warehouses, not without some trepidation in the dark lit by dim lamps, I swore I saw dark shapes scurrying about with various packages, I feared the worst. The guards I sent out were not to be seen, and where were they, at the bloody NAFI wagon, smoking and enjoying the charms of some very amorous young ladies?

 

‘Ok, what the hell is going on here,’ I bark in best sergeants voice.
‘Just taking a break sarg‘,’
‘I’ll give you break if you don’t get a move on.’
‘But we’ve only been here a minute, we are entitled to some grub.’
I sigh to myself, I hear the voice of a barrack room lawyer.
‘And what’s your name, private?’ putting an emphasis on the last word.
‘Jones,’ he says, ’343.’ The last bit is the last three of his army number.
I hear a snigger in the back ground.
‘Well Jones, 343, you may think you are on your daddies yacht, but you may find it’s a hanging offence if you don’t get back to your post.’
I turn, ready to say and that goes for the rest of you, when the orderly officer appears. I salute.
‘Just ensuring the men get their sustenance sir.’

From the light of the NAFFI wagon I see that he is just a young sprog straight from training and uncertain of himself as I am.

‘Good to see that sergeant, but they should get back to their posts.’
‘Yes, sir, immediately sir.’
I real of some names, most imaginary, since I don’t really know any of them.
‘You take the 2 till 4 watch, and then you four take over till six. On your way.’ I thought that sounded pretty authoritive.  And off they slunk.
‘How about a cuppa sir, whilst you are here.’
‘No I think not, I’ll just see the men are properly posted.’

 

And good luck to you I thought. As I turned back to NAFFI wagon there was the sound of a shot. A rifle discharge, a Lee Enfield? My heart stopped, as if I had not had enough trouble. My head was racing, this could be serious, at the very least it would mean enquiries and hosts of paper work, the Army does not take likely to a rifle being fired in anger let alone on the shores of Blighty. This required drastic action. I took a cake bun from the tray above me, stuffed in my mouth as far as it would go, gulped the tea I was holding and fell to floor in a dead feint, choked to death might be the verdict! I awoke in hospital! Apparently I had been nearer than I bargained for!

 Me-in hospital    

There something about a hospital ward that is comforting but at the same time impersonal. You are ill, on the brink of death, and yet no one seems particularly bothered. There is a an air of them filling up time as they move about checking this and that, they seem very keen to feel pulses as they look at their upside down watch, and those boards at the bottom of the bed, this is always requires great scrutiny, especially from young doctors, and they seem very fond of laughing and joking as they lean on that desk.

 

 Excuse me I am dying over here what about some sympathy. I look down at myself, I am wearing pyjamas! Odd I was in army uniform! Someone has undressed me. I look across the ward , was it that over there with the thick legs and the ample bum, or that blond, ah, that would be welcome. She turned and walked over.

 

‘I’ve been told you need a blanket bath, how about that.’
Yer, how about that I thought.
‘You feeling better now?’ Did I detect an American accent?
I played careful. ‘I don’t rightly know what’s wrong.’
‘Now, Mr Jakeson, it says here you choked on a bun?’ She looked at me quizzically, ’A bun?’
‘Nah,’ I said, ’Someone had me round the throat.‘

She held down the edge of the pyjama jacket. Blue eyes looked into mine, blond hair fell across my face and honey sweet breath enveloped me as she caressed my throat.

‘Must have been mighty light, there are no marks.’
‘Nurse!’ the undoubted voice of an old style matron, ‘Are you bathing him or kissing him.’
‘Just taking his top off ready.’ She winked at me.
I looked at her brown arms as she  rinsed out a flannel in a bowl of warm water and applied soap to it.
‘You been on holiday?’ I queried.
‘Yup, just come back from Majorca.’
I very nice to, I thought.
‘Got back this morning. You my first job.’

 

She ran her hands across my chest as feeling my muscles, and then gently moved the flannel round. Holding my hands up in turn to wash my arms. She towelled me down. She gestured me to turn over and started on my back. She swept across my back with the flannel and dried me off with the towel.

 

‘We’d better have these off then,’ tugging at my pyjama bottoms.
I lay back in sublime anticipation when I heard the unmistakable sound of army boots.

A Lancashire accent. ’You got Sergeant Jakeman here miss?’
There was a giggle. ‘He’s over there having a blanket bath.’
‘Is he indeed, we will see about that.’
I turn over and in my semi nude condition stared up into the bulldog eyes of a Sergeant of the Military police.

He looked down. ‘Sorry to disturb you in your ablutions,’ said with some malice, ‘You are to come with me, the CO wants to see you,’ he waits, then, ’Immediately’

There were thankful protestations all round. I affected a relapse. The sergeant looked uncertain, then I heard another voice, officer material. He was in civvies, SIB, I could see that at a glance, watch tour step my lad I thought.

 

He smiled in that nothing to worry about manner, my mental guard came up and  I fell back limp on the bed. He smiled.
‘Having a bath I see,’ he looked up at the nurse, ‘that will be all, we look after him now.’

She smiled at me and mouthed toodle-whoo, and left.

 

He started easy. ‘Are you up to answering a few questions sergeant?’ Before I could answer he went on. ‘About the incident on the docks last night. I understand you were the guard commander?’
Straight to the point. (In these case never, never, offer anything.)
‘Yes sir.’
‘And did you see the duty officer’
‘Yes sir’
‘When was that?’
‘At the guard turn at 1800 hours’
‘And again?’
‘At….’ I stopped, I was in bed on his early morning round.
‘At the NAFFI.’
He appeared puzzled.
The RMP sergeant intervened.
‘There was a NAFFI mobile canteen on the docks sir.’
The SIB man seemed puzzled but he did not miss a beat.
Looking directly at me, ’And what time was this?’
‘At the guard change sir.’
‘Come on sergeant, what time?
I fell back on old trick use the army system which cannot be challenged.
‘The start of the two to four watch.’
‘And what was you doing at the NAFFI….’ he looked at the sergeant askance, and continued, ‘mobile canteen.’
‘Providing sustenance for those coming off the watch.’
He smiled, ’Providing sustenance?’
‘Food and drink sir.’
‘Why was this?’
I appeared puzzled but before I could say anything the RMP sergeant intervened again. ’There are no cooks on the docks, we have to eat where we can.’
The SIB man smiled, more wearily this time.
‘So you were having wad and a cuppa.’
‘Yes sir.’ Good, I thought, he has established the facts.
‘And was it then that you saw the commander of the guard.’
‘Yes sir,’
‘And what was he doing.’
‘Doing sir?’
‘Sergeant!’ This time there was warning in his voice.
‘He was doing his rounds and appeared at the NAFFI and agreed that the changing watch could have a bit to eat before going back to the billet.’ I dropped the sir, I wanted this to sound more cosha, you know more man to man.
‘Did you see him again?’
‘No, sir, I was taken ill.’
‘Taken ill?’
I had to be careful here, my life might depend on it.
‘I think I choked on something.’
He suddenly looked suspicious.
‘On the canteen food I suppose.’
‘I think a NAFFI bun went down the wrong way.’
‘How convenient.’
I mentally sat up at that, here it comes.
‘Then you never heard a shot?’
The old soldier came out in me.
‘When would that be sir.’
‘At around two o’clock.’
’Do you mean on the docks?’
‘Yes!’ Said with a little impatience.
‘No sir, I never heard a shot.’ I phrased this with a little surprise tone in my voice.
‘And you never saw the officer again?’
Watch out I thought, don’t commit on this.
‘I never saw anything till I woke up in here, sir’
He smiled.
‘Well you will pleased to hear that the officer is wounded but will recover.’
‘Wounded sir?’ I say with questioning surprise.
‘And looks as if you are off the hook.’

 

I saw the trap, this was an invitation to add some comment that could be further questioned. I affected a certain tiredness. I was saved by a doctor who intervened asking them to leave. They turned to leave, when the RMP sergeant turned and smiled his bulldog smile.
‘You don’t fool me!’ And turned away.
I heard the clip of those army boots and smiled to myself, with some relief.

Part Two

Cardiff

I woke up the sound of a more friendly voice. It was corporal Jones.

‘Hi sarge, I’ve come to collect you, I’ve got the duty wagon outside. We are moving to Cardiff.’

It would seem our unit was at last coming together. The officer in charge, Captain D Williams, had got us moved to the Welsh Fusiliers barracks in Cardiff to await embarkation to Suez. There were twenty of us - the Captain, a warrant officer, me, a corp., other ranks; mechanics and technicians.

 

 A cosy little group with nothing to occupy themselves. The main problem was these damn rifles. You can’t hide a Lee Enfield easily about oneself, and it would not do to walk around frightening the Welsh farmers, or even shooting one, so they were stored in the fusiliers armoury. I still had my civvies with me from when I was called back so I could go out on the town. And that is where I met Gwyneth.

 

I do not consider myself a ladies man, but from time to time I do click with someone, this time it was a due to a glass of orange squash.

 

I was looking at the notice board at the gate by the guard room when my eye alighted on a dance at the local University. Ha. Ha, I thought I might give this one a try. It was in the Queen’s hall, part of the university I supposed, and to my surprise there was going to be a band. Well I could get some entertainment listening to that I supposed, and if there was a chance to dance, well I would.

 

 I could trip the light fantastic, well I did have a teddy boy outfit; string tie and blue crepe soled shoes, but sadly no more, we’ll have to see what we can do with what is a demob suit. I notice with some disappointment that it ends at 10.30, that seemed a bit early to me since I am used to coming home with the dawn, but I did not realise then its advantage. And so I went.

 

It was a large hall, well decorated for what I supposed doubled as a sports hall. It was the simple English layout, a desk just inside the door where you paid, chairs round the walls, a long counter were they served soft drinks, where there were tables and chairs, and at the end a band stand on which, I assumed, was a local group performing the usual mix of waltz, quickstep, and slow foxtrot, I felt quite at home.

 

I looked round the hall, these were the days when girls dressed in party dresses to go to a dance, how sweet they all looked, seventeen to twenty years old in the main, well I thought, here’s some for the picking although at twenty-six I felt quite old, but hell some may hanker for someone with experience.

 

 When you first enter a place, especially on your own, you feel kind of exposed, you feel everybody is weighing you up, so I sort of sauntered over to where the table and chairs were and sat down to weigh the totty  up, so to speak. And then she appeared. It’s ridiculous I know, but the unexpected happened, there she was. A simple beauty, tall, well breasted, nice smile, nice legs, a simple flared dress with light coloured roses on it. Roses, I ask you, I bet here mother picked it out, but she had sex written all over her. Not sexy sex, but desiring of sex, but as if she didn’t know it, it’s a kind of expectant motherhood waiting to be uncovered.

 

Well I’m your man I thought. I waited until she sat down. She sat next to some other girls who I supposed she knew since they smiled and chatted. The dance went on. The hall was now full as it might be, and dancers moved round in that clockwise way of the forties and fifties, with young men asking girls to dance as if to bow, and escorting them back afterwards. But no-one danced with my girl.

 

Maybe they thought she was not glamorous enough, or maybe she was crossed eyed or something like that. Oh, well, I, thought here goes. Now this is an important moment what approach. Jack the lad was out of the picture. A simple country boy far from home was better.

 

‘Would you like to dance?’ I asked in the most natural voice I could muster.

She looked resigned as she agreed.

 

I took in my arms and felt her softness straight away. She kind of fitted, the right height and weight, as you might say. She moved easily. As I turned, she turned, I moved forward and so did she, there was no restriction. I moved close, and her body was next to mine. I don’t know about her motherhood but my fatherhood was beginning to rise. It was the smell. The smell of a woman.

 

My god, what was more, I could smell it. She smiled as she turned her head, cross eyed she certainly was not, these were the deep blue of the Welsh hills, with long dark lashes. I nuzzled into here neck, where soft white skin ran down between her breasts. She pushed me away.

 

‘I think I would like a drink,‘ she said, as if to break away.

 

I lead her to one of the tables by the long counter, and went over and ordered two orangeades. I took them back to the table, and as I did so caught my foot on one of the chair legs and lurched forward spilling the drink in her lap.  With great alarm I took my handkerchief out and started wipe her dress.

 

‘Oh, I’m sorry about that, are you wet through?
She actually laughed. ‘We shall have to see won’t we.’
‘Oh, it will dry out I suppose.’ I offered.
‘Maybe, but I think I will have to go home and change.’
I pull a face, thinking what a cock up, one dance and that is the end.
‘It doesn’t matter I don’t live far. I could come back.’
The she added, ’If you like.’
That was my chance.
‘I’d like that very much, but I’ll walk you home, it was my fault and do feel responsible. We could get a taxi if you like.’  I added that last bit for affect, I hadn’t the where-with-all for a taxi.
‘No,’ she said smilingly, ’It’s not far, come on then.’
She had a coat, left in a side room, and putting it on we went out onto the road.
‘This way.’
  It was a bit more than a short walk, but eventually we stopped outside a solid Victorian villa. She had a key.
‘I am on the top flat,’ she put he fingers to her lips, ’Shush, we don’t want the landlady to know.’
‘Oh, here we go,’ I thought,’ I’m going to be slung out before I get started.’
 So it was up the stairs and in, without being detected.
‘I shall have to take this dress off.’

 

Be my guest, I thought. God, and she did right there and then. There is a French word describes that, but it escapes me. The Army have several, but they seemed inappropriate at the time, I simply pretended to take it in my stride, as if I was well accustomed to ladies disrobing in my presence. It was strange she was acting as a mother might with a child, I was getting worried about this mother thing, was this a fixation. I was to find out, it was and it wasn’t!

 

She turned easily toward me without shyness, and said, ‘Look it’s gone right through, they’re stained I shouldn’t think.’
‘Yes.’ I said.

 

This was getting difficult. She stood there in simple attire, a lemon coloured bra that held, but accentuated her breasts, and, what I believe are called cami-knickers, that swung free from her form as she moved, bending down to pick up a towel. It all seemed so natural as I took her in my arms. It was only a moment but it seemed like an eternity. The earth moved, and sadly so did a vase, and as it crashed to the floor a new voice intervened, with coarse authority, but undoughtedly Welsh.

 

‘Have you got a man up there?’

 

I was young enough to feel a tinge of embarrassment mixed a little with fear, but hell, this required some of my charm, otherwise known as soft soap. I signalled to the young lady, heavens at this stage I did not even know her name, to keep quiet. And mouthed, ’What is her name,’ ‘Jones she whispered, I might have guest. With more assurance that I felt I opened the door and descended the stairs.

 

‘Hello Mrs Jones, sorry to intrude like this but I am a friend of the family, and I had to deliver a message.’

She was not to be mollified.

‘At this time of night.’
‘You are quite right,’ I make a pretence of looking at my watch with some surprise, ’Yes it is quiet late…..at half past nine,’ I add with a smile, ’I’m sorry if we woke you.’

She missed the intended irony completely.

‘I was not in bed, I was watching tele.’
‘Well I won’t intrude any longer I have get back to barracks.’
‘Barracks, is it then.’ There was sarcasm in her voice.
‘Yes at the Welsh Fusiliers.’
This seemed to mollify her a bit.
‘But I must be away, guard duty and all that you know.’
I shout up the stairs, ’Cheerio I’ll see you tomorrow night, under the clock.’, and turned to leave.
As she closed the door behind me she said, with a hint of sarcasm.   
‘Her names Gwyneth.’
Not such a fool after all, obviously my soap was not as soft as I thought?

As you might expect I made my way back to the barracks in some state of agitation. To be presented with such morsel, on a plate, so to speak, had excited my manly hood. I went to bed with a lot on my mind!

 

Part Three
Making the best of things

Time went by in a whirl, I had no time to lose. Preparations for an attack on Egypt to reclaim the Suez canal were being made, it must be said, with some haste.  The Army was not prepared for another desert war and were caught with their pants down. Ships were being loaded down at the docks and could sail anytime, but things were not going quite to plan, the dockers were not very happy at having to work 24hrs a day in shifts. They wanted more money, and so negotiations were going on, but things were getting desperate. At this stage it was waiting game  so from my point of view there was no time to dilly-dally. I made the most of the waiting time. I became a lover to Gwyneth and as a son to Mrs Jones, my feet under the both tables so to speak.

 

Love was in the air. She was a sweetie. Such innocence, it was joy to my heart to take such innocence in hand. She was a virgin, but she was not virginal. When love and sex go hand in hand there is greater joy to be had. Experienced as I was I knew when to push and when not to shove. There is a delicacy in these matters that demands attention if you are not to lose the flower of love, it as after all a union of matter and soul.

 

 The satisfaction is to be drawn in so that the explosion of passion is seen as the givers doing. It is a joy to behold that smile, neigh, grin of satisfaction, of the taker and the deliverer of such power. And so I gave, and was given, a passion that went beyond the stars. A nova explosion. But I did court her.

 

We went the parks, we went to the pictures, we even went to a wedding, which being Methodists was a dry one, but to my surprise everybody got up to say something about the bride and groom. They even asked me, as if I was one of the family. And so we were becoming as one.

 

Then on the radio the news came that Victor bombers had gone in and were attacking military installation and the airfields. Prime minister had made up his mind, the balloon had gone up, the armed forces of Britain, France, and Israel were now to engage on a pincer movement to resecure the Suez canal which Nasser had so rashly taken over, all because we would not fund the building of the Aswan damn, how daft can you get, but that’s politicians for you.

And here was I caught up in it. Me, I was on my way back to the sands of Egypt where I had been stationed before, but this time in martial mode, and I was without my crepe soled boots which no desert rat would be without. That night I wrote a long letter to girlfriend at home.

 

Part Four
Port Said

Ten days to Suez across the Bay of Biscay. It was an uneventful crossing. Oddly is was rougher in the Med. A morning parade on the deck of a heaving ship did not go down to well. A gob of sick was splattered the line by the gusting wind, and so that put and end to the parades. We had a bit of rifle practice and shot the trailing log off from the rear of the ship, much to Captains chagrin. We played bingo. We hung around, and then we were in Port Said. Thankfully by the time we got there the actual fighting was ended with a sort of truce. As always the ordinary soldier is the last to hear of this and the news comes over the radio.

 

The ships that could not pull up against the docks had to off load their cargo on to L.C.T.’s: more of that later. We went ashore and commandeered a garage close to the docks. It had an upper area where we arranged to have bunks place for sleeping, and in away that was that. Guard duties had to be arranged which was a bit of pain, since REME are not used to it and my experiences were not much comfort, added to which we were a bit thin on the ground for round the clock guards.
 
Events seem to just take hold with no rhyme or reason. To start with it was like a lawless cowboy town. Troops had taken any vehicle they could find and looted houses for their belongings, in some cases taking mattresses, undoughtedly to augment their sleeping arrangements, which were stacked on the roofs of the cars! When the military police got ashore that was soon stopped. 

 

Our LAD lorry turned up, I was sent to unload it from the LCT. It is a high sided van that held our repair equipment, gung-ho as usual, I roared down the loading ramp onto the dock and ripped all the overhead telephone cables that the engineers had put in down to the old custom house. I did not stop to investigate the damage.

 

We were called down to the docks where vehicle were being unloaded and they could not be driven away because their clutches were stuck after long exposure to the sea air. So, unmechanic like, we were underneath with screwdriver and hammer trying to free them up the jiggle pin hole! A regiment that was supposed to come ashore was held up but their bedding had arrived, we were quick to appropriate them for our own purpose.

 

 A Champ, a vehicle like the more familiar Jeep, was brought in for us to check because the driver had crashed it and was on a charge. Poor lad, there was no response on the brakes at all, since the fluid cylinder was empty, that got the thankful guy off.

 

One evening with nothing else to do two of us walked down to the dock to see what was going on. Some of the troops were having a bit of a knees up and we partook of some of the revelry, at the same time they were unloading a Diamond T ( that’s an American tank transporter.), as the front wheels came down on to dock it started to push the LVT back, they had forgotten to secure the tie ropes to shore. We departed before witnessing the inevitable as the Diamond T entered the dock waters.

 

The small garage we occupied had a greasing bay with a lift. In there was a huge Cadillac, a fancy American car. A young fellow appears. An Englishman. ’How can I get my car out of Egypt’, he asks, assuming I suppose that we can do it or help in some way. It turns out he was a pilot for the ships going up and down the Suez canal; they can’t make it on there own! Well, obviously he is out of a job. He goes away with a sorrowful look on his face. I watch him as at the same time I see other families trailing along toward the docks, having to flee probably because they are British. Winners and losers as always!

 

Suddenly I hear the sound of gunfire. I duck for cover, ridiculous I know, but a natural reaction. What now, I think? Jeese, it’s the corporal accidentally firing the Bren gun, a powerful automatic weapon. Really he was larking about and he did not know the magazine was loaded. He is no longer a corporal.

 

I meet a staff sergeant from signals who I knew when I was stationed in Germany. ’Do you want to go up to the front line?’ he asks. Would I! Off we go in a Champ, alongside the drainage and irrigation canal that runs next to the ship canal, known through out the army as ‘The Sweet Water Canal’, since to fall in is certain death from a multitude of diseases. Naturally is does not affect the Egyptians who drink it!

 

The track gets narrower an narrower, until after five miles it ends, the canal on one side and desert  off to the right. The front line is a couple of Centurion tanks dug in the sand, and there in the far distant is the enemy. Well to be truthful the Egyptian army who are only protecting their country. 

 

From the radio we hear that the war is stopped. The Americans do not support us. The last flicker of an Imperial state punching above its weight is snuffed. Hurrah, we are going home, sod the politicians!

 

Before we go a couple of little tasks; get rid of a anti aircraft gun, and a lorry load of batteries that nobody wants.. Gung Ho as always I take the crew of the Scammel recovery truck to tow the gun out on to the sand in the bay of the dock where the incoming tide will suck it down. That will get rid of it I think. Nearly got rid of the Scammel, a heavy vehicle, I look down and see the tide starting to creep across the sand, and the Scammel stating to sink in the wet sand. Panic stations, ’Leave the effing gun, and lets go.’ Out safely, once again my luck holds.

 

We take the truck out along the sweet water canal and sling the batteries in the Sweet Water Canal. Suddenly we seem to be out in the desert and as always an Arab appears. They have this mysterious facility of no matter where you in the God forsaken desert, one, or in this case, two or three will appear! We try to turn  round, the engine will not start, do I see them carrying Kalashnikovs, at that distance it was hard to tell!? But whatever we must take no chances.

 

Ever  resourceful I lifted the bonnet and pore the petrol from a can directly into the engine carburettor. She starts and I continue with this make shift supply, shouting in the drivers ear do not stop for anybody or anything until we get back to garage. The journey back is eerily quiet, there is no one about we are the last few left in Port Said. I expect to be attacked at any moment, but, thankfully we make the journey back without incident.

 

The last day, and they are backing trucks up, in reverse, on to the upper deck of an LCT. The drivers are not used to this and are slipping their clutches like mad getting nowhere. I step forward, the hero in these situations as ever, engage the clutch in one go and drive the trucks back up the ramp with great gusto and a cheer from all. We have an old Jeep that we acquired from the French, a long story, we pushed it over the dock side into the sea and departed for Blighty!

 

Part Five
Choice

I stood on Paddington station. I had to face a choice. At once good and deceitful. One train could take me to Swansea the other to my home town, which should it be? I pondered it a long time. I decided I could not court from four hundred miles away and chose home.

 

Betrayal

Weeks later my girlfriend hands me a bundle of letters in silence. I look at them, they from Gwyneth. Some rotter in the British Army Post service had the sent the letters that had never reached me in Suez back to my home town, but to my girl friend address! I smarmed away with my soft soap, but this time it failed; she walked away!

 

Postscript

Months later a letter arrived from Wales. I open it. It is from the brothers of Gwyneth. She is close to having a nervous breakdown, none of her letters have been answered, have I been injured, or indeed dead? The brothers ask for an answer, or else! They obviously suspect something more devious. I ponder this for some time.
It is time to do the honourable thing and write to this lovelorn  girl. A letter full of soft soap but in the end ’Chalk it up to experience’. I am truly sad, she was after all a sweet and sexy love, but heigh ho. I still have that bundle of letters, tied with a pink ribbon, I gaze upon them wondering what they contain and what might have been, another lost love no doubt!  

It was a long time ago but I feel the guilt when I read these words - was that really me!