Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Photographic evidence
Well, I did promise ages ago, but I had a top e-mail from Ian in New Zealand commenting on pater's pic as the Sheikh of Araby. Here are some more pics of him - in Egypt. Click for bigger, obviously.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Words cannot express the comfort of that first night under canvas, on a bed of straw, two blankets and hoping hearts. In the desert we had grumbled:
Out here in the desert we often feel sad,
Things might be worse, but if they were they'd be bad,
We try to keep smiling, but here comes the rub,
We're 400 miles from the nearest pub.
The lads at the base can still drink a toasts,
Swilling their beer and forgetting our post,
It's hard to keep smiling, to be of good cheer,
When we're 400 miles from a nice glass of beer.
At home the Canadian is making his call,
The beer's in the cupboard, the wife's in the hall,
She sends us a wire saying 'Hope you are well',
But we're still 400 miles from the nearest hotel.
Churchill has promised 'blood, toil and sweat',
It might be a promise, it might be a threat,
We wish he could provide us with two-seater cars,
To drive 400 miles to the nearest bars.
In our holes in the ground, we lay down and dream,
Of days spent fishing from the bank of a stream,
Or of nights fire-gazing, sat on the rug,
But we wake up and find we're still 400 miles from the Bottle and Jug.
There is no beer here in this camp, bu the thought of a constant supply of water thrilled us, and it was strange to see chaps filling bottles and bringing them back to the tent, just to look at it. Others would fill their tins with water and pour it over themselves, soaking themselves and their clothes.
We awoke each morning to the sound of a bugle note of the Italian reveille, thus we all returned to the realities of life - forgotten for the moment the bed of straw, constant water supply and the prospect of Red Cross parcels. It was time for roll call, after which a cup of ersatz coffee would be issued, this was made from acorns, first ground then roasted.
After roll call, the day was our own to do as we liked, but the things we most wanted to do were not inside the bounds of the camp. The day would be spent talking about food. One man would tell of an evening out in the West End of London. In detail, he would speak of his attire, evening dress, his wife on his arm, a mink stole around her shoulders, her body sheathed in a black taffeta gown.
They walk to the front door, the taxi is waiting. In half an hour they have arrived at the Cafe de Paris. A commissionaire opens the door, the driver is paid, and into the restaurant they walk. It is now 9pm and for the next three hours they eat a fine four-course meal, laced with the appropriate drinks.The evening finished off by an hour on the dance floor, dancing to the music of Ambrose.
Another would tell of his mother making a lovely steak and kidney pudding for dinner, with apple tart as the second course. Then, the comic would say all he wanted was a meat pudding the size of a house with him in the middle to eat his way out!
This constant talking about food was tribulation to all of us, and with mouths watering, we would get up and get away from this tantalising conversation. Nearly all the morning had been spent talking about good, wholesome food and now it was nearly 1pm - this was the hour for 'skilly'.
At 5pm, a loaf of bread was issued, and at 7pm, ersatz coffee again. Although conditions at Bari were better than those at Bengazi, it was not long before we were becoming melancholy. Rumours ran wild. Deliveries of Red Cross parcels had been coming every day now for a week, but still it was 'skilly' and acorn coffee, without milk or sugar. Winter was coming on and none of us had sufficient clothing for cold weather.My one and only shirt had now been thrown away, as there was more hole than shirt. I was still wearing the overalls I had in Tobruk, but these were now quite threadbare. My £3 overcoat had been stolen since we arrived in Bari camp. It had been taken one day while I was collecting my skilly. Of course, no-one knew about it. Self-preservation was the code of life, I had to accept my loss.
Out here in the desert we often feel sad,
Things might be worse, but if they were they'd be bad,
We try to keep smiling, but here comes the rub,
We're 400 miles from the nearest pub.
The lads at the base can still drink a toasts,
Swilling their beer and forgetting our post,
It's hard to keep smiling, to be of good cheer,
When we're 400 miles from a nice glass of beer.
At home the Canadian is making his call,
The beer's in the cupboard, the wife's in the hall,
She sends us a wire saying 'Hope you are well',
But we're still 400 miles from the nearest hotel.
Churchill has promised 'blood, toil and sweat',
It might be a promise, it might be a threat,
We wish he could provide us with two-seater cars,
To drive 400 miles to the nearest bars.
In our holes in the ground, we lay down and dream,
Of days spent fishing from the bank of a stream,
Or of nights fire-gazing, sat on the rug,
But we wake up and find we're still 400 miles from the Bottle and Jug.
There is no beer here in this camp, bu the thought of a constant supply of water thrilled us, and it was strange to see chaps filling bottles and bringing them back to the tent, just to look at it. Others would fill their tins with water and pour it over themselves, soaking themselves and their clothes.
We awoke each morning to the sound of a bugle note of the Italian reveille, thus we all returned to the realities of life - forgotten for the moment the bed of straw, constant water supply and the prospect of Red Cross parcels. It was time for roll call, after which a cup of ersatz coffee would be issued, this was made from acorns, first ground then roasted.
After roll call, the day was our own to do as we liked, but the things we most wanted to do were not inside the bounds of the camp. The day would be spent talking about food. One man would tell of an evening out in the West End of London. In detail, he would speak of his attire, evening dress, his wife on his arm, a mink stole around her shoulders, her body sheathed in a black taffeta gown.
They walk to the front door, the taxi is waiting. In half an hour they have arrived at the Cafe de Paris. A commissionaire opens the door, the driver is paid, and into the restaurant they walk. It is now 9pm and for the next three hours they eat a fine four-course meal, laced with the appropriate drinks.The evening finished off by an hour on the dance floor, dancing to the music of Ambrose.
Another would tell of his mother making a lovely steak and kidney pudding for dinner, with apple tart as the second course. Then, the comic would say all he wanted was a meat pudding the size of a house with him in the middle to eat his way out!
This constant talking about food was tribulation to all of us, and with mouths watering, we would get up and get away from this tantalising conversation. Nearly all the morning had been spent talking about good, wholesome food and now it was nearly 1pm - this was the hour for 'skilly'.
At 5pm, a loaf of bread was issued, and at 7pm, ersatz coffee again. Although conditions at Bari were better than those at Bengazi, it was not long before we were becoming melancholy. Rumours ran wild. Deliveries of Red Cross parcels had been coming every day now for a week, but still it was 'skilly' and acorn coffee, without milk or sugar. Winter was coming on and none of us had sufficient clothing for cold weather.My one and only shirt had now been thrown away, as there was more hole than shirt. I was still wearing the overalls I had in Tobruk, but these were now quite threadbare. My £3 overcoat had been stolen since we arrived in Bari camp. It had been taken one day while I was collecting my skilly. Of course, no-one knew about it. Self-preservation was the code of life, I had to accept my loss.
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