Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (16 page)

March to Boxhill Station, midnight, January 6th, 1943

JANUARY 1943—AT SEA

B
y dawn the regiment were at sea (but then we always had been). Reveille was at 07:00. Sailors wore bells to tell the time. They would shake their wrists, shout ‘Six bells’, swallow cups of hot tar, sing several ‘Yo Ho Hos’, tie knots in each others appendages and hornpipe the dawn away. Breakfast was at eight o’clock bells. Two men from each table were detailed to collect it from the galley.

Joke of the day.

“Captain, I’ve brought your breakfast up.”

“Serves you right for eating it.”

After a breakfast of kippers, anchors, and scurvey, we had roll-call. There had been soul-searching at high level as we were unexpectedly excused boots and allowed plimsolls, at. night we were excused plimsolls and allowed feet. The confined air-tight sleeping of 10,000 hairy gunners below-decks had filled the air with a reek of stale cigarettes, sweat, and a taste in the mouth like the inside of a long distance runner’s sock. We groped our way through the fog on to the main deck. The day was dove-grey, low cloud, a slight green-grey swell. We gulped in the clean air. During the night several ships had joined the convoy. Two low-slung destroyers were the outriders. Alongside floated serene, silent white seagulls, whose dignity dissolved into shrieking scavengerism at the sight of ship’s offal. There was a canteen on the main deck, open from ten till twelve, then three to six, then eight till ten, for the sale of tea, and biscuits that tasted like the off-cuts of hardboard. Harry and I promenaded the decks. From what we could glean, the Otranto was a fine ship: perhaps it was, but why did the captain sleep in a lifeboat? Harry and I promenaded the decks. At nine o’clock and a half bells, we heard BBC news over the ship’s speakers. The Russians were advancing on all fronts. Where
did
they get the money? Gunner Simms, an amateur astronomer with a compass from a Christmas cracker, had worked out we were going south.. Harry and I promenaded the decks knowing full well we were going south. The rest of the day was spent doing nothing except going south. In our wake the sea was a mixture of bubbling turquoise and white. The seagulls stayed with us two days and nights, then suddenly left. Every third day we were to wear boots to stop our feet getting soft. Whereas the days were getting warmer, the weather was deteriorating. (The worst of travelling on the cheap.) The
Otranto
, with capacity loading, was low in the water. She started to do a figure-of-eight roll. The first seasickness started. In the three days since leaving, the convoy got bigger by six ships and two destroyers; these always joined us after dark. Still no news where we were going. Gunner Simms thought we were on the fringe of Biscay. I’d suffered the Bay many times. I knew how bad it could get and get it did. On the night of January 13
th
, already in heavy seas, we hit a force nine gale. Christ. Seas became mountainous. We listed alarmingly. Furniture broke loose. Crockery shattered on decks. A sliding table broke Sergeant Hendricks’s legs. So he was out of it, though, of course, he could fight lying down. Ha! Ha! Seeing a man upright was a thing of the past. I went round saying “What’s your angle, man?” At night the hammocks swung like violent pendulums. The top of Gunner Jack Shapiro’s came undone. His lovely head hit the floor. He lay there. Was he asleep? Or unconscious
and
asleep? To bring him round we would have to wait till he woke up and became unconscious. With true military gallantry we left him there. On Captain’s orders, we all slept in life-jackets. Bloody uncomfortable. You realised what a woman with a forty-two inch bosom felt like sleeping face downwards on her back. (Pardon?)

That night, the storm raging, I fell into a not-too-peaceful sleep. Next day. Oh dear. Men sick everywhere; some managed to get to the toilets, but as the days passed and they weakened they were sick where they stood. I was all right, but I kept having to leap clear. It was my turn to collect breakfast. With two heavy containers I swayed like Blondin over the Niagara. To complicate matters, it was another boot day. Decks were soaking wet. Containers full, I left the galley. The ship tilted. I started to slide at increasing speed towards the red-hot stoves. “Quick,” I yelled. “Phone Lloyds of London and insure me against catching fire at sea whilst carrying porridge!” A hairy cook grabbed me just in time. “This could mean promotion for you,” I told him. There was food for twelve, but only two takers: Edgington and me. We enjoyed liberal portions of sausages, bacon, bread and butter, tea, jam. Then started all over again. All to the sound of great agonised retching groans. Feeling fine, we tried to bring joy to our less fortunate comrades by saying “Cold greasy tripe and raw eggs!” We had to be quick. Edgington and I promenaded the decks Harry stopped: “If only I had a tube.”

“Why?”

“It’s quicker by tube.”

With eighty per cent illness we had to take turns on the antiaircraft guns. The night I was on was a frightening affair. One of the men on Bofor guns forward was washed overboard. Next morning, there was a service in the canteen for him. Poor bastard. The storm never let up. It was only this that prevented U-boat attacks, though I know many a sick-covered wreck who would rather have had calm seas and been torpedoed. A poor green-faced thing asked, “Isn’t there
any
bloody cure for seasickness?”

“Yes,” I said. “Sit under a tree.” I had to be quick.

Gunner Olins had been told deaf people never get sick. He spent the rest of the storm with his fingers in his ears. The ship, now, was one big vomit bucket. On the night of the 14
th
we had passed through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean—and gone was the gale all was calm. The Med????

This threw the speculation book wide open. Bombardier Rossi was taking bets. Malta 6 4, India 20-1, Libya 6 4 on, Algeria 11—10 on, Bournemouth 100 1. Most of us thought it would be Algeria. As we passed further through the Straits, the sea went calm like a satisfied mistress. Darkness gathered quickly, and lo! across the straits were the glittering lights of all-electric Tangiers! The port rail was crowded. We hadn’t seen so many lights since they went out that September in 1939. I thought sadly of blacked-out Britain, but look at the money we were saving! With Doug Kidgell I watched the magic glow of Tangiers.

“Think you could swim to it?”

“Yesss,” he said. “It’s only about three to five miles.” He was a superb swimmer and, for that matter, so was I (100 metres Champion, Convent of Jesus and Mary, Poona. I could swim any nun off her feet). I told him if we did we’d be sure of ending the war alive. “They’d make us,” said Doug, “do time in the nick.”

“That’s right, we’d be saved in the nick of time.” We didn’t swim to Tangiers that night. Tannoys came to life. “Cigarettes out on deck.” It was dark. Harry and I promenaded the decks. The night was warm, clear, starry. The air was like balm. Phosphorus trailed in our wake like undersea glow-worms. We were given permission to sleep up on the top deck, provided no late-night customs were performed at ship’s rails. The joy of lying on your back facing a starry sky is something I remember for its sheer simplicity. Not that we weren’t living a simple life. Oh no, we were all bloody simple or we wouldn’t be in this boat. With the storm behind us, Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O., tired of throwing empty whisky bottles overboard, decided life was dull. The band was to play for dancing in the Officers’ Lounge from 21:30 bells to 23:59. Regarding this, I quote from a letter I had from Chaterjack in March, 1958, in which he recalls the occasion ‘Many episodes may well come up during your reminiscences on Friday.↓

≡ The day of the D Battery reunion.

One vivid one to me starts as early as our embarkation at Liverpool: we had been well warned by RHQ that if we were spotted trying to camouflage the band instruments amongst, the embarkation stores, they would go into the sea. Being fairly efficient soldiers, we embarked the band—camouflaged as I know not what and there the matter ended for the moment. It ended until we had survived the Bay of Biscay through which the vessel rolled almost over the danger angle, though most people were below decks, beyond caring, slung in hammocks and racked with sea-sickness. Surviving all this, we turned towards Gib., the sun shone, the sea was calm and a band was badly wanted. RH(a asked shamefacedly if we had wangled it on board, we admitted, pokerfaced, that we had all was well, the band played, people struggled on deck, the sun shone and we approached Algiers in full fine fettle.

It was fun rummaging in the hold among Bren carriers and cannons to find a drum kit. “Oh God,” said Alf, “my guitar’s all packed up for the trip.”

“Well,” I said, “let’s unpack it, we can pretend it’s Christmas.” He hit me. That night we were in great form. It’s a great feeling playing Jazz. Most certainly it never started a war. The floor space was limited, and crowded with pump-handle couples. There were service ladies, with a predominance of (queen Alexandra Nursing Sisters (where were they when the decks were strewn with seasick soldiers?). We saw strange gyrations as the ship rolled the dancers into a corner, then rolled them across to the other one. To include ‘Cocking of the Legs’ we played a reel. Sure enough, they responded like Pavlov’s dogs. At the evening’s end Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O., thanked the band and passed the hat round for some financial tribute. Mean bastards. We’d have got more if we’d sold the hat. We had to restrain Harry from playing the Warsaw Concerto. Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O., made it up by giving us half a bottle of whisky. Swinging gently in hammocks, we passed the bottle back and forth until we fell into a smiling sleep. It was the best day we’d had at sea. From now on the weather improved. Those who had suffered sickness were now strong enough to lie down without help. The morning after the dance was perfect. Clear sky. No wind. Calm sea. We were dive-bombed. “Tin hats on,” boomed the Tannoy. Gun crews were all caught with their pants down.

(There was some kind of medical inspection at the time.) Chaterjack’s batman awakened, him: “Sir, an Iti plane is bombing us.”

“Don’t worry,” said Chaterjack, “he’s allowed to,” and added, “Did you get his number?” It was an old lumbering three-engined Caproni. We let fly a few rounds at him, it didn’t seem fair, like shooting a grandmother. So we just waved him goodbye. After this attack, gun crews became trigger-happy. The sight of a seagull was the signal for thunderous barrages. It had to be stopped. The ship’s Captain addressed us over the Tannoy. “Gentlemen, all seagulls in the area are unarmed, can we refrain from shooting at them? Thank you.” Edgington had something to say about this. “Seagulls yes, but what about fish?” We were travelling through fish-infested waters, many of them sympathetic to the German cause. “You’re right, Colonel,” I said. “There should be regular fish inspections, each being tasted for identification.”

Me:

“Sir, this fish tastes like a Gestapo Sergeant.”

Edgington:

“Right, drown it, at once.”

Me:

“It’s not frightened of water.”

Edgington:

“Then drown it on land. Poison a hill and make him eat it.”

Me:

“Yes.”

Edgington:

“That ‘yes’ sounds very suspicious.”

Me:

“Don’t worry, it’s one of ours.”

Edgington:

“Good, you can stand by me to rely on you.”

Me:

“I shall always remember you like that.” (Here I point to a coil of greasy rope.)

Edgington:

“Ah, I was very poor then but now…” Me: “But now what?”

Edgington:

“But now I was very poor then.” We were only twenty-one.

The end of the voyage was nigh. We wanted to get ashore before the equipment was out of date. Over the Tannoy: “Good morning. Colonel Meadows speaking. I’m going to put you all out of your agony.” (He was too late for me.) “I can now tell you our destination.” (CHEERS) “We are to land at Algiers, as reinforcements for the 1
st
.Army; we will be fighting alongside the Americans, who will be welcomed into this theatre of operations.”

“So, we’re going to an operating theatre,” grinned Harry. “We should be docking at 10.30 a.m. tomorrow. From there we will go to a Transit Camp for brief training. We should be in action three weeks from now.” (Mixed groans and cheers.) “Good luck to you all.” Cries of “Good Luck Mate.” Algiers? Wasn’t that where Charles Boyer once had it off with Hedy Lamar in the Kasbah? Mind you, they got out while the going was good. The rest of the day was spent packing kit. We were issued with an air-mail letter, in which we were allowed to say we’d arrived safe and sound. News which would now make everybody at home happy. From now, all mail was censored. We were no longer allowed to give the number of troops, measurements of guns and ammo returns to the German Embassy in Spain. This, of course, would cut our income down considerably. So there it was, tomorrow North Africa. I wrote the name on a bit of paper, it would come in useful. That evening with the sun setting, we all gathered around Major Chaterjack on the promenade deck and sang old songs. The sea was still, ships were at slow speed, as the sounds of ‘You are my sunshine’, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, and ‘Drink to me only’ were wafted across the waters. It all seemed very nostalgic. It must have struck terror into the breasts of any listening Germans.