Eastern Approaches (31 page)

Fortunately on this occasion our powers of camouflage were not put to the test. Inexplicably, no aircraft came our way. Our slumbers were interrupted only by the usual flies, which appeared from nowhere, buzzing gaily in the sun. I spent an hour or so talking to Bob Melot. He had suffered a good deal from the heat and the jolting and he was too weak to hold his own against the flies. But he was as cheerful as ever and talked confidently of getting back home to Alexandria. His cheerfulness made one forget one’s own minor discomforts.

It was September 17th. At nightfall we ate our rations and started off again. We kept going all that night and all the following day. It was a risk driving by day, but, with our supplies of food and water as low as they were, it was one that had to be taken. It was very hot and
the soft sand swirled up at us, as though a sand storm were threatening. With seven or eight of us to a jeep, it was not easy to relax, even when one was not actually driving. The sun blazed down relentlessly from a brazen sky. Occasionally someone would go to sleep and fall off, and we had to stop, waiting irritably, while he picked himself up and climbed back on again. The tyres, too, were beginning to feel the strain after so many hundreds of miles of rough going under a hot sun, and punctures came with increasing frequency. Changing a wheel, or digging the jeep out of soft sand began to seem more and more arduous as we grew weaker. Our throats were dry and it required an effort to speak. We counted the hours and minutes which separated us from the blissful moment when we could next allow ourselves to take a pull at the rapidly dwindling supply of warm, dirty, brackish water in our water-bottles.

When we halted at dusk on September 18th, after driving more or less continuously for twenty-four hours, we had covered a considerable distance, and were now not more than twenty or thirty miles from Jalo. Tracks in the sand, made apparently by heavy Italian trucks, led in the direction of the oasis. Once again we took stock of our position.

We had very little petrol left and enough food and water for one more meal. Another four or five hundred miles separated us from Kufra. Everything depended on what we found at Jalo. If it was still in enemy hands, the outlook would be poor.

Our meal that night was on a more luxurious scale than anything that we had tasted for some time. In addition to the usual spoonful of bully beef, we used up some of the remaining water in making some hot porridge and brewed up some tea. We also scraped up enough rum for a small tot all round. This we drank after supper, lying on a little sandbank and watching the sun sinking behind the dunes.

We had all been beginning to feel a bit low, and this unexpected treat restored our spirits. I, for one, will always recall it with pleasure. Indeed, looking back over a varied gastronomic experience, ranging from strawberry messes at Eton and sheep’s entrails in Central Asia to the more sophisticated fare of Larue and La Pérouse, I cannot remember a meal that I enjoyed more or that seemed more wildly and agreeably extravagant. Extravagant it certainly was, for, when we had finished
eating, there was no food left at all, and only enough water to half fill one water-bottle for each man.

The next thing was to ascertain unobtrusively how matters stood at Jalo. Sandy Scratchley and I decided to take two jeeps and go and look.

Sandy had come to the S.A.S. from the Fourth County of London Yeomanry. After a brief career as a regular soldier before the war he had left the army to become a steeplechase jockey, a profession in which he very soon made his mark. It was his boast that he had broken every bone in his body and that he was the best-dressed man on the turf. There seemed no reason to doubt the veracity of either claim. One of the Stirling family’s more spectacular motor accidents had accounted for most of the limbs which had escaped fracture in a long series of racing accidents, while, even at this stage of our adventures, Sandy, in a shirt and an old pair of corduroy trousers, with a straggling reddish beard and with sand clogging his shock of curly reddish hair, managed to achieve an appearance that was somehow reminiscent of Newmarket.

We cleaned our Vickers-K guns, drew our ration of water, filled up with petrol and started off, leaving the rest of the party to await our return. In my jeep came Sergeant Seekings, the Cambridgeshire farmer and old S.A.S. operative, the mishap to whose hand had caused him to be left behind when we paid our first visit to Benghazi in the spring. In my pocket I carried my teaspoon. I sincerely hoped that I should before long find a use for it.

It was midnight when we started. Our object was to get as near to the oasis as we could under cover of darkness and then try to find out who was in possession of it. If we ran into an Italian patrol we proposed to make a hasty withdrawal without further ado. If, on the other hand, we were challenged by Sudanese, we should have to try and make them understand who we were, which in the dark and in the absence of any common language was likely to be a no less ticklish operation.

There was no moon and we kept direction as best we could by the stars, one man looking out and one man driving. Mike Sadler, our navigator, who had started us off, had told us that if we kept on a westerly course, we should not have much difficulty in finding the oasis, which covered a comparatively large area.

After we had been jolting along in the dark for some hours, Sergeant Seekings, who was looking out, drew my attention to a flash of greenish light across the sky in front of us. It was, he said, a green Very light, which was our usual recognition signal. The other jeep had seen it too. They had taken it for a shooting-star, but, on second thoughts, they were not sure.

Should we assume that it was a signal and reply with the appropriate signal of a red, followed by a green light — an unwise proceeding if there happened to be any enemy in the immediate vicinity? Or should we, on the other hand, dismiss the whole thing as an astronomical phenomenon? In the end Seekings won the day. Our Very pistol was produced and fired off twice. First a red, then a green star soared up into the sky, blossomed out, illuminating the surrounding desert as it did so, and faded away. Then we settled down to await some reaction. None came. The shooting-star school of thought made no attempt to disguise their triumph, and elaborated on the folly of advertising our position to everyone in Central Libya by totally uncalled-for firework displays.

Before going any further, we checked up on our position as best we could, and came to the conclusion that we must now be very near the edge of the oasis. There seemed very little to be gained by pushing on any further in the few hours that remained before dawn. Indeed it seemed quite likely that, if we did so, we might blunder into unnecessary trouble. We accordingly revised our plans and decided to stay where we were for the time being and move on just before first light. Each of us took turns at keeping watch, while the rest slept. We were by now all very tired and were glad of the rest.

Before going to sleep, I finished what was left of my water. It was a comfort to take a good long pull at it after so many days of sipping, and as I drained the last tepid drops, I reflected that the next day was in any case likely to solve the water problem radically one way or the other.

The brief grey twilight that precedes the dawn showed, as we had expected, the palm trees of Jalo a few miles away on the western horizon. Nothing else was in sight. There were no signs of any human activity. We got back into our jeeps and drove cautiously towards Jalo.

Half an hour’s driving brought us to the outer fringe of the oasis. A little wind was stirring the palms; the sky was limpid. Still we saw nothing. We were wondering what to do next when the familiar sound of aircraft engines fell on our ears. Looking to the horizon, we saw three bombers flying straight towards us in formation. We had barely had time to get the jeeps under cover of the palms, when they were over us. Looking up we could see that they bore German markings.

Simultaneously it occurred to us that here was a simple means of finding out by whom the oasis was held. If the Germans bombed it, we could safely assume that it was in the hands of our own troops. If, on the other hand, they landed, or dropped supplies, or did nothing, we should know that it was still held by the enemy.

The bombers took a run over the oasis, flying so low over the palm trees that from our hiding-place we could see the faces of the pilot and rear-gunner. We watched them intently. Nothing happened. From where we were we could see through the palm trees the flat sand of the landing-strip, empty save for the wreck of a fighter. If they landed now we should have ringside seats; in fact, we should have to do some very quick thinking.

As we watched, they circled out over the desert and came back a second time. Once again they flew over us at a low altitude and disappeared over the palm trees. Then, just as we were beginning to give up hope, came the crash and roar of three sticks of bombs. I had never thought that I should derive such pleasure from the sound of German bombs bursting in my immediate vicinity.

The attack was short and sharp and soon the three aircraft, having dropped their bombs, turned and flew off again towards the north, leaving the coast clear for us to make contact with our friends of the Sudan Defence Force, for we felt now certain that they must be in possession of the oasis. Rising above the palm trees, about half a mile away, we could see the little Italian fort which forms the centre of Jalo, and thither we prepared to go, licking our lips at the thought of the abundance of food and drink which awaited us there. The Sudan Defence Force always lived well, and there would be captured Italian rations too.

We had already scrambled back into the jeeps and were starting up the engines when a new and, at this juncture, unexpected sound fell on our ears: the screeching of a salvo of shells. As we watched, they burst fair and square on the fort. At this, the comfortable certainty which we had derived from the hostile behaviour of the German aircraft that had just flown off gave way to fresh doubts. If the Sudan Defence Force had, as we assumed, captured the fort, how was it that there was any enemy left to shell them? We decided that we should be wise to investigate the situation further before driving up to the fort for breakfast.

All this had happened so quickly that we had hardly had time to look round. A closer inspection of our surroundings now revealed a solitary Arab half-heartedly tilling an unpromising-looking vegetable patch some distance away under the palm trees. I walked over and engaged him in conversation. I was, I told him in a mixture of Italian, troops’ Arabic and dumb-crambo, anxious to know who was in the fort. ‘Taliani,’ he replied succinctly, with evident contempt for one so ill-informed about local events. ‘And what,’ I asked, ‘about the English.’ ‘The English,’ he said, ‘tried to get in several days ago.’ ‘And now,’ he added, turning back to his digging, as a shrill whistling announced the arrival of another salvo of shells, ‘they are trying again.’

This made things much clearer. We were, it appeared, occupying part of the Italian advanced positions and under heavy fire from our own side. The Italians themselves had wisely evacuated these positions at some earlier stage of the encounter. The sooner we followed their example the better it would be for us.

But this was easier said than done. A fair number of shorts and overs were coming our way, making the shallow, rather smelly little trenches in which we found ourselves no place for a rest cure. But, on the other hand, the sudden appearance of two stray jeeps silhouetted on the skyline would have provided a heaven-sent target to all concerned. We decided that we would have to stay where we were for the time being and wait for a lull in the proceedings.

Time passed slower than ever in our new surroundings and we became painfully aware of hunger and thirst. My friend the Arab seemed the only possible source of refreshment. Once again I made
my way over to him, this time rather more cautiously than before, for things were beginning to warm up round us, and opened negotiations. The first thing was to find out where he kept his water supply. It turned out that there was a well in the sand by the side of his allotment. Lying on the sand, with the help of an old leather bucket and a long bit of string, I managed in a short time to pull up enough water to fill two large water-bottles. The slimy, brackish liquid thus produced seemed more delicious than vintage champagne. At any rate the water problem was solved for the time being.

I next asked him whether he could sell us anything to eat. Always a man of few words, he pointed to a bright green vegetable marrow growing at his feet. ‘Any eggs?’ I said. ‘No,’ he said. It was only too clear that the vegetable marrow was all that we were going to get; and eventually it changed hands for a thousand lire note. It was not cheap, but it was the smallest note I had and one could hardly expect change in the circumstances. Carrying it as proudly as if it had won a prize at the Crystal Palace, I started back to the jeeps by a suitably circuitous route. On the way I filled my pockets with unripe dates off the date palms. We had all the makings of a feast.

We had scarcely sat down to breakfast when a fierce controversy broke out over our
plat de résistance
. My own claim that it was a vegetable marrow was brushed scornfully aside by Sandy, who said that he knew that it was a cucumber. On being told that cucumbers did not grow to that size, he said that anyone who knew anything about vegetables could see that it was a tropical cucumber. Nettled by this I retorted rather unjustly that anyone who knew anything at all could see that he was nothing but a city slicker whose knowledge of the country was derived solely from the low suburban race courses which he frequented.

Prolonged lack of food and drink is apt to fray the nerves. Our tempers were not at their best, and we both felt by now that we could have cheerfully used up our remaining strength in fighting each other over the identity of the rather sad-looking vegetable which lay between us, cut up into unappetizing green slices already covered with sand and flies. Fortunately a breach of the peace was avoided thanks to Sergeant Seekings, the only real agricultural expert of the party, who
drew the fire of both parties by suggesting that the object of our controversy must be a kind of pumpkin, a diagnosis so manifestly outrageous that Sandy and I sank our differences in a united but entirely unsuccessful attempt to persuade Seekings that he was talking nonsense. Not long after eating it, whatever it was, we were all attacked by the most violent stomach ache. Altogether it was an unsatisfactory vegetable.