“ANCHORS AWAY”
A Voyage Into The Unknown
Written by Geoffrey Richards

PART ONE
SOMEWHERE IN ENGLAND
Dawn, 1949 – Somewhere in England…. ‘Somewhere’ was a Royal Air Force Transit Unit in Hednesford, near Staffod, where at first light we commenced our journey with an exercise known in the services as ‘embussing’. In plain English, this involved humping our white sausage-shaped kit bags, two apiece, into Bedford 3-ton trucks, then climbing aboard ourselves, strictly by numbers. After a short ride to Stafford railway station the same proceedure was carried out but in reverse, the kit bags then being loaded into luggage vans tacked onto the rear of the special train that awaited us.

Relieved of our main burden, we lined up on the station approach for another roll-call. Although late summer, we were wearing our greatcoats as the simplest method of carrying them. Over this was a blanco-ed webbing harness to which were suspended a backpack, sidepack, water bottle, mess-tin and enamel mug. Thus relatively unencumbered, we answered to our names, were sized off, and dressed by the right for our two hundred yards route march through the booking hall and on to Platform Two where the order was given to “Stand easy!” Whereupon we subsided into one large blue-grey mass and gently simmered in the morning sun, thinking: “Sod this for a game of soldiers!”

Eventually with a lot of shouting and whistle-blowing we were shoehorned into the delapidated non-corridor train, eight bodies to a compartment, apparently inextricably linked by a tangle of arms, legs, webbing straps and clanking tin mugs, like four pairs of drunken, swearing Siamese twins. Survival uppermost, we tacitly agreed to breathe in and out together until each in turn had wriggled out of his shackles, allowing us to pile our still tangled equipment, greatcoats and all, on to the luggage racks. Thus released from our entanglement, we were able to relax, after a fashion, and take our seats for the first leg of a government-sponsored trip to the Mystic East, reassured by the knowledge that in one of our kit-bags, snug and warm, lay two sets of newly issued long woollen underwear … Just the things for the Tropics.

In due course there was a huff, a puff and, with a jerk, we were off. By the time the end of the train had cleared the platform, half of its jolly band of pilgrims was playing cards, the other half busy eating their packed lunches.

After half an hour or so the initial excitement had worn off and we settled down for the first leg of our journey. Precisely where this would end we knew not. All we knew was that our ultimate destination was rumoured to be the ‘Middle East’ but exactly where and over what area this nebulous territory spread itself was a mystery, even to those of us who had gained their School Certificates (these were pre GSE days) and ought to have absorbed at least some of their Geography lessons.

The problem was that even our Lords and Masters at the Air Ministry were apparently troubled by this question; “The Near East” was a term in vogue at the time, but where the Near East finished and the Middle East began was anybody’s guess. All we knew was that we were not destined for the “Far East” – that was much further, any fool knew that. We also knew that wherever we were bound we could not get there on this train. Any fool knew that too – we should have to find a ship somewhere. Where this ship was to be found we had no inkling; we just hoped that our engine driver was better informed than us, although our erractic progress did little to encourage this hope.

We zigzagged across the country, seemingly in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. Bets were laid as to our possible port of embarkation, forecasts ranging from Hull to Harwich and from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Knowing how perverse the Brass Hats could be at times, it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that we should find ourselves back at Stafford before the day was over. By mid-afternoon the northerners amongst us began to recognise unmistakable signs that we were heading in the general direction of Northwest England – the ‘Green and Pleasant’ countryside through which we had been travelling giving way to an industrial landscape with factories and ‘Dark Satanic Mills’ on every side. The odds shortened – Merseyside now became the firm favourite with the punters.

After what seemed an eternity, we found ourselves travelling through a heavily built-up area, obviously the outskirts of a large city. All of a sudden we were plunged into darkness; we had entered a lowering foul-smelling tunnel that seemed to descent at a very steep angle and go on forever. Then, just as suddenly, we burst forth into the sunlight to find ourselves in a huge glass-roofed shed. The train shuddered to a halt – we had arrived!

As forecast, it was indeed Merseyside and the Port of Liverpool. We had left the main line at Edge Hill and descended to Riverside Station via the Waterloo Tunnel (since the decay of Liverpool Docks now no longer in use). A few yards away lapped the Mersey Estuary where awaiting us, lay our next billet – His Majesty’s Troopship, MV Empire Pride.

PART TWO
EMBARKATON
Built at the end of the 19th century when Liverpool was an important port for passenger traffic, Riverside Station, as its name implies, ran parallel to the then impressive landing stages that sprawled along the Liverpool waterfront from Pier Head to the North Docks. The station platforms were only a few yards from the landing stages – for alighting passengers it was but a short step to the gangways of the huge transatlantic liners that sailed regularly from the port. Cunard, White Star, Canadian Pacific and Blue Funnel Line were among the many famous names to be seen on the waterfront in Liverpool’s heyday.

The Empire Pride was not in the same league, but to us she looked just as impressive, appearing to tower over the glassed roof of the spacious station building.

PART THREE
PRAISE THE LORD AND PASS THE BUCKET!
Now that we had time to look at our new home we were, to say the least, disappointed. Our troop-deck was several decks down, all steel bulkheads and decking with very little headroom. Overhead was a jumble of steel girders criss-crossed with lighter struts and every few feet what looked like a meat hook. “Perhaps they hang us up on those hooks at night” suggested one of our number, this being nearer the truth than any of us imagined. The only furnishings were a row of long low tables with a bench seat on each side and a small locker containing mops and buckets, the importance of which and the large role they were to play in our daily lives in the next few days did not immediately strike us. The lights were very dim, ventilation was minimal; the outlook was daunting.

Before we had time to dwell on our discomfort we were joined by our troop-deck NCO bearing a large bucket of steaming cocoa. Whilst we filled our mugs the daily routine was explained to us, which in essence was that other then to visit the washrooms, showers and heads (Naval slang for toilets), we should stay on our allocated troop-decks unless ordered to go elsewhere. Each troop-deck was allocated a time to collect its three meals a day from the galley. Apart from that, our movements were regulated by a barrage of orders barked at us over the Tannoy loudspeaker system installed throughout the ship. The cocoa and briefing disposed of, we were then shown how to make our house into a home for the next few weeks. All our kit was to be stowed overhead, the girders and cross members forming a giant luggage rack, our only means of storage. This determined that any item required had to be searched for in a pack or kit-bag, and as what was wanted was inevitably near the bottom, the whole lot had to be emptied and repacked several times a day. On one’s own this was a big enough nuisance, but when done against the clock, in the company of sixty or so sweating airmen, all pushing and shoving whilst the deck went up and down beneath one’s feet, then the whole crazy performance took on a nightmarish aspect.

An even worse nightmare was prepared for us as each man was issued with a hammock – now we realised the purpose of those meat hooks. We were to spend our nights suspended from them, swaying to and fro like rows of kippers waiting to be smoked. A better description would be sardines, so close were we forced to sling the hammocks, side by side and toe to toe, overlapping, literally, like sardines in a tin. So tightly were we packed that it was almost impossible to get to or from one’s hammock once some of the others were occupied – one or two good pushes set the whole cramped sleeping arrangement swinging back and forth, cannoning hammock off hammock like railway wagons under the hand of a demented shunter. Another horror of these arrangements came with the realisation that during the hours when hammocks were slung, usually after the last meal of the day until breakfast the following morning, the mess tables were inaccessible to us – the lack of headroom meant that there was only a foot or so clearance between table top and the underside of the hammock. So, after tea, if not allowed up on deck – this was a privilege rarely granted – there was not even the small comfort of the mess table at which one might wish to write a letter or enjoy a game of cards.

On our first night, the worst of these terrors were still ahead of us as, still excited by our new surroundings and replete with ship’s cocoa, we prepared to retire. With the hammock came a couple of blankets which we arranged according to our individual fancies before trying our hands at the actual slinging operation. In most cases this was done with too much slack, which resulted in a sleeping posture bent in the midriff at an angle of ninety degrees. After a long tiring day and blessed with a calm sea we soon fell asleep, blissfully unaware that the odd angles our bodies were
forming would add aches and pains to other woes that lay in store for us on the morrow.

Reveille next morning came as something of a relief to many of us. Once the worst of our tiredness had been relieved by a few hours sleep, our new surroundings and unaccustomed sleeping position brought us to full consciousness long before dawn. A few were already sensing the first signs of seasickness even though the weather was still good. We rolled our hammocks and stashed them overhead giving us a little more room to pull on a few clothes before heading for the ‘ablutions’ for a much needed wash and shave. Facilities being limited, queues and frayed tempers were inevitable. The Mess Orderlies of the day found their way to the galley to collect breakfast for their mess-mates. We took turns at this chore, each being responsible, a day at a time, for collection of all meals for those at one’s own mess table. This was another event at which the early bird got the worm – and very often that is exactly what it tasted like. Not to put too fine a point on it, the food was revolting, and by the time it reached us did not have even the redeeming feature of being warm.

Breakfast over, the inevitable kit-bag shuffle took place again before we were arrayed in ‘Best Blues’ in response to a Tannoy announcement requiring our presence on deck. We were of course wearing our normal RAF uniforms as we were still in Northern climes. At Hednesford we had been issued with our tropical kit: two each of khaki drill tunics, shorts, long trousers; two pairs of knee length woollen stockings; one pair of black shoes (a nice change from the heavy boots that were our normal wear); two sets of long woollen underwear. We never did discover to what special use the long johns were to be put; the mere thought of wearing them under khaki drill shorts sent us into paroxysms of mirth. This extra kit was the reason for the second kit-bag each of us carried. For the time being these could remain unopened in the overhead storage rack; the problems involved in the changeover to tropical kit could wait for another day.

We paraded on deck in warm fresh air. A welcome release from the confines of the troop-decks. In addition to the Royal Air Force contingent there was also a smaller number of Royal Engineers and a few ‘odds and sods’. The parade was taken by the OC Troops, who like many of the ship’s permanent staff was a member of the Royal Army Service Corps. (The overall command, and the actual operation of HMT Empire Pride was of course in Naval hands and did not directly affect us in any way.) The daily routine aboard ship was explained and we were allocated boat stations. Then we had our first full scale lifeboat drill and learned the correct way to wear our life belts if we wished to float the right way up – if at all! An order that surprised us was that other than for the daily parade, footwear was to be the plimsolls we wore for PT, perhaps in deference to the decks or the delicate ears of the off-watch seaman. Possibly the real reason was that rubber-shod, a clumsy landlubber, yet to find his sea legs was less likely to come a purler down a swaying companionway and finish up spending the remainder of the voyage in the sick bay.

As our first full day at sea drew towards its close the weather deteriorated rapidly, forcing all except those on duty below decks. Very few managed to consume all their evening meal, the sea-sickness was beginning to take its toll. The mess trays and dixies were returned to the galley over half full, their contents to re-emerge next day in another guise if troop-deck gossip was to be believed. Perhaps we were unfair and the rejected food was destined to feed the seagulls. If so, then before the night was over it would be joined by most of the food that had been consumed, so seasick were we.

The next few days passed in a blur of misery and seasickness; the weather was foul and the Bay of Biscay lived up to its awesome reputation. By now, only the most hardy partook of any meals, the food containers being returned to the galley practically untouched. At our parade, when briefed on daily routine the procedure for ‘reporting sick’ had been explained. It was made abundantly clear that although the Sick Bay staff were ready and willing to dispense tender loving care to those unwise enough to suffer serious illness or injury, anyone joining a daily Sick Parade complaining
of mal de mer and expecting sympathy, let alone treatment, was in for a rude awakening. When not leaning over the rail, retching and heaving, the days were spent huddled in whatever sheltered corner one could find. Despite the atrocious weather we passed as much time on deck as our captors would allow; fresh air was the only medicine available and we took it in large doses whenever we could, even though it came at us with gale force and was often accompanied by driving rain. The bad weather prevented any form of recreational activity on deck even had there been anyone fit enough to enjoy it. Only a handful of our number were completely free from the effects of the pitching and rolling gait of the Empire Pride. Some managed to drink tea or cocoa but were unable to keep down any solid food, others were obliged to run to the heads or the rail at the mere mention of it. Some men were never actually physically sick but were overcome with nausea without the vomiting that usually accompanied it. These were the last to recover, suffering queasiness long after the rest of us had returned to our normal rude health.

If our days were spent in abject misery, then our nights were spent in a slough of wretched despond. Crowded together in our troop-decks we were cold, damp and almost to a man, physically ill. There were no drying facilities for those occasions when our spell on deck had coincided with a shower or squall, with the result that our clothes were often damp and clammy. This, combining with the usual malodours inherent when sixty or so normally sweet-scented airmen are crowded together, for hours at a time, cheek by jowl with very little ventilation made conditions worse than any of us had ever experienced before. Add to this, the fact that the majority were suffering sea-sickness in some degree or other, many vomiting uncontrollably where they stood or lay. Our circumstances were made unbearable, a veritable floating ‘Black Hole of Calcutta’. Many were unable to tolerate their hammocks at all – the swaying motion forcing them to pass their nights in some corner or other if they could find one free of vomit, other finding refuge lying on steel decking beneath the mess tables. Those who did feel able or adventurous enough to climb into their hammocks found little relief or comfort. If later they themselves were overcome with nausea, perhaps aggravated by the appalling surroundings or by the continuous swaying of their resting place, they would find themselves hemmed in so closely by their fellows that they were unable to escape in time, and were forced to vomit where they lay. It was not unknown to lie quietly in one’s hammock, fighting off the waves of nausea, to be brought to full consciousness by the revolting realisation that the warm glow spreading up the lower body was a result of the occupant of an adjacent hammock throwing up over one’s feet…

The mops and buckets found on our first night on board were in use around the clock, but were not enough to stem the ghastly tide that threatened to engulf us. The usual barrack room ribaldry was stilled for once; there were no impromptu singsongs or coarse backchat whilst we buffeted our way across the Bay of Biscay, although many a quiet prayer passed through lips previously unaccustomed to such utterances.

PART FOUR
SEA LEGS
Gradually the weather improved and the sea became calmer. Thoroughly cowed by the appalling conditions in which we existed, we were too numbed to notice the changes in the world outside. For many, the first sign of better things to come was a strange sensation which we eventually recognised as a hunger pang – our systems were actually demanding food! A bottle of Mackeson’s milk stout from the canteen was often the first step on the road to recovery. During the next day or so, the whole Draft perked up considerably. The sun shone, the sea was calm and we began to look forward to meal times. That the food dished up was below normal services standard there was no doubt, on that we were as one, but by now, with appetites restored, the meals were declared only ‘awful’, rather than ‘revolting’. From now on, only a tiny handful were troubled with seasickness, one or two becoming quite seriously ill before the Medical Officer took pity and came to their aid. In most cases their condition was alleviated, but for the congenital seasickness sufferers there was no cure; for them the rest of the voyage was spent in severe discomfort.

Although the food was appalling and the troop-decks frightful, there was a genuine attempt by those in authority to make our daily life bearable. Apart from the morning parade and the occasional life boat drill or mess fatigue there were very few demands made upon us – after morning parade we were free to do as we wished for the rest of the day. Not that there was a lot to do, but the ship’s staff did their best; there was a tiny canteen, a library, an infrequent concert, and later in our voyage when in smooth warm waters, Tombola (aka ‘Bingo’ – the only gambling sanctioned in the services) was played on deck. The problem was that recreation, like the other facilities on board, was limited, the demand always exceeding supply. To allow everybody a chance to avail themselves of whatever was going, literally everything had to be rationed or allocated. In practice this meant that, for instance, one was allocated a specific time to use the library or visit the canteen. Often this clashed with other routine activities and then confusion or frustration reigned. For this reason, the ‘go as you please’ events that took place on deck during the latter part of the voyage were the most memorable. Being on deck, we were in the open air and were probably more comfortable than at any other time on board ship. Above all, there was more space, and so there was always enough room for all who wished to enjoy the entertainment that had been organised. In addition to the regular Tombola, there were sing-songs, talent contests, quizzes and a light-hearted boxing tournament. Whatever was planned, it was always well attended, even if the main attraction was only the simple pleasure of sitting in the sun and stretching one’s cramped limbs.

Apart from our precise destination, which was still withheld from us, other information was plentiful. The Tannoy not only barked out a stream of orders but was also the means of broadcasting a wide variety of information. We had world and home news, details of any changes to our routine as well as news of ‘forthcoming attractions’ on board ship. There were relays of popular BBC programmes of the day such as Forces Favourites and other musical offerings. A most welcome feature was the identification of landmarks and other items of interest as they came into view: Cape Finisterre, Cape St Vincent, and for the nature lovers or marine biologists, flying fish and schools of porpoises. More news came to us via the medium of a regular news sheet given the grandiose title of Ship’s Newspaper. This repeated many of the broadcast news items but also included fresh material and details of minority attractions available on request. These were lectures or tuition on a variety of interests such as bridge, chess, readings from Shakespeare, even ballroom dancing, plus a wide range of scholastic subjects – all presented by volunteers from within our draft. For many, the high spot of our daily entertainment was the sweepstake which was prominently featured in the daily news sheet. The object of the exercise was to estimate the number of nautical miles covered by the ship in each twenty-four hour period. Each entrant made his guess based on whatever formula he favoured, the entry nearest to the actual mileage being declared the winner. The previous day’s mileage together with the name of the winner (who received a canteen voucher) were announced with appropriate fanfares each morning over the Tannoy.

The Bay of Biscay was now just a horrible memory, as we left the North Atlantic for more hospitable waters of the Mediterranean. The temperature was rising daily, cold and damp were a thing of the past and we had found our sea-legs. We explored the ship as far as we were allowed, finding new vantage points from which to survey our progress, and new places to sit in or out of the sun, to suit our personal preferences. The canteen now became a regular feature of daily life and although the range of goods was limited there was sufficient choice to make the days seem brighter. Actually only a tiny storeroom aft, the canteen opened at specified times each day, when at our allotted hour we queued up outside to be served, one at a time, through a small hatch. On sale were such everyday necessities as soap, toothpaste, razor blades, and of course, Cherry Blossom, Soldiers’ Friend and Brasso, without which the progress of His Majesty’s Forces would grind to a halt.

Each day one could purchase either a bottle of beer or stout, or, for those former Band of Hope members who still recalled ‘Signing the Pledge’, lemonade or ginger beer. There was chocolate, still on ration at home, but now, as we were officially ‘overseas’ we could buy cigarettes at a ridiculously low price, duty free of course. Although plentiful, the cigarettes were not the familiar brands that we were used to, in fact some were total strangers such as Benson & Hedges in a flat red tin, at that time a cigarette little known in the UK. Also there were State Express ‘555s’, and their thinner, cheaper stable mates, ‘777s’. Less plentiful, and the most popular were ‘Ships Woodbines’, thicker than the common ‘Woody’ and packed in fifties in a cylindrical tin which came complete with its own built-in tin-opener. Even the non-smokers were seduced by all this exotica and drew their full entitlement of duty free smokes. After all, they were so cheap and it was a pity to pass up a bargain – perhaps they could be used for barter? But, before many days had passed, a large number of former non-smokers were puffing away like there was no tomorrow, soon converted to addicts by the sudden arrival of a lavish supply of cheap fags, their conversion accelerated by the strangeness of their new environment.

This was the time when we were fit enough to take a proper look around us, and not only did we explore the ship but we made a more detailed study of each other. The RAF contingent had arrived at Hednesford a few weeks earlier in ones and two from Royal Air Force units all over the UK, with one or two rare exceptions, all complete strangers to each other. Unlike the Royal Navy and Army whose normal practice is to keep ships’ companies, battalions and other similar formations together, making postings en masse, the Royal Air Force generally speaking, move individuals piecemeal, filling each vacancy as and when it occurs. For example, it was usual for a batch of recruits entering say, the Lancashire Fusiliers, to stay together through basic training to battalion posting, often remaining with their comrades of ‘rookie’ days for the rest of their service.

In the Royal Air Force, this did not happen. At the end of two or three months basic training or ‘square-bashing’ a Flight of perhaps 100 airmen would be dispersed to anything up to two dozen different camps for training in a diversity of trades ranging from airframe fitter to wireless operator. From there they would be posed to their operational stations throughout the globe, wherever there was a vacancy for their particular trade. Thus, an airman could go through his whole service career, with innumerable postings, without ever coming across a familiar face. In my own case, five years would elapse before I was to meet anyone from my square-bashing days.

Our Draft was composed of hundred of such piecemeal postings; cooks and carpenters, mechanics and ‘medics’, AC2s and Air Commodores. A thoroughly mixed bag, collected from all over the United Kingdom to fill vacancies all over the Middle East. We compared notes and sought out those from one’s home town, and occasionally we found a favourite pub or ‘palais’ in common. Very rarely, a familiar face was found, from home or basic training, and was the cause of much rejoicing. We gathered together in trade or home town groups, or were brought closer by other common interests, perhaps football, or for some, potentially more profitable pastimes such a poker or pontoon. As the voyage progressed many new friendships were struck as these groups developed and we grew to know each other better. Regrettably, none of these shipboard friend-ships was destined to flourish. Before long, the voyage would come to an end and we should be packed off in penny parcels, to all corners of the Middle East and beyond.

Now well on the way to full recovery, we were further heartened one morning by a double dose of welcome news. Next day we were due to call at Gibraltar …. and there was to be shore leave!

PART FIVE
A RUN ASHORE
Now well on the way to full recovery, we were further heartened one morning by a double dose of welcome news. Firstly, that day we were to undergo a metamorphosis. We were to go below as blue-clad ‘European’ airmen and re-emerge later, resplendent in the new khaki and red plumage of the tropical variety. Secondly, the next day we were due to call at Gibraltar … and there was to be shore leave! We trooped below and the long-expected battle commenced. Although we longed to don our new apparel, especially now that the sun was our constant companion, we dreaded the moment of changeover knowing that the crowded conditions below would make chaos inevitable. Nevertheless, we set to with a will, grateful at least that we could put our minds to the task now that we were almost in full control of stomachs and legs. We wrestled with our kit-bags and each other, fortunately in good humour, and gradually some sort of order and good sense prevailed. Our blue uniforms were stripped off and stuffed into a hastily emptied kit-bag together with greatcoat, ‘woolly-pully’, followed by blue socks and shirts. On went KD shorts and tunic – no more ties, or shirts with separate collars and their outmoded front and back collar-studs to fiddle with. Next came khaki stockings and new shoes (needless to say, the long woollen underwear remained at the bottom of our kit-bag) – we were almost ready! Topped off with blue beret, with the unaccustomed red insignia on our tunics we emerged, a symphony in khaki, red and blue: At least, that was the intention; the truth, sad to relate, was very different….

As full-length mirrors were not standard fitting on HM Troopships, thankfully we were unable to “see ourselves as others see us” and the sorry picture made by our KD-clad shipmates soon made each of us forget any disappointment we may have felt on the score. Our khaki drill shorts and tunics had been forced to spend their lives crammed into a kit-bag since the night before we left Hednesford and now emerged crushed and cumpled, looking as if they had been trampled under-foot by a herd of water buffalo. Without the benefit of any alterations or even a press, they fitted only where they touched: some shorts being very short and others reaching a discreet two or three inches below the knee. Here and there was an odd man out whose KD fitted perfectly, indicating that some deformity of the wearer had passed unnoticed at his medical. With two-day sunburn overlying the unmistakable pallor of the earlier days of seasickness we presented a sorry spectacle. In action we would have been invincible – on catching sight of us, any enemy would have died laughing.

At least now we felt cooler and better able to withstand the hot days that were to be the norm from now on. The last major hurdle to a full shakedown on the voyage had been overcome and we had the prospect of our first run ashore on ‘foreign soil’ to look forward to, comically dressed though we were. We made what adjustments we could to our KDs; swapping and changing tunics and shorts with our fellows hoping to find a better fit. There were a limited number of electric irons on board for which we formed the usual good-natured queues and managed eventually to present a reasonably military-looking appearance. Or at least one that would get us past the inspection tomorrow that would precede our release down the gangways, to wreck havoc on the hitherto loyal and friendly Gibraltarians.

We rushed on deck next morning at the first opportunity to find that ‘The Rock’ had loomed into view and was now lying off our port bow, huge and wreathed in the early morning heat haze. The Tannoy did its stuff as usual, pointing our the Pillars of Hercules (the two promontories on opposite sides of the Straits of Gibraltar), Tangiers on the North African shore, and as we drew nearer, points of interest on Gibraltar itself.

After breakfast there was a casual Pay Parade, those in need of funds presenting their AB64’s (pocket-sized ‘pay books’ in which were recorded payments, next of kin and other details) to the Pay Officer. To our disappointment, payments were still in £sd and not in some exciting ‘foreign currency’; we were not truly overseas just yet.

Back on deck there was much excitement as we entered harbour and prepared to come alongside at our appointed berth. On the quay a mooring party made ready to accept our lines and in a trice we were made fast, snug and secure against the landing stage. In no time at all the Empire Pride’s derricks were rigged and swinging out the gangways to permit a swarm of Harbour Officials and’Dockyard Mateys’ to board us. The latter, assisted by our deck hands got down to the business of restocking and refuelling the ship’s stores and bunkers. Also, there were military supplies to be landed, and other loaded for shipment further East. Whilst the derricks were swinging merrily to and fro, we thronged the upper decks surveying the scene below in eager anticipation. The hours spent transforming our KDs into some semblance of military attire now seemed well spent as we sensed the forbidden delights of a run ashore.

The well decks were a hive of activity as crates, barrels and boxes of all shapes and sizes were swung into or out of the holds. A small party of army personnel disembarked, in full marching order; they would be spending at least part of their overseas tour at ‘Gib’. Their departure was the signal for an exchange of pleasantries such as: “Get yer knees brown!” or “Serve yer right, you shouldn’t ‘ave joined!” and others of a more ribald nature. At least there was something going on to entertain us as we chafed at the bit, a week’s pay burning holes in our KD pockets. At last, the order we had been waiting for came floating out from the Tannoy; with the usual admonitions as to good behaviour and punctuality, and with the words of the Padre’s stern lecture ringing in our ears, we were released down the gangways in a flurry of pale pink knees and flapping shorts.

Once ashore and clear of the harbour we were pleasantly surprised to discover that Gibraltar was larger than had been anticipated. Joined by a sandy isthmus to the Spanish mainland, the Rock rises to fourteen hundred feet at its summit. A Crown Colony since 1704, Gibraltar was staunchly British; the population at that time, some twenty thousand strong, speaking a mixture of English and Spanish and having a deserved reputation for hospitality, as we were to discover that afternoon. It was noon by the time we got ashore and for some the first thought was a decent meal. For the vast majority of British Servicemen, at home or abroad, this usually meant something in the ‘egg and chips’ category. We did not have to search for long; our requiements were easily met in the many cafes and bars that abounded in the streets leading from the docks. In fact, the whole gamut of chip-based meals; fried fish, sausage, beans, peas et al were as freely available here as on Blackpool’s Golden Mile. Some had other appetites to satisfy and made off directly in search of the forbidden fruits said to be found in and around the many bars of the notorious Main Street area. Fortunately, for themselves as well as our Sick Berth staff, very few appeared to have reached their goal but could never be accused of not trying – some fellows returning to the ship in a sorry state after patronising almost every bar in town. These merry revellers were the last to come aboard, returning to the Dock gate in fine style; by taxi, by pony and trap, and the star of the show, astride a ‘borrowed’ bicycle.

Others had spent quieter hours ashore behaving like tourists, taking in all the local culture, sending postcards home and even finding time to visit a church. One or two tried for the best of both worlds, dashing from ship to church for their obligatory confession, before making straight for the flesh pots in an endeavour to make up for lost ground. By and large, a good time was had by all, and there were no deserters when the roll was called. The injury list was thankfully small; a broken wrist sustained in a drunken fall: a few black eyes and the odd thick lip as result of ‘friendly’ discussions: and several hundred blisters to remind us that our first shore leave in hot climes had been spent wearing those nice unbroken, brand-new shoes!

The postcard (The Convent [Governor’s Palace], Gibraltar)
That I sent home to my parents in Manchester, postage 2½d

We remained on deck as the Empire Pride, all her chickens safely home to roost, prepared to sail. As we watched the ropes being cast off and hauled on board we compared notes on the day’s activities ashore. Some had tall tales to tell of thrilling encounters and of conquests made. Others told of less exciting adventures, whilst probably the most adventurous of all either remembered nothing, or were so overcome by their day’s activities that they passed out and had to be taken below to sleep it off. As the sun set, we manoeuvred out of the harbour – this time without the ceremony of a military band – and said our farewells to the Rock of Gibraltar. Leaving the Straits behind us we set an easterly course into the Mediterranean proper, Mussolini’s Mare Nostro. Although we did not know it, for most of us this was to be the last leg of our passage to the ‘Mystic East’.

PART SIX
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE
For the remainder of our voyage the sea was calm and whenever we were allowed on deck we basked in the Mediterranean sun; this was by far the happiest period of our time aboard Empire Pride. Permission was granted for a limited number of men to sleep on the upper decks in specified areas. Many jumped at the chance and spent their nights lying on the deck under the stars, contriving a sort of palliasse from their hammocks and blankets. Others having learnt the knack of slinging hammocks ‘shipshape and Bristol fashion’, thereby removing the danger of a permanent V-shaped spine, preferred to remain on the troop-deck. The sea was placid, and we had become accustomed to what little pitching and rolling remained; the troop-decks, less crowded now that some slept on deck, were almost comfortable. No longer wet and cold we could use the ‘blowers’ that were conveniently positioned in the upper bulkheads to play streams of fresh air into our midst keeping the temperature at a tolerable degree.

Days continued to pass pleasantly. There was a Daily Parade, and now and again, Lifeboat Drill. Otherwise we played Tombola, made a daily purchase at the canteen, watch a concert, or just sat in the sun working hard to reach the required degree of knee-browning. Some found the now virtually empty troop-decks newly attractive and passed part of their day below enjoying the unaccustomed solitude. We found time to take one or more showers each day, there being no restrictions on the number of salt water showers one could take, although fresh water, being in short supply was strictly rationed. The problem was, that it was impossible to obtain a lather with salt water, and normal soap was rendered useless. Special salt water soap was on issue, coarse brown bricks that produced a lather of sorts and would remove grime quite effectively, but did little to promote freshness – after the shower, one emerged covered all over with a gooey, sticky film, which felt almost worse than before. The trick was to take your shower and immediately rinse or wipe over with some precious fresh water, providing you had been smart enough to save some of your ration (or scrounge someone else’s!).

The Tannoy continued its daily running commentary, although after we left Gibraltar it was several days before there were any landmarks to report. There was not a great deal of shipping to see either. The high spot turned out to be HMS Amethyst, later to be immortalized by the British Lion film, Yangtze Incident. We also sighted the Empire Windrush, returning from the Far East, another ‘Empire’ troopship which, with our own vessel and the Empire Fowey, were among the regulars on the UK-Eastern Station run; these were the days before long-range jets, when all trooping was done by sea. On a subsequent voyage from the Far East, HMT Empire Windrush was diverted to the Caribbean to bring several hundred West Indians to Britain, a source of much controversy then and for many years to follow.

The next sighting of land worthy of note appeared about five days out of Gibraltar, when away to port, Malta came into view. Our hopes of more shore leave were soon dashed by an announcement telling us we would not be calling at Malta on this trip. To our disappointment – we could only look from afar and weep. We were now well into the Eastern Mediterranean – already it was very hot and the temperature was rising daily. We realized that before long we could be reaching the end of the voyage, though precisely where this would be we still had no idea. Naturally, there had been a few theories on the subject, some wilder than others, none of them well informed. All were couched in the vaguest of terms, and in the final analysis, proved to be well wide of the mark. The truth was, other than the oblique reference made to the “Middle East” when our postings were confirmed we still had no idea where we were bound. On this subject the daily newsletter and the Tannoy remained silent.

A day or so after leaving Malta in our wake came the first clue; our next port of call was to be Port Said, which to many had an unsavoury, non-British sort of ring. All was revealed at next morning’s Parade: the majority of us would disembark at Port Said for service in the ‘Canal Zone’, others destined for Aden or Iraq had many more days journeying ahead of them. We were scheduled to dock at Port Said early next morning so there was much to do. We were processed and given disembarkation instructions, drew our last ration of ‘duty frees’ and handed in any ship’s library books or recreational equipment we had drawn during our voyage. Then it was time to sort out our kit ready for the morrow. Our webbing equipment was reassembled and the brasses given a much needed polish after their banishment to the ‘upper reaches’. Kit-bags and packs were rearranged and repacked several times until we were satisfied that everything was in its proper order and we could lay hand on whatever was likely to be required. We had been warned of the dangers of heat-stroke and issued with salt tablets, each about the size of a shilling. We took care to check that our water bottles were in good order, ready for filling next morning, heeding the warning to expect a long, hot day.

There was only little time to spare to discuss the imminent postings, all on our troop-deck were detailed for the Canal Zone; all were in agreement that we had never heard of it – the only ‘Canal Zone’ mentioned in the ship’s library encyclopedia was the Panama Canal Zone, but that was on the other side of the world.

During my schooldays, probably due to growing up near the Manchester Ship Canal and the earlier Duke of Bridgewater’s Canal, I had developed a keen interest in Civil Engineering and Inland Waterways in particular. Consequently, I had read many books about the Suez Canal and how it was brought into being by Ferdinand de Lesseps. Nevertheless, the idea that the Canal Zone to which we were bound was related to the Suez Canal, at that time did not occur to me. The possibility of the ‘Canal Zone’ being geographical term for part of Egypt did not enter my head.

With the help of the atlas section of our encyclopaedia we were able to confirm the exact whereabouts of Port Said, identified as an Egyptian seaport at the northern mouth of the Suez Canal. Suddenly, for me the light came on – Suez Canal, Port Said, de Lesseps – the memories came flooding back. Our research was well worth the effort. The unusual academic activity acting as a stimulus, sending the old grey matter off on a canter around the block. Others who were still interested in solving the puzzle drew upon vague recollections from their geography lessons and other half-forgotten memories and began to put two and two together; the Suez Canal ran through Egypt; Port Said was at the Mediterranean end of the Canal – Eureka! We had located our ‘Canal Zone’. Fine so far, but what had we to do with Egypt which to my knowledge, confirmed by the encyclopaedia, admittedly out of date, was an independent kingdom, not part of the British Empire. Sure enough, in the atlas, Egypt was coloured green, not the familiar comforting pink on which ‘the sun never set…’ By now, many of us had formed a fairly clear picture of where we should be spending the next few years; here and there was a special, extra quiver of excitement at the thought of what tomorrow might bring. We would have to wait and see.

Our last night on board HMT Empire Pride passed uneventfully. Almost to a man we were wide-awake and ready for the off long before reveille. After breakfast, we scrambled up on deck at the first opportunity, hoping to secure one of the best vantage points from which to view our arrival at Port Said. We were almost too late – the Empire Pride was just about to position herself between the wide arms formed by a pair of long stone piers or moles that flanked the outer harbour entrance. Despite the blindingly bright sunlight, visibility was not perfect. The last traces of an early morning mist combined with a heat haze to produce a pale pink, luminous fog – the effect was almost magical. The stone piers seemed endless (they were, in fact, over a mile and a half long).

Suddenly, the pink fog thinned and the variformed skyline of Port Said stood revealed. As we drew nearer we could make out the shape of individual buildings and saw before us a mélange of exotic architectural styles: minarets, glistening domes and cupolas as well as the more mundane apartment blocks, commercial buildings and godowns. Even those buildings of a more familiar outline were given an unmistakably oriental appearance by their many lattice-enclosed balconies, their terraces and flat roofs adorned with dovecotes, miniature gardens, and here and there the occasional chicken coop or tethered goat.

As we reached the landward end of the piers that flanked us, the Empire Pride slowed to enter the inner harbour. The port was crowded with shipping and it seemed as though there was no place for us to berth. Ahead on our starboard bow beckoned a tall lighthouse. Dead ahead, wide and straight as far as the eye could see, stretched de Lesseps’ brainchild – the Suez Canal, the reason for our presence in Egypt. Where the western pier linked to the harbour quay was a huge stone plinth on which stood an imposing figure. It was a statue of Ferdinand de Lesseps, arm outstretched as it to welcome us. (Little did I imagine that some years later I would see the statue demolished. When Anglo-French Forces withdrew from Egyptian soil following their ill-judged attempt to seize control of the Canal at the time of the ‘Suez Crisis’ debacle, the outraged citizens of Port Said gave vent to their fury by dragging the statue from its pedestal. The enormous stone plinth on which it had stood for more than sixty years remains empty to this day)

From the moment when we were notified of our destination, my mind had been in constant turmoil. As we searched through the encyclopaedia came an awakening. Out of the blue came the realization that I already know most of the answers we were seeking. It was as if I had been this way before – but the furthest east I had ever travelled was Scarborough. Nevertheless, the map of Egypt, neglected since joining the RAF, suddenly unrolled itself in my mind: Port Said, the Suez Canal – the whole country was almost as familiar to me as my home town. In fact, I had been this way before. Not in real life – but in my childhood, on a magic carpet woven from a mixture of the written word and the more graphic images of the cinema. Although they were still vague and unconnected like some half-forgotten dream, many of these memories had been swirling around in my head from the first moment that Port Said was mentioned. As we had consulted the encyclopaedia the still amorphous recollections began to gel, but were inhibited by the excitement of our impending arrival. The sight of de Lesseps’ statue was the catalyst that brought about the full inevitable reaction.

PART SEVEN
PORT SAID
As the Empire Pride eased her way into Port Said, there were still three or four hours to go before noon, but it was already very hot. Now that we had left behind the fresh ocean breeze I realized just how unbearable the sun could be in foreign climes when exposed to the full power of its rays, without benefit of shade or cooling breeze. To starboard, the town of Port Said came down to meet us, the streets extending to the harbour quay only a few hundred feet away, allowing a first tantalizing glimpse of an Egyptian street scene combining dark, narrow alleyways and wide, tree-lined boulevards. Expecting a dry, arid landscape, I was taken completely by surprise at the sight of so many trees and shrubs. Here and there an open expanse of pale green grass denoted a park or public garden, the lawns and flower beds maintained by constant watering, increased the level of my culture shock.

Further away, to port, could be seen another built-up area presenting a more commercial aspect, fronted by more docks and warehouses lining the eastern side of the canal. Later, I discovered this to be Port Fouad, a suburb of Port Said, founded in 1926 and named after the reigning monarch of the period, King Fouad, father of the better known King Farouk into whose domain we were now entering. Although I was unaware of it at the time, the unloading of several hundred more British servicemen at what was nominally a sovereign Egyptian port was not exactly welcomed by the monarch, and even less so by the majority of his subjects. In the meantime, we had arrived and were ripe for the picking. So thought the inhabitants of Port Said, apparently, and they prepared to take us to the cleaners with a will and determination that took our breath away. To starboard were a number of basins, into one of which the Empire Pride now manoeuvred, to tie up alongside a large wooden landing stage. Even before berthing was complete, the ship was surrounded by dozens of gaudily painted bum-boats loaded to the gunnels with a multicoloured cargo of exotic fruits and vegetables, rugs, trinkets and other knickknacks, the boatmen (and women) extolling the quality and bargain prices of their wares in a barrage of fractured English. To the waterborne hawkers of Port Said every newly arrived British serviceman was named “George” or “Johnny”. The pseudo-polite Effendi, a title favoured by waiters and barmen, was usually reserved for more civilized bargaining ashore.

The Waterfront at Port Said
Bum-boats lie in wait

We did little to push up trade figures; the idea of dropping money into a small bag held aloft on the end of a long pole, before getting one’s hands on the goods was not to our Anglo-Saxon taste. Besides, very few of us possessed more than a handful of small change left from our last pay parade. It was very much a hand to mouth existence that we led and the time between pay days always seemed longer than the customary two weeks; there was always plenty of fortnight left over at the end of the pay! As a leading aircraftsman of two or three month’s seniority, my own pay was still only a shilling or two more than the paltry four shillings a day received on enlistment. Out of that I allotted the princely sum of one shilling per day to my mother; clearly, I had no intention of spoiling her. By the time the usual stoppages for “barrack room damages” and other adjustments had been made I was lucky to pick up seventeen and sixpence a week (87½p) in those good old days. As an LAC I was better off now, but it was still a long drag between pay days. Now that we were officially overseas there would be a decent rise to look forward to, the overseas allowances to which we were now entitled being quite generous; taking all other factors into consideration, financially we should be a lot better off in future. Fortunately for the bum-boat men, they did not have to depend on impoverished ‘squaddies’ and ‘erks’ for their livelihood. Passenger and freight traffic between Europe and The Orient was still carried almost exclusively by sea at this time, therefore there were always plenty of new customers for the hucksters and pedlars of Port Said and Suez.

The moment the Empire Pride was secured to the landing stage we were hit by the ‘second wave’ of the onslaught upon our meager pockets. Despite the cordon of Military and Royal Air Force Police around our gangways, the decks were suddenly swarming with dark-skinned, fast-talking hustlers, eager to relieve us of our last coin. “if you haven’t got a coin, a fountain pen will do; if you haven’t got a fountain pen, then a watch, a camera, anything!” That was the message, and it came over loud and clear. Our new assailants were not bona fide traders as such, but had boarded in the guise of dock hands and labourers, ostensibly to assist with unloading. Probably many of them did have official reasons for their presence on board, but that was coincidental. The main purpose was to make a quick buck, and in many cases it was as easy as shooting fish in a barrel. Their methods were many and varied and ranged from the Port Said version of street market spiel to sleight of hand in order to foist upon their victim anything from an oriental love potion to uncut diamonds. The most effective weapon used against us was very often our own greed, always a potent device in the hands of an unscrupulous salesman, and those boys could have flogged the Pyramids to King Farouk.

My own introduction to the Port Said School of Salesmanship was a startling experience, and one from which I was able to learn much that stood me in good stead when in due course I was to venture further afield, away from the well-trodden tourist track. I was standing at the rail on the side of the ship furthest away from most of the action when my attention was caught by a low whistle. Turning to look over my shoulder I beheld a small, swarthy figure, beckoning to me from within the entrance to a companionway leading to the lower decks. He was clad in greasy blue overalls, a pair of stout boots remarkably similar to British army-issue, and on his head, a brown knitted skullcap. “Come! Come! – Shh!” he hissed conspiratorially, on finger pressed to his lips, his other hand beckoning urgently, inviting me to join him. Mesmerized, I obeyed at once. He took my arm, drawing me behind the cover of a large locker at the head of the companionway. He sported a big, bushy piratical moustache; the sparkle of his darting eyes was matched by flashing gold teeth as he welcomed me with a broad grin. “Look, look” he hissed, “Very cheap – only five pounds, George; Give me three – Quick! Quick!” He produced a heavy gold ring, in which gleamed an enormous diamond. His attitude left me in no doubt that he was proposing a highly illegal transaction; the ring was obviously stolen or contraband, and he was looking for a quick sale. I was in a turmoil, I had no money to speak of and it seemed I was being offered a chance in a million. Greed vied with fear as my natural caution told me that this was obviously a dodgy deal.

If so, and any one was going to be caught in the act, then certainly it would be me. Seeing me hesitate, my would-be fellow conspirator brought out from nowhere a small mirror, like a conjurer producing a rabbit out of a hat. He drew the ring across the mirror, the ‘diamond’ leaving behind it a deep, clear scratch to dispel any doubts that what I was being offered was the real McCoy. At the same time he tapped my breast pocket and bare wrist – I was not wearing a watch – saying “Watch? Pen?” (Good fountain pens were in short supply – the now ubiquitous low-cost “throwaway” ball point was still in the future). I was on the horns of a dilemma, paralysed by the speed of events and my anxiety at the thought of being caught out. At that moment there came the sound of authoritarian voices close at hand. In a flash my new friend disappeared, leaving me still speechless and experiencing a mixture of relief, disappointment and embarrassment.

That I was not the only one to be singled out for such a tempting offer became apparent later when we compared notes on the morning’s events. Dozens of us had experienced similar propositions, all of them made in the same clandestine manner. Objects ranged from diamond rings to pearls ‘guaranteed’ genuine by the vendor performing an acid insolubility demonstration – more sleight of hand – to Ancient Egyptian scarabs said to be smuggled out of newly discovered tombs”. Nobody would admit to having made a purchase, although there was little doubt that the boarding party had achieved its objective. Had a couple of pounds been lurking in my pocket I might have been tempted, carried along by the speed of the approach and the cloak and dagger atmosphere in which it was made. I do know that later that afternoon, one of my troop-deck comrades was no longer wearing his wristwatch; on his finger was a large ring I had not noticed previously, yet was strangely familiar. Within two days the ring. Obviously a ‘ringer’. had lost its flashy stone and my companion’s finger was beginning to turn green… The only commodity not on offer that day was the much-vaunted ‘dirty postcard’; in fact, I can say quite honestly that during the several years I spent in Egypt I never did see any of these on sale, nor can I recall being offered any. Perhaps I looked too saintly or was just lucky. Or unlucky, depending on one’s personal inclination.

Arrival formalities completed, the Canal Zone contingent, including the writer, were assembled on the main deck and ordered to disembark. We filed down the gangways clutching our kit-bags, which now held our UK kit, so were even bulkier and heavier than at the outset. As we reached the landing stage, we were met by Royal Air Force Police, immaculate in their well-pressed, tailored KDs, white-topped peaked caps, and white webbing belts with revolver holsters, who directed us to the rear of the landing stage where we were to fall out. The standard, hackneyed order for such occasions was duly given; “Fall out for a smoke, those that don’t smoke must go through the motions”, to be met by the usual wave of ironic cheering. At this moment came one of those exceptions that prove the rule – I caught sight of someone I had met before. The familiar face belonged to one of the RAF Police, a Corporal who had been stationed at Royal air Force Melksham in Wiltshire, my last posting, and had left there a few months before me. I took the opportunity to quiz him about local conditions, to see if I could pick up some ‘gen’ to pass on. As a fount of information my contact proved to be a dead loss; the most he could tell me was that we were due to board a train within the next hour. He was more interested to hear about Melksham, and in particular, if he had been missed – poor deluded fool!

We relaxed in the sun, smoking our Benson & Hedges, looking like a cut-price Cook’s Tour that had run out of funds. Nothing seemed to be happening, the Empire Pride lay a hundred yards away, looking strangely forlorn and neglected now that her decks were deserted. Even the RAF Police had ceased prancing up and down the landing stage and disappeared, probably to re-blanco their webbing or re-starch their shorts. Could it be that our arrival coincided with early-closing day? No, we were now in the tropics – obviously, this was the local siesta time. It then occurred to me that so far we had seen no sign of any Egyptian officials. All the berthing, unloading, and other dockside activities had been performed by military personnel, or by Egyptian labourers under military supervision. Security was handled by Service Police both on the dock, and later, at the railhead. I was to discover that this was the case throughout the Canal Zone; although nominally sovereign Egyptian territory, control was obviously and firmly in the hands of the British.

Just as we were beginning to enjoy our unaccustomed siesta, it was time to move on. We fell-in and were marched around to the rear of the sheds that stood adjacent to the stage. To our delight, just a hundred yards away – no route march in store for us today – was a railway line on which a train awaited us. At least, there were several coaches, at that moment lacking a locomotive. In our eyes, these coaches had an unusual ‘toy-like’ appearance, with bodies apparently constructed from metal pressings, and silver painted to reflect the heat. We climbed aboard to find them well-maintained, the wooden bench type seats and the floor being free from discarded cigarette packets, orange peel and other similar litter. At the end of each coach was a toilet cubicle equipped with a small hand basin, but no water supply. Instead of the lavatory pedestal and seat was the Middle Eastern equivalent, which to our non-Islamic eyes looked decidedly primitive. This consisted of a circular opening let into the floor, open to the track below. On each side of this hole was a foot-shaped depression in which to locate one’s feet. The rest may be left to one’s imagination … and to the laws of gravity. Fortunately, our journey was to be of sufficiently short duration not to put too great a strain on the sanitary arrangements. Nevertheless it did not augur well for the future, coming as a shock to our delicate sensibilities. To spend several days spraying each other with the product of our seasickness was one thing – that was just a phase we had passed through. Now to face a future wherein our contemplative moments would be spent in such an undignified posture for the next couple of years did not bear thinking of – after all, it was difficult enough as it was to handle a Woodbine and the Daily Mirror first thing in the morning. As things turned out, for most British Servicemen this would be their only encounter with Islamic plumbing; all permanent British bases, Service Clubs, YMCA, etc., had the more familiar Western fittings.

PAR EIGHT
ONWARD, EVER ONWARD!
We made ourselves comfortable, wondering when we would be moving on and where we should be sleeping that night. My RAF Police contact had been of no help on that score, but did volunteer some salutary advice regarding the train journey. It appeared that we were to run a gauntlet of swarms of bloodthirsty Arabs bent on depriving us of our belongings, in particular, any personal jewellery. My informant warded that on no account should we venture near an open window, not even whilst the train was moving – to do so would be at our peril. The danger was that the natives would be hanging all over the train waiting to snatch the watches from our wrists, slicing through the straps with razor-sharp knives, and not being too careful about it. The stories of how these marauders would remove any rings they were lucky enough to find on unguarded fingers were not for the squeamish. A lot of bravado was displayed about how any such attack would be repulsed, but it was quite amusing to see how many of the would-be swashbucklers surreptitiously removed their wristwatches and signet rings or vacated their window seats, before the train moved off.

Before we had time for any more horror stories there was a jolt, indicating that something was happening. A diesel-powered shunter – not yet a common sight on railways back home – had arrived to collect us. In a jiffy, to loco was connected up to our coaches and we were on the move once more. In a few minutes our branch line emerged from the dock complex and joined the main line where we were shunted to and fro, finally coming to rest behind a train standing at one of Port Said’s main station platforms. I presumed that the train journey would not be as a ‘special’, but that our coaches would be tacked on to the rear of a normal schedule train. That did in fact prove to be the case, but in the meantime, I put my signet ring and myself at risk by taking a good ‘gander’ out of the window. It was at that precise moment I experienced the first full realization that not only was I really in Egypt at last – not just in my dreams – but also that I already felt strangely at home. Here was the real Egypt that I had read and dreamed of as a child. The station platform was like a scene from one of the many books I had devoured years ago. A large part of what I saw was ageless; a black-robed woman with a baby held close to her by a huge black shawl that enveloped them both; a tall figure in Arab head-dress and long gallabiyya; a line of peasant women sitting on their haunches at the platform edge, chattering gaily, bright metal bands clinking on bare arms and ankles, and at their feet baskets of bread, locally made cheese, and fruit for sale to hungry travellers. Remove the train and the British uniforms and this could have been a scene from the Bible, unchanged through centuries. In total contrast to the bedlam of the docks, here was complete calm – no shouting, rushing throng. The muted chatter of the women only served to underline the peacefulness of the view. Ravening hoards of watch-snatchers were absent from the Egyptian State Railways system on that day – perhaps it was early- closing day for bandits and train-robbers too? Whatever the reason, we were not troubled whilst we waited for the ‘off’ at Port Said station; in fact, we were largely ignored. Subsequent experience taught me that many of the ‘Rapacious Native’ stories, as with tales of readily available ‘Feelthy Peetchers’ were largely apocryphal, being handed on with embellishment from one generation of servicemen to the next.

Once our train had been assembled we got underway without further delay, hauled by a powerful diesel locomotive that looked strangely ‘foreign’ to our eyes more conditioned to the traditional steam engines of London Midland & Scottish, and Great Western Railways. When we had cleared the station limits, the train travelled over a substantially built swing-bridge carrying the railway tracks over a canal emerging from a huge lake on our right. To the left was a similar bridge for road traffic, and beyond, a long procession of ships apparently sailing through the desert, indicating the presence of the Suez Canal. For the next twenty or so miles the Canal, road, smaller canal, and railway track ran parallel, side by side along a wide causeway, with a marshy depression on each side, as far as the eye could see. Every few miles we halted at small country stations: Ras el Esh, El-Tina, El-Cap. The station name boards and other railway notices were written in Arabic script with English or French translations, and sometimes a combination of both. At each stop was a scene almost identical to that at Port Said, with groups of people in traditional Arab dress, like an illustration from the Old Testament. Some were quite obviously peasants, fellahin, conveying their wares and purchases to and from market. Others were offering their produce for sale in and around the station, displaying them on straw mats or in woven baskets laid out in long, straight rows along the platform edge.

This was the first occasion I saw fresh dates, smooth cylinders of pale green and yellow, a world away from the dark brown crinkly things that were part of our Christmas fare at home. Piled high in pyramids were several varieties of the melon family; some pale yellow, others various shades of green, including dark green water melons, big as footballs, some cut open to reveal the bright red, tempting flesh. There were oranges and lemons, potatoes and beans, and strange vegetables I did not recognize, side by side with baskets of eggs and tethered chickens. After years of wartime austerity the sight of melons and citrus fruits was particularly breathtaking; at home, many housewives would willingly spend hours in a queue if at the end there was the possibility of getting hold of a lemon.

The short waits at these stations provided our first glimpse of Egyptian village life; simple one-roomed houses, and like the larger buildings all built of sand-baked mud bricks with flat roofs, their design unchanged since the days of the Pharaohs. Although all seemed calm with life proceeding at a steady pace as it had done for centuries, there was one inescapable sign of the twentieth century that assaulted our ears, and was to do so in every town or village that we would visit – the Egyptian version of ‘Muzak’. The loudspeaker was, and still is, an integral part of everyday life in Egypt, almost every store and workshop had its radio set, invariably tuned to a music broadcast and played at full volume. Some cafes and the larger open-fronted, ‘bazaar’ style shops boosted their output by means of extension speakers positioned at strategic points of their awnings or fascias. Mercifully, the majority of the radios would at least be tuned to the same programme, but occasionally there was a rogue broadcast that would add its discordant sound to the already ear- splitting din. Add to this the regular calls to prayer that rang out, often electrically amplified, from the many mosques that abound in a fervently Moslem country, and the result is a solid blanket of sound that envelops one from dawn until well past midnight. The Egyptians are a gregarious, vociferous people who live a large portion of their lives as players in a larger, overall Egyptian scene, acted out under this all-embracing canopy of sound, which to them is as normal as the rising of the sun. To a stranger, this incessant cacophony comes as a severe shock to the nervous system, but after a surprisingly short time – in my own case, only a matter of days – one becomes accustomed to the din and is no longer aware of it. Until, for whatever reason, it ceases when the silence can often seem more deafening than what has gone before.

The next stop was at El-Kantara a much bigger station, where a lengthy halt was made. There was quite a lot going on here as it was obviously a busy junction for both road and rail traffic. The track carrying our train was sandwiched between a major road on our right and the Canal on the left, where a ferry and a large pontoon bridge signified a crossing point. On the far side of the Canal was another, parallel railway line which at this point curved away in a north-easterly direction accompanied by a dusty road, disappearing into the wilds of the Sinai Desert in the general direction of Palestine.

The area around the station was more built-up than at our previous stops. Here were a number of larger timber and brick buildings, many with colonnaded frontages, balconies and latticed windows. A Rest House and several busy cafes gave the town a more established aura; a somewhat more modern and commercial out- look than the time-lapsed villages through which we had passed. The reason for our longer stay at El- Kantara was due to the considerable
amount of trans-shipment that took place here; goods of all kinds were bustled into and out of the regular portion of our train up ahead. As well as the usual boxes and crates seen on most railways there were goats, lambs, baskets of farm produce of every kind, and crates of pigeons, chickens and geese.

Passenger traffic was brisk too and included travellers from all walks of life. Although most were clearly peasants returning from market, there were businessmen too, clad in western suits wearing on their heads the bright red tarbushe complete with its black tassel – frequently referred to incorrectly as a fez – which at that period conveyed the same air of respectability as did the bowler had in England. Instead of a furled umbrella, these ‘city gents’ carried fly-whisks that they twirled vigorously as they strode briskly though the throng. Now and again we saw an obviously wealthy sheikh in full Arab dress, his decorously veiled wife walking a few paces behind. Later I was to find that many Arab women wore no veil at all, nor did they all dress in all-enveloping black robes thought to be the norm my most westerners. Many did wear the yashmak and traditional garb, but just as many wore brightly coloured, shorter dresses, their faces bare and heads covered only by a simple scarf or kerchief. All the women, young and old alike, rich or poor, wore lots of jewellery. Large silver bands on arms and ankles, gold or silver necklaces and pendants, and elaborate drop earrings were to be seen even on very small children. Rather than entrusting any savings to a bank, the custom appeared to be to ‘put it where we can see it’.

At each stop, there were always far more would-be passengers than the train could reasonably accommodate. Once all seats and standing room had been taken up, the next best thing was to hang on outside the train wherever a hand or foothold could be found. Determined passengers would cling to open windows or door handles, or sit astride the buffers or even on the connecting gear between coaches. Railway staff made strenuous attempts to discourage this practice, but to no avail. The really determined would attempt to board the train as it left the platform, often pursuing it for up to a hundred yards until they either ran out of puff and gave up or risked all by taking a flying leap at the now fast-moving train. Most of those whom I witnesses making this ‘all or nothing’ leap managed to find a grip somehow and so lived to ride another day.

Shortly after we left El-Kantara we reached the end of the causeway that had brought us in a straight line all the way from Port Said. The road that had accompanied us so far now turned away at an angle of forty-five degrees, leaving the Canal and our railway track to continue side by side, curving gently as we left the causeway. The low-lying salt marshes were left behind; on each side, as far as the eye could see, there now stretched featureless, arid desert. After a few miles the landscape ahead of us gradually became more hospitable. Here and there were to be seen an increasing number of small patches of land under cultivation, usually in long strips partnered by narrow irrigation ditches leading from a rare water source – a spring or well. Further away to our right stretched a continuous line of palms sign-posting the course of a narrow canal. Along each bank a strip of fertile earth resulted in vegetation providing a splash of colour to the otherwise drab landscape. We had seen this smaller canal on and off since leaving Port Said. Here it returned, to run alongside the road that had left us at El-Kantara, now on a course roughly parallel to ours, only a few hundred yards away. This canal, wider than the narrow canals of Britain’s inland waterway system, was clearly navigable as evidenced by the presence of the occasional small craft we had seen earlier, their triangular ‘lanteen’ sails identifying them as feluccas, smaller versions of the traditional Arab dhow.

Since we had seen water being drawn for irrigation, and domestic animals drinking from it, this was clearly a fresh water canal. I remembered reading of such a canal, built in the last century by my childhood hero Ferdinand de Lesseps, to provide drinking water for the thousands of labourers that would be employed in the construction of the Suez Canal. I would need to delve deeper into my memory to recall the full history of this smaller freshwater canal, but for the moment to see and recognize, in real life, another of the features that had aroused such interest during my youth was satisfaction enough.

We made only two or three stops after El-Kantara. At each the scene was similar to those we had witnessed earlier – however hectic or hurried the activities appeared to be, they were carried out in a cheerful, good-natured fashion. At none of these stops were we pestered or interfered with in any way – in fact, we were left severely alone. No doubt this was due chiefly to the locals all having their own lives to live; they went about their business with hardly a glance in our direction. Another probable factor was that being at the rear of the train, we usually found ourselves at or beyond the tail end of the platform, away from the centre of activity.

Eventually, we came to a halt near a small siding, but this time there were no station buildings in view. Our coaches were detached from the train and shunted into the siding that lay next to a large expanse of levelled sand, and on the other side, a metalled road, almost buried by the shifting sands, now little more than a desert track. As we climbed wearily out of the train, we wondered if this remote spot could possibly be our final resting place. It had been a long, hot, day.

Before we had time to ponder too deeply, the sound of hooting motor horns and squealing brakes heralded the arrival of a convoy of military vehicles. The majority were blue-grey trucks that we recognized as ‘QL’s’ – Bedford 3-tonners with four-wheel drive, the work horse of Royal Air Force Transport Units for more than a decade. We collected our kit, listening for our names as they were called out by the OC Train, assisted by a handful of ‘Movement’ personnel who had suddenly appeared as if from nowhere. We were shepherded into small groups and handed over into the care of the transport drivers who were to take us on the final leg of the journey that had begun so “Long ago and far away …” back at Hednesford. There were more vehicles than appeared necessary but some were collecting only a handful of men. Obviously, we had reached the parting of the ways – as anticipated, we were to be split up among a number of different units. Equally obvious was the fact that the ‘luck of the draw’ was to play a large part in our futures.

Our “Journey into the Unknown” was over ……..

PART NINE
JOURNEY’S END
My group consisted of eight souls, all from different troop-decks and known to each other only by sight. We were collected by our driver, whose mahogany knees, set off by sun-bleached mini-shorts, were a measure of his length of Middle Eastern service, and ushered to our transport. Not for us the faithful old Bedford ‘QL’; instead, we were led to a sand-coloured Commer coach with a strange seating arrangement giving the appearance of a boot when viewed from the side. The unusual layout provided a large rear-opening luggage compartment by elevating the rear third of the seats to a short upper deck, baggage then being stowed below. This type of coach, known in the services as an ‘Airline Bus’, was in fact widely used after the war by a number of civilian airlines. We climbed aboard and clustered together at the front of the bus, eager to pump the driver. Where are we? What was it like? When do we eat? Above all – when do we get paid? All the usual questions that one asked when arriving at a new posting. “Howay lads – let’s gan doon th’ road!” hollered our driver, his broad Tyneside accent immediately earning him the nickname “Geordie”. “We’re gan t’Abu Sueir… and before yez ask,” he continued, clearly having done this act many times before, “It’s in the middle of noo-where, about eighty miles from Cairo … but that’s ‘oot o’ boonds’ now man!” In response to our chorus of dismay, he dropped a crumb in our laps by volunteering the information that the nearest town is ‘Ish’, only about ten miles away, and that was not out of bounds. Thankful for this morsel, and realizing that Geordie was obviously governed by his own interpretation of the Official Secrets Act, we realized that we should have to wait and see, so made the best use of our ‘chara-ride’ by having a good look around to see what we could discover for ourselves.

The road was quite good, wide and straight, but its uneven tarmac surface caused us to bump and bounce along in a very disturbing manner – not helped by our chauffeur who took us along at a fair old lick. “Howay lads! Watch oot for the Yellow Peril,” he warned through gritted teeth as he negotiated a particularly bumpy patch, “They’re none too fussy and they hate us!” Overcome by the strangeness of it all, we ducked instinctively, as one, without pausing even to consider why Japanese snipers should be active in this neck of the woods. Before we had time to enquire, there was a “Vroom!” followed by a “Whoosh!”

Our bus was rocked violently from side to side and we sensed rather than saw a yellow and green blur as something large hurtled past, overtaking us at high velocity. Geordie gripped his steering wheel and stared grimly ahead, tight lipped. He clearly had no intentions of offering an explanation, but we could play this game too, and restrained ourselves from asking for one. Besides, if he did come up with an answer, we guessed that whatever it was would be “Oot o’ boonds, man!”

It was now late afternoon and a little cooler – apart from the bumps and the unknown dangers of the Yellow Peril it had been an interesting drive. It did not take us long to discover that ‘Yellow Peril’ was only one of the names given to the large and extremely powerful bright yellow and green-trimmed express coaches that operated daily between Port Said, Ismailia and Cairo. Their Egyptian operators would not brook any delays in the schedule: the drivers went flat-out at all times, regardless of the prevailing road conditions – woe betide anyone or anything that got in their way. Another of the names given to these extraordinary vehicles was ‘Flying Banana’, a less dramatic appellation that does not have quite the same ring to it.

On each side of the road was a line of large, mature trees that I guessed had been planted many years before when the road-building took place, possibly to counteract the effects of wind erosion and to stabilize the sand dunes that bordered it. To the north of the road, on our right hand, there was nothing to be seen but a wide expanse of flat sand, and beyond that, more sand dunes and rocky outcrops. To our left was a much more attractive view. The ground fell away in a gentle slope to the bank of a wide waterway fringed with sturdy palms, the land between filled with lush vegetation. This was the Sweet Water Canal, bringing fresh water from the Rive Nile near Cairo, and was the source of the canal whose course we had followed throughout the day from Port Said. Across the canal was a wider swathe under cultivation, probably a hundred yards wide, following the line of the canal in each direction. There was a lot to be seen, too much to take in at one go. One was left in a state of bewilderment by this glimpse of a new world, where the exotic had become commonplace. A world full of flora and fauna that was new to us, in which the date-palm, camel and water buffalo, the Arab felucca and so much more, would be part of the everyday scene. The road traffic was a whole new world too, and in itself was more than enough for the first day. We were of course, proceeding on the right, the rule of the road in Egypt, a situation that, to judge from his ribald comments was not remotely to Geordie’s liking, especially as he was piloting a right hand-drive vehicle. As most of the local animal traffic was not too particular about the niceties of any form of Highway Code, he did have a point; camels with loads the size of haystacks vied for road space with herds of goats and flocks of black-faced sheep. Add to this the many ancient motor lorries, all grossly overloaded and driven at break-neck speed meant that Geordie’s lot was not a happy one.

Gradually, in the distance we began to make out signs of habitation; ahead, silhouetted against the setting sun, a cluster of flat-roofed buildings, and to the right in the far distance, a high perimeter fence topped off by barbed wired behind which, if we guessed correctly, lay our ultimate destination. As we continued along the road we realized we were approaching a sizeable village – more than just a cluster of mud huts such as we had glimpsed during the bus journey. The first individual building to catch the eye was a walled enclosure, gaily painted. Inside stood rows of seats, and at one end a large up-right silver screen – unmistakably an open-air cinema. We let out a spontaneous whoop of delight. As if on cue, ‘Oor Geordie’ swung the coach furiously into a sharp right turn just past the cinema. “It’s oot o’ boonds, man!” he yelled triumphantly, determined to have the last word. We bumped over an unguarded level crossing devoid of gates or barriers and saw to our left a modest railway station beyond which stretched the rest of Abu Sueir village, considerably larger than at first sight. Almost at once the road curved to the left, skirting the village. A few hundred yards ahead could be seen a large group of aircraft hangars and other military buildings of familiar style, but this time curiously softened by masses of trees, flowering shrubs, and other greenery – not the stark outline of a desert encampment that we had expected. It was much bigger too, and the whole area exuded an aura of well-established permanence; perhaps it was not going to be too bad after all.

We entered our new home through a wide gateway, which to our surprise was guarded by two dark-skinned Arab policemen clad in smart KD uniforms, with blanco-ed webbing belts and gaiters. Geordie brought the coach to a halt outside the Guardroom situated just inside the gate. Surrounded by trees and flowering thorn bushes, and built a good fifteen feet above road level, this was the most imposing Guardroom I had ever seen, although I had no wish to see inside. After a few seconds, a more conventional RAF policeman emerged to give us the go-ahead, Geordie signaled his thanks by giving a toot on the horn, released the hand brake and off we went once more – surely this must be the last leg of our journey – Royal Air Force Abu Sueir, HQ: MEAF.

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