No...this is probably a better example of what War 'feels' like...

No...this is probably a better example of what War 'feels' like I think ?

1942

“As we moved out of the ghot at about seven o'clock Ibegan to feel tight in the stomach. This action is not going to be pleasant.The idea of using bulldozers for the gun pits has been rejected. Too muchnoise. That means our guns are to be sited close up to the enemy's forward-defence-lines.

Anti-tank units, artillery units, ack-ack and lorriedinfantry pass in an endless stream. Most of the personnel are Australians. Weare still permitted to smoke back here, and to sing. We roll cigarettes. Wesing too. We do not sing because we feel like it, but because it loosens thestomach muscles. It is the Unknown that fills Man with trepidation.

We move on to the bitumen. Bill sings old-fashionedsongs and Joe joins in the chorus. Tom sings a phrase or two, but for the mostpart he is silent.

Alan-fresh faced, effeminate, selfish andincoherent-makes no sound. He looks about him quickly and nervously. I wonderabout him.

Lofty, the gun-sergeant, our No. 1, sits in front withthe driver, outwardly imperturbable. Shorty sits on the hood, possibly the onlyone of us looking forward to what is ahead. For the little runt lovesexcitement. We pass signs: Are you prepared to act if ambushed on this road? We pass a road branching off at right angles south past Alamein railwaystation. It is called Springbok Road-there is a sign up; and it leads to theSouth African sector.

We seem to have been travelling for years. My watchsays midnight. There is a pause in the line while the Gun Position Officerchecks up with Nos 1 at their gun-platforms, then we ease off the roadnorth-westwards-skirting dug-outs, slit trenches, pillboxes. The moon shedsonly a pale light, but it is sufficient to indicate obstacles. The tractorhalts and we throw off personal gear and water-tins. We are here. We dig.

Firstly, we attack the slit-trenches and the work isdifficult. The soil is packed into hard crust and flakes unwillingly. Alanworks spasmodically, I notice, and occasionally attacks a slit-trenchferociously. We get the trenches finished about two o'clock; the gun pit has noteven been started. Well, in the couple of hours left we can scoop out a shallowhole which will provide some protection. The longing for a cigarettebecomes overwhelming. I obtain a blanket, drape it over the slit trench,and crawl underneath. A drowsiness creeps over me as I inhale greatlungfuls. I am almost drunk with nicotine. Smoke fills the trench. I almostsuffocate, but it is worth it. I come out into the quiet night feeling fitterfor the task before me. Each of the others takes his turn under the blanket.

We work steadily and doggedly at the obstinate crust.There is a whistle overhead and a shell bursts with a dull thud away behind us.A dog barks, I remember hearing the dog barking earlier. The Germans usedogs....

The digging is hard work. There is all the ammunitionto prepare and it must be getting close to Zero Hour. Zero hour is 0500hours. Better leave the gun-pit and get on with the ammunition-this pit willprovide little protection. Lofty must think so too, for he gives orders toget the ammo. ready. We set to work emptying rounds from their cases, removingthe caps and stacking them neatly. We take the cartridges from their cases,remove the cardboard shellac, check the charges and ile the cartridges besidesthe projectiles. All is in readiness now except for the laying of thegun. We wait for the gun-programmes. There's that dog again. Perhaps it belongs to the South Africans; there are a few of them about here. Ifeel sorry for Alan. His state of mind is wrong. All the others are calm, evennonchalant. They joke now and then. That low crest won't give us muchflash-cover.

No 1 Lofty sprints over to the command-post. Evidentlythe gun-programmes have arrived. Yes, he races back carrying the long whitesheets. It is still fairly dark, so the layer uses a shaded torch to get thegun ready. Shorty is laying. He works quickly. There are a couple minutes togo-then Fire! Yells the Gun-Position Officer.

The din of the barking guns is indescribable. Everywhere there are gun-flashes; and the sound fills the brain. Myeardrums are dulled and my head feels heavy. Automatically I pass over aprojectile to Tom, who holds it while Lofty rams; then the cartridge, and Ihear the click of the breech. There is a roar and a flash as Lofty ,watch inhand, at each round orders; Fire ! Then a round. Then a cartridge. The air isfilled with the reek of cordite. I feel a little sick in the stomach and belchcordite fumes. The taste is horrible. That is because I am breathing itin on an empty stomach....Round-cartridge-roar-flash-blast-stink-headache... Then at lastsilence-complete and absolute and surprising. Get the ammo set aside forthe task! Alan and Bill help me. I have a splitting headache. The steelhelmet presses on my head painfully. The convulsions begin again. Again. Atlast-silence.

Now it is light. The sun has crept up behind uswithout our noticing it. Lofty tells us there are twenty minutes beforethe next task. We roll cigarettes.... The tobacco burns rapidly andsweats the rice-paper as we drag at them, for we need those cigarettes.

The hate comes back without warning. As rounds burstaround our position we go to ground. They are all about our gun, which is No.3, and Bluey's gun, No. 4. There are four guns in a troop. The whine andburst makes me tense instinctively. Shorty and I lie together in the shallowgun-pit. The others in two slit-trenches. Here they come again... I tenseand wait for it, a poor creature. Those burst close. Black smoke driftsover us. I don't feel at all happy. I wriggle towards the gun-trail,because I'll feel better if I talk to Shorty. I push my boot in his faceand he curses me. I don't think he is too happy either. They are close. Withina few yards. They are 88 millimetre, the Huns all purpose gun.

Other regiments of guns have opened up again. Abovethe noise I can hear the command-post calling ;No 3-No 3 ! The other guns inthe troop are firing. Come on Shorty ! I yell, and we get off ourstomachs and shout loudly for Lofty. He stumbles to the gun and Tom with him.Now we are firing again, and I do not even know whether we are still beingshelled by the 88's. There is too much noise. It is overwhelming....Another silence. There is only one more programme to be fired. The membersof the gun-crew look haggard and dirty, dark about the eyes, covered with dustand spots of cordite. Hullo, there is one man missing...It is Alan. Loftyfinds him curled up in one end of a slit-trench, his head buried into onecorner. Come on, get out and man the gun! Lofty talks quietly. We pretendnot to notice. If he comes out, we think, we will be casual and act as ifnothing has happened. The enemy shelling starts again and we flatten out,waiting for the burst. As soon as there is work to do we ignore the shelling.That young chap hasn't come out of that hole. I work quickly on the ammunitionfor the rate is rapid. Alan is an ammo. number. I hadn't noticed hisabsence during the last shoot, the ammo. all having been prepared, but now wehave run out of prepared ammo. I must unbox projectiles and cartridges.Perspiration streams off me as I run backwards and forwards from gun to dump.Damn the kid ! He isn't even trying. Lofty shouts to him. I feel furious. Hewas demoralized before he came up here. That was it, he was bomb-happy back inthe ghot. I remember the way he jerked himself up to look through thecamouflage-net at every single plane which flew overhead. His movements werequick and nervous. Then, I remember, after a time he would sleep-he must haveburned up a lot of nervous energy. Another plane would come over and he wouldjump up again. In his nervousness he was irritable as well as selfish. Hismanners were forgotten. He thought only of himself. He performed that littlenormal function within a few yards of the pit. Lofty must have warned himfurther away-a dozen times. Damn him! He has not made any determined effort toovercome his state of mind. He once told me he liked girls and jitter-bugging.But he's only a kid-nineteen I suppose. Come on Jim No 4 is calling me, waitingfor a cartridge. I race back.

The last programme is being completed and everythingis quiet. We look around us. The area around the gun is pitted withshell-holes. I walk over to Bluey's gun and there the shell holes are evencloser-some within a few feet of the slit trenches where the crew had takencover. Bits of fresh shrap with razor-like edges are scattered abouteverywhere. Bluey's gunners are tired but happy. They know now they cantake it. I feel a little proud, too.

Out over the battle-zone a big sluggish pall of smokestill clings. I hope the attack of our infantry has been successful. LaterShorty discovers that our gun has received wounds. A small bit of shrap. hasbroken the gland window from the underside of the buffer and recuperatorsystem. Another bit has dented the shield.

Alan is to go back to B echelon. It is no good. Heaffects our nerves too. There is also a chap from another gun. It is nothinguncommon, really. Perhaps the strange thing is that so many who are afraid ofthemselves before-hand come good without thinking about it in battle. It wasnot my first shellfire but we could hardly have received a heavier initiation.”

Bombardier1942.