The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise's)

The Battle for Sidi Barrani © Tom Barker

"Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!"
Robert Burns

Mussolini gave Graziani a free hand in Ethiopia before WW2 broke out. Graziani was responsible for all the misery caused in Ethiopia before WW2 started. Barbed wire fences were stretched for miles in the desert. The people were herded into camps where they were starved and abused. Some of the men who put up a fight were shot and if captured, were hung in as their relatives looked on in tears.

Now 'Electric Beard' was going to take Egypt. 'Electric Beard' thought this was going to be a cakewalk as well, since he had a large army at his back. But the British had other ideas……..

In the distance, approaching our position, was a cloud of dust heralding trucks on the move. We stood to ready for action, but as the column of trucks got nearer we recognized them as our own so we relaxed. As the first truck stopped, the others stopped along side. Soon there were about 20 trucks parked side by side.

The first thing that was obvious to me was, all we need now is for an enemy plane swoop over and he would get the lot with one hit. Then a voice shouted, “Right on truck!”. We got into the trucks and soon we were being whisked across the desert. Dust from the trucks in front was making it difficult to breath, so we got our pullovers out and wrapped them round our face. The ride was also very bumpy because we were not on a road and sometimes a small hillock would bounce the truck and everyone in it would be bounced into the air, to come down with a bone jarring thump onto the wooden seats. Finally the trucks stopped to cries of, “Thank Gawd fi thaat!” and we got out and formed-up to march.

I also noted some men in uniforms which I did not recognize, and upon inquiring who they were, I was informed they were Spanish Mercenaries who would fight with us, since they did not like the Fascists or the Nazis. Then an Officer strode to the front of the now gathered force and on holding up his hand, everyone was quiet as he began to speak,

“You men have trained hard in this desert and now we are about to see if it will pay off. “I have no doubts in my mind that you are the cream of the British Army and as such, this is going to be a doddle, we are going to take Sidi Barrani from the Italians and we are going to hold it.”. “Right is on our side so there is no doubt about the outcome.”

Someone near me muttered, “Aye, ah allus hae the richt on ma side wen ah gits hame frae the pub, but the wife aye wins.”

“We will now say a prayer.” continued the Officer.

“Our Father, who is in heaven." etc.

When that was finished, the Medical Officer stepped forward and offered advice,

“Anyone wanting to go to the toilet, I suggest you go now because if you get hit, you stand a better chance with empty bowels.

“Bliddy charmin’!” I heard someone mutter, “D’ye reckon is for real?”

Now there was a hum of conversation over the whole gathering. Soon we were forming up in the now fading light and we set off marching across the desert. No talking was the order. I did not feel like talking, my mind was full of, “What are we marching into? This was no stunt, this was for real.”

I followed the heels of the man in front of me, and in the blue of the night all that could be heard was the shuffle of marching feet in the sand. Sometimes the odd clunk of a bayonet handle hitting the butt of a rifle as a soldier changed it over to rest his shoulder, or the rattle of it hitting the water bottle, could be heard.

We marched until finally we stopped and word was whispered along the ranks,

“The Italian positions are only half a mile away."

This was about two o’clock in the morning, so we set-to and quietly dug a depression in the ground to accommodate our bodies. The order was whispered from mouth to ear,

“No smoking and no talking! Lay down in your pit and wait for day light!"

I lay still and tried to doze, but I could not even do that because it was so cold. It really can get cold in the desert at night, and because of the inactivity, it seemed to be colder than usual. It seemed an eternity till dawn and in the desert one can see a false dawn, when the sky lightens for about fifteen minutes then changes it’s mind and goes back to being the same velvety dark blue as the rest of the sky. Then about half an hour later, the sky eventually begins to lighten again.

As I raised my head slowly to peer over the lip of my cover, I looked left and right and in the dim light of the African moon I could just make out some of the bumps of greatcoats covering some blokes as they hunkered down in their cover. Then the real dawn began to lighten the sky and as the tip of the blood red sun began to show on the horizon, the long shadows began to creep ever faster across the sand like an army of scurrying beetles trying to outrun the heat they knew was coming with the dawn. I wished the sun would hurry so I could get warm, then I wished it would not rise, as I was fearful of what daylight would bring.

As the dawn began to brighten, some of our blokes began to stand up and stretch, and one bloke began to shake his blanket. I thought, “WHAT ARE THEY DOING, IF THE ENEMY IS ONLY HALF A MILE AWAY?’ Then I thought, “This is just another exercise.”

Suddenly a sound like a truck with flat tyres screaming along a highway came rushing through the air, and then an enormous explosion, and the bloke with the blanket was gone. Where he had been there was just a huge cloud of dust swirling and rising in the air and a ringing in the ears. One man was walking like someone sleep-walking with blood pouring down his face, until some one reached out and grabbed him and pulled him into cover. Everyone who had been standing there for a brief second like statues, as if by magic suddenly disappeared into the ground as more whistling noises and explosions were heard.

Now, when I looked out again, all I could see was dust and sand hanging in the air. Then all hell let loose, as shell after shell hit the ground and exploded. The ground was now shuddering, as explosion after explosion thudded making the sand and dust into a thick blanket which was impossible to see through. I could feel grit in my mouth and my eyes were watering, even though I was wearing eye shields made of thin clear plastic, but the dust still got in.

My rifle would not work because it was clogged with dust, and the bloke next to me had managed to get his bolt out and was licking the dust off it with his tongue and spitting the mud out onto the ground. There were snapping noises like some one slapping a wet leather belt on a tabletop and I suddenly realised they were bullets going by very close. I saw the bloke put his rifle bolt back in and he beckoned to me, so I moved with him and we blundered into a truck and ducked under it for cover as something smashed into the front of the truck.

The impact lifted the truck and pushed it back about a yard and when it settled down on the sand, it looked lower to the ground and the front was caved in and smoking. There was a bloke under the rear wheels diff gearbox on the back axle of the truck, obviously thinking it was a safe place to be. I thought, "what a good idea." until I realized he was in mortal danger, should the tires get hit. I shouted for him to get out of there, but it was already too late. He could not hear me anyway, due to all the noise.

One back tire had burst as something ripped through it, and the bloke was trapped and slowly crushed as the diff settled down on his back. There were terrible screams as we tried to get the sand from under him with our bare hands, but it was hopeless. Someone was shouting, “Get away from the transport! They are aiming at the transport!”

And I suddenly realised that made sense. We were trying to shelter from the small arms fire, but the Italian artillery was firing at the transport. I nudged the other bloke and as we got up, we could see into the cab and the bloke behind the wheel was dead. We did not have to check because most of his head was missing and the blood had squirted up and hit the roof and was now dripping down onto the body and down the inside of the cab. There was a fist sized hole through the windscreen and another jagged hole through the back of the cab.

The bloke on this side was still alive, but struggling to open the door. He had the window down, but the door was jammed tight. I grabbed the handle and pulled, but the handle was hot and it burnt my hand. The other bloke with me was trying to pull the chap in the cab out of the window. Flames were now licking the inside of the cab and I shouted, "Get through the window!”

He shouted, “I can’t! The engine has pushed back and my leg is trapped!"

He was gasping and shouting, “Getting too bloody hot in here!”

Then there was a whooshing noise as flames leaped up and the heat drove me back from the window. The bloke inside began screaming, “Shoot me! Please some bugger shoot ….. Then suddenly he slumped and was quiet and as the flames died down I reached in to see if I could pull him nearer to the window to get him some air. Everything was red hot, and as I pulled on his arm it was like peeling a pullover off, the skin peeled away and I had to let go and retire because, now I had moved him, the flames got higher again and now he too was burning.

I was brought back to earth by clanging noises, as metal fragments ripped through the body of the truck. This side windscreen now and again starred as a bullet smashed it’s way through, leaving a little spidery hole.

Now the sun was beginning to get hot and with the heat and smoke, this added to the mayhem. I was wishing I was anywhere else but here. Some one in the fog of sand and dust was screaming, “FIX BAYONETS!” As I drew my bayonet I saw Ginger Craig next to me. He grinned at me and slammed down on his bayonet to fix it to his rifle. We moved forward away from the truck as another shell exploded and suddenly there were noises like angry hornets as bits of shrapnel whizzed by.

Ginger Craig suddenly gasped and sank to the ground like a balloon losing air. I went over to him, and he was very pale and his mouth was moving. I had to put my ear to his mouth to hear him whisper, "I’m cold, Tommo.” I took off my great coat and wrapped it around him.

I asked him, “Where are you hit?”

He said “I don’t know, but I’m cold, Tommo, and my chest is numb.” I opened his shirt but the field dressing would not cover the hole, and blood was pumping out. I felt so helpless because I could do nothing to stop the blood.

Another bloke came and put his coat over him, but he still groaned “I’m cold, Tommo” Then someone hit me on the shoulder and screamed in my ear. But I was loath to leave Ginger Craig

I had to go on, or I would let the others down. I knew, that he knew, he was going to die, so I could not lie to him, yet I wanted to console him but did not know what to say. In those few moments, I was ashamed of my ignorance in this given situation. We had been trained to kill, but not to comfort those about to die. “Leave him. You can’t help him. Listen for the whistle!” and he was gone in the fog of dust.

Everything seemed to be so urgent all of a sudden and I was torn between two desires, a wounded friend who was dying, and my duty to those who were not. I moved his pack up so his head could rest on it, and his mouth was moving. I put my ear down to his mouth, but I could hear nothing, and when I looked at his face, his eyes were looking past me at the sky and I knew he was gone.

Then I got up and caught up to those I could see, and we seemed to move into clearer light. Because we were advancing, we were leaving the clouds of dust and smoke caused by the shelling. Now I could see the others and we were more or less in a skirmish line each about four yards apart.

On my right was a bloke called Harry Chalmers, and one time as we lay on the sand, a shell landed right between us. It threw up a little sand, but did not go off, instead it twisted sideways and rolled away behind us. The shell was buff coloured, with two or three coloured bands painted round it in rings. Harry and I had watched the shell, and when it stopped rolling, we both exchanged glances and he suddenly grinned and gave a thumbs up sign with his left hand. I grinned back as the whistle blew.

We were advancing on the dug-in Italians. The Officer in charge of our lot was up to the mark. He would blow his whistle when he saw the enemy guns were being reloaded, and we would get up and move forward. Then when we heard the whine of the shells, we got down. Trouble was, when we got up to advance again, we saw some of our blokes writhing in the sand and some would never move again.

One bloke was advancing, the next minute his head was gone, and twin spurts of red came from his neck as he collapsed to the sand. Another was trying to keep pace with us, while holding his intestines in, and he had dropped his rifle and was hugging his middle with both arms while staggering forward. The whistle blew, and we all got down, but he kept staggering on, hoping to catch up. Then he jerked, as though hit by a big hammer, and sank to the sand and remained still.

It was not a bayonet charge like in the First World War, where everyone went over the top yelling and screaming and being mown down. This was more sedate, in that, we stupidly walked forward for half a mile like the metal ducks at the fair ground, while the Italians in the cover of dugouts in the sand potted at us when they felt like it. It was a bit unequal, in that, we were in full view of their guns, while all we could see was an Italian steel helmet with two eyes peering out over the sand. And most of us could not shoot back at these tiny targets, because of the clogging dust on our rifle bolts.

However, this was now about to change, because we had got so close to them they were now not sighting their field guns, but looking down the barrel and firing direct. This had a negative affect and the shells were hitting the ground shoulder first and the primer in the nose remained intact and was not firing the charge, also, some of the Italians were now panicking and running off into the desert.

At one time I was laid behind a rock and my tin hat was protecting my head, while I snugged my rifle close to my face in case of flying shrapnel. I heard myself muttering, “If I get out of this, I will go to Church every Sunday, I promise, and I will help little old ladies across the street." meanwhile trying to shrink behind this tiny rock that was about the size of a tennis ball.

“Don’t worry me old son, nutt’n an’ nobody is gonna’ get yer.” I could just imagine Bill with his Liverpool accent standing there grinning down at me. It also occurred to me later why had I thought of Bill, instead of my Father. Then my reverie was shattered as the whistle blew and I got up.

Seeing some of our blokes writhing in pain and some not even moving, I felt rage building up inside. Also, one or two Italians were now standing up and raising their arms, but most were still frantically shooting at us. All I wanted to do now was get at these back studs that had been firing at us since dawn. Now that we had got this close, did they expect to put their hands up and surrender just like that, because now there was a chance of their lives being in danger?

We had suffered for months in the desert. Hands being blown off, disfigurement, blokes killed by imitation flasks of drink, land mines, quick sands, poisoned water, strafed from the air, and now this final show-down and they wanted to put their hands in the air and walk away from it.

I survived these actions, due to the skills taught us at Stirling Castle as a recruit, so I will not belittle the enemy, who, unlike some of their mates, stood their ground and died for what they believed in.

We were now upon the dugouts where the Italians were hunkering down. Some jumped out and ran away into the desert. Some stayed to fight, and were butchered.

“Anywhere to get away from that advancing line of bayonets.“ one Italian said

There were Italian bodies lying in all kinds of postures. One had a bayonet still in his body, and I thought the Jock it belonged to had either not fixed it properly and it came off his rifle as he withdrew, or he had used it like a sword and maybe had been too busy fending off another Italian and just forgot about it. Either way, it did not matter now, because it was over.

I sat on the sand and ran the blade through the sand and that cleaned my bayonet. The quiet was unreal, except for a ringing in the ears and a bloke came to me and his mouth was working, but I could not hear him. A big bang would be felt rather than heard as a truck’s petrol tank blew up. Wrecked trucks were littered about on the landscape, and smoke was ascending from them as they burned to the now clear blue sky above.

Then one of our lads walked by me and grinned. I just grinned back and he walked away and saw a bottle of wine stood up in the sand so he went over and picked it up and it blew his hand off. It had a hand grenade tied under it.

Then, when I got up to go to him, my right foot felt wet in my boot, but I did not bother about it. I was more concerned for the bloke minus one hand, but a medic came and took him away. I sat down and took off my gaiter, my boot, and finally my sock and my foot was bloody, but my foot was o.k. Blood was running down from a cut in my leg. I think a shell must have hit a rock and shattered it, and a fragment of rock had hit me in the leg. It had cut clean through the top of my sock where it was turned over, so it had gone through a double thickness of wool. I considered I was lucky, because the wool would have slowed it down a lot. I thought that if it were not for the sock, it could have gone right through or smashed my leg. It was between the knee and ankle. I dug it out with the point of my bayonet and put my sock over it. It was not a deep wound, I think I cut myself with a pocket knife more when I was a kid.

I would like to add a note here. We had a look at the Italian rifles. We even stood some bottles in the sand and potted at them with these rifles. They fired a bullet not unlike a .22 but the bullet was twice as long as a .22, also, the charge was bigger, more like a .303, the brass casing that is. But the rifle bores were pathetic. I aimed at one bottle and the bullet hit the next bottle to the left of it, and that was at fifty yards. Totally unreliable!

The Italian bayonet was slightly longer than ours, but the blade was round and like a long reamer. If it was snapped in the middle it would look like this star*

But I had just come through a battle against a superior number of the enemy and survived it. Perhaps I should be grateful. All I have to show today is a blue scar on my leg and memories. The blue scar I can put up with, but memories at night are something else. I did hear later that we should have been supported by tanks and air cover, but we saw neither.

The only consolation we got, was a rum issue after the event, and that should have been issued before we set off. But like every army, we had our fair share of cockups, to coin a phrase.

We were then taken from the 4th Indian Div and sent to garrison Solum. But that is another story.