The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders (Princess Louise's)

Troopships and Busses © Tom Barker

"Till, quite transmogrify'd, they're grown,
Debauchery and drinking:"
Robert Burns

Having left Blighty on H.M.T. Summersetshire and calling in at Gibralter where we spent a week chatting up the local talent or sight seeing, but on ten bob a week some of us just stayed on the boat and relaxed. We left Gibraltar and the next day we began boat drill. But first we had to awaken one of our blokes and get him out of the boat where he had untied the canvas cover at one end then crept in and fallen asleep after last nights canteen crawl. The boat drill was a comedy of errors to begin with but we persevered and got it right in the end.

The next day and with the troopship now going full ahead, a wooden crate at the end of a long rope was lowered into the water, and when the crate was about a hundred yards away dancing on the foam generated by the speeding ship, we were instructed to lay down behind a Bren gun that had been set up on the deck at the stern of the ship and aim at the now dancing on the waves wooden box. The wooden box would have been reduced to matchsticks had it been hit by the first volley from the gun, but the instructors had set the sights up so that the bullets missed the box and splashed into the sea just beyond it.

But then, in any group there is always a joker who thinks he is smarter than the rest, but actually is two Mils short of a Piastre - (two bob short of a quid). One such character winked to his mate and whispered, “ Noo watch this Wully” and smirking, got down behind the Bren Gun.

Everyone was waiting to see the bullet spatter in the sea beyond the box and listening for the, “Bluddy good boyo,” from the instructor, one Sgt Taffy Williams. The Bren gun fired and the heaving box disappeared in a mass of splinters, leaving the end of the rope, now frayed, dancing on the waves after the ship.

“Yer a bliddy ijit! Whit are ye?” snarled another Sergeant, stood watching , “Noo we hevnie goat anither box today ti practice wi! Ded it no occur ti ye laddie, the sichts wuz set so yuz dednie hit the boax?"

“I’m a bliddy ijit Sgt” responded the now crestfallen bloke.

The single file of blokes lined up waiting to have a go at shooting the box up, or any flying fish that surfaced, groaned when the Sgt told them all to go get ready for a mile run around the deck of the ship instead. After the run, a voice drifted up from the bowels of the ship, “Cooks to the Galley”

Five minutes later we were sitting on deck when one of our blokes appeared with a white enameled pail half full of rum. Holding a ladle full of rum the bloke chanted, “Right, line up yous blokes in single file if yus wan’ ony o’ this tonsil varnish. An’ dinnie come back fer mare” Some of us, who had never tasted anything stronger than a packet of lemon sherbet, gasped as we tasted the brew, but there were plenty of volunteers who didn’t want to see it wasted. I took my first sip of rum that day and thought it had burnt a hole through the back of my neck.

The Navy blokes stood there grinning, as some of us were gasping what we thought was our last. We were reliably informed later that the rum had been watered down before being issued. Someone else suggested it was a good job it was kept in a heavy glass carboy, otherwise it would have burnt a hole through the bottom of the boat.

One Navy wallah offered advice like, “Tha’ll get used to it wunce thee gob ‘es got mummified wi’ a few more tots o’ rum.”

I had to do my stint as a firewatcher below decks and what an education, or perhaps, “eye opener” would be a better phrase to use. Down below in the bowels of the ship I was patrolling, lounging, and trying hard not to fall asleep, since the alleyway that led to all the cabins was a bit stuffy and warm. At one end of the alley was a door that was normally kept closed.

About midnight, when I was leaning against the steel white painted wall, I became aware of the massive engines pounding and realized my eyelids were drooping (we had been ordered not to sit or lie down), when the door opened and a young damsel, who was the spitting image of an overloaded bowl of fruit in an almost see-through dress passed by, followed by one of our young Officers, with what looked like a couple of black centipedes on his top lip and trying to mate every time he leaned nearer to her shell like lug ‘ole whispering sweet nothings.

This pair staggered through the door giggling and tickling each other, until they suddenly became aware of me standing there like an icicle in the Sahara desert. They appeared to sober up immediately and made for one of the cabin doors where they entered and slammed the door shut. The giggling started up again, but was muffled by the now closed door. Then there was silence for about an hour, when the door suddenly opened and the young officer dragged himself from the clawing hands of the wench and with a weak grin at me, he staggered to the door and was gone.

About twenty minutes later a young Naval Petty Officer bounced through the corridor door and beetled straight for the same door the young Argyll Officer had not so long since left. A light “TapTap” and the door opened and what looked like two grabbling hooks shot out and latched onto his jacket lapels and he was jerked through the door belly first, followed by his butt and shoulders and as soon as his shoes disappeared from view the door slammed shut.

I got a mental picture of a hypnotized bird being dragged into the nest of a voracious tree spider. The giggling began again and went on for about fifteen minutes. Then there was some gasping noises and I got muscle cramp and had to walk up and down to relieve it as the door opened and a now very red and perspiring Petty Officer scooted through the corridor minus his cap and exited the alleyway, not giving me a second glance.

Further pantomime that evening was curtailed for me when another of our blokes turned up and took over the fire watch. My parting advice to him was, “Keep well away from that door, unless you want to wake up tomorrow morning looking like a bit of cut short wet shoe lace”.

On arriving at our destination, we trooped down the gangway and onto some busses that had been supplied by some local Jewish Contractor. Once we were all aboard we were informed to stay alert and put five rounds into the magazine of our rifles and close the cut-out and apply the safety catch.

The cut-out is a small slide, that when moved in, it stops any rounds from rising from the magazine when the bolt is open and closed. In short, it prevents the uninitiated from accidentally loading the rifle. But with a round in the breach of the rifle the safety catch holds the firing pin that would normally strike the detonator cap that ignites the tiny sticks of cordite crammed inside the .303 round of ammo, like so many packed-tight tooth picks.

The reason for all the refinements on a Lee Enfield rifle is the fact that the person trained to use it may need to have it ready in an emergency situation and a rifle with a round in the breech is safe with the safety catch on and only needs a flick of the thumb to bring it to the ready. Since the cut-out is not obvious to the casual glance, anyone not familiar with the rifle is at a disadvantage and cannot use it until made aware of the cut-out.

With the sun blazing down and us in our seats, uncomfortable in our heavily loaded equipment, we bumped and bounced until we got to the tarmac roadway, then it was not so bad. We had traveled about a mile when the trucks stopped and someone is blowing a whistle and screaming, “De’ buss!” One of our blokes drawled, “Ah thenk ‘e wants us ti git oot the bus, Wully.”

This occurred about three times during our journey and we deduced it was a wee bit extra training for what was to come later. What seemed a long hot journey from Haifa terminated at a place called Jenin.