DESERT MEMORY

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIII, Issue 307, 29 December 1942, Page 4

DESERT MEMORY

BLINDING SANDSTORM

HUDDLED ON HELLFIRE PASS

(By FRANK BRUNO)

Two years ago there passed into the waif currency of army lingo, as represented by our machine-gun section the name of Nicola the Wizard and without apologies to the original of that cryptic title.

nrAL y as one . of those sand-happy undertones of war which remain colourful long after destiny-shaping events connected with it have faded in grey blurs from the memory. At the top of Hellfire Pass the convoy huddled dourly in the churn--I!"ding bl ,? st °, f a sandstorm. Some time earlier the sunset had flickered out of a coldly bleak skv and with the blinking out of the Lybian sun there had arisen the first sounds of the coming khamsin —a low, screeching howl, and the hiss of milions of sand particles grating together in the mad "dust devils that boiled in the heart of

Snarling wickedly, it tore its furious, wicked way among the trucks. Empty water tins bounded out of trucks, tarpaulin covers tented over cursing drivers and gun crews bellied and strained like full-blown mains'ls, loose truck covers flapped with gunshot cracklings. Through the infrequent lulls in the mad-mullah howls of it muttered the sounds of pounding gunfire a thudding roll like the breaking' of surf on a lee shore. That was Bardia under bombardment, winking gunflashes and wildfire raced along the horizon.

Ctft-sing bitterly under a straining and furiously cracking tarpaulin cover, our driver fought with his battered little primus stove. Even above the high scream of the khamsin rose his heart-broken wailings his animal-like snarls.

Red Mac and I had been drawing rations—a tin "bully" per man a packejt of biscuits (the bullet-proof variety, not fancy assorted), bulk tea, a tin of milk, a tin of marmalade, a tin of "marge," per section. It took us the best part of a quarter hour to go two hundred yards— ask any returned Desert Rat about sandstorms—and when at last we crawled in the lee of the straining tarpaulin the driver was blue in the face and gibbering. All about him were little sounds of burnt matches, but the primus remained sulkily unresponsive under the tin billy. "No wonder," he roared. "No wonder we're — well stuck here! No — wonder! This — petrol's — well —! Not a flare in a firkin! I've wasted about five boxes of — matches trying to light —! And I've flooded it with tnfe stuff!"

Red Mac picked up the petrol bottle and sniffed at it.

"Got a cold?" he asked. Savagely, the driver admitted it. "What of it, hey?"

"Thought so," said Mac, "You're not a stage magician, otherwise you wouldn't be trying to light up with distilled water!"

Even up to the time that the driver "collected his issue" at Sidi Resegh he answered to Nicola, or Mighty One. I think he even forgot his own name until he saw it on the "meat ticket" that medical orderlies tied on his battle-dress jacket.