ROLLING WEST

Gisborne Herald, Volume LXVIII, Issue 20621, 24 November 1941, Page 4

ROLLING WEST

DESERT CONVOY MEN AND SUPPLIES WIDE ZONE COVERED (Elec. Tel. Copyright—United Press Assn.) (From the Official War Correspondent with the N.Z.E.F.) (Reed. Nov. 24, 9 a.m.) CAIRO, Nov. 22. Feelings like none we have experienced before possess us as the wheels roll westwards. We are moving deliberately to war. We feel as if the opening shots of the big battle will be fired with precalculated timeliness, as if someone will blow a whistle and the battle will begin like a football match with everyone excited but nobody surprised. More than five days out from the old positions we are now within striking distance of the enemy. Yet the sensations still persist. It is not like the last big push when the first body blow the Italians suffered was their own surprise. This time they must know we are up to something. It is not like Greece and Crete, where we had to wait for the enemy to make the first move. This time the initiative so far is ours. No matter how much’ the enemy knows or suspects we are still thinking in terms of successful attack. Rightly or wrongly, it is good for us to think that way, for I have never seen our troops so high-spirited and eager for the sound of that mythical whistle. The steady westward movement ol that great land force of which we form a part has been smooth. Our mobility and supply organisations may yet prove to be our surprise weapon.

The New Zealanders have practiced desert moves hardly less assiduously than desert battles and this day-to-day diary tells how the practice was put to the test. The first day, for the third successive day, vehicles bearing the New Zealand insignia crowded the westward coastal highway from morning until dark. Each column is nearly 100 miles long—loo miles of clanking armoured vehicles, rumbling lorries, bouncing gunwheels, and roaring motor cycles not very long off the assembly lines in American and British factories.

Inspired Mood

To-day they seem inspired by the mood of the men abroad. It is hard to say why New Zealand troops seemed happiest on the way to battle, but the men I am with are reacting as they should if heading homewards. Perhaps it is because every new campaign may mean a step towards the family fireside.

Maybe it is explained in the typical slogan I heard: “Benghazi, Brindisi, Berlin. Then, back home.” Whatever the reason these men are happy to-day and a sure sign is the way close friends are calling one another by unprintable names shouted from truck to truck. There have been some heartburnings. Parties had to be left behind as immediate replacements and most of these seemed to-feel that they were born under an unlucky gtar. Our force is completely awheel,, for even the infantry nowadays rides most of the way to battle on heavy duty tyres. The vehicles are laden with all the materials of desert warfare, we jettison the bush furniture with which we had made our dug-outs homely, since from now onwards we are down to essentials. We move to strict timetables and by flag signals through assembly areas and past checking points. On' the second day we are somewhere along the road to Mersa Matruh. The Mediterranean is out of sight, but thinking of the limited water ration we promise ourselves to meet it soon again on the Libyan beaches. Spreading over 40 square miles the whole New Zealand force is congregated here. Nearly 200 miles of gently-undulating country waste stretches before us to the frontier. Between two chilly nights we rest in the open, while the next leg of the journey is reconnoitred.

Mascot from Greece

I notice Whisky, a black and white dog mascot evacuated from Greece, is with his brigade and happy, too. On the third day the thousands of vehicles moved off as one again. The whole desert is our highway and our fornt L miles wide. There is no apter description of this spectacle than a comparison with a huge wartime convoy of ships at sea. Compass bearings keep us on the course. Mobile anti-aircraft guns and field artillery are the counterparts of escorting destroyers and fighters keep watch above.

But never was a sea convoy as big as this. Our desert ships extend to the horizon’s flat rim and far beyond. Further in sight are ant-like specks and only dustclouds suggest the location of those beyond vision. We halt in darkness, but there is hot stew waiting—prepared at breakfast (ime and kept warm in hot boxes. We live on preserved food now and water is precious, though ample. Half a mugful must do for a shave and wash, if at all. On the fourth and fifth days we move only at night as the frontiei draws steadily nearer. By day we shroud vehicles in camouflage nets and doze in shallow trenches. Cold, dusty winds blow and we are glad to be in battledress. Except our office staffs, signallers, supply wagon drivers and reconnaissance parties, we are at a standstill till dusk. Last night we thought for a moment the battle had burst over our heads. Blinding flashes filled the cloudy western sky as a tropical thunderstorm spent its fury somewhere in the distance. Like the effects of a Hollywood film they split the dusty blackness.