LONG DESERT JOURNEY

Southland Times, Issue 24600, 24 November 1941, Page 6

LONG DESERT JOURNEY

MEN EAGER AND HAPPY DIVISION ON WHEELS (Official War Correspondent) CAIRO, November 22. Towards dust-reddened sunsets whose fiery glory seemed to hold portents of war and through long, star-lit nights we have been riding into battle in the greatest land armada the desert has known. History was made when the full New Zealand field force began to roll across the stony western plains in a simultaneous movement for the first time —thousands of vehicles in 1941 style, a phalanx which covered nearly 40 square miles. Any day may begin the thrilling stories of action, but already a dramatic one is being unfolded in all these weeks of long-range preparation and all the eventful days since the airy talk of “divisional exercises” first began to circulate. Probably never before in this war have our general staffs been able to prepare in such liberal detail for a campaign as big as this promises to be. Almost every noteworthy activity I have seen or heard of in the last two or three months seems to fit into the day’s picture. Its broader outlines were formed as troops, guns, tanks and planes poured into the Western Desert in unprecedented numbers. Its background was filled by night air-bomb-ing and daylight sweeps from one end of Libya to the other and back and along the vital enemy supply lines from Italy and by our brilliant naval successes in the Mediterranean. And then its finer details were drawn by air reconnaissance and ground intelligence experts, by tacticians in the three services and by the wizards of supply organization. New Zealanders have played a part in all these preliminary phases—to a limited extent by sea and air, but on a yet unrealized scale on land. TRANSPORT AND SUPPLY Coupled with these achievements is the constantly recurring miracle of transport and the supply of food, petrol and ammunition in which our Army Service Corps units have earned a name to be remembered. Many weeks ago they took up their desert transport jobs where they had left off before Greece and truck mileages ran up into hundreds and thousands as they carted everything from fuel for British tanks to live sheep for Indian cook-houses. A new wonder story emerged from among them when a brand new transport company was formed and operating. Within two weeks of its maiden desert voyage it delivered the 2nd. New Zealand General Hospital to a site near Mersa Matruh and there again was history in the making for when I last saw it tents were being erected to accommodate the first New Zealand nurses to serve in the Western Desert.

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 pre-calculated timeliness as if some one will blow a whistle and the battle will begin like a football match, with everyone excited, but nobody surprised. “INITIATIVE IS OURS” More than five days out from qur 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.

They told us days ago we were going on exercises and it still seems so, even though we daily expect an attack and possibly opposition on the ground itself. No matter how much the enemy knows or suspects, we are still thinking in terms of a 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 of the great land force of which we form a part has been wonderfully smooth on the whole. Our mobility and supply organizations may yet prove to be our surprise weapon. The New Zealanders have practised desert moves hardly less assiduously than desert battles and this day to day diary tells how practice was put to test. For the third successive day vehicles bearing the New Zealand insignia have crowded westward on the coastal highway from morning until dark, each column nearly 100 miles long—loo miles of clanking, armoured vehicles, rumbling lorries, bouncing gunwheels and roaring motorcycles not very long off the assembly lines in American and British ' factories. Today they seem inspired by the mood of the men aboard. PARTIES LEFT BEHIND It is hard to say why the New Zealand troops seemed to be 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 or maybe it is explained in a typical slogan I heard: “Benghazi, Brindisi, Berlin, then back home.” Whatever the reason these men are happy today 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 heart-burnings. Parties have had to be left behind as immediate replacements and most of these seemed to feel they were born under an unlucky star. Our force is completely awheel, for even 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 jettisoned the bush furniture with which we had made dug-outs homely since from now onwards we are down to essentials. We moved to strict time-tables and by flag signals through the assembly areas and past the checking points. On the second day we were somewhere along the road between Mersa Matruh and Siwa. 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 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. I notice that Whisky Black and White, the dog mascot evacuated from Greece, is with his brigade and happy, too. DESERT IS HIGHWAY Thousands of vehicles moved off as one this morning, the third day, as the New Zealand forces headed westwards

in desert formation. The whole desert is our highway and our front is miles wide. There is no more apt description of this spectacle than a comparison with a huge war-time convoy of ships at sea. Compass bearings keep us on the course, mobile anti-aircraft guns and field artillery are the counterparts of the escorting destroyers and the 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 dust-clouds suggest the location of those beyond vision. We halt in darkness, but there is hot stew waiting—prepared at breakfast time 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 frontier draws steadily nearer. By day we shroud the vehicles in camouflage nets and doze in shallow trenches. Cold, dusty winds blow and we are glad to be in battle dress. Except the office staffs, signallers, supply wagon drivers and reconnaissance p.irties 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 a' a tropical thunderstorm spent its fury somewhere in the distance like the effects of a Hollywood film. It was the most thrilling night ride in my life and desert travel in darkness is impressive enough in any circumstances. The convoy closes in at nightfall, again like ships at sea. All you see are the black bulks of vehicles ahead of, and around, you and the noise is like the thunder of heavy surf on a rocky coast. You climb escarpments and drop into hollows with the motion of a ship bulking a choppy tide. You hear a driver fling purple curses at his neighbrnz who sings too close. But you get there in end and the enemy is much nearer.,