DESPATCH RIDERS

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 63, Issue 4490, 15 October 1941, Page 8

DESPATCH RIDERS

WORK OF NEW ZEALANDERS. THRILLING EXPERIENCE. (Official War Correspondent N.Z.E.F.) CAIRO, September 18. When the lines are “out” through bombing or shell-fire and wireless cannot be used, it falls to the army’s “Don-R’s” (despatch riders) and runners to get vital messages through. There may be excitement around every . corner for these modern couriers, of whom most are extremely young and many were ardent motor-cycling enthusiasts in their civilian days. In this further article in a series depicting New Zealanders in action, Lance-Cor-poral S. R. McGuinness, of Hamilton, gives an insight into his job by recounting some of his experiences. I must have ridden at least 10,000 miles since we came overseas, and that on every kind of surface from bitumen highways to Western Desert tracks a foot deep in dust, slushy byways in Greece and the white limestone roads of Crete. And it doesn’t count the miles I have walked where a bike could not be taken, nor the time I tried using a mule instead. All those miles—or rather the things that happened while I was running them—have cost a fair amount in motor cycles. Altogether I got through four of them, all in the Balkans shows: one blown up, cne lost and two jettisoned during the withdrawals. But my faith in the bike is completely unshaken, and I’d be sorry to exchange it for anything with four wheels. I remember once being in a truck that capsized, and it seemed nothing at all after the thrills you get on a bike. I just got out and went on as if nothing had happened. NO PETROL RESTRICTIONS. One thing is that you don’t have to worry about petrol restrictions, but best of all is the feeling of freedom and independence you have when you go out on a run. You think to yourself that you are doing a job of work on your own. Sometimes there is company, in the shape of a Messerschmitt or two. In Crete, when the fighters were hovering about looking for signs ox movement and flying low along the roads, one would come roaring up behind me out of sheer devilment. The trouble is that you can’t hear the plane until it is right overhead. Well, a time like that is the time to stop short and jump for the ditch. This didn’t happen to me, but there

is a about a Brigade headquarters Don-R who was riding along the main road when our brigade was left to hold the last position north of Athens. Concealment meant everything then, and the German planes were skimming plong the almost deserted road trying to pick up some clue to our troops’ positions. One of them overtook this chap, and of course he didn’t realise the plane was there until it had passed. So he thumbed his nose at it. The pilot must have seen him do it, for he swung the plane round in a circle and went for the rider again. The Don-R pulled up, dropped his bike where it was and leaped into the ditch. Explosive bullets missed him by a few feet. EXPERIENCES IN CRETE. I don’t know whether that experience was worse than the times when a rider has to pass over a stretch of road he knows is dangerous from the point of view of enemy sniping and machine-gunning. On one occasion in Crete I had to go forward with a company which was patrolling in order to find out the strength of the enemy below Galatos. I was just keeping pace with the troops, who were on foot, when the Jerries opened up on us. We all took cover, and then I was ordered to go back with a message to brigade headquarters. I had left the bike on the road in the open, and it seemed a lifetime before I got the thing started. I rode back through that danger area with a queer, chilly feeling, just waiting for something to hit me. The thought of Jerries watching and listening made the noise of the bike seem terrific—it sounded as if every nut and bolt was shaking loose. There are times when I’ve had to leave the bike and walk everywhere. One of them was when we were in positions above Servia, in northern Greece. My battalion’s headquarters were in a little village perched on a hillside and connected with Servia only by an exposed, zigzagging track about a mile and a half long. One day, when the Germans had crossed the Aliakmon River, flowing through the valley below us, and had begun to attack us with artillery fire, I was sent down to Servia to collect some despatches which were to have been brought there for us by road. As far as I knew, the German ' troops were not yet within range but an officer said: “You mustn’t go down there by yourself. Pick up an armed escort in the forward company”. So I went off, and met a corporal with a Tommy gun, and we walked together down the winding track. In Servia i there were a few stray refugees, but ! no sign of the chap who was supposed i to meet us there with the despatches. I We gave permission to a Greek civilian to enter a chemist’s deserted shop to get something for his father, who had been wounded by a bomb, and while we waited we decided to collect some other medical supplies for our own people, rather than let the Germans take them. MACHINE-GUN FIRE. We were still in the shop when we heard machine gun fire very close at hand, and realised that we were caught inside a sort of wedge which the Germans were driving up from the river. If we waited for nightfall, we thought, we might get completely surrounded. If we crept back up the hill too carefully our own troops might mistake us for the enemy. So we decided to make a bold front and just walk up the path. W e almost got completely away with it. Quite a shooting match was in progress, with our own chaps now firing back. We were just going around a bend, within calling distance of one of our observation posts, when the enemy gave us a burst of fire, hitting the corporal in the leg. Lying flat, I called for stretcher bearers, who came quite openly but were fired at. Luckily no one else was hit. I tried using a mule once in those positions, but frankly I found it quicker walking. One thing I couldn’t get used to in Greece was riding along muddy roads. It was so strange after the desert—l was like a new chum on roller skates. But of course that isn’t the only way in which the desert is different from everything else. I remember times when I have steered by the stars, when every stone looked like one of those delayed action “thermos” bombs the Italians used to drop. I’ve had to look for troops on the vaguest of directions and found them by following wheel marks. And a puncture in the desert! There may be no water for miles, and all you can do is blow up your tube until something happens. Or as a last resort you sacrifice some of your hard-earned spit to test what you think may be the hole.