INCIDENT IN A CONVOY

Timaru Herald, Volume CLVI, Issue 23083, 23 December 1944, Page 2

INCIDENT IN A CONVOY

How 111-judged Remark Cost Army Leave

If you have never travelled in a convoy of Army trucks you might imagine it is one of the easiest jobs going. Nothing to do, you might Imagine, but sit back, more or less comfortably, on the more-or-less upholstered seat of the driver’s cabin, and watch the countryside slip by you: or, if you are the driver, sit up with the wheel in your hands and watch the road slip under you. Well, actually that Is all there is to it, writes “An Unfortunate. VX” in the Melbourne “Argus.” You do nothing for miles and miles but sit, and see nothing .but the country passing you and the tail end of the truck in front. Every now and then the convoy sarmajor comes up alongside you on his motorbike and shouts over the noise of the motors: "Slow down there! Don't you know there’s a speed limit?” You pretend you can’t hear, strain your ear out the side of the truck and Inquire: “Whadid y’ say?” He tells you again very plainly that you’re going too blanky fast. Then he speeds on to the next truck to tell him exactly the same thing; a minute later you see him tearing back to tell the last truck that he’s keeping the whole convoy waiting. Yes, it may sound easy, but the whole maddening monotony of it makes you want to shove your foot hard down on the accelerator and tear hell for leather across the landscape “away from it all.” You don’t get rid of the landscape that way, but at least you make it move faster. The convoy starring my mate Speed and me pulled up just outside the township of Mungaree early one very suntanned afternoon, and we all staggered out of our trucks to demolish some midday mess. And then while I and some other mugs were left behind to give beauty culture to the dirty dishes and dixies, and some lay down under trees to sleep, Speed and the rest went for a gallop along the road to stretch their legs. “Mad Alecks’ Plunder” In the effort to “stretch their legs” with the temp around the 10 mark, Speed and some of the other spring lambs must have sustained sunstroke or something, and been rendered slightly unconscious. They arrived back at the trucks late, puffed out and waving some pretty bits of ladies' lingerie which they had “captured” from some poor girl’s weekly washing. This heroic achievement was hailed with peals of manly laughter, but those of us a little cooler, or a little more domesticated, reckoned it was a bit rough on the poor lady, especially with coupons and wartime shortages and all. So we set about salvaging the r ’-nsies piece by piece, meaning to return them to the rightful owner there and then—that is, before the officer in chai—? or the sar-major got to hear of it. But by the time we had managed to wean the Mad Alecks from their plunder, we got the order to move off. Making a mental note to get them sent back from the first place we stopped at, we stowed them in toolboxes and under driving seats. Speed went to sleep in the corner of the cabin the moment we started, and I reckoned that if his companions in crime were as tired (or whatever it was) as he was, we wouldn’t get much opposition from them, nor much help as far as the driving was concerned. We had been travelling for about half an hour, and Speed was still snoring, when the truck in front suddenly signalled “Halt.” We had come to a village or something, but as it was too early for a normal halt I climbed out to reconnoitre. Away at the head of the convoy the captain and the sar-major were in deep confab with the local John Hop. It didn’t take much brain power to guess what had happened, for the sar-major turned round and bellowed: ‘AU personnel will fall in on the left of the leading truck, and make it snappy!" Speed, in response to a little vigorous kicking, woke up enough to put in a rather dopey appearance, so I she -ed him into the rear rank, just for safety. When we had fallen in as ordered the sar-major came over, and after scowling up and down the ranks, began darkly: “Now this is serious; any man who laughs will get his leave stopped for a month, I promise you. . . . About the time we stopped at the town of Mungaree the following articles of female clothing” —here he read right through the list of missing togs, and din't grin once (neither did we). “Those articles of clothing," he went on, “were stolen off a line in Mungaree. Now we know you did it, and we want them back. D’y'understand?” We did. but said nothing; and then an innocent, dopey voice from the rear rank inquired: “What sort of a line was she, sar-major?” We’re still very hostile on Speed for losing us nil that leave