A POLE WRITES TO A NEW-ZEALANDER

Korero (AEWS), Volume 2, Issue 8, 24 April 1944, Page 23

A POLE WRITES TO A NEW-ZEALANDER

This is a translation of a letter to a New-Zealander which appeared in Fighting Poland the weekly newspaper publi shed in London for the Polish Forces.

Dear Johnny,

The war in Africa is over. It was not given to us to begin it together, nor did we end it together. But so often did our ways cross and recross while we fought our battles and skirmishes in this immense country from the salty marshes of Msus to the stony wilderness of Jebel Drus, that I can truthfully say that we went through this long and dreary chapter of the present war as real comrades-in-arms.

It just so happened that we never have been included in the same unit. They have put us Poles together with Australians, Indians, Englishmen, Free French, and South Africans; never with you. And yet how often did we meet.

The first time we had to go jointly with you was to Greece. We looked forward to it. You went first, we followed. But at the last moment they ordered us back to port. The Greek campaign was over before we joined in.

Ships were wanted for evacuation instead of for reinforcements. Bad luck !

.Then came Crete, and we felt happy that you managed somehow to return, and with you your “ Frey ” —as we called him —alive and unscathed. * * * To be frank, I thought after these two campaigns you would not be anxious to fight again. We also had two lost campaigns behind us —one in Poland, another in France —but for us people from overcrowded Europe, tucked in between great imperialistic countries, misfortunes had become daily bread. But you who came from happy and beautiful islands- so far away in the Pacific, islands with a lovely climate and up-to-date towns full of kind civilized human beings, why should you care for a scrap with European gangsters ?

were drinking whisky—there was still whisky in the Middle East during 1941 — in the “ Phaleront ”in Alexandria. The little Cleo, Arab, half-Greek, was sitting between us. We nearly came to blows over her. Afterwards we talked about everything and nothing, mostly by signs, very little about war. Only one thing we knew quite —that this war business would be settled somehow, and whatever might happen eventually, we would have our way : we would . . . Not very long ter this I was sent into the desert as a despatch-rider carrying some reports, which they always seem to have such a lot of in the Army. There for the first time I met impolite NewZealanders, near Burg-el-Arab. As I remembered you fellows in the great cities of the Middle East, you were always the quietest and most polite of all troops. Your shorts were always properly pressed. A drunken New-Zealander always sang a bit softer than any other soldier.

Yet you haven’t changed. You remained what you —quiet, determined soldiers L—and you waited , patiently for the opportunity to pay back. It was then that I met you, Johnny. We

You seldom started a row, but on the signal “ Come on, boys,” you always rushed first into the thick of it. You looked a trifle queer in your peaked hats, somewhat reminiscent of that of Baden Powell, but you »were nice to know.

In Burg-el-Arab, however, you behaved quite differently. You camped on a desert track, so that I had to make a detour and nearly broke my neck. You stopped me, and you started to shout and to jabber pretty fast. I could not understandalthough you speak perhaps more distinctly than any other AngloSaxons —because my English at that time was still very poor. I could hardly believe that these excited, shouting men were New-Zealanders. But I explained to myself that this must be some inferior tribe, because instead of your Baden Powell hats you had those small glengarries which are always falling off. Afterwards, however, you gave me hot teawith milk, which I don’t like—but plenty of it and biscuits covered an inch thick with jam. Eventually I learned with difficulty the reason for your annoyance when I arrived. It so happened that you had been waiting all day long for a promised contingent of beer, and, instead, I had burst in unannounced, carrying some useless despatches. That was too much, even for you. * * * Several months later I found myself in besieged Tobruk, and you were coming to our rescue. We knew about it, and when you advanced sufficiently close, we moved together with the English to meet you. With great effort our extended arms were slowly closing at Sidi Resegh— from Egypt, ours from Tobruk. We reached Bel Hamed and advanced towards El Duda. You were approaching Zafran.

Do you remember the Pass of Zafran ? Before our very eyes all your battalion was wiped out, together with your Brigadier, and we could not give you any help. Our extended line from besieged Tobruk was already too thin and our motorized forces after the long siege were not in the best of trim. We could only clench our fists. However

we had our way after all. We had our way, because even if you took one road and we another, we met again at Gazala ; we making the push towards Carmused er Regem, you on our left flank. And not for a moment were we afraid that the Germans sitting at El-Hamra would roll up our line from the left, because we knew . . . You were there. ** * ■ I must tell you, dear Johnny, how happy I was to meet your countrymen again. We were moving through the desert towards the sea, thrilled with the prospect of seeing a railway-line. A railway-line and everything which is connected with it—a railway-station, and railwaymen and, perhaps, even watertaps. We were to come into touch with real civilization after many months of desert life, to see with our own eyes that the world does not consist entirely of dry sand, cacti drier than sand, and murderous heat. Can you imagine, Johnny, our joy on seeing those two long, black, straight lines of the railtrack ? When we saw the station with the water-pump, the tent of the R.T.0., and the little shed, “ For Gentlemen Only,” carefully covered with sandbagswell, it appeared to us as a big city, a mighty capital reigning in the desert. Now you will understand how glad I was to see your countrymen. Because it was to them, who built this line, that we owed our newly established contact with the world. Your tall figures with the characteristic hats showed against the two black, straight lines as signs of organized labour, a symbol of

progress and civilization. Our trucks at that stage were very tired and weary, so you took us into your railway and

delivered us speedily into the civilized world. . You carried us through to Cairo, where I got a leave pass. Imagine, Johnny ! A leave pass after a year of desert sand. I went straight to your club and wanted to buy three bath tickets in a lump. But one of vour lovely W.A.A.C.s —oh,

how lovely ! —told me that one ticket would do just as well. So I turned on all taps at once and started to wallow in water hot and cold until the accumulated cover of dust softened and was carried away and I felt clean. I was afraid that then I would have to do without tea as all the water had been used for my bath, but there was never any shortage of tea in vour club. I can hardly recall what happened afterwards. I have some hazy recollection of something white and fluffy, cold, and very delightful. I do not remember whether it was the remembrance of the wonderful ice cream I had or of the wonderful girls I saw in your club —you must have handpicked them from all over New Zealand, those W.A.A.C.s in your club in Cairo. Do you remember the women in the Middle East ? Black-haired, dark-eyed, burning like a desert wind ? Do you know how your fair New Zealand girls compared with them ? You must, because you went to your club so often. Like beautiful ice-cream they were, cool and refreshing after the atmosphere of Arab coffee-houses full of hashish smoke. After leaving your club I did not catch the roving eves of passing Arab women, so full was I of these milk-white maids.

And then I met you again, Johnny ; in Beirut this time. We drank strong coffee in the morning, after having drunk a lot of beer during the night. We could already understand each other with-

out difficulty, and so we talked about the war, about the desert, about our families. You knew then that your brother was taken prisoner on that hellish Zafran Pass. You asked mewhat it was like being a prisoner of war, as I had already experienced that pleasure, but I could not give you an exact idea of it because you see I am a Pole, therefore I received “ preferential ” treatment from the Germans. After that you invited me to your camp this side of Jebel Drus. It was as much a wilderness as are some parts of our Carpathian Mountains, and you said that in view of that — why in view of that ?you would like to go there

to blast the b Germans out of the b Carpathians. After that there was plenty more beer, and I cannot remember how it all finished. * * * It was months later when I read the press report of your countrymen’s sympathy with us in our great misfortune, the death of our General —that is what we called our Sikorski, just “ General”— that I realized much more clearly than I did the night in your camp how strong were the links between us. Suddenly I knew that when you were at the Mass for our General you were thinking of me and my cobbers who had lost their supreme war lord, that you were sorrowing for us poor orphans as we had once thought of .you and rejoiced when your

“ Frey ” returned safe from Crete, and also when he recovered from the wounds he received in the desert. I realized more clearly than before that we are not only brothers-in-arms, but that there is as great a bond of common interests between us as there is distance separating our two countries ; that as you came here to fight in order that Danzig, our window to the world, might not remain in German hands, so also have we to watch that New Plymouth will not become Japanese. Therefore, as you are here to help us, when the job is finished some of us will certainly go over to give you a hand. So long, Johnny Yours,