Never Forget

Sitting Ducks

George Campbell 2/13th Battalion

The next thing to wake me is not a sound but a rumble of vibrations that successfully overpowers the supremacy of the truck engine. What began with jitters and drumming eventually fills the air with ominous danger. Five Heinkel aircraft fly in from over the sea. I can't see them but hear the incoming queen bees grow ever closer, spraying their swarm of bullets on our now stationary wheeled fort. Bullets start to hammer away at the outer skin of the truck leaving it dimpled, while others slice their way, punching through any structural weakness.

"Christ," I curse, "we're sitting ducks".

Crouching down as low as I can go- I wish it was lower. My breath pants. Driven by fear, I follow the rest of the men towards the opening. The chaps in front of me dive one by one from the truck. Grasping my gun, like there is no tomorrow, I can hear the growl of the planes growing fainter and with my head almost wedged up the bum of the bloke in front I lunge forward and fall to the ground. Instinctively, I take an anti-clock wise roll under the truck and engage my gun. The planes are returning and the deafening rat-a -tat-tat and the pinging on metal recommences. I wriggle on my belly attempting to free my arms from under my torso. The angle of my riffle is about forty-five degrees away from the target and in this cramped position I have no choice but to fire random shots that lack accuracy and purpose. The planes keep coming across the skyline, sliding their way across the horizon in two rows. The regular pattern reminds him of the ducks at the shooting gallery at the Wagga show. For half an hour the repeated and relentless dive bombing continues and by the time it ceases my fear has long since left me and been replaced with a numbness of body and mind. In a sheer relief, I disengage my gun and use to tailgate to lever myself onto the vehicle. At first the mood in the truck is jubilant as each man tells of his own narrow victory over death but as the news filters along the convoy that two of our men are dead and many others wounded our spirits quickly dampen.

The trucks nose their way down the steep descent of the escarpment into Derna via the highway that spans from Tunisia Italian, North Africa in the West right across to Egypt in the East. They then zig zag their way up the escarpment to the west of Derna. Drawing to a clunking halt near the ocean we set up camp. Floating in the water I allow the salt water to lift my body high on the surface and rub my hands over my limbs removing the layers of dust that have slowly accumulated over the journey. My ears that rest just under the surface, they fill with water, muffling the shenanigans of those around me but I have had enough excitement for one day and roll like a log, allowing the sun to warm my eyelids.

*********

On the 7th of March, the 2/13th reload into the trucks and head to the fertile countryside of Tocra. It is a patch of green surrounded by the harshness of rock and desert dirt. It is easy to see the value of this farming countryside. From my position at the back of the truck, I can see the Italian settlers working the land. The tend to their chore, seemingly oblivious to the war that surrounds them. The next day, our trucks snake their way towards the treed outskirts of Benghazi, passing through a leafy Eucalyptus avenue that thins and fades like a mirage.

It is near Barce, in Western Cyrenaica, that I find myself as part of the 20th brigade reserve and the last line of defence. The fighting has diminished and for the fourth day we play cards to relieve our boredom. After the excitement and exhilaration of being dive bombed at Derna, the days that have followed have been an anticlimax and monotony is now our worst enemy. When the orders are given to move the 9th division from Barce to Beda Fomm (a plateau east of Benghazi) I am quietly relieved.

*********

The 22nd March 1941, I snuggle down deep in my hole, trying to warm my numbing fingers as the bitter chilly night sets in. Earlier, the rest of the 9th Division had disappeared into the dark leaving the 2/13th with a sense of eerie abandonment. What the hell is keeping our ride from us?

My pulse quickens as the visions keep coming. I can feel my mind trying to escape, trying to claw its way out of my subconscious dream state. My world is circling and a whirling nauseates me. 'Clive', I call into the darkness, 'Clive'. I know it's a dream but I am unable to wake myself. Although petrified of what may lay ahead, I want to see my brother again. I am in the desert, all alone peering down a well. Its strong walls disappear into a black hole of space. My pulse is racing and breathing shallow. My hoarse throat is sore but still I repeat my cries. Reaching into the well, I grab my brother's hand and begin dragging him to the stone rim. There is an earth shattering explosion and in the darkness Clive's limp body bounces off the walls as it plummets into the black hole. My hands desperately paw at the growing space between us. It is just before dawn when the noise of the approaching trucks that drag me from my nightmare.

The sun is rising when we vacate. In the light of day, the potentially dangerous journey ends up being an uneventful evacuation. But for me the events of my nightmare continue to haunt and a sense of loss penetrates my core without explanation.

NOTES

The Devil's Own Despatch - 2/13th Association 1961

We had some bother: Tales from the Infantry, Gillan, Hugh.; 2/13th Battalion Association, 1985

Bayonets Abroad - A History of the 2/13th Battalion A.I.F. in the Second World War, Fearnside, G H, 2/13th Battalion Association,1953