Never Forget

Life Under Siege- George Campbell 2/13 Battalion

May 1941

The sun will be rising soon. I lay on my stomach behind a mound of rocks. The ground below me wouldn't soak up piss it is that hard. I try not to think about the consequences that our pending actions will bring. Although I have been numbed to the killing and programmed myself to think of the enemy as pests that need to be eliminated - rabbits hopping across the wheat paddocks but sometimes the truth marches to my conscience.

My battalion relieves the 2/1st Pioneers who have been constructing earthworks. We don't anticipate much action but are cautious not to take the peacefulness for granted. Before leaving the Pioneers painted us a picture, of how the sunrays advancing over the horizon brings movement from the enemy line. It is when Jerries air their blankets under the security of spandaus' fire. So in the morning when the first blanket of ten, floats towards the skies, we Aussie's open fire and like bottles of beer on the wall, the enemy tumbles backwards. I am grateful it is the popping of bullet shots that fill my ears and not the heart wrenching cries of lives being lost.

July 1941

A gentleman's game in the back streets of a battle zone proves, that even in war, cricket is sacred. Bat in hand, I stand at the crease wishing that Clive was at the other end. I opened the batting and have amassed a run tally of 30 on the scoreboard. Growing up Clive and I had dreamt of wearing the baggy green and Bradman had been our hero. For a period of time when Clive was around the age of 10 years, he had taken to hitting a ball against the corrugated iron water tank that stood next to the kitchen window. Clive had heard that this was what the great Don Bradman had done and emulating his hero, the constant thumping of the ball against the metal had, in her own words, driven our mother 'stir crazy'. I know that my mother would do anything to hear that thumping again.

My sandshoes have lost their soles so I wear my army boots. My eyes track the carefully delivered ball down the pitch. It lands on the uneven surface and swings away to the left. I lift the bat and take a cowboy swing at the ball. The crack of ball on wood blends with the artillery shelling in the background. It is a fair hit but it probably doesn't have enough pace to find its way to the boundary. I take off to the other end. I run the first and half way through the second I begin to fatigue- damn these boots! The ache in my legs intensifies as I clump my way towards the stumps with all the elegance of an elephant. The ball has been cleanly fielded and is whistling its way to the stumps. I stretch out throwing my body prostrate on the ground, extending the bat out in front. The small pebbles that embellish the pitch work their way under my shirt and painfully graze their way along my chest. My knees succumb to the same treatment and I know that I will be extracting the remnants of Tobruk buried under my skin for a number of days. I look up and am surprised to see the umpire hasn't raised his arm.

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I am not playing in morale building Tobruk test match between the Australian 20th Brigade and Britain 107 Royal Horse Artillery but I had a hearty laugh at the uniquely Tobruk flavoured rules that are pinned to the wall.

... Rule 2. Play is to be continuous until 1800 hours except by interference by air raid. Play will NOT rpt NOT cease during shell firing.

...Rule 4. Shirts, shorts, long socks, sandshoes if available. ITI helmets will not be worn or any other fancy head gear. Umpires will wear white coat (if available) and carry loaded rifle with fixed bayonet.

...Rule 6. All players to be searched for concealed weapons before the start of play and all weapons found, other than ST grenades, Mills bombs and revolvers will be confiscated (This does not apply to the umpires).

...Rule 8 Manager will make medical arrangements and ambulance in attendance.

Not quite the same rules as back home but a game that will relieve the monotonous grind of everyday life in Tobruk. Dave and I are resting under the muzzle of the tank grandstand. Across from us is the scoreboard that is propped on a shot down Jerry plane. A yorker is delivered from the desert end and Captain Fletcher slogs the ball back over the head of the pommy bowler. A fielder gives chase but pulls up short of the barb wire.

"Where's your heart?" Dave adds his voice to that of the heckling crowd.

Rounding the end of the wire, the fielder looks heavenly making the sign of the cross and cautiously crosses the boundary, praying that the mines have been cleared from where he steps.

The German Stukas can be seen heading towards the game. RRRRrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrRRRR! The warning siren wails. The umpires and captains converge at the centre of the pitch and protecting their eyes from the sun, watch the sky. After short deliberation it is decided to bowl another over. The ball is hit through the slips and another run scored. With the run needing to be added to the scoreboard, the dutiful scorer- a small weedy chap probably better known for his accounting skills rather than fighting, jumps from the safety of the Italian tank and dashes to the score board. Obviously shaken by the planes overhead he fumbles as he adjusts the run tally and is cheered by the crowd as he runs back to his sanctuary. Limited overs are played and at the end of the match the Aussies are declared the winners by a narrow margin.

August 1941

To our right the 2/43rd Battalion is taking a pre-dawn battering. I can hear their unashamed cries for help as they are fired at for the first time, then a second and for some even a third time. I feel bloody helpless but the gunfire is still heavy and all we can do is try our best to cover them with our own fire. Les Perkins, the stretcher bearer for the 2/13th C Coy, bravely forges his way forward with his first aid pannier in hand. He dodges his way through the spray of shell fire towards the wounded. I shake my head in admiration and take aim in the hope of providing the cover that Perkins' mercy mission so desperately needs.

Never such a stupid, yet selflessly brave act have I ever witnessed. Perkins makes three separate trips assisting those unable to get themselves to safety and each time I hold my breath willing the man, a military medal in the making, to safety. When the gunfire finally subsides Les is still tending to the injured. These heroics remind me of my Uncle Clarry's honourable mention but until this day I have never truly appreciated the heights of fearful danger that fuel such acts.

REFERENCES

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

2nd AIF (Australian Imperial Force) and CMF (Citizen Military Forces) unit war diaries, 1939-45 War https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/C1359733