No more letters, of course; no cable from home either. It is possible to go on week after week without mail, although I once thought it impossible. Perhaps I shall acquire patience at long last. Perhaps.
Poor Ken in his sandy desert. How he must loathe it. Nearly ten months since I saw him and maybe it’ll be another ten, twenty, thirty more until I do. Well, I won’t think … I won’t think at all.
June 21st 1942
Port Sudan – en route for Massawa
Night duty. Hot as hot and sticky as ever was!
But soft – I find it nearly two months since I wrote herein. Well Basrah came and went, or rather we did. We arrived in the early morning and Bob came aboard during that morning and we embarked the patients during the afternoon. I had all Indians in C Ward, with the exception of about 16 BORs. I managed to get them all taped and in their beds and was off duty about 9pm when Bob came back with some gorgeous flowers and, just as an afterthought as it were, a wireless set. After a considerable struggle – for and against – it was decided at length that it should remain. I may add here that it has given us all a new lease of life and the evenings pass in a flash nowadays. We feel we are in touch with the outside world once again and it’s lovely to hear music – music! Bob told us of his plan to spend his leave in Karachi and that he proposed to fly to save time.
The trip back was pleasant and my Indian patients were delightful. With about six good words and true of Hindustani, I managed to pull them through all right until we reached port, at least. All sorts and ranks of Sikhs, that handsome race – Madrasees51, Punjabis, Ghurkhas and a good-humoured, well-mannered, innocent collection of men including sweepers, dhobis, Indian hospital staff, chefs, potato peelers and havildars.52 Such friendly flashing smiles, no complaints and a great deal of patience. I was most happy amongst them. No meals to bother about either as their two settings of curry and rice were mysteriously supplied to them somewhere for’ard. I never found out just where, but as they looked satisfied and didn’t complain, I presume they got what they wanted. We disembarked them after the usual five-day trip, and in the evening Bob arrived, having left by plane at 2am that morning. A long tiring trip. He stayed at the H. Singh club for the first few days and then got a nice room at the Killarney. He was there for seventeen days during which we saw him daily. It was marvellous not to have to resort to the front seat of the always overcrowded train en route for Karachi. Then out of the blue, as it were, the blow fell: we were to leave next day for Basrah. Bob was going back by ship in a few days time but decided to fly back instead.
June 22nd 1942
Basrah again and very hot – it being the summer of the year. And there on the wharf – in the flesh – and I think possibly to the amazement of the bridge and the personnel in general, was that man again!
Whilst Cairo and Baghdad were tossing signals back and forth to each other as to whether we should return to Karachi with patients from Baghdad or take on the 58th IMS and their equipment and carry them to the ME, we were in Basrah for six days. It was delightful for Mona and me to be able to go ashore and have lunch with Bob and Danny at their bungalow. We stayed there whilst they went back to the office at 4pm and had a sleep and a bath and remained for dinner. They have always been incredibly good to us whenever we’ve been thereabouts. We left and in due course arrived in Aden where we coaled and Mona and I went ashore to do some shopping, comme il faut.
On our return, and to our astonishment, there was mail on board. Quite by accident, naturally – all our mail arrives by accident – and never by first intention, I had 24 letters and some papers from Mali. Among them were letters from Mother and eight from General. So most of Mother’s missing mail is now received and I can now piece the story together of Clwyd’s and Glyn’s movements of recent months. On our way early next morning and, after wilting languidly in a perpetual swathe of perspiration through the Red Sea, we arrived in Suez early one morning (16th or 17th). I had quite thought there was no chance of getting in touch with Ken, because I found I had previously sent his address to Mother, thinking I had another, and moreover, I had no idea where he was, except somewhere in the Canal Zone.
We were allowed ashore after 4pm and nothing daunted Mona and me as we set off for the town to purchase one or two necessities. I found five five-piastre pieces from my Alexandria days, very black with time, but for all that, still representing 25 piastres (3/-). I was determined to use them and thereupon shone them up beautifully – as I thought – with some Goddards of great reputation. I produced them – feigning the utmost innocence in the shop, as due payment for some wool. But the Egyptian, who was, it must be presumed, a rogue and a villain, flung them back at me with robust scorn and asked me, ‘Madam, what are these?’ I feigned surprise (I hope) and hurt that my money could be questioned. After all, it was good money, if only recently polished, but remembering that Egypt suspects the money she mints and circulates herself, I accepted defeat and withdrew. But not I fear without telling the gentleman what I thought about him and his countrymen. Prices had soared out of all proportion since we had left: one price for Egyptians and quite another price for the British is their age-old policy and they seem to get away with it. I must add that the next shop took my money without question, so my labours were not unrewarded.
Shopping finished we were wending our way to the nearest hotel for a drink, before returning to the ship, when apropos nothing, Mona said, ‘There is Ken!’ I hadn’t seen him but there, sure enough, after eleven long months he was in the army lorry and yelling at his bewildered driver to stop and, jamming on the handbrake himself, he literally leapt out and dashed across to us. It seems he had heard of our coming and was even then on his way to the ship. We had a drink at the French club at Port Tewfik and then went back to the ship where we talked and we talked and we talked.
I learned for the first time that the poor soul had been torpedoed on the way back from Cyprus, jumping into the sea with his cine camera clutched tightly in one hand, later to be picked up by a small boat and then a large one and landed eventually in Alexandria and that later, in Libya, his lorry was twice bombed and he twice got severe concussion which meant a field hospital for a fortnight each time. All this and I knew nothing of it, because he didn’t think it necessary to worry me. I felt much shaken by it all. He told me that he had written at least twice a week, and had sent me four cables recently, four blouses from Cairo and a camera compact with duty prepaid. Neither the blouses nor the camera had arrived and probably only fifty percent of his letters and he was most disgusted about it all. He was thinner and very nervy and excitable and I felt so sorry for him. He hopes to go on leave to Jerusalem complete with cine camera, in a few weeks. He thought too that he should be going to Tobruk in charge of a petroleum factory there. That was to have been in a month or two but today comes news that Tobruk has fallen: a black day indeed and almost incredible news after so long a siege. So Tobruk is ‘off’, which is just as well for Ken, I feel; it has always been an undesirable spot and one hates to think of anyone one knows being sent there. Well he won’t go now – perhaps he’ll be sent back to India, as that also, it seems, is on the cards.
Ken went about 10.30pm – back to Geneifa, 38 miles away. He was on the wharf again next morning however, before breakfast, and I had to send him away because the ship was moving to another berth and we were embarking patients that morning. He came back again after lunch and left again when we did about 3.30pm. He was so delighted, poor lamb, to see me again and hated to see us on our way. He spoke of being married soon, but I persuaded him that it was better to wait till after the war. I went to bed after that, being on night duty, and here I am on the fourth night of the trip out from Suez at 3.30 o’the morning. We have only seven BORs in B Ward, all up, and one British officer and one Sikh captain in A Ward. C Ward is completely full of Indians again.
And Mona – as I was – is entirely happy with them. There are three epileptics who ‘fit’ fairly regularly and one of the poorer mental cases we
nt madder than normal and decided to attack one of his fellow sufferers today, while he was busy having a fit, so it was thought wiser to remove him to a padded cell. Another mental case has the disarming habit of ever wrapping about four blankets around himself and several towels around, turban wise, on top of his head, and then complaining in a loud voice that he is hot. Well, considering we are in the Red Sea and that the rest of us are simply dripping with heat and ennui, it may be supposed that he must be – hot!
Port Sudan – this morning early
It’s the same flat, hot dusty place that it was nearly six years ago when I sailed back from Australia to Wales … We embarked a few patients from here, but left about 11am and are now making for Massawa which, it is said, we should reach tomorrow afternoon. Yes today is depressing enough with its news of Tobruk and the ominous parlous condition of Sebastopol.53 Who can see the end of it all – where and when?
The wireless is an enormous encouragement to keep awake. Without it I would not have had the courage to carry this record on, and up to date. We should be back – either in Karachi or Bombay – in twelve days so there should be nearly seven weeks’ mail. Lovely! That’s if it hasn’t been sent to Cape Town or Timbuktu. Not much news of Port Moresby these days.
One wonders what the Japanese are playing at – Australia, India – perhaps Siberia as they have now occupied an island in the Aleutians.54 Time will tell. Clwyd is, of course, in the forces in Papua – an incredible thought – and Glyn in a camp somewhere or other. Mona is presumably in the same spot and I’m on the high seas. Father has sciatica and Mother’s dermatitis had returned to her upper hand. What a depressing miserable business it must be for her and now all this worry about all of us.
Of course, we are all right here except that we are completely tired of the ship and its personnel. We were subject in Karachi to some particularly petty restrictions regarding portholes but a spanner borrowed from the engineers did the trick and so we do not sleep with our portholes closed for all their orders. One day I’d like to tell the captain and the chief (jitterbug one, two or three) and the CO, British Army Incorporated, exactly what I think of them. I hope the opportunity occurs but I doubt it as they have long been afraid of us and endeavour to escape from us when we inadvertently meet on deck. We have had a lot of irritation from certain quarters and considerable amusement as well. It’s a great life! As I write this there is a service from St Martin’s-in-the-Fields on the wireless; so near and so far, but apparently things go on much the same in England, even in these days.
June 24th 1942
We sailed into the Massawa in the early afternoon the day before yesterday. I got up about 5pm and from my porthole I could see facing the deck handsome, typically Italian, buildings of the Promenade D’Italia. The whole waterfront was rather more interesting than most ports of call. The handsome villa-cum-palace of the late Duke of Aosta rose white among green palms on the water’s edge. Wright and I were walking on the decks, seeing what we could see, when a car pulled up below and the docks’ officer, who had just left the ship, asked if we would like a lift into town. Of course, we said thank you very much but we aren’t allowed ashore. After a few minutes reviewing the situation, I was persuaded to step into the car, cap and all – shore leave or no shore leave – and off we went (Mary was on duty, so returned).
We went first to enjoy a caffé frappé in the best Italian tradition, in the Lido, an open air café with a swimming bath attached, rather dusty and faded, but adequate. Then we skirted the town, such as it is. The native population is Negro and Arab, fairly mixed. The women wear a garment derived from the sari – less glorified. The Italian population apparently still roams about at large, only more or less under supervision. It seems there is an army of occupation which administrates justice according to Italian ideas. It sounds a trifle odd but maybe it’s alright. The docks officer turned out to be a South African from Durban and he and a naval officer and two pilots (one a tough looking ex-sheep station manager from Queensland) came on board for a chat.
But the chief remembrance of Massawa for all of us will simply be the heat. It seems there are degrees of heat, even of extreme heat, and that was the superlative of them all. No one slept on the ship last night as we were still alongside. The poor patients, disgracefully overcrowded, simply queued up for air under the few fans which were available. Others were lying in heaps on the decks, which are strictly taboo, but I hadn’t the heart to send them down. It would do British Army Incorporated the world of good to spend one whole night in C Ward for a change just to see how they would enjoy it. It is a sheer disgrace. I was called to supervise two epileptic fits and I felt it would be a good thing if I had had one myself. At least I would ensure complete oblivion for at least five minutes and that would have been better than nothing. We drink and drink – gallons – and then we drip and drip until our skins are sore with mopping. No-one talks of anything else but the heat; it is all absorbing. Even Tobruk seems far away and long ago and of little significance compared with our immediate problems of how to get air and a breeze. But we left at dawn this morning and at least there is a breeze now. We reach Aden early on Thursday and then after that, to add to our troubles – monsoon seas. Well as long as it is cool, I don’t care personally if the odd ship turns inside out. And why we didn’t let Mussolini keep Eritrea, I can’t think. Surely, no one in their senses could want to run the colony.
June 26th 1942
Aden is behind us two days since but until last night the seas were calm enough (sheltered it seems by Socotra island)55 and it was still hot and extremely sticky. Last night we developed a graceful roll and today we are getting our teeth into it nicely. Good old monsoon, haze over the stormy sea, overcast skies, a cool wind (for which thanks be) and the whirr of the propeller as the aft-end of the ship rears itself out of the water. At breakfast we had to clutch our eggs in one hand and our coffee in the other to save them from disaster – and ourselves. The patients are lying around much as if their last hour had come. It’s horrible for the poor things: even if they are not sick now they will be by tonight, at the sight and sound of everyone around them. I sat out on deck between 2 and 4am with my feet on the rails and drifted pleasantly into a semi-comatose state, where I felt nothing.
The news is frankly bad and somehow I can’t feel particularly confident about Egypt. For one thing I believe that if we have too many reverses the Egyptians would have no compunction in going boldly over to the Axis. That would be jolly! And it seems we just haven’t the up-to-date tanks and other equipment that the Germans are using. It seems to me, knowing nothing about military strategy of course, that if this was the real reason that we failed to keep Tobruk, it may well prove a like reason for failing elsewhere. It doesn’t bear thinking about. The latest news is the Germans are 30 miles west of Mersa Matruh56 and still advancing along the desert railway but drawing into the coast road. The general opinion is that a great battle for Egypt is imminent.
Four more nights for us if we are lucky enough to get in earlyish on Wednesday afternoon. It seems that a chit came through at Aden, this time for Poona, asking if our applications for transfer still held good. I should say they do indeed! Words to that effect will be sent to Poona as soon as we reach Karachi, I expect, and it may be that our transfers will eventuate fairly soon. Anywhere, oh anywhere at all, to get off this ship although it has been a relief to have the place to one’s self at night. I think I should have gone into a nunnery at an early age. Most people annoy me if I see too much of them but there are the chosen few of course and I’m sure they’ll be duly flattered if they knew. No doubt there is something radically wrong with me; the entire universe can’t all be queer.
June 30th 1942
Mersa Matruh has been evacuated and some prisoners taken – the Germans claim 6,000. The position at the moment is again obscure. One hopes that something will happen to stop the rot but I fear that Egypt will fall. The Egyptians themselves will be no help at all – we can count on that. The Ru
ssian front has begun again in deadly earnest and although Sebastopol still holds on, the whole position could scarcely be grimmer. We all feel rather depressed and dumbfounded but no doubt the gloom will move off after a time and we shall still go on. Karachi tomorrow and thank heaven for that. I positively look forward to seeing the place again, although I’d never have thought it at one time.
The Parry family at the Manse Penshurst, Australia, 1912.
QAs on board troopship Otranto, 1940.
Being entertained in Cairo, 1941. Bimbashi is 3rd left.
(Left to Right) Mona Stewart, Bill Williams and Joyce Parry.
Camels through the desert, Egypt.
Joyce in 1941.
Patients in a ward in Alexandria.
Joyce with Italian POW patients.
Mona Stewart and Joyce shopping in Alexandria.
QA nurses on board Karapara.
(Right to left) Joyce, Mary Wright and Mona Stewart on Karapara.
Ken Stanley (left) and friend in the desert.
Joyce and Bob in Basrah.
Joyce's War Page 15
