The Jim Osborne Memoirs - Cashing in on magic moment

For a while in Egypt’s Western Desert our regiment was brought back to Mersa Matruh on the Mediterranean coast, theoretically for a rest from the desert fighting and a chance to relax, get an issue of new clothes and defend the port and airstrip.

 It all sounded very pleasant, but as Mersa Matruh was the closest port to Tobruk, a city on Libya’s eastern Mediterranean coast which was still in Allied hands and was the end of the railway line from Cairo, it was a place of great significance to both Allies and the enemy.

 It was from there that all supplies went to Tobruk – food, ammunition and reinforcements, etc.

  As a result, we could expect at least four bombing raids every night.

 There was not one building left with a roof and mighty few with all four walls still intact.

 As a result, some of the troops suffered from “shell shock” – or, in our terms, became “bomb happy”.

 One of our troops became very desperate and was awaiting the chance to be sent back to hospital for complete rest.

 It was no fault of his – his nerves had just had enough.

 One night the German bombers gave us a particularly hard time.

 It was a 100-bomber raid and they dropped parachute flares before bombing, which really exposed us.

 Then came the bombs, and our own anti-aircraft guns.

 It was frightening.

 It really knocked “Davo”, and with all the explosions and noise perhaps there was no wonder.

 My old mate Ian Nicolson noticed that “Davo” was pretty stressed, so he very calmly got out of the gun pit – which gave us a certain amount of cover – stood calmly, fully exposed, and then said: “Come up here and have a look Dave, it will just remind you of the Cornish Regatta.”

It was a lovely bit of pure fantasy, but it worked like magic to calm a very troubled man.

Ian Nicolson, a totally cool, rational and unflappable man.

 One of the best soldiers one could ever be with. 

While at Mersa Matruh the opportunity arose for us to get replacements for our 25-pounder guns.

 Ours had reached the stage where they had to be replaced.

 Barrels were worn out, with their “rifling” worn down so much that it reduced the accuracy and the range.

 Word came that a shipment of new guns was due into Port Said and I was sent the 340 miles east with six drivers to pick them up on arrival.

 We arrived in Port Said on the due date, but the convoy didn’t.

 Apparently it had to take evasive action and zigzagged across the Mediterranean, costing them an extra few days.

 So we were billeted at the Pommy barracks while waiting.

 We were contemplating a couple of idle days as we had very little money, without which going into Port Said would just be a useless and frustrating waste of time.

 But among our drivers were the incorrigible “brothers” Rig and Rocky.

 We also had A.R. (Mick) McCoombe.

  Mick had had two years before the army working with Dante the magician.

 He was a good pupil and for the year before the war Mick had his own act on the Tivoli circuit as Armei the magician.

 “We need money,” said Mick, “so what do we have between us?” Pockets emptied, we found between the seven of us we had just eight Egyptian pounds – which would only buy a couple of meals.

 “That will be enough,” said Mick.

  “I see there are a couple of Yankee ships in port – they would probably like a game of poker, and so would I.”

 Off he went and when Mick woke us up about 1.30am we all found we had about 20 Egyptian quid each.

 Mick would never play cards with his mates, but this was different.

 He was even very apologetic to us – it should have been even more, he said, but the Yank sailors were starting to get a bit suspicious of him, so he had to lose several times to keep them guessing.

 “A bloke has to be a bit careful – there were five of them to one of me, and I didn’t want a swim in the harbour.

  Some of them looked a bit nasty once or twice,” said Mick.

 But we were happy. The next day, as Mick and I strutted down the main street, a funeral passed us.

 They do this deal very well there – the hearse drawn by four black horses with plumes on their harnesses, followed by about 25  sulkies (horse-drawn traps), but towards the rear one was driven by Rig, with Rocky endeavouring to stand on his horse beside him.

 Hardly reverent and no doubt the rest of the funeral procession weren’t amused but could hardly stop to remonstrate during the journey.

 Mick and I were just amazed that Rocky didn’t “spill” – there must have been a lot of fluid being held back.