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Sergeant Alf Waterhouse
Liberation
On getting up and liberated, what now, I would go into Saigon, hoping the French would now be friendly. This was not to be, I was treated with the cold shoulder, not one wanting to shake my hand, so I went back to camp, at least I was with friends there. It seemed a long day with nothing to do, all of us just waiting. When a crackle of noise and a voice and a man’s voice sounded.
“This is Radio India, I have many messages here for English ex Prisoners of War from loved ones from home. Please listen you may hear from home”.
Sitting and listening, but none of the messages seemed to be from any places we knew, listening to the strange places and names, sullen men were drifting away. It was understandable as no one knew anything as to when they going home.
On the third morning of liberation, a truck arrived with a well dressed man in a private car. He asked for volunteers.
“I am from the Red Cross here in Saigon and I have a large barrel with rum, each man is entitled to one full jug, anymore than that could be dangerous to your health. A queue formed and a volunteer turned the tap, with another seeing fair play. This at last gave us cause to laugh and joke, after about half an hour both the volunteers were drunk, not from a drink but from the heady strong smell of raw rum.
It was unfortunate, but after tiffin, all feeling a bit tired, five British officers arrived, all presumable administration, except one doctor. We got back to forming a queue, and the doctor was distressed by the condition of the men he examined. He did his best with his limited medical supplies in his bag, promising that he would get in touch for urgent supplies. On seeing my soiled bandages, he tut tutted, but as treatment he could only suggest that for the moment, I bought if possible any fruit, greens and pick leaves from any trees, anything to provide a succulent food in-tack. One of the officers turned out to be in the Pay Corps and we were given about five pounds equivalent in French money.
On the following morning I set off to find a greengrocer but I passed a very small shoe shop, I could see a pair of shoes, if only I could pay the asking price. The small Chinese shopkeeper brought them to me, they were very soft leather and beautifully made. I had to have them even though they were about Four pound in French money. So at least now I had footwear. I looked around the remaining shops but could not find any fruit, but there were barrow loads of fresh flowers.
Quite unexpectedly I felt a small hand in mine, and looking down stood a young boy with a beaming smiling, I would say he was about eight years old. He started leading me along, I removed my hand from his, and went to pat his head but he was persistent, smiling and grabbing my hand again. What the Hell, with that smile, he could mean no harm, so I let him lead me. We got into a pedestrian area where he led me down a cul de sac. I felt suddenly embarrassed as we entered a small modern built bungalow, it was obvious his home. His mother would have a fit seeing me, hair starting to grow into a flossy mess and as near possible naked and no doubt I was stinking.
As I had suspected, she dropped whatever she was carrying in shock. The small boy was explaining something in French. To her eternal credit, she took control and smiled. pointing to an overstuffed chair motioning me sit down. For the first time in nearly four years I sank into the comfort of that chair. Sitting there I felt most uncomfortable. My backside was bare on perhaps her best chair, the lad then climbed on my lap. pointing to himself and saying ‘TOM’. So that’s his name, I pointed at myself saying ‘Alfred’. He pointed at my almost warn out bush hat, with the brass Regimental Cap Badge, with the three Sergeant’s stripes I had painted on it.
It was now mid afternoon when the husband came in, his reaction on seeing me was to quickly come over and shook my hand. He was an undersized 5ft 8ins, with an imperial beard which suited him. He spoke a few words in English, but not enough to make any conversation. He took me to their bathroom, I just gaped at the WC, wash basin and bath. He turned on the bath taps and left, then came back in smiling and allowed me the use of his razor. Oh, what a pleasure to feel the razor going over my chin, in camp I used a table knife, and soap which I hadn’t seen or used since capitulation. He then showed me how to use the makeshift sarong, this made me feel alot better and almost human.
His wife made us a tea or as we say in camp, supper. The rice was snow white, so different from ours, which always looked to us as if it had been swept off the floor. The rice was just rice, puffy and sweet with pieces of chicken, with no weevils. Just sitting at a table with a white cloth, and cutlery, made me realise the difference in our camp life was so different. I was conscious that I was eating part of their food ration, but I enjoyed the privilege of sitting at a table, a simple lovely joy.
Sitting in the window after the meal, I looked out at their modest front garden with trees and high grown bushes. The green leaves caught my eye. They looked like laurel leaves, glossy and long. I must try and pinch some of those leaves, it was a necessity, but I didn’t like the thought, after the hospitality they had given me. I left the Dannenbergs soon afterwards in high spirits, they made it quite plain, they wanted me to visit again.
The following morning an officer told us that the following day Lord Mountbatten would be at Saigon to welcome our freedom along with a quiet talk about the battle in Burma. It was silly but he added, perhaps not thinking,
“Please dress accordingly”
Some wit nearby said “Black tie of course”.
I went back to the little boys house the next afternoon again, wondering if I was over doing my welcome as we had hardly any conversation. It was perhaps being over-sensitive but social graces had long since gone. Young Tom showed his delight as he had somehow managed to learn ‘My Sergeant Waterhouse’ I unfortunately was to give my host a great disappointment when he wanted me to play chess with him. I could see from his face that he had been waiting a long time to play. The husband went to a cupboard and came back like a Royal Steward bearing the King’s Crown on a cushion, other than chess set in box. Within two moves he knew that he wasn’t going to get a good game from me. I felt sorry to disappoint this very nice man who may have waited years to play. I later learned that he was President of the local Chess Club and played in high circles. Try and explain that you just knew the moves and nothing more to a non speaker in English, it was impossible.
The following morning the whole camp was waiting for the arrival of the great man, Commander in Chief of all Forces in the Far East. No flag was flying as the poached egg of the Japanese had gone. The men all started to move forward as they heard the movement of many cars which swung into the camp, the VIP Car with Lord Mountbatten and his wife the Countess Mountbatten, she was dressed in Red Cross uniform.
‘Attention shun’ boomed out as the Lord climbed onto a box. He looked magnificent with a chest full of medals, a great man and he looked it. After mentioning our past troubles, and hope for the future. It was certainly not his fault, but he hadn’t a clue of what we had been through. He told us that Burma saw the deaths of about 45,000 Japanese soldiers, 45,000. He tactfully didn’t mention the British soldiers, airmen and sailors who had died. He asked us to please be patient, collecting the numbers of crew and ships, food and clothing would take time but everyone is working hard at it
After tiffin I was talking to Bombardier Stephenson and mentioned the friendship with the Dannenbergs, the French family who seemed to have adopted me. He asked if I would take him, he had a smattering of school boy French. I reluctantly agreed as I was thinking about their rationing.
It turned out to be a good thing as Bombardier Stephenson managed to get a sort of conversation going. We learned that the Japanese had within reason acted correctly, although there was no imports, food was difficult with no variety. Mr. Dannenberg had been the manager of Shell, and the Japanese had kept him working on petroleum, which at odd times reach Saigon. They made both of us so welcome and insisted we stayed the night and Mrs. Dannenberg made up a bed on the floor. In the early morning a very embarrassing situation arose. It was well known that rice contains a great deal of water, as it is boiled in water, so you are more than likely wanting to relieve your bladder, and this happened with me early next morning. I didn’t exactly know where the bathroom was. If I entered their daughter’s bedroom, there would be shrieks if not worse and how could I explain that or accidentally walking into the parents’ bedroom and waking them. Both back door and front door securely locked, there was no doubt I must relieve myself, but tossing and turning, I had to go. My eyes suddenly alighted on a tall flower vase. I just had to use it and try to explain to Mrs Dannenberg, which I did in the morning. She was very sympathetic and I got the feeling she felt it was her fault, by not making sure we had access to a lavatory. There was no doubt she was a wonderful understanding woman. Somehow Mr Dannenberg told me that on tomorrow, a Sunday, he wanted me to come alone, as he had a little surprise for me.
On that fateful Sunday afternoon he took me to what I thought must be the largest store or shop. We went in a side door and up a flight of stairs to the manager’s flat with his extra large French wife. The manager found an old pair of white shorts, obviously old, but they were pants and rather although a large size for me as I was now only about eight stone. I now felt really smart and respectable, different after always feeling a complete unwelcome sight.
In the flat were three young men and I believe their wives, or girlfriends, these being the shop’s staff. They spoke no English but it made a change to meet more people. The wife made afternoon tea, and although it was very limited, it was again nice and made me feel comfortable. After a little while their guests left and for some reason Mr Dannenberg left with them. I wasn’t to sure what to do, would my friend be long in coming back, at that point several shots and shouts were heard. Knowing the Vietnamese hated the French, I was worried as there had been many attacks on French families. I was worried, there was another noise which may be a break in attempt on the store. The French woman immediately went to an outsized sideboard beckoning me to help her move it to barricade the door. It was like an old American Western, when cowboy families made a barricade to their doors against invading Red Indians. She looked at me picking up a very large kitchen knife and shouting to my horror “Ma brav--- English Sergeant, he will save us “Vive La France”. She was wielding a large kitchen knife, and I felt trapped in this strange house, as an English POW who had undergone many dangers and now free, I now felt as though I was liable to be murdered by Vietnamese rebels as the doorknob turned. Everything had gone quiet and after a while I decided to make a move by easing the sideboard away from the door. Though it was now dark, I could see the large show cases, but the smaller low cases, I couldn’t see and kept bumping into them. creeping about trying to keep the noise down, I was convinced they had gone. Making out the handrail to the stairs I decided to get out as soon as possible, but misjudged the distance and went over head down the wide stairs. Coming to no harm, but the noise brought out the French lady who fortunately led me back.
Shortly after this I made my excuses and left, having enough excitement for one day. The road leading to our camp was a good fifteen minutes away, hoping I could remember the way back. After a few minutes I could hear footsteps behind me, maybe two men, making my mind up to ignore them and not look around, but was my imagination playing tricks. I hurried on and with a sigh of relief as I had found the camp and without any hesitation quickly turned into safety.
The following day I was now feeling more at ease. Waiting to hear of a move back home, I decided to have my last look at Saigon, as surely tomorrow we should move. Walking along the shopping streets I found myself walking alongside a well-dressed Chinaman who spoke reasonable English but I didn’t understand half he was saying. All I could fathom out was French Indo China had no real workshops and if they did there was no material. He turned out to be an importer and wanted to be in contact with British manufacturers. My mind and brain was so neglected by imprisonment with the harsh conditions, most of this meant nothing, but then he suggested we went to his home and try and come to arrangements. I had no objections to home cooking, Chinese so agreed and after a while we reached his splendid large house and his very tiny wife who led me into the dining room.
The dining table was certainly full of flowers, fruit and dinner as he called it. He was certainly into the black market. I looked in wonder at his wife who after she had placed our plates on the table, sat on a small stool and table by the kitchen door eating, whilst we tucked in at the large dining table. There must have been some signal arrangement as she knew exactly when to clear away the plates and bring in the next dish. He was looking at the now freed POWs trying to find a suitable agent amongst the English. This agent would be able to buy or order anything, it didn’t matter what, it would be found by him to sell. He had prepared guarantees of money transferred direct to the firm’s bank with all the necessary books and papers. The agent would receive a commission or five per cent of the selling price. I agreed without knowing very much about this, but I presumed in time I would get experience, but it was getting late and had to rush away. In my haste I had left the papers behind, I wasn’t too sorry that the deal was left behind, my wishes were to get home and away from this Far East. Sleep came quickly.
The following morning, as word was we would be going home the day after, I again set off for Saigon and to find a modest present for Mrs. Dannenberg in repay for her many kindnesses. I could find nothing here except old worthless clothes and flowers, but the flowers were withered and spent. In some despair, as I was leaving an open market, a bright band of silver caught my eye. It was a second hand silver bracelet which may be old fashioned, but it made a substantial gift. Taking my prize to Mrs. Dannenberg I did not waste any time in presenting her with my gift. Explaining we would be moving next day, I could not stay long. She did not seem to understand but she presented me with two water buffalo in perhaps bronze, which were about thumb size and I still cherish these little figures. Not being able to stay until her husband came home, I said my goodbyes and I left that pleasant welcoming home. That evening after tiffin, four of us decided to spend our last night having a drink in a dive. We found such a place filled with working men wearing the beret and their women rather bold and almost respectable. The place was filled with cigarette smoke and cheap wine. Normally we would not be seen dead in such a place like this, but it was livened up with a piano accordion playing including the Lily Marlene.
I now tell a secret that I have kept for over fifty years. Since that night I have wondered whether they thought I was the boss in charge but what followed was horrendous, frightening, and caused panic.
Quite suddenly my eyes lost their focus, what was happening, the ceiling seemed to be coming down, my head was dizzy and with terrible nauseous and revulsion. I had to get out, no time to say anything. Somehow, I dodged round the tables and into the street. Through a fog and stumbling, with the Chinese grinning at me, I got out, but the pavement was coming up to hit me, and I ached all over.
I was certainly in Chinatown and trying to pay for a rickshaw puller, what sort of nightmare was this, my reasoning was not working, I was just ill and sick and what to do, sitting down on the pavement, feeling like I was about to die. An aged Chinaman came into focus holding me, kindly guiding me. I was passing packaging cases with a peculiar smell. All this was not helping me. Now finding myself sitting on a low stool, ready to fall off it, in front of me there was a low table and opposite I could just make the outline of a slim young Chinese girl handing me a small bowl of tea. Feeling ready to vomit, I had never felt so ill.
The old Chinaman gave me a long stemmed pipe and I drew about three times, my head seemed to clear and I was feeling much better. He led me to a small truckle bed and I collapsed on it. He then touched me and pointed to his daughter, I did not understand what all this was about, but she started to undress. By God I thought, he’s giving me his daughter. I leapt out of the bed, even though I was drained, and ran out into the road. With only one eye open I was still feeling terribly ill. Just before I managed to close my last functioning eye, I could only see darkness. In between sleep I felt the bed was hard and the blanket coarse and thick. I heard a groaning and realised it was me groaning. Some how I managed to sleep but with some hideous nightmarish dreams.
I was awoken with a violent shaking. In front of me was a long face, going thinner from the head to chin, with expressionless slit eyes. He yanked me to my feet and pushed me through a door. I stumbled on finding myself face to face with a stoney faced Vietnamese, in some sort of uniform. He was drumming his fingers on his desk and spoke in reasonable English. I had a horrible feeling I was a prisoner of the Vietnamese, but he then informed me,
“You were last night locked in a police cell after being found in a ditch. This was for your own protection now go back to Saigon”.
With some pushing, I was shown outside, having a sick headache, and being more dead than alive, I realised had not thought to ask how to get back to our camp.
I thought my head was clearing but still nothing, as I found myself walking down a straight sandy empty road. Seeing no one. even if I did they would not understand me. I had travelled some four or five miles and was soaked through with sweat, but I was feeling more normal. I was extremely lucky as expectantly I saw the buildings of Saigon.
Now back in camp I made up my mind, no matter how many days before we moved, I would stay put. I must be accident prone. Lying down on my bed I tried to put together what had happened. I was drinking mild beer which tasted like water it was so weak. I had drunk perhaps three no more, then suddenly I was struck with something. Had I been given a Mickey Finn, leaving me like I had been poisoned. All that day I just took it easy really looking forward to being away glad on the home run. The day passed but as expected I had a troubled nights sleep.
The next morning on a special parade about 10am an officer spoke told us we would fly by Dakota aircraft to Rangoon and later shipped home from there. He wished us a pleasant trip even if it took some weeks. He added that we had all acted with great bravery and back home, they would be proud of us. He ended by saying his goodbyes.
At Saigon airport we were sat on the concrete of a large empty building. No one spoke to us or anything, we just sat there. Deciding to have a look outside, I saw a RAF Flight Sergeant talking to an RAF sergeant. The Flight Sergeant then went underneath the plane’s engine and turned on a tap. Some liquid started running and I hoped it wasn’t fuel, if it was I hoped it wasn’t our plane. He didn’t look a day above 18, bloody young I thought, and wished he’d turn off that tap.
Walking to the buildings door he called in numbers to board and I was in those numbers, we would be off in minutes. Going aboard with the others there were no seats or forms, nothing, so we sat on the plane’s floor when he came into sight giving us each a flat tin about six inches square, saying,
“K rations old sports, don’t open till I tell you”.
Down each side was a small circular hole which I thought could be for shooting out, but this could have been wrong. Suddenly I felt the plane lift. Being this was my first flight, even if took a few more days, I would have preferred it was a ship. A thought troubled me because as a small child my father’s clapped out car kept stopping for no known reason, if this happened, we could not just step out through a door. To my amazement the Flight Sergeant came out of his cockpit into view and was grinning, I wasn’t, who was flying this thing?
“Don’t worry old sports George is in the driving seat”
I hadn’t seen anybody except him, who was George? Others must looked worried as he said,
“Alright old sports, George is the automatic pilot, it gives me a rest”
He wasn’t giving me a rest.
“Now open up your ‘K’ boxes, you are all more lucky than me, as I haven’t got one “
On opening the tin I saw laid out rations, also five cigarettes. There were two sandwiches, small jar of jam, bun, also some other small lots, they tasted lovely to us. I stood up to have a look out through the side hole and could see miles ahead of the dreaded green jungle. It did cross my mind that if this plane were to crash our bodies would never be found. The jungle would be our resting place, so I sat down, I’d had enough of that jungle. Then I went cold, suppose all this was a dream we were still prisoners. I had such dreams before with Malaria. I looked at my companions mostly asleep, no help from them.
Quite suddenly we were swept to one side, not fiercely just over gently, my heart was in my mouth. The plane levelled out again so I looked out, and believe me the plane had steeply banked making its approach to the airport. I saw the giant pointed steeple gold in the sunlight of which I had seen years ago on photographs.
Having now landed safely we were marched through the demolished streets of Rangoon. The streets were swept clean and tidy but the stumps of buildings bombed into now piles of bricks. It was completely deserted.
Taken to a large unmarked building, which was now a temporary hospital. I with others were put to bed awaiting a medical. An Indian woman doctor dressed in Indian fashion with a sarong gave me a very good medical, asking many questions of my illnesses. She was very interested in my scurvy. She told me to my delight I had no illnesses to worry about, but to keep clear of malaria areas as I could easily get a recurrence. As there was no hope of my going into these countries I was satisfied. When finished she pronounced an all clear.
I was later questioned by intelligence into any cruelty or torture. Apart from a few beatings and perhaps mild torture, I did not want it to go any further. I had forgotten the stealing of my Rolex wristwatch by a front line Japanese soldier, who then clouted me over the head and snatched the watch, but I wanted to go home and put it all behind me.
We were in Rangoon some seven days utterly bored, as there was nothing to do, we dare not move far from the hospital as the roads were deserted, with no natives to ask the way, we would get lost. We were then taken to a large army camp and given an excellent tall, airy tent each. It had a small iron bed with sheet and pillow, and straw mattress, how things had changed in the army since I had enlisted. Lying and testing the bed, when a loud demanding voice was shouting
“On parade get mobile”
No damn rest, typical of the British army, a few moments of rest doing nothing. then on parade. We were marched to a large marquee which was filled with round trestle tables and forms. Sitting down, volunteer ladies brought us each a plate of hot pot and a slice of white bread. Staring in fascination to the bread, I had forgotten such bread existed, what a treat, a slice of white bread. Not being that interested in the hot pot, which may be considered strange, but the bread, now that was great, it seemed a sacrilege to eat it. Tenderly lifting the bread up I took a bite, the absolute pleasure and delight it gave me, I will never forget. The slice now gone, it seemed to me a great loss. I wondered if I dare ask for another slice. I felt like that little boy in Dickens asking for a second helping, but I plucked up the courage and asked one of the ladies. I shall never forget the look of absolute horror on her face, then suddenly it changed and she had tears running down her face, she quietly said,
“Hey lad, yer can have half a loaf”
I now tackled the stew with my bread. Then feeling a world of satisfaction we were sent back to our tents, when a loud voice reached us again,
“POST come and get it”
Humping up with the hope there was one for me which would be the first in three years. There was just one, a large envelope, on opening it back at the tent, there was a professional touched up photograph of my wife Ann. Devouring the photograph, I saw in her eyes the pain and worry. During my years as POW I had thought just of myself and never gave a thought for the loved ones at home. Maybe they had suffered just as much as me, I felt utterly guilty. Picking up the letter it was short, but it told me how delighted she was, hoping I was well and would soon be home. However, she had to say there was a vacant chair, my father had died about 4 months ago. Damn and blast, it hit me hard, I would never see or speak to him again. We had been very close together in business, through the lean times in the thirties. At times nearly bankrupt, but we managed and never had to be chased for money. I sat back, had I been selfish, no thought except my troubles, in fact during the last twelve months I just thought that I was just an inhabitant nothing more, perhaps even less, there being no one that cared, as if there was anyone behind that black velvet curtain.
The morning after that voice came again,
“Fall in for Pay Parade”
Oh that sounded better. I received about five pounds, and with what I had saved, I now had about eight pounds. We were then marched to a Quarter Masters’s stores and issued with blouse and trousers in dark green fatigue, but no belt, hat or cap and no boots. I stll had my brown shoes, which had got me through the last few years and I now felt a sergeant again, especially after the tailor sewed on three white tapes.
Squaring my shoulders, I was a soldier again and a Senior NCO. Gone were the rags, being called a sergeant again, I had respect. I found a deserted part of the camp and tried out repeating orders, trying to stiffen my voice with authority.
After tiffin I saw a queue of soldiers outside the NAAFI and on enquiry they were queuing to buy tinned food and tinned fruit to give to their families when they got home. We had heard harrowing stories of shortages at home so I joined the queue. It took over one hour in the queue but I got a good range of goodies which were placed in a cardboard box. Now I was ready for that damned boat home.
How often had I heard that mournful sound of ‘ROLL ON THAT BOAT, but it was now my turn. We were paraded to receive a toilet bag and pyjamas from the hard working women. I was given a waterproof toilet bag and inside a razor with both shaving and toilet soap, toothbrush and paste. I carried my treasures away before opening the bag and surprise and displeasure hit me, my toothpaste was printed ‘MADE IN JAPAN’. I hurried back and the woman seemed embarrassed, snatching the bag back, leaving me with nothing, so I went to the NAAFI, obtaining both soaps, toothbrush etc. Maybe worse was to come. A long trestle table was piled high with clothing and I was given a pair of pyjamas, being hard wearing in what was known as Union material. With the loss of weight mine were about twice my size with no buttons, but with white tape ties. I said to the lady, meaning it to be funny.
“Excuse me with these pyjamas” and pointed “I haven’t seen my wife in four years , if she saw me in these, there would be room for her, she would die laughing”
She snatched the wretched pyjamas back saying something like I had no appreciation.
I had noticed most of the on duty soldiers were wearing wrist watches with white wrist bands, and how smart they looked.
The next morning we marched to the docks and saw our ship. I don’t know the tonnage, but she was all white with a single funnel and was flying a Dutch flag, named MS Boissevaie.
On board and still on parade, a Dutch Officer told us that unfortunately there was no cabins, we would have to sleep and eat on deck, as the holds were full of disused army material. The officers had cabins. We would have to supply twelve men for food distributions and keep those men together. He did apologise but it was best available. He added rather foolishly.
“There has been a war on you know”
I picked a place on a raised platform, but if truth was known, sleeping and eating on the floor caused us no hardship. We were just glad we were to see the ocean and were on our way home. Soon afterwards we heard orders and away we sailed with the loud ship’s horn blowing.
I remember looking back at the receding land on the 20th September 1945, thanking God to be leaving the romantic Far East. For the next few weeks we just sat about, there were no books, games, cinema, bathing pool or deck furniture, just the hard teak deck. Watching daily the wash at the stern, it seemed to be moving slow, was the damn ship sailing full out. No officers appeared. As far as I know there was no illness on board, not even sea sickness. It was getting hotter and hotter than we had known, it left us lying about in our own sweat. Water was rationed and the days seemed endless. Could someone have given a little thought for our pastime?
The days dragged on like yesterday and will be the same tomorrow. the quite unexpected a shout went out,
“Land Ahoy”
We all rushed forward nearly capsized the ship. It was Colombo looking lovely, green and fresh. We had hardly anchored, some distance from the shore, when the area was filled with every type of private yacht, motor launch, sail craft, all waving frantically. Ashore cars were lining the coastline sounding their horns.
This wonderful display of welcome I am sure brought tears to many eyes. We were ready to go ashore and what would these wonderful people do to us. The captain’s voice was now heard,
“Now all aboard listen. I am responsible to see that all ex prisoners of war are delivered safely to their families in England, therefore it is my orders that there will be no shore leave, sorry, your Captain”.
Our spirits having risen to great heights, this message sent a spirit of despair. We looked at those boats just standing off, waving and shouting, now we will be unable to show gratitude to them. When night had fallen, cars were still blinking their headlights on and off .
I could see what the Captain was doing to us, was it out of a pleasure after our dismal past. If he felt anything he must have known what I thought his name was, which is not printable.
We were nestling there for three days. Three days longer before we reached home, I am afraid our moral was suffering badly.
It was now getting real hot when we sailed the Red Sea to a temporary dock at Port Suez. There was nothing but desert and a few army huts. Working German prisoners of war who did not look at us as we went ashore. We were ushered to a Quarter Master store and we were kitted out with heavy army khaki which turned out was a highly hit and miss issue. Myself I got a used blouse, tie and shirt, plus New Zealand trousers. The trousers were several shades lighter than the blouse. There was no socks, under wear, boots, anklets or belts. A beret type of hat, which had no shape, it was a clown’s hat which no soldiers accepted. On the counter was a box containing Campaign ribbons, as none of us had any idea which we had earned the Q.M was asked. He shrugged his shoulders with a no care attitude, telling us to take our pick, so I took one of each.
I was also given a two handled pack bag somewhat like a tennis or cricket bag holder. This type of bag soon ran out and many were given the old style tall round kit bag. The really shocking condition of our supplied uniform was ridiculous. I thought a Military Policeman would arrest us on sight, we were being treated as rabble. Surely in army stores somewhere there was suitable uniforms for Her Majesty’s soldiers, but who could you complain to? Worse was to follow.
Some days later having travelled through the Suez Canal we arrived at Suez the main gate through the canal. The officers were allowed ashore, but not us.
Standing on the off side of the dock I looked in amazement as rising from the depths a British submarine emerged and the crew came out. They shouted to us asking us for beer, to which to their disgust we replied, ours was a dry ship, returning PoWs from the Far East, never had any beer stowed aboard. They submarine crew looked at us and jeered, calling us many names. It was obvious they disbelieved us. Feeling sorry for those sailors cooped up in that can and heat, I could see why they wanted a beer.
Sailing again we were told that on our left we would see Malta, but would not be docking. We looked but there was a heat fog spreading and visibility was nil, we never did see Malta. Later we were told that shortly we would pass Gibraltar, but yet again we never saw it as we passed it during the night.
Now we were smiling, being ordered to wear our khaki best, which was laughable, many had sowed on the campaign medals we had picked up, using cigarette packets for stiff backing. With my mixed sense of humour I thought I could use the lot I had picked up, about a dozen or so now sowed onto my tunic blouse. I must have looked like some General and it caused much laughter, which was surely needed. I simply forgot we would be seen by the general public when we arrived, it could now be interpreted as a serious matter and not a joke. Soon we should see the white cliffs of Dover, how often we had seen them and heard the war song about the Blessed White Cliffs, which in our past youth we thought we may have to fight for them.
Since leaving Port Suez I had spent some twenty minutes at a time packing my tins of fruit etc in the holdall as it did help pass a bit of time knowing we were sailing to Liverpool and home. Some miles from Liverpool we hit a dense sea fog, the ships fog horn was sounding its dismal forlorn sound. We stood about on deck, cold and wishing for a sign that the fug would clear. We stood off silent with no movement but being blasted from fog warnings from ships. The route along the coast of Britain took about three hours and we were looking forward to seeing the Blackpool Tower and the Woolworth Buildings as we approached land, but even this was refused us. Having docked at Liverpool we waited for the fog swirls surrounded us to cease, but they didn’t, we could not make out any buildings at all. Suddenly with a crackle the Captain’s voice
“Sergeant Waterhouse report to my cabin immediately”
With a thumping heart it had to be sad news, there was no other explanation enquiring on entering the upper structure I eventually found the august man’s day cabin. On being told to ‘Enter’ I saw sat the Honorary Colonel of the 137th Field Artillery, looked pleasant, which was reassuring. He was also an old friend, Mr. F. Coope, and one of Blackpool’s leading Chartered accountants. He looked delighted to see me, Major Gill was also present. I saw Major Gill looking at my chest and I suddenly remembered the campaign medals I had sewn on my blouse, his uniform was not showing even a single medal.
The Captain was now saying,
“These gentlemen, who you obvious know, seem to think you are the most better known of men in your Regiment. They wish to welcome you and ask questions”
I had to admit to myself that both men were important businessmen and must have pulled out some trick to be allowed to at least be allowed aboard and speak to a lowly sergeant. Did Major Gill feel that I might have warranted a higher rank. It was a bit late now.
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