to billets. It was a dreadful afternoon of waiting. We asked ourselves, wouldn’t it be extraordinary for anyone to make three descents in a single day? Apparently it would. Most extraordinary. Tenterhooks was putting it mildly. We could be in an elitist minority. We could be celebrating the New Year as it should be celebrated.
It really was a spontaneous cheer which erupted when, just before darkness fell, Flight Sgt. Kent burst in with “OK lads, it’s on!” We were in the truck almost before he had finished the sentence. It was pitch dark when the Hudson took off, after Kenty had explained that this was to be the jump which would most likely resemble the conditions of a night-time drop in enemy occupied territory. A fast stick of ten, keeping as closely together as possible and dropping from a mere 500 feet, demanded an immediate assessment of our descent progress from observation of the solitary flare on the DZ. We were to assemble together as soon as possible after landing by calling the number of our next mate in the stick, then report together to the ground controller. Whether it was from feelings of satisfaction at the imminent completion of the course (which would put another inch on my chest), or perhaps the total obscurity of danger in leaping into the darkness, I knew not – but I ejected myself from the doorway of the Hudson with extra physical vigour and zealous optimism.
It was a strange, lonely experience to be suspended above the earth, knowing that I could neither see a living soul nor be seen. I pondered that, if this had been my first jump, there would have been more justification for believing I was Heaven-bound. Where was the damned flare? It must be behind me… Yes, at the right rear… a turn’s necessary… got to feel for the webbing straps… got one, got two, now... Before I could apply any pressure at all I was down harmlessly. Five hundred feet does not allow for any dithering. Whether I landed forwards, backwards or sideways, I know not. I was safe for the reason that night jumps are invariably safer – because one’s tried and tested landing position is sustained throughout the descent. Daytime’s reaching for the earth tempts supple, bent legs towards vulnerable rigidity.
I collapsed my chute, calling at the same time at not much more than a whisper for No. 8. He acknowledged almost at the same time as I answered No. 6’s call to me. In seconds we were together, chattering exuberant nonsense. We had reported to the ground controller before the absence of 9 and 10 was noticed. The ground controller decided that, as the exercise was over as a secret mission, he could shout, “You there, 9 and 10?” “9 is,” came the immediate reply from the total darkness, “but I can’t find 10.” Our alarm skimmed the icing off the cake. We all called out for 10, begging God for an answer and losing our tempers. The controller took over: “One more call then we search.” No response ensued. “Right, chutes in the truck then come back here.” Flares were lit from the solitary landing beacon and torches were produced for just such a disaster. We lined up at finger touching distance and moved off in the dense darkness, with the controller only occasionally calling and the rest of us observing agreed silence, straining our hearing for a call – however feeble it might be – and each one of us dreading that the discovery of a crumpled body should be made at his unfortunate feet. We searched systematically, and then we searched randomly without success for perhaps half an hour, when the controller decided that the whole camp would have to be mustered to join the search – after he had checked on the possibility (which had not occurred to us) that No. 10 might have jibbed and still be in the plane.
At this juncture, a voice – a seemingly ghostly voice – froze each one of us to the spot. “You lot looking for me? No. 10, like?” He emerged from the blackness with his bundled-up chute grasped to his body. “I thought you might be worried. Got caught up on the plane, you know. Must have been a couple of miles away before the bloody thing shook free. Then I got this lift. I’ve been as quick as I could.” He related his remarkable story endlessly as he walked toward us. We wanted to be mad at him until we realised that his elated animation was no different from ours, but he had more to be grateful for to the Gods. His providential escape only enhanced our celebratory booze-up in the NAAFI canteen. I did not get drunk. I wanted to savour the rare enjoyment of achievement and to glory in my new status.
Weather Disrupts Training
The euphoria generated by having won our ‘wings’ incurred a considerable dent immediately on our return to the camp at Nahariya on New Year’s Day. Very little had changed. Certainly not the weather, and the weather impinged on everything at unprotected Nahariya. It was natural for us to suppose that nobody cared and, although officers suffered equally badly, they were targets for our bottled up, seething discontent, which blamed them for doing nothing to arrange for our reasonable protection from it. Forty years later the regimental war diaries at the National Archives at Kew showed me that our seniors were actually risking accusations of insubordination at the time, with their forthright representations to Middle East HQ at Cairo on our behalf: “Batteries will not be ready... After three weeks of rain, no drying, bathing, hot water facilities… impeding training.” The strongest possible stance was taken on 21 January 1944, however, “It is once more stressed that a camp of this nature and on this site is the worst place imaginable in which to organise and train a new unit for early operational target dates. They cannot give due care and attention to their training when they are wet through, lacking in changes of clothing and boots and have nowhere to go except a cold and draughty canteen hut or a soaking wet tent which may or may not stand up against the daily and nightly storm.” The Acting Commanding Officer sent that one. Similarly, it is also easier now to understand Cairo’s attitude at the time. Obviously, a new, permanent – or even semi-permanent – camp would not be built in the wilds for a unit as ephemeral as ours. We were required to be in Europe as soon as possible, not swanning around in the Middle East – and we were ‘swanning’ weren’t we? To GHQ Cairo, the weather was just bad luck, and was probably considered an exaggeration anyway. One can imagine the comfortable occupants of Cairo’s cosy office premises sneering, “Wish they wouldn’t keep on about their wretched showers up there in Palestine. Aren’t they supposed to be hairy-chested paratroopers, anyway?”
Back at Nahariya, one could detect an air of urgency. Weapons and equipment had begun to roll in, adding to the frustration of having nowhere to muster a group of men together for training purposes, except for the rare, opportunistic occasions when the storms actually abated. Even then, officers had to act rather gingerly: there are limits to the number of times you can expect men to sit or lie on wet ground, to enhance their skills at operating and maintaining unfamiliar weapons, without arousing their fury. Genuine military operations are a different matter.
Explosives Training
Some batteries – or major parts of them – were sent off to other parts of the Middle East to train. The feeling grew that their readiness was less critical than ‘C’ Battery’s – the one I was in. Yet, amazing as it seems to me in retrospect, we learned some more about our main weapon, the 0.5 inch Browning machine gun in which we soon developed a respectful confidence. We had a short course on explosives and demolition, and we suffered demoralising lectures on what our duties were on being captured. The explosives course is worth a mention, if only because it was the one activity for which the weather was actually beneficial – at least from the safety aspect. I cherish the memory of that course’s first practical exercise; the setting of a fused detonator in a handful of plastic explosive, the ignition of the fuse and the withdrawal to a safe distance for the resultant explosion. NCOs from the Royal Engineers were our excellent tutors from whom we learned the first, cardinal rule for all explosive settings – “Never run away from a charge.” The theory is that it should never be set on so short a fuse as to need to do so anyway, but the maxim’s main concern is the avoidance of panic in others who may be unaware of the fuse’s time setting.
Towards practical indoctrination of the discipline of this dictum, 30 or so of us were placed in a straight line, with fingers just touching and thus a double arms’ length apart, and facing a parallel marked line 15 paces away, in open ground. We were each given half a pound of plastic explosive (looking and feeling like fresh, mouldable putty), a detonator (resembling, in size and appearance a standard cotton reel or bobbin), a length of fuse (similar to modern coaxial aerial
