I know, brand us as perpetually whining denigrators of all authority. Never satisfied! It wasn’t that at all, really. It was simply that our protection from the elements simultaneously provided shelter for the scorpions, of which there were an abundance at Nahariya at that time. They seemed to like the surroundings too. It has to be regretted that the obviousness of this logic of nature was not perceived as readily as it should have been. We do tend to learn from painful experience. It took several days – or nights, more correctly – for us to learn not to sit out after dark unless in dire straits, and only then after burning off with a match or candle the scorpions invariably lurking beneath the rim of the seats. Those first few nights of learning left enduring memories of terror-stricken shrieks of pain piercing the night air, followed by silhouetted images of fast disappearing victims, scurrying over the skyline, sometimes wearing trousers, sometimes not, heading in steadfast urgency for the Medical Officer’s tent for treatment to parts normally recognised as private and vital.
I was lumbered with a fair share of guard duties at Nahariya, which in mid-January were more than somewhat onerous due to the astonishing insecurity of weapon and ammunition storage, the scattered nature of the camp site and – a rare phenomenon – the presence of the mules needed for the training of the mountain artillery battery. The wide dispersal of these sites warranted three simultaneous sentry patrols, so that it was a comparatively large guard of nine other ranks and two NCOs which was needed every 24 hours. Each sentry did two hours on, four hours off.
On one memorable night I was the junior NCO on a guard commanded by Corporal ‘Spike’ Kelly, a redoubtable character yet possessed of a puckish sense of humour. As luck would have it, or perhaps more in the spirit of comradeship and sympathy which always seemed to be directed at men on guard duty, we received a tip-off from an officer’s mess orderly, at just about dusk, that the orderly officer of the day had been drinking heavily and boasting to his fellow officers that he was going to catch the guard ‘on the hop’ that night. Thus the sentries were especially vigilant and the rest of us remained impeccably, correctly dressed, even whilst resting, as we waited the inevitable shout from the guard-tent sentry, “Guard! Turn Out!.”
It was a few minutes after midnight when the call came. I cannot imagine that anyone could ever have seen a slicker, quicker turnout despite the inky blackness of that night. With Kelly on the extreme right, six sentries and then myself on the far end in one straight line, we must have displayed a formidable challenge, even to one determined to find fault, as we presented arms with Grenadier-like precision on Spike’s command.
With the help of a tiny, weak-batteried torch he surveyed us and weighed into Spike with nebulous complaints and criticism that had obviously been rehearsed even before he had left the officer’s mess tent. With commendable restraint, Spike held his tongue and allowed the tirade to run its term, answering only with his name when demanded for the purpose of it being recorded on a 252 (Army charge sheet) for “this disgraceful guard.” The only two complaints we took seriously were claims that the sentry guarding the mule lines could not be found and the one on the weaponry had been caught smoking whilst on sentry – both names he demanded for going into ‘the book’. Spike agreed to my checking after the officer had gone: the first sentry challenged me alertly at a point some fifty or so yards from the animals; the second sentry was a non-smoker. Army injustice at work again.
With the commotion over, I persuaded Spike to bed down for the first doze of a couple of hours whilst I took charge – a time-honoured bending of the rules. He agreed, and after divesting himself of most of his bulky kit he settled himself down on a groundsheet and blanket on the tent floor and was soon asleep. Not one of us had reckoned on the Orderly Officer coming back again, as he did half an hour later, though fortunately he was correctly challenged. “Guard! Turn out!” We had been caught literally napping. The turnout was a trickle as those who had been asleep fought off their drowsiness. Spike was well away: I had to shake him before I dashed out. I told him briefly I would take the guard commander position on the right so that he could have a few more seconds in which to don his gear, and slip quietly into my position on the left of the guard in the darkness and hubbub whilst I stalled the orderly officer.
He was not going to be easily stalled. The torch shone in my face. He swayed slightly.
“I suppose you realise, Kelly…”
“Jones, Sir,” I interrupted.
“…that you’re expected to be alert for 24 hours a day, and if you call that turnout being alert Kelly…” “Jones, Sir,” I said again.
“…you’re going to learn what a turnout …”
He stopped.
“Why do you keep saying, Jones?”
“It’s my name, Sir.”
“Oh, so it’s Jones now is it?”
“No, Sir”
“NO, SIR?” he echoed. “NO?” again.
“Well, I mean not just now Sir. It’s always been my name”.
“Then why did you tell me it was Kelly a few minutes ago?”
“I didn’t, Sir.”
“YOU DIDN’T?” He was echoing again.
“Do you realise what you’re saying, Jo-, Kell-...?” His voice trailed away.
“Yes, Sir. You were speaking to Corporal Kelly a few minutes ago. He’s Guard Commander: I’m NCO marching-reliefs. Corporal Kelly has had to go to the latrines and I have properly taken charge.”
His confusion compounded by drink, he decided that he would inspect the guard one by one again, and as I was about to fall-in behind his slow, staggering footsteps, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Spike, who had heard the goings-on, was wideawake and presentable, having slipped round the rear of the line. He surreptitiously pushed me out of the way, indicated that I should sneak around the rear of the sentries to my rightful place at the far end of the line, which I did, then himself silently followed the officer’s slow, pernickety process of criticising of each sentry’s faintly torch-lit appearance until he reached me. Seeing the two stripes on my arm he pounced:
“Ah! So you’re back at last, Kelly!”
“No, Sir, I’m Jones, Sir, and I haven’t been away.”
“You’re WHAT?… WHO?”
“Jones, Sir.”
“No, you’re not. You’re Kelly.”
“No, Sir, I’m Jones, Sir.”
“Then where the hell is Kelly?” he snarled victoriously.
“I’m right here, Sir” calmed Spike, sounding like a comforting night nurse answering the cry of a feverish patient, from less than a foot away from the left ear of a very bewildered officer. The effect was startling. I think he thought the DTs had finally got to him. He staggered off into the night, pausing and turning towards us just once to threaten that every one of the guard would find himself on a charge in the morning. We did not. Nothing more was heard of the incident about which, at the time, I felt furious, but which subsequently caused some mirth.
Chapter III
Deployment
The days after our final, gruelling, three day, fend-for-yourself exercise in the hills (and in the inevitable pouring rain), our confinement to barracks heralded
