and Greek proprietor; in the numerous bars and brothels of the Berka; in the healthier Springbok Recreational Club at Helwan; in the surprisingly sedate Cairo Club, which was a services club reserved for sergeants and warrant officers; and in the Anglo-Egyptian Union, an officers’ club located outside the city.
From these and other places Stirling and Greaves, sometimes together, other times separately, trawled the rest of the men they personally knew, respected and wanted. These included Captain ‘Jock’ Lewes, Welsh Guards, former Layforce member, and the man who had made the first experimental static-line parachute jumps with Stirling. A superbly fit ex-Oxford rowing blue with a low boredom threshold, Lewes had already proven himself to be a superb exponent of night-time raids behind enemy lines in the Tobruk area. He also had a talent for devising training programmes and techniques, which Stirling intended putting to good use.
Finally, Stirling called for general volunteers, inviting them to a meeting in a tent in Geneifa, outside Cairo. Among those who came forward were Sergeants Bob Tappman, Pat Riley and Ernie Bond; Corporals Jim Almonds, ‘Benny’ Bennett, Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton and Reg Seekings; and Privates Neil Moffatt, Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner and Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman.
A few days later these men and more were gathered together at the chosen base camp at Kabrit, in the Suez Canal zone, to begin their special, brutal training.
They were called the ‘Originals’.
Located by the Great Bitter Lake, about 95 miles east of Cairo, and south of Aden, Kabrit was a desolate piece of flatland, fully exposed to the scorching sun, plagued by swarms of fat, black flies, and consisting of no more than three mouldering tents for the men, a command tent with a rickety card-table and stool, and one badly battered three-ton lorry.
‘Bloody hell!’ Corporal Jack ‘Taff’ Clayton said as soon as he had jumped down off the back of the three-tonner and was standing in a cloud of dust with the others. ‘There’s nothing here, lads!’
‘Not a damned thing,’ Private Frank ‘Frankie’ Turner agreed, swatting the buzzing flies from his sweating face. ‘No more than a piss-hole.’
The men were already wearing clothing more suitable to the desert: khaki shirt and shorts, regular Army boots with rolled-down socks, and a soft peaked cap instead of a helmet. Each man also had a Fairburn-Sykes commando knife and Browning 9mm handgun strapped to his waist.
‘Damned flies!’ Private Neil Moffatt complained.
‘Bloody hot!’ Corporal Jimmy ‘Jimbo’ Ashman exclaimed.
‘All right, you men!’ Sergeant Lorrimer bawled, his legs like tree-trunks in his floppy shorts, his hands on his broad hips. ‘Stop moaning and groaning. Go and put your kit in those tents, then come back out here.’
‘Yes, Sarge!’ they all chimed.
Picking their kit off the desert floor, they crossed to the three tents and wandered around them in disbelief.
‘These tents are in tatters,’ Neil observed mournfully, wiping the sweat from his face and neck with a piece of cloth that could have come from one of the tattered tents.
‘They’re also too small,’ Frankie Turner put in. ‘Might as well sleep out in the open for all the good these’ll do us.’
‘More holes than a fancy Eyetie cheese,’ Jimbo said, spitting on the ground between his feet. ‘And how the hell we’re all supposed to squeeze in there, I can’t imagine. I think this calls for a talk with our soft-voiced friend, Sergeant Lorrimer.’
‘Right,’ Taff said. ‘Let’s pitch our gear temporarily in a tent, then we’ll go and sort this out.’ He ducked low to enter one of the tents and was immediately followed in by some of the others. The tents had been raised over the desert floor; there were no beds or groundsheets. ‘Fucking beautiful!’ Taff exclaimed. ‘We’re supposed to lie on the bloody sand and get eaten alive. Not me, mate.’ Dropping his kit on the ground, he ducked low again and left the tent. The others did the same and gathered outside, where Lorrimer had indicated.
Lorrimer was over by the three-tonner, deep in conversation with Captains Stirling and Callaghan and Lieutenant Greaves. While the men waited for him to come over they had a ‘smoko’, which helped to keep the flies at bay.
‘I can tell we’re all going to be driven mad here,’ Jimbo said, ‘by these bloody flies and mosquitoes.’
‘Creepy-crawlies as well,’ Frankie said darkly.
‘Snakes, scorpions, spiders, ticks, midges,’ Neil said mournfully. ‘You name it, we’ve got it here all right. We’ll be eaten alive.’
‘Dust,’ Taff said, flicking ash from his cigarette and watching it fall to the desert floor, on all its hidden horrors. ‘Sandstorms…Burning hot days, freezing nights…I feel ill already.’
‘What are those two bastards talking about?’ Frankie asked, gazing at Lorrimer and Stirling.
‘We’re about to find out,’ Jimbo said, ‘and I’m not sure I want to know.’
Eventually Stirling climbed up onto the back of the three-tonner and Lorrimer bawled that the men were to gather around. This they all did, most still smoking and puffing clouds of smoke.
‘Sorry, lads, about the state of this place,’ Stirling said, waving his right hand to indicate the tents behind the men, ‘but I’m sure we can do something to improve on it.’
‘With what?’ Jimbo called out.
‘Shut your mouth, soldier, and let the boss speak!’ Lorrimer bawled.
‘Boss?’ Taff whispered to Frankie. ‘Did he use the word “boss”?’
‘SILENCE!’ Lorrimer roared.
‘I appreciate your frustration, lads,’ Stirling continued, ‘but all is not lost. Indeed, I’m led to believe that there’s a splendid Allied camp about fifteen miles south of here, where the New Zealanders, in particular, live rather well.’
‘Is that some kind of message?’ Neil asked.
Stirling’s manner was deadpan. ‘Without being too specific, let me merely remind you that your first priority is to complete the construction of this base camp by whatever means are at your disposal. I’ll be returning to Cairo immediately to collect more vehicles from the Royal Corps of Transport and weapons from the armoury at Geneifa. When I get back here I expect to find things greatly improved. How you do it is not my concern; nor will I be here to witness it. I can only add the information that the Kiwis will be away from their base on manœuvres most of tonight and their tents will therefore be empty. That’s all. Class dismissed.’
Taking the hint, a dozen of the men drove in the battered three-tonner that same evening to the large, fenced compound fifteen miles away, stretched out across a dusty plain above the Mediterranean and being used by British, Australian and Indian troops, as well as the Kiwis.
Deciding that the only thing to do was bluff it, Jimbo drove boldly through the main gate as if they belonged there. ‘New Zealand
