8

Tunisia

A Set-piece

Roger Smith

We left Tripoli and returned to our old area at Castel Benito. A crowd of Arab children from the native quarter behind our barracks turned up to see us go, and most of the poor little blighters were in tears as they waved goodbye. For the past fortnight they had been better fed than they ever had been in their lives, and in just the short time we were there we had literally watched most of them fill out under our ministrations. We settled down in our old home but were put on a twelve-hour movement notice almost immediately.

That night it was good to watch the raid on Tripoli from afar ... I did a despatch run to the town during the afternoon and deviated slightly to go past the barracks for a last look. I received a nasty shock, for the wing we had been living in had received a hit during the night. The Tommy stevedoring company that had relieved us had 42 killed. They were digging out the bodies when I arrived. Most of the kids who had waved to us the day before were gone, the front wall of their tenement was completely blown in. It was in a quiet and sober mood that we watched the raid that night.

I was called at 0230 hours to take a definite moving order around the companies. The other brigade had been moving out all night and we followed them at 1000 hours heading for Tunisia. We travelled all day, through Suara in the afternoon and then on into the night. Kenny and I spelled each other as much as possible but we both got dead tired and kept dropping to sleep at the wheel. After dark the adjutant came with us in the jeep to help monitor the convoy and keep us awake. He brought a bottle of the most vile cherry brandy with him. It tasted like methylated spirits and raspberry, but you certainly woke up when he poured a noggin down your throat. You had to in order to breathe.

We arrived at Mendenine early on the third of March, formed a gunline well back in the divisional area, and sat for three days in a defensive position preparing for an attack. The whole line fairly bristled with anti-tank guns ... On the 6th of March Rommel mounted his attack. He debouched from the hills onto the plain with tanks and infantry. The division was ready for him and our forward elements executed a heavy slaughter. My own battalion was barely engaged, being positioned at depth on the defensive plan.

It was an interesting day without personal risk, for I spent most of it watching the action over a stone wall with Mr Bruce and a couple of others. We could see the rows of German infantry deployed across the plain, advancing with an armoured screen. They came forward steadily until our guns opened up and scattered their formation. The anti-tank crews had a field day and destroyed 40 tanks in the course of the battle. The CO joined us for a while and told us we were watching something that few men had seen: a set-piece daylight attack against a prepared defence, a defence that followed the book exactly, and once the initial thrust was broken, a defence that gained the initiative and retained it to inflict a crushing defeat.

2000, Up the Blue

Tebaga Gap

General Freyberg

Following this sharp reverse the enemy withdrew his Panzer Army behind the Mareth defences and it was clear that he intended to hold this strong natural position, with its concrete defences built by French military engineers on the Maginot Line model...

Eighth Army plan of attack was a two-pronged thrust: a frontal assault on the Mareth Line and an outflanking movement through the desert from an assembly area 80 miles to the south. Our force for this operation was known as New Zealand Corps.

The whole force was self-contained, with 11 days’ food, water, ammunition and petrol for 350 miles. We moved all night on March 19 intending to make a surprise approach march on the 20th to coincide with the frontal assault on the Mareth Line. When, however, it seemed likely that the enemy was aware of our assembly, we decided to waste no further effort on deception but rely entirely on speed. We moved in daylight on March 20 in desert formation and raced north to break through to Al Hamma and Gabes.

The going was never good and later became so bad that no progress could be made at night. So that it was not until 3pm on March 21 that armoured cars of the Kings Dragoon Guards and light tanks of NZ Div Cav gained contact with the enemy ... With only three hours of daylight left our artillery was deployed and registered before dusk. At 10pm, in full moonlight 25 (Wgtn) Bn and 26 (S.I.) Bn with engineers of 8 Fd Coy to clear gaps in the minefields, and followed by a squadron of Sherman tanks, staged a brilliant attack which went through the minefield and captured Point 201 ... and 1500 Italian prisoners.

On March 23 Eighth Army’s bridgehead on the Mareth Line was lost after a heavy German counter-attack and General Montgomery decided to switch his main thrust to reinforce success on our front. Tenth Corps, including an Armd Div, was sent to join us.

Meanwhile we were making our plan to break through his defences, in three phases:

1.Capture of a mountain peak on our right flank to deny enemy observation of our assembly areas for attack.

2.Blitz attack by NZ Corps to force the gap to El Hamma.

3.Passing the Armd Div through the gap to capture El Hamma.

Phase 1 was carried out brilliantly by 21 (Akld) Bn in the early hours of March 26 when vital ground was taken in a moonlight attack. Phase 2 was planned for the afternoon of March 26. Effort was made to make this main attack a surprise. Armd Bd withdrew by dark and remained camouflaged in wadis behind Point 201. Then 23 (SI), 28 (Maori) and 24 (Akld) Bns assembled and lay ready, while 25 (Wgtn) occupied high ground on the left flank, ready to advance with other assault infantry.

At 3pm as I drove up the valley in my tank all was quiet, except for occasional shell fire ... Half an hour later, the first RAF Squadron roared overhead and relays of Spitfires, Kitty-bombers and tank-busters swept over the enemy positions, giving the greatest measure of air support ever seen by our army. At 4pm, 200 field and medium guns opened their bombardment on a 5000-yard front. In an instant the attack developed and 150 tanks and three battalions of infantry appeared as if from nowhere, advancing in the natural cover of a dust storm.

26 April 1943, NZEF Times

(GOC’s Description to Prime Minister Peter Fraser)

Furneaux Martyn

It was a real dust storm and the stuff got into one’s ears, eyes and mouth, but for once it was blowing into the enemy’s face, so our infantry probably blessed it. The plain soon became a moving mass of tanks and men as our forces pushed forward to the attack. Putting myself in the enemy’s place, under a veritable rain of shells, and blinded by the choking dust as it stung his eyes, I could just imagine his feelings as he watched the armoured might of the Eighth Army roll steadily on towards him. With such odds against him, and the sight of gleaming Kiwi bayonets before his eyes, it was no wonder the line broke quickly. Thousands of prisoners were taken, and many of the Italians had only been in the country a week or two, having been rushed over to reinforce the depleted Axis forces.

1944, Tripoli and Beyond

General Freyberg

Hitherto all our big attacks had been by moonlight and although the enemy was expecting us to attack we again achieved surprise by attacking in daylight. Without check our armour swept through to the final objective, a depth of 6000 yards ... By dusk all enemy resistance had been overcome except for Pt 209 and strong-points outside the left flank, where German garrisons still held out. During the night 24 (Akld) Bn attacked and cleared the left flank, taking a large number of prisoners.

By moonlight on March 26, Phase three was completed when the Armd Div was launched from our bridgehead. Next morning they had reached the outskirts of El Hamma.

All day on March 27 mopping up of enemy garrisons continued. At Point 209 a bitter fight raged between the Maori Bn and the 2nd Bn of 43S Panzer Grenadier Regiment...

‘El Hamma’

In the fighting that turned the Mareth Line, the Maoris somehow isolated a crack German battalion (Panzer Grenadiers) and were left to deal with it without assistance. The battle went on all day, with heavy losses on both sides, and then the Germans showed a white flag.

Image 52

Thinking they perhaps wanted an armistice to bury their dead, Colonel Bennett stopping the fighting received German envoys. They did not want an armistice, but explained that they had a large number of wounded to whom they could not attend since they were out of medical supplies. Would the New Zealanders help them?

Convinced it was a genuine appeal and not a confidence trick, Colonel Bennett at once sent his own ambulances to bring in the German wounded and the battle was resumed with Germans and Maoris receiving attention at the same casualty stations. Later, the knowledge that they were fighting a chivalrous opponent induced a small group of Germans to surrender, and the Maoris guessing rightly that this meant a collapse of morale, took a risk and charged, and all the Germans still alive (including the colonel) were captured. It was, Colonel Bennett told me, a North African variation on Gate Pa: succouring the enemy to enable him to fight on.

24 November 1944, The Listener

Furneaux Martyn

It was during this fighting that Second-lieutenant Ngarimu won the highest of all awards, the Victoria Cross. The first Maori to win this decoration, it seemed a great pity that it should have to be awarded posthumously. In charge of a detachment of Maoris, Second-lieutenant Ngarimu was ordered to clear the Germans from their firmly entrenched positions on a small rocky feature, and throughout the ensuing day and night he inspired his men by his sheer courage and determination. Despite the fact that he was twice wounded during the engagement, he refused to leave his platoon, and as the Germans launched fierce counter-attacks he urged his men to greater efforts to hold their hard-won ground. On the morning of the 27th, when the Germans again attempted to dislodge the heroic Maoris, Lieutenant Ngarimu totally disregarded personal safety and bravely challenged to the enemy to the last; thus died a courageous and gallant man, but not in vain.

Image 53

General Freyberg

The most important result of the battle was that the Mareth Line became untenable and heavy casualties, which further frontal assaults would have involved, were avoided.

The battle was the hardest since Alamein and we suffered inevitable casualties. As usual in these wide desert moves our fully equipped surgical teams were with us, together with every possible facility for looking after our wounded.

N.Z. War Correspondent

Seriously wounded men received high grade surgery in what was really a field hospital – in an isolated spot deep in the Tripolitanian desert. Severe cases, including brain wounds, were operated on within a short time of being wounded and received the benefit of the most modern drugs. Blood transfusions played a big part in their successful treatment and were an important factor in saving many lives.

11 January 1943, NZEF Times

This Man’s Journey

E. de M.

Under the hanging garden of lights, Bell, the theatre orderly was spreading the clean rubber sheet. The surgeon came in, crouching beneath the blackout blanket, and stood stroking his greying temples thoughtfully on the perimeter of the glare. Constantly the heavy guns muttered, and sometimes the earth trembled underfoot. Outside, the night was hot, black as pitch and windless.

‘How many after this?’

‘Four sir.’

‘Then we shall be going until midnight,’ the surgeon said. He began to wander round, inspecting the blank walls of the tent abstractedly, as if he were at an art gallery.

Two men brought the patient in, languid with morphia, and Roberts, the corporal, followed them, stamping fine desert dust from his canvas shoes at the entrance. As he brushed past Bell he whispered, ‘How’s the butcher doing tonight?’ Aloud he said, ‘I hear there’s another push on.

The surgeon came to the surface of his dream, ‘Another push, you said? That means we’ll be full up again tomorrow. Dear me,’ he finished mildly. He had not been to bed the previous night; there was a purely local legend that his iron-grey strength would carry him on indefinitely.

The anaesthetist came in, and two more orderlies. They began to work swiftly, silently – like ants about a burden – preparing the man on the table; his fair hair was matted with sand and his startled eyes darted round the circle of blazing lamps above his head. Then the mask covered his face, and beneath the little jets of chloroform, he began to snore and whistle ... a giant noise in the stillness.

The surgeon consulted a card, said: ‘Shell wound right leg, gunshot wound in head. The head may give us some trouble.’ It did. Instruments sparkled like stars above the small ragged aperture beneath which the brain pulsed greyly. Sweat shone on the surgeon’s bare shoulders. His hands moved as delicately as a dancer’s, sometimes with vicious strength. The anaesthetist had to twist round, feeding the mound of cotton wool awkwardly.

‘Now, a little off here,’ the surgeon murmured to himself like a boy whittling wood. He was absorbed, happy even, in his task.

Bell, holding the man’s wrist, found it limp and damp as the stalk of a lily. On the wrist, still going, was a watch, neat in chromium. If he should die ... Bell laughed inwardly at a joke about vultures. It suddenly struck him that this was only another form of scavenging. They, the ‘vultures’, in the cheerful callousness of the long war, wanted bric-a-brac. A revolver was unquestionably a prize or an oil compass. ‘It’s everyone for himself boy. If he turns his toes up...’ and gave an ironic shrug. They had 15 ‘stiffies’ that week. The tragedy is not that they die, Bell was thinking, clamping the damp weakness of the man‘s arm in a warm, firm hand, but that they are cheated.

The surgeon was packing the wound with deft fingers. The ribbon of Vaseline gauze slid in like a snake. The muscles on the man’s neck and chest were like waves on a frozen sea. ‘I think he’ll be alright,’ the surgeon said, tucking in the last layer of bandage as gently as a mother. He turned to the leg; began to invade the red crater and its shaven surroundings...

The guns rumbled from far off; where men were running or crouching or falling like trees with smarting eyes and sweating feet ... It was done. Bell folded the arm, the wristwatch on the man’s breast. They could drop the stiffening mask now, lounge, smoke and talk easily as if nothing had happened.

1 March 1943, NZEF Times

Medical Miracles

‘Well,’ drawled the Yank, ‘I guess we have one of the best young surgeons in the world. One of our group got his hand blown clean off at the wrist. This young surgeon got the hand and grafted it back on again! Now that guy has normal use of the hand again.’

‘We have a ruddy clever young doctor in our outfit,’ replied the Maori corporal. ‘Know what? One day one of our fellows got his stomach blown out. Our young Medical Officer, he rushes across a paddock, cuts a sheep’s throat, takes out its guts, then puts it inside this chap and sews him up.’

‘Ah!’ the Yank exclaimed, incredulous. ‘And did he live?’

‘Live?’ By God he lived all right; he lambed two weeks later!’

1978, Soldier Country, ed. Jim Henderson

Image 54

Onward conscript soldiers,

Marching off to war,

We would not be conscripts,

Had we gone before.

Soldier parody, One More River

Freyberg’s Brood

Watty McEwan

The character of the Division was changing. This was particularly so in the infantry, where old hands had become casualties and their replacements were new reinforcements. It was not unusual to hear criticism of the number of actions the Division had been involved in, and the consequent high casualties compared with other divisions. Some even went so far as to suggest General Freyberg was to blame and pushed the Division’s involvement for his own personal gain in reputation, awards and honours.

It was obvious that the complainants were the new reinforcements who had joined the Division at Tripoli or after, and not the old hands, whose attitude was generally ‘you shouldn’t have joined if you can’t take a joke’. It may be relevant that all the old hands were volunteers and most of the new ones were conscripts. In battle, volunteers or conscripts were as one – ‘magnificent’ because, regardless of individual opinions, you don’t let your mates down. But the character of the Division was evolving with signs of unionism among the new blokes.

It did little good to point out to them that if the war was ever to be ended the Huns and their allies had to be driven back to inside their own countries’ boundaries and crushed. None of the other divisions was equipped or capable of carrying out the achievements of the 2nd New Zealand Division. No other commander was capable of originating and executing the actions General Freyberg carried out ... It was difficult during short halts, and shorter conversations with the dissidents, to convince them that without Freyberg’s genius, and the ability of his soldiers, the NZ Division could well still have been at, or under, the sand at El Elamein or at best attacking El Agheila front-on with massive casualties.

‘The Brood’ [the Defence and Employment Platoon] were the general’s men. I had repeatedly witnessed his demands, often only reluctantly approved, to use aircraft, tanks and guns with huge expenditure of ammunition and material to ease the burden and cost on his foot soldiers. We had seen his ability to use tactics that achieved success with the minimum price paid in killed and wounded ... The critics’ voices were few but it made one wonder about the Division’s future when this new breed had replaced the old hands, the veterans of ‘God knows how many battles’, to quote Brig. Gentry.

A typical encounter with an old hand was at the 26th Infantry Battalion. While we were waiting for the General, Ron Muncaster, a platoon sergeant who happened to be an old school mate from Nelson, approached us.

‘Do you know,’ he said after greetings, ‘that you are the most hated group in the Division?’

‘No,’ said George. ‘Jealous of our good looks are they?’

‘Not quite,’ said Ron, ‘but it makes my young mate there,’ nodding to a 2nd lieutenant about his own age, ‘start quoting poetry. “Once more into the breach dear friends,” and about Englishmen who lie abed, sort of thing. Gets on my wick.’

‘We’ll speak to the General,’ I offered.

‘Just stopping the poetry will be enough,’ he chuckled and went about his business.

2007, The Salamander’s Brood

Three Poems – Tunisia, April 1943

John Male

I

Through the hot afternoon we heard

the drone of engines,

but in the middle sky

only a fluttering skylark,

and through the distant anti-aircraft guns

a shrill song.

II

At one end

of our interminable grove of olive trees

is the road;

it leads through Endaville to the mountains;

it leads to the front line,

and to the enemy,

and fear dropping like a curtain

with the dawn’s barrage.

III

Impregnable in his three-motored Caproni,

Vittorio Mussolini

thought his bursting bombs

looked like flowers opening;

but the bomb we saw hit our supply column

threw into the air

a black tumour of smoke,

a fungus of destruction.

1989, Poems from a War

Head-on

Peter McIntyre

The last really big battle in North Africa was fought at Wadi Akarit. It was simply a head-on charge with the whole weight of the Eighth Army – bombers, guns, infantry and tanks. Gaps were opened and into them went the 1st Armoured Division and the New Zealanders. Here I would like to quote from the war correspondent Alan Moorhead in his book The End of Africa.

‘With the main road we hit the New Zealand Division coming head on toward us – in the way the enemy would see it coming. They rolled by with their tanks and their guns and armoured cars, the finest troops of their kind in the world, the outflanking experts, the men who had fought the Germans in the desert for two years, the victors of half a dozen pitched battles. They were too gaunt and lean to be handsome, too hard and sinewy to be graceful, too youthful and physical to be complete. But if you ever wished to see the most resilient and practiced fighter of the Anglo Saxon armies this is he. This wonderful division took a good deal of its fighting morale from its General, Freyberg, the V.C. who through two wars had probably been more critically wounded more often than any other living man.’

Rommel knew he was beaten and had flown back to Germany. The Afrika Korps knew they were beaten too, but they hung on desperately in the hopes of evacuating what was left of their army from Cape Bon Peninsula. Enfidaville fell but beyond it lay formidable hills; the Guards, the Indians and the New Zealanders had to fight their way up sheer cliffs with the enemy firing down on them from above. There remained the crag of Takrouna...

1981, Peter McIntyre: War Artist

Takrouna

Pat Kane

The convoy moved on and turned eastwards to pick up the coastal road. We passed through Sfax where we were greeted by the inhabitants, chiefly French, as conquering heroes. We would have dearly loved to have stopped to share the joys of liberation with the civilian population, but the convoy moved on. Our routine was always the same, the halt before nightfall, digging in, the evening meal generally in darkness, picket duty, ‘stand-to’ before first light, breakfast, stacking the truck, then re-stacking it after the Officer’s bedroll arrived late. I resolved that if I ever became an officer I would dispense with the bedroll and make do with the less bulky gear of the ordinary soldier. I kept to that resolve.

After Tebaga Gap I was transferred to another platoon and travelled in a different truck. I was highly amused at Corporal Ron’s pet hen. He had picked it up just out of Tripoli. The hen was trained to travel on the tailboard of the truck. When the truck stopped, the hen would flutter down to the ground and forage for food. Immediately the motor started it would fly back into the truck and remain there quite happily until the next stop. It remained with us through Sfax and Sousse and was still with us when the trucks were sent back from the Enfidaville area before the last battle of the Second NZEF in the North African Campaign. I overheard Ron discussing with the truck driver, a firm friend of his, the disposal of his private effects and included in this he made arrangements for the future of his hen, in the advent of his becoming a casualty.

The remnants of the German and Italian Armies had withdrawn into the mountains of Tunisia where they prepared themselves for a last ditch stand against an attack from the west by the First Army, reinforced by elements of the Eighth Army and from south-east by the rest of the Eighth Army. Our objective was Takrouna, a precipitous hill overlooking the township of Enfidaville.

To reach the lower slope of Takrouna we had to traverse a large stretch of open ground which afforded practically no cover whatsoever. As I rested on the start line I looked towards the mountain which looked a dark formidable object in the bright moonlight, about fifteen hundred to two thousand yards away. We waited, nerves tensed for the barrage to open.

There was always something fascinating about the opening of a barrage. First came the flash of light running right along the line of guns. Then we heard the shells whistling and screaming over our heads, then the crash as they exploded a few hundred yards ahead. This was the signal to light up the inevitable cigarette which was already between our lips. There was so much light that a little more didn’t matter. The rate of advance was about three minutes to a hundred yards, which meant frequent stops to avoid getting under our own barrage. Keeping contact was one of our major problems in a night attack, and the other was maintaining direction. We were assisted by Bofor guns firing tracer shells at the flanks to give the line of attack.

On many of our previous night attacks we were able to advance some distance before the enemy guns managed to get our range, but on this occasion he got on to us almost immediately. A low mist hung about the foot of the mountain but apart from that the night was clear and the moon was exceptionally bright. It would not be surprising if we were actually visible from enemy observation posts situated high above us, and that the Italian and German gunners were firing directly at us rather than searching for us.

The advance seemed terribly slow and being shelled all the way did not improve matters. It was almost with relief that we heard the rattle of small-arms fire and realised that we were contacting the enemy. We passed through a minefield and we reached the lower slopes of Takrouna and saw beyond a long tank trap, an olive grove which would at least give shelter from view if not from fire.

I was not destined to reach the olive grove. I heard the growl of a Nebelwerfer, then the swish, swish, swish of bombs as they burst from the eight-barrelled monster. I was enveloped in a flash of light and for a moment was not sure if I was in this world or was receiving a hot reception in the next. The force of the explosion threw me off my feet, which probably saved my life. Poor Ron on my right was killed and the man on my left was seriously wounded.

I must have been dazed for a while for my first recollection was hearing the Company Commander who was following behind the forward Platoons with Company Headquarters shouting, ‘For God’s sake get these men out of here before they get blown to bits.’

Snow detached himself from his section and assisted me to the cover of an outcrop of rocks to examine the damage. He pulled off my boot and revealed a nasty cut on my foot. While he was doing this I discovered that my side had also been grazed by a piece of shrapnel. I was relieved to discover that I was not seriously hurt and suggested that I was fit enough to go on. He replied, ‘You do that and in a couple of days it will take two men to carry you out.’ With that he departed to rejoin his section.

I was not quite sure what to do, but the decision was made for me. When I tried to get my boot back on, it just would not go. So here I was stranded on the slopes of Takrouna with one bare foot. There was only one thing for it, to try and find my way back to the advanced dressing station. Just as I was preparing to leave I noticed a figure moving stealthily through the minefield. I lined him up in my sights and called the password, he replied in a distinctly New Zealand voice calling me a Kiwi bastard.

Using my rifle as a crutch I made my way through the minefield and headed in the general direction where I thought the dressing station might be. I had the flashes of the guns, which were now firing sporadically, to guide me. I had only gone two to three hundred yards and was beginning to find the going difficult when I was picked up by a 15cwt truck which was already laden with wounded men. However, it still had room for one more. It was a slow bumpy ride back and twice, wounded men rolled off the side and had to be picked up again. However, we reached the ADS without further mishap.

I was in good spirits and elated that I had escaped so lightly, until the army doctor took care of that by giving me a jab of morphia, which filled me with a persistent desire to vomit. This did not leave me all the way from the ADS to the main dressing station. At the MDS my foot and side were tidied and I was despatched to the NZ General Hospital at Tripoli.

1995, A Soldier’s Story

Maori Exploits in Battle for Takrouna Hill

N.Z. War Correspondent

Climbing hand over hand in daylight 600 metres up a sheer-sided cliff into the mountain stronghold of Takrouna, five Maori infantrymen began one of the fiercest episodes of close quarter fighting which the New Zealanders have seen in this war.

Acting on his own initiative while the fighting was confused a Maori sergeant [Lance Sergeant Haane Manahi] took four of his men and began to scale the precipitous southern end of the heights, at the top of which enemy pockets were holding out in a fort and among a group of stone buildings. From the plain below, the ancient Takrouna fortress looked like Acropolis on its commanding hill, but Takrouna is much less accessible.

Steadily the Maoris climbed towards it, often hand over hand, while the enemy above tried to shoot them down. On and on they went, holding back some of their strength for the final dash when they reached the top. Once there the party, now increased to twelve, went rapidly into action, intimidating into submission about 100 Italians who were occupying this important strategic position. The captured Italians were quickly sent back behind our lines. Throughout the rest of the day the enemy shelled and mortared the pinnacle, but could not dislodge the Maoris. Takrouna was then in the strange position of being shelled at the same time by both sides, for the enemy still held the remainder of the village on the slopes to the north.

Towards dusk the original storming party was relieved and fresh troops took up the struggle to hold on against such overwhelming odds. That night, the enemy – Germans this time – somehow re-occupied part of the area. They came well armed with mortars, machine guns and grenades. Then, in the moonlight, bitter fighting for the full occupation of the pinnacle began at close quarters. Everything was thrown into it – grenades, automatics, bayonets, and even rifle butts. Men were hurled over the brink of the cliff to the flat hundreds of feet below. All through the night the crashing of grenades and mortars and the stuttering of machine guns echoed across the hills.

Systematic Destruction

By first light the New Zealanders had carried food, water and ammunition up the cliff face. Then, in daylight, the job of blasting the enemy from the pinnacle was handed over to the New Zealand artillery. A single 25-pounder directed from an observation post by Maoris on the pinnacle, fired on the cliff. Round by round the gunfire crept up the cliff towards the enemy’s stronghold on the main point of the pinnacle. A bare 50 yards from this enemy point our observation post calculated the final shots. As the second of them scored a direct hit on the building, New Zealand infantry rushed it, only to find the enemy gone. Then the mysterious means by which the enemy had re-entered the pinnacle were revealed. The only ordinary access was a flight of steps which, of course, our troops had guarded. Beneath the floorboards they found a tunnel leading to a part of the pinnacle overhanging the rest of the village. Here was a rope ladder by which the Germans had clambered up the cliff face. They had retired by the same route as our shellfire crept towards their shelter.

The enemy then began pounding the pinnacle with mortars and shells, but the substantial stone buildings gave good cover and there were few casualties. Directed from the top of the pinnacle, our guns concentrated their fire on the enemy-held village below for two hours, systematically destroying building after building.

Just as a big infantry attack to clean out the village was being prepared at last light the Maoris again went into action. Pulling grenades from their heavily packed shirts they tossed them among the terrified Italians. The New Zealand officer in charge of the pinnacle dashed down with a section of men to investigate and found the Italians readily throwing up their hands and coming out towards three Maori soldiers. Thus, the amazing battle for Takrouna ended. By the original resourceful daring of the small Maori party this important high point with its 18 officers and nearly 400 men was captured.

3 May 1943, NZEF Times

Maori Sergeant’s Outstanding Leadership in Attack on Takrouna

The story of the ascent of the steep sides of Takrouna and the bitter fighting which won and held the pinnacle of the hill fortress during the New Zealand attack on the night of April 19/20, is told in the DCM citation of L/Sergeant H. Manahi ... Throughout the action L/Sgt Manahi showed the highest qualities of an infantry soldier. His cool judgement, resolute determination and outstanding personal bravery, were an inspiration to his men and a supreme contribution to the capture and holding of a feature vital to the success of the operation.

14 June 1943, NZEF Times

Takrouna

John Male

Red flowers (colourful Tunisia)

cutting the fields of barley in rich

swathes ... distant from the camping place

the (romantic) mountains, beyond them

the peaks of Atlas.

Ten miles north, jutting angrily

from the plain a rock called Takrouna;

men died there, simple wooden crosses

over some whose first battle it was.

1989, Poems from a War

A Letter

Padre Bill Thompson

The war was almost over in Africa, and in a day or two the world would be celebrating the defeat of the armies of the evil Axis ... I was writing letters of condolence by the aid of a subdued and shielded light. A sharp knock on the tailboard of my truck startled me! I glanced at my watch and was surprised to find that it was already past midnight! Standing there in the moonlight was a soldier whose uniform bore the insignia of some other unit. I had never seen him before.

‘I have a problem, Padre! Sorry to bother you, sir!’

‘You’re welcome, lad! Come inside and together we’ll bother God about your problem.’

As I clasped his hand in greeting, I fancied I detected the merest suspicion of a cynical smile, as much as to say that I was likely to help him very little...

This sad looking lad sitting at my packing-case desk promptly asked ‘Could you please jack me up an urgent ’phone call to New Zealand?’

‘Is she going to be worth it?’ I queried.

‘How did you know about her?’ He asked in amazement.

Many sad stories had been told to me by young people whom a cruel war had separated, and I had a distinct feeling he was about to tell me another such. He became very agitated as he related with rapturous delight how he had met this lovely girl and had become engaged while on final leave, three years earlier.

His voice trembled and his eyes filled with tears. There was a momentary pause so I quickly poured some cocoa. He was desolate! This very day an airgraph letter had told how his girlfriend had been going with an American, and now there was a babe on the way. She was sorry, she said, but she couldn’t wait any longer.

One could not but be sympathetic with the poor fellow, and a real effort was made to console him, but he was in the depths of misery.

‘Would you mind if I said a prayer?’

‘Do, please’ he asked without any hesitation, and appeared thankful.

Afterwards I had to explain that it was most difficult to get a ’phone call back to New Zealand in war-time, but at daylight I would make urgent enquiries. We walked a little in the moonlight, and he seemed more calm as we talked. I promised to call on him at his unit on the morrow.

The next day I met his officers who told me the lad had done a strange thing. In the early dawn he had deliberately walked out into the enemy crossfire, and fell mortally wounded. It gave me a real jolt, and I felt suddenly ill. How had I failed this lad? ... From the distance of time, I believe I could have done no more. He had already made up his mind to resolve the matter this way.

1976, The God Botherer

Springtime in Tunisia

N.Z. War Correspondent

The nature of the country has changed, and for the better. This is springtime in Tunisia which brings out a magnificent array of wild flowers.

In one area the barley grew so high that it hid jeeps and motorcycles as they battled along in the wake of the larger fry of the great procession. Between Sfax and Sousse the carpet of green and flowers was almost unbroken. A splendid bitumen road runs between the two towns, and as the unending line of vehicles roared over it at a pace that made the creeper-gear jolting of the desert a receding nightmare, the rolling country resembled the uplands between Auckland and Hamilton. In the more stony areas the scent of sage, as it grows in country similar to Central Otago, was wafted with the breezes that stirred the miles of poppies, daisies, wild stock and gentians.

This was almost as great a tonic as victory to men who had spent months in the dusty drabness of the deserts further east, and whose life for so long had alternated between the swaying, jolting, creaking trucks, and the dusty sides of slit trenches and gun pits. As the convoys paused, the men lay in the sun, literally among beds of colour. Many of them plucked the scarlet poppies to make cockades for their caps, and on travel-stained and battered armoured cars and lorries, great bunches of flowers bedecked their bonnets. All the men in the advance knew that they were part of a victorious tide, and the knowledge gave them an air of festivity which the flowers expressed.

26 April 1943, NZEF Times

On each of a group of New Zealand graves lying beside the Enfidaville-Kairouan Road, near a NZ ADS area, was a simple but effective tribute – a large bunch of scarlet poppies gathered from desert fields, still ablaze with wild flowers. Further back, beside another of the roads which criss-cross the fields of unfenced barley, a group of Tommies were seen laying a similar soldier’s wreath upon two solitary New Zealand graves beside this transient highway of war.

N.Z. War Correspondent, NZEF Times

In Memoriam

2/Lieutenant T.C.F. Ronalds

Allen Curnow

Weeping for bones in Africa, I turn

Our youth over like a dead bird in my hand.

This unexpected personal concern

That what has character can simply end

Is my unsoldierlike acknowledgement

Cousin, to you, once gentle-tough, inert

Now, after the death-flurry of that front

Found finished too. And why need my report

Cry one more hero, winking through its tears?

I would say, you are cut off, and mourn for that;

Because history where it destroys admires,

But O if your blood’s tongued it must recite

South Island feats, those tall snow-country tales

Among incredulous Tunisian hills.

1951, Book of New Zealand Verse

Victory

Peter McIntyre

In the end only the 90th Light and the New Zealanders were still fighting. I quote Alan Moorhead: ‘In the southern sector the New Zealanders and the German 90th Light Division broke off their fighting at last. These two divisions were the élite of the British and German Armies. For two years they had mauled one another across the desert. We had killed two of the 90th Light’s Commanders. The 90th Light had almost killed Freyberg. They had charged up to the gates of Egypt in the previous summer and it was the New Zealanders who broke the German division’s heart outside Mersa Matruh. There is hardly a major battlefield in the desert where you will not find the intermingled graves of the New Zealanders and the men of the 90th Light. And now at last it was all over.’

Several enemy generals came in to surrender to General Freyberg. He stood to receive them, an impressive bunch, but Freyberg was apparently unimpressed. As they came forward he turned to his aide, Jack Griffiths. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘have we any cake?’

1981, Peter McIntyre: War Artist

John Johnston

Thursday, 13 May 1943, a day I shall never forget ... We had not been wakened by the usual dawn patrol of scores of Boston, Baltimore and Hudson bombers ... nor had we been roused by the fighters – screaming over our heads, barely missing the tops of our bivvies ... the rumbling of guns and heavy artillery in the distant hills had ceased. An uncanny stillness had descended on the land around us. We looked at each other, but said nothing. none of us dared say anything for fear we might be wrong. Then we received the news: ‘At 8 o’clock the previous evening the Germans and Italians had finally surrendered!’

Two hundred and fifty thousand Germans and Italians had laid down their arms. Cyrenaica, Tripolitania and Tunisia were ours. The war in North Africa was over ... we could hardly believe it. All the years of fighting, suffering, the heat, the flies, the desert, at long last it was over, we had won!

We anticipated moving up to Tunis to participate in the victory celebrations, and claim our share of the prize. As anticipated, later that afternoon we were ordered to pack up and climb aboard our trucks and soon we had joined the throng of army vehicles moving northward.

Then we witnessed an amazing sight. Heading towards us came scores and scores of trucks crammed with Germans and Italians. They were prisoners of war, but there were none of our soldiers guarding them as you would expect; no, they were just driving themselves, some in their own trucks, back to the POW cages that had been hurriedly erected miles down the road ... Incredibly, tens of thousands of bewildered and disillusioned Axis soldiers drove themselves back to captivity, heading to a life behind wire fences.

2006, We Didn’t Have a Choice

Peter McIntyre

With the victory and the end of all the fighting, the Eighth Army had practically nothing to drink. The First Army over on the other sector, we heard, was loaded with whisky and beer. It seemed unfair that they, the latecomers from the opposite direction, should have it all. I decided to do something about it. A war artist is a lone wolf, free to go his own way to some extent. I was the obvious person to slip away quietly on an illegal expedition to First Army’s front some 320 kilometres away.

I drove up into the hills through Free-French territory with signs of skirmishes on the roads – a knocked-out tank, a burnt truck, the rubble of war ... Down on the broad plains I was in First Army territory. The men looked totally different from the Eighth Army, more like tailors’ dummies of soldiers. But then who did look like the Eighth Army? In my battered, dirty truck, with my gay muffler and stained, bleached corduroys, I would have to disguise myself ... I put on a tie. The result was unconvincing but I would just have to brazen it out.

I found a large supply depot and walked straight in through stacked crates of beer and took my place in the queue. When my turn came a polite corporal looked up.

‘I want to draw for my mess,’ I said brightly.

‘Yes sir, how many officers sir?’ he said.

‘Thirty-two,’ I said, thinking of a number. There were seven of us back at Enfidaville. He wrote out a chit and there I had 32 bottles of whisky. Royle, my driver, helped me stack the precious stuff carefully in the truck. I took the risk of overplaying my cards and went back to the corporal.

‘Could I draw a ration of beer for the men?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry sir, but the General has ordered us to save it for a victory celebration.’

I was on the point of saying that the Eighth Army would never have saved a beer ration for anything less than death itself, but remembered that I was supposed to be a First Army officer. All around the stuff was stacked high in crates but it had an Arab guard on it. As I was leaving, Royle came from the truck.

‘Order me to take a crate,’ he muttered.

In a loud, authoritative voice I said, ‘Take one of those crates driver.’ The Arab guard moved his rifle and chattered, but I waved him aside. Royle staggered out to the truck and stored the crate. ‘Now drive like hell!’ I said.

I stayed that night with the First Army war correspondents – a cosmopolitan bunch, many of whom I had known back in the old Cairo days. It was a gay evening and I remember two American correspondents doing a tap dance and singing ‘If you don’t like the stars in Old Glory, if you don’t like the red white and blue; don’t be like the cur in the story; don’t bite the hand that feeds you.’

In the morning I gently inquired if there was any wine to be had in the nearby wine-growing district. They said that the Monastery of Thibar had some, in fact it was famous for its muscatel and its liqueur, but the Germans had taken a good deal of the stocks and the monks were most unwilling to sell it. In any case, the monastery was out of bounds to the army.

That evening I presented myself at the monastery gates. I waved my paybook at the guard on the gate and somehow it impressed him because he unlocked the gates to look at it. I walked in past him. The monks in white robes and red skull caps were pacing the cloisters telling their beads. I went to the nearest monk and in my atrocious French explained that I had come all the way from the Eighth Army where we had nothing to celebrate the victory. He listened patiently and I thought I could see a faint twinkle in his eye and just a twist to the corner of his severe mouth.

‘Mon, it’s impossible,’ he said in the broadest of Glasgow Scots, ‘but come an’ I’ll see wha’ I can do for ye.’

‘My name is McIntyre,’ I said with a burr.

Royle was at the gates. I gave him the victory sign and he came running with two large water cans. Brother Mungo – that was his name – took us down into the heady-smelling cellars among huge casks and vats. I told him my father came from Glasgow and he beamed at me. ‘I’m told you make an excellent liqueur,’ I said. ‘and I wonder if I might take a bottle to my General?’ Brother Mungo looked at me over the top of his spectacles for a moment, then he sighed, He went over to a safe and took out two bottles.

‘There’s one for yourself,’ he said thrusting it under my arm, ‘and one for your fictitious general.’ He thrust it under my other arm and pulled my nose.

Members of my old unit delight to tell of how they were sitting bored in the mess one evening. They had two officers from the Highlanders as guests and couldn’t even offer them a drink. Suddenly, in the distance they could hear singing rapidly drawing nearer and then shouts and whoops as my truck hurtled up to the mess tent in a cloud of dust. The canopy was whipped open and there before their unbelieving eyes were 31 bottles of whisky, a crate of beer, two cans of wine and two bottles of liqueur. The party that followed was memorable, even by Eighth Army standards.

1981, Peter McIntyre: War Artist

Image 55

John Johnston

We could not believe what our officers were now telling us. ‘Be all packed and ready by 0800 hours tomorrow morning and join the convoy heading south. The whole division will be returning to Egypt immediately!’ This was a decision that no one could understand. We would not be seeing Tunis; we would not be taking part in the victory celebrations ... In the circumstances, the order to send us back to Egypt at a moment’s notice would have been an easy request to make. The New Zealand Division was totally mobile, every unit had its own transport; every man had a truck to ride on.

At this time the Division had about 3000 vehicles, to form a huge convoy that would make the long journey across the top of North Africa, a distance of nearly 2000 miles. The trip eventually took 17 days to complete, comprising 15 stages with two one-day rest periods.

We were divided into two sections, each comprising about 1500 vehicles, and these would travel one day apart. Each morning the leading truck would pull out at 0800 hours followed by the others in approximately 10-second intervals. So long was the convoy that even at this rate it would be three hours before the final truck got away. We called it ‘The Great Trek’.

Peter McIntyre

I went on to Bizerta to do some drawings and by the time I returned the Division was on its way back to Cairo. Our old camp site was deserted and I stood there feeling forlorn. We had milled over 1600 kilometres; grown to accept the vista of the desert as home; drunk our ration in 100 bivouacs, dugouts and tents; Daba, Duq-Buq, Tobruk, Mersa Matruh and Benghazi had become as familiar names as Taihape and Timaru, and never again would anything be quite the same. In the fellowship of men, at least, they had been the best days of all my life ... I loved the desert, but frankly, I hated the battles. Some people became stimulated in battle; I remember General Kippenberger telling me that in battle he experienced a feeling of wonderful elation. I, on the other hand, felt much the same depression under shellfire as I had felt in London when, as a student, I couldn’t pay the rent.

The North African Derby

Eddie Clews (attrib.)

Tune: Abdul the Bul Bul Ameer

The Hun was advancing on old Alex town

When our Kiwi div. went to the fore.

We bashed him and smashed him and shot Stukas down

And knocked out his tanks by the score.

He stopped and reversed, his armies dispersed

From Alamein back to Matruh;

His M.E.s he nursed and our Bostons he cursed

And the Eyties he left there to stew.

Barrani went next; his muscles he flexed

But his Panzers had lost all their sting.

Halfaya was next; at Sollum he got vexed;

To Tobruk he attempted to cling.

We Kiwis went south; Rommel foamed at the mouth,

Benghazi we bypassed at night;

Wadi Matratin rout caused the Jerries to shout;

At Nofilia we gave him a fright.

At Christmas we found no squadrons were around;

We were able to have some good cheer.

Our morale was sound when we saw the eats abound,

But we only got one quart of beer.

We went on with the chase, Rommel setting the pace;

At Zam Zam he made his next stand;

To his lasting disgrace he about-turned to race

to Sedada to plough up the land.

At Ben Vlio we punched, his transport bunched

And our Shermans just thrust them aside.

His 88s roared, but we only looked bored;

and Tahuna we took in our stride.

Of Tripoli it’s said Kiwis painted it red,

But of Eytie girls we were to learn

That there’s something they lack, and it’s time we were back

In the land of the kauri and fern.

We slaved on the docks and swiped Naafi stocks,

And lightered war gear hard and fast.

The air raids were poor and our barrage was more

Than had ever been seen in the past.

In Tunisia we found Jerries holding the ground

At Mareth and round Medinine.

We did a left hook and El Hamma we took

After fighting as grim as yet seen.

From Gabes which lacks cultivation like Sfax

We gradually tightened the noose.

Miles of poppies ablaze almost blinded our gaze,

Like the French girls who cheered us at Sousse.

At Takrouna we stormed: on the enemy it dawned

That at last he was chased to defeat;

Bizerta and Tunis and Cape Bon as well,

Were the Yanks’ and the First Army’s meat.

The 13th of May was a glorious day

When the Afrika Corps was no more;

New Zealand’s armed might took the 90th Light;

Put an end to the African War.

Celebrations were here; donkey derbies and beer,

We then broke Tunisian ties.

Two thousand miles to the east we journeyed at least

To the land of Backsheesh and flies.

1959, The Songs We Sang

Maadi – our New Zealand Camp

Mark Batistich

On arriving we climbed out of the trucks, a little travel weary perhaps, and got straight to the task of unloading and sorting our gear. Each man was responsible for his own equipment. The huts were assigned, about twenty-five men to each. Once the huts were clean we were issued palliasses filled with straw, so that it wasn’t long before our beds were made, our personal gear neatly arranged beside them, and we were leisurely enjoying a huge distribution of mail from home.

There’s no describing the effect mail had on us, how very welcome it was when received and how disheartening when not. The only consistency in a mail call was that it was always met with a great deal of anticipation and excitement. Some expectations would be met with a heap of a dozen or more, and others a few perhaps. Sadly there was always one or the other of us that received none, and although we tried to make light of it, there was no getting away from the disappointment, and no way could the individual be cheered up. All you could do was leave it to each man to deal with it in his own way.

Image 56

It was a strange time really, and you never knew what to expect. When the mail was expected and there wasn’t any, it was generally the sergeant in charge of supplies who copped the brunt of it. Our Supply Sarg had a fairly high-pitched voice, and when he came back from the depot empty-handed it was immediately obvious. He wasted no time barrelling through the lines yelling out ‘no mail, no mail.’ Invariably, a barrage of oaths and curses followed him. The less personal went along the lines of, ‘Why don’t you get off your truck and let someone that can handle it do the job,’ or, ‘Lord, man, go oil that squeaky voice,’ to which would be added, ‘Take a ruddy bottle of it.’ Actually, you had to hand it to him, at times the stick got pretty rough, but whatever he thought he never let on. Of course he was the best bloke alive when he came back with a truckload; we’d tail him up like the rats tailed the Pied Piper.

This time our mate had done a good job and those with letters were stretched out on their beds rifling through them. There was very little talking; all that could be heard was the rustle of paper and the distinctive sound of letters being ripped open. For most it was a special time and probably the only time that each of us was left alone. Mind you, it could be a tough time as well, with some of the boys’ moods unpredictable for a while after.

2005, The Story of Lulu

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