Open Writing

One evening three of us were making our way back to our tent after a spell in the mess. At that point my memory went blank and five days are missing from my life. It was only later than I heard what happened from one of my colleagues.

A truck full of drunken African soldiers from one of the South African army units was on its way to Alexandria in search of women. I happened to be in the way and was sent flying. They thought my head had been severed, but it was only my topee. The dead body seemed to be breathing if bloody, and by one of those amazing coincidences an ambulance was right behind the truck, picked me up and took me to the RAF Heliopolis Hospital, which was possibly the best service hospital outside the UK.

Slowly consciousness returned. Apparently I spoke complete gobbledegook for several days, which the other patients imagined was Hebrew since my nametag told them I was Jewish. There was also a male nurse who gave me the most wonderful care. He was one of those who were only interested in the seriously ill or injured. As I got better, he lost all interest in me.

I found myself with my left leg in a cradle and a sore spot at the base of my spine. It was a fractured femur and an acute cerebral oedema, which to a non-medical person was pressure on the brain. Removing fluid from the base of the spine had relieved this. A specialist in this field happened to be spending 24 hours at the hospital on the way to somewhere else.

The Australian bone specialist had set and reset my femur with great expertise. My first memory was of a ‘man in an iron mask’ walking up and down the ward. He turned out to be another Sgt Pilot whose back had been broken in a crash. Apparently all those in any way mobile left the ward when I was given an enema after six days.

About 22 pounds of weights were pulling my lower leg away from the upper leg. Gradually over the three months I stayed in this position the weights were removed, and the discomfort in the leg correspondingly reduced.

Three Months in Bed

Surprisingly it was not tedious. There were nine others sharing the ward, and we became very close. Opposite me was a Wellington Sgt Pilot who had crashed his damaged aircraft and was left with multiple fractures of the leg with bleeding wounds, so that his plaster was always bloody. The same surgeon was determined to save his leg, but I always doubted the likelihood of success. All of us eventually lost contact, so I don’t know what resulted.

He came from the West Country and told me he had never before met a Jew. Strange news for one coming from London. On one occasion he overheard a visitor making comment hostile to Jews, and his immediate comment was, “I am a Jew, so don’t you talk against me.” He was a lovely fellow. Baker was his name.

The one thing impossible in a ward with ten beds was to have a private conversation. So we shared everything. One day an American soldier was moved into the bed next to me. We called him ‘Yank’. He came from the Midwest. He had been in a tent with an RAF person, and they were both cleaning and larking about with their loaded rifles prior to going on guard duty. Something went wrong and RAF fellow fired his rifle, breaking Yank‘s femur. He was put in plaster and, differently from me, was able to walk fairly soon.

His conversation was entirely about his success with girls. Two days after he was allowed to walk he was out and took a taxi in search of a girl. On his return he announced his success with great pride. The operation was continued a couple of times each week.

One day a team of American officers arrived in the ward. The team seemed to include a couple of Generals. With a few comments, they pinned a medal on his Pyjama jacket. Afterwards we learned that it was a Purple Heart, the award for being wounded when on active service. We teased him of course.

Teasing Gott

One of those in the ward was a Sgt Pilot. He had been wounded with multiple injuries when shot down by an ME109 near Benghazi, flying a Bombay transport aircraft, an antiquated pre-war high-wing and rather slow plane, whilst bringing our General Gott from England in early 1942 to take over command of the Desert Forces after the previous general had been removed (or was it sacked?). He managed to land the plane safely in the desert but was then strafed by the Messerschmitt, and Gott was killed. Montgomery was then selected to lead the 8th Army and was outstandingly successful.

There was great excitement one afternoon when several senior officers arrived to pin a DFM on his chest for managing to bring his aircraft down safely. We, as rather beastly colleagues, told him, “We know why you have this ‘gong’. Monty arranged it because it was through you getting Gott killed that he obtained the job.”