How often well meaning friends have said,

"You should write a book".

All very well in it's way I suppose but how does one 'write a book'? Where does one start? At the beginning? Surely that would take forever. Oh well nothing ventured, nothing gained!

All these thoughts race through my mind as I sit here at my desk in Queensland, Australia, wondering how to begin and why I'm even trying. Most people say, "You've had an interesting life". To me however it's just a life circumstances, coincidences, call them what you will, have seen to that.

So much water has passed under the bridge since that day in England, mid 1947, when I opened the local paper-The Surrey Herald- and saw the advert, quote:-

Wanted: People with mechanical skills and desert knowledge to join party of Overlanders travelling to Rhodesia, unquote.

Quite a number of intrepid travellers had sought this way of emigrating at the time. With wartime conditions still applying to many facets of life in England - Food rationing still in force and housing for young couples almost out-of-the-question-day to day living wasn't all that easy. Many young married couples lived with parents or if lucky, they might find one or two rooms to rent in someone else's home. Some found caravan accommodation but generally it was a difficult time for young couples starting out on their married life.

Many firms were 'winding down' after years of contributing to the war effort and were laying off men in their dozens and most found themselves redundant. My fiance, Peter among the latter.

We had been engaged for three months during which time I had spent several weeks in hospital and work for me had been very patchy, so yes, we were seriously wondering which way was 'up' when that advert literally jumped out of the news paper and hit me. I noticed it when I looked at the Cinema Ads. We had decided to cheer ourselves up and see a film that evening. So later when we were walking down to the cross-roads in our village, where we planned to catch a bus to the next village, I remembered the Ad and asked Peter,

"Did you see that advertisement on the paper for people with desert experience and mechanical skills to join a family who are going overland to Rhodesia?"

Peter stopped in his tracks.

"No, when did you see this?" He asked.

"When I was looking up the film Ads," I replied.

"What else did it say?" asked the now very interested Peter.

"Nothing really", I replied. "Can't be sure, but I thought the idea would appeal to you. It's just up your street".

Peter was born in India while his father served there in 'The Regiment' - The 7th Queens Own Hussars -. After schooling in Scotland he joined 'The Regiment' in 1935 at the tender age of 14 years and was immediately posted to Egypt as a Band Boy. He spent four years as a Boy Soldier and in 1939 when he came into 'Man Service' the threat of war hung heavily over the world. Any thoughts of returning to Britain to continue band training was dismissed and 'The Regiment' got ready, or as ready as the powers- that-be would allow, for the hostility that was threatening.

War in due course came and Peter found himself in various battles, skirmishes, and Jock Columns which went backwards and forwards across the Western Desert until his Squadron of Tanks was all but wiped out in November 1941 at the battle of Sidi Rezegh. (I think Peter's story alone could fill several books). After capture, then wounded on the journey across the mediterranean Sea when the P.O.W. ship was torpedoed and afterwards spending almost two years in P.O.W. hospitals. Peters return to normality on being repatriated in 1943 was a slow painful business. The future, without his army career, was somewhat uncertain.

Neither of us thought twice as we did an 'about face' and marched straight back down the road to my parents home to look for that hopeful Ad. It was exactly as I had said. Peter contacted the man who had placed the advertisement in the paper and arranged a meeting for the following weekend.

That night, I think I promised God all sorts of things if only this new turn of events could be advantageous. Here, indeed, was adventure and hope. Adventure was something I had longed for as a child. Various members of my family had wonderful stories to tell of their overseas experiences between the wars and it had long been a dream of mine that, one day, God willing, I too would see something of these 'other lands'. But with the long years of war which we had just lived through - years of deprivation, of 'making do' and mending, of meagre food rations and funds now Post war England seemed little better. I really felt there was very little chance of such adventures for me.

Travel, for us in those days, was mostly by bus and we changed buses twîce before reaching our destination of Bognor, on the South coast of England the next, week-end.

The day of our journey began with extreemly fine weather. The sun shone brightly and it seemed the Gods were looking favourably upon us.

It was during that journey that Peter finally related the whole story of his capture, the subsequent treatment and the torpedoing of the P.O.W. ship, the horror and the carnage of all that, the aftermath and the events that led to all those long months in various P.O.W. hospitals in Italy and of the poor conditions and treatment experienced by all the prisoners there.

During the war I had spent a little time helping in a nearby war Hospital. I found that many of the wounded men needed to tell someone exactly how they had 'bought it'-as the saying was. Not sure if this was some sort of release for the men, maybe a Psycho Analyst could find the reason-if there is one-but I never heard Peter tell his story again until 40 years later when it was dragged out of him piece by piece, by a very interested neighbour.

On reaching our destination of Bognor we met Jack and Benny Pells who were living in converted railway carriages, as were many other family's at the time. Jack told us of his plans for emigration and that he had managed to get an Ex G.M.C. Armoured car. He had cut off the armour plating and had replaced this with a verandah type body which had rolled up canvas curtains along each side. Aircraft seats inside for 11 people which included seating for his eight year old twin daughters. A large roof rack was built over the whole vehicle and a false floor was constructed to make storage room for tinned food etc. He had an aircraft wing tank for water storage, situated behind the 'family seats' which were at the front of the truck, and aluminum Petrol Tanks underneath the vehicle which caused a good deal of trouble later in the journey.

Jack had no knowledge of desert travel but had spent some time in India and knew tropical conditions.

I seemed there were others interested in joining our merry band of travelers and after working out how much each person should contribute towards the cost of a seat on the truck, plus food costs, we ended up with two other couples. Don and Molly Newman, and Phil and Kay Biggerstaff. Just before our departure another name was added to this list, Joe Walsh, a bachelor who, like Peter, had also spent time on the Western desert. Joe was a diesel mechanic.

We all agreed it was time we sought 'greener pastures' so the trip was given the 'thumbs up' and all thought, and all preparation from that day on, was towards our eventual departure which we hoped would be before the next winter.

In the meantime there was the matter of arranging our wedding. Not an easy thing to do. Clothing and food rationing were still very severe. Things like wedding presents were hardly thought of-there wasn't a lot to give- but some people managed to give me some dried fruit and this meant the local Baker could produce a cake, abet one tier, that looked like and tasted like a wedding cake. His own ration of dried fruit had 'dried up' sometime previously. My clothing coupons were sufficient to allow me to buy material for a 'going away' dress but not for a wedding dress. So it was with 'borrowed plumes' that I walked down the aisle on that dreary August day in 1947. Nothing however could dampen my spirits and when the sun shone abet weakly, after the ceremony I had no doubts about the future.

Peter and I sold most of our possessions, meager as they were, to get enough money to pay our share of the costs of the trip.

Even the few presents we received at the wedding where sold-An electric iron, two deck chairs and other sundry items. We had sold our tennis racquets and Peter's golf clubs sometime earlier but our bicycles were the last things to go so we were still able to take rides out into the surrounding countryside and visit friends and relations many of whom thought we were quite mad to contemplate the long overland journey. The question was often asked, "What will you find at the end of your journey?"

Well we really didn't know the answer to that question. In fact, we really knew little about Rhodesia.

Peter had been in P.O.W. camps with South Africans and New Zealanders. As everyone knows, the latter came from Godzone Country and those with whom he was still in contact asked, "Why don't you emigrate to New Zealand?"

New Zealand was a very long way from Britain or so it seemed in 1947 but we did have a vague idea that Rhodesia could be a stepping-stone to N.Z. sometime in the very distant future.

After totaling up our pennies and not making quite enough pounds Peter said ruefully, "I shall have to sell my trumpet." but as an afterthought, "I'm damn well going to keep my records and gramophone!"

Peter's collection of records was quite impressive. He had records of all the big bands of the era. Glen Miller, Benny Goodman, Harry James, Tommy Dorsey to name just a few. Also Instrumentalists, Lional Hampton, Count Basie, Gene Krupa and many others including the most popular vocalists of the day. To loose these was unthinkable so it was the trumpet that had to go.

We set out one Saturday morning for London in the hope that we could sell the trumpet there and receive a reasonable price. Of course, one never quite gets what one expects for ones possessions but we did manage to sell the instrument and then we went to Oxford Street and were browsing in John Lewis's Store when Peter came face to face with an old army pal he'd last seen six years previously. Both men opened their mouths but not a lot came out-too shocked at first- but then "What are you doing here?" from both of them.

Apparently, the day we had chosen to go to London was the very day of the Regiments Old Comrades Association Reunion and a dance was to be held that night. Although Peter was an 'Old Comrade" he had not been informed of the reunion. Without a second thought he said,

"We're not going home. We'll stay in town and go to the reunion dance tonight."

After ascertaining the time and place he gaily called out "See you later" as we waved Good Bye to his pal.

"Fine." I said, "Good job I have a suitable dress on for the occasion."

After a few seconds the thought occurred.

"What shall we do to fill in the time between now and 7.30 tonight?" I asked.

"Let's go to the zoo," said Peter, "Haven't been there for ages."

So after a quick lunch we set off for Regents Park Zoo. As we walked down the road and neared the entrance who should we meet again but the same army buddy walking away from the Zoo. He had also filled in some of his time there.

Peter bought me a Gardenia corsage to wear at the dance that evening. I had carried gardenias at the wedding and Peter knew I was particularly fond of them.

It was wonderful for Peter to catch up with old army friends and we had a memorable evening spent with so many wonderful people but strangely, somehow we didn't meet the man we had seen twice in one day in different parts of London although he must have been somewhere in that hall.

Colonel Jayne was delighted to see Peter and suggested Peter try again to join the '7th'. Peter had tried, very hard, to get back to his Regiment after repatriation but was told,

"You are no longer fit for any form of military service." from Medicos. End of discussion!

Colonel Jayne might have had some 'pull' but we were both adamant, we had made up our minds and Africa was beckoning.

15th November 1947

With all the necessary papers, passports, visas, entry permits and inoculations now in order, finishing touches to the truck completed -Food stored away, kit-bags packed, bedding rolls and camp beds securely tied, we left Jack and Benny's place at 3.00pm on a clear sunny day. We had a last drink at an English Pub The Fox Inn- and then went to say "Good Bye" to Benny's parents. 'Good-byes' are always sad but everyone now realized our journey-adventure-was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be missed so good wishes were echoed around the families.

We stayed the night at Priory Hotel, Dover and next day we crossed the channel to Calais where we had an all day wait for our trucks to be off loaded. We were, at this stage, to travel in convoy with another group of overmasters. A Mr and Mrs Eric Williams and Mrs Williams brother. A smaller party than ours but very efficient.

With an almost wasted day hanging around Calais it was decided to drive through the night to make up for lost time and we stopped around 4,30 am the next day for some much needed 'shut eye'. We only had one and a half hours however as we were up at 6.00am, made a fire from some old fencing we had found and we cooked our first camp breakfast.

We continued on towards Paris and arrived there at 11.00am and went straight to the R.A.C. agent. While Jack fixed up some papers the rest of us wandered around. Strange sights caught our eyes, The public toilets on the pavements caused us some amusement. Only glad we didn't have to use them. These were strange circular constructions with walls that did not reach the ground meant that feet and legs were clearly seen shuffling around inside, One couple, holding hands, walked towards one such edifice. The boy strolled inside but didn't let go of girl-friends hand. She remained outside while he managed one handed inside, then he reappeared and they casually continued their stroll. No false modesty here!

The R.A.C. agent offered to show us around the sights of Paris but, by this time, I was so tired, I promptly fell asleep in the truck and slept throughout most of the conducted tour managing to open just one eye for the Arc-de-triumph.

War-torn, battle scarred North France was a very dismal sight in 1947 but we noticed as we travelled South the countryside was less battered. We drove through Fountainbleu and stopped on the roadside, pitched our tents, set up our camp beds and crawled dog-tired, into our sleeping bags.

Our first night under canvas! We the art of pitching our tents and making very quickly learnt ready for bed.

Next morning we washed in a nearby stream, had breakfast, struck camp, packed the truck and were away by 8.30am. Another manoeuvre quickly learnt. The weather, however didn't last and the rain pelted down so the next night was spent in the truck sleeping in our seats or lying where we could on the floor.

This was somewhere south of Avalon.

As we continued southward, down through the Rhone Valley we drove through farmlands and vineyards. The weather was still lousy so we stopped around 4.00pm, pulled into a vineyard, cooked a meal and pitched our tents.

Next day we stopped in a picturesque spot near Avigon and after lunch Peter and I had time for a short stroll. We climbed into some hills and I had my first lesson in revolver shooting-not a lot of time to hang around, however. The idea was to push on to Marseilles.

We arrived in Marseilles to find the French Dock workers were on strike and our chances of getting across the Mediterranean were nil! Our first stumbling block!

We couldn't quite understand what the problem was but knew the answer we wasn't going to be quick in forthcoming.

We were advised to seek a campsite further along the coast at a very pretty little fishing village of Cassis-some 20 kilometers or so east of Marseilles where apparently others were waiting, well out of harms way, should the strike become ugly and the expected riots occur.

When we arrived in Cassis we were directed to a headland outside the village where there was a bombed out, or tumbled down building standing on a cliff. Here we could make camp. Peter and I pitched our tent inside the building. It gave us some protection from the wind.

The first three days in the camp were very warm and our camp looked out over the beautiful blue Mediterranean Sea. Behind us we had the lovely mountain scenery. It seemed an ideal spot. Joe and Peter and I clambered down the rocks to the sea but although the water looked inviting it was cold.

The strike situation was very serious and it quickly became apparent that our stay in Cassis could be lengthy. This was indeed worrying, to say the least. We had carefully budgeted our pennies and although we had considered flat tyres, blow outs, and mechanical breakdowns we hadn't given any thought to long delays courtesy of Dock workers. Nor did we know, at this stage, much about French Customs officials ability to delay travellers at their border crossings. One particular trick we encountered, much later in the journey, was the lowering of the barrier post just as we approached the border. Then "Lunch time" was announced and they would be "Back in an hour". Meanwhile the hapless traveller could sit and twiddle his thumbs for well over two hours in some cases.

On the fourth day of our stay in Cassis a very fresh wind sprang up. This turned into a gale on the fifth and sixth days. Jacks tent was torn and had to be moved and mended. Jack and Benny moved into the building beside us. The next day was Jacks birthday.

The weather cleared and we managed to get some washing done. A Frenchman who had lived in the house originally, showed us where there was a fresh water well nearby.

We needed wood for our camp fire and we scrounged what we could from the countryside. Nearby we discovered a disused stone quarry with several disused telephone poles - just the thing for firewood! Joe, Peter and Phil spent many a happy hour chopping down telegraph poles.

Gales, heavy thunder and lightening started on the night of the 29th November. Don's tent was washed out so he and Molly were the next to move into the building.

The next day was the twins birthday. Benny had a lovely cake for them. Jackie was a happy-go-lucky extrovert brunette, while her sister, Jillie was a much more introverted girl and very blonde. They were good kids throughout the trip and gave us little concern.

The weather cleared on the 1st December and we spent most of our time clearing up the mess around the camp after the storms.

On the 2nd December, Joe, Benny, the twins, Peter and I went into Marseilles to start selling some items that were not going to be needed later and so help the state of our economy. Funds were getting low. Unfortunately Peter was handed a dud $10 U.S. bill. We didn't discover this until later!

By the 6th December everyone was getting a little tetchy. The enforced delay was beginning to affect our tempers, and our toleration of each others little quirks was almost nil. To live 'cheek-by-jowl' with a number of almost total strangers is testing enough but under stress conditions this can lead to the odd outburst. One such outburst erupted and resulted in a new 'Sharing of Chores' roster which worked out much better for everyone. We now had two people on cooking each day, two on woodchopping, two on water carrying, two on washing up and one to have the day off.

The work, thus divided, went much smoother and tempers were somewhat allayed. By the 8th December we had to sell more possessions. We had quite a lot of winter clothing which we had thought would be of no further use once we had crossed the Med and, hopefully, to a warmer climate.

Although Joe remarked, "With our luck I wouldn't be surprised if it's snowing when we get to the desert!"

Who was who said, "Many a true word spoken in jest?"

Anyway, feeling it safe to dispose of some of our warmer gear we approached an English Couple who were living on their yacht and were moored in a nearby creek. The lady was delighted to have the warm clothing and we ended up with 2,300 francs in our pockets.

We were now able to 'splash out' a little and the Simone Bar in Cassis became our watering hole. We had very little French and the barmaid had less English but we got along famously. She seemed to have one favourite record - 'Rum and Cocola' which she played constantly and sang lustily along with the words ending in "Working for the Yankie dollar".

Walking around the colourful village of Cassis and looking into the little shops was delightful even if we didn't get past, "Bonjour, Comment allez-vous?" It was fascinating watching the older fishermen as they worked on the wharf. There were different types of fish I hadn't seen before.

In particular, the spikey sea urchins piled high in baskets. Years later I was to find this is a delicacy much favoured by the New Zealand Maoris, but I could never bring myself to eat a raw 'Kina' as the fish is called in Maori.

On Thursday, 11th December we heard the Strike was off so everyone became excited and expected the trip would resume. Jack and Joe went to Marseilles with Eric Williams to get information but Erics truck broke down and Jack and Joe had to walk all the way back. To cap it all, the news wasn't good. It seemed we would have to wait until next Wednesday before moving out. By now there must be a big back-log of people waiting to cross the Med. We were all somewhat deflated by this news. We had many evenings playing card games-Crib, Pontoon and three card Brag,-Match sticks took the place of money, so it was back to the cards for a few more nights.

On Tuesday 16th December we finally loaded the truck with all our gear and left Cassis at 1.30pm and promptly ran out of petrol! Joe managed to get some buckshee and we drove to Marseilles.

We stayed at the Hotel Province for the night. What Bliss! A proper bath! and a good meal. Next morning we embarked on the Ville d'Oran and sailed at 11.00am.

The Ville d'Oran was a troopship during the war and the cabins were very large with many wooden bunks in each. We were altogether in one such cabin but 'going below' was a most precarious venture as the ship began to roll violently as we left port. One had no time to get one's sea-legs.

We soon began to pitch and toss and to say "The crossing was rough", would have been an understatement.

We eventually managed to reach the Dining room for dinner and I began to wonder what was so wonderful about shipboard life?

Austerity was still the byword in 1947 and we had no choice of menu. Spinach, topped with a poached egg was placed before me. As the ship began to roll even more violently I noticed that to look out the Porthole was to look under the sea not out across the waves to the horizon.

With the next big lurch of the ship, a large, approx 16 stone, woman rolled out of her chair, came hurtling across the room and landed squarely on my lap. I was at the time, just seven stone and only had 4 feet 11 inches to call my own. I felt I could be somewhat smaller by the time the lady had finished squashing me. It took three or four waiters to get her up again and she thought the whole episode extremely funny. Somehow the humour escaped me particularly when I saw the now mixed up egg and spinach all yellow, green and gooey.

I staggered and stumbled up to the deck and clung onto the rail trying to sort out my equilibrium.

I managed to sleep that night, but Peter had a hard time as he lay awake remembering the last time he had crossed the Med, in that P.O.W. ship.

I think we fared somewhat better than the French Foreign Legion men who were travelling aft. as deck cargo. Our projected trip down through France and across the Mediterranean of some seven or eight days had taken four weeks and three days.

17th December

Next day we were welcomed to Sunny Algiers at midday by very cold wind and rain.

We made straight for Poste Restante to collect, hopefully, mail from home.

The truck wasn't free of Customs until 6.00pm so we had plenty of time to look around the City.

In my 'Salad days' I had only imagined the Casbah with it's well known narrow alley ways, tiny shops, pressing crowds, touts and pimps, so it came as a surprise to find Algiers a very modern city with wide, tree lined streets. Large modern shops and buildings not the least of which was the Post Office-all of course with a French influence.

A campsite was suggested to us at Bouzarea. A small village inland and some distance away from Algiers.

We eventually arrived there at 9.00p.m. Peter and I pitched our tent while the rest of our party opted to sleep in the truck.

The next morning the water inside our tent was like a river. I remember waking, looking over the edge of the bed and staring at water rushing through the tent just inches below the canvas of the bed. We stepped out into water almost knee deep and joined the rest of the party in the close by establishment 'La Hotel Resedence'.

The truck had been parked in front of the hotel garage the previous night and on backing out in the morning the road had collapsed making movement forward or backward impossible. The Hotel management were extremely helpful and the problem was eventually overcome. The rest of the morning was spent drying out our kit and bedding.

Although the Hotel room and food was very reasonably priced it was now more than Peter and I could afford so we moved out next day and once again pitched our tent.

At supper that night we left some rations outside the tent while we ate our meal inside. Suddenly Peter heard a faint noise and he dashed out to find our precious supply of margarine had been stolen. Although Peter was very quick he saw no one in the vicinity of our tent, -there was no one at all. 'Cliffy Wallahs' are extremely adept.

The next day Jack went into Algiers chasing more visas and permits while the rest of us made camp on a close by Coppice.

Here, again, we set up a very convenient camp with a part of an old hut which served as a kitchen.

The weather brightened somewhat and we managed to dry out the rest of our damp kit.

As the days went by Jack continued to chase all the necessary bits of paper for our onward journey across the desert but the various officials seemed to put obstacles in the way, effectively blocking us from continuing.

The R.A.C. now considered our truck was overweight so in an effort to reduce this weight we decided to cut each persons kit allowance. We decided on one kitbag per couple, one camp bed per couple, and we decided to ditch any heavy article that was not absolutely necessary for the onward journey.

Next day the campsite looked like an Arab market as we sold our possessions. We did manage to lessen the weight on the truck and this allowed the rather flattened springs to regain some of their original curved appearance.

On Wednesday 24th December we were invited to 'La Hotel Resedence' for their Christmas dance. This was very welcomed relief and everyone enjoyed themselves with Martini Cocktails Dinner at 1.00am, Oysters and Champagne!

I guess Jack had been stressed out with all the unexpected, long tedious delays and with having to cope with all the red tape and officialdom which seemed to meet us at every turn. Our own tempers were somewhat frayed as each day brought bad weather or bad news. A11 this together with lack of funds did nothing to help harmonious relationships, in fact it culminated in divisiveness. However the dance that night did a lot for morale. Jack became human and the world took on a rather rosy glow as we crawled back to our camp on Christmas morning.

Peter's collection of records had helped the dance along and the proprietors son, Pierre, offered to buy the gramophone and records for 4,500 francs. More money in our pockets and less weight in the truck. Every little helped.

Christmas day was spent under canvas but our turkey was cooked by the Hotel Chef. We were told this man was Chef to General Eisenhower during the war. He may well have been. Not sure of the authenticity of the statement but he was certainly a good chef.

We had all the trimmings with our Turkey dinner. Roast potatoes, cauliflower, carrots etc and this was followed by Christmas pudding which Benny's mother had made for us. The tables and chairs were borrowed from the Hotel and these were set with all the usual crackers, nuts, sweets, fruit and cigars. Not bad for a rough and ready overland safari that seemed destined for stumbling blocks.

Christmas day is also my birthday and I had very carefully carried a birthday cake my mother had thoughtfully provided just prior to our departure. The cake was cut and my 19th birthday toasted in the afternoon. Turkey sandwiches that night for supper and we all retired to sleep like logs.

Each day continued as before. Jack kept up his unceasing attempts to get our permits granted for the desert crossing and presented himself almost every day at various offices in Algiers. Back in camp, the rest of us shared the daily chores and in our spare moments we visited the local village or had the odd bus trip to Algiers. Of course, 'Gypo Tummy' wasn't very long in coming and everyone suffered-especially after gorging on fresh dates,

At this time Peter developed some very nasty boils on both arms which kept him feeling below par and far from well.

On one visit to Algiers Peter brought me a silver bracelet studded with green gemstones for my birthday. (This much prized bracelet I have only recently passed on to one of my daughters, after wearing and enjoying it over these past 40 or so years).

Another day we visited the Casbah a must for us tourists-and I kept very close to Peter as we walked those narrow streets and looked into the shops. We were not, however, harassed, accosted or waylaid by street sellers. Maybe our unkempt appearance did not excite anyone or perhaps we did not look like 'Rich pickings'.

Later the same day we met Don and Molly in Algiers for tea, which incidentally was Buckshee as Peter managed to off load that $10 dud bill. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there.

On 30th December Jack and Don had some trouble with the truck. Don's hands were badly burnt as he worked on the engine. His hands required hospital attention and the next week was spent in bed with heavily bandaged hands unable to move.

Jacks attempts to get our permits seemed to be in vain.

At the time a bond was required by the Trans Sahara Bus Co (S.A.T.T.) for each person in the party travelling from Algiers to Kano Nigeria. The Bus Company agreed to recover any truck and its passengers should anything untowards occur on the desert crossing which would leave the party stranded. I gathered passengers on such a stricken truck would be conveyed out of the desert but the Company had the right to confiscate the truck as well as the Bond. When we left England the Bond was set at a certain sum per person but during our delay in Cassis and since arriving in Algeria this sum had increased by several thousand Francs and these we simply did not have.

Stumbling block number two!.

The Williams party had managed better and the two vehicles travelling together was, I think, frustrating for them as they were able, with less people in their group, to forge ahead quicker.

It was decided they should go-all speed ahead-and they had left Algiers sometime previously-we didn't meet again.

On 7th Jan Jack broke the bad news. Despite his best efforts he could not get the required permits etc without the extra money being handed over and he could not raise the amount now required.

He had some idea of selling the truck, helping us as much as possible and each of us would find their own way from then on.

Everyone was shocked and very disappointed but we all accepted Jack had done his very best.

The next day Peter, Phil, Kay and I went into Algiers.

Still uncertain of what we would do or how we would manage.

We decided we would walk to the Docks and see what ships were in port.

Phil and Kay, who were older than the rest of us, got tired of walking so we split up arranging to meet them later at the Post Office.

When Peter and I reached the Docks we spoke to a crew member from the Shell Company ship 'The Clam' who said, "There might be passage to Aden in the Persian Gulf".

We walked back to the British Consulate and then to Worms Shipping Agency. Not a lot of help but they said, "You must see the skipper".

Undaunted we walked back to 'The Clam' and Peter decided to gate crash.

He hired a dingy, rowed out to the ship and demanded to see the captain. The captain wasn't aboard however, so we were shown into the first mates cabin.

After drinks and a smoke we told him our position. He was genuinely concerned but wasn't able to help much.

"It's really up to the Company, Shell Ltd, to grant passages but you could wait and see the skipper if you like". he said.

Shortly afterwards the Captain arrived on board and he said much the same thing. Although they could see our predicament the ship was due to sail the next day so the captain added, "It's too short a notice to get permission".

We were introduced to a wonderful bunch of chaps. One said, "You must stay and have tea with us". What a tea! We had not seen white bread since pre-war days and I had forgotten the taste of butter. Peter got stuck into a steak and after a good 'nosh' we went to the captains smoke room, had drinks and a long chat.

As they were unable to help us with a passage out of Algiers they did the next best thing and provided us with provisions, many of which I hadn't seen since before the war. I was taken down to the ships storeroom and plied with:-

We were so loaded down with all this stuff that three of the ships officers accompanied us out of the Dock area-a rather unsavory place to be after dark-and they escorted us to the trams. Just as we were about to board the tram the chief engineer slipped a box into my hand. I later found this to be two pairs of Nylon Stockings.

We had no trouble, with their help, catching the bus back to Bouzarea, but from there to our campsite carrying the goodies was another matter.

Late that night we staggered back into the camp, under our weighty boxes, to be greeted by Phil and Kay with, "Whatever happened to you?"

They had waited for us to rendezvous and when we didn't turn up they assumed we had already returned to the camp so made their own way back.

Next day, while gloom descended over the camp everyone weighed up their options.

Jack decided to call a conference that night. This started at 7.30pm and we were still talking at 11.00pm Don and Molly thought they could fly down to Southern Rhodesia. Phil and Kay had also considered this possibility. Jack and Benny toyed with the idea of Tangiers as a possible place to sell the truck and look for work. Joe, Peter and I seemed to be stuck. Various suggestions were bandied backwards and forwards until Phil said, "Kay and I have discussed this and are still keen to do the desert crossing. We are prepared to stand security and will pay the extra bond required for everyone."

This was a very generous offer but of course the discussion continued. I think Don and Molly arranged their own extra bond and Jack eventually accepted Phil's very kind offer. As Phil pointed out, "We can recover the bond money when we get to Stanleyville in the Belgian Congo from the French Consulate stationed there".

The truck was a very sound vehicle. No one had any doubts about it's capabilities. It was virtually new when Jack had purchased it with only 400 miles on it's speedometer; so it was an ideal vehicle and mechanically sound to do the job.

Cables were sent off to Britain for funds etc but it still took another eight days before we had everything to the satisfaction of the French officials and we were ready to leave.

Peter continued to be plagued with boils on his arms and our suddenly rich diet seemed to upset tummies again.

More heavy downpours seemed to turn our lives into one long 'drying out' session.

We finally struck camp on 17th January 1948 and started off at midday for Blida and the Atlas mountains.