PATROL IN LIBYA.

Auckland Star, Volume LXXIV, Issue 229, 26 September 1940, Page 16

PATROL IN LIBYA.

LUCK IN A TANK. , MODERN DESERT WARFARE. (Bv JAMES ALDRIDGE.) LIB VAX BORDER. Aug. 20. British forces are still .taking the offensive against the Italians in Libya. A few days ago, to the surprise of Marshal Graziani and his friends, British armoured car patrols popped up in the desert. The marshal thought he had got them out. Since approximately 30 per cent of all wars consist of patrolling activity, these fly-by-night darting will-o'-the-wisps, weighing a couple of tons each, looming again on the horizon, show a renewal of the British offensive—defensive tactics that were so outstanding in the early days here.

These men have the toughest and one of the tensest war jobs yet seen. It is not a simple matter to shoot 60 miles across Libya and back again. That is what it amounts to, shooting 60 miles across Libya looking for trouble—because trouble is all they are interested in— and getting back if they can.

In the early morning when the mi 11 was not yet up I stepped into one of these large domelike enclosures. The driver, sitting on the floor, has a mass of mechanism to control. Gunners and navigators take seats above and a circular door is left open for air. They are bumped across the desert in dull, silent darkness with only a soft sound —and it is soft—from the car's engine in their ears. These cars feel like real ships of the desert, for one is conscious of iron walls and of an inability to see anything and the motion is like "a ship.

'Planes Your Worst Enemy. Roaring along, with an occasional head poking through the top or peering through the eight-inch driver's slit, you make your way to a break in the wire and so into Libya. The rest is just keeping the right course until daylight and keeping your eyes skinned "for stray Italians. One seldom sees them. The silence is terrible and tense, like after death instead of before. One just goes 011 and the wide, endless, flat, bare desert makes it seem as though one were going nowhere. As the sun conies up and you curse it and hate every fading of the dawn's pinkness into hard light, for the hard light brings trouble.

Machine-guns, anti-tank guns, rifles, everything is now consciously laid ready, and you feel you cannot die because you have them. They seem like forts, protecting you and no one else. And you look around at your comrades and you are glad they are there because, although maybe you would give your life for them, deep down there is a feeling that there is more chance of being missed —a three'-to-one chance.

You go on as the day climbs high into the heavens and your eves scan tlie hard sky for 'planes, because 'planes are your worst enemy. They are like the kid who crept up on you at school and gave it to you when you weren't looking. Only it is a little worse because you know you will never hear the 'planes until they are 011 you. You find your hands gripping hard whatever is near you and when you try to relax it is like letting go of your heart, so you go back to gripping something. If you are lucky, you go slowly on for four or live hours, unmolested, cursing the swirl of dust your wheels kick up in mocking eddies behind. The eddies keep on mocking as they dance around your car and never seem to fade. You hope you don't see anything, and. yet hope you do see something so you can get some action and relieve the tension.

Tension—and Relief. Then you see a 'plane. It is a miracle to see a 'plane without hearing it, being conscious of it first. Your car stops dead and the dust, maddeningly, goee on as the 'plane, always flying high, comes nearer. You feel, sick inside and do not look at your comrades, and the only noise* is from the ticking of : the engine nliich is kept running for emergency. Yon are wondering with all the others if the bloke in the 'plane happens to be looking? Why'should he be looking at this dead, endless, particular strip of desert! He.cannot be looking! Then you say, "What's the: reason he's up there for anyway? He's looking for you. That's the chief reason he's up there, to look for you." Then yo.u feel that this big, clumsy lump of awkward metal that you are in must be visible for miles, and you feel alone in the desert; your stomach comes up in your throat. But you choke it down, leaving a green taste in your mouth which you try to work out, but cannot.

And tlie 'plane is right overhead, flying toward the sun in a graceful halfcircle, manoeuvring to attack, aiid you know if you were up there you could see the blurred oval of flesh composed of faces staring up. The 'plane circles. Obviously -it has seen the car. The leader says, "Stations!"' in a funny voice, for the first word, he has spoken for what seems hours. The gunners «it tensely behind their guns, the driver sits at his wheel, wondering, until the ugly bird flies* into the sun and is never heard of again. Then you go on until you hftve covered the 40, 50, 60 miles in Libya on your route and you lie still at the appointed sheltered spot—waiting, waiting, with the knowledge that 60 miles, filled perhaps with the whole Italian army, lie between you and possible safety. Then you are sibk again.

if you are lucky, you sight something of the enemy—anything, two lorries, one tank, six motor cycles, anything. You feel the sudden elation, the kind you have always read about. But this isn't reading; this is true. It's like drunken headiness.

You, hear the wireless, "So-and-so reporting to base. Come in, please." You hear the base come in and they say, "Go ahead,, armoured vehicle so-and-so."

"And You Know It's Death." "We have sighted an enemy column a half-mile away." The wireless cuts off as your ear sne&ks up for action. You feel nothing, nothing at all, because there is nothing to feel. You are just going into something/you don't know what. That's all, and yon wait. If it's a tank, there is always a set procedure. A tank is slower and maybe sees you first. It tries to get a start, zigzagging across the desert, firing already although out of range. So you speed up and fly across rocks and sage brush, manoeuvring to get at the tank's blind spot to make a quick, dartin"' attack. You hear, "Stations!" apd the gunner is there anyway, and the anti-tank gun plops above the roar of the engine and you dart again or chase the tank, keeping to its blind spot as aeroplanes do

"lien they chase the tails of the encinv or as a mongoose does when attacking a snake, darting in and out. in and onf, until ,you hear a plunk. That's the bullet piercing the tank, and for a moment it careens wildly, then stops, and you know it's death. Because you ha e attracted attention by jiow. you go roaring off. so that enemy 'planes cannot be sent to find you. and when you get into a safe area you suddenly feel it all. You have not been conscious of the heat until now. and you taste the salt of sweat on dry lips. It takes out the jireen taste, and you sigh like a dog settling down to •deep But it isn't the- same as a dog, because you are not tired. ou feel dust and dirt in your eyes and throat and there's nothing inside of you because you have lived and died and must start living again. • That's all, and the communique says the next day, "An armoured car patrol destroyed an enemy tank 00 miles inside of Libva yesterd.iv." That's aII.—N.A..V.A. "