Of all terrains in which I have operated the desert is the most mysterious. The vast empty distances seem to cry out, ‘something hidden, go and find it’ and few who have not experienced the endless rolling sand dunes, gravel plains and rocky hills can really appreciate the sheer nothingness. And yet if you pause awhile, there is often more to see than you imagine.
In 1959 our squadron of Royal Engineers was sent to Libya to assist in the production of ‘going’ maps which were to be used for future army exercises and were also of value to the oil exploration companies seeking the precious black liquid far beneath the sun-baked surface.
Apart from intruders like us, the desert was largely a still, silent place. We saw few birds, very little wildlife and no other people or even the sign of any since the prehistoric inhabitants had disappeared. There were no wheel tracks, footprints or litter in the deep south of Libya. We buried our garbage religiously, partly for hygiene, but also because it seemed offensive to desecrate this unspoilt world and I even disapproved of our vehicles moving in line abreast, because it made more scars on the landscape than line ahead. Yet it was sensible because we could motor in comfort out of each other’s dust. I have always felt concern for the exploitation of virgin and un-explored territory; nature heals, but in the desert the scars may last a million years.
With these thoughts in mind, I recall one strange incident that happened whilst we were mapping a remote plateau. Our commander had produced very thorough emergency instructions. We all knew what to do in the event of a breakdown. We rarely moved in fewer than two vehicles and each group had a radio. If we broke down pyrotechnics were to be used at night. The rule was that we waited until dark and then climbed on to the highest ground and fired a signal pistol vertically. Anyone seeing the flare, which would shoot up for about four hundred feet, could take a bearing on it by compass and then fire an answering flare. At daylight a ‘box’search would be mounted – all very simple and, as it had proved on several occasions, pretty effective.
It was not unusual for small parties to be detached from the main camp. On one particular evening we were seated about the fire, downing the customary gin and lemonade powder. Suddenly a white flare rose from the featureless plain and dropped back again – a little quickly, I thought; but we leapt to our feet, got the bearing and fired a reply. There were two parties out, although I was surprised at the direction from which the flare had risen. Our groups should have been well north of there. At dawn we used the radio and, to our relief, learned that both parties were safe and, strangely, knew nothing of the distress signal. Nevertheless we searched the area just in case. It was a flat stretch of stony desert, without a hill or even a bump on the landscape; you could see for miles. There was not even a wheel track.
I offer no explanation, but I did read of a similar incident being reported by the legendary war-time Long Range Desert Group (LRDG) near the coast. We were all disciples of the LRDG and I thought I knew the history of this crack army unit quite well. Previous exploits in the Libyan minefields had caused me to read the accounts of the campaign around the Kufra oasis with keen interest and great care. However, on one expedition we were to have a resupply run from our survey teams on a remote plateau to our rear base at Kufra, which was to prove rather interesting.
There were three of us in my Land Rover when we set out before the flowing orb of the sun rose to destroy the glorious cool of dawn. How I loved those blissful couple of hours! Quite why we went with only one vehicle I cannot recall, but it was an easy run on what was by now a well-trodden trail, and we had a radio. We made good progress and in the afternoon were bowling along at about seventy miles per hour on the flat, hard sand. The cars were always piled with kit and, to make more space, panniers of wire-mesh hung out of both sides. In these we carried our rations, sleeping-bags and personal belongings. In the back of the Land Rover were fitted a dozen tightly packed jerricans of petrol. Water, not petrol, would be carried in the jerricans at the front – in case of a collision. Smoking in or near vehicles was strictly forbidden for obvious reasons. The good old army issue boiled sweets were great thirst-quenchers, and John, my navigator, turned about to locate our stock in a pannier.
‘Fire!’ – he screamed the dreaded word. I knew that if you stop a moving vehicle suddenly, the flames may come back and – woomph! That’s the end; but by keeping going, one might just keep the fire away from the fuel cans.
‘Where?’ I said, looking about for some soft sand for fire quenching to stop by, but for once there was none.
‘In the pannier – the bedding’s alight!’ yelled John.
The wind, such as there was, was blowing from behind so I pulled the wheel over to the left to keep the flames away from the cans. We halted gently enough to avoid spilling fuel. Hurling survival gear away from the car, we leapt out, tearing at the burning bedding. ‘Get the water from the front,’ I shouted to the other crewman, but he had already dragged a precious can off and placed it in safety, in case the vehicle blew up with all our supplies. Using the pathetic little fire extinguisher and some hastily- dug sand, we smothered the fire. The cause was simple. A hard bump had damaged our exhaust, pointing it upwards at the bottom of the pannier. Fortunately the only loss was a sleeping-bag, but it had not been a pleasant experience. We stopped shaking, repacked, had a few good gulps of water and drove on in silence.
I had wanted to make Kufra by dark, but with the delay caused by the fire we obviously had not a hope. As dusk fell, we reached some low rocky hills, north of Maaten Bisciara, really just big piles of jumbled broken stones. There were numerous narrow passes running through them. The map was not very precise so I chose one at random which turned out to be a little west of the usual route. The sand was soft, and in the failing light we bogged down several times. Heaving the sand channels back aboard for the third time I said, ‘We should be able to get some shelter amongst these rocks,’ and my weary crew readily agree that it was none too soon to call it a day. None of us felt like cooking, so we ate a few hard-tack biscuits smothered in raspberry jam and washed them down with a mug of coffee. The night was clear, and before turning in I went out with the shovel to commune with nature.
Squatting beneath the stars I swear I twice heard the sound of a man’s voice calling me from the rocks about the pass. The first time, I looked back towards the dull black outline of the Land Rover. The second time, I said loudly, ‘Just a minute,’ because I thought one of the men had called out to me. A few moments later, I returned to the car.
‘What’s the matter?’ I enquired.
John was already asleep, his colleague looked up and said, ‘Nothing, why?’
‘Didn’t you call?’ I said.
‘No,’ he replied.
‘Funny,’ I yawned, ‘must have been the wind.’ Then, exhausted, I fell asleep.
I woke just after dawn, with a shiver and a bursting bladder. Standing up, I shook off the sand, rubbed my eyes and stretched my stiff limbs in the half- light. I was still only partly awake when I caught sight of something odd. About sixty yards away was a truck, or rather the remains of one, and all around it were scattered bits of equipment, dark against the white surface. I walked over to the Chevrolet, for even at this distance I recognised the familiar shape of the LRDG raiding vehicle. The debris consisted of cartridges, unexploded grenades, mortar bombs, broken rifles and parts of a machine gun. Thirty feet to one side at the head of a low mound, lay a small wooden cross and pieces of splintered wood that would probably have made up another. Other similar vehicles were ‘parked’ along the black wall of the pass. All appeared to have been blasted apart by a single explosion in the back. A self-destruction charge, I guessed.
Combing the area, we made an interesting discovery high amongst the rocks and found a faded canvas British Army haversack, containing the rusty fragments of a Kodak folding camera and a toothbrush. Nearby were scattered a pile of empty .303 cartridge cases. I believe it was here that the LRDG’s ‘T’ Patrol was destroyed by a force from its Italian opposite number, the Auto-Saharan Company based at Kufra. According to W. B. Kennedy Shaw in his book, Long Range Desert Group (Collins), a running fight developed on 31 January 1941, when the Italians, with a heavily- armed motorised patrol and three aircraft, caught ‘T’ Patrol advancing on Kufra, in the valley of the Gebel Sherif.
Following the battle a New Zealander, Trooper R. J. Moore, and three colleagues had fought until they ran out of ammo, then remained undetected amongst the rocks of the waterless hills. Almost everything they needed for survival had been destroyed in their vehicle, three of them were wounded and, as all the wells within two hundred miles were either in enemy hands or filled with rocks to prevent access, the situation seemed hopeless. However, somehow they managed to salvage a two-gallon tin of water and, scorning any idea of walking a mere eighty miles north-east to surrender to the Italians at Kufra, they buried the dead then turned and marched south towards their allies. The Free French Army’s positions were known to be several hundred miles away across almost waterless desert.
Apparently no one had located the scene of the battle but the story of their remarkable and heroic escape over an astonishing distance is a worthy tribute to soldiers of one of the finest special forces ever raised. Three of the men survived and their leader, Trooper Moore, was found by the French walking steadily after ten days, two hundred and ten miles from Gebel Sherif. He was awarded the DCM for his leadership and courage.
We tidied up the grave, re-erected the crosses, stood silent for a moment, saluted and drove off towards Kufra. Later I reported the matter to our headquarters in Benghazi and then heard that a detachment from the Imperial War Graves Commission had visited the site. But I never did discover the origin of the strange voice I had heard whilst squatting in the dunes that night.