In 1954 every other Thursday was a happy day, particularly for those of us who smoked non-stop and consumed alcohol at any and every given opportunity. There were many of us.  In fact, in those days, anyone who didn't smoke AND drink was regarded as something of a freak.  Anyone who did neither was regarded with suspicion; there was obviously something seriously wrong!  Cigarettes in tins of 50 could be bought for what would now be twelve and a half pence or then, to us, 'Half a Crown'.  Stella beer was 5 pence  (a 'bob' or a 'shilling').

Alternate Thursday mornings we went through the drill of  'Pay Parade', from which there would be few absentees.  This took place in one of the Hangars, where the pay officer and his pay clerks had set out a trestle table and a pile of money.  With overseas allowance and it being two whole weeks' money, most of us picked up and signed for an Egyptian £5 note and a few 'ackers'.  The £1 Egyptian had parity with the £1 sterling. Egyptian Five Pound Notes apart from being very useful were very colourful, works of art in fact.  It seemed a pity to have to spend them. Thursday and Friday nights of a pay week were always nights of celebration enjoyably spent in the NAAFI bar, opening a stream of Stella Beer bottles.  We would then stagger our way home to the billet to sleep it off.

I cannot recall a single occasion when there was any 'trouble'; no loutish behaviour; no one throwing his weight about; everyone seemed to get along easily. The main 'moan' was the number of guard duties we had to do - at times three nights a week.  This meant that three nights a week no matter what else you were doing you had to parade at 5.30 p.m. so that the three 'shifts' could be selected and ready to start at 6pm.  The number on duty was divided into three parts. The first shift (the lucky ones) started at 6pm and were relieved at 8 pm by the middle shift who were, in due course, relieved by the third shift, which went out and changed guard at 10pm, and who were themselves relieved at the changing at midnight, when the first shift went out again and so on until 6am, when the whole guard were stood down.

It sounds not too bad you may think.  But, ask anyone who has spent months doing guard duties three nights a week and coping with your own job and, from time to time, dysentery adding a touch of excitement (or should that be excrement?)  Starting at 5.30 pm having to stand in three ranks outside the guard room/tent whilst the Sergeant of the Guard in the presence of the Orderly Officer reads out the Standing Orders.  These tell you what you must and what you mustn’t do. For instance, don’t think you would be able to sleep or even relax whilst you are not out patrolling some remote and lonely length of wire or on top of a searchlight tower or Head Quarters or some other buildings.  During the four hours you have to wait to go out on patrol again you cannot even take your boots off, as on a shout of  ‘Call out the Guard’ you are instantly required to be outside with your gun for whatsoever reason. This may just be that the C.O. has decided to leave the Camp or come back from wheresoever he had been, in which case the Guard is turned out to pay their respects to him as he drives past.  Or, he may decide to inspect the Guard.  It may be that there was something suspicious happening or a warning light gone out - indicating someone has interrupted a cable or maybe only that the bulb has gone - either way you get called out until it is checked.

So, you are standing there listening to the Sergeant of the Guard reading what to do when finding an intruder whom you must challenge.  The 'Statutory words' - you've all heard before, 'Halt, who goes there?’ A reply of 'Friend' is followed up with 'Advance friend and be recognised' whereupon you check, always being ready to let him have it if he isn't who he says he is.  If there is no reply to the first shout, you must repeat the shout 'Halt, who goes there?' If again there is no reply or the intruder comes towards you or starts to run away, you must shout 'Halt or I'll fire!'  If he is trying to get away from you, shoot to wound and if advancing towards you, shoot to wound unless you think your own life is in danger you then shoot to kill.   But, if you had any sense at all you would only shout once and that would have been, for me, 'Halt and if you bloody well move a finger I'll blow your brains out.'

Of course, there is a big difference from being out in some remote spot near the runway or between the huge hangars, from just walking around inside the camp where there are lights and people you know and would expect to be about and only a shout away from help.  But, if you have just been whipped away from the comparative luxury of home or never even been abroad before and have listened to the Sergeant of the Guard telling you what you must do and nothing is familiar to you.  A bat might flutter by or a rat rustle some paper, clouds moving in front of a bright desert moon.  You've fired a weapon before but that was only on the range at a target and you probably weren't very good at it, and even amazed at the kick given by the recoil of a .303 if it nearly broke your collarbone because you didn’t take sufficient notice of what the instructor told you.  Would you be able to aim properly or even have the time?  Takes some getting used to walking about in the dark where anything could and might happen.

Sam was anything but a 'white kneed’ new arrival.  He would have done his share of guards, everyone did.  He was a Regular Airman - an S.A.C working in HQ offices and had been there for well over a year.  Anyone visiting the NAAFI on a Payday Thursday or Friday would know he would be sitting there mainly just contemplating the contents of the pint glass and the next ready opened bottle.  On a Friday night working in an office he probably was also thinking of Saturday morning and the 'lie in' he would be able to have.  Sam was married and a quiet listener rather than a talker and all had a high regard for him.  They knew he would have his fill and thinking of flopping down into bed.  Mentally programmed in automatic pilot for his stroll of a couple of 100 yards over the sand back home to his billet feeling on top of the world and thoughts of Saturday tomorrow.  Oblivious to anything going on about him, the .303 bullet left little to show where it entered his body but a massive hole where it left.

It was only two days since the 18 years old Conscript arrived in Kabrit.  He had never even been abroad before, by no means unusual in those days.  He was not familiar with the layout of the camp and was detailed for the inner area where he would be least likely to encounter any trouble.  It would have been a bit much to put him somewhere remote along the miles of perimeter wire.  He had listened intently to every word the Sergeant of the Guard read out.  He had the misfortune to arrive when it was guards three nights a week.  He did only one.

© Donald O'Rourke 19/07/03.

Thank you Donald for submitting your account of a true but unfortunate story.  We wonder what was the eventual fate of that young conscript?
John (Jock) Marrs and Richard (Dick) Woolley.
October 2003.