Someone up above must have heard me because it was a couple of weeks after we arrived, that I heard that we were going to be allocated a spare driver. I had just had my twenty-first birthday and I remember that my birthday cards were still under the seat of my truck. I used to read the messages in them over and over during any snatched moments on the road. We had started receiving post from England quite soon after our arrival. I knew that my mother was well and Lily was missing me. We got back in the evening and I was parking my vehicle in my usual spot. I had my head out of the window as I was reversing and could hear all these voices calling out across the field.
‘Who’s Private so and so?’ and ‘Who’s Private so and so?’ I heard my name called out, ‘Private Charles Waite.’ I got out of my truck, walked across to this fellow and said, ‘That’s me, Charles Waite. Who wants to know?’
I was disappointed, I have to say. Instead of some fellow like me, the same age, somebody to have a bit of a laugh with, I was looking at this old man. Well, I say old, he was only forty-two, twice my age, but to me he was an old man.
‘My name is Moore but they call me “Pony”.’ He put out his hand.
I never even asked his first name. In the army anyone called Moore was nicknamed ‘Pony’ so that was his name: ‘Pony’ Moore.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Charles but they call me Chas,’ and we shook hands.
So Pony and I started working together. I was a bit worried because all these new men and new drivers had been shipped out and I thought my job could be in danger. He was a full corporal, a non-commissioned officer, with two stripes and he was above me so if they wanted to deploy some of us to frontline duties then that would probably be me. I imagined that he would pull rank and start telling me what to do but he didn’t at all. He didn’t even mention driving and just sat silently in the passenger seat enjoying the view.
One day we came back quite late and very hungry and I was just reversing in to my space, the last one home. Pony had jumped out and gone round the vehicle to check that everything was all right when an officer suddenly appeared, banging on the front of vehicle for me to stop.
‘Where’s your spare driver?’ he asked me, leaning in towards the open window.
‘He’s here, sir,’ indicating with my thumb over my shoulder.
‘Call him over.’
‘Corporal Moore,’ I leaned out and shouted to Pony – I remembered to use his proper name. ‘Captain wants a word.’ He appeared from behind the vehicle, stubbing out a cigarette and adjusting his cap.
‘I want you back on the road pronto. We’ve got a meeting at HQ. The chateau,’ and he mentioned the name. ‘You know. You’ve been going past it practically every day.’
I knew where he meant, the big turreted place surrounded by trees with a long drive going up to it. Two or three other officers appeared and they all climbed in the back as Pony got back in the cab. ‘There goes supper,’ I said.
I drove back out onto the main road and could hear the men moving about in the back. Pony kept any eye out for familiar landmarks and sign posts and we managed to find the chateau without any wrong turnings. The wheels scrunched on the gravel drive as I edged my way along not wanting to kick up anything which could damage the windscreen. I drove up to the very grand front entrance with its portico and steps leading up to the door and stopped. The men had jumped out by the time Pony had got out and round the back to open the door for them.
The officer came to my window to speak to me. ‘All right, private, you don’t have to wait. We’re coming back by car tomorrow. Off you go back to base.’
Pony got back in and I reversed in the drive and drove back down to the main road. As we were going along, I said to Pony, ‘Would you take over for a few minutes so I can have a Maconachie?’ You see, I was always hungry and this Maconachie was a brand of beef stew with beans, carrots and potatoes, part of our army rations. I thought it was nice even though most people thought it tasted terrible, especially cold.
Pony turned towards me, ‘I’m sorry but I can’t.’
I kept my eyes on the road ahead. I didn’t know what the problem was and I didn’t want to stop so I said, ‘OK, get one out and open it for me and I’ll eat it as I go along.’ So I’m driving along, one hand on the wheel, tin of Maconachie between my knees and eating it with a teaspoon with my free hand.
Later that evening Pony came up to me in our tent and tugging me by the sleeve said, ‘Can I have a word, Chas?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, ‘Is there anything wrong?’ I was wondering if I had put my big feet in something.
‘No,’ and answering my question with a question Pony said ‘What are you?’
I was puzzled. ‘I’m a private and I’m a driver,’ I said,’ You know that.’
‘Where are you from?’ he asked.
‘From Barking,’ I said. Well, he knew where I was from because I had told him when we first met.
‘Do you know Charrington’s, the brewery?’ he said.
I nodded. ‘Yes I live about eight miles from there.’
‘Well, I worked there as a driver.’
‘OK, then, so why wouldn’t you drive my truck?’
‘No, when I say I was a driver, I mean, I drove a pair of horses. Shire horses, pulling a Charrington’s dray.’
You’ve got to laugh, haven’t you? He drove a brewery dray. He hadn’t even got a licence and didn’t know how to drive my truck or any vehicle, come to that. So there I was with a spare driver who couldn’t drive. They called him up and didn’t even check what he meant by ‘driver’ on his application. He should have said something at the time but he didn’t. So that’s why I landed up doing all the driving. I just hoped that there wouldn’t be some emergency such as me being taken ill, or, God help us, injured. Maybe he would have a go. Surely he had watched me enough times changing gear and manoeuvring about to have some idea of what to do.
It was a worrying time. All you could do was carry on with your duties, do your best and be on the alert. When we arrived, we felt as though we were on our holidays but now it was a war zone and this was not going to be any picnic. What were the plans for us? The Germans were rapidly advancing towards the coast and messages from Command HQ made it clear that our company and all the others in the area were there to hold up the Germans, to stand our ground, fight to the last man and the last round. We were meant to act as the buffer between the enemy and our troops on the beaches of Dunkirk waiting to be evacuated home to safety.
Nobody had bothered to tell me and Pony, Bert and Chalky and all the other drivers how this was going to happen. We may have had our eyes open but we were really driving blind.
4
The Wrong Way
The peaceful French countryside of those early weeks had turned into a noisy and frightening battleground. I heard the sound of aircraft and distant gunfire all the time. I was no longer on the sidelines, out of harm’s way. We were right in the thick of it now. Low-flying fighter planes were bad enough, right on top of us as they appeared in the sky only to shoot off again. I stood there trembling even though I recognised them as friendly. We were just tiny specks on the ground to the pilot looking down. How did he know whether we were friend or enemy?
The most frightening sound was that of Stukas, the German dive-bombers, which gave out this dreadful, bloodcurdling siren wail as they dived down and then up again. I was frightened all the time by what was going on around me. Nobody explained what was happening; nobody told you what to do to protect yourself. I was just a driver, trying to look after my vehicle and keep the load I was carrying out of harm’s way.