Our new leader of 260 was a South African, Major Peter Saville.
A great man for priorities, he straightaway noticed how parched the outfit was. He came to me and told me he was detaching me for a plonk recce. He said he'd heard that there was a cache or two on the other side of the Atlas mountains. I was to take Bobby Brown, a pilot, and Taxi and see what I could scrounge, without actually invading Ike's HQ. It was a great many leagues to travel, round hairpin bends with precipices on both sides, demanding more effort than a gourmet would reckon Algerian plonk was worth. But, as the armourer and the engineer daily complained, we were due for a total refit. We might as well start as we meant to go on and get some wine in.
A day later we came out of Constantine with a good load on the lorry, and the idea of coming back another way, via Bône, to avoid the dizzy heights of the outward journey. And suddenly Bobby remarked, "There's a Yank!" He passed us on his motorbike, but he kept looking back at us. Then some more Americans swept past, this time in a jeep, and they all kept looking at us over their shoulders. Fifteen miles on there was a road-block of sandbags, bristling with machine guns and manned by Americans. The armament was all being pointed straight at us.
"Do you think these are Yanks, guv", asked Taxi, "or are they Huns?"
"The only way to find out is to drive on, cock", I replied.
But it was impracticable to drive on, the block was solid. We got out and had machine guns thrust in our bellies. We thought they were Germans masquerading as Americans. They saw our sand-coloured truck with the albatross of the [Royal] Air Force on it and mistook it for a German eagle. They took in our blue uniforms and our peaked caps and assumed we were Luftwaffe. An American officer rushed at me and started jabbering in German.
I said, "You don't have to speak German, you know, I'm fairly capable of understanding English, since that's what I am."
"You are escaped Luftwaffe prisoners", he retorted.
We were very nervous, being outnumbered five to one, and not very fast with about three tons of wine on board. I grew very excited. "You're the Luftwaffe prisoners", I roared, "and I order you to lay down your arms in the name of His Majesty King George VI.!"
They withdrew for a conference. But their guns remained level. I was wild with frustration, thinking that by now the squadron would certainly have liberated some eggs and chickens, and be basting the fowls in the happy expectation of wine to wash it down. Then, inexplecably, a British naval commander appeared out of nowhere, by himself, presumably getting his land legs with a stroll through the mountains. There was no reason I could see why our captors shouldn't take him for a Luftwaffe man in disguise too, but either his manner or his white knees convinced them that he was the genuine article. He appointed himself arbiter.
After establishing to his own satisfaction that they were Americans, he came over to our side and said to us: "It'll be alright, just answer their questions."
So the American officer asked Taxi, "What make of truck is this?"
Still brimming over, I leaped in like a know-all and said, "It's a Dodge." And it wasn't. The commander became a bit surprised.
"What's the engine number?", the American officer asked Taxi.
"I'm fucked if I know", said Taxi. "I'm not supposed to know the engine number of the bloody truck!"
After these negative replies they went into a huddle again. The naval commander managed to persuade them that Taxi's vernacular was for our present purposes more satisfactory than the right engine number would have been and after about an hour's wrangle they declared us British allies. And then nothing was too good for us. They took us to their camp and dosed us to the gills with drink, and sent us home with the truck bursting with rations and beer.
Source:
Lee, Christopher: Tall, Dark and Gruesome (1997), p. 134ff
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