Hiraeth: A Navigator of Sea and Sand

By Titch Laudrigan

In early 1939, a twenty-year-old man quits the university he is attending after near completion and boards a freighter out of San Francisco to travel the world—starting with the South Pacific and then, to beyond. War is looming and by beginning of the next year, he is in Egypt; joining the Kiwi army in Cairo as a newly minted lieutenant. From there it is the North Africa Campaign New Zealand Second Division’s Expeditionary Force against the forces of Rommel; operating with the legendary LRDG and the SAS as a driver and gunner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: May 31, 2024
• ISBN: 9781662949593

Book preview

~Prologue~

‘Desert Rules Of Survival Never Change’

***

During this war, North Africa, mainly in 1941 and 1942, but some of 1940 and 1943 as well, we of the Long Range Desert Group (LRDG) and/or oft (later) along with the Special Air Service (SAS) conducted multitudes of raids on Italian and/or German airfields in North Africa. This, if not doing recon on a daily basis. In Libya primarily.

These raids typically, always, involved small teams of highly skilled commandos using surprise and stealth to sabotage enemy aircraft, fuel supplies, and infrastructure before fast disappearing back into the desert to avoid detection. A common theme in this tale. We had not ever the numbers for a full out sustained confrontation. We were, throughout the war, forever small in numbers.

Our objectives were, without let up, to disrupt enemy operations, create maddened confusion behind enemy lines, and deny offensive resources as best we could. Planes and fuel were forever, favorite targets. In my time in North Africa, there was never a time when not striking at the enemy in some manner or another.

*

It was a black night of no moon and few stars, if any… a preference was to darkness whenever marauding. Another drive-through airfield raid to last but minutes. A neverending tactic it seemed in my time. And on this particular night…, another rapid penetration strike of an enemy position with guns blazing from eight Chevy trucks of the LRDG-‘Long Range Desert Group.’ We were this night, running two rows of four bakkie trucks, three men in each rig, and moving past the lines of parked planes at a fair clip. Most of our trucks carried both a heavy machinegun and a lighter gun. Both mounted passenger side to the rig’s body at front and back.

This typical drive through tactic, small and large with guns blazing, was commonly done so many times throughout the years by me, and everyone else I served with. Done in this fashion so much so, that I could now probably perform this type of mission in my sleep, but such was not so smart a thought to entertain. One cocky and careless slipup by the self, or others, and the night could easily end with a bullet through the napper. Still, as often as these raids happened in this North African desert campaign inside Libya, the adrenaline always ran full flow from start to finish. Never boring at any time.

In the Libyan North African desert, under the cover of darkness, a freezing cold dark night, no moon to provide light outside of what given by stars, we drove onto a remote Italian airfield from the northwest side of the base lying near the Mediterranean coast. This was the opposite direction any enemy would suspect (we always hoped) and thus, this would grant us a few extra moments of surprise. Though to note, other British commandos did operate from the sea, but the enemy knew us of the LRDG or SAS to commonly operate deep out of the desert to the south.

A fierce battle quickly unfolded as we entered onto the target site, driving between the rows of aircraft. In front of us lie numerous planes of all types with barracks, hangars, warehouses, and offices on the other side behind and away from the planes. Many of the planes, not all, were lined in rows at near wing to wing, making our job all that much easier. Seeing the variety of planes, the prime chosen targets were first the transport aircraft and fuel stashes, but also important in aftermath were the fighters and bombers, especially the Stukas. To note: the transports were the enemy’s supply lifeline, since the Allies, by now, had virtual control of Mediterranean waters and the coastal highways of Libya were always a dangerous place to be for the enemy. Axis supply shipping in late middle 1942 was going to the bottom more times than not, especially their life sustaining oil. Ambushes and mines were common on the highways. Also here, were some German aircraft, transports and bombers primarily, but on this night, Italian aircraft were the most predominant of targets found.

This fight that went hot in seconds was between my LRDG mates and the mostly Italian forces who were guarding this isolated airfield. The unforeseen shattering attack we conducted was quite sudden, vigorous, and intense and we had but a few moments in the beginning set-to with just our machine guns being fired this time around. This assault was given without warning to war-weary lethargic Italians at an airfield I cannot now recall the name. There were so many airfields and raids of similar fashion over the years that it seemed there was oft no difference from one attack to another. But oddly, in this case, this night, the initial Italian reaction seemed that they were wholly caught off guard at the onset, as the Italian response appeared near lifeless after only the first couple of minutes. It should not have been.

This assault was one of many rodeos I had entertained in one fashion or another throughout the North African campaign. Though, we had suffered our own setbacks throughout the deserts of mostly northeast Libya, but more times than not, we had given Axis forces many a crippling thrashing. For a good while, from 1940 to early 1943, we were David to their Goliath.

*

In an instant, percussive cracks of heavy gunfire and the shockwaves of exploding aircraft, fuel, ammo, reverberated throughout the flat barren landscape that was harboring the enemy’s buildings and airplanes. We were illuminating the night with many blinding flashes of brilliant light that were given from the detonations of flaming airplanes. Lit up by our incendiary bullets, while simultaneously, we had also ignited their now fiercely burning fuel stashes. These people had made it too easy for us was a thought I had at one point and they should have known better after so much time passing of having dealt with us.

We of the LRDG were long skilled and practiced in desert warfare, night and day, and we strategically maneuvered our vehicles in this affair amongst the aircraft and fuel stashes. We utilized our deep knowledge of the terrain to gain an advantage when engaging and then escaping as suddenly as we had attacked. This was not our first or even our second raid on this particular place in as many years and yet, I do not remember the place’s name.

Each time here and the same with many other locations, maybe thanks to Rommel, the defenders seemed to think themselves safe from our marauds…, until they happened. Not ever was it the case to feel safe at anytime while the LRDG and the SAS roamed the desert seas at will.

Meanwhile, the lethargic Italians, as suggested, were caught woefully off guard, as so often they were in my experience, and they always had to desperately scramble to defend their positions.

Intense firefights erupted while we drove in two lines through and around the airfield, while destroying on this night, all the fuel and aircraft we could find. In this instance, it was effectively done with tracer rounds from light and heavy machine guns, but no bombs were used this night. We fired steadily into cockpits and the wings that contained the aircraft’s fuel. On other raids, we oft used Lewes’ aptly named sticky-bombs with timers, right alongside the machineguns.

While speeding amongst the planes, the tracers from our guns were streaking through the darkness into the targets like speeding fireflies. Our practiced tactics and marksmanship began to take a huge toll on the Italian forces in the very short while we fought. Amidst the chaos of explosions were the sounds of truck engines revving, and right alongside were the screams of panic-struck Italian soldiers. Sounds of all kinds filled the air right alongside the many exploding eruptions of a dozen or more aircraft going up in flames. Added to this were the high pitched cracks of bullets as they whizzed by and above, to and fro. Everywhere. I was happy to note their accuracy was poor at best. It told me the Italians were hiding wherever they could, heads down, shortly into an attack they were not expecting. Especially, from the direction we came.

The savage battle raged hot from the very start, with both sides fighting for control of the airfield and creating scenes of chaos and desperation in this unforgiving desert night. Though, in a few moments which seeemed an eternity, after beginning the assault, the Italian resistance began to waver in intensity. My thought when I noticed this let up of ferocity was that most of the enemy were fleeing or hiding during a battle they cared little of. The Italians were brave enough, something we had come to find over the years, but they were especially scared of us, thinking we were supernatural wraiths driven by a swivel-eyed maniacal devil. In addition, we were also frequently hearing their hearts were not anymore, if ever, in this war. As we found with those we captured, they did not know why they were here and only wanted to be rid of this place and sent home. In the not too distant past, they had surrendered in their hundreds of thousands to the British army in both Libya and East Africa. Rommel had at first got the Italians on the turn around when he came on the scene, but that appeared not to be the case anymore.

And then, in less than fifteen minutes, in direct heat of battle, albeit waning, we were disengaged altogether and gone back into the night while driving to our rendezvous to assess our butcher’s bill. We had lost two vehicles of our eight, with one man dead and three wounded. Not bad odds considering our massive out in the open exposure for the whole time we were moving through the airfield.

After a quick assessment of our situation and reloading our Jerry cans (fuel) back onto the rigs and for the rest of the night, while darkness still prevailed, we ran south and east until encountering the first rays of dawn. At onset of dark’s last breath, we began searching for suitable gullies and hills to hide the lot of us within and behind. Also, to get some much needed rest. At the same time, after a suitable hiding spot was found, one used more than once, we concealed and camouflaged ourselves from the inevitable Italian search planes and bombers. This we knew…, they would soon enough come to seek us out and attempt to exact a measure of revenge that they would never get. Desert camouflage was a well-honed survival art amongst us and there in our hide, we would stay concealed from above until the returning onset of another night’s cover.

Over and over, these raids, attacking and escaping, were something I did nearly every week, and often, it was a few run through encounters per week; this, a series of events for almost three years, until early 1943 in Tunisia when my journey ended.

The Journey Begins

Part One

In early 1939, along with a university acquaintance who had voiced travel interests similar to mine, also a rock climber like myself, I boarded a 5,000-ton medium-sized tramp steamer. I had hazy indeterminate intentions to roam the South Pacific. Anywhere and everywhere the heart felt, for at least a short while while carrying clouded claggy thoughts on my life’s path. No specific long term schedule was intended, as long as it was to the South Pacific and New Zealand that I went. Eventually, though, I planned for a New Zealand stay at end of this first stage wandering excursion, where I would debark to explore, hike, and rock climb in the island mountains. I was a skilled practiced climber, not the best, but good I thought. A hobby I could perhaps take to elsewhere in the world where mountains were abundant and challenging. A place where skilled climbers were needed. I was even thinking of India or Tanzania, but at the time, I was also thinking that that would be a bit much to pull off.

Something, exploring New Zealand that is, is where I did come to be at the end of this particular South Pacific cruise. Also, the same in later years after the war. Except, there ended up little being done by me in that wondrous place during my first visit, things as had not been tentatively planned would come into play. I would continue with the outdoor pursuits in later years, but a later massive shoulder injury curtailed much of that goal to the minor stuff.

The world itself, soon had different ideas as to what would be my history and future. This held true for most everyone of everywhere in the world of that day. Yes, first intended travels would come to fruition in later years, with exception of perhaps, of the desired rock climbing. That, what first seen of the country of New Zealand, when first arriving, made me fall in love with the country in the blink of smitten eyes.

Unknowingly, world events were in midst of taking a massive change of direction from anything I or anyone else could have imagined…, an accursed unforeseen shaking up of the world to its very core was coming. On the near horizon. The fortunes of all civilizations, the world over, were going crazy and teetering in the balance. But…, that being said, I still ended up seeing a lot of the world, in ways little imagined would or could happen… until it did. For me, there would be numerous ships heading west in late 1939, a time when war was lapping haphazardly at the very feet of everyone everywhere worldwide.

On this occasion, and others to follow in later years, I worked my island hopping ship’s passage through to Aukland from San Francisco for reduced room and board costs. Along the way, west-southward-west-south, eventually leaving this ship in Auckland, I cleaned, scraped paint, and repainted what scraped… continuously. I stood night and day watches on the bridge and helped with loading/unloading cargo as well. Sometimes, though rarely, working in the ship’s galley cleaning pots and pans of the three daily served meals.

Fortuitously, a decent enough portion of my at sea time was given over to me to do as I would and so, I was left to my own devices to read, write, and sometimes, do interviews with crewmembers. In some instances of free time, it was just to explore and observe the ship’s operations, often simply watching the vast expanse of ocean pass by. Despite what just said, reading books and writing in my journals were usually the biggest portions of any free time I had. Interviewing crew members for future writing ideas soon became a favorite pastime and the crewmembers (most) enjoyed telling me of their lives. I needed background characters for later stories and this ship had a plethora of interesting personalities to pick from. Later, as time passed, traveling amongst the many islands, I had plenty of extra time to explore and observe the exotic and numerous islands encountered. Isles that at first glance, appeared lost and locked away from any prying eyes of the outside world. Such was not very often the case.

Still, relative to me, the captain got the better part of the deal in my estimation, for it was oft, commonly, in excess of ten hour days of grueling hot humid work after leaving southward and slightly east from Hawaii to Tahiti. My friend and I were young and tough and we would, in short time we thought, be having ourselves myriad adventures of hiking, exploring, and rock climbing. Seeing the world it would in time be for me, since, as I tentatively planned, provisionally, New Zealand would not to be the end of my travels. It was not anywhere close to the end of seeing the world as it came to be, yet in the end, New Zealand wound up being called home forevermore. In short enough time coming, I was a Kiwi.

I was well set financially I thought, but liking to travel light, I did not yet have all the needed equipment for New Zealand’s mountains and interior. Some necessary materiels, such as ropes and assorted climbing hardware, I planned to buy upon arrival in Auckland.

*

Small steamer life in the South Pacific, 1939, was certainly a unique involvement, possibly semi-romantic in afterthought of my reminiscing, though during my experiences at sea, I would never have considered it such. Quixotic dreams maybe, never in reality, but many years later, a great measure of soul searching nostalgia still remained entrenched in that year of beginning 1939. It lying deep in my heart and soul and only was it surpassed by the war years traversing the North African deserts of Egypt and Libya to Tunisia. A brutally jarring change in life would next be the case and this, occurring within a year of this starting story.

Sun-drenched days to and after Hawaii were filled with the hypnotic sounds of waves lapping against a ship’s hull as it pushed slowly through the ocean swells. There was forever the invigorating aerosoled smell of salt mist in the air, given up by low ridges of crestless ocean swells as we travelled west and south from island to island. There was also the forever creaking, twisting, and groaning of iron/steel of the whole ship going in rhythmic fashion of rising, falling, and rolling.

In time, it was the continuous entrancing sights of exotic wildlife and dense greenery amidst the many lush tropical islands. The great varieties of life living in the ocean was an added avid interest the whole time while at sea. Became so.

In particular, at sea, I enjoyed the sight of dolphins playing in the bow’s wake or a turtle ambling slowly along when the ship was anchored in a bay, as we awaited our turn for a pierside berth to unload and load. Off of Australia and in the Indian Ocean, it was sea snakes and sharks meandering by. In Darwin it was massive saltwater crocodiles lurking placidly in lagoons and basking on estuary beaches. Those man eating crocs, ‘salties,’ gave me a healthy fear of water in that rugged downunder land.

Whales surfacing and diving were another charm of the seas that I never tired of. Even the god awful mephitis of whale shit drifting by did not deter me of observing the slow meandering whales topside for as long as I could stomach the stench.

Many evenings, if not in the galley or on bridge watch, were spent topside in the company of crewmembers relaxing, talking, and commonly…, singing. These sailors loved to share their unending exaggerated stories of colorful past adventures and shenanigans. Laughing, singing shanties and rousing ballads, and there were in the mixes of songs sung, a panpipe and some kazoos. Always a few men dancing jigs to these odd hypnotic tunes. Occasionally, an evening banjo came to the fore, for which I appreciatively bought two sets of new strings in Honolulu for the owner.

For me, every day I considered, from then to end of the North African war, was ever a time of daily adventure and discovery; even the littlest of things were a wonder. Countless untold memories created by what I had seen and done to last a lifetime, almost on a daily basis. Several lifetimes worth. Tales these would be for future books and grandchildren, if ever either were to be had. My dreams of someday being a writer were buoyed and enhanced by my experiences of these at sea evenings on the ship and also added, those many faceted adventures coming of the next five years, not to mention the rest of life.

*

This ship, a weathered beater that was perhaps close to thirty years old, was a typical 1930s tramp steamer plying the South Pacific from California to Hawaii to New Zealand and Australia and all the myriad islands lying between. Never Japan, the Philippines, or China from this ship’s Captain I was told. Never found out the exact why of that, except that it was the Captain’s personal choice of where we went and usually, what we hauled. He owned the vessel after all, but as far as I knew and saw, the skipper never had a lack of ports to visit, nor cargoes to carry.

Underway, the ship was normally coal-powered, except this one also burned heavy oil when needed for the steam boilers. A sturdy vessel with a single funnel and a long low hull, equipped with four moderate sized cargo holds, a central bridge, and a crew of Jack Tar gobs along with some engineers and officers mixed into the blend. Always, a few passengers like myself. This ship was used for transporting goods and small numbers of passengers between island ports and its kind were a common sight in all the regions I traveled while voyaging southward to New Zealand and then, beyond to India and Egypt.

***

1939 San Francisco, when and where I arrived to board my first ship ever, was a bustling port of call for vessels plying every nook and cranny of the Pacific and often, into the Indian Ocean. The routes also included the Pacific side of Central and South America and as well, there was the traffic emanating both ways through the Panama Canal.

Stevedores, dockworkers and sailors surrounded in their many numbers, while cargoes from everywhere, going to everywhere, were being loaded and unloaded. This was in all places surrounding, as I stood and and watched the new world that surrounded.

The bay itself was filled with vessels of all sizes and purpose, from fishing trawlers to sailing ships to large cargo vessels. Many times passing, seen on just my first day in the port, were American Navy warships of all types, sizes, and armament. I even observed a planeless aircraft carrier heading majestically out to sea on the day it departed from wherever the naval base was. It was accompanied by a massive large-gunned battleship which was followed by two cruisers and a handful of what I thought were destroyers. But for the black billowing smoke issued of its stacks, it was an impresssive sight. On all of these ships, men in their dress uniforms stood on their ship’s weather decks, a traditional time honored practice ‘of respect’ I was later told; it was called ‘manning the rails.’

The air surrounding, as I stood staring at my new home, was filled with the sundry smells of saltwater, rotting garbage, fish, varied fuels, and always, the unyielding sounds of manifold populations of screaming seagulls. The bay was a cacophonous hub of activity, both on land and water. Droves of people everywhere were coming and going with continuous urgent purpose; human masses from all over the world encircled me on that first day. All around, the combined sounds of screeching grinding cranes, poorly muffled trucks, yelling people, the deep bellowing of ship’s horns right alongside hungry screaming seagulls and so much more. The whole place encompassing sang a symphony of noises that assaulted the senses forever on without letup or reprieve.

At first, upon arriving to the necessary pier where lie my ship, seeing and hearing everything surrounding, I was wholly made dizzy trying to take it all in; aching just trying to make sense of it.

The waterfront, as well as being harshly strident and busy, was lined with countless warehouses, docks, and wharves. This frantic bay, possessed of a chaotic flurry of scrambling energy, was my coming gateway to the Pacific and other worlds, somewhat already described, and then after, to far far beyond. An entryway this place was, one looking to never sleep. Overkill on the description, I know, but I feel the intensity of that first day merits such. Something, not forgotten.

*

To Hawaii, the first cargo of my ship tenure, was lumber (for this ship, an extraordinarily common freight), grain, and radial aircraft engines as majority cargoes; nearly a month’s journey from here to Hawaii. Also, tons of mail for dispersal to Hawaii and south and westward through the islands before southward to New Zealand. Saying this last, most mail was now delivered by air in faster moving passenger liners; air delivery and travel between the islands was fast becoming commonplace by air, if not already so. Four engine Pan Am Clippers, of preferred use, were huge floating passenger planes of which I saw several on this trip; they were fast making the massive Pacific Ocean a smaller much easier place to access.

*

Tons of canned meats and crated booze of great variety were stored in every nook and cranny of the ship for some of those same islands along the way after Hawaii. Also, there were varied foods for our own kitchen and crew.

My friend and I had