Kidnapped By Barbary Piraates

KIDNAPPED BY BARBARY PIRATES ?

Uncle Johnny went to war reluctantly, leaving behind his pretty wife,
their young daughter, and a good job with a newspaper. Life at the rag
hadn't prepared him for the army. Drinking in many pubs, which working
with the tabloid had afforded him however, guaranteed that he'd feel at
home behind any wet NAAFI bar. On the customer side of the counter
naturally, pulling pints would have over-exerted his drinking
arm.

Five years he fought for king and country, an experience that changed
him from a bar fly into a desert rat. One of Montgomerys' heroes,
reluctant hero maybe nevertheless a brave man who wasn't shy in showing
off his war wounds when he was in his cups. This made the scars
available for inspection at most any time.

When Johnny came marching home finally, after three years abroad there
were banners around his door to greet him. Unfortunately no wife or
daughter was there to welcome him. None of the family in their letters
to him could bring themselves to reveal his wife's adultery. Our
relatives hoped that her liaison with a Home Guards Officer was a
passing scandal. One that would prove to be another short lived wartime
intrigue that would evaporate as quickly as a Mussolini inspired
offensive.

Three weeks hiding in the bottle appeared to mollify the loss of his
wife. Family members nevertheless realised that the mental hurts he'd
suffered due to her infidelity would take longer to heal than his
visible wounds. Following a three week grieving binge Johnny moved in
with my Gran. Donning his army issue demob suit he went to reclaim his
position. His apparel resembled another two million ill fitting new
army issue suits, a new peace time ensemble that had suddenly emerged
on high streets throughout Britain. These badly tailored outfits were
the reward of a grateful government, along with a generous gratuity of
around fifty pounds, a strip of medals and a thank you letter from
George the Sixth.

Proudly my demobilised uncle marched into his old office. After
Johnnys' conscription the job he'd left suddenly became a reserved
occupation. The reason for this decision was possibly best understood
by the Grand Master of the local Lodge of the Royal and Ancient Order
of Pyramid, Mausoleum and Temple Bricklayers. Maybe and only maybe, His
Majesty's War Office too. As a result of this dubious decision, while
my uncle became entrenched in the army his ex-junior became firmly
entrenched in his old job.

Johnny held out his hand to greet his former assistant, who responded
to his ex-chief with a rude, patronising smile and an odd handshake.
After trading feigned pleasantries the ex-eighth army soldier headed
upstairs to see his old boss about returning to his former position.
For his troubles Johnny received the same peculiar handshake and an
even chillier welcome than he'd received downstairs. He concluded that
war medals and demob mufti was the wrong type of regalia for that
establishment.

After the end of the second world war management positions became the
preserve of the chaps with the rolled umbrellas, jaunty bowlers and
public school accents. These attributes were required for most senior
positions. They could be waived however if the right sort of applicant
came along who was a member of the right sort of club or society.
Membership of these societies and the other class imperatives all
without fail surpassed war medals a cheap felt hat and herringbone
tweed demob suit. Especially when they were worn by an ex-corporal with
a Geordie accent.

By his own choice our one-time Royal Army Service Corps soldier found
himself looking for work. Post war shipyards were booming, due to
colossal efforts to replace the torpedo depleted merchant fleet. Johnny
took employment as a red-lead painter at Swans' Neptune Yard, an
unpleasant, but reasonably well paid job.

After six months Uncle Johnny received promotion to foreman painter.
Elevation didn't make a great deal of difference to his resources.
Mainly due to the fact that promotion meant longer breaks thus
permitting him to spend more money on liquor. His favourite lunch-time
repast being madmans' broth, an informal name given to a locally
notorious brown ale.

Saturdays were great at Grannys' after the war. My Mother, her three
sisters and their children gathered for a jamboree. We kids played at
emulating cowboy idols, Robin Hood, Sinbad the sailor or whichever
characters were currently creating the cinemas queues. Then
inventiveness was the most used plaything we children possessed. Post
war shops didn't cater for such frivolities as toys. The wooden gun
made from a length of tube, block of wood and a large helping of
ingenuity was a versatile toy.

Our war and post-war toys obviously cost local factories in lost time
and materials for their illicit manufacture. The guns served so many
varied roles as paddles, bats, clubs or even crutches. Limitation to
those toys uses being the creative imagination of us gun toting kids.
While we cousins capered with utility weapons and rag dolls, our
mothers and aunts discussed knitting patterns, swapped carrot jam
recipes, exchanged sources of black-market clothing coupons, butter,
sugar and tea.

Around three o'clock Uncle would arrive directly from work via the
Royal and the Prince Albert Hotels. "Just look at him he's as drunk as
a fiddlers bitch." Gran would say. He would go round all his sisters
conferring them a peck on the cheek, finally giving Gran a kiss and
cuddle. Only to be told by her that he smelled like a brewery. Usually
at this stage he would produce a flask containing a tot of whatever
spirit had been available from the pub. On receiving this Gran would
say. "He's not a bad lad really. It was the war you know and that
Jezebel he married." Putting the flask away she would add "It's
Medicinal you know? Medicinal."

After appeasing her Johnny would turn his attention to his nieces and
nephews. We would sit wide eyed as he told us sanitised tales of the
war. Alexandria, Tubrook, Sidi El Wadi, these and many other names
rolled off his tongue. One place he talked about a lot was Egg White,
years later I realised this was jargon for Egypt. Sometimes he related
anecdotes from the shipyard. A particularly tall tale was how one of
his painters had sunk a newly launched ship. He'd done this by removing
a candle which had been stuck in a rivet hole during the ships
construction. Resulting in the ship filling with water via this small
hole and foundering.

After many sagas the wounds on his head, arms and ankles were bared. My
cousins and I must have seen those wounds more than the medics who'd
changed his dressings. Many various accounts were given as to their
cause. One story was that the wounds were due to him being kidnapped
and tortured by Barbary Pirates. Another ascribed the lesions to his
bid to abduct Field-marshal Erwin Rommel. Regard to kidnapping figured
largely in his tales, with him as both victim and perpetrator.

We never doubted that Alexander and Montgomery sought and used the
advice of an RASC corporal in pursuit of their successful campaigns. It
didn't seem odd that the Desert Fox presented the enemy corporal, who'd
tried to kidnap him with the Iron Cross First Class. Complete of course
with Oak Leaf Clusters.

By five thirty the hero of El Alamein was weary from the afternoons
binge, advising the War Council, launching ships and the goggle eyed
adoration of seven gullible kids. Before heading off to bed Uncle
Johnny gave us a half-crown each, I being older than my cousins ensured
that I wasn't around at seven o'clock. For at seven, uncle woke, went
to the bathroom to bathe. Then donning a clean shirt, he'd come into
the living room to tell all the children he was sorry he'd made a
mistake and really meant to give them sixpence each. There would be
cries of protest from my cousins, but not from me, because I would be
long gone after my first couple of sequestration experiences. Following
a lot of horse trading Johnny would replace the half-crowns with silver
sixpences, only after promising to redeem them for half-crowns next
week.

When I was in my teens Grandmother died and I lost contact with the old
desert rat, he went to live with one of my aunts. Unlike my Gran, Aunt
Hannah was incorruptible, being a total abstinent she abraded her
Brother regularly about his carousing habits. She might well have saved
her breath, she would've stood more chance in persuading fish to give
up drinking.

Completing my apprenticeship I joined the Merchant Service, on each
trip home I would have a drink with the old soldier. I enjoyed his
company and tried several times to learn how indeed he came by his
scars. All that he ever told me was that he'd had a brush with some
Arabs.

During one of my leaves Johnny died, at his funeral I was introduced to
a stranger proudly wearing an Eighth Army Ribbon and Africa Star. He
informed me that he was one of the men Johnny saved when their small
convoy was ambushed by a gang of heavily armed marauders. The convoy of
a tanker and a truck under my uncles' command was on its way to service
Long Range Desert Patrol vehicles, when they came upon a rock fall
across their route. My Uncle climbed out of the lead vehicle with his
sten-gun, to examine the obstruction. He was cautious because there'd
been reports of looters. Johnny noticed movement in the brush and
signalled the drivers to reverse. Before they could withdraw both
vehicles were hit by grenades.

As the lorries burned a group of about twelve Arabs broke cover, no
doubt to pilfer what they could before both vehicles contents were
destroyed. My uncle rushed the gang firing as he ran, killing or
wounding several of them. Those able to, turned tail and ran. Having
driven off the looters Johnny switched his attention to his wounded
comrades who'd suffered injury and concussion from the explosions. He
received his wounds pulling all four out of the flames as ammunition
exploded around him. Too late for two of the men who were killed or
died as a result of the attack. I often wonder why he'd never narrated
that real adventure.

Johnny was my hero, a reluctant soldier perhaps but one very brave
individual, even if he'd not really been abducted by Barbary Pirates.
In fact not even awarded an Iron Cross, first class or otherwise, by
Erwin Rommel, who if the truth was known he'd not actually attempted to
kidnap. Seven spellbound children accepted it was all true, never
doubting their Uncle who'd beguiled them with his amazing kidnap
adventures.

by Don Passmore. ?