Frederick Moore KOYLI My Life and War Journal

Sjt Frederick Moore

Kings Own Yorkshire Light Infantry

Born 18 May 1918
Died January 12th 2008

Served with the KOYLI through
World War Two

MY LIFE AND WAR JOURNAL

(Click on image for larger photo)

Journal compiled from notes my father Frederick Moore, made in his 87th year

Fred when he was 85 yrs old

(Click Fred for larger photo)

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I was born on the 18th May 1918 at Highthorne, Nr Kilnhurst, Rotherham.

Father: George Moore. His forebears were Irish.
Mother: Sarah Anne Moore ( Nee Marshall). Nursing and Sunday School Teacher.

I was baptised at St Thomas C of E Church, Kilnhurst. my brother was 6 years my senior and my sister 2 years my junior- George Marshall and Clarice.

I was christened at St Thomas’ Church, Kilnhurst. The first school I attended was St Thomas’ C of E school, Kilnhurst (4.5 to 11 years of age), at 11 years, I and others were moved to the council school (over the bridge and classified as enemy territory).

I settled down and by that time we moved from Highthorne to Swinton which was a town situated a mile and a half away. By this time I had a serious decision to make: I was captain of the school football team and had also been selected (after trials) to be promoted to the S.Yorkshire Association of Schoolboys. My position was centre-half.

I decided to stay loyal despite overtures from Mr Ward, the Headmaster of Swinton National School.

My time at Kilnhurst Council School had been quite varied, most of the time I was playing the piano for singing lessons.

I well remember the problems of the 1929 Miners General Strike, repair and make do, cardboard as inner soles for shoes, home from school, tea if we were lucky, then away to the tips to search for anything which would burn. Light was obtained by a wax candle in an empty 2lb jam jar, a piece of string around the neck of the jar and a loop by which to carry it.

I was the only child in my class that could spell ‘Lyle’ as in Tate and Lyle. The girl who sat directly in front of me wore a type of gym-slip which her mother had made from a Tate and Lyle sugar bag then bleached it white but I could just see the ‘Lyle’ on the back.

The very first time my father hit me was one Saturday morning. I went down to see my Uncle Charles (mothers brother), he was a very good violinist. Saturday morning was Saturday Penny Day. Usually left on the edge of the table for me there was the penny.. I asked my Aunt (mothers sister) if it was mine and she started laughing, so I picked it up - she was still laughing. She told my father later on that morning, he got hold of me, took off his leather belt and gave me a good hiding. I was crying when my uncle came round and told my father off and also my aunt. I lost my temper and said ‘give me that belt’, father dropped it, I picked it up, got hold of the loose end and let fly with the brass buckle hitting him across the face. Uncle said ‘you asked for that George!’ end of story.

From the very start, I was signed up by the headmaster to play the piano for singing lessons - sight classes in all - my other time was spent doing practical maths ie: blueprints, plan and elevations etc. - some of my work was taken by the headmaster to a large steelworks, the head draughtsman was Captain Venables - he told my head teacher that he liked my work and there would be a vacancy in six months time; could he arrange for me to carry on after the summer holidays and then he would arrange for me to train as junior draughtsman.

I was looking forward to this. My father went down to the school regarding this arrangement - he agreed - he left the school to go home - it started raining, he sheltered in the coop doorway, the president of the coop came down to the steps “Hello George! I understand your son Fred has left school today - send him down in the morning, there is a job for him”, and my father accepted the offer - I did not get one day of my holiday - left Friday 22nd July 1932, commenced work Saturday 8.00 am July 23rd 1932.

Back to school days - football was my forte. I captained the school team and was selected to play for the association of S. Yorkshire Schools. Regarding my entry into the Coop - the only good thing which I could see was they had a football team which played in the Doncaster Thursday League, it was a big undertaking for a 14 year old boy to take on, but take it on I did, there was no quarter given, me taking the game gently with me, in fact they dish it out more on me particularly if I came off best, who likes the Mickey taken out of them by a lightweight kid?

Anyway I graduated bit by bit. The team I really like to play against was the Police. Big and clumsy in the main, by the time I was just short of seventeen years of age, I was invited to have a trial with Rotherham United F.C. I play out of position but Mr Freeman the manager offered me amateur terms which I refused on my father’s advice. It is amazing that ten years on, 1945, I was home from the war, still single, when a knock came to our back door. Stood there was Walter Andrew, Rotherham United centre forward, (I had played against Walter in our school days). He said these words: “ Fred there is a car outside we have been waiting for you at Millmoor, you are straight in the first team”. I was flattered and sorry and so was Walter, as schoolboys we respected each others ability.

Another school-pal did well, he went to Barnsley FC. That was Herbert Barlow - played for Barnsley, Wolverhampton and Portsmouth FC, also Harold Pond he finished with Carlisle - Herbert scored the first goal in the FA cup final for Portsmouth - his father came to me at the Coop to show me his son’s medal, I was the first outside the family to handle it. Mr Barlow said to me, “ Fred you should have gone to Barnsley with our Herbert” nice words from a genuine man. I haven’t seen Herbert to speak to since the 1939-1945 war.

Come 1939 and calling up papers for service expected any time now.
I went to see my uncle Ernest ( Mother’s eldest brother) He served in the 1914-1918 war, I wanted some advice, he served with the 6th Batt. Kings own Yorkshire Light Infantry, he said “avoid the K.O.Y.L.I, because you will be in the thick of it” Point taken!! Passed my medical and through to careers. ‘Navy’ said I - No Vacancies. ‘Airforce’ said I ‘Sorry’, said the officer. ‘It has got to be the army’. ‘Long Range Artillery’, said I - ‘we will see what we can do’, said the officer - he did, ‘report to the K.O.Y.L.I depot at Strensall Barracks, York on Dec 15th 1939’. And so I did and within the first month I was on ‘Jankers’ pet name for ‘confined to barracks’ reason as follows:- Practice lying load position with rifle - camp down with flu, squad numbers reduced to 6 or 7 men. Hard frost on the grass, sun direct into face - I had a touch of flu, the Corporal shouted ”head up Moore” I did a little, the Corporal kicked a grass-sod up there at me, it bounced in front, then splattered in my face. I just stood up, walked up to the said Corporal and put one on his chin, I never said a word, just walked to the barrack room and waited for the regimental police (K.O.Y.L.I) in the clink and then in front of the CO. Result: 7 days confined to barracks and the Corporal received a severe reprimand.

Only one outstanding thing besides was ‘All squads report to the gym in P.T gear’, on entering the first thing you spotted was the boxing ring. I was lined up with a big Irishman called Kavanagh ( I guessed he was Irish with the name), surprise he refused to box so they found me another opponent and said to me ‘have you done any boxing before?’ I said ‘No, but I had a few fights during my school days’ He replied ‘I object to being blood sport for officers and their wives’ so we made a gentleman’s agreement. It was called the ‘willing competition’ for two minutes we agreed to pull punches, it didn’t work out like that, my opponent put a beauty on my chin and my eyes watered up. Shook the tears away and set about the poor sod. I literally knocked living daylights out of him. I saw him at a reunion after the war, he came up to me and he said ‘You hurt me’ I said ‘you broke your promise old boy’

Anyway, we leave Strensall Barracks April 1940 and set off for Norway via Scotland, we reached and camped at Blackhills, Dumfermaline, and that is as far as we went. The lads over in Norway had to get out as best they could, the remnants joined us at Hawick, I well remember the camp because there was a small cemetery of Germans from the 1914-18 effort.

It was from Hawick that we heard we were reserve division with hardcore training, and was it hard!! One stint was a forced march from Newton Stewart setting off at 6am marching on the standard arrangement. Fifty minutes slogging, then ten minutes rest, setting off again on the hour. This went on all through the day, stopped for one hour around 6 O’ Clock for a hot meal, them away we went again all through the night, finishing at 4 pm (1600 hours) the following day. Distance from start to finish was 78 miles. On arrival we had the option of 15 arms drill or down the assault course with bayonets fixed....the bastard!! That was the full battalion.

The CO was Lieutenant Colonel EEE Cass, nicknamed ‘Copper Cass’ He received the DSO in the first war, he was a Bisley marksman, and every inch a soldier. He wouldn’t tolerate poor commissioned officers. He sent them packing, we had a P.T Instructor from the physical training corps attached to us, but not for long - he couldn’t march so he sent him on his way too.

Now we start our journey over to Ulster, then following more marching and weapon work we next moved to Rochdale, Lancashire - the natives were great for Christmas 1941 - it leaked out that we were having 10/- (ten shillings) stopped out of our pay for the dinner - the residents got to know and paid for it, certainly our best stop throughout the war.

Sorry to leave Rochdale, but we were trained to fight and we knew it wouldn’t be long before we were in the middle of it - Tropical Kit drawn whilst we were in Sutton in Surrey - we had a big parade there. We were held back to let the heavy infantry and the guards (Cold-stream) and then the K.O.Y.L.I. The difference in our march to the remainder was that we do not ‘slope arms’ on the march. Instead we hold the rifle at the tail and go like the clappers to the tune ‘Jockey to the fair’ that’s the regimental march. It sounds good and looks good rifle muzzle to rifle but. One long line and arms swinging quickly we were good and we knew it and proud with it - we were told in the pubs at night that we’d stolen the show - it was supposed to be in London but they chose Sutton, wisely I think!

We embarked at Southampton on the liner Samaria - she was sunk on her way back from India. From Southampton to Greenock to join the largest convoy up to that time - first stop Freetown on the west coast of Africa, then Cape-town - we had a good night at the Union Jack club. The Samaria filled up with fuel etc. and away we went. Rumours we were going to Java against the Japanese, that scared the shit out of lance corporal Lance Philips. He had the ‘Rising Sun’ tattooed on his chest about the size of a dinner plate, plenty of loose talk about what the Japs did and did not do, rumour had it that they made lampshades out of tattooed skin. Flash couldn’t sleep. I calmed him down by saying they only did it to dead people, when the skin became stiff and taut. I told him my information came out of a book.

From Cape Town we travelled through the straight of Madagascar dropping one brigade off to take Madagascar from Vichy France. We went on to Mombasa, a small route march smack on the equator, distance only about 4 miles which reminds me when we paraded up Kloof St, Cape Town we looked like Fred Karno’s army. It was a sight for sore eyes. Six foot plus men with KD shorts fitting like a jockstrap and Five foot lad with KD shorts that stopped halfway between knee and ankle. We had one bloke who had a special topper because of his big head. Titch Leadetter the QM Sergeant put it on did a right about turn and the front faced forwards - it spun on his head like a top. He said it was to replace a dustbin lid.

We left Africa, the Kenya part of it, and headed across the Indian Ocean to arrive in Bombay on my birthday 18th May. One old timer, I think it was Philips of the rising sun, he pointed out the gateway to India and said it was the finest sight of India, from the Arse end of a troopship, he was still worrying about his lampshade. Landed and we were put on to trains and finished up in Pasha - stayed there for a couple of months and then across India by the Bengal railway situated north-west of Calcutta, under canvas this time in a small wood. Neighbours were snakes and termites together with charwallahs, dobywallahs, you name it, the natives would provide it. It is true to say the nappywallah (barber) would shave you while you were fast asleep and the chicoes (youngsters 10-16 years) would lay your kit out for inspection as good as, if not better than oneself. The thing you had to watch out for was the dobywallah and see he refrains from chewing betel-nut because they spat a lot and once you had a stain on your KD shirt or shorts, you couldn’t move it, a blood red stain would appear, so we used to inspect the fellow like a dentist. Still training mostly in the morning then the quiet in bed or out of camp. Quiet was the operative word.

We left Ran-chi back across India to Bombay. We left Ran-chi because the tide had turned against the Japs in Burma and that was to be our destination, but the situation was dodgy in Russia, Syria and Persia, so we were sent through to shut up the Vichy French in Syria and then up through to Persia (now Iran). The route from Bombay was up through the Persian Gulf and up the River Euphrates, through Mesopotamia shot at by The Kurds in Southern Iraq- visited Baghdad, Damascus and up to Tehran, Persia- camped out in desert country about 4 miles from the Holy City of Qum, we went on a scheme for 3 or 4 days- sleeping rough, everything we ate and drank was salty, very salty indeed- near mutiny, we were boiling during the day and freezing at night and that lousy salt, the water had been drawn from the land and we had bivouacked on or near an old salt lake.

Tragedy struck while we were on the scheme, Two of the lads were on guard, slung rifles and patrolling the area- these two came across the cook of T & M L/Corporal down in a slit trench with a full dixy of tea between the nice and comfy, kept hot with a burner, the two lads pulled up and asked the sergeant for a mug of tea, this was refused because they were on duty, they asked to share a mug, refused again with a threat to put them on a charge when they got back to camp. One turned to his mate and said ’give me a round (bullet)’. This was done and the sergeant was shot there and then.

The one (private) who fired the shot was imprisoned in a makeshift gaol in Qum, first of all he was put behind the wire with the Y&L who after 24 hours said they were fed up with him, next to have a go was the Green Howard's, they also complained saying it should be his own unit. Our CO was afraid of the grave possibilities so it was decided to put him into Qum with the Military Police (redcaps). They stood the test for about 4 days and complained saying it should be his own unit responsible for him and so it came about that 1 sergeant and 4 L/corporals. Now the trouble was, who goes into him first, I knew him better than the other three L/Cpls so it was I, L/Cpl Moore who had to face him armed with a pick handle only, I opened the door to his makeshift cell approx. 2ft by 6ft - white washed out, a wooden form and a trestle table, but the thing which took my eye was a 6 or 7 ft cross with a plinth drawn with indelible pencil to look like marble. it was a masterpiece and painted in black were the words ‘in memory of Joe Blogs (name withheld) for a worthy deed done.’ he was tried by court marshal and sent to Aden in Persian Golf. Sentence commuted to life imprisonment from the death sentence.

We were well acquainted, the culprit and I, he told me he had every intention of getting out and get back to the unit and complete his intention, namely the CO and the regimental Sergeant Major. after that remark he remained quite cool, I had no doubt in my mind he was sincere. My lasting thought was the splendid drawing of the cross, it wouldn’t surprise me if it was still there.

There were rumours that we might move into Russia in support at the battle of Stalingrad, I think they originated from the toilet area, nevertheless it was quite feasible.

From Qum we were transported by road through Jordan via Sinai Desert eventually reaching the Suez canal and going under canvas at Kabrit (opposite the bitter lakes) plenty of sport, football in particular and the training was amphibious landings onto the eastern banks of the Suez canal.

We had a tragedy on one of the boats (LCA) landing craft assault, the officer in charge thought it would be a good idea to fire a live 2 inch mortar bomb from the steel bulwark of the boat, the idiot completely ignored the instructions within the manual- the mortar is a steel barrel fixed to a steel base plate complete with a firing pin and grip and requires a sand bag to take the explosion of the propellant charge, but steel on steel there is no way the steel plate will absorb the shock, and the shock travels up and down the barrel and meeting the head of the bomb and result was a blood bath- killed and wounded all over the place - our platoon was the next to go across but it was cancelled - the 2 inch mortar didn’t come into the reckoning until we were on dry land.

Rumours start up again, we spent some time in the then Palestine, searching for the ‘Stern Gang’ the so called terrorists. there leader was Ben Gurion - Headquarters were at Ramat-Gen according to the Arabs - it certainly was a ‘Flash Point’. It was a case of ‘knock at the door,’ move in and search. In Tel-Aviv the powers that be put up a blackboard in the small park. On the board was pinned passport photos of the ‘wanted’ men.

We were stationed very near to Katanya (the jewellers very busy there) Israel or Palestine’s answer to Hatton Garden in London. It was there we had a booze up, I gave them a tune on the piano, one had said ‘can you play this old shirt?’, I had never heard of it but I vamped to his singing, it’s a song where you discard your clothes until you stand there ‘starkers’. The chap came from Wath Wood, the street was crowded and so was the pub in which the Swinton lad performed - he was dead drunk and happy with it.

Anyway out training was complete and we were shown photographs of the place we were sailing to - we thought it was Sardinia but it turned out to be Sicily, the 5th Division going in on the south side through the Bay of Noto, glider troops going in at the same time, Yanks towing British gliders and when the flak went up against them some of the gliders were ditched well out to sea. The Navy would not stop because they would be ‘sitting ducks’ but they would rescue them on the way back. It was waist high when we jumped from the LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) and that soon dried up although it was only just breaking dawn. My number 2 was a big youth from Belston Moor, Huddersfield, we were lucky! some idiot had fired a single shot at us, it had to be one of our own men, the bullet hit the wall in front of my mate and ricochet between us. Every unit has a pillock who fires at anything that moves be it in front or behind.

When daylight appeared we found ourselves in a peach orchard with the odd slit trench here and there. The Italian and Sicilian fruit farmers do their crapping and urinating in the orchard since the days of Nero and I Claudius and does it stink, it was vile- so washing fruit is a must as far as I’m concerned.

A little further on I drifted away across a small field to investigate a farm house. It was situated about 3 ft down from the field and gave me easy access for a couple of grenades, I had heard voices foreign so in went the grenades, result was much screaming, on the other side of the road sat among some oil barrels were some airborne lads, one of the lads shouted ‘they are in there!’. There was a unit marching up the road in threes, this was wrong practice, they should have been staggered using both sides of the road. I reported back to an officer who I did not recognise and within 10 minutes the situation was resolved. 3 Italians gave themselves up to the unit who had marched in 3’s and a medic who had been captured by the Italians - he told me that when the lads were captured they shot them in the elbows knees and ankles and they would be crippled for life.. We moved on to our objective- a deserted coastal battery- retracing our steps only to find 3 Italian ‘stiffs’ laid side by side on the bank side (bayoneted).
So far it had been Italian foot soldiers and German aircraft.

We marched up straight towards Floridia, that town had been sorted out, we came to a sudden stop, 12 o’clock noon and slap bang into the Germans sat behind prepared positions. After the ‘duffy’ it was named The Battle of The Gorge.

It was a ‘mistake’ and a major enquiry was carried out, we got a real pasting, all this happening inside a distance of 300 yards. I was one of 21 to get to the far bank. We, the 21, followed a creeping barrage of 3” mortar. The lads were dropping the bombs in a domino fashion - four to make a square and one in the centre to make a five as a domino five. A fly couldn’t have lived in that set-up.

Commanding officer was badly wounded, found spread-eagled on a wall, I lost one bloke. I told him to stay behind the wall where I was. Jerry had set the bush just in front of me but I stayed put and he just flipped and rushed back about 10 yards, a sniper got him. The barrage opened up. I examined him and he had been hit one inch below his navel. He wanted a drink but all you do is wet his lips. I don’t know whether he survived or not.

The following day I had to report on C O’s orders, when we paraded there were about 15 with helmets off and I and another with helmets on. We stood apart. The other bloke with me told me that there were 2 MM’s were ‘up for grabs’ but do not take any promotion. I was L/corporal at the time. It was a case of 2 Freds, Fred Avery and myself. Fred went in first and came out ‘thumbs up’ he had got the MM. I went in next, saluted - the usual bull S but I didn’t recognise the deputy CO. He said ‘I am promoting you to full corporal as and from this day, the provisional 90 days will not apply to you’. This is a great honour, which ever unit or service you may serve you will always keep your unit as a KOYLI, even if it be Navy or Airforce.. Furthermore it will take a Field General Courts Martial to demote you.

Fred Avery blew his top at the first re-union when I walked in, he said to the lads around him ‘ Here comes the only man in the Regiment to turn the MM down’. I didn’t turn it down but I do wonder what would have happened if I refused promotion.

I didn’t know the deputy CO but I went to a second re-union, I was stood at the bar with an old pal (peace time server) and the guest speaker was Major General John Deedes with a bunch of the lads around him. He came over to Frank and I and said ‘I’ve been trying to place you all the time you have been stood there’. I said to Frank ‘it must be you Frank’ him being a regular. The General said ’I know you from somewhere, I have met you before of that I’m certain’. Honestly, I didn’t recognise him but later on at home I was thinking about the incident and the penny dropped - he was the deputy CO who promoted me to full corporal and a load of B.S. He might have been upset because I didn’t remember the so-called time he was referring to, had I remembered I might have got a belated MM.

Back to the job in hand: After the Gorge we took the town of Lentini and Carlentini then down on to the Catania Plain (mosquito country) and one of the blighters took a fancy to my blood group and filled me a diet of ‘Malaria’ on the outskirts of Belpasso. From there the thing that stands out in my mind was my visit to the field hospital at Lentini (a small hill town) which we had taken a few days earlier.

I was lying on a stretcher under the cloisters of the church along with many others, when we heard a child’s voice singing ‘Ave Maria’ accompanied by a priest swinging a lantern and some old timer playing a concertina. I remember that vividly, it was sombre but those present that could show their appreciation did.

I often think about an old timer who was alongside me in a gully on Catania Plain. This man was a peace time serving man, he had done seven years with the colours and was on his five years reserve when he was called up. Anyway, we were under heavy shell fire when he shouted ‘they have got me Fred!’. What it turned out to be was a lump of rock had hit him on the heel of his boot, it shook him up a bit. His name was Tommy Feetham, ex flyweight champion of the army stationed in India, age would be well turned 30 years, in my opinion too old to be a front line man. He said he could not keep up with the younger end so he asked me to put a word in for him to be in a job where he would ride and not march. I did and succeeded in getting him transferred to the anti-tank section. He would have to go through some training to fit in. Anyway, during one practice Tom was stood directly in front of the 2 pounder gun when whoever was in charge shouted ‘fire’ and a live shell was in the breach. The gun had not been cleared from the last time it had been in use. That was the end of Tommy. That was not ‘friendly fire’ but damned incompetence.

Back to Sicily: I and others were put on an old Dakota aeroplane and flown over to Carthage in Tunisia and an RAF hospital. It was a bit snobbish. The first two days I was eating my meal with a jack knife until an ‘Ausie’ soldier gave me his knife and fork. I was there for 12 days then bundled off to an Infantry Reinforcement Unit and then to the Defence Platoon of the 3rd Infantry Brigade... what a cushy number! First job was a coloured lad who’d been on a drinking spree strictly against his religion and he had gone berserk with a bayonet. He was sorted out, overpowered and taken to the nearest ‘army klink’. I was asked to go and fetch him and not to forget to take handcuffs (that was a must). I had a smattering of Urdu from the time I was in India. I arrived and went into the compound and let him know that I had come for him. I asked him for his name in Urdu (namkey) not sure of the spelling lifted his hands to waist high and slipped the cuffs on. He just pointed his hands to the ground and the bloody cuffs slid gently to the ground. So I picked them up and put them back in my pocket, arrived back at camp with the accused, reported to the Brigade Major. He shouted at me ‘put those bloody handcuffs back on!’. I told him it was a waste of time but he insisted. I put them back on and he (the accused) just bounced them on the table top. So much for that, I do not know where he finished up but it could have been worse.

It was shortly afterwards we were on the move, this was the first time this unit had been in action. Destination and intention: The Landing of Anzio.- and what a cock-up, three days stood doing nothing, complete surprise, in fact some of the lads were kicking a ball about. General Lucas was sitting on his arse waiting for the German General Kesselring to get ready. In the meantime a recce patrol had taken a ride into Rome to visit the sights- no enemy about. The ground was more or less flat and the safest spot was below the surface of the ground. Day after day the shelling carried on and bombing at night. I had a dugout in a small clearing in a wood with tree trunks on top- shared by a private Miller. One night, the Jerries came over to bomb the ammunition dump situated 150 yards away. It spoiled my beauty sleep and one came down. I said to Miller ‘that was close’ we both heard the ‘thud’. It was only a 50 kilo bomb stuck in the soft earth. Obviously it did not explode otherwise I would not be writing this episode. We had to virtually step over it, distance from entrance to dugout- 9 ft, not an inch further away. It was still there when I left the Defence Platoon.

I had seen a Y61 truck pass me on my way to the field ambulance, and I signalled to the driver, he slowed down and said ‘I’ll pick you up on my way back’ which he did taking me straight into 13 Echelon, headquarters of the 1st Battalion KOYLI. The very first man to greet me was my old Company Commander the then Major Pope and now Lieutenant Colonel, shook hands with me and said ’have you come to stay?’ I replied ‘If you will have me sir’

He told me that he had a young private soldier in custody on a charge of sodomy, and he said he would be prepared to drop the charge if he would go back up the lane with me. ‘I want you to take over your old platoon No12 and drop him off at No11 platoon if he is prepared to accept that position’

There I was, 3 tapes up and going back to my old platoon so I thought! Most of my old mates had gone and I had a 75 percent platoon of Ox and Bucks Light Infantry. They were very, very good, well trained and reliable, in fact- a competition was held, it was a 5 mile sprint and fire at targets. Marching time was 60 minutes and the target time was added on. We won The Company and then The Battalion and we then went for The Brigade. We were the last to go and our time was the quickest but the targets were in tatters, for that effort I had the job of going to Ortona in Italy as advance party to take over the transport of the 4th British Division, a ***** with cars and lorries in but the country lanes were occupied by motor-bikes and that’s where I learned to ride the motor-bike. I also pinched some leather jerkins for the lads to flog, we were all flat-broke, I had to do something it being Christmas time. The officer in charge of us later appeared at the Nuremberg Trials, he defended Irma Grese (The Beastess of Belsen) as she was nicknamed.

The transfer was cancelled, so back to Egypt via Spinazzola and Taranto, picking up German POW’s on the way and dropping off at Alexandria. They could not believe that the N Africa Campaign was over and their mob were ‘behind the wire’ so to speak.

We went by truck to Julis on The Suez then to El Shatt where we rejoined the Battalion and I turned out for the Batt Football Team against The Green Howards. One member of their team was the great Wilf Mannion of Middlesborough and England. It was while playing at this match that I sustained my knee injury which put me in hospital for eight or nine months and put me out of the army for good and pensioned off.

Whilst in hospital, Major Robinson came to see me and informed me that I would be promoted yet again on my return to The Battalion. This was not to be.

I will give the army credit for the interest they showed in me. The operation was displayed in The Army Medical Journal, the top surgeon (a Lieutenant Colonel) together with a Harley Street surgeon did the operation. They said it was a guinea-pig operation and it might be better to amputate from just above the knee. I could possibly finish up with a stiff leg or a slightly shorter one, but they would try an experiment by suturing the ligaments together. This they did with some success. I remember that within minutes my leg was black and yellow from groin to heel and red-hot. That was me finished with the army and football. I had thought of carrying on if I came out alive, certainly not at ‘The Co-op’ that was as bad as the Mafia!

Two incidents regarding my service: First was doing Battalion Orderly Corporal, this event happened in India; a certain old soldier had been put on a charge by the adjutant and it was a case of ‘not guilty’ as far as he was concerned. Anyway, the bugle was blown for tiffin (mid-day meal) and I spotted the old timer hanging back and I asked him if he was going. He said he had a job to do so I left him and went for my meal. The Batt Ord Sjt was a Corporal Lee (a right creep) he was waiting to go with the R.S.M., so they strolled through the line of tents. On passing the adjutants tent they spotted the old soldier having a crap under the fly of the tent. ‘Put that man on a charge’ said the R.S.M.. ‘Jigger’, that’s the corporals nickname had to give evidence on C.O.’s orders. He could not say ‘depositing shit under the adjutants tent flap’ because he knew it was a swear word, but I didn’t know that he was ignorant of the word ‘excreta’. Mickey Prior, our Company Sergeant Major put him wise. However, when it came to appearing before the C.O. he got mixed up by saying ‘depositing et cetera’. I would have given a weeks wages for some cotton wool. The C.O. explained the meaning of et cetera but left Jigger to think it out. I the end he said ‘shit’. I think he received a short reprimand and regarding the accused I don’t know what the result was apart from a load of flies under the adjutant’s tent flap.

The other event was when we left Anzio: We had a ‘No Absentee Parade’ to check on everything. I put a notice nailed to a tree 24 hours beforehand. Len Clarke, my C.S.M., asked me if anybody was missing, - one man - ‘put him on a charge’ said Leonard. I did. In front of the Company Commander we went. I read out the charge. The Company Commander said’ did you read Sergeant Moore’s note?’, ‘Yes’ was his answer. ‘Well where was you when you should have been on parade?’ Accused ‘On the bog, sir’. Com Comm ‘What do you mean by ‘the bog’?’..another officer explained. Com Comm ‘Well what’s the matter with you?’. Accused’, ‘I am convinced that I have got Diphtheria, sir’. end of story and he got away with it.

My final days were spent at Manchester Infirmary and Sheffield Wharncliffe and that is where I met my dear wife to be Agnes Ellen, she got me into trouble by keeping me out late at night. A L/cpl of the Provo staff spotted me, saw the tapes on my arm and said ‘sorry sergeant!’. I told him to do his duty and report me. This he did and I was duly called in front of a young 2nd Lieutenant. He rather went above his station by saying that I wasn’t fit to hold the rank of Sergeant. The Sergeant Major who was doing the escorting work intervened and told the young man about my service record which follows you. The officer apologised and said ‘come and go as you like but try to be a little inconspicuous if possible’. He was a lucky man, I was restrained but we parted on good terms.

The War was over and I was waiting for my family get-together. A cousin of mine decided to have a tea party and some booze. My older brother served in Burma, my sister finished up as a corporal in the ATS so I think the family did it’s bit towards the war effort, anyway the party was about to start when my cousin Charles (he was a blacksmith) so he was exempt from services asked my brother to go to the off-licence for beer. He did the ordering and when we got back to the house he asked my brother and I to cough up, split the cost three ways. My brother said to me ‘come on, we’ll go and have a drink at the local’ and that was that, it was supposed to be a welcome home party.

I started back at the Co-op and what a start that was. After 2 years I weighed the pros and cons up and found out that there were more misdemeanours from the authorities than from the lower ranks of the staff. We had a president who had a nephew and a niece working there, to go a little further: I took over the union secretary job because no one else would take it on. Talk about ‘Daniel in The Lions Den’. First case was they, (the management) tried to get rid of 2 men, I think because they knew too much about what had been going on during the war years. Result of the first encounter was that the manager was asked to resign, pity was I didn’t find out what the managers severance pay was to keep his mouth shut tight. That was my first mistake, one of the men I defended was caught in a fiddle later on so I decided that the set up was rotten to the core and resigned.

A new manager was appointed, the only man of service age throughout the firm who managed to avoid war service. I later found out that he was married to the presidents niece.

The first job I was given by the new manager was a profit and loss account for the confectionary department. He said he couldn’t make head or tail of the job, could I do it? I did the work which was straightforward. My findings were that vans and shop, a good size leakage, question was, how do I find the cause and culprit or culprits?

This is as far as Dad got with his journal --

Chris Moore, beloved son of Frederick Moore