One of my Uncle's told a story about his contribution to WW2 and he may have been pulling my leg. Aged 18 in 1945 he was too young to see any fighting and found himself allocated to the Royal Army Service Corps as a driver, a skill he didn't have.
On arrival at Bicester instead of being taught to drive he was ordered into the cab of a large lorry, shown the controls, and told he was driving it in convoy to Greece! No map, street names, towns, or road numbers – the instructions for navigating across war-torn Europe consisted of a long mimeographed list of distances and turns:
- At main gate turn right drive 100 yards.
- At junction turn left drive 6 miles.
- And so on all the way to Athens.
I like to think the jeep leading the convoy had a map, but perhaps it was just following a well defined military route, no civilians allowed to get in the way.
Uncle's memory of his journey across a recent battlefield was probably censored to save my delicate sensibilities. (Soldiers don't like describing what they went through to people who can't understand because they weren't there.) He mentioned being constantly shouted at by Military Policemen racing up and down the convoy on motorbikes, the fact that the convoy rarely exceeded a fast walking pace, and that the lorries whining gears gave him splitting headaches. Other than that, it might have been a picnic.
Dave