To reach the lake it was necessary for the tanks to cross over the Phillipeville/Bône road oft-times creating somewhat lengthy traffic buildups. For vehicles travelling eastwards the crossing was quite hazardous, as to the west, the road turned rather sharply to the right. To warn drivers a large sign was erected warning that a tank crossing was just ahead. On one occasion, an American truck driver came barrelling around the corner (on the right-hand and "wrong" side of course) to come to a screeching halt just a little too late to avoid hitting a Churchill's starboard side. Fortunately, the driver was not hurt although his truck was rather the worse for wear. The placing of two additional warning signs was enough to prevent any further accidents.

Old MacDonald's Farm

One day, shortly after receiving the first of the three stripes I was destined to wear, an order came for me to report to Major Russell at the Squadron office. The gist of the conversation went something like this:

"That Arab from whom you get the eggs, does he ever offer to sell you a chicken?" "Yes Sir, but they are not worth bartering for, they're much too scrawny!" "Well, as it looks like we will still be here by Christmas I have a job for you. Go to your Arab and barter for at least a couple-of-dozen chickens, which should be enough to give everyone a better Christmas dinner. I will arrange with the QM to let you have enough cigarettes." "Yes Sir, but they're so scrawny and bartering for just one would be tough enough, never mind that many." "I'll arrange with Corporal Stevenson to make supplies of Army biscuits available, that should fatten them up." "But, Sir....." "Chester, you're an NCO now so act like one, just go and get those chickens!"

Although not understanding what my recently acquired exalted status had to do with it, orders being orders, I dutifully despatched myself to the village in search of my Arab friend. (He was still friendly despite having, some weeks earlier, been thrown into the roadside ditch. For the story see extract from the Mustang Rover Crew Magazine.)

Finally tracking down the "chick-chuck" vendor, I made the request for the birds using my fingers to indicate how many. It should be mentioned here that, as my knowledge of Arabic was extremely limited, French was the lingua franca used for bartering purposes. With a wave of his arm and "avec moi" he took me to the Village Chief to whom my mission was explained. After a flow of Arabic and much gesticutulation, I was surprised when the Chief, in quite reasonable English, said that he only did business over coffee but, as he didn't have any, it would be necessary for me to look elsewhere. By happenstance, I had just received a parcel from home in which was a small bag of coffee, so another meeting was arranged. (Oddly enough, coffee was one of the few items not rationed during the war.)