Winter Wonderland

Ask most blokes what they know about Sweden and you usually get one of two things: an animated description of a curvy blond that looks like someone trying to shape an enormous hour-glass on a potter's wheel, or an impression of the chef from the Muppet Show, that sounds like someone with their head in a bucket. What they don't often say is that Sweden is one of the wealthiest countries in the world and despite such a harsh climate, it is not suffering quite like the rest of us .

In many ways Sweden is similar to the UK: a large percentage of its workforce is employed in the public sector, it has high taxation, and despite being in the EU, it has remained outside the Euro. But that's were the similarity ends because Sweden has a large GDP, it exports more than it imports (a situation long forgotten in the UK economy) and it has many international manufacturing companies (including Volvo and Saab/Scania). Sweden can suffer from some pretty harsh temperatures in winter (down to -40^o C in some areas) but just like the country doesn't seem to be effected too severely by the global economic climate, it doesn't appear to suffer from the weather either; in fact it seems to benefit from it.

Every time I read about the exploits of transcontinental and Middle Eastern drivers, watch Destination Doha on DVD or look at the resale value of some trucks, I'm reminded of why we see so many Scanias and Volvos on the road – and no Leylands. If Scania and Volvo trucks can operate in temperatures so extreme at one end of the spectrum, they can presumably survive the other; If they can endure those rock hard winter logging roads, the desert must be a doddle. It's no wonder they do so well on ordinary work, and have such a following. Sweden does have natural resources that help with the balance of payments but it's quality products like these, and a tough attitude towards a diverse economy that has really created success.

Sweden is not dissimilar to the UK in that it has produced the machinery needed to build a developed world; the difference is that we no longer do. Where we have totally succumbed to the philosophy, 'let the market decide' and allowed so much of our major industry to go to foreign ownership - and in too many cases seen it closed by the new owner - Sweden has retained control of its factories. And although it's true that a number of Swedish companies operate overseas manufacturing sites, where labour is cheaper, home ownership still means that decisions are presumably made in Sweden's best interest and not that of an overseas economy.

Sweden's banking system went through the mill in the 1990s and emerged stronger, hopefully ours will too. Like Sweden, we have brilliant scientists, engineers and innovators, and we can make quality products. All we need is a government that can think beyond the service industry, encouraging a diversity of economy that will not just protect jobs but create them, lead to exports and exploit the demand for machines and technologies in the gowing economies of India and China. They stood up and kept us out of the Euro in the interest of our financial sector; now winter's come it's time to come out fighting for a change in the whole climate.

  

The Mechanics of Failure

A small fault starts, unseen at first, easily missed, a stress is applied, back and forth, to and fro, fatigue and creep, building slowly, you hardly know, finding its way, increasing in size, taking over, gathering speed, the structure fails, suddenly torn, catastrophic, an enormous crack that signals the end. 

What's it in for, he asked. Chassis extension, I told him. What, to a tractor unit with a bonnet, what's it going to be pulling, a caravan? No, I said, it's to make a rigid, a beaver tail plant carrier. Oh. Why? He said.  Never mind why, I told him, what are you all of a sudden, 'Mr Workshop'? No, he said, sheepishly, I'm 'Mr Office'. Right, I said, winking at him, tell DH (Mr Workshop) to get on it as soon as. He's short this week, he said, two off and plenty of regular customers in for urgent work. Get the boy to do the welding, I told him, he's two years with us now; his welding's okay. Right, he said, tucking into a Tupperware pot containing a meagre looking salad. I'll be out for the rest of the day, I informed him. Right, he said, winking at me. Oh, and I won't be about 'till the end of the week, either, I said. Don't forget you'll be needed after that, he reminded me, DH is taking a long weekend.

The Boss says The Boy can do it, he tells Mr Workshop. The Boy? Mr Workshop says, he can barely dress himself, let alone build a chassis. The Boss said he's okay, Mr Office says, and apparently all the bits are here already, and he knows you are busy. If that's what The Boss wants, Mr Workshop says, I'll try to keep an eye on it. Axle stands are in place; the cutting and welding kit is assembled close by. I need a hand with the timing, says Tech 1; that bearing is weeping again, says Tech 2; the diagnostics are not connecting says Tech 3. Mr Workshop drains oil and changes filters, servicing as he passes by, moving from bay to bay, and back again, all the time answering the calls of his technicians. The Boy's voice is not heard. Tea is taken on the move; lunch is a squeezed, gulped sandwich, oozing its filling over oily hands. The Boy cuts. The Boy measures. The Boy positions. See what you think; says Tech 1; give us a hand, says Tech 2; look at this, says Tech 3. The Boy welds. The Boy drills. The Boy assembles. Mr Workshop wipes his brow with his sleeve; Mr Office answers the phone. The days pass in the blink of an eye. We seemed to have survived intact, Mr Workshop tells Mr Office. I haven't stopped, Mr Office says, the phone just rang and rang; all those invoices; the spares I've ordered in the last few days! The workshop! Says Mr Workshop, we haven't had a moments rest. You've managed to complete all the work? Mr Office asks. All the technicians' jobs are signed off, Mr Workshop says, proudly. The lads did really well, every last one of them.

How did the chassis job go? I asked him. DH told me it went okay, he said. He signed off all the work. I'll have a look at it, I said. Too late, it's gone out, they took it for plating earlier. Oh, I said. How long did it take? Don't know, he told me, we were very busy; the Boy spent all his time on it. The Boy? The Boy!  I said. You said he could do it, he said. I told you he could do the welding; welding what bits he was told to, I said. Oh, he said. Oh? I said, Are you telling me The Boy did the whole job, alone, by himself, unsupervised? Oh dear, he said. Oh God, I said. Did he use the correct cross members on the ladder: pressed and box section for bending loads and tubes for twisting? Did he use enough flitch plate material to strengthen the rails - the frame? Did he use bolted joints to relieve stresses in some members, and weld sympathetically for torsion in the chassis. Did he consider how bolted and riveted joints become crack arresters? Did he consider stress concentrations when he drilled into the chassis rails? Oh dear, he said.

                                                   *************

It failed, they tell The Boss, the Tester said there was cracking and some of the body's mounting bolts had sheared already, so The Boss gets it back in the workshop and tells Mr Office to get on the phone to the customer and tell them there is a delay due to the volume of work and The Boy and the Boss get the plans out and the alignment kit and dismantle, cut and unbolt and then The Boy and The Boss measure, weld and bolt, and Mr Office deals with the phone.

And they stop for lunch, and they sit down together for tea, and they relax and talk -  for as long as it takes.

Nearly, Mrs Robinson

I can't help but applaud Karen Bancroft for her motives in writing to
the Department for Transport (letters: Trucking Magazine and Truckstop
News) but it's the rant and apparent confusion that mar the whole
enterprise, in my opinion. Rogue VOSA practices and foreign drivers
wrapped up in sarcasm about the treatment of her mail - it makes
difficult reading if you wish to stay focused on the point. Which
seems to be some sort of misunderstanding of the aims of the Road
Transport Working Time Directive and the EU Drivers Hours regulations:
the former is about rights, the latter about road safety. Focus on
that and all becomes clear. The job has to be done; the country
depends on it. Drive within Drivers Hours regulations, use your rest
wisely and be safe. Enjoy the extra time off given to you by the
RTWTD. And if you want something to rant about, try the fact that EU
Drivers Hours regulations (EU/561/2006) do not allow a Regular Weekly
Rest to be taken in a vehicle. It's true; ask them

Riveting Stuff

This is the first piece of writing on my new laptop. A piece of kit, I must say, that’s a vast improvement on the old one. The screen resolution is better, the operating program seems an improvement and it certainly works faster. Even the keyboard feels better. It should be no surprise, of course, it's a whole five years newer. Yes, it certainly is a better machine. How odd that if it hadn't been for the sudden death of the old one I would never have gone out and bought it in the first place. I would have struggled on, in the dark ages, making do with dated technology.

Well, that’s not completely true. In many ways the old one wasn't that much different from this one, and when you consider what most of us actually do with our computers, I would probably have carried on using it for a number of years to come. I miss the familiarity of that old laptop; I knew my way round it. I'd grown used to its quirks and the little problems that had developed during our years together. It was like an old friend. And all my files were on it; files which will now have to be transferred. I have to ask myself if this really is a better machine for me, for what I do.

However, you really need to consider the long view, and the wider sphere of life in general, to  see that renewal is always a good thing. Advancement in every arena is essential - not just in computers - and where would we be if some of the old ideas had not been replaced? Would we still believe that the sun and the planets rotate around the earth? Just as everything must grow old and die, so that it can be renewed, even we must die so that the young can relearn and re-evaluate. If Newton had been allowed to live forever at the expense of newer scientists, Einstein might never have come along with his new explanation of gravity. As the old die away, new objective thinkers come along, uncluttered by dogma so that new ideas, new technologies and new machines are born. It's as simple as that.

Well, not quite. There is the tempering effect of established wisdom to consider and how it can prevent those rash decisions that so often lead to disaster. Look at the impetuousness of youth when it comes to buying cars: doesn't just a little experience help weed out the duds, the rust heaps and oil burners. What about superseded vehicle technology that reappears decades later: multi-leaf spring designs that disappeared from cars in the seventies only to be reintroduced as an essential component on some modern four-wheel drive pick-ups. So, it's not only the secure feeling we get from familiarity that makes us value convention. There is something to be said for proven know-how. Maybe that's why many of us are prone to cling to the past.

Yes, and isn't change often just an illusion of improvement - surely, that's what fashion is, isn't it? It's obvious we have a tendency towards change as much we do towards preservation. More evidence, I suppose, of the moderating balance necessary when renewal is so important. In my own experience, I've seen canal boats made to look like old working boats despite being simply living accommodation for water gypsies - of which, I am so happy to announce, I am one myself. (The water road is like the tarmac road of the fifties: less regulated, less congested, freer.) The modern working boats are actually hire boats – although, to admit to such a view would be sacrilege to many boaters – and 'working boats' are simply privately owned vessels constructed to look like the traditional pliers of trade on the waterways. Some have modern engines, buried below the stern deck; canvas covers, that reveal sumptuous living accommodation; imitation woodwork created by a painting technique called scumbling; and all the modern gizmos – washing machines, showers and a type of flushing toilet - that make life so much easier. They even have fake rivets.

Rivets - those small, domed, thread-less and, with a little help from a hammer, self securing bolts used to join sheets of metal. Although still used in modern fabrication, riveting is a method that was once far more visible than it is today. On the canals, we love to see riveted boats; we think they are quaint, picturesque and unquestionably likable compared to some modern boats; in the same way we view wind turbines as the scourge of the countryside and windmills as as an embodiment of the perfect landscape. Wood and rivets, it would seem, might provide the disguise needed to make new appear old and turn violation into veneration: a cosmetic treatment that will cause people to turn and look instead of turning the other away.

Maybe that is what is needed in the world of trucks, where hostility exists around almost every corner to the presence of such large vehicles on our roads. Instead of concentrating on designs that appeal solely to the operator and driver – those transformer lookalikes or the sleek and shiny modular towers that most tractor unit manufacturers have adopted – what about something a little different? Why not appeal to the public at large in an attempt to make trucks more acceptable? With only a few small changes (and without destroying important aerodynamic shaping) trucks could be made to look more 'old world' and, therefore, more attractive in a traditional sense. Just a bit of Freightliner-like riveting and some fake old Scammell-like wooden coachwork (oh, and a bit of proper sign writing) could turn a juggernaut into a quaint lorry – just like the ones they had in the good old days. And my new laptop? I'll get used to it, of course, and appreciate its new features and faster systems. Soon, I won't be able to live without it.

Doctor Diesel

I`m at the quack`s; and if there`s one thing I hate it`s being `doctored`.  If it isn`t my weight he attacks it`s my drinking and, of course, he`ll always have a go at my smoking.  “I bet you wouldn`t treat your truck`s engine the way you treat your engine – that body”, he will say, waving a pointing finger between my chest and stomach.  To which I tell him that I need to treat my truck well because everyone else is trying to destroy it.  “I bet you wouldn`t accept food additives the way we have to accept the stuff they put in diesel”, I say, ensuring the argument comes to a spluttering halt.

But this time it`s different.  Obviously frustrated by the failure of his previous efforts and apparently intent on taking the argument to a new level, he tries, “If it makes the engine run better, then it`s for your own good.  Just like the benefits of a more wholesome intake that you need to be trying”.

Without further debate I relate to him this story:

In 1959 a US B52 bomber dropped unexpectedly out of the sky. As it went into an uncontrolled dive from 36,000ft to 8,000ft in less than a minute it exceeded the speed of sound and began to break up. Four of the eight man crew managed to eject but only the co-pilot survived. The cause of the tragedy – a life form so small it takes a microscope to see it, yet so catastrophic that to this day it remains a menace to planes, ships, trains and leisure boats  And, given the chance, to trucks.

“I suppose this life form was somehow connected with the lifestyles of these airmen”, he scoffs. “Don`t tell me, had they smoked they would have been all right”.

 “It`s a fuel bug I'm talking about, and in our case, Diesel Bug”, I tell him.  “A diesel engine`s worst enemy.  It clogs filters and secretes acid that can eat the innards of my fuel pump and injectors.  It`s a cancer that can spread throughout the body of an engine, eventually even wrecking it completely”.  

He looks at me closely, searching my face and eyes for any hint of mischief. “Cancer is a different matter all together and not something to be taken at lightly; it`s a prolific killer”, he says.  “Do you know how many people a week I have to tell they have the disease?  Too many, that`s how many.  Just like your engine, If only people looked more at what they put in their bodies. Less processed food, a more natural intake, and no fags, that`s all it would take for some people; they`d be so much better off". 

“How”? I hear myself saying.

“Well, they`d live longer for a start”.

“But living longer isn`t necessarily good, not for the planet or the individual, surely?  Aren`t there too many people in the world already; and too many vegetating old people?  Besides”, I continue, “it`s the bio, supposedly good stuff their bunging in diesel that`s making the situation worse for engines.  It eventually deposits water and that`s exactly what the bug wants; it lives on the interface between diesel and water.  You can`t address some problems without creating significant new ones, that`s what I think. Maybe there`s a lesson here: you shouldn`t confuse `ideal` with what, in reality, is best”. 

And then he tells me this story:

A man went to see his doctor for a check-up.  He was a middle aged man with a wife who was always complaining they couldn`t afford a decent holiday like some of their better off friends.  It transpired that the man smoked 60 cigarettes a day.  The doctor reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a calculator.  Within a minute of tapping away at its keys he held out the machine so the man could read the figure displayed.  There, he said, that`s what you spend each year on cigarettes.  You could afford two weeks in the Caribbean on that much money, all you have to do is give up smoking.

“And I suppose he quit the habit”, I say, raising my eyes to the ceiling.

“Not quite”, Doc says. “He said, yes, but for the other 50 weeks of the year I`d be f*****g miserable”.

A Man`s MAN

It came as quite a shock, the information my good lady wife imparted to me from a certain women`s magazine she was reading.  Apparently, because of the nature of their work and the separation this entails, sea captains sometimes take their wives along on voyages.  My reaction, I have to admit, wasn`t too convincing - it was very sensible, I said, for these middle aged men, travelling to the flesh spots of the world, thousands of miles from any of their wives` friends who might recognize them, to be accompanied in such a way.  The inevitable result was that my wife immediately suggested she accompany me, in my lorry, on one of my `voyages`.

When the morning of our trip came, I quickly packed my holdall: spare jeans and a few T- shirts; a handful of socks and pants; coffee and powdered milk; money for breakfast at a cafe each morning and a few sandwiches at night; laptop and my Bay Watch DVD collection - The Box Set, as I call it.  And when, at least an hour later, my wife appeared downstairs with a bag not much bigger than my own, my relief must have been obvious.  But my joy was short lived, as she announced this was simply hand luggage; her suitcase was too heavy for her to lift and I was to fetch it from the bedroom.

A brief explanation about bunks – roomy, happy, sleepy - and their arch enemy, luggage, was met with considerable incredulity as it became apparent that I had missed an essential point about our journey.  This was to be a pleasant break, not an ordeal; not some sort of macho, sweaty, unwashed smelly and most of all, cramped, expedition that only a man could enjoy. We, she explained, would be staying in hotels.  We, I said, don`t make money by staying in hotels.  There was no need to add the, `staying in hotels`, she told me, rather cruelly.  And that was that: if We were to make no money, she had decided, We would do it in comfort.  I loaded the lorry, vowing never to be unkind to a mule as long as I live, and We, my good lady wife, her wardrobe and I, headed East along the A roads of England.  

I was using a rented MAN tractor unit at that time, on a temporary contract with a curtain sided trailer.  It was easy work.  The journeys were short by my usual standards, just a few nights away at a time, and totally within the UK.  I was happily back in the land of transport cafes with English breakfasts of fried slices, black pudding, fried eggs, rashes of bacon, and mugs of tea.  “We`ll pull in at the next cafe”, I suggested to my perfumed passenger.  “Why”? She asked.  I glanced at her - and yes, she was serious. “For breakfast”, I told her.  “But you had toast this morning”, she said, “I`ve made us a cheese sandwich each for lunch, they`re in the cool box, we`ll wait until then”.  “We need to stop”, I informed her, “it`s the law”.  We`ve been going twenty-five minutes”, she said.  “I need a loo”, I tried.  “There`s bound to be a filling station before long", she said. "I`ll be able to browse the magazines while you`re in the toilet”.

The day rumbled on in sympathy with my stomach, which only received the cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps (salt & vinegar, family size) I had bought at the garage to keep me from fainting at the wheel.  “No wonder your seat in the Renault is so dirty”, she said, as I munched away at the crisps, “You`re dropping crumbs everywhere”.  The Renault was my usual tractor unit.  “I hadn`t noticed”, I said.  “I hope you don`t eat junk like this all the time you are away”, she persisted.  “They didn`t have any celery”, I assured her.

Sometime in the afternoon we joined a motorway and after clarification that my discerning driver`s mate was sure she wanted a hotel for the night, I told her that there was a motel at the next service station. “Take the A road at the next junction”, she instructed, turning to me from the GPS with her look of `non-negotiation`.   I did, as instructed, and we were lead onto a thirty mile an hour speed limit road that ran through a busy little village.  “There”, she said, pointing to a large country pub that advertised hotel accommodation.  “It`s a pub”, I protested. “There`s nowhere to park”.  “There`s a car park behind”, she said.  “Exactly, and I know this thing only has two-seats, but it ain`t no car”.  “Pull in”, she told me, “I`ll deal with this”.

I managed to get into the car park, squeezing past a couple of cars, and finally positioning the lorry along the entire length of a tree lined hedge that ran across the back of the property, covering who knows how many parking bays. A ruddy faced gent in a black suit came running from the front entrance.  “What are you doing”? He said, coming straight at me, as I climbed down from the cab. My wife appeared between us, as if gliding on a blanket of mist.  I don`t think either of us, me or the hotelier, saw her legs moving.  “We wish to stay the night”, my wife informed him.  “But this is a hotel”, he said.  “Then, mercifully", she said, "we have come to the right place”.  “But trucks are not permitted in here”, he came back, instantly.  She, though, was scanning the pub, as if not listening. We couldn`t help ourselves but follow her gaze.  First she looked at the large door at the rear of the kitchens, close to where the MAN was parked.  Then she fixed her eyes on the beer cellar`s enormous covers, which were nearby.  And then to the narrow, busy road out front.  “Where do the delivery trucks unload, then”? She asked.  “Well”, he faltered momentarily - you could literally see his shoulders drop.  “That`s different”, he said, gathering himself, manfully.  “The simple fact is you cannot stay here”.  “You said that trucks weren`t allowed in here, but they clearly are.  You lied”.  “Madam, please.”  She appeared to have him on the ropes again, but he still managed to rally. “I am the manager, please, you cannot stay”.  “We have had a long day, we are tired.  Are you saying that ...”, a long, red finger nail tapped the bronze name badge he wore on the lapel of his jacket that proudly displayed the logo and name of a chain of inns.  “... Are you saying these people will turn a forty-four tonne juggernaut loose on the road with a tired driver, during the school run”?  With that the battle was won and he turned towards the entrance of the pub and reluctantly beckoned us to follow.  As my wife made to tag along, I caught the sleeve of her blouse and said, in a low voice, “Tell him we want a room with a view, not overlooking the car park with that bloody great lorry in it”.  “Oh, shut up”, she giggled.

The room was far more luxurious than either of us expected –`bygone opulence` was their speciality, according to a leaflet displayed beside the courtesy kettle. “I don`t think I`ll join you on any more runs in the lorry”, she said later, after we had returned to the room from eating. “It`s too much aggravation. I don`t know how you do it”. I nodded and suppressed a smile. “Great, Total Recall is on later”, I said, flicking through the TV guide.  “Strictly”, she said.  “OK, if you like”, I said. She liked that stuff and anyway, I had had enough of arguing for one day.  “You know”, she said, bouncing lightly on the king-size duvet. “We needn`t watch anything, if you don`t want to”. 

The War Effort

Joey was small compared to the rest of them. Standing shoulder to shoulder or head to head was not an option for Joey; for him it was always head to shoulder.  It wasn`t as if they were Guards either; these were transport drivers, mechanics and the like, just ordinary blokes of what was considered, average height.    The fact was that Joey could only be described as being shorter than average, and then only if you were a friend of his, he was just plain short if you were not. To those that worked with him, Joey was short. REME the sign above the gate to the compound said, and to Joey, unlike most of his comrades, this meant everything: The 'Engineers' was his only true friend – Joey was neither average nor normal.

He`d enlisted as soon as he was old enough, without waiting for National Service to come calling, and was trained as a mechanic.   It was in the Far East that Joey saw active service, deployed as a recovery driver and mechanic in an area so different to home and so dense with jungle that the world he had once known disappeared.  The war, the climate – sometimes wet; always sweltering - meant that most men struggled to make sense of it, but to Joey it was a place to matter. And it was there, in his Scammell Explorer that he mattered: that giant of a lorry with all its winches, chains, pulleys, derrick and enormous towing bars dominated everything around it.  Like a man-made goliath it defied nature - engineered confidence commanding where everything else succumbed.  Joey had found the place he wanted to be - one where he towered, while the world below fought for attention. 

Joey walked as he acted, as if he were being continually measured.  He looked like he was on his toes all the time, although he wasn`t, or as if he was wearing heels, which he wasn`t either.  Joey just stretched his body to its full extent, implausibly squeezing out every last fraction of height.  Chest out, shoulders back; he used every method he knew of to appear taller.  He wrapped himself in the imaginary flags of attraction; those intended to create the illusion of `bigger`.  His Scammell was decorated with a motif copied from a fighter aircraft he`d once seen in a magazine, much to the chagrin of his superiors, and in it, with his arm resting on a half open window and exposed nearly to the shoulder by a tightly rolled shirt sleeve, Joey strutted.  To complete the image (one Joey imagined for himself) a side arm in a webbing holster hung from his hip.  But only when away from prying eyes of the compound - it was unofficial, he told all those he met.  He was glad of it, he would say, as it had got him out of many a scrape, out there alone, as he often was.  They usually nodded, rarely believed him, and without fail, sniggered behind his back.

*******************************************

From a recovery point of view, the job seemed straightforward enough.  A Bedford four-tonner, heading back from a combat zone close to an enemy held part of the country, had gone off the side of a track about 10 miles out and needed pulling from a ditch.  The trouble was the reason it was in there in the first place.  A sniper had hit the radiator and in the ensuing panic the driver had left the road.  His frantic efforts to get out of the ditch had cooked the engine and the vehicle, though, thankfully, not its occupants, was effectively dead.

Volunteers they called them, those that would brave sniper fire to rescue the four-tonner and its crew.  No one, of course, came forward from the ranks that morning. The major scanned their faces but no one so much as flinched, or met his eyes, as he looked along the line.  There was the company heavyweight boxing champion, at least six feet tall and built to destroy - the fit, the crafty, the lazy, the comedians and the new ones, they were all there, at eye level and staring blankly ahead.  “Where`s Big Joey?” the major said, with a grin that was straightaway matched by all those who stood before him.  Joey, in his usual place, under a lorry and covered in oil, was soon found and dispatched; his Scammell, trundling out of the compound, soon disappeared, enveloped in the green.

It didn`t take long for Joey to find the stricken lorry, and as he climbed from his cab, a weary looking and somewhat bedraggled figure ran towards him in a sort of half crouch, and with his head down.  In his right hand the figure carried a revolver which was attached to his belt by a lanyard.  Two pips were just about visible on the right shoulder of his sweat ridden battle dress.  Other figures, equally damp and dishevelled, huddled around the vehicle's wheels, some kneeling, some laying but all with their rifles at the ready.  Joey walked with the lieutenant back to his vehicle, their heads at the same height: Joey on his toes the other man virtually on his knees.  “Keep down, for God sake”, someone called out, “He`s still out there”.  Joey looked around him, the `he` referred to was nowhere to be seen, as far as he could see, anyway.

Joey tried to start the lorry but the information he had been given was right, it was completely unserviceable.  “You blokes seen some action?” Joey said, looking at the small group of men in admiration.  No one answered, they just looked at each other and then back at the surrounding jungle, warily, retaining their defensive positions. “Where were you going?” Joey tried again.  “The pub then home for dinner”, one said, and they all chuckled.  “Back to normality”, said another, “Away from this hell-hole”. “You wish”, the officer was smiling, “We`ve been pulled back for a bit of R `n` R, then it`s back up there, I`m afraid”, he said.  The men muttered.  “What I`d give to be back home, lovely safe job and a weekend away with the missus now and again, in a B `n` B by the sea”, someone said.  There were a few murmurs of agreement.

Joey went back to the Scammell and returned with some rope, shackles and the end of the heavy wire cable from the Scammell`s winch.  The others stayed put and looked on.  It would be no good trying to pull the Bedford directly, as it was at right angles to the track, so Joey rigged a pulley system from the back of the Scammell, via a tree opposite the Bedford, and onto the Bedford`s front axle.  To the wonder and considerable fascination of the small group hiding beside their lorry, he then proceeded to tie a number of the trees beside the track together, linking them to the one opposite the Bedford, the one to which he had previously attached a swivel block.  Then, with Joey back at the controls, the Scammell`s engine revved and the cable tightened.  The trees groaned and began to shift, straining on their feeble roots, but before long the Bedford was back up on the track; all be it still at ninety degrees to the required direction. After coaxing the Bedford`s driver back into his seat, and after instructing him to put his foot hard on the brake, Joey pulled the vehicle`s front round on its sliding, locked wheels and the Bedford was back in line.  While Joey hitched it to the rear of the Scammell, the other men ran from cover and with great relief, climbed aboard.

   *******************************************

The lorry was soon in the workshop and the unfortunate group of soldiers back on their onward journey to some well earned respite.  Joey, sweating in the humidity of a makeshift canvas cover, was getting stuck into removing the engine`s cylinder head to inspect the damage.  The other mechanics went about their business not wishing to catch Joey`s eye and be subjected, once again, to the story of how he had rescued a ditched lorry and fought his way out of the jungle, under the withering fire of a hidden sniper.