Beneath Tunisia’s blazing skies in April, Forty three, the Micks, those fighting Irish Guards, wrote a page in history.

The Djebel Bou Aoukaz, strongly held by German bands

overlooked the road to Tunis.Kept the prize from Allied hands.

“Take the Bou” headquarters ordered, “Take and hold it at all cost” To the captains, to the Non – coms, down the ranks the news was tossed.

Battle weary bodies stiffened for, full well , the Guardsmen knew that a mile of open grassland stretched between them and the Bou.

Upon dead ground the mick’s prepared to meet the hail of fire and many a prayer for courage rose, they felt the need was dire. 

The Battalion paraded, every detail was made clear and then the order to advance fell on each waiting ear.

God alone knows how they did it. How they faced that mile of hell on they marched as if parading.

No one faltered many fell. Down from view the stricken guardsmen, dropped among the waist high hay.

so with tin hat and with rifle, comrades marked the place they lay.

A forest of hats that field appeared before the Micks got through for when they reached the further side they numbered very few.

One company with ten men left attacked and seized a hill.  The commander though wounded thrice was fighting with them still. 

During that night at 2 am more guardsmen came along and all that day they held that hill against the German throng. 

By dusk the Huns and reached a spot not twenty yards away.  So close that every Mick could hear the words they had to say. 

They heard a German sergeant take a roll call of his men.  So many failed to answer the attack was not made then. 

With ammunition running low, with food and water done. Their only line of succour by the Germans overrun. 

Half mad with thirst and hunger with their backs against the wall. At one pm the following day the Germans made attack with infantry and armour but the infantry fell back. 

The German tanks rolled on unchecked and took the Guardsmen’s flank. For how can Bren’s and rifles fight and win against a tank. 

Surrounded now on every side, the Micks in sorry plight were fired upon by every gun the Germans had in sight.

  With swollen tongues, the wounded men lay neath the blazing sun.  No shade would come to ease their lot before the day was done. 

At dawn next day, a carrier got to them with supplies.  Twas like a sight of heaven to starving Guardsmen’s eyes. 

As soon as they had eaten the sergeant major said, “I’ll spy out the position from the ridge just overhead.” 

He reached the top then hurried back with vital news to tell.  He had found the attacking Germans were at the ridge as well. 

Eighteen Irish Guards were sent to stem this grave attack. With bayonet, gun and hand grenade they drove the Germans back. 

This was the last attempt they made to move the gallant few.  Then in due course relief arrived and so the Micks withdrew. 

Three days, three nights, the fight had raged around that hill of hell and only eighty men survived this history to tell. 

Though you search the whole world over you’ll find no man who licks those soldiers of the Bulldog breed. The Irish Guards. 

The Micks.

Arthur Britton and AN Other