Name, Rank and Serial Number

Because a bullet travels faster than the speed of sound, Corporal Dick Hobcroft of the Australian 9th Infantry Division never heard the shot that left him lying dead in the sands of the West African desert near Tobruk on Easter Monday 1941. His death released him from the obligation to reveal only his name, rank and serial number if captured. That information had become the mantra which he constantly repeated under his breath as the battle raged. "Richard Charles Hobcroft, Corporal, serial number 29350136... Richard Charles Hobcroft, Corporal, serial number 29350136."

Back in Australia, his family may have been comforted by assurances that his death had not been in vain. Rommel's Afrika Corps had been repulsed and the fortress of Tobruk remained in Allied hands.

I knew nothing of him until I began meditation classes. When I tried to blank out my thoughts and cares, Corporal Hobcroft rose to the surface of my conscious mind in an endless repetition of his name, rank and serial number. Once he was released in this way, his interminable recitation would invade my head in quiet moments so often that I just had to find out whether he ever really existed or was merely the product of a sick mind.

Before going to see a shrink, I telephoned the Department of Defence in Canberra. The lady in the records section was very helpful after I lied to her that Corporal Hobcroft was my uncle and I needed the information for a family history. It was then that I learned he had not only existed but was killed in battle at Tobruk on 13th April 1941 -- the day I was born.

I don't believe in reincarnation or any of that stuff, but it was too much of a coincidence to be ignored -- although that's just what I did. I ignored it and put up with Corporal Hobcroft whenever he surfaced, that is until my wife and I embarked on our first overseas trip. Betty has been fascinated by things Egyptian since she studied archaeology at university, so Cairo was our first stopover.

To escape museums for a day and satisfy my curiosity, I travelled to Tobruk to find Richard Hobcroft. I had no clear idea why I had come to this Australian war cemetery in the desert, but I felt drawn to discover that corner of a foreign field that was forever Richard Charles Hobcroft. Finding it, I just stood there, not thinking of anything. The expected voice reciting name, rank, and serial number was nowhere to be heard, and slowly I began to feel a lightness of spirit, as if released from a burden. I had brought Dick Hobcroft home. I have not heard his voice since that quiet moment in a sandy cemetery when I stood before a small headstone on which was inscribed the information I knew so well.