大象传媒

Having passed through the Army course at Compton Verney, we had a spell in Barrow-in-Furness with the other 'Heavy Support Company's', who, with us, were joining The 5th.Army in Europe. The idea was to get to know your counterparts in the other battalions, so that, if in the future the need should arise, there would be complete communication. Its nice to know who you are dealing with.

We were H.S. Company, 32nd. Battalion R.M. and would be with our respective battalions later. A couple of weeks later we were on our way, by train to Tilbury Docks. It was a long day, for we had to go the pretty way round for security reasons, and ended up in a little wayside halt, ill-equipped for unloading some of our vehicles that were on the same train. In particular, the Bren-carriers, these had been loaded into standard high-sided mineral trucks, by an overhead crane. Which was fine for hiding them from prying eyes, but here there was only a trackside derrick, the jib of which only just reached the centre-line of the track.

Of course, it wasn't our problem, we were only interested spectators, but it was soon apparent that the officer in charge had even less-than-average skills than the chaps trying to do the unloading. Standing next to me was Fred Burt, just about the oldest Marine in the ranks, (and the smallest), muttering,

"Those silly buggers are going to kill someone", and with that he broke ranks, marched up to the officer in charge, saluted, and said,

"I'll take charge of this, Sir". He then took over without further ado. He organised a squad to manhandle the trucks to position them under the crane, and another to be on the truck to manhandle the slung Bren-carrier. This he had shackled to the hook, so that it was suspended at an angle. This allowed the lowest track to pass through the dropped side door. Then by pushing the truck along the track at the same time as pivoting the suspended load, everything came clear, to be lowered to the ground. What also came clear, was that Fred knew what he was doing, but after the last truck was empty, he suddenly became marine Burt again, self-effacing as ever, he just turned and walked away.

I don't think anybody even thanked him.

There wasn't any further bother, and only a few miles away there was an American L.S.T. waiting for us, and all our vehicles for the battalion were loaded, including the three-tonner containing all my explosives.

We were exhausted, and a night on board was just great. The Yanks sure know how to look after themselves, there was unlimited coffee on tap, 24-hour help yourself, sugar and milk too, and we did!

The dinner they gave us almost had us changing allegiance, not only did we get a choice of more dishes than we got in month, but they gave us a compartmentalised tray, (their dinner plate), the size of a card table, and expected us to fill it.

And empty it too, no shortages here.

Ostend was the next jumping off place, and we had a billet for the night, in the catacombs. I had the top bunk, three high, on the most rickety construction ever, just 4 x 4" nailed, (no joints) with square mesh wire, and that's it. No mattress, or pillow, or even a blanket. Not that I would have been inclined to use them anyway, after all, it was a transit camp, and you don't need the hassle of de-lousing every time you wake. We had arrived late afternoon from Tilbury, in the American L.S.T. and everything had been taken care of, so to all intents we had a night off.

The transit camp was running on the labour of D.P.s (deported persons), and seeing them preparing the meals was enough to put you off for ever. The catacombs all branched off a main tunnel, and right in the middle, at the junction, a fire was burning, and on it was the biggest cauldron I've ever seen. The D.P. cooks, several of them, stripped to the waist, were tipping in anything they thought edible, to make a stew for the nights meal, a real witches brew.

We had heard that Hitler had committed suicide. and thought that perhaps there might be some sort of celebration going on, so we, Fred and I, thought we'd walk around the town for a while. We were told OK, but observe only, do not get involved, or interfere in any way, with anything you may see or hear - that is official! The obvious place to start is the market square near the harbour, and something was on.

It was a trial, the defendant (?) was stood on a raised platform, his face covered with blood, his teeth and mouth all smashed in. As we stood there, someone came up behind us, and said,

"Just stand still, and I will tell you". He wore the uniform of the Free French Navy.

"In the last few days, local people who were taken away for slave labour, have returned, (those that survived), and are seeking retribution on the bastards who shopped them. The fires that you see all over the city are the possessions of those quislings, thrown into the streets, and burnt, so that everyone knows who they are".

"This is justice at work, there must be a trial and they can plead if they wish, we know they are guilty, so we take care of it". At this moment the wretch on the dock, was mumbling, and dripping blood and teeth, and the mob roared guilty, and two executioners, one either side stepped in with knives, and dispatched the prisoner on the spot. The body was then taken to the dockside and thrown in the harbour. A little further along the jetty, an old man, a veteran from the W.W.1. was using a grappling iron to fish the bodies out, and laying them in a row, all along the fish market. The last one had hardly disappeared, when another was brought out from what appeared to be a cellar below, but this one was dragged. He appeared to have expired before being brought out, but it made no difference, the trial went on. The only variation, was that the corpse was propped upright with the aid of what appeared to be a boathook. Sickened by all this we turned away, to find our commentator had moved off out of sight. We had gone some way round the edge of the crowd to get back out of the way, when the next episode unfolded in front of us.

Apparently one of the prisoners had escaped, and in a frantic panic to get away, he had climbed into the girders of the roof of the Maritime Railway Station. He had been seen, and the mob had followed, throwing anything they could lay their hands on, bricks, bottles, bits of metal. We'd had enough, and not having any money that was acceptable to buy a drink, made our way back to the catacombs.

The early start next morning, came as a light relief, for a large square in the back of the town, was the meeting point for the convoys. But someone had miscalculated, for there were three battalions of Marines, and the vehicles had just pulled in anywhere they could find space. There was no co-ordinator, and everyone was milling around, trying to find something familiar. Then somebody went:

鈥淏AA-BAAA-BAARR鈥�, and almost like a switch had turned, everybody was at it.
Oh! Brother, what a flock, so, sound like it!

What a brilliant start for all.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.