大象传媒

The enemy, noting the feverish activity, brought down a severe mortar and artillery stonk presaging a counter-attack, and it did me a power of good to watch Sir Charles scampering around in search of a better 鈥榦le in the time honoured Old Bill tradition, for which he was deservedly awarded a Military Cross. Then came a series of counter-attacks, ending all hope of sleep that night.

A young very scared Argyle private came banging on a hatch claiming his section corporal had disappeared and begged to be allowed inside the tank, which Sergeant Porter would not permit even if there had been room for him. Instead I was sent with him back to his slit trench to calm him and keep him company and felt like a tortoise without a carapace, and pined to return to my shell and leave the wide-open noisy spaces to the Poor Bloody Infantry.
It was so dark that he had to practically lead me by the hand to his trench, as I was now becoming aware of being afflicted with night blindness brought about no doubt, by some vitamin deficiency in childhood. And picking up the Bren gun I felt under my feet in the bottom of the trench, I was shocked to find a hand clamped to the pistol grip with forefinger wrapped around the trigger. I prised it off and threw it out into the night, but could feel other revolting substances adhering to the stock that I tried to ignore.
The private hadn鈥檛 seen the Corporal receive a direct hit, only that there had been a brilliant flash and when he came to his senses the Corporal was gone. And he didn鈥榯 know about the Corporal鈥檚 hand still attached to the Bren gun until I found it. A last pre-dawn attack by the Germans came and I fired the Bren blindly at perceived shadows flitting about in front of us, the emboldened private at my side did the same with his rifle and claimed many hits. But it was the torrent of fire passing over our heads from the guns of the Honeys behind that broke up the attack, helped by precision shelling from M-10s further behind.
The first sliver of dawn in the East found the private curled up in a corner of the trench in a deep sleep of exhaustion. I glanced at the slit trenches either side but no helmeted heads showed for dawn stand-to, and shuddered to think that we must have been out here all night with no other infantry around to support us. I slid quietly out of the trench and hurried back to my Honey, relieved to be back home and safe with my family again.
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The following day, whilst the battalion reconstituted itself with tanks and men from the Forward Delivery Squadron and buried the blanket wrapped dead, Captain Pember sent us on paired patrols to glean what intelligence we could resulting from the recent battle. We were paired with Bert Porter鈥檚 pal, Sergeant Robin Caulder and in a small wood we made the interesting discovery of two huge behemoths that I swear were the ones that had done for 鈥淪鈥� Squadron. Covered by the Honey鈥檚 guns, Guardsman Deuchars the hull gunner of the other tank and I were sent to inspect them. With cocked revolvers we cautiously approached the massive machines, but no enemy living or dead were around.

There were signs of hurried abandonment as items of kit were strewn haphazardly around but the machines were intact, although one had shed an easily repairable track and the frontal plates of both were scarred with many AP hits, presumably from the guns of 鈥淪鈥� Squadron, but none had penetrated what looked like a foot of frontal armour. I was impressed with the interiors of these giants; so spacious compared our sardine tins that passed for tanks that it was like comparing a stretched limousine with a cramped Austin 7. And the driver even had a steering wheel instead of rudimentary steering sticks. The most worrisome thing of all was that we hadn鈥檛 yet encountered the much dreaded Tiger nor the even bigger King Tiger, which boded ill for the Churchill crews with only four inches of frontal plate for protection. And a Tiger鈥檚 88 and the Panther鈥檚 super 75 solid shot would scarcely notice passing through the inch and a half of an Honey鈥檚 frontal armour and carrying on out the other side.
I began to realise that this campaign would be one of attrition; German superior design, quality and tactics versus Anglo/American massed produced rubbish and high expectations, and the rate of exchange in machines and men would be about five to one until we ran out of men and lost the war. There would have been an even higher casualty rate if it weren鈥檛 for the Fighter-bombers, as after Normandy the words Tiger, Panther and 88 over the air, would bring an armoured division to a grinding halt until the Typhoons came to clear the way ahead. I think they destroyed more German armour than all the Allied tanks put together did.

On the 6th of August we moved to a place called La Caviere, and came under heavy shell and mortar fire as we prepared to take part in what became known as the Battle of Estry. In our thin skinned Honeys we took refuge in an orchard so that the HE shells exploded amongst the branches overhead, and the shrapnel rattled harmlessly against our armour like hailstones. Left Flank with the HLI had already pushed off towards Estry, and attached to Right Flank we would support the Argyles in an attack on a prominence shown on the map as Point 208. We had scouted the area the evening before to establish contact with the enemy, which is a euphemism for drawing enemy fire. And apart from surprising and killing a couple of panzerfaust operators, we had seen nothing worth reporting and it was our opinion that the Jerry had pulled out and the attack would be stroll in the park. But we were wrong.

What we didn鈥檛 know was that our opponents were the veteran 9th SS Panzer Division, top quality troops and they had skilfully camouflaged their Tigers and Panthers in barns, copses, sheds and haystacks even. And were far too professional and experienced to reveal these positions to what was obviously a sacrificial reconnaissance patrol. So the scene was set for the sort of ambush their namesakes would spring in the wilds when the Churchills lumbered into their sights like a herd of Wildebeests. And what chance did a Churchill have against a King Tiger that at 68 tons was nearly 30 tons heavier, and had a gun that fired twice as far and at 24 mph, could cover ground twice as fast? The short answer is none.

I was happy to be attached to Right Flank as apart from our highly efficient Troop Leader Captain Pember, we came under the command of competent officers one had trust in such as Lieutenants Laing, Scott-Barrett and Runcie. The latter an earthy humorous man who really surprised me by becoming the spiritual leader of the Anglican Church. We got the order to attack and the infantry appeared from their subterranean burrows and tucking themselves in behind the battle tanks, we surged forward towards Hill 208 in a mob like spectators leaving a football match. Shells rained down on us from high ground on the right, which came as a surprise as that feature was supposed to have been cleared by Grenadier tanks and the Gordon Highlanders. As we drew near to Hill 208, mortars joined in with the shelling and the Argyles couldn鈥檛 get forward and were being so severely mauled, they sensibly went to ground. The tanks lined up and advancing slowly, began blasting the slopes of the hill with their cannons and MG鈥檚, which troubled me, as I couldn鈥檛 see what we were supposed to be shooting at.

Then I saw a tank near the summit that a moment ago was a small clump of bushes, until a shell blew off its camouflage to reveal a Panther. I began to spot other camouflaged Panzers, given away by their long lean snouts as they tracked their prey then killed them. Our role was to use speed to stay ahead of the Panzer鈥檚 cumbersome traverse gear and nullify Panzerfausts that threatened the battle tanks flanks at close quarters, as well as the Spandau nests that were ripping our infantry apart. Archie dealt with these by driving at the weapon pits and skid turning on top to crush them, which generally sealed their fate so to speak. Whilst I toppled any survivors that managed to escape with lethal bursts from my Browning. And that remains my main memory of this battle.
The artillery put down a smoke screen that prevented even worse carnage, followed by a creeping barrage that we stayed close behind and by early evening we reached the top of Hill 208 and took up positions to repel a counter-attack. I cracked open my hatch and inhaled the wonderful sweet fresh air, and on the shell pocked slope behind lay a swathe of knocked out Churchill tanks with many bodies of both German and Argyle infantrymen strewn around them, but not one disabled German tank to be seen.

We were withdrawn next day to refuel and replenish the tanks and enjoy the luxury of a shower in a mobile bath unit. I thought this an ideal time to change the dressings on my legs having been on a while but found this unnecessary, as the flesh had healed into pink scars that I would carry for the rest of my life. An incident occurred revealing another facet of war, a Sergeant ushered a weeping Guardsman up to Buster鈥檚 scout car who clutched the wrist of a hand with a bullet hole through the palm, but the back of the hand was a mess of pulped flesh with splinters of white bone showing through. He claimed accidental discharge of his revolver and the bullet hitting his hand, but Buster was having none of this. He berated him for a coward and howled for Wacky and without the benefit of a field dressing to cover the wound, to come and march him to the rear and hand him over to the military police for court-martialling. I suppose Caumont and Estry in quick succession had proved a bit too much for him, and I personally thought it the act of a despairing man to maim oneself like that.

On the 10th of August we prepared to do battle for yet another hill with the support of Welsh Guards infantry at a place called Chenedolle, or China Doll in our parlance, and once again against determined SS opponents. This involved a night march southwest to get into position, and at first light we were drawn up on the starting line awaiting the signal to go.
As dawn broke we could see we were back in the bocage, which was like trying to fight a conventional war in a jungle but I think the dense foliage helped to keep our losses down. The hill to be taken, point 242, was steep with a false summit and the German infantry were dug into the hedgerows and backed by Panthers, and had plenty of artillery and mortar support to call on. We were attached 鈥淪鈥� Squadron who had missed Estry due to reforming after their losses at Caumont, and with a Company of Welsh Guards, we kicked off at 0630 prompt.
We immediately came under heavy fire and gaps appeared in the orderly lines of advancing Welshmen as men were hit and went down, the walking wounded picking themselves up and struggling back to the rear with pale stricken faces. The Panthers played their usual game of lurking behind hedges and picking off passing targets at close range. Whilst the Honeys had a lively time trying to suppress panzerfaust operators who bobbed up like Meercats out of holes in the ground to fire their weapons.
The Welsh Guards were good at locating machine gun nests for us to destroy, and took it upon themselves to probe the high hedges to see what unpleasantness awaited us in the next field, and waving us forward if clear. Then came a stroke of unprecedented luck, one of the battle tank鈥檚 commanders, a Lieutenant Ward, peered through a gap in an hedge and saw two Panthers just a few feet away on the other side and presenting their vulnerable flanks towards him. He summoned up another Churchill from his troop and they knocked out a Panther each at point blank range and as far as I know, these were the only two enemy tanks to be knocked out by the battalion during the whole of the Normandy fighting.
We took the hill early noon by the proven expedient of advancing close behind a rolling barrage that destroyed or drove the enemy tanks back, and catching the German infantry as they emerged from holes to set up their weaponry for defence. But they fought hard, and only surrendering after taking heavy casualties and when further resistance became hopeless.

This was the end of our fighting in Normandy, as the battle of Chenedolle Ridge finally smashed through the German defences and their front collapsed. The more agile Shermans of the Armoured Divisions racing through to cut off thousands of retreating enemy at Falaise and the choked roads becoming a massive killing ground for the fighter-bombers, whilst the Guards Armoured Division raced on to liberate Brussels.
We rested and refitted and counted the cost of the three battles. Out of strength of 600 men we鈥檇 had about a 100 casualties with half of those killed, which was considered extremely light. Of the tanks we had lost 30 out of a complement of 60. But on the plus side we had destroyed two Panthers, which I suppose are about the right odds considering the Churchills were always exposed to the awesome firepower of camouflaged Panzers lurking in ambush. And of course there was the added bonus of many enemy infantry reportedly killed in the hedgerows by our effective machine gun fire, and of many enemy surrendering as a result. So, we hadn鈥檛 done too badly with what tools we had.

The front line rapidly receded and we followed in its wake, thinking this fluid warfare spelt the end of our usefulness as the Churchills were far too slow for fast moving operations. But surprisingly there were plenty of memorable actions ahead of us yet, like the desperate battles fought in the soggy wetlands of the Low Countries to reach the Rhine. The long bitterly cold patrols behind enemy lines in the frozen Ardennes to assess the scale and effect of Von Runstead鈥檚 attack. Crossing the turbulent Rhine on rafts to link up with the 6th Airborne to prevent the nightmare of another Arnhem happening through lack armoured support. The 120-mile long march on Munster with units of the American 17th Airborne riding on our tanks, and on the way Captain Pember being killed by a volley of so called 鈥渇riendly fire.鈥� He was shot in the back as he and I along with Sgt. Porter were holding off an enemy infantry attack with our Brownings. The grim claustrophobic fighting and constant ambushes in the gloomy dark rides and trails of the interminable German forests, culminating in the dash to reach the Baltic Sea before the Russians to prevent a Soviet occupation of Denmark.

At the age of 18 when I went into the Army, I viewed my involvement in the war as a once in a lifetime adventure I was determined not to miss. And I saw things, did things and went places with a crew to whom I became more closer attached to than family. And even more satisfying, I was at the forefront of forces that had fought the best soldiers of the finest army in the world, and forced them back from the Normandy beaches and clear across a continent, to finally defeat them on the shores the Baltic Sea. I think I had earned my spurs and wouldn鈥檛 have missed this experience for the world - but I wouldn鈥檛 care to do it again.

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