大象传媒

continued from 16a

On three consecutive days while we were in Tripsrath a squadron of R.A.F. Typhoons arrived and attacked a target beyond our range of vision, somewhere between Dorset Wood and Rheinberg. They would fly around above the fields we had under observation and dive in single file towards their target. White smoke trails scratched the pewter sky as the rockets were fired, and balls of black smoke mingled with the white as the German A.A. gunners opened fire. We could not see the result of the Typhoons' attack, but we could see the result of the Germans' retaliation. As the planes dived in quick succession through the A.A. fire one of them suddenly disappeared in a compact ball of yellow and saffron flame as the gunners scored a direct hit. From our place of observation the explosion sounded no more than a dull thud. The following planes carried on as though nothing had happened. The next two days were like 'action replays' of the first. The Typhoons arrived, circled round no more than two hundred feet up, and dived. The Germans retaliated with their A.A. fire and one of the Typhoons vanished in a ball of flame.
Not long after the third Typhoon had been shot down, and as we scanned the ground for any signs of enemy activity, I was about to call Captain McAllister's attention to something I had seen when he forestalled me.
"Have you counted those haystacks in that field out there in front of us?" he asked.
"Yes, of course I have, sir. All thirteen of 'em."
"You can't bloody count," he growled. "There's only eleven."
"Then it must be the breeding season for haystacks," I told him, "there's thirteen of' em now.鈥�
He gave me a peculiar glance and started to count them again.
"You're quite right, sir," I agreed. "There were only eleven when I first counted 'em. The other two have just come into the field. They're not haystacks, they're camouflaged tanks."
Even as I spoke, the two tanks that had just entered the field turned about and went back the way they had come. We called up the guns immediately and laid down a thick smoke screen. When the smoke had finally cleared off, so had the tanks.
Meanwhile, the D.C.L.I., after holding firm for four days against incessant shellfire in appalling weather, were ordered to capture the hill village of Hoven. It was this action which a Second Army spokesman described as "one of the great stories of British participation in the war." It ranks thus because the aim of the attack was to threaten the Germans opposing the Americans on the other side of the valley by turning their flank, and that an entry into Hoven would cause the Germans to pull back. The D.C.L.I. got into Hoven but the odds against them were too great. Counter-attacked and besieged, they were surrounded almost from the start. Early next morning the remnants of the gallant Company, some seventeen men all told, returned to the battalion lines in the rear.

The guns of 172 Battery were lined up in a field just outside Bauchem, in the Geilenkirchen sector, and, because we had been called in from the O.P., Nobby and I helped to lay the telephone lines from the Troop Command Post to the guns. Laying them to Nos. 1, 2 and 3 guns was a simple, straightforward job, but laying one to No.4 gun was not so easy. A wide anti-tank ditch, one of the Siegfried Line defences, about fifteen feet wide and twenty feet deep, cut the field in two like an enormous "V". It ended at the rough track at the end of the field, about two hundred yards in front of the guns, and continued in the neighbouring field. The gun had been driven along the track, past the end of the ditch, and across the field to take up its position in line with the other guns. This was too far round and would take too long to lay and secure the line properly, and getting the lines laid and fully operational as quickly as possible was most essential.
The quickest way between two points is a straight line, and once again, that remarkable aptitude peculiar to the British Tommy asserted itself. In a very short time a substantial-looking length of timber bridged the trench. Pushing a coil of cable under the end of the timber - always leave plenty of slack, we had been taught, when learning line-laying - we made sure it was firmly weighted before edging carefully across the plank, paying out the cable as we went. The plank started to sag a little under our weight. The further we went, the more it sagged; until we passed the halfway stage; then the sag gradually lessened. We reached the end of the plank and pushed more slack under it. The cable sagged shallowly over the ditch, like twin yellow lines drawn on a brown board.
Having laid the lines to our satisfaction and tested them from the Command Post to make sure they all worked properly, we made our way to the billet allocated to us, which was the end house of a row of damaged and unoccupied buildings next to the field in which the guns were sited. The signallers occupied a large room on the ground floor. The room was pleasantly warm with the heat from a large iron stove in the recess where Ted Maher had his bed space, and some of them were taking advantage of a brief lull in the fighting in our locality to relax and enjoy a quiet chat. We did not have the chance to join in the conversation, for another signaller rushed in immediately behind us with the stentorian cry of "Grub up!" and in seconds the room was left with nothing but the metallic echo of hastily- snatched-up mess tins, plates and eating irons.
We dribbled back in ones and twos, prodding at our dinners with our forks as we walked, and squatted on our blankets to enjoy the meal. The chilly November air had sharpened our appetites. Ted Maher had his dinner on a pewter plate he had liberated on his travels and he placed it on top of the stove to keep warm while he re-adjusted his blankets to provide a more comfortable seat. When he tried to lift it off the stove only the deep side of the plate came away in his hands. The flat base, with his dinner on it, had stuck to the stove top.
Military historians have described Geilenkirchen as one of the first major German cities to fall into Allied hands in World War Two, but to "D" Troop signallers it was the scene of the discovery of the hidden hoard. Some of them were grouped around Ted's bed in the recess when one of them accidentally kicked the side of the chimney breast. To his surprise a brick moved slightly with the impact and when he bent down to investigate the brick pulled out quite easily. He tried the adjoining brick and it, too, came out. "Hey, look at this, chaps," he exclaimed. "It's hollow."
Immediately, other hands started to pull at the adjoining bricks and they also came away from the wall quite easily. More bricks were removed eagerly until there was a hole big enough for a man to crawl through.
"Got a lamp handy?" asked the man who had dislodged the first brick. "I'll go in and see what's what."
A cycle lamp was quickly produced and handed to him and he vanished inside the hole. Several seconds of shuffling and scraping followed his disappearance, and then came an excited gasp. "There's something in here. A pile of stuff."
"What is it?" everyone asked at once. We were all crowded into Ted's corner now.
"Hang on. I'll see if I can shift it." Then, a few seconds later, his voice came to us as from a great distance. "Here you are. Cop hold of it when I pass it out."
A square object was passed through the aperture and willing hands accepted it. It was a beautiful oil painting of Christ on the Cross, surrounded by angels, with an intricate border in white and gold. The lads handled it with the utmost care when they saw what it was, and placed it almost reverently on a pile of blankets for safety.
Another painting was passed out, then another, until about a dozen of them lay on the blankets. Then the muffled voice came from inside the hole again. "That's all there is of them. Now grab hold of this lot." And through the aperture came a cardboard carton followed in quick succession by other cardboard cartons. Full of bottles; full bottles. And then a red-faced and dusty signaller emerged from the hole and announced: "That's the lot."
The bricks had just been hurriedly replaced when Captain Gibb entered the room. He gave a long and puzzled look at the booty and asked what it was.
"Loot, sir," was someone's unashamed reply.
"Where did it come from?"
"In here sir." And the speaker obligingly kicked the bricks in again.
"Do you think they're worth anything, sir?鈥� someone asked hopefully, pointing to the paintings.
"I don't know," replied Captain Gibb. "I don't know anything about art, but there's an artist chap with the Americans just down the road who might be able to help. I'll get him to come and have a look at them." He then turned his attention to the bottles. "And I'll send a truck to collect these. We can use them in the Mess."
He turned and left the room, to return some time later accompanied by an American soldier. To our disappointment the G.I. told us there were no great masterpieces among the paintings, their total value he estimated to be in the region of 拢1200 to 拢1500, and as there was an Anglo-American department that dealt with looted property he would see they were handed over to them to try and trace the rightful owners. Not long after they had left, the truck arrived to collect the booze. We helped to load it, but most of it was Muscatel or other harmless drinks. The French Brandy, dated 1870, had been safely hidden in our blankets!
We were surprised but pleased when, the next morning, the B.B.C. arrived at "D" Troop gun position to do an on-site broadcast for "Combat Diary." As soon as their engineers had the equipment in position and were ready to start recording the gunners were stood down and retired to their dugouts. The shoot was to be recorded from the start, and those of us who were not directly involved stood around to watch.
Suddenly: "Take Post:" The stentorian voice came from the tannoy in front of the guns as Captain Gibb gave the orders from the Command Post, and the gunners immediately came running and stumbling from their dugouts and took their places on the guns.
"What's happening?" the B.B.C. man asked, shoving his microphone towards the R.S.M. who, being as loquacious as only an Irishman can be, had been chosen to do the commentary.
"The men are taking their positions on the guns. That's what the order 'Take Post' means," the R.S.M. explained. "When a gunner hears it he will go to his place on the gun whether he be half asleep, half drunk or half dead."
"I see. And what's happening now?" the B.B.C. man wanted to know, as Captain Gibb's voice came from the tannoy again
"Each gun troop usually has its own forward observation party somewhere in a forward area with the leading section of infantry, and when the O.P. crew see a target worth shooting at they radio the information to the Command Post, where the co-ordinates for the target are worked out, and the officer then gives the orders to the guns. That is what Captain Gibb is doing now."
鈥淲hat target are they firing at?"
"An enemy observation post that's been causing our infantry some trouble."
Captain Gibb continued to give his sequence of fire orders and the R.S.M. explained them to the B.B.C. man. As soon as the order 'Report when ready' was given the sergeant in charge of each gun reported ready and raised his hand to signify the fact .
"Fire!" yelled Captain Gibb, and the guns roared simultaneously.
"Reload!" And another shell and cordite were rammed home.
"Fire!" Again the guns roared as one.
The R.S.M. had his binoculars glued to his eyes as he stared fixedly towards a distant point. Then he yelled excitedly. "They've hit it: They've hit it: Bloody good shooting. It's coming down. Yes, it's coming down. They've got it. Bloody well done:"
What a load of propaganda bull that was. We couldn't see as far as the hedge at the end of the field for the mist!

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