- Contributed by听
- Thomas Emyr Davies
- People in story:听
- Thomas Emyr Davies (Tom Davies) ; William (Bill) Wilson ; Joe Waterhouse
- Location of story:听
- Brecon; Hereford; Tatton Park and Ringway Aerodrome; North Africa; Sicily; Grimsthorpe Castle; Arnhem; Stalag IV B Muhlberg, Germany
- Background to story:听
- Army
- Article ID:听
- A3531412
- Contributed on:听
- 16 January 2005
Thomas Emyr (Tom) Davies, aged 21, on joining up with the South Wales Borderers in 1939
Sicily - 9th July 1943
The airborne attacks against the Axis forces in Sicily comprised operations by British and American troops. The flying conditions for the initial landings which were carried out entirely by glider-borne troops were not at all good. A south-east wind had risen, giving trouble to the tugs and gliders, blowing them off course as the gale reached wind-speeds of 45 mph. With the possibility of detection by radio tracking making it necessary to fly fairly low, the breakers of the angry seas below could be seen clearly by the pale light of a thin moon.
Malta, with its knife-edged cliffs emphasised by the shafts of light from half a dozen searchlights piercing the sky, served as a useful guide to the invading forces. The ground chosen for the landing and dropping zones was partly cultivated, strewn thickly with orchards and stretches of pasture lands. The first to land were in the zones west of the Maddelena peninsula on the south side of the great harbour where the Athenian fleet was destroyed twenty-three centuries ago.
Many of the gliders were released prematurely from their tugs and the offshore wind raising clouds of dust from the arid Sicilian shore enhanced by the darkness of night, made things extremely difficult. This could have proved fatal to the success of the operation with fifty out of the one hundred and eight gliders, crashing into the sea and twenty-five not being heard of again.
The main objective was to secure the bridge, 鈥淧onte Grande鈥 near Syracuse and attack the western outskirts of the city, creating a diversion to ease the task of the sea-borne landings of the troops coming in on the beaches which were to be the spearhead of General Montgomery鈥檚 8th Army. The bridge was taken, lost and retaken within a matter of forty-eight hours, enabling the troops to establish themselves firmly in Syracuse for the march northwards to Catania, which was to be the scene of the landings by the Parachute Brigade forty-eight hours later. Their objective was the bridge called 鈥楶limsole鈥 which crossed the Simeto on the well-cultivated plain stretching from the hills outside Syracuse including Mount Etna down to the port of Catania.
We also had to dispose of an anti-aircraft battery and form a bridgehead in the loop of the Simeto about one thousand yards north of the Plimsole, but here again things did not go altogether to plan. Misfortune struck again when a number of the aircraft carrying the Parachute Brigade, consisting of Albemarles and Halifaxes were forced to take evasive action to avoid anti-aircraft fire. The Dakotas were not armoured and did not have self-sealing fuel tanks so it was a very risky business. They were forced to fly off the pre-arranged course into what was called the Danger Zone, a belt five miles wide running along the coast of Sicily. Naturally, the commanders of the Allied ships in the bay, having been harassed and fired upon sporadically by enemy aircraft, could not afford to take any chances with aircraft flying in line with them. The responsibility for their ships and men being their first concern and recognition of aircraft being extremely difficult in the circumstances, quite a few of our own planes were shot down into the sea by Allied naval guns, many ironically enough were picked up by the very ships which had shot them down.
Twenty seven aircraft for some reason or other had to return to base in North Africa without unloading their parachutists, amongst which my own was included. This, I am sure, we must attribute to the fortunes of war and it would be most unjust to put the blame on anyone in particular.
As our aircraft approached the Sicilian coast, we ran into very heavy 鈥榝lak鈥 from the shore batteries. The plane bucked and rocked drunkenly, red hot sparks shooting past the port-holes of the Dakota. Then, with a terrific lurch, we plunged recklessly seaward. Every rivet of the machine screamed in protest at the heavy load it was given, the frightening roar of the engines drowning our cries of 鈥淕et off my bloody legs!鈥 as we were all thrown on top of each other into an untidy heap on the floor at the front of the aircraft. Panic set in fast as we tried to untangle ourselves in order to make for the door, the angle of the plane making this virtually impossible. The engine noise now rose to a screaming crescendo as we caught a quick flash, by the light of the pale moon, of the mountainous waves of the angry seas below. Then, by some Herculean effort and the grace of God, the pilot had the plane righted again and flying on an even keel. With great relief, we were able to struggle back to our feet once more, adjusting our loads ready for 鈥榓ction stations鈥 and taking up our former positions ready for jumping.
However, not much time had elapsed before word was passed around that we were on our way back to base in North Africa and would not be dropping in Sicily after all. Frustration and a sense of helplessness hung over us like a blanket. Hardly anyone spoke; every glance was expressive and full of significance.
Arriving back at camp some hours later, we learned that quite a number of aircraft besides ours had returned without discharging their men. We were naturally very concerned and anxiously awaited news of the boys who were struggling on in Sicily, obviously undermanned for the momentous task confronting them.
Despite all these setbacks, about a third of the original invading force dropped according to plan and here again the bridge over Simeto was captured, lost and recaptured after some very bitter fighting, the margin between success and defeat being very narrow indeed.
The remnants of the Parachute Brigade managed to hang on by the skin of their teeth until troops of the 8th Army arrived, supported by tanks of the 4th Armoured Brigade. Even then, there could be no relaxing of effort as the enemy, assisted by the German airborne troops, put up some very stout resistance. A large number of Italian troops surrendered but the bridge remained intact and the enemy failed to destroy it. The advance of General Montgomery鈥檚 army was assured, putting the campaign in Sicily well under way at the cost to the 1st Parachute Brigade of twelve officers and eight hundred men.
Meanwhile, back in North Africa, in comparative safety, while the 1st Airborne Division pushed on with the spearhead of the 8th Army into Italy, we, the mortar platoon, were sent to Algiers in preparation for the loading and stocking of the battalion stores, kitbags and equipment down at the docks for our return home to England. The prospect had us all in very high spirits. Stripped to the waist, our bodies a polished brown in the semi-tropical sunshine, gleaming with perspiration, as we waded through mountains of kitbags which grew bigger and bigger as each empty truck rattled its way up the dock road leaving a great cloud of dust behind as they journeyed back to the camp for another load of stores.
It is ironic that just over twelve months previously we had landed at this very port with its many strange-looking craft lying around in the dock with men hurrying to and fro with unceasing business, but then we were agog with excitement and enthusiasm at the thought of going into action against the enemy, being superlatively fit and trained to the peak for our job as parachutists and airborne infantry.
I felt, now that we would be going home in a matter of weeks, that I had learned more about life and the issues that really mattered in the last twelve months than I would in the rest of my lifetime. I remembered the wonderful spirit of comradeship among men, the bravery and indomitable courage of those who carried on despite injuries and lack of food and sleep in the dust and sweat until the task allotted to them had been completed. And with some sadness, I thought of those of our comrades who would not be coming back with us, lying still on the arid Sicilian shores and others lying in the woods and on the stony hillsides of Tunisia, undisturbed by any cries of 鈥淲ahoo Mohammed鈥 that may come from a local Arab going about his business unaware.
We were to return to 鈥榙ear old Blighty鈥 in the troopship 鈥楻.M.S. Samaria鈥, a vessel of considerable proportions and never was there a more welcome sight as she lay there anchored at the docks in Algiers with the blue waters of the Mediterranean lapping gently against her bows.
Embarkation was carried out with clinical thoroughness, each man responding to the urge within himself to get moving, as if fearful of holding up the operation a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. We marched in file towards the gangway for boarding ship dressed in Field Service Marching Order (F.S.M.O.), suntanned and battle-hardened with the experiences of the North African campaign behind us, joyously happy at the thought of going home to our families again. I shouted across to Bill Wilson as he gave a quick glance back over his shoulder at the top of the gangway, 鈥淭ake a good look Bill. We鈥檙e not likely to be seeing this place for a long time!鈥
Bill grinned and nodded. Then, as if in afterthought shouted back, 鈥淭hat suits me fine!鈥.
I can see it now in my mind鈥檚 eye, Algiers, with its magnificent Moorish-style mosques and minarets, their white stone ablaze with the sun. The whole place seemed to shimmer against the background of the clear blue sky, fringed with palm trees away in the distance, making a picture of such cleanliness and splendour which belied the reality foul-smelling streets, pungent with the odour of spices permeating the stench of refuse which rotted quickly in the sun in these dark, dirty, cobbled streets and alleyways of the notorious Kasbah. We had learned of yet another atrocity committed in this Arab quarter of the city against a W.R.E.N. who, on visiting the area had been attacked and had her breasts cut off. A party of Welsh Guardsmen, enraged on hearing of this alleged murder, had taken the law into their own hands and went seeking revenge by raiding the Arab quarter with fixed bayonets, an action which resulted in their subsequent court-martial.
The first evening at sea, a few of us lounged around in a little group on deck in rather pensive mood under the magnificence of a starlit night which had succeeded the day鈥檚 ardent sun rays. Eventually, the topic of conversation turned not unnaturally towards the thought of going home. Married men like Joe Waterhouse understandably could not get home quickly enough to be with their wives and families, leaving no room in their minds for anything else. For the rest of us, important as it was to be seeing our people again, the little things which we took for granted at home seemed to have a place in our thoughts. Big Frank said, 鈥淏oy, just imagine sitting in around a huge log fire on a cold night in the 鈥榣ocal鈥 supping a nice big frothy headed pint of home-brewed English wallop or having fish and chips saturated with salt and vinegar wrapped in newspaper.鈥
I myself was looking forward to taking a nice long walk out in the cool showers of rain. I had had enough sunshine to last me a lifetime.
A couple of days later, out in mid-Atlantic, we were issued with the ribbons for the medal of the North African Star. Orders were given that they were to be sewn onto our tunics before the ship docked at Liverpool. This was the first campaign ribbon most of us had received the exceptions being the few peacetime soldiers of the battalion who had seen service in India or Palestine before the war.
Eventually, the weather changed dramatically. The sky darkened and became thick with cloud. The ship became only a dark throbbing shape which melted into the universe. Soon we ran into torrential rain as a terrible storm blew up. I marvelled at the way these ships stood up to the terrific hammering and pounding of the mountainous seas battling their way against the biting winds which sent sheets of icy spray sweeping across the decks as we ploughed on through the waters towards home.
漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.