大象传媒

A lieutenant in the Royal Artillery, trained in the use and deployment of Bofor guns, in July 1944 I was posted to a detachment deployed on on a coastal strip at Newhaven, ordered to shoot at V1 rocket missiles launched against London from the Pas de Calais. This small anti-aircraft unit was just one tiny defence link as part of the great gun belt assembled in haste and stretching all along the south east coast.
So many ack-ack batteries densely deployed meant that only a limited arc of fire could be allowed for each battery to engage enemy robot planes and our Bofors had to compete with big, well equipped American guns with newly developed predictors. With their use the Yanks could direct shells at a target in full flight and thousands of feet overhead. Nevertheless our Bofors guns were manned by eager, determined men, many of them Londoners defending their own city.
I had much to learn as a newcomer. It became my job to confirm our 'kills', take part in the actual gunnery, also to regularly visit an outlying gun emplacement and talk with the gun crew in their sandbagged circle about current affairs and educational concerns. They were a friendly lot, discussed freely, always with good humour and frank observations.
On that pebbled beach at Newhaven we had no protection. Dugouts or slit trenches were not possible in the shingled length of it. We lived and slept near the guns and my own little tent was located on a low grassy level overlooking the beach.
My first few days there were noisy and unsettling, as I tried to adjust and make myself helpful. Amid the thudding guns and exploding doodlebugs there were moments of silent tension when we awaited the end of a damaged, looping bomb. It was unpredictable, its crazy antics hard to endure. With familiarity I developed a kind of fatalism. At first I trembled as a vibrating, mindless robot hurtled above my tent, shaking the canvas, a drenching light, bellowing menace. With repeated coast hoppings I just ignored them and lost little sleep.
In daylight hours the doodlebugs were sighted and our guns readied to receive them. The calm preparation strengthened a calm resolve and fear had evaporated as the guns opened up. They were not a difficult target, often exploding in a ball of flame. When one would disintegrate above us we'd feel our helmets pressing hard. But another bomb accounted for gave us joy.
It was the mad aerobatics that ensued when we failed to explode one that scared us the most. It would bank and loop, wheel in wide circles, behave wildly with its ton of explosive; a time for silent prayers. No point in frantic escape runs. Pebbles offered no shelter. It was tensely watched till a crash was seen and we breathed easily again.
After dark was a different scenario. More flying bombs flamed in and we could pick them up as they left the Pas de Calais launch ramps, blobs of light, steady for long minutes. We had time to brace ourselves.Then abruptly a robot would materialise, scudding close in, larger than life, noisy and pulsating. All the guns in our vicinity would open fire, deep-booming, rapidly thudding. Searchlights probed the night sky, shafts of intense light swinging and criss-crossing while now the guns roared to a deafening crescendo, shells bursting across the heavens, a dazzling display of fireworks, quite unforgettable. And all becomes dark and quiet, a short interlude as we wait and peer until another wave comes over. I knew I was only a bit part in a vast theatrical immensity but I felt it the most useful and worthwhile war service I had ever taken part in.
Largely forgotten, probably unknown to people these days, the organised power and achievement of the gun belt remains deeply majestic in the memories of my army years.

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