大象传媒

OUR JOURNEY home started hazardously. We piled into lorries, then the drivers had to negotiate two steel girders, each about twelve inches wide, bridging a chasm hundreds of feet deep. The American Rangers blew up the original bridge. First leg of the journey completed, we then boarded a filthy goods train bound for Naples. Some bright sparks managed to acquire a few gallons of vino bianca which helped to ease the discomfort of the journey. At the docks we had to walk carefully along gangways erected along the sides of sunken ships to reach the ship waiting to take us home. The whole journey was unpleasant. In fact, our old ship was struggling so hard in the rough seas we pulled into Oran, mainly to give the ship a rest. As last we sailed up the Clyde, docked at Greenock or Gouroch where, remembering the piper, I thought, 鈥淵es, most of us did come back again.鈥� It was good to see the Dockers working and the honest old draught horses waiting for their carts to be loaded.

WE ENTRAINED, spent a night in the carriage, took the scenic route and ended up somewhere in England. There was just nobody about to answer our question, 鈥淲here are we?鈥� until we marched into a military camp. Everybody groaned when we got the answer, 鈥淣orfolk!鈥� Most of the blokes came from the South. I must admit, we were given a really good dinner in the camp, roast pork and all the trimmings washed down with a bottle of beer. The meal was allowed to settle, then we were back in business. Off we marched through Swaffham, up a hill to our camp of Nissan huts in a wood. The place was desolate and those Nissan huts were ovens in summer, fridge freezers in winter. I think we are talking about January, 1944. As you can see, we had only a few months training before the big event. The DR squad took on the role of Regimental Police, which meant we had to man the main gate, check the ID of everybody including generals, and stop our mates from taking unauthorised leave. We didn鈥檛 do night guards, but had the unpleasant duty of patrolling the streets of Swaffham and Wisbech to prevent our blokes and the Yanks from doing one to another that which they should be doing to Jerry. After several day and night exercises, during which we received a number of casualties involving tanks (dangerous things especially at night), we were moved to a sealed camp. We were fenced in with barbed wire, and guards, not our blokes, were patrolling with bayonets fixed. There was one chink in the defences on the bank of the river Orwell, so we were still able to pop into town for the odd libation. We were all fired up ready for action. This came a little sooner than some of us expected.

TO COMPENSATE for my rear-party duties in North Africa I was chosen, with a few others including a Colonel, to form an advance party to go to Normandy on D-Day. I chummed up with another DR named Wally Groves, an old married man at least thirty years old, from Tetbury, Gloucestershire. Just to be different, we embarked, with a few tanks and trucks, on a Landing Ship Tank at Harwich. We took the long way round but were soon among the two-way traffic crossing the Channel. There were two unbroken lines of ships, each ship flying its own little barrage balloon. I soon grew weary with all the excitement and the excellent meal provided by the American crew, so I informed my mate Wally G. that I was going down into the hold for a kip in one of the trucks. When I returned on deck I was told that a destroyer had been hit by a bomb alongside our LST and the American gunners on our LST had tasted their first bit of action by downing a Jerry plane. All too soon we hit the beach, literally. The American captain said if we waited a little for the tide to ebb, he would give us a virtually dry landing. In spite of the beach being shelled, the Americans waited patiently until our vehicles rolled down the ramp and splashed through just one foot of water, into France. We landed at Sword or Gold beach, the place was named Arromanches. The Colonel set up his HQ in a field protected by two anti-aircraft tanks. It was late evening, there was nothing for us to do, so after a quick brew, we bedded down in one of the trucks for our first night in France. The rain had eased off although it was still a bit drizzly and chilly. We were kept busy dashing round the various units delivering messages. Pretty soon the beach-head had developed into a bridge-head. Jerry sent over a recce plane several times, to see what we were up to. Each time we glanced at our anti-aircraft tanks, wondering if they would open fire. Eventually they did. They chopped that poor old Jerry to pieces with the heavy calibre rounds from their twin Oerlikon guns.

THE LITTLE town of Bayeux was about to fall, so it was decided by the top brass that the time was ripe to bring our main party over from England. They duly arrived, complete with a few new recruits. I was asked to take one of the recruits, a young Scot named Jock Jarvey, under my wing. He gave me a lot of laughs and a few headaches. The first thing he wanted to do was to visit Bayeux. I told him to wait, he would soon be seeing enough of the front line. Naturally, he sneaked off and got into the outskirts of the town, when a soldier from the Rifle Brigade leapt out, bayonet fixed and said, 鈥淎ny further mate and Jerry will have you鈥�. Jock was subdued but only for a little while. We had Jerry on the run and his retreat took him through what was called the Falaise Gap, a very narrow escape route. He was massacred by bombing and strafing, tank, artillery and rifle fire. We had to do some convoy work through the carnage. I told Jock to prepare himself and not to look too closely at what we were going to see. Of course, he was shocked and mesmerised by those indescribable scenes and rode straight into some wreckage landing head first onto a dead horse.

SUMMER BEGAN to take hold and we spent a short, pleasant time in the orchards of the Calvados region. Whilst there, I had proof that my guardian angel had not deserted me. Three of us were lying side by side under a truck, sheltering from some Jerry bombing. Suddenly, the one in the middle, Stan French, a Lancastrian, muttered, 鈥淚鈥檝e been hit.鈥� 鈥淪hut up!鈥�, we whispered sympathetically. He started shivering, continued muttering so we dragged him out and, after a struggle, got him inside a tank. He was seen by our MO and shipped back home with shrapnel wounds in his back.

THE AMERICANS were given the honour of taking Paris. De Gaulle was also given his moment of glory whilst we were tearing across France up to the Belgian border. During our travels across France we drove over Vimy Ridge. We pondered sombrely over the size of the 1914/18 war cemeteries. The sights and scenes in France had been both delightful and disgusting. A few delightful thoughts that have stayed with me include the rolling countryside of the Calvados region, the wayside shrines on quiet country roads and, way out in the sticks, the dung heap outside the backdoor of the farmhouse, to which the whole family added their contribution! Waste not want not. No running water piped into houses in the remote areas of France.

WE CROSSED into Belgium without much ado and found the natives friendly. One of our tanks was knocked out in the main street of Geel or Lommel. Both these villages are close together and were well known to my brother Bill. It was while enjoying a watery beer in a caf茅 in Geel or Lommel that I had another visit from my brother Jim. Pushing on further into Belgium, we spent several weeks in a town called Mechelen or Malines. The people had been brutally treated by the Germans. We were shown a courtyard with pockmarked walls where several Belgians had been shot.

OUR ROYAL Engineers built a very good pontoon bridge over a large river. It might have been the Maas. For a time our HQ was on one side of the bridge in Holland while our B echelon remained on the other side of the bridge in Belgium. The journey down to Belgium was O.K. but the return journey could be fraught. For no apparent reason, there would be a redcap stationed on the Dutch side of the bridge. He would disappear for a couple of days, then he would re-appear. I would drive over carefully, only to see him emerge from his little wooden hut at the last moment. There was no reasoning with him and the alternative river crossing meant a thirty mile detour. The air armada passed over our heads on its way to Arnhem with brother Andy amongst the thousands of Paras and Airborne troops. Winter slowed down operations. It was almost impossible to walk on the glazed roads so I was allotted a small armoured car, with driver, to deliver my messages. The cold was intense. Touching a metal surface meant leaving a layer of skin behind. Jerry thought Monty wouldn鈥檛 continue a winter offensive. Wrong. Our tanks, along with the Infantry were in action around a little town called Sittard. A rude awakening for Jerry, although we had casualties, including a Colonel of 1st or 5th Tanks killed. We had been billeted in a small mining village called Obbicht. The houses were warm enough, but the staple diet seemed to be flour, potatoes and apples, so we helped to supplement our host鈥檚 diet the best we could. The Americans were busy with the Battle of the Bulge and Jerry gave us a New Years wake up call. He mustered all the aircraft he could and gave us a pasting just as we were considering bedding down.

WITH THE weather easing, the final advance gathered momentum into Germany. We had had a bit of a to-do around Nijmegen but that was far behind us. Our mob crossed into Germany at a place called Xantien, I think. Some of our troops had laid out a large Nazi flag for us to drive over on the German side of the bridge. It was a weird feeling hearing the air raid sirens moaning in Aachen as the Jerries received a pounding from the RAF. The phrase, 鈥淗e who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind鈥�, came to mind. We knew hostilities were drawing to a close. The Americans and the Russians were going to take Berlin; our final objective was Hamburg. The RAF had fire-bombed the heart out of Hamburg, what was left duly fell to our troops. I forgot to mention, our tanks liberated the POW camp at Fallingbostel where brother Andy had been held. At that time Andy was on a forced march towards Poland. Germans were surrendering in their thousands. We arrested one old boy, resplendent in uniform, only to be told, 鈥淚ch bin eisanbahn鈥�, or 鈥淚 work for the railway and I鈥檝e already been arrested three times鈥�. At last I was given two good bits of news. One, I was going home on leave that very day, two I was to help the other DR鈥檚 shepherd our vehicles way back down the road. There was no more front line, it didn鈥檛 exist. Some of the DR鈥檚 took up points along the road. I was left, with my prot茅g茅 Jock, to extricate our vehicles from the pine forest where we had been sheltering. Young Jock, he hadn鈥檛 changed much. I remember once, riding along side by side, he suddenly spurted ahead and as suddenly stopped, slumped over the handlebars. He swore he鈥檇 been shot. Investigation showed he had collided with a stag beetle. On another occasion he adjusted his tappets too tightly, travelled about twenty yards and seized up. One of his best efforts was going to a football match when he ignored entering the field through a gate and chose to ride up a grassy bank through the hedge. Up he went, like a cavalryman, he even had a rapier stuck in his belt. Ooh! There was a signal cable strewn along the hedge which plucked Jock out of the saddle allowing the riderless bike to burst through the hedge. I digress. Let鈥檚 get on with it.

WE SAW the last vehicle, the fitter鈥檚 armoured car, on its way and impetuous Jock wanted to get cracking. I said, 鈥淗old on a minute mate, I鈥檒l just have a cigarette鈥�. A final look round and off we went. Who should we meet along the road but four Messerschmitts. We thought they were RAF until they opened up on us with machine guns and cannons. Just before we dashed under some trees for shelter, I noticed a Jeep approaching. We hugged mother Earth. Jock was thrashing around and mentioning his mother. I told him to try and keep still or the Luftwaffe might spot us. Considering it safe, we went back to our bikes and there was the Jeep, with two MP鈥檚, caps off, scratching their heads and muttering, 鈥淐or, we didn鈥檛 expect anybody to walk away from that lot.鈥� Further along the road we caught up with some of our vehicles, all knocked out, a few still smoking. There had been casualties but none fatal - a parting shot or two from the four planes that had had a go at Jock and myself.

THE LONG train journey, Germany to Calais, was rougher than the Channel crossing, but I was able at last to rest and relax for fourteen days. I experienced an uneasy feeling being with our British civilians. It seemed I was carrying the stigma of the war鈥檚 brutality and obscenity with me. The old Nine o鈥檆lock News broadcast the last days of the war in Europe. I was hoping the weather would worsen, the Channel would cut up rough and sailings would be cancelled. No such luck. I returned to camp in Germany on the very day that old Monty accepted the German鈥檚 unconditional surrender.

OUR UNIT ended up in a village called Itzehoe situated by a large lake. We enjoyed a lot of swimming, we also enjoyed chatting to the locals who were either very old or very young. There were still a few military duties to perform. Batches of real Nazis were brought in occasionally for interrogation and onward progressing. Comradeship, formed during the war years, was coming to an end. For instance, my mate Wally Groves was demobbed early because he was a carpenter. The old faces were going, they were being replaced by fresh-faced young recruits. Amongst them was a lad named Roy Horne, a mate of my brother Andy. I was transferred twice before my demob date came round. The first move was to the Kings Own Lancashire Regiment stationed in the Ruhr. Least said the better. My second move was to the County of London Yeomanry, one of our old tank units from 22nd Armoured Brigade. We were billeted in a castle in Schleswig Holstein and noticed that the young corporal who showed us to our quarters didn鈥檛 have a nominal roll. Our room was high up in one of the castle towers, so we moved two long flights upwards, determined to miss all parades except meal parades. It was the only way old soldiers could survive. Imagine it, with no vehicles to drive and maintain, the various units were doing their best to outshine one another in the spit and polish routine. We were rumbled eventually and detailed for guard duties immediately. After a couple of months I was invited to return to Blighty and savour the delights of Catterick Camp. I鈥檓 sure that camp was modelled on Colditz and the Major and RSM in charge of our section were modelled on the GESTAPO. The camp was almost hermetically sealed and each morning these two goons told us that all our orders would be posted on the notice board. Anyone not reading the notice board, and missing a parade or duty, would have his demob postponed. I detested those two goons, plus some of the NCOs in the Young Soldiers鈥� Battalion, more than I detested any Jerry I met face to face.

BEFORE I left Catterick I met the old sergeant i.c. DR鈥檚, Jim Cowley, who was doing an extra couple of years. Then who should join us for a reunion, over tea and wads, but young Jock who was in transit returning to Germany from leave.

THE NEXT day I caught the train to Woking, was kitted out in civvies by the ATS in Woolworth's and became a civilian again.

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