大象传媒

On reviewing my experiences of WW2, I find that I have condensed the lasting images, which remain with me, into three poems. Trained as a fleet signalman, I was disappointed to be drafted to Combined Operations to join L.C.F. 36. However, I found that my time spent on board her was rewarding. As part of a squadron of Close Support Craft, we took part in D-Day, the squadron was then re-organised as the Support Squadron Eastern Flank to join other ships in Operation Trout Line as described in my second poem. In October, we worked up to be ready for Walcheren.

It is interesting to note that the attack on Walcheren by the Support Squadron took place within the octave of the feast of St Crispin. The thoughts of all of us who survived that day must go to the men who died there. The three L.C.S's that fought until they were sunk. L.C.F. 37 hit by shells at 09:20, hit again by more shells and blown up at 09:50.

Our Flotilla Leader, L.C.F. 38, was ahead of us in the firing line. She was hit and set on fire at 10:20, we went alongside and took off survivors. Going back into the firing line, we were eventually hit and holed at 11:15. Dodging more shells, we withdrew and after the survivors of L.C.F 38 had been taken off, we limped back to Oostend. We were lucky not to have any casualties. The reason for the title of my third poem will now become quite obvious: The Forlorn Hope!

D DAY
The buildings seemed within our reach,
As if we sailed off Brighton beach.
No welcoming hoteliers these,
To we who sailed upon the seas.
Their windows spouted fire and flame,
And from their walls, more of the same.

We, close support were trying to give,
That men upon the beach might live.
And as we plied our deadly trade,
With port, then starboard cannonade.
We watched the second wave arrive,
And thrust themselves into the tide.

They came with purpose, full intent,
No time for thought or argument.
I saw them then, I see them still,
As if they climbed a massive hill.
And when they died, they took their rest,
As easily as you or I, might to our nightly sleep reply.

The wounded took a little longer.
They fought the sea, the sea was stronger.
We watched them dying in that hill
Of water, water, rising still.

The battle gave us no respite,
And it was not until the night,
I watched the bodies floating by,
And thought it might be you or I.

Who checked a tag? or new a name?
I'm sure it would not be the same,
If on the shore, they had met their fate,
From earth they had entered Heaven's gate.
Eventually there would be found
Some spot of well remembered ground.

A sailor knows that he may be,
Missing, or buried in the sea.
But soldiers must have found it hard,
To miss their burial by a yard.

Barry McClory

TROUT LINE

The middle watch had just begun,
When the craft next to us blew,
And of a hundred men on board,
We found there were but two.

L.C.F. Number one.
The Germans had chosen well.
And as we circled in the dark,
We cursed the hun to hell.

Support Squadron, Eastern Flank,
Lying in the dark.
Guarding the Day Anchorage,
Where all the big ships park.

Six miles out from Oustraham,
We would form our watching line.
From dusk until the morning light.
All through the Summertime.

In front of us, the M.G.Bs
Settled the "E" Boat's score.
Below, the one man submarine,
And flippered frogmen bore.

Bringing with them the limpet mine,
Trying to find a way,
To make a breach in the line we held,
Before the break of day.

And after them, the Weasel,
With its long low wicked prow,
Driven by powerful engines,
With explosives on her bow.

A tracer shot from some craft's bridge,
Would mark a German's wake.
All the guns would open up,
And the very decks would shake.

We carried a lot of ammunition,
For ships so small and tight,
And when one blew, she would split the air
And scar the Summer night.

We could not think about their crews,
As now we may sit and sigh.
For we had to carry on the fight,
And they, they had to die.

I don鈥檛 know how many craft we lost,
Someone must have the score.
But then it was many years ago,
In nineteen forty four.

So, take a trip from Oustraham,
With Le Havre across the bay.
And when you're nearly six miles out,
Stop for a while and pray.

Barry McClory

THE FORLORN HOPE

Fog is down in England,
We must go out alone.
Although we all would rather hear,
Our fighter bombers drone.

A cold November morning,
And Walcheren lying dark.
The Oerlikons rapid splutter,
The Pom Pom's slower bark.

Shells cream the sea around us,
As we make our way inshore.
The Commandos on the beach head,
Are asking us for more.

As we turn along the shoreline,
Another craft goes down.
The Close Support Squadron,
Continues its turn around.

She goes in flame and fury,
That enter the heart's core.
The remainder of the squadron,
Stand in along the shore.

The Hospital ship has opened it's decks,
As the rescue boats come in.
Warspite has now stopped firing,
But the cacophony and din,
Seem to increase each pass we make.
We have nothing much to show,
Our shells bounce off the concrete,
Onto the rocks below.

The November day is grey and bleak.
Even the sky looks grim.
And we must do our duty,
If it takes us cross the rim
Of life, to death, as our father's knew.
And their father's knew before.
The Close Support Squadron,
Stands in along the shore.

Barry McClory

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