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From 73rd Anti-tank Regiment to London Irish Rifles

Like many of my generation I wish I had asked more, or at least remembered more of the things I was told as a child.

My late father, Eric Towler, a native of Nottinghamshire, moved to Sheffield a few months prior to the start of the war. I do have most of his letters but of course these do not give much away. When I was eight months old I know that he was enlisted into the York and Lancaster Regiment in June 1940, and was transferred to the Royal Artillery as a gunner, RHQ 73RD Anti-tank Regiment. He was stationed in Godalming, Surrey.

In April 1942 he was posted abroad. They sailed from Greenock and I remember he told me he was seasick for most of the voyage to Capetown. He said the vessel was an American flat bottomed boat, which did not help. He enjoyed the short stay in Capetown, and there was mention of a Red Lion pub there. Then it was off to the Middle East and Alamein. I remember Syria and Palestine being mentioned, as well as Cairo and there were some happy memories of Alexandria on the beach at Stanley Bay, where he managed to get the same leave as an old pal from home — Sergeant Ernest Tomkins (known by everyone as Tonks) who was in the Green Howards. There were times when they operated the same gun. (He did once mention a 17 pounder). I have tried to find out which division he was in but so far I have been unsuccessful.

After Alamein, Tunis and Libya he was transferred to the London Irish Rifles as a rifleman on 6th July 1944. He was in the 56th Division. We have several photographs of him in Rome, and many other place names spring to mind, e.g. Fermo and Pesaro, and the Gothic Line. I believe he was near the river Senio.

On 6th January 1945, at noon, he received serious injuries, shrapnel entering his right chest. One morning, when taking me to school, my mother had notification from the War Office — the envelope of which she did not open until she had got me off to school. She feared that he had been killed. He was still alive but his condition was considered serious. That was the end of the war for him. He experienced his first journey in an aeroplane. He was operated on and some of the shrapnel was removed. However, further problems necessitated more surgery and more shrapnel was removed from lower down his back. I have a large piece of this shrapnel, along with his dog tags, his service book, temperature charts, his medals and green plume — which I believe is called a hackle.

In March 1945 he returned to England by way of the hospital ship ORANJE (Dutch) and was hospitalised in Bradford. I remember it as if it were yesterday, going by train to meet him. I was almost six years old. When my mother saw him walking slowly down the hospital drive, dressed in hospital blue, she went quickly towards him, and I ran and hid behind a large pile of coal.

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