大象传媒

To Normandy

After a reasonably calm crossing, with no sea sickness - helped, I believe, by my insistence on continually chewing army biscuits - we were soon to enter rougher waters (if you know what I mean). Smoke was rising from the distant shore and we eventually dropped anchor. While our vehicles were being transferred onto the landing craft we were being constantly harassed by dive bombers, so as you can imagine I was most anxious to get my feet on Terra Firma, where you have a chance to either dig in or take cover.

My vehicle was the first to be loaded onto the landing craft, and my section quickly jumped inside ready for our driver, Dad Docker, to drive off (he was called Dad because I believe he was in his thirties). When the landing craft was in shallow enough water the ramp was lowered and the vehicle was driven down the ramp and into the water. I thought it was exceptionally deep despite the waterproofing, but Dad, our faithful, steady and reliable driver, kept the engine going as we ploughed half-submerged to the shore. We were expecting to be greeted by a hail of fire from a reception committee, but thank goodness the enemy was being held back at a comparatively safe distance from the beaches of Arromanches.

On landing safely we were met by an officer who said that we would be the only vehicle to land that night because the tide was going out. He directed us to a field just inland, where he suggested we take up a defensive position as a counterattack was expected. We had an undisturbed night but were very relieved when the rest of the battalion arrived next morning. We were to remain there for a few days awaiting the landing and regrouping of the rest of the division. We took advantage of this delay with hand grenade practice using German hand grenades, a visit in groups to the front line, which was being held by the Coldstreams on the edge of an airfield, and later, a wash down in a nearby stream.

Called to battle

An 'O' group was called, and excitement coupled with the fear of the unknown welled up in the pit of my stomach. I don't believe in that rubbish about being a battle-hardened veteran. An infantry man, and I mean those infantry men unfortunate enough to have been in close contact with the enemy in battle, can never be battle hardened - on the contrary.

Our first objective was to draw the German armour away from the Americans, who had landed in the Cherbourg area. To do this our tactics were to make feint attacks in the pretence of breaking through. This we hoped could be achieved by penetrating the enemy lines for a few miles, withdrawing, then adopting the same tactics in other areas. The matter-of-fact briefings make these operations sound so simple and straightforward, but the reality is sheer hell.

I remember Bayeux being mentioned, but its tapestry was far from my mind as we moved off in jovial uncertainty while passing through the front line troops of the 6th Airborne (my brother-in-law's regiment). Then comes the reality, which quietens everyone down and the eyes start to protrude like organ stops as we pass the decaying bodies, some buried under a sprinkling of earth hastily spread by their comrades, or by the perpetrators. With the stench in our nostrils we soon realised that we were attacking a foe whose determination and prowess could not be underestimated.

They greeted us with a reception of Moaning Minnies - rocket fired mortars, so called because these electrically fired missiles advertised their departure in mournful protest, then vented their anger in quick succession and with devastation. We continued to move forward until the opposition was such that we had to abandon our vehicles and take up defensive positions, hastily digging in. Our driver, Dad, hid our vehicle among some ruins and got cracking on the primus preparing a mess tin of char. During a lull in the battle he would race out with three or four of our mess tins and its precious cargo, then race back to get the remainder. But no sooner would we have dug in than the order would come: 'Move on'.

We passed tanks on fire, which had already met their counterparts or the dreaded 88mm, a converted anti-aircraft gun which they used most effectively as an anti-tank weapon, 'The Cads'. On being hit by one of these high velocity shells, a tank would invariably burst into flames, so the Germans referred to them as 'Tommy Cookers'.

A welcome rest

Sleep was of course out of the question - the tenseness and thoughts of survival overcame any ideas of such luxury. We were to remain under constant bombardment for another three days and nights, when we were withdrawn a short distance for a rest period, taking shelter among a demolished housing estate close to our own artillery firing positions. From a demolished store I scavenged some tinned potatoes, tinned tomatoes and tinned bacon, we lit a fire in the grate of a habitable house and had a good fry-up, washed down with a mug of strong tea (not galvanised). A couple of our officers were sniffing around outside and to their gratification we invited them in to share our spoils. Quite a change from pack rations.

Next day we were paraded among the rubble for PT, then immediately changed into service dress for drill parade, but this was cut short when the enemy shelling became dangerously close.

We also managed to get a hot shower in an army mobile unit that set up about 400 yards away. The unit also sported a very large washing machine, thus providing a clean change of underwear, which was, as you can imagine, in need of such services. Soon afterwards this unit was to be destroyed by enemy shellfire.

On the third day of our rehabilitation a Catholic priest came up from HQ and held mass in the open, out of the enemy's observation range and behind a shell-damaged building. Afterwards he gave each celebrant a plastic crucifix. Whether that was a good omen or a warning, we were soon to find out, because an 'O' group was called and we NCOs along with the officers were to be informed about the next move.

That same pent-up feeling returned to the pit of my stomach, a feeling always noticeable before an event rather than when you are actually in the thick of it. I should imagine that is because when in action, your body reaches the limit of endurance, and if you were to surpass that then you become a casualty, classed as battle fatigue. Anyway, when I was to learn of our role in the next turn of events I felt I would soon have good enough qualifications to become one of the latter.

Under attack

'We are,' said the commanding officer, with the emphasis on the 'are', 'going to take such and such a place from there to the next named place, straight on to another and will continue through to so on and so on.' I believe it incorporated about six towns and villages. Some of the names that spring to mind are Caumont, Cagney, the Bocage country, Estry, but definitely not in that order.

We would have to rely on our platoon commander's survival (he being in possession of the map) while trying to proceed in our vehicle until we were stopped or reached our objective. I thought it was miraculous that we had survived until then, and wondered how long it would be before our luck ran out.

Off we went. The shelling got louder and closer, the talking stopped - except for Dad, who came out with some dry crack which helped to ease the tension. They could see us coming. We got into single file, about ten yards apart, and were travelling only about five or ten miles an hour to pass through a minefield where a corridor has been cleared - we hoped!

At one point on this corridor the Germans were dropping mortar bombs with deadly accuracy, so each vehicle had to run the gauntlet. We closed the armoured grill which covered the front of our radiator and narrowed the observation slits when down came a salvo of mortar bombs. I was certain they had scored a direct hit on the vehicle immediately in front of us, because we couldn't see it momentarily for the dust and debris, but apparently they had a lucky escape.

My instinct was for Dad to put his foot down so as to miss the next batch, which could have been on its way. Fortunately he ignored my request, because the next moment there was a terrific explosion as a mortar bomb landed immediately in front of the vehicle. The blast, even with the observation slit partially open, pushed me backwards off my seat. There were dents in the half-inch armoured plating of the windscreen, bulging inwards like golf balls.

My mate Dennis Ward, who was in charge of No 5 Section, the vehicle immediately behind us, told me afterwards that he thought we had bought it. It was his turn next, and he had the same lucky escape, except they had forgotten to close the radiator grill, so their engine was put out of action. When we saw their vehicle stopping, a well-rehearsed procedure went into action. We quickly reversed and connected them up to our winch - an action that would have done credit in any Grand Prix.

No sooner had we pulled clear and moved into low open ground, we were shelled unmercifully by the dreaded 88s. We knew the havoc they could cause, but we weren't able to retaliate - we were just sitting ducks as we crawled steadily along with the crippled vehicle in tow and its section still on board. Shells were whipping over us with a continuous all-in-one Whoosh bang! Whoosh bang! As each shell hit the ground immediately in front of us the platoon officer, realising the precarious position we were all in, rushed forward on foot - we could only crawl along - and hurriedly suggested we take another route where the contour of the ground would keep us out of their sight for a short while.

It was suspected later that this action saved us because the guns, being on higher ground, couldn't lower their trajectory enough. That seemed logical, but in the thick of the action there was no time for post-mortems - the position we were in, we could soon have been a real one.

Behind enemy lines

Eventually we moved forward and took up a defensive position in open country where we hastily took out our picks and shovels, and while our vehicles were being driven away to be hidden in the woods about 300 yards away, we took off our jackets and feverishly started to dig in. It was dusk, and being behind enemy lines we knew we had to work fast. Unfortunately we hadn't time to dig down far before down they came, the Moaning Minnies. When they got their range, they were giving us hell with the inevitable casualties.

Yet even during these adversities, in a macabre kind of way one can still get a chuckle now and again. Such was the case when our platoon sergeant, Sgt Meen, ran from his partly built trench close by and was dancing around with trousers and pants down around his ankles shouting 'I've been hit, I've been hit!' There was a wound about the size of an old penny piece in the cheek of his behind. While I quickly applied a field dressing, he was getting the usual unsympathetic remarks from those around, reserved for those deemed to have received a superficial wound. 'You lucky sod', and 'Just like you to get a Blighty', and so on. A vehicle tore out from the woods and whisked him away. We were to hear later that his leg had to be amputated from the hip. Not so lucky after all.

The situation had now become so intolerable, the shelling was so fast and furious it wasn't possible to stand and dig. We just lay low and prayed until eventually we were given the order to get out of there. Our vehicles raced out to us under cover of darkness, we grabbed our digging utensils and jackets and were whisked back into the cover of the woods where we were to dig in again on the outskirts. In the m锚l茅e, I had grabbed another man's jacket - Gdsm Merritt's. He couldn't find his and returned without one. So if anyone should come across my jacket, in the breast pocket was my army-issued Bible with my army number stencilled on the cover, 2615652. Some hope?

The mortaring and shelling continued throughout the night. We were to move off at first light, but we hadn't gone far when we were pounced on from behind by four German fighter planes flying very low, about 100ft. They took no action, thank God, and because it happened so quickly and with surprise we didn't have time to engage them. What that was all about we shall never know.

Leaving our vehicles behind, we continued our advance on foot under heavy enemy shell fire. A Bren gun carrier was racing back carrying two stretchers on top. One of them was Fred Bottom, who had been slightly wounded in the back, I later learned. On his return some weeks later he said that while being conveyed back, the carrier ran over a mine, throwing him and another chappie off the stretchers, but it did not cause any further injuries.

It's only made of wood

Being the leading section of our platoon, we cautiously advanced towards a village supposedly occupied by the enemy. I stealthily dodged from door to door through the village with my section close behind, until I got to the corner of the main street. There I very warily turned the corner, when, too late, I noticed a black cross on the side of a tank, its gun protruding out of the rubble of a demolished house pointed in my direction. (A tank, to camouflage itself, would be backed into a house allowing the rubble to fall on top of it). I momentarily froze to the spot until I realised it was a dummy made out of wood - phew! It certainly looked the real thing. How much longer could my luck last?

In situations like these, the enemy has the advantage of seeing you first, therefore also has the advantage of the first shot. I must say it was most eerie. I carried on stealthily moving forward, dodging from door to door, with the assurance that by now, not only my section was following close behind, but also the rest of the platoon.

I imagine the enemy had just left in a hurry because they left behind cart loads of black bread, of which there was no rush on our part to sample - or perhaps the Germans just wanted to get away from it themselves? They did however leave behind something a little more dangerous, namely a sniper who didn't become active until we had passed through, thank goodness. He was hiding, we assumed, in one of a warren of cellars among the ruins, and it took the battalion a whole day searching and tossing hand grenades down likely hiding places, but we were not to know if we were successful in our endeavour to flush him or them out before we had orders to move on.

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