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I was with A1. Echelon located in the hilltop village of Le Beny Bocage, south of Caen. Operation ‘Bluecoat’ was entering its second phase. Our seventeen-pounder Sherman tank had been L.O.B. (left out of battle) due to an oil leak and a faulty gun that fired only once in every five attempts. I was the wireless operator and I listened-in to the battle several miles ahead, where the regiment were defending a small hill above the village of Le Bas Perrier. They were having a hard time and the noise of the guns could be heard from our comparatively safe haven. The situation became desperate as the crews tried to fend off the infiltration of enemy tanks that threatened their position. The order came for us to go into battle as our squadron (‘C’ Squadron) began losing tanks and badly needed reinforcements.
It was a warm August day as we made our way along the dusty lanes. Our tracks threw up clouds of dust and the warnings placed along the advance route reminded us, ‘Dust means shells!’ The narrow lane was completely enclosed by high hedges. This terrain, known as ‘Bocage country’, was ideal for concealing infantry and tanks. On the right of the road a large meadow stretched to the Perrier ridge of hills. Here and there were cattle that had been slaughtered by the battle, their legs pointing to the sky. Those that survived wandered dazed and aimless, their udders full of milk because they had not been milked for days.
As we passed through the village of Presles, I took from my pocket the little New Testament, which had been issued to me when I enlisted. I opened it at random, hoping I suppose for some words of comfort. The page opened at the letter of Paul to the Colossians. His words to the Christians of Colossus read, ‘for I would have you know what great conflict I have for you’. As the thunder of the guns grew louder I thought to myself, ‘I don’t need to be reminded of what lies ahead on the hill’.
At last we approached the battle area and drove off the lane to ascend the hill to join our weary mates of ‘C’ Squadron. The noise was deafening as a Tiger tank armed with the deadly 88-millimetre gun picked off our tanks from its camouflaged position. All hell was let loose as our crews fought to defend our little hill. Over the wireless came, ‘Who’s that bloody tank coming up on the right?’ In the heat of the battle I remember blurting out, ‘Sergeant Jackson’s tank’. And then we were in the thick of it! We managed to repel the attacks and after what seemed an age the enemy pulled back to Chenedolle and things quietened down to an uncanny silence. There was little room for the regiment to manoeuvre on the hill so it was decided that all, except ‘C’ Squadron and a troop of ‘B’ Squadron, should withdraw to safer harbour.
We felt very much alone, but we had a marvellous back-up behind us with the artillery’s twenty-five-pounder guns that literally plastered the positions in front of us. The evening hours were shattered by the weird, screaming sound of Nebelwerfer’s (multiple mortars), which were deadly for the infantry boys of the 8th Rifle Brigade, who we worked closely with. Although it was frightening, we were comparatively safe inside our Shermans.
Again and again over the next few days the German Panzer’s attacked and counter-attacked our hill, but we were able to hold on. The twenty-five-pounders replied with deadly accuracy, together with rockets fired by our Typhoon fighter planes. We realised that we were up against the 10th German SS Panzer division. For days we stood fast on the hill camouflaged by a few trees. On one occasion, when an enemy tank got very close to us, one of our Typhoons dived on us thinking we were an enemy tank. We hurriedly put out our yellow silk to identify ourselves, but it was too late. A rocket struck the ground harmlessly just a few feet away, and I heard a sigh of relief.
During those six days defending our vital position we were cut off twice, once for twenty-four hours. Fortunately we had just received supplies of rations and ammunition, and all the wounded had been evacuated to safety.
There were many losses, both killed and injured. My troop leader while I was at Bridlington, Lieut. Peter Robson, went to the aid of a mobile gun crew when a shell hit the gun, and both Peter and another officer were killed. The M.O. tirelessly, and at great risk to himself, carried on tending the wounded and was eventually wounded himself and had to be evacuated back to England. The hill was not going to be lost.

One afternoon during those critical days on the hill we surveyed the village below for signs of enemy tanks. It was one of those calm intervals in the battle. The infantry of the 2nd Warwicks were sent down to patrol the village. After a while we heard that they were in difficulty and needed support. Our troop of three tanks was ordered to go down and assist them.
By the time we had reached the village there were only two of us (what happened to the other tank I never knew). The leading Sherman, commanded by Sgt. Smith, probed further into the village while we in our tank, commanded by Sgt. Jackson, came to a halt on the outskirts. As we stood there we looked through the periscope and I saw a Panther tank half hidden in the trees. A long-barrelled gun was pointing in our direction and our 17-pounder was aimed at them. It was an uncanny situation, facing each other with no sound disturbing the scene. The ominous silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a rifle shot fired by a German sniper hidden in a tree. I heard the bullet ping against the rim of the turret hatch and ricochet harmlessly in another direction.
The order came from the hill above, ‘Return to the Squadron!’ Our driver tried to start the engine, but it failed. He tried several times but without any result. Just then, Sgt. Smith returned in his tank to find us in a hopeless predicament. With no thought of the danger he and his crew, together with our commander Sgt. Jackson, jumped out of their vehicles and quickly fastened a hawser to ours and slowly began to tow us back to the hill. We had only gone a few yards before what we had assumed was the abandoned German tank suddenly came to life. A shell landed just a few feet from our tracks. After what seemed an age we reached the top of the hill to rejoin the Squadron, amazed and very relieved to have made it back unscathed.
Looking back I have nothing but admiration for our tank commanders and their prompt action in what could have been a disaster for all of us. Sgt. Smith and Sgt. Jackson were both awarded the Military Medal for their bravery.
After this things began to quieten down. We realised that the 10th Panzers had had enough and pulled back. Reports some time later revealed the destruction that befell them from our guns, both those of the artillery and the rockets of our air force. We returned to La Barbière, where the rest of the regiment were in harbour, dusty and tired but thankful that we had been successful in defending our position. We were met with cheers from our comrades and looked forward to a well-earned rest - until the next battle.

Trooper E. Slarks
‘C’ Squadron
23rd Hussars
(11th Armoured Division)

(Sept. 2005)

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