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15 October 2014
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BOFORS GUN 1 The Clacton Shoot

by Cyril Frederick Perkins

Contributed byÌý
Cyril Frederick Perkins
People in story:Ìý
Bob Wells, Lance Bombadier Hughes, Albert Todd, Toff & Tiny
Location of story:Ìý
Essex
Background to story:Ìý
Army
Article ID:Ìý
A8920037
Contributed on:Ìý
28 January 2006

Bofors Gun 1
The Clacton Shoot

One of a series of accounts of incidents, in chronological order, whilst commanding a Bofors Gun detachment (1 of 7) by Cyril Frederick Perkins
It would be hard to imagine a more inhospitable place than Clacton-on-Sea on the East Coast of England on a cold February morning but then we had not gone there for rest and relaxation nor to admire the bleak and desolate scenery.
Three Bofors Guns had been deployed on the shingle beach some thirty yards back from the high water mark and Number One Battery were lined up behind them listening intently to Army Instructors of Gunnery who were laying down the ground rules for the shoot. Instructors of Gunnery were a tough rough lot their piercing voices quite uninhibited by the rank class or size of their pupils and with a vocabulary not infrequently punctuated with penetrating blasphemous vindictive. They ran a hard school ever critical seldom complimentary invariably creating more fear of failure in their pupils than a screaming Junkers 88 in full dive might have-achieved. Yet for all that they were clinically efficient and scrupulously fair and those of us who graduated from, their school of learning wore our 'Guns’ with pride.
The target for the shoot was a long narrow canvas sleeve pulled along by a single engine bi-plane. It travelled at a relatively slow speed and as it crossed the shoot area was well within the 1500 yard effective range of the Bofors.
As the plane crossed-our line of vision 1exchanged glances with my Number One Bob Wells and asked — ‘'Well Bob what do you make of the target'? Bob was slow to respond he lifted his steel helmet and scratched at one of the many balding patches on his scalp. Bob had alopecia I had often watched whilst he applied various balms and ointments but none of the treatments seemed to slow the hair loss and the mosaic of bare skin on his head was not a pretty sight. His contemporaries had cruelly latched onto his affliction and with typical service style humour nicknamed him 'Curly'. Still Bob did not seem to mind he had an easy going friendly disposition and accepted his nickname as some recognition of their sympathetic affection.
Bob returned my glance - 'Looks a piece of cake Skipper' he replied but I detected some element of doubt in his tone as if he had read my own thoughts - it looked too easy -much too easy. The Bofors fired 40mm two--pound shells at a rate of two per second at automatic fire their tracers forming an almost continuous line to help the gun layers guide the shells onto the target. The shells would either explode on impact or self destruct after their seven second flight. In numerical order the Troops and Detachments took their turn at the firing line and the morning air was rent asunder with ear splitting cracks and detonations all mingled with loud voices shouting orders and instructions. Our attention focused on the target and the futile attempts of the gunners to sever it from the tow plane. One Detachment miscalculated badly - their tracers drifting into space between the target and the plane and the tirade that ensued from the closest instructor not only put their gunnery prowess into perspective but also cast doubts upon their collective ancestral lineage. Then suddenly-it was our turn - I had already decided to give the 'Engage' order as soon as the plane turned for it's run to give the layers that extra split second to line up. The firing pedal was on the floor of the loading platform and I noted with satisfaction that Bob had already tied a lanyard to the firing foot of Lance Bombardier Hughes. This provision gave the gun controller a final option to stop firing if his order to do so was unheard in the general melee of action. Then the run was on and I gave my order 'Engage’, 'On' came the response from Number Two followed almost immediately by 'On' from Number Three - Bob gave them a couple of seconds to hold steady then ordered 'Fire'. Too low the tracers told us but Number Three had already spotted that and elevated the muzzle slightly and tracers began to clip the canvas sleeve.
Then tragedy struck — the gun stopped firing. An engineering masterpiece though it was the Bofors had many moving parts and these would sometimes falter. The most difficult section of the Bofors Manual to master had been that devoted to 'Stoppage Drills' and at that moment I was glad that my dedication to training had been so thorough. My mind raced through the possibilities - the breach was clear but the barrel was not a projectile had separated from the shell case and for a reason undetermined had remained lodged in the rifling of the barrel. We had a 'Separated Round' - the most dangerous of all stoppages for if the tracer on the projectile had been ignited, the shell would explode in seven seconds. The Detachment anticipated my order to evacuate and needed no-prompting. We waited at a-safe distance for the two minute safety gap prescribed in the Bofors Manual. I half hoped the projectile would explode in the barrel for at least damage would then be confined to metal and not men but there was no explosion. According to the Manual remedy was a simple matter — stuff the breach with cotton wool - insert a capped rod down the barrel and ease the shell onto the cotton wool - then retrieve it and retire it to a safe place. The Manual pre-determined the lucky ones selected for the operation - Number Four at the breach Number Six on the rods and the Detachment Commander to supervise the whole thing. Toff lowered the barrel to zero plus five degrees and opened the breach cover then began making a cotton wool bed whilst Tiny fixed the ejection cup and stood ready at the end of the barrel. Firing had ceased the beach was hushed and silent and a dropped pin might be heard amongst the anxious onlookers but we had no thoughts other than the task in hand. ‘O.K .Tiny' I called 'Give it a Go' and Tiny cautiously eased the rods down the barrel - he met the projectile pushed and strove but it refused to budge - I joined him at the barrel end and we put both our strengths into trying to dislodge the offending missile — then gradually and slowly it began to move. Toff was watching the breach intently and suddenly shouted 'Steady' then a moment or two later - 'I have it' and he lifted the shell still draped in cotton wool clear of the gun. Tiny went forward without a word took the package from him and walked slowly and deliberately along the beach then at a safe distance laid the shell gently onto the sand and shingle, turned and ran as if Satan himself were chasing him. As I turned to order the Detachment back to the gun the watchers Broke their silence and a muffled cheer went up but our shoot was over. The target-plane had returned to base for a new sleeve and we suspected for some stimulation for the pilot to prepare him for a repeat performance in the afternoon. A meal break was ordered but as we turned to join the rest, the senior Instructor called me over - he handed me a reel of wire-and a small package — tilted a thumb at the place where the shell lay and said almost nonchalantly 'Clear up your mess Sergeant'. I knew I would need-another pair of steady-hands to help me. Toff-and Tiny had done their bit so I called on Toddy. Toddy .was the Detachment Cook but he had many other attributes he was the joker in the pack with ever a quip or joke ready. A born forager and in spite of many provocations I had never seen him ruffled. He was a tall man with a sallow complexion with black hair usually slicked down with far too much grease but quite a handsome chap in his way. I handed him the coil of wire and we strolled back to the beach - 'Bit cold for a swim-Skipper' he jibbed. I said 'Don't worry Toddy you'll be warm enough if you get that wire tangled' and we both had a bit-of a chuckle. A-few-paces from the shell I unpacked my parcel It contained a lump of Nobels 808 explosive and a packet of detonators. I knead the plastic explosive into a ball stuck in a detonator and Toddy attached one end of his wire. Then very carefully I placed it as close to the shell as I dared and helped Toddy cautiously pay out the wire. The beach was deserted except for the senior Instructor. He had a firing battery which he placed behind a small wall - I stood up shouted three times 'Fire in the hole' and as we crouched down together. Toddy touched the terminal to the wire. We might have overdone the 808 — there was a tremendous explosion and sand and shingle rained. down. We left the incoming tide to deal with the crater we had made and wandered over to the lunchtime venue with the Army Instructor of Gunnery at our side saying one or two nice things about us but he did not repeat them in front of any one else.
This had been just the beginning of our Bofors Gun war and before it was over there would be many more incidents some amusing some more serious and some positively dangerous, but none would unfold quite like the Playground incident . An unrehearsed play that.any play director would have been proud of — that’s next.

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