大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People's War site by Bryan Sullivan. He fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

What a Life

Life in the Midlands was good, not brilliant but an acceptable pattern of living that was adopted with ease. I was employed as a skilled Cutter Grinder in an Engineering works in Leicester, all set for a progressive comfortable future when suddenly some idiot spoilt it. We declared War on Germany.

My Father, with his knowledge of two World Wars, was determined that I was not going to take part in this one and I was equally determined that I was. To that end I applied to join the Air Force. I had always been mad about aeroplanes and was sent to Stetchford for an interview. The first important question was, 鈥淲hat are your experiences at work?". "I am a Cutter Grinder Sir". "That鈥檚 finished it then", he said; "you have a reserved occupation". "But I want to be in the services Sir, anything to do with the Air Force". "Unless you are a Pilot or a Navigator you have no chance!". That was the end of the interview. I was furious; thanked him very much and it was back to the Factory again.

A few weeks later I was back at the Enlistment Office again and asked to join the Air Force. This time I was well prepared for the questions and informed them I was a humble labourer on the shop floor. They were quite happy with my answers and I asked what were the chances of being enlisted quickly. I knew that a long delay could alert the manager who would block my application. They said I could enlist as a Ground Gunner in about two weeks. I thanked them very much and they signed me in. However, back at work, the manager was informed before I was called up and he called me to his office. He asked me if I was sure about this and I said yes. "Well", he said, "my Dad has just signed up so I can鈥檛 really stop you can I".

At last they arrived, my call up papers, with instructions to report to Scarborough. It was here, full of doubts and apprehension that I joined a squad of strange men in a new world of stamping feet and loud voices. I was just 18 years old and very wet behind the ears. I had never been away from home before and now I was being shouted at and ordered around like a dog. We were on the move all day, marching up and down learning drill and discipline until even I could do it.The exercise drove us mad with hunger and the food was lousy. Social life did not exist; there was little or no spare time for it and, whatever there was, we were just too damned tired to take advantage of it.

At the end of basic Training I was posted to an airfield near Cambridge where a Wimpy Squadron was based. Our task was to defend the area against air and ground attack with machine guns mounted in pits around the perimeter. The armament was initially WW1 type Lewis Guns, later replaced with Vickers Machine guns but, although enemy aircraft frequently passed over our area, they were well out of range of our weapons. We also had personal weapons which were standard Army 303 Rifles conveniently stacked for emergencies. During our stay of about eight months, although we had no air raids to contend with, we were kept busy by assisting the ground crews with damaged aircraft and other tasks but played no part in servicing the aircraft.

Perhaps our life was becoming too comfortable so they moved us to another station at Gravesend, it was the same old Guns but in a new set of pits. It was here that a great ceremonial event took place. We were assembled on parade to witness the proclamation of a Kings Warrant stating that we were now a part of the newly formed RAF Regiment. This changed nothing for us, we still had to dig our gun pits and be ordered around like the dogs bodies that we were.

This was a Spitfire station but again with little opportunity to use our guns. However, someone decided our ground defence was inadequate and along came the Army with three light tanks and a couple of instructors from a Tank Regiment. Each was allotted a four man crew and I was trained as a driver. This was really something different and, instead of being miserable in a wet gun pit, I was warm and dry with the power in my hands to drive that steel monster around the airfield. The armament was two small Machine Guns, perfectly adequate for ground defence but useless against aircraft due to limited elevation.

Someone decided to mount an exercise to test the practical use of these new weapons and an RAF Officer was allocated to each tank as an observer. We carried out a few small manoeuvres, then the Officer in my tank decided to try something new. "Drive across the airfield", he ordered. An instruction which I questioned. He was very annoyed and told me not to argue, just carry out his order. I drove across amidst shouts and waving arms from half the station personnel until stopped by a very Senior Officer obviously furious at what he had just witnessed. Cursing and swearing he asked who was driving that thing. "I was Sir". "Well you idiot you have just driven across a minefield". Some minefield I thought; nothing blew up.

We patrolled with those tanks for about six months and then it was decided to send them for scrap. I drove mine on to a train at Gravesend Station and it was three days later when they were unloaded at a scrap yard in Leicester, my home town. But for me it was back to these miserable wet Gun Pits. Someone had decided they were no longer required, perhaps their usefulness had diminished when the assembly of invasion barges at Calais was suddenly stopped. Who knows the weird workings of higher command.

Our stay at Gravesend was interrupted by moves to other parts of Kent, at locations where the ground defence staff were under intense pressure due to the large volume of enemy planes passing over the area. We relieved them for one or two weeks at a time, returning to our base then moving on to another location. However it was still the same job only in different gun pits. We did have a change of scenery by a move to Devon where our orders were to defend an area of Radar Installations, however our holiday in beautiful Devon was short lived and once again it was pack up and move out.

It was back to Kent again but this time our location was near Dover and under very different conditions. I did not really realise the danger we were in until I heard a strange whooshing noise passing overhead followed by an almighty bang. This wasn鈥檛 fair, I was being shot at by those lousy so and so鈥� on the other side of the channel. They had put us right in the middle of the area being shelled from Calais, not funny with those damned great fifteen inch shells screaming overhead and our lot sending them screaming back. What a racket and they did not all pass overhead; the odd one dropped amongst us and I got my share, a piece of Shrapnel which put me out of action for a spell. There were civilian contractors working in the area building defences or something and they asked us to help with the promise that they would send us some money. They were a mean lot, paid us nothing and our wages were a mere pittance by comparison.

Due to the constant activity in that area I became ill and was detained in hospital near Dover for about four weeks. When discharged from hospital I discovered the unit had moved to Devon so, once again, I was on the move. Thank God for a bit of peace and quiet away from those damned great shells whooshing overhead and the pleasure of once again being with my mates. Our job was once again defending the Radar Installations near Brixham but there was much activity in the area due to the preparations for 鈥淒鈥� Day. A Canadian Air Force Squadron was stationed there and we were informed that, when they moved to Normandy, we would be their ground defence.

However our role as ground defence was suddenly changed and overnight we became a Rifle Squadron. We transported our Machine Guns to High Wycombe and prepared for our new task but it was not to be; just three days later everything changed again and it was back to High Wycombe to collect our Guns again. What a life and no it couldn鈥檛 be - but yes, it was back to Dover once again and allocated a new area. What a shambles! Does anyone know what is happening? "What about the Canadians", we asked? "They can look after themselves and you just do as you are told".

We were allocated an area and asked if there were any barracks or other accommodation. The answer was no; just dig trenches for your own protection and, remembering our last visit, I was only too happy to dig deep and hide in it. Those damned great shells were still coming over but now much more frequent since the landings in Normandy. In front of us were American Soldiers doing ground and air defence just like us and they had 0.5 Browning Machine guns. Behind us were Bofor Guns and behind them the Heavy Anti-Aircraft Guns. What a racket, with all those guns going off and shells landing around us, it was the most spectacular fireworks display ever and very frightening. Our own aircraft had orders to keep half a mile clear of our area so, regardless of what came over us, we threw everything we had. Sadly, in error, one of our Thunderbolts was brought down.

As our forces pushed up the coast to Calais the number of planes diminished and the shelling ceased, reducing the necessity for our presence. We were then given special training as, once again a Rifle Regiment, for a special job in France, but that was cancelled and we were transported to Brussels to take over an aerodrome for the Canadians to land. Sadly, our pleasure of Brussels night life was not to be, our troop, all thirty of us were assembled on parade, marched to waiting aircraft and flown to Osnabruch. What a shock to discover we were actually in Germany and given instructions to set up our accommodation in tents. Our task was to act as ground defence for a Canadian Squadron which was still back in Brussels but due to fly in at any time. It was a very nervous situation. Here we were in enemy territory, amongst people whom we were uncertain of just how they would react to our presence on their land and ill prepared to contain a large number of determined fanatical people.

Our sergeant had very little information to give us but one order was very clear," make sure your guns are pointing in the right direction before you fire ". We had two Bren Guns which we set up in a convenient bombed out house which we put to good use one night on people messing about in the dark. I did not wait to argue about what they were up to, they should not have been there so I gave them a burst. It was obvious they were up to no good and we took some of them prisoner. They were just kids, about a dozen of them between ten and fourteen years old and they wore badges and things like uniform; probably some form of home guard. I escorted them back to
the Guard Room where the names etc. were recorded. There were women in the area who the Sgt. ordered to take them away. They would not be shot or locked up but must return every morning to do work.

The Canadians arrived and with them Dakota Aircraft loaded with supplies of fuel and ammo etc., so it was all hands to the task of unloading and storing. They flew bomb runs to Bremen and on the return journey dropped on to our field to refuel but eventually the enemy moved further east and the Canadians flew elsewhere. It was here that lorries started arriving loaded with released Prisoners of war. They looked completely lost and frustrated. "Don鈥檛 worry lads", we said ,"just get into those planes and go home". What a traumatic experience it was to see those poor devils, who had been locked up for many years, many since Dunkirk, trying to cope with freedom. We directed them to the waiting empty Dakotas for their journey back home.

However our stay here was short lived ; another move , orders to go back to Brussels, the inevitable problem with Wars, always going somewhere, packing and unpacking, what a way to live. We had not travelled far when the column was stopped and we were ordered off the road; stuck there for two days and the story was a concentration camp was being cleared. It was late the next day when news came that we could go and have a look. We realised for the first time that this was what we were fighting to stop.

Our journey continued through Holland and we stopped for a brew. It was here a soldier came over and showed us a photograph of the bodies of Mussolini and his mistress hanging upside down somewhere in Italy. He also told us the Italians had surrendered. Eventually at Brussels we were issued with two days rations, ammo and fuel and it was off again to a new adventure. "Go to Denmark", they said, "and take over an airfield currently occupied by the German Army" - just like that!. It took three days to get there over the Kiel Canal, north past Flensbourg and over the border into Denmark. Our Sgt.Chalky ordered me to take four men, go to the billets and order the Germans to surrender. An officer came forward, saluted me and I instructed them to stack their weapons before we would supply them with food. With their weapons removed we continued with the main part of our task to removed all the weaponry from the planes and load it in our trucks.

Here was a base from where they attacked our Russian convoys and we were particularly interested in the weaponry they had used. Some had already been discarded in the river and we retrieved what we could. All was transported to a nearby harbour and the Navy shipped it to England. During our stay large groups of people were passing through streaming down from Norway, apparently fleeing from the Russians moving across northern Europe. It was about six weeks later and we were on the move again this time to Hamburg for a break of only two days. What a dreadful shock, the City was in ruins, hardly a building undamaged and the streets were full of rubble. The Air Forces had fire bombed this City for days, committed to complete destruction, the death toll must have been tremendous.

The Cathedral City of Cologne was next; quite severely damaged and amidst it all, the Cathedral stood proud almost unscathed. There were no Billets for us so we moved to a small village and liberated a Schloss. The residents were moved out and we became the sitting tenants. Here was an opportunity for a badly needed spell of maintenance and I grovelled under the truck struggling with a repair. That was until some idiot moved the damned thing and ran over me; after all this time that wound at Dover opened up again and it was off to hospital at Munster. They did what they could with injections and cleaning and after a few weeks sent me back to Brussels for further treatment.

Six weeks there produced no improvement in my condition so with great pleasure and relief I arrived back in England via Southampton to a hospital near Gloucester. Treatment there was very successful and within a few weeks was declared fit for duty, but where? I sweated cobs waiting for the answer. Thankfully it was not Germany but a post in dear old England and my ticket back to Civvy Street.

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