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The following is taken from the memoirs of Major RGH Brocklehurst of the Bucks and Oxon Light Infantry. He started writing these when he was 70, in 1985. He died in July 2002.

My vessel

Our vessel was an American boat, quite small and converted for our landing by the simple addition of long wooden ramps that could be lowered on each side of the bows. Since we had reduced our first stage needs to items that could be carried on foot, the only awkward ones were the company and platoon's bicycles which had been retained for message taking along the road we knew ran behind the dunes of Ouistreham Beach. We spent a not too uncomfortable night on the deck. I did notice one of the men, sleeping like a baby on the steps of the engine room ladder.

The crossing to France

Early next morning, the engines started and we cast off for our short voyage. As we reached the open channel, the sight was truly amazing. As we were on the left flank of the whole expedition we could see a series of naval vessels patrolling to ensure that German MTBs could not interfere should our armada be detected. The RAF had ensured clear skies from the Luftwaffe and so, to our right as far as the horizon, we could see on this clear, sunny summer鈥檚 day orderly lines of vessels of all shapes, sizes and types. They seemed no more than 500 yards apart and steadily we ploughed our way through a gentle swell towards the French coast. The total discipline and control fired enormous pride in those who were privileged to be a part of this mighty venture.

Alongside me was a marine who had been placed on the vessel for liaison duties. 'You have to watch these skippers, Sir', he said, 'They've got tanks in the bows which they can fill with sea water to increase their depth, then blow clear to ensure they do not get stuck on the beach. I suspect he's windy and likely to put you in out of your depth.'

He may have exaggerated, but we certainly had to cope with water up to our armpits and I noticed my 'runner' struggling with the bicycle, which insisted on floating horizontally until he could get some weight in it to force the tyres down.

The landing at Sword Beach

Our beach (Sword Beach) appeared as per models. However, the row of houses behind the dunes looked like the teeth of a very bad lower jaw, with black gaps where fire had followed the bombardment and shattered roofs and walls. High explosives had done the damage.

As we ran in, I could see the planned two exits had been started and engineers were laying Somerfeld metal track to help get vehicles through the fairly steep passage through the dunes. There was a fair amount of small arms fire, particularly from a large pillbox which obviously had not been cleared to our right. The men swore that some of the sniping was from French women, 'collaborateurs' during the German occupation who were none too pleased that we had arrived to chuck their boyfriends out!

The Messerchmitts nearly get me!

It was now 3pm and the tide was low, giving a wide expanse of wet sand over which all manner of men and machines were struggling to carry out their appointed duties. As Page and I were a little way up towards our destination beside the right hand exit, we were surprised to hear the sound of planes to our left. Coming in low were the only two Messerschmitt dive-bombers that evaded the RAF that day, I believe.

We heard the rattle of their guns and saw the spurt of bullets in the sand ahead of us, apparently doing little, if any damage. But as they were nearly overhead, we could clearly see the two wretched little bombs they carried released from under their wings to sail in a gentle curve down towards us.

We flopped down on our bellies and the bombs plopped into the sand a short distance away. Fortunately, the sand and mud which the River Orne had deposited over time immemorial was far too soft to detonate them on contact and they sank, to explode after a second or two and squirt up a column of disgusting mud which broke up and came pattering down all over our backs. We did feel that to be excessively drenched on landing and then covered in mud into the bargain was a bit much!

We crawled forward cautiously for a while, then I got fed up, stood up and started to walk forward, whereupon I was dragged down by Page who swore the snipers would get me.

Headquarters and extermination of the pillbox

Eventually, we reached the dunes without mishap and established headquarters in a section of a German dugout. The one large pillbox that remained (about half a mile to our right) the Canadians had not been able to clear. Its fate was sealed, however, by the calling up of a large assault landing craft that had been lying off shore after discharging its troops and tanks earlier. This had a Bofors gun mounted each side of its front ramp.

The Canadians drew back, the guns were depressed to fire horizontally and proceeded to discharge, with their slow automatic thump, thump, thump, a clip of shells at point blank range. Temporarily the bunker disappeared in a cloud of smoke, the gunners with their second clip loaded, waited for this to clear. As it drifted away, some half a dozen Germans were observed staggering out with their hands up, thoroughly shell-shocked. They had decided they had had enough.

Caen and Ouistreham

Two factors greatly affected the plan for our stay on the beaches. First, due to stiff resistance by the Germans, our advance through Caen was halted and there was always the threat of a counterattack. We were to organise temporary dumps of ammunition, petrol and food in the sand dunes to back up immediate needs, then large depots nearer Caen would be established on a permanent basis - this the Germans prevented.

Secondly, in spite of the brave and brilliant capture of Pegasus Bridge over the River Orne and its parallel canal by our Parachute Regiment supported by another Oxford and Bucks Unit trained as airborne troops who crash-landed in plywood gliders, only a small bridgehead was maintained and some high ground on the far side of the river mouth remained in German occupation.

Every night we could hear the engine of their truck as it climbed to deliver rations and a little ammunition for a mortar they were manning. Every day, with German precision, at exactly midday, they lobbed half a dozen bombs into Ouistreham town on our side. Needless to say, at a minute or two before noon, everyone took cover. The only fatality reported was that of a poor old Frenchman who decided to cycle across the square on the hour and was killed instantly by a bomb landing in it.

The air-raids and another near miss

Every day we sweated away keeping the constant flow of men, machines and materials moving up through the exits towards the hinterland. By night, this slowed and we took cover to await the curious throbbing note of German bombers trying to penetrate the defences. As they came over, the fireworks display was incredible. Shore-based anti-aircraft guns, combined with naval vessels offshore and search lights, produced an umbrella of tracer lines and brilliant beams topped with the flashes of bursting time-fused shells in the sky above. Steel helmets were essential, since the amount of shrapnel falling from these aerial explosions was nearly as lethal as any bombs that fell. Most of the planes were driven off course, but a few persisted and dropped mainly anti-personnel bombs.

One day, I had a disagreement with a signals officer who occupied the dugout next to our headquarters. As we sheltered in our respective hovels, a most tremendous explosion occurred, sand descended everywhere and as the bombers' engines faded away, we went out to investigate damages. In the dim moonlight, it was obvious that our neighbours had suffered a direct hit.

I heard a sound like a sheep baa-ing, and as I made my way into the remains of the dugout, I could see the form of a man slouched against the side. The sound was his weak call of 'HELP!' I realised he was wounded and tried to drag him out, whereupon he swore at me for causing him pain. I assured him I would contact medical and went off to report to our MO's tent in the dunes. Next morning, Page, always a source of all local information, told me the soldier had been patched up and put on a returning craft for Blighty, but a piece of shrapnel from the bomb had decapitated the signals officer. I felt very bad at having parted on bad terms, as it were, but that is death for you - it is always wise to try and avoid regrets.

Corpses and carcasses

None of our experiences were pleasant, least of all perhaps the regular journey for the morning session at Battalion HQ, having to pass a stack of rigid German corpses awaiting burial by Pioneer Corps detachments whose miserable duty it was to undertake this task. They did not arrive for some ten days, as this priority was naturally well down the list. By this time the top body, staring steadily out to sea, had been named Nelson, since he only possessed one dead eye, the other being a black hole where a bullet or a piece of shrapnel had abruptly finished his career in the Wehrmacht.

In time, almost worse, however, was the frightful stink from numerous cattle carcasses killed by the primary bombardment and dotted about all over the place in fields adjoining the beaches. In the hot June sunshine, these Norman moos began to decompose rapidly, producing an all-pervading and very offensive odour. Due to their bulk, a bulldozer was required to dig holes big enough to bury these massive ladies, so it was some weeks before hygiene could supersede the demands of combat.

Another VERY near miss!

Fortunately, any guns on the German defences over the river had been sited to fire seawards and only their short-range mortars could be brought to bear on our most easterly positions, so with tremendous anti-aircraft defence and Air Force superiority, the primary dumps, now packed with enormous quantities of ammunition, petrol and diesel fuel due to the Caen hold-up, had survived intact.

On about the tenth morning, I arrived at the entrance to the deep Battalion HQ bunker and was surprised to hear the noise of airplane engines just across the river. Pausing, I spotted a two-engined bomber approaching at low altitude, surrounded by exploding shell bursts but obviously on a suicide mission. I froze as I saw the tail disappear in a cloud of smoke and the plane go into a nosedive. I suddenly realised it was going to land very much nearer than I had imagined and started for the shelter of the bunker. Three steps down, a tremendous roar smote my eardrums and a blast of hot air hit the back of my neck and hurled me, unhurt, to the bottom of the entrance.

Hell on earth ensued. The aircraft, with its bomb load, had landed smack between the ammunition and fuel dumps, creating destruction that is not difficult to imagine. Camouflage nets draped, as instructed, on the stacks, spread the fire among wooden boxes and hot jerry-cans. The 'whole bang shoot'; had to be left to die out. Fortunately, with the Mulberry harbour and Pluto (Pipe Line Under the Ocean) established, supplies of ammunition and fuel were soon replenished and I do not think the combat troops suffered any lack of backup.

Minefields

About a week after landing, my flank platoon guarding the entrance to the canal and the mouth of the Orne reported that, in moonlight, movement could be seen on the beach below their positions. These were still behind German barbed wire on which hung, as usual, the yellow signs with black skull and crossbones signifying 'Minefield' - (Achtung Minen, in German). Some were genuine and some dummy, but one could not tell which!

Orders were issued that we should open an entrance to allow patrols to descend and check the reported movements in case the enemy was planning a counter-attack and had landed reconnaissance parties across the water. We decided to cut the wire after darkness had fallen and make the way down. At about 11pm, I presented myself at the chosen point and found a lot of whispering but little movement in progress. A gap in the wire could be seen and the NCO holding a detector turned to me with the words 'We think it's a mine, Sir.' Silence. It was clearly a case of 'where the buck stops'.

I put on the earphones and sure enough, when pushed forward the detector pad generated the telltale whistle in my ears. Thinking hard, I started the routine we had rehearsed. Feel gently over the surface - no booby-trap wires. Scrape away the sand to expose the top of the mine casing - no smooth casing as demonstrated by Royal Engineers in our training sessions. Somewhat heartened, I dug deeper and soon felt the raw edges of a large chunk of shell casing, deposited no doubt in the preliminary bombardment. Triumphantly I held it up as the cause of the detector's warning. It proved to be a dummy field, of course, and the required path was soon cleared of wire, giving access to the beach.

Regular patrols at night established that no German activity existed, proving the point that if you are a weary sentry and stare long enough at a dark object in pale moonlight or worse still, starlight, you will see it move and be appropriately alarmed.

The Rocket Ship

About a week after landing we noticed a strange vessel moving towards the low cliffs beyond the river where the remaining Germans were entrenched. To our surprise, it did not head into the shore as a large landing craft, which it resembled, but swung to lie parallel to the land. It hove to and immediately disappeared in a huge cloud of fire and smoke. We thought it had been hit and exploded - not so.

Out of the smoke sailed a huge line of rockets, followed by a roar as the sound of their launching reached us. A few seconds later, the German positions disappeared in a similar but far larger cataclysm - to our considerable satisfaction. As the original cloud of smoke cleared, we realised that the rocketeers had been busy re-loading because the performance was repeated twice, then the rocket ship quietly moved away and disappeared beyond the line of our Mulberry harbour.

Bomber Harris and the flattening of Caen

The stubborn defence of Caen was causing a good deal of embarrassment to the High Command who handed the 'baby' to Bomber Harris. One morning, we heard the sound of engines and were about to take cover when we saw a wave of aircraft coming in from over the sea. As soon as the first line drew near, a second appeared then another and another until the whole sky appeared full of big four-engined bombers heading inland. The Luftwaffe had been rendered powerless, of course, so they flew in quite low and entirely unopposed.

A few minutes after the first wave had passed, we heard a rumble like thunder that went on and on as a great cloud of smoke and dust rose up above the inland horizons. Caen was being flattened. Even after this, it was reported that some German resistance was encountered, but the plug had been pulled and the mass of attacking power flooded through to meet up with the Canadians and Americans now wheeling around to drive north towards Germany.

Off the beach and into a billet

Prior to this, we had been able to move off the beach into a better grade of billet in the town, into a house that still boasted a roof. One disadvantage applied, however, as lying offshore was the navy's only monitor, a flat sort of vessel equipped with a pair of enormous guns. From time to time, troops inland would call on support against a specific target, whereupon the sailors would loose off two mighty shells which could actually be seen, glowing red, as they sailed overhead. These somehow seemed to coincide with our breakfast or lunch, now being served by Page and co. in a civilised manner at a dusty table.

The double 'crack' of the missiles would be heard speeding aloft. The drill was to cover one's plate and count one, two, three, four, five - pause! After this delay, the blast from the discharge of 14' armament reached shore. Walls shook, cracked ceilings showered chips and plaster dust as we stopped our ears against the noise. We then gave a cheer and uncovered our plates, knowing it would be some time before the guns had cooled enough to be reloaded in anticipation of further potential destruction.

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