大象传媒

After being dug in at Tessel for about three weeks, we heard that D Coy were to be part of a big attack. The Hallamshires were to attack the village of Vendes and the enemy held strong point of Barbee Farm. D Coy of the first/fourth KOYLI were to assist the Hallamshires in this operation and were under the command of the C.O. Hallams, Lieut. Colonel, later Brigadier, Trevor Hart-Dyke DSO.

This attack was something to be dreaded by all sane infantrymen. A frontal attack in the open, on heavily defended strong points, in day light, without any supporting armour!

D Coy of the KOYLI were given the job of taking Barbee Farm simultaneously with the Hallamshires attack on Vendes. Elements of the fifty ninth Staffordshire Division were also involved. The fifty ninth were to attack Vendes from the eastern flank, commencing at 0530 hours. I remember making our way in the gloom of early dawn, up to the western side of Tessel Wood to our start line. At the southern end of the wood, we turned right and we were facing our objective, Barbee Farm which was some three hundred yards south west of us. Between us and the farm were several small fields with thick hedgerows and we advanced with caution to the first hedgerow. This was our start line.

We lay down behind the hedgerow glad of its cover because the enemy had started to open up and were pasting the ground behind us; the very ground that we had traversed minutes before. I remember feeling thankful to the regimental planners for their skill and fore thought when setting up this attack. They had used the nature of the ground and the hedgerows to give us as much protection at the start line as possible for, although we did not escape this stonking without casualties, they could have been far worse. Something had stirred up the enemy, possibly the flank attack from the fifty ninth Staffs and he was covering the whole of his front. Once again the prepared fire plan of the enemy was being put into action. We had arrived at the start line with plenty of time to spare before we were due to advance. Just to the right of me was our bugler and just behind me were two or three officers synchronising their watches. Our company commander for this attack was Major Derek Dunnill MC; he had taken over from Major Gerald Roberts, who was killed on the 25th of June, the day we captured Tessel Wood. Major Dunnill was killed in action later on in Holland.

I was looking back to the edge of the woods were we had just walked, and the shells were falling like rain. They were hitting the ground like machine gun fire. At this time my stomach felt like lead, this feeling was akin to a solid weight holding me down. The bugler stood to attention and sounded the attack. I thought that this was a throwback to past ages, which it was, but it was also very inspiring and immediately we were off to take Barbee Farm from the enemy.

We advanced in open order. We had started off well at this stage, the shells were not falling close to us, but there was small arms fire, not heavy at first, but building up as we progressed. The noise of heavy gun fire from both sides filled the air. Using the hedgerows for the direction of the farm, we went over this very small protective rise and down the forward slope towards the enemy positions. The pace of the advance increased from the walk to the double, all the section firing from the hip. This, at the time, seemed to me to be rubbish, pathetic, but then again it may have helped to keep the enemies heads down.

The enemy machine guns had us in their ark of fire. As any frontline soldier knows concentrated machine gun fire can be capable of cutting down a tree. I could feel bullets coming at me buzzing very close and then going away again. Going across this field we missed the help that we normally received from supporting armour. A Sherman tank or two would have been tremendously welcome this day, but for whatever reason, the attack had to take place without them.

We were almost on our objective, the machine guns continued to rake us and I was still unscathed. Thinking back, I remember it felt as if the enemy machine guns were having difficulty finding us; perhaps as we were getting so close to the enemies positions we were almost out of the their ark of fire. How wrong can one be? The enemy fire tightened up on us again and I could hear the bullets close to me and much faster.

The next thing was the shock of being hit and now I must keep going, to get out of this ark of fire, and at the double to cover a short distance in front of me, 15 to 20 yards, this cover was on the north side of Barbee Farm, in the vicinity of the German positions, at this stage none of the Germans had broken cover and once there, this gave me time to get my thoughts together and tend my hand. The bullet had hit me on the back of my hand and shattered bones, and now looking at the jagged ends of bones, for me, this was a sad sight with the index finger handing by a small piece of skin. Having seen the severity of the wound to my left hand I was now aware that it would be extremely difficult to handle my riffle, this I tried, at this time another section was passing me also company HQ. I took my field dressing out to staunch the flow of blood and I realised that I could not even unfasten it with only one hand. The blood was pouring from me and a Corporal from the following section must have seen my problem. He stopped for a few seconds to help me. He quickly unwrapped the field dressing and placed it on my hand telling me to hold it there.

While he was doing this, I saw that the battle dress was ripped at the elbow and blood was pouring from the rip. I realised that this was not coming from the wound in my hand, but that I had received another wound. This bullet had entered my arm by the elbow and had come out again some six inches down my fore arm. I was losing a lot of blood and I knew I had to seek medical assistance.

With my good hand holding the field dressing over the wound to my left hand and with my left arm held up as high as in the air as possible to lessen the loss of blood, I set off to re-cross the ground to where I hoped that the R.A.P. would be. Initially, this meant crossing an open field to reach the first hedgerow, I was thankful that there was no enemy fire, which meant that our objective had been captured. Had it not been so , it is doubtful whether I could have survived had the fire been as intense as previously.

On the way, I passed a 2 inch mortar team, in what had been No Man鈥檚 land for the past 3 weeks. I noted that our C.S.M was part of the team. Further back still was one of our 3 inch mortars, then still further behind was a collecting point for the wounded. Nearby was a captured enemy half truck, which the Hallamshire鈥檚 padre was using to ferry the wounded out of the battle area to what was probably a field ambulance unit or a field hospital. There were a number of the soldiers doing various tasks in this area.

The sight of this gave me a great sense of achievement, because I knew that our attack had been successful so far; had it not been so, there is no way that this area could have been used out in the open in daylight. For the past 3 weeks, to have crossed this area after first light, would have meant almost certain death or serious wounding.

I was helped up into the back of the half track given cover only to the lower half of the body to just above the small of the back. My wounds necessitated me sitting upright with my good arm holding my wounded arm in the air.

I think that at this point, the shock and weakness through loss of blood was getting to me and I began to feel really ill. I also felt great fear. Although this area was some 400-500 yards away from the point of our attack and the brunt of the enemy fire, there was a certain amount of shelling, mortaring and small arms fire, sitting so upright, I felt the fear of stopping another one. At this point, I must have lost consciousness for I remember nothing of the journey from the battlefield.

I think it would be remiss of me not to include what happened on that Sunday in July after I was wounded, although the poem written by a so far unidentified member of D Coy 1/4 KOYLI gives a good picture of the attack and its aftermath. I would commend to you the account written by the late Brigadier T. Hart-Dyke D.S.O. of the Hallamshire battalion and was in command of the operation were also under his command.

Suffice to say that both the village of Vendes and the fortified Barbee Farm were attacked simultaneously. Barbee was captured, but despite the courage of the Hallamshire Battalion, Vendes proved impossible to take.

The attack by the 59th Staffordshire Division, although supported by tanks, had failed earlier. The CO Hallams was given the option of withdrawing his troops from Barbee farm and Vendes are, if he wished. Lieut. Col. Hart-Dyke, great soldier that he was, made the difficult decision to pull his now sadly depleted force back from this untenable position. However, it was far from a failure.

The enemy had been mauled to such an extent that they evacuated the positions of Vendes, Barbee farm and La Petite farm without further fighting.

The attack had been successful after all, and the heavy casualties had not been sustained for nothing.

All who took part in that momentous and difficult day of 16th July, 1944, can feel a justifiable sense of pride.

Fear is ever present in different degrees in the mind of a fighting man, whether he be on land, sea or in the air. It is a natural human reaction to fear for your life in times of danger. In my mind, it is the suppression of that fear which mainly constitutes courage. I can only speak as an infantryman and I feel courage is not a constant nor is it a bottomless well. Life in the front line has its highs and lows. Probably the days when you are in a big attack on the enemy you are determined, and your mind is more concentrated on the job to be done. Perhaps, to put it into more modem terminology, when you are 'psyched up' fear is not uppermost in your mind. Sometimes on these advances, the fire coming at you is so intense that it is mind numbing and fear does take over, hopefully, only momentarily. At this point, training, discipline, 'esprit de corps&, loyalty to comrades -call it what you will, helps you to continue forward. It is also of great help during the times when you are dug in, in a defensive position and you are being stonked unmercifully hour after unending hour; day after day of being on the edge of breaking point, seeing others break and wondering and worrying how much more oneself can take before being tipped over the edge.

At these times, you feel so very vulnerable and unable to do anything about it. That is when courage is so difficult to find.

And so it was that day sitting upright in the half track, my left arm held up in air, I felt so exposed; so scared of being hit again and that, I'm sure, was the only time that I felt afraid on that particular day.
The next thing I remember was my wounds being seen to; my clothing was simply cut off me. I must have been in and out of consciousness at this time, as I next recall being in bed between white sheets. I was in a big marquee with rows of beds containing wounded soldiers, and I was being cared for by Canadian female nurses. I was paid a visit by The Hallamshire's padre and he kindly wrote a letter home for me.

The doctor came to talk to me and explained what had to be done. It was obvious even to my untrained eye that nothing could be done to save my finger; nevertheless he asked me if it would be alright to remove it and trim up the bones, to which I agreed. A soldier in the next bed was concerned for me and he said, "I shouldn't let them take it off'. I told him that it was only hanging on by a little piece of skin and I didn't think that I had much choice. I was then told that they were going to fly me home, but a little while later there was a change of plan.

I was on a stretcher going down the corridor from the ward to the operating theatre, when I recall seeing a young French boy. he would have been about thirteen years old and he had a boil on the back of his neck. The boil was huge and looked so very sore that the sight tended to make my wounds seem less painful.

I was now on the operating table looking at the lights above me. The lights appeared to be fastened under a ceiling of interlocking boards which were painted a pure glossy white. I assume that their purpose was to reflect the light downwards on to the patient. It may sound a bit Heath Robinson in the light of modern medical practice, but what looked like a do-it-yourself job at the time meant that somebody must have had his thinking cap on.

There were two doctors in the operating theatre; one with his back to me was at the foot of the' table arranging his "tools". The other, at my left hand side, was measuring liquid into a test tube; he also had a wad of cotton wool in his hand. I assumed that the liquid was ether to put me to sleep. He said to the other doctor "Is this enough?" I thought b hell, this is alright, the bloke who is going to help with the operation is a learner! As he started to administer the ether, he told me to breathe in again and again. I heard his voice fading saying "good lad", "good lad", "good lad鈥漟aster and faster. My last delirious' thought at this time was, "My God, he's killing me" and at that point I lost consciousness!

When I came round, I was back in the ward and I had a pot on my arm. a When he came on his rounds, the doctor told me that in the desert they had
learned that putting pots on wounds kept the infection down when the patient was in transit.

During a conversation with a Canadian nurse, she told me that the British
soldiers were the lowest paid soldiers in the world. How right I thought she must be! I must say that her words gave true meaning as to why they called us, "The Poor Bloody Infantry"!

RETURN TO ENGLAND

I don't know exactly when I left Normandy, but I travelled back over the Channel, arriving back in Blighty sometime on the 19th July, 1944, my journey terminating at Ascot Hospital.

At some point after they had operated on me, I was transferred to a place near the coast in Normandy and for a short while we stayed in what appeared to be an infants school, which was being used as a transit point. I remember lying on a stretcher on the floor of the classroom passing my time away by looking at the pictures done by the children, which were pinned around the room just the same as you would find in an English classroom. We were then moved down to the beach and were taken on board a tank landing craft, which had made a perfect dry landing and was waiting with its bow doors open and its ramp down on to the beach. The sailors fastened our stretchers 2 or 3 high onto brackets on the side of the ship. Eventually, the ship was full, not only with stretchers fastened to the sides, but the deck was also covered with stretchers, leaving just enough room for the medical personnel to walk between the rows; quite a lot of the wounded were Germans. The ship's ramp was raised, the bow doors shut, and we were on or way back to England!

The crew of the ship came round with freshly baked bread cakes; the ship's officers were also helping to distribute the cakes. I really enjoyed my bread cake and asked if I could have another, but was told that there were no more left. A wounded German on the stretcher above me gave me his cake!

I was beginning to feel better in myself and was gradually recovering from exhaustion. The last month had played havoc with me; life at the sharp end in Normandy was very short indeed. Such was the Germans determination to stand and fight, that the average life expectancy for an infantryman would not exceed one month. The figures for the 114 KOYLI alone show how true this is, with ninety men killed in Normandy in the first two months, compared with one hundred and six in the following nine months. Probably figures for other regiments would show the same pattern. No doubt the corresponding figures for the enemy would show similar or even larger numbers for Normandy.

The journey out from England to Normandy in early June had been in fairly rough seas and I, like many more, was seasick. Our return journey across the channel was quite smooth and eventually we became aware that we were entering Portsmouth Harbour.

When the landing craft docked in Portsmouth, a team of sailors came on board and began carrying the stretcher cases off the ship. When my turn came to be carried off, the sailors asked me if I was English. I think that they were expressing their appreciation of our efforts in Normandy by being as gentle and considerate as they could when handling the stretchers. We were greeted with great warmth and all who came into contact with us wished us well.

At this point, I was very sick and I do not remember how we travelled inland from Portsmouth; it may have been by train, but I don't really know. Suffice to say that we arrived at Ascot Hospital, which was staffed with doctors and nurses of the Canadian Army.

We spent only a short time at Ascot, maybe a few days; the Canadians were very good to us. During this short stay at Ascot, I was on my feet for a short while for bathing. The Canadians gave me a new baffle dress and a full set of clothes, shaving tackle, toothbrush etc., as at this stage I had nothing at all. My A.B.64 was messed up, as a result of blood from my wounds, and I was later issued with a replacement. After a few days we said farewell to Ascot and we were moved by train to another hospital up north. It was not a hospital train with carriages; it was a long line of ordinary goods wagons that we were loaded into, albeit painted white inside and fined with brackets to accommodate the stretchers. This may seem a crude way in which to transport wounded soldiers in the light of the present day, but it also serves to illustrate the scale of casualties in Normandy, which had stretched the medical services to their limits. In our wagon we had a female army doctor travelling with us.

On our way to our, as yet, unknown destination, rumours were flying A round, first for this town or that city. Sheffield was one of the places mentioned
and I was obviously hoping that this rumour was true. We stopped frequently at railway stations and the doors were opened to supply us with refreshments. The travelling public on the railway stations were most kind to us, giving us cigarettes and other gifts. As we neared the end of our journey, we learned that we were going to Manchester, and so it was that our next stop was indeed Manchester.

It was dark when we arrived and we were met by the hospital staff from Crumpsall Hospital. As well as the medical staff there were people from voluntary organisations and of course, the ambulance crews. Also in attendance, were the local Home Guard complete with rifles, no doubt to ensure safety, as we still had German wounded with us. While the ordinary enemy soldiers were resigned to their captivity and often very grateful for the even-handedness of the Allied medics to friend and foe alike, many members of the S.S. were still very bluer towards us and were capable of causing trouble. Some medics in Normandy, particularly nurses, had been on the receiving end of their fanaticism. On arrival at Crumpsall Hospital, the Germans were put into a ward on their own.
We were looked after really well. I was very appreciative of the white sheets and the cleanliness after the mud and sludge of Normandy. We were soon settled in the ward, probably about twenty or so of us. I must again emphasise the impression of the shining white cleanliness of everything, which contrasted so much with the mud and filthy conditions that we had endured during our time in the slit trenches and the purely basic cleanliness of the medical facilities in Normandy. To feel that your body was clean and to be in clean clothes was wonderful.

Firstly, our wounds were cleaned. I was sitting up and taking notice and my own wounds did look quite clean. Some said that I was lucky and I think that I was. The bullet had just grazed my left elbow and then entered my forearm, running along it for 4 or 5 inches before coming out again, leaving a hole which one could slide a pencil through the full length of the wound. The doctor then cut along the whole length of the wound, enabling him to clean it better and to let the flesh grow back together neatly.

My other wound was different. This time a bullet had hit me in the back of the left hand and shattered the bones of my index finger, which I lost completely; it also damaged the bones in my other fingers. It might seem strange to refer to something that hurts you and takes your finger off as lucky, but if the bullet which entered my forearm had struck me another quarter of an inch away, then it would probably have smashed my elbow and I would more than likely have lost my forearm and my left hand with it. In the next bed to me was another Sheffield lad; he was from The Hallamshire Battalion. I knew him quite well, as he lived about 10 minutes walk from our house. His name was Vin Cole and he had been wounded on the same day as me, but in the attack on Vendes, which was the other half of the operation in which I had received my wounds. He had been wounded by an enemy stick grenade.

.

漏 Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.