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Reg Haynes now 81 years of age, fought in World War II, from the deserts of North Africa and up through Italy. It was in southern Italy, in 1942, under Monty of the 8th army that he lost an eye in an exchange of fire with a German battery. Here follows an account of the traumatic event in his own words.

Two years later, (picture this scene in Italy)

Schroom! POW! Schroom! POW! The armour-piercing shells from the German Anti-tank gun were coming loud and fast. Suddenly we were in their firing range, down to a mere hundred yards, even before we could get them in our sights. Again POW! POW! WE knew we were in trouble. Gibson, the gunner of our Sherman tank shouted to Tommy Ellis, our Commander, ‘’Tommy, Tommy we’re getting the daylights knocked out of us’’. The Germans were taking a strong stand north of Orvieto hoping to stem our advance under the American General Mark Clark, who, thus far, was driving the enemy out of Italy.
‘’Driver, move up, move up get us nearer to the wall to the left’’ ordered Tommy Ellis on the intercom, but this evasive action came just too late for the Allied Tanks and their crews, who were soon enveloped in fire and smoke. It was simply that the canny Germans had hidden their gun behind the wall of Ficcule Cemetery.
Schroom! POW! Another shot took our leading tank in its most vulnerable spot, the revolving turret ring with its 75mm gun. There was no time for explanations, ‘’Bale out’’ was the cry. Those who could did, but it was too late for Bill Abrams, Arthur Midwinter and Harry Boynton — All dead and many wounded.
Schroom! POW! Does it have to go on? Our tank was next to be hit! The five crew were stunned OR worse. Blood guts, gunfire, gunpowder, heat — all is haywire. Nest a momentary lull. Who is trying to say something? Smudger Smith, radio operator with gun loader, Cried out from inside the turret behind me and, through the aperture between my driver’s seat and the fighting chamber, I could see Smudger who shouted ‘’I cannot move my legs, can you help me out?’’ The smell of burning began to fill the atmosphere; I tried to lever open my escape hatch over my head. Wham! It clouted the turret gun barrel, which had become rigid over the hatch when being manoeuvred into aiming position. Brockie, to co-driver, was transfixed with fear. He was sitting beneath his escape hatch but could not bring himself to move. Only one alternative to enable help for Smudger so I climbed over Brockie, lifted open his trap door and eased myself up and out on to the top of the tank. WOW! The blissful warmth of the June morning, 15th day in fact, 1944, was out of keeping with the misery of the many wounded, though it was a blessing.
My first thought was ‘Keep your head down’, which seemed an impossibility, on top of a Sherman tank, which was brewing up. Ignore it all, get on with the job. I leant over the top of the open turret to see Smudger support himself on the chunky magazine of the 75mm gun. He was a big chap, a Regimental champion swimmer, modest and popular. I could not go into the turret; no leverage would be left to lift out my friend. I got Smudger to lay his chest over my back. I felt his weight and prised and lifted both of us to a point of balance of my chest on the turret edge. ‘’Hey Smudge, push with your legs’’ I said. ‘’Can’t’’ said Smudger ‘’I think were gone’’. I could not see much with all the smoke but, putting my hands down inside the turret, I lifted Smudger’s legs up by the sheds of his trousers and somehow slid our bodies down onto the back of the smoking tank.

Smudger was bleeding profusely; he seemed ghostly white under his light tan. I soon realised that with the machine guns firing at random the only prospect of immediate shelter would be under the burning tank, whatever the risk. I jumped down off the back of the tank, the scene was chaotic, Gibson the gunner was slightly hurt and lay in the wheat, Tommy Ellis had lost a leg and was suffering, but still remained ‘with it’. He was now the senior NCO left in command of the remainder of the First Troop, ‘B’ Squadron of the Warwickshire Yeomanry. Brockie had
Come out, if only to escape the risks of remaining inside to burn alive.
Smudge somehow managed to put his shoulders to mine and slowly he was lowered to the ground to slide under the smouldering tank. He said ’’How am I going to play water polo again?’’ Deep down I knew his thought was a forlorn hope, but in the spirit of these things replied ‘’We’ll soon get you patched up.’’ He was literally dying during this brief conversation and passed on almost immediately.
I moved away towards our disabled and bleeding Commander, who had called me over. He is the man of great heart and army experience, speaks his mind and is always fair-minded. He said, ‘’Try to put a stop to all this carnage, can you find something white to wave at those ‘Krauts’? ‘’Not much chance’’ I replied, ‘’unless I take off my singlet’’ which I promptly did and waved it wildly at the Germans without effect. The machine guns kept up their vicious chatter, instinctively, I felt it was tine to take a break and flopped down into the standing wheat. I lay there for a few moments; again the blue sky of the soft, warm, Italian morning momentarily overcame the trauma in the midst of human suffering. I could not anticipate what I was next to feel.
Wheel! Clang! Bang! I jumped like a rabbit, I knew I was hit. It is said that with the speed of bullets one is hit before one hears it coming, but this time the Wheel was the sound of the missile, the Clang was the sound of it first hitting another stationary object nearby (A green bucket) and the Bang was felt when the missile ricocheted and hit me in the head. I flopped, almost insensible, back into the standing crop.
The staccato sounds of machine gun fire seemed to stop. Time appeared to stand still. The next thing of which I was aware was the unexpected care of hands of our German captors lifting me to wherever. Bandages were being wrapped about my head and, included in this touch of human kindness, in the midst of terrible happening, was a sip of water and cognac. Prisoners of war were not always treated so sympathetically, and as my teeth and right eye had been torn apart, I am forever grateful for the ministrations of our captors. The realisation that help from the enemy, during war conditions, is a rare case for wonder. Our captors were unable to hold their position and soon left, leaving us to the care of our following regiment and its Field medics.

To round off this short story, may I add that from your TV screens, you will have seen the battle tanks of war and the misery created. When things are bad one has to find the silver linings to help oneself. Faith is a prerequisite to establish an open heart and mind to bring about one’s own recovery. Life is tough, but much of it can be withstood when acts of high calibre human conduct abound in the world today. In the aforementioned story the German gunners, by caring for us, their attackers, acted beyond the call of duty, and is one reason why I live to tell the story. Another reason was that about an hour before, during our approach to the site of the battle, I had a great urge to relive myself; it took a lot of persuasion on Tommy Ellis to let me out of the stationary tank.
When he relented I was up, out, trousers down, trousers up and shot back into the driving compartment, I had forgotten I could, at that time, travel so fast, a health giving moment.

The town in which I live is twinned with a town in Germany, where the peoples of one-time enemies have come to forgive. One of my German friends, a school Director has, with the aid of the German Military Archives, found the names of their Regiments who were in retreat from the Allied Forces many years ago. Perhaps members of the Ficcule will be traced when, if they too have lasted this long, a proper expression of thanks can be made by our survivors.

In a world in which it is so easy to hate and to harbour bitterness, this is a memorable lesson in forgiveness and compassion. Furthermore in an age when it is so easy to forget, we must do all we can to remember.

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