大象传媒

Our place of observation in the steeple was reached by way of a flight of rough, age-worn stone steps protected by a black iron handrail, and was a very precarious one. We had to sit astride the wooden beams supporting the steeple, with a sheer drop of sixty feet between us and the floor of the church.
The holes in the damaged roof provided an unrestricted view of the panorama in front of us. In the foreground, just in front of the village, the River Rhine wound its placid course through the fields; the middle distance was covered with trees and bushes, with an occasional building standing in isolation among them; and away in the far distance were the vague outlines of what appeared to be a small town. It all looked so calm and peaceful, as though the war didn't exist.
The next day was not so peaceful. Captain McAllister and I were in our positions astride the beams when a small river tug came into view on our far right, pulling four or five small, flat-topped barges. It travelled at a leisurely rate which gave us ample time to work out our fire orders, call up the guns, nominate the target for the benefit of the gunners, and give our fire orders.
"Report when ready," was our last instruction, and this was acknowledged by the Command Post operator.
During the pause that followed, while the guns were loaded and made ready to fire, we watched the slow progress of the tug as it neared the position at which we were going to fire on it. "Dog Troop ready," the guns reported. "Dog Troop ready,鈥� I confirmed.
Captain McAllister waited until the target was almost directly in front of us, then he glanced at me and nodded. "Dog Troop. FIRE!" I yelled into the mike.
"Dog Troop. FIRE!" came the immediate reply. Then a moment later, "Dog Troop. SHOT!"
"Dog Troop. SHOT!" I replied.
The tug and its barges continued its leisurely way towards us. From the far distance behind us came the muffled thuds as our 25-pounders came into action; the faint whispering that became gradually louder as the shells approached us; then, as the shells passed directly overhead, the frantic rush of wildly-disturbed air as if a huge flock of migrating birds had suddenly swooped low over us. Then the shells landed.
We had ordered five rounds rapid, knowing we would probably have only enough time for one go at the target before it reached the next bend.
Of the twenty shells fired only one fell wide of the target, exploding harmlessly on the far bank. Of the rest, six scored direct hits on the barges and the others were such near misses they must have caused considerably damage to the barges below the water line. Only the tug appeared to have escaped undamaged, and as soon as the shells started to fall it picked up its nautical skirts and headed as quickly as possible for the safety of the next bend.
It was shooting of a very high standard and we had no hesitation in calling up the guns and congratulating the gunners on the accuracy of their shooting. They never saw any of the targets they shot at, nor what the results were, so we 'filled them in' whenever possible. A few words of praise occasionally worked wonders for their ego!
There was no more excitement that day, but we were back in the steeple immediately after breakfast next morning to resume our vigil.
A corporal of the Worcesters joined us during the morning and took a keen interest in our work, showing a genuine willingness to learn something about it as he asked numerous questions and listened intently to our answers. The infantry thought the world of their observation post supporters because of the risky nature of the job and of the speedy and valuable assistance we were able to give them when necessary. He remained with us for quite a while before deciding it was time for him to return to his section. As he prepared to leave he glanced around him in a puzzled manner and asked: "Well, I got up here, but how the hell do I get down?"
"Same way you came up," I replied absently, keeping my binoculars trained on the wood across the river, where I thought I had detected movement.
The corporal obviously had a sense of humour. "Not bloody likely. I came up head first."
Before he could move off his perch, it happened. Three muffled reports sounded across the river and almost immediately three shells hit the church. Two hit the wail just below us and the other smashed into the steeple just above us. Although we were showered with small debris we were not hurt in any way.
A peculiar shuffling sound followed almost immediately after the shells had hit us, and the corporal was gone. He must have gone down those steps without touching them. At any rate, he had got down without waiting to be told how: His face showed pale against the dark stone floor of the church as he looked up at us in a startled manner and called: "Hey, gunner, aren't you coming down?"
"Can't," I told him. "We know where the guns are, so we've got to shut 'em up." Our binoculars had fortunately been trained on the place the guns had fired from and we had seen the muzzle flashes. Captain McAllister was already working out his fire orders.
"Bugger that for a game of soldiers," the corporal retorted, with considerable emphasis. "I thought our job was bad enough but we can at least get our heads below ground when Jerry gets rough." And off he went at the double to rejoin his platoon.
Whether we succeeded in knocking out the German guns, or merely forced them to withdraw, we never knew, but after "D" Troop had fired into the target area we had no more trouble from them.
Later that day, after a prolonged period of relative inactivity on the part of the enemy, Captain McAllister suddenly asked me for the Command Post. Because of the extreme urgency of his voice I assumed he might have seen something important worth firing on and that speed was essential, I decided to cut corners on procedure.
"Peter Three to Peter Four. Message. Over." I yelled.
Very slowly and very deliberately came the reply from the N.C.O. manning the Command Post radio. "Hello, Peter Four. Message for Peter Three. Watch - your - procedure,鈥� he intoned... 鈥淧eter Four to Peter Three. Over.鈥�
When he heard it Captain McAllister turned to me with a look of utter amazement. "Who the hell was that?" he asked. I had no option but to tell him, and he held out his hand for the mike.
Slowly and deliberately he intoned: "Hello, Peter Three. Message for Peter Four. Fetch officer. Peter Three to Peter Four. Over." A moment later: "Officer speaking," came from the radio.
Captain McAllister spoke again "Tell that bloody operator of yours there are things far more important than procedure to watch up here. If my signaller thinks the situation requires him to cut corners on procedure he has my full permission to do so. Furthermore, he has been on this job a very long time and is considerably overdue for replacement. If he ever asks to be relieved I now know who his replacement will be."
From then on I had no trouble about cutting corners on procedure.
There was continuous movement all along the approaches to the Rhine. The vital crossing of the river itself was imminent, and we received orders to rejoin the Battery at a map reference radioed to us.
We decided to treat ourselves to a slap-up meal before leaving Wardt, so, as we had made friends with a local farmer and his wife who had let us have eggs and milk free of charge whenever we asked for them, we took a chicken to them and asked if they would pluck and clean it for us. The dear old soul was only too pleased to oblige us. "You, good Tommies," she declared. "You do not steal. You ask. Other Tommies, they no good. They not ask. They steal. But you, good Tommies. I clean chicken for you."
Poor old dear. After such warm words of praise we hadn't the guts to tell her it was one of her own chickens.

The map reference radioed to us showed our rendezvous with the rest of the Battery to be much further away than when we had last left them, even going by the most direct route. A small village in the middle of a big wood stood about half-way between us and the rendezvous point, and the radio message, which suggested we use that route, had advised us to use extreme caution as it was not certain that the wood had been cleared and might still be harbouring enemy troops.
The route proved to be unexpectedly difficult and our progress was frustratingly slow. At 22,00 hours, when we should have kept the rendezvous, we were only just entering the village, and in pitch
darkness.
The village was as quiet as the woods that surrounded it, and the noise Roger Dog made as it rattled and bumped slowly along the rough surface in front of the houses must have been heard miles away. The single row of houses stood like brick sentinels guarding the sleeping inhabitants. Not a glimmer of light showed anywhere. The carrier clattered and lurched to the end of the row, and we tried to pierce the darkness for any sign of unwelcome visitors, then, as Alf tugged the wheel hard over to the right to turn past the end of the row, the rear end swung violently to the left with a harsh grating sound and the carrier stopped dead. The silence that ensued was deafening. For a few seconds none of us spoke or moved, then Alf restarted the engine and tried to drive away, but the carrier refused to move.
"Now what?" Alf muttered, as we all clambered out to investigate the cause.
In that pitch darkness we could not see what had brought us to a sudden stop, but after fumbling in his kit Alf located his army issue cycle lamp, the only means of illumination we had. The feeble light of the little bulb, carefully shaded in Alf's cupped hands, revealed the cause immediately. The left-hand track had broken and was lying flat along the ground.
It was no use just standing there looking at it. We were already long overdue for our rendezvous and' the rest of the Battery would be wondering what had happened to us. We set about replacing it.
The job was always difficult and thankless even in broad daylight, but in pitch darkness it was infinitely more so. The solid steel track was very heavy, and trying to haul it back over the bogie wheels by means of a steel pin hammered into one of the links was a physically demanding and arm-aching job that soon had us perspiring freely. The track kept slipping off the bogies to hit the ground with a resounding crash, and we kept hauling it back again. The clang of steel upon steel as we tried to hammer the pin into the link shattered the silence of the night as violently as a brick shatters glass. After a few blows we would stop and listen carefully for the possible sound of a quietly opened door or of stealthy movements in the wood.
A German night fighter droned monotonously somewhere in the blackness above, with flaming onions from an A.A. Battery curving upwards in search of it. It came nearer when we switched on the lamp and receded into the night when we switched it off. It seemed as though the pilot could see the light and was drawn to it like a moth to a candle; but the light from the flaming onions was almost as bright as the light from the lamp!
The track obstinately refused to be fitted. Sometimes it fell back on to the ground before we had managed to lift it on to the front bogie and at others it rattled noisily off again just as we seemed to be on the point of success. We had to change jobs frequently, one holding the lamp for the two who were struggling with the track and the other standing a little distance away keeping a sharp lookout for unwelcome visitors. I don't know how many times we changed jobs, or how many times we had to rest our aching arms, but at long last the two ends of the track decided to come together and the pin was hammered firmly and thankfully in. It was then broad daylight.
With the echoes of the persistent hammering still ringing in our ears, tired from our night's exertions, and thankful that our efforts had attracted no unwelcome visitors, we were relaxing against the side of the carrier for a few moments before resuming our journey when the sound of an approaching vehicle startled us into complete wakefulness. Before we could make a move to grab our weapons the vehicle appeared round the end of the row of houses. To our heartfelt relief it was not a German but M.1., the maintenance truck from B.H.Q., and the man who leapt from it and walked briskly towards us was my former room mate, Lance Bombardier George Joy.
"What's happened to you lot?" he called out as he approached us. "You'r hours overdue. Everybody's worried about you."
We explained quickly what had happened, and as we assured him we were quite O.K. and capable of making the rendezvous under our own steam he looked suddenly alarmed and swore loudly.
"Bloody hell! I'll have to get back to R.H.Q. and stop those telegrams. You've all been reported missing!"

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