大象传媒

In January 1945 our convoy of some thirty vehicles, carrying a complete chain of four G/H mobile units, formed up and trundled down to Dover, to board two LCT's (Landing Craft Tanks). As soon as all the trucks had been secured, the LCT's left the harbour to make room for other boats and shipping. We then spent the night sleeping in our vehicles whilst pitching and tossing at anchor just outside the shelter of the harbour mole. All our vehicles had been newly painted with identification marks of RAF roundels and a black ace of spades on a white background with the legend "TAF 60 132". As Tactical Air Force - 60 Group - Air Ministry Experimental Station 132, we were about to witness the last days of the Third Reich.

The following morning the call was heard "Char up". We climbed out of our vehicles and assembled at the stern of the LCT with our mugs to receive some breakfast in the form of warm tea and "compo" rations (army emergency packs of biscuits, chocolate and toilet paper). In the dull wintry snow conditions with the landing craft heaving up and down, most of us stopped short of eating the chocolate. I had a second mug of tea, which I took with me back to my vehicle intending to use the warm liquid for shaving. On passing one of our operational caravanettes, I head a low moan coming from the back. Out of curiosity I looked inside only to see our flight sergeant flaked out on his back groaning and holding his head. Instantly I realized that this was an acute case of mal-de-mer. This surprised me somewhat because he had seen service in the Middle East and had been particularly free with advice about this complaint before we boarded the LCT. Offering to settle his queasy stomach with my tepid mug of tea only produced a long drawn-out groan of 鈥淥h, no!鈥� So I left him and proceeded to have my shave.

Almost immediately we could hear the anchor being weighed and the landing craft swung round. With the engines racing, we set out for France.
On the 26 January 1946, some two hundred and thirty days after D-Day, we arrived at the French coast just off Boulogne. The landing craft stood off from the shore for about thirty minutes until a solitary figure appeared on the beach and waved a large Morse flag slowly from side to side. At this signal both landing craft were driven ashore grinding on the shingle together. The solitary figure turned out to be a leading aircraftman. All the vehicles were then put ashore and lined up by the roadside. At this point our guide rolled up his flag, mounted a bicycle and rode ahead of our convoy leading us through the suburbs of Boulogne. Our immediate destination proved to be a large villa, where we were to be billeted for the night. In that rather mundane manner, we arrived in France.

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