大象传媒

continued from 17a

As the fighting continued, Captain Gibb advised me to move my equipment into the cellar and operate from there. I had no objection to that. The cellar offered much better protection. Wounded and weary footsloggers lay or sat in various attitudes of lethargy and resignation on the cellar floor, getting what rest they could. The elderly couple sat hunched together on a small camp bed at the far end, looking rather pitiful and decidedly scared.
Surprising as it may seem in the circumstances, one enterprising individual had somehow managed to get a brew of tea going and offered them some. This little act of kindness on the part of the enemy thoroughly surprised them, especially when offered the almost-forgotten luxury of real sugar.
As he watched the old couple, almost in tears, trying to express their thanks, an infantryman standing near me murmured, almost sheepishly, it seemed: "We're a soft-hearted lot, aren't we? We can't be nasty to the bastards."

One wounded infantryman, his left sleeve perforated with bullet holes and black with blood, and his face abnormally pale in the dim light of the cellar, raised his head in dismay as someone was heard to say: "We look like being stuck here all bloody night if we don't shift the bastards."
"I can't stay here all night with this lot," he moaned, indicating his bullet-riddled arm.
"It's all right, mate," I hastened to reassure him. "I've already radioed for Starlight jeep. It should be here soon." I had seen him brought in and had radioed immediately for a medical officer. The man nodded his thanks and resigned himself to waiting.
As time wore on and neither side showed any sign of surrendering the village, the infantry officer, returning from one of his many ventures outside, approached Captain Gibb. "We're losing men and getting nowhere," he said, quietly. "Have you any bright ideas?" Captain Gibb thought deeply for a moment before giving his decision. "Only one. Shell 'em."
The officer looked startled. "But that would mean shelling our own position," he exclaimed.
"I know that, but what alternative is there? It's about the only thing we haven't tried yet," Captain Gibb replied with considerable decisiveness. Then he added quietly. "I'm willing, if you are."
The officer thought deeply for a moment, and then made his decision.
鈥淪ergeant, find as many section leaders as you can and send them to me. I'm giving them new orders."
The sergeant hurried out and soon several section leaders joined us in the cellar. Their officer told them bluntly what we proposed to do, and to their great credit not one of them objected.
"Tell your men to get below ground level if they can," Captain Gibb advised them. "We'll warn you as soon as the guns have fired."
He came across and squatted beside me and together we worked out the fire orders. I wrote them down on my pad and when they were completed I radioed them to the gun position. The last orders were, "Five rounds rapid. Report when ready."
Ted Maher, the Command Post operator, checked them back correctly and the usual pause followed as the men in the Command Post worked them out and checked the location of the target. Then Ted's startled voice came through again. "Check your map reference. The one you have just given is your own position."
"Yes, I know," I replied, with considerable emphasis. "That's how things are up here. Report when ready."
Ted acknowledged the confirmation and we waited. After another brief pause Ted reported: "Dog Troop ready." "Dog Troop ready," I acknowledged.
Captain Gibb nodded and I relayed his unspoken order. "Dog Troop. FIRE!"
"Dog Troop. FIRE!" Ted shouted. Then, a moment later, "Dog Troop. SHOT!"
"Dog Troop. SHOT!" I shouted.
Instantly, Captain Gibb was on his feet shouting at the top of his voice. "Everybody down! Everybody down!"
The order was shouted by one section after another until the whole village seemed to reverberate with it. "Everybody down! Everybody down!"
The next few seconds were tense with nervous expectancy. Everyone in the cellar went suddenly quiet. Those who had been standing up now lay down, as though that provided greater protection.
From somewhere in the distance came the faint but rapid drumming as the sound of the guns firing reached us. Then a quiet whisper in the air as the shells hurtled towards us. The whisper rose to a loud hiss, then to a sudden screaming crescendo. With a last frightening shriek the shells hit us.
The air was suddenly filled with smoke and debris as the first salvo landed. The second salvo followed almost immediately after the first. Then came the third. Then the fourth. Five rounds rapid was what we ordered, and five rounds rapid is what we got. Those five rounds followed each other in such quick succession they might have been fired almost simultaneously. Our gunners must have sweat blood to load and fire so quickly.
The deafening crash of bursting shells and the shattering noise of falling debris was continuous, and a heavy cloud of grey-black smoke drifted slowly over the village. The house we occupied was hit, as were most of the others, but miraculously, we were not.
The medicine was a dangerous one to take but it cured the ailment. Before the Germans could recover from the shock of the barrage the Worcesters had captured the village. The Germans simply did not believe we had deliberately shelled our own position to do so. But as one German officer is reported once to have said: "The British are not stupid; only unpredictable."
His opinion seemed to be confirmed when the Somersets pulled off a daring 2,000 yards night infiltration of the village of Horstmannshof and took the enemy completely by surprise. There, a burly Panzer Grenadier declared on capture that it was absolutely ridiculous for the British to be there when there were 4,000 German infantry with Tiger tanks just down the road.

When the attack on the forest dragged on far longer than the time scheduled for it, it gradually became apparent that Nobby would not be able to double as carrier driver and radio operator indefinitely, One of those jobs could be exacting enough for one man at any time if it had to be done continuously in even reasonable conditions, but the unfavourable conditions that had prevailed since the battle for the forest began made it doubly so. Nobby was as efficient and as willing to pull his weight as anyone could be, and it was always a pleasure to work with him, as I had found during the years we had worked together, but there was a limit to what he could do and it became necessary to relieve him of one of the jobs.
The Troop had more carrier drivers than O.P. signallers, so a relief driver was requested. That was when "Old Bill" Lean rejoined Roger Dog for the first time since Normandy. Bill's nickname derived from his age. He had once admitted to us that it was the same as the year. In 1942 he had told us he was 42, which made him the oldest man in the Troop. We had also wondered at the time why a man his age should have been called up at all when younger and more active men had not.
He also had the Lancastrian's droll sense of humour. At one stage of the action, when we took shelter in a farmhouse, Captain Gibb told us we were likely to be stuck there for at least an hour or so and suggested we try to organize some breakfast. Old Bill, accepting the driver's second role of head cook and bottle-washer, soon had a saucepan of water boiling on the big iron stove and threw in a liberal portion of Quaker Oats. Making the tea distracted his attention from the oats for a time and when he eventually turned his attention back to the saucepan he stood staring at it in a puzzled manner for quite a while. Then he slowly turned and faced us. "I think there's summat wrong here, boys," he announced, in his broad Preston accent, and gripping the handle of the spoon that- was showing above the rim of the saucepan he lifted it up for us to see. The porridge came out with it, a solid ball of thick, creamy oats. That was the only time we ever had sliced porridge for breakfast.

The high ground, a series of three hill features flanking the Cleve-Goch road, was a vital objective. Opposition was extremely bitter. Farm buildings had been converted into carefully-prepared strongpoints and had to be seized one by one at bayonet point. The 1st Worcesters and the 4th Somersets made the final assault on the escarpment and won all their objectives. Below us, less than a mile away, lay Goch.
Jerry threw everything at us, from small arms fire and mortar bombs to 1O5mm shells. I was standing a few yards away from the carrier when the barrage started, and a jeep driver of the Worcesters whom I had met several times was carried past on a stretcher.
"What's the matter with you?" I shouted to him, through the noise of the barrage. "Too bloody idle to walk now, are you?鈥�
He grinned happily and pointed to his leg. "Got a beauty here, Doug. A real Blighty one. You 鈥榓int. Carry on soldiering, you're doing a grand job."
I returned his grin and gave him the thumbs up sign as he was carried past, then I dashed across the intervening ground and vaulted into the carrier. My hand was still resting on the edge of the carrier when a shell landed right beside it. My arm went suddenly dead and I fell heavily back into my seat only part conscious. The noise of the barrage was suddenly and inexplicably dimmed, and I could feel my face turning white as the blood drained from it. From his place in the other compartment Nobby leaned across the engine compartment and shouted his concern: "Doug: Doug: Are you all right? Doug:"
His face was no more than a foot away from mine and he was shouting above the sound of the barrage, yet I scarcely heard him. His words were as distant as the barrage.
I do not know how long I lay there, but I gradually became aware that my left arm was no longer there. Ever so slowly, so slowly as to be almost imperceptible, my face began to get warmer as the blood started flowing again, and just as slowly the warmth started to return to the rest of my body. Except my left arm. That had been blown off at the shoulder, of that there was no doubt. I had stopped a Blighty one. For me, the war was over. I would be joining my jeep driver friend on the Blighty plane.
Still only dimly aware of what was happening about me I moved my hand up to my chest, then ever so gingerly across my chest to my left shoulder. I let it rest there for several seconds, not daring to move it down for fear of what might, or might not, be there. Then I plucked up courage to move it slowly downward. The surge of relief that swept over me at finding my sleeve still full of arm was overwhelming. I moved my hand quickly down until I could feel my hand. Only then did I open my eyes. There was not a mark on me, but my left arm was completely 'dead' up to the shoulder. A piece of stone thrown up from the track by the bursting shell had struck the back of my hand with such force that it had completely numbed my arm. Vigorous rubbing brought the life gradually back to my arm and it was almost normal again by the time we pulled up close beside a farmhouse wall.
The Somersets had fought to the point of exhaustion through three days and three nights of continuous action in atrocious weather conditions before being relieved by the Worcesters, and we had supported both regiments continuously, and by the time we came within reach of our objective, the escarpment, we had been in action continuously for five days and four nights, with no sleep, no wash, no shave, and no proper meal. We had kept going mainly on the occasional hasty brew-up on the Benghazi fire. We were all ready for a break.
We were completely shattered, and we felt it. Then, just as we thought we might have a night's rest and the Germans thought they were going to have a brief respite from our persistent attacks, the powers-that-be decided to launch a night attack instead of waiting for daylight.
The daring attack was a complete surprise to the Germans and a great success for us. By daylight the Somersets had consolidated their position on the escarpment and we were right up there with them. That is when the Germans began to hit back with all they had. The Somersets asked for artillery support. We gave it them. Our heavy shelling soon forced a number of Germans to surrender.
The Germans' retaliatory fire was the beginning of what was to become one of the heaviest and most accurate barrages they had ever fired on any front during the war. The shell that had numbed my arm was one of the first to hit us.
When Bill brought the carrier to a halt beside the farmhouse wall Captain Gibb went to confer with the infantry officers and Nobby and I took advantage of the shelter to indulge in a very quick wash and shave before he returned. When he did so he told us we were likely to be there several hours and that we could close down on the No.18 set seeing that we were with the infantry and would not require to be in radio contact with them, but that the No.19 set had to remain open in case the infantry should require more artillery support.
"You both need sleep," he ended, "so I'II leave you to decide between yourselves who gets his head down first."
He needed sleep just as much as we did, but he went to rejoin his infantry colleagues so that he could keep in touch with events.
"You get your head down, Nobby. I'II stay at the set for the next four hours," I offered, magnanimously.
Nobby grinned a knowing grin. "You cunning bugger. You've got the same idea as me, haven't you? You've had to stay awake so long you're too tired to go to sleep."
He was quite right. No one who has not had to endure enforced sleeplessness hour after hour, day after day, will ever understand what it is like. Your arms and legs seem to become heavier, your body more leaden and your movements more sluggish. Every part of your body becomes a separate weight slowing you down. You know you can't last out much longer without sleep, yet you do. Then, paradoxically, you suddenly no longer have the desire to sleep. You feel you can continue indefinitely without it, yet you know you must sleep, or suffer the consequences.
We both knew that it would be much easier to do four more hours on duty before trying to get some sleep than to get some sleep first and then have to wake up to do another stint at the set. Those who describe an idle person as being too tired to go to sleep should think twice before making such a statement. It is not a pleasant experience.
Nobby pulled a penny from his pocket and told me to call. I called heads. It came down tails. Or so Nobby said. That coin went back into his trousers pocket so quickly I didn't have the chance to see it.
I descended the stone steps to the cellar where worn-out infantrymen were sprawled out in various attitudes on piles of old bedding trying to sleep away their exhaustion. I found a vacant place and joined them.
I have no idea how long I lay there but I was awakened suddenly by Nobby shaking me violently by the shoulder and asking loudly if I was all right. Rising wearily on to one elbow I asked him what was up. He heaved a sigh of deep relief. "Cor, blimey, you put the wind up me. When I saw you lying there with your eyes wide open I thought you'd had it."
My eyelids were so stiff with having been forced to stay open so long that they had refused to close and when I eventually managed to fall asleep I did so with my eyes wide open. When Nobby saw me staring unblinking at the ceiling he had feared the worst.

continued in 17c

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