大象传媒

Sunday night, 24th September 1944 was of great significance to me. Almost fifty years after, there was an argument raging about 300 or so soldiers of the Great War of 1914-1918 who were executed for the 'crime' of cowardice in the face of the enemy. The debate at the time was whether or not these unfortunates should be pardoned.

The military opinion was that the soldiers had to die to "set an example" to others; that desertion was punishable by death.

I would hazard a guess, and I don't think I'd be far wrong in saying that the majority of the 300 wretches executed were other ranks - that is privates or gunners. Few, if any, would have been officers or NCOs. The reasons for my certitude are bound up in the date mentioned above, a night I have never forgotten - a night of terror.

I was a gunner in the 4th Battery of the 3rd Super-Heavy Regiment of the Royal Artillery. On Saturday, 23rd September 1944, two landing craft set sail for the port of Dieppe in France, from Portsmouth. They were extremely heavily laden with all the paraphernalia which accompanied two monster-size mobile American artillery pieces; the ONLY two guns of such a calibre which could be prepared and brought into action in a mere 2-3 hours. Eight-inch (210mm), with a barrel length of 33 feet (10 metres) and the capability to fire shells weighing 50 kilos to a maximum range of just over 20 miles, they were designed to cause havoc to the Wehrmacht.

As the comparatively small LCT which contained one of the guns, two Sherman tanks adapted as ammunition carriers, and two American Mack lorries moved ponderously out of the harbour, my pal and I sat together on the small walkway which ran around the perimeter of the craft, listening to the sentimental strains of a recording which was being relayed over the Tannoy system of an emerging Royal Navy destroyer, and Deanna Durbin was singing in her own inimitable and delightful way 'I Can See The Lights of Home' ..... And running through our minds was the thought "Will we? Ever again?" We were both 19. We'd never been 'abroad'. Here we were, admittedly 110 days after D-Day, setting sail for enemy territory. We sensed danger, excitement, uncertainty. Within the next twenty-four hours we were to have our fill of all three.

Strange how memory plays tricks on us as we age, and this is one of my reasons for recording this episode of my life, apart from the unpleasant fact that those bitter, sweet days are now becoming shadows which soon may be beyond recall.

One of the deceptions of memory was that the particular landing craft in which I embarked from Portsmouth chugged its way over the Channel on that Saturday evening and night, heading for Dieppe, and to this very day I cannot recall why the journey took so long, for the next scene which is vivid to me is a slate-grey, overcast Sunday morning around 10am.

No hint of bacon & eggs, a cup of tea and the Sunday papers in bed, for the craft was behaving like a lunatic big-dipper at Blackpool!

No doubt the extreme weight of gun, tanks, ammunition and lorries were having an effect but, by now, the weather had become atrocious, decidedly vicious, and we were bobbing up and down and being thrown around outside Dieppe like empty tin cans on a boiling cauldron of a sea.

I can remember standing on the walkway with a Royal Artillery Lieutenant called Williams who subsequently proved to be as cowardly as his fellow officer, the Major of our battery and the Battery Sergeant-Major. If I looked and felt green with sickness, Williams looked even worse because NORMALLY he was a thin weed of a man. I asked if he had any sea-sickness pills and he answered in the negative "and even if I had, Gunner, they'd do you no good in such a sea."

Our craft was circling for hours outside the port and discussions must have been taking place as to the advisability of attempting to land.

As the light faded on that dreadful Sunday afternoon and no doubt people back in our home-towns were drawing their curtains and settling down to listen to the radio, with a Spam sandwich and cup o'tea, the decision had been taken by the Dieppe authorities NOT to attempt landing; we had orders to return to Newhaven, England.

Naturally we gunners were delighted but if we could have envisaged what the next twelve hours were to bring we wouldn't have been so ecstatic.

It wasn't obvious to us landlubbers, who had probably never experienced anything more stomach-churning than a rocking rowboat on Hyde Park's Serpentine lake, that the landing craft was turning round and setting a course for Blighty, because we had been circling, circling all day.

However, the sky was leaden, looking even more menacing; darkness was descending and waves were forming which I had only seen in Hollywood films with Errol Flynn. By early evening it became quite obvious that the decision to turn back was a horrendous mistake because all sorts of things happened which, had it not been for the tremendous courage and presence of mind of one lone Bombardier, would have ended with all us being listed as "missing, presumed dead".

The sea became a relentless, merciless mass of seething water. Wave upon wave struck the helpless landing craft from all sides, fore and aft. As she dipped into the sea, masses of water flooded over the front landing ramp and seawater was becoming a serious problem on the lower deck which held all the super-heavy armoury.

The brave Bombardier who could see what would happen unless we took some kind of action, gathered us together and shouted to us to get buckets, food tins, petrol cans, ANYTHING capable of holding water, and to form a chain leading from the flooded deck up to the perimeter walkway. The motive was to empty the seawater from the deck because another dire hazard had materialised ... the pumps which automatically drained the vessel's deck had broken down. Then the craft's engines spluttered to a halt. We were drifting; being battered mercilessly by 'the cruel sea'.

I had never learned to swim as a child and the thought flashed through my mind that if the craft did go down I would hang onto my pal whom I knew was a swimmer but, in such a murderous sea, I knew we'd very soon be fish food.

All through the night we toiled. Many of the young fellows were retching, being sick as they bent down to lift the cans and buckets of salt water which more often than not was blown back in their faces. Hand to hand, shoulder to shoulder, we struggled and fought to stay alive.

We held on by our fingertips, striving to empty the deck of the terrific weight of seawater. The Bombardier, completely oblivious to personal danger, was screaming encouragement "Come on lads, get moving, the more we chuck out the longer we stay afloat ..."

Now comes the reason for my story. Through a variety of circumstances a small force of young men had come together and were literally battling the elements to keep their heads above water. There were two fully-fledged officers, a major and a lieutenant, plus our battery sergeant-major who should have been setting an example. Were they not leaders? Were they not gentlemen?
WE NEVER SAW THEM ONCE ON DECK...
Rumour had it that the BSM was in tears in the galley, worrying about his wife becoming a widow ... and that the major and lieutenant thought it not 'quite right' to be doing other ranks work. Whatever reasons these cowards had for cringing in the galley during that fateful night, they were not sufficient to excuse their contemptible behaviour.

The landing craft continued taking a battering but, after hours of screaming and shouting, the Bombardier became hoarse. Slowly, gradually, dawn came, the ferocious gale abated and the torrential rain became showers. The landing craft's engine began throbbing again and my last memory before falling into a coma-like sleep, was devouring a can of self-heating green pea soup. As we docked at Newhaven our faces were white, lined with sea salt. We were utterly exhausted, bones and bodies aching, and some were numb with shock. But the overwhelming feeling was of pride and relief at having cheated Death and, despite its nastiness, hatred and wars - we were still in the world of the living AND we had conquered all that the elements had thrown at us during that night to remember. Two or three days rest at Newhaven revived us then, with the sea as placid as a lake, we returned to land at Arromanches, this time without mishap. The Royal Navy Lieutenant commanding the LCT gathered us together and made a short speech thanking us for what we had done. "Congratulations lads" he said "without you we wouldn't have made it. But, as for your officers ..." He didn't comment.

Almost sixty years after, I know I owe my life to the courage and tenacity of Bombardier Buckley, the man who refused to give in, the man who screamed and encouraged us and who saved the LCT, about 40 gunners, the gun, two cowardly British officers and a blubbing Battery Sergeant-Major.

This story has been entered by Terry Greenwood on behalf of Reg Otter who has given his written permission so to do.

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