大象传媒

continued from 13a

The early July sun blazed down in all its glory from a cloudless blue sky, the hedges and the long grass rustled faintly in the gentle breeze, the birds chirped cheerfully in the hedgerows, cows chewed the cud in their own, steady, monotonous manner and the gently-waving corn in the next field raised its yellowing ears in homage to the sun. Only the smouldering remains of a nearby village, and the indescribable stench of dead cattle lying on their backs with their death-stiffened legs pointing skywards from distended bellies like the corner posts of a four-poster bed, and the menacing muzzles of our 25-pounders just visible above the earth piled around the gun-pits, showed that war had come to this once-peaceful locality.
The gunners on duty were stripped to the waist and taking advantage of a brief lull in the fighting to relax while they had the chance. The off-duty gunners were either reading, writing letters or enjoying a quick snooze in their foxholes. I entered the Command Post to do my eight-hour spell as wireless operator. The Command Post was nothing more than a hole in the ground, approximately eight feet square and just deep enough to stand upright in. A large tarpaulin thrown over some thick logs covered with three feet of earth and a camouflage net spread on top formed the roof. The entrance was a series of shallow steps cut out of one corner and you had to duck very low when entering or leaving to avoid hitting your head on one of the protruding logs.
The wireless set, a No.22, Mk.3., stood on a ledge in the right- hand corner, and on the wall near it two Don Fives hung by their carrying straps from their earth pins. The tannoy control unit sat on a ledge at the left-hand side, with the Troop letter-box, cryptically marked '2 B Censored' beside it. The artillery board rested on a wide ledge recessed into the far side with its adjustable lamp leaning sideways at a drunken angle. A layer of well- trampled straw covered the floor.
The attitude of the four occupants was synonymous with the lethargic conditions outside. The Gun Position Officer leaned against the wall deeply engrossed in a two-page spread of a Doodlebug in a recently-received copy of "Flight"; the G.P.O's 'Ack' stood with his left elbow propped on the artillery board and his chin cupped in his hand as he pondered over the crossword in a four-days' old copy of the "Daily Express"; the telephonist lounged back against the wall with his eyes closed and a half-smoked Woodbine drooping from his lips; and the radio operator tapped his teeth slowly with his pencil as he tried to think what else he could put in his letter. The wireless crackled loudly as though it, at any rate, was in good working order.
As I entered, Charlie Kilminster, the wireless operator, glanced up from his letter; Ted Maher, the telephonist, opened his eyes, blew an inch of cigarette ash on to his battledress and dozed off again; Bombardier Ernie Hughes, the 'Ack', shifted his weight to the other foot and continued his pondering; and the G.P.O. raised his eyes for a moment before continuing his study of the Doodlebug. "O.K., Charlie, you can scram," I said, as I placed my rifle in a convenient position near the wireless. Charlie promptly scrammed.
"What's a three-letter quadruped?" Ernie asked, of no one in particular.
"Ewe,鈥� I suggested.
"Don't be so insulting."
"I meant 'ewe, not 'you'," I explained.
"Clear as mud," he replied, but I ignored the sarcasm. "Cow?" I offered, hopefully.
"Ram!" he exclaimed, suddenly and with emphasis, but I noticed he was filling in the squares and decided I was getting unduly suspicious in my old age.
A sudden rush of violently-disturbed air followed by a loud, staccato report was echoed a few seconds later as the second shell landed.
The Command Post awoke as suddenly as the shells had arrived. I grabbed the mike and sat ready to send or receive a message if necessary; Ted sat bolt upright as if he had been hit sharply in the back, spat the remains of his Woodbine on to the floor and grabbed the Don Five to the Battery Command Post line ready for any information to send or receive; Ernie shoved his paper to one side and prepared to work out a target on the artillery board and the G.P.O. flung his "Flight" to one side, grabbed the tannoy mike and yelled into it: "Hello, all guns. Hello, all guns. Did any of you see where those shells landed?"
The light flashed in number two and he listened carefully to what the sergeant on number two gun had to say. "O.K. sergeant. Thank you," he acknowledged, and turned to Ted. "Battery Command Post," he ordered.
Ted buzzed C.P. in Morse and the G.P.O. took the phone from him.
"That you, Ron?" he asked, as someone answered Ted's buzzing. "Those two landed about twenty yards behind my number two gun. No, no casualties. Report it to R.H.Q. immediately, will you, and see if anything can be done about it. O.K. Thanks, Ron." He turned to me.
"Ask the O.P. if they've seen or heard anything of two guns firing, and if they have, ask them if they got a bearing on them. I'm going outside to see where they landed. Maybe that will give me a guide to the bearing."
He hurried out, compass in hand, and I called up the O.P. and gave them the message. After a slight delay the O.P. gave the required information: gun flashes observed on a bearing of two-four-five degrees.
"Roger. Out, " I acknowledged.
Ted was on the alert and buzzed the Battery Command Post immediately and passed the information on to them. The G.P.O. returned and showed us some small fragments of shells.
"Get anything from the O.P?鈥� he asked.
"Yessir. Bearing two-four-five degrees."
"Two-four-five?" He did some rapid mental calculations. "Yes, that seems to tally with my calculations. Have you passed it on?"
"Yessir, " Ted replied.
"Good. "
Suddenly: "Mike target, Mike target, Mike target!" Ted yelled, his ear glued to the telephone.
The G.P.O. leapt to the tannoy and grabbed the mike.
"Take Post," he yelled. Outside, the gunners' lethargy vanished instantly. They became live, pulsating fighting men, each intent on his own particular job.
"Map reference seven-zero-nine-six-four-three. H.E. Charge three," Ted shouted out the orders and scribbled them on his pad as they were shouted over the line to him from the Battery Command Post. "Height, three-zero metres. Fire by order. Scale two."
As soon as Ted started shouting out the orders Ernie got busy plotting the target area on the artillery board and soon as he had worked it out he gave Ted the result of his calculations:
"Zero two-four-seven degrees; four-five minutes; eight, seven hundred; angle of sight, one-O minutes elevation."
Ted shouted the information into the telephone and received acknowledgment from the Battery Command Post. The G.P.O. reported the orders over the tannoy and the four lights flashed spasmodically as the four guns acknowledged. Soon after the last order was given the lights flashed again to signify the guns were laid and ready to fire.
"Dog Troop ready," Ted reported to B.H.Q.
"Dog Troop ready," came the acknowledgment. "Nice going, Dog Troop. You're first in the regiment to report ready." "We always are," was Ted's smug reply.
"Charlie ready?" queried B.H.Q.
"Charlie ready," replied "C" Troop Command Post.
"Good work, Troops. We're first again. The other Batteries haven't reported ready yet."
A brief period of comparative quietness followed, during which Ted and the "C" Troop signaller kept their ears glued to their telephones as they awaited the order to fire. The atmosphere had become suddenly tense. The G.P.O. stood with the tannoy mike held close to his mouth and his eyes fixed firmly on Ted. Ernie's whole attention was focussed on the artillery board, ready for a possible alteration to switch and range. The gunners were fully alert at their posts intent on brassing-off their rounds and hoping to inflict maximum damage to the target.
Suddenly: "Fire!" came from B.H.Q.
"Fire!" yelled Ted and the "C" Troop signaller simultaneously. "Fire!" the G.P.O. yelled into the mike.
"Fire!" yelled the sergeants, from their guns.
Eight spiteful, staccato roars shattered the peace of the morning as the four guns in each Troop fired almost simultaneously, spitting tongues of orange flame from their muzzles as the high explosive shells went screaming towards their target. The guns recoiled sharply from the shock of discharge and slid slowly forward again. The breeches were thrown open, the spent shell cases ejected and another shell shoved into the breech and rammed home. A fresh charge of cordite was put in, the breeches were slammed shut and the guns again roared their defiance into the mellow summer air.
"Dog finished," Ted reported to B.H.Q., as the lights flashed in the tannoy control unit.
"Charlie finished," "C" Troop reported almost immediately. "Dog and Charlie finished," B.H.Q. acknowledged.
Several seconds of silence ensued. Then; "More two degrees; eight, eight hundred."
The guns were laid and fired at the corrected switch and range, and a brief pause followed as the result of the shoot was observed from the O.P. Then came the order: "Eight, eight hundred. Five rounds gunfire.鈥�
"That last lot must have landed right on target," the G.P.O. commented, with obvious satisfaction.
The guns roared out across the sunlit countryside once more and the earth trembled with the vibrations. Birds that had returned to their perches in tree and hedgerow during the brief periods of quietness now took off again, chirping with alarm; a couple of startled horses shied with fright and galloped off to seek a quieter spot. Only the cows remained calm, solemnly chewing the cud as they gazed with their bleary eyes at the disturbers of their peace.
The last dull reverberations died away in a scarcely-audible diminuendo among the distant hills, the earth became stable once more, the birds ceased their frightened fluttering, the horses nibbled at the turnips, and the cows continued to chew the cud, as the guns stood silent once more.
The gunners relaxed as they were told to "Stand easy", the G.P.O. picked up his copy of "Flight", Ernie resumed his pondering, Ted lit his pipe in preference to a cigarette and proceeded to lay his own smoke screen, and I started to write a letter. Peace and quietness reigned once more.
A minute or two passed in which the G.P.O. laid down his magazine, Ernie finished his crossword, Ted leaned back and appeared to doze off again, and I made headway with my letter.
The telephone buzzed and Ted answered it without opening his eyes. "O.K. Thanks. Tojo!鈥� He put the phone down. "That target was a battery of eighty-eights." He paused to let the information sink in, then gave us the news we wanted to hear. "They ain't there no more."

I was scribbling away on the fifth page of my letter when Charlie came in with my mess tin in one hand and my mug in the other. "Here you are, you ugly freak of nature," he announced, as he shoved them under my nose.
"O.K. Thanks, Killer." I looked at the mysterious concoction in the mess tin and sniffed at it suspiciously. "Oh, hell. Not that muck again?"
"What do you expect for nothing? You wouldn't get a dinner like this at home."
"You're dead right. I wouldn't!"
"What is it? Stew again?" Ernie asked.
"Need you ask?" I placed my mug on top of the wireless set out of the way of careless feet and tucked into the stew. Tired as we were of the stuff, we still had growing lads' appetites and could demolish any meal at any time, as the others proved when Charlie brought theirs. The rice quickly followed the stew then we lay back and relaxed as we enjoyed our tea and a smoke.
Half an hour passed peacefully, and we began to succumb to the lethargy induced by the heat, Ted setting the example as usual. It was just like being on a routine training exercise back in Blighty: but not for long. Down in the telephone something buzzed. Ted answered it in his usual laconic manner, then jerked suddenly upright, fully alert, and started yelling out fire orders.
That yell started something! Uncle target after Uncle target was fired. Ted could have developed writer's cramp so quickly did he have to write the fire orders on to his pad, and Ernie's elbows worked overtime as they switched from one position to another as he made some slight alterations. The G.P.O. could have got hoarse yelling out the orders to the guns and the sergeants could have got equally hoarse repeating them. The gun layers' arms worked overtime as they coped with the alterations to switch and range and the perspiring gunners passed shells and bags of cordite from limber to gun until their backs ached. A cloud of fine dust hung over the gun position, and dust adhered to the gunners' perspiring bodies and thin trickles of white showed through it as the perspiration inched slowly down to their trousers.
The gunners usually wisecracked as they worked, but this was one occasion when time did not permit it. The enemy's counter-attack was a very determined one, and our infantry were having a desperate time somewhere in front of us. We had to save them at all costs

When the next day鈥檚 papers arrived a few days later the gunners' magnificent effort was disposed of in one laconic sentence:- "South- west of Caen, a determined counter-attack by the 21st. Panzer Division was smashed by our artillery ."

Our guns continued to have a very busy time, firing barrage after barrage into the enemy positions to give our hard-pressed infantry the support they so desperately needed. One barrage, code-named "Exercise Pullman", started in the early hours of the morning and continued throughout the day until late evening almost without a break. On the few occasions when the gunners were told to 'stand easy' the next shells were rammed into the breech and the breech left open so that the cordite could be put in and the guns fired without delay, but the practice had to be discontinued because the guns got so hot with the constant firing that the shells were beginning to 'Cook' in the breech and threatening to explode. The barrels of the guns got so hot that the dark green paint peeled away from them in places, revealing the pink primer underneath, which gave the guns a camouflaged appearance.
I was doing my spell as Command Post telephone operator during "Pullman" when fire orders came through from Battery H.Q.'s Forward Observation Post. Yelling, "Fire orders:" at the top of my voice, I started to write them down on my pad as they came through, and the G.P.O. yelled "Take post!" over the tannoy to the guns. In an instant, the gunners were at their places on the guns and proceeded to 'act upon the orders as they received them. The guns fired when ordered and we awaited further information from the O.P. For a while nothing happened, then the major's voice broke the silence. And he was not pleased. "Hello, Peter Four. Fetch officer," he ordered. The G.P.O. came over to me and accepted the mike when I handed it to him. "Hello, Peter Four. Officer speaking."
"And what the hell was that lot supposed to be?" the major demanded to know. "They should have landed in the target area, but they went all over the bloody place. There's a real live enemy up here, and it is essential we know how to deal with him. If your signaller can't interpret my fire orders correctly he should have his backside kicked. My orders were . . . " and as he repeated his sequence of fire orders I held my pad up So that the G.P.O. could see for himself what I had written. They were correct and he nodded glumly, told the major he would deal with it at this end, and left the Command Post. As he did so, Ernie leaned towards me. "It was that silly bugger," he told me. "He gave a wrong order over the tannoy. I heard him, but when I tried to tell him he waved me away. He didn't want to know." I had seen him sidle towards the G.P.O. while I was calling out the orders but did not know the reason for it.
"If there's any trouble for you over this, Doug, you can call me as a witness. I'll drop the silly bugger in it!"

continued in 13c . . .

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