大象传媒

Preface

Although I served with the Guards Armoured Division as a Royal Signals Radio Mechanic, from Normandy until the end of the war, I thought that the incident described below might offer some insight Into the chaotic late summer of 1940.

Whilst it may be reminiscent of 鈥淒ads Army,鈥� it is factual and the conversations almost verbatim. In the case of the lorry driver and the lady in the house they are 100% accurate.

Parachute Patrol

It was late July 1940. France had fallen and Britain awaited invasion. Fields and open spaces had been obstructed against anticipated airborne attacks.

HQ Company, The 5th battalion South Staffordshire Regiment was on its evening, anti invasion patrol around Doncaster Racecourse, and I, an infantry signaller, was in the leading file of three.

A requisitioned, open topped sports car drove up accompanied by a police car. A few quick words with Sgt Major Magregor (known as 鈥淢ac鈥� to his underlings) and four of us privates were ordered into the car where we began loading our rifles from a box of .303. The Home guard had reported a parachute drop and required help.

Mac was an experienced soldier but we were only partly trained. Town-bred youths knowing little of the countryside.
In an area indicated by the Home Guard, we set off in twilight along a lane, stumbling on the uneven verge and cursing the swarming midges. 鈥淣o noise鈥� hissed Mac, 鈥渁nd keep yer bloody eyes open鈥�.

Half-crouched, nervously scanning the dimming pastures, we had travelled some distance when the leading man gasped, "Sir. Something moving in the corner of that field. Looks like a parachute!" The sgt/mgr. remained cool. "Keep yer bloody voice down! Now, where is it?" Eyes screwed in the near darkness, he followed the direction of an excitedly pointing
finger.

About two hundred yards away, near a hedge, which ran at right angles from the lane, we made out a low, lumpy grey shape, rippling gently as though effected by a light breeze. Sucking breath sharply between his teeth, the S/M climbed a low barbed-wire fence into afield. We followed excitedly.

"Oowww!" Private Jenkins, whose lack of inches made him the butt of much humour, was straddling the fence. His body was rigid; his head well back so that his pain distorted face looked towards a diamond studded sky. With down turned toes reminiscent of a ballerina; his short legs were frustrating frantic attempts to find adequate purchase for his "points". A stream of sobbing blasphemy caused Mac to turn in fury. "Stop that noise yer silly little bleeder," he hissed. "Yer on a charge!" But I'm caught on the wire," wailed Jenkins. "It's stickin' in me flippin -" "Shurrup! Get 鈥榠m off.you two"

The grinning privates grasped their unfortunate comrade and lifted strongly. There was a tearing noise. "You've ripped me trousers yer stupid sods," the sufferer moaned as he felt the flap of cloth hanging from his buttocks. "Quiet," snapped Mac. "Move!"

Easing into a drainage ditch at the hedge bottom, we crept cautiously forward. A few inches of stagnant water and deep, slimy, odorous mud dragged at our feet, while a belligerent cloud of whining insects attacked ferociously. Like devout penitents of some masochistic order heading for a shrine, we laid vigorously into ourselves with whatever twiggy debris could be found, swearing luridly under our breath.

Curiosity is a strong bovine trait. The cows grazing the meadow looked up with interest as our patrol appeared then plodded over to investigate. Thoughtfully chewing the cud like an association of football managers, they lined the edge of the ditch staring inquisitively at the odd spectacle.

In frightened panic some men reacted. "Get away you buggers!", "Gerrorf yer bastards!", "Ooooh its gonna bite me!"

The S/M was livid. "If you stupid idiots don't shut up I'll shove me bayonet up yer Jacksies!" he hissed threateningly. "Its the flippin cows Sir," whimpered one. "They'm on top o' us." Seething with frustration, the Sgt/mgr pressed angrily forward.

Anxious not to miss any action of their reluctant visitors, the cows plodded along in very close proximity. One made an untimely decision to discard a quantity of squishy excrement; - to the fury of the splashed occupants of the ditch!

The S/M. paused. The grey object had convulsed and changed shape. "It's a bloody 'oss" he exclaimed disgustedly as the animal scrambled to its feet. Hastily we returned to the lane courteously escorted by our horned hosts

Without further incident we reached a main road and moved cautiously on. Suddenly, came the noise of an engine and a heavy, flat-backed lorry towing a trailer, rounded a bend and sped towards us. Two of the lads frantically motioned it to stop but the driver, yelling through his window that he had been stopped already, drove on. Mac dashed up. "Did you tell him to stop?" "Yes sir. Said he'd been stopped once."

Running into the centre of the road, the S/M lifted his rifle and fired towards the rapidly retreating vehicle. Sparks appeared where a "303" round hit the road. Momentarily surprised by this aggressive behaviour we then reacted excitedly, and with far less precision fired a small volley.

The heavily laden vehicle, swaying and squealing under the stress of fierce braking came to a halt. We closed up.
Trembling with shock, the driver glared frightened and speechless from his cab. Suddenly he made strangling noises
and in a choking gasp. "You bloody madmen! L-l-look at this!" He pointed with shaking finger to where a bullet had passed within inches of his head. Mac was unmoved. "Stop next time you're told or you may not be so lucky." He turned to his patrol. "Did you lot fire low?" "Yes sir!" we lied in unison, assuming a slightly hurt demeanour. "We're searching for parachutists. Have you noticed anything suspicious?" The driver was beginning to recover. "Only some crazy buggers with rifles," he snarled. "I'm seein鈥�' the police. I'm gonna 鈥榓ve you lot in court!"

Ignoring him we examined the back of the vehicle. Two men climbed on top while others pushed back part of a tarpaulin. Nothing unusual was revealed either there or in the trailer except for two bullet holes in the tailboard. These were quietly concealed, by readjusting the tarpaulin

Later, along a quiet tree-lined road, we came to a house fronted by a large, well-tended garden. After stealthily examining the environs, we collected on the front lawn and the door was knocked. A short wait, a bedroom window opened and a middle aged woman appeared.

"What do you want?" she snapped struggling into a dressing gown. Very politely Mac addressed her. "Madam, we are looking for parachutists that may have landed near here. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?鈥� A man's head appeared. "Did you phone the police?" she demanded "Yes dear. They're on their way." The S/M tried again. "Madam, parachutists have been reported. Have you seen or heard anything suspicious?" She surveyed the strange gathering on her lawn - black up to the knees and one whose trousers were torn. "That's a likely tale. Get the gun John." An ancient shotgun poked menacingly through the window. "Now, clear off or you'll get both barrels!"

Mac, bristling with annoyance but aware of his impotence, withdrew his smirking, well-armed men and continued with the patrol. Shortly afterwards we were intercepted by a police car and we had a good chuckle as our adventures at the house were related.

"We were asked to contact you anyway," said the police inspector. "Your chaps have decided its probably a false alarm and will pick you up in about thirty minutes."

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