大象传媒

My Regiment - the 68th Medium Royal Artillery - landed on Juno Beach, Mike Sector, on Thursday June 8th 1944: D-Day + 2. We were designated as a unit of the 21st Army Group, working as a Medium Regiment of the Royal Artillery (5.5 inch guns) within the 4th Army Group Royal Artillery, and specifically supporting the 3rd Canadian Division Infantry when additional firepower was required. We were in action throughout the Normandy Campaign from June 6th to August 27th 1944, then we assisted in the relief of Le Havre, afterwards proceeding virtually unopposed through Belgium until we reached the Netherlands, where the enemy offered stiffer resistance. The Regiment continued to operate in support of the Canadians up to and including the final crossing of the Rhine in March 1945. The final gun positions for the 68th Mediums were in the German region of Meppen. When VE Day was declared, the Regiment moved into former German Army barracks in Oldenburg, performing occupational force duties prior to eventual dissolution.

The period between June 1944 and April 1945 holds so many memories, but the one recounted here involved civilians and service personnel: as some may still be around and recognise the incidents described, names have been omitted purposely.

After the Normandy campaign, we had skirmishes with the enemy in the areas around Turnhout, Eindhoven and Tilbourg, but nothing like the long hard battles we had fought during the Normandy campaign. By early December 1944, the 68th Medium Royal Artillery and other units of the 4th AGRA had taken up positions to the west of s鈥橦ertogenbosch and on a line running west towards Oosterhout in Holland. Here we were facing German-held territory on the north bank of the River Maas, including notable cities and towns such as Dordrecht, Rotterdam, Utrecht, Amsterdam, Arnhem and Gronigen. The guns of the regiment were sited in the immediate area of a village named Cromvoirt, in the region of Holland known as North Brabant.

Some 6 miles from our guns, and about 5 miles northeast of Tilbourg, lay the attractive village of Oisterwijk. It was a pleasant spot, devoid of heavy industry and surrounded by woodland and a scattering of small farms. Half a mile from the nearest main road, the village鈥檚 buildings had escaped the ravages of war: its rectangular tree-lined platz was flanked on its two long sides by private residences, whilst the rather imposing mairie graced one end, facing office buildings at the other.

The six vehicles of B echelon were parked around the perimeter of the platz; my own vehicle, Q1, was actually parked at the foot of an ornamental stone staircase leading to the mairie balcony overlooking the platz. Within a day or two of our arrival in Oisterwijk, many of the men in B echelon were befriended by the villagers who lived nearest to their various parked vehicles. I was fortunate indeed to find myself 鈥渁dopted鈥� by the Van der Wiels, an extremely kind family whose house faced the platz about 45 metres from Q1. Whenever there was a period of inactivity, I was able to enjoy some home comforts in the form of an open fire and traditional Dutch cooking

So that this tale can be better understood, I must explain that during a short rest period which was given to the Regiment after we had moved into Belgium, my vehicle 鈥� a standard 3 ton WD general-purpose truck 鈥� had been given a 鈥渕akeover鈥� by some members of B echelon who in civilian life had been qualified fitters and carpenters. They suggested, and I gladly agreed, that Q1 should be customised to create the military version of a Romany caravan 鈥� but done in such a way that when the tailboard was lifted and secured in its normal position for travel and the canvas roof covering, which was supported on the tubular frame behind the cab, was pulled down and secured across the rear end of the vehicle, the modification would go undetected.

These resourceful craftsmen had constructed a rigid timber frame which fitted across the open end of the canvas-covered truck, but which allowed the tailboard to be lifted from its horizontal secured position to its normal vertical closure function. The frame was fitted with a central stable-type door opening in two halves, between two fixed ply board panels - the upper half of door and side panels being 鈥済lazed鈥� with clear plastic sheet. They had even found some curtain material to drape across the plastic window panels. Not only had the exterior of the vehicle received some useful modification, but the interior had been rendered infinitely more presentable. I now had a shelving system for the storage of small items of replacement equipment, and a desk cum general-purpose table. A lighting unit running off a heavy-duty battery illuminated my desk, enabling me to complete the paperwork associated with the duties of a Battery Quartermaster at any time of the day or night. There was a portable radio: it was good to be able to hear, when conditions permitted, the excellent radio programs from the American Forces Network, featuring such stars as Bob Hope, Jack Benny and Rochester, Bing Crosby, Peggy Lee and the famous bands of Tommy Dorsey (with Frank Sinatra as vocalist), Jimmy Lunceford and Benny Goodman. A Primus heater ensured that there was no problem in producing mugs of tea and coffee 鈥� even a slice of toast was possible. One essential piece of medical military equipment was always stored in Q1: this was a standard design of folding stretcher, fortunately never required for its original grim purpose. When opened up and supported on two ammunition boxes, it became my 鈥渂ed鈥�. Q1 had in the last two months become a well-equipped mobile home cum quartermaster鈥檚 office, albeit lacking in those 鈥渕od cons鈥� we now take for granted. It was a delightful but functional conversion, and during the cold nights which slowly overtook us, the Primus stove ensured that Q1 was a very cosy WD vehicle indeed.

Q1 served one other notable storage function. In mid-September all forward troop positions received a nightly issue of proof rum - similar to the 鈥済rog鈥� issued on special occasions to Royal Navy personnel. This very potent spirit was issued in large stone jars, on the basis of the establishment of the unit. Our Commanding Officer agreed that the issue to each gun position be related to the actual personnel on site. In this way, we managed to build up a reserve of rum from which we would be able to make a special supplementary distribution to everyone in the Battery when the time must inevitably come to celebrate the Germans surrender. A slightly inebriated gun crew would be unlikely to be subjected to military discipline on that occasion. That daily increase in stock of stone jars of proof rum was also stored and concealed in Q1. In truth, if a stray bullet had hit the rum stacked in Q1, the vehicle would have exploded like a petrol tanker - there was no armour plating protection for that valued consignment!

When we came to 鈥渙ccupy鈥� Oisterwijk, the weather had deteriorated, with low mists which prevented RAF sorties, and steady rain which turned the gun positions into absolute quagmires, making access across the fields very tiresome. Each night, when falling temperatures brought sharp frosts, our gun crews who were fortunate to be positioned close to farm buildings were grateful to the friendly Dutch farmers, who offered those who were off-duty the chance of an hour or two in the dry warmth of their homes, and no doubt a welcoming measure of Schnapps. But on December 11th, the Germans in the SE of Belgium fronting the American lines launched a sudden unexpected offensive in the Ardennes, and involved the use of airborne troops, having taken advantage of poor weather to covertly move their troops into new positions. There were even reports that some parachutists who could speak like Americans were dressing as US soldiers, aiming to infiltrate the Allied lines. Their ultimate intention was to break through to Brussels and on to Antwerp. Such an action would have deprived us of a valuable port and also would have cut off and isolated the British and Canadian troops in our sector south of the River Maas. The situation in the Ardennes became quite tenuous, and the 68th Medium Royal Artillery in common with others in the 4th AGRA received urgent instructions to send half of their complement of guns down to the Bastogne area to help prevent further enemy penetration of Allied-held territory. The enemy troops facing our gun positions on the south of the River Maas had to be kept unaware of this movement: the subterfuge was maintained by the replacement of each missing gun with an inflated true-to-size balloon rubber moulding of the original gun, bearing the same colour and camouflage treatment as the originals. The charade was lent further credence by the detonation of king-size 鈥渢hunderflash鈥� fireworks which were activated simultaneously with the firing of the remaining authentic guns.

On the night in question, I had spent a pleasant evening with the hospitable Van der Wiels, and I left their house quite late to make my way back to Q1. Just as in the UK, a 鈥渂lackout鈥� regime existed, so there were no street lights or visible domestic lighting. For a change, the weather had improved, and we had a dry, clear and frosty night.

There was good illumination from a full moon as I walked back toward the mairie and my truck Q1. Halfway along the platz, I was challenged by our roving security patrol of two armed 鈥済unners鈥�. When they had verified my identity, I was informed that a report had come through on the field telephone line from Battery Command Post to say that one or more parachutists had been seen descending earlier, and a special alert existed until he or they were caught. I returned to Q1 to remain on call for the rest of the night.

About twenty minutes after I had climbed the small wooden staircase and shut myself into Q1, there was the sound of an engine outside and a hubbub of English and Dutch voices. I slid back one of the curtains, and peering through the 鈥渨indow鈥� into the light of several electric torches, I could make out a red-coloured fire engine manned by members of the local Dutch Resistance Unit, together with the local Mayor and our roving sentries. But piled up on the equipment boxes below the usual extending ladder there was a very large bundle of white material.

One of the sentries called me down and explained the situation. Apparently, the local Resistance group also maintained a night-time visual outside the town limits, and had seen a parachutist descending in the moonlight. They had tracked the aerial visitor until he reached terra firma and had then captured him. He had claimed to be an RAF Typhoon pilot who had ejected when German ack-ack guns had spotted his plane in their search lights and shot it down. The parachutist had also explained that his No 2 plane, piloted by a good colleague, had also been caught by the enemy ack-ack and he too had ejected, but his landing had not been seen by the local Resistance group or by our own roving patrol. By this time, the captured parachutist himself had emerged from the large pile of white material where he had stayed curled up trying to keep warm. He was dressed in RAF-type flying overalls over a typical RAF blue uniform and sheepskin-lined black flying boots. The Mayor explained that he and his team had heard of German troop parachutists looking and sounding like American soldiers being dropped earlier in the week in the locality of Malmedy. He wanted us to interrogate the unexpected visitor, thereby relieving the Dutch group of the responsibility of ensuring that he was genuine.

I spoke to the young pilot, who was still suffering some shock from his experience of a hard night-time landing on strange terrain. He showed me the two non-metallic identity discs stamped with his name and serial number. These were consistent with the 鈥渄og tags鈥� carried by all service personnel during action but were not per se incontrovertible proof of his identity. However, after briefly testing his knowledge of the UK with a few questions, I felt able to assure the Mayor and his supporters that the young pilot had satisfied myself and our guard commander that he was the genuine article, and that we would arrange transport next morning to return him to his unit. The Mayor was happy to hear this, and departed with the Resistance group on their fire engine, well-satisfied with their night鈥檚 participation in the war effort.

I invited the young pilot into Q1 for a little more intensive questioning, having made sure he had no concealed weapons, and offered him a tot of rum from the 鈥渆mergency鈥� supply, but he expressed a preference for a cup of coffee and a slice of toast, which were soon prepared. We talked at length, and I learned that he was the pilot of a Typhoon plane operating under the control of the 2nd Tactical Air Force, which had given us such terrific support during the Normandy campaign. He and his colleague piloting the No 2 plane had been on a night sortie into the northern parts of Holland and both machines were on their return to their base at Gilze near Tilbourg when unfortunately both had been picked out by the German searchlight unit north of the River Maas and the enemy ack-ack guns scored bulls-eyes on them. The two pilots had to eject, but my unexpected visitor feared that his colleague might have come down on the north side of the Maas, and if alive would have become a POW. He recounted to me how he had seen the reflection of the bright moonlight on the surface of the Maas, and knew that somehow he had to try and guide his 鈥榗hute towards the south of the river and into friendly territory. In his anxiety to achieve this, he had lost sight of his colleague and could not be sure where he might have landed.

Now I come to the climax of this memory, and of how fate plays quite a hand in our lives from time to time.

As we continued talking and enjoying our mugs of coffee, I noticed that from time to time his gaze wandered to a framed black and white photo which stood on top of a box of files. It was of an attractive looking female in Army uniform, but hatless. Eventually, he commented on the photo, and asked whether it was my wife - or who? I told him that the young lady had became my fianc茅e in the last leave before the June landings, and was quite surprised when he then pointed to the military badge on the front of her tunic and said,
鈥淭hat badge looks very much like the regimental badge of the Yorks and Lancs Regiment.鈥�
鈥淵ou鈥檙e right,鈥� I replied, 鈥渋t is - but why do you recognise it?鈥�
鈥淥h well,鈥� came his reply, 鈥渕y best girl friend is in that regiment.鈥�
I immediately asked him if he knew where that regiment was stationed, and back came the answer,
鈥淥h, Pontefract Barracks.鈥�
From that moment, I was confident that he was indeed the RAF Typhoon pilot that he claimed to be.

We chatted on, and I quizzed him on the name of his best girl friend, and he told me her full name. I said I did indeed recall a girl by that christian name and his description of her fitted well with my own recollection. I explained how at the time when my former regiment of 25-pdrs was based in South Yorkshire, we were occasionally invited by the Commandant of the ATS at the Pontefract Barracks to attend regimental dances there, and that was how I came both to know of his 鈥渂est girl friend鈥� and to meet my future fianc茅e.

We remarked what a small world it was, and the conversation turned to the more serious matter of air combat and the like. What he never learned from me was that his 鈥渂est girl friend鈥� had become very, very friendly with a close colleague of mine, from our days in the Territorial Army prior to September 1939. I do not know whether our Typhoon pilot ever married that girl friend from Pontefract Barracks, but I can confirm that the attractive girl in military uniform whose photograph the parachutist saw on my desk in Q1 during late December 1944 in Oisterwijk became my wife in November 1946 - and I鈥檓 very happy to report in 2006 that she still remains so. That鈥檚 some record for the post-war years!

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