大象传媒

These are the wartime stories of Tom Hilton. As recollected by his son and retold to his grandson.

Chapter 1
Called Up

My Dad was called up into the armed forces to become a Private in the Royal Army Ordnance Corp, RAOC. Where he was taught multi-vehicle and motorcycle dispatch riding. After the war I remember that about the house there were several leather sleeveless jerkins and pairs of elbow length gauntlets, special clothing issued to drivers and riders, that he had obviously brought home with him after his de-mobilisation.

His first posting was near to home, at Ladysmith Barracks in Ashton, so to return home to my Mum on a week-end leave pass was a quick and easy involving a journey of only a few miles. I recall him telling me on his first leave he borrowed a half caterpillar track personnel carrier from the vehicle pool at the barracks on Mossley Road to drive the short distance to Lees. Why I don鈥檛 know, he didn鈥檛 say, perhaps he was showing off! But he used the track vehicle to go out for an evening drink to the Swan Inn on the High Street where he parked on the forecourt. On leaving the pub he made too tight of a turn onto the main road and the tracks of his carrier dislodged the granite blocks and churned up the whole cobble stoned forecourt much to the amusement of the on-looking villagers and much to the anger of the local councillors who found out the following morning.

I only remember one other incident when he landed in trouble with authority. This is when he was posted to Leicestershire for further training. Whilst there here developed a number of very painful boils on his back, the treatment for which was the application of ointment and the covering of the whole of his back with one large sheet of adhesive plaster. When it was thought that the boils had healed he reported to the Medical Officer who took hold of the top of the plaster sheet and with one hard pull tore it off in one swift downwards movement. The boils had not healed and tearing the plaster ripped off their heads causing my Dad, now in extreme agony, to curse the doctor in the foulest language you can imagine. For that I鈥檓 afraid he was charged with insulting an officer and given a sentence of 鈥�10 days C.B.鈥� which meant he was confined to barracks for ten days unable to join his pals for a pint in the evenings, or take any home leave he was entitled to.

Chapter 2
D-day Landings

As the day of the Allied landings in Normandy approached my Dad was stationed in a field to the north of Southampton awaiting his return to Europe, having holidayed there before in peacetime. D-Day was the 6th June 1944 and he crossed the English Channel the day after what was called D-Day + 1, June 7th to land on Sword Beach (Footnote) in the British Sector driving a bren-carrier. When I asked him what it was like to drive off the forward ramp of a landing craft into four feet of cold seawater and then drive several hundred yards up a soft sandy beach in the middle of a raging battle, he replied that he was terrified. His vehicle was open-topped so as it left the end of the ramp it immediately sank to the seabed and filled with water that poured over the sides. Now sat at the cockpit controls up to his chest in cold seawater, he pressed down hard on the foot throttle to drive the bren-carrier at top speed through the surf and up onto the beach not stopping until he reached the relative safety of the sand dunes at the foot of the low cliffs.
When I asked him what he saw of the terrible carnage going on all around him, he replied very quietly, 鈥淣othing at all, I drove the whole way with my eyes shut鈥� After telling me this story I remember he fell silent as though he was reliving the event in his memory and he refused to carry on telling me any more at that point. However, on another occasion much later, by which time he had recovered his composure, he continued his stories.

Footnote: Since discovering my Grandad landed at Sword Beach, though which section is not known. I took the opportunity a few years ago whilst on holiday in the Normandy Region to drive the few miles along the coast to Lion sur Mer, the town roughly in the middle of what was Sword Beach to see for myself where exactly in Normandy my Grandad had landed and fought all those years before. On arriving I was first astonished at what a beautiful beach it is, flat and stretching for miles. It immediately struck me why it was chosen as a suitable place to land thousands of troops and equipment. Wondering along the beach I tried hard to imagine what it must have been really like for my Grandad and all those men, I could only try. All the while I had this feeling of peace and accompaniment of my Grandad, I couldn鈥檛 know and would never the exact spot where he had charged his bren-carrier up the beach, but I found a spot where I felt he鈥檇 been and it was good enough me.

John Hilton. Jnr.

Chapter 3
Fighting through Normandy

Life in Normandy at the battlefront was difficult as each night under cover of darkness he was one of a team of ten drivers taking supplies to the infantry at the front line in 10-ton trucks. Without any lighting in unfamiliar countryside and without road direction signs to guide them, the convoy frequently got lost, and delivering the correct supplies to the correct fighting unit in the correct location was both very difficult and dangerous as enemy gunfire was constantly being directed at them in an effort to prevent the supplies getting through to their destination. Although my Dads truck was never hit, some of his pals in the same convoy were, and his face took on a sad appearance when he told me of the number of good friends he lost during these nightly deliveries, their trucks bursting into flames having been struck by a shell.
Another hazard to convoy duties was driving over landmines sunk just under the road surface by the retreating enemy. When he told me of one such incident his face not only took on a sad appearance, but tears also formed in his eyes when he told me of how he lost two very good friends on the same night convoy. Apparently, whilst delivering boxes of ammunition to the front line, without warning the 10 ton truck immediately behind my Dad ran over a mine and the munitions on board exploded in a massive sheet of flame. Before he had chance to realise that he himself had only moments earlier driven over the same section of roadway without triggering the mine, the truck immediately in front of him ran over another mine and exploded destroying the vehicle, it鈥檚 contents and the unfortunate driver. My Dad stopped, caught between two destroyed trucks and unable to manoeuvre out of the way of the exploding ammunition firing off in all directions, he jumped from his cab to the ground and took shelter in a ditch at the roadside until the situation could be re-organised. He told me that he always counted this as his luckiest escape of the whole war. He said he never knew why Fate decided that he should survive when the two drivers immediately in front and behind him should be killed. This particular incident must have upset him deeply because whilst all his other war experience stories were told to me several times over the year鈥檚, this incident were he lost these two pals he only ever told me this particular story once.
These nightly convoy deliveries carried on for weeks without stopping and each driver dreaded the night when it was his turn to be the ferry driver transporting the other nine drivers back to the base stores depot just behind the front line. The routine was very simple as on the first night each of ten drivers would deliver their supplies, and then unload. Nine of the trucks would remain at the front line whilst one driver working on a rota would drive the tenth truck back to base with the other nine drivers in the rear attempting to get some sleep. In due course as the front line moved forward the other nine trucks previously left behind would be recovered as the storage depot moved forward. With a large fleet of trucks available this rolling programme of moving trucks forward was very successful, but very tiring for the crews. Like all the others, my Dad told he it was very difficult to stay awake at the wheel when it was your turn to make the return trip as ferry driver with the responsibility for the lives of your friends resting in the back of your truck. The following day would be spent re-loading another ten trucks for the convoy that night, and this programme was maintained for weeks on end without a rest to the point where eventually the drivers were utterly exhausted.

Chapter 4
A chandelier in Brussels

In due course France was set free and the troops went on to liberate Belgium. After Brussels was captured it was a chance to celebrate in that city and my Dad joined his pals in drinking a toast in a restaurant bar. The establishment was a huge room with tables and chairs to seat hundreds positioned around the walls, and. in the centre was a circular dance floor directly underneath a large chandelier. Despite wartime conditions the building and contents had survived unscathed and the proprietor, typical of others of the same kind, was immensely proud of his massive chandelier of beautiful cut lead crystal glass with numerous bright lights. Of all the fine items of fittings and furniture, his pride and joy and the most significant
mark of his importance as a restaurateur, was his magnificent chandelier.
On the night my Dad paid his visit the room was full of soldiers drinking their victory toasts with the enemy having been driven out of Brussels, when suddenly a huge detonation occurred close by outside the bar. The vibration caused the chandelier to break away from the ceiling and come crashing down to hit the floor in an explosion of shattering glass, it disintegrated into millions of tiny fragments. The proud owner rushed to the scene and on setting eyes on the disaster before him he fell to his knees, held his head in his hands, and burst into tears. The hundreds of customers immediately fell silent and in the quiet of the room the owner wept uncontrollably as he knelt amongst the shattered remains of his priceless treasure.
A stray bomb from an Allied aircraft passing overhead was thought to have caused the detonation, but whatever it was, it broke the bar owners heart, and gave my Dad an unforgettable memory.

Chapter 5
Dutch children. Christmas 1944

On into Holland where Allied troops were held up due to the enemy holding firm close to their own border. With progress halted, my Dad was billeted in the home of a recently liberated Dutch family containing two small children. It was Christmas-time in 1944 and the family had been deprived of everything during four year鈥檚 of enemy occupation so there was nothing with which they could celebrate, and there were certainly no presents for the children. My Dad used his own army ration plus some more small pieces begged from his pals, to make a gift of chocolate to the children. On receiving this gift of a commodity not seen in Holland for many years, the two children were delighted and the sight of their joy caused my Dad to break down with emotion. He admitted to me that he cried on that Christmas morning at the plight of those poor innocent children caught up in a terrible war. He added that on that morning it was the first and only time he ever cried throughout the entire length of the war; not at the horrors he had witnessed earlier, but at the look of pure happiness on the faces of the children at each receiving one small bar of chocolate.
Of all his war-time stories this is the one I remember most clearly mainly because he repeated it to me a number of times as I imagine it give him pleasure to think that he did a little bit of good in what were very bad times. Needless to say, every time he told me the story of the Dutch children, he always had a little weep at the memory.
To the mother and father he gave his ration of cigarettes as their gift.
I recall that this family home where he stayed was in Nijmegen, and whenever I occasionally visit that country on holiday, immediately I enter Holland I remember this story, I immediately get a lump in my throat at the emotional thought of what happened to my Dad that Christmas and I think to myself, I wonder whatever happened to that family, and where are those two children now?

If I ever found them they will by now be in their middle sixties year鈥檚 of age, I wonder where they are?
As he said farewell to the family as the troops moved on, the mother and father insisted my Dad accept a gift from them in return as a thank you, a camera. It was of no value to them as film for it was of course unobtainable, and so with some reluctance because he felt he hadn鈥檛 earned a gift and because he did not wish to offend their generosity, he accepted this camera so as to please them. This camera was of German manufacture called Volkslander I vaguely recall when I saw it some year鈥檚 later after it found it鈥檚 way into our household and in due course I started to use it to photograph railway steam locomotives on all of my trips as a schoolboy trainspotter.
Funnily enough, although I broke my flask without fail on every trip, I never once broke that camera. Perhaps there was something inside me that made me extra careful with it, perhaps in my sub-conscious something told me to guard it with particular care because it was special and important to one of my Dads memories of the good people that gave it to him.
Alas, the camera eventually disappeared from my Mum and Dads household belongings many year鈥檚 later after I married, but I would give anything today to have it back!

Chapter 6
Courtesy of the British Government.

As hostilities neared the end he crossed the River Rhine near Nijmegen to enter Germany and found himself stationed near Dusseldorf continuing with his normal duties as despatch rider delivering messages by motorcycle or delivering supplies by truck until thankfully peace was declared.
One day he was in convoy with two other 10 tonners transporting what was thought to be general cargo along the autobahn from Dusseldorf to a destination about half a days drive away. This particular day was very hot and sunny, so shortly after departure the three drivers stopped and pulled their trucks over to the roadside to lie down on the grassy banking to cool off and rest. After only a few minutes one of the other drivers overcome with inquisitiveness, climbed into the back of his truck to see exactly what his cargo contained. He was amazed to uncover not mundane items such as belts of ammunition for example, but large glass jars of neat rum, a neat spirit used to bolster the fighting prowess of the troops when combat was still going on. Not missing the chance of a free tipple (or two) of rum courtesy of the British Government, the three pals settled down on the banking, uncorked the jars, and enjoyed the delights of unlimited free booze basking in the sun.
Nobody, including my Dad remembers what happened next, but his version of the story relates that although they set off on what was originally only a six hour delivery run never happened, because by the time they finally reached their destination, they were three days late!

Chapter 7
Returning home.

When he was finally released by the army he found himself in London in civilian clothes and carrying a railway warrant for his train journey back home to Lees. Many times before in the past when his regiment was stationed all over the midland counties and south of England, he found himself in strange towns and cities unable to reach home because train travel was intermittent due to a disrupted railway network caused by the war. When stuck in an unfamiliar place and unable to continue travelling on to his destination, and with night-time approaching, like thousands of others in the same difficulty he turned to a friendly refuge-The Salvation Army.
Their hostels provided a hot meal and a bed for the night for cold, tired, hungry serving servicemen and women, and those like my Dad recently de-mobilised, travelling from place to place during difficult times.
Frequently he was helped by The Salvation Army and in gratitude he made their good cause one of his favourite charities. His tradition lives on, as I too, because of what they did for my Dad look on these great Christians with fondness and respect and I always give generously to the continuation of their good work.

By John Hilton. Snr.

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