大象传媒

Although submitted by me, his daughter, this was written by Bill about 18 months before he died in August 2004. I reproduced it in A5 booklet format and distributed it to various family members because for most of his life Bill had talked very little of his war experiences to anyone. Reading it I was struck by how he had been in three of the most dangerous theatres of the war for a soldier and managed to survive ........

This journal starts about a year before the Dunkirk debacle. I was twenty years of age, the right age to be called up by Hore Belisha (who was the then Minister of Defence in the government) for six months training in the army.

Dragged from the bosom of my family and my sweetheart Elsie, I found myself on a troop train bound for Berwick on Tweed with a heavy heart, together with some other lads in the 鈥渟ame boat鈥� as myself, reporting to the K.O.S.B. (Kings Own Scottish Borderers) barracks.

We were a motley crew of greenhorns who had no idea of army life but as we thought we would be home again for Christmas we thought it a bit of a novelty, accepted the situation and decided to make the best of it.

Then it was 鈥渟quare bashing鈥�, marching up and down the barrack square, then periods of small arms instruction on the rifle, Bren gun and grenade etc. along side that we had 鈥渇ield craft鈥� which took us out of barracks and into the countryside to learn how to use cover when in contact with enemy forces. Our spare time was spent on 鈥渟pit and polish鈥� routines and the odd passout to the local pubs, although we had little cash to spend that way.

So much for Berwick on Tweed. Except for the event that changed my life completely for the next six and a half years; the announcement that I heard on the radio in the N.A.A.F.I. canteen on my twenty first birthday, Sunday 3rd September 1939, that we were at war with Germany!

After this had sunk in we were told to stand by for transfer to the 8th battalion Durham Light Infantry and we eventually joined the Geordies, so we were 鈥淛ocks and Geordies鈥� together, a formidable combination of fighting men.

We met up with the Durhams at a place called Charlbury near Oxford and a period of settling in began until we were ordered to join the B.E.F. 鈥淏ritish Expeditionary Force鈥� in France. Elsie had made the journey from Dumfries to Charlbury and we found digs in the village for a few days.

It was a sad farewell for us when I boarded a troop train, in the middle of a snowstorm, on my way to France, leaving my sweetheart to make her own way home. It says much for her courage as it turned out to be a very hazardous journey indeed because of the very bad storm conditions.

Elsie鈥檚 Epic Journey North
Elsie鈥檚 journey from Charlbury to Dumfries by train took three days to complete owing to the severe blockage of the tracks by snow and ice. She was delayed at several stations waiting for tracks to be cleared and by that time I imagine she would have been short of money and becoming worried about reaching home. It was in this desperate state that eventually she arrived in Birmingham, where my brother Jim and his wife Jean lived, in the Moseley district. Elsie had Jim鈥檚 address but alone in this vast city had no idea how to get there. She somehow enlisted the help of a taxi driver who agreed to take her, the fare probably used up the last of her money.

It was quite late in the evening and dark when, tired and weary and probably bedraggled, she knocked on Jim鈥檚 door to be greeted with not a little surprise, but nonetheless a very warm welcome, once she had established that she was his wee brother鈥檚 sweetheart. This was salvation indeed for Elsie as she stayed with Jim and Jean until the storm abated and she was able to complete the epic journey home to Dumfries, my wee mother and my sisters with whom she lived all during the war鈥︹�︹�︹��

And so we crossed the channel for our first taste of being on foreign soil, by no means our last. It was late December and it was still snowing heavily.

Our first billet that night was in a farmyard, up over our ankles in mud, which didn鈥檛 do our morale much good and not much sleep was had by anybody.

Thence to the 鈥榩honey war鈥� as it was described in papers back home and it was indeed the lull before the storm which lasted for all that spring of 1940

We were stationed in Belgium during this period and were kept occupied digging defensive trenches and tank traps, which in the event were useless. Our top brass, together with the French, had great faith in the Maginot line, which the French had taken great pains to build and man with crack troops, which proved absolutely useless. Hitler鈥檚 panzers just invaded Belgium and went round the Maginot line; he didn鈥檛 need to attack it. That was the start of the Dunkirk debacle.

I seem to be using the prefix we a good deal but that鈥檚 the way things unfold in my mind to a large extent. Always being part of a unit, that unit being the anti-aircraft platoon attached to H.Q. Company and which doubled as the bugle band.

Anti Aircraft Platoon (ac-ac)
We were meant to be the protection for battalion H.Q. against low flying enemy aircraft. We traveled in fifteen-hundredweight trucks with a Bren gun on a tripod, swivel mounted, but I don鈥檛 remember ever firing it in anger.

We were also the bugle-band and as such had to learn all the calls that were required for the normal daily routine, from dawn till dusk, 鈥渞eveille, cookhouse, sick parade, lights out etc.鈥�

We also did a marching up and down routine with drums called 鈥渞etreat鈥� at times when we were stationary in French villages. This was supposed to be morale boosting, I very much doubt that but it was very good for our lungs.

There was always a bugler on every guard that was mounted, so that meant a lot of spit and polish for us, and a bit too frequently as well. I didn鈥檛 mind the 鈥渂ull鈥� but I hated making the routine bugle calls, especially if the regimental sergeant major was within earshot, I was terrified in case I should crack a wrong note. This was our Ac-Ac platoon!鈥︹�︹�︹��

We were no match for Hitler鈥檚 tanks and better equipped infantry. We found ourselves with our backs to the channel at Dunkirk, as organised resistance crumbled and an element of chaos surfaced, a defeated B.E.F.

This being so I suppose the instinct for survival took over and I began thinking of a way out of the situation. I wandered along the coast to a little place called La Panne to see if there were any boats, but no luck, so I went back to Dunkirk where, by this time, there was a navy ship alongside the small jetty, with a tramp steamer tied up to it.
I scrambled aboard finishing up in the hold with a crowd of others and cases of tinned fruit on which we feasted as we crossed the channel, back to Blighty.

We were put ashore at Pembroke, South Wales and I remember being billeted with a Welsh couple who couldn鈥檛 do enough for me and who treated us like heroes rather than a defeated army.

We were all given leave from there so it was post haste for Dumfries and my family and Elsie. On 10th June we were married in St. John鈥檚 church. Elsie had made all the arrangements; all I had to do was walk down the aisle. I used to joke that she grabbed me while I was still 鈥渂omb happy鈥� from Dunkirk.

Then after a few blissful days it was back to the army at a place called Knutsford in Cheshire, where the battalion was re-organising. Not long after that we went to an army camp in Honiton, Devon, where we stayed for quite a while doing mind numbing exercises on Dartmoor before being kitted out with tropical gear for service abroad. We soon found ourselves aboard a troopship on a six week 鈥渃ruise鈥� round the bottom of Africa up to Egypt and the Libyan desert, where we spent the next two years in combat with Rommel and his Africa Corps.

It wasn鈥檛 all fighting of course; there was the odd 48-hour pass to Cairo or Alexandria, which went down well with the ice-cold lager. Apart from the shot and shell I really enjoyed the desert life. Warm days and cool nights. At times, when we were in transit, we would be sleeping in the open beside our trucks and looking up at the sky, I felt that I could have reached out and plucked a star from the heavens, they seemed so near in that vast place.

It would take too long to detail those two years and a bit in the desert, suffice to say, after a stint in the Alamein line we managed to chase the Africa corps out of North Africa (8th army under General 鈥淢onty鈥� Montgomery).

Next job was the invasion of Sicily, for which I got ashore again with dry feet in our Bren carrier. I was a Master Sergeant by this time and we were kept busy during this short, sharp conflict.

Next it was home to 鈥淏lighty鈥� for some well-earned leave after which it was more training for the 鈥渂ig one鈥� the Normandy landings. This was to be my third 鈥渄ry feet鈥� experience.

The sight of our invasion forces crossing the channel was awesome, the water seemed chock-a-block with craft of all shapes and sizes and the air full of aircraft, all going pell mell to Normandy.

It was a bit choppy when we left the troopship and boarded a small landing craft, with our Bren carrier and mortars, full of trepidation about what lay ahead of us. In the event we were lucky to hit a quiet part of the beach and so I managed another dry landing.

Our platoon officer got a minor wound from shrapnel, which left me in charge of making contact with brigade H.Q. which was some way up ahead.

I now had at my disposal a motorcycle, which I started up, only to find that the twist grip throttle was damaged. I couldn鈥檛 get any more than 10mph out of it, nevertheless I had to find H.Q. so I had a very uneasy ride on that empty road being a 鈥渟itting duck鈥� for snipers, but luck was with me.

I found brigade H.Q. and got my orders to rendezvous at a certain map reference, so off I went to bring my platoon forward from the beach.

So began the battles to push the Germans out of France and beyond but I won鈥檛 go into all the details and go forward to my last part of operations, which was at the Albert canal in Belgium

Our forward troops had crossed the canal and were slowly advancing beyond it, taking a town called Gheel, so this meant that we had to cross the canal and provide supporting mortar fire. My officer, a signaler called Kitchen and myself crossed the canal on foot (by Baillie bridge) and decided on a position for the mortars, at a farmhouse about a mile ahead, whereupon the officer went back to bring the platoon forward, leaving Kitchen and I to lay out the aiming posts on a compass bearing for the weapons.

Having done this I went into the farmhouse to see to billets for the men and from an upstairs window, to my utter consternation, I beheld a platoon of Germans being deployed round the house. In a twinkling of an eye, here we were faced with an untenable situation 鈥� two against thirty, not good odds!

It was getting on towards dusk and I decided to try to hide in a haystack which I had spotted earlier, at the end of a vegetable garden in the next field, to which we scurried and burrowed into to await darkness, in the hope of getting back across the canal.

We had no sooner concealed ourselves when, to my horror, an enormous German tank pulled in on the other side of the haystack. What to do now? I made a daft decision to run for it, so off we went round the gable end of the house. I got my eye on a machine gunner in the same moment that I saw a slit trench at my feet into which we dived, not a moment too soon as the bullets whizzed over the top of the trench, all this in the blink of an eye!

That was the end of the line. I took Kitchen鈥檚 rifle, stuck my tin helmet on the end of it and hoisted it above the parapet whereupon the shooting stopped and we heard the words 鈥渉ande hoch Tomee鈥� (hands up Tommy) from the Germans and so we were made P.O.W鈥檚 (prisoners of war).

This part of the story has a sad ending because as we spent that night in the German front line we came under heavy fire from our own artillery and Kitchen was killed by shrapnel, whilst lying alongside me in a shallow roadside ditch.

The following day I joined other prisoners and we were made to carry German wounded to the rear, which at least took us out of the firing line.

Then began a soul-destroying march all the way across Holland, roads stretching forever in that flat countryside.

The next part of our journey was by cattle truck, packed into a third of the space while a guard occupied the other two thirds, we had to take turns at sitting down. We endured five days of this, being shunted about, eventually arriving at Stalag 12a, at a place called New Brandenburg near the Baltic coast. That was the end of the war for me, now it was reasonable to expect survival at least. It was only a question of 鈥渟ticking it out鈥� for the next nine months.

Sticking It Out
During our travels to the Stalag we had been sorted out rank wise and so I found myself in a batch of senior N.C.Os (sergeant and above). On arrival at Stalag 12a we were told that we would be expected to work on the local farms. This we refused to accept, on the grounds that being senior N.C.Os. we were supervisors rather than workers, whereupon we were segregated from the rest of the camp, in a compound within a compound.

Here we really had it tough for the next three months living on a starvation diet. Breakfast:- 1 cup of lukewarm ersatz (ground acorn) coffee and no food. Lunch:- 1 bowl of lukewarm turnip soup and no bread. Evening meal:-1 slice black bread, small piece of sausage and the inevitable cup of lukewarm ersatz coffee. During this lean time I sold my signet ring for a loaf of bread (I have never worn a ring since) and so, towards Christmas, a miracle happened, we started to receive American food parcels, sheer luxury, cigarettes, tinned fruit, meat, dried egg, milk etc. 鈥� salvation! From then on life was more bearable as we knew the war was nearing the end鈥︹�︹�︹��

In the event, when the Russian troops were on the approaches to our Stalag, the guards left their posts and we were liberated by the 鈥淩uskies鈥� and a wild bunch they were, 鈥渢rigger-happy鈥� comes to mind. Then the wheels were set in motion for our eventual repatriation to dear old Blighty, and not a moment too soon!

Amen.

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