大象传媒

Chapter IX - Dreaded 'O' Groups
It seemed to be taking an unusually long time for our equipment to be loaded, not that I was in any hurry to get it up em, when our officers informed us N.C.O's, to tell the men that as the Stevedores were on a go slow, they were not to make matters worse by antagonising them when we eventually board ship. (Rumour had it that they were demanding danger money? It was a pity that someone in authority didn't make them sail out with us, but perhaps not, we wouldn't have had enough handcuffs).'England Expects Etc. '
After a reasonably calm crossing, with no sea sickness helped I believe by my insistence of continually chewing army biscuits, we were soon to enter rougher waters (if you know what I mean). Smoke was rising from the distant shore and we eventually dropped anchor. Whilst our vehicles were being transferred onto the landing craft we were being constantly harassed by dive bombers (no job for the unpatriotic back in Blighty), so as you can imagine I was most anxious to get my feet on Terra Firma where you do have a chance to either dig in, or take cover.
My vehicle was the first to be loaded onto the landing craft, and my Section quickly jumped inside ready for my driver, Dad Docker, so called Dad because I believe he was in his thirties, to drive off. When the landing craft was in shallow enough water for the ramp to be lowered and as the vehicle was being driven down the ramp into the water, I thought it was exceptionally deep despite the waterproofing, but Dad our faithful steady and reliable driver kept the engine going as we ploughed half submerged to the shore, where in doing so, was expecting to be greeted by a hail of fire from a reception committee, but thank goodness the enemy was being held back at a comparatively safe distance from the beaches of Arromanches.
On landing safely we were met by an officer who said that we would be the only vehicle to land that night because the tide was going out and directed us to a field just inland where he suggested that we take up a defensive position, as a counterattack was expected. Perhaps it was Dennis Healey who gave us the order, because I understand that he was a Traffic Warden during the war or was it 'Beach Control Officer'? (Oh! I am a Silly Billy).
We had an undisturbed night but were very relieved with the arrival of the rest of the battalion next morning, and we're to remain here for a few days awaiting the landing and regrouping of the rest of the Division. We took advantage of this delay with hand grenade practice using German hand grenades, a visit in groups to the front line being held by the Coldstreams on the edge of an airfield and later, treated ourselves to a wash down in a nearby stream. . .
This is it, an 'O' group has been called, the excitement coupled with the fear of the unknown wells up in the pit of the stomach. I don't believe in that rubbish about being a battle hardened veteran. An Infantry man, and I mean those Infantry men unfortunate enough to have been in close contact with the enemy in battle, can never be battled hardened, on the contrary, unless he is a schizophrenic.
Our first objective was to draw the German armour away from the Americans, who had landed in the Cherbourg area. To do this our tactics were to make feint attacks in the pretence of breaking through. This we hoped could be achieved by penetrating the enemy lines for a few miles, withdrawing, then adopting the same tactics in other areas.
The matter of fact briefings and approach, make these operations sound so simple and straight forward, but the actuality is sheer hell. I remember Bayeux being mentioned but its tapestry was far from my mind as we move off in jovial uncertainty whilst passing through the front line troops of the 6th Airborne, (my brother-in-laws regiment). Then comes the reality, which quietens everyone down and the eyes start to protrude like organ stops as we pass the decaying bodies, some buried under a sprinkling of earth hastily spread by their comrades, or perpetrators, and with the stench in our nostrils we soon realise that we are attacking a foe whose determination and prowess must not be underestimated as they greet us with a reception of Moaning Minnies (rocket fired mortars) and so called because these electrically fired missiles, whose salvos on being fired advertise their departure in mournful protest, then vent their anger in quick succession with devastation. This awesome weapon with all of its consequences incorporated with other methods of destruction which both sides use, we continue to move forward until the opposition is such that we have to abandon our vehicles and take up defensive positions where we hastily dig in, there is no greater incentive to do so. Our driver Dad has hidden our vehicle among the ruins close by, and knowing him, has already got cracking on the primus preparing a mess tin of char, then during a lull, will race out with three or four of our mess tins and its precious cargo, then race back to get the remainder. This well rehearsed procedure under these belligerent conditions, would have to repeat itself , time and time again, but no sooner having dug in, the order would invariably be. 'Move on'.
We pass tanks on fire, which have already met their counterparts or the dreaded 88mm, a converted anti-aircraft gun which they used most effectively as an anti-tank weapon. 'The Cads'. Invariably on being hit by one of these high velocity shells, a tank would burst into flames latterly and callously referred to by the Germans as 'Tommy Cookers'.
Our Section so far has escaped their vengeance, as we again take up positions with all that entails. Sleep of course is out of the question, the tenseness and thoughts of survival overcomes any ideas of such luxury. We were to remain under constant bombardment for about another 3 days and nights, when we were withdrawn a short distance for a rest period, by taking shelter among a demolished housing estate close to our own artillery firing positions. From a demolished store I scavenged some tinned potatoes, tinned tomatoes and tinned bacon, so we lit a fire in the grate of a habitable house and had a good fry up washed down with a mug of strong tea (not galvanised). A couple of our Officers were sniffing around outside and to their gratification we invited them in to share our spoils. (No Compleents), and quite a change from pack rations.
Next day we were paraded among the rubble for P.T. then immediately changed into Service Dress for Drill parade, this was cut short when the enemy shelling became dangerously close. Rumour had it that it was from our own artillery expressing their anger at the bull? But seriously and logically, this is not done to practice for a Guard of honour, but to detract one's mind away from the trauma of events.
We also managed to get a hot shower in an army mobile unit that set up about 400yds away, which also incorporated a very large washing machine, thus providing a clean change of underwear, part of which, was as you can imagine in need of such services. Soon afterwards this was to be destroyed by enemy shellfire. (The dirty Swinehuns).
On the third day of our rehabilitation a Catholic priest came up from H.Q. and held mass in the open out of enemy observation behind a shell damaged building and afterwards gave each celebrant a plastic crucifix, whether that was a good omen or a warning, we were soon to find out because an 'O' group was called and we N.C.Os along with the Officers were to be informed about the next move. That same pent up feeling was to return to the pit of your stomach, which is more prevalent before an event than when you are actually in the thick of it. I should imagine that is because when in action, your body reaches the limit of endurance, and if you were to surpass that then you become a casualty, classed as Battle Fatigue. Anyway when I was to learn of our roll in the next turn of events I felt I would soon have good enough qualifications to become one of the latter.
'We are', said the Commanding Officer, with the emphasis on the 'Are', 'Going to take such and such a place from there to the next named place, straight on to another and will continue through to so on and so on, which I believe incorporated about 6 towns and villages,some of the names that spring to mind were Caumont, Cagney, the Bocage country, Estry, but definitely not in that order having to rely on our Platoon Commanders survival ( He being in possession of the map) whilst we would endeavour to enact out our role i.e To proceed in our vehicle until stopped or objective reached. I was thinking how miraculous it was that we got through before and now how long before our luck runs out. Off we go, the shelling gets louder and closer, the talking has stopped, except for Dad who came out with some dry crack which helped to ease the tension They can see us coming now, and we get into single file, about 10yds apart, and are travelling only about 5 or 10 miles an hour so as to pass through a mine field where a corridor has been cleared-- We hope! At one point on this corridor Jerry was dropping his mortar bombs with deadly accuracy, so each had to run the gauntlet. We closed the armoured grill which covered the front of our radiator, and narrowed the observation slits of mine and the driver when down came a salvo of mortar bombs and I was certain they had scored a direct hit on the vehicle immediately in front of us, for we couldn't see it momentarily for the dust and debris, apparently they had a lucky escape. My instinct was for Dad to put his foot down so as to miss the next batch which could be on its way, but fortunately he ignored my request, because the next moment there was a terrific explosion as a mortar bomb landed immediately in the front of the vehicle. The blast even with the observation slit partially open pushed me backwards off my seat, there were dents in the 1/2inch armoured plating of the windscreen, which bulged inwards like golf balls. My mate Dennis Ward who was in charge of No 5 Section, the vehicle immediately behind me, told me afterwards that he thought we had bought it. It was his turn next, and he had the same lucky escape, except they had forgotten to close the radiator grill, thus their engine was put out of action. Having a winch on our vehicle, we were watching to see whether they would get through all right, and on seeing the vehicle stop our well rehearsed procedure went into action, we quickly reversed and connected up, an action that would have done credit in any Grand Prix. No sooner had we pulled clear and moved into low open ground, we were shelled unmercifully by the dreaded 88's and knowing the havoc they can cause, and not being able to retaliate, we were just sitting ducks as we crawled steadily along with the crippled vehicle in tow and its Section still on board.
Shells were whipping over us with a continuous all-in-one Whoosh bang! Whoosh bang! As each shell hit the ground immediately in front of us the Platoon officer realising the precarious position we were all in, rushed forward on foot as we could only crawl along and hurriedly suggested we take another route where the contour of the ground, would for a short while, keep us out of their sight. In doing so, it was suspected later, that the possibility for our escape from this deadly weapon, was that the guns being on higher ground couldn't lower their trajectory enough. That seemed logical but this was no time or place for post-mortems, because the position we were in, we might soon be having a real one. Eventually we move forward and take up a defensive position in open country where we hastily take out our picks and shovels, and whilst our vehicles were being driven away to be hidden in the woods about 300yds away, we take off our jackets and feverishly started to dig in. It was just getting dusk, and being behind enemy lines we knew we had to work fast, unfortunately we hadn't time to dig down far before down they came, the Moaning Minnies and when they got their range, they were giving us hell with the inevitable casualties. Yet during these adversities, in a macabre kind of way one can still get a chuckle now and again. Such was the case when our Platoon Sergeant Sgt Meen ran from his partly built trench close by and was dancing around with trousers and pants down around his ankles shouting 'I've been hit, I've been hit'. There was a wound about as large as an old penny piece in the cheek of his behind, and whilst I quickly applied a field dressing, he was getting the usual unsympathetic remarks from those around reserved for those deemed to have received a superficial wound, which warranted remarks such as 'You lucky sod' and 'Just like you to get a Blighty', and so on. A vehicle tore out from the woods and whisked him away. We were to hear later that his leg had to be amputated from the hip. (Not so lucky after all).
The situation had now become so intolerable, the shelling was so fast and furious it wasn't possible to stand and dig, but just lay low and pray until eventually we were given the order to get out of there. Our vehicles raced out to us under cover of darkness, we grabbed our digging utensils and jackets and were whisked back into the cover of the woods where we were to dig in again on the outskirts. In the melee, I had grabbed another man's jacket, Gdsm Merritts, and he not finding his, returned without one. (All N.C.O's chevrons and Officer insignias are removed in action). So if anyone should come across my jacket, in the breast pocket was my army issued bible with my army number stencilled on the cover 2615652. -- Some hope?
The mortaring and shelling continued throughout the night and we were to move off at first light, but we hadn't gone far, when we were pounced on from behind by four German fighter planes flying very low about 100ft, but they took no action thank God, and because it happened so quickly and with surprise we didn't have time to engage them. What that was all about we shall never know.
Leaving our vehicles behind, we continued our advance on foot under heavy enemy shell fire, a Bren gun carrier was racing back carrying two stretchers on the top and on one of them was Fred Bottom, of whom I was to learn later had been slightly wounded in the back. On his return some weeks later he said that whilst being conveyed back the Carrier ran over a mine throwing him and another chappie off the stretchers, but it did not cause any further injuries.
Being the leading Section of our Platoon, we cautiously advanced towards a village supposedly occupied by the enemy and I stealthily dodged from door to door through the village with my Section close behind, until I got to the corner of the main street, there I very waringly turned the corner, when 'Too Late, I noticed a black cross on the side of a tank, its gun protruding out of the rubble of a demolished house pointed in my direction. (A tank, to camouflage itself would be backed into a house allowing the rubble to fall on it). I momentarily froze to the spot until I realised it was a dummy made out of wood-Phew! It certainly looked the real thing. How much longer can your luck last? On situations such as this, the enemy has the advantage of seeing you first, therefore also has the advantage of the first shot, I must say it was most eerie. I carried on stealthily moving forward, dodging from door to door, with the assurance that by now, not only my Section was following close behind, but also the rest of the Platoon.
I imagine the enemy had just left in a hurry because they left behind cart loads of black bread, of which there was no rush on our part to sample, or perhaps Jerry just wanted to get away from it themselves? They did however leave behind something a little more dangerous, namely a sniper who didn't become active until we had passed through, thank goodness. He was hiding we assumed, in one of a warren of cellars among the ruins, and it took the battalion a whole day searching and tossing hand grenades down likely hiding places, but we were not to know if we were successful in our endeavour to flush him or them out before we had orders to move on.

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