大象传媒

The day was freezing but the air was fresh and crisp. It was the first of January 1944 and we were in Germany. Others were waging a war with Nazi Germany but I was engaged in something more mundane. In fact as a sergeant in the Royal Engineers I was supervising a platoon of sappers repairing a road alongside a British occupied airfield. It was a long road and very adjacent was a platoon of American sappers engaged on the same task.

Well I say engaged is stretching it a bit because the American sappers were dressed for winter and heavily armed. It is doubtful whether any of them could bend at the waist so heavily equipped were they. By and large the British soldier admired the American doughboy for his insouciance and logistical support.

Our main task was filling in potholes with brick rubble taken from houses that had been demolished by war activity. Although quite cold my platoon soldiers had taken off their battle dress jackets to facilitate physical effort in ramming down the rubble with heavy tampers.

By midday, our stretch of road was completed and was fit for the transit of wheeled vehicles, by contrast, however, with the American sector where they still awaited mechanical assistance. They sometimes relied too much on mechanical support. It is part of their culture I suppose.

Just as we were about to leave, a squadron of German Stuka bombers attacked the airfield. Their tactic, based on past experience in overrunning Europe, was to frighten the recipients by dive bombing almost vertically, dropping their single bomb which had a siren attached which activated on release of the bomb. Applying terror before killing.

Pulling up from their near vertical dive, I could see the pilot鈥檚 faces and without further thought I decided to try and shoot one of them down. So I ran to the back of our vehicle and grabbed a Bren machine gun. I placed the gun to my shoulder to cock the gun, in order to put one round in the breech to commence firing. The bolt was frozen in position. However hard I pulled it would not move.

I threw the Bren to the ground and ran to the vehicle to get my rifle. Having done so I put the rifle to my shoulder and lined up the next German plane. I pulled the bolt back to cock it but it would not move, it was frozen in the gun.

I dropped the rifle, I was so disappointed and frustrated I could have cried.

This story was entered onto the website by a volunteer from St Michael's church, Martin Hussingtree, on behalf of Mr Ronald Truscott who accepts the site's terms and conditions.

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