大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War Site by John Hughes, for Three Counties Action, on behalf of Ken Derrick, his father in law, and has been added to the site with his permission. The author fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

THE LONGEST NIGHT

I was a Corporal in the 44th Battalion of the Royal Tank Regiment. My job was to operate the radio in 鈥淎鈥� Squadron commander鈥檚 turret and to do whatever else became necessary. My tasks included acting as communications link with HQ and networking with the other tanks in the squadron. I was trained in Morse code and it鈥檚 true that each of us had a distinctive touch so that we could recognise the 鈥渟ignature鈥� of others simply from the dots and dashes they keyed over the radio waves. We could even recognise the hand of German operators sending encrypted messages.

We were mostly from Bristol and had come from all walks of life, tram drivers, mechanics, solicitors, millers, writers and dockers, all thrown together in the Army. Up until 2005, we held regular reunions and old comrades came from Australia and New Zealand year after year, just to relive the unique comradeship we had all shared and to remember those who never got the chance to do so. Age, failing health and the fact that there and fewer and fewer of us left each year have called an end to these meetings, but we are still in touch and will never forget each other and our old comrades.

In a tank, you depend absolutely on your fellow crew members. The driver and his engineer mate will get you into trouble and get you out of it. The gunner will defend you, the commander will tell you what to do and as radio operator, you will keep in touch with the world outside and hold things together.

We had been in the Western Desert, original Desert Rats. We had served in several varieties of tank, including petrol-engined Matildas. These were unpredictable in the hot desert air because petrol vapour was everywhere and was more flammable than the aviation spirit itself. So fires were common and a burning tank was not an easy thing to escape from. The Germans called them 鈥淭ommy Cookers鈥�. The gun was only a two pounder, which was not much use against the German 88mm. That weapon was our worst enemy. Originally designed as an anti-aircraft gun, its long barrel could be lowered to enable it to fire horizontally. The shells travelled extremely quickly and accurately and there was no armour plate it could not penetrate. When it was fitted to Tiger tanks, it became an even more fearful weapon, as it was then more mobile and we could not easily get close enough to engage. The saving grace was that British tanks had their guns mounted on gimbals, which enabled them to fire on the move. The gimbals ironed out unevenness on the ground and the gunner could keep his aim. German armour had to stop in order to aim and fire. Another tank we had was fitted with aeroplane engines and had to be started by swinging huge masses of metal around by hand crank. We welcomed the Shermans, which were simple, mass produced diesel-engined tanks, generally reliable and well equipped, carrying a 25 pounder gun.

I have given accounts of our experiences in North Africa elsewhere in this archive but for this story, I will tell of a time in Italy in February 1944. I was 22 years old and had seen over 4 years of active service. We were on the way to Monte Cassino, scene of prolonged and bloody fighting in the mountains. As sometimes happened, we had a signal telling us to turn round and go back to where we had started from. This time, it was to Taranto. We did not know it then, but the reason for this change of plan was the preparations for the Normandy Landings. Our time in Northern Europe is also the subject of other entries.

All along the way, there had been fierce fighting from the Germans, who were reluctant to give ground. Our tank radio had been suffering problems during the day鈥檚 actions and this was something of a worry, because without communications, the unit cannot operate effectively. I had checked and fixed everything I could, but the set was not to be relied on and my Squadron Commander told me to send a message to HQ for a complete replacement.

We had been in action all day, with many losses on both sides. The area was littered with shattered tanks, many of which were still burning fiercely. You would not think that steel would burn, but it can and it gives off intense heat and a distinctive smell as it does. Of course, there were many tank crews still inside the wrecks and some had tried to escape, but not made it. The infantry had also had a hard time of it and many had still not been recovered and buried. The fighting was barely over and the battleground was still dangerous because of exploding ammunition.

At around midnight, a call came from HQ for someone to collect the new radio from a given map reference. I knew where it was. That spot had only been captured by the British that very day - a crossroads by an improvised cemetery, or rest camp, as Army humour referred to such places. I was detailed to go. This was after a very hard day, which was certain to be followed by another. The night turned out to be even worse and I鈥檒l never forget it. I set off to walk the two and a half miles to the rendezvous. The scenes of the day were bad enough, but at night, the landscape was a true, other worldly nightmare. My path lay straight through the middle of the battlefield, where I had been all day in the midst of noise, death and destruction. Then, we had all been alive and there were comrades around and with me. Now, I was alone in a strange and mostly silent world, sometimes brightly lit by still-burning fires, sometimes obscured by smoke, populated only by the dead and the still dying. Fellow tank crews were stuck to the sides of glowing tank hulls. The air was filled with the smell of burning flesh. It didn鈥檛 matter from which country they came; we had all shared the same emotions and experiences until now. The only difference was that they were no longer able to feel, see, hear and live. I was able to see and record every little detail and can still recall them.

I could do nothing for the wounded. I could do even less for the dead. My priority was to restore communications in 鈥淎鈥� Squadron for tomorrow鈥檚 action. Eventually I reached the crossroads, where a Bren gun carrier was waiting, with the new radio set. 鈥淎ny chance of a lift back?鈥� I asked, 鈥淚t鈥檚 a long walk through all that.鈥� 鈥淪orry, no, we鈥檙e non-combatants鈥� was the Signals Corps reply.

I felt angry at that. We had had a bad day of it and many good men had died or been wounded and people who had been well out of it would not help, even to the extent of a lift. It did not seem fair at the time, but there was no choice but to sign for the radio set and lug it back to the tank. It was big, about 2鈥�6鈥� (almost a metre) long and weighed about 56 pounds (25 kilos) and I had to carry it on my shoulder, all the way back along the way I had come, experiencing the same sights, smells and sounds.

Back at the tank, I then had to remove the defective set and install the new, soldering joints and making good connections. That done and the set tested and proved in good working order, the Major told me to rest until first light. This gave me just over two hours after the longest night I鈥檝e ever known.

Next day, we moved up at dawn, to become involved in another day鈥檚 action, which also ended badly for us. Our tank was hit by an armour piercing round fired at us right through a farm building. We never saw the gun, whose crew must have watched us pass behind the building and fired at where they figured we were. The Major was fatally wounded right next to me, one crew member blinded and the gunner wounded. The Major was offered morphine to ease the pain but he said to give it to others 鈥� he knew there was no hope for him. We buried him in the farmyard and I know that the War Graves people later reburied him in a designated military cemetery.

Princess Patricia鈥檚 Canadian Regiment then came through and the gun that did for us was destroyed.

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