12

Reinforcing the Orne Bridge Area

Sallenelles—12 June 1944. Lt-Col. C. F. Phillips continues the narrative:

On 11 June 1944, Brig. J. Dunford Slater, Deputy Cdr Special Service Group, visited Brigade HQ with the news that 4 Special Service Brigade were to take over the area held by 12 Para Battalion. The changeover was effected before dark, 48 Commando occupying Hauger sector with 47 Royal Marine Commando in reserve at Ecarde.

The move was done in transport and then on foot after crossing the Orne bridges. By dusk the Commando had occupied positions in reserve on the extreme left of the Orne bridgehead across the road Orne bridges—Sallenelles. Digging and defence routine continued throughout a fairly noisy night. By noon on 12 June orders were received to move up into a forward position just above the village of Sallenelles. The recce and move forward went smoothly and the new positions were occupied by 1545 hrs.

L/Cpl Frank Wright, X-Troop:

47 RM Commando had rested up for a couple of days after the successful Port-en-Bessin operation. On about D+5 we were transported to a new location at the eastern end of the bridgehead, and there we were to remain, though we didn’t know it at the time, for almost two months. The original plan had been that the unit was to return to the U.K. after Port-en-Bessin but that, for whatever reason, vanished into thin air.

We now came under command of the 6th Airborne Division, these were the troops who had carried out the brilliant capture of the Orne bridge on D-Day.

Our new positions were on the high ground between the rivers Orne and Dives. The Commando faced east, the channel was on our left. To our front, from left to right, was the village of Sallenelles, about a kilometre away down a steep hill, then the low-lying valley of the Dives, flat near the coast, but further south, inland, more uneven and rolling. Well-known to everyone who served in that area was the Grande Ferme de Buisson. In the line, 4 Commando were to our right in very strongly defended positions. Behind us the road from Sallenelles ran south to the Orne bridge and the villages of Ranville and Amfreville.

When we first arrived to take over these positions there was still clear evidence of the battle for possession of the ground which had been taking place. The dead still lay where they had fallen and there was a stomach-clenching atmosphere about the whole scene.

There was good news and bad news for X-Troop. The good news was that our positions were to the rear of the main defences but the bad news was that we were to maintain a presence—known as a ‘standing patrol’ night and day at the aforementioned Grande Ferme de Buisson. This was a large, deserted collection of farm buildings: farmhouse, stables, cow sheds, barns etc., arranged in the form of a square, and more or less in the middle of no-mans-land which must have been well over a kilometre wide in that area—unlike some of the extreme examples in WW1 where opposing trenches were as little as twenty metres apart.

Changeover of standing patrols was to take place at dawn and dusk. So in June, with many daylight hours, you could expect a stint of at least sixteen hours daytime and up to eight hours on the night shift. There were two really serious problems, quite apart from the Germans, which made these patrols something to dread. First was the stench from the two or three decomposing corpses of farm animals lying close to the farm (it was weeks before someone produced some quicklime) and second, the mosquitoes. They descended in greedy, blood-sucking clouds on our backs, shoulders, any exposed flesh—neck, ears, wrists—you name it. Their proboscis could easily penetrate khaki battledress and shirt. It was very warm weather but we were forced to wear several layers of clothing to protect ourselves.

There was one tiny ray of light in this situation and that lay in one of the large, open barns in one corner of the farmyard where stood four enormous cider barrels. We didn’t get pissed every time we went on patrol of course but a little Normandy cider in the corner of one’s mess tin was a huge, huge morale booster. I don’t know what Lt Armstrong would have thought and said about it had he known, but as he never came around to see how we were, or were not, getting on the problem didn’t arise.

There were no incidents with enemy activity on any of my patrols though there were some clashes at other times. During the night large farm rats would scamper past in single file presumably on foraging expeditions, I didn’t like to think where they were heading.

It was possible to get a break from the routine of patrolling every once in a while through what was euphemistically called the ‘rest centre’. This was a temporarily empty (the owners having moved out) French house, all on its own, along the road which led to the Orne bridge. At least you could get a square meal, no mosquitoes or evil smells and, joy of joys, a real bed to sleep in! Unfortunately a lot of traffic came over that bridge and the squeaks and rumbles of the Guards Armoured Division moving up to positions near Caen excited the German artillery. So nights were frequently interrupted by a few hair-raising near-misses.

At that time I shared a slit trench with Skinner and Vic Cable. When I was at the rest centre on one occasion there was a German machine gun strike on our lines, that is, they simply saturated the area with heavy machine gun fire, firing off hundreds of rounds. Vic was caught in the open and wounded in the back before he could get to some cover. Although the wound itself would probably not have been fatal Vic contracted pneumonia and died about a week later. We were all shocked by this misfortune. Vic was a good-natured quiet bloke, we had done all our training together, Achnacarry, Acharacle, St Ives and all that and we missed him badly.

Another break from routine was the Army Bath Unit. To get there we piled into lorries one fine morning and after about twenty minutes’ drive were dropped off outside a large temporary screened enclosure, sounds of running water, male voices singing quietly, female voices cheering and cat-calling with occasional bursts of laughter.

As one went through the system all became clear. Remove clothes: Uniform and belongings in small cupboard, discard underwear, follow-my-leader to the showers, running the gauntlet past the spectators, an appreciative audience of teenage girls who had found a vantage point from which they observed Britain’s finest. Then the best bit—a wonderful warm shower—that’s where the male voice choir was active.

The Germans usually attacked our positions with mortars. 81 mm—a bit bigger than our three inch, and equally nasty. We were mortared regularly, we soon became familiar with the distant sound of the mortar firing: Thud ..... Thud ..... Thud ..... that meant that three 81 mm mortar bombs were perhaps coming your way. The interval between ‘thuds’ was the time it took for the next bomb to slide down the barrel. When it reaches the bottom the detonator strikes the stud—sets off the cartridge and away goes another present for the enemy. We soon developed an ‘ear’ for the mortar. Do you remember the David Langdon cartoon of a Londoner with a ‘buzz-bomb ear’? that could have been us.

A group of our lads in X-Troop were lined up one morning for an arms inspection. It was a fairly exposed patch of ground and it was possible that they were spotted from a German OP. At any rate an 88 mm shell landed with devastating accuracy. It struck the thick stone wall of our HQ behind them and the blast and splinters blew back, inflicting several casualties. I lost my best mate that morning. His name was Cpl Bob Young, a Yorkshireman and miner from Normanton—great sense of humour, even made some of the senior NCOs laugh—warm hearted, never let you down. Ironically, Sgt Donald Gibson, Intelligence Sgt, was standing on an external stone staircase immediately above the point of impact. He was unhurt, though badly shocked.

There were several aggressive sorties against the enemy. The most ambitious of these involved almost the entire Commando. It successfully drove through the enemy lines as far as the base areas, leaving things in considerable disarray when they withdrew and taking with them several prisoners.

There was a character in 47 Commando named Geordie Esther. I think he was in Q-Troop. He was a legend in the unit, was notoriously insubordinate, didn’t give a toss for anyone, he had spent a session in a military prison and in the short time we had been in Normandy had already earned three wound stripes. In those incursions into enemy territory I could understand the terror on the faces of the enemy troops if Geordie Esther had passed that way. If he was up ahead making life hell for anyone who got in his way that was one of the very few—probably the only—time I felt sorry for the enemy.

When this bold attack was over and the order came to withdraw the Germans eventually pulled themselves together and began to use their mortars but they were too late, we were long gone.

Not all fighting patrols were as successful as that one. I was one of a small patrol from X-Troop, again led by Maj. Walton which set out to capture prisoners. We got to very close quarters with the enemy but a very awkward situation developed where the defenders were covering each other quite effectively. We used smoke bombs to hide our movements but the ploy didn’t work, only adding to the confusion, there was a lot of shooting—at point blank range—and shouting, we were exchanging small arms fire at some disadvantage as we had no cover. We finally withdrew, empty-handed, through the smoke.

Miraculously no-one was hit but it was a long, long crawl back to safety with bullets cracking overhead.

We’re off, yet again, on patrol this morning, threading our way through the f.d.l.s.—tricky little paths between trip wires and booby traps, slit trenches roofed over and piled with earth (protection from mortar attacks, of which there were many), machine guns on fixed lines and blokes cleaning weapons, shaving, writing letters or sharing a joke.

These forward positions were at the edge of a small wood. To the front the ground rose and there were fields of long grass separated by hedgerows.

Our patrol was about ten in number, Maj. Walton, Sgt Hooper and a few junior NCOs and marines. The purpose of the patrol was something of a mystery as we hadn’t had much of a briefing—or any briefing at all, come to that.

It was a beautiful day for a walk in the countryside, there was a soft breeze with patches of blue sky and lumps of white cloud sailing overhead. We were soon on our own in no-mans-land on the edge of the valley of the river Dives, not flat by any means in this area but a few small bumpy hills with little wandering valleys between.

This is the Normandy bocage, hedges, deep ditches you could drive a jeep through and small copses. Ideal defensive territory and the main reason why the Allied forces were still boxed in the beachhead in July, one month after the D-Day landings.

The Germans had made full use of the defensive potential of the Normandy bocage. One of their activities was mine-laying. X-Troop had already suffered several casualties from this menace and we were taking some care that morning looking for the tell-tale traces of disturbed earth or re-arranged turf which could indicate the presence of an anti-personnel mine.

Only three days before, another of our patrols had ended in disaster when Sgt McKenzie had trodden on what was probably a German Schumine. He had been seriously injured, losing a foot, but worse still, Lt Whittaker, immediately behind him, had received a shrapnel wound in the throat.

That morning, as we cautiously picked our way forward through the fields of no-man’s-land, Mr Whittaker was hovering between life and death in the care of Capt. Forfar, 47 Commando’s MO.

Some minutes after leaving our f.d.l.s. we found ourselves about to cross a large meadow. Usual hedgerows to right and left. We formed a line abreast with several paces between men. Maj. Walton was on the left, Sgt Hooper somewhere in the centre of the line, I was on the right hand end of the line with Mne Croden on my left. The meadow sloped up to a ridge. We began to climb. Over the skyline ahead we could see the tops of the tallest trees in the next hedgerow, every step forward revealed more of them.

I began to think how exposed we would be when going down the far side of the ridge—we’re going to look pretty silly if we walk into a German ambush.

My attention was caught briefly by a bulky blue-grey parcel on the ground some way ahead. As I approached it I could see that it was about three or four feet in length about the size of a kitbag and Air Force blue in colour. What on earth was a RAF kitbag doing in a field in Normandy? I had no idea, didn’t think of it for more than a few seconds for a totally unexpected and bizarre spectacle now began to appear.

First, I saw the tip, then the whole of the tail plane of a fighter aircraft silhouetted against the sky. A few more paces up the slope and the entire vertical fuselage could be seen, then the all too familiar wings of a Spitfire—but this Spitfire was ignominiously standings on its nose in the hedgerow. It appeared to have had a fairly soft landing as the wings and fuselage seemed to be undamaged, or at any rate, more or less intact as far as we could tell.

We had come to a halt, staggered by this surreal image on the skyline. At that moment a small breath of wind blew gently down the ridge, ruffling the grass. I was aware, in the corner of my eye, of another small movement. I looked down, I was just passing what I had thought was a kitbag—but now I could see that I was mistaken.

The top of a young man’s head was visible, his face buried in the material of his uniform. His blond, wavy hair was immaculately groomed. A lock of it fluttered in the gentle wind.

Lt Whittaker died that afternoon. Our CO, Lt Col Phillips and any from the troop who could be spared from duty attended the funeral two days later. The grave was in the grounds of a large house which stood alongside the steeply sloping road to the village of Sallenelles. We were in full view of the enemy but there was no reaction from them. The Padre stood at the head of the grave in bright sunshine in a brilliant white surplice leading the service. Everyone was moved most men had tears in their eyes, Mr Whittaker had been a very popular young officer. Marine Kelly, his batman, was in floods of tears throughout the entire service.

After our lengthy stay in the Sallenelles and Grande ferme area we moved a few miles further south to Amfreville—no mosquitoes, what a relief, and no standing patrols—then, a short time later, southwards again to new positions on the main Caen to Troarn road.

Words cannot describe the sheer ghastliness of that tortured landscape. We were now on the fringes of the area which had been plastered with huge block-buster bombs dropped by fleets of hundreds of heavy bombers. We had seen wave after wave of these aircraft flying south across the French coast in stately processions towards the Caen area. There they would drop their bombs then circle round over the bridgehead and head for home. Plenty of enemy ack-ack fire but no Messerschmitts.

Our new positions were alongside the road, which was tree-lined. In the fields across the road the devastation started—huge craters each one the size of a large room and so many of them that some were actually touching. Great lumps of clayey soil sometimes as big as a 15 cwt truck lay on the grass between the craters. To our right, a German convoy had been destroyed leaving spilled armaments, land mines, cases of mortar bombs, huge boxes of 88 mm shells (the cartridge cases alone were more than five feet in length), all higgledy-piggledy with lumps of earth and vehicle parts everywhere.

It was a scene from everyone’s worst nightmare. In one of the craters was a carthorse, how or why it had got in there nobody knew, now its feet were firmly embedded in the wet clay, its ribs were showing and it was starving to death. Everyone who passed by threw in handfuls of grass.

At some time in August L/Cpl Fleming and I, after a long night’s duty, visiting sentries and so on, took advantage of a quiet spell next day when nothing much was going on, found an empty slit trench and promptly crashed out. When ‘stand-to’ came round (stand-to, perhaps ‘stand-to arms) means manning the defences for about thirty minutes at dawn and dusk. Goes back decades in the British Army, certainly to the Great War, probably the Boer War. In short, if you’re not at your allotted positions at stand-to you’re a deserter in the face of the enemy! So Fleming and I were deserters, placed on a charge of ‘Desertion in the Face of the Enemy’ and summarily court-martialled. It was quite a ceremony, in a corner of a Normandy field the CO, Col Phillips, other senior officers and Warrant officers, Maj. Walton of course and Sgt Hooper who testified that Fleming and I had indeed been absent without leave from our allotted posts. Finally we were asked if we had anything to say, Fleming sensibly said ‘No Sir’ but I, bigmouth as usual, said that I thought the Court-Martial an unnecessary piece of theatre and I was surprised those present didn’t have anything better to do. Anyway why didn’t someone just give us a shout, we were only about twenty yards away? I was lucky to get away with those remarks, the CO ignored them, and Fleming and I were severely reprimanded and reduced to the ranks.

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Mobile Bathing Unit demonstration in London. (Press release photo)

Cpl Ernie ‘Taffy’ Staphnill, A-Troop:

In the early hours of the morning we sailed, and so we found ourselves in France. We spent 3 days in pens on dry rations, and were then transported to join 47 R.M. Commando just outside Caen. They had suffered fairly large casualties and so we became their reinforcements, mostly R.E. and R.A.S.C. troops who were M.T. drivers.

The first vehicle I had was a jeep, and I was told to get used to it for a couple of hours. This I did, but the clutch was very fierce and seemed to work in fits and starts. After a while I got used to it and I was then allocated to A-Troop under a Lt Whenham. He was very down to earth and we soon got on very well together. He just told everyone what to do and expected us to do it, and there was no ‘Yes Sir’, ‘No Sir’.

In each troop there was a Capt, a Lt, a 2nd Lt, a Sgt, a Cpl and about 30 men. There were four troops to each Commando, together with a heavy weapons troop, signallers, H.Q. and stores. Our instructions were to work our way along the coast clearing the farms, villages and towns as we went forward; any prisoners being passed behind the lines for interrogation etc. We would go along so far and then stop to consolidate and get further instructions.

Mne Fred Wildman, Heavy Weapons:

Our Heavy Weapon took over a German communication trench overlooking the port of Ouistreham.

My main particular job during this part of the battle was to go through a wood to a farmhouse that was midway between us and the Germans. This turned out to be slightly farcical because our job was to take bearings on anything that was fired by the enemy.

This sounded simple but when you have tracer bullets shooting towards you, there were other positions around the beachhead where bearings were taken, this enabled us to triangulate the bearings which in theory gave us the spot from whence the shots were coming. The farcical part came when daylight arrived and we had to leave the farmhouse for the Germans to come in while we were back at our trench. I can’t say how successful the bearings were as we had to get back to our trench.

After some time, the beachhead seemed to be on the move and we were engaged in a number of battles which involved early morning attacks but began more often with the enemy having moved out.

(Now PoW) CSgt Fred Batt, HQ-Troop:

There were roughly 500 prisoners in this monastery which had only 30 rooms, so the accommodation was hopelessly overcrowded. The only means of washing was under a small fountain in the yard and the only food which we had was the stew I have mentioned which had to last all the men (the number rose to 900 on June 12!!) all the time. The Germans arranged for a glass of milk for each of us all day. By this time, of course, all the cigarettes we had possessed had been smoked and nerves were becoming edgy; a feeling of weakness was creeping over all of us and the effort of climbing to the attics to sleep was about as much physical effort as we were capable. However we continually told each other that it couldn’t last forever and so on the morning of June 14 we were greatly relieved to find ourselves in open lorries moving along the roads to a camp. This journey was not really free from nervous stamina as the evidences of the strafing capabilities of our own planes were all around us and we carried no distinctive markings, relying on the open trucks and our own activities to keep off any threatened attack. In the evening we arrived at ALENCON, into a hutted camp where a French Canadian Capt. had organised something like a British camp and to our great relief we were given some bread, meat paste and coffee.

Lt-Col. C. F. Phillips continues the narrative:

The Commando had now begun a new type of warfare. The job consisted entirely in defence and in dominating the patrol area between us and the Germans.

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Drawing of the night patrol route at La Grande Ferme de Buisson.

 Arrivals from the UK brought the strength up to 23 Officers and 357 ORs—mostly Motor Transport drivers and administrative personnel. With the exception of X-Troop all troops held forward positions and X-Troop were called on to do most of the heavy patrolling. Digging, wiring and mining provided plenty of employment in the early days. Domination of the area forward did not prove difficult and soon the Commando had established 24 hours standing patrols in Grande Ferme du Buisson some 1000 yards forward of our line.

Cpl Albert Potterton, Y-Troop

One day, we holed up in a school house, sleeping in a classroom. We were preparing ammo, cleaning weapons etc. for a raid early next morning.

I went down some stairs to get something and as I went back upstairs, there was an explosion in the class room and glass everywhere. One of the men had accidentally pulled a pin on a grenade and could not get it back in. In order to save the others in the room he dropped on the grenade and was killed. We had to bury him that night and went on the raid at dawn next day.

Lt-Col. C. F. Phillips:

On 18 June, after arrangements to turn over to 46 Commando, the Commando made a brief raid into the enemy positions. The enemy were taken completely by surprise and their FDLs were over-run. 8 PoW were taken and the Commando lost 1 OR killed and 22 ORs wounded.

Immediately after the attack the Commando moved into Brigade reserve behind 48 Commando on the axis of the road Sallenelles—Orne Bridges.

HQ was situated in a large chalk quarry. Life in reserve allowed time to make up on sleep lost when forward, and to give the troops a chance of recreation away from the risk of enemy fire. A week was spent in reserve before returning to the old forward position. From then until leaving the Sallenelles area the Commando continued to work week and week about with 46 Commando. Life was rarely very active, but loss of sleep was due to shortage of men and watch-keeping, and the strain of patrolling combined with slight, but daily ‘stonks’ from the enemy made the efficient holding of the area no easy task. Casualties were never heavy but were an almost daily occurrence. On the 23 June Captains Wood and Wray returned with 23 ORs, all survivors from the landing. Capt. Wood was appointed to command A-Troop and Capt. Wray returned to Y-Troop. During this period the Commando provided a detachment of 1 Officer and 14 ORs for guard duties at General Montgomery’s HQ.

On Sunday 23 July the last event worthy of note at Sallenelles took place. A patrol led by Lt O’Brien (Y-Troop) and Lt Collett Saude (A-Troop) and 12 OR volunteers raided the German FDLs and took one officer PoW. The patrol was supported by fire groups drawn from all troops in the Commando and was a distinct success. Lt Collett, Sgt Gutteridge and Cpl Terry (10 IA Commando) were seriously wounded. Three German ORs walked into our lines during the operation and were made PoW. On completion the Commando moved back for the last time to reserve.

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47 RM Commando customized Jeep used as ambulance in Sallenelles area.

L/Cpl Frank Wright, X-Troop:

47 Commando’s final position, still guarding the Bridgehead, was a few miles south of Amfreville (scene of my Court Martial). X-Troop took over a cluster of slit trenches alongside the main east/west road to Caen. From this position the sight of the road, or what was left of it, with the remains of German supply columns, shattered vehicles their contents spread over pulverised tarmac, shells sprouting from the earth like some surrealist market garden was horrifying enough but across the road was the lunar landscape of bomb cratered fields. To the left a squadron of burnt-out Sherman tanks brought a halt by German anti-tank guns and finally, in the little smashed copses of trees, hastily scooped out hollows containing decomposing bodies of soldiers. One could hear the drone of blue-bottles from a hundred yards away, millions of them.

It was after a patrol in this hellish world that I became momentarily careless. It was about nine o’clock in the evening when I heard the familiar distant thud ... thud ... thud ... unmistakeable German 81 mm mortars, perhaps coming our way? I turned towards my slit trench, throwing down a half-smoked Capstan full-strength cigarette and carefully ground out the stub with the toe of my boot, noticing as I did so that everyone had disappeared.

Then sh ... sh ... sh ... SH/CRASH Orange flash Wham in the face razor-edged splinters slashing through the foliage around me—all in a split second. For a second I was petrified, then far too late of course dived head first into the trench, fool—idiot, what do you think you’re playing at?

I felt everywhere for blood—face, throat, torso, the precious bits, counted my arms and legs finally feeling for pools of blood on the floor of the trench. Nothing.

I’m alive. I’m alive. We used to say during the war that if one ‘had your name on it’ whether it was a snipers bullet, a mortar bomb, an 88 mm or an aerial bomb there’d be no escape and by all the laws of probability (whatever they are) I should be dead. No question.

I’ve never been lucky with gambling, the Stock Market, football pools or the lottery but at nine o’clock that evening in the Chamber of Horrors I had it in spades, I hit the Jackpot!!!

With the collapse of German forces in France, following the huge encircling movement of General Patton’s Army, and the withdrawal of the Germans to the Seine, army units in the Bridgehead began to join in the pursuit. 47 Commando RM advanced eastwards in a somewhat jerky fashion, sometimes marching, sometimes being transported in the unit’s MT, three tonners and the smaller fifteen hundredweights. Much of the movement took place at night.

Mne John Wetjen, Q-Troop:

It was well into July and we had been virtually used as infantry since Port en Bessin, holding the front line in defence East of the River Orne at Sallenelles. During the move from Port en Bessin and Sallenelles the commando chanced upon the scene of a skirmish between our Paras and the Germans. There were quite a few dead from both sides and one or two wounded. The wounded, one with the handle of a stick grenade in his leg, were passed back to an aid post and during the check of the dead I found a young Para who had obviously not died quickly, for in his hand was a small wallet, open at a photograph of his wife and child.

During this move and perhaps from the remains of this same skirmish, some additional firepower was ‘liberated’ in the form of a German Spandau machine gun plus a copious amount of ammunition, a Luger pistol, Mauser rifle and a light machine gun similar to our Tommy Gun but, I must add, vastly superior. We saw these additions as being well worth their considerable extra weight.

Once dug in at Sallenelles we set up home surrounded by our impressive arsenal. Despite the impression that I had rested my eyes during the training lectures on enemy weapons, I successfully, stripped, cleaned and re-assembled the Spandau, then with a touch of brain fade I pulled the trigger, letting off a quick burst!!! Fortunately no-one was hurt, but after that no-one was asleep either. Eventually, however, the extra weight proved too much for us.

At Sallesnelles we did turn and turn about with 46 Commando, dropping back to the rear alternately. It was virtually a stand off, with both sides trying to command ‘No Man’s Land’ by constant patrolling, day and night. Each troop acted independently, otherwise there was little activity. The weather had settled down and was pretty good and we thought that we had the initiative.

Our biggest enemies at that time were the mosquitoes, who made special sorties to our lines from the lower ground over by the River Orne, They plagued the life out of us and some of the lads, who were allergic to them, had great lumps on their faces. Most of us managed to cover in one end of our enlarged slit trenches and using a camouflage net, cover the sleeping part of the trench—all to no avail. Then some bright spark managed to get hold of some petrol which we swished around the entrance. One night I was so enraged by the little bloodsuckers that I sloshed so much petrol around that I made inside quite untenable an had spend the night in the open. We discovered that the anti-mist cream used on the eye pieces of our respirators was of some use as a deterrent—however, it turned your skin yellow!

One beautiful evening there was a drone of aircraft so loud as to be overpowering. Squadron after squadron of British bombers, in tight formation, passed overhead towards Caen; there they dropped load after load of bombs. Our fighters dashed around them chasing off the Jerry fighters with some success—it was difficult to see clearly but the R.A.F. were definitely on top. A few of the first bombers had dropped what looked like silver foil (window), which we later learned was to confuse the German radar. We were on high ground during the whole operation and whenever one of our bombers was hit we could see parachutes descending safely, bringing a cheer from us and we prayed that they would land behind British lines. We counted the chutes from each plane but sadly not always the full complement baled out. However, the raid was a tremendous success and a boost tour our morale.

Incidentally we hardly ever saw any Jerry planes over our lines—the only time we were bombed was by the Americans ... no comment!

One of the more memorable inconveniences, aside from the mosquitoes, was the matter of the dead cattle all around us. They would inflate as they decomposed and the smell was both nauseous and penetrating, you could even taste it. It was June! From time to time the Pioneer Corps (I think) would come and put lime on the carcasses, but it didn’t seem to make a lot of difference.

Returning from a night patrol early one morning, not long after the previous events, we heard once again the sound of aircraft, this time American heavy bombers, an even larger force with fighter protection, not in perfect formation, just a network of planes. Once again the heavy bombing and crippled planes discharging their parachutes like dandelion seeds floating in the breeze. They eventually swarmed back towards the English coast in the same nonchalant loose formation. There was one unexplained mystery, in fact the talk of the slit trenches. A plane, with short stubby wings and belching flames from the rear, flew over very low. It was unlike any plane we had ever seen or heard and above all it made an ominous roar. We discovered later that we had seen the first Buzz Bomb or Doodlebug on its way to London in an attempt to flatten the Capital and bring England to its knees. Fat chance!!

On the 21st of July I celebrated (hardly the word) my coming of age, a very strange place to have attained the right to register my vote which might, at a later date, help to alter the lives of my fellow countrymen, even change the path of history. That aside, no mail had reached us for some time, so I was more than a little browned off. There was one bright spot (as it turned out, mostly for the other lads), a rum ration for my birthday and, as L/Cpl, it was my job to dole out equally to each member the section his ration of ram. Traditionally, any left over to go to the one doling out and ‘yes’ there was some gash but ... I didn’t drink!!! To be honest I was persuaded to have a tot in my tea, but I didn’t like it.

At the end of our field, bounded by local type hedges, we had visitors. A squad of Canadian Artillery Paratroopers, complete with their own gun. They were a smashing lot of lads and we became very friendly with them I’m afraid that the Artillery in Services parlance were known as the long range snipers, but we didn’t risk bringing this op, in fact they soon joined in our card school. We were issued with French currency before coming over and most of us had a little ‘proper’ money with us. Of course we couldn’t compete with the Canadians, who were on a par with the Yanks paywise. I managed to lose all I had, except for a Franc coin and a paper 5 Franc note which I kept as souvenirs.

On the day following my birthday the CO, Lt-Col. Phillips, sent round to the Tp Cdrs asking for volunteers to go on a raid into enemy lines to secure prisoners for intelligence purposes. Two officers and twelve other ranks were required. I committed the cardinal sin in service life of volunteering—I put this down to boredom and being browned off. I was amongst those chosen for the raid, most of them being NCOs with automatic weapons.

I had only a rifle, so I thought I would even things up a bit. I don’t know why I didn’t borrow from our own troop—perhaps because I guessed that none of them would wear it and it definitely against King’s Regulations. So I approached one of the Canadian lads, who willingly lent me his Sten gun plus ammunition and I left my rifle as a pledge.

We carried out a dummy run at dusk on the 22nd, going as close as possible to Jerry lines to determine the best approach and lines of retreat. The start time for the next morning was to be 03.30 hours, while it would still be dark. Meantime we were issued with Phosphorus and High Explosive grenades plus any ammunition we required. That evening our mode of dress was also established. We dispensed with helmets, using just cap comforters, camouflage net, denims, ammunition pouches, soft land boots and, of course, a generous helping of camouflage grease paint on hand faces.

The Normandy bocage was slightly different from the fields of Kent where we had finalised our training, all small fields full of apple trees with plentiful hedges, but of quite a different nature. The hedges were much thicker and generally much higher, also they had deep ditches running either to one side or often through the middle. Ideal for approaching unseen, but there were snags. One could easily come face to face with the enemy in the labyrinth of turnings which stretched for miles over the area. A slight exaggeration but it would have been murder in the rainy season, so we were pleased that the weather was good and that there would be no paddling or perhaps swimming involved. The dummy run went off without incident and we retired to slit trenches for an unbroken four hours sleep.

At the appointed hour the officers led off the two sections of six men following roughly the same path as we had taken previously. One officer was nicknamed ‘Mad Mick’, he was Lt ‘Paddy O’Brien, Y-Troop. The other was Lt Collett, a South African of A-Troop. All went well until someone trod on an anti-personnel mine, they are filled with ball-bearings and very nasty. The Germans opened up with their Spandaus, fortunately firing on fixed lines, that is, trained on a particular spot or target. I mentioned earlier that we were on high ground, so the Jerries were probably pasting our forward defences and all the flak was going over our heads. They were using some tracer so we could see that we weren’t going to cop it.

The wounded were left to be picked up as we came back. Then it happened and I swear to this day that I heard the click as the detonator plate was trodden on. It must have been pretty close to me but I was unscathed. Lt Collett was one of the casualties and so Lt O’Brien took over the remnants of the groups and we put on a spurt not trying to hide our advance.

The plan had been for our support to hold fire until we reached enemy lines and then, when discovered and fired upon by the Jerries, the support group, drawn from all the Troops in the Commando, would back us up with Bren, Heavy Machine Guns and 3-inch mortars. They certainly did let rip—we swept through the forward defence lines in open order—shooting up every trench with automatic weapons, Phosphorous and Mills grenades, but we didn’t see any Jerries. They were either long gone or, hopefully, in their slit trenches, dead!

However, two figures rose up from the last trench we had shot up. One was immediately shot. The other, an officer, wounded, put up his hands; we had hit the jackpot. It seemed there were only four of us in the clearing and it was barely light but instinct told us would expect visitors very shortly.

Lt O’Brien waved his weapons at the Jerry officer in the direction of our lines and told us to give covering fire while he took the prisoner back for interrogation. Lloyd and I fell flat and took firing positions pointing in the general direction of the enemy lines. We glanced around, Lt O’Brien and the PoW had disappeared into the gloom.

Nothing happened. We looked at each other and waited. I was trying to calculate how far Lt O’Brien had got with the wounded PoW. We still lay there. ‘That’s it’ said Lloyd, ‘he must be well on his way and we can’t hang around, can we?’ I agreed and we made our way fairly quietly but very quickly away from the Jerry lines. Jerry opened up with his mortars and traced our way back. We found two of our wounded, Lt Collett very badly. So we grabbed him, lifted his legs clear of the ground and made for our lines.

We hadn’t gone far when I was hit in the leg, stumbling and pulling Lt Collett to the ground. ‘I’ve been hit’, I said. ‘Give us your arm’, Lloyd shouted, ‘I’ll get your back’. ‘What about Collett?’ I said. ‘I’ll come back for him’, he said. Some fifty yards on we encountered two Commando trained RAMC personnel. Lloyd went with one to collect Lt Collett and the other wounded man, whilst the other proceeded to give me the fireman’s lift. No mean feat as I weighed thirteen and a half stone stripped and had a load of full magazines of ammunition etc., draped around me. As I crunched onto his shoulder I suffered severely and I use the word ‘crunched’ advisedly. My marriage prospects were rapidly deteriorating as he jogged towards a Jeep in the hedge, where many of the lads had gathered. I was bundled onto a stretcher and I said a little prayer—reference my ‘hangers-downers’—I can honestly say that the leg was much less painful than my other affliction for that five minutes or so.

Cpl Chuck Harris, HQ-Troop (later CQMS):

We moved to area around Caen. Back up to Ouistreham, then to Sallenelles—engaged in trench warfare. Doc Forfar establishes first aid post in Mansion Chauvigny? Jerry was 200 yards away, dug in. I was engaged in transport repairs in Quarry. Ducked under truck, reached out to grab my pipe, at this point got shrapnel in wrist. Went to see Doc, he said, ‘I Laddie, told you smoking was bad for your health’, he then stitched and bound my wrist and sent me back to work. Spent about a month in Sallenelles, Jerry withdrew, Army took over and Marines moved on.

Meanwhile, PoW Mne Fred Batt, HQ-Troop wrote in his diary:

June 15—June 22:

Here in this camp we were treated quite decently, allowed to organise the men into blocks for living and eating and our own men were installed in the galley to cook our food. The result was that for a week anyway we had coffee, bread and jam for breakfast: coffee and soup at noon, and coffee and more soup at six in the evening. During this time I dealt with rations for a hundred men and so was not required to go out working as were the prisoners regardless of rank. Their work was to fill in bomb holes in the roads, and the usual rate of work was 70 men to one bomb hole in one day!! Very little help to the German, despite all his efforts. On the morning of June 22 there were 400 men once more packed into lorries and we were taken to what we were assured was a regular camp and in which we would be properly treated. We were by now feeling better for the food and treatment as men and were full of high hopes for the next camp. I was still missing cigarettes very badly.

June 22—June 28:

We arrived at Stalag 133 (CHARTRES) at approximately midday and our hopes of a proper camp were immediately shattered as we were all of us marched into a barn measuring 62´ x 58´ in which 56 prisoners were already accommodated and locked in. no beds were given us, but straw was provided for sleeping. In this room we were kept locked up but the Germans used to solemnly march us out once a day, form us up in fives, count us and back into the barn once more to be locked up. Food all this time consisted of a pot of tea, a fifth of a loaf, and a bowl of soup per man per day. We were taken out one day for searching and as it came on to rain whilst we were out we all managed to get a wash—and that was the only wash in ten days. Whilst we were out 226 new prisoners arrived in the Stalag and were put into our quarters. So now we had 682 men living, eating, sleeping and performing the natural functions in a room 62´ x 58´!! What treatment, what humanity!! Again however we told ourselves and each other that it couldn’t last forever and hoped that each day would bring us yet another move.

June 29:

The much awaited day! Buses (obviously requisitioned from the French) were drawn up in a long line and all 682 men were embarked. Away we went for a very enjoyable tour through French countryside, full of interest to us because we could see the havoc brought by our planes and enlivened in one place by a dogfight immediately overhead. Eventually we arrived in Paris, where the French people eyed us with considerable interest, and looked as though they would very much like to help us but were afraid to do so. We soon found the reason for our treatment at lokatives for we were debussed at Gare East and a small party of Quislings were hissing and spitting at us, even kicking the wounded and the whole time the broadcasting vans following us and movie cameras were turning. After being lined up in threes we were marched back to the Gare du Nord and as we turned into the station the same little band of Quislings was present to repeat the procedure. This little piece of propaganda failed dismally however as the French people were somewhat emboldened and pushed the Quislings into a plate glass window. This resulted in the roads being cleared and we were left to ourselves. It took some two hours to get us organised for a train journey but eventually we did get into cattle trucks (40 in a truck) and were given a loaf between three and some German sausage meat. The truck doors were then locked and we were left with no ventilation to stew until 6 o’clock next morning, by which time, with much jotting and jolting the train had managed to travel approximately 65 miles to CHALONS SUR MARNE. There we were detrained together with some Army personnel and taken into DULAG 194. The remainder of the troops in the train carried on to a further destination.

June 30—July 8:

On our arrival in the Dulag, which was an old French Barracks capable of holding many thousands of men, we were parked in a block and after some two hours given coffee, bread and jam and then searched once more. Here my last English money (3/5d) was taken from me and a receipt given me in exchange. After this search we were settled into a barrack block which was reasonably comfortable, provided with a proper bunk, a palliasse and two blankets.

The food each day consisted of very watery soup, coffee, bread and jam. The soup was usually administered twice a day but sometimes we got beetroot in the evening in lieu of soup. We were told that we would be interrogated and passed on to another camp. On the morning of July 4th I was taken, with 29 others, into a large hut and locked in a cell which had a bunk and a chain only in it. We were let out to perform our natural functions and also to collect our food. In the afternoon of July 5th, I was called for interrogation and the interrogator (an underoffizier) read from his book the general information which he had about a commando. I agreed with everything he said; which was mainly wrong!! but at the end of the interview I was taken away once more to be locked up and left until next day. During the course of the evening a guard came along and opened my door, thrust a broken cigarette and some dry bread at me and hurriedly closed the door. Now I was faced with a cigarette which required lighting after re-rolling in a paper. So I knocked the door down very nearly and back came the guard. He could not speak English and I could not speak German but by the international system of signs, I made him understand what I wanted and he produced a cigarette paper and waited until I had re-rolled the tobacco, then lighting it for me before once again locking the door. So, once more I had a cigarette—my first smoke since June 8th—and I lay back on that hard bunk in my little cell and ruminated on the strange ways of the world, especially a world at war. The next morning I was heaved out at approximately 10 o’clock by a very irate German underoffizier who told me I had lied to him the previous day. When I asked him to explain he told me that I had given him an incorrect picture of a commando and I’m afraid his temper didn’t improve when I pointed out that the reverse was the case, that he had given me all the details of a commando. However, he didn’t seem to have much patience and as I started to ask him questions then about our future etc. he once again backed me off to my cell. I was quite prepared to stay another day, but in the afternoon I was surprised to be told to get my few things together as I was going out. When we were all assembled to go out we were given 10 cigarettes each ‘all Red Cross!!!’ and taken into a separate block to resume our waiting to be drafted onwards. In the evening we received a very welcome issue of several tins from Red Cross parcels. The German excuse for playing with the parcels was that were insufficient to issue one each. On Saturday July 8th we were told we were moving the next day and were issued with 10 cigarettes each and a couple of tins of Red Cross food.

July 9—July 11:

On Sunday morning we were dragged out early to return blankets etc. and then we each drew a loaf and some German sausage which was to last us for 4 days. Then at the station (211 men took 57 guards) and once more we were put into cattle trucks in groups of 40 and locked up. We were rather more cheerful this time owing to the extra food and some cigarettes and the promise of the Germans of a proper camp at last. However spirits started to drop when we were left on the siding in the station until 6 o’clock in the evening. The train than started to jolt slowly along to we knew not where. However we were not displeased to be on our way and the guards on this train seemed very reasonable. Much stopping and starting and shunting took place so that by the evening of Monday we had reached METZ. Here we were given some soup and coffee from a Red Cross centre and I got in on the party which returned the empties. In the Red Cross centre a concert similar to Ensa was in progress for troops going to the frontline and as a glass screen separated us from the troops we stopped and watched for a while. As we were about to start the air raid sirens wailed and having the memories of a visit from the RAF fairly fresh in our minds we became very silent. Being locked in a cattle truck stationary in a marshalling yard did not seem the best place when the RAF was about!!! However the planes passed over and we got underway once more with even more shunting and slipping right down the bank of the Moselle river to KOBLENZ. Here as it was evening once more, we received coffee and soup, before being locked up once more. During the night the train moved once more and at daylight we found ourselves once more stopped on a siding but this, apparently, was our destination for many guards appeared to open the doors and march us through fields into Stalag XIIA at LIMBERG.

July 12—July 23:

Once more we were lined up and searched though what the Germans expected to find was not at all clear but routine is routine even more in the German army than the British. After this we were taken into a small compound and left for a while before being taken into another building for delousing. This process consisted of a hot shower bath and drying in a centrally heated room, sitting about for an hour nude whilst clothes were baked. During this business we managed to find out from French prisoners who were doing the work of the centre that the promises of the Germans were entirely without foundation and this camp for us was purely a transit camp. This for my party was tinged with a more hopeful statement that marines were always the first to be moved. After this delousing process we were taking to our quarters—tents with wood shavings for sleeping. To keep warm at night, one fled into the centre of the wood shavings leaving some underneath to soften the bed and some on top to keep warm. The food was as bad as usual— a fifth of a loaf and a fourth of loaf on alternate days, supplemented by very thin sauerkraut soup and ersatz coffee, margarine and jam. The quantity was wholly insufficient so we just kept jogging along by waiting each morning to see if we were to be moved. The wood shavings, of course, were inclined to stick to the clothes and got carried out into the paths, so the German Commandant ordered that all shavings would be cleaned up from paths before his inspection. As we had no brooms or such like instruments this meant picking up by hand every small piece of shaving. What a task for several hundred men who were in disgusting accommodation and underfed!! Whilst here in this camp we were registered as prisoners and received our identification tallies. Also we were given a postcard to send home saying we were well and were moving. On Sunday, July 16th we were very agreeably surprised to get a Red Cross parcel issued to us with 10 cigarettes. We understood that these parcels were issued to us by the Germans as a result of representations by an American doctor as to the general health of the men in camp. Subsequently we gathered that the parcels were part of the issue to the Indian troops which they had agreed to forgo. Having this parcel helped us to while away the long hours of daylight which hitherto had bored us stiff. We spent a great many hours devising different ways of getting full benefit from the parcel. It certainly helped the German issue of food and brought our spirits ‘and consequently our health’ to a very much higher level. I finished the last item from my parcel on Saturday evening and was consequently very relieved on Monday morning when at about 05.30 we were informed that 20 marines were leaving the camp at 08.00 that morning. We left our RSM at Limberg as he was required to stay at the camp and control the incoming and outgoing prisoners.

July 24— July 25:

After being deloused we were issued with 2 days rations and after achieving 6 guards we marched to the railway station and after becoming as it were settled to our guards, found that we were going to travel by passenger train to a place called Westertimke which was by Bremen. We faced the prospect much more cheerfully than our passed journeyings in cattle trucks as we should be able to see Germany comfortably. The wooden seats in the trains were something we had not experienced! However we got going and very soon in Giessen, our fist change. Whilst here, the air raid alert sounded and we were taken into a normal subway which was only some 6 feet beneath the mainline. This idea of an air raid shelter was not ours. However the all clear sounded without further incidence and we found ourselves bound once more for Kassel. The scenery through which we passed was wonderful, a more rural country and a more plentiful harvest would be difficult to find. We arrived in Kassel at about 5 a.m. and as our train was not to leave until 8 p.m. we again found ourselves in a Red Cross centre and once more were treated extremely well. Two plates of soup and a large mug of coffee went down extremely well. The next stage of our journey was comparatively short and uninteresting, taking us as far as Göttingen and here we bedded down for the night in a waiting room. For some reason one of the guards sought me out and gave me a blanket to put over me, for to which I was duly grateful. At approximately 0500 next morning we were aroused and give chance of a wash and clean up before leaving at 0530 for Hannover where we arrived at approximately 08.00 hrs. The devastation caused by our raids was truly terrific, much worse than any I had so far seen in England or Scotland. At Hannover we were stowed underground to wait for our next train which was to take us on to Bremen. This journey was interesting to us solely because we could see just what effect all our big raids had on their big towns. Arriving in Bremen at about noon we were marched out of the station and down through the town to a back of a café. The most interesting thing here in Bremen was tramway system, on which each tram had a couple of other trams in tow, only the first tram drawing power from the overhead lines: This system of towing is used very intensively in Germany and a mechanically propelled vehicle without at least one trailer was an exceptionally rare site. We hung about in rear of this café at Bremen for no apparent reason until a train (a very miniature affair more like a scenic railways of Britain) came in alongside us and we were embarked once more. We travelled at about 5 mph through the suburbs of Bremen and eventually, somewhere about 3 o’clock, detrained at a village called ‘Tarmstedt’ which must obviously be the end of our journey as there were only 3 cottages inside and no railway junction. We all started to walk and after passing through a delightful avenue of trees, very long and very straight, we arrived at Westertimke and could see the camps spread about before us. We were all very amused by a prisoner ‘who had no guards of any sort anywhere near him’ shouting to us ‘when were you captured?’ we replied ‘in Normandy in June’ and his answer was ‘oh, brand new eh!!’ Our spirits were dashed however when we discovered that instead of going into a proper camp, we were once more to be in a Dulag. It took us 12 days to get out of this Dulag, and 8 of these days were spent on very bare German rations awaiting interrogation but when the interrogation was over we received that most coveted thing—a Red Cross parcel and 50 cigarettes. Thus it was that on Saturday morning August 5th we were moved down the road into Marlag (M).

Mne John Wetjen, Q-Troop continues:

I realised that my stretcher bearers were no ordinary lads. One Lt, one CSgt and two Sgts no less. Eventually we joined up with the rest of the wounded who had been picked up by the others of our party and the RAMC as they had made their way back. Then on to our Regimental Aid Post which was situated in the cellar of our Château H.Q. I received a morphine injection and lay on the floor until the MO came to dress my wound. I vaguely remember someone saying something about two holes, which struck me as peculiar as I only remember being hit once. I found out later that they were talking about the entry and exit wounds. My leg was put into a Thomas splint and then I was away to the Canadian Para First Aid Station where I was relieved of all my weapons and whilst lying there, it being a Canadian Para Unit, I asked if someone could return the borrowed Sten Gun. I had visions of his CO arranging a Court Martial for losing his weapon. Then I was on my way to the coast, across country in a Jeep from the Canadian Station to British one and finally to a large canvas British Hospital where I had sight of a nurse for the first time. It must have been mid-afternoon and the Sister said that I had just missed the Hospital Dakota, so I would be going back to Blighty by Hospital ship. I think it was the Amsterdam, but couldn’t be sure. In the meantime I was aware that I’d not passed water since early morning—so the nurse gave me a tablet.

Eventually I was transported to the port and loaded onto the hospital ship where, as usual, the nurses were smashing. I must have dozed through the night but I remember asking the nurse for a water tablet, as I still hadn’t been, she also gave me a hot water bottle to put on my bladder. The following morning we were off-loaded into ambulances and taken to a large Canadian Hospital at Bagshot in Surrey. It must have been around lunchtime, but I wasn’t really hungry and still hadn’t passed water! Again the pill and the hot water treatment—all to no avail. A few hours later I was bunged into another ambulance for a further journey. We didn’t know where we were bound, neither did we go much on the big, black Canadian driver who, we felt, must have been transferred from the Tank Corps! Talk about a rough ride; one of the lads had lost his leg and was very explicit about the ancestry of the driver. However, this was of secondary importance to me for, after well over fifty hours, I needed to pee! Cpl Puddick had packed the bare necessities of my kit and brought it to the cellar and left it on my stretcher but we were all strapped in and unable to reach anything, nor could we make the driver hear. Then one of the lads on the other side of the ambulance had an idea and managed to throw across to me, his mess tin. Now came the difficult bit. I managed to sled open the small window above my head, but I was lying flat on my back and the Thomas splint impeded access, not to mention the ambulance which was careering about like banshee at a barn dance. I took aim and finally rid myself of what had become a highly obnoxious substance nearly filling the highly polished mess tin. It took a masterpiece of manoeuvring to empty the tin out of the small window, amid the laughter and applause of the others when it was successfully accomplish. On offering to return the mess tin I was told, in no uncertain language, to chuck it out—which I did. I felt a new man! I often wondered if some passing tramp had that brightly polished mess tin and put it to good use.

Arriving at Haslemere Station we were anxious to learn our ultimate destination, but no-one was able to enlighten us. We were loaded into the hospital train an endured an interminable journey, arriving some time late next morning. I was in some discomfort but relished the thought of getting out into the fresh air. The next stage of our journey to the hospital had its moments, especially for the lad who had lost his leg (who turned out to be an Irish Guardsman), From him there was another spate of bad language and with good reason as most of the journey was over cobblestones. He must have suffered agonies from the bumpy ride. For my part the journey was uneventful apart from a bang on the head when I was lifted out on arrival.

So here we were, at last—Dundee Royal Infirmary, and couldn’t have been further from home. Nor could I have received better treatment and care from the medical staff, not forgetting the kindness of the local people who visited us bringing gifts. I cannot recall exactly how long was my stay there, certainly several months of being nurtured and pampered. The Infirmary wasn’t a military hospital but several wards had been given over to British Troops and one to German PoW’s who had been wounded.

Just one memory of that time. Once a week an officer and a senior NCO would visit the military wards. They didn’t do a thing or speak to us—just came!! The NCO would march inside the door then bellow, ‘Military patients, lay at attention.’ The officer would enter, look round and then disappear. The Sgt then roared, in his best parade-ground voice, ‘Lay at ease.’ I ask you!!

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