A LIGHT CONVALESCENCE

Peter Beale

On 26 July 1944 B Squadron 9 RTR was ordered to reconnoitre a defensive position near Brettevillette, a few miles south-west of Cheux. Our original squadron leader, Bob Warren, had been wounded on 21 July, and the 2 i/c Mike Reynell had been promoted to take his place.

Mike went ahead to do a preliminary recce, and instructed his troop leaders to meet him at a nominated time and place. We had already lost two of the original troop leaders, Teddie Mott badly wounded at Grainville, and Geoff Brewer promoted to be our squadron Recce Officer. For some reason John Stone was not with us, so the five troop leaders were: Fred Smart, Dick Wolskel, Jimmie Cargill, Dusty Miller, and Peter Beale.

We decided to go in a half-track so that there was room enough for five of us and the driver in a vehicle giving some protection and good manoeuvrability. The fitters’ half-track was available, and our fitter sergeant Bill Nicholls, always called Nicky, volunteered to drive us.

Anyone who was in Normandy in the summer of 1944 will remember that the weather was either hot and sunny accompanied by clouds of dust, or pouring rain. There must have been rain shortly before the recce, because the narrow lane we drove up to meet Mike was deep in mud. We had not been in the area before, and failed to see the notice warning that there mines on the verges and banks.

When we were close to the rendezvous we stopped and got out so that we could move with reasonable concealment to meet Mike. Someone suggested that we should get on to the verge of the lane to avoid all the mud; which we started to do, and Freddie must have been the first on to the verge or the bank.

Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and I felt as though I had been hit in the back with a sledgehammer. Freddie was lying on the ground next to me, and he looked up and said: ”Help me.” I took out the morphine syringe we all carried to deal with pain, and injected it into his forearm. But when I could see more clearly it was apparent that both his legs had been smashed from the thighs down, and within five minutes he was dead.

I looked round and saw Nicky and Dick Wolskel both lying motionless on the ground. Jimmie Cargill was also lying on the ground, but his groans showed that he was still alive. The luckiest of all was Dusty Miller, who had been taking a leak behind the half-track on the lee side of the explosion.

The sum of the casualties was that Fred, Nicky, and Dick were killed there, and Jimmie died from severe stomach wounds in hospital three days later. Jimmie was a great little man; he was older than all of us at 38, came from Scotland, and had a lovely sense of humour. One of his favourite sayings was to describe someone as ‘the man with the hairy teeth and the moleskin eyebrows’. When he was dying in hospital he was connected to various drips. He said to a visitor from the squadron: ‘Look what they give me for breakfast.’

The culprit in this sad scene was a German S-mine. The formal title of this was the S 35, and it could be activated by the pressure of a foot or by a trip-wire. When the S-mine was fused to explode on foot pressure it was fitted with a Z 35 fuse, which required the weight of only 16 lb to activate it.

The S 35 was about the size of a tin of baked beans. It had two cylindrical metal casings fitted one inside the other. The outer case held a propellant charge and a 4.5 second delay charge. When pressure was exerted, the propellant charge in the outer case flung the inner case into the air, at the same time operating the delay fuse.

The delay fuse detonated when the inner casing was three feet above the ground, and its explosion flung out some 360 steel balls, coincidentally each about the size of a baked bean. The lethal range of the pellets was 20 metres, but they could inflict injury at 100 metres.

In the tragedy at Brettevillette Freddie must have received by far the greatest number of the pellets, and Jimmie the next greatest. It seems that Nicky and Dick were each killed by a single pellet, and I was wounded by another single pellet.

The medical system swung into action very promptly, and Jimmie and I were quickly transported to a Field Hospital. My recollection is that it was a Canadian hospital near Bayeux, but in any event the care and attention given were first-class.

After a few days I was told that I would be going back to England to have the pellet removed and to convalesce. The pellet had entered the right side of my back at waist level, and was lodged on the left side at a similar level. By a stroke of extreme good fortune it had made its internal journey entirely through muscular tissue.

The aircraft to carry us back to England was that wonderful transport workhorse of World War II, the DC 3 or Dakota. The medical transports were equipped to take stretchers, and the loading process was slick. It was the first time I had ever been in an aircraft, and it was exciting to see the arrival of the English coastline and the countryside.

The next stage of our journey was to a General Hospital partly used for service casualties. This stage was by train, and we were accommodated in bunks. At this point I began to get agonizing pains in my stomach, nothing whatever to do with the wound. I remember with shame that the pain in my stomach made me groan quite audibly, and there I was surrounded by others who had suffered far more serious wounds and were absolutely silent.

My destination was the General Hospital in Birmingham, and my ward had three others in it. My stomach was still painful, and when I was asked by the ward sister when I had last opened my bowels I said it was before I was wounded, now at least eight days ago.

“Ha ha” she said, “You’re battle-bound. We must give you an enema.”

So in due course I was curtained off from the others and made ready for the procedure. It was to be given to me by a young, I would say 16-year old, trainee nurse. She was evidently unused to the exploration of the hinder parts of hairy-arsed soldiers. She had to insert a tube firmly up my back passage, the tube having a funnel attached at the far end. She would then pour what appeared to be soapy water into the funnel, and in the fullness of time that would have the desired effect.

As I said, my nurse was young and inexperienced, and embarrassed at having to find the right point of entry. The engagement between tube and body was therefore what could only be termed loose contact. So when she poured the liquid down the funnel I found myself lying in a sea of soapy water.

Someone more experienced was then given the job to do, and succeeded. It had the desired effect, and the contents of my bowels meeting the metal of the bedpan sounded like the rattle of machine-gun fire. Taking out the S-mine pellet was a five minute job, and the surgeon could find no damage to anything else. It only remained for the eight-inch internal wound to heal so that I would again be at A1 fitness.

In the bed next to me at Birmingham was a young gunner officer who was infinitely less fortunate. He had been wounded at Anzio, and he had lost both legs above the knee. It is of course possible to lead a fulfilling and useful life after such misfortune, but it needs a lot of internal fortitude to accept what has happened and to make the best of it. During the few days I was at Birmingham the young gunner had as yet been unable to come to terms with the loss of his legs, and was very depressed. I can still remember him, and hope that he was able to conquer his fears and disappointment.

The process of convalescence was to take place at a Convalescent Hospital near Stafford. The precise location I cannot remember, but it was in the country, it was a warm and sunny August, and it seemed that war had not touched this part of England.

My wound healed rapidly, and it was not long before I was able to walk quite freely. We were well fed, we had young and pretty nurses to look after us, and we were all optimistic about the future. The news of the American break-out through Avranches gave us hope that the war would be over before we were fit enough to rejoin our units.

Two events stand out in my mind during this period. The first was our attendance at a cricket match between a West Indian team and a local county side. About a dozen of us from the Convalescent Hospital went to the game, and had the privilege of being introduced to the West Indian cricketers, one of whom was Learie Constantine.

The second event was a totally unexpected visit from my mother. From the War Office telegram she knew that I had been wounded, but they gave her no idea of where I was. None of the other convalescents had had visitors, so by some dedicated investigation mother must have discovered where I was, and made the difficult journey from Sussex in the hope of seeing me.

She stayed nearby for a day or two, but by that time I was nearly ready to be discharged on convalescent leave. Presumably such discharge was granted on the basis that it would free up a bed, and that I would be well looked after at home.

After leaving the hospital I went for a week to stay with friends in Gloucestershire, and then went home to Sussex. After a few days at home I went to stay with my Uncle Os and Aunt Dorothy at Sissinghurst in Kent. By this time it was mid-September, and on 17 September we saw a huge armada of aircraft flying overhead in the direction of Holland. They were part of the land/air operation Market Garden.

“Wouldn’t it be marvellous if this ended the war” said Dorothy.

But the operation was a considerable misjudgement by Montgomery, and it failure was a major contribution to making the war last well into 1945.

The period of convalescent leave seemed to be indeterminate, in that I received no advice from the War Office as to what I should do next. I was able to some degree to take matters into my own hands by remembering that one of the older cadets in our troop at Sandhurst, Stan Felstead, was now at the War Office, and had some connection with the posting of officers.

I was able to contact and meet Stan, and asked whether he could help me get back to the 9^th, rather than be sent to some other unit. He said that he could do it, but it might take a few weeks. In due course I would get an order to report to a Holding Unit at Catterick, and from there would be sent back to the NW Europe Theatre to rejoin the 9^th. Meanwhile, enjoy yourself.

So I did. I spent many happy hours at home and at Uncle’s farm at Sissinghurst. Somehow we managed to get petrol, and were able to travel within a radius of 40 miles or so in Kent and Sussex. My brother Chris, a platoon commander with the Seaforth Highlanders, also had leave at this time, and we spent many boozy hours together.

A slight hiccup was when my wound turned septic, and it seemed that more hospital might be needed. But the skill of our local doctor at Buxted, Dr Sadlier, found and extracted the problem, which was a fragment of shirt that had been carried in by the S-mine pellet. Recovery was immediate.

When we embarked for Normandy the senior troop leader in B Squadron was Geoff Brewer. He was promoted to captain and became the Squadron Recce Officer in July, and the War Diary recorded on 19 August:

“ The battalion passed through Mezidon and concentrated short of the River Vie. Capt Brewer, reconnoitring another possible bridge site over the River Vie was badly wounded in the stomach by Spandau fire, but brought information that tanks could not be used at that point either.”

So Geoffrey was back in England, as was our original squadron leader Bob Warren. Before embarking for Normandy Geoffrey had become engaged to Patsy Pledge of Ashford. Patsy was a very attractive girl, no more than 18, and very loving. They decided to get married soon after Geoff was discharged from hospital, and Geoff did me the honour of asking me to be his best man.

Geoff’s mother lived at Eastbourne, and that was where the wedding was to be held. Geoff’s father had been the licensee of the New Inn near Eastbourne station, and after his early death Mrs Brewer took on the running of the hotel. Besides the usual bars the hotel had function rooms and several guest bedrooms. It was ideal for a wedding, and the church was within walking distance.

The night before the wedding Geoff and I made a tour of the local hostelries, ending up at the New Inn in reasonable shape. The wedding next day was at 11.30 am. There were many regulars at the New Inn, and three in particular used to arrive at 10.30 and stay till midday closing at 2.00 pm. On our way to the church Geoff and I went into the bar for a swift reviver, and I said to the three regulars:

“Why don’t you come down to the church and see Geoff get married?”

“No” one of them replied, “We’ll just sit it out here.”

The wedding breakfast was at the New Inn, attended by several senior members of the Brewer and Pledge clans, as well as some younger people. Our ex-squadron leader Bob Warren was also there, and he scandalized some of the older guests by telling jokes that got laughter only from the best man.

Not long after this memorable wedding I was on my way back to the 9^th. The first stop was a Holding Unit at Catterick. My stay there was brief, but it gave me an opportunity to drive a new Stuart tank. With its rubber tracks the Stuart was easy and satisfying to drive on the roads. As many tankies will remember, the roads round Catterick are generally narrow and winding. I was driving this Stuart along such a road at a smart clip, and came to a sharpish corner. Booming round the corner like a racing driver I was surprised to see a Triumph SS tourer coming in the opposite direction. I might have been surprised, but the Triumph driver was horrified! I can still see the expression on his face. We both took appropriate action, and slipped past each other unscathed; I was unworried, but would not vouch for the condition of the other driver’s underwear.

The journey from Catterick back to the 9^th was quick and uneventful, and nothing outstanding remains in the memory. But there is certainly a very strong memory of the pleasure of rejoining the unit at Roosendaal at the end of November 1944. There was a great welcome from everyone, and I was able to go back to B Squadron where Squadron Leader Mike Reynell put me in charge of 10 Troop. The welcoming phrase I remember best was:

“Good to see you back, you’re just in time to play hockey against the locals.”

And all the way from Catterick I had been expecting to be flung immediately into action!