Journey into hell

PART II: JOURNEY INTO HELL

If I could have sent my family a telegram on the 19^th June 1944 it might have read: “Ashore Alive.” That would have calmed them a little, but it would not have stopped them worrying, in common with parents, wives, families, and girlfriends worldwide. It was a miracle we had got that far, another miracle that the most and the best of the German army were still in the wrong place (for them). But we knew what lay ahead.

Sentiment abounded. For example, the start of a song sung by Peggy Lee

“When the lights go on again,

All over the world;

And the boys come home again,

All over the world.”

But the classic had to be Vera Lynn’s :

“We’ll meet again,

Don’t know where, don’t know when,

But I know we’ll meet again

Some sunny day.

Keep smiling through,

Just like you always do

Till the blue skies

Chase the dark skies far away.

And I will just say hello,

To the folks that you know,

Tell them you won’t be long;

They’ll be happy to know,

That as I saw you go,

You were singing this song -

Though we were not the first to land in France, and our own Advance Party had already arrived, there was an air of uncertainty and a fear of the unknown. Some of our allies were reported to be quite a way inland but we were not sure if there were pockets of Germans much nearer. Coming off boats into flat, open country without protection we were very vulnerable. One German aeroplane would have been enough to wipe us out, cluttered together as we were. Lorries offered no protection. Corporal Brady and I crewed a Humber Scout car. It had some protection, and it carried a machine gun. Our orders were to leave the beach area and drive very slowly up a road leading inland. Behind us, doing exactly the same thing, came the lorries and other echelon wheeled vehicles. When the disembarkation was complete we formed a single file stretching quite a way back - still a perfect target.

Brady was the commander of our vehicle, but as he was driving, with very limited visibility, I had to perform the Commander’s duties, plus being wireless operator and machine gunner. We were given orders to move and our destination was ‘sheltered accommodation’ not far away, already sought out by the Advance Party. We had a short run ahead, a right turn at a junction, and another short run to our prepared laager. As there was no enemy activity in our immediate vicinity at the time, it seemed to be a straightforward operation.

As we approached the junction where I had been instructed to turn right I noticed a man in the uniform of a British Military Policeman in the middle of the junction and waving us on, straight ahead. I signed that we were turning right. He continued to wave us through while I continued to hold my arm out to the right. This went on until we were abreast of him, and as I had already told Brady of the confusion he stopped, while shouting to me that we ought not to be stopped. I took off my earphones and leaning down told the Sergeant that I had clear orders to go right. He became very angry and demanded to know who I was and who we were. I instructed Brady to move off, to the right. When we were safely in laager we reported the matter. We were told later that the M.P could be a German - and this was something the Germans were known to do, but I can’t vouch for this man being German - nor can I explain his actions if he wasn’t.

We drove round the edge of the field assigned to us, stopping our vehicles under trees. With our machetes we hacked down leaf-laden branches and spread them over the already camouflaged vehicles. Stores were drawn, cooking begun, and guards arranged. Those who had room inside their vehicles would sleep inside them; the others in the main created tents with tarpaulins or ground sheets, and we were domestically complete. We expected the main party to arrive very soon. Unknown to us, who had thought our crossing to be very bad, they were thrown about in the Channel for three days before they made it ashore. Lacking information we waited fearfully.

Had the Germans been very active in our area during the waiting period we could have been in great trouble The occasional German aircraft came over but did not see us, and we offered no threat to them with our few machine guns, so as not to give away our position. The main risk to our security was the smoke of our cooking fires, and we were always ready to douse them instantly. So we had a longer than expected acclimatisation period.

The whole battalion had disembarked on Juno Beach by 22 June and were concentrated at St. Gabriel, some 4 km east of Bayeux and 5 km from the coast. Our first task was to remove the waterproofing. Around us was much evidence of war - fields still marked with Gerry “skull and crossbones” and “minen” (mines). Our ‘lanes’ were clearly marked and taped (areas cleared of mines by the Royal Engineers). Country lanes had already been widened and improved. We had seen wrecked vehicles by the beach, and simple graves by the roadside, bearing wooden crosses and steel helmets etc. It was a terribly depressing sight. There were army vehicles everywhere, and all troops looked terribly dirty. This entire region was just a huge army camp.

There was not much evidence of enthusiasm amongst the locals; just a few polite hand waves. Perhaps they resented our intrusion. Their former well tilled fields and lovely countryside was a battlefield. They had not seen war for generations, and now it had descended upon them because of the Allies.

The Germans had forced their way into that country in 1940 without needing to cause much damage or loss of civilian lives. Now we, the liberators, were destroying homes, livelihood - lives and families, after four years of relatively acceptable conditions under the Germans. French girls had formed liaisons with Germans, and some had married them and borne their children. What were they to think now that we were about to undo all that? Even the most patriotic Frenchmen must have doubted our success - at least for the first few weeks after D Day. Were they to show too much support for the invaders it might be bad for them if the invaders were thrown back into the sea.

By the 23 June we were again receiving mail. Some of it was a bit dated, but very quickly a flow of up-to-date mail was established. If the receipt of mail was an event back in Blighty, mail at the front sent morale sky high. Pity the poor fellows who had no parents, brothers or sisters, wives or sweethearts to scribble something, however basic and incoherent to them. Those poor devils got to sharing someone else’s good news: in a rather pathetic way adopting another’s family. There was so much that we in our letters home wished to tell, but daren’t for security reasons. All mail outward was read and severely dealt with if it breached the rules. Recipients were left to guess the worst, yet to rejoice in the fact that we were alive at the time of writing

We did a road march at night, moving towards a position which we knew was the launching place for our first action. Driving any vehicle in strange country at night with only a tiny peep of light was no small achievement. It was a slow, slow procession, and it took a long time to cover the short distance to Secqueville en Bessin where we stopped, some 7 kms short of the western outskirts of Caen, where we were to spend a day resting and preparing for battle - not only our first, but a very crucial one.

We all took every precaution to preserve our lives. Unfortunately, on so many occasions we had very little control over our destiny. I often wondered when I fell into a deep sleep, the sleep of an utterly exhausted man, what would happen while I was not awake and watchful? When we were deeply asleep we were utterly defenceless, and totally vulnerable. Even at night, bombs fell, shells crashed down, and other terrors abounded.

On the 25^thof June we did another night move to our F.U.P.(Forming Up Point) - the start point of an attack which we originated, as opposed to us responding to an enemy attack or counter attack. We arrived there at 0200 hours. The three mile journey took about four hours. There had been conferences all day; all troop leaders doing little but study maps. We expected to have a severe baptism. We spent all day trying to control our jitters. My stomach still sinks when I recall that barrage from Gerry 88's. We had seen their effect on a Sherman.. The 88's were dreadful weapons and we all knew of the vast superiority of German tanks. It was a hideously unpleasant scenario, especially for our first battle. Knowing that there could be no turning back did not help. All our long training was soon to be rigorously put to the test. Some of us managed time to scribble short letters, knowing that they might be our last. If was difficult to stay calm.

It was called Operation Epsom. I don’t know why planned battles had to have titles, but maybe it was a psychological trick to make us feel good. Epsom - the Downs, and a day at the races. The battalion went into the attack at 0700 on the 26^th, following closely behind the artillery barrage. This was something of a comfort, but also one having dangers if we ran ahead of the artillery. Right away the infantry found it difficult to clear the enemy from the crops, which provided cover for snipers, as did the trees. Snipers in Normandy were a major menace to everyone on foot, or otherwise not under cover. Tank crews inside their vehicles and closed down were immune from snipers, but otherwise we were equally vulnerable.

We were ever watchful for the glint of sunshine which could betray a sniper. They were not easily disposed of. I remember one of our tanks being stopped by an infantry officer jumping out of a ditch and under cover of the tank asking for help. His company were all in hiding in the ditch because of sniper fire. Having received instruction as to the whereabouts of the offenders the tank commander gave his gunner guidance and left him to the job of demolishing the trees where the snipers were. The job done, nobody bothered to search for the snipers - what was left of them.

By 1125 objectives were clear, except for one strong point in St. Manvieu which was finally destroyed by Crocodiles. These crocs were the most awful weapons, ranking in my mind with bayonets. They were Churchills, suitably modified, towing a trailer of fuel, and they directed flame at an objective. Their range was very short, unlike guns firing shells, but their destructive capacity was total. Flame thrown at a pill box , a trench, a gun emplacement, or other enemy position would completely incinerate all within. That was the fate of those who held us up at St. Manvieu.

Objectives secured, the infantry dug in and the tanks remained in support to assist in beating off counter-attacks, which were made on a small scale. One tank commander was killed - the battalion’s first death - (Corporal Sydney Chapman) and three tanks were damaged. It was estimated that at least two companies of enemy infantry were killed. At 1515 a regiment of 11 Armoured Division with reconnaissance elements passed through us and established themselves on high ground. At 1915 , without artillery support and the expected air attack on Grainville and Colleville our C Squadron began their advance in heavy rain. They experienced great difficulty getting through narrow, sunken roads. They eventually supported the infantry into Colleville, through the high corn. Heavy anti tank fire, including self-propelled guns and the dreaded 88's and Panther tanks, plus the heavy rain , made it very difficult to locate targets, and gradually one tank after another became a casualty.

By splitting the squadron so that half engaged the enemy tanks and S.P.’s while the remainder pushed on to help the infantry who were in trouble with mortars and snipers at the approaches to Colleville, there were further casualties. The Gordons actually got to Colleville but not in sufficient strength to hold it and were forced to withdraw under persistent mortar fire. By last light only 6 tanks out of 18 were still engaged and under cover of darkness those tanks moved forward in an effort to collect the remainder of the infantry still pinned to the ground. In the darkness the tanks moved back to Cheux and spent the remaining few hours of the night in a farmyard. Neither A or B Squadrons were relieved until dark.

The casualties were not as heavy as expected, though C took severe punishment. The Churchill proved that it could take a lot of punishment Of course the durability of the Churchill meant that it could be hit, often more than once, and still keep going. That way, greater strain was often the lot of its crews.

Reading the bald facts does not convey the whole truth. Feelings are more important than statistics. To be caught slap in the middle of a concentration of our artillery, and they had just started a barrage. What pandemonium! The earth shook noticeably. The stench of dead cows in the fields was awful. Several human corpses lay along the route - one, recognisable as a Gerry by torn bits of uniform, had been run over on the verge, and tanks subsequently passed over his body. It was just a mass of bloody flesh and bones. No one appeared to be bothered about it. Our own troops were too busy ‘digging in’ against possible counter attack.

I remember seeing my first corpse - a very bloated and stinking German. It was a nauseating experience, but one which became so commonplace as to be quickly accepted without qualm. That is war, and it didn’t pay to be sentimental and sympathetic. Seeing our own die or suffer terrible wounds, and hear their cries of anguish, and have their pleading eyes look at you was quite another matter. It never became easy to lose a friend in such circumstances. There was no stress counselling in those days.

Many of the boundaries between the small fields consisted of banks with hedges on top of the banks. These were hostile to tank movement for two reasons. In starting to cross the bank the tank’s thin underbelly was exposed( as the nose of the tank rose high in the air). It was a slow exposure , and a perfect target for anyone lying in wait. In dropping down the other side of the bank the driver had to tip the tank gently over the top so that the landing on the other side was not too bone-jarring.

Epsom Day 1 ended with regrettable casualties, though, again, fewer than expected; but there had been many hairy experiences and many more men had escaped death or serious injury by the skin of their teeth. Clearly, the tank crews had suffered worst on this occasion, but the rest of us had been out and about, too. Our problems had been aircraft, snipers, shells, mines, and the risk of being caught in an enemy counter attack. For the entire battalion there had been no hiding place - and many in lightly protected or unarmoured vehicles had been at or too near the front for comfort. We were all in it together, and nobody bragged about having a more dangerous job than anyone else.

27^th June was Day 2 of Epsom. When a confrontation between enemies took place it was either a skirmish, a probe, or a serious attempt to alter positions. The latter applied to Epsom. A major breakthrough here by the Germans and we, the invaders, could all be back in the sea. If we succeeded, our position would be much stronger.

One story of very many will set the scene. Jim Hutton: “I heard Ted Costin and his crew (on the radio)- heard of them being engaged by a Tiger tank. Three of the crew were killed. That was the last I heard of Ted. He was buried near Cheux, in the evening, after the action, in a shallow grave. I went to the service there - very moving. Never forget poor old Ted. The other two were Jock Pettigrew and John Samuels.” That’s the way it always was. I knew these lads too. The survivors, Corporal Jim Hudson (crew commander) and Trooper Woods crewed with me for a time after that.

Humour in this period was not over abundant. Jim Hutton this time raised a smile through the pain. He had taken a real pasting, and all his crew were killed or wounded. He says: “We got back (on foot) and Germans and British were all firing at us because they didn’t know who we were. We got back among the 53^rd Welsh Division, and this Welsh chap called out: “Hande hoch, stick yer hands up”, and I said to him - “You get stuffed you Welsh git, I’m English; and he said “Oh alright boyo”, and we made our way back.”

Trevor Greenwood, a young father, remembered a very different side of the war, always a very harrowing one. “Later this evening a batch of about twenty refugees appeared; a frightful sight. Some had prams containing all their worldly goods; others had wheelbarrows. Two very old ladies were being wheeled in these things. Three tiny babies and a few children included. They seemed greatly relieved to have got away from the “Bosch”. Some of them had been trekking for three weeks - sleeping in fields at night. But most were from front line villages nearby.” These experiences were common to all men at the front.

The battle raged into day 3 and day 4. Both sides must have been physically exhausted, not to mention being mentally whacked. There was the constant physical effort of diving for safety, plus the awful mental strain of waiting for the explosions. At periods we all had to take refuge inside the tanks; it was too dangerous even to open hatches. In action, not surprisingly, it was very much worse. There, you might want to dive out of the tank - and in some cases had to - but that brought dangers untold even nearer. Inside a tank cruising on a road miles from danger is not luxury; but in action, over rough ground, it is sheer hell.

Apart from the very real danger of being killed or maimed, we were bounced about all over the vehicle, hitting our bodies against hard and sharp objects, and acquiring all manner of minor injuries not directly attributable to the enemy. If the hatches were closed - most likely they were - and the guns were being fired, the smell of cordite was simply awful. When fresh air eventually became available it was the most beautiful thing to gulp it into our lungs. And still, we had a love affair with our tanks.

I remember the souvenirs that we collected., and who could forget the booby traps. The Germans commonly booby trapped things they expected us to pick up. None of us wanted to be killed or maimed in this way, so we had to be careful. Several of us fancied a radio which was on a table deep inside the living room of a ruined house. It looked intact. To go through the shattered door would be asking for trouble as it almost certainly would have an explosive device above it which pushing the door would trigger. We obtained a very long plank and levered it very gingerly through the glassless window, being careful not to disturb anything.

It took a very long time to manoeuvre the plank onto the table, and even longer to lasso the radio. While all this was going on two people ‘worked’ while the others sheltered in case of explosion. We took turns in being at the ‘sharp end’. With the lasso in place a long slow drag commenced. The radio was not booby trapped and inch by inch we pulled it along the plank. We got it within a couple of feet from our outstretched hands when it fell off the plank. Mad? Probably, but it did provide much-needed light relief. .

We found the odd meal in the countryside. Even when things were quiet and we were behind the line it often was not safe to wander. Uncleared areas were still heavily mined. Anti personnel mines had trip wires, and if a walker set one off it would jump up, explode, and the person who tripped it would scarcely survive. Nevertheless, we did judge it safe to do certain things. I was caught by an officer milking a cow. The idiot threatened to charge me with theft, and only backed down when I told him I was raised on a farm and was doing the cow a favour.

At another time our gunner, a Somerset farmer cum butcher, got to work on a very recently killed animal and produced some magnificent steaks which he shared with all who discovered what he was doing. They were a treat we had not enjoyed for a very long time. Unhappily, as a Churchill was not fridged (except in winter!) we had to leave an awful lot of good meat behind. Eggs were more easily carried, when found, but would not keep inside a tank in summer. I even had bacon on one lucky day.

I can imagine some of our mothers or wives saying - “Who did the cooking?” The battalion had its own cooks, but it was not always possible to take the cooks to the hungry. In that case, we cooked our own food. Some lads had the ability - the others became fast learners. Food generally was very basic: a lot of tinned stuff, which had us swearing we would never eat tinned food again. M and V (meat and veg) was typical. Good enough for men dying of hunger, but no more. There was a standard biscuit - rock hard. We called them dog biscuits. Apart from the occasional treat from the land, our table was not fit for a King; even a King in wartime must have eaten a lot better. How did we cook the meat, and boil water for tea? Some had stoves ; but the usual way was the biscuit tin cooker. A large biscuit tin had holes punched in the lower half (for air) and the tin was three quarters filled with earth. Petrol was poured into the earth and a brave man lit a match and threw it in.

There were accidents from time to time, and I remember a jeep catching fire and being burned out When the flare up died down a second biscuit tin was placed on the fire with water to boil. Other things could be heated in mess tins. Churchill crews had a good method of cooking tinned food if the engine was running. Just before the elected meal time (unless at the front line) I (and others in their respective tanks) would exit the turret while we drove along and place tins behind the twin exhausts. The engines were at the rear and the rear deck was flat, so that it was safe with care to do this, and the tins stayed on because the exhausts formed an enclosed area. It was a matter of experience knowing when the grub was ready and the crew would be available. I have also heard of tins being put down the gun barrel after firing, the barrel being elevated, and the tins coming out the other end some time later with the contents cooked. Necessity is the mother of invention.

A Squadron got the worst of the trouble on 10^th July. It is almost impossible to describe the horrors experienced in general, as each tank crew and each crewman had individual experiences. There was a very heavy bout of mortaring and at one stage tanks were on fire all around and the counter-attack started to come in. All this time the place was being swept by machine-gun and mortar fire. Someone went to find the Infantry Medical Officer but he had been killed. There were casualties everywhere . Dismounted and disabled crewmen were cowering in ditches. Dying men had to be made comfortable and left.

About three-quarters of A Squadron had lost their tanks and were trying to get back one way or another. The Padre and our own ambulances made repeated attempts to get forward to the Squadron and succeeded in picking up about twelve men, but the position was impossible. Later in the day when C Squadron attacked there must have been a good number of our men still about in the area who would have come under our own artillery barrage. For days we tried to reach the place to recover the tanks and see what was left but it was not until 8 August that we were finally able to do so. Then we recovered nineteen bodies from the burnt out tanks and buried them together. None of us who were there could accept what was happening, and what had happened. Mercifully, the mind closes down.

Above my desk is a fairly recent picture of Ray Gordon and me at a recent Battalion reunion in Kent. On that fateful day Ray was, as I was, 19 going on 20. This is his story. “We were moving across a field of yellow rape and through my periscope I could see tank after tank stop and catch fire. There was the constant sound of small arms fire against the turret. Ted Spight from one of the brewed-up tanks appeared just in front of us looking very dazed so we opened up a pannier door and laid him on the tool box behind the driver. Soon afterwards we were hit and our tank Iceni rocked to a standstill. The interior of the turret suddenly became intensely hot, a dry scalding heat. I kept my eyes shut, shielding my face with my hands. The left hand was not wearing the leather gauntlet glove with which we were issued, the right hand had a glove on.”

“After seemingly minutes, but it can only have been a very short period, I stood up and pushed open my turret hatches. We were yelling and I tried to release the clip which held the bag for holding the empty shell cartridges, but it jammed and could not be budged. I tried to do this to let Jock and Dickie move over to my side of the turret in order to get out because Jock could not open his cupola flaps as shortly before we were hit something had struck the top of the turret and jammed it shut. I pulled myself out of the turret and fell over the side hitting the tracks ,and toppled on to the ground.”

“As I lay there I could see a large hole slightly forward of the turret and flames started coming out of the turret together with the sound of exploding ammunition. The dreadful cries of my crew trapped in Iceni, even now, occasionally return to remind me of the horror of 10^th July 1944. To my everlasting sorrow I was unable to help even one of those young men with whom I had lived in the intimate contact that was part of a tankman’s life when in action.” Ray was the only survivor; hideously burned, and requiring hospital treatment over a period of four years.

7 R.T.R. were alongside us during that day of to-ing and fro-ing They were attacking Hill 112.. It was no easier for them as both battalions tried to establish the infantry in their objectives. In this period the Colonel of the 7^th lost an eye and his second in command was killed. The second in command of A Squadron of the 9^th, Capt. Bert Mockford, reported that A had only four tanks out of eighteen left in a battleworthy condition. As a result of the 7^th leadership losses our second in command, Major Berry Veale M.C. was transferred to the 7^th as Colonel. Six days later our C.O. Sir Nugent Everard was wounded in the head and back and very quickly Berry Veale was back with us as Colonel. By the time things settled down we were all exhausted and shocked. We were desperately in need of a rest, but it was not to be. First, there was a desperate rush to bring ourselves up to full strength again, in tanks and in men. Both came from the rear and many a crew found itself with new faces.

But back to that day. It had some humour, surprisingly. Jim Hutton, again the funny man, was driver to Lieut. George Hendrie. “I remember Sergeant Norman coming up on the A set and he called out that he was in trouble, saying the Germans had surrounded him. What shall I do? he cried. Some bright spark over the air called - Stick up yer hands.” He must have done, for he and his crew all became prisoners Jim again: “Somebody came up on air and called out what sounded like - To my left there are 50 Sherman tanks approaching. He was asked to ‘Say again’ He replied: Fifty Sherman tanks. Came the enquiry : Did you say Sherman or German? He said - Sherman. The final comment in the conversation - Oh, thank goodness for that.”

Jim Hutton yet again; this time not so cheerful. “At Hill 112 Lieut. Hendrie had his birthday. He was 21.” On the following day they were hit. “We were hit on the turret and water from the canteen splashed all over the place. I felt this water all over the back of my neck and I couldn’t make out what it was. . Lieut. Hendrie called out that we would carry on with the front machine gun because the turret was jammed. So we carried on firing from the front machine gun, and the next shot we received hit the cupola and took Lieut. Hendrie’s head - decapitated him and his body fell down inside the turret. I felt warm liquid on the back of my neck, which I knew was blood, and turning round I spotted his body with no head..”

They were hit again twice as they struggled to reach safety. The Sergeant Major and a Padre approached and enquired how they were, and they reported three dead in the turret. On examination only the officer was dead - the other two were struck dumb. “Sergeant Major Bradley said - Get yourselves some tea and get some sleep and try and get over it.” That was all that could be done then, otherwise they would have been put in a wagon and shipped back. There were so many more stories in that vein.

About this time Corporal Brady and I had done our work for the day. Our day consisted of driving men, material, or messages to the front, to other fronts, or to other units. Unlike the tanks we were unlikely to be hit by armour piercing shells, but just about everything else was possible. And we were very lightly protected compared with the tanks. Just before dusk we started to dig deep holes in the soft ground around us. We got all of 2-3 feet down and lining the sides with our groundsheets we let ourselves into bed, safe from most dangers others than explosions right on us or above us. We were both wakened by an officer. Rain was pouring down and we were almost afloat, yet so tired had we been that we had slept through it. It was just before midnight and we were ordered to go immediately to the tanks on Hill 112.

We threw our gear onto the vehicle and climbed in, soaked to the skin. Brady started up and I opened my map and sought to establish our route with a peep of light to guide me. We had to go about three miles of twisting, single track lanes through wooded country - a journey that in totally safe conditions without lights would have been exceedingly hazardous. We set off. There were no other vehicles on the road, and no people standing anywhere or walking. It was eerie and scary, particularly as we could never be far from the front and the front had changed position quite a bit in the past hours..

I kept my top half out of the vehicle to improve my vision, grasping the map with one hand and the shaded light with the other. The gun I uncovered and had it ready to fire. We could not afford mistakes of any kind. We had to be ready for anything, though at the commencement of our journey it was very peaceful. I remember feeling that it was too peaceful. Some activity would have made me more aware of where the action was likely to be. Neither side remained quiet all night, normally.

We had not gone far when I heard what I thought was aircraft engine noise above the noise of the Humber. I told Brad, but we kept on our way - until suddenly we both heard the dread whistle of bombs coming down. I vaulted out of the car before it stopped, and a hop , skip and jump took me into the ditch. I don’t know who got the biggest shock - me or the infantry officer I fell on top of. The ditch was full of his men.

The raid was intense and concentrated directly on our immediate surroundings It was clear that the bombers knew of our presence. The dark night had become as clear as day with the light of flares dropped by the planes, and the crump of exploding bombs was frightening. Bits of trees and rubble flew over us, clattering against other trees and the Humber. It seemed that none would survive, but presently the planes droned away, leaving us to take stock.

I emerged from my ditch and shook myself, surprised to find that I had all my bits , and in the right places. Brad emerged from his hideout nearby and one by one the infantrymen came out. Miraculously, we all had survived. I thanked my officer friend for his cooperation and Brad was already at the wheel, panicking, and anxious to get to the end of our journey. Unhappily for me, who needed all the support I could get, Brad was too old for this game and I had to ‘carry’ him. It had happened before.

We got on our way again, the light of dying flares and fires lit by the bombs making the road as visible as in daylight. We were doubly wary, for pleasant as the driving was in such light, we were now silhouetted against every tree we passed - a sitting target. Without further interruption we got to the ‘home straight’- a short run through the last of the trees and gently uphill to where I believed the tanks to be. There was sporadic shelling but not too close. I was in my usual position, half out of the vehicle, and dreaming of delivering our cargo and getting an hour or two asleep under someone’s tank - when without warning the whistle and swish of bombs immediately above us froze me in my position.

The explosions straddled us and in seconds the whole earth erupted on either side of us. Further explosions followed rapidly and missiles flew in all directions. It seemed as if the whole area had suddenly caught fire and was blowing itself apart. I ducked inside and as Brad screamed at me to tell him what was happening I screamed at him telling him where to go. He hit the throttle and we bounced insanely out of the area, off the track onto rough grassland, and did not stop until we reached the nearest tank under which we sought safety. It seemed that there had been an ammunition dump about 100 yards on one side of us as we came uphill and a petrol dump about 100 yards from us on the other side. Bombs had hit both, and both had gone up. It was the most terrifying experience I had ever suffered, yet we had both got out alive. Our introduction to Hill 112 had been unforgettable.

Hill 112 had been like a boxing match; not fought by lightweights, but by the heavies; no dancing around each other, but face to face slugging. It did not matter that we did not see each other because of the crest of the hill. We were aided by air observation and the Germans, being a methodical race, were to some extent predictable. Their mortar ‘stonks’, for example, seemed to start at certain times, last a regular time, and then stop for a measurable period. It was therefore reasonably safe to do all the things that needed doing in the ‘safe’ periods. But it was an extremely unhealthy place to be, and the fact that we stayed so long on it did not help our nervous systems. Hill 112 was one of those key places the Germans had to hold and we had to get - and like some boxing matches, it went to the last round.

Without being told why I was quickly transferred from the scout car to a Fitters Half Track as Wireless Operator, and I never heard of Brad again. It is not unlikely that he had been sent back, as some others were, who should not have been in France at all. My short period with the fitters was eventful enough, but the most dreadful experience was in losing our leader. Sergeant Bill Turner was another older man whom I thought should have been spared the Normandy ordeal. He was efficient, calm, a good leader, and above all, a friend or father figure. I was appalled as I have seldom been when I heard of his death. We were told that he had gone out with a colleague to a conference and that they had triggered a phosphorus bomb. These dreadful things burned the flesh off a victim, and for a very long time I was haunted by the thought that Bill had died in that most horrible of ways. In Tank Tracks he is recorded as having been killed by a mortar at Cagny on 10.8.44.

Going to the loo was another problem. On a battlefield such as Normandy there were no public loos available at any time. Many of us initially felt a certain reluctance to bare all in public, but wherever we went there were others to see us. In the end we hardened ourselves to do what we had to do wherever we were, regardless... On Hill 112 a crude erection had been placed some distance from the tanks where we could sit in the open air, lightly screened, and perform. I was doing just that when Gerry started another round of mortaring. As he knew where we were his firing was always accurate. I grabbed my trousers and ran for cover, spurred on by the ribaldry of many witnesses. In action it was even more difficult. It was not unknown when the bladders needed relieving for a bottle or other container to be passed through the tank, the last to receive it being responsible for tipping it out of his hatch, if it was safe to do so. Doing the other was not so easy.

We were on Hill 112 for several days, and we felt that we would never get off. After a week or more we were relieved. I had joined the crew of a Churchill and we were about to discover another enemy from whom we had no defence - mosquitos. We had to cross the river Orne. That was not difficult. We were then ordered to stay on the east bank in a defensive position; to hold it against an enemy counter attack. It was relatively quiet and we dismounted, posting guards and doing duties, including refilling the tanks and ourselves. Then the perishers struck. In my time I have been attacked by all manner of flying and crawling pests, and anyone who has been in the West Highlands of Scotland , particularly in May, will know about the ‘dive bombers’ there. But this was something different, and much, much worse.

I am convinced that the Germans had programmed these flying missiles to attack us, and what their tanks, shells, bombs and other death dealers had failed to do, the mossies of the Orne nearly did. The usual sleeping arrangements could not be made because of them, and apart from those men on duty I believe all the others lay or sat on the bed of the river, all our parts covered by water except eyes, nose, and mouth, and these were doused with water at regular intervals. Sleep was impossible. Others have recorded their miseries, and many of the lads were grotesque to look at with the resulting swelling. In a typically Germanic way the mossies were logical in that they attacked all who crossed their flight path, making no exceptions of rank It was mildly comforting that certain officers got it bad. It was not inconceivable that the unit could have been immobilised by that long night.

In the morning we prayed to be moved on. Instead , an armoured unit of Guards in Sherman tanks crossed the river and moved through us. Their tanks were gleaming, as befitted Guards. By Army regulations ours too should have been outwardly clean, showing our painted insignia to best advantage. However, we were allowed by our leaders to plaster with mud anything which could gleam and draw attention to us. Very soon we heard the sounds of ground action, and very quickly the little that was left of that guards contingent limped back through us. What folly. We pitied the poor guys who had suffered death or grievous injury because of it.

After crossing the Orne we operated for a time south east of Caen. Yet again this was bad tank country though a little more open than to the south west. By now many new faces had appeared in the battalion’s ranks, replacements for the dead, wounded, and captured. It is a sobering thought that we had become so easily acceptable of death, except when one very close to us was removed.

My first Churchill crew were Bill Grace (driver), Reg. Furness (co driver), Oscar Wilde (gunner), and Sergeant Paddy Gray (Commander). Bill and Oscar had joined 9 R.T.R. in Normandy, picked up a Churchill from the rear and brought it to A squadron just after Hill 112. Bill tells that after getting a dud commander and successfully petitioning Major Mockford for his removal, Paddy, Reg. and I joined the crew. We stayed together until after Roosendaal, Holland in November when Paddy was invalided out. I left the crew early in 1945, followed quickly by Reg. We did not join up again until nearly the end of the war. But in the few months we were together we worked well as a team. My friendship with Reg continued until his death in l996, and Bill and I remained in touch until he too died in 2003.

We met at his home in Cornwall many years ago when his wife was alive and the family all at home. I was visiting nearby and was invited to tea. There was great interest in our doings during the war, and I was asked what Dad was like then. I replied that he was a right pompous, arrogant, know-all, my remarks sending them all into hysterics. I was informed that he hadn’t changed a bit. Nevertheless, I detected pride and respect in their attitudes to Dad. Little of stature, Bill was a big man. We did not meet or have contact again for many years until I introduced him to the Battalion Old Comrades Association. I photographed him on 4 June 1994 outside Charing church in Kent. Dressed in blazer, white shirt and regimental tie, and wearing his medals, he looked as pugnacious as ever. I sent him a copy and expected to hear no more. I was surprised to receive a request to borrow the negative. His family had almost never been able to get the old rogue’s photograph , and I had taken a beauty - on his 75^th birthday. It didn’t occur to him to tell me at the time that he was 75 that day.

Reg, by complete contrast to Bill, was very laid back, slow of movement and speech, but a real trooper . I visited him in Nottingham some years after the war and he visited me in Peterhead, North Scotland. It was during that visit that we decided to find Bill, of whom we had heard nothing since 1945. Bill belonged to High Wycombe, so we contacted Directory Enquiries. There were too many people surnamed Grace for our liking, but we started to ring around, and eventually we flushed out an uncle who said Bill was a quarry manager in Cornwall. I think if Bill was ever knocked off his stride it was that evening when we phoned. Bill and Reg never met again, but I was able to keep both informed of the doings of the other.

With our primitive methods of doing most things washing our clothes was never an easy task. In the long dusty summer of 1944 it was a daily task, circumstances allowing. I quote Trevor Greenwood. “Have at last got my laundry hanging out to dry. Washed it on Thursday afternoon (written on Sunday), and it started raining immediately afterwards - heavily. No option but to leave it outside. Rolled it into a bundle and stored it on a board beneath tank overnight. Someone kicked it - or wiped their feet on it. Couldn’t touch it Friday owing to deluge. Re-washed it Saturday - but too much rain and damp for drying. Stored it in canvas bucket in tank overnight - still soaking wet. Have now hung it on a line in this afternoon’s fine spell; it may be fairly dry tonight.”

His problem would have been even greater if the tank had been on the move, though there was a way to achieve the desired end, so long as we were not likely to be in action. A long pole or broom handle stuck into the engine louvre at the back of the tank acted as a clothes pole from which a line could be run to the wireless aerial on top of the turret. As we were going about our washing it was not uncommon for us to sing that most popular of songs: “I’m going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, Have you any dirty washing mother dear? “ When I reached that great German fortification - the Siegfried Line - in December, it was raining so hard that our ambitions were thwarted. It rained unceasingly for days .

While on the subject of washing, I remember vividly another story, funny to all except the washerman. It had to be Reg. We were in Holland, about the end of October, and while the enemy had been active there had followed a long period of quiet. We were camouflaged in an orchard, and all the crew except Reg. were enjoying the warmth of a late autumn sun. The turret hatches were open and the pannier doors of the two drivers. Reg. for some reason had accumulated an enormous amount of dirty clothing - nearly everything he had was dirty. So, stripped down to almost nothing he had painstakingly washed and hung the lot (louvre to aerial) and settled himself for a well earned stretch in the sun - when Gerry opened up with a barrage, very accurately directed at us. It was clear that he knew where we were.

All of us dived for cover, slamming shut hatches and doors; not a second too early as shells crashed into the orchard, shrapnel exploded onto different parts of the tank, dust blew in through every crack, and the monster rocked on its tracks. It was distinctly unpleasant, and we could do nothing but sit it out and hope. The attack ended, and cautiously we emerged. The tank was relatively undamaged though loose items around it and on the ground were badly shot up. Then came an anguished cry from Reg. His line had gone, and we found it with the washing it had contained, shredded into hundreds of pieces. Nothing was repairable or usable. Of course, when we got over the shock, we laughed and laughed, and even Reg saw the joke after venting his fury on the unseen assailant. Naturally, we rallied round, lending various items until the Quartermaster could replace his losses. Dressed in our gear he didn’t look particularly elegant, but fortunately parades and inspections were suspended for the time being.

The 1^st Canadian Army launched a major attack - Operation Tractable - near Falaise on 14 August. This began with a heavy bombardment by the R.A.F. and the Royal Artillery. The first and last parts of the R.A.F. bombardment were on target but the middle part was not. It looked at one point as if the 9^th would be obliterated too. Our Adjutant, Capt. John Hodges, recorded in the War Diary: “We were about a thousand yards from the nearest positions that were to be bombed. The first wave (of a thousand bomber raid) dropped their bombs plumb on the target but the succeeding waves dropped them well behind us - among the Canadians and the Poles. It was most unpleasant and one felt pretty hopeless. Gradually the bombs crept closer to where we were and we threw out yellow smoke and waved. Fortunately none landed among us but it was a terrifying two hours.

Later, Headquarters Canadian Armoured Division was shot up in front of us and the Rev. McMahon (our R.C. Padre) went forward in an ambulance to try and pick up survivors. An 88mm shell went straight through the ambulance killing the Padre and a stretcher bearer. McMahon was a great little man and it was a great shock to us.”

Cyril Smith recalls that the ambulance was flying the Red Cross flag. Cyril says the Padre was found later in the corn, where he had died of his wounds. I , too, remember the horror of that occasion, and the particular sadness that it should happen to a Man of God on a mission of mercy which was beyond the call of duty for a Padre.

9 R.T.R. were told to K.B.O.(Keep bashing on) to Falaise. There was very heavy shelling. B Squadron captured 100 prisoners - an unusually high figure for a tank unit, who left that job where possible to the infantry. Traffic problems were acute with only one road usable because of the previous day’s bombing. Verges and fields were also severely pockmarked with craters.

We got to within one mile of Falaise. Infantry were urgently required, but each of the three infantry brigades had no clear idea as to the intentions of the others and their respective dispositions. It took valuable time to clarify matters. 6 Brigade were finally ordered to clear Falaise and 9 R.T.R. were ordered to form a firm base with 4 Canadian Brigade. The net was closing on the enemy while they desperately sought to escape the Americans closing in from the south and us from the north. Next day the R.A.F. flew 3057 sorties against the shrinking Falaise pocket, which by 19 August measured only 7 miles by 6. Those of the enemy not out of the pocket and on the run were now doomed to prisoner of war camps at best.

From Falaise our Churchills were being tested in a new way, not by explosion but by, for them , high mileage demands. In our journeyings east we looked like travelling tinkers. In order to keep the insides of the tanks free for action all moveable goods and chattels were anchored to the outside. There were bedding rolls (with spare clothing inside), pots, pans, kettles, sundry necessities, captured ‘trophies’ - all swaying and rattling as we bumped along. Most of the time on the move the two drivers down below could open hatches and enjoy good visibility and clean air - a rare luxury marred only by the clouds of dust on dry days.

In the turret the poor gunner was fully enclosed but he got the good of the fresh air coming from the Commander’s and Operator’s open hatches. We two were the luckiest, being able to stand on our seats and sit on the top of the turret, or just stand half out of the turret, taking the applause of the excited natives as we passed through inhabited places. On occasions snipers, or larger gunnery units, left by the retreating Germans, would catch us unawares and we would dive for cover, slamming shut all hatches, and seeking to locate and destroy the villains.

This part of the advance required, as always, the cooperation of infantry. Marching was now too slow a means of transport and they gladly accepted lifts on the tanks. We had men sitting, squatting, or lying over every foot of each tank. The driver could barely see the road, and traversing the turret was completely impossible. These guys loved it - until something happened, when they would leap to the ground and seek to distance themselves from the tanks.

On the 25^th A Squadron 9 R.T.R. entered the town of Cormeilles, and to the delight of the inhabitants Major Mockford took the salute on the square during a march past of the F.F.I., the French resistance fighters, and placed a wreath on the local cenotaph. Later, there was a celebration with champagne in the Town Hall and the whole squadron were promised sheets and beds in town. There were many who thought the war was as good as over. Then, about 1800 hours heavy shelling caught us off guard and one tank was put out of action by a huge shell, supposedly from a naval gun on the coast, normally used to fire across the channel. End of celebrations.

On 26 August the allies poured over the River Seine and started another relentless drive east. With a top speed in the most favourable conditions of about 15 miles an hour we were left behind to mop up pockets of resistance. Welcomes abounded. Wherever French civilians were found we were most in danger from the hugs and kisses of young and old, male and female. Drink, food, flowers and sundry gifts were lavished upon us. There was some evidence of law and order in these communities, as opposed to what we had left behind in Normandy, but there was also plenty evidence of revengeful crimes.

Many women with shaved heads followed us , pleading for safety. They, rightly or wrongly, had been dealt with by mob rule for collaborating with the enemy. Some of the victims were so old that their crime was inconceivable. Someone did not like them and it was open season for revenge.. We saw bodies following execution by their fellow French, and concluded that not only should summary justice not be meted out without trial but that again those who died in many cases were guilty of nothing.

September 10 saw us in the assault of Le Havre. At 0559 hours phase 1 started. Immediately the infantry were pinned to the ground and unable to proceed because of minefields. I remember that we pumped shells endlessly into the enemy positions and I clearly recall standing deep in hot shell cases as I reached for shell after shell, slamming each into the breach and bracing my body against the turret wall as the gunner fired and the recoil came within inches of me. The smell was awful. I opened my hatches whenever possible to throw out the spent shell cases. Never before or later did we fire so many shells in so short a time.

Flails were brought up – Shermans with revolving chains in front to explode mines, and gaps were cleared for tanks and infantry to move through. By 0908 , with tanks making smoke, a real advance became possible, and at 1030 the enemy flew white flags. An interpreter went forward and came back to report that the enemy did not wish to surrender. He only wanted an hour to bury his dead. What cheek. Crocodile flame throwers were brought up in that hour and at 1230 our second attack started, and the infantry occupied their objectives.

On day 2 (the 11^th) , while the 2^nd Army crossed the Belgian/Dutch frontier we were still battling for possession of Le Havre, way back in France. A Squadron were again in action and flails and crocodiles again used. The enemy had been ordered to hold the woods at all costs. Day 3 gave us a surprising victory, the Germans surrendering after more heavy fighting. Sadly, with the preliminary bombings, followed by the fighting, while allied and German casualties were much lower than expected the French civilian dead amounted to some thousands..

9 R.T.R. had been constantly involved for eight weeks - a very long and weary commitment without respite. We were loaded onto tank transporters for a long journey, and in the process we lost a popular young Lieutenant, Les Wintle. He belonged to A Squadron and I knew him well. As the column started to move he tried to jump onto his vehicle via the towbar. He slipped and fell off, and was run over by the huge transporter bearing the weight of his tank. His body was pulped by three axles, each carrying eight wheels. I cannot begin to describe the effect of that tragedy, witnessed by so many of us. It was so awful - and so needless.

Billets were found south of Dieppe and maintenance on our clapped-out tanks began on an extensive scale. Each vehicle was given a thorough inspection and a number of engine changes were made. A lot of relaxation was enjoyed - wine, women, and song might well describe it - and a fair bit of comedy as the representatives of two quite different cultures attempted to impress each other. The Adjutant in the official diary records the formalities before the start of an international football match, formalities which caught us completely unawares - and he mentions an almost unrecognisable God Save The King being played by the local band.

A few of us paid a visit to a place called Bolbec. Nothing unusual happened until our attention was drawn to shots, howls of anguish, and screams from the upstairs of a nearby building. We went in and up and discovered ourselves in what purported to be a court. Without understanding much it was clear that more collaborators were being dealt with - and again, some were so old and decrepit that they couldn’t have usefully collaborated with anyone. Various accused and their families besieged us, gabbling away, flooding us with tears, and trying to drag us to the bar of the court to make petitions for them.

We did try, and while the ‘officials’ were clearly embarrassed by our presence , they in turn explaining volubly in a language not understood by us what they were doing, it was painfully clear that we were severely outnumbered and outgunned - and could do nothing. Shots continued to be heard coming from the back yard as executions continued, and the wailing, screaming and general misery continued unabated. We ran down the stair, furious but helpless. When we complained to our superiors later it became obvious that they, too, could not intervene for fear of provoking an international incident. We were strangers in a strange land.

On 17 September British paratroopers were dropped at Eindhoven, Arnhem, and Nijmegen in Holland but were unable to outflank the Germans, and they sustained heavy losses. Eindhoven was liberated next day. On the 20^th, for a change, guns from Dover shelled German clifftop positions near Calais. Our billets, meantime, were not as wonderful as expected, there being an abundance of bats, rats, mice, and woodlice. The 23^rd was notable for a momentous event. The Republic of San Marino (wherever it is) declared war on Germany. The war was taking on a touch of Gilbert and Sullivan.

We moved into Belgium on 5th October and stopped at a mining town in the Flemish speaking part of Belgium. It was a down-at-heel place, but we sought and found billets. My lot received an ecstatic welcome from a family whose only assets seemed to be kids. The home was small, very basically furnished, and you wondered where they all slept. For one night they all slept on the floor, and the conquering heroes got the beds. No amount of protest would avail : they all wanted to do their best for us. Mother Gressens fed the five of us as we had not been fed for a very long time. On the back of a photograph of the kids, given to me, I recorded that we were filled with “bucketfulls of chips.” What a feast. Before we left next day we loaded onto them everything we could give them of value. It was a great experience all round.

What a pity that the whole stay was not as pleasant. Up to then, most of us had only passing acquaintance with Yanks; and apart from them getting all the best looking girls back in Britain because they had far better pay than us, we had no real complaint about our American allies. We were grateful for their coming to aid us. So, after the feast of chips, we went out to the local cafe for a pint of the local ale, and on entering we were pleased to be enthusiastically welcomed by a group of white American soldiers at the bar. We were now in the American sector, hence their surprise at seeing us - and because we were different we got the full treatment. We were allowed to pay for nothing - just as well, for we had little to make payment with.

But as things were going really well, the door opened and a handful of black American soldiers entered. Immediately, the mood turned nasty with the whites ordering the blacks out, using language that was beyond the vocabulary of we seasoned veterans. We had heard of slavery in America - but we were in a war to the death, and these guys were on the same side, wearing the same uniform. There had to be a big mistake - or a sick joke. We shouted to the blacks to come back, and when they hesitated we went to them and led them in by the arm. The whites went wild: we were no longer buddies. We screamed at each other, and before we realised the implications of what we were doing, fists were flying. The Military Police sorted it out eventually - but it took us a very, very long time to accept white Yanks again.

Leaving the Yanks and Belgium behind we crossed into Holland and through Eindhoven. Again, a wonderful welcome. It was becoming an embarrassment. We noted with pleasure how spotlessly clean the place was, how many people spoke English, and how many hated the Germans. From Eindhoven we drove four miles north to become part of the base of the Arnhem salient. ‘A’ Squadron was given the role of supporting 153 Brigade at St. Oedenrode, with ‘C’ in action in the area of Best.

On 12 October the British 2^nd Army captured Overloon on the Dutch/German border, not far from us, where some years later my family visited the open air war museum and my son Nigel and I had a particular interest in the many knocked out tanks of both sides from the battles of mid October 1944. In the post-war years I was to return to the country on a number of occasions, where I still have friends. But back to St. Oedenrode 1944. I and a few regimental comrades had a narrow escape from death when we least expected it. It had been quiet enough for us to visit the local cafe/pub. Some of us had just gone into the street when the peace was shattered by an artillery bombardment and the pub received a direct hit, injuring three of our friends. Those outside ran for cover and I took refuge in the large freezer of a factory. I shut the door without thinking and was lucky to be able to open it again. What an ignominious end that would have been.

By 13 October we had truly caught up with the war again. There had been considerable enemy activity; he who had been thought to have been nearly on his knees after Falaise was far from down and out. ‘A’ did a raid, a somewhat unusual one. Our objective was to collect Prisoners Of War for identification. We concentrated on enemy positions west of Donderdorf and after softening them up with artillery, mortars, and machine gun fire there came thirty minutes of tank movement - hardly worth getting going - but enough to ‘show the flag’. There followed a loudhailer broadcast on the lines that the enemy faced a considerable force and would they show discretion by deserting. We laid a smoke screen to give them cover to cross to our lines and 15-20 Germans went to the 5/7 Gordons, my home regiment. We got two prisoners and three Spandau guns. It is not recorded whether or not the brain behind this romp was happy.

There was a rampant Black Market in operation: strictly forbidden. We sold things like cigarettes and chocolate, and got watches and cameras, and anything else of worth the seller was prepared to part with, even family heirlooms. It was a buyer’s market. Looking back, I think it was shameful, even if the majority of troops of every Allied nation seemed to be doing it. While this was going on we noticed that the King and Monty were visiting Eindhoven. The headlines next day made a bigger impact on us. We learned that the great Field Marshal Rommel had committed suicide after being implicated in the plot to kill Hitler. Enemy maybe, but a lot of people on the Allied side were sorry.

During the second half of October the 9^th supported various units, a not unusual task for the heaviest tanks. There was loss, damage, and casualties, but nothing untoward. The harassing raids we performed were in a way enjoyable, for a change, especially when we had the prospect of civvy billets each night. Living in open fields was no longer remotely comfortable, and we hoped to be done with that. However, crossing back into Belgium raised some problems in the arrangement of billets. Belgian billets were more of a gamble than Dutch.

Some homes were very primitive, yet we could not always risk refusing them as so many of the army were looking nightly for ‘B and B’. We had often to suffer outside dry closets which, from the point of view of smell, were much worse than performing under a tree. Trevor Greenwood describes one billet: “A hulking fat cow lives in the room next to the kitchen. In the kitchen we can hear Clara evacuating (a delightful description!) herself frequently - she is so close! Awful smell, and house full of flies.” Not quite the Ritz!.

In Holland again on 26 October, we started an attack at 7 a.m. to capture Nispen. For the next few days we suffered early mornings, awful weather, terrible cold (especially inside the tanks, which were really fridges on tracks), and, of course, the activities of the other side who appeared determined to spoil our high hopes of a peaceful Christmas. Trevor recorded (on the 28^th) : “Miserable night, cold, wet, and cheerless. Tried to read in turret, but too many leaks. Blankets saturated with oil and water running through inspection plates.” His experience was common to all the tank crews. We could only hope it wasn’t any better for the enemy, though he as the defender usually had better prepared positions.

We left Nispen at 5 p.m. on 28 October and made a tortuous three mile journey. Next day we had a new view, but the same problems. ‘A’ Squadron suffered the worst losses, being almost wiped out of tanks and suffering dead and injured. Our Officer Commanding, Major Mockford, was intercepted on foot, looking pretty bad, and saying he had only three tanks left out of eighteen. The infantry C.O. was full of praise, saying he had suffered only four wounded all day “ thanks to the assistance of the tanks.”

The key town of Roosendaal was the next objective, one where a stiff fight was again expected from the enemy. The Hallams were used with the main, weakened, body of 9 R.T.R., and the second in command of ‘A’while leading two troops of ‘A’ had his cupola blown off by H.E. fire, injuring his head. I was not alone in cheering when that news broke, for Kidd was not universally popular. Before I had time to suffer remorse for my thoughts he was back with us. We took Roosendaal with much less trouble than we had expected, and we found it to be in reasonable condition.

The tanks which had survived since landing in Normandy, albeit patched up in France, were by now long overdue a major refit. It was therefore ordered that this should be done at Roosendaal and that crews, especially those who had not had a real break since Normandy, should also be able to enjoy a sustained period of relative comfort and relaxation. Freely interpreted, that meant we could still be bombed, ‘doodle-bugged’, shelled, and that we would have to work and train very hard. But it also meant good billets for all, football matches, concerts, dances, pubs, girls, cinema, trips to Antwerp. Concerts were given by E.N.S.A. artistes, many of whom went on to considerable fame as entertainers.

On 10 November Churchill announced that the Germans had started using V2 rockets against Britain. They were the ones that if you heard them explode and you were still alive you did not have to panic when seconds later you heard them coming. As they were faster than sound they landed on target before the sound of their coming arrived. That took a bit of getting used to. I preferred the V1's.

I and a mate from another tank were billeted with the Guns family. Jac Guns, tall and easy going, was a lovely man, quite unflappable. His wife, short, fat, and bespeckled was a fussy Mother Hen. When Doodle Bugs were heard (which was frequently) , or shells, or bombs, she would scream hysterically, drop everything (dishes included), and charge into a small, understairs cupboard. The rest of us, including three lovely, young daughters had endless amusement from Mama. When all was quiet it was often a combined operation to pull her back through the narrow cupboard door.

Mama Guns, paid for her services and given daily gifts by the pair of us, saw that we had the best bed and the best of available food. We had great times there, but most evenings we played cards in the larger home of the banker who billeted the rest of my crew. The family joined in with most of our games. It was like old times at home, except that it wasn’t home.

At Roosendaal we managed a forty a side football match. The chaos will not be difficult to imagine, especially as many players had too much drink in them, and others had no knowledge of the game. We were all lucky to escape serious injury, though few were unscathed. It could be described as good-natured thuggery. I seem to remember another football match against women and girls, which we lost. It would be no surprise if survivors of the regiment had no memory of the event

28 November was my 20^th birthday. I looked and acted like an old man, and had the experience of one, but birth certificates do not lie. My special day was spoilt by the news that we were leaving Roosendaal next day, with a 6 a.m. reveille, and by the interminably filthy weather. Interestingly, we were issued with new maps, which included Cologne and Essen.

Next day we were loaded and moving when I spied Mama Guns and her three chicks waddling up the street towards us, waving to us to stop. I dropped to the ground to receive the most delightful studio photograph of the three girls. They had been missing when I left the house for the last time, and it was now obvious where they had been. I still treasure that photo, and happily, I have met the family on a few occasions since at their new home in the village of Maarheeze, south of Eindhoven.

We loaded onto tank transporters for the long run to the Geilenkirchen area just inside Germany to the north of Aachen. Colonel Berry Veale’s travelling circus must have brought back memories as we made the three day journey by a roundabout route via Antwerp and Brussels. Many an onlooker must have said: “Where have we seen that lot before!” When we got to the River Maas we had to cross it by pontoon bridge as the permanent bridge was damaged. Not then being a swimmer I was always scared that these pontoons would sink under our considerable weight, but the bridge authorities somehow allowed for that. We eventually stopped at Brunssum in Holland, about four miles short of Geilenchirchen and about twelve north of Aachen.

On 9 December A and B Squadrons moved right to the front, with C behind. We were very, very close to the enemy. Because of the absolutely awful weather we could not move the tanks once we had taken up position so we entered a phase of operations which we did not like. I will never forget that we (my troop) had our tanks parked side by side, camouflaged as well as possible, with a man per tank constantly on guard. The other twelve sat or lay in the cellar of a ruined house. It was very damp, bitterly cold, and dark most of the twenty four hours.

Radio extension ran down the stone stair to the cellar from the nearest tank so that we were ‘on air’ all the time, though radio silence being imposed we almost never sent or received a message. There was a heap of soft and mouldy potatoes in a corner and we were glad to eat them. Cooking or heating water had to be done with the greatest care lest tell tale smoke or light give us away to the enemy. For the same reason, only tiny lights could be used. We had no beds so we sat and lay dressed in everything we had. Even then, our bodies felt like icebergs.

On one wall at ground level was a long and narrow window with bars. It was not an escape route and it let in very little light. It did pose a threat. On one occasion after dark we heard footsteps passing our hideout slowly, at very close range. None of us dared breath as we huddled, all faces towards the window, fingers on triggers of our pistols. Nothing developed, but the guards later confirmed that they were not responsible and there were no civilians in the area. The torrents of rain fell for days and the mud everywhere made any movement extremely difficult It was a real struggle doing the short journey to and from the tanks.

In this eerie situation where the tiniest sound was like an explosion nerves were taut as violin strings. Twelve people crushed together for eighteen hours at a time were not good company, yet we dared not relieve the tension by argument, shout or song. Conversation was whispered, but there was not much. On duty up top was scarcely better, peering through a periscope, never seeing anything but knowing that eyes were most likely watching us. As defenders the Germans were much better placed to have a larger force, better accommodated, opposing us. We were supposedly plugging a gap through which, otherwise, the enemy would pour: weather permitting, of course.

I think we were there quite a few days, but I lost all sense of time and of belonging to a bigger world. On the 14^th the Battalion Postman got through to us in a half track. Dangers forgotten, he was nearly knocked senseless by men desperate to hear from the outer world. I cannot remember getting any mail. I do remember him telling us that each squadron had made a draw to determine the order of men going on leave - and I was a very low number. That meant that while the unlucky ones would not be going home until late March I would be on my way early in January. Not everybody qualified to go home - recent arrivals from Britain, I guess - but about 100 per squadron did, and I was near the list top. What luck! No amount of good natured ribbing could spoil that day.

Two days later, with all the Western Allies looking forward to a scaling down of activity on the run up to Christmas - the crafty Germans struck in the Ardennes, powered by the wily and vastly experienced Von Runstedt. The opposing Americans were caught completely unawares and were driven back in some disarray on a fifty mile front from Monchau to Trier. The aim of the apparently defeated Germans was obvious to all. If they got across the River Meuse, routing the Americans in the way, they would be able to sweep to the coast, capturing Antwerp and creating a vast net in which would be caught huge numbers of the Allies.

Had that succeeded it is anybody’s guess what they might have achieved. They could not have won the war, but they could have gone down in the biggest blaze of glory ever. Thus, a week before Christmas, with Christmas, leave, and a quick end to the war uppermost in our minds we were withdrawn from the Geilenkirchen area and thrust in at the deep end once again, with others, in support of the Americans.

We had to move south west , driving in treacherous conditions, especially for tanks with metal tracks; total control of tanks, and other vehicles too, was well nigh impossible - with the vastly heavier tanks being so much harder to stop. There was heavy congestion on the roads, made worse by the number of vehicles off the road. Rumours abounded, for there was no clear picture of what was happening in the American zone, except that it was bad. We stopped for the night of the 20^th, and we were just settling for bed when orders came to move on. Doubtless the powers needed a lot of us south very quickly, but they seem not to have allowed for the weather, the woefully inadequate roads, and the huge numbers of assorted vehicles heading in the same direction. Roads became jammed, and there was much confusion.

It was announced on the 22^nd that the enemy had penetrated 40 miles into Belgium. In the next two days they added 19 more miles, but they did not capture Liege, a major target. On Christmas Eve it was stated that restrictions on car lights in Britain had been lifted - at a time when thousands of vehicles were crawling and slithering all over the Ardennes with minimal or no lights. In the mid winter darkness, made worse by the blinding blizzards, and the blinding snow if the sun shone, it was no fun being a driver

On the 28^th we slithered nearer the enemy, on the high land south west of Liege, near the Meuse, with our backs to it , facing the enemy who had to dispose of us (and others) in order to cross the river and start the charge to Antwerp. ‘A’ Squadron occupied the hamlet of Hestreux Tavier, a peasant type of village. We found civvy billets, with mounted guards to ensure that the rest could relax a little. The billets were basic but acceptable, and the people very friendly, though shy as hill people are, being unaccustomed to seeing many outsiders. Fortunately, apart from ‘holding the fort’ we did not get too involved with the Germans so we enjoyed playing in the snow in the immediate vicinity, and work was done on the tanks .

Our one-piece tank suits were now fully tested, and found to be adequate. Anyone touching the metal of the tank without gloves was in danger of losing skin and flesh. It was impossible to tell if we had feet unless we kept moving. Yet, it was an enjoyable place. Maybe it had something to do with the season of year and additional liquor availability. Apart from drinking for pleasure, which some did not, it took a highly principled man to refuse the daily cold weather tot of rum. Even those who hated the stuff threw it down their gullets and felt warmer.

On the 29^th, one of my local family, the Xthencevals, had a complication of pregnancy. There was no doctor available, but an old woman who did the work of midwife prescribed that a certain medicine was very necessary. It could only be obtained from the apothecary in a small town a few kilometres down in the valley. There was only one man in the house, the aged father, so the couple of us living in the house volunteered to fetch the medicine. Permission was given by our superiors as it was thought to be enemy-free territory. However, we were told to avoid the twisting road for two reasons: one, that it would be safer going through the forest, and secondly, that it would be a shorter journey. We set off, well clad and armed, early in the day. The going was not too good among the trees, but we had maps and were well trained in movement through such terrain. We had been warned to beware of wild boar, which apparently were plentiful and dangerous. Fortunately, they must have been elsewhere that day.

Making good time downhill we collected the medicine. There was a small cafe which we entered to quench our thirsts before tackling the much harder uphill journey . At first the cafe was empty, but we were soon joined by three Yanks who asked to join us and wanted to buy us drinks. We declined the drinks in view of the job we had to do, but we entered into conversation. Our companions asked where our homes were and gave us their stories of home and family. It all seemed very sociable, but both of us became suspicious when they asked leading questions about our units. Such information we reckoned could not possibly interest persons of other nationalities, and it was the sort of information we were forbidden to give and would not ask of others. We excused ourselves and well before sunset completed an uneventful return trip. As a matter of routine intelligence we were asked to report anything unusual experienced or seen during our trip, and we mentioned the Americans. Next day we were told that the nearest American unit was some miles away from where we met our three. It was considered highly unlikely that any bona fide American would visit that town. So, for the second time, I had encountered someone in friendly uniform who was highly suspicious. .

And so to Hogmanay - so dear to the Scot. There was a Scottish regiment on our right flank and I got an invite to imbibe with them. Though brought up to be strictly teetotal (and I have been for the past 54 years) I could at that time take a dram. This being Hogmanay I took a few too many, and I woke up next morning with more than a headache. I was in bed wearing a kilt. Others in both units had similar experiences. It was all sorted out quickly with good humour: it might not have been so easily excused at any other time. What happened in the ‘missing’ hours? Doubtless we drank to everyone’s good health, including the Germans. 1945 had dawned.

I left for a week’s Blighty Leave in January, the first civilian cross channel crossing since May 1940 was opened, while on the 16^th combined U.S. and British attacks plus their running out of petrol meant that the German offensive broke down. It had been a very near thing, and but for the petrol shortage I don’t think any of us doubted the German ability to make it to Antwerp, or at least, to do a great deal more to upset Allied hopes and plans. But it was not to be. First, their advance was halted, then on the 22^nd January the U.S. 9^th Army destroyed 1594 German vehicles and 69 tanks. The badly ravaged Ardennes, an area of great beauty and tranquillity, could start along the road to recovery. The 9^th left the Ardennes on the 24^th, their greatest enemy now being the weather.

Staunch Nazis still pretended to believe in victory, and Germany’s military propaganda tried to make the most of the temporary successes of Rundstedt’s Ardennes offensive.

My journey by truck to Belgian Bourg Leopold probably was the reason why I have so little hair. I didn’t expect to arrive, and I never heard if the driver made it safely back. Bourg Leopold was as far east as trains ran just then. Tracks were made serviceable as the fighting moved on and more and more track and stations, plus rolling stock were made available for the very considerable demands of the allied forces. I joined lots of lads from many units, all very excited, for the Calais Express.

Eventually we boarded. The carriages were more like cattle trucks. There were seats, slatted with no upholstery. Many of the windows had no glass, and there were as many broken or missing light bulbs as working ones. We didn’t need telling that there would be no restaurant car or buffet service. A long time after boarding the train moved. We all cheered - it was after all a major event, for there was good reason to believe that we might not be able to move. The engine looked as clapped out as the carriages. But move we did. We knew we were headed towards the west; we had haversack rations and other essentials, like fags, and a fair quantity of loot in our kit. All of that constituted happiness in capital letters.

We ground painfully over the tracks, and as time passed we grew weary and very cold. Country folk ran alongside the train from time to time offering to barter fruit and other items. One by one we exited the train until there must have been as many out of it as in it. Business was conducted while we attempted to keep up with the train, sometimes having to run hard to make up lost ground. It never seemed to bother anyone that a sudden burst from the engine and we were in real trouble. We would reboard, eat our augmented rations, washing them down with wine or whatever drinks had been obtained by barter, and out we would go again for exercise to put heat back into our bodies.

As darkness approached and we ran out of vendors, and our need to purchase having also lessened, we muffled ourselves in spare clothing and spread out to sleep, if that were possible. The racks were used as was the floor, as well as the seats. None was too comfortable, but tired veterans were not demanding. Sleep came. Sometimes we wakened with the clatter of carriages bumping against each other, or with the screech of the engine’s whistle; and if the train stopped a few would look out and comment on anything interesting. It was a long, long night, but next day, something like twenty hours after boarding the train, we reached Calais. A rather uninspiring bunch of soldiers lined up to someone’s command and shuffled after him towards the vessel which awaited our arrival.

It didn’t take long to reach Dover, in a crossing very different from our previous one. Home - almost! But first we had to get through Customs. I would guess that not one per cent of us had been abroad before and this was a new experience. The procedure was explained to us and we entered the hall where about half a dozen officers watched us from their desks. The chap in front of me was pushing an old pram which had no rubber on its wheels. It was piled feet high with an assortment of things. An officer called to him - “What have you got in the pram, soldier?” “A baby, sir”, was the reply. With barely a smile the officer replied: “I’d like to see the baby, soldier”

The soldier went to the desk and we idiots went after him, gawking. The soldier was invited to empty the contents of the pram onto the desk. There was a radio, bottles of booze unopened, a few cameras and watches, and assorted items - all of which would attract heavy duty. While we numbskulls stood there we all had similar, though smaller, items in our valises. The officer made a great fuss, quoting law and explaining what would happen if duty was not paid - them smiling broadly he dismissed the pram pusher, who had reloaded, remarking what a good job we were doing. We all sloped off towards the train, bemused. It seemed that Customs were turning many blind eyes, but we heard that this concession did not last. Once the early ones had gone through - in a day or two - the ‘book’ was thrown at anyone caught with anything forbidden or above the permitted amount.

It was indescribably wonderful for me to sit in a comfortable carriage looking out at peaceful Kent again . At Victoria station we were met by a small army of well-wishers, all of whom wanted to thank us and treat us. We were swept away in a tide of goodwill and we enjoyed ourselves immensely in various impromptu parties. I reached Kings Cross hours later to discover that I had missed the last train to Aberdeen. I was disappointed, knowing that my family would expect me in the morning, but this was war - so I accepted an offer of an overnight billet and caught an early morning train.

That train, though very long, was overcrowded to the extent that it was dangerous. Each compartment throughout the train had five seated on each side instead of three or four, with at least one in each luggage rack, and with luggage blocking every inch of the floor with the sitters resting their feet on it. In the corridors bodies and kit were spread-eagled everywhere and several people with kit occupied each toilet, with one on the seat and the rest on the floor. No internal doors, including the toilet , could be shut.

The train was much quicker than the one I had left at Calais, but the journey time to Aberdeen was twelve hours . The few civilians aboard had a tough time, few of them being prepared for this. I spent most of the time on the floor a couple of feet outside the toilet; and this was the pattern for the whole journey. People got out at most stations, a major operation if they had been in a particularly inaccessible part of a carriage. But goodwill was in generous supply , and people and luggage were handed over the people and luggage on the floors. It was a complete pantomime, but I recall no impropriety or complaints. Inevitably, more people joined the train and had to be accommodated by those already inside.

Happily most stops were long - as much as twenty minutes at bigger stations. It resulted in masses of bodies disgorging and racing each other to the indoor canteens , toilets, or to the platform trolleys. On return to the train each had to be allowed back to his or her ‘patch’ and property. The tail-enders often had to race the starting train and jump in at any door held open for them. The biggest problem was in getting those who had rejoined the train elsewhere back ‘home’. That was a bigger operation than D Day, often not accomplished until the next stop.

Inside the train bodies were always moving, changing positions for comfort - usually disturbing a few others in the process. But the number one problem was caused by people needing the toilet. The majority of those having a pressing need had to be passed by many hands on the horizontal about three feet above the carriage floor. With practice it became an easy routine. The guys in the toilet had, of course, to vacate it, and finding temporary space for them was not too easy. Some people lying or half lying had to sit up and bring their knees up. As for the person using the loo, male or female: he or she had to get on with it, even if the door did not shut, knowing that those within sight, bearing the uneasy crowns of gentlemen, had all turned their backs to them. The incumbent could make only one mistake - a certain rear end noise. To do that was certain to bring whistles, catcalls, and much else.

The train was unheated, and it was mid winter: but having all those bodies in close proximity generated a lot of heat - and smell!. Generally we laughed a lot and if sleepers were awakened by loud laughter there was never a complaint, but a desire to know what they had missed. I thought then, and I still do, that war is one of the few events which can bind together the unbindable. North of Edinburgh the train was much less crowded.

Arriving in Aberdeen and sampling the bitter but clean fresh air was an unspeakable delight. I was champing at the bit to be aboard the bus to Peterhead, and the journey lasted the longest one and a half hours of my life. I dived off the bus at Links Terrace, charged the few hundred yards to the house, and entered as if chased by a mad bull. I have not the power of words to describe the period that followed, as one by one the immediate family greeted me: not quite a Prodigal Son, but the Fatted Calf was ‘killed’ for me. There was no jealous son to spoil the welcome. Later, the broader family arrived, and church friends, pals, neighbours. Had no other lad been at war but me? Of course there were others, some of my best pals included, but we all usually came home at different times, so there was affection and to spare for us all. I had barely a week, into which I packed so much, and I scarcely wanted to waste time with sleep.

Although overjoyed to see me Mother had been appalled at my appearance. My Best Battledress was filthy and creased in a hundred places. It was also the worse of wear. There was a family conference, then Father departed for the Royal Artillery unit which manned heavy guns on the promontory by Peterhead Prison. He knew many of the officers through the hospital connection and in a very short time he was back with a completely new uniform to which Mother affixed my regalia, removed from the discarded tunic.

On my last evening the family was all assembled in the big sitting room, trying to be cheerful. I experienced the usual home sickness. About 8p.m. I experienced much more - the most violent stomach pains. I was close to tears. Father contacted the hospital and I was admitted, put to bed, and given treatment. I slept well and woke up ready for discharge and able to be on my way to rejoin the 9^th. Matron Fraser explained that I needed to be cleared by the doctor. There was no resident doctor, but the town’s most senior doctor, Gavin Taylor Sr. was also the Forces doctor. He arrived mid morning, heard the story, felt my tummy, and pronounced me fit. He then asked about action at the front in great detail and suggested that I was in need of a longer holiday. I protested weakly, liking the idea of a few more days in town, concluding that the 9^th could do without me for a short time.

I stayed a week there and was then posted to The Royal Scots barracks at Glencorse, just south of Edinburgh. A happier posting arrived for me - to Royal Armoured Corps H.Q. at Catterick, close to my old training camp. I looked forward to a few days there and a speedy return overseas to my unit. I took delight in behaving like a veteran, and I did receive privileges. There were a few others like myself, and we tended to play up a bit, like arriving for breakfast after the official end of breakfast. One morning six of us were stopped at the dining hall door by the Squadron Sergeant Major, who told us that we were late. We were given a choice : go away, or have breakfast and be charged. We all chose to eat.

By mid morning we were all lined up in the corridor outside the Officer Commanding’s room. Five of us were ‘old lags’, including a corporal, while the sixth was a rookie. One by one we were marched in, asked if we admitted the charge, which we did, then asked if we would accept the O.C’s punishment, which we did. Each of us received seven days Confined To Barracks. We were not dismissed until the rookie came out, grinning all over, followed by an irate S.S.M. The rookie had refused to accept his punishment on the grounds that he had done no wrong. On being asked to explain he said that Squadron Orders, a copy of which hung on the wall where we were standing , said , among other things - “Breakfast will not be served to anyone trying to enter the dining hall after 8 a.m. At 8 a.m. the doors will be closed by the Squadron Sergeant Major.” We had made our entry at 8.08 a.m., but as the doors were not shut the rookie argued that it could not have been 8 a.m. We could have slaughtered him for being so clever as to read Orders.

I was horrified to discover that I was not to be returned to 9 R.T.R.. No reason was given. I spent many horrible weeks doing jobs about the camp and living quite a free life; but I did not appreciate any of it. I wanted to be back out with the lads. Three months passed and then I was told that I was to accompany a Sergeant on a posting to the Middle East. Protests availed me nothing and off I went with my new companion by train to Glasgow Docks where we presented ourselves with transit documents at the gates. There I was told that my papers were incorrect and I could not be embarked. They could offer no advice as to what I should do, and they did not seem to care what I did. At my request a new rail warrant was made out to Dover and armed with that and a subsistence payment I set out alone on the long journey south. I had proof that I belonged to 9 R.T.R. and I had no doubt that the army officials at Dover docks would accept that I should cross the channel and head east.

They did not. I could rejoin my unit, but I could not sail from Dover to Calais. There was no room for a stray tripper. Again, no argument or plea would avail. Try Harwich, they suggested. Off I went, via London, with a fresh travel warrant and more subsistence money. I had never been in Harwich and after finding the docks I was mystified that I could find no troop transports of any kind. At Parkeson Quay there were navy boats a plenty; but nothing for me. It was getting dark when I presented myself to the guard at the naval base. He told me that troop transport had gone to mainland Europe from Harwich, but that they had been temporarily stopped. After some phone calls by him I was escorted to the Officers Mess and given a room with the instructions that after I had tidied up I should join the officers for dinner and the evening. I was nonplussed.

Common soldiers like me did not sleep in officers’ messes nor dine and share an evening with the high and mighty. Yet it happened here. There were no admirals present - mainly lower ranking officers, but officers none the less. I had the most wonderful time; and the reason for my invitation became apparent. Seamen only met seamen at work and they had no experience of the war on land. Here was a guy who was different from the types they met daily day, and he had front line land war experience. He had something new to tell. After the meal I was pumped with question after question .

Next morning after a wonderful breakfast and armed with more cash and a fresh travel warrant I set off again for Dover, being advised that there was nowhere else I could go with the ‘other side’ in mind. Once again, on reaching Dover I was told that I could not cross. All the boats were full, each boat being pre loaded to maximum capacity. I argued without success that one more could not make the slightest difference, but the rule book mentality prevailed. Eventually, I threatened to go A.W.O.L. and I asked them to sign a statement saying I had permission to do so. At last someone decided that perhaps a place could be found for me. Clearly I was becoming a nuisance. I sailed for Calais, surrounded by soldiers of all manner of regiments, all fresh from training camps. By the time I stepped ashore at Calais I had a plan; not a clever or detailed plan, but one which would get me away from the others. Wherever they were going I did not want to be. I had no idea of the whereabouts of 9 R.T.R., but I had to find them.

I managed to negotiate Customs at Calais and slipped into the shadows at Calais railway station, anxious not to be rounded up with the hundreds of rookies going east for the first time. There were several trains in the station, linked to carriages, and preparing to depart. Having a smattering of French I approached a railway official and learned that one train was leaving soon for a destination somewhere in North East Holland. This was a long way north of the position where I had last heard of the battalion over three months earlier. Bearing in mind the approximate southern point of the British Forces area, when last ascertained, this seemed to be the best train to take. If the battalion was anywhere near the mid point of the British line I would not be too far away in terms of north and south when the train finally stopped, wherever that would be. I reckoned that with the speed of the advance into Germany in recent weeks 9 R.T.R. would again have been left behind. Nevertheless, at best , I would have an awful lot of ground to cover to find them.

I dropped down to the track and walked alongside the train that was headed for Holland, and on reaching the front of the front carriage I struggled to climb up to the carriage door. Fortunately, I was seen by some lads inside and I gesticulated for them to open the door. The smart lads did, and although the compartment was full they made space for me. Curiosity overflowed from them all, for they were breaking new ground with everything that happened, and it was obvious that I ‘knew the ropes’. Question piled upon question, and I was very happy to oblige. But I begged their cooperation in hiding my identity, and wearing my greatcoat, buttoned at the neck, and hiding my beret, at a cursory glance I looked like the rest.

At a guess I reckoned the journey to be one of some three hundred miles, and that it might last about six hours. All the lads had haversack rations, and they were very happy to share with me. Along the route I identified a number of places where I had been, or had been close to, before. Eventually, we all fell asleep as night fell. One or two officers came along the carriages on a very few occasions, sometimes speaking to the lads nearest the door, but nothing threatening happened As the night passed I took note of stations we passed through, or stopped at to change engines or crew, and the names I recognised allowed me to remain confident that we were heading in the right direction.

My journey time had been ridiculously optimistic, but with the arrival of daylight I concluded that we could not have far to go. The train stopped at yet another station, but this time doors opened and commands were shouted. The occupants had to get out. It was a small town, the name of which I did not recognise. Should I stay on, hoping that the train would go further? Looking out and back down the platform I realised that I might be the only passenger left. I said my thanks and goodbyes quickly, let myself out and down to the track on the far side from the platform, and walked up the track away from the station. It was not difficult to get off the lines a safe distance out and to reach the outskirts of the town. The rain was lashing down and not many people were about. Where was I to go, and how?

I started asking people I met. There were two major problems. First, Dutch was a much harder language to speak or understand than French, and, apart from Roosendaal, I had spent very little talking time in Holland. Secondly, who would have heard of 9 R.T.R., or any other regiment unless they had spent a lot of time in that area? So, I drew blank and suspicious looks whenever I tried. Despite the inclement weather I walked out of town on a road heading east. I had no map, however, and so while I started off in an easterly direction the twists and turns in the road made keeping to an easterly course exceptionally difficult. I had more success than I deserved, having embarked on such a daft venture so very inadequately prepared.

Having walked many miles and stayed overnight in an inn I discovered that I was not far from Nijmegen. The following day was just as rainy but I was lucky to get a succession of short lifts in an assortment of vehicles . At every opportunity I tried to explain that I was looking for British tanks, and sometimes my enquiry brought smiles of understanding, followed by a jabber of language meaningless to me, and gesticulations, equally meaningless. Many of my informants were so convinced that they knew what I wanted and how to get it that they were peeved when I, being more than reasonably convinced that they had not understood correctly, went on to disregard that advice.. Wet and losing enthusiasm fast after the best part of two days on the road I pressed on towards the border with Germany, north and east of Nijmegen.

I spent more scarce money on a second B and B and walked on again for day three. My technique had been to describe a tank and show them a drawing of a Churchill. My drawing and my acting were so bad that as often as not I could not even convince my audience what I was looking for. In fact, as audiences tended to get bigger the more I persevered, the greater the resulting confusion. I would break away in dismay, not infrequently pursued by a person or persons who failed to see why I could not understand their solution to my problem.

Now a Churchill tank had eleven small bogie wheels on each side, quite unlike any other tank I knew. The better I ‘sold’ that distinguishing feature to the locals the more likely it was that one or more persons conveyed to me excitedly that they had seen such tanks; and pointed to which way they had gone. The trouble now was that the tanks seemed to have gone from there in as many different direction as there are points in the compass. And, though there were not many regiments with Churchills, there were others beside 9RTR.

Came Day 4, and with its dawning a ray of real hope. I met a man who spoke reasonable English, who seemed to have above average intelligence, who told me that a lot of Churchills had passed that way fairly recently, and - and, he drew and described some of their markings. At last I felt confident. Could he help me further.? Perhaps he could if I followed him. We went into a shop and there followed a lengthy conversation in Dutch, with much pointing and waving of arms. Ah, said my informant, he was advised by his informant that Churchills had been based for a short while nearby. Thus, and there, I learned that tanks as described were over the border, and that I should try Bentheim Castle, where to my immense relief and astonishment I walked into Regimental Headquarters, 9 R.T.R.

The perfect ending, you might think - but no. On my way in to the castle in search of the office I was greeted by lads who knew me, but in a strange sort of way, as if I had come back from the dead. It got worse in the office. I was told that I had no right to be there. My protests that I belonged to 9 R.T.R. went unheeded. After some confusion amongst those who had gathered to witness this unexplained happening I was marched in front of the ‘Old Man’- and then I learned the truth. I had been posted as a deserter.

The unit had not been told what had happened to me since going on leave over three months earlier. Further, my papers (as discovered in Glasgow) were confused. I scored a few points after pleading my love of the regiment, and explaining all my misfortunes (which were capable of being verified), and arguing that if I wanted to desert, why had I taken all the trouble to do what I had just done? First stating that I could not stay, the C.O. then ordered my return to ‘A’ Squadron.

On 28 April it was decided to move ‘A’Squadron to Lingen, where we were to help to control the Displaced Persons camp which now held thousands of Russians and other nationalities. The barracks at Lingen was on four sides of a barrack square. The approximate number of occupants was Russians 8000, others 6000. The Russians, comprising men, women, and children of all ages were under the brutal control of a self appointed Commissar who had his staff, bodyguard, and executioners. He had his own guard at the only gate, alongside the ‘A’ Squadron guard. The language problem created very great difficulty and the arrogance and insolence of the Russian command brooked no interference. For the small ‘A’ Squadron party control was superficial and only a brave or foolish man entered Russian-held buildings.

No member of ‘A’ could forget the daily disciplinary court which was held by the Russians on the parade ground opposite squadron quarters. In view of all the Russians, who were commanded to be there, wretched people who were guilty of some offence were tried before the Commissar and dealt with. The platform at the edge of the square had a crude gallows permanently mounted on which regularly someone was put to death. Gunshots were often heard - it was seldom possible to tell if someone had been shot, though this was likely. As the Russian guards were so heavily armed nothing could be done.

Some Russians who spoke a little English expressed terror at the prospect of being sent back to Russia, something none of us British could understand. It is now only too clear the reason for the widespread fear of repatriation.

More than two million Displaced Persons were repatriated to Russia in the years 1944-1947 and most were killed, tortured, or made to suffer dreadful privation. They were all people who in some way had incurred the wrath of Stalin. This appalling story, of which ‘A’ squadron saw a very little, was magnified throughout the free world to colossal proportions. For purely political reasons, it seems, the West deliberately returned those millions to certain death. Nikolai Tolstoy relates the whole story in his book “Victims of Yalta” (Corgi Books). He describes it as “The true story of one of the most shameful episodes in World War 2.”

7^th May saw the unconditional surrender of Germany to the Western Allies and the U.S.S.R. signed at Rheims in France.

8th May 1945 was V.E. (Victory in Europe) Day.