PART III: THIS IS THE LIFE
V.E. - Victory in
Europe! No more fighting, no more moving
and living like nomads; no more bombs, shells, mortars, mines, snipers,
superior enemy tanks etc. etc. We could
look forward to sleeping in comfortable beds all night.
Well, it wasn’t
quite like that. You can’t switch off a
war as you switch off a light, or an engine.
It goes on for a bit. For a
start, there were Germans in uniform, with guns and things, all over Europe and
the seas on V.E. Day, and for some time after.
They didn’t all hear at once that the war was finished. Even when they did - the question was, what
to do with them all.
V.E. day had come to us
inside Germany with a mixture of frank disbelief and unashamed joy. Could it really be all over? Peace?
Bill Mitchell reminded me of the celebrations - some of them, for we
were all at it. “Sergeants and Warrant
Officers went to ‘A’ Squadron for a party.
Myself and Jim Smith were left in charge of the Sergeants Mess and Sergeant Major Ossie Joyce told us we could
have our mates in for a beer, but no spirits! On his return the beer and
spirits were all gone. Even the guard
on the main gate was sitting on a crate of beer. There was hell to pay.”
9 R.T.R, having an
impeccable war record, got it wrong at last - on V.E. day. The Colonel had decided on a 21 gun salute
at 1100 hours. A simple routine? Not so.
Instead of orderly firing there were strange noises, belching smoke from
inside the tanks, and crews ‘baling out’.
Apparently, no one had known that real ammunition with the shot removed
is not the same as genuine ‘blank’ ammo.
There were lots of black faces and some with lots of red shining through
the black. Mercifully, the other squadrons
made a better job of it than H.Q..
The Colonel, just
to prove he was worthy of being one, despite V.E. day, embarked on a rather
unusual ‘Blighty Leave’. He found an airstrip, discovered that a plane was
going to London, and ‘hitched a lift’ home in a Yankee Mitchell bomber,
travelling throughout the journey in the bomb bay. On landing at Blackbushe he exited the airfield via the perimeter
fence, hitched another lift on the A 30, and arrived home in time for
supper. The rest of us got on with
administering the peace. A large part
of that task consisted of re- establishing law and order in Germany.
Can you imagine a town or city with no local
authority in charge: no public services and no one to pay for them? No one to control traffic, no police, no
effective courts: nothing. Add to that,
in many cases, streets totally or partially blocked by bomb or shell
debris, thousands of ruined or
uninhabitable homes, shops, places of
business, schools, churches, and other communal places. One of my most powerful memories of the very
early days of peace is of roads jammed and unusable to normal traffic because
of the slow passage of colossal numbers of wretched people and their pathetic
bundles.
We were not far north of the great German
industrial centre, the Ruhr. I had long
known the names of the Ruhr cities because of British radio reports of our
bombing raids, and in the months to come I was to become more familiar with
them: Dusseldorf, Munchengladbach, Krefeld, Duisburg, Mulheim, Oberhausen,
Essen, Bochum, Dortmund, and others,
with Cologne a little to the south.
They had always been prime targets for Allied air forces, the raids
intensifying as the war drew to its end.
Hundreds of thousands of refugees had fled into the open country, and
they were now returning - to what?
Those early post war days were, for the occupying forces, almost as
demanding as winning the war. If we
were to win the peace we had not only to meet the urgent needs of millions of
Displaced Persons (D.P.s), liberated prisoners and concentration camp
survivors, but the immediate needs of the German populace.
Like it or not, the
only way we could effectively solve the German needs was to control all Germany
under a military regime while striving as quickly as possible to reintroduce
German authority and control. That meant
tricky decisions as to which Germans to put in key posts, and inevitably some
Nazis and other undesirables got positions they should not have got. Presumably that sort of thing was dealt with
as time went on. Fortunately, it was
soon discovered that the German race was efficient, as few others were, and by
and large could be trusted to do the job and do it well. So, faster than we might have expected,
controls were passed back to the locals as step by step authority was re-
established.. It took a long time to
open all streets and roads.
I remember trying to drive through the main
street of Munster and giving up, concluding that it would have needed a nimble
mouse to climb through the ‘wall to wall’ rubble covering the entire length of
the street. Other cities were just as
bad. But very, very gradually, a
semblance of orderliness returned. The
Allies poured in equipment and supplies, and all possible help; and I would think they did that for years to
come. At first we who had fought these
people resented having to help them - but slowly hatred receded and compassion
took over. Given the funds and
equipment there was to be full employment for fit Germans for years to
come. Their immediate - and medium to
long term - problems were housing and health.
In those early days
there was the Non Fraternisation ban.
We were not allowed to have any
communication with Germans except in the line of business. Well!
German girls, particularly at that time, were not the world’s most
attractive; but they were girls, and we were starved of female company. I think that from the German point of view
their nice girls should not have gone near we rough enemy soldiers; but they, too, had been starved of men. The upshot was that Montgomery or no
Montgomery we were going to get ourselves German girlfriends, and they were in
the main by no means unwilling to be friendly.
I was the guy who was chased up the railway line at Gronau
by Military Police, having been seen emerging from a German house. My boots made such a clatter that I had to
remove them smartly so as not to advertise my movements. Luckily, thus lightened, and being a fast
runner, I got clean away. Luckily,
because it was said that the penalty for fraternisation was fifteen - yes,
fifteen years in prison. Deciding that
not even a bonny fraulein was worth
that, I took to walking off duty in the countryside.
There were lovely leafy
walks through fields laden with crops, and the sun was a big bonus. I chanced across one of the most attractive
girls I had ever seen – a real country lass, with rosy cheeks, a warm
smile, and not a bit of makeup to spoil her attraction. She was a farmer’s daughter. She had a little English and I learned rough
and rudimentary German from her as we met each evening and walked out, keeping
well away from roads and inhabited places.
Only once did we err by entering a small village which was occupied by
Belgian soldiers. They , it quickly
became clear, did not approve of fraternisation. We argued in our respective tongues, angrily and with much
gesticulation. I was well outnumbered,
so pointing to my British insignia and tapping my loaded pistol I turned and
walked away, pulling Rosa with me. It
was a frightening few minutes. I
thought they were capable of shooting us.
Her parents got
suspicious of her regular evening disappearances, and sometimes she was not
allowed to leave the house. I spent a
few anxious evenings waiting until her younger sister found me and explained,
again largely by sign language, what had happened. I had already ‘bought’ her approval and silence: now I had her
cooperation. The next move was to ‘buy’
the silence of the family dog. This was
done thereafter on a daily basis with leftovers from the unit kitchen. The final problem was to get big sister out
of her upstairs bedroom for a couple of hours each evening and back again on the odd occasion when she
couldn’t get out by the front door.
Little sister showed me where a ladder was kept. We were never discovered. I was sorry to leave Gronau.
While at Gronau I
was seconded to assist the Royal Army Service Corps as a truck driver. I was
assigned to a middle-aged Glaswegian who was not going to allow any tankie at
his wheel. I swallowed my pride and
settled down to the easy life offered on the 320 mile round trip to Brussels
. Hanging out of the co-driver’s window
in the oppressive heat, stripped to the waist was no punishment. The roads were quiet and we knocked on
despite our very heavy load. There was
a mad moment on our first trip when I shouted to Jock that a wheel had just
overtaken us. He replied that he
already knew, that it was one of ours, and that he was trying to stop the
vehicle in an orderly fashion without accident. It was our wheel, and the tyre when we found it was almost
completely shredded. In a barely
disguised moment of contempt he told me that no tank man could possibly have
saved the truck and its load.
News of the battalion’s
future began to be disclosed. We were
to lose most of our tanks and become an occupying force. We moved some twenty miles , being given
Kreis Tecklenburg as our area of responsibility, with the four squadrons
stationed at different centres of population.
While performing essential guard duties at places like hospitals we
awaited the arrival of 4 R.T.R. This
meant that most older men stayed with or became part of 9 R.T.R., while most of
the younger ones moved to the 4th who would prepare to carry on
fighting out east . I was one of the younger men who stayed with the 9th . The 9th seemed to have the better deal,
though for quite a while we were not too popular in Germany.
I had been greatly
saddened by the death of my closest school friend at Boddam, Sandy
Glennie. He had died somewhere in
Holland. Much better news came soon
after the war’s end when I learned of the return of my older pal, Ian Grassick,
of whom nothing had been heard since
1940. After Dunkirk Ian had escaped
from a forced march and had been given refuge on a French farm where he worked
for a long time until recaptured and sent to
a Prisoner of War camp in Germany.
Bill Grant, my cricket mentor, also died in Holland.
Home leave was always the
number one attraction, but local leave, mainly operated on weekend passes, was
ever popular. There were many who
sought the hills and the ski slopes in season, and all manner of cultural
pursuits could be had by the few who sought them. Brussels appealed to me.
My first holiday trip was in mid summer and I stayed in the University
Halls of Residence. The brochure shows
that I was on the Oxford Floor (Floor 3), Bloc A, Room 371. It represented great luxury after the hard
life I had been accustomed to. Brussels
had many attractions which in those days were known to the privileged few. The Mannekin is one: the statue of a boy
relieving himself, the water falling to ground in a graceful arc.
The shops were
fascinating, even allowing for the deprivations of war, and every bit as
frustrating as now. I spent hours
looking at the most wonderful wares on offer, knowing that I could afford to
buy none. It was a treat to go again to
a real cinema, and no hardship, for all the films were American and spoken in
English. As long as money would permit
I used to enjoy popping into cafes for a coffee or a sweet beer, and sitting in
a window with a view of the passing world - or better, a seat at a table
outside. It was fascinating to note the
different dress and customs, to listen to the tongues, and to share the
new-found happiness of all.
Stories abounded of the
wicked continental ways . Earlier
visitors had painted lurid pictures, almost certainly wildly exaggerated. But first, the notes in our Brussels Leave
brochure had to be read. This is what
they said. Cafes had to be empty by
2200 hours, curfew was in force from midnight till 0500 hours, all brothels
were out of bounds to service personnel, we had to be properly dressed in
public (in my case wearing best battledress, belt and boots - no denims!); we
had to salute all officers of every army, plus the tomb of the Belgian Unknown
Warrior, we could not carry or wear our personal weapons, and it was a serious
offence to change money for civilians or speculate in currency. It will be left to a reader’s imagination
how many rules were kept to the letter.
Now to those lurid
stories. There was a street leading
away from the main railway station, the Gare Du Nord. It was found and walked along.
At first it seemed an ordinary street in a less fashionable part of a
city; but then I heard a strange noise, which grew ever louder, clearly audible
above the traffic and street noises. It
was a tapping noise. Then I saw the
cause. The windows of each nearby cafe contained a couple of girls or women,
scantily dressed, both tapping on the glass with keys; quite obviously trying
to attract the attention of all males.
As I moved along the street all the
other cafes with their occupants
took up the pattern of music until a full orchestra of timpani seemed to be
playing. It was indeed the street of
the brothels, though others existed elsewhere.
I didn’t care for what I saw, though the girls were attractive. We had all been in love, or so we thought
-whatever it meant- but love in its broadest definition had to be a two-way
attraction. It didn’t seem that these
girls could be attracted to me. They
only wanted my money .
In July we moved to an area
a few miles west of Hannover. I lived
in Wunstorf. The new-look 9th
was given the task of creating and staffing a ‘shuttle’ Prisoner of War Transit
Camp at Luthe, where about 300,000 German P.O.W.’s were received, processed,
and discharged from the Wehrmacht. Each
geographical area of Germany was allocated a field. The German troops arrived from all fronts and several countries and
were initially detrained and marched to the camp. The first batch of P.O.W.’s from Russia had many corpses on the
train.
The arrivals were
deloused, given demobilisation kit, documented for civilian life, and then led
to their field ready for entrainment to their home area the following day. In their fields they were loosely
guarded. Most of the exhausted men lay
on the grass uncovered, or in crude, makeshift tents constructed of twigs or
branches and groundsheets. Most were
awakened at some time by guards and relieved (unofficially) of any valuables,
much of which had probably been taken from some other hapless persons. Incredibly, some men tried to escape over an
adjoining river and any guard happening to be near had free pistol
practice. It is doubtful if any of us
could have hit a moving target, and on this occasion, none did.
An unpleasant
feature of the job was the guarding of the caged field containing S.S. and
their kind. They were evil men, feared
by the rest of the German colony. After
dark searchlights swept their compound and many a guard narrowly avoided a hail
of spittle. These men were not for
release before trial, and it was generally agreed that if their guards had
still possessed tanks there might well have been a few nasty accidents.
The local railway
station handled an enormous flood of men daily and all activities there were
controlled by 9 R.T.R. and an American contingent. This gave rise to some anti-American feeling, again. While our lads on the job were fed strictly
on rations the Yanks opened warehouse supplies on railway premises and stole
large amounts of food. When caught in
the act by one of their officers they were severely rebuked, ordered not to do
it again, then left to enjoy their spoils.
Definitely not the British way.
Wunstorf and Luthe were by
far our best posting since the end of the war.
Though badly bombed, Hannover had many attractions. In addition to the expected ones there was a
magnificent Salvation Army Red Shield Club at the western end of a large lake
within the city. The Machsee, too
helpful to Allied bombers in moonlight, had been fully covered with floating
wooden slats, strung together to resemble solid earth dotted with
evergreens. By the time the 9th
and others were having afternoon tea on the terrace much of the camouflage had
gone, blasted out of the water by bombers.
Steinhude Meer was
another wonderful place to spend a short pass.
It was a lake near Wunstorf, surrounded
by holiday camps, now in Allied hands.
Passes for Steinhude Meer were issued in rotation. I quickly indicated my fondness for the
place and learned that many of my comrades would happily sell me their
passes. Thus, I came to weekend there
almost every week. The accommodation
and food were excellent, but mostly I enjoyed picking up a canoe and paddling
through the rushes onto the open lake.
I had no training and I could not get the
hang of using a single paddle with strokes alternating between left and
right. Finding that the paddle split
into two I stuck the end of each half up a shirt sleeve and found, with
practice, that by sitting backwards and doing both strokes at the same time I
could go straight and fast. In time I
circumnavigated the entire length and breadth of the lake, some eight miles by
three. It did not trouble me that I
could not swim; but of course I never
went out in choppy water.
Hannover also
possessed a beautiful and extensive park with its ancient and delightful opera
house, the Herrenhausen Theatre. While
we were there the company performed Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci. My brochure shows that I attended on Tuesday
17th July 1945; and I think at other times too. Much more popular with the main body of
occupying soldiers was the B.F.N. (British Forces Network) radio
broadcasts. Like today’s ‘soaps’ the
B.F.N. was the people’s choice. In
those days Spike Jones and his City Slickers were all the rage, with zany hits
like Cocktails for Two; Ya wanna buy a bunny?; I dream of Brownie with the
light blue jeans; Leave the dishes in
the sink, Ma; A serenade to a jerk; and Chloe.
Life was becoming rather pleasant.
We were still enjoying life
in the Hanover area when we had to move
to another job. We travelled south and
into the Harz Mountains and deep, beautiful snow. Coming from an area in Scotland where snow seldom stays and we
have gales and slush, this was something different. ‘A’ Squadron were in a small village called Wrisbergholzen, and
the other three were scattered about.
Out task was something quite different, too, and very unexpected. It
was also a little unhealthy.
We were in an area where
large numbers of D.P.’s were camped out secretly on the high land from where
they descended at night to pillage, plunder, rape and kill in the defenceless
German villages. We had to stop, or at
least deter, them. We could only defend
a small number of villages each night. The
chosen ones were mentioned to no one until we arrived, and we always arrived to
a great welcome. Changed days: our
former friends were now our foes, and they, when we confronted them, could not
understand why we were defending the common enemy.
As we arrived for
duty the clerks would hand us chalk for marking houses, maps, and other useful
items. The major or his deputy would
then give us the plan for the night, and off we would go in trucks to our
destinations. Once there we were
allocated various points which we were to patrol or guard, and others were told
which houses and premises to search.
Once the searches were over we alternated on doing guard, and when not
active we could enjoy warmth in someone’s home. Naturally, every family wanted one or more of us to stay the night with them. That way, they felt, they could sleep
safely. Some nights were quiet and we
learned in the morning that the marauders had gone elsewhere. Sometimes they came to one of our defended
villages and there was confrontation, anger, and exchange of fire - though I can’t remember any of my colleagues
being injured.
We occupied the Schloss, a fine old castle owned by a young and attractive Duchess. She had been moved out to a moat house by
the gate and our clerks, batmen and cooks lived in the Schloss. The rest of us stayed in comandeered
houses in the village and we had the village hall for recreation. It was there where I learned to play
Housey-Housey and I enjoyed the fun, though I never played it after leaving the
village.
Time off,
especially at weekends, was spent in Hildesheim, a big enough city but one
which was a pale shadow of Hannover.
The journey to and from Hildesheim in the back of a crowded three-tonner
was frightening. A large part of the
journey was over a typical winding
mountain road and as it was always covered with untreated snow and ice it was a
driver’s nightmare. Many a driver got
his pedigree, but I had to admit I would not have driven on it for all the tea
in China.
Once again I took to walking out alone, and
on one such walk I got “my feet under
the table” in a neighbouring village.
The attraction was a daughter, but I spent a lot of time with all the
family. By now I had come off patrols and
onto day duty which allowed me to do evening visits. The evening of 28th November was unforgettable. It was my 21st birthday. My Mother must have sent me hundreds of
parcels, but the one arriving for the 28th was very, very
special. I took it to my new
family. It contained cigarettes,
chocolate, sweets, clothing; but the
showpiece was a huge dumpling. Anyone
who had not tasted one of my Mother’s
dumplings could not be aware of the delights they were missing.
The table was spread with the little my
friends could put on it, then we added all the edible contents of my
parcel. Following the meal the men sat
back and enjoyed a good smoke. Getting
there and home again in pitch blackness was not a trip for the unduly
nervous. The narrow track wandered up
and down, following the edge of the forest, which ran up the hill where some
D.P.’s were holed up. The trees were laden with snow and in the
intense silence as I walked, guided by a torch which made me a sure target,
snow falling off branches sounded like an avalanche. My hand was never off my pistol.
Patrols had become more and more unpopular in the intense cold of the
Harz nights.
An unexpected
parade of all members of the squadron
was called called in the Schloss.
We were told that Corporal John Edwards, our experienced and popular
senior clerk, was in hospital and being near demob. would not return to
us. As he had been the last remaining
clerk we were now clerkless. Our new
Major from another squadron desperately needed a clerk. Did anyone of us have any experience of
clerical work? My hand was the only one
raised. I had the job and was
immediately sent to move all my gear from the village to the Schloss. Little did I know that I was to work ten
times harder. From then on I would have
little time to myself, but great job satisfaction.
I discovered to my
great joy that John Edwards had lived in the private quarters of the
Duchess. So I fell heir to a sitting
room, bedroom, and bathroom. Imagine it
- me, a humble trooper - the lowest of the low. Next to my quarters was my office, and next to that the Major’s
office. John had been extremely
efficient so once I found my way around it was not difficult to take over. I had responsibility for all the administrative
work of the squadron - a broad area of activity. It included pay , leave, preparing for the night patrols, and
anything else which needed to be done routinely or in response to something. Major Roger Long had recently arrived from B
Squadron and knew no one in A.
Almost immediately he was in my office
complaining that people were being demobbed in large numbers daily and he could
not write their testimonials as he knew nothing about them. What was he to do? I suggested respectfully that I might write them and he could
sign them. Of course that was highly
irregular and the thought of it made his wide ginger moustache quiver. But he agreed so long as nobody got to know
about it. Long was a firebrand, but I
had him over a barrel. He had no choice
but to keep on the right side of me.
Young I may have been, but I was quick to sense that. We got on famously.
My day consisted in
getting up as late as possible. I did
not have to queue for toilets or a wash basin.
I was excused all parades, so after breakfast I wandered into my office
and started work. Apart for dinner and
tea breaks I was kept at it until eight or nine in the evening, seven days a
week. The last duty was to have the
night’s operational leaders into my office to collect marked maps, typed
instructions, chalk and anything else the Major had decided was required. Once they had gone I shut up shop. Then I had a choice: go to the village and
have a snack or a drink with some of the lads; visit my friends at Graffelde;
or stay in my sitting room with or without company.
My rooms had the last thing in luxury - an
enormous boon in that sub-zero climate.
There was an enclosed fire in
the middle of each room with a flue or
chimney up through the roof. I also had
a plentiful supply of small, egg-shaped briquettes. When a fire was lit and established the heat could be unbearable;
but I could stand a lot, and I learned how to control temperature.
I learned , also,
of a pay loophole which netted a considerable profit to pay clerks. Many soldiers never drew pay, allowing it to
accumulate while living off the proceeds of sales on the black market. Fags, chocolate, and other items could
obtain a huge price in relatively useless Marks. However, some did draw pay. Those who did, were able to send the equivalent amount, or less, in postal
orders to mothers or wives. Not all
did.
Each week after pay parade the clerk should
have taken to the Divisional Paymaster the names of those wishing postal
orders. What he did was to take a list
of all those drawing pay, with amounts. He then received postal orders to the
value of the whole pay out, and he kept all the postal orders which had not
been asked for. Obviously, Marks had to
be exchanged to the value of the Postal Orders. That quite simply meant the lucky Pay Clerk selling lots of fags
for useless Marks, then exchanging them for extremely valuable British Postal
Orders. Quite a racket! Unhappily, I had only just taken over when
the game was discovered .
A job which made me
feel real power was to examine parcels the lads were sending home; particularly
lads who were about to demob. Again, it
was a delegated job which I should not have been doing. Anything not allowed was taken out before
the parcel was re-sealed and passed through to the post authorities. I was pretty generous about what I allowed
through, but I could and did apply the strict letter of the law in the case of
unpopular persons. In this way I
acquired a magnificent collection of German Staff Officer’s maps. They were the most wonderful maps I had
seen.
Major Long came into my
office early in December. By this time
being a member of 9 R.T.R. was depressing.
The death knell had been sounded and lads leaving the ranks were not
being replaced. In a very short while
the battalion would be laid to rest. I
expected, and thought it was my duty, to be kept in post to the very last. Now Roger was shocking me by saying I was to
leave imminently. He told me I had done
a magnificent job, and as a reward he had arranged a posting for me as a
sergeant. I couldn’t believe it:
jumping Lance Corporal and Corporal was
unthinkable. Very rarely was this done,
like sergeants being promoted direct to officer. It was done - but almost never.
I spluttered my thanks and
asked the unit I was to join up north.
When he said it was the 5th Inniskilling Dragoon Guards my
heart dropped to my boots. They had the
worst record in the British Army for severe discipline. I could not have lived with that, so I
declined the posting. As I never got
another chance of promotion I have often wondered if I erred. It did, after all, affect the value of my
demob. gratuity. But I had
decided. Roger barely spoke to me
again, and in days I was one of six transferred to the 52 Div. Recce
Regiment. Whether Roger knew it or not,
that was a delightful posting.
H.Q.Squadron of 52 Recce were
stationed in the village of Freckenhorst, a few miles south of Munster. I was given a clerical job in the Orderly
Room (the Head Office). While I did not
have the responsibility or authority I had been accustomed to I had
much less work and I had more time off.
The O.R. was in a splendid detached house with a fine garden and our
sleeping quarters were just as good. I
had to make friends with everybody in my work and offduty circle. That proved to be very easy, such a fine lot
they were.
Early in my stay I began to be used by the other
side of the hall as an interpreter. My
German was not good, but apparently it was better than some, and I volunteered
for the job. Mainly, it consisted of my
being in the Colonel’s office when the Burgomaster or someone else appeared for
a dressing down, or to be instructed.
From that came another job. We
had an excellent magazine, comprising reports on all topics, notably
sport. A German printer had been
engaged in Dusseldorf but someone had to take the reports and photographs to
him. On my first trip I discovered that
his secretary had fluent English; but I never reported that fact for fear of
losing the job. I was always supplied
with vehicle and driver, once travelling in the splendour of the Colonel’s
staff car. It was an interesting journey and
a very enjoyable day out.
When I joined the
52 Recce Old Comrades.Association I
gave Josephine Peel, the secretary, some notes on my time with the
regiment. She published them in the
next newsletter. One story related to
the Colonel entering the office one day, and after ascertaining that we were
not busy, telling us that we plus spare despatch riders and batmen could join
him at the field for a game of football.
Leaving a skeleton staff we all got there in record time, and soon were
kicking the coveted football. The C.O.
arrived, called us all together, took possession of the football, produced a
rugby ball, and told us we were to play a man’s game. Vigorous protests were overruled and he set about telling us how
to play his favourite sport. On that
afternoon he was not a popular man. I
have a letter from him dated 7th November 1994 in which he adds a
P.S. He says: “Can’t remember that
‘sneaky’ habit of recruiting ‘volunteers’ for rugby. It’s a good story.”
Heartbreakingly,
even for a newcomer like me, the demise of 52 Recce was announced. My last job was to accompany a young German
couple who were professional photographers round the last parade, held on the
football field. The Inspecting Officer
was the Divisional Commander, Major General Hakewill-Smith. Throughout the long parade and inspection I guided the Germans
round the parade, pointing out the shots they should take. As the parade broke up we raced back to
their home and without stopping for refreshments commenced the job of
developing and printing the large number of pictures taken. I helped to do the less technical
duties. Then racing back to
Freckenhorst in late evening we handed over the photographs for the Colonel and
guests to see. I did not need to be
rocked to sleep that night.
I joined a regiment
of the Lothians and Border Horse at a place alongside Belsen. That spell of a few months was as
unenjoyable as the previous posting was enjoyable. I can’t remember a single person from that unit. It wasn’t a bad unit - I have no bad
memories - it was just uninspiring. The
area still carried an eerie feeling about it, even almost a year after Belsen
had been emptied. It was said, and
noticed, that no birds seemed to dwell there.
I took to walking the country lanes alone. That was sometimes a foolhardy thing to do, for all Germans were
not well disposed to us and accidents did happen. Here it was not the Germans who bothered us. We saw few of them as it was a sparsely populated district. But all around us were D.P. camps, each
apparently controlled like Lingen by the strongest power and individuals in
residence.
My favourite walk took me along narrow,
winding roads between the major camps.
At first, guards threatened me with their guns, but one evening I turned
towards a camp gate and found myself being saluted. Totally baffled, because vocal communication was impossible, I
retraced my route the following evening, with the same result. It suddenly dawned on me that this was a
clear case of mistaken rank. I was now
wearing the insignia of L. and B. Horse, which included a prominent golden
wheatsheaf on each lapel. They were
mistaking me for an officer.
Thereafter, I made the most of this sudden rise in rank and
popularity. Nonetheless, I was
delighted to get another posting, this time to the city of Bielefeld and to the
staff of 50 R.H.U. (Reinforcement Holding Unit).
This turned out to
be an excellent posting. We were housed
in a large barracks on the outskirts of the city, between the city and the
motorway which went east to Frankfurt
and Berlin and west to the Ruhr. Behind
us was the Teutoburger Wald, a high area of great beauty going past Bielefeld
on one side and towards Osnabruck in the other. My accommodation was not quite what I had become used to, having
to share a room with a few others, but because we were permanent staff we were
able to get to know each other, and we got on fine. By now I had acquired two dogs, Judy and Peter. Their owners had been unable to keep them
and asked me to find a good home for them.
I had a spare mattress on the floor beside my bed at Bielefeld and both
were supposed to sleep on it. They both
thought otherwise, and I discovered that three in a single bed might be cosy
but it surely was not comfortable.
Peter was
eventually fostered by a caring German couple whose house adjoined the barracks; but not before he had accompanied me
on two unforgettable walks. Peter, I should
explain, was a massive Alsatian who had been trained as a police dog, according
to his previous owner. We had been
walking the paths on the Teutoburger behind the barracks one day. Peter was in and out of bushes and often
well ahead of me or behind. Without
warning, I was set upon by a gang of youths who clearly meant to harm me. I bawled “Peter, Peter” at the top of my
voice , and in a split second Peter
crashed onto the scene and downed the nearest youth. His appearance disconcerted the others who turned away from me.
I got up quickly and ordered Peter to attack
the others. As he did , they fled, and I had the greatest difficulty in
restraining him while his first victim got up and ran, nursing his
injuries. I told of my escape back in
barracks and it was concluded that the gang could have been Hitler Youth,
survivors of an organisation that was fanatically Nazi and who generally
targeted Germans seen in the company of the enemy.
The second walk was
along the main road into Bielefeld.
Each side of the road was almost totally destroyed by bombing. I had Peter on a chain when without warning
another Alsatian leapt out of the rubble and went for Peter’s throat. I let go of the chain immediately to give
him freedom to defend himself, and for my own safety as the most vicious battle
developed. I circled the pair,
encouraging Peter who was still handicapped by the chain, and screaming all
manner of venom at the assailant, who was getting the upper hand. The road had been empty, but soon I was
joined by three uniformed soldiers, members of the Jewish Brigade. They thought the fight was good
entertainment.
Their attitude
inflamed me. I lashed into them with my
tongue, at the same time grabbing a brick and banging on their dog’s head. In exasperation I shouted at the three: “Get
that Jewish dog off my dog!” One of the
group replied: “He’s not a Jewish dog - he’s German like yours.” I appreciated
the joke, later. Eventually, they
joined in the separation attempt and we succeeded in parting the fighters and
dragging the still snarling beasts in opposite directions. Peter was bleeding, but not as badly injured
as I had feared. I vowed that if ever I
had to arrange a posting for that trio it would be to the wastes of Siberia.
The barracks was a
transit camp for a very large number of soldiers entering Germany for the first
time and going to join units of occupation.
Huge numbers of those who fought and ended the war had been demobbed, and they had to be
replaced. Our unit had a number of
other functions. One was to supply a
‘home’ for the Jewish Brigade. These
Jews had come into the war from Britain and other countries under the umbrella of
the Jewish Brigade, and were now awaiting demob. I had every sympathy for Jews, but this lot annoyed me, as well
as most of the permanent staff.
Everyone temporarily resident in the camp of
appropriate rank had to do duties such as maintenance, sanitary duty, dining
hall, and guards. And it was one of my
duties at that time to arrange
guards. Without fail, when a Jew was
listed for guard I received a message saying he could not do it because he had
to go somewhere to attend some Jewish feast, celebration, or function. Not one of them ever did a guard, and to
make it worse, they took the Mickey out of us non-Jews. I protested vigorously, but was told nothing
could be done. Hence my hatred of that
lot.
I did not do
guards, but one night I was involved
with one. Judy was my other dog, the
most lovable little thing on earth. She
had the temperament of a King Charles, but was almost exactly like a black and
white Collie, except that she was about half the size of a Collie. As far as I could discover, she was a quite
rare breed, a German spaniel. We had a
wonderful relationship. Wherever I went
Judy went. One morning I went to
breakfast, with Judy , and was hailed by a sergeant who had been in charge of
the main gate guard the previous night.
He enquired how my feet were. I
said they were perfect. He indicated
surprise. In the middle of the night,
he told me, he was wakened by the man on
guard and dragged outside in time to see me, clad only in long khaki
shirt, walking towards the road outside the gate, and a few paces behind was
Judy.
Recovering from the initial shock he
recognised what was happening. He
followed me, turned me, and led me gently back to my room , where he put me to
bed while Judy settled down at my
feet. I laughed at his improbable
story. Have a look at the soles of your
feet, he suggested. I did, on returning
to my room, and there was the pockmarked evidence of a long march. Incredibly, I had not sleep-walked since
Pansy Cottage days, nor have I ever done it since to my knowledge. That night I had walked out of my room
without waking anyone, had gone down a long cement corridor, down a winding
staircase, down steps to a perimeter road, over it, up steps to a barrack
square, across the square, down steps to another road, turned right, and headed
out of camp. The return journey added
up to about half a mile.
Another job staffed by the
R.H.U. was the Prosecution Department for the British Army of the Rhine. I got myself transferred to that as I had
studied some law and the officer in charge thought that would be useful. It was a much more challenging job, and
there were many interesting cases. One
concerned two young officers who after heavy drinking stole an armoured car with live ammunition and
drove into the mountain area close to their base. While driving along a narrow road they came up on a German woman
walking with her children. The officers
opened fire on them resulting in some being killed and some injured. I helped to prepare the prosecution case and
no one doubted that they would receive a long custodial sentence. Even their army defence team held out no
hope for them. The day before the trial
their fathers came over from England.
The trial was short
and the verdict shocking. Both of them were
to be dismissed the service with ignominy.
They had already made it very clear that they were bored with army life,
so being discharged was no sentence.
One dictionary meaning of ‘ignominy’ is: “Deep personal humilation and disgrace.” Judging by their arrogant behaviour in
court, and their complete lack of remorse thereafter, the sentence was a farce
and a total miscarriage of justice. No
one had any doubt that the judges had been ‘got at,’ for the men’s fathers were
an extremely high R.A.F. officer and an equally important figure in the City of
London. The disgust at the sentence
spread throughout the forces stationed in Germany.
I celebrated my third
birthday abroad and for a present got a very unpleasant shock. I was to transfer immediately to another
R.H.U. in Osnabruck.
Under a week later, after a
late Saturday afternoon working session, I left Osnabruck as pillion rider to
Lance Bombadier Roberts, on a despatch riding job to Bielefeld. We drove over my favourite Teutoburger
Wald. The road was wet and I remember
shouting to Bob to slow down a bit. I
woke up in hospital. According to eye
witnesses we had been doing an estimated 70 miles an hour, but right over on
our own side of the road. A military
three ton truck came round a concealed bend on our side. The bike hit the truck, Bob fell under the
truck and was killed, while I somersaulted over the truck and crashed down on
the road. The German driver of the
truck was charged with manslaughter.
I had been taken to
a smaller hospital, then on to the bigger military one where I regained
consciousness as I was being manoeuvred onto the operating table. The movement of my body gave me excruciating
pain. They knocked me out while I was
cut out of my clothes. I assume I was
X-rayed all over and thoroughly examined, then strapping and bandages were
wrapped generously round me. I was put
into a special bed, surrounded by the usual drips and things. Someone told me I would not be allowed to
move for a considerable time. The way I
felt I did not want to move for a very considerable time. Apart from my head and arms I had no
movement.
I suffered from head injuries, severe internal injuries, three fractures of the
pelvis, one of which was particularly bad, and injuries to my back and right
foot. I passed blood and flesh for
three days.
The staff, who were
wonderful, told me that nothing more could be done for me except to attend to
my needs and keep me as comfortable as possible. Recovery, and the extent of it, was out of their hands. My
‘mattress’ was very hard and consisted of squares, one or more of which could
be removed from underneath the bed. The
wonderful V.A.D. nurses used to bed bath me, doing my underside by that method. Block by block was removed as I was washed
gently and dried. The same method was
used when I needed the toilet. For
these girls it was an awkward and often dirty job. They never complained.
Even with their tenderness and unlimited patience all such activity was
dreadfully painful, but I knew it had to be done and I never complained. I could feed myself, but everything had to
be on a special tray placed in front of my mouth .
By day I had short
visits from other patients, and there was always some member of staff in the
room to cheer us up. None of us had
private visitors. I discovered long
after, that Erika, my German friend,
having learned that I had been in an accident, had with great difficulty
found which hospital I was in and had come to visit me. She was refused admission. I expected her to find me and was upset when
neither she or any of my old mates showed up.
I can’t think why she, and maybe they were refused admission. Perhaps I was worse than even I imagined. The nights were awful.
My pain seemed always to be unbearable and
the midwinter nights seemed never ending.
I was forever ringing the bell for the night staff. All they could do was to sit by my side and
talk for a while, but always another bell took them away. When I left Bielefeld I had left Judy with
Erika. Now I was glad of that. Years later, she told me that Judy had been
looked after by a relative in the country and had led a happy life until dying
of old age.
My accident was on
6th December 1946 . On the
29th the surgeon-major paid a last visit to me and said that in the
morning I was to be moved by ambulance, a long journey to Harburg, the port of
Hamburg, where I would be taken aboard a hospital ship for removal to
England. He, like all the others, had
been wonderful to me. As I thanked him
he told me solemnly that he couldn’t guarantee that I would walk again, but I
had to fight the battle of my life and my spirit, if anything could, would see
me through. His words knocked me for six,
but I soon realised that he meant it, and I determined not to be a cripple at
twenty two if I could help it.
The ambulance journey next day was torture and I
was exhausted before I was carried aboard the big ship and left alone in bed
down below. The ward was empty and it
remained empty as the vessel prepared to sail.
All the other patients, I discovered, were up patients and they were on
deck witnessing the activity, and as we sailed, seeing the sights as we set off
down the River Elbe, a journey of some seventy miles to Cuxhaven and the open
sea. We expected rough seas, but the
river part of the journey was not expected to cause difficulty. I can’t remember how long we had been
sailing when a deafening crash filled me with terror. It was followed by another, and a steady succession of collisions
just above my head at the water level had me screaming for help.
I was convinced that we were going to sink,
and I was fully aware that I was alone and below the water line. It seemed like a lifetime before an orderly
appeared. Of course no one had heard my
shouts and in the excitement no one had remembered me. There was no cause for panic, he told me. We had sailed into an area which had a lot
of ice floes. The ship had slowed right
down - I had noticed - and we were going through them slowly. The crew were unworried. Well, that was nice to know, I said - but
would someone stay with me, just in case.
He did.
We moved out of the
ice floe area and all seemed well, when the engines cut out and we slowed and
stopped. By now my orderly had
gone. What is it this time, I
wondered. As we lay still, the boat
gently rocking, I was startled to hear what was clearly gunshots. It was rifle fire. My imagination worked overtime - and once more I bawled for
attention. Before help came there was an explosion, then
silence. The watchman had seen a mine
floating on the surface ahead of us, not an uncommon hazard on the river. Good marksmen could explode it, and
apparently our ship had good marksmen.
It was easy to tell
when we reached the sea. It was stormy,
and big as the boat was we pitched and rolled.
All the beds were occupied as it was near midnight, but nobody could
sleep, and I wasn’t the only one groaning.
The medical staff were kept busy with the sickness bowls and we all
spent a sleepless night. Daylight
returned and presently we entered calmer water before slipping into Southampton
and docking immediately behind the liner Queen Mary.
As stretcher
bearers carried me along the quay to the waiting ambulance I got a glimpse of
the great liner. What a magnificent
ship - and the size of it! We moved off
on a journey of about 50 miles to Aldershot, and uphill to the Cambridge
Military hospital where I was installed in the second bed from the top of a
very large ward; all I wanted to do was sleep.
Of course my feelings were not considered, and I had to suffer various
examinations and a thousand questions before being left alone. I was to stay in the Cambridge for six weeks
during which time nature was left to work its own cure . The staff were harassed and nobody could
expect much attention. It didn’t help
that the food was awful.
Most days I was fortunate to be able to call
on a young male orderly who was more compassionate than most. When I wanted the
toilet other staff would bring a bottle or a bedpan, draw the curtain, and
leave me. I couldn’t do it - the pain
in my mid area being too great. Once my special orderly realised what I was
suffering he offered to carry me to the toilet and hold me over it. He was powerfully built, and I had lost
stones in weight; nevertheless it was hard work for him in the tight confines
of the toilet, but he never let me down - in either sense. Being lifted and carried in that way was
painful too, but not nearly so bad.
When he was off duty I tried to defer my need until he returned.
The Cambridge was
obviously ‘down at the heel’. I was
told that it had been condemned in 1929 - seventeen years earlier - and that
very little had been done to repair it since then. The area was hit by a violent snowstorm with gale force
winds. I woke in the middle of the
night to discover that my bed was covered in snow. I shouted for help, only to be told that everybody on that side of the ward had the same
problem. All the windows were shut, but
they were so ill fitting that a fine spray of snow was blowing in all the
time. The staff did their best by
giving us spare blankets, but there was nowhere to move us, so we went
completely under cover and suffered it.
In the morning there was a right old battle with snowballs, which warmed
and amused everyone until a halt was called before there was a mutiny of
cleaners.
One of the worst
features of The Cambridge for me was that I never had a visitor. Unlike Germany, everyone else in the ward
had regular visits. I did not expect
anyone to travel so far to see me, but it hurt to see and hear happiness at
every other bed. Eventually, the sister
of the lad in the bed to my left more or less ‘adopted’ me. That saw me through until I was given the
news that I was to be transferred to Stracathro Military hospital in Angus,
Scotland. That was still a long way for
my folk to travel by bus, but fortunately, it was only a short drive from Uncle
Bill’s farm at Fordoun.
In the second half
of my stay at The Cambridge therapy
started. At first it was
extremely painful, for apart from all the breaks I had been in bed for two
months, and that would do my muscles no good.
My physiotherapist was a good natured, buxom lass. She was expert, but
she was rough, always taking me to the limit of my endurance. I made a point of telling her as often as
possible what I thought of her. She
didn’t mind. In a sense we were a
mutual admiration society. I wouldn’t
accept anyone else happily, and I think she had a certain admiration for the
way I faced up to my troubles. As I
began to be freer of pain, and with her continuing efforts making a real
difference to my strength and physical mobility, there was positive hope of
final success. Each week she
intensified the treatment, until I began to dread her daily visit; but it paid
off.
Came the day of my
transfer to Stracathro. I was still a
stretcher case. Two burly orderlies
were assigned to get me there. First,
an ambulance took us down to Aldershot station. There, we boarded a train bound for London, on which a whole
compartment had been reserved for us.
There was a lot of snow around but we got to London without incident.
Another ambulance transferred us to Kings Cross in time to catch a train which
would get us to Bridge of Dun station, the tiny station nearest to Stracathro,
sometime in late evening. Again, a
reserved compartment. I lay stretched out on one side while the two lads sat
opposite.
They were soon reporting that the train was
very busy, so I ordered them to invite up to four people to share our
compartment. They were not keen, but I
insisted, so up I sat in the corner and was soon joined by four surprised and
grateful people. That shortened the
journey with the scenery I could enjoy, and new people to talk to. When they left the train I lay down to rest,
but was otherwise none the worse. The
therapy and the rest of recent weeks clearly had done me a power of good. I could feel strength coming back to my
legs, but I was forbidden to put weight on my legs.
We had noticed how
deep the snow was everywhere and that it was falling ever heavier as we moved
north. After dark we lost interest,
dozing to pass the time, not noticing that the train was slowing and often
stopping for no apparent reason. When
we stopped at Edinburgh we became aware that we were hours late. There seemed to be doubt whether the train
could go further , but it restarted and chugged out towards the Forth Bridge
and Fife. It was once more impossible
to monitor progress, until we stopped in Dundee at about 1.30 a.m. The lads consulted their movement orders and
map. The hospital was some four miles
north east of Brechin, and Bridge of Dun station about the same distance east
of Brechin. Once we got out of Dundee
we would not take long to get there.
Doubts began to assail them. Would the train stop at such a tiny station
at night? Would the station be open? Because we were hours late, would an
ambulance be there? Would the roads be
open? We had heard for some time of
snow ploughs preceding the train. One
of the lads started to prepare me for de-training, while the other sought out
the guard. He returned to say that all
was well. The guard knew of our
worries, but he was assured that the station would be open and that the
ambulance would be there.
Progress was slow
and there were a few false stops, but in time we stopped again, this time
hearing shouts of instruction from the platform. Then, with me on my stretcher half in the compartment and half in
the corridor, the train moved forward a few yards, stopped, went back, stopped,
and went forward again - and always we could hear shouting although the lads
could see nothing through the window.
Passengers throughout our carriage were waking and coming to the windows
to see what was going on. The suddenly,
a strong hand wrenched open the door and beckoned the lads to bring me
out. The next few minutes will ever
stay in my mind, and I suspect, in the minds of all who witnessed the
scene. There was a cleared passage
leading away from the open door and towards a single arc light.
On each side of the passage was a wall of
snow six feet high. The porter led the
way out of the platform to a waiting ambulance which was itself surrounded by
huge drifts. Behind it waited the snow
plough without which the ambulance could not have moved. I was gently loaded into the ambulance which
was wonderfully warm after the freezing conditions outside. As the doors shut on me I could hear the
train depart. The worst part of a very
long day was yet to come. At walking pace
the ambulance bounced and shuddered its way over a severely rutted road, taking
what seemed an eternity to reach the hospital.
Thankfully, I was received like a V.I.P. and laid in a warm bed with the
utmost haste. Before my head touched
the pillow I was asleep.
Stracathro Hospital
was very different from The Cambridge.
It was single flatted, more spread out in wooded grounds, and more
modern. I awoke to well known voices -
the guid Scots tongue. I was not anti
anybody, but to hear my ain folk speak, and to be able to enjoy hearing about
places and things I knew, was a tonic.
Apart from that a hospital is a hospital - a good place if you need it,
but a better place to leave on your two feet.
Therapy continued and one day I was invited to “try my feet.” It hurt, and I didn’t really put my whole
weight on them. But it was a start, and
after being told I might not walk again it was difficult to believe after over
three months off them that I might.
Stracathro gave me all the encouragement and practical help I needed.
Very soon after my
arrival, despite the awful weather of one of the worst winters in memory, I received
the best present in the world. Mother
arrived to see me. She had travelled
down to Redmyre to stay a few days with Uncle Bill and Aunty Cis, and Uncle
Bill drove her to the hospital. I had
not been home for about six months, and with all my troubles and no visitors,
this was an experience that can’t adequately be described. It became daily visiting for a few days
before Mother had to return home. I had
no doubt now - I was going to ‘make it’.
The target was recovery, discharge from the army, and back to the
comforts of home and to being spoilt rotten.
The recovery
programme was more successful than anyone expected and in a few weeks I was
walking with two crutches. I was still
very pained and limping heavily, but I was mobile and reasonably independent. The War Pensions Authorities had conducted
preliminaries for the granting of a War Pension. At last, everything was working to my advantage. Then a crazy thing happened.
My neighbour was a
Brechin man who was in hospital for a relatively minor complaint. One Saturday afternoon early his wife
arrived by car to take him home for the night. Jokingly she asked if I wanted a run into Brechin. I was in the car and on the road before I
could explain how it happened. There was
still a lot of snow around but the roads were clear. She dropped me in the middle of the town after telling me where
to get a bus back to Stracathro. I went
to the cinema matinee and thoroughly enjoyed that long overdue experience. I came out about five, expecting to get a
quick snack and a bus back to the hospital, confident that my absence would not
be noticed as it would be assumed that I was in a day room . To my horror I emerged from the cinema into
a different world. Snow was piled high
everywhere and still falling, and very little was moving. With the greatest difficulty I found a cafe
nearby.
The cafe staff did
their best for me while telling me that there was no hope of getting back. They phoned the police and the bus company,
and taxi companies, but there was indeed
no hope. Someone took me to
their house and made me comfortable, phoning the police and the hospital to
report my safety. I spent a miserable
night. Next morning conditions were
much better and after a few hours I was told that a snowplough had cleared the
road to the hospital to allow an ambulance through with another patient. They collected me.
My reception in the
ward was one of the frostiest experiences I would ever want to have. I was met in the ward entrance by the
Sister. Up to then she had been firm
but very friendly: now, she took me apart.
It would be worth hearing a recording of what she said. I was sent into the ward and all but ignored
by all the staff for the rest of the day.
On Monday morning I learned that I was to be Court Martialled for being
Absent Without Leave. I couldn’t
believe it. But it was true. The Court was quickly convened and I said my
piece; but how lame it sounded. I was fined (the well known Stoppage of
Pay). That was acceptable. I had saved a bit by being in hospital so
long. Seven days Confined To Barracks
was a nuisance. Then I was told I was
to be transferred to Cowglen Military Hospital, Glasgow. That was the real punishment. There would be no more visits.
Cowglen I did not
enjoy. I think my reputation had
preceded me. I was given basic
attention, but no more. There was,
however, one outstanding event which I will never forget. Some of the lads in the ward got permission
to go to Hampden Park, which was quite near, to see England play Scotland. I was given permission to go with them, and
we were supplied with transport. We had
standing positions close to the touchline and not far from one corner
flag. It was a magnificent game ,
though one sided, England outclassing Scotland. I have no brochure of the event, but I remember the English
forward line contained Matthews, Mannion, Carter, and Lawton. No wonder England scored five times. Anyone reading those names with
understanding will appreciate our good fortune.
In the second half
Matthews was operating most of the time yards away from us. What a delight to watch his footwork. There was only one problem. Though I had
crutches my back hurt a lot. There was
a crowd of 99,000 - not too big for Hampden, but the most crowded parts were
the terraces, where we were. At some
high point - I forget what- a typical crowd sway began, resulting in those
behind us pressing down on us. There was
sheer panic and I lost my crutches. I
threw my arms round the neck of the man in front, and mercifully he carried
me. There was a happy ending. Stewards had rushed to our aid and several
of us were lifted over the low wall separating terrace and pitch. For the remainder of the second half I sat
in relative comfort, even closer to Stan’s glorious display of football.
My next move was
down the Ayrshire coast to Dundonald Camp, between Troon and Irvine. I was regarded as convalescent and able to
do very little. By good fortune Father knew
a couple who lived nearby. They were
Boddamers, and Mr Stephen was fish
buyer at Ayr for the Crosse and Blackwell’s factory in Peterhead. Their house was open to me at all
times. The hospitality was superb, and
I attended the Ayr Baptist church on a number of occasions where their youngest
daughter May was a regular.
My final move was
back to Catterick Camp, for the third time.
I would have been discharged as medically unfit, but as I was very close
to my fixed demob. date, it was decided to demob me. Very soon I went across to York for the demob. routine, and an
hour or two later I was on the train north, for the last time as a
soldier. By now I was fed up with the
army. It might have been very different
if I had not suffered the accident. I
boarded the train, carrying my
cardboard box with my civilian clothes including hat, something I had never
worn as a civilian. In a moment of sheer madness, which I still cannot explain,
but which I deeply regret, I crushed into a toilet, stripped off all military
clothes, dressed myself in the civvy clothes, ill fitting and cheap, and threw
the empty box and all the army gear through the window onto the
embankment. It is no defence to say
that lots of others did the same.
I ceased to be a
soldier from the 3rd of September, 1947. Four and a half of the best years of my life had been lost. Others had given longer service, some had
suffered worse fates, and I was grateful to be home even as I was. I still had a chip on my shoulder about the
many who had dodged service and had profited by so doing; but the chip
eventually fell off.
Had it all been
worthwhile? The Germans I had met since
the end of the war had, in the main, seemed to be no differ ent from us. We had all suffered together. Sandy Glennie and Bill Grant had not come
back. Mother’s cousin in Aberdeen,
Sarah Mathers, had lost three sons.
Fifty million people had died.
Yet, when I was reunited with over fifty of my ex comrades in 1990 at Charing I realised how worthwhile it had been. Looking at these ‘old boys’, fortunate to have survived the war,
even if maimed, I recognised that in doing our best all these years ago we had brought hope anew.
Shortly after finishing this chapter I was sent these two poems
written by Jodie Johnson, then aged 11. She wrote the first poem when she was nine. The second was inspired by the Annual
Service of Remembrance held in the Royal Garrison Church of All Saints,
Aldershot on Sunday, 12th May 1996 and the March Past of some 700
Veterans. It was written whilst
travelling home from the parade. Jodie
lives in Lancashire.
50
YEARS LATE
I am ONLY a child
and it’s hard to explain,
The
feelings I have
as I sit
in the rain.
And I think of
the men
who went
off to war,
Knowing they
would not
Come home
anymore.
I cannot say
thank you
to the men
left in France,
Who laid down their lives
To give
me a chance.
I cannot say
thank you
To the ones who
returned
For thank
you is not
What those brave
men earned.
I owe
them my life
As I
live it today,
A life lived in freedom
because
of that day.
I owe them
much more
than I
can ever repay,
I owe
them the lives
that they
gave up that day..
They will
live in my heart
for as
long as I live,
And my
children will learn
Of that gift
that they gave.
WHO ARE
THESE MEN?
Who are
these men
Who march so proud
Who
quietly weep
Eyes closed,
heads bowed?
These
are the men
Who once were
boys
Who missed out
on youth
And all
of its joys.
Who are
these men
With aged
faces
Who silently count
The empty
spaces?
These are
the men
Who gave
their all
Who fought for
their country
For freedom for all.
Who are
these men
With
sorrowful look
Who still can
remember
The lives that
were took?
These
are the men
Who saw young
men die
The
price of peace
Is
always high.
Who are these men
Who in the
midst of pain
Whispered
comfort to those
They would not
see again?
These
are the men
Whose hands held
tomorrow
Who brought back
our future
With blood,
tears, and sorrow.
Who are
these men
Who promise to keep
Alive in
their hearts
The ones God
holds asleep?
These
are the men
To whom I
promise again
Veterans, my friends,
I WILL
REMEMBER THEM
Thanks to Josie, I
now have not the slightest doubt that it was all worthwhile