DOUGLAS
AKASS: MY WAR
Doug Akass was in a scout car crew in HQ Squadron, and had the
misfortune to be the first 9 RTR recorded casualty, No. 1 in the list in Tank
Tracks. He contacted Peter Beale in a letter written on 19 November 1997, part
of which is here reproduced.
Dear Peter,
In your letter of 7th March
you said that you would be interested to receive any recollections of the 9th
RTR that were not included in 'Tank Tracks'.
Over the period 1989‑1995,
1 studied for a degree at the Open University and was fortunate enough to
obtain a 2. 1 (Hons) . One of the subjects I read was 'War, Peace and Social
Change: Europe 1900‑1955' and to please my tutor, who was very keen to
read the personal accounts of both WW1 and WW2 soldiers, I recorded my experiences
of WW2 and the social changes that It brought. In the event, the was wasted
effort because I did not get round to giving him a copy. However, this course
and the (then) forthcoming 50th anniversary of D Day, stimulated an interest In
what happened both to the Regiment and, in particular, to the driver of the Humber
scout car who was wounded with me on 26th June when we drove over a couple of
Teller mines. A phone call to Bovington put me
in touch with the "Qui s' y Frotte Association" but, unfortunately,
because I am generally abroad when they are held, I have not been able to
attend any of the annual re‑unions.
On receiving a list of
members, and having read your book, I attempted to get into touch with the
driver of our Humber scout car . I am afraid that I did not get to know him
very well in the short time I had with the regiment before my enforced
departure, possibly some 7‑8 weeks at the most, but I was curious to know
how he fared. From the start I was puzzled by the fact that I alone from HQ Troop
was shown In the Casualty List at Appendix 1 of your book as have been wounded
at Cheux. The only other casualty from HQ Troop (with leg wounds) on the same
day was called Wholey (no. 13) who was apparently wounded at Norrey en Bessin.
.
Although by no means certain
that I was contacting the right individual, I took the plunge and wrote to Mr
Wholey at the address given in the membership list. explaining who I was and my
objective in writing to him. I did not receive a reply and I hesitated to make
further enquiries.
In my account, I mention that
from 26th June 44 I had no contact with the unit. This is not
entirely true since in 1944/45 I received copies of the printed 'Order of
Service' for the commemorative ceremonies held firstly in France and then in
Belgium which I regret to say I have lost. I should also say that Lt Wolskel,
who was with us at the time it was blown up subsequently returned to the car,
recovered my writing case and returned it to my mother with a very kind note.
If it seems strange in
retrospect that until 1994 I had taken no steps to get in touch with the association. I think that in the
immediate post‑war years, we all wished to forget the war, and that
subsequently marriage, children and the need to develop a career took over. You may be interested to know that 1 stayed with
the Hydrographic Department until 1960 and then Joined the Admiralty
Secretariat working in Bath, London and Portsdown, I had a variety of posts
including, successively, a spell as deputy budget officer for the Polaris
programme, Secretaryship of the Dockyard Nuclear Development and Admiralty Way‑Ahead
committees, Assistant Director (Policy) for the Naval Weapons Programme and
Senior Finance Officer for the Naval Surface Weapons Department. I retired to
my home in Bath in 1984, and have spent most of my time playing bridge and golf,
studying and carrying‑out voluntary fund‑raising work for Help‑the‑Aged.
For what it is
worth, I enclose a copy of my recollections and would be interested if you could let me know the name of the driver, if
possible, how he fared, and precisely where our scout car was blown up.
With best wishes.
Yours sincerely
Douglas Akass
MY
WAR: by Douglas Akass, 14330228, Inter-Communication, HQ Squadron
I was 15 years old and living
in Edgware, Middlesex, when WW2 broke‑out, and about to start the school‑year
ending with the School Certificate examination. Having seen the newsreels of
air raids during the Spanish Civil War, we all expected that similar devastating
attacks would occur immediately war was declared. Our worst fears seemed to
have been realised when the sirens were sounded a few minutes after
Chamberlain's declaration of war at 11 am on Sunday, 3rd September. However,
nothing much seemed to happen except that my 18 year‑old brother, a
territorial serving in the Royal Signals, was called to the Colours, and my
father, employed by the Admiralty Hydrographic Department, had to work very
much longer hours arranging chart outfits for all the merchant ships and
fishing craft taken into wartime service. Nevertheless, schools within the
London area remained closed while air‑raid shelters had been built, and I
employed my time building a family shelter in our garden. Within a few weeks,
however, we were able to resume our studies. working at home and visiting
school once a week to collect and deliver assignments. We returned to full‑time
time education after a few months, and I took and passed the School Certificate
examination in the following June.
Apart from the disturbance to
family life and to my schooling, the war in general seemed a very low‑key
affair until the invasion of the Low Countries and France in May, 1940,
although we were very conscious that the war at sea was a different matter. All
this changed with Dunkirk and the fall of France. With the commencement of
bombing of London ('the Battle of Britain') it was decided that the Admiralty
Chart Supplies Branch in which my father was employed, and which in any case
had been ear‑marked for dispersal from London, should be evacuated to
Exeter until its new permanent offices in Taunton had been completed. Before
this decision, I had been interviewed for employment in the Air Ministry, but
my parents decided that it would be best for me to accompany my father to
Exeter and take up a vacancy in Admiralty Charts , while my mother stayed
behind with of the remainder of the family until suitable accommodation could
be found. I accordingly Joined the Admiralty in November, 1940, was transferred
to Taunton in May, 1941 and stayed there until called up for the Army In
November 1942.
I am short‑sighted, and
it seems strange in retrospect that since I was doing quite important and
highly classified work involved with the supply of navigational chart outfits
to the ever‑increasing number of ships under naval and MoT control ‑
some 7000 when I left ‑ that I should be called‑up. However, not
only did I pass the medical but was classified A1, and after preliminary
training at Norwich I was posted to the Royal Armoured Corps, initially in the
56th Training Regiment at Catterick, and later to the 61st at Barnard Castle,
Durham. I completed the usual 8 months course of wireless, driving and gunnery
as a tank driver‑operator, and then went on further advanced training
while waiting for posting to a field unit. I finally received this posting, to
the 9th Royal Tank Regiment, in the
Spring of 1944. The regiment was then based at Charing in Kent, but shortly
afterwards moved to Aldershot where it spent
the next few weeks waterproofing its Churchill and Honey tanks, Humber scout
cars and other vehicles in preparation for the planned beach landings in
France. Despite my training on tanks, I ended up as the wireless‑operator
and co‑driver of a Humber scout car In HQ Troop*. The scout car, which
one entered from a sliding hatch on the roof of the vehicle, was waterproofed
by giving it a canvas turret about 2 feet high on top of the hatch, and an
extended exhaust fitted vertically. When the troop tested its waterproofing In
Virginia Water, all that one could see of the scout cars were the canvas
turrets and exhausts moving along the surface rather like partially submerged
submarines.
(* In writing this, it struck
me that not once after I had joined the 9th RTR did any officer or NCO a
welcome me to the Regiment, explain my role or question my ability to carry it
out. In fact, I was a good wireless operator but a very inexperienced driver,
having probably had no more than three or four hours practice on 15‑cwt
trucks, carriers and Churchills. I had no experience on Humber scout cars and
was not given the opportunity of getting any either in Charing or on manoeuvres
on the South Downs. If the driver had been injured or wounded, I would have
been incapable of driving the vehicle.)
As part of the advance party
our troop transferred to a site next to the Army School of Hygiene at
Camberley, shortly before D Day. We received the first news of this event on
our Mark 19 wireless sets on the morning of 6th June but did not get orders to
move out until D+3 when we issued with 'new' French currency and bullets for
our revolvers. We set‑off later that night (we never found out why this
was necessary ) to drive to an assembly area on Wanstead Flats, East London.
Since embarkation from London Docks was delayed, we were given leave for the
day and I can recall the strange sensation of travelling across London by
public transport to visit relatives, with a revolver in a thigh‑holster
and foreign currency in my wallet.
A day later, we drove to the docks where, because the dockers were
having one of their periodical labour disputes, no overtime was being worked.
Thus we had to wait another day for our vehicles to be loaded on board an
American Liberty ship (a freighter of about 10,000 tons) and then had to bed‑down
for the night in an empty warehouse alongside. During that night, we were
awoken by an explosion which I since learned was the first or one of the first
V1's to land on London.
We finally sailed from London on D+9 (June 14th) only to spend a
further day anchored off Southend while a convoy assembled, complete with
barrage balloons. We bunked down in a forward hold, and were not too pleased to
find that we were sharing it with members of the War Graves Commission, who
were responsible for the identification and proper burial of British troops
killed in action. We were fed on bully beef and hard biscuits; and bought
cigarettes and tins of corn‑beef hash (to augment our Compo rations) from
the American sailors!
The convoy of some 40 ships
passed through the Straits of Dover on the night of D+10 with a small naval
escort. We must have been a very tempting target but much to our surprise and
relief, no shots were fired by the German batteries on the French coast. The
following morning we arrived off Spithead, and joined what appeared to be an
endless stream of craft, some relatively small, making for the beach‑head
on the Normandy coast. All the way to France we expected to be attacked from
the air, but there was no sign of aircraft, friendly or otherwise.
On arrival off the beach‑head,
it seemed to us that the front possibly had not advanced inland as far as had
been claimed for we could see the battleship. HMS Warspite, at anchor offshore,
firing broadsides at inland targets. Our ship anchored some way out to sea, and
was unloaded by REs into small landing craft (LCT's). This operation was
carried out quickly and efficiently in only a few hours (in striking comparison
to the 2‑3 days taken by London dockers who had full dock‑side
facilities). The only difficulty we experienced was due to the sea state, and
the fact that the LCT came alongside at the rounded fore‑end of the ship.
This meant that a relatively wide gap between the hulls of the two vessels was
alternately widened and narrowed by the movement of the sea. Since few of us
had ever used a rope‑ladder before, the process of getting down from the
high upper deck of the Liberty boat into the small LCT was both difficult and
dangerous.
Our car was joined in the LCT
by the War Graves Commission's vehicles which for some reason had not been
waterproofed. Consequently, the CO of the LCT had to spend some time finding a
shallow beach. I do not think he was very successful since we disembarked into
about 3 feet of water, on a gently sloping beach some 100 yards or so from
land. However, all went well with us and we subsequently found that we had
arrived at the small resort of Graye‑sur‑Mer. Here we quickly
removed all the waterproofing and, to make more room in the cluttered driving
compartment, stupidly threw out the sand‑bags which had been placed on
the floor to give some protection against land‑mines.
We then set out to make contact with the rest of our troop who had
been ferried ashore by other craft. In searching for our rendezvous, we came to
a cross‑roads a short distance inland where we found a British MP on
point duty. Stopping to ask directions, we were suddenly waved to the side of
the road to make way f or a Jeep with a motorcycle escort travelling at speed
in the opposite direction. The Jeep contained King George V1 and General
Montgomery, who presumably had just visited troops at the front. We finally
reached our destination at Villiers le Sec later In the afternoon of D+11
(Friday, 16th June). The Normandy countryside seemed curiously peaceful
although there was some of the usual signs and debris of war such as discarded
German mail in the woods near our camp, hastily dug graves of both German and
British soldiers and, very worrying, burnt‑out British tanks.
For the next few days we
awaited the arrival of the remainder of the regiment. The tank crews had sailed
direct from South Coast ports and had an uncomfortable time in gales in the
Channel. By the end of the next week, however, all apparently was ready for the
first large‑scale attack on Caen on 26th June, which would preface the
break‑out from the beachhead. The 9th RTR were to provide tank support
for the 15th Scottish Division, one
squadron of tanks for each infantry battalion ‑ and our briefing was that
the sound of the tanks assembling for the attack the night before would be
cloaked by an artillery bombardment. By this time, our scout car had been
allocated to the Recce Officer and I had therefore to sit alongside the driver,
and not in my usual position in the hatch.
We moved up into position on
the of night of the 25th ‑ bivouacking for a few hours under a tarpaulin
stretched against the car. The so‑called barrage consisted of an AA gun
firing about every 15 minutes. and would have done little to mask the roar of
tank engines and the rattle of tank tracks. By the morning, we found we were
close to the enemy, but unfortunately not in wireless contact with any of our
tanks. (Infantry tank units used a regimental, rather than squadron net, which
meant that some 100 odd stations, tanks, scout cars, support vehicles etc, were
expected to communicate on a single frequency and to one control ‑ this
proved to be a very inefficient system). By this time, we were being subjected
to a mortar attack which meant that taking one's shovel to answer an essential
call of nature was a little worrying. However, the early part of the day passed
without disaster ‑ we were given various tasks and later. assisted in an
attack on a German machine gun emplacement in a village outside Caen. Two
events remain etched vividly in my memory. The first, the early casualties of
the engagement in the form of dead bodies lying crumpled alongside the road and
a dead cow , with a grotesquely bloated stomach, on the road about to be run
over by a Crocodile ( a tank fitted as a flame‑thrower) moving up
directly in front of us. I say ' about' since I put down my vizor before the
actual event. The second was that our one offensive weapon, a Bren gun mounted
on the top of the car, jammed immediately we went into attack. However ineffective
this proved to be, it was the only warlike act that I was directly associated
with during the whole war since, before we had a chance to clear the blockage,
the flame‑thrower had flushed out the enemy.
Our next operational task
proved to be my last. Later in the day, on another recce mission, we become
hampered by heavy vehicles moving forward on the same road as ourselves. The
Recce Officer ordered the driver to by‑pass them by driving over a wheat‑field
next to the road. At the time, this seemed to me be rather stupid since the
area had been in German hands only a few hours earlier and it very obvious that
the field had not been swept for mines. We had got perhaps 100 yards when we
went over a Teller mine ‑ a loud explosion, flames, smoke, followed by a
repetition shortly afterwards. After hitting one mine, the momentum of the car
had carried it forward onwards onto a second. As the second explosion occurred,
it flashed through my mind that I was unlikely to survive both blasts although
events had happened too quickly for logical thought.
When the dust had settled, I was agreeably surprised to find that
1 was still alive, and could still move my body. My next reaction was that we
should get out of the car quickly before our petrol tanks exploded. I managed
to haul myself up through the hatch and become conscious for the first time
that I was losing a great deal of blood from a wound in my right leg. The
driver said he was also hit in his legs. Sitting in my usual position in the
car, the Recce Officer was unhurt, and he walked back to the road to get help.
Luckily there was a Canadian first‑aid dressing station nearby and we
were carried there. Although shocked I recall that I was worried that the two
people carrying me were making a new path through the minefield to the road,
rather than using either of the tracks made by the scout car or the Recce
Officer.
Our wounds were quickly
dressed and we were shortly transferred to the tented Field Hospital at Bayeux ‑
which at the time was still under some sniper fire. Treatment of the
apparently, lightly wounded casualties like myself, was restricted to 'do you
want drugs?'. While recognizing that the nursing staff were hard pressed, I
believe they could have been rather more sympathetic and shown a little more
humanity A badly wounded man near me asked one nurse for a 'bottle' so that he
could relieve himself only to be told that she ' was not a bloody orderly' ‑
or words to that affect. That first night In hospital was a nightmare that
seemed to drag on and on: I cannot recall the offer of food or drink, but to be
generous this may have been for medical reason eg I might have required an
anaesthetic. At some stage the next morning, a doctor examined me and decided
that I should be repatriated. At this stage, I lost contact with the driver who
may either have required more urgent treatment locally or had a less serious
wound. I do not know, because I was just taken away and, from that day, I had
no further personal contact with any member of my unit.
Later that day, I went by
ambulance with a very young German prisoner who to me, at my advanced age of
twenty, looked very young indeed, no more then sixteen or so, to a small
harbour where we were transferred to a hospital ship lying off‑shore. We
were transferred to the hospital ship ‑ an old cross‑channel ferry ‑
by motor‑launch. This was hoisted
on board so that our stretchers could be transferred to trolleys which were
then pushed down ramps to what seemed to be the very bowels of the ship. (At
the time this seemed to be a highly unattractive place to be and some months
later, I met someone who had survived the torpedoing of a similar hospital ship
and who recounted an account of how a rather plump nurse died in attempting to
escape through a port‑hole).
Here we were put onto bunks. This was a painful process since, by
this time, the initial shock had worn‑off and normal feeling had
returned. On board, we were offered food and drink both in mess tins ‑
but I cannot recall any desire to eat. We did not sail until the next day (27th
June) and arrived at Southampton very late at night on the same day. On arrival
we were immediately transferred by train and ambulance to a Canadian Hospital
in Ascot, arriving in the early morning.
In this hospital, for the first
time I received the sort of sympathetic treatment that one should reasonably
expect. Both in France, on ship and on arrival in UK, it seemed that casualties
were treated, at best, with a sort of casual indifference ‑ the MO on
duty on my arrival at Southampton Docks appeared to be displeased with me
personally because the label on my stretcher incorrectly described my injury as
a shrapnel wound. No one seemed to feel it necessary to speak to, reassure or
give comfort or information to the wounded, most of whom like myself were
relatively young and inexperienced in war. Here in a Canadian hospital. we were
met by smiling, friendly staff, were put immediately into white‑sheeted
beds (unlike the British hospitals of the day that insisted that new patients
should be bathed before being placed in clean sheets!). I was still wearing
uniform, and the staff, to avoid any pain or discomfort, simply cut‑off
my trousers with scissors before giving me my first detailed medical examination. My ankle had been damaged by mine
splinters but, at that stage, it was not clear how much metal remained in the
wounds, and what damage had caused to bones and/or nerves. The next morning, I
had an operation to clean up the wounds and to put my leg into plaster, I came
round later in the day from the anaesthetic feeling much more comfortable. Here
I was to receive penicillin which had just become available.
Three days later I found
myself on another hospital train. No one had told us why we were being moved
but we subsequently realised that this was to move us clear of the new rockets
that ware falling in the South‑East. We did not know where we were going
but, in the middle of the day, we stopped briefly at a station full of
holidaymakers, who very kindly passed sweets and cigarettes to us. We found out
from our benefactors that we were in Lancashire and they were going on their Wakes
Week holidays. Later In the day.
those who could see outside discovered that we were in Scotland. About midnight
we arrived in Glasgow, and were dispersed to hospitals In the area. I found
myself in a type of ambulance car, and after what seemed to be a lengthy
Journey arrived in hospital at Killearn, Stirlingshire. By this time I must
have looked rather the worse for wear, for a young nurse who was helping the
orderlies, looked at me. pressed my hand, and ran away crying. This sensitive
approach did not extend to the ward sister who insisted that we should remain
in blankets until the morning, when we could be properly bathed and examined.
Despite our somewhat frigid
reception, we were treated very well at Killearn Hospital, which was an
offshoot of the Glasgow Royal Infirmary. Two weeks later, I was well enough to
attend a concert in the hospital and when I went taken outside in a wheelchair,
and saw the serene beauty of the local scenery, war lost its attractions and I
realized that I was not particularly anxious to return to France. In any case,
this possibility did not arise since very soon it was discovered that I had a
severed nerve in my ankle as well as muscle damage. Two months later, I had an
exploratory operation to locate the severed nerve‑ends and, since it was
clear that I would require further surgery in 6‑9 months time, it was
decided that I could be sent to a hospital nearer my home. When I had recovered
sufficiently, I was transferred to an orthopaedic hospital in Exeter for
further treatment. In the Spring of 1945, I had a further long operation to
suture the rear posterior nerve. My leg was enclosed In a long plaster from
thigh to ankle bent at the knee. Some weeks later the plaster was cut at the
knee, and a screw rod inserted. The rod was gradually unscrewed over the next
few weeks allowing the leg to straighten as the nerve ends grew and knitted together.
Between operations, life in a
civilian hospital was quite pleasant. In Scotland, card‑schools quickly
assembled around the participating bed‑cases during the afternoon and
early evening, and I quickly completed my apprenticeship In pontoon, solo, nap,
and two forms of both brag and 'Slippery Sam', paying my way from loans from
home: patients did not receive full Army pay while in hospital. Once one had
recovered sufficiently, and here it must be recalled that those with orthopaedic
problems were otherwise in good physical condition, we were allowed to visit
Glasgow any afternoon providing we were back in the ward by 8.30 pm.
Unfortunately, we had to wear hospital 'blues' which made us very conspicuous,
but this carried the advantage that we could get into most cinemas in the
afternoon free or at a reduced admission charge, and were treated very
generously on buses and in pubs. (As a southerner, I must say with regret, that
the treatment of Service personnel in Scotland and the North of England was far
better than in the West Country. If I travelled by bus during the time I was on
crutches In Scotland, I was immediately offered a seat. I am afraid I cannot
say that this was invariably the case in Exeter or Taunton. ) On one famous
occasion, as was our usual practice. some of us dropped Into a pub next to the
Glasgow bus station for a quick drink before catching the last bus that would
allow us to arrive back by the dead‑line of 8. 30 pm. ‑ which was
about 7. 15. Shortly after we arrived, someone came down from an upstairs
function room to ask us in for a drink. Here we found a dozen or so men of the
local Showmen's Guild who ordered a round of drinks ‑ mostly a 'half and half'
(half a gill of whiskey and half a pint of beer) which they left on the table
and departed saying 'enjoy yourselves'. Despite assistance from those in the
bar, most was left untouched but, by this time, we had missed our bus and had
to wait an hour for the next. On arrival at Killearn, rather the worse for
wear, we were confronted by a corporal (attached to the hospital to deal with
military matters, such as pay, uniform, leave arrangements) who we pretended
not to recognize. On entering the ward, we were then confronted by the medical
superintendent of the hospital who had also been informed of our absence. What
followed was all rather hilarious,
particularly when, in the morning, we were marched in on crutches before an
officer from a local unit to face charges of insubordination and 2 hours
absence without leave. The evening, of which 1 have given a suitably bowdlerized
version, was well worth the punishment of
seven days loss of pay.
Hospital life in Exeter was
even more pleasant, particularly since I was relatively near home. However.
while waiting for my next operation, I was sent to a sort of convalescent home
in a large country house near Honiton, (now an hotel), operated jointly by the
Red Cross and St John Ambulance. Here a number of patients, all ambulant,
ranging in number from a mere six or seven to some twenty to thirty, enjoyed
the life of country gentlemen, eating in some state in the dining room,
relaxing in the large entry hall cum lounge or billiard‑room, or walking
in the extensive grounds. Apart from the usual card games, I made up a bridge
'four' with some Polish servicemen, who also tried to teach me to ski during
one coldspell. Transport was provided to take us to Honiton or to the bus stop,
if necessary, and I could get week‑end leave fairly easily. The
attractions of hospital life were increased by the presence of a number of
pretty nurses with one of whom I became very friendly.
Institutional life,
particularly when it is pleasant, debilates and it was perhaps fortunate that
my transfer back to Exeter to another hospital provided the motivation to get
back into the real world. Earlier, In April, 1945 I was given a medical
discharge from the army and, rather late in the day, one of the medical
assessors stated that with my eyesight, I should not have been in a tank
regiment to start with. I finally returned home to Taunton in July, 1945,
immediately rejoining the Admiralty Chart Establishemnt. I had further out‑patient
treatment for a another two years during which time I received a full
disability pension. However, within a few weeks, I was able to move around
fairly freely, dance and play tennis despite a continuing weakness, loss of
movement and sensation, and a wound that took several months to heal.
It says much for the surgeons
of the day that, within a few years, my right ankle was as strong as my left,
and that no lasting damage was caused. A far cry from 1914‑18 when
peripheral nerve injuries invariably left the unfortunate person with a
paralysed limb. An interesting footnote to this is that some months after I
left Killearn, I received a letter from the hospital asking whether I thought I
would have better‑off if my limb had been amputated. I should add that
all of us who survived wounds in Normandy were grateful that, by Spring 1944,
penicillin was available. Orthopaedic and surgical wards in 1944‑45 still
had many Service patients with injuries from earlier campaigns that had become
and remained infected for considerable periods. If I remember correctly, the
use of penicillin was restricted initially to the armed forces.
Social
Change
How did WW2 affect our lives?.
Presumably, family life was greatly changed by WW1, and the casualties were
certainly greater, but it seems to me that the social changes arising from WW2
were far more dramatic. My family were Londoners and had been so for
generations. and the various branches regularly visited each other and gathered
together for family occasions. By the end of the War, both our immediate and
extended family group had been dispersed and never again had the cohesion it
enjoyed earlier. At the same time, the social condition of most branches of the
family had probably improved. My father was an ex‑regular soldier,
leaving the army in 1919 to join the Admiralty as a clerical officer. Promotion
In the Civil Service during the inter‑war years was based on seniority,
and as an exceptionally able person, he suffered a great deal of frustration
because of the Civil Service custom of basing promotion on seniority rather
than merit, not achieving promotion until 1938. During the war his career
blossomed receiving two further promotions in successive years, by‑passing
almost all of his former senior officers. He ended up in 1945 as Superintendent
of Chart Supplies in the Admiralty, with a staff of some seven hundred both at
home and abroad, the MBE and a commendation from the Naval Force H Commander.
The disturbance to family
life, and the loss of contact with loved ones was severe. My immediate family
provides just one example. My brother was posted to India as a lieutenant in
the Royal Signals at the age of 21, and returned to England in 1947 as a major,
married with two children. My mother missed the marriage of one son, and the
pleasure of seeing her first grandchildren as young babies. She clearly
suffered more from the disturbance to her home and family life than my father
whose life was enriched by the his career success and the greater
responsibilities he was given. She had to move from a large house in Edgware
where she had the companionship of two maiden sisters, to firstly a rented
house and then to a small house in Taunton where, unlike my father, she had to
make new friends. At the same time, she had to suffer the absence in the army
of two of her three sons with the continual worry that they may not return.
When one considers the long
separations endured, and the many hardships suffered by many families during
WW2, all of my generation must feel sickened by the present talk of the
counselling needed by the families that experienced only a few weeks separation
during the brief Gulf War and more recently in Bosnia.
How did one's expectations
alter as a result of WW2? Pre‑war, I cannot recall any serious
consideration on my part on what might lay ahead for me when I left
school. However, if I had done so, assuming that I had passed the School
Certificate examination sufficiently well, I would have been fortunate to get a
junior post in a bank or in the Civil Service: competition was fierce for this
type of safe job. Even if I were successful, promotion would have been slow,
and the best I could have expected later, on marriage, would have been to buy
or rent a small 'semi' somewhere near my parents in North London. Even then, an
adolescent's life in suburbia seemed very dreary with only the excitement of
going to the 'flicks' two or three times a week in which to look forward. 1 had
a religious mother who made sure that I attended church regularly and carried
out various church tasks. Since I went to a boys' school, I had no contact with
the opposite sex and, indeed, the only time I actually met a girl was at church
or at infrequent church functions. On the other hand, life in the family's four‑bedroomed
detached house was comfortable, and we always enjoyed good holidays on the
South Coast.
In retrospect WW2, as for many
others of my generation, relieved me of the tedium of lower‑middle class
existence and gave us a new exciting world and interests, with the prospect of
frequent change and, in the event, put me on the path to a reasonably
successful career in the Admiralty/MOD with the opportunity for travel both in
Europe and in USA. I started work In the then still beautiful and unspoilt city
of Exeter. I had an interesting job with a host of young female colleagues(the
office having expanded rapidly just prior to the War with an influx of young
female clerical officers and assistants), all living away from home for the
first time. Weekends were spent cycling in the countryside and on the coast,
and there were weekly dances, cinemas and, for the first time, pubs . War
seemed a long way away until Exeter was blitzed later In 1941. By this time, we
had moved to Taunton which was pleasant but not so attractive as Exeter, at
least until after the latter had been bombed.
However, by then the pace of war had increased, we were working
long hours (officially 9am ‑ 6.30pm, but often much later) with frequent
overtime, Saturday afternoon and Sunday, fire‑watching or Home Guard
duty. Senior staff had beds in their offices and staff on night duty would
think nothing of working at their tables for some 18 hours a day. Nevertheless,
the younger members of the staff seemed to find plenty of entertainment ‑
even a small town such as Taunton had three cinemas, and two good dance halls.
In the case of the young men, they had the prospect of yet further change and
excitement in joining the armed forces although, in retrospect, this could come
could prove to be a disappointment with its petty stupidities and many hours of
pure boredom.
When VJ day finally came, I
think that we all felt great relief followed by a sense of anti‑climax in
the recognition that the stimulation and excitement of life in the war years,
and the prospect of frequent change, had come to an end. In fact, our fears
became only too well founded and during the period of austerity and the
uncertainties of the immediate post‑war years everyday life seemed very
grey and boring with austerity, power cuts and continued food and petrol
rationing.
In dealing with change I have
inevitably dealt with war in a very personal way. What of social change in a
more general sense? The most striking perhaps, and yet the most understandable,
was in relation to housing. it seemed to me that although new suburbs with
cheap modern houses for sale were growing fast before WW2, there was still an
immense stock of houses to rent. Renting gave more flexibility but, as in our
case, rents could be higher then mortgages on many comparable new houses. In
those days, there was no expectation that house prices would rise and both pre‑war
and during the war years houses could be purchased at a discount on the new
price. The situation was slightly different in the provinces but did not differ
vastly in principle. By the time I got married in 1951, the only hope of
obtaining a house of one's own was to purchase at a greatly inflated price or
put one's name on the Council's waiting list!
What of the promise of a brave
new world? Left‑wing propaganda had been evident in Army education, but
there was a general recognition except among the die‑hard conservatives
that, post‑war, greater state involvement was necessary to provide a more
equitable distribution of wealth and of educational, medical and welfare
services; and that certain essential industries should be nationalized. To most
of us, this did not seem terribly radical but merely a case of building further
on the foundations of Keynesian policies introduced by the national government
during the war.
In
response to a request from Peter Beale, Doug elaborated on some aspects of “My
War”. Of particular interest is his account of the embarkation and the period
immediately before it.
1 was posted to
Charing along with another Driver/Op, a
young Welshman named Bowen who, when I left for Aldershot, had been assigned to
drive the MO's half‑track. I often wondered how he had fared because on
arrival he had the same limited driving experience as I had ‑ which did
not include half‑tracks. I was billeted in a house in Charing High Street
and it was quite pleasant to walk past the church to Pett Place every day. Initially
I was assigned to work with the HQ tanks and, in the main, I seemed to spend my
time carrying out routine maintenance work. But the weather was good and it was
enjoyable to walk to and from the tank park through the woods which, towards
the end, were full of bluebells.
At one stage, possibly in late March/April,
we went by train to Hove for exercises on the South Downs. Here I acted as the
wireless operator on one of the Command tanks.
I found the loading of the tanks In the sidings at night, particularly
those that were entrained first, a very hair‑raising experience because
we were expected either to guide the tanks from one flat rail‑truck to
another, walking backwards or, even worse, to stand below on one side or the
other shining a torch underneath to show the 'guide' how far the tracks were
protruding over the side of the rail‑trucks. Even with the removal of the
air louvres ( another back‑breaking task), there were some 5‑8
inches overlap. After detraining at Brighton Station, I recall seeing the tank in
front of ours, using too much rudder on the smooth tarmac surface, neatly slicing
a lamp post in half and driving on as if nothing had happened.
The next day the tanks were driven to the
Downs, and we travelled daily to and from there by truck to our billets In
Hove. Social life in the Brighton/Hove area was an improvement on Charing ‑
dancing at the Pavilion and in the dance hall above the (? Odeon) cinema, free
sea water baths at the public baths at Hove and a good soldiers' club run by
the local, wealthy Jewish community. Shortly after our return to Charing, there
was an increase In the social life there also, including a Squadron cricket
match on a village green followed by entertainment at the local pub (is this
where you held the reunions?) before our departure to North Camp, Aldershot.
After spending some time helping with the waterproofing of the HQ Churchills, I
was transferred to the I/C Troop, which , as part of the advance party, was
shortly afterwards moved to a field opposite to the Army School of Hygiene.
Here we lived in tents enjoying the
early summer weather including
bathing at a nearby lake and a day's leave in London during Ascot week.
I only became aware that Ascot was still being held when I saw a crowd of
people in their pre‑war finery waiting for trains. Quite frankly, It
seemed unbelievable that such an event should he held when millions of people
were dying In Europe and elsewhere, and many more were about to get killed In
the Second Front.
To the best of my memory, the
advance party consisted of six Humber scout cars, all of which ware harboured in
the trees running along the field. Here we remained for a week or so until D‑Day.
Once air activity intensified an the morning of Tuesday, 6th June, we guessed
that the invasion was underway and turned on our 19 sets and got confirmation
that this was so from the regular BBC newscasts. We assumed that our departure
was imminent and this seemed to be confirmed when we were issued with
ammunition for our personal weapons.
However, it was not until three days later, on Friday, 9th June,
that we ware assembled by the troop commander and told that we would be leaving
for an assembly point that night (destination not stated), and given a few of
the 'new' Occupation Francs. We moved off in a small convoy late at night and
by day‑light. I recognized Staples Corner on the North Circular Road and
thought that we were taking a roundabout route to London docks. In fact, we
ended up a huge tented‑camp on Wanstead Flats, which presumably had been
one of the main assembly points for
the D‑Day troops. Unlike our
predecessors, we were allowed to leave the camp on both the two days (the
Saturday and the Sunday) that we were awaiting to embark for France.
Early on Monday we drove in
convoy to London docks where our transport, a Liberty ship, was ready to embark
us. However, because of the the dockers overtime ban, we had to wait for two
days for our cars to be loaded and to
embark ourselves, bedding down at night in an empty warehouse. We
embarked on Wednesday, 14th June. sailed finally the next day, but only got to the mouth of the Thames.
Here we anchored off (surprisingly) Leigh‑on‑Sea for the night
while a large convoy including ships with barrage balloons assembled.
We sailed late that night with
a small escort, arriving off the Isle of Wight in the morning. Here one could see
an almost continuous line of small
craft, LCT's etc, as well as a number of larger ships such as LSTs. We
arrived off the beach‑head In the early afternoon, and our cars and the
soft vehicles belonging to the War Graves Commission were loaded onto a LCT.
Larger vehicles were unloaded onto a type of floating platform constructed
apparently from blocks of concrete. One 30cwt truck complete with its trailer
came to grief while being unloaded ( it was difficult to understand why the
trailer was not detached for unloading).
As I explained in "My
War', the landing on Graye‑Sur‑Mer was uneventful although it took
the CO of the LCT sometime to find a shallow beach for the GC's cars ‑ I
do not think he could have been too successful because we seemed to have landed
In about 3 feet of water. Graye‑Sur‑Mer seemed to be a small,
seaside resort with a sandy beach and dunes. Immediately we reached shore, the
waterproofing was removed with, improperly, the sand bags. we were required to
have in the car to provide protection from landmines. By this time we had lost
touch with the other cars who must have landed further along the coast, but we
had a rendezvous point which we were attempting to reach when we were waved
aside by an MP on point duty (because the King and Montgomery were passing by).
I cannot remember precisely
what happened next, but eventually we met up with the remainder of the I/C
Troop in a field in Villiers‑le‑Sec. Here we stayed until 25th June During this time, we explored a bit of
the country and on one occasion, took
Lt Wolskel to either the Brigade, Divisional or Army HQ located in a very large
chateau somewhere near Bayeux. During our travels we saw many burnt‑out
tanks, hastily‑dug graves (some with limbs still showing above the
ground).
The only briefing we received was on the night before the first
attack on Caen when we were told that we ware supporting the 15th Scottish
Division, and that an artillery barrage would commence that night to hide the
sound of the tanks moving into position. I was given the radio frequency to use
and, for the first time that we were in France,
we established a regimental net. That night we went forward to a point near the
Regimental HQ, and slept next to our car.
The next morning, our position was attacked by mortar which caused me to he unusually
quick with my toilet ‑ I didn't went to be caught with 'my pants down'!
From this point, we carried out a few trips with Lt. Wolskel, during which it
proved impossible to maintain radio contact. After the attack on a German
strong‑post that I mention in " My War", we returned to a new
HQ where I took off my new set of tank overalls ( supplied just before D Day)
In order to dig fox‑holes to use that night. Before this chore had been
completed, and before I had time to replace my overall (which held my Field
Dressing) , Lt Wolskel told us that we had to leave immediately to round up
some tanks for a further attack on Caen that night.
After travelling some way (incidentally passing a group of
Shermans on a hill firing at the enemy ‑ a war photographer must have
been near‑by to record the scene since I have seen it reproduced in
several accounts of the Normandy operation), we attempted to by‑pass a
mass of SP‑guns and other vehicles moving up by driving across a corn‑field.
As I have already explained, we were blown‑up twice but only the driver
and I were wounded. Lt Wolskel went for help while we hauled ourselves out of
the car as best and as quickly as we could in case it exploded.
By this time, both of us wore
bleeding profusely and could not stand or walk unaided. Lt Wolskel came back
with some Canadians who half‑carried us back to their unit, a few hundred
yards away. Here I was slated for not having my own first‑aid dressing
available, but the Sergeant who dressed my wounds kindly used his own, and in
due course we were taken by field ambulance to the tented Bayeux Hospital which
was still under sniper fire.