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Memories Of A Nobody

By

Trooper Alex Crombie ( Jock)_ Cordiner

Raised on a bleak hillside overlooking the wild North Sea in north east Scotland, England was to me a remote colony until war took me to Beverley, Yorkshire at the end of an eleven hour train journey.

Laden with the accoutrements of war I staggered into my hut exactly. as 'lights out' sounded. Vainly I tried to make order out of chaos on my upper bunk. eventually crying myself to sleep on top of the heap. A German land mine exploding nearby broke the night into two miserable halves. Farewell boy, Welcome soldier !

Six weeks later I was moved to Catterick which was, by comparison, a holiday camp. The grub was like a holiday camp offering , too. The weekly parcel from Scotland containing a loaf of bread and other edibles was a major event. I missed my mother.

The ‘powers' having concluded what I was able to do least badly sent me to train as a driver operator. I drove as well as most and was quite exceptional at morse (for what that was worth in the tank business). Very early I was banned from using guns as I had taken out a Pennines shepherd's hut with a six pounder without (a) permission to do so, (b) checking that he was far away, and (c)without aiming at it. I thought the 'powers' were a wee bit unfair to me as drivers regularly dismantled bits of Richmond's houses without much fuss. Maybe the shepherd wasn't insured?

While at Catterick they sent me to a Pre-O.C.T.U. I could hear them think “He's no good at anything, better make him an officer." I failed (again). My table etiquette was not good enough. There might have been other reasons.

I did not care for Westcliff On Sea, Essex, the next posting. Living in evacuated riverside bungalows was high life, but it was a ghost town with much too much Gerry visitation via the Thames en route to and from London.

Charing, Kent was heaven. Maybe it always has been. Even today it is pretty heavenly. For the first time I began to feel that I belonged to something, and experienced a little pride in being a soldier, albeit in a foreign land with a weird assortment of 'odd bods' whose tongues were equally foreign. I was still trying to understand the humour of Syd, my Cockney mate way back in Beverley “ We won't be round tomorra lidy, the donkey's pissed on the Straaawberries”. This plaintive cry of the costermonger had many variations.

My unhappiest memory of Kent was preparing the vehicles for invasion. I never, ever want to see, smell, or touch BOSTIK again. Underwater practice in that lake was fun, though.

And so to Gosport. Trooper Cordiner and Corporal Brady united until death us do part. What joker paired us in the confines of a Humber Scout car? We had as much in common as Laurel and Hardy and looked like them. One thing we had in common was a mutual dislike of each other.

That Sunday morning on the outskirts of Gosport the outlook was very unfriendly. Then I espied a house called Bennachie. There's only one Bennachie, a prominent hill hear Aberdeen. Scruffy me knocked at the door. A haughty maid answered and attempted to slam the door. No hope here, I thought, until in answer to my "I come from the back of Bennachie” came the answer from Madame ‑ "Bring the gentleman in, Lottie". Breakfast was served for me and a few mates, breakfast as we had never known it. The lady, it transpired, had been born and raised at the back of Bennachie.

The 'Big Dipper' ride to Normandy was unforgettable. The Yankee crew were prepared to feed us like lords, but the pitching of that flat bottomed bucket, plus galley smells mingled with those from the engine room, was too much for us all. We lay a'deck, nauseated, drenched, and ready to die ‑ no, not for King and country ‑ just die !

We got there, however. Coming ashore Brad and I had the dubious honour of leading a column along the road going inland from the beach. Our instructions were very clear ‑ to turn right at the first crossroads and after a certain distance go into a tree lined field on the left. Approaching the crossroads a sergeant M.P. waved us straight on. I indicated right (Brad was driving). As we drew alongside there was a furious argument between the M.P. and me, but we stuck to our plans. We were later told that the M.P. was a German, though I can't vouch for the truth of that.

Normandy was a mixture of blood, sweat and tears most of it best forgotten. Eventually I transferred to A Squadron and crewed a Churchill with Lieut Jake Waters, Gunner Samways, Driver Bill Grace. and co-driver Reg Furness, along with others from time to time. Then followed a spell on a fitters halftrack, and back to A. In particular. I remember the loss of very good friends. notably Clifford Smale (A) on 5.8.44 at Etregy, Normandy, Sgt. Bill Turner (H.Q.Fitters) on 10.8.44 at Cagny, Normandy, and Lieut. Leslie Wintle (A) on 5.10.44 at St. Omer.

Normandy was a confusing place with German tanks popping up in the unlikeliest places. Their superior armour and fire power made life miserable for us. Often there seemed to be utter confusion, but how much I did not realise until reading the regimental diary many years later. Reading it I wondered how we ever managed to achieve anything. The Germans must have been worse.

Snipers bothered me. I liked to see the enemy, though not the whites of his eyes. On one journey along a wooded lane an infantry officer scrambled from a ditch , urgently telling us that a sniper had his entire company pinned down, pointing to the tree where the villain was hidden before diving back to safety. A rapid Besa sweep of the upper branches produced nothing but firewood. My intrepid gunner then proceeded to demolish the tree and with it the offender. We had our uses.

Mosquitoes in parts of Normandy more than bothered me. Was it by the river Orne or the Odon?. We were stopped on the bank while the Guards in gleaming Shermans passed through to be picked up easily and well nigh decimated. Most of us sat on the river bed all night, water up to our chins, to avoid the 'Mossies'.

Dead cows nauseated me, but fortunately we had a gunner who had been a butcher in Zoomerzet. If a cow was newly dead and not badly destroyed Sam could produce lovely steaks. That made a welcome change from M and V cooked inside a Churchill gun barrel or on the engine deck.

Some idiot officer (we had a few) severely reprimanded me for milking a stray cow. I was stealing, he said, and he was not impressed when I explained I was doing the bloated cow a favour. He must have been 'udder‑wise’ engaged when common sense was dished out. 'He' was not Major Mockford, one of my all time favourites. I wonder if he still drives a Green Line bus?

Mortar bombs gave me the creeps. On Hill 112 1 had gone some 200 yards to the loo, that delightful hole in the middle of nowhere topped with a wooden seat and surrounded by a canvas screen. No sooner was I comfortable than a 'moaning minnie' attack started. I dashed for cover. my pants around my legs and my shirt tail flapping in the breeze, jeered and cheered by half the squadron.

Just before that incident, while still with H.Q., Brad and I had dug holes and were asleep behind the lines. It was raining hard and our holes were sodden, but safe. We were wakened by the Duty Officer and ordered to drive to Hill 112 with something very urgent. We were groping our way. along the black lanes when a severe air attack started. We both dived out of the Humber into a ditch on top of a few startled infantrymen. When the raid moved on we did also. As we came uphill towards the tanks a bomb or shell caught an ammunition dump just off the road and almost simultaneously another hit a fuel dump on the other side of the road. We were silhouetted, roasted, and in severe danger of being blown apart. I never knew a Humber could be driven so fast.

I liked Typhoons‑ the sight of them diving towards enemy targets lifted my spirits a lot. At least somebody up there remembered us.

Somebody 'up there' might not have liked us for breaking His commandments, one in particular. Stopped by a derelict house some idiot fancied a radio which he saw in the middle of a room. Fearing to enter because of booby traps he enlisted the help of his crew. It took a long time to find a suitable plank and lever it through the shattered window to the radio. It took longer to lasso the radio. At last the long. careful pull began, our eyes peeping above the window sill. Surviving a few near accidents the booty came to within a few inches of the longest arms when it fell to the floor and sustained serious damage.

The recce boys had a wood to examine and were minus a co driver. I volunteered. Being faster than a Churchill I found the Honey great fun until the gunner traversed left 45 degrees and I found my‑escape route out off. Where there had been an opening up to the turret was now a wall. How do I get out of this blankety- blank thing if anything goes wrong I enquired on the intercom. Back came the laconic answer you don't. My Honey‑moon was over.

Getting out of bocage country was a relief. I was enjoying an observer's role of a major air raid by our lads on a forest until the bombers bombed the smoke drifting back over us. It seemed that our number might be up until a passing Lysander managed to communicate with the bombers and get them back on target. I was immensely cheered by the youngster who staggered uphill and surrendered to us, petrified. The enemy suffered from terror too.

Falaise was a big event for a lot of people. At demob I went back to the Baptist Church at Peterhead and built a close friendship with Otto a German P.O.W. who was still incarcerated nearby. Discussing the war over a meal one day I learned that he had been captured at Falaise, by his description probably only yards from me. What was it all about?

Le Havre too was memorable. My legs were cooked standing thigh deep in hot shell cases. Stopping briefly in Bolbec later there were other memorable events. First, while sunning ourselves in the square there was without warning a massive explosion nearby. The square emptied faster than Aberdeen on a Flag Day. It was reported that a huge naval gun sited on the coast had been turned round on us.

Also at Bolbec a few of us gate‑crashed an F.F.I. trial of collaborators. We were besieged by men and women begging us to save their lives. We tried but the shooting went on in the back yard. It was a painful experience as we were convinced that not all the victims could have been guilty.. No evidence or witnesses were produced. It seemed a good time for those who held power to be rid of people they disliked.

Camouflaging tanks by demolishing half the trees in Europe was clean exercise. Cooking with biscuit tin (well aerated) filled with petrol soaked earth could be fun. Sleeping under Churchills was safe, until some subsided in torrential rain. The welcomes and comforts arising from liberating war weary people was great. Against that, the utter devastation loss of property and life was immensely depressing. Even, later on. the sight of vast crowds clogging all the roads in Germany failed to boost morale much. Even Germans were human (S.S. and a few others excepted). We soon learned that hatred cannot go on for ever.

From Belgium I conjure up one memory both good and bad. In the mining village of Swartberg the Gressens family fed us with a seemingly endless supply of steak and chips. They were obviously extremely poor but we were their liberators and this feast was conjured up, no expense spared. The Yanks were in the area too, and they gave us a fabulous welcome in their 'local'. All was fine until we took in as guests a group of black Americans. We were told they wore not allowed in the whites pub. We made them stay and a free‑for‑all fight took place. After that we found it impossible to respect white Americans,

Roosendaal was very special. My billet was with Jac Guns a railway signalman, his extremely fat and excitable wife and three adorable young daughters. Mama Guns spent most of the month in the cupboard under the stair. Even a bursting balloon could send her there screaming to the delight of her family and guests.

I revisited the Guns family on Coronation Day 1953 in the village of Maarheeze south of Eindhoven. The whole village turned out to greet me. I still retain contacts though Papa and Mama Guns are dead.

About Roosendaal time four of commandeered an unusual form of transport. It was a railway surface workers' trolley, propelled along the rails by, moving the handle to and fro. Once we got the hang of it we travelled a fair distance very fast, but we found an easier form of transport home. Luckily there were no trains running at that time.

I have been in Eindhoven a few times since 1944. most notably as the guest of the mayor on the occasion of the 20th celebration of liberation. My hosts were overwhelmingly kind ‑ the lady of the house belonged toLiverpool and newly married when the Germans invaded Holland she had been left without her husband in a strange land. The day of liberation was something very special to her.

Other Dutch friends ( the link came through the Guns at Maarheeze) now live in Son, a few kilometres north of Eindhoven. Jac Smits until retirement was a Philips manager at Best where I remember taking cover in the outsize fridge in a factory during heavy enemy shelling. I at least kept very cool.

How could an ordinary bod like me describe Cambrai Day? Magic? I loved being served byofficers. It did my inferiority complex a lot of good.

The Brunssum/ Geilenchirchen area I certainly did not like. Parked much too close to the enemy in mud, mud, mud, existing when not on lookout in the cold damp, dark cellar of a ruined house was awful. The pile of mouldy potatoes in the cellar came in handy, but with restrictions on sound and choked by cooking smoke in our underground cell the days and nights were never‑ending. I never heard a satisfactory explanation for the muffled footsteps heard one night outside our tiny ground level window as we crouched silently waiting for the grenade which never came. It was an eerie. creepy place.

Liege (Seraing) was the place of V1s. I arrived at our billet a little later than my. mates (can't remember why). I joined them and the Belgian family around the large kitchen table and a game of cards. A screaming noise sent me diving under the table fearing the explosion which never came. I was alone, looking at legs and hearing general laughter. Someone eventually was good enough to tell me that the loud explosion which I had just ignored was the screaming thing which seconds later had set me diving. That took a long time to live down.

The village of Hestreux Tavier a few miles from Liege was a total contrast. In my billet there was an attractive young daughter, Madelaine, with whom I kept contact for some years. Her elder sister was having a difficult pregnancy. Two of us were given permission to walk a mile or two downhill to the nearest pharmacy for medicine. We were warned to beware of wild boar, but nothing else was expected to confront us. Off we set in the beautiful clean deep snow. After getting the medicine we repaired to the 'local' for a pint before commencing the long haul uphill. In the cafe we exchanged ‑Pleasantries with some Yanks who did seem to ask an awful lot of searching questions. We reported this on our return to Hestreux Tavier to learn later that no Americans were in that area. But Germans in American uniform were and seemingly I had encountered these for the second time in my short career. Of course there was no danger on this occasion.

I was no. 4 on the resumed squadron leave list and left for Blighty from Hestreux Tavier The lorry and train journey in mid winter was painful taking 24 hours to reach Calais. I had my introduction to Customs dodging. Someone offered me a drink of spirits in the train. He had a lot of bottles. I thought he was being charitable : to a point he was, but he needed to break all the seals and sample the wares. The loot which came down the gangplank at Dover had to be seen. I was walking with a naval rating and he was called to open his case. Protesting that it contained the ship's cat he opened it and out jumped the ship’s cat. He was furious, shouting that the Captain would kill him if his favourite cat was lost. I waited while he ran back after it. Presently he came racing back and went straight to the same Customs Officer asking if he wanted to see the cat again. A flustered officer chalked his case and waved him on. In the train I enquired about the cat. My grinning friend opened the case to reveal cameras, watches and much else, but no cat. "They stop all navy boys," he said, 'so you have to try something special." He assured me that the cat would by now be safely back on the ship.

On the last night of my leave I landed in hospital. After release a few days later I expected to return to the 9th. but no, I was ordered to Catterick. As a senior 'boy' among rookies I was soon given a posting to the far east and off I set to Glasgow Docks with a sergeant. There he was accepted but I was not because my papers actually were made out to a unit ‘somewhere in Europe.' I coaxed the R.T.O. to give me a rail warrant to Dover, but Dover for the same reason (that I should have embarked at Glasgow) would not take me. Acting on the buck‑passing principle they sent me to Harwich.

At Harwich I learned that transport to Europe had been stopped temporarily. The Naval Base came to my rescue and, oddly it was the Officers Mess who fed and bedded me for the night. They were apparently chuffed to speak to somebody who wasn't naval. and they plied me with questions all evening about what was happening 'out there’. What a pity this experience had to end for me. The following afternoon I was back in Dover being rejected once more. I had had enough sightseeing, because travelling in prevailing conditions had a downside. "Send me across or I go A.W.O.L.!! I snapped. It then became the easiest thing for the overworked embarkation authorities to put me on a boat.

At Calais, predictably, the R.T.O. would not allow me on an eastbound train. I joined the next one out by walking up the rails and climbing on at the wrong side, Next day we ran out of usable railway track and I took to my feet. Every time I met anyone in uniform, of whatever nationality the conversation went something like this : "Have you seen any British Tanks lately?"

"Yes."

"Churchills?"

"What do they look like?". I explained.

"No. I haven't seen them."

It took a while. I saw a lot of Holland, but eventually I found Germany and the 9th. If I expected a hero’s welcome I was bitterly disappointed. I was put on a fizzer for being A.W.O.L. Eventually my papers made some sense to somebody and some clever Dick told me that I could stay in the 9th although really I did not belong to them... it was very good practice for the years I was to spend in the Civil Service.

Happily, I had missed the Reichswald Forest ‘do’.

To Bentheim Castle and V.E. Day, forbidden fraternisation at Gronau (the cornfields were reasonably safe), and to the barracks on the Dortmund Ens canal guarding Displaced Persons. There were about 16000 D.P.s, about half of them Russian who had their own Colonel Commandant. He regularly held trials in the barrack square and shot those he didn't like. Many of the Russians were terrified to be returned to Russia and history records why.

Burgsteinfurt (dubbed by the British Press the 'Village Of Hate’) was not, unsurprisingly, a pleasant place. Was it at nearby Westerkappeln that we scraped millions of insects from the cornfields off our billet walls?

Onward to Luthe where we repatriated thousands of German P.O.Ws. They came by train from all sectors, were ‘housed' in fields according to their home destination, were deloused and documented then taken to the local station and sent home. Unofficially, they were relieved of much of the loot they had taken from others.

The pen holding members of the S.S. was to be approached with caution. They were like rottweilers. Some got out and took to the river. affording us target practice.

On again to Wunsdorf and Hannover. We enjoyed the Sally Ann facilities by the lake in the middle of Hannover, opera at the beautiful Herrenhausen Theatre, short leave passes to Steinhude Meer and boating on the lake., One of my assistants many years later, a German naturalised British, confirmed that she had been a teenager living in the next village when I stayed at the lakeside camp.

Finally. for the 9th, to the Harz Mountains and more lovely, deep snow. Not so lovely, though, when we were regularly employed on night shift trying to prevent murderous and pillaging D.P's from descending to the remote villages from their hideouts in the densely wooded hills. I was lucky. L/Corporal John Edwards, the last remaining clerk in the squadron, departed. In response to the despairing appeal for people with administrative experience I got his job, and with it his sumptuous apartments in the schloss, the Duchess owner having already been moved to the gatehouse. It was sheer luxury and I was a free agent as long as I worked all my waking hours seven days a week and kept my new officer i/c happy.

Roger had a major problem (no pun intended). It was the time of mass demob, which meant he had loads of testimonials to write about men he mostly didn't know. 1 wrote them ‑ belated apologies to any ex A Squadron chap who didn't much care for what was said. In my defence I quote the National Bard : “ O wad some power the giftie gie us tae see ourselves as ithers see us.”

There was little of the regiment left when Roger arranged a plum posting for me for services rendered ‑ as a Lance Sergeant to the 5th Royal Inniskillen Dragoon Guards. With deep regret I declined. They were the wallahs who painted everything in sight, even their beds. I couldn't stomach that much 'bull', not even for three stripes.

Apart from occasional visits to and from my co‑driver Reg Furness of Burton-on-Trent

( now Nottingham) and driver Bill Grace in Cornwall I lost track of former 9th personnel. In 1990 1 regained contact and attended the first annual reunion to be held at Charing and Stalisfield.It was great to meet John Edwards again though I couldn't assure him, in

reply to his enquiry, that I was still in touch with the Duchess.

I shared a table at 'The Plough' with W.A.Mitchell and his wife Anne. Forty five years had done our memories no good but on production of old photos memories flooded back. Amazingly, Mitch reminded me that he and I and four others left 'A’ together for the 52nd Recce Regiment.

Three months later when the 52nd disbanded I joined the Lothian and Border Horse, and three months later on their disbandment I joined the staff of a very large Holding Unit, first at Bielefeld and then Osnabruck, Throughout these shifts I insisted on the right to continue to wear the R.T.R. badges and the Qui s'y Frotte honours.

Shortly after demob. I read of the death of Trooper Jock Wallace as the result of a motor bike accident near Aberdeen. I went to the service, was asked who I was, and was immediately given a leading role in honour of the 9th of which his family had heard so much good.

A final thought: The war was won by a very large army of nobodies, people like me who didn't individually seem to count for much. To quote Milton : They also serve who only stand and wait. Long live the spirit of the 9^th!