JOHN POWELL RECOLLECTIONS

LETTER FROM JOHN POWELL TO PETER BEALE 7 January 1993

Herewith a few notes on distant memories of my days with the 9th RTR ‑ March '43 to July '44. 1 understand from Ray Gordon that you are intending to compile a regimental history before the rest of us pop our clogs. If the notes are of any help I shall be delighted. In any case I must congratulate you on your enterprise: I have read many histories of the Normandy campaign but few portray our experiences with any accuracy. One of the better books, which you probably know, is 'Hill 112' by Major JJ How MC, (William Kimber, 1984) but even his account doesn't say much about the 9th.

You probably have a copy of Michelin's 40th anniversary nap 102, 'Bataille de Normandie' but if not let me know. Also, I shall be visiting Normandy in June '93 so if there are any particular scenes that you would like photographed for publishing or personal reasons I will try to oblige if you let me know. (I do a little photo‑journalism in my spare time so the results should be adequate!) Anything more that I can do, don't hesitate to get in touch. Look forward to buying the finished work in the fullness of time. Good luck to your venture.

Best wishes,

Sincerely,

John H Powell

Recollections: ex‑Trooper John Powell. 14219450. 'B' Squadron 9th

Btn.RTR

Why 9th RTR?

Volunteered for RAC in summer '42, trained at 58th Training Regt. Bovington. On completion of training offered posting to a variety of cavalry regiments and 7th or 9th RTR. Didn't fancy the recce work of the cavalry, admired the 'new' Churchill tank, and hearing from friends that the 9th was a decent sort of regiment, chose that.

Preparation March '43 ‑ June 144

Joined the regiment at Charing, Kent. Based in Nissen huts at the top of Charing Hill, an idyllic spot in the summer of '43 but bitterly cold for night‑time guard duty during the winter months. The village bakery in Charing village was always helpful to hungry tankies who called in at the crack of dawn to scrounge hot loaves and eat 'em on the spot. The training regime in Charing was fairly relaxed and pleasant. Parades were rarely of the bullshit variety and P.E. exercises differentiated between we teenage lads and the ancient 'over‑thirties': anyway, who needed P.E. after humping Churchill engine air‑louvres on and off? We mostly enjoyed our work in our various trades: I was a wireless operator ‑ an extra 3d per day for mastering the standard '19' set and learning about VHF! ‑ and disliked only the regular morse code practice (which I never imagined that I would use). Leisure time was spent variously in the NAAFI, commuting by 3 ton trucks (passion wagons) at weekends to Faversham or less frequently to Ashford, skiving‑off to visit family and girl‑friends at home, or more typically hanging around camp, broke and trying to beg the odd fag from mates who had some of their ration left.

The routine at Charing was broken by regular trips for manoeuvres or gunnery practice. I remember viewing with disgust our squadron flattening a wheatfield in Eastwell (or was it Westwell?) Park at a time when food was strictly rationed ‑ little knowing that an idiot medieval heir to the throne spent his life as a labourer there, and was buried locally. At various times we loaded our tanks on the 'flats' of long tank trains and were slowly transported to various training/gunnery areas scattered over the UK. East Anglia, Thetford, was so bitingly cold in the winter that we appreciated the warmth of those dreadful issue 'long johns'. Still, we had a chance to sample the fleshpots of Bury St Edmunds! A seemingly interminable rail Journey took us to the fringe of the Lake District, Penrith, where we learned the black art of making a good 'bivvy' and brewing‑up on an improvised 'hoggy'. Another introduced us to Kirkudbrightshire via a long slow climb over Shap where, if memory serves, we needed two locomotives fore and two aft to get the heavy train up the long incline. Nearer D‑Day we had a spell in Shorncliffe barracks . We garaged our Churchills in stables originally designed for cavalry horses!

A training period based in Hove, with exercises around the Devil's Dyke on the South Downs, was spent in pleasant weather, spoiled only by an enforced 'fast' designed to prepare us for possible shortage of food on active service. Being housed in the leafy seaside suburbs in requisitioned houses, with the tanks parked outside like so many suburban cars, was a novel experience for us and the availability of easy train jaunts to London (with or without official pass) was an added bonus ‑ most ticket collectors turned a blind eye to our 'Preston Park Return' tickets as we alighted from the last non‑stop London train of the night!

Generally a very amiable and variable 14 months of simulated battle training which honed our skills and general competence and made our troop, squadron and battalion into reasonably effective units. We didn't learn much about being 'under fire' but we became passably good at managing our vehicles, navigating and communicating. And most of the gunners felt confident about hitting a half‑way decently presented target.

The Churchill had revealed itself to be a fairly reliable vehicle except for a tendency for the starter to jam on the flywheel necessitating the procedure for the driver to clamber out onto the engine hatch and lever the flywheel loose with a crowbar. (Don't I recollect that the late Cpl. ‑ later Sergeant ‑ Virgo got the MM for dealing with a German who threatened to interrupt that procedure?)

While the training didn't and couldn't prepare us for the reality of the later campaign it taught most of us how to use our skills 'on the run' but most importantly of all we learnt to trust each other. Thus was forged what is, I suppose, the greatest virtue of the British Army, regimental loyalty, unity & pride!

Preparations for the Landing

In the run‑up to D‑Day we moved by degrees nearer to Gosport, first Ash near Aldershot, and then Fareham. We learned how to waterproof our vehicles, and also how difficult Bostik is to remove from hands and clothes!. We were issued with 'Liberation Francs' and a stirring printed message from Ike ‑ some Yank General ‑ but we had a good deal more faith in our own successful leader, Monty. Besides, he wore a beret with the RTR badge, didn't he? There had been regular ABCA talks on the current war situation and on 'correct behaviour' towards the civil population once the French had been liberated. And new flashes to sew on our uniforms showing our brigade and army group affiliations.

We didn't talk much to each other about the forthcoming campaign. It was common knowledge that the German had superior weaponry; the penetration figures for 88mm armour‑piercing shells v our 75mm ones were engraved on our hearts, as were the armour thicknesses of Tiger and Panther tanks. We knew that we could match the enemy Mark IV tanks but we also knew that we had little to match the formidable German 88mm anti‑tank guns. Extra armour had been welded to our tanks but we had little faith in its efficacy ‑ and how right we proved to be! What we didn't know, and ignorance was bliss, was the effectiveness of the German infantry equivalent of our PIAT anti‑tank projectile, the Panzerfaust. Despite that, I can't remember anyone who had doubts about our ultimate victory. The only question mark hung over our own survival in battle ......

Landing

After the hanging‑about for days, endemic to any military operation, it was almost a relief to get down to the hards at Gosport, to load‑up under the guidance of the R.N. and to eventually set sail ‑ if that is the right term for the slow, wallowing, stinking progress of those shallow‑draught flat‑bottomed tank landing craft. (We’d viewed with impatience the streams of aircraft and troops that had passed us and preceded us while we waited for the order to embark.) The sea journey was both awesome but dreadful: awesome for the long lines of craft marking the passage between England and Normandy; dreadful for the storm‑whipped turbulence of the Channel and the motion of the ungainly craft. The matelots were helpful in offering us use of their cramped messroom and mugs of rum-laced cocoa but I amongst others was so sea‑sick that I took to the turret of the tank and sat through most of the long passage nursing a sick‑bag. Landing against the full might of the German Army would be almost a relief after the miseries of the sea‑sickness!

The actual disembarkment was quite an anti‑climax. As I remember, a few shells landed around us and one struck our craft (but that may be only imagination); we grounded in a few inches of water so I presume it was low tide, and in line we proceeded through tape‑marked passages up the beach (was it Lion‑sur‑mer or Luc‑sur‑mer?) and through the little town to country roads with, surprisingly, military policemen on traffic duty. It was a bit of shock to find how comparatively organised and calm everything was despite the obvious signs of battle damage.

First battle

After a couple of days or so to adjust we were thrown into our first action at first light on 26 June, by which time we had become accustomed to the routine of life on active service and to the sounds of warfare, including the incredible noise of heavy shells passing overhead from our warships to batter the enemy lines. The start line for our troop ran through a Norman orchard. We were agreeably surprised to find that a rum ration was issued to us before action, no doubt compensation for moving-off at first light!

My introduction to battle was almost a farce: as our tank commander, Sgt Jackie Gallagher, guided the driver through the orchard we ran over a mine and lost a track. The sergeant was shocked but seemed unhurt except for a few marks around the face, and soon organized the repairs.

It took a while to replace the damaged track section. It was heartening to see the imposing streams of infantry and armour that passed us as the battle moved on. In our haste to rejoin the squadron our navigation went awry and we went seriously astray, into or near enemy lines as I recollect. We eventually found our way back to join the others, after I had to use morse code for my first and only time ever ( we were beyond radio speech contact with HQ), and settled down to the routine of the night-time laager.

Guns had to be cleaned, wireless ‘net’ checked, minor repairs effected and refuelling and re-arming with fresh ammo had to be carried out. The arrival of the cooks’ 3-tonner with the hot food was a welcome diversion, although stew and tinned peaches served in the same mess tin made for a novel cuisine.

Tank fighting

Fighting in a tank is like most other military activities: a lot of time spent waiting, interspersed with periods of frantic action. The operator‑loader doesn't see a lot of what is happening during action as he is probably the only one not glued to a periscope: too busy loading the 75mm and occasionally fiddling with the radio! It means that usually I only knew what I picked up from wireless and inter‑com messages.

During heavy firing of the 75mm gun, and the occasional bursts of the machine gun, the noise inside a tank is almost unbelievable and along with the cordite fumes ~ it can become such a hell‑hole that some commanders open the hatch despite the obvious risks. It helps to have a quick peep outside now and again, too, as periscope views are at best limited.

Gun‑loading can get a bit frantic: on one occasion I dropped an H.E. shell on its nose and was more than slightly relieved to find that it didn't explode. For a moment it jammed the turret traverse mechanism so I smartly slung it out of the hatch and carried on. That night, on laagering, we were definitely not happy to see the unexploded shell with its bent nose lying on the hot engine hatch. It was quickly pitched over a hedge. The platoon of infantry having a brew‑up Just where it landed protested forcefully!

Incidents occurring during operation Epsom and the battles around Cheux, Grainville and Colleville that stick in the memory include the sound of a Scottish piper drifting across the fields during a lull in the battle.

On the same day our crew were surprised to find an infantryman knocking on the co‑driver's escape hatch to ask if we had any PIAT anti‑tank ammunition aboard. He was a bit surprised that we didn't hold stocks and pointed out that three tanks were moving along a railway cutting on our left and he had nothing left with which to attack them. Recce on our part revealed that they were inaccessible to our Suns, too, so we had to wait while they continued on their way. (Memory says that they were Tigers belonging to a heavy tank regiment but 'old men forget' !. )

And was it really our Squadron Leader who lined us up facing a field and a wood that was reported to hold dug‑in tanks and anti‑tank Suns and then with a 'Tally Ho’ gave the order to advance ? Suffice that the hunt was called off very promptly after we encountered a barrage of A.P shot. Discretion being the better part we quickly put down smoke and returned from whence we came sadder and wiser.

Apart from a number of SS Panzer divisions we were opposed by a Hitler Youth regiment. It was surprising to find the odd fanatic standing up in clear view to fire light weapons at our vehicles. But we didn't dare take the chance that they were always light weapons, though. Care had to be taken at all times: apart from the risk of being hit in action we knew of the danger from the almost invisible anti‑personnel mines hidden in the grass waiting for a careless footstep and of the quaint German habit of booby-trapping apparently innocent objects including, it was said, bodies of their own dead.

One still remembers the continual stench from the many many farm animals lying dead in the fields, bloated with gases and with their four legs stuck up in the air. Sadder still was the sight of rifles stuck in the ground with helmets on the top showing above the growing wheat, marking were Allied or German soldiers' bodies lay awaiting decent burial.

Once pleasant rural Norman villages such as Cheux and Grainville lay in complete ruin after the battle had passed over them. Which village church steeple was it that we demolished after being advised that it housed a German artillery observation post? Rarely did we see any civillians ‑ they had fled or had hidden away in cellars and caves. (Later when lying in a field hospital after surgery I exchanged a few words with a French family who were sitting by the bed of their badly‑injured child: I was slightly shocked to find that rather than regarding us as 'liberators', as I expected, they unsurprisingly bitterly resented the perpetrators, on both sides, of the destruction of their homes and farms.)

'Epsom' lasted for four or five days. It was good to have survived, although we were only too aware of comrades who had been less fortunate, and we felt that we knew what all our training had been about. The surprise was that battle was so much less clear‑cut than we imagined. It wasn't always easy to differentiate friend or foe and from inside a tank the external sounds of battle were strangely muted: noise generated by one's own radio, engine and guns drowned the rest out. One Just hoped that squadron, battalion and brigade HQ had a better picture. But we felt that we had been successfully 'bloodied' and could

face the next encounter with confidence but not eagerness.

We knew that we and the infantry that we supported (the Scottish Division?) had advanced, beaten the Germans back, and then held our ground against strong counter attacks. It was only much later that I learned that a major objective of 'Epsom' ‑ Hill 112 ‑ had narrowly escaped capture. But against seasoned German troops backed by Panthers, Tigers and 88mms that was no disgrace, particularly as at that period there wasn't much air support.

Operation 'Jupiter'

After 'Epsom' a few days of comparative quiet ensued. We were able to have fairly regular meals, some recreation (I recollect an informal boxing tournament where I was matched with Cpl. Jakeman ‑ he about 10 and a half stone and me some 8 and a half stone on a good day if my clothes were wet!) and a rather moving church service. Regular rumours circulated about German reinforcements of panzer divisions and the helpful activities of French resistance fighters in impeding their progress. We were cheered to see increasing allied aircraft involvement including heavy bombers and rocket‑firing Typhoons. I can't recall seeing many English newspapers but some letters arrived from home. We didn't go short of tea: a cache hidden in the storage bin on the side of the turret was witness to our earlier scrounging skills. Its acquisition had involved unscrewing the hinges from the cookhouse door before we left England but the enterprise had proved well worthwhile. Since Coffeemate hadn't been invented and fresh milk was unobtainable we 'made do' with a supply of baby milk powder brought from home!

From time to time we chatted about the progress of the campaign but I don't recollect any pessimism. Three of us, all in our late teens, were sitting round one evening drinking a brew from our mess tins discussing ways of avoiding yet another war. We naively decided that influencing the next generation was the road forward so teaching was the profession for those of us who survived. (Whether the others remembered or not I don't know but that conversation certainly influenced my later choice of career.)

The lull in operations lasted just a few days until we were told to prepare for the next action. Details are hazy but I remember moving up to the start line ready to support the Hampshires and Dorsets in their advance on Chateau de Fontaine and Maltot. As always we moved off at first light and fairly rapidly achieved our first objective, whatever that may have been.

All seemed quiet and we were waiting our next move, feeling confident and probably slightly complacent at our initial success when the tank was hit in the engine compartment. The impact was unmistakable, but not as horrifying or noisy as had previously been imagined. During the second or two that we were adjusting to this situation another round penetrated the left side of the turret, presumably igniting the ammo as the tank started to “brew-up” immediately. An intercom and visual check quickly revealed that tragically our greatly liked and respecter young gunner, L/Cpl Johnnie Foden, had taken the full force of the projectile and was beyond help. He must have perished mercifully quickly. The tank was now burning furiously and the rest of us needed to abandon ship smartly. Machine-gun rounds were striking the side of the turret so we waited for a lull, hoping that the machine-gunner would need to change belts. The remaining four of us jumped out. Our troop-leader’s tank was nearby, and being pointed in the right direction to our own lines we started to trudge back. Tankies without their vehicles are a bit like shell-less tortoises on the battlefield and we felt strangely vulnerable.

The noise of battle sounded increasingly distant as we crossed the open Normandy fields. On our way we came across a young German infantryman, SS as I remember, who had a leg wound. On being offered a cigarette he showed what he thought of it all by spitting at us! A stretcher was found from somewhere by someone and we took turns at carrying the unhappy young man back with us.

Like I said, we were unused to being on a battlefield without inches of armour plate around us. Some mortar rounds or shells started whistling around and we dropped; Too late. When I returned to consciousness the others were getting up but I couldn’t move. I tried to shout but only a whisper came out. The others noticed my plight and our sergeant examined me, turned me over and put a field dressing on my back. I couldn’t feel my legs but was assured that they were still there. Someone went to get help while I was given a cigarette to keep me occupied. My brief war was certainly over.

I was flown back to England in a very bumpy Dakota for further attention to my spinal injuries. I spent months and months in hospital recovering some use of my legs. Eventually I was invalided out.