by

Cyril Rees

(Ex-Trooper, C Squadron, 9th Battalion,

Royal Tank Regiment)

March 1993

In The Beginning

The three of us got in the train and we slammed the door at Richmond Station, shutting out (we hoped) the cold, inhospitable Yorkshire moors. It was all over, these days spent on various exercises and driving instruction on trucks, Bren carriers, Valentines, Matilda II's, and Churchill's I and II. No more snow drifting through chinks in the window frames of the hut, and settling on the blankets on your bed, or hours of drill on the vast 57th T.R. Waitwith barrack square, being bellowed at by demented drill instructors. We changed at Darlington and soon we were on our way south.

Now we were properly trained tank men, though our kit bags looked rather new and virginal as they lay on the luggage rack. We took them down and kicked them around the carriage floor for a while, which helped the aging process but wouldn't fool old sweats for long. Luckily we had the compartment to ourselves.

The stations rolled by - York, Grantham, and finally, Kings Cross. By this time we had eaten most of our "unexpired portion of the day's rations". Bully beef and cheese sandwiches, I think they were, about the statutory 1½" - 1¾" thick. We lugged our kitbags and packs down to the tube and at last finally boarded the train for Charing (at, I think, Charing X) to join the 9th. R.T.R.

It was late evening as we slowly approached Charing, with the characteristic dimmed lights of a partially blacked-out station. Not much was visible through the gloom though it seemed as if there were just one or two goods sidings. Besides us rookies getting off the train, there were one or two others in the station car park waiting for transport to various outlying camps.

As we boarded the 3-tonner we were to the casual observer already tank men, having exchanged during the last leg of the journey our "badges, cap, R.A.C." for "badges, cap, R.T.R.". The journey didn't take too long, the truck lurching about on the narrow country lanes. This seemed to be fairly hilly country too, judging by the amount of low gear work, and the area seemed to be heavily wooded. On the odd straight bits - clearly, the duty driver knew the road like the back of his hand - we fairly raced ahead. I reckoned the driver was getting some training in for the first post-war Lombard rally. Finally, after a short first gear climb out of the valley, we arrived at our destination. Here we unloaded our kit and disembarked. The truck roared off, and stopped further up the camp road. The end of our journey! We had arrived, to start the next stage of our service life.

Whether we spent the night in the guardroom after the preliminary checking of identity and documents, or whether we were posted to our allotted troop, I can't recall; but whatever happened, I was glad to get my head down.

At reveille the next day, we crawled out of our beds and with help from our new hut mates, we were directed to the various facilities, Lats O.R.'s, Abln's O.R.'s, cookhouse, etc. What a revelation this turned out to be! In the new light of another day I looked out at what was to be my home for the next few months as part of C Squadron 9th R.T.R. So this was Halls Place (TQ949533)? What a different sight from twenty four hours ago. No longer the serviced rows of hutments, the vast barrack square of 57 T.R., or the distant sounds of bugle and barked orders, tracked vehicles of various sorts moving around. Here was the relative peace of rural Kent, the Garden of England.

The camp was a large, irregular-shaped field about the area of two football pitches on general rising ground. We had arrived at the camp at the North or lower end of a rough metalled road which forked left off the public road. This road, which divided the camp into two unequal parts, climbed gently up through the camp. At about two-thirds distance was a brick-built farmhouse (still occupied and working) surrounded by a few mature broad-leaf trees, and a few yards back from the camp road on the eastern side. Just beyond this house, the camp road veered gently to the west, at the same time levelling out before rejoining the public road. At this point was a camp perimeter fence where the fields fell gently away towards Stalisfield in the south east, about half a mile distant, and from where there was a wonderful view of distant rolling hills.

Near this fence, on level ground, was a static Churchill, I think a Mk IV. Here the Gunner Mechs. and Gunner Ops. used to practise, test and adjust (T. & A.) sights (I think they used The Plough at Stalisfield for this purpose), and also strip and re-assemble the Besa's and main armament and various other gunnery tasks. And the Operators practised doing all those mysterious and magical things that only Operators could understand.

At the bottom or north end of the camp, on the west side of the camp road, was the Guardroom, the cookhouse, dining room, and a N.A.A.F.I. of sorts. Also situated in this area were the Orderly Rooms and the Officers' Mess and the Warrant Officers' and Sergeants' Mess.

By far the largest field was to the East of the camp road. This contained the brick farmhouse, and the static A.F.V. at the top; at the lower north end, the troops' Nissen Huts, Latrines Other Ranks, Ablutions Other Ranks, and a few other miscellaneous Nissen Huts. Our hut (13 Troop's) and the other troops' huts were positioned a few yards apart from each other, with the front entrances and windows facing south up the field. The rear entrances were a few yards from the perimeter fence and dense woodland, with some mature trees overhanging the huts. This location afforded protection from the bitter northerly winds.

It didn't take this rookie very long to learn from the older lads that nobody braved the elements to stagger up to the Lats O.R's. in the early hours of a winter's night. You simply opened the back door and with a couple of steps you could piss through the wire fence into the wood beyond, without too much shrinkage or dying of exposure. Of course, we knew this came under Section 42 Conduct Prejudicial, but I don't think anyone got caught "urinating in the Squadron area" as far as I can remember.

On the debit side, the troop huts were very conveniently positioned for any German Paratrooper, who felt like dropping by, to fire a few bursts of machine gun fire through the door, or lob in a couple of hand grenades before melting silently into the adjoining woods.

Occasionally, we could recognise the enemy aircraft flying overhead, and sometimes we would hear the very distant thud of exploding bombs. Only once was there a near miss to the camp. Lying in bed we could hear the bombs shrieking down, and it felt as if they were coming straight for us. In the event they dropped in a nearby field. The next day, we saw about half a dozen craters when we went past the next day in the 3-tonners on our way to the Tank Park. We reckoned the pilot didn't want to take his bombs back to Germany and had jettisoned them. I didn't feel that we were the target somehow, nor that Hitler or Reichsmarshall Goering felt that C Squadron 9th R.T.R. presented a serious threat at that time to the Third Reich.

The first few weeks with C Squadron was mainly getting fully kitted up, (Tank Park greatcoats, berets, etc) as well as becoming familiar with all the personnel, surroundings and the routine day-to-day operations of the troop and squadron. And as the weeks turned into months friendships were formed which were to last and last.

Of course, like most camps, Halls Place had its almost statutory complement of posts and rails lining part of the camp road, and of course, like most camps, they were regularly covered with white paint, usually a job for janker wallahs or fatigue men.

On the whole, life was much better after the discipline of the training regiment, more relaxed and more easy-going. The discipline was there, but applied in a more adult and understanding way. Every day before first parade (at 08:00, I think) each troop lined up and spread out in front of the Nissen Hut to walk up the field towards the farmhouse, picking up cartons, fag packets, etc. This was called "area cleaning and was carried out most mornings. We then used to fall in in troops on the camp road, to be detailed for various duties, most boarding the 3-tonners waiting on the road to go to the Tank Park at Long Beach. A few stayed at Halls Place for training on the static tank, or on cookhouse and mess orderly duties. The mention of Jack Loake's stew will no doubt bring a tear to the many eyes of those who sampled it - good old Jack!.

Off-duty times offered the chance of evenings in nearby Charing or (at weekends) of passion trucks to Maidstone or Ashford. The few nurses at Hothfield Isolation Hospital offered solace and comfort to some lucky souls. The pale, wan, and heavy eyelids betrayed these lucky few, who swayed gently on the morning parade and managed to evade the eagle eye of S.S.M. Edwards. On the whole, the first few months at Halls Place was the almost perfect means of transition from training to an active service regiment.

The guard duties came round quite frequently, but guard mounting was fairly innocuous, and didn't make too many demands on yours truly, who was never very enthusiastic about Brasso or Blanco. On guard, the nights seemed endless, with no sound or movement in the depth of countryside, just the sound of the wind in the trees or the distant sound of a steam train whistle, and the occasional farm animal or tractor in the early hours.

At weekends, of course, this was enlivened around midnight by the passion trucks returning from Maidstone, or Ashford, or Faversham, and the usual quota of drunks falling off the backs of trucks before staggering into the squadron to be booked in S.P.D. by the N.C.O. I.C. guard. Helping the more incapable to their huts on these occasions was a welcome diversion, and helped the duty to pass quicker. You usually had a visit during the night from the Orderly Officers, but you were able to hear his approach in the quiet of the night, having time to stub out your cigarette before challenging him.

Then there were the ablutions, that were primitive in the extreme. A structure, as I recall, of corrugated iron on a bed of concrete; and with no concessions to draught-proofing, the wind fairly whistled through. There were, I think, two showers in the same building, but of course no privacy. You stood on a duckboard laid on the concrete, and the shower head appeared to be a rose from a gardening watering can screwed on to the end of some ½" galvanised pipe (uninsulated) which alternately sprayed scalding and then icy water upon the unfortunate bather - not too bad in the summer, but a daunting experience in the colder months. There was no escape from this and you had to sign the Bath Book to prove attendance. I think there was a small coke or coal-fired boiler to provide the hot water, and I remember it was the duty of the guard to keep this going as well as the soyer stoves that provided hot water for the cookhouses.

Another occasional diversion at Halls Place was the sight of Sgt. Bell (who was, I believe, a pre-war soldier) who sometimes put on his best Blues and paraded in a solitary way in front of the farmhouse in the camp (whether this was to impress the females in the farmhouse, or us young soldiers, we shall never know).

Thus passed the "even tenor of our way" at Halls Place, with day-to-day variations, until the time came for us to change places with B Squadron and move to Long Beach.

Postscript.

I have visited Halls Place since World War Two, and many times since 1988 when we started having reunions at The Plough at Stalisfield Green.

The camp site is instantly recognisable, as is the gate of the entrance where the sentry box stood, the metalled camp road, and the farmhouse surrounded by trees. On the west (cookhouse-guardroom side) the land has been ploughed. On the east (troops' quarters) the field appeared much as it did in 1943, though one solitary Nissen Hut remains near the north-east perimeter fence - presumably used for agricultural purposes.

The woodland protecting the camp on the northern side and in the valley below and near Ottenden Place was devastated by the 1987 October hurricane, and presented a pitiful sight when I visited the area in 1988 - though much replanting of broadleaf trees has taken place since then.

A Troopers Tale

The camp at Longbeach (TQ 967503) was exactly opposite the Tank Park and was at the top of Charing Hill on the A252 Charing to Canterbury Road. This meant that centres of public habitation like the nearby villages of Charing, and the larger areas like Maidstone and Ashford, were much more accessible after the comparative isolation of Halls Place.

The camp was smaller than Halls Place and was on level ground. I can't remember how it was laid out but I seem to think it was not well planned in the way that the huts, a mix of Nissen and wood-frame, were spread around. I recall that the roadways through the camp were constructed simply of cinders which had been rolled, their widest part being in front of the Squadron Office and S.Q.M.S. stores, and just adequate for the troops to fall in on first parade before marching off to the Tank Park.

To reach this Park from the camp entrance meant crossing the A252 (which at this point is about twenty one feet wide) at roughly 45º, and just a couple of minutes was enough to reach the tank standings at our usual tank park stroll. There were enough concrete standings to accommodate the whole of the 9th R.T.R.'s complement of tanks and A.R.V.'s, as well as large Nissen Hut Workshops (one per Squadron), parking areas for trucks and other vehicles, and a large fuel dump. This fuel area was stacked with thousands of flimsy square cans containing petrol for the tanks, many of which leaked and buckled. As a result, vast quantities of valuable fuel were lost in the ground. The whole area was a time-bomb waiting to blast off.

However, the empty cans did lend themselves to various uses. For example, we could make a working stove by cutting a can in half, half filling it with sand, then punching a couple of holes in its side, and finally pouring into it three to four pints of petrol. The other half of the can could be used for boiling water.

The whole of the Tank Park was in Longbeach Wood, and covered quite a large area. Entry to, and exit from, the park was via a short concrete drive which joined the A252 nearly opposite the camp entrance. At this junction the public highway was concreted over its full width and extended about ten to fifteen feet in each direction. It was possible to negotiate the turn on to the main road in first gear, but I think most of us did a neutral turn there - hence the reason for the concrete apron. The Tank Park Guardroom (a Nissen Hut) was situated by the base of the triangle formed by these roads.

And now that we are in the Tank Park, let me relate two events that took place in this area, both involving live ammunition of quite different calibre, but both deadly in effect. Most of the events occurred fifty years ago, and time has blurred many of the images. And while these things did happen there is no doubt that others may have experienced the same events but remember them differently. So much the better. Equally, there will be no surety of chronology. I simply write as I remember...

The various Squadrons were about their several maintenance tasks during the morning maintenance session. Here and there engines were running, tracks adjusted, turrets traversed and guns depressed, and many other unseen tasks taking place in the turret. They had been trying live rounds in the breech on one tank, the turret at nine o'clock and depressed. Then came the time for N.A.A.F.I. break and away we all went to enjoy a welcome "cuppa". After the break, we all returned to our tasks. The crew checking the rounds promptly announced that break-time was over by firing off a round they had left in the breech. It shouldn't have happened! you say Of course not, but it did. Luckily no-one was hurt, but a bogie assembly was blasted off an adjacent tank at point-blank range. It so happened that a first class, quietly spoken, and much respected fitter Sergeant (who shall remain nameless), mustered his men and a new bogie was fitted in next to no time. Not one word about this reached the hierarchy.

Now let us return to the Tank Park Guardroom at the junction.

We were the rear party, left to man the camp, provide guards, etc. - just a few to keep things going while most of the 9th Battalion was away for a few weeks on exercise (there were many such periods). N.C.O.'s were even thinner on the ground than us troopers, so it was often senior soldiers who became i/c. Guard, etc.

Bill Geary was a senior soldier, much older than we were. Bill was also of a higher order and disliked being a soldier. He was able to cushion himself from the more distasteful side of military life by dispensing largesse in the form of bribes to us lesser mortals - and in this way avoided carrying out the menial tasks like cookhouse or sanitary orderly and other unpleasant duties. His family ensured an adequate supply of Johnny Walker and Guinness and other necessities to maintain a decent standard, sufficient to make this soldiering nonsense bearable. Bill Geary was, as he admitted, not a good soldier.

One particular night, he was i/c Tank Park Guard. As I recall, the guard duty went fairly well, without incident, though many may remember the eeriness of the silent Tank Park in the dead of night as the petrol cans on the fuel dump popped and banged with startling effect, as the cans reacted to the changes in ambient temperature. It was time to dismount the guard, and we were getting our kit ready, folding blankets, sweeping up, and so on. I was facing the bed I had used, busily folding my blankets. (This bed was near the door which faced the camp on the other side of the A252.) Bill Geary was checking his rifle at the other end of the hut, pointing it down the hut about 45º to the concrete floor. A single shot echoed loudly in the almost empty Nissen Hut which told us that Bill had not checked his rifle. The bullet struck the concrete just behind me, and after blasting a jagged hole in the door, continued without further impedance towards Challock Lees. We were never asked to explain the presence of an old shaped hole in an otherwise sound end wall. Bill, as far as I know, continued to enjoy his war in the only way he knew (and could purchase) until de-mob and blessed release.

Let us now retrace our steps across the main road into C Squadron camp, which as mentioned, was a fairly untidy collection of wooden-framed and Nissen Huts. Mention will be made from time to time of various huts and their uses, but no attempt will be made to place them in position relative to on another. And why not? I hear you ask. Because I've bloody well forgotten, that's why!

One or two I remember. For instance, the cookhouse was parallel to the main road, next to the hedge, which had a small gap not far from the cookhouse door. This enabled certain characters going on leave to emerge from the gap in the hedge with heavily laden packs and kit bags - no doubt another consignment of butter, bacon, and Carnation milk on their way to supplement the meagre civilian rations of a relative (and all this activity completely screened from any prying eyes in the Squadron Office). Later, when strawberry jam was mixed with the breakfast porridge, betrayed by thousands of floating pips, and tea was ladled into our "mugs drinking enamel" sans Carnation, muted mutterings of "which of these beggars are on leave at the moment!" filled the dining room. But it was all very good humoured and nobody really suffered - did they?

While we are in the cookhouse, let me relate another small incident which I remember. Picture if you can the cookhouse an hour before reveille. The last shift of the camp guard is looking forward to six o'clock. It's winter time and it's dark, and the cookhouse is just the place to be. Check that the Soyer stoves are working well, relax, make a mug of tea with plenty of Carnation milk - real Sergeant Major tea. Place your tea conveniently to hand, prop your rifle against a convenient wall, and then stretch out and relax for a few moments on a "form, folding, flat, six feet" close your heavy eyelids for a few moments. This is exactly what Ginger Kirk, our gunner was doing (as, with certainty, many others had done before), when the R.S.M. walked very quietly into the cookhouse, having made one of his rare walks up through the wood from Pett Place HQ (TQ961491). Ginger must have reacted with uncharacteristic rapidity to some slight sound in order to be able to challenge the intruder and present a picture of total alertness. In the event, nothing more was heard - the R.S.M. presumably convinced that C Squadron was "on the ball". Miraculous!

I was beginning to feel that at last I was becoming a member of 13 Troop and gradually getting to know the rest of the lads. Although not permanently part of a crew, I was finding my way around Churchills and becoming more familiar with the various maintenance tasks and procedures that we had been taught at Catterick.

As part of a spare crew set-up I was for a time co-driver to Frank Risbridger. We had small exercises at Eastwell park, a few miles east of Longbeach along the A252 to Challock Lees, and south into the Park. (I think this was the H.Q. of 141 R.A.C., The Buffs, who were an infantry regiment converted to armour, and were like us, part of 31 Armoured Brigade.) These exercises proved invaluable to me, providing plenty of cross-country experience under fairly realistic conditions, as well as plenty of road work, and learning how to cope with other traffic on public roads. We also learned how to choose the right cross-country route while keeping to the commander's instructions, simultaneously giving the crew as comfortable a ride as possible (whatever the prevailing conditions). As a result of the experience I had gained I was successful in passing a trade test and being upgraded to Driver Mechanic Class 2. This meant a small pay increase to 6s 6d (32½p) per day - what riches, and all found to boot!

It was soon after this that I became a full and permanent member of 13 Tp. Sgts. crew. Around this time the squadron was very fortunate in taking three Sergeants on strength, posted to us from the H.L.I. What must have been a blow to H.L.I. was a wonderful bonus for us in C Squadron to get sergeants of such calibre. Sgt. John Purdy went to 11 Troop; Sgt. Bob Anderson went to 12 Troop; and to 13 Troop came Sgt. Tom Tomney. The crew of our tank, Independent, comprised Tom Tomney, Ginger Kirk (Gunner), Norman "Hoppy" Hopkins (Operator), and Don Foster (Co-Driver). The other Troop Sergeants were Trevor Greenwood (Troop 14) and Dickie Hall (Troop 15).

We return now to the camp, and more specifically, to 13 Troop Hut. This hut was typical of most of the huts, with a concrete floor and an iron stove in the middle with a tubular flue going up and through the roof. In the winter, it was expected that any troop member on guard would keep the stove going through the night, making sure a supply of hot water was available in the morning. Quite often, the chimney pipe used to be hot enough to give off a dull glow. Most of the beds were wooden double bunk beds, though one or two were single. Over all this ruled Cpl. Frank Hodgson as Senior Cpl. He was much older than we were, this worldly, laconic man.

There were a number of other elder statesmen in residence. Cpl. Alf Beal, who had served in India before the war (confirmed by his deeply tanned face) hailed from Wiltshire. It was his boast that he could "shag them as fast as they could drag them out from under him". Then there was Jock Drennan, a dour Scot who slept on a top bunk bed. Although not far from the stove he used to get into bed wearing a beret, a scarf, and a pair of woollen gloves. Nearby, was Vic Crowe, called "Easy Harry" for his propensity to answer any request to do a particular job with, "I'm easy", interpreted as meaning "I don't mind whether I do or not". He was a genius with brass and blanco and managed to supplement his pay doing tasks for us (the reluctant non-bullshitters).

Cpl. "Tosh" Harry Brook, sometimes nicknamed Capt Rreilly Ffoull (from the then current Daily Mirror strip cartoon) was a Gunnery Instructor from Catterick who had obtained a posting to 9th. R.T.R., much to the chagrin of the Chief Gunnery Officer there, so he was a great asset to C Squadron.

Then there were us (the peasants, I remember) - Frank Risbridger, (already mentioned), Bert Beech, Bill Pinkney (an ex master butcher from Scarborough), Jock Pearson, Cyril "Tommy" Handley, Bernard Fitzpatrick Ashworth, Don Foster, Norman Hopkins, myself Cyril Rees, a chap from the Hebrides called MacDonald, and Ginger Kirk, a one time Derbyshire miner. Ginger, and Joe Booth of 11 Troop, were the two strongest men in C Squadron. they could hold up the chocolate bars on the air louvres on their own, while the bars were bolted on.

Ginger, a man of very few words, was the sole occupant of a bunk bed near one of the doors. One weekend, he returned quite late after what must have been a fairly alcoholic evening at the Halfway House. We had prepared an "apple pie bed" meanwhile, and with lights out, most of us feigned sleep peering out from half-closed eyelids to watch events as they unfolded. After undressing, we heard muffled oaths and curses as Ginger tried to find his way into his bed. After a few minutes the oaths and curses got louder, and then followed the cracking and splintering of firewood , and the twanging of metal bed springs as they were hurled against the side of the hut. We cowered silently under our blankets, expecting any moment to be assailed by a madman wielding part of his shattered bed. However, the tumult eventually ceased and peace descended. In the light of Sunday morning, Ginger was asleep on his palliasse on the concrete floor, the remains of the bunk bed a shapeless heap of splintered wood and oversized clock springs spread untidily in the corner. Peace and goodwill was soon restored, and no mention was ever heard of an apple pie bed.

There were a few others in the hut but their names escape me. In total, there were three full crews and extra men as spare crews. Ours was a good troop, in fact the best troop. Though many will raise their voices in protest at this, we shall dismiss them for their envy.

Our list of troop members, I remember, continues on rather odoriferous note. One troop member, who, to save embarrassment shall remain nameless, had the misfortune to own very smelly feet. Frank Hodgson would not suffer this man to sleep nearer than six feet from the stove, and a careful check was kept on the wind direction so that the offending whiff was on the lee side of the hut. In summer, the order of the day in our hut was that his bed should be next to the door. It had been known for the offending bed and occupant to be carried outside on a hot summer's night followed rapidly by "socks, woollen","boots, ankle", and the door locked. This chap's blankets were also put outside more frequently. Notice, blankets. None of your sissy sheets and pyjamas and table lamps, you slept in your "drawers cellular" and washed regularly. It's a pity about this fellow, he was otherwise quite clean and tidy.

Tom Tomney, as you know, was our Troop Sgt., and very popular too. At the head of the troop was Lt. le Brun - Bruno, as he was affectionately known by all and sundry - a good troop officer and well liked and respected by the troop. The Squadron was lead by Major R.E. Holden, whose qualities and leadership were to guide and direct the squadron in the difficult times ahead. Capt. S. Link was 2 i/c, a tall fatherly figure always ready to listen to any problems we wanted to discuss. Our S.S.M. was Jimmy Edwards, nicknamed Flapper, but not because of a tendency to panic. Rather, when conducting parade, he would walk up and down the ranks, arms slightly away from his hips with hands alternately clenched and then extended like flappers, and calling out "Stop talking! Stop talking! Stand still! Stand still!" S.Q.M.S. David was a hard man who got very cross if you were short of anything on kit inspection. Did you ever notice how paranoid S.Q.M.S.'s became if they lost a blanket out of the stores? lose a carton of corned beef or a sack of potatoes, that was all right. But a blanket! They seemed to go to pieces.

Most of C Squadron will remember Vic Spence. Cpl. Vic Spence (to give him his correct rank) was the Tech. Storeman, and a very shrewd and quick-witted Yorkshire man who knew exactly where his ball races were and how many there were. He seemed to wear his beret in rather an odd way, the crown stuck out parallel with his shoulder instead of pulled down over the right ear, which seemed to be the accepted practice. Like many Yorkshire men, they don't seem to have a "d" in their alphabet, substituting a guttural sort of "t". Yes, he came from Bratfort; and no, he didn't have any head gaskets for 15cwt Betforts. Vic was one of the best - a real good sort.

A number of the 9th tanks were due to be re-worked and were put on a tank train at Charing and were then taken to the High Wycombe factory of Messrs. Broome and Wade Ltd., a heavy engineering firm whose reputation had been made in manufacturing air compressors. Vic Spence was N.C.O. i/c of a party of four who were despatched on a separate train to High Wycombe on order to and check all wireless equipment and certain other demountable items. It was calculated that we would be absent from C Squadron for four nights for this particular duty. On arrival at the factory, Vic rapidly assessed the situation and was thus able to submit sound technical reasons why the check needed eight days to complete.

The good news first - one or two of us were able to get home for a weekend. And the bad news - a week sleeping in a cold unused furniture workshop complete with cold running water is no joke. However, the works canteen was good, so was the food. We got the chance to look over the factory, too. Broome and Wade made a super job of re-working. Tanks were totally stripped to an empty hull like a giant rectangular bath tub, then degreased and a brilliant white enamel applied to the interior. At the other end of the works it was virtually a new tank that was driven out and road-tested.

I was never a willing visitor to 9th. Battalion H.Q. at Pett Place. I found the concentration of heavy brass and the extra bull which the place seemed to require, somewhat intimidating. However, duty called on about three occasions, on one of I found myself picked for guard duty.

This was a much higher profile guard than Squadron Guards, and included a "stickman". I found this prospect awesome as it was difficult for me to attain the acceptable turnout for just the basic Squadron Guards. The H.Q. Guards were equipped with side arms on this occasion, mostly .38 Webleys, but since I had been issued with a .38 Smith and Wesson, the presenting of the broken pistols at shoulder height for inspection by the O.O. made for some interesting comment. But, thanks to "Easy" Crowe's work on my webbing and brasses, I managed to survive.

On another occasion I was sent to H.Q. on fatigues. Three or four of us were crowded in what appeared to be a potting shed at the back of the house. the R.S.M. was giving us a lecture and describing various rusty, and to some obscure, horticultural implements. Now we all remember the old sweats telling us that we should never volunteer for anything, and relating the hoary old story we all know so well:

"Any of you lot play the piano?"

"Yessir, I do!"

"Right then, you and three volunteers - you, you, and you - get this piano up to the officers' mess for a concert tonight."

Anyway, the R.S.M. deftly removing some thick cobwebs, produced what appeared to be a scythe in an advanced state of decay. "Anyone know what this is?" asked the R.S.M. Being a country-bred lad amongst some townies, I dropped straight into the trap. "Yessir," I said "I remember as a lad seeing the roadmen cut the grass verges with one of those." What followed, of course, was totally predictable. "Right then, you can cut the grass at the back of the house with this." The grass in question was the lawn outside the officers' dining room , which was at that time about knee high and covered an area roughly the size of a lawn tennis court.

Somewhere on the shelves underneath the cobwebs and mixed up with flower pots and other bits of detritus one associates with green sheds, I found part of a carborundum stone. With this I managed to put something of an edge on the rusty blade. The next few hours were extremely hard graft, particularly so because I was unskilled, and I sweated buckets. The process was made harder by my savage hacking at the reluctant grass, often causing the blade to stick in the ground. However, eventually I got the grass down to stubble height, though I'm sure this bruised and battered area would have brought tears to the eyes of any head gardener unfortunate enough to have been present. Maybe some implement could have been found to remedy the havoc, but that was for another day - and for another volunteer.

There was at least one bonus from being in the service. We were, on the whole, much fitter than we had been in pre-service days. The outdoor life, P.T., sporting activities, cross country, etc. For some trivial offence I was awarded two days C.B., so I and three others janker wallahs and myself were in a 15 cwt. truck on our way to Pett Place to report to Sgt. P.T.I. It was a pleasant summer evening when we arrived. (Most of us have fond memories of the P.T.I.'s we encountered. Do you remember? They never seemed to stand still, always bouncing about, flailing first one arm, then the other.) Soon, Sgt. P.T.I. jogged into view, clad, even in those days, in what seemed to be black track suit. Before even reaching us we heard his instruction to "Straighten up and wake up. Running on the spot, begin. Hup! Hup! Hup! Knees bending and arms raising, begin. Down, hup! Down, hup! Down, hup!" Press-ups begin! One for the King! One for the Queen! One for Mr. Churchill! One for the C.O!"

The four of us were by this time almost knackered, and were face down and prostrate on the grass but still having enough breath to mutter "Stuff the R.S.M!" through clenched teeth. "Right, on your feet you shower, and follow me!" He raced off across the road and leapt the low iron fence into the field opposite the House as easily as a hundred metre hurdler. We staggered to our feet and dutifully followed at a less than athletic pace. (The field, which was fairly flat and was used as a sports field, had a few mature oaks spread around, suggesting to me that it was laid out as park a few centuries ago as part of the estate.) We formed a half circle round the P.T.I., who had waited near some goal posts about thirty feet from the road and facing it. From his pocket he produced scissors, G.S. 8", pairs 4, and handed a pair to each of us. "Now, two of you to the far goal post, and you two (including me) to the one nearest." From that time until dusk we spent cutting the grass round the goalposts and in the goal mouth, crawling about on our knees. Cushy? Try it sometime.

The Melting Pot

The journey to our forming up was fairly uneventful. We followed tracks already made through fields and standing crops, the many vehicles churning up the dry earth; for the weather was quite sunny. We had lost our front mudguard, and with my visor open it was necessary to wear goggles to cope with the minor dust storm we created. I think if I had had my pulse checked, it would probably have read a bit higher than normal at this time. But I did not feel scared, just a bit apprehensive, wondering what was ahead. (After all, the countryside was much like you could have found in Sussex and Kent with fields, hedges, and similar crops, and the noble but ragged elms here and there. The one noticeable difference was the occasional wrecked or burnt vehicle, and the sad spectacle of dead and dying cattle.)

When we arrived at the forming up area there were already many vehicles of various sorts, trucks and carriers of the infantry, the Artillery and their guns and limbers and of course some Churchills. I picked my way to our allotted position guided by Tom Tomney, then halted when ordered. Then started the last minute check. Hoppy was already checking the net and other radio tasks and Ginger was checking all the armament. I topped up with about 20 gallons of petrol. A quick oil check revealed all in order.

I was glad to find no trace of a leak round the union to the hydraulic receiver; in the past many of us found that vibration caused the joint to weep and consequently making throttle controls unresponsive when you pressed the pedal, due to air getting in the system, so there was no need to bleed the hydraulics, thank goodness. I decided to put another shim in the offside track so we all mucked in and tightened it a bit. After we had done all this we had a chance to look around, to see what was happening and to chat to the other crew. From the viewpoint standing on the engine hatches I saw a Matador explode in spectacular fashion, flames leaping high into the air. This happened about 300 yards to our front, the whole thing burned furiously for about 20 minutes and was totally destroyed. A petrol wagon perhaps, but no idea of the real cause.

A high pitched shriek of a tank in low gear and struggling hard gradually got nearer, and eventually a Sherman came into view. It took a few more minutes before the source of all this noise became apparent. What this gasping Sherman had towed into view was enough to make me feel very uneasy indeed. When the whole works stopped about 30 feet away I, and most of us in the troop, had a close-up view of out first Tiger.

It was to me an awesome sight. The great gun sticking out from the massive turret, the interlocked road wheels, and the wide tracks. To compare our puny 6-pounder with this giant's 88 was a salutary experience. How the hell, I thought, can we possibly compete with these monsters? They seemed to be superior in all the most important departments. But before having time to ponder these matters we were ordered to mount.

The area which was our forming-up point was a large, fairly flat field (I think it was growing flax, but I'm not sure). The place was criss-crossed by the tracks of various vehicles which had reduced this crop, whatever it was, to a series of rectangles, squares, triangles, or other geometric forms of various sizes, all spoilt.

I started the engine and closed the top hatches, leaving the visor open. The oil pressure and the ammeter were reading satisfactory. We had topped up petrol so both gauges showed full. There was no need to look at the water temperature because we had only just started up. "Driver advance," came Tom's instruction over my headset. Part of Henry V's speech before Agincourt came to mind at that moment:

Oh God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts;

Possess them not with fear...

I engaged first gear, 1st gear, let in the clutch, and we were off. Tom had already told me the approximate part of the crest I was to make for so I was able to choose my route. We passed the burned-out skeleton of the matador and shortly began to climb. We were approaching a tree-lined road which crossed from right to left. I selected a convenient gap between two trees; the road was higher at this point so there was a small bank, about 3 feet high but not too steep. I started to climb in 2nd gear, then with a stall change to 1st dropped gently on to the road. With a minor steering change we passed between two more trees on the other side of the road, changing direction to bring us at roughly right angles to the crest ahead.

We climbed steadily and stopped short in a hull down position.

It had by now started to rain quite heavily and this was drifting through the top hatches. Shortly, Tom ordered "driver advance" and we were over the crest in a few minutes. Now could I feel the adrenalin pumping! I changed up and as we got near the start line Tom ordered me to close my visor. This created a dreadful dilemma, because the periscopes which were my sole vision of the terrain ahead were covered with mud thrown up by our mudguard-less tracks.

I was now driving blind, and was relying on the occasional short sharp direction from Tom, but he had his own problems. Should I open the visor, or should I stop and clean the periscopes? Both options were tactically impossible. I drove on in 2nd gear trying to get as near as I could to the eyepiece to see where as I was going. A few minutes later the front of the tank dropped sharply and the front idlers buried themselves in the far side of the anti-tank ditch. I tried 1st gear to try and pull us out, but to no avail. I tried reverse gear with the same result.

So what happens now? Where were we? The tank was at a fairly steep angle, I guessed about 45 degrees. The rain, pouring in through all the hatches, ran through to the front compartment, and we could splash our feet about in the small pools that were forming. And what was happening to the rest of the squadron?

We could hear scraps of messages floating about on the headphones but the atmospherics made deciphering difficult. It did seem, though, that the squadron had lost tanks and suffered casualties. I deemed it safe to run the engine now and then (in spite of the steep angle) in order to top up the batteries.

We could hear noises of battle close at hand, explosions and machine gun fire. Don Foster decided to open his hatch a little to see where we were. I opened mine a couple of inches to look around as much as possible. Countryside on my right but to the left was a farm, and beyond that what must be the tower of Cheux Church, together with a number of stone-built houses. I decided to push the hatch further open to get a better view. At that moment, something struck the cast steel cover over the ventilating fan outlet and whistled off - seemingly to the right. Maybe we were targeted? Was there a sniper in the church tower?

It would have been ideal if Tom could have checked with his binoculars, but clearly he couldn't risk putting his head out of the hatch. I raised my hatch again slightly to see if I could spot any movement but it was too gloomy. We wondered if we could put an H.E. through the louvres near the top of the tower, but the angle we were at made traversing the turret to line up on this target difficult.

It was now drizzling and it was getting darker. A Sherman approached slowly from our left front, with the commander and operator both with their heads out above the hatches and clearly making for the rear area. I used this opportunity to leap out of our tank and, keeping low, ran across to stop the Sherman to ask the crew to try and pull us out. They declined forcibly and told us to get our own recovery tank to do the job. (On reflection, the Sherman would not have been man enough for this job.)

By this time it was getting dark, some infantry were straggling back looking pretty tired plus the occasional carrier and tank. It was great relief when our Armoured Recovery Vehicle turned up and made short work of towing us out of the ditch. We followed the A.R.V. for about 20 minutes until we found an area with lots of tanks parked and infantry putting up bivouacs. We rigged out tarpaulin up on to the tank in the usual manner, put another one on the ground, unrolled our bedding rolls, and wet, cold, tired, and dirty, we were asleep in double-quick time. In the morning it had stopped raining, but a depressing sight met our eyes. A pile of casualties was laid along a hedge about 30 feet from where we had spent the night.

A quick wash and a brew-up renewed our spirits and Tom had now got a map reference of the present squadron laager which was about a mile away. It wasn't long before we once more rejoined the fold. We parked alongside a hedge with the rest of our troop who thought we had all bought it. The rest of the squadron were dispersed round the field and were camouflaged.

It was fairly early in the morning and very soon we were all ordered to parade immediately. We hadn't forgotten how to parade properly, even under these conditions. Then the S.S.M., Jimmy Edwards, called the roll. Dave Gotobed, Roy Painter, Cpl. Chapman, and Keeble were missing.

A quiet and subdued squadron left the parade. We had served our apprenticeship and had become soldiers in 24 hours. Most of us had stories to relate as we went about making ourselves a meal and getting cleaned up. Most of had got away with it - this time. I counted my blessings as we got stuck into some maintenance and tried not to dwell too much on the future.

While we were round this field doing various maintenance tasks I heard rapidly approaching low flying aircraft and the sound of cannon fire. We rushed for cover. They were upon us. One wing of an Auster spotter plane clipped the top of one of the trees round the edge of the field in a desperate attempt to evade the F.W. on its tail. The Auster crashed in our field and was enveloped in flames so fierce you couldn't get nearer than 20 feet. I feel sure the F.W. got the pilot before he hit the tree because we had no hope in hell of being able to rescue him. The little Auster burned fiercely for some time and gradually sagged into a misshapen heap. A hideous sight to behold.

So ended my own memorable baptism of fire.

St. Laurent-du-Mont

A small skirmish, scarcely worth recording in a Battalion History, let alone a National History, I hear you say. But all skirmishes involve people, sometimes fatally. This minor event does just that.

The chateau was the highest point on the densely wooded estate, with parkland below. It was believed to be an observation and information centre for the German Forces in the area. 13 Troop was part of a force which was to isolate the chateau and cut off escape routes. We were working with part of an infantry company.

Experienced though I was in many actions as a tank crew member, I felt quite isolated and on my own, just Don Foster and I moving slowly forward at tick-over speed in 1st gear. Not an infantry man to be seen, just the back of the Troop Leader's tank about 10 yards ahead.

The road we were on was narrow - about 15 feet wide, steep banks dropping to a ditch on either side. A very high hedge separated this road from the park. On the right was also a high hedge plus additional thick shrubbery. Just ahead the road curved to the right. The leading tank started to drive round this bend, hugging the righthand verge. I watched the rear plate as it began to move out of my view, then come back into view as we also moved into the bend. A great pall of smoke and a loud bang from ahead and the Troop Leader's tank stopped with a jerk. Some of the crew began to bale out.

On this narrow road there was no possibility of us being able to move forward so I began to reverse slowly, trying to guage how much I needed to apply the steering levers to retrace our forward movement. When I felt the right rear began to drop away. I stopped at once and drove forward to straighten up on the road, but too late to prevent some of the L.H. track begin to ride up on to the points of the front sprocket. Tom had been busy on the A set, and wasn't able to stop this happening. However, it was all hands to the pump, and getting out the tools we had the track back in position in a very short time. It was a great help to Ginger Kirk, one of the squadron strong men, on our crew.

Just as we were finishing, there was a loud clatter as a rifle was thrown on to the road. A dishevelled figure, with his hands up, appeared suddenly from the shrubbery on the right. He said he was a Russian, conscripted into the German Army. Tom ordered Don Foster to cover him with his pistol and hand him over to the infantry, a hundred yards behind us.

Meanwhile, out of our sight, in the park to our left, Alf Beale and his crew had moved up through the park and had straddled the road up to the chateau. It would seem that they had all dismounted and were for some reason or other about to do a recce on foot. Just then, a German staff car came down the hill at great speed, saw Alf's tank across the road, quickly turned round, and returned like the clappers up the hill. By the time Alf's crew had hurled themselves back on board and organised all systems as go, it was too late.

In the event the objectives were achieved. The subsequent comments and explanations between Ronnie Holden and and Alf Beale have, as far I know, never been put on record.

Postcript.

The Troop Leader's tank had been hit by a 88 mm field gun at short range. Moving round the bend, the hull gun and mounting came first into the 88's sights, and here, sadly, Taffy Bridgeman lost out.

Nispen

The circumstances and conditions under which we had existed during the last 5 or 6 months made trying to remember the day or date a rather fruitless exercise. However, I believe it was the 26 October 1944 since I always tried to remember birthdays in my own family, and I was sure it was my brother's who was serving with the Pacific Fleet.

I wasn't in Nispen very long so I wasn't able to form much of a picture of it, but I vaguely see a long village street with houses on each side and not much depth. It was a gloomy October afternoon as we moved out from the village into the fields behind. The soil was dark and very heavy and seemed to be wholly covered with some sort of root crop.

We were in a one-up position as we came to a halt about 200 yards from the village, the houses forming a backdrop. We crossed easily a small drainage ditch, of which there were many. I left the engine on a fast tick-over and tried to take in what I could see. There was the occasional view of infantry men advancing slowly, keeping low, otherwise I had that usual feeling that many tank crews experience of being isolated and on your own. Ahead, I could see the flat country, receding into the gloom, with a few trees and here and there a hedge or two. It reminded me of the fens in so many ways, and I would not have been too surprised to see that dim and magnificent bulk of Ely Cathedral rising above the distant trees. The Troop Leader was about 30 yards ahead in his Mk VII and about the same distance to my right. My visor was shut and I couldn't see Frank Hodgson who was even further away on my right.

Two flashes in fairly quick succession from the hedge 800 yards or so away, followed at once by two loud metallic bangs to my right, indicated that some tank was on the receiving end of some A.P. shot. I heard our breech block close as Hoppy banged in a round and heard Tom give Ginger the order to fire. I kept my foot on the brake pedal as Ginger got off a couple of rounds fairly smartly. Seven or eight more flashes from ahead plus the impact noises from my right suggested someone in our troop was getting a pasting.

Twice more I heard the empty cases crash on to the turret floor. Then it was our turn to be hit. I felt rather than heard the first hit (on the left hand side of the turret , near the top and near the edge), which then ricocheted away harmlessly. The next one gave the whole tank a jolt. Small debris rained down into the turret, and as I turned in my seat to look through to the fighting compartment I could see Ginger Kirk, on to whom Tom Tomney had collapsed. I have to be honest. I felt no panic and I wasn't all that scared, but I switched off the engine and pushed open the top hatches. Don Foster did the same.

Clambering out on to the mudguards on my side, I saw that Hoppy was already on the engine hatches looking down at Tom and Ginger below. The shot that got us lifted off the commander's cupola and deposited it about 50 yards behind. Tom had been looking through the episcopes, observing. Ginger was all right, it seemed, and he started to push Tom up towards us, and Hoppy and I leaned over as far as possible till we could grab some part, any part of Tom, that was nearest.

It was a desperate few minutes. We eventually got Tom's arms, then held him under his shoulders. I noticed his hair was matted with blood and his head was slightly squashy - like a boiled egg that has been tapped with a spoon before peeling off the shell. We did not know, of course, if there were other injuries, though I thought his hands or wrists might have been broken when the cupola was blasted away. Speed was essential. We had to get him out and hope we did not aggravate any other injuries. At last, with a superhuman effort from Ginger, below in the turret, and with Norman's and my help, we were able to drag Tom from the gaping hole in the roof and lay him on the engine hatches. In this position we were protected from any frontal attack.

As this rescue effort got under way Frank Hodgson was able to lay down some smoke from his tank, which seemed to have been unscathed. In the meantime, Don Foster had managed to get hold of what looked like a wooden door. We placed Tom on this and lowered him to the ground behind our tanks where one or two other troop members were waiting. We all jumped to the ground and Ginger, Norman and I, using our tank as cover, carried our improvised stretcher back to the cover of the village, now and then tripping and stumbling over the uneven ground and ditches. At last we came to the Field Dressing Station. Tom was quickly sent back to a Field Hospital.

The rest of us were beginning to feel shocked but had no visible injuries. A mug of hot sweet tea soon put us right. A bloodstain on Ginger's shirt revealed a large flake of white enamel had broken off on impact and had embedded itself quite deeply. He had to stay and have it removed. (Although in some pain, Ginger was able to use his great strength to raise Tom high enough for Hoppy and I to reach. Without his help, we would have had a long tough job on our hands.)

I decided to go back to the place we had left our tank. No heroics, just a snap decision on my part. After all, the tank was perfectly operational, at least the running gear was when I switched off the engine. Although getting dark, I was surprised to find a great deal of machine gunfire and some mortars were still raining down. Bent double, and moving as fast as I could over the heavy ground, I soon covered the few hundred yards to the 13 troop position. Of Independent, our reliable and faithful Mk III, there was no trace. Someone had recovered her.

The lonely hulk of our Troop Leader's Mk VII stood empty, with hatches open nearby. I walked right round it and counted 7 direct hits on the front, none of which had penetrated. One shot was jammed almost dead centre in the driver's visor. I thought of trying to drive it back. A quick examination of the driver's compartment was enough to tell me it was undrivable. Amongst other things, the shock waves from several hits on the glacis plate had caused the bolts holding the hydraulic reservoir to sheer off, spilling most of the fluid. So - no throttle control, no brakes, no clutch. This must have been the result of the impact noises I had counted earlier.

It was almost dark and fairly peaceful as I made my way back to Nispen, to our troop, and to C Squadron. A memorable day - the 26th October.

Postscript.

Tom Tomney was flown back to England that night. He had brain surgery and a titanium plate was inserted under his scalp at the Radcliffe Infirmary, Oxford. Like most of us, he is now retired and lives with his wife in Canada. He was at our 1991 reunion, a picture of rude health. Independent, VM 31023B, Mk III, Brass Name Plate, and Log Book, are now with the Tank Museum at Bovington.

Toward Goch And The Wesel Bridgehead

The general line of advance toward Goch and beyond involved negotiating a large wooded area, and the area in which C squadron was involved reminded me very much of similar tracts of Forestry Commission woodland in England. Those who exercised around Thetford will remember the large strands of fairly mature conifers bisected here and there with wide sandy ridges and firebreaks; and there were similar types of forestry in Sussex and Surrey.

13 Troop were to move up the left side of this particular ridge, and our infantry would be further in the wood and move with us. I have no idea of the disposition of the rest of the squadron; perhaps there were other troops on the right side of the ridge, but I don't know. Since the ridges would almost certainly be covered by 88's, either as field guns or mounted on S.P.'s or tanks, the 9th senior commanders and O.C.'s, and commanders of other supporting units decided other strategies were needed. As a result, I found myself waiting for the off, with the engine running and my visor open, hard up against rows of conifers (Scots Pine, I think), with row upon row ahead of me, as far as I could see.

Our tank was about a yard inside the wood, parallel with the ride. Our Troop Leader, Lt. Lilley, was about 25 feet ahead of me, and off to my left, so that our left hand track would roughly follow the right hand track of his tank. The pine trees immediately ahead of me were not very old, varying between 4 to 6 inches in diameter (though there were older trees as we went deeper into the forest). The plan seemed to be that by ploughing a swathe two tank widths through the trees, we would create some surprise to the enemy and lessen our chance of being hit by the 88's.

Independent now had "Tosh" Brooks as commander since Tom Tomney was wounded at Nispen. Norman Hopkins was still our Op. Ginger Kirk had had his arm knocked by a 3 tonner a day or so previously, so we had a spare crew co-driver. So, of our original Tp. Sgts. crew from Charing, Norman and I were the sole survivors. Unseen behind us was Frank's Hodgson's tank.

Some weeks earlier many tanks had been getting spare track plates tack-welded on to any flat exposed surface as additional protection against bazookas fired at close range. So this was a slight comfort to us. "Driver advance," said Tosh over the intercom.

The troop leader was also moving off. I slipped into first and closed the top hatches. A small amount of throttle and I let in the clutch. Independent leaned gently on the trees immediately in front of us and they slowly fell away and were snapped off at belly height as we edged forward in 1st gear quite effortlessly at little more than tick-over speed. I kept my front visor open so we could maintain station and observe what was happening ahead.

The first 25 yards or so was a piece of cake. Then the problems started. I could see the tank just ahead as it smashed down the trees and the thicker parts of the trunks as they were picked up by the tracks and carried up to the top return run. The mud shields were being ripped off on each side and after a short distance both top tracks were totally without any cover. Of course, this was happening to us also, though I could see nothing except when a battered piece of sheet metal was carried round by our tracks and dropped on to the fallen trees in front.

But I could now see a far more serious thing happening. Both our tanks now had no mudguards and I could watch as the splintered trunks were jammed in the tracks and carried forward to the point where they were forced under the overhanging turret. With the tremendous leverages involved something had to give, and this happened to be the teeth of the turret ring. It was happening to us, too. I could hear and feel the teeth ripping off, with a sound like a football rattle. I watched helplessly as the turrets swung first one way and then the other, quite out of control. Thus, both our tanks would have been unable to use, or have any control over, the main armament.

I had little idea what distance we had travelled, though probably we had been moving slowly ahead for about 10 minutes. Then, for some reason unknown to me, the Troop Leader's tank stopped. I slipped into neutral but didn't bother using the handbrake, just waiting to see what happened next. The tank ahead began to reverse, and I expected to hear Tosh say "driver reverse" to me. I was on the point of dipping the clutch and selecting reverse when Independent was rocked by a violent explosion. The compartment was filled with vicious searing flames and nothing was visible to me except the red ignition warning light on my dashboard.

I was wearing a chunky knit khaki pullover which my mother had knitted and sent a few weeks before. My lanyard was round my neck and although quite irregular, my Smith and Wesson was tucked into my neck and not into my holster. Self preservation being uppermost in my mind, I had to escape from this inferno. I pushed open the top hatches and tried to stand up on my seat, but the lanyard must have caught on some obstruction, perhaps the gear lever. Straining against this the lanyard must have burned through and parted. Heaving myself on to the bare track, I lay gasping and smouldering for a split second before launching myself head first into the shrubbery and grass below, alongside the bogies. Then, merciful oblivion.

How long it was before coming to, I've no idea, but it was dusk when I became aware that I was lying on a stretcher which was itself on top of a Bren carrier. Alongside was another stretcher, occupied by someone in field grey, but I could find no hate or enmity in me at that time. I was fairly drowsy; looking at my hands I could see they were quite black and had large blisters. The pullover I was wearing had begun, as far as I could see, to melt and turn black and glossy. I was aware of voices but was unable to pick up much. Someone nearby produced a tube of morphine and jabbed it into my lower arm, I think it was. I think this chap was Frank Risbridger.

It wasn't long before I began to feel drowsy. I was vaguely aware of figures approaching the carrier and looking down on the occupants of the stretchers. Before lapsing once more into unconsciousness I heard the familiar voice of our much respected O.C. C Squadron, Major Ronnie Holden. "My God, it's Rees," were the last words I heard before leaving C Squadron and the 9th. R.T.R. in the Wesel bridgehead.

Postscript.

In the event, this was the finish of the original Tpr. Sgts. crew, 13 Troop from Charing days. Norman lost his sight as a result of this last action and I was slightly burnt on my hands and face. My clothes, particularly the woollen jumper, seemed to have prevented more serious burns, though most clothes had to be cut off with scissors. The 9th was disbanded a month or two later, so Major Holden's words really were my last remembrances of C Squadron.

Sometime after de-mob, and missing the comradeship, I joined the Westminster Dragoons 2 C.L.Y. in about 1948/9. I was very privileged and honoured to serve once more under Lt. Col. R.E. Holden, D.S.O., O.B.E., M.C., as C.O. up until 1953. Other members of the 9th. who also joined the W.D. were Peter Beale and Denis Fitzgerald of B Squadron. After becoming a Colonel and, I believe, Lord Lt. of the County of London, Ronnie retired to Cyprus (vide W.D., O.C.A.).

Continuing from the action involving Independent...

While I was lying recumbent alongside the bogies, and unknown to me, the rest of our crew were rapidly abandoning our stricken Mk III. Whether Norman had already been blinded by the internal blast or whether this occurred shortly afterwards is unclear. He was soon feeling his way round the back of the tank, stumbling over the piles of crushed and splintered pines. One account from one member of the shocked and shaken crew said that he fell between two of the trunks. The Troop Leader was still reversing at this time and in the partial dimness could not see what was behind, particularly the frenzied attempts to attract the crew to Norman's plight, with the result that this tank reversed over Norman.

It seems that the fallen trees took most of the weight with Norman wedged between them. Even so, he suffered pelvic fractures and other severe abdominal injuries as well as bone breakages. After this severe shock and exposure he got pneumonia. This account is largely borne out by Norman's own recollections which were aural rather than visual. We can at least be grateful that during all this, the Troop Leader's tank does not seem to have made any major change of direction. This most horrendous event is one that few of us were ever called upon to endure.

Norman, like most of us, is retired, and as a St. Dunstan's committee member he comes to Ovingdean two or three times each year in connection with the various activities he is involved with. I drive over from nearby Hove, and he and his wife Mary, and their friends, have a jolly get-together in the St. Dunstan's bar.