AN INFANTRY SIGNALLER 1939-1945 BY WILLIAM GOULD …

AN INFANTRY SIGNALLER

1939-1945 BY

WILLIAM GOULD OF THE

1st BATTALION WORCESTERSHIRE REGIMENT

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AN INFANTRY SIGNALLER

1939 1945 BY

WILLIAM GOULD OF THE

1st BATTALION WORCESTERSHIRE

REGIMENT

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AN INFANTRY SIGNALLER

(1939 — 1945)

CHAPTER 1 When six years is taken from our short span of seventy in preparing and occupying ourselves in war, it is likely that the period will so have impressed us that we are constrained to commit its effect upon our lives to the archives of human endeavour. Such a lengthy period of stress and strain will surely have left its mark upon our characters and revealed to us something of our inner traits, our weaknesses and our strengths, and of our abilities to overcome the susceptibilities of a life laid bare by the atrocities of war. It has always amazed me that the inevitability of conflict is accepted, when nations have made their plans to extend their empires. Every nation has warning enough from history as to the result of such ambitions, and they must all know of the extreme price they have to pay for what they would call a satisfactory outcome. Yet from school days these bare facts of history are put before us as children as if they were something to be treasured in our memories and held in esteem, to be noted as incidents which are to be stored up for future use when our turn comes up for the continuation of warlike saga. It is true that life for the ordinary individual has little to offer in the way of glamour and excitement, but as a rule we get by contentedly, for the everyday duties often bring their own rewards and the joy of living in early youth has a most stimulating effect. We would normally ask for nothing more, but things sometimes pall on us and we get fleeting longings for something dramatic to happen: not too much however, for we know that life has to proceed on an even keel if we wish to maintain our sense of values. World War I took place in my early childhood and I remember little of it apart from standing in queues with my mother for food, which was not rationed. My father was away from home for a very long period, serving for four years in the Forces in such theatres of war as France, The Dardenelles, Egypt and Palestine, and when I first looked at him on his return he was unrecognisable. Towards the end of that war I was just beginning to understand some of the implications and some of the sorrows that it brought in its wake, but any excitement did not register in my young mind. Life between the wars changed rapidly in my formative years and, although things moved at a bewildering pace they were not unhappy years. At school I was a very good scholar up to the standard I was set, being consistently at the top of the class, but I left the local school at fourteen years of age. For five years at evening classes I studied ordinary subjects such as Maths and English and also served an apprenticeship to the building trade. It was a good start for a working class lad, and I felt adequately equipped for the life, which was ahead. At twenty-three years of age I was married and made every effort to make progress, but this did not leave out the joys and happiness amid the early years of struggle and relative poverty. There are compensations in early-married life, which are most compelling, and I used to think that life ahead was somewhat rosy. There were a few angry young men around but they did not break up the even tenor of life and an air of contentment pervaded the land. We had at this time

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developed an air of false security, for the spectre of war began to appear over Europe preceded by the unprecedented rise of Germany, led by the Fascist leader Adolf Hitler whose aims and ambitions heightened by his periodic rages against innocent and harmless European States headed, inevitably, towards conflict. Suddenly it seemed that we were about to be embroiled in a second great catastrophe: a repetition of 1914 - 18. Every nation on earth is fully aware of what war brings to the ordinary man and woman and that awareness should apply the brakes to the vehicle of war, but it never does and so we go hurtling into disaster. For me as with others, life was to change radically and I was to experience something, which I had never envisaged in spite of all the warnings to the contrary. As I have previously intimated, we could spend a lifetime without being called to anything of significance, but if we are healthy, patriotic, and have the instinct to respond to a call of duty or a just cause, the chances are that we shall be used. My father who was engaged in some of the worst fighting in the First World. War, gave me firsthand advice to the effect that war was futile and utterly inconclusive, bringing no benefit to any of the contestants, but such advice passed me by in the naivety of youth and I was ready to take on my commitments. Thus it was when war was declared in 1939 I was fully determined to take a part. On looking back to that period. I am now aware that I was in no position at all to assess what life in the Army would be like or to be aware of the misgivings and tragic decisions, which would eventually catch up with me. In our ignorance we are easy meat for those whose job it is to appoint us to destruction. The time was coming when to hazard. our lives in the face of appalling opposition was to be a daily occurrence, and to see friends and comrades destroyed on the field of battle a frequent happening. But not for the present, and in benign ignorance I even had the feelings of elation when I received my calling—up papers. It was just after the Dunkirk fiasco when panic measures were being used to enlarge our battered Army in order to meet the increasing threat from a triumphant German foe. When the call came in June 1940, all thoughts of deferment were set aside and not even the thought of leaving a loving wife and young son deterred me from immediately complying with the Army’s demands. Propaganda had done its job particularly well and I was fully convinced that my services were necessary, and even imperative, if Hitlerism was to be destroyed. Thus it is that each succeeding generation has to work out its own salvation and thus find out in the hard way the extreme folly of human pride. A public house in Smethwick High Street had been earmarked as the centre for medical examination for a large area of the Black Country recruits, and accordingly I was given what I thought was a most exhaustive going over by the five doctors on the panel. I was pronounced Al and somewhat hurriedly was drafted into a new Battalion being formed at Hereford racecourse. My wife and young son accompanied me to Dudley railway station, and there for the first time I experienced the first of many heartaches. A chap named Cooper also boarded the train for the very same purpose as myself, and four years later I was to help the padre carry his dead body from a slit trench in Normandy to an awaiting jeep. The first meal given to us on arrival at Hereford was the first of similar concoctions, and although of course we were a little squeamish our youthful appetites soon overcame any real objections, and months of repetitive action on the proverbial stew slowly erased its initial shock from our memories. The preliminaries take some time on joining up and the Army administration was hardly up to the job on that occasion. We were placed in companies of strength about one hundred and twenty—five and given a personal number, which I shall remember till the day of my passing. As individuals we were always referred to by surname followed by our last three numbers. Army bell tents were arranged in serried ranks and the accommodation was eight men to a tent. To each

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man was given a palliasse and three blankets, and a knife, fork and spoon along with a metal plate and an enamel cup. In June 1940 there were no weapons of war for new recruits, as they were in very short supply. It will be recalled that many of the Dunkirk veterans had thrown theirs away during the retreat to the port, and as yet supply had not caught up with demand. At Hereford we each received a pair of Army boots, but our uniform consisted of the civilian clothes we enlisted with. It is worth recording that at the expiration of three months training which consisted of physical jerks, clambering about fields, route marching, digging trenches, etc., we were at last all dressed alike in khaki uniform, and the authorities in their wisdom and concern supplied us with a portion of brown paper and a length of string for us to bundle up our second best curvy suit and post it home for future use. Suffice it to say that I never saw mine again for my wife quickly got rid of it. Two days after our uninspiring initiation into Army life my leg was broken in a (friendly) game of football — an accident that immobilised me for some weeks, during which period my comrades had already made their mark, and some of them were sporting one stripe. When my leg was broken I was transported to Hereford General Hospital and after they had put my leg in plaster I was returned to my Company Headquarters at the racecourse. The rest of the Company were obviously on training duty and I was confronted in the Headquarter tent by the burly figure of a man in his late forties. You must understand that at this early stage in my Army career I was a ‘rookie’, and I did not associate this man with authority although he was wearing official uniform. He wore no ‘pips’ or stripes and he looked rather old for a soldier. On reflection, he had a military bearing, which was sadly lacking in most of us beginners. My appearance must have puzzled him for I was still wearing my civilian suit and also using crutches. When I asked him if he belonged to ‘C’ Company he assured me that he did, and for some inexplicable reason I was strangely drawn to the man by his manner of speech and sympathetic approach. It transpired that he also took a liking to me at that very time. With some hesitation I asked him if he would go to the Battalion Headquarters tent to enquire about the sick leave pass, which I was expecting, and to return with it if possible. It would have been a most difficult journey for me to make on crutches, which I had not yet got accustomed to. As an encouragement I proffered him a shilling (purchasing value — two pints of beer), which he promptly accepted. With a faint smile about his lips he quickly made his way to the Orderly Room and returned with the pass. It was then that I noticed the Crown insignia on his sleeve and without being facetious, for I was still in deep ignorance, I asked him what it meant. “It means young soldier that I am your Company Sergeant Major” he said with a broad smile. I apologised profusely, but he brushed it aside and from that time onwards we were friends. Four years later I helped to bury him in a shallow grave in Normandy, and tears flowed freely on that occasion for a friend, a very brave man, and a most inspir ing leader of men. It was deemed that a man who was merely serving a short period on crutches should well be able to occupy himself in signal training, and so I found myself involved with the rudiments of morse code, flag waving and an approach to wireless telegraphy. Making fairly rapid progress I soon became eligible for cross flags insignia, and when fully recovered from the broken limb I distinguished myself on the assault course and as a reward received my first stripe. At this stage in our training we never realised that four years of solid repetitive training was to be our lot, but such it proved, and although at times we were bored to tears it enabled us to become a most skilful outfit, second to none. As a Battalion we travelled the length and breadth of England in search of perfection and very nearly reached it. It can truly be said that my Platoon, as a specialist section, could have taken on any similar formation and given an excellent account of ourselves. Our chief duty was, of course, signalling, but we became proficient in all infantry skills and could often beat the riflemen at their own game. We had two first class boxers within our ranks,

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and at bayonet practice I was second only to the Regimental Sergeant Major himself. For twelve months we served with the newly formed 9th Armoured Division under the command of Lieut.-Gen. Horrocks who was indeed a General of distinction, and a gentleman to boot, who commended himself to all ranks. During this lengthy spell we had the impression we were to take some great role, for we were driven frantic with repeated sessions of Bren Gun training, an addiction to rifle ranges, frontal attacks on the Pennine Hills, mortar firing, hand grenade practice, Bangalore torpedo deployment, line laying, flag waving, lamp reading and any other activity that the young Subalterns thought would increase our effectiveness. Athletics was also high on the list and my Platoon supplied the 100 yards and 200 yards sprint champions as well as other outstanding cross country men. Twice a week we had long route marches and frequently we did forced marches on empty stomachs. To explain what it means to be fit for action, I can recall a day when the Regiment were engaged on an important training session in the Pennines. Three Companies of the Battalion were to make an assault and advance under live fire on a disused quarry which was very near’ to the top of the mountain. My small section of the signals were supplying wireless and line communication. Each man was carrying a 56 lb. pack as well as his personal arms and on top of this we were also carrying field telephones. The advance was over a distance of 3 miles, and negotiating on the way loose scree and bunching heather, and making a final rush on the deserted quarry. It was a gruelling course and my section made the first attempt with ‘A’ Company. It was with considerable relief that we accomplished the task and returned to the start point. On reaching it ‘A’ Company were returned by bus to billets, and expectantly we waited our turn. Alas, by an oversight no relief section had been briefed to accompany ‘B’ and ‘C’ Companies and so in all we made the two remaining assaults. We were on our knees, and the injustice of the situation was fully borne by my gallant colleagues. The Colone l being an observant fellow fully appreciated our disgruntled appearance and sought to alleviate our distress by his hearty exclamation: “A splendid effort”. We were not amused. Our private pursuits were strictly limited but the friendly atmosphere evoked at this time became durable and lasting Glazzard, a professional boxer in civvy street, became a close friend although we had absolutely nothing in common. He taught me the art of self defence and looked after me like a guard dog. On one occasion I was affronted by a bullying type who accused me of taking his place in a queue. Glazzard glared at him and laid a restraining hand upon his shoulder and said simply: “Don’t; I’m his bosom friend”. It was enough, for his boxing had produced a cauliflower ear and a broken nose, which were both added menaces. Desperately I tried to get him through the signalling exam ‘but he was not up to it and eventually he was posted away to another unit. It is possible to hear in faded memory his lovely tenor voice singing “Come into the garden Maud”. The whole of the sustained period that the Worcestershire Regiment spent as a member of the 9th Armoured Division was in the Welford district of the Northamptonshire country bordering Leicestershire, and during the summer of 1941 we tramped up the hills and down the valleys of that undulating countryside covering every village of note, and we became thoroughly acquainted with every aspect of life there. Simplicity was the order of the day, for we were always tied to restrictive timetables, which prevented forward planning. We played cricket and football, and our Battalion side was of a high order for we had five or six professionals. There were frequent visits to the cinema at Market Harborough and Northampton, card playing sessions, walks in the countryside and earnest debate on every subject under the sun. There were, of courses characters,

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quite exceptional chaps who had comical tendencies, which had full scope in, barrack room activity. George Hodgkiss who gave us a dissertation on his love life, going into the most intimate details about himself with no betrayal of embarrassment. A gipsy lad who was a wonderful mimic, who on one notable occasion giving words of command in Capt. Gamlin’s cultured tones had us all rising to our feet before exploding into helpless laughter. A ‘Brummie’ whose observations on life, full of half truths and biting sarcasm had us all in stitches, and even when he just passed the time of the day we could never withhold a helpless smile. There were always incidents, which happened unexpectedly, such as the one when Cpl. Steward having missed the liberty bus on one of our excursions to Northampton and having perforce to contemplate walking the sixteen miles back to Welford, stopped a car just outside Kingsthorpe village and bogged a lift. The driver obliged and upon entering the car Steward realized that it was our own Platoon Officer returning from a rendezvous. They talked pleasantly together till Welford was reached whereupon Steward thanked the officer profusely. The reply was that he was most welcome to the ride, “but don’t forget Commanding Officer’s parade in the morning”. Cpl. Steward was overdue on his pass by about an hour and his ‘considerate’ Platoon Officer had put him on a charge. Friends within the Platoon always shared in everything in those days. Food parcels had a very short life and money was always in very short supply, but nevertheless it found its way into the pockets of genuine needy colleagues. One never associated a Sgt. Major with financial worries but apparently they were not paid excessively and they had to live their private lives in a similar style to an officer. One Tuesday my newly found friend Sgt. Major Hurd approached me for a loan of one pound and promised to repay me on the following Friday, and further he instructed me to keep his request a secret as he could be court-martialled for borrowing from a private soldier. Of course I obliged for I could see that his need was urgent, and from that beginning he regularly borrowed on a Tuesday and repaid on Friday except for one last occasion when the interlude was fully twelve months. But he hadn’t forgotten and repaid me just before we went into Normandy. If laughter was shared in the billets so also was sorrow, for often there were domestic tragedies worrying our little group. Everything was open; nothing of importance was hidden, for always there would be a sympathetic hearing and words of comfort. The gipsy colleague aforementioned was unable to read or write and it was my duty in secret to read his wife’s letters when they arrived, and to return any message he wished to pass on. It is extremely difficult to convey another man’s thoughts and on the occasion of his wife’s birthday he wished me to write something special. “Shall I write as if it is my own wife’s birthday and then read it back to you?” I said in some desperation, for really I did not know his own relationship with his spouse. “Oh yes please” he answered eagerly, “she will like that”. That made it easier for me and I had no difficulty in expressing my love and devotion as was my wont when writing home. When the letter was finished. I read it out to him and asked him if he wished to say anything further. He blushed in confusion and told me to send it as it was written. His wife had never before had such a devoted message from her husband, and by return of post I had a message from her of grateful thanks for coming to her husband’s aid in emergency. Why on earth does not this spirit of comradeship follow us back into civilian life? Apparently it only operates in wartime and when peace returns we revert to former ways, and the enrichment of our experiences when thrown together in adversity is gone forever. In all the years of training we never really entered into the reality of war, and I cannot recall a single occasion when the indoctrination we had received provoked one violent action, which I

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suppose was ideally necessary in an infantry soldier. There was no devil in my soul, no bloodthirstiness, and I seemed to be going through the motions with the real thing very far away. So indeed it proved to be, for it was four years before we had to face up to confrontation with the enemy.

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CHAPTER 2 During the four years prior to the assault on the Normandy beaches the Battalion formed at Hereford had made a few changes. It seemed that no one really wanted us on a permanent basis for we were tossed from one formation to another, and then in 1943 we were given the proud honour of the premier Battalion in the Regiment and henceforth were known as the lst Battalion The Worcestershire Regiment. The original Battalion had met with a cruel fate in North Africa and were reduced to a mere cadre of officers and men who formed the nucleus of the new Regiment like a Phoenix rising from the ashes. During our remaining weeks with the 9th Armoured Division we travelled the length and breadth of England in every imaginable scheme of tank warfare, but we were not destined to be engaged in that business when we eventually went abroad for the 9th Armoured. Division was disbanded. Inevitably there are incidents arising which are both amusing and tragic when men are thrown together in service conditions. There has to be much toleration and much offence to our native intelligence and sometimes the strain is very great. When Christmas time comes round in such circumstances, there is much speculation as to whether it is one’s duty always to obey Army regulations, and it is not surprising that soldiers take the line of least resistance. Christmas 1940 proved such a case when my Platoon were billeted in two empty cottages in the village of Welford in Northamptonshire. As the magic season drew near many of us were in anticipation of a 48 hour pass which would enable us to spend Christmas at home as most of us lived within a 60 mile radius of Welford. Expectations were not fulfilled, and in the depths of despondency Bob Birnie and six of his cronies who lived in the region of Stoke planned to take ‘French leave’. Being in close proximity to their bedroom I heard the whole plan unfold. Quite unwittingly, although keeping their voices low, it was possible to hear everything they said. By arrangement with the driver of the milk lorry who operated from Husbands Bosworth ( two miles away) they would be taken to Coventry, from which point they would hitch hike various, vehicles which would enable them to reach their destinations in good time for the festivities. As a Lance-Corporal I suppose it was my duty to remonstrate with them, but I never gave it a thought, and in spirit I was entirely with them. At one o’ clock precisely they crept downstairs on Christmas Eve and that was the last we heard of them for seven days. It later transpired that half of Headquarter Company had taken similar action, and when all returned after various periods of absenteeism such were the number of culprits that the Colonel was lenient and let most of them off with a caution. Sgt. Jack Jeynes of florid countenance and threatening manner, was appointed Provo Sergeant for he seemed to fit the situation to perfection. However he had one serious drawback - he was semi literate. This did not deter him from carrying out his dubious duties, and his outrageous bullying methods were unimpaired. Nevertheless we scored many a victory over him and held him up for ridicule on every possible occasion. Resulting from the above recorded Christmas misdemeanour a series of ‘all present’ parades took place, and on one such occasion Sgt. Jeynes had to call the roll. We all anticipated his dilemma for he was totally unable to pronounce any name longer than one syllable. He floundered through the list and at last in deep distress he reached Mckiernan. After several explosive starts, he gave it up and in deep stentorian tone he roared “DISMISS”. One morning I had difficulty in making the breakfast parade on time, and with immaculate attention to duty Sgt. Jeynes accosted me with the offence and put me on a charge. My mind worked quickly and to his utter astonishment I returned accusation and put him on a charge also. “For what reason?” he snapped. “For taking an Army vehicle and using it without permission” I replied quietly, and he was visibly taken aback. “What do you know about that?” he said, somewhat guardedly. “Enough” I replied, “and I also have a witness to your

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drunken lurch into the ditch”. On the previous evening he had taken a 15 cwt. truck to propel himself to the public house, which he frequented, three miles away, and on the return journey he had come to grief, and realising his predicament he had left the vehicle stranded. When thus accosted with a ‘fait accompli’ he dropped his blustering manner, dropped the charge against me, and pleaded for leniency at my hands. Needless to say I complied, and I imagined that his attitude towards me changed thereafter. Sometimes for the sake of expediency we paraded in line with men of the same surname or with the same initial letter standing together. Jeynes in the course of time knew every man in the Battalion, and seeing a man named Phillips standing in line with all the ‘Pa’ he stood before him and said scathingly: “What are you doing among the ‘Ps’? Get where you belong among the ‘Fs’.” He was oblivious to the explosions of laughter which greeted this gaffe, ‘but it put us all in right good humour. From the point of time when we eventually left the 9th Armoured Division, which was in the course of being disbanded, we were moved around the London area performing duties, which were carried out in peacetime by the Guards’ Brigades. Accordingly we had to reach a very high standard of ceremonial drill, and that of course was not at all to the liking of the average ‘squaddie’. It enabled us nevertheless to get around the London attractions, which still functioned, but of course it also meant that we had to endure the bombing episodes and the very many restrictions of travel. The goodwill of London people and their stoicism was much in evidence, and it was indeed a privilege to share their restrictions. When we went into the city for a night out, we usually disentrained from the tubes on to platforms, which were largely taken up with families who had to spend the hours of darkness on bits of furniture and bedding which they had manhandled into allotted spaces on either side. There was great good humour, and my pal and I on these expeditions shared many a cup of tea with these wonderful people. On Sunday evenings when free from duty I became a temporary member of the mixed choir of Westminster Central Hall, and listened enthralled to England’s finest preacher the Rev. W. E. Sangster. But at last this great period of marking time while we prepared for the major battles ahead had to come to an end and we were then given a role, as a Battalion, within the ‘elite’ 43rd Infantry Division.

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CHAPTER 3 Within each Infantry Division there are nine Battalions of fighting men who have the enormous responsibility of occupying the enemy positions and holding on to them, and this meant that the cost in human life was to be great. The Worcesterahire Regiment was in the 214 Infantry Brigade, alongside the 7th Somerset Light Infantry and the 5th Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. The other two Brigades were comprised also of three Battalions each, all of them from the West Country, and so the full title of the Division was 43rd. Wessex Division. Our Brigadier was affectionately known as ‘Twinkle Toes’ Essame he was a small man with a big heart and he had distinguished himself in World War 1 and also in the Dunkirk episode. Very strangely for him he made a somewhat callous speech when he informed the Battalion that in the forthcoming conflict our effort was to be total, and that if we did not conduct ourselves favourably when confronting the enemy he would exercise his prerogative and have any defaulters shot. From his experience in World War 1 Essame knew full well the failings of mortal man and was doing his best to steel us for what lay ahead. Incidentally Brigadier Essame was a very brave man, and a gentleman to boot, and proved an abundantly worthy Commander. The training we received on joining 43rd Division was most rigorous and thorough, and no element of human endurance was discarded to ensure that we were really fit. Behind it all, we learnt later, was the redoubtable Montgomery, who was in fact a ruthless General who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted, be it seasoned men or the right equipment. For myself I was as fit as it was humanly possible to be, and the same went for the rest of my Platoon for we had mastered almost to perfection the requirements of our trade. The difficulties we experienced were to do with our equipment which apart from the D5s (Field telephones) was liable to be faulty and unreliable under stress and strain. Valves in the wireless sets would pack up without warning; batteries were heavy and rapidly expended when in constant use. They were always drifting from the signal and in consequence we had to use the ‘phones if we wanted reliable communication. Conditions were often against line-laying, but the human element was reliable and my Platoon had reason to be proud of their achievements. Also our accomplishments with field drill, weapons, and other related infantry skills were second to none. But how would we react when plunged for the first time into action? This of course we had. still to find out, but I did not doubt that we would acquit ourselves worthily when the time came. Towards the end of 1943 1st Worcestershire made a move to a specially Belisha built establishment at Hythe in Kent, which offered facilities for intensive training, and while we were thus engaged it was disclosed that the Wessex Division, our Division, would be one of the follow up Divisions in the freeing of Europe. It was confidently expected that the accomplishment of that stupendous task would be within the year 1944. In due course Gen. Montgomery paid the Brigade a visit. He expounded to us his set piece, which included hitting Hitler for six, and evidently expected that his rhetoric would have the desired effect, but a discerning soldier had no difficulty in detecting his showmanship. Yet for all our cynicism we had profound faith in his ability to lead us to final victory. On that occasion we gave him a rousing three cheers to ensure him of our loyal support. Colonel Harrison, a Worcester man, took over command in January 1944 to give us our final training with a view to leading us into battle, and he proved to be a right disciplinarian. He was the cause of much dissatisfaction in the ranks but, he would admit, he got our support for we were already loyally attached to a group of officers who had proved most worthy. Many of them later distinguished themselves, entirely justifying our confidence in them.

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It is so very important that a good rapport is established between officers and men for the assurance given when such is the case is vital for the outworking of Army principles. The men will do practically anything for an officer who treats them rationally and fairly. To illustrate what I mean I give the following story. Major Tweed was an officer and a gentleman, and that is not always the case with individual officers. He was at one time the Major in charge of H.Q. Coy., a public school headmaster, and a man respected, liked by the whole Company. Weekend leave was granted quite often and when it was not Cpl. Norton and myself frequently took ‘French leave’. Of course we took precautions when necessary, but sometimes fate was against us. On one occasion we were skirting the boundary fence at Ashridge Park where we were in camp, and arrived at the preconceived spot where a tree spread its copious branches over that obstacle enabling us by dexterous movement to crawl along the strongest limb and drop into the roadway. Making the first effort I soon accomplished the task and dropped easily into the roadway and recovered my equilibrium. Alas! our well respected Major had witnessed my unusual entry upon the scene and there was nothing I could think of quickly to explain the event. I sprang smartly to attention and saluted him with a flourish, anxiously awaiting my condemnation. Major Tweed smiled, returned the salute, and passed on without comment. Cpl. Norton had witnessed it all from his perch in the tree and joined me when the coast was clear. Upon landing he gave me a wry smile and said: “That means a charge sheet when we return, for he knows what our game is”. However, when we returned no charge sheet awaited us, and to Cpl. Norton I intimated: “If we ever doubted that Major Tweed was a gentleman as well as a splendid officer, there is the proof”.

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CHAPTER 4 In late May we moved nearer to the port of embarkation and we were given the definite news that 43rd Division was to have support role upon landing on the other side. In the last week before crossing The Channel we were taken to a tented camp near to Newhaven where there was a very relaxed atmosphere. Our food was presented in the usual manner but it was of the very best. We were, of course, being fatted up for the kill and we all knew it, but we indulged nevertheless. It was the last bit of pleasure the Worcestershire Regt. experienced for many a long day and indeed that many ever experienced again. The bell finally tolled in mid June when we finally sailed for the Normandy beaches in a large ferry called the Canterbury, knowing that the morrow would find us on a foreign shore, where our own ability would ensure that we stayed to fight for the glory of old England. Up till now I have only hinted at the duties of an infantry signaller; it will therefore be appropriate to be more specific in that direction, otherwise it will not be understood what half my actions are about. A signaller in the infantry is a specialist whose chief task in action is to supply the communication ‘between the various Company formations and other groups which make up a Battalion. It is vital that a Battalion Commander shall at all times be kept in contact with his command, and for this purpose a Platoon of roughly forty men are trained for providing that information. They comprise an Officer, a Lieutenant or Captain, two Sergeants, two Corporals and perhaps three Lance-Corporals with about thirty qualified signallers. All are fully trained. in reading morse code, wireless communication, line- laying, and line communication and any other contributary skills which facilitate the conveying of military messages. They also, if well trained, are proficient in map reading and all the various accomplishments, which belong to an infantryman. Two men are allotted to each formation within the Battalion which comprise chiefly of the four Companies of riflemen, the Carrier Platoon and the Mortar Platoon and also any attached specialist group such as heavy machine gunners. One of the Corporals or sometimes both are given charge of line-laying operations and a squad of men to operate with him. Their job during an attack was to follow closely the rifle companies, and to keep the Major fully informed of the Colonel’s intentions or directions and also, of course, to keep Battalion Headquarters up to date with progress. The two signallers who accompanied the Company Commanders had a No. 18 wireless set which was netted to Battalion Headquarters and had a competent range of four miles. The line-laying squad carried with them two field telephones and up to two miles of cable on drums, which held 600 yards each. It might be supposed that two methods of communication was superfluous for one operation, but one or other of the two means was usually put out of action, therefore necessitating the use of the other. Wireless sets drifted off net and cable laid on the ground was often cut by enemy missiles. Between the two methods used it was possible to keep up some sort of contact and when both failed completely a man had to take his message verbally. When an infantryman reaches his objective he immediately digs his foxhole and thus obtains protection from the ensuing bombardment. In this respect the signaller was at a disadvantage for he was always on the move backwards and forwards and was thus constantly exposed, often escaping bombardment by flinging himself into ditches. I was once informed in all sincerity by an officer who had been witnessing our constant dilemma that he would not have my job in preference to his own very dubious one. But I had a feeling at the time that we were truly brothers in adversity, for there is no preference in an infantryman’s role. My own line-laying group at various times as later described occupied forward trenches, engaged the enemy with gunfire, and even fixed bayonets in anticipation of an enemy charge, so that it could fairly be said of us that we were comple te infantrymen.

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CHAPTER 5

When we crossed over the stormy Channel on that grey June day, nearly every man aboard the Canterbury suffered from sea-sickness, which at least ensured that every man would be more than pleased to land on the hostile shore. On arriving just outside the outer harbour on June 22, 1944, known as Mulberry, we were transferred to landing craft and because the ramps connecting the harbour to the shore were unstable in the storm, which was blowing, we had to jump into the surf, which meant that we should have the added discomfort of wet clothes for some hours. Ahead of us we could clearly detect the sound of heavy gunfire and we knew that 15th Scottish Division whom we were to relieve were heavily committed. In small groups we pressed forward through the village of Mont Fleury where destruction was on every hand, with broken vehicles and shattered tanks scattered around in abundance. It was plainly evident that the initial landings had been heavily contested and it was the first evidence we had of what our future lot was to be. The kilometres on the signposts reminded us that in the immediate future progress was to be measured out by the French method and we were very soon accomplished at it. Ten kilometres in from the beaches the small isolated groups of the Worcester contingent gathered themselves into Company strengths and we noticed that the sound of battle was immediately ahead. We opened our 48 hour packs which contained an unappetising package of concentrated bits and lumps, and using the carbonated white cubes for heating agent we made our first cup of tea on foreign soil. The porridge blocks proved to be the most appetising and the bar of chocolate (fortified) made for us an acceptable meal. Our transport, travelling from a different British port, had not yet caught up with us and we realised that as yet we were not ready for action for the vital ammunition was loaded on the missing trucks. All around us was the desolation occasioned by the skirmishing, which had preceded us, but we were gradually building up to the strength of the complete Battalion. We were greatly relieved to witness the arrival of our missing transport and all that it carried to make us battleworthy, for we suddenly realised that just ahead of us was the sound of artillery exchanges of furious dimensions. We were given a few hours to gather our bewildered senses and we had a heightened awareness of the imminent danger of our position, and although it is hard to define the thoughts of a man awaiting his baptism of fire, it is certainly sure that given the chance every man would have preferred to go back quietly to his uneventful peaceful life. The violence of battle was all around us and although we had been given glances of what to expect we had, none of us, faced death in this particular fashion. So for a few hours we were alone with our thoughts, and in a sudden inspiration I wrote hastily a poem, which I entitled in appropriate fashion “The Eve of Battle”. It was read on the spot by a group of officers with general approval, but their expressions were of anxious men who had a sordid anticipation of what lay just ahead. All frivolity was gone and each looked stern wondering what to expect and no one with experience to give them any consolation. The Canadians and the 15th Scottish Division who had preceded us had run into a solid wall of opposition just two miles short of Caen and were being decimated in the process. This we found out later, but in the meantime a recce party from our Battalion sent forward to ascertain the position of the 1st Glasgow Highlanders whom we were to relieve, returned with flushed grim countenances speaking their own tale. In typical British fashion they played down their first brush with the enemy, but as we moved forward our worst fears were realised. Within a hundred yards of the Scots position we ran into mortar fire and sustained fully twenty casualties. I actually walked through the enfilade and was untouched, being unaware of the real danger, but all around men were lying badly injured. To think that men within seconds of reaching danger zone should

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be laid aside, never again to be exposed. For some unexplainable reason I had a feeling of elation, being quite ready to get 'stuck in’ and then I became fully occupied in carrying the wounded into a wayside barn. The Highlanders were very thin on the ground for they had had a torrid experience since the initial landing and they were now at the end of their tether. It was with great reluctance that they vacated their slit trenches to allow us to occupy them and we had, frantically, to construct our own, for the Germans had wind of our presence and took full advantage of our unstable position. The officers and senior N.C.O.s of the Glasgow Highlanders finally got their depleted remnant away and my Battalion consolidated on their first objective during the hours of darkness. Thus we were left to our fate, expecting the enemy to counter-attack at any minute, for the village of Cheux which we occupied was a deadly spot for it was the hub of resistance for the enemy in that vital area. We learnt during this traumatic period that all four officers of ‘A’ Company had been killed while engaged in a short conference, and it was then that we fully realised what a dreadful situation we were in. Then plans were formulated suddenly, which required 1st Worcestershire to move forward a few hundred yards, which we accomplished in the early hours of the morning, and digging ourselves in prior to making an attack on the village of Mouen as dawn was breaking. We had been chosen as the first Formation of the Division to be committed to attack on a village, which in the previous two days two other Battalions had been used for a similar purpose and had failed, both of them suffering severe casualties. At a time like this it is quite impossible to assess one’s thoughts, for having seen the plight of one Battalion and the fear and apprehension as men cowered in their trenches, and further to spend the hours of darkness in anticipation of a first attack, it says a great deal for the spirit which possessed my Battalion when they responded with dash and determination to face the dreaded storm troopers. The attack was preceded by a most intense bombardment by our own Worcestershire artillery, and to the eternal glory of my Battalion we went forward in open formation and gained every one of our objectives. The grievous loss of their four officers on the previous day did not prevent ‘A’ Company from making the vital break through, and although the enemy counter-attacked strongly we held on grimly allowing the 7th Somerset Light Infantry to pass through us to consolidate on the main Caen road. The German officer who was in charge of the enemy force at Mouen wrote his own record of the action and it was with immense pride that I read of our exploits by this much impressed officer. The two previous attempts to capture Mouen had taken a heavy toll and the bodies of British soldiers lay spread around in the fields, for it had been impossible to bury them as there had been no respite in the clash of arms. Along the railway line, which bordered Mouen lay also, the dismembered bodies of the defending German troops (fully a hundred of them) who had been caught in the awful barrage our gunners had laid down prior to the attack. To see such destruction of young life had a most sobering effect upon all of us and I am sure that we never recovered from this first experience. Young men in the flush of youth done to death in this awful manner should never happen in our enlightened world, but there it was in stark evidence and but a portent of what we were to witness many times in the following months. Then began a war of attrition when we made no further progress, when for a fortnight we made no added impression upon a determined enemy, for we were subjected to a most devastating bombardment day and night from shells and mortars. We had many direct hits on slit trenches and my own slit was torn round the edges leaving two shocked and deafened inmates. My companion was withdrawn for several days recovering from a bad attack of nerves. It was a sober and saddened Battalion which was given a short break in reserve trenches a couple of miles in the

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rear: sober for the salutary way the Germans had treated us, and saddened by the loss of so many staunch colleagues and friends. The Mouen battle had introduced us to two enemy weapons which were to hound us to the end of the war: the repeating mortar known to all as Moaning Minnie and the 88 millimetre all purpose field gun. These monsters with their stupefying retching sound were demoralising, and they pursued and destroyed us till the very end. This murderous fortnight was a traumatic experience, which left a stain upon our minds and bodies right through the campaign. It was clearly seen upon the countenances of all, marks of the harrowing scenes we had witnessed, and we went about our daily tasks with anxious looks and furtive glances. However the good humour and concern which characterises all infantrymen did not entirely desert us, even so, and it was a great privilege to be in the company of such men. Then also was displayed the tender thoughtfulness of one Company who while in jeopardy of their own lives found time to give a decent burial to a little French girl caught up in the fighting. She lies today in the cemetery at Mouen with a stone tablet indicating this thoughtful action by the men of 1st Worcestershire Regiment. There was also the tragedy of an old man caught up in the fighting. He returned to the village thinking that the battle had passed on but we were still in the thick of the fighting, and as I was sheltering in a ditch from a severe bout of mortaring he appeared on the scene seemingly oblivious to the danger. We led him to a place of comparative safety, for his own cottage had been completely destroyed. Our losses in this battle were grievous, the cemetery at St. Mauvieu which is two miles away bears eloquent testimony to the sacrifices made: rows of white crosses each bearing the name of a man slain and inscribed in the stone the elongated star of the Regiment. The remnant lived to fight another clay and to prove themselves worthy successors of our forebears. We were given a short break in order that once again the Battalion could be put in battle order and then we were plunged into the worst experience we ever had to face in Normandy. It was decreed that 43rd. Division should force its way to the crest of a prominence known on the map as Hill 112. It was scarcely a hill, but its occupation would give a tactical advantage to whichever side held it. The Germans, who were in possession, knew this full well and were determined not to let go of it. The whole of 214 Brigade was used and bravely we went forward into a hell which one eyewitness described as being akin to Passchendaele in the First World War. Our sister Battalion 7th Somerset Light Infantry and the 5th D.C.L.I. forced the Germans back to the reverse slope, and in an heroic effort to capture Maltot, a village just a quarter of a mile over the ridge, the Dorsets were very nearly wiped out. The 7th Somersets suffered scarcely less and my own Battalion, giving solid support, hung on to our side of the slope. The enemy decided that we should proceed no further and the bombardment they put over threatened to blow us all to kingdom come. To attempt to reach the ridge in daylight was almost certain death, and every man made himself a deep slit. The line communication, which was vital, was constantly being severed and a memorable effort to restore links with the forward Company is worth recording. Sgt. Strange had only just joined the Battalion and decided to do the job himself with my assistance. I suggested that rather than mend the existing breaks it would be quicker to lay an entirely new line. He agreed, and together we set out on the most perilous journey I have ever taken. On setting out a shell blew a gaping hole in the wall of the chateau which was our headquarters and we used it to expedite our journey. By dint of a most harassing and devious journey we made the ridge and restored communication to the forward position and witnessed at first hand the devastating fire which the securely hidden German tanks were bringing down on our positions. This outpost was manned day and night and had to be supplied with all requirements, usually after dark. With what relief they were once again in touch with Battalion Headquarters, and they wished us success on our return journey. The situation was under such surveillance by the enemy that every time we raced to some sort of shelter bullets came at us

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from goodness knows where. Half way back I heard a shell coming in my direction and I dived head first into an occupied trench in which a Corporal was apportioning cigarettes for his respective Platoons. They had been set up on the lip of his trench, and the shell dropped so close that every vestige of tobacco ration was blown to smithereens. Slowly recovering we laughed at each other nervously, and dragging myself out of the trench I proceeded on my way back to Battalion Headquarters. The Sergeant and myself both returned safely, but needless to say the line we had so gallantly laid was not working. Upon retracing our steps when darkness fell we found the line broken in numerous places. We had to rely in this desperate area almost entirely on wireless communication. Our Battalion Headquarters was situated on the perimeter building of the Chateau de Fontaine and any water we required had to be pumped up from the well near the stables. Grabbing a jerrican I went to replenish our supply and while in the very process of pumping, a hail of mortar bombs descended and three senior officers in consultation nearby were all killed. With the aid of a colleague I dragged the bodies into one of the stables, and in a somewhat shattered state I returned with the water. This kind of incident was merely typical around Hill 112, but we never got used to it. The tea made on this occasion was strong, and settling down to the grim routine we listened to the whine of shells and to the continuing misery of soul destroying thoughts on the utter futility of our mad occupations. Every moment we were engaged on Hill 112 were moments fraught with anxiety and our spirits sank desperately low, for the future looked bleak for those of us who were left of the original Battalion for we could not imagine that we should get out of the deadly place in one piece. “How much longer?” was the uppermost thought in our minds, and the extreme and, utter folly of war is brought home to men in such conditions. Here we were experiencing the horrors and indignities of martial action in style, doing to death men on the opposite side and they alike doing the same to us. Four years ago we had been carrying out the dignities of life, loving our families and, finding happiness in ordinary things, and now the future was black, our souls blemished, our lives completely shattered. The walls which bounded the chateau had been hit so many times that for half its length it was at ground level. Time and time again I went out with assistance to repair broken communications and each and every journey was a hair-raising experience. The wireless sets, which should have provided adequate links, were unreliable and were constantly drifting off net and in consequence we had to provide a line service. Thus time wore on and no further progress was made, slogging it out till eventually we were relieved. This fearful experience on Hill 112 will remain in the minds of those who took part in it till our dying day, for as one observer put it (actually our own historian, Major D.Y. Watson): “Death stalks the rider who mounts its broad saddle”. Two incidents occurred during our occupation of this area. One was funny in a way, although our morbid thoughts did not allow us to enjoy it. It involved our young despatch rider who was much in demand at this time. He was a brave and courageous lad and was well liked, and our concern was very great when upon delivering his despatches he collapsed beside his machine. We naturally suspected that he had been hit with shrapnel or maybe a stray bullet, but upon bending over his inert body I became aware of the strong smell of alcohol. After some minutes he rallied and hesitantly disclosed the fact that he had been sampling the local deadly brew of Calvados. We had a job to conceal this incident from officialdom for he was quite incapable of carrying out his duties for some hours.

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On one of my line- laying missions it was pointed out to me that one of my crew was missing; I caught up with his retreating figure. He had discarded his drum of cable and was obviously beating a retreat to the rear. He was a pathetic figure and I remonstrated with him and warned him of the consequences of his action, but it was useless, his nerve was gone, and I left him never to see him again. In less than a fortnight he was a casualty of war, and although later I saw many such cases he was the only member of my Platoon to default in the face of the enemy. After the brief respite from the deadly business on Hill 112 we returned again but this time somewhat to the right of our former position, and were given the role of a night attack. Before the attack the Battalion had taken up positions in Baron and during our short stay Battalion Headquarters was settled in a house. The protection it afforded was not sufficient to make it shellproof, and when the signal office was demolished two or three of us were slightly wounded. The night attack finally went in and two Companies ‘A’ and ‘D’ were formed up on the start line under their Commander, Major Weston. There was a copse occupied by the enemy to the one side of Hill 112, and its occupation would afford an excellent view of the German positions if captured. Everything seemed to be going like clockwork for the first 500 yards and we had high hopes of an easy task. Leading the line party I had taken two comrades and three drums of cable, which was ample for the distance we had to travel was 1000 yards. The standing corn in the field of advance gave off a swishing sound, which must have given the alert enemy ample warning of our approach. We kept very close contact with the attacking troops as in the darkness we should soon have lost contact. As the first drum ran out, according to plan, I fixed a field telephone while my two partners kept in contact with the troops. I made the joint fully secure and then proceeded along the line holding it in my hands, letting it run through my fingers till I again contacted my colleagues. The eerie, awe inspiring, retching sound of a Moaning Minnie caused me to take a hurried dive, and not more than ten yards forward the broken line dropped from my hands: one of the mortars had blown the line to pieces. Picking myself up I dropped the handset and searched around for the missing end but I had no luck. Another ‘stonk’ of mortars dropped and I was getting desperate. Persistence had its reward, but the cable end that I found was the one leading back to Battalion Headquarters. Adjusting the phone once again I informed the anxious Adjutant, who was desperate for news, of what had transpired. They had heard the mortars drop and knew that progress was difficult and he instructed me to persevere. ‘A’ Company by this time had run into an ambush and received many casualties. My own two colleagues had returned down the line when they had realised the position and reached the broken line. They had called out my name several times but I never heard them and so we were three men adrift in no mans land. When dawn broke, the line we found had been blown completely off course and had several breaks, and in the corn all around us were a number of German slit trenches with uneaten food on the parapets. These German forward posts had been well ahead of the main body in order to forestall any night attack, and so our men had run into heavy trouble. They made a disorganised retreat and consolidated around the area where the mortars had fallen. Major Weston, perhaps the best loved officer in the whole Battalion, and a very fine Company Commander, did not return for he was killed at the head of the attack. His was a most untimely death for such men can never be replaced; they are of the heroic type which holds a Battalion together, and the sadness of their passing is demoralising. Six weeks in action, that is from June 23 to August 6, and depleted as we were so many times, we had given a good account of ourselves and could be described as a veteran Battalion. We had experienced war at its most vicious and knew by now what was required of us as a respected member of the elite 30 Corps.

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CHAPTER 6 30 Corps had been given the leading tasks in this war of attrition and every new move was carried out by one of its constituent members. Therefore when it was deemed necessary to capture the salient point in Normandy of Mont Pincon, as a prelude to joining up with the advancing American Army, 30 Corps was given the task automatically. This was a fresh role on a new front as it became obvious that owing to the increasing pressure the Germans were withdrawing to prevent complete encirclement. The Americans had fought their way down and had cleared the Cherbourg Peninsula, and were beginning to force back the enemy divisions into a bottleneck in the area of Falaise. In order to expedite their task 30 Corps attacked from Tilly area along the main axis, which led to Falaise. The Germans although on the retreat fought as usual their rear-guard actions and counter-attacks with such determination that made us pay dearly for any advance, which we made. In spite of this, there was a certain buoyancy abroad, for the Corps had been taken over by the great Commander and outstanding gentleman General Horrocks. He was a man beloved of his command, and from the time he took over things were distinctly brighter. The next task given to 1st Worcestershire Regt. was a grim one, for the fighting up to and just beyond Mont Pinçon which was on the general line of advance was fraught with some bitter engagements, for the enemy had most obviously been told that our advance must be halted, if only temporarily. ‘C’ Company of the Battalion had been given the job of making secure the left flank in the line of advance and ran into most severe opposition. My task was to supply line communication and a hair-raising adventure it proved to be. From every possible vantage point the Germans delivered a hail of fire, for they had not been dislodged by the leading infantry. An N.C.O. from ‘C’ Company directed us into a copse and there we found a rather wild looking Major Matthews who was in a desperate mood. He had lost a considerable number of his men and things were very serious. He roundly cursed me for taking so long to catch up with our field telephones, but it was a very grateful officer who could at last inform Battalion Headquarters of his plight and ask for immediate aid. 5th Dorsetshire Battalion moved up on the left and the remaining infantrymen of ‘C’ Company breathed again. The other Companies of the Battalion had had a similar experience that day, and once again a great sadness pervaded the survivors for once again the Battalion was at half strength. It is not for the infantryman to reason why, there is such abundant reason for his outstanding epithet ‘Poor Bloody Infantry’, for his next job has to be tackled in spite of dejection and intense sorrow of heart, for the enemy is always knocking at the door, forced on by a motivation entirely different to our own. An observation Comparisons are often made about the fighting characteristics of the armies and I am sure that every infantryman has compared himself with his opposite number. One thing is absolutely certain in my mind —that no other front line man in the world can be compared to a German. He must be born with militaristic tendencies and ho obeys his commands without question. I have seen a German company form up in a long line and at one word of command move forward into a hail of fire without flinching. It always seemed to me a reckless, mindless, stubborn attention to duty and I know that I could not recommend it to myself or my comrades. The Americans whom we fought alongside were slap happy in their approach; they had a heavy reliance upon superior armour and used ten times as much material as they need have done to accomplish their targets. There was spasmodic bravery among their numbers but on the whole their hearts were not in the

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war game, although the British cause would have been lost without them. The British soldier was dogged in approach, and in my own Division he excelled himself in defensive tactics. In attack he was often brave but ineffective, he was a civilian in uniform doing his best as fa r as he knew it and was willing to persevere to the end. The Germans were imbued with the spirit of conquest in the early days and fought bravely to the end, when all hope was gone. The Americans did their job reasonably well, but always giving the impression that they were doing us a favour. The British fought as a duty and begrudged the sacrifices made, but in all decency they fought well knowing that in the end the outcome was assured. Conde- sur-Noireau Ahead was the vital crossroads at Conde-sur-Noireau which had to be kept open for as long as possible by the enemy to allow his retreating divisions to force their way to the River Seine. Conde was under surveillance from the village of Berjou which was perched on an escarpment two miles to the rear. This village had to be taken as soon as possible for it had a great nuisance value as it could accurately bombard the town from its excellent elevated position. ‘A’ Company was given this onerous task as the spearhead of the Battalion who were to follow closely behind ready to consolidate. Here I was to have a first hand experience of seeing the vital part a Company Commander has to play in the deadly game. Major Souper was that man, and in a way I regarded him as a friend, for I had often taken part in the athletics events in which he had excelled. He was a splendid half-miler, having been an Oxford blue, and he had coached our Battalion to a very high standard of performance. Now he was once again going to set a high standard. The Company stealthily approached the only crossing point of the Noireau and we saw that the bridge had been destroyed. The river was not deep at this point and the Major indicated that we should wade across. Jerry knew this of course and was admirably placed to witness our effort. He accordingly brought down upon us a most heavy bombardment of shells and mortars, and the casualties started to mount. It was more than flesh and blood could take on to go through this fire screen, and panic was very much in evidence. My own small team of line layers informed me that it would be wise to withdraw, but what happened next turned the scales, for Major Souper, seeing the danger and walking calmly forward in the middle of the road, urged us forward. Up to this point I had been trembling in my shoes, but responding to such bravery I forced myself alongside him and my own chaps backed me up. In a flash we had crossed the stream and we were on our way. When years later I visited his grave in the cemetery at Arnhem I wrote in the book of memory ‘To the memory of a great man, a very gallant gentleman’.

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We continued along the lane towards Berjou and we had some protection in the advance by a thick screen of trees on the left side of the road. Following behind the leading troops we saw them disappear from view as our job necessitated laying back the line cable in as safe a position as possible as it was quickly broken if a vehicle went over it. Also we had to climb a tree occasionally to suspend the wire in the air over five-barred gates. As we eased forward there was a sudden movement in the bushes, and emerging from his hideout was the grey clad figure of a German stretcher bearer. He was very young and in a rather frightened manner he blurted out “Kamerad” and quickly raised his hands above his head. Of course it is a hazardous business becoming a prisoner in these circumstances for attacking troops are always trigger happy and are inclined to shoot on sight. We were so busily engaged with our job that we had no time to cover him with our rifles, for on these trips they were an encumbrance to us and a revolver would have been a much more useful weapon. He acknowledged us with a weak smile seeing our readiness to accept his surrender and very quietly he said: “Krieg nix gut”. I agreed with him heartily and indicated to him to keep in close touch for we did not know what to do with him. He proved a willing captive for he assisted us with the line laying till we reached our objective. From this incident we proceeded to the left turn, which led directly into Berjou, but there was no sight of ‘A’ Company’s men. In fact they had taken a track through the wooded hillside, which would enable them to advance by a safer route. We did not know this as they had left no guide to direct us, and so unwittingly we walked into trouble. There was an eerie silence as there is always when approaching the enemy, and we turned aside into a path, which led directly into a farm cottage. As we went cautiously forward a head popped out of a dugout. It was a French farmer who upon realising that the British were approaching had bundled his family into the crude shelter. When he saw me he looked astonished and gasped “Tommy”. With a frantic look into the shrubbery beyond the cottage he indicated unmistakably that the Germans were lurking there. Summoning up his limited knowledge of English he whispered. “Boche in garden”. We understood, and beat a hasty retreat and were immediately urged on our way by a hail of bullets. none of us were hit and we retraced our footsteps till we encountered a guide from ‘A’ Company who had been sent back to redirect us along the track his colleagues had taken. We finally caught up with the advancing troops on the ridge opposite the village of Berjou and the message was sent back to Battalion H.Q. that we had gained our objective. After close questioning our prisoner was sent back, and he deliberately sought me out to thank me. We shook hands and I had a distinct longing to accompany him when he left. At the time I thought how strange it was that a man who had been a detested enemy only a short time before could be accepted almost as a friend when he gave himself up. I am sure that this particular prisoner was a most decent chap, who seeing his opportunity to desert had taken it willingly. It also clearly demonstrated that there was an element of defeat among the enemy at this time for they were obviously on the retreat. Our attack was arrested on the ridge and hastily we dug ourselves in for we were not strong enough to carry our attack further without assistance. For the 1st Battalion Worcestershire Regiment it was to be our last battle in Normandy before the enemy took headlong flight to the far bank of the Seine. The German troops opposite had evidently been briefed to make a last desperate stand. We spent the night in our slit trenches and Nobby Clark, a friend since 1940 days, was disturbed for no apparent reason. He would not settle and he put me on tenterhooks for he insisted on talking about impending danger. Of course, in our situation there is always danger and it never helps to keep talking about it. To try and get him to settle we dragged some heavy pieces of wood to give overhead protection but it was of little use. Finally I led him into a nearby barn and he found a little comfort in the space beneath a manger. If ever a man had a premonition of impending disaster Nobby did, for what transpired when morning came was tragic. He was a

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lovely lad, intelligent, thoughtful, and had acquitted himself well in action, but at last his nerve was giving out. As dawn broke, having been reinforced during the night by a sister Company the order was to attack. We walked doggedly along the track weighted down by our impedimenta, Nobby on the left, myself on the right. Nobby had made the wrong choice for as the rain of enemy mortars came down they all landed on his side of the track. I dived into the left-hand ditch for I could see that Nobby had been hit, but he had a grievous wound and I had to leave him to the stretcher bearers. He was taken back to England and even wrote me one long letter, but he only survived a few short weeks: another fine young lad taken and another mother’s heart broken. In the continuing attack R.S.M. Hurd, a loyal friend and a most brave man, was killed and fifteen more besides, and when time allowed we buried them in shallow graves just where they fell. Thus ended for us in sorrow this saga in the fields of Normandy. Victory! But at what cost? From this point the enemy took headlong flight and the hazards they encountered on the way to the Seine left a dreadful toll on the heavily strafed roads they had to take before they reached the river barrier.

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CHAPTER 7 In moments of reflection I used to think quite seriously about the manner in which my colleagues had conducted themselves during the hectic two months through which they had passed prior to the retreat of the Germans across the Seine. There had been a few dropouts — chaps who could. not face up to it and who had been an embarrassment to all round them — but they were very few. The majority bad carried on regardless of all the trials and agonies and the disillusionment. They had faced death heroically on many occasions; they had adjusted themselves to the unrealities and viciousness of war at its very worst. In front of the notorious legions of S.S. men who seemed to glory in death, they had conducted themselves well and had given as much as they themselves had received. Like myself they loved life, and the thought of a hideous death or a frightful wound was ever with us, and often dragged us into the depths of despair, but in spite of it all they survived again and again to render what duty demanded. When the conscript of 1939-40 was called upon for special efforts, ho responded and went on till he was incapacitated. The goal he kept in sight was the end of the awfulness, which could only be brought about by his attention to duty. He most certainly did not believe in the glory of Old England, and his chief longing was to be out of it all and back with his loved ones. Before we left Berjou we were given a few days of marvellous rest and refreshment, and I was elevated to the rank of Corporal and given a special task in honour of it. In this interlude a few of us were taken back to Arromanches (the landing beaches) and in a barn very near to where we had actually landed we were entertained by E.N.S.A. I remember that Mr. Pastry was the star of this outfit, and a very nice man he proved to be. The special task to which I have already alluded was, as usual, the brainchild of General Montgomery, for he deemed it essential that the enemy should not be allowed to cool his heels on the north bank of the Seine. The General initiated an immediate thrust to push them nearer to their own frontiers. ‘A’ Company, who seemed to lead all initial attacks with monotonous regularity were to be rushed to the river in lorries in order to be ready for the major crossing of the Seine, and the attempt was to be made in D.U.K.W.S., an amphibious truck that had been made especially for water obstacles. One of them was allotted to my little group of line—layers and we took meticulous care in fixing a mile drum of cable to the rear section. It was anticipated that we should be able to make the crossing in these dual purpose vehicles and make a speedy advance without delay. Thus we, The Worcestershire Regiment at the head of the 2nd British Army, had been given the signal honour of being the first Battalion over this massive water barrier. Alas for planning; we had to dismantle our contrivance for the banks proved too steep for entry by this method and we had to revert to the time honoured ‘shanks pony’. The bridge at Vernon, the town where the crossing was being made, had been blown and was lying in precarious fashion across the 200 yards stretch of river and we could see that by careful negotiation infantry could make the crossing on foot. When all else fails and machines are impracticable the P.B.I. saves the situation. A night attack was ordered and the Recce patrol who made this forward investigation got a very hot reception. All around the crossing the enemy had placed, strategically, machine gun posts, and no movement across the broken bridge went unnoticed or unattended. During the hours of darkness we lay in any sheltered spot and fed on our iron rations. It was while we thus waited that Major Watson, the Company Commander, stressed upon us the importance of our job. Upon our efforts depended the fate of our Brigade, for communication is the essence of advance, and glory lay ahead. Here at the head of the whole of the 2nd British Army were the 1st Battalion The Worcestershire Regiment, the vanguard of a force about to cross the formidable obstacle of the river Seine, and so to push on to our final destiny, total destruction of the German army. Glory indeed! The Wiltshires on our right had made a crossing on assault boats and were endeavouring to give us support, but they had difficulty in landing due to wrong information by intelligence. The

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Worcestershires were the first complete Battalion over and it has become one of our battle honours. The dawn crossing over the bridge was almost without incident, but our cable line took some getting over and when we eventually managed it we were an isolated unit. When laying a line it is impossible to keep up with the advancing infantry for you have of necessity to make the line safe as far as it is possible from clumsy feet and following vehicles. ‘Dosey Denby’, my most loyal companion, worked heroically to ensure that we made the far bank and several bursts of machine gun fire greeted us when we arrived. However we maintained progress and reached ‘A’ Company who had dug themselves in round the church in Vernonnet, which is a suburb of Vernon on the north bank of the river. We informed the Colonel, who was anxiously waiting on the Vernon side for news, that all was going well, for which he was delighted and decided to send the rest of the Battalion over. ‘B’ Company came first and we tee-d on to the existing line and prepared to advance along a road, which was parallel to the river. Thus was glory achieved, and although the ensuing battle for the bridgehead had a sobering effect upon us we were seen to be wearing a little pride. Dosey Denby in his droll aside said that we should both be given the Military Medal. But I assured him that such deeds are commonplace in battle. On looking back over the years I realise that never did an N.C.O. have a more courageous ally. He was always calm in situation and apparently without fear. He was a man I learnt to respect and admire, and he was an inspiration to all of us. He had served as a regular soldier in India for eleven years and was a hardened veteran. When a volunteer was called for he was always to the front, always willing, and indeed had to be restrained. When I asked him why he always gave me unstinting support he said simply: “Well, I like you, you are a good friend, and somehow I know that I shall never come to any harm when I accompany you”. Some men I know have this premonition, which is quite unexplainable, and at any rate ‘Dosey’ survived the war unscathed, to justify his faith in me. Observation At one period of movement in Normandy an incident occurred which had a profound effect upon me. I used to think that the thoughts of my colleagues ran parallel with my own in relation to the atrocities we witnessed all around us. This was far from the truth, for on one occasion my thoughts were entirely opposed to the majority. A German machine gunner who had been positioned to cause the maximum havoc to our advancing column had been dealt with effectively and lay dead in the roadway. Without thought or hesitation each vehicle in the convoy ran over the body, and as my own 15 cwt. truck approached it was evident that my driver intended to do the same. It was too much for me to contemplate and I rasped out “Stop”. The driver responded and then said in some bewilderment: “Why? it’s only a dead Jerry; he is past feeling”. I stepped down in the roadway and dragged the mangled body into the ditch where it was reasonably safe from further molestation. I thought of his mother or maybe his wife, wondering what their thoughts would be if they had witnessed this violation of their loved one, and I felt easier in my conscience for this small mark of respect for a fallen enemy. An example of how brutalised we can become in the heat of battle. Down through the ages man has acted in similar fashion and our modern sophistication has brought about no different reaction when faced with danger and his defences down. Of my own reaction I know that it was due to my spiritual upbringing, for I was taught about the sanctity of life and the fact that every soul is precious in the sight of God.

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During the battle for Hill 112 the signal stores van was stationed in a secluded spot well to the rear of Battalion Headquarters, as a protection for the valuable gear we had to carry around. Valves for the wireless sets were constantly becoming defunct, due no doubt to the buffeting they experienced as they were humped around the battlefield. I had occasion to get a fresh supply of these invaluables, and imagine my astonishment to find the vehicle in a badly shattered state even in its sheltered spot. It had not been immune from the attentions of the enemy artillery, which I have previously described as being horrendous during our stay on this beleaguered ridge. Tom the storeman who was usually somewhere near to his charge was nowhere to be seen, and I imagined the worst. Searching through the debris in the van I found what I was looking for and then searched around the slit trenches, which were spaced all around. One seemed to have had more attention to detail for it had a boarded cover, which marked it out from the rest. Upon lifting the cover, I saw there cowering in the bottom the pathetic figure of our storeman in a state of nervous exhaustion. He had not eaten for two days, and was indeed in a sorry state. Tom had been a splendid loyal soldier and a most excellent and conscientious storeman, but the isolation of the van and the incessant bombardment had broken his nerve. I persuaded him to go forward with me, knowing that companionship at the Headquarters would be a help to steady him. He had a decent meal and was installed in the Battalion Headquarters system of trenches, but it was a long time before he could once again take up his duties. He managed it eventually, and in my reckoning this made him a very brave man indeed, for he had to fight inwardly to overcome his weakness, which he did completely, and I have always admired him. I have already intimated that our initial success in crossing the Seine was followed by a bitter struggle to hold on to the bridgehead. ‘B’ Company, who quickly followed up over the bridge at Vernon, were directed to advance along the road which ran parallel with the river, and my small group were to accompany them after teeing in on the precious line which was supplying ‘A’ Company with information from across the river. The Germans, who had withdrawn to prearranged defences, awaited our advance and opened up from well sited machine gun posts. Our casualties quickly mounted and our two intrepid stretcher bearers came forward. They ran into a hail of bullets and Pug Jones was killed instantly. His companion Wally Greathead was badly wounded, but his thoughts were for his beloved mate and his grief was pitiable to behold. The two of them had been instrumental in saving many lives in a similar situation and they were sorely missed. We were pinned down for some considerable time and as we watched from a wayside ditch we could see the enemy bullets leaving white strafe marks on the tarmac road. By heroic and dour fighting ‘B’ Company inched their way forward and the enemy withdrew into the forest leaving a machine nest to delay our action. It was my duty to keep tight up with the Company Commander, Major Grubb, in order to keep him supplied with the information I was getting over the line, and I could see him directing the battle from the side of the road. His batman who was in close attendance suddenly slipped into the tree line bordering the road and was not seen for ten minutes. I thought naturally that he was merely answering the call of nature, although in moments such as we were experiencing such thoughts were never much in evidence. He said on returning, very simply and without ostentation: “Sir, we can get forward now I have dealt with the machine gun”. The officer was amazed and asked for an explanation. His batman with cool courage and real common sense had got to the rear of the offending gun and had thrown a couple of grenades which had had a devastating effect. It was a most daring act carried out with aplomb, with great modesty and bravery, by a man who four years before had been conscripted into service. He later received a Military Medal for this outstanding act, and I cannot but remark that such men in war are worth their weight in gold. Thus the day wore on and we gradually worked our way into the thick woodland which now housed the German delaying force, which was allowing their main body to retreat to an easier held defence line.

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The following day proved hectic for the fanatical enemy had dug themselves into a ridge, which gave them great advantage. The Battalion’s Second- in-Command, Major Benn, was killed seeking to rally our flagging morale, and the Regimental Sergeant Major (Hawkswood) was wounded directing the ammunition supply. He ordered me from his stretcher to carry on this most vital task, and I had for the present to relinquish my signal duties and respond to the arduous job of carrying boxes of ammunition to points where they were needed most. It was a perilous job for the Germans were all around us and noting every movement. The inner conflict of all the men engaged in such a precarious position, seeking to force the Germans to give way, would be hard to explain, for there was a distinct tendency to take flight from such horrors, but the sense of duty — a very potent force — carries you through. It paid dividends on this occasion, for a very recent recruit aged 18 years, a mere boy who had had no previous taste of action, panicked near the ridge and ran down the slope. Catching up with him I ordered him to resume his task but he blurted out: “We are not all brave men like you, Corporal”. I could have laughed in his face for I was not feeling very brave at that particular moment but was as ready to run as he was. Only an iron will can keep you going in circumstances like this, and I was pleased to see him take up once again his box of ammunition. Some months later he was made a Lance-Corporal and I congratulated him, when he replied: “It made a man of me when you persuaded me to do my duty”. Two of our stretcher bearers who had gone forward to tend the wounded were given protection by the German officer who suddenly asked if they would lead his dwindling squad back through our lines in order that they could capitulate. The two Red Cross men complied, and I doubt if there were ever a prouder pair at the head of a group of prisoners. Thus the battle for the Seine was completed and once again the ranks of the Battalion had been thinned out. Our sister Battalion of the Wiltshire Regiment was also much reduced in size after this encounter for they also had given an excellent account of themselves. The Worcestershires were directed to a pleasant village on the banks of the river in the direction of Rouen two miles west of Vernonnet where we had made the initial crossing and there we holidayed, literally, for a fortnight. During this period our ranks were filled out for the umpteenth time, and slowly strength and sanity returned to our run down systems. While most of what I write regarding battles fought and incidents emanating from them can be checked from contemporary sources, all the thoughts expressed and the narrative are my own, for though the passing years have erased many things from my memory the accounts which I give are still vivid in my recollection.

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CHAPTER 8 When we caught up again with the tide of battle 30 Corps were astride the Escaut canal. Several of our Companies were given a section of the waterway to defend, and it was when we were settling to this role that we became acquainted with General Montgomery’ s bold plan for bringing a speedy end to the war. This venture eventually developed into the Battle of Arnhem and it was a battle conceived on a grand scale. The General somehow induced us into thinking that it was a real possibility, and such was his enthusiasm our spirits were uplifted and cheerfulness pervaded. Everyone must be now acquainted with the details and the outcome, but it was a hair-raising experience for those taking part. The Guards Armoured Division were in the forefront to begin with but from the outset they made little progress. The one ‘B’ class road detailed for use in the attack was totally inadequate, and the Germans broke through repeatedly from either side. We had to get within striking distance of the Parachute Division, which had been dropped at Arnhem, within two days, but it was stop, go, all the way and we were well behind schedule. I remember the ride chiefly for the plentiful supply of mushrooms we gathered from the fields, the dog fights between the fighter planes, and for sampling of captured German rations, which consisted of black pudding, honey set hard like butter, and caraway seed biscuits. At the Grave bridge we contacted the American Airborne Division who had been dropped at the various bridges of vital importance to our progress. But it was all to no avail for the massive delay in Nijmegen put us further behind. There was still ten miles to go and already the paratroopers at Arnhem had their backs to the wall. By heroic efforts of the Guards Division in company with a valiant contingent from the American 82nd Division the crossing of the river Waal was finally made on an inky black night in late September, and the Worcestershire Regiment pushed on with difficulty to the Valburg crossroads. There we were halted by the leading elements of a German Division whose Commander was Willy Bittrich. They had among their armour several of Germany’s foremost tanks known as Tigers. They had thick impenetrable steel fronts, against which ordinary shells had no effective impact. These vicious weapons covered all roads leading to Arnhem and at Valburg we came to an abrupt stop. Realising that we were straddling the crossroads the enemy directed their artillery on that point and wrought great destruction to men and buildings. My Platoon suffered with the rest and we had several casualties, one a lad from Nuneaton who died from wounds he received from mortar fragments. For two hours I sat with him in a garden shed but he never recovered consciousness. Great difficulty was experienced in getting the wounded away, but in spite of all delays we had to prepare to advance by dawn. There was no time for rest and in any case an enemy tank, which was, but a few yards away had to be dealt with first. As we approached a level crossing, fire was coming from a position near the ditch on our right hand side. Whatever was directed at us from the offending gun was much too high and so we pressed forward. It soon became obvious that an enemy tank had ditched itself and was unable to properly direct its fire. When this became clear the leading Platoon quickly dispatched the tank and we moved forward slowly into Elst, a large village four miles short of Arnhem. By great good fortune I was standing bolt upright behind one of our own tanks when a shell landed alongside. A tremendous blast and a vivid red flash left me in a state of great shock, but I still struggled into the comparative safety of a building at the entrance to the village. By now, although we did not know it at the time, the paratroopers who had been holding out at the far end of Arnhem bridge had succumbed to overwhelming odds, and the cause of our present encounter was completely lost. The forces, which had been directed at the Paratroop Division, were now turned on us and we very soon realised that we were in for a very rough time. So it proved, but nevertheless we still had to persist and force, if possible, a passage to the Arnhem Bridge.

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We made desperate unavailing efforts and great sacrifices were made, but we made no further progress on our front. Things happened which stand out in my memory; laying a line to one of our forward Companies I contacted the two attached signallers who were waiting to man the phone at Headquarters and handed to them, in their slit trench, the cable which we had laid from the Battalion Headquarters, and as always, on leaving, we wished them all the best. We had not retraced our footsteps more than 30 yards when a mortar fell on their trench killing them both. On the same day while carrying out another line- laying mission one of my party cut himself badly on a length of barbed wire, and I sent him to got it attended to. He was killed by a shell before he reached the Regimental aid post. Four men from my own Platoon killed in one day and several others wounded. Grim despair and anguish settled upon us as always in this sad position and it took some effort to face up to the doubtful future. A few of the civilian population of Elst had stayed on and were living in cellars eating food they had stored, principally bottled fruit unsweetened, potatoes, and bread baked from rye flour. Quite close to my slit trench near the church was a neat little dwelling, which so far had escaped serious damage, and from its front door emerged a lady with a disturbed look on her face. She spoke excellent English and it transpired that she was a school—mistress in employment at Arnhem. She pleaded with me to remove a sinister object which had landed in the rear garden, which she said was likely to blow us all to pieces at any minute. I investigated and saw that it was a solid shot fired from a German tank and was not at all dangerous. However, to please her and to give her peace of mind I removed it to an adjoining field — no bravery on my part but I think she thought that I was a real hero. The lady in question continued to stay on and I had occasional conversation with her warning her of the consequences of hanging on in the present circumstances, but she was a brave soul and was determined and resolute to watch over her possessions, till the last possible moment. What happened to her eventually I cannot imagine, for in a few days Elst was in ruins. During the latter part of our occupation of Elst I was detailed to lay a line to a small mound north of the village in the direction of Arnhem, where I was told ‘A’ Company had put in an attack to take possession of it. They urgently required communication, and viewing it from my position it looked like a desperate outpost in ‘No mans land’. It was with much trepidation that I moved towards it with my little party, who made it known to me that their heart was not in the job. The information we had been given was dubious and it was plain to see that there was no life in the area and it was still in possession by the enemy. We moved forward slowly and as we were not fired on we took courage and duly arrived. finding the spot empty. We dug a suitable hole, planted a field telephone in position and beat a hasty retreat to the rear. On reaching the outskirts of the village, Major Gibbins, the Major commanding ‘A’ Company, emerged from a doorway and accosted me with: “Where the B…… hell have you been?”. I replied with some pride: “We have laid on communication to your unoccupied post”. “The hell you have” he replied in some exasperation, and took his men forward to the objective. Some time before he had tried to get his men forward but they had met with terrific machine gun fire and had retreated again to the shelter of the houses. From this intriguing situation we made our way in the direction of Battalion Headquarters, when it occurred to me suddenly that the many henhouses in the back gardens had not been having attention for several days, and so taking up a couple of tin buckets we filled them both with fresh eggs. With what delight we were greeted on our return with sufficient eggs for everyone to have a couple for breakfast, and voices were raised in high praise for our successful enterprise. Much time was spent in the cellars of Elst for continual bombardment rendered it a deadly business to appear above ground except when absolutely necessary. During the ensuing battle we again had the devastating experience of losing a beloved officer, Major Souper. An Oxford blue,

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he had a distinguished athletic record and had coached the Battalion to the pitch of perfection. Just before the Battalion’s training spell in Kent we had taken part in a Divisional sports meeting and we had won fourteen out of sixteen events. He died in circumstances typical of his dashing bravery, leading, as they say, from the front, and those of us who loved him were plunged into the greatest sadness. As long as he was at the head, the spirit of his Company was always high, and we had all learnt by now that such dedicated men are quite irreplaceable and when they are gone the Battalion is weakened. Arnhem was a sad business all round and it was most certainly a place of heartbreak for the men of 214 Brigade, The Worcestershires, The D.C.L.I., and the Somerset Light Infantry. In spite of the truly gallant attempt to reach the paratroopers in time we had failed, and had to witness the withdrawal of what remained of a very fine force of men who had literally fought themselves to a standstill. They had been forced back into a very tight perimeter on the north bank of the Rhine, and for days had endured a concentrated attack of all arms by the Germans, which had reduced them to a very sad plight. As they passed through our ranks at Driel they looked like stunned zombies, and one wondered if such devastated men would ever recover their sanity and respect. For them at least, a respite, but for us the battle went on. They had been in a very severe battle, but it had lasted a mere nine days, whereas those of us who fought on — some of us at any rate — had already endured almost four months of continual action and were to endure another six months before there was any respite. This may seem to be drawing an odious comparison but I merely draw attention to what had to be accepted by men who escaped death or wounding. Eventually 43rd Division was withdrawn to be replaced by an American Division, and the Germans flooded the whole area to prevent any more active fighting for Arnhem.

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CHAPTER 9 Our next assignment posted US to a section of the German borderland, where for a month or so we were engaged in a cat and mouse waiting game, prior to the big push, which would take us into Germany itself. But fate had another hand to play before that ambition was realised. The part of Holland we now occupied was very close to the German border and the enemy was not at all inclined to give way easily. As we rubbed shoulders with them they gave us every attention. We were in such proximity to them tha t a mere forty yards separated our front lines. A large pair of farm gates on our side, which we had to pass frequently on our tour of duty, always received a burst of gunfire to ensure us that to linger was likely to prove our ruin. After a few days a colander could not have boasted of possessing more holes than these two gates, and we regarded them with great respect. Sometimes we made a long detour to avoid them but at certain points we still received attention from the watching and alert enemy. Our close positions ensured that there were no artillery exchanges, and indeed, a certain respect for one another’s positions encouraged a certain laxity. However, it was decided that the sharpshooter responsible for the damaged gates had to be located and by careful observation we perceived a few missing tiles from one of the barns on the German side. The game was up, and a sustained burst from a Bren gun settled their hash. At night men went forward to listening posts situated right in the middle of enemy positions, and the line parties who supplied these posts with communication had some hectic moments. It was always a perilous undertaking, for not only were we in danger of encountering enemy raiding parties: we were also likely to be fired on by our own men, for we could not be distinguished in the inky blackness. These outpost men had a really rotten job and should have been awarded a special medal for their steadfastness in duty. We were once visiting one of these outposts when it became abundantly evident that an enemy raiding party were using the same ditch. We quickly transferred to the other side of the road and were left alone, although it was obvious to me that they knew of our presence. In these circumstances meals were brought to us in the hours of darkness along with such other materials we needed to carry out our duties. In the daytime we fed on bully beef and biscuits with jam as an alternative, and tea made from concentrated cubes, which produced a beverage of unknown quality. It was truly a scene reminiscent of the 1914 - 1918 war, and our conversation must have resembled that of our forebears in similar conditions. We expressed ourselves forcibly in the presence of officers, and indeed we had reason to believe that their thoughts ran parallel with our own. With occasional withdrawals for the purpose of rest and bodily cleansing we endured the monotony and hardship of the close contact and realised that the Germans were suffering in like manner, and even more so, for they looked forward to the certainty of defeat. To the minority of us who had been engaged in each activity without incapacitating wounds or other disabilities which rendered us immobile, the whole business of constant action was having its inevitable effect: nerves became more taut and each dreaded prospect ahead caused us to shrink within ourselves. However the interludes we enjoyed between times seemed to help us recover a measure of cheerfulness. Events moved on, and us with them, and our next sphere of action was in the area where the American 82nd Division had put up such a marvellous show in the initial airborne landings. There was ample evidence around of the tremendous fight they had put up, and in the fields surrounding Mook, a Dutch border town, their discarded weapons lay rus ting in the rain-soaked turf. Their repeating rifles were a welcome addition to our limited armament and we made full use of them till the ammunition ran out. One episode stands out while we were in this area; the Warwickshire Regiment, from whom we took over, had been very slack over their line- laying, and because of this we had to lay a

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completely new system. I was given the job and the signal officer decided to accompany us, but after the night’s excursion he must have regretted his enthusiasm for we had a dreadful time. About this time General Montgomery had initiated artificial moonlight to assist our night activities and searchlights pointed their pale fingers skyward over the whole battlefield. The moonlight served to highlight the difficulties and on top of everything the rain poured in torrents. We crossed a small stream by a wooden bridge and as we sallied forth loaded down with impedimenta the water was lapping over the walkway. We carried out our task and were rewarded by a vastly improved phone service between the Companies, but on returning to the aforementioned bridge, or rather to whore it had been, not a trace of it could be found. We therefore had to wade across the swollen stream and spend the rest of the night in slit trenches drenched to the skin. The following day was fine and warm and by midday our steaming uniforms dried out and we were rewarded with a massive dose of rum. The main action while in this neck of the woods was provided by artillery exchanges, and in this respect the Germans had a decided advantage for they had but recently occupied the same area and knew that we were likely to occupy their old fortifications. The trenches they had constructed were models of skill and ingenuity and were easily the best outdoor sleeping we had enjoyed for many weeks. The enemy had also left behind in a secluded railway siding an ammunition train loaded with shells, mortars and panzer faust missiles, and during one of their well directed ‘stonks’ they blew it to smithereens. It was very close to Guy Fawkes night and provided us with a most spectacular display of’ fireworks. Hereabouts in time I incurred the wrathful indignation of our well loved padre for he witnessed the slaughter of a civilian ‘porker’ which had strayed into our midst whilst foraging for food. It was a poor specimen, but provided a welcome relief from the ordinary routine of rations, although its taste left much to be desired. Sgt. John Simpson of artistic fame found a ready outlet for his talent close by where the train had been blown up, for the walls of a large shed were panelled with boards that were eminently suitable for receiving his water colours which he contrived to carry with him at all times. A showing’ of his nudes was on display for several days, which surely must be the only recorded instance of a front line picture gallery. The position of stalemate in this border area at last came to an end, and although at the time we did not know it, we were about to embark upon the most hazardous of all our experiences in N.W. Europe. The Siegfried Line defences had yet to be breached, and in company with the U.S.A. Forces the 1st Battalion Worcestershires were to make the first probing attack. During the periods of inactivity I imagine that every infantryman had contemplative thoughts and took stock of himself. His thoughts must run thus: “I am still alive — depressed maybe, but I am still able to appreciate life — I’ll try not to look too far ahead, for surely this state of affairs cannot continue — If I’m lucky I’ll ge t away with it —If not I hope I get a blighty — But if the worst should happen and I get killed I hope that it will be sudden — O God bring this awful experience to an end”. Thus we speculated and then, grimly, we faced what lay ahead. Brunssum, which is a border town in Holland, was well within shelling range of the Siegfried line defences but as yet had experienced no bombardment and was destined not to do so. It was chosen as the preparatory base for the attack on Rischden and Tripsrath, the two German villages which were to be our initial targets. Quite a few pleasant days were spent with the delightful Dutch people who opened their houses to us and sought in every possible way to make life a little easier for us. A large coalmine is situated on the town border and most of the men of the area found

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employment there. I was chosen to go with the Recce Party and I got glimpses of the area to which our Battalion was committed. All border areas seem to have a sinister atmosphere, and this one in particular seemed positively evil. So it proved when the attack went in, and the Worcestershires never had a worse experience with the exception of Hill 112 in Normandy. Prior to the attack we were told that the Americans on our right were intending to occupy Geilenkirchen, which was about four miles from our position, and we were to capture the two villages on the flank to ensure their success. Stealthily we followed the track from our forming up point at Gillrath where we were amazed to be greeted by members of the press. They photographed us from all angles, and years later while perusing a copy of Picture Post I saw a picture of myself leading a section of my Platoon. Needless to say the pressmen did not follow us into action, but they did wish us “good luck”. Progress was good to within a quarter of a mile of the nearer village Rischden, but as the leading Carrier Platoon broke cover from a small copse they were picked off one by one by a section of 88 millimetre field guns which were firing from a position from what is now known as ‘Dorset Wood’. Every carrier was accounted for, and the crews suffered many casualties. At the same instance the Battalion Commander was badly wounded in the leg and had to be stretchered away, but not before he had given a few encouraging words. The two leading Companies pressed forward undaunted by this catastrophe and duly took their objectives with a splendid rush which took them into the village itself. The senior Major, Major Ricketts, took over the command of the Battalion, and in spite of the confusion continued with the attack on the village of Tripsrath. On arriving they had to hastily dig their slit trenches in the enveloping darkness, and we all settled down to an uneasy situation. The task was fulfilled thus far, but as the enemy became aware of our presence our previous sense of foreboding was justified for counterattacks came from all angles. This attack upon their homeland was violently resented and they were determined to blast us off with all the weapons they could bring to bear. Our experience of Tripsrath and Rischden, within shelling distance of the Siegfried Line, was one, which we will never forget, for what transpired there remained with us as a scourge upon our minds and bodies for all time. The attack, as I have already indicated, was commenced with grim foreboding and this was borne out in its accomplishment. Nothing could relieve our doubts of what lay ahead, and to add to the general gloom the weather gave of its worst. First the tragedy of losing the whole of the Carrier Platoon, the loss of the Colonel, and all around men ready for flight, this only averted by the extreme courage of junior officers. Battalion Headquarters was set up in a cellar in Rischden and the Signal Office was to be alongside, but our equipment was bogged down half a mile away. The cloying mud prevented the trucks getting forward and during the hours of darkness we had to retrace our footsteps and physically manhandle the complete sot of equipment. Sheer guts and determination finally accomplished what the transport woefully failed to carry out, and each man of the Signal Platoon available carried at least a hundredweight of telephone equipment around his person. The night following the attack was one of chaos as we sought in the darkness to lay down a line system. It was carried out at last and eventually ire snatched a couple of hours sleep wondering what the dawn would bring. At Tripsrath the enemy seemed temporarily unaware of our presence, for a Platoon strength of Germans were marched down to breakfast in full view of our troops — an exercise they had carried out for some time for the cookhouse which occupied one of the main street houses was a well established affair. This sitting target was taken full advantage of amid the looks of astonishment of the survivors.

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Then war broke out in real fashion, and counter—attacks in plenty, which were all dealt with in a most efficient manner for the Germans never regained as much as an inch of ground that we had taken. Then they withdrew a short distance to allow the Siegfried Line guns to take their toll, and we had, literally, a taste of hell. It was estimated that on one particular night we had 2000 shells landing on the two villages, and many trenches received hits, the casualties being very high. To escape injury in such an inferno was indeed to live a charmed life, and they who received no physical wound were deeply wounded in spirit. ‘A’ Echelon who sought to supply us with the necessities of body and the ammunition to sustain our defence, did so under terrible difficulties for there was no respite in the bombardment and although they usually spent no more than an hour with us they knew what it was like in the front line. Along with three colleagues — we were laying line at the time — I had to fling myself full length along a wall as the onerous note of an 88 millimetre shell indicated its imminent arrival. The wall was our salvation for the shell dropped on the opposite side to which we were lying, and although we each received minor shrapnel wounds our lives were spared. This experience was a daily occurrence in the lives of all the infantrymen who had occasion to be in this dreadful place, and bow we longed to be relieved. The barn, which was above the Signal Office cellar, overlooked a field on the north side of which was the wood from which the fire had been directed on our Carrier Platoon. It very obviously contained a well equipped task force, and we kept a constant watch upon its eerie perimeter. One of my colleagues saw some movement in the wood and drew my attention to it. We had received information, which had indicated that one of our sister Battalions, The Dorsetshire Regiment, had been given the task of clearing the wood, and I therefore supposed that the movement was the result of an attack proceeding. Suddenly figures emerged and lined up on the edge of the wood and they were all wearing, unmistakably, long grey garments. It was evident that they were going to attack Rischden. Worcestershire’s ‘B' Company were guarding the left hand side of the Heinsberg Road, of whose presence the Germans seemed totally unaware, and their line of advance was directly in the direction of the barn we were occupying. The German force was fully fifty men and there were just seven of us signallers apart from the Adjutant who was in the cellar. Things looked pretty grim for the enemy advanced in open formation slowly but inexorably, and all we had to defend ourselves with were our rifles. Being senior I gave the order to take up positions, two of us in the doorway and one man at each window, and we started to fire when the enemy were within one hundred yards of us. They immediately went to ground and took avoiding action, but though we accounted for several of them it was evident that our position was precarious. Captain Leadbeater, who was acting Adjutant, joined us and all eight of us kept up an incessant fire. The enemy reached a cabbage patch, which was directly adjoining the barn, and I gave orders to fix bayonets for it was clear that there was going to be a hand-to-hand encounter. Quite suddenly we heard the sound of a tank approaching from the rear, and rushing into the street I indicated to the driver where our danger lay. He responded quickly and sprayed the area where the enemy were lying, and so effective was his discharge that the enemy broke off their attack and retreated across the field in great disarray, leaving behind fully thirty of their comrades dead and wounded. Their stretcher bearers who were in close attendance were allowed to carry out their mission of mercy. This timely intervention by one isolated tank was much appreciated and we passed on our grateful thanks. We did not have to use cold steel, and on recalling the incident I tried to recollect my thoughts on giving the order to fix bayonets. The thought of coming to grips with another human being is shattering and yet it was a spontaneous action at the time and I believe that I could have given a good account of myself; but this is speculation my colleagues responded faithfully and they were to be admired. However, like myself they were mightily relieved that the tank came to our rescue.

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The wood in the aforementioned account was taken by the Dorests, our most gallant comrades, and they suffered fearful casualties during the performance, and when they fully occupied the wood they were subjected to a most fearful bombardment. To their eternal honour the Dorsets received commendation from the enemy, who out of respect for a most worthy adversary they have given the name of Dorset wood to this tragic scene of bitter fighting. Night and morning at a given hour we stood to expecting at any time an attack from an enemy so much on his toes, but nothing developed along those lines and when the inevitable shelling started up we knew that we were being left to the tender mercy of the Siegfried Line guns. These devastating spells of heavy shelling were playing havoc with our morale, and our taut drawn features and nervous glances gave adequate indication of how we were feeling Jim Norton, the Platoon Sergeant, seemed quite equal to the occasion, for he faithfully carried out his duties fairly and judiciously. He was aware of our wretched state and sought to ease the burden as far as he possibly could. I confess that during our stay in Rischden and Tripsrath I did my stint purely from a sense of duty, and often my spirits sank so low as to become almost unendurable. There is a limit to what human frailty can take and I had very nearly reached it. The fact that I was an N.C.O. kept me staggering on, but the initial drive, which I had in Normandy, was fast dissipating and I found myself in the same predicament as many others after almost six months of continual fighting. At this stage of the campaign I had been engaged in every attack that the 1st Worcestershire Regiment had made, and apart from two slight wounds had escaped lightly, but slowly and relentlessly my spirit was being worn down. On the night before we were withdrawn from this position for an extended rest period we had a strange experience while we were manning our defence perimeter. As we peered into the darkness looking for any suspicious movement we saw two shadowy shapes and heard distinctly female voices. We held our fire and the two figures almost walked into my slit trench. Unbelievably two young German women had bravely walked the broad stretch of ‘No Mans Land’ between the enemy lines and our own, with the intention of occupying their own cottage which stood in the roar of Rischden. They had no idea that we were still in possession and found that what remained of their former home was but a shambles. They had faced almost certain death as they approached our trenches and had casually asked for our permission to continue their nightmare journey. We insisted by frantic gesticulation that they got as far away from Rischden as they possibly could, and then we just marvelled at the courage of two young enemy civilians. The morning following this incident we crept out of this hell of a place to one of the Dutch border villages, and did so with immeasurable relief. What now transpired between this trial and the approaching period of Christmas was indeed full of incident and rumoured movements, but nothing like the Ardennes debacle was over thought of and our loaders were caught completely on the hop. The German troop movements prior to their truly imaginative attack must have been on a terrific scale, and how they escaped the ‘eagle’ eye of the Allied Air Force is a mystery, which will never be explained. 30 Corps, which up to this point had been in the forefront of every battle on the British Front, this time found themselves in reserve. 1st Worcestershires were billeted in the small town of Bilsen in Belgium with a role which gave them a deal of scope for leisured activity, and many of us found a proper bed to sleep in. The local barber and his wife, quite elderly people, acted as our hosts and provided us with a few of the necessities of life, for this was still possible in Belgium. The Second- in-Command’s batman had access to some of his boss’s alcoholic supply, which of course was not generally available, and I can tell you that there was no a merrier household in Bilsen while this supply lasted. When work for the day finished, the Barber, his wife, the batman and myself fell to roistering and the sleep we enjoyed afterwards was sound and restful in order to expedite the barber’s duties I officiated as his lather boy and there was much merriment in his emporium during that Christmas season. I can well imagine that the story of the British lather boy N.C.O. got a very special hearing for many a long day afterwards.

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On Christmas Day itself when the ‘Battle of the Bulge’ had been resolved the nuns who were in charge of the local school had prepared a tremendous cauldron of rich vegetable soup as a special treat for their charges and quite a few of the Worcesters sampled it and declared it to be excellent. The Quartermaster by prodigious efforts excelled himself and he furnished our Christmas lunch with turkey from tins as well as the festive pudding. After this experience we visited Tripsrath a second time but this time the enemy’s defiance was not much in evidence and we came away from its bane and curse almost unscathed. But now the last great effort was afoot and everywhere there was renewed fear and expectancy. The Rhine crossing had to be made and a mighty army was being assembled to force our way into Germany proper. In the Nijmegen area there was confusion of men and material as the preparation was made for the assault through the Reichswald Forest, which would eventually lead to the crossing of the Rhine at several places. The dark khaki uniforms of the Canadians was as common as our own in this area for they were to take one of the major roles. The Germans evidently confidently expected us to take this route for in order to hamper our movement they had blasted the banks of the great river and flooded, a wide area. Every road through the forest was standing in a depth of several feet of water, and amphibious craft of every kind had to be on hand to convey men and materials into fighting positions. The weather was uncooperative as it might well be in midwinter, for it was cold and miserable, but we contrived to keep cheerful. We were introduced to cans of soup which had a touch wick to which we applied a lighted match which ensured that in a couple of minutes we had a wonderful hot meal. Some of the large farmhouses, which had been deserted often, provided hams and sides of bacon, which we made excellent use of. Not far into the Reichswald we finally contacted the enemy and then began a most fierce clash of arms. The Rhine, which was the last natural barrier, was near at hand and as usual the Germans would prevent us from getting there if they possibly could. Cleve, the small German town famed as the birthplace of one of Henry the Eighth’s wives, provided the first obstacle principally by virtue of being a bottleneck to the huge invading force. It finally had to be almost destroyed to allow us a freer access, and the Worcestershires were then allotted a task of capturing a village on the escarpment overlooking Goch which was to the south of Cleve. I had been given the job of supplying communication for the leading Company, and as we got closer to the village the Germans being aware of our presence sent up a prolonged series of verey lights which gave wonderful illumination of the whole area, allowing us to see quite plainly the depressions in the grass verge where mines had been planted. Prior to the lights we had remarked on these depressions as we walked over them but apparently our weight had been insufficient to detonate them. On reaching some houses on the outskirts of the village the officer commanding the Company ordered me to send back a six figure map reference to the artillery officer to request a barrage on to the target which was only 100 yards forward. I drew the officer’s attention to the fact that this was a close target and therefore extremely risky but he decided that it was necessary in the circumstances. The ‘sighters’ came over and were extremely accurate and then the barrage came down. It was a highly successful tactical move, but one of the guns was firing short and my three colleagues were slightly wounded as they sought shelter under the front porch of one of the houses. At the time I was in the roadway and so escaped injury. I was later much impressed when the Sergeant responsible for the offending gun came forward specially to apologise. Taking advantage of the situation we surged forward and I had to borrow one of the riflemen to assist me with the line- laying. Every house must have contained one or more of the enemy and I became engaged in my first house-clearing experience. When entering one of the cottages my companion could not resist the temptation to light a cigarette and as we entered the front room he

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struck a light. A German who was just outside flung one of his ‘potato masher’ bombs as he observed us through the window and by great good fortune it struck one of the mullions. The blast was devastating but we both escaped injury. The village was finally cleared and we were accorded a most wonderful view of the town of Goch immediately before us. Our artillery had been directed on the town and even now it lay partly in ruins with fires lighting’ up the scene on every hand. A brand new weapon had been introduced by the British known as the ‘Canadian Carpet’ which was fired from the back of a large vehicle and belched forth staggered bursts of rockets which saturated a large area. While we were thus engaged the other Companies of my Battalion were engaged in a nearby sector and by their grim determined efforts enabled the Brigade to make substantial gains. We finally reached Calcar, a town quite near to the Rhine, from which position we gradually forced our way forward and settled along the banks of this great river obstacle, commencing another ‘Watch on the Rhine’. Needless to say this great battle was not won without the usual grievous losses, and once again the ‘Poor Bloody Infantry’ paid the sacrificia l part. Some of us with foraging instincts used to move forward on occasion and take with us what tinned foods we had available and exchanged our offerings with the local farmers for their precious eggs. We had to take precautions for there were odd German infantry around, and the usual practice was for one man to do the bartering while the others covered him from firing positions. While I was thus dealing with one farmer he warned me of mines, which had been planted on the roadway at the rear of his house. He actually pointed them out to me, and the information thus gained was invaluable and was passed on to Battalion Headquarters who sent forward sappers to deal with them. Before the assault on Germany proper there had to be a great build up of men and materials, and to hide as far as possible the extent of the exercise artificial fog canisters were placed along the banks which put up a very effective screen for days on end. This of course did not deter the enemy from constant shelling and we had to protect our positions as best we could. Lines had to be laid to afford adequate communication between Companies, and, the switchboard, which supplied inter-communication, was situated in a deep cellar. Our morale was higher than it had been for many months for at last we could see the end of this conflict although we knew that there was still a tremendous struggle ahead. For some inexplicable reason I was constrained to think poetically of the situation and while under this urge I wrote the following short verses about our individual experiences to date. I should explain that at the time I wrote fully 35 verses but most of them have been mislaid and so I can only offer the following’, which are not in any logical order.

1. Our army has been doing fine: We’ve crossed the Seine and reached the Rhine, And now we wait to make our move Our courage and our strength to prove.

2. The fog which sweeps along its banks

Gives screen to our amassing tanks, And slowly as we build our strength We settle in along its length.

3. For just across the mighty swell

The situation is like hell, And very soon we strike a blow From which our confidence will grow.

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4. When shells are bursting on the deck

The house next door is just a wreck; The place of refuge for a fellah Is down the stairs and in the cellar.

5. A new disease has come to light –

It’s not entirely caused by fright, It’s not as harmful as bronchitis, The name it’s given is cellar- itis.

6. The switchboard crew are there already

Along with men with nerves unsteady, But Dosey Denby feeling fine Is out as usual mending line.

7. In fairness though to Busty Bowen,

Whose hair has long since finished grow-in, To ease the strain on cable crew Went out to lay a line or two.

3. Aston suburb of a city

Hails a son both wise and witty: Morgan, maestro, snakes alive, His taste for music G.I. jive.

8. For N.C.O.s it is no gain –

Aspersions sometimes cause a pain; Let this be said for Sergeant Jim – He did his job however grim.

10. Our leader is Lieutenant Gray: Who called him Sal I cannot say; At any rate it’s very fitting – All that’s missing is the knitting.

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The verses need a little explanation for those not acquainted, with the individuals or the circumstances. Verse 1. The 1st Worcestershire Regiment made the initial crossing of the Seine in August 1944 and now in the general advance we waited to cross the Rhine. Verse 2. For nearly a month under cover of artificial fog we built up a vast amount of stores and armaments prior to the crossing. Verse 3. The Germans on the far bank incessantly bombarded us. Verse 4. Apart from essential duty we spent a lot of time underground. Verse 6. Dosey Denby was a first class soldier whose innate cheerfulness and devotion to duty was uplifting to all of us. Verse 7. Busty Bowen was a persona l friend, as bald as a coot and constantly giving advice, and also assistance. Verse 8. Morgan was a boy from Birmingham who loved singing the latest hits. A jaunty jovial type. Verse 9. James Norton was a splendid N.C.O. - sensitive and devoted to duty. Utterly reliable. Verse 10. Lieutenant Gray was our Platoon Commander, a considerate man who got our loyal support. On taking over the Platoon he was quickly dubbed ‘Sally’ after the actress of the day, Sally Gray. He was a great fellow and all his men liked him immensely. We finally made the move over the Rhine preceded by the initial crossing by the Black Watch, who were closely followed by the Royal Engineers who laid a Bailey Bridge under heavy fire. The crossing was made opposite Rees and was very heavily disputed. Our redoubtable Prime Minister Winston Churchill was not far behind us accompanied by General Montgomery, and Winston gave those in his immediate vicinity his classic two fingers. On our front the enemy fought a very strong delaying action, having fortified an embryo autobahn, and we had a very rough 24 hours. After this action the great chase was on, for the enemy began to retreat and there was an easing of the tension which had been gripping us for months. By steady progress we made our advance across the West-phalian Plain making occasional brushes with the rapidly disorganised German army, who, while making repeated counter-attacks, were making no great impression on us the British, or the American forces. Our tails were up and we even began to enjoy the advance, for spring was in the air and we could see the end in sight. “O God, protect me in the eleventh hour” was a prayer, which ran in the minds of all battle weary troops, but of course a few had yet to pay the bitter price. Reaching the small town of Haselunne which is situated on a tributary of the Weser, informed intelligence told us that it was being held, by a ‘last ditch’ section of fanatical troops and that our capture of it was likely to be costly. Accordingly we made precautionary plans and what proved our last set piece infantry attack was made across a large field, which bordered the town. Four hundred yards of dead flat terrain had to be crossed, giving a superb open target to any defending enemy, and for those who took part the dreaded prospect of withering machine gun fire. Smoke was laid down just before the attack, and two Companies moved forward in open formation

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followed by my intrepid section of line- layers. Captain Gray had wished us good success and shaken hands, which action had seemed like a kind of premonition. Then — anti climax — the leading troops had reached the edge of the town and not a single shot had been fired. The relief was terrific, and moving forward with confidence we quickly occupied the shopping area and established our Signal Office in the photographer’s domestic premises. The defending force had obviously withdrawn, thinking no doubt that at this stage of the campaign it was a wiser move to preserve their own skins. They did not fail to anticipate our occupation however, for their retreating artillery paused for a short period to give the town of Haselunne an extensive shelling. Visiting the town recently it was possible to see the many disfigurations this had made but an expert building force had put matters to right. The shelling caused many casualties, among them our well respected M.O. and two of his gallant staff, and also one of my own signal team. Most of the resident population had remained and they proved very friendly, offering us bottles of their favourite drink Shnapps. From this last untypical episode we seemed to be swanning along, mopping up hero and there and realising at long last all effective resistance had gone. Germans do not give up easily, and whenever they were cornered, even now at this last stage they put up stout resistance. Occasionally we picked up prisoners who had got rid of their weapons and who usually carried a small paper bag containing a few items of undergarments. Two such prisoners emerged from a small cottage at the side of the road immediately opposite to the truck I was travelling in, and in tolerably good English asked to be taken into custody. They whispered a word of thanks as I directed them to the Bedford lorry which was in the column for that very purpose. They had probably been in hiding until the moment was opportune for their capitulation, and the thought passed through my mind that they were very, very pleased that it was all over. When we reached the great northern city of Bremen, which had already been pounded almost to destruction, I had a wonderful grandstand view of its final bombing. 43rd. Division had been given the task of taking this final prize, the town where ‘Lord Haw Haw' had given his nightly commentary on the state of things and many times forecast Britain’ s destruction. He was not in evidence on this occasion. In the general advance I shinned, up a telegraph pole to make a line connection, for we used the existing commercial lines whenever it was possible and as I sat astride the two wooden arms which held, the crock cups, a huge flock of heavy bombers droned overhead. For half an hour I witnessed this great final act when once again tremendous havoc was wrought on an already ruined city. The attack by our infantry went in almost immediately after, and the resistance from the town itself was almost negligible. Within a few days the news filtered through that the German war machine had capitulated and it was as if a great sigh of relief was heard over all the land in which the conflicting armies came to a halt. It is reputed that the Divisional Commander, Major General G. I. Thomas, exclaimed on hearing the news: “The men have done us proud”. No noble words came readily to mind when the news finally went home, but I remember thinking when I heard of the General’s expression that the men who had done him proud were of that doubtful breed “The Conscript Army’. Time at last for reflection: time to look back on the eleven months that had elapsed since Normandy days, and to give proper thought to the sacrifices which had been made. What can have possibly justified such a carriage that we had witnessed? Men whom we had befriended from many parts of the homeland and all of us treading the same path, some to fall by the wayside, and others to live out their lives in pain and discomfort, and all to bear a mark upon our souls never to be erased. But at least in the latter category time would heal a little and we would be able to take up our peaceful pursuits again. God grant to the souls of the dear departed eternal rest in the presence of Himself and to us who are left the ever present expression “We will remember them”.

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Since wartime days I have made a number of trips to Normandy, Holland., Belgium and Germany to visit most of the locations where 1st Worcestershire Regiment were engaged. Nature is a wonder worker at healing superficial scars, which marred the landscape in those days, and there is little evidence of us being there at all, but the atmosphere of wartime action pervades the places when an old soldier returns to the scenes of his former exploits. It is easy to recollect the awful wastage of life for a cause, which is not recognisable now. Men I had lived with in happy friendship for four years suddenly plucked away as a branch from a tree as if they were of no more consequence than that. Those of us that are left realise fully that we might well be as they, just fading memories in the thoughts of those who loved us. But this much I can say with justification: it was a privilege indeed to have known them as friends and always I shall remember them for their selfless noble lives, who perhaps not willingly, but nevertheless heroically, giving their all in a response to a call for freedom. Of course I know of no other Battalion intimately like I know the 1st Worcestershire Regiment and it is quite odious to compare it with any other, but I feel that the Commander of the 43rd. Division, General Thomas, was speaking from first hand knowledge when he gave the following foreword to the Battalion’s history.

Foreword by

Lieut.-General Sir G. Ivor Thomas, K.B.E., C.B., D.S.0., M.C. Late Commandor, 43rd. Wessex Division.

This is the History of the 1st Battalion the Worcestershire Regiment during the 1944-45 campaign in North-West Europe. I knew this Battalion well. It joined the 43rd Wessex Division in the Autumn of 1943. It therefore trained under me and fought under my command until the end of hostilities. It is a great story, in the finest tradition of British County Regiments. The Battalion never had a failure. If dour, dogged fighting, either in attack or in defence, came our way, if sudden counter-attacks came in from all directions, it always seemed to be the 1st Battalion the Worcestershire Regiment who caught the brunt. Yet, with that Battalion in the thick of it, and on more than one occasion reported as being surrounded, neither I myself nor anyone else ever worried or had the slightest fears as to what the results would be. That is a tribute I am as proud to pay as I was to have the Battalion under command.

G. Ivor Thomas, Lieut.-General.

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Postscript

The Infantryman The infantryman in any army is unique. All other soldiers in the Division pay him homage, for they know that he is the one who will bear the brunt. He lives from day to day in action in the face of death, and there is no respite. If he survives one engagement he knows that another lies just ahead. When he has taken every precaution the chances are that he will eventually be exposed with no cover, presenting only his living flesh to the merciless cannonade. All the horrors of impending destruction arc within his mental capacity every hour and every day. He cannot rest peacefully ever for he knows that the new day will bring fresh agonies, and his only hope is that he will get an incapacitating injury which will remove him from the battleground. His daily round is soul destroying, and if he is a religious man the thought of meeting his Creator while engaged in his murderous occupation renders him totally stricken. No other man save another infantryman can know of his trials and agonies, and only the intense inner longing to survive carries him forward. When you have a spare minute remember him, for he carries the cross of society on every battlefield in the world, and ho is a man to be honoured even if he has not clone his duty from a sense of honour. On one occasion when the smell of death was in the air we marched into a position from which we knew many would not return. We passed through the layout of an artillery battery, which was going to give us what support they could. In their hands they carried freshly brewed cups of tea, which they offered to us as we marched past. Their sad understanding looks spoke volumes for they knew of our prospects. But the cups of tea had something to say. They were a tribute to a breed of men who were about to offer their all.