memoire-i_rea-1a

Mémoire – Ian Curly REA

(ATS Arborfield 1939)

(Ian was recalled to H.Q. on the 14th July 2011).

Editor’s Note.

With permission from the current site management team, the following article has been reproduced from the ‘Army Apprentice Soldiers’ web site, which was set up and run by the late John Moss 55A. It follows on from Ian’s memoire of his life at the Arborfield ATS which is on our site. The text is original with only some minor formatting changes made to comply with the standard page layout of this web site.

The Editor.

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MY WAR by Ian Rea.

Shoulder badge of the 2nd A.A. Command. Northampton area 1940 (“We sweep the skies”)

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71 L.A.A. Workshop R.E.M.E. 1944 ---1945. Att. 71st L.A.A. Regt. R.A.

C.O. Lt. Col. Brodie, R.A. 262/211/210 Btys. of 54 x 40 mm Bofors.

W/Shop O.C. Capt. Alec Craig, R.E.M.E. 49 O.R.s.

Regt. scored highest number of enemy a/c (including first M.E.262 shot down in Holland.) on invasion of Europe

The Regiment was formed in London, the Workshops was formed from R.E.M.E 2nd A.A. W/Shops Northampton following battle courses Radnor Wales, A.A. duties Clacton and E. coast, Romney Marshes Kent, South London, R.H.Q. West Wickham.

Other W/Shop personnel nearly all Londoners and war time call up, only four of us Regular Army, and all ‘ex boys’ (ex army apprentices, aged 18).

Sgt. Armourer Fred Cox, ex Hilsea.

Cfn. Osbourne (Elec Class 1), “Ossie”, ex Arborfield.

Cfn. Fred Blewden (VM.Class 1), “Bluey”.

And me, Cfn. Ian Rea (Gun Fitter Class 1), both ex Bramley, us three being attached at times to 262 Bty. R.A. and being the senior of trades.

Later joined by ex boy S/Sgt. Bert Wigglesworth, ex Arborfield.

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June 10 (D+4) Embarked Tilbury Docks for Normandy beach head, and landed on "Juno" beach with 3rd Canadian Div. - 8 Corps 2nd Army.

Courseulles - Basly - Cainette - Tilly - Caen - Villers Bocage - Thurly-Harcourt - Falaise- Argentan - Moulins - Mortain - Amiens - Vimy Ridge - Arras - Seine - Brussels - Antwerp - Boom - Louvain - Diest - Albert Canal - Borg Leopold - Escaut Canal - Eindhoven - Zon - Mook - Nijmegan - Helmond - S'Hertogenbosh - Tilburg - Mechelin - Maastrict - Genk - Dendermond - Helmond - Boxmeer - Gennep - Goch - Calcar – 24th March 1945 Rhine crossing 4am - Rees - Kleve - Gelsenkirchen - Borken - Minden - Nienburg - Soltau - Harburg - Geesthacht - Dersonau – Schwerin.

The 71st L.A.A. Regt. R.A. and Workshop R.E.M.E. was disbanded 1946 at Harburg, near Hamburg, and guns were parked on a Blom & Voss airfield at Wensendorf by Bucholtz, 35 km south of Hamburg.

Vehicles were line parked on the autobahn awaiting inspection, destruction or sale. Personnel were demobbed in groups, except Regulars, like Fred, Ossie, Bluey, me, and Bert. We were sent on ‘courses’ promoted and posted as S/Sgts. to different units.

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GLOSSARY

L.A.A. Regt. R.A. = Light Anti Aircraft Regiment, Royal Artillery.(54 guns).

Bty. = Battery, unit of 18 guns.

VM Class 1 = Vehicle Mechanic.

40mm Bofors = mobile anti aircraft gun, fully automatic operational to height of 12000 ft, manned by gun crew of 5.

R.E.M.E. = Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers.

O.R.s = other ranks.

M.E.262 = first jet propelled combat German aircraft .

Dog Tags = identification tags with personal number and religion stamped on them, worn around the neck.

A.C.C. = Army Catering Corps cooks.

R.M.P. = Royal Military Police.

L.C.T. = Landing Craft Tank.

Dist. H.Q. = District Head Quarters.

A.Q.M.S. = Warrant Officer (tech.) Class 11.

S.M.G. = sub machine gun.

M.O. = Medical Officer.

W/Shop = Workshop.

2 i/c = second in command.

Sqn.= squadron, unit of tanks or armoured cars.

CIVITAS = South African Census Office.

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MY WAR (part one).

OF "DOG TAGS" and CRICKET.

The order to MOVE came from Regt HQ in May 1944, our 54 A.A.40mm guns and tractors were formed up in the south London streets, where we had been offering violence to the German Luftwaffe for the last four months, was received with some speculation as to new destination, with rumours of back to the Romney Marshes, North Africa, and or secret Ops!! (we had managed to shoot down the odd M.E.109 and Dornier in the marshes).

Ossie, our rather slow moving, but all knowing, fat electrician, tapped the side of his nose, and informed Bluey and me, that he knew, but, as only he and the Colonel knew, he couldn't tell us!. Ossie was nearly always right so the destination must be some-place he agreed with, so we heaved all our stuff in the truck and with Bluey driving, (he was the vehicle mechanic), set off with 262 Bty. to whom we were attached as R.E.M.E., from South Norwood, to join up with the Regt. at West Wickham.

The Regt, including our R.E.M.E W/Shops, drove through the medieval gate of a large mansion estate, on the outskirts of Northampton, each truck and gun tractor crew being greeted by the owner, who was also the town mayor. Ossie had the grace to look surprised, at being in Northampton, so Bluey and I assumed that the Colonel was also.

My first duty was to inspect the guns, and as they had been expending public monies in the form of shells a few nights before the move, and nobody had lost any on the way, my duties were considered completed.

Bluey reckoned that all the vehicles had arrived, so he wouldn't bother, and Ossie felt it was his duty to find out "why Northampton?"

An order delivered from on high, was that everyone with some rank on his arm, would ensure that "all ranks" had, and worn, his issued pair of "dog tags" at all times. ONE GREEN square, and ONE RED round. Ossie looked wise as he had the answer to this, the body was buried with the RED tag, the GREEN tag had to be sent to the War Office, Bluey, who with a dark jowl, had to shave twice a day, and after using a 'cut throat' razor his nerves made him very unsociable for about an hour.( It had been suggested that covering his face with a thick layer of lather, peering into a small cracked mirror, and trying to find his face again with a open razor was the height of folly), took an instant dislike to Ossie and his" dog tags", and, to anybody who demanded to see his.

A follow up order, insisted that Regt. Nos. be painted on kit bags. Bluey threw his out the window, (which hit the Padre walking by), stating that he, Bluey, was going to war with a suit case! The Padre suggested another destination, he was Irish and a captain, and had the authority of both God and the military. Ossie painted his, I couldn't find mine, which was, or had been oil soaked in any case.

Preparation for invasion having been completed by the Regt. and W/Shops, it was decided that a "sports day" would be a good idea, with all depts. entering competitors, and the local mayor presenting the prizes.

Bluey promptly 'found' a vehicle that required his expert attention, and as the crew of that particular truck having no desire to walking across Europe they agreed that indeed it needed urgent repairs. Ossie, being fat, and very slow, even at walking, excused himself. I could find no immediate gun repairs needed, had to admit that the honour of R.E.M.E was shoved on me. Ossie instantly made himself trainer & coach, suggesting something that would not strain or cause perspiration, I was entered in 'throwing the cricket ball'. The previous contestants not having displayed much talent gave cause for the spectators, mainly the C.O. and staff, plus the mayor and his mob, to move forwards towards the throwers, my turn came to perform. Ossie as coach said "aim at the mayor, he's not coming with us". I was presented with a 5/- postal order after winning, and hitting the Padre. Padres must be trained in Army language as well as theology, the mayor and his wife didn’t hear what he said, but Ossie and I did!.

Ossie claimed trainers fees, fat git didn't get any. Bluey and I shared it as victims of the Irish R.C. Padre, who probably wouldn't send our Green "dog tags" to the War Office, (the Regt didn't boast a C of E. Padre either,) Ossie was R.C.

MEDIVAC and HEROS .

Bob Stimpson, a W/Shop driver, ex London costermonger, shifty with ever moving eyes, displayed more than normal nervousness on route to the "liberation of Europe", in fact, when it came his turn to drive off the L.C.T. he tore up the beach and over the sand dunes as if to indicate that he couldn't wait to get at the Germans. Nobody else of the 71^st. L.A.A. W/Shop R.E.M.E was impressed, let alone the R.N. BEACHMASTER Cmdr and his bulldog, who was supervising operations. It was the early morning of 11th of June 1944 having sailed in an old cargo ship overnight from Tilbury docks in London on which our w/shop personnel, vehicles and equipment, plus other units, had been deck and hold loaded by London wharfy’s, supervised by a bloke wearing a bowler hat, they didn’t trust the R.E.’s to do the job properly.

Our ship had then joined hundreds of others in the Channel and Straits of Dover and now thousands of vehicles, tanks and guns had, and were being unloaded, either 'dry' or into the surf.

We cleared the beach, and "dug in", Bob had disposed of his Mk1V. 303 rifle in the meantime, and found a .45 calibre Thomson sub machine gun, and this thing transformed him into an eager, if not dangerous idiot. The following dawn saw us located in the village of Basly, one mile from the beachhead towards Caen, and , after unloading stores and equipt, and opening up ‘shop’ for business, came the desire to explore. A small French boy led Bluey, Ossie and me, all armed to the teeth, across a nearby field to a large deserted farm. A dead cow, dozens of highly mobile chickens greeted us. We were joined by Stimpson complete with machine gun, who not feeling welcomed, offered to scout the out houses for any enemy, we reasoned that if there were any , they'd be either dead or bomb happy, still, if any of the enemy happened to be as stupid as Bob, there just might be the odd one around.

While we were taking a look at the insides of the farm house, a scream of terror was heard coming from the direction of some nearby pig sty’s, guns pointed, we advanced on the sty’s, and peering over the low wall we beheld Stimpson with a look of horror on his face, holding his backside with both hands, crouched in one corner faced by an enormous sow that looked far more dangerous than any German. "Why didn't you shoot it?", "the bloody thing doesn't work" he answered, and "that bleeding great thing bit my arse'. A time to put the 'Medivac procedure into action' said Ossie,' I've got the medical pack', says Bluey, taking out the morphine needle. We prodded the angry sow with our rifles, and while being distracted, Stimpson, with a badly bitten backside leapt over the wall like a well trained athlete. Ossie, being squeamish, wrote out the details and tied the label, Bluey stuck the needle into his other cheek, while I drew a large "M" on Bob’s forehead. We carried him, moaning, on a table top to our collected "Jeep" and drove him down to the beach evacuation area.

When Bob looked around at all the other casualties on the sand being attended to by nurses, from the L.S.T.s who were examining the labels tied on casualties awaiting evacuation for details of injury, bullet or shrapnel wounds etc. he tried to leave crying " What did you write on my label Ossie?", "shrapnel" said Ossie. The nurse who took over our ministrations was seen to smile when she read his label, but it was 'on' active combat service! We returned to the W/Shops and reported to Alec our O.C., told him what had happened, and the only query he had was what had Ossie written on the label? "bitten on the arse by a big sow", said Ossie, which seemed satisfactory to Alec, but no doubt would raise some eyebrows back in England. ‘He was a lousy driver anyway,’ was the only general comment!!

We had come ashore on “Juno” Beach with the Canadians near Courseulles, our transport ship with our trucks and equip stored in the hold charged through the surf and beached itself in about ten feet of water.

The ships derricks started to unload from the holds the vehicles and equipt. onto L.S.T.s that pulled along side, while we waited our turn for the wksp gear to be unloaded, orders came over the ‘tannoy’ system that queues be formed each side of the foredeck where we were, to collect hard tack rations rather than break into our 24 hour ration packs that every one carried.

I collected a pack of ‘hard tack’ biscuits from a sailor dishing them out and went forwards to the sharp end of the ship and teamed up with a bloke who had queued for a tin of ‘bully’. Neither of us had a tin opener, so he decided to have a go with his bayonet, which was shaped like a sharpened screwdriver, and no good for either job. He missed the bully beef tins rim and buried about 4 inches into the side of his hand, I in the mean time had dropped my spoon down through the only hole in this part of the ship, the hawser hole!, I was furious, and stated that. ‘I was not going to invade Europe with just a knife and fork for eating irons I’d starve with no spoon for soup or jam’, he was more perturbed at my declaration than the blood spurting out of his hand; he was going nowhere, and was lead off to the ships sick bay.

We were informed that in the event of us having to leap overboard to disembark, not to do it wearing our ‘tin hats’, as hitting the water causes the strap to break our necks……… tin helmets and screwdriver type bayonets were promptly chucked overboard to join with my spoon.

They slung the vehicles complete with driver high over the decks down to the L.S.T, while we climbed down the scaling nets hung over the side of the ship to the L.S.T which was flat bottomed and bouncing around in the surf. The noise and activity was considerable, with many more ships unloading and vehicles and guns either landing out of the front of L.S.T s with their front ramps down, or wading through the surf.

Navy destroyers and corvettes with their sirens circling everyone, while the cruisers and battleships stood off. Barrage balloons anchored to ships were overhead, and ships ‘tannoys’ were belting out jazz music, and the odd thump or sharp crack could have been anything friendly or otherwise.

All vehicles going on the invasion were waterproofed, by means of plasticine around distributors, coils, oil intakes, headlamps etc in case of wet landing, we as REME carried out that operation for all the vehicles in the Regiment prior to loading at Tilbury docks, (where RMPs had kept us behind barbed wire till we boarded) except the padre’s utility, he had insisted that he could not spare it as it was in full time use!, it was the only vehicle dropped into the sea and the good Lord did not help.

The first night ashore, after we had dug our individual fox holes overlooking the beach, we all opened our issued 24 Hour ration packs, we carried three of these packs and they consisted of small wrapped cubes which soaked in hot water on our ‘Tommy cookers’ produced broths, tea, milk , sugar, porridge etc, self heating soups in cans that just required the center ignitor struck to produce excellent tasting soup within seconds, boiled sweets and 50 cigarettes. Bluey decided to just put a few random cubes in his mess tin and pour hot water over them….didn’t say what it tasted like. We were dog tired so dropped down into our new continental homes and slept.

We, the W/Shop, moved inland a little way towards Beny–S--Mere along the coast and set up interim camp with a Canadian A.A. Regt. on our right, did not unpack but waited for “orders” from our Regt. H.Q. the Btys. had already moved inland into action positions around Cruelly and Colombiers. A RAF fighter plane that was in trouble, engine misfiring, flew over our lines from inland and crash landed about 1000 metres from us, and the pilot thinking he had crash landed in German lines, set off the demolition charges in the aircraft, which caught fire and set the wing cannons firing towards the Canadian lines, they thought they were under attack, opened fire towards us with their 40mm Bofors, and we, the 71st Wksp REME decided we would go home!

All quietened down, no harm done except to the RAF pilot’s pride, so the cooks set up the cook-house for lunch(?), a Canadian wandered over and suggested to the cooks that they build a long extension to the smoke outlet of the ovens, parallel with the ground, about 30 feet away, because “Jerry “had a nasty habit of ranging in on the cook house fires smoke when they started up around five in the morning, and sending over a few mortar bombs, which did not improve the cooking. We moved the Wksp to Cainette later in the day.

INSTANT RICHES.

Bert Wigglesworth,(S/Sgt, guns) and I, decided one morning in early June 1944, to pile into his "jeep" to visit 262 Bty. up near Caen, if we could find them. Each 40mm gun site did its best to camouflage its position, and the German Army around Caen were at the time particularly unfriendly, so success in locating any site of the 71 L.A.A. Regt, was going to be difficult, after all it was easy for them to call up on the radio net requesting R.E.M.E aid. Still, lots of things going on, so the trip should prove interesting, even if it was getting out the way of speeding tanks and vehicles that persisted on driving on the left hand side of the road (as in England), with an equally number of others who adopted (as ordered) the continental style by driving on the right hand side of the roads. We opted like the majority, to drive in the middle, which allowed us to change our mind at the last minute, like the majority! Caen itself, was only a few kilometres from our W/Shop location, and the British 2nd Army with the 1st Canadian Army had not at this stage persuaded the Germans to leave the place, so navigation was going to be of importance.

High hedgerows, French road signs, which had all been used for target practice, clouds of thick dust, pot holes and R.M.P. signs all over the place stating, "you are under enemy observation, do not stop" made navigating a matter of looking at the suns position, and saying 'that way'. We gave up guessing every time a crash of gun fire erupted, whether it was 'theirs' or 'ours', and Bert's driving skill was becoming decidedly more 'Oh my Gawd" with every salvo. A salvo of 25 pdr. fire coming from just in front and to our right convinced us that whoever they were shooting at was to our left, and the road we were travelling went to the left!, a smartish about turn was indicated, and we shot off down a small lane to our left. A few hundred meters further on we came to a , what was, crossroads. Bert pulled up in the middle, not making up his mind which way to go, this was understandable as we didn't know where the hell we were. Stop for a 'leak' and fag was indicated, and whilst performing, we heard and saw coming down the road towards us followed by a large cloud of dust, what appeared to be a motor bike and side-car.

'We'll ask this bloke' says Bert walking forward holding his hand up, the bike skidded to a halt, and when the dust subsided, there was a bloke wearing a funny looking steel helmet, a worried look on his face and both arms up in the air. "A bloody German!" yells Bert, stating the obvious, the German nodded his head in agreement. Bert got all military at this point and ordered him off the bike and taking his Schmeisser machine gun to cover him with. First "Kraut" we'd seen, didn't look too dangerous, so we gave him a fag, "search his side car" yells the new Bert, ‘only a steel box’ I said, "might contain important military documents for Army H.Q. to see, so open it". A 'Sten' gun 9mm bullet persuaded the lock to fall off and apart from some official stamped docs covered with German stamps, the remainder was stacks of German money, 100 DM notes, in neat bundles!!! "balls to Army H.Q." says Bert, "we don't know where we are , let alone where Army H.Q is." Well, as we decided, the Army probably had plenty of P.O.Ws, we were lost, it was lunch time, we HAD to do something, the bloke did look friendly and the money wasn't his anyway, so our unanimous silent decision was made, and spoken --'bugger off!'. He did too! went left about and tore up the road in a cloud of dust, we drove straight on and found the W/Shops. I didn't want any of the money, there was always plenty of toilet paper, and IT was in rolls, Bert kept the bulk of it in his kit bag, having given a largish amount to Reg Miles, and some months later when we drove into Germany, Bert opened a bank account in a German Bank!, Reg who was later courting a German girl, gave her the money to pay off the house she was living in, and she did!. I was "best man" at their wedding some months later when the Army decided that the original order for us "Do not fraternise with German civilians" was not enforceable, or heeded in any case. Bert was incensed around about this time in being summoned to Dist. H.Q. in Hamburg, to explain how it was that he'd obtained all this money, AND, had the effrontery to invest in an enemy Bank ??? "They" deregulated the German Reichsmark soon after this, all German monies becoming Deutsch Marks, so Bert's money would have become worthless anyway, should have bought a yacht as he intended, or a house like Reg.

Many years later,1969, when both Bert and I were staid and respectable commissioned officers, we met at Donnington and he was still feeling evil towards The Control Commission, Finance Branch, who he said could have delayed their visit to Occupied Germany at the wars end, and not found his German bank account. He felt better when I pointed out that the poor sod who handed it over to us in Normandy, must have had a hard time explaining its loss to his Paymaster, and, coming back less his machine gun. Still, we did leave him his bike and side-car. Bert never did tell me what he told H.Q., and as an officer and gent, I was too polite to ask.

PANIC.

A shot rang out, it was our third night in Normandy and we had 'dug in' in a field on the outskirts of Caen. At 5 am. on a still quiet night in our own dug outs, those not on duty guard call felt safe and secure, the very close proximity of gun fire however changed all that.

Finding boots and steel helmet in the dark, banging heads on the low tree branch roofs, confidence returning at hearing other voices from other 'dug outs' with loud questions like 'what the bloody hell was that? ', 'whose got my effing rifle?', 'quiet, you bastards' etc. Emerging like moles, we were aware of other noises, running feet and hysterical shouting coming from somebody tearing around the perimeter of our field. By this time we were also aware of others joining us from the fields either side, these were armed to the teeth Canadians, they were all for shooting the running idiot, but we prevailed on the grounds of curiosity.

The runner paused as he passed us for the second time, he was one of ours!, Stillwell by name and a w/shop driver, and yelled at us 'I've shot me bleeding self' and with that he tore off around the field again. This was too much for the Canadians, who slunk off back into the darkness, and with all the unit now as spectators, the cooks had even decided to start breakfast.

Jimmy Cole, our W/Shop A.Q.M.S. gave orders to 'drop him' the next time round, and, as Stillwell, still shouting, tore passed, he was leaped on and held down by half a dozen willing hands. When he was calmed down enough to stop shouting, he'd apparently just come off guard duty, and woken his relief, climbed down into his under ground trench shelter and thrown his 'Sten' gun down on his bed, it objected to this treatment and promptly fired itself. Stillwell gave weight to this by dropping his trousers and pointing to a small purple mark on his groin just above his 'sports kit' saying, 'the bastard shot me in there, and I can feel the bullet up under my shoulder blade', but as far as we were concerned he should have been writhing in agony and pouring out gallons of blood, not shouting his head off and waking half the 'beach head' at that time in the night/morning. He was lead off across the lower end of the field towards R.H.Q. and the MO, still telling the world that he'd shot himself. Apparently the Colonel was woken with all the noise, and had given orders for R.H.Q. to 'stand to'. He was not at all amused when Stillwell arrived and bellowed in his ear, 'it's alright for you mate, but I've shot myself’. The MO, a gentle soul, hurriedly muttered 'its shock sir' and led him away. From what we learned later, Stillwell did have the bullet lodged under his shoulder blade, and was taken down to the casualty evacuation on the beach head, still shouting 'I've shot me bleeding self'.

We all decided that those Sten guns were bloody dangerous things, and at first opportunity would find out if "Jerry" had a more benign S.M.G. to swap with. I had a 303 Mk1V issued rifle, although heavy and seldom could be found, was not prone to self activating violence but it was made redundant on Carpiquet airfield a few weeks later when Bluey ran over it with the recovery truck.

The right angled bend in the barrel gave rise to the question ‘would it shoot around corners?’, but before we could recruit some idiot to try and see, Freddy Cox our armourer, with a look of horror on his face, convinced Bluey and me, that the bullet would follow the curve of the barrel, but the resulting back pressure would, as he so nicely put it, ‘blow the shooter arse over head’. Still think we should have put that to the test, might have been able to talk Stillwell into it, but he had already shot himself. A “Jerry” Para trooper, who was no longer interested in the war, left his MP 44 assault S.M.G., (light machine gun) complete with many full ‘mags’ in what was left of a house on the edge of the airfield, for this weapon DID have a barrel, as an accessory, that could be fitted for firing around corners, the outer side of the barrel on the bend had a series of holes drilled in it, to relieve pressure. But I resisted the temptation to fit one, and the straight barrel did good service in removing telephone insulators, weather cocks on roofs etc, for the rest of the war.

Before the invasion while we were in South London, our Regt was given the job of acting as mentors to one of the newly formed RAF Regts, whose job was to take over airfield defence from the army . So in addition to visiting Canadian gun sites as REME ‘tiffy’, I also took on the roll of assisting the RAF Regt ‘tiffies’ who up till recently had been RAF armourers and had been retrained on 40mm Bofors . So one of the first jobs I had at Cainette was to go with one of the RAF Cpls. to his Regts. Battery gun sites along the coast, to sort out some auto-loader problems on one of their Bofors. The Ack Ack detachment Cmdr, a flt lieut, had ordered the guns autoloader be taken out of the gun casing for cleaning as sea water had ‘drowned’ the gun when they came ashore.

The Cpl reported that it had been dropped, and they did not know if the gun was still operative, so we found the gun site overlooking the beach, refitted the autoloader, and with the gun crew in position I ordered the ammo clip of four rounds loaded into the autoloader guide, gun elevated pointing at a cloud and test fired. I wanted to count the air bursts to see that the four bursts took place, and none of the shells had burst in the gun barrel ( called a ‘local expansion’) that would necessitate a barrel change before it would split. With the gun ‘layers’ ‘on’, I gave the order to ‘fire’, and looked up at the cloud to see a flight of some five or six Boston fighter bombers right in the middle of the shell bursts!, the Bostons broke formation and realised that as there was no follow up gun fire, reformed, and flew on their way back to England, no doubt with a few choice words about blind or untrained ‘brown job gunners ‘. The flt lieut gun crew cmdr. had turned a very pale colour, while the RAF cpl ‘tiffy’ said to me, “the gun is operational, you agree?”

On the way back to Cainette the Cpl. followed in his ‘jeep’ to collect some spares from me, and we stopped by an enormous German gun emplacement that had just been recently captured, it housed a coastal gun and had living qtrs. for I should guess some fifty soldiers. As these places were, or could be, booby trapped or mined, we trod carefully when we went inside to scrounge, (always a smell of perfume in these places), there was equipt. laying all over the place, water bottles, rifles, mess tins etc, and lots of ‘pineapples’ (hand grenades shaped like blue lemons)’ The Cpl. tripped on one of these, swore, and threw it out of the thick concrete doorway, a voice yelled “you in there”, we came out and saw Monty in his open staff car, just with his driver! We saluted and walked over to his car, he asked what we were doing, told us to be careful, we asked how the war was going as he was coming back from the front, he said all was well. Gave us a tin of 50 Players fags each, saluted and drove off. He was the Allied Cmdr. at the time and a Field Marshall. We felt that we had a powerful friend.

From the top of our field at Cainette we watched the 1000 RAF bomber raid on Caen which was about three miles distant, Lancaster, Halifax and Stirling bombers steamed overhead to the target. Had these been American bombers we all would have taken cover, as they tended to just unload their loads anywhere, the RAF were a little more considerate , mostly. About this time, I and the other battery gun fitters were instructed to collect all the breech blocks from the guns (54 of them) at ‘ last light’, as this was summer this would have been between 2200 and 2300hrs every night, and return them to each gun site by 0500hrs. This pleased nobody, me for having to tear round the beach head collecting and delivering, and the gun site crews who felt naked without their 40mm Bofors being operational, in fact within approx three minutes after delivering the breech block, it would be fitted into the breech ring and casing, autoloader loaded with eight 40 mm shells and the gun layers in their seats. This went on for about a week before the order was cancelled, and the AA guns returned to blasting at anything that looked German in the skies, or a threat from armd cars and tanks. This all became about from the RAF complaining that every time they flew in from England towards the beachhead, the Navy would open up with their ‘pompom’s and 4.5s ,which alerted the Ack Ack on shore to join in the ‘free for all’ with their 40mm and 3.7’s. Ammunition supply was no problem, as all along the sides of roads there were mounds of ammo piled up with signs on them for 25pdr, 5.5/4.5 pdr, 3.7 and 40mm, 155pdr, 303, 6 and 17 pdr. tank ammo, PE and cordtex, grenades, etc, and you just drove up and helped yourselves.

Wing Cmdr “Johnny” Johnson RAF, had said , that next time they were fired at, he’d given orders for the fighters to ground attack!, which prompted the response from both Navy and us, that the Navy viewed any aircraft that flew over their ships as hostile, and that included the UK based low flying aircraft!.

We at the time were supported by our own tactical fighter wing, the RAF Grp. 83, which consisted mainly of rocket firing Typhoons and support Spitfires, they were in close contact with the ground forces, and used to attack railways, tanks etc. and marked with black and white pained bands around the body of the aircraft for identification (we all had a large white star surrounded with a white circle painted on the vehicle bonnet) In the beginning when we first cleared ground for air strips on the beachhead, the Typhoons used them, but the Germans took to air bursting 88mm shells, so the aircraft flew to England every night, returning at ‘first light’ loaded up with loaves of fresh bread which they handed out……weeks on hard tack, although very tasty (4 inch square sea biscuits) had played havoc with the blokes with false teeth. Putting these biscuits into a sand bag and bashing them to a powder to eat as a sort of porridge gave rise to bouts of constipation that would defy even PE to shift, and a visit to the ‘bog’ only took place once a week! Later on the NAAFI turned up with field bakeries but the damage had been done. R.A.O.C. Field ‘laundry and bath platoons’ appeared, and after three weeks to a month of no clothes changes or baths, we were getting high, the only ablution that had taken place was to clean our teeth, so in a large field we queued up behind a truck with canvas tents attached, stripped down to just our boots and had a hot shower and on the other side issued with clean socks, pants, shirt and trousers and just thought, but only thought about a haircut, but no action was deemed urgent in this regard for at least another four or five months.

Many years later I sat opposite “Johnny” Johnson in the RAF senior officers mess table at Henlow, and was introduced to him by my father, he was a Group Capt by then, I must have grinned and he asked if we had met before, I mentioned Normandy and we left it at that. I was in civvies and had signed the guest book as Ian Rea. REME, neglecting the rank of S/Sgt. The Germans never occupied the ancient city of Caen and we had bombed it to rubble; to the extent that we could not drive through it even with tanks!, and as some wag at the time remarked, “I bet William of Normandy, the “Conqueror”, seeing this, wished to hell he hadn’t invaded England in 1066”.

It was cleared by the Pioneer Corps, with bulldozers, picks and shovels and hard graft, and they became the Royal Pioneer Corps and richly deserved the new title. Both the Royal Pioneer Corps and the Royal Military Police gave extemporary service through out the campaign from start to finish, on a cross road under enemy fire we would always find a dust covered RMP with his red cap, directing traffic.

It was a Pioneer soldier leaning on his shovel on the beachhead who greeted the just landed Guards Armoured Bde. Cmdr. about June 12th, with, “what kept you mate?” The furious Brigadier and Bde. had a good excuse as we had just experienced a severe storm out at sea that damaged the Mulberry harbours and prevented all landings from ships. Still, it was a brave, if foolhardy greeting, especially as the Bde. had suffered casualties from ‘buzz bombs’ in Kent while waiting to embark.

During the first 15 days of the invasion from D Day 6th June till 21st June, the casualties totalled 40,549.

British – 1,842 killed, 8,599 wounded, 3,131 missing. Total 13,572.

American – 3,082 killed, 13,1121 wounded, 7,959 missing. Total 24,162.

Canadian - 363 killed, 1,359 wounded, 1,093 missing. Total 2,815.

INVOLUNTARY SUICIDE

“Johnny” Littlejohn was a squat, middle aged gun fitter, who wore thick lens glasses, had a dour disposition and enjoyed the company of “Shaky" Ashton, who had a high squeaky voice and giggle, thin as a rake and was a W/Shop driver. Each had an obsession to destroy the other, or so it seemed, with "Shaky" being screamed at by Littlejohn for having set fire to the bushes where he was squatting, trousers down, paper in hand, or driving his truck over his 'mess tins' etc.

The W/Shops was billeted in a large school in the very cold winter of 1944 outside the village of Genk, Belgium, a large supply of French brandy was on hand, the cooks had gone mad and cooked pies and cakes etc, it was snowing and apart from the poor sods 'on guard', serious eating and drinking was the order of the day. The school room had a raised stage at one end of the room, some thirty odd beds were along the walls with some beds up on the stage, including Littlejohn's and Ashton's.

Towards midnight all the filthy songs had been sung, everyone mellow (including the guards), some drunk, everyone sleepy, windows tightly shut, the air a good thick fug, time for sleep-- fight the war tomorrow. Lights out, and everyone shouting at Littlejohn and Ashton to shut up. Darkness, moments silence until Littlejohn, in so called whispers, "Shaky, pass the bottle", Shaky gives his high pitched giggle, answered "no" --- more ‘pass the bottle, or else!’. Tempers begin to flare, boots whistle through air, hit the wrong targets on the stage and the lights are turned on with dire threats being made to the pair, no longer good humour from anyone. Bluey being nearest, switches off the lights again."Shaky pass the bottle"," O.K. Johnny", followed by a quiet hysterical giggle and the sound of drinking and coughing. Bluey says to me "can you smell what I smell?" embrocation!!, on goes the lights, up on the stage we go, there’s Ashton purple in the face with suppressed laughter, and Littlejohn with a face like a drunken owl, can’t see us but knows that the lights are on, and breathing out fumes that could start a fire. The bottle label reads ‘SLOANS BACK LINIMENT, NOT TO BE TAKEN’. Johnny was too drunk to get off his bed, knows that something has been done to him by "Shaky" but doesn't know what. Bluey says "he could die you know, so we'd better tell him", which he duly does, and we go back to our beds and switch the lights out. All the rest of the night we could hear "Johnny" muttering under his breath "I dare’snt go to sleep, I may never wake up", while "Shaky “does his silent giggle.

Realisation comes with morning light, "Shaky" lets out a scream, tears down from the stage yelling "he’s dead, and I killed him", Littlejohn certainly isn't in his bed, so he didn't die in it!. Wake Bluey and Ossie, and others suggest that we find out where he died. A search around the W/Shop area finally locates him, in, and on, one of the children’s toilets out in the yard, cross eyed with an astonished look on his face. He's near frozen stiff but obviously kept alive by the heat generated internally by the Sloan’s embrocation. He greets the relieved "Shaky" with the words, “thanks mate, you saved my life!". We didn't bother telling the M.O., it would not have had a treatment entry in his book in any case.

THE INVESTITURE.

The 'break out' at Villiers Bocage and the Falaise Gap in Normandy, with the Germans in full retreat, saw the armies of the 2nd Canadian and the British 2nd advancing at a furious rate in Sept 1944.

The 71st L.A.A.W/Shop R.E.M.E. decided to go along as well, and we drove through all the dust and mayhem, along country roads for hours at a time, stopping only when French villagers slowed us down to warn of pockets of Germans hiding out or in ambush, but mainly to insist we drink toasts to every allied leader, country, town, patron Saint, Bing Crosby, Lana Turner, General De Gaul etc, and as the drink was invariably 'Calvados', our driving became drunken and exhilarating, me, on a motor bike, (BSA 500cc), lost all sense of feeling quite early on, 'paved’ roads of cobble stones for miles on end, set up such a vibration that first the front mudguard then the speedometer fell off, maybe I did as well, I wouldn't know as I was an easy target for all these villagers to stop, and that Calvados would start a tank.

On the outskirts of Amiens, we pulled off the road into a farm , the cooks got cracking with preparing and dishing up grub, while the rest checked the vehicles for petrol oil and water, unloaded bedding, had our first wash for days, watched Bluey perform his death defying act with his 'cut throat' razor, while Alec, our erstwhile Capt and leader, tore off in his 'jeep' to find R.H.Q , report, and find out what the "orders" were.

After some grub and a snooze in a hay stack on the farm, Alec returned and told us that we would 'move off' towards Vimy Ridge and Arras the following morning, our armoured Div. was already on the way. Bluey and I decided to take a stroll across nearby fields, it being about 3.30 in the afternoon, warm day and a change to be walking instead of bouncing up and down in a truck or on a motor bike, my bike had just about disintegrated so it had been left in a ditch, and I was going to crew up with Bluey in his 3 tonner from then on. I was carrying the German M.P.44 assault rifle, my issued rifle had got itself run over way back in Caen, and Bluey just had his pistol in his belt. As we walked along side a hedge on the edge of this field, we noticed a small tree copse in the middle. A number of men came walking towards us, armed to the teeth, black berets on their heads with French tricolour patches sewn on them, the tallest of these approached, doffed his beret in a sweeping cavalier salute, “comment alles vous mes amies, would you like to join us in a little afternoon shooting?”, indicated that 'flushing out' the game, was a matter of a few shots into the copse. We pointed out that our weapons were hardly the type for game, but noticed they were carrying machine guns!! A quick word in French, a few shots into the wood, and out ran some Germans waving white flags on sticks, very intent on surrender, " balls to this" said Bluey, 'have no fear, mon brave, we do not shoot to kill them, only to see how fast they appear with their little flags, and, they are getting faster every day'. We dragged out packets of cigarettes, sat down and shared them with these "Macquis", French resistance fighters, lots of slapping each other on the back, big smiles, rude international comments about the "boche", Hitler and his mob, and as the "Macquis" spoke better English than we did French. it was agreed that we (and friends) would meet them in the town the same evening, they would find us. I noticed that the Germans had retired back into the woods, and made up my mind to report to the R.M.P.,(military police) that night, in Amiens, which meant that we had to go into town.

Come six in the evening we decided to walk along the main road into Amiens but before getting very far we had to leap into a ditch on the side to avoid being run over by a German staff car, running on three wheels only, the rear left hand side having no wheel but running on its hub, showers of sparks, swerving from one side of the road to the other, very overcrowded with singing, and cheering "macquis", one shouted to us and the car pulled up sideways across the road, and out leaped the tall 'resistance 'fighter we'd met in the afternoon. They insisted we join them in this dangerous car of theirs and we were very glad the town was only down the road. We pulled up outside a 'cafe' that was bulging at the seams with troops and "macquis".

Most there appeared drunk and all very happy. Ossie viewed this lot with disfavour, he didn't drink, Bluey didn't like the noise, and I wanted to find the R.M.P. to report these Germans in the woods that wanted to surrender, but when we all staggered into the cafe, it was apparent from the attitude of the people inside , that, the tall "macquis" who had adopted us, was a big 'noise in the 'resistance'. Silence reigned as he made a speech, with pointed gestures in my direction, loud cheering followed, where upon he turned to me, placed both hands on my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks, I was not that way inclined, even with Bluey muttering "he fancies you, the dirty sod", anyway there were two many of them in the cafe barring our escape so we just smiled. He made me to understand that it was necessary for me to turn round and bend over, a quick look at Bluey, who nodded, as much as to say 'I'll defend your honour mate', I complied. Felt him fumble with my right cheek, he then turned me round, and, to loud cheering , again kissed me. Someone placed a large glass of 'calvados' in my hand, I'd been invested with the Iron Cross 1st Class!. I then noticed that quite a few of these 'partisans' wore similar medals pinned to their backsides. Forgot about the Germans awaiting rescue in the woods, but thought afterwards, if they wanted to risk getting shot at in the day by these mad "macquis", rather than taking a chance of escape at night, then it was none of my business.

We left Amiens the following morning, flat countryside, more paved roads, and after about an hours driving and not seeing any of the rest of the army en route, Alec pulled the workshop vehicles off on to the verge and went into a huddle with Freddy Cole (his 2i/c), maps and compass and tossing of coins. Ossie stated the obvious, ‘we’re lost again’. The weather was hot, mid morning, ‘brew’ cans unloaded from the trucks, tea and a fag. Alec had made up his mind and called an “O group”, we listened as he told us we were in enemy territory, and although the Germans were retreating, we should be prepared for ambush, therefore, steel helmets (long since thrown away) and loaded weapons. We had up to this time been in contact with a lot of the army, tanks, armoured car Sqdns. and lorried infantry, the roads jammed with traffic, dust and noise, all mostly going the same way we were. But it was obvious that Alec had chosen the scenic route forward, how the hell can one lose a army?, not a soul in sight, the road in front straight, and just us 20 odd vehicles using it.

“Mount up and forward”, we drove for another dozen miles, an assortment of weapons poking out of windows and tail-boards, still nothing. Finally the road came to a main road beside a school, not sure whether to turn left or right, we parked the vehicles along side the school wall and brewed up. After about an hour or so relaxing and smoking, drinking tea and talking, some one said “I can hear tanks”, so we all looked left down the road we had come upon, there were tanks in sight, coming our way too!. British tanks and armoured cars, panic over, we sat down again and waived to the Commander in the leading armoured car, who was standing in the turret, as they passed. This bloke did not look pleased, saw him speak into his radio mike, and the armoured car behind his veered out of line and pulled up beside us. “Who the bloody hell are you” he bellowed, Alec, not to be outdone replied, “71st L.A.A. W/Shops R.E.M.E, and who the bloody hell are you lot?” “Guards Armoured Div. 2nd Army spearhead and you lot are some twenty miles in front of that army advance”…. Said he did not want any of our tea either. Obviously no manners in the Guards.

EXPLODING COOKS.

The end of Sept 1944 saw the W/Shops occupying a small untouched by war village in Belgium. Priority being given to individual tastes in accommodation, Ossie, Bluey, and myself set about inspecting various houses on the main street. Final selection being a semi detached two storey house at the end. Ossie chose the upstairs bedroom, while Bluey and I went for the bedroom overlooking the rear garden. Clean sheets on the two single beds, a bathroom with shelves to place our washing gear etc, we even folded our clothes, shaved and washed. This practice had lapsed somewhat over the previous months as being effete and unnecessary. In due course the rest of the unit emerged from their houses looking cleaner and more civilised, to organise the W/Shop functions.

The two att. A.C.C. cooks, both unsavory-unhygenic and to our minds, untrained, had set up their cookhouse in the lower half of house situated in the middle of the village. All our W/Shop vehicles, machinery and plant were parked nearest to our residencies. Jerry Rowlands, was our G.D. man (general duties) and usually employed assisting the cooks, when not acting as 'runner' for odd duties. Jerry was not a very inspiring figure to look at even in soft lighting, only possessed one upper front tooth, with which he claimed to be able to do more damage to food, than with the set of Army dentures issued to him; but as we'd been living on 'hard tack' for some time now, many of the better looking members of the unit who did start off wearing false teeth, now only boasted a few more teeth than Jerry. He had a slight stooped figure, a long face which never smiled, and he seemed to always merge into the background, Cockney accent and dry wit.

The cooks moved all their own gear upstairs, as did Jerry, and installed all the cooking burners and rations in the large downstairs room, they , or Jerry bashed a tin can outside their front door to signal 'grub up', when ready.

About 5am the second day in our village, the silence was broken with a loud nearby explosion, Ossie burst into our room yelling "we're under a heavy mortar attack!", Bluey turned over in his bed and muttered "balls" but Ossie convinced me that he'd seen smoke rising from the center of the village, so I convinced Bluey that it might be a good idea to look anyway. Wearing only shirt tails and boots, we went downstairs and out the front door towards the cookhouse, which was on fire!, there was a crash of glass from the upstairs window and two shouting bodies hurtled out, one landed on the front garden railings - nasty!, the other landed the concrete pathway, a third body emerged at a more leisurely pace through the smoke and flames pouring out of the front door carrying a suit case, it was Jerry. The bloke who had been on guard duty at the time, reckoned that the explosion came from inside the cookhouse which immediately focused our attention on Jerry.

Alec (our O.C.) asked him "what happened in there?" "dunnow" said Jerry, "I tried to prop up one of the burners that had a leg broken off it , with a steel box that was lying nearby, but it was too big so I opened it and found a round thing inside that was about right, so I propped it up with that. Then I went out to the truck to get some more sugar, when I heard a bloody great bang and was blown on me arse, sir". Mick Mooney said after a moments thought, "Jerry, was that thing you took out of the steel box about so long and round?", "that would be about right" says Jerry. ‘ That was a bloody 3 inch mortar bomb, you one tooth git, no wonder the bloody house blew up’. “People shouldn't leave dangerous things like that lying about. war or no war” says Jerry. Breakfast was an hour later that morning, as we had to scrape up the two cooks and establish a new cookhouse. The two cooks lived we were later told, and the food improved with Jerry as chef, still only biscuits and tinned stuff anyway.

There was a strange eeriness about all these villages, no apparent damage, no people, noise, other than distant gun fire, no animals, and a general air of foreboding. All the houses were left open and silent, bird cages in the ‘front’ rooms with unmarked but dead canaries or budgies lying on the cage floors, and cats or dogs lying in corners the same way, all the result of gun or bomb blast. We trod carefully and with respect.

An old bloke in this village who had not left, made wooden clogs, he called them ‘clompers’, and made sets for us lot that wanted them. Villagers all wore them as the roads were all cobbles and these things were good in the wet, I tried a pair and they damn near crippled me, so I asked for a miniature pair as souvenirs…..still got them. Noticed that when we left on the next move, there were quite a few of these clompers lying on the side of the road, everybody had reverted to good old army boots!

Soon after this time, orders came through that all REME units were being called out of ‘line of advance’ which was Antwerp, as the Germans had strong points on the Schelde estuary, and were targeting REME recovery and w/shops. We had advanced having bypassed Brussels, and as a unit diverted to a place called Heist-op-den-Berg between Antwerp and Herentals.

This was a small village that housed a military correction center for Canadians, similar to our ‘glass house’, and we soon got to know some of their MP’s very tough guys who had just set up the unit, and soon got to know the local populace. We didn’t expect to stay there very long as the decision to isolate the German garrison was made, rather than attack and force them to surrender; in the meantime good use of the time available was made sorting our own equipment out, getting our washing done etc. The blokes soon found an establishment down in the village that they spent most of their time, I was coerced into visiting one morning, coming in out of the sunlight into a large room with a bar and our lot sitting on stools with drinks in their hands with girls sitting on their laps, I was not sure what they were doing with the girls, but Sid shouted “Curly mate, come and have a drink”, a rather short fat old woman (30 ish) came from behind the bar, came and put one arm around my neck and kissed me, ugh! while her other hand groped between my legs!!!, I was shocked and responded by giving her a right cross to the jaw and laying her out. She was the ‘madam’, this was a brothel, I apologised profusely, helped her off the floor and we became good friends, her and the girls. The blokes thought this was a great joke as they had set the whole thing up.

We moved a little later into Antwerp town center and our w/shop parked in Nightingale Park. Three of us went out to see the sights, and by the waterfront was grabbed by an excited Belgium who took us home to his house and family, plied us with drinks and many thanks for ‘liberating’ them all from the hated Germans. They all spoke English, and the eldest man who told us he was a diamond merchant, made a presentation by giving each of us a small diamond as a memento. When we left some hours later to get back to the w/shop, I’d forgotten the name of the park!, and was informed by a bloke running around wearing a white arm band that there was five of them in Antwerp, he didn’t know the names and could he borrow my SMG to shoot some baddies on the nearby roof? Told him to b…ger off and decided to walk around a bit till we spotted our park and unit, it was about three in the morning by now. There were people all over the place, some in groups shaving the heads of women who they said had consorted with Germans, and these women looked wretched and very frightened. We broke some of these brave soul groups up and told the women to run, there was angry murmuring from the crowd, but we all had SMG’s and were prepared to use them if they attacked us. We were very pleased to find our park eventually and pulled out of Antwerp the next day for Eindhoven. Lost the diamond.

A slow wet convoy made our way into Eindhoven and the w/shops occupied a school, with the machinery trucks and equipt parked in the school yard, and opened for business. We visited the batteries daily but based our selves on the w/shops instead of being detached ‘tiffies’, this was to concentrate on some time consuming modifications to all the Regiments guns that was required, Bert who was always with the w/shop needed the Btys. gun fitters to lend a hand. We could not have a meal when the cooks shouted “grub up” for we were always surrounded by children quietly looking on, most of them aged around eight yrs. old, not begging or saying anything. Holland was starving, so the cooks made great pots of meat stews and pudding, added reserve tins of fruit, ‘spam’, bacon porridge, tinned milk etc. etc. and we dished it out to these kids to take home. We lived on ‘compo’ (dry rations) and tea, and nobody made a word of complaint……

Soon after a our arrival, a 4 ton FWD truck pulled into the yard and a couple of American soldiers climbed out, they were lost and had no idea where their outfit was. Alec said they could stay, and they did for some months. Both were great blokes and fitted in well with the w/shop and its activities.

The airborne drop at Arnhem was being supported from Eindhoven, the Guards Armd. Bde. was replaced by the 7th Armd. Div. and eventually the survivors of the 6th Airborne made their way back, while the Regt deployed along the Escaut and Albert Canals at Mook and Zon. Miserable countryside and dangerous.

Very flat with a lot of canal bridges which made for difficult advance, which we did, advancing on s’Hertogenbosch, Nijmegen and the Reichwald forest, where the Germans were ‘dug in’, so we used the Bofors to air burst over them. Even a tree leaf or a cloud will detonate a Bofor shell.

Back to Eindhoven, where one afternoon, a Jeep containing a couple of ‘snow drops’ (United States Military Police) drove into the w/shops and arrested our pair of Americans, and charged them with desertion.

Alec and the rest of us protested, stating that these two had made every effort to report to their unit, and in the meantime had been a credit to their country and the US army by their willingness and standard of work with us, and given a few minutes he, the Officer Commanding 71st REME W/shops would put that in writing, which he did.

We met up with this pair again just before the battle of Bastogne, one was now a Sgt. and told us the letter did the trick and they were both commended. It was reported that the Yanks had tried to cross the Nijmegan bridge up the road from us and had come under heavy fire from machine gun emplacements dug in on the other side, and after repeated attempts and casualties they called for support from a British tank troop that arrived on the scene. The leading tank Cmdr. said they would be only too pleased to assist, but not for half an hour or so because they had just ‘brewed up’ and it was their 10am tea break. They duly finished tea break, loaded up and took the bridge…… there’s always a sense of decorum to be considered.

Soon after we moved towards Venlo, and the w/shops took up position in a mansion located in the woods off the road leading to the river Maas, the weather was hot, the Regt was the other side, Bert and I decided to visit one of the gun sites that had signalled having trouble. The gun site was reported to be covering the pontoon bridge built by the R.E.s over the river so should not be difficult to find their location.

With Bert driving the jeep we drove down the road and came to the river and found that the bridge consisted of a Bailey bridge mounted on pontoon boats lashed together spanning the river, which was about 25 metres across, only room for one vehicle at a time, with a RMP each end controlling traffic, and when called forward onto the bridge floor planks, telling the drivers to maintain a slow 5mph steady speed. Any faster than this the bridge would develop a serious harmonic up and down sway. We were called forward on to the bridge and in low gear crept across with the jeeps wheels rattling the planks underneath, up the bank the other side where we came to a tee junction on the right which we took. There was a blind bend in the rough road/track ahead of us and Bert slowed down, just as well he did! facing us was a large column of MK1V German tanks, about eight of them, parked, and swarming in blokes in black tank suits!!, there were a number of VW’s and motorcycle combinations parked with them. We drove slowly forward and stopped opposite the leading tank, couldn’t think of offering battle with my SMG and Bert’s pistol against their amour and 88’s. We were approached by a staff feldwebel who saluted and said in stilted English, ‘Unser Oberst wishes to surrender his panzer company to you, and what are your orders?’

Bert and I had a quick “O” group, and suggested to this Sgt. Major, that they disembark from the tanks, stack arms and ‘brew up’, and to inform their Colonel that we would report to our H.Q. and fetch someone of suitable seniority of rank here to accept their surrender. There that sense of decorum again. Salutes all round, watched the crews dismount and proceed to place their rifles etc. in stacks opposite the tanks, then get their burners out of the panniers and make coffee, which we knew from previous was ground acorn and chicory ugh! (Could always make friends of this lot by handing out real coffee, of which we always had plenty not used). Jeep turned round and slowly drove back to the bridge.

We decided that the RMP L/Cpl controlling this side of the bridge access should be informed of what had taken place and should be the bloke to accept the surrender, he listened and showed no concern at this decision, so we made our excuses and intended to get over on the other side of the river smartish, before the full import had sunken in with him.

I noticed a rather emaciated bloke wearing torn American clothes waiting to cross the bridge on foot, he had long hair and a bit of a beard, couldn’t have weighed six/seven stones in weight, so called him over and asked who he was, and could we give him a lift to the other side. Said he had made his way on foot from a P.O.W. läger in Poland! which had been overrun by the Russian army, and was on his way to our lines, living off rotten potatoes he had found in fields and barns on the way.

Was a USAF Sgt. rear gunner shot down and captured some months before the invasion, by the name of Ted Rea!!!, we quickly bundled Ted into the jeep and bugger the speed limit on the bridge tore off to our w/shops in the woods.

A very great fuss was made over our first P.O.W, he was given a hot bath, change of clothes, new boots (his had holes in them), a razor and comb, packets of fags, and noticing that he had a white band on his right wrist where some forward infantry bloke had relieved him of his watch (which even the Germans hadn’t done), offered him a selection of same. All this followed by a great meal which included venison from wild deer we had shot on the estate….. He was promptly violently sick! So put to bed.

Alec called up Regt HQ and soon the Padre and the M.O arrived to see Ted, The M.O. ordered a strict diet of boiled rice and tinned milk and weak soup only for the next week, plenty of rest, whilst the Padre took all his particulars to forward to our Div. H.Q. Ted stayed with us for about a fortnight before being medivac to Paris and the USA, he and I spent many an hour nattering about our family name, and he came from Pennsylvania if I remember correctly. After the war we corresponded a few times, where he wrote about the welcome from 71st. W/shop mob he’d received.

The vőorst meister (game keeper) of this estate came to me and asked me to shoot a wounded deer he’d found out in the woods, his game rifle had been confiscated, so I went with him and had the pleasant job of shooting a ‘Bambi’ deer with great big brown eye’s looking at me that had been shot by one of our mob breaking its leg. No more shooting by anyone, and I found and gave the meister his rifle and ammo back with a chit to say he was authorised to carry and use it in the course of his duties to the estate.

We eventually moved to our first German town, Goch, before crossing the Rhine and into Germany proper, we had been on German territory before having crossed the River Maas at Maastricht to Geilenkirchen earlier on when we were at Genk, this was winter time and the German offensive had started at Bastogne ,”the battle of the bulge”, cutting off the Americans, so we pulled out to re deploy to Helmond, outside Eindhoven to support them.

In Goch the w/shops billeted in houses around the town, I had been detached to 262 Bty. to sort some guns out for a few days, so on return I had been saved a place in a house in the center of the town, only problem with this arrangement I had been saved a place in which the blokes had visited all the houses and collected wall clocks of every size and hung them on the walls of the rooms in our house, grandfather/mother, Westminster chimers, striking bells, cuckoo clocks, Hartz Mtg. clocks, and some that went hysterical every 15 minutes day and night. The racket was shattering and I moved out!. Nothing of note was stolen from these houses (we’d have to carry it) but it was all moved around the village. One lot saved paintings and put them up all over the walls, another lot ceramic ducks etc, the owners on return would have scratched their heads somewhat. From there to Calcar, Cleeves and the Rhein crossing at 4am 24th March 1945 after the airborne landing of hundreds of Horsa gliders of the 6th Airborne Div, which lay crashed all over the fields on the other side.

Published: 1st February 2015.

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Continued.