How I Spent My Nineteenth Birthday
P.B.I. D.4. 10th Bunk 1944
We marched out of the holding camp, we were free again and the sun shone. We had been incarcerated there since before D-day, inside a wire cage at Tilbury. Living in tents, forbidden to speak to civilians, and they outside the wire were forbidden to speak to us. It was not a world of silence; truckloads of equipment and stores came and went. Aircraft continually flew overhead. Civilians chattered to one another passing us by without looking. It felt as if we were expendable, already forgotten.
Our uniforms stiff with AL63 (anti louse powder). French Francs in our pockets, B.E.F. Money, we felt severed from England. Continual games of brag and pontoon, some would be poor, some rich by the time we hit France. Some of us would never spend it.
On reaching the ships L.C.I. (Landing Craft Infantry) we descended to the troop decks, long rows of hammocks above welded steel floors. Steel dust bins every few yards. Very few words exchanged, making our first attempts to get into a hammock, which when achieved we found surprisingly comfortable, at least to me. Everything was drab; khaki uniform and equipment, dull metal floors, yellowish ceilings covered with droplets of moisture, blue/grey canvas hammocks, the peppery smell of used air.
Now the dull thud, thud of engines and a slight swinging of hammocks. We were on our way. 18-20 year olds suddenly looking older than their years. Quiet in our knowledge that we were heading ever so slowly towards the Beachhead which had been made – three days before. We had been told it was going well. I can’t remember now my thoughts on that day as we slowly travelled down the Thames Estuary in the gathering darkness. We were now allowed on deck, and in the darkness of the blackout town on either side of the Estuary we heard a new sound. The harsh motor cycle exhaust unsilenced and very loud, as apparent aircraft flew overhead with a tail of flame. The anti-aircraft guns were now thudding away continuously. Suddenly the aircraft noise gave way to silence; the sudden flash lit up the sky followed by the sound of an enormous explosion. Then faintly again and increasing in sound came the harsh motor cycle sound again, the pin point sparks of light as anti-aircraft shells burst in the sky, following the sound. The noise cut out and was again followed by a tremendous flash lighting up houses on the shore and the swelling of the air and another explosion. The reign of terror of the V1 Weapons had started.
We slid out of the estuary and anchored off the North Foreland for the rest of the night. Long before first light, the engines started again. We dozed fitfully in our hammocks. Until turned to at dawn. We were ordered to kit ourselves out and to wait until told to mount the stairways to the upper decks. Carrying kit weighing over 90lbs was a long climb to the deck. We appeared a misshapen, motley crowd in tin helmets covered in scrim with shell dressings at the back of the helmet, small packs of water bottle, entrenching tools and rolled gas cape and blanket on our backs. My ammunition pouches filled with four Bren magazines being No.2 on the Bren, two No.36 (Mills) grenades clipped to my belt. Emergency chocolate tin in front pocket and first aid dressing in thigh pocket, Short Lee-Enfield rifle slung.
Watching the others go over the rail by numbers down 30ft of scrambling net hung over the side was a daunting project. With the sure knowledge that at the bottom one had to time one’s leap to the moment when the LRA were at the top of the wave. One chance to miss meant standing to attention at the bottom of the English Channel 5-6 fathoms below.
Ted Wilson and Alf Tanner made it and caught hold of me as I hit the deck and staggered. Malone Booth following closely joined us. We four musketeers were heading for the beach. It was long after dawn on 10th June 1944. My nineteenth birthday.
We could see the shore, long, low white smoke screen over the land and further inland columns of black smoke rising from burning tanks and vehicles. The shore was littered with the rubbish of war; tanks with shed tracks, half sunken assault craft, long columns of troops moving across the dunes and inland. The water flowed backwards and forwards with dozens of long sausage-like life belts, waterproof greased brown paper vomit bags and an occasional body still supported by its life belt.
Now it was our turn; down with the ramp, a quick sprint through the water to the sand, only our feet and knees wet, others not so lucky up to their waists, some out of sight.
Don’t look back, march in line to a large marquee appropriately named ‘LYONS CORNER HOUSE’, a packet of biscuits, a tin of ‘bully’ and a mug of tea. Sudden concussions as the battleship ‘HMS RODNEY’ flings another salvo of huge shells towards Jerry’s gun emplacements at Le Havre. A lone Spitfire heads inland. There is a continuous rumble now of guns, pillars of smoke erupt here and there. The sudden roar like an express train and two gigantic columns of white water erupt about ½ mile beyond the ‘RODNEY’. Jerry is retaliating.
Marching inland its warm and sticky, dust billowing up from the road as ambulances race by towards the beach, carrying their loads of wounded on their way to Blighty. Trucks passing us going towards the front, the last one slowly passes us and we see it’s loaded with ready-made painted crosses. SHAFE has all our needs in mind. Shell holes litter the fields, with the carcasses of cows, blown, with legs in the air. Divisional signs nailed to trees and posts. Miles of telephone cable runs along the hedges. Gliders in fields of still standing corn, curiously bent giant insect like forms. Mounds with bayonet-fixed rifles driven into the ground capped by air-borne red berets. We reach the Winged Horse sign of Pegasus Bridge, crossing in single line as another convoy of ambulances make their way to the beachhead.
A large khaki tent comes into view with enormous red crosses painted on the roof and the sign No.15 C.C.S. A continuous sound emanates from it, which we ignore as we plod on. We see a sign – Ranville – and are led to dig in for the night. Soon holes are dug. Biscuit tin fires are started, filled with sand and petrol and quickly lit; soon billy cans are brewing char, made from a mixture of powdered milk, tea and sugar; when drunk it’s a fine brown sludge in the bottom of the mug. Tins of M&V are opened and heated in mess tins – meat and vegetables – after weeks of this the name is changed by the squaddies to “muck and vomit”.
Biscuits and Bully, more tea. Orders: 30% stand to at dawn. Settle down for the night in our holes, ground sheets spread, rolled in blanket, heads on small packs, sleeping fully dressed. Little do we know that it will be eight weeks before we take our clothes off again, when we are marched to the sea to bathe, but 557 men, 37 officers, including 3 padres, no longer with us.
Sleep comes to us, only waking once when Jerry aircraft sprinkle us with anti-personnel bombs. No one injured. We awake to D5 when it all starts over again. Today we learn more. This was a great adventure – FEAR WAS YET TO COME.