by Mark Zuehlke
Haydon then asked the three force commanders “to state their requirements for any special equipment which might be in short supply.” Baillie-Grohman was the only officer to weigh in, worrying about offshore obstacles hobbling his vessels. He asked for “three shallow diving suits and experts to use them,” plus “six large wire cutters for removing wire or other obstacles from propellers.”
Neither Roberts nor Mann requested anything to replace the now stripped-away air bombardment support. Baillie-Grohman also offered no objection to its loss.
The meeting was about to break up when Lieutenant Colonel A.G. Walch, representing the British airborne division tasked with supporting the seaborne landing by an earlier air drop, arrived to say that he was to meet with Roberts “at an early date, in order that the whole plan might be explained to him in full detail.” To this point, just fifteen days before the scheduled raid date, there had been no coordination between the seaborne raiding forces and the airborne elements.
As a last item, Commander Red Ryder, hero of St. Nazaire, pointed out that there would be insufficient fuel aboard the raid ships to fill “the enemy invasion craft which it was hoped would be captured. If these craft were found with empty tanks they would have to be towed back and special arrangements were being made to meet this contingency.”44
Cancelling heavy bombing of Dieppe was a staggering decision. This was the only real fire support that had been laid on for the raid. Naval support was restricted to a handful of destroyers and gunboats. Yet nobody protested. In his memoirs, Montgomery would claim that he would “not... have agreed” to “elimination of any preliminary bombing of the defences from the air.” Yet he chaired the meeting and was no shrinking violet in making his opinion known.45 In fact, the Dieppe raid had ceased to really be a Combined Operations plan. It was now largely a Montgomery plan, wherein the main thrust would be delivered frontally against Dieppe and there would be no major air support. Instead, the raiders would have to rely on surprise. And that would require an excellent level of training across the three services, so that the plan unfolded like clockwork. Within a week of the June 5 meeting, the first test of that level of training would occur with a full-dress rehearsal code-named Exercise Yukon. Yet, to maintain secrecy, no officers below the rank of battalion commander knew the exercise’s true purpose. Despite the enlarged scale of training, most junior officers and all the troops were led to believe it was simply another in the unceasing string of exercises in which they regularly participated.
6. These Are Anxious Days
Upon returning from Washington, Captain John Hughes-Hallett embarked upon an unusual mission. With the Dieppe raid just ten days away, Hughes-Hallett secretly embedded himself within the ranks of the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders. His guise was that of a clerical clerk from Combined Operations Headquarters who had been sent for infantry training. His plan was not only to participate in Exercise Yukon but also “to witness the Dieppe raid by landing with” the Camerons. “This was not just idle curiosity, although I was certainly interested to see what a raid looked like from a soldier’s point of view. The truth was that I had always been a little uneasy about planning hazardous operations backed up by no personal experience and no sharing of the risks.”
Hughes-Hallett had hatched this scheme prior to going to Washington and had sought permission from Major General Ham Roberts. He selected the Camerons because they would be neither first to land nor last to leave. “I have never believed in taking undue risks,” he later explained. Roberts consented with the proviso that Hughes-Hallett join Exercise Yukon to ensure he was capable of keeping up with the Camerons during a seven-mile round trip under the weight of full equipment. His guise as a private and clerk was dictated by security concerns. If captured, it was unlikely the Germans would bother interrogating someone of lowly rank, and Hughes-Hallett might avoid being identified as a valuable intelligence asset.
On June 10, Hughes-Hallett met with a British intelligence agent at a London flat. “Here I was dressed up as a private soldier and taught how private soldiers spoke to Corporals, and how they behaved in the presence of an Officer, and so forth. I was also given bogus papers which had been prepared by the War Office.”
At Portsmouth, he caught a boat to the Isle of Wight and was soon delivered to the Camerons’ tent encampment at Wootton Creek. His first impression was how informal the Canadians were in terms of rank and behaviour. The battalion assigned him to No. 16 Platoon of Captain John Runcie’s ‘D’ Company. His tent contained nine other men. Rather than being from the same platoon section, they were instead placed together because they were all under the age of twenty-six. Men in the platoon over twenty-six were housed in other tents. The naval officer was pleased to be mistaken for a younger man. But he did look younger than the older men in the regiment. Most hailed from Winnipeg or the surrounding countryside, and “a number of them earning their living as hunters and trappers were aged by their tough life. They were naturally very fit and displayed a complete indifference to all outward forms of discipline. The Section Commanders were the key men. My own Section was commanded by Lance Corporal Bender—a [twenty-two] year old farmer for whom I quickly acquired a deep admiration and respect.”1
The Camerons accepted Hughes-Hallett into their fold but not without reservations. One soldier soon approached Major Norman Ross. “There’s something queer about that British guy,” he said. “You know any common soldier who wears silk underwear? And he buys us drinks in the pub.” Ross was bemused. Canadian soldiers were paid more than their British counterparts, a fact that gave them an edge dating local women. Rare was the British soldier who stood a Canadian a drink.2
Exercise Yukon was to commence the following day. The plan was for 2nd Canadian Infantry Division to assault the south English coast at West Bay, with local defence forces posing as the enemy. The Canadians were to destroy objectives in both West Bay and Bridport, then attack an inland airport, and finish by advancing three miles inland to Bradpole to capture a divisional headquarters. Re-embarking at West Bay, the Canadians would sail back to the Isle of Wight.
The Dorset area selected for the exercise in many ways resembled that of Dieppe. The inland airport was about the same distance from the coast as the one at St. Aubin, and Bradpole about as far in as the suspected German headquarters at Arques-la-Bataille. Thirty minutes after the Canadian assault began, three companies of 1st Battalion of the 1st British Parachute Brigade would drop on the flanks and eliminate mock coastal gun batteries.
For the South Saskatchewan Regiment, the shingle beach at the mouth of the Bride River at Burton Bradstock mirrored Pourville. The Royal Regiment of Canada would set down on a narrow beach west of West Bay. An hour after these battalions landed, the Royal Hamilton Light Infantry and Essex Scottish would strike directly at the mouth of West Bay harbour, with Calgary Tanks supporting. Simultaneous to this landing, the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders would pass through the Sasks and advance to the airport and headquarters at Bradpole. Les Fusiliers Mont-Royal would remain as a floating reserve off West Bay, finally landing to provide rearguard cover for the re-embarkation.3
The exercise was considered so important that General Bernard Paget, Lieutenant General Bernard Montgomery, Lieutenant General Andrew McNaughton, and Lieutenant General Harry Crerar all would be on hand to observe the dawn landings.
Exercise Yukon began on the night of June 11–12 with the Canadians boarding vessels and putting to sea. Most of the infantry were to be landed in LCMs launched from various passenger liners converted into Landing Ship Infantry, Medium—LSI(M). Some, however, crossed to the Devon coast in small R-Boats. Lieutenant Colonel Cecil Merritt’s company headquarters and some Sask elements were aboard the Dutch liner Princess Beatrix, a ship specially assigned to Combined Operations for transporting commandos on raids. The rest of the regiment was either aboard another LSI(M) or in R-Boats. The moment the ships cleared the Isle of Wight, they w
ere caught in a gale.
When the larger vessels were about four miles offshore, they released their LCMs into the churning seas. A Combined Operations planner, Major Walter Skrine, was lowered from Princess Beatrix in the same LCM carrying Merritt and his headquarters. Waves were breaking over the eight-foot bow ramp, drenching the men with salt water. Around him, men were cursing and shouting as one wave after another sent spray showering over them. “Too much talking,” Skrine primly noted with a pencil.
The lack of noise discipline was only a minor concern—far worse was the fact that soon half the regiment’s LCMs were missing. The whole regiment was to sail towards the coast in a tidy line-abreast formation. Those LCMs that were visible slogged shoreward in total disarray. Searchlights stabbed the darkness as shore defenders tried to catch the approaching craft in their beams. Smoke-laying motor gunboats were to have blinded these lights, but there were large gaps in the screen.
Merritt had expressed a dislike for many aspects of the exercise.4 It particularly galled him that he was not allowed to apprise his company commanders that this was a rehearsal for a true raid. How could the company commanders take things seriously when it seemed they were engaged in just another in a seemingly endless series of exercises? “Is your company battle worthy?” he asked one Sask company commander. “Oh yes, sir!” the man answered. But after some questioning, Merritt expressed doubts. The officer asked defensively, “What do you mean by that?”
“Are you ready to go into action tomorrow against the Germans?” The officer demurred. There were “a few things I’d like to do” first, he said.
“When are you going to do them?” Merritt snapped. If only he could put this man in the true picture. Then he would recognize the gravity of things and act on them. But he must keep his officers in the dark.5
Nor had he been allowed to decide what companies sailed in which vessels or how the troops were distributed among the landing craft. On Princess Beatrix he was left isolated and unable to consult at the last minute with any company commanders. He also had been given no chance to meet the Naval Force Commanders charged with providing support fire to his battalion. Denied air photographs of the beach, he could not know whether the navy was delivering him to the right place. Skrine agreed with all these concerns. In his report afterwards, Skrine suggested that all officers should be trained in using stereoscopes to study air photographs so they could plan their attacks on enemy defences with this knowledge at hand. As the Sasks closed on the beach, it was obvious the flank defences had not been blinded by smoke. Yet so much smoke drifted to their front that nobody could see the beach until they were right up on it. Looking around, Skrine saw that all the landing craft were now present. It was still a motley approach and fifteen minutes behind schedule.
The ramps dropped. Merritt and his men rushed ashore, Skrine gamely following. Ashore, the Sasks milled about. Merritt and the other officers were uncertain of their location. Several buildings were visible, which was odd. The beach had reportedly been clear of buildings. “If all concerned had studied the photos and maps beforehand it would have obviated the confusion and doubt on our arrival,” he wrote.
Skrine thought Merritt took too long deciding what to do. “If landed on wrong beach,” he noted, “leading [battalion commanders] must act quickly. Suggest the best plan is to go ahead inland if there is any beach exit. When daylight comes, they will soon find out where they are.” Another problem cropped up immediately. Nobody in the regiment “knew how minefield gaps were marked. They were expecting a [Royal Engineer] man to be standing there and show them.” A reasonable assumption, perhaps, had any engineers been with the regiment’s leading assault wave. But there were no engineers with the battalion. Nobody had mine detectors. There was insufficient tape to mark gaps that were cleared, and the “worry about mines and the effect of an uncomfortable crossing in R-craft left officers and men in no state to get on with the job of pushing inland.”6
The Sasks were not alone in confusion. Chaos reigned throughout Yukon. Major P.E.R. Wright with 2nd Division’s general staff found no established system for organizing non-brigade units on the beaches. This led to the location of the engineer headquarters being totally unknown to anybody else. Its whereabouts remained a mystery not even solved by later analysis. Yukon unravelled because there had been no divisional-level training. Each battalion operated separately and in ignorance of how it fit into the overall scheme. The two brigadiers exerted little control. Isolated aboard separate destroyers, each lacked adequate wireless links to their battalions ashore. Major General Ham Roberts and his divisional headquarters aboard the destroyer and fleet command vessel, HMS Calpe, had even less idea of what was developing once the operation was under way. As Major Wright put it: “Although [communications equipment] provided was the best that we have ever had, information... was practically nil.” The brigade headquarters failed to use the secure net to pass information to divisional headquarters. After the exercise, Wright suggested creating an administrative headquarters to function as an “information bureau.” Its personnel would be aware of unit locations, where stores were dumped, who was headed where and when—and use wireless and runners to disseminate this information to whoever needed it.7
Combined Operations’ shortcomings were illuminated, but not recognized, during Yukon’s unravelling. Previous operations had entailed small numbers of men landed at night or at dawn to carry out “murder and run” operations. A few demolitions of defensive or strategically important positions, perhaps, but the routine was largely to get in, kill or capture a few Germans, seize whatever documents could be grabbed, and then get out quickly. St. Nazaire had been the exception, but it was an operation still being studied. The inherent hit-and-run nature of commando raids fostered a careless approach. As veteran No. 3 Commando raider Major Peter Young wrote: “Describe a typical World War II landing operation? Well, it would be pitch dark, with no lights permitted. There would be a sea running, so most people would be sea sick. It would take twice as long as we thought it would to get the chaps into the landing craft and then half the landing craft would disappear in the dark and never be seen again. When the rest of us embarked, we would bounce around for a while and then be landed on the wrong beach and while we were working out where we actually were we would be shelled by the Royal Navy... and that was on a good day.”8
While this was the kind of piratical, make-it-up-on-the-fly operation Combined Operations thrived on, the Dieppe raid was an entirely different beast. It was a raid in force that required a high organizational level because of the sheer number of troops, naval ships, and air resources involved. Planning for cooperation between naval and army forces involved in the landings, however, was not developed much beyond the norm for a raid by fifty men or less. This contributed significantly to Yukon’s confusion.
As planned, the Camerons had stood offshore while the Sasks secured the beach. But this meant taking a beating in the rough seas. Aboard the LCM carrying Major Norman Ross and ‘A’ Company, even the naval crew were vomiting. Hardly a soldier had not been sick at least once during the night crossing. As the gunwales were higher than their heads, the men had to lever up them to puke overboard. During one of Ross’s many trips, “I caught my upper lip and bashed it and it puffed up. There I was seasick, puffed lip, rain running down the back of my bloody neck. And I didn’t care where we were going or how we got there. I just wanted to get off that vessel. Daybreak came and of the whole division we could see about three ships, period.” Soon a destroyer gathered these vessels “up like a mother hen” and herded them to where the rest of the Camerons were formed off the beach where the Sasks had landed. “We hadn’t had anything to eat since the night before, so we decided to open up our boxes and have something to eat before going ashore. Of course it was beans or some damn thing and sour. Everyone took new turns over the side.”9
The Camerons were landed on the same “wrong beach, because the [naval
crews] saw [the Saskatchewan] landing craft ahead of them,” Skrine reported.10 “The bloody navy,” Ross groused, “put us out about three miles from the proper place and we had to march... along the beach. Sand would have been bad, but we were on stones like golf balls... You march on that and you’re just sliding. For three miles we went along, feeling miserable. It was hot by this time. The weather cleared up.”11
Skrine thought the Camerons should have pushed inland from the wrong beach, rather than waste time following the seashore to the correct insertion point. When they did start inland, he found the pace “extremely slow... Is the role of this battalion to push on to its objective and by-pass opposition or to wait until opposition en route is overcome? I suggest it is better for this battalion to detail a small [detachment] to occupy the opposition, while the main body swings round it and makes for the aerodrome with all speed.” Tanks, he felt, would normally come up behind the infantry and “liquidate this opposition in due course.”
As the Camerons closed on the airfield, Skrine saw they were entirely unaware of the Calgary tanks standing about five hundred yards distant. Nor were the tankers aware of the infantry. Each operated in isolation from the other. Do “Canadian infantry and tanks practice talking to each other on No. 18 sets?” he wondered. The tanks, of course, had not landed with the Camerons. Instead, they had set down on the main beaches about a mile west of where the Camerons were to have landed.
Not noted in the exercise was the fact that these beaches were sand and occasionally pebble rather than cobble, as would be the case at Dieppe. In fact, all beaches on which the tankers had trained were mostly sand. There had been no concerted effort to test tank landing on a beach similar to Dieppe’s. Although the Calgarians and Camerons were to have married up near the airport, this never happened. Skrine decided this was because the LCTs landed the tanks “in the wrong order.” Once ashore, the tankers waited for those who were supposed to land first to arrive and complete their allotted beach-clearing tasks. “All tank squadrons and troop leaders,” Skrine recommended, “must be in the picture so that squadron tasks may be interchangeable in an emergency.”12