From 12 until 17 August, when Berjou was eventually captured, the Regiment was continually involved, sometimes supporting three brigades a day. A brigade would advance to an objective and another would pass through the next objective, until the village was finally reached. The steep climb to Berjou on the other side of the river caused great trouble and heavy tank commander casualties, especially in C Squadron.
This was a frenetic time along the front, as the Americans began to sweep out of their bridgehead to the west and the Germans were almost encircled in what became known as the Falaise Pocket. Hitler, who had recently survived an assassination attempt on 20 July, then demanded a decisive counter-attack. On 7 August, they launched an assault against the American flank through Mortain. Initially helped by poor weather, which restricted Allied flying, they made some ground, but the Americans quickly recovered and so did the skies and the Germans were doomed. Canadian and British troops were still pushing southwards towards Falaise from Caen and it seemed the Germans in Normandy might be completely trapped. Fearing American and British troops might end up clashing as the encirclement was completed, General Omar Bradley, commanding US 12th Army Group, halted his troops, which offered von Kluge the chance to allow his forces to withdraw – but not before many were caught by Allied ground-attack aircraft.
Lieutenant Stanley Perry’s tank was the first to cross the hastily constructed bridge over the Noireau and led the advance up the hill through the small bridgehead which the infantry had made during the night. Frank Gavin was killed when an anti-tank gun brewed up his tank, Sergeant Sleep was killed by a sniper and Sergeant Guy Saunders was killed when trying to rescue his great friend Corporal Brooks, who had been wounded by shellfire while doing a recce on foot – he was killed by the same shell – all of them first-class tank commanders with great battle experience during their years with the Regiment and, more important, greatly loved and respected by us all as fellow men. After the capture of Berjou, except for Stuart Hills, no officer troop leader remained in C Squadron. Stuart, I am afraid, was terribly distressed about the loss of his fellow tank commanders. He had relied on them so much and they were real friends who had shared so many discomforts and dangers since D-Day. In his diary he wrote this about them: ‘They died with clear and very brave consciences, and there were never more deserving cases for peaceful sleep.’
On the evening of 17 August, after Berjou had been captured, I walked to the end of the village and looked down onto the Noireau river. From there I had a wonderful view of the surrounding country and could fully appreciate why the mortar and shellfire had been so accurate. The Germans could see every movement that we made.
The whole Regiment moved on a few miles to Sainte-Honorine-la-Chardonne, a picturesque village, which I am pleased to say had not suffered severe war damage. Civilians were beginning to return to their homes; in spite of the hardships they had suffered they showed great cheerfulness, and were obviously delighted to be returning home with a few belongings stacked in some kind of rickety log cart. Most of them, if they had the opportunity, asked anxiously for news about their homes and villages, so many of which had been irretrievably damaged. It was difficult to tell them the truth.
A devastated Normandy village.
With the capture of Berjou on our immediate front, the German line had been cracked and he had withdrawn many miles. So ended, for a time, three months of continuous deliberate battles in the difficult bocage country of Normandy.
17
The Pursuit through France and Belgium
Message from Brigade: ‘Crack on – we are through the ring!’
WE ALL WOKE UP to the chime of church bells on Sunday, 17 August, which was most refreshing. A service for the Roman Catholics was held in the village church and the padre held a voluntary church service at Regimental Headquarters, which the whole Regiment attended. As usual he gave a simple but inspiring address. I read the lesson and chose the hymns.
I received the following most appreciative letter from Brigadier Esme, thanking the Regiment for the support given to his brigade when it crossed the river Noireau, with a letter from our own brigadier:
* * *
Headquarters,
214 Infantry Brigade,
B.L.A.
Dear Prior-Palmer,
I have now had an opportunity of getting a first line account of the operations of the Sherwood Rangers around Berjou, in support of this Brigade. No Brigade ever received better cooperation. Will you please accept the thanks and admiration of all men in the Brigade.
If you decide to put Holman in for a decoration I feel you would be 100% justified.
Gold also did grand work and also the Squadron Leader of the 7th Somersets.
Thank you,
Yours very sincerely,
(Sgd) H. Esme
* * *
From our own brigadier:
* * *
Headquarters,
8th Armoured Brigade.
20th August.
Dear Christopherson,
I thought you might like to read the enclosed.
Let me have it back sometime.
Your chaps really did do a super-human job up that ruddy mountain and I am sure some decorations were well deserved.
Yours sincerely,
(Sgd) Errol Prior-Palmer
* * *
During the morning, while walking around the Regimental Headquarters tanks, I suddenly perceived a small and tubby figure frantically struggling to extricate himself from the middle of a barbed-wire fence, which securely held him by the seat of the pants. After I had rendered assistance, he saluted smartly and introduced himself as Major Leigh and informed me that he had been posted to the Sherwood Rangers as our second-in-command. Previously he had commanded the Gloucestershire Yeomanry, which was stationed in England. Thoroughly bored with inactivity, he had applied to join a regiment in the field and had been posted to the Sherwood Rangers. Major the Lord Leigh was small, inclined to be fat with a very red face, and was immediately christened ‘The Baron’. He spoke very little, but possessed a subtle wit, which he showed on many occasions, and when something amused him he displayed his mirth with a most delightful giggle that shook the whole of his frame. He adored his comforts and his pipe. When Robin Leigh took over, Stephen Mitchell once again returned to command C Squadron, but only for a short time, for much to our sorrow he was claimed for service in England and I was forced to release him.
During the day I had to attend a conference for Operation KITTEN, an eastward movement of the whole brigade to l’Aigle; as no opposition was anticipated, this was considered a ‘Peace Move’, with 1st Armoured Division in the lead followed by 50th Division and 8th Armoured Brigade.
At 06.50 on 23 August the chase started in earnest, and we galloped through France at a great rate, passing through Courteilles, Habloville, Occagnes and Bailleul. After leaving Chambois we travelled along a road on which a large German column, consisting of tanks, guns, infantry and transport, largely horse-drawn, had been squarely caught by our rocket-firing air force. Never in all my life have I witnessed such utter destruction and complete desolation. Both sides of the road were littered with burned-out vehicles, dead Germans, dead horses, dead cows and, alas, a few civilians, including children, who had been caught in the strafing. Owing to rain and continuous use the road was a sea of mud. The dead, both men and beasts, had been lying there for a few days and as a result had swelled to twice their normal size. The stench was unbearable. Unfortunately the Regiment halted for maintenance right in the midst of this carnage. Robin Leigh, whose tank was behind mine, dismounted and came across to talk. This was his first experience of a battlefield and proved to be the only time that I ever saw him without an extremely red and ruddy complexion. He had gone completely yellow, and made a gallant attempt to conceal his great desire to vomit by puffing vigorously at his pipe.
‘A bit of a mess,’ he said, as he approached.
‘Yes, the air force got them fair and square,’
I replied, puffing equally vigorously at my pipe and praying that Robin didn’t realize that his commanding officer was as near vomiting as his new second-in-command.
‘Is it generally as bad as this?’ he enquired.
‘I have not seen much worse than this,’ I replied, and moved away, as slowly as I could, from a dead horse, which had been blown to bits, lying a few yards from my tank and giving off a fearful stench. Robin told me at the end of the war how impressed he was on this occasion by my apparent imperturbability, but I had to admit that I was just as revolted as he was.
When we eventually arrived at l’Aigle, 19 tanks were off the road suffering from ‘bogey wheel’ trouble caused through travelling fast on tarmac roads. Laille we found a most attractive village surrounded by small farms, on one of which each squadron selected to leaguer. The local farmers were sincerely pleased to welcome us and generous with their gifts of eggs and milk. The countryside was most picturesque; at last real summer weather had arrived. Regimental Headquarters came to rest in a typical ‘English’ pear orchard.
The announcement that the Regiment would withdraw from the line and be out of action for a few days produced a feeling of indescribable relief. On arrival at the pre-selected leaguer area, it was wonderful to pass the order on the intercom to Corporal Bland, who had driven my tank in the desert and through Europe, ‘Switch off, dismount, we’re here for three days,’ then send out to all tanks on the wireless, ‘Close down until 10.30 hours tomorrow. Niners to report.’ All stations would reply, ‘OK – out.’ In wireless procedure for security reasons the word ‘niner’ represented ‘commander’, but a very little intelligence was required on the part of a German station to connect the words.
After replenishment everyone would retire to bed, undressing for the first time, probably, for many nights, with the delightful anticipation of a full and undisturbed night’s sleep and a long lie-in next morning – the roar of tank engines warming up would not disturb the dawn, nor the voice of the wireless operator ‘netting’ his set to control.
Next morning each tank crew would cook their own late breakfast, consisting of rations and food bartered from the civilians, which had been accumulated and reserved for such an occasion. The quality of the breakfast would depend upon the resourcefulness of the member of the crew who had been appointed as cook.
After breakfast a couple of hours would be spent on maintenance. The gunner would strip and clean his guns and await the arrival of the regimental armourer for final inspection. The operator would overhaul his set and report any defects to Signal Section from the Royal Corps of Signals, which had been with the Regiment since before Alamein. Squadron fitters would visit each tank in their squadron under the supervision of the technical adjutant and make any necessary engine adjustment. Any major repairs would be carried out by the LAD (Light Aid Detachment), which had been with the Regiment, with our signal section, since before the Battle of Alamein. The efficiency and speed of their work were quite remarkable and we all considered them part of the Regiment. The orderly room (a 3-ton truck) would arrive with Sergeants Holland, Payne and Corporal Brocklehurst, with each squadron office, consisting of a 15-cwt truck and, most welcome of all, the quarter master with the mail and possible NAAFI ration.
The rest of the day would be spent in washing from head to foot in a dixie, a cut-down petrol tin, and sitting in the sun reading, writing letters, talking and sleeping and thoroughly appreciating the peace.
For squadron leaders, the adjutant and myself there was always a certain amount of administrative work to be done – reorganization of squadron and troops, returns to be completed, the war diary to be written up and letters of sympathy to the next-of-kin of those who had been killed in action. But during those peaceful days out of battle, somehow, one learned the importance of the natural and simple things that life can give.
We spent a very enjoyable time in this area, and even found time to play cricket matches on the bumpy but interesting pitch, which we improvised in the orchard – thanks to Roger Nelthorpe, who had had the foresight to pack two pairs of pads, a bat and a cricket ball in one of his B3 vehicles. The officers challenged the rest and won. The following day we played Brigade Headquarters at football in the same orchard and scored another victory.
Every morning and evening two milkmaids appeared from the farmhouse at the end of the orchard, and proceeded through the orchard to milk the cows. Only once they were alone and unsupported in their work. Finally there were three Sherwood Rangers carrying each pail, three to each, and two on the flank of each maid as an independent escort, and finally each cow had three Sherwood Rangers struggling with an udder, some displaying more proficiency than others.
On the second day I carried out, with Robin Leigh, an informal inspection of the squadrons in each squadron area, arriving last in B Squadron area, which was the furthest away. I found Michael Gold chatting with the farmer in whose orchard his tanks were leaguered. Robin and I were immediately introduced and the farmer insisted that we should enter his house and share a glass of wine. I intimated to Michael that I would prefer to carry out a short inspection of his tanks first, but the farmer informed us that in half an hour he had to attend the funeral of a friend who had been killed by a mine, so in order not to be discourteous I agreed and we entered his house. Formal introductions took place to the whole of his family and the various refugee families who were living at the farm, and we were all given a large glass of very excellent, but potent, cider, followed by some local wine. One of the lady refugees was great with child and just about to give birth, much to the consternation of all the household, as the local doctor had left the village. The farmer pleaded that our regimental doctor should be made available when the happy event occurred. I told him that I should consult our MO, but warned him that we should almost certainly be gone in a couple of days. We had such a merry time that the farmer clean forgot about the funeral until his wife reminded him. He gulped the remainder of his wine and fetched his Sunday suit, into which we all helped him to climb, and with unsteady step ran down the steps into the orchard, closely followed by his wife, grasping the bowler hat her husband had forgotten.
By that time no inspection of B Squadron tanks was possible, and I returned to Regimental Headquarters and told Hylda Young about the pregnant lady. He was not at all thrilled with this idea, but volunteered to take action should the necessity arise.
Hylda joined the Regiment in the desert after Geoffrey Brooks was wounded. I never quite understood why he was called Hylda, but he joined us with that name – maybe it had something to do with his highly coloured complexion. In peacetime he had a practice in Somerset and, in order to join up, he had deducted a considerable number of years from his age. He looked much younger than he was and should his correct age have been known he would have been sent back to his country practice. He was with us, I am glad to say, until the end of the war. He had a very happy disposition and was invariably cheerful and would roar with laughter at various jokes of his own, of which he would be the only one to see the point. He would not tolerate personal comfort, and should ever an opportunity of spending a night under a roof occur, he would prefer to lie on a stretcher in the open. He was the most conscientious and hardworking man I have ever met – nothing was ever too much trouble. In battle I continually had the greatest trouble in preventing him from dashing up to brewed-up tanks and attending the wounded instead of waiting for them to be brought back to the regimental aid post.
August had been a good month for the Allies. Across the other side of the world, the Americans had continued to push back the Japanese on both land and sea, while in Burma the British were also clawing their way back, capturing Myitkyina on 3 August. On 15 August, the Allies launched Operation DRAGOON, a major landing in southern France, while after the collapse of the German forces in Normandy, Paris fell on the 25th. This marked the start of the pursuit across France and into the Low Countries, and after their brief pause, it was time for the Sherwood Rangers to join
the dash through northern France and into Belgium.
On 27 August Michael Gold sought permission to go on a reconnaissance in order to visit his old regiment, the 23rd Hussars, which I granted in view of the fact that the Regiment was at 24 hours’ notice to move. Away he went in his Jeep, with his squadron sergeant major and his squadron clerk. After lunch, resulting from a very sudden change of plans, I received an order from Brigade to prepare the Regiment to move within an hour. Within 70 minutes from the receipt of this order the Regimental Headquarters tanks moved out of our delightful orchard with great reluctance to join the leading squadron on an axis of advance to Vernon. We travelled fast, passing through Rugles, la Neuve-Lyre, Conches, Evreux, Caillouet and some very lovely country.
Michael Gold we were forced to leave behind. I don’t quite know whether he had conceived the idea before he started on his so-called recce, or whether he suddenly saw a signpost to Paris, but to Paris he went, with his squadron sergeant major and his squadron clerk. He drove straight to the Ritz, outside which a Tiger tank had been brewed up and was mobbed by a crowd of hysterical Frenchmen, who led the whole party into the hotel and plied them with champagne for the rest of the day and night. I think they can claim to have been the first British soldiers from a fighting unit to enter Paris, which had so recently been liberated. When he eventually in the very early hours of the morning tore himself away and returned to his squadron area, he received a rude shock to find that nothing remained, except the deep track marks made by his 16 tanks as they rolled out of the orchard, and his squadron pay clerk, sitting mournfully on an empty petrol tin, who had given up hope of ever seeing his squadron leader again, or of rejoining the Regiment.
An Englishman at War Page 41