Prisoner of Dieppe

by Hugh Brewster

  As soon as Mountbatten opened his mouth there was no mistaking that he was an aristocrat. He had one of those elegant English accents that make Canadians feel like wood choppers from the colonies. Yet he was obviously used to putting ordinary soldiers and sailors at ease. He began by telling a joke which wasn’t all that funny, but right before the punchline Whitman let out a loud braying laugh that convulsed the whole room.

  After the laughter died down, Mountbatten continued his address. “I was on the destroyers in the early part of the war,” he said, “and I know what it felt like when some admiral who’d been sucking his teeth onshore for months came aboard to tell us how to fight. I’m not going to tell you how to fight, because you know how.”

  We cheered at this and Mountbatten went on to say how fond he was of Canada and Canadians and how he knew we were the kind of chaps who would bring it all off. We stood and cheered again and whistled and everyone (including me) felt very fired up about Operation Rutter. Ham Roberts then stood up (looking squat and stolid after Mountbatten) and told us that Operation Rutter would launch at 0430 hours the next morning. Afterwards I noticed Whitman, wearing his biggest suck-up smile ever, elbowing his way through the other officers so he could shake Mountbatten’s hand.

  During the night I kept waking up, thinking it was time for us to leave for France. When Sergeant Hartley finally roused us I saw that the sun was already shining.

  “It’s been postponed for a day,” Mackie told me. “The weather’s not right.”

  “Gee, it looks okay to me,” I said sleepily, looking out at the blue sky and calm waters of the Solent.

  “The winds are wrong for the paratroopers,” announced the all-knowing Turnbull. I then remembered from the briefings that British paratroopers were to be dropped first to take out the big gun batteries at either end of the assault front before we landed. I guessed that the winds could easily blow them off target.

  Another hot, humid day followed, with more map briefings belowdecks and with the same orders being gone over once again. Then we checked and re-checked our equipment. I was glad to be just a rifleman. Mackie was carrying a Bren gun, which had to be taken apart and cleaned and lubricated quite regularly. I also felt sorry for the guys with Sten guns, who had to carefully file down and calibrate each part of their weapons to coax them into working properly. And all of us carefully filed and sharpened our knives and bayonets and inserted the detonators into our grenades to get them ready for action.

  That evening when they announced another twenty-four-hour postponement there were more loud groans. “You never had better weather in your bathtub!” I overheard one officer exclaim grumpily. The following morning, the Princess Astrid lifted anchor and took us back to the pier for a route march. As we tramped around the country roads outside Yarmouth, I said to Mackie, “I thought we were done with this!”

  “Not us, Allie, not us­, we’re just PBI,” he responded. I had to laugh — Poor Bloody Infantry was exactly what we were.

  Despite all the griping it was good to be off the stifling ship and marching past flowering hedgerows in the July sunshine. In the afternoon we went back on the Astrid, and that evening heard that weather conditions were still not right. How much longer can this drag on? we all wondered. That night was another hot one and I slept on deck once again.

  Early the next morning I heard the buzzing sound of an aircraft in the distance. Half-dreaming, I thought I was back at Camp Borden and it was one of the pilots there on a training run. Suddenly there was a screaming roar overhead and the whole ship shuddered. “It’s the Jerries!” someone yelled, “We’ve been hit!” just as a bomb crashed through the top deck and onto ours. But it didn’t explode. It ricocheted across the deck towards where Murphy was lying and ran right down the side of his leg. Murphy screamed and writhed and I could smell something burning. The bomb then skidded off the side of the deck and fell into the water, where it exploded.

  I ran over to Murphy, but Mackie was already cradling his head. “It’s okay, Murph. It’s okay, you saved us Murph, the bomb’s gone,” he repeated as Murphy whimpered with pain. “Allie, get help!” Mackie shouted, but two men with a stretcher were already racing down the deck. As I looked over the rail I saw a second German plane swooping upwards, away from the Princess Josephine Charlotte. I could make out the Nazi swastika on its tail. “They’ve hit the Charlotte, too!” I yelled.

  A medic began cutting Murphy’s pants off. Another one jabbed a needle into his arm and he soon became quiet.

  “His leg’s burned,” said Mackie, turning to me. “But he’s gonna be okay.”

  We felt the rumble of the Astrid’s engines and within minutes we were beside the pier. The Princess Josephine Charlotte was pulling in behind us, her hull low in the water. Trucks and ambulances were racing into the harbour and I could see men running along the pier. Murphy was carried off in a stretcher. Several wounded men were helped down the gangway from the Charlotte. The bomb had crashed right down into its engine room and out through the bottom of the ship and exploded in the water underneath it, flooding the engine room.

  As we waited on the pier for further instructions, we heard that there were only four Royals injured from the bombing raid, none of them seriously, and some crewmen on the Charlotte as well. We talked about how much worse it could have been if the bombs had hit any of our rounds of ammunition. But now neither ship was in any shape to take us into battle.

  Early in the afternoon, we loaded our bags and equipment into trucks. We were then put into formation and the whole regiment began marching in the direction of Cowes. After an hour or so, a motorcycle approached and when it met up with Lt-Colonel Basher’s jeep at the head of the column, the dispatch rider dismounted and gave him an envelope. Basher read it and within seconds the word “cancelled” rippled down the long column of men. We gathered round to hear what we thought we already knew.

  “The operation against Dieppe has been cancelled,” Basher announced, standing up in his jeep. “We are to return to camp in England.”

  “No, no, no!” erupted from the mouths of five hundred and fifty men almost in unison.

  Mackie threw down his pack in disgust. Smiler went and lay face down in a nearby field. A red-faced Pullio kept jabbing his bayonet fiercely into a hedgerow until Hartley told him to stop. A few men sat by the roadside with their heads in their hands. Some, I think, were crying.

  But all I could feel was an enormous, overwhelming sense of relief.

  CHAPTER 8

  OPERATION JUBILEE

  August 13, 1942

  As the train crossed the border into Scotland, Mackie grabbed me by the shoulders and woke me. “Scots wha hae, laddie!” he said in an imitation Scottish accent, “Scots wha hae!”

  “What’s up? Oh right, we’re in Scotland. Great,” I mumbled before putting my head back against the window and dozing again.

  We were on our first leave since the regiment had returned to England after the cancellation of Operation Rutter. Mackie had wanted to visit Scotland ever since we’d arrived there off the ship almost two years ago. But with his motorcycle accident and then being confined to barracks because of all his AWOL infractions, he hadn’t made it. I wasn’t even sure he would be given leave this time. Two days before, however, he had scored the winning home run for the Royals in a baseball game against the Essex Scottish at Horsham. For this he had received a big clap on the back from Lt-Colonel Douglas Catto, who had just replaced Basher as our commanding officer. Basher had left camp after being replaced by his younger second-in-command. Turnbull said that lots of older officers were being replaced in the Canadian army by younger men. We all liked Catto, but somehow “Catto’s Dashers” didn’t have quite the same ring to it.

  For our leave we had agreed to skip seeing relatives and just have fun and do some sightseeing in Glasgow and Edinburgh. This was fine with me, since I couldn’t bear the thought of more cups of tea with old aunties. Mackie also wanted to catch a train to Inverness to see some High
land scenery. Hearing about our plans, Smiler and Pullio had decided to come along as well. Murphy was still recovering from his burns in hospital, but we heard that he was doing well.

  In Glasgow we visited the Clydeside shipyards, since Mackie wanted to see where big ships like the Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth had been built. He said his grandfather had worked there. Near the river Clyde we could see some tangled wreckage from enemy bombing raids. But we could hear hammering as construction of new ships for the Navy continued. I also took Mackie and the others to see the red sandstone tenement house that we had lived in before we emigrated to Canada.

  In Edinburgh, Mackie, Pullio and Smiler were very impressed with all the grand buildings and kept saying how they liked it much better than Glasgow. (Being Glasgow-born, this annoyed me slightly, but I couldn’t disagree with them as Glasgow had looked a little shabby.) For a good view of Auld Reekie, as Edinburgh was nicknamed, we climbed to the top of Arthur’s Seat, a rocky escarpment near Holyrood Palace. On the way back to our hotel we passed a large hostel where servicemen could stay on leave. Smiler suggested we go in for a free cup of tea.

  “You lads are with the Royal Regiment of Canada?” asked the woman at the front desk. “I think I’ve got a message for you.” We gave each other puzzled looks until then she came back with a telegram she had posted on the bulletin board. It stated that all men of the Canadian 2nd Division were ordered to return to camp immediately.

  We all groaned and glared accusingly at Smiler. Our plans for the evening had been to go out and meet some Edinburgh lassies. Instead we found ourselves waiting on the train platform for the next train south. We wondered what was up. Could it just be another manoeuvre? There wasn’t likely to be another operation like Rutter anytime soon. The aborted raid on Dieppe had been blabbed about all over the British Isles by now, so the enemy would certainly be aware of it.

  We didn’t arrive in camp until noon the next day, the 17th of August. Lieutenant Whitman told us that we were leaving tomorrow on another big manoeuvre. So once again we began preparing our weapons and ammunition. The much-hated Sten guns had been in storage since Rutter and were covered in black grease, so all the parts had to be cleaned and reassembled. The trucks came for us after lunch the next day and we loaded all our gear on board. Once we were inside, something different happened. The khaki tarpaulins were lowered and tied down over the backs of each truck so no one could see us. It made for a rather hot and gloomy ride. But within an hour I could smell the sea. Were we going back to the Isle of Wight, I wondered.

  When our truck stopped and the tarp was opened I saw that we were in Portsmouth harbour. Then I spotted the same cross-channel ferries in the harbour. It looked like they had assault landing craft on board. We were marched towards one of them, the Princess Astrid — the same ship we had been on when the bomb hit. Clearly they had managed to repair the damage to her decks. As we boarded, an English sailor said, “You know where, we’re headed? It’s Dieppe! Dieppe!”

  Thinking he was joking, I smiled and replied, “Nope, that was last time!”

  On board, however, everyone was talking about us going back to Dieppe.

  I said to Mackie, “Is this for real? Won’t the Germans know we’re coming?”

  “Maybe they figure Dieppe is the last place we’d attack,” he replied.

  “Yeah, right,” I said skeptically.

  Looking over the railing at all the activity in the harbour, I caught sight of the masts and rigging of HMS Victory, the old wooden flagship of Admiral Nelson. The Victory had been kept in Portsmouth harbour as a memorial to Nelson, who had died on board it during the Battle of Trafalgar over a hundred and thirty years ago. I thought back to the statue of Nelson atop the monument in Trafalgar Square, hoping for Nelson’s luck and victory once again.

  After a meal of some stew and bread, we were given a briefing about Operation Jubilee — the new name for the remounted Dieppe raid. This time there was no whooping and cheering from us. Everyone just seemed grimly determined to get on with the job and get it over with. The plans seemed the same as last time except that British commandos, instead of paratroopers, were going to take out the big guns to the east and west of Dieppe. At least we wouldn’t have any more delays waiting for the winds to be right. With maps and aerial photographs, Lt-Colonel Catto went over the plans for our landing on Blue Beach below the village of Puys. We were told we wouldn’t need our gas masks and that carrying water bottles would be optional, as we would only be in France for a few hours.

  Everyone seemed calm, almost as if we were on another manoeuvre. We were told that pens and paper were available so we could write a letter home, and that we should note at the top: To be mailed only if I fail to return. I decided to write to my mother and I realized, while doing so, that it could be my last letter. Only then did the reality of what we were about to do begin to sink in.

  TO BE MAILED ONLY IF I FAIL TO RETURN

  Mrs. Angus Morrison

  64 Hiawatha Road

  Toronto, Ontario

  August 18, 1942

  Dear Mum,

  I am writing this on board the troop carrier Princess Astrid. We are finally going to see some action and are heading for Dieppe, a German-held port on the French coast. There are hundreds of ships taking part in this operation. Everyone is calm and we have trained hard for this for weeks.

  You will likely have read about the raid in the newspapers by the time you get this letter. If I’ve been taken prisoner, I don’t want you to worry. We’ve been carefully trained on what to do as prisoners of war. It will be boring, but the war won’t last forever.

  If you’re reading this letter because I haven’t made it, then there are a few things I’d like you to know. I want to say I’m sorry that I upset you by joining up without telling you first. I’ve thought many times about your saying to me, “You’re not the army type.” Well, you know me better than anyone, and you’re right, I’m not the army type. I don’t like all the shouting and the endless drills and always being told what to do.

  But I want you and Elspeth and Doreen to know that I don’t regret any of it. The last two years in England have been just a great experience for me. I’ve seen places that I might only have read about — the Tower of London, Edinburgh Castle, Stonehenge and the Isle of Wight. I feel that I’ve been part of an important time in the history of the world. I’ve met unforgettable people here in England and made many good friends. There’s nothing like army training to make you trust and depend on your buddies.

  I know you blame Mackie for getting me into this, but he has been the best of friends to me, helping me with everything. Tell his mum that he is one of the most admired and popular soldiers in our battalion.

  Finally, I want to thank you for being such a good, loving mother to me and the girls. I know in our family we don’t often say these things. It’s not the Scottish way. But I couldn’t have asked for a better mother. I think of you every day and will love you always.

  God Bless You.

  All my love to Elspeth and Doreen.

  Your loving son,

  Alistair Morrison B67757

  ‘B’ Company

  Royal Regiment of Canada

  CHAPTER 9

  BLUE MURDER

  August 18, 1942, 2220 hours

  I went out on the stern deck to prime my two grenades. Each of us was taking turns doing this. It always made me nervous, as it was a ticklish job. I took a deep breath and inserted a detonator into the first grenade. I paused and then did the same with the second one. Neither exploded. I put them into grenade pouches and attached them both to my webbing.

  A sliver of moon broke through the clouds and I could just make out the shapes of the other ships advancing silently across the sea. It was rare for the Channel to be as calm as this — as flat as a millpond, I’d heard people say. Maybe it was a good omen. I looked out in the darkness and wondered just how many ships were crossing with us. There had to be at least two hundred, carrying about six th
ousand men into battle. Some of those men aren’t coming back, I thought — that’s what happens in war. For them, this warm summer night will be their last night on earth. Could I be one of them? Will my life be over tomorrow? I wondered if everyone was thinking this or whether some men just blocked it out. These thoughts made my guts start to churn, so I decided to rejoin the others inside.

  My Lee-Enfield and bayonet and two bandoliers of bullets lay against the bulkhead where I’d left them. The other men in the platoon were sitting quietly; there was none of the usual joking and chatter. Tea and a washtub of sandwiches had been put out for us, but nobody seemed hungry. A few were still writing letters that would return with the Astrid.

  I sat down next to Mackie. He passed me two metal hand mirrors.

  “Put one in each pocket,” he said quietly, pointing to the breast pockets on my battle jacket. “A little extra protection.”

  “What about you?” I asked. He just smiled and looked away. I took one and put it in the pocket over his heart.

  Just before midnight, we heard a change in the throbbing noise of the ship’s engines.

  “We must be entering the minefield,” said Turnbull.

  We knew that minesweepers were out in front to lead us through the mines the Germans had laid off the French coast. This minefield was designed to provide a safe channel down the coast for their convoys going into French ports. We also knew that a large ship like the Astrid was more at risk of hitting a mine than some of the smaller ones. For the next hour we sat silently, listening for every noise. Finally we heard the ship’s engines pick up speed, indicating that we’d made it through the minefield.

  Around 0230 hours, Sergeant Hartley told us it was time to get ready. We began picking up our weapons and strapping on our webbing and ammo bandoliers. When I put on the inflatable lifebelt over it all, I felt like a bulky, shuffling robot. Out on the deck I saw that the moon had disappeared and we were in almost total darkness. Silently, we crept forward in single file, holding on to the bayonet scabbard of the man ahead. The landing craft had been swung out over the side and we were helped across the gap by British sailors. We took our seats in rows — one row down the centre and two on either side. I was in the stern on the port side and I could see a line of helmets ahead of me and feel the breathing of the men around me. With a whirring noise our landing craft was lowered down the side of the ship and into the water. Then I felt a rumble as its engines started up and we began to move away from the Astrid. The sky was dark, with a few stars overhead. I let the breeze cool my cheeks, as I was sweating underneath all my gear.