XD Operations

by C Brazier

  Situated as we were on the approaches to London, air action above was not infrequent, but usually sporadic and not sustained. Life in our town seemed to go on much the same, ships went up and down the river, and in the country the folk worked in the fields. Then daylight raids began increasing, with rumours of fierce attacks on nearby fighter airfields. The news on the wireless was non-committal, if not wholly reassuring, and the demand for ground defences gave way to demands for shelters and other protective works against bombing. Finally, the Luftwaffe put in several successive daylight attacks culminating in attacks in great strength, which subsequently became known as the Battle of Britain.

  Working below, it was our good fortune to witness this epic fight; a spectacle never to be forgotten, even amongst the vicissitudes of a world war. In a clear sky high up above, layer upon layer of bombers all keeping perfect formation came out of the east, and droned steadily westwards towards the capital. With the sun glinting upon them, their regular formation gave the impression of the keyboard of some mammoth organ in the sky. All heads were turned upwards; the men leaning on their shovels rested from their task and were spellbound by the moving panorama which was unfolding above. Then our fighters, all too few it seemed, roared into action with their familiar high pitched whine. This had little effect at first, and the vast armada moved overhead from the east into the west towards the capital. Then a few trails of smoke and gaps in the formation showed at least that the ‘Jerries’ were not going unscathed. At this stage more of our fighters joined the mêlée having been vectored in by Fighter Command. Then the smoky trails of falling aircraft increased and large gaps were discernible in the formation until the whole array broke up and not infrequently turned for home. As one lad said when he broke the silence ‘the bastards can’t take it’, which just about summed up the situation.

  After a brief lull, night bombing of London became the vogue, and in common with most of England we spent the nights in shelters. With enemy bombers groaning overhead, we sat drowsily packed in, listening to the ack-ack gunfire round about. Sometimes when the guns ranged on one of the more adventurous low flyers they would release their bombs in self defence, and we would hear the crumps round about. This usually meant a turn out and stand-to for fire fighting and rescue parties; however the cool night air was a change from the monotony of the shelters, if not exactly a welcome one. To the west the sky over London reflected the tremendous glow of many fires, and was a witness to those planes that had got through – a sinister reminder of the sufferings of a great city in its agony. Work amongst the shattered remains of houses, with the all pervading acrid smell of damped fire and dust from crumbling brickwork, is a fairly common experience in our country now, but I doubt if it will ever be forgotten by my generation. The rescue of the injured and removal of the dead was tragic enough in all conscience, but it was the smell and dust that seems to stand out in the memory of those nights. The fortitude of the survivors had to be experienced to be believed; they seemed to have been imbued with a strength and faith beyond ordinary mortals and were an inspiration to us all; their homes gone, relations killed or missing, their world in ruins and yet they would be almost jaunty about the whole affair. At times we went out on the day following a raid and cleared debris, blowing down unsafe walls, overhanging roofs and such like jobs in aid of the civil authorities, and helping the victims to recover what possessions were worth saving from the scene of desolation. They would trudge off with handcarts and prams loaded high with the pathetic remains of their homes just glad to be alive and swearing vengeance. Even then, it seemed plain that the enemy would never crush the spirit of the ordinary people. He could destroy their homes but this just kindled a bitter hatred for the Boche.

  After a month or two of this strange existence in Kent, ‘subject to air attack’ as it was so frequently described in the news bulletins, we received orders to move to Northern Ireland to be III Corps Troops Engineers. This was a welcome change, as we all felt it to be the precursor of action once again. We entrained in two troop trains in the small hours of the morning with the usual nightly air raid in progress. Farewells were taken between the formation and their girlfriends in the station yard to the accompaniment of the usual clatter and thumps; perhaps the all pervading darkness was a consolation to the great majority. Perspiring company commanders and section subalterns took a ‘poor view’ of entraining their men and equipment in inky blackness without even a glimmer of moonlight. Baggage parties were disturbed by being temporarily separated from their personal weapons. However, it all went off without loss or casualty, the trains pulled out of the station and rumbled slowly through the sleeping countryside by the most circuitous route that the overworked transport department could devise. It was cold weather by now, but the concentration of closely packed human beings quickly steamed up the windows and, except for the odd mouth organ playing, they were soon asleep. After many hours, stops and much shunting, we arrived at Stranraer and with the same process in reverse detrained again in the dark, and embarked for Northern Ireland.

  Before we left, the unit had been considerably cheered by a generous number of awards to both officers and men which was in recognition of the stout hearted performance of all ranks in Holland, Belgium and France.

  Chapter Twelve

  ULSTER INTERLUDE

  We arrived in Larne just before daybreak and it was not long before the unit was speeding westward through lovely countryside. Towards midday we arrived at a little station in County Down and marched four miles to camp, an attractive spot which, as it turned out, was to be our home for over a year. Here we became III Corps Engineers, the whole formation being stationed in Northern Ireland.

  Our surroundings consisted of a small river winding round two sides of a hill, with thickly wooded slopes. The hill was surmounted by a castle and by the river bank was a flat strip of terrain just wide enough for the company camps. Nearby was a typical small Irish town, Gildford, near Portadown, with its grey stone houses, market place, and the station of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, watching and waiting for any sign of lawlessness, with rather more earnestness than we associated with a police station in this country. On the outskirts opposite the castle stood a large linen mill; the one local industry. Through the little town ran one wide street with its shops and inns, peopled with the queer mixture of intensely loyal folk and a minority who were not so friendly. Never have troops received a more spontaneous welcome and the months that followed established a firm friendship until, at the day of parting, we might have been the County Down Militia of which they sing over their pots of beer. The inevitable two churches, one Protestant and the other Catholic, showed how religious divisions permeate the lives and thoughts of the people in this delightful land: a fact quite beyond the comprehension of the ordinary Englishman, but there it is, a sort of armed neutrality based upon things of the next world but rigidly applied to the things of this life, without compromise or understanding. Irish hospitality has to be experienced to be appreciated. I suppose it could best be described as benevolent feudalism. While the officers were entertained by the Castle and the managing director of the Mill, the NCOs experienced the thrill of a bit of rabbiting with the surrounding farmers, and every sapper had a ‘mother-in-law’ for an occasional meal and chat by the fireside in an Irish home.

  Meanwhile training, and still more training, resulted in months of practical exercises ‘up on wheels’. We got to know the country from Donaghadee to Sion Mills, and Londonderry to Newry, with special references to the rivers! How many times we spent the night bridging those rivers to get divisions over to attack imaginary landings of ‘highly mechanized enemy forces which had established a bridgehead at . . .’: those treks out to a concentration area before dark, then the dispatch of companies and equipment to forward harbours and concealment until the appropriate moment! If it sounds easy, just ponder the concealment of an RASC bridging train of say sixty vehicles, plus all your own transport from the watchful eye of low flying enemy aircraf
t and a posse of umpires all eager to justify their existence. The subalterns who went forward on the reconnaissance solemnly swear that they have walked the river banks of all Northern Ireland at one time or another. Meantime I would get their reports back, and after consultation with ‘G’ staff would allot tasks and equipment, and we would spend yet another night under the stars, manhandling the heavy gear in the silence and murky darkness of a night without a moon. It became a general belief with the men that there was no moonlight in Ireland, a condition noted with considerable emphasis on these occasions.

  Sometimes we would lose the ‘battle’, which meant a withdrawal and this entailed preparing bridges for demolition along a series of river lines. The only real satisfaction obtainable, e.g. blowing up the bridges, was denied us, as apparently the County Council would take a poor view of this and anyway there was no enemy except the umpires, and at times the Directing Staff!

  We were still required by the War Office to produce demolition parties on an ‘as required’ basis and as a result we were allowed the additional manpower to form a Holding Company for this express purpose. It was considered unfair on the Field Companies in the unit who were supporting III Corps to be continually denuded of officers and men.

  The Holding Company practised beach landings at a quiet spot on the eastern seaboard that was on Lord Downshire’s estate at Dundrum near Newcastle. This entailed hard going, a good quota of duckings and some excitement. A string of craft in tow, loaded with men and equipment in a strong tideway on a dark night can be difficult. At least it calls for a fair degree of watermanship and boat sense, plus a well developed sense of humour. The great compensation for the company was the opportunities offered for netting salmon in the river bounding the estate. With ‘local’ tuition they became quite expert and any day in season the cookhouse bore evidence of the crime. It was surprising how our other Field Companies miles away were anxious to visit them and liaise for not always honourable reasons.

  During our stay in Ireland our only contact with the real war, apart from a large party who went to the Middle East and an expedition to Spitzbergen, was on the two occasions when Belfast was raided and we were detailed to assist in clearing up the mess. It was almost like being at home again in South England; all the familiar tasks, the smell and heat of smouldering houses and the demolishing of unsafe structures. Perhaps the highlight was the blowing up of a tapering church spire that was unsafe and leaning. It was one of the few remaining structures we had not tackled at one time or another. There was much professional rivalry about this job within the formation and in the event it was a clean drop without damage to nearby property.

  Then there were long marches. As we did not always move about in motor transport, once a week all hands had a route march of about eighteen miles through the surrounding country. The days when this took place were varied, and not announced ahead of time. Out we went, with the band playing a lively air and heads high, after a few miles the hourly halts seemed to get further and further apart, but it is surprising how after a few months training the capacity to stay the distance increased. When approaching camp after these foot slogging exercises, apart from looking red faced and a trifle dusty, with the strident Corps march ‘Wings’ to stir us on, we threw out our chests, and told each other that we could have gone for another twenty miles. This hardening process was varied with cross country work and night marches, but perhaps the highlight was a periodical trek of sixty or seventy miles to a distant range; this used to take three days each way, bivouacking at night under the trees and enjoying every minute. Strangely enough the scores on the ranges were better too, than on occasions when for want of time we went in vehicles.

  Short of being at war, this enforced period of waiting in Ireland was excellent value as regards training, and a pleasant experience which left its mark upon the formation; even the band adopted one or two Irish airs as part of its repertoire. Some of the more adventurous of the Corps married colleens to show their faith in the country. The highlight was a very occasional weekend in plain clothes down in Dublin, where the lighted shops and crowded streets gave one a reminder of pre-war conditions. One could buy a box of chocolates or silk stockings in anticipation of the next seven days leave in England, see a good show at the Abbey Theatre, visit the Curragh for an afternoon at the races, or merely sit in the lounge of the Gresham Hotel for a while, and watch the world and his wife go by. It is surprising what can be squeezed into forty-eight hours. The streets were fairly full of the soldiers of Eire, well turned out in the main, although mostly very young and rather shorter than our men. An occasional priest and members of a religious order jostling with the crowd of shoppers in O’Connell Street gave the place an odd air of neutrality; it seemed as though they were almost expecting war to come to them, but hoping that it would not. So many appeared to be sympathetic to the cause of the Allied nations that it was not easy to understand the peculiar position their government had maintained. Perhaps the most incongruous sight was the German and Italian flags in front of their consulates; a strange land indeed!

  Perhaps the most widely appreciated amusements of the troops were the dances held in Lurgan Assembly rooms; these occasions were literally a manifestation of ‘Finnegan’s Ball’ itself come to life, where sapper, gunner and infanteer swung round with the local youth and beauty to the strains of a caley band. Many of the lads walked home anything up to twenty miles after the show rather than miss the fun, which is more surprising when one considers the tempo of the dances. The whole affair was a breathtaking gallop from start to finish, with stout and porter thrown in to help things along. It is no wonder that in addition to a few broken hearts, some heads suffered the same fate.

  During the intervals in training and when we were not employed on ‘works’, that mystic word which covers anything from erecting temporary huts to permanent construction of one type or another, we were collecting engineer intelligence on roads, rivers, bridges, fords and, in general, the local resources of the six counties. This took us through the countryside from the hills in the west to the seaboard on the east, and brought us in contact with the country folk in the countless villages and hamlets. What a fund of amusement they were to us. No doubt they thought the same of us, particularly when the troops were detailed to assist in the unwelcome task of flax gathering.

  If you open the Old Testament and turn to Nehemiah, look up the fourth chapter and run your finger down to the seventeenth verse you will read the following:

  They which builded on the wall, and they that have burdens, with those that laded, every one with one of his hands wrought in the work, and with the other hand held a weapon. For the builders, every one had his sword girded by his side, and so builded.

  Now it seems fairly obvious that Nehemiah must have been the first sapper. Not for one minute do I suppose they called him Director of Works, or Engineer in Chief in those days, but the simple fact stands out a mile. He had the idea which has been handed down through the centuries to the present day sapper; he was probably the first military bricklayer. The simplicity and clarity of the specifications shame the modern Army Council instruction by its directness. Taking Nehemiah’s precept as a guide, it is easy to see why we must build as well as fight. We have erected literally thousands of tin igloos styled Nissen huts, at the same time defacing many a decent property that remains in our fair land. Who has not entered a stately park, surrounded by a baronial wall, with its shady trees and elegant sweeps of parkland about some ancient home only to emerge some weeks later having transformed the whole place into serried rows of those tin-tack tabernacles! But there, the modern army must live somewhere. As if not content with our handiwork, we have driven roads hither and thither, put up incinerators, cookhouses and all the other eyesores scheduled as camp structures.

  One can almost hear the modern Nehemiah saying as he enters a certain high building in Whitehall, ‘What about these sappers – are they holding their weapons at the correct angle?’ Calling his staff together to
write instructions, training manuals, pocket books weighing many pounds and textbooks, all to teach the sapper how to hold and use that weapon in his other hand. (I wonder if the great Creator really feels that he gave the sapper one hand too few?) This elaboration of Nehemiah’s simple specification is forwarded ‘for information and necessary action’ through the appropriate channels, as it goes out in ever widening circles. Probably the medical branch is consulted for confirmation that sappers still have one spare hand; in any case the result is the same. Our sapper holds, wields, carries or has strapped to him various weapons and all the other warlike appliances of any infantry soldier. An interesting sidelight is that the instructions, training manuals, pocket books and pamphlets are all at great pains to point out that the building, lading, modern slaves of Nehemiah are COMBATANT TROOPS. Personally we could never think the individual sapper was in any danger of overlooking this aspect of his calling, judging from his appearance when dressed in battle order and close to the enemy.

  When the troops have exhausted their patience roofing huts with tin sheets which harass and cut the hands, they break into brickwork and carry on the good work of ‘those who laded’ as the first Director of Works specified. At times when all the troops on hand are housed, they turn their attention to the RAF and lash out in concrete by the way of an extra aerodrome or two. Here the sappers really get down to it, with the aid of every modern mechanical appliance, literally plastering the fair face of the countryside with miles and miles of concrete runways. As if to prevent ideas becoming stereotyped the Herrenvolk come over and mutilate some town and indeed biblical prophecy brings the Corps into its own. They follow up those good Christian souls who minister to the suffering and once they have got the remains of the town in their hands, then you see some lading. They pull down, blow up and drag things away until an unappreciative borough surveyor thinks that the sappers have done more harm than the Germans.