“C’MON, MOVE YOURSELVES! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! D’YOU THINK WE’VE BROUGHT YOU TO THE SEASIDE SO YOU COULD MUCK AROUND IN THE SAND?”
I found the going hard, and for those who were worse affected by seasickness it must have been torture. I reached the sea wall panting and estimated that I had run approximately 350 yards. To my left a Crab had finished flailing its lane and was moving to one side as a bridge AVRE approached. The wall itself was covered in barbed wire and would have been impossible to climb without the ladders. Gasping, the Platoon arrived. In their wake I could see two or three of them sprawled on the sand, and two more helping a third towards the wall.
I ran up the first of the ladders to be placed and jumped over the promenade railings. The whole area beyond was pitted with craters from the naval bombardment.
“Head for the anti-tank ditch!” I shouted as more of the men joined me. “Use the craters for cover and move in short rushes.”
We were still too far to the right of the three houses, from which the flashes of machine-gun fire had commenced as soon as we appeared. I was shocked to see Corporal Gray flung backwards by a burst just as he reached the top of the ladder. Then we were alternately running and crawling towards the anti-tank ditch, into which we dropped to recover our breath.
“The Major’s calling, sir,” said Private Helsby-Frodsham, my signaller.
I took the headset from him but all I could hear was mush, broken now and then by an unintelligible word in Duncan Flint’s voice.
“Unreadable, out,” I said, returning the headset. “What’s wrong with this thing? It was working perfectly when we left the ship.”
“I got drenched a couple of times in the landing craft,” replied Helsby-Frodsham. “There must be salt water in the connectors – I’ll dry them off as soon as I get a chance, sir.”
Things began to happen very quickly indeed. An AVRE carrying a huge fascine clambered over the ramp placed by the bridgelayer and began crawling towards the anti-tank ditch. From low down in the right-hand house there was a flash and a blast cloud of dust.
“Anti-tank gun in the cellar!” shouted Sergeant Warriner. “Look – you can just see the concrete reinforcement above the window!”
The German gunner could never have seen anything like the AVRE and its fascine in his life, and his shot passed harmlessly through the fascine itself. Getting the fascine into the ditch was critical if the DDs were to support our attack on the houses, so I ran along the ditch, telling each section to concentrate its fire on the anti-tank gun’s fire slit. The AVRE continued to waddle forward, halted with a jerk, and the fascine tumbled neatly into the ditch. Our fire must have been having some effect as the anti-tank gun’s second shot was off-line and simply grazed the side of the AVRE’s turret. The AVRE crossed its fascine, trundled forward for a few yards, then fired its mortar. I could see the bomb for most of its flight and realized why it was called a flying dustbin. The tremendous explosion caused the front of the building to collapse like a house of cards. I saw two machine-gunners who had been firing from an upper window go down with it to be buried under a mound of brickwork and beams that also covered the anti-tank gun’s fire slit. My men cheered lustily.
Two DDs were now over the wall. They opened fire on the two remaining houses, eliminating one source of enemy fire after another. I now had to do some quick thinking. The three houses were to have been taken by the company in a frontal attack, but my own platoon’s objective had already been eliminated by the AVRE and anyway we were too far to the right to take part in the attack on the other two houses. I decided to swing round the now burning ruin and cut off any of the defenders who tried to escape.
“Right flanking – come on!” I shouted. As we sprinted across the open space I was conscious of the two DDs crossing the fascine and the rest of the company rising from the ditch, bayonets fixed. Once past the houses we swung to the left and, sure enough, about twenty men in field-grey uniforms and coal-scuttle helmets were running from the rear doors.
“Put a long burst into the ground ahead of them!” I shouted to the nearest Bren gunner.
This, together with the levelled bayonets of the Platoon charging towards them, convinced the enemy that they should drop their weapons. They were a sorry lot, most of whom were covered in brick and plaster dust. Many had obviously been shaken by their ordeal, including their officer, who seemed anxious to retain some of his dignity.
“We will counter-attack and throw you back into the sea!” he shouted hysterically in English.
“Shut yer gob or I’ll throw you into the sea, mate!” said Haggerty, stripping the man of his Luger pistol and handing it to me.
The rest of the company appeared, grinning. The prisoners were pushed into line and marched off to the beach by two slightly wounded men.
“What’s the matter with your radio?” snapped Duncan Flint.
I told him.
“Then how come you carried out my order?” he asked belligerently.
“I didn’t receive your order,” I replied, irritated. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”
“It was. You used your head. Well done. Now let’s get on – we’re falling behind our timetable.”
We began to move inland, accompanied by the two DDs. It did not take us long to reach the hamlet of St Grégoire Le Petit, which had been badly knocked about by the bombardment. We approached it warily, expecting more fighting, but instead the civilian population came out, waving French flags and cheering.
“Ah, les braves Anglais!” they shouted. They told us that the Germans had gone, offered us wine and cheese and hugged us. With difficulty we extricated ourselves and continued towards our next objective, the château of Flambard-Chambourcy, passing the wreckage of a German artillery battery, strewn with bodies, on the way. In my ignorance of war I actually began to enjoy myself for a while.
This ended abruptly as we topped a rise. Some 500 yards down the slope lay the château, a large country house flanked by lower wings on either side, with a stable block at the rear. Nearby were the estate’s home farm and the cottages of the workers. Extensive woodland stretched across the hillside beyond. No sooner had we appeared than the entire position seemed to sparkle with machine-gun fire coming from every window and many places in the grounds. It was apparent that any attempt to advance further would be suicidal. Instinctively, the Platoon ran for the cover provided by a hedge and ditch just ahead of us. Looking round, I saw that three of my men were down. Almost immediately, mortar rounds began to explode around us. The two DDs arrived, halted and opened fire on the building. After a few rounds one gave a convulsive lurch as it was penetrated by return fire. It began to belch smoke. Four of the five-man crew tumbled out, not a second too soon, for as the last of them hit the ground the tank burst into flames that roared from the hatches like a blowtorch. The second tank reversed back from the crest until only its turret was showing and continued to engage the enemy, changing its position from time to time.
Using my binoculars, I began to examine the German position in detail through the lower branches of the hedge. As well as machine guns and mortars, the enemy had three tracked vehicles in the position. They each seemed to be armed with a powerful anti-tank gun protected by armour plate. I remembered what they were from our recognition lectures on enemy equipment.
“B Company are pinned down on the left, too,” said Duncan Flint’s voice at my elbow. “Spot anything?”
“Yes,” I replied. “The Jerries haven’t dug in, so all this must be a bit of a surprise to them. They seem to have three tracked tank-destroyers – one by the summer house, one in the entrance to the stable yard and one by the manure heap in the farmyard.”
“Too tough a nut for us to crack on our own,” he said after surveying the position himself. His tone was almost friendly. “Just the sort of place Jerry would use to rally troops retreating from the coast as well as feeding in reinforcements from elsewhere, don’t you think? A kind of ‘hold at all costs’ job while he pulls h
imself together.”
Colonel Armitage arrived. After taking in the situation he told us that C and D Companies were coming up and that he would push them round both flanks to take the château from behind. During a pause in the firing I went back to our casualties. One was dead, but with the assistance of Baker, who had been promoted to Lance Corporal shortly before we left East Anglia, I managed to bring in the other two. One’s arm was shattered and the other had serious chest wounds. While we bandaged them with field dressings, the other two companies started their attack. They made progress for a while, but were then halted by determined resistance in the woods.
At this point the brigade commander arrived, bringing with him a lieutenant commander who wore his naval insignia on a khaki battledress and was accompanied by a naval signaller. I began to feel that my part of the front was becoming seriously congested with senior officers.
“What the devil is going on here?” snapped the Brigadier testily to Colonel Armitage. “You should be two miles further on! The divisional commander wants results and he wants them now!”
While the Colonel explained the position, I couldn’t help chuckling to myself. Everyone in the Army, it seemed, had someone hounding him. I hounded the Platoon, Duncan Flint hounded me, the Colonel hounded Duncan Flint, the Brigadier hounded the Colonel, the Divisional Commander hounded the Brigadier, and so on, right up the chain of command.
“This is one for you, I think, Toby,” said the Brigadier, turning to the Naval Gunfire Support Officer (NGSO).
“Just my sort of party,” replied the Lieutenant Commander. He settled himself down beside me with his signaller and transmitted the map co-ordinates of the château and the farm.
“We’ve got HMS Norseman,” he explained. “She’s a cruiser with eight 8-inch guns. Ever seen an 8-inch shell explode?”
I shook my head.
“Then you’re in for a treat. First one should be arriving in about 35 seconds.” He obviously took enormous pleasure in his work.
There was a sound like ripping cloth as the shell passed overhead. Then a huge fountain of earth, flame and smoke erupted some distance in front of the château.
“Short. Add four hundred,” commented the NGSO into his microphone.
The next round exploded beyond the château.
“Down two hundred.”
“How many salvos will you give us?” asked Duncan Flint. I could see that a plan was forming in his mind. “And how long between salvos?”
“Five should do the job,” replied the Lieutenant Commander. “Assuming that they’re nippy aboard, say between 30 and 45 seconds between each. Why?”
“I think that after the second salvo the Jerries will be so stunned and blinded by smoke and dust that we should attack. If you give us six salvos we should be in among ’em before they can recover their wits – those of them that are still alive, that is.”
“Good idea, Duncan,” said Colonel Armitage. “I’ll warn B Company. They can take the farm while you deal with the château.”
“Six rounds gunfire, commence, commence, commence!” said the NGSO into his microphone.
The first salvo passed overhead with a gigantic tearing sound. Huge explosions erupted around and among the enemy-held buildings. I saw walls tumbling and roofs collapse. Before the dust had settled the second salvo landed. The whole area was obscured by smoke and flying debris.
“Come, my lucky lads!” shouted Duncan Flint. The company set off at a brisk walk down the long slope. To my relief, there was little or no response from the enemy. I began to count the salvos mentally. After the third the buildings vanished beneath the spreading pall of smoke and dust. As the fourth came in something began to burn, adding thick smoke to the fog. By the time the fifth landed we had quickened our pace to a trot and were approaching the bottom of the slope. The sixth erupted as we reached the balustrade fronting the château’s ornamental gardens.
“Charge!” I yelled, vaulting the balustrade. Yelling like fiends we tore across the garden. Great holes had appeared in the walls and roof of the house, through which broken beams and sagging floors were visible.
Somewhere, a fire was raging. Field-grey bodies lay half-buried in rubble. With shouts of Kamerad! (Friend!) more Germans staggered out of the wreckage, their hands up. They seemed completely dazed, with all the fight knocked out of them.
My responsibility was to clear the wing of the house on the right. We went through the usual house-clearing drill, but met no resistance. The tank destroyer in the entrance to the stable yard had taken a direct hit and been reduced to a tangle of torn metal. As I entered the yard itself, however, a burst of submachine gun bullets cracked into the brickwork near my head. I caught sight of a figure in an upper window of the stable block. It dodged out of sight. Mindful of what the AVRE had done to the defenders of the house near the beach, I decided to bring the PIAT gunner forward. While several men kept the window under fire, I directed him to aim his bomb into the wall beside it. The whole room seemed to explode. We charged across the yard and into the stable. One of the Bren gunners fired bursts through the ceiling into the rooms. There was a scream and the sound of a body falling. Blood began to seep through the plaster above. I heard boots running towards the head of the stairs.
“Don’t shoot – we surrender!” shouted a voice in German.
“Hold your fire!” I said.
Three frightened German soldiers clattered down the stairs, their hands raised. They were almost incoherent with fear, and I gathered that their sergeant had refused to let them surrender earlier. Now he was dead, and so was one of their comrades. They also told me that the chateau had been used as a regimental headquarters. I ordered them to be frisked and put with the other prisoners. Of the two remaining tank destroyers, one had been knocked out in the farmyard by the DD and the other, having made a run for it, had overturned into a ditch bordering the narrow lane behind the château. There was no sign of the crew.
I may not have liked Duncan Flint, but I had to admit to myself that he was a first-class soldier, as the company had sustained virtually no casualties in the attack. Colonel Armitage said that the resistance experienced by C and D Companies in the woods had melted away as soon as the château fell and that we were to follow on as soon as we had reorganized.
Duncan held a quick orders group. I had not seen John since the previous evening and felt a chill of apprehension when Sergeant Brumby, his platoon sergeant, turned up in his stead.
“Where’s Mr Crane?” I asked.
“I should think he’s probably on his way back to England by now, sir,” replied the Sergeant. “Stepped on a stray mine while we were running for the sea wall. He’ll lose one leg for sure, and the other’s a mess.”
I couldn’t look at Tony Walters, who had always joked that because John commanded One Platoon he would be our first casualty.
“I wish I’d kept my mouth shut,” I heard him mutter.
“I dare say you do,” snapped Duncan Flint harshly. “In future, just keep your idiotic forecasts to yourself and remember that what happened to John was rotten bad luck, nothing more. Now let’s get on.”
We followed up C and D Companies and dug in around the crossroads that had been their final objective. As we did so, the brigade’s reserve battalion, accompanied by Sherman tanks, passed through us to continue the advance.
“Where’ve you been?” shouted Haggerty. “Did you get lost?”
“What are you doing, sitting round here?” they yelled back. “You should be halfway to Paris by now!”
Shortly after, the sounds of battle told us that they were in action. I had lost all track of time and was astonished when my watch revealed that it was still early afternoon. A lifetime seemed to have passed since we left the Countess of Antrim and England seemed another world away. Our anti-tank guns and mortars arrived. Peter Gresley, the antitank platoon commander, told me that the landing beaches looked like a disturbed anthill with men and vehicles travelling in every direction, yet everyo
ne seemed to know what they were doing and where they were going. At about 16:00 the concentrated booming of tank guns could be heard some miles to our left. It rose to a crescendo, fell, rose again and finally ceased. Later, we were told that the enemy’s 21st Panzer Division had twice attempted to drive through the beach-head to the sea, but had been beaten off. Suddenly aware that I was ravenously hungry, I gulped down my can of self-heating soup, having forgotten about it until that moment.
Shortly before dusk, the first of the battalion’s jeeps and transport vehicles appeared, enabling us to replenish our ammunition. We stood to in our slit trenches for an hour, but nothing happened. Sergeant Warriner had already given me our casualty return – three dead, including Corporal Gray, four seriously wounded who required evacuation, and five slightly wounded: a total of twelve.
“We’ve got away with it very lightly indeed, believe me, sir,” he concluded.
“Yes,” I replied, unable to grasp what he had said for a moment. “That’s a third less than they gave us during the Gower Peninsula exercise.”
Then the full impact struck me. That had been a statistic and this was reality. The slightly wounded would probably come back to us, but the dead had gone for ever and it was unlikely that we would see the seriously wounded again.
I took a turn on guard, then settled into my slit trench. I had seen history made, but just then it seemed less important than the hour or two’s sleep that lay ahead.
7 June – 16 August 1944
I cannot remember the details of everything that happened in the weeks after D-Day, for the simple reason that they are all jumbled together in my memory and, for most of the time, I was too exhausted to absorb the sequence in which events took place. I remember hearing that the Americans had sustained heavy casualties getting ashore on one of their landing beaches, and that all our beachheads were now linked together so that we had a continuous front facing the enemy.
D-Day Page 7