I learned, too, yet more secrets about D-Day. After the Dieppe raid, the planners had recognized that we would not be able to capture a French port in working order when we invaded, so under the codename Mulberry we had brought two prefabricated harbours with us. These consisted of large, hollow iron and concrete structures together with lines of old ships that were towed into position and sunk to form breakwaters and protect the harbours from gales. Each harbour contained three floating piers, connected to the shore by floating roadways. Every tug in the country, and more from the United States, had been required to tow these across the Channel. Then there was PLUTO, standing for Pipe Line Under The Ocean, which was an undersea pipeline laid from England to Normandy, that kept us supplied with fuel.
By landing in Normandy, we had certainly taken the Germans by surprise, but there was a price to pay. To the south-west of Caen was a large area of countryside that the French call bocage. It consisted of small fields, narrow lanes and high hedgerows growing from earth banks. It was ideal defensive country that enabled the enemy to conceal himself until the last possible moment before opening fire. It also stopped our tanks from giving us their full support, for as soon as they attempted to climb a bank an anti-tank gun would put a round through its exposed belly plates. It therefore became an infantryman’s war in which we fought from hedgerow to hedgerow, just as my father’s generation had fought from trench to trench in the Great War. We suffered serious casualties, but the enemy, lacking air power and exposed to our terrible naval gunfire and artillery, suffered far more. We now know that Hitler had insanely forbidden them to yield a single yard of ground and we grew to respect their discipline and fortitude. For our part, deadly tiredness was our constant companion. There was little sleep to be had in the short summer nights, for we stood to for an hour after dusk and again for an hour before dawn, and in between we would take our turn on guard.
Even when we were resting out of the line we were still within range of the enemy’s heavy guns, which would sometimes send over a shell or two to remind us that they were still there. Much of my time was spent writing letters to my parents or to the next of kin of men who had been killed. The fine sunlit days were mocked by the devastation caused to this pretty countryside. Farms stood ruined and the bloated bodies of cattle caught in the crossfire lay stinking horribly in the fields. Sometimes, Helsby-Frodsham would go foraging in his amiable way and return with cheese and bottles of wine that would be shared among the Platoon.
It was in the bocage that Three Platoon won its first decoration. One day at the end of June 1944 we were advancing up a slope towards a hedge when two machine guns opened up, one from each corner of the field, so that their fire overlapped. We dived for cover at once. The slope was concave and, to my relief, the machine guns’ fire could not do us much harm as long as we remained pressed to the ground.
Haggerty was lying some yards in front of me, to the right. I saw his pack twitch several times as it was hit. A stain began to spread over his battledress and I feared the worst. Then, he was up and running at the nearest machine gun, a look of berserk fury on his face. His feet seemed to be swept from under him by an unseen hand. As the German shifted his fire to another target, he scrambled up and sprinted the last 20 yards to the gun, which was dug into the earth bank below the hedge. Throwing himself to one side of the fire slit, he posted a grenade through it. Its explosion was followed by screams and the gun fell silent. Meanwhile, the Platoon’s Brens, as well as those of Two Platoon, had suppressed the fire of the second machine gun.
“Come on!” I shouted. “Don’t leave it all to Haggerty!”
As we charged up the slope I saw Haggerty toss a second grenade into a rifle pit, then fire from the hip into another with his rifle. Caught between him and the advancing company, the surviving Germans emerged with their hands raised in surrender.
“Are you hit?” I said to the panting Haggerty as we began turning round the captured trenches.
“They shot the piggin’ heel off me boot, sir,” he replied, examining his damaged footwear. There was a strong smell of whisky about him. Duncan Flint arrived, having witnessed the whole incident.
“More to the point, are you drunk?” he asked.
“No, sir!” replied Haggerty indignantly. “Just take a look at this.”
He opened his pack to reveal the shattered remains of two whisky bottles. Printed on the soggy labels were the words GOVERNMENT STORES – NOT FOR SALE.
“And how did you come by these?” asked Duncan Flint suspiciously.
“Did a bloke in the Service Corps a favour once, sir,” said Haggerty, grinning. “He dropped them by one night when we were out of the line. I was going to share them with the lads. That’s why I got mad when Jerry smashed ’em.”
We all thought that the truth might be a little different, but despite this he received the Military Medal on Duncan Flint’s recommendation.
Once we had fought our way out of the bocage, progress should have been easier, but by then the enemy had rushed reinforcements to the front and was resisting fiercely. On one occasion we were holding one side of a hill and the Germans the other. They did everything in their power to stop us taking the crest, which overlooked their positions for miles around. Once they tried a night attack in an attempt to dislodge us. It was led by Tiger tanks, followed by infantry. Our defensive artillery barrage stopped the infantry, but the Tigers came on and began wandering about the battalion’s positions. By then, we all knew that tanks were all but blind in the dark and that without their infantry they were almost useless, so we simply lay in our narrow slit trenches, which were invisible to tank commanders within their closed hatches. Allen, oblivious to what was going on, had just brewed tea. A Tiger halted beside our trench, its weight causing the wall to crumble. To his intense annoyance, some of the soil dropped into Allen’s steaming mug.
“Really! Some people have no manners at all!” he said. “I’m going to give that man a piece of my mind!”
Before I could stop him, he had clambered out of the trench and aboard the Tiger. Obviously, in the dark he had mistaken the tank for one of the Churchills with which we had worked so often. At that moment the enemy commander opened his hatch in an attempt to get his bearings.
“You really should have more consideration for other people!” shouted Allen before he realized who he was addressing. The two stared incredulously at each other for a second, then Allen flung the scalding contents of his mug into the German’s face. With a yell of rage and pain the commander drew his pistol and began blazing wildly into the darkness, but by then Allen had leapt back into the trench. The Tiger moved off with a lurch, only to fall victim to a PIAT bomb fired into its thin stern plate before it had covered 100 yards.
“He was a German, sir – a German!” said Allen in a shocked voice when he had recovered from the surprise. I’m afraid I was too helpless with laughter to offer him any sympathy, as was the rest of the company when the news of his exploit spread. Private Allen was to become a legend as the only man in the regiment to have attacked a Tiger with a mug of hot tea.
There was, in fact, very little to laugh at on that hill. On the morning after the Tiger attack we had just finished the dawn stand-to when I glanced in the direction of Two Platoon. I saw Tony stand up and stretch in his slit trench. He gave me a cheery wave. Then came the rising scream of an incoming heavy calibre shell. The explosion obliterated the trench and no identifiable trace of Tony was ever found. I was deeply saddened and very shaken by the incident, for Tony had been a good friend and now I was the last of A Company’s original platoon commanders. I was left with a horrible feeling that it would be my turn next.
“Doesn’t work like that, sir,” said Sergeant Warriner in his flat matter-of-fact voice. “His number was on that one – yours wasn’t, so best leave it at that.”
Sometimes Warriner’s casual acceptance of death annoyed me, but he was right, of course. Death was our constant companion and our concern had always to be for th
e living.
We had a short rest period after we were relieved on the hill, then returned to another part of the line. At various times throughout the campaign we received replacements for our casualties, including two officers almost straight from OCTU. Neither of them lasted more than a few days. One took a sniper’s bullet through the head when he stood up to read his map. The other lost his way while leading a night patrol and was listed as missing. The trouble with the replacements generally was that they were neither as thoroughly trained nor as experienced as we were. They were lonely, lost souls and although I did my best to make them feel at home they were not accepted by the rest of the Platoon until they had proved themselves in a couple of actions. One of them, a man called Phillips, was indirectly responsible for the most unlikely of recipients winning our second decoration.
When we returned to the line we took part in a brigade attack. The battalion on our right was unable to capture some high ground, and we were therefore unable to make progress because we were overlooked and under fire from two directions. Duncan Flint ordered us back to our trenches, covered by a smokescreen laid by our 2-inch mortars. Despite this, the enemy continued to rake the area with mortar and machine-gun fire. As the smoke cleared I looked back and saw three members of the Platoon lying in no man’s land. Two were not moving but the third, Phillips, was writhing in agony from the wounds he had received. For the moment I estimated that it would be suicidal for anyone to go out and get him. I shouted that he should remain still to avoid losing more blood and that we would bring him in when things quietened down a little. Either he did not hear me or was too frightened to understand, for he continued to try and get up, only to collapse in a heap.
Suddenly a figure ran from our lines towards him. It was Grover. Machine-gun bullets were kicking up the earth round him and mortar rounds were exploding constantly nearby. I could not see how he could possibly survive, but he did. He reached Phillips, heaved him on to his shoulders in a fireman’s lift, and ran back.
“What made you do it?” I asked him later.
“’E was like me – no mates,” he said, a look of defiance in his eyes. “Could ’ave been me out there and you lot couldn’t ’ave cared less. Just thought I’d show the piggin’ lot of you.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” I replied.
After that, however, the Platoon’s attitude towards Grover changed. Ever since D-Day he had been an unremarkable soldier and I suspected that he had hung back during one or two attacks. Now, however, the men began to regard him with something like respect and shared their jokes and other things with him. As a result of this, he seemed to mellow and began to pull his full weight.
“If your parents had been alive they would have been proud of you,” I told him on the day we learned that he had been awarded the Military Medal. “One day you’ll have a family of your own. They will be proud, too, because it isn’t every kid whose dad has won the MM.”
“Yeah, mebbe,” he said thoughtfully, as though he had just seen a future for himself. “That would be a turn up.”
He looked at me suspiciously, as though I had the power to spoil it for him.
“I said a few things to you before we left England, sir,” he said at length. “I was wrong, an’ I admit it. What worries me is that you always cracked down on me before, but you didn’t for that. Why?”
“I don’t remember any such discussion, Grover,” I lied. “Whatever it is you’re thinking of is best forgotten.”
He gave a huge sigh of relief. What passed for a smile crossed his harsh features.
“Thanks, Mr Pope, sir,” he said. “I’ll not let you down.”
A week or two later we had advanced another mile or so and our front lay along a narrow stream in a shallow valley. I was told to report to Duncan Flint, who had set up his company headquarters in the cellar of a cottage.
“Take a look at this,” he said, handing me an air-reconnaissance photograph. It showed the long gentle upward slope on the enemy side of the stream, leading to the woodland at the crest, which we knew was the enemy’s front line. At first I couldn’t see anything remarkable.
“As you know,” he continued, “there are several hummocks about 500 yards up the slope. Look closely at this one, under the tree. There are signs of digging. Could mean Jerry has a standing patrol or an observation post there. The brigadier wants us to take a look tonight – better still, go and get a prisoner! I suggest you move out at 23:45. Right, Andy, off you go – and don’t mess up!”
I spent the rest of the day examining the route I would take. I decided to leave Sergeant Warriner in command of the Platoon and take Corporal Baker, Haggerty, Grover and six other men whom I knew I could rely on. During the evening stand-to we blackened our hands and faces, changed from boots into gym shoes and pulled on woollen cap comforters. In addition to our usual weapons we carried trench knives and coshes made from soil-filled socks that would stun rather than kill.
At 23:45 we moved quietly across the shallow stream. Patrolling can be a terrifying experience, because you are literally moving through darkness into unknown territory where the slightest mistake can cost lives. Clouds were passing across the moon and I had decided to take advantage of the shadow cast by a hedge that climbed the slope. Both sides were sending up flares as a matter of routine. When these burst above us we stood stock still, for even in semi-darkness any movement draws the eye. Consequently, our progress was very slow. I led the way, gently swinging a thin stick ahead of me. It touched something. Bending down, I felt a wire stretching in both directions. It was either connected to a flare or a grenade that would have exploded when someone tripped over it. I suppose that the route I had chosen was an obvious one and the enemy was bound to have placed such booby traps along it. By following the wire we located the stake to which it was attached, enabling us to disarm the device. We encountered three more trip wires before we were level with the suspected enemy post. We then crawled across the slope for about 100 yards to avoid being seen by those on the crest. I found myself on the edge of a trench that became deeper and finally entered the back of the hummock.
Just then, Corporal Baker touched me lightly on the shoulder and pointed towards the crest. The trick when trying to identify something in the dark is to look just above it. I saw a figure carrying something walking down the slope towards us. I signalled the patrol to spread out, which they did silently. Then I positioned myself near the start of the trench and stood up.
“Halt! Wer da? (Halt! Who’s there?),” I hissed, in my best German.
“Bauer – mit abendessen (Bauer – with supper),” came the answer.
“Ach das, gut! Geben Sie es mir. (Ah, that’s good! Give it to me.)”
Obediently, Bauer handed me a box. In an instant he was surrounded and Grover had a knife across his throat. His eyes rolled in terror.
“Keep him quiet,” I whispered, then turned to Baker. “Come on, let’s take a look inside.”
Drawing the Luger pistol I had captured on D-Day, I led the way down the trench. A canvas door covered the entrance to the dugout. Pulling it gently away, I peered inside. The roof and walls had been reinforced with timber beams. An officer was looking through a pair of huge periscopic binoculars that disappeared into the roots of the tree above. Nearby, a second man sat in front of a gently humming radio, the aerial of which also disappeared through the roof, presumably into the branches of the tree. On a table was a field telephone, an artillery plotting board and a number of papers. It was all very ingenious.
“Guten abend, Herren! (Good evening, gentlemen!),” I said, pushing my way inside. “Hände hoch – schnell! (Hands up – quickly!)”
The pair of them spun round. The officer began reaching for his pistol, saw my Luger and Baker’s Sten, thought better of it and raised his hands as he had been told. I could see from their badges that they belonged to the Waffen SS, who were Nazi troops fanatically loyal to Hitler. The ordinary German soldier fought by the rules (and we respected th
em for it), but these people did not. They would play dead in their foxholes until we had passed, then shoot us in the back, or pretend to surrender then open fire again, or shoot our stretcher bearers when they were attending to their wounded as well as our own. We showed them no mercy on these occasions and they did not seem to want it.
“Take half the patrol and escort the prisoners back to our lines,” I said to Corporal Baker. “And send Haggerty in, will you? He can help me carry some of this stuff back.”
“Yessir,” replied Baker. “Just a thought, but if they turn funny and we have to shoot them, that could mean trouble for you back here.”
“Yes, you’re quite right, given their reputation,” I said. “Tell you what, cut their braces and trouser buttons, then they’ll have to keep their hands in their pockets. They’ll not be much of a threat with their pants dangling round their ankles!”
Grinning, Baker did as I suggested. The officer, whose SS rank I took to be the equivalent of major, was about to make a vigorous protest but quietened down when Haggerty put the point of a trench knife under his chin. As the prisoners and their escort faded into the darkness, I took a look through the binoculars. Even in faint moonlight I could see every detail of our positions. For the past few days any movement on our side of the lines had immediately attracted accurate shellfire; now I knew why. The binoculars and their stand were too big to move, so I contented myself with smashing the lenses. While I did so, Haggerty opened the box that Bauer had delivered.
“Scoff, sir,” he said. “It’s not bad. Try some.”
The box contained a flask of coffee, coarse grey bread, sausage and two boiled eggs. The coffee, which I believe was made from acorns, was dreadful, as was the bread, but the sausage and eggs weren’t too bad. As I collected together the enemy’s range tables, code books and list of radio frequencies, Haggerty did a good job of putting the radio out of action. Suddenly the field telephone gave a muted buzz. I wondered whether I should answer it and decided that it would seem strange if I didn’t. I guessed that in such close proximity to our lines its users spoke in a whisper, which made it less likely that I would be identified. I picked up the receiver.
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