A Doctor at War

by Matthew Hall

  Herford describes his state of mind as he set off as a ship’s medical officer as ‘guileless and optimistic’. His thoughts were still far removed from the grizzly realities of war, and far from being consumed with nervous anticipation at what he might find in the coming weeks, he admired the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean and soaked up the warm sun on the deck of the sturdy cargo vessel, The Settler, which carried them across to Piraeus. Although the British population and armed forces were still in good spirits, even despite the massive air raid casualties which had already claimed tens of thousands of victims in the major cities, the early months of 1941 were arguably the nadir of the war for the Allied forces. While sailing to Greece, Herford had a conversation with a young officer of the 4th Hussars who asked him, ‘Do you know the difference between the expedition to France and ours to Greece?’

  ‘No,’ Herford replied.

  ‘The difference is,’ the young officer explained with a grim smile, ‘that no one expected Dunkirk and so the evacuation was successful, whereas everybody expects an evacuation of Greece, so it will inevitably be a disaster.’

  Herford recalls that this brief exchange opened his eyes for the first time to the possibility of becoming embroiled in the full ugliness of war. Thus far thoughts of his own mortality and the prospect of failure had barely impinged on his unfailingly sanguine outlook. Now it occurred to him that perhaps he had made a mistake in bringing along his tennis racquet and gear. Unfortunately the young officer’s comment was alarmingly astute. The Allied forces would quickly be driven from Greece with heavy losses. Historians have unanimously concluded that at the very least, the Greek expedition was an overly optimistic enterprise which served only to waste valuable military resources.

  With his heart now beating a little faster in his chest, on the dawn of 11 March Herford pondered portentous events as the convoy in which The Settler was travelling drew into Piraeus harbour. There was a thick mist hanging over the water and a bite in the crisp early morning air. As the troops disembarked there was a tangible sense of foreboding. There was something disconcertingly amateurish about the whole enterprise. Greece was counting the minutes until the fighting began. It was a country under a deadly threat. Herford’s initial destination was the 25th General Hospital in Kifisia, about 10 miles from Athens. The Greek countryside through which they passed was verdant with spring.

  In stark contrast to the Egyptian desert, the Grecian earth was deep red and the hills and fields were bursting with green shoots, canopied vines, fruit trees and spring corn. The outward appearance was of a quiet and peaceful country populated by relatively poor but contented fanners. The hospital at Kifisia was situated near the Pendelikon quarries, from whence the stone was hewn which was used to build the Parthenon. Behind the town were mountains, the highest of which was Mount Pendelikon, which soon after their arrival was adorned with a mantle of snow. Not overburdened with work, as there were not yet any casualties, Herford and two fellow officers, Major Harvey and Major Pugh, set out to climb the mountain behind the hospital.

  Harvey had been in Greece some time, and had the distinction of having cared for the former Greek President, Metaxis, in his final illness. Major Pugh was an enthusiastic skier and mountaineer, and was interested in the physiological effects of strenuous exercise at high altitudes. The mountain slopes were far colder than the mild valleys below, but the snow was melting in the waxing winter sun and yielding to the shoots of tiny irises, snowdrops, crocuses and other wild flowers which carpeted the hills in swathes of stunning colour throughout the spring. At the summit the air was brilliantly clear; on one side of the mountain was a panoramic view over the Gulf of Boetia to Marathon, on the other the bay of Salamis. The hills either side were shielded from the late afternoon sun and looked bleak and cold, black and rocky, streaked with snow and patches of scrub. The upland country was wild and gloriously untamed. Herford was more at home looking out at the world from a windy mountain top than anywhere else. He opened every pore and tried to soak it in.

  Several days later the unit was moved by train to a camp 10 miles west of Larissa, a substantial town situated 150 miles north-east of Athens, and some 30 miles from the Aegean shore at which roads intersect from all the major towns of the north-east, making it a position of major importance. There was still little sense of urgency, and the fine spring weather succeeded in easing away the anxieties which had built up in the days immediately after landing. The unit erected camp in a valley and awaited the arrival of the bulk of their equipment. In this unhurried climate they could again drink in the beauty of their pastoral surroundings. In the distance to the north was the impressive snow-covered peak of Mount Olympus. In the foreground were rolling downs, covered in shooting corn. Large flocks of sheep grazed quietly under the watchful eyes of weather-grizzled shepherds with huge and fearsome dogs. The first week spent here was light-hearted and peaceful – a far cry from the events which were to follow.

  Herford learned a valuable lesson in camp-craft, as applicable to the boy scout as to the battle-hardened soldier, when, a few days after striking camp, the heavens opened and a mighty storm shook the valley with cracks of thunder that seemed to make the ground itself shake. Mount Olympus disappeared into a swirl of racing black clouds. One could instantly comprehend how earlier civilizations came to fear the wrath of the Gods who dwelt on its summit. As the tents had been pitched on a hillside, they were in danger of simply being washed away in the deluge. Before the full force of the storm hit, Herford grabbed an entrenching tool and furiously dug a trench around his tent, finishing just as the full blast made itself felt. He dived inside for cover, not knowing whether his bed would shortly be swept down the mountain in the fast-moving sheet of water which was already pouring down the slopes. Fortunately his quick work paid off. The trench was filled almost to bursting, but the tent remained dry.

  The following day a warning was issued to expect German parachutists. A week earlier Bulgaria had given in to the Germans, as had Yugoslavia. However, the Yugoslav government and the Prince Regent, Prince Paul, were overthrown by an almost spontaneous revolution and the heir to the throne, the 17-year-old King Peter, was installed as Head of State. The new government of General Simovic withdrew from the pact with Germany and Italy, incurring Hitler’s wrath. On 26 March 600 aircraft were flown to Romanian and Bulgarian airfields in readiness for an all-out attack.

  Hitler issued his War Directive No. 25 in which he stated that ‘the ground installations of the Yugoslav Air Force and the city of Belgrade will be destroyed from the air by continual night and day attack’. In the Ionian, Adriatic and Aegean seas, the Italian and British navies had already locked horns, and in the battle of Matapan off the southernmost point of Greece, aided by interception of top-secret Italian communications, the British wiped out five out of eight Italian cruisers and three out of 13 destroyers. Two and a half thousand Italian sailors were drowned. One of the Royal Navy midshipmen in the battle was the Greek Prince Philip, who was mentioned in dispatches for his work directing searchlights against enemy aircraft.

  With the amassing of enemy aircraft to the north there was considerable fear that the Germans were about to launch an airborne invasion of Greece. Herford was therefore required to carry a loaded revolver for the first time. He doubted whether he could ever use it.

  As the prospect of conflict came closer to reality the by-word suddenly became ‘security’ and a state of alert was declared, as German paratroopers were fully expected to fill the skies at any moment. But even an army on full alert was prone to the most basic errors. A corporal from the Intelligence Corps sprung a surprise visit on Herford’s unit to test their security arrangements; they challenged him to produce his identity card, but to their triumphant glee he was unable to do so, and slid away with his tail between his legs.

  For another week life at Larissa remained carefree. Being stationed in beautiful, undulating countryside was not unlike being on a summer camp. Herford found himself distinctly unde
rworked and had time to roam the surrounding hillsides and prospect bathing sites in occasional pools filled by the clear mountain streams. There was sporadic news of the German attack on Yugoslavia only several hundred miles to the north, but it might have been coming from a different world.

  On 6 April the Yugoslav capital, Belgrade, was subjected to a sudden and violent bombing raid. In that day, 17,000 were killed, the highest number of civilian casualties on any one day so far in the war. The massacre was made all the more acute by the fact that the city was filled with thousands of visitors from the countryside who had come to celebrate Palm Sunday. At the same time, each of Yugoslavia’s airfields was savagely attacked, and all but a few of its aircraft destroyed. The country felt the full brutal force of the Blitzkrieg, and was brought almost instantly to its knees.

  On the same day a German army drove swiftly south from Bulgaria and attacked and captured the northern Greek port of Salonika. The port of Piraeus, just outside Athens, was bombed by the Luftwaffe, and several Allied merchant ships destroyed. Havoc was caused over a wide area when the Clan Fraser, a ship laden with 200 tons of explosives, suffered a direct hit – that single explosion caused the loss of ten nearby vessels.

  News of the attack on Piraeus harbour reached Herford’s unit the following day. He was immediately posted to join the staff of the No. 81 Base Sub-Area at Larissa, under the command of Colonel Alexander and his second in command, Major Traill.

  No. 81 should have had a staff of eight officers, but Herford was the only one, and he was still only six weeks into his military career. He was given the task of liaison officer with all the medical units in the area. The generic title ‘liaison’ gives little clue to the exact nature of the duties involved. Herford’s job was not to practise medicine, but to communicate with the forward ambulance units and casualty clearing stations, and with the hospitals behind lines to ensure that the forward units were adequately stocked with medicines and general supplies; and to ensure that casualties who required more than superficial treatment were removed quickly to safety.

  A map of the outlying units was provided by Colonel Baldwin of the Signals Regiment, but it gave only scanty details of their locations. The job of accurately plotting their whereabouts was made all the more difficult by the woeful inadequacy of Greek maps, which were at best sketchy, and omitted a lot of important detail. Herford could not work adequately from the map, so decided that the only sensible course was to get his bearings by visiting the ambulance units in person. The only available transport was a motorcycle, so he made the best use of it, and took his first motorcycle ride in 13 years.

  Herford spent the next five days visiting the outlying units on his motorcycle. The Greek roads were perilous, winding and badly potholed. These journeys were uncomfortable and exhausting but necessary if the lines of communication were to be kept open. In mountainous country, radios could not always be relied upon. The fighting had still not spread as far south as Larissa, but the Germans captured Thessalonica in the north, and had quickly advanced as far south as the Aliakmon line (so-called after the river Aliakmon running across north-eastern Greece), 50 miles to the north of Larissa. The Greek Army was putting up a spirited defence, but its better-equipped foe was rapidly punching holes in their thinning defences.

  On 12 April Herford rode the 40 or so miles north-east to Kalabaka near the town of Grevena in search of the 168 Light Field Ambulance Unit. He found chaos and disorganization in the face of a harsh German assault. He met a major whose unit had been some 10 miles further north in the Grevena Pass but which had come under relentless fire. Not having nearly enough men or firepower to resist, they retreated rapidly, laying mines as they went, which would do no more than impede German progress for a short while until an Australian unit came forward to reinforce them. He was dispirited and pessimistic. Even with reinforcements the enemy advance could only be delayed.

  Herford pushed the motorcycle hard on the return journey. It was clear that the invasion force pushing down from the north could not be held off for long and that casualties were going to be high. The Enfield 250 engine was doing sterling service, pulling up the steepest hills, but it was built more for speed than agility and the relatively smooth British roads. Every time the front tyre smacked into a pothole the front suspension clanged as the springs reached their full compression, causing the rider to lurch dangerously forward, and calling upon all his reserves of courage to hold on. Herford managed one near-miss after another, but on a straight stretch he hit an unexpected pothole, fought to regain control, and smashed into a second. The combined impact snapped the steering column in two and sent him and the bike skittering across the gravelly road.

  Badly shaken, but mercifully still in one piece, he was forced to push his wounded machine along the side of the road until the driver of a supply lorry kindly stopped and gave him and his bike a ride to the nearest unit. Luckily there was an efficient motor workshop attached which managed to effect a rapid repair. They carried spare parts for most service vehicles, but also had lathes and spare steel rods which were skilfully employed by craftsmen mechanics to make new components. Herford was back on his bike by early evening and returned to his unit by nightfall.

  By 14 April it was clear that they were only days from being overrun. The Germans had broken through the Aliakmon line at several key points and were channelling their forces through under the cover of heavy fire and aerial bombardment. Some of the Greek soldiers became so disgusted with the way that their defences had been organized that they fired on their own officers.

  Herford was told by Colonel Alexander that an ambulance train was being sent to Pharsala, some 40 miles to the south, to aid the speedy evacuation of the mounting casualties. The boom of heavy gunfire and distant crack of rifles could now be clearly heard. In the space of three days the peaceful, pastoral landscape only a few miles up country had become a bloody battlefield. Alexander took the view that it was no longer a question of whether they could supply sufficient blankets to the casualty clearing stations, but whether they could get the wounded away before they fell into enemy hands. There was a distinct possibility that Lieutenant Colonel Mollan, the Commanding Officer of 24 CCS and 189 Light Field Ambulance, which were both still stationed 10 miles to the west of Larissa, might have to wait and be captured with the wounded who could not be moved.

  Herford immediately rode out to see Colonel Mollan’s HQ and put him in the picture. He stoically accepted Alexander’s message and carried on tending to the wounded that were being ferried back from the front. The casualty clearing station was at full stretch; its tented operating theatre and ward were at capacity. The surgeons worked 16 hours a day removing shrapnel and bullets, cauterizing, suturing and even amputating under the most basic conditions.

  Herford paid a similar visit to 24 Casualty Clearing Station, where they were kind enough to let him borrow their Austin motor car. He travelled quickly south to Pharsala, where he had instructions to order the New Zealand field hospital to evacuate all casualties on the ambulance train. Herford left Larissa at midnight, calling at the Medical Inspection (MI) room at Headquarters to see that everything was still in order and to let them know that he would be back the following morning.

  Fighting exhaustion, Herford arrived in Pharsala at 4am. The situation was in disarray: 300 patients had been taken to the station, loaded onto the train and then unloaded, because the order came back that the train was for the evacuation of wounded Greek soldiers only. Incensed, he finally succeeded in having the goods wagons unloaded, but on returning to the hospital at 8am he found that another order had been radioed through in the interim instructing all personnel to abandon camp and withdraw to Athens at once. The staff were busy loading casualties and equipment into trucks.

  Herford heard that another ambulance train had meanwhile made it up to Larissa, so he returned to organize its loading. During the drive he wondered whether there would still be a station when he arrived. German planes were rumbling overhead and
halfway along the road he encountered several British lorries burning fiercely at the roadside, victims of German fighters who had swooped down low and caught them with strafing fire.

  As he neared Larissa he could see the puffs of black smoke being thrown into the air by exploding shells. The town was being sporadically bombarded from the north. Fortunately he did not encounter any fighter aircraft on the final stretch, and made it to the station unscathed. Mortars were landing nearby and the Greek railway staff had vanished. The platforms were crowded with both walking wounded and stretcher cases. Eventually the train pulled into the station, and the injured were quickly loaded on board. In spite of the fire raining down on the town, the train pulled out without being hit and carried 177 men southwards to safety.

  Herford went immediately from the station to Headquarters, but found it eerily deserted. Overnight all the remaining stores and personnel had been cleared out and evacuated south to Pharsala; the Germans were now only a few miles away to the north.

  At midnight Herford set off again for Pharsala, but the roads were completely jammed with military vehicles retreating south, and heavy rain was washing streams of mud onto the tarmac, reducing it to a sticky quagmire. He waited two hours in a traffic jam making no progress. He had a choice – either to spend another sleepless night stuck in a sitting-duck queue, or to return to Larissa for some sleep and hope that the Germans didn’t arrive before morning. He calculated the odds were even either way; he was dog-tired so took the latter course.

  After a few hours of fretful sleep in the deserted HQ, he was woken at dawn by the sound of bombing and machine gun fire alarmingly close to the camp. He jumped back in the Austin and headed south on the now clear road for Pharsala. Tracer bullets were streaking through the half light of the dawn, making a strangely attractive sight.