In July 1943, Ivan Summers, just 18 years old, received his call-up papers and off to war he went. However, unlike most other young men, Ivan decided to record his experiences in a diary that he kept secret from all.
The diary was only discovered recently by relatives and they have kindly allowed us to reproduce here, in regular instalments and in his own words, Ivan's personal thoughts and experiences of his 4 years serving King and country.
So read on and enjoy ..........................
July 1943 – I was just 18 years old, I received a letter
through the post, my call up papers. My mother stood on the back step of 2
Clare Street, Raunds, with tears in her eyes.
That which follows is not a tale of heroism or of ego-ism,
but a factual but brief account of what followed for me. I was lucky, thousands
were not, and I include all those who weren’t, bomb victims in London,
Coventry and all the other cities
and places, those kids in Rushden School,
ad infinitum.
However, in this small village
of Raunds, a lot of my beloved
friends didn’t come back (they were the friends I had known all my life) and I
still remember them all with love and often refresh my memories at the
cenotaph.
It is to them that I feel justified in writing my memoirs –
those unforgettable friends who never came back:
Fred Bailey, Cyril Clarkson, Ivan Coles, Jack Sheffield,
Cyril Eyles, Brian Patrick, Ken Johnson, Cyril Dudley, Derek Walker, Colin
Duffy, Keith Webb and Harry Prentice.
There were of course many more from Raunds who lost their
lives, but all of the above were my old school mates, with one exception, Jack
Sheffield, who was an older friend.
Part One – England,
Wales and Scotland
– July 1943 to June 6th 1944
Basic Training
Maidstone Barracks (Queen’s Own Royal Infantry)
Memories: Being kitted out; shown billets; F.F.1
“Inspection”; inoculations (feeling lousy afterwards); vaccination (large “egg”
lump under armpit afterwards); that bloody bugle at reveille; homesick;
bull-shit; parades; learning drill; rifle drill; kit inspections; laying bed
out; spitting on boot caps to get a shine ; PT every morning; queuing for grub;
fire drill lectures; incessant parade ground drill (sometimes with regimental
band); weapons training; grenades; Bren-guns; other “bakelite” grenades with
throwing handle; long hot sweating route marches with full battle order and
sometimes wearing gas masks (we used to pour sweat out of them afterwards – it
was July!); aptitude tests; reaction time tests; night time schemes where we
used to crawl on our bellies through grass in the dark; getting to know
friends, scroungers, malingerers and others!; the dear old “NAFFI”; bayonet
drill – where we had to charge and stick straw bags, all the time cursing and
shouting; rifle range firing; passing through gas chambers with no mask on (my
bloody eyes were sore, couldn’t breathe after); church parade (voluntary of
course, but if you didn’t you were put on fatigues – bloody blackmail!); guard
duty; complete bull-shit; fire drill guard; assault course.
Then on to AA Training Camp at Mablethorpe
3.7” H.A.A. Training Regiment, Royal Artillery, Trusville
Camp, Mablethorpe, Lincolnshire (an
ex holiday camp)
Memories: Much less bull-shit than at Maidstone; billeted in
chalets; guns; predictors, height finders; spotting equipment; rader etc on
large square; trained here as predictor no. (at this stage on Speery
equipment), intensive training but quite interesting; lectures; aircraft
identification – both ours as well as German for obvious reasons; guard duty;
PT; long runs; nice little café on site; good lot of blokes; good sergeant;
Mablethorpe itself very quiet, almost no people there other than those who
lived there; no access to beaches as these were obviously mined with tangled
defence obstacles everywhere; went on a run to Sutton on Sea where we saw
rocker missiles being fired, quite a firework display; dental treatment, the
finest I have ever had, in a large sea front building just “seething” with
dentists; told our next move was to a firing camp, and at the back of my mind
at the time was the question “what sort of ‘noise’ were these big guns going to
make?”; given an insight in the role we (as a mobile A.A.) were to play, for
example, we would have a dual role, we would be used when required as field
artillery firing air-bursts, ie the shells would be fused to explode just feet
above the ground, and were told that this was terrible for those on the
receiving end as slit trenches offered no protection; all in all this period
wasn’t too bad at all.
Then on to Firing Camp in Wales
New from here on 17 December 2013:
3.7” H.A.A.Firing Camp – Sited at Tonfaunu, a large
established camp overlooking the sea in the middle of Cardigan Bay,
nearest town Towyn – quite isolated.
Memories: Large camp with “fixed” billets, cinema, NAAFI,
ATS Girls!; isolated position on sea shore with wide beach area with 3.7’s and
equipment pointing towards the sea; disconcerting to find that we had been
trained on Speery predictors, but here they were bloody Vickers, so we had to
do a crash course; I was Vickers No.4, ie I had to predict (literally) by
instruments and quick judgement where the plane would be when the shell reached
it, then shout the appropriate fuse out, which was relayed to the guns, the
shell was then fused and loaded into the gun and again fired at the exact time,
after all other relevant information was computed. All of this was done very
quickly; the guns had quite a loud “crack” due to the high muzzle velocity
necessary to hit a target moving at 300 miles an hour!; fired every day at our
allotted time; the target plane (towing a sleeve behind) wasn’t hit, but
neither was the sleeve very often!, although to be fair we were very close, and
the fragments unseen from the ground would have probably brought a plane down;
went to Towyn, very nice little place, lovely walk in big hills near coast;
people friendly but reserved; kids 3-4 years old could speak Welsh and
English!; attended village concert, those Welsh loved their singing; one snag,
although it was summer, it pissed down with rain nearly everyday; sea b*****
rough; spent a lot of time unloading shells; used to have some good laughs at
night in the large NAAFI with ATS girls; all in all not too bad.
Then on to …………..
3.7” H.A.A. Training Regiment – Arbourfield, near Reading,
this was an extremely large permanent camp where we started the rough “mobile”
stage of our training.
Memories: Real security at this camp, bull-shit military
police at gates; good grub; permanent cinema-come-concert hall; guard duty and
drill, PT, fitness games, fatigues (spud bashing etc), church parades with band,
however, mobile was now the word; became very acquainted with big matador
lorries which towed the guns, and all other mobile aspects; we trained to
dismantle and set up our predictor (which was very heavy) in as quick a time as
possible, to lift it on and off its lorry, align it with the guns etc, all
items were connected by cable with the guns, as our predictor revolved
following the target through built-in scopes, one for angle, one for bearing.
The gun appropriate No. traversed his gun by following the pointer on his dial,
but this after the windspeed, speed of aircraft, angle, and bearing had been
computed by our predictor, in conjunction also with the height finder and radar.
In radar engagement at night we had to follow their cabled instructions and
then it was computed and passed on to the guns; we started on schemes now;
simulating active service; weeks away at a time; sleeping on the ground or in
the backs of lorries, piddling with rain at times; called out to move in the
middle of the night; shaving out of a mug; hard tack rations; helping to shift
matadors and other lorries stuck in the mud; guns had to be winched up awkward
slopes, sometimes at a precarious angle; mock alarms at any time; night or day,
simulating engagement of aircraft or field air bursts etc; I remember some
chaps saying “if we can stand this we can stand any bloody thing”; but oh the
poor bloody infantry!; during these schemes various towns we passed through
during movement included Ascot, Windsor, Wokingham; we did one long scheme in
which we deployed for several days at Thorpe Bay (near Southend, which we
managed to “slip away” to one evening); whilst here I was one of small
detachment sent for nights’ guard duty to nearby Foulness Island, which I
believe was used as a firing range. It was connected to the mainland by a
narrow causeway; it was a bleak place, not enhanced by the equally bleak,
pissing, wet, cold weather, we thought Foulness was aptly named; back at camp I
remember we were always ravenously hungry here, but there was always plenty of
grub to satisfy it; we visited Reading a few times and quite liked the place; we
were now coming to the time for our posting to our permanent regiment; but one
memory has stuck with me vividly ever since.
It was at a camp concert at the brick built
cinema-come-concert hall, there was a dance troupe of some high standing, plus
accompanying artists, billed with a rather top class implication, consequently
almost all off duty personnel (including myself) and top camp brass attended.
The concert hall was hushed as the curtain was raised, excited with
expectation, then we realised it was a ballet company! At first it was quiet as
the artists performed, but as it progressed there were growing signs of
discontent amongst the less artistic members of the audience when one “wag”,
who couldn’t stand any more, shouted a most indiscreet remark! That was it,
before long it was uproar, every move these poor dancers made was greeted with
ribald shouts, when the well endowed male dancers seemed to be in compromising
positions with the females, there were shouts of “get in there mate!”, followed
by raucous laughter. The slightest movement by the girls were greeted with “cor
– look at that!” etc. The officers were furious, they rose from their seats,
glared, but were powerless. The dancers were almost in tears, they cut the
performance short accompanied by shouts and order was only restored when they
sent a buxom lady on to sing a little negro spiritual. This great hearted lady
continued for the rest of the evening, winning over the audience with her
personality, she saved the day, but not my conscience. The ballet troupe never
returned and I felt really ashamed, they had after all given their time to help
us. Afterwards, on reflection, I blamed whoever booked them, fancy sending a
ballet company to a bloody army camp full of raw recruits anyway!; the
remainder of my stay here was much as before; a mixture of AA training,
schemes, lectures and PT, leading to the posting to my first regiment, who were
at the time stationed at a firing camp at Weybourne.
New from here on 2 January 2014:
Weybourne – an Artillery AA Firing Camp on the Coast near
Sheringham and Cromer – my regiment now was E Troop, 324 Battery, 103 H.A.A.
Regiment, Royal Artillery.
Memories: Arrived here heading towards winter, and it was an
exposed, isolated camp; a cold, bitter wind mingled with rain was out lot
whilst here; large camp; good cinema; good NAAFI (tombola mad!); billeted in
Nissan huts with large stoves in the centre, around which we used to huddle;
now my training regiment days were over I found the atmosphere different; I was
now with an established regiment where the fellows were older than me, and who
had been together for longer; this was where I found lasting mates; everyone
knew everyone else; cooks, gunners, height finders, spotters, predictor
numbers, drivers, radar, officers, sergeants, bombardiers – a damn good lot of
chaps; Londoners, Scousers, Geordies, Brummies etc; our major, however, was a
rather unhumorous, thick set type of geezer, with a moustache, and a Japanese
look about him, hence his nickname – “Tojo”; our captain, named Harrapp, was a
good non-bullshit type who played the clarinet in a broadcasting name band in
his civvy days; as the regiment was here for a short period only, most of our
time was spent on practice shooting; general duties; guard duties; getting to
know the ropes”; interviews with “Tojo” etc; in general being “summed up”; I
did on off duty periods visit Sheringham (which I found a quite nice little
resort), and Cromer, but I found that place most depressing and drab; hardly
any people about and the few that were, were bloody unsociable (those we saw);
eg, there was a lovely little sea-front café, and being sodding hungry went to
go in, but pulled up short at the door where a large notice read “Dogs and
Troops Not Allowed!”, that really made us furious, but it was reflection of the
general atmosphere in 1943, needless to say we only went there the once!; came
the order to move; Scotland was the destination; after packing all our gear on
our appropriate lorries, the long convoy slowly got under way, like a long,
curling snake.
Convoy to Northern Scotland and stops
on the way:
Longest single journey so far, good views of towns and
countryside from the back of our lorry; first stop was Doncaster; convoy parked
literally on the racecourse!; sloped off to Doncaster for a drink and look
round; moved off again next day where our next stop was Carlisle; our park was
“Hadrian’s Camp”’ a large transit camp; there was an adjoining Italian P.O.W.
camp and we saw a lot of those who were “employed” doing maintenance work; we
stayed a couple of days here and had a look around Carlisle; had a few pints in
the pubs which were state-owned (the only ones in England I believe), rather
austere but OK; then on we went over the border to Scotland, where Wishaw was
our next stop (a few miles from Glasgow); we were informed of our departure time
the next morning, and whilst having a “deck” at Wishaw, my mate and myself were
invited by a family to stay the night at their home; they were just an ordinary
working class family who lived in a row of terraced houses on a steep hill.
They gave us a good supper and breakfast and were very kind warm-hearted
people; I found this friendliness wherever we went in Scotland
and can’t speak too highly of the Scots, what a contrast to some southern
counties we passed through!; we moved on next morning travelling north passing
through Stirling, followed by Perth; a quite magnificent journey through what I
would imagine was some of the most beautiful scenic countryside in Scotland.
About 15 miles further on from Perth we started to “hit” The
Highlands; hills gradually became mountains, I was really rather “awe inspired”
as these (although dwarfed by the Himalayan range in India) were the biggest I
had ever seen; next stop was Blair Athol; we stayed here for almost a day and
night, in a delightful setting, rather like a Canadian lumber camp atmosphere,
a clearing surrounded by conifers and large hills; we were almost in winter now
and the air was clear and crisp; the next stage was the mountainous yet; the
weather had deteriorated and we wended our way on winding roads through the
Grampian highlands; then the Cairngorms and Monadhliath Mountains (I think we
were in the middle, with peaks on our right and others on our left); what a
sense of wilderness and starkness this journey imparted to me, snow higher up,
bleak, hostile and yet rugged beauty, quite unforgettable; through this and we
were once again in a green belt approaching Inverness.
Went round Beauly Firth, on to Dingwall; on alongside the
Cromarty Firth, through Invergordon, then on to our destination and main camp
(until further orders) which was town called Tain, on the southern bank of
Dornoch Firth; we were billeted in a wooded area on the outskirts of Tain in
wooden huts, and were both happy and sorry our journey had ended; happy because
we were a bit travel weary from sitting in the back of open lorries; sad
because we were back to “bull-shit”; guards, parades etc; apart from the latter
we spent a lot of time at first cleaning, checking equipment etc; then in a
matter of days several of us were summoned to the battery office to be told we
had been selected (in common with other units, infantry, RASC etc) to be
temporarily posted to a large tented camp during the winter to be deployed
helping unload supplies (food, ammunition, clothing, weapons etc) for the
various regiments who were training in the area, including commandos doing
assault craft landing; these supplies were to be unloaded at a rail-head depot;
we duly collected our gear, into lorries again and arrived at our destination,
a large, tented, cosmopolitan camp, which was commanded by an infantry officer;
this camp was on the Black Isle, about 20 miles south of Tain, just outside a
village called Munlochy.
New from here on 13 January 2014:
Munlochy
Memories: Camp on a sloping hill looking down on Munlochy;
bloody exposed; one good thing, lack of bull-shit, due to workload; snow most
of the time, although interspersed with better days; tents not warm; NAAFI in
village, small but nice, as again were the Scotch girl servers!; every morning
after (bloody cold shave) breakfast etc, went on parade for day’s detail of
duties; busy, hard lifting work at the railhead, but we didn’t mind, it kept us
warm and we were fit; used to stand at times in line, passing containers, ammo
etc to each other; heavy lifting required concerted effort; good set of
squadies, all mucked in, no slackers but the inevitable scrounger!; “lend us a
bob mate, give yer it back on pay-day” etc; social amenities in camp were
non-existent, but on off duty periods we did have “liberty wagons” to various
places; and we also used to roam around the gentle slopes overlooking Munlochy
Bay; quite nice with the weather and bracken; we used to go to Dingwall for
fish and chips and a night out, this was a busy little pleasant town, and one
of our favourites; we went to Fortrose on detail one day, and felt quite a
sense of “Old Scotland” here - lovely place; we went several times to
Inverness, which was only about 7 miles as the crow flies, but we had to travel
20 miles to reach it because we had to go round Beauly Firth, as at that time
there was no road bridge over it; Inverness was a lovely city, the people
friendly (they wouldn’t even charge us for bus fares!); one slight hiccup, four
of us missed our liberty wagon back one night and in a “sweat”, we managed to
get a bed for the night at the Seamen’s Mission hostel near the railway
station; the Army came for us next morning and we were immediately put on a
“Fizzer” (my first of several!); “cap and belt off, left roight, left roight!”;
the c/o with a rather kindly personality gave us 7 days C.B.; what a bloody
laugh; we were out at work all day anyway; and we still went to Munlochy NAAFI
every night.
It was while here in this camp that I had two bits of bad
news from Mum; the first was that dear old J P Archer, my piano teacher and
beloved friend, had been killed by a bus on Stanwick Road near Chown’s Mill
turn off; the other was that an old school friend (who was only about 16) had
been found gassed (by geyser) in his bathroom at Rushden, his name was Jeff
Smart, brother of Clive and Stan.
Winter drew on so we welcomed the news that “Stars in battle
dress”, a top class army entertainment group, were coming, billed to appear in
the small village hall in the tiny village of Munlochy; in the morning before the
show was due to start in the evening, I had a slice of luck, I was one of a
detail sent to get the hall ready (clean up, seating arranged etc), it was a
rather dismal, damp morning, and when we arrived at the hall I immediately
spotted the piano on the stage, having not played for a long time I jumped at
the chance and had quite a “bash”, when I had finished I looked around and
found there were other people there besides my mates, the entire cast had
walked in and were listening; one of the leads was Charlie Chester, the
comedian, he was rather a dapper little chap, dressed in an old greatcoat with
the collar turned up, he came up and asked “what medical group are you mate?”,
when I said A1 he replied “pity old son, we could do with you with us, but I’m afraid
you don’t stand a chance of a transfer, now had you been B1 or less, you might
have had!”; we all had a good old natter with him and the other members of the
cast; Charlie seemed a bit depressed, he had a rotten cold; however, this
didn’t show in the evening, the small hall was full both with squadies and I
would say all of Munlochy too!; the show was just about the best I had ever
seen, my belly ached with laughing; absolutely unforgettable; that Charlie
became a household name on both TV and Radio in later years, doesn’t surprise
me in the least.
Back to the grind; spent a lot of the winter here, and we
were very thankful for our leather jerkins which were both warm and
comfortable; then came the order to rejoin our unit, which had moved on from
Tain to the county town (or city?) of Dornoch, the county town of Sutherland,
situated to the north of Dornoch Firth.
Dornoch
Memories: A beautiful place, not large, overlooking Dornoch
Firth, with a large main square, lovely cathedral, famous golf course with a
railway running alongside; quite a bit of history attached; we were billeted in
an empty large country house situated on the slope of a hill; the scenery was
marvellous; after a reunion with mates we settled into routine; drills (a bit
of bullshit), guards, instrument drill, rifle firing, route marches,
maintenance etc; on off duty hours we roamed around the golf course and
surrounding countryside; no social life at all, I can’t remember any pubs, so
we had to make our own; one really bullshit church parade, complete with band,
although it escapes me where this came from!; marched through the city, lined
with locals, orders being bellowed out, culminating in a service in the
cathedral; it was this that made it all worthwhile, such a beautiful work of
art; I believe it was burnt out in years gone by and had to be rebuilt, such a
landmark for miles around; a couple of weeks passed and we were “up-ended”
again, and the whole battalion moved to a large clearing outside of Dornoch,
where we pitched tents; in this almost uninhabited wooded area we were told
that we were going right back to southern England, and that our short time here
was to be spent on preparing for the journey; thus cleaning and checking
equipment, loading etc, became the order of the day.
We were now in January 1944;
just days before the regiment was due to move, my name came up on
battery orders that my 9 days leave (which I knew was pending) was granted; I
was summoned to B.H.Q. and was told that I would, at its expiry, rejoin my unit
who would then have moved south to Horsham; thus I missed that long return
convoy; I was, in a way, sorry, because it had been such an experience on the
journey to here; however, I was thrilled to be going home; it’s a good job it
was 9 days leave, because it took me 30 hours to get home!; we (two of us)
started at a place near Dornoch called Bonar Bridge, the date was 16th January
1944, and it was a frustratingly slow lot; we had to stop to have an extra
engine coupled at steeper gradients, one in front, the other behind; had to change trains three times at various
stages of the journey, including one damn near all night wait at one station in
this cold January weather; however, we made it eventually – 30 hours!; had a
good leave with Mum and all the family, but the time “flew” and before I knew
it I was on a train at Wellingborough station bound, via London, to rejoin the
regiment, now at Horsham.
New from here on 27 January 2014:
Horsham (Sussex)
Memories: A busy town, slightly larger than Rushden, just over
halfway between London and Worthing; found my regiment; a large, tented camp on
the far southern outskirts (just one of many others in the area); after reunion
with the lads, made bed on the bloody floor and had look around camp; it was a
large site, usual amenities, ET tent, NAAFI, large marquee for concerts etc,
and a large area for guns, lorries, equipment (and not just ours!); it became
obvious on later saunters around Horsham why we were here, the place was
crawling with servicemen from all different regiments (infantry, paras,
artillery, RASC, REME, Tank Corps etc), this was the big build up and we
guessed what it was; much of the time here was spent on maintenance, gunnery
drill, PT rifle shooting, marches, a bit of manual graft, lectures and several
small “active service” mobile schemes; grub was good; had a bit of a “guzzle”
in Horsham pubs; went to the cinema a couple of times; one marvellous concert
(for troops) in Horsham, where Harry Farmer, a top BBC electronic organist, was
top star, and boy could he swing – top rate!; whilst here, places we went to
either on duty or “local leave” included Gosport, Portsmouth and Farnham; I did
also “slip away” on off duty weekends to London with my friend Eddie Lester; we
took a real chance by so doing, by both getting past the MP’s at Waterloo
Station; had there been an order to move, or a camp check up, we would have
been “in the shit”, but we were lucky.
Eddie lived in Stepney, off Commercial Road, Aldgate and we
took the underground to his home in Humberstone Street; this was real London
(Jack the Ripper area) and Eddie’s house was in a row of what we would call
real working class, in a tough area; but I loved these Eastenders, so down to
earth (no snobs here) and friendly; we went in a pub in Commercial Road and old
gals and real cockneys were “f-ing and blinding”, laughing; just as normal
conversation, but you couldn’t take offence, it was natural for them!; Eddie’s
mum and dad, sister Rita and a friend were delighted to see me, and made me
feel at home, with no frills or fancies; I loved these visits and became quite
acquainted with the area and its atmosphere; I went into one pub on my own
which was quite crowded and I was standing near the bar when everything went
quiet; I looked around and I was on my own; then I heard someone outside shout
“’e’s got a bleeding knife!”; I looked in the large room length mirror which
extended to the bar in another adjoining room and saw a man with a knife
standing near another man; the penny dropped, I beat a hasty retreat outside
where the crowd were; police had arrived and arrested the man; within minutes
everyone was back inside the pub laughing and drinking as though nothing had
happened; I reflected, I was the only silly bugger left in the pub bar the
knife man and his adversary – phew!; however, that one incident was not
reflective of these lovable people in general; we used to stay one or two
nights at Eddie’s on these visits , then really early next morning we were on
our way back to Horsham, hoping we’d not been missed – the chances we took!
Back in camp things were much the same; used to love to get
on fatigues (spud bashing etc), because we always used manage to scrounge a bit
of extra nosh; I remember those big tins of jam and tea we made ourselves,
laced with thick condensed milk with heaps of sugar; but who cared about your
waistline then?; the grub I thought was good all through my “career”; perhaps
it did vary a bit when cook was in a hurry or in a temper; I used to love the
porridge (with salt and sugar) for breakfast; tinned, rolled bacon with thin
paper to keep it separated; corned beef (dog?) in a Heinz variety of different
disguises; no, to be fair Army grub was OK; got roped into a concert (by us,
for us), I was the pianist; it was held in a large marquee with an improvised
stage at one end; if you’ve ever heard a circus band, well you can imagine the
acoustics here were not exactly enhancing!; however, it went off OK, was packed
out; in my little part I played a few of dear old Vera Lynne’s songs, and also
accompanied all the other “artistes”, some of whom would never have made it down
the old “Robin Hood” at Raunds!; however, it was good fun and broke the pattern
of Army life; we were here for quite a time and summer was approaching; the
order to move came, this time to Bisley, a large permanent camp (where the
King’s Cup Rifle Competition is held); it is in fact the premier rifle shooting
range in the country; so on to …………………
New from here on 10 February 2014:
Bisley (Top Rifle Firing Camp)
A small town just north-west of Horsham, the nearest town
was Woking; large permanent camp with wooden chalets and small railway station
inside the camp perimeter; extensive rifle ranges, so large that you could fire
at maximum ranges; large clear area, where the regiment parked guns, lorries,
equipment etc, all in position for immediate move off when order came; routine
maintenance whilst there, but thankfully not too much guard duty or bullshit!;
we were by now well aware why we were here, and what the next step would be; what
we were not aware of was where and when , so we lived each day in a kind of
“suspension”; we were told that whenever it came that our regiment would be
there on the first day; to my secret relief I was one of the “gang” who,
perhaps because of my age, was on the “rear party” who would bring supplies
over a few days after the initial landing; it was obvious that only basic
requirements could be taken on the first landing, this then was the situation
we were in; wait and be ready; had a few lectures (about how to treat French
people); was issued with a booklet concerning the latter which I still have; we
did quite a lot of rifle firing here, and I must admit I did enjoy this because
of the distances and size of the ranges; at maximum ranges, which were very
large fields with no hedges, you could only just see the targets, and with a
side wind of varying strengths, this did teach you aim offs etc; if I may
indulge in a little bit of ego, I was a bloody good shot and the “brass” who
were always “hanging around” commended me on this fact (sorry!); I had several
spells in the butts, big ones with rows of targets, where we, on our own
specific targets, had to hold the “stick” with a round marker on the end over
the small hole where the bullet entered to denote whether “outer”, “inner” or
“bull’s eye” etc; you had to watch carefully because at maximum range you heard
the report seconds after the bullet entered, and also we were in a long row of
targets.
Went to Woking a couple of times; this was as far at the
time we were allowed to go; then came the order for the regiment to move,
leaving us (the rear party) behind; we watched the convoy move off and we
wondered what the hell the situation would be when we eventually rejoined them;
the days passed by, we didn’t know where they had gone, but rumour had it that
they had gone to a large tented wooded area not far from Southampton, where
troops were being massed ready for the “big show” – a favourite expression used
the the top brass; we were very eager at the time to hear the BBC news, and
then on June 6th 1944 the announcement came that the Allies had
landed in France; D-Day!; although we were obviously very intent on the general
situation, I must admit that our thoughts at this time turned to the lads,
wondering how they were fairing in the grim situation; just days after came the
night I shall not forget; I was on vehicle guard duty when, to my left, looking
south, a most eerie, unreal “thing” was happening; low flying objects, almost
in succession, with an awful engine noise, and a flame shooting out the backs,
were heading towards London; it was a clear night and I wondered what the hell
they were; as they got nearer to what I assumed was London, ack-ack bursts lit
the sky, interspersed with larger flashes; by this time I had been joined by
damn near all my mates and we were awestruck!; it was “eerie”; we gradually
became aware that this was something unusual and we formed the opinion they
were robots; we realised that they were when several came uncomfortably near us
and one’s engine cut out; seconds after there was an almighty blast; they were
flying bombs!; Hitler’s first launching of the V1’s, and they were frightening;
this went on all night and in the morning were The topic of conversation.
We were having dinner this next day, talking away, when this
bloody horrible engine noise came right over us; everyone stopped talking at
once; then the damn engine cut out; you could feel the tension in the mess, we
were transfixed; you could not do anything; after just seconds of this deathly
silence came the blast!; although it landed three hundred or more yards away,
the blast broke windows and shook the building; we went to look at the crater,
but there wasn’t one, all the blast was outwards; and this, we realised later, was
why these terrible weapons did so much damage with so much loss of life; they
were later nicknames “doodlebugs”; much later in Belgium we were to have a
spell at knocking some of these down on their route to Brussels; next day came
the order to move, which was achieved quickly as only several lorries made up
our complement; our driver was a bloke from London named Jim Pitt, a nice,
genial sort of chap; we travelled a relatively short distance until we found
ourselves in a wooded area, on either side of the not-too-wide roads were tents
among the trees, also lining the roads were stacked shells waiting for
collection; troops were everywhere, laying down outside tents, playing cards,
mouth organs, walking back and forth from mess tents with billy cans, all
waiting their time to go; we passed through miles of this kind of scene until
an MP flagged us down and directed us off the road to our pitch; we were only a
short distance from our embarking place – Southampton!
The Tented Area somewhere near Southampton
Oh, if only all army life was like this!; no bullshit, no
parades (well only those to check you hadn’t pissed off), absolutely marvellous
grub, no guards, nothing to do except lounge about, eat, drink (tea), sleep,
play cards; it was our last few days in England and they were letting us have a
relax before the next phase, which we all knew wasn’t going to be as restful;
they told us we were here for a few days only, so that was it; we just sat on
our arses and waited; as I have stated we only had one parade in the morning
(for roll call) and a few of us did (on reflection) a damn stupid thing; we
decided to “slip” home, immediately after the morning roll call, just for a few
hours; there were quite a few of us took the risk; I got to London and on the Underground
across to St Pancras; now St Pancras was the danger point, two MP’s stood at
the narrow gate just before you got onto the platform and they checked passes
at random (not everyone’s); knowing the ropes I waited until a few army blokes
were going through, joined them and hoped for luck; my heart was in my mouth as
I tried to appear as casual as I could; I made it, and boy the relief when I
got on that rain!; I spent only a few hours at home with Ma, but it was worth
it; then back I went; the return journey was no less “taut” but I arrived back
at the camp where I had not been missed; I had a sneaking feeling that some of
those MP’s at St Pancras were not as bad a lot chaps as they were supposed to
be; I reckon they turned a bit of a blind eye – Thanks Mates!
A couple of days
passed and then came the order to move; this time we were in full battle orders
and complete with all our gear; we piled on our respective lorries; as we
neared Southampton the roads became jammed with lorries, equipment etc of other
units and the going was a bit slow, but before long we were in Southampton
Docks; there were MP’s everywhere, marshalling convoys etc to their allotted
“bay”; the docks were seething with men, noise, shouting instructions; we
finally came to our allotted L.S.T.; there was line of these large “metal
boxes” with the end ramps let down, gaping, “jaws” that revealed the tank-like
huge interior ……………..
And so to Part Two – The Normandy Beach-head and beyond >>>>
