“Ha!” Sergeant Warriner gave one of his mirthless laughs. “Knew him pre-war. When the 2nd Battalion was forced to surrender at Tobruk last year, he refused to give up until Jerry promised his company the Honours of War. Then he escaped from a prisoner-of-war train in Italy and made it home. No disrespect intended, gentlemen, but he’ll make you earn every penny of your pay. You may even hate his guts at the end of it, but we’ll have a damn fine company!”
April – September 1943
The following Monday I was conducting a map-reading class when Company Sergeant Major Darracott appeared.
“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but Major Flint, the new company commander, has arrived,” he said. “He’d like to see you in his office at 11:00 prompt.”
I reached the office at the same time as John. We strolled in and saluted the figure seated behind the desk. He was looking down at some papers, so all that I could see was that he was well-built and had iron-grey hair. Nigel stood behind him, looking ill at ease. I could hear Tony’s feet hurrying along the corridor. He entered the room and saluted. Only then did the man at the desk look up. He had a clipped moustache and the most piercing eyes I have ever seen.
“Get out and come in again – all of you!” he snarled. There was a frightening edge to his voice. We did as we were bidden, halted in front of his desk and saluted together. He regarded each of us minutely in turn.
“Now let us get one thing straight from the start,” he said. “When I say eleven-hundred hours, I mean precisely that. It is now thirty seconds past eleven and I regard that as being very late indeed. If you are thirty seconds late attacking after the barrage has lifted you will have given the enemy time to man his machine-guns and you will lose a lot of men. Do you agree, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” we said in chorus.
“Good. I also want you to know that I regard any hesitation or surliness in carrying out an order as disobedience, that half-hearted effort is a sign of laziness and that if you knowingly communicate inaccurate or incomplete information to me that is the equivalent of lying. Do we understand each other?”
“Yes, sir,” we said again.
“I am glad that is clear. I shall require the pleasure of your company for a drink after dinner, gentlemen. You may now return to your duties.”
We saluted, turned about and left the office.
“Phew!” said Tony. “I think I’ve just been run over by a steamroller!”
Dinner in the Mess was usually a pleasant, relaxed affair, but on this occasion Nigel, John, Tony and I were more concerned with what lay in store for us than with what we were eating. Later, when we had settled ourselves in armchairs in the anteroom, Major Flint joined us and instructed one of the Mess staff to bring us drinks from the bar. It was soon apparent that this was not a friendly gesture, but one made for the same reasons I had interviewed everyone in my platoon. He asked each of us a series of searching questions and was obviously making up his mind about us. As our interrogation drew to an end, Nigel asked him about the fall of Tobruk.
“Yes, I thought that would come up, so I’ll tell you now and get it out of the way,” he said. “We had no tanks left and when Jerry broke through the defences and reached the town, the general in command, a South African named Klopper, didn’t have much choice other than to surrender. Our battalion was holding an area of the eastern defences, near the sea. With Jerry tanks crawling all over them, the rest of the battalion obeyed the order to surrender. I didn’t, because my company was lucky enough to be holding a position between two wadis, that is, steep-sided, dried-up river courses, with a cliff covering our rear. The only way Jerry could get at us was across a stretch of ground between the wadis, and I had covered that with a minefield. At the time I believed that the Eighth Army wouldn’t stand for the loss of Tobruk and would counter-attack, so all we had to do was hold out until they arrived. What I didn’t know was that the Army had taken a real beating and was retreating across the frontier into Egypt.”
He paused for a moment, remembering what had happened.
“Well, we held ’em off for two days,” he continued. “They lost three tanks on the minefield, and the rest couldn’t get past them. They shelled us time and again, but we beat them off every time their infantry attacked and caused them a lot of grief. We also lost a lot of good men. By the morning of the third day the company was down to the size of a platoon. The riflemen had about five rounds left apiece, and the Bren gunners less than a magazine. We had no food and what water was left we saved for the wounded. Anyway, a Jerry colonel appeared with a flag of truce. He said we’d put up a terrific fight but if we didn’t surrender he had orders to exterminate us. I told him that if he tried that every one of us would take two or three of his men with us. I knew it was hopeless, so I said that I would surrender on two conditions – first, that he granted us the Honours of War, and second, that he arranged for our wounded to be attended to immediately. He was a decent enough sort and agreed.
“We spent the morning smartening up and making the wounded as comfortable as possible. At noon, the agreed time, I led what was left of the company through a gap in the minefield. Then we formed up, fixed bayonets, and marched between two lines of Jerries. They presented arms and their officers saluted. When we halted I thanked the men for all they had done and ordered them to ground arms. I watched them being marched off under guard. That was the worst day of my life and I have no intention of repeating it.”
We all sat silent for a moment. I think we were all a little surprised that he had cared so much about his men.
“You managed to escape, though, sir,” said Tony, breaking the silence.
“Yes. I was flown to Italy and held in an Italian prisoner-of-war camp until August. The guards were a sloppy lot and I managed to pinch a tyre lever when one of them was working on his lorry. I suppose I thought it would come in handy as a cosh. Anyway, it was decided that the British officers would be sent to Germany and we were put aboard a train consisting of cattle trucks. I began working on the truck’s floorboards with the tyre lever. I got one up, then more, until I had made a hole big enough for me to drop through on to the track. I could see through the ventilation slits in the side of the truck that we were getting closer to the Alps. The train made frequent stops, but I decided to wait until it was dark and we were in open country. The right moment seemed to arrive and I dropped through. I think others would have followed, but just then the train began to move again. Maybe some of them tried it later. Anyway, I lay between the rails until the train was out of sight.”
“What happened next, sir?” I asked.
“I became a thief. At various times I stole bicycles, clothes, food and money. By moving only at night and staying hidden during the day, I somehow got over the mountains into France. The Jerries weren’t occupying the south of the country at that time, but the French government, located in a town called Vichy, were collaborating with them and would have handed me over like a shot if their police had got their hands on me. I was sitting in a café in Nice, looking like a scarecrow, when two characters put a revolver in my back and marched me down an alley and into a house. They belonged to the Resistance, and while they suspected that I was an escaped British POW, they were worried that I might be a German posing as one. So, for the next three days I was grilled over and over again. At length London confirmed my details over their shortwave radio link. From that point on, it was plain sailing. I was spirited across southern France to the Pyrenees, where I was handed over to the group’s Spanish friends. They had been on the losing side during the Spanish Civil War and they had no love for General Franco, who, as you know, is one of Hitler’s best pals. To cut a long story short, I was taken through some pretty remote areas of Spain until we reached the frontier with Gibraltar. I was taken across in a coffin in the back of a hearse. Pretty creepy, I can tell you. In Gibraltar they found a space for me in a homeward-bound destroyer.”
We had all listened in silent wonder and admiration as Duncan Flint told his story. Suddenl
y, he stood up and his manner changed abruptly.
“I’ll wish you good night, gentlemen. I shall be joining you for a run at 06:00.”
“Er, you remember you’ve ordered a company run for 08:00?” asked Nigel, startled.
“Quite right – you should be nicely warmed up by then!” was the reply.
It soon became clear that Major Flint intended sparing his officers nothing. At the morning parade following the company run he addressed everyone.
“It won’t be too long now before we find ourselves on active service. I intend working you hard, but no harder than I work myself and your officers. We have a heavy programme of exercises ahead of us. During those exercises I shall sometimes tell platoon commanders or their sergeants that they have been ‘killed’. That will mean that corporals may find themselves commanding their platoons for part of an exercise. Likewise, lance corporals may find themselves acting as platoon sergeants and private soldiers commanding sections. Why are we doing this? Because I intend encouraging you to use your personal initiative. It has been my experience that soldiers who use their initiative survive, and those who don’t, don’t.”
He now had everyone’s undivided attention. I exchanged glances with Nigel, John and Tony. It was apparent that none of us had expected this.
“I want you to remember a few things at all times, no matter how tired you are,” the Major continued. “Always expect the unexpected. Think of everything the enemy might possibly do, then it’s no surprise when he does it. Treat him to a dose of the unexpected, because he doesn’t like it. If you are in contact with him, never move without covering fire if you can avoid it. Learn what you can about the enemy’s weapons – you may have to use ’em in a tight spot. And if that spot is so tight that you think things couldn’t get worse, keep giving the enemy a hard time. You’ll be surprised what you can get away with.”
Duncan Flint certainly kept his promise. There were early morning runs three times a week and we were sent over the assault course whenever there was a spare moment. Fortunately, I was still as fit as I had been at OCTU and didn’t experience too much difficulty, but many of the others found it hard going until they toughened up. Then there were platoon, company and battalion exercises, sometimes carried out in company with tanks. These included attacks, occupying a defensive position, withdrawals, street fighting in a dummy village, and patrolling at night. During these, the “enemy” consisted of one or other of our brigade’s battalions. As we progressed, a friendly rivalry began to develop between A Company’s three platoons. Colonel Armitage and Major Flint, who both had personal experience of war, could often be seen arguing fiercely with the exercise umpires and directing staff, who had not. This caused Sergeant Warriner much wry amusement.
“Ha! They’re supposed to teach us,” he said. “Now we end up teaching them! All they know is what they read in tactical manuals!”
I knew what he meant because Warriner’s practical experience had become evident on the first day of the exercises. I had turned up with my issue map case and binoculars slung round my neck.
“Looks as though I’ll be needing a new officer ten minutes after we go into action, sir,” he remarked after giving me a cursory glance.
“What do you mean, Sergeant?”
“Your map case, sir. Reflects in the sun. Jerry sniper spots it, takes a look through his telescopic sight, sees that you’re wearing binoculars. Puts two and two together – map case plus binoculars means you’re someone important. Draws a bead on you and the platoon has lost its officer. My advice is ditch the map case, keep the map in your trouser-leg pocket and tuck your binoculars into your battledress tunic.”
I did as he suggested. A few minutes later Major Flint walked over.
“I see you’ve been taking survival lessons, Andy – well done,” he said, and nodded approvingly at Sergeant Warriner.
In fact, this was one of the few occasions on which I received any praise. When I did well I was called Andy, but I seemed to make one mistake after another and so most of the time it was Mr Pope.
“Mr Pope,” the Major would say, “your two leading sections came over that crest like a line of tin ducks at a shooting gallery! Learn to use the ground as cover, for God’s sake!”
Or, “Mr Pope, you failed to identify that machine gun post to your left. You and your platoon headquarters have been wiped out!”
Or, worst of all, the dreaded phrase, “See if you can get it right this time, boy!”
To be fair, the Major always made these comments out of the men’s hearing and explained the nature of the mistakes to the Platoon in a general way so that they would learn not to make them themselves. He also encouraged us platoon commanders to be more flexible in our approach to tactical problems.
“You have got to win the fire-fight before you even think of attacking,” he said. “The German light machine gun, the Spandau or MG34, is a belt-fed weapon theoretically capable of firing over 800 rounds per minute. Your Brens, on the other hand, are magazine-fed and can only produce a theoretical 450 rounds a minute. So concentrate all your Brens into a single fire base and take out his MG34s one at a time. You’ll find that once his machine-gunners have gone, the average Jerry rifleman tends to give up.”
Likewise, he had his own ideas about using the PIAT (Projector Infantry Anti-Tank), which launched a hollow-charge bomb capable of penetrating a tank’s armour, three of which were issued to each company.
“Don’t think you have to wait for a tank to use your PIAT,” he told us. “If the enemy’s holed up in a house, use it to bring it down round his ears.”
Tactics such as these, based on his own experience, were to prove invaluable when the time came for action. Even so, there were days when I hated him, and I know that Nigel, John and Tony felt the same. The odd thing was, Duncan Flint had an uncanny ability to read my thoughts, which I found disturbing. When, without saying a word, I had decided to do something, he would suddenly bark at me to do exactly what I had intended. This happened quite a lot and was very annoying. Once, after he had given me a real dressing down, I was glaring with dislike at his retreating back when he unexpectedly halted, wheeled round and fixed me with his terrifying stare.
“I don’t give a damn what you think, laddie!” he snarled. “Now, let’s get one thing straight, shall we? My intention is that one day this company will earn a name for itself in history, as did my last company – and you’re part of it, whether you like it or not! Have you got that?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, somewhat shaken. This was just what he might have said if he had known what I was thinking about him, which was far from pleasant.
My father had told me that a young officer’s education is completed in the Sergeants’ Mess, as the sergeants’ long service has given them a wide understanding of human nature. It was the custom for the orderly officer of the day (a junior officer who was responsible for mounting the camp’s Guard which provided sentries during the night, inspecting the cookhouse and many other things) to be invited into the Sergeants’ Mess after his ten o’clock inspection of the Guard. On one such occasion, after paying my respects to Mr Ash, I found myself sitting on a bar stool between Company Sergeant Major Darracott and Sergeant Warriner.
“Bit of a hard time for you, just now, sir,” said the Sergeant Major, who was a Dunkirk veteran.
“Well, if there’s a way of doing things wrong, I usually find it, don’t I, Sergeant Major?” I replied ruefully.
They both laughed.
“Don’t let it get you down, sir,” said Sergeant Warriner. “We’ve all of us had bad patches at one time or another. They come to an end.”
“Maybe you’d be surprised to know that during the exercises there wasn’t a platoon leader in the battalion who didn’t get strips torn off him by his company commander or even the Colonel, sir,” added the Sergeant Major. “True, Major Flint is taking more trouble with you, but he wouldn’t be wasting his time if he thought you were useless, would he? You’d have been
long gone to some depot for the unwanted.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, feeling somewhat reassured. “I dare say I’ll get used to him in time.”
They exchanged knowing glances.
“Fact is, sir, the Major’s seen more than his fair share of scrapping in this war,” said Sergeant Warriner. “Seen most of his old friends killed or badly wounded. That hurts – I know because I’ve had some.”
“What we’re saying is this,” continued the Sergeant Major. “Friends are for peacetime. Being friendly is the way to make friends – he doesn’t want ’em, so he isn’t. That doesn’t stop him being a damn fine officer. D’you get my drift, sir?”
“Yes, I think so,” I said. “I’ll bear in mind what you say, and thanks for the advice.”
I felt much better after this. At first, my handling of my platoon during the exercises had been stiff and awkward, and the men sensed it. However, as my confidence grew they became used to me and we began to work as a team. Grover continued to give trouble in a minor sort of way but was under control. Baker, however, went absent without leave once more. On his return he offered no excuse and was sentenced to fourteen days confined to barracks. I warned him that if he committed the offence again he would probably be sent for a spell in a detention barracks.
Curiously, it was Baker who was responsible for my getting to know the men better. During the inter-company boxing contest, A Company was level-pegging with D Company. Everything depended on the last match, in which Baker was fighting. He had the measure of his opponent from the start, but during the last round a strange look came over his face and he continued raining blows on him after the bell had rung. After he was pulled off he seemed to come to, went across and apologized to the other man, saying that he didn’t know what had come over him. Needless to say, he was disqualified and we lost the match. Major Flint had wanted A Company to win and he was furious.
“Baker is your man,” he snapped at me as he stalked out of the gymnasium. “Sort him out!”
D-Day Page 3
