Sergeant Warriner had said that Corporal Gray knew what was troubling Baker, but when I approached him he was reluctant to discuss the matter. I said that it was in Baker’s interest that he should, because if Baker went absent without leave again he would be sentenced to detention. That meant his pay would be stopped and his wife and family would suffer because of it. He thought about it for a minute, then told me the story.
“Ron Baker and I have been friends for years, sir,” he said. “Well, one night before the War we were at a dance. That’s where he met Mary. Well, being a boxer, Ron’s light on his feet and a good dancer. The two of them won plenty of competitions. They got married and now they’ve got two boys. Ron thinks the world of them. Well, just after the War started, Mary fell ill. She’s never really recovered and if anything she’s got worse. Her doctor says an operation would set her right, but every penny they’ve got goes to paying his bills, buying medicine and looking after the boys. There’s nothing left to pay for the operation, nor will there ever be on a private’s pay. Ron’s worried sick about it, and that’s why he keeps going absent without leave. What makes it worse, sir, is that he’s a proud man who won’t take charity from anyone.”
“Thank you, Corporal, I’ll see what we can do,” I replied. “In the meantime, don’t mention any of this to Baker.”
I reported this to Duncan Flint and together we went to see Colonel Armitage.
“You say that in every other respect Baker is a good soldier with the potential to become an NCO?” asked the Colonel after he had considered the problem.
“Yes, Colonel,” I said. “If we can’t help he’ll keep going absent without leave. He knows he’ll get detention next time, but it won’t stop him, and nobody will be any better off.”
“I will support that, Colonel,” added Duncan Flint.
“Quite so,” said the Colonel. “Andy, find out who is the family doctor, will you? While you’re doing that, I’ll talk to the Secretary of the Regimental Benevolent Fund.”
Corporal Gray gave me the doctor’s name, which I passed on. A couple of days later I was called into Duncan Flint’s office.
“Your man Baker,” he said. “The Secretary of the Benevolent Fund has spoken to his doctor. He, in turn, has spoken to the specialist who will carry out the operation. In the circumstances, the specialist will reduce his fee, which will be paid by the Fund. Nevertheless, I want you to verify Mrs Baker’s situation for yourself. You can borrow my jeep on Sunday morning and drive over to see her – take Baker with you.”
I told Corporal Gray that we might be making some progress, and that Baker should meet me at the Guard Room at 08:30 next Sunday, but not the reason why.
That Sunday, I found Baker waiting for me at the Guard Room, wearing a puzzled expression.
“Where are we going, sir?” he asked as we turned out the camp gates.
“What’s your home address?” I asked.
“22 Webber Street, Donby, sir. Why?”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
“Someone’s been talking,” he said, his face flushing with anger. “I’ll deal with him when I get back.”
“No, you won’t. He was thinking of your boys. He says they’re proud of their dad – how d’you think they’d feel about you ending up in detention barracks and no money coming in?”
He remained silent, but I could see that he understood.
“And another thing,” I added. “Your wife needs an operation – let’s see if we can get her one, shall we? That way, she gets better, the boys get looked after, and you stay in the Platoon.”
“I’ll take charity from no man,” he said stubbornly. “I’ve never had ‘owt but what I’ve earned, fair and square.”
“It’s not charity. The Regiment looks after its own and the Benevolent Fund exists for just this sort of situation. Besides, I know you wouldn’t want your wife to suffer longer than she had to, or become so ill that she couldn’t look after the boys. Apart from which, we both know that if the War hadn’t broken out, you’d have earned enough to deal with the problem yourself.”
“Happen you’re right, sir,” he said with a sigh. “Seems I’d best put my pride in my pocket, then.”
About an hour later we drove into the small industrial town in which he lived. He directed me into a street of terraced houses and asked me to pull up outside one of them. As he got out of the jeep two small boys who had been playing football ran towards him with delighted yells. When they had calmed down a little he brought them over.
“These are my lads, sir. This is Jack, he’s nearly seven, and this is Tom, he’s five. This is Mr Pope, boys – he’s my officer, so mind your manners, the pair of you. I’ll just let your mam know we’re here.”
“Hello,” I said. “Ever sat in a jeep before? Jump in.”
A few minutes later I joined Baker in the house and was introduced to his wife. She would have been good-looking but for an expression of pain that had become etched on her face, and she moved slowly and with difficulty. It seemed obvious to me that she couldn’t go on much longer like that. I told her what had been decided and that she should contact her doctor, who would arrange for the specialist to carry out the operation.
“I don’t know what to say, sir,” she said, and burst into tears. Nothing in my training had prepared me for this and I was horribly embarrassed.
“Just get well, that’s what we all want,” I mumbled, and told Baker I would wait for him in the jeep outside.
“You’ve taken a ton weight off my shoulders, sir,” he said when I dropped him off at the Guard Room. “Thanks – we’re both very grateful to you.”
It was now approaching lunchtime. I found Duncan Flint reading a newspaper in the ante-room. He barely glanced up when I told him the result of my visit.
“Good,” he said at length, turning a page. “If there are any more personal problems in Three Platoon, see that you sort them out before they become this serious.”
He was right, of course, but his manner infuriated me. The following week Mrs Baker had her operation and made a good recovery. After that more of the men came to me with their problems. I found myself arguing with Duncan Flint about their leave entitlement, with the Paymaster about their pay and with the Quartermaster about their kit. I arranged compassionate leave when members of their families died and saw to it that they had legal advice when they needed it.
I had been advised that it was sometimes wise to be blind to minor faults and deaf to chance remarks that one might overhear. One day, however, I heard some of the men talking about me when they thought I was out of earshot.
“He’s all right, is Mr Pope,” said one.
I felt as though I had grown a foot in height.
October 1943 – May 1944
During the months that followed we still remained in ignorance about where we would be sent. Duncan Flint refused to speculate, but Nigel felt that because we trained a great deal with armoured regiments, it was unlikely to be Italy – the Italian campaign had become an infantry war in which tanks had only a limited role to play. More than ever, therefore, we became convinced that we were being trained for the invasion of France.
This seemed to be confirmed when, in October, each company was sent to the Battle School at Thetford. There, we carried out live ammunition exercises and completed a stiff assault course during which constant explosions simulated shellfire and machine guns fired inches above our heads as we crawled through or jumped over the numerous obstacles. I was extremely nervous, for I knew that people had been injured and even killed during this sort of training. Fortunately, nothing of that sort happened, and I suppose it gave us all an idea of what to expect. However, looking back, I now know that it could not possibly duplicate the sheer naked fear we experienced when we were faced with the real thing.
We were getting our breath back when Nigel pointed to a group of officers in unfamiliar uniforms talking to the Directing Staff.
“Americans,” he said. “Come
to see how it’s done, I expect.”
Being based in East Anglia we had met plenty of American airmen, but these were the first soldiers we had seen, although the United States had entered the War on the side of the Allies in December 1941.
“I like their waterproof uniforms,” said John. “They call them combat fatigues, I believe. Those round helmets of theirs must be easier to keep on than the ones we’ve got – mine bounces all over the place.”
“That’s no surprise,” commented Tony. “You’ve got a pointed skull like a Martian. Sometimes I think you are a Martian.”
“Frankly, old chap, yours wouldn’t stay on at all if you hadn’t got so much hair,” retorted John. “Better not visit the barber’s – no one would recognize you when you came out!”
“Uh-oh! Looks as though we’re getting a visitor,” observed Nigel as Duncan Flint walked towards us with an American officer whose helmet had the single white star of a brigadier general on the front. The Sergeant Major called the company to attention and we officers saluted. The American was portly and wore rimless glasses. I thought he looked like a banker in a Hollywood film. A white identification label saying FASSBINDER was sewn on to his tunic.
“At ease, men,” he said, grinning broadly. “I’ve been watching you this morning and I consider that you gave a fine display of fitness, speed, stamina and determination. I guess that you guys are just about combat ready.”
The men were obviously pleased. Then, to my horror, Haggerty, the joker from Liverpool, spoke up.
“You goin’ to have a go yourself, then, sir?”
Duncan Flint’s eyes flicked angrily from Haggerty to me and I expected to be called to account later. Fortunately, the American took it in his stride.
“Hell, no, son,” he replied, chuckling. “You fellers have been at this since the War began – we’re just getting started! When the time comes, though, we’ll be right in there pitching alongside you!”
When the American had gone, Duncan Flint turned to face the company, hands on hips. I think we all knew what to expect.
“Now I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “By my standards you were satisfactory – just. I’ve seen you move much faster but the only reason I’m not sending you round again is that when you really come under fire you’ll discover you have a turn of speed you never thought possible!”
The men laughed. I think they liked his style, which was more than we did at the time. Telling the Sergeant Major to dismiss the company, he turned to us.
“And as for you four, I expected more from you!” he snapped. “You should have set the pace, not conformed to it. You’re paid to lead, so lead!”
“Miserable so-and-so!” muttered John angrily as the Major stalked off. “Nothing we do ever seems to satisfy him!”
I could see that Nigel was angry, too, but as the company’s second-in-command he had a duty to support Duncan Flint, whatever he thought privately.
“He’s doing his job as he thinks best,” he said. “Remember, he’s had a lot more experience than we have. What’s more, though he’s older than us, he still got round the course first, and that gives him the right to criticize.”
“It wouldn’t hurt him to say ‘well done’ now and again, would it?” I commented.
“You know, he’s never said as much, but I think he’s rather pleased at the way the company is coming on,” Nigel replied. “Just the same, I don’t think he’ll let up until he’s satisfied he can take us into action. That’s when I think he’ll ease off.”
“He’s still a miserable so-and-so,” said Tony.
Nigel rounded on him sharply.
“That’s enough! He’s your company commander and don’t you forget it! And get your hair cut – you’re starting to look like one of the girls who serve in the men’s canteen!”
A fortnight after we got back from Battle School, a naval commander gave the whole battalion a lecture, with slides, in the camp cinema. He told us that as a result of the landings in North Africa, Sicily and Italy, the Royal Navy had accumulated a great deal of experience and was preparing to mount the largest seaborne landing in its history, of which we would be part.
“Obviously, I don’t know where you’ll be going, and I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you if I did,” he said. “However, as far as you are concerned, the drill will be as follows. First, you will board an LSI, which is short for Landing Ship Infantry. Most LSIs are former passenger liners or cross-channel ferries converted to carry LCAs, that is, Landing Craft Assault. You will remain aboard the LSI until you are seven miles from the objective, then transfer to the LCAs, which will be lowered into the sea. Once you are all afloat, the LCAs will line up and head for the beach. The operation will be controlled by someone like me from a motor launch, the advantage being that he has radio contact with the overall commander of that landing sector and knows the situation on the beach ahead.
“If the weather is bad, you won’t find the LCAs comfortable – they’re almost flat-bottomed and they pitch and roll a lot. As if that isn’t bad enough, they are blunt-bowed because of the landing ramp you’ll use to get ashore, and a lot of spray comes inboard in any sort of choppy sea. We call them ‘kipper boxes’ for obvious reasons, but they’ll get you there and give you some protection against the enemy’s fire as well. Are there any questions so far?”
“What about our supporting armour?” asked Colonel Armitage. “And when can we expect our Support Company’s heavy weapons to arrive – the anti-tank guns, mortars and so on?”
“Most of the tanks will come ashore directly from Landing Ships and Landing Craft Tank,” replied the Commander. “The idea is that they will touch down some minutes ahead of you. That way you’ll find that Jerry’s attention will be fully occupied by the time you put in an appearance.”
A murmur of approval went round the hall. I was a little puzzled by his use of the word “most” and it would be some months yet before I understood why he had used it.
“As for your own heavy weapons,” the Commander continued, “you can expect them to arrive in the follow-up wave. Your transport lorries have a lower priority and will be landed as soon as you’ve captured sufficient ground ashore.”
He went on to describe some of the specialized landing craft that the Navy had produced to accompany our amphibious assault. There were landing craft armed with guns, rockets and bomb-throwers, all designed to deal with some aspect of the enemy’s defences. In fact, there seemed to be a landing craft for every conceivable job, including one fitted with stretchers that could ferry casualties out to the waiting hospital ships.
“Nevertheless,” continued the Commander, “we’re not letting you and the landing craft crews have all the fun. Before you go in, the enemy’s defences will have received one almighty battering from our battleships, cruisers and destroyers. As if that isn’t enough, bombers from the RAF and US Army Air Force will give them another battering, and you’ll have continuous fighter cover all the way. I can promise you this – it’s going to be a very noisy party indeed! Anyway, we’re going to give you a dry run next month – give you a chance to get some good sea air into your lungs and play about in the sand a bit!”
This produced laughter and a mutter of approval. I think we all looked forward to this exercise as a break in the training routine.
In the middle of November 1943 the battalion made a day-long journey by troop train, reaching Cardiff docks in darkness. I could just make out the name Countess of Antrim on the stern of the LSI we were boarding. Everything went like clockwork, for the ship’s crew had done this many times, although none of us had been aboard a Royal Navy ship before and it showed immediately. Unfortunately, Three Platoon tried to walk down the steep companionways as though they were stairs. Inevitably, someone’s hobnailed boot skidded on a steel tread, and the result was that those below him were swept away by his fall. The tangle of protesting bodies at the foot of the companionway caused the seamen much amusement, as it did to those of us who were not involved
. As it sorted itself out I felt a certain amount of guilty pleasure that Grover was at the bottom of the pile. Winded and bruised, he picked himself up, swearing horribly that someone had done it on purpose to spite him.
Shortly after, the ship moved out into the Bristol Channel. I managed to get some rest on one of the bunks in the officers’ quarters, but when the steady thump of the ship’s engines slowed I knew that we were somewhere off the Welsh Gower Peninsula, where our landing was to take place. A moment later the Tannoy loudspeaker crackled into life, telling us to report to our allocated landing-craft stations. I reached the deck to find a sleet-laden wind blowing. I made my way forward in total darkness to No 4 Port Side, where Sergeant Warriner had just finished calling the roll.
“All present and correct, sir!” he reported.
“Get your troops aboard the landing craft, if you please, gentlemen!” shouted a petty officer.
We clambered over the ship’s rail and into the craft. I made my way to where the craft’s commander, a young midshipman, was standing beside the small armoured structure in which the coxswain, responsible for steering the craft, stood behind his wheel. When the midshipman was satisfied that everyone was aboard he gave the order to lower away. As we were lowered down the ship’s side into the sea, the craft’s engine burst into life and we moved away into open water. The men settled themselves in a crowded huddle on the deck. The craft was pitching and rolling in a series of sharp jerks and whenever the blunt bow smashed into a wave, spray flew back at us. This, together, with the sleet, meant that we were soon soaked to the skin. A light blinked to starboard.
“Control launch,” explained the midshipman. “Everyone seems to be lined up, so let’s go. Full ahead, coxswain, steer oh-one-oh.”
“Oh-one-oh it is, sir,” replied the coxswain.
The engine note rose to full power as the craft headed for the distant shoreline, still invisible in the darkness. The journey took longer than I had expected and it was obvious that the men, drenched with flying spray from time to time, were not enjoying it. Looking over the side, I could see the bow waves of the other landing craft on either side. It all looked most impressive. At length the sky to the east began to lighten. Ahead lay a low black smudge that I took to be land. The details of this became clearer as the light strengthened into a grey twilight. I knew that this was only an exercise, but it was as close to the real thing as we would get for a while, and it was exciting.
D-Day Page 4
