D-Day

by Bryan Perrett

  “Touch down in five minutes,” said the midshipman. “We’ll get you up the beach as far as we can – save you getting your feet wet.”

  “Stand by,” I said as I made my way forward to the ramp through the huddle of packed bodies. Soaked, cold and cramped as they were, the Platoon seemed only too glad that an end to their misery was in sight.

  The craft slid smoothly up the sand and the ramp dropped.

  “Come on!” I yelled, dashing across it with the Platoon streaming after me. We had been given a full briefing before we left camp and I quickly identified the landmarks that indicated the position of our first objective. We charged across the beach and into the sandhills, where we worked round the flank of the “enemy” position, then attacked it. Knowing that one day we would be doing this in the face of a real enemy, I hoped that it would be as easy. After taking the objective, we moved inland, eliminating pockets of “resistance,” then started digging in as C and D Companies passed through to take their own objectives. The “opposition” was provided by a local Home Guard unit who fired blank ammunition and threw thunderflashes at us. They were middle-aged men, most of whom wore Great War medal ribbons. Their commander, a captain about the same age as my father, also wore the ribbon of the Military Cross.

  “Bit of a lark, really,” he said to me. “Still, it does get you familiar with your landing drills, I suppose.”

  I had a feeling that he wanted to tell me something, but wasn’t quite sure what.

  “Have you been involved with an amphibious landing before?” I asked.

  “Yes, I was at Gallipoli in 1915,” he replied. “Came ashore in unprotected ships’ boats, we did. The Turks just fired into the mass of us with their machine guns. So crowded together we were, you never knew whether the man next to you was alive, dead or dying. Still, we got the job done.”

  I already knew that some of the Gallipoli landings had been a bloodbath and did not know quite what to say. He regarded me with kindly but shrewd eyes and must have seen my concerned expression.

  “Now don’t you go worrying about that,” he continued, patting me on the shoulder. “We’ve all learned a lot since then. You’re better trained and better equipped than we ever were, and you’ve got proper landing craft, too. All I’m saying is, when the day comes, don’t take anything for granted.”

  At the de-briefing, everyone seemed pleased with the way the exercise had gone. Even Duncan Flint was in an affable mood and congratulated us. When I complained that according to the exercise umpires my platoon had sustained eighteen casualties as we came ashore, he simply laughed.

  “Well, they’ve got to award you something, haven’t they?” he said. “After all, yours was one of the first platoons to cross the beach! Still, it’s better than being wiped out, isn’t it?”

  Once they had dried out, even the troops seemed to have enjoyed themselves. Returning from the de-briefing, I found my platoon sitting round in groups, laughing and joking among themselves.

  “Well done, Three Platoon,” I said. “The umpires say that some of us were killed, but those who survived did a great job.”

  “Bit of a doddle, really,” said Helsby-Frodsham, when the laughter had died down.

  “If the real thing’s as easy as that, sir, then let’s get on with it, that’s what I say,” added Corporal Gray.

  “Just one thing, sir,” chimed in the irrepressible Haggerty. “Them landing craft are a disgrace – can’t you get someone to fit ’em with nice comfortable seats?”

  I had some reservations about the exercise, partly because of my conversation with the Home Guard captain, so as we route-marched into Swansea, where a train was to take us back to East Anglia, I asked Sergeant Warriner what he thought of it.

  “As an exercise, very good, sir,” he answered in his flat, matter-of-fact way. “Very good indeed. Can’t be faulted.”

  “But?” I said, knowing that he was holding something back.

  “It was an exercise, that’s all, sir,” he replied, glancing at me sharply.

  “And if it had been the real thing?”

  “We’ll know about the real thing when it happens, sir. Until then, neither of us will be any the wiser.”

  And with that I had to be content.

  I was lucky enough to be sent on leave with half the battalion at Christmas, the other half going at New Year. Turkeys were in short supply, but Mother had managed to find a duck. One day, I thought, there would be better Christmases, but before that happened I would have a war to fight.

  In January 1944 we all attended another lecture in the camp cinema. It was given by a senior officer of the Royal Engineers and the subject was Hitler’s Atlantic Wall, which was the term used for the German coastal defences stretching from Denmark to the Spanish frontier. Much emphasis was placed on the French coast, which was another indication of where we would be going. Below the high-water mark there were obstacles intended to impale landing craft. These obstacles consisted of wooden stakes or “hedgehogs” made from pieces of angle-iron welded together. Both were fitted with explosive charges. The beaches were mined and, where a sea wall did not exist, concrete walls had been built to prevent tanks leaving them. Then there were the coastal artillery batteries, their huge guns encased in massive steel and concrete bunkers. More bunkers, sited to sweep the beach with their fire, contained anti-tank and machine guns. Behind the beach defences there were anti-tank ditches. These seemed to be covered by fire from concrete pillboxes and trenches nearby, most of which were surrounded by barbed wire and minefields. Every building overlooking the sea had also been turned into a miniature fortress. In addition, we were told that the German field artillery batteries, located some way inland, would add the weight of their fire to the beach defences. The engineer officer could not have given us more to worry about if he had tried, but suddenly the whole tone of his lecture changed.

  “Yes, I agree that it looks like a very tough nut to crack,” he said. “However, since the Dieppe raid we have produced the means of dealing with every single aspect of these defences. I cannot tell you what they are, but they have been thoroughly tested and they work. Everyone knows that in this sort of operation it will be you, the infantry, who will be most at risk, and everyone is working hard to ensure that your casualties will be kept to an absolute minimum.”

  After the lecture, Nigel, John, Tony and I discussed what form these mysterious means might take. Sergeant Warriner had told me that, at Alamein, gaps in some of the enemy’s minefields had been cleared by flail tanks. These were old Matilda tanks on the front of which was a revolving drum fitted with chains. When it turned the chains flew out and battered the ground, exploding the mines ahead of the tank. We all agreed that similar tanks would probably be used, but had no idea how the other problems were to be dealt with.

  The following week we were given our objectives, although we did not know their names or even where they were. After crossing the beach and the sea wall, A Company was to take three houses about 100 yards inland. On our left, B Company had a similar task. We were then to take a hamlet half a mile inland. A mile beyond this, we were to take a large chateau, its outbuilding and nearby cottages, then C and D Companies were to go into the lead. When they had taken their objectives, another of our brigade’s battalions was to pass through while we reorganized and consolidated our gains.

  Everyone – officers, NCOs and privates alike – studied the objectives in great detail. We made sand-table models of them and constructed full-scale replicas on the training area. Every so often the RAF would send us their latest batch of air-reconnaissance photographs, some taken from high above and others at low level, and we would incorporate any changes that seemed to have been made in the defences. We also received some pre-war picture postcards of the area, with the names carefully concealed. I got to know the location so well that I could have found my way round it blindfold. We practised attacking the objectives from every direction, with and without tank support, until we had worked out the best pos
sible plan.

  During this time we also received more lectures. The first was from another naval officer who told us how the warships lying offshore would continue to give us gunfire support long after we had landed. This would be controlled by a specially trained observer who would accompany us and identify targets by radio. He also showed us some slides to illustrate the devastating effect of naval gunfire on land targets. Next, a Royal Artillery officer described how, once the guns were ashore, it was possible not only to focus the fire of several batteries, or even regiments, on to a target, but also switch it around the battlefield at short notice, as required. Then, an RAF wing commander told us how we would be given close air support. This would involve a forward air controller, an RAF officer who could see the target from a pilot’s point of view and relate it to landmarks on the ground. These skills enabled him to “talk in” a strike by ground-attack aircraft. More often than not, he said, they would be rocket-firing Typhoons. Each rocket, he told us, was as powerful as an 8-inch shell. We were all very encouraged by what we had been told.

  It was at the end of February 1944 that we learned that Field Marshal Rommel had been appointed commander of the enemy’s Army Group B in north-west France. Everyone was aware of Rommel’s reputation as a dashing commander during the desert war in North Africa. However, as Sergeant Warriner pointed out, he had been decisively defeated at El Alamein by the very man who was to lead our army when it invaded France, General Montgomery.

  In his own way Private Allen, my batman, was also preparing for the invasion. One day he asked me for seven shillings and six pence. When I asked him why, he replied: “I have purchased a small stove and a supply of paraffin tablets from a friend who used to go camping before the War, sir. It occurred to me that in quieter moments we would enjoy a cup of tea. I remember Mr Boris Karloff saying how much he enjoyed my tea. Mr Karloff, you’ll remember, sir, played Frankenstein’s monster in films. He’s English, you know, and Karloff is not his real name, of course. He always said he couldn’t get a decent cup of tea in Hollywood, and…”

  “Well done. Good idea,” I said, hurriedly handing over the money. I little thought then that Allen and his little stove would earn a paragraph in the regimental history.

  Early in April 1944 we were sent on a week’s embarkation leave, which meant that we would soon be going overseas. I can’t say that I enjoyed it, because while my parents tried hard to seem cheerful I could see that they were worried, and I simply wanted to get on with whatever lay ahead. Shortly after I returned to camp we received orders to move. The stores were piled on to our own lorries and the troops clambered aboard a convoy of Royal Army Service Corps (RASC) troop transport lorries. Apart from a handful in battalion headquarters, none of us knew where we were bound, and the RASC declined to comment. I could tell from the sun that we were heading steadily west and then south, but as all the signposts had been removed when it was thought the country might be invaded, I had no idea where we were. During the journey we saw many other convoys, American as well as British, consisting of lorried infantry, tanks, Bren carriers, towed guns, self-propelled guns and vehicles from every branch of the army, their progress carefully regulated by the Military Police in their red caps. Sometimes a convoy would join ours for a while, then turn off along a side road, and sometimes we would join someone else’s convoy before turning off. I began to marvel at the organizational skill that enabled thousands of vehicles and tens of thousands of men to travel simultaneously towards their given destinations.

  It was dusk when we passed through a checkpoint, on either side of which a barbed-wire fence stretched out across the countryside. In the distance I could see armed patrols moving along the fence. I guessed that we were somewhere in the south of England. We travelled on for another 30 minutes before turning off into a large field, surrounded by more barbed wire, in which a tented camp had been set up. Before we dispersed to our tents, we were formed into a hollow square and addressed by Colonel Armitage.

  “We are now in the assembly area for the invasion of France,” he said. “We are, therefore, considered to be on active service. For security reasons, all of southern England has been sealed off from the rest of the country. No one will be permitted to leave, for any reason whatsoever. The boundary of the secure area is under constant watch by armed patrols and the police. Anyone attempting to breach this cordon will be tried immediately by court martial and I do not have to remind you that desertion in the face of the enemy is a crime for which the death penalty can be imposed. It is no longer possible for you to make telephone calls. You may write letters, although these will be censored in the usual way and will not enter the postal system until we have left. Incoming mail addressed to our old camp in East Anglia will be delivered here.

  “We have all trained hard for this moment. We have studied the enemy’s defences and decided how they can be overcome. We already know that we can expect maximum support from the Royal Navy and the RAF, but during the next few days we are going to meet some more people who can help us smash a hole right through Hitler’s Atlantic Wall.”

  My feelings on hearing this were mixed. I felt as though a door had closed behind me and that I would not go through it again until the War was over, assuming that I survived. I also felt that I had become a tiny cog in a machine so huge that I could not begin to understand its size.

  Next morning I could see that every field stretching to the horizon was occupied by infantry, tank, artillery and engineer units. Overhead, fighter aircraft patrolled ceaselessly, keeping the prying eyes of German aircraft at a safe distance. That afternoon we marched along the road to a copse in which Sherman tanks were parked under camouflage nets. I could see at once that they were nothing like any of the Shermans we had seen before, for they were fitted with two propellers low down at the back and surrounded by a girdle of what looked like folded canvas. We gathered round a cheerful captain who was standing on the engine deck of one of the tanks.

  “Let me introduce us,” he said. “We are half of C Squadron, The Flintshire Yeomanry, and we’ll be going ashore at the same place you are. In fact, we’ll be going ashore just ahead of you to make sure that Jerry’s attention is fully occupied by the time you arrive. Our tanks are Sherman DDs, which stands for Duplex Drive, or just DDs for short.”

  He turned towards the next DD with a shout of, “Right-ho, Sergeant Morris!” There was a hiss of compressed air and the folded canvas suddenly rose into a screen that concealed all of the tank except the tracks. There was a murmur of surprise.

  “That is our floatation screen,” continued the Captain. “When it’s erected, we can float, and the propellers drive us along in the water. As soon as we reach the beach, we collapse the screens, engage the drive and fight like a normal tank.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “The idea is that we are launched from our Landing Ship Tank, or LST, some way out to sea. The tank itself will be under water, suspended from the floatation screen. From the shore, we will simply look like a group of ship’s boats – rather smaller, in fact, as there are only a few inches between the top of the screen and the water.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you’re in danger of being swamped if there’s any sort of rough sea running?” asked Colonel Armitage.

  “Yes, Colonel, it has been known,” replied the Captain, grinning. “That’s why we’ll be wearing life jackets. If conditions are too rough, we’ll just have to land direct from our LSTs, but we’ll still give Jerry an unpleasant surprise.”

  “Either way, you’ll still have to get through the beach obstacles, won’t you?”

  “True, Colonel, but they will have been dealt with by naval demolition teams – that is, frogmen. They will time their swim to reach the obstacles when they are covered by high tide. They will neutralize Jerry’s own charges, then clear gaps in the obstacles for the rest of us to go through. The gaps will be clearly visible at half tide.”

  The DDs were a revelation to me, but there were more surprises in stor
e. That evening I wandered into a large wood where I found more unfamiliar armoured vehicles, all heavily camouflaged. I was met by a Royal Engineer officer of about my own age who told me that they belonged to the assault squadron that would overcome the fortifications on our sector. He pointed out some flail tanks, which I recognized from Sergeant Warriner’s description of those used at El Alamein, although these were based on the Sherman and known as Crabs. He told me that once they had cleared a path through the minefield they would stop flailing and fight as conventional tanks. He then pointed out as strange a collection of vehicles as I have ever seen.

  “These are our AVREs,” he said proudly. “AVRE stands for Assault Vehicle Royal Engineers.”

  “What kind of gun is that?” I asked, indicating the stubby barrel protruding from the front of the turret.

  “It’s a mortar, actually,” he replied. “It fires a bomb, called General Wade’s Flying Dustbin, to a range of 90 yards. It’s designed to crack open the steel and concrete of the enemy’s bunkers.”

  Next, he pointed to two AVREs, one with a large iron-girder bridge attached to its front and the other carrying an enormous bundle of brushwood wrapped round with chains.

  “Here’s one of our bridgelayers,” he said. “We can lay the bridge against a sea wall so that other vehicles can cross it. The AVRE next to it is a fascine carrier. The brushwood bundle, or fascine, can be dropped into an anti-tank ditch and becomes a causeway that other tanks can cross. The AVRE can be used for all sorts of other jobs, too.”

  I was astonished by these wonderful machines. Their existence, known only to those who manned them and very few others, was one of the best-kept secrets of the War.