The following day all the battalion’s officers spent time with those of the DD and assault squadrons. We learned that they too had practised on mock-ups of the enemy defences. We worked out which areas would cause each of us problems and how we could solve these by working together. The commander of the assault squadron told us how his teams would operate. First, the Crabs would flail a path through the minefield to the sea wall, then turn to one side. Then, AVREs would lay their bridges against the sea wall, to create ramps. Next, the fascine AVREs would climb the ramp and drop their brushwood bundles into the antitank ditch beyond. The DDs would follow, providing fire support for our attack on the houses and strongpoints. In addition, the assault team possessed armoured bulldozers that could uproot obstacles and fill in craters. When he was asked what would happen if one or more of the vehicles in his assault teams was knocked out he replied that this had been allowed for and sufficient numbers would remain to complete the task.
During the night I heard the DDs and the assault squadron moving off and guessed that they were being embarked aboard their LSTs. Later in the day we were issued with ammunition and rations for the landing, and that afternoon the Support Company’s vehicles and antitank guns left for the embarkation area. The rifle companies were told they would be leaving next.
As it happened, it was my turn to be orderly officer. I was walking around the camp’s perimeter fence at about midnight when I saw movement in the distance. As I ran towards it I saw a figure laying a plank across the barbed wire. Obviously, someone was trying to desert.
“Stop where you are!” I shouted, loosening my revolver in its holster.
The figure turned and I recognized it at once.
“Where d’you think you’re going, Grover?” I asked.
He loomed out of the darkness, full of menace.
“Get out of me way!” he snarled. “I told you – I’m not gettin’ me head blown off in any bleedin’ invasion, not for you or anyone else! So you’ll just clear off, sonny, if you know what’s good for you! Try and stop me and I’ll kill you!”
“No you won’t,” I replied, drawing my revolver. “For a start, I’m armed and you’re not.”
He paused warily, but was obviously waiting for me to drop my guard before he pounced.
“Think about what you’re doing,” I continued. “Once you’re over the fence you stand a good chance of being picked up by one of the patrols. If they’re American, they might be trigger happy and shoot you on sight. If they’re British, you’ll face a court martial and a firing squad. But let’s suppose you get through, what then? You’ve no papers, you won’t get work or a place to live. You’ll spend years on the run and at the end of it you’ll still be caught and face a court martial. Is it worth it?”
I could feel his hatred as though it was a physical force.
“Yeah, it’s fine for your sort,” he said. “Had it made from the moment you were born, didn’t you? You make me sick. And what have I got to come back to? Nothing!”
“Let me tell you something,” I replied. “Once we’re over there, Jerry couldn’t care less where we come from or anything else about us. To him, we’ll just be targets to be shot at, and as far as that goes we’ll all be equal. At least you’ll come home with a bit of respect for yourself and that’s better than looking in the mirror and seeing a coward.”
He swore horribly and looked away. All the aggression seemed to have evaporated. At that moment I was sick of him and everything about him.
“You can desert if you want to, Grover,” I said. “I won’t stop you. You’re no use to me, you’re no use to the rest of the Platoon and you’re no use to yourself. We’ll all be better off without you. Suit yourself.”
With the odds stacked so heavily against him, I was reasonably sure that he would stay, but I was taking a calculated risk. If he went, his departure would be welcomed by everyone, but if it ever became known that I had let him go I would be in serious trouble for breaking the disciplinary code. The best I could expect was a severe reprimand from the divisional commander, and the worst a court martial. Against this, if he stayed I would have done my duty and he might just pull himself together.
“Very clever, aren’t you, Mister Bleedin’ Second Lieutenant Pope?” he said after a moment’s indecision, then turned and disappeared among the tents. I was suddenly aware of Sergeant Warriner emerging from the shadows.
“Been expecting this,” he said. “Had my eye on him. You handled it well, sir. You can charge him with attempted desertion and gross insubordination if you want to.”
“I don’t,” I replied. “Any other time I’d have thrown the entire book at him. Just now, however, I had the impression that he’d looked himself in the face for the first time and didn’t like what he saw. So, either we lose a deadbeat or we get someone who’ll pull his weight. Can’t lose, can we?”
The Sergeant gave one of his short laughs.
“Ha! Nineteen now, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yes, why?” I replied, irritated by the question.
“Nineteen going on thirty – you’ll do all right for me, sir!” he said, turning away. “Good night.”
I wondered if I would be all right when the time came, or whether I would be found wanting. If I made a mistake, the result would not just be another roasting from Duncan Flint, but lost lives. For a moment I felt the heavy burden of responsibility, then realized that there was no escape from it.
3 – 6 June 1944
During the early afternoon of 3 June a convoy of RASC lorries arrived to carry the battalion to Southampton, its port of embarkation. The journey was slow, with frequent halts caused by the volume of traffic heading for the port, so that it was not until evening that we reached the quayside. After a roll call, we marched along the line of moored LSIs. We halted alongside our old friend the Countess of Antrim and were directed aboard. Everything seemed pleasantly familiar. Hardly had the last man set foot on deck than the embarkation gangways were removed, the mooring lines were cast off, the engines began to throb and the distance between the ship and the quayside began to widen steadily.
I was startled by the speed at which it happened. I had expected something like a band to play us off or a rousing speech from a general, but instead there was only the bustle of quiet efficiency. However, if I was surprised by the speed of our departure, I was equally surprised when we dropped anchor only a mile or two off the English coast. In the gathering dusk I could see the outline of many other ships anchored nearby, but not their details. A full gale was blowing and there was no incentive to remain on deck. Obviously, it would be impossible for us to make an amphibious landing in those conditions.
After dinner, Duncan Flint distributed maps to his officers. I saw that we would be put ashore at the southern end of the seaside resort of St Grégoire-sur-Mer, that the name of the inland hamlet we were to take was St Grégoire Le Petit and that the château was called Flambard-Chambourcy.
“We’re going to Normandy!” exclaimed Nigel, running his finger along the line of coastal resorts. “I’ve already been to some of these places.”
“Normandy?” I said in surprise. “But I thought that we’d use the shortest crossing, and that’s from Dover to Calais!”
“That’s what Jerry thinks, too,” said Duncan Flint. “So we’re going in somewhere else!”
I remembered the Major’s advice about treating the enemy to a dose of the unexpected.
“Now listen,” continued the Major. “I know I’ve pushed you very hard since I arrived. I expect that there have been times when you’ve called me a name or two among yourselves.”
“Yes, that’s right,” murmured Tony. The Major ignored him.
“Well, I hope the one thing I’ve taught you is to think for yourselves. As you’ll have gathered, we have been planning this operation for years and every possible contingency has been allowed for. Yet my experience has always been that however carefully an operation is planned some things start to go wrong from the very
beginning. If that weren’t the case, there would be no need for officers. As it is, we’ll have to sort out whatever does go wrong, and quickly too. So, within the context of the battalion and company plans, use your initiative. Now go and brief your platoons.”
The gale continued throughout the following day, with the ship pulling hard against her anchor chain. Her officers said that even if we crossed the Channel they would not be able to get us ashore, so we would have to make the best of it until the weather improved. On 5 June the weather began to moderate, but was still very unpleasant. The troops, who had been keyed up for the assault, began to grumble at being confined below decks. Then, at about 14:00, the anchor came clattering up, the engines began their steady thumping and we headed slowly out to sea. By late evening we had reached a point in mid-Channel and slowed to a standstill, surrounded by hundreds more ships of every type, including more LSIs, LSTs and many types I could not identify. Destroyers fussed around the lines like sheep dogs, shepherding vessels into the correct order. I spotted the midshipman who had commanded our landing craft during our exercise off the Gower Peninsula.
“Does this mean we’re going in, then?” I asked.
“Looks that way,” he replied. “The forecast for tomorrow promises some improvement, but there’ll still be a nasty sea running. Still, Jerry won’t be expecting us in this sort of weather, and that’s a bonus.”
“Won’t he have lain minefields off the French coast?”
“Oh, yes, but they’ll be some way out. Anyway, our minesweepers will be clearing lanes through them, if they haven’t done so already.”
Shortly after, we received official confirmation that we would land at 07:35 next morning, which meant that we would start boarding the landing craft at 05:00. Now that we knew what was happening, everyone’s spirits rose. “Good. Let’s get on with it – we’re fed up waiting around out here,” was the Platoon’s general view when I passed on the news.
Towards dusk, the whole mass of shipping began moving slowly southwards in the direction of Normandy.
I had grown used to the almost permanent presence of our fighter aircraft during daylight hours, and to the drone of heavy bombers at night. On the night of 5 June, however, that drone was multiplied many times over. I did not know it then, but one British and two American airborne divisions were about to parachute on to what would become the northern and southern flanks of the beachhead.
At about 04:30 Sergeant Warriner and I inspected the Platoon’s equipment, arms, ammunition and rations. A cheerful sailor came round, handing out cans from a box.
“Self-heating soup, mate,” he explained. “You’ll have a long cold run in and you’ll be glad of it. Instructions are on the can. You’ll be pleased to hear that the RAF has started beating the daylights out of Jerry.”
I had been conscious of the constant roar of aircraft engines for over an hour. Even so, everyone was feeling on edge, so it was a relief when we were ordered to our landing craft stations. Because of an overcast sky it was still dark when we reached the deck. The French coast was invisible, but I could see the flash of explosions and the glow of fires in that direction. As I clambered aboard the landing craft I saw that three lightweight ladders had been stowed along one side of the craft, as we had been promised. These were intended to help us cross the sea wall and the section commanders had already detailed the men who were to carry them.
We were lowered into the sea without incident, but not even the exercise off the Gower had prepared me for the sea’s ugly movement when we left the ship’s side. The gale had certainly abated, but there was a huge swell moving crossways beneath us, so severe that in addition to the motion I’d expected (and the clouds of flying spray), the craft seemed to slide sideways down those heaving mounds of water. As the light became stronger I could see more of our landing craft forming up into an assault wave. The sea was covered with ships as far as the eye could see, many of them flying large silver balloons trailing thick wires to deter low-level air attacks. Overhead, I could hear more bombers heading for the coast to continue their remorseless battering of the enemy’s defences. Then came the squadrons of fighters, ready to pounce on any intervention by German aircraft, though none appeared.
After a while, I was conscious that we should have commenced our run in towards the coast. However, we remained more or less stationary, although the midshipman occasionally manoeuvred the craft to allow for the tide having carried us away from our correct position. I had hoped to reach the beach with a fit, aggressive platoon, and the longer we remained afloat the less likely this became. In fact, some of the men had already begun to vomit and many of the rest were looking green and sweaty.
“What’s happening?” I asked the midshipman at length.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Some sort of hold-up ahead. Maybe the LSTs have had trouble getting in.”
As I watched the last of the bombers making their way back to England, there was a sudden distant flash far away to our left. I could see a battleship, wreathed in smoke, and seconds later the roar of her guns reached us. Then, every warship in sight seemed to open fire – battleships, monitors and cruisers, all filling the air with furious sound and blasting the enemy’s defences with tons of high explosive every minute. I knew I was watching history being made, but at that precise moment I felt too sick to care.
“Here we go,” said the midshipman in response to some unseen signal. The engine note rose to full power as we pushed steadily ahead. I glanced over my shoulder at the fast-receding Countess of Antrim, conscious that we were leaving our last link with home.
The craft’s motion eased somewhat now that we were moving. I began to feel better and took more interest in what was going on. The lines of landing craft forging ahead were themselves an impressive sight. As the coast came into view I could see explosions and fires raging ashore. We passed through destroyers pounding away as hard as they could. Shells began to burst round us, sending splinters clattering off the hull. Minutes later we passed a craft of some sort, on fire and sinking, with men floundering in the water. I was horrified, but there could be no question of our stopping to pick them up without becoming a target ourselves, and in any event people were depending on us to do our own job.
“It’s not all one-sided, is it?” I said.
“Never is,” replied the midshipman levelly.
The incident made me realize that we were only minutes away from sustaining casualties of our own. During the months we had been together, I had grown to like the men of Three Platoon, and now it was inevitable that some of us would not live to see the end of the day. I looked round their stolid, friendly faces. Some were seasick, but all were impassive, keeping their fear locked away from the others. I knew that I was doing likewise, because my own fear had begun to grip me in its icy hand.
We passed a Landing Craft Rocket just as it sent salvo after salvo of its missiles streaking whoosh-whoosh-whoosh towards the beach minefields. Now I could see the three houses we were to take, instantly recognizable from our constant study of air photographs. I could also see the lines of semi-submerged stakes and iron hedgehogs and, beyond them, lines of LSTs crowded together at the water’s edge. Nearby, a Landing Craft Gun was banging away at the beach defences. On our own craft a seaman was manning a machine gun, rattling away at an unseen target. The combined level of noise was such that we barely heard the enemy’s rounds striking the ramp. The seaman slumped behind the gun mounting with a dark stain of blood spreading across his left shoulder.
“Starboard ten!” said the midshipman sharply, then “Midships!”
I could see a light flashing from the control motor launch and that the battalion’s landing craft had all turned on to this new heading. With growing alarm I pointed out that this was taking us away from our objective. The midshipman explained that because of the congestion he couldn’t get us in where we should be, but would drop us as close as he could.
“Port ten – take her in!” he said a moment later, then t
urned to me, a smile creasing his normally dour expression.
“Away you go – give ’em hell!” he said as we shook hands.
As I made my way forward I suddenly remembered the Home Guard captain’s description of Gallipoli and wondered whether the landing craft’s interior would be swept by machine-gun fire when the ramp went down, turning it into a shambles of dead and dying. Chilling fear fought with the residue of seasickness in my stomach. My legs felt so leaden that it was an effort of will to get them to move.
“We’ve come in too far to the right!” I heard myself shouting to the Platoon. “Bear left as soon as we’re ashore and run like hell! The sooner we get under the cover of the sea wall the better!”
The men, their faces set, nodded dumbly. There was a screech of tortured metal as we scraped past one of the obstacles, an iron framework known as Element C. I was horrified to see that a large explosive charge was attached to it. To my intense relief, the charge did not detonate, but I had no time to reflect on the subject as the craft slithered to a standstill on the sand and the ramp went down.
“Come on!” I yelled as I ran down it, then slopped through a few yards of water to reach dry land. As I pounded over the beach I could see the entire shoreline. The rest of the company, and B Company beyond, were all running hard for the sea wall. Here and there a man dropped. Others were being helped to safety by their comrades. In the distance a DD was burning, but more DDs were pumping shells into the fire slits of the concrete beach bunkers. A bridge AVRE leaned at an angle, its track shot off. Crabs were flailing paths up to the sea wall and more vehicles were pouring out of the LSTs. Green tracer from an enemy machine-gun post began to flash past me from left to right, about thirty yards ahead. I thought I would die when I reached it, but kept running. It stopped, possibly because one of the DDs had neutralized the post. Mortar bombs began to explode nearby. Behind me I could hear Sergeant Warriner’s bellow as he urged the men on:
D-Day Page 6
