Intervals of Hope, page 20
The ramp opened.
The men in front went down.
Machine guns fired. There were echoes. Yelling. Screams.
I wanted to stay, to turn the craft around and go back. Too many had already died getting out. But I was in charge; I had to get the men moving. I had to go.
“Move!” I shouted, pushing the men one by one and then following them out myself into the waist-deep water.
A beach lay before us, littered with men and explosions, fire, bullets. The temporary stillness that accompanied us in had become thunder.
The noise was deafening as navy boats fired, bombers shelled, and machine guns rattled.
More men fell.
Pandemonium. Chaos.
Smoke bombs were dropped by low flying aircraft, to disguise the advance of the troops.
The Company Commander had to shout to be heard, moving us forward.
I urged the men ahead with their heavy packs, as some of them tried to stop and help others, all of us wading forward.
“Don’t stop!” I told them. “The medics will get them! Look ahead!”
There were grey blankets visible beside medics attending to the wounded on our smoke-filled Gold Beach. This area was not cleared but full of machine gun fire, enemy snipers, and obstacles on the beach’s edge.
We plowed toward the shore to the whine of bullets near and far. We fired blindly into the quickly dispersing smoke.
American tanks and transport trucks rolled off ramps, with men and boats as far as the eye could see. Engineers moved in with wire cutters to clear obstructions of barbed wire, and others worked on mined metal beams offshore and on the beach.
Men dropped, and bodies littered the sand and floated all around.
There were too many men dead and alive to count, shelling and explosives causing unbelievable clamour.
The Company Commander directed other vessels ashore. Recalling navigations through innumerable obstacle courses, I waded as quickly as possible through the water, knee-high now, yelling at my men to do the same.
Then, our boots met sand.
I utilized my training in Scotland and England when leading my troops through. Taking quick inventory of those remaining, I walked at a pace not frantic, but steady. Firing into the hills ahead, sometimes blindly, not waiting for the clearing of the barriers, we pressed on. All that was on my mind was escaping that nightmare beach.
For all my rationalizations and justifications, what was I doing here?
I dropped down as low as possible, as often as I could, as my Commando training had taught me to do. Without waiting for others to get onshore, I instructed them to charge forward along with me.
Men were dropping around me. An active machine gun nest. A metal bunker.
Get them or they would certainly get you.
“Drop down!” I said, and the men obeyed.
With my rifle, I took aim at the opening. The gunner stopped firing and was attempting to reload. Metal ricocheted off metal as I fired several shots, picking him off.
Running forward, concealing myself behind bushes as I did, I tossed a grenade in that direction, and then another. After detonation, smoke emerged from the bunker.
Then, temporary silence.
My men rose up, and we proceeded.
We moved on toward buildings on the beach front, houses and hotels. A nice place, surely a tourist destination, in better days.
And now, we needed to get to the checkpoint.
Moving forward slowly, methodically, cautious with each step, we began plowing forward at a rapid pace. We ran and crawled through trenches and fortifications covered with barbed wire. Shallow trenches, not like in Pa’s war.
“Another training exercise with live ammunition!” I told the remaining fifteen men in my charge, as I pushed some wire aside and moved through.
With difficulty, we were able to pass through a hedgerow, a barricade advantageous to German defenses which we had not planned for, a set of 12-foot tall bushes that caused an impediment for our tanks. Coming out scratched and bleeding on the other side, the air ripe with gun smoke, and eager for death, with planes dropping bombs from overhead in an infernal racket, I yelled as my men emerged from the greenery.
“Look out for mines or obstructions!”
We found ourselves near a dirt roadway, a short time later. I counted seventeen groups of British and American privates escorting prisoners back to the beaches before I stopped taking note. Coming upon an area that was still noisy but somewhat quieter, we stopped for a brief rest. Fifteen of my men were here.
I lit a cigarette and opened Pa’s journal, as the men dropped their packs. No one spoke, although I wondered how we had made it through. We didn’t want to continue, that was implied, but we certainly didn’t want to go back to that beach.
The Canadians pushed Fritz back about three miles from the Somme front, where there were a thousand Fritzs put out of their misery. There were all kinds of guns and an unlimited supply of ammunition, and we pounded Fritz 24 hours a day. Fritz was getting short of men all right, for he had Marines in the trenches.
The ground we advanced over was plowed up, with shell holes all over. The villages were nothing but a pile of brick dust, and the woods looked as if a big storm hit. When Thieval was taken, 2,800 guns bombarded it, each gun firing an average of 10 shots a minute. So that gives an idea what Fritz was getting. And our land Forts walked over to frighten Fritz with a quick firing four-pound gun and a bunch of machine guns. When Fritz beat it, we turned on the machine guns and mowed them down like grass.
We were made aware of an attack coming up where we would have to take Fritz’s front line trench on a 250-yard front. We had been in the trenches 24 hours and it was hard to get rations up to us. We were all pretty hungry. The attack began, and we got Fritz’s front line alright. He had some big saps dug in the ground, 20 feet, and they were all timbered up and bomb proof. Well, this German we found dead in one of the trenches was getting his supper ready, and we all chipped right in and ate it for him. He had hot coffee, bread, butter, jam and sausage. And we never lost an inch of it.
A short time later, after eating canned meat and a peanut bar from my field rations, we resumed our travels along the roadside.
A jeep appeared in a trail of dust, and we scattered into the bushes.
Peering through the foliage, I saw a tall officer with a dark moustache driving one of our jeeps. The Company Commander, Johnston. We emerged to greet him.
He was making rounds, and, as we approached his vehicle, smoke and flames appeared behind him in the distance.
“You here to tell us about grandma’s sweets again?” I asked, approaching him.
“Your orders have not changed,” he said, examining a crumpled paper, “And you’re heading in the wrong direction.”
“Who’s on our flanks?” I asked.
“The 3rd Canadian Division, 7th Brigade’s on your left and the British 50th Infantry Division, 151st Brigade’s on your right. That could change any time, everybody’s advancing at different rates. So keep an eye on your flanks all the time. Your key objective is still a place northwest of Caen near Bretteville-L’Orgueilleuse. The 5th Battalion of the East Yorkshire Regiment, currently in La Rivère, will soon be joining you in the fun. Now get moving.”
Day passed into night in a blur of small villages and towns. We had been unleashed on the enemy. Mont Fleury had endless German gun emplacements, and we went after them all. Ver-Sur-Mer, surely an inviting town in more peaceful times, didn’t welcome anyone. Crépon machine guns and field guns fired back at us.
Allowing the tanks to go first, we crossed the Seulles River over a pontoon bridge. We then went through some of the villages from house to house to flush out Germans, smashing windows and tossing in grenades like we were back in training, some soldiers running out when the grenades hit the floor, others still cowering inside, beside the dead, as we came crashing through front doors.
I lost five more of my men to German fire. Good men. Good soldiers.
Passing by parachutes, countless bodies, gliders with broken wings, and craters that littered the land, we hiked and ran as full transport trucks, tanks, and artillery passed by periodically. We found ourselves stopped finally at nightfall, exhausted from the weight of our packs and from lingering thoughts of those we had left behind.
After resting for a long time and consuming some field rations, I took a few minutes to analyze my maps. We were eight miles inland, about three miles from Caen, miles yet from where we were supposed to be, and only halfway to our stated objective. Without knowing what had happened and why, we needed to get to our objective point of Bretteville-L’Orgueilleuse, what I was calling “Betty the Organist.”
Once the expression caught on, Richard, one of my men with brown hair and matching eyes who spoke rapidly and was a good shot, stood over me as I lay on the ground.
“We have to get to the party to see Betty,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll put on quite a recital.”
“I’ll say,” I replied. “We’ll fire off an R.S.V.P. And then we’ll have some swell time.”
Later that night, new instructions were delivered by a runner, an American on a bicycle disguised as a local Frenchman. The instructions were to set up perimeters with guards, and so I ordered the few remaining men I had in my charge—10 out of the 30 who started—to take refuge in a wooded area beneath bivouacs, tarpaulins set over long poles, the only function of which was to keep the rain off. The runner also provided orders indicating that we were to proceed to Cruelly by 0700 tomorrow morning, as a Sherman tank would be firing upon the town at 0900 the following day.
There were slit trenches and dugouts to be cleared with grenades, and while we were dropping our explosives down, we found no Germans anywhere. There was no enemy fire at all that night, and no rain. We cooked eggs that some of my men brought back from a local farm. We alternated watch as others, exhausted, slept beneath the bivouacs, their heads resting on knapsacks in a period of temporary peace.
When my turn came, I lay there, dreaming of riding Betsy through the streets of London, and the amusements of my irresponsible days.
Late the next afternoon, looking for fresh water as we were walking down a peaceful country road while enjoying the singing birds and the lovely view on our way to Cruelly, the dirt suddenly came to life. Heavy machine gun fire from a farmhouse up the road. We had gone too close to the medieval town.
Frantically, dropping out of sight and sprinting through the wheat fields lining the roadway, bullets whining after us, we beat it out of there. I shouted at my men to follow. We ran until the bullets ceased and the wheat became weeds and bushes. We regrouped in an overgrown area, beside a tree covered with foliage. Seven of my men followed. I immediately recognized who among us was not here.
“Rodney, John, and David?” I asked, nearly out of breath. “Where are they?”
“Down,” Richard replied, panting. “Not wounded. Dead. Back there, on the roadway.”
“I’m responsible. I brought us too close to the town.”
“None of us saw anything before the shooting started…”
My father’s war letters sometimes revealed war as a contest, a game—where challenges were overcome and rewards instilled—instead of the candour of this horrendous liability.
“You didn’t kill them,” Richard continued. “The Germans did… so, where are we now?”
“This is our vantage point,” I said, peering out through the greenery with binoculars. “There’s a single machine gun emplacement at that farmhouse in a fortified concrete pillbox, and German snipers in the silos. All waiting for the party to start. Not Betty’s party, but a party nonetheless. And we’re the guests of honour.”
I was ready to go home. The boys often talked of their hometowns. But where was my home, anyway? Around here, the houses which were once homes were in farm country with cattle, cows, pigs, and chickens. Up the road was the entrance to the cruelty of Cruelly, blocked and barricaded with Germans on guard. A howitzer stood at the ready. My orders indicated that a Sherman tank would be firing upon the town at 0900 tomorrow morning. We were far enough away from both the farmhouse and the town entrance, and evening was approaching.
I posted a guard and fell into an uneasy sleep.
Several hours later, I was roused, and took guard.
The hours passed looking out into a darkness permeated by searchlights and listening for noises in the distance. Men shouted, and jeeps moved.
A while later, we went over to the roadway.
We sat and waited while searchlights probed elsewhere. When no jeeps were travelling by, one by one, we made the trek to the other side of the road, closer to the farmhouse.
Then as the sun began to rise, giving us the light we needed, we made our move to get even closer to that farmhouse and protect any troops and equipment that might be coming up the road to take the town.
As the sun cast illumination over the fields, the snipers looked out from their silos. They did not see us yet.
Their searchlights, and those around the town’s perimeter, were extinguished.
I alerted the men to stay low. We would have to crawl on our bellies. The wheat stalks, only four feet tall, were our best ally. We began by moving through the fields to a nearby stream in a wooded area, where we stopped for a drink and to fill our canteens. Following alongside a winding path, we emerged in an area where the water came close to the farm.
The silos were within easy view now.
The men came, one after the other, in quick succession.
Next, a gravel path led up to a wooded area next to the barn. Richard and Archie approached me once we reached the wooded area.
“What now?” Richard asked.
“This place is lit up like Christmas morning,” I said. “Time to make my move. Listen: you two are my best shots. I want you both to stay here. Richard, you’ll be in charge. Can you two hit the silos from here?”
“We certainly can,” Richard said.
“Then when the shelling starts, I want you two to take the snipers out.”
Then, turning to each in turn, I continued:
“Oliver, Sanders, George, Tom and Will, you are to spread out and focus on the pillbox. Me, I’ll take that pillbox with your help. Then, we’ll all go for the howitzer at the entrance to the town and take that out. Clear the way for the 151st.”
Moving quietly like a foraging jungle cat, I shifted through the brush and up to what looked like a clearing behind the barn, clutching a grenade and waiting.
When the shelling started at 0900, the timing precise, we had enough of a distraction to begin our assault. Shots rang out through the fields and then, from the pillbox. The snipers both fell 10 metres to the ground. As instructed, there was continuous firing at the machine gun nest.
Aligning myself behind the barn, I pointed my Bren gun around the corner as the firing continued from both sides. I was close enough to see the eyes of the men in the bunker as they fired without noticing me. I ran toward the bunker. My men ceased firing. The German machine gun continued, and when I was close enough, the Germans finally saw me. I tossed a grenade in. One blast. Silence. A few distant explosions. Another grenade thrown in and detonated. I walked in to find three men, none of them moving.
At the entrance to the city, the howitzer was blown apart on the ground from the shelling. The Germans shot back for what might have been an hour. Then, groups of our boys, reinforcements from the 151st Brigade, came marching down the road. Two Sherman tanks followed soon after.
We moved through the town with chickens running at our feet, and we installed snipers in the church and at the Cruelly Castle, northwest of the village. The Germans came out and surrendered, and were held in a centralized location.
A Second Lieutenant in his late fifties from the 151st, Gerard, handed us orders, instructing us to proceed to Caen.
“We were headed there anyway,” I said. “So, we’re glad to go. There’s a party not too far from there.”
“The First World War was fought on this same terrain, but it was not as fluid as this,” Gerard said. “It was just stagnant. Nothing doing at all, sometimes for days or weeks.”
“Before this, I wanted an end to my endless training,” I replied. “But nothing doing for days or weeks sounds like a picnic right now.”
We continued, exhausted, not having slept much the night before, our ammunition supplies low.
We followed a British tank for a time, chopping our way through twelve-foot hedgerows that we did not know were there, hedgerows that the Germans defended vigorously.
And then, on the fifth day, our ammunition nearly depleted, we stood down for some well-needed rest.
I was told that our Company Commander Johnston had been wounded and that additional men from the 151st, who were separated from their division, were on their way to regroup with us. More coming to join the search for Betty’s party.
Supply trucks began arriving, along with jeeps and armoured vehicles. We stayed in a village near Caen that had been liberated, where we were given fresh clothes, eggs, and chocolate by local women who also showed us where we could obtain fresh water from the wells. They spoke little English.
All of this was a welcome sight for these sore eyes, including a woman from the town who reminded me of Jane. She said in mangled English that the Germans treated them well. Although these women were polite, the presence of us as an invading British force in their town, just as the German one before us, was not welcomed but tolerated. Fine, all the same.
Word from the 151st was that the fighting in Caen was intense.
“There were multiple assaults waged against the city,” Gerard said. “And the 69th and the 151st continue to fight. But before we reach the place, there is an apple orchard nearby.”
We stopped at the orchard that night, and I gathered countless apples before I lay down under a tree to sleep before my watch began.
