Blitz Kids, page 28
It was not only the elite of the British Army who were fighting back. When the Germans attacked Crete in May 1941 they were faced by one unlikely enemy: seventeen-year-old Merchant Navy cadet officer, J. H. Dobson. He was one of a group of survivors from the freighter Dalesman that had been sunk by German aircraft off the north coast of Crete. The survivors had been formed into anti-paratroop patrols by the Army units on the island, using them to look out for the enemy. Following the fall of Crete, Dobson was taken prisoner but was able to escape after he snatched a machine-gun from his captors, turned it on them and ran off with a number of his shipmates. The group made their way inland, hiding in the hills, before teaming up with some New Zealand gunners. The ragged bunch eventually reached the south coast of the island, found an abandoned ship and headed out to sea. With Cadet Dobson navigating, they were eventually able to reach Egypt. Dobson, who had been on only his first voyage when the Dalesman had been lost, was awarded the British Empire Medal for his role in the daring escape.
Transferred to the 4th Battalion Royal West Kent Regiment in early 1942, Stan Scott remained desperate to serve overseas. Although not yet eighteen, he was no longer in a Young Soldiers battalion and his papers showed him to be nineteen; therefore, he was officially eligible to see active service. As such, he was hoping to see action. As a result, he was disappointed upon arriving at the regiment not to be asked about his military training but about whether he played football. His first orders were to be ready for a football match the next morning. The teenager immediately thought to himself: ‘What am I doing here? I didn’t sign on for this!’
His fears diminished in the following weeks as he was selected for the battalion’s ‘battle patrol’ – a quasi-commando unit that was trained to carry out reconnaissance patrols and specialist tasks. The explosives training and instruction in setting booby traps were exactly the sort of specialist training he relished. For Stan Scott, being a soldier meant being the best soldier he could be. If that meant relinquishing spare time in pubs or the NAAFI, so be it: ‘I was never a bullshit soldier, but I was never scruffy. I enjoyed it when we did fifteen-mile speed marches. I always made my kit up properly and I was always practising and learning.’
Yet for all his hard work, more disappointment was to follow. After a period of intense battle training and an inspection by the King, the unit received orders to go to North Africa. However, Stan’s name appeared on a list of men detailed as the rear party, whose role was to make sure all the unit’s spare equipment was safely returned to stores. After an unofficial stopover in London with his family and a run in with the Military Police, a frustrated Stan found himself transferred to the 2/7th Battalion, The Queen’s Royal Regiment. He immediately felt he did not fit in and was unable to settle down. However, there was one advantage to being in a unit he disliked: he was finally sent overseas.
More frustration was to follow when he discovered they were going to be far away from the front lines, guarding oil pipelines in Iraq. The posting did offer Stan his first opportunity to use his weapons in action, firing on buildings occupied by gangs responsible for stealing from the British Army, but it was a far cry from what he had volunteered for. Eventually, the good news came that the battalion was to be sent to North Africa. However, once again Stan was called before his commanding officer who announced that his real age had been discovered and he was being sent home. During censorship of the mail between Stan and his family, his true age had been revealed. Frustrated, he was sent by train to the coast, then by ship to India. He was further frustrated to find himself in the company of servicemen far less eager than him: ‘I was cursing. I went back on a train with two RAF blokes, all they were interested in was skiving. At Basra it was all base wallahs and shit-house wallahs. People who weren’t interested.’ After a long and circuitous journey, he arrived back in England in April 1943.
Upon arriving in the UK, Stan was transferred to Maidstone, where the 13th Infantry Training Centre was based: ‘I must have been the youngest instructor in the British Army. I was eighteen years old!’ The role of the training centre was to prepare newly conscripted men for infantry service: ‘I enjoyed it. They came to us after they’d done their six weeks basic training. We taught them: skill at arms; assault courses; and fieldcraft.’ But whilst Stan was a well-trained soldier, and someone who had prided himself on learning everything he could about the weapons he had been trained to use, training others had not been his intention when he volunteered aged fifteen. After a few squads had passed through the unit, he realized he was going nowhere and began to think of ways he could see active service.
With more volunteers having joined No. 3 Commando to replace the men lost at Dieppe, Fred Walker found himself in the Mediterranean ready for the assault on Sicily and Italy. In July 1943, his unit landed on the Sicilian coast at Scoglio Imbiancato, before advancing on the town of Cassible. Fred later described the night landing and the attack as ‘a doddle’ and recalled how, despite having been in the Army since 1941, it was his first chance to really strike back at the enemy:
The first time I fired my Tommy gun in anger was at a group of five Italians who were about thirty yards away. I looked up and unloaded a full magazine – twenty rounds – at them. Then they all stood up – I never hit one of them! I was panicking as I reloaded, but I took them prisoner. I was going to shoot them but our captain came up and stopped me. I’m glad that I didn’t kill them.
In the days that followed Fred found himself in his first real action. Dieppe had been an introduction to the chaos of war, but now he was about to find out about the intensity of combat. Advancing on a German-held bridge that the commandos needed to capture and hold, Fred found himself as the lead scout. As he later recalled: ‘I think they were trying to get rid of me!’ As they approached the bridge they saw German vehicles coming across from the other side. One of his mates fired a Projector, Infantry, Anti-Tank (PIAT) gun at the column. The bomb went straight through the first lorry and hit the one behind. It was full of ammunition and immediately exploded and burst into flames. With the enemy realizing their position was under attack, the commandos were hit by intense defensive fire.
As the battle wore on, Fred found himself crouching behind trees, unable to dig in to the solid earth and fighting back against increasing odds. As the battle reached its conclusion, it was clear their situation was hopeless:
We were waiting for relief by the 8th Army, but they left us in the shit. We’d had about five officers killed, and twenty-three other ranks. We were getting shelled, and our captain – Captain Lloyd, an Australian – got hit. He was a lovely man. He went into a pill-box and it was hit by a round from an 88. The situation was so bad, Peter Young said, ‘Every man for himself!’
Whilst some escaped inland, Fred joined a group that made for the coast:
Four of us were on the beach. It was 13 July 1943 and I was just coming up to my nineteenth birthday. We saw a little boat, about six foot long, so we put our guns inside and tried to push it out to sea. We wanted to hide there overnight. But the boat was rotten so it sank. It was so hot we decided to have a swim. So we swam for about 100 yards. But along came an Italian light tank that opened fire on us. My mate had to stand up and wave his white vest.
They quickly surrendered to the Italians and felt a sense of terror as the Italian officer put a gun to the head of one of the commandos. He froze, expecting to be murdered. They were lucky, the Italian was only trying to scare them and they were quickly handed over to the Germans for interrogation. Thinking quickly, the commandos, who had lost their uniforms when the boat sunk, claimed they were merchant seaman whose clothes had been lost when they were shipwrecked. They had rowed ashore. The ruse was unsuccessful: ‘This German paratrooper said, “You are No. 3 Commando.” They knew all about us.’
That night the commandos were able to slip away from their captors. Using the cover of darkness they found a small ditch and crawled along until they found a cave on the beach. There they fell asleep. In the morning they saw a German officer standing outside: ‘I went up to him and asked for food, cigarettes and water. They just gave us cigarettes – the Germans had nothing else. They were in trouble themselves.’ With German resistance finally failing, Fred was able to reach Allied lines.
With the commandos having sustained heavy casualties, efforts were made to find reinforcements. With the commandos expecting to play a major role in any invasion of France, good quality soldiers were needed to fit into the most heavily trained units in the British Army. In September 1943, commando representatives arrived at the 13th Infantry Training Centre in Maidstone to find volunteers from among the most recent batch of recruits. Instead, they encountered a former ‘boy soldier’ on the staff of the training centre, who remained keen to get into action.
Stan Scott had originally attempted to join the commandos whilst still sixteen years old and serving in a ‘Young Soldiers’ battalion, but had been refused on the grounds of age. Listening as the officers told the recruits about the exploits of the commandos in the Mediterranean, he was convinced to volunteer again. At the end of the talk there was a call for volunteers to step forward: No one moved: ‘I thought, “This is a chance to go into action.” I marched up, halted and saluted – dead regimental – “I’d like to put my name down.” He told me sorry, but as an NCO on the strength of this training unit, he couldn’t take me.’ Frustrated but not disheartened, Stan asked what he would have to do to be selected and discovered he would need permission from his commanding officer: ‘I went down that hill to his office like a bloody rocket.’ Within minutes he had seen the regimental sergeant major, been granted permission to see the colonel and been given written permission to be released: ‘I went up that hill so fast. I got to the gym and they were still there. I composed myself, marched up and told him the colonel gave his permission that I may volunteer for commando service.’ Within days, his orders came through and he made his way to Achnacarry in the Highlands, where selection and training took place.
At Achnacarry, Stan went through the same punishing routine that had been experienced by Fred Walker and his mates two years earlier: ‘It was unbelievable. You cannot imagine it: it was winter in Scotland – I thought I wasn’t going to get through it. We would do a fifteen-mile speed march, then do more training when we got back to the camp.’ It rained every day, they were sleeping in tents, but Stan Scott enjoyed it. Unlike some of the other units he had served in, everyone was there because they wanted to be. They were all volunteers, all dead keen and all did their best to meet the expected high standards. As Stan recalled: ‘After the first week, I’d have stood in the way of the Flying Scotsman, I felt that strong.’
It was on one of the intense speed marches that Stan came closest to failing the course:
I got blisters on my feet, I was in agony. All of a sudden they got nice and easy: they’d burst. My boots were filled with blood. It was raining, there was blood and water coming out of the eyelets of my boots. But I had my mates around me. One got hold of my belt, the others held my arms – so my feet were hardly touching the ground. We got back in the camp, went up the hill and had to fire ten rounds at the targets. Then we had a foot inspection. The medic said to me, ‘You’ve had it. It’ll take a couple of days to get back on your feet.’ That meant I’d be ‘back-squadded’ – meaning I’d have to do it all again.
It was a prospect that did not appeal.
He asked the medic if there was anything that could be done to speed up his recovery:
He got these funny-shaped scissors and some liquid. He said he was going to cut all the skin off, then said, ‘Hold on to the arms of the chair. This is going to sting. I’m going to bathe them in surgical spirit.’ I thought, ‘That ain’t bad.’ Bloody hell, it stung! I can still feel it now! But it worked, I was back on parade the next morning.
His return to training was also aided by some advice from a fellow commando. He was told to get boots that were a size smaller but in a wider fitting: ‘Then I had to pee on them before I put them on. He also told me not to wear socks. It worked. I never got another blister, they fitted me like gloves.’ The advice meant his feet survived the course, he received his green beret and was posted to No. 3 Commando. On his first leave after completing commando training he realized why he had endured all the hard training: ‘I was wearing my No. 3 Commando and Combined Operations badges – with my “green lid” [beret]. I went to the Railway Tavern for a drink and met my dad. I felt on top of the bloody world!’
Having failed to achieve his aim of joining the RAF, Eric Davies had left his Carmarthen home and joined the Army. After training he was sent to North Africa where he joined a carrier platoon with the 1/5th Battalion of the Queen’s Regiment, part of the fabled 7th Armoured Division – ‘The Desert Rats’ – as they landed in Italy in September 1943. Having made the fateful decision to join the Army just after his seventeenth birthday, rather than await either the call from the RAF or conscription after his eighteenth birthday, meant that he was fully trained by the time he was eighteen-and-a-half. Had he waited for his call-up he would have still been in the UK. Instead, he was about to go to war.
For Eric, the campaign started slowly: the enemy troops his battalion met were mostly Italian who were eager to surrender and, as Eric told himself: ‘life was not too bad’. And then things began to change. War engulfed his life, taking over every element of his existence: ‘We realized this was not a nine to five job. Once it started, it never ended. There were attacks during the day and patrols at night.’ The first time he came up against German troops, the sky seemed to be full of aircraft, there were shells flying through the air – both Allied and enemy – and enemy infantry in plain sight. Worst of all, there were the ‘monstrous’ enemy tanks that put the fear of God into him:
It was terrifying and we knew this would be no walk-over and that our life expectancy would be measured in seconds. We had spoken among ourselves about what it would be like to kill. We very soon learned that it was kill or be killed. Little did I realize that I would be killing, in one way or another, for the next two years. Thankfully my first kills were at a long distance with a machine-gun. So I didn’t know how many Germans I had actually hit.
It was not long before he found himself caught up in house-to-house fighting in the Italian town of Scafati, as the Germans repeatedly counterattacked their positions: ‘This was close fighting where you saw the whites of their eyes before killing them.’ It was not just the killing that had a profound effect on the eighteen year old. He was horrified to see a pack of rats descend on a corpse in the rubble of an Italian home. As he watched, the rats began to strip away the dead flesh. He saw his first case of shell shock as one of his comrades jumped up and ran away during a mortar barrage. As the campaign continued he grew to accept the death: ‘By now I had lost a few friends. Because I had stopped and spoken to them as they lay dying – and had hugged some of them – their blood had got into my clothes, and it smelled.’ This smell of death seemed to linger with him for the next two years.
One consequence of these casualties was that there was rapid promotion for the survivors. As the old hands – who had fought in France in 1940, been evacuated through Dunkirk, and then fought through North Africa and into Italy – were killed or wounded, it was up to youngsters such as Eric Davies to replace them. Just eighteen years old, he was promoted to corporal, then to sergeant. As the division was withdrawn from Italy in late 1943, Eric realized those brief months fighting had made him one of the veterans. He tried to absorb what had happened to him since he landed in Italy:
This was the end of an era. I don’t know how I was able to stick it, every day and every night, with hardly any rest. I am sure that if I had not been an NCO I would have gone AWOL. The worst part is the middle of battle, when there is a lull and you sit down. When it was time to move on, you had to whip them, and yourself, up. You are sitting there nodding off and they expect you to get up and go and kill or be killed.
With the invasion of France not far off, it would soon be his turn to impart his knowledge to a new wave of conscripts – boys of his own age – and teach them how to stay alive.
Notes
1. Quoted in Robin Neillands, The Raiders – The Army Commandos 1940–1946 (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1989).
CHAPTER 13
The World Turns
If this is war, why am I enjoying it so much?’
Seventeen-year-old British girl1
‘My main concern was to obtain supplies of Brylcreem, a hairdressing product particularly popular with young men.’
Peter Richards, sixteen-year-old Londoner2
For all the early hopes of war being ‘over by Christmas’ – which became a sort of annual mantra – the war went on. The air raids had come, gone and returned, and had spread across the country in a seemingly endless ebb and flood. The innocent teenagers of the early war years had matured into fighting men. And for the youngest of the children, those who could hardly remember the pre-war years, peace appeared an abstract concept. Truly, the world had been turned upside down. For the teenagers, their life seemed predestined: from spring 1942, youths aged sixteen had to register for training in preparation for war service. Although registration was compulsory, there was nothing to force anyone into training. However, with the RAF glamorized by the Battle of Britain, boys flocked to the ‘Air Training Corps’ in the hope of eventually gaining their wings. For teenage girls the ‘Girls Training Corps’ was established.
The experience of war had an enormous impact upon the nation’s youth. For many, it seemed normal teenage pursuits had been put on hold. As John Cotter recalled: ‘You couldn’t meet girls. I’d been to one or two dances but never had any success, so I didn’t think it was my scene. I stopped going until I joined the Air Force.’ In West London, Bill Fitzgerald – who was employed in a factory making tents for the Army – had a similar experience of teenage life:
