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Down to
Earth
11 SAS
1st Para
JOINING UP
Monday,
June 24th 1940 was a glorious summer's day, the sort of day one spent
swimming or fishing or strolling through country lanes; for me however, it was
the day I went to war.
I
volunteered to become a regular soldier with the Grenadier Guards and after the
normal basic training period at Caterham Barracks, found myself, during those
autumn and early winter days, when the London Blitz was at it’s height,
seemingly interminably entrapped, ill equipped for combat, at Wellington
Barracks with the Holding Battalion, in a perpetual routine of guard duty,
either at Buckingham Palace or at one of the numerous posts surrounding the City
of London, known as ‘Whitehall Defences’. When a call for volunteers for a
newly formed Parachute Unit appeared on the Battalion Notice Board, a number of
us with a shared feeling of inadequate preparation, for the almost certain fury
of the imminent invasion by German forces and spurred by the rumour of extra pay
and the luxury of exchanging life in army barracks for the comfort of ‘civvy
billets’, submitted our names for consideration. Within a few weeks, those of
us who were accepted, found ourselves en-route to Achnacarry, a regular Commando
training area, set in the rugged highlands of Scotland. The winter of 1940 was
bitterly cold and the training area perpetually wet and bleak. Under canvas, in
a hollow surrounded by steep hills, our clothes, once wet, stayed wet. The
prelude for every parade was the ascent of a steep hill, but the variety of
activities taught compensated for the lack of amenities. Over a period of weeks
we absorbed an understanding of signalling (semaphore), explosives, map reading,
weapon training, unarmed combat and cliff climbing techniques. Interspersed with
these activities were long, physically demanding route marches in rugged
terrain. On one such march, we were required to cross a swift flowing stream
between two trees. We pulled ourselves hand over hand beneath the rope, but
unfortunately one colleague, with a bren gun strapped to his back, lost his grip
and fell face up into the water beneath, with fatal consequences. At the end of
this training, those of us who were still around were supremely fit and eagerly
awaiting the next stage. This involved a stint of several days at a rifle range
near Liverpool, to hone our skills at marksmanship. It was at this time that we
learned that a detachment from the Battalion we would be joining, had been
dropped at Tragino, in Southern Italy, where they breached a vital aqueduct
carrying a main water supply.
After an
expansive period of advanced physical training and then, finally, some
preliminary training at Ringway Aerodrome, Manchester, came the long awaited
culmination of our efforts, a series of parachute jumps in Tatton Park,
Knutsford, near Manchester. The day before our first jump, we were taken to the
landing site to observe a demonstration drop, by a group of Polish parachutists.
On a cold, sombre morning we stood and listened to the steady drone of a distant
Whitley, as it approached the dropping zone. As it came into sight above the
tree-tops, we could see the hole at the bottom of the fuselage, from which the
paratroops would emerge. One after the other, they came out, in textbook fashion
and then, to our horror, two came out locked together. Jumping from opposite
sides of the whole, instead of jumping alternatively they had emerged
simultaneously, with the consequence that although their chutes initially
opened, the rigging lines wrapped around each other, the chutes collapsed and
the two bodies hitting the ground at a high velocity were killed instantly. This
incident was not the most encouraging of introductions to our chosen means of
arrival at some future battleground. However, the following day, a much warmer
and sunnier occasion, saw us determined and purposeful, gathered at the base of
a balloon for our initiation into the still evolving art of parachuting. Lying
underneath the balloon, I watched them descend, fast and straight down at first
and then, as their chutes opened, drifting with the wind clear of the balloon
cable. It seemed so idyllic and carefree, until suddenly there were only four of
us left and as we ascended in the balloon I found that I was to be the last to
jump. Sitting alone perched on the edge of the hole, I waited for the command to
go, then after a free fall lasting only brief seconds, my chute opened and
joyfully I contemplated the scenery below, as I descended gently to earth. Wham!
Suddenly my chute collapsed and my speed of descent increased. Fortunately my
chute quickly stabilised and I hit the ground according to the methods instilled
in us during practice sessions in the hangar. As I had disappeared through the
hole in the floor, the Sergeant Instructor, parachute at the ready throughout
the exercise, had jumped over the side and landed on top of my own chute! After
a series of night and day plane jumps, seven in all, we were presented with our
coveted parachute badge and pronounced fit to take our place with the Unit, 11
Special Air Service Battalion, which was split into two separate bodies, both in
civvy billets, but one at Congleton and the other, to which I was assigned, at
Knutsford. I could not, however, but admire the guy, who despite an overwhelming
fear of heights, had forced himself to complete the whole sequence of jumps
before requesting to be ‘Returned to Unit (RTU)’.
It was
about this time that Guardsman ‘Frankie’ Garlick, having exited through the
hole of a Whitley in the prescribed manner, then finding himself suspended
beneath the belly of the plane, was reluctantly compelled to survey the panorama
below, a bird’s eye view of the landscape near Edinburgh, in Scotland. The
Whitley continued its journey back to Manchester, with it’s unscheduled
passenger still dangling beneath the fuselage. The plane landed slowly with the
tail lifted higher than normal and Frank survived almost free of injury, to
continue his participation in the affairs of the battalion.
Although
almost every other member of the unit seemed to be a Guardsman, in fact most
Regiments of the British Army were represented. Also it consisted of the most
cosmopolitan collection of individuals it was possible to imagine. There were
Irish, both Northern and Southern, Scots, Welsh, a Spaniard, a Jew and a Pole.
One guy was a committed Communist who had seen action in the Spanish Civil War
and another who professed admiration for the Fascist philosophy, elements which
would normally create ethnic and political tensions, but, overriding all these
various considerations were two overwhelming common bonds, a fierce pride in the
Unit, which we designated, "THE Battalion’ and a common fear of failing
to measure up to the high standards required, with the resultant ultimate
punishment (RTU).
Although
we were a highly trained and viable Unit, we were not uniformly attired, for we
continued to wear the cap badges of our original Regiments, but with the
addition of a parachute badge worn on our right arm; this created many an
exploitable situation in the local pub whilst relaxing in remote areas. The
eventual deeds performed by the Battalion were as nothing, compared to the vivid
exploits recounted over many a free glass of brown ale.
The
threat of invasion was now no longer imminent, but still a possibility, so from
time to time large or small groups would be missing from the normal activities.
They would be dropped in some vulnerable area of England, with a specific
target, which would be defended by troops, stationed in that area, who were
familiar with the terrain. The specific exercise could be a brief encounter
lasting a few hours or a more complex affair spread over a number of days. These
schemes served to keep morale high and also gave attackers and defenders much
needed practice in deployment and tactics. The downside of the coin was the
inevitable list of casualties and the expense involved. We were dropped with
only meagre food supplies and instructions to fend for ourselves, just as we
would in actual combat and any vehicle which was considered a source of danger
was to be immobilised by removing the distributor. This distributor was to be
placed in a bag, suitable identified, and handed in to the authorities at the
conclusion of the exercise. The bags however were frequently lost in the heat of
the moment, which was inevitably a source of some embarrassment.
All
aspects of Parachute Operations were at this stage subject to experiment and
frequent change of direction. This applied particularly to the aircraft, which
were to deliver us. The hole in the floor exit of our main carriers, the
Whitley, was a cumbersome and slow method of disgorging troops, so that they
were spread too far apart on the dropping zone. It was obvious that a better
means of exit would be through an open door in the side of the aircraft, as was
common practice in troop transport aircraft and we looked forward to the time
when this method could be implemented. The evolution of the various methods of
dropping weapons and the changes in fighting apparel are well documented. A most
welcome innovation was a light, but very warm sleeping bag, which made cold
nights spent in the open a much more endurable experience.
Life at
this time had a touch of the bizarre, not only for conventional members of the
three Services and the general population but even more so for we ‘Special
Forces’. It was inconceivable, given that, an invasion force, consisting of
the might of the victorious German Wehrmacht, was poised on the beaches of
France, awaiting favourable conditions and with our shipping carrying vital
supplies of food and materials, being sunk at an alarming rate; with our cities
and centres of production being devastated and with Britain alone in a position
to resist the, seemingly inevitable, subjugation of Europe, that the reason for
continuing the conflict, the eventual defeat of the Axis forces could be
seriously considered. Yet here we were, training to be dropped into enemy
territory !!
The fact
that we spent a great deal of our off duty hours in the company of our civilian
hosts, resulting in a serious problem with security, could only be sustained as
a temporary solution to the overall need for a suitable Regimental base. Another
embarrassing dilemma was evidenced when the need arose to discipline a soldier
for a transgression of the rules. The offender was confined in an empty house,
requisitioned by the Military for the purpose, for a specified period. One of
the guards detailed to ensure his captivity, was detailed to march him to and
from his normal ‘civvy billet’, at each mealtime. The evening ceremony would
invariably take much longer than the earlier ritual, because the route back,
involved passing a pub during the hours of opening, a custom which was seldom
observed by this elite body of men.
MOVING ON
Suddenly
the whole war situation changed. On June 22 1941, Germany embarked on a
campaign, code-named ‘Barbarossa’, against the Soviet Union. This switched
the German priorities, both in man power and resources to the confrontation on
the Eastern Front. Now, for England to speculate about a victorious outcome, was
no longer an idle concept and the psychological effect of this turn of events
lifted the spirits of all elements of British society.
And so 11
SAS, originally 2 Commando, again changed its identity. Moving to Hardwick, in
September 1941, under the command of our new CO, a martinet by the name of
Lieutenant-Colonel Eric Down, we became 1st Parachute Battalion. It was then
that the persistent rumours we had been hearing of newly formed Airborne Units
became a confirmed fact. However we, as long established pioneers, regarded
ourselves as somewhat superior to these other ‘Johnny-come-lately’s’, so
it came as an immense shock to our self-image and was the cause of much
inter-battalion friction, when C Company, 2nd Battalion, was chosen to make what
resulted in an archetype Airborne assault, on a German radar installation at
Bruneval, on the coast of France, in January 1942.
The shock
of the drastic change in life-style, now that we were accommodated in more
conventional quarters, was exacerbated by the strict disciplinary regime imposed
by Lieutenant-Colonel Down, with the emphasis being placed on physical fitness,
endurance and efficiency in all known aspects of guerilla warfare. From time to
time, a familiar face would disappear, as the person in particular failed to
measure up to the standards required. With the passing of time, life became
routine, a common Army problem during periods spent preparing for possible
combat, on some future battlefield, at some distant date. Incessant combat
training, route marches and physical feats of endurance were the order of the
day.
The days
and months of late 1941 and early 1942 drifted by until, in March 1942 we
departed Hardwick for the less rugged and warmer territory around Bulford, on
Salisbury Plain. Now it was that we came into contact with other standard units
of the British Army and our new and most welcome allies, the American Forces.
Inevitably our off duty energies were dissipated in physical confrontations at
the local dance hall, either with other Battalions, other Regiments or more
usually our allies and quite often, opponents at one instance, suddenly became
allies against a common, natural opponent, at some later stage in the
proceedings.
In August
1942 we were officially transferred from our original Regiments, to become
founding members of the ‘Parachute Regiment’, a wing of the 1st Airborne
Division, Army Air Corps, and some time later were issued with our new
Regimental badge and a ‘Maroon Beret’, the colour of which was viewed with
misgivings by a large majority.
This
event marked the beginning of a period of battle readiness by the 1st Battalion,
now under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Hill. During the month of August, we
were confined to barracks and briefed for a major role in a Commando raid on the
French coast, at Dieppe. A German gun emplacement dominated the assault landing
area and it was considered that a prior parachute landing, in the rear of the
emplacement, was needed to neutralise the battery before the main assault from
the sea. We emplaned for this exercise in some trepidation, it certainly looked
easy on the scale model we had studied, but the French coast was heavily
fortified and manned by troops who had yet to taste the bitterness of defeat in
battle. Suddenly we received the order to disembark, because the project had
been cancelled. In actual fact, the Canadian Commandos, becoming aware of the
raid, has insisted on their involvement. They were assigned to our task and when
the raid took place, they attempted to assault the gun emplacement from the
front, were massacred and the whole exercise was a tragic failure.
Shortly
afterwards after a training exercise at Exford, we marched back, with full pack,
to Bulford, a distance of 110 miles, in just over three days. Each night when we
stopped, we were some distance from the nearest pub, to which most everyone
journeyed, so that the actual distance covered was much more than the registered
length.
Later we
were again briefed for a raid on the island of Ashant, near Brest, to assault
and capture a German garrison. Again this was cancelled.
NORTH
AFRICA
November
1942 saw the 1st Parachute Brigade, as part of a huge escorted convoy, on a long
and tortuous voyage, heading for the port of Algiers, as a component part of
Operation ‘Torch’, tasked to seize and occupy Northern Tunisia and cut off
Rommel’s escape route to occupied Europe. The three battalions of the Brigade
were each given a specific and typical Airborne objective, to deny the enemy
vital airfields in the vicinity of Tunis. The 1st Battalion dropped unopposed on
an airfield at Souk el Arba. Leaving the airfield in the hands of the friendly
French Garrison, we proceeded in commandeered French vehicles to Beja, a primary
objective situated at a vital road junction. It was a requirement to persuade
the French Garrison to support the Allies. To convince them that we were a
considerable force, we marched through the town twice, at intervals, each time
dressed differently, once with steel helmets and again with red berets, well
spread out and in different formations on both occasions.
The
weather over the next two months deteriorated rapidly, freezing cold with
incessant rain, so the Battalion was reluctantly forced to adopt a defensive
role; occasionally moving to a fresh area, the monotony relieved only by the
numerous fighting patrols, to reconnoitre the enemy position. Several such
patrols became legendary, unfortunately resulting in casualties, depriving the
battalion of the services of outstanding soldiers; one such casualty being the
CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Hill; command of the battalion being taken over by Major
Alastair Pearson, who was to become the most famous Battalion legend of them
all. It was during this period that I acquired my only war souvenir, a German
cut-throat razor, the expert use of which I mastered, very slowly and very
bloodily.
Sometime
in early January, we were withdrawn from the front line and returned to our base
in Algiers. On arrival I reported sick and was despatched to the hospital. On
the original voyage from England, I contracted an ear infection which, being
untreated for two months, got progressively worse. It was diagnosed at that
stage as quite serious and possibly contagious, so I was confined there for the
duration of the campaign. After a period of convalescence I returned to the
battalion to find to my horror, that it had virtually ceased to exist as I
remembered it. Familiar faces were very few and far between. I had missed a long
period of intense training and my physical fitness would obviously have been
suspect, so I was assigned to a platoon commander, one of the new replacements,
as his batman, a career move to which I was singularly unsuited.
SICILY
The
evening of 13th July 1943 saw us winging our way across the Mediterranean, en
route for Sicily, to capture a vital bridge at Primasole in Catania. The journey
was uneventful until the pilot took evasive action, to counter an attack by a
German plane, then as we approached the coast of Sicily, we were fired at by the
Allied invasion fleet, because we had strayed into a forbidden zone. The pilot
again took violent evasive action, pitching us forward to the floor of the
aircraft, an ominous sign for the course of the coming battle. As we crossed the
coast we stood up in formation and hooked up our static lines. I was jumping
number two, after the 2nd Lieutenant, and so had a perfect view through the
doorway. Although it was around 10 pm and would normally be dark, the landscape
seemed ablaze with what seemed like burning undergrowth and haystacks and I
could clearly hear the noise of anti-aircraft gunfire above the roar of the
engines. First, a red light and then the green and we were clear of the aircraft
and although descending quite rapidly, we seemed to be drifting apart. I hit the
deck in regulation fashion, but quite hard and as I looked up I could see the
telltale trail of tracer bullets, curving upwards toward the remainder of the
stick, who were still suspended in mid-air. As I gathered in my parachute I
realised that two of my rigging lines had been severed, presumably by these
selfsame tracer bullets. Standing up, I looked for my 2nd Lieutenant, but in
vain and I never saw him again. Together with the remainder of the Platoon,
under the leadership of our platoon sergeant, we set a course for our objective.
On the way we encountered a number of Italian troops, some with suitcases and
all eager to surrender. Leaving them protesting bitterly, we proceeded on our
bearing, with the sounds of battle growing every more acute as we neared our
objective. Our strength, once we assembled ready for the assault on the bridge,
was far below the planned total, consequently the objectives and composition of
forces to accomplish them, were urgently revised. I found myself in one of the
groups assigned to the assault and seizure of the bridge.
We
proceeded in single file, myself in the rear, along an embankment, sloping down
from the road, the other side of the road consisting of a long row of high
factory type buildings, which we understood were occupied by our own troops.
Suddenly a speeding vehicle passed us; almost before we could appreciate this
threat to our plan, the vehicle, following a loud explosion, burst into flames,
accompanied by the screams of pain as the occupants perished. A little further
along a figure, standing in the middle of the road above, proved to be an
Italian soldier, who was ignored by those in front of me. My instinctive
reaction was that it would be dangerous to leave him behind us, with him knowing
the strength of our force and our direction of advance, so I climbed the
embankment and motioned him to come with me. Without warning, a grenade landed
between us and exploded; blood from my facial wounds saturating my smock. A
figure in familiar garb approached; "Where’s S company mate?" he
said. "Sod S company, I’m bleeding to death!, where’s the MO?", I
replied. When the MO had bandaged my wounds and given me a shot of morphine, I
was directed to join the growing band of wounded, some distance along the
riverbank, amid the tall, abundant reeds. We remained there the rest of that
night, all the next day and the following night, periods of constant torment
from the ceaseless bites of mosquitoes, interspersed with frequent sounds of
enemy activity, sometimes nearby, sometimes in the near distance. We received
word that the relieving force of British troops was close at hand. Sometime
later we hear the familiar sound of battle in the vicinity of the bridge, then
on the opposite bank there emerged the welcome sight of a British armoured
vehicle.
En route
to Alexandria, on a Red Cross ship, one of the badly wounded soldiers was
informed that a blood transfusion was imperative, if he was to live. The fact
that he was a German SS soldier and that the blood he was to receive was
British, was unacceptable to him, so he rejected totally that proposition,
consequently he became the only burial at sea that I have witnessed.
The ward
to which I was assigned in the hospital at Alexandria was totally American,
except for myself, so when General Eisenhower toured the ward handing out ‘Purple
Hearts’, it is not surprising that I was included as a recipient. The mistake
however was noticed and in a very short time my award was rescinded.
Because
the battalion was again understrength and destined to play a leading role in the
invasion of Italy, my stay at the hospital ended very abruptly, happily
recovered from a serious bout of malaria, resulting from the mosquito bites
sustained in Sicily, but before any major surgery could take place, I rejoined
the battalion in good time to play my part. After the victory in North Africa,
we had been joined by the 2nd Parachute Brigade and among the members of the 6th
Royal Welsh Battalion was a young near neighbour of mine, from my home town of
Birmingham. Knowing from his parents that I was with the 1st Battalion, he came
looking for me and we shared a number of agreeable evenings together, before we
embarked on the next adventure.
ITALY
As we
approached Taranto harbour on the southern cost of Italy, the dark of evening
was illuminated by the brilliant flash of a ship, mortally struck by a mine. It
was a British minelayer, HMS Abdiel, on board which was the 6th Royal Welsh
Battalion, amongst whom was my friend from Birmingham. We disembarked in the
dark and as we marched through the streets of Taranto, the devastation and
sickly smell of burnt flesh, caused by the intense pre-invasion bombing,
pervaded the atmosphere, a condition that lasted for several days. The days that
followed, were devoted to the gruesome task of searching the harbour for the
dead bodies of our comrades, as they floated inshore with the tide. Once
located, we pulled them ashore and prepared them for burial, first removing an
identity disc, so that their fate could be recorded. I searched in vain for news
of my friend, who was not among the few survivors of the disaster.
After a
short period in reserve at Taranto, the battalion moved off, first to
Castellaneta and then, after a brief stay, to a small village, called Altamura,
which was surrounded by a myriad of olive trees. As we entered the village, at
dusk, the lights of all the houses switched on and the local residents came
rushing out bearing offerings of fruit, drinks and flowers; this despite the
fact that the Germans had departed only very shortly before our arrival. Some
anti-personnel mines, left among the vines caused a number of casualties, some
fatal, otherwise this concluded our active involvement in the Italian campaign.
We moved eventually to barracks at Bari and from there back to Britain for
Christmas and a very welcome spot of leave.
BACK HOME
We now
engaged in a training schedule ready for action on the battlefields of Europe.
First though, I had a most disagreeable task to perform, to visit my late
friends’ parents and confirm the War Office statement that their son was
almost certainly dead. The Battalion, composed of some battle hardened veterans
and the remainder, re-inforcement’s with little or no combat experience, were
split into three groups, stationed at Grimsthorpe Castle, Bulby Hall, and
Bourne, in Lincolnshire, now under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Dobie. The
period up to June 1944 was a period of intense training, both tactical and
physical, interspersed with regular long week-end leave passes. The beginning of
June saw me back in hospital with a recurrence of malaria. So it was, that I
became aware of the Airborne landings on D-day, June 6th, through the medium of
the radio, convinced that my Division was involved and that I had missed out. My
return to the battalion very shortly after coincided with the start of a period
of intense frustration.
The next
sixteen weeks saw us briefed for as many airborne operations, a number of which
saw us emplaned in full battle kit, complete with maps and escape kits and all
cancelled because of the speed of Montgomery’s advance. Weekend leaves during
this period were frequent and remarks such as, "What! You again?",
became an embarrassment. Then it all changed! We, the 1st Airborne Division,
were presented with a plan, code-named ‘Operation Comet’, to seize three
bridges at Grave, Nijmegen and Arnhem in Holland. Cancelled as usual, we were
granted a weekend pass, with instructions to be back by Monday morning. Once
back we were confined to barracks and instructed that the plan, now enhanced,
with the same objectives, but now including two American Airborne Divisions and
code-named ‘Operation Market’, in conjunction with 30 Corps, the ‘Operation
Garden’ element, combining to constitute "Operation Market Garden’,
would take effect the following Sunday, September 17th.
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