'Wartime' by Norman V Ward his experiences with The 6th Airborne Division

Wartime

By Norman V. Ward

I was ‘born in the Army’ in 1923 (my father was a Regular Army NCO in the Royal Artillery); such children were often termed ‘barrack rats’!  By the early 1930’s I was living in comfortable circumstances in Gibraltar with my parents, sister and two brothers.  I attended an Army school, staffed by Queens’ Army Schoolmistresses.  I don’t think my mother ever found it particularly easy to deal with us children, but one day I had obviously irritated her beyond endurance, and she uttered the immortal cry: ‘Norman must go!!’ – so, go I did.  My father consigned me to the Duke of York’s Royal Military School at Dover, aboard a weekly P&P passenger liner, on which I was well cared for by the Lascar Crew, who loved children.

The School dates from 1801, when it was established to care for the orphans of deceased soldiers; the then Duke of York noticed gangs of these unfortunate creatures running wild and neglected in the London streets, and decided to do something about them.  Later changes in the rules enabled more fortunate youngsters like me to take up places.

The ‘Dukies’ was run on military lines – teachers were serving Army Education Corps WO’s and NCO’s, and instead of being examined to Matriculation or School Certificate standards, pupils sat the Army 2nd, 1st and Special Class Army Certificates of Education – a distinct disadvantage if a boy decided not to join the Army, since they were not recognised outside the Service!  Nevertheless, I received a reasonable secondary education, plus musical tuition to play the horn in the band, and acquired a love of music of all kinds.

We wore khaki uniform on weekdays, and scarlet and blue at the weekends, on church parade or other ceremonial occasions.  The band and drums performed on parades and undertook a number of outside engagements, including the Royal Tournament in London.  We were taught to look after ourselves and our kit, and we had plenty of sport to keep us fit.  For its time, it was a well equipped school, organised into eight Houses/Companies, each holding 48 boys between the ages of 10 and 15 in three dormitories, plus three senior boys (Prefects) who were selected to remain until the age of 18.  Food was good, plain fare, eaten in the enormous dining hall.

Playing fields were vast; we took part in organised games every day, and had regular sessions in the school swimming bath and gym, though I failed to shine at anything athletic.

I was paid 4d (2p) per week by the School; this was enhanced by pocket money from home 1/-(5p) per week – enough for a weekly cinema matinee in town, a stamp and some sweets, and I was occasionally able to save a bit.

The School had its own Post Office cum tuck-shop, hospital and laundry.  Listening to a radio play on Saturday nights was a weekly treat.  We were allowed ‘out’ on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, usually to visit Dover.

School Houses were named after famous Generals – I started in Haig then moved to Kitchener.  Holidays were the customary long summer and Christmas breaks.  Most boys went home or to other relatives (as my family were abroad, I went to relations at Clacton-on-sea or Wolverhampton) but there was always a small nucleus of pupils whose families were unable to have them home, and they were well taken care of at school, with a relaxed routine and outings.

Career advice on leaving the Dukies at 15 was almost unknown since it was accepted that the majority of boys would enlist in the Regular Army – a lot of them in their fathers’ regiments.  I decided I wanted to be an Army Clerk (like my father) but since the RA did not accept boys in this trade, I opted for the Royal Army Service Corps, and after passing the entrance examination enlisted in that Corps as an Apprentice Tradesman on an engagement of 8 years Colour service and 4 on the Reserve to count from the age of 18.

By the time I joined I was thoroughly well institutionalised, and well trained, so the switch from school to the Army held no real terrors.  I could not ask my father for advice because he had recently been commissioned as a Lieutenant Quartermaster and was busy trying to get his Field Regiment equipped for the war that threatened.  I arrived at Buller Barracks, Aldershot with some very definite advantages, i.e., I knew how to drill, including all the ceremonial involved in Trooping the Colour, etc. spit and polish, equipment maintenance, sewing, laundry, bed-making, general cleaning, were second nature.  I already possessed some army education certificates, and I undertook my training at the Depot with confidence.  Boys’ Company was small – about 50 strong – a mixture of clerks and trumpeters.  We were in the hands of Trumpet Major Townsend (known as ‘Townie’ but only out of earshot!), who was respected in the Corps as a stern but fair disciplinarian, and as a Corps Champion shot.  After 3 months ‘square-bashing’ we attended the Clerks’ School for training in shorthand, typing and general office skills.  This was almost completed when war was declared (September 1939), and we experienced our first air raid warning – a false alarm.

Mobilisation causes enormous upheaval in any nation’s way of life.  Aldershot was inundated by an influx of Reservists, Territorial Army, Militia, etc, and after a brief period of uncertainty, we apprentices were hurriedly posted to various units so as to make room for the intake.  I was sent to the War Office in London, to work in the Branch responsible for mobilizing new units to meet the needs of the Service.  I quickly found I was the office boy they’d never had – running errands, making tea, duplicating masses of paper, and generally acting as everyone’s dogsbody – while my clerical skills rusted away unused.  I accepted the situation, but disliked it.  My pay remained at the Boys’ Service rate of 11d (5p) per day, but was enhanced by an extra 50% London allowance.

Meanwhile, my father had gone to France with the BEF, serving in 3 Division which at that time was commanded by Major General Bernard Montgomery.  The retreat to Dunkirk in May 1940 meant that we had no news of him, and this was very worrying.  After the evacuation, Dad eventually turned up in Somerset, where the remnants of his Regiment had been sent to guard the South Coast – all of it! – equipped with dummy guns.  He told us that before the order was given to ‘spike the guns’ (the artillery equivalent of striking their colours and destroying their beloved weapons in the face of the enemy), he and his batman salvaged all the optical gun sights, wrapped them in a carpet ‘liberated’ from an abandoned chateau, and brought them safely home, despite a soaking.  They lost everything else.  Father said that after a week on the sand dunes his main concern arose when he eventually took his turn to wade out in the sea to the small boats and suddenly remembered he couldn’t swim!

Invasion of Britain became a possibility once Germany had overrun France and the Low countries, and this did not relax until 1942.

After 18 months in London, during which the Battle of Britain was won, and the city was subjected to air raids, I managed to get a posting to HQ Northern Command, York, where I replaced a Mr Watts, a 75-year-old ex-civil servant, and got down to some ‘proper work’ in ‘Q’ Branch, where I was involved in the requisitioning of properties in the northern counties.  I was still on Boy’s Service, and still paid the princely sum of 11d per day, but of course I had lost the London allowance – I was poorer than ever!  I filled a Sergeant’s vacancy – but received no extra remuneration for this – hardly a fair deal, but the rules simply did not allow for the situation.  I had two excellent female assistants, who didn’t seem to mind working under a youth of 17.  Our branch was located in Harkers Hotel on the Knavesmire racecourse, whilst I was billeted on a Mr and Mrs Jacques, a kindly, childless couple, now doing their bit for the war effort by accommodating two soldiers.  After a year, I moved into a Nissen hut built in the hotel grounds.  Like all huts of this type, it was very basic – little heating, poorly lit, a concrete floor – and mostly cold water for washing – but at least we slept in single beds (troops often had to put up with double-tier bunks).  We slept in rough blankets with no sheets or pillow slips, on straw paillasses.  Conditions were spartan.

In 1942 I was posted to a Transport Office in Beverley, providing vehicles for various purposes.  The staff were mixed military and ATS – a competent and cheerful bunch, watched over by a reservist Captain who had run a Butlin’s holiday camp before the war.  We lived and worked at No 14 Nebegin, a large town house standing in its own grounds.

Our interest centred on Hull, which had long been a favourite target of the German bombers.  We made use of whatever military and civilian transport resources were available, and I recall hiring brewer’s drays, complete with horses and driver for delivering rations at £5 a day, all in.

By the early 1940’s the Government’s controls had begun to bite – most food, fuel, clothing, footwear, confectionery, etc were affected.  White bread was replaced by a national wholemeal loaf, which wasn’t too bad, though it didn’t keep fresh for long.  Cigarettes were always in short supply.  Our rations were better than most civilians’, who often had to resort to the black market to find enough to eat, so one had to be careful not to abuse the plentiful hospitality offered by civilians to the Services.

Civilians had to queue everywhere to buy their rations – when they were available.  ‘Economy’ and ‘austerity’ were bywords, - ‘Emergency Regulations’ were issued by the Government in increasing abundance; they covered practically everything.  One introduced the ‘Utility Scheme’ under which some manufacturers were required to produce goods to a certain standard of quality and at economical prices.  I visited Hull, and saw some of the devastation caused by heavy bombing in the docks area.  The ordinary little terraced houses in Hessle and Hedon Roads were destroyed, a most depressing sight.

A number of airbases had been built in Yorkshire, giving rise to a lot of aerial activity.  We often encountered air crews in the pubs and servicemen’s clubs – they always seemed cheerful despite daily/nightly facing hazardous operations in raids over the Continent.  Today, one only had to look at the Bomber Command casualty figures to realise the amount of stress they were experiencing.  ‘Queen Mary’ 60ft trucks recovering crashed aircraft were commonplace on the roads.

We were aware that Britain had absorbed considerable numbers of allied and Empire servicemen, and we often lost out to men from other countries when it came to girls, who seemed to regard the novelty as more glamorous.  This caused the occasional friction, especially when Americans came on the scene in steadily increasing numbers from 1941 onwards.  Allied servicemen always seemed to be better paid than us!

Soon after reaching 18 – and Man’s Service! – I volunteered for ‘special duties’ (I was probably seeking a little more excitement!) and was accepted for service with the Airborne Forces.  I was posted to Bulford Camp in Wiltshire, where the original Airborne Division was departing for service in North Africa, and being replaced with fresh units with formed the new 6 Airborne Division, under Major General R.N. (‘Windy’) Gale, a charismatic and efficient commander.

At first, all parachute troops were individual volunteers, but in 6 Division whole infantry battalions were selected for conversion; those men who did not want to be included could opt out.  Few did, because friends and ‘mates’ preferred to stick together.  Glider troops did not have this option, and could be ordered to undertake this activity if necessary.  I was something of a rarity, because I volunteered at the outset for glider borne duties.  Once qualified, paratroopers received an extra 2/- (10p) per day flying pay, glider troops 1/- (5p).  A parachute training school was established at Ringway (now Manchester Airport), and Tatton Park.  Glider units used airfields in the southern counties for their training.  Tarrant Rushton, Keevil and Broadwell, are some which come to mind.  They were used later on to mount operations in Europe. 

After a short spell in a parachute brigade, I accepted an invitation to accompany a personable young officer, Captain J.H. (Johnny) Max, of the Oxford & Bucks Light Infantry, to the General Staff branch of Divisional HQ located at Syrencot House, near Figheldean, close to Netheravon, to start up G (Intelligence) Branch, complementing G (Ops) and G (Air).  Our function was to acquire, analyse and disseminate information about the enemy so as to assist operational commanders.  This proved a fascinating task, especially as we were building from scratch.  We developed our own methods and techniques as we went along.

Our staff eventually comprised Major Gerry Lacoste, Captain Johnny Max and Captain Freddie Scholes, myself, Lance Cpl Sid Ellis and Private Pat Piper (clerks), Cpl Taffy Jones and Lance Cpl Jack Forrest (attached draughtsmen), and Gunner Badger Mann (map storeman).  I was quickly promoted to Corporal and found myself the senior operational clerk, since the Sergeant we had was in a low medical category, and unable to go overseas.   I never quite understood why our small branch should have to accept this disadvantage, but our chap had his uses – he could always prevent routine work piling up when the rest of us were away on some military exercise or other.  Whilst I was the youngest NCO, I was the most experienced in matters military!  We quickly became a good team.

Syrencot House was the property of Daphne du Maurier, the novelist, and her husband, Lieut. General ‘Boy’ Browning, who raised the early airborne units.  She was later credited with suggesting distinctive maroon berets for the airborne units.

G (Int)’s offices were in Nissen huts attached to the house.  More huts in the grounds contained living accommodation, ablutions, canteen, messes, etc.  The chaps with whom I came into contact were from widely differing backgrounds; they expanded my knowledge of civilian life, and listening to them I soon appreciated how the war had disrupted their lives and created problems for them and their families.

Entertainment was limited to events like camp dances (with a long walk home!), occasional visits to the nearest camp cinema (feature films, newsreels and cartoons), and clubs and pubs.  Most girls we met were usually in ATS or Land Army uniform, busy doing their bit for the country.  Women as well as men were conscripted or directed into essential services.

1943 saw an increase in the tempo of our training as a division, which by then comprised about 10,000 parachute and glider troops.  Our basic organisation was that of an infantry division, comprising 3 Parachute Brigade (8, 9 and 1 Canadian Para Battalions), 5 Parachute Brigade (7, 12 and 13 Para Battalions) and 6 Air Landing (glider) Brigade (1 RUR, 2 Oxford & Bucks and 12 Devons), plus the usual supporting arms – Recce, artillery, engineers, ordinance, RASC etc. in a mix of para and glider units.

We were comparatively lightly armed, since equipment had to be air portable, e.g. the heaviest gun was a 75 mm howitzer instead of the highly effective 25 pounder field gun.  Later on, our anti-tank battery and the battalions received the new 6 pounders in time for D Day, and later still some 17 pounders – a match for almost any tank.  The PIAT anti-tank weapon was issued to the infantry – a suicidal weapon since the operator was required to get extremely close to the target for it to be effective!

Parachutists trained with a variety of troop-carrying aircraft, but the most efficient eventually proved to be the versatile, unarmed Douglas Dakota, or DC3, which was also an excellent tug for the (largely plywood) Horsa glider – the usual workhorse for the rest of us.  The RAF crewed tugs and equipment and stores – Bren carriers, etc. – travelled in the larger Hamilcar, an ungainly, lumbering aircraft roughly the size of a 4-engined bomber.  Most units had American-made jeeps – light enough to be carried in a glider, complete with trailer; with a powerful, easily maintained engine and 4 wheel-drive it could go anywhere.  Light motor cycles, folding bicycles and hand-drawn trolleys completed our transport.  The Division was created as a spearhead force, to land quickly and exploit maximum surprise, but we were not designed for a sustained, long operation.  It was an accepted principle that we would require early support or relief after landing.

It soon became obvious that we were preparing for the invasion of Europe, though exactly where landings would take place was a closely guarded secret.  We knew that one day we would be tested to the full, and our individual and formation training was framed accordingly.  Air transport was simply the means of getting to a destination, and once delivered we had to be prepared to fight, whatever the situation.  To this end, much emphasis was placed on personal initiative.  A doctrine of ‘despite intensive planning, chaos is likely to reign in an operation until you can sort it out’ was widely taught, and the wisdom of this philosophy was amply borne out in time.  The average age of men in 6 Airborne Division was 20 or 21, and the training toughened us up.

We studied German paratrooper methods, since they were more experienced than we were to a determined defence, particularly in the initial phases of a landing.

Despite limited experience, our leadership at all levels was of high quality, and it was striking how confident we all were, though most of us had never been in action against the enemy.

Discipline was sound.  It was a peculiar fact then, and still is to this day, that ‘once an airborne man, always an airborne man’.

The maroon beret was an inspired touch which instilled a great sense of pride amongst those who wore it.  (I still have mine and am proud to wear it at reunions etc.).  In the fierce battles of North Africa, the Germans christened the paratroopers of 1 Airborne Division ‘The Red Devils’ and the name stuck.  We were happy to adopt it in 6 Division.  Formation signs were introduced throughout the army – ours was a sky-blue figure of Bellerophon mounted on Pegasus against a maroon background.  It is still in use.

Two incidents in 1943 illustrate the kind of mixed experiences of those days.  Significant numbers of drownings in forced landings in the sea during the invasion of Sicily by the Allies resulted in a general order that everyone had to be able to swim.  I had learned to swim in Gibraltar as a child, and was quite proficient – so, with others, I was sent to the open-air baths in Salisbury for a week’s teaching – a pleasant break from my office duties.  The second involved a week’s research in HQ Southern Command, at the requisitioned Wilton House, getting information on enemy weapons and equipment.  I found myself working in the ‘Double Cube’ – the most beautifully decorated room I had ever seen.  It was a joy to be there.  During pleasant evenings spent in Salisbury’s pubs I met my first American Soldiers – a bunch of truck drivers – noisy, boastful, cheerful and generous.

Service clubs and canteens were opened everywhere by dedicated organisations like the Salvation Army, YMCA, YWCA, Church of Scotland, etc.; they enabled Servicemen to get cheap refreshment and meals, especially when travelling.  Some provided extra amenities like beds, laundry facilities, reading rooms, etc.  In London on a weekend break, I sometimes used the Canadian Beaver Club in Trafalgar Square (my first taste of Waffles and maple syrup, and Sweet Caporal cigarettes!) and the Union Jack Club in Waterloo.  In this way I met a number of men from other countries and realised how vastly different their lives were from mine.

I also occasionally visited the giant Mecca dance hall in Covent Garden, where servicemen and women of all nationalities mixed; or I stayed with my uncle and aunt in their Essex Pub, and met some of the many US airmen stationed around there – as well as washing numerous glasses in the bar!

Whilst on leave early in 1944, I stopped off in Leeds between trains (always well run) – and met a pretty young lady at a dance.  She was Joyce Sykes, a student nurse at the Infirmary.  Despite her youth (she was 18) she carried a lot of responsibility amongst patients in the wards – all on £1.19.6d (£1) per month.  After I returned to camp, we kept in regular touch.  Since we were separated by our duties, our relationship could only develop through letters and occasional weekends with friends.  We became very committed to each other, and in time decided we wanted to marry – a big step, but the war tended to accelerate decisions like this.  The only question was WHEN?  Neither of our families was in favour, in view of our youth and the obvious risks posed by the war, but we were determined and we bided our time.

At about the same time, some of our staff were set to work in conditions of great secrecy in a former vicarage at Brigmerston, near Syrencot House – this was the start of the planning for our role in Operation Overlord, the D Day invasion of France.

The General had had his orders, and he set his staff the problem of working out how these would be implemented.  G (Int) was roped in early and we found ourselves extremely busy, and working long hours.  The Division’s role was to carry out a night landing in German-occupied Normandy, and secure the area to the East of Ranville and the River Orne.  Vital targets included the bridges over the canal and parallel river, the gun battery at Merville, and high ground to the East.  Bridges over the River Dives at Bures were to be blown.  H Hour for the beach assault was 0700 hours, and our tasks had to be completed by 0400 hours.  Secrecy was paramount, and we went to great lengths to preserve it.  Our HQ was guarded day and night and we never discussed the work outside the building.

Our draughtsmen spent weeks designing and constructing a large-scale model of that part of the area of operations using maps and air photographs as their guide.  (Funnily enough, they never actually saw the ground they modelled, since they remained in England during Ops.

The model enabled planners to better visualise the tasks to be tackled, and it was finally used for briefing troops before the operation.  The draughtsmen had never made a model before, so they had to invent techniques as they progressed.  It was mostly made of coloured plasticine on a plywood base, with tiny replica trees, buildings, etc.  It can still be seen in the Airborne Forces Museum at Aldershot and is a remarkable example of the art.  With so much work on hand, we mixed with the rest of the HQ during this period.  Pat Piper and I were given a small cottage to sleep in, since we found it difficult to conform to barracks routine.  We had very little leave in the run up to June; we still participated in training exercises, when it was apparent we were rehearsing for the operation ahead.

Finally, in early June, everyone in the Division packed up their operational equipment and stores, and moved to secure assembly areas adjoining airfields – and once there, were forbidden any contact with the outside world.  Mail censorship was introduced, and any compromising material deleted.  It was disconcerting to know that your officers were reading your letters – especially the more intimate ones to girlfriends and wives!

Divisional HQ (the General referred to us as his ‘fighting headquarters’!) went to RAF Harwell, and lived in tents for a few days.  Six of us from G(Int) were there; Badger Mann took his map truck to a port for embarkation on a landing craft, to re-join us eventually in France.  Some of our staff toured camps with the briefing model; this was the first proper ‘picture’ the troops had of their destination.  Gliders were loaded and parked on the airfield.

D Day was scheduled for the 5th June, but was postponed 24 hours due to an inclement weather forecast.  We drew live ammunition (9mm for my Sten gun, plus some grenades – this was beginning to get serious!), French currency, escape aids (silk maps of France, tiny compasses and hacksaws which were sewn into seams of clothing, etc.), wound dressing, an emergency ration (small tin of concentrated chocolate, only to be consumed on the order of an officer!), and two 24 hr ration packs.  The last-named were miracles of compactness – consisting of dehydrated meat blocks, porridge blocks, chocolate, biscuits, sweets, toilet paper, matches, tea/sugar/milk powder, etc. –simple instructions on their preparation, and the use of a small hexamine cooker.  The calorific value of the pack was very good.

In the late evening we had a meal, received our final orders, and marched onto the airfield, where 70-odd Horsas and tugs were drawn up.  The latter were a mixture of Dakotas, Halifaxes, Stirlings, Albemarles and Whitleys; the RAF and the USAF must have scraped the barrel to find enough aircraft to lift both us and the two US Airborne divisions who were to carry out operations similar to ours at the western end of the bridgehead.  I don’t to this day remember what sort of tug my glider was hooked onto – they all looked the same in the dark!!

To minimise the effects of casualties, units were divided up between numbers of aircraft, so we wished each other ‘good luck’ and dispersed to our respective gliders.  Mine carried 20 men and no heavy equipment.  My companion on one side was Colonel Parker, Deputy Commander of 6 Air landing Brigade – his calm manner stilled our nerves somewhat.  (He was destined to win the DSO for his part in a vicious firefight in Breville and was wounded – Breville is today a battle honour borne by the Parachute Regiment).

My glider training had never included a night flight, but our take off at midnight seemed routine, and we settled down to a fairly smooth flight, in the hands of the two army pilots flying us.  We sat in two long rows of inward-facing seats, and three seats in the tail.  I was forward, near the main door.  We were vaguely aware that we were escorted by night fighters, because we were occasionally buffeted by their slipstreams as they shepherded us towards our destination.

We saw no enemy activity until we crossed the French coast at 0300 hrs, when a lot of flak came our way in all the colours of the rainbow.  I don’t think our aircraft was hit and I don’t now think the enemy took us for anything but a routine air raid.  Soon afterwards, the pilots cast off the towrope at a few thousand feet and put us into a steep dive for the ground.  We linked arms and lifted our feet off the floor and waited somewhat apprehensively.  We hit the ground with a heavy thump and noisily lurched and bounced our way to a halt, still in one piece.  After a second or two we realised we were down safely, so we gave a low cheer, thanked the pilots and rapidly filed out of the glider, to find ourselves in a field, with other gliders crashing down all around us.  

After checking for signs of the enemy we decided the intermittent firing all around was not directed as us, so we rapidly dispersed to our various rendezvous.  We had landed on the designated Dropping/Landing Zone B (DZ/LZ), (the cornfields near the village of Ranville, a few km inland from the coast), so it took me only a few minutes to reach the Chateau de Ranville, where we were to establish Div HQ.  At the chateau I linked up with other HQ, Signals, Provost and Defence Platoon men, and saw my first Germans – two rather frightened young soldiers who had been captured whilst returning from a night out.  Their field car was riddled with bullets and lying upside down beside the road.  They were unhurt but obviously shocked by our sudden appearance on the scene. 

Our troops had taken the enemy completely by surprise.  We “stood to” at dawn and got our first daylight glimpse of the landing zone.  It was an amazing sight – discarded parachutes were scattered everywhere, and abandoned gliders lay in every conceivable attitude all over the place – some damaged, others intact – and a lot whose tails had been removed for unloading vehicles, etc.  It is still a mystery to me how our pilots avoided hitting any of them.

Freddy Scholes reported in, followed by Gerry Lacoste, who, unfortunately, had a broken shoulder and was in some pain.  I tried to make him comfortable, bas as soon as the first enemy attack was over I sent him off for medical aid, together with a Staff Sergeant with a broken leg, and he didn’t return.

We set to, digging slit trenches for both all-round defence against attack, and shelter from shell and mortar fire.  A series of attacks was directed at Ranville over the next few hours, but once our troops had achieved their primary targets, they dealt efficiently with the enemy, though at some cost.

At the chateau, the Chief Clerk allotted me a barn for an office, which I tried to make as ship-shape as possible.  It had a dirt floor and contained four enormous barrels of cider (brewed the previous autumn, and intended for consumption during the 1944 harvest).  Naturally, we sampled it, and quickly discovered how many friends we had!  I tried out my elementary French on a woman in a neighbouring house and borrowed a broom with which to clean out the barn.  She must have thought we were a funny lot, judging by her first contact with the liberators.

All the Division’s tasks were met before the 0400 hrs deadline, to be followed by a heavy bombardment from naval forces offshore paving the way for the beach landings; from our positions we could hear a lot of noise, but see little.

By mid-morning there was still no sign of Max, Piper or Ellis and I worried about this.  They were not amongst the trickle of chaps who came in from the remote spots as and when they could evade the enemy, and they were eventually listed as “missing”.  Ultimately we accepted that parachutists and glider-men were widely dispersed by navigational error, and might turn up at any time.  Also missing were my office stores, packed in a jeep trailer.  Now and then enemy shellfire and mortar bombs landed in the chateau grounds, causing casualties.  Scholes and I got down to work and concentrated on compiling and distributing intelligence summaries from the information coming to hand.  Communications at first were by liaison visits or runners, gradually augmented by field telephones.  The enemy had flooded the valley of the River Dives, and some paras had drowned in the marshier areas, entangled in the ‘chutes’.  Mosquitoes were a constant irritant. 

Casualties from the fighting varied – the Oxford Bucks Coup de Main party who took Pegasus Bridge lost only one officer, killed, whereas 9 Para Bn, who neutralised the gun battery at Merville, and later became involved in heavy fighting were reduced to about 80 men out of the original 650.

However, we did see and hear some of the 16 inch shells fired by the Navy over our heads!  Lord Lovat’s Commando Brigade fought their way from the beaches, marched across Pegasus Bridge into our area, and joined the Division, followed by the Royal Marine Commando Brigade.  Both formations had overcome stiff opposition to reach us, and we were most relieved to see them.

In the following days the Germans put in a series of counter-attacks with tanks, infantry and artillery and our front-line units had a hard time defending their territory.  Several times the enemy was on the verge of breaking through, but our chaps held on, and inflicted heavy losses.  The Germans gradually got the message – we were here to stay.

From then on, the actual sequence of events as I recall them is a little blurred – the enemy bombarded us with random shelling by day and night – Nebelwerfers, or multi-barrelled mortars were the worst – and we retaliated with artillery and mortars, and with air attacks.  RAF rocket Typhoons circled overhead constantly to aid units when necessary.  We saw few German aircraft.

By various means it was possible to build up a picture of enemy formations and units in our sector.  Air and ground recce, patrols and interrogation of prisoners were some of the methods used and we acquired as many German “Soldbuchs” (soldier’s pocket books) as possible.  Each man carried one and amongst other information, it recorded details of his unit.  Some Soldbuchs smelt to high heaven – they had been recovered from corpses.  Everyone became rather tired, from lack of sleep and nervous tension.

The drain of casualties was worrying, and the GOC finally accepted that we must move the HQ to a safer locations.  Freddy Scholes was killed on the 16th.  The RE built us some sandbagged emplacements in the nearby quarries of Ecarde, which were occupied with sighs of relief all round!  We dug more slit trenches in the surrounding fields, and I was able to equip mine with a stretcher as a bed and some salvaged glider lighting, powered by a battery.  Badger Mann finally turned up with his map truck after a rough sea crossing.  He laboured on his slit trench throughout a hot, sunny day; was then wounded and shipped out the same day!  Fortunately, he survived.  I hated to see him go because Badger was such a cheerful and generally useful bloke – and manpower was dwindling.  The timely arrival of Major David Ballingall from 1 Airborne Division and a clerk borrowed from G(Ops) eased our shortage somewhat.  We also received Captain Sam Sebba, an excellent Linguist and skilled interrogator, who obtained a great deal of useful information from prisoners, both German and Russian – the latter conscripted in the campaign on the Eastern front.

The quality of life improved a little once the cooks got their hands on a steady supply of composite rations (Compo).  These consisted of nutritious tinned and dehydrated foods, but still no bread, for which hard biscuits were no substitute.  We received a weekly ration of cigarettes, too, and officers and senior NCOs also got a ration of spirits.  Strictly against the rules, we bought small quantities of farm butter and Camembert cheese from local farmers – commonplace today but a rare treat in wartime.

I had to do something about re-equipping the office, so I borrowed a jeep and paid my first visit to the beach-head, by now a hive of activity.  Units and stores were streaming ashore via the Mulberry harbour at Arromanches, and my foraging eventually paid off.  I located a newly-arrived Canadian stores depot where the OC gave me carte blanche to help myself to stationery, typewriter, duplicator, etc., so sorely needed.  It was all of excellent quality and I bore my loot back to our location in some triumph, enduring the envy of others.  At about this time Major Peter Jepson and two Captains replaced David Ballingall (I was sorry to see him go – he was an excellent and pleasant officer).  One of the captains was Cyril Buxton, a former schoolmaster, who censored my letters home without reading them.  I disliked Jepson and the other officer, but of course had to work with them.  They were not a patch on our original officers.  I paid a short visit to the burial site adjoining Ranville church, where our chaplain was conducting simple services for our dead, who arrived in a steady stream for burial.  I helped to tidy Freddy Scholes’s grave.  This later became the official Ranville War Cemetery containing a large concentration of Allied and German graves.

It was dawning on us that we were being kept in the line for much longer than we had planned, but the situation was forced on the powers-that-be because the expected breakout from the confined bridgehead had so far proved impossible to achieve, despite repeated and costly attempts.

The Division took on a somewhat international flavour with the arrival of a Dutch and Belgian brigade, who augmented our dwindling strength.

The job now was to hold fast and defend the eastern end of the bridgehead, whilst the US, British and Canadian armies forced the enemy to give ground in a gradual sweep or right hook, using us as a pivot in this manoeuvre.  “Defence”, in the General’s book meant “offense” and for several weeks took the form of constantly harrying the enemy in all possible ways – shelling, mortaring, patrolling, and generally tiring them out.  Prisoners were taken, of course, and interrogated in the PW cage.  They varied from surly and aggressive young SS men to some of the more cooperative Russians, who collaborated with Sam Sebba to a very useful degree, even pinpointing on our maps various German feeding points for our gunners to shell at mealtimes – very demoralising for Jerry!  Pressure all along the bridgehead finally took effect, and German resistance began to weaken.

In August we found it possible to advance, and we pushed eastwards along the coast in a series of ‘leapfrogs’ – an exhausting business for our infantry on foot who had a lot of resistance to overcome in the close ‘bocage’ country – small fields surrounded by high banks and hedges, which favoured defence.  At first, as we advanced through the scenes of some of the worst fighting, the stench of dead humans and animal carcases overlaid everything – it was the most unhealthy area and we hurried along to where the air was sweeter. 

The French were overjoyed to be freed from the hated Germans at last, and came out of their houses to wave and offer drinks.  Here and there men of the French Resistance put in an appearance, though we never did establish what part, if any, they had played in the fighting.  During a lull in the advance, some friends and I found an opportunity to visit Deauville, and had our first French meal – terribly tough steak, chips and a bottle of very sharp wine.  It made me sick.

We reached the River Seine by the end of the month, and it was finally time for us to be relieved and return to the UK.

We moved back to the bridgehead, and embarked for Southampton from the Mulberry harbour.  After some difficulty transferring ourselves and full kit from the heaving pier to heaving ship, we sailed for Southampton.  My first meal on board was memorable – hot kidneys in thick, savoury gravy and plenty of lovely WHITE bread – the first we’d seen for years!  We reached port, to be greeted by a band, and entrained for our old camp at Figheldean.

Taking stock of our situation was a sobering business.  The division sustained 4,457 casualties of whom 821 had been killed and 886 were missing.

Men were granted disembarkation leave but I deferred mine in the hope that Joyce and I could get married when we were able to organise a wedding.  I became increasingly aware of my dislike for my new boss, but tried to hide my irritation at some of his more ridiculous ideas.  We soldiered on.

By now, 1 Airborne Division were fighting for their lives at Arnhem; daily SAS reports told of the build-up of German armoured units in that area.  They made very sobering reading and revealed some serious planning weaknesses on our part. 

6 Airborne Division was gradually rebuilt and training resumed.

By December, Joyce and I had everything arranged and we were married in the Register Office in Leeds on the 16th.  My mother and youngest brother Tony were able to get there but on Joyce’s side only her Aunt Doris and Uncle John came – the others firmly disapproved of us.  Our wedding breakfast was a ham and salad tea with a sponge cake at Doris’s house.  We departed for a week’s honeymoon in Wales, only to receive a telegram after 48 hours, ordering me back on duty.  We were bitterly disappointed, and while my tearful bride returned to the hospital in Leeds, I had no option but to make for camp as quickly as possible, where I found everyone frantically packing for overseas again. 

We crossed to Calais by sea, and on my 21st birthday sped down to Belgium, where the Germans had attacked in the Ardennes.  After a freezing journey in open jeeps, we finally set up Div. HQ in a royal chateau at Namur.  The situation was very confused and the weather bitterly cold.  Montgomery had been put in charge of sorting out the mess the Americans had got themselves into.  This did not take long, and we were finally moved up to Holland for a few weeks guard duty on the River Maas at Venlo.  This time, Divisional HQ was set up in comfortable quarters in a seminary, where, despite their frugal existence, the student monks were a very cheerful bunch, quite happy to rise a dawn and pray all day.

Whilst at Venlo, I was posted to one of the Divisions RASC Companies, obviously at the insistence of my boss.  It was a quick and easy solution to his problem (me).  My friends were appalled, and I heard later that some of them wrote to Joyce to assure her that none of this was my fault.  I was rather shaken of course, and arrived at my new unit in a somewhat stunned condition.  However, I received some sympathy from my new OC, and found this reflected amongst the chaps I joined in the composite platoon.

Shortly afterwards, 398 Company moved to a village in the Pas de Calais area of France, whilst the rest of the Division returned to the UK to plan and prepare for the next operation – the assault on the River Rhine.

In Early March we loaded our vehicles with the Divisions ammunition reserves, and moved first to Ghent in Belgium, where I was billeted on a friendly Belgian family, and then into Germany to take up a position on the south bank of the river near Hamminkeln.

Operation Varsity took place early on the morning of 24th March 1945, with a simultaneous assault by air and water.  It was slightly surprising to see the Royal navy so far inland!  The airborne attack was carried out by 6 Airborne Division and 17 US Airborne Division.  It was the largest airborne action of the war – in full daylight.  As onlookers, we were quite impressed by the mass of aircraft of all types that flew in long lines at low level from as far as the eye could see.  The noise was deafening, and magnified by the heavy gunfire put up by the enemy and our own supporting artillery.

Most of us had some idea what it must have been like for our chaps up there.  Here and there aircraft were hit, either exploding or crashing, with the odd one suddenly veering crazily out of line before crashing in flames.  The paras were jumping from their planes in sticks, close together, and gliders were being released in steep dives for the ground.  Losses were heavy – the Divisions casualties on the first day included 1078 men dead or wounded this included 11 Horsas carrying the Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry were shot down, with the loss of 220 infantrymen plus 22 pilots.

 After a short time, the powered aircraft came back empty and flew back to base.  One crashed in flames near us, its tail breaking off and describing an arc before hitting the ground – and out of it, quite unhurt, scrambled an American paratrooper who had obviously refused to jump over the target.  We rounded him up and placed him under arrest, later handing him over to a US military police patrol.  We could not get near the burning aircraft wreckage where we could see the bodies of the crew.  The sappers soon added a Bailey Bridge over the river, and we crossed, prepared to supply ammunition to whoever needed it.  We issued very little, since the Germans were soon on the run.  During the lull in proceedings I explored the adjourning woods and in a clearing came across a line of about 20 dead American paratroopers, with a Colonel in the middle, lying where they had been ambushed.

Taking up the middle position between two armoured divisions, 6 Airborne now had the problem of keeping up with the advance – largely on foot and having to deal with what enemy resistance was encountered on the way.  Churchill ordered the leading brigade to be in Wismar, on the Baltic (about 360 miles ahead) before the advancing Russian army reached it.  After a long, hard fighting slog, the infantry did it, with only hours to spare.  My company drove there at the tail of the Division.

The main hazard encountered along the way was the sheer volume of enemy forces – infantry, artillery, armour and other miscellaneous units, with plenty of horse-drawn stuff, and many accompanied by their womenfolk and baggage! – all retreating towards our rear, because they didn’t want to fall into Russian hands.  In view of the atrocities committed by the German forces in Russia, who could blame them.

They clogged the roads, and hindered us, and the best we could do was to order them into fields and woods, to await the formalities of surrender.  There were thousands of them!

We finally reached Wismar, and realised that the fighting was really over.  Hostilities ceased on 8th May 1945, with the formal German surrender to the Allies, and we began to take our ease, feeling very pleased with ourselves.  In 398 Company we even took to the beach occasionally for a picnic, having “captured” some fast German assault boats.

Whilst there, I learned of the continuing ill-luck that had dogged my old outfit – G (Int).  Jepson had been killed after crossing the Rhine, and my replacement had been severely wounded, eventually being discharged from the army as permanently unfit.

I took stock of my situation, and decided that the sooner I resumed my military career seriously, the better.  So I obtained a posting to an Allied HQ for occupation forces for Berlin, then being formed in Belgium.  Largely run by the Americans, it was comparatively luxurious, and by early summer I was in the city of Berlin.  I was promoted quite quickly, and carried on soldiering in various parts of the world until retiring from the Army in 1978 as a Major (Quartermaster) – just like my father.  I occasionally meet wartime comrades, especially those from 6 Airborne Division, and we recall the old days.  Whenever I can, I attend reunions in Normandy, usually in June, where people make us very welcome.

 

Footnote: 

Some years after the war I discovered the details surrounding the disappearance of Johnny Max, Pat Piper and Sid Ellis – they were passengers in two gliders which crashed in the early hours of D Day; Max and Piper were killed and are buried in Ranville Military Cemetery.  Their deaths are recorded on a plaque at Grangues, near Dive-sur-mer.  Ellis was injured and taken prisoner, eventually returning home to Wales after the cessation of hostilities.

This narrative was compiled at the request of Mr. A Gardner, of Wootton Bassett School, Wiltshire.

Those especially remembered in Ranville Military Cemetery are:

 

Capt. Johnny Max                   Grave Location 4AH20

Pvt Pat Piper                           Grave Location 4AE20

Capt Johnny McBryde             Grave Location 4AC13

Capt Freddie Scholes               Grave Location 2AC12

 

Footnote added by Sue Forgie 2018:

Chester Wilmot, Australian War Correspondent also flew that night in another Horsa Glider. Here is his description of the flight from his famous book ‘The Struggle for Europe’

 

Riding behind an Albermarle tug we are scudding through clouds which shroud moon and ground alike. There is soft rain on the Perspex of the cockpit and all we can see is the guiding light in the tail of the tug, until a break in the clouds gives us a brief glimpse of the south coast from which the invasion fleet has long since sailed. Half-way across the Channel it clears again, and we can see the dark, stormy water, flecked with the wake of countless ships. More cloud, and we are flying blind again at 2,500 feet. The glider begins to pitch and bucket in the gusty wind that threatens to sunder the towrope and leave us drifting helpless in the sky. But this is a minor worry compared with those that lie ahead.

 

Three o’clock: half an hour to go. The clouds clear for a minute and we are warned of the closeness of the coast – and of another tug and glider which has cut across our bow, perilously near. Away to our left the RAF is bombing enemy batteries near Le Havre and the sky is lit by the burst of bombs and flash of guns until the clouds shut us in again. Now when we need a clear sky it is thicker than ever and at times we lose sight even of the tug’s tail light. Suddenly the darkness is stabbed with streaks of light, red and yellow tracer from the flak guns on the coast. There are four sharp flashes between the tug and then another that seems to be inside the glider itself. It is, but we don’t realise at first that we have been hit, for the shell has burst harmlessly well aft beyond the farthest seats. The tug begins to weave but it can’t take violent evasive action lest the towrope should snap.

 

Over the coast we run out of cloud and there below us is the white curving strand of France and, mirrored in the dim moonlight, the twin ribbons of water we are looking for – the Orne and the Canal. The tug has taken us right to the target, but we can’t pick out the lights which are to mark the landing zone. There is so much flak firing from the ground that it’s hard to tell what the flashes are, and before the pilots can identify any landmarks we are into the cloud again.

Soon one of them turns and calls back to us – “I’m letting go, hold tight. As it leaves the tug the glider seems to stall and to hover like a hawk about to strike. The roar of the wind on the wooden skin drops to a murmur with the loss of speed and there is a strange and sudden silence. We are floating in a sky of fathomless uncertainty – in suspense between peace and war. We are through the flak-belt and gliding so smoothly that the fire and turmoil of battle seem to belong to another world.

 

We are jerked back to reality by a sharp, banking turn and we are diving steeply, plunging down into the darkness. As the ground rises up to meet us, the pilots catch a glimpse of the pathfinders lights and the white dusty road and the square Norman church-tower beside the landing zone. The stick comes back and we pull out of the dive with sinking stomachs and bursting ears. The glider is skimming the ground now with plenty of speed on and is about to land when out of the night another glider comes straight for us. We “take off” again, lift sharply and it sweeps under our nose. The soil of France rushes beneath us and we touch-down with a jolt on a ploughed filed. It is rough and soft, but the glider careers on with grinding brakes and creaking timbers, mowing down “Rommel’s asparagus” and snapping off five stout posts in its path. There is an ominous sound of splitting wood and rending fabric and we brace ourselves for the shock as the glider goes lurching and bumping until with a violent swerve to starboard it finally comes to rest scarred but intact, within a hundred yards of its intended landing place.

 

It is 3.32am. We are two minutes late. Shouts and cheers echo down the glider, and a voice from the dark interior cries out, “This is it chum. I told yer we wouldn’t ‘av ter swim.”