D-Day Read online

  To Nathan and Niall.

  Contents

  Cover

  Dedication

  December 1945

  1942–1943

  April 1943

  April – September 1943

  October 1943 – May 1944

  3 – 6 June 1944

  7 June – 16 August 1944

  17 – 19 August 1944

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Timeline

  Back Ads

  Copyright

  December 1945

  My name is Andrew Pope. Eighteen months ago, while commanding an infantry platoon, I took part in the Normandy Landings on 6 June 1944, a date that has now become known as D-Day. This is my story of how we prepared for D-Day, which was the greatest amphibious military operation in the history of the world, and of the fierce battles that took place once we were ashore, ending in the complete destruction of a German army…

  1942–1943

  I do not come from a military family although my great-grandfather, whose photograph we have, served as drummer boy during the Crimean War. He later served in India and other places around the world and retired as a sergeant major. During what is now known as the Great War my father served as an infantry officer. He was badly wounded on the Somme and again at Passchendaele, and he still has a slight limp as a result of his injuries. He rarely speaks of that war, which he regards as a horrible diversion from normal life. As he had seen almost all his friends killed or wounded, I can understand how he feels. When he left the Army he joined a firm of solicitors in Branchester, which is our county town.

  I left school in 1942, shortly before my eighteenth birthday, having obtained good grades in my examinations. I was pleased that I had done particularly well in French and German, as these were my favourite subjects. It was then that I decided to volunteer for the Army rather than wait to be called up, because it seemed wrong to me that I should sit around doing nothing while the current war was going on, and anyway all of my school friends were doing the same. The war news was depressing. In North Africa, the British Eighth Army had sustained a serious defeat, Tobruk had fallen and the German Afrika Korps’ runaway progress had been stopped with difficulty at a place called El Alamein, only 60 miles from Alexandria. On the Eastern Front, the German armoured divisions were carving their way deep into the Soviet Union and nothing the Russians did seemed able to stop them. At home, people talked about the opening of what they called the Second Front, which meant our army returning to France. Everyone knew that Hitler would only be beaten once this happened, and they looked forward to it because it would pay back the defeat we had suffered during the German invasion of France in 1940, followed by the Dunkirk evacuation. However, on 17 August 1942, a British and Canadian raid on the port of Dieppe was repulsed with heavy losses and it became clear that there would be no Second Front for a long time to come.

  At the recruiting office that afternoon in 1942 I was told I would be sent joining instructions within a few days. My parents, of course, expected me to be called up sooner or later and I wondered how they would react when I told them I was going early. In the event, I didn’t have much choice in the matter.

  “Well, what have you been doing today?” asked my father after we had finished dinner.

  “I’ve joined up,” I said. “I was told that volunteers get a choice where they can serve, so I’ve asked to be sent to your old battalion, the 4th Branchesters, when I’ve finished my training. The sergeant said that there shouldn’t be any difficulty because of the family connection. I was told that the battalion is on anti-invasion duties in East Anglia – having a rather dull time of it, apparently.”

  Father continued filling and lighting his pipe, regarding me in a way he had not done before.

  “You’ve done the right thing,” he said at length. “Just the same, I wish that you’d volunteered for something other than the infantry.”

  I knew what he was thinking. There had been times during the Battle of the Somme when the average life expectancy of a junior infantry officer in the trenches was two weeks.

  “Things are different now, Dad,” I said, little knowing what lay ahead. “We don’t fight like that any more.”

  “Maybe,” he replied, reflectively. “Nobody has used gas this time, thank God, but weapons are much more efficient than they were in my day.”

  He paused for a minute and I could see that he was thinking of the past.

  “You’ll meet some fine men, you know, fine men,” he continued. “You’ll go for a commission, I suppose? You’ve had a good education and gained some experience in the school cadet corps, so in a way it would be shirking if you didn’t put yourself forward as a potential officer.”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “Good.”

  He puffed quietly on his pipe for a while, then looked me straight in the eye.

  “You’re right, of course, many things have changed a lot – but two haven’t. First, remember that an officer’s responsibility is to perform the task he has been set. Second, he’ll never be able to perform it unless he has the trust and respect of his men. The only way he can earn that is by looking after them, seeing that they get fair treatment and being careful with their lives. Having said that, loyalty is a two-way street, you know. If three of my chaps hadn’t taken terrible risks to bring me in from no man’s land when I was wounded at Passchendaele, I wouldn’t be here today.”

  There was nothing I could say to this, because he had seen a terrible war at first hand, whereas I had not. Seeing my serious expression, he gave one of his rare smiles.

  “Don’t worry, Andy, you’ll be all right. Just don’t go chasing medals or you’ll give your mother a fit!”

  Three weeks later I reported to a basic training unit. I found myself sharing a barrack room with men from many parts of the country and all walks of life. There were factory workers, farm labourers, clerks, tram drivers, accountants, builders and many more. Being away from home didn’t bother me too much as, in a way, it was like starting a new term at school. I did, however, feel a little out of place among my companions at first. My own experience was confined to school and home, whereas they knew a great deal about life in the outside world. I asked them about their jobs and most of them seemed quite pleased that I was interested, telling me about their families, wives and girlfriends as well. They knew that I was classified as a PO (Potential Officer) and sometimes made fun of me. Some said they wouldn’t want the responsibility of being an officer. Others that I was a fool looking for an early grave, but they were good-humoured and helped me out when I couldn’t clean my kit when I was on fatigues (that is, in a working party, in the cookhouse or elsewhere). In return, I was able to help some of those who couldn’t read or write properly with letters to and from their families. Because of my experience in the cadets I had no difficulty with such things as drill, weapons training and map reading. Physical training, constant exercise on the drill square, runs, route marches and the assault course made me fitter than I had ever been in my life.

  In due course the squad completed its basic training and its members were posted to their various regiments. I was sorry to see them go. While I was waiting to go before a WOSB (War Office Selection Board) I was given a short driving course. I was worried by the thought of the WOSB because it was a big hurdle and had the reputation of rejecting half of those who appeared before it. When I did attend I was subjected to three days of mental and physical tests during which my responses were carefully noted by officers on their clipboards. I did not think I had done at all well, but at the end of it I was summoned before the President of the Board and, to my relief, told I had passed. I felt as though I had won a major prize and telephoned my parents with the good news.

  While all this was going on
, the War had taken a turn for the better. General Montgomery’s Eighth Army had defeated Rommel’s Afrika Korps at El Alamein and was pursuing it across North Africa. It was beginning to look as though we might win the War after all.

  In December 1942 I reported to the Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) from which I hoped to pass out with a commission. On the first morning my company of new arrivals paraded wearing the white cadet bands around our forage caps. We all felt rather pleased with ourselves but were, in fact, about to enter the most ruthless phase of the selection process. For the next sixteen weeks we had barely a moment to ourselves. Our drill and uniform turnout had to be perfect at all times. As most of us were bound for the infantry, we had to learn the organization of an infantry battalion by heart. The battalion was commanded by a lieutenant colonel and consisted of six companies, each commanded by a major. Headquarters Company was responsible for administration and transport, while Support Company contained the battalion’s mortars and anti-tank guns. The remaining four companies, lettered A to D, were rifle companies, each consisting of three platoons. Each rifle platoon was commanded by a lieutenant or second lieutenant, with a sergeant as his second-in-command, and contained three rifle sections.

  Our cadet training began with our taking it in turns to command a section in attack and defence, and then a platoon. When we progressed to company tactics I began to realize that as future platoon commanders we were also being trained above that level so that if our company commander became a casualty we could at least take over for a while. We learned to dig slit trenches and the art of camouflaging ourselves and our positions. We learned about the different sorts of patrols we would have to lead and practised carrying these out after dark. Then there was advanced map and compass work, learning the basics of co-operation with tanks, artillery and engineers. There were lectures on army administration, our soldiers’ pay and welfare, the enemy’s weapons and tactics, current affairs, and how to give lectures ourselves when the time came. We were introduced to the relevant sections of King’s Regulations, which govern how the Army is run, and the Manual of Military Law. There were many other subjects and throughout the course we were tested regularly to see how much we had absorbed.

  The instructors, the company sergeant major and his sergeants harried us constantly, recording our progress in minute detail and discussing it among themselves. During one exercise, held in January, we were soaked by incessant rain by day and frozen when we tried to sleep in our slit trenches at night. I was sharing a trench with a former stockbroker named Guy Unsworth, who complained constantly. When we were told that the exercise would continue for another week, he gave full vent to his feelings.

  “You got something to say, Mr Unsworth, sir?” snapped one of the sergeant instructors.

  “Well, I mean to say, this just isn’t on, is it Sergeant?” replied Unsworth in an aggrieved tone. “We’re frozen stiff, soaked to the skin, and when the rations get to us they’re stone cold. As if that isn’t enough, when we try to eat them, our mess tins fill with rain. This whole thing has been badly organized in my opinion.”

  “That a fact, sir?” said the sergeant, eyeing him shrewdly. “I’ll make a note of what you say.”

  In fact, when the exercise ended the following day, I realized that the instructors had simply been testing our reaction to bad news. Shortly after, Unsworth and a few others disappeared. I asked the sergeant where they had gone.

  “RTU cases, the lot of them,” he replied. “That stands for Return To Unit. They’ve been sent back to their regiments as private soldiers, considered unsuitable as officer material. Ask yourself this – if you were a squaddie, what would you think if your officer went whining on because he was cold, wet and hungry all the time? That reminds me, Mr Pope, sir, there was a spot of blanco powder on one of your belt buckles at inspection this morning – so sharpen up or you’ll be following them!”

  After that, the dreaded letters RTU haunted all our waking hours. Next to go were those who were inclined to panic, followed by those who seemed indecisive. I could understand that, too, as we had been taught that sometimes our decisions would have to be made quickly in difficult and dangerous circumstances. After that, some who were unable to master important subjects also left.

  By the middle of March 1943 the numbers on the course had shrunk to a hard core. There had been no departures for a while and we were told that we could order our officers’ service dress uniform from the tailors. We were warned that this would be entirely at our own risk as the course had four weeks to run and any slackness would still result in our being returned to our units. As a result we tried all the harder.

  During our passing-out parade we were inspected by a general who made a speech and then took the salute as we marched off the square. It had been hard work but we were now second lieutenants and felt a real sense of achievement. As I had requested, I was posted to the 4th Battalion, The Branchester Regiment, but given a week’s leave before I had to report. I felt highly conspicuous in my service dress, shiny Sam Browne cross-belt and peaked cap and was genuinely surprised when I was saluted for the first time. Father looked me over, grunted his approval and said, “Well done!” Mother refused to let me change into comfortable civilian clothes and, although she had not been at all keen on my joining up, kept inviting her friends round to see her soldier son, which made me cringe with embarrassment.

  By now, the news from the various war fronts was even better. In Tunisia the Germans and their allies, the Italians, had been penned into a narrow coastal strip. One evening during my leave, while we were sitting listening to the Nine o’Clock News on the radio, the announcer described how the Russians were liberating huge areas of their country.

  “Hmm, there’ll be no stopping them now,” said Father, thoughtfully. “It will take time, but Stalin has mobilized millions of men. Hitler made a big mistake when he invaded Russia. Napoleon tried it and came to grief, and he was a lot brighter than Hitler.”

  “D’you think it will all be over before I get a chance to do any fighting?” I asked, having very mixed feelings on the subject. Part of me badly wanted to do my bit in bringing the War to a successful end, but part told me that, the risks of death or serious injury apart, active service would, at best, be most unpleasant.

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” he replied. “There’s a long way to go yet. We have France, Belgium and the rest to liberate yet. Jerry’s a good soldier and he won’t make it easy for us.”

  He lapsed into silence for a while.

  “I don’t know how you’ll find it, Andy,” he said at length, “but my experience of war is that it’s ninety per cent boredom and ten per cent sheer naked terror.”

  April 1943

  The board outside Temple Marton camp gates read 4th Battalion The Branchester Regiment and showed the regimental badge, a crowned dragon inside a laurel wreath, surrounded by battle honours inscribed on scrolls. The sentry directed me to Battalion Headquarters, where I reported to the adjutant, Captain Henry Dodsworth. I handed over my documents, which he glanced at briefly.

  “Ah, yes, you’re expected,” he said. “I’ll take you in to see the Colonel. I’m afraid he can’t spare you much time as he only took over yesterday.”

  He knocked on the connecting door to the next office and opened it.

  “Mr Pope, Colonel,” he said, ushering me in. I saluted and was confronted by a stocky, muscular man whose battledress blouse bore the ribbons of the Distinguished Service Order and the North African campaign. A nameplate on his desk said Lieutenant Colonel JC Armitage, DSO. He rose to shake my hand.

  “Glad to have you with us,” he said. “Andrew, isn’t it?

  “It’s Andy, usually, Colonel,” I replied.

  “Right. Just out of OCTU, I believe. Well, whatever they taught you there, I like things done my way, because it produces results, got it?”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  He stared at me intently, as though he had just spotted something.

&nbs
p; “How old are you, Andy?”

  “Eighteen, Colonel.”

  “Hmm. Well, just the same, I’m giving you Number Three Platoon in A Company. I’m trusting you to do a good job with it.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “That will be all, Andy,” said the adjutant.

  I saluted again and followed him back to his office.

  “You’d better get along to A Company HQ,” he said. “Let them know you’ve arrived. Nigel Wood is acting as company commander for the moment.”

  Captain Nigel Wood was tall, fair-haired and genial. He made me feel welcome at once. He was about ten years older than me and told me that his family farmed near Branchester. He had joined the battalion as a Territorial in 1938.

  “Mind you, there’s only about half the original members left,” he said. “A lot were sent as reinforcements to the regiment’s battalions overseas. Again, some of the older officers and Non Commissioned Officers (NCO) were no longer fit enough for an infantryman’s war, so they were sent to less demanding jobs like training depots and guarding prisoners of war. They’ve been replaced by chaps from all over the country. You’ll find that they’re a good lot.”

  “What happened to my predecessor?” I asked.

  “He’s gone to the 1st Battalion. Should be joining them in Tunisia about now.”

  At that point the door opened and two cheerful-looking lieutenants strolled in.

  “Spot of lunch, Nige, old bean?” asked one.

  “I’ll thank you to show your acting company commander some respect,” replied Nigel, who did not seem in the least put out. He introduced them as John Crane and Tony Walters, who commanded, respectively, Numbers One and Two Platoons. John was tall, dark and wore a constant half-smile, while Tony was shorter and had a mass of curly fair hair.

  “John is going to be our first casualty,” said Tony, amiably. “You see, whatever we’re doing, the CO (the battalion’s Commanding Officer) picks A Company first, and the company commander picks One Platoon. Stands to reason, doesn’t it?”