Mémoire – Ian Curly REA

(ATS Arborfield 1939)

(Ian was recalled to H.Q. on the 14th July 2011).

‘In Memoriam’.

MY WAR by Ian Rea. Part 2.

Holland Price (Dutchy), another ex-boy who had been attached to the 15th Scottish L.A.D. and I, shared a room in the Sgts. Mess at a place called Wensendorf, an ex luftwaffe aerodrome, out in the "sticks" some 30 miles south of Hamburg, the war had come to an end, and the remnants of the 71st L.A.A. W/Shops bods and other Regulars numbering about 30, had been 'posted' to this village for the purpose of collecting all the thousands of guns/vehicles that had been dumped by disbanding units, on the miles of autobahns, and parking them in or on, the airfield.

We were both S/Sgts. and senior, and had the help of some ten other REME blokes and a hundred P.O.W.s who were billeted in a camp in the village; removed preservation from the parked guns, stripped their mechanisms and inspected for wear, condition of barrels and general serviceability, then classified them each for ultimate return to UK or destroying for scrap..

Life was good, we did the technical stuff, whilst the RAOC staff took care of the administration side of running the gun park, and the Sgts. Mess was a large house undamaged by bombing, unlike the aircraft hangers and other installations on the airfield next door.

We had a German cook named Ella Meyer, large, middle aged, who didn't give a damn who had won the war, so long as we washed occasionally, wiped our boots before entering and accepted her as 'mum'. Our recreation was to organise dance nights in the village, collect all the girls from outlying villages and supply all the beer, which was collected by truck from Hamburg (St Pauli, the pre-war red light district), in 200 litre barrels, once a week.

The instructions were, that all drivers would drive direct to the beer depot not stopping to dally with the 'ladies' who invited all, with gestures and ribald signs, that still lived there. Obviously they didn't give a damn who won the war either. Noticed that when the driver DID get back he always look knackered!, "Dad" Turner, (Capt. R.A.O.C.) was O.C. this outfit, a detachment of 15 A.B.O.D.(Advanced Base Ordinance Depot) Glinde, north of Hamburg, a middle aged bloke who was waiting for his demob orders to return to his banking job as a civilian.

So the running of the outfit was left to me, with Dutchy assisting, this wasn’t in fact how the place was run as everybody did what he wanted to do, there were some thirty of us, running the 'park' and all the P.O.W.s, rations, fuel, etc, etc. We also had quite some 'say' in the running of the village, most of whose menfolk had not returned, and were no doubt in P.O.W. camps all over Germany.

'Passion' trucks were organised twice a week, or more often, for those who wanted to go to Hamburg, where the various clubs catered for the troops, all Army organised, in buildings that had not been blown up during the heavy bombing raids. Meals etc, served to the sounds of collections of German musicians forming a bands, they being paid with food.

Dutchy, and me, would pile in a 'jeep', drive the 30 odd miles into Hamburg and spend time in the 'Ratskeller', a large town hall pre war restaurant, all soft lights, waiter service, excellent food etc. given over for the use of W.O.s & Sgts. With the city a mass of bomb ruins, little to see or do, other than investigate the "local talent", but as the 94 British Military Hospital 'College Wing'(V.D.), had been broadcasting over the forces radio and pasting up notices all over the place, warnings to the effect that quote, "the high incidence of venereal disease being contracted by troops in the Hamburg area was causing overcrowding in the V.D. wards, (known as the college), and that the number of troops now in possession of what is now called the A.B.64 Pt 3, was unacceptable". Unquote.

A soldier carried a identity card at all times called an Army Book 64, giving his number, rank, date of birth etc. another called A.B.64 Pt. 2, which was his pay book, entered every time he was paid, the A.B.64 Pt. 3 being referred to, was a document issued by the B.M.H. on completion of treatment which stated words to the effect that 'there was none purer than the purified'.

We, being usually more interested in finer pursuits than visiting "the college' found more satisfaction in running our village of Wensendorf , which, was surrounded by vast forests full of deer and wild boar, which we found did not take kindly to being blasted at with sub machine guns. Winter was coming on and the dressing up necessary to be admitted into the 'Ratskeller' plus the hour drive to get there, plus the immobilising the 'jeep' (some b-----d would pinch it otherwise) and the hour drive back on icy roads, made staying in our own back yard more attractive, so visits to Hamburg waned, the 'passion wagon still belted in there twice a week, and the orderly room clerk was kept on his toes ordering in crates of anti "college" medical supplies, known as ‘sports equipt’.

I went out shooting hares one day while Dutchy went off to Hamburg by himself, and was in bed when he returned that evening, and noticed a strange zombie like, look on his face; he said nothing , but all the next day at least till midday, he walked about as if he'd been raped or something that he couldn't decide was pleasant or not. Midday he appeared CLEAN, and, without a word tore off in his 'jeep' in the direction of Hamburg again.

This went on for about a week, same dopey look, but now he had a look of desperation about him, normally he displayed a happy innocent, clean fresh youth attitude, ready to help little old ladies in distress and at the same time cheerfully ready to blow up the odd truck etc. to see how far it would go, no particular interest in the opposite sex or booze, but now he looked hunted or maybe haunted. He'd met a girl in Hamburg, he confided, named Kitty Stassenco, and was in love! Ugh. So, apart from obviously being Russian, what was the trouble? If being in love made one look like he did, forget it! Would I come with him to Hamburg to meet her?, he was my mate but didn't need my ok, so what was the trouble? Knowing Dutchy there was more to the eye than this. He looked so, helpless, would be a good word, that I agreed we'd go this very afternoon. "Where is she?” I asked, driving my 'jeep', no way was I going in his, not with his attitude to life, 'I'll direct you when we get to Hamburg', he said. Well, we drove around the back streets, he seemed quite familiar with, until we pulled up outside, what seemed to be a walled barracks with a main gate guarded by a R.M.P. Dutchy spoke to him and we were waived in through the gates, where I drove up outside the entrance to a double storied block.

Dutchy went inside, towards a reception desk and said something to another military policeman, while I switched off and lit a fag. A female voice called out from an upper level window "hey there, how would you like to try this out for size?" I looked up and there, leaning out was this girl waving her bare breasts at me, loud giggles coming from about a dozen others leaning out, all calling out rude suggestions (some, I'm sure, impossible) and asking if I'd got My A.B.64 Pt. 3?. To save my blushes I jumped out the 'jeep' and tore into the foyer, "Corporal, what the hell is this place, and who are all these women?”. He went at length to tell me that, following the suggestion of the C.O. of the Brit.Mil. Hosp, they, the R.M.P. were driving around the streets and picking up any women they suspected of soliciting troops, and bringing them to this place for medical 'smear' tests, and, they would be kept inside, fed etc, until the results of the tests were known, then either released or given treatment, the girls, he said , bye and large, didn't protest too much, as penicillin wasn't freely available on the 'black market', and anyway with that many troops around some needed a rest!...

What the hell had Dutchy gotten himself into, should never let him loose by himself. This question was soon answered by Dutchy appearing coming down the stairs followed by a girl, purple in the face with rage, his was white!. We came out of the building like racing lizards, into the 'jeep', and to the hoots and suggestions from the upper floor which started the 'jeep' without any help from me, tore out the main gate. I couldn't make up my mind whether Dutchy was laughing or crying, low pitched monotone comments were coming out of the girl in the back seat, couldn't understand what she was saying, but I knew it wasn't Russian poetry. THIS was Kitty, introductions made when we were sitting down in the 'Ratskeller'. She had been in that V.D. barracks some five days, having been 'picked up' after saying goodbye to Dutchy one night by our courteous and sensitive Military Police patrol. Her English wasn't fluent but sufficient to let us understand that, she was out for murder. Dutchy, had been laughing, he was either brave to the extreme, or hadn't taken much notice of the colour on Kitty's face,---this one was dangerous!!. She went on to tell us what 'they' had subjected her to, and I must say her descriptions of the examinations performed on her person, was quite graphic.

She was quite a small person, pretty in a hard sort of way, very assertive and quick moving, obviously well educated and, as she said, came from a well to-do family in northern Russia, I was dying to ask her how it was she was in Germany, how did she get here etc, but as Dutch probably didn't know either, I thought , 'I don’t want to know either.'

She had been issued with a military pass, to say that she was employed in or, for, the British Control Commission, which had been signed by some Colonel, head of her dept, to whom she intended to have words with, poor sod I thought. Dutchy found her accommodation in a guesthouse in a nearby village, got permission to 'live out' from 'Dad' Turner, and applied through the Army for permission to get married, this meant filling out quite a number of forms, producing certificates and allowing time for the S.I.B.(special investigation branch) to check Kitty's background for any 'Nazi' involvement or German activities etc. This was expected, and did, take quite some time, he was interviewed a few times as to his reasons wanting to get married, never struck our sensitive police that the reason might be love, but as he confided to me, she was also pregnant!.

All allied troops were under pressure from the Fraulines to marry them as this meant a British Passport and escape from war torn and hungry Europe. I was selected to be 'best man' when the time came, mainly because I was his mate but also because I had carried out the same role and function some seven times previously (total of 14 times 'best man' by the time we all left Wensendorf, they were all suffering from 'Bachelor’s cramp' as time went by). 'Dad' Turner was introduced to Kitty, and gallantly offered to give the bride away, this was accepted, and we waited for the permission to given by Army HQ.

I often visited Kitty and Dutchy and was surprised at the speed she had transformed him into a civilised, clean and polite S/Sgt, she viewed my visits as undermining her efforts in this direction, but also realised that any idea of converting me was doomed to failure, however, I was his best friend, was in charge of the marriage arrangements, and still had considerable influence on her beloved Dutchy, so we had a sort of "Mexican Stand off'. Dutchy was too besotted to notice any of this, and bye and large the visits were pleasant, until we decided one evening to show Kitty how multi lingual we were, by singing a song taught us by some Red Army blokes, who we had got drunk with one time.

This, I felt at the time, was a mistake, Dutchy insisted, urged on by Kitty, so, as it was in Russian, and probably our pronunciation would not be understood by her, we burst into song....a deathly silence followed, she understood alright, she slapped him around the face while I beat a hasty retreat. Dutchy had his own 'jeep', so he soon followed me back to the safety of our room in Wensendorf, bringing his clothes with him, we both agreed that the words of that song were worth remembering, if not for the effect on Kitty, then for the obvious filth it contained, one thing for certain, we couldn't ask her for a translation!. Dutchy was to be a father, Kitty wanted a Passport, and they were in love, so a reconciliation soon came about.

Necessary documents were received, arrangements made with an Army Padre to marry them in a church on the outskirts of Hamburg, 'Dad' Turner was to collect her from the village in his Army utility car, following Dutchy and me with half the unit, all in ‘jeeps’, some little time after we'd left Wensendorf. Reception arranged at the village on our return. Dutchy and me left in my 'jeep' about 10 am, driving the 30 odd miles to the church, a clear but somewhat chilly day and we soon covered the distance, met the Army Padre, told where and what to do, and as we had a bit of time in hand ,went outside for a smoke.

He was nervous, but it was a chilly day so that probably helped the shakes. Time to take up our positions, with someone out side to let us know when the bridal party arrived. After some twenty minutes, the Padre started muttering, Duchy's shakes had become more noticeable, everybody coughing and shuffling feet and I went outside to see, nothing. A further twenty minutes went by, by which time the Padre informed me on the side that he could only wait a further ten or so minutes as his services where required elsewhere.

A sound of a ten ton truck could be heard in the distance, looking round and getting a signal from the bloke outside, I told Dutchy to stand fast while I went out side. There was this ten tonner pulling up slowly by the church containing a grinning driver behind the steering wheel, a large open tray body loaded with coal, almost to the level of the back of the cab, on top of which, stood Kitty, complete with veil flapping in the wind, and 'Dad' Turner, beside her hanging onto the grab rail at the back of the cab. 'Dad' explained that his car broke down at the start of the autobahn, so they hitched a ride on the only transport that came along, and Kitty refused to climb inside with her wedding dress, saying that the cab was probably filthy, and the driver and he had lifted her on top of the coal, the sight of her riding on the back, veil streaming in the wind behind must have been frightening.

One look at her face, coal blackened and furious was enough to send me smartly inside the church. The Padre looked amazed when he saw the party moving down the aisle towards us, I dare not let Dutchy look round, he was shaking as it was, but couldn't stop him from looking when she stood beside him. He started to shake all the more, she thought he was crying and so, joined in, long black streaks down her face, hurried her answer's to the Padre who was out to break records. HE was laughing, Dutchy always laughed when he was worried, he didn't know what the hell had happened to her, with coal dust all over the place, but obviously thought that it was some of my doings. I had a shrewd idea that Kitty thought so also, 'Dad' was glad to hand her over to the bridegroom when I produced the ring and the Padre had broken the record for haste.

At the reception back in the village, when Kitty had removed most of the coal, the journey to church was told to us in graphic details, everyone agreed it was a splendid way to get married, so Kitty accepted it all as typical English peculiarities, which she would have to learn.

Some months later Kitty moved into the maternity wing of the British Military Hospt, Hamburg, to await the arrival of her baby. After duty every day Dutchy would drive in to see her, the baby had not yet arrived when one afternoon, I was called down the gun park, with the message that Dutchy had 'shot himself!'. Apparently, he'd been supervising some P,O,W,s filling in a bomb crater that was preventing vehicle movement, and had thrown an unwanted Sten gun into the hole, it still had a bullet in the attached magazine and had fired itself when it hit the bottom. The bullet hit him in the inside thigh, coming out in his left buttock, a small purple hole both sides, the injury to his dignity was obvious from the language he was using, no bones broken as far as I could tell, but hospt. treatment was necessary, my suggestion that this counted as a war wound didn't count for much when he said "what about Kitty?". Loaded him into my 'jeep' and drove off to the same hospt in Hamburg, explained what happened to the lady surgeon, and also that his wife was in the maternity wing awaiting a baby. She had him carted away for X-rays etc and told me that I would have to visit her, but NOT say he'd been shot! I hung around till visiting time and went up to her ward, she looked worried when she saw me instead of Dutchy, but when I explained that he sent his love, but had to go to G.H.Q. with some gun park papers, and wouldn't have time in visiting hours to get from there to her on time.

Kitty at this time had been learning English but at times of stress, reverted to the language she'd picked up from hearing what the troops used, and on the way out, the ward sister complained (thinking I was the husband) that she had expressed herself rather somewhat, when instructed to do something or other by the nurses. I explained that she was learning the language, and really a nice girl etc who didn't know, and would be most embarrassed if she knew what she was saying. The sister looked all forgiving, but then horrified when I told her where her husband was, and what was wrong with him, and what language Kitty would use when she found out. We wouldn't tell her, and maybe Dutchy would be O.K. by the time baby arrived. Three times I visited her (and him), the second time I told her that he'd hurt his toe on a nail and the local doctor said not to walk on it for a few days, she was leaping up and down with rage on the third visit saying very rude things about Dutchy and his lack of interest in their forth coming child -- I was getting very nervous, so was the ward sister.

On the fifth day visit, I was met at the door and told that, that morning Kitty had given birth to a boy, and that she was still a bit dopey from anaesthetic, but sitting up in bed. Wondering what the hell I was going to say after congratulating her on "Jimmy's" safe arrival, I sat down beside her bed. IN stomped Dutchy, on crutches, grinning from ear to ear, kissed her and told her what a clever girl etc. she was, I offered my congratulations just as I heard Kitty say "how’s your toe? and why the crutches darling?” I bolted, so did the ward sister, just heard him say "it wasn't a nail dear, it was a bullet from a ------", didn't hear the rest, I was half way down the stairs before I heard the scream.

Some considerable time later, in Portsmouth I acted as God Father to their son Jimmy at his Christening, by the Forces Chaplain at the Naval Church, Jimmy was now eighteen months old, a heavy lad to hold, who wanted to paddle in the font, so the service was conducted while Jimmy and I went for a walk. Back in time to have his name written on his forehead. Dutchy and family emigrated to S. Africa about 1950 , and recently (1993) I contacted the CIVITAS Dept of S.A. who confirmed that the Price's were still there, and that they would contact them, giving them my address in Australia for them to contact us if they wanted to. Kitty must have seen the request from CIVITAS and said in her Afrikaans/Army taught/Russian English to Dutchy, 'not bloody likely, not again'.

The weather during the summer of 1947 at Wenzendorf was hot and dry, daily activity consisted of breakfast, leaping into our own personal ‘jeep’ and driving down to the park, which consisted of lines of parked guns stretching into the far distance , 25pdr’s, 5.5”s, 17pdr’s, 3.7”s A.A, Bofors 40mm, 6pdr’s, 155mm, 240mm’s , White armd. half tracks mounted with quad 20mm cannons, rows of ‘crocodiles’ (flame thrower armd. trailers towed behind Churchill tanks) and the odd German 88mm and French 75 guns.

The area was about 60 acres, surrounded by a high wire fence, pock marked with a large number of bomb craters, some of which had been hastily filled in with rubble, this had been the Blom and Voss airfield, used for experimental aircraft design and had attracted the interest of Allied bombers on a number of occasions, particularly the RAF on their Hamburg/Harburg bombing raids. The admin buildings had been flattened, leaving only the floors and some walls, and in this area we had the ‘dienstgruppen’ German POWs (about 40 of them who worked with us), collect and stack some of the 40 gallon drum of flame thrower fuel (napalm) that lay around the airfield where they had been dumped when the ‘crocodiles’ had been brought to the park by disbanding tank Regts.

This pile of drums grew in number, so rather than collect from the far reaches of the park, Dutchy and me decided to have any further drums collected and dumped into a couple of large bomb craters right down the bottom of the park, and clear of the parked rows of guns. This was done using fork lifts and loud grunts by the German POWs, and soon we had about 20 x 40gallon (150ltr) steel drums piled into the craters, and we all stopped for a tea break (incl. the POWs), while we decided how to blow this heap up.

A one lb slab of guncotton explosive, complete with gun cotton primer inserted, a couple of yards of Cordtex detonating cord with a detonator inserted in its end and 24 inches of black primed safety fuse was laid amongst the drums. It was decided that as these drums were very heavy that the ensuing explosion would only rupture at worse one drum, which would set fire to the remaining drums and cause a dirty great fire with some 800 gals of napalm , which at the least should be spectacular . I gave the order for everyone to clear the immediate area , drove the forklifts and jeeps back a bit, and being the explosive expert?, I used my lighter to ignite the end of the black fuse then quietly retired some 100 yards, joining the others, making sure that I did not run from the scene according to the book!. A very loud bang and thump that shook the ground, a ball of fire, followed by a dozen drums hurtling skywards spinning upward for 60 odd feet and exploding while they did it!, bursting into great balls of liquid fire and raining down around us. No need to tell everybody that it was each man for himself!, in three minutes flat we met some 500 yards away, all of us!, only to be met by the Salvation Army tea truck driven by the two middle aged ladies that called into the gun park mornings and afternoon to dish out tea and buns.

They had only been offering this service for a few weeks, and had been somewhat nervous being ‘posted’ from Hamburg to us and billeted in the village. Dutchy and I had been made responsible for their welfare by H.Q. and we had tried to convince them that we were civilised, but with a POW camp with some 100 POW’s next to them in the village, and our lot……….they were not really assured.

Anyway, the sight of these drums leaping up high in the sky and exploding with loud crashing and sheets of fire, and us lot climbing over each others head to get out of the way, did nothing to dispel their fears and anxiety, We got dished out with free tea and buns, and sat around trying to look nonchalant and confident, whilst secretly wondering if the whole area was going to catch fire, and how long napalm burnt. The POW’s showed a lot of respect in their eyes when they looked in our direction, or maybe it was fear? The bloody fire was still going 24 hours later.

A little later on, while Dutchy who was living in Tostedt (a village some 6 km’s from Wenzendorf) with Kitty, his future wife, I had a visit from a warrant officer from H.Q. Hamburg, this bloke was demolitions expert, and was going to stay with us for a few weeks. So I welcomed him into the ‘mess’ and put his kit into my room, then introduced him to Frau Ella Meyer, our house keeper and cook, also warned him that if he brought any dirt from the gun park onto her floors, he was a dead man. He’d driven down in a 30 cwt truck with about 600 lbs of P.E (plastic explosives) detonators, fuses etc on board, with instruction to destroy guns that we had inspected and found unfit for further service, these that would not be shipped back to UK at some future date and be stored for future use or sale to other countries.

Told him about the napalm drum saga and we became kindred spirits right away. He suggested that perhaps I might like to assist him in destroying the guns that I had classified as unserviceable, I agreed promptly and also asked if we could ‘shift’ a big blast wall that had been used for zeroing aircraft machine guns and cannons at the bottom edge of the air field park.

Hot weather when we drove down to an area well clear of the lines of guns in the park with his truck, where we dropped the tailboard to make a working platform. A large sheet of three ply wood was laid on this and packets of plastic explosive were kneaded into rolls of about 2 inch diameter shaped sausages, and formed into 9 inch circles with a smaller circle placed on this, with another smaller placed on that. Lightly pressed together shaped into a cone called a beehive, or ‘hollow charge’. this concentrated the blast downwards, and would melt a hole through 10 inches of steel.

We made about a dozen ‘beehives’ before carrying the three ply board and placing one beehive on each gun breech mechanism on the selected guns for destruction. We then placed a gun cotton primer on top of each beehive and connected explosive cord fuse to each in line, connected a detonator to the end of the Cordtex and a length of black slow burning fuse, made sure that the truck with the bulk of our explosives was way back out of the way, in case of ‘sympathetic explosion’. Warned everybody in the vicinity, lit the slow burning fuse, loud bang and a dozen breech mechanisms had a 3 inch hole blown through them.

Moulding plastic explosive, which contains nitro-glycerine, by hand gives off fumes which gives rise to severe headaches, so having formed another half dozen beehives on the tailboard three ply, Harry and I decided to walk over to where the Salvation Army truck had pulled up on the other side of the park for a walk and clear our heads and get a cup of tea. We were gone approx an hour, the time was about 11 am, the sun very hot and the worry was that the formed beehives might be ‘sweating’ more than a bit in the sun! and nitro is rather sensitive. A cautious approach to the truck revealed that all the beehives were exuding a dark brown sticky liquid on to the ply wood, heat from the steel frame of the tail board was not helping.

Making sure that there was nobody within a radius of half a mile from us; “they”, did not require any advice from us on this matter in any case, and were long gone, Harry and I very, very, gently lifted the three ply board with the dripping beehives and slowly carried it away from the truck some 200 yards and gently lowered it to the ground on the perimeter of the park’ Having crept away back to the truck, we prepared another beehive and placed it on a 25pdr field gun breech that was due for destruction, connected the usual Cordtex/detonator and slow fuse, lit the fuse and stood back.

We were right!! The beehive on the gun produced a loud bang, but nothing like the sympathetic explosion that came from the pile of beehives over by the fence on the three ply board, blew a bloody great hole in the ground and blew up some 20 yards of fence!. That finished playing around with plastic for the day, too hot, I had a headache and we both had a touch of diarrhoea suddenly…………could have been something we ate!!.

After a couple of days Harry said ‘lets have a look at this machine gun wall of yours that you want blowing down’, so we wandered down to the area. The wall was about 20 foot high a couple of feet thick and some 50 foot wide, standing behind a banked area of sand. The wall itself was pock marked with aircraft shell strikes from the aircraft wing cannons, and used for aligning the guns from a set distance.

The wall itself was facing outwards from the now gun park on the lower fence line, and had been also used as a rifle range, as there were foxholes dug around the site. Harry examined the wall and decided that a series of metal cased hollow charges (beehives) placed some three foot up from the base of the wall, at 6 foot intervals across the length, and detonated together would cause the wall to either collapse in a pile of bricks, or fall down. We set about securing the charges to the inside of the wall with special mounting clips across its length and assembling the det. cord and detonators to each beehive with about 40 foot of Cortex (this burns? at about 7 km’s a second when detonated) and some 20 foot of slow burning fuse, which when lit cannot be extinguished and burns at a known constant rate, even under water. Harry used an igniter on the slow burning fuse end and we walked slowly to one of the foxholes about 20 yards away and climbed in it, having made sure that no one was in the area, we need not have bothered on this score…….we were treated like lepers when any one saw us with explosives.

The blasts were simultaneous, a great deal of smoke and dust, with a echo coming from distant hills, the wall still stood, but with now a series of 2 foot holes along its base line. Examination revealed that the wall was built with heavy reinforced thick wired concrete, still very hot to the touch, and the only way we were going to drop this wall was NOT blowing holes through it. So we shrugged our shoulders and made our way back up the park, thinking perhaps the local farmers would have been startled by the sound of possible big calibre gun fire.

Some little time later a truck turned up at the gates to the gun park with a load of very excited civilians aboard, one of whom was , the town mayor of the nearby township of Sprotze, which is about 4 km’s away, he complained to me, that his town had been under attack by large red hot lumps of concrete! One of these lumps had blown a large chunk out of the town hall roof, and all the people had dived into their cellars fearing that perhaps we had decided that the war was not over yet. Harry decided to return to Hamburg, job being done, leaving behind a small pile of explosives etc. for our own use should we require some. I did not want any recurrence of possible diarrhoea, so stored it.

Holland 1945.

The 71st W/shop left Eindhoven en route for s’Hertogenbosch, Nijmegen and the Reichwald forest where the Regt. had taken up gun positions. The Germans had retreated from Arnhem and crossed over the river Maas and the Rhein, leaving large pockets of resistance behind.

Our first overnight stop was at an airfield running beside the advance road, and we set up ‘shop’ beside the main runway in a hanger half way down its length. Time was about 1600 in the afternoon and we were busy unloading the vehicles and P.O.L. (petrol oil and lubricant). The cooks were setting up their burners and utensils, and a group of us were standing looking out on to the runway and commenting on its bomb damaged condition.

From our right came the sound of an aircraft heading for the runway, flying very low with its engine roaring and spluttering and misfiring, it was losing height rapidly with its wing tips barely missing the ground and passed in front of us bystanders, finally making contact with the runway in large hops. It was a P51 American Mustang and we could see the pilot had pulled back the canopy, he waived frantically to us and tore down the runway almost out of sight. We knew there was a great blast wall down the end of the runway, used possibly for zeroing aircraft wing cannon and machine guns, and he hit it!.

A loud crash, a cloud of dust, smoke and then silence. We looked at one another and with the same thought in mind, no need to hurry down there to see if we could salvage the pilot, but got a jeep started anyway to head down there. A figure dressed in flying suit, bow legged, goggles on top of his head and parachute still on his back was staggering towards us, mouthing a stream of curses at the world at large. When he got to us, we apologised for not coming to his rescue etc, but from our angle he should have been wrapped around his RR engine like a coat of extra paint. He accepted the half mug of whiskey, jammed a chewed half a cigar in the corner of his mouth and said “ the goddamn throttle stuck and bullets must have bitched up the magneto, all I could do was fly it into that wall down there, saw us and knew he was amongst friends!!!!. Last we saw of this USAAF Sgt. Pilot was him hitching a ride in a US truck going back towards Eindhoven.

We entered a large deserted German army barracks in s’Hertogenbosch for the next stop while Alec went ahead to find the Regt HQ for ‘orders’, there were some other units in these barracks, and Bluey and I were talking to a bunch of them between the large vehicle sheds there, and while we were talking we could hear this aircraft coming over low and making a hell of a noise from its engine, a harsh roaring sound, it flew over our heads, short stubby wings and flames coming out of its rear end. And we being good at aircraft recognition (after all we were a AA Regt) turned around to these blokes to say ‘what the hell was that?, and that it was in severe trouble with that engine”……………we were talking to our selves, the blokes had vanished!

A few moments later there was a loud explosion about 500 yards away which blew us backwards, and also confirmed that indeed the engine on that plane was serious trouble, and its bomb load had exploded.

When the dust settled, these blokes re appeared from somewhere and informed us that THAT was a “buzz bomb”, and that they had experienced them in London during the “blitz”, and sometimes they, when launched instead of heading for their target London the navigation gear headed them towards Germany!. As a pilot-less ram jet flying bomb carrying some 500 kilos of explosive, that when the jet fuel ran out, its simply cut the motor and dived. They started attacking London and the south of England after we had left to invaded Europe and landed on the Normandy beachhead, so we had never seen one till now.

We’d heard about these things in Normandy, and the Canadian army had been given the task of sweeping the Pas de Calais area along the coast and destroying these launching sites, which they did with great gusto, they had warned the German rocket and launching sites beforehand that anyone found on these sites would be shot out of hand. Apparently, so these blokes told us, the number of V1 and V2 bombs decreased rather dramatically.

We had no experience of these up till then, although later on during the spring of 46 our Bofors were used to shoot them down, made a hell of a explosion in the sky, and taught the gunners not to open fire on them directly overhead as one gun site crew had been flattened in so doing, nobody hurt, but they all need hearing aids for a while!. Still didn’t like Holland.

We moved on to the fields around the Reichwald forest and set up tents and defence pits with 262 Bty. HQ, Bluey, Ossie and me being on hand to give REME assistance if needed. The Bty’s 18 Bofor 40mm guns being deployed in the fields around the edge of the forest supporting the Welsh 53rd. Div. infantry.

The Germans had ‘dug in’ just inside the forest and would have caused heavy casualties if attacked as they were well protected by reinforced tree lined slit trenches, and did not have to reveal their positions till the very last moment. So the Bofors were fired into the trees at low level, 240 per minute with each shell being a ‘proximity’ type, they would air burst on striking even a leaf, so the shrapnel bursts being over the top of the slit trenches, evened the score somewhat. One late evening while we three were lying on our camp beds or making a brew in our tent, the BSM (Battery Sgt. Major) came looking for us, and asked if we would collect our weapons and come on a job with him as he could trust us . I with my MP 44 and a couple of spare mags, Bluey with a ‘sten’ and Oz with a rifle, followed the BSM across the fields in the semi dark to some large barns.

A farmer earlier on in the evening, had reported that he heard voices in a language that sounded like German, coming from one of these barns (scheune) which were filled almost to the roof with hay, and that ‘they’ were almost certain hidden in amongst it. So a whispered plan of approach and we crept up either side of the large doors, there was a certain amount of moonlight by then, so we could see outside but the interior was black, I would cover the left side, Blue the right and Oz would stand back a cover us. We threw the doors wide, and the BSM went inside yelling ‘come out, and Raus” which we considered rather foolish as he made a perfect target silhouetted with a moonlight background. I made up my mind to fire auto bursts at any gun flashes seen. Not a sound, so we all went inside and became light adjusted, and saw this high stack of straw/hay in front of us… finally we heard a rustle in the hay, pointed our weapons and four blokes slid down in front of us. All were unarmed, in British uniforms and had 53 Div. (Welch Inf.) signs sewn on. Marched them outside at gun point and the BSM questioned them one at a time. They were Welsh infantry deserters, had thrown away their rifles, and said they were no longer going to fight. Felt a bit sorry for them, but as the BSM forcibly told them, they had deserted their comrades in the line of fire.

So we marched them back to Bty. HQ. under arrest, and radioed Bn. who sent RMPs up the line and took them away. In the first war they would have been courts-martial and shot there and then. These would be transported back to Brussels courts-martialled and given a jail sentence after being dishonoured and discharged from the Army.

I still didn’t like Holland

POST SCRIPT.

Some 54 years later, in Feb 2000, , the French Government Embassy at Canberra sent me an embossed certificate , with my name on it, depicting the landings of Normandy, and thanking me for my participation in the liberation of France and Europe.

NORMANDY DIVISIONS BRITISH, ARMOURED.

Divisional badges for the armoured divisions were: the stylised white eye on blue angular shield, edged red, of the Guards Armoured Division.

The red desert rat, in white circle, on red square, of the 7th Armoured Division (the infantry had a red rat, edged white, on a black square).

The black bull on yellow rectangle of the 11th Armoured Division.

The 1st Polish Armoured Division had an orange circle, superimposed with a Late-Mediaeval Polish ‘Winged Hussar’s ‘wing’ in black, edged white. Polish tanks also often had a white oval with ‘PL’ in black painted centrally on the front and rear.

Tanks of the 7th Armoured Division also carried the badge of the 22nd Armoured Brigade – being a red stag’s head on a white square. This was painted on the right-hand side – directly above the unit flash.

Corps badges (worn by armoured car regiments) included the white spearhead on red diamond of I Corps.

The white charging knight on red rectangle of VIII Corps. *

The three green & brown trees on white oval, on black rectangle of XII Corps. *

And the black boar on white circle in black square of XXX Corps

INFANTRY DIVISIONS, BRITISH.

1st Infantry Division's badge was a black rhino in a white oval on a black rectangle.

3rd Infantry Division’s badge was a black equilateral triangle, superimposed with an inverted red triangle.

5th (Yorkshire) Infantry Division’s badge was a white ‘Y’ on a khaki square.

15th (Scottish) Infantry Division’s badge was a red Scottish lion rampant on a yellow circle, edged white – often on a black square.

43rd (Wessex) Infantry Division’s badge was an orange wyvern passant on a dark blue square.

49th (West Riding) Infantry Division’s badge was a white Polar Bear standing on a small white ice floe on a black square.

50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division’s badge was a black square with two red, overlapped ‘T’s. (Tees and Tyne) *

51st (Highland) Infantry Division’s badge was a red ‘HD’ inside a hollow red circle, all superimposed onto a light blue square. The background was khaki instead of light blue when worn on the uniform. "Dutchy"

52nd (Lowland) Infantry Division’s badge was a blue shield, edged in white and superimposed with a white saltire cross. The motto below, in white on a blue scroll, was ‘MOUNTAIN’.

53rd (Welch) Infantry Division’s badge was a stylised red ‘W’ (khaki backing on sleeve badge, or bright green on vehicles). *

59th (Staffordshire) Infantry Division’s badge was a white square, charged with a stylised black ‘slag heap’, superimposed with a stylised red pithead winding gear (it actually looks like a keyhole), symbolising the mining country of Staffordshire.

INDEPENDENT ARMOURED BRIGADES.

4th Armoured Brigade’s badge was a black desert rat on a white square.

6th (Guards) Tank Brigade’s badge was a white shield bearing a blue-red-blue diagonal stripe (bottom left to top right), superimposed with a downward-pointing sword.

8th Armoured Brigade’s badge was a yellow disc, superimposed with a red-brown fox’s mask. This brigade often painted its badge on a square, directly above the unit flash.

27th Armoured Brigade’s badge was a dark blue shield, bearing a white sea horse with a yellow spine.

31st Army Tank Brigade’s badge was a green ‘Diablo’ (like a bow tie placed vertically).

33rd Army Tank Brigade’s badge was identical to the 31st’s but the lower half was black.

34th Army Tank Brigade’s tanks wore two badges – a white shield with mid-blue cross, superimposed with a downward pointing gold sword** and a red shield, charged with a yellow diagonal stripe (top left to bottom right) and superimposed with a white armoured arm swinging a mace.

* Served with.

Published: 1st February 2015.

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