This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.
Chapter 2 - Invasion.
Part 1, The landing.
I, and my little recce party were put on a small merchant navy vessel, and the troops were later loaded onto invasion barges with trap doors on the ends. The sailors were most kind and gave up their bunks to us, which was appreciated, but caused us some foreboding "Hail Caesar, for tomorrow you die." (Apology to Author)
We left at night and I was up next morning early. We were in the middle of a sea with no land showing in any direction. Ships stretched in a line to the front and rear as far as one could see and on each side destroyers dashed up and down looking for submarines. Then we were able to see a shoreline, then beaches with houses at the back, then sandhills. All of a sudden our boat stopped and we were off-loaded onto a sort of floating raft with an outboard engine and we made for the shore. Our engine broke down and we drifted towards the minefield. To the right of us the other ships were firing madly, and the H.M.S. Warspite was hurling colossal broadsides right over our heads. It was very noisy.
Our sailor got the raft under way again and soon we hit the beach and drove off into only two feet of water and up and off the beach like scalded cats and into the cover of the foxholes beyond. I went forward to the command post to confirm my landing and get directions about the best route to our destination five miles inland. However, the Infantry and tanks had not got there and I was given an alternative V.P. (vital point) to defend.
Everything seemed oddly familiar as I set off into France. Our orders had been changed, so I changed mine without fuss; our months of drill were bearing fruit. One Officer lost his jeep in the sea and did his recce in a huge gun tractor instead of a tiny jeep. Drill again.
By evening all our troops had landed and we were deployed in our correct location and were engaging the enemy right, left and centre. We did well and shot down over a dozen enemy fighters and damaged many more.
The attitude of the Norman inhabitants was extraordinary. They were neither friendly nor hostile. All they wanted to do was get on with their farming. I remember on one occasion when tanks at one end of a field were firing into a wood at the other and whoever was there was replying in kind. I crawled up on my belly and had a look and there in the middle of the field a farmer was ploughing, completely oblivious to the battle raging on each side of him. French farmers are a breed apart. They admit no boss except nature. In Normandy we had no fresh food and subsisted on "Compo" rations which consisted of a sealed box with rations in it for 10 men for 48 hours. The food was all concentrated stuff and one grew weary of it. The thing that we missed most was bread and I well remember that one of our friends in the R.A.F. flew back to England and came back with a load of fresh loaves which he shared with us; there was enough for one slice each and like dogs we crept away to our fox-holes to consume this manna from heaven with the reverence it deserved. Of all the food I have ever consumed since that day, nothing can compare with that slice of bread.
The situation in Normandy soon became unpleasant. Troops were still pouring into the bridgehead from which there was no outlet. If you dug a trench you were liable to dig up a body. The heat increased and dysenetry broke out.
However, the great day came when the Army got through at Falaise. The Battery went forward but I had contracted dysentery. I wouldn't agree to being back loaded to base so I was put into a little tent with a bucket for company. There was no medicine to start with and my temperature soared to over 140°F before the vital dosage of sulphaguanidine arrived and 24 hours later I was lifted into a jeep and headed for a Falaise gap to try and catch up my Battery. I was never wounded during this campaign but I bear the effects of this episode for the rest of my life.
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OK, so after the funny final section of Ch 1 I guess we were in for a reality check.
Its hard not to be angry about the lack of attention paid to Granddad's dysentery, when I know how it affected him in later life. But, to be fair, he says himself that he refused help to a certain degree. And obviously his sufferings are minor in the grand scheme of things. Still, the thought of him in a tent with a bucket brought a tear to my eye.
The landing itself sounds just incredible. I know Granddad wasn't in the very 1st wave of attacks - doesn't make sense to bring the big guns in until the infantry are successfully there. And, annoyingly, my only frame of reference as to what this would've been like is Saving Private Ryan!
Mum, Dad, Granddad, Granny and lil Dave actually went to Normandy in 1994 prior to the 50th Anniversary of D-Day.
Here's some photos (thanks DaD):
The little old lady was a local who remembered Granddad's troops being in the field in her village. They couldn't communicate as she didn't speak English, and Granddad had little French - but it was a magical moment nonetheless.
In fact, it was a really emotional trip. I have a very strong memory of the look on Granddad's face as he stared out to sea. It's not a face he showed often.
At one point, Granddad disappeared for a couple of hours into the Mess of a bunch of British troops who were camped on the beach. Nobody knows what the hell he was doing in there, and we never will!
His attitude to the French is explained by what he saw in Normandy. He just didn't understand them at all - at the time I thought it was because he was a bit old fashioned, grumbling about how they put cream in everything and stuff. But now I see he had his reasons. In a way I admire the balls of The Farmer Who Ploughed On, but I think I would've been more to Granddad's mind if I'd have been in a situation where they could, and arguably should, have been helping fight an horrific oppressor.
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