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A Taylor At War - Ch 2, Part 1.

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.

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Part 9.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 9, Preparation for off.

We took up residence in the middle of nowhere in Northamptonshire.  It was forbidden to give our address to anyone and all mail was censored.  At first I found the censoring amusing, then trying and then a fearful chore.  I do remember one of our younger lads, a dispatch rider aged about 18, who had got himself engaged to three girls, one in Driffield, Yorks., another in Grimsby, Lincs. and another in Croydon, Surrey.  He wrote all his letters in triplicate using carbon paper.  The letters always started the same way -

"Dear Darling (space for name),

As I write this letter I miss you and think only of you." etc. etc.

I don't know how he sorted it out, because at the end of the European campaign it was rumoured that he had done the same thing in France, Belgium and Holland.

We were in a "concentration area" and were not allowed to leave it or disclose its location.  We were on 12 hour notice to pack up and go.

We used our time to "waterproof" our vehicles which meant cunningly covering the engine with an asbestos plastic so that we could plunge into the sea without ceasing up, and bringing our stores and ammunition up to pre-determined levels.

We all got bored.  The Battery Sergeant Major (a poacher in private life) took a party of us rabbit-hunting.  Suddenly a farmer appeared at the end of the field shouting furiously and waving his pitchfork.  They all looked at me for guidance.  I gave it.  I fled.  I got to my office and had just wiped the sweat from my brow when the Battery Clerk appeared in my doorway -

"Mr. Smith, local farmer, to see you sir."
"Good afternoon Mr. Smith.  Do sit down.  What can I do for you?"
"Your bloody soldiers have been trespassing and poaching on my land, that's wot"
"Oh dear.  Very serious.  (Anxiously) Could you recognise any of them?"
"No! - except the one leading them was a little runt."
"Ah!  I'll investigate, Mr. Smith.  Rest assured I'll find the culprits and deal with them."

I never went poaching again.

One of our officers who had been educated at public school, found Stowe College not far away and arranged for us to play a cricket match.  We got together an eleven clad in army shirts, battledress trousers and ammunition boots and were met by our hosts clad in spotless white and cricket caps.  After a splendid tea we went out to field and then I heard in the far distance the familiar "pop-pop" of a Norton 500.  The dispatch rider strode across the field and delivered the dispatch to me.  "Red alert.  Return immediately."  Since the message was classified "Top Secret" all I could do was thank our hosts and depart without explanation.

Then I was off in my recce jeep and two dispatch riders on motor cycles, heading for Tilbury Docks where they examined our vehicles for waterproofing efficiency, issued us with emergency rations and a tin each of self-heating soup, a bag vomit, soldier, Mark I.  The latter were just like vehicle wheel inner tubes only much lighter and served as pillows and loot bags for the rest of the campaign.

___

That's got to be the funniest chapter so far.  That lad with fiancees in every town cracked me up.  Imagine using carbon paper to duplicate letters!  These days, I guess soldiers just cut 'n' paste  copy into various social networks!  The opportunity for polygamy that web2.0 technologies have provided is incredible!  Someone should do some research to see if people have become more free with their marriage proposals since Facebook...

On a serious note, censorship must've not only been boring, but put Granddad in a strange position of knowing the intimacies of all his troops.  Before I read this, I'd assumed there was some kind of central censoring office where a bunch of clerks in horn-rimmed specs sat with a pristine pot of red biros each - that would never come into contact with the troops.  I wonder what secrets Granddad knew about the guys who fought with him?  And it must've taken a lot of dedication to keep them to himself too.

Anyway, don't you just love that story with the farmer?  The only thing missing is a stereotypical holler of "GERRORF MY LARND!!!".  I think that little tale, while funny, also illustrates the nervous tension that arose from just waiting to invade.  Rabbits are as good a distraction as any.

Finally, the cricket story is lovely.  I like to think the captain of the village side was a Victor Meldrew type who was left spluttering in the oval, waving a fist in the direction of Granddad's departing jeep!  (Soundtrack would probably be a gentle reprise of the A-Team theme tune.)

Anyway, that brings Chapter 1 to an end.  And I'm double-posting today to make up for my shoddiness of recent weeks, so we'll be "fighting them on the beaches" in a matter of minutes...

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Part 8.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 8, Training.

When I came back from Wimbourne I was put in charge of the training of all the Regimental Officers as well as my supply duties with the Quartermaster.

We set up a training camp at Thirsk in North Yorkshire and there with a huge sandtable I imparted what I knew. The trouble was that since we still had operational duties in the area and had no transport we could not practise for real.

Then they decided to give us training as Infantry but instead of sending me to an Infantry Training Depot as I had supposed they would, they dispatched me and two others to an Infantry Battle School which was designed to further train already trained Infantry.  That was a six weeks I'll never forget.  You will have seen the assault course on the television screen in the Krypton Factor; our instructors would have regarded that as kindergarten stuff.  By the end of the course we were doing 20 mile stomps through moorland and rivers and bogs.  As we crawled towards our objective, machine guns firing live ammunition just above our heads kept us crawling low.  Still, we survived - or at least 70% did.

I could hardly wait until I got back to the Battery to start teaching.  It seems a dreadful thing to say, but I wanted to make others suffer as I had done.  It was only later that I discovered in a strange fashion that the training was designed with precisely that end in view.  We had taken over an S.S. building in Germany and I found an S.S. training manual which had got left behind:  by the time the 40% of S.S. survivors got out of the training camp as qualified S.S. men they were zombies who couldn't wait to tear off toenails and burn earlobes with lighted cigarettes.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of this type of training we ended up 100% physically fit and trained theoretically as far as possible.

By this time we had moved to Lincolnshire and were stationed at Immingham near Grimsby where the Royal Naval Dockyard was in operation.  There were 50 permanent naval personnel and 150 W.R.N.S. (Women's Royal Naval Service) and it can be said that inter-service co-operation had just reached a satisfactory level when we were posted to the south of England and relieved of operational duties, issued with all our transport and other mobile gear and given six months to carry out practical training.

At this point, the Major was posted elsewhere and I was granted my Majority and given command.

Our H.Q. was in a suburban house in a suburban road in the London suburb of West Wickham and from that district I exercised the Battery throughout Kent, Sussex and Surrey.  By the end of six months the Battery was at a peak of fitness and efficiency.  We could and did carry out the most complicated motorised maneuvers and on a quick visit to the marches of Wales, lived off the land with nothing except what we could carry to sustain us.

One day I got secret orders and the Battery found itself lined up in the main street at West Wickham at 0430 hours.  It was only then that I told the troop commanders where we were going and why.  We moved off through the sleeping suburb and at 0500 hours we were taken over by the Metropolitan Police on motor cycles who rushed us through the centre of London at 40 m.p.h. without a single stop.

The next day West Wickham awakened to find us gone and there were many sad hearts and I am sure some worried ones.

__

First up - apologies for the lateness of this post.  Busy week.

The anticipation is building up nicely now.  I know that chapter 2 is called "Invasion" so I'm itching to get onto that.

I found Granddad's view on his training really interesting.  His comparison between the S.S. and British Army's techniques shows how thin the line between necessary evil and just plain evil really is.  And of course it hints at the story to come.

Also, the mention of "6 months of training" has got me wondering about timescales.  So far, I don't really know how long has elapsed between when he left Northern Ireland and his arrival in West Wickham - but it must've been a few years.

He talks so little about the actual day-to-day of shooting at Luftwaffe planes, that its easy to forget that that's what his Battery were doing all the time.  In those years they must've taken out a good few planes!  And there's Granddad's promotion to Major, which would have to have been some time after his double-jump to Captain of part 6.

(I've also been updating the Gmap of Granddad's journey.  He's pretty much filled the UK with virtual pins now.)

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Part 7.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 7, The system.

This section of the Chapter is technical and is therefore optional reading!  I’ve tried to put it all into one section and consequently you can if you wish turn now to section 8 without losing the thread.

A Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment consisted of a Regimental H.Q. and three Batteries, a section of R.E.M.E. (Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers) and a section of the Royal Corps of Signals.  The Regiments were commanded by a Lieutenant Colonel assisted by an Adjutant (Captain) and a flock of technical types.

Each Battery consisted of a Battery H.Q. and three Troops and a detachment of the Royal Corps of Signals.  A Radar section was attached “under command” when appropriate.  The Battery was commanded by a Major, assisted by a Captain and a Lieutenant and each of the three Troops was commanded by a Captain and two Lieutenants.  Each Troop had six guns and about 20 vehicles, and 70 gunners.

Rubbish diagram of Regimental structure (c) Rob Mosley 2008

When a Battery was on the move it occupied about 2 1/2 miles of road and a Regiment required about 8 miles.

When a Battery was fully deployed all its guns would be alone on their own sites, spread over about 5 square miles.  But the fire of each gun could cross its neighbours and every possible air access to the place guarded was covered by at least one gun.

The choosing of gun sites and their camouflage and access thereto was a highly skilled job and usually had to be carried out within a short time scale and often under fire or enemy observation.  Imagine the Battery fully deployed around a vital ammunition dump.  Orders to move to protect a river crossing 50 miles away are received.  The Battery Commander in a jeep and two despatch riders immediately sets off at high speed to the area concerned, gets a high spot and observes it through binoculars, and then closer if the tanks and infantry had won the day.  It was a vulnerable and often dangerous exercise.  Having got a grip on the topography, road conditions, state of battle and situation of minefields he retreats a short distance and meets the troop commanders at a pre-arranged map reference.  He gives his plans to the Troop Commanders which includes all information known and the division of the area into three troop areas.  The Troop Commanders then rush off and decide the exact spot for each of their six guns.  He has with a him a guide for each gun team who examines every inch of the site.  All this activity is reconnaissance and is known as the “Recce” for short.

While all the above has been going on, each gun guarding the ammunition dump has moved and gone into its laneway and joins other guns until all are moving together as a troop.  The troop columns and Battery H.Q. column all join each other in the main access and move as one towards the bridge to be defended.  As they arrive in the area, they slow down and each gun guide leaps on his own gun tractor without it stopping and guides it to the very spot in the field or wherever chosen by the Troop Commander.

Thus, from the moment a gun ceases to be in action in the old area to the time it is ready to fire in the new location, its wheels have never stopped turning.  Obviously it does not always work.  Vehicles break down, or bog down.  The enemy gets nasty.  The bridge area is not taken.  The location of the place to be defended is changed in mid-stream.  But the basic drill remains and overcomes all temporary upsets.

I have sketched only the bones of what is called the “deployment drill.”  There are dozens of other actions within the drill not described.  The gunner works to a drill far more than any other arm of the service and it all goes back to the gun itself.  It is a beauty and a beast.  It can kill the enemy, but it can kill you.  Its firing pin can break, a shell can get stuck in the barrel, the mechanism can jam; any one of these factors can cause an explosion on the gun site instead of thousands of feet up in the air.  Also, on a wet low-cloud day an aircraft suddenly breaks from the cloud.  Ours or theirs?

Let us take this aircraft breaking from the cloud.  Six gunners bark orders and responses in succession before the first round leaves the gun:-

“Enemy - right,” yells the Bombardier.
“Engage,” barks the Sergeant, thus taking all responsibility for the action.
“Held,” shouts the firer indicating that all is ready to fire.
“On,” bellow the layers as they get the enemy in their sights.
“Fire,” says the No. 1 and up goes a stream of 2lb shells at the rate of one per second, any one of which will explode if it touches even a hailstone.

The gun itself is the gunners life.  He spends hours tending it.  He never lets it fall into enemy hands as a gun.  If he is ordered to retreat and cannot take his gun with him he blows it up.

The Royal Regiment of Artillery, unlike other regiments, has no Regimental Flag.  The gun is its flag.  Unlike other regiments it has no battle honours; every man in the regiment from the Master Gunner (a full General) to each greast gunner carries the word “ubioue” on his cap badge and collar flashes.  No flag would be big enough to list the battle honours, so each and every man carries all of them himself, and takes unto himself the responsibility of guarding those honours.

__

I've got a headache!  First of all, let's work out where Granddad fitted into the structure of the regiment he outlines.  In section 5, he gets made "second in command of a Battery with the immediate rank of Captain" - so, of the three positions a Captain can hold, I think that means he was assistant to a Major in command of a Battery (rather than being Adjutant to a Lieutenant Colonel in charge of the entire Regiment, or directly in command of a Troop!).  (Armies like arranging things in threes.  Three Batteries in a Regiment, three Troops in a Battery.)

In terms of his duties - its sounds like he'd have been in that jeep, peering through some binoculars trying to work out where best to put a massive gun.  By the time I knew Granddad 40 years later, he still had a pair of binoculars from the war.  (They were German and I forget how he got them - but I'm sure its an interesting tale and hopefully we'll find out soon!)  He loved those old binoculars.  I remember Mum and Dad once got him a flashy new pair, all sleek and black.  On one of our walks around the Groomsport coastline he gave them to me to muck about with, while he stuck to his old grey-blue-chipped-paint pair to watch the birds he loved.

(Still, at least he kept the new ones .  Not like when someone got him a "man bag" thing - a little leather bag for blokes like Cristiano Ronaldo has now - that was "accidentally" left on the roof of the car before driving off.  Fortunately no valuables were inside.)

On the research side of things I've had a bit of progress.   Think I've managed (with the help of the brilliant medals.org.uk and the lovely Megan, who runs it)  to identify all Granddad's  medals.

From left to right (which I think is descending from most impressive), they are:

- Order of the British Empire (OBE).  This is the Civil version, so can't have been awarded for actions during the war.

- 1939-45 Star.  Awarded for 6 months service between 3rd Sept 1939 and 15th August 1945 under operational command.

- France and Germany Star.  Awarded for service in France, Belgium, Holland and Germany between 6 June 1944 and 8 May 1945.

- Defence Medal. Awarded for 3 years' service in the United Kingdom between 3 September 1939 and 2 September 1945, or 6 months overseas in a non-operational area subject to aerial attack.  (This was the trickiest one to find - thanks Megan!)

- The War Medal.  Awarded to all persons serving full-time in the Armed Forces for 28 days between 3 September 1939 and 2 September 1945.

Gives us a bit of a clue as to what to expect, which is nice!

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Parts 5 & 6.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.  Double-post this week (these two sections were both on the short side).  Aren't you lucky people?!

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 5, A new start.

My morale was low as I travelled to take up my new appointment as Assistant Adjutant to a newly formed Regiment.  Adjutants and their Assistants look after the administration of a Regiment and although they have numerous operational duties, these are mostly affecting personnel and logistics.  I didn’t want a desk job.  I wanted the sharp end.

The Adjutant was a nice chap but was more interested in horses and women than his adjutantle duties.  The Chief Clerk recognised in me a fellow-craftsman and the two of us ran the administration to the delight of the Adjutant and the fury of the Colonel.  It could not last and the Adjutant was sacked and a very nice Lecturer in Psychology from Edinburgh University took over.  A period of peace and harmony ensued.  We moved up to Bradford in Yorkshire with Batteries and their Troops covering every airfield in the country.  Soon we moved to a delightful little village near York called Askam Bryan and took over the big house in the village.

I had now been at Regimental Headquarters for nearly a year and I felt that time was passing me by so I decided to speak to the Colonel.  He was a Regular Indian Army Officer with 1914/18 War experience.  He knew everybody in the War Office!

“Excuse me Sir, may I speak to you on a personal matter?”

“Yes,” he said looking up.

“I feel that it’s time for me to go out to a Battery.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not looking for a promotion to Lieutenant, I just feel I’d like a transfer in the same rank to learn more.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you Sir.”

“Yes.”

One day about a month later the Chief Clerk said to me: “I feel you would like to read this letter which the Colonel has just signed.”  My eyes nearly popped out.  It was a memo from the C.O. to me appointing me second in command of a Battery with the immediate rank of Captain.  I looked helplessly at the Chief Clerk.  “The Boss knows them all up there, Sir,” he said by way of explanation.

I departed for my new job at Lowthorpe near Driffield which is near Bridlington in East Yorkshire, with three Beautiful shining pips on each shoulder and a light heart.

__

Yessssssss!  Go Granddad!!  I've learned from Grandma that he joined up at a time when many in Northern Ireland didn't - and you can see his determination here to bounce back from his disappointment and play an active role in serving his country.  I've been picturing characters as I go along (everyone does that when they read I s'pose) and in that little cameo from the Colonel he was this robust old man with a huge bushy white 'tache and rosy cheeks - a kind of military Santa!

I've had to look up the order of Army ranks on Wikipedia in order to work out the significance of this latest promotion.  He basically moved up two rungs in one go.  Top stuff.  Anyway, back to the story...

Map updated with Granddad's movements from these 2 sections. I've annotated it a bit now.Bigger one here.

Part 6, Digging in.

The job of second-in-command of a Battery is to deputise for the Commander (a Major) and to take charge of operational training and to supervise the Quartermaster’s Department.  These were the remaining two fields in which I had not had practical experience and I looked forward to getting it.  In addition, the Major was a splendid chap who had been a tea-planter in Ceylon.

It was a very happy time despite beng involved in a very inefficient defence system know as A.D.G.B. - Air Defence of Great Britain.  All our guns were looking after the defence of airfields and enemy attacks were few and far between.  The men grew static with long hours trying to spot aircraft which were not there.  The top brass (which was static itself but didn’t know it) tried to remedy the situation by getting the chaps to whitewash dustbins and grow flowers around gun sites.

Then we got wonderful news.  We were to be part of the order of battle for the invasion of Europe.  Training was to start immediately in matters relating to mobile warfare, following which we were to receive basic infantry training.  All old men (40 and over) were transferred.  By the time we had finished, our oldest Officer was aged 30, and he was always referred to as “the old man.”  The policy was correct because active warfare for regimental officers is utterly exhausting both mentally and physically.

Since I was in charge of training, my day had really dawned.  I was packed off to Wimborne Minster in the New Forest, there to be taught with great efficiency all aspects of mobile gun warfare.  I found it fascinating and took to it like a duck to water.

__

See, I told you they were short sections.  I'm liking Granddad's healthy contempt for authority that's started to show through here.  Hardly surprising, is it?  Imagine sitting in an Anti-Aircraft Battery and receiving a telegram from HQ... your heart beats faster "is this THE call?"... no.  Its an instruction turn dustbins into makeshift ornamental gardens!  It beggars belief.  I'd have probably thought it a hoax.

Granddad was actually a pretty keen gardener, but he'd have hated being instructed to waste time.  I think pretty much everyone hates that.  At Nonsense we've just taken someone on, and I'm conscious of not filling up Nick's time with this kind of "filler" stuff.  I reckon the only people who like being given pointless tasks are school kids.  When you're at school, anything that's not a lesson is basically brilliant.  Even fire alarm drills.

Also, a little thing I've noticed is how Granddad always refers to people by the previous job, before being in the Army.  We had a University Lecturer and a Ceylon tea-planter in those last two chapters.  (The latter was a Major, so I'm assuming he owned a tea plantation in India, rather than walking round picking leaves.)  I think this is partially because Granddad is deliberately not mentioning names, but also because that's how everyone saw themselves at the time.  Just ordinary people taking time out from ordinary jobs to fight the Nazis.  It's something that's easy to forget with all the talk of ranks, guns, orders etc.

I can sense the story is about to kick off now, so I'm pretty excited.  As a family, we once went to Normandy with Granddad and Grandma to Normandy, to see where he landed - it was near the 40th anniversary of D-Day at the time.  Mum / DaD... any photos from that trip?  Might need 'm to spice up next week's post.

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Part 4.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 4, Lowest form of human life.

I had often heard that a Second Lieutenant was the lowest form of human life, never believed it, but was about to prove it true.  Sergeant-Majors knocked Sergeants.  Sergeants knocked Bombadiers who knocked Gunners who didn't mind because they were no gentlemen.  Captains and Lieutenants knocked Second Lieutenants on every possible occasion and they, poor things, had nobody to knock except Sergeant-Majors and not even a General would dare to do that.

I arrived at Trent Bridge Cricket Ground on a Saturday to join my new Regiment.  I was met by the Adjutant (a Captain) who said breezily to a Lieutenant "This is Taylor the new chap.  He will take over B Troop on Monday.  In the meantime see he gets fixed up."  The Lieutenant leered at me unpleasantly and said "Good.  You can take Church Parade tomorrow" and departed leaving me to "fix up" myself.  The next morning I was faced by a squad of cleaned-up gunners and a Sergeant, who obviously expected me to do something.  I hadn't the least idea what to do.  I could have given them a learned discourse on ballistics, explained how metal fatigue leading to "droop" affected gun barrels or how to construct an Ottway Pit, but I had no idea how to get the squad moving towards the Church.  Fortunately, the Sergeant was a decent chap and gave all the orders for me and we got to Church.

Then we were in to the next crisis.  The chaps were all marched into the Church and the Vicar then led me in and placed me all alone two pews in front of the soldiery.  I was a Presbyterian and knew that Episcopalians kept jumping up and down, kneeling and standing up, without cause but probably with a reason, but the trouble was I didn't know the reason.  I felt 30 pairs of eyes glued to my shoulder blades as the squad prepared to take their cue from me.  But salvation was at hand.  A lady about the age of my own Mother was in a pew to the right and with complete insight, which only a mother has, saw my problem.  I never took my eyes off her for the whole service and stood up and kneeled with an efficiency that would have pleased an Archbishop.  Going out she said: "So nice to see you Lieutenant."  Then winked.  One of my favourite ladies that, whoever she was.

I took over my Troop next day and was surprised to find that they had never been commanded by an Officer, our breed still being in very short supply.  I was suddenly faced with all the domestic and operational problems of a Troop of 70 men and 6 guns and only the vaguest idea of how to go about it.  I realised the big gap between the academic and the practical and there was nobody to help me.  I did my best, but was floundering horribly.

The Troop was moved from providing protection to a factory on the River Trent to the R.A.F. bomber station at Scampton near Lincoln and I didn't enjoy it.  I was the only soldier in the officers' mess and was always referred to as "The Brown Job," because of the colour of my uniform.  The tensions were very great.  We would all have an evening meal together and the aircrew were silent as they thought about the coming "prang."  I'd watch them go off - bomber after bomber in quick succession with one roar blending into the next.  And then a profound silence.  At dawn the roaring started again as they came in.  This time not continuous.  Two, one after the other.  Then a gap.  Then one.  At breakfast I'd notice the empty places.  There were always empty places.  Always.

One day one of the pilots suggested that I should look at my gunsites as a bomber pilot would see them.  So he took me up in his Hampden Bomber.  It had a glass nose in front into which he put me and proceeded to practice dive-bombing.  It caused much merry laughter in the mess and I resolved never to go up in an R.A.F. plane again.

A Hampden Bomber, complete with glass bubble for scaring green Lieutenants.

My Battery Commander decided that he didn't like me and I was sacked.  I saw his point.  But he never even said farewell.  He just sent me a travelling warrant and orders to join another Regiment which was forming.  Not long after, the Regiment I had left was sent to Singapore, immediately went up country in Malaya, met the Japs coming down and was decimated.

__

Hmmm.  Ended on a bit of low note that one, didn't it?  Near miss stories interest me - there's always so many of them for every conflict or catastrophe.  If Granddad hadn't been so under-qualified to command a Troop, I might not be here today.

In fact Granddad's entire time with that Troop seemed fraught.  It must've been so demoralising coming to breakfast with less and less people there each morning.  I can't even begin to imagine what its like.  (In fact, the only parallel I can draw is when one's football team suffers a string of losses and each one feels worse than the last - what a pathetic comparison!  I've led such a cosseted life, haven't I?)

The shortage of Officers reminded me of when you're at school and you get a substitute teacher!  Normally, as kids, you give them a bit of a hard time - but you also unconsciously do a lot to help them out, sitting down in the right place, even telling them what you did in the last lesson... but imagine if you'd never been taught before!  It would be chaos.

And obviously I grinned at the idea of Granddad being terrorised by a cheeky R.A.F. pilot.  It would be pretty scary - but he already had the nickname The Brown Job, so soiling himself wouldn't have made things any worse!

I've been updating my Google Map of Granddad's movements too.  At the moment its still a collection of pins - I want to change those to numbers eventually, and draw on lines in between, but that's gonna take a bit of faffing.  Here's the map (click the link underneath to see it bigger and better).

View Larger Map

A Taylor At War - Ch 1, Part 3.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 3, To be an Officer and a Gentleman.

The Officer Cadet Training Unit at Llandrindod Wells was scattered throughout the Spa in the hotels all of which had been taken over by the Army.  Our parade ground was the street.  Of all Army Institutions, O.C.T.U.s were the most feared.  The sword of Damocles hung over Cadets who could be returned to their units (R.T.U.) if they did not face the grade.  About 20% did not.  The Battery Sergeant Major made the point very clear on the day of our arrival.  He walked slowly down each rank, stopping in front of every cadet and examined him from highly polished toecaps to sweaty brow.  Finally he stood out in front and addressed us thus:-

"My job at this 'ere place is to turn you lot into Officers and Gentlemen." spoken in the soft voice of sweet reason, which we all knew merely preceded the scream which would follow - "And from what I can see it's going to be bloody well impossible."

I enjoyed O.C.T.U.  It was like a mixture of university and technical college.  There was a library for study, our rooms had writing tables for the same purpose, the gun-sheds were open in the evening for further and voluntary examination of the intestines of the enormous 3.7 gun to the relatively small Bufors 40mm.

A 3.7 inch Anti Aircraft gun as used by British troops in WWII - courtesy of Wikipedia

The lecturers were mostly badly-wounded chaps from various theatres of war or blokes who had been Dons in other places.  We listened, discussed and debated and in time were required to give lectures ourselves.  But over everything, in it and through it at all times we were expected to display the turnout and smartness of the Brigade of Guards.  However, we had some privileges, which included the wearing distinctive white shoulder chevrons and white hat bands, brown boots instead of the usual black and permission to carry one pot of our own marmalade into breakfast.  Off-duty we wore grey flannels, checked sports coats and soft caps set straight on our heads.

A strict eye was kept on our social life.  We were not expected to drink beer excessively, visit vulgar dance halls or associate with loose women.  Married Cadets were allowed to have their wives living in he town so they were alright.  There was only one answer for single chaps and that was to acquire an A.T.S. (female soldier) of which there were dozens at the O.C.T.U., all specially chosen for their suitability to associate with almost-officers and probable-gentlemen.  However, it was well known and throughly understood that any slight indiscretion would lead to a very black mark and any major infringement to immediate R.T.U.  I acquired a delightful lass from Lancashire called Stella who remained with me until I helped her get an incoming Cadet as I left!

Half-way through our training we were mobilised in an emergency which lasted for two days.  Somebody had decided that the Germans had landed in the British Channel area.  I spent the first night in reserve, sleeping on a coal tip and the second day and night in great comfort in somebody's house in Builth Wells.  My job was to peer down the river Wye and make sure that no Germans were paddling in it.  Fortunately, the house had a big bay window overlooking the river, so I opened it, thrust my rifle out of it, packed plush pillows behind my back and allowed the family to bring me hot sweet tea at frequent intervals.  Afterwards there was a row because of the time it had taken to issue rifles from the Armoury to the Cadets, which led to the publication of an order from the C.O, which quickly gathered fame throughout the whole armed forces.  It read:-

"In future, Cadets will sleep with their rifles.  That includes married cadets living out."

About a month before the end of our training we were informed individually if we had passed, with the simple words "You can go and order your uniform."  Off we rushed to Moss Bros. who were well used to the situation and played up to it.  "Good afternoon, Sir.  Has Sir come for his uniform?  Now Sir, this is what most Officers are wearing Sir."  Sweet music.  No longer "'orrible little man," "dozy little soldier."  Now - "Sir."  The instructors did not call us "Sir," but ceased yelling at us.

The great day arrived when the notice went up stating that our commissions had appeared in the London Gazette.  One of our Troop gained a distinction, four of us (including me) were "above average" and the remaining forty passed.

Found Granddad's commission in London Gazette's excellent archive.  Top right-ish, dated Dec 6 1940.  (Click image for bigger.)

I was posted to a regiment H.Q. in the Trent Bridge Cricket Ground Nottingham.  The postings were a mystery, because we had been asked for volunteers for overseas and all the single men (including me) had volunteered.  In the event, A to M were posted overseas and N to Z were allocated to home stations.  A to M contained most of the married men!

One hour before we were due to go to the railway station we took the traditional walk in pairs through the town, twenty yards between pairs.  Cadets, N.C.O. Instructors and Squads on the march all had to salute us and we unashamedly enjoyed it.  We were then taken to the station in cars and one remembered one's arrival when we were crammed like sheep, twenty into the back of a lorry.

On the station platform the Sergeant-Major shook hands with every one of us, saluted and said:-

"Best of luck, Sir."

__

Now we're really getting moving with the story.  I love all the detail here about the clothes they wore and stuff - you can feel Granddad's excitement as prepares to become an Officer.  And as for being a gentleman?  Well, his treatment of "Stella" is a lesson to us all!

That whole scenario with the ladies seems so odd.  I can't get my head round it.

I was really chuffed to find the entry in the London Gazette.  It provides no extra detail at all (other than what must be Granddad's Army number), but I got a real thrill from seeing his name in print.  There's a bunch of shorthand with the entry, but I don't know what most of it means.  Any idea anyone?

My favourite scene has to be Granddad making himself comfortable in the bay window of someone's house, rifle pointing out of the window!  Granddad was someone who always looked at home.  In my mind he's sitting there, holding his neck with his right hand for comfort (a trait I seem to have acquired when I read), or perhaps eating an apple with a sharp knife - quietly content.

Of course he could have been really grumpy that he'd been sent to a backwater, late, with an old rifle to look for fictional Germans... but my romantic view of it just seems to fit better.

Anyway, this is fast turning into a research project, because each chapter I read throws up more questions.  So, yesterday I got the necessary forms to get a copy of Granddad's Army record.  It should list all his promotions, medals etc.  But apparently they don't give many actual details of events.

Hardly surprising really.  How the hell do you keep tabs on an organisation of 1,000s of people, spread over 1,000s of miles, fighting, getting killed, getting promoted... without using computers?!

A Taylor At War - Ch. 1, Part 2.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 2, A greasy gunner.

    "I'll never forget the day I enlisted on the spree

    To be a greasy gunner in The Royal Artillery

    Oh - me 'eart is aching and a-breakin'

    To be in civvy street once more

    But there's going to be inspection in the mornin'

    And the Battery Sergeant Major he'll be there----"

So the ditty called "The Gunners Lament" starts and as I toiled through basic training I thought it apposite.

We arrived by train from London, conveyed by lorry to the barracks and went straight into one end of the machine which took our civilian clothing, clad us in ill-fitting battle dresses, heavy boots ("'ow do you want 'em - too large or too small?"), and supplied with numerous other objects including "drawers woolen long" (long-johns) and "housewives" (sewing sets).  Then through a line of medical chaps who looked at and tapped everything and then injected us with Anti-Typhoid and Anti-Tetanus and finished with a vaccination by way of an encore.  We were then herded over to a hut and told we were "G Troop" - all 30 of us - and we were given 2 days off.  "What a kind army" we thought.  By the early evening, limbs started to swell, temperatures to rise and everything from acute pain to major discomfort experienced.  Our first lesson; "never trust 'em."

Basic training presented no problems for me.  I had already been basically trained in the Campbell College O.T.C. [Officer Training Corps? - Rob] and so was able to concentrate on gunnery which was new to me.  Unfortunately, this was theoretical because we had no guns.  The absence of weapons was frightening, especially with an invasion from France a probability.  We were issued with bayonets tied to broom-handles and six inch nuts welded to short iron bars.  As one gunner said: "Get me an 'orse, show me a tank and I'll charge the bloody thing."

My twenty-nine mates were mostly Welsh miners and dockmen and a rough lot they were.  Their priorities were absolute:-

(i.) beer, (ii.) women, (iii.) food, (iv.) sleep, and strictly in that order.  By careful observation I learnt from the inside, the truth in the old jingle -

    "Wot I sez is this 'ere

    Don't muck about wiv a workin' man's beer."

My three months basic training at Devizes were invaluable, because by the time I left I knew and practised the 24 basic skills of defying authority, being caught, but having a cast-iron defence.  I knew it ALL from the inside, a fact much deplored by many gunners at a later stage when I had turned game-keeper.

I also learnt a lot about gunners. I learnt not to muck about with their priorities providing they were doing their soldierly duties well.  I learnt that a man's "mate" was sacred to him.  I think that this must have arisen from standing together against the coal mine bosses.  For us, as soldiers, it was a wonderful attribute.  A soldier whose mate is careless is a dead soldier.  Survival depends on complete trustworthiness of every member of the team.

I also learnt that the gunner shares everything.  It is as natural as breathing.  It is expected.  If anyone received a cake, it was divided into 30 pieces.  If anybody had bad luck, everybody (all 29) did something for him.  Similarly, if someone had outstanding good luck he immediately became aware of 29 pairs of thirsty eyes.  Like the time I got a refund of income tax of £12.  A fortune.  By morning it was gone, which didn't help me absorb the next letter from the Inland Revenue saying they had made a mistake and I owed them £12.  On the advice of my mates I replied saying I couldn't return the money because we had drunk it.  You see £12 was a fortune.  We were paid only two shillings a day.  That's 10p!!

During our first week they decided to sort out religious denominations.  All three troops (90 of us) were put on parade.

"Fall out all C of E and fall in over there," roared the Sergeant Major.  70 men fell out and fell in.

"Fall out all R.C.s and fall in over there," he roared.  10 men fell out and fell in.

"Fall out all Methodists and fall in over there," he screamed.  8 men fell out and fell in.

I've never felt so naked in all my life until the moment when the other chap (Atheist) was immediately dispatched to the C of Es.  Then I was alone.

"What the 'ell are you?"  the Sergeant Major snarled.

"I'm an Irish Presbyterian Sir," I replied.

That floored him.  Off he marched to the Officer in charge and after deep consultation he returned.

"What did you say you was?" he asked softly.

"An Irish Presbyterian Sir," I replied.

"There haint no such thing," he roared triumphantly - "Join the Methodists."

So I did, until I found out that the Methodist Church was three miles away and we had to march there and back.  I took a poor view of this and went to see the Sergeant Major and explained that Methodism was not really the same as Presbyterianism.  A wicked gleam came into his eye.  “Seems to me, son, you don’t know what you is, so you needn’t go to church parades.”  All in a lovely soft voice.  Then he broke into his usual bellow “so report here every Sunday and clean Battery H.Q. out proper - and when I say proper I means proper and by ‘it’ I means the whole Battery Office.  Fall out. Quick march.  Left right.  Left right.”

I already knew and practised the gunners’ maxim “Never volunteer for anything.”  Now I had learnt two more valuable lessons.  “Never stand alone conspicuously.”  And, “Never trust a Sergeant Major if his voice soft and his manner friendly.”

We had no Jewish gunners in this Training Regiment.  I did, however, have one later in the war.  A kindly, gentle chap not built for warfare:  I gave him a happy niche as the stores clerk where he could count socks and boots all day and I could rely on him to make only minimum issues, and those with ill grace.  One day, going through an Army Instruction I read that Commanding Officers could indent for unleavened bread for Jewish personnel at festival times.  I called for the Battery Quartermaster and asked why we didn’t indent for Solly.  “He doesn’t like it Sir,” he said.

“Order it,” I said.

We did and at every Jewish Festival I had unleavened bread and marmalade for breakfast and very good it was too.

But back to the Training Regiment.

In spite of my banishment from formal religion I turned my Sunday cleaning duties to good use.  The Battery H.Q. clerks soon got to know me, gave me tea and I helped them with little jobs like spelling and word interpretation.  Thus, I soon got into the coveted position of “knowing what is going to happen.”!

So I was popular with all.  The oppressors and the oppressed.  In Army terms that is Nirvana.

I learned the four of the 90 were going to be recommended for transfer to Cadet Unit for officer training and that I was one of the four.  I attended a Board before three officers with red tabs.  I got the short sharp treatment.

“Where did you go to school?”

“Campbell College, Sir.”

“Never heard of it - where is it?”

“Belfast, Sir.”

“Oh - there.  I see.  What sort of school is it?”

“A public school Sir.”

“Nonsense boy, they don’t have public schools in Ireland.”

In spite of this problem, my report from the C.O. must have been good because I and three others found ourselves on a train with travel warrants to an unknown place called Llandrindod Wells, somewhere in the middle of Wales.

View Larger Map  Granddad's Journey - map will develop as the story does!

__

Phew!  That's a lot of typing for a headline merchant.

I recognise the Sergent Major character.  Granddad used to turn into a nicer version of him when he was left to look after me and my brother Dave.  He'd bark orders at us, call us "'Orrible" and generally be as demeaning as you can be to a 7yr old and a 4yr old.  We, of course, absolutely loved it.

Every morning, we'd start the day as Private Robert and Private David.  Granddad would promote and demote us throughout the day - depending on how we behaved.  So, if I cleaned my teeth well, I was instantly bumped up to Lieutenant, for example.  But if Dave, say, picked his nose, well, he'd be referred to as 'Private' until he'd redeemed himself.

Every night, we'd go to bed as a Major, or Brigadier.  And every morning, awake to find we'd been demoted all the way to Private again.  Call us slow witted, but I'm pretty sure the unjust nature of Granddad's ranking system never occurred to us.  We just pootled about with our 'uniforms' on.  These were, looking back, hilarious.  We had a plastic bucket and spade each, and wore the buckets as helmets and held the spade by the handle at our waists, with the blade resting on a shoulder like a rifle!  (Mum / Dad - if you could scan a photo of this I'll post it.)

Update: Got the photo!
Private Robert Joseph Mosley, age 4ish

I'm also interested in my Granddad's views on religion.  Although a religious man in Northern Ireland, he was always completely welcoming of anyone's view - and I've always sort of believed that this was partially due to his experiences in the Army.  So I'm looking forward to watching that thread develop - I'll write more about that another time.

Sorry this one was a bit late!

A Taylor At War - Ch. 1, Part 1.

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

Chapter 1 - Home Service.

Part 1, In the beginning.

We heard the announcement by Chamberlain to the effect that we were at war, in The Northern Ireland Prime Minister's sitting room at Stormont Castle.  There were four of us who had been brought together many months previously to do a secret job which is still that way.  Our boss went off to the Navy; his No. 1 was already in the R.A.F (V.R.) [Just had to look that up!  VR is Volunteer Reserve]; our secretary/typist entered the police force and the next day I went into Belfast and joined the Army.  And then there were none.

The "joining-up" was simple.  A lot of forms to fill up, medical examination by a series of doctors and an oath of allegiance.  I had asked to go into The Royal Regiment of Artillery and had been accepted.  The only reasons why I had opted for the Gunners were that one of my colleagues at Stormont had been one in the 1914/18 war and secondly I liked his regimental tie.  It was a good choice and one that I never regretted.

In December 1939 I was ordered to report to an Anti-Aircraft training depot in Yoevil.  The office staff gave me a nice present and a big party which ended in my arrest by the police as I was climbing the Statue of Carson.  The circumstances were explained and I was released without charge.

The next day the order to report to Yoevil was cancelled, so I went back to the office.  I had a chilly reception from my colleagues and was informed that there wouldn't be another present.  Since my job was no more, I thought that I would have to go back to a Ministry, but I was taken into the P.M.'s personal Department instead which was kind and thoughtful.  I served him (The 1st Viscount Craigavon of Stormont) diligently and with immense pleasure until I was again called up and went to join a Light Anti-Aircraft training Department at Devizes in Wiltshire in March 1940.

__

Wow!  I knew Granddad worked in the Government in Northern Ireland pre-war, but I had no idea he worked so close to the Prime Minister.  Those first two sentences are a pretty special opening gambit - my mind is racing now; what was this secret job? what was his role at Stormont?

Come to think of it, What Granddad Did Before The War has pretty much never come up in conversations with any of my relatives.  Maybe that's just because it was mundane in comparison to fighting a war, and the stories from later in his life of how the family were effected by sectarian troubles.  Or maybe, just maybe, Granddad was some kind of spy.  I know which one I'm going with.

I have to admit the Carson statue anecdote is an old family story, which I've heard countless times.  Still makes me laugh though.  I like to imagine Granddad up that statue, giggling like Mutley from Wacky Races, and then having to be all sheepish the next day in front of people he'd spoken a bit too much of his mind to.

A lot of my abiding memories of Granddad involve him bustling around growing tomatoes and apples, or going for nice walks on the beach at Groomsport - like retired people do.  However, he was still mischievous; always winding my Mum up, insisting on calling her "Stinker" - which was gold dust for Dave and I (Dave's my brother).

I can't wait to read next week's section now, and to hear about what it was like to leave home, family and Licensed To Kill employment to go to Devizes and become a Gunner.

The next section appears meatier, so I'm gonna have to get better at tpying (see?) - and you might want to get a cup of tea on the go before reading...  Also, I've been finding photos randomly on the net to illustrate these tales, but next time I go to see Grandma I want to take a scanner and make digital copies of Granddad's photo albums - there's some great stuff in there, which I'm hoping would make perfect illustrations.

A Taylor At War - Preface

This post is part of the "Granddad's War Stories" series.

A Taylor At War

To my daughters, Susan Anne Mosley and Mary Louise Vincent

My brother James Ian Taylor, who is writing the family history, asked me to produce a document dealing with my war experiences as part of his objective to pay as much attention to the narrative as to the pedigree.

After the world war of 1939-1945 I did write a document dealing with some of my experiences, but it was written for my former comrades and is, therefore, technical and refers to matters of no interest to you.  In this work, I have tried to avoid technicalities and write it for you.  I have completely avoided undue reference to the horror, death and misery of war.  Make no mistake, there is no glory in war and it is to be avoided but not, I feel, at any cost.  Had we lost this war, the consequences would have made life in these islands scarcely worth living.

I have dwelt on the happier or more amusing side of things and there were plenty of them.  You see, the life of a soldier in wartime is divided into 90% of the time training for and waiting for something to happen and 10% wishing it wasn't happening.  So I dwell mostly on the 90%.

For every memory I relate, there are a hundred I've forgotten.  But of all my memories three things stand out, and they are all connected with faces.  The ravaged and tortured features of a released prisoner of war at dusk as he trudged from unbelievable horrors to a home which might not still exist, the calm yet sad face of a woman in a crowd as she prayed, and the terror-struck face of a child.  Yes, always the child.

___

Transcriber's note:

This book was written by Granddad to my Mum & Auntie Louise in 1987.  The preface gives an idea of his memories of, and attitude towards, what we now call World War II.  Which is a bit flippant if you ask me - sounds like its a sequel, but anyway...

I should also point out I'm reading this along with you.  Only transcribing a section immedietely after I read it.  So I don't know what's coming.

What strikes me about this preface is that Granddad goes to great pains to point out he's concentrating on the sunnier side of war, before painting an incredibly gloomy picture of what might be in store.  I shudder to imagine what he's left out here.  However, I'm trying to get hold of his more 'technical'' manuscript, and will serialise that if this goes down well.

Chapter 1, Section 1 coming next Friday.