Last year I got in thouch with a veteran from the 224 Field Coy Royal Engineer part of the 37 corps. He never spoke about what he called the "nightmare years' before 2005. Here is his story. If there is interest I will type out the rest
"You ask about what happened at Caen. This was at the time when the big advance on the east side of Caen was launched. ( Operation Goodwood ). For two days and nights our artillery had showered shells into Caen without a noticeable pause as they whistled over our heads. Finally a great column of our tanks moved forward, passing near a small orchard where we camped. A few of us had spent the day trying to repair a wooden footbridge across the water of a small river close to the canal.
As our column of tanks moved forward an endless column of German soldiers moved, or staggered, back towards our lines, unarmed, dazed, weary and raggedlooking, with hardly any guards from our side! They looked as if they were only too glad to get out of what was left of Caen.
I wanted some water for washing and perhaps shaving. I took an empty biscuit tin to a farm cottage nearby. A young madamoiselle kindly filled it, probably from a well.
Our instructions were that we schould sleep in a few slit trenches which excisted in the orchard, and make cover over the trench tops as a safeguard from schrapnel, but nothing was available for cover.
Night came, moonless and dark. German bombers where came droning overhead. I stood under a tree, imaging the three and my tin hat would probably make better shelter from schrapnel while watching events. Events suddenly took an unexpected turn. A flare appeared high overhead, like a light bulb in a ceiling. This was an experience totally new, therefore interesting, but growing increasingly sinister as it drifted down straight towards our orchard.
The "light bulb" expanded steadily into a vast searchlight glare. Everything around grew steadily more clear in brilliant detail greater than in a bright sunny day and no hiding now. Surely the bombers could now see myself and others like sitting ducks.
The inevitable bomb was now no great surprise - how could they miss? First the hissing sounds as if rushing water, growing into the angry roar of a savage predator closer and closer, and finally the deafening whistle screeching " This is for you, mate!" never mind the "interest" flatten yourself out on the ground, push hard into the grass and think "what will they think back at home?"
But there comes no oblivion, no sound of explosion, only a desperate gasping effort to breathe - it must be only air pressure from the explosion! If you're gasping hard to breathe you can't be dead! Lucky me!
I stand up somehow and look around for shelter. I see the cook's truck on fire. I pick up my tin of water and throw it on a few flames, but our Sergeant is already there using a hand fire extinguisher. I pass on, not knowing the cook was killed underneath, and find a shelter in a "foxhole" with some cover over it. Others are sheltering here - signallers they say - I seem to be sitting on their equipment in the pitch dark. Outside things quieten down in the orchard. I feel warm fluid trickling down my legs, imagine this must be urine, and crawl out to avoid spoiling their equipment. Others have now emerged from their shelter. One of them suddenlu points at me and shouts "look at him!" For the first time I look down my front and see only torn and blood soaked clothes ripped right down top to bottom.
A stretcher is brought out and I feel rather silly being told to lie down on it, and rather alarmed as I knew their first-aid training was rather skimpy, or perhaps no longer existing, but relief came with the quick arrival of the professionals with a jeep and morphine for me and one or two other casualties. A quick examination and off to the nearest A.D.S ( Advance dressing station ).
There followed a journey back to a brick building serving more like an improvised hospital somewhere on the edge of the English Channel. One morning an officier leaned over my stretcher and said "I'm afraid we are short of air transport, could you manage a trip by sea?"
The pains were now subsiding or eased by treatments and luckely no bones where broken. I said "oh yes, I think that would be alright" as imagination pictured a smooth cruise fit for holiday makers!
The "transport", however, turned out to be a TLC ( Tank Landing Craft ) as big as a floating aircraft hanger. The whole expanse of floor was covered with a sea of stretchers holding casualties of all sort, including Germans. Extra accommondation consisted of two rows of hooks along each wall and I was hooked up with a good view of the rows of casualties below.
The damage to me seemed almost negligable compared with missing legs or arms, but unfortunately large bulbous bandaging of the business end of my "starting handle" prevented the use of a hospital bottle so I was provided with a rubber miniature inflated bowl to catch any surplus liquid product, thus keeping the man below me dry, but me wet. We set sail. Powerful flood lights all along the ceiling, high overhead. Soon waves crashed against the huge flat landing ramps at the bow and setting up a shuddering of the walls and the attached stretchers.
But never mind, the cruise seemed short and the hospital train seemed almost unreal with spotless white smooth bed mattresses and pretty young nurses in immaculate uniforms - was there some mistake? Were we in heaven after all? - But no, we still have tank-men like Egyptian mummues wrapped totally in white bandages with little slits only for eyes and mounths and noses.
We travel to Reading near London to be cleaned up and re-bandaged, and then up North to Durham for hospitalization. By this time gangrene had found its way into a gash in my chest, but this was soon settled in that proper hospital. To my surprise the new flesh growing up in the gash insisted on growing out further than the existing skin level, presumably to get a better view around, but this was soon disallowed by acid treatment. In the same ward where several casualties from the "Black Watch" and also one youngster who had deliberately shot off his trigger finger to avoid active service. When fit to be let loose in the town we had to wear "hospital blues" which are faded blue jacket and trousers looking crumpled and past their "sell by" dater, pluse a jumble sale type of red tie. This made us rather conspicuous but had its advantages- we could travel free on any bus. and at the cinema were allowed right to the head of the queue to enter. We must have looked like ghost from W.W.I but somethimes got invited to private parties or dinners.
Christmas time came allong with a transfer to West Hartlepool into an antique Victorian hospital where Nurse Nightingale would have been at home. Large coke cast iron stove in the middle of the ward. Black cast iron bedsteads. Next door the cast iron railings of asylum accommodation, the inmates, pour souls, mostly simple women sending simple grins and laughs through high railings.
Thus six months passed before I was properly on my feet again and able to pass a small assault type of test and be shipped back to 224 Field Coy. Thus I was told I had missed being with one of the early units to be first into Brussels where 224 had been showered with acclaim, cheers, wine, flowers, girls, happiness for liberation. I had also missed the saga of the Falaise Gap.
We sped through Germany up to Kiel where I soon was given the chance to go to the far east away from the gray and grisly thoughts of Germany, and out to new fields and pasture sunny. I took it!"
As our column of tanks moved forward an endless column of German soldiers moved, or staggered, back towards our lines, unarmed, dazed, weary and raggedlooking, with hardly any guards from our side! They looked as if they were only too glad to get out of what was left of Caen.
I wanted some water for washing and perhaps shaving. I took an empty biscuit tin to a farm cottage nearby. A young madamoiselle kindly filled it, probably from a well.
Our instructions were that we schould sleep in a few slit trenches which excisted in the orchard, and make cover over the trench tops as a safeguard from schrapnel, but nothing was available for cover.
Night came, moonless and dark. German bombers where came droning overhead. I stood under a tree, imaging the three and my tin hat would probably make better shelter from schrapnel while watching events. Events suddenly took an unexpected turn. A flare appeared high overhead, like a light bulb in a ceiling. This was an experience totally new, therefore interesting, but growing increasingly sinister as it drifted down straight towards our orchard.
The "light bulb" expanded steadily into a vast searchlight glare. Everything around grew steadily more clear in brilliant detail greater than in a bright sunny day and no hiding now. Surely the bombers could now see myself and others like sitting ducks.
The inevitable bomb was now no great surprise - how could they miss? First the hissing sounds as if rushing water, growing into the angry roar of a savage predator closer and closer, and finally the deafening whistle screeching " This is for you, mate!" never mind the "interest" flatten yourself out on the ground, push hard into the grass and think "what will they think back at home?"
But there comes no oblivion, no sound of explosion, only a desperate gasping effort to breathe - it must be only air pressure from the explosion! If you're gasping hard to breathe you can't be dead! Lucky me!
I stand up somehow and look around for shelter. I see the cook's truck on fire. I pick up my tin of water and throw it on a few flames, but our Sergeant is already there using a hand fire extinguisher. I pass on, not knowing the cook was killed underneath, and find a shelter in a "foxhole" with some cover over it. Others are sheltering here - signallers they say - I seem to be sitting on their equipment in the pitch dark. Outside things quieten down in the orchard. I feel warm fluid trickling down my legs, imagine this must be urine, and crawl out to avoid spoiling their equipment. Others have now emerged from their shelter. One of them suddenlu points at me and shouts "look at him!" For the first time I look down my front and see only torn and blood soaked clothes ripped right down top to bottom.
A stretcher is brought out and I feel rather silly being told to lie down on it, and rather alarmed as I knew their first-aid training was rather skimpy, or perhaps no longer existing, but relief came with the quick arrival of the professionals with a jeep and morphine for me and one or two other casualties. A quick examination and off to the nearest A.D.S ( Advance dressing station ).
There followed a journey back to a brick building serving more like an improvised hospital somewhere on the edge of the English Channel. One morning an officier leaned over my stretcher and said "I'm afraid we are short of air transport, could you manage a trip by sea?"
The pains were now subsiding or eased by treatments and luckely no bones where broken. I said "oh yes, I think that would be alright" as imagination pictured a smooth cruise fit for holiday makers!
The "transport", however, turned out to be a TLC ( Tank Landing Craft ) as big as a floating aircraft hanger. The whole expanse of floor was covered with a sea of stretchers holding casualties of all sort, including Germans. Extra accommondation consisted of two rows of hooks along each wall and I was hooked up with a good view of the rows of casualties below.
The damage to me seemed almost negligable compared with missing legs or arms, but unfortunately large bulbous bandaging of the business end of my "starting handle" prevented the use of a hospital bottle so I was provided with a rubber miniature inflated bowl to catch any surplus liquid product, thus keeping the man below me dry, but me wet. We set sail. Powerful flood lights all along the ceiling, high overhead. Soon waves crashed against the huge flat landing ramps at the bow and setting up a shuddering of the walls and the attached stretchers.
But never mind, the cruise seemed short and the hospital train seemed almost unreal with spotless white smooth bed mattresses and pretty young nurses in immaculate uniforms - was there some mistake? Were we in heaven after all? - But no, we still have tank-men like Egyptian mummues wrapped totally in white bandages with little slits only for eyes and mounths and noses.
We travel to Reading near London to be cleaned up and re-bandaged, and then up North to Durham for hospitalization. By this time gangrene had found its way into a gash in my chest, but this was soon settled in that proper hospital. To my surprise the new flesh growing up in the gash insisted on growing out further than the existing skin level, presumably to get a better view around, but this was soon disallowed by acid treatment. In the same ward where several casualties from the "Black Watch" and also one youngster who had deliberately shot off his trigger finger to avoid active service. When fit to be let loose in the town we had to wear "hospital blues" which are faded blue jacket and trousers looking crumpled and past their "sell by" dater, pluse a jumble sale type of red tie. This made us rather conspicuous but had its advantages- we could travel free on any bus. and at the cinema were allowed right to the head of the queue to enter. We must have looked like ghost from W.W.I but somethimes got invited to private parties or dinners.
Christmas time came allong with a transfer to West Hartlepool into an antique Victorian hospital where Nurse Nightingale would have been at home. Large coke cast iron stove in the middle of the ward. Black cast iron bedsteads. Next door the cast iron railings of asylum accommodation, the inmates, pour souls, mostly simple women sending simple grins and laughs through high railings.
Thus six months passed before I was properly on my feet again and able to pass a small assault type of test and be shipped back to 224 Field Coy. Thus I was told I had missed being with one of the early units to be first into Brussels where 224 had been showered with acclaim, cheers, wine, flowers, girls, happiness for liberation. I had also missed the saga of the Falaise Gap.
We sped through Germany up to Kiel where I soon was given the chance to go to the far east away from the gray and grisly thoughts of Germany, and out to new fields and pasture sunny. I took it!"
Please post the rest!
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