...

Fortunately A had suffered only one casualty, but that was Hank Bryant, its by then popular OC, who had been wounded by a shell when standing outside his tank near Overloon. Which was why John Hall became temporary OC, with Harry Bristow 2 IC.

What a relief it was to be back among friends who spoke the same family language. To be greeted as if nothing had happened at Boulogne. After all, they had been many times in action since then and what was the point of going over painful matters when fresh dangers were imminent? Usually we only chatted about amusing things while mainly living for the job in hand with only faint, hidden hopes for distant prospects. And yet, on reflection, I believe the British stiff-upper-lip tradition can have a pernicious psychological effect because it tends to bottle up anxieties which might better be released. Of course, chaps who spout about past horrors or monotonously 'shoots a line’ can be a bore to their comrades, especially those of a small squadron mess. But the morose fellow who stays silent is not only a menace to himself but also irritating to companions.

John greeted me crisply by saying that, since my old troop now belonged to 2nd Lt Hugh Stacey and we were booked for action next day, I would have to make do with command of a Churchill Mark V close-support tank. Therefore I had to work fast getting to know yet another new crew, learning the characteristics of the 95mm howitzer and grasping the nature of Operation COLLIN, due to start early on the morning of 23 October. Happily Harry Bristow was commanding our half-squadron and the Croc troop I was to support was led by the experienced Johnnie Griggs.

COLLIN was an operation by the very leery 5th Seaforth Highlanders, who had fought exactly two years ago at El Alamein. When, in the FUP, I met the Cockney platoon commander we were to support he said he never led from the front since that was to invite being shot in the back by his own men. Nevertheless they were fine infantry with experience of working with Crocs.

I managed a few hours sleep before we moved off to the FUP, but was surprised how, when a nearby battery of guns opened a desultory fire, my limbs jumped at each report: this I had never suffered before. Soon however I felt normal; after all, the forthcoming minor attack to push back a withdrawing enemy was not expected to pose difficulties.

At midnight of a misty autumnal night, as we moved quietly in low gear through flat farmland to the FUP, I automatically became a full lieutenant because it was six months since climbing the steps of the old building at Sandhurst. Harry was out of sight supporting another troop on the left flank, his centre line a lane parallel to ours. Our objective was a small wood about 150 yards beyond a crossroads where Johnnie's troop would deploy for a three up advance to flame range. There was vague intelligence of a menacing Jagdpanther about 1,000 yards to our right, but it was hoped a troop of Sherman tanks from Northants Yeomanry would take care of that. A battery of 5.5 inch guns would give close support as we reached the start line.

Marrying up with my cockney-in-kilts went smoothly and we reached the Start Line without incident. Whereupon a 5.5 gun dropped its 55lb shells short among us, killing two Seaforth sergeants. Then, as Johnnie's troop shook out to the right and I moved close behind and to one side of him to take up a fire position, there occurred a rending explosion alongside his tank; some of the blast, incidentally, catching me with my head out. Our initial reactions were simultaneous; it just had to be an 88 projectile from that bloody Jadgpanther. But while Johnnie threw off his headset with intention to bail out, I shouted, 'Local smoke traverse right - steady, on, fire.' To no effect due to a most fortunate misfire by the 2 inch mortar. Fortunate because, as I later noticed, the mortar's canvas cover had not been removed and might well have detonated the bomb, showering us with burning phosphor.

A glance at Johnnie's stricken tank revealed a broken right track, and build up gaps where bogies should be. Clearly a mine was to blame. In fact no less than three had detonated together. 'Are you alright,' I called, ‘You've only been mined.'

'Yes, OK,’ came his reply after a pause, followed by his order to the other two Crocs to carry on to plan. Everything then went like clockwork. I used the 95mm howitzer to search the wood with HE and Johnnie joined in with Besa, while the Crocs, Besas blazing, charged in line abreast before opening with high flame shots and moving to close range. Meanwhile the infantry were in sight and following us as a Sherman Firefly from the Yeomanry appeared, its long 17 pdr gun pointing to the flank. Within ten minutes all was over as the Crocs ceased squirting and the Jocks, burning FTF sticking to their boots, charged to collect a handful of shaken prisoners.

Rejoining the road beyond the crippled Croc, I took command of the troop and covered the infantry company as it exploited unopposed to the next tactical bound. From the left I could see Harry's party approaching in good order to complete COLLIN. So we spent the rest of the day replenishing and waiting for release shortly after dark, allowing us to return via Harry's route to St Oedenrode; rather like people with 9 to 5 jobs coming home from the office. Only on this occasion bad news was waiting.

It seemed that Johnnie's radio operator had been watching the gunner guiding a half track through the gap cleared in the minefield when it struck an unlocated mine. Both men were killed instantly, the loss of the gunner, who was one of the squadron's 'characters', being particularly felt. For the first time in mess that night I saw somebody badly upset by a loss; perhaps because it was accidental. Johnnie was almost in tears as he kept saying, 'Poor old sod, poor old bastard. What a bloody shame.' We plied him with whiskey. What else could we do?

The Germans continued pulling back and for the next few days we followed them to Tilburg and thence to the village of Heesch without becoming seriously engaged. The people of Heesch, however, provided our first experience of a Liberation first night. Everybody was invited into homes. The officers were asked to share the great event with a prominent family and 'to speak English'; they had no electricity and little food, but a few bottles of cherry brandy. It was a wonderful occasion, so very Dutch. We brought food, offered to attempt their language and politely were told not to waste our time with that. For our part we did our best to dismiss their impression that, because we wore uniform, we were fearless. About this time I was given command of 4 Troop, which pleased me because it had a very sound reputation.

We were granted three days for maintenance, baths and recreation. But neither for the first nor the last time no sooner had the third phase begun than we were ordered back into action by moving towards the Aftwaterings Canal to support a crossing by 51st Highland Division. The squadron's role was to sit behind the dyke and flame over the water as the infantry boated across. Again I came under Harry Bristow for what looked like a piece of cake. It was not to be. We were moving forward along a single-track lane among trees 300 yards from the dyke when a leading Sherman tank struck a mine and blocked the way. That made us so-called flameless wonders and took us back to Heesch for another 72 hours rest period which, surprise surprise and demoralisingly, was terminated after 48.

The destination was the town of Sittard in the Maastricht appendix with a view from the roof of our hotel of Germany and the much vaunted Siegfried Line in the vicinity of Geilenkirchen. Here we were destined to break new ground not only by entering the Reich for the first time but also to fight in support of an American formation, their 84th Infantry Division in its first operation.

We viewed our Allies with as much sceptical curiosity as they seemed to regard us. Initially they passed a few disparaging remarks about the Crocodiles - but that died away after one of their number got too close during a demonstration shoot by my Croc and had to be hastily extinguished. A brisk exchange of ration packs, however, was one way of promoting a closer understanding.

The majority of what follows is founded mostly on the 141st's War Diary and A Squadron History. My impressions of the ensuing few days are overshadowed by memories of cold rain and sticky mud along with dark nights under sporadic low level air attacks in our home base, the battered village of Palenburg. From there on 18 November, with the intention of clearing Geilenkirchen, we moved to a start line, only to be thwarted by the astonishing sight of a wayward fascine AVRE heading from the town in our direction. Apparently its commander had got lost and entered the town by a side street to find it deserted by the enemy. John Hall's half squadron, including my 4 Troop, then spent the rest of the day on the start line while the other half went pill box hunting.

...

Turning Points: Table of Content

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