Sword Beach to Bremen., A Veterans tale. Sapper

Sapper--thank you again for such a historical piece to read. This really does bring back up to the forunt, something we should never forget--I know I will never forget.

 

Mr. Sapper. Many thanks. I have read all your posts and have been enjoying them A LOT. Every part of my body felt what you felt. I really have loved everyone of your words and I am yearning for the next to come. Because your tales are exciting, fascinating and very terrible; that means that you potrait war perfectly. I have also printed all the pages and given them to my grandfather. And I think he has enjoyed them as well, maybe more than I did because he can remember his own experiences and understand them in a way that any of us, non-veterans can... I hope I can bring him here along this weekend to post his thoughts and experiences.

 

Hello again.
In this story, just try to imagine you are just nineteen, today you are going to take the prize of the City of Caen, and you are in little group of men that will be in the lead of this attack, (by the left hand route). Eventually you will stand in the City, but that group will now be much smaller. But you are there! On the way this is what happened:-

The Pipes the Pipes.
Stir the blood a little.

It is not only pictures that remain with old soldiers through the years, but also sounds, sounds can be very important, and at times, very emotional. For sounds and music can remind one of times long past, and possess the power to take you back when you were young. And, make the hair on the back of your neck stand up

We had now reached the high ground on the left hand rout into the City of Caen, this dusty road that looked down on the Colombelles industrial area on the outskirts of Caen, with the high building of the ironworks far below, all rusty and gaunt. From our vantage point it was possible to see for miles down below and the ground spread out all round in a wide panoramic view.

Blissfully unaware that the area was still in German hands and that he was watching our every move, (we had been told that the 51st Highland div had taken it) After having a long look at the ground down below we the carried on sweeping and clearing our way forward, to ensure that the way was free from the Enemy and from mines.

The Enemy soon put a stop to this, we had just entered and cleared a farm house when all hell was let loose, from the tall rusty looking steel works down below came a tremendous barrage of shell fire.

Point blank shell fire, where one does not hear the shells coming until the last split second, when the incoming fire sounds like an express train with the scream of shells, with violent explosions and tearing shrapnel, the farm house blew into the air in minute fragments, then came down about my shoulders, the flying debris, the continuing whistle and flashing fire and explosion of the shells, the cries of those ripped and torn apart by the shell fragments, the pitiful calls of the mortally wounded, an intense barrage, the swirling smoke and pandemonium and ones whole being gripped with fear, my mouth dry and choked with dust.

After the fire died down I started to extricate myself, covered in dirt and dust and splintered wood, the bitter taste and stench of cordite. When in the distance, I heard the sound of the bagpipes, above all that noise, I could hear the skirl of the Scots pipes, when I got out of the rubble, I looked down the dusty track and there he was, nonchalantly marching slowly towards us, this piper, khaki kilt swaying from side to side, as he made his way forward concentrating on his playing.

Sounds of war! Whenever I hear the pipes I must admit to having a great big lump in my throat, I have been into battle with the sound of the pipes and I cannot hear them without being deeply moved.
Comment?
Sapper.

 

My mother's father was Scottish, I am wearing a kilt, does that count, Mr. Sapper?

 

Prisoners.
Just a young man like me.
The war in Normandy had by now become very bitter, there had been a lot of talk and rumours that had circulated about the German SS shooting our prisoners in cold blood. Both Canadian, and British prisoners, and that feelings were running very high over this.

For the most part, we treated Enemy prisoners very well, and with some sort of respect, some of the poor devils had been through pure hell, most of them looked pleased to be out of it anyway.

Give him a cigarette, put their hands on their heads ,and send them back on their own! Nobody wanted the job of escorting prisoners all the way back. Except the fanatics of the SS, they had to be escorted back and watched, they, were a surly lot and one could feel their hate.

The cost in lives had now become very heavy indeed, on both sides. Now, by constant probing and constant attacks, never giving the enemy the chance to put together a heavy armoured punch, we had succeeded in gathered the whole of the German SS Panzer strength around us, so such a degree that they could only spare half a Panzer division against the Americans. At this time, and with the knowledge that our men had been murdered by the SS, there was a persistent idea that prisoners were not to be taken, I think it fair to say this did happen, though I do not think it lasted very long.

One has to remember exactly what was ranged up against us. Ist. SS. Panzer. Adolph Hitler… 2nd SS. Panzer. das Reich. (they of the Orador sur glan and Tulle atrocities). 12th SS. Panzer. … 21st SS. Panzer, and that is just the foremost.

Some attacks had an air of unreality about them. It was while taking part in the attack on another village in front of Caen that I remember this odd feeling of unreality. We had opened up our assault on this village, the shell, mortar, and machine gun fire was very heavy, consequently, we took heavy casualties, but pressed on and rooted the enemy out.

The road leading into the village sloped down gently, until it was at head level with the surrounding fields, on both sides of this narrow road. Sat in the middle of a ploughed field on our left, was a tall stark naked infantry man, all by himself, sat bolt upright against his small pack, and dead, without a stitch of clothing on him, I can still see him now, as clear as crystal. The pale deathly orange waxen colour of his body stood out so sharply against the brown of the freshly ploughed earth.

The most bizarre scene that I have ever experienced. But that was not the end of this unreal feeling, half way down this sloping road a German had dug a small hole in the vertical bank on the right hand side and had got in there, unfortunately there was no way for him to retreat or fall back, he was utterly isolated, the hole he had dug was not even deep enough to put his rifle in, it stuck out for all to see. In front of him, mines had been laid, but on top of the road and level with the enemies hole he had dug in the bank.

Everybody, who came down the road seeing this German rifle sticking out of the bank, gently lobbed a hand grenade into the top of dugout. I think he was blown up or shot several times because his rifle was still sticking out of the bank when he had been killed, time and time again, all we had to do was to just lift the mines off of the road and the way was clear.

This was not the end of this odd period, there then followed a very tragic scenario. After the battle there were British and German wounded laying on a bank waiting for treatment for their wounds at a regimental aid post, a field dressing station had been cut into a steep bank and among them was a young German, grey faced, and badly hurt, waiting for the medics attention, I remember him so clearly, he had a green scarf with light green squares round his neck, This young German was in great pain and it showed on the poor devils face.

Nearby were a group of three infantry men, all at once one of them went berserk, and in an insane and terrible rage, swearing and cursing, he went for this young German, got hold of his scarf and throttled him with it, all the while screaming with rage, his mates grabbed him and tried desperately to drag him off, but they could not hold him, I am sure he killed him. This was the only time that I know of prisoners not being treated well, or properly, in the prevailing circumstances.

Your views welcomed.
Sapper.

 

BRIAN, IS THAT YOUR NAME?

MY FELLOW FRIEND. I DO UNDERSTAND YOUR EXPERIENCES AND THOUGHTS. WE WERE UNFORTUNATE TO LIVE IN THE TIME WE LIVED. THE WORLD WAR TWO WAS HORRIBLE, BUT MAYBE WE BEHAVED BETTER AND WERE NOT AS DEGENERATE AS THE NEW GENERATIONS. THEY MUST NOT FORGET THAT WE GAVE OUR LIVES FOR THEM. THAT WE FOUGHT, SWEATED AND DIED FOR A BETTER FUTURE FOR THEM, OR AT LEAST TRIED. IT IS HARD TO UNDERSTAND THAT I AND MY FRIENDS IN MY HEAD WERE DOING AN EFFORT FOR OUR SONS AND COUNTRY, FOR ITS PEOPLE AND YES, FOR THE LEADER WE THOUGHT WAS THE RIGHT ONE. MAYBE I WAS LUCKY THAT I LIVED SO MANY THINGS, GOOD AND BAD. I SERVED IN MANY BRANCHES AND MANY UNITS IN MANY PLACES. THAT WAS VERY GOOD FOR COMPARING HOW GOOD AND KIND ARE OUR ADVERSARIES, NOT ENEMIES. I HAVE IN A DEEP STIME THE BRITISCH, I FOUGT THEM IN FRANCE, AFRIKA AND ITALY. THEY WERE GOOD MEN AND NICE ADVERSARIES. IT IS A PITY THAT TWO NATIONS WHO ARE BROTHERS HAD FOUGHT AGAINST EACH OTHER. WE RESPECTED THE BRITISCH, FEARED THE RUSSIANS AND LAUGHED AT THE AMERICANS. THEN WE LEARNED THAT THEY COULD FIGHT TOO.

WELL, BRIAN, YOU AREN'T THE ONLY ONE WITH WOUNDS HERE. WHEN I FOUGHT IN THE HORRIBLE RUINS OF BERLIN, I COMMANDED A REGIMENT AND HAD TO SEND OLD MEN LIKE US, TEENS LIKE FRIEDRICH, WOUNDED MEN AND WOMEN ARMED WITH STICKS AGAINST SOVIET TANKS. I HAD LOST THE HOPE. NOT EVEN THE THINKING OF MY WIFE AND KID WERE WORTH. I STUPIDLY IGNORED ALL THE RULES TO PROTECT FROM SNIPERS, I WAS ONE MYSELF AND A SOVIET SNIPER CATCHED ME. I WAS IN THE VERY FRONT SHOOTING MY PISTOL, DRESSED WITH MY OFFIZIER UNIFORM AND THE MEN SHOT AT ME. MY LEFT EYE WAS BLOWN UP. IT DIDN'T HURTED, BUT I WAS SCARED. I TRIED TO LOOK AT THE DIRECTION OF THE NOISE OF THE SHOT, AND THEN I WAS HIT AGAIN IN THE THROAT. I JUST FELT A BIG BLOW AND THEN I COULDN'T BREATH AND I WAS ENTIRELY COVERED WITH BLOD. I FELL AND CLOSED MY EYES. THREE DAYS LATER I WOKE UP AND I SAW THE FACE OF A BEAUTIFUL SOVIET DOCTOR NAMED NADEJDA, WHO SAVED MY LIFE. BUT I WAS MORE HARD TO FIND OUT THAT WE HAD SURRENDER AND THAT WE WERE NO LONGER AN INDEPENDENT NATION. BESIDE, NEARLY ALL THE FORCES UNDER MY COMMAND HAD BEEN KILLED. THE HITLERJUGEND HAD BEEN BURNT ALIVE AND THE ONES WHO SURVIVED WERE RAPED MANY TIMES AND THEN SHOT. KIDS OF 11-13 YEARS! THE WOMEN HAD A WORSE MOMENT, AND 90 PER 100 OF THE WOUNDED WERE SHOT. VERY FEW PRISONERS WERE TAKEN. I WAS VERY WEAK BUT I COULD RUN AWAY...

YOUNG GENERATIONS: LEARN THAT WAR IS HORRIBLE NO MATTER THE MODERN WEAPONS OR THE TIME YOU FIGHT IN. LET MR. BUSH READ IT, HE SHOULD KNOW THAT VIOLENCE IS GOING TO BRING MORE VIOLENCE. HELP HIM TO BE WISE.

 

Hello Gottfried.
Thank you for the letter, I agree a great deal in what you have to say. War is terrible, and it is because of the horrors of war, that I write this column with my war memoirs. Young men like to hear about the fighting and some, (Fools) may think it is somehow "Exciting" and "Adventurous" Only those who have felt the fear of having to get out of a safe little fox hole, and go into battle against withering fire, will truly know the nature of war. Only those who know what ghastly wounds war inflicts on its victims can know. I have seen war as a civilian and as a soldier. But! There are times when the young men must fight for freedom, but those times must be for a very good reason. I shall continue for a while putting these stories on the this site. for there is a great deal more to come. From Normandy, across France, into Belgium, and Holland.The race for Arnhem, then the battles along the Maas until my final demise on the German border.
Sapper.
Who is Brian.From "Monties Ironsides" The Third British Infantry Division, "The Assault Division".

 

Hello Gottfried.
Thank you for the letter, I agree a great deal in what you have to say. War is terrible, and it is because of the horrors of war, that I write this column with my war memoirs. Young men like to hear about the fighting and some, (Fools) may think it is somehow "Exciting" and "Adventurous" Only those who have felt the fear of having to get out of a safe little fox hole, and go into battle against withering fire, will truly know the nature of war. Only those who know what ghastly wounds war inflicts on its victims can know. I have seen war as a civilian and as a soldier. But! There are times when the young men must fight for freedom, but those times must be for a very good reason. I shall continue for a while putting these stories on the this site. for there is a great deal more to come. From Normandy, across France, into Belgium, and Holland.The race for Arnhem, then the battles along the Maas until my final demise on the German border.
Sapper.
Who is Brian.From "Monties Ironsides" The Third British Infantry Division, "The Assault Division".

 

The next episode will be "The duel on a hot Summers day"
Shortly.
Sapper

 

Snipers.
Duel under the hot Norman Sun.
In the killing ground North of Caen, we had moved on again and a small group of us were supporting an attack on a village in front of the City. I cannot remember its name, all that I remember that it was on the high ground that rose up slightly in front of, and not far away from Caen.

We were to pass through after the first wave of infantry’s assault, take up the attack, and drive on. Mustering the platoon amongst some trees on the edge of a ripe cornfield, German wounded and prisoners were already filtering back, I stood there and happened to have, as usual, a Bren machine gun over my shoulder and watched as three young Germans approached, two of them with their arms round a comrade, supporting him, he was a handsome young blond German and stripped to the waist, with a neat round bullet hole right through the centre of his stomach. As I stood there, an officer gave the order to move out and said to me "get out through the cornfield to that high ground on the left, ready to give us covering fire as we move in"

A beautiful sunny day, I slowly and very cautiously made my way out into the open and immediately captured a German in the corn, a poor specimen, he had no interest at all in the war, (who can blame him) all that I could get out of him was "minen minen" and he pointed in the direction of where I was going, he was terrified! Who isn't? I got hold of his hands and placed them on top of his head, lit a cigarette put in his mouth then pointed out the way back, and sent him back on his own, with his hands on his head.

None of us liked taking prisoners back, we had to walk some way find someone to take them, and then make our way back to the front, Much better to send him back on his own with his hands on his head. Sometimes, if he, or they, looked in a bad state I would light up, and give him a cigarette. Something they all showed a lot of gratitude for. But not the ‘SS’ they had to be escorted and watched rigorously, for they would kill you as soon as look at you.

The corn was ripe and just about chest high, setting off again, I tried to run and keep my head down, as I got deeper into the corn I was singled out by a very persistent sniper. Each time I raised my head above the corn this sniper had a go at me, it was there that I discovered that a rifle bullet, as it goes by, near your head, makes a loud cracking noise. A few hundred yards to go he was very determined to get me, time and time again he tried.

Now, I had the feeling that it had started to develop into something personal, he was so set on getting me that he ignored others! To my left, and below me, standing in the corn, was a Guards Armoured Sherman tank, giving covering fire in support of the attack. I watched with amazement as a Guards officer came striding up through the corn, very smart, the tank commander got out of the tank and saluted the officer and they stood talking for a while. "Yea Gods" it reminded me of a Giles cartoon. For heavens sake! Here we are, full-scale battle going on with vicious shell and mortar fire; this blasted sniper trying get me, and in the middle of it, these two bloody silly Guardsmen saluting each other in the middle of a particularly nasty bit of war. Just as though they were on parade at Buckingham Palace.

When I reached the brow of the hill in the cornfield I must have been out of his line of fire, he did not bother me any more. Had I been able to get hold of that Sniper, this fit, healthy, and bronzed young man, would have pulled his head off his shoulders, and stuffed it up his backside. For I was a very, very, angry young man!

Snipers were always a problem and I am sometimes amazed that they were allowed to kill, and then surrender. I did not fire at anybody, and did not have a clue where the Enemy was supposed to be anyway. Snipers were a continuing problem, they were very good at their job and we were always on the watch for unusual shapes in trees and hedgerows. Rarely, we would fire a burst into an unusual shape in a tree that did not ‘look right’ and even rarer a body would drop out.

The battle for the village was hard fought and at a time when the war had become very bitter, this was the period when it was reputed that not many prisoners where taken, the origin of this was the shooting in cold blood, by the 12th SS Panzer Division, the Hitler Youth, they murdered both Canadian and British prisoners. Then there were reputed instances of Germans offering surrender under a white flag, when approached to accept their surrender, another of them would pop up and cut down our men with machine gun fire.

After taking the village there were many casualties from both sides, all of them propped up against an earthen bank where we had set up a field dressing station. It was the practice to treat all wounded the same, indeed, it was not uncommon to see a Jerry on one end of a stretcher and a Tommy on the other.

For me, today is a very sad time, for I have just learned that an old and very dear friend has just died suddenly. “Ted” was a great man and a lovely fellow. He fought as an infantry man in the Desert war against the Rommels Africa Corps, He fought in Sicily, and then in Italy. He was brought back to continue the fight in Normandy. And got all the way to Holland before the enemy at last, and finally, caught up with him.

“Ted” was a Country man, and a gentleman, and the World is a sadder place for his passing,
Sapper

 

Hi! Its all gone very quiet out there. Is anyone listening? Come to that is anyone reading this?
With no comment, it is difficult to know if this page is still active?
Sapper.

 

Don't worry Brian, I am sure we are all still tuning in to read your accounts; I know I am.

Sorry to hear about your pal Ted; old soldiers never die, they simply fade away - but their memory lives on.

Keep up the fine work Sapper.

 

Hi Cheers.
Thank heavens for that! I thought I was entirely alone.
Sapper

 

Don't worry! I'm reading avidly as I'm sure are many fellow forum members. Keep it up, Sapper !

 

Hi Sapper, When your here your never alone. Steve

 

Believe me, I check for your posts every day that I can. Thanks again!

 

So do I and sometimes I dont have time to make a posting.

 

Brian :

Are you talking about the 3rd through the 10th of July now ? Epron, St.Contest, Galmanche, Malon, Cambes ? any of these towns/villages sound familiar to you..... ?

Erich

 

Hello everybody!
Bear with me! All though I have been around computers since I first progammed them to drive machinery, many years ago. As you all know, I am getting on in years and "maybe" not quite so sharp as previously. When it comes adding dates to these stories? I am afraid that the "Fog" of war, and time, has taken its toll. I can, by research, find the dates of some of these stories but that means looking up old documents. Something I am not very good at.The effects of the war damage has also taken its toll.
What follows is in two parts. part one!

Goodwood. Bloody. Goodwood
This was it! This was to be the great attack that would lead to the break out, we were to smash though the Enemy lines in one great armoured left hook round Caen, then into the open country beyond, in this position we could employ our tank strength and engage the Enemy on our terms.

Well! That is what was supposed to happen. Lots of preparation had taken place, we had moved away from Caen and on July the 15th, we crossed over the Orne, where the company harboured in a field near Heronvillette, to be immediately greeted by a barrage of shell fire during the night, not a lot of damage as we were now well dug in. Mr Trench our platoon officer gathered us together and briefed our little band on exactly what was to take place, Now! I remember this briefing very well because it was interrupted by the sound of approaching tanks. The noise got louder as they appeared round a bend in the road, first came a Sherman tank followed by a captured German tank with another Sherman behind. After this little episode, a sigh of relief. The briefing from Mr Trench gave us a complete run down of our objectives in the coming battle. We were to move out to the left flank and take the scattered villages and then try to take Troarn, but the main task was to secure our left flank from any incursions from the Enemy.

The night before this attack, mosquitoes descended on us in great avenging hordes and created absolute mayhem. Men with swollen faces and infected arms and legs, desperate to get some relief, I poured the paraffin out of a storm lantern over my arms legs and head, got in my foxhole, and as night came, so did the shells. I have taken the trouble to describe this battle in more detail because for some reason I found this action more frightening than anything that I had experienced before.

A beautiful summer's morning, on July 18th, RAF and USAAF began a bombardment of the ground in front of us, two thousand heavy bombers. Lancaster's and Flying Fortresses pounded the Enemy areas, supported by seven hundred and twenty artillery guns, plus two thousand fighters and fighter bombers, as this mighty attack went in, the ground trembled and shook as a huge cloud of dust and smoke rose over the target area. The enemy by now, saturated by bombing and shelling.

Eighth brigade, with our platoon up, led off as usual. We moved out with our half tracks and carriers through what looked like a "moonscape" we felt that with that bombardment, nothing could stop us, we took the Chateau De Escoville, then took Touffreville and Sannerville and the lateral road to Touffreville, we then consolidated in the area of Touffreville-Sannerville- Bannerville before our attack on Troarn.

I remember this time as one where we were shelled and mortared constantly, with the added discomfort of a barrage of moaning minnies, and machine gun fire, but most of all, what I found so frightening, were the shell airburst's, I do not think that I have felt so much fear before, or after, I do know, that there are many others who looked back on Troarn with dread. In the middle of this battle, harboured in an orchard where we had been under fierce fire we had to unload boxes of explosives, they were brown in colour and rolled up in grease proof paper, unfortunately, they had become unstable and had started to show small beads of liquid explosive on the outside, very dangerous and to be handled with great care!

Then the trouble really started, stonked and straddled, with Enemy fire, above ground at one time was suicidal, It seems that the Enemy had retired before the bombardment and then had come back in again. Surrounded by dense green country side, we had no idea where the fire was coming from, harboured in an Orchard, we were subjected to a severe pounding, in the middle of this one of our men went off his head with fear, and had to be restrained, he had his commando knife in his hand and presented a danger to us all! I remember three men tackling this man as he ran crazily around the orchard brandishing his commando knife.

Picture this if you can? The company vehicles drawn up in the orchard, with bren gun carriers, and half tracks, plus one or two three ton lorries loaded with explosives and mines, then as the mortars, shells, and machine gun fire, raked the orchard trees, and amongst all that mayhem, these three men tackling a mad-man intent on stabbing someone, in the end they brought him down with a flying tackle, the three of them sat on him while they tied him down.

Meanwhile our officer was striding about exhorting us to fire back, that is, until a lump of shrapnel took off part of one hand. He then took cover with the rest of us, minus half a hand. Not cowardice! Just plain common sense, when the stonking is that severe, it is impossible to live under such saturating fire. The object of battle is not to give your life for your country, it is to make the Enemy give his life for his country. This hammering continued for a few days, our objective of taking Troarn was never realized. This part of Normandy, it appeared, the Enemy was going to defend at all costs, while we were gathered together, a moaning minnie mortar landed right amongst us, but fortunately exploded with a split in the casing, so that it produced no shrapnel. I have talked to others who were there at Troarn and their response is "don't mention that bloody place"

All the while three British Armoured divisions raced for the high ground of the Bourgebous ridge, behind Caen. Infantry travelled on the back of the tanks, as these three armoured divisions raced for that high ground, on the way they got caught up in a horrendous traffic jam, trying desperately to get through the "Moonscape" with a very narrow clear path through the mine fields, the leading tanks were miles ahead, while the tail was caught up, unable to move. The tangle was so severe that not even wounded were allowed back, they had to wait until it could be cleared.

As the tanks approached the ridge, they were met with the withering fire from a screen of tanks and anti-tank guns, 88s. The bombs had not reached the forward positions and the Germans round the Bourgebous ridge were not touched. As the tanks drove on through this narrow spearhead, they were attacked by anti-tank guns from both flanks. Then attacked head on, by the defensive fire of the 88s from the defensive shield. The thrust forward faltered, and then died out after a day or so. I have heard it described as the "death ride" of the armoured divisions. We did not have enough infantry to clear up as we went and our tanks paid a terrible price! Our losses? Never given officially, but it has been reliably given as 400 tanks lost, some were recovered, but at the same time the whole area was covered with the black oily columns of smoke that rose into the sky from all our burning tanks.

 

Oh! One thing I forgot to ask. Can any of you imagine the fear? That terrible moment when you have to get out of your comfy little hole into a hail of fire?
Sapper.
Second part shortly.