Channel crossing 1944 (From Gazette & Herald)

Channel crossing 1944

RAY JONES was part of the D-Day landings 60 years ago.

He said: "Yorkshire can be proud of its contribution to the D-Day landings: four infantry battalions the 2nd and 5th Battalions East Yorkshire Regiment and 6th and 7th Battalions The Green Howards and an armoured regiment, the East Riding Yeomanry.

"No other county, Canadian or American State bettered this."

Here, he shares his memories of that day, 60 years ago, when his troop took to the beaches of Normandy.

MORE than half a century ago, as a 23-year-old trooper, I sat in the gunner's seat of a Sherman Firefly, one of a column of tanks moving to their embarkation port on the channel coast. It was early on a sunny Saturday afternoon, about the time you would normally be making your way to a football match, or, in my case, a game at the local tennis club.

But this was no ordinary weekend, and though time must have eroded many details, some events are clearly remembered. People standing and waving as we passed through the towns and villages, tea and snacks freely given from meagre civilian rations on frequent brief halts, then a longer halt on a country road as we approached Gosport.

From the open hatches of the stationary tanks, we noticed the regimental padre making his way down the column. Captain Long was a respected figure. He was a big fellow, an Ulsterman, the only man in the regiment who could give Lance Corporal Bob Borroughs, our Eastern Command Heavyweight Boxing champion, a good sparring workout. He would turn up at training sessions after Bob had bloodied a couple of willing but inadequate opponents and apologised to them for doing so. Removing his officer's peaked hat and jacket, but retaining his clerical dog collar, he would put on the gloves and square up to the champ.

Often, at this point, he had to be reminded to take off his spectacles, after which they would belt away at each other.

However, more serious fighting was in the padre's thoughts as he approached us.

"You chaps will be taking part in the invasion landings very soon, with all that it involves. I'm taking a few short services, three or four crews at a time. It's entirely voluntary."

Few refused. We stood bareheaded in an adjoining field, said the Lord's prayer, followed by the singing of O God Our Help In Ages Past. A few words from the padre, and back to the tanks. The memory returns every time I hear this hymn, especially on Remembrance Sunday.

After many stops and starts, we slowly moved into Gosport, finally halting on the hards, the shingle beach where a row of LCTs landing craft tanks were moored. The bow doors were open and ramps lowered ready to receive their cargoes. Each tank was carefully reversed up the ramp. You had to come off at the other end facing the enemy and in the proper order; good troop officers led from the front and were first to land ours did!

The load was about six tanks to a LCT, plus two or three-wheeled vehicles, say a couple of 15cwt trucks and a jeep. Chains and shackles were provided to secure the tanks against movement in rough seas; little did we realise how necessary these would be. Full use was made of any carrying capacity; an artillery sergeant appeared with a light motorcycle, which was lashed onto the side of our tank turret by a couple of matelots, despite violent protests from Sgt Jack Read, our crew commander. He was a young peacetime regular soldier, ex-King's Dragoon Guards, capable but very regimental. Finished his career as an RSM. "Captain's orders," explained the sailors. Sgt Read conceded to higher authority.

We completed our tasks by early evening, still pleasantly warm and sunny as Frank Pryke, our wireless operator, and I stood gazing ashore through the still-open bow doors. Saturday night, I was thinking, big night out, a few drinks, girls, a dance later on...

"I'm going to have a last pee on English soil," Frank announced suddenly.

"I'll join you, mate," and I followed him to the bottom of the ramp.

He was considerably older than the rest of the crew, mid-30s, a Londoner, and married before the war started. Married, but no children, a regret he sometimes expressed. Perhaps it was now in his thoughts.

We had a reasonably comfortable night. Sleeping on LCTs was nothing new as we had been to sea in them during our training, so cooking supper on the primus issued to each crew, and rigging up tarpaulins for shelter between the tanks presented no difficulties. After completing loading, the LCTs had moved slowly off shore "so we can't get off," quipped some wag and dropped anchor. The sailors provided the watch, which relieved us of the usual night guard duty, and increased our faith and respect for the senior service. The steel deck was rather hard, but this was compensated for by the gentle rocking of the craft.

We awoke next morning, Sunday, to a cooler, rather cloudy day. There was no room to parade, but we went through our British Army routine of washing and shaving before cooking breakfast.

The sun emerged fitfully during the morning, but the afternoon was quite grey, the wind increasing, noticeably straining the wire cable tethering a small portable barrage balloon, the responsibility of two aircraftsmen from the RAF. After giving us protection from low flying aircraft during the crossing, these two erks had been ordered then to winch the balloon down, and manhandle the lot to the beachhead perimeter and position it so that it could continue its defensive role. They were not full of enthusiasm for their part in the big adventure.

We expected to sail, as more ships and craft of all types filled the sea around us, but towards late afternoon we were told that the weather was causing a delay to the start of the operation. There was little to do apart from smoke, chat and drink the occasional mug of tea, kindly provided by the galley. The old card school was started and one or two people wrote letters on the forms provided, but it was some time before they got the opportunity to post them.

As night approached, the weather worsened, the sea got rougher and the wind strengthened. We spent an unpleasant night, and were pleased to welcome Monday morning and some easing of the storm.

It was whilst we were preparing breakfast that someone noticed that our balloon had disappeared. The cable had broken. "Must have been the gale," said the senior erk, knowledgeably, "not much point us going without the balloon."

Not so, decided the naval officer in charge, who had despatched a petty officer to view the situation. He judged that the cable left on the winch showed every sign of having been parted by a blow from a sharp object, and observed that there was an axe on the back of every tank. This he reported to his officer, who had an order passed to the erks that they would remain on board and complete their duties as originally instructed, which included "getting that bloody winch ashore with or without a balloon!".

The day continued to improve, the sun shone fitfully, and the announcement that we would be sailing later was almost a relief. Maps were issued, and the coded names used in the high security briefing sessions became real places; places that we would always remember; Lion sur Mer, Hermanville, Caen, Plumetot, Ranville...

Invasion money was issued, specially printed French frans, two hundred to the pound, I think. We didn't get much and, in the event, didn't need much. It was emphasised that we were landing in an Allied country, that civilians and their property must be respected, and as their food supplies would be limited, we should restrict ourselves to army rations.

The smaller craft carrying tanks, and the craft transporting the assault infantry, together with their escorts, started to move along the Solent toward the open channel by late afternoon, past the bigger, faster ships still at anchor. These would sail later, to make their scheduled arrival off the beaches. As we moved into the open sea, the craft started to roll and pitch unpleasantly, apparently quite usual for LCTs, due to their barge-like shape and heavy loading.

General Eisenhower, in his message to the assault force, had promised "air cover from 30,000 feet right down to the deck!" and we anxiously scanned the skies looking for enemy aircraft. Our squadron leader, Major Fitzwilliam-Hyde, a sporty type, offered "a fiver for the first gunner to shoot down an enemy 'plane!" and a few of us manned the .50 Browning machine guns mounted on the top of the Sherman turret, but nobody spotted a target. We didn't see an enemy aircraft during the entire crossing.

It was a cold, grey evening. The craft was completely open, with no protection from the weather, and heavy spray added to the discomfort. Sea sickness was affecting a lot of people, some quite badly despite the preventative pills which some had taken. Vomit bags had been issued, and men who felt too ill to make it to the rails were laid under the protective tarpaulins. I was observing the scene from my anti-aircraft position in the turret when Percy Marris, the troop sergeant, waved me to join him. He was a good sort, in his late 30s, and one of the oldest men in the squadron. I liked him. He asked: "How are you?"

"I'm fine, sergeant."

"Good, that's three of us, you, me and Pollard; the rest of the troop are in a bad way, some worse than others. Remember the padre said we'd have to do some rotten jobs? OK, go round and empty their spew bags, there's a good bloke!"

"Yes, sarge." I swallowed and took a deep breath of the very fresh air and turned to assist my first patient, Lance Corporal Ron Sinclair. He was laid under a sheet lashed to his tank track, surrounded by a pool of vomit, grey-faced and past caring. I gingerly took an over-full spew bag from his stained hands. He looked up gratefully and whispered, "Thanks, mate." I nodded, stepping to the side, and slung it overboard. The surface of the sea was quite near, and I stood for a few seconds watching the grey stain drift astern, thinking that this was an odd thing to be doing during the invasion of Europe.

I carried on with this task for a while, but eventually demand for my services slackened, or else the bag supply simply ran out. Percy spotted me again.

"How're you doing, Joner?" he enquired, in a friendly manner.

"Fine, sarge," I responded, falling into the trap.

"The heads are blocked, go and see if you can clear them, there's a good chap!"

The heads were located aft on a raised portion of the craft, below the bridge, and were used by both naval and army personnel. Soldiers weren't alone in their suffering; a number of ratings were feeling the effects of the bad weather, and the state of the toilets was dreadful. I found a broom handle and prodded away for a few minutes without any success. I decided that a plumber was required, and left before I joined the sick.

I reported my failure to the troop sergeant, who condoned my decision and suggested we try and get some sleep. With a couple of blankets and a ground sheet, I slept on the deck for a few hours, being awakened with the news that the French coast was in sight. In broad daylight, land was clearly visible. Bombs and shells were exploding, the noise echoing over the water, added to by the crash of gunfire from the supporting naval vessels.

Climbing onto the tank to get a better view, I was amazed at the number of craft of all types, as far as I could see. The size of the convoy at the start of the voyage had been impressive, but now as the invasion fleet concentrated for the actual landings, it was overwhelming.

My special mate, Polly, had joined me; he was a proper sailor, ten years in the merchant navy. Sea sickness didn't trouble him.

"What do you reckon to this then?" he grinned, waving his arm and looking around. I just nodded but didn't speak. "Giving Jerry some stick, aren't we? They'll be sat there in their coal scuttle helmets, all about eight feet tall and broad as barn doors, armed to the teeth and singing the Horst Wessel song, peering at us with piggy blue eyes, but we'll show 'em mate, we'll teach 'em who's the bloody Master Race!" Polly was well short of five feet six, weighed less than nine stone, but was a Cornish man and proud of it. He'd served at sea in the Merchant Navy until 1942 on North Atlantic convoys, and had had the privileg of being blown up on the Dunbar Castle, the first merchant ship to be sunk by an acoustic mine. He had, still has, a wonderful sense of humour, at its best in rough times.

More people were now emerging from their shelter. As we approached land, the seas were somewhat calmer, and most wanted to see events unfolding on this momentous day for which we had trained and prepared so long. A few were still incapacitated by sea sickness, but the majority were a good deal better. Crews made checks on the tanks and equipment, drivers started the engines, running them for a brief period. Wireless operators were issued with the codes and call signs for the day; these were top security and wireless silence was imposed until shortly before the actual landing. I felt fine, not having been affected in any way by sea sickness, and the other three members of the crew, whilst having suffered to some degree, were capable of carrying out their duties. Some crews had to swap men around in order to function properly; Polly, for instance, had to take over from the driver of the troop officer's tank as he was too ill to drive.

As the fleet moved closer, shell fire from enemy coastal batteries began to fall around us. Later, we learned that heavy guns from as far away as Le Havre were firing at the fleet, and at the landing beaches. The battleship HMS Warspite was on escort duty, and as the convoy swung away in a wide arc, she opened fire. It was awe-inspiring to witness a capital ship firing full broadsides, and to hear the whine of the heavy shells as they passed overhead, but we were relieved when our course eventually took us out of the line of fire.

The change of course meant a delay in our landing, and gave us time to get something to eat. Not one to miss an opportunity, Polly quickly had the primus lit and opened a tin of American pork sausages and one of bacon, fully four men's rations.

"If we're going to die, mate," he said, looking at me out of the corner of his eye and grinning, "we'll do it on a full stomach!" and he fried the lot, sizzling and splashing hot fat on the steel deck, the squeamish ones moving back from the aroma.

He stood up, holding a frying pan of succulent grub at arm's length and sweeping around in a circle shouting "Anyone for breakfast?" The rest of the troop shrank away and Pollard and I ate the lot, the best meal I was to have for many days.

Meanwhile, the fleet was sailing steadily towards the French coast, and the beach where we were to land could be seen. It was oddly familiar, and I realised that it had been photographed by a low-flying reconnaissance aircraft and shown in our briefing sessions. In particular, I remembered the shapes of the villas on the sea front, since shown many times on historic newsreels.

Final orders were given, shackles and chains released, and crews climbed into their tanks. Wireless operators switched on their No 19 sets and carried out their netting procedure. I can't remember the call signs now, but Frank, the operator, kept the issued sheet giving the details and headed "Overlord", and showed it to me at a regimental reunion years after the end of the war.

Crew commanders ordered, "Start engines." Drivers responded. All of us pulled on our headsets essential for intercom between the crew and the radio mush dulled the sound of shell and small arms fire; somehow strangely comforting. Gunners couldn't make any constructive contribution at this juncture, so I peered through my periscope, turning it to maximise my restricted view.

A jolt, grinding and a slight tilting. Had we been hit? Were we sinking? No, we'd hit the beach, the bow doors opened, the ramp dropped, the sea was there. Everybody off!

"Driver, advance." Bob Pollard, my mate, seated about two yards in front of Lt Rodney Peake, and driving the troop leader's tank! First crew in 2 Troop ashore!

We followed, tracks rattling and squeaking. No worries about the depth of the water only about four feet, judging from the tank in front we were waterproofed up to six.

The artillery sergeant crouched behind the turret, sheltering from the small arms fire. I don't know what happened to the RAF lads and their balloon. Through the litter of burning vehicles, knocked-out tanks, abandoned beach defences, we made our way across the sand, cratered by shell fire. Two badly wounded commandos, shocked, grey-faced and laid on stretchers, showed briefly in the periscope lens as we passed, their war over.

"Driver, speed up!"

Land Corporal Charlie Gibbs obeyed. This was his return trip. Another pre-war regular, a Brummie, joined up under-age. Only 17 when evacuated from Dunkirk, where the heroism of a RC padre was his reason for becoming a Catholic.

Later, he said: "Stick to me, mate, we'll be all right."

I did.

We were.

Updated: 16:13 Thursday, June 03, 2004