Chapter 14

CHAPTER 14: ENGLAND 1944

We steamed out of the Bay of Naples on 20th December 1943. We entered a peaceful Mediterranean under the umbrella of Allied air cover, and spent Christmas Day anchored off Oran. Our festivities were lubricated by ample supplies of rough Algerian wine. A general miasma of well-being pervaded the ship. We passed through the Straits of Gibraltar in darkness. Little else happened before we docked in Glasgow on the bleak morning of 7th January 1944.

Troop trains were waiting to convey us to Brandon Station on the Norfolk/Suffolk border. Here we were transferred to a convoy of three-tonners that dumped us down among a desolate group of huts. The site had been abandoned since the first world war when it had been used as a POW camp for German prisoners. The camp was in a clearing among vast dejected forestry plantations, mile after uninterrupted mile of dismal conifers planted by the Forestry Commission in the 1920’s. The East Anglian countryside was — as Noel Coward pointed out — very flat. The weather was cold and dank. The transition from desert summer, via Italian autumn, had been discouraging. Our spirits sank. The Divisional History depicts the scene accurately:

“Our misgivings had already been aroused by an article in Country Life which, while attributing to the district considerable importance for both archaeology and ornithology, made it clear that it possessed few if any other amenities. Country Life was right. Eager watchers, at the windows of the long troop trains, saw flat black fenland give way to sandy heath; Brandon station gave glimpses of houses and a pub; but the troop carrying vehicles into which we were detrained carried us inexorably away from this brief vision of Paradise, farther and farther into the waste depositing us mercilessly into groups of decayed Nissen huts clustered beneath the tall pines.”

John's parents

There was no entertainment of any kind in the neighbourhood of the camp. We organized ‘recreational transport’ (popularly known as the ‘passion wagon’) to take the soldiers to cinemas and dances at Bury St.Edmunds and other distant towns. Home leave was granted to all of us in turn. My parents had now moved back from Watford to London, where the heavy nightly bombing had been replaced by sporadic raids. They had taken a flat in Chalk Farm. During a seven-day leave I slept in the flat, shaken at nights by the thunder of the anti-aircraft battery on nearby Primrose Hill. I cannot remember much else of that leave: as a returning hero, proudly wearing my Africa Star (the Italy Star was not issued until later) I ought to have enjoyed one hell of a time. Sadly, if I did, the memory has completely faded. Probably it was at this time that I went to the Myra Hess concerts in the National Gallery from which the best paintings had been removed for safe keeping to a quarry in Wales. This was an enjoyable experience but not the stuff of which wartime novels are made. I don't remember any girls in my life at this time. The nearest I had to a girl friend was Jennifer, who wrote regularly, but she was working somewhere in the west country and probably spending her week-ends with Roy Jenkins.

The Division was re-equipped and retrained for our next campaign. The tank regiments were issued with the new Cromwells, faster and more manoeuvrable than the Shermans we had left in Italy, though — it proved — less reliable mechanically, and still lacking the heavy armour of our German opposite numbers. The artillery kept Shermans for their command vehicles: my new home when we next went into battle would be the Colonel's Sherman as I had now become the Regimental Survey Officer. Our guns were replaced by self-propelled 25-pounders mounted on Canadian Ram tanks. These could be moved into action — and out again — far more quickly than the old guns that had to be manhandled into position. The armour provided better protection for the crews.

We began a period of intensive training both as individual units and as part of bigger armoured formations. We operated in the Stanford battle area, suitable for tank manoeuvres. It also included a village that had been taken over by the Army and shot to pieces when it was used to train us in street fighting. My survey team spent long cold days practising our skills. These were to find out exactly where we were and to ‘survey in' the three batteries of the regiment. Then we would establish the alignment for the regiment's guns so that all 24 guns could be fired in parallel on the rare occasions when the three batteries might operate in unison instead of their usual independent support of separate units.

My survey team were a matey lot, generally of a higher standard of education than your average soldier. My sergeant, Hugh Timms, a signwriter from Kent, was skilled and experienced, a careful and kindly man. With Hugh around, you didn’t really need a survey officer. He was a dab hand with the range-finder, an instrument of telescopic character for the accurate measurement of distances. With this and a compass bearing, you could quickly establish an eight-figure map reference. Ray Self, a small sharp-featured accounting clerk from the north, was calm, assured and reliable. The same could be said of Bill Coombs a slow-spoken, thoughtful Devonian; and of the more astringent Bill Caines, a crane operator from Bristol: he told me that he used to spend as much time as possible in the cradle at the top because the extra height brought him extra pay. My batman (not part of the survey team) was little Ronnie Carpenter, an East Ender who ran a greengrocer's shop. He had no great enthusiasm for warfare or for hard work — in other words he was well qualified to be a batman.

After John's death we recieved the following message:-

Yehudi was a term of abuse we used against arabs as we haggled over eggs-for-tea transactions. But it was also the affectionate title we in the Regimental Survey Party used for Mr. Liverman, our O/C. (Neither use would be allowed today.)

He was only one of a series of officers. The others went on to higher ranking posts, but he remained a lieutenant in spite of his outstanding ability as an artillery officer and his skill in dealing with his subordinates. We in the survey party thought of ourselves as rather special, a notion Regimental Sergeant Major Millard took every opportunity to dispel. Mr. Liverman was always willing to take our part. I think he rather envied the other-ranks' free-thinking response to the demands of military discipline, submitting when it was necessary, but sidestepping its obvious excesses. As the survey process became more streamlined, we all took on new jobs, e.g. Foy as a tank driver in CC Battery, Clere as Major Wells's assistant in K. It was then that John took his most important wartime role as personal assistant to Colonel Gregson who was increasingly under the strain of responsibility for his regiment and the gunners of all ranks under his command.

Composed, confident of their approval, on behalf of the Survey Party 5th Regiment RHA, wherever they are and whether alive or dead:

Sergeant Rowe

Bombadier Timms

Gunners Isserlis, Self, Wharton, Caines, Foy, Clere and Coombs

Sometimes Colonel Gregson would drive around the Divisional area, which covered a considerable distance, to visit other units. He would drive in his Humber staff car, not in his Sherman tank which would have caused a lot more wear and tear on the roads of Norfolk and Suffolk. We would be driven by Tug Wilson (who was also the tank driver), a regular from Yorkshire, and I would serve as map reader. This was quite a challenging task, as we paid no regard to speed limits and the Colonel would not have taken kindly to any suggestion that we might pull up so that I could consult the map at leisure. We did have some unscheduled stops for the Colonel to shoot rabbits. When they were sighted near the road, Tug would be ordered to halt, and the Colonel would lower the window and discharge his revolver at the unfortunate creatures. Tug would recover the deceased rabbits, and hand them over to the mess cook when we returned to camp.

Life in Regimental Headquarters (RHQ) was very different from life in a battery. Needless to say we were looked down on as relative non-combatants by those who served at the O.P.'s and the guns, but we had our pride - and many of us had our expertise. Nominally, RHQ was under command of the regiment's second in command (C02 or 2ic), Major Ron Holman, a small wiry man who had achieved some fame as an amateur jockey. In practice he was engaged in regimental administrative duties, assisted by the adjutant, Captain James Cooke: the varied assortment of ‘RHQ personnel’ were kept in order by the Regimental Sergeant Major, RSM ‘Dusty’ Millard (who also looked after the discipline of the entire regiment). James was tall, dark, and handsome, and something of a martinet. ‘Dusty’, or rather Mr Millard as we addressed him (battery sergeants-major were addressed by officers as ‘Sar’nt Major’, but any new and innocent subaltern using this mode of address to the RSM would be well advised to ask for an early transfer), was of compact build and possessed the vocal power usually associated with men of his rank. He commanded my total respect together with a good deal of affection. I had the impression that these feelings were not fully reciprocated but we got on well enough.

In battle, RHQ divided into Tac HQ (tactical headquarters) and Main (or rear) HQ. Tac HQ was small and mobile. It usually comprised the colonel, adjutant, survey officer, and a few signallers. Main HQ was led by the C02 and RSM and contained all the support services. These comprised the main signal units, the LAD (Light Aid Detachment of the REME) and the supply echelons under the care of the Quarter-Master. But when we were in training or out of action, and assembled as a single unit, it was the RSM who dominated the scene.

[One Sunday morning thirty-five years later, when I was living in Woking, I was taking a load of domestic and garden rubbish to the local tip. I was dressed in my oldest gardening clothes, torn jacket, holes in trouser knees, dilapidated boots. I was returning to my car after unloading the rubbish when I was startled by a sudden roar “Liverman! Five RHA!” There was Dusty Millard, impeccably turned out in sports coat and smart flannels, returning from the next skip. I confessed my identity while he looked me up and down, as if inspecting a poorly turned out gunner. No doubt he concluded that I had either fallen on evil days or had lost any sense of pride in my appearance that I may have acquired in his regiment. He overcame his distaste sufficiently for us to have a chat about old times: he was now a security guard at the local Vickers factory. I never encountered him at the tip again but — just in case — I put on my best casual clothes for my weekly visits.]

The REME Captain in charge of the LAD was Bob Walker, an unassuming engineer who worked for the Port of London Authority in peace-time. Although of a mild and retiring disposition, he was respected for his professional skill. I cannot remember the name of the Signals Officer (though I recall Brian Falvey who succeeded him in Normandy). The recollection has possibly been erased by an unfortunate alienation after I borrowed one of his unit's motor-cycles which caught fire after I had been riding it rather too far and too fast on one of our exercises. It was a new bike, which should have been run in with greater caution. There was not a lot of it left by the time I had escaped from the blaze and applied a fire extinguisher. The Signals Officer had to account for its destruction to his superiors in the Royal Corps of Signals.

Meanwhile the war continued. The Divisions we left behind in Italy were slowly and painfully fighting their way up the Peninsula. On a far grander scale the Russians had captured the entire German Seventh Army at Stalingrad and had begun their relentless advance across Eastern Europe. Historians tell us that the tide of war had turned in favour of the Allies. Alamein and Stalingrad were the turning points. To us, preparing for an invasion that would be opposed on a massive scale, the outcome of the war did not seem to be assured. Nor did our personal survival.

Early in May 1944 we had orders to move from our bleak training camp to a concentration area near Ipswich. There we were to waterproof our tanks and other vehicles in preparation for the long awaited Second Front that Stalin had been demanding for two years to relieve the pressure on the Soviet forces. There had been demonstrations in England during 1943 urging the government to mount an invasion across the Channel. Now this was it. We assumed it would take the form of an assault landing on the heavily defended beaches of France.

We greeted our new orders with exhilaration tinged with apprehension. The Seventh Armoured Division had been brought back from Italy, after our successful campaign on the plain of Naples, in order to train and re-equip for the main assault on Hitler's Fortress Europe. Our Division, and others brought back from the Mediterranean, would lend battle experience to the untried troops that would make up the bulk of the invasion force. If we could establish a bridgehead and advance from there towards Germany while the Russian armies continued to move westward — then the enslaved peoples of Europe could be liberated, and the war, now in its fifth year, could be brought to a victorious end.

The feeling of apprehension is more difficult to recapture. Looking back now, one might think that a mood of optimism would have prevailed. After all, we know now that the invasion of June 1944 succeeded, the Germans surrendered in May 1945, and here I am more than half a century later in robust good health writing my memoirs. None of these outcomes could have been foreseen with any confidence in May 1944.

Before leaving our training area, with these thoughts in mind, I felt a strong desire to take what might be my last look at Cambridge. I borrowed one of our regimental bicycles — old-fashioned sit up and beg models — and cycled the forty odd miles to Cambridge, arriving in time to walk round some familiar places before dark. I put up at the Blue Boar, opposite Trinity’s Great Gate, figuring that I would need to start my return journey about four o’ clock next morning in order to join the first parade. I walked through the Great Gate into the serenity of Great Court, where the evening air was heavy with the scent of wallflowers around the fountain. The grass in the court was as green as ever and unscathed by war. St. John's next door (whose lawns were never up to our standard) had replaced their grass with potatoes in an act of misplaced patriotism.

A few days later we moved to our designated concentration area. I went on ahead with Hugh Timms, with orders to reconnoitre our accommodation and vehicle parks. Hugh was in saddened mood: as an expert signwriter he had taken pride in painting the red desert rats on our vehicles. Now his handiwork was to be obliterated in the interests of security. When we reached Ipswich, I thought that a cup of tea would cheer him up. It seemed natural to us that we should have a normal brew-up in the desert fashion that we had taken with us to Italy. So we parked in the station forecourt, unloaded our cut-down petrol can, filled it with earth from a nearby flower bed, threw some petrol over the earth, and boiled the water in a couple of minutes. It was only the presence of an admiring and inquisitive crowd that reminded us that this was not the usual way of taking afternoon tea in Ipswich.

We were quartered in and around Orwell House, a stately home that had seen better days. The house was surrounded by wooded parkland that provided good cover for our tanks and other vehicles and equipment. I took charge of the Colonel's tank, with the crew consisting of Tug Wilson and two signallers, Lance-Corporals Jones and Noble. Hugh Timms was alone with the survey Jeep. We were given several days to waterproof all guns, tanks, and other vehicles, apart from the supply echelon which would follow later when a dry landing would be possible. The waterproofed vehicles were to be ready to drive off from the assault craft into up to six feet of water.

Waterproofing kits and instruction books were issued to all of us. The kits included a lot of Bostik for sealing the carburettor and other important parts of the engine. This was rather fun, taking us back to nursery days of playing with plasticine. The tanks had huge steel chutes attached to their rear in order to raise the exhaust emissions above sea level. To keep the guns dry, we fitted little rubber caps resembling the condoms issued to the troops by the Medical Officer. The kits included quick release gear to dump the exhaust chutes, and detonators to burst the rubber caps on reaching dry land. This enabled the tanks to be roadworthy and the guns to be ready to fire without the need for the crew to be exposed to enemy fire on the beaches. Waterproofing the jeep was another matter: a long tube carried the exhaust up to six feet high but there was no snorkel equipment for the driver, who would be completely submerged if we drove off into that depth of water. Hugh Timms viewed the prospect with little enthusiasm: he considered it a serious defect in the invasion planning. In the event he and his jeep sailed in a different assault craft which provided him with a dry landing.

Hugh's jeep gave us another problem. It failed to start on a day when embarkation seemed imminent. Our regimental mechanics diagnosed a defective coil. Hugh and I set out for a military transport depot for a replacement — but we were not given a new coil. Instead we were conducted to a huge shed where scores of new jeeps were lined up, all waterproofed and ready for invasion. We were invited to abandon our jeep and to help ourselves to a substitute of our choice. Presumably there were lines of replacement tanks and other vehicles equally ready for collection in case of need. We were impressed with the thoroughness of the invasion preparations.

We had little spare time during the laborious waterproofing process, though I recall a makeshift game of cricket in the grounds of Orwell House. There came a day at the end of May when together with my fellow officers I was summoned to a briefing session. We learned that the Normandy beaches had been chosen for the assault. We were given the order of battle and up-to-date maps (from aerial photographs) that would optimistically take us half way across France. The armour of the Division, 22nd Armoured Brigade, was to follow closely on the infantry assault by 50th and 51st Divisions. We were given details of our first objectives. We were given little suitcases containing the maps and bundles of franc notes in funny money (we had in previous campaigns collected funny money for use in Libya and Italy, and more was to come in later campaigns).

After the officers’ briefing, the camp was sealed with coils of barbed wire so that none of us would give away secret information. This did not prevent enterprising soldiers from one of the other regiments within the compound from ‘borrowing’ a steam-roller that made short work of the barbed wire so that they could enjoy a last night out in London.

At the beginning of June the fine weather began to break. We knew nothing of the agonising decision facing Commander-in-Chief General Eisenhower. He had to decide whether to risk mounting the invasion in deteriorating weather, or to defer the landings until the next favourable tides in a month’s time, losing any advantage of surprise. He chose to go ahead and risk the weather.

On June 3rd we had orders to brief our tank crews and to move out of camp at four a.m. the following day. In a cold grey dawn we drove off in a weird convoy, the huge exhaust chutes of our tanks pointing to high heaven. Military police waved us along the route, sending us straight over the grass at several roundabouts so that the tracks of the tanks would not chew up the road as they turned.

As the convoy entered built-up Felixstowe startled citizens drew back their bedroom curtains and stared out. Their attitudes and expressions reminded me of Stanley Spencer's people of Jerusalem looking out at Christ carrying his cross through the streets. Soon we were at the edge of the Orwell estuary where an amazing array of assault craft, manned by their naval crews, awaited our arrival.

Next: Chapter 15: Invasion of Normandy