A Friend is Laid to Rest

This story is submitted to the People’s War site by a member of Market Harborough Branch, Royal British Legion on behalf of Kenneth J. West and has been added to the site with his permission. Mr West fully understands the site’s terms and conditions.

A Friend is Laid to Rest
By Kenneth J. West

UNDER THE COVER of darkness we reached the farmhouse by the side of the dyke, to establish contact with the forward Canadian unit with which we were to liase prior to the attack on Arnhem. We quickly sorted out a duty rota, the Canadians taking the first part of the night and we’d continue until dawn. I found myself a spot on the floor beneath a table. Placing my No.18 wireless set above me alongside my half filled mug of tea for later refreshment and retired for the night.

Cruuummmp......... an almighty blast awoke me in an instant. In the semi-darkness North American expletives rent the air. “Stay here with the wireless Jock”, shouted the sergeant, “I’ll take my guys and sort this lot out”, and disappeared into the night.

The explosion had been caused by a panzerfaust (anti-tank missile) being fired at the front of the farmhouse, fortunately for us, the missile had hit a large chestnut tree by the front door. Shrapnel had shattered the window and glass shards had splattered the room resulting in just one casualty. Something dripped from the edge of the table on to my hand, and I feared the worst. Getting to my knees, I looked on the table to find that a piece of shrapnel had pierced the side of my mug and the remainder of my night-time tea was seeping out onto the table. As I clasped “Toby” my trusty brown friend in my hands, the last dregs of tea ebbed from his mortal wounds.

“Toby”, my faithful brown enamelled mug who had brought me succour so many times in my hour of need. He’d clung to the buckle of my battle-dress blouse, or the straps of my small-pack, through shot and shell, hail and snow, perhaps it was fitting that it had taken a panzerfaust to end his days.

In the morning he was laid to rest near to the blasted chestnut tree and his grave marked with a small cross ‘TOBY’ — R.I.P. With due ceremony we saluted and toot-tooted The Last Post. As we returned indoors the Sgt remarked that he thought that it was only the Canadians who did crazy things like that. The CQMS was informed ‘Toby - D.O.W. (died of wounds) and a replacement received. It was but a pale shadow of it’s predecessor, shortly after the war finished, it’s handle fell off…..

They don’t make ‘em like Toby any more.

In the letter that Ken West sent with this story he says,
“ During an early visit to stay with Bob (his friend in Holland) we revisited some of the places I knew from 1944-45. The farmhouse in question is within the germeente (parish) of Dueiven where he lives. The blasted “Cheggy” tree to the left of the front door has gone but the one on the right is in luxurious growth. The farmhouse is now in the hand of the grandson who was amused by the story and didn’t know of the fate of the other tree!

Bob often used this tale to show the typical humour of the “British Tommy”.

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