My War — Part 2

This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Robert M. Crossley, and has been added to the site with the author’s permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

My War — Part 2
By
Robert M. Crossley

A Miss Betty Patterson of Bingley, who cousin Peter was courting and was to marry, come the end of the war, had joined the W.A.A.F.s. Back at Leeds and the good life, there must have been a change of mind at Army H.Q, because the Battery was suddenly whisked away back to the South coast, this time to the Lymington area. Our detachment occupied gun sites on the shores of the Solent, and at Brockenhurst in the New Forest. There were many other sites not recalled.

The loneliest Christmas I remember was at Warmwell in 1944. Only one member of the detachment was allowed out on an evening. Mine fell on Christmas Eve and I spent it at an R.A.F. Station nearby. I was on my own and everyone else was paired up, and the band played ‘I am dreaming of a White Christmas’ over and over again. I remember going, back to camp early and it proved to be the worst Christmas of my life. Strangely enough there were less calls out for action these days as the German Luftwaffe had been mastered by our Air Force, and we watched the 1,000 bomber raids leave our shores for Germany.
Next it was a move to Clacton-on-Sea for a few months, and then North yet again to the Hull area. Here our detachment occupied a gun site at the Brough aircraft factory and airfield, one at the side of Beverley racecourse, and a rat infested site at Little Kelk.

Not mentioned in this first four years of my army life are the odd four week stays in Army barracks, such as Aldershot and Brayton, where we underwent strict infantry training - doing guard duty on the main gate (2 hours on, four hours off), the 20 mile route marches, the hard, assault courses, living to the daily bugle calls, parade drill on the square, arms training, target practise and general barrack life.

In early 1944 we were sent to the South East coast, to the Romney Marshes and were stationed at the pebbled seaside resort of Littlestone-on-Sea. The Battery H.Q. was at Dungeness. I remember our food rations came by the commandeered Romney to Dymchurch miniature railway that ran along the coast, and we were living in the holiday chalets that seemed to stretch for miles on end.

The days of the Invasion of Europe were drawing near and we were to learn what our role was to be for the time of the Landings. We were taken out from Folkestone harbour in commandeered fishing boats, a detachment to each boat, and introduced to the large 6,000 ton concrete Phoenix caissons, which were to form the outer wall of the Mulberry Harbour, to be assembled at Arromanches in the coming June, after each section had been floated and towed across the channel by sea-going tugs. We didn’t know this at the time. On the way, we noted that the caissons, each over 70 metres long, 30 feet high from the water level, were dotted along the coastline, each laying about a 1/4 mile off shore and had Bofor guns mounted upon a central tower. We climbed from the fishing boat on to a lower ledge of the caisson and then had to climb 25-30 feet up a vertical iron runged ladder to reach the top and deck. I remember that there were one or two members who were too scared to make the climb, which was understandable, and they had to be roped up.

Once on the top, we found that the caisson was hollow, divided into about 16 compartments, each compartment filled with water to the level of the tide at the time (when it had been positioned there the seacocks would have been opened allowing the sea to flow in thereby allowing the caisson to sink on to the seabed). We found a small deck at each end with a catwalk leading down the middle of the caisson to the gun tower. We were to live on these monsters for a week at a time to get used to them. The designers had made a small concrete room at one end with a small window for any gun crew to-shelter in. We found that sleeping was impossible there and we all had Claustrophobia, preferring to bunk down underneath the gun tower. Equipment on the caisson was found to consist of many ropes, a generator for pumping out the water when the time came to 'float', several lifebuoys and signalling lamps.

This practise of going to Folkestone by lorry, by boat to the caisson, staying aboard for a week, and returning to Littlestone, carried on for a long time. Rations were delivered to us by boat with everything having to be roped up from the lower-platform. Only part of the end decks were railed and there was the continual fear that one day a man would fall from the top of the caisson to the lower platform with instant death.

During the middle of May, 1944, our whole unit moved down the coast to Selsey Bill, near Portsmouth, and after a few days in a sealed camp, we were to be put aboard Caisson A54 and realising then that our Battery had been selected to travel across to Normandy on these particular sections of the Mulberry Harbour, and there defend the harbour with the Bofors.

The South coast at this time was packed with troops and equipment of the Allied Forces. There was tight security, all leave had been cancelled, and everyone was aware that it was all ready to happen. There had been changes over the years and our detachment was now made up of and myself. Bob was to become a good friend who I was to maintain contact with after the war. As darkness fell on the eve of the 6th June, the dark clouded sky was blackened further with gliders and aircraft bearing the 6th Airborne and others towards Normandy, and we also watched from our vantage point the thousands of craft of the Invasion force assembling in the Solent, and head out into the Channel.

We had already received our copies of the personal messages and good wishes from General Eisenhower the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, and from General Montgomery, Commander of the Allied Armies. Through the day of June 6th, we were made aware that all the landings on the French coast had been successful. On the caisson we waited for our turn to come. There was no more leave and we were on those boxed rations. Each box contained a day’s ration for so many men, and included a supply of biscuits, chocolate, cigarettes and even toilet roll. The boxes had different letters on so that you could vary your menu throughout a week. It was to be a long time before we had fresh meat and vegetables again.

Eventually our big day arrived. First, two Royal Engineer Sappers and two Royal Navy ratings came aboard to accompany us across the Channel, the Engineers to man the generator and 'pump out', and the Naval men to assist in the positioning of our caisson at Arromanches. Also to join us were about three men from our Battery Headquarters, again just for the crossing. I remember that two of them I knew were Ernest Martin, an orderly, and Fitton, a clerk. Sadly both of them were soon to lose their lives.

A blue U.S.A. ocean going tug came alongside, which was to tow our 6,000-ton concrete caisson over to France. The seacocks had been closed and the generator was working flat out pumping the water out of the caissons interior chambers. After what seemed hours of pumping and watching the level of the water fall suddenly we were floating. Another long wait until as little water as possible remained in the caisson, and then the crew of the tug from their vessel attached two steel hawsers to one end of the caisson for the big tow. WE WERE OFF, but it was to be a long and very slow journey. I do remember seeing ahead another of our detachments was on a similar caisson making about the same knots, and the tug towing it was dwarfed by the concrete hulk behind it. At this time, there was little roll, on account of our weight, and the journey seemed quite smooth. The weather was deteriorating though and at night we huddled in blankets under the gun tower with hardly any sleep.

The next morning there was bad luck for us when one of the steel hawsers between the tug and the caisson snapped, so we were being towed with one line at a slightly off-straight angle, and the weather getting rougher, as were the seas. We estimated that we were midway over the Channel. The worst thing was that we were taking in water because of the high seas and the angle of our course. We signalled by Morse lamp to the tug's crew and we had the reply that 'She looked OK'. The tug was perhaps 60-70 yards ahead and rolling heavily and ever from our high position on the caisson we sometimes almost lost view of her. Our other detachment's caisson had forged ahead and out of sight.

After a worrying day, darkness fell and we were taking in more water. The caisson now had a list to starboard and I remember that we moved anything of weight to the port side and even bedded down on that side, though it made no difference. Credit to the Sergeant and the Corporal who had been signalling all night at intervals to the tug towing us and to any other ship that came in sight.

The next day a British Naval frigate, obviously in answer to our S.O.S. calls, came as near to us as she dare. I will never forget our cheers and joy to see her. I am sure that each one of us expected a miracle and to find ourselves magically, winched into the safe and warm quarters of the frigate, but it was not to be and impossible in these seas. The crew of the frigate fired lines by rocket towards us, but they failed to land a line near enough for us to catch owing to the high seas. The frigate was rolling and heaving in the swell, more than we were, and moving with us about 60 yards to starboard. I remember that they made about six attempts on this dark cloudy rainy day without success, and then they gave up. Sailing in our sight for an hour, and continually exchanging signals with the American tug, the frigate was eventually to sail away.

Reaching the Normandy coast, still listing badly, we saw through the rain and mist, a mass of vessels, which would be at the half assembled harbour. Still in contact with the American tug by lamp, we were made to understand from the Captain that it was not possible to land us owing to the weather and seas and that we were a danger to other shipping. We were to spend another night at sea and were towed up and down the coast, well away and out of sight of any other craft. Moral was low, and everyone was getting frightened at this stage because of darkness falling. Tempers were frayed at the assumed attitude of the American tug's crew who seemed to have no interest in our plight. The water in the caissons chambers was deeper at one end than the other and the list was getting worse. There was nobody to communicate with and the tug crew were now ignoring us.

We had all worn our life jackets for the last 48 hours. Two of the lads were too scared to speak even and just sat huddled up in blankets. I was scared myself and most of us realised the strong possibility of the caisson going down during the night. There was a feeling of helplessness. Some of us took it in turns, in pairs, to walk the catwalk to the far end and check the water level by torch. It was always reported higher. By 3am in the morning I remember agreeing with Jack Crabtree that we 'jump together', as we were certain now that the caisson was doomed. Most of us thought that it was best to get down to the lower platform that ran the full length of the caisson and which was only eight feet above normal sea level. So we climbed down in turn, that 27 feet of iron runged ladder and positioned ourselves on the highest corner. I remember that some of them must have been too scared to climb down such a ladder in those circumstances because I only remember being aware of about eight of us on the lower ledge. Sergeant Wally Newcombe was there, signalling to the last. According to a letter that I wrote to my mother a few days hence, the caisson actually went down at 3-30am.

At that particular time on the caisson I remember seeing in the distance, the far end of our lower platform go under water, at the same time, aware that our end was getting higher. It was obvious that the thing was going under so I jumped. I seemed to go a long way down in the water for a long time and when I surfaced I remember thanking God for a large wooden beam that had appeared from nowhere. I slung my arm over it and called out to two bobbing heads nearby. They were Jack Crabtree and Alf Holmes and they joined me. I saw nothing of any caisson and no other heads in the water, though there was still a heavy swell.

As the hours passed Jack's condition got worse. He was an older man and had swallowed too much water. I was determined to survive and trod the water continually to keep my blood circulating and to avoid, any cramp.

At dawn a fishing trawler suddenly appeared and spotted us. It was commanded by a Sub-Lieutenant Brown and had been engaged in laying smoke screens off the beaches and was returning to its homeport in England. I remember being pulled in by a boat hook and lifted aboard by the crew, and then nothing except drinking rum and put into a bunk with warm blankets below decks. The first thing that I noted on waking up was a mess tabletop covered with our personal possessions that had been dried. The vessel was rolling and pitching, but I couldn’t have cared less. I was alive and safe. We had been picked up at about six o’clock according to the crew, and were heading for Portland Bill and Weymouth Harbour. The Captain and crew were super and gave us all 50 cigarettes.

In dried clothes, with a meal inside us, and in the calm waters; of Weymouth Bay, I went on deck with Alf Holmes and Arthur New to find the covered bodies of Jack Crabtree, Fitton, an Engineer and one other. I had survived the ordeal with only a very stiff shoulder and bruising. We were landed, examined by a doctor in a room at the quayside, and then transported to a Holding Camp, 103 Reinforcement Group, at Aldershot. Holding Camps were where any soldier lost or strayed were sent to until they were re-drafted or returned to their regiments. Eventually, I learned that my other close pal, Bob Beldon, had been picked up by a U.S. transport ship, downgraded and hospitalised, that Hannon, Martin, Fitton, both Engineers, one of the sailors, and two others had been drowned.

With Bill Farrell and Alf Holmes at Aldershot, we luckily saw on the first day, a truck bearing our Battery's colour and emblem. It was learned that it was our rear party ready to leave for Normandy. Wishing to be reunited with our own unit we saw the C.O. and quickly found ourselves at Tilbury Docks, joining a small party of our Battery Headquarters, and aboard an American manned L.S.T. bound for France, and Arromanches. It felt strange that within seven days of leaving Selsey Bill on that piece of the Mulberry Harbour, I was to arrive at Arromanches once more, but this time on a L.S.T. crammed with vehicles, equipment, and follow-up troops.

The weather had dramatically changed for the better and I was soon in an orchard on the west of the town with 416 Battery again. My cousin Peter, now a Sergeant in H.Q., had also crossed the Channel by caisson as everyone had, except that rear party. Meeting Peter again was a memorable moment and I remember him putting his arms around me, saying how pleased he was to see me safe. He gave me a bottle of whisky.

In Arromanches, I was to join a new gun detachment, the members being Sgt. Sharp, Joe Wilcock, Arthur New, Bill Farrell, and many new faces in replacement of those lost. I remember there was a Geordie Thompson, a Duggie, Eddie, Gilbert, and a man called Eglin, the officer in charge being a Lt. Carey.

Pr-BR

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