 
NORMANDY

14404655. Sapper (Later Sergeant). R.Latham.(Royal Engineers)

Principal Military Landing Officers' Team

No .5 Beach Group. 3rd British Infantry Division.

Contents:-

Chapter One The Whys and the Wherefores.

Chapter Two The Invasion.

Chapter Three The Battle for Normandy.

Chapter Four The Pilgrimage.

Foreward

I was handed this manuscript a few years ago and was told, you will know what best to do with it, I leave it in your hands. This was by the Author, Ron Latham. I have pondered on it how best to honour this work and it seems fitting that as we approach what will be the 75th Anniversary of the D Day landings on the beaches of Normandy that this account should be brought into the public domain, and the reason for this is that this account differs from most of those that we read from this time. The reason it differs is that it is not from a decorated statesman or military leader who was at the forefront of the mission nor is it from someone who achieved international recognition for his efforts, it is a raw account of an average soldier on the beaches of Normandy on that day. It describes a familiar story of the times for the working class, it also strips away any of the theatrics of the traditional war story and describes through one mans eyes what he was a part of on that day and the days that followed and the part he played in securing the freedom of Europe. And the story of reliving the events at the 50th Anniversary 25 years ago.

As we approach the 75th anniversary of this event, there are few left who served that day many of them were not able to tell their story, because what they had witnessed was so abhorrent and haunted them for the rest of their lives. These are all stories that need hearing.

Andrew Shawcross

NORMANDY-

THE INVASION AND THE PILGRIMAGE

Pre Logue

At the insistence of my wife, my daughters and my grandchildren I have, at long last, been persuaded, against my better judgement, to attempt to put into print my experiences, not only during the actual D-Day Landings when the Allied Forces invaded the Normandy Coast in 1944, but also my memories of my return to Normandy for the 50th Anniversary Celebrations in June 1994.

To those who may eventually read this report may, I say that naturally, I was not in a position to keep a day to day diary of the events which took place in 1944 and as a result I have to rely upon my memory of the happenings. To this end I would ask your indulgence if the record appears disjointed. I firmly believe that one's mind has an inbuilt capacity to block out the more frightening episodes of one's experiences which may well account for my memories not quite co-inciding with the events as set out by the Second War historians. Nevertheless, as this report is, in the main, for the eyes of the members of my family only then I am sure that they will forgive if my mind has wandered.

Before closing this Foreword, I must say a very big thank you to my son-in-law, Richard who in order to hustle me along, provided me with a computer and printer to ensure that I had no further excuse to delay getting down to work on this project.

Finally, I cannot close this introduction without expressing my most grateful thanks to my two daughters, Barbara and Shei la , and to my loving wife , Helga, who made it possible for me to return to the beaches of Normandy for the 50th anniversary celebrations.

Thank you all so much.

NORMANDY \- THE INVASION AND PILGRIMAGE CHAPTER ONE - THE WHYS and THE WHEREFORES.

" Some men are born great,

Some achieve greatness.

Others have greatness thrust upon them"

( Shakespeare - "TwelfthNight-Act II)

There must, I think, be a good deal of truth in the above quotation after all, unless I was thrust how else did I ever find myself in the vanguard of one of the greatest military operations in the annuls of warfare. But thrust, or not I was one of the first men to land on the Queen Sector of Sword Beach at the commencement of "Operation Overlord" on the morning of the 6th June 1944. The actual time of my landing was H + 25 which to the uninitiated means 25 minutes after H (or Zero) Hour "Operation Overlord" was, as most people now know, the codename given to the Invasion of Normandy by the Allied Forces. To most military men and probably military historians as well it would seem highly improbable that a soldier of my calibre should be in the forefront of such an important operation.

After all, I was medically graded A4 by virtue of my extremely poor eyesight. I mean, can you imagine a frontline soldier who was so cross eyed that his tears ran down the back of his neck whenever he cried, but there I was. In addition, until a few months before the landing I had been trained in nothing more warlike than Movement Control. Nevertheless, on D-Day one found myself dashing across the beach surrounded by men of the 2nd East Yorkshire Regiment and the 1st South Lancashire Regiment, both infantry units. But, even today, I still ask myself, why me? Could it be that I was such a poor specimen of a soldier that the War Office thought to get rid of me, or did someone in authority see something special in me. Whatever the reason, there I was seasick and scared to death taking my first look at the continent of Europe; Hitler's Fortress, as it was known in those days. However, to try to answer the question "why me "I believe that I must take my reader's mind back to the day war broke out-namely the 3rd of September 1939.

My reasoning behind this recall to 1939 is that many of the events and happenings which took place between the day war broke out and the day of my landing in France somehow contributed to the fact that I found myself involved in "Operation Overlord". Believe me, it had nothing to do with any heroics on my part but merely a result of the way the "cookie crumbles", as the saying goes. And so, it is back to the day that war broke out, as Rob Wilton, the radio comic used to say.

Those who can recall that momentous day in 1939 will remember that it was a gloriously beautiful Sunday Although rumours of an impending war with Germany had been circulating for some time, as a young lad of 15 war was the furthest thing from my mind that morning.

At the time my family and I were living in the coal mining town of Alfreton in Derbyshire. It need hardly be said that in those days the coal mining fraternity had their own deep-seated problems of making ends meet without worrying too much about what Herr Adolf Hitler was up to in Germany. Both my father and I were employed down the coal mines. Dad was a coal face worker at Oakerthorpe Colliery whilst I was a ganger( pit pony driver to the uninitiated) at Swanwick Colliery.

Everyone knew, of course, that in the event of war breaking out coal miners would be exempt from military service. So, there was little to worry about.

However, back to that fateful morning.

As the weather was so beautiful my best friend, Gladwin Shelton and I decided to take a very long walk from Alfreton, through Oakerthorpe, South Wingfield, Wessington into Shirland and back home, a distance of some eight miles or more, I suppose. There was nothing unusual about this, after all, "shank's pony" was our main form of recreation in those days. As we came back up Shirland Hill into Alfreton, we walked down King Street towards No 152, the then home of the Lathams.

Approaching the house, I noticed that my father was squatting on the front door step in the typical miners crouch This squatting on the front door step, smoking a Woodbine, and watching the world pass by was his usual way of spending a fine Sunday morning while he waited for the pubs to open their doors at noon. With nothing better to do after our walk Gladwin and I also squatted while we debated just what we were going to do in the afternoon. The evening we knew would be spent on the Monkey Parade but here I digress and in order to learn about the Monkey Parade I'm afraid that you will have to wait until I have put into print the story of my early life.

It was soon after we settled ourselves down beside the old man we heard the Watchorn Church clock begin to strike eleven. At the same time, from our old battery type radio in the kitchen came the chimes of Big Ben followed by the solemn voice of a BBC announcer introducing the Prime Minister, Mr Neville Chamberlain. As we listened we heard the Prime Minister say that England was now at war with Germany. The news certainly came as a shock and we had an even greater shock a few minutes later when the Air Raid sirens began to wail. God, I thought, the bloody Jerries' have not taken long to get here, As it turned out the sirens had sounded right across England in a test run.

Immediately Chamberlain had completed his speech, my father rose and said, "Well I'll be off soon".

Naturally I thought that he meant off to the pub which in part, was right because that is exactly where he went after putting on an old shirt and his flat cap.

However, it wasn't until a few days later that I found out what his words, "Well, I'll be off soon" really meant. This was when I learned that he had enlisted in the Army. To me he never explained this decision; why should he, after all he had never explained anything at all to any of us. I just took it that he probably felt that he could provide better for the family as a soldier than he could by remaining down the pits, though God knows however this could be the case. The family at this time consisted of seven mouths to feed. Dad and Mam, myself, my brother Jim, sister Sheila, brother Terry who was two years old and little Jackie who was a babe of just six months. With the exception of my father I was the only other wage earner but, believe me, my meagre wage packet of about eight shillings a week did very little to help the family budget. Still, I suppose, as the old lady said when she peed in the ocean, every little helps.

-3-

At this particular time in my life I had little or no respect for my father. Whilst he was fairly reasonable during the week, and he was known throughout the district as a hard and willing worker, it was at the weekends when his character and attitude changed.

From Friday evening until late on Sunday evening we would live in fear of his drunken and violent physical abuse. Of course, we were not in a minority when it came to weekend abuse. I seem to remember that practically every other family in the neighbourhood had to suffer the same. It was, therefore, with little feeling that I said goodbye to him as he left to join his unit I felt relieved that at last we could look forward to weekends without the violence. It was a great feeling to know that Mam would not be suffering from any more black eyes or bruised ribs and that Jimmy and I would not be subjected to attacks with the heavy leather pit belt. Such things remain fast in one's memory for a long time and although times a great healer the healing process is very slow indeed.

As I recall, my father had only one long leave before he was sent over to France. This was in January,1940, and once again, for two weeks, life reverted back to the old pattern of him spending hours in the local pub, using up what little leave money he had and then demanding more from our meagre household kitty. This would usually cause an argument and lead to my mother getting another beating. This time, however, I was ready for him. It was my sixteenth birthday, and if I say so myself, by then I was pretty big and strong. Anyway, on this day, as he moved to strike my mother, I picked up a hot flat iron and jabbed it in to his bare ribs. He certainly yelled and after taking a backhand swing at me which missed he dashed into the kitchen to find something to soothe the burn. What a birthday I've had better. Nevertheless, that evening it came time for him to catch his train and to move out of our lives forever. For him it was to France and his death a few months later.

Now, I can well hear you saying, what has all this to do with the Normandy Invasion? But please, bear with me for a time, and I think that you will begin to realise just how and why I came to enlist and exactly what I did after enlistment that led me to the beaches. If you are not interested, then skip to the next chapter. On the other hand, if you are nosey enough to hear of my experiences, then read on.

-4-

The early months of the war were to become known as the "Phoney War" Except for the many air raids carried out on the cities of Great Britain by the German Luftwaffe, nothing at all appeared to be happening at the front. First of all, people were saying that the war would be over by Christmas, then it would only last a year, and so on. To laymen, it seemed that the Maginot Line and the Siegfreid Line were impregnable, with neither side able to make a break through.

Life went on pretty much the same for us, week in and week out. I remained at Swanwick Colliery but in the meantime, we had cause to move to a new house again. I never knew why we had to flit so often, although I guessed it was for the very simple reason that we always fell so far behind in our rent payments and ended up with our very few belongings being thrown out into the street by the bailiff, or the "Bum", as we called him. This time our move was to No 49 Pentrich Road, Swanwick, which, even by our standards, was a hovel. Still I do not intend to dwell on this move other than insofar as it effects this particular part of my story. I will now move on a little to the 9th May 1940.

I was on the afternoon shift at the pit which meant that I usually came to the pit top at about 10.30.pm, then followed a visit to the pit baths, (we were indeed very lucky at the Swanwick Colliery, pit baths were, at that time, something of a luxury).

Following the bath, it was about a half hour walk home, by which time it would be about 11.30pm.That evening, as I sat down to my supper, usually fish and chips or bacon and tomatoes, my mother informed me that my sister Sheila had been sent home from school after having been sent to the doctor by her teacher. Apparently, she had been taken quite ill at school but, upon enquiry, I was told that she was at present sleeping quite peacefully. Anyway, I thought no more about it and went to bed at about 1.30 am. It was a couple of hours later that I was awakened by a loud screaming coming from the front bedroom. Jumping out of bed, I was met by my mother who said that I had better go for the doctor straightaway as Shei1a was delirious and vomiting. Naturally, I dressed in a hurry and set off to walk the three miles or so into Alfreton. Arriving at the doctor's house it took me some little time to awaken her but eventually she opened her door and I was able to explain the situation. She informed me that she would drive out straightaway. I, of course, set off to walk back home and I reckon that I was about two miles from home when the doctor passed me in her car.

The time would have been about 4.30am and thank goodness it was a fine warm morning for, as you may guess, the doctor passed me by without so much as a toot on the horn of her car. Not that I could blame her, after all who would stop to pick up a scruffy 16-year-old m·1ner boy, one could not be sure just what bugs or lice I carried. Anyhow, as I reached the front door of my home the doctor was just leaving and without any emotion she quietly informed me that she had been too late, and that Sheila was dead. I just could not believe it. After all she had been full of life just twenty-four hours before.As I came downstairs after viewing her body I heard the local church clock strike 5am.

As I was later to find out, this was a very significant time, for at the very moment that Sheila died the German Army launched its Biltzkrieg by invading Holland, Belgium and France. Little did we realise it then that the "phoney war" was over, however, war or not, there was a lot of work for us to do. I was immediately sent to let my Grandma Latham and Aunt Edith know what had happened, again another walk of three miles to Leabrookes. Jimmy, in turn, was sent across the f·1elds to Oakerthorpe to ·1nform Aunt Dor·1s and, I in turn, Grandma Burns. In the meantime, it was left to my mother to begin to make the necessary funeral arrangements. The doctor was to inform the local coroner. By this t·1 me the post office was open, and I was sent to despatch a telegram to my father, advising him of the facts, and suggesting that he apply for compassionate leave to attend the funeral. Needless to say, Herr Hitler had put paid to that suggestion just a few hours earlier. We got no reply to the telegram but were later to learn that all leave from France had been stopped. Within just a few days, the German Army had swept through the Low Countries and into France. Before long France capitulated and the British Army found itself, in the main, with its back to the sea at Dunkirk. There is no need for me to set out the details of how the British Army was saved from annihilation and brought back to the shores of England.

It was at this time that we heard no word at all of my father's whereabouts. It was obvious as the weeks went by that he had not been evacuated with the main body of the Army.

This was confirmed several weeks later when we received a telegram from the War Office advising that Private Albert Latham was miss-1ng, presumed killed in action. It was when we received this news that my mother asked me to call on two dear old ladies in Alfreton, whose names, I think, were the Misses Morgan. It seemed that these two old spinsters had been the only teachers that my father had ever respected during his school years. Anyway, although I could not for the life of me understand why, I called to see these ladies and gave them the news from the War Office.

I must say, here and now, that they were pretty nice old ladies. Although getting on in years they made me welcome, offered me tea, and asked after my school progress. During that visit I learned of a promise that my father had made to himself, before the Misses Morgan, when he had learned that his own father had been killed in action in 1916. Apparently, this promise was that if ever England went to war again with Germany he would enlist straightaway. It was only then that I began to understand his saying to me "Well, I'll be off soon". He was keeping his promise to himself. Perhaps it was at this time that I began to feel a little better towards him I'm not quite sure, but I do remember thinking that he must have been deeply hurt by his father's death. It was about this time that I made the decision to get away from the pits. For three years I had worked down the pit practically blind. With my eyesight it was extremely hard to work eight hours a day in absolute darkness with only the light from a miners' Davy lamp for comfort and vision. It was not hard to convince the pit management, after all, they soon realised that I should never have been allowed underground in the first instance.

Getting another job in those wartime days was not difficult. My problem was in getting one that would bring in the same amount of money. And so, it was that after twenty-four hours I found myself employed at the Granwood Flooring Company in Riddings. Granwood made and laid composite floor tiles and after a few weeks in the factory I was sent out with a flooring team to lay floors in houses on a new wartime estate in Longdon, near Stoke on Trent. What a fiasco. To start with I had never been away from home before, I had no proper clothing, no sleeping attire, and to this day I still shudder when I think of the landlady. A surefire dragon, if ever there was one. I stuck it out for a week and then made my way home. I must say here that Granwood were quite understanding and gave me an inside factory job as boiler stoker.Pretty hard work but nothing that I could not manage.

It was while I was working at Granwoods that we received a letter from the Red Cross advising that my father had been on board the SS Lancastria when it was sunk by enemy action on the 17th June 1940 and that his body had been washed ashore on the Ille du Niormoutier, a small French island off St Nazaire. I think it was this news that made me decide to join the Army. The thought came suddenly, and I acted upon it within a few days. I must admit that I was a bit of a coward for instead of telling my mother what I intended doing I got up very early one morning, put a note on the table to say that I had gone to enlist and left the house without anyone being any the wiser. After taking a bus to Derby I found the Recruiting Office and informed the Recruiting Sergeant that I wanted to join the Sherwood Foresters. Looking back upon this decision I can see no reason for it other than the fact that the Sherwood Foresters were the local regiment and I probably knew of no other.After filling out the necessary forms and undergoing a pretty lax medical examination I was told to come back after lunch when I would be sworn in.

Returning to the office after lunch the Recruiting Sergeant again asked me how old I was. When I replied that I was eighteen he asked me to open a side door. Can you imagine my surprise when upon opening the door I found my mother standing there? She had followed me down to Derby and had informed the Sergeant that I was then only seventeen. Of course, the forces had been known to take lads under eighteen but only when they had insisted that they were over the enlisting age and no one from their family had put the question of their age straight. As for me, the Sergeant quietly told me to go back home and tore-apply after my eighteenth birthday.

,..-

And so, it was back to square one. I was fed up with working at Granwoods and walking home one day I called in at J. Leah's transport yard and asked for a job as a driver's mate. I was taken on straightaway and for the next few months I enjoyed travelling around the countryside acting as a mate to the driver of an eight-wheel lorry. The work took me all over the country. I saw the result of the bombing of Liverpool, Manchester, Coventry and London, as well as the destruction caused to many other English towns by the German bombing raids. The more I saw of the damage the more I became determined to join up.

However, it was at this time that I noticed a change in my mother. She had been directed to work as a welder at Butterley Ironworks and as I knew how hard the work was I began to realise just how much she was beginning to rely upon me for support. By this time Jimmy was working but there still never appeared to be any money about, we still lived in the same hovel and still had very little furniture and life seemed to be as difficult as it had ever been. To this day I still do not know where what little money we had went too. In later years I was to discover that Mam could just not manage money at all. She never could and never did.

Jimmy, at this time, was also a bit of a problem. He seemed unable to look after himself. He was so shy, and it appeared that everyone could take advantage of his good nature. He was employed as a garage hand with Melrose's Transport at Butterfly and because my friend Ted Bamford was also employed there I applied for, and got, a job as a driver's mate. Again, this meant being away from home for several days at a time travelling around the country. Still, I enjoyed it and I enjoyed the company of the drivers I worked with. Arriving back in the yard one day, however, I saw Jimmy being pushed around by one of the Melrose brothers and jumping from the cab of my truck I immediately set about the fellow. Needless to say, we both got the sack and it was a sorry pair of lads who walked up Swanwick Hill and down Pentrich Road to give the news to MaM She was not at all pleased.

The next morning, I went into Alfreton and managed to get a job for both myself and Jimmy with Jack and Len Davis, who ran a coal delivery service in the district. By now I had passed my eighteenth birthday and had decided to wait for my call up.

It was early in August 1942 that I decided I could no longer wait. In fact, this decision was brought about by Len Davis telling me that he had applied for me to be classed as working in a reserved occupation. This didn't suit me at all. Already most of my friends were in the Forces, Ted Bamford had Joined the navy and had already been on leave strutting around the dance halls in his uniform. This really was something because Ted was so good looking, even without his sailor's suit, that he had never had any difficulty in pulling in the girls, or even taking over the ones I thought I'd managed to interest. My friend Gladwin Shelton had been called up into the army and this was the last that anyone, family or friends, ever heard of him. To this day no-one has any idea just how or why he disappeared. Perhaps, like me, he just wanted to get away from the type of life which we had been born into. Anyhow, once I realised that I may never receive· my call-up papers I made the decision to volunteer.

This time however, I was old enough to sign on and in addition, I told my mother what my plans were. Realising how determined I was she offered no objection. And so it was once more down to the Recruiting Office in Derby. To say that I was welcomed with open arms may be stretching the truth a little far but, nevertheless, within a couple of hours I had been medically examined, signed on the dotted line and been presented with the King's shilling. I was then instructed to go back home and await instructions.

These came a few weeks later and I was informed that I was to report to Lincoln Barracks on the 15th October, 1942.

I well remember the morning of the 15th October. It was a fine day and all of the family went with me to Alfreton railway station to farewell me. As the train pulled out I began to wonder whether or not I had made the right decision. However, by the time I changed trains at Nottingham I had again convinced myself that I was right and that I should be taking a more active part in the war. On arrival at Lincoln Station, I along with about another hundred volunteers were shepherded together on the platform and addressed by a Warrant Officer who, in a very authorative voice, informed us that we were now in the Army and from that moment on we were expected to conduct ourselves in a military manner, or else. After being formed up in a column of three abreast we were brought to attention

and after being handed over to the charge of a Sergeant we were instructed in the art of marching. Setting off from the railway station we were paraded through Lincoln City, up the hill past the Cathedral and so on to the barracks. What a motley bunch we were. Several of the fellows carried large suitcases, others just a small valise. I, of course, was the odd one out. All I carried was a very small brown paper parcel which contained a razor and a shaving brush, my worldly possessions. Still, this meant that I had nothing heavy to tote up the hill.

Once inside the barracks we were shown to our quarters, a large dormitory capable of holding well over two hundred men. The furniture consisted of double bunk beds and a steel locker to each bunk. Naturally, I ended up on a top bunk, but this didn't worry me too much. In those days I did not have to get out of bed as many times during the night as I do nowadays. After being assigned to our bed area we were marched down to the Quartermaster's store and issued with our kit. Now this was really something. I mean never before had I been in possession of so much gear; two khaki uniforms, one denim suit for fatigues, two pairs of boots and a pair of gym shoes, one

greatcoat (I'd never worn one before in my life},a tin helmet, gas mask, ground sheet, mess tin and eating utensils, and last but by most means the most exciting, shirts and underwear. Now that also was really something, three shirts, two vests, two pairs of long john underpants, three pairs of socks and two towels. I don't really expect any reader to quite understand what such an outfit meant. After all, I had never worn a vest or owned a pair of underpants before. Even putting them on felt strange, and as for having two pairs of boots, well I thought that all my Christmases had come at once. We were then issued w-1th three blankets and a straw filled palliasse and pillow. After a good supper and another pep talk by the Sergeant who advised that reveille would he at 6am, it was into bed for my first night in the Army. I was now No 14404655 Private Latham R. a member of the General Service Training Corp.

And so, at last, another chapter of my life had begun, and it was up to me to make the best of it.

Little did I know what lay ahead, or just how soon I would be in trouble. I must admit, however, that I slept quite soundly on my first night at Lincoln.

-11-

The next few days were filled with medical examinations, short arm inspections and inoculations.

It was on my fifth night in the army, when after having received a typhoid injection which left me feeling decidedly groggy, I lay on my bunk writing a letter home when the lights went out without any warning. I remember thinking that it couldn't possibly be time for lights out and so, in a very loud voice, I shouted, "put those lights on you silly bastard". In a flash the lights were switched back on and whereas I thought the fellow in the bunk nearest the door had been responsible I soon found out just how wrong I was. The "switcher offer" was none other than the Orderly Sergeant and he wasn't at all pleased. Pacing up and down the room he demanded to know who the culprit was and when no one answered he declared that all privileges for everyone in the room were suspended until such time as he knew who had called out to him.

Well, I ask you, there really wasn't much else I could do but own up and so climbing down from my bunk I faced him and said that there was no need for him to look any further I was the one responsible. To this day I reckon that I can still see the gleam in his eye as he informed me that· I was on a charge and instructed me to get dressed and report to the Guardroom. Once in the Guardroom I was placed under close arrest and placed in a cell. Next morning after breakfast I was marched, under escort, before the Adjutant and stood to attention, minus my cap, whilst the Sergeant read out the charge which stated that under Section 40 of the Army Act I had acted contrary to good order and military discipline.

Now, for the benefit of the uninitiated, Section

40 of the Army Act is so designed as to cover any and all misdemeanors which a poor unsuspecting soldier may commit. Indeed, later on in my army career when I had reached the dizzy heights of a sergeant's rank, I was to make frequent use of this clause myself.However, that was digressing, and so back to my dilemma. After listening to the charge being read out, the Adjutant asked me if I had anything to say and, quick as a flash, I informed him that I had, until recently been employed down a coal mine where such language was considered quite normal. I'm still not quite sure whether or not he believed me but he did lay on quite a lecture about bad language before awarding me fourteen days CB (confined to barracks) and fourteen days KP (kitchen duty} to coincide with the CB. This, of course, meant that I had to report to the kitchen immediately after tea each day and remain there until just before lights out.KP usually consisted of peeling hundredweights of potatoes or else scrubbing all of the kitchen utensils. If I say so myself I reckon that my potato peelings would be snapped up today by "Sizzlers" for their potato skins. I really did peel them thick but, of course, I was using a pocket knife and not a potato peeler. This fourteen days jankers did, however, teach me never to volunteer for kitchen duty no matter what the incentive may be.

During the daytime, the Intake Instructors did their utmost to instil1 some army discipline into us. - We spent hours on the sacred square learning how to march and countermarch. Now I can't say that we were an awkward squad but there could be no doubt that in those first few weeks we certainly made the Sergeant cry. Mind you, he always managed to get his own back. Whenever we were near a pool of dirty water, or even a pile of farm manure he would suddenly, and without warn1·ng, shout "down", and we were expected to drop immediately and not look for a clean or safe place to land. It was only after I landed in Normandy that I fully understood the reasoning behind this instruction. Obviously when the bombs or shells are falling there certainly isn't time to look for a soft-landing spot.

Not having had the experience of battle, no one in my training squad appreciated this fact, and there were many muttered threats against our instructors. What various members of the squad were going to do to their instructors if they ever found them in a dark alley defies description. Naturally it was all a lot of bull.

The six weeks general training, although tough, was quite interesting. We learned how to fire a rifle, and more importantly, how to clean the damn thing. We were taught how to toss a grenade and this was also interesting except for the fact that one silly idiot (not me this time) didn't throw the thing far enough away from the sandbagged hole in which we were all hiding and we got covered in a whole lot of muck. It took the poor fellow a long time to live that mishap down: after all, the blasted thing was live, and we were too close for comfort. At the end of the six weeks training we were considered to have learned the basics and to be able to hold our own in a regular unit. Most of the training unit suddenly found themselves posted to the 1st Northamptonshire Regiment, a newly formed Infantry unit.

That is everyone except yours truly.

Because the army had been unable to process army spectacles to my prescription I was held back at Lincoln. With hindsight I could say, for the first time in my life, thank God for poor eyesight because the 1st Northants eventually took a hell of a beating in France and I'm afraid that quite a few of the fellows with whom I did my initial training never made it home. At the end of our training period we. w ere· allow ed a seven day leave pass and I was able to strut around the streets of Alfreton like a turkey cock. Because I had nothing better to wear I was always to be seen in un11orm. I even went to both the Leabrookes Miners Hall, and the Somercotes Church Hall dances and took to the floor in army boots. Looking back that was no mean feat (what a pun no mean feat).It was really great to walk down the street and cock-a-snook to all the civilians stupid sod I'd only been away six weeks and I acted as if I'd won the war on my own. Still I suppose that as teenagers we all tended to show off a little.

At the end of the leave, which passed very quickly indeed, it was back to Lincoln. Within a few days I was informed that my spectacles were ready, and I was to be posted to the Royal Engineers at Weaversdown in Hampshire. First of all, though, I was fitted with my first pair of gasmask specs. God, what a mess I looked in those bottle bottom thick lenses fitted into a steel wire frame. I felt far worse wearing them than I did when, by necessity, I had to contend with my specs being held together with bits of tape or wool. They really were the pits andI decided that I would be seen in them as little as possible. And so, at every opportunity off came the specs and I promenaded or went to dances with them tucked into my pocket. The fact that, at that time, I saw very little of what was going on around me didn't affect me at all there was no way in which I was going to be seen wearing such horrible looking glasses if I could avoid it. As a matter of fact, I kept this practice up until I eventually met the young lady who became my wife. But more about that at some other time.

And so, it was that I became No 14404655, Sapper Latham.R. Royal Engineers. On arriving at Weaversdown Camp, which is just outside the town of Liss in Hampshire, and part of the Royal Engineers Borden Barracks, I found that I had been posted to Movement Control for training as a Railway Checker. There's no doubt about the Army's ability to fit a square peg into a round hole, I thought, but there was very little I could do about it. I had no idea what a railway checker was supposed to do especially as I had never travelled by rail in my life until the day I reported to Lincoln Barracks.

Still I soon found out. A Railway Checker's job was basically to record the contents of every rail wagon carrying army goods. Each type of merchandise was designated by a different label which we were expected to learn off by heart. In addition, we were taught marshalling trains, signalling and all of the other aspects of running an army railway. As a matter of fact, the Borden camp area was fully served by a complete rail service operated by the Royal Engineers. This was complete with stations, marshalling yards, rolling stock and mile upon mile of track. Borden also boasted the finest model railway system in the country which was also used in our training. The camp itself was nothing to write home about.

A group of Nissen huts set on the Hampshire Plain. Quite bleak, and terribly windy and cold in the dying months of 1942. The training staff were pretty reasonable and all in all the first few weeks passed without incident. Most of our time was spent in the classroom or out on the railway yards. Of course, there were guard duties and military training periods as well, but we were allowed out of camp to visit either Liss, Petersfield or Borden. There was also a very good NAAFI at Borden which catered for the whole of the district. I note from my Army Book AB64, Part 1, that I passed out as a MC Checker BIII on the 15th Jan 1943 for which I gained an extra three pence per pay. This extra pay must have whetted my appetite because my records show that within three weeks I had sat, and passed, a test as an MC Checker.BII, which brought me another threepence per day. However, while studying the Checkers course I learned that a cushier trade was that of MC Clerk Railway, but this required a knowledge of typing. Not to be outdone, I managed to practice on a typewriter every time I was on guard duty. Instead of laying on my bed during my off-guard periods I played about on the Guardroom machine. Eventually I was able to string a few words together and, tongue in cheek, I put my name forward for upgrading as a Clerk,CIII. Nobody was more surprised than I was when my name appeared on a list published showing those who had passed the Clerk Railway CIII Course. This meant an extra sixpence a day. Money indeed in those days. And so it was that after passing out at Weaversdown I was posted to No 18 Movement Control Group who were stationed Just a few miles away at Alton.

Alton was a fair sized town and the camp was situated about a mile out of town at Fishers Field. Again, the camp consisted of a number of Nissen huts each of which housed about twenty men. As a newcomer, of course, I was soon found a few dirty Jobs such as kitchen fatigue and the like, but more surprisingly, I soon found out that I was about the only Gentile in the whole unit. The rest were of the Jewish faith and had, in the main, been employed by J.G .Lyons & Co, before Joining up. This applied especially to the officers. Somehow, I Just didn't seem to fit in.

The fact that there was something different about me was never more obvious than when we were all together ·in the showers or lined up naked parading for an FFI (Free From infection) inspection. There was indeed a great difference. I was the only one with a foreskin intact. At the time thought that I was being picked upon and let it be known. The C. 0 . of No.18 Group, one Major Lowenthal, was a most peculiar fellow. Rather small in stature, he pranced about the camp dressed in riding breeches and brown leather riding boots which he constantly tapped with his cane his favourite saying one which he uttered at least once during every parade was "When we meet the Hun". In later years I found out that the nearest he ever got to meeting the Hun was welcoming German prisoners of war as they disembarked at Dover. I never did find out, either then or later, just what role No.18 MC Group was destined to play in the war. After a few weeks we were told that part of the Group was scheduled to move to Liverpool to work on the docks and, sure enough, Latham's name appeared on the list of those posted.However, I was due to ten days leave and orders came through that I would proceed on leave and then immediately report to Liverpool. This meant carrying my complete kit, plus rifle, on leave with me.Along with the other postings I caught a train from Alton to Victoria and then struggled across to St. Pancras Station loaded down with kit.

On arrival at Pancras I made enquiries about a train to Derby and was directed to a certain platform at which the train was standing, boarding the train and stowing my kit, including my rifle, I was suddenly taken short and dashed back along the platform to the toilets. I suppose I must have been in there about ten minutes and when I came out I ran into a couple of fellows from the unit who were going straight up to Liverpool. We stood talking for some time until I thought it was about time for my train to leave. So boarding the train, I walked along the corridor to where I thought I had left my kit. It soon dawned on me that I was on the wrong train but as we were already on the move, there was not much I could do about it.

Eventually I found the train conductor and discovered that the train that had previously stood at the platform was destined for Manchester and not Sheffield as I had thought. So, I was on one train and my kit was on another. I could hardly believe my stupidity. Still I decided I could travel home and then make enquiries at the railway station and, if need be, travel up to Manchester to collect my kit. Nothing, I thought, could be simpler. Simple indeed. All my enquiries came to nought. I even travelled up to Manchester but without luck. It seemed that my complete kit had disappeared. I knew then that I was in a whole heap of trouble, but I quickly decided that if I was going to be put in the glasshouse for losing army property then I would at least enjoy what was left of my leave. And so it was that at the end of my leave I journeyed up to Liverpool and presented myself at the guardroom with a small brown paper parcel containing, once again, nothing more than my ·shaving kit. The guard commander, after signing me in and allocating me to a room, informed me that a kit inspection was scheduled for five pm and that I had better hurry up and get ready. Well getting ready didn't take me too long, and at five pm, dead on the dot, into the room came Major Rex accompanied by the Regimental Sergeant Major.

Just imagine the situation.

Every other occupant of the room stood to attention by his bed with his full kit laid out in accordance with procedure. I, on the other hand, stood smartly to attention with only a shaving brush and a razor laid out.I can still recall the expressions on the faces of the Major, and more especially, the R.S.M. when they gazed down at my bunk. I thought the R.S.M. was going to choke. Major Rex, on the other hand, quietly said, "Where is you kit, Sapper? "I've lost it sir," I replied. At this point the R.S.M. very nearly exploded. "Lost it", he yelled, "How on earth can you lose your kit man, and where?". At this point the Major butted in and suggested that; it would be better if I reported to the guardroom and be interviewed when the kit inspection was completed. Once again it was quick march down to the guardhouse. Next morning, I was again on the carpet, but this time, instead of deciding on my punishment, Major Rex ruled that I should be sent back to Alton to be dealt with by my own C.O.

And so, it was once more into the breach dear Ronald.

On arrival back in Alton the Jewish tendencies of the officers came to the fore. Before marching me into the office of Major Lowenthal, the Adjutant rubbed his hands and said, "This will cost you Latham". Little did he know that I had bugger-all to pay for anything. Once having been marched into the presence of "When we meet the Hun", I was remanded in custody for twenty-four hours, but, as I was quick marched out of the office, I heard the Adjutant mention that the Central Lost Property Office of the L.M.S. Railway Company was at Derby. Once I was back in my billet I lost no time in arranging for one of my room-mates to send a telegram off to my mother asking her to check with the Derby Lost Property Office if they had any record of my kit.

What a dear my mother was, within about six hours back came a telegram advising that my kit was, in fact, being held in Derby. Can you imagine the situation next morning as I was again marched into the presence of the C.O. and my being able to inform him that I had found my kit? Both the C.O. and his AdJutant nearly had a fit. After all, they knew that I had not been able to leave the camp, but they had to believe me when I produced the telegram received from my mother. Then the argument began as to how I was to get the kit back. The C.O. suggested that I be sent to Derby to collect it, but the AdJutant quickly reminded him that I lived Just outside of Derby and I should not be sent there on my own. To this the C.O. agreed and it was decided that I should travel to Derby but under escort.

And so, it was decided that a Corporal should accompany me. Little did they know however, that the Corporal detailed came, in fact, from Chesterfield a town only ten miles away from where I lived. Needless to say we collected my kit and then both went to our respective homes for twenty-four hours.

Once back in camp, I was again paraded before the C.O. and this time, after a great deal of waffle about the care of arms, kit and so forth, he gave me fourteen days C.B. (confined to barracks). I was also awarded with another two weeks stint of Cookhouse fatigues. At the end of the fourteen days, I suddenly found my name on Orders, but this time it was a posting to Glasgow. I need hardly say that throughout the entire railway Journey from Alton to Glasgow my kit was never, not even for a single moment, out of my sight.

On arrival in Glasgow, I found myself billeted in Maryhill Barracks, sleeping on the floor of the gymnasium with no personal locker. The entire barracks was full of blokes awaiting their time to board various ships at anchor in the Clyde in readiness for the invasion of Sicily and Italy. For my part, I was sent to work on the George V dock where all of the stores for the coming invasion were being loaded. At this point I feel I must record that, without doubt, Glasgow was the f1-nest posting any soldier could wish for.

The Glaswegians were so generous, so keen to please, so eager to entertain, that all one had to do was to stand in the foyer of the Forces Club in Sauchiehall Street, look at the massive entertainment board and decide just where one wanted to go for the evening - a dance, a show, or a family dinner. It was all free and, after making a decision, all that was required was to wait until the escort arrived. There was no cost at all, even the bus or tram fare would be paid for and no effort was ever spared to ensure that 'we poor wee soldiers' had a marvellous time. This also meant there were always lots of young girls to meet and chat up .Even on the docks this generosity prevailed

Each Friday afternoon the leader of the gang which we had been working with, passed the hat around amongst his mates and, as a result, we received a tip which far exceeded our army pay. To this day I will not allow anyone to speak ill of the good people of Glasgow. To my mind they were, and I believe they still are, the most kind-hearted people in the United Kingdom, and I'll defy anyone to argue with me.

It was after a couple of months working happily in Glasgow that it came time for some more leave and so it was back to Swanwick and more strutting around. As usual my time was spent very much as on other leaves, either meeting old pals -in the pub, go1-ng to the pictures, or danc-1ng at either of the two venues available. Saturday nights saw me at Somercotes Church Hall where one evening I spotted a very good-looking young blonde and began chatting her up. Before long we were dancing every dance together and I was enjoying the evening very much indeed. No Ted Bamford to work his charm on the girl this time. I learned that her name was Lily Anthony and that she lived in Selston with her mother and two elder sisters. Apparently one of her sisters had arrived at the dance with her but had since left to go to a party. When the last waltz was announced the band struck up with the usual tune "Who's taking you home tonight, after the dance is through?" and I, who at that time, even if I say so myself, possessed a very nice voice, began to croon the words into her ear. How could she resist? No sooner had she grabbed her coat than we were off down the road making for Selston. I don't suppose that I need to mention that Selston lay in the opposite direction to Swanwick. Anyway, I didn't care. From Somercotes to Selston was about four miles but the evening was both dry and warm and we had lots to chat about.

It took about an hour and a half to cover the four miles and guess what? We arrived at her front gate Just as her sister and her escort came down the street, so it was 'Goodnight' from him and 'Goodnight' from me, but not before I'd extracted a promise that she would be at the Leabrooke Miner's Hall on Monday evening.

And so it was a long walk home on my own, about seven miles, but I reckoned that I'd had a pretty good evening. We met again on the Monday night, danced for a couple of hours, and then it was a walk back to Selston, a quick kiss goodnight, and then another long walk home for me.After that we met nearly every day and before my leave was up Mrs. Anthony had invited me in for supper and also very kindly offered me the settee to sleep on to save me the walk home. I must say that the Anthony's were lovely people. The mother, a widow, was most charming and both of Lily's two sisters treated me like someone special. Their house was quite a modern home and was very well furnished.

They even possessed a bathroom. Before my leave drew to a close Lily and I had become very close friends and her family appeared to have taken a liking to me. As I bid them all farewell I agreed that I would keep in close touch but, as one may well guess, I neither took Lily home or told her too much about our way of living. Time enough for that later I thought, or perhaps: it was Just plain shame and cowardice on my part.

On the morning I was, due to leave to travel back to my unit I received a telegram instructing me to report to Craigelochie. Never having heard of the place I made enquiries at Alfreton railway station, but they were no wiser than I was. Eventually their advice was that I should travel up to Edinburgh and then make further enquiries. It eventually turned out that Craigelochie was small town near Aberlour on the River Spey in an area well known for its salmon fishing and whisky distilleries. Quite a lovely area. Upon arrival I found myself billeted in a first-class hotel and I was quickly informed that I was now a member of the Principal Military Landing Officer's Team attached to No 5 Beach Group. What the hell this meant I hadn't a clue, but I was soon to find out.

First I was taught to drive, taking my lessons on a three ton truck, then I had my first taste of going to sea to take part in what was overall termed as 'Combined Ops'.

The first few operations were not too bad. I found myself on board HMS Largs Bay, which acted as the Headquarters ship for the 3rd Division. In between exercises we were constantly moved from one barracks to another. First to HMS Liverpool, a naval shore station situated within Army barracks at Inverness, then it was on, in turn, to Elgin, Nairn, Fort William and last, but by far no means the least, to Beaufort Castle at Beauly, the ancestral home of Lord Lovat.

This was indeed a spartan camp.

We were billeted in part of the Castle which had not been used for years. There was no electric light, which meant that the Orderly Corporal had to rise early and go around the draughty rooms lighting candles. Washing was even more spartan. We were expected to make our way down to a lake, lay ourselves on duckboards, and wash in the freezing water. Believe me, the spell in that particular camp certainly helped to toughen up every one of us. As winter 1943 came it was time for the Army to prove just how sadistic they could really be. Instead of the cushy Headquarters ship we were now being sent out in Landing Craft and made to wade ashore on to the bleak east coast of the Scottish Highlands. I really was not cut out for such treatment. Wading ashore through the freezing sea was one thing but then having to dig in and spend all night, freezing to death, in a hole on the beach, was not to my liking. And I still did not know why the hell we were being subjected to such punishment.

Of course, we had all heard rumours of a Second front and before long it began to dawn upon each one of us that this may be what all of our training was about. We were going to be part of an Invasion Force. As this fact began to permeate my mind I thought, Oh God! What have I done to deserve this? Was I being repaid for all of the mistakes I'd made since joining up, or did the Army really think that I could frighten the Jerries to death? Perhaps it was because I had, first of all, volunteered for the Sherwood Foresters, and then, later on in one mad moment I'd put my name down for transfer to the Maritime Ack Ack. But after all, I'd only done such stupid things because deep down I knew I wouldn't be accepted. And now, here I was, being groomed to take on the might of the German Army.The picture of what lay in front of us became much clearer when in January 1944 I suddenly found myself posted to London for a six weeks stint on what was shown on my posting order as the Planning Office. As it turned out the planning office was in Ashley Gardens, Westminster close by the Westminster Roman Catholic Cathedral and I found myself billeted in one of the finest houses I'd ever been inside in my life.Before leaving Scotland I was given six weeks advance of pay to cover my time in the capital.

Naturally, on my first night in the Great Metropol is I just had to explore the area.I soon found myself in a pub adjacent to Victoria Station and, guess what, by 11pm that night I was down to my last couple of bob, pretty drunk, and without a mate in the world.

I remember making my way back down Victoria Street when the air raid sirens started bawling the air heads off; searchlights lit up the London skyline and it wasn't long before I was dashing for shelter as the bombs began to fall.When I say shelter, I meant the nearest doorway, but I soon realised that I was pretty close to Ashley Gardens and so, brave soldier that I was, I decided that if I was going to be bombed I might just as well be bombed while I was in my own room. I don't think that I mentioned that my billet was a basement room which meant that I could lay on my bed and gaze up through the grated basement window and watch the fireworks display. To say that I was scared would be to put it mildly, I was scared to death and I remember thinking that I was too young to die. Next morning, I found out. that I need not have had any worries, no bomb had been dropped anywhere near Ashley Gardens.

When I reported for duty the next morning the first thing I was made to do was to sign the Official Secrets Act and as I put my name to the piece of paper presented to me I was told, under no uncertain terms, that should I open my mouth to mention anything at all of what I would learn while I was working in Ashley Gardens then it would be the Bloody Tower for me with the key thrown away. It didn't take me long to realise just why everything was so strict. My C.O together with many other officers were working day and night

Whether they were just planning another exercise or not I didn't know, but the logistical problems they were trying to solve were mind boggling. Not only were they trying to figure out which troops went in first, but which armour or ammunition had to be sent in with them, not to mention anything about petrol, food and other back up troops. To a mere Sapper it all seemed very complex. They were even attempting to arrange just how many craft went in on each particular wave or swell.

Another problem was the clearing of the beaches so that they did not become bogged down, but this was always supposing that there would be somewhere for everything to go. Charts and Op Orders were produced and quickly discarded only to be replaced by further orders. We, in the Orderly Room, were kept at it until very late every night so there was no further chance to get out and enjoy whatever it was that London in wartime had to offer. I did however, learn that I would be going across to wherever the landings were going to take place with the 3rd British Infantry Division, the same Division as I had been exercising with. At least I thought, I shall be on the Headquarters ship again which shouldn't be too bad.Throughout this period I had kept in regular touch with Lily and at the end of the six weeks I was given another seven days leave before going back to the wilds of Scotland. Both Lily and I had a great week together until I happened to mention that I was now in a Beach Group. All of the Anthony family seemed to guess what this mean't and it put quite a damper on the last few days.

And so, it was back to Scotland but only for a short time.

Within a few days the whole unit moved south and eventually found ourselves in a large tented camp just outside of Petworth in Sussex. Eight men to one Army tent, sleeping on palliasses laid upon duckboards, was not the most salubrious of billets, especially as it rained quite a bit that spring. The rule was, of course, that every man slept with his feet to the centre of the tent and at least this meant that we didn't have our mates sweaty feet shoved up under our noses. It did mean, however, that one had to step over two or three bodies to get out of the tent to go to the loo.

During April and early May our time was spent polishing up our rifle drill. How to strip a .303 rifle down, followed by trying to strip a Sten or a Bren Gun. I soon learnt that I was not a very practical man because trying to put a Bren Gun together took me twice as long as it took anyone else, but no one could doubt my willingness to try.

Soon we were issued with new battledress, which had been liberally doused with DDT: we also received a new type of equipment to replace the old webbing haversacks and straps. This new type was similar to a flak jacket, made of brown canvas with, guess what? no brasses. One just slipped it on like a coat and fastened it up with a couple of toggles. It had two pouches for ammunition, a large pack at the back, and a large pocket which extended all the way around the waist area. We were informed that our underwear and shirts, etc, were to be rolled up and placed in this pocket. The thinking behind this was that apparently the pocket, when full would act as a Mae West.

During this period, we were also subjected to a very large number of special parades. We were in turn, paraded before, and inspected by, General Smuts (the South African Leader), King George V1,General Eisenhower, General Montgomery and Winston Churchill himself. It appeared that just about everyone wanted to get into the act.

Then one early morning in May we were marched into a large marquee, told to be seated and warned to pay strict attention to what we were about to learn.

We were addressed by Lt Col Wharton, my C.0.who was theP.M.L.0.He very calmly informed us that we were privileged to be part of the Allied Force earmarked toinvaded Europe and free the oppressed people of the occupied countries. From him we first heard the code names of the beaches upon which we would land. 'Juno', 'Gold and 'Sword' for the British and Canadian armies, and 'Utah' and 'Omaha' for the Americans. The code name for the whole invasion was to be "Operation Overlord" and I well remember thinking that the Lord would indeed have to be over us if we were to succeed in the almost impossible task of gaining a foothold on the Continent.

The P.M.L.O. went on to demonstrate on a large map the area we would be attacking. Naturally the names of the coastal towns and villages had been changed but there was no hiding the natural contours of the area. The briefing went on for quite a while with the C.O. endeavouring to explain what our role would be; what the expected German opposition was thought to be, and what the first day's objectives were. He further went on to tell us that from the moment we left the briefing we would be confined to camp and that there would be no contact at all with the locals. He then went to great pains to point out why the Dieppe raid in 1942 had been such a d1·saster; namely because everyone had talked about the operation before it happened, the Germans had been fully briefed by their agents, and were Just waiting for the landing.

Of course, we all knew what the result of that raid had been, practically total annihilation of the Canadian raiding force.This time, he said, no leaks were to be allowed. Finally, he informed us that following our dismissal we would be issued with an amount of French money, and a French phrase book, and suggested that we could well spend our time learning how to communicate with the local French inhabitants after arriving in their country.

After leaving the briefing we were immediately struck by the security arrangements which had been initiated in the meantime. Normally, the main A272 road bisected the camp area, but by the time we emerged road blocks had been set up and instead of one large camp we found ourselves isolated on the south side of the road and unable to cross to the northern side.

Prior to the briefing the NAAFI marquee had been situated on the other side of the road but we suddenly discovered that another marquee had been erected within our camp confines. After collecting our French money and the other goodies such as the phrase book we got down to some serious thought. Naturally we were not allowed to write home and tell our families what was happening. What letters we did write had to be handed over to an officer for censoring which very much affected the material we wrote to girlfriends, etc.

As the end of May approached the weather improved and became quite warm and strangely enough we were left pretty much to own our devices. We soon found out that we could draw money from the Paymaster as often as we wished and so gambling for the French francs became a popular pastime. The cinema marquee was open all hours with a different film being shown at each sitting. Naturally, we still had guard duties, parades, weapon training etc, but no one seemed to worry. We all endured inoculations and short arm inspections, although how the hell the Army expected us to catch anything sealed away in camp defies imagination. After all we had never heard of the 'Gay Movement in 1 94,4 and any poofter found in camp would have had a hard time of it. In those days our minds wandered over the figures of Betty Grable and Rita Hayworth, although my favourite star was Alice Faye. These were our pin up girls and, of course, each and every one of us simply adored Jane of the Daily Mirror. No day would be complete without finding out just what that gorgeous lady was doing. Would she be dressed or undressed?

Would she be in danger or not? It is my firm belief that Jane did more for our morale during the war years than anyone else with the exception of Vera Lynn, the Forces Sweetheart. And so, it was that we passed the last days of May being somewhat pampered. Several times, however, during this period the C.O. would call us together and pass on the latest instructions. We learned, for instance, that Capt. Hope and myself would liaise with the Beachmaster on the Queen sector of Sword Beach.

Our job would be to ensure that the beach was cleared as quickly as possible and that we quickly obtained a working knowledge of just where everyone and everything was supposed to be. But don't be fooled, my job was merely to run the gauntlet between Capt. Hope and the Beachmaster who, incidentally was a Royal Naval Officer. I forget now whether he was a Captain or a commodore, not that it matters.

On the first day of June we were told that we were moving. Camp was struck, and we were loaded on to the backs of Infantry Carrying Vehicles. After about three weeks of confinement to camp it seemed strange to be back in civilisation. As we moved in convoy through the countryside it seemed as if the whole of England was on the move.

Passing through the Sussex villages we found ourselves being cheered by the civilian population (perhaps they knew more than we did) Everywhere military vehicles were on the move. Tanks and armoured vehicles; trucks and lorries, sheeted down but obviously loaded, and convoy after convoy, all moving in what appeared to be opposite directions. One wondered how the hell Jerry could miss getting to know what was happening.

After about three hours we stopped just outside the town of Haywards Heath, or so we were told by one of our men who recognised the town. Once again it was under canvas and confined to camp. Next day, we just sat around, wondering what the hell was happening. It was Friday and we couldn't even get to the local pub. However, a NAAFI was set up and so we were able to get a drink or two.

About lunchtime on Saturday, we were told to pack all of our kit, dress in battle order, and again we were loaded on to trucks. After about two hours we arrived at Newhaven and we were driven straight on to the quayside.The reason we knew we were at Newhaven was that one of the chaps on the truck suddenly found himself staring at his home on the top of the cliffs. God only knows what went through his mind at that time. There he was about to leave England to invade France and all the time being within calling distance of his home; his wife and his kids. I felt very sorry for him.

Once on the quayside we were unloaded and directed on to one of the moored L.C.Ts. Believe it or not Newhaven Harbour was packed solid with vessels and it was necessary to cross from one boat to another in order to board the particular boat to which we had been detailed. I remember it was a warm afternoon and the atmosphere was quite electric. One of the boats was playing some of Vera Lynn's records and broadcasting them across the tannoy system.

After boarding our L.C.T we were able to have a good look around. A couple of tanks and two jeeps had already been loaded and we soon found that we were not in for a pleasure trip. There was a very small cabin aft but nowhere big enough to house all on board.The Skipper was a Royal Marine Sergeant who told us to make ourselves at home and suggested that we grabbed a duckboard to sleep on. Throughout the afternoon, orders and instructions blared over the tannoy system. The whole harbour was a hive of activity as boat after boat was loaded with men, equipment and transport. It therefore came as a very big surprise when we were all suddenly told to disembark and parade on the quayside. Once lined up we were marched along the quay to waiting lorries and, without any why or wherefore, we found ourselves being ferried back to Haywards Heath.

Naturally we all thought that we had just taken part in an embarkation exercise in preparation for the real thing.

Everyone, I think, had been so keyed up expecting that the real thing was about to happen that the return to camp was a bit of a letdown. Nevertheless, the NAAFI bar was opened and before long we had all drowned our sorrows. Except, of course, the poor chap who had seen his house that afternoon and had been unable to visit. He was really cheesed off.

I remember little of clambering between the blankets that night, but I do remember being awakened at Reveille suffering from a large size hangover. Not that I was on my own. About lunchtime we were again told to get our battle order on and once more we found ourselves being herded back on to transport. We were all at a loss to know what was happening especially when we found ourselves again at Newhaven. Once more we went through the exercise of boarding our designated craft. About six pm, we were informed that, being Sunday, a church service would be held and relayed over the tannoy system. It seemed a very strange sort of service with the Padre intoning the prayers and hymn numbers across the waters of Newhaven harbour. It was only when he began to pray for God's blessing on us all during the coming fearful days that we realised that this was no exercise.

This was the real thing. France we are on our way like it or not.

There was very little chance of sleep that night. We lay on our duck boards under the open sky wondering what the next few days would bring. We were all about very early next morning and spent most of the day making sure that all of our equipment was in order; the tank drivers checked their veh-1cles' waterproofing and my mate, Arthur Kelly, the C.O's driver checked over

his jeep. It was just about dusk as the Skipper weighed anchor and we found ourselves moving out to sea accompanied by all of the other craft. The sky above looked very foreboding and the wind howled across the Channel. Once outside of the harbour we were hit by huge waves which tossed our small craft about like the proverbial cork. As we began to edge our way west along the coast I realised that this time there would be no turning back.

It was then that it dawned upon me that somehow, I wasn't being thrust into greatness but that someone, somewhere was pushing me very hard into something great.

CHAPTER TWO - THE INVASION - OPERATION OVERLORD

"From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remembered,

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me sha11 be my brother. "

( King Henry V, on that previous invasion of France Shakespeare again)

There could be no doubt about it. The High Command in all their wisdom had cocked it up. No one, not even an idiot, could expect to launch a full-scale invasion of a foreign coastline in such weather, and our High Command were certainly no idiots.

As we sailed down the English coast the weather got steadily worse and worse. Everyone on board our little L.C.T. was very soon soaked to the skin. The waves were breaking over both the bow and the sides of the boat and, except for a very small cabin aft of the well deck there was no place to shelter and the cabin, or I should have said Mess Deck, could only house about half a dozen men at any one time.

I remember thinking that I'd Jay odds on the fact that neither Eisenhower or Monty were at sea that night. After all, the evening wasn't fit to turn a dog out into and here we were setting off to give Adolf Hitler a kick up the bum. If the start of this exercise was any indication of what the future held I reckoned that it was the British and American armies that were the ones who would be on the receiving end of the kick.

I make no apology for the fact that I have never liked the sea. In fact, I hated it, and I had never been able to master the art of swimming. To date, throughout all of the landing exercises in which I had taken part I had always managed, somehow, to drop into shallow water and even that I didn't like. I knew that my intense fear of water came from an earlier experience, when as a very young boy, I had been playing in the "Whimsey" at Swanwick Col1·1ery when some clot had pulled me under and I had struck my head on the concrete side. The end result was that I nearly drowned. Here I feel that I must explain that the "Whimsey" was the name given by the locals to a large reservoir into which the water from the mine was pumped. It probably got its name from the fact that over the years many, many desperate men and women had taken a whim and thrown themselves in. Still, enough about that, I mention it merely to illustrate my fear of water.A fear that was to stay with me for nearly fifty years So here I was, not only at sea in a very small boat but also at sea in quite a fierce storm. To say I was scared would be to put it mildly. After all, my father, who incidentally was also a non-swimmer, had lost his life at sea only four years before. The difference was that he was trying to get away from France and here was I being sent to the same country.

As I sat thinking about what was happening I also gave thought to the fact that both my grandfather and father had crossed the channel to fight the Germans in France and neither of them had returned. In each case, both had been the eldest, or only son, and as the eldest in my family I was following the pattern. These thoughts did little to cheer me up Still there was nothing I could do about it now. Sink or swim, I was in it up to my neck.

Sailing along it wasn't long before my stomach started to rebel. Not that it had much inside it to rebel against because, in truth, all that I had eaten in the last few hours had been a few boiled sweets. After giving the matter some thought I suddenly decided- that I would be better off with something more substantial inside me. At least there would then be something to throw up.

Before leaving Newhaven, we had been handed two small twenty-four-hour ration packs and some tins of self-heating soup. These were quite an innovation. All one had to do was to punch two holes in the top of the can and then apply a lighted cigarette end to a fuse set in the top centre of the can. Within seconds, literally, the chemical, contained in a tube running through the can, had heated the contents to boiling point. And very good soup it was too. After consuming a can of tomato soup, I felt much better.

It was one of these cans of soup which providedsome light relief for all on board, except the Skipper. One of the tank men from the 13th/18th Royal Hussars lit the fuse without first taking the precaution of puncturing the can with the result that it very quickly exploded and boiling soup besplattered the cabin. We were all damned fortunate not to be severely scalded.

It certainly taught everyone a lesson. Never touch the fuse without first piercing the can. The Skipper was not very happy about the state of his mess and demanded that every bit of soup be cleaned off the ceiling, walls and floor. Not an easy task as the force of the bursting had covered practically the entire cabin in tomato soup. Still we all buckled down to it and we were happy to have something to do at last.

To pass the time away some of us played cards, again for our French money, while others just sat around. Some continually checked their rifles, no doubt to make sure that everything would work properly when we landed, because we were all convinced that we were in for a long and hard battle once we got ashore.

Although the storm showed no sign of abating, at least while it was still light we could still see the coast. Even up to this point, however, some on board refused to believe that we had actually started on the invasion. They argued that it must merely be yet another testing exercise because an army of sea-sick warriors were unlikely to be in any fit state to fight once their craft had been beached. I must admit that I would have loved to have subscribed to this thought After all I was not in the mood to do much fighting in the state I was in, in fact, I hadn't been in fighting mood before the onset of he "Mal de Mer"., (Notice how well I had studied my French Phrase Book, as per orders).

Eventually it became practically impossible to breathe in the Mess. In our nervousness each one of us was lighting one cigarette after another, and but for the occasional door opening to let someone out to hang over the side the small cabin was shut tight to keep out the weather. At one stage one of the young Hussar officers came in and confirmed that we were on our way to Normandy. He apologised for the cramped conditions and then proceeded to read out a message from General Montgomery. For the sake of any reader who is not familiar with the text of this message

Iwill set it out below. After all, it is a good part of history and to my mind ranks with Nelson's "England Expects".

21 ARMY GROUP PERSONAL MESSAGE FROM THE C

To be read out to all Troops.

1. The time has come to deal the enemy a terrific blow in Western Europe.

The blow will be struck by the combined sea, land and air forces of the Allies - together constituting one great Allied team, under the supreme command of General Eisenhower.

2. On the eve of this great adventure I send my best wishes to every soldier in the Allied team.

To for freedom better days our doings.

us is given the honour of striking a blow which will live in history: and in the that lie ahead men will speak with pride of We have a great and a righteous cause.

Let us pray that "The Lord Mighty in Battle" will go forth with our armies, and that His special providence will aid us in the struggle.

3. I want every soldier to know that I have complete confidence in the successful outcome of the operations that we are now about to begin.

With stout hearts, and with enthusiasm for the contest, let us go forward to victory.

4. And, as we enter the battle, let us recall the words of a famous soldier spoken many years ago:-

"He either fears h1·s fate too much, Or his deserts are small,

Who dare not put it to the touch, To win or lose it all

5. Good luck to each one of you. hunting on the mainland of Europe.

And good

Group.

B.L. Montgomery. General. C in C. 21 Army

As the Officer concluded the reading there was a loud round of applause and shouts of "Good old Monty". None of us doubted that we had the finest General in the world directing us. Monty was a soldier's man he would not be sending us into battle unless he thought the time was right. There would be no unnecessary risking of thousands of lives with Monty at the helm. As darkness fell we all became more and more lost in our own thoughts. The waves still crashed over the sides of the boat and it was no longer possible to make out the coastline. One by one, the accompanying ships began to fade into the darkness and before long it seemed that we were out in the Channel on our own.

There was only the sound of the L.C.T's diesel engines to compete with the roar of the wind and the crashing of the waves against the bows of the boat. There was, by now, very little conversation. Occasionally someone cracked a Joke or came out with a witty, very often smutty remark, but it was obvious that these comments were only designed to show a debonair, couldn't care less attitude, which fooled no one. Most of us were afraid of what was to come but we had to keep up the pretence of bravado.

During the night Arthur Kelly and I decided to leave the Mess Deck. It had become unbearable. One poor chap had been unable to make the side of the boat before his stomach contents left him and, as a result, the Mess Deck was not a very pleasant place to be. Out in the open well of the boat though was not much better. There was, of course, no stench but it didn't take long before we were soaked through, this despite having wrapped ourselves in our groundsheets and blank et. I tried to lessen the impact of the spray by crawling under one of the tanks but even this provided little shelter. And so, we went on, hour after hour.

Sometime during the very early hours of the morning we heard the unmistakable sound of aircraft overhead. Flight after flight of what were so obviously heavy bombers. Someone, somewhere, I thought, was about to cop a packet. Little did I know at that time that those very planes were ferrying parachutists, or towing gliders packed with airborne troops who would be landing and fighting in France hours before we even caught a glimpse of the coast.

It is difficult to describe how, at such times, one's mind wanders. I remember that I lay listening for the sound of German E-Boats. After all, the German Command must know by now what was happening and of the armada which was on its way. I knew that we had no armament on board and should an E-Boat appear we wouldn't stand a cat in hell's chance of survival. The one thing our little boat carried aloft though was a barrage balloon.

What for I wasn't sure. After all, the Luftwaffe would hardly need to make a low-level flying attack to finish us off. To my mind, the balloon was more of a giveaway than anything else, as if to say, look here we are, and we can't stop you blowing us out of the water. Stupid thoughts, I know, but then these were stupid times. Here was I, on the way into a major battle and, to date, I had fired less than fifty rounds of ammunition, thrown two hand grenades, had a go with a Bren gun for just a few minutes and fired just one projectile from a Fiat gun. Projectile Infantry Anti-Tank). This seemed hardly enough to class me as a fighting soldier.

And so, the night passed. Shortly before dawn all hell broke loose. The boat's skipper told us, over the tannoy that our escorting battleships, the War spite and the Ramli lies, had opened up with their big guns and were busy pounding the German shore installations. One impression remains firmly embedded in my mind to this day and that is that the sound of the shells passing overhead was similar in noise to an express train speeding through the countryside. Soon, in the grey dull light of the early morning the massive scale of the operation of which we were a part, became obvious. It was awe inspiring. Peering over the side of our boat, all one could see in any direction, were hundreds and hundreds of ships of all shapes and sizes. And above us suddenly appeared hundreds of airplanes.

Some, obviously fighters, buzzed around the fleet like mother hens with a clutch of chicks. Others were flying on, over and beyond us. And still the shelling from the warships grew into an even louder and more frightening crescendo. This was one hell of an invasion. Suddenly, off our port side, there came a loud explosion followed by a blinding flash. Looking across the water it was possible to make out the shape of a ship, on fire and listing. As we watched she started to sink, and one was left to ponder the fate of the men on board. Soon other ships hurried across to the scene intent on rescuing as many as possible.

Years later I was to learn that the ship I had seen go down was a Norwegian destroyer, HNMS Svenner, which had been torpedoed by a lone E-Boat, the only enemy attack that night. It was about this time that we were given a rum ration. I had never drunk Navy rum before and as I swallowed it I thought that my throat was being torn out. God, it was rough, but welcome. It soon warmed my body and for the first time in hours I began to feel more like a human being than a halfdrowned dog. This issue also meant, of course, that we were getting close to our destination.

The noise of the gunfire all around us was deafening, and as the light improved we could see the smoking guns of the warships. So great was the bombardment that it seemed impossible that anyone on the receiving end could survive an attack. And we all knew that as well as German forces being targeted there would undoubtedly, he a great loss of French civilian life. On and on we sailed as more and more ships of every description came into view, all heading in the same direction.Everywhere one looked it seemed impossible that so many ships could he manoeuvred without colliding with each other, and all the time the roar of the naval guns grew in crescendo until one's ears drummed with the cacophony of sound. And still we could not see any coastline.By 6am Arthur Kelly had managed to brew some tea and handed me a mess tin full.It was hot and sweet and it tasted just as good as any tea I'd ever drunk. It also helped to wash down one or two of the hard tack biscuits we carried.And so, we breakfasted. Not much to write home about but only God knew if or when we would get another meal.It was at about this time we were told to get our kit together. We were informed that H-Hour on our particular landing beach had been set for 7.25 am and that we were due to be ashore exactly 25 minutes later. From my work in London and the briefings given before we set sail, I knew that H-Hour had been set too coincide with low tide and that our moment of destiny was later than that of other target beaches by the fact that we were to land on the most easterly beach and that the time of low tide differed by over an hour between the western and eastern extremities of the target area.

By this time, we were being shot at. I only realised this when huge water spouts suddenly started to appear all around our little ship. Some were very close indeed and it seemed impossible that we could keep on sailing through this barrage without being hit. On our portside a Landing Ship loaded with rows upon rows of rocket launchers suddenly began to fire one salvo after another. It was like a giant firework display and one of the officers on board told us that the rockets were meant to silence the German shore batteries on the Le Havre peninsular. There was no doubt that the German gunners were having some success. I saw several small ships floundering while others were just limping along towards France.

And so, it was we made ourselves ready for the landing. We knew that we were scheduled to land on Sword Beach, which had been divided in Roger, Peter, and Queen sectors, with each sector being further divided. Our sector was Queen White and our instructions were that immediately upon landing we were to locate Beach HQ and report to either one of our own two officers or to the Beachmaster. Failing this we were to join up with any other member of our team and dig in.

Having wrapped up my wet blanket in my groundsheet, checked my rifle again, donned on my kit and, for emergencies sake, placed my Mae West around my chest and inflated it, I then hung my bandolier of ammunition around my neck, donned on my helmet and crouched as low into the well of the ship as I could.

With shells falling all around us I found that my mouth was as dry as could be. I had difficulty in swallowing and I wondered just how long it would be before, through the fear I was feeling, my bowels would start moving. Occasionally dar1·ng to peer over the side of the ship one could just make out the coastline of France. The whole area was covered in a thick pall of smoke but despite this it was still possible to see what a blazing inferno we were heading for. It was then time to prepare for landing. The Hussars started up the engines of their tanks and Arthur Kelly moved into the driver's seat of his Jeep. It was then that he shouted, "Come on Ron. Get in". I looked at the Jeep and although I knew that it had been waterproofed before we left camp, it still looked a bit open to me and God only knew how deep the water would be when we hit it. In my usual Latham fashion, I made a quick decision that I would ride out on the back of one of the tanks. Hopefully, in this way I wouldn't even get my feet wet .At least, that was my sincere hope.

As we ploughed through the choking smoke, laced with the smell of cordite, I suddenly became aware of a new, but quite sinister sound. It is still very hard to define it, but it sounded so frightening. It was, of course, the sound of the German mortars, quite aptly named "Moan1-ng M1-nn1-es ", and they were plaster1-ng the beach. Even today, well over fifty years later, I can

still recall that most fearful sound as the mortar shells were fired at us. It was a sound I was going to have to get used to over the next few weeks.

All of a sudden, the smoke cleared and there was the French coast. Today, it is hard to describe the mayhem which spread out before us. As we headed in toward the beach the Skipper, quite suddenly shouted, "this is far as I go lads, Good luck". We felt the boat ground and immediately the bow doors were lowered_ In front of us, some one hundred yards or more away was the beach and no sooner had the bow door been lowered than the first of the tanks roared down it and on into the water_ It was quickly followed by the second and third tank and I knew that if I was not going to get my feet wet I would somehow have to board the next tank.

Before it started to move, I managed to climb onto the rear and hold on to the turret for dear life. Down the ramp it went and into the water which, even though we were so close inshore, was still quite deep_ But at least I was dry, or so I thought. No sooner had the tank settled its tracks into the sand than the Tank Commander decided to blow his waterproofing_

Bang, it was just as if the tank had been hit by a shell. What I hadn't known was that the waterproofing, designed to protect the tank and ensure that the inside was not flooded by the sea, was electrically wired to enable the Commander to blow off the water protection and to be immediately ready for action. Not only did my particular commander blow his waterproofing while still well in the water but he also fired his first shot at the same time. The force of all of this was sufficient to blow me off of the back of the tank and into the water. Thank God I slid off the back away from the moving tracks.

And so, it was. Not only did I get my feet wet, I ended up practically base over apex and suddenly found myself struggling, against the movement of the tide, to regain my feet. Fortunately, enough, I managed to hang on to my rifle, but weighted down as I was with all of my kit, I found it hard to stand upright and I guess that I floundered around like a drowning man.

Eventually though, I made it. The sand under my feet was firm and I began to run as fast as I could up the beach. What a sight it was. Just like ' Dante 's inferno. Everywhere was mayhem. Bodies were strewn across the sand and even more were laid half in and half out of the water. Many lay close to the water's edge calling for help, whilst others, seriously wounded were being dragged from the water and laid on the banks of the dunes. Shells and mortar bombs were raining down and men continued to fall as they ran up the beach. The dead and wounded were mostly men of the 2nd East Yorkshire Regiment and the 1st South Lancashire Regiment. Young, raw soldiers who, like me, had not experienced battle conditions before. God above knew just how many of the young Northerns died in those first few minutes.

It is still hard to describe the scene on that stretch of French coastline as I ran towards the shelter of the dunes. Tanks and vehicles which had been hit by the shellfire, and damaged beyond repair, littered the area between the dunes and the water's edge. Others, less fortunate were being washed over by the tide. In one case the body of the young tank commander lay grotesquely half in, half out of the turret. This undoubtedly meant that the other members of his crew were still inside.

As I ran up the beach I noticed the row of houses, some rather large, which must have been, before the war, the holiday homes of French families but, as I watched, these houses were being heavily attacked by Crocodiles, the name given to flame throwing tanks which carried a considerable amount of fuel in an attached trailer. I still think that flame throwers are the most frightening of weapons and I was appalled to see sheet after sheet of flame directed to either one or the other of the houses. The reason for this attack was plain. Many of the houses were occupied by German snipers who, let's face it, had been responsible for the death of many of the men laying, either in the water or on the beach. Still I took this all in as I made for the dunes. It is surprising what one can observe even when half scared to death and running like a frightened rabbit.

I knew that my first job was to find the Command Post being used by the P.M.L.O. It was here that we were all supposed to muster. Suddenly I saw a flag flying and knew that was where the Command Post had been set up. One must remember that other members of the team had been coming ashore from different landing craft since H.Hour. I managed to get to the post just as a couple of mortar shells landed not too very far away. As they exploded I was covered in sand but nothing worse. I reported and then saw that Arthur Kelly had beaten me to it. Captain Hope and Corporal Lane were also there which meant that at least four of us had made it.

Captain Hope was an officer I had not had very much to do with before leaving England, due in the main, to the fact that he had been closeted in the planning office. His first words to me were, "Welcome ashore Latham, you'd better start digging in over there straight away and the first hole had better be a big one, we'll use it as a Command Post.

Over there meant at the base of the dune, above the high-water mark. Kelly, who had also been detailed with me, and I, shed our wet kit, carefully laid our rifles down within easy reach, and taking up the Army issue spades which we had carried as part of our equipment, started to dig like hell. What a job it proved to be. Like digging in most stretches of sand, as fast as we threw sand out more and more slid in down the sides. And all of this while we continually had to keep throwing ourselves face down on the beach as the shells and mortars landed. Overhead, the shells of the large naval guns continued to whistle while from the houses nearby sniper fire continued to harass the beach. Fortunately for us, our heads were below the level of the dunes as we frantically dug our hole.

Meanwhile, only a few yards away, a couple of the 'funny' tanks, aptly called flails, were busy working their way up the beach and across the dunes. From the signs, "Actung Minen ", we knew that their job was to clear a way out for the vehicles and men who were clogging the beach. The area was heavily mined.

Explosion after explosion occurred as the chains on the flail swirled round and round.

Following the flail tanks came yet another, most peculiar contraption. It was a tank carrying what looked like a massive roll of picket fencing which unrolled as it moved forward. This was another brilliant idea which ensured that, at least, the following tanks, carriers and lorries had a firm base on which to cross the sand.

From the sound of the rifle and machine gun fire it was obvious that the front line was quite close.

Suddenly we heard the skirl of bagpipes which we later found out were being played for the benefit of the Lovat Scouts as they landed and made for the front.

The sound of the pipes, although most unexpected, were nonetheless very heartening. Not that I would have liked to have been the Piper marching along drawing attention to myself.

And all the time the beach was becoming more and more congested as boat after boat landed their cargo of men and vehicles. Because of all of the damaged tanks, DUKW's and, other vehicles littering the beach right down to the water's edge and back into the sea, men were milling around everywhere. Some took refuge behind the damaged tanks whilst others just crouched down against the dunes. And all the time the shells and mortars continued to plaster the beachhead. Medics dashed around tending to the wounded as best they could, some of whom were lucky enough to be placed back on board one or other of the by now empty craft ready for the return, either to the UK or, at least to one of the larger ships anchored further out to sea. The dead were left were they lay. God knows how many brave young men perished in the first couple of hours.

By the time we had completed digging the hole for the Command Post, both the Sergeant Major and another of our sappers had arrived which completed our compliment. The C.O., we knew had been ashore very early on and was, no doubt, with the Beach Master way down the beach to our right.

Now I must tell you about the Sergeant Major, whose name after all these years I cannot recall, although I remember that he was a Scot and came from Kilmarnock. Why his name escapes me I just can't imagine. Anyway, he was 1ike me very cross eyed. In fact, if anything, he was worse than I was. I remember once Joking that the two of us standing side by side would be able to cover a greater field of fire than any other two soldiers. He with his right eye gazing to the right and me with my left eye looking to the left. Mind you, he was a pretty fearsome fellow. Tall and thin ginger haired and with a Scottish accent which quite often defied interpretation. He had just

finished laying his kit down when all hell let loose from the Ack-Ack gunners who had set up their gun Just a hundred yards or so further down the beach. Suddenly we heard the sound of a plane diving and the Sergeant Major shouted, "Get Down" We needed no other warning. Into the newly dug hole we all dived with, as usual, Latham being the last one down. As we lay in a heap on top of each other there was a sudden whistling noise followed by loud explosion and I felt something hit me in the small of the back, and at the same time we were showered with sand and flames. All I could see were flames covering our entire dug out. It was then,without thought and without hesitation I threw myself out of the hole and rolled down through the sand.As soon as I could, I picked myself up and ran like the devil for the shelter of one of the knocked-out tanks. Scared and nearly in tears I lifted my head to see what was happening.

Our Command Post still appeared to be enveloped in flame, and I was then able to see the silhouette of a plane lying on the top of the dune.

The nose cone seemed to be buried in the sand while the body reached for the sky at an acute angle. As I watched the flames, I found myself beginning to believe that I was the only member of the P.M.L.O. team left alive and my thoughts raced ahead as to what this would mean . I even began to imagine that I would have to be sent back to England. After all what could I do on my own. Such are the stupid thoughts that invade the mind of a frightened man Eventually, braving to stand up, but still keeping within the shelter of the wrecked tank, I saw that only the tip of the wing of the plane was lying across half of our post, and as I watched, other members of my squad suddenly began to scramble out of the dug-out and dash across to where I was. We were all safe. In fact, I was the only one a little bit singed with the back of my hair and the collar of my pul Jover showing signs of having been burnt. I must have doused the flame when I rolled in the sand.

The plane continued to burn for some time and all the while its ammunition was exploding. The German pilot had not had time to evacuate before hitting the ground and the smell of burning human flesh remained with us even after the fire had burnt itself out.

Everyone reckoned that once the tail had been shot away the pilot deliberately dived for the beach with the intention of taking some of us with him. He damned near succeeded too.

Fifty years later I was to learn that the Sergeant in charge of the Ack-Ack gun which shot the tail off of this particular plane, was none other than Bill (Darky) Rogers who, for over ten years, had lived less than a hundred yards away from my home in Deal.

Neither of us ever knew just how close his good shooting had come to finishing me off. It certainly is a smal1 world in which we 1ive.

However, back to the beaches. As the fire died down and was finally extinguished, we inspected the Command Post and found that other than again having to dig out the loose sand which had fallen in, everything was OK. The Sergeant Major decided that it was folly to have everyone diving for the same hole in the event of further air attacks or shelling, so he detailed us off in pairs to dig our own fox holes. This made good sense especially as the heavy shelling continued, unabated.

And all the time the landing craft continued to unload men and vehicles onto our already crowded beachhead. The German snipers were still active from some of the beachfront houses and every so often a shot would ring out and some poor devil would hit the sand or fall into the water. The noise of battle echoed around us and it was clear that the front line was still not too far ahead of us.

-·-

Eventually the tanks and armoured vehicles began to move forward, making their way over the dunes along the path cleared by the flail tanks, and so out into the countryside. One by one the damaged vehicles were towed away from the water's edge and so it was after about two or more hours of total confusion some sort of order began to emerge.

A couple of times during the morning, German planes attacked the beach only to be driven off by the accuracy of the anti-aircraft gunners or the fighter planes of the R.A.F. It was clearly obvious that the

R.A.F. had the mastery of the skies above us, thank goodness. Our main problem was the concentrated mortar fire and shelling which continued from positions on the Le Havre Peninsular, well to the right of the positions occupied by the Airborne lads.

As the beach began to clear, medics continued their dash around attending to the wounded, dressing their wounds as best they could and carrying them away on stretchers to the Dressing Station set up on the beach. The dead were, at first, left were they had fallen. Later on, captured German prisoners many of them no more than mere boys, began to collect the bodies and load them on to landing craft for transport back to England. During the first hours, the many bodies of the German soldiers lay where they had fallen.

When I saw my very first dead German I Just couldn't make out what it was .The body lay stretched out on the top of the sand dune his chest smashed in by what I suppose was a shell fragment, his open eyes seemed to be questioning what had happened to him .His grey green uniform was covered in blood and it took quite some time for me to realise that this was the enemy. I was to see many more before the day was out, as well as many, many of our own men who would be taking no further part in the invasion. It seemed strange that so many of them had withstood that terrible sea crossing, only to die within minutes of leaving their craft. Others, of course, had died without even making it to the beach. It was about this time that I noticed a Frenchman, dashing about the beach.

The strange thing about him was that he sported a shining brass helmet on his head. Whether it was a fireman's helmet or one belonging to some ceremonial army uniform I never found out. He had an old-fashioned rifle slung across his shoulders and he seemed oblivious to the danger all around him. With his bright helmet he presented a perfect target for any German sniper still active in the area. Also, about this time a young French lady suddenly made an appearance on the beach. She was a very beautiful woman with long bright auburn hair and she moved unafraid around the beach area helping to tend to the wounded. Even during the mortar attacks she hardly seemed to pause. Over the years I have often wondered who she was and whether or not she survived the battle.

As the beach began to clear, Captain Hope called for me to take a message to the Beach Master's HQ. This was situated at the far end of Queen White Beach at Lion sur Mer. The urgency of the message was impressed upon me and my instructions were to deliver it as quickly as I could. With rifle slung, I set off at a trot along the sand. After covering about two hundred yards I suddenly saw a soldier pressed up against the sea wall. He appeared to be holding his stomach with both hands and as I drew near he called out for me to help him. It was obvious that he was very seriously wounded and in great pain. But what could I do? I was not equipped to tend to any wounded, especially those with such serious wounds as this fellow had, and I had to bear in mind that my instructions were to get to the Beach Master's post as soon as possible. So, what did I do? I took out my field dressing, untied it and gave it to the poor fellow to press against his wound and told him that I would send a Medic along as soon as I could. With this I left him, but I was unable to get the vision of his tortured face out of my mind. I could feel his eyes on me as I ran along the sand. Within a few minutes I was able to tell a Medic about the poor fellow, but the Medic's words were, "He's only one of hundreds mate, we'll get to him eventually." Whether they were able to get to him in time or not I will never know because as I returned to my own post he was nowhere to be seen. I could only hope that the Medic had been able to get to him in time enough to evacuate him to the Field Dressing Station. It has only been recently that I have been able to tell anyone about this encounter. For fifty years that poor fellow's look of despair haunted me. Often at night I would hear him calling out for help and see the frightened, helpless look on his face. I often wondered whether or not I could have done more to help him, but my instructions were quite clear; I had to get to the Beach Master as quickly as possible. The message I had to deliver was to the effect that Queen White was unable to meet its requirement, due to the continual shelling and mortar fire which was causing considerable damage and casualties; not only to the forces that had already landed but also to any ingoing troops.

The Beach Master, a Naval Commander, resplendent with a thick black beard, seemed oblivious to the danger around him. He strolled around the beach wearing a black beret instead of the normal steel helmet, and it was as if he was enjoying a holiday on Margate or Brighton beach. He took my message and in a very gruff voice said, "Tell Captain Hope that he can divert some craft to this area but that he had better arrange for the army to do something about the damned mortar and gun positions. With a smart salute I

/ turned and made my way back to our own position.

I have forgotten to mention that by this time, although the sea was still very choppy, the sun had made an appearance and my clothing was beginning to dry out a little. And by the time I had reported back to Captain Hope my stomach was beginning to think that my throat was cut. After all, except for the hard tack biscuit at daybreak I had had nothing further to eat.

Now, you may think, how on earth were you able to get anything to eat in the situation you were in. To be sure it wasn't easy all the time that the shells and mortars were being lobbed at us, but suddenly, about midday there came a lull in the bombardment. And so it was that I was able to open up my twenty-four hour ration pack ready to sample whatever it had to offer.

As a matter of fact, our twenty-four-hour ration packs had been well thought out. Contained inside the small box were three unappetising looking blocks. In fact, these were one each of concentrated meat extract, concentrated porridge and the third block was compressed tea, sugar and milk. Also included were some boiled sweets, more hard tack, a few cigarettes and matches, and would you believe, four sheets of toilet paper.

In addition to the ration packs we had each been issued with a small tommy cooker. This was basically a three-legged hinged metal stand upon which a mess tin could be stood. Each leg had a cutout section and when the stand was opened out there was enough room to fit a block of solid fuel, mainly methylated spirit which, once lit, burned just long enough to boil a mess tin full of water. By using a jack knife and scraping one of the three concentrated blocks into boiling water one ended up with a meal of either stew of a kind, or porridge, or, if preferred, a mess tin full of hot, sweet tea. Still it was all better than nothing, and both the stew and the porridge were filling and no doubt nutritious.

And so, it was I ate my first meal in France. Hot meat extract accompanied by hard tack biscuits, washed down with hot tea. As a matter of fact, and in the circumstances, I felt a lot better afterwards. The only problem was, of course, the sand. The wind, the constant diving face down on to the beach, and the sand spray caused by exploding shells and mortars meant that sand was into everything. It was between one's teeth, on one's lips, in water bottles and mess tins. This was something which I found hard to get used to in the first few days.

I was just finishing my stew and about to scour out my mess tin in preparation for making a brew of tea when all hell let loose. Not only did Jerry start throwing his blasted mortars at us but at the same time one of the very few German aircraft we saw that day decided to try and strafe the beach. The Ack-Ack gunners blazed away and we all tried our damnedest to shoot him down with volleys from our .303 rifles.

Needless to say, we did little damage but once again the gunners made another direct hit and the last we saw off the raider was him spiraling down into the sea. As he hit the water we all gave voice to a loud cheer. Yet another Jerry had met his match. And so, it went on all afternoon. Ships and Landing Craft continued to discharge the loads of both men and materials on to the beach, and we continued to try and evacuate them from the beach as fast as we could. And still the front line was less than two miles inland.

As the day progressed, the continual sound of gunfire began to numb one's mind. The constant whirr of the 'Moaning Minnies' and the thud as the shells and mortars hit the sand became something which we started to take for granted. Throughout· the afternoon the odd sniper, cunningly using the network of tunnels connecting the sea front houses, suddenly took out one of our fellows on the beach. Immediately an attack would be mounted and again flame throwers this time carried on the backs of men would be deployed to flush the fellow out. With hindsight, I must admit that I have to admire the courage of those fellows, surrounded as they were by thousands of Allied troops; they would suddenly pop up from their dugouts, or cellars, take careful aim, and manage to kill or wound one of our men. In most cases, as we were to find out, the snipers were little more than youngsters. Once discovered, however, they stood little or no chance of survival, let alone being taken prisoner.

From the outset of the landings it had been pretty obvious that the defending troops had little idea that our armada was on its way. Some of the early German casualties had, in fact, been surprised in their beds. There was a look of utter surprise on many of the dead faces, and as the wave of early prisoners began to assemble it seemed as if they were unable to grasp what had been happening since early morn1ng. As a matter of fact, those who were taken prisoner were the fortunate ones. The orders given to those of us in the first few waves were to the effect that prisoners were not to be taken. There would be no way of accommodating them and, in any case, no troops could be initially spared to act as guards. However, during the late morning and afternoon large numbers of prisoners were being. assembled on the beach. Some were put to work stretchering the British dead and wounded on to Landing Craft, others were made to attempt to clear the damaged vehicles, ETC. from the beach. As the numbers grew, it was decided that they too would be shipped back to the UK on the returning craft. As the weather by this time was beginning to moderate no doubt they enjoyed a more comfortable sea voyage then we had. And for them, at least, the war was over.

As I have made mention, there were several very good inventions which were used during the invasion: the flail tanks, the Crocodile flame throwers: the Petards, a tank which hurled a large cannister of explosive against the massive German concrete emplacements: and the simple tommy cooker. Another good idea which affected us on Sword Beach was the scuttling of a line of old, large ships some distance from the shore to form a breakwater. This enabled the small coasters and landing craft to discharge their cargos in relatively calm water and the ubiquitous DUKW's to ply between ship and shore like bees around a hive. Naturally, the constant barrage of shells and mortars from the Le Havre Headland continued to wreak havoc among them, but despite the losses the drivers continued their trips. Once unloaded, the ships lost 1ittle time in leaving the area. Many of them to return time after time.

During the afternoon, I was called upon to make several trips to the Beachmaster's Control Post. As I may have mentioned, this was situated at the western end of the Sword Sector, near the small resort of Lion sur mer. It was here that the Royal Marine Commandos were holding a perimeter line between both the Sword and Juno Beaches. History will show that it took far longer than expected for the British on Sword and the Canadians on Juno to link up.

It was at this point that during the afternoon the Germans made a counter attack hoping to break through to the beach and so prevent the two beachheads from becoming one. The German 21st Panzer Division attacked at about 4pm and actually managed to reach the sea between the two Allied beachheads. It was only when they saw more glider troops coming in that they withdrew around 7pm. What a wonderful sight the airborne armada made. The sky was full of planes towing gliders carrying troops to reinforce the Paras. It really was a heartwarming sight.

As the day drew on, some sort of order began to appear on the beaches, and we learned from a B.B.C. War Correspondent, who had arranged for a foxhole to be dug for him next to the one we were using, that the Paras and the Lovat Scouts were holding the bridges over the River Orne and that our troops were holding a line about 4 miles inland. It was from him that we learned that our lads had run into some very stiff German resistance. In fact, the counter attack by the 21st Panzer Division had succeeded in recapturing the small towns of Beeville and Periers. Apparently, the main objective of the 3rd Division was to take Caen, but the resistance was so fierce that this was not going to be an easy task.

For us back on the beach it was proving difficult to unload the continual flow of ships and to get the men and equipment away due to the constant shelling and mortar barrages, and here I think it may be of interest to my readers to note the account of the events on Sword Beach as set out by Duncan Anderson in his book simply entitled "D-Day".Here is the report as he sets it out.

"The Commando assaults on Sword outstandingly successful, but the bulk of 3rd Division had a very much harder time. bombardment of the warships began to lift, approaches were a turmoil of weaving craft wreckage.

were

the British As, the the shore and

On Sword Beach, chaos reigned. Crab tanks flailed their way up from the landing craft. German '88's, dug in west of Ouistr eham, hit tank after tank, until the whole beach seemed a mass of burning armour. More vehicles kept on landing. By mid-morning, the Crabs had cleared four lanes through the minefields, but by this time a massive traffic jam had built up.

The South Lancashires, the advance regiment for 8th Brigade, took some time to extr-1cate themselves from the confus-1on: It was m-1d-afternoon before they were able to push two kilometres and inland to Hermanv Ille and Periers Ridge. Here they ran into German anti-tank guns and dug in"

And so, the day progressed. For me, I was at the constant beck and call of Capt. Hope. He seemed to be indefatigable. He dashed around the beach like a man possessed and he appeared oblivious of the shells and mortars constantly falling around him. Once the paths through the minefields had been cleared he busied himself, and us in getting the men, vehicles and equipment off the beach as soon as possible .One minute he was helping to push a wrecked DUKW clear of the beach, the next he was directing traffic away over the dunes. Time after time he sent me scurrying down to the Beachmaster's post with sitreps. By late afternoon my legs felt as if I had been involved in a marathon race. The worst part of it all was that he seemed to take no precautions at all. By early morning his helmet had been discarded and even during the mortar attacks he just stood there directing operations. Not for him the ignominy of diving into a foxhole.

Also, during the late afternoon Corporal Lane came around to gather up our Army issue standard postcard which had been issued to us before we left England. It was quite a simple form really, one side was reserved for the address and on the other side were a series of printed lines such as;

"I am quite well"

"I have been admitted into hospital: (Sick)

(Wounded)

"I have received your letter"

"Letter follows as soon as possible", etc,

etc.

All one had to do was to delete the unnecessary

lines and it was felt that this was sufficient to let the folks back home know that you were, at least, alive when the card was signed. I just deleted everything except "I am quite well" and addressed it to my mother. I reckoned that by the time she received it she would have guessed where I was.

And so, the day dragged on. Sometime about 6 pm I attempted to make some more stew hut by this time a wind was blowing the sand around with the result that the stew was spoi1t. With each mouthful one's teeth ground into the sand which was not a very pleasant feeling. Even trying to rinse one's mouth with water did little to ease the problem. This was something that we of the Beach Group were going to have to get used to. And only God above and the powers to he knew just how long we would remain on the beach.

Just after sundown there was a particularly heavy mortar attack and as we crouched in our hole a body suddenly hurled itself in on top of us. "Sorry mates", he shouted, "But I'm not staying on top in this lot".

It was then that I got a look at his face and I have never been so surprised in my life .The chap whose foot had landed only inches away from my face was none other than one of the fellows who I had worked with at Davis's coal yard in Alfreton Now fifty years on I am at a loss to remember his name, although I can recall his face and the fact that he lived at Tibshel f .Mind you, he was just as surprised as I was. It turned out that he was in the RASC and was a DUKW driver ferrying equipment between the ships and the beach as the mortar fire died down he climbed back into his DUKW and headed out into the water, with the call, "I'll drop you off an "A" pack in the morning. "I thought no more about it.

It was about 10pm when Captain Hope advised me to get my head down. Apparently, we were going to be just as busy in the morning. Get my head down indeed, there was little chance of my being able to sleep but at least I wouldn't be chasing up and down the beach. It was then that I noticed that one of our fellows had put what looked like an iron bar across the fox hole and made a shelter with his ground sheet. By this time, of course, our clothes had dried out and so I laid my groundsheet down on the floor of the hole, wrapped myself in my half-dried blanket and lowered myself as far as possible into the sand..

Sleep was practically impossible.The roar of the naval shells going overhead, the sound of artillery fire, and the crunch of shells and mortars as they continued to pound the beach did little to induce sleep. I lay there watching the gunfire light up the night sky and I wondered whether Lily and my family realised where I was. From the B.B.C. man in the next hole we were aware that news of the invasion had been broadcast at home throughout the day. earlier on we had watched him as he reported into a tape recorder and we knew that he had well described the hell we were enduring.

Someone, somewhere, coined the phrase that D-Day, the 6th of June 1944, was the 'Longest Day'. Nothing could be more apt. It seemed ages since we left England and set foot in France. No one had said so but I think that we all knew that the casualty lists would be high. Some had suggested that up to 50% of us would either be killed or seriously wounded and here we were, at 10pm casualty free. Of course, we had seen hundreds of men lying dead either in the water or on the beach, hundreds more had been wounded and evacuated back to the UK, but our small group was still intact, not a scratch between us. The front 1ine was by now six miles away and from all accounts holding. It was a bit too early to say that we were the lucky group but, at least, we had all seen D-Day through. And so, I fitfully spent my first night on foreign soil. I was too tired to worry about what the morrow would bring or whether or not the Germans would launch a counter-attack and drive us all back into the sea.

C'HAPTER THREE - THE BATTLE OF NORMANDY

Darkness began to fall on Sword Beach but still the battle raged. As we tried to settle into our foxholes in an attempt to grab a few hours of well-earned rest the sky above us was filled with the dancing red lights of tracer shells fired from our naval craft stood out at sea. For each small red light, we knew that there were many more interspersed and that some poor soul, French or German, was on the receiving end. Not that we were left alone. Throughout the night the Germans in the Trouville and Deauville areas continued their incessant shelling and mortaring of our beachhead. As I listened to the approach of the murderous harbingers of death, I cringed even further into the sand. It was then that I remembered that the ones you heard were alright, it was the one which you didn't hear that had your name on it.

Earlier on in the evening Sapper Warnes, who was sharing the foxhole with me, came upon what he thought was a brilliant idea. Along the beach he had come across a long iron tube which he stretched across the top of the hole and then laid our groundsheets over leaving just sufficient room for us to clamber in. His idea was that the cover afforded would at least save us from some of the sand which was being blown about by either the wind or the explosions, as well as keeping out some of the sea mist. Thank goodness I crawled in to get some cigarettes before darkness fell as it was then that I saw the words 'Bangelore Torpedo' stenciled along the side of the tube. These torpedo's were, of course, used by the Infantry to lay beneath barbed wire entanglements in order to blow a dammed great hole in them. Obviously this one had either been dropped by one of the first troops ashore, or else the poor fellow carrying it had been hit, and whoever had carried him away had just left it on the ground. Either way, I reckoned that it was still live, and I had no intention of sleeping under it. Even today, I dread to think of just how close we came to committing Hari-kari. When I told Warnes to get rid of it he asked me what he should do with it. I told him that he could either find some Jerry and shove it up his arse or else throw the dammed thing into the sea. Naturally he opted for the sea but I can tell you he was a pretty nervous fellow as he carried it across the sand.

With the front line still only about four miles away both to our left and centre, and even less to our right, our foothold on our particular section of the French coast was, to say the least, a little precarious. Contact with the Canadians from Juno Beach had not been made by nightfall. Our spearhead had been expected to have taken Caen by this time, but via the grapevine we knew that they had met some pretty stiff opposition. By late evening rumour had it that our chaps had come up against a crack SS Panzer Division.

Truth to tell the 21st Panzer Division had made an attack during the afternoon and had nearly made it through to the sea between our right flank at Lion sur mer and the Canadians left flank at St Aubin. Looking back over the day it was surprising to think that we had not been driven back into the sea, especially those of us on Sword Beach.

Because of the continual shelling and mortar barrages Sword Beach was in absolute chaos until very late in the afternoon. All day long the beach had been cluttered with wreckage and damaged tanks, vehicles and craft. At one time it certainly looked as if all of our training over the past months had been for nothing. As each wave of craft had approached the shore and been unloaded the scene had become more and more chaotic. only a very small area available to us we had tried hard to set up reception depots and assembly areas. Looking back over the day it seemed surprising that we had managed eventually to clear so much equipment and so many men away from the immediate beach area. Some Herculean tasks had been performed to clear the wreckage, remove the dead and wounded, control and ship out prisoners in addition to unloading _ the incoming craft as quickly as poss-1b le and ensuring their speedy turnaround. There was little wonder that we of the Beach Group felt absolutely knackered by late evening.

As we tried to settle down for the night I am sure that many of us remained convinced that we would be either driven back into the sea or else be in the bag within the next twenty-four hours. Since H-Hour we had undoubtedly disembarked a large number of vehicles, tanks, etc, as well as many thousands of men but it seemed that unless they could break out of the bridgehead it only required the Germans to organise their forces to foil our landing. This could all quite easily turn into another Dunkirk.

Throughout the night the sound of our bomber fleet passing overhead was, to some extent, reassuring. Wave after wave droned on without, or so it seemed to us, much opposition. During the night however, a couple of German bombers flew over and dropped their bombs, but these did little damage. The greatest disaster came when one of our own bombers dropped a bomb smack into the middle of a combined fuel and ammunition dump.

That created a massive fireworks display, but more disappointing was the loss of all of the equipment which could prove very costly. Of course, everyone knew that ammo and fuel should not be stored in close proximity, but the lack of space made other arrangements: impossible. Imagine the scene if you can, thousands and thousands of gallons of fuel going up in flame lighting the night sky while, at the same time, tons of ammunition was exploding. It was like no other Guy Fawkes night I had ever seen, or ever want to see again. In addition the continual artillery barrage reddened the night sky and even though we were some distance away we could still hear the thump, thump as the shells hit the ground and detonated.

At first light we emerged bleary eyed from our hole and gazed across the beach .Already at the breakwater small boats continued to unload their precious cargos of armour, equipment, fuel and men. Around them the ubiquious DUKW'S swarmed like bees around a hive. They seemed not to mind the shells falling all around them.

I must admit that I have enjoyed much better night's sleep than that of my first night on French soil. Most of the night had been spent wondering whether or not I was going to see the dawn. The rest was spent trying very hard to make myself comfortable by wriggling into the sand to find a suitable soft spot for my hips. Obviously, there was very little sleep to be had despite this being the third night since I had left England. What little sleep I did manage to get was very fitful], no more than forty winks at any time. The situation wasn't helped at all by my mate continually nattering about how he could get sent back home. He was gabbling on about shooting himself in the foot, etc. etc. Such nonsense, as if the Army would look kindly upon a self-inflicted wound. They would be more likely to charge him with cowardice hold a Field Court Martial and put him up against a firing squad. I told him that he would be better off taking his chances against the Jerries. After all, everyone in our Group had made it safe1y ashore and as far as we knew we were all still safe at nightfall.

After going down to the water's edge to swill my face, I set about making a brew of tea for myself which I followed up by making a mess tin full of porridge from the dehydrated block supplied with my ration pack. I was never a great lover of porridge but at least it was filling. My main problem was again getting used to the feel of sand particles grinding against my teeth.

After finishing my so-called breakfast, I cleaned out my mess tins, boiled a drop more water, and shaved. By this time the sea mist had cleared, and the beach was again a hive of activity.

Captain Hope was soon seen dashing about from one end of the beach to the other shouting orders and making sure that the incoming DUKW's quickly cleared the beach and that those landing craft which beached were quickly unloaded and turned around. He made sure that we were all kept busy. By now, however, the Germans had worked out a pattern of shelling and mortar fire. They simply waited until incoming craft had been beached and then opened fire. Several craft were damaged in this way and again it was necessary for the Navy to send in the Rocket Launchers to try and quieten the Jerries down.

Early in the morning Captain Hope sent for me and explained that the C.O. had moved to Divisional Headquarters which had been set up at Hermanville a village some two or three miles from the beach.

Sapper Kelly had naturally gone along as the C.O's driver. Apparently, my job for the day was to traverse the area between the beach and the Divisional Headquarters with logistics of the days disembarkments. Every one of us attached to the P.M.L.O. knew that all the well laid plans for D-Day, as envisaged by the planners back in the U.K., had been thrown into confusion, One had only to take into account the weather, the damage caused on Sword Beach by the enemy shelling and mortar fire, together with the fact that Day One objectives had not been accomplished to know that, as far as our particular beach was concerned, there was a problem.

The bridgehead was still only a very small enclave into which more and more men and armour were being poured.

It was about 7am when I was sent off on my first trip. I remember that once away from the beach area one was into good farming country. The corn in the fields stood high and, as I was later to find out, had greatly assisted the Germans in cutting down our advancing troops. The German snipers had lain hidden in the tall corn and had been responsible for the deaths of many of our chaps. Naturally some wag had warned me about this before I set off and I was very conscious of the fact as I moved across the fields. My rifle was fully cocked, and I was aware of every rustle as the gentle wind blew over the fields. Looking back over the years I believe that I twice fired at something I thought was crawling about in front of me. No doubt it was only a rabbit or something similar, but I was scared enough to believe that the fields were full of Germans.

When I arrived at the outskirts of Hermanville, the German guns and mortars started up once more, setting up another barrage. This time, instead of being directed at the beach the barrage appeared to be following me .I located the C.O. and handed him the notes from Captain Hope. He studied them for a moment and then said, "You had better join Kelly and get yourself a cup of tea while I look at these reports, Latham. You'll find him in the orchard at the other side of the road"

As I crossed the road a very heavy barrage came over. Diving under one of the apple trees I could see the C. 0. 's jeep with Kelly sitting nonchantly in the front seat smoking away. I moved to within one hundred yards of the jeep when there was an almighty explosion. There was no doubt about it, a shell had landed pretty close; close enough to cover me in the soil of Normandy. Looking up as the air cleared, I could see that Kelly's jeep was lying on its side and there was no sign of Kelly. Shouting his name, I dashed over to the vehicle and it was then that I saw him lying a few yards away. As I approached it seemed for all the world as if he had laid himself down to have a nap. He even appeared to have a look of surprise on his face.

Several other chaps had converged on the area by the time I got there. Most of them were in shock but I remember one Corporal dropping to his knees besides Kelly's body. He stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity and then slowing rising he gently shook his head. There was nothing anyone could do for Arthur Kelly. Looking down at him it seemed that he had not been injured at all, but we soon learned that his body had taken the full force of the blast of the explosion.

In tears, and together with a couple of other chaps we wrapped his body in his gas cape and taking spades from the nearby vehicles we quickly dug a shallow grave close to the hedge surrounding the orchard and we laid him to rest. No pomp, no ceremony, not even a Padre to say a last prayer. From one of the lorries parked nearby we took a cross, knocked it into the ground at the head of the grave, tied one of his ID tags to it, and I just stood there staring at the cross for what seemed an age. I just could not believe that Kelly was dead. We had been together for the past few months and had become quite close mates.

Nothing in my training had prepared me for death in such a way. The only dead people I had ever seen until 24 hours ago was my sister and my Grandmother Burns.

Since dawn yesterday though I had seen more than my share. I'd seen men floating face down in the sea men laying at the water's edge, their bodies being pressed into the sand by the boats rushing to unload their cargoes and by the vehicles whose only aim was to get away from the beach as soon as possible; and the bodies of young men struck down as they raced across the sand. Here let me quote from John Man's, "Atlas of D-Day and the Normandy Campaign"- "For many of those who survived, the first few minutes on Sword were the worst of the campaign.

In places, the bodies were "stacked like cordwood" And yet none of this had prepared me for the shock of Kelly's death. I didn't want to die like that. I can't remember when I ever felt so scared.

Pulling myself together I made my way back to the C.O's tent and told him what had happened . He had, of course, heard the shell detonate but he had no idea that his own driver had been killed. He was obviously shaken but as he had been on several other landings in Scicily and Italy he had no doubt been through it all before. From his haversack he took a flask and gave me a swig of Scotch and then proceeded to act as if nothing had happened. He drafted out a reply for me to take back to Captain Hope and also asked me to tell the Captain that he would require a replacement driver.

So, it was that Sapper Arthur Kelly became the first casualty of our small team. Making my way back across the fields I realised that the same thing could happen to any one of us. We could be just smoking a fag one moment when "puff" we could be dead mutton the next. I couldn't help but wonder who the next one would be but I didn't have long to wait to find out.

As I got back on to the beach Corporal Male came up to me with the news that Captain Hope had copped it. As usual he had been standing directing traffic when a mortar had landed close by and decapitated him, and they had buried him in a garden just off the beach. I could hardly believe it. Two of our small group killed within a few minutes of each other. I told the Corporal the news about Kelly and before I knew what was happening I found myself dashing for the edge of the water to vomit. A few minutes later I was being grabbed by the arm and looked up to hear the Sergeant Major telling me to pull myself together. He then detailed me to again go to the Divisional HQ to advise Colonel Wharton, the C.O. of what had happened to Captain Hope. He also handed me a sealed note from the Beachmaster with instructions that I had to hand it to Colonel Wharton and no one else.

And so, it was back across the cornfields for me.

My mind was in a whirl and at that particular time I don't think that I would have noticed had a sniper raised himself in front of me. Once back at the Divisional H.Q. I discovered that Col Wharton was in a staff meeting so there was nothing for it except to just sit and wait and wonder what the hell was going to happen next. As soon as the meeting was over I made contact with the C.O. who, after having read the note, told me to get back to the beach as quick as possible, and tell the Sergeant Major to carry on until he arrived to assess the position. It was about an hour later that Col Wharton arrived at the beach. I noticed that he had got himself another Jeep, but he was driving himself. I hoped that he wouldn't decide to detail me to be his driver. I'd seen quite enough of vehicles being blown sky high over the past thirty-six hours.

As it was, Sapper Jackson was given the job and I was left to help the Sergeant Major until another officer could be found to take over Captain Hope's role. What surprised me was that the Beachmaster himself had managed to last so long because, he too, seemed oblivious to all the shells and mortars which had been falling around him. He never appeared to stand still for more than a few minutes at a time. He was here, there and everywhere, badgering the newly arrived to clear the beach as quick as possible and then impatiently waiting for the next boats to hit the shore. I never knew his name but, by God, he was a man to look up to. Many years later I saw a film about D-Day with Kenneth More portraying a naval Beachmaster and I reckon that his role was based on the Beachmaster of Sword Beach.

Here, I think, it might be as well to give a little more detail about Sword Beach which' stretched nearly eight kilo-meters from Lion- sur- Mer to Ouistreham. Between the right flank of Sword(Lion-sur-mer) and the left flank of June Beach at St Aubin the beach was considered too shallow and rocky to permit an assault. On Sword Beach were the usual beach obstacles and emplacements in the sand dunes, with mortar crews and heavy artillery pieces inland.

Primarily however, the Germans intended to defend this stretch of coast with the 75mm guns of the Merville Battery and the 155mm guns at Le Havre. Fortunately, the men of the 6th A-1rborne Div1-sion overtook and destroyed the Merville Battery and the big guns at Le Havre proved to be ineffective against the beach for two reasons. First, the British laid down smoke screens which prevented the Germans from obtaining a correct range, and secondly, the Le Havre Battery spent the entire morning duelling in vain with HMS Warspite. This proved to be a big mistake for the Germans as, no doubt, their firepower would have created a far more devastating effect had they concentrated on the beach area. Nevertheless, a great deal of havoc was caused by some of the 88mm's located on a rise just a couple of kilometres inland which were very effectively supplemented by mortars and machine guns firing from the windows of the seaside villas or from the pillboxes scattered among the sand dunes. One must also mention the anti-tank ditches and mines designed to impede any progress inland.

In addition all the streets were blocked by massive concrete walls. These precautions were to cause considerable casualties and impeded the initial thrust from the beach.

For my part, being dug in on1y a few hundred metres from the outskirts of Lion-sur-mer, I could not understand why we were continually being fired on from the direction of the town. I later discovered that, despite all that was thrown at them, the Germans dug in at Lion, and held out for over two days. Such was the situation we faced which continued until the gap between Juno and Sword Beaches could be closed.

Soon after we lost our friend the BBC War Correspondent, who had no doubt, moved forward with the frontline troops. We learned that Bayeux had been taken. This was good news indeed, it meant that our lads were moving away from the beach areas and out into the French countryside. From all accounts, our left flank just over the River Orne was holding well, but the main objective of the 3rd Division's push had not been realised which was, of course, the capture of Caen.

All day long the sky overhead was filled with flight after flight of planes. The R.A.F. certainly had the mastery of the skies above us as very few German planes ventured to take on the Spitfires, Hurricanes. P.40's Mosquitos, etc., as they flew constant sorties patrolling the beachhead and, I expect, attacking the enemy a few miles ahead of us. We could also see flight after flight of heavy bombers as they crossed the coastline Surely, I thought, it can't be long before we get some respite from the shelling and mortar bombardments.

By the afternoon the beach had been reasonably cleared. Damaged tanks, vehicles and craft had been dragged away from the main exits from the beach. The minefields were still being cleared but we were constantly being warned to keep to the marked lanes. The DUKW's continued to wade in and out of the sea. On their outward journey they were often loaded with either wounded men or with prisoners of war being sent back to the U.K. Then back they came stacked high with equipment of every description. We had by this time, of course, several organised depots set up and our job was to make sure that the right equipment went to the right depot. When men and armour came ashore it was necessary for us to point them in the right direction.

As a matter of fact there was only one direction and that was forward.

Later in the day many of the men coming ashore carried copies of the previous evening's newspapers which gave full reports of the happenings on D-Day. This was how we learned of the problems the Yanks had faced on both Utah and Omaha beaches. Whilst our landings had been bad enough theirs must have been absolute murder. We also read of the success of the airborne landings and of how the paras and the glider troops had fought so well on our left flank. Naturally the papers played down the extent of the casualties suffered, commenting only that they had been far less than expected.

Some of the men coming ashore, especially if Jerry was giving us a rest, seemed to act as if they were on a picnic. They bombarded us with stupid questions such as, "What are the French women like" or "Are there any Jerries about".Thank God we had the authority to tell them to get moving, which we did in no uncertain tone. Others, of course, wanted to know what it was like and how long had we been there. Some seemed keen to get going while, as usual, there were those who sounded scared to death.All of them appeared to quieten down as they came across the burnt-out tanks and damaged vehicles. Like us, who now considered ourselves as veterans, they all made a quick dive into the sand as soon as the first mortar came over.

Later on, in the afternoon, a DUKW driven by an ex-workmate from Alfreton, drew up and handed me aseven-man forty-eight-hour ration pack. This was quite a large case which I quickly h:id under my ground sheet. About six pm I opened it up and noticed that it was marked with a large 'A', a point I was to remember throughout my time on the beach. The 'A' pack contained t1·ns of steak and kidney pie as wel1 as tins of sliced peaches. Warnes, Cpl. Male and I had quite a meal that night. In addition, there was a large tin of cigarettes, as well as chocolate, boiled sweets and other goodies. It was, by far, the best meal any of us had enjoyed since leaving our camp at Petworth. I looked forward to getting more packs from the same source. (I do so wish that I could remember his name, but I can't). We were later to learn that the large letter on the outside of the pack denoted what the contents were. One I recall held tins of MacConchies Stew which was not particularly well received. Others had rice pudding, or steamed pudding, but pack 'A' remained my favourite. My friend, the DUKW driver, arranged to drive past us twice a day and he would always have one pack perched precariously on the side of his vehicle which could easily be dislodged as he slowly drove up the beach. So, it was, that within forty-eight hours we all began to live quite well despite all that was going on around us.

And so, another day passed. From reports received Caen refused to fall, and several heavy battles had already taken place. As we again tried to get some rest we realised that the Germans were still only a few miles away and that we were by no means safe. It had been a frightening day, and we were all only too conscious of the deaths of Captain Hope and Sapper Kelly.

Before nightfall Colonel Wharton came down to the beach to brief us on the current position. There was no doubt that our lads at the front had come up against some very fine German troops and every inch of ground gained was at a very heavy cost. It was from him that we learned that a total of over one hundred and fifty thousand men had been landed on D-Day and that the casualties had been far lighter than expected. Before leaving to return to Divisional Headquarters the Colonel told us that he was confident that Caen would fall within the next few days and that the beaches would then begin to feel some relief. With hindsight I now know that his estimation was out by about eight weeks.

Still affected by the deaths of Captain Hope and Arthur Kelly the rest of our team went about doing our job as best we could. The Sergeant Major took over command on the beach and began to do a very good job. He too, now took to pacing up and down the beach after the fashion of Captain Hope and I began wonder just how long it would be before we had another casualty. There was no doubt that the German gunners were determined to make our lives as miserable as possible. They pinpointed the water's edge every time a small ship or landing craft came in. They also had their sights trimmed on the block ships where the larger vessels were being unloaded. I had a great deal of sympathy for the DUKW drivers who ran the German gauntlet on both their outward and inward runs. They were so s 1ow and cumbersome that they were sitting ducks (quite a pun that now that I think about it)Several times it was necessary to call in the R.A.F in an attempt to quieten the guns and mortars.

And so, our second day on French soil passed. It was a day I should long remember. I did not envy Colonel Wharton his job of writing to Captain Hope's wife, and to Arthur Kelly's mother. That must certainly be one of the very worst tasks a Commanding Officer is called upon to do. It was to be hoped that he wouldn't, within the next few days, have to sit down and pen a similar letter to my mother. I knew that probably by the next morning she would be receiving my field card and that she would then know for certain where I was and I could guess how worried she would be.

Before darkness fell that night, I had to make yet another run across to Divisional HQ, and it was on my way back, just as I reached the beach that I spotted a book lying in the sand. Picking it up I was surprised to find that it was a bible. Its blue cover was well worn and from the look of the water stained pages it had certainly been in the sea. I spent the night wondering what had happened to the owner. Had he been killed, or wounded, or had he merely dropped it in the heat of the battle.

These were questions I had no answer for but I felt that whoever the owner was he would feel lost without it. I carried that book with me throughout the rest of the war and, if my memory serves me well, it remained in my possession for quite some time. But I have no idea what finally happened to it.

There was no doubt that little or no headway had been made that day in breaking out of the beach enclave. The front line was still frighteningly close. Indeed, on our sector the front line remained within ten m1- 1es distant for the next four or five weeks.

The Germans defending Caen were extremely stubborn and from all accounts fought ferociously to hang on_ Caen was the pivot on which the whole of Montgomery's campaign rested. Throughout all of those weeks the sound of the battle was ever present.

Early on the morning of D+2 three small coasters approached the beach. These were manned by American seamen and their cargos were petrol and ammunition. (Again, that lethal combination).The vessels were driven as far up the beach as could be and unloading started. As the tide fell the coasters were eventually 1eft high and dry on the sand making it far easier for vehicles to be loaded over the side. All went well until the vessels were sitting fast and then all hell broke loose. The Germans positioned on the other side of the Orne River had suddenly opened fire with just about everything available to them.

As we dived for cover we could see the seamen jumping down from the decks and running across the sands and over the dunes. For a moment or two it looked as if they were intent on getting as far away as possible even if this meant dashing across areas still clearly marked

"Achtung-Minen"; areas which had not yet been cleared. I think that it was only the sight of a rocket 1aunching ship going in again to quieten the bombardment down that made them stop. This probably saved their lives. They looked a bit sheepish when we later told them where they had been heading. The coasters received some damage but fortunately enough the cargoes had remained untouched. Had a shell or mortar landed directly on to one of the vessels we would have witnessed yet another massive firework display. Once the barrage had been halted everyone worked feverishly to unload the ships so that they could be refloated as soon as the tide turned. This episode must, however, have taught someone a lesson for such vessels were never beached again in a similar fashion to my knowledge. Even so, every time landing craft came near the beach to unload there was always the risk of shelling or mortaring.

And so, the days dragged on, more and more men and materials were landed and dispatched away from the beach into what was a very overcrowded salient. Each day, more and more German prisoners were being sent to the UK in the returning vessels. In many ways they were a very motley crowd, some seemed no more than young boys, sullen and miserable: others much older, seemed more than pleased to be out of the firing line. Later on, we learned that many of them were not Germans at all but East Europeans who had been drafted into the various labor units.

One noticeable thing was that as they were marched on to the beach each one appeared to have the cuffs of his tunic turned up. Apparently, they were ordered to do this by their captors, so it would be easier to see who was wearing good watches. Needless to say, the watches were then quickly confiscated. Some of the guards openly bragged about the number of watches they had. Such are the spoils of war. For my part, I neither captured an enemy soldier nor did I find one still wearing a watch, which was a pity as I did not own one of my own. I did manage to collect several insignia and badges, some of which, I believe had been taken from the tunics of the dead. I have no idea what happened to these, although I suspect that I mailed them back to Lily Anthony, my girlfriend.

After the first couple of days our food supplies improved, and meals were being prepared on field kitchens. However, we were still having to try to digest our hard tack biscuits. When, after about a week or so, we were suddenly issued with fresh white bread we were all highly delighted. Anyone who has lived on hard tack biscuits for any length of time will know the feeling.

By reason of not having kept a diary of events, it is hard now after fifty years, to accurately recall the order in which events happened. For instance, I cannot for the life of me remember how long we had been on the beaches before we were treated to a shower.

All I can recall of this is that we were lined up outside a mobile shower unit and when our turn came to enter, we were instructed to strip and leave all of our clothes on the floor. We were then sent into the showers and given time enough to have a thorough scrubbing. After towelling ourselves dry we were then doused, from head to foot, in DDT and handed a completely new set of clothing and a new uniform. The battledress itself was 1-1berally covered in DDT. It seems strange that nowadays one is not allowed to use DDT yet during the war we were subjected to a full dose of the stuff at quite regular inter vals. The one thing I do remember about this treatment was the

Irritating itch caused which lasted for several days.

Meanwhile the news filtering through to us from the front was not always encouraging.We learned, from the newspapers I believe, that the 7th Armoured had suffered a setback at Villiers, but that the Yanks from Omaha and Utah beaches had joined up. On our own front little or no headway was being made despite our buildup of armour and the constant pounding the enemy were being subjected to.

Up to this stage, however, I have been veryremiss not making mention of the of construction of the Mulberry Harbour off Arromanches for use by the British and Canadians and off St Laurent for the use of the Americans. Once these artificial ports became operational the strain put on our own beach was lessened. I believe that it was about D+5 that I was ordered to accompany Colonel Wharton to Arromanches.

The scene of activity was unbelievable. Vehicles, being driven on to, and from, Mulberry in a continuous stream. Even in a Jeep it was quite a sensation to drive along the floating roadway and up to the caissons. I remember thinking that it must have been a very clever fellow who had thought up this idea. It also seemed to be a marvel as to how it had been towed from England and assembled in such a short period of time.

It was about a week later that, following the clearing of Lion-sur-Mer and the closing of the gap between Sword and Juno beaches, that we left the beach and moved into a large house at Luc-sur-Mer. Despite all of the fighting that had taken place the house was practically undamaged and on arrival I went up to the first floor where I spotted a bedroom with a large double bed pushed up into one corner. Whilst there were no bedclothes there was, nevertheless, a lovely looking mattress. In less time than it takes to tell I jumped on to the bed and claimed it as my own. As the others came into the room I proudly proclaimed my ownership, but this did not stop one of the other Sappers from deciding that we ought to share. No sooner had he moved on to the bed than in came the Sergeant Major. One look at the two of us lying side by side was sufficient for him to decide that we were queers and he ordered us both to stand by the bed.

After a while we managed to convince him that there was nothing sinister in the fact that we had both been laid upon the bed. At the same time, I put forward my prior claim and I was told that I could use the bed, but on my own. This certainly suited me. I began to look forward to my first night's sleep in a proper bed for weeks.

After we had all settled in the Sergeant Major called us together and informed us that we were about to be joined by several other men and, to all intents and purposes, our work on Sword Beach was over. Some of us, including myself, would be working on the Mulberry, while several other, would set up a dispersal centre in a field on the outskirts of the town. This news suited me for I knew that Arromanches and the Mulberry were out of reach of most of the German gunfire. After being dismissed we found that a field kitchen had been set up in a corner of the large courtyard at the rear of the house and one of the ground floor rooms was earmarked as a mess hall.

Following a good meal, I flopped on to my bed and fell into a deep sleep.

My next recollection was of all hell being let loose. The Sergeant Major was yelling his head off ordering us to parade outside. Throwing on my jacket, I joined the others, dashed down the stairs, and out into the courtyard where we were told to form up in single file. The Sergeant Major, his face the colour of beetroot, paced impatiently to and f ro. Once lined up Corporal Male called us all to attention and informed the Sergeant Major that everyone was present.

For what seemed like an age, the Sergeant Major, obviously in a foul temper, stood and glared at us. Then, in a voice like thunder, he demanded to know who the culprit was. I had no idea what he was talking about and by quickly glancing around, I could see that the others appeared just as perplexed as I was.

Meanwhile, the Sergeant Major continued to rail and then, suddenly, he pointed towards a spot in the centre of the courtyard and again demanded to know who the culprit was. It was then that I spotted the source of the trouble. There, a few yards in front of us was a pile of excreta surmounted by two empty wine bottles.

I felt like bursting into laughter but knew that I had better keep a straight face lest I be thought to be responsible. With the Sergeant Major pacing up and down the line and endeavouring to stare each one of us out while, at the same time threatening to court martial the culprit, the atmosphere was very tense.

After about fifteen minutes, the poor fellow must have realised that no one was going to own up, so following a tirade about filth and uncouth habits, he dismissed the parade warning us all that he would be keeping an eye open.

However, we had not heard, or seen, the last of this matter for on the following morning the whole episode was repeated. We were called on to parade where we again found the Sergeant Major ready to blow his stack. And yes, there in the middle of the courtyard stood another pile of excreta guarded this time by only one bottle. By this time, we were all convinced that someone from outside of our small group was responsible, but who? No one could hazard a guess. The matter was resolved, however, a couple of hours later when one of our lads thought he heard a scraping noise in the attic. Arming himself, and taking a torch, he climbed up into the attic and got the fright of his life. Quietly crouched into a corner was a young German soldier who took little persuading to give himself up.

Once out of the attic the German was taken to the Sergeant Major for questioning. Whilst the Sergeant Major knew no German, the young German knew sufficient English to make it known that he had been hiding in the attic for some days. He had been left behind when his unit pulled out. Convinced that we would be overrun he had decided to stay in hiding rather than surrender.

Yes, he had crept down into the courtyard in the middle of the night, using one of severa1 ways down from the attic. With the mystery solved the Sergeant Major suddenly saw the funny side of it all. He ordered a search of the attic in case there were any other Germans there, and once satisfied, he sent for the Military Police and handed the prisoner over. Ashe was bundled into the back seat of the MP's jeep, two or three of us handed him chocolate and cigarettes. After all, he had certainly caused a rumpus in our camp and somehow, we all felt very sorry for him as he was driven away to the P.O.W cage.

This episode was only one of several which occurred during the first few days of the invasion. There was the case of the French farmer who complained that our troops had been cutting rump steaks from one of his cows while it was still alive. An investigation showed that the cow has been hit by shrapnel and one of our lads had slapped a large shell dressing over the wound. Later on, we heard of the RASC chap who sold several jerricans of High-Octane aviation fuel to yet another farmer for use in his tractor. Then there was the classic sale by some Sappers of a small Bailey Bridge erected over a culvert. Again the purchaser was a French farmer who later on, was very understandably upset when a Recovery Unit reclaimed the bridge. The usual price for such articles was a goodly supply of Calvados, the local apple brandy.

However, back to the invasion. The Mulberry Harbour was a great success. Day and night, men, veh-1cles and stores, were discharged from the never-ending line of ships and all we had to do was to point them in the right direction. For some reason however, after only one day, I was detailed to go back to Sword Beach, on arrival, I was surprised to find that the beach looked somehow different. From a distance it looked as if small boats and ships were still being unloaded, but on a close examination, I soon found that it was all a charade. Several wrecks had been camouflaged to represent small ships while canvas trucks stood on the sand. Some actual vehicles drove across the sand leaving their tyre marks and several other pieces of equipment were being constantly moved about. From a distance, and no doubt, to all intents and purposes, it would look as if the beach was still in full use. The Germans must have thought so for every now and then a few mortar shells were lobbed over.

I never did find out why it was that I had been sent back there. There was certainly nothing for me to do. I managed to find myself a nice little concrete bunker just above the high-water line which had been part of the beach fortifications. Once night fel1 I realised that I was there on my own I became a bit scared. Lying in the bunker all night listening to the waves rolling on to the sand, I began to imagine all sorts of queer things. Looking across to the Le Havre peninsular I knew that there was nothing between lonely me and the German Army than a stretch of water.

Trying to get some sleep I began to convince myself that I could hear the sound of muffled oars, which could only mean that some Germans were rowing ashore, and that I would soon be facing them. Nonsense I know, but it all seemed so real to me then. I stayed there for two nights and they were, undoubtedly, two of the longest nights of my life. I am not ashamed to say that I was scared stiff. Bear in mind, if you will, that the front line on this sector was no further away than it had been on the first night, and it was still possible to hear the thunder of the artillery and see the red glow in the sky. Also, it wasn't far along the beach to the mouth of the Orne River and I knew that the 1eft f1ank forward area was just the other side of the river. During those two nights I kept my rifle pretty handy but I had convinced myself that I wouldn't get the chance to use it.

After the two days back on Sword I returned to Luc-sur-mer but only for a few hours. No sooner had I taken off my kit than I was informed that I would be joining Corporal Male and a couple of other of our chaps manning a dispersal point set up two or three miles inland. When I arrived, I found the chaps living under canvas. An army bell tent had been set up and Corporal Male had arranged for a number of empty ration boxes to be delivered and these were used as beds.A good idea which certainly meant that we did not have to sleep on the damp ground. Our job was quite simple.

We had now lost our Beach Group status and we were nowL of C (Lines of Communication) troops but still part of the ELA (British Liberation Army). Life was a lot quieter and we had nothing to do but to check every vehicle and ensure that the driver knew exactly where he had to deliver his load. Actually, it was here that I began to get a bit bored and so I hit upon the idea of writing letters to various people back home to let them know how dangerously we were living. My first letter was to the Mayor of Lewisham. I told him that before leaving for Normandy some of us had been stationed in Lewisham and I commented upon how well we had been treated and how different our lives now were. I also wrote to Tommy Handley, a well-known radio comic, and to Jean Kent a very beautiful British film star. Within about ten days we received the first of many food parcels from the Mayor of Lewisham but all we received from the two stars were photographs.

It was also at this time that I cut my hand opening a tin of 50 cigarettes. Normally, such tins were opened quite simply by depressing a small blade contained in the lid and pressing this down into a seal of very thin metal and turning. I, clever dick that I am, tried forcing the blade into the bottom of the tin which was made of much thicker metal. Needless to say, I cut myself. Without any further ado however, I wrote to W & H.O Wills and complained. It worked.

Within a few days I received a package containing 400 cigarettes. Not a bad return for an idiot trick

One evening after we had all retired to our tent, a jeep containing two Military Police pulled up and they informed us that they had just picked up a large crate which had fallen from a lorry. As it was a fine evening the Corporal decided to leave it outside and to deal with it in the morning. As it so happened I was the first one to leave the tent next morning and looking at the crate I was surprised to see a large black diamond painted on the side. I knew what this meant. NAAFI stores. I called the Corporal and he decided that we should open it up and see what the contents were. After breaking the crate open and tearing away a thick covering of silver foil we were both surprised and delighted to find that the contents were 10,000 Woodbines in packets of 200. Calling the others, we quickly divided the spoils among us and placed them inside the empty ration boxes which we used as beds. We could hardly believe our good luck as the cigarettes would be more use to us than the fancy French money with which we had been issued. Cigarettes were the best possible currency and we could now buy whatever we wanted. It didn't take us long to get hold of a couple of bottles of Calvados.

Meanwhile the greatest threat to the invasion came on the 18th June (D+12). This was the start of what is generally known as "The Great Storm". It lasted for three whole days during which both Mulberry harbours were severly hit. So great was the damage that the Mulberry serving the American forces was completely destroyed and the Mulberry installation at Arromanches which served the British and Canadian forces was very severly hit. The gale was the fiercest ever known to have hit the Channel in summer for over eighty years.

For over three days nothing could be brought across, moored or landed. About 140,000 tons of vitally need stores went down and about 800 ships were either lost or beached - far greater losses than anything that the Germans had been able to inflict.

During the storm some 500l landing craft sheltered inside the Arromanches Mulberry. The Allied build-up was dramatically hit. I have read that following the storm only about one fifth of the planned quantities of men and supplies could be landed. The Americans were left with just two days of ammunition while the British were left three or four divisions short. For its time it looked as if we could all be driven back into the sea from where we came. The only answer to the supply problem was for the Americans to take the port of Cherbourg.

Meanwhile, the British were still pinned down on the outskirts of Caen. The initial plan was to take Caen on D-Day but the planners had reckoned without the stubborn resistance which the Germans would put up.

Ranged against the· British and Canadian forces were some of the elite German Armoured divisions the 21st Panzer and the 12th SS Panzers.· It was not until the 10th July that the City of Caen was actually taken. In the meantime, Caen was subjected to a number of very heavy air attacks by the RAF and the US Air Force.

These attacks did little to dislodge the Germans but caused immense damage to buildings and large casualties amongst the French civilian population.It must, of course, be stated here that the Normandy countryside was most unsuitable for tank warfare. Known as the Bocage, the area beyond the beaches consisted of very narrow country lanes bordered by extremely high hedgerows. As they attempted to advance the British tanks were picked off, one by one, as they tried to traverse the hedges. All that the German defenders had to do was simply wait until the underbelly of any tank was exposed and then fire an anti-tank shell into the most vulnerable part of the machine. The same hedges could be very effectively used to hide any defenders. Somewhere I have read that the Germans scornfully christened some of our tanks as "Tommy Cookers", while our own fellows christened them "Ronsons" They lit, first time, every time.

A lot has been written about Montgomery's failure to take Caen, as he had promised, but despite what any American historian may have to say, it cannot be denied that it was the Br·1tish and Canadians who held the majority of the German forces at bay which eventually allowed the Americans to break out and sweep across the Cotentin Peninsular and move to take Cherbourg.

Meanwhile, following the Great Storm, I and several others were detailed to return to Sword Beach. Once again, it was necessary to try to bring men and supplies ashore there, but the operation was severely hampered by the amount of debris, damaged boats, vehicles and equipment which had been tossed up on the sand during the storm. Still our work went on for several days despite all of the difficulties, while every attempt was made to bring the Arromanches Mulberry into full operation.

Several times during these early days we were able to take a few hours off duty to visit Bayeux.

This was, and still is, a very beautiful city which had remained virtually undamaged .As a result, the local inhabitants were very friendly indeed and made us as welcome as they possibly could .I remember one evening, in particular, when accompanied by a couple of

friends.I attended a concert given by Ivor Novello and a company of "Stars in Battledress". The concert was, in fact, performed in a large marquee, and we all had a thoroughly enjoyable time. At the end of the show as we all applauded and called for encores, Novello invited some of us to gather around the piano while he entertained us with several songs. One of these, he explained, had never been performed in public before. It was, "We'll Gather Lilacs". Even today I can still visualise the scene each time I hear that particular tune played. It went on to become a very great success. Several other famous stars of stage and screen crossed to Normandy to enterta-1n us -1n those early days, the most notable being George Formby.

During June, Montgomery launched several major operations designed to capture Caen without success and it was not until the evening of the 7th July that the attack which would finally capture Caen would begin. This attack opened w-1th 450 planes dropping no less than 2, 500 tons of bombs, which blasted even more of the ancient houses into piles of rubble. When the British and Canadians finally entered the town, fighting street by street and house by house, they found every bridge over the River Orne blown and

the Germans were firmly entrenched on the other side. -,

It was not until the 10th or 11th of July that claim was laid to the taking of Caen. For well over five weeks, every effort to achieve the capture of this most

Important posthad been thwarted by the efficiency and determination of the Germans. Their battle-hardened troops, with their superior tanks, had proved more than a match to anything which Montgomery could throw at them. However, it can be justly claimed that the battle for Caen had made the Germans concentrate the major-1ty of their best troops in the area and so allowed the Americans to forge forward against weaker units.

On the 12th July, I found myself being moved into Caen itself. The idea was to fully examine the port area to ascertain whether or not it could be used. I shall never, for the life of me, understand how anyone in authority could, for one minute believe that the docks could be quickly brought into use bearing in mind the naval, artillery and bomb-1ng raids which had been

launched against the city. Nevertheless, into Caen we went, led by a new officer, Captain Harris. Whoever commissioned this chap to be an officer made a grave mistake. He was greatly overweight, one could even say obese. He was straight out from the UK and he seemed to have no authority whatsoever. As we moved into the suburbs we took over a building which we later learned had served as the headquarters for the German Dental Unit. Although the upper floors had been severely damaged, the lower floors and cellars had been heavily fortified. On the first night we settled ourselves down in the cellars and prepared ourselves for a good night's sleep. This was not to be. The Germans, who had only been driven across the river set up a terrific mortar barrage of the area we were occupying.

As the first mortars and shells began to fall around us, our gallant Captain, paced the floor, sweat pouring from his bespectacled face. His continual pacing gradually began to affect each one of us, and about midnight someone was heard to call out "For Christ's sake, go to bed SIR". This certainly seemed to have the required result for the pacing about stopped. As it was Captain Harris made no attempt to find out who it was that had called out to him, but somehow, Major Rex, our C.O. must have heard about the incident with a result that Harris left us that very day. It was certainly not that we lower ranks were any braver than the good Captain, but I think that we all knew that unless the building we were in was hit by a 500lb bomb we were undoubtedly safe.(I was later again to come under the command of Captain Harris when I was posted to Flensburg in May,45- and I could relate yet another tale of the un-officer like behavior of this gentleman.)

When I think of the bravery and leadership of Colonel Wharton and Captain Hope I am very pleased that they led us ashore on D-Day, rater than a man such as Captain Harris.

On re-reading this chapter I realised that I had..., missed referring to a sordid event I witnessed while in Caen. I believe that I am correct in stating that until the 5th/6th June 1944 the people of Normandy had not been as much affected by the war and four years of occupation as other parts of France had been. Food had been rather plentiful, and it would appear that the occupying troops had conducted themselves quite well.

As a result, a great number of French ladies and Germantroops had formed close and lasting friendships. However, within forty-eight hours of the liberation the good burghers of Caen sought their revenge on what they termed as Nazi collaborators. They rounded up as many of the young ladies, and sometimes not so young, as they could and herded them into a square where they were made to sit on stools while their heads were roughly shaved. So rough was some of the shaving that many of the women bled profusely from cuts and nicks.

All the time the assembled crowd jeered, cursed, pushed and spat upon the poor souls. They were then paraded around the streets. I believe that many of the women were, in fact, put to death that day. From reports circulating at the time this practice occurred in many French towns and cities as the Germans retreated.

Such is man's inhumanity to man. And now with your permission dear reader I will take licence and jump forward in time to the end of the war. Within a few short months following the cessation of hostilities many thousands of British, French, Canadian and American soldiers, including senior officers and the lower ranks, became guilty of the same crime of collaborating with the enemy. Immediately the war came to an end in May 1945, our Commander in Chief, General Montgomery issued an order by which he intended that there should be no contact between his troops and the Germans except in the course of duty This became known as the "Non-Fraternisation Order", and what an inane order it turned out to be. It laid down that anyone found consorting with a German, in any way whatsoever, was to be court martial led and imprisoned. With hindsight, I suppose that the thinking behind this was to eliminate the chances of our troops being taken by the Nazi Resistance. We had all been warned about the formation of Werewolf gangs but to the best of my knowledge none of these gangs ever existed. The Germans were far too occupied in living out each day as it arose, and they were only too pleased that the war was over for them. However, what this Order did do was to make us all feel very uncomfortable. We were still required to move everywhere with our rifles slung over our shoulders, and to ensure that we could not be accused of speaking with, or smiling at some German girl or child, most of us walked around with our eyes lowered to the ground. It was particularly hard on the poor British Tommy who had always treated young children well, even in the middle of battles, and it became difficult not to want to hand the poor mites a piece of chocolate or a few sweets. Indeed, from my own knowledge, the order did assist some Germans to take action against the conquerors. Many an unsuspecting soldier in cities like Hamburg, Kiel, etc, was sometimes lured into German homes, or rooms, even brothels by a bewitching smile. Once inside and settled down the Military Police somehow learned of the fact, raided the house and took the poor fellow into custody. Some of the sentences imposed at that time were very severe indeed. I am not sure just how long this order remained in force before it was rescinded.

Some two or three months I think. After that it suddenly became legal, if frowned upon, to associate with the people of Germany. Later on, it also became possible for members of the British Army to apply to marry German Nationals. And this is when the Army authorities became as intolerant as the people of France had been.

After all, how dare some German women imagine that they were in love with a British soldier? Needless to say, I was one of the first to make application, and although I realise that I am digressing I feel that you, my dear children, may want to know the circumstances .When I first submitted my application to my Commanding Officer. Lt. Col Easter, AQMG(M) of HQ Hamburg District Movement Control, I was quickly summoned to appear before him. I was made to stand stiffly to attention while being called an idiot. He threatened to post me to the Far East, and then rambled on about the fact that these women would only be marrying us for food, for British Nationality and for the opportunity of escaping from Germany. He further said that if and when my bride-to-be ever went to the UK no one would befriend her, no shopkeeper would serve her. What utter rubbish .However, he had no alternative but to allow my application through, once he could see that I was not about to change my mind. followed a seven-month waiting period in which Helga was subjected to a great number of indignities. She was called before a board to ascertain that neither she or any member of her family had ever been an active member of the Nazi Party. She had to attend Hamburg hospital to prove that she did not have VD, or TB, or any other malady and I am sure that you can imagine that the British nurses were not too gentle with these German upstarts. Then followed reports from the Police and Church, as well as three references of good character. I was sent home on leave to discuss the matter with my family, and so it went on. There were many times when Grandma felt like calling the whole thing off, and who could blame her. I only wish that it could be possible for me to again meet with Lt Col Easter and to let him know, in no uncertain terms, how wrong he had been and that I hoped his last fifty years had been as happy as mine had.

Of course, none of the last few paragraphs had nothing whatsoever to do with the Liberation of Caen, except for the fact that I felt the women so humiliated had acted no differently to what so many of us did later on and I remain convinced that there was a lesson to be learned from the actions of those who had stones to cast.

And so, I will now, once again, return to Normandy and our entry into Caen.

It did not take very long for our team to realise that a great deal of work would be necessary before either the docks or the railway yards at Caen could be used, and so, within 72 hours we were again ordered to pack, ready to leave. This time, I was sent to the 14th Base Ordnance Depot at Audrieu, a small village midway between Caen and Bayeux. Here I was to be part of a Railway Traffic Officer team, and working with an American Railway Unit, who were busily engaged in repairing the railway line from Cherbourg to Caen. The 14th Base Ordnance Depot, though British, was expecting to receive its supplies via this railway system. In order to facilitate this the Americans laid a spur line from Audrieu station into the depot. Mind you the depot was set in an open field with just a few marquees and tents dotted around. As the supplies arrived and were unloaded they were stacked across the full area of the field. Crates containing tank engines, etc were stacked five high, other items of ordnance were stacked according to their requirement. Unfortunately, once the depot had been set up the weather changed, and we were subjected to some very heavy rain. As a result, the ground became quite soggy and many of the heavier crates began to sink into the ground. I have often wondered whether or not any French farmer has unearthed some large crates while ploughing. As for the RTO staff we enjoyed a quiet life. Our American counterparts became quite good friends. I, myself became very friendly with one of the Americans. I cannot now recall his surname, but his first name was Bill and he was from Boston. Mass. Bill was indeed a great fellow and without my knowledge he arranged for his girlfriend back home to send some food parcels to my mother. Something which was truly appreciated. One of the other Americans always seemed to have an ample supply of Tequlia. This was sent to him by his wife who lived in New Mexico. To this day, I can still remember the potency of Tequila mixed with Calvados.

Whilst operating this station we all became quite adapted at riding the trains .We would hang on to either the locomotive or guards' vans as the train left the depot and when it passed through the station we would alight while it was still moving. only once, as far as I can remember, did I ever misjudge my leap and end up base over apex. This American operation worked extremely well and soon our goods trains were heading for Paris and stations north. I often wonder how life panned out for Bill and his mates. In retrospective Audrieu was a cushy billet for although a rather fierce battle had been fought near the village the station buildings had remained virtually intact and we were able to use them both as billet and offices.

It was at this time that the pace of the war quickened most noticeably. After the capture of Caen, the British and Canadians were able to break out and move towards the advancing Americans A pincer movement was put into place and the jaws closed on the small town of Falaise. As the gap closed, entire divisions of the German Army were trapped and annihilated.

Speaking later to men who had passed through the Falaise area, they related tales of the untold hundreds of dead German troops and horses, of knocked out tanks, burnt out vehicles, and the horrible stench of death which hung over the entire area. While, for various reasons, several thousands of German troops were able to escape the trap, their losses were enormous. It was Germany's greatest defeat since Stalingrad and, to all intents and purposes, was the turning point in the war in Europe , and so, on the 21st August 1944, the

Falaise gap was closed and just four days later Paris was liberated by the American and French forces, while the British and Canadians swept up the coastline.

Thus, ended about eleven weeks of very heavy fighting and for the most of th1·s time I had been within just a few m·iles of the front line. In deed, for the greater part of this ti me the enemy had been dug in around Caen and the eastern bank of the Orne river; always close enough to hurl their mortars and shells at us.

with the closure of the Falaise Gap my participation in any further actions ceased. I again became part of the Lines of Communication force whose job it was to ensure that our men at the front line were kept well supplied. This role continued for me through France, Belgium, Holland and finally into Germany.

I was fortunate, however, in that my early arrival on Sword Beach on D-Day gave certain advantages. Two weeks after the fal1 of Paris I was in the first British group to be granted 72 hours, leave in the city. We motored up from Ameins in the back of a three-ton lorry and on arrival in Paris we were taken to the Hotel Ambassador on Boulevarde Haussman. What a billet. This was one of the best hotels in. Paris and it had been given over to entertain about two hundred and fifty troops. The rooms were the finest I had ever seen. The beds large and comfortable and the view of Paris from the window of my room was unbelievable. A few minutes after arrival we were called to the lobby where a Regimental Sergeant Major informed us that we were free of any restrictions for the period of the leave. He also warned us against contracting STD and said that each man could collect as many condoms as he wished prior to hitting the town, but it was God help anyone who had to report sick and who had not taken the necessary precautions and signed the prophylactic register.

After taking a bath a few of us hit the town and after a few drinks ended up in the Follies Bergere. What a show that was. None of us had ever seen anything like it although we were a bit disappointed that the nudes had to remain stationary. Nevertheless, those who were allowed to move about displayed quite enough flesh to set our young bodies tingling. Later on, we visited several cafes on the Left Bank and marveled at the fact that Paris had escaped unscathed from bombing and shelling and, in fact, the war appeared to be of no consequence. After a very good night's sleep we trotted down to the dining room for breakfast and again to yet another major surprise. The small tables were laid with silver service and each one was covered with a pure white 1inen tablecloth. Matching napkins lay by the side of each setting and as well as a glass of water, a glass of tomato juice was provided. Picture the scene if you can. A couple of hundred young soldiers, straight from the battlefields of Normandy with all of its mud and filth, sitting down for breakfast in the dining room of a top-class Parisian hotel. I recall that when the main course of breakfast arrived, served by immaculately attired waiters, no one quite knew how to start. Some poured the tomato juice over their sausages, others dipped their roll into it, while yet others, myself included, decided to drink it in one draught. That day we did the usual tourist trip around Paris. The Notre Dame, the Lourve, Napoleons' Tomb, the Eiffel Tower etc. Of all of these I must say that the Notre Dame was the most disappointing to me. Merely, I suspect, because the entrance to the Cathedral resembled nothing more than a glorified market place. That evening we were lavished entertained in the hotel by a Stars in Battledress unit. After yet another solid nights sleep it was back on to the lorries and a return to our unit. Still, those 72 hours have long remained in my memory and even today, after more than fifty years, I can still clearly remember everything we did.

The fact that I was one of the first to land on Sword Beach on D-Day also stood me in good stead just after Christmas, 1944. Checking Company Orders one day I saw my name listed for seven days UK leave. What a thrill this was. I left my unit and travelled to Calais where I took a ship to Dover and home. This enabled me to be home in Derbyshire to celebrate my twenty-first birthday for which my mother had, arranged a party, of sorts, at the "Queens Head" public house. As well as my own family, Lily Anthony, my girlfriend was there. This was one of the last times we were together for after visiting my home at Swanwick she definitely cooled towards me, with hindsight, I cannot blame her. After all, who would want to be engaged to someone who lived in such a hovel. At the end of my leave we still continued to correspond for some time but, needless to say, one day I received the expected "Dear John" letter. By this time, however, I had moved from France and into Belgium, at this point I would remind my reader that this story was commenced to deal with my involvement in "Operation Overlord" and the D-Day invasion of the French coast and, in consequence, I feel that my service in Belgium, Holland and finally in Germany should, if ever I get down to it, be the basis of a separate account.

As far as the events surround-1ng the invasion are concerned my tale is now complete. Looking back over the years I am proud to have been a part of the greatest armada ever assembled. I can now look back and say, "I was there". I am proud of the fact that my small group played a not too insignificant role, not only on D-Day and the weeks that followed, but that we were also deeply involved in the planning prior to the event. I still recall with horror the nightmare voyage across the Channel and the sight and sounds of the battle which raged as we landed. I can still see the lifeless bodies of our troops floating in the sea or lying face down in the sand. If I close my eyes I can still visualise the look of surprise on Arthur Kelly's face as we wrapped him in his gas cape prior to burying him, and above all, I can still feel some of the fear I experienced several times during my first few days on French soil. Fifty years on, as I revis-1ted the area, all of these feelings came v-1vidly back to me. In the next chapter, I will attempt to describe my feelings as I took part in the fiftieth anniversary celebrations of the D-Day landings.

Before drawing this section to a close however, it may be of interest to list some of the logistics of that momentous D-Day operation. No fewer than 6051 vessels of all types were used in Operation Neptune, the codename for the naval operation entrusted with the task of getting the invasion forces to the shores of Normandy. This figure included 325 Warships, 41 2 5 Landing Ships and Craft, 736 Ancillary Craft and 864 Merchant Navy vessels . By midnight on the 6th June a total of 156115 men had been put ashore including

73,000 US Troops

833115 Canadian and British Forces

For their part the RAF and USAF put 11590 aircraft into the air and flew no less than 14,674 missions the Luftwaffe could only mount 319 missions. The allied forces lost 127 aircraft which considering the numbers and the weather was a miracle in itself.

CHAPTER FOUR - THE PILGRIMAGE

"They shallnot grow old,

as we who are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them Nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,

We will remember them "

I am not quite sure when the idea that I should take part in the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings first took root. I must admit that for many, many years I had given no thought at all to the happenings in 1944. Of course, I had mentioned the fact that I had taken part in the invasion to several people as and when, conversation turned to wartime events. But that was as far as it went. Even while I was still serving

in the Army the topic seldom arose unless I'd taken a little too much drink and needed to brag a little.

After becoming a civilian I never once thought of returning to the beaches of Normandy.

So what made me change my mind?

I think it was when I read in the newspapers of the IR.A's bombing of the Royal Marines barracks in Deal in 1989. This outrage particularly angered me especially as I had lived for nearly twenty years in Deal and, like most other Dealites, had formed an affection for the Marine Corps. One of the newspaper reports carried a message from the President of the East Kent branch of the Normandy Veterans Association, an Association of which I knew nothing at all. A few weeks later I discovered that there existed a West Australian branch of the NVA and so I made contact and joined.

It was at about the same time that my· two daughters began to tell me how difficult it was to think of just what presents they could give me at Christmas, on birthdays or on Father's Day. Casually I mentioned one day that I would like to visit Normandy and perhaps, instead of buying presents for me, the money could be used to help me achieve my aim. Sure enough, on my next birthday, I received a card which read " This entitles Mr Ron Latham to a return trip to Europe for the 50th Anniversary of D-Day". What a surprise.' I never thought for one moment that I had been taken seriously. But there it was, my family trying hard to make my dream come true.

As I began to attend meetings of the NVA in Perth, my appetite for the aims of the Association became whetted. It was good to meet men who had been part of the invading force; some who had, in fact, arrived much earlier in Normandy than I had men of the Airborne Division and the Commandos. I quickly realised that a unique sense of comradeship was evident and after many, many years I again began to think of Arthur Kelly and Captain Hope. I also began to think also of my father. By this time, I had completely forgiven him and I realised that by keeping his boyhood promise, and by paying the supreme sacrifice he had most certainly redeemed himself.

And so, it was that in 1992 I wrote to the Secretary of the Canterbury branch of the NVA and asked if they would allow me to travel with them to Normandy. I felt that it was far better to travel with an organised group from the UK than to try and make. All of the necessary arrangements to attend the anniversary by myself from Australia .Practically by return post I was informed that I was more than welcome to join in with the Canterbury branch and that there was indeed another Australian committed to travelling with them.

It was a bit disappointing however to find that it was not their intention to be in Normandy in time to take part in the activities being arranged for the 6th June 1994.The reason for this soon became clear as one began to read that the French were intent on cashing in on the event and were accepting extraordinary offers for accommodation from the Americans, and Canadians, even though deposits had been made by British groups. And so it was that I came across a leaflet from a travel company, Tours International, who operated out of Tunbridge Wells, in which they offered a four day tour of Normandy commencing on the 4th June and arriving back in England on the 7th. The Canterbury branch of the NVA were scheduled to travel across to Normandy on the 11th returning on the 18th. My wife and I then decided that I should be part of both tours. This would, at least enable me to participate in the major events planned and then to take a more leisurely tour of the Normandy countryside.

I must say that I was very fortunate in choosing to be part of the Canterbury NVA tour. Jack Southey, their organiser, kept me up to date with all of their plans and at one time advised me that the branch had, through various functions, etc, gathered together sufficient funds to be in a position to cover the whole cost of the trip for those booked. Can you imagine my surprise when he informed me that this included myself. Helga and I talked about this offer and decided that the least we could do would be to send a donation to the branch.

In the interim period, of course, Helga and I moved to South Australia and our time had been well taken up by plans to build our new home in Meadows. It was at this time that I suddenly received a letter from Tours International advising that my cheque covering the cost of my tour had been marked "Refer to sender". Panic stations. Here I must explain that I had earlier arranged with my sister-in-law to open a bank account for me into which my UK pension would be paid. She, poor girl, opened the account with a Building Savings Company. Anyway, after ringing the UK bank and giving them a piece of my mind things were sorted out to everyone's satisfaction. The Bank had, in fact, made an absolute pig's ear of the instructions they had been given.

My dear Helga was in her element making all of the arrangements for my journey. Not only did she book my flight to and from the UK but she also arranged for a hire car to be available for me whilst I was in Derbyshire,· she booked me into an hotel in London for one week, together with a booking to see "Les Miserables", a ticket to the Royal Albert Hall to see "The Spirit of Normandy" which was being presented as a part of the fiftieth celebrations, and she also booked my flight to and from Mallorca where I had been invited to visit Dick .an d Marjorie Bird. As usual, her arrangements were excellent.

And so, it was on the 28th May 1994, I departed Adelaide Airport on a British Airways flight to Heathrow. Whilst passing through immigration, the lady officer asked me for my reasons for visiting the UK and when I said that I was travelling to take part in the anniversary of D-Day, a voice behind me piped up, "And that is where we are going". Turning around a couple introduced themselves as Mr and Mrs Cavanaugh,of Elizabeth. We chatted during the flight and I found out that they had made their own arrangements and were travelling directly to France and staying at Lisseux having made all of their own arrangements. Apparently, they had visited Normandy on a couple of previous occasions.

The flight from Adelaide to Heathrow is, as most of my readers will know, extremely long and tiring.

This was the first time I had f1own out of Adelaide, all my other departures for Europe had, of course, been from Perth. I think that the problem was merely one of taking off from Adelaide and then dropping down into Melbourne less than an hour later, with the usual two hour stop over. From Melbourne it was on to Bangkok and then, next stop Heathrow. Our plane landed at 0530 hours on Sunday, May 29th and I was very pleasantly surprised to see both Terry and Leonie waiting for me as I left the Customs Hall. Once outside, the sun was just rising and Terry informed me that until the previous day the weather in Southern England had been positively horrendous.

Naturally I took it upon myself to take credit for the change. And what a change it was. I can tell you now that other than a slight drizzle in Bayeaux on the morning of the 6th June no rain fell during my entire visit. Naturally, this made for a very good holiday and who am I to deny that I have a direct line to him above.

As we drove home from Heathrow to Deal, Terry took a great deal of time to explain the M25. This motorway had not been in existence when I left England but I was soon to learn that it completely circumnavigated London but unfortunately that it could not possible cope with the amount of traffic which made use of it. In fact, my brother was so intent upon explaining this to me that he completely missed his turn-off and we found ourselves travelling towards the new bridge over the Thames. Apparently, traffic travelling one way around the M25 circuit took the bridge and traffic travelling the other way us d the Dartford Tunnel. I found it all very confusing. So different to what I thought I knew up to the time of my departure in 1970.

Once Terry had got himself back on track it took no time at all before we were through Folkestone and Dover (both very much altered as far as road works were concerned) and then into Deal, which hadn't changed much at all. By the time we arrived at 49 Church Lane (our old home) the weather was simply glorious. Sunny and warm.Leonie made breakfast and insisted that we ate outside. It felt so good to be back with members of my family. Later on we were joined by Karen, Stephen and their children, Ashley and Daniel, both of whom immediately took a shine to me. Later on in the afternoon we all drove down to the Strand at Walmer, and sat for a time listening to an Essex Police Band concert. Here I feel I should explain that following the IRA bombing of the Marine Barracks a few years earlier, a rotunda had been erected on Walmer Green, adjacent to the Lifeboat Station, and this rotunda had been dedicated to the memory of the eleven Royal Marine musicians who had lost their 1ives as a result of the dastardly IRA attack on their barracks. I soon learned that concerts were held most Sunday afternoons to commemorate the attack and as I sat and listened to the music played by the Essex Police Band, I was suddenly struck by the thought that sacrifices were still being made by members of the armed forces and that we Normandy Veterans, who had lost so many of our comrades those fifty years ago were not alone in our sorrows.

Here, in Walmer, death had struck quite recently and many men had 1ost their mates.I think it was then that the whole feeling of the pilgrimage I was on suddenly overwhelmed me.

I was not scheduled to cross over to France until Saturday, 4th June and, in the interim period, although both Terry and Leonie had to work, I spent a great deal of time refreshing my memories of Deal.After all, this was the town in which Helga and I had raised our family, where we had made so many friends.Of course, many changes had taken place in the time since we had left but it was pleasing to be recognised as I walked along the High Street.

But I feel that I must get back to my Normandy pilgrimage. During the week I telephoned Tours International and they agreed with me that it would be ludicrous for me to travel up to London to take the coach at 6am, when I was only 7 miles away from Dover. The agreement· then was that I should present myself at the P&O Office on Dover Docks at 9am, and I was assured that I would be collected from that point. As a matter of fact, both Terry and Leonie, insisted that they made sure that I would be on site at 8am, and so I duly presented myself to the P&O Reception Counter in ample time. The Reception Officer, and if my memory serves me aright, a very lovely young lady, advised that I should remain near the reception desk and that the Coach Captain would call in to collect me, Nothing, could be simpler, or so we thought.

Saturday 4th June 1994

By 9am, I was sat in the reception area, watching coach after coach make their way through and on to the ferry but still no Tours International representative had called the P&O desk Naturally, I began to get a little agitated, especially as the time for sailing approached. The receptionists had no explanation and it was then that my brother decided to telephone the office of Tours International in Tunbridge Wells. Now Terry does not normally lose his cool but he was livid as he explained that he could get no sense at all out of the tour people. They were not aware that I was to be collected, they did not know what coach I was supposed to be on, etc,etc. To top it all, by this time the ferry had sailed.

Here I must tell of my brother's reaction, which was, "Ron, we will get you to Caen, even if we have to take a ferry and drive you there" I was choked.Not only by Terry's statement but also by the fact that everything appeared to be going wrong. It was at this point that we again spoke to the P&O Reception Officer. who, by this time had ascertained that the coach I was supposed to join had, in fact, boarded the ferry and was now half way across to France. This particular officer, to whom I must remain eternally grateful, then made the decision to radio the Captain of the ferry, advise h·1m of the situation, and get him to instruct the Coach Captain that I would be put aboard the next ferry and that he should await my arrival in Calais. Once confirmation of this had been received back it was time for the next sailing to depart. Again, the P&O staff were marvellous. They suddenly told me to quickly gather my luggage, and with hardly any time to say goodbye to Terry and Leonie, I was whisked into a van which shot across Dover Harbour yard at a goodly rate of knots. The driver drove straight up the ferry ramp on to the car deck and then immediately told me to bail out, which I did, quite unceremoniously. He then had just sufficient time to turn his vehicle around and shoot back through the bow doors before they closed.

And so, I was on my way , I had no idea that the coach would be waiting for me when I disembarked but I was determined that I would get to Caen, even if I had to take a train, or hitch a r ide. From the lower car deck I made my way up to the passenger area, regaled myself with a glass of beer and settled down to the one and a half hour trip Since my first crossing in 1944

I have crossed the Channel on many, many occasions only once had the weather proved similar to that which we endured when taking part in Operation Overlord. In fact my crossing in 1994 was a delight, smooth seas, fine weather and a boat full of very happy holiday makers.

It seemed like no time at all before we were being summoned over the tannoy, either to go to our vehicles or, in the case of foot passengers such as myself, to assemble at a certain point. Once docking was complete it took no time at all before we were on French soil.

As I recall there was no passport or customs checks. (Why am I such an idiot? Of course, there would be no checks, were we not in the European Common Market Area?)

As I left the immediate disembarkation area, I began to look out for some sign that the Tours International people had decided to wait for me. To be sure, I was soon hailed by a young lady who greeted me thus,"Ar e you Mr Latham? We have been waiting three quarters of an hour for you". Now it is not often that I get really upset but her attitude got up my nose to say the 1east. "Young Lady " I replied," I sat in Dover for well over two hours awaiting your call, I have travelled twelve thousand miles to be on your tour and, despite all of that, you somehow managed to sail through Dover without even bothering to look for me.

Now, I will warn you, that in my present state of mind, I am prepared to not only sue your Company but also to sue you as well. Is that quite clear?" Obviously it was because she suddenly changed her attitude and

explained that she had not been advised by Tours International that there was a passenger to be collected at Dover. I felt it best not to argue

although with hindsight I realis e that she must have been aware that she was one passenger short. On boarding the coach I was again, quite naturally, greeted by a few sarcastic cheers, but before taking my seat I made sure that everyone on board knew the full story. Their attitude seemed to change after that.

On the coach I was allocated a seat next to a Mr Bill Owen. Bi ll , as it turned out, lived mainly in Switzerland having married a Swiss Lady after the war.

Unfortunately for me he never stopped. talking about who he was, what he was, and what he had. I quickly came to the conclusion that here was one man who had been fortunate enough to marry a woman of substance. I then, in the main closed my ears to most of his ramblings.

Once on board the coach and as we travelled through the French countryside I began to take stock of my fellow travellers and also of my immediate surroundings. Most of the chaps on board were members of the Normandy Veterans Association and belonging to many of the branches throughout the UK. However, I was very surprised to find that one of my fellow travellers belonged to the West Australian branch of the NVA.

Mind you, this first glance around the coach was not too encouraging. The coach was definitely not as luxurious as one would expect, and we were soon to find out that the a1·r conditioning did not work. Neither did the video or the toilet. As we had a six to seven-hour journey, this latter fault could prove to be quite a problem. It was obvious that Tours International had hired in both the coach and its driver. The latter, a Jamaican, was without doubt a very good driver and quite a pleasant fellow, but he had to admit that his coach left a lot to be desired. The Tour Captain later advised that she too had been hired in and was not employed by Tours International. She seemed to be a pleasant enough lady and I must agree that she spoke excellent French.

And so, we set off from Calais to drive through the French countryside. Since my last visit to Calais a great number of improvements had taken place. Instead of having to drive through the old town, a new ring road had been constructed which by-passed the town completely. Shortly after having left the dock area we were speeding south on an excellent road , We by-passed Boulogne as the Pas de Calais opened up before us. It wasn't long before I began to think about all of the battles which had been fought in this area down through the ages. Signposts pointed the way to such places as Crecy, St Valery and on to Amiens where we crossed the Somme. I found myself wondering just how many men, both English and French, had lost their lives in this area fighting for their King and Country. The count would run into many millions, no doubt. Would we never learn? I thought of my Grandfather and my Uncle Jack

Who had both given their lives during the first world War and whose bodies lay buried somewhere in this lovely country of France. I suddenly became very ashamed of myself when I began to think that it was because of the huge amount of blood and bone shed in this area which made it so verdant and productive.

Putting this thought behind me I forced myself to concentrate on the journey.

My travelling companion continuously regaled me with details of his life style, the half of which went in one ear and out of the other.Still, I realised that, whether I liked it or not, I was stuck with him for the next four or five days.

In the main, the journey was uneventful. It was not until someone suggested that we ought to stop for a break and some refreshment that a problem arose. Our Tour Captain had obviously not given any thought to this matter and we had passed quite a few decent cafe's on the Motorway. By now we were driving along normal roads and suddenly a halt was called in a very small village. Here was a cafe, of sorts, and by this time most of us were in desperate need of the toilets. As we a 1ighted it became apparently clear that this was no more than a rural hostelry. The look on the cafe owners' face as about fifty tourists stepped out of the bus and into his cafe was a sight to behold. The few locals who were stood at the bar very nearly choked on their drinks. They were at a loss to understand what was happening. The first thing all of the ladies asked for was the toilet and they were soon directed to a small door in the corner of the bar room. I am not sure which 1ady was the first to enter but I can sti11 recall her scream. Later on, we were to learn that this was indeed rural France. The toilet consisted, or so I was told, of a hole in the ground over which the ladies were required to squat, their feet placed into footmarks, as is the norm in such places. We men in the meantime decided that the bushes in the garden outside provided a far more sanitary ablution area.

Later on, even some of the ladies agreed with us and eventually made full use of the bushes.

For refreshment, the bar owner offered ham rolls and coffee. The thought of the preparation of the ham rolls certainly put the majority of us off the idea, but a few of us, myself included, decided to order a cafe, grandee, negro. with a double cognac.This I thought should kill off any germs lurking inside the coffee. Mind you, I drank the cognac but then decided to leave the coffee.

As we re-boarded the coach the tour captain, quite rightly, came in for a bit of flak, especially from the ladies on board. We soon discovered that had she waited another fifteen minutes we would have again been on a motorway and we could have called a halt at a decent cafe.

And so, on and on we drove with nothing to break the monotony other than our own conversations, our own thoughts, or the view of the passing countryside. We crossed the Seine at Rouen and marvelled at the magnificence of the Cathedral. It is indeed, like so many other medieval cathedrals a wonderful work of art.

Leaving Rouen, which I myself had last passed through in 1944 on my way to spending a 72 hour leave in Paris, the signs began to indicate that we were nearing Normandy. Signs pointing to Lisieux and Caen became prominent and at about 5.30 pm we were in the outskirts of Caen. To our surprise we skirted the city and suddenly found ourselves in what could only be described as the industrial area after a while the coach drew up outside a motel/hotel well inside that particular area. We had arrived at the Hotel Nuit.

As the coach pulled up in front of the hotel, the Tour Captain suggested that we all remain on board while she booked in and obtained our room allocation. This, we all thought, was a very good idea but after about twenty minutes we began to wonder what was happening. My travelling companion was, by this time, becoming quite agitated. He informed me that he had a diabetic problem and needed to obtain some food and treat himself in the very near future.

After about half an hour the Tour Captain reappeared. She was obviously quite upset and explained that the Hotel management were refusing to allow us in as they had not received a deposit from Tours International. She had been endeavouring to contact the local agent, without success, and still the management were determined that we would not be allowed to enter. All in all, this problem took well over an hour to settle. Eventually we all disembarked and were allocated our various rooms. I, of course, was to share with Bill Owen my travelling companion. However, once we had been given our room number, Bill rushed away, obviously very upset. I collected my case and slowly made my way upstairs to our allocated room.

Once inside, I received yet another shock. The room_. which was extremely small, contained one double bed upon which Bill was stretched out. I could see that he was far from well. He apologised for taking the bed and said that there was no way in which he could climb up to the bunk. I hadn't even seen the bunk by this time because, in my mind, I was stringing together my argument for not sleeping with another fellow in a double bed. It was when I eventually looked at the bunk that I had quite a shock. This particular piece of furniture was built across the head of the double bed at a height of about four feet. A metal ladder with about five or six metal rungs ran perpendicular from the floor to the edge of the bunk. This was not to be an easy climb for any of us bearing in mind that we were all well over seventy years of age. Bill to one look at my face and said again, "I'm sorry Ron, but there is no way I can get up there in my present state".

I began to feel very sorry for him and said "Don't worry Bill , I'll manage, only don't be surprised if I fall out during the night, or else pee

all over you because I can't get out". True to my word, I managed to mount the ladder although the metal rungs were very hard on the feet, but climbing into the bunk soon became quite an acrobatic feat. There can be no doubt that these bunks were designed to accommodate very young children whose parents would use the lower double bed. Needless to say, I had to climb down twice during the night and I really felt that I had completed an assault course. ·

And so ended yet another first night on the soil of Normandy. Not a very auspicious start to my pilgrimage.

Sunday. 5th June 1994.,

This morning I naturally rose very early only to

find that poor old Bill was still not well. He decided that he would _forego the day's sightseeing and remain in bed. I managed to shower in the very tight cubicle which masqueraded as a bathroom and made my way down to the breakfast room. From the comments being aired quite a number of my fellow passengers had endured a restless night and were not too pleased with the arrangements made. (However, here one must again mention that the French, in general, had not played the game. Some British veterans' groups had booked accommodation a couple of years earlier and had paid the required deposit. It was only when the American and Canadian veterans had suddenly made extravagant offers for accommodation to the Normandy hoteliers that the British groups' bookings were cancelled without explanation). This, in fact, caused a real furore. As a result, the British Legion had to resort to chartering the "SS Canberra" and other vessels to ensure accommodation for the British Veterans. I suppose, therefore, that we as a group could be grateful that we did at least have a roof over our head even if the accommodation was not what we had been Jed to believe we would get.

Following breakfast, which was, in fact, quite good, we boarded our coach and settled down to what was to be a very quick morning tour. Leaving Caen, we travelled to Ouistreham to take our first look at Sword Beach. As we walked from the coach towards the beach we passed the first of the many monuments we were to see on this, and my succeeding tour. Just prior to stepping on to the sand we found a kiosk museum obviously designed to record the happenings on Sword Beach fifty years earlier. Unfortunately, at the time we arrived the museum was closed. Adjacent to it, however, was a tank mounted upon a plinth. This had obviously been painstakingly restored and it certainly served as a reminder to many of us of the tanks which we watched make their way up this particular stretch of coastline.

For my part, with two new friends from the tour, I made for the beach. Naturally I was anxious to see what it all looked like fifty years after the event.

Well, to tell the truth, I could not have been more surprised. Before me lay a wonderful, pristine sandy beach. Pure clear sand, and the only occupants were a few people taking a leisurely morning stroll, or else a few young people exercising their dogs. As we walked across the sand they all passed us by without a second glance. Surely, I thought, they must realise what this area means·to us. Why are they not being more respectful to our dead comrades? and then, I thought that these young French people were no older, or as if as old, as we were when we jumped ashore here in 1944. The promenade appeared to be exactly as it had always been in my mind. Of course, the villas. although looking exactly the same, had been repaired and were now being put to good holiday use. Suddenly, as I walked, I came across the very villa which I had noted as our landing craft approached the beach. I could hardly contain my excitement to think that I was standing in the area on which I had landed. How peaceful it all looked, and how silent it all was. I asked one of my colleagues to take a photograph of me standing in front of that very house, so that I could have a firm reminder. As I stood there looking out to see, my mind suddenly dimmed and once again I saw the area in front of me as it had been in "44. I saw the damaged tanks and landing craft. I saw the dead bodies either floating in the water or lying face down in the sand in front of me. The memories flooded back and for several moments I Just stood on the one spot and let my thoughts wander , back over the years. Suddenly, I again became a very frightened young man, scared of being killed, scared of being seriously wounded. I recalled the noise, the confusion, the shelling and the camaraderie. Suddenly, a voice called out, "Smile Ron", and I opened my eyes to see a camera pointed at me. The spell was broken, in front of me was a scene of serene peace. After several minutes of gazing out to sea it became time to make our way back towards the coach.

As I made my way back to the coach my mind continued to revert to the scene as it was fifty years earlier, and during conversations with other members of the group, I realised that they too were experiencing the same thoughts as I was_ Everyone's mind had suddenly been transported back over the intervening fifty years. We were all young men again, all with our own thoughts of our friends who had not survived and the horrors of that particular time.

As we left Ouistreham, our Tour Captain explained that whilst we would be calling at a number of important sites we were scheduled to be at the Pegasus Bridge in time to witness the parachute drop and then to carry on taking part in a March Past before Prince Charles at Ranville later on in the afternoon.

And so, we made our way along the coast road stopping off briefly at various places of interest. After a while we found ourselves approaching Bayeux and at the request of several people on board, it was decided to make a stop to allow those who wished to walk through the British War Cemetery. As I knew that we were scheduled to attend a service there on the following day, I decided to remain in the coach. One particular chap on board_. who was I believe an RSM or CSM, during the invasion, and who had by his authorative nature taken over as spokesman and map reader for the tour and being one of the men who had demanded that we stop for a while, spent about fifteen minutes in the cemetery and then reboarded the bus sobbing like a young babe. He had obviously found the grave sites of many of the men of his regiment who had perished during the first couple of days of the invasion. I felt so sorry for him.

Leaving Bayeux, we then drove to the American sector. We all disembarked to view the plinth at Point Du Hoc, which sets out the extreme bravery of Lt Col James Rudder and the men of the American Rangers who scaled the awesome cliffs of the area with the intention of knocking out the large gun battery sited on top of the cliffs. Theirs was a truly magnificent action carried out by very brave men. After Point Du Hoc we then made our way towards the US Cemetery just off Omaha Beach which contains no less than 9,386 graves of American troops who lost their lives storming the beaches. The reasons for the great losses are set out in many published a_ccounts of D-Day.

The area around the cemetery was, as we walked around being made ready for a remembrance ceremony scheduled for the following day which would be attended by President Clinton, H.M.The Queen and Prince Phillip, President Mitterand of France, as well as many other members of royal houses and government leaders, including our own Paul Keating and his wife. (more about them later).

Before proceeding on to Ranville, we made a stop at the German Military Cemetery at La Cambe. What a sombre place this is. It would appear that the French, quite naturally, were not prepared to grant large tracts of land for German cemeteries. Understandably I suppose. As a result, the dead Germans are buried two or three to a plot, and in the centre of the cemetery is a very large mount which contains the remains of many hundreds of German soldiers killed during the Battle of Normandy. One could not but notice also that in contrast to the white headstones raised over the Allied dead, the German headstones were of a very sombre grey cement. There was also a great difference in the ages of the men buried there, some of which were young boys of 16 whilst others were old men of 45 years. It truly was a most depressing place to visit.

And s, it was we gradually made our way towards the Pegasus Bridge. Here for the first time I must say that the country roads of Normandy were never intended to take the volume of traffic to which it was being subjected to that day, and the days to follow. The roads were choc-o-bloc with vehicles of all kinds, mostly coaches.

Besides the coaches there were private cars bearing the registration numbers of many European countries. Then there were the hundreds of restored

W.W.2 vehicles, Jeeps, DUKWS, 3-ton lorries, Staff Cars, etc, all in their wartime livery. On our way in we even spotted halftrack vehicles parked up in a field. 1944 had really come back to Normandy.

Eventually, we arrived at Benouville only to find that we could go no further. The roads towards the Pegasus Bridge were completely blocked. Hundreds upon hundreds of people were milling around both the bridge and the Cafe Pegasus. Leaving the coach several of us walked into the village and on towards the cafe.

Needless to say, the entire area was full of Airborne and Glider Pilot Regiments veterans. As I fought my way to the area in front of the Cafe Pegasus, I suddenly came across a stall sel1ing large hard back books entitled "We Remember D-Day". The cost was 16 pounds sterling and after a quick glance through I knew that I had to own one. The chappie manning the stall informed me that over two thousand copies had been sold during the week, and that after my purchase, he had only a further six to sell. It appeared that the proceeds from the sale would be going to the Normandy Veterans Association which, to my mind, was an admirable cause.

It was at this time that I noticed movement on the bridge. A military band was leading a procession across and it was most moving to see Major John Howard, being ferried across in a wheelchair by one of his old glider pilots. The contingent contained a great number of glider pilots as we l as many ex-airborne troops.

And how proudly they marched. I found it difficult to hold back my tears as I watched these brave men cross that famous bridge once again. Later on, the current Commander of the Airborne Troops stood outside of the Cafe Pegasus and again reminded everyone of the success of the airborne landing on the night of the 5th/6th June 1944. At the conclusion of his speech, Madame Condree, the present owner of the cafe, spoke to the assembled crowd and proudly confirmed that _her cafe had the honour to be the very first building in France to be liberated. She spoke of the affection she and her family held for the men of the 6th Airborne Division and of the Glider Pilots Regiment. She then invited them all to free drinks in the cafe.

I was able, sometime later, to enter the cafe and to view the enormous array of military paraphanelia

which adorns its walls. There can be no doubt that the Condree family have reaped very rich benefits from the fact that their cafe was the very first building to be liberated but to give them their due, they have always made their liberators extremely welcome_

As the afternoon progressed I made my way back through the village to the point where our coach was parked. I decided that it was from here that I would watch the re-enactment of the Airborne landing. From my position I was able to see across the river and canal and on to the landing area. Suddenly there was a roar of aircraft engines as flight after flight of aircraft came into view and suddenly, from their bellies, floated hundreds of parachuctists. I had not seen anything like this since D-Day and once again the emotion welled up 1-nside of me. As stick after stick of men fell from the sky I began to wonder what it must have been like to make this descent in the same area but in total darkness with a well-armed enemy waiting. Having earlier visited the churchyard at Benouville I knew what the cost had been. Later on I was to learn that several of the men who made the drop that day had, in fact, been veterans of the initial drop. Despite their age they had asked to be allowed to take part.

Many, to their utter dismay, had been refused the opportunity, but who could blame the authorities? As wave after wave of men fell from the sky the atmosphere was electric.I shall never forget the scene. Some of those who made the drop were well into their seventies. How can such spirits be killed off, only by an eventual death, I suppose, This afternoon once again made me feel so very proud of my involvement in "Operation Overlord ".

At the conclusion of this particular display, we attempted to make our way to Ranville to take part in a March Past before Prince Charles. However, after about an half hour's trying to get through the traffic and to cross Pegasus Bridge, we all decided that we could not possibly make the parade in time and so voted to make out way back to our hotel.

After a shower and shave Bill Owen and I presented ourselves at the Bistro for dinner. {Did I explain that although the Motel could cater for

breakfast it could not cope with an evening meal). The bistro was in the same industrial area but was quite well appointed. The food was good, and the premises were licensed.

That night, I slept rather well. Monday. 6th June 1994

And so, the day for which we had been waiting dawned. After dressing, Bill Owen and I made our way down to the small dining room for breakfast. Looking out through the window I could see that the weather had changed. Instead of the beautiful summer days of the past week the sky was now a dismal grey, low grey clouds hung over the area and a slight drizzle was falling.

Once outside I noticed that the wind had a distinct coldness about it. I could not but help feel that this was perhaps the right type of weather for such a solemn day as we were about to participate in. Boarding the coach, we quickly joined the armada of vehicles al1 making their way towards Bayeux where we were to take part in a Service of Thanksgiving and Remembrance which was to be attended by H.M. The Queen, Prince Phillip, The President of France and many other dignitaries from around the world. As we entered Bayeux we were directed to follow the vehicles in front. Slowly we drove down the Boulevard Fabian Ware, past the Bayeux Memorial Museum for the Battle of Normandy with the magnificent War Memorial on our left and the British Cemetery on our right. Here I should mention that inscribed across the top of the Memorial is a Latin inscription which when translated states, "We who were once conquered by William have set free his native land". It was a sharp reminder of the ties which have existed for centuries between Britain and Normandy. After passing the cemetery we were directed into the car-park of LeClec super market. Here we debussed and were instructed to make our way back towards the cemetery. Despite the inclement weather, the sidewalk and the adjacent grass verge were choked with people. The street was lined with troops from all three British services and before reaching the entrance to the cemetery everyone was made to pass through a security arch, similar to those used at major airports. Overhead, security helicopters flew in tight circles.

Once inside the Cemetery I joined the many hundreds of veterans and their wives milling around the Cross of Sacrifice or else viewing the names inscribed upon the headstones. Under the magnificent chestnut trees, the Band of the Royal Artillery played. I remember thinking how disrespectful to our dead comrades we were all being by tramping around their last resting place. Here in this cemetery lay 4648 Allied soldiers, sailors and airmen, with a further 1808 buried in the Memorial grounds. This is, by far, the largest British War Cemetery in Normandy.

After circling around on my own I managed to get into the front row of the circle surrounding the Cross. In front of me stood the Royal dais. Here I thought I should obtain a very good view of Her Majesty.

Suddenly, to my surprise, I found myself standing next to the couple whom I had met at Adelaide Airport.We chatted for a while when, without warning a very tall, slim veteran, who stood by my shoulder, began to sway, it soon became obvious that he was about to pass out. In fact, he began to fall on to the lady I now know as Mary Cavanaugh. Within seconds a stretcher arrived, and he was very carefully lifted on to it and taken away.

No doubt, the poignancy of the occasion had taken its toll of the poor chap.Suddenly there was a buzz of excitement as the Queen and President Mitterand made their way into the grounds and up to the dais. Once settled, the service began conducted by the Chaplain General to the Forces. Prince Phillip read the lesson which was followed by The Ode, read, not too well, by Field Marshal The Lord Carver, to be followed by the Last Post, played extremely well by four trumpeters. The silence that followed was broken by the sound of an ambulance's klaxon blazing away as it drove through the city.

After two minutes the trumpeters sounded Reveille and the Queen and President Mitterand moved forward to place their respective wreaths at the foot of the Cross of Sacrifice. The Duke of Edinburgh read a lesson which was followed by a hymn to end the service.

Watching this from sidelines my eyes were drawn to the opposite side of the circle to where all the Heads of State and other dignitaries were standing. Somehow the fact that Paul Keating, our Prime Minister, was there suddenly began to irk me. After all, this was the bog Irishman who had man-handled the Queen, who swore to abolish the Monarchy as far as Australia was concerned and who was also determined to change theAustralian flag so as to do away with the Union Jack. I wondered how he had the nerve to participate. Very few Australians, other than airmen, had taken part in "Operation Overlord", but there was eight interred in this particular cemetery. In addition, of course, Keating had accused Britain of doing nothing to assist Australia during the war. He conveniently forgot the men who had perished on the "Prince of Wales" and the "Repulse", or the valiant war fought by the men of the forgotten 14th Army and Wingate's Chindits. As I stood and watched him I became more and more disturbed at his presence. At the close of the service and while the Queen, President Mitterand and their entourage made their way back through the throng, I skirted around the perimeter of the crowd and then began to make my way back towards the centre. Sure enough, I came across Keating casually strolling across the sward and as I approached I held out my hand, which he shook, and I then said, "I'm from South Australia. Prime Minister.

Thank you for coming and perhaps now you will realise why so many of us do not want our flag changed or the Monarchy abandoned". Needless to say, he let go of my hand in rather a hurry, turned on his heels and marched off without a word. I realised later that this had been a rather mean action on my part, but I cannot deny that I felt much better for it.

As soon as the Queen had left, the crowd began to disperse en masse. During the whole of the service I had not seen any other member of my tour, although I did meet a couple of members of the West Australian branch. Making my way back to Le Clec's car park It suddenly dawned upon me that I had no idea at all as to where our coach would be. The large car park was filled to capacity with coaches of all descriptions and it became just a case of walking along the parked lines checking each vehicle. Needless to say, the coach I was looking for was not amongst them. I then moved out into the side street which was again packed with coaches lined up as far as one could see. Walking along the line I was suddenly hailed by our driver. As I boarded I noticed that only a few of my fellow travellers had managed to find their way to the right coach so I volunteered to walk back to the edge of the car park and to point others in the right direction.

We all knew, of course, that our next stop was to be at Arromanches where we were to take part in a March Past in front of the Queen.Once everyone was back on

We set off to for what we thought to be a short trip of about 7 miles or so. But what a trip it turned out to be. I estimate that there were about three hundred coaches all going in the same direction.

Slowly we were directed out of Bayeux and on to the D156. Gendarmes guarded each intersection and pointed us in the direction we had to take. Moving at a snail's pace it seemed to us that we would never get to Arromanches in time for the parade. By now we were in a never-ending line of coaches, some thirty or forty of them from the SS Canberra alone. After about an hour our driver was directed to turn into the grounds of a very large factory. Once inside we drove around the perimeter until being marshalled, in line, with a large number of other coaches. Drawing to a halt, we wondered what on earth was happening. No-one came near, and it was then that our Tour Captain suggested that we partook of our packed lunch which had been provided by the Hotel.

After what seemed 1ike a 1ife time the coaches in front of us began to slowly inch forward.

We followed suit but after moving about two hundred yards or so we again drew to a halt. It was then that a British Military Policeman boarded the coach to explain what was happening. It would appear that Arromanches could only accommodate four coaches at a time and so it was a case of sending four coaches down, have their passengers debus and then await the coaches return before despatching yet another four coaches. It was obvious that this was going to take hours. I ate my sandwiches, which weren't too appetising and nodded off for a while. When I awoke I found that we were nearly at the head of the queue and about fifteen minutes later we were waved off. Again, I must repeat that the lanes of Normandy are not designed for, or capable of, coping with so much traffic. In addition to all of the coaches, the roads were congested with private cars and an array of World War Two vehicles all endeavouring to enter Arromanches. Eventually, however, we made it. We were told to debus and then handed a pamphlet designed to show us where we were making for and where we were supposed to report back to after the parade.

And so, off we set. Walking down what seemed to be a mere country path we were suddenly directed into a garden area in which the Salvo's had set up shop.We were offered tea or coffee and invited to take as many packets of biscuits as we wished. Apparently the biscuits had been donated by the Mayor of Arromanches. A very noble gesture, I thought. I took one packet but my fellow traveller, Bill Owen stuffed two or three packets into his pockets. Having been refreshed we then made our way through the outskirts of the town and down to the Esplanade. During this short walk we were applauded by the townsfolk, many of whom offered drinks of wine or Calvados. There could be no doubting their sincerity. For my part, I began to feel like a conquering hero. On arrival at the Esplanade we were drawn up into some sort of military order. We were to march down on to the sands of Arromanches, ten abreast with a serving soldier calling the time. The slipway area down which we were to march was thronged with people, all clapping and cheering. It was hard not to feel proud and also to fight back the tears. Once, down the slipway and on to the beach area we could both see and hear the military bands playing. For my part my years fell away from me and I straightened up my shoulders, held my head high and marched on to the sand like, I think, a young soldier.

What a sight greeted us as we moved on to the sands. The tide was well out and we could see an LST and two smaller landing craft beached. Further out to sea naval vessels sailed serenely up and down. Also, out to sea one caught sight of the remains of the Mulberry Harbour. Some of those great caissons, which had proved so successful and so important to us in 1944 were still visible and served as a reminder of how this beach had been in 1944.

As we were marched across the sands, it became obvious that an open square was to be formed. The contingent of which I was a member were brought to a halt on the second side of the square Just in front of the beached landing craft. Group after group were marched on and soon there were, or so I believe, nearly eight thousand veterans stood at ease awaiting inspection by the Queen. No less then five military bands occupied the centre of the square playing the tunes of yesteryear. Looking towards the town the entire area of the Esplanade overlooking the beach was packed with spectators. As the bands played the crowd Joined in and the atmosphere was electric.

Of course, although the tide was out, the sand beneath our feet was still very, very wet and it became necessary to constantly move one's feet to avoid sinking deep I nto the sand. I remember thinking that the salt water would not do my shoes much good.

By this time, I must report that the weather had improved tremendously. Gone was the mist and drizzle and it was great to feel the sun on our faces as we marched on to the beach. The sea was very calm with just a faint breeze blowing.

As we marched across the sand the atmosphere became quite electric. Suddenly it all became a very joyous occasion. The crowd congregated on the Esplandade and the hillsides overlooking the beach were happily singing the songs of the forties being played by the assembled bands. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves whilst still aware of the reason for the gathering. The group I was in marched down and became part of what one could only describe as the second side of the open square. When we eventually came to a halt we were very close to the moored landing craft and parallel to the coast line. The sea was some thirty or forty yards behind us.

It became obvious from the activity of movement taking place at the sea wall that all of the invited dignitaries had begun to arrive. The area at the foot of the boat ramp leading on to the beach was a sea of military brass. A roar from the crowd assembled near the ramp rose as each member of the Royal Family arrived. They were, in turn, followed by other dignitaries of certain foreign royal houses and governments.

Meanwhile down on the beach the lineup of veterans continued. Men who had not seen each other for years warmly greeted their comrades. To many of those assembled this was the very beach which they had stormed exactly fifty years before. Listening to them one soon realised that all the sad memories of that fateful day had come flooding back. For myself, this was not Sword Beach, but I too felt the emotion. Here we were standing on the spot were so many young men had died. Today there was an air of excitement abroad, but it could be nothing like the atmosphere which prevailed on D-Day. The mere thought of what had taken place along this coastline that day was enough to dampen the eyes of so many men.

It was at this point that what the BBC commentator described as a Royal bomb burst took place. From the area of the saluting base members of the Royal family fanned out and proceeded to all corners of the parade ground. These included Princes Charles and

Andrew, Princess Margaret and Anne as well as the Dukes of Kent and Gloucester. It was Prince Andrew who made his way the the area in which I stood and as he approached his first words to us were, "I think we should all have worn our wellies". This comment was naturally greeted by a loud cheer from the assembled veterans. Andrew spent a good ten minutes or more chatting to the men lined up before him. We were all aware that this prince had also seen his fair share of action and that he would have some idea of what it had been like for us.

At this point from the bowels of the Landing Ship beached to my right proudly emerged the National Standard Bearers of both the Royal Br·1tish Legion and the Normandy Veterans Association. The NVA Standard was carried, as usual by Roly Jefferson. MEE, who is the Chairman of No.1 Branch. Although both men are getting on in years it was amazing to observe how smartly and proudly they marched down the ramp of the landing ship to take their place before an assembled group of branch standard bearers.

After a short time, the Royals made their way back to the saluting base just as the helicopter flying in Her Majesty The Queen and Prince Phillip flew overhead and circled down ·1nto the town. About five minutes later a tremendous roar arose which signalled to us all that the Queen was about to drive on to the beach.

Within a few minutes the Warrant Officer in charge of the parade called us all to attention as the Royal Standard was broken and the National Anthem was played. Then we were stood at ease as a Landrover carrying Her Majesty and Prince Phillip made its way on to the beach and proceeded to drive very slowly along the lines of assembled veterans. What a review th·1s was to be. Men cheered and waved their berets, cameras clicked and the whole atmosphere was so different to what I imagine had been present at any other royal review. The Queen, still wearing the same outfit in which I had seen her earlier in the day at Bayeux, wore a beautiful smile whilst Prince Phillip, resplendent in his Admirals' uniform continuously saluted the ranks. In the meantime a warship patrolling just off the beach fired a 42 gun salute and at the same time a flight of W.W.2 planes, including a Lancaster: a Spitfire, and a Hurricane flew overhead. What an impressive salute it all was.

At the completion of the review the Landrover came to a halt at the saluting dais where Her Majesty alighted and proceed to welcome the visiting V.I.Ps. Once this was completed she, accompanied by the Mayor of Arromanches, The French Minister of Social Affairs, who incidentally had been incarcerated in a Nazi concentration camp at the time of D-Day, and Prince Phillip stepped on the dais, this was the time for speeches and we were stood at ease. The Mayor of Arromanches rose to welcome Her Majesty and then made, what could only be described as a very moving speech in which he explained that this was a very special occasion, not only for we veterans but also for Normandy and France. This was followed by a speech by the Queen during which she referred to the happenings of fifty years ago, She, also stated that the British nation owed us all a great debt of thanks. As she resumed her seat, Warrant Officer Cox approached the dais and requested permission for the veterans to march past in review order. Permission was granted and so the march past got under way led by veterans of the Hampshire Regiment headed by the officer who had 1ed them ashore to capture Arromanches on D-Day. Never before could such a parade have been seen. Imagine, if you can, nearly 8000 veterans, all well over 70 years of age, proudly marching ten abreast before their sovereign. What a stirring moment it was for all of us taking part. With chests out and a spritely step we were all again, in our minds, the same young men who had come from the sea and stormed ashore to begin the liberation of France. Age and infirmities seemed to disappear as we paced across the sand and obeyed the order of "Eyes Left" as we approached the Royal Dais.

It was clear that the Queen was enjoying this ceremony. She smiled and nodded as we marched past and was even seen to be joining in with the singing of the old wartime tunes being played by the assembled bands. On and on we marched and all of the time the crowds lining the Esplanade cheered themselves hoarse. It is certainly a day I shall never forget. In fact, it is one of the two days in my life which I would not have,_ missed. Looking back, with hindsight, the other day was D-Day itself although at the time I would have wished to be in any other spot than Sword Beach.

Nevertheless, I had now been a part of two very memorable events, the greatest military action ever mounted, and the most momentous parade ever seen.

However, whilst it felt good to be taking part in this fiftieth anniversary and good to be alive, one could not but help thinking of those many, m any young men who never made it to the sea wall. And so, the day was not only touched with pride but also with a sense of deep sorrow.,·

And so it was that the group in which I was marched past the saluting base and up on to the ramp leading from the beach. Once at the top of the ramp we were dismissed and advised just where we would find our coaches parked. Sure enough, after walking to the edge of town, we saw a line of coaches stretching for what seemed an eternity along the main road. It is estimated that about 250 coaches were so parked, and I was very pleased when I discovered our own coach only about 500 meters up the road. Then began the long wait while the other members of our party also found their way. After about an hour we had our full complement and started our trip back to Caen. Little did any of us realise just how long this was going to take us.

First of all our driver had to negotiate his way through the milling throng of veterans seeking their transport, then wend his way through the narrow lanes leading from Arromanches. Once past these hurdles we all thought that we should soon be back at the hotel. What a dream. As we approached Caen we found every road leading towards the town blocked by police who refused to let us proceed, directing us to turn either left or right or in some cases to turn around. It soon became clear that the police had been drawn from all quarters of France and that they had no idea of the area at all. When our Tour Captain asked, in excellent French, just how we could get to the outskirts of Caen, most of the gendarmes merely shrugged their shoulders to indicate that they had no idea. Eventually, more by luck than judgement, we managed to skirt around the southern suburbs of Caen and find our hotel. We later· learned that all the roads around Caen had been closed because the Queen was hosting a gathering to which all of the visiting royalty and politicians were invited and so one could then understand why all the security precautions had been necessary.

And so, it was that we sat down to enjoy a late dinner. The talk, of course, was about the day and the feelings each one of us had felt. We toasted each other, our regiments and corps, our dead comrades, and last but not least our Queen and her family. Our feeling of pride permeated through the dining room and even the local French joined in. This had indeed been a day of Entente Cordiale. The Manager of the Hotel and his lovely young wife joined us for drinks and she was soon engaged in hugging each and every one of us which I at least found very enjoyable. It was certainly very late when I rolled into bed that night and I took little time in dropping off into a deep sleep thus ending the fiftieth anniversary of D-Day.

Tuesday, 7th June 1994

Awaking to what was to be my last day on this particular tour, I showered and dressed and then packed my valaise before going down for breakfast. Once again the young manageress joined us and insisted upon hugging us all in turn (not that any of us objected).

After breakfast we loaded our luggage on to the bus ready for the journey back to England. As we embarked on the coach the manageress began to take photographs of us all, she also drew some of us on to one side so that we could be photographed together.

Soon she was in tears and then started to hug and kiss us all. There can be no doubt that we Normandy veterans had really impressed this young lady and I could feel the genuine emotion and affection which she was showing to us all. As the coach pulled away she ran after it for quite some time eagerly waving her arms and throwing kisses. What a pity, I thought, that we are all so old, but how nice to be made to feel so very, very special.

From our itinerary I knew that before leaving Caen we were scheduled to be presented with a Normandy Commemoration Medal on behalf of the people of Normandy. The ceremony was to take place in the Abbaye aux Dames, a building which went back to the days of William the Conqueror and his wife Mathilde. Arriving at the Abbaye we were ushered into one of the halls where we lined up in two ranks. Each of us was then, in turn, presented with our medal by the Regional Director and, in the usual French fashion, kissed on both cheeks. There was an official photographer present who took shots of each presentation.

Naturally, at the end of the ceremony, we were invited to purchase copies of the photographs, which would be forwarded to any address we nominated. Although I paid for two copies nevertheless I was a little doubtful about them being sent to Australia, but they were, and Helga arranged for one copy to be framed for me together with the accompanying certificate. This now hangs in a pride of place in my study.The other copy was given to Barbara who has also had it framed.

Following the presentation, we were all invited to have drinks with the Regional Director. All in all, it was a very pleasant ceremony and we were in a good mood when we reloaded on to our coach it was then farewell to Caen. England here we come.

The journey to Calais was rather uneventful 1. The Tour Director had learned her lesson and made sure that we halted for refreshments, etc at one of the Motorway service cafes. Arriving at Calais we lost no time in boarding and after a short, but smooth trip, we were back in Dover Harbour. I, of course, left the coach at the exit to the harbour where I was collected by my niece Karen, her husband Stephen and their two boys, both of whom were dressed in their khaki uniforms.

They insisted that they had their photographs taken with their Uncle Ron who was still wearing his medals etc. After a short drive to Deal I was soon settled back with Terry and Leonie.

And so endeth the report on my first tour of Normandy. I was not scheduled to leave on the second tour until the coming Saturday.

It so happened at this time that Terry and Leonie decided to take a few days holiday and they delighted in taking me around. We visited the Channel Tunnel exhibition which was very interest i n g , as well as a display mounted at Dover dealing with the heritage of the town. They also took me out for dinner to a Mexican place in Kingsdown. All in all, I was treated like royalty and I would like to take this opportunity of expressing my sincere thanks to not only Terry and Leonie, but also to Karen and Stephen for all of their concern. On the Thursday evening, Terry arranged a family get together to which my young brother Jack and his wife Anne came, my sister-in-law Miranda, and Ritchie and his wife Julie. It was the first time for many years that we had all been together and it was most enjoyable.

On the Fr-1day evening I also had the pleasure of being taken out for dinner by Gwen Norman and her family. For those who do not know, Gwen and her family have been our very good friends since the early fifties when Helga first arrived in Deal and we occupied a house in Birdwood Avenue. Despite the years and the fact that Helga and I moved to Australia our friendship never wavered. Gwen's husband Harry passed away many years ago, but I still recall many of the happy hours we spent together, especially when he came to work at the

Brewery during school holidays (Harry was a schoolteacher, and only in the past twelve months have I learned that he was involved in the Invasion and had his exploits recorded in a book entitled "From Artie Snows to Normandy"

Anyway, that is all transgressing. On Saturday the 11th June 1994, I was again packed ready to visit Normandy. This time I was travelling with the Canterbury branch of the NVA and I was scheduled to be met in South Street. Deal.at 0930 hours. Terry drove me into town and needless to say the coach arrived on time. This time I was welcomed on board like a lost son and I was pleased not only with my welcome but also by the standard of the coach. After collecting a couple of fellows at Walmer, it was off the Dover and across to France again. My seating companion was Ron Hedges, a most charming fellow who resides both in Brisbane and at Bapchild in Kent. In fact, I soon learned that we had a lot in common apart from being the only men from Australia on board. I could not have wished for a better companion or for a better group of people with whom to be travelling. Many of the veterans were being accompanied by their wives which made me wish that Helga could have been at my side but, with hindsight I realise that this may not have been a good thing. At least, I consoled myself with the thought that Helga was in her element following the progress of our new house which was being built

This time the trip from Calais to Bayeux seemed to take no time at all, The, driver was qu-1te a wag and kept us all amused or else he invited us to watch videos. As it had been except for the morning of the 6th June, the weather was delightful and I for one enjoyed watching the French countryside flash by. On arrival in Bayeux, our first stop was at the supermarket were we were expected to buy any supplies of food we may need. Apparently, the accommodation to which we were headed was self-catering. After making our purchases we re-boarded the coach and made for the "Black Swan" which was to be our home for the next seven days.

The "Black Swan" is located just about a mile outside of Bayeux in a most beautiful setting . The buildings themselves had origina1ly been a mill but it had been renovated by the present owners, a young

English couple. Everything about it looked clean and well cared for. It was surrounded by fields and an orchard and a little stream, obviously once used to turn the millwheel, ran through the centre. As Jack Southey allocated our rooms I found that I was to share a large upstairs unit with Ron Hedges, Don Kiddell and Alan Barrel all very nice chaps indeed. We had a surprise however when we entered the room for right across the centre ran a massive wooden beam which was, I suppose, well over a foot square. Beyond the beam there was a lower area containing two single beds which needless to say were for the two Ronnies. The fact that the beam was only about three feet from the floor caused us some concern. At our age there are not many nights when one doesn't have to get out of bed and make for the bathroom. To highlight the problem, we arranged to drape white towels across the beam, a solution which worked extremely well. No heads crashed into the beam throughout our entire stay.

Once settled in it was then decided that we would make our way down to the local hostelry to sample the local brew and we were also told that an evening meal had been arranged for us at a restaurant nearby. It was such a pleasant summers' evening as we slowly walked down through the country lanes. The beer was not bad, and the food was good. I soon discovered that the Canterbury people were a very happy, jovial crowd and I knew that I would undoubtedly enjoy this trip to Normandy more than I had the last.

Next morning brought yet another surprise. Ron Hedges rose about 5.30, dressed and then proceeded to the kitchen were he made morning tea for everyone. Not just for our room but for everyone else he could awaken. We were to find out that he always arose early, and he followed the same procedure every morning. Dear old Ron, he was and still is, a most wonderful fellow. Of course, not only was he my roommate but we also sat next to each other throughout the entire trip. I could not have wished for a nicer travelling companion. I found out that he was a widower who lived for about half of each year in Australia based mainly in Brisbane and the remainder of the year was spent in the UK. By this arrangement he could indulge in his favourite hobby of following cricket. By profession he was a consulting engineer and had been employed on a great many major civil engineering projects around the world.in fact, he still acted in an advisory capacity whenever called upon.He and I hit it off very well indeed.

And so, hack to the tour.On the Sunday morning, following breakfast, we boarded the coach and drove to many places of interest such as Bayeux War Cemetery and Museum, then on to La Camba, a somber place I have earlier referred to. We then drove to Point du Hoc.

Somehow this time we had more time to take everything in. At Point du Hoc we marveled at the audacity of the American Rangers who had stormed the cliffs. As we arrived the whole area was swarming with visitors of all nationalities. Children ran and played in the old gun emplacements or chased each other around the scores of old bomb and shell craters now overgrown with grass. As we stepped from the coach, each one of us with our medals displayed, we were practically mobbed. As we walked down towards the beach we were shaken by the hand, slapped on the back, thanked profusely and constantly asked to either pose for photographs or to sign autographs. One could feel the genuineness of all the thank you's. Sometimes it all felt a little overwhelming. This reception was to be the same no matter where we stopped during the entire trip. If anything, the area seemed to be more crowded than it had been the previous week. Even at La Camba we were heartily greeted by many Germans both civilians and

ex-servicemen alike. After a very long, exhausting, but exhilarating day, we returned to the "Black Swan". For an hour or so, some of us sat in the garden just enjoying the fine summers' evening made more pleasant by the fact that the owner supplied us all with a couple of beers. After showering and changing we four musketeers again made our way down through the lanes to the same restaurant for dinner before retiring for a good nights' sleep.

Following breakfast next morning it was back on to the coach for another days' outing. Our first call was to Bayeux were we were scheduled to attend at the "Hotel de Ville" for a presentation of the Normandy Medal. I, of course, had been presented with the same medal during my previous visit but I decided that as my name had been put forward I would accept the medal which I could then pass on to some veteran who had been unable to afford to make the pilgrimage. This time the presenter was a very charming lady, the Mayoress of Eayeux, and despite the fact that she had to voice the same words of thanks time and time again the smile never left her lovely face. After receiving the medal, we were all greeted with the usual French salutation and afterwards the dear lady invited us all to partake in a glass of wine and she made herself available for photograph sessions. Len Hood, one of our members, recorded the entire session on video of which I have a copy. The tape is not only of the medal presentation but seeks to capture most of the events of the tour. It has provided me with a lot of pleasure in looking back over those days.

After leaving Eayeux we paid visits to Ouistreham, Pegasus Bridge, Ranville and lastly on to Hermanvil le War Cemetery. This was to be my most moving moment. This cemetery is set in the area we traversed on the first few days of the invasion and it contains 1005 graves of the men who landed with me. I knew the location of Arthur Kelly's grave and by checking the Book of Remembrance I was able to locate the grave of Captain Hope. I was surprised to find that Arthur's grave was located not more than one hundred yards from where we laid him to rest. In fact, the wall surrounding the cemetery was the wall of the orchard in which he had been killed. Suddenly, as I stood before his headstone, the memory of that day came flooding back and I wondered why it was that I had been singled out to survive. It is hard not to shed a tear or two in such circumstances and as I stood there I suddenly felt overcome with sadness. Arthur Kelly's headstone bore no words from his family, merely just the simple R.I.P. on the other hand the headstone of Captain Hope bore the words "out of darkness shall come a great 1ight ". Ron Hedges kindly took my photograph standing by each grave following which I moved to the small chapel of remembrance and sat there alone with my thoughts.

After Hermanvil le we visited the Merville Battery site. Here had stood the huge guns which had bombarded our beach and caused so much havoc in the first few hours. The more one saw of these massive gun emplacements the more one realised just how fortunate we had been to gain a foothold in France.

On Tuesday, the 14th June, we again visited several unit memorials and at each a simple wreath of

Flanders poppies was placed. At about lunchtime we arrived at the Memorial to the 43rd Wessex Division. Here we learned that we were to take part in a small ceremony laid on by the local villagers later on in the day. It was at this time that a small car drew up and from it stepped three men, one obviously of our vintage who was immediately placed in a wheelchair Several of us introduced ourselves and we discovered that the trio consisted of the old man, his son and grandson. We learned that the old fellow had recently suffered a slight stroke and as a result had not been able to attend any of the ceremonies. We also learned that he had taken part in the battle for Hill 112 which was just a few hundred yards away and that he had been seriously wounded during that bitter battle. At this the men of Canterbury immediately invited them to attend with us in the afternoon to which they agreed. We then drove off to find somewhere to lunch returning at the appointed time. By now a PA system of sorts had been set up at the base of the memorial and there was a goodly gathering of villagers and French veterans.

Under the command of Frank Stratford we assembled around the memorial and after being brought to attention, the national anthems of both France and Great Britain were played. This was followed by wreath laying and by each one of us planting a small cross and poppy. Once more we were brought to attention and the local Mayor then proceeded to present each one of us with another medal one which depicted the 43rd Division Memorial. It was explained that this had all been arranged by the people of three of the surrounding villages and that it was their way of expressing their thanks for the liberation of their area. A quite remarkable action, I felt. One of the parties also managed to arrange for a medal to be pinned to the chest of the old man n the wheelchair and in addition, Ron Hedges , who like myself had also been presented with two Normandy medals, arranged for one to be handed over. By this time, we had ascertained that the man's name was Mr. Robertson and that he lived in Bournemouth. After the medal ceremony was over we formed up to march through the fields to Hill 112, where we found yet another smal1 memorial. Again, a simple wreath of poppies was laid. At this stage I must say that although we attempted to march up the path through the fields, the slow pace of the French standard bearers in front made it impossible.

Nevertheless, it was quite a colourful procession. Once back to our coach we were invited to Join the villagers in a little celebration in the grounds of their local school. Here tables and chairs had been set up. Supplies of wine, cordial and food was available and everyone present thoroughly enjoyed themselves. We sang songs and one old dear, who I guessed to be well over eighty, insisted on dancing with each one of us in turn. She was quite a character. During this period, the committee of the Canterbury branch put their heads together and decided to make old Mr. Robertson an honorary member of their branch. Such was the spirit of Esprit de Corps abroad that afternoon. Later on, as the sun began to set, we said our farewells, re-boarded our coach and left the village to the resounding cheers of the villagers, many of whom, including children, ran after the coach for some considerable time. We all agreed that this had indeed been a most wonderful day. I, for one, slept very soundly that night.

Next morning, we were off to visit even more memorials and museums, including those monuments to the 11th Armoured Division and the 49th (Polar Bear) Division. On the way we halted at a small roadside memorial to the 15th Scottish at which a wreath was laid. Then it was on to yet another small town where we disembarked to view a French monument to the victims of the Nazis. This was a most impressive monument and set into the surrounding walls were plagues giving the names of those villagers who had been taken and killed as a reprisal for our landings. It was here that our Padre, the Rev George Clews, held a small service at which prayers were said. Again, yet another very touching ceremony.

As we re-boarded our coach, Jack Southey introduced Guy Dissler, a French Resistance hero of some distinction. It appeared that Guy had arranged lunch for us at an hotel in Balleroy. As we debussed and walked across to the hotel we were greeted by a young English couple who informed us that they were from Deal. What a small world it is to be sure.

The lunch itself was extremely good and the wine flowed freely. As may be expected our spirits were high and it was not long before we were all giving voice in song. As the coffee appeared Guy very kindly introduced us to his favourite brand of Calvados and a very delightful drop it was too. Guy even offered to escort us to the winery which produced that particular drop a suggestion eagerly taken up. Most of us, I think purchased one or two bottles. And so another memorable day passed.

Thursday dawned, again like every other day, a glorious summers' day. Today the plan was for us to visit the two British and the one Canadian beaches. As we drove from town to town we were once again subjected to what can only be described as a welcoming of heroes. We were mobbed by a bus 1oad of young English schoolgirls from Plymouth we joined a group of young French children singing Frere Jacques(I don't think I have spelt that right but I guess you all know the tune I am referring to). Everywhere we went it was the same reception, more handshakes, more photographs, more autographs. I doubt if film stars get more attention than we humble veterans received.

Mind you, it was a long and tiring day and I for one was pleased to get back to the "Black Swan". That night we dined again at our favourite little restaurant before retir ing.

Next morning it was tea in bed, as usual, produced by the indominable Ron Hedges. This was to be our next to 1ast day and so the plan was to spend some time in both Bayeux and Caen. In Bayeux, we viewed the Cathedral a most magnificent building. For a moment I missed Ron Hedges and then I spotted him sat quietly in prayer.

Afterwards, we strolled down the main street and then decided to partake of a beer at a small cafe. It was again such a glorious day that Ron and I sat outside enjoying our drinks. At the next table sat two ladies with whom we got into conversation. It transpired that the older of the two was from Scunthorpe and that the younger lady, a real smasher in my eyes, lived in Southampton. Apparently, they were mother and daughter- in- law but that the young one was divorced much to the older lady's dismay. After chatting for quite some time the young 1ady insisted on buying us a beer and neither Ron nor I took very much persuading. Then it was on to Caen where we spent some time at the Museum. Again this was crowded and we came in for even more adulation.

That evening we all gathered in the same restaurant to enjoy our last dinner together. Here I must say that I cannot remember when I enjoyed myself so much as I did during those eight days with the veterans of the Canterbury branch. They really showed what the spirit of comradeship was all about, and it was then that I decided to try and form an NVA branch in Adelaide.

Next morning it was time to pack and say goodbye to the delightful hosts of the "Black Swan". The journey home was uneventful and once on board the ferry I spent some time in the dutyfree shop.

I managed to get some perfume for Leonie and a present for Terry to say thanks for all of the attention they had given me. Once we docked at Dover it only took about twenty minutes and I was back in South Street Deal, shouting my farewells as the coach disappeared from sight. I took a taxi to Church Lane and thus ended my second pilgrimage to Normandy.

My story now is nearly complete. (Thank goodness I can hear some of you say) but there were still two more events for me to take part in. For these I had to move to London staying at the Charles Dickens Hotel in Lancaster Gate. The first event was a concert to be held in the Royal Albert Hall, entitled the "Spirit of Normandy". Bedecked with my medals I walked across Hyde Park and joined the throng in the Albert Hall. As I had purchased my ticket through the West Australian branch I was naturally seated with the others I knew, and it was good to talk with them again. The show itself was terrific. First of all, came a parade of standards, followed by members of the various NVA and British Legion branches, bringing up the rear of this parade was none other than Guy Dissler. Later on I was to obtain a video of the entire concert and I recall that the first time I played it Helga remarked on how many decorations Guy was displaying. Her words were, "He must be a very brave man". I explained to her that his work in the Resistance had been so notable that he had been made a life member of practically every organisation there was, including both American and Canadian.

Of course, the highlight of this concert was the appearance of Vera Lynn, our own Forces Sweetheart. What a tremendous reception she received and we all enjoyed hearing her sing our old favourite tunes.Her voice still sounds as powerful as it did back in the forties. During the interval, I was able to have a chat with Bill Millin who, as Lord Lovats' piper was called upon to pipe his troop ashore on D-Day. He reckons that the only reason he got away with marching

up and down playing his bagpipes was that the Germans thought he was a "dummkopf" and that they felt sorry for him. Just as well they did.

After the concert I decided to walk back across the park. Little did I realise that the Royal Parks close at 9pm. I had no difficulty in getting into the park as the entrance by the Albert Memorial had been taken down while renovations were being made to the Memorial. It was when I finally found my way to the other side that I struck trouble. All of the gates I could find were locked_ So what did I do? I scaled the fence. Not an easy task especially at my age. I found I had difficulty in getting over the high spiked railings, but eventually I succeeded and made my way back to my hotel. My wife was not pleased when I later on related the incident to her. Quite rightly so too I think. I could have done myself a mischief.

The next day I took a bus from my hotel to Whitehall where I took part in the Normandy Veterans Parade from the Horse Guards to the Cenotaph. Here again met up with many of my Canterbury friends and it felt good to be asked to march with them.

And so, ended my fiftieth anniversary pilgrimage to Normandy. Something that will live in my memory for years. This was made even more memorable when, as I later visited Marjorie and Dick Bird in Mallorca they handed me six or seven video tapes containing every minute's coverage by the BBC of the events in Normandy. I cannot thank them both enough for their thoughtfulness and I am sure that they will he pleased to know how much pleasure those same tapes have afforded those members of my Adelaide NVA group who were less fortunate than I was and who could not travel over to France in 1994.

My one regret now is that I was unable to complete this story so that my dear Helga could have realised just how much pleasure my family's generosity had afforded me. Thank you all again so very, very much.

LEST WE FORGET
