Adolf Hitler: My Part in His Downfall (13 page)

The next ten days saw us going through rigorous training. The weather was bitterly cold. I saw Sid Price smoke a cigarette down to the stub, and burn the woollen mitten on his hand without feeling a thing. On the last day, B Subsection were firing smoke shells, when one got jammed in the breech. Sergeant Jordy Rowlands was in the process of removing the charge when it exploded in his hand. When the smoke cleared Rowlands was looking at the stump of his wrist with his right hand ten yards away on the ground. There was a stunned silence and then he said, “Well, I’ll be fooked.” Apart from initial shock he was o.k., but for him the war finished on Salisbury Plain. The severed hand was buried where it fell by Busty Roberts. As he dug a small hole Driver Watts said, “You going to shake hands before you bury it?” Busty’s reply was never recorded.

That night there was an Officers’ and All-Ranks’ dance in the Drill Hall. We all worked hard to extricate all the best-looking A.T.S. girls from the magnetic pull of the
officers and
sergeants. Alas, we failed, so we reverted to the time honoured sanctuary of the working man—Drink. We finally reached the stage of inebriation when we were willing to do the last dance with any good-looking Lance Bombardier. Next day, Saturday, the last day at Camp, we were allowed into Salisbury. I went to see the Cathedral. I’ll never forget the feeling of awe when I walked in. A boys’ choir was singing something that sounded like Monteverdi. The voices soared up to the fluted vaults as though on wings. The morning autumn sun was driving through the stained-glass windows throwing colours on to the floor of the nave, the whole building was a psalm in stone. It all made. me aware of the indescribable joy derived from beauty. “Cor, it’s bloody big, ain’ it?” said Smudger Smith. He was right. It was bloody big.

There was a beer-up that night, and another dance. After 23:43 hours I don’t remember anything. Next day we returned to that jewel of the south coast, Bexhill.

Larkhill: Crash Action Winners

LEARNING TO DRIVE

T
he time had come, the Army said, to speak of many things, like teaching us to drive military vehicles; the reason was, we had new vehicles arriving at such a rate they were outnumbering the drivers; so, several of the Signal were selected for tuition, among them yours truly.

It was done under the supervision of Bombardier Ginger Edwards. It was not unpleasant. Every morning the trainees would be bundled in the back of a fifteen hundredweight Bedford truck and driven to a deserted country road, and instructions started from there. Allowing for the possible stupidity of the pupils the instructions were shot through with insults. The spelling is based on Bombardier Edwards’s enunciation. “This end is the front end, the back is the arse end. This round object mounted on a spindle with three spokes is the steering wheel. Any questions? No? Good. Now this vehicle is like a human being, it has ter be fee-ed the right ingredients for it to go. Understand? The ingredients are One, Pet-er-ol, Hoil and Water, each one ‘as its own hole for pourin’ in, if you put it in the wrong ‘ole it will cease to function,” and so on. After the technical briefing we were each given a go at starting the engine and proceeding in first gear. Most of us, got the hang of it very soon, all save Gunner Edgington; he managed to perform mechanical feats with the truck that were just impossible, i.e., Edgington at the wheel, truck ascending a steep gradient, Bombardier Edwards says, “Now go down to first.” Edgington disengages from fourth and some how goes into reverse, but so smoothly, it was not until we had travelled backwards ten yards that the mistake was discovered. I myself had a moment of fear. We were approaching a T junction. “Turn left here,” said Edwards. I did, but it was a trick, the road ended almost immediately in a rough field and it was intended to test my braking ability. I jammed my foot on to the brake, missed it and, went on to the accelerator, the truck shot forward down a two foot ditch; as we hit the field I pulled the wheel to the left to get us back on to the road, but for love nor money I could not get my foot off the accelerator. I just prayed. All the time there were yells and threats from the bouncing occupants on the back of the truck.

Finally after fifteen nightmare seconds, we hit the road again, where I managed to put my foot on the brake. There was dead silence then Edwards and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Another memorable moment was again Harry Edgington. Driving along the front at Hastings, Bombardier Edwards decided to test Edgington’s reflexes. “(wick, stop, there’s a child in the road,” he shouts. “No there isn’t,” said Gunner Edgington.

From motor vehicles we went on to Bren Carriers, they were marvellous, they’d go anywhere, and didn’t we just do that. Having passed all the tests, we were promoted to Driver Operators, which meant as from 24-10-42 I was a Class Three Tradesman Driver/Operator, so I got a few shillings more per day.

JANKERS

J
ankers can be painful. It usually means confined to barracks and menial tasks like, “Soldier! Pick up that menial cigarette-end.” My first jankers was for causing a fire. In the hard winter of 1940, coal fires were forbidden except on Sundays. But I was freezing on a Saturday. My bed was on the first floor, directly in line with the North Pole. The window was over the coal shed. With some rope and a length of bucket it was simple; Edgington went down, filled it, and I’d haul up. Suddenly, with a full bucket ascending, a snap inspection! “Orderly Officer! Eyes Front!” (Where else?) I turned, managed to face him, arms behind me. I nearly got away with it, but Edgington gave a tug on the rope to haul up, and I was pulled backwards out of the window. The game was up. I blamed Edgington. Edgington blamed me. We blamed the Germans, Florrie Ford and finally the Warsaw Concerto. Captain Martin gave us a roasting: “It’s a degrading trick depriving other men of their fuel ration! Indeed, it’s a disgrace!” he said, standing with his back to a roaring coal fire on a Monday. Most jankers time was spent lagging the plumbing; this was called ‘up yer pipe’; another fatigue was peeling spuds. We delighted in peeling spuds to the size of peas. It made no difference, they cooked the peel as well.

It’s not too difficult to become a military criminal. Not shaving, dirty boots, calling a sergeant ‘darling’, or selling your Bren Carrier. Any Sunday, down Petticoat Lane, you could find some of the lads selling lorries, jerrycans, bullets, webbing. “Git your luverly Anti-Aircraft Guns ‘ere.” It got so that Military Depots were shopping there for supplies. Often London-based regiments sent their (quarter Blokes out for ‘a gross of three-inch Mortars and a dozen bananas’.

It was common knowledge that Caledonian Road Market was a German supply depot. The true story behind Hess: he flew here for cut-price black-market underwear for the S.S., but on arrival he chickened out when Churchill told him the price, unconditional surrender. An easy way to go ‘on the hooks’ was not saluting commissioned ranks. “Ewe har not salutin’ the hofficer—ewe har salutin’ the King’s huniform.” Gunner Stover took this as Gospel. At reveille he would wake Lieutenant Budden with a cup of tea, turn, face Budden’s uniform hanging on the wall, salute it, and exit. “There’s no need to take it that far, Stover,” said Budden.

“I can’t help it sir—I come from a military family—if I didn’t salute that huniform—I feel I was livin’ a lie sir.”

“But,” reasoned Budden, “when no one’s looking there’s no point.”

“Beggin’ your pardon sir—but there is! Many a time, when I’m alone, cleanin’ up your billet, when I finish, I face your best battledress—and I salute it—no one sees me, but deep down I know I’m on my honour, alone with tradition.”

“How long have you been in the Army, Stover?”

“Thirty-two years sir.”

“Very good,” said Budden.

We had ‘Saluting Traps’. A crowd of us round a corner smoking would get the tip ‘Officer Coming’. We would set off at ten-second intervals and watch as the officer saluted his way to paralysis of the arm.

DIEPPE

O
n August 18
th
, 1942, we were learning how to shoot Bren and Vickers machine-guns at Fairbright. The range was on the cliff facing out to sea. Our instructors were from the Brigade of Guards. We stood at ease while a Grenadier Guards Sergeant told us the intricacies of the “Vickers 303 Water-Cooled Machine-Gun. I will first teach yew which is the safe end and which is the naughty end. Next, I will show ew how to load, point and fire the weapon. Following this, I will dismantle the gun and reassemble it. It’s not difficult; I have a three-year-old daughter at home who does it in six minutes. Anyone here fired one before?” I had, but I wasn’t going to fall into the trap. Never volunteer for
anything
in the army. So the day started. It was worth it just to hear the military repartee. “What’s the matter with you man, point the bloody gun at the target, I’ve seem blind crippled hunchback shoot straighter than that! Don’t close yer eyes when you pull the trigger! Remember Mummy wants you to grow up a brave little soldier, doesn’t she? You’re firing into the ground man! We’re supposed to shoot the Germans not bloody worms! Steady, you’re snatching the trigger, squeeze it slowly, like a bird’s tits. Left-handed are you? Well, I’m sorry we can’t have the weapon rebuilt for you, you’ll have to learn to be right-handed for the duration.” Then, to little Flash Gordon, who got in a hopeless mess trying to load the Bren. “No no son, tell you what, you go and stand behind that tree and say the Lord’s Prayer and ask him to tell you to STOP WASTING MY BLOODY TIME!” The day was alive with these sayings.

It all ended badly for me. As we climbed on the three tonner to go back to Billets, Driver Jenkins slammed the tail-board on my right hand. It came up like a balloon and I don’t mind saying I was cross-eyed with agony. They took me to Hastings, to St Helen’s Hospital, to have it X-rayed. I had no broken bones. They bandaged the hand up and put my arm in a sling. What a bloody hang-up. I was going on leave the next day.

By now my father had rejoined the army as a captain in the R.A.O.C., and the family were living at Linden House, Orchard Way, Reigate. I arrived home after dark, having had difficulty getting a lift from the station. My mother and father were not given to drinking in pubs, so after dinner I went into the Bell, which stood at the crossroads near our house. Of course this was the day of the raid on Dieppe and its heroic failure. It was in the papers and on the radio. Some of the Battery trucks had been commandeered to pick up some of the survivors at Peacehaven. Lance Bombardier Lees drove one truck and told me of seeing the survivors come home. They were all silent, their faces painted black; they came ashore with hardly a word said; some of the badly wounded had died on the way back. What can anyone say? Anyhow, that evening when I walked into the pub with my hand all in new white bandages I was on to free drinks for the night. An elderly, dignified man came across and said to me, “Would you care to have a drink with me and my friends?” I said ‘Yes’, and, seeing it was free, I had a Scotch. After a few words of conversation the elderly man said, “What was it like, son’?”

“What was what like?” I said.

“Oh come on son. No need to be modest.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what you mean.”

The elderly man winked at his friends and nodded approvingly towards me. Then it hit me. Dieppe. Had I been to Dieppe? If I said no, the chance of a lifetime to drink free all night would be thrown away. Yes. I had been to Dieppe, a whisky please, yes, we went in and, Cheers, I was in the last wave, another whisky please, anyhow I crawled towards this pill-box, a brandy then, and…

That night my mother put me to bed; for two hours I had been a hero, something I had never been before and would never be again.

DETENTION

O
ctober 1942. We were alerted for a practice shoot at Sennybridge Camp in Wales. Burdened down with kit, I decided to hide my rifle in the rafters of the hay-loft. “That’s a good idea,” said patriotic Edgington. The short of it was several other patriots did the same. And it came to pass, that after we had gone thence, there cometh a Quarter Bloke, and in the goodness of his heart he did inspect ye hay-loft, and woe, he findeth rifles, and was sore distressed, whereupon he reporteth us to the Major, who on Sept. 14
th
, 1942, gaveth us fourteen bloody days detention. For some reason all the other ‘criminals’ were sent to our R.H.Q. at Cuckfield, but I was sent to Preston Barracks, Brighton, alone, no escort, Ahhhh, they trusted me. At Brighton station, I tried to thumb a lift; I got one from an A.T.S. girl driving a General’s Staff car. She dropped me right outside Preston Barracks. As the car stopped, the sentry came to attention, then I got out. I reported to the sergeant I/C Guardroom. “Welcome to Preston Barracks,” he said.

“You’re welcome to it too,” I replied.

“Now,” he said, “from now on you keep your mouth shut and your bowels open.”