Sergeant Gordon Johnston Walker

Unit : Public Relations Team, Army Film and Photographic Unit

So the barrage crept, and suddenly the I troop carrier’s engines roared and off we went into the darkness, smoke and general mayhem, with me aboard and I couldn’t get off or I would have been smashed into the ground by one of the following vehicles. Now if there is anything more unnecessary than a cameraman in the darkness I don’t know of it. It is quite impossible to take pictures in the dark so I was like a spare bride at a wedding and could do nothing except keep my head down and trust we didn’t hit a mine or stop a shell. Eventually, without mishap, we reached the de-barking point and the infantry lads got off and got stuck in, and a very successful action they fought. The lot I was with didn’t suffer a single death and they captured their objective.

It was just starting to get light by this time and, getting out of the A.F.V. I headed for the sharp end which was about half-a-mile away As it got lighter, the enemy causalities were very noticeable; heads, legs, arms, trunks - bits of this and that were strewn everywhere, the barrage must have panicked those poor blokes into making a run for it, but a heavy stonking just can’t be trifled with and the only thing to do is to stay put and cross your fingers and trust that it hasn’t got your number on it. They didn’t and paid the price. Mind you, it made some very good pictures, especially if arranged a bit artistically, but that bit was never published. I wonder why? Our own dead were never photographed, for obvious reasons, but what is wrong with a bit of visual proof that our boys were helping the Wehrmacht in their wish - to die for their country?

Knowing that as sure as morning follows night, the enemy would counter-attack very soon and not wanting to be caught out in the open, I looked for a Jerry ‘douvre’. This was, in effect, a large, square hole dug about 8-10 feet square and deep, but lined vertically, laterally and vertically again, with the trunks of fir trees and just like 12inch (30 cm) thick plywood and similarly roofed, the latter finally being covered with earth and turf and with an L-shaped entrance, the whole being very difficult to see and, as near as dammit, shell and bomb proof, certainly splinter proof.

Anyway one was soon found because there was a dead German halfway out the entrance so it was fairly easily spotted. Taking the precaution of lying down near the entrance and calling out, so that if any of the infantry boys were down there they would answer in English, if not, then a quick grenade down it and after the dust and smoke cleared I went into it. As it so happened it was empty, so, going back up and pulling the dead one out of the entrance, I awaited developments and, before long they counter-attacked with mortars and shell fire. By this time several troops and their Sergeant had found me, and I asked what the score was. The Sergeant told me and said their orders were to stay put until the expected tank and infantry attack started and then the shelling and mortaring began and we all blessed the Germans who had constructed that douvre; apart from being periodically showered with earth and worms, not a single hit penetrated.

By this time the din of the battle was tremendous and the Bren gunners and the Sergeant at the entrance were ready if the attack came our way, but as it so happens, it didn’t, but we were stuck down there until 2 o’clock in the afternoon, when the whistle sounded, mustering the lads in our area. The ‘stonking’ had suddenly stopped and after the din there was an air of unreality. The Sergeant shot out and called his troops and off they went with the others in the area. It was about company strength and, of course, me trailing in the rear. I reached the First Aid station, not that there was anything wrong with me, but to see if a hand was needed, but it wasn’t, as they had plenty of help from an enemy first-aid post they had over-run; in fact, the British had occupied the German post and both sides were working together, trying to save the wounded and succour the dying.

A quick picture or two to illustrate how, in adversity, both sides could work together, and then I left that charnel house. People just don’t realise the horrific wounds that front-line doctors and staff have to deal with, these men are amongst the noblest of beings, never giving up and often going voluntarily into captivity with their patients; people seem to think that wounds and death are caused by neat little bullet- holes, all very tidy and noble, but this is not so. Can you imagine a man with his jaw shot off? Or his stomach ripped by a jagged piece of mortar, and his tripes strewn all over the place? No, unless you’ve seen it, it can’t be imagined. Or the screams of tank crews when they are being incinerated in their ‘brewed up’ tank. If these things were given worldwide publicity, with pictures, there would be a bit less bullshit about ‘they died gloriously for their country.’

War is a stupid, filthy, stinking business, resorted to when the politicians can’t talk any more, or bow down to a bully. As a regular soldier, war was my business and, perversely enough, for all my written distaste against those who try to glorify it, I enjoyed it. But then again, how much of this was revenge for what had happened to my pals and the civilians at home? In seeing these evil bastards decimated, and make no mistake, evil they were; arrogant, jack-booted murderers, and I am very pleased with the part I played in helping to destroy them. The psychologists can sort that one out. I’m not repentant at all.

Walking back to Battalion H.Q. I enquired if there was any transport going to the rear as my film should, by now, be back at my own H.Q. and I was mortified when told that there was a twenty-four hour embargo on vehicle movement, so it was either stay or walk the seven miles back - I walked, having been told where the ‘out’ corridor was. It was very still, no noise, the battle having moved away, and after while, in a wood, came across a grim reminder of the barrage of the night before; the Germans used a lot of horse-drawn transport and I saw a group of five such vehicles, the horses dead between the shafts, poor things. I hope they died quickly; they have no part in wars, and there were various crews lying dead in and around the wagons except one driver who was sitting bolt upright in his seat. When I saw him I pulled out my pistol and shouted “Hande Hoch” (hands up) but he didn’t respond and when I took a second look - his head was missing! Gave me quite a start. His was a food wagon and had a carton of cigarettes on it, with a swastika printed on each cigarette. I took some as souvenirs to give to the base bound lads, who never had any opportunity to collect any ‘loot’ and I opened a packet and took one to light it. Do any of you old soldiers remember the ‘Victory V’ cigarettes? Well, these Jerry ones were a sight worse; it doesn’t seem possible, but they were!

As I was leaving there three very old Germans came out of the trees with their hands up, saying “Tommy, no shoot.” After recovering my cool and thankful that my intestines hadn’t disgraced themselves, I searched them; they hadn’t any weapons, in fact not even an Iron Cross (this was a good trading object) so with them in front of me, carrying my camera and bag of film, we set off for the rear and they were duly handed over to the first Military Police we met, who gave us a lift to the rear.

When we got to the Armoured start line (which was well behind the infantry one in this instance there was a bit of smoke and overturned guns and tanks, in fact it was a right shambles with dead and wounded all over the place. We stopped and did what we could, which wasn’t much, as it was medical aid they needed, and when the ambulances arrived we asked what had happened. The truth was disgusting and another reason for the troops to distrust the seemingly slip shod methods of the American Air Force; a squadron of American heavy bombers were passing over on their way to bomb the German front-line and tank laagers and, due to an error in navigation, spotted our tank and artillery laager and dropped their load on their own Allies. Fortunately in military terms the damage wasn’t sufficient to stop the guns and arm our going into action. This imminent attack was why there was a twenty-four stop on traffic movement, so as to give them a clear run up to the enemy without hindrance of our vehicles so that everything that moved must be Jerry’s and fair game to the attackers. Having had the explanation, I didn’t feel so bad about walking out and, once again, if I hadn’t tarried by these German transports I might have been in the area that was bombed; truly, if your number is on it… Back with my lot, they looked at me with astonishment; as I hadn’t come back the previous evening, they thought I was dead and was about to be reported missing. However, after explanations all was well and I had the rest of the day and night to rest up.

The following day dawned with the news that we had trapped a complete German Army (I can’t remember its number) and that the Falaise Gap was now a massive killing ground, so, grabbing our gear, we all went our different ways to the front, and I returned to the sector I was in two days previously. Killing ground was no exaggeration at all; they were trapped, couldn’t get out, and our people were knocking seven different kinds of shit out of them. Artillery was literally firing point blank into the area, the tanks were giving them stick, and the R.A.F. were thumping their tanks into scrap metal. The rocket firing aircraft were running a taxi service to Falaise and its environments and a hit from one of those boys meant a tank without a turret. And so it went on and on until the Germans surrendered and left the road open to Belgium and Holland. After it was all over, the morale of the troops was sky-high and there was much talk of being home for Christmas, but this wasn’t to be, there was lots and lots of hard fighting to be done before then.

When the fighting finished, I went touring round the killing area to see if there was anything to put on film that hadn’t been done already; there was the usual wreckage of war, the hundreds of dead, the burnt-put tanks, some with the driver killed trying to get out of his hatch, the outside half of him more or less whole, the inside bit just a bit of charred nothing - and the smell, Phew! It was hot and heat does odd things to corpses and, being a bit revolted, I told my driver to head for our H.Q. when my mate said that there were some troops calling us to come to them. So over we went, and we saw a sight I’d never seen before, it was a young German, stark naked, lying on top of a girl, who was also ‘starkers’ and it was obvious what they had been doing; they were both as dead as doormats but without a sign of any injury. We reckoned that they had been killed by blast and whether he was a rapist or they were lovers we will never know, but as one of the troops remarked. “What a lovely way to go!”

Arnhem

The Unit was about to move out with the remainder of the 2nd Army in the great chase across Europe as, with their defeat at Falaise and the Americans success in the south, the Germans were in full-scale retreat, and were moving towards the Fatherland faster than a suppository in a constipated behind, when my mates and self were recalled to England for an airborne operation that was coming off shortly. We picked up a U.K. bound aircraft at a nearby landing strip and eventually arrived back at Pinewood, where we joined another one of our lads who was already there. We were just told that an airborne job was coming off, no details known, and would be briefed at the Airborne Forces H.Q. at Moor Park, and when we knew what the score was, we would be fitted out with whatever photographic kit we thought we would require, plus a jeep and trailer.

We were briefed three times, once for Paris and once for Maastrich in Holland, but the enemy was retreating too fast for these operations to be mounted, and eventually we were briefed on ‘Operation Market Garden’ which was the bridge across the Neder Rhine at Arnhem. On paper it was a doddle, maximum of only Brigade opposition and that would be composed of ‘clapped out’ tanks and second-class infantrymen. The plan was far seeing; only three bridges stood between our advanced tanks and infantry and Germany, the first two of which would be taken by the two American Airborne Divisions, the 82nd and the 101st, one on each bridge, and we, the British 1st Airborne Division, were to take the final one - at Arnhem, thus leaving the way clear for the 2nd Army to advance in record time. In fact our part of the operation was to last two days and then we would be relieved. That was the theory!

The lift was planned to take place in three successive days, Sunday first lift, Monday second lift and Tuesday the final one, all being combined Parachute and Glider landings. When we got to our departure airfield we were finally briefed, and shown our exact dropping and landing zones, and I must say that none of us were too happy about the distance these were from the Bridge itself, a matter of seven miles, and in completely unknown territory. However, ours was not to reason why, so as two of us had to fly in a Glider with the jeep and trailer, plus two Royal Signals wireless operators. These weren’t parachutists or even airborne troops, but were two very newly called up, very young lads, who had never heard a shot fired in anger, and had been posted as wireless operators to the Army Public Relations team, which was also going with us (these lads were magnificent, and did their job in the highest ideals of the Signals and, incidentally, the Public Relations wireless link to the U.K. was the only one working during the whole of the action). One bloke was to accompany the parachutists and this was Sergeant Mike Lewis who was a veteran of the Tunisian campaigns and the most experienced parachutist of the three of us. My mate in the glider was Sergeant Dennis Smith.

At the airfield we filmed some ‘lead-in’ stuff, troops embarking, close-up of graffiti on the gliders and tugs, etc. then we embarked on our Horsa and off we went to see the wizard. For us the journey was uneventful, and mainly boring; we took off at 10.00 hours and it was a beautiful day and my mate and I spent a lot of time taking film and pictures of the flight. Before we reached the coast of Holland there was a couple or so gliders down in the drink, how or why I don’t know, and after we crossed the coast, a number of dummy parachutists were dropped to fox the enemy. I’ll bet a few Jerry soldiers didn’t need their number nine pills when they saw them dropping. There was some anti-aircraft fire, not much, as our escorting fighters soon take care of them and the flight continued on.

I am not a happy person in a military glider, the continuous sight of those two tow ropes, stretching from the glider wings to the tail of the tug, were our umbilical cords, cut them and we were useless as of course we had no power of our own; the silence too, broken only by the swishing of air past the fuselage, was a bit unnerving, but it had a serenity of its own, a feeling of being detached from the rest of the fleet and just sailing along on a mat of fleecy cotton wool. At approximately 1400 hours we were told to stand by for the landing; the glider cast off the ropes and we went into a steep descent, which levelled out into a beautiful landing; quickly we jumped onto terra firma, and immediately started to film the Para drop, as by a nice bit of luck, we had landed before they arrived and so were able to put the 1st Parachute Brigade and the 1st Airborne Brigade arriving for the bitter fight that was to follow.

After the landings and drop, we retrieved our jeep and trailer and swanned around to see what was happening and we found out that the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Battalions of the Para had gone, hell for leather, for the bridge in their various directions, with the 2nd Battalion going directly through Osterbeek, the 1st Battalion via Ede and Arnhem Road and the 3rd Battalion via the Utrecht-Arnhem road. The 2nd Battalion, we were to discover later, was the only battalion to get to the Bridge, the other two met with massive opposition in the form of tanks and self-propelled guns and were cut to ribbons en route; without knowing this, we tried to get to the bridge but encountered heavy and accurate fire and hastily retired, and came across Divisional H.Q. who had set up shop in Hartenstein, and from them we discovered what had happened to the Para Battalions.

We added our bit of information, as every little helps to pinpoint the enemy; we had a bite to eat and drink and went to join the South Staffs for the night, so as to be ready to film the arrival of the second drop the next day, the significance of the cut roads to the bridge not having hit us yet. We left the trailer at H.Q. only taking with us our arms, cameras, and what film we had left, telling the First Aid Post to take whatever blankets etc. they might need, as we had no real use for them.

The night was comparatively quiet and we managed a few hours sleep until dawn, and we set off for the second drop, which was over the railway line to Arnhem, and joined up with the Border Regiment and the King’s Own Scottish Borderers, who were holding the landing zones, having been ordered to do so at all costs and with great ferocity had fought a pitched battle with the enemy, ending up by going in with the bayonet and scattering them like a burst bag of peas. They were well pleased with themselves, and rightly so too.

The landing was due at 1000 hours but it came, and went, and no aircraft, gliders or anything appeared, and the situation was decidedly ‘dodgy’ with sporadic shelling, mortaring and sniping. These snipers were the very devil and picked off more of our men than I care to think about. However, we waited and had a number of German fighters ‘strafe’ us also for good measure. By about 1500 hours the planes started to arrive, bang into a hail of anti-aircraft fire and machine gun. The scene was horrible, at least two Dakotas were hit and set on fire, the Paras exiting in a hurry, into a hail of tracer and the planes themselves eventually crashing in fames. The heath was on fire, Paras were being killed and wounded as they descended, and many a glider hit the deck, out of control. This was the 4th Para with some more South Staffs, and what was left of them formed up and set off for Arnhem, but never got through to the bridge and, in point of fact, the 1st and 4th Para Brigades had almost ceased to exist as a fighting force; this was clear by the third day.

We had rejoined Divisional H.Q. as we had no more film left, and offered our services as required. We found out that the General had been missing for a day but had now turned up, after some hair-raising adventures in which Brigadier Lathbury, the 1st Para Commander had been severely wounded and was out of action.

With the terrible reverses that we had suffered and the enormous casualties the plan was to make a large defensive perimeter around the central point of the Hartenstein Hotel which was the divisional H.Q. and to withdraw what troops could be mustered to this perimeter and make a stand, until the 2nd Army could relieve us. By now we had gone 24 hours over the time we were told we should be relieved and hunger and thirst were beginning to bite very hard. The rations we carried for these capers were in the shape of two 24-hour packs of concentrated food and chocolate, and a water bottle full of water; only a fool would put anything else in it when going ‘dicing’ and as many bars of chocolate and packets of cigarettes you could stuff in your jump jacket; a cigarette is a great comforter in times of stress when the thought of dying from cancer seem very remote. We should be so lucky and also it helps to keep hunger at bay, and nothing comforts a wounded man more if he is capable of smoking it. The three of us pooled what we had got and shared out food and cigarettes, except Mike, who didn’t smoke.

The third day dawned and by this time what was left alive and kicking of 10,000 men were defending the perimeter, the remnants of 1st and 3rd Battalions were down by the river, the 2nd was on the Osterbeek-Arnhem road and the South Staffs by the Church at Osterbeek, who were having a rotten time with snipers. I joined them there early in the morning, and that evening the Germans launched an attack with, I think, three tanks and Sergeant Baskerville of the South Staffs won a V.C. in the view of many of us, by knocking out two of the tanks and then had his gun knocked out. Crawling to another gun which was working, but whose crew were dead, he took on the third tank single-handed, which had withdrawn, but paid the penalty by being killed himself. A very brave man amongst many brave men.

The German infantry were attacking meantime, but we gave them stick; the stupid bastards just ran into Vickers and sub-machine gunfire and wave after wave of them were sent to their particular Valhalla. They were massacred in their scores, the noise of the action was terrific, at such close quarters was it fought, with the ripping sound of Spandau machine-Guns, the stutter of Sten guns and the heavy thumps of the ‘75’s and the Mills bombs, all making their contribution to a massive Death March but in 6/8 time. The noise to me that stood out above all others was the very reassuring heavy thump, thump, thump of the Vickers, rising above the clash of the battle and the lads who played that particular instrument of death did it as if on a practice range; no panic, no wild bursts, just a steady burst, then another and so on.

The enemy broke, leaving the ground literally piled up with dead and wounded and the cries of ‘Wa Ho Mahomet’, the airborne battle cry resounded throughout. It was a notable victory but was just a taste of things to come during the following days until we retired. If only I’d had some film for my camera, but expecting only a two-day stand I only had 500 feet, thinking to pick up more when relieved, and that amount had been used up. Ah well, that’s how the cookie crumbles and on the evening of the fourth day, when things quietened down, it was back to H.Q. to discover that they had had a most fearful mortaring all day, reaching, I was informed, a density of forty plus bombs per hour, causing a lot of casualties. Later that afternoon, about 1700 hours or so, we had an accurate supply drop of ammunition; this was on the 20th September.

On the 21st it was impossible to leave the Hartenstein Hotel area, due to the fact that the enemy made a very determined attempt to break into the perimeter. What with this and the recommencement of the heavy mortaring and shelling it was a wonder any of us lived through it, but we did. Defending the perimeter, in addition to the Para and the South Staffs, there were elements of REs, RAs, Royal Signals, Glider Pilots, Pathfinders, RASC who fought as hard and viciously as the rest. It was a case of their life or yours and although airborne troops do not require to have their back to the wall in order to fight, this was literally a case of give an inch and we were all done.

The R.A.F. supply planes and their dispatchers were giants among brave men; whenever they came over with supplies (which unfortunately usually fell to the enemy) all the fury of the enemy was directed against them, but steadfastly they flew straight and level through the most fearful ‘flak’ - the dispatchers at the doors, chucking out the containers, even when repeatedly hit and set on fire, flying on, blazing torches in the sky, until they eventually crashed in flames. What devotion to duty and so sorrowful to watch. There wasn’t a man on the ground that wasn’t moved by this display of courage and, in the main, with no benefit to us.

That day, in an attempt to reinforce us, the Polish Para were dropped on the other side of the Rhine, opposite our perimeter but due apparently to lack of boats etc. they had to stay there until the next night, when they joined us, a very small batch of about 200; they too had been cut to ribbons.

Food and water was a definite problem, we managed to collect some apples and vegetables from time to time and at the end of the open space behind the Hartenstein there was a well but collecting water was very ‘dodgy’ due to these pestilential snipers. One of the Sergeants and his men, faked up a dummy soldier with a stick, pillow and tin hat, and exposed it every so often. It never failed to draw fire, thus showing where the sniper was and then he would get his ‘come-uppance.’ He knocked out an awful lot of snipers this way and enabled us to get water from time to time.

If you were wounded it was certain captivity, as the British and German Red Cross agreed to work side by side, but the Germans controlled the hospital, so if you were taken there, into captivity you went. In fact the only jeep that was still running was the one that ferried the wounded to hospital, the enemy respected it and it was back and forth all day long, carrying the wounded to succour, safety and behind barbed wire.

It wasn’t all grim, square-jawed stuff, we had some laughs like when a German Psychological unit in a van came up and bellowed through the loud-hailer that we were good blokes and marvellous fighters, and that if we would surrender we would be treated as heroes and all this guff. The answer of course was cat calls, “Up yours from Wigan.” “Get knotted,” and other military replies and when it came next day somebody fired a P.I.A.T. bomb right into it. They didn’t send another one! And if you were caught in the open during an enemy ‘stonk’ and dived into a slit trench you had usually to battle with squirrels for possession of it; they couldn’t live in the woods and very sensibly occupied slit trenches and were not at all keen on a human being there too. Sharp little teeth they’ve got.

The 22nd, 23rd and 24th were a repeat of the previous days, non-stop shelling and mortaring, and attack after attack, and every day the perimeter grew a little less until the evening of the 24th we were told we were evacuating as the 2nd Army had at last reached the opposite bank at Driel. We were filthy dirty, beyond tiredness, hunger and sleep were luxuries that belonged to another life, but we weren’t broken not by a long way, and we received the news with gladness that it would soon be all over and with sadness at the loss of pals who wouldn’t be coming back with us. Late that night it was our turn to go down to the river and with a guide at the front and with all our ‘tails’ undone so that each person could hold on to the bloke in front we went, in single file, It was very overcast and pouring with rain and we had our feet muffled with sacking or other rags, and so we reached the river bank.

The Second Army were banging shell after shell into the German lines to cover our withdrawa1 and as we lay in the mud we hoped that everyone found a target. Eventually we got on a boat, manned by REs and crossed over safely, notwithstanding a bit of mortaring by a suspicious enemy. Sergeant Smith had been wounded during the fighting but had absolutely refused to go to hospital as he didn’t want to be a POW, and wasn’t in too good shape when we got to the other side, so as we set off walking towards Nijmegen, carrying our cameras, film and arms. It became a bit of a strain, so the first house we came to, we forced an entry, found a bed and laid down and went to sleep; seemingly only minutes later I was awakened by a British corporal and two men, poking their bayonets at my rear; they thought we were Germans but were soon disabused of this idea and they took us to a First Aid Post where Sergeant Smith had his wound dressed and were given a lift in an ambulance to Nijmegen. From there into hospital for a day and the following one we flew back in a Dakota to England, as our pictorial record of part of the action was of paramount importance, and as we were the first survivors home, received a tremendous and most embarrassing welcome.

The pictures and film were processed and released to the news reels and newspapers, and were published world-wide and later we were told that at 14 shillings (70p) a print they netted £156,000 for the Ministry of Information, who were our ultimate bosses and as we were part of the Army Public Relations set-up, we naturally came under them. We were informed that we had each been recommended for the British Empire Medal, but with the inscrutable way that the Army works, we were later told that due to the widespread newspaper publicity we had received the award would not be possible. I felt very bitter about this, the second time I had been an ‘almost’. It is not a question of ‘gong chasing’ but a regular soldier’s career will often be influenced by what he wears on his chest, and soldiering was my life and I had been cheated, not once, but twice- So Be It!

After a couple of days rest we were given a week’s leave, during which I paid one of my infrequent visits to my home and parents, who were pleased to see me and made quite a fuss which I must admit I didn’t feel displeased about and, at the end of the week, returned to Pinewood from where we rejoined our unit in Holland. When we got to our port of departure, which was Newhaven, we reported to the Transport Officer, who rubbed his hands with glee and remarked that we were just what he had been praying for and signed us over in charge of a draft of 180 men who had been wounded in France, hospitalised and were being returned to action and who didn’t have a single N.C.O. amongst them, and thus were 180 individuals from a score of different regiments for whom we were now responsible until we handed them over to the Transport Officer on the other side. They had to be documented, hadn’t eaten for hours and the ship flatly refused to feed them as they were supposed to have their own food for 48 hours.

What a cock- up. However, Sergeant Smith and self got to work, forged a ration requisition, including cigs and chocolate, commandeered a truck, found the local supply dump and bullied the N.C.O. in charge into giving us what we wanted, hinting that we had 180 Paratroopers ready to take his place apart if he didn’t cough up. As we were Parachutists and dressed as such, complete with red beret, the poor soul had no reason to disbelieve us and we got all we wanted and returned to the dock. The troops were then called out, lined up and as they filed past the end of the truck, were told to give their number, rank, name and Regiment, which was written down, and were given 50 cigarettes, bars of chocolate and two 24-hour ration packs each and then marched onto the ship in a much happier frame of mind. At this point the Transport Officer came along and, with a stunned look on his face, asked where we got the ‘goodies’ from and weren’t the troops in a good frame of mind? He was told that, in answer to the first question, we had had an airborne supply drop and to the second it was all a matter of Para personality. Poor bloke, I am sure he had never met anybody like us before and I expect he preferred not to in future.

So the boat sailed, and as we had also got loads of tea, sugar and tinned milk, we asked the galley crew to make us pots of tea for the lads and they turned a bit ‘stroppy’ and told us to get lost. So I informed the Chief Officer that he had 180 young men aboard who had all been wounded in action and were being denied some tea and was this the way to treat these young heroes? Adding that, of course, if they were further refused I wouldn’t be able to stop them taking over the galley for themselves. He was a man of discernment and ordered the galley crew to keep the pot boiling all night, and the troops, who incidentally would never have dreamed of doing any such thing, were as happy as possible under the circumstances and, at the end of the journey, many of them thanked me, mostly saying that having to go back into the Line was bad enough but to be treated like a bunch of waifs and strays, whom nobody would be responsible for, was very morale-lowering. They were a dejected bunch before we got them but a bit of leadership, plus mixing and eating with them, worked wonders. I hope they all survived.

After leaving the ship, and having handed our charges over for onward transmission to their various destinations, we hitchhiked our way to Holland, where our unit was now stationed and after meeting all the blokes, and having a celebratory evening, we commenced work the next day. At that period it was slow, rotten work for the infantry, clearing the enemy away from all the canals and, in our area, up to Maastricht across the Maas Canal. It was dangerous work for the P.B.I. all mines and booby-traps, plus the odd battle with the enemy, and we were hard put to get any decent filming done.

About this time I heard about a Marine sniper, who had a novel way of dealing with the Wehrmacht, and got permission to go with him on one of his frolics to try to record it. It was only because I was a Para, well versed in the subtleties of silent movement that he would allow me to accompany him. So early one morning, before daybreak, we set out. We crossed over our own lines and penetrated theirs until we came to a wooded part with a farm a few hundred yards away, worked our way round it until we were at the back and then waited - sure enough, just as he had predicted, the place showed movement, the cooks were starting to prepare their Teutonic breakfast, with many comings and goings, but still he did nothing, until at last a figure sauntered over to a door, opened it and went in. "That’s it," he said, "there is always somebody has an early morning crap. We will just give him time to get his trousers down and nicely settled on the seat. He deserves that, as it will be his last one." Then, taking very careful aim, put a shot straight through the bog door, which banged open, as the presumably dead German, fell against it, and there he was, lying halfway in and out of the doorway in all his glory. I wonder what his last thoughts were. What a sordid way to go. Strangely enough, there wasn’t any rushing about at the farm; the shot must have been unnoticed amongst the general noise of a new day dawning. We slipped quickly away, quietly and completely unseen, and returned to our own lines. On the way back he told me that he had done this often, from the early days in Normandy onwards, and he reckoned that they never cottoned on to how it was done, thinking, perhaps, that their own people were settling old scores; but what an ingenious way of knocking off your enemy, catching him when least expected. After all, who expects to be shot when on the throne!

Eventually the Maas was crossed, and our section set up shop near to Maastricht, and, as Christmas was coming, we were making the usual preparations, and the front was fairly quiet and we were, more or less, at a loose end and short of money to buy the booze, and other odd bits for Christmas Day. We were also mixing very freely with the local Dutch population, after being invited into their homes and we would always supply the food to eat whilst there, which was acquired by devious means, plus a bit of barter with the Americans, who weren’t too far away. The things we could get for Iron Crosses, Luger pistols, even tins of corned beef had to be seen to be believed. However, it struck Dennis and myself that the main theme of any conversation we had with the Dutch was that they hadn’t got the cooking-pot, or a spare bed, or practically every item of household goods you could more or less name, so we had a chat about this and agreed that we should go into the household supply business. We had our own jeep and a very good driver and we put it to him, as a proposition for getting hold of some cash and he instantly agreed

So we about gathering a few orders for various goods and set out for a village in No-Man’s Land: i.e., had been fought over but neither side was occupying. We got there without stirring up the hornet’s nest, and, as far as our own side were concerned, we were Army Film Unit going to get some forward pictures. We always did, by the way, because after all it was our raison d’etre and wouldn’t have been playing the game not to work at the same time.

Well, we sorted out the various items we had been asked to get, plus a few more, and returned to our village and promptly got rid of everything and gained quite a few guilders, and when the word went round the village that we had kept our promise, the orders came pouring in. It was embarrassing to hear the pleadings of these people because what they were without was really the things we take for granted; they asked us for everything - from needles for sewing to complete machines, bed clothes to mattresses and everything in the kitchen, including, believe it or not - a kitchen range for cooking on. We managed to get them everything they required and we even set up one young couple, who were about to be married, with a complete home: tables, chairs, settee, pots and pans, knives and forks, etc., etc. These things we gave to them as a wedding-present. People in our country just don’t realise what the Germans ‘nicked’ off ordinary people: if they wanted a thing, they took it, and really all we did was re-dress a wrong.

The best run we did was quite funny; it was to get various things, including a mattress, and we passed through our lines as usual but with a notable exception; the Military Police were on duty at the particular road we were going to use and naturally they stopped us and asked us where we were going. “To such and such a village” we said; “Why?” “Oh didn’t you know, we are going to take it over to-day as an Observation Post, ready for the next push.” “I suppose you want to be first to get some pictures as the blokes come in?” To say we were shattered would be an understatement; we hadn’t reckoned on being pestered by local action whilst doing our bit for the Dutch, but if we didn’t go forward we would lose face and, possibly, our freedom as well. So I said “That’s right, Corporal, you know the Army Film Unit - always first on the job” with an aplomb that none of us felt. “Cheerio. See you later” and off we went. When well clear the driver said “What the hell are we going to do now?” “Just drive to the village while we think” said Dennis, and think we did. “Having come this far we can’t go back without the goods” said I. “O.K.” said Dennis, “but how? What if we get shot-up and lose the Jeep? A fat lot of good we will be then!” Then one of those brilliant flashes came over me and I said “Shot-up. That’s the answer. We’ll get the stuff loaded and put the mattress on the top, quite openly, and one of us can be tied to the mattress and bandaged up and we will get back past the Police, as they will think we have a wounded bloke on the mattress to make him more comfortable, and save him being jolted around in the Jeep. “We’ll never get away with it” said the driver, but Dennis agreed that, in the words of the S.A.S. motto: ‘Who Dares Wins’.

So we dared - and won; the vehicle was loaded with the mattress tied on the top, and the driver and myself volunteered Dennis to be the casualty, and wrapped some bandages round his head and hands, and when the troops arrived, tied him on top and set off. There had been no opposition to the occupation, other than a bit of shelling, which was the perfect excuse, and when we came to the check point we just said that the shelling was nasty, and we had a casualty, and were waved past with shouts of, “Good-Luck, pal, you’ll be all right.” When we were well clear of the area, we stopped and fell about with laughter, interspersed with screeches from Dennis of “Get me off this bloody thing” which we eventually did and set off for our billet. We had a good laugh about it afterwards, but we agreed that enough was enough and that would be the end of the help for our Dutch friends.

But it wasn’t the end at all. The villagers had been complaining about the lack of milk, and everything else that it would make. They knew where there was a herd of cows at an abandoned farm, but they were afraid of being shot that they wouldn’t go and get them. They were only a couple of miles away but they didn’t know how close the Germans were to the herd, they thought perhaps the Germans were looking after them for their own commissariat, but the challenge was too much, so we decided to investigate. One of the local Dutch Underground offered to show us where these animals were, and we all went on foot to a vantage point, and, even without binoculars, they were clearly visible and with no sight of Jerry around at all, but the Dutch lad wouldn’t confirm this, so we contacted the nearest infantry for information and they said that, as far as they knew, Jerry was not in the immediate vicinity, so we decided to collect them that evening, and what a pantomime that turned out to be.

It was that period between light and darkness that, in Scotland, we call the ‘gloaming’ where movement isn’t easily noticed, that we set out and, without any mishap, reached the cows. With us were the underground lad and two Dutch farm hands, they were needed to get the cows moving, as our knowledge of cattle rustling was confined to the movies and we weren’t cowboys - in any case the cattle would only know Dutch commands. We were almost certain that there wasn’t any enemy about, as the Dutchmen pointed out, they wouldn’t have left them to roam, so we gave the signal to get them moving quickly just in case. By this time we were in amongst them, so as not to be seen, and they moved so did we, bent double, and the Dutch equivalent of ‘Giddup, Buttercup’ softly spoken out was supposed to start them off, but they just ‘mooed’ and shuffled a little, and then it happened.

The Driver who was behind one of them saw that it had lifted its tail and he was deluged. Cursing and swearing he un-slung his rifle and belted it over the behind, at which cavalier treatment it bellowed, and took off, and the rest bellowed and followed suit, and, of course, all our stealth was now in vain. They must have trotted for about five minutes, with us streaming in the rear, fortunately in the right direction, and a few minutes later they were safely penned up, ready for distribution amongst the villagers; but the poor old driver - he stank like an Egyptian toilet and failed to see what was causing all the hilarity.

Christmas had arrived when we got the news that General Rundsteit had launched a final assault against the Americans and was driving through the Ardennes in an attempt to reach the Channel so as to cut the armies in two. It failed, but not before he had caused chaos; as part of the tactics were the infiltration of American-speaking German soldiers, who, in the guise of Military Police amongst other things, re-routed supply columns, delayed the blowing of bridges by sending the Sappers away, by the ploy that they (the MPs) were controlling all crossing points and would see to the eventual destruction of the bridges, which of course they kept open for their own troops. They killed and captured hundreds of Americans, and took all their primary objective except for a town called Bastogne, which American paratroopers held and refused to give up (something like the situation we had in Tobruk) and this proved to be a big thorn in the enemy’s side. The situation was so bad over all, that General Montgomery was given command of all allied troops in the sector and told to clear the Germans out; this he did, with the British 2nd Army, and that finished the Germans so far as heavy attacking went.

My mate and self were sent to this area and a right miserable time was had by all. The Germans were using V1 bombs (doodle bugs) against us, and were firing them so as to hit the mountain sides, causing landslides and avalanches all the time and it is an extremely mountainous part, all narrow roads and passes, and it was very dangerous to be caught by one of these man-made horrors. Many a gun team were swept into the valley below, and as it was mid-winter and the ice and snow thick everywhere, the natural hazards were bad enough without these damned things making it worse. We were later told that, at their peak, the V1s were being sent over at roughly 300 per day; that is one every 5 minutes on average -no wonder we were unhappy.

We were in that area for about ten days and never even saw a German, other than prisoners, and the weather was so atrocious that we scarcely exposed any film but for all the climatic conditions, the boys of the 2nd Army did, as usual, a magnificent job, threw Jerry back, and restored the status quo. The only light relief we had was the acquisition of 28lbs of frozen pork chops, which truly fell off the back of an American supply truck in front of us. We picked them up and all our efforts to attract their attention, even to knocking on our wind- screen with our handkerchiefs, failed, so we, and a few other troops, had pork chops - breakfast, dinner and tea until they were finished. I’ll say this for the Yanks, they don’t believe in stinting their troops.

Back eventually to our Base and the commencement of the assault that was to take us into Germany, via the Siegfried Line (where we duly pictured some of the troops hanging out their washing, as per the words of the song) and on to the banks of the Rhine, where we could look over the river to our final goal - Germany proper! We set up shop at a town called Xanten, and on the other side approximately, lay the town of Wesel, which was to be the focal point when the Rhine was assaulted and crossed. Much preparation was made for this, the last massive confrontation with Jerry. An airborne drop was laid on, a commando assault, too, plus an orchestra of death, namely every calibre gun imaginable lined up in rows by size, the really big ones several miles back; then the 3.7’s and, in front of them, the 25 pounders and almost on the bank, the Bofors and Vickers machine guns, plus, of course, the rest of the 2nd Army who weren’t engaged elsewhere.

My mate and I weren’t to be on the airborne assault, another of the Para cameramen, Sergeant Bill Lawrie, was assigned to this and we were assigned to the Commandoes, most of whom were old mates in whose company we had been in the odd fracas or two at various parts of the advance. When all the preparations were complete, we were briefed the Commandoes would cross the Rhine during the night, and assault and capture Wesel followed by the infantry. Early the following morning there would take place the airborne landing, and immediately it was possible, a pontoon bridge would be slung across the Rhine in order to transport the army our and vehicles to the other side, all this to be preceded by a massive barrage the previous evening, so as to soften things up a bit for the Commando operation, and so give them a sporting chance.

On the stroke the guns opened up, and pounded the shit out of the other side of the Rhine, and later the first Commandos crossed with Dennis Smith. I crossed later with the last batch and by the time I got there it was like Guy Fawkes Day, but, in the main, the fighting for the town was over, the Germans had mostly pulled back, and, honestly, for all that weight of metal, I saw only two dead Germans. There had been some fighting, but the first ashore took the brunt and soon cleaned it up. Great blokes, these Commandoes.

Came dawn, and I returned across the Rhine to do my secondary job (and return the exposed film we had shot), which was picturing the building of the pontoon bridge and its eventual use by the armour, etc. Before I went down to the water’s edge, where the REs were starting to build the bridge the airborne lift passed over under very heavy flak by Jerry and in fact, one Dakota, carrying American paratroops, was hit and set on fire on our side of the river; the blokes in it had to make their jump at a very low altitude on our bank in order to escape the inevitable crash. I don’t think the crew escaped. Shades of Sicily!

Over the other side it was sheer murder; aircraft were on fire, gliders with parts of their wings shot off were just falling out of the sky, and descending Paras were being shot up in the air. It was horrible to watch, especially the gliders, which were so vulnerable, and on hitting the deck, just smashed into matchwood, and any guns or vehicles they were trans-porting tore loose and smashed into the luckless troops, who may or may not, have been alive on impact. I thanked my lucky stars that this was one I had missed. It seemed to last ages but was probably all over in fifteen minutes or so. The Army discontinued the use of glider-borne troops and equipment after that shambles, and a good thing too, because a surprise landing is one thing and you take your chance - an opposed landing is another - and you have no chance.

That disgusting episode over, I went down to the pontoon, which was well under way, and busied myself doing my job and then Jerry started to stonk the damned thing. He didn’t half give it stick, as they must have realised that, once the bridge was secure, the weight of the 2nd Army would soon be rolling over the Fatherland, so the might of their guns was directed on that area. The bridge was hit, repaired, hit again and again; repaired again and again, with the REs in small boats, buzzing in and out, towing the new sections to be added on. Very brave men. I had just sat down in one of these boats, to put a new roll of film in my camera, when I got hit in the eye socket; I saw ten million stars and thought my head had been blown off. Putting my hands instinctively up to my face, it was a relief to find that my head was still on my shoulders, and on inspecting my hands, found they were covered in blood and I felt sure that my eye and cheek-bone were gone.

However, one of the blokes washed the gore away with the river water and there was revealed a tiny, triangular slit, just below my right eye, which was probably caused by a tiny bit of metal ricocheting and just close enough to thump and cut a little bit. But what a headache! And subsequent black eye it produced; it was a couple of days before I could see out of that eye and the stitches the medics put in didn’t improve my appearance at all. Inevitably, wherever I went, I was usually greeted with the song, “Two lovely black eyes” and when I said that it was an honourable wound, gained in battle, they just laughed and said they had it on good authority, that it was a virgin fraulein, who wouldn’t bend to my evil will, who had done it. So much for sympathy to a near mortally wounded warrior.

Over the Rhine poured the army, and forward through Germany, the tanks and infantry battling like Trojans each time they met a pocket of resistance and, as we penetrated deeper and deeper into Germany, the French, Belgian and Dutch people, who had been forced into slave labour, suddenly found themselves free and started the long trek on foot back to their homelands. We tried to make them stay where they were, because it was 1940 all over again as they seriously blocked our advance by jamming up the roads, but they were having none of it. Home was where they wanted to go and home was where they went; we felt terribly sorry for them, trudging the roads with their meagre belongings on their backs. A very sad sight, indeed, but it was our raison d'etre to free the enslaved people of Europe and here was the proof that all the hardships we had suffered getting this far, was worth it, their weeping with joy whenever we appeared on the scene and the end to the hated Boche.

One or two skirmishes on the way are worthy of a word; at a place called Ibbenbueren there was an S.S. officer cadet-training establishment, and we expected to have a rough time winkling them out of their town and camp, and we were not disappointed. They fought like men possessed, as would be expected from the S.S., but the lads wrested about three-quarters of the town from them and then it was a bit of stalemate. In the meantime the driver, Dennis and self had been doing a bit of house-to-house winkling, and, wonder of wonders, we came across a black marketer's secret cache.

It was stuffed with soap, perfume, knickers and bras and, of course, booze! Leaving the driver on guard, we contacted a command post to see what the score was and were informed of the hold-up and thereupon came one of these flashes of brilliance, which transform situations. Why not ask if we could give the boys a drink and the promise of all this booty if the place was taken? After a bit of shenanigan, this was agreed, and we nipped round, distributing drinks and French knickers with the promise of more to come when it was over and believe it or not, that area was cleared within one hour and we kept our word and gave everything to these lads (plus a little for ourselves, of course) and everybody was happy. To this day; I have in my possession the two dress swords and ceremonial dagger belonging to the Commandant of that S.S. school. Another incident was in the town of Rheine where, by sheer accident, one of our blokes found a huge network of caves and passages under the town, absolutely stuffed with every conceivable drink in literally millions of bottles, all looted from France. We were never short of a drink after that so well did the lads do their job before reporting the find to the Military Police, who immediately put a guard on it. I believe the NAAFI had the job of carting it away for re-distribution.

We got word from our HQ that the POW Camp at Fallingbostel Number 14B, was believed to contain some of the lads taken prisoner at Arnhem, would we like to be there when it was relieved? As it was very personal and would make a good story, we were eager to go. Truly, I never expected what greeted us; in fact we were all astounded. The Para POW's had already taken over the Camp and the RSM in charge had a Guard of Honour drawn up, all smartly dressed, waiting to greet us. Talk about morale! From what I could gather they just ignored the Germans and ran the Camp themselves and put the fear of God into them for good measure. I felt very proud to be associated with such out-standing soldiers, and whilst Britain continues to produce such men, we have nothing to fear from anybody or any nation. Comparisons are odious, or so they say, but when being shown over the Camp we were introduced to the American airman and troops who were also POW's. They were lying on their beds, dirty, unshaven and with the air of men who had given up, no morale at all and, according to my guide, a bloody blot on the landscape.

From now on it was a race for the Elbe, the river on which Hamburg was the port, but before getting there, there was the matter of the Concentration Camps! The first camp I visited was Belsen. Set in a really beautiful, wooded area, completely hidden, was this filthy blot on the countryside. As we approached the smell and taste in your mouth was rank. At the entrance to the place was a huge, banked-up pit, which was full of human excreta and urine, the place where the inmates emptied their buckets and floating on this disgusting cesspool were many dead inmates. What a dreadful way to end your days. There was no rush of cheering inmates when we quickly took the camp, it took them all their efforts to breathe and just drag themselves about in an aimless, senseless fashion; for all they knew we were just another lot of ‘nasties’ to bait and torture them. They were unnerving to watch. The troops captured some of the Guards, including the Commandant, and a young 18-year old female guard, whose parents surely were the Devil and the Harpies. She was evil! Strikingly beautiful and blonde, in looks, epitomised Hitler’s blonde Master Race but in temperament she was the complete 100% Nazi. Totally un-repentant, she was eventually tried and hanged as a war criminal. Her name? Irma Gresser.

But long before she was tried, she was put to work clearing up the Camp, carrying the corpses to a huge pit that the REs had dug with bulldozers. They (the occupying force) treated the guards, and her, except for the torture, just as they had treated these poor things in their charge. As each day’s work finished, they weren’t allowed to wash or change their clothes and, when I left, were getting one potato a day to eat. It doesn’t take much imagination to understand what sort of a state they were in after a few days of this treatment, carrying rotting bodies with their bare hands, they smelt like the death they had brought to so many. The inmate’s huts were in a dreadful state; filthy, with human excreta inches deep in some places and women were having children born to them in this degradation. The troops did a noble job of sorting order out of the chaos de-lousing the people, erecting showers for them to wash, feeding them baby-like food for a while, as ordinary food would have killed them, and housing them in sanitary conditions, and providing clothes to wear. When it was all over and the people evacuated and the dead buried (thousands and thousands of them) the whole stinking place was burned down to prevent the spread of disease and to erase a sore on Europe’s body.

For some reason after this, I started getting a fear of being killed or maimed; it is difficult to reason it out, it was not that I was an heroic figure, far from it, I’ve been terrified more often than I care to think about, but the thought of being killed had just not occurred to me, I took my chances with the rest of the blokes without undue thought, but this was different, I was starting to look over my shoulder, wondering if there was a mine in the ground where I walked and if the next mortar bomb would blow me apart! In short, my nerve started to go and this horrified me as I wasn’t sure if I wouldn’t break under pressure, but, as luck would have it, it never came to a show-down as the war was just on finishing, but as we consider the number of good men who were made ‘nut cases’ because of the war I just think "there but for the Grace of God, go I.

The next place on the agenda was another concentration camp, at a place called Sandbostel, about 20 miles or so down river from Hamburg. This place was nowhere as bad as Belsen but the Germans had once more broken every rule in the book, as it was a combined POW and civilian concentration camp. This was definitely not allowed. The area was two camps, both sides being separated by a narrow road and the ever-present barbed wire. On being shown around the POW compound by a South African, it impressed me by its neatness and cleanliness, and to mind, nobody but nobody, can ever make British or Commonwealth troops drop their standards, no matter what the pressure or conditions imposed upon them. A pox on anyone who tries to denigrate these troops to me, they are the salt of the earth, magnanimous in victory, unbroken in defeat.

But when I went across the road it was a different kettle of fish entirely, although not in the same league as Belsen (what squalor could ever equal that?) it assailed the nose with the usual stink of urine and excreta one had come to associate with concentration camps, and the half-mad inhabitants listlessly dragging the rags, skin and bone that passed for their bodies around and around the compound. The more lively ones, presumably those who hadn’t been incarcerated for long, beseeched us to give them food and cigarettes, but this was forbidden, as I have previously said, because of the damage it would do to them but when we were once more on the outside, some bloody fool, no doubt inspired by compassion, threw a couple of un-opened tins of corned beef to them, and the ensuing fight for them was utterly sickening; ears, eyes were torn off in the struggle for possession, and by the time the troops interfered and separated them, there were seven dead and about twenty more or less badly injured men on the ground. To such depths can people descend when the veneer of civilisation is removed by hunger and degradation. I was very glad to get away from that place but the spectacle that had taken place haunted me for weeks afterwards.

Before we got as far as Sandbostel, there happened an incident that had light relief and tragedy in it. I was with the Guards Armoured Division when we laagered at some largish village or another, it’s name I can’t remember, and is of no importance, and I was idly watching the drivers parking their tanks for the night. This was done by the simple expedient of driving a tank through a house and then driving back in and parking inside it; the tank was ready for instant use, but very cunningly concealed from the air. Very crafty. Well, out of this particular house shot a uniformed person, whom I grabbed, and discovered that he was a French soldier who had been taken POW and allotted to a local farm to work. The Germans did this a lot with the French apparently. On discovering who he was, I started talking to him and, in the course of conversation, asked him if there was any local Gestapo around, as Dennis and I dearly wanted to get hold of one or some, and expected the usual negative answer. He said there wasn’t any Gestapo but the local baker was the village informer for them and was of some political standing.

On hearing this I was overjoyed, took him with me to get one of my mates, and then got the Frog to show us where the baker was living, which he duly did and we marched into his place and arrested him at gunpoint. He was absolutely terrified and, using the POW as an interpreter, questioned him about his Nazi activities, but, frightened though he was, he kept on saying that he wasn’t really a Nazi but was forced to act as the village spy (we never really ever met a self-confessed Nazi!) and the only way he ever gave the Gestapo information was by telephone. We decided that he was ‘small fry’ and would turn him over to the nearest unit for surveillance, but the officer we saw quite definitely didn’t want to be lumbered with a civilian and said, “No.” “What the devil will we do with him” said we. “Take the evil bastard into the yard and shoot him.” said he. Stalemate! He was a quite senior Officer but to execute someone is very different, to impersonal shooting in an action and we weren’t very happy at all, but took him into the yard just the same. Now our tame Frenchman hadn’t got a clue as to what had been going on and asked me what the score was, so I told him and he looked very pleased, but added that, before we shot him (he was quite certain we were going to!) just pretend to do it as he was certain that he knew where the local Gauleiter was and if he thought the end was nigh, he would tell. This information was passed on to my mate who, in accord with myself, thought it was an excellent idea, so we stuck him against the wall and, whilst making a great play of inspecting our pistols, the POW told the Nazi exactly what was going to happen to him, no doubt embellishing it a bit, unless he told where his boss was. The upshot was that he gibbered with fear and spilt the beans. He knew where he was, he was a terrible man, an executioner, a murderer, and this and that, and he would show us his house and point him out.

We piled into our jeep, and following his directions, came to this large house in the village. “In there,” he said. We were absolutely stunned because the house was the headquarters of the Military Police. This was a pretty state of affairs; the local Gestapo chief living in the same house as the British Military police! It was farcical. However, out of the jeep and up the stairway into the house we went and I asked for the Commandant of the Military police, who was a friend of mine, a Captain in the Rhodesian forces, who had been seconded to the British Army and was working with the Military police. After the usual greetings - long time no see, etc. I decided to have a bit of fun with him.

“Nice house you’ve picked for your H.Q. Who owns it?”

“Oh, a Herr XYZ” (I can’t remember his name).

“Is he still here, then?”

“Oh yes. He and his house-keeper look after us fine.” Change of subject.

“Caught any worth-while Nazi’s yet?”

“No, none at all” “

How would you like to take the district Gauleiter?”

“Man, do you know where he is?”

“Yes” “Come on then, tell. I’ll get some of the MPs and we’ll bring him in.”

“Is it worth a few beers and a meal?”

“Stop buggering about, Jock, of course it is.”

“Well, you won’t need the posse, because he is here in your H.Q. It is Herr XYZ.” The look of utter amazement, followed by consternation and rage that chased across his face had to be seen to be believed. He let out a bellow

“Herr XYZ, kommen sie hier, schnell, schnell” and the Herr appeared at the top of the stairs and, on seeing us put on his arrogant look which he swiftly took off when the baker put the finger on him.

“That’s him,” he said, and with that the officer bounded up the stairs, grabbed him by the necktie and pulled him, banging and crashing, down the stairs to the floor below and then booted him for good measure.

“You effing Nazi pig,” he said, “rotten Gestapo swine, pretending to be a good German, living in, of all places, the Military Police H.Q. I’ll never live it down if this gets out” and much more in similar vein, accompanied by the odd bit of mayhem. Eventually we stopped him and said that if he would send for the Field Security Police, we would tell them that we had picked up both of the Nazi’s and brought them to him and then nobody would ever had happened.

This we did, and a Sergeant turned up, questioned him and said that he wasn’t high enough up for the Field Security to bother with, but he said if you take them to the local POW cage I will see that they don’t cause any bother. This we did and when they were behind the wire, the FS Sergeant called the other prisoners to order and said something to them, upon which the Herr XYZ fell down in a faint. Nobody rushed to help him. When the Sergeant came out I asked him what he had said to the other German POW’s. “Oh” he said, “I told them that these two were Gestapo.”

The next morning their dead bodies were found in the compound. After this incident, we asked the Frenchman if he was going back to France and he said yes, but wasn’t going to walk, he’d rather wait for repatriation, but wasn’t looking forward to the delay, so we pulled a string or two and put him on a convoy going back to Holland, requesting the driver to try to get him on another convoy going to Belgium or France; after all, one good turn deserves another. Before he went he told us about a building that Germans used to visit at different times. Would he show us? Of course, and off we went.

This proved to be a fairly large hut, with a very-securely padlocked door and window, which was curtained, so we couldn’t see inside, so, fired with the thought that it just might contain lots of Nazi loot, we decided to break in; but the thought was easier than the deed and the door resisted all our efforts to break it down. Stalemate! Not quite. “Stand back” (in my very best John Wayne style) “I’ll shoot the lock off!” Pulling out my gun which was a Colt .45 automatic, I blasted off three or four shots at the lock, and received the fright of my life, for instead of the door flying open, sagging on its hinges, the damned bullets ricocheted back and around us, and, with un-military haste, we threw ourselves on the ground. Sheepish wasn’t the word for it, and when I looked at the other two, who were rolling about with laughter and very ignorantly I thought, was advised to fix a bayonet and charge it; some people have no sense of drama. Eventually we got the door open, and by the beds in it and the bits of clothing, male and female, we reckoned it must have been a junior league brothel. No loot, no nothing. Oh well, you can’t win any of them it would seem.

The end of the war was imminent and we received word that Hamburg was surrendering, and got our orders to go into the City and record the surrender, but the information wasn’t quite right as the surrender had been negotiated outside the City, and we blithely set off in our jeep to do the job we had been given and drove up the road past shipyard after shipyard wrecked by Allied bombings, without seeing any sign of activity; there was about twenty miles of this utter destruction and it was very eerie, no sign of life at all, and by the time we arrived in Hamburg it dawned on us that we hadn’t seen a single British soldier around, and for that matter, there wasn’t any German soldiers about either, excepting two German officers whom we came across at the lakeside in the town; we got out of the jeep and approached them, hands on holsters, really not quite sure of how to approach them, when one of them said, in impeccable English,

“You won’t need that, Sergeant, we aren’t armed, and the war is over!”

I’m not the type to be rendered speech-less, but on this occasion I was; a day or so ago we would have tried to kill or maim one another, and now we were meeting face to face, and they were eager to chat. Apparently their war was over, as they had been ordered to stay behind in Hamburg to hand over to the British, as per the surrender terms, whilst the rest of the German troops had gone towards the Danish border, still a fighting force, while waiting for the coming Armistice which was going to be signed on Luneburg Heath very shortly. They told us all this, and we didn’t know whether to believe them or not, so we did the only decent thing possible - ‘would they like a cup of tea?’ The non-English-speaking officer looked enquiringly at the other German, who translated our offer; he listened, looked bemused, and said something to the interpreter and we both looked enquiringly at him. “My friend says that he had been informed that the English always solve their problems by drinking tea, but never really believed it! Neither did I, but yes, we will have some tea with you!”

I remarked that only half of us was English, the other half was Scottish, we solved problems with a drop of whisky, so with the British, repeat, the British desire for compromise, would you like a drop of whisky in your tea? Swiftly translated, they both started a Teutonic belly laugh and agreed. Out came the Primus and the battered kettle and in no time at all a good old British ‘cuppa’ liberally laced with the Dew of the Highlands was being drunk by the four of us, all chatting like old pals who had met up after a long absence. For a moment I almost felt sorry for having helped to despatch a few of them, but my better nature asserted itself and threw off the temporary bout of conscience.

They invited us to their H.Q, which was a large hotel just down the road, and the four of us got well and truly ‘sloshed’ with schnapps and whisky. During the drinking and eating (they had some marvellous food, presumably all from Denmark; the German other ranks might have lived off bean soup, wurst and black bread but, my word, the officers didn’t!), we carefully avoided mentioning what a shower of crummy bastards they had for leaders, with the exception - and they said it first) that Himmler (the Gestapo chief) was the most evil man in the world; nobody was safe from his police, military or civilian, and they ranted on between drinks about him. I got the feeling that they had nearly been nobbled by them over the plot to kill Hitler nearly a year or so ago, so to cheer them up we told them about the Gauleiter and his minion, whom we had shoved into the POW cage and what had happened to them, and, naturally we had a toast to the damnation of all S.S. and Gestapo. We asked them if we were German sergeants would they entertain us like this they were horrified at the thought and were astounded to learn that our officers shared the same food and often the same billets as the senior NCOs whilst on active service.

Eventually the party broke up, we were shown our room and, to show our gratitude, we locked the door and stuck the dressing-table against it, just in case they got any peculiar ideas about adding our scalps to their collection, during the night, but all was well, the night passed peacefully, and the next morning we had some breakfast and departed without seeing them again. It was only sensible, as when the British troops arrived, all would be military and very formal and we could have been clobbered for consorting with the enemy, I expect, so best leave well alone and be content with an experience that I doubt any other soldier had ever had. So we motored back to our H.Q. for a fresh set of orders, which were to go with the troops who would be heading for Kiel.

We eventually arrived there, only desultory fighting being now the order of the day and the prisoners were being rounded up in their thousands. The marshalling yards at Kiel were just like a plate of spaghetti, or as if a monstrous fiend had dipped a spoon into the rails and stirred them round and round to resemble an inverted whirlpool. What a shambles! Proof, once more, that the R.A.F. and Americans had done a good job. Then came the surrender. Unconditional. Monty must have loved every moment of it as he signed the Armistice on Luneburg Heath; a fitting end to a fine General’s campaigning.

But there was still one more place to be freed – Denmark. Apparently it was stuffed full of S.S. and Wehrmacht who had retreated and retreated until they could retreat no more and in addition we had word there were several thousand wounded troops in the hospitals. The invading troops were to be Para, but in a very different role to that they were used to. The idea was to fly them to Kastrup airport in Copenhagen, unarmed, and arrange to send them back to Germany for internment. The idea of being unarmed didn’t appeal to anybody at all but it was pointed out to us (by a high-ranking Officer, who wasn’t going there) that the surrender had been signed and that the troops there would honour it and not make a fuss!!!

It was with mixed feelings that we flew off, militarily naked, so to speak, and landed in Denmark and proceeded to Copenhagen and our billets, which were in very comfortable hotels, and the following day the word went out to the various German units to prepare to move. Their own Officers and NCOs supervised this - our lads were more or less onlookers. It was very eerie to be in the City, full of armed Germans (they retained their arms until they came to the Danish-German frontier, where they were disarmed and marched into Germany the same as any other POW) and us with nothing. Thank goodness they didn’t turn stroppy, especially as the Red Beret must have brought some of them a few evil memories. The wounded, who were many, were put into Red Cross trains and were returned to their homeland by rail. All this was done, without any fuss, no fights at all, and when the last got on the ferry to go to the mainland we all heaved a sigh of relief, went back to Copenhagen, where to our honest amazement, we were feted like heroes! To say that a Para could do no wrong, wasn’t any exaggeration and the local Resistance people became our guides and mentors and kept us in the picture as to what was happening where and when.

Now one of the odd things that happened immediately the City (Copenhagen) was free of Germans was that both breweries, Tuborg and Carlsberg, went on strike; why, I never knew, but with one proviso - the Para could have as much beer as they required but not a drop to be sold to anyone else. Well, what a beautiful situation; we had the only booze in the area, not even the Navy could get any, and consequently you can imagine how ultra-popular we were. If you wanted a drink, befriend a Para and get invited to the Mess, where it didn’t cost a guest a penny as we footed the bill for all drink. And where did all the money come from to pay for this? Firstly, from the Germans who, at embarkation points were informed that they had to surrender their kroner as it was forbidden to take Danish currency out of the country. This they gladly did (sic) - I expect they were grateful to us for ending the war and wanted to show their esteem. All this money was handed over to the Army, excepting the odd kroner or two we required for personal reparations, due to us for the suffering they had caused, and secondly from the sale of surplus cigarettes to the population at £1 for 20 - their price, not ours. So money was no problem and we spent freely and gained the friendship of a nation.

Our guides and mentors told us one day that a very special parade was being held very shortly and this turned out to be a parade of all the girls who had fraternised with Germans during the Occupation. Actually some of us lads had witnessed this type of parade before in other countries we had liberated; it consisted of the females, without a stitch on, all their hair cut off, and with placards hung round their necks, proclaiming that they were whores, both professional and amateur, who had consorted with the detestable Boche, being marched all through the town and being jeered at and pelted with rubbish all the way. A degrading spectacle to us, but to the people of the liberated countries, a soft punishment for making life a bit easier for the enemy, and knowing what these people of many different nations had suffered, who could blame them?

Denmark was a country literally flowing with milk and honey as the Germans had fostered it as their main food-producing area. All types of food were plentiful and most troops took advantage of this to send parcels of difficult to obtain goodies home to the delight of their families. I was there for six weeks of a lovely sloth-like existence, which enabled me to get the shakes and fears out of my system and thank the Lord that I had managed to survive, more or less whole, the six years of war that we had been through, although very, very few of my old boozing school and subsequent mates had.

Almost every time I asked a mutual acquaintance whom I would come across, about Tom, Dick or Harry, Dodger, Knocker, Ranger, etc. the answer was always the same: dead or missing; arm or leg off or blinded and here was I, still firing on all six cylinders. I do not hold with being maudlin, what’s to be is to be, but one can’t help wondering if it was all worth it? Our wartime friendly nations are against us, the enemy ones are our friends; the ex-enemy are at the top of the heap and here we are - at the bottom! A nation that gives million to the Arts and can’t find the money to help bone marrow sufferers; I could go on and on but what’s the use? The politicians cook it all up, then call the Armed Services in to restore the status quo, who do their job excellently, sort it all out, and hand it back to the Politicians in a nice, neat bundle, who then proceed to cock it all up again. Is this what my mates were killed and maimed for? What supreme cynicism, they must have for us - the patriots. The Nation should never forget, that the highest to the lowest in the land, owe their jobs and their very existence to the men and women who fought for their Country and the many, the too many, who would never see the so-called fruits of victory.

From Denmark I was eventually, for my sins, sent to the Ruhr; this was the industrial heart of Germany, and it was just one big heap of rubble. In Essen you could look across the city and your eyes wouldn’t see a wall higher than three or four feet. Complete devastation with the notable exception of the infamous Krupps steel works, which was hardly touched at all. I wonder why? It was a dismal hole of a place but somehow that was excellent for watching the various rackets springing up in post-war Germany, or perhaps it would be kinder to call them ‘fiddles.’

One very clever ‘fiddle’ was the case of the missing petrol. This particular bloke ran a military petrol station and the SIB (detective branch of the Military Police) were coming across a lot of illegal petrol being used by civilians, and as this was a commodity which was very strictly rationed, they sought to uncover the source of supply. Eventually, after a lot of work, they tracked it to this particular filling station, so they stuck the bloke in charge in the ‘nick’ and tried to grill the information from him that would clinch their case, but he said absolutely nothing, other than to protest his innocence and insisted that they checked his tanks with him present, to prove he was telling the truth.

After awhile they realised that he wasn’t going to incriminate himself and agreed to dip the tanks in the full knowledge that there would be a discrepancy anyway, and they would nail him on that alone if necessary. So they duly trooped over to the station, got the dipping rod, which is notched every so many inches, the amount of rod being wet when withdrawn would, when read in conjunction with the last notch, would give the gallonage in the tank. Every tank showed not a discrepancy, but a slight amount over. This disconcerted the SIB who dipped the tanks repeatedly, but always with the same result - a surplus; small, perhaps but certainly not on the wrong side.
They were dumbfounded, as all their evidence pointed to this particular man as being the black market supplier. The petrol was tested for purity - all O.K. Samples were taken from the bottom of the tanks to see if there was water at the bottom; still O.K. Eventually they gave up and released their prisoner without a stain on his character as they obviously appeared to be in the wrong.

What was the truth of the matter? As it so happened I knew this particular soldier from pre-war days and, in those far-off times, if there was a ‘fiddle’ going you could bet your boots he was in it somewhere, so I knew it had to be a ‘fiddle’ but how he did it was beyond me. As an Army photographer I had often worked with the S.I.B. as their recorder of evidence and it so happened I was on this particular caper and, after it was all over, I asked him how he had worked the oracle and, after making me promise not to tell the SIB, (I wouldn’t have, anyway) he gave me the bare facts and it was so ludicrous that I fell about with laughter. He said “You know, Jock, those bloody fools kept dipping my tanks to see the state of my stocks, which I knew were correct, but if they had had the gumption to measure the dip-stick they would have found it was six inches shorter than it should have been.” Truly a Prince among tricksters! I wonder if that dipstick is still in use in some Army petrol station?

Another fiddle was the great tyre theft; tyres for vehicles all over Europe were in very short supply and consequently were a Class 1 black market objective, and thus the Army had their tyre compounds extremely well guarded, in order to prevent any thefts of this most valuable commodity. But from this particular dump, tyres kept disappearing from stock with monotonous regularity, and they couldn’t discover how it was being done. Guards were doubled, patrolling with loaded arms with orders to shoot first, if they spotted any movement during the silent hours within the compound, but no shots were fired and still the tyres disappeared. NCOs and men were changed without notice in case they were mixed up in the fiddle but still the thefts carried on. Vehicles were searched on entering and leaving the depot, special passes were introduced, the SIB were called in, all to no avail, the tyres still disappeared without anybody having the remotest thought on how it was being done and it was left to a tidy-minded NCO to nail the culprits, who, in this instance, were all civilians.

To put you in the picture the Army employed lots of German civilians to do the labouring work in the various establishments and the tyre compound was no exception, so, in the initial stacking-up of the tyres in their various sizes, from giant tractor tyres down to little ones for the jeeps, were, of course done by the hired help, but what the planners, who put the tyre depot where it was didn’t know, was that the town sewers ran underneath and had a manhole access exactly where the compound was built. Some of the local labour cottoned on to this immediately and stacked the larger tyres over the manhole cover before any British busybody noticed it and stacked all the other tyres, according to size, around the tractor tyres. Now all the thieves had to do was to come along the sewer, find the right manhole cover, lift it up and put it against the inside of the tyres and they could drop tyres down the inside of the tractor tyres and thus down into the sewer and away. At night they could emerge, completely hidden and carry on their nefarious work.

The NCO who discovered this, had decided to rearrange the tyres, with the least-used ones at the back of the compound and the most required ones at the front and naturally, when the piles were moved around, the loosened manhole cover was discovered and, putting two and two together, quietly informed his Officer, who notified the Military Police. They turned up with a van, put all the civilians in it and put them into the ‘nick’ so that, if they were involved in the racket they couldn’t pass the word that the scheme had been blown. The large tyres were replaced over the manhole, just as before, and they waited. Sure enough, during the night, the thieves came along the sewer, removed the cover and climbed up through the tyres to steal some more; when it was considered that all who were coming were there, on went many jeep headlights and they were caught, arrested, and tossed into the jail, and that ended the tyre racket in that particular area. Very clever thieves and it was only the unexpected that caught them. The thieving was unbelievable. It was impossible to leave a jeep without someone in it, not that the jeep would be stolen but the wheels, complete with tyres, would be. The vehicle would be swiftly jacked up, put on blocks, and the wheels removed, and on occasion, if time warranted it, the engine would go too! All spare wheels were chained to the vehicles in an effort to thwart the thieves.

By this time demobilisation was well into being, everybody having been allotted a group number according to age and length of service. Roughly, the first in were the first out but, being a Regular soldier, with time to do, this didn’t apply to me as I would be going at the end of my enlistment, which was about nine months off, but the unit had been run down dramatically until there was just the C.O., a section in Hamburg and myself left in it, and he sent for me and said that he was going shortly and if I like to choose a Public Relations team to join he would see that I went there as their photographer. Without hesitation I asked for Hamburg for a month and then Berlin until I was time-expired.

True to his word I joined the lads in Hamburg and what a lovely set-up they had got there, as I knew they would. Our H.Q. was a very nice mansion, overlooking the lake but well away from the Military H.Q. and by this time the non-fraternizing ban had been lifted. This non-frat, as it was called, meant that we couldn’t mix with the Germans socially and only during the course of duty. It was a silly regulation as the British way is to try to make friends with people and this was impossible if we had to ignore them. The boys had already made friends with the artistic gentry; well, as most of them were in the picture industry it was only natural for like to attract like, so we had the corps de ballet as regular guests, also the local film crowd, plus the musicians from the ballet and the Hamburg orchestra. All talented, likeable people, with no axe to grind and, like ourselves, glad that the war was over, and the parties that we held were the last word and an invitation was much sought after.

But there had been a much grimmer side to Hamburg before I got there; a system of rationing was instituted with ration cards to be distributed but with a difference! A film had been made of the horrors of Belsen and I believe it was entitled ‘Horror In Our Time’ and it didn’t pull any punches; it was the real MacKay and the ‘powers that be’ decided that as most of the German population disbelieved that the concentration camps were so bad, made it a condition of receiving a ration card that they would have to see this film in its entirety. The Army Kinema service (we took them - they showed them) set up shop in a large cinema and the population of Hamburg, every single one of them, sat through that showing. They were being sick, fainting and trying to get out of the cinema, but they were told ‘see it - or no ration card’ and it was truly a much-chastened audience who left, having been shown the truth of their evil masters at last.

It was whilst I was at Hamburg that the lads decided to hold an initiating ceremony for the admittance of new members to the ‘Cardinal Puff’ Society. Strictly speaking, it was a test as to your ability to hold your liquor and perform, in its entirety, a set of movements with fingers, hands, feet and head and voice without making a mistake, as a mistake meant that you started all over again with a new batch of booze and of course, the more mistakes, the more booze, and the more booze the greater likelihood of making a mistake. A failure to qualify usually meant that you finished up paralytic on your back. If you passed you were just paralytic. For the benefit of those who have never undergone this ceremony here is a description of it: You chose your own drink but whatever it is it has to be a full measure, i.e., a double whiskey or a pint of beer; in my case I chose pints of champagne. A fearsome drink the next morning!

The ceremony is in three parts; sitting at a table with your chosen drink in front of you, you say ‘Here’s to Cardinal Puff’ for the first time and pick up your glass with one finger and thumb, take one sip, put it down once on the table then nod your head once, tap with one finger of the right hand on top of the table once, then ditto with the left, tap under the table once with the right finger and the same with the left. Tap each foot alternately once, stand up and sit down once. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But wait, the second part consists of doing exactly the same again but the drink is picked up with two fingers and thumb, two sips are taken and put down on the table twice, then it is as before with everything done twice. Two fingers of the right hand tap the top of the table, ditto the left and so on but everything must be in twos. Having got this far the rest must be simple. We will see. The third and final part is in three’s ‘Here’s to Cardinal Puff, puff, puff for the third and final time. Three nods of the head, three fingers and thumb to pick up the glass, three sips of the drink with the last sip emptying the glass, put down on the table three times, nod the head three times, three fingers to tap the table as before, three taps of each foot and stand up and down three times. If you make a mistake during any part of this you must finish your drink and start again with a fresh one. A very good game for seasoned boozers, but if you are not, don’t, on any account, try it. Especially girls - be warned!

It was a lot of fun in those days, sort of ‘To the victor belong the spoils’ - all good clean relaxing fun. Just before I left Hamburg I was invited to talk about Arnhem from a cameraman’s point of view, on the Radio programme called ‘In Town to-night’ and considered this a great honour, but, to me, a bit more frightening than the campaign. True to his promise I was sent to Berlin to join the Staff of the Army Public Relations section stationed there. Travel was via the autobahn and when we got to Helmstedt, which was the British/Russian sector frontier post, I saw my first Russian soldiers and a right suspicious lot they were; you would have thought that they had been fighting us as well as the Germans, the way they sorted out our jeep and contents; however, we were passed through and were left alone during the two hour ride to Berlin, where we were stopped again and then passed through to go to our sector in Berlin.

The City was an oasis in the Russian part of Germany, under four-power control, the Russians, the Americans, the French and, of course, the British. I wondered what genius had failed to put the road connecting West Germany with Berlin under four-power control as well. Because of that stupidity we eventually had the Berlin airlift. Do they never learn? Berlin was a city in utter ruin, except for a few streets here and there; we were in Charlottenberg and had decent digs in a hotel there in KaltStrasse. The PRS HQ was on the Kurfurstendam, which ran parallel to it and not too far away, and the WO’s and Sergeant’s Club, whose name escapes me, was close on the same street; all very handy. My job was to accompany any notables visiting there, as photographer, such as General Smuts, Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin and so on, and was also expected to be knowledgeable as to where Black Market cameras were to be obtained. Also the four power sector Commanders met once a month to discuss the supply of various things to the civil population and was attended by myself as British photographer. A more boring detail there never was. Everything that was suggested the Russians vetoed it with a loud ‘Niet.’ Sheer obstructionists.

The black market was colossal; the mark was fixed at a value of six (old) pence and one cigarette had a trading value of five shillings and you could spend German currency in the NAAFI and its associate clubs, but mainly for drink and meals. Cigarettes, chocolate, etc. were issued to units on a rationed basis, obviously to try to kill the black market in these commodities. There was a flaw, however (there always is!) as troops could receive 200 cigarettes a week from home, which the sender purchased duty-free and the tobacco firms despatched them to the addressee. Thus there was an unending supply of cigarettes on the market; consequently nobody ever gave cigarettes away, they were money and really had superseded cash.

A beautiful racket grew up out of all this black market dealing in cigarettes, troops had loads of German marks and the only trouble was they could only be spent in the NAAFI, until someone exploited the fact that £2 in foreign currency could be changed at the Army Post Office for £2 in postal orders, British currency. So every day, blokes spent 80 marks (8 cigarettes) and made £12 per week to send home as a nest egg for their demob. This lovely legal racket went on for ages until one embittered war correspondent wrote an article about it and had it stopped. Why he did it I will never know; after all, the blokes were only getting a little personal reparation for their part in the war! Nicht Wahr!

The R.A.F. were very good to the survivors of bombing raids on Berlin and sent them to us, to show them around the City and see the damage their bombs had done, and, of course, to show them where to sell their cigarettes! All strictly illegal, of course, but who could deny these men. Bomber Command lost 50,000 men in raids over Europe; surely the survivors were entitled to something?

One day I was given a detail that was right up my street; it was to accompany the British General in charge of the Military Police, who was invited to go to the Russian Sector to meet his Russian opposite number. As none of us was keen to go into the Russian Sector on his own to do a bit of sightseeing, due to the peculiar little ways that the Communists had of locking you up as a spy and I certainly had no desire to become a Diplomatic Incident. This was different, the Red Carpet would be down and we would be honoured guests and nothing untoward would happen.

Driving from West Berlin into their Sector was like going from Brighton to a depressed area, huge Russian females were doing traffic direction, the people slunk about, grey-faced and shabby and the whole area had the look of decay and devastation but with lots of Russian banners, exhorting the populace to do this and that as all Communists were loving brothers. What a load of bullshit. When we arrived at the Police HQ we were made welcome, the vodka was poured out and we had a drink or two. Just imagine it, two Generals, one Russian Captain and me, all beaming at one another like old pals. I took the usual picture of the two Generals, shaking hands and smiling, for the record. I wonder what their thoughts were? I am not sure but I’m almost certain that the British General counted his fingers, to see if they were all there, after the handshake. The Russians were such noted thieves.

The Captain withdrew from the room, taking me with him and we went to his office, where the vodka bottle was produced once more and he asked me if I spoke German. A shake of the head. French? Yes, I could speak a certain amount on which statement he launched into the most fluent French; this was not my pre-conceived idea of a Russian officer, this was no peasant. He was a most highly educated and cultured person and chatted with me as an equal. Could I ask him some questions about the Soviet Army? Yes. How much were they paid? No pay during the war but a bonus of marks at the end. And leave? No leave while serving. Mail? No mail as we do not have an Army Post Office like you. Soldiers are for fighting and not for lazing about. I offered him a Players he declined, saying that he preferred Russian; these were long black tubes with just a little tobacco at the end, not to my taste. I said

“Would you like a present from my country?”

“What do you mean, your country? Aren’t you English?”

“No, I’m Scottish.”

“Ah yes! What is it?”

I don’t know what he expected but in the jeep was a bottle of the Wine of Scotia - whisky, and begging his pardon I went out and brought it in and gave it to him. He was delighted and insisted on opening it, and to show that it was O.K. I had the first drink and then he had one and I had one, and then he had one, and so on, all the time chatting away about the war. A squad of Russian soldiers marched past and I lifted my glass to them and said “Good soldiers, eh?” And I received my second shock. “Soldiers! They are animals, Mongols. Do you understand? We use them to subdue the Germans as they are utterly ruthless and kill for the love of it. Slant-eyed scum!” So much for all Communists being brothers, thought I and hastened to change the subject. We ended up half-cut and singing songs and when it was time to depart we shook hands and slapped one another on the back, with the two Generals looking a bit frosty. On the way back mine said that I seemed to have made a friend and I said it was Johnny Walker who was making friends that day, not Sergeant Walker.

We had to stop the Russian senior NCOs from using our Club as they quite blatantly used to bring bags with them, which they would fill up with sandwiches and booze to take outside and flog to the Germans. When they persisted in doing this after being asked not to, we had no option but to put the bar up to all Russian Military personnel. They were a lot of trouble and we were better off without them.

This is a true instance of how they carried on. I was walking back from the Club one night, all on my own, when a Russian asked me for a cigarette and, as usual, said that I didn’t have any and walked on. Suddenly there was a bang, and a shot crashed past me and, acting on instinct, dropped to the ground, turning round as I did so; there I saw this Russian, cheeky bastard, with a pistol in his hand, presumably going to hold me up and commit a robbery. Well, as it so happened, he picked the wrong bloke as, though I had no pistol showing, it was inside my blouse, where it always was at night and I pulled it out and blew one back at him. Realising I was not an easy touch he ran, and I chased him, because I was flaming mad at him for shooting at me and banged off a couple more shots to help him on his way. He ran into a derelict building and I lost him. It was probably a good job that he disappeared as he would have met his Maker had I caught up with him; I was so insulted at a so-called Ally wanting to way lay a British soldier and, in particular, a parachute Soldier.

My stay in Berlin was, on the whole, a very pleasant one and after all, who would have thought a few years back on the beaches of Dunkirk that we would ever have ended up as the masters in their Capital City, instead of them putting the Prussian heel on us in Britain. Much water had flowed under the bridge since those days, many incredible adventures had been played out on the stage of war and an awful lot of unsung heroism had been enacted with the inevitable result of the loss of many good men and women. I think now and again of my many mates, too many of whom paid the price and I think it only fitting to end this tale with a little ditty our boozing school used to sing; it is a fitting requiem.

Wrap me up in my old stable jacket,

And say an old buffer lies low,

With six jolly boozers to carry me,

With steps all so solemn and slow.

I don't want to go up to Heaven,

I don't want to go down below,

They say there's a place in the middle,

A place where they don't shovel snow!

THE END.

Back to Public Relations Team

Back to Biographies Menu