Normandy 1944

Part 6 - Double Intense

We move to a new gun position and for a few days we are not shelled, although the battles rage nearby. The worst thing we have to put up with is a colony of bees who are fond of our marmalade but then come a slightly more sinister buzzing . . . sniper fire. We spot their location and a few bombardiers persuade nine of them to surrender. It is an amusing sight until our men crowd around, in an ugly mood, with rifles in hand. These are the first live Germans most of them have seen and all feel contempt for these men who have imposed agonies of terror on millions of helpless people.

The prisoners recognize the murderous mood and are terrified. A sergeant loudly orders them taken to Regimental HQ for questioning and the angry mob walks back to the guns but I will never forget the look of hate in men's eyes.

There is no privacy in the army. We are all now used to squatting on the compo ration boxes, with the bottom panel knocked out, which top the latrines. All of us wonder if we would dive into the latrine on hearing the wail of an incoming mortar bomb or the similar sound made by the little Auster aircraft we use as flying observation posts.

So, the cartoon on this subject, printed in the little tabloid newspaper, the Maple Leaf, is enjoyed by all.

Occasionally we fire red smoke shells to mark a target, usually tanks, for the four squadrons of Canadian Typhoons. They come in so fast we don't see them until we hear the heart stopping swoosh as their rockets rip the air on the way to the target. They come in weaving from the west braving a rising fury of black puffs of flak from more than 70 guns and must hold steady on target for seconds to guaranty that the eight 69 pound rocket bombs hit the target.

For six days, confined to the primitive roofed dugout that is Able Troop Command Post, with no second officer to relieve me, and with all the guns firing continually, full sleep is impossible. Cat naps are inadequate and I am in dangerously dull-witted state. I order a fictitious fire plan while talking in my sleep and I awake to horror . . . My Ack has ordered the guns to fire on my fire plan . . . Luckily my target is a German position recorded earlier.

To regain a semblance of alertness, I visit one of the guns and find only one man firing. The other three lie sound asleep with their heads only inches from the recoiling breech, oblivious to the explosions.

I resist the impulse to wake them up. There is no rush to get off harassing fire and the men are exhausted digging pits and hauling tons of ammunition. In the past four days 4th Field Regiment has fired 40,000 rounds - 500 tons of high explosive.

The lone gunner lifts out a hundred pound case of shells, loads one into the breech, slides a cartridge in behind it, checks the lay through the dial-site and pulls the firing lever. He repeats this over and over until the last round of the fire plan and then wordlessly hands me a cigarette.

Just then the Army Service Corps trucks arrive. They need help unloading another 640 rounds per gun. They are anxious to get back to the beaches and move another load of high explosive rounds before dawn and the German fighters. There is no word of complaint as we wake the sleeping gunners.

My relief finally arrives and I collapse into a trench, oblivious for twenty four hours, much to everyone's amusement as my head is lifted every time the nearby guns fire.

The German commanders, convinced that the British and Canadians are the most dangerous threat, reinforce the British-Canadian front with six elite infantry divisions and four new Panzer divisions, with 600 Panther and Tiger tanks, while leaving only nine inferior divisions and 110 inferior tanks facing nineteen American divisions further west.

Mercifully, the Canadian and British soldiers ordered to attack the German positions around Verrières ridge, know nothing about the forces opposing them.

When they crest the ridge, our Sherman tanks are hit and set on fire by German Tigers until only three survive. Beyond the ridge the assaulting companies are cut down by a hurricane of fire from dug in tanks and guns, some of them camouflaged as hay stacks. The Calgary Highlanders and the Maisonneuves are severely mauled and the Black Watch almost wiped out.

The guns are crucial in stopping the inevitable German counter attacks. In 24 hours, 4th Field fires 16,000 rounds. The dead men lie rotting in the sun as no one will dare bury them. Soldiers in advanced positions cannot leave their trenches. They have to defecate in the bottom of the trench and cover the feces with dirt scraped from the sides.

To rationalize the awful casualty rate, the War Office amends the standard rates used to estimate casualties. Previously they were Quiet, Normal and Intense but now we are experiencing Double Intense.

Casualty statistics are simply lists, all neat and tidy. On July 20, the South Saskatchewan Regiment listed 66 killed, 116 wounded and 26 missing. The next day the Essex Scottish suffered 298 dead, wounded and missing. Four days later, the North Novas "Lost" 61 killed and 78 wounded, the Rileys counted 45 killed and 154 wounded at Verrières.

When the wounded can be collected by stretcher-bearers they are treated by the Medical Officer at the Regimental aid post and then moved by ambulance to a casualty clearing station. A surgeon immediately operates on those who can not travel further. From there most are flown to a hospital in England. (Read Eleven men and a Scalpel by John Hillsman).

Life on the ridge under fire is beyond credulity. Men live 24 hours a day in holes unable to stand up without being killed, suffering exhaustion, dust, lice, noise, dysentery, a revolting stench and debilitating terror.

I retreat back to the carrier with a minor wound from a shell fragment as a soldier walks by waving the stump of an arm. He's grinning as he calls, 'I'm out of it now!'

I almost envy him.