Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 26

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 26

Although we did not know where or when, it was obvious, to the whole Nation that the invasion of Europe would not long be delayed. The south of England was one enormous armed camp. Every coppice and wood was an ammunition dump. Camouflaged vehicles in their thousands were parked in fields. The West Country was a second U.S.A. and a visit to London revealed uniformed military people from every European country except Germany.
Out of the blue came a bombshell! Our battery was to lose its Bofors Guns, to be replaced by a new 20 mm cannon, the “Polsten”. I had the job of leading our SP Guns to a huge Ordnance depot at Bicester, where we collected 24 Canadian Fordson 15 cwt trucks, 24 two wheeled carriages and 24 Polstens. As we arrived at the Davis Estate, the entrance road was lined with personnel to sympathetically welcome us.
Some of us together with some of our sergeants were immediately despatched to Clacton on Sea, where the Coldstream Guards ran a school for Polsten convertees. When we went into the Officers’ mess anteroom we were surprised that the Guardsmen wore their peaked hats in the mess, the peaks coming down, almost vertically, over the eyes. They turned from the bar, tilted their heads back and surveyed us with an air of “Look what the cat’s brought in”. The course itself was run by sergeants and an imposing Sergeant Major who astonished us by firing the 20mm cannon from the hip! Arnold Schwarzenegger is a poor imitation!
We stripped the thing down. It was just an enlarged Sten gun with a great big heavy block of steel, controlled by a large helical spring, the breech relying on inertia and Newton’s third law. The 20 mm shells were like jewels, colour coded. We loaded alternate ball and tracer. The shells, like all AA projectiles, were self destructing.
Then back to Chatham, to convey our new knowledge to the troops. We passed some of the time by converting 3 ton lorry canopies, held open by a wooden frame, into boats and ferrying the guns across a local lake. This developed into races and we generated a carnival atmosphere. It all helped to keep us busy. In early May, I went down to Chatham with one of chaps called “Tug” Wilson. Why are all Wilsons called “Tug?” After a drink we went to the cinema where I started to feel a bit off colour and as we left the theatre, I felt so ill, I had to sit down on a wall. I was shivering violently and Tug managed to get a taxi. I managed to make it upstairs and literally fell into bed feeling worse than I had ever thought possible.
I was awakened by somebody shaking me. It was the Regimental M.O., a large Irishman, who took my temperature and so on and then gave me a white pill, the size of a “Gobstopper” There was no way that I could have swallowed the thing, and was relieved when his medical orderly crushed it up in a glass of water. The M.O. disappeared, leaving the orderly with me. I was almost unaware what was happening when two more orderlies arrived, strapped me to a stretcher and carried me downstairs to a waiting ambulance.
When I next awoke I was in a hospital ward, fully panelled in oak with stone mullioned windows. There were about 15 officers occupying the beds and a moat outside the windows. I was in Leeds Castle, a beautiful medieval castle, near Maidstone. The Officer’s hospital was in the main banqueting hall. I understood that the place was privately owned by Dorothy Paget, a well known millionaire race horse owner. Most of the patients were, like me, suffering from some virulent form of flu, the M.O. informing us that there had been two deaths in the division, due to the bug. When someone has a couple of days off and says that they have had ‘flu, believe me they haven’t!
An amusing incident happened when a new patient arrived in the next bed and, unlike me, was a stranger to hospitals. He had been forbidden to get out of bed. The conversation followed these lines; “I say old boy, I want to pee, what do I do?” “Ring the bell and ask the orderly for a bottle”. A few minutes later I looked up from my book and saw the astonishing sight of my new neighbour, standing on his bed and peeing into the bottle, holding it firmly with both hands!
When I was allowed out of bed, and eventually to walk outside, I found a drawbridge and a portcullis, obviously restored, to take vehicles, but keeping the superb medieval feeling. The moat was surrounded by a manicured nine hole golf course. How the other half live! I believe that the castle is now in the public domain and should be worth a nostalgic visit.
Eventually came the day when four of us were fit enough to be discharged, and the RAMC major, in charge, came on his rounds. The visits went something like this; “How are you feeling, lieutenant?” “Fine, thank you Sir”, “Where do you live?” “Truro” “A spot of Cornish sea air will be just the job, ten days sick leave.” The second patient came from Berwick on Tweed and after the M.O. had eulogised on the benefits of Northumbrian sea air and given him sick leave, I could see trouble coming! He arrived at my bed. “How do you feel, laddie?” “Back to normal, Sir” Where’s your home?” “Sheffield”, I whispered. “Oh!”, then a long pause. Then, with a smile he said “A bit of smoke can work wonders, especially for kippers, ten days sick leave!”
The major’s sergeant orderly rang up our units for transport and gave us the leave authorisations. When I arrived at the Davis Estate I sorted out my belongings and had a chat with the batman about keeping an eye on my kit during my leave. Then I walked down the road to RHQ, to get my leave pass and railway warrant.
The Adjutant asked me if I lived in a different world, where they had not heard that all leave, throughout the Army, was cancelled. I pointed out that sick leave was sacrosanct, or words to that effect. He got a bit shirty and to settle my hash, he rang up Div HQRA., to confirm his ruling. After being told by the Brigade major that medical leave was written on tablets of stone, he reluctantly wrote out the documents and handed them to me, less than graciously. Peggy was, of course, delighted to see me for this unexpected and very pleasant ten days.
It was late May when I got back to Chatham, and was immediately involved in the great waterproofing mania. All vehicles had to be modified to make them capable of being driven through water. This eventuality would be experienced when driving off the ramp of a landing craft into several feet of sea water. Each make of vehicle had its own problems and an instruction card was issued to make the job foolproof. Large drums of a black sticky compound called “Bostik” were issued, to be moulded round distributors, coils and high tension leads. A plastic pipe was provided rising upwards from the top of the carburettor, to allow air intake and a metal pipe was attached to the exhaust pipe, rising to a height of about 5 feet. As each vehicle was passed OK it was driven to Mote Park at Maidstone, where concrete drive ways crossed the river. The Engineers, who were in charge, had winches ready to recover vehicles that failed the test! I crossed in a 15 cwt. truck, without mishap. Jeep drivers, wearing bathing trunks, crossed with just head and shoulders and two schnorkel tubes showing above water.

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