Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 28

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 28

By a remarkable coincidence, I am writing these words on June 6th 2004, the 60th anniversary of D Day. I have been watching the commemoration, on the television, and listening to the stories of the thousands of veterans, assembled in Normandy. (Do I look as old as they do?) To listen to their harrowing stories and to think about the carnage on the beaches makes me think I am a cheat, to have landed in France in great comfort and in safety, just a fortnight later. I suppose, however, that I was just lucky, and, in fact, this luck seems to have been my companion throughout the war, in which there were so many casualties.
The L.S.T. was safely grounded on the beach, but the bow doors remained closed until the tide had left the ship high and dry on the sands. Looking about we could see a lot of activity on the beach. There were a lot of L.A.A gun teams; there were groups of naval “beachmasters” and military police traffic control groups, who had erected so many coloured traffic signs that the beach had a slight look of a seaside in Britain. An “ICES” sign would have been in keeping!
As soon as the sea cleared the ramp, about half the American sailors ran onto the beach and were seen asking the beach dwellers for souvenirs, presumably, to take back home to Wyoming, or wherever. They would have given anything for a German helmet or badge. This trait seems to be ingrained in all Americans, as I was to observe several times afterwards.
Eventually the Beachmasters ordered us to disembark and the guns, backed on by me, two days ago, trundled up the beach to an opening in the low cliff, a little to the west of Arromanches, followed by the top deck vehicles. We had spent days and days waterproofing all the vehicles and, in the event, not even the wheels got wet! We followed the divisional signs to a field which was the de-waterproofing area. Bins were provided for all the pipes and as much of the Bostik that needed to be stripped off the ignition. Then the air filters had to be replaced and things put back to normal. In this field occurred one of those quirks of fate that change one’s life. Driving a jeep, with the 53rs Welsh Divisional HQ “40” sign, was John Reed, my companion at OCTU. We exchanged notes for a few minutes, before going on to our destinations. Ours was a large cider orchard to the west of Bayeux. Our guns were put into action mode, but unused, the only aircraft seen, in daylight were ours. At night the Germans favoured us with anti personnel bombs, working on the principle that there were so many people in the bridgehead that some would be sure to be unlucky. This danger made us dig holes in the ground in which to sleep. In the heat of Normandy, this was quite pleasant, but on rainy nights we arranged a waterproof sheet over the top. I was contemplating the stars one night, when a rumble of bombs announced the arrival of the Luftwaffe. Suddenly it appeared that every AA gun, every machine gun and every hand gun in our part of the bridge head, opened up in the general direction of the aircraft. It was a terrific firework display, and, from this hail of lead in the sky, a small flame appeared, turning into a flaming torch as it hit the ground. We learned, next day that it was a Junkers 88.
I was a bit bored; I was a bit of a spare part, waiting for my people to arrive. There was no news of them and I realised, that with the complete supremacy of the Allies, in the air, that the future of anti-aircraft units was non existent. While I was wondering about my future, I suddenly had it resolved for me.
John Reed appeared at our site, driving his div. HQ jeep. He sought me out and I sat in the jeep with him, while he explained that there was a vacancy, at div HQ, for a Liaison Officer. When I asked for more details, he simply drove off, explaining, en route, that I would be mad not to go for it.
When we arrived at the Divisional Headquarters, further in the rear, I was surprised at the “buildings”, custom - made from brown canvas, with electric light, and a collection of vehicles, the purpose of which was revealed to me, in due course.
John took me to see Lt. Col. Ap Rhys Price, “Ap” means “son of” and I suppose that his ancestors were Welsh tribal chiefs. He was six foot four, a crag of a man, black hair, a large black moustache, and a Royal Welsh Fusilier black flash down his back. In antiquity it prevented greasy pigtails from soiling the uniform, as I was to discover, roughly a third of the divisional Infantry units, sported this traditional silk flash.
John had obviously prepared my path and, after I had reminded the great man, who was the GSO 1, that I was a gunner and ignorant about infantry, he said “No matter, he, (John), is ignorant about everything! Go and get your kit and I will send a transfer order to your Unit”
Within an hour my life had changed. I stayed at Div HQ, until I left the Army in 1946, I never more was responsible for looking after troops, I seldom had dinner without a glass of wine, and I met a lot of interesting people.
I will attempt to describe the set up of a Div HQ:-
The Commander is a Major General. He is supported, on the operations side, by
The GSO 1 (General Staff Officer, grade 1) (lt. Col)
The GSO 2 ( “ “ “ grade 2) (Major)
Three GSO 3 Operations, (Captains)
The GSO 3 Intelligence. (Captain)
The Intelligence Officer (Captain)
Three Liaison Officers, (Lieutenants)

In a supportive role, APIS, (Army Photographic Interpretation Service) (Captain).
The General surrounds himself with the Commander R.A. and the Commander R.E.(Brigadiers), as well as the other high ranking Executive Officers, such as the AQ, who is responsible for the food, the clothing and all the stores and requirements of 18,000 men, the chief Doctor and the top Bishop!
Most of the ORs were draughtsmen, clerks, signallers, drivers and sappers. They came under the orders of the Camp Commandant, in our case, a veteran captain called “Harry the Camp” He had been a Quartermaster Sergeant, in the regular Army, and knew every trick in the book.
The administration of the Division was performed from “Rear Div”, some distance to the rear of Div HQ, where the AQ was King.

Div. HQ was at a place called Putot—en—Bassin, on the Bayeux — Caen Road. I quickly became integrated into the routine, acting as companion to John at first. I well remember the first day when we went to 158 Brigade, one of our three infantry brigades. They were in action, the division, although a late arrival, was put straight into the thick of things, taking over from the 15th Scottish Div, in the area known as the Scottish corridor. As we arrived, a salvo of mortar bombs landed all around, and we were cursed at for attracting the aggro by raising dust. John Reed always drove like a racing driver, and had to take some stick. I was introduced, in their CV (Command Vehicle), which had been dug in by the engineers. The single L.O. was called Hugh Fawcus, who was to become quite a friend during the next few months.
Having got over the shock of being mortared for the first time and not relishing the occasional bomb, still arriving, I had time to look around. Normandy has some of the lushest grass land in Europe and supports big herds of dairy cows, producing the incomparable Normandy butter and the famous fatty cheeses, such as Camembert. Unfortunately most of these cows were dead, killed by the initial shellfire, or the subsequent fighting. A dead cow fills with gases and resembles a large balloon, with a leg sticking out at each corner. There was the occasional “brewed up” tank, probably, with the bits of its crew, still inside. The result of it all was a stench, never to be forgotten, which permeated everything, clothes, hair, upholstery in vehicles and even paper! All this evil smelling carnage attracted plagues of flies and bluebottles, which became a serious pest. The RE companies got the unplanned for job of bulldozing the carcases into the ground, eventually blowing craters to save time.

© Copyright of content contributed to this Archive rests with the author. Find out how you can use this.