Gordon Bourner's War Chapter 1 (see also chapters 2 & 3)

My Dad didn’t talk much about his wartime experiences. But in 1985 he sat and wrote the following account to pass on to his grandchildren.

GORDON BOURNER’S WAR

Gordon Bourner : 1919 — 1996

CAPTURE

In September 1939 Churchill declared war on Germany.

When a man received his call up papers two options was available: either he obeyed the call for military service or he tried to become a conscientious objector on religious grounds. When I received mine in September 1939, at twenty years old, I reported for military training at Brighton; I considered my country, especially its way of life, worth protecting.

We were issued with uniforms (known as Battle Dress) and a 1918 rifle. Training began immediately. Pay was two shillings (10p) a day, or fourteen shillings a week, half of which I allocated to my parents because we were a large family needing all the financial help possible.

After only six weeks training we received orders to go to France. Our task was to try and delay the German advance for as long as possible. We were known as the B.E.F: British Expeditionary Force.

We left Brighton to go to Southampton by rail, and crossed the English Channel for France at nightfall, a journey that was particularly frightening because we were together below deck. When we reached Le Havre we were bundled into a massive hanger and each given a tin of mixed vegetables to eat. After two hours we were transported to a field some miles into the countryside. An advance party had already erected bell tents so that we were now officially under canvas. Our training continued with the addition of route marches (intended to keep us fit!) relieved by our weekly trips to Rouen for a bath and peanuts. Our camp field was ringed with Bren Guns mounted on tripods, installed to scare off spotter planes, which had found us and were becoming a nuisance. (A Bren Gun was an automatic weapon, which could also fire single rounds.) Suddenly, we had orders to go and help the Second Battalion Royal Sussex Regiment at Arras.

We travelled by rail in cattle trucks, which rolled so slowly that on any incline we would jump out and stretch our legs. On the perimeter of the railway station at Amiens our convoy came under fire from German Stukka bomber fighter aeroplanes. The Stukkas attacked in their famed vertical position (which accounted for their accuracy). They machine-gunned the leading carriages where the officers travelled in comfort, and bombed the cattle trucks where the rest of us travelled.

Grabbing my boots and greatcoat, I jumped clear from the train and made for a siding of trucks. Whilst I dived for cover under the rear wheels of the outside trucks, my friend, who had run with me, lay between two carriages with no real cover at all. Bombing became intense and I felt a blow on my steel helmet. I froze - and, prayed. When the raid had finished I looked up to find my friend’s head had been severed by a piece of shrapnel; it was this that had struck my helmet. I recovered his identification tags, by which time I was soaked in blood.

Tired and dispirited I returned to the convoy where the survivors of the raid were ordered to make their way to a small wood and re-group. A church army van had dropped back, and it stopped to offer us jam sandwiches. When I eventually reached the serving hatch I was offered corn beef. Because of my physical and mental condition I was promptly sick. I handed over my friend’s identity tags to the driver of the van. Many young soldiers had been killed in the raid. One vivid memory is of a truck of engineers that had been blown to pieces. We had had to step over the bodies of these unfortunate engineers, a sickening sight for a twenty year old. With all these thoughts, I lay down under a hedge for the night.

The regiment split up and my section took up position in a chateau by the roadside; Rommel’s tanks were opposite us about 300 yards away. We captured a Belgian tank that was in retreat, in which we discovered looted cigarettes and wine. The driver was kept under guard. Two days later tanks were spotted in a wooded area to our rear. Everyone cheered thinking that they were our relief but when they emerged into the open our hopes faded - they had black crosses on their turrets!

The following day we prepared ourselves for attack, taking up positions on the road. Mortar bombs were soon falling on us, thick and fast. (Ironically, we had been "ticked off" for not shaving!) To reply to the attack we only had 1918 rifles, Bren guns and one anti-tank gun, which failed after one round when the bolt broke. The mortar shells we had were only smoke bombs, although we had ordered H.T. ones. With these inadequate arms, we faced tanks and light artillery troop carriers with mounted machine guns. After two days of bombardment the trees around us, which had given us some cover, had been systematically stripped of all their leaves and most of their branches, leaving us fully exposed. The captured Belgian tank was deployed, under pressure, to advance, followed by our troops in an arrowhead formation.

This formation, used in the First World War, was totally inappropriate for the present situation. The result was that we had only advanced a few hundred yards when the tank was destroyed and, with no cover my friends were mown down; Captain Cook, I remember, lost his arm. By late after noon we were surrounded by German tanks and forced to surrender. (Before we were rounded up we rendered our rifles useless by throwing away the bolts and smashing the butts against the trees.)

Once rounded up, we were forced to march to the damaged tank and step over our dead comrades. We were then lined up and searched; anything of value was taken from us. Fortunately, I had enough presence of mind to hide my ring in my hair, where it remained undetected. The soldier who searched me was able to tell, just by looking at my papers, which regiment I belonged to and where I had been billeted in Brighton. It seemed that he also had been at the same Brighton station before the outbreak of war. He spoke perfect English and assured me that the war would be over in six weeks, but that I would never be allowed to return to England, as I was required to be a worker in Germany.

Suddenly, a young tank officer was called to mow us down. Before he came he decided to test his guns. The noise alerted a middle-aged officer who demanded to know why he was wasting ammunition. When he discovered the tank officer’s intention, the latter was sent packing, and we lived. I was now a prisoner-of-war.

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