Memories of Frank Yates Chapter 8

Memories of Frank Yates CHAPTER 8

The destination was Stiffkey, pronounced “Stookey”, on the North Norfolk coast. Most of us on that special train, had heard of the place, because, just before the war, sensational newspaper coverage of the activity of the Rector of Stiffkey, the reverend Davidson, had titillated the Nation, reading about his “rehabilitation” of prostitutes in London, being defrocked, and ending his days, mauled by a lion, in the Tower zoo in Blackpool.
The only thing of any note in the village was, in fact, the church, made entirely of flint, the first I had seen, but very common in Norfolk
The camp was a bleak place, windswept and looking out over acres of mudflats, called “Stiffkey Marshes”. A collection of large wooden huts, inadequately heated by cast iron stoves, surrounded larger dining huts and a canteen. There was a permanent staff to look after the place and to cook and administer to the needs of the troops who were there for firing practice, The operational staff were, firstly, IGs (Gunnery Instructors), captains, wearing red bands round their caps and AIGs (Assistant Gunnery Instructors), with white bands round their caps, and with the rank of BSM (Battery Sergeant Major)
A long concrete strip lay along the edge of the salt marshes, with 4 static guns, at twenty yard intervals, each with its own predictor. Each gun was manned by a detachment, with other teams observing and waiting their turns.
The target was a drogue, a flat strip of red material, about twenty feet long weighted at its front edge, so that it flew upright, , and towed on the end of a long cable by a tow plane, usually a Fairey Battle, a plane of little use for any other purpose. The pilot, who, we understood, was being punished for some misdemeanour, would fly the contraption down in front of the gun positions, disappear out of sight, do a large turn out to sea, and then return past the guns, on a reciprocal course. As the target approached, and it was considered that the angle was such that the aircraft itself was not in danger, the IG would give the order “TARGET RIGHT; ENGAGE” The detachment commander, sometimes me, would repeat the order and swing the gun round, smash down the clutch handle, wait for the “ON, ON reports and shout “FIRE”. Conditions were good, the target, pulled by the slow Battle, flew past, invitingly, audibly flapping in the air stream. There were quite a few hits, it often happening that one hit led to another, reducing the drogue to handkerchief size and causing pride and jubilation in the successful team and groans from the waiting gunners because the pilot would have to go back to his airfield to have another drogue attached.
As the target approached from the other direction, another team, on another gun, would have their turn, and so on. Watch had to be kept on the receding angle and the IG would yell “CEASE FIRE”, long before the cheesed-off pilot had the chance to shout down the radio link, the time honoured “Hey I’m pulling this b*****y thing, not pushing it!”
Should the No 4, intent on feeding clips of shells, into the autoloader, and bemused by the banging of the gun , not hear, or notice, the cease fire order, he sometimes had to be forcibly removed from his pedal!
After a few days firing, an unbelievable event happened. Our troop was next in line, standing at the back, with Major Hardy telling us to “Show ‘em how to shoot” Picture the scene; 4 Bofors guns, all manned, 4 predictors, all manned, each autoloader with a clip of at least 4 rounds of ammunition. The target had disappeared towards the east, in the direction of Sheringham, and we awaited its return. It didn’t come! Instead a pair of Dornier 17s, one behind the other, passed in front of us, on the exact course of the drogue. I saw the German gunners staring at us as they passed!
NO ONE DID ANYTHING! FOUR GUNNERY INSTRUCTORS AND NO ONE DID ANYTHING! Major Hardy was dancing about on his assorted legs and yelling “Get the b*****s, Why the f**k don’t you fire?!”
A minute later the target plane came along and the firing went on, as if nothing had happened!
The event was much discussed in the Sergeant’s mess. We decided that the instructors had been so used to their sheltered existence that they had forgotten that they were soldiers and sworn to fight the King’s enemies. It was clear that such an eventuality had never been considered. If the crews of the four guns had been told, that, in the eventuality of a hostile aircraft coming in range, they could act accordingly and independently, the Dorniers would have had a nasty shock.
Our Troop officer told us, next day, that events in the Officers’ mess had gone beyond mere discussion. Major Hardy had sat quietly all evening, imbibing numerous scotches, and glaring at a group of instructors, playing darts. He suddenly stood up, took out his Webley, which he had secreted in his battle dress blouse. (Belts and guns are not allowed in the mess), on one of his visits to the ante room, and fired his revolver through the dartboard between the players.
This of course was a dangerous, if not criminal offence, the bullets having passed through the wall and through both walls of the, guardroom, next door, without hitting anyone. We understood that there were heated discussions, through the night with our CO. being threatened with General Court Martial and him wondering how they would explain why they had allowed the enemy to pass unscathed. As far as I know, nothing happened, on either side.
After all the training, we were now considered an operational unit and ready to be deployed. We were given a week’s leave and I was able to go home, for the first time, since the Sheffield blitz. Mum had got some new windows, and had the ceiling re- plastered and was back home. I joined the usual Friday afternoon soiree which Gladys held in Cole Brothers’ restaurant, and listened to a lot of blitz stories. The view from Coles’ window was an eye opener; Walsh’s had gone, as had C and A’s, Cockayne’s, the Brightside and Carbrook CWS, Burton’s and many more landmark buildings. The bomb which had damaged our house was the land mine that had destroyed the Hollies, the family mansion where Gladys’s first husband had lived. Another devastating effect of this bomb was that it had blinded my best friend, Len Nicholas. I visited him in the Royal Hospital, during this leave, and he was more cheerful than I would have been! He was a keen photographer and, while the rest of his family were in the Anderson shelter, he went upstairs, taking pictures of the firework displays, from the back bedroom. He saw, in the light from burning buildings, a white parachute coming down and was photographing it, thinking, he told me, that it was a German airman. It was, however, a 500 Kilogram parachute mine, which exploded at ground level for maximum blast effect. Poor Len got the glass from the window, a fine powder, blown into his face and eyes, at about a thousand miles an hour. Life is a funny thing, I was in the Army, and Len, in his reserved occupation, with GPO telephones, was the casualty. Before that leave was over, I took Peggy Bottom to the cinema!

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