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From the diary of Peter Scott Janes

Gibraltar, November 1941

This first part of my diary can be no more than a remembered résumé of what I wrote down from day to day. Owing to circumstances beyond my control, these diaries had to be left in Marseilles. I do not intend to write much beyond this about the war.

On a learning curve

I came to Le Havre on 28 April 1940 and spent four more or less eventful weeks at Roalles [sic], just outside the town. Babe wrote me many loving letters, all of which I kept, and which are now in France.

It was in Roalles that I learnt a meagre smattering of French but a good deal about the army. There I also had my teeth seen to — five were filled — bought cartridges for my automatic and got drunk more times than I should have done. It was there too that we heard news of the invasion of the Low Countries and were afterwards mixed up in the bombing of Abbeville, when we lost a dispatch rider.

Afterwards we moved to Dieppe and stayed at Arques la Bataille in a large chateau. There I saw the bombing of the two hospital ships that formed such a big news item and fired my first shots at the attacking planes. From there I also raided the bombed warehouse of the docks with Lofty and little Redfern in order to get the rations that we could neither draw nor buy.

Shot to pieces by a Panzer division

Then it was up to St Valery sur Bresle, near Aumale, where our battalion was shot to pieces by a Panzer division. I helped Captain Thomson rescue the wounded men — Sergeant Stone, Nethercat and another of the Royal Artillery, as well as Fry and Heywood of our own battalion and one other man, whose name I do not remember.

Then there was the death of Richardson, the wounding or death of Captain Thomson and the awful retreat. My rescue by the Royal Engineers and subsequent reunion with the Surreys took only half an hour before our flight to St Valery en Caux.

Shelled by long-range guns

During this journey through the fleeing French and Belgian armies, Riley was accidentally shot by a burst from a bren-gun, in which one man went crazy and nearly shot both the police sergeant and me. All of the cigarettes were issued, about 400 per man, and a muster was made of all available ammunition and weapons.

We came to St Valery en Caux, which was even then being shelled to pieces by German long-range guns. This was on the morning of 11 June. In fields about two miles from the town, we passed the day — I slept most of the morning. When we went into town I bought another automatic pistol and found some more of my regiment.

A nightmare march

We moved on, into a field, where we found two French wireless vans complete with sets, one of which was swimming in the blood of its operators. One of the Military Police (MPs) here told me that he had helped to make the film The Four Feathers.

At midnight we went into the town, on a nightmare march that I shall never forget. The road was blocked for two miles by motor and horse-drawn vehicles as well as dozens of dead bodies of both men and horses. The town was ablaze in several locations, with heavy-calibre shells still crashing into it. I have since been told that these shells were fired from British ships out at sea, but I have no idea how much truth there is in this.

Scene lit by blazing warehouses

The harbour was a mess, littered with wrecked boats of every size. The chaos was lit by blazing warehouses, a sight accompanied every few minutes by the sound of a whistling scream when another enormous shell crashed into the stricken town. Several machine guns started firing tracer bullets at short intervals, and star shells went up to complete the extraordinary scene.

Into this we went, as ready as we’d ever be. No one had washed or shaved for several days. Every one of us, several of whom were already wounded, was wearing a steel helmet with our rifles and machine guns at the ready. I had a bren-gun, which I had already cocked, intending to fire from the hip if the chance came.

We saw a long line of stretcher-bearers and first-aid men plus a good few dead men of all nationalities. Our little force — only 28 in all — entered a house that had already been hit. There, soaked through by the drizzling rain, we passed a night of utter misery.

A town blown to hell

On the morning of the 12th, a sergeant came to make a list of our names and numbers. When I asked him if we were going to have a real go that day, to my surprise I saw tears run down his face.

Just before six o’clock we crept out of the house. We were loaded with as much stuff as we could carry. In the shadow of the house was a Hotchkiss machine gun complete with hundreds of rounds and dozens of steel strips strewn round about. The bodies of eight men showed that this town, at least, was not sold out.

We went through a town the like of which I could never imagine in my wildest dreams. The place had been blown to hell. Not one single house or building was complete. The roads were littered with debris feet deep, in which lay dead men and horses, discarded guns and other equipment. The whole place stank of a horrendous mix of powder and smoke, blood and burnt wood.

A dead man holding a 12-bore shotgun

There were hundreds of small bombs of a peculiar type scattered around everywhere. I saw a dead man with a 12-bore shotgun in his hand. I was so weak from starvation and loaded with ammunition that another fellow, who was carrying absolutely nothing, helped carry my bren-gun.

At last we got to an orchard, and several of us started digging little holes as usual. But the sergeant major told us ‘Never mind’, which was the first intimation of what was coming. Then came the order ‘Unload your guns,’ and we all stared in amazement. Then the truth dawned on us that we, like most of the Allied armies, were surrendering.

Postscript

The résumé goes on to describe how Peter Scott Janes was captured by the German army and marched across France. Rescued some ten days later by two young French girls, he sheltered in the Pas de Calais for a year and a half. He was then taken south on the Pat O'Leary escape line to Spain in September 1941 and eventual repatriation from Miranda concentration camp. The other diaries mentioned, those that he maintained throughout this adventure, were left with M Louis Nouveau in Marseilles. They were returned to him in 1945 after M Nouveau's own miraculous return from Buchenwald.

For more details of this extraordinary story see www.conscript-heroes.com

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