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This story was submitted to the People’s War site by Roger Marsh of the ‘Action Desk — Sheffield’ Team on behalf of Reg Reid, and has been added to the site with the authors permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions.

The Lighter Side of War

By
Don Alexander

CHAPTER 20a: Clacton to Bognor to Lymington and the Solent D. Day. January to June 1944

133 Company moved to another seaside town, Bognor Regis in Sussex.

Just outside the town on a track between trees, sappers dug a large pit, sloping at each end, which they filled with about four feet of water. An `A' Platoon joker with a Geordie accent left a toy tin bucket and spade by the water's side but, of course, the pit had a serious purpose.

Butch and Workshops Platoon were made responsible for waterproofing the lorries, Austin pick-ups and jeeps. A pipe from the carburettor was fitted to lead up above the driver's window and the exhaust pipe was extended above the back of the cab. Distributors and sparking plugs etc. were triple sealed by heatproof and waterproof sealant plus two waterproof sealants. The breather pipe, differential and gearbox had tapes round each joint. The plan was that on landing in France the tape would be pulled off, air would get to the distributor stopping condensation, plugs, carburettor etc. would be freed and it would be `all systems go'. Drivers were taught to drive through the water filled training pit very slowly, very gently accelerating - not blasting away through in a blind panic and stalling. Some lads did panic at first on seeing a low wave hitting the windscreen, took their foot off the accelerator in alarm, stalled, and had to be towed out. The balance had to be got right and they practised again and again until they got just the right amount of acceleration to get through. It would be potentially disastrous if one or two stalled at the foot of the landing ship ramp in the sea in France and had to be towed to the beach, holding up disembarkation of the remaining vehicles.

Butch can't recall how long they were at Bognor. You know the forces - hours, weeks, or months of intense activity interspersed by hours, weeks or months of comparative inactivity. From Bognor, 133 moved to Lymington in the New Forest near the Solent, where LDVs and tank landing craft were being prepared.

The Big Day was looming. The pleasant woods and fields and lanes of southern England were a sea of agitation. 133 knew they wouldn't be in the first wave. The P.B.I. would storm the beaches - the infantry lads didn't seem worried though - most of them were rarin' to go, and in pubs and cafes they laughed and joked - only one or two caught in a reflective mood might have looked a bit grey.

Butch was still conscious of his teeth, but at least they were even and white now, if false. `A' Platoon and Workshops used to laugh at the state of their teeth, most had at least one or two uneven. In general it wasn't the custom in those days during childhood for boys to wear a tooth brace, only girls got them. The noshers of the British Tommy, irregular shape, gaps, stained by Park Drive or Woodbines and tea, sometimes rotted by three or four sugars in tea, sweets and chocolates compared unfavourably with the Yanks and their film star looks. No wonder our women fell for them. Still. our lads had character and humour and with sweets and chocolate on ration - `on points' - perhaps the next generation would fare better.

Even the Wehrmacht, though, were portrayed as handsome lads with bright and even master race tushy pegs as they stormed through Europe. Now the British Tommy was going to bite back at them, despite his inferior gnashers. Anyway the Nazi troops were automatons, at least as portrayed in the propaganda films our intelligence wallahs put on. We'd got the brains. German leaders, the top National Socialists, were an oddball, un-Aryan lot and British Army Intelligence was credited with the famous little ditty belittling their manhood.

You must all know it, sung to the tune of `Colonel Bogey'. `Hitler had only got one ball
Goering had two but very small, Himmler had two quite similar, And poor old Goeballs had no balls at all'.

Every schoolboy in industrial Sheffield found this hugely amusing, and so did `A' Platoon. They were going to survive the war, laugh their way through it.

Powells's encouraging shout in his precise Welsh tones rang in their ears. "Are we down-hearted? Of course we bloo-dy well are!"

The Workshops' Platoon were a bit more serious so Butch tended to gravitate towards his old mates in `A' Platoon.

Somebody played a joke on "Rice" Cheeseborough. We thought we'd heard the last of him but like the US General he had returned! He'd hit upon the idea of having a permanent crease in his trousers.

All of you who've served with the Colours know what slobs army cooks can be, only an overfed, slovenly minority, one hastens to add. It must be too much nourishing food and lack of exercise that makes this minority rather overweight with uniforms that never seem to look smart on them. Remember Frank Randle's reply when on parade and the sergeant calls him to attention?

"I am at attention, serj. -It's my uniform that's at ease."

Cheeseborough wanted to be smart without constantly having to work at it. He dampened his trousers and put them neatly between two sheets of plywood on hard, flat ground, then drove his lorry over them and parked, one pair of back wheels right over said plywood, pressing said trousers.

In the firm belief this would leave them with a permanent crease to cut your finger on he then went to the canteen to work.

Wheeler noticed this vignette of army life, drove Cheesborough's lorry off the plywood, took the trousers, dampened them again, and re-laid them flat `arse upwards' this time. He then parked the lorry over them again.

Cheeseborough hadn't been able to resist boasting of his bull-beating brainwave and sundry members of `A' Platoon were gathered round when he climbed into his lorry.

He shouted the drill for each action:

"One starts the lorry like so: two, three. One moves off a few feet like so: two, three. One gets out of the cab like so: two, three. One removes the plywood like so: two, three. One takes the trousers like so: two, three."

Saying this he waved the trousers with a flourish towards the onlookers, smug expression turning to horror when he saw they were square legged - permanently!

Butch couldn't stop himself:
"One looks an utter twerp, two, three."

The lads treated the cook to a pint or two in a local pub that evening - lest he carry out his threat to gob on their spuds and piss in their tea.

Wheeler even refrained from telling him that New Forest ponies had turned their noses up at cookhouse grub `A' Platoon lads had offered them. He didn't want to upset him any more.

Pr-BR

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