ÃÛÑ¿´«Ã½

I found this letter among my father’s things after he died. It was written to him by Monty Banks, and it has been edited for spelling, punctuation and sense.

Sgt M Banks, 1 July 1944

Judging by articles and stories, both from chaps serving over here and correspondents, I think I am quite in order in giving you a little of the many and varied experiences that has been our lot during the war.

A detached dreamland

This censorship calls for a high degree of security — and rightly too. Therefore, at this stage, I have so little material to turn into an interesting letter that writing this, my tale of bygone days and memories of a happier peacetime, almost feels like a waste of time. However, given our recent adventures, as it were, there is definitely something to write about, a story to tell.

Before unfolding the following sequence of events, it would be as well to say this. Even after our strange and intriguing journey and a week or so on French soil, the thrill and anticipation of it all continues to elicit such conflicting thoughts that we still appear to be existing in a kind of detached dreamland.

Godspeed and Good Luck

However, let’s get on with the story. We had to pass through London en route to embarking on the greatest military mission ever to be accomplished. This trip, undertaken in convoy, was unique in that the heart of almost everyone present felt a new and emotional thrill in the sense that England was indeed a grand homeland.

The crowds of workers and shoppers, old and young, who were gathered at various points along our route were all eager to convey their heartfelt wishes of Godspeed and good luck. Our hearts rose involuntarily as we were showered with all kinds of gifts, with cigarettes, sweets and cakes. Our vehicle was almost brought to a halt by the surge of well-wishers. Tin hats were held out to receive the gifts. An old woman, silently wiping her tear-stained face, endeavoured to grasp a hand.

Throughout the journey along streets crowded with folk, we were greeted by waving hands, smiles and cheers. You’d have to have been hard hearted not to feel intensely, almost indescribably proud in the face of what we saw as we drove along.

Arrival at camp

As the sun began to sink, we finally arrived at camp. We were given a hot dinner and plenty of it too. A few routine jobs were done before the general stampede to wash and shave. Sleep was next on the agenda.

We were confined here, completely out of touch with the civilian population, for 48 hours. Being under canvas in such splendid weather was no discomfort, and the camp’s entertainment and amenities kept alive our interest. Twice-daily film shows were free to all. There was an ENSA (Entertainments National Service Association) concert for anyone partial to variety. NAAFI (Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes) canteens were open all day, their meals more than sufficient.

The first night brought us our initial glimpse of the pilot-less plane. However, on the eve of such an adventure we cared no more for robot planes than flying cows.

Destination France

At last the time for departure came. We did a final check on our kit. We filled water bottles and tried on equipment for comfort. The call to fall-in was finally answered.

After a short journey we reached the ship in which we were destined to spend some time. Before embarking, hot tea was provided and followed by roll call. With mixed feelings, we climbed aboard. For the majority of the men, this must have been their first time on a ship. Others were probably preoccupied with happier memories of more peaceful days.

Sailing in convoy

Very soon we were under way, with France our final destination. The decks were crowded, and well-known sites were pointed out as we made our way to join the convoy. It was dark as we took our position among the multitude of dark forms riding at anchor. It wasn’t until daybreak that we saw the almost countless number of ships accompanying us.

A full day was spent on deck, eating, dozing, reading and watching closely the progress of this most imposing gathering of ships. Nightfall found us asleep, either on or beneath deck or in the vehicles. Not even dwelling on the ever increasing nearness of France or the possibilities of attack prevented our swift descent into slumber.

Facing the same enemy

Morning dawned with a brilliant sun and choppy sea. We were still forging along steadily. Now, though, instead of observing the other ships, our eyes were fixed on the dim and misty outline of the country for which we were bound.

As the hours passed, we were able to see clearly the contours of the land in which before us our fathers had fought so gallantly, and, as it seemed to me now, so uselessly. After only 25 years or so it seemed we were once again facing the same enemy.

Almost beyond our ken

Eventually, our ship dropped anchor. As the tide swung us gently round we saw for the first, and probably the last, time, so mighty an armada that we were left almost breathless. We rubbed our eyes, as if it were a dream. Then, realising how it was only all too real, we began to take it all in.

The vast assembly of ships included vessels of every shape and size, from small amphibious craft to rock-like men-of-war. Flags fluttered at almost every mast. There was a balloon suspended above each ship, and, everywhere, lamps that flashed out coded messages.

For a time it all seemed beyond our comprehension. We, comparatively puny human beings, could hardly grasp what we saw. Our emotions were far too jumbled to make sense of it all. Everyone, except for the few who’d found the sea too much for them, crowded the deck, chattering like excited schoolboys on an outing. Ships that were familiar household names from their peacetime status were eagerly pointed out.

Ships as far as the eye could see

As we gradually achieved some mental stability, we began to take note of our position. A couple of cruisers were at anchor a little to our port, everything aboard spick and span and ready for any eventuality. A clean-cut destroyer glided by, while minesweepers quietly and efficiently carried out their vital work. A warship at anchor was thoroughly inspected. For a while, we discussed and argued over its identity, finally forgetting it as something new hove into view to distract us.

As far as the eye could see ships and boats swung at anchor or moved position slowly. It was an impressive sight, to be ranked, undoubtedly, as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Long after this beastly business is over, the massing of men and material off this coast will always be alive in my mind.

Balloons and spires of France

For most of the day we remained at the rail. When our ship gently swung round with the changing tide, we had our first close-up view of the land upon which we were shortly to set foot.

We could make out fields of green and brown, woodland and moor, cottages and the spires of churches. Smoke and dust clouded the faraway hills, which were swept away, enveloped by the haze. The beach, dotted with ant-like figures and vehicles, had a canopy of balloons, silver blobs invisibly suspended against a green and brown background.

Constant vigilance

Planes swept the skies in a never-ending vigil. Bombers, quickly identified, roared overhead and were met inland by countless small dark clouds of ack-ack fire; the crump of their bombs could be heard. A few moments later back these planes came, bound for England and more ‘cookies’.

As the sun began to sink in a dull, red orb, we were rocked by the blasts of the warship’s guns as it sent shells speeding inland.

Silent night

Night once more found us on board. Except for the gentle rocking of the ship, all was quiet and peaceful. An ack-ack barrage on shore soon broke this state of calm. From beneath our blankets we emerged to view the fireworks. After another spasmodic display we crept silently back to sleep and became dead to the world for a few more hours.

It seemed unbelievable that everything should be so tranquil, that the night should appear so ordinary. As one chap commented, except for the absence of lights the congregation of boats was almost like a regatta at anchor. Ironical as it may seem, his words succinctly summed up the atmosphere.

During the next few days, only intermittent laughter and the shuffle of playing cards disturbed the peace on board. At night we were either rocked to sleep or kept awake by the creaking and rolling of the ship on a swelling sea.

End of the waiting game

Saturday morning arrived with heat and expectation. To everyone’s great delight it was time to off-load. We were to be taken ashore by landing craft.

Before leaving I took a last look round. On one side there was the might, majesty and colourful hand of nature and on the other the immensely powerful consequence of human design. The contrast was overwhelming, and the more I thought of it, the more I sensed the infinite.

Our landing craft forged on slowly toward the beach. We said little as we drew near, everyone preoccupied with their own thoughts. After four, long years of waiting our time was at hand.

On French soil at last

As I studied the faces of the chaps about me I found it impossible to make out their expressions. Certainly, one or two looked troubled and anxious. One man, as I observed him closely, seemed not even to notice the approaching shore — his thoughts far away, probably at home with his sweetheart, wife or mother.

Finally we ran into a foot or so of water, and the front of our craft was lowered. One by one we drove through the receding tide on to smooth sands.

Our journey inland from the beach proved anything but uninteresting. It was hard, after so much watching and waiting, to realise that we were on French soil, and there for a purpose.

Except for the fact that we were driving on the right-hand side of the road, in accordance with continental laws, we might, for all the world, have been in England. We passed folk standing at the open doors of their cottages or peering from windows. Some were gathered in groups outside their homes. Occasionally, there were men and women out working in the fields.

Why we were there

As we passed through more populated centres we were greeted by smiling, waving folk, who seemed happy to see us. The kiddies were having the time of their lives. In a universally recognised idealisation of childhood, they were chattering and laughing, waving and scrambling about, and we threw them sweets and chocolate.

There was no doubting their joy. Their little faces were full of excitement and laughter, comical bewilderment and interest at our presence. This brought back to me in a flash the real reason behind our journey to their war-scarred land.

Seeing England everywhere

The deeper we travelled into France, the more I saw England. The countryside was a symphony in green with cottage gardens of vegetables and roses, and hedgerows of hawthorn and hazel, all in their splendid summer best. Cows grazed the fields, showing not the least interested in us.

One of the fellows remarked that had we unknowingly been transported to France, on first inspection we should have asked directions for the nearest road home, to London or some other English city.

Bully and biscuits

On reaching our destination at last, we had supper, the ever recurrent bully and biscuits, followed by a quick wash and shave. We were then ready to try out French soil to see if it were able to provide us with a comfortable night’s sleep. Alas, like fields the world over, there were the usual bumps and hollows to discomfort us.

But we were tired, chiefly through excitement, and after a few moments’ thought of home and loved ones, we soon fell soundly asleep. It was the close of a perfect day, in that we’d arrived safely in France. We were exhausted but content, not yearning too much for home, but anticipating the hour at which we would display our mettle.

Well, my letter, or story, if you like, must come to a close. So, goodnight, all. Here’s wishing you all the very best from France.

(copyright B Hallett)

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