Dunkirk: The Men They Left Behind Part 1

Dunkirk.

The Men They Left Behind.

Sean Longden.

Dedicated to all those who were left behind for ever.

Ill.u.s.trations.

A pre-war soldier of the Territorial Army displaying his kit, 1939. Courtesy of Norman Barnett.

The retreat through Belgium and France. Imperial War Museum F4495.

A British medical officer attending a wounded soldier at St Maxent, May 1940. Imperial War Museum 4640.

Solider destroying petrol store. Imperial War Museum F4756.

Soldiers of the 51st Highland Division defending the line of the River Bresle, 7 June 1940. Imperial War Museum F4745.

Burning houses on the waterfront at St-Valery-en-Caux. Imperial War Museum RML 358.

British and French prisoners of war being marched from the cliff tops to the west of St-Valery-en-Caux. Imperial War Museum RML 399.

A mixed group of British and French prisoners of war are marched into captivity by the victorious Germans. Imperial War Museum RML 141.

British POWs near Calais, June 1940. Imperial War Museum AP 7271.

Letter in French to Jim Charters' parents. Courtesy of Jim Charters.

Official letter to Jim Charters' parents. Courtesy of Jim Charters.

Forged identification card. Imperial War Museum SJO/ DOC2.

British evaders are picked up off the coast of North Africa by HMS Kelvin. Imperial War Museum 2430.

Repatriation of wounded soldiers. Imperial War Museum PL.13867.D.

Group shot at Stalag 21D, 1941. Courtesy of Eric Reeves.

British POWs photographed following their liberation by American troops, May 1945. Imperial War Museum AP 10772.F.

Acknowledgements.

The idea for Dunkirk: The Men They Left Behind emerged during the research for my previous book, Hitler's British Slaves. In conversation with former POWs, I realized that so much of the story about what had happened in 1940 had never been revealed to the public. Les Allan, one of the interviewees for my earlier book, stressed that he thought the story should be told and offered much help and advice with this project. He supplied me with the names of numerous other veterans who agreed to be interviewed for this book. My thanks go to the following: Eric Reeves, Bill Holmes, Fred Coster, Fred G.o.ddard, Fred Gilbert, David Mowatt, Jim Reed, Jim Pearce, d.i.c.k Taylor, Jim Charters, Ernie Grainger, Graham King, Bob Davies, Cyril Holness, Norman Barnett and Major Peter Wagstaff Sadly Fred Gilbert, Cyril Holness and Bob Davies pa.s.sed away between their interviews and the publication of this book.

Two other veteran POWs, Gordon 'n.o.bby' Barber and Ken Willats, whom I interviewed for my previous book, again helped by revealing the details of their experiences of capture in France in 1940.

Other veterans helped out with background on the situation in 1940, including Ken Dampier, Ron Burch, Sid Seal, Tony Hibbert and Noel Matthews. My thanks also go to Sylvie Norman, who telephoned from Canada to talk about the experiences of her husband Frank. Kerry McQueeney of the Croydon Guardian put me in touch with Cyril Holness and Norman Barnett my thanks to her. I must also thank Fred Kennington, who kindly sent me a copy of his book No Cheese After Dinner and helped me make contacts among veterans of the 51st Highland Division, including Mrs Arnott who kindly sent me a copy of her late husband Tommy's memoirs A Long Walk to the Garden.

In addition, my thanks go to staff at the National Archives who have constantly provided the files I need, when I need them. My thanks also go to the staff and trustees of the Imperial War Museum, in particular those in the Department of Doc.u.ments whose help was, as ever, invaluable. I must thank the copyright holders for the following collections held at the Imperial War Museum for allowing me to reproduce quotations from their memoirs. Thanks to Jean Bolton for permission to quote from the papers of her brother, Walter Kite. Also to Margaret Foster for allowing me to quote her late husband Fred's poem in the introduction to this book. To Michael Watt for granting permission to quote his father Hugh Watt. To David Evans for allowing me to quote from the memoirs of his late father R. P. Evans. To Richard Wilson for permission to quote his late father. To Lorraine and Jeannette for granting permission to quote from the memoirs of their late father, William Simpson. To Betty Barclay for permission to quote her late husband, R. L. Barclay. To Frank Sweeney for permission to include his father's memoris of the sinking of the Lancastria. To Carolyn Christie for granting permission to quote from the memoirs of her late grandfather, John Christie. To Peter Trew for permission to quote from the memoirs of his late uncle, Harold Houthakker. To Cynthia Jones for permission to quote from the memoirs of her late father, E. Vernon Mathias. To the family of Bill Bampton for permission to quote from his memoirs. To Mrs Shorrock for granting permission for me to quote from the memoirs of her late husband Leslie. To Joan, who granted permission to quote from the papers of her late uncle, W. Hewitt. In the case of the papers of C. Raybould, V. Tattan and Major G. S. Lowden, I was unable to trace the copyright holders. Anyone having information should contact the Department of Doc.u.ments at the Imperial War Museum.

I must also give thanks to my agent Andrew Lownie, my editor Leo Hollis, Geoff and Victoria at Arris for giving me my first break as a writer and to Beth and Bethan at MGA for their hard work on my earlier books. Finally, I must thank my wife Claire for all the advice she has offered and in particular her proofreading skills.

Prologue.

'Is anyone there? Is anyone there?'1 With these words General Harold Alexander signalled the end of the drama of Dunkirk. Searching along the quayside within the port and patrolling the waters beside the beach, the general held firmly on to his megaphone, calling out for any stragglers still waiting for evacuation. It was 2 a.m. on the morning of 3 June 1940. For six long, arduous days the beleaguered British Expeditionary Force (BEF) had been slowly but surely evacuated from the harbour and beaches of Dunkirk. For some, the story had seemed miraculous somehow, with the enemy just miles away and their planes dominating the skies above the beaches, 338,226 soldiers had been embarked on s.h.i.+ps and sent home to Britain. With their evacuation completed it was time for Operation Dynamo to end. As the last of the Royal Navy destroyers slipped safely away into the waters of the English Channel, there was nothing to do but draw the proceedings to a close.

When Alexander had allowed himself a final search of the perimeter, calling out to any who might yet remain on sh.o.r.e and receiving no reply, he returned to the harbour and boarded a waiting destroyer. Satisfied that the evacuation was complete, the order to set sail was given and the s.h.i.+p cast off, zig-zagging its way across the night waters towards Dover. As his s.h.i.+p tied up alongside the quay next morning, and the general disembarked to make his way to the War Office, the story of Dunkirk came to an end. Now it was time for the legend to grow.

However despite the ominous silence that had greeted Alexander as he scoured Dunkirk and its beaches for waiting troops, some men were still out there. Somewhere in the darkness were over 68,000 British soldiers who had never reached safety. On the beaches and sand dunes of Dunkirk, in the fields of Flanders, beside the roads and amid the ruins, lay the corpses of hundreds who had not reached the boats. They had paid the ultimate price during the fighting retreat. They were not alone in their defeat. Elsewhere were hospitals full of the sick and wounded who had been left behind to receive treatment from the enemy's doctors. And further afield still fighting hard alongside its French allies was the entire 51st Highland Division, and a myriad of other units, some large and some small, whose war had not finished as the last boats slipped away from the port of Dunkirk.

Also scattered across the countryside were hundreds of lost and lonely soldiers. These were the 'evaders' who had missed the boats and evaded capture and were now desperately trying to make their own circuitous ways home independently, whether by walking across France or rowing across the Channel. All that mattered was that they were heading home, no matter how long it took or how far their journey would take them.

But for the majority left behind, now prisoners of war, the journey was not to freedom. Hour upon hour, mile upon mile, day after day, they walked. The feet of the dejected and defeated men shuffled over the cobblestones of the seemingly endless roads. Shoulders hunched, staring at the ground in front of them, they moved ever onward. Beneath the searing summer sun the starving rabble continued their journey into the unknown. Like the remnants of some pitiful ancient tribe sold into slavery, they shuffled forwards. Stomachs shrunken and throats parched, they hardly dared think of the food and water that might bring salvation.

Some were half-carrying, half-dragging their sick and exhausted friends. Others, too weak to help the sick, were forced to abandon their mates at the roadside. Yet most simply trudged on in silence men like twenty-one-year-old Ken Willats who just five months earlier had been a chef in a London restaurant. Now, not having seen food for days, he was too weak even to raise a hand to wipe a squashed fly from his forehead.

Desperate men summoned up their last vestiges of energy and fought for sc.r.a.ps of food. They dropped to their knees in ditches just to drink from the dirty brown water. At night they collapsed by the roadside, often deep in sleep before their heads touched the bare earth. Then, just a few short hours later, they dragged themselves to their feet again to continue their journey.

As they walked they listened to the shouts of their guards screaming at them to hurry up and to the cries of their comrades as blows rained down on those who hesitated. Whips, sticks, truncheons and rifle-b.u.t.ts beat the offenders back into line. For some the end to their misery came quickly, as the marching men listened for the tell-tale rifle crack that meant someone had finally given up and been executed by the roadside.

At last, after two weeks of painful marching across the countryside and through the villages of France, Belgium and Germany, the column of starving men arrived in the once great city of Trier, once the northern capital of the Roman Empire, one of the foremost cities in the ancient world. Yet the marching men, their empty bellies aching and bodies weakened, had not reached civilization. Instead they were paraded through the streets to the taunts and jeers of the inhabitants. Under a hail of spittle, the desperate men kept their heads down and marched onwards. Where once slaves had left Germany destined for Rome, now a vast new slave army was heading eastwards into the heart of Europe's newest empire, the Third Reich.

These forgotten men had fought the rearguard in northern France and paid the price of enabling their comrades to escape. These were not the legendary men who crossed the English Channel in the 'little s.h.i.+ps' ready to fight again. Destined for captivity, they would not see freedom for five long years.

These dreadful days were never forgotten by those who endured them. Yet somehow their sufferings never became part of the folklore of Second World War. They had fought the battles to ensure the successful evacuation of over 300,000 fellow soldiers at Dunkirk. Their sacrifice had brought the salvation of the British nation. Yet they had been forgotten while those who escaped to safety and made their way back home were hailed as heroes. It was an indignity that long remained in the minds of that defeated army.

Who could forget that ordeal? Certainly not Les Allan. Sixty years on he surveyed the rows of veterans parading through the streets of Dunkirk. Heads held high, chests swollen with pride and festooned with medals, the ageing veterans had gathered once more to commemorate the anniversary of the miraculous rescue of a defeated army from the beaches of Dunkirk. These were the men whose escape from under the noses of the advancing Germans had become so famous. None among them doubted the achievement of rescuing the forlorn force from the beaches of France, nor would any underestimate their sacrifices in the years that followed. Yet some among them, Les Allan included, had their own, very different, memories of the aftermath of Dunkirk memories that were once more stirred up at the sight of the parading men.

Though many years had pa.s.sed since 1940, the gallant veterans still marched in step as they approached the grandstand. Amid the dignitaries Allan former stretcher-bearer, BEF veteran, and prisoner of war who had been granted his place as the founder of the National Ex-Prisoner of War a.s.sociation, found his thoughts were immediately consumed by his own memories of suffering and sacrifice. As the parade came to a halt he leaned forward and called out to one of the men standing near him.

'Hey, mate, which POW camp were you in?'

'Twenty A,' came the reply. 'What about you?'

'Twenty B at Marienburg.'

After a brief conversation, the parade moved on. Perplexed, a veteran officer seated beside him turned to ask how he knew this man, among all the a.s.sembled ranks, was a fellow POW. Allan allowed himself a smile and replied.

'It's simple. Look at his chest. The blokes with the least medals are always the old POWs.'

He was right. There hadn't even been a campaign medal for those who fought in France in 1940. The Dunkirk POWs the soldiers that were left behind were men who had shared all the horrors of war but none of the glory.

INTRODUCTION.

Victory or Defeat?.

Those men, the ones we left behind, Those beaches would not see, Those men to whom fate was unkind, Had set their comrades free.

Those other men who would not see The safety of our sh.o.r.es, For five more years would not be free, But prisoners of war.

Frederick Foster.

Royal West Kent Regiment1.

Surely it was a miracle. Under the very eyes of the mighty German Army the beleaguered British Army had somehow returned home. Day after day, night after night, the evacuation had continued. Their decks crowded with the exhausted remnants of a battered and b.l.o.o.d.y army, the s.h.i.+ps slipped quietly back across the dark waters of the Channel. Even if the waters had parted, like the Red Sea before Moses, to allow the soldiers to walk home, the watching world could hardly have been more surprised.

It was an exodus that seemed impossible, yet it had happened. All across Britain people celebrated from the soldiers who reached the sanctuary of home, to the mothers, wives and lovers who awaited their safe return. As a nation rejoiced, the reality of what had happened was obscured. A disastrous defeat was somehow turned into a great victory. Yet as in all victories, it had come at a price the surrender of the truth to a myth that has survived longer than most of the soldiers involved.

At first the evacuation had remained a secret. Newspapers were quite simply forbidden from reporting the events in France. Although the BEF had suffered a crus.h.i.+ng defeat, the British people were not to be told of its humiliation. The fact that the BEF had been routed on the battlefield and driven back to the coast was not for public consumption. There was no choice but for the army to withdraw to England to lick its wounds. What followed was indeed a miracle. For an entire week the Royal Navy, and latterly the legendary 'little s.h.i.+ps', transported 338,226 British, French and Belgian soldiers back across twenty miles of sea.

As the troops.h.i.+ps, destroyers, barges, trawlers, ferries and pleasure boats disgorged the vanquished army it soon became clear that the defeat could be concealed no longer. So the news was released and the story turned upside down, with the humiliation of defeat reported as a victorious escape. Even three days in, on 31 May, the first BBC report on the evacuation stressed that the British Army was returning home 'undefeated'. This was far from the truth, but the public knew no different. Indeed no one not the journalists, politicians nor generals wanted them to know different. The news was bleak, but for the people of an increasingly isolated nation this was something to celebrate their sons had come home.

While wounded, sick and dejected troops were hidden from sight, the British press heralded the men who had returned with a smile on their faces. Those who came home waving from train carriages, clutching their souvenirs, giving the thumbs-up and kissing the women who handed out tea and buns at railway stations became a thing of legend.

News spread across the world that Britain stood alone yet defiant. A haven for the soldiers, sailors, airmen and royal families of Europe's defeated nations, Great Britain used the escape from Dunkirk as a clarion call for the fight against tyranny. In the skilful hands of Britain's new prime minister, Winston Churchill, the BEF's return became a propaganda triumph. As he told the world: 'The battle of France is over, the Battle of Britain is about to begin.'

Churchill's belligerent spirit helped raise the nation. Britain had not folded like its European allies; instead the army had come home. The nation had rallied and was ready to fight another day. Germany's inability to crush the British forces on the sands of Dunkirk was a turning point in their fortunes. A failure to extract those troops from the beaches would have left Britain defenceless. With no army left to fight, Britain would have been forced to sue for peace or have been an easy target for a n.a.z.i invasion.

Yet this never happened. They had lived to fight another day and Dunkirk had become the springboard to victory. Although there would be no quick win the battle in France may have been lost but one battle does not make a war from Dunkirk grew the legend of the plucky British Army, outcla.s.sed on the battlefield, withdrawing against all the odds but sailing home across the Channel. It was the cla.s.sic tale of the British underdog. The 'little s.h.i.+ps' that ferried the soldiers home grew to symbolize a spirit of improvisation. The n.a.z.is may have created a powerful, modern mechanized army but even all the iron and steel of its war machine could not crush the spirit of the British nation.

The emerging legend was perfectly suited to the mood of defiance that swept the country that summer: 1940 was Winston Churchill's year the year of Dunkirk; the rush to volunteer for the Home Guard; the glamour and excitement of the legendary 'Few' who defended the skies during the Battle of Britain and the enduring Blitz spirit. This was the year that Churchill and the British people raised two defiant fingers to their enemies across the Channel. In the nation's moment of peril there was no time to dwell on defeat or on the defeated.

Yet hidden beneath this tale was an untold story. As time pa.s.sed, historians revisited the Dunkirk story many times but the public had not yet learnt how the army had been unceremoniously defeated. They did not hear of the failure of BEF officers at all levels. Nor did they read the details of drunken soldiers who refused calls to leave the cellars of Dunkirk and proceed for embarkation. In the mythology there was no room for tales of the failure of a poorly trained army, nor for stories of men scrambling to board boats being shot or forced away at gunpoint. Nor was the full story revealed of how the figures for the miraculous Dunkirk evacuation only talked of men who escaped via one port. Forgotten were more than 100,000 men whose escape to the UK came via a host of other coastal towns, from Normandy to the Bay of Biscay.

It would be many years before the real story of the evacuation even began to be told. Richard Collier's 1961 book The Sands of Dunkirk was one of the first to reveal much of the chaos, indiscipline and terror that had been obscured by the myth. Later works like Walter Lord's The Miracle of Dunkirk and Nicholas Harman's Dunkirk The Necessary Myth further helped to balance the story.

However, even in all these works one detail has remained missing. These stories ended with the final evacuations from the beaches of Dunkirk, drawing a veil over the desperate fate of those left behind.

As the boats sailed off they had abandoned 2,472 guns, nearly 65,000 vehicles and 20,000 motorcycles. In the chaos of retreat they had also left behind 416,000 tons of stores, over 75,000 tons of much-needed ammunition and 162,000 tons of petrol.

More shocking than all this, however, was a single chilling statistic 68,111 men of the BEF did not return home across the Channel at all. Thousands were the dead, wounded or missing but almost 40,000 British soldiers were alive and already being marched off into a captivity that would last for five long years.

However, back at home in Britain, rather than mourning for the defeated or lost, people felt they had something to celebrate. There was a genuine outpouring of excitement and relief that the majority of the army had come home safely and were ready to defend Britain's sh.o.r.es from its enemies. In homes the length and breadth of Great Britain families rejoiced when they heard the news that their sons had returned. The war may not have been over but their loved ones had survived to fight another day. For the moment, that was enough.

At the Reeves family home in Reigate, a mother, father and siblings celebrated the safe return of their eldest son, Les, from France. For them, the nation's collective relief had been a very personal one their boy had survived. The joyous mood in the house continued for a few days until a lone voice cut through the celebrations. It was Ivy, the soldier's sister. She had been thinking and had suddenly realized something was missing. Finally she asked the question that had been troubling her: 'But hang on a minute, didn't our Eric go to France as well? Where's he?'

In all the excitement their younger son had been forgotten. As they spoke, nineteen-year-old Eric Reeves was trudging forlornly along the roads of northern France, destined for a German prisoner of war camp. It would be five years before he would return home to tell his story. Like almost 40,000 of his comrades, he was one of Dunkirk's forgotten heroes one of the men they left behind.

CHAPTER ONE.

Missing the Boat The truth of the last day will never be published.

Major R.L. Barclay, 44th Division RASC, writing to his wife in June 1940 following his return from France1 Looming high above the fields of Flanders, this seemed to be an obvious vantage point. Like some wooded island crowned with a medieval monastery, the Mont des Cats gave its occupiers a vast and unrivalled panorama both eastwards into Belgium and westwards across the landscape of France. But as the month of May 1940 drew to a close there was only one view that really mattered. Twenty miles to the north-east plumes of smoke were rolling skywards rising above the flames of Dunkirk.

A few days previously this had been a depot for the British Army, a dump for vehicles and stores. But with the spearpoint of the German blitzkrieg plunging through Belgium, pus.h.i.+ng back the Allied armies ever westwards, the Mont des Cats was no longer a rear echelon sanctuary. Instead it had become a hastily improvised strongpoint. With his troops forced back into France, Major-General Edmund Archibald Osborne, commanding officer of the 44th Infantry Division, had a.s.sembled them on the only available high ground. Originally an officer in the Royal Engineers, who had served with honour in the fields of Flanders during the Great War, Osborne was the very picture of the old-fas.h.i.+oned British general. With his service dress, riding breeches and boots, grey hair and clipped military moustache he seemed to epitomize just how out of date the British Army had become. In the era of blitzkrieg, of air support, carrier-borne infantry, paratroopers and tanks, Osborne seemed to reflect the days of the static trench warfare of his first conflict.

To the senior officers of the British Expeditionary Force, men like Major-General Osborne, this was the textbook defensive position. It had everything they needed, a commanding view of the lands around, plenty of cover for the troops and, most importantly, it sat immediately in the face of the enemy advance.

For others that was exactly the problem. Footsore and weary after days of fighting and retreating in the face of the advancing 'lightning war', the men of the 4th Battalion Royal Suss.e.x Regiment were less impressed by the sight. Certainly this was a fine defensive position any fool could see that but there was something far more important to them. Sitting high upon the only hill for miles around, they were conspicuous they were a target. For twenty-two-year-old Private Bill Holmes it was a relief not to be marching, but war had entered his life swiftly and viciously and it was about to get worse. As he would later describe it, with the deliberate understatement so common to the British infantryman: 'We really had a dose there. The British Army really did some silly things for one thing, we were right on the top of the hill. So the Germans just kept bombing it! It was the most stupid thing they could have planned.'

These were strong words for such an inexperienced soldier. Just nine months earlier Holmes had been working on his father's farm in East Suss.e.x. His had been a simple life, one so common in the countryside of pre-war Britain. There were few luxuries, he worked hard from dawn till dusk, tending the animals and maintaining the orchards that provided the family with its income. But along with the hard work came a slow pace of life that made the long hours tolerable. In many ways it was an idyllic existence, one which none in the village had realized would soon be over. In these final days before war, horses still worked the land, many homes were still without electricity or relied on pumped water. Through the spring and summer of 1939, as war had approached, the young men inhabiting this world were slowly caught up in political machinations that seemed so far removed from their own world. When Holmes and his mates went to the cinema in nearby Haywards Heath, they saw newsreels revealing what was going on in Europe, but still it all seemed so distant. What did the Sudentenland, the Munich crisis or Hitler's insistent sabre rattling mean to them?

Then in summer 1939, with war seemingly inevitable, the outside world finally took a grasp of the towns and villages of Britain. The government's announcement that it was to form a militia from more than 200,000 men, aged twenty and twenty-one, was a firm declaration of intent. It may not have been a full-scale mobilization, but it was one more step on the road to war. Each man called up to the militia was told he would serve just six months and then be released back into civilian life as a trained infantryman, ready to be called up in the event of war. Like all his mates, Bill Holmes had registered for the militia in July. Now he was certain war would come. This knowledge could not help but affect their lives: 'I had a summer of freedom, but in the back of my mind I knew what was going to happen.' It was the calm before the storm.

When his call-up papers had arrived, falling ominously on to the doormat of the family cottage, Holmes' father had made him a stark offer. He could apply for his son to be excused service, to register as an essential worker, since farming could be cla.s.sed as a reserved occupation. The youngster had considered the offer but realized he could never accept. Quite simply, he knew that to remain at home would seem like a betrayal of his mates, all of whom would themselves be going to war. It was a decision that would trouble him many times in the five long years that followed.

Sitting atop the Mont des Cats, with sh.e.l.ls bursting around him and machine-gun fire raking the hillside, it was easy for these thoughts to return to his mind. Just eight months before, he had said goodbye to his mates and headed off to the barracks at Chichester. Life in the army was a shock to most of the new recruits, but for those from quiet villages it made all the more impact upon their lives. 'Suddenly nothing was private any more like showering with other people. That took a bit of getting used to, but in the end you were as bad as everyone else. The others were nearly all London lads a rough old bunch, but a good bunch. You couldn't be a weakling among them.'

These new soldiers may have learned to live together but they had still not learned all the skills of the infantryman. Compared to the well-trained forces heading towards them the British soldiers were, in the most part, mere novices. That said, they were not fools.

In the world of the tacticians and military theorist, of the generals and staff officers with their grandiose plans and years of experience, the views of novice soldiers like Bill Holmes were ridiculously simple. Such men did not understand the art of war. And yet he was right when he pondered the wisdom of their positions on the Mont des Cats. Every German gunner could range his sh.e.l.ls on to the hill. Every Luftwaffe pilot could spot the monastery or the windmill and unload his deadly cargo with hardly a chance of missing. And every soldier of the Wehrmacht, from the lowliest private to the mightiest general, knew the British Army would occupy the hill.

As Holmes and his comrades in the 44th Division awaited the German a.s.sault on their positions, they had a brief moment to look back on all that had happened in the previous weeks. The British Army had been engaged in a valiant attempt to stall the German advance. They had held hideously exposed positions on the riverbanks and ca.n.a.lsides that crisscrossed the low-lying fields of Belgium and northern France. As a review of the campaign commissioned by the War Office later revealed, defensive positions on ca.n.a.ls and rivers caused immense problems for the defenders: they could not patrol, did not hold the high ground, were unable to camouflage their positions competently and could not counterattack. All they could do was dig trenches, blow bridges, fortify houses and pray they might hold off the rampaging force that had launched itself across the Low Countries.

Britain's almost total lack of preparedness seemed reflected in the situation experienced at the Mont des Cats. Just a few short months earlier, this vast new army of regular soldiers, reservists, Territorials, new recruits and conscripts to the British Army had laughed at their situation. Following the declaration of war, thousands of new soldiers had arrived at barrack rooms and drill halls across Britain only to be issued with uniforms, weapons and equipment that seemed like museum pieces. Many had started their military careers in uniforms little changed since the last great conflict: boots that had been date-stamped '1920' and packed in grease for nearly twenty years; rifles that had last seen service in their fathers' hands back in the Great War; 'p.i.s.spot' helmets; cloth puttees all relics of some long forgotten era of warfare. As they stumbled across the parade grounds and agonized over polis.h.i.+ng bra.s.ses, boots and b.u.t.tons, they had taken some comfort in the constant claims that war would last no more than a few months. All could laugh at ill-fitting uniforms and the caps that seemed to litter the parade ground every time the drill-sergeants shouted instructions.

Yet there was a sober fact behind this comic spectacle. Following the Great War the British Army had been allowed to run down to a state in which it was hardly equipped for modern warfare. Only in 1932, after more than ten years of neglect, had the government admitted that something needed to be done. Even so, it took two further years of talking before any real changes began to be made. As the British government discussed rearmament, its potential enemies had pushed forward with modernizing their fighting forces. Even after rapid expansion and investment in the armies following the Munich crisis, the British Army had still been left lagging far behind its enemies. As Lord Gort, the commander of the BEF, wrote in a report about the territorial units under his command: 'The standard of training is low and in my opinion, against a first-cla.s.s enemy they are as yet fit only for static warfare.' He was blunt in his a.s.sessment that they 'possessed little more than token equipment'.2 Gort's a.s.sessment was spot-on: one officer in an anti-aircraft unit recalled that after four years in the Territorial Army he had learned no more than basic drill and knot-tying. In one tank unit the crews were only allowed to attend lectures on tank warfare after they had perfected sword drill. A War Office report of early 1939 had given a stark indication of the problems faced by the army: The instruction is incompetent. The instructors almost without exception, lack general intelligence; they have learnt the lessons parrot fas.h.i.+on and can only teach in that fas.h.i.+on; they cannot answer questions which are not in the drill book, and finally their method and speed of instruction is entirely ill-suited to their audience. They take in fact an hour to teach what their hearers can all fully grasp in five minutes . . . the system of training throughout the TA seems to have been designed to suit the stupidest cla.s.s of recruits i.e. the rural ploughman.3 There had been no more than a few short months of vigorous training to realign the mentality of the pre-war army and mould the expanding force into something fit for the modern battlefield. Despite the rigorous efforts that had taken place during 1939 doubling the size of the Territorial Army, introducing new weapons and equipment and the induction of 200,000 men into the militia it was easy for the men of this new army to realize that the nation was unprepared for war. Every man among them had watched in awe as the weekly newsreels displayed the might of the German war machine modern aircraft, column after column of vicious-looking tanks, row upon row of field artillery, deadly machine-guns, tracked troop-carrying vehicles and unflinching belief in both the might and right of their cause everything an army could need to guarantee victory.

Despite the visible might of the German Army there remained a dogged self-belief within Britain's armed forces. After all, by the end of April 1940 there were 394,165 British soldiers in France, with more still on their way. More than 235,000 were in the main fighting force, over 17,000 were training in France to join the main force and nearly 80,000 were performing duties in the lines of communication. In addition there were also 9,000 men on their way to join their units, over 2,500 unallocated soldiers and over 23,000 serving at various HQs. On paper, though small compared to the French Army, this seemed a formidable fighting force.

For almost a year the media had fed the public a diet of propaganda about how their troops would 'Hang out the was.h.i.+ng on the Siegfried Line' and myths about how the tanks they had seen on the German newsreels were actually made of cardboard. Such stories had boosted public confidence, but by 1940 their light-hearted tone was no longer appropriate. Almost from the very moment the Germans had launched their a.s.sault on 10 May, the smile had been wiped from the collective face of the British Army. As one NCO noted in his diary, his company went to war with just fifty rounds of ammunition per man, one box of hand grenades and only seven rounds for their Boyes anti-tank rifle. There was no longer anything humorous about being part of an army that had gone to war in requisitioned delivery lorries and butchers' vans that had been hastily repainted as machines of warfare.

Awaiting the a.s.sault at the Mont des Cats, Bill Holmes realized war was no longer a joke. Like all his comrades he had heard the tales of cardboard tanks and aircraft he'd even listened to lectures on them back at his barracks but now he knew the truth. They were real, made of steel and very, very dangerous.