The Invasion Before the Invasion by Bob Pocklington
Posted September 22, 2009
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April 28, 1944, a few weeks before we invaded France, our American troops were involved in a tragic “accident” that caused the death of 749 sailors and soldiers. It happened during a practice invasion of ‘Utah Beach’ code name “Operation Tiger.” The tragedy was covered up 30 years, until 1974 when the truth began to leak out. The British government had forced residents of six villages to vacate their homes and take everything with them including livestock and crops. This part of England is known as Torcross, directly across the channel from Normandy, only about twenty miles from where we were stationed in Totnes. The practice invasion involved 30,000 troops, Combat Engineers, and a tank battalion. During daylight hours assault forces of the 4th Infantry Division had gone ashore on Slapton Sands, a stretch of beach along the south coast of England that closely resembled a beach on the French coast of Normandy. This “invasion” included actually bombing the villages; all conditions were as real as possible.
Shortly 
Shortly after midnight eight LSTs left Start Bay and headed towards Slapton Sands with engineers and chemical and quartermaster troops on board along with tanks and jeeps, when suddenly nine German torpedo boats appeared out of the darkness and attacked the convoy. They had picked up radio traffic across the channel and investigated. German torpedoes hit three of the LSTs. One lost its stern but eventually limped into port. Another burst into flames, the fire fed by gasoline in the vehicles on board. A third keeled over and sank within minutes. There was no time for launching lifeboats. Trapped below decks, hundreds of soldiers and sailors went down with the ship. Others leapt into the sea but many drowned, weighted down by water-logged clothing and in some cases pitched forward into the 
water because they were wearing life belts around their waists rather than under their armpits. Others succumbed to hypothermia in the cold water. When the waters of the English Channel at last ceased to wash bloated bodies ashore, the toll of the dead and missing stood at 198 sailors and 551 soldiers, a total of 749, the most costly training incident involving U.S. forces during World War II. One large piece of equipment had gone overboard that later helped uncover the well-kept secret.
A few weeks before more of us had taken part in another practice, Operation Fox, without incident. But as bad as it was not a word escaped about Operation Tiger. All bodies were found and identified except those that were trapped inside the ships. All were quickly “processed” and interred. Later they would be moved to cemeteries. Months after the June 6 invasion the families were told their sons were “missing in action” and most of those parents passed away before the truth was discovered. Both American and British Governments remained silent and avoided any inquiry. It is possible the Germans would have recognized that Slapton Sands’ beaches were very similar to those beaches at Normandy.
The Slapton area was devastated by the “invasion” and few residents returned to what was left of their villages. Only the sandbagged churches were intact. It turned out that looters completed the removal of anything of worth…before the beaches were closed to all traffic. Many years later, down at the end of the beach where the cliffs begin, a high quality restaurant was constructed by a gentleman named Ken Small. He had a hobby…following any serious storm on the channel Ken would walk for miles along the surf moving his metal detector back and forth looking for anything the storm gods has washed ashore. What he found one day was a mystery but eventually revealed much about the incident thirty years before.
I’ll tell you about that next.
Crossing the Rhine River - Part Twoby Bob Pocklington
Posted September 15, 2009
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We were given fifty-seven hours to complete the roads and bridges and they were serious as both the American Ninth Army and the British Second were to cross at the appointed hour. Their advance would hold up until that day giving both armies time to bring up the supplies we would need to finish the war. There was very little rest for anyone…if you slept it was where you dropped and you’d better not be in the way. Eating was on the run and nothing to brag about. There were no cook tents on that hillside, only aid stations.
To me a magnificent part of the war was the movement of supplies, as they were needed. Every time I looked up the hill the mountain of boxes was higher and longer. The Germans would have delayed the inevitable if they had concentrated on them instead of us down on the water. It seemed there were thousands of barrels of gasoline for the tanks that were beginning to arrive and park in orderly fashion. And there were thousands of soldiers preparing for the rush across the bridges. We were building three kinds, one for troops, one for trucks and other vehicles, and a third for the Sherman tanks that weighed sixty tons each. And the British had brought up much larger artillery, shells so big we could watch them leave the gun barrels and fly over our heads. We told them about an 88-gun flash we could see; the third round the Brits fired made that gun and the building it was hidden in disappear. We promised them tea and crumpets.
The big day arrived at first light and out of nowhere they came. We could hear the noise before we saw them coming down our roads. Ground military of every description, streams of vehicles and endless American and British soldiers waving and saluting the job we had done; we were damn proud and exhausted. Of course the movement of all this traffic kept us working to keep the road and bridge entrances passable. Tanks tear up the land like you won’t believe and we suspected some of the cute little turns were done in humor to keep us alert. These troops had come from rest areas, waiting on us, as powerful as they were we were boss until the last steel pin had been driven home and bridge decking fastened down. Our planes bombed and strafed the far side clearing the way.
We knew that in a few days, we could relax before catching up to the armies now moving fast east of us. They would fan out across many miles and encounter other canals and rivers that needed a bridge. They would again be looking for us. We had plenty to do…now P38 fighter planes would be looking for a place to land and gas up. That, too, was our job, and making territory mine free for more field hospitals and supply dumps. There is no monotony for Combat Engineers, except for bad weather, wet clothes, cold food, and never knowing where the hell you are. The mail had a terrible time finding us.
The end was in sight even though there would still be a month of heavy fighting. As our armies progressed we were handed more and more prisoners to pen up in barbed wire cages. They had had enough and just wanted to escape the Russians…we obliged them but could not feed them. Guarding the cages was for MPs and we moved on. We did have to deal somewhat with concentration camps but you’ve already heard enough about them.
May 8, 1945 was just a few days away on the calendar; we would survive until then. But only fifty one percent of our original battalion was still with us. So we were told.
Crossing the Rhine River
by Bob Pocklington
Posted September 8, 2009
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With the British Second Army under General Montgomery, we called him the Weasel; we closed in on the Rhine River. We were north of the famous Remangen Bridge that failed to collapse when the Germans tried to destroy it and the Americans captured it “intact.” We were to cross at Wesel and the Germans were waiting. A high steep dike lined the river on the west side. We had to build two miles of roads from the top of the dikes on a diagonal slant to the water over ground much too fragile to carry trucks and tanks. We no sooner poked our heads above the dike to survey the situation when an 88 shell exploded overhead. We took our first casualties before we got started. We thought we were safe in the trees behind the dike but they had that area zeroed in. Before we could dig foxholes they blasted us with tree bursts and Billy Tillman died before we could stop the bleeding; shrapnel sliced off his leg. This would not be an easy bridge.
Just before the Rhine we had passed a mile or so of German wounded, a double row of stretchers end to end on both sides of the road. Hundreds had died of their wounds and/or hypothermia. Many had crawled away from their stretchers in futile attempts to escape death. We had moved up so fast the Germans couldn’t transport their wounded across the bridge before they had to destroy it to stop our advance. British artillery was already lining up behind us at the top of the dike and they took out several punishing 88s. As we approached the river we could see our enemy on the other side trying to pick us off with rifles about a thousand yards away. We watched a squad of infantrymen go across in small boats upstream of them and work their way into position to eliminate that problem. For the next two days the 88s continued to bother us from miles away. Not accurate fire but good enough to cause us casualties, destroy sections of our bridges and pulverize our road. The landscape was littered with our damaged heavy equipment the loss of which made it difficult to move heavy steel bridge sections down to the water.
During daylight hours no planes bothered us because the Army Air Force had control of the skies. But after dark fighters and bombers dove in with guns blazing and bombs dropping. Our searchlights framed them up but German pilots were not amateurs and they caused much damage to the bridges and us. When they strafed and we could see the trajectory we were forced to escape by jumping into the water and hope our buddies would pull us out. If not we went a long way down steam before reaching shore again. This was in late March and that water was still very cold. Searchlights trapped one German plane but he fooled the antiaircraft gunners by dropping flares and the lights followed. Others risking their lives were shot down and crashed behind us.
The bridges we constructed were steel Bailey Bridges on top of pontoons. A section was assembled on the shoreline and driven by fifty horse outboard engines to the end of the completed part of the bridge. In that swift current it was difficult for the engineers to catch the end and hang on while the current swung the new section into position where it was fastened with two-inch diameter steel pins. Getting the holes to line up while the pontoons wobbled took great strength and patience. If we missed, the soldiers became sailors until they could make shore farther down. Far too many sections failed to connect and were lost; the current made a return trip impossible. Haste made waste.
The Battle of the Bulge
by Bob Pocklington
Posted September 1, 2009
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It was December 1944 and Hitler was weary of being kicked around by the upstart Americans and Englanders. We were still making progress eastward in the Ardennes forest in spite of record cold and snow when he hit us with everything he had left. Twenty-four divisions including ten Panzer (tank) against our six divisions strung about over a hundred miles. That is all I know about details, location, etc. but I have read the casualties were well over a hundred thousand killed and wounded, and thousands of us taken prisoner. You can get on the net for details, I’ll tell you about the cold.
This was Germany, not Alaska, about the same latitude as Michigan. Even in November, we figured a halt in the war would be a good idea. And maybe get together with the Germans over Christmas with good wine, and a cooked goose, singing around a blazing fire. Even before the attack, we were soaked with rain, frozen stiff by thirty below wind, so cold we dared not shut off the vehicle engines when we stopped. Half the time we did not know where we were but kept heading east as though we did. As combat engineers we had no duties to perform, just waiting for instructions from the static filled radio we protected from the cold by insulating the jeep and burning oil near the radio in a tin can.
We were not as equipped for the cold as the Germans and Russians; they had thick parkas and lined boots. Our best was an Eisenhower field jacket…the thick wool overcoats were too wet and stiff to put on. Gloves were woven cloth that once wet stayed wet and were too thick for most activity. You might say we were in a shut down state. If we had been told to build a bridge we couldn’t have managed…the snow was too deep to move most of our vehicles and heavy equipment. We slept where we could in our wool blanket under the trucks, or on the bed of the truck huddled together to get warm from the other guys. Then, without any warning, trucks and even tanks rushed by us heading west…no one told us anything, they just kept moving, each truck making it easier for following vehicles to push through the snow. Then soldiers on foot, some running, streamed by hollering that we better get moving, the Germans are coming. Our captain stopped a jeep struggling by and demanded to know what the hell was going on. A stuttering sergeant told him, as quickly as he could that we would be attacked within the hour, they were that close behind him.
Then we did what apparently everyone else was doing, packed up and got going. I could not have told you if we were in Germany or Belgium but Belgium was where we headed. I am not ashamed to say that much equipment was left behind and that a few from our outfit were too. It was chaos, a panic, and apparently what the military is supposed to do when overwhelmed by the enemy…it was our first and only retreat. We just kept going until it was obvious that was far enough when we encountered a wall of American troops and equipment aimed toward the direction from whence we had come.
We heard that Patton had cut the Germans off and that their final offense had run out of gas and supplies. Now our boys were mopping them up. And we heard about General McAuliffe telling the Germans, “Nuts.” It warmed the cockles of our hearts.
Photo source: U.S. History-com
The German Prisoner
by Bob Pocklington
Posted August 25, 2009
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Unless missing bridges or minefields held up the American advance units, the pecking order was that we were close behind them, often too close. It was not at all unusual for German soldiers to surrender to us having survived the tanks and infantry that swept over them. In France they were older, regular army guys, but as we moved into Germany they were younger, less well trained. Near the end of the war there were many as young as fifteen, green as grass, merely promoted Hitler Youth. We preferred the regulars, even those still mean and angry; we had no sympathy for them, no desire to feed them or provide shelter. Their choice was to keep fighting or stay alive, most opted to raise their arms hoping to be treated according the accepted rules of war. We treated them as enemy.
Small batches were merely searched and sent farther back to where Military Police would deal with them. But it became clearer that their leaders had made a big mistake and they wanted to be “captured” by us rather than the Russians. At that point German men and boys in uniform were to us a pain. What do you do when five or six hundred come marching dragging their rifles, white flags everywhere signaling defeat, officers leading the way to survival. We penned them up like sheep. Imagine a football field surrounded by eight-foot high barbed wire. Inside that were four separated barbed wire pens with a machine gun at each corner. We would march two hundred prisoners into each doing our best to separate officers from the enlisted and the feared SS from regular Whermacht. If we made a mistake we could depend upon the SS being killed by the regulars before dawn. To prevent problems any females were sent up the line that day.
Food was out of the question; water was a problem. Nearby villagers often came with what they could spare and it was then we were grateful for the separated double wall we had put around the complex; tossing food directly into a pen would be disastrous as prisoners without it for three days will kill for it. We held any food until the M. Ps arrived. Feeding them was a responsibility we did not want. If we had water we marched them by a point where we could pour a cupful in their helmet. Believe me, if any of them had in any way cheated they would have paid a price dealt by their countrymen.
The American soldiers would arrange deals with the prisoners, buying souvenirs with cigarettes or candy bars. It was an amazing collection these Germans had managed to hide on their person even though they had been searched for weapons. I too was duped when one wise guy sold me a pen that had five colors of ink. As he turned that pen a different tiny barrel of ink pushed out with a different color. But when I showed my “magic” pen to a buddy there was only three barrels. That was the first time I realized these guys had a sense of humor, and were not a heck of a lot different that we. I still wonder what became of the thousands of German G. I s we temporarily controlled.
After the war I came to know many German ex-soldiers under different circumstances.
Even with beer it took some time to settle our differences but gradually we accepted each other and began anew. We had done to each other what our leaders said was necessary. But I often wondered why we didn’t just let the Generals slug it out...they had always talked a good fight.
I could have ended this article right here but my conscience will not allow it without a confession. I once shot a prisoner at the insistence of an officer. We were unloading a trainload of prisoners when one of them appeared to make a break. The officer in command was armed only with a pistol and told me to stop him. I hesitated and suffered his wrath before aiming my carbine at the soldier’s buttocks and dropping him like a stone. I ran to him and discovered he was old enough to be my father. He pointed to a turnip on the railroad tracks, hunger had forced him to risk his life to get it. I have always regretted my part in that drama, the foolishness of it, and the memory of that man’s fright and helplessness will not vacate my brain. He and I were fortunate I hit where I had aimed. He managed to limp straight to the offending officer and salute him. I did not.
What's a Foxhole Like by Bob Pocklington
Posted August 17, 2009
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For starters they don’t come in a box, and don’t roll out like a sleeping bag; you dig it with your teeny-weeny combo pick and shovel or look around for a hole left by the retreating enemy. You don’t sleep in a foxhole; you pass out in a semi-sitting position with your feet immersed in cold water, knees jammed against the wall and your neck bent by the weight of your steel helmet. Being six feet five, then, I usually hit ground water before my head was protected. But even if one were deep enough to avoid bullets, overhead bursts of artillery could still get you. Invariably I opted for diving under a truck or bulldozer and I was never alone under there; that added protection. Even the rubble of a bombed-out building was safer than a hole in the ground, and a dry horizontal culvert was like the Waldorf. A member of my squad was five-feet-two and could dig like a mole; the only wounds he ever received were blisters on his hands.
There were times when a foxhole was the modus operandi, plenty of pre-dugs available when the Germans scrammed and we expected to be there awhile. Not exactly like a hotel but a chance to find water and clean up a bit, brush the teeth and all that. Somewhat like Saturday night bath back in the thirties, we kids were last to use the same water. Rain was our main source, from the sky or collected anywhere it was reasonably clean. We had time in those rare situations to enlarge, or amend our foxhole with abandoned pillows found in the wrecked homes; even a soggy mattress could soften rocks and concrete. And a lid for the hole would be nice if thick enough to withstand artillery bursts. These were considered luxury accommodations. Consider this, we were tourists traveling in scenic Europe, drinking their best wine and scrounged liquors, and dining on ducks, geese, or the fattest chicken we could hustle. And everything was on the house.
My worst experience with a foxhole was in the city of Aachen, Germany. We had taken the city three times, twice driven out by Tiger tanks and 88-artillery. On the third try the advance captured the city but it was truly a mess. The streets were blocked with rubble and deserted German military equipment, and it was raining. We could not tell where we were in the city but it was obvious the greatest action had moved on and we would be unable to help anyone until daylight. We were ordered to dig in. I could see very little and my G. I. glasses were wet and steamed. I picked a soft spot and dug with what we call our entrenching tools, these carried on our backs. By the time it was deep enough I was exhausted, crawled in and immediately went into a coma.
At first light I realized my hands were covered with blood and I searched my face, head, and what of my body I could reach but found no wounds. I thought it strange and my feet were in what I assumed was water even though and it had stopped raining before I finished the hole. Then one of my squad seeing me hollered, “Where the hell are you hit?” Then when there was enough daylight we could both see I had nicked the belly of a dead horse and its blood had leaked in on me during the night. The boys had great fun guaranteeing I would receive a Purple Heart. I prayed for a cleansing thunderstorm. Before the war was over I was an expert on the different types of European soils.
The M-1 Garand Rifle by Bob Pocklington
Posted August 11, 2009
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There are two ways to describe the nine-pound 30-06 weapon carried by millions of soldiers during World War II. One: a gas operated, semi-automatic, eight round magazine clip fed rifle, 600-yard effective range, capable of piercing armor. Two: your sleeping partner, if that baby was not slung over your shoulder it was stacked in the proper manner with others very nearby while you worked. You marched with it, ate with it, slept with it; it was seldom out of your sight. Rank stripes were hard to earn, easy to lose if your rifle was found “dirty” during inspection. It was a lot easier to learn the showoff cute flipping maneuvers than how to hit a 12-inch bulls eye at 500-yards.
Having never owned even a cap pistol I was at eighteen completely devoid of experience with a killing machine. Within six weeks of basic training I was a “sharpshooter.” You could earn the designation “expert” but that would come later. Back then the equivalent of an “expert” would be a sniper and we’d never heard of them except that the Germans had a few. You had to learn, under the eye of a nasty sergeant, to keep both eyes open when at first it was difficult to keep one open. Then came “squeeze versus jerk.” You have to carefully sqeeeeze that trigger if you expected to hit something. There was very little recoil with that rifle; you pushed a clip of bullets in from the top, squeeezed eight times and the clip popped out empty. In combat you carried a belt loaded with clips.
You learned that even a breeze affected your bullet’s path and distance. I remember once laying in the prone position and sticking a wet finger in the air to test the wind. The sergeant sarcastically asked if I was waving to the enemy. “Read the damn grass,” he exploded. He taught us to estimate the distance and adjust the rear sight correctly. The guy knew his stuff and slowly but surely we learned all the tricks. There is a very strong adjustable leather belt on the M-1 and if adjusted properly to fit your wrist and shoulder that leather sling did much to improve your accuracy and that was the idea of it all.
The rifle range was two hundred yards deep for beginners. We shot from atop a ridge, across open ground to another embankment behind which were soldiers raising and lowering a four foot white paper target with a 12-inch bulls-eye in the center. You shoot; they lower the target. If there is no hole in the four-foot square you get the treatment. Each target operator has a long pole with a pair of 1940 woman’s bloomers attached. They love to wave that back and forth in front of your target for all to see. This very embarrassing procedure is called “Maggie’s Drawers.” I suffered it many times. If you hit the target they raise a small black bulls-eye to show where. If you hit the bulls-eye they raise a small white bulls-eye to again show where. How you feel at the end of the day depends entirely upon how often you put a round in the 12-incher.
Over time you move to longer rifle ranges and finally at 500-yards you earn the badge you will wear as long as you wear the uniform and keep to show your grandchildren. Mine is in a small case with other mementoes of those three years, 18 to 22. I often wonder how my life would have been different if there had been no war. No complaint, over four hundred thousand American boys never got the chance at life I had, millions more paid heavily with wounds, many still paying the price. I was lucky.
So don't get hurt by Bob Pocklington
Posted August 3, 2009
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If every soldier or sailor was to receive a Purple Heart for wounds, accidents, or deliberate damage to oneself the medal makers never could have made
enough of them to satisfy that criteria. That’s because it seemed no one knew what the criteria was then or is even today. A missing finger was not as damaging as a shattered foot but both wound recipients were out of action at least temporarily. Which particular finger was missing could be a factor…an infantryman’s loss of trigger finger could be devastating. Purple Hearts were awarded in the winter months for frozen noses, fingers, toes, and those that suffered those “wounds” were as incapacitated as a person whose leg had disappeared during an artillery burst.
It’s not that we had the time or inclination to sit around discussing this “problem,” but there was often consternation when the “Heart” appeared on the field jacket of a laughing, walking, smoking, swearing G. I. headed away from the action. “Who the hell does he know,” was the question. It just never occurred to observers that under that uniform might be emptiness where parts were missing, or massive areas of bloody bandages. Some witnesses winced and we knew what they were thinking. Of course no one would stop the guy and ask questions.
When you saw Medics kneeling and busy on each side of a body you swallowed hard, uttered a little prayer that he was not hit bad, he was no one you knew, and that the fact the body was silent did not mean it was over for him. But it could be just as hard on your psyche if the body was screaming or thrashing in agony. Your first reaction was to keep moving away from the scene, at least out of earshot. You knew there was damn little a Medic could do there on the ground…a shot of morphine, sulfa powder in the wound, a compression bandage and the Medic hollering for a jeep. It was not your business to offer assistance, hell; you did not want to be there if he died.
What if suddenly your solemn duty is to drag, carry, assist a wounded buddy to anywhere you could get help. Quite often the artillery barrage is over when soldiers realize they are bleeding; pain does not always immediately enter the picture. Or you might hear your friend say, “Take a look at the back of my neck, it feels funny. You had both ducked under a log when the first shell exploded in the trees…you cautiously look and your first reaction is an automatic deep breath… he is in big trouble and you know it. Now what? You are the one panicked, not your buddy, but you have to make like it is just a scratch until medical attention is located.
Regardless of whom makes the decision, when a Purple Heart is awarded there has been at least some discussion as whether or not is was deserved and measured up to what is deemed fair to that person and others that might be affected by the decision. I never “earned” one even though I figured the bruises, cuts, scratches, shrapnel nicks, gasoline burns, might have added up to at least one. That Purple Heart badge indicates to most that the wearer has been in combat for some time and I was. More important is the fact that the medal provided five points toward going home. I had earned other points for time in service, time in combat, etc, and was within a handful to head back to the USA instead of doing “occupation” time in Germany. But no complaint, I was alive, healed and whole. And even when I had sufficient points I decided to take my “honorable” in Germany. Another year there was a wonderful experience. One day I’ll tell you about it.
Flying first class by Bob Pocklington
Posted July 21, 2009
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Back in 2002 the Confederate Air Force flew a B-17 to Suffolk Airport and three of us were invited to take a ride: Myles Standish, Curtiss Milteer, and me. It was nostalgic for me because back in 1944 we could jeep to any nearby airport in Southeast England on a weekend and fly as often as we could convince a pilot to take us up. Most said, “Sure.” They flew the bombers routinely just to get the take off and landing practice and make sure it would stay up…most planes had flown many missions and looked like it. No need for the gunners to go so we were often allowed to occupy the waist gunner’s position but, “Keep your damn hands off the machine guns.” There were hundreds of parked B-17s and young mechanics and pilots were constantly fussing with engines, etc. The view from five thousand feet was as thrilling as takeoffs and landings.
A few months later we invaded France and the B-17s we saw then were overhead at 25,000 feet in groups of a hundred or more as they headed deep into Germany. We knew there were nine or ten “boys” in each of them and that one out of four of those huge bombers would be shot out of the sky. If the crew escaped the plane over Germany they would be taken prisoner or killed on the ground. And we had taken only a small portion of France so being found and rescued was more than a long shot.
On their way back from raids we saw them again, planes missing from formations, scattered groups, much lower as they passed over French territory we had made safer. Some were so low we could see the guys in the cockpit, not waving, fighting to keep control of a bird full of holes, chunks of wing or tail missing, fuel leaking from destroyed engines. We figured there were still ten kids in there, fingers crossed, kissing a rabbit’s foot or doing whatever else they hoped would bring them luck when they sure as hell needed it. Some had been wounded by whatever put those holes in the plane. Often one would crash, roaring in with wheels up in a field, others in the trees.
When we could hear a crash we knew we were close and rushed with our equipment to help if we could. If there was no fire or clouds of smoke we had a chance to rescue those who survived, and retrieve those who did not. The first time we made it to a downed plane we learned how tough those planes are. It had hit so hard all escape doors were twisted and trees nearly covered what was left of the fuselage. No sounds came from within but a look through the waist gun ports indicated bodies were there. Our axes and saws would not cut into the plane fast enough so we used a bulldozer and tried to rip it open it with the blade. We merely moved the plane but could not open it. You could see bullet holes in several places so if they could go through so could we. With the corner of the steel dozer blade the plane opened like a tin can. All the gunners were huddled on the floor protecting each other; all were injured, some badly. Trees had killed the pilots and there was still danger of fire…gasoline was everywhere. We did what we could after radioing medics who arrived in minutes; they had heard the crash but could not locate it.
Who had convinced those “kids” that what they did at 25,000 feet and 40 degrees below zero could be fun? Or was it their motive to save democracy for the generations to come? Not for a moment did any of them or us have such lofty thoughts; we were all caught up in the excitement and danger of war and thrilled to be part of it. Scared, you bet, a good part of the time. When chunks of metal come flying your way you know you can die, none of that stuff about believing it can’t happen to you, only the other guy. When you’ve seen the results of steel versus flesh often enough you know that even a hole in the ground filled with icy water is a nice place to be. In the sky a one eighth inch aluminum skin is no foxhole. These kids were either heroes or fools.
All about Normandy Beach obstacles
By Bob Pocklington
Posted July 14, 2009
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To describe the average beach where an invasion might occur would be that the deterrents are usually placed as far out into the ocean as men can work at low tide, and separated by about eight feet in all directions. This might take months to accomplish but Hitler had time from the moment he occupied France. These obstacles, wood or metal are imbedded as deep as they can be pounded in to the wet sand. The shifting underwater currents then caused them to become too solid to dislodge with mere manpower. Those made from iron train rails were the most difficult to destroy requiring more pounds of TNT. The necessary extra explosives made it that much more dangerous to use with so many engineers in such close proximity to each other.
The height of an obstacle would be just underwater at near high tide. They were angled and braced sufficiently to punch a hole in small landing boats that they knew would be used in a landing. Usually each had a "teller" mine attached, teller meaning dinner “plate” in German. They were placed to detonate from the pressure of the weight of the landing craft and were powerful enough to demolish the front-end steel door, kill several soldiers, and sink the craft immediately. Our objective at Normandy was to invade at low tide and remove the teller mines. This could be accomplished without much danger to anyone except ourselves. Removing the obstacles was a different story and required much use of explosives while making sure no one was in danger from the blast. Tides run about 6 hours between high and low so work is done quickly so following waves of boats can disgorge their contents and make more runs to supply ships.
You have read of the panic on Omaha Beach where wounded and frightened soldiers hid as best they could on and behind the obstacles. Confusion reigned…they had to be forced off and away as TNT concussion can kill if enough body is under water and directly exposed to it. We had to place the charges on the bottom, under the sand if possible…your legs can take the explosion and most metal debris but above the water shrapnel is deadly. Time was of the essence and the ocean was jammed with ships of all sizes…they wanted to unload and leave. The big LSTs were about twelve miles out and Navy personnel made dozens of trips ferrying men and equipment in landing boats. Many boats did not make it to shore before they were hit with artillery or machine guns. The desperately needed Sherman tanks, outfitted with canvas skirts so they could float, were overwhelmed by giant waves and most were lost and their crews drowned.
It took almost a week to remove enough obstacles so transport to shore could flow uninterrupted. There were nearly twenty five thousand engineers on the beach by that time, cleaning up all mines, barbed wire and corpses. Boxed supplies and equipment piled up on the shore as we waited for bigger ships bringing trucks and personnel to get material moving inland. At one point it was later reported General Bradley had come close to throwing in the towel and abandoning the invasion on Omaha. This would have doomed those that had made it to the beach. He relented when a destroyer came in as close to the beach as possible without foundering. Then accurate five-inch guns eliminated the German machine guns that had been causing havoc. That destroyer Captain risked his career and the lives of his crew but he saved the day. All the beaches were finally cleared and the Americans, Canadians, and British could not be stopped. Eleven months later Hitler ended his life…we had suffered many thousands of casualties but won the war. We were told it was worth it.
Now it's June 4
by Bob Pocklington
Posted July 7, 2009
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“Now it is June 4, 1944 and we just left Dartington Hall in lorries headed for Weymouth harbor on the English Channel. Of course it is raining, and pitch black. I don’t understand how these lorries can run at night with no lights and right on the tail of the vehicle in front guided only by phosphorescent strips on the bumpers. If you can see one strip, OK, if two strips you are too close. All we can see are black hedgerows on either side as though we are riding through a tunnel. Most country roads in Devon are like that with barely room to pass an oncoming car. It’s bad enough in daylight. As we unload we can make out the wide harbor jammed with ships of all sizes. I know nothing about ships but we are boarding a relatively small one that is taking us out to a larger one with rope ladders hanging over the sides. We are expected to climb them with our full packs and slung rifles and we are being told to hurry as we must leave the harbor very soon.”
It would be nearly 20 hours we left the harbor. Ike had called off the invasion for at least 24 hours due to the impossible stormy seas. You can’t imagine the pain of not even being able even to squat because the ship was so tightly packed with humanity. We used all the profanity we could muster, smoked cigarettes, leaned against each other, wet our pants and worse, and wondered who in hell had arranged this fiasco. Hunger was forgotten, the rain wasn’t a factor, and sleep was out of the question. We were near collapse…the three days across Texas in a boxcar at a hundred degrees would have been a luxury. Somehow we coped and as the sky brightened a bit we moved out of the harbor into the vicious English Channel a day late. We hoped the Germans didn’t mind.
Somehow that rough sea loosened us and it appeared we had more room to move. We found different ways to sit on the deck and rest if not sleep…only after we managed to rid ourselves of our undershorts, preferring to live without them. Hunger was a problem that would not be solved for days. You could have sold a candy bar for a hundred dollars. Even water was scarce; canteens were never large enough. Someone with a brain suggested we pile our rifles; we wouldn’t need them anyway, and throw our sixty-pound packs in a lifeboat hanging over the side. We tossed our gas masks over the rail and suddenly we felt whole again. We got our equipment and rifles back three days later when our ship finally showed up on the beach.
At about 12 miles out in the channel we loaded into landing boats. Climbing down those ladders in that sea was dangerous but we lost not one soul. We could see ships by the hundreds it seemed, milling around while waiting for some signal that it was their turn to head in. We could hear explosions above the storm and were told the big ships were pounding the shoreline. There were no planes we could see through the clouds and they wouldn’t have been able to see the ground. Our officers tried to pump us up by telling us what heroes we were and how much our country was praying for us. It didn’t help; our imaginations had long taken over…the word “scared” wouldn’t begin to describe how we felt and it almost gained the upper hand as our landing boats revved up the engines and turned east.
We learned later we were to join the British on one of their beaches because they were short of engineers. But the Omaha beach landing was in trouble so reinforcements were needed and that was us. Apparently there were more obstacles to landing small boats than anticipated. That was not our outfit’s strong suit but you don’t debate things like that under terrible pressure. The sailors just changed their compass headings and we were on our way.
As we closed in we could see the destroyers and what looked like a battleship blasting away. Destroyers were closer to shore with all guns blazing. The beach was covered with smoke and flashes of explosions. The noise was intolerable, conversation impossible. I am almost ashamed to admit how I felt when that landing boat ramp dropped down in three feet of water. But we grabbed our explosives and went to work. We did what was expected of us, what we were trained to do. We were not heroes.
Here we are in Totnes
by Bob Pocklington
Posted June 30, 2009
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Here we are in Totnes, Devon, preparing for the invasion. A good part of Devon territory is called the Moors. Sheep grazed the edges but as the land rose the heavy grass thinned and trees were shorter and gnarled by the almost constant wind. It went on upward for miles on a gentle slope, trees thinned and mostly it became rock formations. Here is where we trained, bitter cold, and famous English rain, more of a physical test than military maneuvers. Our only entertainment was wild and wooly horses that braved moor weather year around. The Grockles enjoyed them in warm weather. Grockles are what Totnesian folks call tourists…they stand around in bunches and are a pain in the ….
We were not tourists; we were there to fight along side the British. As the weather turned warmer we practiced building steel bridges across the Dart River. If we were to win the war our armies would have to move fast and that meant engineers repairing or building new bridges as fast as the retreating German army destroyed them. The further into France we penetrated the more small airfields would be required. Our fighter planes had to refuel on the ground or fly back across the channel. Hedgerows had to be demolished so troops and supplies could move forward. Minefields would have to be found and roads through them constructed. The Germans had had time to mine roads, bridges, buildings; even the bunkers and pillboxes of the Siegfreid Line would be directly in our path. And it would be necessary to clear trees and mines for field hospitals as we moved across Europe. We trained and trained…the citizens were very forgiving as we moved our heavy equipment sometimes damaging corners and walls that had been there for centuries.
But let me not fail to speak of the importance of English pubs. One requisite to becoming a man in the United States Army is to use profanity profusely. It must be part of your vocabulary no matter the subject. Yet you had to turn off that part of your brain when in conversations with certain officers, American or Limeys as we called the British soldiers, and all citizens. Another requisite is to smoke or chew tobacco or snuff. Sure it is dumb but easier than being regarded as a sissy. We will leave out the requisite that concerned females but not the one about drinking. A small town boy like I was had never been involved with any of the requisites but time passes. But about those pubs.
“Ladies not permitted,” was what we noticed first. And finding your favorite pub in the dark of night required intelligence. England was blacked out one hundred percent. So all pubs had two or three layers of heavy black drapes for you to pass through. That was after you found the pub. Even though Totnes was not on the usual German bomb run, blackout was the law. Most German air raids passed overhead on their way further west to Portsmouth, a navy port. Pubs saved our lives after a few days up in the moors. Warm beer or scotch was the toddy of the day; fish and chips were like heaven after days of K-rations. At ten pm the little bell rang, the owner said softly, “Time please” and gentlemen exited without argument. All pubs on the hill emptied precisely at ten and there was happy singing all up and down the street in complete darkness. But we still had to navigate a mile walk uphill to Dartington Hall.
We built one last steel bridge and left it for the Totnesians. It was June 1, 1944. We had packed all our heavy equipment for shipping days ago and we had time on our hands. We were told to be ready to leave on a moments notice. We wrote many letters and gave a lot of thought to what might be our near future. We had no concept of battle with a deadly enemy and there was no way to prepare our minds; the army does not train you to die. At one o-clock in the morning, June 4, we were fed steak and eggs, loaded on trucks, again in the rain, and left Dartington Hall forever.
Engineering college shut down and we had to become combat engineers
by Bob Pocklington
posted June 21, 2009
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When I left you the Army engineering college was shut down and we had become Combat Engineers, specializing in bridge building and demolition. With our machines we could build and/or destroy bridges, buildings, roads, airfields, and anything else the army needed. Like Ghost Busters, all they had to do was call. In a few months the 800-man battalion was ready to go. In January 1944 we crossed the country, again in boxcars, three days across Texas, and finally New Jersey. Two thousand of us were herded aboard “Her Majesty’s Ship Tamarora” and headed east across the Atlantic. It never turned southeast toward Africa as we expected, the convoy of ships maintained a steady course east toward England. For fourteen storm-tossed days in the wicked north Atlantic we learned to vomit. Two thousand of us learned to vomit. The English sailors offered us cabbage and sausage three times a day but very few answered mess call. All we wanted was off that stinking boat. God, even the water was bad.
But it was a thrill one does not get over; fifty foot waves. While on top of one you could see hundreds of the convoy’s ships…at night not a light to be seen. We were allowed to man the ship’s guns in case of enemy attacks and the closer we got to England the more frequent the alarms. We saw one of our ships burning and figured it was torpedoed. At two o’clock on a stormy rainy morning we departed the ship to find English moms with coffee and a million donuts . . . it was like heaven. Finally some food we could keep down.
Again we boarded trucks, British Lorries, and through constant rain headed, we could tell by our compasses, east and south. Keep in mind that until you get where you are going the Army tells you nothing. We knew we were in England, that it was January, but that’s it. We traveled for nearly six hours not stopping except for you know what by the side of the road. Finally up a steep hill to what appeared to be a small castle, it was snowing. What we needed was hot showers, American food, and clean uniforms. What we got was one hundred and twenty of us jammed into an unheated hay barn to sleep. Ah paradise.
We awoke to bright sunshine in a small town called Totnes in South Devon, on the River Dart. I believe filthy would have described our condition and we were relieved no citizens were there to welcome us. Then came American bacon and eggs, all you could eat, hot showers, clean uniforms, and more sleep if you needed it. We all did. Our quarters were called Dartington Hall, owned by the wealthy American Elmhurst family. It was large enough to hold our entire company “A”. Double bunks, marble showers and the once beautiful gardens completely filled with supplies and equipment for the invasion that was six months away.
Totnes adopted every one of us. Citizens provided Saturday night dances in the Great Hall of Dartington, invited to their beautiful St. Mary church, even invited us into their homes for supper. Totnes is an Elizabethan town once surrounded by walls to keep the Vikings from raiding. Only the castle “keep” remains at the top of the hill. The last time I visited Totnes was 1997 and there are still thatched roofs on homes in the outlying villages. The best part of living in Totnes was the fact that there were seven wonderful pubs on the way up the hill and when I last visited only one had closed. You could still buy those wonderful fish and chips. One other feature of Totnes in 1944 was a bevy of Land Army girls, young, friendly, and also far from home. But our focus was being prepared for the Invasion of France.
Okay, I told you about D-Day
by Bob Pocklington
posted June 13, 2009
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OK, I told you what D-day was like but let me tell you how I got involved with the Army in the first place. Besides, I’ve been hearing announcements that you folks should be looking up survivors of World War II and getting their stories before it is too late. Only ten percent of the original16 million are still around. Our minds usually poop out before our bodies. Ollie North makes a business of it, interviewing and then creating “War Stories” for TV. I do Ollie one better by writing from memory. I have an advantage over Ollie; I was there. It all began after millions of draft notices went out across the country.
I had what could be called a dream job as a pageboy in the Michigan House of Delegates. All I had to do was fetch papers they needed and make runs to the liquor store. I did that so often, at 17, I didn’t need a note from the Representative. All the clerks needed to know is whom it was for so they could be billed. But even the powerful House could not deter Uncle Sam and the House Speaker apologized…suddenly I was on a bus loaded with kids from our town and headed for a recruitment center. Of course my mother cried and my dad shook hands with me for the first time, I was now a man. My parents traded me for a Service Star flag, a blue star to hang in the window.
At the collecting center hundreds of us proceeded down long lines where in mere minutes we were handed our entire Army uniforms, drab wool for winter, kaki for summer. We prayed the shoes would fit because there could be no argument; we had been measured for clothes right after being declared sound of mind and body. There is nothing quite like being in a crowded room with naked males averting their eyes. Then came a prison-like meal with our new mess kit and then to bed in a barrack. I was among total strangers, forty of them to a room. Someone somewhere decided within two days where we would be sent for training and we boarded a train headed for Alabama, a Michigan boy’s hell.
Fort McClellan was a mountain of red clay interrupted by various obstacles designed to kill young men unless they formerly wrestled alligators for a living. The military torture specialists were old enough to be my father, had been in the army since their birth, and could hardly wait to get their hands on a batch of fresh meat. I was eighteen, six foot five inches tall and weighed 150 pounds. Perfect for first team high school basketball: not so great for basic training under the fists of gorillas. In six weeks I was black and blue and positive I didn’t want to be in the infantry.
God heard my prayers…I had taken Army mental tests right after being drafted and had lucked out. I was given a choice of Officer Candidate School or a two-year course in Civil Engineering, whatever that was. I chose education and was off to California via a straw floored rail boxcar that took three days to cross Texas. At least you could lie down in a boxcar and except for the heat it was a delightful ride giving us time to heal our muscle and bone. But this adventure in a college turned out to be a mistake. The Army was preparing to invade Europe, needed more bodies, and closed all the schools across the country except for medical and dental students. Five of us were sent to join others in Death Valley to form a battalion of Combat Engineers. Within a month I was a three-stripe sergeant and had earned it…now were ready to begin working with recruits more green than us. I had trained in three different deserts and was destined to see Africa. It was not to be.
One does not forget
by Bob Pocklington
posted June 2, 2009
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Sixty-five years ago, June 6, 1944, I had just turned 19 and found myself in a forty foot landing boat headed for Omaha Beach, Normandy. As Combat Engineers our assignment was to destroy the mined steel obstacles that prevented larger ships from discharging troops and supplies in shallow water. We had been circling twelve miles out in the English Channel waiting for the right tide, we had to be able to see our targets and even then working in the vicious waves made it nearly impossible to stay upright. Omaha Beach was about four miles across and a hundred yards to our left the boys from Bedford had already been pounded to death by machine guns. More than 25,000 young men took part in the first day of the invasion and for thousands it was their last day.
Before we could blow up an obstacle we had to remove the soldiers seeking shelter from the guns of the Germans that were well protected up on top of the bluff. The beach had not been bombed sufficiently to provide sheltering craters so the advance from the boats was across open flat stony ground. German 88 artillery rounds exploded overhead taking a heavy toll. The storm upended small landing boats, hundreds drowned, pulled down by their heavy equipment, bodies floated everywhere.
Our last meal had been 30 hours ago, the invasion had been stalled 24 hours by weather and we were not allowed to leave the boats. A day later, June 6, we left the harbor needing sleep but that was not to be for nearly three days. I don’t remember being on shore for anything during that time. Our canteens were empty and a few soldiers were assigned to fetch water and what food was available. There were no latrines or toilets within half a mile but swirling channel salt water kept us, and any wounds, more than clean. There were endless ships waiting their turn to hit solid ground…the noise was overpowering and hell could not have been worse than those days. But there was eleven more months of war yet to come and a good part of it just as appalling.
There was a time, we learned much later, when General Bradley was ready to call the invasion off, abandoning those already committed. The British had faced such a dilemma at Dunkirk but the majority was rescued when boats of every description braved the channel and the Germans that had driven them nearly into the sea. But somehow those that made it across the wide beach on D-Day had enough punch left to prevail. One destroyer captain may have saved the day when he moved his ship close in and took out machine guns. As more Engineer groups came ashore we were able to join the rush across France.
Another date not forgotten by those serving in Europe is May 8, 1945, the day our war ended. We awoke that morning near the bank of the Elbe River, Germany, and it was unusually quiet, no artillery, just a few of our planes in the air and they were close to the ground as though they wanted to warn us about something. We shook awake our radio man to find out what was going on, or not going on; it was as they say, “all over but the shouting.” And shout we did…with the Russians. They were on the other side of the river. We were told not to go, some politics involved, but seeing them was tempting and as we approached them they seemed friendly enough. The British soldiers did not join us…believing their Queen thought celebrating with tea was apropos. We declined their teakettles in the interest of sampling real jugs of vodka. It was a wild time.
Now most of those army three years has slipped away, names of fellow soldiers are difficult to conjure, faces fading, most unpleasant incidents forgotten. But I still think all young males would benefit from a year or so of basic training under the hard stare of an old cadre military man. There they would discover discipline, responsibility, and hard knocks…it helped me deal with life.