Authors: John McCallum
By the way, I suppose I should mention as background that Jimmy and Joe were both happily married and that I was a very inexperienced bachelor.
In September 1938 our unit was taking part in the Regular Army manoeuvres which were taking place in southern England and our performance during this period, we were told,
booked us a place in the top bracket job of GHQ Signals. To my mind this was not surprising as we were, after all, employed daily in the business of telephones.
Towards the second week of manoeuvres we were told that we were on standby as it was touch and go whether the Second World War started now or a little later, but, as events turned out, it was to
be the following September before we got our marching orders. War was declared on 3 September 1939 and by the middle of that month we were in France and billeted in a quaint little village called
Dainville, just outside the historically famous town of Arras, which was now established as British Expeditionary Force GHQ. Our billet was in the local dance-hall, attached to the pub called
Café l’Aeroplane, which was, of course, an excellent watering-hole for any of our troops who took a dram. They could really tank up and almost literally fall into bed. Needless to say,
the troops made very good use of this facility. Being a non-drinker myself, I soon discovered that the cuisine side of the café was more interesting and that Madame made a wonderful omelette
and chips which, strangely enough, never gave me a single headache or hangover!
Our unit had an outstanding reception in France as, apparently, we were the first complete outfit to arrive; at a very grand full-dress parade in the main square in Arras, we were presented with
the flag of the Légion d’Honneur (I think). Before the ceremony took place we were warned there was to be no hilarity when the French officer kissed our officer on both cheeks, as this
was only ceremonial and not affection. We were not convinced, but as the RSM had his beady eye on us, we behaved ourselves.
The weather was fantastic and we were amazed at the number of fruit trees that lined the highways and byways in our operational area. We seemed to be driving over apples everywhere we went that
September.
We soon settled down to work in an area where, in the previous war, many huge battles had been fought. We ran lines over historic sites like Vimy Ridge and examined the old trenches which had
been preserved to remind people of the horrors of the war which was fought to end wars. And here we were again, like a lot of kids, ready to do it all again. Unbelievable! How often will the
politicians be allowed to sacrifice so many for the indulgence of so few? Why not follow the new government legislation and have a one-for-one ballot of the Electoral Register? I don’t think
we would need to be involved with any nuclear deterrents if we did that. How many mothers agree to their sons and daughters going off like animals to be maimed or slaughtered? Unfortunately men
think differently, or don’t think enough, and this was seen in the number of volunteers in the Second World War who were men who had served in the First World War.
Aided by the Indian summer of ’39, we began to spread our huge spider-like network of lines of communication over the HQ area. We never really had the feeling of being on active service
and the odd German reconnaissance plane did little to remind us that there was a war on. Unfortunately, the winter that followed was unfit for brass monkeys, let alone us, and turned out to be the
coldest ever recorded in that part of France. Our particular job became a daytime nightmare. As we did our work, our Section Officer, although unable to help us physically, plied us with tots of
rum which helped to keep our blood circulating. At times it was so bad that the linemen were being roped so that they could be lowered if necessary from the pole they were working on to the ground
when they could no longer climb down on their own.
We struggled on until spring arrived. Then came the aftermath of the big freeze. The winter frosts had bitten so deep that, when the thaw came, the frozen moisture began to expand and the
cobbled roads boiled up like rising dough and became impassable, although they were centuries old and had withstood the traffic of everything from horse to tank. This was an impressive natural
obstacle to add to the rest.
In early April I had a stroke of luck. I was picked to ride shotgun on one of our trucks doing a duty run to Paris to collect some essentials for HQ. Naturally, I was asked to
make some purchases of items which could not be obtained in the north – such as campbeds for Jimmy, Joe and myself, as we were fed-up sleeping on palliasses stuffed with straw. The Signals
had a slight degree of leniency that would not have been tolerated in an infantry regiment.
Paris was, of course, out of bounds to all troops unless they were in possession of a pass. At this time everything in Paris looked fairly normal. Having only seen cities like Glasgow, Edinburgh
and London, I was not quite sure what to expect, but Paris in the spring exceeded everything I could have imagined. We had only two days to absorb it all, but Driver McLean had done it all before
so I got the whole guided tour. I managed to lose my virginity to a young mademoiselle. I even remembered to buy the campbeds.
On our return to Arras we heard rumours of the first rumblings of the German war machine. Confirmation was coming through that the German preparations were complete and they would soon be on the
move. The French army were girding their loins, so to speak, on the impregnable Maginot Line and all forces were on Red Alert. The contention was, of course, that there would be no Blitzkrieg in
France as there had been in Poland earlier. I wonder where one should apportion the blame for what was to follow. Should Belgium and Holland have agreed to an extension of the defence line, which
would have made any real invasion a non-starter? The cost of such an undertaking was probably prohibitive, but would it not have been cheaper in the long run?
The Maginot Line became the Imaginary Line, and the Blitzkrieg came after all, but through Belgium instead of France. When the breakthrough came, a Signal section was made up to establish
communications from GHQ to the new front line using the French and Belgian telephone exchanges, which were rapidly being evacuated by their staff.
J
oe and I were part
of this group but Jimmy was deployed to another detail. This was one of the few times that we were separated.
From Arras we linked up through Douai and then Tournai. By this time both towns were in flames and practically deserted as the Luftwaffe bombed and strafed the area almost unopposed. We were
eventually stopped by our own troops, who kindly informed us that if we went any further on there would be no way back; they were blowing up the canal and river bridges as they retreated. A quick
telephone call to HQ confirmed that we should get the hell out of it and return to our new coastal meeting point at Calais.
The roads were in a state of total turmoil on our way back. The gruesome scenes in the ditches – the dead lying where they had been thrown off the highway to make way for the traffic
– should have disturbed us much more than they did. My personal lack of reaction to seeing men, women and, worst of all, children lying in a variety of death poses, like bundles of discarded
clothing, surprised me very much indeed. I can only think that this was a subconscious protection of my sanity – that as long as we had no physical contact with the horrors we faced, we could
not be adversely affected by them. The fact that all these people had proved to be mortal seemed only to enhance our own feeling of immortality.
Eventually we arrived in Boulogne, in the middle of a night bombing raid by the Luftwaffe. Hell had been let loose. The noise of the low-flying aircraft dropping bombs coupled with
indiscriminate machine-gunning being answered by Bofors guns and anything else that could return fire created a real cacophony of soulsearing sound.
All this was, of course, taking place in a total blackout, with a huge conglomeration of traffic which slowly ground to a halt. The private car immediately behind us, for no apparent reason,
switched on his headlights. This, quite rightly, brought roars of disapproval – as if a referee had refused a penalty claim at a Rangers/Celtic match. When the offending lights were not
promptly doused, Jock McGregor vaulted over the tailboard of our truck and with the heels of his number ten tackety boots smashed both head-lamps, in all probability saving the lives of all in the
vicinity of those telltale lights.
We finally reached our projected meeting place with the rest of our Section, only to find that they had been moved further up the coast, probably to Calais, possibly to Dunkirk
– each soon to become household words. Our orders now were to stay overnight in the Rest Camp at Boulogne and to join up with our unit the following day. We found the camp. Oh, the luxury of
a proper meal! Although the air-raid was still going on, we just bedded down where we were, too tired to even think of going to the air-raid shelter.
An uncomfortable awakening came with the dawn, but after a hard-tack breakfast we felt quite refreshed and looked forward to joining up with our own outfit. But it was not to be. The Gods of War
had decided that our adventure was not quite finished and had devised a nasty, untidy ending for our little group.
Our special Signal Section was assembled and preparing to leave the Rest Camp when a staff car pulled in and a captain wearing a red arm band bustled out and called everyone to attention. A
short speech informed us that all transit personnel were being commandeered for special duties; a light armoured German column had broken through our main front and was believed to be heading in
our direction. We would be used to set up road blocks at strategic points outside the town. When the emergency was over we could return to our normal duties. In my case, this turned out to be over
four years later.
Joe and I, along with a few odds and bods, were put under the command of a Royal Army Medical Corps captain, whose name I never knew. Nor did we know that this little job was a death sentence
for him: very soon he was to die just a couple of yards from me.
His first instructions were to set up a road block in the village of La Capelle, just outside Boulogne on the St Omer road. As we travelled towards our destination everyone seemed fairly
cheerful, until a most disturbing incident took place which changed our mood to one of gloom and despondency and set our mission in its true perspective. Our vehicles were flagged down just outside
the town and, because we were obviously going in the wrong direction, we were asked if anyone wished to be given the last sacrament by an army chaplain. Even the Catholics declined this kind offer,
which I can understand, because to accept it was to admit that our new mission was possibly terminal.
This stoppage also shed new light on my own position in the party. Prior to leaving the camp, the staff officer had asked if there were any good rifle shots among us. Knowing I was in that
category, my hand went up without thinking. In doing so, I broke the first law I had been taught after putting on a uniform: ‘volunteer for nothing’. The result of my unthinking action
was that I had to relinquish my rifle and take a bren gun in its place. After fiddling with it for a few minutes I was able to see how the bolt action worked and the magazine could be changed. I
never dreamed that I would be called upon to use it. Volunteers usually get the heavy end of the stick, as in the case where a section sergeant asked if he could have six men who were interested in
music and the men who responded had to shift a grand piano, which probably resulted in at least a couple of hernias. That damned bren gun was to get me into a lot of trouble very soon.
When we reached La Capelle there were all the usual routines to follow. Setting up a local HQ, finding a suitable place for the cookhouse, a place to bed down, latrine position and, of paramount
importance, the siting of the road-block.
All sorts of ideas went through our minds as to how one would go about blocking a road, but the staff captain who was still with us at this stage had decided on a very simple method. You make up
your mind where you want the rear of the road-block and then you stop all the traffic coming from the danger zone and place these vehicles crosswise on the road. There would be no exceptions.
That sounds simple until you see the people you are forcing to leave their vehicles: the old and infirm, pregnant mothers, cripples, nuns and so on. They all had valid reasons for not leaving
the security of their transport, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. Any men of military age were escorted to the rear to be questioned, and if their answers did not satisfy the commanding officer,
they were summarily dealt with behind the HQ barn. This was to avoid the possibility of infiltration by the Fifth Column.
Wars are remembered by famous actions and battles, for example the Battle of Hastings, where Harold took an arrow in the eye and made it easy for schoolchildren to remember him.
Another example is the Charge of the Light Brigade, where almost everyone was gloriously and famously killed. Let’s not forget Nelson being fatally wounded or what he said to Hardy as he
died. All these and many other historical actions faded into insignificance for us when compared with ‘The Battle of La Capelle’, which was about to take place.
The scene was set – our road block completed, traffic had dried up and one of those wartime phenomena took place for which these is no explanation. As if acting on a signal, the
householders of the village came out and closed their shutters, top and bottom.
At this point, only Jimmy Strathearn and myself were at the front of the road block. I had to stop the German army with my bren gun and he had to carry the ammunition and keep me supplied with
fresh magazines. The bren was sited in the middle of the road, with an ammunition box on either side, facing in the direction from which we expected the trouble to come. A hundred yards in front
the road took a turn to the left and an empty car stood on the corner. Jimmy and I were discussing the strange behaviour of the villagers and wondering what it meant when the sound of a small plane
caught our attention.