A month later, seven of us were called to do some more firearms training but in a different location, inside a tunnel. The rifles we used this time took 0.22 calibre bullets which were smaller and the targets we used were much nearer, about 100yds away. It was a bit like popping a gun at Dreamland Amusement Park in Margate, trying to win a goldfish for your girl. With the smaller bullet there was less kick and it was more accurate firing, and I could see that I was doing quite well. I just thought that it was good fun and a bit of extra training. I didn’t know how I had scored until a few days later when five of us were called back to the Commander’s office. In trouble again.
We went in one by one and the first thing the chap said was, ‘What I’m going to tell you now is not to be repeated outside this room.’ Goodness, I had no idea what was coming next. It was a shock. I had scored highly on the practice range and had been selected to train as a sniper. This is ridiculous, I thought, straightaway. Why would I want to do that? Kill or be killed. I could be up a tree, see a German coming, fire at him, miss him, he turns round, shoots me, and I fall out of the tree either dead or injured. And what about the driving? I had only just got that job and they were going to take it away from me. So I refused – and so did the others. We were lucky that we were able to say no. They were short of snipers but they were also short of drivers, so they would have had to recruit more which would not have been easy.
In early April 1940 we received our orders for departure to France to join the British Expeditionary Force (BEF). We were given a few days’ leave and I went home to see Lily and the family. We had a little party and Lily and I managed time on our own, going out on one of our favourite walks. My mind was on all sorts of things and we didn’t talk much about the war or about what might happen to us in the future. ‘Let’s just enjoy being together now,’ said Lily, putting her arms around me and holding me tight.
The next morning, as I was about to leave, my mother gave me a gold signet ring. ‘Take it, Charlie. It was your grandfather’s. I want you to have it.’
I had never bought a ring for myself and had always wanted one. ‘I’ll always wear it,’ I said, putting it on. I never told my mother after the war that I had given it to a German soldier in exchange for half a loaf of bread. When you’re starving, you do anything to fill your belly.
I was about to leave my home and my country for the first time. I was pleased and proud to be going out to France, in my brand new Bedford MW truck. Luckily it had arrived in time for me to familiarise myself with driving it and also to practise some basic maintenance work. I didn’t know, as I boarded the ship at Southampton that I wouldn’t see my family again for five years.
An apple, an orange, a bar of Fry’s chocolate and a pork pie. That’s what I collected from the Warrant Officer in charge of stores before I boarded the boat to France on 17 April 1940. A real feast to me. I suppose I remember that clearly now, because food, and finding enough to eat, was an obsession during my years of captivity. There was the luxury of packets of jelly in the Red Cross parcels; the necessity of eating dock leaves and fish heads on The Long March.
All through my life since the war, I have appreciated every crumb of food on my table. A slice of toast is as good to me as a side of beef. I took my rations and went to join the others. ‘Let’s hope it stays down,’ I thought. I didn’t want to be seasick. A paddle steamer on the Thames wasn’t the same as sailing on a troop ship out into the open sea.
I was excited now that we were leaving England and on our way to be part of this big adventure. The Transport Corps was going ahead of the company to prepare for the rest of the Battalion’s arrival and deployment. I stayed on deck with the other men as we waited in Southampton waters before leaving in the early hours of the morning. I ate my food as I watched all the activity on the quayside: so many busy men with so many loads, all shapes and sizes. I talked to the other soldiers who were also in transport and supplies, sent ahead of their units to prepare the ground for them. The sea was calm, the sky inky black and I dozed off, surrounded by the noise of engines and the chatter of men.
When we disembarked at Le Havre our vehicles had already arrived on another boat anchored alongside. As we walked off, our trucks were being lowered in slings onto the quayside. Once they had landed and the slings removed, we had to push the vehicles to the end of the dock and then wait for instructions.
There were seven of us with six trucks and one small tanker which carried all the drinking water for our company. We had been told not to drink any water while in France unless it had been treated. An officer met us in his little two-seater Austin car and directed us to the end of the dock where we filled up with petrol. Then we followed him in convoy out of the port and into the Normandy countryside – remembering to drive on the right- hand side, of course.
It was wonderful being behind the wheel of our new vehicles, following the officer in his motor car out front, taking our time, enjoying the view. Along straight tree-lined roads for miles, through small sleepy villages with shuttered cottages out into the vast countryside. It was so pretty and the roads were empty; it was a pleasure being out there like being on holiday. We stopped by the roadside to make tea and have a smoke. All that clean, fresh air and space, and peace and quiet. Hard to imagine there was a war on. Everything looked normal: washing on lines, men working in fields, cows grazing. War seemed a long away from us.
Our field camp was just outside Abbeville where all the various units had different quarters under canvas. We were in our own little marquee which housed us, some admin people and cooks. When the rest of the Company finally arrived, they would be spread out in a number of different sized tents; the officers having their own separate bell tents. Not that we spent much time there. We were out driving all the time to large field depots to collect supplies of food, water, blankets, equipment, petrol and ammunition to take back and unload at base camp. There was everything you needed to fight a war.
We started work from the moment we arrived and I saw little of local life, especially any French people. Often on my trips the only life I saw were the black and white cows lazing in the shade of trees or gaggles of geese flapping about a farm yard as I roared by. When I arrived at the depot there would be English voices, ‘Awright, Chas, me boy, another load for you,’ and ‘Watch these little beauties over the pot holes’ – meaning, take care or you might get yourself blown up by the ammo in the crates. We didn’t have anything to do with the French and I didn’t see or speak to any locals in the first few weeks. I did eventually though make contact with a Frenchman – literally.
One morning I was driving an officer to a meeting at another camp. I had the empty road to myself and I was bowling along at a fair lick on the left, the wrong side of the road; easy to forget. I had a driving mirror which was specially lengthened and stuck out quite far from the side. I was going up over this bridge approaching a small village and when I came down the other side, there was a French man in his blue dungarees and black cap, cycling very slowly along. As I went passed him my wing mirror hit him on the head and knocked him off his bike. So I slammed on the brakes and was about to reverse to see what damage I had done.
‘Don’t stop, you clot! Don’t you know there’s war on?’ said the officer. I could see the man in my rear view mirror lying on the road, his bike in the hedge. I could have killed him for all I knew. But orders are orders and I accelerated away, hoping we hadn’t been spotted. I was careful to keep on the right side after that.
We carried on half a mile or so and passed some French barracks so I slowed down to get a better look. I was amazed to see a French sentry, rifle propped up against the wall, smoking a cigarette and chatting up two girls. I said, ‘You wouldn’t get away with that in England, sir, would you?’ still thinking of the wallop I had received for having a fag in my mouth from that officer during training. ‘They do things differently here, Private.’
So with all this coming and going on various jobs, we weren’t doing what I would call regular hours. We went out and came back when the work was finished, whatever the hour. Sometimes we didn’t have time to queue up for food at the canteen, so we had to grab food when we could. I found myself doing a lot of eating as I drove along in the truck. I took rations with me such as bars of chocolate, biscuits and tins of stew which could be heated up. I often ate the stew cold, with a spoon straight from the tin as I drove along, trying to keep the truck from landing in a ditch. That’s when I thought it would be handy to have someone else to share the driving.
Someone up above must have heard me because it was a couple of weeks after we arrived, that I heard that we were going to be allocated a spare driver. I had just had my twenty-first birthday and I remember that my birthday cards were still under the seat of my truck. I used to read the messages in them over and over during any snatched moments on the road. We had started receiving post from England quite soon after our arrival. I knew that my mother was well and Lily was missing me. We got back in the evening and I was parking my vehicle in my usual spot. I had my head out of the window as I was reversing and could hear all these voices calling out across the field.
