Blowing Our Bridges

A Memoir From Dunkirk To Korea Via Normandy

Tony Younger

• Publisher: Pen & Sword Military
• Year: 2004
• ISBN:
  9781473812529
• Topic: Historia
• Subtopic: Segunda Guerra Mundial

This action packed military memoir tells of the exploits of a young Sapper officer during both the Second World War and in Korea. Tony Younger was in the thick of the action during the German Blitzkrieg of 1940 seeing desperate fighting as the beleaguered British Expeditionary Force struggled to escape at Dunkirk. He then became closely involved in anthrax experiments, before playing a full role in the Normandy Campaign and the conquest of Germany. After a period in Burma, he was sent to Korea, where in bitter fighting against hordes of Chinese and North Korean troops he was extremely lucky to escape with his life.

CONTENTS

Preface

Foreword

1 Preparing for Inevitable War

2 Blowing up Bridges

3 Back to Dunkirk

4 The War Goes On

5 Bacteriological Warfare

6 Back To A Regiment

7 H-Hour on D-Day

8 Home and then Back to War

9 Crossing the Rhine

10 Over the Rhine

11 The Staff College

12 Burma

13 Malaya

14 Travelling Home

15 Preparing for War Again

16 The Expedition Starts

17 First Impressions of Korea

18 Preparing for Real War

19 One Day of War, 4 January 1951

20 Winter in Korea

21 Muddy Paddy

22 Gloster Crossing

23 Kanak San

24 A Brush with Destiny

25 Premonitions

26 Where Are We Going?

PREFACE

I hope that this military memoir will be of some interest, not only to comrades in arms, but also to civilian readers, young and old. It covers a good deal of ground and offers first-hand impressions of some extraordinary episodes in the history of the British Army, ranging from Dunkirk to Korea. Younger readers may be surprised to find that I say so little about my life before beginning military training, and about my personal life thereafter, although I do refer to my family from time to time! Perhaps this reflects the way in which my generation of officers was brought up: I am now in my mid-eighties, and come from a family for whom soldiering was their calling. My Grandfather was commissioned into the Royal Artillery in 1859 and served in Canada, Ceylon, India and Afghanistan, finishing his career as a full colonel. Both his sons went into the Army, the eldest, my father, being posted to India at the beginning of the twentieth century and returning to fight with the First Indian Division during the Great War. He finished his career as a brigadier. There was no question of my being anything other than a soldier. Nevertheless, the reader might like to know at the outset that I was a pretty normal child, who enjoyed a happy family life, attended boarding school, where I played the usual games, passed the usual exams, and read historical books with particular pleasure, before I became, yes, a soldier.

Twyford, Hampshire
October 2003

FOREWORD

The object of this book is to try to paint a picture of what war is like for a junior officer.

Basically, the junior officer must do what he is told to do. He can show some initiative, such as by looking ahead at what may happen and then making preparations that will make the task easier for his men when the time comes to do it. He may, on occasions, even be able to suggest improvements to the plans that his commander has made, but most of the time he must just do what he is told.

His responsibility for those under his command is great. He must ensure that they are properly trained for what lies ahead and, when they are trained, he must make their tasks as easy and as safe as possible.

During quiet periods he must make their lives as interesting, and if possible, as rewarding, as he can. And when, on the other hand, the going is really tough, he must watch over them most carefully.

All this adds up to a very demanding life, but also one that is most fulfilling. The efforts of the junior officer will never hit the headlines, unless something most unusual happens but, nevertheless, his work is essential and most rewarding.

* * *

I dedicate this book to the many friends I made during my service in the Army, and particularly to those who did not survive.

MEMORIES

A summons to war means a summons to strain
With harsh noises, cruel actions and merciless death.
These leave scars etched deep on the cells of the brain,
Scars that time can decrease but never erase.

Now if we stray from the strident racket of life,
Far from great crowds, from cars driving too fast,
We may stand at peace by a lonely stream
With a wren for companion, a fox slinking past.

Then we recall faces of those who were lost;
They smile in our memory, we smile back at them.
There is sadness that they cannot join in our walk,
Cannot laugh with their children, cannot sing, cannot talk.

But ultimate evil requires ultimate war
And we’re glad we took part, though it touches us still;
And that’s why our thoughts will wander afar
As we stand in the evening alone on a hill.

Chapter One

PREPARING FOR
INEVITABLE WAR

I sat the exam to enter the army some time in late 1936 or early 1937. My only real problem in passing this test was in languages, at which I had always been near the bottom in my form at school. In an attempt to overcome this, my father had the idea of sending me to stay during my Easter holidays from school in 1935 and 1936 with a French family in Paris. Today my only memory of the army entrance exam is of having to sit all day, in great trepidation, waiting my turn to take the French oral exam. Since my name started with Y, I was, of course, the last to be called forward. In a bare and cheerless room sat an obvious Frenchman, with a neat black beard. Beckoning me to a chair on the opposite side of the table, he said, in French, ‘Ah, I see you are the last one. You have never visited France, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I have stayed in Paris.’

‘Oh, whereabouts in Paris?’ showing some interest.

‘In Neuilly.’

‘Really. What street?’ showing more interest.

‘Rue Peronnet, numero dix-neuf bis.’

‘Oh, I know the street well.’

He then broke into a long talk about the Bois de Boulogne, which he obviously loved dearly. When he paused for breath, I said ‘Oui’ and I believe I even dared to say ‘D’accord’ on one occasion. Finally, he stood up and shook me warmly by the hand, saying how nice it was to meet someone who knew Paris. He gave me one of the highest marks, a level I was not able to match in my written French exam, but enough to carry me through in total.

The Royal Military Academy at Woolwich was a fairly harsh place, but one just buckled down to all the drill, riding and lessons in military tactics as best one could. Looking back, I still find it strange that bullying was thought to be a good way to develop the characters of young officers-to-be. All the officer instructors had been through it themselves, and presumably felt that it had done them no harm, although what good it did them has never been explained. Visiting West Point some 30 years later I was sorry to see that bullying continued to be practised there, and when I asked the Commandant about it, he just replied that it was a long-established tradition.

We were introduced to what lay ahead on our very first day at the Shop, as the RMA was always called. The newly arrived term were gathered together and in walked the Senior Under Officer. He shouted at us at the top of his voice, to take our hands out of our pockets and stand to attention when he spoke to us. All he put over to us was that we were ‘the lowest form of animal life in the army, and don’t any of you ever forget it’.

The Shop contained three terms of cadets, the senior term, from which the Under Officers were appointed, the middle term and the junior term, known as the Snookers.

However, the main feature of life at the Shop was the emphasis on excellence. Only the highest standards sufficed. Our dress had to be perfect at all times, without so much as a speck of dust on our jackets. The quality of our drill could only be matched by the Brigade of Guards, which was not surprising as our drill instructors were all from the Brigade. In our rooms, our clothes and papers had to be immaculate at all times, neatly stacked and spotlessly clean.

The penalty for any failure was an extra drill, which involved three-quarters of an hour before breakfast of strenuous activity obeying the commands of one of the Drill Instructors. This made an extra demand on one’s stamina, which was already stretched by a very active regime. Occasionally a bullying attitude came through, such as in the riding school, where some of the instructors would yell out, “Who ordered you to dismount?” when some unfortunate cadet fell off his horse. Also, inevitably, there is an element of bullying in the very nature of drill instruction.

All this was very demanding but strict discipline, as long as it is fairly administered, is not bad thing for someone who has just left school.

However, luckily there were breaks from the harshness for Snookers. In the gymnasium, where the PT instructors could have given us a really hard time, a calm and sensible attitude was adopted. If a cadet could not, for example, climb a rope using only his arms, the instructor would not force him in any way. Some of the classroom instruction was pathetic, each one of us being made to stand up in turn and read out one sentence from a military manual on tactics. On the other hand, we had a truly excellent civilian instructor, Professor Boswell, who lectured on current affairs in a way that made his topic most interesting and often amusing. Captain Cowley (later to become General Sir John Cowley), who taught me the elements of field survey, showed a calm determination to ensure that his students really understood the subject he was putting over. Last, but not least, we had a really good padre, the Reverend Victor Pike, who was reported to be an ex-Irish rugby international, and who did what he could to make our regime less harsh. Victor had two brothers and all three of them became bishops.

One cloud hung over my head in that one had to pass out within the top 18 cadets to achieve a commission in the Royal Engineers and my father was very anxious that I should do this because it would lead to taking a degree at Cambridge. I managed to squeeze through, so all was well.

Later we all took and passed the entrance exam for Cambridge, but Hitler attacked Poland just before we were due to start there and our lives were changed. Instead, I joined a newly organized Sapper company at Christchurch, on the south coast, and was given 2 Section to command and train. Incidentally, my Section store, in which we gradually accumulated the mass of equipment we would require for war, had earlier been used by a Gunner troop. All along the wall were big hooks for harness, and against each hook was the name of the gunner who had used it before the battery went over for the Waterloo campaign.

On most days we marched out into the New Forest to train in the area that is now Hum airport, always sending out patrols to guard our flanks against surprise attack. This was a tactic insisted on by our Company Commander, Major W.F. Anderson (Andy), whose previous operational experience had been on the North-West Frontier of India. I never did this again when fighting started, but it was quite good training.

Gradually, with the irreplaceable help of my Section Sergeant Barrett, we developed military engineering skills in our men. They were mostly miners from Northumberland and Durham, tough young men, a quarter of whom could only sign their names with a cross at the weekly pay parades, but they proved they were worth their weight in gold when the going became hard. Probably, life in the mines made them more accustomed to danger than most, but, while they took much of my training with a bit of a laugh, when the war really started they showed a superb steadiness and an ability to do the unpleasant things that had to be done without question and well.

The high standard of the regular senior NCOs in the Company was a pleasure to see. For example, after spending a whole day in our miniature rifle range, trying to improve our men’s shooting, Sergeant Barrett and our Company Quarter-Master Sergeant challenged me to the best of ten rounds, the loser to pay for pints of beer. Now, I had shot as a member of the Royal Engineers team at Bisley and I well knew that neither of my opponents had been there, so I looked forward to a free beer as I settled down to shoot. When the targets were collected, to my considerable surprise, one of them had beaten me by one point, and the other was only one point behind my score. I cheerfully paid for beer and then the loser, I forget which it was now, insisted on paying for another round, so honour was satisfied.

We were indeed lucky to have a man of the highest calibre as our Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Colonel Robert (Bobs) Maclaren. He had been awarded an MC in WW1 and was a professional in the best sense of the word. There were lessons to be learned for a beginner, like myself, from all that he did. Practical, knowledgeable and highly intelligent, he set an example of sensible leadership that was to be of value to me for the rest of my service. Tragically he was to be killed later in the war, an irreplaceable loss. Of course we saw much more of our company commander, Andy, who also wore an MC from his North-West Frontier days. He came under the heading of strong and silent. He said little, never wasted a word, but expected the highest standards.

The other officers in the company were Captain Mackenzie, Mac, the second-in-command, who was responsible for all our administration. He was a reservist with WW1 service, who liked whisky and girls. He was probably about 40 and we much appreciated his cheerful and helpful nature, although he seemed an old man to us. He was to be taken prisoner at the end of the Dunkirk campaign and, sadly, to die in a POW camp, as I heard many years later. Then there was Lieutenant Cave, who commanded 1 Section, and with whom Hugh and I had little in common, and, lastly, another Second Lieutenant, Hugh Davis, who was my main friend and commanded 3 Section.

Hugh was a couple of years older than me and had volunteered to join the Corps from Oxford. Although we were both young, our different backgrounds provided some complementary experience. For example, I, as Officers’ Mess Secretary, was most grateful for his recommendations when we reached France to purchase Vouvray, Chablis and Nuits St George for our little group before the fighting started. At that time I had no knowledge whatsoever about wines. On the other side of the coin, he came to me for help when he was told to carry out some bridge demolitions later on, since I had completed a full demolitions training course which gave me a much better background knowledge than his potted war course at OCTU.

To revert for a moment to Sergeant Barrett, a delightful example of his knowledge of men occurred just before we left for France. Andy told me I would need a cook in my Section, which incidentally was about fifty men strong, because we might be sent off on detachment and be separated from the company cookhouse. I asked Barrett what we should do.

‘Call for a volunteer, sir,’ he said. I had already thought this would be a waste of time and asked him whether he thought anyone would come forward.

‘No sir, it’s most unlikely.’

‘Then what shall we do?’

‘You will have to nominate someone.’

‘Yes, but who?’

‘Nominate one of our concreters, sir. They are used to mixing stuff.’

Next morning on parade, as he had expected, nobody volunteered, so I nominated one of our two concreters. He proved to be a pretty primitive cook, but the effo...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Half Title
• Full Title
• Copyright
• Contents