XD Operations

Secret British Missions Denying Oil to the Nazis

C. C. H. Brazier

• Editorial: Pen & Sword Military
• Año: 2005
• ISBN:
  9781783034161
• Categoría: Histoire
• Categoría: Seconde Guerre mondiale

A history of the Kent Fortress Royal Engineers and their WWII mission to destroy oil reserves along the Continental coastline, by the man who lived it. XD Operations is the first account of the thrilling operations by the Kent Fortress Royal Engineers, a small Territorial Army Unit given the largest demolition programme ever undertaken by the Royal Engineers. These took place in May 1940 with the object of destroying all the oil reserves stored in refineries in the ports along the Continental coastline from Holland to the Bay of Biscay, thus denying the Nazis vital stocks. The operations were mounted at very short notice and in extreme secrecy. Such was the importance attached to them that no plans existed for the unit's evacuation. The destruction of some two million tons of oil was a serious blow to the German war machine. Churchill was delighted with their success especially at a time of military setbacks. The book describes the trip over in destroyers, frequently under air attack, the chaotic conditions ahead of the advancing Germans, the difficulties faced in carrying out the tasks and the drama of getting back to England.

Chapter One

PRELUDE TO ACTION

The beginning of the story was in those far off days, pre-war, pre-crises in fact, when as a Territorial Fortress Company Royal Engineers, we trained together with the Heavy Coast Defence gunners to resist sea borne attack upon the Thames River and estuary. With its endless docks and many miles of coastline, the numerous industries, together with its vital geographical situation in relation to the capital of the Empire, we certainly gained the impression that our responsibility was not to be taken lightly. Hence it was not considered at all surprising that during the crisis in the autumn of 1938, we were embodied and spread around our war stations in the estuary. This period lasted just a month, then back to factory and workshop again. When, a year later, after progressively menacing moves by Germany, war broke out, not only did mobilization cause little comment amongst the men, but the move to the forts seemed natural and inevitable. The wartime footing of the defences not only meant day and night watch-keeping in order that the searchlights could spring into action at a moments notice, but in addition to all the ordinary humdrum activities of the garrison we were busy modernizing our equipment.

The convoy of buses moved off towards our war stations, all farewells were taken, and the sorrowing families left behind to turn over in their minds what it all meant. How long would it be, when would we return? Off we went, men and baggage lumbering through town and countryside and, as is the custom, singing heartily the songs of the people. It was a queer repertoire, telling of their affection for ‘South of the Border’, and all the oft repeated hit tunes of the dance halls and radio. A raucous mouth organ would lead them in quick succession from tune to tune but every now and again in the cycle, a particularly strident air would stir the tired ones, and bring them back to renewed vocal effort to proclaim in the most dominant manner, ‘GOOD MORNING MR STEVENS AND WINDY NOTCHY KNIGHT’.

Good morning, Mr Stevens and windy Notchy Knight

Hurrah for the CRE.

For we’re working very hard down at Upnor Hard

Hurrah for the CRE.

You make fast, I make fast, make fast the dinghy,
Make fast the dinghy, make fast the dinghy,
You make fast, I make fast, make fast the dinghy,
Make fast the dinghy, pontoon
For we’re marching on to Laffan’s Plain,

To Laffan’s Plain, to Laffan’s Plain,

Yes, we’re marching on to Laffan’s Plain,
Where they don’t know mud from clay.
Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah,
Oshta, oshta, oshta, oshta.
Ikona malee, piccanin skoff,
Maninga sabenza, there’s another off,

Oolum-da cried Matabele,
Oolum-da, away we go.
Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah,
Shuush . . . . . . . . . . . . . Whoow!

On this occasion I pondered over this oft repeated and familiar doggerel, and wondered what either of the worthies quoted did to merit such immortalization. It came back to Chatham from the Boer War. It is sung to the same refrain as ‘We’re marching on to Pretoria’ and the fact remains that wherever sappers are gathered together (and the party isn’t too dry!) the RE song is bound to break out sooner or later. On company concert programmes it is styled ‘Hurrah for the CRE’! Moreover, I remembered an old gramophone record of it in the Sergeants’ Mess and at dances it was sometimes played as a one-step. At times one would hear less complimentary and quite unprintable variations of the words of which it may be wise to say no more.

As we bumped along towards our destination, which was to mean such a tremendous upheaval in all our lives, I turned the peculiar insistence of these flippant verses over in my mind and was forced to the conclusion that the words did not matter, although the reference to Upnor Hard was apposite enough. What then was it that perpetuated it down the years? The tune might be considered invigorating, but could hardly be credited with much musical merit! By this process of reductio ad absurdum there was only one answer, it was the saga of the sapper, and that is all there is to the matter. Hence it has travelled to the four corners of the earth with the Corps motto, Ubique. I wondered, ‘How far will these lads take this very peculiar song before they return to their homes for good?’

My reverie came to an abrupt end when the convoy pulled up beside the parade ground within the area of the fort, and the keen night air coming in from the sea quickly brought one back to realities. The all important duties of off-loading and distribution of manning details to action stations was the occupation of the moment.

During those early days, through the hard winter of 1939, all were keyed up by the expectation that great things were about to happen, and we should be in the stalls for the performance. Then, doubts crept in. Discussions and speculations in the mess and barracks had in the past centred around the type of attack we might reasonably expect – whether it would be a light raiding force of motor torpedo boats, or large block ships that would sink themselves in the fairway, or some kind of fleet action, with or without an attempt at invasion – but now we began to wonder whether it would come at all!

In the ‘piping days of peace’ there were night runs, when high speed craft would exercise their wiliest tactics to evade the penetrating beams of light. On they would come, twisting, turning and jinxing about in the inky blackness of night, at times wallowing stationary bow on in the hope that the beam would pass over unsuspecting, then the dash in through the black patches of unlighted water. Once in the beam they would be held and followed, meantime the guns would blaze away, round after round. The only lack of realism, so we thought then, was the blank ammunition, hence it was not surprising that when real war came, it was a bitter disappointment to find the encounter of our dreams existed solely in the imagination. The German High Seas Fleet could have joined Sweden in her neutral outlook for all we saw of them; an excellent thing from a national point of view, but it made life less interesting for us. As those long winter months crept by the truth became fairly obvious. Our job was remote from any action and, whatever chance there may have been, in the opening phases of hostilities, of an attack upon the port it now all seemed highly improbable. The inevitable reaction upon the minds of the men, all anxious to do their bit, can well be imagined, the slow developing feelings of frustration, disappointment and futility.

The old forts were laid out in regular angles to a geometric pattern with bastions and moats on principles dating from the great French engineer of former days, Vauban. There were the relics and remains of many generations of gunners where changes had been made with each succeeding improvement in armament. The glacis of earth, beyond the moat, must have been a task in keeping with the works of Ancient Egyptians. As the CRE (Commander Royal Engineers) I pondered on the geometry of the place and tried to visualize the fire plan of the original defenders of these shores.

These forts dating back into history, with their grim masonry walls, miserable little windows, and with the general air of mediaeval prisons, in themselves gave a background to the mental outlook of the garrison. The living accommodation was mainly old casemates with domed brick roofs covered again by many feet of earth and concrete and through the cracks the water trickled down the walls. With little or no ventilation, two courses remained open – either to have large fires and produce a kind of Turkish bath atmosphere, or alternatively to freeze in one’s tomblike surroundings. In one case the fort was an island in the river, rather like a large lighthouse with the tide oozing in and out below the floor and adding its smell to the atmosphere inside. During the winter months it was perpetually dark inside and over the door was chalked ‘abandon hope all who enter here’.

My room, like the others, had a vaulted roof and was just over the central archway leading in to the interior of the keep, the audible conversation of the guard below and all who went in and out, floated up to my open window. The unconscious humour of much of this and the references to our peculiar share in the war gave one food for thought. I, personally, was very well looked after by Corporal Holland, my batman. He was a very popular figure and I believe had been a professional boxer at one time. He was one of the few men in the unit who had not been an employee at Bevans Cement Works in Northfleet before the war. He was landlord of the King of the Belgiums public house on the riverfront at Gravesend which he ran with his sister, as he was a bachelor.

In spite of all this, night after night these gunners and sappers kept their weary vigil, peering out into the inky blackness over the North Sea, frequently in the teeth of an east wind which overcame all efforts to keep warm by wrapping up. Speaking of wrapping up, the British soldier is a past master at this – starting with regulation issue clothing he adds several cardigans, arctic socks, mittens, gloves, balaclava helmet, plus an old oilskin which he puts on over his greatcoat, and gets a pal to rope him around the middle. Then fortified by a tot of rum he goes up to his OP gun site or emplacement for his watch, looking more like a bundle than a human being.

Not withstanding the discomforts, the troops were singularly good-natured about their new found mode of life which fate or Hitler had thrust upon them. They did all that was asked of them, behaved well and carried on; but always hoping against hope that something would turn up to relieve the monotony. Meanwhile the Hun was overrunning Poland with a thoroughness and frightfulness that proved all too well that the breed had not changed since the First World War. Quite a number of the older men had served in the last war, and would regale the younger members with tales, largely augmented by imagination no doubt, of the stirring events and bloody battles of those days, but always with a happy ending. It was inevitable that these men, who were volunteers and had given their leisure in peace to train as soldiers would feel that circumstances had cheated them and become, as the army so aptly puts it, ‘browned off’. I can recall a scrap of conversation that sums the situation up fairly well.

The setting was a Company Office, the principal character the sergeant clerk, who was still smarting under a reprimand for some slip in procedure. Addressing himself to a younger NCO, he was heard to observe, ‘I don’t know chum, this war ain’t like the last, ruddy good war that, plenty of fight and no fuss; this war, no fight but all ruddy fuss.’

Spasms of off duty were devoted to football, NAAFI concerts, and in the case of officers, sherry parties, but whilst this helped to entertain it did not relieve the ennui, for the simple reason that they did not want entertaining, they wanted to get on with the war.

This is a point of view frequently not appreciated by those well meaning people at the top always trying to organize entertainment for the troops which, while necessary, should be in small doses. The average soldier is quite keen to get on with his job, to learn more about his new found calling, to become more efficient, but above all to get on with the war.

We had an arrangement with the gunners that we would mount guard on alternate nights with them at the Quarter Guard leading into the Fort. This led to great rivalry between the Royal Regiment and the Corps; at first it took the form of competition in the matter of turn out with wholly beneficial results. Guard duty became an orgy of trouser pressing, polishing, and burnishing, until the respective excellence of guards RA and RE became a topic of conversation; not unnaturally, we thought ours the best. Looking round for new fields to conquer, commanders would practice the ritual of changing guards, until the precision of command and movement would have found favour with a grenadier. Then boredom set in, and the rivalry took an unfortunate turn, when the night sappers were on guard it was woe betide an erring gunner who, returning from the local hostelry, sought admission! One would see the eager NCO waiting anxiously to bang the heavy doors, breathlessly watching his wrist watch for the split second! The reverse process would take effect if it was a gunner night and a gentle tap on the outside would gain admission for those wearing a white lanyard. However a few fights outside were only symptomatic of the irritation of all this watching and waiting, for up in the town they stuck together when they met the sailors ashore. It was not the war they expected, it just seemed like another training period without end.

The cookhouse too, was another combined operation requiring much tact on the part of the orderly sergeant to convince the opposing teams that they each had a fair division. The story went round that a sapper who was aggrieved with the size of his dinner, produced the offending morsel in his mess tin to the orderly sergeant for inspection, only to be charged with having a dirty receptacle.

We sappers tried to preserve our keenness by building additional observation posts, emplacements and field fortifications during the day, in addition to our nightly watches – anything and, in fact, everything about the forts and their environs that needed improving, fell to our lot. This proved a blessing, but it seems strange to think that one could get mental uplift from erecting barbed wire entanglements on those frozen marshes and mud flats which fringe the coastline on the estuary, often working in half-light and invariably in foul weather. But it is a fact that it did us more good than all the entertainment. We really felt we were doing something besides the interminable watching and waiting. Even an occasional raid by the German sea planes which came over at night and laid mines, helped to revive enthusiasm. The ack-ack guns would put up a good display of tracer on these rare visits of the enemy, and our seaward searchlights had the fun of following them in, as far as elevation would permit. But the reaction soon set in, and the entire garrison again began to feel that they were in the remotest backwater of this very queer war. It will be remembered that in the spring of 1940 little land fighting took place so even news was scanty.

But we were wrong. By a peculiar combination of events many of us were, before long to have our share of the excitement. It happened like this. An influx of additional troops to the coast defences, coupled with the fact that others were taking over the searchlights, resulted in our being transferred away from the forts, to Milton Barracks, Gravesend. We carried on our training in fieldworks, bridging, pontooning, and such like sapper activities. Long marches and exercises out in the country were a welcome relief to our previous existence and offered at least some hope of being drafted to an active theatre of war.

One day early in 1940, before the other units had joined us, a Senior Officer came down and inspected us at work; at the time we were training in demolitions. He asked whether we could take over certain highly secret responsibilities, from another formation that was under orders for France. I jumped at the prospect and before long found myself before a small staff committee unfolding the plan and outlining requirements. This was during the time of the nine months phoney war after the Germans had invaded Poland. The military planners realized that should they strike at France, they would almost certainly adopt the strategy of the First World War and achieve a flanking movement by invading the Low Countries. This was the famous Schliefen plan adopted in 1914. Should this happen and if they invaded both Holland and Belgium, the Allies would move into Belgium to confront them. However the North Sea ports would almost inevitably fall into enemy hands. In this war very large oil stocks were held at Amsterdam, Rotterdam and Antwerp and it was known that the Germans were desperately short of fuel oil of all grades. The proposal was that our unit would be called on to provide small demolition teams to go, under Admiralty command, to land and destroy these very important oil stocks if the Germans invaded.

It was a thrilling opportunity to really get cracking, as the sappers say, but there was a snag. Nothing could be done unless the Germans invaded the Low Countries. Weeks went by, and perversely enough it did not happen; all the same we had hope and something to encourage us. The next few weeks were spent in harder and tougher training. As may be imagined, speculation amongst the men was rife as to their ultimate objective, perhaps the most popular idea was the invasion of Heligoland. At night two or three officers, who had been let into the secret would meet behind locked doors and study plans, maps, charts of waterways and aerial photographs, making detailed plans for personnel, explosives and other equipment. There was no precedent for demolition on anything like this scale, therefore a number of different options were considered on methods of destruction which could be employed to destroy oil storage tanks with the limited stores that the small parties of men would be able to carry. (For details see Appendix III)

Unarmed combat was not heard of so much in those days, but we developed movement by night, practised stealth and studied quiet methods of liquidating sentries without alarming the neighbourhood. We visited certain industrial plants, docks and quays that may have put Heligoland into the men’s minds. Bec...

Índice

• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Table of Contents
• FOREWORD
• INTRODUCTION
• Chapter One - PRELUDE TO ACTION
• Chapter Two - ACTION STATIONS – AMSTERDAM
• Chapter Three - ROTTERDAM
• Chapter Four - ANTWERP
• Chapter Five - THE SEINE
• Chapter Six - EVACUATION
• Chapter Seven - DUNKIRK, CALAIS AND BOULOGNE
• Chapter Eight - CHERBOURG AND ST MALO
• Chapter Nine - ROBINSON CRUSOE – BREST
• Chapter Ten - IRAQ
• Chapter Eleven - MICAWBERS ALL
• Chapter Twelve - ULSTER INTERLUDE
• Chapter Thirteen - SPITZBERGEN
• Chapter Fourteen - GIBRALTAR
• Chapter Fifteen - GREECE
• Chapter Sixteen - MIDDLE EAST
• Chapter Seventeen - AIRBORNE
• Chapter Eighteen - UBIQUE
• EPILOGUE
• Appendix I - ROLL OF HONOUR
• Appendix II - HONOURS AND AWARDS
• Appendix III - PROPOSALS FOR THE DESTRUCTION OF BULK OIL STORAGE INSTALLATIONS
• INDEX