Our almost nightly back-breaking drudgery seemed to have no end. We counted ourselves lucky if we stayed two nights in the same place. If there were lulls in the action, we did jobs on our equipment and clothing, in particular on our boots. The soles and heels were made of leather and were covered with rows of domed steel studs to prevent them wearing out. These studs were almost indestructible, but they did work loose and we were always hammering them back home or knocking in new ones.
My fellow-soldiers seemed to be generally in good spirits. Nobody was unusually cheerful or morose. There were no bad feelings, no arguments, everybody was helpful and pulled his weight. Maybe our subconscious told us that we could not afford any unnecessary drain on our physical or mental reserves and that our lives depended on cooperating fully with each other.
Despite being thrown so closely together, there was little scope for a social relationship with my fellow soldiers. One obvious reason was that there was no such thing as common living accommodation. Everyone had his own shelter. Whenever we moved into a new position and had fixed up our self-propelled guns in their pits, we each dug our own “hole in the ground.” This was roughly six feet by two feet by thirty inches deep. Then we had to find some boards or branches and lay them across the top of the hole covering about two-thirds of it. A mound of soil was then put on the roofing and, finally, the bottom was given a layer of greenery, if available. If not, one just put one’s groundsheet on it.
The idea of this shelter was to have a place where one was safe from shrapnel and everything else except a direct hit. It was essential to have this protection against Russian artillery fire, which would often come from guns well outside our own range. If there were simultaneous attacks by Russian planes, we had to leave our shelters to man the guns. We slept with the upper part of our bodies protected by the mound of soil, while our feet were at the uncovered end through which we scrambled in and out. Our belongings were put at the head-end and we used some of them as a pillow.
Retiring to my shelter always gave me such feelings of incredible bliss as if I was lying on a sumptuous spring mattress. Suddenly everything would go quiet; there was no longer any wind and I could luxuriously stretch out my tired limbs. The hardness of the ground did not seem to matter. It became unpleasant only when it rained a lot. Drops of rain sometimes worked their way through the soil over my head and muddy drips would land unerringly on my neck or face. The sides of the shelter could also get streaming wet and, if I turned over, looking for a more comfortable sleeping position, I might get a muddy smear on the back of my hand. I used to find it intriguing that I could apparently face gunfire with equanimity and yet be put out by a harmless bit of mud when I was resting.
We always slept in our clothes. At night-time I undid my belt-buckle, took off my boots and covered myself with my army-coat. Socks were not worn in the army. Instead, we wore what literally translates as “foot-cloths,” square pieces of flannel-like cloth, a bit bigger than an ordinary duster. It took a bit of practice to develop some skill in wrapping them around the feet, but it was said that, if the foot-cloths were properly worn, there was less likelihood of getting blisters than with socks. Probably the theory was correct because I never did get blisters, despite being on some very long treks.
Underwear was sent to the clothing maintenance-unit for washing and mending, but our own washing facilities were haphazard. We normally saved the last bit of our coffee so that we could clean our teeth, although this sometimes just became a matter of running the index finger along them. We were told to wash our feet regularly, but not to wash them on the evening before a long march. This was thought to soften them and to make them more prone to blisters.
One supplies truck was associated with each gun group. This was used to carry our digging implements, spares, small arms and our shoulder packs, as well as a host of various pieces of equipment. The confined space on our self-propelled guns obviously could not be used to carry these items.
Our rations of bread, butter, tins of meat, fish or jam were handed out every couple of days and it was up to the individual to spread his food over as many meals as he liked. Warm meals were provided by a mobile field-kitchen which was brought near to the gun batteries every evening whenever possible. The design of our metal canteens and flasks was such that one man could usually carry the meals of two to four men at a time.
A typical warm meal was made up of two ounces of meat in a stew, boiled potatoes and five ounces of beans, carrots or other vegetables. In warm weather we got half a tin of fruit preserves; if it was cold, we got thick soup instead. For the other meals we were given black bread and butter or dripping, as well as corned beef or sardines. Sometimes we got jam.
We had a ration of six cigarettes a day. Although I had bartered my cigarettes for food when I was in the Labour Service and in training in Holland, I could not bring myself to do the same on the Russian Front where a man’s survival depended on his physical stamina. I preferred to give away my cigarettes.
Usually we had to make do with about a pint and a half of “ersatz” coffee a day which was not very much. During all my army days, rations were adequate. Of course, there were some periods when sabotage by guerrillas or Russian action prevented supplies getting through to us. At such times, or when I later came to be separated from my unit, I had to go for days with very little or nothing at all to eat.
During my first weeks on the Russian Front I had experienced a continued sharpening of my sense of sight, hearing and smell to all the influences impinging on me. With growing confidence, my mind learned to register the throbbing of different truck engines, the distinctive rumble-and-squeal of various tanks, the characteristic flying patterns of aircraft, the many sounds of weaponry and the whistle of approaching shells. I was now less confused about what was going on around me and better able to recognise the strategy with which army units were deployed.
It did not take me long to learn to judge, by the pitch of the sound of shells flying in my direction, whether I was in danger or not. I remember how I automatically drew my head between my shoulders, or ducked, when I first heard shells whistling towards me, as if that would have saved me. Very soon, when experience took over, it was a case of becoming more blasé and I knew exactly when there was danger of a direct hit and had to dive for cover. However, it was trickier when facing a barrage of fire because the cacophony camouflaged individual sounds. In these situations it was sometimes a matter of just hoping that fate was on my side.
Near the end of August 1944, when I had been a “war veteran” of just over a month, I had to face a big ordeal on my own. My battery had been positioned close to the end of a slightly elevated plateau. There was a small wood of low trees to the east and, beyond that, the Russian lines were about a mile away on the other side of a valley. There had been no action on the Russian side for twenty-four hours.
Our commanding officer announced that a forward observation post was to be manned during the next day in order to keep watch on Russian movements. There was a vantage point several hundred yards east of our line of trees which was ideal for the purpose. A generous and well-camouflaged foxhole was dug under cover of darkness and the first soldier took up his post. Since access to and from the foxhole, even by crawling all the way, meant risk of detection by an alert Russian look-out, our man was to remain at his post until he was relieved at two in the afternoon.