Percy Smith's War Diary - Part 3

Arrival in France

It would have been about the first day in October, 1939, after over two days at sea, that we arrived at the French port of St. Nazaire. It was late afternoon, still quite daylight. We had to get our kit together and dress full kit marching order. There were many other units as well as ours on the boat. When our turn came, we marched down the gangway and formed up on the quayside. It was to be a night to remember! Being marched away from the quayside through the docks, we halted beside the road along with hundreds of others and we were told to ‘stand to’ until further orders, which did not come until about five hours after. By this time it was late at night and most of us had tried to get a bit of sleep on the pavement. For headrest we mostly laid in the gutter as it was dry! Refreshment was from our water bottles and what we had left of the day’s rations. Eventually orders were given to form up and march to the railway goods yard. There we were to get on a train, not into carriages but into cattle trucks and goods wagons, which were pitch black. The train moved off when full, we had no idea where we were going, however, after about thirty miles or so, it stopped in the port of Nantes. Out of the trucks we got, were formed up and marched through the streets with all our kit for I don’t know how far. We must have been going for about an hour and a half or more without a break. One or two chaps collapsed and I saw Officers carrying their kit as well as their own. It was nearly daybreak when we arrived at a very makeshift camp, but anything would do after all that. We were at least allowed time to sleep it off and I think we were left alone the next day.

Soon it was fall-in again and we were taken to the docks to collect our vehicle. To our surprise, each one of the 3-tonners was loaded with 80 cases of petrol which each contained 8 gallons — 2 four gallon disposable tins in a closed wooden box, which made 640gallons of petrol on each lorry. We hoped we wouldn’t get shot at or that not too many of them leaked, which they did from time to time.

Before going further in this questionable tale of military progress, I would like to mention that when the petrol was used , the empty tins and boxes could be cleaned and adapted to endless uses. Three or four placed together would make a bed for your straw mattress. The tins, which already fitted the boxes, could be cut to make a chest of drawers beside your bed, and of course the tins themselves could serve as ‘brew tins’, washbowls, cooking pots, latrines in the billet and all sorts of other useful items to make life a little more comfortable. This, however, only applied to the supply of fuel in France to the British Expeditionary Force. In all other theatres of war, the British copied the German ‘Jerry Can’, which was re-useable.

Having got all our vehicles and everything off the boat, we assembled in a wide open space into some sort of order. These places were known as ‘Staging Areas’. I can’t remember how we slept that night, but it was nothing posh.

It became obvious during the early part of the war that the B.E.F. were being landed on the west coast of France, as far away as possible from German forces. This meant that we had to travel the whole way across Northern France to get to where we were required. We actually did this in three stages. Our first stage was to Le Mans on the famous motor race course — at least we would be able to say that we had driven at Le Mans! The long convoy was in sections, each with an Officer in a staff car at the head and Dispatch Riders (DRs) on motor bikes going up and down the convoy to keep it in order. Being a Dispatch Rider was a rather dangerous job and for some time we had more casualties from this than from anything else. The first day out was not without its excitement as many of the drivers were novices and we were in a foreign country driving on the other side of the road. We didn’t need the Germans to do us any damage, we were doing quite well on our own.
The French countryside was actually quite pleasant at that time of year, there were orchards loaded with wonderful red apples and whenever the convoy pulled up, the chaps were over the fence after them. This however did not last long as they were very bitter and specially grown for making cider. One lad milked a cow to get a drink. All the same, anytime we pulled up we seemed to get on very well with the locals, in spite of the language.

We had come about 120 miles to Le Mans, soon were on the road again, about the same distance to a rather large town called Evreux, about twenty miles south of Rouen. Our short stay here was reasonably pleasant and there was a good selection of refreshment places (Estaminets). We could not help noticing that the French did not seem to bother about blackout as much as the British.

From Evreux, we went about the same distance again and finished up in a rather run-down little town called Airanes, halfway between Abbeville and Amiens. It was beginning to feel a different kind of country in this part of Northern France — in the small towns and villages at that time the people seemed to be very poor. There were farms growing sugar beet, there were coal mines and there seemed to be a lot going on. This was getting into the country where so much of the fighting of the First World War took place, and the great cemeteries of war graves are never far apart.

The first evening we were there, some of us went for a drink to the small Estaminet down in the village. As the evening wore on, someone noticed there was a fire starting in the roof, so the fire brigade was called, which turned out to be a very antique affair, with firemen to match. There was some difficulty in getting the hand-operated pump to work, during which time a round of drinks was served to everyone’s satisfaction. Having finished, they decided to tackle the fire and the evening seemed to finish quite happily.

Arrival at location

As usual, after another couple of days, it was time to move on. This time it was about 35 miles. We were now on the main road, half way between Doullens and Frevent. We turned off the main road and after about a couple of miles of rough road, our particular section pulled up in a rather poor village named La Souich ( we called it La Sweek), this was to be our location for a while. I can’t remember where, but at some point we must have offloaded the petrol because a couple of Lance Corporals and myself had been sleeping at night in the back of the lorry under a tarpaulin, which was rather fun while the weather was good. However, having got to this location, the lorries were parked at intervals along the country road and we were put into billets, or at least cowsheds. Three of us to a cattle pen and put your kit in the manger. It was rough at first but at the first opportunity we got it cleaned out, put an army blanket over the door to keep the draught out, and then it wasn’t too bad. Oh, and we cut the top out of a petrol tin, put a piece of wire through the top for a handle, and there was a latrine for the night! A couple of NCO’s wanted more luxury so they went up into the hayloft, where they smoked fairly heavily and were not particular about their matches and fag ends.

Fortunately the weather was fairly dry and not too cold while we were in La Souich, because there wasn’t much in the way of comfort. There was no mess room, the cookhouse was a ramshackle affair in the village square. You ate your food where you stood or took it back it back to your billet, by which time anything cooked had gone cold. Our high spot of the day was a very rundown Estaminet or café where Egg and Chips (oeuf en pommes de terre frites) and a bottle of beer were served up very cheaply, by our standards. Coffee and rum was also popular.

Here, in about the middle of October, 1939, we began our official job of work. Basically it was haulage contracting for the B.E.F. Some days it would be going a few miles up the road to an army petrol dump and our convoy of lorries would each be loaded up with 80 cases of petrol. The dump was usually a rough road down through some woods, where stacks of cases of petrol and other fuel were at safe intervals from each other. The cases were manhandled so it was fairly labour intensive. A space would be made so that one of the loaders could sit behind the cab of the lorry looking to the rear, so that if an enemy plane appeared at the back of the convoy, he could bang on the roof of the cab and everyone take cover. We never had this experience during this kind of work.
The next day, the convoy would have a map reference to a certain wooded location and various army units would come to that place and be issued with various amounts of petrol etc. Another day we would collect petrol from a ‘Railhead’ or railway goods yard.

Sometimes we would get orders to go to coal mines and get three tons of coal apiece and we would have details of how much to deliver to different units around the country. This was a very attractive job in the cold winter as there was always some left in the back of the lorry to bring back to the billet at night. Then perhaps the next day, you would be detailed to go to Doullens Bakery and get a load of bread to deliver, same lorry, from which you swept the coal dust with a broom, which you may have borrowed because they weren’t issued. If the bread had coal on it, you either ate it or cut it off!

After a while, it was of course getting towards winter and the colder weather, so we moved to the next village called Bouquemaison, which was rather more accommodating, but not much. At least we had billets of a sort, mine was a ruined farm cottage with about eight or nine others. The latrine was outside, a rough army timber type, over a hole dug in the ground with a length of sacking over the front for privacy. So in the cold winter you didn’t go unless you had to! Once again, the determination of the soldier came to the rescue and after a while we made what was really a hovel quite comfortable. The cafes were rather better and did a brisk business in Egg, Chips and beer. It wasn’t luxurious but it was clean and good. There was one café in particular where most of us spent our evenings and our money. And it got completely packed as the evening went on. I don’t know why, but after a while, it got the name of ‘Steve’s café’. Two people I remember at the time — one was a rather plump girl who spent every evening there looking into a very big frying pan cooking eggs. They called her Alice, I don’t know why. The other was a Frenchman who was some kind of official interpreter, he was quite a hit with all the lads. I have wondered since what became of them when the Germans came. At that time, no-one thought smoking was harmful and towards the end of the evening you could hardly see the other side of the room. Some chaps began to get a bit the worse for wear, then someone would shout ‘Silence’. Eventually all would be quiet and one of the old boys would make an attempt to sing, which after a time became a bit of a bore as he only knew about three choruses. He always finished with a rather sad one which went:

By this time the tears were rolling down his cheeks, but we were never sure if it was the effects of the song or the beer.

Christmas 1939

Eventually it was Christmas and we were getting parcels and cards from home and friends. Night Guard duty was coming round more than twice a week, but I was fortunate to get a Christmas Eve one so this left Christmas Day free, for what it was worth. However we had a wonderful Christmas dinner in the evening, with turkey and all the usual, served by the officers - pity we had to eat out of an army dixie.

At about this time it began to get really cold, there was snow and ice everywhere. We lived in Balaclava helmets — the ice would form in the wool under your nose. There was no anti-freeze in the vehicles so the water had to be drained every night and very carefully refilled in the morning with the engine running, or it would freeze before it got round the engine. Guard duty at night was so cold you began to lose your senses, unless you exercised to prevent yourself from becoming completely frozen. I don’t think I was so cold at any other time in my life, it turned out to be the coldest winter there for forty years.
Getting breakfast in the dim light of the cookhouse and mess-room in the early morning, the frozen moisture in the bread sparkled in the light, and the margarine or whatever it was had a label on the tin ‘For consumption in a tropical climate’ almost needed a hammer and chisel to get it out of the tin. It had to be eaten separately as you couldn’t spread it.

Strange as it may seem, although life was utterly miserable, we didn’t have any more colds than we would have done at home. This was just as well, because going sick meant parading on sick parade with small kit in the early morning and being taken in the back of an open truck about nine miles to the nearest MO, and then it was doubtful whether or not you would be excused duty. So you had to be reasonably fit to go sick! After a while we had a ‘Sick Bay’ in the village. This was just a room in a derelict cottage, beds were 3 petrol cases, a straw mattress and three blankets. As it was so cold all ventilation was sealed up, it was heated by two small paraffin stoves and as everyone smoked the air became so foul after a while, that you were glad to get out and get back to work.

I am sorry to say that having said the Germans could be ruthless, I have the feeling that, given the chance and perhaps a bit of training, there were one or two British I came across who would have been quite capable of much the same thing. We had to take our lorries into Workshop once a month, during which time the Staff Sgt. in charge would make every driver’s life an absolute hell! Blaming them for everything that went wrong with the vehicle. It seemed to be mostly senior NCO’s, the officers were not so bad.

Having led, I must admit, a somewhat ‘sheltered’ life at home, there was another part of human behaviour which became a bit of a surprise, that was Sex. We had already had lectures on disease, brothels and such, but there were chaps who would risk all that and pay the equivalent of two or three months pay for an evening in these places, and afterwards they would come back to the billet and tell everyone the sordid details. It seemed there were a large number of these places in Arras, the most famous one was known as No. 30, where in the evenings there would be a queue outside and a Military Policeman (Red Cap) to keep order. It didn’t really matter if the lady was attractive or not. It was generally felt, however, that if a chap needed medical treatment sometime after, he couldn’t expect very much sympathy, but he did get treatment. It would seem that fear of the consequences kept the thing under control. I hesitate to relate this, I am sure this applied to a minority, but it was part of life there at that time.

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