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For me,
Mulberry started in January 1944. We were building bridges over oddly named
rivers in the Italian mountains when I was ordered to fly back to the United
Kingdom as fast as possible.
On
arrival I reported at the War Office where, with other poor fellows, we were
sworn to absolute secrecy and “briefed” by high-ranking officials. We were shown
a model of the “Mulberry” (I don’t know who thought up the name) Harbour. We
were told that huge concrete cassions would form a protective breakwater
enclosing a harbour of 1300 acres (i.e. as big as Dover) that there would be
steel pontoon pierheads with “spuds” (whatever they were), and that these
pierheads would be connected to shore by three-quarter mile long pontoon
bridges.
A vast
project indeed and we were most impressed; but then they told us that the whole
thing had to be towed across the channel and put together in days, at some
un-named place on the enemy shore. We didn’t dare laugh – because they seemed
serious – but felt slightly sick.
We were
told that we should be proud to have been selected by the Sorps of Royal
Engineers to take part in this operation; that we (the 969th and 970th
Port Floating Equipment Companies) would be responsible for the construction of
the piers and pierheads in the field. The success of the invasion of Europe
depended (they said) on us. In fact, they told us that “This project is so vital
that it might be described as the crux of the whole operation” (this was quoted
from a Memo to the First Sea Lord of the Admiralty from the Combined Chiefs of
Staff).
I was not
at all thrilled by this information: quite apart from a natural reluctance to
get involved in anything that looked so dangerous, I was appalled to think that
the British Army was so truly desperate, so near the bottom of the barrel, that
they had to choose me. And, if it were really true that the success of the
assault on Europe depended in any way on me, then I could not see much hope for
the Allied Armies.
Something
of these unhappy thoughts must have shown in our faces (my forebodings were
shared by the others); we were assured that orders had already been passed to
every other R.E. unit in this United Kingdom to send, immediately, their finest,
bravest and most highly skilled soldiers to join this crack invasion force,
because “Mulberry Must Not Fail”.
It all
sounded most impressive and, as we left the War Office and walked along
Northumberland Avenue, we envisaged a stream of clear eyed, fit, clean,
splendid, young soldiers on their way to join the various sections of the
Company – in Scotland, in the Isle of Wight, and Selsey.
Alas,
what really happened was that every unit in the U.K. seized this golden
opportunity to “unload” on to us their most formidable and desperate criminals –
tough looking men arrived clutching Crime Sheets covering every known offence
(in the Army Act) – insolence, theft, wife beating, assault and battery, robbery
with violence, larceny, desertion etc. etc. As they paraded we eyed each other –
it was obvious that they didn’t think much of us, while we could tell that
Mulberry and the invasion was not going to be a success.
…
In the
spring of 1944, in March, April and May, Captain Tarling and his experienced
N.C.O.s gradually began to turn the very mixed company of men into soldiers.
This was a most difficult task, the “rejects”, the “hard men” sent to us by
other Engineer Units managed to pillage and loot the surrounding villages, they
set fire to Glasserton House (in Scotland), they wrecked a great deal of
valuable equipment at Ryde; poor George Tarling had some 22 Court-martials in
process or pending at the end of May.
A
visiting Colonel, watching an unhappy squad being trained in the use of the Bren
gun on the lawn at Glasserton House remarked, “These men will never make
soldiers; what a bunch of bloody goons”. The name stuck but in the event the
“Goons” were magnificent.
We
constantly begged Colonel Mais for a full scale exercise – which he was most
anxious to arrange. Towards the end of May. In May he told us that a rehearsal
had been arranged, the date fixed, the 6th of June. Next we heard –
and the Colonel was oddly coy and evasive – that this exercise had been
postponed – but we must not worry, we would be given a chance to put the
equipment together under the most rigorous conditions “very soon”.
Later on
Raymond Mais told us how, enraged at this postponement, he had stormed into 30
Corps Headquarters and demanded that his men must be allowed to practice
with the equipment before “D Day”. He was taken aside by a Colonel of
Intelligence who told him that there were very very good reasons why the
exercise could not be held. Mais still refused to accept this and continued to
argue; the Intelligence Officer, with a hopeless look on his face, asked “cannot
even you think of one day on which you will be otherwise engaged[?]”.
At last
the penny dropped and Colonel Mais realised that the date for the invasion had
been fixed – for 6th June, 1944.
…
The main
body, with Tarling, Simpson, Rigbye and myself landed on D+1 Day…
…
Wally
Walter and Raymond Mais had started to tell us what tasks had first to be done
when, round the corner into the esplanade, came an old Frenchman, his wife and
daughter. It was obvious that they were frightened to death, the woman weeping
and only native pride was keeping the old man going.
They
stopped short and stared at us – wondering if we were friend or foe.
Wally
Water and Raymond Mais looked up, saw them, put down their mapcases, walked over
and both saluted the old Frenchman – salutes the Brigade of Guards could not
have bettered.
In
absolutely appalling French – an indictment of the English Public School system
– Raymond Mais congratulated the old fellow on bringing his ladies to safety
through the enemy lines and expressed the hope that he would accept the
hospitality of the British Royal Engineers.
The
gallant old Frenchman, his pride and dignity restored in the eyes of his
womenfolk, turned on the ladies and told them to stop crying. They were led away
and given hot tea and food and accommodation by the Sergeant-Major.
…
The
weather during these days was not good, the sea was choppy. The long (480ft.)
pontoon bridge tows had to be manoeuvred by the tugs into line and the exact
moment taken to “slot” the “free” span into the trumpet guides at the bridge
end. A miscalculation by John Luck and Heming [tug captains] and their crews at
this point could maim, even kill, the bridge crews (Simpson was nearly sliced in
two, and knocked unconscious by a girder on one rough, choppy afternoon) but
mutual trust and confidence was such that by 12th June, in spite of
the poor weather, 1520 ft. of the centre pontoon pier had been built, 2160 ft.
of the east pier and 960 ft of the special tank landing pier. Even Geroge
Tarling had to admit that the men, the “bandits” (“the Goons”) included, were
working hard and well.
The
equipment was excellent and, although the conditions for erection were much
worse than envisaged by the designer, Joe Beckett (who was everywhere, even
working with a rat-tail spanner – he also developed a simple, quick method of
laying the kite anchors) the Sappers were soon expert in handling it.
…
Daily,
armour and infantry landed at the piers. Standing at the roadside above the
growing port and watching the troops move inland I was struck by the number of
men who waved and shouted greeting to Colonel Mais and George Tarling, recalling
other places, other campaigns. I remarked on this and George Tarling, with some
emotion, said that you always met the same nice chaps at the “sharp end”. His
son was fighting with an Armoured Division a few miles away and, whenever he
could, George would slip away to see him.
At this
point a Glasgow voice called “Get off your fat backside, Cowan, and do some
work”. Turning round I was delighted to see my old friend Bill Taylor (now a
Colonel in the Cameronians); he told me that he was with the Canadian Army. We
had served our apprenticeships together. I had heard that Bill had been killed
during the retreat in France in 1940 but, alive and well, he waved goodbye and
set of in his jeep towards Bayeux.
I felt
that I had joined a very exclusive club.
…
Captain
Tarling saw to it that we were always well fed, hot food was ever available. We
understood that he sent raiding parties round the ships in the harbour – our
thieves and burglars were put to good use, so we fed very well indeed.
The
lesson – make the best use of the talents of your men.
At first,
we slept under hedges with ground sheet cover, but had established an Officers’
Mess (run by driver Johnny Davidson) in a small abandoned cottage. George
Tarling had “suggested” to our light fingered soldiers that decent furnishings
would be appreciated and soon we had armchairs and were dining in luxury with
tablecloths, by candlelight, with gleaming cutlery and crockery (even a soup
tureen) all of which had been “lifted” from various sources.
…
On 19th
June (D+13) a storm began “such had been seen in the Channel for over 80 years –
second only to the one that smashed the Spanish Armada in 1588” (Chapter XII,
“The Story of the Mulberries”).
It
continued for 4 days – 4 days and nights which no one who served at Arromanches
will ever forget. Tired out when it started, the men were far beyond exhaustion
point when it finished.
The 969th
Company War Diary reads:-
19th
June. “Very stormy weather. Had to fight for the East bridge all day long. U.S.
army towing launches of 334 Harbour Craft Company and out T.I.D. tugs do
excellent work in towing off craft out-of-control and bearing down on the
bridge.”
20th
June. “Still stormy. Parties on bridges day and night tightening moorings and
fighting to save the structure …
21st
June. “Still stormy. Three pierheads damaged, spud legs broken. Tank piers
mashed. Men exhausted.”
22nd
June. No entry – Everyone was on the piers.
Hardly
deathless prose by Geroge Tarling. What he meant to say was that the wind
screamed like a banshee, that waves 8ft. high crashed against the shuddering
pierheads and washed over the pontoon bridges – making them buck, snake and rear
like wild horses, so that the men had to cling to the steelwork or be washed
away to drown – and this went on and on, hour after hour, day and night. In the
wild daylight and the dark, out of the gloom would appear drifting vessels –
pursued always by … [the] tug crews. In the darkness men had to jump from the
tugs and from the piers on to these abandoned craft to attach tow lines so that
they could be hauled away. There were some incredible (and unsung) feats of
seamanship and daring by Luck and Heming and their men …
The
crisis came in the late afternoon of the third day of the storm, just as
darkness was falling.
A steel
pontoon, blown in by the wind and strong tidal currents, had become lodged
underneath one of the bridge spans. With each wave it crashed against the steel
trusses and was smashing the end of the concrete “beetle”. Bill Rigbye, Dennis
Barton, Sergeant Allen and Sapper Edwards had somehow managed to leap on to the
wet and greasy steel deck of the heaving pontoon. Rigbye had hurt his ankle and,
unable to move, clung there with the waves breaking over him. As the wind and
seas drove the pontoon over further beneath the bridge girders the position was
becoming desperate, it was only a matter of minutes before Rigbye was smashed
and crushed.
As I
arrived with “Doc” Smith we found Raymond Mais and Arthur Hirst balanced on the
steelwork trying to judge the moment to jump on to the pontoon.
In broad
daylight, in dry weather, these leaps would have been extremely hazardous; in
the half light, for exhausted men, their reactions slowed by fatigue, it
required a special sort of courage. But they succeeded, somehow a line was
passed to Luck and Heming, who had edged the sterns of their tugs as close as
they dared, and the pontoon was tows [sic] away. A wet and cursing Rigbye was
rescued and the bridge was saved.
…
On the
pierheads Ted Witcomb had “spudded up” (far beyond the makers wildest nightmare)
so that the warning lights on the control panel were permanently on “Red” and
the warning buzzers shrieked day and night. No place for the faint hearted. In
spite of all he could do, spud legs failed and dragged on the bottom. But
Whitcomb’s courage never failed, he kept his nerve and rode out the storm.
During
the night of the third day Brigadier Walter[s], Colonel Mais and George Tarling
decided to visit the spud pontoons to see Witcomb. After a frightening walk
along the ¾ mile of heaving and undulating bridges, holding on as the waves
broke over them, they arrived. The pierheads were awash, shuddering; the noise
of the wind, the screech of the spuds grinding on the rocky sea bed the banging
and crashing of the spud legs in the guides, was indescribably, frightening.
In the
grey dawn they eventually found Ted Witcomb and Jones with a party of men
working at makeshift repairs. They were soaked, unshaven, exhausted, the skin
below Witcomb’s eyes had fallen away, only the spirit of the man was keeping him
going. Wally Walters (now himself so tired that he repeated every order twice,
just to make sure he had given it) at once told Tarling to go back for a rum
ration as fast as he could – and poor George (in not much better shape than Ted)
set off back along the pontoon bridge towards the shore.
The
Brigadier and Raymond Mais were desperately concerned about Witcomb and his men,
any of whom could have sleep-walked over the side at any time.
Witcomb,
courteous and articulate as ever, thanked them for visiting him, offered cans of
self heating chocolate (he said his crew lived on these cans during the storm
…). Asked if he could hold on, Ted replied that he could … but said that “things
were never so bad that they couldn’t get worse” – and he was right, for almost
at once there was an appalling crash as a tank landing craft … crewless, the
front door hanging open, had been blown against the pierhead and, with the
action of the waves, was smashing itself to bits – and the pierhead deck as
well.
Then out
of the grey half-light, rearing and plunging on the waves, came Johnny Luck,
Pollard and Heming in the towing launches.
Witcomb
and his men managed to attach a tow line and, with their rocket pistols, they
got the line to the tugs … |
