Download A Teenager at War – Part 1 - World War 2 Stories for Sheffield

A Teenager at War – Part 1
By actiondesksheffield
People in story: George Marsden, John Little
Location of story: Sheffield, Salisbury Plain, Fonteney, Cagny, Le Harve
Unit name: ‘A’ company of 7th Battalion, Duke of Wellington’s, West Riding
Regiment
Background to story: Army
Photograph of George Marsden taken on his first day in the army.
A Teenager at War – Part 1
By
George Marsden
I left school at the age of fourteen, the same year that war was declared; I worked in a
steel works until I was old enough to enlist in the armed forces. This was an exciting time
for me, a teenager who, like many other youths, had never travelled outside his hometown
before. I joined an infantry training unit, which, to say the least, was very arduous and
tough going. I was being trained in all types of weapons, from rifles to mortars and anti-
tank guns, not to mention crawling under barbed wire, which kept us down, below the live
bullets being fired over our heads and full pack route marches, with precision drill marches
being thrown in for good measure.
We were a close knit group; most of the lads were from Yorkshire, with a fair number from
my home town of Sheffield, but when months of training had been completed, the
company was split up, and we were sent in groups to different units. After training in
Ireland, we eventually arrived on Salisbury Plain, sleeping eight men to a bell tent, the
whole area surrounded by barbed wire and units of military police. We didn't have a clue
as to what was happening at all, it was pelting down with rain, non-stop, the area was a
quagmire, but there was always someone around to say something funny, to keep
everyone happy.
After a while we packed our kit bags, and then moved to the port of Newhaven and were
told we were going to France. We arrived there by a small landing craft, at a place known
to us as King's Beach, Red Sector. A few were affected by some sad sights as we ran
across the beach.
We re-grouped and after a few skirmishes on our way, took part in a great battle at a
place called Fonteney, where we lost a hundred and twenty of our lads. It was a sad time
to move forward and leave your friends, some who were school friends, behind.
We moved on to a place called Cagny, where we dug slit trenches, deep enough to crouch
down in. Using a small handled digging tool, a very important part of our equipment, it
was amazing how quickly a deep hole could be dug when bullets and shrapnel were flying
about. We were also bombarded by some flying creatures as big as bumble bees, which
flew straight into our faces, so we had mosquito nets suspended from our helmets to
combat this.
One night we had a couple of sandwiches and a mess tin of luke warm tea brought up to
us, and I reached up, in the dark for a sandwich which was placed on the grass above. I
found something soft and lifted it close to my face. It was three fingers attached to half of
a human hand. I threw the rest of my sandwiches along with the mess tins as far as I
could.
Shortly after this, I was in a forward patrol sent out to seek the enemy positions, then
report back to H.Q., when our leader, who was crouched down alongside of me, stood up
to check his map with the terrain, and was killed by a sniper's bullet. He fell beside me;
some of his blood dropped on my face. It was a sad loss of a good, brave young officer,
who I think of often and I visit his grave at Ranville cemetery, near Pegasus Bridge when I
am able. He lies with many of his platoon beside him. We were told by a N.C.O. to make
our own way back with the information we had got. We crawled toward a cornfield amid
fire from enemy machine guns, when a German tank came into view. It stopped, a crew
member opened the hatch and ordered two of our lads who were lying in the cornfield to
climb onto the tank. This they did and disappeared into the distance. My companion and I
made it back to our lines, and after a de-briefing by the Company Commander were
ordered to go back and collect the dead officer, which we did after a struggle.
Another incident was when we were going across a big area in Normandy with the whole
company advancing, with fixed bayonets. It was quite muddy underfoot, some of our tanks
were either bogged down or knocked out near some distant trees, when suddenly, out of
the mud, German soldiers were jumping up, shouting, "Me Polish, Me Polish," as they
threw down their weapons and put up their hands.
We then heard an almighty roar as a Spitfire came towards us, getting lower and lower. It
just skimming the hedgerows; as we all hit the ground or dashed in all directions, the
plane hit the ground, slithered and twisted as it hit the mud, then stopped near us. We
waited a few minutes, then the pilot jumped out with a pipe in his mouth. He said, "Excuse
me, which way is it to your H.Q.?" I thought, "He acts as though he's just stepped off a
bus." When we pointed and said, "That way," he answered, "Cheerio," then he lit his pipe
and set off walking. Our Sergeant, a Sheffield man, shouted, "Come on, we've no time to
mess about round here, spread out and get moving." Someone said, "What about these
prisoners?" He replied, "Tell them to follow him," pointing to the pilot who was merrily
going on his way.
Another incident happened whilst we were on a fighting patrol, as we walked down a ditch
which ran alongside a cobbled path. We heard some movement and dropped flat to the
ground. After a few minutes, one of our lads lifted his head to investigate, and was shot
dead by an enemy soldier who was in the ditch on the other side of the path. We were
then showered with grenades, the type with the wooden handles used by the Germans.
These were thrown without much direction, as the Germans were crouched down. Some
didn't explode, and at least two were picked up and thrown back.
Our Sergeant then passed a message down the line that all nine of us had to get a
grenade ready, and when he shouted, "Now!" to throw them at once. According to the
crying, some of them were on target. We were then told to follow each other, keeping
close to the ground. I saw them crawling over the lad who had been killed and decided to
stride over him. I got up and was pushed to the ground by a Corporal just as an enemy
automatic weapon fired just over us. I looked up smiling and said. "Thanks," to which he
replied, "It's no good laughing, when we say keep down, you keep down. You're lucky we
are not climbing over you." When we got to the end of the ditch, we charged round to find
that the Germans had gone, leaving a few rifles behind, which we smashed against a tree.
Our next bit of action was at Le Harve, which had been reduced to rubble by constant
bombarding from our aircraft. Then onto Belgium, where I had another sticky incident
when our Sergeant picked a few of us to go with him to try and bring in a prisoner. It was
the usual routine, only this time it was in darkness and to cross a river by rowing boat, we
wrapped some cloth round our boots to save making any noise in the boat. I was ordered
to be the last man and push the boat, then step or jump in. this I did, except I slipped and
jumped straight in the water. After I scrambled aboard, wet through, the officer said,
"You're still going with us, so don't try that again." I didn't ask if he was joking, but
anyway, our luck held as we captured two Germans who were sitting down having a
smoke, during their stint of being on guard,; they came quietly, so we went back without
incident.
The next piece of good luck was when my buddy, John Little and I, had to dig a slit trench
for both of us. This was in a field with a line of trees at the bottom and two hedgerows and
a stony path on our right, where the rest of our platoon disappeared, to dig in or have a
rest. Any how, John and I decided to mount our own machine gun, then one of us sat
down in the bottom of the trench, whilst the other watched for any movement.
It was my turn for lookout. When, as dawn was just breaking, I saw someone step out
from the trees at the bottom of the field, he was soon joined by a few more men. It was a
German patrol who stopped, had a glance round and decided to have a rest. They either
sat on the ground or leant against a tree, as they lit their cigarettes to have a smoke and a
chat.
I leant down to my pal, prodded him to wake him up and whispered in his ear, "Just look
over the edge, a bunch of Germans at the bottom of the field, give them a burst of the
Bren gun."
He quietly lined his sights up, cocked the lever, pulled the trigger, nothing happened, so I
said, "I'll change the magazine," which I did. As John took aim and pulled the cocking
lever, which made a clicking sound as it shot forward, the Germans heard it. Quickly
dropping to the ground with their automatic guns gleaming away, we crouched down
quickly, there was a rattling noise which shook my helmet.
I said, "That was close, the bullets must have disturbed the stones from the edge of our
slit." We slowly raised our heads, knees knocking, rifles at the ready, but the Germans had
disappeared. We kept full alert and heard foot steps on the stony path between the
hedgerows.
I said in a low voice, "Halt who goes there?" There was no answer, so I repeated, "Halt
who goes there?" in a slightly louder voice, but no answer as the pair of boots went clump,
clump, down the path. I said, "I'm going to throw a grenade." This I did, but gave it such a
hefty throw, which made it go over the path and both hedges. There was an almighty bang
which disturbed the early dawn, then our officer, along with some of our comrades,
appeared shouting, "What the hell's going on?" We explained, but why nobody had heard
the German machine guns firing is a mystery, so we went down to the trees where I
pointed out the trampled grass, cigarette buts and spent cartridges lying about. I then
explained my luck where the stones had rattled my helmet, but on inspection found bullet
grooves under the wide rim of my helmet, my luck had held me in good stead again.
A short while later, whilst we were lying down resting, awaiting orders to move on again,
there was a terrific bang as the lad lying near to me, had fired his rifle, the bullet going
straight through my helmet which was on my chest while I tried to have a little nap. He
never explained properly why or how he came to fire his rifle, but the worst part of it was
that I couldn't wear my helmet because of the jagged metal. Shortly after, we went into
action and I'd never felt so vulnerable, just wearing my cap comforter on my heard (a
woollen cap).
We plodded on, seeing quite a few dead soldiers lying about, some Polish and some from
English regiments. This put us on our guard and we were fighting at close quarters with
the Germans, until both sides agreed to have a truce to collect each others' casualties. Our
officer and a German officer, stood smoking and having a chat. Smithy and I were told to
quickly dig two graves for two of our mates. This we did, but the truce was over before we
could fill the graves in, and fighting commenced, until some Polish army tanks came
unexpectedly to join the battle.
The Germans retreated and our padre came along to give the last rites to our comrades,
whom I know were reburied in a proper place, a little church yard, not far away. I visited
these lads a few years after the war was finished.
Next, we crossed the border into Holland.
Although there had been some sad times, scary moments and sickening sights, I always
said that I would get wounded, but not get killed. This I believed, but it was sorely put to
the test in more ways than one.
An unbelievable time awaited me, after being told what our next objective would be. As
darkness fell, we, our platoon of about 40 men, were ordered to go forward to capture and
hold a section of an anti-tank ditch, so called because their width and depth made it
impossible for tanks to cross it.
We reached our objective and scrambled down one side of the ditch, walked across some
iron girders and climbed the other side. After a short battle we were able to take the
German soldiers prisoner. As we stormed the farm house, the prisoners were taken,
together with our wounded, back to our company lines. We then dug our slit trenches and
kept a vigilant guard all night, but at dawn we were attacked by the enemy in great
numbers.
The position was over-run and we were told to make our way back to our company. This
we did and whilst crossing a field, whilst under fire from machine guns, we came across
rolls of barbed wire and some of the lads were trying the impossible task of getting
through it. I was told what to do and as I had done in my training, I ran full pelt and dived
on top of the wire, so that the others could run and place one foot on my back and dive
over the fence. This was alright until the last man pulled me clear. My uniform was ripped
to shreds in the process so I was given a handful of safety pins to fasten the rips down my
trousers.
Later that day, as darkness fell, we were ordered to go back again, which we did, losing a
few casualties, but taking the position and taking prisoner the Germans who were in the
farm-house as we over ran it.
But it seemed all in vain, as the same thing happened again. A greater force of the enemy,
plus armoured vehicles attacked us. We were holding our own, when the cry went up, "I
can hear enemy tanks revving up." Our officer came to me and said, "Go and get the
P.LA.T. gun." This was a cumbersome weapon which you fired lying down and at range of
a few yards, to do any damage to a tank or at least the tracks that it ran on. If you had to
fire another missile after the recoil of the weapon had nearly shattered your shoulder, it
took some strength to cock the weapon again.
I looked up at the officer as he was standing over me, I said, "Yes Sir." Before I could get
off the ground, a bullet passed me and went in the officers leg. I shouted for the stretcher
bearers, then scurried about to locate the P.LA.T, but wasn't successful, and as I went
back to my position, I was suddenly spun around and crashed to the ground as I was hit
by a burst of fire from an enemy Spandau machine gun. The bullets shot away the hook
and eye fastening close to my neck and went through my shoulder and arm; a few
centimetres away from having my head blown off. A German doctor later told me how
lucky I was.
Pr-BR