‘What’s the transport situation?’ Sergeant Pat Riley asked.
‘Handley-Page Halifax heavy bombers specially modified to carry men and supplies and drop jeeps and trailers from its bomb bay,’ said Greaves.
‘Bloody sitting ducks,’ Neil Moffatt whispered to his mate, Harry ‘Harry-boy’ Turnball.
‘Not any more,’ the captain said to Neil, having overheard his whispered remark. ‘In fact, the Halifaxes are now armed with two .303-inch Browning machine-guns in the nose turret, four in the tail turret, and two in manual beam positions, so we should have adequate protection should we be attacked by enemy fighters during the flight.’
‘Thanks, boss, for that reassurance,’ Neil said wryly.
‘Is it true, as some of us have heard, that we’re having problems in getting enough aircraft?’ Rich Burgess asked.
‘Unfortunately, yes. Because we don’t yet have our own planes, all arrangements for aerial transport have to be co-ordinated by 1st Airborne Corps and 38 Group RAF at Netheravon and Special Forces HQ. This means that we practically have to bid for aircraft and we don’t always get enough for our requirements. For this reason, you should expect to be inserted in batches over two or three successive nights; likewise for the jeeps.’
‘Which means that those who go earliest have the longest, most dangerous wait on the ground,’ Rich said. ‘More sitting ducks, in fact.’
‘Correct,’ Greaves replied with a grin. ‘Which means in turn that the most experienced men – including you, Corporal – will be in the first aircraft off the ground.’
‘Gee, thanks, boss,’ Jacko said, imitating an American accent with no great deal of skill.
‘Do we take off from Netheravon?’ Bob Tappman asked.
‘No. From RAF Station 1090, Down Ampney, not far from here. Station 1090 will also be giving us support throughout our period in France.’
‘So when do we get out of here,’ Rich asked, ‘and get to where it’s all happening?’
Greaves simply glanced enquiringly at the CO, Captain Callaghan, who stepped forward to say: ‘Tomorrow night. You’ll be kitted out in the morning, collect and manually test your weapons throughout the afternoon, and embark at 2250 hours, to insert in central France just before midnight. Any final questions?’
As the response was no more than a lot of shaking heads, Callaghan wrapped up the briefing and sent the men back to their barracks with instructions to pack as much as they could before lights out. They needed no encouragement.
Next morning the men rolled off their steel-framed beds at first light, raced to the toilets, then had a speedy cold shower and shaved. Cleaned and jolted awake by the icy water, they dressed in Denison smock, dispatch rider’s breeches and tough motor-cycle boots. The smock’s 1937-pattern webbing pouches held a compass and ammunition for the .455-inch Webley pistol, which was holstered at the hip. Though most of the newer men wore the paratrooper’s maroon beret with the SAS’s winged-dagger badge, as ordered by a directive of the airborne forces, of which they were presently considered part, the Originals viewed the directive as an insult and were still defiantly wearing their old beige berets.
Once dressed, they ‘blacked up’ their faces and hands with burnt cork, which they would keep on all day and at least throughout the first night in France. They then left the barracks and crossed the parade ground to the mess hall at the far side, most glancing up just before entering the building to see the many Fortresses, Liberators and escorting Spitfires flying overhead on their way to France for the first of the day’s bombing runs. In the mess, which was filled with long, crowded tables, steam, cigarette smoke and a lot of noisy conversation, they had a substantial breakfast of cereal, bacon, fried eggs and baked beans, with buttered toast or fried bread, and hot tea.
‘The last day we’re going to get decent grub for a long time,’ Jacko said to the men at his table, ‘so enjoy it, lads. Only two more to go.’
They tucked in as best they could in the time allocated to them, which wasn’t much; then, with full bellies, they left the mess hall and walked briskly to the armoury, where they collected their personal and other weapons. These were, apart from the Webley pistol, which they already had, of a wide variety, most chosen by the individual for purely personal reasons and including 9mm Sten sub-machine-guns, Thompson M1 sub-machine-guns, more widely known as ‘tommy-guns’, and Bren light machine-guns. Their criss-crossed webbing was festooned with thirty and thirty-two-round box magazines, hand-grenades, a Fairburn Sykes commando knife, a bayonet, binoculars and some Lewes bombs – the latter invented by the late Lieutenant John ‘Jock’ Steel Lewes and first used in the North African desert in 1941.
Burdened down with their weapons, they scrambled into Bedford QL four-wheel-drive trucks and were driven to a firing range at the southern end of the camp. There, as the sun climbed in the sky and the summer heat grew ever stronger, they lay in the dirt and took turns at firing their various weapons, simultaneously practising their aim and checking that the weapons worked perfectly and did not jam. After a couple of hours, they stripped and cleaned the weapons, slung them over their shoulders, then clambered back into the trucks and were driven back to their barracks. There they deposited their weapons in the lockers by their beds before returning to the mess hall for lunch.
‘The second-to-last decent meal for a long time,’ Jacko reminded his mates, ‘so tuck in, lads.’
After lunch they were marched to the quartermaster’s store, where they picked up their bergen rucksacks, groundsheets, survival kit, including water bottles, first-aid box, tin mug and plates with eating utensils, and finally their Irvin X-Type parachute. Another hour and a half was spent packing the kit into the rucksacks and checking thoroughly that the chute was in working order, then they strapped the rucksacks, rolled groundsheets and parachute packs neatly to their backs, picked up their weapons and left the barracks like beasts of burden.
‘All right, you ugly mugs,’ Sergeant Lorrimer growled at the men, standing before them with his clenched fists on his broad hips, as bombers rumbled overhead on their way to France, ‘get in a proper line.’
After being lined up and inspected by their respected sergeant, who had an eagle eye and a sharp tongue when it came to error and inefficiency, they were marched to the waiting Bedford trucks, clambered up into them, and were driven out of the base and along country roads to Down Ampney and RAF Station 1090. On the way they passed columns of troop trucks heading away from many other staging areas and bound for various disembarkation points along the coast, where the boats would take them to France to join the Allied forces already there. Above, the cloudy sky was filled with Allied bombers and fighter escorts likewise bound for France. Such sights gave most of the men a surge of excitement that had been missing too long, and eased the bitter disappointment they had been feeling at missing D-Day.
‘Nice to know we’re joining them at last,’ Rich said to his mate Jacko. ‘We’ve been stuck here too long.’
‘Bloody right,’ Jacko replied, waving at the troops heading in the opposite direction in Bedfords. ‘And we’ll be there in no time.’
After passing through the heavily guarded main gates of the RAF station, they were driven straight to the airfield, which was lined with both British and American bombers, as well as the fighters that usually escorted them to Germany. Disembarking from the trucks at the edge of the airfield, near a modified Halifax bomber being prepared for flight and the Willys jeeps waiting to be loaded on to it, they were greeted by Captains Callaghan