Trafford Publishing: Tales of a Tankman: Between the Battles

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Tales of a Tankman: Between the Battles

by Neil J. Stewart

152 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #02-0104; ISBN 1-55369-291-8; US$17.50, C$19.70, EUR14.50, £10.00

Tales of a Tankman describes what happens to soldiers between the big battles (many of which have been described elsewhere) and what incidents happen to the soldiers while still at the sharp end of the campaigns. These short stories tell the answers for one tankman in Europe.

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about the book      about the author      Chapter 10      catalogue info

About the Book

The tales in this collection of short stories indicate that not all the fighting took place during the widely chronicled major battles of World War II in the North-West European campaign. There were other struggles and other activities which engaged the time and interests of a Canadian tankman while living at the sharp end from D-Day to the final armistice.

About the Author

Neil J. Stewart, B.A., LLB, served as a tank crew member and later as a crew commander with the Canadian Army through the Northwestern European campaign. Travelling overseas in mid-war as a reinforcement after reaching military age, he was just in time for the training for the assault on Normandy.
Also by Neil J. Stewart:
Steel My Soldiers' Hearts

Chapter 10

Last Days in Germany

    The end of the war in Germany, so long hoped and prayed for, brought another set of problems for the Regiment, albeit much more desirable and a great deal easier to solve. What happens to the Regiment and all its men and equipment, once its primary task has been fulfilled? Where does it go and what does it do while awaiting dispersal orders from headquarters? With everyone's attention focussed on fighting the war, little attention had been given to the vacuum that inevitably followed when the war suddenly ceased. In the longer run, there would certainly be plans that had been carefully worked out, at the upper levels of the army, but at the regimental level, for the immediate future, heads were raised in doubt as to, "What do we do now?"
     For the Canadian Grenadier Guards, the Tech. Adjutant had been keeping his eyes open, and had spotted a large aircraft supply depot which the Germans had built near Bad Zwieschnahn, a place where the entire unit, with its vehicles and equipment could be accommodated until further notice from Brigade Headquarters. MacLean and all his colleagues were pleased to turn into the entrance of the depot, park their tanks or other vehicles in a large open area to one side, and head for the barrack buildings and hangars, where they proposed to set up shop.
     After unloading the bedrolls and other gear that the soldiers had come to consider amenities, including their large pack sacks, mess tins, cutlery, and a few other odds and ends, the men appropriated spots for themselves in the barracks. They stayed together in troops and squadrons of course, not just because that was the order from above, but also because the friendships built up and nurtured during their fighting days were chiefly with the men with whom they lived closest. The attrition in the squadrons naturally brought in a lot of newer faces in place of the "old standbys" who had fought with the Regiment in its earlier battles, so there was the usual "getting used to" one another, as the personnel of the Regiment were brought up to full strength again. Although some of the new recruits had never heard a shot fired in anger, and lapsed into open-mouthed silence when the stories started between the older members of the unit, all in all, the new men integrated well into the ways and customs of their new home in the army.
     MacLean and his colleagues, whether members of his own tank crew or from other crews, felt strangely about their new environment: the new attitudes of their officers; the unearthly quiet that seemed to surround them; and the novel experience of walking about without side arms or a machine gun on a sling over their shoulders. The habits of many months of keeping a sixth sense alert for incoming shells, of hearing guns roar in the background day and night, of shouted orders from commanders in dire situations, and of just seeing the signs of strain and stress on the faces of the combatants as they walked or ran about, had become parts of their lives, and it seemed almost eerie to exist in a totally different environment where these things were missing. MacLean was certain that no one wanted the old ways back again, but it did take some getting used to the new circumstances.
     The change of receiving their meals from the Squadron cooks, instead of preparing the same old compo rations over a fire in a primus stove, was a greatly appreciated improvement in life for all the tank crews. No.1 Squadron was blessed with some imaginative cooks, who amplified the ordinary diet provided by the army with fresh vegetables, eggs, and meat gained in trade with the farmers. The large cans of Hunter's soup provided in most of the boxes of rations for tank crews were among the least enjoyed by the Canadians, but they became excellent trade bait in negotiating with farmers.
     Furthermore the troops enjoyed a certain amount of trading advantage with the German citizens in any event, because the latter were never certain of when they might be arrested or forced into some losing situation by the victorious army settled in their midst. While Ken MacLean was with the Regiment at Bad Zwieschnahn, there were no instances of outright robbing from the local citizenry around them.
     These were the days of draconian orders given to all Canadian troops, condemning fraternization with the civilian enemy around them, later much relaxed, but initially adhered to and strictly enforced. Women stayed indoors most of the time, and any soldier planning on a liaison with a girl during this epoch, was a fool, or a gambler, or both. Suspicions were rife that many of the civilians were still active Nazis, ready to lure one of the hated but triumphant occupiers into a trap at any time from which he would not return. And of course there were instances of exactly this sort of thing in some of the larger cities of the Reich, uncommon but true, and these were enough to keep the rumour pot boiling.
     Voluntary tours around the depot where they were billeted brought MacLean and his friends to some curious finds. One large and isolated concrete building contained a huge supply of flares, of which the Germans had made extensive use in all of their campaigns. In another wing of this building were stored hundreds of aviation cannister bombs looking ready for use, that the Luftwaffe used to drop at night over areas where they believed enemy troops had dug themselves in, like the early days in Normandy. When the cannisters were dropped, they released great numbers of small ball-like bombs which rolled in all directions before exploding. These were wicked instruments to roll into slit trenches on top of men crouching or sleeping there, for there was really no protection from them that Ken had ever heard of. They were a devilish contrivance that fortunately was not widely used after the campaign in Normandy.
     Only a short time after occupying the aircraft parts depot, MacLean was told by his troop officer of a number of strange and mysterious radio communications being made in their area. The talk was in German, and some of the hearers probably made too much of it, in light of the general suspicions of sinister activities among the people anyway. But searches were organized, using members of the Regiment, who rode about in some of A Echelon's trucks. Ken MacLean was in charge of one of these search parties. They were sent out to look for large and powerful radio transmitters, military equipment, weapons or serviceable ammunition in the houses within about a ten mile radius.
     The searches were reasonably popular, as they gave the soldiers a pretext to enter a lot of homes to satisfy their curiosity, and to "liberate' a few items that caught their fancy, although looting as such was strongly prohibited. Thus, a number of dress daggers with the swastika engraved on the scabbards, dress belts with "Blut und Thre" on the buckles, S.S. helmets, war medals and similar impedimenta changed ownership. The chimneys of the farm houses often contained ingenious side-compartments in which beautiful hams and bacon hung for smoking in the peat smoke of the fires in the stoves, and there is no doubt that some of these delicacies found their way to the Squadron cooks and then into the stomachs of men who had not tasted such things for a long time. But overall, the amount and value of purloined goods was not significant; there was no organized looting; and although the farmers complained, they were probably thankful their losses were really meagre. The searches produced very little of interest to the people who ordered them.
     In all of this, there was one exception. On the third or fourth day of the search by MacLean and his group, they passed a cluster of entirely ordinary and modest farm dwellings in a tiny village nestled near the highway. But in the centre of this cluster, and partly concealed by it, was an entirely different structure. Here stood a markedly up-scaled type of home, covered with modern stucco instead of the almost uniform faded brick. Its second storey extended well above the other houses around it. Simultaneously, several of the men in the truck said, "Well; what have we here?"
     "Stop the truck," Ken called out. "We want to see this place. He must have been a 'somebody'."
     The initial knocking at the handsome front door brought forth no response. Irritated, Ken sent four men to the rear door, with instructions to get in, even if they had to force the door. They brought a crow bar with them, but the occupants saw what was developing outside and quickly opened the front door to reveal that someone was inside after all. There were two disgruntled females inside, but the most interesting occupant by far was a tall, middle-aged man, well dressed but with a hard face and an overbearing aspect to his every move. His hostility at being disturbed was unmistakable, and he displayed no intention of allowing admittance to the group on his front step. MacLean had the advantage of having Harvey Kerbs, a gunner in another tank in his troop, along with them. Kerbs had a rather halting command of German but better than no acquaintance with the language at all. MacLean had Kerbs tell the irate owner of the house that he was about to be put under arrest if he didn't shut up and get out of the way of the search. Meanwhile, the searchers brushed past him and into the various rooms of the home, while the owner simmered and shouted to the frightened women who had taken refuge in the kitchen.
     "Look at this," said Jack Sutherland from MacLean's crew. Jack produced from a closet a full dress uniform of an officer in the Hitler Youth Organization, complete with boots, belt and Nazi insignia on the forage hat. "He's no ordinary farm boy out here. He was an important guy, I'll bet."
     "Come in here, Ken, Take a peek at this," called another voice from another room. They had found a large radio receiver and transmitter combination by a desk they had opened. "Perhaps this guy was a part of these strange radio communications that our operators have been hearing lately. I'd like to know just who the hell he was in this neighbourhood."
     Near the radio installation, in the same room, was a wall safe, mounted on an inside wall. This quickened the interest of the searchers, and MacLean indicated to the still bellicose owner that he wanted to see inside the safe. This was met by a vehement refusal, followed by another volley of abuse in loudly expressed German. The violence of the German's response piqued the interest of the Canadians. There might be something of real importance in the safe, they imagined, something which reinforced their determination to see the inside of it.
     "This guy hasn't got the signals straight yet," said MacLean. "Kerbs, tell him that I have a tank down the road which will damned soon blast that safe open, and most of this part of his house too, unless he opens it as we are asking. We can easily bring a tank over and fire through the window, if he wants it that way."
     A babble of talk began between the owner and the women of the house, following which, amid weeping from the women, the owner, still looking blackly at MacLean, spun the dial on the safe.
     After all the wild speculation as to what might be revealed when its door finally swung open, a sigh of disappointment followed the revelation of the contents. A few harmless documents seemingly related to the ownership of the house, were disclosed, along with some other totally innocuous papers, but nothing of the sort of document anticipated.
     "Why the big fuss about opening the safe, if this is all it had in it?" wondered MacLean. He thought it was probably only the owner's great indignation against these riff-raff looking in his safe at all. The search was continued throughout the house, but nothing further was discovered of any military interest to Ken and his group. Nevertheless, the existence of the radio equipment was sufficient to cause his internment by the Military Police later that afternoon, after MacLean's report was made to the Intelligence Officer. He was taken away in an open truck by the Military Police, along with several other questionable characters picked up by other groups. As obstreperous as ever, he disappeared down the road, but MacLean never heard of him again.
     It was while walking idly behind the storage buildings of the aircraft supply depot that Ken MacLean and Mel Davy, a friend from another tank crew in the same troop, began to dream great dreams. There had been many tales told, some of them even true, about soldiers digging in freshly dug holes and uncovering buried valuables looted by the Nazis in their marches across Europe. When MacLean and Davy spotted some very recent digging in the soil close to the rear wall of a building in a particularly secluded location, avarice took over from common sense. They thought of valuable jewellery, scarce weapons which might be valuable in a trade with some of the rear echelon men, or even money being cached away in the pit they had discovered.
     MacLean and Davy grabbed shovels from their respective tanks and surreptitiously returned to the freshly dug spot behind the building. As visions of all sorts swam in their minds, they dug swiftly in the earth, sweat appearing on their brows as the hole rapidly deepened. Speculation between them ranged from concealed weapons, their first choice, to objets d' art, a close second preference.
     When they had dug to a depth of about five feet, they both perceived, only slightly at first but rapidly intensifying, the unpleasant smell of excrement. The unpleasant realization came over them that they had dug up the back-fill over what had been an old toilet, deeply and properly buried by the previous occupants of the depot; a regrettable but unavoidable fact.
     Disappointment quickly yielded to embarrassment, and then to outright laughter, as they realized how they must do everything possible to keep this venture a secret between themselves alone, and so it has remained. The hole was quickly refilled and the shovels returned to the tanks. Tales of buried treasure in farmers' gardens were henceforth listened to with an even greater scepticism by Messrs MacLean and Davy.
     The last undertaking of the Grenadier Guards toward changing the shape or face of their surroundings at Bad Zwieschnahn was the building of a swimming pool. This sounds like a large and ambitious project, but in reality, it was a quick conversion job which was suggested by some member of No.1 Squadron, as they sweltered in the heat of a very warm summer day, looking across the top of a massive air-raid shelter which had been constructed by the Germans in close proximity to the buildings erected there. It had been built of reinforced concrete, like most other German construction projects, and would indeed be a suitable swimming pool if the heavy concrete roof could be removed. The cement stairway leading down into the shelter would also be useful for a pool.
     Many of the members of the Squadron wanted nothing to do with the heavy work of breaking concrete to expose the so-called pool beneath, and of course it was entirely a voluntary project. But MacLean, Nelson Erle, Kid Nolan and a few others were determined to go through with the plan, and spent hours in the warm sun swinging heavy sledge hammers and heaving on crow bars to remove the top cover of the shelter. After several days of tiresome and exhausting labor, the last of the concrete cover was broken up and removed, and a narrow wooden walkway was constructed around the pool to protect the swimmers' feet. Water was run in, and the pool would soon be ready for use.
     As mentioned, the weather was extraordinarily warm for north Germany at that time of the year, and the prospect of having a swimming pool of their own offered great appeal to the Grenadiers. The first few dives into the water were refreshing, but the swimmers had to admit that the water was surprizingly cold; so cold that no one wanted to swim for any length of time. Also the lack of proper circulation of the water in the pool soon convinced the proud builders that they could not use the pool for long before the water would become foul; too foul to be used as a recreational swimming pool. Therefore the dream of their own private swimming pool vanished from the Grenadiers' minds, and all they had to show for it were some well-blistered hands and aching muscles in their arms. They were all prepared to confess that there was more to building an acceptable swimming pool than just a cement tank and some water.
     The conclusion of the war proved a mighty stimulus to the soldiers' time for thinking about what they were doing; what they wanted to do with themselves; and what the future might hold for them. A great many had interrupted their educations to join up. The D.V.A. benefits had certainly not been framed at this early date, so there was very little guidance as to what extra training or teaching might become available, although it was a subject of much discussion among the men.
     The war in South-East Asia still had to be fought and won, and this was the destination toward which many of the troops were leaning, particularly when they learned that it would be their own Regiment, the Canadian Grenadier Guards which would be the armoured regiment in the brigade being sent from Canada, under the leadership of their much-beloved commander, Lieutenant Colonel Amy. MacLean, along with a number of his colleagues, volunteered for this service, and were told that they would soon be sent away for renewed training.
     Among many of the remainder of the troops, their decision was that they had had enough fighting for a lifetime, and looked forward to leave and a return to Canada and home. They had no interest in preparing for entry into Burma and fighting with the Japanese, although some of them suspected it might come to that in the future, if the Japs proved as tough as they had in the past. In the meantime, they hoped and prayed that among those supposed to have all the cerebral powers around the army, many would be thinking of leave for the troops.
     Leave had indeed been a scarce commodity for most soldiers since landing in Europe. There had been extremely few opportunities to enjoy the companionship of women by combat troops. It was always "hurry up; we've got to go on to the next objective," or "stand your places, men; we've got to hold this place no matter what." And now they were in Germany where fraternization was absolutely forbidden until further notice, "because these are the enemy all around you." It made for a pent-up feeling that women had been eliminated from the combat soldier's life, and it was true too.
     Married men in particular missed the sex, love and companionship that they had enjoyed with their wives in the lives they had lived together before the war separated them. If they had any children, it was even worse, for they could be seen peering longingly at dog-eared photos of sons and daughters whom they had never seen. Chilling drafts of fear touched many of them, when they realized that perhaps, with a little bit of luck, they might be home seeing their wives and children within a month or two, after an absence that had stretched over years; almost an eternity. Would their unknown children warm to these strange men who came to live with them? Would their wives still love them, though they were different men from the ones who left years ago? How well would they adjust to a civilian life after years in the army? These were a few of the questions that ate at the minds of married men, who, to all intents and purposes were consumed with happiness when the fighting ended and still answering roll call without a care in the world.
     MacLean, like the majority of the Regiment, was still single and unattached, thankful to be clear of the concerns which were already eating tentatively at the married men, and pleased that these were not concerns of his. Many of his counterparts could see leave as little more than a trip to a large city: Brussels or Antwerp for example, where sex and drink became the chief, indeed for many, the only interest until the leave ended. Others looked forward to the leave that they had been promised in Britain, as a marvellous break in their military service, during which they were able to go and do what they individually wanted, as long as their money lasted. MacLean was one who had really spent very little time in London, or even in England before being transferred into a series of active training camps which led up to his being shipped to France on D-Day. Thus there were any number of interesting places for him to visit.
     London was an immense mystery, but a pleasant one, to him as he travelled with various of his friends, not always the same ones, from their common hostel to different parts of the city to gaze open-mouthed at scenes from the picture books of his childhood, now revealed in reality before them. The damage suffered by London during the blitzes was also apparent in certain areas of the city, but they were surprized at how quickly the residents had made the best of life and its possibilities in their outlooks in the few months since the fighting had ended. The city was still almost an armed camp, as thousands of military uniforms from every branch of the services and from every country still wandered about Oxford Street, the Strand, Regent Street and so on, waiting to get back home and take up their lives. But it was still London: the greatest city in the world to them.
     MacLean even decided upon a brief visit with a friend of his to the small community of Edmonton, England, after which his home town had been named, really more as a sentimental journey than a purposeful call, just to be able to say to himself that he had visited the old community after which his much newer home town had been named, if anybody cared. Although there seemed to be no shortage of young and attractive females with time on their hands, both within and without the services, attending dances and sizing up the crowds in the pubs, MacLean never did see "the right one", nor was he ever "in the right place at the right time", it appeared, as he watched the days of leave allowed rapidly vanish before he had to report back to Aldershot Barracks for further movement orders that would take him to his training and preparation for the Burma campaign. Thus, no romance ever seemed to have a chance to bloom in Ken's life, but he didn't seem to mind at all.
     Men who had been attached to various of the support units, or other services, frequently found themselves settled in a particular town or location for sufficient time that they became acquainted with the residents, and particularly the female population in whom they would be particularly interested, both in Britain and in the Continental towns through which the Canadian Army passed.
     Many a romance bloomed between Canadian soldiers who had been stationed for some reasonable length of time in a town, with the girls with whom they became acquainted. Both men and women were of the marriageable age, so it was not surprizing. Even in Europe where the language differences tended to cool the ardour of some troops, but most certainly in Britain, where many Canadian troops had spent months and years in individual communities, living among women as interested in romance as themselves, the girls waited anxiously for the end of the war that separated them from their loved ones. These were the cases in which leave was most desperately awaited.
     While the camp at Bad Zwieschnahn continued, and the leaves so earnestly desired were still postponed in the future, the evenings became the "story hour" for the troops sitting idly about, waiting for the army to do something with them. Out came the tales, some of them fables from start to finish; and others absolutely true stories of the experiences of the veterans of the European campaign, recounted and related around the firesides in the evenings. Not surprizingly, the vast majority of the tales were told by those with longer experience with the Regiment, but there were some related by soldiers with shorter careers, who had had strange happenings in their service lives too.
     The presence of other men who had been present when the events that were talked about took place, guarded against outright prevarication by some who would and could concoct a wild story, frequently featuring themselves in a starring role, if given an opportunity to run off at the mouth.
     Certainly, the talk varied from one extreme to another, as these talk sessions began after the supper hour in the evenings: from the latest jokes; the gossip about what was currently rumoured in the Regiment, to talk of wives and girlfriends at home or abroad, to petty complaints about food, or lodging, or the treatment of some situation by an N.C.O. or officer. This trivia was heard and ignored by the rest of the men when it became the topic of conversation. But the tales of what had taken place always had some listeners, and the younger and more inexperienced of the troopers tried to hear whatever they could when this became the subject of the conversations. Names and events that had been long-forgotten, were revived and relived by the men who had seen and known them.

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