Open Writing

D-Day and Beyond

June – July 1944

One of the miracles of the war, it is alleged, is that the enemy did not learn the date of the D-Day landings. Nor, until the last minute, did many of the Allied troops who were to take part in the assault. When the details filtered down to battalion level the security precautions were astounding.

Strings of camps, occupying hundreds of square miles, were used to house the soldiers. Some of these camps were established along the Southend/London road. They consisted of a few huts and tents, with barbed wire around the perimeter. There were gaps in the wire to allow access. When these gaps were closed it seemed to the soldiers that they were in prison. Civilian movement near these temporary camps was severely restricted.

The men knew they were taking the fight to the enemy, but many did not know which country they were heading for, or when they would be leaving. As the deadline approached soldiers were no longer allowed to come and go freely. "Day leaves'' in London were no longer allowed.

By the end of May the gaps in those barbed wire fences were closed. No one was allowed in or out except under escort, not even those who who had to go to another camp or to hospital.

Wee Robbie's name was changed again. There was no longer a Big Robbie, so now he was simply known as Robbie. He had been awarded the Military Cross for his bravery in Sicily, when after being wounded he continued to lead his men.

He now held the rank of Captain and was battle-hardened. He knew that something big was under way. The huge numbers of men, vehicles and support equipment, along with the extra-tight security, told him that they were about to be involved in something bigger than had been seen before. An awareness of his new seniority and responsibilites made him nervous.

Only a handful of the officers who had set out for Africa with the battalion still remained. New men had been added to the ranks, the aim being to retain the character of the fighting unit. Of course the new recruits had not come face to face with the enemy, and until they did so it was difficult to assess their determination and ability.

“You can get a really nice chap who seems to be doing well,'' Robbie told his daughter long after the events which were about to unfold. "Everything is apparently hunky-dory, then in the front line he falls to bits. That sort of chap is much happier peeling spuds, though you like to discover this before the action starts.''

Robbie's battalion travelled in stages to the Thames estuary. At the very last minute their pound notes were exchanged for francs. And now at last they knew that their destination was France.

The BBC announced that British parachutists had landed near the Seine estuary at 0700 hours on June 6th. The German radio service was telling of British landings on the Normandy coast.

The only excitement for Robbie's unit as they crossed the Channel was to receive maps which showed the city of Caen and the surrounding area. In some ways the crossing was almost boring. Smoke screens had been laid down to keep the German military from seeing the extent of the landing forces. It was appreciated that the Germans could monitor signals, so the landing fleet kept a strict radio silence. Robbie and his men had no idea whether or not the assault on the French coast was going well. They were carrying an astonishing amount of equipment.

“We were dreadfully weighed down,” Robbie told his daughter. "Of course we were in battle dress - boots, steel helmet, and we carried ammunition pouches, a bayonet and two water bottles. We each had a haversack containing food, another huge pack, a respirator and a lifebelt. The lucky ones had rifles. I was unlucky. I had to carry a two-inch mortar attached to what looked like a horse's collar round my neck. Had anyone fallen overboard they would have sunk like a stone.

"In addition to all this clobber was the latest invention, the 'invasion wader'. This was a most peculiar thing made of green oiled cotton. The seat was fashioned to allow room for the small haversack and waterbottles, along with certain portions of one’s anatomy. These waders were hideous. We all hated them.

"We had two twenty-four-hour packs of food, two days' rations mainly consisting of porridge and stew which had the appearance of solid brick lumps. These lumps magically fluffed up into something that resembled food when warm water was added to them.''

The first beach landings had been made thirty-six hours prior to the arrival of Robbie and his men. They did not know what to expect. They were not fired on or shelled when they went ashore. There was silence, and the grim evidence that many lives had been lost.

It took two days for the battalion to assemble. They gathered in a town called Rivieres, a pretty place. So peaceful was it that it was hard to believe a war was being fought and battles were taking place a few miles away. The weather was warm, and it was pleasant to sleep out in the fields. They lay in the sun, even explored the local area.

Nearby was the River Orne which was to be of strategic importance. Beyond the river were places whose names the soldiers would never forget - Escoville, St. Honorine, and others besides.

The orders to move came on June 10th, and the Orne was crossed on the following day. The battalion was to take up a defensive position at a road intersection near Escoville, a junction which was to become known as the Triangle. They had been warned: "Don't stop for anyone.'' The enemy were hiding in woods. A man would rush out in front of the convoy, holding up his hands. The natural reaction was to stop, but to do so would bring down heavy fire from those wooded areas.

Defending the Triangle was challenging. It was to occupy them for seven weeks. The British held the banks of the Orne, the road, and a ridge. The Germans occupied a plain. Whoever occupied the ridge commanded the area, and the Triangle was the key defensive point.

They spent week after week holdng this point, the whole battalion concentrated in an area less than four hundred square yards. They reached the stage of being unable to remember when they last changed their socks. Of all the woes the Triangle had to offer, mosquitos were the worst. These were more aggressive than the insects the troops had encountered in Africa. There was no defence against them. Battledress, gaiters... These were no barrier if the insects wished to bite. Robbie recalled that one officer was so desperate that he doused his trench with petrol, hoping to detrer the "attackers.'' This chap was found semi-conscious, having inhaled the fumes, and the insects were still biting him.

The battalion defended the Triangle from June 12th to July 16th, Initially the weather was good, and life was beaerable. Then, as exhaustion was setting in, the rains came. Trenches flooded. There was nowhere dry to sleep in. Misery was piled on misery.

Robbie could only hope that they would be eventually ordered to move forwards, and that his men would then be in a positive mood.

***

1988 -1989

Peter was becoming desperate. The family found it increasingly difficult to cope with his needs. Tempers were frequently frayed.

The problem was that he had no idea what to do with himself.

She met him for lunch on occasion, giving him literature that she felt might help. Whether he read it or found it useful she had no idea.

However, an article in a magazine had set him thinking. He spoke to a social worker, explaining that he needed to move on because his parents were finding it too much to look after him.

The social worker was supportive and encouraging, enthusing about several care homes which offered excellent care. Peter was appalled. There appeared to be no understanding of where he was coming from.

Again he tried to explain his needs. "I want my own house. I want you to supply the care which I will need to live in it.''

“How could you run a house with your level of disability? How would you get staff? And if you did get staff, to whom would they be responsible?''

"What I propose,'' said Peter "is that the Local Authority should set up a pilot project. To help me, and one or two others in my situation. We could call it the Independent Living Scheme. I can itemise the hours of care that I need. I am still going out to work during the day. However, I want what I earn to be mine. I do not feel that I have a responsibility to subsidise my own care. In any case I don't earn enough to pay for it.''

His idea was greeted with astonishment.

So, Peter explained that he was of sound mind and had a right to live in his own house. If he was not accorded that right, he intended to take his case to the European Court.

Rarely does one encounter such determination. The authorities did not know what to do. There were hurried meetings. Consultations went on throughout the East of Scotland, discussing Peter's plan.

This was long before the concept of Direct Payments had been thought of. Peter eventually found someone who was sympathetic to his needs, and understood what he wanted to do. The fact that he was also a director of the family firm helped. He was used to sorting out wages and work disputes and managing staff. He had an answer to every argument opposing his scheme. Eventually proper negotiations began.

Coatbridge's daughter only became aware of the part that she had played in the scheme when Peter looked to her to support the venture. She had never heard of anything like it before, and wondered if he knew what he was doing.

Again he was patient.

“I need to set down how many hours of care I need, and what else is required,'' he informed her. “Would you type it up for me? If I can justify the number of hours I am asking for, they will give me the funds and enable me to live in the community. I have to prove that this is a cheaper option than going into care.''

Together they worked out how long it took to get him out of bed, washed, dressed, toileted, hair washed, fed and ready for work. And a similar routine when he returned home from work. The total came to six hours a day, forty-two hours a week.

This was cheaper than residential care, so it was approved. Peter had found two other disabled poeple, a man and a woman, who also wanted to live as normal a life as possible. Neither had relatives to take care of them. Peter drew up documents, and he and the other two formed their own support network.

Then he got cold feet.

Coatbridge's daughter's phone rang one night just as she was leaving for work.

“I’m meant to be moving next week, but I think my mother is going to miss me dreadfully. I might postpone it until next month,” he informed her.

“If you have made plans, stick to them,” was her advice.

However, as the big day loomed closer, the phone calls became more frequent. Eventually they were hourly, and every time he was seeking confirmation that he was doing the right thing.

“What am I going to do?” he wailed. “They won’t allocate the house to me until I have care, and I can’t set up care until I have the house. It’s hopeless.”

“It’s not hopeless,” she retorted. “Play them at their own game. Move in, and then tell the authorities you are an emergency case requiring care.”

So, with a huge leap of faith and several sticks of furniture, he moved out of the family home and into sheltered housing.

She went to visit him that first night. Tears were streaming down his face.

He had managed to obtain help with the moving in. After he had had his tea the care assistant had gone out to make a phone call. At that stage no phone had been installed, and this was the pre-mobile phone era.

When the carer failed to return, he had become terrified, unable even to open the door without help and having no means of communicating with anyone.

“What have I done?” he asked. “What am I going to do?”

She was astonished by both his courage and his fear.

How could someone take a step like that, and then be afraid?

Is fear the spur which hastens us to our goals?