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It was a cold winters night as the bus drove the final stretch of the long journey from Scotland to the camp in Germany. It had started in Fife with a car journey to Turnhouse airport on the outskirts of Edinburgh. Having been arranged by the Army it would have been too much to hope for a direct flight. The wait in Birmingham for the connecting flight hadn’t been long but had surprised him with the cultural diversity in the airport. Not that it bothered him, but seemed so strange, so close to home.

The bus trip from Munster airport had taken 5 hours and although on a more modern bus echoed of the first time he’d come to Germany 20 years earlier.

Such a lot had happened since then. Two children, almost grown up now, ready to leave the nest, family deaths and near misses. The years had taken their toll. On that earlier trip he’d flown from Luton airport, arriving there by train. In Birmingham, the difference in the people was so marked compared to what he’d experienced before he began to wonder at the changes in Germany since the wall had come down. On the whole he liked new things and people tend to be people. When you started to pigeonhole them it started to get complicated. He’d met enough dickheads from all sorts of backgrounds over the years to work out that there’s good and bad everywhere. You just have to look.

He liked Germans. Unlike most Brits he knew they had different manners, and weren’t trying to be ignorant. But like Brits took their own culture with them, their expectations and aspirations with it. Your average German tends to be more upfront and will tell you rather than hinting that something is amiss. They think it’s rude for you to hint and not just tell them.

The bus turned at the last junction and followed the road parallel with the camp. On the other side of the road they passed a floodlit building. A nightclub he guessed, as he spotted a neon Marilyn Munroe, glaring into the night. A new roadside café was sited next. Camp hadn’t changed much from what he could remember. He’d never been stationed here but had visited on occasion.

Over the next few weeks he settled into a routine in the new environment.
It was hard going, changing from being at home, a wife, two kids and the dogs all vying for his time and all the trappings, to a 10 x 12 foot bunk on his own. Most postings entailed a short separation and during each there were months away from home on exercise, course and tour. This one was different. It would be two years, and the way things were before he left home, maybe forever. He loved his wife but they had had problems. Years of following him from post to post, surviving on her own when he was away, bringing the kids up her way, had given her her independence. He would just have to get used to it. Only two years to retirement, the end of twenty-two years service. Both kids would finish school by then, get jobs and maybe leave home. Even if he went home, home would be different. He would be too. The distance between him and his wife seemed to grow each day. Like branches on a tree, each searching for their own patch of sunlight. Independently heading for freedom, bonded together by the past.

Chapter 1- Welcome to Two Six

Not long after arriving into post with his squadron they were on their way to Normandy. They had to do some donkeywork for the 60^th anniversary of the D-Day landings. The journey down was by coach, for the most of the squadron. Some had gone ahead with the vehicles, leaving a day earlier. It was a modern civilian coach with air conditioning and reclining seats, a video player and all the usual trimmings, a sight better than the normal service coaches. The videos available were fairly old and more suited to granny’s day out than to Squaddies tastes. Eventually the boredom won and a film was selected, and watched half-heartedly to occupy those who couldn’t find the normal soldierly response of sleep. The old squaddie adage of " Why stand when you can sit? Why sit when you can lie? Why lie when you can sleep?" in most cases proving true. The trip was livened up when the coach broke down somewhere in France. As usual the problem occurred miles from anywhere on a long and deserted road.

All off of the coach and onto the grass verge as the drivers tried to fix the broken fan belt. There were fitters and plant operators among the crowd all trying to express their opinion as to fault and remedy. It seemed that almost everyone had an idea and burning need to share. The drivers ignored all and quickly made the necessary repairs, to a glorious cheer. Most of which was probably due to the fact that no one had been proven wrong!

Back on the coach everyone was awake and chatting. The slight lift in moral quickly dissipated with the realisation that we were still hours from our destination, and people started to drop-off to sleep. It was well after dark before we reached the town we were headed to and it took a further hour and a half to find the disused factory that was to be our home for the next fortnight. No time wasted on sorting out sleeping arrangements we found a carpet and unrolled our dossbags* and started out on a few hours kip, interrupted by the usual snoring and farting and general discomfort. No one really moaned, but there was some fallout the next day.

Next morning started with make do ablutions and the usual parade as the Army routine started to kick in. Soldiers were detailed with the myriad of tasks required to set up our accommodation. Sourcing all the kit that was on site and sorting out that which had been brought on the coach. Briefings were given and attended and the information was passed on. The speed at which things were accomplished would seem impressive to most civilians but were complained of as slow by the Squaddies. Still when a Squaddie stops whinging, NCO’s worry, because he’s probably dead!

As people started to explore their new surroundings they found that although in a bust up old French factory, the Loggies§ had already sorted out a cookhouse, bar and laundry facility. The latter being accompanied by a mobile shower tent, complete with his and her timings. One shower per person every other day, luxury!

About mid-day the Green fleetª arrived, their stores unloaded and sorted out. Most people were happy to get active after a day on a coach. The routine slowly

* Sleeping bags § Royal Logistic Corps ª Military vehicles

1

Op Eastern Delight

unfolding. Electricians adapting the power supply available in the building, siting generators where required and running cables to and fro. The chippies building ramps and partitions while plumbers plumbed. Everyone getting stuck in and helping each other, moving quickly from task to task. Soon the temporary camp was ready and the real work could begin. The guys were formed into sections and a list of tasks was given to the section commanders, who then got on to sort out the details and get the guys working. Outside of these work teams were the support element. Whose job it was to provide transport, equipment and stores. Every day more tasks arrived as the other units began to discover their needs, both functional and comfort.

As the Squadron started to achieve sections were sent off on a two-day battlefield tour. Visiting the sites of the D-Day battle and being told of the actions both successful and otherwise of the people and equipment used in the Normandy landings. Pegasus Bridge, Gold, Sword and Juno beaches, and the American hit Utah and Omaha beaches. The Mulberry Harbour at Arrowmanche was still spectacular, even though time and tide had achieved in large part that which the Germans had failed to do.

Juno beach was the important one for the Squadron. It was here that they won renown. They were one hundred years old by then, having been formed for the Crimean War, but too late to deploy and take part in that campaign. During the First World War they had been awarded their distinctive shoulder flash with the number 26 prominently displayed. King George V gave it to them in 1916. Having come across two Engineers digging a trench system he had said, "Are you Sappers?" to which they replied "No, Sir. We’re Two Six!" Admiring their esprit de corps he ordered that their Squadron should always have their uniform marked with 26. The "26 Flash" was born. On D-Day Field Marshal Montgomery’s plan was to send Assault Engineers up the beach ahead of the armour, behind which the infantry would take cover. 26 Assault Squadron, Royal Engineers, led by Major (later Major General) Younger, were to lead the way up Juno beach ahead of a mainly Canadian force. As the modern soldiers gathered around a Churchill AVRE, mounted on a plinth on the beach the Sergeant told the story of the tank.

"That very tank had led the way up the beach on D-Day. One Charlie, Driven by Spr Bill Dunn had moved up through the only natural gap in the sand dunes and came across a water filled bomb crater in its path. The Germans had flooded the crater and a covering of sand hid its depth. The crew decided to carry on and drove into the crater. As the tank quickly sank one of the crew pulled Bill out of the driver’s seat and up through the turret. They all took cover in the sand dunes as the Germans really opened up on them. A mortar exploded in the dunes, killing most of the crew. Bill, severely injured, struggled over the sand dune and rolled down the other side. The Squadron pressed on, using One Charlie as a pier to bridge the crater and allow the advance to carry on. Sometime later Bill regained consciousness and found that he had rolled into a minefield! He crawled away and was eventually casevaced* out. His war was over after only fifteen minutes of action. The Squadron continued on throughout the campaign, suffering many more casualties, both wounded and dead."

* Casualty Evacuated

2

Welcome to 26

As the 60^th anniversary of D-Day approached the workload started to tail off and the guys had a chance to go and savour the delights with a night out in the local town. Most of the Squadron jumping into mini-busses and heading of to Caen while the SQMS* department opted to walk into the local town of Bayou.

In town they found that the beer, for the most part, was Kronenberg, which was on sale in their NAAFI in Germany and nothing special. Seven euros a pint, or "Un bier grand" in French, wasn’t cheap. Normandy cider was the same price so next round was that, a bottle each. Then came a round of pastis- watered down pernod! We were getting the hang of this French malarkey! A few more, of the now more palatable, Kronenberg followed. Ending on a glass of calvados, apple brandy. During the evening the bar had been mostly filled with "bill oddies"§ and a few Frenchmen. The bar staff warmed to the three SQMS Engineers who were actively trying out the local drinks rather than swilling down the beer, and gave them the calvados for free.

Meanwhile in Caen, the rest of the Squadron were having a similar evening, but in a bigger town. One of the sappers was pissed and started to gob off at a full screw. "See me tomorrow." warned the Corporal.

The next day sanctions were handed down from the Brigade Hq, no more drinking in the local town due to the trouble that had happened that night. None of the Squadron had been involved in any of it and nobody knew what had happened. It transpired that young Loggies had been fighting with young medics. Still everyone got the ban. Later in the day a reduction was agreed and we were to be allowed out under strict timings, with a booking out and in system in place.

Once at work the Corporal called the wayward sapper from the night before, "What were you saying last night?"

"Nothing corporal. I was just pissed."

"Well I’ll soon cure that! Get on the beach and get a battle trench dug!"

Baldwin had more sense than to argue, he doubled off to start his punishment. As he tried to dig the sand, more fell in than he dug out it would be a long job.

The workload tailed off as jobs were completed and equipment was handed back in. The guys getting more restless, no chance of nipping off for a few wets due to the restrictions. That night the guys all gravitated to the NAFFI bar, section joined into troops and troops into the Squadron, almost everyone there. The singing began, all the usual bar and drinking songs interspersed with the odd Squaddie tune. Everyone enjoying themselves. One of the sections started to build a pyramid of empty beer cans so that they could play Jenga, the looser would be buying the next crate!

A can flew across the room, hitting the pyramid, knocking beer cans flying. Crazy Ken threw two cans back in the general direction, both were fairly full and bounced down the table, spilling drinks and colliding with the drinkers. One of the full screws started to shout at Ken.

*Squadron Quartermaster’s Department § Squaddie

3

Op Eastern Delight

The room went suddenly quiet as the Squadron stood up. No one said or did anything but they were all ready to kick-off. The original culprit in the beer-throwing incident snuck off in the commotion. The full screw who had shouted, realising the dire situation he now faced headed for neutral territory asking " What had happened?"

" Who chucked a can at our pyramid?" replied one of the Jenga players. The corporal asked around his guys.

"I think it was one of the medics, but he’s gone now!" piped up one of the guys sitting at their long table.

"He’s not one of mine, and was nothing to do with us. He was only sitting at this table because the place is packed. I don’t like having cans lobbed at me, but I do like a game of Jenga myself! I would apologise if he was one of mine, but he’s not." stated the full screw.

Without saying a word the Squadron sat down and carried on normal drinking, breaking into song a few moments later.

Next day the full screw that had done the shouting approached one of the guys. "Why do you lot think you’re so special?" he asked, in a tone more forceful than necessary as he was backed up by another full screw against a lonely Sapper.

" Well, why are you lot here?" replied the Sapper. Without waiting for an answer he continued. " We’re here because our Squadron was first up the beach on D-Day. Most of the guys were first into Iraq last year. It’s our job to be first. We’re not teeth arms, being a Corps but we operate ahead of the advance. Where do you lot work?" as he waited for a reply he calculated his attack, should it come to it, sizing up his opponents looking for strengths and weaknesses. He moved slightly, placing one of his opponents in the middle. Making it one on one for the first move.

"Really! I didn’t know that." Said shouty. "See you around." He decided to move off, disengage, one sapper too dangerous to handle.

With the completion of all the tasks the Squadron moved into the phase that they had come for. Getting ready for the parades and ceremonies that were part of the commemorations. Meeting the locals and the old soldiers who had been there sixty years before. Hearing the stories retold by the characters themselves. The church service in the open air, with the "Inns and Outs", some lawyer TA unit who had also been on Juno made them feel a bit left out and alienated. Maybe some of them had thought that D-Day was all about Engineers. Monty had wanted forty per cent of the invasion force to be engineers. He’d managed about twenty-five. Barely enough. He’d had Hobart (pronounced Hubbard) develop his funnies, tanks adapted to assault roles to counter the beach defences. The Americans had decided not to use any of these, but the Canadian led attack would. The death toll on Omaha and Utah beaches bore witness to the success of the strategy used on the other beaches.

A few hours to kill in town, before the open-air concert in the evening, allowed us to get to the supermarket and get some supplies for the evening. We would be allowed to drink at the concert but had to take it with us, there would be no bar.

4

Welcome to 26

In town as we rubbed shoulders with the locals, tourists and the Veterans we began again to think that we were part of something special. We hadn’t been at D-Day but it was our Squadron that had. Matt had driven the first AVLB* into Kossavo and the first B-vehicle§ into Iraq. In typical fashion the Squadron had erected a sign at the crossing point "26 Armoured Engineer Sqn, Welcomes you to Iraq"

As we arrived at the Church garden that was the site for the concert the locals were putting out the seat and we readily joined in the help them finish quickly. As the band arrived and sorted out their instruments and music, making themselves comfortable on the make-do stage we took our seats on a grass bank. The transport arrived and our refreshments with it. Most of the guys had bought beer, which had been warmed by an afternoon in the mini-bus. Ned had brought red wine, just a couple of bottles and some plastic cups. As the Squaddies called out "Where you goanna get corkscrew here?" He pulled one from a pocket with a flourish. One taste of the warm beer and the others realised the sense he had had going local, calling out for a cup.

The crowd settled as the concert began, sitting in the warm last rays of the day’s sunshine. The music drifting them off, back sixty years. Old soldiers remembering it from then, young ones hearing it, perhaps for their first time.

As the sun set the concert came to a close. A warm and pleasant evening had passed. The crowd began to disperse but the young soldiers hung around waiting for the tractor to reappear so they could re-load it with the chairs.

Next it was time to go to the beach, where crowds waited for the firework display, timed for the anniversary of the onslaught, safely imitating the barrage that had signalled the start of the invasion. As the crowd mulled about restless, a piper struck up playing jigs and reels, responding to the reaction of the crowd. People joined in and danced and started to sing as he played the French national anthem. After a solemn couple of days everyone was ready for some fun. As the allotted time approached for the "barrage" to begin the piper slowed the music down, calming the crowd and he stopped just as the first firework flew.

The display was fantastic; lots of money had been spent on it. Minds were drawn back the real fighting. Imaginations fired in the young, memories in those older. Then it was over. The fire brigade deployed along the beach putting paid to small fires stared where the fireworks had landed.

We stood, the next day, in the small car park next to One Charlie. In the hot early afternoon sun, on parade in our best kit, awaiting the arrival of the inspecting officer. Maj General (Retd) Younger, 26’s OC on D-Day was coming to inspect us. Spr "Bill" Dunn would be Sergeant Major. Before we knew it they were there, it had started. They both talked to every single soldier on parade.

Inspection over we moved into position for another open-air service with the Inns and Outs. As the wreaths were laid the sound of the bagpipes drifted over from the sand dunes. Some recognised the "Flowers of the Forrest" the Army’s funeral march. The service came to a close and we were about to move, as a unit our SSM♦ gave a wave and a shout and the pipes struck up again, playing "Wings" the Regimental march of the Royal Engineers. As we turned we could see it was Ned that had been the piper all along the veterans and in remembrance by their modern counterparts.

*Armoured Vehicle Laying Bridge or Bridgelayer § Un-armoured vehicle ♦Squadron Sergeant Major 5

Op Eastern Delight

We were soon next to One Charlie, for another service. The local mayor was invited to speak in French and English, and Bebbs read out the Squadron poem. Soon flags were lowered as the ceremony came to its conclusion. All along the coast others were doing the same, each of the actions remembered by

After the services were finished we were invited to attend a reception in the local village, on the long walk in the now blistering sun we looked forward to a well-deserved beer and a natter with the vets, and chatted away about the service and the events of the last few days. Exchanging stories of what the General and Bill had said during their inspection.

On arriving at the reception we were disappointed to find that there was no beer to be had, but consoled by the serving of champagne. Those of us who had had it before being pleasantly surprised at the quality. It was most definitely good stuff! The buffet was also excellent, and the veterans better. Telling their stories of capture and escape, fighting and waiting, things going wrong, and luck turning.

One told the story of how he and a chum had been captured by the Germans. They were put on the back of a truck with one guard. They gestured to him that they wanted to smoke, producing a packet of fags. He nodded consent and they offered him one. As he reached to take it they grabbed his arms and threw him out of the back of the moving truck. A few moments later they jumped and escaped to freedom.

Taffy, who had been with 85 Chemical Sqn, produced a mouth organ and began to play and the others joined in song. We did too, on the songs that we knew. Until he played the Corps song, where their words were a little different from ours. Ours was the more PC version. As we explained that these days you cant sing "hold the nigger down, while I kick him in the ribs". They said they could and pointed out one of the singers, who had been the commander of the first Bridgelayer up Juno beach, he was black!

Taffy called out for Ned to play a few tunes on the bagpipes, the party had begun, everyone enjoying themselves. Champagne flowed as freely as the tunes, songs and stories. As the sun went down and the Champagne petered out people headed off. We got onto the truck and headed for camp. Carrying on singing on the journey home.