Beach to the Baltic: A Rifleman's Story by Albert Talbot

Author:Albert Talbot [Talbot, Albert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kindle
Published: 2017-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

Whichever way Ron chanced to look, tanks from the armoured brigade were arrayed alongside Brens and half-tracks from the Fifth. This display of firepower, waiting for orders to go, was an impressive sight. A green flare soared towards a rain-leaden sky, and a tremendous barrage rained down on the far bank, advancing with each salvo.

Meeting light resistance, J Support rolled passed their first waypoint, picking up their pace as tank commanders itched to fire their guns. Still reeling from the air attack and now living through a hellish bombardment the enemy’s forward troops laid down their arms in droves, the will to fight seemingly gone from them.

During the barrage, a rogue shell landed in Fresné-la-Mère, destroying a water pipe in the middle of the main road. Within minutes a half-track from 14 Platoon found itself stuck in the hole. The driver, a burly lad from Cleethorpes, cursed as he struggled to right his carrier. As the rest drove by each driver expressed their views on his carelessness. One rifleman with a ready wit said, ‘What’s yer name, mate, death?’

Moments later, the self-same driver, having extricated himself from his watery grave forced his way into a line of stationary of vehicles. Metal scraped on metal as he nudged a Bren carrier out of the way, waving his thanks.

‘We din’t ’ave much fuckin’ choice, hairy-arse!’ yelled the driver’s mate while showing two fingers.

One of the half-track’s passengers turned around and roared, ‘And same to you, Rifleman!’

‘Oh, nobs ta ya uncle,’ Ron mumbled under his breath.

The Divisional General in a black beret and red collar tabs of a brass hat, not happy with the rate of advance had taken the first means of transport to see for himself what was holding them up. His willingness to visit the frontline made Ron think of his dad and Uncle Fred. How different it must have been then, with their staff officers cosseted away in their chateau’s miles from the front, barely concerned with their soldier’s welfare. To hear of a general visiting his troops raised the fighting man’s morale, making him in awe of his leaders.

To slow down their advance they had slaughtered horses and cattle at crossroads, junctions and vantage points where a platoon might deploy. The recent warm weather made it hard to approach them, even with a wet cloth over one’s mouth. Each breath brought a scent of foul decay.

The general ordered tank-dozers to push the rotting carcasses out of the way so they could carry on with their advance. Close on their heels were Crocs who would soon turn them into a mass of charred meat – giving a smell just as bad but with fewer flies.

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