Cavalry Days

Tank Park Capers Revisited

Having recently returned from another visit to Lüneburg and inspected the barracks again I can confirm that the former tank park mentioned in my blog 'Tank Park Capers' has undergone a drastic change - it has shrunk. Without doubt the overall length of the tank park appears much shorter than I have always remembered it to be. There is only one reason that this has happened. It has been left out in the rain. Obviously in the fifty or more years since me and my tank driver cronies raced up and down, well at least up, the said tank park, a great quantity of rain had fallen. Beneficially, it has caused the trees adorning he barracks to grow to a fair height, while at the same time causing the fabric of the tank park to shrink. Dilemma solved. Sadly, most of the barracks were on my last visit empty and silent. Where the Royal Hampshire regiment once held sway there were signs of activity and bureaucratic industry - some division of local or regional government I was told, now happily beaver away.

Where the 8th Hussars had once cavorted and helped to safeguard western democracy there is silence. No cavalry trumpet calls, not even an echo of one, to force the sluggards from their beds and hurry them to breakfast, the tank park or office. There was a sign of life in the former guard room. Apparently a guardian of the kaserne inhabits that one time spotless, almost sacred domain of the regimental policeman with, however, a different agenda the raising and lowering of the barrier. I am told by my German friends that plans are afoot to develop the whole site into an apartment complex. Maybe Schliefen Kaserne will have a new role in the 21st century ?

Previously, in 2006, I had stayed in the Lubecker Hof, which was basic but quite comfortable, and had been the scene of many an entertaining evening. In those days the place was run by Frau Lubcke and some nights, she or her daughter Heidi would have to remind us - in the nicest possible way of course - that we had ten minutes to get back to barracks ! During my latest visit to the town I stayed at a delightful, family run B&B tucked away behind St Johannis Kirche. Run by a charming couple with a young family, enjoying the friendliness of a German home was the icing on the cake of a worthwhile visit to Lüneburg. And the Earl Grey green tea at Rauno's Cafe was great !

I had this time decided to journey to Germany on the Night Train to Hamburg which meant I left London at 7.30pm and arrived in Brussels when everyone in Belgium had gone home for the night. Waiting over an hour in a murky ill-lit train station for the 11.40pm to Hamburg is not to be recommended - very little train information was available except by closely scanning illuminated time tables and a skill at reading very small typeface. The electronic displays appeared to be dozing. But all was forgiven, when, at 11.25pm 'assorted happenings' took place. The platform escalators rumbled into life, the electronic display blossomed into light and railway staff made an appearance.

Once on the night train it was comfortable enough and the journey to the German frontier was smooth enough to induce sleep. However, that all changed at Aachen! The DB locomotive took over the traction with a great bang and bump and off we went at speed, which increased the sound level while the centrifugal forces on the curves made sleeping a little difficult - to this was added the fact that DB appeared not to be altogether fond of ex-8th Hussars. Every piece of equipment found on the modern electric train, including some yet to be invented, was in my compartment. Even more to the point it was under my bed. Most of the night, with a two hour respite at Dortmund when the train was stationary, I was entertained by a cacophony of hisses, burbles, clunks, rattles and sighs from either the braking system, the air-condition system, the stabilising system and the plumbing in concert or as solo artists. What made the trip endurable was the fantastic dawn I observed as we sped across the north German plain and the rather good boxed breakfast and very good coffee provided by the attendant.

In Hamburg the weather was bright, sunny and warm enough to persuade me to take a trip on a tour bus, which was instructive and enjoyable. I saw more of Hamburg in two hours than I ever had all the time I was stationed in Germany. I blotted my copy book later though, when having attempted to obtain a ticket to Lüneburg from an automatic machine I was defeated by the English instructions. Using my perfect and fluent German that is admired by all, I asked if I could buy a ticket on the train - I understood the answer as 'yes you may' - which was a big mistake. The answer to my question in retrospect was 'no way can you get a ticket on the train'. On the train I was shouted at by a very incensed administrator who was accompanying a trainee ticket collector. I tried to retreat into my stupid foreigner mode to no avail. When she demanded to see my DB tickets, she discovered that in fact there was ticket to Lüneburg in the folder - in mitigation I must say it didn't look like a train ticket it was just a small square of flimsy paper with €6.50 written on it. No destination or name whatsoever. In the event I was shouted at again, this time because I was an old, stupid foreigner. But I was having such fun that the time passed very quickly and soon we were slowing down for Lüneburg - where once off the train, I was to have a great time !

Defending Western Values

Chalky and me were thrown together again one evening in November when we prepared to do battle with the advancing Chinese - or so we thought at the time. The Squadron at the time was situated in a location the name of which I never knew. I doubt that my superiors knew the name of the place, although I’m sure it had a code name of some sort. Maps of the area appeared to be based on surveys made by the Japanese authorities in the nineteen thirties. Quite a lot of the data seemed to be based on wishful thinking - often railways, roads and even villages marked on the map were non-existent, so the 8th Hussars cannot be blamed. I catch myself digressing here.
During the evening in question, the increasing noise from the north of our position indicated that a serious firefight was taking place. Apparently, the Chinese People’s Liberation Army had taken offence at something or someone, and had decided to drive some Brits off the top of a hill or hills - it was either the King’s Shropshire Light Infantry or the Royal Leicestershire Regiment, or indeed both, who had so offended the CPLA. In the ensuing unpleasantness British forward elements were temporarily forced off their hill top positions. This is when Chalky and me were called upon.
As a precaution ‘C’ Squadron was ordered to ‘stand-to’. As a further precaution, which even at this distance in time still appears to have been misplaced faith in my abilities, I was told by Jimmy Marshall (our SSM) to find Chalky and take the ‘spare’ Browning .30 and its tripod, which was secreted in the Squadron Office, to a location several hundred yards above our position. Jimmy was convinced that if we were under any threat ‘ it will come from that direction‘. Our task, apparently, was to hold off any attack by the Chinese long enough to be reinforced by unspecified ‘other troops’.
Finding Chalky was easy, loading him up with tripod, ammunition and hand grenades was a little more difficult. In the end we compromised. Not only would I carry the browning myself, I would help carry the box of grenades. So equipped off we went to defend western civilisation as we knew it. Unfortunately we were stopped after a few yards by a Troop Leader carrying a Bren Gun who wanted to know what we were doing with a Browning. Our explanation gave him pause for thought. He paused long enough to say ‘ Would you care to give it to me chaps, I’m sure I have a better use for it ’ - or words to that effect. He very kindly gave me the Bren Gun, and also a box of magazines for said gun and rapidly disappeared.
We resumed our journey carrying, it has to be acknowledged, considerably less weight, although as Chalky rightly commented ‘ officers can be a bit odd sometimes, a machine gun we have been trained to use, know how to use and have used on occasion, has been taken from us and exchanged for a weapon of which we know absolutely nothing ‘. Maybe not absolutely nothing, we were aware that its calibre was .303 !
Reaching our designated position, we spent eight very cold hours up there. There was a heavy frost and occasional snow flurries which blanked out any possible sight of approaching enemies. The noise to our north eventually reached a crescendo and then slowly diminished to a stillness punctuated by an occasional burst of machine gun fire. From time to time Very Flares would light up the sky. At first light, Jimmy Marshall himself appeared to tell us all was well and we could return to the leaguer. To his everlasting credit he came bearing a large thermos flask of army tea - but of course we had no cups. Later in the morning I returned the Bren Gun to the Armoury, as it was checked in I discovered the magazines were empty. On a hunch I checked the grenades - not a fuse between all twenty four of them. To add insult to injury, the Browning MG for which I had traded Johnnie Walker with a group of US Marines several months earlier , was never returned.

Korea 1951

First light
And roseate dawn pieces spires of
Woodsmoke rising from the village
Fingers of mist cling
Still to the mountain
Hiding in shadow safe
From the sun
The village stirs and children
Laugh by the well
Singing, a man leads his oxen
Across the paddi
First light
And the northern sky is dark
With smoke from napalm bombs
Flickering about the entrenchments
Oily flames burn both the
Living and the dead
Exhaust pipes roar and
The tanks move forward
Howling, a jetplane hurries
Back to its base
Last light
And evening chill lies
On the smoking timbers
Quietly rising mist
Smothers the mountain
Hiding in shadow
Blackened earth and bone
The well is dead and
The village is silent
Dying, the oxen lie in
The scorched rice
Last light
And rows of glistening
Turrets sleep in quiet leaguer
Creaking cooling exhaust and engine
Warm the living in their bed
Whispering sentries
Pace the perimeter
Humming, the radio watch
Sugars his tea


jjt

Employed Tank Commander 1952
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Chalky's Marathon

As far as I am aware the nearest I ever got to being hit by a bullet was in Korea; on a platform of what was left of Suwon railway station. There was a rather nasty war going on at the time so violence was to be expected, but this was up close and personal. Four of us were crewing a Centurion tank that was moving north by train to Uijongbu, nothing fancy of course, just a flat car with the tank chocked and tied on with straw rope. Arriving at Suwon in the early morning hours, we remained stationary at platform two and by late afternoon we were still waiting for something to happen. We passed the time by doing a great deal of nothing, eating compo rations and by brewing tea army style on our petrol cooker. Several United States and two Belgian soldiers had drifted by from time to time to talk to us, look at our Centurion tank and on one occasion to drink tea. He was a Lieutenant from Virginia who happily explained that his family drank tea at home. We gave him some of our British army tea just that moment brewed by Chalky White in which any teaspoon, had we possessed such a delicate and civilised implement, would have stood upright - or melted. Once there was sugar in the tea, our standard procedure was to stir with a small spanner, a 3/16" BSF if memory serves.
The Virginian officer accepted our offer of tea, politely ignoring the mahogany-varnish-like colour, explaining that ‘ my folks drink tea at home, we have English ancestors ‘, as if that was sufficient reason to drink tea. He at least had the good sense to sip the tea he had been given, but even then his face took on a strained, pained look as he swallowed. He took another sip. Then with an understatement his English ancestors would be proud of, remarked ‘ I guess you guys like it a bit stronger than we do back home’ before proceeding, gamely, to finish the mugful. In return he told us there was an American Red Cross canteen on the station where we could get free coffee and doughnuts. Having done his bit for Anglo-American relations he drifted away. Chalky drew the short straw and stayed with the tank while three of us strolled off to find the coffee and doughnuts.
Having sampled the culinary delights of the American Red Cross gratis, we remembered Chalky and fifteen minutes later we retraced our steps along the platform only to find Chalky in a huddle with three or four GI’s. We found him brandishing a chromium plated pearl handled Colt .45 automatic. The gun was up for sale or barter and Chalky having apparently a secret stash of Johnnie Walker Red Label ( news to us !) was ready to trade.
Most of us I’m sure have an inbuilt sense of our own preservation, which under certain circumstances is heightened. Temporary residence in a war zone is a classic example. As Chalky stepped forward to show me his trophy I had the foresight to turn sideways, but not before the gun went off. I have no idea how close I was to the round, but it was too close ! Even though my ears were ringing from the gunshot I still heard the round ricocheting off the concrete platform. The muzzle blast also scorched the front of my jungle greens charcoal brown - which suggested it had been really close, although I didn’t feel its passing.
Chalky really did go white. He stood stock still with a look of bewilderment. ‘ I didn’t pull the trigger ‘ he protested. ‘ I was only holding it ‘. A remark that under the circumstances seemed rather lame. The GI whose gun it was, grabbed it and smartly disappeared down the platform with his colleagues. Having a near miss experience was expected when there was a war taking place and to mention it other than saying ‘ steady on Trooper ‘ would have been thought un-English or even wimpish; in any event notions of counselling were thirty years in the future so little was said of the incident. I did however mentally file the ‘ Suwon Incident ’ away. Flagged and marked pending.
Three months later I had an opportunity to retrieve the ' Suwon File' and act upon it. The four of us were bedded down in a ruined glass factory not very far from Uijongbu, with the rest of the Squadron tanks spread around us. We were tucked snugly in a yard at the rear of the factory. In the yard was a standpipe, from which came forth an evil smelling water. We had been told, yet again, to avoid local water as there was probably typhoid in it, together with other devilish tropical diseases completely unknown to medical science. Now, no-one in their right mind drank water from a tap in Korea in 1951. It just wasn’t done. Well, it was done actually, by Chalky. In the early afternoon I watched dumbfounded while from the said tap, he filled his water-bottle and then drink from it. ‘ Nothing wrong with the water ‘ said he when I expressed alarm. ‘ Had some yesterday, still OK to-day’, and walked off.
Events changed dramatically later in the day. Chalky missed the evening meal, and turned up later looking decidedly under the weather, ashen faced and apparently suffering from the Delhi Trots or Squitters - gentle reader I shall refrain from describing further this illness, a description of which may distress your sensibilities - let me just say ‘it ain’t good’. It was at this time that I recalled the ‘Suwon Incident’ and acted upon it by telling Chalky that he most likely had Asian Aqueous Water Typhoid, which could be fatal. When he asked what could be done, short of requesting immediate evacuation by helicopter to the nearest MASH, I explained that a sure fire cure I had heard of from old Indian Army types was to work up a sweat, and sweat the condition out of the system. By this time several 8th Hussars had gathered to advise Chalky, and many agreed with my diagnosis, some citing the well known fact that in the Indian Army wrapping yards of grey flannel round the body was also a known cure.
In answer to his query of how he could work up a sweat, I further explained that he must run round the factory yard until I told him to stop. He hesitated, briefly, then off he went. We sat down to watch and encourage. I have no way of knowing the actual distance Chalky ran that evening before he came to a grinding halt, sweating profusely and gasping for breath. Maybe for six miles, certainly not fewer than five had Chalky run round and round that yard. With no trace of pity I watched him stagger to his bivvie and more or less pass out. At Reveille the next morning, Chalky was up, bright eyed and bushy tailed claiming he had never felt better and praising my ‘cure’ to anyone who would listen. Odd that.

Unemployed Tank Commander
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The Hell-Hound from the Laundry

As a young member of the brutal and licentious soldiery stationed in Lüneburg north Germany, I was allowed, from time to time, to visit the town unaccompanied. In those day money was not a problem for British soldiers - we had none, or at least very little. The problem facing us when we were let loose, was obtaining value for the little German money we were allowed to use each month. The rate of exchange at the time was about twelve Deutschmark to one pound sterling. Enough it has to be admitted, to get a modest , meal and a few beers or even fewer Dantziger Goldwassers. ( I never did get the hang of drinking that stuff, a sort of gin infused with bits of gold leaf, did one drink it all, or strain the pieces of gold leaf through one’s teeth ? ) However, I digress.

In the 'Lübecke Hof' gasthause I met a German chap who was convinced he remembered surrendering to me after some battle in Normandy or Holland, his memory was vague on the actual geographical location. My memory of the event even more vague, especially as at the time I was about 13-years-old and at school in England. However, my new found alte kamerade insisted on paying for most of the beer before he disappeared into the dismal night, actually the brightly lighted streets of Lüneburg. I was a regular at the Lübecke Hof which was a rather quiet, but friendly, hotel and bar near the railway station. No-one there knew who he was, but agreed he was a bit strange. My store of cash was almost untouched, and I took the opportunity to try the goldwater of Dantzig again. In those days not all German roads were smooth and I remember lurching and swaying a little on the uneven surface as I left the said hostelry. In no time at all, observing the lights of the barracks a hundred yards or so across horticultural allotments and waste ground, I realised I was returning to Schliefen Kaserne (now empty and awaiting development) along the wrong road.

Deciding to cut across the garden colony, what we Brits call allotments, I walked after a few yards into a chain link fence, which was to the best of my recollection was surrounding a compound, it may have been the town laundry - my memory is rather poor regarding what the place actually was. High fences were no problem in my youth - up and over as they say. Between me and the Guard Room lights was another fence, no problems here I thought. Approaching the fence, I was in turn approached. Standing in my path was a large dog, or rather at this time and distance what I thought was a large ferocious dog. I now know it was a wolf ! An oversize wolf. This unusual animal began to growl alarmingly. Its eyes were burning orbs of fiery flickering red. Fire issued from its mouth with every breath. Each time I moved forward the creature slavered and moved closer to me. In desperation I hurled myself at the fence; the hound from hell hurled itself at me. I’m not clear what actually happened, I recall grabbing the dog and swinging it against the fence, before leaping up the fence well clear of the hound from the pit who was now jumping up at me with malice aforethought. Strangely all this action happened in slow motion. In the event I was over the fence and on the road outside the Guard Room pretty smartly. Dusting myself down I strolled forward into the lamplight.

The squaddie on stag at the main gate came forward and asked what had happened. I told him I’d been assailed by a ferocious black dog/wolf from hell which was obviously trained to attack 8th Hussars. He asked about my hands. They were both dripping blood. There were bite marks on my hands which had to prove something ! Inside the Guard Room I was treated with sympathy. People on duty had heard a dog snarling and barking, in fact the thing was still barking. I was duly shunted off to the duty medical corporal and treated. In the excitement, no-one asked what I was doing climbing over a laundry fence to get back to barracks.

The Harp and Crown
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