Cold Winters' Day in Germany Frontlines
The following account was recalled by my Dad from a story told to him years ago by his Grandpa (Date: Unknown; Exact Location: Unknown).
One evening we were awoken by a loud whistle and a colossal bang. It was our call to 'GO, GO, GO'. Up and away we went, ice crunching under our cold wet boots. I recall a group of around 25 soldiers being instructed to move to the west and approach the river. Supplies were on the way.
"Supplies for what?" he thought. Was it food? Was it weapons? Was it some new dry clothes? The anticipation was heightened amongst the men and the buzz of excitement was evident. The mood lifted and the pace picked up. "Only six miles left troops," came the booming voice of the leader (perhaps a sergeant?). Six miles sounds a long way but when you had covered hundreds of miles the week before, it felt like nothing. Laden with a rifle, a rucksack, a jerry can (an empty fuel can) and a tin hat, it was a walk in the park.
Directions were flying in through the radio and the troops were approaching their destination. The rumble of vehicles in the distance, the eerie sound of the tank's tracks breaking the muddy roads. Ice was upon us. Was this friend or foe? We all hit the deck on command and waited for the all-clear from up ahead.
"ALL CLEAR," the same voice boomed. We pressed on another hundred or so metres to our long-anticipated destination to collect our supplies. The supplies - it was wood, tools and sheets of metal.
"Trades gather round." A group of six men stepped forward, Grandpa included. "We need to get this convoy from here to there (pointing over the river) in the next 10 hours. " IMPOSSIBLE!" The convoy had at least six large vehicles and five tanks to get to the other side. They could see both up and down the river and, a short distance upstream, a collapsed/bombed bridge. "Why not try to rebuild the bridge?" I asked Grandpa. No way, that could blow our cover. The road led into a small village/town which was due to be bombed from the air in 10 hours and the convoy had to make it into the village straight after this had happened to gain control of the area.
MISSION IMPOSSIBLE. Grandpa took the lead and began to design a way to hold the weight and make this doable in less than 10 hours. This design was drawn with a stick in the mud and people who knew about weight and strength had their input. The six large vehicles were packed with soldiers - many hands make light work. They all got to work moving the supplies from the truck to the water's edge. The water was around four feet deep and bitterly cold. The teamwork required for this plan to come off in such a short space of time was unbelievable; everyone had to play their part. Structures need to be placed in the middle of the river, soldiers taking turns to enter the water to hold beams and planks in the correct place then retreating to the Rovers to get warm again. Time was passing quickly and the structure of the bridge was taking shape. Around four hours before the air strike Grandpa recalled a soldier saying, "There is no way on God's earth that this will be done in time. We will have to find another way around or we will all be stranded here and open to attack from the Krauts."
Undeterred, Grandpa was adamant that his design and plan were going to work. On they went, banging, nailing, screwing and wading. It was taking shape. The bridge was completed with around 30 minutes to spare, and the first vehicle was emptied (apart from the driver, the crash test dummy!). Over the initial three to four meters of the bridge, it was holding! Slowly the vehicle moved forward. Creeks, moans, pops and bangs all from the wooden structure and the bridge swayed under the weight of the Rover. "The Bedford is going to go," they cried. It was swaying to the left and about to tip into the water. Quick thinking from the driver (or what could have been described as stupidity) saw him put his foot down and he took off forwards to complete the 15-metre journey to the other side of the river.
Quick thinking was then required. The tanks must have weighed double the Bedford so it would not hold. With what supplies were left another 'tradey' had a plan to secure the bridge. The strike was only minutes away and the troops had to be ready. Back in the water they went. Soldiers up to their chests with long lengths of metal and wood propping up the 'weak' side of the bridge. Rocks from the riverbed are being used as anchors, tools and support mechanisms. The next few vehicles flew over the bridge. The first tank made its way onto the bridge and the noise of the wood was unbearable. Poised around four metres onto the bridge it started to lean left again. The tank stopped and no escape was possible at speed.
This is the part that amazed me. No less than 40 soldiers, who in 10-15 minutes time were going to storm a village, entered the water and physically held the structure of the bridge as a group. The tank creaked and groaned to the other side followed by the rest of the convoy. The unbelievable and seemingly impossible task had been a resounding success. Dusk was upon the group and the cover of darkness was the sign that the strike would be imminent. Minutes later (he described this as feeling like hours) the sound of aircraft overhead became closer and closer. A message through the radio sounded, muffled in the distance: "2 minutes to contact."
All hell broke loose. What seemed like a dropping of hundreds of bombs, but which was only around twenty to thirty, sounded out what seemed to be around a mile away from where they were. The command to advance came shortly after. All the troops moved as one, lit only by the light of the moon towards the bombsight up ahead. The devastation in the village was clear to see and the troops were advancing through the streets. The houses, streets and roads full of burning debris allowed the soldiers to see where they were heading and finally complete their mission.
There is a reason my grandpa told me this story from his experience in the war. Number one - because I was interested in the war and the part he had to play in it. Number two - the love he had for music and playing the cornet in a band. I had started to play the trumpet at school when I was around Year 4 and had taken my trumpet to show my grandparents (and play them some inaudible tune like "Three Blind Mice" or "Ode to Joy") and grandpa went into the loft to get his own instruments out.
In the loft, he collected a nice leather case and a tatty-looking old wooden box. This box is the reason for the story he told me. Inside the box (made by himself, a day or two after the events described above) was a German-made trumpet. This looked different to my trumpet and had valves that were side-on, and it was played what seemed to be sideways. This trumpet had been found on the floor outside a music shop that had been hit by one of the bombs and Grandpa had picked it up and cared for it until he had returned home over a month later. We had some fun playing these together and, to my surprise, the trumpet from Germany still worked and I got to play this instrument myself.
