Stoker Hubert | hmsformidable

The Secret Journey – 1944

(Hubert's Story)

Chapter 1 - D-Day Hayling Island, Portsmouth

The 4th June 1944 was to be the day before D-Day. Hubert or Hubie, as we will call him, slumped on the hard stern gunwale, above the sheer strake of LBO51 on that cool Sunday morning, wiping his brow with an oily rag and “sighing from his boots”, as he caught his breath for a while. Hubie often sighed as if life was about to depart him, leaving an air of expectancy in the vacuum seemingly frozen around him, commanding instant attention and projecting a feeling that something dire had happened, which eventually dissipated as the onlooker realised there was no real emergency at all.

At 19, Hubert was already a giant of a man, called to war by Hitler's antics and he had grown from youth to manhood quickly, during his recent brutal training. Standing 6ft 3” in dark blue, petrol-soaked overalls, with a belt full of tools and strong black, steel toe-capped booits, as he always referred to them, he projected an air of quiet forbearance. “Pass me t'booits”, he would petition as he tumbled out of his hammock each morning. Hubie was fresh from No.1 Combined Training Centre, Inverary 1 where he had learned to recognise the difference between a pulpit and a windlass. Hubie was “acting Captain” as he humorously called himself, being the most experienced of the three men aboard, though his rank was really Chief Stoker at that time. A Chief Stoker was the “engine guy” on any ship, and this time his duty was also the secret task of leading a tanker, supplying petrol to Naval Forces, soon to arrive at an undisclosed new port, somewhere off the French coast.

Hubie had read a few Navy stories and loved the old wooden ships and had even managed to have a bell fitted in the wheelhouse, where he hoped to clang every half hour of the voyage they were about to start, probably seeing himself as Nelson or Hornblower. Ken and Gerald had other ideas. Right now, Hubie thought …. '10am, so 1000hrs, Forenoon Watch 4 clangs of the bell'. However, Ken and Gerald were already moving towards the “gunnel” where Hubie grudgingly recognised the lack of need for his bell.

He and Ken had just spent several hours, painting black anti-fouling paint over the shiny new tanks placed into his new boat's hull, Gerald had been messing about with his rope locker.

The 200 ton sailing barge, originally from the Thames, had been converted somewhere further down the coast and delivered to Hayling Island, by a clutch of his Royal Navy colleagues. The This type of Sailing Barge is a commercial sailing boat once common on the River Thames in London. The flat-bottomed barges, with a shallow draught and leeboards, were perfectly adapted equally to the Thames Estuary, and inlets around Hayling Island, with its shallow waters and narrow tributary rivers. The larger barges were seaworthy vessels, and were the largest sailing vessel to be handled by just two men.

Ken and Hubie had the advantage of a third shipmate, Gerald.

They had a steel cabin, with a locker room underneath, some armour plating hastily created atop the cabin area and were fitted with ancillary rudder controls, which completed the new design. The whole Bridge, wheelhouse and new crew quarters were placed where the mizzen mast had been removed in the dockyard. This made some “crew quarters” for their intended secret journey.

Ken was quartermaster and had stashed loads of logistics inside the cabin lockers, groaning with flotsam and jetsam. He also pulled out from somewhere inside the deck cabin, a small cats whisker set and earphones. “Dada da da dah, dah dah dadad da, hummed Ken as he caught a whisper and sizzle of “Love Love Love” by Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians, being broadcast from Hamburg.

The trio of shipmates sat around a hastily constructed coal driven stove, atop the massive tank full of petrol, (no irony there then?).

This unpainted slice of tank was the last section that needed painting, but only a few hours to go. The unpainted segment and the total wheelhouse structure was situated on the stern of the boat, currently berthed alongside the quay in Langstone Harbour. This is the centre of three linked harbours on Hampshire’s southeast coast, with Portsmouth Harbour to the west and Chichester Harbour to the east.

The name of the barge had long been painted over as a “war strategy” and the new “name” LBO51 (Landing Barge 51) seemed insufficient. The three crew settled upon “Libby” as a temporary name. When the nameless Barge had been requisitioned 2 and repurposed it was equipped with a single cylindrical 40 ton, 9,000 gallon tank, now full of petrol. Hubie knew this, because of the Secret Admiralty papers he had been issued with and also because of the signs. Before delivery, the matelots had painted two huge white plywood sheets and mounted them on the deck. These had been painted white and then the word …. “P E T R O L” had been written in big black lettering, followed by 80 octane. Strangely, Hubie mused, this camouflaging did not seem such a great idea.

He was however, more enthusiastic about the barge and engines he now had to look after. The barge was 85ft long, 23ft beam, around 4.5ft draught. The Admiralty had refitted dozens of flotillas of these old barges with two lend-lease American Chrysler 130hp marine petrol engines, each. Hubie knew engines inside and out, so was not worried by the mechanical aspects of his responsibility.

These big blue slabs of moving parts were his bread and butter

Navigating, however, a different ballgame. Along with “leading” the barge, came the task of navigating and Hubie was to launch into the Solent at 2200hrs and swing East towards Boulogne. As soon as he cleared the Isle of Wight, his course would be more or less SSE, but veering South after 5mls in a declining curve, to ensure he did not end up at Le Havre, where he would have quickly been despatched to the bottom of the North Sea. By German guns at Caen.

Hubie's actual destination was a new beachhead (to be named “Sword Beach” shortly before he was to get there - Confusing or what?). Sword Beach was a strip of sand, some 10mls wide, to the West of Oustreham. So Hubie, with only two days “Navigating 101” training at Inverary, was on his own, piloting a small boat across the English channel for over 120 miles, among seven thousand other ships and boats towards a destination which had not yet been built or named and was currently under enemy control. - Simple?

He was part of Overlord – The largest seaborne invasion ever known to man – LBO51 was technically sailing with 35th LB (S&R) Flotilla, though because the relatively tiny engines that had recently been installed, were no match for heavy currents, they could only push the boat full of fuel, at a meandering average of four or five knots. Most of the time, the trustworthy old barge would chug along more or less alone. The rest of 35th LB (S&R) Flotilla including almost another 100 LBOs were setting off at various different departure dates, times and locations, many of the barges might never meet another ship.

A heavy load had been placed upon Hubie and many young men like him, as more than two million Allied soldiers, sailors, pilots, medics and other people from a dozen countries were involved in the overall Operation Overlord, the battle to wrest western France from Nazi control that started on D-Day.

Thus we join Hubie, Ken and Gerald on their odyssey to Ouistreham, 123mls at 5 knots at best, ready to slug it out against a mix of lazy swells to Force 6 gales expected over the next few days. They were due to set off at 2200hrs on the 4th June and the “real invasion” was to start at dawn on June 5th. The delay was to ensure that the battleships, destroyers, frigates and most of the rest of the seven thousand ships and landing craft involved in the landings would arrive before the tankers, kitchens and supply vessels. Hubie and crew would of course be grateful not to arrive early, before everyone else. (No fear of that, as it turned out).

At 2000hrs Jun 4th, Hubie received the telegram from The Admiralty. “There was a delay to Overlord. STOP 24Hrs further to wait STOP” Another heavy sigh, as his disappointment settled in.

The barge was now thoroughly painted in greys and black, almost camouflaged against the seas, except for the “PETROL” signs designed to indicate to Sword Beach, boats and ships, where to sail and top up with petrol. Along the quayside where they waited to leave, LBO34, another barge, had their own telegram. Hubie led his crew to meet and greet the sister ship's crew, as LBO34 was headed to the same area as LBO51 and looked identical.

Sunday dwindled into dark and the trio hardly slept at all. Occasionally they daubed a few strokes here and there on their beloved charge, now christened “Libby” and the area below the mizzen deck, under the temporary cabin, was tidied up and checked for the umpteenth time. Hubie ticked off the Naval list he had been given … Rations, petrol for their own engine, water, spare overalls, Navy underpants, best uniforms, flares, flare pistol, 900 gallons of potable water, Ammunition for the Twin Lewis .303 machine gun mounted on the bows, flags, life jackets (which for some reason were never unpacked), first aid kit and extra bandages, syringes full of stuff to use in an emergency, a couple of ship's manuals, a bag of coal for cooking. the ship's log …. the list seemed endless, but was checked and treble checked by Monday dawn.

Some idiot ahead of them caused a panic, by fire testing their anti aircraft gun across the inlet. The three shipmates had decided to wait, until out at sea but were confident, having had a whole two hours training on the Twin Lewis, while in training in Scotland, the previous week. Stories were swapped all day Monday, cigarettes were passed around while ashore, though very discreetly as MPs were strolling past the barges ever more frequently. Cigs and matches were to be dumped before sailing … with their barge, floating amidst a cloud of petrol vapour, this was not a bad idea.

The men compared girlfriends photos, discussed their local football clubs and heroes, talked about Austens and Wolseleys, decided what should be done after they won the war and berated the Yanks for their loudness, some of which could be heard singing in the distance at some gathering or another.

“Iah they hauners3, raet enough, but if I ever get dunt wi' a bullet in this war but”, giggled Ken, “it'll be a wee nyaff4 bloody GI Jo dizit but”. The thought sobered them for a while, though soon shrugged off as they faced what was to come with nothing more than a little training, some cheese sarnie's purchased off the dock and a bottle each of BBB (Brickwood's Brown Brew, brewed in Portsmouth)

They had been on the barge almost a week now and already a helpful cameraderie had developed between the three. They each knew how to push each other's buttons and which buttons not to press. Hubert especially was a seemingly mild mannered guy, but he was a tall, strong 6ft lad that you wouldn't want to argue with. Ken (Jock) on the other hand was a tiny loud Scot, always ready with a ribald remark, but took care not to provoke his shipmates.

They all agreed that, after they won the war, they would “keep in touch”. The talk ran to childhood pets and friends, adventures, books they had read, jobs that they desired, filmstars they admired, radio shows that they listened to and of course, music mostly big band favourites.

And so began `` the Greatest moment in History, the day wore on and the intrepid friends steeled themselves for this new adventure. An adventure that may end in death, denial or destiny and a day that inwardly they wish was already over.

Monday June 5th midday and air raid sirens sounded. “Bloody 'ell, Ah tis Dreich, if yon fankles look daern t'see this lot aer soitheach, the buggers'll know we ganna gi em a wee dunt”. “I think what he's trying to say is that we may soon be found out, Boss”, sounded Gerald. Hubie looked earnestly skyward, reaching for the binoculars they had been issued with. Ken sqinted at the horizon over towards the East … “Gizza swatch at them binocs Boss?”

Minutes later and an “All Clear” released the surmounting pressure in the air and LBO51 crew continued their card game challenge with the next barge. Gerald was temporarily AWOL, as he had run off into town to find a phone to call Betty, his wife, before he sailed. Hubie worried, not that he would remain AWOL, but if the MPs caught him before he got back, they would be a crew member short. Thankfully he saw the gangly youngster nearing the quayside.

The minutes passed, the hours dragged. No more hastilyy scribbled messages to notify delay. It seemed that D-Day was definitely ON for 6th of June .. and so it was that after 2200 hours, along with a raggle taggle team of similar barges and slow boats, the various LBOs, bounced around in the swell of Hayling Island inlets and out into the Solent and beyond.

At first, in the confined inlets, the main task of all three was to shout at other boats, flash lights and aldis lamps and mainly just keep from hittiing one another in the moonlight, heavy swells and windy squalls. Hubie's navigation was hardly required yet, as everyone was roughly headed in the same direction.

Out to sea, a myriad of small ships, surround Libby and the occasional frigate passes by with a “whoop Whoop”, flags flying and guns gleaming in the moonlight. It was hard not to feel an exuberance and an optimistic air hung over the whole channel. The little engines had started right enough, but an occasional “cough and gurgle” worried all the crew as they pushed the throttles to maximum. They moved so slowly against the tides, undertow and swells, that Ken groaned “Ah cum a ho, at this wee rate, bloody war'll be o'er before we git hae”

Hubie giggled and toddled downstairs to the engine compartment for the first and last time, (as it turned out) to check on the hoses, tighten a few screws etc. Even now, at the very start of their journey, the jockeying for position and bouncing around in The Solent had caused the petrol sloshing around in the tanks to increase the pressures in the main tank. The pressure relief valves spewed out a vapourised cloud of petrol which enveloped the barge. Even with the fitted flame arresters, the boat was still a cruising bomb. An engine compartment explosion and thus a barge explosion was a serious threat. From that moment on, all three comrades ate, slept and spent all their time atop the deck and only Ken ventured below decks. Better to be blown off the boat than die trapped inside it.

So three heroes, chugging along on a windy Monday night, barely seeming to move against the sea's motions, with the wind assisting in slowing down “Libby's” journey. Monday turned into Sunday and the weather seemed to worsen. A few planes and gliders circled, then departed eastwards from above their heads.

It was impossible to see the planes above them and Lancs sounded same as Sterlings, Halifaxes etc. Spitfires and Hurricanes were yet to pass by. Ken swore that he saw a gaggle of Horsa Gliders silhouetted by the moon, passing by clouds to the South West, being towed southwards to who knows where.

Approximately 0100hrs on D-Day and the sky darkened and a steady thunder arose in the night as hundreds of bombers flew overhead. Someone was going to get a severe pasting. Fighter plane escorts buzzed around the bomber squadrons and added to the cacophony. Meanwhile at sea level, a Force 5 gale blew up from nowhere. Gerald chided, “At least no bugger will be expecting us in this weather”. (As History shows, he was right. The few Germans who suspected an imminent attack, were either ignored, ridiculed or admonished).

0200hrs and things are getting serious. Over a thousand bombers can be heard above them and the noise is deafening. “Dizna think that wee daftie Hitler can stop a doin naw”, remarked Ken, admiring the massed forces.

0300hrs and serious fighting is beginning at Ranville, as British airborne troops drop ahead of the main invasion. But largely the Germans are still unaware of a real threat. The US faster boats had long since passed Hubert by. An impressive lot of ships armed with huge rocket launchers and big guns. Dozens of the faster LTCs had whizzed on past Hubie, not that they knew.

Most of the men inside the LTCs were feeling seasick. Our three heroes however were more seaworthy. Sealegs supporting tiny Ken in a sturdy stance, he stood, shaking his fist at the moon, shouting into the wind “Awa youse wee fuglies, tha dinna wanna clash wi me. Gizza square go ya bampots but”.

In the opening maneuver of the Normandy landings, about 13,100 American paratroopers from the 82nd and 101st Airborne Divisions, then 3,937 glider infantrymen, were dropped in Normandy via two parachute and six glider missions.

Thankfully, but unknown by the LBO51 team, Caen was currently being bombarded by the RAF. Panzers are waking up to the alarming threats around them, more and more paratroops float down on black silk chutes, far out of sight of “our” bargees. Circling on the horizon, just out of sight, the rapid S-Boots of the Kriegsmarine and various submarines were sniffing around but spotted nothing. They went back to their bases and as they debriefed, there would no doubt be red faces when they heard the news.

Hubie struggled manfully with the Lee boards as he slid past the Isle of Wight and headed approximately SSE, actually whereas most of the divisions heading to Sword beach were coming from Newhaven, Hubie was initially on a heading 165 degrees for 3mls according to his charts supplied by admiralty. But already, his odometer was acting fitfully and he was unsure just how far he had come.

Spotting some Canadian flags flying atop the destroyer HMCS Sioux as she flashed by, Hubie adjusted his course to follow. Bad move on his part really, as Sioux was headed to Juno beach. Behind the destroyer off to Hubie's West, sailed a magnificent range of landing craft cargo ships and minesweepers. Gerald got a fright when HMCS Prince David, an armed Merchant Cruiser swept past the stern, too close for comfort. “Bloody 'Ell Hubes??? with five thousand ships in this corridor, it'll be a miracle if you don't hit one of them”.

Hubie struggled with his binnacle and wheel, pushing the rudder hard against the punishing briny to maintain his heading.

Libby's bow soared up into the dark skies, then crashed down into the trough, smashing the sea into a dark green foam. Froth smashed around the hull in every direction. It seemed as though the world, all its ships and weather was contriving to make life difficult. The force 5, now increasing to Force 6 gale was keeping visibility down to a minimum. Now to Eastwards, silhouettes which Gerald looked up in the silhouettes booklet, indicated that more ships from Newhaven approached running more or less parallel to the barge.

Ken shouted “Mines to the East” and went to uncover the Twin Lewis .303 in case he needed to shoot out one of them. The mines drifted on by, tethered by heavy wires. The journey continued.

Hubie now calculated that he had reached “Piccadily Circus”, 5

At approximately 0340hrs HMS Belfast coasted past, her big guns dipped, as she rose and fell in the heavy swell, but outpacing poor Libby. It did not help Hubie, that HMS Belfast seemed to be travelling in a wide arc around him, but then that was the point of Piccadilly Circus he supposed. He dropped his bearing to 170, as he was aware that his path to Sword beach was in a described arc and not a straight line. All the ships were happily travelling along similar curved routes, all with a destination along the same fifty mile stretch of coast.

As Hitler slept in Berlin, little did he know, Hubie, Ken and Gerald were coming for him. Although at present, D-Day fighting was mainly inland as the fifteen thousand troops already landed by parachute and glider, started their war. Over a thousand sadly had already finished theirs, mainly due to faulty glider drops and navigational accidents causing paratroops to plunge into freezing cold watery areas, where the Germans had flooded fields to delay attackers. Also wooden “hedgehog spikes, pointed skywards around sensitive targetsing gliders and soldier's bones alike.

Suddenly HMS Belfast and two ships with her (Bombardment Force E), swooshed past Hubie. Hubie adjusted his helm again and followed. But the destroyers quickly disappeared over the horizon. Still the droning overhead, bombers and massive paratroop planes fought with the sounds of the crashing seas.

0350hrs and time for a cuppa. Ken had prepared Thermos flasks and a hot brew was really welcome in the gripping cold of the North Sea, though far ahead, it looked even choppier. Sunrise was not until 0557hrs. All the biggest ships seemed to have disappeared from view and most of the smaller ones were on the horizon. Another LBO, an LBV and LBK were all milling around behind Hubie, presumably as lost as he was.

The red ensign fluttered from his stern, as he plunged the barge again SSE using a “best guess” approach. In their way, the barges following, more or less did the same, though mostly being lighter than Libby, they were gaining fast. Not much happened for the next hour.

An exhausted black backed gull, flopped on the deck in front of the cabin, under a lifebelt and Gerald cradled him in his arms as he brought it to the relative shelter of the wheelhouse. “For Heaven's Sake Gez!!! throw that ruddy thing overboard, you'll jinx us entirely” screamed Ken. Hubie motioned to the warmer engine room as he corrected “That's albatrosses, man!, …. At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.” … The rhyme of the ancient Mariner, we did it at school? Anyway, this is a sickly gull. “Pfft, I wouldna wanna eat it … t'bugger lives on seaweed” grunted Ken. “Fish”, corrected Gerald.

Eventually the gull hopped back on deck, from its warm but noisy home and thrashed its way into the winds again. After which, nothing really happened for ages. Ken found more of his Navy thermos jugs and issued piping hot soup, with some bread rolls he had stashed. “Says here in The Lancashire Evening Post”, spouted Ken, as he dragged himself on to a ledge at the back of the cabin, “MAX HERMAN is on at 5am?”. He looked at Hubie enthusiastically. “5am Ken ?, here let me look”, snatching the paper away from Ken, “Hubie took his concentration away from the helm and defeating Hitler, to check the paper. “Daft beggar it's 5PM, you ninnycompoop!”

And so the passage of time was dulled by trivia and monotony, each man's thoughts mostly his own, as they struggled on, Hubie correcting the course to 168 degrees, forever fighting the wind and tides. Around 0510hrs they started to hear “Cruump”, “Cruummp” in the far distance. Force E and the big United States ships had started their barrage.

“Well, they'll fluffing ken the nae?” asserted Ken. “Just hape we dan bump inta yon wee Tirpitz the nae but. Ya bet she'll be hoppin' mad” … “Think the RAF has Tirpitz banged up in a Fjord somewhere, Jock”, settled Hubie.

Right on cue, 0557hrs and the sun rises. peeking over the atlantic horizon scattered with ship silhouettes. Hubie takes a fix and makes some notes on his chart. In every direction the trio look, they see ships. Looking Eastwards, all sorts of reflections bounce off glass and shiny surfaces, somehow reassuring. “Well at least we are still in the Channel, I suppose

The barrage is still crumping over the Southward horizon. The wind has dropped to a passable Force 2 and Libby is chugging on nicely, almost achieving a slow walking speed. “Keep yer eyes peeled for an asparagus stick 6 ' chirped Ken, as chipper as ever.

“Breakfast ??”, Ken continued “Lovely porridge”. “Ugh !” opined Gerald, cold porridge … luvly grub I don't think. “Nae danger“, vouchsafed Ken, “I ha'e a special stove”. Gerald looked at Hubie. Hubie looked up at the disappearing stars above and with eyebrows raised he enjoined, “Oh GOD, what's he done now … he'll blow us up. I'm sure of it”. Ken dropped below the deck, scuffled around in the engine room and came back with a pan of boiling water. “Courtesy of Chrysler Marine”, cajoled Ken, “Simple Y'nae, pan o' watter above 'yon glowin' manifold. “Eggs and Bacon to follow? And some armoured cow to help the porridge 7 “

Gerald and Hubie thought to themselves “What would we do without him”, but didn't say it. No need to get sloppy about it. “Hmm, a proper Battle Breakfast 8 Ken, Thanks”' intoned Hubie. “weel, it's sa dreich ootside, we deserve a wee treat”' joyfully returned Ken in his deeper Jock style. The other pair just nodded appreciatively.

0600hrs So many LCTs have passed by that it seems the world is heading to France for their jolidays. The weather had brightened further and now, as planes passed overhead, Ken and Gerald passed their time idly competing to identify them. Thus “Bristol Beaufighter” rang out from one side of the ship, “Mk 1, or Mk 2” would come back from across the tanks. “ Hampden” assured Ken, “Halifax” countered Gerald, “It's a Lancaster adapted for bunkerbusting” finalised Hubie.

0800hrs. Noises continued to drone above, when Ken unusually quick off the mark, leapt forward to the bows, springing over the tanks and grabbing at the waterproof covering of the Lewis Guns. “Stuka bloody Dive Bomber”, he screamed. Gerald. Half asleep refuted “Nah …. too shrill”. Ken's answer was thankfully drowned out by a screaming siren, as indeed a Stuka Dive Bomber appeared 15,000ft above them bearing straight towards the 'stupid ship with the big white flag on it' … “How stupid are the British.?” thought the young pilot Eckhard.

Fortunately for the barge, the youthful pilot, in his eagerness to attack, had put his nose almost vertical. But his 350mph attack speed had literally placed him North of his target by several hundred feet, so now he was attempting a 180 degree roll, so that he could line up again at nearer 70 degrees. But all this brought him lower and he still had to prime his bomb, check his guns etc. He was flying solo as his rear gunner had never been replaced, following his last encounter over the channel.

However down below, Hubie dropped the speed, slamming the throttle down and placing the Chryslers into neutral. He prepared to dive overboard, although he did not relish the dive and wondered just how big an area would be engulfed in flame when a 550lb bomb, hit 9,000 gallons of fuel. “Jump over”, he admonished Ken, “You'll never hit it and he has cannons pointed at you too”, Gerald was already tying himself to a lifebelt, as he had never learned to swim. Ken shouted over the noise of the siren, “We two swim like haese bricks, ya git in't sea !”

The siren moved ever closer. Ken was the mathematician … at 550mph, thats about 8 miles a minute and looking up, he had another 12,000 feet to drop. That's … “Awwwh darnn it …. abaht 30 seconds I reckon”. Ken pulled the Lewis Gun pistol grip trigger and swung the davits vertical. A stream of .303 bullets pierced the blue sky, split with 1 in 5 tracers.

Eckhard was so busy controlling the dive that he was not ready to fire or aim his wing cannons. So all depended upon the bomb and at this speed he would be “greying out” as he turned the dive, so he had better hit the damn tanker below, as he would not get a second chance. As he turned he would almost pass out and that stream of tracer bullets zipping towards him, would cut him to shreds at a few hundred feet. However he had trained for this and straightened his nose in a tighter aim towards the white flag, which he now saw was even more stupid, a PETROL sign, which could almost be seen from the clouds.

Stukas dive at 550mph, Spitfire Mk4s drop at an equally impressive 620mph. Lucky then, that at the same time Ken looked up and saw the Stuka, from about 8,000 feet away and crossing towards Normandy at 6,000ft, was Arnold Hampton in a brand new Spitfire Mk4. Arnold saw the impending situation, weighed up the chances of the barge's survival and guessed rather than computed, the shallow angle dive needed to create a triangle, between stuka, barge and spitfire, which he accurately completed and deftly turned upwards during the last few seconds of the stuka's dive.

10 seconds, 9 seconds, Eckhard the German Stuka pilot was just about to press the bomb button and turn upwards when he spotted a pale blue and green blur below his right wingtip. He hardly had time to breath “Verdammung” as a swathe of 50mm cannon shells sliced his cockpit in half and the Junkers 87 disintegrated in mid air. At least Eckhard had time to press his bomb button, albeit 5 seconds early.

The spitfire sped on, almost stumbling into Ken's line of tracer shells. Only with seconds to spare, did Ken realise what was happening and let go of the trigger. However Hubie had not jumped and Gerald stood frozen in time. All three watched as a dull grey 550lb bomb traversed an arc from the exploding stuka, down towards poor Libby's exposed deck.

Only at the last second did Hubie react, throwing himself back towards the helm, pulling down the thrtottle and yanking the stern hard to port.

This however, was far too little, too late and the barge had started to move, but had perhaps only veered a whole three inches starboard when the bomb sunk below the waves just short of the bows. A muffled explosion and a lot of bubbles sixty feet aft of the barge almost two minutes later, gave testament to “Lucky Libby's” survival.

Arnold, did a victory loop around the barge, waved from his cockpit to both the barge and his adversary whose wreckage was sinking below and then turned to fly back whence he came. Each Spitfire only holds 14 seconds of fire from its wing mounted cannons and Arnold had just blown about ten of those. There was no point in continuing his mission with only 4 seconds of fire remaining, so he radioed ahead for replenishment back at his home base.

“Phew!”, remarked Ken, “That was 'mense ! … Why didn't ye jump?”, scowling at the wheelhouse. Hubie mused “There didn't seem much point, I couldn't have cleared the blast zone I don't think and at any rate, we are a team?” … “Aye, and a Cap'n must go down with his ship, Eh? ….. Who's for a second breakfast ?”. Gerald looked in awe, confused and more than a little relieved as he started to untie himself from the three lifebelts that he had gathered around him.

1000hrs. “We should be halfway there by now?” queried Hubie. I wonder when we will see the coast if we are 70mls away now. Ken popped his head up from the engine room to announce …. “d = Horizon distance in metres equals the constant k, 3.5 which is multiplied by the Square Root of the height above sea level that you are looking from. So we are onboard, say 18ft above sea level …. 6metres which is foreign language for yards. That makes it about 9 miles by my reckoning ?” Hubie and Gerald gave each othger that look again, between astonishment and disbelief.

1140hrs. Following a plume of white smoke and an orange flare, Libby and crew picked up the remaining crew of a downed Avro Manchester floating in the channel. Flight Lt Reemer seemed pleased to be aboard out of the cold North Sea, however, the signs of petrol slopping about on the deck near the tanks did not give him confidence and phrases like “out of the frying pan into the fire”, kept flitting through his head. He and his crew were pleased when Hubie dropped them off to a hospital freighter, cruising in the opposite direction taking wounded back to blighty, several hours later.

1600hrs. Ken was preparing tea. Buns and sandwhiches. Hot tea with milk and lots of sugar. Gerald was winding ropes and stowing away. Hubie was at the wheel. When alongside came a dark shape … panic almost overtook Gerald and Hubie as only they could see it under the water, but before they could shout Ken, a snort of white/green frothy spume identified the dark shape, not as a mine, but an inquisitive humpback whale.

The whale seemed to enjoy the attentions of the sailors and stayed for quite a while, having its nose scratched, staring eye to eye with Ken, slapping its tail and soaking the three friends. Eventually a much larger version of the whale showed up, presumably the first whale's mum and they swam off together. More settled now, the three took it in turns to sleep. One asleep, two awake, just in case. Seabirds, Stukas, Airmen, Whales … What next.

And in the “blink of a whale's eye”, it was dark again. Between Hubie and Ken, they calculated they were between 30-50mls from the beachhead. They often saw lights now and flashes, but most of the lights were searchlights or ships talking to each other by laldis lanterns etc. Occasionally someone would borrow Ken's cat's whisker and earphone and less occasionally they actually heard some muffled music or a comedy show.

And so passed the evening. Until sometime around midnight, there was a shriek from the bows, where Ken was on lookout, but in reality was snoozing a little. His horrified face said it all, as he stared, mesmerized looking down at his first bloated corpse. Looking up, Hubie could see the outlines of cliffs and beaches, still several miles away, but nearer to Libby, as far as the eye could see, there were bodies floating face up, face down, or partial bodies, arms, legs, torsos bobbing about in the mild midnight swells.

There were also boats upside down and boats sunk, hull down, barely visible below the surface, but with aerials, tubes, ropes strew across the surface. Note to self, thought Hubie …. Many miles of this to navigate without twining a hawser around my prop, or chewing upp some poor woman's husband. Ken and Gerald were tentatively pushing away bodies bumping along the side of the barge, with boathooks.

They soon came across more boats whose crew's unsavoury job it was, to retrieve these bodies for burial, before fish and sharks made a feast of them. Fumbling around in the darkness, or at least by moonlight and flashes of shoreline explosions, white upturned faces in their long last gaze to the heavens.

Hubie cut his speed to just enough to manouevre and took the best and quietest path that he could between these poor souls who would know no more pain. Several miles further and worse was to come. In amidst the boats coming and going from ship to shore, explosions ripped the night air. Just as bad, was the spluttering water identifying machine gun and heavy calibre shells ripping under the water, firing at some unseen adversary.

And amid these waters, more bodies, but now some of these bodies were unmercifully still alive, wounded, sobbing, crying, in delerium or denial, some with awful gaping, mortal wounds and some limbless or seeping slowly to death. Gerald, Big softee Gerald was already dragging bodies on to the deck, sobbing and chatting to the dead and the dying. He looked at Hubie, imploring “We gotta do summats Guv?”

Hubie was minded that the War Office and Admiralty rules, said that in no circumstances must the missions fail, by returning to help injured … they had been quite explicit. This certainly applied to men running up the beaches, but Hubie could not help think that this did not apply now, so long after the initial assault and he approved of Gerald's request. “Throw some rope loops overboard so guys can hang on” he commanded and slowed the boat to a further crawl. Then, leaving the engines in neutral, he started to claw at the dying in the water. Around them, rowing boats, lighters, rafts and dinghies did likewise. And so onwards to 7th June found the three amigos, lifting helpless soldiers, sailors and airmen from the waters of France, loading up the rowing boats and smaller craft. The barge took on the look of a Dfelhi train, with wounded perched everywhere atop the boat, maybe a hundred men in total.

By 0600hrs June 7th as daylight became clear and only smoke hid Libby from the shore, along came a Lieutenant who in short order, commanded the barge crew go complete their mission and “stop buggering about playing doctors and nurses”, before they got sunk by the shore batteries still in existence here and there along Sword and Juno. (Not to mention the occasional passing German aeroplane that buzzed around until shot down)

So 0800hrs found Libby, limping to the quayside at Ouistreham, because the little Chrysler engine that had got us this far had taken a bullet somehow among the snipers and stray ammo flipping about. Gerald tied up the barge ahead of another identical LBO in front of us and the crew went ashore in search of a beer, leaving Libby in the hands of a couple of MP's who they bribed with the cigarettes they could not smoke anyway.

1The No 1 Combined Training Centre (No 1 CTC) was located on the remote shores of Loch Fyne in Scotland. Its contribution to the war effort cannot be overstated. Its prime purpose was to train army and navy service personnel in the use of minor landing craft for landing assault troops, supplies, ammunition and weaponry onto heavily defended enemy occupied beaches, with RAF support as required.

Around 250,000 service personnel from the Allied Nations passed through the training centre from 1940 to 1944, of which up to 15,000 were billeted in the area at any one time. They subsequently put their training into effect in Norway, North Africa, Sicily, Italy, the East Mediterranean, France, Holland, Burma and even Madagascar. The training provided at Inveraray made all these historical events possible, including D Day.

The navy base, HMS Quebec, was part of the No 1 Combined Training Centre. The name was chosen because of Captain Wolfe's Combined Operation to capture the Abraham Heights at Quebec.

Churchill and his planners knew that an entirely new approach was required to reinvade enemy occupied Europe. There were no convenient ports to disembark the hundreds of thousands of troops with all their supplies, vehicles and equipment. Furthermore, any beaches thought suitable for a landing, would be heavily defended.

The reinvasion of Europe would need a well trained and equipped amphibious invasion force, of overwhelming strength. It required to draw on the best resources and practices of the three services, working closely together as a unified force. For the amphibious phase of the operation, the training task was Herculean in the numbers to be trained, the diversity of the training and the design and procurement of specialised equipment.

2Requisitioning - In April 1942, with America in the war and the Russians in desperate straits, Winston Churchill was pressed to agree to a small landing and holding operation in France around Brest or Cherbourg in late 1942 (operation "Sledgehammer"), followed by a main landing (operation "Round-up" in 1943, later "Overlord" in 1944). That same month, Lord Louis Mountbatten was appointed Chief of Combined Operations, and apart from continuing with the raids on Bruneval (radar station), St Nazaire (potential "Tirpitz" dry-dock), and Dieppe (reconnaissance in force), started planning for the European invasions. With so few purpose-built landing craft available for what would be a largely-British operation, one of his first tasks was to requisition 1000 ‘dumb’ (unpowered) Thames lighters. They were to be fitted with stern ramps, towed to the French coast by minesweepers and beached using tugs and launches. Many were later engined and armed. "Slegehammer" and "Round-up" were soon cancelled, but by the time of the Normandy landings in June 1944, 400 barges were to take part manned by 3,500 men. Making up only ten percent of total amphibious vessels, their role was nevertheless of major importance. Apart from providing fuel, water, prepared food, repairs and maintenance to the many hundreds of landing craft serving both the American and British beaches, their specialised cargo-carrying and beach-landing characteristics meant they moved immense quantities of supplies from ship-to-shore.

3Hauners When a stairheid rammy breaks out, there's often someone who offers 'hauners' (handers) to help bolster one of the participating sides. (A Stairhead Rammy is a fight in Glasgow tenement)

4Wee nyaffA particularly irritating individual, usually a child or someone smaller than you. Example: "Dinnae bug (bother) me ye wee nyaff"

5A large gathering area codenamed “Z”, nicknamed “Piccadilly Circus”, was located 30 kilometers south-east of the Isle of Wight; the allied armada then split into five convoys heading for their respective landing beaches through five channels previously opened by minesweepers

6Asparagus Stick. A submarine’s periscope

7Armored Cow. Canned milk. Variations: Armored Heifer; Canned Cow “

8Battle Breakfast. A Navy term referring to the heavy breakfast of steak and eggs commonly given to sailors and Marines on the morning of a combat operation.