Led Soldiers:
The Second World War Diaries of a Royal Hussar
By
Doug Mayman
‘Going down a road with open spaces and woods on either side, one is faced with the dilemma of either keeping one’s head out of the turret looking for enemy tanks, mines, guns or bazooka-men and risking the sniper, shells and machine gun fire or keeping well down in the turret out of the way and risk not seeing the bazooka-men. Personally, I go into action with my head out’ (Doug Mayman: March 31st 1945).
Led Soldiers reproduces the authentic diaries a member of the tank regiment, the 15th /19th King’s Royal Hussars. These diaries provide a day-by day contemporaneous account of the author’s conscription, induction and training, leading up to his experiences under fire as his regiment fought their way through France, Belgium, Holland and into Germany. The fact that it follows swiftly on the heels of the very popular blog of the First World War solider, Harry Lamin, is, as you will see, a pure co-incidence. Apart from the distinct focus on the Second World War, this blog differs in two other major respects from the Harry Lamie one. Firstly, while the Lamie entries are drawn from correspondence from the front, the Led Soldiers blog will consist of day-by-day entries taken directly from the diaries and span a period of eighteen months. Its second distinctive feature is that while we are entirely happy for people to follow this blog on a daily basis, for those of you who are less patient, the diaries are also available in book form from "Authors On-line" (see link at the top right of the page). If you have an older relative who also served in the Second World War and endured similar experiences, it may well be that the book version will have greater appeal to them. The choice is, of course, yours.
An introduction to the diaries
The last entry Douglas Mayman made in his war diary was on Saturday 21st April 1945. How is it then that this two-volume diary has re-surfaced over sixty-two years later? Over most of this period it has lain, neglected and forgotten, in his loft. Some two years ago, when engaged in a rummaging exercise, he rediscovered them, dusted the volumes down and presented them to his surprised daughters. The family perused them and decided that they should be published in some form.
Doug Mayman was conscripted into the Army on September 3rd 1942. He decided to keep a diary on November 5th 1943 and his daily entries began on November 6th 1943 and continued until his return home from Germany on leave on April 21st 1945. These daily entries are preceded by a brief retrospective account of the first fourteen months of his army service. The diaries consist of two substantial, hardbound volumes and, notwithstanding their sixty-odd years of neglect, they remain in excellent condition. On opening them, the first thing that strikes one is the handwriting. Done in pen and ink, the style is uniformly elegant and clear. No doubt, such consistency would deserve to pass without comment had these diaries been written in the comfort of a study, but given the varied and, at times, primitive conditions under which some of the entries were made, this quality is quite remarkable. If, having to contend with onerous physical circumstances were not enough, some of the entries were made in the immediate aftermath of his friends and colleagues being killed or being badly burnt or suffering shattered limbs. The level of self-discipline and control involved in keeping this account can best be illustrated by reproducing an extract from the second diary; one that was written in the aftermath of a particularly traumatic episode. See Figure 1.
Figure 1: An extract from the diaries that introduces a particularly bloody episode (for an extended account of this incident see Chapter 37:19th October 1944).
The diaries were written with a fountain pen and, therefore, once he had put pen to paper the entries were irrevocable. And yet, in the whole of the two volumes there is only the odd word crossed out and not one passage rewritten. The only retrospective elements that appear in the document are a few salutary notes in the margin that were made during the course of the war and were always dated. The fact that he has resisted the temptation to tamper with the text is not only admirable in itself, it also testifies to the fact that at no point did it undergo retrospective editing. At no point has he attempted to rewrite history. Apart from the opening months, his experiences are related on a daily basis in a matter-of-fact manner, while wrestling with what, at times, must have been a spectrum of emotions that ranged from the trauma of dealing with bloody battles and bereavements to interludes of boredom where the war almost passed him by, interspersed by fleeting visits to the cinema to relieve the tension. Over these events hangs the all-consuming wish to be done with it and return to the normality of home life; to pick-up the threads of his previous existence and pursue the personal and career aspirations that were so abruptly suspended by the onset of war and his conscription. As the war in Europe drew to a close, the heightened anxiety that the author experienced is something he undoubtedly shared with the vast majority of frontline troops. The imminent defeat of Germany only served to heighten their feelings of trepidation. Would they survive intact to enjoy the fruits of peace? It doesn’t take too much imagination to empathise with the mental turmoil experienced by men who were already battle-weary, when they are informed that leave is due in a few weeks, but in the meantime they must go back into action.
The survival of the first diary was secured by the author’s decision to take it home on his final leave before his embarkation to support the earlier D-day landings. The survival of the second diary is little short of miraculous. Firstly, it spent most of the time the author was on active service in the alcoves of a number of different tanks that suffered various degrees of damage. The risk of it being destroyed, along with the tank and the crew, was never far away. On one occasion, when the crew were forced to bale out, the author returned to the smouldering tank to rescue his diary. Clearly, what he may have begun as almost an academic exercise had come to assume considerable symbolic value to him. Even if he didn’t survive, he wanted to leave behind some kind of imprint. The second threat to the diary’s existence came from his own-side. While some of his fellow troopers were aware that he was keeping a diary, he felt the need to conceal this fact from his officers. Understandably, they might have had reservations about the existence of a contemporaneous document that contained information on troop movements, tactics and references to troop morale combined with the possibility that it might fall into German hands. He too recognised this risk, but the compulsion to leave some account of the fact that he had passed this way outweighed the risks and the dangers.
As editor, first and foremost, my responsibility has been to remain as non-interventionist as possible. However, this characterisation of my role should not lead the reader to assume that I have adopted a purely passive stance. On the contrary, I took it upon myself to assume the responsibility of guardian of the text. On occasions, protecting the integrity of the text meant that I had to be quite assertive. My commitment to defending it was particularly tested by the author’s opposition to the inclusion of the first diary on the grounds that it was ‘too mundane; too boring’ to impose upon the reader. The first diary covers his induction into the Army, his training and his assignment to the 15th /19th The Kings Royal Hussars. It also covers his leisure time, periods of leave and the kind of activities and concerns that tend to fill the daily lives of all of us. In a word, it deals with the period prior to his firing a shot in anger. It provides insights into life in the round at this time. The second diary covers his landing in France and records on a day-by-day basis the horrors encountered on the drive through France, Belgium and Holland and then deep into Germany. I argued strongly for the inclusion of the first diary precisely because of the contrast in the content between it and the second diary. This link is not something peripheral to the work as a whole. The author’s earlier experiences flow into and inform his responses to and interpretations of his active service. Together, the diaries tell the story of an ordinary man, coming from a loving family and secure community who was thrust into a situation that most of us cannot imagine in our wildest nightmares. I argued that an appreciation of the ‘normality’ of his previous existence and how ill-prepared he was, as were so many others like him, for the task that lay ahead and the experiences to which he would be exposed would add to the reading experience. The contrast between the relative tranquillity of life in a market town in the Yorkshire Dales and the sights, sounds and grotesque experiences of war that the author endured is, in my view, the most illuminating lens through which to read the diaries. The reader will, of course, form his/her own judgment.
As editor, I have seen my second task as being to place myself in the position of the reader. For the most part the original diaries take the form of a day-by-day unbroken text. For ease of reading and with the author’s cooperation, I have broken his account down into chapters that are based on relatively self-contained episodes, although, of course, many of them tend to merge into one another. Some are quite short, while others run to a dozen or so pages. With one exception of Figure 26, all the figures included in the book were collected during the course of the author’s military service and were attached to the associated page in the diaries. Given the circumstances under which some of this material was gathered, it is hardly surprising that the author has lost track of the sources of some of these data.
Also when providing insider accounts it is very difficult for authors to avoid conveying their thoughts in the argot of the insider culture. Terms, initials and expressions are used that tend to make unwarranted assumptions with regard to the knowledge of the reader. I have tried to read the diaries with a view to identifying the occasions when the author employs ‘short-hand’ or makes inappropriate assumptions. Where I have felt it necessary, I offer brief clarification. For example, the first time an organisation or a piece of weaponry is mentioned in the text I have included the abbreviation in brackets immediately afterwards. Thereafter, only the abbreviation is used. If the reader later encounters an abbreviation and cannot remember what the letters stand for, a list of abbreviations is provided in the Appendix. Again, when an expression or term can be clarified by a single word or short phrase I have done so in brackets in the text. Where I have felt that a little more elaboration might assist the reader’s understanding, I have provided it in the form of footnotes that appear at the bottom of the page. The aim of this clarifying exercise has been to try to be as unobtrusive as possible.
To help provide the reader with some initial orientation, it may be useful to offer a thumbnail biography of the author. Douglas (Doug) Mayman was born in Skipton, Yorkshire on 29th October 1923. His father, Albert, originally of farming stock, was a canal transport agent, His mother, Kerry, died of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-five, when Doug was only three. For the next eleven years his father and his father’s sister, Jessie, brought him up. In 1937 his father remarried and had two children with his new wife, Rose: Dennis in 1939 and Sylvia in 1941.
Notwithstanding straitened economic circumstances, at the age of eleven, he won a scholarship to Ermysted’s Grammar school. He was a diligent student and also enjoyed rugby and tennis. However, financial exigencies led him to leave school in July 1939, at the age of fifteen, in order to seek employment. Two months later, on September 3rd 1939, war was declared. His first job was as a wages clerk for Rycroft and Hartley Ltd, a local textiles company. However, his stay there was short-lived as he very quickly secured marginally more lucrative employment in a Royal Ordnance Factory in nearby Steeton. The factory manufactured aircraft shells. His boss there was Stanley Mason, an accountant and a man who was destined to have a considerable influence on his post-war career.
It was during this period in his life that he acquired a rudimentary drum kit and taught himself to play and he, together with some friends, formed a band that went under the name ‘The New Rhythmists’. They played at social functions in the Yorkshire Dales and the resulting remuneration made a substantial contribution to his income. While his family were not particularly religious, church attendance was still felt to be appropriate and so he went to Methodist Sunday School, followed by Sunday evening Methodist chapel. He met his future wife, Dorothy, at a Methodist Youth Club meeting when they were both seventeen years of age.
Soon after starting his job at the Royal Ordnance Factory it became clear that there was a decision to be made. One option open to him was to register as being in a reserved occupation in the armaments industry. Alternatively, he could volunteer and go straight into the forces. He did apply to join the RAF on two occasions in January 1942, but was rejected on grounds of weak eyesight. Thereafter, he decided to let things take their course and to simply wait until he received the call to arms. When it came it constituted a radical break with his past. Prior to his conscription, apart from a trip to Liverpool with his father and a school trip to London with his junior school, he had hardly ventured much beyond the market town of Skipton.
Returning to the diaries themselves, at all times it should be borne in mind that this book is the work of someone in his late teens, early twenties. Some of the views expressed are aired under great emotional pressure; other opinions are those of a young adult still finding his way in the world. How many of us would wish to be held to account for things we said at this phase in our own lives, let alone for views expressed under conditions that are barely imaginable to most of us.
Finally, the reader can perhaps appreciate the strength of the temptation experienced by the author to begin this publication with a prologue in which he would rehearse the contents and, in the process, perhaps try to engage in retrospective rationalisations. I was of the view that if the author was given free rein to express his thoughts at this stage it might serve to colour the reader’s interpretation of the text proper. A compromise was reached. He would write a Postscript, free of any editorial oversight, in which he would be able to express his thoughts and feelings on experiences that occurred almost a lifetime ago.
Presentation and timing of the blog version
This blog will reproduce the book, the only difference being that it will be presented in instalments. On October 17th we will begin by offering the first four chapters of the book. These chapters cover the first fourteen months of Doug Mayman’s military service. They are a retrospective account of his experiences up to the point at which he decided to keep a daily diary. While lacking the spontaneity of the daily summaries, they do provide a useful backdrop to the subsequent entries and offer a flavour of what is to come. At this stage we will also include the acknowledgements, the dedication and the appendix that contains a list of the abbreviations employed in the text. Since the first daily entry in the book is November 6th 1943 we felt that it would be appropriate to begin the daily blog on November 6th of this year, some sixty-five years after the event.
We are confident that these diaries will offer readers a fascinating insight into what it was like to be engaged in tank warfare in the Second World War.
By way of a postscript The Encyclopedia of Tanks and Armoured Fighting Vehicles contains the following revelation and here I paraphrase. A shot from a German Tiger tank’s 88mm gun could penetrate the front armour of a British Cruiser tank at a range of 2,000 metres. Conversely, a Cruiser’s 57mm gun could not penetrate the front armour of a Tiger tank from a distance of one metre. The author comments: while we were aware of a discrepancy in the respective firepower of these two tanks, we certainly didn’t think that it was of this magnitude. Had we been privy to this information at the time, we would have given the Tigers an even wider berth (The Encyclopedia of Tanks and Armoured Fighting Vehicles. General editor Christopher F. Foss, Amber Books, London: 2007, p228).
Patrick Murphy
Editor
It’s 6.00am. We left Gennup Transit Camp at 4.00pm yesterday and travelled by 3rd class train to Calais where we arrived at 4:30am, some one and a half hours ago. The twelve-hour journey wasn’t as bad this time, even though there were hard, wooden seats, which we counteracted by sitting on our blankets. At least the train hadn’t got square wheels and there was no dust. We spent the twelve hours reading and dozing alternately. At Tilburg Station, a crowd of civvies gave us terrific welcome. It was almost like being in England. The people of Brussels turned out to wave to the ‘leave train’. A halt of twenty minutes at Lille at midnight provided a very welcome break for chars and wads, which were ready waiting for us on the station. It felt grand to be on a train again, rattling towards home. On arriving in Calais, we were paid out in English money and changed our foreign currency. Let’s see, how does this British monetary system work? Twenty shillings to the pound I believe. It’s much easier to work things out in francs where everything goes up in tens and hundred. Nevertheless, the feel of an English pound note is good. So was the chance to have a wash and shave before breakfast at 5:15am. We now sit in Nissen huts; awaiting the loudspeakers to announce which boats we have to catch.
Everyone is allocated a coloured ticket according to his home district. The North and East Ridings of Yorkshire come under a different zone from the West Riding. This arrangement is to my advantage because I’m allowed to go through London and will be able to catch a London- Leeds express. It is now 6:30am. The first boat doesn’t leave until 9:30am and, depending on what boat I can catch, I should stand a fair chance of being home before midnight. Home tonight. I can hardly express my thoughts on the subject. 3:45pm. England. England. At last! We left Calais at 9:30am and the white cliffs of Dover hove into sight about 11.00am. There was indeed cheering, but I didn’t see any bluebirds. So this is really England. As one of the Canadians said: ‘It sure looks swell.’ One’s feelings on the joy of being home again simply cannot be conveyed. When we disembarked instead of the cheering, which I expected, there was an unbelievable silence as each of us was left to his own thoughts. One fellow, every so often, is subjected to a customs search and I kept my fingers crossed for my binoculars and other things, which are classed as loot. I need have had no fear, however, since the customs official didn’t even glance at me. An express with a NAAFI canteen on board took us non-stop to Victoria Station where special buses were waiting to take us to Kings Cross and St Pancreas. I am now writing this last entry on the train in Kings Cross Station. In a few minutes, it will be pulling out and I shall be on the next to the last stage of my journey home.
So ends my diary.
This morning, we were sorted out into zones and now await the loudspeakers in the camp to announce which train we catch for Calais. There are no trains until after dinner, so we have no alternative but to lie here in the sun until the time of the train for our particular zone is announced. It is a glorious day again and I hope that it keeps like this for Monday. This camp deals with quite a large number of leave personnel. The queue for breakfast was four hundred yards long and four deep. We joined it at 7:30am and were served at 8:30am. I hope that no one says to me: ‘Did you have a good journey?’ Still, no one cares how long it is because we are going on leave and every mile is a mile further from the frontline, and a mile nearer home. I wonder what Dorothy will say when we first meet? Certainly not: ‘What, You here again?’
Leave started today with a twelve-hour journey over hot, dusty roads with no food and only one stop of ten minutes. Good roads in Germany are a myth; most of them are nothing more than glorified cart tracks. The few good ones there are pitted with bomb and shell craters. It is just like riding in an ox-cart with square wheels.
Corporal McConnell, Vick Guest, Jack Brownlee and myself constituted the Regiment’s leave party and we were up at 5:30am, although I concede it was no effort as excitement made it difficult to sleep. We left the Regiment at 6:30am in a B Squadron lorry and did the thirty miles to the Divisional UK ‘Leave Embussing Point’ by 7:45am. At 8.00am, we boarded Service Corps lorries and set off on a two hundred mile journey through Germany to Gennup Transit Camp in Holland. We crossed the Aller, the Seine, the Dortmund-Ems Canal, the Weser and the Rhine in that order. We noticed that most of the villages, just inside the border, were completely in ruins, but well inside Germany there is only occasional village, which had been flattened. It makes things much easier for us when the village is taken without firing a shot, but the Germans get off too lightly. We arrived at Gennup at 8:30pm absolutely covered with dust, but a wash and shave and mug of tea soon remedied our travel worn condition. That is two hundred miles done and only another seven hundred to go.
Have re-read this diary up to here and added a few comments in the margin. I find several of my entries rather ridiculous now. This is the last day we shall be with the Regiment before going on leave as we depart at 6:30am tomorrow morning. I am packed-up ready and can go at a moments notice. We shall leave in a spick and span condition, but by the time we arrive home, we shall be anything but that, as we have a two hundred mile journey in the back of a lorry before we even board the train to take us to Calais.
We are now at a place called Hermansburg, due north of Hanover and are moving further into Germany. The Yanks are now only thirty-eight miles from Berlin and are attacking Nuremberg and Leipzig, two important centres of Nazism. Things are certainly moving rapidly. A prisoner-of-war camp near here has been liberated and British and American soldiers stream down the roads, waving and cheering. The worst resistance that is met comes from groups of SS fanatics. I imagine that they will keep fighting for ages yet, even when the main body of the Army surrenders. Leave is very near now and it gives me the greatest of pleasure to get my kit packed. It will be grand to see home again, dirty old familiar Skipton station, scene of glorious re-unions and not so glorious partings, Dewhirsts Mill, with her aloof yet warm greeting, familiar streets and places and the smiles of people I know saying: ‘Hello, you here again’. When do you go back?’ I wonder how much Dennis and Sylvia have grown up and whether or not they will still know me? I long for Sunday when I shall once again be home and with all those dear to me.
Moving further into Germany, we passed a Russian prisoner-of-war camp, which had just been liberated. They were dressed in all kinds of patched up clothing and cheered us wildly. One could see the gratitude and joy written on their faces. They waved at every single lorry and tank that passed and when we threw them cigarettes, they dived after them as though they were diamonds. Many of them had started the long trek back to Venlo and from there they would to be taken back to Russia. But first they have a two hundred mile walk in front of them. Some have bicycles, some farm tractors, but most of them have to walk. It is a hot dusty road and all that most of them have is a blanket and a water bottle. When we gave them biscuits and our cookhouse dished them up soup, the way they gobbled it down showed that they hadn’t had a good meal for days, perhaps weeks. It was a glorious sight to see and yet, in some ways, a piteous one. We passed old fellows in rags who could hardly stumble along, yet they were doggedly dragging themselves along in the desperate effort to get to the repatriation point and back to Russia. I have never seen such expressions of joy as there were on some of their faces. I know absolutely no Russian, but one fellow made me understand that he came from Moscow and that their German guards used to smoke cigarettes to half length then throw them on the ground where all the prisoners could see them and crush them with their heels, so that they couldn’t pick them up. Consequently, he was overjoyed with the packet of twenty cigarettes, which we gave him. We also passed a lorry load of liberated British prisoners-of-war. They were all looking well and very pleased with life. It’s still marvellous weather here. Hope it’s like this on Monday.
‘%*&&^%£! and *%^$!’ My leave has been put back one day owing to bad sailing weather. This means that I shall have to get married on the Monday instead of the Saturday. It will mean a lot of chasing around for Dorothy to get everything altered in time, but there is nothing I can do about it and, as it is a wartime wedding, we must expect this sort of thing. I don’t grumble too much because I know that it is only by the grace of God that I am alive to go on leave at all. All the same, it is very annoying for those at home.
My idea of yesterday would certainly be a good one, especially after last night’s episode. Bud Concannon and I were sleeping in the wagon when we were awakened by the deathly whine of a shell coming in our direction. I thought: ‘There goes this wagon and my leave with it’, but it landed nine yards in front of us and although a few bits of shrapnel flew around, we were perfectly okay. By the time we had found our socks, pants and boots the shelling had stopped, but after that we slept in the front room of a nearby house, just in case.
At 6:50pm we crossed the River Aller, at a place called Essel, due north of Hanover and not very far from Hamburg. Each time we move makes it further for me to go on leave and I already have about eight hundred miles to travel. The country we are in at present has not been fully cleared. Our armour has only gone up the main roads and, for all we know, there may still be large pockets of enemy infantry hiding in the woods to disrupt our communication and supply links. Also, now that we are well inside Germany, a few German planes are appearing and strafing the convoys. Consequently, it was with misgivings that we harboured for the night in a clearing between two large woods. For a while, there was indecision as to where was the best place to sleep. Some preferred slit trenches away from the lorries and possible shelling and bombing and others preferred slit trenches near the lorries and away from possible patrols. In the end, Bud Concannon and I got so cheesed off that we slept in the lorry. As I went to sleep, I comforted myself with the thought that next week at this time, I wouldn’t be sleeping in a dirty old lorry, wondering if I’ll still be in this world when I wake up in the morning. What a contrast the luxuries of home will be.
List of Abbreviations
ABCA: Army Bureau of Current Affairs
AEC: Army Education Corps
AFV: Armoured Fighting Vehicle
AP: Armour piercing
ARV: Armoured Recovery Vehicle
ATEA: Amphibious Tank Escape Apparatus
BLA: British Liberation Army
ENSA: Entertainments National Service Association
FFI: French Forces of the Interior
FHQ: Forward Headquarters
HE: High Explosive
HF: High frequency
KRH: The Kings Royal Hussars
KRR: Kings Royal Rifles
KSLI: King’s Surrey Light Infantry
LAD: Light Aid Detachment
MI: Medical Inspection Room
MO: Medical officer
MP: Military policeman
NAAFI: National Army Air Force Institute
NFS: National Fire Service
NCO: Non-commissioned officer
OCTU: Officer Command Training Unit
RAC: Royal Armoured Corps
RAMC: Royal Army Medical Corps
RASC: Royal Army Service Corps
RE: Royal Engineers
REME: Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers
RHQ: Regimental Headquarters
ROF: Royal Ordnance Factory
RSM: Regimental Sergeant Major
RTO: Rail Transport Officer
R/T: Radio Telephone
SQMS: Squadron Quartermaster Sergeant
USAAF: United States Army Air Force
WAAF: Women's Auxiliary Air Force
WVS: Women’s Voluntary Services
YMCA: Young Men’s Christian Association
Acknowledgements
I must begin by thanking my editor and son-in-law, Patrick Murphy. When he volunteered to perform the duties of editor, I must confess that I had little idea about the amount of work this task would involve. Thank you Patrick. I would also like to thank my daughter, Joy, for typing the manuscript; my grandson, Thomas, for his assistance with the scanning of the maps and photographs, Lisa Heggs for her processing and formatting skills, Richard Linnett for his general advice and assistance and Carly Hughes for her cover design. My final vote of thanks goes to Stephen Phillips, the Military Librarian of Aldershot Museum, for his help in locating Major Courage’s book The History of the 15/19 The King’s Royal Hussars: 1939-1945.
Andrew, my other son-in-law, for sharing the proof-reading burden.
Dedication
When Churchill said: ‘Never in the field of human conflict was so much owed by so many to so few’ he was referring to the efforts of Battle of Britain fighter pilots. However, this statement could, with equal applicability, have been used to characterise Britain’s other frontline forces, fighting on land and sea. While good leadership was essential, behind the leaders was a solid core of men that was willing and able to be led; hence the title Led Soldiers. All the names that appear in these diaries are those of real people, many of them friends and colleagues. Over the sixty odd years that have past since the end of the war we have lost touch and, in truth I don’t know how many of them have passed away, but to me they will always be unsung heroes or, if you will ‘led soldiers’.
Finally, I would also like to dedicate this book to my wife, Dorothy. While her war wasn’t at the frontline, she, like so many loved ones, had to live with the ever-present fear that her husband-to-be would be one of the next victims of the war, a different, but equally fraught experience.
