Memoirs re Combined Operations - A. G. Kirby, Dieppe

The Dieppe Raid: August 19, 1942 - Part 5

"Mr. Kirby's mind turns to ice skating in Halifax"

- Tuesday Evening, August 18th, 1942

There was a moon, small and pale, over my right shoulder that started me thinking of home and my girlfriend in Halifax. Back in November of 1941, I was ice skating in the Halifax arena, when I noticed a very pretty girl skating alone. I had never been out with a girl before and consequently had no experience whatever with the opposite sex. I skated around behind her for awhile, trying to get up the courage to ask her to skate, but I kept thinking, why would a pretty girl like that, skate with an ugly character like me. Eventually, I just couldn't stand it any longer, so I skated up beside her, took her by the arm and said, "You are just too lovely to be left alone here in this carnivorous crowd of sailors. I think I had better skate with you or you might end up with someone who doesn't deserve the pleasure of the company of such a nice girl." She laughed the cutest laugh I have ever heard, squeezed my arm and said, "What took you so long?" "Do you mean to say that you have been watching me, in my agony, all this time," I stammered. We both laughed as she slipped her arm around my waist and squeezed.

My heart pounded as we skated along as though on a cloud. "My name is A1 Kirby. What's yours?" "Lily Snow," she replied, and I thought, what a lovely name! We had a wonderful time, skating and talking and laughing all evening, and when I walked her home I made a future date with her. As I turned to go, she said, "Aren't you going to kiss me goodnight?" Well I didn't even expect to hear that from a girl....and I must admit, I certainly didn't have the courage to ask her....or just go ahead and do it....but having been challenged like that, I just couldn't do anything else but kiss her. We dated very often over the next two months and for me it was sheer heaven whenever we were together. She told me that her brother was on the destroyer "Fraser" when it was cut in half by the British cruiser "Calcutta" and was one of only six survivors. After convalescing in England for about a month, he was drafted to the destroyer "Margaree", which on its maiden trip in the R.C.N, was cut in half by a merchant ship and he was lost. She was, of course, greatly saddened by this, as was I, but we never discussed this tragedy again. By the end of December I was on my way to England to drive landing craft with the Royal Navy.

"Part of HMCS Fraser resides at HMCS Prevost, London, Ont."

It is now 2200 and our faithful Hall Scott engine continues with its unrelenting roar. The moon is getting close to the horizon now, but the slow, easy ground swell of the English Channel gives us a pleasant rocking motion that I find very restful. Some of the soldiers seem to be having a hard time with the motion and look a little sick.

Most are trying to get a little sleep. Our course seems to be varying between 130 and 140. I expect the variation is being caused by the long line of landing craft slowly slithering like a snake, but in the darkness I can't see this and can only speculate. At the wheel of the craft, I am sitting here in considerable comfort, in an upholstered seat, but my heart goes out to the Infantry men crowded in the well of the boat, loaded with weaponry and ammunition, jammed together as tight as peas in a pod, shifting occasionally to relieve the cramping, as we churn endlessly forward, mile upon mile, hour after hour....to what!

"Infantry men crowded in the well of the boat" Photo at Wikipedia 

In my boredom, my thoughts shift again to better times back in Scotland. Stationed in Ayrshire, on the banks of the Clyde Estuary, at a Royal Navy camp called H.M.S. Dundonald, our landing craft were moored in the mouth of a small river at the town of Irvine. A fellow from Montreal, named Martel, and I walk through the town park one warm Sunday afternoon, passing the time and enjoying the quaintness of the setting. The small river winds peacefully through the park, and I notice a few row boats moving about on the water.

Suddenly I am struck with the sight of two young girls in one of the boats. One of them, a pretty, brown haired girl, is sitting in the stern, while, pulling awkwardly at the oars, is the most striking girl I have ever seen. Beautiful blond hair falls gracefully over her shoulders and toussles about as she struggles with the task of rowing the boat. I draw Martel's attention to this most fortuitous find and he immediately suggests that we rent a boat and attempt a rescue. As we dash to the booth to rent a boat, I make it clear to Martel that the blond is mine and the brownette is his. Martel seats himself at the oars and in no time we are alongside our quarry. "Stand to board," I shout as I leap into their boat. "I'm sorry ladies, but the exigencies of war require that the Navy take charge of your vessel in order to ensure safe passage to the shores of bonnie Scotland. If you would be so good as to allow me to share your seat, I'll row us back to land." The girls were dumbfounded, but good naturedly, went along with our outrageous assault, and we returned both boats and paid the bill like a couple of rich Americans.

 "Canadians in Combined Ops walked the cobbled streets of Irvine in 1942"

"Camp Dundonald and Camp Auchengate were near Irvine's

dunes. Landing craft entered Irvine via river, top right"

(Top two pictures found on Facebook at 'Old Irvine')

"Barges would park in the river, near local pubs I bet (e.g., King's Arms Hotel)" 

I asked if they would show us around the park, as we were two lonely travellers from a far off land, and they obliged. We chatted as we walked along and I was thoroughly enthralled by the Scottish accent. "Would you mind telling me your name?" I asked the blond. "Jean Smith," she replied. "Did you hear that Martel?" I exclaimed, "She says her name is Jean Smith." "I suppose your brother's name is John Smith." "That's true," she answered. "Well my name is Bill," I lied. I was so sure that she was just kidding me along, that I gave her my brother's name as it was the first thing that popped into my head.

The four of us spent a very enjoyable afternoon together and we made a date for the next afternoon to meet in the park at the same time. This aquaintance quickly blossomed into a very close friendship, and I found myself feeling very badly as I wrote my regular letters to Lily in Halifax.

Below: Modern day photos of Irvine, Scotland and environs (by GH, 2014)

 "Fine old stores, homes and pubs line the harbour entering Irvine"

"My father, a friend of Mr. Kirby, felt at home inside King's Arms. Me too"

 "I stand near the mouth of the river entering Irvine"

 "South of Irvine lie fields once home to Camp Dundonald"

 "I am looking south from Irvine to Troon.

Imagine the flat beach lined with landing craft"

More to follow.

Link to Memoirs, A. G. Kirby, Dieppe - Part 4

Unattributed Photos by GH

Memoirs re Combined Operations - A. G. Kirby, Dieppe

The Dieppe Raid: August 19, 1942 - Part 4

"Canadians treated landing craft like home, e.g., in Southampton"

L-R Don Linder, NA, NA, Doug Harrison, NA, Don Westbrook

Photo by Lloyd Evans, RCNVR and Comb. Ops, circa 1942

- Tuesday, August 18th, 1942

The morning of Tuesday, August 18, 1942 dawned as bright and full of hope as each day for the previous week had done. After breakfast, we were met at R-135 by Sub Lieutenant Leach and told that we had a busy day ahead of us. "Is this the big day Sir?" I asked, the first time that I had a chance to talk to him, and he replied, "What big day?" "Well....the day of the exercise. What all this fuss is about," I said. "Oh....we have a lot to do yet, but I expect we will be told in good time," was his reply. He seemed to me to be going a long way out of his way to keep something from us. I could not understand why an exercise would have to be so secret.

With the war now three years old, we were quite accustomed to the need for security and you can be sure that we were all quite happy as our ships sailed out of harbour on their various missions, that Naval security was reasonably good. Often, at sea, we would wonder if the enemy knew just where we were and what we were doing, whether we were unknowingly sailing into a trap that was about to spring, sending us all into oblivion, or, worse still, leaving us struggling in the icy North Atlantic, grasping at the flotsam of our sinking ship. I could not help but be impressed by the number of landing craft here. We all seemed to be preparing for something really big. There had been some talk for some little time about a second front, but no one expected anything like that this year.

About mid morning, a Navy lorry arrived on the bank nearest our landing craft, and we were issued a World War I Lewis gun, a brand new Thompson sub machine gun and a case of ammunition for each weapon. Later, another lorry arrived, and each craft received a smoke float, which we fitted to a bracket on the stern of the craft. These smoke floats were a large steel container which resembled a 45 gallon drum.

"Canadians in Combined Operations try out new weapons"

L-R, C. Rose, A. G. Kirby (?), D. Westbrook - English Channel

Photo by Lloyd Evans, circa 1942

They could be lit and dropped into the water, or left in their bracket to burn as we sailed. They would produce an extremely large volume of smoke for the purpose of hiding the craft from an enemy and making it difficult to hit us with gunfire. We had used these before, in practice landings, so there was nothing unusual about receiving them now. The weapons however, presented quite another matter. In our training, we were constantly landing heavily armed troops on beaches all over England and Scotland, and the soldiers often carried considerable quantities of ammunition with them, but on the landing craft, we had no need for weapons so we did not carry them on practice missions. We did a great deal of training with the Lewis gun and we all liked it. The fact that it was a W.W.I weapon was no concern for us, since it was light, reliable, and quite suitable for our purposes. The Thompson, by contrast, was a weapon of much larger bore, much shorter range, and far less accurate than the Lewis, with a twenty round ammunition magazine, it was just the thing for fighting in buildings or on streets, which is why it was so popular with the gangsters of the 1930’s. But why all this hardware to go on a practice run? The thought of all this ammunition in all the boats was enough to raise our curiosity. The more this exercise unfolds, the more it takes on the appearance of a genuine operation of some kind. Hop and I looked at each other with puzzled glances as we cleaned the grease from the guns and prepared them for use. Until the middle of the afternoon, we worked with them and loaded magazines, commenting on the significance of what was unfolding before us. Then about 1600, infantry units began to arrive on the shore near our moorings. I could see from our boat, the Canada flashes on their shoulders and was very anxious to talk to some of them to see where they were from.

"We were constantly landing heavily armed troops on beaches": Inveraray, Scotland

Photo credit to Imperial War Museum, London, UK

To my very great surprise, a tough looking soldier came up to the edge of our boat, wheeling a bicycle. "How'd you like to find some place for this", he said, as he lifted the bike up to me. I reached out and took hold of it and almost fell over the side from the weight of it, trying my best to make it look easy to this rugged young Canadian. "What's the idea of this?" I exclaimed. "Think we may not be back to pick you up afterwards?" He smiled as he turned away and I noticed the Cameron Highlanders shoulder flash under his Canada badge. Now when you pack thirty five heavily loaded Infantry men into a boat this size, there is hardly room to pack a newspaper between them, let alone a bicycle. After thinking it over for a moment I decided to lash it to the top of the tarpaulin that covered the well deck, our two machine guns and ammunition had to be stowed forward under the foc’sle deck, but as long as the Infantry was aboard there would be no need for them. Hop, Grear and I were slowly coming to grips with the notion that this might very well be the real thing and we were carrying out our jobs with that in mind. This didn't bother any of us, as we were all anxious to try out our skills in a real operational situation. We were however, somewhat galled by the fact that that damned Leach wasn't saying a thing about it.

"Some landing crafts were loaded with troops and their bicycles"

Photo credit to Pipes for Freedom 

It was now about 1700 as several more lorries arrived, loaded with what looked like four gallon cans. They backed down to the waters' edge and we began to unload them onto our boats. Sure enough they were cans of gasoline. We stowed them on the upper deck of our craft, lashing them along the side, eight cans to a side, making them fast to fittings along the edge of the well deck. As this was taking place, the order was shouted from boat to boat, "Out pipes, no smoking in the vicinity of the landing craft until further notice." As this work was being finished our "Lord High Admiral" returned and I immediately addressed him, "What in the world is all this petrol for, Sir?" "You never know," he said, "but I expect there may be some need for it." Then the thought struck me I'll bet we're going to deliver this gas to some partisan group, somewhere in enemy held country. Boy, that should be exciting. But why would we be taking such a large and heavily armed force, complete with tanks, for such a simple little operation? No, I'm afraid that nothing is coming together yet. We still are missing some significant information.

Poster found at Saltcoats Heritage Museum, Scotland

At 1730, S/Lt. Leach told us to go up to the field kitchen and get our supper, or tea, as he called it, then report back on board by 1830. "Are we heading out tonight sir?" I asked, as we all made our way up the bank of the river together. "We shall see, just don't be tardy in getting back to the boat," he replied in his typically indefinite manner. We went on up to the Army field kitchen, drew our meal, and sat where we could along the jetty, eating and discussing the situation between ourselves, that is Hop, Grear and I. We were mutually convinced that we were leaving tonight for a beach somewhere, but none of us seemed certain that this would be the real thing. "Well," said Grear, "I 'opes we're away from 'ere before the Gerries decide to give us wot Eastbourne got last night." "I agree with you there Chief," I answered, "but I can't quite understand, the way that raid keeps bothering me." In the past I have always been excited, and frightened, during air raids that I have experienced, but the minute they were over they passed from my mind and I just felt good that I wasn't among the casualties. This time I keep thinking about the poor devils that may have been smashed up and are lying in hospitals today in utter misery. Almost as if it were some kind of a premonition or something. Perhaps I'm just a little nervous about what we may be getting into tonight.

When we finished our meal, we slowly walked back to the boat together and I noticed, strangely, how my feeling of animosity toward my shipmates had vanished. I don't really know why, but ever since I had arrived in England last January, I have been harboring a bad feeling toward the English. Both my parents were English, my mother still carried more than a trace of English accent, and yet I felt compelled to look down on the juicers as something inferior. Perhaps it is just jealousy! Ever since the war started, I have wanted to be a part of it, to do something important, something outstanding, perhaps heroic, like the exploits of the sailors that I have read about in the papers since the day that hostilities began. Here, in the British Naval bases, you don't have to read the papers, you can talk to the very people who are making all this exciting news, and it always makes me feel so immature, so young, so inadequate. I expect that these feelings are what cause me to talk down to the juicers, just a vain attempt to make myself look bigger. Somehow though, tonight I feel different. I can't escape the feeling that tonight, we may need each other desperately. 

Cameron Highlanders Cap Badge

Photo at Camerons - Ottawa's Regiment

Back at the boat, a thought struck me and I asked Grear if it was possible for him to pick up a couple of extra battery cables from the Engineering Officer so that he could parallel our spare battery with our regular battery and thus keep it charged up, just in case we needed it. He agreed and off he went to try his luck. I just couldn't suppress the fear of sitting on a hostile beach with an engine that we couldn't start because of a flat battery. About 1900 the Camerons began loading and I hoped I would get a chance to talk to some of them. I wonder if some of them might come from Woodstock or nearby. Canadian soldiers have a reputation for being boisterous and I have always noticed when we work with them, that they seem to have a good time, even when they are working hard. They shout back and forth between themselves and generally make light of even the worst situation. Tonight however, there seems to be a rather serious mood among them.

It reminds me of the times when we have worked with the British Commando Regiments, very quiet and serious. The loading, with all the shifting and repositioning that had to be done to accommodate all the men and equipment, took about an hour. Finally, about 2000 we began to slip our moorings and very slowly made our way into midstream. There was a lot of jockeying for position, as every boat had to be in its proper location in order to keep the various Flotillas where they belonged. We were to take up position ten yards behind R-84, which was McKenna's boat, but he was about fifty yards from us at the moment, with three other craft in between. Eventually, after much cursing and shouting back and forth, we had R-84 about six feet in front of us and I shouted to McKenna to get that crate out of our way or we would run him down. He gave us a good natured wave and we all settled down to keeping station as we slowly made our way out of the harbour. The English Channel swell rolled very slowly and gently under our hulls as we picked up speed and the lines of landing craft began to stretch out ahead of us toward the southeast. The sun was very low on the horizon and as I looked out at the calm waters I was greatly impressed with a feeling of responsibility and elation. Here I am at the wheel of a landing craft, loaded to the gunwales with heavily armed, highly trained, strongly motivated Canadian soldiers, headed for what I hope is a real life battle. Imagine the letter I could write home telling of great deeds and brave conquests, if only it turns out to be true.

Darkness slowly settled on us and we eventually lost sight of all the landing craft around us. Guided only by the small blue light on the stern of R-84, we droned on relentlessly, through a night of almost tropical elegance. 

"Landing craft line up like ducks in a row"

Photo at Landing Craft - Wikipedia

More to follow.

Link to Memoirs, A. G. Kirby, Dieppe - Part 3

Unattributed Photos by GH

Memoirs re Combined Operations - A. G. Kirby, Dieppe

The Dieppe Raid: August 19, 1942 - Part 3

"Chuck Rose (front), Canadian member of Combined Ops, tidies
up a landing craft, location is likely Southern England, circa 1942"
Photo courtesy of Lloyd Evans, formerly RCNVR, Combined Ops

- Monday, August 17th, 1942

Monday morning, August 17, 1942, dawned clear and sunny, keeping alive a string of perfect days that had lasted now for about a week. After breakfast, I noted with only mild surprise, that there seemed to be an increase of traffic on the river. About a half dozen R boats were slowly making their way up river in rather random fashion and there seemed to be more craft tied alongside now. Well, perhaps not, after all I must admit that I have not been too observant of the overall situation. Come to think of it, I now see a number of Tank Landing Craft over on the far bank. Were they there all along? I'm not really sure now, oh well, it looks as if this is going to be an even bigger operation than it first appeared. Mr. Leach was on board the craft at the time that I arrived, which somewhat surprised me. I was not accustomed to seeing officers on the job at this early hour. "Good morning Sir", I greeted, as I managed a reasonable salute, stepping on the foc’sle and maintaining my balance in spite of the rocking motion I caused by this action. "Good morning Canada," he replied, "When the others get here you might inform them that we are shifting our berth some time this morning. I'll be here when that occurs, but in the meantime, I want them to remain, either on board or on the jetty close to the boat, and under no circumstances are they to go ashore. As soon as I get back I will confirm that to them in person, but I want you to see that they understand this until then."

"Right Sir", I replied, wondering what on earth is eating this guy. Now and then, he seems to be a pretty reasonable person, for an Officer, then suddenly he reverts to the old R.N. nonsense of "Bullshit and gaiters" and "God save the King". I was glad to see his commissioned carcass floundering across the rolling, bobbing decks of the inboard boats as he made his way to the jetty.

In a few minutes, Hop arrived, closely followed by P.O. Grear, and I gave them the message, along with my opinion of being confined to the boat like a bunch of kids. In typical juicer* fashion, they disagreed with me, suggesting that there may have been other things that we did not know of. If that were the case then why did he not tell us.

Looking out over the river, I noticed that landing craft were still making their way upstream and I couldn't help wondering why. There goes R-84, McKenna’s boat, along with the rest. By 1000, our outboard craft had let go and followed the procession. Just then our "one stripe wonder" returned and told us to get ready to move as soon as traffic permitted. Within a few minutes, it looked pretty good to me, so I got Leach's permission and asked Grear to start the engine.

After about ten minutes of cranking the battery finally died and I commented to Grear, "I thought you had that problem solved. Isn't that why you were fussing around with the Engineering Officer the other day?" "That's true," he replied, "but we didn't get to the bottom of it. However, I managed to get a spare battery, in a couple of minutes I'll have it connected and we can try again." "Well Chief, I sure hope you don't leave us stranded with a dead engine on a cold and lonely beach, during this exercise, especially if it's a long way from home," I chided. With the new battery in place the engine took hold after about a minute or two of cranking and I felt just great after we had slowly backed away and I put her ahead. Empty, as we were, the boat almost jumped as I poured the power to her. This was the first time I had handled this boat and I was really pleased with the way she responded, especially with her excellent acceleration.

These "R" boats, sometimes called "eureka" boats, were a very nice craft to handle. Made in Detroit by the Higgins Boat Co., they were constructed completely of wood. The keel and frames were built of 1" thick plywood, while the plating was 3/8" plywood. They were the fastest of the landing craft on which we had trained. So we found them a pleasure to drive around, but they offered no more protection than a cigarette paper when we came under small arms fire. One other defect we all agreed upon was the very noisy engine exhaust. You could hear them coming from miles away on a still, calm night. Up to now, that had been very important, as all the "Combined Operations" raids to date had been surprise landings, taking place in complete darkness, or on very remote locations, to supply free French partisans, retrieve information, or to effect some local destruction, with the landing craft sneaking in and unloading before they were discovered by the enemy. The British assault landing craft were nicely plated with 1/4" armour plate and had very quiet running Ford V8 or Chrysler 6 engines, and were much preferred by all of us for an operation against an enemy held beach. The "R" boats did not have a front loading ramp, and actually looked more like a cabin cruiser, with a windshield for protection against the weather across the front. They were 37 feet long and 11 feet in the beam, with a covered "well deck" spanned by metal U shaped beams which supported a canvas cover. Running fore and aft along the bottom of the well, were three very low benches, on which the troops sat astraddle, looking forward. The engine, a "Hall Scott", 6 cylinder, about 250 horsepower and gasoline powered, sat right in the middle of the well, where it served to keep the boat stable in rough weather. Our fuel was right across the stern in two eighty gallon tanks, which gave us an endurance of sixteen hours at eight knots.

Above two photos found at Historical Firearms

'Hard at Work' at Higgins' Factory.

Photo found at National WW2 Museum

As we slowly moved up river the traffic became congested and we had to heave to a few times to facilitate other boats getting into position and to avoid collision. As we passed under the bridge that carried the road into the town of Newhaven, I noticed for the first time, a very large camouflage net stretching across the river from one side to the other, like a huge circus tent. At this point the river must be two hundred yards wide and the net was supported by very large wires anchored at concrete pillars on either shore. The whole thing stretched along the river for about four hundred yards. I don't know how I could have missed seeing this massive structure before, but I suppose that speaks well for the effectiveness of the camouflage. Under the net were dozens of landing craft, moored in rows and held in place by lanyards anchored to the large suspension wires.

After about an hour or two, we were finally berthed where the Beachmasters wanted us, and fortunately for us, we were on the outside, next to the shore. We spent the balance of the day helping other boats into position and to secure their moorings. As we were about to leave for supper, our buddy Leach, told us we were not allowed to leave the jetty and there would be no more shore leave until further notice. Actually, we're all too tired to worry about going ashore anyway, but it galls me to be told that we can't.

After supper, Lantz, McKenna and I were sitting on bollards on the jetty, passing the time with small talk, when we noticed the air was getting chilly, so we headed toward the freight shed to sit on our beds and keep a little warmer. I looked out across the English Channel and was about to remark how dark it was looking on the horizon, when I noticed the sky light up towards the east. Tracer paths were shooting up into the half light of the sunset sky, over the town of Eastbourne. This is a very nice little east Sussex city, much larger than Newhaven, but still small by English standard, facing out towards France, just 70 miles southeast, across the English Channel.

Damage done to Eastbourne by bombing raids

Photos found at Eastbourne 1939 - 1945 Part 1

When the flashing sight of an air raid, is seen from a safe distance, it always seems to me to look quite unreal. More like a fireworks display, than the terrifying struggle of concentrated weaponry, with the attendant rending of buildings and bodies, that it really is. As the sunlight retreated even further over the horizon, the vivid red and orange flashes of the bombs exploding in and around Eastbourne seemed to scream out to us of the untold suffering and anguish of countless women and children, unable to react in any way, to ward off the vicious onslaught of the venomous Dorniers and Heinkles that thundered overhead. Though the concentration of anti-aircraft fire seemed to make it impossible for any machine to survive over the town, the relentless thunder of engines continued to rain a veritable hell of blast and fire on to the defenders of this once beautiful fishing community. The holocaust continued until after 2300 and then, as abruptly as it had started, it was over. We lay down and tried to sleep, but it was apparent to me, that Lantz and McKenna were having the same trouble that I was in putting out of my mind, the fact that the raging fires and pain and terror were continuing, and would go on until daylight, and beyond.

Part 4 to follow.

* Juicer, in Navy lingo, is a member of England's Royal Navy

Please link to A. G. Kirby, Dieppe - Part 2

Unattributed Photos by GH

Memoirs re Combined Operations - A. G. Kirby, Dieppe

The Dieppe Raid: August 19, 1942 - Part 2

Earlier days in the sheltered harbour at Newhaven, southern England

During WW1 Newhaven was a principal port. Link to Historic Newhaven

 - Sunday, August 16th, 1942

The bosun's call shrieked its message of awakening as the Quartermaster walked by only a few feet away, shouting at the top of his voice, "Wakey wakey wakey... lash up and stow... come on my sons... you know what sons I mean." I rolled over and saw that McKenna was already up and partially dressed, so I sat up and began the painful business of coming back to life. Looking the other way I saw that Lantz's bed was empty. I was about to ask McKenna where he was when I saw him come in through the huge sliding door on the far side of the building, all dressed, washed and shaven. That was Lantz, always early, always clean, and when conditions permitted, neatly dressed. As he approached I shouted to him "Where the hell are the heads?" "Just wait 'til you see....they are just beyond the end of the shed....over there," he pointed.

I quickly donned by socks, underwear, pants and boots, then with my attache case in one hand and my flannel in the other, I trotted off after McKenna as he headed in that direction. A group of sailors had gathered around a pump on the deck of the jetty, out of which poured a stream of water, and each of us took a turn at washing, as best we could. Right beside was a canvas screen, obviously erected to give as much privacy as a sailor could expect... to those who were performing the more basic human functions. I walked inside and was greeted by a row of ten inch diameter holes cut in the deck of the jetty to allow the excrement to pass through and into the harbour water beneath the jetty. As I carried out what I came in to do, I looked down through one of the holes beside me and saw the intake pipe of the pump that supplied the washing water, about ten feet away, and hoped that the tide would be running when I had my turn at washing my hands and face. At the other end of the shed was an Army field kitchen truck, where we were able to get some Army mess kit dishes, and a feed of what we called (in the Navy) red lead and bacon. This was a rather common Navy breakfast and consisted of fried bacon covered with canned tomatoes. Quite good food we thought, considering the conditions, but I couldn't help wondering from where this unit drew its cooking water.

At 0800 we found the Flotilla Commander and I was told to find landing craft R-135 and report to Sub. Lt. Leach. A grizzly Petty Officer pointed in the direction in which I should begin the search for my craft, so I waved to Lantz and McKenna and took off. It was not easy to read the numbers on the bows of the boats because they were tied up side by side about six deep. However, I saw what I thought was a three and a five on the side of one which was the third one out from the jetty and made my way out to it, walking over the foc’sles of the intervening boats. As I stepped aboard, a young looking sailor stuck his head above the dodger over the Coxswain's seat. "Is Sub. Lt. Leach around?" I asked. "Are you the new Coxswain?" he countered. Suddenly, my head swirled and my imagination spiralled into the clouds. In our Flotilla, we had all been trained as Coxswains, but I had never been the official Coxswain of a boat. I told myself that my age prevented me from being designated as a Coxswain in my own Flotilla, as I thought that I was the youngest person in the group. However, looking back now, I can see that I was far too immature in my manner, to be perceived as a Coxswain. Nevertheless, I was not about to let, (what appeared to be) a wonderful stroke of luck slip through my fingers. "This is R-135 isn't it?" I asked. "Yes it is" he replied. I did my best to make my 5'7" body look 6' tall and barked (hoping that my voice wouldn't crack) "Then where in the hell is he!" "He's ashore now, but I expect he will be back some time this morning. He is supposed to be at some kind of a meeting somewhere... wait... there he is now, coming up the jetty." "Where? Oh yeah, I see him now... thanks." I took off across the inboard boats and climbed up onto the jetty and doubled off toward him. I saluted smartly as I halted in front of him. "Able Seaman Kirby Sir, reporting for duty as temporary Coxswain." "Oh," he answered, "I expected a Leading Hand." "I'm qualified for Leading Hand, Sir," I lied, "and I am General Service." In the Royal Navy, their regular peace time force ratings were referred to as General Service and were considered much superior to the R.N.V.R. or wartime-only ratings, which they called H.O.s for hostilities only. Mr. Leach looked at my shoulder flashes and with a pained expression on his face he said, "Right Canada, you'll do, follow me." 

Motor launch and four landing craft (R-145 in front).

Photo at Winnipeg Free Press Archives

As we stepped onto the foc’sle of R-135, Mr. Leach addressed the seaman whom I had met a minute or two before, "Ordinary Seaman Hopper, this is Able Seaman Kirby who will be our coxswain in place of Leading Seaman Henry, until he returns." Then turning to me he said, "Well, I'll have to leave you to get on with provisioning and repairing the boat as I am due at a meeting at this very moment." Then, turning, he left, as I saluted his back. I looked at Ordinary Seaman Hopper and tried to open a conversation in such a way as to solicit his goodwill without being defferent. "My name is Albert but people call me Kirb. What should I call you?" My name is John, but I get Hop all the time," he replied.

"Well, that sounds like a good combination, Kirb and Hop; where is the Stoker, by the way, I presume we have one?" I said. "Yes, he's Petty Officer Herb Grear. He's over at the Engineering Officer's lorry trying to get some help with an engine problem." I turned that right out of my mind as I felt that it was not my worry, but did not feel great about having a Petty Officer for a Stoker. I didn't like being outranked by a black faced Stoker. Later that day I met Herb Grear and decided that I liked him. He was especially easy to get along with and I also decided that having a P.O. as a Stoker was quite an advantage as he carried a number of Flotilla spare parts with him. The balance of the day, I wandered around the jetty, talking with several British sailors to see if I could find out anything about this exercise that we were all preparing for. I thought it was so typical of the R.N. that here we were getting ready to carry out what appeared to be a rather large exercise, and no one know anything about it. Finally, since it was Sunday, I decided to look up Lantz and McKenna to see how they were making out. They were as much in the dark as I was, so we decided to go into the town of Newhaven, where we spent the afternoon, had supper, then came back to the jetty and got ready for bed.

Newhaven Fort. Photo found at 'Historic Newhaven'

Part 3 to follow.

Please link to A. G. Kirby, Dieppe Part 1

Photos by GH

Website: Don Kemsley's Journal - Part 2

Don Kemsley - RCNVR and Combined Ops

 "Members of Combined Ops on their way to Sicily.

Please note Don Westbrook, top row, first on left"

"These men are aboard HMS Keren, photo dated 1943"

Mr. Kemsley, a member of RCNVR, trained in Halifax in the fall of 1942, and ultimately volunteered for Combined Operations. He travelled to Scotland near Christmas time in the Queen Elizabeth with 17,000 other Navy and Army troops and soon found himself training on all sorts of landing craft in southern England. From his notes it appears he then travelled back to Scotland before being shipped off to Sicily the long way 'round, i.e. by travelling aboard HMS Keren around Africa and to HMS Saunders in Egypt for more training.

"Comb. Ops at HMS Saunders. Tents in background. Don Westbrook
appears in back row, 4th from left, in large shorts (due to dysentery?)"

About his experience during the invasion of Sicily he writes, in part:

     The beaches were small and very shallow so we had difficulty getting

     up far enough on them to make a dry landing. The anti-aircraft guns on

     the beaches and on the ships at anchor kept the aircraft up high but there

     was constant bombing and straffing of the beaches for many days. We

     were harassed by German and Italian planes and the second night we

     were there they bombed and sunk a hospital ship* that was anchored and

     brightly lighted some distance from our beach.

Don certainly travelled a lot of miles before reaching Sicily, during the invasion and many more afterwards. His notes are full of information about his duties with Combined Ops, and because he spent some time with the 80th Flotilla shipping all the materials of war from Sicily to Italy in September, 1943 (two months after the invasion of Sicily), I feel he may have crossed paths with my father more than once.

I say thank you to Sandy Kemsley, Don's daughter, for making the effort to share her father's wartime journal with others.

Please link to and read Combined Operations in the Canadian Navy, 1943 by Don Kemsley.

* the hospital ship was likely the Talamba. Many medical staff perished

Photos by GH

Website: Don Kemsley's Journal - Part 1

Don Kemsley - RCNVR and Combined Ops

Much WW2 Combined Ops training took place in Inveraray, Scotland

Canadians in Combined Ops unloaded US troops at Arzew, North Africa (Nov. 1942)

This photo and the one above it are from Imperial War Museum

Don Kemsley was a member of RCNVR and Combined Operations during WW2 and his daughter Sandy has placed excerpts from his journals online that touch on several matters related to Canadians in Combined Ops. For example, in an entry entitled 'Goodbye to the Combined Operations' (link below*) names of other former members are noted, as are some memories related to Comb. Ops actions, dates re the formation of a Combined Ops Association after the war, and remarks about some members and membership activities over the years.

Included in the remarks is the following pertinent information:

"In 1983 Clayton Marks put together, and had printed, a book on the history of the Canadian Combined Operations during the 2nd World War that was well received and very informative and the first 2 printings sold out in a very few years. David Lewis had a 2 volume edition printed in 1997 that was an extension of the works of Clayton containing more pictures and stories."

Clayton's book is entitled COMBINED OPERATIONS and will soon be reprinted by his family members (and one other interested individual). More details will be shared in due course about the book. David Lewis' two-volume set was printed in the 1990s and is a rare set to find intact. Perhaps one day it will be reprinted as well. The set is entitled ST. NAZAIRE TO SINGAPORE: The Canadian Amphibious War 1941 - 1945 and more information is shared here.

 Clayton Marks, top left. Photo from Combined Operations

Combined Operations inspired two more volumes of WW2 stories

*Please link to Mr. Kemsley's journal entry entitled Goodbye to the Combined Operations

Link to more Websites re Combined Operations

Unattributed Photos by GH

Memoirs re Combined Operations - A. G. Kirby, Dieppe

The Dieppe Raid: August 19, 1942 - Part 1

D. Harrison (L) with Al Kirby, in Scotland

The following story by Mr. A. Kirby (formerly of Woodstock, Ontario) is found in COMBINED OPERATIONS, a significant book written and compiled by Londoner Clayton Marks.

"Sharing WW2 memories, Mr. Kirby included"

CONCERNING the DIEPPE RAID 

A. G. Kirby - RCN - 4230 

- A Few Days Before the Raid

The shrill Bosuns' call broke the peace of a Saturday afternoon 'Make and Mend' as forcefully as the action bell on a destroyer, or the howl of the air raid alert in Picadilly Circus. "The following ratings report to the quarter deck on the double," it commanded, with the authority and rudeness, so characteristic of the Royal Navy of World War II. "Able Seaman Adlington, Able Seaman Bailey, Able Seaman Belontz... say again, Able Seaman Adlington, Able Seaman Bailey, Able Seaman Belontz, report to the quarter deck, on the double".

I lay on the lockers of our mess deck lazily passing the afternoon, when the Bosuns' call shook me back to reality. Adlington....Adlington....Christ that's me....well, not me, but since I'm standing by for Adlington I'd better get to the quarter deck to see what kind of a dirty job I'm being seen off for now.

 Halifax, 1941: "Addy" Addlington, fourth row back, third from left

 Four WW2 Vets reunite, including Art (Gash) Bailey, far right

 "Addy" Adlington* (groom) and new wife Mary, married in Glasgow.

Best man is Chuck Rose, RCNVR and Comb. Ops, w Mary's sister.

As I draw myself to a standing position, I reach my cap off the top locker and jam it down onto my head, square across my eyebrows in true RCN fashion. Out the door of the mess and down two steps to the sidewalk, then turn to skirt two sides of the parade ground in the lovely, August, afternoon warmth, of sunny Hampshire. Of course, I knew better than to cut across the parade ground, for fear that a gunner's mate may be within five nautical miles of me committing such blasphemous conduct, and I would never get finished doing punishment number eleven. As I walked along, my mind wandered back through the last seven or so months: graduating from Torpedo School at Halifax in December, volunteering for 'hazardous work' in small craft with England's Royal Navy, the trip to England in a rust bucket of a troop ship named the 'Vollendam', training through the Spring in southern England and Scotland and now sitting here in barracks at Portsmouth, twiddling my thumbs. My God, what a war! When in the world are we ever going to look down the barrel of a gun and see a Kraut just asking for it.

Here I am, eighteen years old, a fine specimen of a sailor, in great physical shape, fully trained after one and a half years in the finest Navy in the world, and on my way to be given some joe job, like scrubbing the deck in the Wrens' heads. Just think....I could have been living it up in London this weekend if only I hadn't sold my weekend leave to my buddy, Allan Adlington. One pound is a lot of money, but isn't it just my luck that "Addy" would draw some crummy job and I would have to do it for him. As I turned in to the Quartermaster's office, just off the quarterdeck, I reported, "Able Seaman Kirby here." The Quartermaster looked at me with a puzzled expression, "A.B. what?" "Able Seaman Kirby," I replied, thinking what a bunch of dolts these juicers are. "Oh, I mean Able Seaman Adlington....that is....I'm standing by for Able Seaman Adlington while he is on weekend leave".

"Right, well now my son, nip back to the mess and get your attache case, pack whatever you need for a weekend stay and report to the R.P.O.'s office. Don't forget your shaving gear, but remember, no more than you can pack in your attache case. Got it? Right, now 'op to it my lad."

As I turned to leave the office, I was met at the door by Lantz and McKenna. A.B. Lawrence Lantz, from the Gatineau area of Quebec, was our Flotilla barber, and one of the most liked of the seamen. He was a few months older than I, a lot quieter, and considered by all to be a steady, reliable, knowledgeable fellow. And so he was. I add the last statement because not everyone in our group turned out to be what he first appeared to be. A.B. Joe McKenna, another well mannered, very likable and quiet guy, was also about nineteen, but hailed from Souris, P.E.I.

I turned to the Q.M. "It looks like these two are standing by for Bailey and Belontz. What kind of a number do you have for them?" I queried. "Same story as you," he replied, "Get what you need for a weekend stay into your attache case and trot your useless bodies to the R.P.O.'s office at the double. A lorry is waiting for you and if you miss it you will bloody well have to walk."

As we cleared the door and started along the quarterdeck, heading for the mess, McKenna turned to me, "What's this all about anyway?" "Damned if I know," I answered, "The R.P.O. will no doubt give us the bad news when we get over there."

"Alright lads, I see you've got your gear with you, now I want you to fill in these forms for me, then you can board that lorry outside and be on your way," scowled the R.P.O. I looked at the piece of paper and across the top it said, "Next of kin form", then "This is not a will". I looked at the R.P.O. "What the hell kind of a job is this chief?" "No idea," he exclaimed. "An R boat Flotilla needs you three for a few days and then you will come right back here." "But what's this next of kin form all about," I persisted. "You lads have got to ride this bloody lorry out of here and sure as Christ made little green apples, one of you will fall out and kill yourself, and we have to know where to send your rum soaked body." We all realized that that was the only explanation we were going to get, so we complied and out the door we went and into the back of a 60 hundred weight idling on the roadway.

The trip to Newhaven took over three hours and we arrived there just after supper, completely unexpected. No one knew what we were required for, so we were told to pick up some bedding at a store room in a large shed on the jetty and report to the Flotilla Commanding Officer in the morning. At the stores, we were each given, one hammock mattress and two Navy blankets. We looked around the shed for a place to lay our heads down. The building was about the size of an airplane hanger and most of the floor area was covered with the beds of what looked like about two or three hundred sailors and other types.

We finally found a spot where we could be together and made up our beds for the night. We questioned the juicer sailors around us and found that the few nearest us were an R.N. Flotilla of R boats who had been moved here the day before and this freight shed was the only accommodation available. The general concensus was that some kind of an exercise was about to take place, but no one had any actual information. It was now about 2000 and we had had nothing to eat since noon hour, so we had a little discussion about whether we should go ashore to get some grub. We concluded that there would be nothing open, not even the pubs now, so we decided to hang around and shoot the breeze until we felt like sleeping.

And there ended Saturday night, August 15th, 1942.

"Terrible action just days away" Photo from The Watery Maze

Part 2 to follow.

*One might wonder if "Addy's" weekend leave included a dance with his future bride. At time of writing, Mr. and Mrs. Adlington live in London, Ontario

Please link to more Memoirs re Combined Operations

Unattributed Photos by G.Harrison