Heart in the Right Place

My Friend Harry had a doughty acquaintance named Donald Pasfield, a civil engineer, much given to Rugby football, jazz and beer. And when war happened along in 1939, what more natural than that Donald should up and join the Royal Engineers. The fact that Donald, by virtue of professional qualification, walked straight into commissioned rank as a Second-Lieutenant momentarily clouded Harry’s brow, seeing that Harry, with no military qualification except a mastery of strong language, had walked straight into the rank of Trooper in the Royal Armoured Corps. Only momentarily, though, for Troopers hadn’t much time to spare for such indulgences as thinking.

In 1940, Donald found himself somewhere in the south of England building an airfield. To help him, he had a platoon of Pioneer Corps chaps and a motley collection of Irish civilian labourers. Their work did not escape the notice of the Luftwaffe and, in due course, along came the Stukas to put a stop to it. When they arrived, all dived into slit trenches. When they departed, the lucky ones emerged to carry on working. This went on for a week or so, and then three Irish civilians came to Donald's office. They reckoned that they were entitled to danger money.

Donald gave this some thought. "Lads,” he said, “you are absolutely right. It is bloody dangerous work and you are entitled to be paid accordingly."

“Tis an understanding man, ye are," beamed the leader of the trio.

“Not at all," said Donald. “Fair’s fair. We’re all in it together, so I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll put you on the same pay as those Pioneer Corps lads. They were entitled to danger money on the day they joined up. Ten shillings a week. Less deductions for barrack damages, of course. From next week, you are all on ten bob a week. OK?"

Irish eyes were not smiling ...

Came D-Day, and there was Donald floundering ashore on Gold Beach with his R.E. bridging company and, for the sake of morale, doing his best to imitate a fearless leader of men.

“Frightened out of my bloody life," he admitted later to My Friend Harry, “but so was everybody else, so it didn’t show."

For a few weeks, all went well for Donald. Then came the evening when they were constructing a pontoon bridge under fire and Donald got hit in the thigh, fell into the river and was swept away in the darkness. The R.E.s were forced to abandon their bridging work and pull back to a safer position a mile or so nearer the beaches. Donald was posted as missing, believed killed, and a telegram to that effect eventually reached his anguished wife.

He wasn't killed, though. Weak from loss of blood, he managed to reach the shore of the river and to pull himself on to the bank. He had enough self-possession to pull his first field dressing from the pocket in his left trouser-leg. It was, of course, soaked, and probably swarming with bacteria, but it was better than nothing. He applied it to the wound in his leg, tied it as tightly as he could, and, as the saying goes, passed out.

He thought he had pulled himself on to the bank of the ’friendly’ side of the river, but, in fact, was on the enemy side, right in the path of the advancing German infantry. He wasn’t even conscious of the rifle and machine-gun fire all around him, and it wasn't until the grey light of approaching dawn that he recovered consciousness and, in desperation, called for help. To his dismay, a German soldier approached and stared down at him. The first thing the soldier did was remove Donald’s revolver from its canvas holster. The second was to remove his wrist watch. Then he unslung his water-bottle and gave Donald a drink. Five minutes later, Donald was being helped back to the first-aid post by two infantrymen and was told, after a first examination, that he’d been lucky. The bullet had gone in one side of his thigh and had come out of the other. He was given an anti-infection dusting, fresh bandages and was bundled into a half-track.“Your war is over, Tommy," he was told. “You are a prisoner from now on."

In due course he was driven off for a mile or so to a field which had been sealed off with barbed wire. He was dumped on the grass near a dozen or so other Allied soldiers who had been rounded up. Clearly, they were in a temporary site and would, eventually, be taken off to a prisoner-of-war camp far back in occupied Europe.

Then it was that the suffering Donald realised that his fellow prisoners were all Americans. That made sense, he reasoned, seeing that his own R.E. company had been working very close to the American Omaha section of the invasion area.

“How bad is it, bud?" asked one of the Americans.

“Could be worse,” replied Donald. “The Jerry doctor said the bullet had passed right through.”

“Hurt?"

“Course it bloody well hurts," said Donald.

“Don’t get shirty. We’ve all caught a packet in one way or another." He passed Donald a cigarette. “What I mean is, can you move?"

“What’s on your mind?"

“Well I don't fancy ending up as a POW. I’m just wondering what the chances are of getting out of this place. There’s only one roll of barbed wire and only one guard, and he doesn't look too happy, seeing that the Americans are just over there.” He indicated the flashes of gunfire about a mile away.

“My left shoulder’s had it, but I reckon I could make it to our lines, with luck. None of the others here are mobile, so I wonder if you’d like to tag along. I aim to try my luck as soon as it gets dark. We could help each other, maybe."

Donald didn’t hesitate. “You’re on," he said.

The wire was easy. Nobody likes laying barbed wire under fire, and the German soldiers didn’t hang about when they were detailed to seal the field off. The guard was easy, too. He was supposed to march round and round the wire perimeter until relieved, but bombs were dropping and he had a strong sense of self-preservation.

Charlie - that was the American - helped Donald to struggle along in the dark. It wasn’t easy. Fields were soggy, ditches were full, it was pitch dark and the biggest fear was that when they reached the American lines they’d be fired upon by their own comrades. Fortunately, Charlie still had his D-Day clicker, the toy that everyone used to identify himself as a friend. He was yards from a crawling patrol when he hastily gave the required two clicks, but he was covered by a gun until an officer arrived and gave clearance. He and Donald were taken to a field dressing station, their wounds were attended to again and, a day later, they were on a ship heading for England. They finished up side-by-side in an American military hospital at Torquay.

Three days later, an American Colonel appeared in the ward. With him was a Sergeant bearing a tray, much as an ice-cream girl does at the theatre. The Colonel went to the first bed. “How you feeling, soldier?" he asked.

“OK, I guess, sir," replied the patient, swathed in bandages.

“We’re proud of you, lad," said the Colonel. He took a Purple Heart medal from the Sergeant’s tray and placed it on the bedside table. “Wear that with pride, soldier," he said.

And so it was, bed by bed. Charlie had to tell the story of how he’d escaped after being wounded and had made his way back to his own lines in the darkness and under fire.

“That’s something to tell your grandchildren, soldier," said the Colonel, giving him a Purple Heart.

He came to Donald’s bed. “They tell me you are an Englishman," he said.

“Yes, sir," replied Donald. “Captain in the Royal Engineers. Wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been for Charlie. He carried me back almost all the way."

“Gee, that’s great," said the Colonel, reaching to the tray.

“Not entitled, Colonel," whispered the Sergeant. “Limey soldier."

“Not entitled, Sergeant? If he’s not entitled, I don’t know who is. Give de guy a Poiple Heart."

And he did. And Donald got a telling-off by his C.O. when he rejoined his unit for being improperly dressed by sporting a Yank decoration. But the Old Man had a twinkle in his eye that was reflected in the gleam of the medal, and Donald wore the ribbon for the rest of his service. With pride.