L/Cpl Peter Mark 3WG: A Hard To Believe Story That Led To A Treasure Trove Of Information

Regular readers will be well aware of my ongoing quest to gather up as much information regarding 3Bn Welsh Guards as possible. This principally for use as primary source material for my forthcoming book ‘The Forgotten Fighting Third: The Welsh Guards in Tunisia and Italy 1943-45’. To this end I have had tremendous support from the families of officers and men, the Welsh Guards regiment, and various museums and archives. Another source has been items held within private collections and those I have been able to acquire on the open market.

Wherever I find 3Bn related items for sale – I buy them. This is less from the perspective of ‘collecting’ and more as a concerted effort to preserve and centralise an archive of 3Bn artefacts and ephemera. To that end, I am constantly trawling the internet and militaria shows to locate these extremely niche items.

This article seeks to illustrate how a chance find (read gamble!) of purchasing a group of medals, seemingly to a 3Bn man, turned in to something much greater. It ultimately led to a treasure trove of information regarding the recipient and others, way beyond what I could ever have imagined at the point of purchase.

A Note On WW2 WG Medals – Check Everything

Before I tell this story, I thought it prudent to explain some bits and bobs regarding seeking out medals overall, and some of the necessary research requirements to fully understand the recipients service.

Aside from gallantry and long service awards, British issued campaign stars and medals were awarded to recipients unnamed. Aside from any specific and unequivocal provenance, or any name or unit marking or stamping on the medal postage box it is, sadly, impossible to identify the recipients campaign starts and medals.

Thankfully, in this case, the fact that the recipient saw post-war service in Palestine enabled his medal bar to be unequivocally identifiable, this owing to his General Service Medal being inscribed with his number, rank, name and regiment: 2738743 L/Cpl. P. R. Mark WG.

The 273**** number denotes the Welsh Guards army number range, but further checks would be needed to establish whether he had served in 3Bn or not.

For example, between 21 June 1944 and 6 July 1944, 595 men were transferred from the RAF (both RAF Regiment and Ground Crew) to the Welsh Guards and were, generally, in the 2739401 – 2739996 range. Several of these men had already seen RAF service in Africa, Italy and indeed in North West Europe. Therefore, the presence of an Africa or Italy Star on a medal bar may not necessarily always determine service with 3Bn despite the presence of a marked GSM.

Likewise, a WG Palestine GSM medal bar with a France and Germany Star may not necessarily indicate service with 1st or 2nd Battalion WG in North West Europe either.

This often accounts for why some 3Bn ex-RAF men have medal bars featuring the Africa, Italy and France and Germany star, but only the Italy Star from service with the WG, the others being from RAF service!

Allied to that, this also the case for those who transferred to the WG from other units. For example again, I have seen WG medal bars and medal cards showing an issue of the Burma Star, a theatre in which none of the three WG service battalions actually stepped foot. However, those who transferred from other Welsh regiments did (in addition to those who came from non-Welsh regiments too).

Complicated – I hope I haven’t lost you on this one!

In summary what I’m probably poorly articulating is that these medal bars always need additional research prior to attribution.

Peter Mark

So, having explained that, back to L/Cpl Mark …

The resources available to me have enabled me to know that L/Cpl P R Mark was in fact Peter Raymond Mark who joined the Welsh Guards 3 June 1943 aged 18 (having, sadly at that time, recently lost both his mother and father). He did not transfer in from another unit (he was conscripted into the Welsh Guards) and as such I was wholly satisfied that his award of the Italy Star was for service in 3Bn.

A further Ancestry check, enabled me to determine that he was born on 23 December 1925 at Cardiff and later passed away in Penarth, Cardiff aged 80 in February 2005. Further research of the British Newspaper Archive revealed several newspaper articles that showed that, years after the war, he became a Reverend and served several communities in the Cardiff and Caerphilly areas in this ministerial capacity. In 1985, he was also nominated as Preacher of the Year:

I reached out to several of the Ancestry ‘Tree Owners’ that referenced Peter to enquire if they had any further information regarding his service with the Welsh Guards.

One of the respondents, stated that Peter had written and published an autobiography in 2002. He said that it included some 50 pages covering his service with the Welsh Guards both at home and overseas. Furthermore, I was told it also contained a photograph of Peter in uniform.

The title of his autobiography was ‘Changing Scenes, Peter Mark’ (ISBN 0-9538366-2-2). The title being a reflection of the ‘changing themes of his life’ from being an ordinary man (or boy!) to solider, to teacher, to lay-preacher, headmaster and finally to minister.

I was cautioned that it would be almost impossible to find a copy owing to a low print run and that the publisher (Peter’s brother) had passed away in 2014. The respondent also said that he was aware of only one available copy and that he would endeavour to scan the chapter relating to his service with the Guards for me.

A Breakthrough

Two miles away from where I live is a large second hand internet based book reseller: Goldstone Books. Despite having little hope of ever finding a copy of Peter’s book, two weeks after his medals arrived I found a copy listed with the said local retailer! Talk about a stroke of luck – and finding it two miles from home, better still, it was a signed copy too. I do think sometimes that these ‘things’ are meant to be.

Unfortunately, and despite significant efforts I haven’t been able to locate another copy since.

The book recounts his entire life until 2002 and covers his childhood, family life, the loss of his parents, memories of the bombing of Cardiff, service with the Home Guard and Welsh Guards and his later life.

His service with the Welsh Guards covers some 35 pages and recounts his training, becoming a signaller, and his time in Italy and later in Palestine (when promoted L/Cpl).

After a period at the No.1 Guards IRTD (Infantry Reinforcement & Training Depot), he joined the battalion’s Signal Platoon at Perugia in June 1944.

One might think that being a signaller would be somewhat of a ‘safer’ role than serving in the rifle or support companies. This was certainly not the case, and was an extremely dangerous role, particularly following the de-centralised evolution of the platoon from a self contained unit to direct platoon member attachment to the rifle and support coys.

It is worthy of note that, despite being a small team of c.36 other ranks and 1-2 officers, the platoon attracted 9.5% of the total MMs (Military Medals) awarded to the battalion. This plainly illustrates how dangerous their work was.

Furthermore, despite the ‘family feel’ of the Bn, i can help but think that it could not have been easy to fit into a unit that, at this point, had already been overseas for seventeen months.

Anyhow, given the scarcity of the book, I’m keen to tell Peter’s wartime story. In the spirit of my own book to come, exactly as he documented it between pages 80 and 115 of his autobiography.

I have made some notes within the text denoted in italics and in brackets marked ‘GS’ to provide further insight or correct the narrative caused by recall over the passage of time. I have also omitted some sections of his narrative.

Peter’s Account (The 35 Pages From His Book Recounted Here)

“June 3rd 1943 is a day that has been glued to my memory for 57 years. It was the day I was called to serve in the army. For me it was the day when I lost my freedom for four years, three months and twenty-two days. Actually I received my call-up papers a day or so after my father’s death in January, and in view of this, I was granted six months’ deferment.

As I travelled towards the Guards Depot in Caterham, for I was called into the Welsh Guards, I suddenly felt very lonely. I was off into the unknown, with no parents and no home and such sad memories. The next four months of initial training were a nightmare. I had never experienced anything like it, before or since. I was surrounded by men, whose language was full of four letter words; my hair was cropped so close that I looked and felt like a convict; I had to learn to bang my feet; to drill like an automaton; to stand rigidly to attention to trained soldiers, NCOs and officers; to obey orders no matter how ridiculous they sometimes seemed; to spend hours polishing my boots, until I could see my face reflected in them, and much, much else. It seemed to me that the object of this training was to reduce us to automatons, who would do anything when ordered to, without question. In this, the Guards Regiments were very successful.

After four months’ training we were deemed fit to be allowed out of barracks. On my first day out I went to Croydon where I found a Church which turned out to be a haven in the dark storms around me. I have always been so grateful to George Street Congregational Church for their kindness to me in this period of my life. I went there on all possible occasions, joining in their activities when I could and, on a Sunday evening, joined the young people after the service, who met for discussion and light refreshments. Some of us would often go to the home of one of the members, where we would listen to records of classical music. It was wonderful and so different a world from that which I was experiencing in the army. I didn’t know such beautiful music existed. It was here that I began a love for classical music and, for the first time, heard Bach’s Air on the G-String which has always remained my favourite.

The time came for me to be transferred to the Training Battalion, which was situated in Sandown Park Race Course in Esher. This meant that I was able to continue my visits to Croydon, whilst I was there. We were billeted in the stables, normally occupied by the racehorses. It was now wintertime and I remember it was very cold in the stables, and it was here that we were trained to kill the enemy, with rifle, machine gun or bayonet. I had realised for some time that the thought of killing someone was obnoxious to me, but short of becoming a conscientious objector there was not much I could do about it.

One of the highlights of my army life throughout those lonely, terrible and frightening days was the receiving of letters from home. And there was one letter, which came at quite regular intervals, which I appreciated more than any other. It was from one young lady, who was later to become my wife and who was then the acting organist of the Church in Penarth, where I was a member. She was also the highly successful and valued Leader of the Junior Department of the Sunday School which had about a hundred junior children at the time. For some months before my call-up I had taught a small class of boys in her department, as I mentioned in an earlier chapter. Her name was Hattie Williams and her letters not only brought me happiness, with news of home and Church, but were often filled with wise comments and advice. One such letter, which came during my training, was to enclose a newspaper cutting about what was called the Emergency Teacher Training Scheme’. The Government was setting up this scheme to train teachers when the war was over, particularly ex-servicemen. She felt I ought to apply and this I did.

Part of our training, obviously, was to learn to shoot with a rifle. For this we went to Bisley Rifle Range. I prided myself that I was a good shot, for I had two advantages over other recruits – firstly, because I had had much practice in my Home Guard days, and also because I was long-sighted, which meant I could see things in the distance far clearer than many. So, in Bisley I found myself placing five shots in the bull, the centre of the target, with much regularity and at varying distances. I then became the focus of attention. A red-braided staff officer came to see me shoot and as he approached, I heard the words, ‘sniper training’. That would have been the last thing on earth I would have wanted to become, for a sniper was one who would be sent forward to do individual killing and the like which I could not contemplate for a second. So my next shots didn’t all hit the bull. I made sure I spread them around the target. The officer, whom I think realised what I was doing, gave me a sharp reprimand. So I was not considered for training as a sniper. Obviously I was not suited for this. After that episode, I breathed a sigh of relief. I then applied for and was accepted for training as a Signaller and Wireless Operator.

One day, the Entertainment Officer announced that a travelling drama group was visiting the camp and he offered a prize for the best criticism of the play they were going to perform. The result of this was that I saw the play, put pen to paper and won the prize. I don’t remember what the prize was. A few days later we had a night manoeuvre and I was given the task to lead a platoon to capture a hill from the enemy. As I planned for this I realised that this was going to be a question of hand to hand fighting and hand to hand killing and I didn’t like the idea one bit. So I made sure that my leadership was lacking in everything that I should have done. Afterwards the Education officer who had arranged for me to be the platoon leader, told me he was very disappointed in me. When I told him the reason for my bad leadership, his reply was to the effect that not all officers are infantry officers. So soon after this, I applied for a transfer to OCTU – the Officer Cadet Training Unit.

I remember that the Commanding Officer was not pleased, saying that I had wasted all these months of training but that my application would be noted. The next day I was sent on embarkation leave for service abroad. I had no idea where I was going to be sent.

During my embarkation leave I wrote to the Emergency Teacher Training Scheme, informing them that I was about to be sent abroad and asked if I could be interviewed before I embarked. I received a reply by return of post and was duly interviewed in Oxford and informed that the result would be sent to me in due course. And so it was that two weeks or so later, I found myself packed into a troop ship and feeling terribly seasick as we ploughed through a storm in the Bay of Biscay. I was on my way to join the 3rd Battalion Welsh Guards in Italy. No OCTU for me.

We landed at Naples, which was now in Allied hands. The docks and dockside revealed the evidence of what it had taken to capture it. Sunken ships seemed everywhere and the dockside buildings had been demolished, as had a large area of Naples itself. There hardly seemed a building unscathed. We marched from the docks carrying our full packs, kit bags and rifles. The road, which was quite narrow in parts, wound its way upwards at quite a steep gradient. Then came our first shock. On either side of the road the ruined buildings and their inhabitants had been shut off behind strong, thick wire netting, stretching upwards about twelve feet high. Attached to the netting were large notices, saying ‘DANGER. VD KEEP AWAY’. The notices continued at regular intervals all the way up the hill. Behind the wire netting groups of people, mainly women and children, stared at us. Their thin, emaciated bodies, their sunken eyes and the thin, torn garments they wore, all made a terrible sight. Those of us who had sweets or chocolates or biscuits, squeezed them through the netting for the children who fought each other like wild animals to get at them. Our tiny gifts seemed to make matters worse for those poor, wretched people. Those sad, unpleasant and horrific pictures of war, and its effect on the poor and innocent, made a lasting impression on me. And what added to the misery and horror was that from behind the netting there came an unforgettable smell of decay and death which, no doubt, was brought on by the heat of the Italian summer. We marched upwards and onwards. There was nothing we could do about it. ‘See Naples and die,’ is the well known saying, but I hope that the Naples we saw on that day will never be seen again. As we left Naples behind, I resolved then, and many times in the future, that if I came out of this war alive, I must do what I can to help prevent this kind of thing ever happening again.

Those terrible sights told me what war is all about, that I was part of it, that I was now on active service, and in the Italian war zone. I was now taken to the Welsh Guards’ Transit Camp, where I stayed for about a week. Then the time came to join the battalion, which was on active service ‘in the line,’ as it is sometimes called. We put our personal belongings into a kit bag for safekeeping. I didn’t see my kit bag again until the war in Europe ended, only to discover that all my personal possessions had been stolen. These included a pocket watch given to me by my father, a beautiful pullover knitted by the lady who was later to become my wife, and a number of other items of sentimental value. I was hurt and angry about this despicable act of looting by those who had been entrusted to look after the belongings of those who were risking their lives in the campaign.

As I was being transported from the Transit Camp to join the Battalion in action we passed Cassino where the Battalion had engaged the enemy for some weeks. The unmistakable smell of death stretched for miles around and the total devastation of the city, hillside and monastery was a terrible sight. I was glad I missed this action.

I joined the Battalion in Perugia and then became a member of the Signal Platoon (GS these were the first major reinforcements to the battalions since the losses suffered at Monte Cerasola and Piccolo). With another signaller, I was assigned to Number 4 Company, where I remained for the rest of the war in Italy. Our job was to establish and keep the company or platoon we were with, in communication with Battalion Headquarters or wherever else required. This meant that whenever the company, or the platoons of the company of which there were three, were sent into action, one or both of us had to be with them. In addition to normal equipment, we signallers carried a wireless set and often a drum of telephone cable. The wireless was a Number 18 Set (GS other sets were used too), which was standard equipment for infantry. This was a heavy boxlike structure which we carried on our backs, with a long, single aerial shooting upwards from it. So it was quite hard going when we moved.

The actions in which No 4 Company was engaged were too many for me to describe. Often No 4 Company would be the leading company of the battalion in action and sometimes I was assigned to the leading platoon. As I staggered along with the heavy weight of my wireless set on my back, I confess I would usually have butterflies in my stomach, a pounding heart and a prayer for help upon my lips. I often found help and comfort by singing to myself as many verses as I could remember of a hymn that we used to sing in Sunday School:

‘Courage brother, do not stumble,
though the path be dark as night.
There’s a star to guide the humble,
Trust in God and do the right.’

The path I was treading seemed so dark to me and this hymn was indeed a great help. Many, many are the times I have given thanks to God for His help and for bringing me safely through, while a number of my comrades were killed or wounded. How and why I survived I do not know. In later years, when I was a Headmaster, a good friend and colleague used to say, “You know, Peter, you and I are on borrowed time, for there but for the grace of God…” When I retired, I used some of my borrowed time to return to Italy and to visit Cassino – now rebuilt into a well designed and modern city. It was almost unrecognisable from the town I once knew. But the hill was still there, with a magnificent and beautiful new monastery, replacing the bombed and ruined old one. Near the town today, stands a large and well designed and well kept Military Cemetery. When I knelt before the graves in the Welsh Guards section and saw the names inscribed on the gravestones, some of whom I remembered. I wept uncontrollably. They were so young, as I once was so young – 18, 19, 20, 21 years old – yes, so young. Today, most would still be in school or college. And I realised yet again, ‘There but for the grace of God lay I’.

So as I now write, some of those times when I so narrowly escaped death or wounding come back to me. There were those five months or so, which we spent in the mountains overlooking Florence.

The Battalion was holding positions which were frequently under attack on a long ridge of mountains called Battaglia. I think it was part of what was called the Gothic Line. It was wintertime (GS October 1944 – Peter conflates his time at Battaglia with the later period holding Monte Acqua Salata and Verro between November 1944 – February 1945) and very, very cold, so much so that there were times when we were issued with rum rations daily. This was where I acquired quite a liking for rum. In addition, I found myself wearing seven layers of clothing and, when it snowed, another layer was added with my snowsuit (GS it did not snow at Battaglia and snow suits were issued later as above). We wore these to help camouflage ourselves on the white slopes of the mountains. An official record of our time on Battaglia described the conditions as the most fantastic winter lines ever devised for the discomfort of the troops. I was one of those so discomforted.

The conditions then were so bad that we stayed in our mountain dugouts for only five days at a time. We then went back to billets in a small village called Greve, near Florence, where we had four or five days’ break. Then back for another five days in the line. “Five days in and five days out,” we called it (GS again, this was during the time the Bn were holding Monte Acqua Salata and Verro). It would take about six hours climb to get to our positions, along mountain tracks, which were covered with slippery and deep mud. In places, we would sink up to our knees, which made the going very hard indeed. The mud had been churned up by mules carrying supplies and by the continual movement of men coming and going. There was one particular part of the track, which we would try to hurry through. I think we called it Skittle alley. It was so frequently shelled that it was necessary to take evasive action and so we would ‘skittle’ through it as fast as we could. It was here that on one occasion I had a very narrow and frightening escape. Shells were falling around us and on hearing the terrible but unmistakable whirring sound of a descending shell above me, I flung myself to the ground. The shrieking got louder and louder, followed by a loud squelching noise next to me, then silence. When I stood up, right next to me there was a large crater and in it an unexploded shell. If the shell had exploded, I would not be writing these lines now.

There were occasional lighter moments. At the far end of the Battaglia ridge, stood a castle, or what once had been a castle. All that remained of it was its keep, with a mass of great pieces of stone and rubble piled up around it. It was the target for shelling by both sides and it was eventually captured from the Germans. A section of about a dozen men, plus two signallers, were detailed to occupy and hold the castle. The two signallers were my friend Nobby Clarke and myself (GS a common nickname at the time for anyone with the surname Clarke – I have not been able to positively identifiy this individual as yet). Under the cover of darkness we followed the men up the steep hill which was strewn with bodies, mainly of Germans and Americans. We clambered into the keep where we took over from a similar section of the Grenadier Guards who had been holding the castle. Through the continual shelling, all that was left of the keep was one room, just large enough to accommodate us. It wasn’t a pleasant place to be. Apart from the occasional shell or mortar bomb exploding against the walls and rubble outside, there was the continual smell of death which got stronger each day. I don’t remember how long Nobby and I were there, for the section was relieved two or three times and we were left to carry on with each new batch of men. We radioed requests to be relieved with the sections but told to remain where we were. We felt we were hard done by. By this time things had quietened down on the Battaglia ridge and it seemed that the Germans were pulling back their positions. Then one day, we received a message in code over the radio, which said, “Mark and Clarke to come to HQ”.

Now it so happened that the American General Mark Clark was in command of the 8th Army at that time (GS Fifth Army). As Nobby and I made our way along the Battaglia ridge, going back to Battalion Headquarters, we noticed that there was a hive of activity in each section we passed. Men were tidying up their positions and themselves. When we made enquiries we discovered that the radio message ordering us back to HQ had been intercepted and misread as, “(General) Mark-Clark is coming to HQ”. Orders had then been issued for all sections to stand by and tidy up positions, in case he came their way. Nobby and I felt that this was a little compensation for being left behind in the castle changeovers, for we had caused the whole of the army on the ridge to be on the alert. But we didn’t say a word.

Some weeks later, but still in the winter, we moved on to positions on another mountain range, further north than Battaglia. It was Mount Verro. Here we lived in dugouts – holes in the ground which offered some protection for one or two men. The dugouts were reinforced with sandbags, rocks and anything else we could find. We were on one side of the mountain and the Germans on the other. From time to time there were skirmishes and regular mortar bomb attacks. It was in one of these mortar attacks that the dugout next to mine suffered a direct hit. The Company Sergeant Major, who occupied it, was sadly killed. He was an exceptionally kind man, whom I liked and I was quite upset at his death (GS 2732998 CSM ‘Ianto’ Evans of Porth, Rhondda. Nine casualties on Verro caused nine casualties from two mortar bombs during breakfast). There were a number of casualties in this attack, which left all the company quite apprehensive as we took cover in our dugouts. Then, to our amazement, the Company Commander could be seen by most, standing outside his dugout, lathering his face and calmly shaving with an open razor. Mortar bombs were coming over from the German lines and exploding on or near our positions. The C.O, carried on shaving. Was this bravery or foolishness? I think the former: done in order to calm us down. He was that kind of leader. He was one of the few Welsh Guards’ Officers whom I admired. He ended the war with three Military Crosses, and I can understand why (GS Major David Gibson-Watt – I have showed this passage in the book to his family).

It was at this time, during a pause in the Mortar Bomb attack, that a mule train arrived in our positions, bringing supplies and our daily rum and cigarette rations. I didn’t smoke but would exchange my cigarettes for rum, which meant I would often end up with half a mug full of rum. I confess that I acquired quite a liking for rum. Mail was also brought up with the supplies and I was duly handed an official looking package, marked OHMS. I remember opening it and, on reading its contents, laying back in the snow and laughing and laughing. It seemed highly amusing to me that here was I on a bitterly cold day, on the summit of an Italian mountain, sheltering from mortar bombs, wearing a snow suit over my layers of clothing, very concerned about whether I would ever come down alive – and in my hand was a message from another world, so it seemed. The message was to tell me that the result of my interview for the Emergency Teachers’ Training Scheme had been successful. Looking at the envelope it seemed that the package had been following me around a good part of Italy. At that time I could not think about teaching, I had a few other matters on my mind – staying alive was one of them.

One further piece of action remains in my mind. One night, a small section of men went forward to capture a farmhouse, where a party of German soldiers was in occupation. Together with another signaller, not Nobby Clarke, I went with them. We took with us a wireless set and a drum of telephone cable which we laid as we proceeded towards the house. It was hoped to be able to use the field telephone as we could give away our position if we sent radio messages. So, if at all possible, we had orders to keep radio silence.

The farmhouse was duly captured. About a dozen German soldiers were taken prisoner and, if I remember correctly, there were few serious casualties. The field telephone worked OK. Then, after a couple of hours, a German machine gun opened up, sending bursts of gunfire across the entrance and exit of the farmhouse. This happened every few minutes and showed that the main force of the enemy was not far away and they now knew that the house had been taken. Everyone remained on the alert, expecting a German attack at any minute.

Then the field telephone went dead. After making the required tests, it was clear that the telephone cable, which we had laid, and which stretched back to company headquarters, had somehow been broken. One of us had to go out to see if the break could be found and, if possible, to repair it. My fellow signaller went into a panic at the thought of going out into the darkness, with the machine gun still firing. I didn’t like the thought either, but it was our job. So, having told those on duty what I was going to attempt, and when there was a lull in the machine gun fire, I crept outside into the darkness. With the cable in my hands I followed it back down the hill we had climbed, taking shelter behind hedges and trees, wherever possible. Every now and then machine gun bursts were made and the tracer bullets were just overhead. I noticed there were cows grazing in the fields. The cable led me behind a haystack, where it suddenly ended. By the roughness of the break I was relieved to deduct that it probably had been broken by the cows. If it had been done by a German patrol, the cable would have shown the clean cut of a pair of pliers. Crawling on my stomach, I swept my hand in circles around me as I went further down the hill. It seemed to take ages before I eventually found the other end of the severed wires. My hands were wet from the damp ground and as I worked to join the wires, I received several electric shocks, as the line was being continually tested from the Company Headquarters. To quote a well-known saying, I was not amused’. With the line now repaired, I had to make my way back to the farmhouse. The machine gun was still bursting forth from time to time, and I had to take advantage of any cover I could find, as well as keeping a look out for enemy patrols. It was during this return journey that I suddenly realised what a dangerous situation I had been in and was still in. My heart was pounding and I was out of breath, when eventually I entered the comparative safety of the farmhouse. My colleague greeted me with the words, “Everything is OK now. It suddenly worked. I was able to get through to HQ about half an hour ago”.

This little incident did not find its way into the official records of the Battalion. There were only a few who knew about it. As long as the field telephone worked, that was all that mattered. And it had ‘suddenly worked’ and I am the only one who knows how. So I didn’t get a Military Medal or a Mention in Dispatches, but for me, it has remained in my memory as one of the most frightening experiences I had in the war.

There were many more incidents I could tell about in some detail and which took place as we advanced through Italy, but in May 1945 the war in Europe came to an end. Naturally, everyone was exceedingly happy, but I also had a tinge of pity for the vanquished, the surrendering German army. We had been the forward company in action in the previous few days before the surrender. The Germans had been in retreat and we in Number 4 Company led the crossing of the River Po and Adige in northern Italy. We crossed in amphibious vehicles and charged through the countryside, where batches of German soldiers gave very little resistance before surrendering. I was in one of the forward command vehicles and I remember it being a very busy task keeping in touch by radio with the platoons. I seem to remember that we went on for days without sleep.

Then came the end. The German army in Italy surrendered a few days before the war in Europe ended. As we had been the forward company in the last engagements, we were ordered to set up a Prisoner of War Internment Camp, while the other companies in the battalion went out into the countryside and towns to bring in the surrendering Germans. My job was to keep in communication on the radio. I was in a house where, through the window I had a commanding view of a main road going out into the distance. On the road, as far as the eye could see, came hundreds and hundreds, even thousands, of German soldiers, walking about six abreast, as they were escorted to the POW Camp we had set up. They kept coming for hours and hours – that long column, winding its way towards us. Before they entered the camp we had a visit from the Battalion Commander, who said to us words like this. “Have no pity on these wretched men. Remember that they have caused havoc throughout Europe and taken away the best years of your lives.” But I am afraid I did feel sorry for these wretched men. As they entered the camp, they all looked haggard, gaunt and dejected and the majority of them looked so young, boys even. When they came into the camp they were searched. If I hadn’t had scruples or principles, I would have come away from that camp with a great deal of money, as most of the company did. For one thing the Germans did not seem short of, was money.

With the war in Italy over, the mopping up operations of German resistance and surrender completed, we were sent into Austria, where we became part of the army of occupation. For the next few months we had an easy and restful time. We were stationed near Klagenfurt in village called Villach. We were near to Velden and the Worthersee Lake, where we swam daily. The weather was very warm and sunny. It was a real holiday. In Austria, there was time to reflect on what some would call the fortunes of war?’ – how so many of our comrades had been killed and wounded, and how fortunate we were to have come through it all-alive. Why some of us had survived and others had not, I did not know, nor ever will, I suppose. But I did think about how my prayers had been so wonderfully answered during these terrible times, that in spite of my loneliness and fears, I had been given strength to see it through. God had been most gracious, merciful and wonderful to me; of this I was and am convinced. Before I had been called up, I had been made a member of the Church about the age of fourteen. It had been a moment in my life that had greatly influenced me, when I had publicly committed myself to be a follower of Our Lord Jesus Christ. This was not easy in the army and on the battlefields of Italy but I frequently felt another presence with me at these times – a presence that I believed to be the presence of Jesus by my side. I think it was this, more than anything else that brought me through some of the difficult and frightening times I have briefly described. I now had time to think more seriously about those personal experiences I had had during my army career, and I had had a number of them. They were feelings about the Church, which came over me from time to time. They would often follow some terrible event that I had witnessed or in which I had been involved, or the spectacle of suffering and pain in others, of the great need in the world to follow the ways of Christ, rather than the ways of power and war. At these times I had felt a deep, inner calling telling me that what I really ought to do with my life in the future, would be to enter the Ministry, to minister to the needs of others and to try to lead them into the ways of Christ, to work for a better world. But I wasn’t sure; I wasn’t absolutely convinced. So I continued on and tried to prepare myself for my chosen future career in teaching.

During the war in Italy there had been times, when not in action, when I had been able to attend Church services conducted by the Chaplain. He was an Anglican Priest but men of all denominations were welcome to his services, which was as it should be. All who wished could share in the Sacrament of Holy Communion. Now in Austria one could attend these services on a more regular basis – but not for long. For one Sunday morning, as I went as usual to the service, the Chaplain announced that now that the war was over, he had to return to the peace time regulations of the Church of England, which were that only confirmed members of the Church of England were allowed to receive Holy Communion. And so it was that from then onwards, although I was a confessed member of the Congregational Church in England and Wales, I was not allowed to receive Communion. I was shocked and hurt and sad. I could not believe that this was right. Christ had prayed that His followers might be one and now that there was peace in Europe, the old divisions in the Church of Christ were operative again. There and then I came to believe that the divisions in the Church were wrong and could not be justified on any ground, because they were so clearly against what Christ Himself had prayed for. This, for me, was the beginning of my support and work for the ecumenical movement within the Church.

Towards the end of July 1945 we were delighted to learn that we were returning to England. We were all to be given disembarkation leave, which would amount to quite a few weeks’ leave for most. There was naturally great excitement. But this was soon changed, when we were informed that although the war in Europe had now ended, the war in Japan had not and that we were returning home to re-group and prepare to join with the American marines to invade Japan. Obviously, no one was pleased to hear this information. We had become so happy to have survived the war in Europe but, “Would we survive an invasion of Japan?” This was the thought uppermost in my mind, as I am sure it would have been in the minds of everyone. So we prepared to return home.

We journeyed from Austria to Italy, where we stopped for a few days in a village in northern Italy. I don’t remember the name of the village but I do remember what took place there. We were on our way home and there was a great deal of talk and speculation about what would happen when we got there. One rumour, which seemed at the time to be authoritative, was that Customs regulations allowed each man to take into the country only ten pounds, or its equivalent in foreign currency. This caused some consternation, because many of the men had quite large sums of money, some very large, which they had acquired during the German surrender. I was not among them. Then someone said, “If I can’t take it home, I’m jolly well going to spend it.” And spend it many of them did.

That evening, I went into the village. It had one long, main street which contained shops on either side. It seemed that most of these shops were Vino Shops, Wine Shops. I think that many shops and homes in that village converted themselves into wine shops that night. For when they saw what was going on, they realised there was a golden opportunity before them to make some quick profits. What I saw when I reached the village, must have been unique. All along this long street could be seen groups of soldiers, sitting around tables, which were full of bottles – not beer bottles or even wine bottles but bottles of champagne. They were having a marvellous time and this was the way that some of them had decided to spend their money. I drank champagne that night and did not pay for a single drink. I drank too much champagne that night and found it difficult to get back to camp. But it was a very memorable and enjoyable evening.

So we journeyed south. Then came the news that it had been decided that No 4 Company would fly home, while the rest of the battalion would go by ship. We flew from Foggia airport in southern Italy in American Liberator aeroplanes. These were large, bulky aeroplanes, which carried large loads of bombs. They had been converted into cargo carriers and we were the cargoes on this flight.

The conversion had consisted of putting benches in the bomb racks for us to sit on, and as far as I could see, that was all. We sat on these uncomfortable seats for about four and a half hours. Nowadays the flight takes no more than two hours in modern aircraft. There were no windows. The only way we could see out was through a narrow slit in the floor, which went almost the whole length of the aeroplane. This would open wide when the bombs were released. We trusted that the pilot remembered that we were in the place of bombs and that he kept his hands away from the bombs release mechanism – otherwise we could have been catapulted into space.

My place on the Liberator was sitting on a backless bench about two feet from the side of the aircraft, looking at a jumble of wires and pipes. We were told we were flying over the Bay of Biscay to avoid any remaining German pockets of resistance in Europe. We hit a storm and the aeroplane was buffeted about unmercifully, suddenly shooting upwards and the next second dropping downwards, twisting and diving in all directions. This continued for some considerable time and I found myself feeling terribly sick and ill. It was decided that I should be taken up to the pilot’s cabin, where I might feel better if I could see what was happening and where we were going. It didn’t make any difference, I still felt very ill. The journey seemed unending and I overheard the radio operator asking for an ambulance to meet us when we landed. After what seemed like ages, I could see an airport below us and an ambulance rushing alongside the runway. We landed and as soon as I put my feet on the terra firma I felt better and did not need the ambulance. This experience made me resolve never to fly again and although in later years, Hattie, my wife, tried to persuade me to holiday abroad, it took twenty-seven years before I boarded an aircraft again. All our holidays until then were spent in the British Isles.

At long last we were back in England. I had been abroad for over eighteen months and many in our unit had been away for years. We all had weeks of leave awaiting us and we were longing to get home. Then we all became the unwilling victims of army organisation at its most ridiculous, or, as it is said these days, we were victims of a real army cock-up. Here are the facts. We had landed at a war time airport in Peterborough in Cambridge. Being Welsh Guardsmen, it should have been obvious to anyone that the majority of us would have come from Wales, as was the case. We had just come from years of service in a foreign country and were now going home for leave – home to Wales, one might be justified in thinking. But No. The army thought otherwise. We were put on a packed train and were taken to Scotland. Scotland not Wales. It was unbelievable. It was a most uncomfortable journey spent jammed in the corridor with all our kit. We were eventually billeted in a camp in Selkirk, some miles south of Edinburgh. Then, believe it or not, after a meal, we were given passes and vouchers to go home on leave – to Wales for most of us. Yes to Wales. But wait, the army organisation hadn’t finished with us and certainly not with me.

Back on the train we went. Back into the corridors, for there was no room in the carriages of this over-crowded wartime train. Another long uncomfortable journey followed and eventually we were back in South Wales and home. I was almost asleep on my feet when eventually I climbed the stairs into the flat where my sister and my aunt were living, and where I would be staying. Then another shock awaited me. I was given an official telegram. I couldn’t believe what I read. “Surely there is a mistake? Someone is having a joke?” I thought, as I read and re-read the piece of paper in my hand. But there was no mistake; no joke, but it was an official war time telegram giving my name, number and rank. It read words like this – ‘ALL LEAVE CANCELLED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY’ Yet again, I just could not believe it.

But, believe it or not, there was only one thing I could do and that was to obey orders and return to Scotland and Selkirk. I don’t remember much about the journey. I seem to remember that I was somehow able to find a seat in a carriage and was woken up by somebody to tell me the train was now in Edinburgh. Changing trains I eventually arrived in Selkirk. But now came yet another shock and another unbelievable episode. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t met a single Welsh Guardsman on the train and now, as I entered the camp in Selkirk, I noticed it was unusually quiet and there was nobody about. The camp was empty, except for a few soldiers guarding it. Eventually I found the officer in charge, who seemed astounded to see me. “Didn’t you get the telegram?” he asked. I replied in the affirmative and showed my telegram to him. “No. The second telegram, I mean,” he said. “The one that cancelled the first.” Then he added, “Obviously not, or you wouldn’t be here, would you?” I did not reply. Yet again, I just could not believe it. As I again made the journey from Scotland to England, to Wales, my fourth journey in less than two days, I was prepared for anything to happen. Nothing could surprise me. When I arrived home, I was told that the second telegram had arrived, some ten minutes after I had left, but in those days there were no mobile telephones and no means of contacting me.

Yet there was even another surprise, which was totally unexpected and which outclassed all the other incidents by its sheer magnitude and horror. This I encountered on my way home. I had changed trains and was sitting in the Cardiff train in Paddington. As it slowly pulled out of the station, I saw a placard, which read ‘Atom Bomb dropped in Japan’. I managed to obtain a newspaper and read that it was expected that the war in Japan would be over in a matter of days. My initial re-action was one of thankfulness, mainly because I probably would not now have to go to Japan. I was so pleased, but when in the next few days I saw photographs of the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and read that over two hundred thousand people had been killed – two hundred thousand people – by just two bombs, I just couldn’t believe this either; I couldn’t imagine it – I was awe struck and horrified at the terrible loss of life, and I was ashamed of my first re-action of pleasure.

Peace had now come and how wonderful it was. My battalion, the 3rd Battalion Welsh Guards, was disbanded; older soldiers were demobilised; others were sent to Europe to join the 2nd Battalion and others, myself included, were sent to join the 1st Battalion, which was doing duty in Palestine. I longed for demobilisation, but it wasn’t to come for a further fifteen months or so. Demobilisation was based on age and length of service and each serviceman was given a number. My Demob Number was 53 and it took a long time to reach that number in the army and it was a bone of contention among us that men in the navy and airforce reached higher numbers in a much shorter time.

So I went to Palestine …”

Thank You

I sincerely hope that you have found this article interesting.

Published first hand accounts of service within 3Bn are extremely scarce – I know of only another three books from 3WG veterans.

Secondly, I think the story of a chance purchase of some medals which led me to a published account are immeasurably unlikely – and like I said early, I think this was meant to happen.

Not least because of the scarcity of books providing first hand accounts of service within the battalion, but how the acquisition of his medals led to something much ‘bigger’.

Finally, aside from the medals themselves, they led me to something much much bigger. Peter’s book is already greatly enrich elements of my own forthcoming book. It has also already afforded me the opportunity to give extra information to other families concerning their relatives too. Some have since gone on to use some of Peter’s writings to support the documenting of their own family member’s accounts and memoirs.

Anyhow, I thought it was a story worth telling from several perspectivesz

Thank you for your ongoing support and encouragement.

Diolch yn fawr iawn,

Gareth