Colonial troops and, to a lesser extent, Indians contributed
to Canada’s defeat, but British regulars bore the brunt of the fighting. The
relationships among redcoats, colonials, and Indians were strained, but the
developing rift between British officers and colonial civilians was even more
ominous. Regular officers believed colonial troops had no merits. They were,
wrote one of Braddock’s subordinates, “totally ignorant of Military Affairs.”
They were ill disciplined and lazy and, lacking even elementary knowledge of
camp sanitation, suffered an appalling rate of sickness. Colonies never fielded
as many men as the legislatures voted, officers failed to report accurately
their unit’s strength, and men deserted in droves, so the number of colonial
troops was always uncertain. The large enlistment bounties that were needed
also made colonial recruits exorbitantly expensive.
This catalog of shortcomings was true in many respects, and
understanding why is important. The Great War for Empire was a war of conquest,
requiring extended offensives far from the homes of most militiamen. But the
militia was a system for local defense. Large numbers of militiamen could not
be absent long without leaving their colonies vulnerable to enemy raids and
without dislocating the local economy. Militiamen were part-time
citizen-soldiers who had to run businesses, tend crops, and conduct the fishing
and fur trades. Consequently, authorities hesitated to impose militia drafts
and instead relied on volunteers, who came primarily from the lowest social
strata. In the few cases when a colony resorted to a draft, the sending of
substitutes and paying of commutation fines ensured that few middle- or
upper-class citizens served. But of all the high-ranking British officers
serving in North America, Lord Loudoun alone seemed to realize that colonists
marching with English regulars against some distant fort were different from
the men enrolled on militia musters. “The Militia,” he wrote, “are the real
Inhabitants; Stout able Men, and for a brush, much better than their Provincial
Troops, whom they hire whenever they can get them, and at any price.” Almost
all other British officers confused the expeditionary forces with the actual
militia, thus misjudging the militia’s military potential in defense of its own
Holding such a low opinion of colonial soldiers, British
officers relegated them to auxiliary functions. They built roads, served as
wagoners and boatmen, and repaired and constructed forts. With their
aristocratic ties and long years of experience, English officers were reluctant
to treat American officers, who were usually young and newly commissioned, as
equals. While provincial officers had traditionally relied on exhortation and
admonishment to maintain discipline, English officers inflicted ferocious
punishment upon enlisted men, including liberal use of the lash and, for
serious offenses, execution by hanging or firing squad. To colonial soldiers,
whippings and executions were horrific and unnecessary. And because the redcoats
engaged in swearing, excessive drinking, and whoring, the colonists also
condemned them as profane, irreligious, and immoral—pollutants in a pure land.
And initial British defeats mingled with earlier memories, making a lasting
impression. The Walker expedition, Cartagena, Braddock, Loudoun at
Louisbourg—what right did professionals have to claim superiority? All in all,
serving with British regulars graphically reminded colonists of a standing
army’s threat to free people living in a free society, and persuaded them that
their own military institutions were morally and militarily superior.
British officers also considered Indians questionable
allies. Amherst described them as “a pack of lazy, rum-drinking people, and
little good,” and Forbes accused them of being “more infamous cowards than any
other race of mankind” and having a “natural fickle disposition.” These
impressions flowed in part from cultural ethnocentrism, but also from the
natives’ difficult position in the white rivalry swirling around them. Between
1748 and 1760 England and France negotiated constantly with the Indians and
tried to buy their allegiance through lavish gift giving. While the natives
listened to, and took presents from, both French and English ambassadors, they
were naturally anxious to be on the winning side. Inactivity, duplicity, and
hesitancy to go on the warpath were stratagems to buy time until a clear-cut
winner emerged. But these traits exasperated British professionals, who
demanded unwavering commitment.
Initially, with English arms suffering reverses, Indians
tended to support the French, and the British maintained the neutrality of
important tribes, such as the Creeks and Iroquois, only through astute
diplomacy coupled with large expenditures for gifts. The turning point in
Indian relations, as in the war itself, came in 1758 when a reversal of
battlefield fortunes occurred and the naval blockade prevented French goods
from reaching Canada. Addicted to European products through the fur trade and
white gift giving, French-aligned natives suffered. The tide of allegiance
shifted to England.
Although the British found that friendly Indians were
useful, in the final analysis they were not essential. To combat American
conditions and the enemy’s guerrilla methods, the British recruited white
frontiersmen and organized them into ranger companies to perform duties
traditionally done by natives. Regulars also made certain tactical adaptations.
They formed light infantry companies composed of agile, lightly armed men who
received training in irregular warfare tactics. Some units learned to deliver
aimed fire rather than volleys, to maneuver by companies instead of battalions,
and to march single file to lessen the impact of an ambush. These
modifications, however, were not widespread, and the British army’s success
depended on standard European practices. The regulars’ discipline and organized
persistence counterbalanced the virtues of Indian-style warfare.
Relations between British regulars and colonial civilians
were a reenactment of the Walker expedition performed on a continent-wide
stage. Conflicts over recruitment, quarters, transportation, and provisions
fueled mutual resentment. To fill understrength regiments and raise new ones,
the British hoped to tap the colonial manpower reservoir. In 1755 and 1756 they
met considerable success, enlisting some 7,500 colonists, but thereafter the
number of recruits dwindled. One reason was that men had a choice: long-term
service in the regulars with low pay and harsh discipline, or short-term service
in a provincial unit with an enlistment bounty, higher pay, and lax discipline.
Another reason was the often violent opposition to the unscrupulous methods
British recruiters used. For example, they recruited heavily among indentured
servants, a practice that colonists considered “an unconstitutional and
arbitrary Invasion of our Rights and Properties” that cast suspicion on all
recruiting. By 1757 mobs regularly harassed recruiters and “rescued” men whom
they assumed had been illegally recruited. The inability to find men outraged
professionals and forced Pitt to rely on full-strength regiments from the home
Redcoats needed quarters, especially during winter, but
America had few public buildings that could serve as barracks. The only option
was to quarter them in private houses, but citizens argued that soldiers could
not be quartered in a private home without the owner’s consent. Civilians had
the law on their side, but Loudoun insisted that “Whilst the War lasts,
Necessity, will Justify exceeding” normal quartering procedures. He told the
Albany city government “that if they did not give Quarters, I would take them”
by force. Albany officials maintained that Loudoun “assumed a Power over us
Very inconsistent with the Liberties of a free and Loyal
People. . . .” Civilians and soldiers invariably reached an
accommodation over quarters, but only at a high cost in mutual trust.
The British government also counted on colonial assemblies
to provide adequate provisions and timely transportation, but the colonies
proved stingy and dilatory—at least in the opinion of regular officers. Every
British officer complained about the reluctance of assemblies to comply “with
the just and equitable demands of their King and Country,” but legislators
acted at their own deliberate pace. They were so slow in fulfilling requests
that the British frequently impressed or seized what they needed, which was an
unjustified exercise of arbitrary power from the colonial perspective.
British officers thought they perceived sinister motives in
the colonials, who seemed “bent upon our ruin, and destruction,” working
tirelessly “to disappoint every Plan of the Government.” Professional soldiers
simply misunderstood colonial institutions and political philosophies.
England’s appointment of a commander in chief for North America imposed
centralized military control on a decentralized political system. Each colony
considered itself sovereign and was anxious to maintain its freedom of action
in military affairs. Allowing the Crown’s representative, who was also a
high-ranking officer in a suspect standing army, to direct the war effort would
reduce every colony’s independence. Furthermore, many colonists accepted
radical Whig ideology, which preached a dichotomy between power and liberty.
Every accretion of power reduced freedom’s sphere. When the British army
recruited fraudulently, quartered men illegally, impressed property, and tried
to bully assemblies, colonists feared that growing military power threatened
their liberty. Colonial legislatures believed they were fighting two wars of
equal importance, one against France and one for liberty.
Several important themes emerged from the colonial wars.
First, most Americans gained a high opinion of their martial abilities and a
low opinion of British professionals. Colonists typically emphasized British
defeats and insufficiently praised the triumphs of Amherst, Forbes, and Wolfe.
Such attitudes were a tribute to the colonists’ selective military memory and
help explain colonial confidence in 1775. Second, the wars had a nationalizing
impact. In 1763 each colony still jealously protected its sovereignty, yet
during the wars against New France important experiments in cooperation had
occurred. The Albany Plan, though rejected, was an evolutionary step leading to
the First Continental Congress. During the colonial wars English colonists
became Americans. Finally, a growing estrangement between England and the
colonies emerged. Many Englishmen agreed with Loudoun that the colonies assumed
“to themselves, what they call Rights and Privileges, Totally unknown in the
Mother Country.” Many colonists concurred with the Albany city council, which
stated that “Upon the Whole we conceive that his Majesties Paternal Cares to
Release us [from the threat of France] have in a Great Measure been Made use of
to oppress us.” The Peace of Paris, which should have pleased Englishmen
everywhere, left a bitter heritage.
The Black Watch at the Battle of Fontenoy by William
The Black Watch Chaplain at the Battle of Fontenoy,
1745 by William Skeoch Cumming (1897)
In March 1743 the regiment was ordered south into England.
They reached London on 29th and 30th April, and in May embarked for the
Continent, to join the army under command of the Earl of Stair at grips with
the French forces of Louis XV. They sailed from Gravesend to Ostend, whence
they marched to Brussels, arriving on 1 June 1743; and thence by Liege to
Hanau, where lay the army commanded by George II in person, who had just
assumed command from the Earl of Stair. Throughout the ensuing twelve months or
more the Highlanders saw no active service, but the year 1745 was to be an
eventful one for the Black Watch and indeed for the regiment’s homeland.
Leading the powerful French forces in the Low Countries was
the redoubtable Marshal Saxe, one of the greatest military figures of the
century. He was opposed, after King George returned to England, by the Duke of
Cumberland, at least the equal of the most unsuccessful general ever to have
commanded British troops. Together with his Dutch allies and some Austrians, he
marched at the beginning of May to relieve the fortress of Tournai from the
siege with which Marshal Saxe had opened his campaign. Leaving a force to
‘mask’ Tournai, Saxe had drawn up his army in a superb defensive position some
miles away. Forming the key point of all’ L-shaped defence line was the village
of Fontenoy; several woods formed natural obstacles, redoubts were constructed
by the French to add to the hazards faced by the attackers, and the whole front
was liberally garnished with field-guns.
On 10th May when, in the manner of the time, the Allied army
began its deliberate approach, it was seen that the planned start line for the
attack could be reached only through the small village of Vezon. A mixed force
of infantry and cavalry, including the Highlanders, was therefore detailed to
clear the place. This was achieved with little trouble, the French falling back
after a sharp exchange of musketry; and that was the Black Watch’s baptism of
fire. Thereafter the regiment was posted on the extreme right of the Allied
line, facing the wood of Barri, which formed the point d’appui of the French
left flank. The following morning the task of clearing the French from the wood
was given to a certain Col. Ingoldsby, who was provided with a brigade
consisting of the 12th and 13th Foot, a Hanoverian regiment, and the
Highlanders. At 6.00 a.m. the brigade moved off, but a succession of quite
inexplicable events halted it. Whether it was uncertainty on Ingoldsby’s part or
confusion resulting from conflicting orders from his superiors, is not known
(he was later acquitted at a court martial) but, despite the arrival of
supporting artillery, he either could not or would not press home the attack.
By 11.00 a.m. a Dutch attack on Fontenoy had failed, and the Highlanders were
ordered to proceed from the right to the left flank to support them in a second
assault. This was much more to their taste; off they went at the double led by
Lieut.-Col. Sir Robert Munro, and stormed forward against the French positions
about Fontenoy with tremendous spirit and elan. The French, protected by field
fortifications and in considerable strength, were much shaken by this unusual
attack launched by Highland furies armed – thanks to the granting of a request
that this day they should fight with their native weapons – with broadsword and
targe. Over the first line of entrenchments poured the Highlanders, but the
French musketry was sustained and deadly and many of them fell and died before
the fortifications. After a bitter struggle the Highlanders had to retreat,
carrying with them the Lieutenant-Colonel, a man of such tremendous girth that
he stuck in one of the entrenchments and barely escaped being made prisoner.
While the Black Watch was regrouping after this onslaught,
there followed the tremendous episode when the solid mass of British and
Hanoverian infantry – 16,000 strong – advanced into the heart of the French
position, shattering the Gardes Francaises and many another distinguished regiment
of the ancien regime, and retiring only after having been .virtually decimated
by musketry and gunfire and innumerable cavalry and infantry counter-attacks.
The Highlanders and another battalion were detailed to cover the inevitable
retreat, a difficult duty even though there was no sustained pursuit, and the
regiment was singled out for special praise by Cumberland in his report of the
As an additional mark of favour, the men were asked if there were any special requests they might like to make. Unanimously they expressed the desire that two of their comrades, under sentence of flogging for allowing some prisoners to escape, should have the punishment remitted. Another incident is worth recording. On the morning of the battle, when the Highlanders paraded, the commanding officer saw the regimental minister standing in the ranks with drawn broadsword. This was Adam Ferguson, later Professor of Moral Philosophy at the University of Edinburgh, who was threatened upon the spot with the loss of his commission if he did not at once return to his more orthodox duties. ‘Damn my commission!’ retorted the bellicose prelate and marched off to battle with his men. Their first engagement cost the regiment dearly, over 30 officers and men killed and nearly 90 wounded – not as serious as the casualties of some other regiments taking part, but bad enough.
When World War I began, Russian law prohibited women from
joining the army. Nonetheless, women found ways to fight with the Russian army.
Some women took the “traditional” route and disguised themselves as men, taking
advantage of the general confusion to bypass medical inspections and other
formalities. Others applied directly to unit commanders for the chance to
enlist. As the war went on and manpower shortages became dire, individual
commanders chose not to enforce the law. When women couldn’t convince a
commander to let them enlist, they often appealed to a higher authority. (At
least one invoked the memory of Nadezhda Durova to strengthen her case.) The
number of petitions became burdensome enough that in June 1915—ten months after
Russia entered the war—the army established a policy for dealing with them.
Thereafter, all requests were referred to the tsar for his personal approval.
In 1917, the February Revolution brought with it the
possibility of change. The Provisional Government proclaimed all subjects of
the empire free and equal citizens, with the rights and duties that went with
citizenship. Many women assumed their new status included their right as
citizens to bear arms in their country’s defense. By the spring of 1917, the
idea of an all-female military unit was in the air. Individual women proclaimed
their desire to serve. Women’s groups sent petitions to the government asking
for permission to form all-female military units.
At the same time that women were eager to join the army, men
on the front were desperate for the war to stop. For two and a half years, the
army had suffered shortages of food and materiel, heavy casualties, and brutal
defeats at the hands of the Germans. From the perspective of the front line,
the February Revolution had done nothing to improve their lot. The Provisional
Government was no more effective at running the war than the imperial
government it replaced. The introduction of democracy to the military
decision-making process in the form of soldiers’ committees resulted in endless
wrangling about every action and made it difficult for officers to enforce
orders. In fact, many units voted to remove their officers, and then followed
up the vote with force. Morale was low and the desertion rate was high. In May,
units at the front experienced mass mutinies. It was not clear that Russia
could continue to fight.
Many people thought an all-female battalion was the
solution, believing the presence of women in the trenches would raise morale,
or at least shame male soldiers into fighting.
In late May 1917, despite having serious reservations about
the value of such units, Minister of War Alexander Kerensky approved the
creation of a single all-female battalion under the leadership of Maria
Bochkareva (1889–1920), a semiliterate peasant from Siberia who had already
fought for two years alongside male soldiers.
Bochkareva’s story is similar to that of women who joined
the army disguised as men in earlier centuries. She was born into a desperately
poor peasant family and went to work at the age of eight. When she was fifteen,
she married a local peasant, Afanasi Bochkarev, in an attempt to escape her
father, who was an abusive alcoholic. Afanasi proved to be as brutal as her
father. She fled again, this time with a petty criminal named Yakov Buk. They
lived together for three years. When Buk was arrested for fencing stolen goods
in May 1912, Maria followed him into exile in Siberia, where he began to drink
heavily and became physically abusive.
When the war began in 1914, Bochkareva saw it as an
opportunity to escape. She traveled to her childhood home of Tomsk and
attempted to enlist in the Twenty-Fifth Tomsk Reserve Battalion. The commander
explained it was illegal for women to serve in the imperial army. Bochkareva
pushed. The commander sarcastically suggested she ask the tsar for permission
to enlist—not that far-fetched a suggestion as it turned out. Bochkareva
convinced (or perhaps bullied) the commander to help her write a telegram to
Tsar Nicholas II. To the amazement of everyone, and the possible chagrin of the
commander, she received a thumbs-up from the tsar.
With the tsar’s permission, she enlisted in the Fourth
Company of the Twenty-Fifth Reserve. Her unit was sent to the western front in
February 1915. For two years she served with distinction. She was wounded three
times—the third time a shell fragment pierced her spine, leaving her paralyzed.
She learned to walk again and returned to the front. She earned several
military honors for valor, including the St. George Cross.
Bochkareva was an avid proponent of an all-female brigade.
She began to recruit for the First Women’s Battalion of Death as soon as she
received approval to form the unit, helped by the Petrograd Women’s Military
Organization. Some two thousand women enlisted initially, far exceeding
expectations. The realities of war and Bochkareva’s rigid leadership style
whittled the battalion down to three hundred by the time they were sent to the
The social backgrounds of the women who enlisted varied.
Bochkareva was barely literate, but roughly half the women who served under her
had a secondary education, and 25 to 30 percent had completed some degree of
higher education. Professionals and women from wealthy families trained
alongside clerks, dressmakers, factory workers, and peasants. Some had already
served in the war in medical or auxiliary positions and were eager to do more;
as one woman said, “Women have something more to do for Russia than binding
men’s wounds.” At least ten had fought previously in all-male units. Thirty of
them had been decorated for valor in the field.
Bessie Beatty, an American journalist who reported on the
Russian Revolutions and the subsequent civil war for the San Francisco
Bulletin, spent ten days living with the battalion in its barracks. When she
asked the women why they had enlisted, many told her it was “because they
believed that the honor and even the existence of Russia were at stake and
nothing but great human sacrifice could save her.” Others joined because
“anything was better than the dreary drudgery and the drearier waiting of life
as they lived it.” A fifteen-year-old Cossack girl from the Urals, who managed
to enlist despite the requirement that all volunteers be at least eighteen,
joined because her father, mother, and two brothers had all died in battle.
“What else is left for me?” she asked Beatty.
On June 21, after less than a month of rigorous training,
their hair cut in a style any modern recruit would recognize, and wearing
uniforms that didn’t fit, the First Women’s Battalion of Death marched in
procession to St. Isaac’s Cathedral for the consecration of their battalion
standards. Enthusiastic crowds cheered and a group of soldiers and sailors
boosted Bochkareva onto their shoulders. Bessie Beatty trumpeted the
significance of the unit and the event to her readers. This was “not the
isolated individual woman who has buckled on a sword and shouldered a gun
throughout the pages of history, but the woman soldier banded and fighting en
masse—machine gun companies of her, battalions of her, scouting parties of her,
whole regiments of her.”
Two days later, Bochkareva and her soldiers left for the
Russian western front. Kerensky sent the unit to an area that suffered from
dangerously low morale. A few days before the women arrived, a regiment had
been forced to disband due to massive desertions. Their posting was
deliberate—a test as to whether the presence of women would affect the morale
of male soldiers.
The First Women’s Battalion of Death experienced its first
taste of battle on July 9 as part of an offensive against a German position.
When the order came to attack, nothing happened. Three regiments of the
infantry division to which they were attached convened their soldiers’
committees and debated whether or not to fight. After several hours, the women,
anxious to prove their worth, decided they would advance without the support of
the other regiments. Joined by a few hundred male soldiers, they advanced with
few casualties. Eventually, more than half the soldiers in the division joined
them in the advance. Together they took the first and second lines of the
The women and a few male soldiers held off six German
counterattacks on their position. They retreated only when they ran out of
ammunition. Before retreating, they captured two machine guns and a number of
Germans, including two officers, who were not happy about being taken prisoner
by women. One officer was so distraught with the shame of being captured by
women that the Russian women tied him down for fear he would commit suicide—a
variation of the Yoruba rage at finding they had retreated before an army of
The First Women’s Battalion of Death inspired the creation
of similar units throughout Russia. Between five thousand and six thousand
women volunteered for combat. The Provisional Government established fifteen
more official units; grassroots women’s groups organized at least ten others.
Several of these units saw active duty.
Despite the success of the First Women’s Battalion of Death
at the front, military authorities believed the units were more trouble than
they were worth. The units were formed as a means of improving morale among
male troops. Instead, male soldiers became increasingly hostile to the presence
of women soldiers over the course of the summer. By September, the military had
stopped enlisting women and was discussing proposals to disband existing
women’s combat units.
In October, the Bolsheviks seized power from the Provisional
Government in a relatively bloodless coup. On March 3, 1918, the Bolshevik
government signed a separate peace treaty with Germany and began demobilizing
the army, including the all-female units. Because the great experiment of women
soldiers was publicly linked with the Provisional Government, many women
soldiers were branded as counterrevolutionaries during the first chaotic months
of Bolshevik rule and suffered violence at the hands of their countrymen. Some
joined anti-Bolshevik forces in the civil war that followed the October
Revolution. Others enlisted in the Red Army, which welcomed women during the
civil war—though most of them were placed in noncombat positions.
Maria Bochkareva fled to the United States, where she met
with President Woodrow Wilson to plea for the United States to intervene in
Russia. (And took the time to “write” her memoir.) She returned to Siberia in
1919 and organized a women’s paramedic unit on behalf of the White Russians.
She was captured by the Bolsheviks on Christmas Day 1919, tried as an enemy of
the state, and shot on May 16, 1920. She was thirty years old.
Russia’s women soldiers were celebrated during the First
World War, but they were conspicuously absent from Soviet histories of the war
and the revolution that followed it because of their connection to the failed
Provisional Government. Nonetheless, they would serve as a precedent when
Soviet Russia once again faced an external enemy in the form of Nazi Germany.
Tom Wingham, together with the other members of the crew of
their Halifax II bomber, belonging to No. 102 (Ceylon) squadron, had just
returned from a bombing trip to Germany, when they were told to report to
Boscombe Down to test the latest Halifax bomber – the Halifax III prototype.
They still had three more trips to do before they completed their tour but they
had been selected for this job because they were the most experienced crew in
the group. This was a welcome relief to the crew as the losses within the
squadron were mounting with each mission and the odds of survival were quickly
The development tests were scheduled to last for about five
weeks but problems with the aircraft resulted in the five weeks turning into
five months. On their return to their home base of Pocklington in Yorkshire,
they discovered that they had been ‘screened’, which meant that the three trips
needed to complete their tour had been deemed to be done. The crew was then
split up and Tom Wingham chose to go to RAF Rufforth, just outside York, as a
bombing instructor with the Heavy Conversion Unit.
By March 1944, Tom Wingham was becoming restless and
although his job as an instructor was important, he wanted to get back into the
war. His opportunity came when a drinking companion, Fgt-Off Jim Lewis, a
navigator who was part of a crew that was being reformed, asked him if he was
interested in joining them. Tom Wingham jumped at the chance and together with
two gunners, WO John Rowe and F/Sgt Harry Poole, both instructors from RAF
Driffield, they made up the crew. The rest of the crew consisted of pilot Sqn
Ldr Stan Somerscales and wireless operator Fgt-Off Jack Reavill.
On the 20 April 1944, the crew took over a brand-new Halifax
that had been delivered just two days previously by an ATA pilot. She
maintained that it was one of the best Halifax bombers she had ever flown. The
crew took it on an air test to ensure everything worked as it should and
declared it fit for operations. On 21 April the crew carried out two raids on
railway yards in France and Belgium and then was stood down for another crew to
take the bomber on a raid to Dusseldorf. The second crew was led by the CO of
No.76 Squadron, Hank Iverson, but Group HQ ordered him and his crew to stand
down as they had completed their quota of trips for that month. Stan
Somerscales and his crew were taken off ‘stand down’ and given the green light
to take part in the raid.
At 10.36 p.m. on 22 April the big Halifax bomber once again
lifted off the runway at Home-on-Spalding Moor (Yorkshire), together with other
bombers, and headed south towards northern France. As they passed over Liége
Tom Wingham settled himself down in the prone position to carry out checks on
his bombsight. Minutes later there was a muffled thud and the aircraft shook
slightly. Over the intercom came shouts of, ‘What was that?’ Then F/Sgt Harry
Poole in the mid-upper gun turret shouted, ‘The wing’s on fire!’ They
discovered some time later that they had been attacked by a Me. 110
nightfighter flown by Fähnrich Rudolph Frank, one of the Luftwaffe’s top
night-fighter aces with forty-five victories to his credit, using an
upward-firing cannon called a Schräge Musik.
Within seconds Stan Somserscale ordered the crew to bale out
as he knew there was no way of saving the aircraft. Tom Wingham immediately
jettisoned the bomb load to make it easier for the pilot to maintain control
and then clipping on his parachute, moved his seat from over the escape hatch.
Being a new aircraft the hatch was extremely tight and it took the combined
efforts of himself and Jim Lewis to force it open. All the time the flames were
creeping along the wing and into the fuselage. As he watched Jim Lewis drop
out, Tom looked back along the fuselage, which by now was enveloped in smoke
and flames, and saw Jack Reavill about to leave by one on the other hatches.
Sitting on the edge of the hatch, Tom dropped out and as he pulled the ripcord
of his parachute he saw the burning aircraft plunging towards the ground. He
discovered later that the aircraft crashed between Maastricht and Aachen.
Tom Wingham remembered nothing after pulling the ripcord
until he came to in the middle of a field. He lay there for a while trying to
collect his thoughts, and then his back and legs started to become extremely
painful as he struggled to his feet. Hitting the ground like a sack of potatoes
whilst unconscious hadn’t helped his situation. He glanced down at his watch
and was aware that he was having great difficulty in focusing. His jaw was also
very swollen and tender. He realised later that he was suffering from
concussion probably brought about by the heavy metal parachute clips hitting
him on either side of the jaw as his parachute opened. Gathering up his
parachute and harness, he rolled it into as tight a bundle as possible then
struggled across the field and hid it under the hedgerow.
Looking up at the stars Tom managed to fix a position and
headed in a south-westerly direction. Reaching a small river he waded across
then decided to settle down for the night. In the morning the sun spread a warm
feeling through his aching and bruised body but his vision was still out of
focus which was causing him some concern. He decided that it would be safer to
travel at night and so rested beside the river until dusk. With the gathering
darkness he started off, not knowing where he was headed for or indeed what
country he was in. He had in fact crossed the Dutch–Belgian border during the
night and was now in Belgium. The walking had helped ease the pains in his back
and legs. Stumbling on through the darkness he came upon a village and although
he could hear voices he could not identify their nationality, so decided to
skirt the village and continue in a south-westerly direction.
His vision was still giving him cause for worry and the only
way he could work out his course was to lie flat on his back, identify the
North Star and line up his body to the south-west. This of course was
conditional on clear nights, but on the second day he was caught out in the
open during a violent thunderstorm and within minutes was soaked through to the
skin in a torrential downpour. In addition to this he could hear the sound of
engines as bombers flew overhead on their way to targets in Germany. Then
suddenly he heard the sound of gunfire and minutes later saw a burning
Lancaster bomber hit the ground and explode just a mile or two from where he
Tom realised that he was in dire need of help and decided to
trudge back to the village he had skirted earlier and make his way to the
church. He found the church deserted so decided to wait in the undergrowth until
the dawn came. Then he saw movement and watched as a woman emerged from a
cottage. She opened a pen full of sheep and proceeded to drive them towards a
field close to where Tom was hiding. Taking a chance, he stepped out and
explained to the woman in a mixture of gestures and sign language that he was
the member of an RAF bomber crew that had been shot down and had parachuted
into a field. The communication proved to be difficult but then the realisation
of what he was trying to say became apparent to the woman and she quickly
ushered him into the cottage.
On entering the cottage he was confronted by three men – the
woman’s husband and their two sons. After managing to explain to them that he
was a downed RAF airman they helped him take off his wet clothes. Meanwhile one
of the sons had disappeared and had gone across the street to another cottage
where he knew there was a Dutch policeman, Herman Ankoné, who had been visiting
some friends in the village. Unwittingly, the woman Tom had approached for help
was known locally as the worst gossip in the area and so the policeman, knowing
this, was wary of offering his help. However, they had approached him and by
doing so had compromised themselves, so he decided to check Tom out in case he
had been a German ‘plant’.
Entering the cottage, the policeman barked out a number of
commands in German and getting no response from Tom, proceeded to verify that
he was who he said he was. Tom was initially shaken but after realising that
the man was not German but in fact Dutch, he relaxed. Again the language
barrier was causing problems, so the policeman indicated using sign language
and pencil and paper that an English-speaking policeman would come later that
At 9 a.m. a tall policeman in uniform entered the cottage
and began to interrogate Tom until he was satisfied that Tom was indeed an RAF
airman. Introducing himself as Sgt Vermullen, the policeman told Tom that he
and all the other officers in the district just over the border were members of
the local Dutch Resistance.
After being given fresh clothes and a meal, Tom was taken to
another house in the village where he was instructed to wait until he was
collected by other police officers that evening. Promptly at 6 p.m., three
Dutch police officers, including Sgt Vermullen and officer Ankoné, arrived to
take him over the border into Holland. He was taken to a farmhouse close to the
border and introduced to Richard Linckens and his wife Cisca. The couple were
members of the Resistance who helped escaping and evading allied airmen and had
aided more than forty since the beginning of the war. In order to allay any
suspicions from the German border guards, the couple maintained a very friendly
relationship with them and on numerous occasions entertained the guards in one room,
whilst in another room allied airmen were enjoying a meal. During the two days
Tom Wingham stayed there he remembers having supper with Cisca, whilst her
husband was having coffee in the next room with some of the German border
On the evening of the second day, the three Dutch policemen
arrived to escort him to another safe house in a village called Slenaken. On
the way the group ran into a patrol of German border guards and Tom had to jump
out of the vehicle and hide in an orchard until they had passed. The group
resumed their journey and for the next three days and nights Tom Wingham stayed
at the home of Sgt Vermullen in the company of his wife and three children.
Again this aid and hospitality was extended willingly
despite the risk that families might pay for it with their lives if they were
discovered. Then after the third day, a guide turned up to take him to another
safe house. After saying farewell and thanking his hosts, Tom Wingham and the
guide set off on a two-hour trek through pitch-black woodland to an isolated
farmhouse over the border in Belgium. The farmer and his wife welcomed him but
were nervous about him being there. They emphasised the point to the guide that
it could only be for one night. The next morning he was told that another guide
would come to collect him after lunch but lunchtime came and went, with the
farmer and his wife becoming increasingly agitated. Then a message came to say
that it would be the following day before he could be collected. Despite Tom
feeling a sense of embarrassment at being foisted on the couple, he had no
choice but to stay put until the following day.
Just after lunch the following day, the farmer gave Tom an
old bicycle and he was taken to a lane some distance from the farm. There he
was told to wait until his guide arrived to take him to his next point of
contact. After about thirty minutes a woman and a young girl, Madame Coomans
and her daughter Mady, suddenly appeared on bicycles and stopped beside him.
Once again there was a problem with language but Madam Coomans, the mother,
spoke a few words of English and managed to explain to Tom what was going to
happen. The mother and daughter would cycle in front with at least a 50yd gap
between each of the bikes. In the event of the mother being stopped by a German
patrol, the daughter would turn around and cycle back towards Tom. He in turn
would turn around and take the next turning off the road. The daughter Mady
would catch up and overtake him and then lead him on to safety.
Still suffering from concussion, Tom set off behind the two
women, all the time having great difficulty in focussing. Fortunately
everything went smoothly and just before dark they reached the small town of
Wandre. They parked their bicycles at the rear of the home of the parish
priest, before entering the Manse. Here they were warmly welcomed and the
priest’s housekeeper provided them with a hot meal. The priest, who spoke good
English, explained to Tom what was going to happen next. He was to go and stay
the night at the home of Mme Coomans and the next day he was to travel with a
guide to Brussels to join up with a group of evaders who were going down the
escape line to Spain.
The following morning he was woken to be told that he was
too late to join the others in Brussels. Due to a directive from London to the
escape line organisers to suspend all movement of airmen, he was to stay with
the Coomans. This created a major problem, because Mme Coomans’ husband had no
knowledge of his wife’s Resistance activities. Nevertheless, Tom Wingham moved
into the small house and lived there for the next seven weeks without Monsieur
Coomans’ knowledge as he went to work as a miner blissfully unaware of who was
living in the spare room upstairs.
Madame Coomans’ husband worked a regular 2-10 p.m. shift, so
she set out her husband’s timetable for Tom Wingham:
8 a.m. – Got up and had breakfast.
10 a.m. – Went to local estaminet (bar) to play cards with
12.30 p.m. – Returned home for dinner.
1.25 p.m. – Departed for work at the mine.
10.20 p.m. – Returned from work.
11 p.m. – Went to bed.
In between all these times Tom Wingam was allowed out of his
room, but never allowed to leave the house – not even to use the outside
toilet. The stairs from downstairs led directly into the first bedroom, there
was no landing, whilst the door to the second bedroom was at the foot of the
bed in the main bedroom.
During the day, visitors, in the shape of the local priest,
a member of the escape committee from Liége and sometimes the paymaster for the
Resistance, would occasionally visit to see if he needed anything and to pay
Mme Coomans for Tom Wingham’s food. Tom was constantly concerned about what
would happen if M Coomans ever found out that he was in the house. He was told
that he would probably just tell him to leave, as he was neither for nor
against the Germans and equally he was neither for nor against the English.
As the days turned into weeks the arrival of June heralded
the beginning of summer and Tom longed to be able to walk in the warm sunshine.
Then on 6 June news came through of the D-Day landings and the retreat of the
German army. Two weeks later Tom Wingham’s world almost collapsed around him
when he heard a sudden screeching of tyres and the slamming of car doors
outside the house. There came a hammering on the doors and shouts in German for
the doors to be opened. He had been betrayed to the Gestapo.
Tom had been listening to the BBC on the radio at the time,
so switching it off and changing the dial settings, he raced upstairs with the
intention of escaping through a window at the back of the house and into the
woods. As he went to open the shutter, he saw a leather-coated figure at the
back trying to force open a window in the back. Now desperate, he raced
downstairs and into the cellar, frantically looking for a place to hide. It
took a few moments for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness and it
became obvious that there was nowhere to hide. The cellar was cluttered with
old boxes and the usual items found in a cellar. Upstairs he heard the Gestapo
searching the rooms. Suddenly he spied a tiny alcove behind the stairs that led
to the cellar, surrounded by old crates. The alcove, which was about 4ft high
and just 18in wide, was his only hope and so he somehow squeezed in and pulled
the crates around him.
He heard heavy footsteps pounding down the wooden staircase
into the cellar. Barely daring to breathe, his heart was beating so loudly that
he thought the Germans must have been able to hear it. The two Gestapo men
stopped and struck matches to enable them to peer into the inky blackness.
Fortunately for Tom they had not thought to bring torches with them and after a
few moments, including a time when they moved close to the crates behind which
he was hiding, they left. Tom remained crouched whilst he heard them banging
around upstairs and then he heard car doors slamming shut followed by an engine
starting, and the scream of tyres as they sped away.
He waited for almost an hour before emerging from the cellar
just to ensure that they had gone. He discovered later that the Gestapo had
gone to the mine, picked up M Coomans and taken him to their headquarters in
Liége for questioning. After many hours of questioning the Gestapo realised
that he knew nothing of his wife’s involvement with the Resistance, which of
course he didn’t, and released him. M. Coomans returned home in the early hours
of the morning, not knowing that Tom was still in the house.
That evening Tom slipped out of the back door and made his
way through the dense wood to the Manse at the other end of the village and
explained what had happened to the priest. He was then passed on to another
Resistance group, who took him to a small terraced house in the village where
he stayed with an elderly widower who lived alone. Once again Tom found himself
confined to the house, not even being allowed to use the outside toilet.
The reason for this was because one of the attached houses
was the home of members of the Belgian Nazis (Rexist Party), and one of their
sons was away fighting with the Waffen SS. Their bedroom window overlooked the
widower’s outside toilet and it was too dangerous for Tom to even consider
stepping outside in case they spotted him.
After one week some members of the Resistance came and took
him to a farm a couple of miles outside the town. The farmer named M. Schoofs,
his wife, a son called Pascal and two daughters made Tom very welcome and he
quickly became integrated as part of the family. This was a complete change for
Tom, in as much as he could walk freely around the farm and help in the fields
picking fruit. It also gave him a chance to repay their hospitality in a small
way and not feel completely obliged, although this had never been suggested or
hinted at by any of the people who had helped him.
For the next few weeks Tom enjoyed the open-air life, only
interrupted by the odd raid by the Gestapo. They almost always made their raids
either first thing in the morning or in the evenings. When it was suspected
that they were in the area, Tom would get up early in the morning and go to the
bottom of one of the fields and hide, and do the same thing again in the
One evening one of the Resistance members called and asked
him if he was prepared to join up with an RAF pilot and steal a German plane
from a local airfield and fly it back to England. Tom immediately jumped at the
chance but the town priest suggested that he be allowed to check on the
validity of such a daring proposal. The priest returned saying that it was
indeed a genuine proposal and arrangements were put into place to take Tom to
Liége to await final instructions. He was taken into the town and placed in the
care of an elderly couple in their third-floor apartment.
After two days of waiting and hearing nothing, it was soon
realised that the whole project was a non-starter. Increasing German patrols
and searches by the Gestapo in the town made the old couple extremely nervous.
The Resistance was contacted and arrangements were made to take him back to the
farm. Early one evening a member of the Resistance, a Belgian Intelligence
agent, arrived with two bicycles and the two men set off to cycle back to the
village of Wandre. They had just left the outskirts of Liége when another
cyclist, a German soldier, joined them. He accompanied them almost all the way
to Wandre before leaving them.
Just a mile from the farm, the two men stopped and parted
and Tom walked the rest of the way, whilst the Belgian took the other bicycle
back to Liége.
Towards the end of August there were a growing number of
German soldiers retreating from the advancing allies. Then suddenly the farm
was surrounded by German troops camping out in the fields, hedgerows or
anywhere else they could. The officer in charge then told Madame Schoofs that
he was taking over part of the farmhouse and making it his headquarters. He
told her that their barns would be commandeered as billets for his men. Taking
M Schoofs to one side, Tom suggested that he should leave so as not to cause
problems for the family in the event of him being discovered. But because of
the situation, and the reduction in the level of danger, the couple decided
that Tom should play the part of a deaf Flemish mute, as it might arouse
suspicion if he suddenly left.
That lunchtime the family, including some of the workers
from the fields, sat down in the kitchen to enjoy a rather sumptuous roast
lunch of veal. At one point the whole family, with the exception of Tom, left
the table to harangue a bunch of dejected, straggling soldiers as they trudged
their weary way through the farmyard. As they did so, Tom, still at the lunch
table, looked up to see two German soldiers looking longingly at the pile of
food on the table.
Tom’s chair was situated close to the door leading into what
was becoming the German officer’s control room and suddenly it was pushed ajar
violently and Tom was almost thrown to the floor. The German officer’s head
peered around the door shouting out commands. On receiving no response he
shouted even louder, Tom had to play the part of a deaf mute all the time. At
this point Mme Schoofs, on hearing the commotion, stormed into the kitchen and
started to berate the officer about how she felt a German officer should behave
and how she did not want dirty Boche boots soiling her Belgian kitchen floor.
For a moment there was silence, then the officer muttered something and quietly
shut the door and locked it.
Word started to come through that retreating bands of Waffen
SS troops were killing young Belgian men indiscriminately, so it was decided
that Tom Wingham should be moved to a safer location. The problem was how to
get him past the German troops now surrounding and even camped within the farm
itself. Within the hour Pascal told Tom to get ready to move and so Tom Wingham
prepared himself for one of the most nerve-racking moments since he had bailed
out of his aircraft. Pascal came in to fetch him and the two men walked out
into the farmyard. Waiting in the middle of the farmyard was a very fat peasant
woman of around thirty-five years of age holding a battered pushchair. With her
was a young child aged between two and three years old, who was playing with
some of the German soldiers.
The woman glanced at Tom and then shouted for the child to
come to her or Papa wouldn’t push her in the chair. Tom was stunned for the
moment as he realised that he had just been ‘married’ off, and dressed in
ill-fitting pinstripe trousers and a black jacket, he tottered off with the
woman, followed by goodbyes and laughter from the Schoofs family and totally
bemused looks from the German soldiers lounging around.
The couple made their way back to Wandre, where members of
the Resistance were waiting. After saying goodbye and giving grateful thanks to
his ‘bride’ of a few hours, Tom Wingham was placed in a safe house.
Two days later an American tank column entered the village
and Tom was able to arrange passage to Paris where he met up with his
navigator. The two men returned to England on 16 September.
Tom Wingham returned to operational flying, this time on
Mosquitoes with No. 105 squadron. He completed four more missions including, on
the night of 2 May 1945, being in one of the last four aircraft of Bomber
Command to bomb Germany.
It cannot be emphasised enough the dangers that the men,
women and children placed themselves in to help allied soldiers and airmen to
escape the clutches of the German army and Gestapo. The identities of the vast
majority of these people will never be known, as after the war they just went
back to their normal way of life. The debt owed to these people can never be
repaid but should never be forgotten as they helped in their own way to shape
the course of history.
Kaleva, registered OH-ALL, was a civilian Junkers Ju 52
passenger and transport plane, belonging to the Finnish carrier Aero O/Y. The
aircraft was shot down by two Soviet Ilyushin DB-3 bombers during peacetime
between the Soviet Union and Finland on June 14, 1940, while en route from
Tallinn to Helsinki, killing all 9 on board.
A few minutes after taking off in Tallinn, Kaleva was joined
at close range by two Soviet DB-3T torpedo bombers. The bombers opened fire
with their machine guns and badly damaged Kaleva, making it crash into the
water a few kilometers northeast of Keri Lighthouse. All nine passengers and
crew members on board were killed.
Estonian fishermen had witnessed the attack and crash of the
plane. Shortly after the crash the Soviet submarine Shch-301 surfaced and
inspected the fishing boats. After confiscating items taken from the wreck by
the fishermen, the Soviets picked up diplomatic mail from the wreck and the
sea. The future top-scoring Finnish pilot Ilmari Juutilainen was sent to
inspect the crash site. After the Soviets spotted the Finnish airplane, the
submarine hid its flag.
At the time of the incident Finland was not at war with the
Soviet Union. The attack was probably part of the Soviet preparations for the
full-scale occupation of Estonia, which took place two days after the Kaleva
incident, on 16 June 1940. The occupation was preceded for several days by a
Soviet air and naval blockade, which included preventing diplomatic mail from
being sent abroad from Estonia. The passengers on the last flight of Kaleva
included two German businessmen, two French embassy couriers, one Swede, an
American courier, and an Estonian woman. The French couriers had over 120
kilograms of diplomatic mail in the plane. The American courier was reportedly
transporting the U.S. military codes to safety from Estonia.
The plane was piloted by Captain Bo von Willebrand, and
Tauno Launis was the wireless operator. The American victim was Henry W.
Antheil, Jr., younger brother of noted composer George Antheil. Antheil worked
as a clerk at the U.S. Legation in Helsinki. In 2007, he was honored for his
service in a ceremony at the U.S. Department of State. His name was inscribed
on the U.S. Department of State’s Wall of Honor.
The Government of Finland did not send any complaints or questions
to the Soviets out of fear of hostile Soviet response, and the true reason for
the crash was hidden from the public. This was due to the heavy pressure put
upon Finland during the Interim Peace by the Soviets. After the outbreak of the
Continuation War, the incident was described in detail by the government.
G. Golderg’s report
The commander of Shch-301 G. Golderg’s report on the
incident held in the Russian State Naval Archives starts with the notice of a
Finnish airplane on its way from Tallinn to Helsinki on June 14, 1940 at 15.05
PM. According to the report, the airplane was chased by two Soviet Tupolev SB
high-speed bombers. At 15.06 PM, the Finnish airplane caught fire and fell into
the sea, 5.8 miles from the submarine. At 15.09 PM the submarine took course to
the crash site and made it to the location by 15.47 PM. The submarine was met
by 3 Estonian fishing boats near the detritus of the airplane. The Estonian
fishermen were searched by lieutenants Aladzhanov, Krainov and Shevtshenko. All
valuables found from the fishermen and in the sea were brought on board of the
submarine: the items included about 100 kg. of diplomatic post, valuables and
foreign currencies. At 15.58 a Finnish fighter plane was noticed with the
course towards the submarine. The airplane made 3 circles above the site and
then flew towards Helsinki. The exact coordinates of the crash site were
determined to be at 59°47′1″N 25°01′6″E.
A. Matvejev’s report
Captain A. Matvejev’s report states that on board the
Shch-301 noticed an airplane crash on June 14, 1940 at 15.06 on 5.8 miles
distance from the submarine. At the crash site 3 Estonian fishing boats and the
remains of the airplane were found. At 15.58 PM a Finnish fighter plane made 3
circles above the crash site. By 16.10 PM all items found from the sea and from
the hands of the fishermen were brought on board the submarine. The items
included about 100 kg of diplomatic mail, and valuables and currencies
including: 1) 2 golden medals, 2) 2000 Finnish marks, 3) 10.000 Romanian leus,
4)13.500 French francs, 5) 100 Yugoslav dinars, 6) 90 Italian liras, 7) 75 US
dollars, 8) 521 Soviet rubles, 9) 10 Estonian kroons. All items were put on
board of patrol boat “Sneg” and sent to Kronstadt.
I thought this article on PANZERGRENADIER TACTICS might prove of some interest, as probably the German Motorised/Panzergrenadier divisions were amongst the most versatile of the War.
Guderian always accepted that tanks
could not operate alone effectively. Despite anti-infantry weaponry-usually
machine guns-a tank was always vulnerable to small groups or even lone
infantrymen if they were determined enough. This vulnerability was increased if
the infantry had access to decent anti-tank guns or devices, but even
poorly-equipped foot soldiers could prove a real danger if they had the
requisite courage. Finnish tank-killing infantry destroyed about 1600 Soviet
AFVs/Tanks during the Winter War of 1939-40, mostly using Molotov cocktails or
even petrol filled vodka bottles. Tanks proved particularly at risk in broken
terrain, such as forests and urban areas and the Finns exploited this.
When Tanks were fighting through
defensive lines or moving through landscape that provided the enemy with good
cover, they needed accompanying infantry to go in first to clear the way or
make a breakthrough in the enemy
line so the Tanks could then exploit. Thus the Panzergrenadier might very often
have to fight like a conventional infantryman. Conversely, in a fast-moving
advance that usually characterised German Blitzkrieg tactics he might find himself carried by a
halftrack, lorry or motorcycle, or in extreme circumstances, hanging from the
tank itself, ready to dismount and engage anything that slowed the Tank.
Whenever tanks bypassed points or ‘pockets’ of stiff enemy resistance, it was
the job of the Panzergrenadier to clear up these pockets.
Although the classic image of the
Panzergrenadier is intimately associated with the SdKfz 251 half-tracked
armoured personnel carrier, there were never enough of these vehicles to equip
panzergrenadier formations to full strength. The concept of a carrier-borne attack
into the heart of the enemy’s defences accompanying the tanks was the ideal,
but the reality was somewhat more mundane. Most Panzergrenadiers were
transported in soft-skinned vehicles like trucks and motorcycles. These were
very vulnerable and thus caution was required when following tanks. There were
no half-tracks available in the Polish campaign, and later in the War very few
Pazergrenadier divisions had a full complement of
these vehicles. Even within the Panzer divisions, only 1 battalion in 2 would
be so equipped.
Therefore instead of driving into the midst of the enemy position, the Panzergrenadiers. normally debussed at a forming-up point or
start line away from the enemy’s line of sight. They then attacked in the
conventional manner of infantry supporting tanks. The key tactical advantage
was that because of their motorisation, they could be brought into battle as
soon as they were needed.
It was only at the time of Barbarossa in
1941 that large numbers of SdKfz 251s became widely available and enough to
equip full battallions of Panzergrenadiers within
a Panzer division. Now, the Germans could experiment with fighting directly
from their half-tracks. Although the SdKfz 251 provided decent protection
against small arms fire, they only had 13mm of armoured plate. Thus they became
vulnerable to even the smallest calibre anti-tank weapon and suffered
accordingly. Due to heavy losses suffered amongst half-tracks when accompanying
Tanks into the heart of a battle, the Germans fairly quickly resorted to
debussing at least 400m or so in front of enemy positions, when using the SD
KFZ 251. Nonetheless, under certain tactical conditions, the half-track could
provide a useful firing position.
At the lowest level, the basic Panzergrenadier
unit was the gruppe or squad, usually about 12 men mounted in a half-track or
often a truck. The squad was led by a squad leader, usually a junior NCO eg a
corporal, who was armed with a machine pistol and was responsible for the squad
to the platoon commander. On the move, he also commanded the vehicle and fired
the vehicle mounted machine gun, usually an MG 34/42. His rifle-armed assistant
was normally a lance-corporal and could lead the half squad if it was divided.
The squad contained 2 light machine-gun teams, each of 2 men, four rifle-armed
infantrymen and the driver and co-driver. The driver was also responsible for
the care of the vehicle and expected to remain with the transport. A Panzergrenadier
platoon was made up of 3 squads, with the
platoon HQ in a separate vehicle. The HQ troop consisted of a platoon
commander, usually a junior officer but sometimes a sergeant, a driver, a
radio-operator, 2 runners, a medic and usually some form of anti-tank gun.
When the squad was transported by a
half-track, the vehicle was mounted from the rear. The deputy squad leader was
responsible for closing the door, thus he would sit towards the rear of the
vehicle and the squad leader would sit at the
These vehicles were open-topped, and on the move it was usual for one man to
scan the skies constantly for aircraft, whilst others kept a watch on both
sides of the vehicle. When a platoon was driving together, close order, for the
convoy was usually 5-10m apart in column or even abreast in open country. In
combat, however, the gaps were extended to beyond 50m, and ragged lines or
chequered formations were used. If the whole battalion was deployed, the
preferred formation was often an ‘arrowhead’. On the whole, troop-carrying
vehicles rarely averaged more than 30km per hour road speed. Even under ideal
conditions, a panzer division was not expected to advance more than 20km in a
The SdKfz 251, drivers were prepared to
simply ignore or drive through small arms fire, but the presence of enemy
artillery or anti-tank guns usually saw them seek cover. The squad’s
machine-gunners might well engage targets on the move, as could the rest of the
squad if necessary from the sides. Often when advancing, the SdKfz 251s, could
utilise a motorised version of fire and movement, advancing, stopping and
firing to cover other half-tracks. A halted half-track provided a good firing
position but was vulnerable. As a result, it was not recommended to stop for
more than 15-20seconds in hostile terrain. The normal dismounting procedure was
via the rear of the vehicle. However, in emergencies, the squad might well jump
over the side as well as out of the back. This was often performed on the move
at slow speeds. Once dismounted, the Panzergrenadiers fought as normal infantry. Improvements in
Soviet anti-tank defences as the war advanced meant that the Panzergrenadiers often had to precede the tanks, or a mixed
force of tanks and soldiers might move forward to clear enemy defences.
One of the most important German
formations developed during the Soviet campaign was the PULK, a contraction of
Panzer und lastkraftwagen, meaning tanks and trucks. This was a hollow wedge of
tanks inside which moved the mororized infantry. The point of the wedge was
formed by the best tanks and the sides by other tanks and self-propelled guns.
When the wedge pierced the enemy defences, it widened the gap as it passed
through. The Panzergrenadiers were then able to spread out and attack remaining
areas of resistance from the flanks and rear. If the enemy’s weakest point had
not been identified, the PULK could advance as a blunt quadrangle. Once a weak
spot was found, the formation could incline left or right, its corner becoming
the ‘point of advance’.
Although the Panzergrenadiers key role
was co-operation with Tanks they could fight on their own. The very flexibility
was a vital component of their value. They could fight as infantry offensive
and defensive actions, assault vital strongpoints, seize bridges and clear
urban or wooded areas in which the Tanks were at risk. Essentially the Panzergrenadiers was part of an all-arms team. His role grew out
of the German acceptance that the Tank could not win battles alone. To quote
Wilhelm Necker in 1943: ‘The Germans at an early stage in the war and even
before the war understood the special weakness of the tank: its dependency on
terrain and the fact it cannot occupy, but can only strike hard and break
through lines. For this reason, the actual tank force was cut down to the
minimum and the division reinforced with various other units, the most
important being the Panzergrenadier.’
Fleischer, Wolfgang: “Die motorisierten Schutzen und
Panzergrenadiere des deutschen Heeres, 1935-1945.
Waffen-Fahrzeuge-Gliederung-Einsatze”, Podzun Pallas Verlag, Wolfersheim,
Riemann, Horst: “Deutsche Panzergrenadiere”,
Mittler & Sohn Verlag, Herford, 1989,
Scheibert, Horst: “Panzergrenadiere, Kradschutzen und Panzeraufklarer 1935
– 1945”, Podzun Pallas Verlag, Friedberg, ca. 1984,
Lucas/Cooper: “Panzergrenadiere im 2.Weltkrieg”,
Motorbuch Verlag, Stuttgart, 1.Auflage, 1981,
Redmon/Cuccarese: “Panzergrenadiers in action”, Broschur,
Squadron/Signal Publications, (engl.) Carrollton, Texas, USA, 1980,
Senger-Etterlin,F.: “Die Panzergrenadiere, Geschichte und Gestalt der
During this period-with the notable exceptions of England
and the United Provinces-monarchs in Europe increasingly took direct control of
military affairs away from powerful noble military families and mercenary captains.
As they did, better-supervised and more-professional officer corps slowly took
shape on land and at sea. The progress of professionalization displacing mere
class origin in selection and advancement of officers varied in terminology
employed and historical timing in different kingdoms. In general, however, by
the mid-17th century, men holding a commission signed by a king were known as
“commission-officers.” By the early 18th century, this terminology
shifted slightly to commissioned officers. That referred to any officer
appointed by the crown-or the Admiralty in the case of the Royal Navy or one of
five states’ admiralties of the Dutch Navy. At sea, commissioned officers
included captains, commanders, and lieutenants. On land, this status comprised all
ranks of field marshal and general as well as colonels in command of regiments.
Below commissioned officers were warrant officers, who held rank by virtue of a
warrant rather than a royal commission. These were staff or administrative
appointments made by a regiment’s colonel or a ship’s captain. An exception was
the small Prussian Army, wherein the “Great Elector”
Friedrich-Wilhelm insisted on a veto of all officer choices made by his
colonels. Warrant officer rank was most frequently awarded to Army chaplains
and surgeons, and sometimes also to corporals and sergeants. Naval warrant
officers included the master, quartermaster, boatswain, purser, and master
carpenter. Holders of these four offices were also known as standing officers.
Royal Navy warrants were issued by one of the naval boards.
The French Navy always found it difficult to recruit
officers with seafaring skills. Service at sea was resisted by the aristocratic
classes, who sought instead to serve in view of the king in the senior arm, the
French Army. The Navy thus had only a small permanent officer corps, numbering
fewer than 1,000 even if one counts the more than 600 ensigns. Most French sea
officers in this period were either “roturiers” (of non-noble social
origin) or “anoblis” (recently ennobled), or their sons. They learned
seacraft in merchant ships or as privateers. Officers of more noble social
origin acquired seamanship by serving on Mediterranean galleys of the Knights
of Malta before commanding French galleys that remained part of the fleet based
at Toulon. Some later rose to high rank and command of ships of sail. From the
1670s, French ensigns were trained in companies of Gardes marine set up by
Jean-Baptiste Colbert. Many French sea officers switched over, or back, to
privateering from 1695 as the Navy abandoned guerre d’escadre in favor of
guerre de course. The Navy as a whole was nominally commanded by the
“Admiral of France,” an ancient office that was revived in 1669 and
given to a succession of the king’s illegitimate sons. Real operational command
lay with activeduty admirals and two vice-admirals, one residing in Brest and
the other based in Toulon. Below them were “lieutenants-general of the
navy” and “chefs d’escadre,” roughly equivalent to the British
rank of “commodore.”
From the time of Friedrich-Wilhelm, serfs laboring on
Hohenzollern lands were recruited equally into the Prussian Army, while
socially and economically privileged Junkers formed the bulk of the officer
corps. Rigid social order found expression in a Junker’s desire to serve as an
officer, which marked him off as socially superior to all others, and thereby
reinforced rather than eroded his noble status. For a half century before 1700,
Russian officers were mostly foreigners. This began to change even before Peter
I imposed intense and fundamental Army reforms after ruthlessly suppressing the
strel’sty. By 1675 there were many experienced Russian officers already serving
in the Army; by 1695 Russians served in large numbers at all levels in
new-formation units. In 1708 the majority of officers in all the tsar’s
regiments were ethnic Russians or came from other of his subjects. Peter
insisted on this, but also that no fewer than one third of his officers during
the Great Northern War (1700-1721) must be experienced foreigners. Russian
officers, too, were by then experienced in war, and were well trained in modern
weapons and the new methods of warfare which Peter imported from Great Britain,
France, Germany, and the United Provinces. In contrast, 15% of all Polish
officers in 1650 were foreign. This number was important, however, since most
Polish officers in the “National Contingent” army served a maximum of
10 years, and many did fewer than that. The Austrian Hofkriegsrat faced a much
different problem, that of inherited officer commissions. It made some progress
in professionalizing the officer corps when it abolished the sale of officer
commissions early in the War of the Spanish Succession (1701-1714), during the
presidency of Prince Eugene of Savoy.
Hereditary promotions and sales of at least some commissions
were standard for many middle-ranking officers and for most senior positions in
most European armies of this era. Commissions were treated, and traded, as
military investments. Some British Army officer commissions remained for sale
well into the 19th century, until after the Crimean War. This probably
reflected the position and prolonged influence of the Duke of Wellington, a man
both rich and talented, who purchased a commission as lieutenant-colonel at age
23. The other problem in England, resolved only by the Glorious Revolution and
complete military triumph of Protestantism across all Three Kingdoms in 1691,
was the tendency of Charles II and his brother James II to appoint officers
from a narrow slice of the population solely on the basis of Catholic loyalties
rather than military competence. By 1688 about 10% of English officers were
Catholics. Virtually all officers in Ireland under James were Catholic,
following a purge of the Irish establishment by the Earl of Tyrconnel. Many
Protestant officers deeply resented this assault on the property rights of
their purchased commissions and deserted to William III within hours or days of
his landing in England. The new king did not readily trust such men, however,
and for years afterward, continued to rely on fellow Dutchmen or on German and
other mercenaries. He truly trusted only those English and Scots officers who
had previously served him in the Anglo-Dutch Brigade. For instance, Marlborough
came under deep suspicion of divided loyalty and was imprisoned for a time.
This situation changed slowly during the Nine Years’ War (1688-1697). In 1706 a
“Board of General Officers” was established to impose penalties or
hear courts-martial of delinquent officers. This introduced a fresh element of
professionalism to the British Army, even for gentlemen-officers.
The process of professionalization of the officer corps was
much further and earlier advanced in France under Louvois and Louis XIV than in
any other country of the time. The traditional independence of noble officers
in France was severely eroded after the failure of their effort to retain
privileges of their class, and the active treason of several senior commanders
during the rebellion of the Fronde. Fresh standards were then imposed on even
the most senior officers. The most important reform was to partly open the
French officer “corps” (the word did not actually yet apply in its
modern sense) to entry by men of low birth but real ability, though an old
refusal of French nobles to serve under or to obey men who were regarded as
social inferiors, even if they were also of noble birth, was slowly overcome.
In 1675 Louis issued an “ordre de tableau” setting up a seniority
list for French maréchals (of whom 51 were created between 1643 and 1715) to
eliminate conflicts of command authority based on social rather than military
This was part of a larger professionalization and reform
undertaken by Louis and Louvois that established the modern system of ranks.
Nobles still dominated the top commands: only 1 out of every 15 French generals
who served under Louis XIV was of non-noble birth. The upper-class origin of
most senior officers and many middle ranks was reflected in an aristocratic
code of values and conduct that required displays of conspicuous courage under
fire, and encouraged frequent dueling in peacetime, a practice that survived
multiple royal bans. At its height, the French Army under Louis XIV had over
20,000 officers. Most were drawn from roughly 50,000 noble families of France.
Others came from recently ennobled bourgeoisie, who eagerly served in the many
new line regiments Louis raised during his long wars. These men paid to equip
and support a new regiment in return for the privilege of its colonelcy. This
led to extensive patronage networks organized around colonelcies. That trend
was reinforced by the king’s insistence on state service by the old nobility,
who built their own client networks in the regiments. Even among aristocratic
officers, by the end of this period, an emerging professionalism ensured higher
levels of political loyalty to the king than in past wars. Enhanced professionalism
also cut back on otherwise endemic officer quarrels, dueling, and absenteeism.
Louvois found a way around purchased commissions by
introducing two new, non-purchasable appointments (officially, these were not
yet considered ranks): major and lieutenant-colonel. Even so, independent
wealth remained key to an officer’s rise in station since he was expected to
partly equip and maintain his company or regiment. To recover these costs, a
colonel or captain fully expected to milk his regiment through creative
accounts. Commissions from royal agents were issued to raise, command, and
supply troops, partly replacing the system of purchase of companies and
regiments by noblemen, though success in this regard was largely confined to
the elite Gardes du Corps.
A young officer’s education also changed markedly in this
era in France. Before the reforms made by Louvois, all training was received
on-the-job, in active duty with one’s regiment. Louvois changed this in several
ways. He designated certain musketeer units as training locales for young
officers, especially for future staff officers. Thus, in 1679, when an
artillery school was founded, it was attached to the “Fusiliers du
Roi,” originally a musketeer regiment that was renamed the
“Royal-Artillerie” in 1693. This change in the artillery was a vast
improvement on civilian contractors hired by the French Army until 1672 to
handle the big guns. Contractors had been paid for each cannon they brought
into action on a battlefield or during a siege, which was no proper basis for
sustaining a professional corps of cannoneers. In 1682 Louvois set up nine
training companies for officer-cadets in various frontier towns. These trained
young men in arms, drill, and riding, as well as in dancing, fencing, and other
social skills deemed crucial (in most armies, into the early 20th century) to
officer status. Cadets also studied mathematics, geography, and map reading,
and those who chose to do so indulged art, music, and literature. The next
year, officers in training for whom very high expectations were held were
attached to the Régiment du Roi, and from 1684 to other regiments of Louis’
household (“Maison du Roi”) regiments. Similarly, a
“Ritterakademie” was established for officers of the Prussian Army,
though its curriculum was not as advanced in this era as in the French
Thought to be Mary Ludwig Hays McCauley, iconic figure in the US War of Independence, b. 1754, d. 1832
A water bearer to the troops in one of the hardest-fought
battles of the American Revolution, a woman nicknamed Molly Pitcher became
famous when she took the place of a fallen artillery gunner, her husband, and
continued the fight. Her story abounds in vivid detail, including chatting with
George Washington, but some historians question its authenticity and doubt that
she existed as described.
The woman with whom Molly Pitcher is usually identified,
Mary Ludwig, was born to German immigrants in Trenton, New Jersey, on October
13, 1754. She moved to the Pennsylvania town of Carlisle and began her
connection with the army at the age of fifteen as a servant to Dr. William
Irvine, later a brigadier general in the colonial army. Her first husband, John
Hays, enlisted in the First Pennsylvania Artillery in 1775 at the outbreak of
the Revolutionary War, and she soon joined him in the field with the permission
of his regimental commander.
During the Battle of Monmouth on June 28, 1778, according to
contemporary accounts a broiling hot day, Mary is said to have earned her
nickname by returning to the battle lines again and again with pitchers of
water for her husband and his fellow artillery gunners, who were dying of heat
and thirst. “Molly” was a common form of “Mary,” and “Pitcher” commemorated the
number of times the welcome water appeared at the front in her hands. As she
watched, Hays, now an artillery sergeant, was knocked unconscious in the
bombardment, and the order was given to remove his piece from the field.
Without hesitation Molly came forward and seized the rammer staff from her
fallen husband’s hands. She kept the cannon firing for the remainder of the
battle and continued to fight till the close of day.
Other legends grew up around Molly’s service. While tending
the wounded, she is supposed to have carried a crippled soldier “on her strong,
young back” out of reach of a furious British charge. Another soldier, Joseph
Plumb Martin of Connecticut, told this sexually tinted story of her coolness
While in the act of reaching for a cartridge, a cannon shot
from the enemy passed directly between her legs without doing any other damage
than carrying away all the lower part of her petticoat. Looking at it with
apparent unconcern, she observed that it was lucky it did not pass a little
higher, for in that case it might have carried away something else.
Her bravery was rewarded by George Washington himself, who
issued a warrant making her a noncommissioned officer on the spot, resulting in
another set of nicknames, “Sergeant” or “Major” Molly. This part of the story
has seemingly endless variations, in which Washington’s cameo appearance also
involves his presenting her with either a gold coin or, as befitting a
magnanimous leader, a hatful of gold.
After the war, Mary and John Hays returned to Carlisle,
where he died in 1789. Mary remarried one of her late husband’s
comrades-in-arms, a John or George McCauley, but the marriage was not a happy
one. McCauley is said to have treated her like a servant, a fate Mary, now
known as Molly, had escaped years before. Perhaps it may have come as a relief
to her that McCauley also died before too long.
But without a male provider, Mary/Molly may well have
struggled financially, and she seems to have petitioned the government for
relief. One undisputed fact is that later in life, in 1822, her war service was
officially recognized when the state legislators of Pennsylvania awarded her a
veteran’s annuity of forty dollars, which she claimed for the next ten years.
“Molly McKolly,” as some sources call her, died in Carlisle
on January 22, 1832. Her son by her first husband, John Ludwig Hays, became a
soldier and was buried with full military honors when he died in about 1853. At
the age of eighty-one, John’s daughter, Polly McCleester of Papertown, Mount
Holly Springs, unveiled a monument to her grandmother, which boldly asserts
Mary/Molly’s claim to fame:
MOLLY McCauley, Renowned in history as MOLLY PITCHER, The
Heroine of Monmouth, died Jan 1833, aged 79 years. Erected by the Citizens of
Cumberland County, July 4, 1876.
A wonderful story—but is it true? In Carlisle, the town Mary
Ludwig Hays McCauley was born in, left, and returned to after the war, the
place where she died among her descendants and where she is buried, there is no
doubt. But however proud the local people were of their heroine, they mistook
the date of her death. Molly died at least a year earlier than recorded on her
monument, as shown by the fact that no application for her pension was made after
There are other questions and inconsistencies. For many
years it was believed that the real Molly Pitcher was born Mary Ludwig and that
she had married John Hays in Carlisle. This identification with Mary Ludwig was
later challenged in favor of another Mary, who married another Hays with
another extremely common first name, William. Another woman known as Molly
Pitcher, described as “the heroine of Fort Washington” and buried along the
Hudson, is a different individual, frequently confused with the heroine of the
Battle of Monmouth.
The confusion arose because Molly Pitcher was not unique.
Mary Ludwig Hays was neither the first nor the only woman to take a gunner’s
place on an American battlefield and man a field gun. She was preceded by Margaret
Corbin during the defense of Fort Washington in 1776—possibly the heroine of
Fort Washington described earlier. Corbin was recorded as staying resolutely at
her post in the face of heavy enemy fire, ably acting as a matross (gunner).
Other women fought in numerous engagements in the Revolutionary War and Civil
War (see Sampson, Deborah, Chapter 3, and Tubman, Harriet, Chapter 4).
Historical sources confirm that at least two women fought in the Battle of
Monmouth, one at an artillery position and the other in the infantry line.
There is no evidence linking either of them to Mary Ludwig Hays. And when she
died, there was no mention of a cannon or the Battle of Monmouth in her
“Molly Pitcher” may therefore be not one woman but a
composite. But the legend refuses to die. She remains a cherished character of
the American Revolution and since 1876 has been firmly identified with Mary
Ludwig Hays McCauley. An unmarked grave believed to be hers was opened during
the centenary events of that year, and the remains were reburied with honors
under a plaque declaring her the real embodiment of the famous Molly Pitcher.
One fact remains. Whether or not Mary Ludwig Hays McCauley
was the real Molly Pitcher, the forty-dollar-a-year payment she was awarded by
the state of Pennsylvania was more than the usual war widow’s pension granted
to all soldiers’ wives. The citation published in The American Volunteer,
February 21, 1822, under the heading “Legislature of Pennsylvania,” makes this
A bill has passed both Houses of the Assembly granting an
annuity to Molly McCauley (of Carlisle) for services she rendered during the
Revolutionary War. It appeared satisfactorily that this heroine had braved the
hardships of the camp and dangers of the field with her husband, who was a
soldier of the revolution, and the bill in her favor passed without a
Note the date. In 1822, veterans of the Battle of Monmouth
were still alive to dispute the facts, yet her award was unanimously passed.
The “services rendered” by Mary/Molly Ludwig Hays McCauley undoubtedly amounted
to something above and beyond the ordinary conditions of war. If only we knew
what they were.
Reference: Rachel A. Koestler-Grack, Molly Pitcher: Heroine
of the War for Independence, 2005.