Robert Rogge

D-Day

They were ship-bound for a long time. They slept and ate and slithered on the wet steel decks in their hobnailed boots. They tended their weapons, the salt air a menace to the steel.

A thin whistling sounded overhead as Spitfires flashed ahead to screen their way. The June air was cold and low, dark clouds scraped at the silver barrage balloons bobbing above the armada. The balloons kept strafing planes at a respectful height, where the Spits could get at them.

The ship heaved, and paper bags greased with vomit splashed over the slimy sides. The rolling sea conquered the seasick men and they spewed and gagged, cursing Hitler, the war, their parents. King and country became gross obscenities.

There was no hiding this armada. Ships were solid from horizon to horizon and the men were heartened. Massive battleships, enormous in size and promise, and tiny torpedo boats dashed boldly across the white caps around them.

They oiled their weapons and waited. A misty rain smothered the ships, row by row. The white cliffs disappeared in the deepening gloom, and a fantasia of tiny riding lights bobbed and weaved on the sea. The last RAF day fighters swooped low over the balloons, turning back to warmth and comfort.

Lowering black clouds scudded overhead. Each turn of the screw pushed them south to the beaches. A destroyer, siren whooping in crescendo, cut across their bow, Aldis lamp flickering, white wake foaming. In the darkness, a low, droning sound gradually penetrated through the noises of the ships. Hundreds of planes filled with men, equipment, and bombs. It went on and on, a deep monotone against the tenor chorus of the ships and the sea.

Few men slept that night. Cigarettes glowed and dimmed in the bunk tiers. Their equipment thumped and clanked to the ship’s motions, beating the time of their voyage into the unknown.

Next morning, they became aware of a change in the ship’s motion. The channel waters swished against the hull more softly. Gripping the rails, they stared at a long, low, dark smudge ahead. A man puked over the side and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

Tiny climbing chains of red dots went into the clouds. Heavy, thickly muffled red flashes ran low along the smudge of land. Moments later, uneven rumblings came to them across the water. Noncoms moved among the men, checking their harnesses one last time. The bow ramps jerked down as the crew tested the gear.

Now they could see things on the beach: vehicles, fires, craters, dots that were moving men. The ship edged past a smoking hulk, stirring bodies that hung limp in lifebelts, floating in the oily, iridescent water.

One of the big ships opened her 15-inch guns and concussions overpowered them. Great masses of reddish-brown smoke rushed downwind; they heard the roar of the immense shells as they hurtled inland.

Some men fell down when the ship jarred against the shingle. The ramps crashed down and crewmen trailing lifelines raced down, struggled through the surf to the beach, and staked the lines taut. They waved back and the officers went down the steep ramps into the living sea, leading their men into an unknown world.

The soul-stirring skirl of the pipers in full cry drove them ashore.

—Adapted from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

Robert Rogge

Winter

Winter in Holland was bad enough, but winter in Holland in a slit trench couldn’t be worse. Ian cursed the weather, the Jerries, the army, and himself for ever having joined up.

Dark, gray days, sodden with snow, or a pale, wan glow through a frigid haze greeted them week after endless week. Clear sharp days were a rarity and welcomed. Bright sunshine was almost worshipped.

The two-man slit trench had a crude roof of branches, sandbags, and snow that kept off the falling snow and sleet, but nothing could keep out the cold.

Ian wore long johns, a wool shirt and uniform, two pairs of socks, boots, bulky overshoes, greatcoat, balaclava, and mittens, yet stayed miserably cold, day and night. A wool scarf knitted by some mother, sister, aunt, or grandmother in Canada and tied over the head helped keep his ears from freezing, but it was the wind that made life so bloody miserable.

The frigid Arctic air, straight off the North Sea, swept relentlessly across the low-lying country, unfettered and chilling to the bone. It froze weapons, fingers, noses, then rushed on, uncaring. When it stung faces with hard-grained snow and biting sleet, the men suffered and were thankful that no patrols would be sent out.

Jerry was holed up, too. The front was truly a no man’s land. The snow bowed trees; the branches sagged sadly toward the ground. Bushes broke under their white load, and snow drifted into the slit trenches. When a shell exploded, frozen clods were almost as dangerous as the hot metal splinters. It was miserable.

A two-man slit was never quite long enough for a man to lie in and give the other room to stand comfortably. Digging a hole in the frozen soil was labor enough without making it comfortable.

They gouged holes in the sides so that ammo and grenades would be handy. They shit on their shovels and threw it out into the snow. They pissed into a bully can and threw it out, too. New-fallen snow soon covered the brown and yellow stains.

They smoked incessantly. Thank God, Canadian cigarettes only cost a dollar a carton. The sorry-tasting Limey Woodbines that came in the compo packs were saved for the bad days when no mail came.

Matches were precious, saved for the Tommy Cooker tablets. Petrol lighters were used for smokes. The methylated spirit tablets for the cookers gave off tremendous heat for a while as the water boiled, and chapped hands curled over the welcome warmth and became nimble for a time.

Weapons froze. Bren gunners had to hand cock and fire several rounds before the guns would warm up and function properly. Rifle bolts were stiff and hard to work until a couple of shots were fired through them.

Thank God, Jerry had the same troubles. Maybe God was on their side, as the padre kept proclaiming.

—Adapted from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

The Bren Gunner
Robert Rogge

The Bren was a light machine gun, air-cooled and magazine-fed. It was a damned good gun, but Jerry’s MG 42 spit out bullets at twice the speed of a Bren, maybe faster.

The Bren gunner in Ian’s platoon was a marvel. He could touch off single rounds with the selector set at auto and had a fine eye for ranges.

His number two man, who lugged the two boxes of ammo and the spare barrel, could swap mags in one second flat and was no mean gunner himself. They were the platoon’s firebase.

A Bren gunner’s life was scary. Rifle fire cracked sharply, but a Bren had its own sound, a heavier thumping that Jerry was always on the alert for. When he heard it, he turned everything he had on the sound and the Bren gunners took a lot of casualties.

Nobody ever volunteered for the job. “It’s like standing up and asking Jerry to take a shot at you,” one private said, “and he’ll do it, too.”

The Bren could be fired full auto or single shot. The banana-shaped magazines held thirty rounds. That was enough for two or three good bursts and a couple of follow-up shots.

The Bren gunner in Ian’s section tried to con him into taking up the weapon. He knew that Ian was a pretty good rifle shot and figured he’d be the same with a Bren. Ian gave it a go, against his better judgment.

They were in the shell of a steeple and the gunner was firing short bursts through a hole in the stonework. Ian and the number two were squatted down, reloading mags. The gunner emptied a mag, replaced it with another handed to him by his number two, and handed the Bren to Ian. “Here, you have a go at it.”

Ian held the weapon pointed up over his right shoulder and peeked through the hole. “I don’t see anything out there. What are you shooting at?”

“There’s a machine gun in that line of trees over to the left about three hundred yards. I’ve been putting bursts there to keep Jerry's heads down while our guys get through that damned wheat.”

Ian looked and saw the infantry moving slowly through the grain. “Okay, I’ll try it.”

He settled behind the Bren, moved it until it was lined up on the target and cut loose with a five-round burst.

The sights were offset to the left and Ian always wondered how they lined up with the barrel and put the bullets where you aimed.

He never did find out.

He emptied the mag and the last round was a tracer that made a red line straight from the steeple to the woods.

“Goddamn it!” the gunner, already moving, yelled at his number two. “You loaded a fucking tracer, you stupid shit!”

He scuttled backward and clattered down the stone steps with Ian and the number two right on his heels.

A savage burst of machine gun fire swept into the steeple, ricochets howling and screaming as the men ducked under a chunk of heavy beamed flooring.

The Bren gunner cursed his number two all the way back to their holes.

When he felt safe again, Ian yelled over to the gunner that he could keep his bloody Bren.

—Adapted from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

Outpost
Robert Rogge

Ian had eleven rounds in his rifle, ten in the magazine and one in the breech. He had a five-round clip lying on the ground. There were more clips in the cloth bandoleer, but they were hard to pull out in a hurry. Ian hoped that sixteen rounds would bring help before the Jerries got to him.

He was on outpost duty, a hundred yards along the sunken road. He watched them move across the field toward him with the steady motion that showed caution. They knew what they were doing and Ian was afraid as he raised his rifle. He fired and they went down.

A stray shot? A coalscuttle helmet raised slowly, eyes searching the hedgerow for movement. Nothing. He came up to one knee, Schmeisser leveled.

Ian’s bullet took him squarely in the chest. The others fired back from the ground, scything the hedges, bullets whipping and crashing through the branches, spraying earth in long, ragged geysers.

Numb with fear, Ian fired again and again at the faint muzzle hazes and felt savagery when he saw the jerk of a hit.

The bullets came thicker, and he slid down as branches rained on him and the ricochets screamed. He crawled away and peered through the foliage. They were up now, and running, and he sent the nearest one sprawling. They were closer, too close.

Livid with fear, Ian fired. They were going to kill him! He could see the twisted faces, as filthy and as terrified as his own. The deep helmets hid their eyes as they panted, straining to reach the hedgerow.

They’ll kill me! Jesus Christ, save me! He fired, yanked the bolt open and rammed it home. It slammed shut too easily. The rifle was empty.

Frantic, slobbering, Ian clawed at the bandoleer, but the clip would not come free. He saw a contorted face rise up in the hedge, the gray tunic blotting out the sky, and he jammed blindly at the monster, sobbing.

The eight-inch spike bayonet went in to the muzzle and months of his half-forgotten training made Ian jerk it out. A wretched, choking scream erupted from the man. He saw the slavering mouth, the red frothing behind the teeth, spilling over the stubbled chin.

The man grabbed fiercely at the hole in him and went to his knees, yelling and spitting blood. He fell forward, twisting, kicking at the hedge. Ian glared, frozen, the red spike pointing uselessly.

Another man crouched, swinging his Schmeisser at Ian. Bullets came across the lane and cut him down. A voice shouted, there was more firing, and Ian sobbed hysterically until the sergeant whipped him across the face.

Ian looked at the bayonet, but he could not look at the doubled-up thing in the hedge.

The sergeant spoke to him and Ian nodded. He reloaded his rifle and rammed the spike into the ground to clean it. His face stung as they walked back down the lane.

—From Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

The Dispatch Rider
Robert Rogge

The canvas-and-leather dispatch case clung wetly to the Don R's back. He cursed wearily and struggled in the flooded ditch with his heavy Norton motorbike. Tire tracks, rapidly flooding away in the teeming rain, marked his path off the road, across the slick grass berm, and into the ditch.

Soaked through his leather jerkin, the Don R flung his helmet to the ground. Rain streamed down his face as he strained at the awkward machine, gradually hauling it out of the water to where he could grip the handlebars. His left leg ached from the fall and the rain splattered the blood on his gashed hand.

A lumbering convoy growled past, spraying mud and water, seeking traction in the muck. None of them stopped. They saw the Don R up, fighting his machine, and knew he was not injured.

He got the Norton onto its wheels and pushed it to the berm, leaning against the handlebars, head down, gasping in the rain. He got his helmet and stuffed his torn leather gloves into a pocket and straddled the machine.

He fiddled with the controls, raised his right leg, and lunged down at the kick starter. The engine hacked and he gunned it with the twist grip, venting his anger.

He sidled into the convoy and moved down the middle of the road, slit-eyed, spraying his own small wake. He threaded the traffic, avoiding the worst holes, aware that if he went down this time, he would have a three-tonner up his arse.

At a crossroads an MP urged them on, one by one. A German salvo screamed down through the rain, exploding fountains of mud in the fields. Splinters whined across, slapping sharply against truck metal; clods of soggy earth splattered the line of vehicles.

The Don R, behind the bulk of a lorry, saw his chance. He kicked the Norton into low gear and funneled across and away in a long shower of mud.

He dodged ahead as another salvo came in. Heavy smoke, logy with rain, drifted downwind. The roadside ditches were brimful. This message must be worth gold. Twenty-five miles in this muck. They had field phones, didn't they?

The big brown stuttering machine turned into the tire-rutted filth of the farmyard. A clutch of low, red-tiled buildings, looking bloody in the rain, surrounded three sides of a square with a high wall and a double gate on the side facing the road. He kicked down into low and, standing, rode the stirrups as he guided the machine to the buildings. He leaned the bike against the wall and ducked through the door. He opened the dispatch case and fumbled for the sodden envelope.

The captain took it, thumbed up the flap, and read. "They might have spared you your ride, private." He nodded at the field phone. "We had this three hours ago."

The Don R stood dripping and wanting a smoke.

"Go tell the cooks I said to feed you," the captain said. "You kip down here tonight. See the QM sergeant for blankets."

The Don R went into the rain and spread his gas cape over the Norton's saddle and the ticking, still-hot engine. Then he went to the cookhouse and watched the rain pour off the eaves as he ate warm stew.

—Adapted from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

Vimy Ridge
Robert Rogge

The war was delayed. Frantic retreat and pursuit ceased, and the armies caught their breaths. The regiment moved into divisional reserve and, company by company, to Arras.

Arras was an ancient town famed for its fragile lace; at least that was the town their fathers knew when its medieval glories were blown to bits. The Arras Ian saw was a new town, twenty-six years old.

But Vimy Ridge was ancient. Their fathers had fought there.
Ian came with his company in thirty-hundredweights that spilled a flood of khaki, kilts, and Glengarries over the tailgates and into the town. Noncoms warned: the last lorries would leave at twenty-one-hundred hours. Anyone, drunk or sober, not back would walk fifteen miles to camp.

The uniformed men fanned across the cobbles to the pubs and into the side streets where hard, painted women waited.

Taxis took them to the Ridge. Short days ago, the same taxis had trundled feldgrau youths to the Ridge. Now the Jerries were gone, and these new men had come to see where their fathers had fought.

Vimy Ridge rose stark and long and, to the soldier's eye, was awe-inspiring. It tyrannized the countryside, the object of uncounted deaths. Men from the Maritimes to the Rockies had conquered the Ridge. White-crossed acres ranked their graves. And, later, a humble and grateful nation raised the beautiful monoliths.

A new generation of trees and growth covered Vimy's flanks, but the crest grew only grass and clipped hedges. The Memorial was there, and it held their breaths.

Slender Canadian marble spires reached to the sky and held the eye with their simple, clean beauty. The broad stone base anchored the ridge and they pulled off their Glengarries and stared. A slant of sun struck the shafts, highlighting the graven, sorrowful Motherhood kneeling over its fallen sons.

Old sweats who had served in the Great War paced the concreted trenches where once they had crawled, and remembered. Green grass carpeted the folds where once men had sprawled in fear and death. And only the measured tread of hobnails remained to echo the guns. Perhaps it was the sun's shafts that made them turn away and blink.

Or perhaps it was the names, row upon row, etched into the marble. The Missing. Casting back across the years, some found names dimly remembered. The new men could only stare dumbfounded at the awful reality. They were only names, but so many.

They looked to the east where Jerry waited and knew that they, in turn, would walk the Valley of their fathers.

In the evening the lorries rumbled them away. In the summer's distance, the spires on the ridge, clear in the afterglow, touched the sky.

—from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.

Rain
Robert Rogge

The rain poured down, and the troops tramped ankle deep in mud that stunk of rotting corpses. When they were forced off the road by the lorries, their boots sucked and squelched in the deeper muck of the ruined fields.

The rain hissed on their helmets and ran into every crevice of their rain capes. It ran cold down their necks as they sweated under the rubber capes. The rain dulled their spirits, and it fell and it fell and it fell.

The men tramped away from the guns and into the drifting, gray sheets of rain. Their spirits lay dead in the sopping fields.

The rain fell on the awful faces of the dead and washed the wounds, leaving ugly gaps, dark red and black against the yellowed skin. The rain fell on the whimpering wounded lying on the soaked stretchers. The injured men twisted their faces from side to side trying to escape the cold, pitiless downpour.

A man could bear almost anything if only he could keep the rain off his face.

The sheeting rain muffled the sound of the guns in the distance, and the water streamed down from the tall, leafy poplars along the road. The kilo markers passed in solemn, sodden slowness.

The attack had failed and the dead lay uncomplaining in the rain. The tanks, mired in the muck, never reached the start line. The field guns, hub deep in mud, became unmanageable, their fire erratic and out of aim. The machine gun companies got lost in the woods, stumbling through the underbrush with their heavy loads, unable to find their fire positions. Scudding clouds grounded the planes.

The infantry went forward against the MG 42s and the mortars. A few bent back, away from the murderous fire, pulling away to where they could live.

And the rain fell dismally, washing away the hash of battle left in the field.

—from Fearsome Battle

CP

Robert Rogge, an American, fought with the Canadian Army in World War II. He wrote of his experiences in Fearsome Battle. Under the pen name, Robert Elliot, he is also author of The Eagle's Height, a novel of air combat in World War I.