World: LOCAL ACTION

On the water-laced flats of eastern Holland, Montgomery’s British and Canadians moved ahead, canal by canal, while the Germans warily eyed’ their reserves and wondered when the big blow would jail: For one of the operations that communiqués call “local actions,” LIFE Photographer George Silk went forward with an assault battalion, cabled this report:

This evening we crossed another canal—the Wessem in the Roermond area. A Scottish regiment made the crossing, and they made it “without fuss or bother, with a calmness that comes from lots of experience. The show started at 4 p.m.—dusk here — with a 400-gun barrage which lasted 15 minutes. They fired high-explosive shells for the first twelve minutes, and then finished off with smoke, to blind the enemy. Under cover of the smoke, the troops made their assault.

As the barrage lifted, a battalion of infantry appeared as if by magic, and started their advance to the canal. They had been sheltering in houses, in caves, hedges and foxholes, and had been completely invisible. Now, 30 seconds after zero hour, they were spread out in Indian file, heading for the canal. I joined an assault platoon.

Past us, on the roads and in the fields, rumbled Shermans (to deal with Jerry tanks), Crocodiles (British flame-throwing tanks) and Bren-gun carriers carrying canvas assault boats. It had been bitterly cold all day and drizzling. Now the combination of smoke and rain reduced visibility to almost nothing, so that a tank 80 yards away was invisible.

I paused for a few seconds in a gateway to take pictures, and because of the noisy barrage was not aware that I was blocking the way for three Bren carriers until the driver of one tapped me politely on the shoulder and shouted: “Excuse me, mate—but there’s a war on, yer know.”

The Flaming Crocks. My platoon hugged the wall of a half-demolished building for a second as a rain of Jerry mortars crashed near by—then moved on again as stretcher-bearers went to work on the wounded.

We had less than a hundred yards to go when the Crocks started shooting their flame across the canal. It seared the gloom with a great orange-red gash. We broke into a trot.

In a second, seemingly without warning, we were on the top of the earth dyke looking straight down into the canal, while the boat crews were hurling their boats down the steep slope into the water. As they hit the water, the Scottish sergeant in charge yelled: “O.K., me lads—who is for th’other side—a bob a ride, a bob a ride.” And then we were paddling frantically—except for the two who missed their footing and were being dragged out of the icy water. The disgusted sergeant cursed them heartily, but everyone on the boat laughed—a little hysterically, no doubt—for odd grenades and mortars were plunking into the water all around.

Forty yards to our right and 60 to our left, the Crocks were still shooting their liquid death across the canal in spurts that slid over the water, then arched high into the air, hitting the bank and curling along and over it toward the Jerries’ trenches. Everything it touched withered, then burst into flame.

Thought from Orthodoxy. A paddler said: “D’yer think hell will be as hot as this?” The sergeant snarled: “You’ll be afindin’ out mighty quick if you don’t get a move on.” We paddled a little faster and crouched a little lower—and I wished I’d left my sheepskin coat behind, for the heat from the flamethrowers and the burning banks and the patches of burning water were making me uncomfortable.

The steep bank ahead was still burning furiously as we approached it, and unintentionally I said aloud: “How in hell are we gonna get up that?” The Jocks laughed, scrambled ashore and charged up the bank.

Jerry trenches were only 20 feet away from us now, but the tops of the banks were covered with mines. I shuddered, hesitated, then peered into the gloom, hoping I might be able to see where I could tread with safety. But the Jocks didn’t stop—they literallv leaped toward the enemies’ trenches through the half-light. Two trod on mines and had their feet blown off, but their moans, if they moaned, could not be heard, for the Jocks’ Sten guns were chattering and terrified Jerries were yelling, “Kamerad! Kamerad!”

“It Is Not War.” None of the Germans in the trenches taken by our platoon put up any real fight—they were too cowed by the flamethrowers, and evidently went deep into their dugouts when the flame came licking over the bank. We took 60 prisoners in three minutes, all paratroopers, and all thoroughly frightened except one. He surrendered easily enough, but kept complaining bitterly in broken English: “Flames—it is not fair—it is not war.”

As soon as Jerry realized that we had established a bridgehead, he opened fire from either flank with small arms and shelled us from the woods a couple of hundred yards ahead. The Scotties hurried the prisoners to the canal, and made them paddle themselves across while they prepared for the counterattack and the push forward.

I jumped into a dugout when the shells came close, and crouched beside another soldier, whom I could hardly see in the murky light. We didn’t speak for a second, then he said quietly and evenly: “Don’t shoot.” I replied: “It’s O.K., pal —I haven’t got a gun.” “Well,” he said, “here’s mine—it’s a Luger.” I realized he was a German. I called the Jocks—and quickly.

Fall of the Leaf. “Where did you learn to speak English?” I asked. “At Cambridge,” he replied, “I was there in ’36 and

I said, “I spent the weekend there two weeks ago.”

“By Jove,” he said with enthusiasm, “it must be beautiful there now—the brown leaves falling from the trees—and the ivy all scarlet. . . .”

A Scottie broke into our conversation at this point with “Come on, yer Nazi bastard—save yer talk fer later.”

Spread of the Fire. A thousand yards along the canal, flame suddenly leaped from one bank to the other, which meant that flamethrowers were at work spearheading the assault for another battalion. Jerry promptly switched his shelling from us to the new attack. We took the opportunity to expand our bridgehead and exploit the ground ahead of us.

Although it was nearly dark, we could see quite well, for the smoke had cleared, and the rain ceased and the British were using artificial moonlight: the reflection from searchlight beams directed onto the low-lying clouds immediately above us. The lighting effects were eerie, in the dusk of that winter evening—especially when unexpected bursts from the flamethrowers half-blinded you, and two houses and a dozen haystacks caught fire a hundred yards away.

Spasmodic fire from the buildings near the haystacks pinned us down in the ditch for some minutes, but after Bren gunners gave the buildings a good going-over, it stopped, and four Jerries surrendered by silhouetting themselves with their hands high, between us and the burning haystacks.

Forward, Engineers. We passed the haystacks, and were preparing to get really moving when forward scouts reported that the road and the fields ahead were lousy with mines. The mines had been laid hastily on top of the ground and crudely covered with hay from the stacks. A section of engineers was sent forward to clear a path, but on approaching the area they were shot at by self-propelled guns and Spandaus which covered the ground with cross fire. They had a close call and were pretty shaken when they got back to our foxholes after having crawled 200 yards along a muddy ditch. One of them slumped into my hole, out of breath. I said: “A bit tough out there, huh?” “Tough,” he replied, “it’s bl-bl-bloody awful.”

I made my way back to base. As I crossed the canal, I saw that tanks were pouring over a pontoon bridge, and supply trucks were piling up where a Bailey bridge was being constructed. All being well, this battalion will be crossing another canal tomorrow night—it’s onlv six miles farther on.