Cornelius Ryan WWII papers, box 020, folder 04: Roy Cadogan

AN ACCOUNT OF D-DAY BY ROY CADOGAN

So this was the day at last. For weeks this day had been uppermost in our thoughts - I guess we even dreamt about it. My mind ran back over the months of strenuous training - in quiet English villages, and cold, dreary places in Scotland, where we really learned to handle the revolutionary invention - the duplex drive tank.

Now here we were, loading ourselves and our now familiar tanks on to the squat, ungainly Tank Landing Craft. I shall never forget that evening. It was one of those beautiful days - rare, yet typical of the English summer. It was five o'clock - the time when most families were enjoying that pleasurable occasion - Saturday tea. At least, to me it was always a looked forward to occasion. Even then, it was hard to realise that we were leaving our native shores - some for good, because there were many that day who gazed on England for the last time. Some betrayed no emotion. Others, I think, knew instinctively that they would never return. Thank God, we were not permitted an insight into those next few days.

Soon, the tedious job of loading was completed, and we were now more or less ready.

We put off from Gosport Hards at eight o'clock that evening, to anchor out in the Solent.

The day was no longer beautiful - the sun had disappeared, and in its place a leaden sky reflected its cheerless appearance on a decidedly choppy sea. A good start! It was as if the forces of nature were combining to stop our mission. Soon darkness fell, grim and foreboding. There was not much to do now, but to endeavour to get some sleep - if sleep were possible, in the bottom of a Landing Craft! But eventually I dozed off, in a cold, cramped sleep - waking at intervals to hear nothing but the creaking of ropes, and the monotonous drone of the charging engine.

The crew were up indecently early, pottering about on a hundred different jobs, seemingly unnecessary.

The morning was cold, grey, and decidedly miserable, and the sea had not improved over night - in fact it was a sight rougher. What a prospect for invasion! The most important day of the war, and it had to be like this - what infernal luck.

Then the cryptic message was received "D Day postponed twenty-four hours". This was received without much enthusiasm because it meant another day of waiting, with the possibility of the weather getting worse instead of better. The day was one of the worst in my memory. I spent it being violently ill, and most of the others spent the day in this fashion, though unwillingly! The day dragged on, until once more darkness fell. Yes, it was a repitition of the previous night only worse. By this time we had got fairly well out in the Channel, having left the Solent that morning. The sea was terrible, and naturally sleep, was an impossibility. What utter misery we endured that night. Our hearts were willing, but our stomachs refused to stand the torment. After seemingly an age, the dawn broke, dull, and uncertain. It was raining now, to make things worse. God, what a morning! Our spirits had sunk with the weather, and I for one did not feel like invading anywhere. Of course, we did not expect the order to lauch our amphibious tanks in this sea.

But evidently the Higher Command thought differently, because the order was "Launch at 8,000 yards". (later changed to 5,000 yards).

We looked a puny force - a handful of Landing Craft and a few escort destroyers, but we could not see through the mist - that was where the real force of the invasion lay.

We struggled with our airbottles, and canvases, and at last we got the canvases fully inflated, they were ready for the sea now, to sink or swim!

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Orders were rapped out, whistles blew, and we got aboard the tanks - there wan nothing to do now, but wait. Then from the bridge came the order "Down door"! With a roar the four tanks on our craft started up - so far so good. Each of us was tensed for the hour - our thoughts must have been reflected in our faces. Some little knew that within the hour their bodies would be floating lifelessly in the sea - part of the many sacrifices which would be made that day.

The first tank moved slowly towards the ramp, now extended in the sea. Slowly at first, then with a rush it was in the water. In a second the propellors had been lowered, and the tank - now a craft began chugging towards the distant shore - seemingly miles away. One by one we went off, and in spite of the rough sea, we managed to get into a rough 'line ahead formation.'

The distant shore looked strangely silent, and it was hard to realise that this was the coast of France. Then without warning it happened - the guns of the cruisers and battleships behind us opened up. Never before had I heard such a terrific noise. The quietness of the shore became transformed into a blazing inferno, as a great pall of smoke rose from the shattered houses.

Then the bombers went in adding to what must have been terrible confusion on the shore.

A horrible retching sound behind us heralded therockets, from the small rocket ships. Some of these missiles came all too low over our heads, causing us to pass a few unpleasant comments on the Royal Navy.

All this time we were steadily nearing the shore - the canvas screen still holding, fortunately! I began to think we would reach the shore after all (Yes, I'd been doubtful!)

Now more craft were coming in around us - infantry assault craft, tank landing craft, and a huge assortment of small ships, all bent on one thing - reaching the shore - somehow.

Some were hit by the shore batteries, but etill they kept going, many were blazing almost from stem to stern, but their intrepid commanders were determined to beach their craft. They never thought of coming back, only of discharging their precious cargoes.

The shore was very near now - the first assault craft had touched down, and the infantry were storming the beaches as they had done so many times in practice on the shores of Scotland. Wonderful men, those infantry to me they represent the finest fighting men in the world.

We made good progress, the tank behaving magnificently in a sea, which would have daunted many a larger craft, leave alone a tank! Never in our wildest hopes had we thought it possible that they would stand up to such a sea.

By now, the shore was about two hundred yards away, and some of the tanks had already touched down, deflating their canvases as they beached. We were close behind a tank, which beaching suddenly, had the misfortune to run on a mine. The canvas collapsed and water poured through a jagged hole in the canvas.

The crew, as calmly as though they were on an exercise climbed out on to the back of another tank which had pulled alongside.

They then proceeded to transfer themselves (and their bedding etc!) Soon their adopted tank was rolling up the beach clear of the initial obstructions.

We were not so lucky. We beached, but by a stroke of ill luck, we hit an obstruction (anti tank obstacle - steel posts).

The driver slammed it in reverse, and we backed a couple of yards, but too far. With our canvas already deflated, the sea just poured in - naturally stopping the engine. So there we were - finished before even

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starting!' Still, as our orders were to destroy any houses left standing in the village we just stayed put, and kept the gun firing. But, soon the water was halfway up the inside of the turret, so we had no option but to 'bale out' on to the back of the tank.

We carried an inflatable dinghy with us, and we had relied on this for such an emergency. Needless to say, the shore was now about two hundred yards away. However, we were to be sadly disillusioned. A piece of shrapnel had neatly taken the top off the oxygen bottle rendering it absolutely useless. This placed us in a very cheerful position!

We had one thing to fall back on - our rubber lifebelts. I must say none of us felt particularly cheerful, and we little knew then, that only three of us out of our crew of five were destined to reach the shore.

So there was nothing else for it but to abandon our tank, which was by now almost completely submerged. I don’t think we fully realised the seriousness of the situation. Death was hovering very near, and men were being killed on the beaches which we were heading for.

I was obsessed with one thought "I must get to the shore alive!" I was lucky, but our operator was never seen again. He was one of the many who paid the price of D-Day. The driver was picked up and taken back to England more dead than alive. I managed to keep afloat, and at last to my great joy, my feet felt sand underfoot. I staggered out, just about all in, but I was alive, that was the main thing. But the first thing I saw was one who wasn't. A chap who had a couple of minutes previous been shot by a sniper. My senses were a bit numbed and I don't think I really realised what was going on.

The only cover was a low bank about fifty yards away, so I made a dash for it, and just lay there, watching the invasion of the Continent. A sight never to be forgotten.

I was joined by the other two members of the crew, who also looked all in. Fortunately, we managed to get hold of some self heating tinned food and this did something to counteract the cold (for the weather was nothing like summer!)

Later we made our way up to the squadron rendezvous in the village, to find not a fighting squadron, but five tanks! All that were left out of the twenty which had launched. Luckily most of the crews were safe.

So we "unhorsed crews" banded together and stayed in an old chateau for a couple of days until new tanks were landed.

Still, we had done our job, and we were secretly proud that we had been the spearhead of the Invasion of Europe.

Yes, it was D-Day!!

117, Kimberly Road, Penylan, Cardiff. 3. 7. 58. QS. 8/7/58

Dear Sir, With regard to the note in this month's "Soldier", I took part in the 'D' day landings with 'A' Sqn 13/18th Royal Hussars (amphibious tanks). I should be only to glad to give you any assistance in your researches that I can, if you care to contact me.

Yours faithfully R. Cadogan

117, Kimberly Road, Penylan, Cardiff. 14.7. 58

Dear Miss Isaacs, Thank you for your letter and questionnaire which I return completed as well as I can. If there is any other help I can give you I shall be only too pleased.

Yours Sincerely, R. Cadogan

P.S. Perhaps you could be good enough to return my account of D-day sometime, as it's the only copy I have.