'The Lady' meets the 'Old Master'

An article of mine will be published in 'The Lady', Tuesday November 10th. The subject is the extraordinary life of Micky Burn, and the piece is beautifully illustrated by Scott van Osdol's photos, these including a 'Carravagio - like' portrait of Micky in the Osteria Bavaria, Munich where, in the company of Unity 'Bobo' Mitford, he first met Hitler.

FALMOUTH HOSTS THE CHARIOTEERS: OCTOBER 2009

Saturday October 3rd was something of a banner day for the Charioteers and their families, as they were hosted by the port of Falmouth for a day-long series of events organised - expertly - by Eric Dawkins. Following a comfortable evening in the Royal Duchy Hotel, who had offered a very reasonable package to all those taking part, we assembled at the Chariot memorial on Prince of Wales pier for a Service of Memorial attended by numerous dignitaries, British and French, and representatives of several of HM ships. As you can see from the very inexpert snap above, the event attracted quite a crowd and will no doubt be described in detail for the next newsletter of the St Nazaire Society. A short service was conducted by the Reverend Barrington Bennetts, with General Corran Purdon giving a reading which ended with the Kohima Epigram - "When you go home tell them of us and say, for your tomorrows we gave our today".

The Service on the pier was followed by a reception on board the type 22 frigate HMS Chatham, sister ship of HMS Campbeltown, whose captain, Commander Huntington, and crew made everyone welcome on the afterdeck. A photo of the 'sting in her tail' is shown above.

That evening, prior to dinner in the Royal Duchy, there was a presentation to his niece, Elizabeth Ungly, of a book about Micky Burn and the boys of his No 6 Troop, written by the Australian author and historian Peter Stanley. The book recounts the extraordinary efforts of Micky's parents in the months and years following the raid, to determine the fate of 'the boys' and maintain contact with and between their all-too-often grieving families. The presence of M. Charles Nicol's son with his Breton pipes added a wonderful Celtic flavour to the event, this including his accompaniment of Siobhan Blake's moving rendition of 'Amazing Grace'. Indeed the presence of the representatives from St-Nazaire gave a particular context to the whole affair, with the Mayor, M. Joel Batteux, MBE, making a speech in unfamiliar English. In addition to M. Batteux there were, Mme Tesseyre, Deputy Mayor, Madam Boeff, Corporal Nicol, mentioned above, and M. and Mme Charles Nicol (Charles is Director of Communication for the port and a long-time friend of the Charioteers).

The whole event took us back to a time when the engine of civilization was not almost exclusively corporate and when concepts such as duty and honour were not so speedily dismissed at they are perhaps today. To illustrate this is the return journey, by train, from Falmouth to Shrewsbury, of Dr and Mrs Bill 'Tiger' Watson who were a little slow in making the transition between platforms in order to catch a connecting train. A request was made that the train be held for just a minute so that they could make it - needless to say this was not granted. Welcome to the world of frantic, impersonal 2009!

The above image, by photographer Scott van Osdol, of Austin Texas, shows Micky Burn - Captain in charge of 6 Troop 2 Commando at the time of the Saint-Nazaire raid - at the base of the Old Mole, close to the point where the Motor Launch on which he and his men were traveling - ML192 - was destroyed by fire with great loss of life. The image was taken earlier this year during Micky's expedition to Saint-Nazaire, Munich and Colditz Castle, this being part of our ongoing project to document fully his extraordinary life.

From the substantial footage already shot, we have assembled a 'teaser', which can now be viewed at - www.youtube.com/michaelburnmc This should, we hope, give a preliminary 'feel' for just how much more there is to come.

Shooting continued at Micky's home in North Wales over the last five days, with an expert camera crew from New York: as per usual, and despite his 96 years, we wore out before Micky did. 'Commando spirit', it would seem, does not decline with the passing of the years.

One of the dedication plaques making up the new Chariot memorial
(Image copyright Scott Van Osdol, 2008)

REDEDICATION OF THE FALMOUTH MEMORIAL

On Friday 11th July the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall visited Prince of Wales Pier, in Falmouth, to unveil an augmented Chariot memorial. Now located in a portion of the pier specifically set aside to commemorate the raid, the original granite 'rock' is surrounded by inscriptions recalling the observations of some of the veterans. The only downside to an otherwise moving ceremony was the Media Information pack distributed to journalists, which was, in places, wildly inaccurate. It gave the journey from Falmouth to Saint-Nazaire as 250 miles, when it was in fact closer to 420, and claimed as fallen far more than the actual total of Commandos and sailors present. Specifically, 624 men left Falmouth, not 322: and as regards casualties, the Royal Navy lost 102 men killed (with 90 POW), not '31 Officers and 751 ratings', while the Commandos lost 66 killed (and 124 POW), as opposed to the claimed '34 Officers and 178 other ranks'. I should also point out that many of the captured Commando officers were held in Spangenberg Castle (Oflag 1X A/H). not 'Spannenburg Castle'.

In spite of this, the visit could hardly have gone better, and sincere thanks are due to the town of Falmouth for hosting such a memorable event. Prior to the unveiling a number of raid veterans were presented to their Royal Highnesses - Leading Seaman Fred Catton, ML270; Leading Stoker Frank Pritchard, HMS Campbeltown; Sub-Lieutenant Hugh Arnold, DSC, ML446: Lieutenant Corran Purdon, MC, 12 Cdo; Captain Bob Montgomery MC, RE, attached 2 Cdo; Second Lieutenant Bill 'Tiger' Watson, MC, 1/2 Cdo; and Lance-Corporal Eric de la Torre, MBE, 3 Cdo, long time Hon Sec of the St-Nazaire Society. (Ranks given are those in force at the time of the raid)

BATTLEFIELD STUDY, SAINT-NAZAIRE

During the first week of July, I was in Saint-Nazaire with a group of Army personnel on a study tour led by Lieutenant Colonel Ian Chant-Sempill, son of Lieutenant Stuart Chant MC, of 5 Commando. Stuart, in command of the all-important demolition party for the main Pumping Station, was wounded on the deck of HMS Campbeltown during the approach yet managed to lead his team deep into the bowels of their target and destroy the huge pumps without which the 'Normandie' dry dock could not function. Wounded a second time during the withdrawal, Stuart was captured in the company of a young Commando who was shot out of hand. Having endured the pain of an operation in which the anaesthetic failed to work, Stuart was imprisoned first in Oflag 1X A/H (Spangenberg), and then in Oflag 1X A/Z (Rotenburg am Fulda)


The study examined every aspect of the operation and followed in the footsteps of the various Commando parties, taking in the U-Boat bunker, the Fortified Lock, the still-functioning 'Normandie' dry dock, the Pumping Station and the landing sites in the Old Entrance and at the Old Mole. Expeditions further afield took in the substantial artillery bunkers of the Batterie Behncke-West (3/MAA280) at the Fort de l'Eve. The image above shows one of the Fort's four 170mm artillery positions with the remains of its wartime disguise as a house. Part of one side of the embrasure was hurriedly chopped away in a vain attempt to extend the gun's traverse.

Myself and Micky Burn, N. Wales, 2008

(image copyright Scott Van Osdol, 2008)

'STORMING St NAZAIRE' headed for the big screen.

'Storming St Nazaire', my detailed account of Operation CHARIOT, has been optioned along with 'Turned Towards the Sun', the autobiography of Michael Burn, a captain in command of number 6 Troop at the time of the raid.

The story of the options originally appeared in a 'Times' article (see link below), which managed to get a number of the salient details wrong. A full-scale movie treatment of the raid will be based on 'Storming St Nazaire', while a documentary on Micky's remarkable life - including his own part in Operation CHARIOT - will be based on 'Turned Towards the Sun'.

Micky and his men battled through enemy fire in the estuary of the River Loire on board Motor Launch 192. Almost within sight of their landing point, the 192 was struck by shell-fire and set ablaze, crashing, out of control, into the fortified Old Mole. Although the majority of his men were lost, Micky somehow made it onto the Mole from where, in spite of being wounded a number of times, he began a solitary odyssey through the German held dockyard towards his distant target. Eventually captured, he would end the war a prisoner in Coditz Castle.

To view the 'Times' article click on the following link.
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/film/article3642695.ece

Chapter 1 of 'Storming St Nazaire' can be read by clicking on the link on my website's index page at - www.jamesgdorrian.com

Operation CHARIOT: March, 1942

OK, so it's the early days of World War Two, and you're a soldier. You're young, you're fit, and you're bloody invincible. You're ready to grab the world by the balls and give it a shaking - but all the Army can find for you to do is march up and down all day guarding a fuel dump, an arms dump, an anything sodding dump: and, being England, it's probably raining - or worse. You're bloody miserable; maybe fantasizing about shooting the very next NCO to order you to do something patently stupid. And then, one miraculous day, a notice goes up on the Company board: 'VOLUNTEERS WANTED FOR SPECIAL SERVICE'. And all of a sudden your fires are burning bright again, for here is a God-given chance to escape the many absurdities of regular Army life and maybe, just possibly, join that already mythic body of young Gods known as the Army Commandos.

So you persuade your unit to let you go. Maybe they already consider you a trouble-maker - a 'THINKER' - too opinionated, too big for your boots; well let the damned Commandos try to sort you out, sonny boy, for you're not a fit for us!

So you find yourself on a train en-route to western Scotland. And it's a long, long journey and when you do eventually arrive at some isolated Highland halt, you're dog-weary, hungry and longing for a cup of 'char' and a kip. But there's no transport to take you to the distant camp: this is the Commandos, chum: you can run all the way there - with your rifle and all your kit. So you eventually arrive, jelly-legged at the camp gate, to be met by a deeply unimpressed NCO, who wags his finger at you and bars the way to a heaven of food and warm beds. 'Not so fast,' he says. 'See that little hill over there...' And you cast your eyes around a landscape of towering mountains, their tops shrouded in damp, clinging mist. 'Well, up the top of that one...' Your heart skips a beat as you realize he really is pointing to the highest and craggiest of them all. '...is a chum of mine who'll give you a little chit when you get to the top. Oh, and if you don't happen to reach the top, don't bother coming back here. You already know the way to the station and I'm sure there'll be a train right back to your unit tomorrow!'

Welcome to the new, crazy, wonderful world of the Commandos.

So you make it back; you make it through probation; you're accepted OK and you join a group of men who'll become closer to you than your own skin. And you train: and you train: and then you train some more - but of a hot war in which to prove your new self there is nary a sign. But then at last, just when all hope seems to be gone, you and the best and brightest of your pals board a troopship for the long voyage to the port of Falmouth, on England's south west coast. Now you're talking! This time something really is up: something big; and you're off to war at last. You don't know where, or why, or for what - but all around you morale is sky high. 'Jerry' is in for a pasting, and you and your fellow buccaneers are going to dole it out in spades.

And then you learn you're going to attack one of Germany's biggest and most important U-boat bases. It's somewhere you've never heard of, on the French Atlantic coast. And when you get there you're going to blow up everything in sight - including some gigantic - apparently - dry dock. But here's a wrinkle. You're offered a chance to back out! But do you even think of it - not bloody likely. You've moved heaven and earth to get here and you're not going to back out now. But the fact they even offered it - must be a bit dangerous, this, whatever it is. But hey, you and your pals are invincible, right: everybody, except maybe Jerry knows that; and Jerry'll find out to his cost soon enough!

So you set sail in a convoy of destroyers and wooden boats. You're the lucky one, being on a destroyer: pity the poor sods in the boats, what with three thousand gallons of petrol on board and no protection except a few planks of firewood. Mind you, your ancient destroyer isn't much to write home about. Got anti-shrapnel padding all round the bridge, and funny metal screens laid out along the deck amidships. Somebody said you were going to have to lie behind one of these when the shit hit the fan: had to be a joke, that....there's always one leg-puller around, ready to put the wind up a person.

And so, after a couple of days 'ocean cruising' you arrive off the coast of France - and all hell breaks loose. All around is noise, flash, smoke, blood, explosions, the stink of cordite, the cries of the wounded and the smell of your own fear. Your old destroyer - the scene of a party only the day before - seems to be at the very heart of a nightmare. And then it crashes into the dock, and you're up, and then you're ashore, and people everywhere seem to be hell-bent on killing you. And you run, and you try to kill them back. No time to think. Adrenalin surges through your body and the training takes over. Explosions everywhere. All around are bodies - yours, theirs, everywhere you look. Time stands still. You cross an iron bridge, with bullets pinging and slapping at your feet. Railway trucks: good shelter there. You and a few mates. Careful of the ammo: not much left. Careful with the grenades - choose your targets for they're worth their weight in gold right now. You look round. Your mates are up and running. You run too - alleys, fences, sheds, everywhere seems to be under fire. No shelter now. Men around you are half-seen to fall. It should mean something - but there's no time to complete the thought. Another iron bridge, this time much, much bigger. You are part of a human tide surging towards it. Grenades explode in another world, where other people fall - not you. Machine-gun bullets flash and slap everywhere. Then you are over - part of a smaller group now, in streets, then gardens, then houses; then a cellar, and the world comes to a halt. You begin to shake. The adrenalin is gone and you collapse onto a mattress lying on the floor. But you have to stay alert: the Germans will surely come. Fuck the Germans! Nothing is more important right now than sleep. Of course they do come - but fail to kill you. If the roles had been reversed you wouldn't have been so accommodating. So now you're a POW. A sodding POW, with the rest of the war to look forward to in a flea-infested camp. And it's time to count the cost.

Of the more than six hundred soldiers and sailors who left English shores, almost 30% were killed. Of the remainder, most became POWs, and wounded POWs at that. Number 2 Commando, provider of the fighting troops, was decimated and had to be rebuilt.

But a major blow had been struck - or so the men were told. And the flood of medals seemed to reflect a nation's gratitude. Five Victoria Crosses, for Christ's sake. Five VCs, against the one VC awarded for the Dambusters' Raid. Five VCs - the largest number awarded for any single action during the war. Surely that same grateful nation would/could never forget such a signal achievement.

Yet here we are, almost 66 years into the future; and for most of those 66 years this huge achievement HAS been forgotten. Somehow or other it has managed, consistently, to fall through the cracks. In March, 2007, I worked with Jeremy Clarkson on a documentary about it entitled 'The Greatest Raid of All Time'. When it aired, the BBC log was flooded with plaudits, the majority of which also registered surprise at never having heard of this before. There have been two attempts at movies, but both were botched. A few documentaries have also appeared over the years, reviewed in my website - www.jamesgdorrian.com - but even these only managed to scratch the surface.

Back in March of 1942 something very special happened to an equally very special group of young men, most of whom are now gone. Only a handful of the original veterans remain. Outside military circles almost no one knows of them - yet here are real heroes: the original Commandos: the best. So what can be done to elevate their memory to its proper status? I have already written two books about the raid, but here again these circulate mostly within knowledgeable military circles. To a world obsessed with shallow celebrity, these real celebrities do not exist, never have existed; and I for one believe the world is a poorer place for having neglected them.

Re the images above: The B/W photo is of the Bridge of Memories, the iron bridge across which passed the unstoppable tide of surviving Commandos (copyright James Dorrian): the colour card is copyright Terry Gaylor, www.terencegaylor.com. It shows HMS Campbeltown striking home and is one of several of Terry's excellent illustrations to be found on the storyboards page at www.jamesgdorrian.com