There was a strange tension in the air. Our O.P. had spotted concentrations of vehicle borne Infantry and Mark III German tanks moving left behind the cover of Grandstand Hill.
In burst Dawson. “Come on,” he said. “There’s ****ing Germans on the other side of this hill and nothing in between them and us! I want you, you, you, you and you,” his finger stabbed in the directions of the victims. “Small Arms, outside now,” and he was gone. Led by Major Chater Jack, the party climbed Grandstand Hill. We at the G.P. got straffed by a lone ME 109. “The bastard,” I said. “Get his number, we’ll report him for wilful damage.”
‘Geordie’ Liddel replied on the Bren gun, but was miles out.
“You’re a good shit-house orderly but a lousy shot,” we shouted. How Liddel complained about our references to his humble job. “It may be shit to you, but to me it’s bread and butter,” he said. As darkness fell, the O.P. reported a German patrol had ‘winkled out’ a Gunner O.P. to their right. Chater ‘advised’ our O.P. to withdraw half a mile and go back at first light. A listening post-cum-O.P. was placed forward of our guns. We had a report that ‘Tiger’ tanks were in our area, they weighed 90 tons. How in Christ could we stop them! “Simple,” I said. I held up my hand. “Tiger Tanks—Stop.”