Mines, Bombs, Bullets and Bridges: A Sapper's Second World War Diary

By Michael Moss

Soldiers’ first-hand accounts of Second World War active service invariably make inspiring and exciting reading but Mines, Bombs, Bullets and Bridges is exceptional for several reasons. First, Brian Moss’s role as a bomb disposal specialist was especially hazardous. Secondly, he was in the thick of the action from the start, dealing with unexploded ordnance during the London blitz. He was then deployed as a frontline sapper to North Africa and onto Sicily before landing on Gold Beach on D-Day. Despite many close calls he was relatively unscathed until taken out by a butterfly bomb at Nijmegen. Fortunately, despite serious injury he lived, quite literally, to tell the tale but his war was over.

While the author’s graphic account compares favorably with the very best wartime memoirs, it also has a unique element, namely examples of his outstanding artistic skill. It is truly remarkable that he not only managed to produce so many fine works under combat conditions and that he was able to draw such accurate maps from memory. His sketches and paintings bring a special dimension to this story.

What a privilege it is to feast on the words and images created by this exceptionally brave and talented man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen and Sword
• Release date: Jan 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781399068055

Michael Moss

Michael Moss works in the Humanities Advanced Technology and Information Institute and/or the Information Services Planning Unit of Glasgow University, UK.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Prelude to War

The Sixth Form Room at Sandbach was known as ‘The Boar’s Head’. This was not because it was a wayside inn but because of the animal’s head hung on the wall, a porcine leer in its eye and a casual cigarette usually dangling from its lips.

In this room, an untidy group of youths would fight for seats at the table amidst deflated rugby balls and newly oiled cricket bats. Over the years, their voices still come back to me, as clear as a bell.

‘It’s coming!’ said one.

‘What is?’

‘The war, silly. It’s obvious.’ Even in 1936 we knew war was coming. We were supposedly studying but would spend much of our days in discussing the coming war. The question was the line-up of nations, and it must have been an easy question, because we got it right.

As a kind of Magician’s Assistant, I helped ‘Tube’ Hubbard with his demonstration of war gases to the local Sandbach Fire Brigade, and we nearly choked the local doctor with chlorine. I also recall pamphlets being passed around. They originated from some misguided pacifist society and showed photographs of hideous facial wounds sustained in the First World War. These were horrifying but did nothing to dishearten us from joining up when the time came. In our ignorance, we discussed the arms of service that each of us hoped to grace with our enlistment.

Those who have known of my lifelong interest in aviation must have wondered why I did not join the RAF. The answer is as follows: at the age of seven, I became aware that the vision of my right eye was not as goodas that of the left. I said nothing about it but decided to have it put right. I had not then joined Crewe Green choir but attended morning service with my parents. One Sunday morning was, I decided, the moment, as I knelt while old Reverend Collins was doing his stuff up by the altar. So, I prayed as hard as I could; you might say that I prayed my heart out. Then I peered through my fingers, but Old Collins was still as dim a figure as ever to my right eye. To say that I was shaken would be an understatement. I did not realise, of course, that miracles are reserved for much more important matters.

I now knew I could never be a pilot, and if I could not be a pilot, then I wanted nothing to do with the RAF.

In 1936, the question of my future employment arose. I received no guidance on the matter. My grandmother wanted me to pursue a medical career and informed me that she would pay. My mother was not keen on any assistance or input from her mother-in-law. As for me, I could only see aircraft and had obtained details of the Apprentice Schools at de Havilland and at Airspeed. The latter attracted me and, had I gone there, I would have been in the company of Nevil Shute; I am sure we would have got along very well.

My subjects taken in Higher School Certificate reflect a total lack of guidance, but they were my best subjects and perhaps not entirely redundant for an aspiring aircraft designer, i.e., Art and Mathematics besides Latin and Chemistry.

In September 1937, I left school and became articled to Leonard Reeves, AMICE, FSI, Borough Engineer of Crewe. I felt certain I was entering a business that would not allow me to achieve my full potential. That may sound pretentious, but it was how I felt.

I spent 1938 and 1939 on routine engineering, drawing, and surveying practice. I passed the professional exams of the Institution of Municipal and County Engineers (known as ‘Moo & Cow’) at Birmingham University. Meanwhile, we watched the war draw closer. I became an ARP (Air Raid Precautions) officer and was immediately swept up in matters of Civil Defence. I regularly held the fort at our base in Police HQ at the Convent, Nantwich Road.

On Friday morning, 1 September 1939, I was out surveying with Jack Sutton in Wistaston near a place known as ‘Joey the Swan’ (now a recreation area still known by that name). There was a bungalow by the side of a path there and, as we worked, we heard a news announcement on a radio inside. The Wehrmacht had just entered Poland.

‘That’s it, then!’ said Jack, suddenly grave. He looked at me, knowing that I would become involved, just as he had been in the First World War.

Since my eyesight would never allow me to become a pilot, I considered joining a field company. This was how my father had served in the First World War. As soon as war was declared, I went across Earle Street to the recruiting office where an elderly major told me that there were no vacancies in divisional field companies. ‘Come back later, son,’ he said. I visited him weekly and became a regular nuisance. This went on for a long time and, one day, he asked me, ‘How about a General Construction Company?’ Several of these new units were being raised around well-known civil engineering contracting firms. The major suggested I apply to one of these, the Asphalt and Public Works of Birmingham.

A week later I wrote privately to A.W. Speed of A&PW and asked if he could get me into the Army, giving details of my experience, such as it was. He replied on A&PW notepaper, asking me to show his letter to my recruiting officer.

I returned once more to the office across the road from the Municipal Buildings. A gleam appeared in the eye of the elderly major as he saw a chance to finally get rid of me. He held out an attestation form and asked me to sign it. As I lounged on his desk, he slammed down a shilling in front of me and yelled, ‘Stand up! You’re in the Army now!’ I stood to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of my trousers, and grinning all over my face. ‘And you can take that smile off your face, too!’ he added.

Thus, I became a soldier. My medical board examination was held in Crewe, in the old library premises on Prince Albert Street. The doctors of Crewe had all been pressed into service and were examining long queues of men. One of them did feet, another did heart and lungs, and so on. The eye chap said, ‘Put your hand over your right eye.’ This I did and read out loud what was written on his card. ‘Put your hand over your left eye,’ he said. I brought down my right hand, and covered my right eye again, only this time with my left hand. He did not notice! So it was that my AB 64 today gives no indication of defective vision. The Army didn’t know and in six years of war, they never found out.

In due course, a telegram arrived, instructing me to report to Kitchener Barracks, Chatham. Having travelled to Chatham, I got off the train and was confused by the many military establishments there. Chatham was the home not only of the Corps of Royal Engineers, but also of the Royal Marines. At that time, the place was crammed with khaki. I walked along to the tune (in my head) of ‘Roses from the South’, so you can guess the memories that tune evokes for me today. I tagged myself onto the end of a queue. An hour later, I found out that it was a queue for inoculations. Next, I experimented with a pay queue, and then a mess queue. Finally, I began asking for directions. The place where I was eventually sent was a small office at the side of three acres of asphalt.

The asphalt was the barrack square of Kitchener Barracks. It was rectangular and sloped steeply down to one corner. Around it stood drill sheds, mess halls, equipment stores and gymnasia: everything to delight the military mind. In the office, a young man in khaki received me. His name was Jack Bowen, A.F.A.S. Auctioneer and Estate Agent, of 420 Bearwood Road, Smethwick (phone Bear 1315). At least that is what the message read on the promotional pencil that he gave me, which I still have today. He had been in the Army just twenty-four hours longer than I had. He asked if I wished to make any weekly payments to anyone. I replied that half my pay should be sent to my mother. Bowen raised his eyebrows and told me that my pay was such that every week, my mother and I would each get 8 shillings, i.e., 40p.

I was dispatched to 12 Corporation Street, Gillingham, in the company of a tall Glaswegian who was a lorry driver. The old lady at No.12 took us in and gave us a meal. The Glaswegian turned up his nose at the food, but I can’t recall his name. He would later lose an arm and a leg in the incident that killed the Earl of Suffolk.

Next day we paraded at a large building halfway between Chatham and Gillingham. We were each issued with battle dress, boots, eating utensils, underwear and a greatcoat. I spoke to some very smart men who appeared to be the directors of A&PW. These were T.G. Jones and Jeffery, carpenters. Our civvy clothes were sent home in the attaché cases we had brought with us for this purpose. We then emerged in new khaki and creaking, shiny boots made of rhino hide, which immediately commenced to destroy our feet.

During the day, we ate and trained at Kitchener Barracks and at night we retired to Gillingham. The Medway towns were under constant bombing attacks by night and it was noisy. I noticed that all my colleagues immediately made for the nearest pub whenever possible. Not being interested in this, I became a loner. I recall going to watch The Spy in Black, starring Conrad Veidt and Valerie Hobson.

To my good luck or misfortune, I was picked out as a potential NCO. The recruits were divided into squads of about twenty men and were being put through their paces by drill sergeants. I was instructed to stand next to a particular drill sergeant and watch carefully while he hurled the squad up and down and inside out.

After a while, like a flight instructor sending off a cadet on his first solo, he said, ‘You take them now, and don’t break them!’ I got them going all right. My squad marched in a straight line across the square, through all the other manoeuvring squads, and were becoming alarmingly close to the wall. I gave the preliminary command, ‘Squad,’ and then the executive command, ‘Halt!’ The only snag was that I did not yell, ‘Halt!’ Instead, I yelled, ‘Halt, please!’ To bawl commands for obedience was utterly new to me. I nearly died of shame but needn’t have bothered, no one had heard me, least of all the squad. They marched along steadily, their noses about to go through the wall when I screamed ‘Halt!’ and that did it. I turned them about twice, and soon found I was enjoying myself. I found that I could give the commands on the correct foot (perhaps you can guess what this means), and I realised that sweet anticipation was the secret to it all. However, my voice was suffering, and by the next morning, it was barely a rusty croak.

About half the potential NCOs were apparently incapable of drilling a squad and were returned to the ranks. That left about eight of us who were considered to have prospects.

The new unit that was being formed was 719 General Construction Company, under the command of instant Major A.W. Speed of A&PW. We also had five instant lieutenants who, I imagine, had been engineers or agents with the firm. The men were divided into four sections, each comprising so many concretors, bar benders, carpenters, etc. I was instant Corporal to No.1 Section, under instant Sergeant K.W.T. Brown. It was 1940, after all, and things were happening in a hurry.

I wasn’t very keen on being in a General Construction Company, but the recruiting officer had said it was possible that a transfer could be arranged. The main thing was to get started somewhere, not because the war would be over by Christmas but, rather, if we were not soon defeated, we knew the war would be a long one.

One day we were put on a train at Chatham, and we did not get off until we had arrived at Launceston, Cornwall. At Launceston we marched out of the town and headed north. Half an hour later, we arrived at Werrington Park, a country estate built by Sir Francis Drake bestride the Tamar. The first two days were a complete shambles. We had neither tents nor rations, and it rained constantly. Gradually, we erected bell tents and mess tents and were able to make ourselves more comfortable.

A company sergeant major arrived. We heard that he was an instant CSM. His name was Albert Edward Jones, of Gorseinon, Swansea, where it was said that he had run the Territorial Depot during peacetime. A.E. Jones was quite a rogue and we got along well together, although you could not imagine more different types. At Werrington, we drilled on grass, which was not easy, and we went on route marches.

We were issued P14 Enfield rifles, which were huge clumsy affairs, but had a strong Mauser bolt action and were chambered for the .303 British cartridge. Some rifles were equipped with long-range sights of a weird design. No wonder they had not been used in the First World War. The bayonet seemed about a yard long. We took our rifles along to a range at Scarn Cross and put five rounds through them. Luckily, we managed not to shoot ourselves or anyone else.

We played cricket, and I clean bowled Lieutenant Ramsey, who appeared on the field dressed up in whites and pads, etc. He was most surprised. I believe Ramsay had two sections and Lieutenant Ritchie had one section. There was also a Lieutenant Parkinson, who had been an engineer with Cumberland County Council. We would discuss transition curves.

During this time, the Luftwaffe became very busy. At night, long streams of bombers crossed our camp, heading north for Liverpool. By day, the rumours flew. Once, it was rumoured that German parachutists had landed. I was turned out of bed at midnight and told to assemble ten men armed with rifles. Albert Jones told me that parachutists had been dropped in the vicinity of Yeolmbridge Vicarage and I was to go there and be in position to investigate at dawn. Jones was about to send us off when I said, ‘Well, come on then, give us some ammo!’ Reluctantly, he provided ten rounds per man and told me not to let the men load unless absolutely necessary. As soon as I was out of his sight, I instructed them to load and to close the bolt over the top round in the magazine. In this state, the rifle cannot be fired until the bolt action has been operated. We crept through the woods and covered the two miles to the vicarage. Dawn found us in possession of the building, peering over the high stone garden wall for parachutists who never appeared.

The weather at this time was glorious and every day the newspapers reported on the front page, in huge print like cricket scores, the daily total of enemy aircraft shot down over Britain. The Hun was almost ready to invade, it seemed. Things were rising to a climax.¹

1. In 1976, just before I retired from the Civic Offices, Swindon, I had the job of preparing a list of selected contractors. One of the firms responding to our advertisement was A&PW. Their letter was signed I.R. Ramsay, so I phoned them. I asked to speak to Captain Ramsay, and when asked who was calling, I said I was Sergeant Moss. Ramsay came on the line, remembering who I was before I could explain. We chatted for half an hour. Apparently, Speed was also still with the firm. Ramsay later sent a photo taken of me in London during the Blitz by Speed. I reciprocated with a shot I had taken of members of the company at the same time. In my subsequent letter to Speed, I mentioned the incident of A.E. Jones and the ammo. B.J.M.

Chapter 2

Bomb Disposal

Suddenly, we were put on a train bound for London. We arrived during the night of 17 September 1940, in the middle of a savage air raid. Shells were bursting in the sky above us. At Paddington, we were put in coaches and taken to Creswick Road, Acton.

We entered a large residence, Torkington House, which although a big place, seemed much smaller when three hundred men were crammed inside. I was billeted in a downstairs room at the rear, along with some thirty other men. The lone toilet at the end of the corridor outside was busy all night while bombs fell, and anti-aircraft guns thundered all around us.

Next morning, we assembled outside. We marched off, turned a corner and found ourselves in a cul-de-sac leading to a large, grassed playing field of about ten acres. This was the Gas, Light and Coke Company’s Sports Ground (later to be known as the North Thames Gas Board Sports Ground). We marched across it and into some wooden pavilions. Here,a rudimentary breakfast had been prepared, which we ate with gusto,surrounded by cricket pads and goal posts, etc. Immediately after breakfast, we were paraded in sections, and detailed off in batches of twenty men. Each section was now allotted three houses for billets in Twyford Avenue on the other side of the playing field.

Memory Lane: London September 1940.

Before we could move off to our billets, the sirens wailed again. To the east we saw an extraordinary sight. It was as if someone had taken a piece of chalk and drawn hundreds of white lines across the blue sky, all emanating from one point on the eastern horizon, radiating and diverging as they approached. These were the vapour trails of an immense bomber fleet which was, by then, almost overhead. We ran for the trenches that had been dug across the field. Now we could see fainter trails weaving a complex pattern through the bomber trails, and we knew that our fighters were up there, too. The armada turned south, and with the sound of a long indrawn breath, the first bomb load fell on the other side of the river.

That night, I slept at No. 45 Twyford Avenue. The next morning, we were paraded in the street in front of our billets and marched to Torkington House. Here, the Commander Royal Engineers (CRE) London Area addressed us. ‘During the last 24 hours,’ said the Colonel, ‘one thousand unexploded bombs have dropped in London. They have a new type of electric fuze, which we know little about. You’ll be issued with axes, picks, shovels, ropes, handsaws, and rubber knee boots. Go to it, men, and good luck!’

We were now to be known as 719 Bomb Disposal, attached to 2nd Bomb Disposal Company. Untrained as we were, bomb disposal would now be our job.

We were divided into sections of twenty-four men each. I was given F Section and promoted to Lance Sergeant. Our Section Officer was to be Lieutenant Ewart (see Table 1). Our billets were reshuffled so that sections would occupy individual houses.

Table 1: F Section, 719 Coy (attached to 2 Bomb Disposal Company), Royal Engineers, Acton, London W3. 1940

* these men were later attached to the Earl of Suffolk and would be killed in the same incident.

Torkington House

This large home became the headquarters for RE Bomb Disposal activities in the Acton and Ealing areas of London.

45 Twyford Avenue

Dad was billeted in this private home along with six others from his Section of 719 Coy.

5 Charlbury Grove

Dad’s most memorable UXB job was defuzing a 1,000 lb bomb that had fallen through the roof at this home, ending up 40 ft below ground. He worked alone with the Earl of Suffolk to defuze it, seven weeks after it had fallen.

719 Company: some notable locations.

Within twenty-four hours we had visited our first bombs and had obtained our first Elaz C15 fuzes. I was designated Draughtsman Archit., and this, together with my new rank, gave me 9/6 (47½p) per day which was more than adequate for my needs. I was also designated Recce Officer and, in this role, visited Acton Police Station every morning. The Station Officer and I used to visit all incidents that had occurred during the previous night and would then decide which bombs had exploded and which had not. This is not as silly as it sounds, since the mere arrival of a bomb in a house can cause it to collapse, even if the bomb didn’t explode. The expert (i.e., me!) would deliberate on this point, and only once did I get it wrong. On that occasion, the darned thing went off four hours after I had certified that it had already exploded!

Bombs came in various sizes, e.g., 50 kg; 250 kg; 500 kg and 1,000 kg. Of these, the 250 kg was the most common. The German electrical fuze, made by Rheinmetall Stalhein, was part of an integral ‘weapons system’. It was not only linked with the bomb but also with the aircraft. The system had been previously tested and proven serviceable in the Spanish Civil War. We encountered many fuze types, but all were of the same size and fitted in the same fuze pocket. Merely held in by a locking ring, they were designed to be quickly and easily interchangeable.

The basic system was this: the fuze had a plug-receptacle top that was wired to a plug in the aircraft’s electrical circuit. The bomb-aimer would flick a switch to arm the bomb just before release. This switch passed a current via the plug to a condenser in the fuze. This condenser was connected to a second condenser via resistors that permitted only a slow passage of potential. Before charging, the bomb was completely safe. As it fell away from the aircraft it was still safe because the potential had not yet leaked from the charging condenser to the second (firing) condenser. As soon as the charge had accumulated sufficiently in the firing condenser, the bomb became fully sensitive. This would occur when it had fallen a few thousand feet below the aircraft. Obviously, it was important that the bomb-aimer did not forget to flick the switch, and that the aircraft did not attempt to bomb from too low an altitude, or else the firing condenser would not be properly charged. These two points were to result in the high proportion of bombs that did not explode. Inevitably, these became labelled as UXBs (unexploded bombs), although to us, a UXB was a bomb that was going to explode at some unknown instant.

Detonation was achieved in the following manner: the firing condenser was connected to a pellet of material that would burst into flame on the passage of a small electrical current via two trembler springs. Any shock, such as the bomb hitting the ground, would tremble the springs, effect the contact and cause the pellet to burn. The flame from the pellet would ignite a micro-delay fuze of powder and the delay would allow the bomb sufficient time to penetrate a structure before exploding. The delay fuze would in turn fire directly into a small steel thimble-shaped detonator that was screwed into the base of the fuze. The detonator was filled with a pink wax (penthrite), an extremely sensitive compound that I used to remove by melting it out with warm water.

The Rheinmetall bomb fuze system.

The detonator itself was fitted snugly into ‘pineapple slices’ of picric acid that filled the remaining depth of the fuze pocket, across the whole width of the bomb. The picric acid stage was designed to boost the action of the detonator and to ensure that the entire main filling of the bomb would explode. The main filling was usually, but not always, liquid TNT. During manufacture, this was poured in while hot, and hardened upon cooling. The bomb was fitted with light steel fins that tore off on impact, exposing the filler cap at the tail. This filler cap was the full diameter of the bomb and could be unscrewed by tapping with a hammer and chisel.

I would unscrew the cap, then hammer and chisel into the TNT and smash out half a dozen fragments of it. Then I’d put an oily rag into the broken fragments of TNT and ignite it. The TNT would burn noisily with a lot of black oily smoke. One day I realised that a booby trap could be cast into the TNT filling and after that, I never burned out a bomb again. Later we heard that casualties had often occurred in this manner. When I think of the things that I did in those days my blood runs cold. It was not only myself I was exposing to danger.

All fuzes were built into the same aluminium body. Identification was easy. Upon the head was stamped Elaz Cx, where ‘x’ was the number of the fuze in question. The simple impact fuze was the No.15 and was stamped with a figure ‘15’ within a circle. A sneakier device was the Elaz C17. The number 17 became associated in my mind with double-dealing, craftiness and death. It probably still does today. The number 17 was the first clockwork fuze. The initial shock was intended to start the clock, which fired the charge after a certain period. Many clocks were not started by the shock of hitting the ground but could be started later by a mere tap with a shovel. Some clocks stopped after a few hours but could easily be restarted at some later time. So, with a 17 fuze, you could be dealing with something that, if it were running, could explode at any instant, and if not running, could easily restart with only seconds to go.

In those days, the normal drill was to immediately slap a discharger onto the fuze head. I still have my own discharger; Crabtree had made it in a hurry. The discharger performed two functions. Firstly, it connected the two electrodes in the fuze head, thus discharging both condensers. Secondly, it could be used for withdrawing a difficult fuze stuck tightly in the pocket. You can guess the enemy’s riposte: the fuze was later redesigned to detonate if the electrodes were connected.

Another gambit we used was to drill into the top of the fuze and pour in molten paraffin wax. This would set around the tremblers and prevent them from moving. This, too, became an extremely dangerous game when the enemy added new countermeasures. I could never understand why they did not stamp 17 fuzes with a 15 or use