By Trevor Greenwood, S. V. Partington
Tank Commander Sgt Trevor Greenwood of C Squadron, the ninth Royal Tank Regiment, sailed for France in June 1944 as a part of the Allied invasion of Normandy. From D-Day till April 1945, he saved a regular diary of his reviews of the ultimate push via France and into Germany, frequently writing in mystery and in negative stipulations. less than hearth, outgunned and dealing with a sour iciness, he by no means loses his ethical compass or his experience of humour - discovering time to brew tea and preserve morale with characterful British reserve. He writes candidly of his frustration and depression of seeing Bomber Command mistakenly bomb Allied traces close to Caen (August 1944), the liberation of Le Havre (September 1944), the scuffling with round Roosendaal, Holland (October 1944), the reception of infantrymen via the Dutch households on whom they have been billeted (December 1944), and concludes with 'mopping up' operations in northern Germany (April 1945). His stunning diary has left us a different list of the conflict in Europe from the rarely-seen standpoint of a typical soldier. An accompanying essay in regards to the tank battles of Normandy by means of Duxford Museum's tank specialist offer extra worth
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Extra info for D-Day to Victory: The Diaries of a British Tank Commander
But no sooner was everything virtually settled-the King had just been received with great honors by President Hindenburg-than the Afghans overthrew their ruler in a coup d'etat. The prospect of continuing to work with Tessenow consoled me. I had been having some misgivings anyhow, and I was glad that the fall of Aman Ullah removed the need to make a decision. I had to look after my seminar only three days a week; in addition there were five months of academic vacation. Nevertheless I received 300 Reichsmark-about the equivalent in value of 800 Deutsche MarkO [$200] today.
There was a more basic opposition involved when I turned to what were then the advanced writers and looked for friends in a rowing club or in the huts of the Alpine Club. The custom in my circles was for a young man to seek his companions and his future wife in the sheltered class to which his parents belonged. But I was drawn to plain, solid artisan families for both. I even felt an instinctive sympathy for the extreme left-though this inclination never assumed any concrete form. At the time I was allergic to any political commitments.
Hard climbs gave us the sense of real achievement. Sometimes, with characteristic obstinacy, I managed to convince my fellow hikers not to give up a tour we had started on, even in the worst weather-in spite of storms, icy rains, and cold, although mists spoiled the view from the peak when we finally reached it. Often, from the mountain tops, we looked down upon a deep gray layer of cloud over the distant plain. Down there lived what to our minds were wretched people; we thought we stood high above them in every sense.