Advancing as slow as snails through a minefield of hazards

THERE were about five million mines scattered around in Normandy and, as something of a specialist in their clearance, I'd been taught that they separated into three distinct types: Teller mines, S-mines and schuhmines.

Naturally enough, the British knew the latter as "shoe mines".

Tellers were big and nasty. They were a bit bigger than a discus and had proved themselves devastating on the beaches. They could blow up tanks, so any man who stepped on one didn't stand a chance.

S-mines were the size of a tin of beans, and they would scatter their outer casing in the form of ball-bearing shrapnel over an area of 12ft. The Americans called them "bouncing Bettys" but, naturally enough, the British knew them as "de-bollockers".

And then the shoe mines, which were the size of a cigarette packet and were made of wood or even cardboard and so were impossible to discover with the normal metal mine detector.

We really started to come into contact with shoe mines as we pushed into the Bocage about a month after D-Day. The 9th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry was moving forward at a snail's pace. With wooded ravines, impenetrable hedgerows and tiny fields, this was ideal territory to defend.

Fighting was close: field-to-field rather than hand-to-hand, and mines weren't our only worry.

One day, we encountered some German tanks in a neighbouring field. The carrier beside us took a direct hit and I landed on top of Bill "Geordie" Burroughs, from Seaham, in a ditch.

As we were being shelled, US Typhoon planes flew to our rescue. They dropped their bombs on the tanks, and then banked ready for a second run. But as they came over, they peeled off and disappeared without firing. The German tanks had moved on, as quick as that.

Except one. A German officer had been caught in some terrible crossfire half out of his turret. There was a German Bren gun at fairly close range and it had more less knocked a hole right through him. The gun's crew had legged it in horror, but at least the poor fellow wouldn't have known what had hit him. More so even than taxes, death is inevitable in war, but when you are hit by your own colleagues, it's not funny.

We regrouped and, wary of mines, advanced as slow as snails towards the village of Juvigny-sur-Seulles - about 15 miles from Gold Beach where we had landed. As well as the ubiquitous snipers, we suffered more than our fair share of Neblewerfers. These were mortars which we knew as "moaning minnies" because of their noise. They sounded horrendous in flight, like someone dragging a piano over your head.

Yet, after a month in the field, we were learning.

Neblewerfers were dropped in bands of ten from left to right as we attacked. So if they landed on your left, there was no problem; on your right, and you had to get your head down and pray to your guardian angel.

Approaching Juvigny, eight of us were spread out across a field, sweeping it for two hours. It must have been one of the lad's birthdays because I cannot recall picking up so many mines.

Lieutenant Looker called to me. He'd replaced my friend and mentor, Lieutenant Jack Williams from Spennymoor, the chap who I had carried off the battlefield at Lingvres a fortnight earlier, but only a mile or so away.

"Charles," called Looker. "Over here." It was the first time he'd ever used my first name (and I don't think I ever knew his).

As I walked towards him, I saw his whole stance was most peculiar. "I think I'm standing on a shoe mine," he said. "I felt the thud under my foot."

The second - the millisecond - he released his pressure upon the mine, it would detonate.

Shoe mines were designed to blow half a man's foot off - if he was lucky. If he was unlucky, he'd lose his leg below the knee.

Quite what would happen to someone's head if it was near when the mine went off, I didn't know.

But I could guess.

I knelt at Looker's feet and started to dig around the box, keeping my head as far away as possible.

The excavation took about five minutes. Then I had to wrap the mine in tape to keep pressure on the detonator when the foot was removed.

All of a sudden, the lieutenant's leg started to tremble. "Oi," I shouted. "Never mind your leg - my ruddy head's down here!"

But as he fought for control, I completed the job. The mine was bound and it was safe.

He sat down, ashen-faced. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. Sweat was rolling down his face. I was in a similar state.

He tried to extend his wavering hand to me. "Thanks," he said. "Did you really swear at me?"

"No, sir," I replied.

And I hadn't. In fact, given the circumstances, "ruddy" was a very polite word to have used.

Adapted by Chris Lloyd

Tomorrow: Final Part: Blown up