Discovery of distillery puts D-Day soldier on the wagon

A CARRIER pulled up and a Captain Phillips dropped in on us. "We have found a distillery," he said. "Would you give it the once over, Eagles?"

S Company of the 9th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry was back in business. After the massacre at Lingvres five days earlier on June 14, 1944, and the capture of the 100 German prisoners, the survivors were re-united and the battalion reformed.

S Company was the specialist booby trap clearance team, and this distillery was clearly a job for the big boys. Corporal "Woodie" Wood and I dashed over to Hottot, a village about a mile from Lingvres. The distillery was marked off by yellow ribbon and ten soldiers stood guard - it was clearly an important find!

We did a quick recce outside, checked a cart - an obvious place for a booby trap - and crept inside. The smell of spirits nearly choked us. There was rack upon rack of them, all around the walls and up to the ceiling and stacked in the middle: brandy, liquors and Calvados, the local firewater.

The downstairs was clear and I volunteered to do the upstairs, telling Woodie to give the lads outside a couple of bottles each so that they wouldn't see him loading the carrier. I don't drink, never have, but I knew I'd find others who'd be appreciative.

The upstairs was tidy and clear, although I was a bit suspicious of a set of steps left lying at an awkward angle. They were clean, and I gave the building the Okay, saluted Capt Phillips and jumped with undue haste into the carrier. I had to squeeze myself in between the cases such was the bounty.

"You're spoiling yourself, Woodie," I said.

Back at our platoon, we were treated like conquering heroes. "Down in one lads - any bets?" said Bill Hart from Hartlepool. He picked up a bottle of Calvados - Normandy's famous apple brandy - and removed the cork and did indeed down it in one. With a big grin on his face he collapsed flat on his back.

It was then that I realised what a grave mistake I had made. I checked the lines and found the men giggling away to themselves like a naughty class of schoolgirls. Bill Hart was in such a state - both ends - that he smelt worse than any dead body I had encountered.

As night drew in, shadowy figures flitted around in the dusk, whispering about directions to the stash and then clanking away gleefully into the gloom. Soon, the trenches were full of gentle snores. Suddenly, there was a movement in front of me. I held my breath. There was sporadic firing in the distance and I was facing the entire German army with only a trenchful of drunken soldiers for company.

But it was our lieutenant who lurched into view, unsteady on his feet, but desperately trying to hold it together. He blurted out: "I think I'm a bit pithed, Thergeant." And I gently led him back to his own trench.

It was a long night. And a long next three days. Bill Hart was still unconscious.

He'd gone a dreadful colour and he smelt terrible. We covered him in a blanket and threw him in the back of a carrier, but I knew that if he was discovered he would - we would, and me definitely would - be in trouble. Drunk on the front line was a court martial offence.

"The worst they could do is shoot him," said a barrack room lawyer.

"Given the state he's in, it'd probably be a blessing."

For the first time since Lingvres, I thought about my old Lieutenant Jack Williams from Spennymoor. I'd carried him off the battlefield with blood pouring out of his thigh. I wondered if he were still alive, and I wondered what he would do in this situation. I even called upon my guardian angel, my old family friend from when I was a boy. "Hope you look after me now, Tom Kerry," I prayed.

And despite the smell coming from the back of the carrier, in the chaos of war no officer came to investigate.

Bill was unconscious in there for three or four days until we eventually managed to rouse him with a bucket of cold water over his head.

We wrapped him up in some warm blankets until we could scrounge some clean clothing for him.

It was over a week before he could rejoin the fray, and when he did he apologised profusely for his behaviour.

He swore that he would never touch a drink again in his life; we swore that if we ever saw him with a bottle in his hand, we would kill him.

Adapted by Chris Lloyd

* Tomorrow: Part 9: Snipers