Tuesday 20 November 2012

Dad's D - Day (plus 8) Drama



On 13 June 1944, my Dad, Enos Griffith Owen, a farmer's son from Cardiganshire,  was on board ship, with a party of RAF Engineers, heading for Omaha beach, Normandy. He was nearly shot before he put a foot on French soil... by an officer on his own side.

At 18 years of age he had been appointed co-driver of a 3-ton lorry. He was in a convoy heading from Eastbourne to Gosport. The driver was a local lad and he was desperate to see his heavily pregnant wife before he left for France. He pretended that the lorry had broken down in the middle of the convoy and when all the other vehicles had passed by, he diverted straight for home, taking my Dad with him. Dad was treated to tea and cakes before the lorry joined the ship at Gosport.

They were the last vehicle to board ship, so they would be the first to be off the other end. They sailed overnight and got to somewhere north of Omaha beach early next morning. When the time came to disembark, the officer in charge called for the driver but he was nowhere to be found - Dad never saw him again - he had either jumped ship or fallen overboard. 

The Officer, who was understandably jumpy, called for the co-driver to remove the vehicle. No one had ever asked Dad whether he could drive a lorry. In fact, Dad had never driven any type of vehicle in his life, not even a tractor. The officer was furious and drew his pistol and for a few moments, Dad thought he was going to be shot. The officer came to his senses and drove the lorry off himself, with Dad sitting in silence by his side.

The first party of RAF Engineers had landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day. At the end of the day 8 men had been killed and 38 wounded. 28 out of the 35 vehicles on the first ship were sunk before they reached the beach.

Dad's words,
"When we landed, several days later, somewhere to the north of Omaha beach, most of the debris had been cleared. What first struck me was the colour of the soldiers around and heading back to the ship for home. They looked a ghostly grey colour, probably through shell-shock. They took no interest whatever in us. I could see the Beachmaster talking, I presumed, to some local farmer, enquiring where the shots were coming from. I decided to join them (I had some knowledge of basic French. After all, I hadn't long left school). My pals kept shouting, "take cover Taff" but I was too interested in finding out what went on.

Before nightfall we moved away from the beach-head, along some narrow country roads and pitched tents next to some Canadian Engineers. I soon got used to the terrific noise, the low flying aircraft overhead, the tanks and some shelling. At dusk all would become quiet and found this more unnerving than the noise. Around midnight, the German aircraft would come over.

Our work supposedly was to build landing strips for our fighter aircraft to land and re-fuel. However, the battle seemed to me to be very one-sided, during the day it was always our aircraft in the skies overhead, no Germans. We were thus clearing roads, through Caen (which was completely flat) for tanks and vehicles to pass through. I remember being completely dumbstruck at the extent of the damage everywhere.

The weather seemed pretty foul; it seemed to be raining all the time. Every morning I woke up in a pool of water, in a hole, which I had dug for my hips for a better night, sleep. Then, around August I think, the Germans suddenly pulled back to set up defensive positions on the Rhine.

Everything and everyone thus tore up through France and into Belgium. The winter of 1944 seemed very quiet, with no movement by either side. The winter was cold, with some snow on the ground. Then at the end of December I woke up one morning and couldn’t bear to put my boots on. The Sergeant was yelling so I decided to report sick. I seemed to deteriorate very quickly and was sent, by ambulance, to a hospital in Brussels. I was now unable to move at all, I couldn’t even open my mouth. The journey in the Ambulance was agony, the roads seemed so rough, and I wanted to shout and scream but decided that there was no point. Spent a month or so in the Brussels hospital and could see others being brought in, unconscious, with similar problems. In the end, the Doctor, a Group Captain and former Harley Street Specialist, decided to send me back to the UK.

The ward I was in had about 40 beds, the sick and wounded were coming in and after about five months I was the longest "serving " patient on the ward I remember one chap asking the Doctor when could he get up. The Doctor replied, pointing to me "see that fellow in that bed over there, when you see him getting up, you'll have a chance".

I was eventually discharged in May 1945, on VE day in Europe. The last words of the Specialist were "if you lead a quiet life, you could live for several years." His diagnosis was bang on!! .
"



The war killed my Dad, he died aged 81 of heart failure caused by a damaged heart valve. This valve was damaged by the Rheumatic Fever he contracted in Belgium. The MOD accepted this and he was classified as 40% disabled.  I'm sure he would have lived well into his 90s if he hadn't gone to war

It would have been his 87th birthday today. He was a gentle man with a great sense of humour who was physically fearless, which was nearly his undoing on a couple of occasions. He was my number one fan and encouraged me to be the best I could be. He is buried next to his beloved grandson Rhodri. They were similar in so many ways. RIP both.

Sunday 11 November 2012

Remembering David Owen Jones (1899-1926) Military Medallist



There are few families in this country that have not been touched in some way by the First World War.   Of the thousands of young men who signed up in the early years, few could have had any idea of the horrors awaiting them, yet most faced their ordeal with fortitude and resilience. This is the story of one such resilient young man from Cardiganshire, David Owen Jones.

Dai was born on 13 March 1899, the son of Thomas and Anne Jones nee Owen of Caeryglyn, Glynarthen, Penbryn parish. According to the official records he joined the Welsh Guards in Carmarthen on 27 November 1915 at the age of 19 years 10 months. Either Dai had lied about his age or his recruiting officer was a poor mathematician because he was actually 16 years 8 months and underage.

Dai probably came over as a mature young man because he had had to grow up early. His mother died in 1909 when he was 10 years old and his father two years later. Tom Jones, Dai’s father was a stonemason and a talented singer and musician. A 100-verse elegy written at the time of his death described him as a leading light in Glynarthen chapel and a successful singer and choir leader, well known throughout the county. After the death of Tom and Anne, their only daughter Sara, the writer’s grandmother, who was 14 years older than Dai, brought him up along with her other younger brothers.

The eager young guardsman was sent out to France on 22 July 1916. He was badly wounded in the left leg during the battle of the Somme on 10 September 1916. Just 20 days earlier his brother Enos had been killed fighting at Ypres and is buried in the Welsh Guards cemetery at Les Boeufs. His two other brothers, Thomas John and Evan had also been wounded in battle. My grandmother’s torment must have been almost unbearable, as news of the death of her brother Enos and the injuries of her other brothers trickled through.

The seriousness of Dai’s wounds necessitated his return to this country to recuperate. Nineteen months later, on 31 March 1918 he was considered sufficiently recovered to be sent back to the front line. At the end of October 1918 Dai was part of a mission to infiltrate enemy lines by crossing the River Selle near Bavai. For his courage on that mission Dai was awarded the Military Medal. There were no citations for Military Medals in the First World War so we don’t have full details of his actions but his award was published in the London Gazette on 17 June 1919. In the “History of the Welsh Guards” David Owen Jones is named as one of those, amongst others, who displayed courage and initiative before crossing the River Selle. None of the others named appears to have been from Cardiganshire. I believe that Dai talked little of that night but my grandmother always thought he should have been given a higher award. Maybe she was a little biased.

A few days after the mission on 6 November 1918 and just five days before the end of the war, Dai was badly wounded for the second time, in both legs and his left arm, by machine gun fire. On the same day his relative Sim Jones from Glynarthen was killed at Manancourt.

Dai took 5 years to recover from his wounds. He joined the Cardiganshire Police force in May 1923 and was stationed at Aberystwyth and Cardigan. In 1926 he had been doing summer duty at Devil’s Bridge and on 18 September had gone on his motor bike to Llangurig where he had traced a man from Leighton Buzzard, who was wanted by Aberystwyth police for allegedly handling stolen goods. Having arrested and delivered the man to Aberystwyth police station Dai was returning home to Devil’s Bridge with two friends, Jenkin Phillip Lewis of Rhiwmynach and John Lewis, gardener at the Hafod Arms Hotel, Devil’s Bridge. Jenkin and John were riding on a motor bike a few yards in front of Dai but when they reached the 13th milestone from Aberystwyth they lost sight of Dai’s headlights. They stopped and turned back to look for him. They searched for about an hour until they eventually found him, fifteen feet below the road on the riverbank lying underneath his motor bike. He was killed instantly. He was 27 years of age and about to be married.

Maybe, after all that Dai had experienced, he thought himself indestructible but his body had been much weakened by his terrible wounds. Perhaps it proved too difficult for him to handle a heavy police motor bike that night. Judging by the tone of the newspaper report of the accident the community was really shocked by his death. He was described as a smart and capable officer who was very popular.

David Owen Jones was buried alongside his parents and brother Joshua at Glynarthen cemetery. A plaque was erected in his honour in 1994 in the new police headquarters at Aberystwyth.

The family does not known the whereabouts of the Military Medal but we believe it may have been given to Dai’s fiancĂ©e who may have lived in Aberystwyth. We would be very interested to know the identity of Dai’s intended and the whereabouts of the medal.


Sources:  Capt. R E Fletcher  - Headquarters Welsh Guards, Birdcage Walk, London.
                 History of the Welsh Guards  by CH Dudley Ward (John Murray 1920)


Friday 2 November 2012

Llanboidy Tithe Schedule 1844

Many years ago, I spent hours and hours transcribing the Llanboidy parish Tithe Schedule of 1844 in the Carmarthen Records Office and here it is for all to see:


https://docs.google.com/open?id=0Byw_vZO4vXfgM3RSeXBKRUJRRWc

The biggest landowner in the parish was Walter Rice Howell Powell of Maesgwynne. 

Walter Rice Howell Powell (1819 - 26 June 1889) was a  Liberal politician.
Powell is still remembered in Llanboidy by the drinking fountain inscribed "This fountain is erected to commemorate the completion of the work for supplying this village with water in compliance with the last wish of W. R. H. Powell M.P."
Powell was the son of Walter Rice Howell Powell and his wife Mary Powell. He was educated at Christ Church, Oxford. On the death of his father in 1834 he inherited Maesgwynne estate of 3,468 acres (14.03 km) in the parish of Llanboidy, Carmarthenshire, which had been owned by the Howell family. For 50 years he was master of the foxhounds. He was a J.P. for Pembroke, Carmarthen and Cardiganshire and was High Sheriff of Carmarthenshire in 1849. In 1867 he funded a 24 piece brass band for Llanboidy.
Powell was elected Member of Parliament for Carmarthenshire in 1880 and when it was divided in 1885 became member for Carmarthenshire West, which he held until his death in 1889.