Obituary for Ted Harris

Ted Harris was born in Portsmouth in 1921 but very soon moved to Hinxton on the Essex/Cambs border, the family home area.

In 1938 he, with his parents’ permission as he was under-age, and four pals joined the Essex Regiment (TA) and was mobilized in August 1939, just prior to the outbreak of WW2. In July 1940 he was re-mustered into the newly re-formed 8th Bn (which had been a Cyclist Battalion in WW1 but disbanded in 1920) and for the next 15 months was engaged on coastal defence works and patrols in the Dorset area until, in November 1941. Following a move to Swindon, the 8th Battalion ceased to exist and, phoenix-like, became a tank battalion as 153rd Regt Royal Armoured Corps.

Ted had passed a course as a driver-mechanic and, on conversion became a tank driver eventually driving a Churchill tank and instructing others. The next year or two involved a number of moves, and innumerable training exercises, as it did for most of the army in Britain at the time including, in autumn of ’42, a move to Kent where the Regiment became part of the 43rd (Wessex) Division.

The 43rd went over to Normandy mid-June ’44 and, in the battle for Caen, Ted’s tank received a direct hit, three of his crew being killed but Ted and his co-driver jumped clear and were taken prisoner – it is believed that over half of his Regiment became casualties that day.

Although this is not about me, to put the matter in context I had also joined the Essex aged 17 in 1943 and, after Warley training, was posted to 2/4th Battalion, coincidentally in Dorset. After several moves about the country we had settled down comfortably as a Home Service Battalion, to manning the concentration areas on the south coast, precursor, had we known it, of the Normandy Campaign. Much to our chagrin, however, a list of 200 names was posted transferring us to 4th Battalion Dorset Regiment in the 43rd Division and, before long, we found ourselves occupying the camps we had been previously staffing. Whilst the tanks and transport went across the Channel via the Thames Estuary, we took the more direct route from Southampton. In due course, preparing for the battle for Hill 112 (Rommel had said “Whoever holds 112, holds Normandy”) I was taken prisoner whilst on night patrol behind Jerry lines.

I did not know Ted at this time but we both shared the two rail journeys of six and a half and five days in the box cars (40 men and a lidded-dustbin as toilet) until arriving in Stalag VIIIB in Teschen (now Cieszyn), south of Katowice and not far from Auschwitz, where we met up with longer-term PoWs who had been captured in Crete and North Africa.

We were not allowed to settle, however, and soon we invasion prisoners, some 250, were shipped out to work in a coal-mine (Arbeitskommando E 902) on the north-west outskirts of Katowice, and never returned to VIIIB, although it remained part of our address.

We found that we had to form ourselves in ‘combines’ of two or four, as we were given a daily loaf of bread between eight (Jerry obviously took the ‘Our Father’ too literally) and we gathered together in order to divide the loaf equally – it was no fun if you happened to be the guy with the knife, with seven other hungry mouths watching your every move. Ted had formed a combine with three other ‘tankies’ and I had linked up with Jimmy Jarvie from Montreal, of the Canadian Black Watch. I was, by this time, on nodding acquaintance with Ted as we were in the same barrack room and no doubt we talked together, either about England or food, but I didn’t really know him until he and I were paired to work for an individual miner on the 6am to 2pm coal-cutting shift.

Ted was, of course, four years older than me – practically everyone I met in the army was older than me and there seemed to be a distinct difference between those over 20-21 and we ‘youngsters’ – and had much to talk about, particularly about the rural way of life which was quite foreign to me, including going out shooting on a Saturday afternoon, back home, although I can’t remember whether I ever knew what he shot.

It is well-known that, due to the Russian advance from the east, we prisoners were put on the road to march westwards though, using minor roads only, our progress resembled a corkscrew rather than the proverbial crow. For the record, our group left the mine on 23 January and, with rest days every five or six days, finally stopped on 20 April east of Regensburg in Bavaria, when we refused to march anymore having heard gunfire from the west during the night (and having been straffed once by an American fighter). We were liberated on 22 April.

On the ‘Long March to Freedom’, as it has been called, even we ‘townies’ soon learned that farms are not built at high level so, as the end of the day approached, our spirits rose and chatter began, particularly if we saw high ground ahead as we knew we would stop before. On this particular occasion, however, at a place then called Jungbunzlau (now reverted to its Czech name of Hradec Kralove, e.n.e. of Prague, we saw the high ground beyond and anticipated we were finished for the day. But no, as we entered the town, we turned right and started to ascend. Spirits drooped, all chatter ceased as we knew that we had to go over the top and down the other side before being turned into a barn for the night. I had been having trouble with my left leg and, with the dejection of having to continue marching, I simply fell out and lay down in the snow to sleep, un-noticed by the guards. I have no doubt that I would simply have nodded-off and not have survived the night, the temperatures at that time being the coldest I have ever experienced in my life, before or since. Even ‘Manny Shinwell’s winter’ of ’47, when I was serving in Catterick and we were cut off from fresh food supplies for several days, was not as cold as the March – presumably the lack of food contributed to our discomfort. Fortunately for me, either Jimmy or Ted noticed that I was missing and were told that I had dropped out. They couldn’t fall out as the guards would not permit this but they fell back in the column until they spotted me on the roadside. Lifting me up, and each putting an arm over their shoulders they helped me on my way, Ted talking about the fish and chips van that came round their village on a Saturday afternoon at the end of their shooting expeditions and Jimmy talking about strawberry short-cake and waffles with maple syrup. In due course I realised that I was being a burden, took my arms back and on we went. I have no doubt, however, that Ted and Jimmy saved my life. Ted subsequently succumbed to the dysentery which affected us all and was put into hospital, I know not where, and was therefore repatriated at a different time to most of us.

Ted died just before Christmas 2014 and his funeral took place at Hinxton on 8 January 2015 at which, having offered to say the Normandy Prayer, I was asked by his daughter Ros to tell the congregation the above story. The Parish Church was packed, the family occupying the first two pews and my friend and I were sat in the third row. Immediately in front of me sat a man holding a dog lead from a black labrador which was sitting in the aisle, its tail just level with my pew. I found it strange to bring a dog to church but thought probably that he had no one to leave it with.

The dog sat there throughout the Service as good as gold without stirring, even when Ted’s daughter, Ros, went out to give his Eulogy. When my turn came, I went forward, bowed to the coffin and went to the lectern. I said the Normandy Prayer and went on to tell that part of the above story relating to Ted and Jim saving my life. I finished, fighting back the tears, by turning to the coffin with “Thank You, Ted”, and returned to my place. I was told afterwards that, as I did so, the dog got up and, after I had sat down, she turned and put her muzzle onto my thigh, with her large golden eyes looking up at me. This puzzled me as I am not a doggy person and had no recent contact with dogs so that I did not have a doggy smell. A couple of times, the man in front looked round, I assumed he was ensuring that the dog was not bothering me and I indicated that it was ok. As we rose to leave the church he turned to me and said “You know, this is Ted’s dog, Bess” but, of course, I didn’t. I learned later that Ted had become a Gamekeeper and trained his own and others’ dogs for work purposes and, at the reception afterwards there, sure enough, was a picture of Ted with his two dogs out on duty.

Subsequently, I sought an explanation for the dog’s behaviour from an old friend, who was a Sgt Dog-Handler in the Met Police who replied that, whilst he could probably offer some explanation, he preferred to suggest that Ted was saying “Well done, Ken”.

Ken Hay MBE JP Ld’H

PS Another incident which I forgot to include in the foregoing nearing the end of the Service, a beautifully-coloured butterfly (some said it was a Red Admiral), and remember this was January, appeared and flew up onto a memorial stone above the lectern. It sat there for some moments, wings-spread to show its full colouring, seemingly basking in the sun’s rays that streamed through the windows, and then it took flight and disappeared up into the haze of the church tower.