By James Holland

Published: Tuesday, 09 November 2021 at 12:00 am


A little after 6am on 18 November 1944, Operation Clipper – the battle to smash wide open the defences in the German border town of Geilenkirchen – erupted in a blaze of fire and fury. The plan was for four flail tanks, with their rotating chains, to clear two lanes through the minefields and for the Sherwood Rangers Yeomanry – a British armoured regiment in the vanguard of the Allied assault on Germany – to follow and clear the bunkers. American infantry, only arrived in Europe in October and never before tested in combat, would then pour through and, together with the British armour, further clear the Siegfried Line, the enormous defensive network that guarded Germany’s western border.

Allied artillery was already thundering, sending over a heavy barrage, while searchlights had been brought in to help light the way, a double-edged sword if ever there was one. Conditions were appalling: the freezing cold, the dark, the rain – which inevitably worked its way into the tank because the hatches were open. Periscopes were ineffective at the best of times but especially when streaked with rain, which meant Major John Semken, the squadron commander, had his head out of the turret of his Sherman tank, and so did Johnny West, his driver.

The first flail tank to approach the minefield broke down in the mud before it had even started. Soon after, a second flail became bogged in the mud. This meant a path that was supposed to be four tanks wide was now two. Then a third flail became stuck and then the fourth, some 50 yards short of a railway line that lay ahead.

Semken, who was leading A-Squadron, had to reverse or push on regardless through the uncleared mines. He now radioed all of A-Squadron, 19 tanks in all. They had a job to do: to get through the minefield and help the infantry. He was going to push on. If they hit a mine, then the next tank was to take over and so on, until they were across the railway and the minefield.

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Staccato explosion

Everyone in Semken’s tank was tense as they inched forward through the mud, waiting for the explosion that would surely come. Ten yards gone, then another. Small-arms tracer stabbing through the dark, clattering around the tank. Then a massive staccato explosion that lifted the tank in the air and whammed it back down into the mud. Semken: was everyone all right? Yes. All answered. Incredibly, they had just detonated four mines simultaneously and survived. The Sherman, its tracks and wheels shattered, now lay in a big crater of mud.

The rest of A-Squadron pressed on, crossed the railway and made surprisingly good progress along with the rookie American infantry. Despite the mire and carnage, Operation Clipper was a success, the Geilenkirchen salient reduced and the line straightened with more room for the Americans now to manoeuvre.

Yet such success had come at a price. By the time the Sherwood Rangers were withdrawn six days later, 10 tanks had been destroyed, 15 damaged, and a further 12 lost forever in the mud.

The human cost for the Sherwood Rangers was worse still: 63 casualties in all, including 16 killed in action and a further three who would later die of their wounds. That made 326 casualties since D-Day, which was comfortably more than 100 per cent of the regiment’s tank crews at any one time.

“Everybody was going through the motions,” wrote Peter Mellowes, an A-Squadron troop commander, “of living, fighting and waiting for their time to die.” A further casualty was John Semken who, despite being back in a tank and commanding the squadron by 19 November, was soon sent home. “That was my last battle,” he said of Geilenkirchen. “I lost my touch after that… After that, I was finished. And I was invalided home.” He’d served throughout the north Africa campaign, and had then fought across western Europe since D-Day. He was just 23.

Hard yards of fighting

A huge amount was expected of the mostly young men who found themselves at the coal-face of war. Britain – and the United States – had a very sensible strategy of using their immense global reach, access to resources, industrialisation and technology to do as much of the hard yards of fighting as possible and to limit the numbers of men in the firing line.

On the ground, there were no longer massed divisions of infantry, but those that did take the field were superbly well supported by a long logistical chain. That’s why 43 per cent of the personnel manning the British Second Army in north-west Europe were service troops running the long tail, while just 14 per cent were infantry. A consequence of this approach was that if a soldier was unfortunate enough to be in the infantry or tanks, his chances of surviving unscathed were worse than they had been in the First World War.

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British Army tanks are unloaded on to Gold Beach on D-Day. (Photo by Galerie Bilderwelt/Getty Images)

The Sherwood Rangers ended the war with more battle honours than any other unit in the British Army, which was no small feat, having been a prewar territorial part-time cavalry outfit that had headed off to Palestine in early 1940 still with their horses. They became mechanised in the autumn of 1941, with their first tank action at the battle of Alam Halfa at the end of August that year. They then played a key role at Alamein and from then were at the forefront of the fighting until the north African campaign was over in May 1943.

They were a somewhat eccentric bunch, initially mostly country folk from Nottinghamshire and Lincolnshire, but later expanded by a rich seam of characters drawn from all walks. Stanley Christopherson, for example, who joined the Sherwood Rangers in 1939 and rose to take command of the regiment soon after D-Day, had worked in goldmines in South Africa and then the City before the war; John Semken was a Londoner and planned to become a lawyer.

The Sherwood Rangers had poets, printers and plasterers among their number. Men like Christopherson and Semken, who might never have worn a military uniform had it not been for the conflict, soon realised that war was a seriously bloody business and that the better they became, the greater their chances of survival. That, however, was only true to a point, because the more proficient they became in north Africa, so they were marked out as a class outfit good for greater things. By D-Day, on 6 June 1944, they were one of three tank regiments in 8th Independent Armoured Brigade, which meant they would be in the firing line, operating hand-in-hand with the infantry divisions to which they were attached.


Listen: Military historian, author and broadcaster James Holland tells the story of the Sherwood Rangers, on this episode of the HistoryExtra podcast: