Pte Joseph Herbert "Bert" Ryding . British Army 5th Btn King's Regiment and South Lancashire Regiment from Standish, Wigan Private 3776184 Joseph Ryding of the 5th Kings and South Lancashire Regiment 2nd of April 1940 and served with the Kings Regiment until 25th of July 1944.
On 7th of June 1944, he was injured. Following injury he joined up with the South Lancashire Regiment until 19th of December 1944. He was seriously injured by a shoe mine on 16th of October 1944, during the Battle of Overloon and the liberation of Venray. He was taken to a school field hospital in Stevensbeek, a village next to Overloon.
In 1990, during a visit with veterans organised by the Wappenbruder (War Brothers) he visited the school, lay down in the hall, stared to the ceiling and said: "Yes they put me here, I recognise the ceiling!"
He was later transferred to Queen Mary's Hospital in Roehampton, then to Hillingdon Hospital in Uxbridge and Childwall Hospital, Liverpool.
He was discharged because he did not fulfill military physical requirements. He had lost his lower right leg and parts of several fingers.
Despite this he went on to live a full and productive life.
The following is an account of D Day and later activity, found after his death.
"6th of June 1944 D Day: The order came to get into the landing craft. The seas were mountains of water, black and cold. All around as far as the eye could see were other ships of all sizes and shapes. Suddenly on our left we saw a ship split in two, why, we never found out but the bows rose into the air then the stern just like a huge V, but no time to worry about them poor beggers. The faces of my mates and mine also told its own story, what did the immediate future hold. Then into the craft and lowered into that awful water and away circling round until all the other landing craft were in some kind of straggly line. The job was under way.
How many were in the boat I don't know. My pal Harry [Gartside] like me like us all, wondered if we'd make it. A bet was made who would be sick first. He lost and later paid me the five Francs which I still have. What a racket. Big guns firing, shells whizzing overhead. Then the rocket ships opened up - what a sight. Flaming metal, scores of them flying skywards like a hailstorm. The beach and houses a long way off came into view, the craft beached and out we dived into three foot of water.
Then we realised what war was about and I know how small was my contribution. The top half of a body bobbed about then a few legs, then more bodies - must have been hit by machine guns and mines. It was a terrible shock.
On the beach this wasn't Blackpool or Tenby but for real. The RE officer, fine big red-haired fellow, was taking his men up to the shoreline when a tremendous bang, showers of sand and mud flew up and he was another number on a war memorial. It sickened us but we didn't forget to flatten ourselves down. Then a barrage of air bursts came over, not very funny when you don't know what it's all about, a nasty pain in the right ankle at the back and I'd got a shell splinter. My fighting day was over.
One of our medical orderlies took me to a dressing station, a short journey I'll never forget. Lined up on the foreshore were lines of stretchers, scores of them with mostly dead men on them; occasionally one stretcher had a poor soul crying for help or his mother but no-one had time to care for these. Then to a huge gun site and in the cellar wounded men being dressed and sorted out. The rest of the day was spent sitting around watching this huge war machine roll along, planes by the hundred bombing not a mile away, gliders crashing in the fields beyond, smoke from houses burning, dead men, Jerry and ours, crying men, tanks bogged down in the sand, hundreds of all kinds of craft. It was a huge masterpiece of showmanship but inside of me I was sick, terrified and hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Not only me but thousands of blokes like me.
That evening the walking wounded crawled, hobbled or somehow made our way to a beached craft which took us out to a hospital ship. On the way a ship discharging cargo hailed us: "This is the captain speaking. Thank-you for what you have done today. We are proud of you and wish you well."
I'll never forget that moment. Someone really cared, someone who still had to find out what it was all about.
August Monday, Bank Holiday: Again my feet on French soil via the Mulberry Harbour because my scratch had healed and I was fodder again. This time what a change. The South Lancasshires decimated so we were broken up (the 5th Kings) and joined that mob. Few weeks rest, across the Seine, the Maiss (I think) then a course on how to be a soldier. I passed with top marks, a joke surely after all the training I had had. A stripe? Not on your life and the company CO wasn't impressed by my refusal and said "But you'd be a section commander just the same" so I couldn't win.
Holland, Nijmegen, a Bridge Too Far eh! We crossed it in and out, eat more German pork and smoked Dutch cigars that would kill a donkey. Vandalised houses for pillows or blankets (the owners could be dead or something so it didn't matter to us) after all the usual topic was will we make it? A good excuse for doing what we wanted. Nothing criminal though.
This village, that hamlet, then the 12th October we had to go for Venlo and Venray in Holland because of the railway importance. Half my section wiped out by air bursts. Today, Thursday, no deaths just leg, arm and or neck wounds. God why wasn't I one to get away from the nightmare of digging in, no sleep, eating any mush that turned up, smoking inside your tin hat to hide the glow. Why didn't they move the corpses that once looked like me, poor mum, poor dad or wife or whoever. What if they only knew how we hated this? You haven't seen them digging trenches 100, 200, 300 yards long, bringing their bundles in grey army blankets wrapped around them, boots sticking out or not always, then lowering them into that clay, blokes just like me who had never lived and yet lived to die just like some filthy vermin. God help these people who invented war. They shall grow old, not they.
Friday rolled on into Saturday. The 14th of October 1944, a cool autumn day, press on for Venlo. God, why do they send us tanks. The Jerry can see us without them stupid bastards giving them something to aim at. They were the old Desert Rats, they ought to have stopped there. Then all hell let loose, tanks hit, burning away. We dive for cover - anything - a pile of cow muck to hide behind. Then peace. We made it to the main road with a ditch on either side.
After a briefing with the CO I had to lead my section (four of us), what a laugh, to a certain point, cross the road and get behind the house at the crossroads. Not one friend in front of me only the last remains of Dutch land and the German army. All is quiet, my heartbeats could be heard in Berlin, then a slow progress up this ditch on the left of the road. A brief rest then it's over the top, across the road and into the ditch, and bang the world blows up into a red, black, green volcano with me sitting on it. Was it minutes, hours or days before the world settled down? I don't know but I remember the Jerry prisoners who were ordered to lift me out of the ditch. I remember the poor sod who trod on a mine and no doubt lost a leg, that made the score even. I am sorry it had to happen to him but he just had to be a prisoner at the wrong time. The rest is history to me and mine. The pain is still real, the fears are just as fearful and my inside aches for what I've seen. My dreams are mine alone but shared by thousands who cannot break that vow of silence. To tell would be sacrilege, a betrayal of all our mates who died in vain. The nightmare is over and yet it is with me every day, not because I want it to be but because it's the way it was meant to be. How futile, how ludicrous, how obscene and still we haven't learned.
1945: My proudest moment. Wearing hospital blues, on crutches, waiting for a tram back to Childwall from the Pier Head, Liverpool, after being on a few days leave. An old lady about 70 odd years, came to me and said: "My husband is very shy but we would both like to shake your hand and say "Thank you" for what you have done for us." Two old people who no doubt had suffered in many ways but still had time to think about me. Bless you both."
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Pte. Richard Conrad Duttson Ryer . British Army 9th (Queen's Own Yorkshire Dragoons) Btn. King's Own Yorkshire Light Infantry from Cosham, Portsmouth, Hampshire (d.14th May 1944) Richard Ryer was my grandfather. He was the second son of William Conrad Ryer of Nova Scotia, Canada and Merwal Veda Ryer of Yorkshire. Richard's father had served as a Sergeant in the Canadian 26th Battalion during the First World War, and was awarded the D.C.M. for gallantry. Richard's mother, Merwal, had been his father's nurse when he was removed to hospital in England for injuries sustained in battle. Both of Richard's brothers, York and David, also served in battle in the Second World War, David together with Richard at Anzio.
Richard was killed in battle at Anzio on 14th May 1944. He left a wife, Laurie Hayward Ryer and twin daughters, Shirley Ida Ryer and Laurie Brenda Ryer, born in August, 1944, who he had never met.
His older sister Joan related that Richard's brother David, proceeding later from the rear, requested permission to deviate from his unit to pay his respects to his elder brother. His request was denied.
Twenty years after his death, Joan visited her brother's grave at the Anzio Beachhead Cemetery.
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