Exactly 80 years ago today, the world held its breath as the Allied forces launched the largest seaborne invasion in history, marking the beginning of the end for Nazi Germany’s occupation of Europe. Among the thousands of brave soldiers who set out to liberate the continent was Captain Alastair Bannerman, a devoted husband and father serving with the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. On that fateful morning, as he headed for the French coast, Bannerman recorded his thoughts in a diary entry addressed to his wife, Elizabeth.
The next day, amid the chaos, Bannerman was captured by the Germans and taken to a prisoner of war camp. He survived and eventually returned home in April of 1945. Years later, against all odds, a German translation of his confiscated diary was returned to him. It was published in 2014.
The Diary Entry
6 June, D-Day
It is now 0300 hours in the morning and I have just been up to the bridge. It is rather light because the moon is shining, though heavy clouds cover her. One can see the row of small ships and of darker balloons silhouetted in front and behind us against the grey sea. We are still rolling a little but the wind has subsided somewhat, thank Heaven. The Captain and his first officer are on the bridge. They make sure where we are and look for the coloured lights which should guide us through one of our own minefields. There seem to be a great many lights about but a green one ahead seems to be the one which we need, and so we sail on towards Caen.
You, my angel, sleep gently in the nursery, I hope. Your thoughts have helped me so much. They have given me real strength. I can imagine how you listen to the news at 9 o’clock and think of me with love. I hope that Andrew’s golden head rests gently and quietly upon his small pillow and that Richard is nice and comfortable lying in his narrow little carrycot. The engine of our boat rocks and rattles, the Officers’ Mess particularly, because suddenly the speed is increased. With me sleep three officers; James, Raf and a special Navy officer who is really only a travelling observer. How childlike and natural we all look when we are asleep. I slept almost from 10-12 o’clock and must now go back to the bridge if I am not going to fall asleep again in this stifling and sticky atmosphere. The landing craft in front of us has steered an extraordinarily irregular course about which our Captain was swearing. I gave him a tin of self-heating cocoa to warm him. James relieves me at 4 o’clock and then I have a few hours to myself before dawn breaks. I have wakened James. A long line of flares hangs over Cherbourg and a few anti-aircraft tracer shots go up in the air above the immediate front line. Funny to imagine that there Germans run around their guns. I would like to know what they are thinking. The whole Channel between us and Cherbourg is filled with little ships which all quietly and efficiently sail towards France. The British, Canadian and American fighting forces on the war-path.
It is now approximately 10.30 which means that we have another hour on the sea. We can now see everywhere warships that stand watch, especially on our left flank. Up to now there hasn’t been much to be seen or heard. Occasionally a battleship or a cruiser fires at an invisible target. The sea is still very rough and while we are rolling I feel sea-sick just as a few others do. But my pills seem to help though they leave a dry, disagreeable taste in the mouth. The air is free of aeroplanes. The best we can do now is listen to the wireless which reports freely and openly about the invasion and now already mentions the Cherbourg Peninsula. I would like to know whether you have already heard it, my beloved. My eyes become wet when I think of you listening to the news. We have just learned that the Eighth Brigade has landed. Resistance was slight, only occasional mortar fire. Very curious, but I suppose that the coast is under the fire of our heavy guns. Would that it be so! I heard that our CO has also landed, therefore our infantry must be there by now. God bless them and good luck to them. I do not believe that I can now write for very long. We can now see the French coast and very soon we will have to play our part. I must go now and look for the landing markings with my binoculars to ascertain our landing points. So, my darling, on we go! I know that you are with us. Come on the Bannermans! Let us be happy. Au revoir, God bless, I love you!
Further Reading
In 2014, Captain Bannerman’s story featured in an ITV documentary titled, If I Don’t Come Home: Letters from D-Day. A book of the same name, in which his diary entries are reprinted, was also published.
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