Post by Dave Homewood on Apr 23, 2013 23:48:17 GMT 12
Auckland Star, Volume LXXIV, Issue 140, 15 June 1943, Page 2
THE AMAZING ODYSSEY OF PRIVATE B. CARTER, M.M.
(By E. K. GREEN)
THIS is the story of Brandon Carter, M.M., private in the Second N.Z.E.F.—farmer in civilian life, guard at Divisional headquarters, cook to Lieutenant-General Sir Bernard Freyberg, machine-gunner in Greece, Crete and Libya, and now —an inmate of the Blind Institute.
It is a story of gallantry, resource and adventure that would be difficult to equal. Lieutenant-General Freyberg is sending a Braille watch to Carter as a personal tribute. Officially he has been awarded the Military Medal. It was news of these two items, drifting into the office, that sent me in search of him to the institute where he is now starting out on another great battle—rehabilitation.
Cook to General Freyberg
Private Brandon Carter need never have gone on active service. His right eye was weak, and when he enlisted in the opening days of the war he was medically graded fit for home defence only. But when the First Echelon sailed he was with it—"lost a few medical reports and got sorted out."
He was with Divisional Headquarters as a guard, and was transferred in a similar capacity to General Freyberg's personal staff. And then he became his cook. That was before Greece. When that campaign was on the horizon Carter ceased to be content with a cook's life. He wanted to be a machine-gunner. An officer obligingly "lost a few papers" and he became a machine-gunner.
And then he had an accident. During a spot of bother in Greece he "hit someone too hard" and broke all his righthand fingers. So he was in hospital with his hand in a plaster cast when it came time for the evacuation. He and other wounded were taken down to a beach, but the destroyers could not get in, and they were left stranded.
Surrender? No not those boys. What then? "We pinched a fishing boat," said Carter. "We sailed at night and hid up each day at various islands. And we got to Crete."
Brandon Carter, with his red hair, his scarred face and almost sightless eyes, highlighted his tale with a sudden, occasional smile. But it was matter-of-factly told. As matter of fact as the way Carter, at 26 years, is starting out to build a new life for himself. "How did you get on with your wounded hand?" I asked. "Oh. I smacked the plaster off it so I could use it. I got on all right."
The fingers of that hand are set now, and stiff, the joints ruined.
Anyhow, there they were on Crete. Thirty of them on Suda Island, with Vickers guns, charged with the task of guarding the boom defences and the anti-submarine nets of Suda Bay. British small naval boats anchored in the lee of the island and that didn't improve it as a healthy place to be in. They were straffed and machine-gunned from the air continuously in the later stages, but underground chambers of an old Greek church there gave shelter.
The battle of Crete had been over some days when they learned of it, two escaping British soldiers told the garrison, which numbered about thirty. So they set out in a naval landing barge—the type commandos use— and made 70 miles round the west end of the island before daylight came. Then they pulled in for shelter, pulled the barge up on the rocks and tried to camouflage it as a derelict wreck. Another boat party had landed 15 miles back with the same idea. The Luftwaffe found them out and bombed the boat to pieces.
So Carter, with a companion, set out back along the coast seeking the other boat. Fifteen miles of mountain and cliff. It took, him 30 hours, and he had to leave his companion on the way, but he got there. The boat was smashed, too—so Carter set out back, leading the party of sailors whom he had found sheltering there.
The two parties had joined up only three hours when a German patrol came on the scene, directed by the Luftwaffe. "They had us lined up on the sand and another chap and I made a break for it. They opened up on us with tommy-guns. The other chap went down with thirty or forty holes in him. I got one through the hand, that's all. Yes the. same hand."
And then you skip two months rapidly. A prisoner-of-war in a transit camp. Cook, on parole, to German parachute officers for a fortnight. And then a prisoner again, parole taken back. Planning and waiting. And then in the confusion of one night, when German trucks pass with a clatter, a glare of lights and cloud of dust, three New Zealanders slipped under the barbed wire, past the sentries and into the tangle of a vineyard.
90 Hours in Leaking Dinghy
Cretans hid them out, and cared for them for a fortnight. Then Carter leads a party of four, another New Zealander and two Aussies, to where they had secreted a 10ft dinghy. They stuffed holes in it with their socks. The steersman sat in another hole—"as big as a football"—in the stern, and off they went. Carter was a yachtsman once, on Waitemata harbour, Auckland.
He had a German compass, and set a course for Mersa Matruh in Egypt. For ninety hours they were in that leaking boat. All night long, every night, Carter, as the only yachtsman, was at the tiller. The others took it in turns in daylight. One was constantly baling, With only a compass as guide he was about forty miles out in his reckoning, and they made a landing at Sidi Barrani. The dinghy collapsed in the surf and broke up. They were lucky in another way. The Germans had advanced at that stage and Carter's party landed just ten miles in front of their lines!
And then you jump another period of time. Private Carter is back with the New Zealanders, part of a machine-gun platoon of the 19th Battalion, holding a point at Fort Capuzzo. Two hundred yards, away they see a big round-up of New Zealand prisoners under German guard. Two men are left to each gun and the other five—Carter among them— make a bayonet charge in an endeavour to rescue the captured New Zealanders. All five of them go down. Four of them are dead, and when they find Carter, fifteen hours afterwards, he is nearly gone, too. A shell burst, and shrapnel between the eyes.
His escape that time was from Death. and now he is at the Blind Institute. Private Brandon Carter, M.M. He has already learned to be a carpenter as a hobby. This year his concentration is on Braille. Next year it is lectures at the University.
THE AMAZING ODYSSEY OF PRIVATE B. CARTER, M.M.
(By E. K. GREEN)
THIS is the story of Brandon Carter, M.M., private in the Second N.Z.E.F.—farmer in civilian life, guard at Divisional headquarters, cook to Lieutenant-General Sir Bernard Freyberg, machine-gunner in Greece, Crete and Libya, and now —an inmate of the Blind Institute.
It is a story of gallantry, resource and adventure that would be difficult to equal. Lieutenant-General Freyberg is sending a Braille watch to Carter as a personal tribute. Officially he has been awarded the Military Medal. It was news of these two items, drifting into the office, that sent me in search of him to the institute where he is now starting out on another great battle—rehabilitation.
Cook to General Freyberg
Private Brandon Carter need never have gone on active service. His right eye was weak, and when he enlisted in the opening days of the war he was medically graded fit for home defence only. But when the First Echelon sailed he was with it—"lost a few medical reports and got sorted out."
He was with Divisional Headquarters as a guard, and was transferred in a similar capacity to General Freyberg's personal staff. And then he became his cook. That was before Greece. When that campaign was on the horizon Carter ceased to be content with a cook's life. He wanted to be a machine-gunner. An officer obligingly "lost a few papers" and he became a machine-gunner.
And then he had an accident. During a spot of bother in Greece he "hit someone too hard" and broke all his righthand fingers. So he was in hospital with his hand in a plaster cast when it came time for the evacuation. He and other wounded were taken down to a beach, but the destroyers could not get in, and they were left stranded.
Surrender? No not those boys. What then? "We pinched a fishing boat," said Carter. "We sailed at night and hid up each day at various islands. And we got to Crete."
Brandon Carter, with his red hair, his scarred face and almost sightless eyes, highlighted his tale with a sudden, occasional smile. But it was matter-of-factly told. As matter of fact as the way Carter, at 26 years, is starting out to build a new life for himself. "How did you get on with your wounded hand?" I asked. "Oh. I smacked the plaster off it so I could use it. I got on all right."
The fingers of that hand are set now, and stiff, the joints ruined.
Anyhow, there they were on Crete. Thirty of them on Suda Island, with Vickers guns, charged with the task of guarding the boom defences and the anti-submarine nets of Suda Bay. British small naval boats anchored in the lee of the island and that didn't improve it as a healthy place to be in. They were straffed and machine-gunned from the air continuously in the later stages, but underground chambers of an old Greek church there gave shelter.
The battle of Crete had been over some days when they learned of it, two escaping British soldiers told the garrison, which numbered about thirty. So they set out in a naval landing barge—the type commandos use— and made 70 miles round the west end of the island before daylight came. Then they pulled in for shelter, pulled the barge up on the rocks and tried to camouflage it as a derelict wreck. Another boat party had landed 15 miles back with the same idea. The Luftwaffe found them out and bombed the boat to pieces.
So Carter, with a companion, set out back along the coast seeking the other boat. Fifteen miles of mountain and cliff. It took, him 30 hours, and he had to leave his companion on the way, but he got there. The boat was smashed, too—so Carter set out back, leading the party of sailors whom he had found sheltering there.
The two parties had joined up only three hours when a German patrol came on the scene, directed by the Luftwaffe. "They had us lined up on the sand and another chap and I made a break for it. They opened up on us with tommy-guns. The other chap went down with thirty or forty holes in him. I got one through the hand, that's all. Yes the. same hand."
And then you skip two months rapidly. A prisoner-of-war in a transit camp. Cook, on parole, to German parachute officers for a fortnight. And then a prisoner again, parole taken back. Planning and waiting. And then in the confusion of one night, when German trucks pass with a clatter, a glare of lights and cloud of dust, three New Zealanders slipped under the barbed wire, past the sentries and into the tangle of a vineyard.
90 Hours in Leaking Dinghy
Cretans hid them out, and cared for them for a fortnight. Then Carter leads a party of four, another New Zealander and two Aussies, to where they had secreted a 10ft dinghy. They stuffed holes in it with their socks. The steersman sat in another hole—"as big as a football"—in the stern, and off they went. Carter was a yachtsman once, on Waitemata harbour, Auckland.
He had a German compass, and set a course for Mersa Matruh in Egypt. For ninety hours they were in that leaking boat. All night long, every night, Carter, as the only yachtsman, was at the tiller. The others took it in turns in daylight. One was constantly baling, With only a compass as guide he was about forty miles out in his reckoning, and they made a landing at Sidi Barrani. The dinghy collapsed in the surf and broke up. They were lucky in another way. The Germans had advanced at that stage and Carter's party landed just ten miles in front of their lines!
And then you jump another period of time. Private Carter is back with the New Zealanders, part of a machine-gun platoon of the 19th Battalion, holding a point at Fort Capuzzo. Two hundred yards, away they see a big round-up of New Zealand prisoners under German guard. Two men are left to each gun and the other five—Carter among them— make a bayonet charge in an endeavour to rescue the captured New Zealanders. All five of them go down. Four of them are dead, and when they find Carter, fifteen hours afterwards, he is nearly gone, too. A shell burst, and shrapnel between the eyes.
His escape that time was from Death. and now he is at the Blind Institute. Private Brandon Carter, M.M. He has already learned to be a carpenter as a hobby. This year his concentration is on Braille. Next year it is lectures at the University.
