David Paton; medical officer on the St Nazaire raid in 1942, one of the most audacious actions of the Second World War
Hyfler/Rosner
David Paton, who died on July 10 aged 95, was the medical
officer on the St Nazaire raid in 1942, one of the most
audacious actions of the Second World War.
Last Updated: 7:58PM BST 02 Aug 2008
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/2487548/David-Paton.htmlPaton was attached to the recently-formed No 2 Commando,charged with carrying out Operation Chariot. The objectivewas to neutralise Tirpitz, the battleship which threatenedBritain's vital Atlantic supply line. But to achieve thismeant destroying the only accessible dry dock on theAtlantic coast large enough to take the ship should she everbe damaged; and the dock, at the French port of St Nazaire,was in the Loire estuary, some four miles from the sea.The plan was to ram the American First World War destroyerCampbeltown, packed with more than four tons of explosive,into the dock gate. This involved a 400-mile crossing toFrance through hostile waters and running the gauntlet of 80gun emplacements on the river.Paton's instructions were to set up a first aid post in ablockhouse on a mole. When he protested that this would havean anti-aircraft gun and crew on it, he was immediatelyoverruled by a WAAF specialist in air photography. As helater observed: "How wrong she was."On March 26 1942 Campbeltown sailed from Falmouth. Two ofher four funnels were removed in order to, in Paton'saccount, "make her look a bit Hunnish". Accompanying theship were two escort destroyers and 18 "Little Ships". Patonhimself was aboard one of 16 Fairmile motor launches; builtof wood, lightly armed and now with 500-gallon tanks ofpetrol lashed to their decks, these were hardly idealassault craft.Paton was well aware of the dangers. In a letter to hiswife, to be read in the event of his death, he wrote offacing "an ordeal from which I might never return". He wenton: "It may be of some comfort to you to know that if I godown, at least I go down in an attack, and I want you tohold your head high as I am managing to do despite myforebodings."Campbeltown's disguise, and the fact that the Royal Navycould signal using captured German codes, ensured the rusewas not rumbled until the British were within a mile of thedock gate. Paton's description of the subsequent action wasvivid: "All hell broke loose. Searchlights by the dozenilluminated us from both sides and we became shootingtargets for a huge variety of guns."At first I took cover behind a depth charge on the deck,but a bit of that went whizzing past my ear, so I stood up.The air was thick with tracer shells coming from alldirections, rather like cricket balls. You could see themcoming and jump out of the way. Meantime it was all tooobvious that the Germans were still on the mole."We pushed our ladders up against the mole, but anyone whotried to climb up fell off because the ladders were pushedout from above. Now bombs began to be rolled over on to ourdecks and we were all dancing about kicking them into thewater." The gun on the blockhouse, which was to have beenPaton's medical post, was now firing on his boat. "The firstshot fell into the water only 10 yards away, the next wasfive yards away. I don't know what happened to the third,but the fourth produced a draught as it shot by me."Paton treated the eight casualties on his boat but, like allbar one of the motor launches, his craft was unable to land.Hours later Campbeltown exploded, successfully putting thedry dock out of action for the remainder of the war. Tirpitzwas sunk by the RAF off Norway seven months later.Of the 622 men who took part in the raid, 168 were killedand 214 taken prisoner. Five won Victoria Crosses, the mostawarded in a single action before or since; there were alsofour DSOs, 17 DSCs, 11 Military Crosses and some 100 othergallantry awards. Three of the Little Ships made it home.When asked which one he had been aboard Paton answered: "Allof them." In a heavy swell of up to 30ft he had jumped fromlaunch to launch to tend the wounded.Back in Falmouth, there was hardly a hero's welcome. Havingjust taken part in one of the fiercest engagements of thewar, Paton was unwashed and sported three days' growth ofbeard. He was greeted by a "crisply starched and veryofficious VAD girl", who took him aside and complained:"Doctor, you haven't shaved."David Paton was born on July 30 1912 at Hamilton,Lanarkshire, the son of a watchmaker and a schoolmistress.He attended Hamilton Academy before reading Medicine atGlasgow University. It was at university, only a few yearsbefore the outbreak of war, that he joined the OfficerTraining Corps, thinking that by doing so he would curryfavour with the professor of zoology.After qualifying, Paton worked at the Western RoyalInfirmary until his call-up to the Royal Army Medical Corpsin 1939. He served at the War Office and in various camps inthe south of England before being appointed medical officerto the Catterick Garrison in Yorkshire. There he enjoyed, inhis words, "the life of Riley". He had a car, petrol foressential services, an officer's quarter and a wife of sixmonths. Then, shortly before Christmas 1941, he was suddenlytransferred to the Orkneys, and thence to Ayr, where he wasseconded to the Commandos.The elite force had been established the year before. ForPaton, who was iconoclastic by nature, it was the idealoutfit. "They were just fighting men for fighting, not foryour parade drill or office work," he recalled.Paton saw action again on D-Day, when he landed with theCommandos on Sword Beach as second-in-command of 223 FieldAmbulance. He left the Army in the rank oflieutenant-colonel.After the war he became a GP, buying a practice atCippenham, near Slough. He paid £4,250 for a house and£5,000 for the practice, and his bank manager agreed to aloan, telling him: "You are in the right place, my boy. Theyhave just authorised the building of 2,000 new homes."When the National Health Service started in 1948 Paton tookon Jill Hayes as an assistant and in 1953 Mark Binnie,another Scot, became a partner. Ten years later they werejoined by Barrie Wright. Paton retired from general practicein 1972, at the age of 60, but continued to work as a policesurgeon for the Thames Valley force. In that role heattended accidents and crime scenes and was often requiredto give testimony as an expert witness in court.He was an active member of the British Medical Associationand secretary of its Thames Valley division. He was electedan Honorary Fellow of the BMA on his retirement.Paton was also president of the Windsor Medical Society; ofthe Cippenham branch of the Royal British Legion; and, from1953 to 1986, of the 1st Cippenham Scout Group.David Paton's wife, Phyllis (née Dimmock), whom he marriedin 1941, died in 1995. He is survived by their two sons andtwo daughters.