Island Redoubt Read online

‘Make of what, sir?’ They passed a Bren Carrier going the opposite way. It was towing a little artillery piece that looked as if it couldn’t blow a hole in a paper plate.

  ‘Well, you know. The war. Being in France.’

  ‘Oh right, sir. It’s great’, said Sam, flatly. A cynical man might have thought that Sam didn’t really view being in France and in the war as great at all. The second-in-command looked at him askance wondering of the soldier was being insolent. He dismissed the thought; what fusilier would dare to be cheeky to him?

  The road was an undulating course of potholes and the major’s map case and cane kept sliding off his knee and onto the floor as a result of their bumpy journey. Eventually he let them rest there and Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief. He’d felt like snatching them from the major’s grasp and throwing them from the car. Overhead, three planes, which Sam recognised as being Hurricanes, roared past, low and flat out.

  ‘Spitfires’, said the major.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Eventually, they turned off the main road and onto a narrow tree-lined track with deep ditches running along either side and a single, unbroken spine of grass central to its entire length. After travelling for only a few seconds a soldier stepped from the undergrowth some way ahead and put his hand up to stop them. They slowed to show that they were going to stop. The soldier was French, as became apparent from his old-fashioned looking Adrian helmet. As they steadily closed the distance to him his uniform became more distinct. He wore a long greatcoat and carried a Lebel carbine slung on his shoulder. He had a short, tatty looking beard and looked particularly unhappy.

  Sam pulled up next to the soldier and opened the window. He hadn’t met a French soldier before and suddenly realised he couldn’t talk to him - not and be understood, anyway. The 2ic leaned across, as if to save the day and passed his papers to the poilu.

  ‘Je voudrais parler avec….’, he began but the soldier turned his back and walked off in the direction from whence he had come.

  ‘The cheeky French….’, blustered Christie before words failed him.

  ‘Very scruffy, wasn’t he, sir?’, ventured Sam. It wasn’t his place to pass comment perhaps but so what?

  ‘Well, I don’t like to cast aspersions on our gallant allies but that man’s a bloody disgrace to his fine army.’ Even as he spoke the soldier accompanied by a rather rotund NCO from the same fine army, reappeared and walked down to their car. The NCO peered in to the Austin, thrust the documents through the window into Sam’s lap and spoke.

  ‘Tout droite.’

  ‘What?’, asked Sam of no-one in particular.

  ‘Straight on, Beattie.’

  ‘Go!’, implored the NCO, impatient at the delay. He clearly knew at least one word of English. Sam released the clutch and the little Austin lurched off, spitting up gravel from the crumbling road surface. The major noted in the rear-view mirror with some satisfaction that the fat Frenchman was brushing dust off his uniform as they sped away.

  They approached a small, red-brick chateau with tall chimney stacks, gargoyles and pillars. This was the comfortable headquarters of a French brigade. The soldiers on guard here seemed much neater and more professional.

  ‘Wait here for me’, said the major, brusquely. Where else am I going to go, thought Sam?

  The sun peeked out from behind a May cloud and Sam stepped from the car to enjoy fresh air for a moment. A French soldier approached and gabbled something which he didn’t understand at the same time as miming the actions of having a drink, which Sam did understand.

  ‘Tea, please’, said the fusilier, hopefully.

  ‘Non.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Oui.’

  Forty minutes later Major Christie appeared in the doorway of the chateau. He was joking with some senior looking French officer in dress uniform and kepi. The fusilier’s officer looked like the proverbial bag of shite by comparison in his shapeless battle dress. Finally, he saluted and made his way, good relations restored, back to the car.

  ‘Back to RHQ, Fusilier Beattie’, he said. His breath smelt of cognac. Sam realised that he still had a cup and saucer that had once contained his coffee. He looked around in a mild panic, not wishing to upset the temporarily cheerful officer or his generous French benefactor. There was nowhere suitable, only what seemed like acres of loose gravel all around the car. Finally, he set them on the back seat having tipped the dregs of his drink away.

  On the track ahead, they could see two figures.

  ‘There’s that fat NCO, sir’, said Sam.

  ‘Mmm’, replied his passenger, once again disapproving of his driver’s over-familiar attitude.

  ‘Do you want me to run him over, sir?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Beattie.’

  Nevertheless, he stopped the car and, opening the window, gestured the Frenchman over to him.

  ‘What are you doing Beattie?’

  The NCO paced towards them languidly and Sam reached into the back for the cup and saucer.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Thanks, mate’, said Sam thrusting the crockery into the soldier’s hands. He drove off. Major Christie shook his head and then settled down for a nap.

  The nearest town was called Arras and, even allowing for a sizeable intermission of twenty years, it was quite used to the presence of foreign troops. There was even some grudging acceptance of off-duty British soldiers and their antics, although their worst excesses were kept in check by the presence of the Military Police. Their collective ‘stern countenance’ was an effective deterrent.

  Occasionally troops were given a day off to relieve the monotony of the phony war. Sam, Tony, Ronnie, Tommy and Ernie, under the watchful eye of Yewell Owen were not only given a day off but transport into the town centre. Each of them had picked up a sizeable chunk of their accrued wages from the pay office and had every intention of spending it.

  Their first stop was a tabac and then they found a bar. It had a brightly coloured awning and peeling paint on the walls. Inside it was dusty but cool. They crowded round a wooden table next to some old boys enjoying an afternoon drink. One of them smiled but the language barrier was too much for anyone to surmount.

  Tommy made to rise. ‘I’ll get ‘em in’, he said.

  ‘No, Tommy. They come over and take our order. And you pay at the end’, said Sam.

  ‘Don’t people just run off without paying?’, he asked, incredulously.

  ‘You’re not in Ballymena now, Tommy’, said Sam.

  ‘Hey, Ballymena men pay for their drinks!’, he bristled.

  The radio played from some back room and the six men sat in silence for a moment, enjoying the peace. The old men, veterans of the last war, occasionally looked over approvingly at their immaculate uniforms. They still had the old-fashioned service dress. Although some of their officers had managed to get their hands on the new style battle dress that was being issued. They looked to the old veterans exactly the same as the Tommies from the Great War.

  ‘This French beer’s all right’, said Tony O’Keefe, downing his glass, professionally.

  ‘I think that the French drink their beer with more finesse than that, Tony’, said Yewell.

  ‘Finesse!’, mocked Lance-corporal Hall.

  ‘Bollocks. And besides I’m not French’, he said, looking round for someone to serve him as he did so. He clicked his fingers and, oddly enough, attracted the attention of a pretty waitress who couldn't have been more than fifteen.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Another six beers please’, he said in fluent English. As the waitress walked away to get his order he whispered to the others, ‘she likes me. You can tell.’

  ‘Auch yer arse, Tony’, said Ernie Hall. Ernie was twenty-eight, old for a fusilier. He’d left the Army late in 1937 and re-joined a few months later when war seemed a certainty. ‘Just because she comes over and takes your order doesn’t mean she fancies ya.’

  ‘Oh right then, Ernie. What does it mean?’

/>   ‘It means she wants a tip.’

  ‘A tip?’

  ‘A tip. Some of your money’, said Ernie. The others laughed at O’Keefe’s discomfiture.

  ‘I think you’re wrong. In fact, I think you’re jealous, Ernie, because you’re an old git, a married man and because I’m a young Irishman in my prime.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see won’t we/’, interjected Yewell as the round of drinks was delivered.

  ‘I wish they had pints’, said Ronnie. As he spoke the radio was turned up in the back room. A presenter talked urgently but it was wasted on the soldiers. A commotion broke out behind the bar and the old men at the next table rose to their feet. Only Sam and Yewell noticed and exchanged looks.

  ‘Are you old enough to drink, Ronnie?’, continued Tony. ‘We might have to hand you over to the MPs, if you’re not.’

  As he spoke two MPs entered the bar.

  ‘Christ, I was only joking!’

  ‘Les Allemands!’, screamed a waitress.

  ‘Shit’, said Sam.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Back to your lines lads. Germans have invaded’, said an MP. The six fusiliers rose in unison as if ready for a fight - a fitting enough analogy in the circumstances.

  ‘How the hell do we get back?’, asked Yewell. One of the MPs, a young-looking lance-corporal said, ‘start walking and hope that your unit sends a truck out. That’s your best bet, mate.’

  ‘He’s a corporal, not your mate’, corrected O’Keefe. The MP blushed, the colour of his face briefly matching that of his hat band.

  ‘Aye, leave it Tony - he’s not a German’, said their NCO. ‘Well that’s it. Let’s go.’

  ‘If you see anyone else….’, shouted the MP.

  ‘I’ll tell’em’, confirmed Yewell.

  1940 - Little Belgium

  They returned to the lines to find a high state of alert, as if a German attack was imminent. Men were frantically filling in trenches. The sun beat down as they toiled, stripped to the waste, emptying sandbags and shovelling semi-baked clay back into the holes they had so lovingly created.

  ‘And where are all our pet rats going to sleep now?’, asked Tony. He hadn’t realised that his platoon sergeant was behind him.

  ‘Never mind that, O’Keefe. Get a fucking shovel and dig!’

  ‘Right sarnt’, he said, adding sotto voce, ‘bastard.’ The men of the section piled their kit in a central spot and began pulling the defences apart. Up came the corrugated iron sheets and wooden stanchions and back went the soil. Ronnie picked a little hand-made sign.

  ‘Shankill Road’, he said, he said with mock admiration.

  ‘Aye, I made that’, lied O’Keefe.

  Sam looked at the pile of spoil left over from filling in their trench.

  ‘This soil doesn’t fit this hole’, he said.

  ‘Some bastard’s swapped our soil, that’s why’, said Tony. He spotted Yewell coming over with two other soldiers he didn’t recognise. ‘Corporal Owen’, he shouted, ‘someone’s stolen our soil.’

  ‘Well you steal someone else’s, Tony.’

  ‘I already have’, said Tony proudly. Sam shook his head in mock despair.

  ‘Right listen up’, said the NCO. ‘These two are Fusilier Murdock’ - he indicated a tall, sallow man of about twenty-five and Fusilier Mackey. Mackey seemed too short and too young to be in the Army. ‘They are in our section now so look after them. Show them that this is the best section, in the best company, in the best regiment and that we all look out for each other.’ O’Keefe raised his eyebrows at this. Owen then introduced the two new men to the other members of the section who looked on sceptically. Their section had been two men shy for months but they still viewed newcomers with suspicion.

  ‘Talk about being dropped in at the deep end’, said Sam. Fusilier Mackey laughed nervously at this. Here he was about to go and confront the German Army and he hadn’t even gotten over missing his Mum and Dad yet.

  At five o’clock they had a final meal from the field kitchen, picked up extra rations and ammunition and waited whilst the CSM inspected their trenches. Even on the eve of battle the Army left the place looking nice.

  Their platoon commander came to see them. Lieutenant Horsley-Palmer (or HP, as they referred to him) was an Ulsterman who sounded English and as such his platoon struggled to think of him as one of their own. He certainly wasn’t the worst officer they could have had. He tried to look after his men’s welfare even when they didn’t seem to appreciate this or, as was often the case, even notice that he did so. The problem was the perennial one of the British Army - background. Their background was so much at variance with his, that he struggled to find common ground on which to talk to them during smokers or …. ever. He wanted to know what made them tick. Why they laughed at inane jokes or rude words. What their ambitions were or, indeed, if they had any. What had they done before being in the Army and what they would do when they left. He really was interested.

  The problem was that he just couldn’t articulate this in any way which seemed to generate their interest or stimulate conversation. He knew that they thought he was ‘okay’ but other than that there was no rapport between them. And he regretted that.

  ‘Right chaps, listen in’, he began, feeling faintly absurd. The men stood ready for battle; tin hats rifles, packs. All around them similar little briefings were going on. They listened, trying to make sense of the names, the timings, trying to grab certainties from the catalogue of uncertainties that spilled forth. The Royal Irish Fusiliers were the best soldiers in the Army - so they’d always been told. They wouldn’t be surprised to find themselves up against the best of the Germans. They expected it in fact

  ‘But we don’t know that’, said the lieutenant, injecting a cautionary note into the proceedings. ‘The situation is so confused that anything could happen. So, we are going to go to Tournai in Belgium, dig in and await orders. We need to understand the situation much better before we are committed to anything. Are there any questions?’ There were none. ‘Right mount up’, he said and then added quickly, ‘Oh and by the way we have a new Prime Minister - Winston Churchill.’

  ‘I knew that old Neville Chamberpot was no good’, said O’Keefe.

  The trucks were parked on the edge of the road, the engines running. There were three trucks per platoon and a bit of confusion about who was in which vehicle. Eventually, the RSM in a thunderously bad mood (having been ticked off by the CO) sorted them out.

  ‘You!’, he bawled pointing at some hapless fusilier, ‘what fucking platoon are you in?’ The fusilier would tell him. ‘Right get yourself into that fucking lorry.’ And in this way eventually everyone found a place to sit.

  They drove for a few miles and then stopped. Word came down that they were going to halt for the night to avoid accidents on the tiny bumpy roads.

  ‘Get your heads down. Sleep wherever you can…. But not under the vehicles.’ Sentries were posted.

  The next morning, they travelled another few miles until a despatch rider raced to the head of the column to deliver some orders. ‘Dig in.’

  ‘Dig in!’, complained Tony. ‘Again! We’re not fucking moles.’

  The battalion tried to form itself into a defensive pattern but the terrain hemmed them in and restricted their deployment. They stayed in this location, the men getting increasingly frustrated and bored, for six long days and nights. Parties of men were detailed to fill sandbags for other defensive positions and still more men were taken to lay huge barbed wire entanglements and dig yet more trenches. Occasionally, British planes flew overhead but otherwise there was little indication of the calamity that was befalling Belgium and Holland to the North and East.

  They arrived at Tournai in Belgium just before it began to get dark. Apart from the sense of urgency instilled in them by their senior NCOs and officers, the war seemed as far away as ever. They parked in a square, with some of the trucks in side streets as a hurried consultation took place between the CO and his compa
ny commanders. The former looked stern, worried, the latter looked on eager to please, eager to succeed lest their commander messed up and was relieved of his job - promotion came quickly in wartime.

  The town centre was completely clogged up with army traffic but almost silent. A few Belgians came out to say hello to the new generation of British soldiers coming to their aid. They could scarcely believe that this could be happening again and so soon. The CO despatched a scout car ahead to find a suitable location for his regiment and then ordered HQ Company to establish itself in Tournai.

  ‘We’ll make a hell of a target for the Luftwaffe sitting here’, said Sam.

  ‘Just let ’em try’, said O’Keefe, stroking his .303 as if he could shoot down a warplane with it.

  ‘They’re aeroplanes O’Keefe, not barn doors’, said his sergeant. Corporal Gwilt, one of the other section commanders laughed, obsequiously.

  ‘That was a good one, Sarge’, said O’Keefe. The sergeant glared at him and wondered what shitty jobs were imminent. The problem was that the big Dubliner didn’t seem to mind shitty jobs - he laughed them off just as he did everything else.

  Eventually, they moved off to some positions along the edge of a strip wood. It was pitch black and the men cursed as they tried to dig shell scrapes. The tree roots made this almost impossible. Once that was done to everyone’s satisfaction a new sentry rota was established and they got their heads down.

  They began digging properly the next morning working in pairs - one man loosening the clay with a pick and the other digging it out with the shovel. The spoil, as usual formed a revetment between them and the Germans - or at least the direction that they expected them to come from.

  ‘I thought we had Royal Engineers for this’, said Ronnie.

  ‘No, it’s the pioneers who do this’, explained Corporal Owen.

  ‘The pioneers is it, Corporal? Can someone give them a ring, cos I am pissed off with this.’ Tony stopped and leaned on the haft of his pick. The others took their cue from him and together they rested, standing in a field, on the edge of a wood in Belgium. The sun beat down on their sweat-shimmery bodies. Ronnie in particular was very thin.