Island Redoubt Page 3

  ‘You need to eat more eggs, Ronnie’, said O’Keefe.

  ‘Someone’s going to shout at us in a minute. Tell us to get working’, said Sam. He had his eyes shut enjoying the sun’s warmth on his aching back. ‘We could do with a nice cool crate of stout’, he added dreamily.

  ‘Mmm. That’s what this war is lacking - some alcohol’, said Ernie.

  ‘A couple of bottles of wine would be okay’, said Yewell.

  ‘No, you can’t drink wine and beer - the grape and the grain - gives you a headache’, said Tony, wisely.

  ‘Oh well. We haven’t got either, so we’re okay’, said Sam.

  ‘Oi! You lot. Get fucking digging. You’re not paid to be statues’, shouted the sergeant, angrily.

  ‘Told you’, said Sam. They got back to work straining under the heat of the day.

  ‘You’ll need to watch, Yewell. That bastard’ll get you busted down to fusilier again’, warned Ernie. He’d been busted himself for drinking on duty in 1936. Twenty-eight days in nick as well.

  Their progress was hampered by formidable tree roots. Much of their time was spent hacking at them with the edges of shovels.

  ‘Do you know what the pioneers use to dig holes?’, asked O’Keefe.

  ‘Shovels?’, said Ronnie.

  ‘Spoons?’, said Sam

  ‘Explosives. That’s what’, said O’Keefe. ‘Explosives.’

  ‘Considering you’d never heard of them until a minute ago….’, began Tommy Martin.

  ‘I never said I hadn’t heard of them Tommy, so don’t be a smartarse. All I’m saying is….’ At that moment he stopped and one by one so did everyone else on the edge of the wood. The drone of aircraft became louder and was now clearly coming from the direction of their own rear areas.

  ‘You can come out of that trench, sarge’, muttered Owen as the platoon sergeant thrust his head out of his shell scrape. ‘It’s the RAF.’

  Four flights of single-engined Battles roared overhead, twelve aircraft in all. At thousand feet or more above the soldiers, their Merlin engines made the air shake, dragging each of the big monoplanes along behind a single prop. They were an impressive sight.

  ‘Battles’, said Sam

  ‘Some poor Kraut’s going to cop for that lot soon’, said Tony. ‘We sat in one of those didn’t we Sam?’ Sam nodded and said, ‘Some plane that, so it is’, he said admiringly. ‘A thousand pounds of bombs it carries.’ Ernie whistled. It sounded a lot.

  ‘Aye and I bet the pilots haven’t spent their time digging bloody holes either’, said Bill Murdock, one of the new men. The others muttered their agreement and bent to their tasks again as the bombers disappeared from sight.

  ‘A better job than this’, muttered Tony O’Keefe to himself.

  An hour later they became aware of the sound of aircraft engines again. They stopped. This time the engines were coming the other way. A dense trail of smoke appeared on the horizon and from it three tiny dots emerged.

  ‘Germans?’

  ‘RAF’, said someone. ‘I think.’

  ‘Get on that Bren someone, just in case’, shouted the sergeant. In other platoons, similar orders were being issued.

  ‘Get down!’ shouted an officer.

  ‘Don’t fire unless you’re told to!’, shouted another. Men dived into their trenches, grabbing rifles and webbing on the way. Sam put his tin hat on, as did the others. He held his rifle ready to fire if needs be. But within seconds it was clear that these were the returning RAF bombers, one of them in grave difficulty. Its engine coughed and died about a thousand yards ahead of their positions. The pilot fought with the controls of his unwieldy three-ton glider but the nose began to dip as the soldiers, helpless spectators watched in horror.

  ‘Oh Christ, no’, said Sam. O’Keefe crouched and covered his eyes. The plane crashed nose first at about an angle of twenty-five degrees and ploughed through the soil. The other two bombers naturally overshot but one carried on whilst the other pulled up to go back. The crashed plane came to a halt about six hundred yards from the nearest trench, way over to the right flank of the fusilier’s positions. A group of soldiers, without rifles were out and running towards the wreck. Sam could hear an NCO shouting, ‘Get back here’ and then his attention was drawn back to the plane where the observer or the gunner was trying to climb from the rear of the long, glasshouse canopy.

  ‘The crew’s alive, sir’, Sam shouted to Horsley-Palmer.

  ‘Just hang on, Beattie.’ The other Battle circled. The soldiers could see its rear canopy open and one of the crew trying to get a clear view of the stricken bomber beneath. And even in just a few seconds further horror was unleashed. The fusiliers from the flank position were still belting towards the plane when it exploded, throwing huge pieces of debris into the air. One wing lifted and turned like a kite and then toppled down collapsing as it landed on its tip. The crew couldn’t have survived and the plane burned with a bright orange flame. An even greater pall of cloying black smoke spewed forth. The would-be rescuers, all hope spent, stared disconsolately and then began the trudge back to their trenches.

  The soldiers simply stared in horror at this scene until another cry rent the air.

  ‘Get down!’ A Bren opened up, a staccato hammering and Sam thought that an over-zealous fusilier was shooting at another Battle. But he wasn’t. He was shooting at the Messerschmitt BF109 that had roared in to pounce on the remaining British bomber. With one burst of machine gun fire it downed the other bomber and roared over the infantry positions. The British aircraft tumbled to the ground, missing part of its tail and most of a wing, hitting the ground with a dull bang. The fighter soared over the wood turned and came back in low, strafing the exposed soldiers on the open ground between the trenches and the first bomber. More Brens opened fire as well as a few rifles. Lastly, a Vickers chugged awake sending a trail of lead after the 109 as it disappeared flatly over the horizon again. Some medics, bandsmen in normal times, ran out to the soldiers caught in the open. One of them was dead.

  ‘What happened to the rest of the bombers?’, asked O’Keefe, transfixed by the carnage in the field. No-one answered him.

  1940 Advance and Withdraw

  Just before dawn they were stood to. They peered into the low mist watching for the outlines of German infantry creeping towards them. The only sounds were hesitant birdsong and the occasional stifled yawn. No-one had slept well. But there were no Germans. Sam had been wakened at 0200 for his stag behind the section’s Bren gun and then struggled to doze off again when his duty was finished. He felt sick and dirty. He was depressed at the thought of spending an indeterminate portion of his life doing what he was doing now but he also knew from experience that he would gradually begin to feel better as the morning progressed, especially once he had had breakfast.

  When they were stood down the soldiers got to work washing, shaving and cooking. They didn’t need to be told to do these things; they were just part of their highly disciplined life in the Army. To not do these things and, furthermore, to not do them properly, was simply not even worth thinking about. The punishments for even minor infractions ensured that the men adhered to the desired routine.

  ‘I’m shattered’ said Sam, rubbing his eyes. He ran a hand through his mop of blonde hair. Tony cooked their breakfast.

  ‘You’ll feel better with this inside you’, said the big Dubliner, cheerfully. Sam looked doubtfully into the steely-grey mess tin. Whatever was contained therein did have a vaguely edible air about it, he could say that much.

  ‘Well, it smells okay’, he lied.

  ‘Wait ‘til you taste it.’

  There was a slight commotion behind them as platoon sergeants were summoned to attend a briefing. They stood in a cluster round the OC, scribbling notes, nodding. Now and again one would put his hand up and ask a question. Then they returned and passed the same information on to the section commanders.

  'We’re moving’, said Yewell.

  ‘What?’

 
‘Moving. Get the trenches filled in.’

  ‘But….’, began Tony.

  ‘I know’, said his NCO.

  ‘Fair enough.’

  This time they moved forward company by company to avoid presenting such a big target to the Luftwaffe. Sam’s company was second to leave and they drove for about thirty miles east without mishap. Their new defensive line was along the banks of a river, with another battalion to their left. They passed twenty-five pounder field guns being deployed and camouflaged just to their rear. And on either side of the solitary bridge was a pair of two pounder anti-tank guns. They looked puny. The bridge was a fairly modern construction and was the only means for tanks to cross the river at this point. Evidently their current situation wasn’t considered too critical because the bridge was not being prepared for possible demolition.

  Overhead the last of the morning’s low cloud began to disperse, auguring another hot day. Yewell quickly worked out the best spots for trenches and work began. This time there were no tree roots to contend with. For two hours men laboured before resting, lying in the sun with their shirts off. No-one said anything. No officers or sergeants complained.

  Sam watched a cloud move slowly overhead, wisps breaking off and seeming to disappear. Occasionally, a bird would glide past or wheel and swoop. The river added its own gentle, burbling accompaniment to the peace. He felt as if he was alone and remembered a day when he had climbed Black Mountain overlooking Belfast. It was a day like this…. but without the backdrop of war. Again, he wondered what the future, the imminent future, held. Still no Germans, he thought and as he did so patted the stock of his Lee Enfield next to him.

  His thoughts skipped through a thousand logical follow-ons and back to his childhood in Belfast; being dragged to school by his mum, being dragged home from the park by the cops, his mum dragging him (again) to church, whilst his dad stayed at home and lit the fire. His dad didn’t go out to the pub every night like all the other men. He didn’t beat Sam, like many of the other dads. Sam wished he was at home now.

  He’d been bored when he joined up and, to be honest his prospects weren’t great had he stayed in Belfast. But just what were his prospects like now, he mused? One thought followed loosely from another sometimes in order, sometimes not and he felt himself drifting off to sleep. Beside him O’Keefe was beginning to snore - big Irish snores.

  The sound that woke him was like someone folding up a stiff canvas market stall. It was only just loud enough to drag him out of his sleep. He sat up, his arms locked behind him and looked to the distance where the noise must have come from. Around him the other men did the same. The noise had stopped as soon as it had begun.

  ‘Artillery’, said Eddie Cooper from one of the other sections. Cooper maintained that he had fought against Franco in Spain, but no-one believed him. He was great on generalisations and short on specifics but above all else he just seemed like a liar in a way that you just couldn’t put your finger on. He exuded dishonesty. Sam didn’t like him and this didn’t sound like any artillery that he’d ever heard - it was over too quickly for a start.

  The noise had been that of bombs dropped from a squadron of German Junkers bombers.

  Moments later it seemed as if it might be their turn as a high pitched scream from out of nowhere tore the calm summer air asunder.

  ‘Stukas!’, shouted Cooper and the men, who’d heard of, but never experienced an attack from these aircraft, dived into their trenches. The siren scream became louder, more unbearable, second on second until it seemed that the plane was in the trench next to them and then just as suddenly it changed, eased off like a spent force.

  The ground shook as bombs hit. Soil came in on top of Sam and O’Keefe, a little landslide onto their backs, down the rim of their helmets and into their hair. The concussion made their hearts seem to jump inside their chests. They made themselves as small as possible, curled up tight like hibernating animals, waiting for ‘their’ bomb and only hoping that it wouldn’t …. wouldn’t….

  ‘It’s stopped’, said Sam. Indeed there was now virtual silence, the raid over in seconds, leaving just the drone of the German dive bombers scorching a trail back to their advanced airfields. O’Keefe slowly uncurled and then sat up, but still in the bottom of their trench.

  ‘Fuck’, he said at last and then took a deep breath. The two men stood and as they did so they witnessed men in other trenches doing the same, as if they had been summoned by a bell. The silence was more profound having followed the sound of hell’s gates being opened.

  ‘Medic!’, came a shout and again the bandsmen rushed to the scene of destruction. The bombs, three of them, had been dropped onto the battalion to their left. A cloud of smoke lifted cleanly from the ground to reveal the damage. They could see men walking aimlessly, some of them seemingly blinded, others injured or with their uniforms in tatters. Three huge craters were also apparent. There were inanimate bodies or parts of bodies on the ground.

  ‘What do we do, Yewell?, asked Sam.

  ‘Nothing. What can we do?’

  ‘Oh shit. Here comes Windy’, said Tony using his new nickname for the platoon sergeant. Yewell and Sam followed his gaze to see the rotund senior NCO approaching them.

  ‘Aye, he’s more of a peacetime soldier, isn’t he?’, said Yewell.

  ‘Get moving’, puffed the sergeant, as he approached. He was clearly alarmed by the fate of the other battalion.

  ‘What about the trenches, sarge’, said Yewell.

  ‘Fuck the trenches. We’re getting out of here.’

  ‘We’re retreating, sarge?’, asked Tony, incredulously. He had climbed out by now, had his kit on and was ready for battle, if appearances were anything to go by.

  ‘No, unfortunately. We’re advancing. We could be meeting the Germans at any time.’

  Again, they set off in company-sized packets but they soon joined up again after one of the trucks in the first convoy broke down, blocking the road. As men urgently pushed the wagon to one side and its occupants found themselves a new ride to the front lines, the sounds of battle drifted in to them. Somebody, somewhere was fighting the Germans. Occasional rumbles or single distant explosions spoke of artillery duels but now and again the crack of rifle fire or the rip of a German MG34 reached them. The broken-down vehicle removed, they set off up the narrow road once more. The soldiers sat mutely in the back, helmets on, rifles supported by the floor of the truck and one steadying hand, knowing that soon the battle would be theirs as well and that some of them probably wouldn’t survive.

  They all smoked - just another facet of their uniform and their uniform behaviour. They were bound together by fear, by comradeship. They would fight for each other and their regiment, none of them wishing to be the first to crack, the first to run, the first to show fear in any way. Their fathers had fought in the Great War. The Irish Rifles, the Inniskillings, the Dublin Fusiliers, the North Irish Horse, the Connaught Rangers. Regiments of a ‘Contemptible Little Army’, whose exploits had stiffened allied resolve and maintained the finest traditions of the British Army. These were regiments who had ultimately beaten the Germans and created a new legendary chapter in the history books. From that war came the belief that they were the best and if that belief was sometimes shaken, then no man could show it.

  Sam bowed his head and swallowed hard. He looked down at his boots and at the little lumps of clay that had become dislodged as he had scrambled on aboard. He touched the blue-black bolt of his rifle, felt the oil on his finger tips and checked that his magazine was clicked firmly in place for the dozenth time. The little truck’s engine wheezed and laboured up a hill, the driver changing gear to make their ascent possible, if slow. Cresting the hill, they picked up a little speed again and then braked, coming to a halt. Each truck in turn followed suit, closing in slightly in the process.

  ‘What can you see, Ernie?’, asked Tommy. Ernie was peering through the gap he had made between two sections of their truck’s canvas roof.

 
; ‘What can I see? Well….’, he paused. ‘I could be wrong, but it looks like the entire rest of the British Army…. coming this way.’

  ‘What?’ They were all on their feet, each man fighting to get a look up the road. Sam, at the back, peered round the edge of the canopy and Tony tried to see round the other side before joining Sam.

  ‘I couldn’t see anything….’, he began.

  ‘You were looking in the wrong place’, said Sam.

  ‘Holy Mother. Would you look at that!’

  It did indeed seem as if they had run into every other unit of the BEF and that they had been going the wrong way. The long, straight Roman road, tree-lined though it was, gave them a perfect view of a column of trucks, followed by a column of armoured cars, followed by another column of trucks as far back as they could see. A squadron of tanks had pulled into the side of the road to let these faster vehicles get past. A road at the top of the next hill, which intersected this one at ninety degrees had another column of trucks waiting to join the exodus. Parallel to the main road and about half a mile to the right was yet another road, similarly clogged with vehicles. A dispatch rider separated himself from the main convoy and rushed forward to speak to the Fusilier’s CO who was in his staff car near the head of their column.

  ‘We’ve been ordered back, sir. The Germans are everywhere. It’s chaos.’

  ‘We’re supposed to be going here, south of Brussels’, said the CO, pointing at a map.

  ‘Well you can try it, sir but you’ll have to wait until this lot get past. You can’t even see the end of this column from here. It goes on for miles and if you do get on your way you’ll run into refugees - thousands of them. It took us hours to get through them.’

  The CO shook his head.

  ‘Where is your CO?’, he asked the DR.

  ‘I’m signals, sir. But the CO of one of the armoured regiments is in a scout car.’ He pointed at a very distant place on the brow of the next hill. ‘One of those scout cars. He’ll be along in…. half an hour, an hour, something like that’, he said with a shrug.