Island Redoubt Page 4

  ‘Where are our lines, then?’

  ‘There aren’t any, sir. This is it. I don’t know what your orders were but I can’t imagine that anyone wants you to head that way anymore’, he said with a nod over his shoulder. He took his helmet off and ran a hand through his brilliantined hair. He had an Enfield revolver on his hip and a leather jerkin over his battle dress tunic.

  ‘So, have this lot been actually engaged the Germans?’, asked the CO, indicating the columns of tanks and trucks that were closing down.

  ‘No, sir’, said the motorcyclist, emphatically. ‘They got to within a few miles of the front lines and then got the order to withdraw. But there is still fighting. Some British units and some Belgians. Giving this lot time to get away. To be honest, sir I would get pulled in to the side here and then think about heading back. Oh, and if you don’t know, the Dutch have surrendered, sir.’

  ‘Right. Thanks, corporal’, he said, dismally. He had no new orders and nowhere to go. The trucks pulled in to the side of the road and he summoned his signals sergeant. Distractedly, stuffing his pipe with tobacco, he spoke.

  ‘Sergeant, what are the chances of getting a message through to Brigade?’

  ‘Almost nil, sir.’

  ‘Division?’

  ‘Less than almost nil, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, sergeant.’

  They pulled the wagons into the side of the road, losing one which toppled over as its front right wheel slipped into a roadside ditch. Four men were injured and packed off with one of the withdrawing convoy’s trucks - a field kitchen, as it turned out.

  The CO spoke briefly to the commanding officer of the 12th Royal Lancers in his big Morris Armoured Car. Its turret had an anti-tank rifle and a Bren gun poking out from it. His Lancer counterpart was able to answer his questions mostly by shrugging and raising his palms skywards. If anything, he knew less than the dispatch rider.

  The CO called his OCs together for a briefing.

  ‘We can’t stay here and there seems little point in going on just to turn and withdraw further up the road. We have no comms with Brigade or Division and no orders or contingencies that seem to match our current situation’, he said, sighing heavily. ‘I’m open to suggestions, gentlemen.’ But none came. ‘Really, I am open to your ideas. The final decision will still be mine but anything will be considered.’

  ‘Well’, began Major Harris, ‘we could form a defensive line here and send the trucks back - they are a hell of a target. But that means we’re on foot from now on, obviously - I can’t imagine that we would ever manage to get the trucks back to here if we needed to withdraw.’

  ‘No harm in the lads marching but we are a long way from anywhere’, said the CO.

  ‘And the Jerries seem to be moving pretty quickly…. to lose our mobility like that could be a big problem for us.’

  ‘What a shitty situation’, concluded the CO. ‘Right’, he said. His tone was decisive - it was what he was paid for. ‘We get the wagons turned and head back to our last location. We’ll return in exactly reverse order, save any buggering about and, in fact once a wagon is turned they travel back independently. If it turns out to be the wrong thing to do then it’s on my head. Right, pass that on, gents.’

  The rearmost truck performed a countless-point turn in the narrow road and set off by itself with ten men. The next five in line did the same but then the whole procedure stopped to allow the passage of twelve infantry tanks. Sam and the others watched as they ground slowly past, flat out at eight mph. Their flimsy tracks bounced and squeaked over small, widely-spaced wheels.

  ‘We’re going to be stuck behind them now, you realise’, said Sam.

  ‘I get the impression that this isn’t turning out well’, said Ernie, glumly.

  The tanks were armed with only a machine gun - not having had to face the German’s armour was a lucky stroke for them.

  ‘Take cover!’, came the cry. The soldiers jumped from their trucks and sprinted into the trees. A Messerschmitt fighter leapt from the skies and passed low, releasing a short spray of bullets which hit just the last stationary wagon. Although he had flashed over in an instant they could still hear him and could hear the change in engine note as he banked and turned.

  ‘Shit. He’s coming back’, shouted Tony pressing himself flat to the ground. From the slit between his helmet rim and the soil Sam saw another soldier up and running to get a tree between him and the fighter, presumably. A burst of machine gun fire intended for the convoy caught him, unseen by the pilot, and sent him sprawling, soaked in blood into the spongy earth. Sam could hear the spitting, crackling flames of a wagon on fire and then the additional sound of the fighter turning to make another pass. He wondered if they had radios to summon up the Stukas to come and finish them off. His strafing was more accurate this time, the rip of machine gun bullets crunching, shattering and tearing the flimsy coach work of their transport. More vehicles were left burning but this time the pilot did not return.

  Spirals of grey smoke lifted from four of the trucks and another three were burning fiercely. Now and again a red-hot round of ammo left behind would explode sending its bullet off in some impossible to predict direction; indiscriminate fire and just another hazard. Sergeants were shouting orders and medics helped the wounded, who along with the one dead soldier were put into a truck which turned and sped off down the road. They were taking casualties without contributing to the battle.

  The CO shook his head in near despair.

  Men extinguished the flames and then rolled the useless trucks off the road. One of the wagons burst into flames again and set the trees on fire. Leaves crackled like tiny fireworks and swirling clouds of fragrant smoke drifted through the stricken convoy.

  ‘Can this get any worse?’, asked Tony. He didn’t have long to wait for his answer. As another couple of trucks made good their escape a flight of Stukas fell from the skies like demented blackbirds. Their scream and shape were like nothing else on Earth. Sandy Smith opened fire at this impossible target with his rifle. ‘Take cover Sandy!’ shouted the other men as they watched him aim, fire, operate the bolt, aim fire, over and over and over. The first bomb blew him to pieces and the next two followed in a line turning their trucks to twisted, blackened metal sculptures wrought by a satanic hand. The Stukas levelled off and sped for home to be replaced by two Messerschmitts, roaring in low and strafing the trees. Leaves shook and bodies, now corpses bucked as bullets smacked home. Everywhere men crawled out of the tree line, dragging their rifles and their wounded with them. One or two opened fire, sending solitary rifle bullets into thin air. The fighters passed low, their engines a deafening, devilish scream and still men crawled or tried to dig with their hands, dig for escape, crawl for escape…. but there was none…. until the silence came, silence qualified by men calling out in the agony of shattered limbs and flesh.

  Then even that brief cessation of noise was broken as another flight of Stukas bent their steady course plummeting to Earth to pick off survivors.

  Somewhere a soldier prayed loudly and another just said, ‘Oh Christ’, over and over. The bombs fell up the road amongst the tanks, destroying half their complement and blocking the road for good. They wondered how to fight an enemy like this.

  The wounded were put into the remaining trucks and a party of men remained behind to bury the dead, of which there were twenty-four. The rest began to march back to their lines.

  ‘How far back is it?’, asked Tony.

  ‘It’s as far as it was coming but without the trucks to take us’, said Sam.

  ‘Oh, right. That’s good.’

  The two men marched in silence for a while. Overhead a beautiful blue sky reached down to touch the ground at every point on the horizon. It was warm but with a slight breeze to cool the soldiers. Birds sang and even the crump-crunch rhythm of five hundred pairs of boots had a certain soporific, calming effect. They soon came to the blackened and twisted remains of the tanks that had been dive-bombed but the survivors
had obviously taken their dead with them and once past that scene of carnage it was as if the war had ended…. or never started perhaps.

  ‘Is this what you thought it would be like?’, asked Sam.

  ‘Not really. I don’t know exactly what I expected but not this. I probably thought that we’d dig in and wait for them to attack and then we’d shoot them. Y’know, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Aye, my Dad was at the Somme. They had a huge artillery barrage and then over the top. They just walked out towards the German lines….’

  ‘It was terrible. But this isn’t much good either. I think the Germans are winning’, said the Dubliner in too loud a voice. At the front of the platoon Horsley-Palmer turned around without breaking stride to see who was talking. Tony looked down so as not to make eye contact. When he spoke again it was in a whisper.

  ‘Sam, I think that the Jerries are winning’, he said in a forceful whisper.

  ‘Bollocks, Tony.’

  ‘It’s true. We haven’t even seen any and yet they’re managing to kill us. We’re retreating without even having fired a shot. All our transport has gone. It’s a complete balls-up.’

  Sam said nothing. The men kept marching.

  After several hours they stopped in a wood, dug shell scrapes and basha’ed up for the night. As usual sentries were posted and men cooked meals, not knowing when they would have the chance again. The CO placed two Bren guns to guard the road and having done so walked around the position to speak to the men.

  ‘And how are you two doing?’, he asked. He’d been a regular officer since 1915, had marched these roads and led his men through all sorts of fighting. He’d walked out in to machine gun fire and bombardment, his revolver in one hand and his sword in the other. He still had both but only carried the former now. By 1916 only he and six other subalterns from the battalion were left alive and then the new armies formed and everything was different - except the method of attack, of course.

  ‘Fine, sir’, said Sam.

  ‘Good. Well, things are a bit confused at the minute but we’ll see what we can sort out tomorrow.’ He smiled and then looked over at Fusilier O’Keefe, who clearly needed to ask a question. Sam half winced but the CO raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘go ahead’.

  ‘Sir. Are the Germans close by?’

  ‘Probably, but I don’t know how close. There is still fighting but I think the idea is that we pull back and set up a new line that they can’t break through.’ Sam looked over at Tony to see if this answer had satisfied him. He hoped it would be so. The big Irishman’s brow furrowed for a second and then he smiled.

  ‘Right sir, thanks.’

  ‘Get your heads down lads’, said the colonel as he moved to the next group of soldiers.

  ‘Ah, he’s a good lad, the Colonel’, said O’Keefe. ‘We’ll be all right.’

  At dusk they were stood to and again at dawn. Neither men had been disturbed to do a sentry duty during the night.

  ‘I think they’ve forgotten about us, Tony.’

  ‘Good. Can we go home then?’

  They used the last of their rations to cook breakfast and began to pack up ready to continue their move. Overhead, heard but not seen, flew large numbers of aircraft. They didn’t know if they were British or German and, as the noise of aero-engines dissipated, the sound of battle emerged. The war was catching them up.

  By early afternoon they were back at the site of the bridge where they had hastily abandoned their trenches just days previously.

  ‘Shit. Would you look at that’, said Sam in disgust. It was clear from the little mushroom heads poking up from their trenches that another regiment had taken possession of them.

  ‘Looks like we won’t be stopping here, RSM’, said the CO at the head of the column.

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘Let’s see if they have comms with…. anyone’, he said as they approached. ‘Get the men into the wood over there RSM, tell them to brew up or something. We also need to get some rations from somewhere.’ He looked straight ahead as he spoke, proud and unbowed to all appearances. ‘What a bloody mess’, he said.

  ‘Right lads, Sir wants a word’, said Yewell. Wearily they got to their feet and gathered in round their officer.

  ‘How are we doing?’, said Lieutenant Horsley-Palmer, trying to sound upbeat. Judging by the faces of his men it was probably a mistake. ‘Well, the situation is this.’ He pointed to a small, oft-folded map as he spoke. Most of the soldiers couldn’t really see any of the detail to which he referred. ‘The Germans have come through here. The have over-run Holland - they’re out of the war - and they are advancing - very rapidly - through Belgium.’ He looked at his men trying to gauge their reaction. They were attentive enough, that was for sure but he couldn’t tell what sort of mood they were in. ‘So. We think that they are now about here and this is twenty-five or thirty miles from here, which is this spot. There are still some British soldiers fighting along with the Belgians but there is a chance that they will be cut off, hopefully only temporarily. General Gort is trying to organise us into an unbreakable line of resistance to stop the Germans and then to counter-attack and throw them back out of Belgium.’ The men listened impassively. He wondered how much they were really taking in. ‘However’, he continued, ‘the problem is that the French lines don’t seem to be holding up too well.’ He opened up the map. The Germans have pushed up to here and are heading for the coast. If they reach the coast….’

  ‘We’ll be cut off from the French?’, said Gwilt.

  ‘Exactly, Corporal Gwilt. The situation isn’t hopeless but it isn’t good either. So, what is going to happened is that we are going to head off in that direction’, he pointed up the river, ‘and dig in and wait.’ He sighed. ‘Are there any questions?’ There were no questions. ‘Right let’s go.’

  They began marching again, distant artillery fire a discordant accompaniment to the sound of boots on the loose gravel path.

  ‘Do you know any songs?’, asked Tony.

  ‘None that quite fit this situation’, replied Sam. They didn’t talk much after that.

  After two hours the company stopped, allowing the rest of the regiment to carry on and after a brief discussion about deployments they began digging positions on the side of a hill, just inside the cover of the wood which surmounted the summit like a garland. Again, they had to hack their way through tree roots which glued the clay together like a gigantic subterranean spider’s web. As they worked a light truck pulled up at the foot of the hill and dropped off a mortar crew from Support Company. The truck sat in the open as the crew toiled up the hill with their load of bombs and the little two-inch mortar itself. As they began to dig in one of the men sought out the OC, Major Donnelly. Donnelly had only joined the company (from the Depot) shortly before they’d had been sent to France and had had little chance to make an impact, or so he told himself. Perhaps closer to the truth was that he was just too reticent to really gain his men’s affections, which is not the same as not having their respect.

  The lance-corporal and the major spoke for a few moments then Donnelly stood and walked over to Corporal Owen.

  ‘Corporal Owen take two men and a Bren gun and get into that truck’, he said pointing down the hill. ‘You’re going to give cover to a section of sappers who are blowing a bridge. It ought to be straightforward’, he added, doubtfully.

  ‘And the truck brings us back here when we’re finished, sir?’

  The OC looked over at the lance-corporal from support, who in turn nodded.

  ‘What’s wrong corporal? Are you afraid that you might miss us?’ He’d meant it to be a joke but it just sounded spiteful. It always happened that way; him misjudging the tone. No wonder they didn’t like him. If only he could…. well this was hardly the time to worry.

  ‘Yes, sir’, answered Owen. The OC was slightly taken aback at the NCO’s candour.

  ‘Well, good luck - anyway you’ll be back in the bosom of the company soon enough.’

&nb
sp; He took, Sam and Tony, the former swapping his rifle for the section's Bren gun and magazines.

  ‘Where are you lot going?’, asked Tommy.

  ‘Fuck knows’, said Yewell. ‘You’re in charge Ernie, ‘til I get back. If Ernie’s killed then Tommy’s in charge.’

  ‘Killed?’

  ‘You’re not going to be killed, Ernie', he said reassuringly. It was the last time that they ever spoke.

  1940 The Bridge

  The truck took them back to the same river bank, overlooking the same bridge that they had guarded, crossed and re-crossed. The battalion of soldiers from an English regiment, by the sound of them, was pulling out on foot just as they arrived. The truck quickly sped off again once they had dismounted. Immediately a colour-sergeant bounded over to them.

  ‘What are you lads doin’ ere?’ he asked. He was small but very fit looking as if he’d been a boxer or gymnast. His accent was south of England, Kent or somewhere.

  ‘Royal Irish, Colour. We’ve been sent to give cover to some sappers who are coming to blow the bridge’, said Yewell Owen.

  ‘There’s no sappers ere, corporal. We’ve been told to pull back. A Jerry armoured column is coming this way - we’ve nothing to take em on with.’ He looked around, anxious to help and anxious to be away in equal measure. ‘Have you any rations?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Grenades, Bren magazines?’

  ‘No grenades, some Bren mags.’

  ‘Right come with me.’ He took them to a dug-out full of ration boxes, and two crates of grenades. ‘We can’t carry this lot, so ‘elp yourselves. I suggest you open one box of grenades for you and give another lot to the sappers to help the bridge go up. Wait there. I’ll get you some extra mags for the Bren.’ He sprinted off as the men grabbed some ration boxes and grenades and took them to the trench nearest the bridge. They split open the boxes and shoved food into their packs and then began eating chocolate from some of the other boxes.