Island Redoubt Read online

  ‘Get him out of the cab, first’, said Sam, joining his friend. ‘We’ll lie him at the side of the road and then we’ll er…. bandage his wound.’ He talked himself through his own intentions as quickly as they came to him and tried to keep a note of reassurance in his voice for the benefit of the wounded man. The truth was that the soldier had just died at that moment. Sam realised this as he applied a field dressing clumsily to the injured head and in a way, he was relieved. How much help could they really have given to such a badly wounded man? The exit wound, like a lump of flesh plucked from his body by some fearsome predator had left the young NCO with no chance.

  ‘No’, said Sam, laying the man down. ‘He’s dead now.’ He looked at the island of sticky blood on his tunic. A red-black island in a khaki sea. ‘So, let’s get them buried.’ The little truck had a shovel attached to the tailgate and they took it in turns to dig. Sam had picked a spot to take cover in should the marauding German fighter return to his killing ground.

  The clay broke away like rough, crumbly bricks but the hole needed to be large for all three bodies, as they found when they tentatively set the first one in.

  ‘This is going to take all day’, said Sam, straightening up like an elderly gardener.

  ‘Well, we have to keep goin’ now.’ Occasionally, they would duck for cover as an aircraft swept over. Rarely was it a Messerschmitt, although they did see a flight of Stukas some miles to their east diving in on some target or other. By tea time they were finished. Tony, self-consciously mumbled a few Christian words and they set off hoping to cover just another few miles before having a meal and a night’s rest.

  Battles are fought at night. Soldiers move at night. Darkness gave an equal advantage to both sides and it was madness not to use it. It was the sound of engines which woke them from their cold, exhausted sleep. They grabbed their rifles and watched from the copse as a column of armoured vehicles thundered down the road.

  ‘Germans?’, whispered Sam, hoarsely as the wheeled vehicles came closer. Tony shrugged his unseen reply in the darkness.

  ‘Could be French. Or Belgian. Not British. I don’t think so anyway.’ He spoke tersely as if the enemy was already upon him. The column drove into a large dip in the road, each vehicle disappearing at one side and then swarming up the other like a huge unwieldy roller coaster. They roared out of the gloom with faint headlights showing the way, their progress more alarming as their tyres crunched passed just feet from the two fusilier's faces. They could just make out a little black cross on the first eight-wheeler and the white face of the driver as he strained to see the road ahead. Sam counted them as they went past. One, two, three, four. The fourth one had a German soldier urinating out of the back. His filthy Nazi urine splashed onto the tarmac road, tiny droplets hitting both hidden soldiers in the face.

  ‘Bastard’, said Tony. They watched as he shakily did up his trousers and retook his seat.

  Five, six, seven and then a little square staff car with an engine that sounded like a motorbike. An officer sat up front his head lolling in sleep like a broken-necked marionette. They passed and just as the sound of their engines began to recede another single engine could be heard - that of a Zundapp motorbike under full throttle attempting to catch up. Then that too was gone.

  ‘We should have shot that motorcyclist’, said Sam.

  ‘Mmm’, said the other, displaying his total lack of conviction for that idea. After a moment or two he said, ‘I’d rather have shot that bastard who was takin’ a leak.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re behind enemy lines now?’

  ‘Christ knows.’

  ‘What about those MPs?’

  ‘What about the sappers? I don’t know if there are any lines now really. I don’t think that it’s a case of the enemy are here’, he pointed to a blade of grass, ‘and the British and French are here.’ He pointed to another blade of grass. ‘So, I think we just head on in the direction that we think the British are.’

  ‘But move at night?’

  ‘Move at night’, confirmed Tony. ‘Starting now.’ Sam had the terrible feeling that they would never make it back to their own lines at all.

  They set a good pace along the road, slowing at bends to check that there were no German patrols resting. Within half an hour they heard gunfire ahead with the sound of racing engines emerging from the general cacophony. The road took a long, sweeping bend to the right, round a low hill in which a few cows lay, ignoring the war.

  ‘Let’s get into that field and cut across to see what’s going on’, said Sam.

  ‘Along the edge not over the top - we’ll be easily seen.’

  ‘Right.’

  The cows stirred only slightly as the two soldiers slipped past. The sound of gunfire continued; the Bren’s slow chugga-chug versus the rip of Spandau, single, cracking rifle shots and the low-velocity rattle of Schmeissers. The soldiers quickened their pace, curiosity and fear vying to become the dominant emotion. Sam’s breathing came in short rasping bursts and he constantly fought to maintain his balance as he slipped on raised tufts of grass. Marshy divots grasped at their ankles, spewing muddy water over the tops of their boots. Sam looked over his shoulder to see the outline of Tony plodding behind him, the Bren carried low by its handle.

  They had skirted the hill to come to a mound which led to a farm gate.

  ‘A bit exposed there’, said Tony.

  ‘On our bellies, then’, said Sam, lowering himself to the ground. They slithered forward, the sound of gunfire becoming louder as inch by inch they closed in on a battle they wanted no part of but seemed unable to avoid. As they drew parallel with the gate, one of the German armoured vehicles careered past in reverse, its engine howling in protest. Then another and another. They stopped out of sight behind the hill. Sam risked a look behind him, cautiously peering out from beneath the rim of his helmet like a wary tortoise. Each of the armoured cars had a gunner behind an MG34 and, of course, a driver. One of the latter had opened his hatch and was now climbing out. Sam stared in horror. They were so close! The driver spoke to the gunner, who peered round his little armoured shield to facilitate their brief discourse. There was a distinct note of panic or shock in the exchange, although naturally neither of the fusiliers could understand the words they used. What they did understand with increasing alarm was that they were very exposed, more so now that the sun was clearly about to pop up from behind the rounded hills ahead.

  Tony, his body pressed in tight against the earth tugged at Sam’s leg and, when he had an audience of one, motioned that they had to move. Sam nodded. Slowly, painstakingly, they edged forwards, the noise of engines and talking covering the sounds of their crawling advance. They could only hope that the Germans wouldn’t see them - after all they weren’t expecting two Britishers to be there. Sam’s muscles were involuntarily and uselessly tensed against the impact of a bullet which might come at any moment. He felt as if he had stopped breathing and wondered what they would find around the corner when they were out of sight of the Germans. He felt as if their presence must be so obvious that only an enemy of great stupidity could fail to notice them.

  A tiny sliver of sun emerged above the hill, silencing the German chatter for a brief moment and casting a pale-yellow glow over the scene, whilst ahead the sound of battle continued. Over the mound and out of sight, at least for the moment, the land fell away sharply and seamlessly from the hill they had circumvented. Both men rolled over onto their backs, only the packs and water bottles which they carried preventing them from merging with the long grass.

  Ahead was a village - the scene of the fighting. One armoured car appeared to have been knocked out, as did the little square staff car. Germans were dotted about in isolated cover and one small section was crouched on the main street, perhaps pinned down. Just ahead of them another German lay prone and seemingly dead. The British obviously had secure positions in the village, giving them plenty of cover. They could withstand an attack from unsupported infantry for days.r />
  ‘Now what?’, said Tony. Sam shrugged and then gave his reply.

  ‘Should we shoot those Germans behind us?’

  ‘That’s a great idea; two British soldiers taking on half a dozen armoured cars.’ Tony shook his head.

  ‘Just shoot some of them, I meant.’

  ‘Aye, even better. And what’ll the others do? Surrender maybe?’

  As they spoke the Germans below began to withdraw upon the shouted orders of their commander. In ones or twos and under intense covering machine gun fire they sprinted short distances before diving to the ground and returning fire. Some zig-zagged, some fell, injured or dead. Each now wanted to put as much distance between himself and the village as they could. For some time, they seemed to maintain their discipline but once they had regained the road their orderly withdrawal took on the appearance of a panic-stricken rout. The armoured cars rolled forward to meet them as British fire continued to harry the retreating infantry and then some of that fire became directed at the vehicles themselves. Bullets, spent mostly, pinged off the armour and one landed on Tony’s boot, like a little copper-coloured insect. He flinched and then just looked at it in amazement.

  Sam and Tony were in plain view of the armoured cars - more so now than previously because of daybreak. They prayed like two good atheists that the German vehicle crews’ attention would remain intent upon following the dramatic retreat before them and that they would not detect the two frightened soldiers lying in the field to their right. They remained still, knowing that any movement could finish them. Tony looked around, moving only his eyes, looking for any piece of cover that he could casually slide into place to disguise their presence…. and all the time, thankfully, the battle raged below, giving their close-by enemies something else upon which to focus their attention.

  The rifle fire from the village became more sporadic as the Germans put a greater and greater distance between themselves and the British defenders. It was a small victory, lost in the overall defeat which was befalling the Allies. The soldiers, some of them carrying wounded comrades across their backs or supported between two of them, made it to the safety of their transport. They reversed away, back up the hill, out of range now, chased by just a few desultory but well-aimed bullets. Tony rolled over onto his front and mounted the Bren on its bipod, adjusting the legs to their maximum height and hauling back the cocking lever. He winked at Sam and said, ‘get ready to run!’

  ‘What are you….’

  ‘Watch this.’ As the last vehicle passed them he sent a deadly accurate burst of .303 into the cab via the driver’s hatch. With a mortally wounded driver the vehicle lurched from side to side, mounted the bank and overturning like a wounded beast.

  ‘Run!’, he shouted. And they did. Germans spilled disorientated from the stricken carrier.

  ‘Faugh - a - Ballagh!’, shouted Sam as he careered own the hill. He heard Tony laugh breathlessly somewhere behind him.

  ‘I think you're supposed to shout that as you charge at the enemy - not as you run away.’ He could hardly get the words out through gasps of exertion.

  A solitary bullet flew over their heads with a crack.

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  ‘Fuck - a - Ballagh!’ shouted the big Irishman. He was out of breath with laughter and exhaustion. They slowed to a walking pace as they reached to the bottom and then walked cautiously towards the village.

  ‘Let’s hope we don’t come a cropper now, Tony.’

  ‘Halt!’, came a voice from the nearest house. They stopped, as requested. Sam took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure that the Germans weren’t coming back but they were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Custard!’, yelled the detached voice.

  ‘Custard? What the fuck….?’

  ‘It’s the password, Tony.’

  ‘Custard!’, louder this time.

  ‘I don’t know the password!’, shouted Tony. ‘Can’t you tell we’re British soldiers?’ A rifle was cocked. Sam could see the soldier behind it now, peering over his sights from a smashed basement window.

  ‘CUSTARD!’

  ‘PIE! I don’t know…. We don’t know the password’, said Tony. In a stage aside to Sam he said, ‘Do I sound like a fuckin’ German?’

  ‘We’re Royal Irish Fusiliers’, began Sam, reasonably. ‘We’re trying to get to La Bassee canal.’ He stopped because he could hear a whispered discussion coming from the basement.

  ‘All right. Hands up and come in slowly’, said another voice - West Country. They paced slowly into the village. Tony tried to keep the Bren above his head. A sergeant with a large moustache and a brown leather jerkin over his uniform stopped them.

  ‘Roight. Oo are yew, again?’

  Sam almost smirked at the comical accent but explained in brief how they had come to be here.

  ‘So you’re goin’ to this La Bassee canal place?’ Bristol.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Eaten?’

  ‘Not for a while’, said Sam. His stomach rumbled as if trained to do so for these occasions.

  ‘Roight. Grub then.’

  The sergeant led them to a barn which had been hastily turned into a little cookhouse and asked the cook to feed them. A black and white dog, a sort of collie, trotted over to Sam and jumped up to see him.

  ‘Hello, boy. How you doin?’ Sam knelt and the dog tried to lick his face. ‘Sit!’ he commanded. The dog just looked at him, its tail wagging so vigorously that his whole hind quarters swayed rhythmically.

  ‘Ee don’t speak no English’, said the cook, with a smile. ‘That’s a French dog that is.’

  ‘Does he want fed?’

  ‘Ee don’t need feedin’. Ee must be the best fed dog in France right now, I reckon. Just wants attention, thas what ee wants.’

  Tony and Sam held out their mess tins as beans and spam were unceremoniously slopped in. ‘Don’t get too attached to the dog, he’ll be the same when the German get here’, said Tony.

  ‘And they’ll be ‘ere soon enough’, said the cook. We’ve just had a right old scrap.’

  ‘We saw it. Youse did well.’

  ‘Even I was shootin’ at the bastards’, continued the cook with a sideways look at his Lee Enfield, propped against the wall. ‘Oi’m only a TA cook and ‘ere oi am shootin’ Jerries.’

  The sergeant returned just before they had finished their food. He had a corporal with him. The corporal had red-rimmed eyes and a sallow complexion as if he was extremely ill. He was wiry in build but not fit looking. Sam was reminded of their own corporal Gwilt.

  ‘Roight lads. We was wonderin’ if you would stay ‘ere with uz?’, said the sergeant. The corporal looked on. ‘Thing is we don’t think you’ll get back to your lines and we could do with you ‘ere. Corporal Bentley ‘as lost two men out of ‘is section and them Germans are sure to come back sooner rather than later.’ The sergeant eyed the Bren gun as he spoke. Sam looked down he had suspected that this might happen. The little dog nuzzled against his leg as if offering its weight to the recruitment campaign.

  ‘Sergeant, we’ve nearly been arrested as deserters once already. I think we need to get back as soon as we can.’

  ‘We’ll you’ll have problems getting to this ‘ere Bassee canal place but oi can’t stop you trying.’

  ‘You’ll not make it!’, said the corporal, breaking his silence. He seemed to be on the verge of hysteria.

  ‘Leave it, Cecil. They’re roight. They need to get back to their unit. We’d no roight to ask even.’

  ‘Bollocks. We need ‘em ‘ere.’

  ‘Their own battalion needs ‘em too.’

  ‘Down to two companies’, lied Sam. Tony opened his mouth to contradict him and then swiftly gathered the significance of his friend's deceit. It could be the difference between life and death. Staying here sounded like death.

  ‘But we need you ‘ere’, wailed the corporal. Sam backed away at the sound of his voice. There was something sickening, almost pitiable about the man an
d his demeanour.

  ‘Fuck’s sake get out of it man’, admonished the sergeant before turning his attention back to Sam and Tony. He was clearly embarrassed at his NCO’s public break down. ‘Get on lads and good luck.’

  ‘Bastards. Cowardly bastards!’ spat the corporal.

  ‘Listen, Sergeant do you want this Bren? I’ll swap with one of your men.’

  ‘Good idea.’ The exchange was made and they bade the sergeant farewell.

  ‘Not a soul left here’, remarked Sam as they passed along the deserted street. The houses were intact apart from a few bullet holes.

  ‘Just your new mate’, said Tony pointing at the dog. It trotted along next to Sam hoping for a titbit, looking up expectantly as if he was and always had been his master.

  ‘I’ve nothing’ for you, mate’, said Sam. The dog wagged his tail, excitedly.

  ‘That must be French for ‘do you want a piece of chocolate? You've got to give him somethin’ now.’ They stopped and sat on a battered public bench with peeling paint as Sam rummaged in his pack.

  ‘Aha! Army chocolate.’ He unwrapped the bar, one of the ones bequeathed to them at the bridge and broke off a piece. The dog automatically begged. ‘Look at that!’ The dog had caught the piece he’d thrown.

  ‘Don’t I get a bit?’

  ‘You haven’t begged’, he said but passed a square to the Dubliner anyway. ‘Did you have chocolate in Dublin?’

  ‘Cheeky bastard. Of course we did! No-one could afford it…. but we had it.’ And so saying he gave his piece to the dog, who wagged his tail in appreciation.

  ‘He’s a nice wee thing’, said Sam.

  ‘He’s probably a spy. Now I suggest we get out of here.’ They stood and began walking again. At the far end of the village they came to a sandbagged sentry post. Two infantrymen lay behind a Vickers gun and another stood in a doorway with a rifle. They stared at the two soldiers as they passed.

  ‘Nice day’, said Tony conversationally. One of them nodded a reply and another said, ‘that’s our dog!’