Island Redoubt Page 7

  ‘We’re not stealin’ him lads. He just followed us.’ They passed the last house on the street, a big, old family home, even more in need of paint than the others they had seen. A metal gate hung crookedly from a concrete post with peeling lemon-coloured paint and the path leading to the varnished front door was almost overgrown by weeds as if no-one had passed that way for years. As Tony looked over he saw an old lady in one of the upstairs windows. She smiled and waved and he returned the gesture, the second one anyway. The dog stopped and sat. It went no further.

  ‘There was an old lady in that house! This is the front line! I think’, said Sam. The sight of an elderly vulnerable civilian in what would inevitably become a killing ground amazed and dismayed him.

  ‘Probably nowhere else to go.’ As they carried on walking the dog cocked his head to one side, stood and then turned to retrace his steps back to the cookhouse.

  They carried on along a long flat road, devoid of traffic or any signs of life. Only the weeds and the huge dragonflies and butterflies seemed to prosper. A welcome breeze cooled them as they sauntered towards their destination. They had neither map nor compass and the road signs were missing, destroyed or had simply never been there. Aside from that they only had the vaguest notion where La Bassee was and had no idea what the situation would be when they got there. As things stood there was every chance that the Germans would get there before them.

  ‘I don’t know what that lot back there will do if the Jerries send in a load of tanks’, said Sam.

  ‘An extra Bren isn’t going to help much that’s for sure.’ They marched shambolically in silence for a few more moments until Tony spoke again. ‘Where has the war gone? Where is the front line? How far have we to go and why is our battalion so far behind that company we’ve just been with? Who told them to hang on there and why?’

  ‘Which do I answer first?’

  ‘Well can you answer any of them, because I’m bloody sure I can’t. This whole thing is just bollocks.’

  ‘We should be travelling at night really’, said Sam, changing the subject. ‘A bit exposed this way.’

  ‘Aye, but it can’t be much further. Our mob can’t be…..’, he shrugged and pursed his lips, ‘thirty miles behind them.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder and Sam looked back at the village, now just a vague outline further down the road. He looked back at Tony and then, a look of horror instantly taking control of his face, back at the village.

  ‘Down!’, he yelled, a yell almost drowned out by Stuka sirens. From incredible height they screamed down almost vertically, pilots pressed into their seats by a force that took them close to the point of blacking out, their target below growing from a tiny dot on a map to a near full sized, three-dimensional village within seconds. Their bombs were released with precision, that same release giving the aircraft impetus to swing out of its dive and into a relatively slow climb out of the battle they had so briefly joined. The fusiliers could only watch with continued horror, as one bomb after another, twelve in all, smashed into the village ripping masonry from wood, brick from cement and sending out shock waves that deafened even as it tore limb from limb. Twelve huge concussions and then the darkly evil, crank-winged bombers were gone like ugly crows. The silence was punctuated by the crackling of fires as the little village burned.

  ‘I told you that dog was a spy’, said Tony but his comrade was not in the mood for jokes. An image of the terrified animal flashed through his mind until displaced by thoughts of the men who must have died.

  ‘Do we go back?’, he asked. As he spoke he tentatively rose to his feet and brushed roadside dust from his uniform.

  ‘And do what? Besides the Germans’ll be turning up again to have another crack.’

  Even as he said this they could hear sporadic gunfire from the far side of the village. The battle had re-commenced but it sounded like a less sturdy defence than before and within moments it seemed to abate altogether. Both men were now walking again.

  ‘Either those Jerries stop there for the day and rest or they come down this road before not too long. I seriously think that we need to get off the road. Keep it in sight maybe and follow it but we’re too obvious just walking along it’, said Sam.

  ‘What about travelling at night?’, asked Tony

  ‘We must be close by now. I think we should just keep going. If we wait we’ll end up with them ahead of us.’

  They stuck to the road until they reached a junction. There was a road sign indicating two little villages left and right and the sizeable town of Bethune, straight ahead.

  ‘What do you reckon?’

  ‘Bethune.’

  ‘Bethune? Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve heard of it or seen it on Horsley-Palmer’s map. It’s in the right direction, I think.’

  ‘Okay, but we should get off this road, Sam.’

  They crossed the junction and began heading for Bethune whilst also looking for a less obvious parallel route that they could take. Sam heard the vehicle engine first and dived into the roadside ditch. It was bone dry after the glorious summer weather in which war-torn France was basking.

  ‘It’s those Jerries’, hissed Tony. But it wasn’t. A green Humber careered round the corner, only just getting onto the Bethune road. In it were two MPs and the car had the words ‘Military Police’ crudely stencilled on its flank. As it drew parallel with the two fusiliers, Sam leapt to his feet and flagged them down. The driver, swerved violently, such was his shock as finding a British soldier appearing before him in this way. The Humber screeched to a halt and then the passenger, a staff-sergeant was out, revolver in hand and aiming at Sam.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘Fusilier Beattie, staff. Royal Irish Fusiliers.’ Tony stood up now.

  ‘Fusilier O’Keefe, staff.’

  ‘There are fucking Germans everywhere. You.’, he said pointing at Sam. ‘Beattie or whatever you’re called. I want to see both your ID cards. Bring ‘em over. Pronto.’ Hurriedly Sam collected the cards and took them over.

  ‘Beattie and O’Keefe’, the MP mumbled. ‘Right. Where are you going?’

  ‘La Bassee Canal.’

  ‘I don’t know where the fuck that is but get in, you can’t hang around ‘ere.’

  They jumped in the back of the car and the staff-sergeant got in the front once again. As they set off the MP took a map and began looking at it intently.

  ‘You’re fuckin’ lucky we came along lads. There are Jerries on all sides of you back there. There might even be some ahead of us.’ He resumed his close scrutiny of the map.

  ‘La Bassee!’, he said triumphantly. ‘Not far from Bethune. We’ll drop you off.’

  ‘Thanks, staff’, they said in unison.

  ‘Right fuck up, this. Did you know the Belgians have just surrendered?’

  ‘Surrendered?’

  ‘Yep. The French lines have collapsed. We’re pulling back to the coast. Reckon they’re going to try to get us out.

  ‘Shit!’, said Sam

  ‘Shit indeed’, said the staff-sergeant.

  ‘Jerries have lots of French prisoners. Millions probably’, said the driver.

  ‘Been surrenderin’ as soon as they got the chance some of ‘em.’

  ‘Is La Bassee, near the coast, staff?’, ventured Tony.

  ‘Look for yourself’, he said passing them the map. ‘You’re in the right neck of the woods, anyway.’

  The two fusiliers traced their fingers from La Bassee to the coast. It didn’t look far. The map gave no indication of where the Germans were, of course. Tony looked at Sam but didn’t speak. The idea of going straight to the coast rather than stopping off seemed very attractive all of a sudden.

  ‘Where are youse going, Staff?’

  ‘Dunkerque. Up North, near Belgium.’

  They found it on the map.

  ‘Dunkirk?’, said Tony. ‘I thought it was pronounced Dunker-Cue.’

  ‘Dunker-cue’, scoffed Sam with a shake of his head. />
  ‘So ‘ow did you two end up miles from your unit?’ There was no trace of suspicion in his voice and Tony explained about the bridge and the sappers and losing Yewell Owen.

  ‘You’ve seen a bit of action then, eh?’

  ‘I suppose so, staff’, said Sam, modestly.

  ‘D’ye hear this Bill?’, he said to the driver. ‘Fuckin’ Paddies. Hard as nails.’ In the back Sam and Tony smiled.

  They passed the map back and sat in silence, trying to take in the enormity of the disaster that had befallen their army. In ten minutes the car slowed and stopped.

  ‘La Bassee, lads.’

  They all climbed out of the car for a moment. The driver, a corporal lit up and offered his fags round. They were French and stank but they all took one.

  ‘You’ll be safe for a while anyway lads. Christ knows what’s going to happen after that.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Our battalion is supposed to be round here somewhere so we’ll go and look for them.’

  ‘Good luck, lads’, said the MP. 'Good luck’ seemed to be the recurring theme for the war and yet there was very little of it to be found.

  The Battalion

  ‘Where the fuck have you been? Where’s Yewell?’

  ‘Is that the same as ‘‘welcome back lads’’, Ernie?’, said Tony.

  ‘We thought you were dead.’

  ‘Well, we’re not but Yewell is’, said Sam. For a second the shock of the moment came back to him. He saw his friend’s body crumple and fall lifeless all over again. He blinked back tears - they were gone as quickly as they had come.

  ‘Jesus’, said Ronnie. ‘Poor Yewell.’

  ‘You’ve had time to get used to it Ronnie - you lot thought we were all dead.’

  ‘Aye, I know Sam - and it's nice to have youse back, by the way - but it’s still a shock to find out for sure, y’know. I suppose we thought you might all be prisoners or something.’

  ‘Aye. I know.’

  ‘How’d it happen?’, asked Bill Murdock. He was ashen-faced, like the others.

  ‘He was chuckin’ grenades at the Germans at that bridge…. and got shot. We had to leave him.’

  ‘Was the bridge destroyed?’

  ‘Aye, for all the good that’s done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, it’s not exactly stopped the Germans, has it?’

  ‘Hasn’t it?’, said Ernie. He seemed genuinely bewildered.

  ‘What? Ernie, listen to me. The Jerries are what, twenty miles away?’, said Sam looking to Tony for support.

  ‘Probably less by now’, said Tony. ‘They’re bloody everywhere. The French are surrenderin’ at every opportunity and the British are pulling back to the coast.’

  ‘Except us by the look of it’, said Sam with a shake of his head.

  ‘The coast, Tony?’

  ‘Aye, evacuation. That’s the whisper anyway.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  As they chatted an anti-aircraft battery opened up at a formation of Dorniers high above. Puffs of black smoke appeared round and about the aircraft like ink-soaked cotton wool. Almost as soon as the firing had begun it stopped but the bombers droned onwards.

  ‘That didn’t last long’, said Fusilier Mackey, whose head, like that of the others was tilted towards the sky, one hand to his brow to block out the sun. The reason for the brevity of the ack-ack fire was soon apparent. A flight of Spitfires from bases in southern England dived into the midst of the bombers, each fighter’s battery of eight machine guns already tearing at the lightweight metal structure of the enemy planes. Two of the elegant yet ponderous bombers caught fire and left the formation in slow banking turns, during which they lost height dramatically and completely changed direction to flee for home. The fighters turned for another pass and the bomber’s formation seemed to fragment but not before another plane was downed. The three damaged aircraft were still in the air. The men on the ground cheered wildly, desperate for some sort of victory even if it wasn’t theirs exactly. One, then two, then three parachutes opened and one of the stricken bombers began a violent spin, belching smoke like some large misfiring firework.

  The Spitfires continued to weave in and out of their targets, sending them off in different directions and damaging one more, downing four in total.

  The bombing raid was over before it had begun. Not a bomb had been dropped. The RSM organised a party, led by himself, to round up the airmen who had parachuted to safety. The eyes of the whole battalion were fixed on their progress as they ran into the large field in front of the canal to capture their prisoners.

  They found two of them quickly and flushed them out at bayonet point but the third, despite a long search evaded them completely.

  ‘For you Fritz the war is over’, joked Tony from his vantage point behind the line of trenches. ‘I’d love to say that.’

  ‘You just have.’

  ‘To a German, I meant.’

  Horsley-Palmer approached. His arrival wasn’t always good news and the men looked elsewhere or sought miniscule jobs to do - anything that would make them too busy to be picked for some crappy job.

  ‘O’Keefe and Beattie!’ His tone was friendly. ‘It’s very nice to see you back.’

  ‘Thanks, sir. It's relatively nice to be back’, said Tony, enigmatically.

  ‘We’ve been hearing great things about you from the Sapper’s OC. The Colonel wants to see you.’

  ‘Bloody hell’, said Tony as they got to their feet and followed the platoon commander. The Colonel was sitting in a folding chair enjoying the Sun. He’d removed his tunic and was smoking his habitual pipe. Behind him in the command post a signaller chatted on a field telephone and a clerk typed with stoic ineptitude.

  ‘My two favourite fusiliers’ he said as the two soldiers stood before him. Neither saluted, as befitted their tactical situation. ‘At ease, gents. I’ve heard from a Major Simms who is the OC of the sappers whom you were supporting a few days ago. It seems that you did a splendid job at the bridge.’ He paused and took another puff from his pipe. The contents of the bowl glowed orangely in the shade of the tent. ‘Is that right?’ The two soldiers shrugged.

  ‘We were just doin’ our job, sir’, said Tony.

  ‘Well it seems that you did a bloody good job. Not only did they get time to bring down the bridge but you managed to account for a fair few Jerries as well. Mind you it’s nothing less than I would have expected from you but still its damned good to hear about Irish Fusiliers maintaining the proud traditions of their regiment. I’m going to recommend Corporal Owen for a Military Medal and you two are going to be mentioned in dispatches. That’ll mean a little oak leaf to be worn on your campaign medal.’ With that he stood and shook them by the hands. His pipe was gripped tightly between his teeth. Horsley-Palmer looked on grinning proudly as if he had brought them into the world. ‘Well done’, said the CO.

  ‘Yes, well done’, echoed Horsley-Palmer.

  ‘Thanks, sir.’

  That evening six anti-tank guns, towed by Bren Carriers turned up at the canal and were dug in ready for action. From the other direction an armoured column consisting of Panzer II, Panzer III and Sdkfz 231s ground out a path for the defenders of La Bassee canal. At a different section of the canal some of Rommel’s excellent Czech-designed tanks were being thrust into action again after some reverses at Arras the previous week. The defenders got some warning of the impending attack and braced themselves. It had now been made clear to them that the intention was for the remains of the battalion to provide protection for the British troops being evacuated from Dunkirk. They wondered when and if their turn for evacuation would come.

  It seemed to take an age before the first tanks put in an appearance. The panzers, upon sighting their enemy, spread out and began spewing shells at the British positions. Men hastily dropped their fags and began firing at the troop carrying 231s and the little two pounder anti-tank guns entered the fray spitting shells at the tanks. From behind them, mortar bomb
s were dropped down their tubes to be spat back out with a ‘phut!’ The two inch bombs rained down in the midst of the attacking infantry, maiming and killing. Machine gun fire from the attacking armoured vehicles raked the system of trenches and the panzers aimed their cannons at the biggest threat to their survival, the two pounders. Two of these were quickly put out of commission, their crews killed and the guns themselves rendered twisted and useless. The rest maintained a sturdy defence, shell after shell being sent over to the enemy.

  At either side of the Irish Fusiliers positions on the canal stood bridges, one of which was hastily destroyed leaving the enemy tanks stranded on the far bank. The other survived its attempted demolition and failed to collapse. Within moments panzers began to swarm across. From nowhere appeared a troop of British light tanks of the 4/7th Dragoon Guards and these stood in the path of the Fusiliers and the oncoming panzers. The infantrymen were cheered by the sight of them, viewing them as their saviours but this cheer quickly evaporated when one by one the tiny tanks were knocked out. In truth they were inadequate, old-fashioned designs and had nothing more than machine guns with which to attack the Germans - it was something of a suicide mission to employ them at all.

  The panzers now bore down on the Fusiliers, disdainfully pushing the wrecked British armour to one side like toy cars. These were Panzer IIIs, at this stage of the war virtually unstoppable. The remaining two pounders continued to fire shell after shell and even some anti-tank rifles were brought to bear, but to no avail. The Fusiliers began to abandon their positions, jumping from their trenches into the withering fire from the German tanks. Men died as they stood, throwing their arms into the air as they collected bullets. There was no chance to surrender and nor was there time to stop and collect the wounded. The lead tank took a shot to its right track and was disabled. It spun on a tight axis, with a terrible grinding noise as it shed the track and blocked the path and sight line of the rest of the tank troop. Its crew continued to fire from inside their little fortress, impervious to anything that the enemy had in their armoury. The men withdrew, taking losses but under continued cover from the gallant two pounder crews. In the command post the Colonel ordered a barrage onto his location and gave the order to withdraw. Runners told the anti-tank gunners to destroy their guns and pull back. Hurriedly they spiked the guns. As they sprinted to safety the little guns that had helped keep the Germans at bay exploded, barrels bending crazily and carriages being thrown into impossible shapes. The remnants of the battalion took flight to the main road behind the canal as the first British shells rained in from the divisional artillery behind the lines.