Then he heard a heavy engine revving. He braked to a stop and suddenly, not two hundred yards ahead, a lone German tank burst through the hedge. Wreathed in foliage and clouds of exhaust, the machine traversed a ditch and lumbered across the road. Caught in the open, Theo could only freeze and stare in shock. The tank was old and battered, and small like the French models; close behind it eight infantrymen walked, some resting their hands on its flanks, and staring straight ahead as though in a trance. Nobody saw him, no one even turned to look, and in seconds the entire apparition was vanishing back into the trees. Nothing followed, no more tanks came, the engine noise faded, and in a minute he was alone with the chirping birds and rustling leaves again.
Shakily noting the location on his map, he mounted up and pedalled on. Half an hour passed, the tracks grew narrower, and darker, and a dank canopy of green closed over his head like a dome. Rain began to fall, hissing through the trees and trickling down his neck; he smelled rotting leaves and damp serge. He pushed on, turning at random, until the map became sodden and meaningless and he knew he was lost. Dismounting once more to check his bearings, he continued on foot, senses heightened for signs of trouble, the bicycle clicking quietly at his side. When he detected movement in the bushes again he pretended to ignore it and kept moving, his body tensed for flight. Then he heard the unmistakable sliding of a German rifle bolt.
‘Nicht schiessen,’ he said quietly. ‘Ich habe keine Pistole.’
‘Nicked cheese, my arse! Who the fuck are you?’
Four men, grimy, unshaven and mud-caked, emerged from the trees. ‘Put your bloody hands up!’
He did as ordered. ‘That’s a German rifle. A K98. I thought you were—’
‘Too right it is! One of your lot left it to me in his will!’
‘I’m not German.’
‘Bollocks! You’re a fucking spy!’
‘No.’
‘Deserter then. All the same to me.’ He raised the rifle.
‘Not that either.’
‘Then why you wandering around the woods speaking German and wearing a British battledress with no badges?’
‘Because I’m looking for you. I’m Trickey…’
A guffaw. ‘Fucking right you are!’
‘… of 2nd Parachute Battalion.’
Another laugh, less fulsome. ‘Don’t be daft, where’s your insignia?’
‘I’m not wearing any.’ The finger was flexing on the trigger, and more figures were emerging, standing in the lane to look on suspiciously. ‘I’ve come from Divisional HQ, to find 8 Para. Is that you?’
‘I ain’t saying. I’m saying you’re a spy and I’m shooting you!’ The rifle waved menacingly.
‘Your CO wouldn’t approve. His name’s Colonel Alastair Pearson. You call him Jock, but not to his face. He knows me; we fought together in Sicily. Tell him Lieutenant Trickey’s here.’
‘Bollocks! Why should—’
‘And tell him this…’
‘What?’
‘Waho Mohammed.’
*
‘They’re keen but jumpy,’ Pearson told him a while later. ‘They thought they were coming to liberate Paris, not skulk about the woods getting sniped at. They’ll get the hang of it.’
Theo sipped tea. They were sitting in the forest clearing that comprised Pearson’s battalion HQ. The rain had faded to drizzle, the afternoon light grown dim. The camp consisted of two heavily camouflaged tents, one battered Jeep and scattered piles of weapons and stores. The radios weren’t working, he’d learned, and neither was the Jeep; many of Pearson’s men were still unaccounted for, as was much of his heavier equipment. Runners had been sent out twice to make contact with Division, but neither had returned. ‘Ran into Jerry patrols probably,’ Pearson said. For his part, Theo briefed him on the successful bridge mission and what he knew of the main invasion. Pearson explained that the battalion had to move constantly to avoid discovery. Sometimes, he said, the Germans shelled the forest at random, or raked it with machine-gun fire in the hope of hitting something. ‘Unnerving for the lads.’ As they talked, various junior officers approached and were introduced. They appeared very young, Theo thought, and wary of him, especially when Pearson recounted the Primosole story. One in particular, a subaltern called Farrar, listened in wide-eyed awe as Pearson described Theo’s band of clerks storming the enemy bridge.
‘That’s amazing, sir,’ he said to Theo. ‘I can’t imagine… Bravo.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that,’ Theo replied modestly.
‘Bloody was!’ Pearson scoffed. ‘I was there.’
‘Well. It was a relief when you arrived. And the other COs.’
‘A relief for us too. How is Johnny Frost by the way?’
‘He’s well. I saw him last month, at a wedding. He’s not happy about 2nd Battalion being held in reserve.’
‘I bet he isn’t. But he’ll get his chance.’ Pearson drained his tea, glancing at Theo’s clothing. ‘No weapon, Lieutenant? No insignia or badges of rank?’
Theo explained as best he could. Half expecting rebuke or ridicule from the hard-bitten colonel, instead the Scotsman only listened.
‘We all feel as you do, you know,’ he replied eventually. ‘Us older stagers especially: me, Johnny, the rest. We’ve been doing it too long. There’s only so much one can take.’
Theo nodded. At twenty-nine Pearson was hardly an old stager, but the years of campaigning had aged him, even in the twelve months since Primosole, his black hair greying, his face lined and fatigued, and pallid from recurrent bouts of malaria. His posture too seemed hunched and weary.
‘Look at this.’ He held up a bandaged hand. ‘Shot by one of my own men.’
‘A Sten?’ The Sten gun was notorious for misfires.
Pearson nodded, massaging his hand. ‘Too excitable, these boys. Happened at the DZ. Damn careless but can’t be helped.’
They were going out on patrol, he went on, that night. Deploying the battalion in daylight was too dangerous, and they weren’t equipped for head-on confrontation, so he’d begun making night forays aimed at disrupting enemy movements, sabotaging communications and supplies, and generally spreading confusion.
‘Hit-and-run stuff, useful recce and good training for the men. Care to tag along?’
‘I should be getting back to Division.’
‘It’s all intelligence, Trickey. And Division will all be tucked up in bed!’ He smiled. ‘Anyway, there’s something you should see.’
After a supper of bully-beef stew and tea laced with rum, they set out, one company making for the nearby town of Troarn, a second staking out the main road south, and the third in reserve guarding camp. Pearson led the first, setting off at speed along twisting woodland paths by the taped glow of a flashlight. His company followed behind, their hands on each others’ backs in the darkness or clutching the toggled ropes Paras carry. Theo brought up the rear, using the ghostly flash of distant artillery for illumination, ears alert to sounds of pursuit. But excepting the distant rumble of shelling, the clicking of kit and the stamping of boots through undergrowth, all remained quiet. After twenty minutes a halt was ordered.
‘Jerry stores dump.’ The whispered word passed through the column. ‘Small guard. We storm it on Jock’s signal.’
Moments later a piercing whistle sounded and as one the Paras leaped up and charged, bellowing lustily. Theo followed, arriving at a clearing piled with crates, drums and boxes. Sten guns stuttered, shouts echoed and grenades cracked, lighting the scene like flashbulbs, capturing frozen images of Paras running with excitement, a German with his arms raised, another falling where he stood. In seconds it was over; the shooting died down and everyone stood around looking sheepish. Two bodies lay contorted on the ground, while two prisoners, both young and terrified, stood nearby. As sappers moved among the boxes placing charges, Theo took them aside.
‘What’s your unit?’
‘709th Infantry. Medical reserve.’
‘Medical?’
>
‘Yes, I have epilepsy.’
‘And I’ve a prosthetic foot, look.’
‘Where are you based?’
‘We don’t know. The lorry only dumped us here this morning.’
Another blast on Pearson’s whistle and the men moved off, prisoners in tow. A minute later they heard the crump of explosions as the charges blew behind.
They exited the forest, creeping along ditches either side of the road to Troarn. On the way they cut telephone wires, tore down direction signs and sabotaged a railway signal box. Reaching the town, the streets appeared quiet, the houses shuttered and the enemy unsuspecting. Pearson split the company and sent them in by platoon. Soon the sounds of shouts, gunfire and explosions were heard all over town; a guardhouse was stormed, military vehicles torched and a fuel dump set ablaze. Elsewhere an anti-aircraft gun had its breech spiked, a machine-gun emplacement was seized, and a parked half-track booby-trapped by the sappers. Little resistance was encountered, any return fire sporadic, and by the time the town defences realized what was happening the Paras were already moving on. Descending from town they gathered in the shadow of a steep bank. Beyond it a river flowed north to the coast, where artillery still flashed and rumbled. Pearson summoned Theo forward. Edging up the bank beside him, Theo saw the river meandering along the valley, with a single-span bridge crossing it. At the centre of the bridge German engineers were making repairs by shrouded floodlights.
‘River Dives,’ Pearson murmured. ‘This crossing is Jerry’s main road in from the Le Havre direction. Beyond those trees two armoured divisions are waiting to get across. When they do, they’ll swing north, and God help the lads on the beaches.’
‘What about the bridge?’
‘We’ve already blown it twice. But they’ve placed heavy stuff around it, and now we can’t get near. So tell Gale we need air strikes and armour. Also anti-tank—’
‘Platoon charge!’
‘What?’
Excited shouts along the bank, and before their eyes twenty men rose up and set off for the bridge led by a figure waving a pistol.
‘Christ no, Farrar!’ Pearson leaped to his feet. ‘2 platoon with me NOW!’ He scrambled over the bank, his section following, and vanished from view.
While everyone else looked on in shocked silence.
‘Covering fire!’ Theo stood up. ‘Fire on the bridge, now! Shoot the lights, shoot the enemy, keep shooting!’
Sporadically at first, then with gathering momentum, they opened up. Confusion followed. Pearson appeared, his section running along the river as a diversion, shooting at random. The first grenades went off, and a mortar shell thumped into the bank. Covering fire hit the bridge, sparks flew, the floodlights exploded and the German engineers dashed for cover. Farrar’s section arrived to pursue them, but as they charged on to the bridge muzzle flashes sparkled across the river and a line of heavy machine guns opened up, flinging a storm of bullets at them. Some fell forwards, scythed to the ground; some staggered and whirled; some dived for cover; the rest turned and fled.
‘Off! Get them off the bridge!’ Theo leaped over the bank and scrambled down. He glimpsed Pearson’s men angling in from the side, running, shooting, shouting. Mortars crumped, machine guns rattled, clods of earth spurted and rock shards flew, ripping into the ground all round. Smoke grenades began popping, enveloping the scene in acrid mist; he heard a zipping noise and felt a hot sting in his thigh, but kept running. He arrived at the bridge as the first of Farrar’s men staggered from the fog. ‘This way!’ The next appeared, clutching his stomach, then more, singly, in pairs, some clinging to each other. ‘Off the bridge, keep moving!’ He ran forward to help them, choking on smoke. He saw a figure staggering in circles and dragged him back, then went forward again. His eyes burned; his thigh was wet and hot. He stumbled on something, knelt and glimpsed a figure on the ground.
Farrar, lying on his back. His eyes were staring, and blood welled from a wound in his chest.
‘I’ll help you.’
‘Done it wrong.’
‘Come on!’ He hauled Farrar to a sitting position, bent and hoisted him like a sack on to his shoulder. Staggering back off the bridge he passed Pearson’s men coming the other way. ‘More back there, get them!’ He reached the bank, bullets still thumping in all around. Aware now he was wounded he began struggling upwards. Halfway his leg buckled and a wave of giddiness swept over him. He heard Paras scrambling down, lifting Farrar from his back and gripping him under his arms. And as he reached safety and toppled over, he saw stars twinkling through the drifting smoke, and heard a voice saying Farrar was dead. And he tasted blood and the bitter sadness of loss; then giddiness overwhelmed him and he surrendered to the void.
CHAPTER 7
He spent three days with 8 Para. Apart from Farrar, two men died in the abortive assault on the bridge, with four injured. Theo’s wound was superficial, uncomplicated but painful and bloody. The battalion MO cleaned, stitched and dressed it, and told him to rest it for forty-eight hours. After twelve he rose from his cot and limped outside, only to find the leg numb and useless. That afternoon the battalion moved again, northwards through the forest away from Troarn. Refusing to be carried, he hacked a crutch from a bough and hobbled along behind, only to incur the MO’s wrath when his stitches tore. They encountered no Germans but heard gunfire, saw a motorized column rumbling past in the distance and a Messerschmitt that zoomed overhead but failed to spot them. Once settled in their new camp and with pickets set, Pearson sent another runner to Division with a report on the battalion’s situation, strength, supplies and casualties. Theo appended a note for Gale, gave the runner his map and bicycle, plus what directions he could for Ranville.
On the third morning the runner was back. By then sensation had returned to his leg and Theo was moving gingerly about camp with a stick. Reading the runner’s notes, Pearson beckoned him over.
‘Something’s up. Town called Bréville-les-Monts, couple of miles north of here. We’re to reposition nearby. Heard of it?’
He had. Barely two miles from Gale’s HQ, Bréville occupied the only high ground for miles around, and afforded commanding views in all directions. The Germans had been fighting hard to take it – and at considerable cost. So far Gale’s men had held them off, but should it fall the whole sector would come under their guns, including the canal bridgehead. And Gale couldn’t allow that. ‘He said it was crucial they don’t get it.’
‘They already have, and in strength. Panzer Grenadiers, apparently. And Monty says we’re to kick them off, come what may.’
‘We?’
‘6th Airborne presumably, although without armoured support, God knows.’
‘I must get back.’
He set off, walking and cycling as the leg allowed. Staying off roads, he progressed slowly but invisibly; then, nearing Ranville, he heard heavy gunfire coming from the direction of Bréville, now visible on its ridge wreathed in drifting smoke. Arriving at HQ he found it unusually quiet, Gale and his brigade commanders absent, and only a skeleton staff of clerks and signallers, many of them busy packing up.
‘Are we moving?’
‘Hope it doesn’t come to that,’ an aide replied. ‘Big push to retake Bréville this afternoon. It hasn’t gone well – the general’s there now.’
With instructions to help himself to food and await further orders, he clumped upstairs, found an empty bedroom and collapsed into sleep.
Hours later he was shaken awake. ‘Trickey, the general wants you.’
Dawn light glowed at the window. Groggily he dressed and descended, found Gale’s situation room, knocked and entered. The general was at his desk, surrounded by files and papers, a field telephone in one hand, his map on the wall and an aide at his side taking notes. His boots were muddy, tie loose, his Para smock flung carelessly over a chair. His face was gaunt, and drained, like someone who hasn’t slept for days.
‘Trickey.’ He replaced the phone. ‘Where’s 8 Para?’
Theo pointed at the map. ‘Here sir, covering the east as ordered.’
‘Pearson?’
‘He’s fine, sir. The men too, they’re doing pretty well.’
‘Thank God. We may need them yet.’
Four of his parachute battalions, it emerged, had been trying to retake Bréville, all failing, and all suffering grave losses.
‘12th and 1st Canadians took a terrible savaging yesterday. Most of the officers gone, barely a company of men left in each. 7th and 13th fared little better the day before.’ He rose and approached the map. ‘And we’re running out of options…’
‘Sir.’
‘…but Monty says the enemy must be dislodged. That they’re threatening the entire advance inland.’
Theo waited, as the general, swaying slightly, studied the map.
‘It’s as though Jerry knows how important this is,’ Gale murmured. ‘He’s throwing everything at it. And without armoured support, it’s killing us. He’ll wipe out the whole division, do you see?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I can’t let that happen.’
‘No…’
‘So I phoned Browning. And said so.’
Theo froze. A divisional commander, going behind his commander-in-chief. Was he imagining it?
‘And he said he’ll do what he can.’
He made to reply, but Gale’s aide shook his head. Moments later they were standing in the corridor.
‘Stay nearby. We’ll call you when needed.’
‘Is he all right?
‘He just needs sleep. I’ll see to it.’
*
He spent the morning waiting. Messengers came and went, telephones rang, staff officers hurried, their expressions uniformly grave. Gale himself stayed at his desk, refusing to eat or rest until the matter was resolved. Reports from Bréville said pockets of Paras were hanging on, but barely, and the last reserve, 9th Battalion, under an officer called Otway, was being thrown into the breach. Pearson’s 8th was engaging enemy reinforcements driving in from the east, commandos were trying to fight their way down from the beachhead, and a company of Devonshires was due from the canal. Other infantry support, possibly Scottish, was rumoured, but had yet to materialize. Apart from that there was nothing.
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