It plays strange tricks on the brain, the battlefield. The times when you ought most to be afraid are often those when you feel most fearless. If you've ever been out fox-hunting you'll know exactly the sensation I mean: the way everything seems to come at you in an impressionistic rush which so overwhelms the brain that it becomes detached from reality; almost as if you're no longer participating, merely a dispassionate observer.
I remember the explosion of a mortar bomb in front of me and another one behind, thinking: 'Closer than I'd prefer'; the sparks from Spandau ricochets zinging off the cobbled road; Mayhew saying: 'I'm sorry. So sorry'; seeing a patrol of maybe six Germans emerging from a hedgerow a split second before they see me, firing at them from the hip, and so taking them by surprise that instead of stopping to fight they turn and disappear whence they came; a seagull pecking something long and stringy from the hole in a dead soldier's back; a Bren gunner giving me a wave from a first-floor window; a sign reading Rue du Phare; a scattered mess of coiled wire and the tubular remnants of the Bangalore torpedo used to blow it; more bullets and ricochets from behind me; commandos, some bloodstained, some staggering, all pale, picking their way towards me through the gap; one of them saying: 'No point, mate. They've had it!'; pushing forward through the gap, none the less, surprised by how steep the hill is, so very very steep and how very slow my progress, as if in slow motion.
When all of a sudden the volume is turned right up and we're back to normal speed and it's hell. There are bullets flying everywhere, the air so thick with lead it seems scarcely imaginable that anything could pass through unscathed. Stick grenades landing, here, there and everywhere; then exploding, moments later. Flying earth and screaming shrapnel. Screaming wounded. Screaming Capt. Dangerfield coming towards me, staggering under the weight of a semi-conscious Oily Wragg. 'Back!' he shouts. 'Back! The rest are all dead.'
A glance in the direction from which he has come. Five, six, seven bodies lying on the exposed hillside where they were mown down by the flakship still pumping rounds at us, the furthest body Sgt. Price's.
Chapter 16
A la Cave
You'd be amazed, the miracles you can work when you're young and fit and being hotly pursued by half a dozen stick grenades.
But once Capt. Dangerfield and I had lugged Oily Wragg's eighteen-stone dead weight off that hill, our difficulties were far from over, let me tell you. First we had to negotiate the gap through the wire, which wasn't nearly broad enough to pass through three-abreast so we had to do it sideways and gingerly, with Capt. Dangerfield at the downhill end almost collapsing under Wragg's weight, and our trousers getting continually snagged and our lower legs slashed to ribbons. You tend not to notice these things at the time because adrenalin acts like an anaesthetic. But the next day, my God, did it hit me: my trousers looked like Robinson Crusoe's after a year on the island; my calves and my shins were crisscrossed with so many welts it was as if I'd been gone over, hard, with a cat-o'-nine-tails; and the stinging was like I'd been attacked by a swarm of bees. Well, almost — out in the East once I was attacked by a swarm of bees, and I'll be honest: that hurt more.
Anyway, those cuts and slashes were the least of our worries, because glancing desperately around for what was left of our troop, we realised the whole lot had vanished. The Germans, on the other hand, appeared to be absolutely bloody everywhere.
They were firing down on us from one of the machine-gun nests on the Eastern Feature, and no sooner had we side-stepped hastily out of its sight lines behind one of the buildings just to the rear of the seafront than we spotted coming straight down the street towards us a squad of nine Germans and no way were we going to be able to take them on with just Capt. Dangerfield's Colt .45 and my Schmeisser. Especially not while burdened with that monstrous Yorkshireman.
Now, the only thing that saved us, I’m sorry to say, was poor Jack Mayhew. In the letter I wrote to his mother, afterwards, I gave him the send-off he thoroughly deserved, going out in a blaze of glory as he gallantly charged a German machine-gun post. What really happened, though, was that the last time we saw him alive he was crawling, evidently quite badly wounded, down the street towards us, about fifty yards ahead of the squad of Germans. I don't remember seeing him go down, but I think it must have been about five minutes before on the dash to Rue du Phare when I heard him call out 'I'm sorry'. You see that quite a bit with noble, idealistic, public-school types like Mayhew: they actually think that to be put out of action is a dereliction of duty.
So there he was, dear chap, crawling along, in vain search of shelter, with these Germans coming up fast behind him, which of course he didn't know.
'Jack!' I shout, though of course it's not going to do any good.
He looks up, recognises the three of us, and flashes us this huge schoolboy grin, like he's just hit the winning six from the final ball of the last over.
And, of course, it is his final ball. He's far too young and handsome to die. But, then, so was Rupert Brooke.
The Germans are almost on him now and we have a choice: do we take advantage of the temporary distraction and leg it back whence we came or try to shoot it out and give Jack a fighting chance?
Well, I'm pleased to say, a bit of both. Capt. Dangerfield looses off a couple of shots with his Colt, one of which catches the lead German dead in the centre of his chest, which is bloody good going considering he's firing left-handed. I fire a burst from my Schmeisser which wings another and sends the rest scurrying for cover, but they're made of much sterner stuff than that last patrol, and though the survivors disperse into doorways, they show no sign of beating a retreat.
'I'll cover,' I tell Capt. Dangerfield, as I duck behind the corner wall, and you can see the thought furrowing his brow - 'Shouldn't I be giving the orders round here?' - but then I have the firepower and he doesn't and anyway there isn't time. So off he staggers with his massy burden while I hold the fort.
Next time I poke my head round the corner, Jack Mayhew is still gamely pulling himself forward and up until this point the Germans have been too busy trying to kill us to pay much attention to him. But now I spot one of the Germans with his rifle aimed at Jack's head and I fell him, just in time; then three more come out into the middle of the street, cool as you like, stand there, and riddle him simultaneously and at such length you can tell they're rather enjoying it. And as I watch poor Jack's lifeless body shuddering and jerking and spurting mini fountains of blood, I take careful aim at those sadistic bastards and squeeze the trigger.
There's a click. Then nothing. My magazine's empty. I don't have any spares. And when I look behind me, Capt. Dangerfield and Oily Wragg have disappeared.
Well, I'll tell you, at this point I'm getting worried. Half my troop's been massacred. There are Germans in every alley. There's a flakship covering the seafront. There are machine guns on the Eastern and Western Features covering my every escape route. Our battle plan is in ruins. I'm all alone. My gun's out of ammo. And just round the corner, about to come after me, is a squad of Germans whose idea of fun is to pump a wounded man full of bullets.
For a hunting man you might call it poetic justice: right now I know just what goes through Charlie's mind when he's gone to ground and the hounds are casting about just above his head.
Still, you do what you can.
I try the First door I come to. It's locked.
So is the next one.
The third one is, too, and I doubt there's time to try any more, I can hear the boots approaching just round the corner. I'll just have to run and hope for the best.
'Coward!' hisses Capt. Dangerfield from the fourth doorway, and with a sigh beyond bliss I hurl myself towards it. Down a flight of steps. Darkness as the door closes behind me. Running feet and shouts in German.
'Here,' says Capt. Dangerfield, taking my hand. I follow him unsteadily forward. There is a smell of must and lees. Wine.
The darkness isn't complete. There's a hatchway at the far end through whose crack
s chinks of light are streaming in. As my eyes become accustomed to the gloom, I see ranks of barrels, raised above the ground on a wooden frame.
'Quick,' says Capt. Dangerfield, quite needlessly. From next door, we can hear guttural shouts and the thump and crack of boot against splintering wood.
We have reached the far end of the cellar now. In the narrow gap between the last barrel and the wall, Wragg is propped, limp and barely conscious.
'Wragg, wake up! We need you awake!' hisses Capt. Danger- field, slapping his face and pulling him up under his arm.
'Who the fook!' mutters Wragg, stiffening upright but still delirious.
'Damn. I should have thought,' says Capt. Dangerfield. 'We need one of us either side of him. Can you squeeze past his legs?'
'I think maybe . . . why?'
'Just do it.'
I crouch down and with some difficulty I manoeuvre myself past Wragg's boots and into the claustrophobic pocket between Oily, the barrel and the corner of the cellar wall.
'Now for the hard part,' says Capt. Dangerfield. 'We're going to lift this fellow up and keep him up so that he's wedged between the barrel and floor. Whatever happens, none of our feet must touch the floor. Got that?'
Not really, but there isn't time to argue. Now it's our door the Germans are bashing with their boots and the butts of their rifles, and they'll be breaking through any moment.
'Got him? Now lift!'
With one hand under Wragg's buttocks and another under his knee - Capt. Dangerfield is doing the same on the other side — I hoick him upwards and wedge him in more or less the right position. And if it isn't right we're stuffed because, with a final crack, the cellar door has burst open, the light is pouring in. Our scufflings covered by the noise of jackboots clattering down the steps, we just have time to pull ourselves into the requisite wedge position. Simultaneously, and this isn't easy, we have to keep Wragg held up, too.
Footsteps, cautious footsteps, coming steadily closer.
The strain of trying to hold up that bloody Yorkshireman, you would not believe. But when the choice is between a hernia or being shot, you don't spend too long agonising.
A torch beam (only a German infantryman would think to have a torch on him) searching the room, nervously, haphazardly at first, then with slow thoroughness. Our friend is searching the gaps between each cask. If he carries on like this, there is no question we're going to be discovered — and wedged in as we are, we won't have a chance to defend ourselves.
Idiot Capt. Dangerfield. Why the hell did I listen to him? He doesn't have the experience I have. He's made the wrong decision. The way I would have hidden myself, I would have made sure I had my arms free so that I could have gone down fighting.
About a third of the way across the room now. Taking his time. As, of course, your infuriatingly efficient Teuton would.
More footsteps, as one of the German's comrades comes to join him.
'Anything?' asks the newcomer.
'Nothing so far,' says our friend, continuing his slow, steady search with the torch. He's now about half-way down the room. One German, we might somehow have handled. Two, we're stuffed completely.
'Here. If they're there, you'll see their boots,' says the newcomer. He must have grabbed the torch from his comrade, and then crouched down for the beam jerks suddenly, then moves down till it's parallel with and almost touching the floor. Directly below me, the beam searches the spot where we would all have been standing if it hadn't been for Capt. Dangerfield's quite brilliant idea.
'See? Nothing,' declares the newcomer. 'Come on. What are you waiting for?'
'It's best to be sure,' says our friend, stolidly.
'You want to be sure? Here's how to be sure.'
There's a soft thud on the floor.
'What's that?'
'Come on. Hurry. It's on a ten-second fuse.'
'What?!'
The sound of German curses and rapidly retreating boots. I brace myself for the explosion. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Nothing. Maybe it's a dud.
A flash of white light. An ear-shattering noise. Singing shrapnel. The choking rasp of cordite in the throat. The smell of wine.
A voice saying something.
'What?' My ears are ringing.
'I said, are you hit?'
'Don't think so. You?'
'No.'
'I need to let go.'
'Me too. Ready?'
We ease ourselves into a standing position. Then we unjam Wragg by lifting him slightly, and prop him against the wall.
'We safe to leave, do you reckon?' I ask.
'Give 'em a bit more time to go, shall we?' says Capt. Dangerfield.
'I'm glad you said that.'
'What do you think I am? Some kind of fool?'
'No, sir.'
'Over-eager? Gung-ho?'
'Well
A long sigh from the darkness.
'Coward,' says Capt. Dangerfield. 'Do you think it would be fair to say relations between us haven't got off to the best of starts?'
We both laugh companionably.
Capt. Dangerfield goes on: 'I was wrong about you. I admit that now and I'm sorry. If I'd taken your intelligence more seriously, those chaps might never have died.'
'Do we know who they were?'
'One of them, I'm sorry to say, was Sarnt Price.' 'I saw.'
'You'd been through quite a bit together.'
'From the beginning, more or less.'
'I'm sorry,' says Capt. Dangerfield.
'It's war. You get used to it.'
'Do you? I'm not sure I'll ever forget seeing them go down like that. Hawkins. Arkwright. Calladine —'
'If you're trying to blame yourself, don't. We've all got a job to do, sometimes it gets messy and sometimes we make mistakes. But for the record, Captain, I think you're doing a pretty fine job.'
'Very decent of you to say so, Coward, but -'
'Sir, I didn't say it to be decent.'
'You can call me Guy if you like.'
'Thanks.'
'Dick, I never did get to the bottom of how it was you came to join our unit.'
'If I told you the real reason, you'd never believe me.'
'Try.'
'To look after you.'
Capt. Dangerfield laughs. 'Come now. Before Southampton, you didn't know me from Adam.'
'I didn't, no. But someone else did and that someone asked me if I'd care to watch over you. Keep you from harm.'
'And how were you supposed to do that exactly? Hold my hand? Throw yourself on top of me, every time you heard a shell? Come on, the idea's ludicrous.'
'Yes, well, I'm not sure I was altogether in my right mind when I made the arrangement.'
'I'll say, what were you: drunk?'
'I was in hospital at the time. Still quite delirious from some sort of brain fever; and she was my nurse.'
'I'm partial to nurses myself.' 'Yes, well, when I tell you who she was, you'll understand even better. She's quite a looker, ain't she, your cousin?'
'My cousin? Which one?'
'Gina. Gina Herbert.'
'Gina told you she was my cousin, did she?'
'Isn't she?'
'Well, yes, but she is the most dreadful tease. When was it you met her?'
'Oh, I've known her for years. We used to play together as children.'
'Damn it, you areone of the Coward boys, aren't you? The General's sons.'
'I might as well come clean.'
'But if you'd told me that right at the beginning, I might have -'
'Detested me even more, I should have thought. We weren't particularly nice to you, were we?'
'Your brother wasn't, no. But as I mentioned during bridge — Lord, was it really only the night before last that we were playing bridge? - I don't begrudge it. If it hadn't been for you Cowards, I might never have become who I am. Mores the point, nor would I have married the girl I married. A girl you know rather well in fact, because -'
More footst
eps.
The back of my neck prickling, heart racing.
The Germans are back. Maybe they heard us talking. Maybe they've been tipped off. This time they're not going to stop till they've got us.
Here they come. Just one by the sounds of it. Crunching through the half-broken door, down the cellar steps. Slowly, slowly.
My Schmeisser being out of ammo, I reach for my knife. Capt. Dangerfield eases his Colt .45 off its safety.
'Messieurs? Messieurs?' calls the interloper. 'Je viens vous aider.'
Bound to be a trap.
'Messieurs, the Germans have gone. You are safe now. Vite, Messieurs, Messieurs.'
'Levez-vous les mains, Monsieur,' orders Capt. Dangerfield, before half-emerging from his hiding place. His eyes are sufficiently accustomed to the gloom to see whether his order has been obeyed. 'It's OK,' he says to me. 'He's genuine.'
The man introduces himself as Pascal Jean, a fisherman. He was watching the battle from his window and saw us go into the cellar and not come out. The battle, he says, is far from over but the side of town we're in now appears to be more or less clear of Boche. If we like, he can lead us to the house not far away where several of our comrades are holed up.
We enter through a hole that has been knocked in its rear wall. Much safer than trying to go in through the front, which looks out over the inner basin, giving it a clear field of fire against those Germans still occupying the opposite bank, but also leaving it highly vulnerable to fire from the Eastern Feature.
As we heave Wragg through the hole, the marine guarding it calls up the stairwell: 'Captain Dangerfield's here!'
From upstairs, a cheer goes up. We leave Wragg on the ground floor, where a pair of medics are already in attendance on some of the other wounded from the botched assault, and clamber carefully up the partially collapsed staircase. In an attic room at the top, their bodies so thickly sprinkled with plaster dust they might almost be ghosts, the remnants of our section are peering through loopholes they have made in the roof.
James Delingpole Page 24