by Iain Gale
Then suddenly Lamb had it. ‘No one won it, sir. There was no league last year. It was abandoned after war was declared. Everton won the first division . . . and Portsmouth won the FA Cup.’
The colonel gave a sigh of relief and smiled. ‘Good God, man. That was close. Didn’t think you’d get it. Thought we’d have to shoot you. Well done, Lamb. Sorry. Can’t be too careful. Fifth columnists. Now where’s this vital note?’
Lamb walked forward and handed over the paper to the colonel, who carefully unfolded it and read.
Lamb was astonished. Here he was surrounded by chaos and yet somehow the news of his exploit had reached the staff. Some things, he thought, still worked in the British army. And then he wondered whether, if they knew about that, they had also heard of his blowing up the civilians on the bridge. He hoped that Fortescue had been discreet.
The colonel looked at him and smiled. ‘So you managed to give Jerry a bit of a bloody nose, didn’t you?’
‘Well, we did manage to cut up a column pretty badly, sir. Three days ago.’
The colonel looked at him, narrowing his eyes. ‘Well done, Lamb. Good work. You might even get a gong.’
The colonel was still smiling but Lamb worried that he might know about the civilian deaths. He wondered whether he should explain it, but did not know what he could say. He froze, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. Instead the colonel beamed at him. ‘Yes, damn good work, eh, Simpson?’
‘Yes, sir. Damn good.’
The colonel turned back to the note before handing it to the major, who handed it back. After a while the colonel folded it up and laid it on the desk. He stared at it for a while and then looked at Lamb, fixing him with deep brown eyes. ‘Have you read this?’
‘No, sir. Of course not. Absolutely not.’
‘No. You wouldn’t, would you? Silly of me. But I think you’d better have a look now as you’re here, before I give it to the General whenever I find him, seeing as you went to the trouble of getting it here.’ He handed the piece of paper to Lamb. ‘Go on then, man.’
Lamb took it and looked. It was headed in French: ‘Headquarters 1st Army’ and bore the insignia of the French military. It was dated 16 May. It read:
‘No information. Communications cut. All liaison unworkable. Rear areas blocked with convoys and wrecked columns. Petrol trains ablaze. Utter chaos.’
Lamb looked up from the paper at the colonel. ‘The Brigadier told me it was urgent. I thought it must be information about the enemy.’
‘It was urgent. Two days ago. Not any more, though. Meadows hasn’t a clue. It just tells us what we already know. The German First Panzer Division under Guderian have broken through at Amiens and cut off the French 1st and 9th Armies. To put it bluntly, we’re surrounded.’
The major walked away from the table and stared out of the window at a desolation which mirrored the destitution in his soul.
Lamb gazed at the colonel: ‘Christ. I’m sorry, sir. But I mean . . . God help us.’
‘Yes, God help us, Lamb. Although I doubt whether even he can now.’
The colonel pointed to the map. ‘In four days we’ve been pushed back sixty miles. And that’s only in the north. At least here we’re making a stand. It’s taken Guderian’s Panzers less than three days to reach Amiens. Another two and he’ll be at the sea. 7th Panzer Division are closing on Arras with the 5th, and the 6th and 8th are pushing through the centre. As far as we can tell. But, to be perfectly frank, they could be anywhere.’
Lamb looked down at the map as the colonel’s hands swept across it, and instantly saw the extent of the disaster.
The colonel went on, ‘The Germans have been training for this for years. They’re fighting fit and they damn well know it. And what have we been doing, Lamb? We’ve been sitting on our fat backsides doing sweet Fanny Adams.’ There was real bitterness in his voice. ‘Britain is a great country, Lamb. The greatest in the world, with a strong, resolute people and a powerful Empire. But look at the men you brought out here. Look at the British army. Our soldiers.’
Lamb frowned and began to speak, ‘My sergeant, sir . . .’
‘Yes, I dare say your sergeant’s a good man, and a few others besides him. But what of the rest? Think about it.’
‘They’re a good bunch, sir. Loyal as they come.’
‘I’ve no doubt as to that, Lieutenant. But just how fit are they?’
Lamb bristled. ‘They can march, sir. And they can fight.’
‘But can they march and fight one after the other, laddie? Hitler’s Nazis can do that. That’s why they’ve come sweeping through Belgium. That’s why we’re sitting here fifty miles back, trying to work out what we can do and waiting for their damned tanks to roll into town.’
It was hard to argue against the colonel’s logic. It backed up everything Lamb had seen so far.
‘Lamb, your men, our men, this army. The good few aside. You must see, they’re gutter scrapings, the victims of the depression. It’s not just the army that’s been starved of resources. The entire country’s been living on subsistence rations. Save for a privileged few. Me and Meadows included, if you want. And where are most of those fat cats now? On the General Staff.’
Lamb knew he was right. Many in his regiment were men laid off before the General Strike, or their sons – men who had been brought up on thin porridge and meat just once a week, men who had been offered the promise of a future they never saw, and little else. They were underfed and ill-educated. He was leading the legacy of the last twenty years. He thought of the brigadier with his roast chicken and brandy.
The colonel continued: ‘I tell you, Lamb, something’s got to be done. And fast. D’you know one of our major problems? Our tanks’ guns can’t penetrate their tanks’ hull armour. Not even the new Matildas have a real chance, and most of the others only have machine guns. And have you seen what these new 88-millimetre guns of theirs can do to one of our tanks? They were designed as anti-aircraft guns, for Christ’s sake, and the Jerries have started using them against our armour. We haven’t a chance. We’re the worst-trained, worst-equipped army ever to be sent by Britain to fight on foreign soil. And that’s saying something for the nation that fought in the Crimea and the Afghan wars.’
Lamb was taking it all in. He looked closely at the map. Saw the blue pencil lines marking the British and French corps and divisions. It was true. They were cut off and being pushed closer and closer towards the French coast.
‘Won’t the French be able to break through and cut the German lines? What about their tanks?’
The colonel sighed. ‘It would be good to think so, and in the last lot they might have done just that. But this French army is very different to the one I fought alongside in ’17. They’re sick of war. The French have all but thrown in the towel, and Churchill knows it.’
Lamb wondered how the colonel was able to know what the Prime Minister thought and began to realise that he might be something more than a mere colonel.
The colonel looked over the piles on his desk and found another piece of paper. He handed it to Lamb. ‘Here, read that now. Then tell me your thoughts.’
Lamb read. On writing paper headed ‘British Broadcasting Corporation’ it was dated 18.30 hours, 14 May. That was three days ago.
For immediate broadcast to the nation: All small boat owners are requested to present themselves with their vessels as quickly as possible to a representative of the Admiralty.
He frowned, ‘I’m sorry, what does it mean, sir?’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘It sounds as if we might be trying to get together a sort of people’s navy. All the boats we can get.’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
‘But why would we do that? Unless . . . But that’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes. I think you’ve got it now. We’re preparing to evacuate the entire army, or whatever there might be left of it. We want to take them off the beaches back to England.’
‘The ent
ire army, sir?’
‘That’s right. As many as we can. Frogs, too, if we can.’
‘Can it be done?
He took a long pause. ‘No one’s ever tried. There are two schools of thought. Gort’s behind it. Think the PM is too. The Frenchies aren’t keen, though. As you might have guessed.’
‘Where can we manage it?’
‘The Channel ports. We had thought of Calais alone but it would seem that we need Boulogne and Dunkirk too. If we can get the small craft onto the beaches we might be able to ferry the men out to the Navy.’
‘So we are running away then.’
‘If we are going to be able to continue to fight this war then we have to save what’s left of the BEF. The French are sunk. I have that on the highest authority. And I do mean the highest. There is no way that we can hope now to meet and repulse a German attack in the north. We can only retreat to victory.’
‘So are you telling me that I should make my way to the Channel ports, sir?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t do that if I were you. You seem a very able soldier and I am going to give you what may well be the best piece of advice you’ll get in this war. Get yourself and your men away to the west. There’s no point in going any further north. Jerry’s already cut our communications and you’ll never get through, but he’s still chasing our tails to the west. Besides, up there you’ll be one among tens, hundreds of thousands scrabbling for a place on those boats at Dunkirk. No, laddie, the west is your best bet. If I were you I’d duck down to Arras and then head for the Somme. You’ll still find Jerries, but there may not be quite so many of them.’
‘The Somme, sir?’
‘Not the old battlefield. Further downstream, towards the coast. I know it seems unlikely, but we’ve a division heading down there now. Pulled away from the Saar yesterday. 51st Highland, General Fortune. The original plan was that if this situation arose and the French could be rallied then it would be the nucleus of a fresh BEF. But to be perfectly frank it looks increasingly unlikely that the French will stand at all. So it’s likely that we’ll have to get the Scots off as well. Just ten thousand of them. Should be easier there than with the half million up at Calais and Dunkirk.’ He paused and stared at Lamb. ‘Actually, I’ve an idea. Lamb, I want you to do something for me. And this really is vitally important. Not like Meadows’s nonsense. Communications are shot to pieces or near as dammit with General Fortune’s HQ, and we have no way of letting him know the situation. I want you to take him a message, from me.’
He looked across at the major. ‘Simpson, write this down please, will you?’
He looked back at Lamb and paused, then said, ‘Tell him that the Jerries have cut us off at Amiens and the French look as if they’re about to give in. Or pretty damn soon. If that happens tell him we’re going to get them all away. All of his division. The plan is to get them off from Le Havre. Tell him that they should hold out on the Somme until further notice and bear in mind that Le Havre needs to be kept accessible. The French might order him south – he’s under their command – but if he has to fall back he should make for Le Havre. Tell him that whatever else he might hear, from whatever source, even Churchill himself, ships are on their way. Tell them at all costs that they should not surrender without further orders. No surrender. Got it? They hang on until the ships arrive.’
Lamb looked at him. ‘Are you sure it’s me you want to do this, sir? Perhaps a dispatch rider would be quicker. Or a team of them. Surely that sort of order should come from someone on the staff? Shouldn’t I try and rejoin my unit, sir?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘No use, Lamb. Isn’t that right, Simpson? Dispatch riders are no go. Being picked off all the time by Jerry snipers. And you can forget your unit for the time being, Lamb. Very soon they’ll just be one of hundreds trying to get home any way they can. It’s up to you to do the same. Besides, I can’t spare anyone on the staff, laddie. Even if I knew where they all were any more. No, you’ll do. And that’s an order. You’ll have to do. In fact I think you’re just the man for the job. If you can hold up an entire Jerry regiment with a few grenades, Lamb, seems to me you’ve a far better chance of getting through than any staff Johnny. And I think a few more heroics might be of use to you in future.’
‘Yes, sir. I see.’
‘That’s it then. Well done.’
He looked to the major, who gave him the piece of paper on which he had been writing, and a pen. The colonel read it over briefly and then signed it. He gave the note to Lamb and returned the pen to Simpson. ‘And now you’d better get a move on. I’m afraid you can’t show that note to anyone but the General or someone on his staff. Oh, and one other vital thing. Of course, almost forgot. To make sure that you get to General Fortune and that he believes you, tell him that Colonel “R” sent you. Just that, Colonel “R”. He’ll know exactly who and what you mean. He’ll believe you. Got it? Colonel “R”. That’s all you need to know.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The colonel smiled at him. ‘Good. Well, good luck, Lieutenant. Perhaps we’ll meet again. I’d like to think so.’
Chapter 6
It took Lamb a little time to digest what had just happened. He had walked in thinking that he was at the end of a mission to deliver a message, and had left charged with another much greater task. How, he wondered, had that been managed? How had he got himself into this mess? Now, rather than heading north to find his regiment and try to get back home, he had been ordered to take his men west by a colonel whom he knew only as ‘R’ to find a general commanding a Scottish division cut off from the main force and to tell that general that his men were to fight to the death.
He shook his head and spoke out loud to himself as he walked from the corridor into the buzzing atrium of the mayoral building: ‘You stupid bugger.’ No one heard him.
It wasn’t, he thought, as if he would ever avoid such tasks. He was only too keen to prove himself and would have volunteered for anything that might help his country. But this really did seem a ludicrous errand, and for all he knew as hair-brained as the last. Why, he wondered, should he really trust the colonel – Colonel ‘R’ or whatever his name was – any more than the brigadier? Certainly the man had seemed more compos mentis than Dewy Meadows, but he wondered if he had lost the ability to tell any more. Everyone seemed as mad as each other in this strange kind of warfare.
But, he reasoned, what alternative did he have? To go against what had effectively been a direct order and not to deliver the message to General Fortune and head north to find the regiment? Who knew where that might land him? Fortune might never know to fight on. He might try to withdraw south, deeper into France. Then they would risk losing an entire division if France fell. This was not what Lamb had really expected his war to be like. He had seen himself at the head of a platoon, leading from the front, as he had done with the German column, not on an errand to find some brass hat and tell him to retreat. But if that was to be his role, then so be it. They all of them had some part to play in overthrowing the Nazis, however small and apparently insignificant or crazy it might seem.
He found the platoon on the far side of the park, away from the area being used as a temporary morgue for the victims of the air raids. They were sitting on the grass, smoking and chatting. Bennett saw Lamb approaching and stood up. ‘Officer present. Put those fags out. Snap to it.’
The men grumbled and stood up, grinding their cigarette butts into the grass. Lamb reached them. ‘Stand easy. We’ve been given new orders. We’re heading west.’
The men stared at him. Corporal Mays spoke. ‘Sorry, sir, but I thought we was trying to find the battalion. Haven’t they gone north?’
Bennett stared at him. ‘Mays.’
‘It’s all right, Sarnt. Yes, Mays, you’re quite right, they have, and yes, we were – heading north that is. But all that’s changed, I’m afraid. We’ve just been given an important job to do. Fresh orders from on high. In any case I doubt very much wheth
er we’d find the battalion now. From what I’ve just been told the situation is really very fluid at the moment.’
Bennett smiled at the expression.
Lamb went on. ‘So let’s get to it, shall we? We need to make for Arras. That’s about thirty-five miles away. We’ll see how we do and try to find a billet on the way.’
But Valentine hadn’t finished. ‘May I ask, sir, what the nature might be of this “important job” we have to do?’
Lamb detected the sarcasm in his tone, but didn’t show his annoyance. ‘No, I’m sorry, Corporal. I’m afraid that I can’t tell you that. At least not yet. Suffice it to say that it is important and we should feel honoured to have been given it.’
Valentine smirked in that way that irked Lamb so intensely. He ignored it and turned to Bennett. ‘All right, Sarnt, let’s get on. We don’t want to be caught in any more air raids here.’
Unsure of his bearings, Lamb retraced their steps through the ruined town amid the sound of more explosions as more streets were torn down by the Royal Engineers, and they found themselves back at the crossroads. The MP sergeant had gone, to be replaced by another whose efforts, to judge by the jam of trucks and staff cars on all sides, were meeting with a similar lack of success. Leaving the chaos behind, Lamb wheeled them to the left, through the sad, dusty streets, into the Rue St Martin, past broken houses and the smashed possessions of their absent occupants lying across the cobbles. Ahead of them a long line of refugees stretched away far down the road. For a change, though, there were none of the usual accompanying files of British soldiers, and they seemed to be the only unit heading south west. Lamb was hardly surprised. If the British were to use this road it would be to fall back on Arras, and according to the major they were not planning to go anywhere at the moment.
They marched at a steady pace, in single file, with each section or weapons group of the platoon travelling on alternate sides of the road, passing the slow-moving civilians, who hardly gave them a glance, so caught up were they in their own private miseries. No one spoke and there was no sound save for the steady tramp of the men’s boots and the clattering and jangling of the pots and pans hanging from the civilian carts. As they reached the outskirts of the town and the shattered buildings began to give way to open fields and trees, Lamb fell back to his usual position on the march in the ‘O’ group, with Smart and with Valentine and Briggs, the commanders of number two and three sections, close behind with the two runners.