The Black Jackals

by Iain Gale

  They had gone no more than a mile down the road when they heard it. From directly behind them a series of explosions tore through the afternoon. They turned and saw the skies behind them above Tournai filled with a swarm of black aeroplanes and watched the bombs falling like evil confetti from their open bellies. As they hit the ground the earth shook, flames leapt up and great columns of black smoke rose high above the city.

  Smart summed up all their thoughts. ‘Christ. Poor devils.’

  The refugees had seen it too, and a terrible wailing now began to come from them. Their homes were being torn apart, and friends and family they had left behind were dying with the British under the black rain.

  Lamb turned back to the front. ‘Come on. Nothing we can do about it now.’

  He wondered if the colonel and the major had found shelter, and the frustrated MPs. The town would be even more chaotic after that lot, he thought, and for an instant the idea came to him again of abandoning the colonel’s madcap mission. Perhaps the man had been killed. Who then would know about his order? But the idea passed as quickly as it came, with a feeling of guilt at having even considered it. He had been given an order and it was vital that he should transmit the colonel’s message to General Fortune, though yet again he wondered at why a mere colonel should be giving a message to a general. And what on earth was all that Colonel ‘R’ business about, he wondered. It was like something out of a novel by Childers or Buchan. For a moment Lamb wondered whether he might be being drawn into something more complex than merely delivering a message. But then he thought the better of it and dismissed it as fantasy.

  Behind them the bombs continued to fall on Tournai. Lamb turned to see yet another wave of the large, twin-engined bombers hovering in the sky, bigger than the Stukas they had encountered, planes with the capacity to obliterate entire towns rather than just kill troops and destroy tanks on the ground.

  Bennett was beside him. ‘Lucky we left when we did, sir. You were right. Poor devils.’

  ‘Yes, the Jerries seem intent on flattening the place. That’s one lesson we can take away from this campaign. Once they’ve started something they tend to finish the job.’

  They left the weeping refugees to watch the destruction of their homes and hurried past the column. Soon, Lamb knew, this road would be filled with British troops, pulling back from Tournai as was inevitable, and he wanted to make sure that he had a good head start before that happened.

  The country had opened out now and even the shelter of the trees had gone. It was incredibly flat, with a low horizon that he guessed must stretch for ten miles on either side before it hit poplars or buildings. He felt horribly exposed. There were ditches on either side of the road, and those he supposed would have to do as cover should they be attacked from above.

  The pace seemed desperately slow to Lamb and there were no songs now. He almost suggested one, but thought better of it. There was a time for such things, and too much had happened. They all knew it. At length they found themselves among more buildings, a few red brick houses and on the left a huge factory. Closed, by the look of it. A sign told them they were entering the village of Orchies and Lamb realised that while his mind had been wandering they had in fact been travelling at a good pace.

  He called to Bennett. ‘Sarnt, we’ll halt for the night at Douai. It’s about another ten miles. We’ll make it by sunset, easily.’

  There was a groan from some of the men. Bennett answered it. ‘All right, you can still walk, can’t you? You’ll be thankful of it tomorrow when we’ve got less of a way to go to Arras.’

  Valentine spoke from the rear of the ‘O’ Group. ‘Sergeant, don’t you think it would be better to go all the way to Arras now?’

  Bennett heard him. ‘Not your place to argue, Corporal Valentine. Mister Lamb has given an order. You’re here to obey it.’

  They carried on, and while he kept his eyes on the countryside around them Lamb’s thoughts drifted away from the immediate scene. He wondered what they would make of this at home, if they ever found out. How could he possibly ever tell his mother about what he had done at the bridge? How could he tell them of what he had seen? Of the death and the ghastly wounds. Of what weapons can do to a body. Could he, he wondered even tell them about the mission he was now on? He wondered what their fate would be, and then his mind filled with the secret terror that haunted every soldier and which you had to brush aside as soon as it came on: the question of whether he would live. He had not noticed that Valentine had changed position and was walking directly behind him now, and for once he was glad when he heard the man’s voice.

  ‘Sir. We’re nearly at Douai, aren’t we? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, sir, or to challenge your authority, but don’t you think it would be a better idea to go straight on to Arras?’

  ‘No, Valentine, I don’t. The men need to rest, and we need to scrounge some rations. Douai is the obvious choice. It probably hasn’t been bombed yet either.’

  Lamb chided himself for having to justify his decision to a corporal. What was it about Valentine? He was determined now to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity. This, he presumed, would not be until they made it back to England. If they ever did. But he thought that he might take the opportunity to sow the seeds of a potential move:

  ‘What I can’t understand, Valentine, is, if you have so many bright ideas, why you’re still a corporal. I mean, a chap like you with a sound education, an obviously clever brain, you should be on an officer training plan. Have you ever thought about it?’

  Valentine smiled and, as always when he did, Lamb felt a sense of distaste. ‘I didn’t want the responsibility, sir, you see. Don’t really think that I’d make an officer. Prefer to take orders.’

  ‘When we make it back to the battalion, Valentine, and I’m quite sure we will eventually, I’m putting you up for a commission.’

  Valentine continued to smile. ‘I don’t think that would be an awfully good idea, sir.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why exactly?’

  ‘I told you, sir. Can’t be doing with the responsibility. Like what happened to you on the bridge, sir. I couldn’t very well live with that on my conscience, you see, sir. Must be very hard for you, sir.’

  Lamb tried to stifle his rage. ‘That be damned, Valentine. You’ll be an officer and like it.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Their conversation at an end, Valentine returned to his place in the line. Lamb cursed himself. He had been goaded by Valentine and unwittingly had shown his hand. Worse than that, he was not sure how the man had managed it. There was just something about him that made Lamb drop his guard. Yes. He was decided. Corporal Valentine had to go, and the sooner the better.

  Chapter 7

  It was close to 1 o’clock in the afternoon on the 21st when they finally reached the suburbs of Arras. The town had suffered badly from shelling and air attack, and many of the roadside buildings had been hit. Some were still smoking, others had had their walls ripped off to reveal domestic interiors that looked like stage sets, thought Lamb, with everything perfectly in place, except the floor. Even pictures and clocks remained hanging on the wall-papered walls. In one half-demolished house a wrought-iron bedstead and mattress hung suspended on a jagged section of wooden flooring, its sheets flung back as if the owner had just leapt from his bed.

  They marched into Arras, attempting as usual to look as soldierly as possible despite their appearance. But the atmosphere was very different here to that of Tournai. As they filtered into the town Lamb saw a column of British infantry on a road to the left advancing to converge with them. As they grew closer he caught sight of their eyes and saw in them utter despair similar to what he had seen in the faces of the refugees. He walked across to an officer, a young lieutenant of roughly his own age, who still had something of the military about him. ‘I say. Who are you? Where have you come from?’

  The young man smiled. ‘Where we’ve come from is
not somewhere you want to go. We’re Royal Sussex. They caught us up at Albert. Bloody Panzers. Went through us like a knife through butter. Christ, it was bloody murder. What I want to know is where were our tanks and our artillery? We had nothing. Nothing. And where were the bloody French? And the Raff. They just tore us to pieces. We didn’t have a chance.’

  Lamb could see that the man was about to burst into tears, and he steadied him with a hand on his arm. ‘All right, old chap. You’re safe now. This is Arras.’

  From the ranks came an awful yell: ‘No, no. Oh God, no. Not that.’

  The officer turned in alarm as a sergeant comforted the man, and then he looked back to Lamb. ‘One of my men. Saw his best mate run over by a tank, poor bugger. Crushed everything below his chest and pushed his brains out through his head. That’s what they do if they hit you.’

  Lamb recoiled in horror. ‘Good God. Poor sod.’

  ‘Nearly drove him mad. Then he got shot in the face himself. Blinded. Now he keeps seeing his mate.’

  They had fallen into step with the Sussex now and were walking together into the centre of the town, into the old square that in the Great War had been used as a casualty clearing station. Lamb recognised it from his father’s postcards and saw that it had been put to the same use again now as men lay on stretchers and on blankets across its cobbles. In the far corner Lamb noticed a group of officers who appeared to be giving directions.

  Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Halt the men here, Sarnt. They can stand easy and take a break. Find some char if you can. There’s bound to be a wagon somewhere.’

  He said goodbye to the Sussex officer and pointed towards the command group: ‘I’m off over there. Looks like someone’s trying to make order out of this chaos.’

  As Bennett gave the order to rest, Lamb strode across the Grand Place, taking care to make his way around the wounded, whose number seemed to be growing by the minute. He approached one of the officers, who had walked away from the central group and was writing notes in a pad – a captain in battledress wearing the insignia of the Northumbrian Fusiliers. He saluted. ‘Excuse me, sir. Lieutenant Lamb, North Kents.’ The officer acknowledged him and Lamb continued: ‘The thing is, I’m trying to find my unit.’

  The man looked at him with weary eyes and smiled, shaking his head. ‘Isn’t everyone? ’Fraid it’s no use, old chap. You’re all adrift, more or less. Where have you come from? Sorry – Clarke, motorcycle platoon, Northumbrian Fusiliers.’

  ‘We’ve just marched here from Tournai, sir, but we lost contact with the battalion back at Wavre.’

  The man nodded. ‘Then likely as not they’ll be further north. You’re miles off track. Useless to try and find them. Not now at least. Anyway, I’m sure that we can use you here. We’re going to attack.’

  ‘Attack?’ He looked around at the scene of desolation, and the hundreds of wounded men, some it seemed close to death. ‘Might I ask with what, sir?’

  The captain smiled. ‘Well you may. Two battalions of infantry, apparently, and seventy-five tanks. Oh, and a few armoured cars and anti-tank guns and us lot. We’re going in two columns.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  The officer ignored his lack of etiquette. ‘’Fraid it is. We were supposed to be two divisions, but something got a bit muddled and we’re all there is. Still, got to try something, haven’t we?’

  Lamb pointed across to the staff officers who were conferring over a map. ‘Can I ask who that is, sir?’

  ‘General Martel, and that’s General Franklyn. That’s why the attacking force is called Frankforce. I’m attached to him directly, which explains why I know so much. I should attach whatever men you’ve got to that unit over there, if I were you. 8th Durham Light Infantry. They’re attached to the right column. They’ll find a use for you. We need every man who can fire a rifle.’

  Lamb paused for a moment, unsure as to whether he should argue that he was already on a mission under orders from the colonel. It did not take him too long however, to realise that this was neither the time nor the place for such action. He would have to accept the captain’s orders and join in the attack. He smiled.

  ‘What exactly are we attacking, sir?’

  ‘Well, no one’s quite sure. Certainly not the generals there. We know that there’s a Panzer division out there, and as likely as not there’s an SS unit behind them. That’s how they operated in Poland. But we’ll need to take some prisoners to find out who they are.’

  Lamb stared at him, incredulous. ‘Sorry, sir. Do I understand that we’re attacking two divisions with barely a brigade? That’s suicide.’

  ‘Perhaps. But those our our orders, Lieutenant. Gort’s promised the French that we would mount an offensive and I’m very much afraid that we’re it. We’re all there is to spare. H Hour is 1400. Good luck.’

  Lamb returned to his men who, as predicted, with the ever-present resourcefulness of the British Tommy to sniff out a brew, had managed to find themselves some tea.

  Bennett handed Lamb a tin mug. ‘Tea, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, Sarnt.’

  Lamb took a welcome swig and spoke. ‘Well, we’re moving off.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We’re going to attack.’

  Bennett looked at him. ‘Attack, sir? Just us, sir?’

  ‘No, Sarnt. We’re attaching to the Durham Light Infantry. Going in behind a tank attack. Could be a bit messy.’

  ‘I see, sir. Shall I tell the lads.’

  ‘No, Sarnt. I think perhaps I’d better do that.’

  He turned to the men, who had separated into smaller groups, his three sections and the odds and sods by themselves. As usual Valentine was standing alone, smoking his Turkish cigarette with an air of detachment.

  Lamb addressed the little group. ‘Now, we’ve been given new orders, men. We’re going into an attack with the Durham Light Infantry. There’s little hope, I’m afraid, of trying to find the battalion now. Seems they’re probably much further north. So I’ve decided it’s best to stick with our friends here. We’ll go in behind a tank attack on the German lines to the south, and with any luck we might push them back and give everyone a bit of breathing space. Then I’ll decide what we should do next. The DLI can use every man they can get.’ He turned to the odds and sods. ‘That applies to you too. But if you want to try and find your own units I quite understand. That’s your duty. But as far as I’m concerned you’d be more than welcome to come with us and I’d love to have you.’

  There was some murmuring and nodding among the men. Lamb saw Mitchell shake his head and then Stanton and Blake turn on him aggressively and mutter something inaudible. Eventually Mitchell shrugged and McKracken nodded and smiled. A few of them lit fresh cigarettes as the Scots sergeant turned to Lamb.

  ‘We’re with you, sir. Proud to be.’

  Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Right, Sarnt, we’d better be ready to move. Check weapons and ammo. I dare say you’ll be able to draw fresh rounds from the DLI if you need them. H Hour is 1400. Best not be late for the party.’

  For all their readiness, though, it was shortly after 3 o’clock by Lamb’s watch that the assault began. The two columns approached the enemy from Neuville and Vimy, at a distance of about a kilometre from one another. The left column was led by the Matilda tanks of the 4th Royal Tank Regiment and the right by the 7th Royal Tank Regiment, while the infantry moved in their wake, using a tactic that had been devised during the Great War by generals who had learned their craft as cavalrymen. Lamb had been across to talk to the CO of a company of the DLI who had eagerly accepted the extra hands. His platoon had attached itself to the company, moving up with the right column, and were able to operate again as a platoon. He was pleased too that the odds and sods had chosen to stay with him, apparently having built up a respect for their new temporary officer.

  They pushed on now through the outskirts of the town and over the open ground of wide farmland, an additional fourth platoon in the extreme left-hand company of the DLI, and
Lamb noticed that the Matildas had crushed everything in their path – trees, carts, cars and of course men. He marvelled at the sheer power of the machines but was horribly aware that the German armour was stronger and could if given the chance do much worse damage.

  It seemed to him that everywhere the ground was littered with German corpses and smashed anti-tank guns, and he could see the men taking heart from it. He turned to Smart: ‘Now they’re paying for it. We’ve broken through, Smart. This is it.’

  To their right he saw a column of Germans, weaponless and with their hands on their heads, being led back by men of the DLI. The platoon and the rest of the company cheered.

  Mays spoke. ‘They’re on the run, sir.’

  ‘Looks like it, Corporal. Let’s hope we keep it up.’

  They were moving faster now in the wake of the tanks. They entered a village and continued south west. Lamb looked at a signpost. ‘Warlus 5 km’. That was about three miles, he reckoned. They had moved off the major roads now and were crossing open fields along a single-lane track.

  Corporal Mays was close by. ‘Blimey, sir. They’ve upped sticks and scarpered.’

  It was true. He realised that they hadn’t been fired on by a German since the advance had begun. Shells had come in to their right and left but there was no evidence of infantry resistance.

  Moving on, they began to pass the corpses of men in different uniforms. The green flashes of the Wehrmacht were replaced by black facings with a white skull and crossbones and two lightning flashes. Lamb knew who the dead men were. SS. The elite of Hitler’s army. Ruthless Nazis, better trained and equipped than any other. But even they had been broken by the new British tanks, thought Lamb. Perhaps they did have a chance after all.