The Black Jackals

by Iain Gale

Lamb drew the Luger from his holster and waited. He could hear the motorcyclist approaching now, changing gear from third to fourth as he neared the driver’s cab. Lamb pictured the man’s face under speed as he approached, accelerating fast, his features drawn back in a rictus by the g-force as the speedometer crept steadily up the gauge. He knew those bikes. The BMW R12. 745 ccs of pure power. He had seen one in action just before the war, racing at Brooklands. Lovely machines, capable of 120 kilometres an hour. For the Wehrmacht they had been mounted with an MG34 on the sidecar. And now one of them was closing in on them – fast.

  The man in the sidecar was shouting now. Orders to them to stop. He would have seen the men in the back in their khaki by now. Lamb waited for the first smack of the machine-gun bullets to hit the cab, but none came. Instead the man kept on shouting. Then there was a burst of machine-gun fire from the MG34 on the sidecar. Not at the truck, but a warning shot well placed into the road a hundred yards ahead of them, tearing up pieces of earth and cobblestone. The man shouted again. Lamb did nothing, and waited. Waited until he could see the front of the bike and then the German’s hands on the handle-bars and his rubberised coat flapping in the wind. Then he leant out of the window, pushing his arm out across the lowered glass. He knew that he had only a split second, and quickly, without aiming, squeezed the trigger. He was briefly aware of the bike rider’s face and goggles exploding in a spray of blood before he pulled his arm back into the cab. There was a scream and then the sound of the bike swerving and then crashing. Lamb stared ahead and realised that he was breathing heavily.

  Valentine stared at him. ‘All right, sir?’

  ‘Yes. They won’t give us any more trouble. But you’d better keep her floored, Bennett. Those Jerries in the trucks will be up here soon enough.’

  Lamb looked at the map and saw that their present route would take them directly to the Somme canal. He estimated that they might be there in twenty minutes. There was only one problem. The canal was sure to be patrolled by Germans. In fact, if the colonel’s word was anything to go by it might well form the German front line, flowing parallel as it did with the river itself, which he knew was to be the British position. They were caught between the Germans now pursuing them, who would have found the dead bike rider, and those in front. It also occurred to him that if the two front lines were close, then, were they to crash the German lines from the rear as he had intended, they would be shot to pieces by the British before they reached their own men. It seemed perverse, but the best thing they could now do was to abandon the truck.

  They were approaching another small hamlet. It was as good a place as any. He turned to Bennett. ‘Sarnt, stop the truck.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Stop the truck. We’re going to leave her here. We’ll be safer on foot.’

  Bennett pulled over to the right and switched off the engine. The night was still, and Lamb heard no sound of approaching engines. Either they had lost their pursuers or they had given up the chase, but he did not hold out much hope of the latter. He climbed down from the cab, followed by the others, and walked to the rear. The back of the truck, lit up by the moonlight, was a shambles of spent ammunition, blood, vomit and discarded equipment. Lamb flipped down the tailgate and began to help the men out. Smart, Perkins and the others seemed remarkably robust, considering what they had been through, and he felt a wave of pride in his platoon sweeping over him.

  His platoon. Christ, he thought. Was this all that was left of them? Eight men, plus Valentine and Bennett. That was it. Of the twenty-eight men he had led in Belgium two weeks ago, only ten remained, plus the four wounded whom he hoped were still in France or even back in Blighty. They had lost half their strength. And what had they accomplished? Damn little, he thought, although at least these few were still alive. Had he been a good officer, he wondered. Had he cared for his men or spent their lives foolishly? Now was not the time, though, to examine his conscience.

  Butterworth had injured his leg when the truck had swerved, and Lamb helped him down from the back and then jumped up to find Madeleine sitting at the back, up against the cab, cradling Tapley’s dead body. She looked at him. ‘He asked for you. Then for his mother.’

  ‘It’s often that way. At the end.’

  Lamb leaned down and gently took the dead boy away from her, before carrying him to the tailgate and handing him down to Bennett. ‘Put him somewhere shady, Sarnt. Out of harm’s way.’

  He helped the girl down, then looked at the men. ‘You’ve probably guessed. We’re leaving the vehicle here. We’re almost at our lines, and we’d be sitting ducks in that truck as we are. My plan is that you are our prisoners. We’ll pretend to the Jerries that we’re taking you in. And the girl. If our chaps are really so close, it will seem quite possible. Valentine can speak German. But if they talk to me the game’s up and we let them have it. We’ll have to leave most of the rifles, but Corporal Valentine and Sergeant Bennett will each take one of the machine guns and some ammo, and I want each of you to make sure you’ve got something on you: a bayonet, a knife, a grenade. Anything. Something to fight with.’

  He hoped to God that his plan would succeed. And he prayed that the colonel had been right and that Fortune and his men had established a line at the Somme. If he had not, then for all Lamb knew they were simply walking deeper into the German lines – towards captivity or death.

  Chapter 14

  As quietly as possible, Bennett moved the truck off the road to the left, where it was partly hidden by a coppice of trees at the far edge of a field. Beside it, in the shelter of the trees, they buried Tapley in a shallow grave, leaving his helmet resting on the mound of freshly dug earth to show where he lay. Lamb said a few words and then they turned away and followed him back across the road, without their rifles. Lamb was the last to leave the grave-side. How vulnerable they looked, he thought, soldiers with no means to defend themselves, and no means of attack, except the few weapons he had told them to keep hidden. Perhaps it had been foolish to leave the rifles and machine guns. It went against everything the rule book dictated. But what alternative did they have? he asked himself. If they were seen by the enemy, armed and in British uniform, they would be shot. At least this way, masquerading as his prisoners, with Valentine’s German, they had a slim chance of bluffing their way through.

  The road stretched out ahead of them on the left, leading directly west and to the Somme canal. He looked at the map. There were two bridges across the canal, one directly ahead of them and another off to the north west. The closer one was in a town and would be buzzing with Germans, even at this time. The smaller, more distant bridge would be less frantic, he was sure. It would, however, mean a two-mile walk across open country and, with all their injuries and wounds, not to mention their general exhaustion, he hoped that they, and not least Madeleine, would manage it.

  He prayed too that the word had not yet got out of what had happened at the air base and knew that every moment now was precious.

  They fell in at the roadside in the lee of an embankment, beyond which fields rose above the road, and as he watched them Lamb’s mind wandered back to the colonel’s words: ‘. . . gutter scrapings . . . underfed and ill-educated’. He knew that it had been true of a few of them, but they were his men, his platoon, and they had done damn well to make it this far. He knew, whatever the colonel thought, that the men who made it back to Britain would have to form the backbone of the new army that would strike back into France and defeat Hitler. They had unique experience. They had withstood the maelstrom of the German blitzkrieg and survived. They knew the odds and would, he guessed, soon be NCOs, if not officers – like Valentine. For that reason alone he knew that, as soon as he had delivered the message to General Fortune, it was his duty to get them home.

  He turned to them. ‘Right, lads, we’re almost there. By my reckoning, four or five miles down that road, across the Somme canal, there’s a British division. We’re heading for a bridge at a place called Petit Port. We’ve made it
this far, and whatever happens now, whatever danger lies ahead in the next few hours, we’re going to make it all the way. Remember, you’re my prisoners now. I know it’s hard, but try to look like it. No smiling , Wilkinson. And no wisecracks. And any man who addresses me as sir will be on a charge.’ They laughed at that one. ‘Got that, Sarnt Bennett? And for God’s sake no one call Sarnt Bennett “Sergeant”. He’s a bloody Jerry now. Pretend to be frightened of him.’ They liked that too. ‘And Valentine too for that matter.’ Then he had a brilliant idea. ‘Valentine. Change uniforms with me. Quick as you can, man.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Your German’s the best. It stands to reason that as the NCO you’re the man in charge. Why should they want to talk to me if you’re in command? Change uniforms, man. Now!’

  The two of them moved to one side and both began to unbutton their tunics. Soon they were each wearing the other’s uniform. Lamb gave Valentine his captured belt and holster and the precious Luger: ‘That’s only on loan, Valentine. Understand?’

  Valentine gave Lamb the machine pistol he had liberated from the dead guard. ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘And for God’s sake don’t call me sir. You’re in command now.’ Lamb smiled, conscious of the irony of the situation. Valentine said nothing, but shrugged.

  Lamb turned back to the men, ‘Right. Corporal Valentine is now a Jerry sergeant and I’m a private. Try to behave as if that’s the case. And remember, if any Jerries do start to talk to me the game’s up and we give it to them. Right. Let’s get going. I want to have my breakfast with the Highlanders. I hope you all like porridge.’

  His talk had the desired effect, and they set off in good spirits. Valentine led the way, his captured German sub-machine gun at the ready, while Bennett marched at the side of the column of prisoners with an MG34 on his shoulder, and Lamb made up the rear. The men marched in twos, and with them, at the rear, next to Lamb, came Madeleine.

  After thirty yards Lamb gave the order. ‘Right, up this slope, we’ll cross the fields and make for the woods.’

  They scrambled up the embankment and found themselves in a field of waving wheat. They were totally exposed high up above the road, although screened from the village by a thick hedge of trees and undergrowth that marked the field’s southern boundary.

  Lamb said, ‘Right, run for it. Into the trees.’

  They pushed their way as fast as they could through the wheat field towards the spinney on the far side. After a short time the first field ended at a sunken road. Lamb didn’t bother to look, but jumped down and dashed across and into the adjoining field. Another hundred yards and they were scrambling through the hedgerow, stamping down the undergrowth. Lamb raised his hand to indicate that they should stop, and they crouched down, regaining their breath. Lamb looked around and saw that the wood was in fact a thin strip of trees, beyond which lay the lawns and gardens of a modest country house. He motioned them on and, sticking to the woods, they skirted the house and its grounds and moved into denser wood land. He had no doubt that the ever-resourceful Germans were already in possession of the big house, and at any moment fully expected to be confronted by a sentry. After a short distance he saw the edge of the wood and the night sky. The moon shone through the trees, and every crunching twig or scurrying animal resounded into the night. Lamb was the first to reach the edge of the wood and pulled up fast just before he almost tumbled down a steep incline which fell away onto the road below. He scrambled down the bank, followed by the others. Butterworth cursed as he landed at the roadside, twisting his injured leg, and Lamb saw Madeleine bend down to help him up.

  On the lower road he signalled that they should resume their formation, with himself, newly demoted, still bringing up the rear, and once again they set off. They turned right and Lamb saw to his relief that to their right a railway line ran parallel with the road. They would have to go up this road for around one and a half miles before they hit the bridge, and then they would see what happened. With every step he was becoming more frustrated by the fact that they should now be so close to the British lines and at the same time so far in real terms.

  They had not gone far along the road when Lamb picked up a noise, the unmistakable sound of an engine coming towards them from the rear. It sounded like a lorry. Lamb’s first reaction was to bolt, but there was no cover here, merely the embankment to their right and the railway line on the left.

  He yelled to the men in front, ‘Hold fast. Stick it out.’ And then the lorry rounded the corner behind them, lighting up the road with its full headlights. Lamb motioned the men into the side of the road and they pressed up close to the bank as the vehicle approached. It drove past them for some yards, and for a moment Lamb thought that it would carry on. But then it pulled up and stopped and the driver switched off the engine, but left the lights on. Butterworth turned and looked anxiously at Lamb, who waved him back into line with a quiet shake of the head. Both of the cab doors opened and two Germans approached them, the passenger armed with a machine pistol. Valentine stepped forward, and the armed man began to talk to him. Lamb could hear nothing of their conversation but saw the German nodding his head. Then he looked closely at the line of prisoners and smiled. The driver walked over to the lorry and opened the flap of the tarpaulin before turning and indicating to the men to get in. Lamb could hardly believe it.

  Valentine walked back to him and said quietly, ‘They’ve bought it, sir. I told them we were heading for Petit Port with prisoners for the SS. They’ve offered to give us a lift.’

  Lamb stared at him, incredulous. ‘Is it a trick?’

  ‘I don’t think so. They are a bit gormless. But when I said we were taking them to the SS they seemed very willing to help.’

  ‘Well done, Valentine. Let’s get going then.’

  With the German pushing them on, the remnants of Lamb’s platoon climbed aboard the lorry, followed quickly by Madeleine, then by Lamb and Bennett, masquerading as their guards. The German said something to Bennett, who smiled and nodded. It must have been the right response, for the man wandered back to the cab with Valentine, whom he had invited to travel with him and his mate. Lamb hoped that Valentine’s German would prove to be better than schoolboy. No one spoke. The truck started up and they began to roll forward along the road towards Petit Port. Lamb looked around the darkness, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to it, and saw the faces of his men. He smiled in an attempt to reassure them but was not sure that it had worked. Madeleine was sitting close to him, but among so many of his men she did not again attempt to hold his hand. He marvelled at her strength and determination, and her ability to cope with all they had been through in the last twenty-four hours. She would no doubt make someone a wonderful wife some day, he thought. Or perhaps she would go on to fight the Germans herself in this war. He was staring at the side of her face in the dark. Perhaps it was just as well that he had not finished that letter, or sent any of his thoughts. Perhaps providence had placed Madeleine in his way out here, so far from home. But if that was the case, if anyone in this mad world still believed in providence, or some all-controlling force of destiny, then had she been sent to test his loyalty to Julia, or as a solution? Might Madeleine be his future? He was still admiring the line of her delicate profile when she turned and realised that he had been staring. Lamb looked away, but she had seen the look, even in the darkness.

  Still no one spoke. From the cab in front came the sound of conversation. It sounded as if Valentine was making a good thing of it. For all his faults and his sheer bloody impudence, the man had again somehow saved the day. The only problem that faced them now was how to disentangle themselves from the complex mess they would find themselves in when they reached Petit Port. Lamb had no idea whether there were any SS at their destination and what they would do if whoever was there did believe Valentine, and would expect him to hand over the platoon. He tried to think round the problem. His old instructor at officer training school had often told him that the best way to solve a
problem was to imagine that someone else was faced with it. Someone he admired – a great general, or even just a company commander. And so sitting in the back of the truck he began to ask himself what the Duke of Wellington might have done faced with a similar problem. But the trouble was this was not the sort of problem that would ever have faced Wellington, or Napoleon, or Alexander or Marlborough. It was the problem facing him, Lieutenant Peter Lamb. A platoon commander in German uniform who was about to be asked to deliver his own men into the hands of the enemy and who stood a pretty good chance, when he was found out, of being shot as a spy. The lorry lurched and turned left, then bumped across what must have been railway tracks. They were heading west again, on the road to the canal. He would have to think fast. They were slowing down now and Lamb guessed that they must be approaching Petit Port. Perhaps he would find a course of action once they were out of the lorry.

  He turned to Bennett. ‘This will be tricky. We’ll have to play it by ear. See what their strength is. The minute we get out there do a quick head count to the right. I’ll do the same on the left. We’ve got to get across that bridge and we’ll have to take our chances where we can.’ He turned to the rest of the men. ‘That goes for the lot of you. Good luck.’ Turning back to Madeleine, he smiled and said, ‘Stay close to me. I’ll have my gun on you, but with the safety on. When the bullets start flying . . .’

  She nodded and cut him off. ‘I know, stay low.’

  ‘Sorry. You learn fast.’

  The flaps at the rear of the lorry opened and a German smiled at Lamb and then motioned the prisoners out. Lamb jumped down, as did Bennett, and both men moved to opposite sides of the lorry. Lamb, on the left, closest to the bridge, tried to take in their surroundings as quickly as he could and to get an idea of how many of the enemy there might be. The lorry had drawn up before a wooden bridge with thin metal railings. The wooden barrier onto the bridge was raised. The canal itself could not have been more than fifty feet wide, and to either side of the bridge the ground ran away in a narrow embankment lined with poplar trees. To Lamb’s surprise both sides were devoid of the enemy. But he could see that they had fortified the entrance to the bridge itself with a wall of sandbags five high, behind which two MG34s were firmly dug in, each of them manned by a team of two. He looked to the rear, back the way they had come, and saw, some distance off up the road, a group of German infantry with an officer. The man was eyeing them quizzically and looked as if he might be about to approach.