The Black Jackals

by Iain Gale

‘Well, actually, I was rather hoping to get to General Fortune.’

  Crawford laughed. ‘You want to see the General? I’m afraid he’s not here. Why do you need to see him? Perhaps you are a Jerry after all.’

  Lamb ignored the comment. ‘I have a message for him. Rather important.’ He felt impatient but knew there was nothing he could do about it.

  Crawford seemed both intrigued and amused. ‘Well, let’s start off with the colonel, and perhaps then, after he’s seen you, we can work our way up to the top brass.’ He looked at the motley group of men. ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

  ‘All that’s left of my platoon, yes, and a few odds and sods. We had a bit of a rough time getting here.’

  He noticed Madeleine. ‘And a girl. Good God. Who’s she?’

  ‘It’s a long story. The SS murdered her family.’

  ‘You’d better come along to HQ. We’re pulling out of here anyway later this morning.’

  Leaving one of the privates on picket duty, Crawford and the other man led them further into the woods, here and there encountering other Highlanders in their distinctive Balmoral bonnets. The position seemed very sparsely occupied, and Lamb thought of the mass of German men and vehicles they had recently passed through.

  Crawford turned to Lamb. ‘So, extraordinary journey you must have had.’ He paused. ‘You’re from Kent, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m a bit of keen cricketer. Went to see them play a few times at Canterbury when I lived in London. What was the name of that tremendous wicket-keeper of yours? You know. He played in the last test against South Africa last year.’

  Lamb was aware that this was a test, but he didn’t mind. The lieutenant was only doing his job. In fact he was rather flattered that he made such a passable Nazi. Luckily he knew the answer. ‘I think you mean Les Ames. The only man to score 100 runs before lunch. He’s in the RAF now.’

  Crawford smiled. ‘Yes, of course, Les Ames. How could I forget that name?’

  They left the wood after a few hundred yards and, slipping down onto the road, carried on for more than a mile until they came to a village. Save for the cricketing conversation, Crawford had said nothing throughout the journey and had ignored the curious looks they were given by the few British soldiers they encountered.

  Now, though, he turned to Lamb. ‘This is Lambercourt. Our front line proper starts here. I shouldn’t really tell you any of this, as you haven’t been debriefed, but I reckon you’re who you say you are. And in any case, if we decide that you aren’t, we’ll just shoot you.’

  Lamb hardly felt reassured. ‘Thank you.’

  They found the Battalion HQ established in the town hall. Crawford left the private outside with Lamb’s men and Madeleine, and took Lamb into the building.

  The CO, Colonel Honeyman, a genial-looking man with huge eyebrows and a moustache to match, was sitting at a desk in the mayor’s office, with his batman, a signals officer and the RSM standing close by. He looked up. ‘Geordie. Good to see you. I say. Bagged a Jerry?’

  ‘Not exactly, sir. This is Lieutenant Lamb, of the Black Jackals.’

  ‘Good heavens. Are you sure? Looks damn like a Jerry.’

  ‘In my opinion, sir, he’s the real thing. He knew that Les Ames was wicket-keeper for Kent.’

  The colonel shrugged. ‘Where have you come from, Lieutenant?’

  ‘From Wavre, sir, by way of Tournai and Arras.’

  ‘Arras, eh? Did you see the counter-attack?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We took part in it.’

  ‘Did you, by God? Bloody shame. That’s quite a march. How long did it take you?’

  ‘Two weeks, sir, almost to the day.’

  The colonel rubbed at his chin. ‘Sarnt-Major, ask this man a question. One of your good ones.’

  ‘Righto, sir.’ The RSM thought long and hard, and after a couple of minutes turned to Lamb. ‘All right, sir. Please would you be so kind as to tell me the name of the cleaner in ITMA?’

  The colonel looked heavenward.

  Lamb laughed. ‘Mrs Mopp, of course. “Can I do you now, sir?” Got any more, Sarnt-Major?’

  The RSM blustered. ‘Who plays Sophie Tuckshop then, sir?’

  ‘Hattie Jacques.’

  The colonel looked at the RSM. ‘Well, is he right? You don’t suppose that I listen to that bloody show?’

  ‘Quite right, sir. He’s quite right.’

  ‘Thank God for that. Now, Lamb, tell us how you got here. And make it quick.’

  So in the space of the next twenty minutes Lamb gave a somewhat condensed account of their journey south. He mentioned the fight at the Dyle, his meeting with the colonel, although not the content of the message, the fight at Arras and his capture of Kurtz, the atrocity at Aubigny and meeting Madeleine, and lastly the raid on the air base. He was careful, of course, not to include mention of the civilians on the bridge or his treatment of Captain Campbell.

  He finished and, as soon as he had, thought to himself that the whole story sounded so far fetched they would probably not believe him and shoot him as a German spy.

  Honeyman looked at him. ‘And the Jerries you came through, how many would you say? What sort of strength are we up against?’

  Lamb thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say, sir, but they’re pretty thick on the ground. Must be at least two divisions, perhaps more.’

  The colonel nodded and looked serious. ‘You are an extraordinary man, Lamb. And I don’t know why – your story sounds more like some Boy’s Own adventure rather than war – but I’m inclined to believe you. And if the RSM and Lieutenant Crawford here both vouch for you then you’re probably who you say you are. You say you have a message for General Fortune from this colonel in Tournai?’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s absolutely vital.’

  ‘Well, General Fortune’s down at St Leger. That’s some seven miles south of Blangy. About thirty miles from here.’

  ‘How soon can I get to him, sir?’

  ‘Can’t you just give me the message, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. The staff officer who gave me the message told me that it was only to be delivered to General Fortune himself.’

  The colonel bristled. ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t really help you at the moment. I have the very pressing matter of holding the line against the enemy.’

  ‘But sir, with respect, I don’t see what that has to do with my getting the message to General Fortune. If you could just spare a man to show me the way, and perhaps a truck or a car.’

  The colonel smiled indulgently and sighed. ‘Lieutenant Lamb, the 51st Division is currently holding eighteen miles of the front line. Do you know what that means? Normally we would expect a division to hold four miles. We have to do more than four times that with no prepared positions. My battalion is holding two and a half miles of that front, all the way from Toeuffles to Miannay.’ He indicated the two towns on the map. ‘That’s proportionately the same. And we have another problem here. We are under French command. Now the French are not all bad. I’m not saying that. Fought alongside them in the last show. But how can I be expected to work under French command? I’m sorry, Lamb, I just can’t spare anyone at present. In fact I was rather hoping that you and your men might join us here. We can use everyone we can get.’

  ‘Sir, with respect. This message . . .’

  The colonel silenced him. ‘Lieutenant. I have said my piece and you have had your time too. And that’s an end to it at present. I have promised to try to get you to GHQ just as soon as it becomes possible. I can do no more than that.’

  Crawford coughed. ‘There is the girl, sir.’

  ‘The girl? Oh, the girl. Well, she’ll have to stay here at HQ, of course, and take her chances along with the rest of you.’

  Lamb spoke. ‘There is the question of my uniform, sir. I lost it in the fight at the airfield.’

  ‘Oh yes, can’t have you wandering around dressed like that. Might get yourself shot, eh? The RSM here should be able to fi
x you up with something. Won’t be Savile Row, of course, and we don’t have hyenas on our buttons, either, but at least it will look better than that rubbish you’re wearing.’ He turned to the RSM. ‘The lieutenant here looks about Mister Watson’s size, Sarnt-Major. Wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Lamb knew that it was futile to continue pleading his case. And he was weary too. He had done everything earthly possible to get the colonel’s message through to General Fortune, and he had fallen, it seemed, at the final hurdle. Of course he would do it. But he could see that it was quite impossible to achieve anything now. Nor could he simply run off to the GHQ at St Leger, as they had done at Essars. For one thing he had no idea how to find it, despite his map; for another he knew that without someone from Honeyman’s command to accompany him he would simply have no hope of getting to the general. Better to stick it out here for another day or so, get some rest and endear himself to the colonel in the hope that it might speed his actions.

  Together, he and Crawford left the little office and walked into the street. The sun was high in the sky now and the others were sitting on the steps of two houses and on their packs on the cobbles near the entrance to the town hall. Seeing Lamb, they got to their feet.

  ‘Sarnt Bennett, looks as if we’ll be staying here for a few days. Try and find the men billets and something a little more private for Mademoiselle Dujolle.’

  Crawford nodded. ‘We can find you somewhere. I’ll have a word with the battalion quartermaster. I’m sorry, Lamb. I know how important it is to you to get to the general, but you can see the situation here. The colonel has his hands tied. Don’t worry, stick with us, we’ll find some way of getting you to him. And you’d best take Mademoiselle Dujolle with you when you go. This is no place for a woman.’

  Lamb smiled. ‘Yes. I know you’re right. But you haven’t seen her in action. I’ve seen grown men take fright more easily.’

  ‘Well, you might as well keep her with you here for the present. As the colonel said, we’re sitting in reserve so the French can attack the bridgehead with their tanks. It’s General de Gaulle’s idea. He’s one of the better French commanders. So that why we’re here, strung out like washing on a line. Holding the sector. That’s why you bumped into our pickets out in the wood. We’re pulling back to the village. Haven’t the support weapons to do anything else. We’re only good for a reserve. Mind you, if the attack fails then ten to one the Jerries will counter-attack us here.’ He fell silent, contemplating the unpleasant prospect of being outnumbered. ‘Still, I expect that General Gort will send reinforcements over soon enough. That’s what we’re counting on, at least. If we can just hold the Jerries off that long.’

  Lamb could not help but admire his optimism, but with the colonel’s words in his ears he knew that Crawford’s hopes were probably not what the War Office had in mind for General Fortune’s command.

  Crawford turned to go. ‘Well, I’d better get back and pull the platoon out of the wood. I suppose you’re with us now. Glad to have you. I’ll see you back here then. And Lamb, I really should get that British uniform from the RSM if I were you, before someone takes a pot shot.’

  Lamb laughed. ‘I meant to ask you. Who’s Mister Watson?’

  ‘Jimmie Watson. Subaltern in C Company. That is, he was. Bought it at the canal three days ago. Shot through the head by a sniper. But I think the colonel was right. His battledress should fit you perfectly.’

  Standing in the little village square of Lambercourt, Lamb adjusted the sleeves of his newly acquired battledress top and straightened his tie. The colonel had been right. Apart from the sleeve length being a little short, it was a perfect fit. Lieutenant Watson had been a tall, fit rugby player from the Scottish borders with broad shoulders and the long, athletic legs of a full-back, and his physique exactly matched Lamb’s own. It felt a little eerie, though, wearing a dead man’s clothes, even his shirts and his boots. The tin hat they had scrounged from the battalion stores in exchange for Smart’s last packet of Woodbines. The batman felt it was all he could do to atone for the loss of Lamb’s own uniform. But even if the uniform had not fitted, Lamb would have worn it, for he had had enough of wearing the grey drab of their enemies.

  Madeleine had helped him to dress in the rooms they had found for her in an abandoned house in the centre of the village. He did not really care any more whether the men knew of their relationship and thought that they must have guessed, although no one had said anything. She and Lamb were not outwardly affectionate, but it was surely obvious to anyone who knew him. He felt changed in a way so fundamental that he sensed it might have affected his very appearance. And the change went deep. He was filled with a new resolve. The war, it seemed, was about to take turn against the Allies, and soon Britain might be standing alone against the German invader. Now he knew that every second, every moment would count for them. He was acutely aware that whatever it was that he and Madeleine had found might be snatched away from them in an instant. Fate had played them a cruel trick, but he did not intend to allow fate to win, any more than he intended to let the Nazis subject Britain and Europe to a new dark age of barbarity. He would fight for both. For love and for mankind and he would win, or would die trying.

  Lamb looked at his watch and saw that it was 2 p.m. The watch, which had been his father’s, was one of the few things of his own that he still had. He had lost everything else save the map, his torch and his cigarette case along with his uniform. Even the draft of the letter to Kate had gone, and he felt well rid of it. He wondered whether he had been living in a dream, deluding himself that she really loved him, that he could ever have forged a new life with her after she had been the catalyst in destroying his marriage. No, Madeleine was everything now. He wondered where she was and was about to find out when he saw Crawford walking in his direction with a face like thunder. B Company had been clear of the wood for four hours now, and the lieutenant came fresh from a briefing with the colonel. He was shaking his head.

  ‘I don’t bloody believe it. I thought de Gaulle was a good Frenchman. But this now, this is just madness.’

  ‘What? Tell me.’

  ‘The colonel’s just got the order through. We’ve got to take that wood at Cambon. Le Grand Bois.’

  ‘Not the one you’ve just abandoned?’

  ‘The very same. Except now intelligence reports suggest that the Jerries have begun to occupy it. And the French want it back. The order was direct from General de Gaulle. The colonel’s hopping mad. Keeps saying that they’ve gone behind General Fortune’s back. But what can we do? We’re under orders from the French.’

  ‘When do we go?’

  Crawford looked surprised. ‘We?’

  ‘We’re with you now. Remember?’

  Crawford smiled. ‘Thank you, Lamb. Well, the attack was scheduled for 1600 hours but the colonel’s managed to postpone for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘What? In two hours’ time? That’s absurd. What about reconnaissance? Does anyone have any idea what they’ve got in there?’

  ‘None at all. Just sightings of enemy movement. And we’ve no time now to appeal to Brigade or Division. We’ll have to leave your girl here.’

  Lamb replied quickly. ‘She’s not my girl.’

  ‘Oh really, I rather thought . . .’

  Cross with himself for having been so quick to deny her, and puzzled as to why he had, Lamb moved on. ‘She’ll be fine here with the colonel and the reserve platoon. And she can make bandages. But not tea, I’m afraid. She’s French, remember.’

  Crawford grinned. ‘Well, coffee then. We’ll need it when we get back. God knows what we’ll find in there.’

  It was almost 4.30 when they began to advance into the wood. They moved cautiously, strung out in a line, with three yards between each man. Lamb had reclaimed the Luger and led his ragged command on the right flank of B Company. No sooner had they moved the first twenty yards than two shells crashed in to their front.

  Lamb yel
led, ‘Take cover,’ and ducked down, and the men fell to the ground, finding what protection they could among the roots and natural potholes.

  Crawford shouted across to him, ‘There’s an eighty-eight on the ridge up there, near Grand Laviers. About 2,500 yards away. They haven’t got our range yet. Just listen out for the whine.’

  They stood up and began to walk forward again. Three minutes later Lamb heard the whine. ‘Take cover.’ They dropped as before, and as before the shells fell short. Next time, he thought, they won’t get it wrong. Slowly, they moved on again. It was heavy going underfoot and the roots and brambles threatened to catch the unwary. When five minutes had passed the whine came again and again they dropped to the ground as two more shells crashed through the trees. This time, as Lamb had predicted, the gunners’ aim was better and one of the shells hit the centre of the line, in B Company. There was a huge explosion and a scream as the earth flew and trees splintered, but he could not tell the extent of their casualties. As they walked on he was aware of a desperate call from his left for stretcher-bearers.

  He shouted across to Crawford, ‘You all right there?’

  ‘Yes. One of my corporals bought it, though, and we’ve another man down.’

  They were deep in the woods now. About half way through, thought Lamb, but still they had seen nothing of the enemy. He turned to Bennett. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, Sarnt. Don’t know what they’re up to, but judging by the incoming fire it’s my guess they’ve scarpered.’

  Bennett nodded.

  Valentine called to him, ‘Sir, look over there.’

  He was pointing to what looked like a tree stump.

  Lamb walked across to it and discovered a small slit trench. His eye was caught by a small shiny object. He bent down and, after checking carefully for wires which might suggest a booby trap, picked it up. It was a spent cartridge case. He turned it over and saw German writing. Stooping again, he picked up a cardboard packet. The label read ‘Hartkeks’ in a Gothic script.

  Valentine saw it. ‘It’s crispbread. German rations.’

  ‘Well, they’ve certainly been here. Intelligence was right after all.’