by Alan David
The platoons were organised and they began to push forward only to be met by concentrated machine-gun fire. There were also a number of small groups of three men armed with Brens who popped up and fired short bursts, then vanished before they could be attacked, and the powerful defensive fire which emanated from the ruins of the village forced even Dantine to admit that they could not break through.
‘What I wouldn’t give for a handful of Mark IVs,’ Dantine raged. ‘I’ll call for more air support. We’ll bomb those Tommies out of their minds. Keep the men down in cover, but have them ready to move in as soon as the air attack is over.’
Eckhardt suppressed a sigh as Dantine crawled back. He was sweating. The afternoon was hot with the sun blazing down upon them. The ground was warm and there were wild flowers growing along the sides of the ditch. He kept his head low as a burst of automatic fire beat the ground about him, and realised that the enemy soldiers were keen-eyed and ready to take on all-corners.
Once more the Stukas arrived and the village was bombed until only burning ruins remained. Dantine returned just as Eckhardt was organising yet another attack, and the Company Commander watched from cover as the grey-clad figures began to move forward. But once again they came under heavy fire, and grenades were thrown, causing their attack to wilt and fall back. Dantine led another attack, only to get hit in the left arm by a grenade fragment. When the attack petered out he lay beside Eckhardt in a ditch, cursing helplessly.
‘These Britishers are a match for us,’ Eckhardt said softly.
‘They are stubborn. They don’t know when they are beaten. But we are not going to remain cowering under cover. Let us make yet another attack. We shall maintain pressure so long as it is needed. We do not surrender, neither do we give up, and I don’t want another company to come to our assistance, Eckhardt. It would be a disgrace.’
Max summoned the platoon commanders, who reported many casualties, but they prepared for another assault. The afternoon was wasting away and they were halted as if they had run into a brick wall, for the British knew how to conduct a defence.
But the attacks continued with mounting ferocity, and they finally stormed one of the farms and captured it, having to kill the handful of khaki-clad survivors who came out of some narrow trenches with rifles and fixed bayonets to contest the ground and to die fighting. Only superior numbers beat them, and when the farm was finally in German hands they were fired upon from the second farm and the whole furious action had to be repeated.
Dantine was gradually becoming more enraged. They had never met such resistance before and he felt that he was losing face. He had boasted in the Officers’ Mess that his Company was the finest in the battalion and that they would prove it in the coming battles, but the rest of the battalion was capturing their objectives and he was held up here by these stupid, stubborn Englishmen.
With one farm lost, the British found their defences breached, and an hour later the second farm was captured after some ferocious hand-to-hand fighting. Then Dantine began to smile like a tiger although his dusty face was taut with anger and his dark eyes glowed with an inner fire.
‘Let’s get on to the village now,’ he snapped. ‘Push the men forward, Eckhardt. Colonel Spaten has given me one hour to capture it and then he will send in another company. Take the reserves as well. I want this obstacle removed immediately.’
Eckhardt saluted and hurried to brief the platoon commanders. Sergeant Meyer came in place of his platoon officer, and Leun accompanied Eckhardt, a machine-pistol in his tough hands. Eckhardt explained what had to be done, and they kept low because of the accurate machine-gun fire which came at them from the blazing ruins. It seemed that the British were fighting from inside the burning buildings.
The attack moved in under covering fire from their own machine-guns but was beaten back before it could get to grips. The British were undaunted. Eckhardt sighed heavily and prepared a second attack, and Dantine reappeared to supervise it. But they fared no better, and merely left more men stretched out in the open where the defensive patterns of fire had caught them. Dantine was cursing, almost beside himself in rage, and he turned to Eckhardt, who stiffened to attention.
‘We will take that village even if it costs us every man,’ he snapped. ‘Get everyone who can hold a weapon into action, and there’s to be no quarter for the enemy. We’ve wasted most of the day trying to take this place. Now the price we have to pay does not matter. Take them in and finish it off.’
Eckhardt took stock of the situation and gave orders, and the weary Germans summoned up the energy and nerve for yet another attack. Eckhardt had heard a wounded British prisoner, captured at one of the farms, state that they had been ordered to delay the Germans for as long as possible and not to withdraw or surrender until their supplies of ammunition ran out. It was the kind of order Eckhardt himself could understand, and he wiped sweat from his forehead as he plotted his next move. Then he gave orders and the whole pattern of events recommenced.
This time he went with the leading sections, and they moved from cover to cover for as long as possible, following the ditches to remain out of the view of the stoical enemy. Bursts of machine-gun fire were zipping through the air, and it looked as if they were moving in to certain destruction. The British had no intention of leaving the battlefield for the Germans. It would have to be wrested from them, and by the hard way.
Dodging across an open space, Eckhardt threw himself forward and rolled into cover as dirt spurted up all around him, and he was breathless as he raised up to observe. Half of one section lay sprawled in the open, slashed to pieces by the accurate defensive fire, and it seemed to Eckhardt that he was temporarily cut off and stranded. He looked around and sighed with relief when he spotted another of Sergeant Meyer’s sections on the right. Corporal Steine was there, firing a submachine-gun.
But as he arose and prepared to continue the advance despite their heavy losses, Eckhardt heard Leun calling to him.
‘Herr Oberleutnant. Look at the British, sir. They are waving white flags.’
Eckhardt frowned as he lifted his glasses, and the ruined village came into plain view. A grimace of disbelief touched his smoke-blackened, sweaty face when he saw a white flag being waved, and now there was no more shooting from the ruins of the village. He looked around at his own men, who had stopped shooting, and signalled for them to remain under cover.
‘Leun, get back to Major Dantine and inform him of this development,’ Eckhardt rapped, and Leun ran across an open field without drawing fire, where only minutes before a whole section had been wiped out by the hard-eyed British gunners.
Dantine came forward, his expression showing suspicion. He studied the ruins for a moment. Someone over there was waving a sheet or a white tablecloth, and there were several figures now standing in the open.
‘They must have used up all their ammunition,’ Dantine observed. ‘I’ll stay here, Eckhardt. Find someone who speaks English and go and see what they want. If they are ready to surrender then accept and tell them to come out with their hands up. I’ll get the Company ready to receive them, just in case of tricks.’
Eckhardt stood up. His ears were ringing from the noise of battle, which had faded now, and thick smoke was rising from the burning buildings.
‘I can speak fairly good English, sir,’ Leun said, and the burly sergeant-major got to his feet to accompany Eckhardt.
They walked across the open space towards the ruined village, and three men were coming towards them from the British positions. One was an officer, and he was accompanied by two NCOs. When they met they halted within a few feet of one another, and Leun spoke slowly, in a guttural voice. The British officer answered, and Eckhardt studied the man closely, aware of his proud, defiant manner. Leun turned towards Eckhardt, stiffening into attention.
‘There was a battalion of them this morning, Herr Leutnant,’ he reported. ‘But now they are down to company strength and have a number of wounded. They are practically out of amm
unition and ask you to accept their surrender.’
‘I am authorised to do so,’ Eckhardt replied. ‘Tell them to leave their weapons behind and to come out of their positions with their hands upon their heads. Wounded may be carried.’
Leun repeated the instructions, and Eckhardt remained where he was, aware that his own Company were covering him. But it was no trick on the part of the British and they emerged slowly from their cover, carrying and helping their wounded. Eckhardt counted them as they filed past him. There were almost one hundred of them, and many were wounded. They held themselves like soldiers, and he was aware that they would still be fighting if they had not run short of ammunition. They were silent and pale-faced, their eyes staring straight ahead, and they had faced hell that day. Now the war was over as far as they were concerned, and German troops came out of cover to surround them.
Dantine arrived, his face set in harsh lines, his bottom lip nipped between his teeth. His dark eyes glowed worse than Eckhardt had ever seen them. He spoke sharply to Leun, who went to the British officer in command, and they moved slowly from the village into a meadow close by, where some of the British began to attend to their wounded.
‘Shall I see that they receive medical supplies, sir?’ Eckhardt demanded.
‘Give orders for the Company to form up and prepare to move out,’ Dantine snapped. ‘We are behind schedule.’
‘We’ll need to leave some men to guard the prisoners,’ Eckhardt replied.
‘I am making arrangements for the prisoners.’ Dantine spoke through clenched teeth.
Eckhardt saw two machine-guns being set up in corners of the field. One was under the command of Sieber from Meyer’s platoon. Leun brought a platoon and lined them up in the background. Dantine looked around, lifted a hand in the air, then swept it downwards, and the two machine-guns chattered swiftly, pouring their concentrated fire into the massed ranks of the prisoners. The crackle of the guns went on and on, and khaki-clad Tommies slumped and died, fell wounded and bleeding.
Eckhardt froze as he realised what was happening, and looked towards his superior. Dantine was gazing at the prisoners, oblivious to their cries and screams. His dark eyes burned with a strange intensity and he watched stolidly as the machine guns covered the entire area, pouring lead into the twisting, jerking bodies. When there were no more prisoners left standing he lifted a hand and the deadly staccato of sound shut off instantly, the echoes fleeing slowly.
‘Sergeant-Major, take in your platoon and ensure that all the prisoners are dead,’ Dantine ordered.
‘Yes, sir!’ Leun’s face was pale, his eyes narrowed under the brim of his steel helmet, but his face was expressionless, and Eckhardt watched as the platoon moved in amongst the fallen prisoners, using their bayonets on any who were still alive. Minutes later Leun came to report that all were dead, and Dantine turned towards Eckhardt.
‘Let us not waste any more time, Leutnant,’ he rapped. ‘We have a lot of ground to make up. Dunkirk is ahead of us and that is where we should be. I made a vow that we would be the first there, so get the men moving.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Eckhardt turned immediately and began shouting orders. Men started moving, falling into formation. Then they marched away from the meadow where stiffening bodies lay grotesquely sprawled in an untidy heap of death, careless and uncaring. But he turned once to look at the grim spectacle of the massacre.
So that was how the war had to be fought, he told himself. Total war meant just that. The enemies of the State deserved no pity, and if they were in the way then it was a simple matter to remove them. He faced his front and heaved a sigh. There was still a long way to go yet but he could read the writing on the wall. The French and the British had been cut off from each other. If the British did not surrender at Dunkirk then they would be wiped out, even as those prisoners back there had been killed. There was no room for sentiment in war. The destiny of the German race had to take precedence over personal feelings and individuals. They had to act for the good of the nation, and blood needed to be spilled because the price of their goal was high.
Some of the men began to sing wearily as they passed through the village, which burned furiously around them, and they continued towards the front, where fierce fighting was still raging. It was only in that small meadow by the farm that absolute stillness reigned, and Eckhardt thought of it a moment longer before dismissing it completely from his mind. To the victor went the spoils. For the vanquished there was only death. It was the New Order for Europe...
If you enjoyed reading Heroes Without Honour, you might also be interested in Both Feet in Hell by Alan David, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David
Chapter One
THE night was not dark, for the eastern horizon was stained with a dull living red. Smoke blotted out the stars and formed an uncertain ceiling over the countryside. The sky was filled with unseen menace as invisible flights of bombers droned overhead. There was the sullen thunder of distant guns. The night breathed with vibrant force.
The murky streets of the shell torn little French town were throbbing with life. Men moved hesitantly among the rubble and desolation of the houses, flitting through the shadows like animals. Frenzied transport lurched crazily into and out of the town, one stream heading for the front and one stream returning.
A big 3 ton truck pulled out of the never ending line of traffic, turned into a side street and squealed to a stop. Doors slammed, a tailboard dropped and rattled down, and heavy boots thudded upon treacherous cobblestones, sounding sharp against the background of the ominously muttering guns. Sudden and irregular flashes tattered the uneasy mantle of night.
‘Righto, you blokes.’ A hoarse voice shouted a terse command. ‘This is where the East Borderers hang out. Get your kit together and fall in over here. I’ll rouse out the orderly sergeant.’
Tired men dragged themselves into a group and drooped where they stood. Their conducting sergeant stepped into the shadows and vanished as if he had entered another life. The eight men, replacements, drowsed in a half world of fear and anticipation. They were shocked awake by the bull-like roar of an alert, authoritative voice.
‘All right, you Shower. Brace yourselves or you’ll all fall down. Quickly now. Through that door and down into the cellar, and don’t kick over the lamps.’
Heaving their kit about, the newcomers hurried into the building. They filed down into a cellar and turned, blinking in the poor light of two hurricane lamps, to face the voice that chivvied and cut at them from behind. They saw a big, efficient looking sergeant standing on the fourth step, his craggy face thrust forward as he stared at them, his prominent chin jutting pugnaciously.
‘Answer your names,’ he barked, and looked at a sheet of paper in one of his big hands. ‘Lance Corporal Gill.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Gemmell.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Harris.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Haylett.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘What’s the matter with you, Haylett? You look like a tailor’s dummy that’s stood too near to the fire. Private Hindley.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Knights.’
‘Here, Sergeant.’
‘I know you’re here, you ugly little man, you. You talk too much. Private Weeds.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Keeler.’
‘Sar’nt.’
The sergeant studied Keeler. Then he looked over the rest of them, gnawing his fleshy lips. He thrust out his chin at them and began to talk, spitting out his words as if they burnt his lips.
‘I’m your floggin’ P’toon Sergeant. As from now you’re One Section, Ten Platoon, Able Company, the First Battalion the East Borderers. My name’s Baggott — Sar’nt Basil Baggott, and no dirty cracks or you’ll be doing Jankers until five years after the war. If you’ve never met the biggest Bastard in the
British Army, you’re looking at him now; and by the looks of you lot I’m the unluckiest one in any army. On parade or in action you’ll obey my slightest whim at the flogging double, even if the order is to cut your throats, which is what you’ll likely do before I’ve finished with you. But never try to cut mine. I drink monkey’s water because it’s sour, and I pick my teeth with a blood stained bayonet, and if you think that’s tough just wait till I’ve finished with you. You’ll be tougher than the Nine Blind Bastards all rolled into one. Any questions?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Private Weeds. ‘Who are the Nine Blind Bastards?’
Sergeant Baggott studied the short, dark haired, almost tubby Weeds.
‘What refugee camp did you escape from, Weeds? Are you sure you’ve been posted from another mob in the BRITISH army? You aren’t Free French or a Yank, are you?’
‘I did all right for three years in the desert, Sergeant,’ said Weeds.
‘Yes. Then they sent you home so they could get on and win the war out there. It looks as if I’m going to have some trouble with you, Weeds. Just watch yourself. Now then. We’ve got some organisation in this platoon. There’s bedding here for each of you. Get your kit sorted out and get your heads down. The battalion goes back into the line tomorrow, so make the most of it. Get out of bed when you’re called in the morning, and I’ll be around on first parade to renew our acquaintance.’
They stood in silence until the sergeant had gone, then they breathed heavily and relaxed.
‘Phew, he’s a right bastard,’ said Cyril Hindley. ‘What have we let ourselves in for?’
These eight were a close knit bunch, having served together in their old regiment for a number of years. They still felt resentment at having been posted away from their own mob, where they had known every one, where their roots were deep. Now they were dumped in the darkness, in the strangeness of a new battalion, to be greeted by an overbearing sergeant who, in their opinion, should have been shot in the first action of this battalion by subordinates who must surely hate him.