Airborne

by Robert Radcliffe

  Then it was over, as suddenly as it had begun. A shocked silence descended.

  ‘That was aimed at us!’ Kenny exclaimed. ‘They were trying to kill us!’

  ‘No, lad,’ the sergeant chuckled. ‘That was just a warning from Jerry. He says run faster next time!’

  *

  The next morning they were roused at dawn to load lorries again.

  ‘HQ’s pulling back,’ the sergeant, whose name was MacLean, told them. ‘It’s getting too risky here.’

  ‘What about the men in the village?’

  ‘They’ll cover our withdrawal, then follow as best they can.’

  Theo and Kenny exchanged glances. Their 2nd Platoon had declined to just six men, the rest, including their platoon commander, having been dispersed to other locations. ‘What about our unit?’

  ‘You’re under the command of Divisional HQ now,’ MacLean said. ‘Just keep your heads down, don’t do anything daft and you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Backwards by the looks of it.’

  Within an hour the stores from the pen were all loaded. Next they helped empty the house, carrying supplies, boxes of files, radio sets, even tables and chairs out to waiting trucks and cars. As they laboured, they saw officers striding about bearing maps and charts, some with red flashes on their lapels. Their expressions were uniformly grim. At one point they dropped a crate on the stairs to salute an older officer approaching from below.

  ‘Don’t be bloody stupid!’ he growled, pushing impatiently past.

  ‘That’s General Fortune,’ an aide muttered, ‘CO of the whole 51st and in no mood for niceties.’

  A moment later they heard the rising whine of approaching engines, accelerating as if from great height, then a blood-chilling siren as the aeroplanes dived. Someone shouted ‘Stukas!’ The noise rose in a deafening crescendo and then a piercing whistle as the bombs released; the next instant the whole world shook with explosions. The floor trembled, the building shuddered, dust and plasterwork fell from the ceiling, ornaments and paintings crashed to the floor. ‘Get down!’ the general commanded. Theo and Kenny dived under a table, their arms over their heads. The next salvo came: shrieking sirens, roaring engines, the whistle, the thunder of explosions, shaking ground and splintering glass. Acrid smoke choked their lungs; behind them the staircase collapsed and a gaping hole appeared in one wall.

  Then it was over and the Stukas were gone. Peace returned, broken only by the crackle of flames and incongruous squawking of chickens. Deafened and dust-caked, they crawled from under their table and staggered outside. Two lorries were burning furiously; one they’d just finished loading was now barely four wheels and a chassis. Elsewhere the farmyard was transformed, pocked with craters, littered with fallen branches, debris, smashed outbuildings and vehicle wreckage. And a single body, lying alone in the dirt in a twisted heap. Brushing the dust from their clothes, they approached. The body lay face down, its pose grotesquely contorted such that its legs were facing downward while its torso faced up. One side of its head was gone.

  ‘Christ, Ted, d’you think…’

  ‘I should think so.’

  ‘What are you two gawping at?’ Sergeant MacLean strode up. ‘Have you never seen a corpse before?’

  ‘We… that is, not so…’

  ‘Well, you have now. And you know what to do.’

  ‘Um…’

  MacLean saw their faces. ‘Christ, all right, listen. Get shovels and bury him, deep as you can, under those trees over there. Remove any personal effects from his pockets and one of his identity discs, and give them to me. Find a piece of wood or roof slate or something and mark the grave with his name and service number, and that’s it. And get your bloody skates on – we leave in ten minutes!’

  By mid-morning they were on the move again, part of a lengthy convoy winding their way westward – the direction they’d come from yesterday. Once again progress was impeded by military traffic and long lines of civilians retreating wearily from the onslaught. Twice en route they sprinted from the trucks as Stukas attacked; on each occasion the Highlanders shot furiously back before returning to the vehicles as if nothing had happened. The verges were littered with discarded military equipment and personal belongings; from time to time they passed the smoking shell of a burned-out vehicle, sometimes with bodies inside. After two hours they came to a town and crossed a railway line and a narrow river, and then a bridge over marshy meadows. ‘Blangy-sur-Bresle’, a sign read.

  The convoy stopped; the boys stared out. Vehicles were arriving from all directions, disgorging hundreds of men and tons of equipment along the river as far as they could see. Heavy artillery, anti-aircraft guns, self-propelled field pieces and a row of low-loaders carrying Vickers tanks.

  ‘Do you think there’s going to be a battle, Kenny?’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’

  MacLean arrived. ‘You two, with me.’

  ‘What’s going on, Sarge?’

  ‘The new front line. We’ve got twenty miles to hold between here and the sea, and barely a division to hold it with, which isn’t enough. But we’re to dig in along the river and stop Jerry crossing at all costs. Or go down trying.’

  ‘What about us?’

  ‘Division’s setting up a forward command post a mile back. They need runners – you know, messengers and so on. I take it you can run?’

  ‘Course.’ Kenny shrugged. ‘Ted’s a bloody champion.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘He won medals and that. He’s an officer too, ain’t you, Ted?’

  ‘Well, I… Only a cadet. Acting cadet, that is, not—’

  ‘Stop blethering and follow me.’

  The forward command post consisted of a ring of vehicles in a woodland clearing. One was an ambulance with a Red Cross painted on it, another was a khaki caravan draped in camouflage nets; also there were radio vans, tents, staff cars and motorcycles. As they arrived MacLean directed them to a tent marked ‘Signals’. ‘Wait there and don’t get in the way.’

  They waited. Other messengers came and went. They heard the hiss and crackle of radios; cars and motorcycles drove up and then roared away again. Everyone seemed busy and preoccupied. An hour passed.

  ‘Why did you tell him I’m an officer?’ Theo asked.

  ‘Cos we’ll get better jobs, you idiot!’

  At one point they were ordered to another tent and given tea and sandwiches, but then more Stukas appeared and a furious anti-aircraft barrage started all about them. No bombs fell, the aeroplanes departed, they finished the tea and resumed their vigil outside the tent.

  A lieutenant appeared. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Private Rollings and this is Officer Cadet Trickey.’

  ‘Um, Acting…’

  ‘Ride a bike, Rollings?’

  ‘Ah, well, no, not exactly, but—’

  ‘Trickey?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Report inside.’

  The tent was dark and stuffy. Two radio operators sat at their sets with headphones on their ears, next to a clerk banging on a typewriter. To one side a major pored over a table spread with maps.

  Theo cleared his throat. ‘Um, Trickey, sir.’

  The major looked up. ‘Christ, how old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen, sir.’

  ‘For God’s sake. Right, Trickey, I’m Wilson. I take it you can read a map?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now we’re here’ – he jabbed a finger – ‘at Blangy, and here, about four miles south, is Saint-Léger, which is apparently held by a mixed force of Sutherland and Argylls, some Black Watch, a few Borderers – frankly we’ve no idea as we can’t raise anyone on the radio. But we need to know – and know their situation, got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Their, um, situation?’

  ‘Strength, disposition, composition,’ the major counted off, ‘weaponry, supplies, casualties, communications, and some bloody names while you’re at it
– who’s senior officer, who’s he got in support, who’s liaising with HQ, and tell him…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  The major sighed. ‘Well, tell him he’s pretty much holding the end of the line. South of him are the French, but no one’s sure of their positions, or their intentions, frankly, so he must assume he’s on his own out there.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Right, off you go. And, Trickey?’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Be careful. They’ll be coming at us any time.’

  Five minutes later he was pedalling furiously south aboard a khaki-painted bicycle with loose chain and no brakes, with his tin helmet bumping on his chest and his rifle slipping off his shoulder. Over the other shoulder he carried a canvas satchel he’d been given containing map, compass, binoculars, notepad and, to his surprise, a clip of live ammunition for his rifle – the first he’d seen since training. Soon he was out of Blangy and riding a rutted track beside the railway, sometimes in open farmland, sometimes through shaded woods. Overhead the sky was overcast; a blustery wind kept his head down and progress laboured. From time to time the River Bresle, little more than a winding stream, appeared on his left; beyond it the countryside lay flat, and then rose towards dark forests. At intervals he met clusters of soldiers who called out or whistled as he passed. Some were gathered in rifle sections, some with anti-tank weapons, Bren or heavier machine guns, one or two manned small artillery pieces on wheels, all pointing towards the high ground beyond the river. He pedalled on, passing civilians pushing handcarts, an old man riding a donkey, grubby-faced children, a mother with a baby on her back: all heading in the other direction. Dogs chased him; a horse frisked restlessly in a field. Suddenly he saw a sign for Saint-Léger, stamped his boot in the dirt and skidded to a halt by the railway.

  ‘And who might you be?’ a disembodied voice called from behind a hedge.

  ‘Trickey,’ he panted, ‘from, um, Division, back that way. From Blangy.’

  ‘Not from Scotland, that’s for sure, Tricky-dick. What if you’re a Jerry spy?’

  ‘What? No, well, you see, Major Wilson sent me, to report on your, um, situation.’

  ‘Our situation’s fucked, laddie. What’s the password?’

  ‘Password? I don’t know, he never gave me one.’

  ‘Correct. Continue up the road a-ways, you’ll soon come to them.’

  He pedalled on past a signal box and a farm; then houses appeared, with soldiers stationed in gardens, outhouses and upstairs windows. He reached a little square featuring a pissoir, a war memorial, a deserted café and a village hall. Beyond them the road led up and out of the village towards the forest.

  ‘Over here, please, quickly.’

  He pushed his bike over to the hall. A low wall surrounded it, behind which a four-man mortar section tended their weapon; nearby two more hefted anti-tank rifles, meanwhile two officers leaned on the wall, training binoculars on the distant trees.

  ‘What do you think, Simon?’ one murmured.

  ‘That’s them all right. Look beside that darker clump of bushes – you can see the barrels poking out.’

  ‘Ah yes, 50-millimetre. That means Mark 3s. Question is, how many?’

  ‘And when. Still three hours of daylight.’

  ‘Hmm.’ The first officer looked up. ‘Hello, and you are?’

  ‘Trickey, sir. From HQ at Blangy. I’m to report your situation.’

  Chuckles of amusement were exchanged.

  ‘Well, Trickey, I think I can safely report that our situation is a little precarious just now. Because the enemy are lined up behind those trees, and might be about to attack. Does that help?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Theo fumbled for his satchel. ‘Should I write this down? I mean their, um, disposition?’

  ‘No, my friend.’ The officer picked up his binoculars. ‘I’d say you should put on your tin hat, load your weapon, and prepare to meet them.’

  CHAPTER 8

  The first thing was an eruption of mortar fire from within the trees. A series of distant thuds, a crescendo of whistling as the missiles soared, a shout of ‘Down!’ and then the crash of explosions all around. Tense silence one second, a cacophony of destruction the next. At the first detonations he ducked reflexively below the wall, rifle forgotten, hands clamped on ears, staring in wide-eyed awe at the chaos unfolding around him: the café roof collapsing, a smoking hole instead of the pissoir, a telegraph pole stumbling drunkenly sideways. The noise was deafening, the power of the explosions visceral, a crash like thunder and then a fist-like blow to the stomach. On and on it went, pounding detonations that split the air and shook the ground, terrifyingly close one moment, farther off the next. Speech was impossible, coherent thought unimaginable; all he could do was hug the wall and pray.

  But even as he cowered, part of him also observed. Firstly, the barrage, though intense and violent, seemed widely scattered. The war memorial exploded to rubble right before his eyes, but many more shells were falling far and wide – as if there was no central target for the attack. Secondly, the men around him were not cowering, like him. Crouching yes, squatting on one knee steadying their helmets as if in a gusty breeze, but doing so doggedly, even patiently, with heads cocked and faces impassive. As if waiting. Because the Germans, he realized, even as the assault began to wane, didn’t know exactly where they were.

  Then it stopped, as if on a cue, and an expectant hush filled the square. He held his breath. Seconds ticked; the silence grew and solidified. And a new sound came above the ringing in his ears. The rumble of distant engines.

  He felt himself being pulled up by the collar.

  ‘You might want to see this’ – the officer handed him binoculars – ‘for your report.’

  He took the glasses, squinted, but his hands shook so much he saw only a trembling blur. Breathing hard, he steadied himself on the wall and searched again, scouring the treeline, and suddenly there they were. Tanks. Six beasts of the deep, grey, menacing, nosing through the grass like sharks through a sea. Behind each beast swam a school of infantrymen, crouching low as they moved, using the tanks for cover. Something solid settled in his stomach. This was it. The enemy. Men with guns coming to fight and kill. ‘The barrage was to soften us up,’ the officer was saying, ‘like the starter at a meal. This lot’s the main course.’ He turned to the men with the mortar. ‘Commence firing.’

  The sound of metal sliding down a tube, a percussive thud as it fired – then it was all eyes on the approaching enemy. The shell landed long, throwing a fountain of dirt high in the air behind the tanks. But it surprised the German foot soldiers, who turned in confusion; seconds more and mortar shells were exploding all round them.

  ‘Off we go, everyone!’ Drawing his pistol, the officer vaulted the wall and set off up the lane. Simultaneously men around the square gathered their weapons and ran after him. Theo hesitated, immobilized by fear and indecision. Up that lane lay killing and death, perhaps his own death. By his side lay his bike and his runner’s satchel, his notebook and map. Major Wilson had ordered him to report the situation, and he legitimately could. Enemy attacking Saint-Léger with tanks, he would say, our forces repelling but hard pressed, send reinforcements. He could leave now and no one would blame him. Yet men were running forward to fight, and he couldn’t deny he felt a kinship, a rush of excitement, and something else. Duty. Load your weapon, and prepare to meet the enemy, the officer had said. He heard boots running; then a soldier came skidding round the corner.

  ‘Get the fuck up here, you brainless tosser!’

  He followed him up the lane. The growl of engines was much louder now, as was the crump of exploding mortars mixed with the sporadic crack of smaller weapons. They reached a cluster of farm buildings, figures in khaki busily taking up positions among them. Beyond lay the field with the enemy, now barely two hundred yards distant and still approaching.

  ‘Stay here and don’t move!’ the soldier said, pushing him behind a she
d. An unlit cigarette waggled in his lips; his battledress displayed a lance corporal’s stripe and a shoulder patch with the word ‘Gordons’. ‘Davey, you ready with that Boys?’

  ‘Aye, for all the good it’ll do.’ A second soldier lay on the ground sighting a Boys anti-tank rifle round the shed.

  ‘It’ll do just fine if you get him close enough. How many do you see?’

  ‘Just the one coming our way, half a dozen lads following it.’

  ‘Our boys’ll take care of them; we fix that bloody tank. Here, you, laddie.’ The corporal lobbed a bag at Theo. ‘Know how to arm a Gammon?’

  Theo stared at the sack. His mind reeled: Aldershot, weapons training, Gammon grenade, a flexible bag of explosives with a ball-bearing detonator. You throw it at a tank and it explodes on impact.

  ‘Um, yes, you unscrew the cap.’

  ‘Good. Do it. Don’t drop it.’

  Suddenly a deafening bang from beyond their shed as a tank opened fire. Theo ducked instinctively but its shell soared high overhead to strike a building in the village. The corporal winked and held a finger to his lips; all round the farmyard soldiers were crouching behind walls and buildings, still unseen by the enemy. Off to the left Theo glimpsed more creeping among the houses. Then came a yell: ‘Forward the 51st!’ and to a man they rushed from cover, waving their weapons and roaring like savages.

  ‘Now!’ The corporal ducked round the shed and threw the Gammon. Theo heard it explode, and then a crack at his feet as the Boys fired. The nose of the tank appeared, barely ten yards away, dented, dust-caked, shuddering, its turret hunting left and right. The corporal snatched another Gammon, the Boys fired again and suddenly explosions and gunfire filled the air: grenades, rifles, machine guns, mortars, a furious tumult of battle mixed with revving engines and shouting Highlanders. A German infantryman appeared, turned to them in surprise and then fell to an unseen bullet. A second slumped to his knees holding his head; Theo glimpsed a kilted figure leap from a roof, another thrusting at something with a bayonet, a third charging a tank like an enraged bull.