‘Just a minute,’ Fortune interrupted. ‘Now, young man, what precisely is it that you think you saw?’
‘I, we – well, sir, we were pushing two wounded men, on a cart, you see, and we stopped on top of this hill, for a rest. And looking to the south – I had my binoculars, you see, sir – I saw a long column of Germans, not walking but in lorries and half-tracks and other vehicles, and tanks too and trucks towing artillery and so on, and they were moving along a main road west rather fast—’
‘Show me.’ Fortune strode to a map on the wall. Theo followed, heart pounding, forced himself to study it, found Blangy, found the woods where he’d slept with the Foresters, found the roads he’d followed with Foley and Stitt, and pointed.
‘There.’
‘What time?’
‘About noon, sir.’
*
He was woken by an artillery barrage. It started some distance away, permeating the clogged corridors of his mind like insistent knocking on a door. Gradually it drew nearer, and more insistent, until it was no longer knocking but more an unbroken peal of thunder. Then the ground shuddered and he opened his eyes. He was still in the château, still curled on his armchair in the hall. He was cold and stiff. A shaft of dawn sunlight slanted through the open front door, illuminating fiery dust motes stirred by the barrage which sounded about two miles away. Around him the trestle tables and chairs stood folded, the typewriters and radios packed and boxed, the map on the wall gone. A vaguely familiar profile appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by the sun.
‘Ah, there you are, lad. Been looking for you.’
It was the quartermaster from the Seaforth Highlanders, the one who had showed him and Kenny how to bury the dead. ‘Sergeant MacLean?’
‘Yes, and I hear you’ve been having a fine time of it.’
Theo was to rejoin his unit, MacLean explained, or at least try to. ‘East Surreys were last heard of in this area’ – he pointed to Theo’s map – ‘three or four miles north. They’re supporting the Argyll and Sutherlanders, what’s left of ’em.’
‘I met some Gordon Highlanders. Defending a village on the River Bresle. I don’t know what happened to them.’
MacLean sighed. ‘It’s the same everywhere. We fall back to a new line; they creep up in the night, hit us with a dawn barrage, then follow through with armour and infantry. All we can do is hold on a few hours, then fall back and dig in again.’
‘A fighting retreat.’
‘That’s right.’ His eyes were darkly ringed, Theo noted, his cheeks hollow and unshaven. A shadow of the earlier man. He told Theo to collect food and water and said he could keep his bicycle. If he failed to find the East Surreys, he was to make his way to the Normandy port of Le Havre, where together with the rest of the 51st they would be rescued by ship and returned to England.
By the time he set off the barrage had eased, replaced by the sound of sporadic gunfire. This grew louder and more intense as he pedalled north: he’d hear a pocket of fighting off to his right, then an interval of pause, followed by the next pocket. After half an hour he entered an area of denser woodland and now heard the added rumble of approaching engines. A moment later men were crashing through the undergrowth towards him.
‘Get the fuck back! Tanks!’
He leaped off his bike and followed the men, who were bearing rifles and a Vickers machine gun. They ran on through the woods; the engine noise gradually receded until only their hoarse gasps and tramping boots were heard. The trees began to thin, a clearing appeared and then a mud-filled ditch.
‘This’ll do,’ the leader said. ‘Quick now, get the Vick up. Rest of you, spread out along the ditch. You! Get that bloody bike out of sight!’
Theo scrambled into the ditch, which was knee-deep in black mud. Beside him three men were already assembling the Vickers: erecting the tripod, attaching the barrel and breech, filling the cooling jacket with water from a jerry can.
‘You, boy! Those ammo boxes, quick.’ Theo retrieved the boxes. ‘Not this side, you pillock, the other side! Good, right, now stay there, keep your head down, and don’t go shooting till I say.’
Another man appeared, splashing along the ditch towards him. ‘A-reet?’
‘Um, yes thank you.’
‘Gud.’ He produced four hand grenades, arranging them on the rim of the ditch like ornaments on a shelf. Through the trees the sound of engines grew louder. Guttural shouts could also be heard. ‘Right, so you wait for their lads, ye ken?’ He nodded towards the noise. ‘They follow behind the tanks.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Then you’ll know not to shoot till you can smell their breath.’
And with that they were ready. Two at the Vickers, busy loading ammunition and adjusting sights, three to their left with a Boys and rifles, and the one on his right with the grenades. Theo picked up his own rifle, slid the bolt and fingered the safety lever, holding the wooden butt to his cheek. Load your weapon, and prepare to meet the enemy. His helmet sat heavy on his head, his feet were wet, his mouth parched. The moment seemed dream-like yet viscerally real, and also detached, as though he was experiencing it through someone else.
Shouts and shooting erupted from the woods, and suddenly figures in khaki were sprinting into the open. Others pursued them, grey-clad, running from the bushes and then dropping to one knee to fire. He heard zipping noises, saw clods of earth spurting around him, then came a shout: ‘Get ’em, boys!’ and the Vickers opened up, shockingly loud beside him. Two Germans went down in an instant; others dived for cover. Everyone started shooting at once; then with a deafening roar a tank crashed into view, turret roving, its machine gun spitting fire. The man to his right convulsed and slumped, his grenades untouched. More Germans appeared. Theo raised his rifle to one but the man jinked from view; a Boys cracked to his left; he saw hits from the Vickers sparking off the tank – its machine gun was tearing up the ditch now, clods of soil and stone flying, branches and twigs splintering from above – then came a shout and the Vickers stopped.
‘Here!’ The gunner beckoned frantically. His loader was writhing in the ditch. ‘God’s sake, come on!’ Theo found his feet and stumbled through the mud. ‘Load!’
Theo fumbled for the belt, held it to the breech, the gun roared, the belt raced through his fingers, he felt hot metal, tasted cordite, saw Germans falling as the gunner swung furiously from side to side, then the man’s head jerked and he reeled back into the ditch. Further along the man with the Boys dropped sideways. The tank was coming; then a stick grenade splashed into the mud at his feet, he heard shouts in hoarse German, ‘Töten Sie!’ – ‘Kill them!’ and he turned and scrambled from the ditch.
He ran. Away from the ditch, away from the clearing, running as he hadn’t run since his youth in the mountains. Through fields and woods, farms and orchards, ditches and streams, fleeing as though pursued, arms pumping, lungs bursting, legs buckling. On and on, until with the sound of gunfire receding, he came to a village, saw a low wall, hauled himself over and flopped to the ground. There he lay, sweating, gasping, staring giddily up at clouds, until his heart gradually slowed and his breathing steadied.
He was in the village graveyard. Slowly he sat up and took stock. Bees fussed at flower beds, a lark sang overhead, posies wilted in vases, photographs of the deceased gazed at him from headstones. He didn’t know where the village was – he had little idea of the direction he’d run. And he’d lost everything. Bicycle, satchel, food, helmet, water. Worst of all his rifle, the gravest loss of all. Your friend, your saviour, your reason for being, instructors recited endlessly, lose it and you are nothing. Now it lay in a muddy ditch beside the bodies of men he didn’t know. He hadn’t even fired it.
He hauled himself up and began walking, following a presumed course westwards. Craving only to be alone, he stuck to footpaths and tracks, circumventing houses and villages, hiding himself when he saw vehicles or people. Hours passed; apart from patrolling aircraft and distant dust plumes he saw little mi
litary activity, and suspected he was wandering off course. He didn’t care, it didn’t matter, part of him wanted to keep going, to keep walking ever further from death and killing, the duty and obligation, the mud-caked boots, coarse khaki and shouting Scotsmen. To walk away from being a soldier and never come back.
Late in the afternoon he caught up with a slow-moving procession on the road ahead, and saw people in dark clothes leading horse carts, pushing barrows and carrying bundles. Refugees: wordless, homeless, the eternal victims of war. Suddenly exhausted with solitude, he fell into slow step with them. More time passed, no talk was exchanged; then an old man sidled up.
‘Où allez-vous, jeune homme?’
‘Le Havre,’ he replied. ‘Et vous, monsieur?’
‘Le sud.’
He’d been walking the wrong way. All day. He plodded on, calculating – ten miles? Fifteen? Then the old man spoke again.
‘Vous êtes déserteur?’
‘Pardon?’ He had to ask again, to be sure. ‘Pardon, monsieur?’
‘Are you a deserter?’
*
He begged bread, water and apples, turned and hurriedly retraced his steps. Dusk fell; he rested briefly and then set off into the night, heading north and west. Navigation was easier; artillery flashes lit a wide arc of sky across the entire sector and he headed straight for them. Towards dawn he rested again, waking two hours later to the unmistakable sounds of barrage, ate his last apple and pushed on. He passed through a village, saw discarded vehicles and equipment; among them he found a water canteen and filled it at a lavoir. There were no people to be seen; all around were signs of hasty departure. In the distance traffic sounds rose above the rumble of artillery. He left the village, hurried round a bend and came face-to-face with a machine gun.
‘Blimey, who are you?’
‘Oh, um, Trickey. I got separated.’
‘I’ll say. Where’s your kit?’
‘Lost. I lost it yesterday, in a battle in some woods.’ He looked around. A deserted village, a single gun emplacement, four men, one Vickers, one box of ammunition, alone at a crossroads. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Division’s falling back.’
‘Le Havre?’
‘Le Havre’s fucked. Now it’s some place called Valery some such.’
‘I’m trying to rejoin them.’
‘Can’t miss ’em. Main road’s a mile north.’
‘What about you?’
‘We’re covering the withdrawal.’
‘But what if nobody—’
‘Listen, fuck off or I’ll shoot you myself.’
He hurried on across fields and an orchard, the traffic sounds growing in his ears until he crested an embankment overlooking a wide road. Trucks, lorries, cars and vans filled it in both directions. He scrambled down and set off after a lorry full of soldiers. ‘Wait!’ He glimpsed tartan shoulder patches and berets with bobbles. ‘Wait, are you Gordon Highlanders?’
‘Gordon bloody bollocks, laddie!’ a shout came back. ‘We’re Black Watch!’
Despite the gaffe they pulled him aboard, found space for him and plied him with boiled sweets and biscuits. Having duly recited his story, he learned that with the entire division surrounded, the 51st was ordered to the seaside town of Saint-Valery-en-Caux, some forty miles short of Le Havre. Here they were to make a stand until the Royal Navy could come and rescue them. The Black Watch, along with others, was to form a defensive perimeter around the town.
By noon they were taking up positions above the port, which was under sporadic bombardment from Stukas and unseen artillery. Theo found himself attached to a six-man rifle section defending a narrow lane. A lance corporal led the section.
‘Here,’ he said, handing Theo a rifle. ‘And don’t go losing it, we’ve none to spare.’
Theo hefted the rifle, which looked old and careworn. ‘What about ammunition?’
‘Just what’s in it. Eight rounds. More promised but don’t hold your breath.’
Eight bullets. To stop an army.
‘So what are you, then?’ the corporal was saying. ‘Name, rank, telephone number, all that malarkey.’
‘Oh, yes. Trickey, um, Ted, Officer Cadet, 2/6th East Surreys.’
‘Officer! Hear that, lads, we’ve Captain Ted come to save us!’
Ribald laughter and insults circled the lane.
‘No, well, you see, I’m only an acting officer, I never finished OCT—’
‘Listen, you can be a bloody general as far as I’m concerned. Just keep hold of that rifle and go easy on the ammo.’
All afternoon they waited, three on one side of the lane, three on the other. Shower clouds hurried by, borne on a brisk sea breeze. The taste of salt was in the air, surf crashed, seagulls cried; the grey waves of the Channel beckoned, with home and safety just over the horizon. But countering the optimism was an unnerving sense of encirclement. Shells whistled overhead to explode with a crump down in the town; dive-bombers patrolled offshore; tanks and artillery crept nearer. The enemy could not be seen, but they could be sensed: organizing their approach, manoeuvring for position, taking their time readying for attack. For some the waiting was worse than fighting.
‘Bugger this,’ a young rifleman grumbled beside Theo. ‘I just wish the buggers would get on wi’ it.’
‘Careful what you wish, Billy,’ his friend replied, ‘they’ll be here soon enough.’
Supper arrived, an urn of soup and packet of biscuits between six. It was all there was, they were told. Later a sergeant came by to brief them.
‘Navy’s due in port from midnight. Half the division’s already down there. Div HQ’s in the town hall. They’ve been having a time of it but they’re holding on. When we get the word we withdraw into town for embarkation. We do it orderly, we cover our backs, we go home in one piece, ye ken?’
‘Aye, Sarge.’
Darkness fell. The sky flickered with star shells and flares; the barrage went on. They dozed at their posts, brewed tea and smoked; the enemy stayed back. But no ships arrived in harbour, nor any orders to withdraw. And at dawn the whole area came under monstrous attack.
As usual it began with a bombardment, but one more intense, more destructive, more terrifying than any previous, with dive-bombers, tanks, mortars and heavy artillery all working in concert to pound the 51st into submission. Nor was there any escape, for surrounded on three sides and with the sea on the fourth, the besieged men had no place to run and no place to hide. All they could do was find what shelter they could and pray for it to end.
Which it did at nine. Shelling of the town continued from surrounding cliffs, but in the perimeter the barrage lifted, leaving the stage set for the final push by the enemy. Now they advanced, from all sides, in great strength and with the presumption of success. Yet warily, for after weeks fighting Scotsmen, they knew to expect fierce resistance.
Theo and his rifle section lay in wait in their lane. An hour passed, nothing happened, elsewhere in the perimeter battle was heard commencing.
‘Listen! Over on the right, them’s 88s.’
‘Camerons are on the right; 88s won’t bother them.’
‘They bother me.’
‘Maybe they ain’t coming.’
‘Aye, cos they heard we got Captain Ted!’
‘Where you from anyway, Ted?’
‘Oh, um, it’s called South Tyrol.’
‘Lancashire, is it?’
‘Quiet, you lot!’ The corporal waved them to silence, binoculars raised.
The first they saw was four infantrymen creeping along the hedge towards them.
‘Hold your fire, they ain’t seen us yet.’
Then they did see them, and a short but furious exchange of shooting broke out, which ended with two Germans dead in the road and the other two sprinting for cover. One rifleman suffered a flesh wound to his arm. They bandaged him up, repositioned the section, and waited for the next attack. This came twenty minutes later, with a cluster of hand grenades thrown over
the hedge on to their previous position, followed by half a platoon charging up the lane. This attack too was repelled, although for the expenditure of much ammunition. Plaudits followed.
‘There they go!’
‘Black Watch for ever!’
‘Up yours, Fritz!’
‘Say, Corp! Did you know that in the right hands, the Lee Enfield can shoot twenty rounds a minute?’
‘No, Billy.’ The corporal peered down the lane. ‘Did you know we’ve not twenty rounds left between us?’
‘Christ, I’ve only got two.’
‘Me six.’
‘What about you, Captain Ted?’
Theo checked his weapon. He’d fired it at last. It felt different from his old rifle, and the ring-sight wasn’t as accurate. He doubted he’d hit anything. ‘I’ve got three.’
Then everything happened very fast.
Billy was speaking: ‘D’ye think they’ll come again, Corp?’
‘Aye.’ The corporal raised himself, binoculars in hand. ‘Something’s moving—’
A shot rang out, a single shot fired from a distance.
The corporal jerked and fell.
‘Sniper! That was a fucking sniper got the corp!’
‘Christ, look, they’re bringing up a machine gun.’
‘What do we do?’
Theo froze. ‘What do we do?’
‘You’re the fucking officer!’
‘I… I don’t know.’
The injured rifleman snatched up his weapon. ‘Let’s charge ’em. Come on, boys!’ And four youths set off down the lane, arms waving, yelling wildly, as he had heard the Gordons yell. He didn’t go with them. He stayed, and watched, as he knew he would. None made it more than halfway: a German machine gunner kneeling at his weapon poured bullets at them, cutting them to the ground as though with a scythe. Theo stared in despair, hearing their cries, watching as they stumbled and fell. Then the gun stopped and they were still. He felt their lives ebb, felt his own life shift and change, felt the rifle slip from his hands, turned and walked away.
*
He passed the day and night in a crevice in the cliffs overlooking the town. Battle raged all around: it registered only as noise; he excluded it from his consciousness. He watched sea birds soaring above the cliff, he listened to the hypnotic breaking of surf, sometimes he rested his head on his knees. It grew dark, it rained; he had no food or water, but felt no want. He wondered if ships would come, then knew he didn’t care. Instead he thought of Bolzano, and his childhood in the mountains. How proud and self-assured he had been then. And how ignorant. He thought of his teacher Nikola risking her life for education. Of his mother and her long fight for liberty – the actions of a courageous woman, Thérèse had said. Of his grandfather Josef choosing prison over surrender, and of his beloved great-grandfather: Take action and be brave, Theodor, he’d said, coming down the mountain. Take action and be brave.
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