by S C Worrall
‘We are all aware of the service your family has given,’ Heyworth says, irritably. ‘What is your point?’
Viney glares at him. ‘The point is: these men are like part of the family. Many of them worked at our printing company in Aylesbury. I know their mothers and fathers. Their brothers and sisters. Wives and fiancées.’ He looks round the lamp-lit faces. ‘And when I left England I promised them I would bring their loved ones home safely!’ His voice rises. ‘And I am determined to do so!’
‘We all want to bring about that end, Elliott.’ Heyworth’s voice is as silky as the barrister he is. ‘But you know our orders.’
‘With all due respect—’ Viney clips the end of a cigar ‘—you’re not even from the county.’
Heyworth glares at him. ‘I resent that!’
A murmur goes round the table. Martin takes out a packet of cigarettes and lights one.
‘It is not meant disparagingly.’ Viney lights his cigar, blows out a cloud of smoke. ‘I am merely stating the facts.’
‘We are both professional men.’ Heyworth smiles soothingly at Viney. ‘Let’s, please, air any differences we may have in a civilized manner.’
Viney looks at him then says, calmly, ‘Our position is clearly hopeless.’
More murmurs go round the table.
‘No position is hopeless, Elliott.’ Heyworth forces a smile.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ Viney bangs his fist on the table. ‘We are surrounded!’
‘We still have men and ammunition. We have food and water.’ Heyworth eyeballs Viney. ‘I am determined to resist as long as possible.’
Viney puts on his most patrician tone. ‘To waste these men here in a hopeless position seems to me counter to good sense, orders or no orders.’ His voice rises. ‘We are wasting valuable time. If we withdraw now, we can fight another day. There are five more hours of darkness.’ He looks round the table, seeking support. ‘We can get out of this with honour.’
‘You mean, surrender?’ Heyworth lets the words hang in the air, as though he is addressing a packed courtroom.
‘I prefer to call it a tactical withdrawal.’
There is renewed murmuring round the table, a few muttered ‘hear, hears!’
Heyworth waits for the hubbub to die down before responding. ‘When I joined this battalion, I made a vow to honour its proud fighting traditions. Surrender is the antithesis of honour. It can never be condoned. We still have the means to resist. Ipso facto, we will fight on.’
It’s like a boxing match, with each man landing punches on the other.
‘But surely our highest duty is to preserve life.’ Viney looks round the table. ‘To prevent unnecessary death out of proportion to any possible military gain.’ He stares adamantly at Heyworth. ‘And I see no possible gain from continuing this fight.’
There’s a huge shell blast outside. The walls shake. The bottles and glasses rattle on the table. The paraffin lamps gutter. Plaster floats down from the ceiling. Martin looks up anxiously. Since the engagement at the Escaut Canal, he has begun to feel a mounting sense of panic at the sound of shells. Rifle or machine gun fire does not have the same effect. A bullet is personal, individual. If you are not in the exact line of its trajectory, it will sail harmlessly past you. Something as small as a cigarette lighter can save you. But shellfire is random, impersonal, wreaking havoc that nothing can stop. Not stone. Not brick. One direct hit on the orphanage roof, and they will be blown to kingdom come.
When the dust has cleared, Heyworth continues. ‘The British Army is at this moment withdrawing to Dunkirk. We have already stalled the German advance on this front by twenty-four hours. Even if we hold up the enemy for just another two hours, we will be doing something valuable.’
Captain Barry raps his knuckles on the table, in assent. Several other officers murmur their support. Heyworth smiles, confident he is winning the argument. ‘I intend to stay here and carry out my orders. Which are unambiguous.’
‘Orders aren’t to be blindly obeyed!’ Viney’s face is flushed with anger. ‘For God’s sake, man!’ He waves his hand at the other officers. ‘It’s going to be a massacre!’
‘Hyperbole is not going to get us anywhere.’ Heyworth looks round the table. ‘What we need is a clear appraisal of the facts.’ Heyworth looks round the table. ‘So I would now like to hear the opinion of each company commander.’ He points at Ritchie. ‘James?’
The adjutant pulls his shoulders back. ‘Our orders are clear, sir. We should stay and fight.’
‘Brian?’
Captain Dowling looks around him, then says: ‘Fight.’
‘John?’
Captain Kaye doesn’t hesitate. ‘Stand our ground.’
Heyworth turns to the intelligence officer. ‘David?’
Stebbings cracks his knuckles. ‘Carry out our orders.’
‘Martin?’
Martin takes a pull on his cigarette. ‘Fight on.’
‘Patsy?’ Heyworth looks across at the quartermaster.
‘Stand our ground, sir.’
‘Anyone not agree with that?’ He looks round the table. Viney angrily stubs out his cigar. But no one speaks up. ‘Motion carried.’ He looks pointedly at Viney. ‘Prepare to defend the Keep.’
27 MAY 1940
The Orphanage
It’s past ten o’clock by the time the meeting ends. Outside, the last light is draining from the sky. But in the cellar the only light comes from the paraffin lamps. Martin hurries past rows of wounded and dying men to where the mess has been positioned at the end of the cellar. He hasn’t eaten since midday and he knows he will need all his strength for the night ahead.
The smell that greets him almost makes him retch: a mixture of blood, excrement, and iodine. It’s how Martin imagines the Orlop deck on one of Nelson’s ships. Rows of iron bedsteads line the walls. Many of the men are so badly wounded that all that can be done is to administer morphine. Others lie staring at the ceiling, in bloodied bandages. A young boy, with a gaping chest wound, sobs quietly in his bed.
‘Cuppa tea, please,’ Martin calls through to the kitchen.
‘Coming right up, young man!’ The cook bustles through, in a blue apron, and pours Martin some tea. There’s a loud thud, as though a giant fist has punched the building.
‘Good thing they knew how to build proper walls in them days.’ The cook pushes a battered tin of sugar towards Martin. ‘I just made an omelette, if you fancy a bite.’
Martin wolfs down the omelette, like a man rescued from a shipwreck, swallows his tea, and runs back upstairs. The ground floor is a scene of pandemonium. Stretcher-bearers sprint across the tiled floors, carrying in wounded men. Heyworth and the adjutant bark orders to the runners, who deliver breathless messages to outlying positions. Ammunition boxes and weapons are being sorted and distributed.
Martin spots the blond head of Topper Hopkins carrying a stretcher. ‘Which unit?’
‘D Company.’ Topper nods towards the man on the stretcher. His bowels spill out over his uniform. Blood drips onto the floor.
‘Did you see Saunders?’ Martin feels a rising panic within him.
‘No, sir. Everyone had scarpered by the time I got there.’
‘Where have they gone? Are they alive?’
‘No idea, I’m afraid.’ The wounded man moans. ‘Better get him down to the doctor.’
Topper and the other bearer lift the stretcher and head down the stairs into the cellars. Martin gathers his platoon and they spend the next hour cleaning and preparing their weapons. The metal is cold to the touch as he takes the barrel off the wooden stock of the platoon’s one Bren gun and slides the cleaning rod in and out. He oils the firing mechanism then fills the magazine with cartridges. Too many and the magazine might jam, so he inserts just twenty-eight, the brass casings shining like gold. He holds the gun at his hip, in the firing position, then goes to his men to prepare them for battle. Ammunition is distributed. Orders given out. Watches synchronized. Encouragemen
t given. Captain Viney goes round the orphanage, distributing the remainder of his Cuban cigars.
‘Martin?’ Heyworth appears in the doorway. ‘I want you to lead a patrol to the station. Check on B Company. The lines are dead and no runners have got through for three hours. We need to know what’s happening there. Take four men, and report back to me.’
For a moment, Martin is thrown off guard. To get from here to the station will mean running the gauntlet close to German troops and tanks. Is this Heyworth’s final test? But the battalion needs him now and he doesn’t hesitate. He nods, then takes up the Bren gun.
He selects Cripps and three other men: Jenkins, Wilks and Wallington. They black their faces with shoe polish and wrap sacking around their boots, to muffle the sound. Martin checks the men’s rifles, distributes a grenade to each, then hands Cripps the Bren gun. He unfurls a street map on the floor and sits down, cross-legged. The others squat or lean on their rifles.
‘Our orders are to make contact with B Company at the station.’ He points at the map. ‘As you know, the station is a key position, guarding the entrance to the town from the north. We have lost contact with the company commander and it’s crucial to re-establish it. If the station falls . . . ’ He gathers himself. ‘So, this is the plan. We’ll head north up the Rue de L’Orphelinat towards the Grande Place.’ He traces the route with his finger, looks round the blackened faces. ‘The Germans are already installed there in large numbers. So we’ll have to look lively and skirt around the edge of the square. Here.’ He points at the map. ‘From there, we’ll follow this street north to the station.’ He looks around. ‘Is that clear?’ The men nod. Martin gets to his feet. ‘Right, let’s get a move on.’
Outside, a firefight is underway at the east corner of the orphanage. A German patrol has infiltrated the British lines and is strafing the orphanage with gunfire. Captain Ritchie, the adjutant, and a group of men from HQ Company, are returning their fire. The Vickers machine gun on the roof spits bullets into the night. The street is littered with broken glass and rubble, shell casings and burned-out vehicles.
Martin leads his men up the Rue de L’Orphelinat. Burning buildings light the houses with a sickly, orange glow. Martin walks at the front, pistol drawn, the whites of his eyes flashing. Behind him comes Cripps with the Bren gun. Jenkins and the other two men bring up the rear. They skirt round the lorries they have erected as barricades, walking in their sack-covered boots as though on thin ice, so as to make as little noise as possible, rifles across their chests in the ready position.
The street is only about a hundred yards long. Halfway up, Martin turns and looks back at the orphanage. From behind sandbags, he can see Ritchie, the adjutant, blazing away with a Bren gun mounted on a tripod. The gunners on the roof rain down bullets from their Vickers machine. But most of the walls on the second and third storeys have been blown out and flames are now engulfing the building. Timbers crash through the gaping floors sending sparks shooting up into the night sky. He prays the doctor, and the injured, will remain safe in the cellar.
Then he moves forward again, scanning the street for snipers. Many of the small, terraced houses have been hit by shellfire. Curtains billow out of blown-out windows. Front doors hang off their hinges. Piles of shattered bricks litter the street. A charred wooden rocking horse stands in the centre of a child’s room. The air is thick with black, acrid smoke.
They move forward in silence, keeping close to the wall. Fifty yards. Forty. Thirty. Suddenly, the shock wave from an exploding mortar shell ripples across Martin’s skin. He throws himself to the ground, blood pumping in his ears. Cripps and the other men follow suit. Martin waits for thirty seconds, then signals them forward again.
They can now hear vehicles up ahead, moving about in the Grande Place, the steel tracks of Panzers squealing on the cobblestones. There’s a whining sound at the end of the street, then the beam of a motorcycle headlight. A camouflaged BMW with a sidecar. Martin jumps back against a wall as the silhouettes of two Germans flash by: one driving, the other lolling back in the sidecar, smoking.
As they clatter across the top of Rue de l’Orphelinat, the man in the sidecar turns and flicks his cigarette towards Martin and the waiting men. For a second, Martin thinks they have been spotted. He holds his breath. But, at that moment, the driver says something, the eyes of the soldier in the sidecar swivel up and away, and the motorcycle hurries on.
Martin breaths a sigh of relief then waves the men forward again. Just before they reach the corner, he stops and looks at his watch. It’s almost eleven. There’s a burst of machine gun fire from the other side of Rue Warein. Bullets zip by in the darkness. He orders the men to crouch down as another burst of gunfire flashes in the darkness. Martin grips his pistol more firmly, to stop his hand from shaking.
He turns back to his men. They look up to him from under their helmets, the whites of their eyes glowing in the flames. They have been together for almost nine months: digging tank traps and ditches as the cold, Flanders clay sucked at their boots. They have got soaked together, marched together, buried comrades and lain together in rain-filled ditches, listening to the banshee scream of Stukas. They’ve laughed together and got pissed together on lousy French beer. He loves them, like the brothers he never had.
There’s a sudden squealing of tank tracks on the cobblestones ahead of them, as a Panzer rumbles along the Rue Warein. The turret swivels and points down the Rue de l’Orphelinat towards the orphanage. Martin orders his men to lie down. In the spectral light, the looming tank looks like a monster from one of the picture books Martin read as a child or a vision from a nightmare. A jet of flame shoots from the turret. The shock waves from the shell, as it streaks over their heads and crashes into the orphanage, sucks the air out of Martin’s lungs.
The tank roars off in a cloud of black smoke. Martin makes sure there are no infantrymen following it, then orders his men back to their feet. He has promised to get them back to England and their families. From here it will be extremely dangerous. He cannot risk their lives any further.
He points back down the street and silently mouths the word ‘withdraw’. Cripps raises his hand in protest. Martin jerks his thumb in the direction of the orphanage. The whites of Cripps’ eyes blaze for a moment, silently arguing with him. Then he stands up and hands Martin the Bren gun. Martin holsters his pistol and takes it. The sergeant grips his shoulders, whispers: ‘See you at breakfast, Martin.’
Cripps turns and leads the others back down the street towards the orphanage. Martin waits at the corner until they are out of sight, trying to calm his breathing. He can hear raucous singing coming from the Grande Place. The ‘Horst-Wessel-Lied’. And the revving of engines. The Germans are no more than fifty yards away, around the corner.
He touches his ring in the darkness, closes his eyes. He is lying on the beach on that magical day in Cornwall, toasting her with beer in a tooth mug. Her red hair is lit by the sunlight. The sky is a great, blue bowl above them. In the distance, he can hear the splash of waves.
‘Je lève mon verre,’ he whispers under his breath. Then begins to count. Ten. Nine. Eight. When he gets to one, he will make a dash for it.
Seven, six, five. He grips the Bren gun. Sees her lying on the counterpane they took from the hotel, the blue veins in her eyelids throbbing. Feels her mouth against his, her hands in his hair. Four, three, two, one.
He spins round the corner, and starts to run as fast as he can, ducking and weaving.
‘Halt!’ a German soldier screams.
Martin sprints on, legs pumping, heart thumping, as he unleashes a volley of bullets from the Bren gun in the direction of the German troops milling about in the square. There are more guttural shouts then a volley of machine gun fire. Martin feels a bullet rip into his flesh. Blood spurts from his jacket. The Bren gun falls from his hands and clatters to the cobblestones. His knees feel like jelly, but he keeps running.
On the other side of the square, he can see the sea str
etching to the horizon. He is running across the sand in Cornwall. Gulls circle overhead. The sun bounces off the water. He is Jesse Owen. The fastest man on earth.
He turns his head. There’s Nancy, running beside him, her hair streaming out in the salty air, her mouth parted in laughter. He laughs with her, then there’s a splash.
He feels warm water rising around him. The water gets deeper. Nancy reaches out her hand to him. He grasps it in his. But he can’t hang on. He stumbles and falls, face forward, into the waves.
6 SEPTEMBER 1941
Thurlestone Sands, Devon
First light. Through the open window, Nancy can hear the distant sigh of waves breaking on the sand. The cry of gulls. Salt air. In the other bed, Pat, the little redhead evacuee, breathes gently in her sleep. Nancy throws off her covers, watches as the morning light seeps into the room.
It has been ten days since she received official confirmation from the War Office that Martin was killed at Hazebrouck on the night of 27 May 1940 and that he has been buried there. The waiting. The not knowing. The stubborn hope. All over now. One day, when the war has ended, she will travel to France and lay flowers on his grave. But, for now, her parents have brought her to Devon to recuperate. Heal.
She swings her feet onto the floor, tiptoes to the window and pulls back the curtains, flooding the room with light. Below her, the bay stretches towards Cornwall, an arc of white sand, bookended by emerald green cliffs. The water is lapis blue. No wonder Turner painted here, she thinks, sucking the air deep into her lungs.
‘What are you doing up so early?’ Pat yawns.
In the year they have been together, Nancy has come to feel a deep affection for this little Cockney girl. They have spent hours together, reading or drawing, or taking trips to London to go to the Natural History Museum and the V&A, which stayed open despite repeated bomb damage. Together, these two strangers thrown together by war helped each other shoulder their burdens of sadness and anxiety.