by Alan Pearce
‘Plenty, sir. Those RE chaps were right. There’s loads of German armour building up about half a mile back from the bridge.’ Sandy sucked on a cigarette, and Peter noticed his hand quaver as he pointed out positions on the hand-drawn map. ‘I couldn’t see any bridge-laying kit from where I was but they do seem to have massed a lot of infantry in the side roads, and in the fields. We skirted off to the north a bit and found the same story there. Armour backed up and waiting, with troops in reserve.’
‘Any idea what outfits?’ asked Peter.
‘No, couldn’t say, sir. We could hear them but we couldn’t get close enough to see regimental flashes. And no chance of a prisoner, sir. It’s hard moving quietly across that ground’
‘All right. Well done then. It seems to fit a familiar pattern all along this stretch of the line, so I had better pop off and tell Becky the good news.’
Peter stood to leave and looked down at Sandy, a black and white minstrel on the brink of exhaustion. ‘Better not get any shut-eye, old boy. Looks like we’re all going to have a busy day ahead of us. It’ll be dawn in a mo’, and then we might see some fun and games.’ With that, he downed his tea in a single gulp, slipped the helmet back on his head and opened the door. ‘Toodle pip!’
Sandy was savouring the warm glow of the rum in his belly, having just laced up his boots and attached the gaiters, when a series of single shots rang out from the bank.
‘Sounds like our lot, sir,’ said Lucas, helpfully. ‘Do you want me to go and have a look, sir?’
‘No, I’d better go and see what’s up.’ Sandy opened the back door of the cottage and dropped down into the communications trench, little more than a wet ditch that linked the makeshift network of defence positions of his platoon.
‘What the hell are you shooting at, Samson?’ asked Sandy once he had slithered back to the bank.
‘There’s a Jerry’s head, sir. Keeps popping up over there by that clump of weeds by the bridge. Look! There it is again.’ Samson let off another round and there was a distinct clink as the bullet scored a direct hit. There was also a burst of laughter from the German side of the canal.
‘I got ‘im, sir. You saw that. But the blighter’s back up again. Shall I give him another one, sir?’ Sandy nodded and the rifle rang out. Another clink and another burst of laughter.
‘I think they’re having a joke with us, sir.’ Samson looked disappointed. ‘I read a book once about some blokes in the last war and they stuck helmets on bayonets and took bets on the Jerry’s accuracy. Good laugh, that, sir. Perhaps that’s what they’re doing with us. Having a damn good laugh. What do you reckon, sir?’
‘I think you might be right, Samson. Best not rise to their bait. But keep a sharp lookout.’
More rounds cracked off from down the line as another helmet popped up two hundred yards away. Sandy crawled hastily on his hands and knees along the trench, hissing out ‘cease fire’ as he went. The battledress that Lucas had carefully cleaned and dried while he was on his recce was now soaked through and muddy again. Sandy plopped himself up against the wall of the trench and looked at his watch. He had barely pulled back his sleeve before he felt, rather than heard, the air part inches from his head. Zip went an incoming round again and Sandy ducked quickly down.
He was making his way back rapidly along the bottom of the trench when a voice called out from the other side.
‘Is anyone there? I’ve got a wounded man here and I’m not much good at this swimming lark.’
Before Sandy could pull himself to his knees, four members of his platoon who had risen to the call, buckled over as a machinegun on the far bank fired a concerted burst into them. Two of the men toppled forward, headfirst into the canal.
‘Stay put everyone!’ Sandy shouted out the command but there was little need. Nobody wanted to move now. ‘Do not return…’ He failed to complete his sentence before a returning burst of fire from the Bren gun concealed deep in the roof of the cottage cut him off. ‘Cease fire! Cease fire, Eleven Platoon. Don’t give your positions away.’
There were a series of hissing sounds in the air as first one artillery round, and then another, and another, and another, sailed over to land in the field behind the cottage knocking the few remaining horses to the ground in a cacophony of shrieks and explosions. Sandy pressed his face into the mud of the trench. He slid his hands up beneath his helmet to cover his ears and opened his mouth to reduce the pressure inside his skull. For nearly twenty minutes the shells rained down. Then, just as he was savouring the silence, there came a call from further down the trenches.
‘Sir, sir! You better come and have a look at this.’ Sandy raised himself onto his knees and peered cautiously over the top. On the far bank three groups of Germans were walking casually across the field towards the canal. Each group carried a stretcher draped in a Red Cross flag. The men halted by the far bank and dropped their loads.
‘Hold your fire,’ called out Sandy in a perfect parade ground voice. He studied the men on the far bank. They were the first Germans he had actually seen in daylight. It took him a moment to work out what was going on. Then, what had appeared to be a groundsheet suddenly began to swell at alarming speed to emerge as a fully inflated black rubber assault boat. Two more were rapidly inflated and then began a mad scramble as the Germans pushed them over the bank. Before the first man had stepped inside, the Bren gunner in the roof opened fire again. The results were devastating.
Sandy suddenly felt a chill run down his back. The air took on a surprising clarity and he finally shook off the sensation that he was just playing games as he had countless times on Salisbury Plain. Somehow, in the space of a few minutes, he had been propelled into a desperately real and nightmarish world where the word rearguard had new meaning; a world from which there could be no return.
07:01 Monday 27 May 1940.
Council Allotments, Teddington, Middlesex
Charlie Lavender pressed the portable receiver to his good ear and grimaced as the fourth train in twenty minutes sped by on the up-line beside his shed. The French were putting up a valiant struggle on the Somme and inflicting heavy losses on the Germans. He might not be able to hear it very well, but at least the news was encouraging.
Not that he was actually very interested in the news. He had done his bit in the last war and had the shrapnel in his buttocks to prove it. This new war held little interest for him. These days, Charlie had a morning ritual that he performed daily in his shed. Today he would listen to Bing Time, a programme of gramophone records by the singer Bing Crosby, including two promised numbers from the new film Road to Singapore. He would then take deep delight in the matronly voice that sang out the physical exercise routines on Up in the Morning Early, a programme aimed at younger women. His exertions over, without ever stirring from his chair, he would then put the kettle on and make a pot of tea and listen to the various musical programmes that took him up to lunchtime. By then, his legs would start to ache, so he would venture out of his shed and cycle over to the Gloucester Arms in Kingston for a couple of pints and, today being a Monday, a nice, solid shepherd’s pie. There was a gentle tap at the door.
‘Charlie, I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.’ The shed door opened a crack, held back by a length of twine.
‘What do you mean, you daft bugger? I’m always in me bloody shed.’
‘Mr Tough’s got a job for you, if you want it.’
‘What kind of job?’ Charlie’s voice often held a tone of scornful resentment, as it did now.’
‘He wants you to take Phoebe down to Southend, or maybe even Sheerness. It ain’t clear.’
‘Southend! What’s he want her down there for?’
‘Like I say, it ain’t clear, but best guess is it’s got something to do with the kid’s evacuation.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ thought Charlie. ‘Road to Singapore.’ But then came the bloody trains again. The shed shook. ‘How much?’
‘Mr Tough said day rate, plus a half, and you
r train fare back tonight.’
Charlie Lavender plucked his cap and oilskin off the nail on the door, grabbed his gasmask, and lifted back the twine.
Charlie stuck the toes of his boots over the edge of the quay at Kingston Gas Company Wharf and looked down on Phoebe. Not even the day-trippers who travelled between Richmond and Hampton Court could describe her as lovely although, at eighty feet in length and with a displacement of fifty tons, she was roomy enough. To most eyes there was something not quiet right about her lines. Her hull – of pitched pine on oak - was long, low and sleek, with a sharp bow that could slice through the waves had she not been limited by the speed restrictions of the Upper Thames. Her superstructure was cluttered and ungainly and her single funnel rose amidships through an upper deck that could only have been added as an afterthought.
But there had been a time when she had turned heads although that was long ago, in the early days of the Great War, when she had been commissioned as a fast submarine chaser. But even her crew then had found her argumentative and flighty. Her narrow beam, at just fifteen foot, had made her difficult to handle in the swell of the Channel and no more of her line were ever built. Rotting in the Naval dockyard at Chatham, she had been purchased for just £100 and converted by Tough Brothers Boatyard to work as a summer pleasure cruiser and licensed to carry three-hundred-and–fifty holidaymakers. If boats could ever be described as miserable, then Phoebe was miserable indeed.
‘I’ll be surprised if she makes it to Southend.’ Charlie knitted his untamed eyebrows as he turned to the two Sea Cadets who were to make up his crew. ‘Looks to me like the mooring lines are the only things keeping her afloat.’
The boys laughed nervously and glanced at each other. The Upper Thames was one thing but the Thames Estuary with its notorious currents and swells was another matter entirely.
Charlie bent at the knees and dropped down onto her lower deck. He surfaced twenty minutes later to the soft pulse of Phoebe’s Thornycroft engine. Clouds of exhaust fumes filled the wharf and mingled with the early morning mist lingering over the river.
08:15 Monday 27 May 1940.
Mauleon’s Farm, near Le Cornet Malo, France
Ratman Miller awoke to find himself in a barn. The artillery fire and other assorted noises had been slowly invading his dreams. To a sleeping mind it was not an unpleasant sound. It more resembled an expensive firework display than a pitch battle two villages away. Eventually, the realisation did hit him and he sat bolt upright and craned his ear in the general direction of the fighting. Instinctively, his hand reached down to the small leather pouch tied at his waist and nestling neatly inside his underpants. He felt reassured as his fingers touched the outline of the various watches and jewellery. He reached next for his webbing array and pulled out the metal water bottle. Miller sipped at the muddy water and pondered his next move. It had been a black, cloudy night with intermittent showers, and he had no idea of his surroundings.
Having dropped down from his perch near the roof, Miller hoisted up the heavy Thompson sub-machine gun and peered out of the barn. He was beginning to wonder if the Thompson had been a good idea. It was not service issue but somebody’s private purchase. Now it belonged to Miller and his shoulders were red-raw with lugging it around. At over eleven pounds with a full clip, it was substantially heavier and infinitely more cumbersome than his own Lee Enfield rifle. On the plus side, it had awesome firepower and, should he succeed in getting it back home, there were plenty of people willing to pay for a Tommy gun, especially one with four spare clips of ammunition.
Two goats stood in the centre of the farmyard with their busy heads buried in a wheelbarrow. Beneath the sound of gunfire he could hear cows mooing as if in pain. The place was deserted. He flicked forward the safety catch, cocked the bolt, and set the weapon to full automatic. He then dashed along the side of the barn and came running up against the door of the farmhouse.
‘Bonjour,’ called Miller in a convincing French accent between breaths. His heart was beating fast. He tried the door handle and cautiously entered. It was a homely if somewhat cluttered kitchen that he found himself in. It would have been even more homely had the range still been alight and the flowers on the large wooden table not been so wilted. Beside the flowers stood a wicker basket containing thickly sliced dark bread, and beside that stood a large earthenware pot. He lifted the lid and the rich, familiar aroma forced his stomach to contract with hunger. Inside, as he probed with a spoon, Miller could see chicken bones and flesh, and hearty chunks of carrot and potato. He bent down and sniffed experimentally and then he dabbed his tongue to the tip of the spoon. He pulled up a chair and began to make extensive inroads into the stew, and then he stopped.
‘Come on. You’re not thinking,’ said Miller to himself. ‘Make sure the place is clear first.’ He scooped in another large mouthful and rose from the table, picking up the Thompson and walking slowly to the foot of the stairs. He tried the first rung and then the second and then, slower still, climbed up. There were two bedrooms, one obviously that of a young girl, and another room used to store junk. The main bedroom was in a moderate state of disarray with the bedclothes half tumbled to the floor. Miller stepped in and walked up to the dresser and the gaudy brass box on top.
‘Shit,’ said Miller as he lifted the lid. ‘It’s all shit.’ And then he noticed an antique cameo broach. His years in orphanages, Bridewells and reform schools had left him with the ability to appraise jewellery in a flash. He slipped it into the leather pouch and made his way to the landing. Outside, to the back of the house, he could hear movement. It was very faint but it was consistent. Miller felt his heart leap to his throat. He edged close to the tiny window that overlooked the back of the house. It seemed at first glance as if a large, naked fat man were on his hands and knees. Miller adjusted his position for a better view and watched as a large pig tugged at something just outside the kitchen door. He crept quietly down and then slowly opened the back door. The chicken stew rose violently up his throat. He tried to clamp his teeth shut but only succeeded in forcing the vomit out through his nose. Miller turned rapidly away and coughed repeatedly until his stomach was empty.
The pig, a mottled old brute, was tugging and tearing at the arm of a young girl who, in turn, lay beneath the protective cover of her mother’s body. The bones as far as the elbow were exposed. The father, if that’s who the man was, sat hunched down on his knees, his shattered head touching the ground like a Moslem at prayer. Judging by the waxy grey pallor of their skin, the family had been laying dead for at least two days. The pig turned its head towards him with a low, menacing grunt.
The Thompson clattered explosively in Miller’s arms and about ten rounds tore through the pig. For a moment, the creature looked surprised and then it disintegrated before his eyes.
‘Fucking ‘ell!’ said Miller.
Back at the kitchen table, with the stew pushed to one side, Miller drank red wine straight from the bottle. There were plenty more in a rack on the dresser and Miller felt he would need them all. He was drawing hard on his cigarette when he had his second shock of the morning. Through the open door, three men charged at speed. Miller found his legs trapped under the table as he struggled to get up. He toppled backwards and the sergeant jumped forward to tower above him, a long bayonet poised inches from Miller’s throat.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded the sergeant, who was short and burly, with a neck like a bulldog. ‘Was that you? That gunfire we just heard?’
Miller nodded from his position on the floor.
‘You little cunt! What had those people done to you?’ He pulled the rifle back, preparing to strike.
‘No! No!’ screamed Miller. ‘They’ve been dead days. It was the pig. It was eating them!’
‘What? Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ He stepped back and gave the prostrated corporal space. ‘Get up.’
‘He’s right, sarn’t,’ called one of the men. ‘The pig’s in a right mess, but nice an’ pump. Shall we
take it back with us?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said the sergeant. ‘If it’d been feeding on acorns, that’d be another matter. Go have a hunt round. See what else we can grab.’ He turned back to Miller and demanded to see his paybook.
‘If he’s fifth column, then course he’d have a paybook, same as he’d have a British uniform on, wouldn’t he?’ pointed out the soldier who lingered by the door.
‘I ain’t fifth column. I just got separated from my unit, that’s all,’ offered Miller.
The sergeant turned towards his companion. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Grene. Can’t be too careful. Let’s quiz him.’ He scratched the back of his neck for a moment and then asked, ‘Who won the last FA Cup, then?’
Miller looked blank.
‘Portsmouth,’ announced Private Grene, still by the door. ‘Everyone knows that! Portsmouth four, Wolverhampton Wanderers one.’
‘Who’s asking you, you daft bastard? It’s this bloke we’re quizzing.’
‘Oh, yeah! Right, sarn’t! Sorry,’ said Grene, chewing on the bread. ‘Ask him a cricket one.’
‘I don’t know nothing about cricket.’ Miller sounded a little panicky.
‘Well, ask him a tennis one, then,’ suggested Private Grene.
‘Like what?’
‘Ask him who won the men’s championship at Wimbledon last year.’
‘Ok, who did?’
‘I don’t know nothing about sport.’ Miller looked confused and apologetic. ‘I ain’t never been to a cricket or tennis match in me life.’
‘It was Bobby Riggs, and the women’s champion was Alice Marble. Nice legs!’ Grene liked all sports.
‘Look,’ suggested Miller. ‘Ask me a general knowledge question or an entertainment one.’
‘All right,’ said the sergeant, warming to the idea. ‘What was the last film you saw?’