He reappeared a few moments later, and said, ‘Yes, the colonel will see you now. Come through all of you.’
They followed Carter into a long, narrow room, and at the far end Hawke saw Lieutenant-Colonel Beamish, commanding officer of the 1st Battalion, leaning over a table on which was an old road map.
‘Colonel?’ said Major Carter.
Beamish looked up as the three Rangers snapped to attention and saluted. He was around forty, with a lean, clean-shaven face and sandy hair.
‘At ease,’ said Beamish, then leaned forward and shook Jackson’s hand. ‘I hear you bagged a couple this morning?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jackson.
‘Good work, but we need you in the air again, not here. Major Carter is organizing a despatch rider to take you straight to Dunkirk – sorry it’s not a car, but it’ll be quicker by motorbike. Happy with that?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Strictly speaking, I should send you to see General Mason-Macfarlane, who would hold on to you for another couple of hours. Then you’d be sent to GHQ, but it would probably take you another day just to get there and when you finally did you’d probably find it had already moved. So you’ll head straight for Dunkirk. They’re already sending home the wounded and base troops so there are plenty of ships heading back to England. With a bit of luck you’ll be in Dunkirk in a few hours and flying again tomorrow.’
Jackson brightened. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘How’s the head?’
‘It needs stitches, but I’m all right, thank you, sir.’
‘Can it wait, do you think?’
‘Definitely, sir.’
‘Good man. Then I think you’d best get going.’
‘The despatch rider is waiting outside, sir,’ said Carter.
Jackson nodded, then turned to the three Rangers. ‘Hebden, Hawke – I can’t thank you enough,’ he said. ‘You saved my life. If it weren’t for you and Sergeant Spears I’d be either dead or a prisoner of the Nazis.’
Hawke smiled. ‘Glad to have met you, sir.’
‘Good luck, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘And if you fly over us again give us a wave.’
‘I’ll do that. My squadron letters are BW – look out for us. And here,’ he said, pulling off his bright orange silk scarf and handing it to Hawke. ‘Have this. Maybe it’ll bring you luck.’
Hawke took it. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
Jackson grinned, saluted the colonel, then turned and left.
‘Well done, chaps,’ said the colonel as the sound of a motorbike starting up drifted through into the building. ‘You did well. God knows, we’re going to need every one of those pilots.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Hebden, ‘but do you know what’s going on?’
Beamish sighed. ‘Not really. But it seems Jerry has pulled back. God knows why. But it gives us a chance to strengthen our position here. Between you and me, we’re getting reinforcements. Macforce is being dissolved and General Mason-Macfarlane is heading back to GHQ, while we’re getting 145 Brigade. I’m afraid it means we lose our two companies of the Yorks and Lancs, but we’re getting two more battalions instead – the Glosters and the Ox and Bucks. They’ll be here overnight. With luck Jerry won’t attack between now and then. Might give us a chance after all. How are you all doing down in Oxelaëre?’
‘Very well, thank you, sir,’ said Hebden.
Beamish nodded. ‘Good. You’ve done well this morning. You can be proud of yourselves. Took some guts doing what you did and by saving a pilot and preventing his Spitfire from getting into enemy hands you performed a great service. Well done. Now get back to your positions and keep on your guard. Jerry might have called off any attack for the moment, but we don’t know when he might try and strike again.’
Outside, Drummond patted both Hebden and Hawke on the back. ‘Quite the colonel’s favourites, aren’t you?’
‘A great service!’ grinned Hebden. ‘That’s what he said. How about that Johnny? From the bleedin’ colonel himself too.’
Hawke smiled. ‘It was the sergeant really, though,’ he said. ‘We just did as he told us.’
‘You’re too nice about Spears,’ said Drummond. ‘Too nice by half. He’s always having a go at you and then you go and stick up for him like that.’
‘But it’s true,’ said Hawke. ‘He planned the rescue and he killed most of those Germans. And he told us to destroy the Spitfire. If it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t have got Jackson out.’
Hebden said, ‘I think you did all right, though, Johnny. You proved a point to Spears, and if it weren’t for you we wouldn’t have been stood there listening to the nice colonel telling us what splendid fellows we are.’
Hawke smiled again. ‘Thanks, Bert.’
‘But now we all know you’ve got some guts just try and keep your head down from now on, all right? Because I’ll tell you one thing about heroes – they nearly always wind up dead, and I’d hate that to happen to you.’
‘And God knows what we’ve got coming in the next few days,’ said Drummond. ‘Jerry might have pulled back for the moment, but he’ll be back, as sure as anything. And there’s no getting away from it: Jerry’s broken through to the north and he’s lining himself up against us to the south. We’re almost completely surrounded now. I tell you, it don’t look good. It really don’t look good at all.’
6
THOUGHTS OF HOME
Although the Germans seemed to have disappeared entirely, Farrish had received orders from Battalion HQ, via a note hand-delivered by Hebden, that the platoon was to maintain a rigorous watch on its front to the south of Oxelaëre. Even so, this did not require the entire platoon at one time. Farrish was fortunate: he had lost just four men so far since 10 May. One had fallen off a lorry and been hit by the vehicle behind, while a further three from Platoon Headquarters had been killed when a shell landed close by as they unloaded ammunition boxes from a truck. That left thirty-two; compared with many infantry companies in the British Expeditionary Force, B Company was still in good shape. Had it not been for the unfortunate disappearance of D Company, lost as they fell back from the Brussels-Charleroi Canal to the south of Brussels, the entire Battalion would have still been only fractionally under-strength.
Farrish therefore ordered his three ten-man sections to rotate their watch, five men on, five men off, two hours at a time. It meant that by the middle of the afternoon, Hawke had joined Hebden, Chalkie White, Foxy Foxton and Corporal McLaren in a secluded orchard at the back of the farm. It was quiet out there, despite a cockerel crowing nearby. The farm had been abandoned by its owners, although chickens and a half dozen cows remained. When the Rangers had reached it, the cows had been lowing pitifully, their udders swollen because they had not been milked. Hebden had relieved them with the help of two others from 3 Section.
‘I thought cockerels only crowed in the morning, Bert,’ said Foxton.
Hebden chuckled. ‘No, as that chap’s proving, Foxy. I used to have a fabulous cockerel back home. A brute of a lad – he had these huge spurs a good two inches long. Not only did he crow all day, he’d go for anyone who came near his girls – anyone but me. He was putty in my hands. Used to like a good cuddle.’
‘What happened to him?’ asked Hawke.
‘Fox got him. But he saved a lot of the hens. He put up a hell of a fight – we could hear it going on, but unfortunately we got out there too late. I like to think he put those spurs to good use, though.’
Hawke smiled to himself, listening to Hebden. He had always lived in the city – the country was new to him, but he liked the sound of it. He liked this farm. One day, maybe, he thought. Lying beneath a tree with his greatcoat for a pillow, with the sounds of the men and the cock crowing and insects buzzing peacefully nearby, he soon drifted off to sleep.
A little more than an hour later, he awoke, his sleep interrupted by the clatter of a billy can and the sound of
Hebden and White noisily brewing yet more tea.
Hawke stretched, yawned, ran his hands through his dark mop of hair and sat up.
‘Want a brew, Johnny?’ asked Hebden.
Hawke nodded, and rubbed his eyes. Gentle, dappled sunlight shone down through the apple trees, while the thick grass beneath him was soft and dark, lush with the renewed life brought by early summer. A blackbird sang nearby, while from the farm he could hear the soothing cooing of doves.
‘Here you go,’ said Hebden, walking over to him with a billy can of tea. Hawke held out his enamel mug, thanked his friend, then sipped at the hot, sweet liquid. Feeling revived, he delved into his haversack and pulled out the pad of light-blue letter-writing paper he had brought with him, then an old pencil. He sharpened it with his clasp knife and, leaning his back against the tree and the paper on his thigh, began to write a letter.
24 May 1940, he wrote at the top, then Dear All, and then stopped. He had been about to write that he was now in Cassel, but then remembered that it was strictly forbidden to mention place names in letters. In fact, the censors were so strict he now struggled to think what he could say, and absent-mindedly tapped the end of his pencil between his teeth for a few moments, then began again.
I hope you are all well and in good spirits. I am fine. The battle has been going on for some time now, but we seem to have missed most of it. There are a lot of people running from the Germans. We see them on the road, sometimes whole families, struggling with suitcases or with carts piled high. I hope the Germans never get to Leeds – they won’t if I have anything to do with it!
This morning we had to rescue a Spitfire pilot who had crash-landed (after shooting down two of theirs). I shot a –
Hawke paused, thought a moment, then crossed it out, repeatedly covering the words so they became completely illegible.
I threw a grenade at the Spitfire to stop the enemy getting their dirty hands on it and managed to score a direct hit, lobbing it into the cockpit so the plane would catch fire, which it did. The smoke enabled us to get back to our positions without the Jerries getting a clear crack at us. Tom seemed quite pleased with me for that one.
Hawke paused again, thinking about what Spears had said to him. Just two words: Good shot. They were the first words of praise he had said to him since Hawke had joined the battalion. He sighed and took another sip of his tea, and thought about the first time he had met the sergeant.
He remembered it well. They had all sat down to lunch in the kitchen of their small terraced house in Headingley. It had been quite a squeeze: Hawke and his three sisters, his mother, Uncle Richard and Tom Spears, all crammed around the old wooden table. Maddie had been both proud and self-conscious, which had made her unusually quiet.
It had been Uncle Richard, Hawke’s stepfather, who had come to the rescue, prompting Tom to tell them something of what it had been like out in India. It turned out Tom had seen his fair share of action along the North-West Frontier and with Uncle Richard’s encouragement had told them a number of stories of fighting Pashtuns, of expeditions into the mountains, and of the sights and smells of the ancient cities of Lahore and Rawalpindi.
Hawke had been mesmerized. He had always loved adventure stories and it was as though he were face to face with one of the heroes from his Chums magazine.
Tom Spears had looked the part too, the campaign medal ribbon above his tunic, his face tanned and healthy. Later, after lunch, when Hawke had suggested they play cricket in the alley behind the house, Tom had eagerly agreed, leaving Maddie and their mother and two other sisters, Molly and Joan, inside. Not only had Tom complimented him on both his batting and bowling, he had later shown great interest in Hawke’s collection of cricket cigarette cards. And, although they had argued good humouredly about some of the great Yorkshire players, both had agreed that Hedley Verity was the greatest spin bowler ever.
‘I’ve got his autograph,’ Hawke had told him. ‘Here,’ he said, showing Tom his autograph book. Apart from his cricket bat, it was his most prized possession.
‘That makes two of us,’ Tom had grinned. ‘It was at a match at Scarborough back in 1932. He got seven wickets that day. I’ll never forget it.’
From that day, Johnny had hoped that Tom and Maddie might eventually get married. At last there would be some male company in the family other than Uncle Richard – someone closer to his own age, who liked the same things he did. When, a few weeks later, Tom and Maddie had become engaged, Johnny had been as pleased as any of them. He had looked forward to having an older brother.
I think I have already told you that Tom is greatly respected here and a great figure in the platoon. I was certainly glad he was leading us when we rescued that pilot.
He paused, tapping the end of the pencil between his teeth again. He imagined them all at home: their terraced house in Back Headingley Mount in Leeds, with its familiar smell of polish, cooked food and Uncle Richard’s pipe smoke, and with the photograph of his father on the mantelpiece above the grate and the small carriage clock beside it. This time last year, the cricket season had just begun, the summer stretching before him: matches for Kirkstall in the league, and long holidays spent watching Yorkshire at Headingley. A wave of sadness swept over him. He had been in such a rush to escape the factory, to emulate both his father, and, if truth be known, Tom Spears, that he had joined the army when still only fifteen. Making the most of his height, he had lied about his age and been taken on. But in doing so he now realized for the first time that his childhood had gone forever.
It seems odd being out here in France where they don’t play cricket and it now being the start of the new season. I wonder whether there will be any matches this summer at Headingley? I miss you all and home, but don’t worry about me. I’m all right and keeping fine. Things might not be going too well just at present but I’m sure we’ll sort out these Germans eventually.
My love to you all,
Johnny
Hawke folded the letter carefully, placed it in an envelope and wrote the address, then asked Hebden the time.
‘Twenty to six,’ Hebden replied. ‘Twenty minutes left until we’re on. Just time for another brew. Johnny – I reckon it must be your turn to be char-wallah.’
Hawke smiled. ‘All right, Bert,’ he said, getting up and moving over to where Hebden had set up the Primus.
‘Good lad,’ said Hebden. ‘You’re catching on, Johnny. We’ll make a soldier of you yet.’
7
RECCE PATROL
A little after 8 p.m., the same day. There had been no further sign of the enemy that afternoon. As the men on duty had stared ahead, not a flicker had been seen, not even a faint clang heard. Above, formations of enemy aircraft had flown over, but they all seemed to be headed south or towards the coast.
Now, however, as dusk was beginning to settle, Lieutenant Farrish ordered a reconnaissance patrol and chose Sergeant Spears to lead 1 Section. In the yard, the men gathered around the platoon commander. Packs and excess webbing had been left behind, but otherwise the men were fully armed.
‘I don’t want you to think that after this morning’s escapade I’m picking on One Section,’ said Farrish, ‘but the fact is Sergeant Spears here and Privates Hebden and Hawke have already been forward of our positions and so know the ground.’
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ said McLaren, ‘I’m glad just to be doing something rather than staring into space.’
‘Less of the backchat, Sid,’ said Spears.
Farrish smiled. ‘Glad to hear it, Corporal. Now, there are two things I need you to do. First, see if you can find the Germans we killed earlier and try to discover if there’s anything useful on them – any papers, unit details, that sort of thing. Second, push forward and have a look at the positions Jerry held earlier. You never know, we might be able to pick up something that gives us some kind of clue as to what the devil he’s
playing at.’ He turned to Spears. ‘How long do you think you’ll need, Sergeant?’
‘Do you want us to bury the dead, sir? Might not be too pleasant if it’s another warm and sunny day tomorrow.’
Farrish nodded. ‘Yes, perhaps you’d better, then.’
‘Then an hour, sir. Perhaps a bit more.’
Farrish nodded. ‘All right, good. Don’t let it get too dark, though. Password will be “Knaresborough”.’
They set off straight away, advancing in an extended line, sticking to the same approach Spears had used earlier. Despite the quiet, and despite the enemy inactivity that afternoon, Spears was cautious, pausing at the end of the first field and listening, before signalling them to move forward once more. At the gap in the hedge by the wrecked Spitfire, they paused again, but there was still no sign of the enemy up ahead, just birdsong and the delicate rustle of freshly budded leaves as a gentle evening breeze ruffled them. Satisfied the coast was clear, Spears ordered the Bren team to move forward, cross the brook and provide cover while the rest of the section looked for the dead Germans.
‘Where was your one, then, Johnny?’ asked Drummond.
‘Through there, in front of the Spit, wasn’t it?’ said Hebden.
‘Yes,’ said Hawke. He led the two men forward through the gap in the hedge. The Spitfire had stopped burning. Just its blackened carcass remained. The engine cowling had burst off, revealing an engine seared clean, while the canopy had melted completely. A stench of burned rubber pervaded the air. Hawke stepped forward gingerly, the reeds sprouting up from the banks of the brook right before him. His heart had begun to pound once more, and he was overcome by a sense of dread.
‘Come on, Johnny,’ said Drummond. ‘We haven’t got all night, you know.’
Hawke swallowed, and stepped closer to the reeds. He could see where they had been flattened, but paused again, dreading what he would find, fearing that he would be repulsed by what he saw. Then Drummond pushed past him and shouted out in triumph, ‘Here he is.’
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