Dunkirk

by James Holland

  ‘Ah, this is the life,’ said McLaren, pushing his mess tin to one side and lying back down in the grass. ‘Can someone please tell Jerry to stay away. I’m not in the mood for fighting.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Jerry ever coming back now,’ said Hawke. The day before, they had begun the morning still on edge, expecting the sound of artillery any moment, but as the hours had passed so the mood had relaxed. As Hebden had pointed out, they could not be on edge all the time. Another night had passed with no telltale sounds of revving engines or squeaking tank tracks, and still none all that morning. Picquet duty had been a stultifying affair – ahead of them, the French countryside had been relentlessly still. An occasional deer, a few rabbits and the melodious sound of birdsong and that had been all they had seen or heard to their front. Overhead, enemy aircraft had passed and just occasionally, when the breeze changed, they could faintly hear guns to the north, but otherwise it was as though the war, so violent and explosive just a couple of days earlier, had melted away.

  ‘I know what you mean, Johnny,’ said White, ‘but I can promise you something: he will be back. We ain’t done with fighting yet.’

  At that, the now familiar lurch in Hawke’s stomach returned.

  A moment later, Hawke heard a rumble and the sound of squeaking tracks and immediately sat up, feeling for his rifle.

  Drummond laughed. ‘Bit jumpy, eh, Johnny?’

  ‘Tank tracks,’ blurted Hawke.

  ‘Carrier tracks,’ replied Drummond.

  Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That made me start,’ he said, standing up. The rumble became louder and then down the track through the orange clay dust, a Bren carrier appeared. They were all getting to their feet now, even McLaren.

  ‘Curse him,’ said the corporal. ‘I was just nodding off there.’

  The carrier cut through the lane to the edge of the orchard and squeaked and rumbled on into the yard. Hawke and the others followed, curiosity getting the better of them.

  Lieutenant Farrish and Sergeant Spears were already beside the vehicle as the driver cut its engine. One of the men jumped down, went round to the back, opened the rear door and took out a single wooden ammunition box.

  ‘Is that it?’ said Farrish.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said the man, a corporal.

  ‘What happened to the rest of it?’ said Spears. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come down with just one box of ammo for each platoon.’

  ‘It’s with the rest of your lot,’ replied the corporal.

  ‘That’s hardly fair, sir,’ said Spears.

  ‘No,’ said Farrish. ‘No, it’s not.’ He turned to the corporal. ‘Are you heading back up to town?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said the corporal.

  ‘All right, then let me come with you. You can take me to Company HQ first, and then if Major Strickland can’t divvy out the wares a bit more evenly, then we’ll have to try with Battalion.’ He turned to Spears. ‘Happy to hold the fort here for the moment, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Spears.

  Farrish looked around him. ‘I need a few volunteers,’ then seeing McLaren and his half-section, said, ‘Corporal, since you’re stood down, you can give me three of your men.’

  ‘I’ll go, Corp,’ said Hawke quickly.

  ‘Come on then, Charlie,’ said Hebden to Drummond, ‘we’d better keep the boy company.’

  ‘Privates Hawke, Drummond and Hebden, sir,’ said McLaren.

  Farrish nodded. ‘Thanks, chaps. Right, let’s go.’

  Since the arrival of Somer Force, B Company had been redeployed. While 6th Platoon had stayed at the farm, the remaining three platoons had moved from Bavinchove and the Hazebrouck road to the village of Oxelaëre, and it was in a house near the church that the company now had its headquarters. The driver started up the engine once more as the four Rangers clambered into the back, and then in a swirl of dust, growling engine and squeaking tracks, headed back out of the yard.

  They reached Company Headquarters a short while later, which had been set up in brick-tiled house opposite the village church.

  ‘Just wait here a moment, will you?’ said Farrish to the driver, then turned to the others. ‘You stay here too. I won’t be a moment.’

  Hawke looked up at the church and saw the muzzle of a Bren poking out from a narrow window in the belfry.

  ‘Looks like they’ve got it covered here,’ said Hebden, following his gaze. ‘At least we’ll all have a bit of warning when Jerry decides to make his move.’

  From a horse chestnut at the corner of the church, its pink blossom bright against the deep green of the newly emerged leaves, a wood pigeon cooed. The bird’s rhythmic song was suddenly cut out by the arrival of a motorbike, which pulled up beside them outside Company Headquarters. With barely a glance at them, the rider got off and hurried inside.

  ‘He’s in a bit of a rush,’ said Drummond.

  ‘DRs,’ said Hebden. ‘It’s their job to be in a rush. Don’t ever be a despatch rider, Johnny.’

  ‘Why not? I’d have thought riding a motorbike all day would be fun.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ said Drummond. ‘Very dangerous.’

  ‘No one ever really knows where you are, you see,’ said Hebden. ‘So, if you get into trouble, you’re on your own. Much better to have your mates around you.’

  A short while later, Farrish reappeared, putting on his cap as he strode towards them.

  ‘Damn it all,’ he muttered.

  ‘On up to town, then, sir?’ asked the corporal.

  ‘Yes,’ said Farrish. ‘Straight to Battalion HQ.’

  ‘What did Major Strickland say, sir?’ asked Hebden.

  ‘He hadn’t realized that Fifth, Seventh and Eighth Platoons had taken the lion’s share, but apparently it was not very much anyway. He’s given me a note to give to Colonel Beamish pleading for some more.’

  ‘Is there any chance of that, sir?’ asked Hebden.

  ‘In a fair world, yes, but it’s not is it?’ Farrish snapped. ‘We’re all in it together, Hebden, but everyone’s still looking after their own. The fact of the matter is that we’re very probably going to be the first to face Jerry when he attacks, so I’m damned if we should be the last to get any more ammunition. I’m afraid our supplies have always been inadequate – that was understandable before reinforcements arrived, but I’m not going to let our platoon become lambs to the slaughter if we don’t need to be.’

  The three others were silent for a moment, then Hawke said, ‘Is it as bad as that, then, sir?’

  ‘I don’t want to alarm you, Hawke, but, since you asked, let me put it this way: when Jerry attacks, he’ll probably have a division or more. That’s some fourteen or fifteen thousand men. And our company is one of the first lines of defence – just over a hundred men. I’d call that quite bad, wouldn’t you?’

  Hawke felt the blood drain from his face. He swallowed hard and looked at Hebden and Drummond.

  ‘That’s not bad,’ muttered Drummond. ‘That’s suicide.’

  11

  FORTRESS CASSEL

  In the two days since the three privates had last been in Cassel, the town had been turned into a fortress. Approaching roads had been blocked with stone and rubble and blasted with explosives to create anti-tank ditches. Wire had been laid too, and trees felled, so that of the five roads that had led into the town, only one now remained open to traffic. That way involved passing through a narrow access way along which further defences lay ready to be implemented the moment the need arose.

  From the houses that rose around the edge of the town, narrow firing slits had been hacked out of the walls. Hawke looked around him, amazed at the transformation. The words of both Lieutenant Farrish and Drummond were still sharp in his mind. He wondered whether, if they ever had a chance to fall back from the farm at Oxelaëre, they would be able to get back behind the walls of the town, or whether they really
would be sacrificed. He tried to put the thoughts to the back of his mind, but the sudden realization of the overwhelming odds that were stacked against them had descended on him like a heavy, dull shroud of dread that he could not shrug off. Just half an hour earlier he had been sitting in the orchard about as content as at any moment since joining the army. He wished he could return to that moment of oblivious innocence, but it was gone. Gone forever.

  The only open approach led them back up around Dead Horse Corner, where a twenty-five-pounder had been set up looking back down the hill, as well as two machine-gun posts. Sentries waved them through, the carrier belching a cloud of thick, choking exhaust fumes as the driver put it into gear and opened the throttle. In the back, the four Rangers were jostled and jolted as the machine rattled over the cobbles. At the next corner, another mound of rubble lay across most of the road. On they went, down a narrow, straight road and then they finally reached the main square, now busy with a number of light tanks, carriers, trucks and other vehicles. There was still rubble in the square from where several buildings had been damaged earlier, but of the civilians they had seen when they’d first arrived two days earlier, there was now no sign. Hawke wondered what had happened to them.

  As the carrier finally stopped outside Battalion Headquarters, firing could be heard from several directions and even a burst of Bren fire.

  ‘I’m glad someone’s got enough bullets to spare,’ muttered Farrish as they stepped out of the carrier. The lieutenant hurried into Headquarters then half a minute later reappeared.

  ‘Typical,’ he said. ‘The colonel’s not here.’

  ‘Shall we wait, sir?’ asked Drummond.

  Farrish looked at the corporal from Headquarters. ‘Can you wait, Corporal?’

  ‘Sir,’ came the reply.

  They did not have to wait long. Less than five minutes later, Colonel Beamish appeared from the road behind them that led up to the mount, the summit of the town, with several other officers beside him.

  ‘He looks senior, sir,’ muttered Hebden, nodding to the man beside the colonel now striding towards them.

  ‘A brigadier,’ said Farrish.

  ‘Now’s your chance, then, sir,’ said Hebden.

  Farrish smiled. ‘Nothing ventured, eh, Hebden?’

  ‘My thoughts precisely, sir.’

  As the small delegation neared, Farrish stepped forward, blocking the doorway into Battalion HQ, and smartly saluted. ‘Excuse me, Colonel – and, Brigadier,’ he said, ‘but I’ve just come from Oxelaëre.’

  ‘What is it, Lieutenant?’ said Beamish, a touch of irritation in his voice.

  ‘We’re very low on ammunition, sir,’ said Farrish.

  Beamish chuckled mirthlessly.

  ‘It’s just that, sir, we’re going to be the first to face the enemy, and yet we seem to be last in the pecking order for extra ammo. So far we’ve received just one box of point three-oh-three.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s demoralizing, sir, to think we’re being thrown to the wolves. To think we don’t have a chance in hell.’

  The brigadier stepped forward. ‘What’s your name, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Lieutenant Farrish, sir, commander of Sixth Platoon, B Company, the First Battalion, King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers, sir.’

  The brigadier held out his hand. ‘I’m Brigadier Somerset,’ he said. ‘As of last night, I’m in command here. B Company is occupying Oxelaëre – that’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Colonel Beamish. ‘A carrier with a supply of ammunition was sent down there earlier.’

  ‘But not very much, sir,’ said Farrish. ‘Major Strickland asked me to give you this, sir.’ He passed Strickland’s note to the colonel.

  ‘These are some of your men, Lieutenant?’ Somerset asked Farrish, looking at the three privates now standing to attention behind their officer.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Farrish. ‘Privates Hawke, Hebden and Drummond.’

  The brigadier shook their hands in turn. ‘Bit young, aren’t you?’ he said, looking at Hawke.

  ‘Private Hawke has a strong sense of duty, sir,’ said Farrish. ‘He killed a German two days ago and helped rescue a downed RAF pilot.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ said Somerset. ‘Good for you.’ He turned back to Farrish. ‘We’re all short of ammunition, I’m afraid. But you’re quite right – you should not be expected to face the Huns without your fair share, so we’ll see to it you get some more. But I don’t want you thinking you’re being thrown to the wolves. You’re there to check the enemy advance and buy us some time. That’s the essence here: time. But at the point when you think you are about to be overrun, you pull out of there, you understand? Don’t wait for DRs that may or may not get through. Use your initiative.’ He turned to Beamish. ‘Isn’t that right, Colonel?’

  ‘Absolutely, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Somerset. ‘Now, what is it you think you need, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Bren ammunition, sir,’ said Farrish. ‘And more two-inch mortars.’

  ‘Might struggle with the mortars,’ said Somerset, ‘but we can get you another couple of boxes of Bren ammunition.’ He turned to one of the staff officers beside him. ‘See to it, will you?’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Farrish.

  ‘I like a man who fights his corner,’ said the brigadier, ‘and shows a bit of initiative. Good luck, chaps. I know you won’t let anyone down.’

  As Brigadier Somerset turned and stepped into the building, Beamish paused and winked. ‘Wait here a moment, Farrish,’ he said, ‘and I’ll give you a note for Major Strickland. Just remember what the brigadier said: don’t leave it too late before pulling back. Judge the moment, all right?’

  Farrish nodded, then, when the party had all stepped inside, breathed out heavily.

  ‘Well done, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘It’s always worth going straight to the top, I always find.’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose it’s better than nothing. And at least our orders are a bit clearer.’

  But they did not seem that much clearer to Hawke. He could not imagine how they would know when the right moment to pull back had arrived. If the full force of the German advance was bearing down upon them, they might physically be unable to move at all. And, judging from the lieutenant’s expression, the platoon commander was just as unsure.

  ‘Told you,’ muttered Drummond quietly. ‘We’ve been dealt the short straw, all right.’

  Having consulted with Colonel Beamish, Brigadier Somerset headed back across Grand Place, and up the cobbled road to Mount Cassel, where he had moved his headquarters. It was true that the Châtellerie de Schoebeque, where he had first met General Mason-Macfarlane, had been a wonderful building with fine views to the south, but there was another building on the Mount, formerly the gendarmerie, that served his purposes better. From there, he commanded an almost perfect all round view – not just to the south, but to the north, east and west as well. The facilities were certainly more spartan in the new HQ, but that was no matter: practicality was more important.

  When he reached the building, he was met by Bullmore, a taut expression on his face.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ he asked.

  ‘A message from GHQ, sir.’ Bullmore held the thin piece of paper out to the brigadier.

  Somerset took it silently and walked on into the command room, a long gallery with views to the south. ‘So we’ve got a date now,’ he said to Bullmore. ‘We’re to hold out until the thirtieth.’

  ‘Another four days. Somerset leaned on a large dining table, covered with maps and other papers, and drummed his fingers. He had spoken the truth when he’d told that subaltern from the Yorks Rangers that they were all short of ammunition – not just Somer Force, as his new command had been christened, but the entire BEF. After all, they were now almost completely surrounded, except for the port of Dunkirk, and preparations were being made to evacuate through there, not brin
g more supplies in. No, Somerset knew that there would not be any more ammunition coming their way. His force had to hold out with what they had – God willing, for another four days. It still struck him as incredible that the Germans had issued that extraordinary halt order. It defied all military logic – surely they cannot have thought the battered and beleaguered BEF posed much of a threat? British forces in France and Belgium amounted to just ten divisions. Ten! Compared with the hundred and forty-five the French had begun the battle with and the more than a hundred divisions the Germans must surely have!

  The speed and brilliance of the Hun attack had certainly taken everyone by surprise but now the enemy troops to the south were frittering time away, and with every passing day – every passing hour – Somerset knew his chances of helping the rest of the British forces escape back through the narrow corridor behind them to the coast were improving.

  ‘What’s your hunch, Bully?’ asked Somerset. ‘Will the Huns hold off another day, or do you think we’re already into borrowed time?’

  ‘Do you want an honest answer or one that will improve your mood, sir?’

  Somerset smiled and patted his tunic for his cigarette box. Finding it, he opened it and discovered he had just one cheroot left. Cursing to himself, he lit it all the same, the grey-blue smoke swirling around him.

  ‘I fancy you’re right,’ he said at length.

  ‘The defences look good,’ said Bullmore. ‘The men have worked hard. The remaining civilians have been moved out, cellars and ceilings strengthened. Cassel is more like a fortress than ever it has been since the Grand Old Duke of York’s day.’

  Somerset looked at the map again, complete with coloured pencil markings denoting the deployment of his forces. He now had three infantry battalions, albeit all under-strength to varying degrees. The Glosters were dug in and holding the west of the town, the Ox and Bucks the east, and the Yorks Rangers the centre. In addition to outposts at Oxelaëre, a company had been placed in each of the other villages to the south and west, at Bavinchove and Zuytpeene, and there was a platoon holding a French blockhouse on the flat ground a few miles to the north. Somerset tapped a pencil on the spot on the map. Should he recall them? he wondered. And yet that concrete blockhouse was holding the road to the north. The Germans might have large numbers of panzers, but an army still needed roads. Without roads for all the rest of their transport, they could make little progress. No, he would keep them where they were, he decided.