Dunkirk

by James Holland

  ‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘You’ll forget your nerves once the firing starts. Trust me.’ He looked at his watch – nearly eleven o’clock – then paused to look back out through a loophole. He couldn’t really see – not well enough, at any rate. ‘All right, I’m going back to the mill,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anyone firing until One Section’s Bren opens up. Clear?’ Nods and a few mumbled, ‘Yes, Sarge,’ and Spears slipped out of the barn again. Hurrying into the farmhouse, he told Lieutenant Farrish what he had instructed the men in the barn.

  ‘Yes, very good, Spears,’ said Farrish. ‘We’ll wait on your signal here too.’

  Spears paused to look out of the window. Yes, the enemy were getting closer – a number were now crossing the brook. Excusing himself, he ran back down the stairs, across the yard and back to the mill.

  ‘They’re getting closer, Sarge,’ said Ibbotson.

  ‘I know,’ said Spears. ‘Just give them a bit more.’ He stood at the edge of the window, staring out, then brought his binoculars to his eyes. There were no tanks directly in front of them, just men, spread out and moving in depth, but although they were still half-crouching, they were beginning to present a clear enough target. Scanning the row of field-grey troops, he looked for an officer, and then spotted him, his trousers the old-fashioned baggy pantaloons and clutching a pistol rather than a rifle. Spears smiled grimly to himself, then brought his rifle to his shoulder. He had had his Enfield zeroed to four hundred yards, but he reckoned the leading enemy troops were a little less than that now. Aiming just a fraction low – at the officer’s crotch rather than his chest – he steadied his aim, then breathed in deeply and held his breath. The steel of the trigger was cold as he felt his finger press against it.

  One, he counted to himself, two, three.

  Spears squeezed the trigger, heard the deafening tinny crack in his ear, and felt the butt press hard into his shoulder.

  And he saw the German jerk backwards and fall to the ground.

  13

  OVERRUN

  Hawke and Drummond had run as fast they could out of the farm, and down the track alongside the edge of the orchard and on along the long lane, lined with hedgerows of bracken and brambles that led into the village. The high hedges had given them a sense of security, but as they neared the first few houses a strong stench of smoke and cordite – the acrid-smelling propellant used in shells and mortars – filled the air, while up ahead wisps of smoke shrouded the cottages. And as they broke out of the lane and on to the main village road, they saw a small crater in the road and on the far side, flung against a brick wall, the inert figure of Braithwaite.

  Both Hawke and Drummond paused then approached the body. His right leg had been twisted grotesquely while from his chalky, bloodstained face, wide eyes stared lifelessly.

  ‘Blow me,’ muttered Drummond, then looked up. Bren and rifle fire was cracking and chattering nearby, while more machine-gun fire was answering in reply. A sudden whistle and Drummond said, ‘Look out!’ and flung himself flat on the ground. Hawke did the same, the grit of the road painful on his hands and knees. A moment later, two mortar shells landed close by, smashing into the roof of one of the houses. Hawke clutched his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth, as an artillery round smacked into the same building. Hawke heard shards of brick and stone whistle above his ear and then a deafening crash of falling masonry and timber.

  ‘Johnny!’ hissed Drummond as the roar of falling stone subsided. ‘Are you all right?’

  A high-pitched whistle rang in his ears, and his mouth was dry with dust, but Hawke looked up and said, ‘I think so. Are you?’

  Drummond was getting back on his feet, dusting himself down. ‘I think so too. We need to keep going.’

  ‘What about Braithwaite?’

  ‘We’ve got to leave him. Come on, Johnny. Jerry’s almost overrun the village as it is.’

  They ran on. Bullets spat over their heads as they passed between two houses. Hawke ducked, tripped, lurched forward, but just managed to recover his balance. The firing was even louder now. Even closer. Where were the enemy? Hawke couldn’t tell, but they had to be close. Up ahead was the church and, opposite, Company HQ. More mortar shells hurtled over, this time landing further on, but artillery rounds were now being punched into the houses all along the road – houses which backed on to the fields across which the enemy was advancing.

  As more bullets fizzed in a mad ricochet nearby, Hawke and Drummond reached the house, gasping. From inside the sound of small-arms fire was tinnily loud, the air thick with a cloying sulphurous stench. In a room off the hallway, an officer was tending two wounded men.

  ‘Sir,’ called out Drummond. ‘Where’s Major Strickland, sir?’

  The captain waved his arm vaguely, then flinched as another artillery round smashed into a neighbouring building.

  Drummond and Hawke pushed on, past two men staggering with another wounded or dead soldier – Hawke could not tell – then climbed the stairs. Bits of chipped plaster covered the carpet on the staircase, and smoke and dust swirled making Hawke cough and rasp. Two Bren gunners were hammering away from the bedrooms at the back of the building and after pushing past another stumbling Ranger, Hawke, with Drummond following, finally found Major Strickland. The company commander had a gash on his forehead that had been roughly bound and he barely glanced at them as Hawke saluted.

  ‘Keeping firing!’ he yelled as one of the Bren gunners stopped.

  ‘She’s overheating, sir!’ the gunner replied. ‘I need a new barrel here!’

  Beamish yelled at another man. ‘Get that spare barrel, damn it!’

  ‘Sir,’ pleaded Hawke. ‘Sir!’

  Strickland now looked at them impatiently. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

  ‘Sir, Lieutenant Farrish sent us from Sixth Platoon at the farm,’ said Drummond. ‘He wants permission to pull back, sir.’

  ‘We’re about to pull back ourselves,’ said Beamish. They all ducked as a flurry of mortar shells landed just in front of the house. Shrapnel and shards of stone clattered against the walls. ‘Yes, tell him yes. My God!’ A further mortar hit the roof behind them, plasterwork crashing to the ground.

  Ducking, Drummond and Hawke turned and scampered back down the stairs, only for a soldier in the hallway to suddenly shudder and jerk as a volley of bullets hit him through a hole in the wall at the back of the house. Hawke and Drummond pressed themselves against the wall as the man crashed to the ground, then when the shooting stopped ran for the door and back out on to the street. Ahead, where they had left Braithwaite, a house was now on fire, livid angry flames dancing as billowing clouds of smoke rose into the air.

  ‘The smoke’s too thick!’ exclaimed Drummond.

  ‘But at least it’s giving us some cover,’ said Hawke. He stopped, quickly poured some water over a handkerchief and, tying it round his face, saw that Drummond was doing the same.

  ‘Ready?’ said Hawke. Drummond nodded.

  They ran again, through the thick smoke. Hawke felt his eyes watering and his throat catch, but then they were quickly through and speeding back down the lane towards the farm, the firing and explosions still close but no longer as near as they had been.

  Reaching the yard, they gasped and coughed. Hawke saw Spears through the open door of the mill, firing out over the fields. The sergeant glanced at him – Well? – and Hawke moved towards him only for several bullets to thump into the wooden staircase. He wondered how on earth Spears, Ibbotson and Chalkie White would ever get out of there.

  Farrish now ran from the house, his approach covered by the long barn. Drummond was bent double, his hands on his thighs, but straightened as the lieutenant reached them. ‘We’re t-to pull out, sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘How bad is it in the village?’ asked Farrish.

  ‘Bad, sir,’ rasped Hawke. His throat burned; his lungs felt tight. ‘Braithwaite’s dead.’

&
nbsp; ‘Braithwaite? My God,’ said Farrish.

  ‘Sir,’ shouted out Spears as a round of machine-gun fire peppered the mill.

  ‘We’re to pull out,’ Farrish called back.

  Spears scanned the yard briefly, then said, ‘Sir, we need to torch the cart. Me and the lads up here can break out once we’ve got some cover from the smoke.’

  ‘I’ve seen some oil, sir,’ Hawke told Farrish. ‘In the shed by the house. There are a couple of cans.’

  ‘Good,’ said Farrish. ‘Get them quickly.’

  Hawke did so, returning with two tins, one of which he gave to Drummond. The rest of the men were still firing off sporadic rounds of rifle and Bren gunfire as Hawke and Drummond scampered to the upturned cart and began pouring the thick fluid over the main body. Far heavier return fire was being directed at the farm, bullets fizzing as they ricocheted off the brickwork or smacked into wood. Hawke was breathing heavily, his heart hammering, sweat running down his face and back. He flinched as a number of bullets hit the cart, but was aware that most of the heaviest fighting was taking place either side of them. He wondered whether the rest of the company was managing to get out of the village.

  ‘Are you done?’ Spears shouted down to Drummond as McLaren and several others emerged from the barn.

  ‘Yes, Sarge!’ Drummond called back, then, grabbing Hawke and stepping away, lit a match and threw it at the cart. Cursing as it went out, he lit another and this time the oil caught and in a moment the cart was enveloped in flame and crackling, and the burning oil causing thick black smoke to billow up and cover the windmill like a veil. Coughing and spluttering, Spears, with Ibbotson and White in tow, hurried down the steps as the can of oil was thrown inside the barn.

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here fast, sir,’ said Spears to Farrish. ‘Jerry’s only about five-hundred-plus yards away.’

  Farrish nodded. ‘What about a covering force?’

  ‘Leave the three Bren gunners until last, but get the rest out now. You should lead the men, sir, and head back through the orchard and make for that line of trees behind.’ He turned and pointed to a thick row of horse chestnuts. ‘Behind them there’s a field then a small wood and beyond that a track that leads up to the town.’

  ‘And we’ve got two wounded men. Corporal Bradley and Private Thornley. Thornley’s in a bad way – I don’t want to leave them …’

  ‘We can make two stretchers,’ said Spears. ‘Button a greatcoat together and put a rifle either side.’

  ‘All right. We can try. And what about you, Spears?’

  ‘I’ll stay with the Brens, sir. We won’t be far behind.’

  Farrish nodded. ‘Make sure you’re not.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Spears.

  A couple of minutes later, Farrish led the men out through the yard and into the orchard, half running and half crouching. Hawke looked around him, saw Hebden and Drummond nearby, then glanced across towards Bavinchove, where a company of the Ox and Bucks still seemed to be fighting. Several fields away he could see the turrets of two tanks moving forward, almost level with them. He guessed they were five hundred yards or more away, but felt another lurch in his stomach at the proximity of the enemy. He looked behind him. The Bren gunners were still firing off short, sharp bursts. Smoke from the cart had shrouded the whole yard, so that only the top of the windmill could be seen above it. Not for the first time that day, Hawke was struck by the unreality of the situation. It was as though he were merely an observer watching the mayhem and chaos that was unfolding before him.

  At the farm, Spears had retrieved a further can – of petrol rather than oil, which he had spotted and hidden when they’d first arrived there. This he took into the farmhouse and poured liberally over the back room on the ground floor – over old oak and pine furniture, over the curtains and rugs on the floor, and the armchairs in front of the hearth. Above, Merryweather and Grimshaw, the 1 Section Bren team, were still firing – short, sharp bursts as they had been instructed – but Spears now called them down.

  ‘Get out into the yard,’ he barked. Waiting for them to clatter down the stairs, Spears then stood in the doorway of the back sitting room, struck a match and threw it in. With a loud whoosh the petrol ignited and in moments the room was ablaze. Spears smiled grimly then sprinted back out into the yard and to the barn. Crouching, he ran over to one of the loopholes and peered out, only for a burst of machine-gun fire to spit across the wall in front of him.

  ‘How far are they now?’ he called out.

  ‘About three hundred yards, Sarge,’ said Ibbotson. Smoke from the house was already rolling towards them, wisping in through the loopholes.

  ‘Right, lads, time to go,’ said Spears. ‘One at a time. Ibbotson and White, you go first, head straight across the orchard and then stop and set up, covering our left flank towards Bavinchove.’

  Ibbotson pulled the Bren out from its slit in the wall, folded back the bipod and slung it over his shoulder with a grunt. Following him into the yard, Spears said to Merryweather and Grimshaw, ‘Give Ibbotson and White a minute then follow them and make for the line of trees over there.’ He pointed again. ‘And then stop and set up facing the open ground to the west.’

  Livid flames were rising from the house, and from the yard Spears saw that the second storey had now caught alight. Thick clouds of smoke enveloped the whole farmstead and, with his throat rasping, Spears urged Merryweather and Grimshaw on their way.

  He had just stepped back into the barn to call out Collier and Ostler, the last pair, when a burst of enemy machine-gun fire raked the barn and both men fell backwards. Hurrying over, Spears saw that they were dead, killed instantly, their faces a bloody pulp. Sickened, he snapped the string of their identity tags, pulled out their remaining magazines, grabbed the fallen Bren and ran.

  Behind the small wood, Farrish halted the platoon. The trees bordered a track that led up to the town, and there, in the sunken lane, the men rested. One of the wounded men, Thornley, had died. Hawke passed him, lying on the greatcoat at the side of the road, his battledress dark with blood, his face splintered from the blast. Three days earlier he’d not seen a single dead body in his life, yet he now felt he’d seen enough to last a lifetime. In the films he had seen and in the books and magazines he had read, men were always killed cleanly – a bullet to the heart, or collapsing neatly to the ground. There was never any mention of the distorted limbs, the large quantities of blood and innards hanging loose, the wild staring eyes or the ashen, wax-like skin. He had been struck by how much dead people looked dead – the skin starved of colour, all vitality gone. And they were nearly always filthy – filthy uniforms, filthy hair, hands muddied, nails black, blood and dust covering them.

  Hawke swallowed hard. His throat was sore, his mouth dry. He wondered whether he would share the fate of Thornley – his body blasted, a burden to his friends, his last moments breathed at the side of an unknown road, in who knew what pain and discomfort. And a long way from home.

  Hawke pulled out his water bottle and drank the last of his metallic, now warm liquid. Before he’d arrived in France, he thought to himself, he would not have considered drinking such stale water – but now he was happy just to taste the fluid in his parched mouth.

  A shell hurtled over on its way to the town, its passage through the air whining malevolently. Moments later it landed, exploding with a loud crash half a mile beyond.

  ‘Have you had a look at this?’ said Hebden, peering over the top of the bank above the road.

  Hawke turned and inched himself up. They were already quite elevated. Smoke and flames were still billowing from the farm, but much of Oxelaëre seemed to be hidden by smoke too. Tanks were pushing across the fields, but the village looked to have been already overrun.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ mumbled Hawke.

  ‘Believe it,’ said Drummond, next to him. ‘And we need to get our skates on or we’re going to be over
run ourselves.’

  ‘Skipper’s waiting for the Brens,’ said Hebden, then added, ‘Here’s the sarge now – with Chalkie and Jack. Good on ’em.’

  Hawke followed his gaze and saw Spears with Ibbotson, White, Merryweather and Grimshaw emerge from the woods. Spears had the third Bren slung over his shoulder. He was grimacing, short of breath.

  ‘You all right, Spears?’ said Farrish. ‘Where are Collier and Ostler?’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ gasped Spears, ‘they didn’t make it.’

  ‘Damn it,’ muttered Farrish. ‘Well, we’d better get going.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Spears. ‘Jerry’s overrun the village, sir.’

  They moved on, hurrying up the track. The shelling of the town continued intermittently. There was still firing from Bavinchove, where the Ox and Bucks seemed to have held up the enemy’s advance briefly, but as they passed an old farmhouse to their right the road cleared its banks and looking back down the hill they saw three German tanks emerge from the larger wood to the north-east of Oxelaëre.

  ‘Blimey, that’s all we need,’ said Drummond.

  But Hawke now noticed that running from the farmhouse was a low hedge, already thick with new foliage, leading to a small copse.

  ‘Sarge,’ he said to Spears, ‘couldn’t we try to get to those trees? Maybe we could get the tanks from there?’

  ‘What, you think a few three-oh-three rounds will have any effect against tanks?’

  Hawke looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t know, I just –’

  ‘But hang on,’ said Spears, cutting Hawke short, ‘we could distract them. You said we had anti-tank guns in the town?’

  ‘Yes, Sarge,’ said Hawke.

  ‘I saw them,’ added Drummond. ‘Two-pounders and some others as well.’

  Spears nodded. ‘All right, let’s put it to Mr Farrish.’

  As they sheltered briefly behind the farmhouse, Spears outlined his plan. ‘We’ve got to try and take them on, sir,’ he said, ‘or we’ll get caught out in the open. They’ll mow us down if we’re not careful. The copse will give us some cover and hopefully the gunners in the town will knock them out.’