‘Time to go,’ he said, shuffling backwards on his knees and elbows. Hawke nodded and they both turned, crouching, getting themselves clear of the narrow ridge, and then they were running past the burning tanks towards the track, so that Hawke gasped, his eyes streaming from the sting of the smoke. Not far ahead of them the rest of the platoon were running too, spread out in a long line as more mortars crashed into the copse behind them. Artillery shells hurtled overhead and from the town the rattle of small-arms rang out.
15
REDEPLOYMENT
Enemy mortars followed them all the way to the town’s edge, and although most fell short, one landed near enough the leading Rangers to knock down two men. Hawke, running with Spears at the rear of their column, saw the men fall, and heard Farrish pause, but urge the rest of the men to keep going. Hawke looked back and saw that, for the time being at any rate, the German advance to the south had faltered.
‘Keep going!’ Spears yelled at him. From the town several artillery rounds were fired from the eighteen-pounders, fizzing overhead and crashing down into the woods below. Hawke’s chest burned, his legs ached and his shoulders rubbed. It was, he discovered, one thing making a short, sharp dash across open ground with thoughts of firing on the enemy coursing through his veins, but quite another slogging uphill with a full haversack and pack, and with his entrenching tool, water bottle and bayonet slapping against his thighs and tugging on his belt, and with gas-mask bag, ammunition and rifle to carry as well.
The two men down, were, he saw as he passed them, O’Connell and Trimble from 3 Section. Lieutenant Farrish and Bristow, the 3 Section commander, were crouched down beside them. O’Connell, Hawke saw, was dead, his entire back torn open. Trimble was alive, gibbering, with wild, darting eyes, but half his left leg lay several yards away, still booted and putteed. The stump was quivering, a bloody, shredded pulp. Hawke looked briefly, but moved on past. Just fifty yards ahead, clambering over a barricade across the track at the town’s edge, were two medical orderlies with a stretcher.
Nearly there, he told himself. Forty yards, thirty, twenty, legs aching in a way he had never known possible during all those runs during training, his chest tight, and lungs unable to gasp enough air, but then he was looking at a two-pounder gun and a barricade of rubble and wood and waiting to help him across were a number of men from the Glosters.
‘Well done, sonny,’ a soldier grinned at him, and offered a hand as Hawke scrambled over the piled-up barricade. ‘Saw what you did down there. Showed guts.’ He winked.
‘Thanks,’ Hawke gasped. Hebden and Drummond were beside him now, and then there was Spears too. An enemy shell whooshed over and Hawke flinched as it landed with a deafening crash a hundred yards or so inside the town. He bent over, hands on his thighs, grimacing and fighting for breath, and looked back down the track. The stretcher bearers were lifting Trimble, while Farrish stood over O’Connell, grabbed the dead man’s tags and papers, and then turned and hurried on up the lane with Bristow and the two orderlies in tow.
‘What about O’Connell?’ said Hawke.
‘He’s dead,’ said Spears. ‘He’ll be picked up later. It’s the living we need to worry about.’
As Farrish clambered over the barricade, Hawke turned to Spears.
‘Tom – I mean, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘that was amazing what you did – destroying those tanks.’
Spears looked at him. ‘Not really. They hadn’t seen us. A lot of blind spots on a tank.’ He turned to Farrish, ‘All right, sir? We should move on into the town. Rejoin the battalion.’
Hawke noticed the lieutenant had blood on his hands and across his battle blouse, and that his hand was shaking as he raised it to adjust his helmet.
‘Yes – yes, you’re right, Sergeant,’ Farrish replied, his voice strained. Hawke thought to himself: This is getting to the lieutenant. In a way, it made him feel better. It was natural to feel scared.
‘And, er, well done back there,’ Farrish added, looking at Spears. ‘You and McLaren – you did a brave thing.’
Spears shrugged. ‘Thank you, sir. Shall I order the men forward?’
Farrish nodded and rubbed his brow so that a streak of blood ran across it. ‘Yes – if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘All right, let’s keep moving, boys,’ Spears called out, taking the lead, and moving off up a cobbled road into the heart of the town.
The road led them into an open square in which there were already several large craters and a burnt-out carrier. From the square another narrow street took them to the western end of Grand Place. It looked a desolate place. An upturned car and another wrecked carrier and a tank, blackened and ugly, stood as a reminder of the day’s fighting, while even more of the houses had been hit, rubble and debris spewing out on to the cobbles. A stench of smoke and fumes and cordite hung heavily on the air and Hawke began coughing, his throat as dry as sandpaper. He felt for his water bottle but then, with dismay, remembered that it was empty.
‘Here,’ said Hebden beside him, unclasping his own bottle. ‘I’ve a glug to spare.’
Hawke took it gratefully and drank. ‘Thanks, Bert,’ he said.
They pulled up outside Battalion Headquarters as two more enemy shells whistled over, one crashing at the far end of Grand Place. Hawke barely flinched as with a cloud of swirling dust, part of a wall collapsed on to the ground with a tremendous and resounding crash.
‘Stand easy, chaps,’ said Farrish, then headed inside to Battalion HQ.
Hebden and Drummond squatted down and Hawke followed, gasping with relief as he sat himself down on the cobbles.
‘Ahh!’ sighed Hebden. ‘I never knew sitting on stone could bring such joy.’
‘My legs are dead,’ said Drummond, then grinning at Hawke and Hebden added, ‘Is it just me, or are we actually still alive?’
Hebden leaned across and pinched his leg.
‘Ow!’ cried Drummond.
‘Then we must be,’ said Hebden.
McLaren wandered over and cuffed Drummond lightly over the back of his head.
‘What was that for, Corp?’ said Drummond.
‘Do I need a reason?’
‘Good work on that tank, Sid,’ said Hebden.
McLaren’s face creased into a wry smile. ‘I have to admit that when the sarge suggested it to me I thought he’d gone mad. But, actually, he was absolutely right – so long as we crept up to them below their eye line, they weren’t going to see us. It couldn’t have been easier popping in a grenade.’
‘I’m glad I’m a rifleman and not a tank man,’ said Hawke.
‘You and me the same,’ said McLaren. ‘Engines get hot, very hot, and lots of horrible flammable oil and fuel runs around them. It’s one thing having your head in an engine in peacetime when you’re trying to repair the beggar, but quite another with bullets and bangs going off all around you.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree with you more, Sid,’ said Hebden. ‘No escape from that thing. And even if the grenade didn’t kill them their shells detonating did. It would have become an inferno in there.’ He shuddered. ‘No thank you.’
‘D’you see what happened to O’Connell and Trimble?’ said Drummond. ‘I’m not sure having shrapnel rip open your guts or tear off a leg is any better than being blown up inside a tank. No, I’m not glad I’m a rifleman.’ He took out a cigarette from his top pocket.
‘What would you rather be, then?’ asked Hawke.
‘Playing football?’ grinned Hebden.
‘Yes I would,’ replied Drummond. ‘No, I reckon I should have joined the RASC – that must be a bit more of a cushy number. B Echelon stuff – out of the firing line.’
‘And you know what would happen, Charlie,’ said McLaren. ‘You’d get a transfer and you’d be going back to some depot to pick up rations and a big fat Jerry fighter plane would fly over and open fire and you’d get a bullet right through you and then you’d wish
you’d stayed where you are now – with one of the finest regiments in the entire British Army.’
They all laughed – even Drummond.
‘One of the finest?’ said Hebden, a look of mock indignation on his face. ‘The finest, surely.’
‘Not with the likes of you three in it,’ said McLaren.
‘Surely you can’t mean Johnny here,’ said Hebden. ‘Didn’t you see him firing away with the sarge as we all scarpered?’
Hawke looked down, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t really thinking, I just –’
‘Had to have a pop at some Jerries,’ said McLaren. ‘Did you hit any?’
Hawke shrugged. ‘I saw a few drop. The sarge hit loads, though.’
‘We’re lucky to have him – I’ve always thought so,’ said Hebden.
‘You weren’t saying that a few weeks back when he put you on prowler guard for three nights in a row,’ said Drummond.
‘Well, no,’ admitted Hebden. ‘I was cursing him to hell, and I still think he was a bit harsh – and I wasn’t the only one who had had too much to drink anyway. But I’m a forgiving bloke and I won’t hold it against him. Anyway, there’s no denying he’s a good soldier.’
‘He’s got experience, you see,’ said McLaren. ‘He’s been in a long time, and although I’ve been in a few years now I hadn’t seen any action before this show. The sarge saw quite a bit in India, you know.’
‘He told me some of his stories,’ said Hawke.
‘Did he?’ said McLaren, surprised. ‘I thought he barely ever spoke to you?’
‘Johnny’s sister is the sarge’s fiancée,’ said Drummond. ‘Didn’t you know?’
Hawke now wished he had never opened his mouth.
‘Well I’m blowed,’ said McLaren. ‘How did that one pass me by?’ He shook his head in wonderment. ‘That explains a lot. Well, well.’
‘I can’t believe you didn’t know,’ said Drummond.
‘Talk of the devil,’ muttered Hebden as Spears now walked towards them.
‘Boys,’ said Spears, pausing beside them. ‘All right, Sid?’
‘A bit knackered, but otherwise we’re all in one piece,’ said McLaren. ‘Which is more than can be said for O’Connell and Trimble. Any news on Trimble?’
‘Doesn’t look good,’ said Spears. ‘If we could get him to a proper hospital and quickly, that would be one thing.’ He pushed his helmet back and wiped his brow. ‘No, Three Section are four men down, and Two Section have one dead and Corporal Bradley wounded.’
‘And we lost Braithwaite and Stubbs,’ said McLaren.
‘We’ll probably have to combine Two and Three Sections under Bristow,’ said Spears. ‘It’s been hard fighting so far.’
‘We’ve been lucky in this section,’ said McLaren.
‘Sarge, can I push my luck a bit further?’ said Hebden.
Spears smiled. ‘Probably not, no.’
‘We could really do with a brew. Have we got time? We’re all parched here.’
‘You might have to wait, Bert,’ said Spears. ‘Lieutenant Farrish will be out in a moment, I’m sure. We’ll be deployed and, assuming Jerry hasn’t reached the town, perhaps you can have a brew then. Things are still a bit hot out there, you know.’
As if on cue, another shell hurtled over, this time crashing into a building only sixty yards behind them, on the rise of Mount Cassel. Even Spears ducked and held his hands over his helmet. Fortunately, the row of buildings facing out on Grand Place stood in between, but a deep rumble resounded around the town as part of a building collapsed. The men watched as another cloud of dust and grit mushroomed into the air.
At the far end of Grand Place, a dozen soldiers staggered into view.
‘Look, Sarge,’ said Hawke. ‘Tommies.’
‘They look spent,’ muttered Hebden. ‘Where’ve they come from?’
‘I could hazard a guess,’ said Spears.
As the men drew near, the dark black arc of cloth on their shoulders could be seen – which with its green writing marked them out as Rangers.
‘That’s Alf Addington,’ muttered Spears, ‘Fifth Platoon.’ He hurried towards them. ‘Alf!’ he said.
Sergeant Addington raised an arm in acknowledgement.
Spears undid his water bottle and passed it to his fellow sergeant, then called back to his own platoon. ‘Some water! Quick!’
A number of 6th Platoon got to their feet, Hawke included, gathering around the new arrivals, offering them water bottles and patting them on the back.
‘You lot are a sight for sore eyes,’ said Addington. He was older than most, perhaps thirty, Hawke guessed, and had scratches across his face and hands. So did the others.
‘What happened?’ asked Spears.
‘We pulled back too late,’ said Addington.
‘By which time the village was already almost overrun,’ said another.
‘Where’s Major Strickland?’ asked Spears.
‘In the bag,’ Addington told him, ‘along with most of the company. All rounded up and taken Jerry prisoner.’
Spears shook his head. ‘Damn it all.’
‘We wondered what had happened to you lot. You all got away?’
‘Most of us.’
‘That’s something,’ said Addington. ‘We did only just. We managed to hide in those woods for a bit and then Jerry was pushed back a bit and we made our escape. We lost a few lads but us lot managed to make it. We worked our way up, eventually getting into the town at Dead Horse Corner. The C Company boys told us to make for Battalion HQ.’
‘You’d better go and see the IO,’ said Spears. ‘He’ll want to speak to you. The rest of your lads can stay here, if you like.’ He patted Addington on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Alf – that’s a big blow.’
Soon after, Lieutenant Farrish reappeared with the battalion adjutant – Major Cartwright, and Captain Astell – the A Company commander.
‘All right, men,’ said Cartwright, ‘continue at ease.’ He cleared his throat. ‘You’ve done a superb job so far, but as I’m sure you are now aware we have lost most of B Company this morning. The Hun has overrun our outposts, but we still have a key role to play here in Cassel and even with his tanks and apparent control of the skies, taking this place from us will be no easy task for him. It’s a superb defensive position and we intend to fight for every yard of it.’ He paused. ‘Now we need every one of you to help with that defence and so we are attaching you to A Company under Captain Astell here.’
There were a few mutterings and a shuffle of feet as Cartwright stood back and offered a hand to Captain Astell. He was young, barely thirty, and, unlike most of the officers, clean-shaven, with a round, kindly face.
‘I’ll be honoured to have you chaps fighting under me,’ he said, his accent betraying a faint trace of the Yorkshire accent. ‘We’re currently deployed on a two-hundred-yard front just the other side of these buildings here.’ He turned and pointed to the Battalion HQ behind him and the row of buildings that ran along the southern edge of Grand Place. ‘I don’t know how much of the town any of you have had a chance to see, but behind these buildings are rows of walled terraced gardens, and beyond that the town ramparts. These have long ago collapsed, but we are manning the soft ground in front and have prepared defences both behind the walled gardens and in the houses themselves. We are also being helped by gunners from the Worcestershire Yeomanry, who have deployed two eighteen-pounders and three two-pounder anti-tank guns in our section.’ He paused, cleared his throat, then said, ‘Now we need to get you in position quickly. Jerry’s advance seems to have stalled for the moment, largely thanks to your efforts earlier taking out those panzers, but we’re expecting him to attack again at any moment. I also know you haven’t had much food. Rations are short, I’m afraid, but as soon as you’re in position, if Jerry hasn’t begun his attack again, you can make a brew then. So follow me.’
‘Seems like a good sort,’ muttered Hebden to Hawke and Drummond.
‘It’s odd not being part of B Company, though, isn’t it?’ said Hawke. ‘I can’t believe the company’s no more. What do you think Jerry does with his prisoners?’
They began marching down along the southern edge of Grand Place. Hebden shrugged. ‘Sends them to Germany, I suppose, and puts them in a prison camp.’
‘They wouldn’t shoot their POWs would they?’ asked Hawke.
‘Oh, no, I’m sure not.’
‘I don’t intend to find out,’ said Drummond.
‘But what if we can’t ever get out of here?’ said Hawke. ‘What if the Jerries decide to surround this place and besiege us? That’s what they would have done in the olden days.’
‘Maybe they’ll pull us back tonight,’ said Hebden. ‘The brigadier might be prepared to lose a company or two, but no one in the top brass is going to want to lose an entire force like this. There’s more than a brigade here.’
‘I’ve long since given up trying to work out what the hell is going on,’ said Drummond. ‘None of it makes a lot of sense to me. But I hope you’re right, Bert. If they’ve got any sense, they’ll pull us back tonight.’
Captain Astell now led them off the square and down a narrow brick alleyway.
‘Anyway,’ added Drummond, ‘we’ve got to get through today yet. I’ve a feeling the captain’s right – we’ve got more fighting to do before the day’s over.’ He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘And it’s barely past noon. Blimey, we’re not even halfway through the day yet.’
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