Hebden was shaking him by the shoulders, and Hawke stared as his friend’s mouth opened, but it seemed no words were coming out. Then, as though a cork had been popped, noise flooded back – the sound of mortars and machine-gun fire, the scream of artillery shells overhead, and Hebden saying, ‘Johnny! Johnny! Can you hear me?’
Hawke jolted, blinked and said, ‘Yes – yes, I can now.’
‘You scared me then,’ said Hebden, breathing out heavily.
‘I couldn’t hear a thing – it was strange.’ He looked at his friend. ‘Spears shot him. He actually shot him.’
‘At least someone was prepared to put him out of his misery,’ said Hebden. ‘Poor bloke. Scared witless and no chance of surviving. The sergeant did the right thing.’ He patted Hawke on the shoulder. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, though. God knows, I’m sorry I had to see it.’ He half turned his head. ‘I’m sorry they’re still there. Why did I ever leave the farm, eh, Johnny? Why did I ever join up?’
Hawke sighed and rubbed his eyes. He was beginning to ask himself the same question.
17
SURROUNDED
For a further hour, A Company was pinned down by enemy mortar and machine-gun fire, but the men of 6th Platoon, by hunkering low in their slit trenches, managed to survive unscathed, the missiles falling all around them but not directly on top of them. Then, at around four o’clock, a mortar shell landed within a few yards of Drummond and Foxton’s slit trench, and when the dust and earth and grit had settled, Foxton was crying out in agony with a piece of shrapnel stuck in his shoulder.
‘Get me out of here!’ he cried. ‘Please! Arghhh!’
Hawke could see him writhing in agony, with Drummond trying to calm him. ‘What should we do, Bert?’ he asked Hebden.
‘Hey, Charlie,’ Hebden called out, ‘How bad is it?’
‘I can’t see,’ Drummond replied. ‘The stupid beggar’s moving too much. But he needs help all right.’
‘We’d better get over there and help,’ said Hawke. ‘I’ve got some dressings.’ Without waiting for Hebden to reply, he hoisted himself up and scampered the twenty yards to Foxton and Drummond and slid in beside them.
‘Where’s he hit, Charlie?’ Hawke asked Drummond.
‘In the shoulder. Help me hold him down, will you? We need to get his clobber off him.’
Hawke gripped Foxton’s shoulder as Drummond carefully pulled off his webbing. The wounded man cried out again, arching his back with pain.
‘Keep still, Foxy, damn you!’ exclaimed Drummond. ‘We’ve got to get this stuff off you.’
‘Arghh!’ screamed Foxton.
With the lieutenant at the far right of the platoon’s position, Hebden was calling out to Spears, and by the time Drummond had carefully pulled back Foxton’s battle blouse, eased off the white braces, now stained deep red, and torn the shirt clear, Spears was crouching above them. Foxton was still grimacing in agony, his brow feverish with sweat. A large piece of jagged metal stuck out of his shoulder.
‘Nasty,’ said Spears.
‘Isn’t it a bit risky squatting there, Sarge?’ said Drummond.
Spears glanced around him. ‘I’m pretty sure the Jerry MG crews have moved on,’ he replied.
‘There’s still incoming mortar, though,’ said Drummond. ‘Look what it did to Foxy.’
Spears sighed, then pulled out his hip flask and put it to Foxton’s lips. Some went in his mouth, the rest running down his chin. ‘Foxy,’ said Spears, ‘I can’t pull that out because I don’t know how deep it is inside you. So what we’re going to do is try to get you to the MO straight away.’ Foxton groaned. Spears looked at Drummond and Hawke, and took a deep breath. ‘All right, we’re just going to have to take a chance. We’ll pull him out, then carry him on to the ramparts and through the garden and house and then one of us can get the MO.’ He glanced at Hawke. ‘You stay here. Drummond and I can manage.’
‘Can we?’ said Drummond. ‘It would be a lot easier with Johnny, Sarge.’ Another mortar whistled down towards them and Spears flattened himself on the ground. The missile landed near the wrecked tank, which absorbed much of the blast.
‘They’re not mortaring as much now,’ said Hawke.
‘They might once they see us struggling with Foxton,’ muttered Spears.
‘Maybe we should get Bert to help too,’ suggested Hawke.
‘Good friend you are,’ said Drummond. ‘Bert’s been trying to keep his head down.’
‘No, you’re right,’ said Spears. He called out to Hebden. ‘Come and help,’ he said.
Foxton was whimpering, the wound glistening around the protruding metal. His chest was streaked with blood and as Spears and Hebden hoisted their hands under his arms, the flesh moved, blood pulsed from the gash and Foxton cried out again.
‘Right, let’s drag him away,’ snapped Spears, ‘then, Hawke and Drummond, you jump out and grab his legs.’
Clambering out, Hawke glanced anxiously behind him, then with Drummond grabbed Foxton’s legs and together they dashed the fifty yards towards the ramparts. Almost immediately a burst of machine-gun fire rang out, but the bullets were high, then they heard the whistle of incoming mortars, and having placed Foxton flat on the rampart path, each dived on to the ground. Hawke clutched his hands over his head as four mortar shells fell among their positions, bursting huge clods of earth into the air.
‘Everyone all right?’ called out Spears as the blast subsided.
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said Hawke, lifting his head. Drummond and Hebden also grunted their presence.
‘Good, then let’s get him inside.’
Clambering on to the ramparts, Hawke was surprised by how calm he now felt. The panic of earlier had gone. His senses seemed alert once more. The Brens and their own mortars were offering some covering fire, while the wrecked tank seemed to be providing them with protection from the enemy machine-gunner – a piece of unexpected fortune. Without hesitation, Hawke stood over Foxton, and when the others were ready, lifted. Through the open doorway, up the walled garden and in through the back of the building – safe from the next round of mortars that now crashed down outside.
The house was still fully furnished although covered in dust and fallen plaster, and with a musty smell, but the front of the building, facing Grand Place, was in better condition than the rear, and so they placed him on a chaise in the drawing room off the front hall.
‘Drummond, you and Hebden stay with him,’ said Spears. ‘Hawke, you run to Battalion and get the MO or some medical orderlies. I’m going to head upstairs and have a dekko.’
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said Hawke. He hurried out into the hall, found the front door unlocked and then stepped out on to Grand Place. Even more buildings had been destroyed since they had last been there a few hours earlier, the rubble spilling out on to the square. The noise of battle was sharper again – he could hear small-arms and cannon fire coming from the long street that led towards Dead Horse Corner and from the north. A group of exhausted soldiers was crossing the square from the north-east corner.
‘We’re surrounded!’ one of them called out. ‘Jerry’s got us surrounded.’
The sound of battle certainly seemed to support the claim, but could that really be the case? Already? Hawke ran on, his mind reeling from the news. He wanted to believe it wasn’t true, and yet he knew it must be. Ahead stood the burnt-out carrier and upturned car, the piles of rubble, the stench of smoke. Destruction.
Reaching Battalion Headquarters, he struggled to make his presence felt, as officers and clerks appeared to be deeply embroiled in writing and receiving messages, strained expressions on their faces. A young captain was cursing a telephone whose line had been cut yet again. As a shell whistled over and crashed somewhere on Mount Cassel, the building shook and dust fell from the ceilings.
‘Excuse me,’ said Hawke, ‘excuse me, but I’m looking for the MO.’
‘You and half the battalion,’ said the captain. He turned to one of the clerks, a lance corporal. ‘Hoskins,’ he said, ‘see if you can get a couple of medical orderlies for this fellow, will you?’
Hoskins nodded, pushed back his chair noisily and said to Hawke, ‘Follow me.’
He led him back out of the building to the house next door, where the ground floor had been made into a makeshift hospital. Hawke could hear the coughing and groaning from the hallway, but was shocked by what he saw as he entered the main living room. The furniture had been cleared, and mattresses, presumably collected from a number of houses, had been laid out on the floor. Already most were occupied by men in various states of undress and covered in bloody bandages. The doctor was stitching up the head wound of one man who was unconscious, while orderlies were moving around between the others.
Hoskins coughed, then said, ‘This man here needs help.’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ the medical officer asked, turning to look at Hawke.
‘It’s not me, sir,’ Hawke explained. ‘It’s one of my mates. He’s got a bit of shrapnel stuck in his shoulder.’
‘Well, where is he, then?’ snapped the MO.
‘Just down the other end of the square, sir. We managed to get him on to a couch.’
‘Very well,’ the doctor nodded, then called out, ‘I need a stretcher to go with this fellow here. Matherson and Spencer – can you go?’
‘Sir,’ said one of the men. The two men disappeared briefly, then returned carrying a canvas stretcher. Hawke saw that it was bloodstained.
‘So,’ said one of the orderlies. ‘Where is he?’
Hawke led them back to the house where Foxton had slipped out of consciousness. ‘That’s good in one way,’ said Matherson. ‘There’s no anaesthetic here, so it’ll hurt less.’
‘But not so good in another,’ said Spencer, the taller of the two.
‘Just do your best for him, will you?’ said Drummond as the orderlies placed Foxton on the stretcher. ‘He’s our mate. A good lad, is Foxy.’
‘We’ll do what we can,’ said Spencer. ‘The MO’s a good sort. If anyone can save him, it’s the doc.’
When Foxton had gone, Hawke said, ‘I saw some men. Ox and Bucks, I think. They said we’re surrounded.’
‘Then how the hell are we ever going to get out of here?’ asked Drummond.
Hebden said, ‘Let’s go and find the sarge.’
Reaching the first floor, and with no sign of Spears, they then took a narrow wooden staircase that wound its way up to the attic. Still peering out of an open dormer window, field glasses to his eyes, was the sergeant.
‘Foxy’s been taken off,’ said Hebden. ‘He’s unconscious, though.’
Spears lowered his binoculars. ‘We’ve got off lightly, all things considered.’
‘And Johnny here has heard that we’re now surrounded.’
Spears paused, then moved away from the window. ‘You can pretty much see that for yourselves.’ He offered his binoculars to Hebden. ‘You can see their field artillery to the south beyond the woods, but then look to the east and west.
‘Blimey,’ muttered Hebden. After a short while, he passed the binoculars in turn to Hawke, who peered out. All the roads to the south seemed to be full of enemy traffic, dust clouds marking their progress. A field gun, perhaps two miles away, flashed and moments later he heard the shell whooshing towards the town. For a moment, Hawke thought it was heading straight for them, but it exploded some two hundred yards away to their right.
To the east of the town, moving in a wide arc, he saw a large number of tanks, half-tracks, trucks and motorcycles gathering at an assembly point, while to the west of the town, a column of tanks and trucks was steadily moving forward. Hawke was speechless.
‘Now you know what a Jerry armoured division looks like on the move,’ said Spears, as Hawke passed the binoculars to Drummond.
‘What the hell are we going to do?’ said Drummond.
Spears shrugged. ‘It’s a bit late to pull back.’
Drummond gave the sergeant the binoculars then, clenching his fists, kicked the wall twice.
‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘No! This can’t be happening. We’ve been left here, haven’t we? What, to die? Or to spend the rest of the bleeding war as Jerry prisoners?’ He glared at the others, his eyes watery with tears. ‘I shouldn’t be here. I should never have joined up. Should have stayed at home and played football.’ He kicked the wall again. ‘I could have been a professional footballer by now, and instead I’m stuck here, in this bomb-blasted hole, watching my mates get knocked over and surrounded by bleedin’ Jerries.’
‘Easy, Charlie,’ said Spears.
‘Anything could happen,’ said Hebden. ‘Maybe our lads will counter-attack. Maybe we’ll be able to make our way out of here after all. The Germans can’t be everywhere, can they? You can’t give up hope yet.’
‘Bert’s right,’ said Spears. ‘But now we need to get back to the platoon. We’ve been away too long already.’
Spears led them down to the ground floor, but as they stood by the rear of the garden, waiting to move out on to the ramparts, he turned to them and said, ‘Remember this. We’re all alive. We’ve made it through some tough fighting so far today, despite the odds. If we can do it today, we can do it tomorrow.’ He patted Drummond on the arm. ‘Don’t give up yet.’
18
SILENT NIGHT
The Germans did not attack again that day, 27 May. Desultory shelling continued until evening, but the mortars had gone and so had the machine-gunners. Firing could be heard to the south-east and to the north, but as the sun began to set towards the west, so a strange stillness descended on Cassel. From his slit trench, Hawke watched the thinning wisps of smoke in the plain below, but further away, on the roads to the south and west, clouds of smoke continued to show an enemy army on the move.
At eight o’clock, the platoon was stood down. A prowler guard was established of two riflemen and a Bren crew, but the rest of the platoon moved back to the walled garden and the house they had taken over as their own. All the men were exhausted – exhausted and hungry, although there was more bad news: there were no more rations. Somer Force would have to survive on what food it could scrounge from the town.
Some wine had already been found in the cellars as well as a larder of pots of jam and honey and some tinned food, but it was not enough to feed the platoon, so Lieutenant Farrish asked for a group of volunteers to see what could be found. For once, Hawke felt in no mood for volunteering.
‘I’ll go,’ Spears offered. ‘That way I can make sure they don’t get themselves drunk and that they behave themselves. You know what these Frogs are like – there’s bound to be wine in all the cellars.’ He took Miller, White and Fletcher.
No sooner had they gone, however, than a truck pulled up outside the front of the building on Grand Place and two medical orderlies, one of whom was Matherson, clambered down and announced that they had come to collect the dead.
‘Of course,’ Farrish said, as the two men were brought to him in the garden at the back. ‘You’ll need some help.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Matherson, who was carrying a bundle of blankets in his arms. ‘We want to get it done before the light fades completely, so any help would be much appreciated.’
Farrish looked around, saw Ibbotson, Hawke, Drummond and Hebden standing around the Primus. ‘You four,’ he said, ‘help these men with burial detail.’
Hawke groaned inwardly and cursed himself for not offering to help scavenge for food.
‘Haven’t we done more than our fair share today?’ muttered Drummond as they followed the men out on to the ramparts.
‘How many are out here?’ asked Matherson as he began laying out the blankets on the ground.
‘Three mortar men,’ said Hebden, ‘a couple of Jerries. Do you want them too?’
‘Yes. We�
��ll take the lot. Don’t want them rotting in front of us, do we?’
‘Were there any others in A Company?’ Hebden said, looking at Miller. ‘Dusty, you were a bit further along from us, weren’t you?’
‘One slit trench got a direct hit, but there’s not much left there,’ he said.
‘We’ve got to collect all the bits,’ said Matherson, matter-of-factly. ‘They like to have something to bury where possible.’
‘And what about O’Connell?’ said Drummond. ‘And Collier?’
‘Where were they?’ said Matherson.
‘Further over. On the track we came up earlier.’
‘In A Company’s sector?’
‘No – they were Glosters, come to think of it.’
‘Then they’re not our problem,’ said Matherson. ‘Now let’s get to it.’
‘We’ll get the Jerries,’ said Drummond quickly. ‘Come on, lads.’
Matherson gave them a wry grin. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘we’ll get the mortar men and the bits.’ He patted his stomach. ‘It’s made of steel.’
There were just two Germans to collect, both lying face down on the ground a few yards from their tank, but as they reached the panzer, Hawke paused to look at it, running his hands along the smooth, cool metal, and the black cross painted on its side below the turret.
‘It’s not so intimidating up close like this, is it?’ said Hebden. ‘Look, you’re almost as tall.’
‘What size gun is that, do you think, Bert?’ Hawke asked.
Hebden rubbed his chin and then peered at the barrel. ‘I’m not sure. Not much more than an inch, is it? No wonder they never managed to knock out our two-pounders. It’s just a small cannon.’ He looked at the smaller, perforated barrel protruding next to it. ‘And a machine gun too.’ He patted the turret. ‘No, I’m very glad I don’t have to sit inside one of these things. Three men in there! Blimey! I bet it gets horrible hot and there’s barely enough room inside to scratch your backside.’
‘Get a move on!’ Matherson called out.
Dunkirk Page 16