Along A Company’s front, Captain Astell had made some adjustments to the way his men were positioned. Half the men were placed in slit trenches on the forward ground, while the rest were positioned behind the garden walls that ran along the edge of the ramparts. Visiting 6th Platoon shortly after the aerial attack, he’d suggested that the men hastily build sangars behind them, to protect them from any shell blast that might hit the buildings. ‘After all,’ he said, looking at the piles of rubble, ‘there’s no shortage of stone.’
Much to Hawke and Hebden’s annoyance, no sooner had they finished excavating their slit trench than they were recalled to the garden and immediately employed with the rest of 1 Section building sangars, which involved lugging stone, brick and any other bits of loose rubble to create a makeshift wall a few yards back inside the garden.
They worked quickly, the shelling continuing around them, so that by the time the sangars were completed the men were exhausted. Hawke stood at his post, his rifle by his side, peering through the loophole in the wall. His eyes stung with fatigue, his arms and shoulders ached, while his hands, covered in dust and dirt, were raw and sore. He leaned his arm against the brickwork and momentarily closed his eyes.
‘Not falling asleep on us, are you, Hawke?’ said Spears, behind him.
Hawke started. ‘No, sir – I mean, Sergeant.’
‘Get a grip on yourself,’ said Spears.
Hawke turned and looked at him. Spears’s face looked so hard. The jaw was clenched, his forehead creased in a frown, the eyes narrowed. He wondered what had happened to the person he had met the previous summer. He blinked and lowered his eyes, then Spears turned away.
In the next moment, another shell screamed over. This time, Hawke thought the sound and tone were different somehow. He was standing there thinking this, when Spears grabbed him and shouted, ‘Everyone down!’
Pulled to the ground by Spears, Hawke fell just as the shell landed like an express train, striking the building behind. The ground shook, his ears rang and for a few seconds thousands of shards of grit and stone were blasted into the air, hissing and whizzing above his head, clattering on to his helmet as more of the house collapsed in a cascade of smoke and swirling dust.
As the debris settled, Hawke felt a hand on his shoulder once more and looked up to see Spears lying beside him.
‘All right?’ rasped the sergeant.
Hawke nodded. ‘Thank you.’
And then Spears gave a flicker of a smile – just a faint one, but in that brief moment those hard features seemed to soften.
A second later, Spears was standing up and looking around. Men were coughing and spluttering and slowly getting to their feet once more. Hawke got up too, dusting himself down and through watery, squinting eyes saw that not only had the rest of the roof and most of the second floor gone, but the back door was now almost completely blocked. Next to him, Ibbotson was holding his helmet aloft and staring at it incredulously.
‘Will you look at that!’ he said. A neat V had been cut clear from the front rim. ‘I had it on the back of my head,’ he said, ‘and felt this whoosh right over me, but I never realized it had done that.’ He shook his head.
‘A close one, Jack,’ said McLaren. ‘Those sangars were worth a few cut hands, then, weren’t they?’
‘Too bleedin’ right,’ said Ibbotson. ‘I’ll never complain again, I promise.’
The others laughed.
‘I’ll hold you to that,’ grinned McLaren.
Suddenly a Bren sputtered to their front, and the men hastily stood to their posts. More Brens were firing, the air sharp with the reports of the machine guns as bullets spat forth. Hawke peered through his loophole and saw movement down below as men and tanks emerged from the woods. Return fire began fizzing towards them, fortunately too high, the bullets spattering into the chestnut still standing just to the left of their position.
Hawke instinctively jerked backwards then cautiously peered again. He could see the enemy clearly now, about five hundred yards away. Tanks were heading up the tree-lined track that ran almost across their front away to their left – a road that led up to the eastern end of the town and eventually to Dead Horse Corner. Infantry were crouch-running, trying to make the most of the tanks’ protection. A rifle cracked nearby and then another. Spears, standing beside the edge of the doorway out on to the ramparts, turned and shouted, ‘Hold your fire! Don’t waste ammo. Only shoot if you’ve got a clear shot.’
Hawke looked out again and with a lurch in his stomach saw four tanks veer off the road and start trundling towards them, the now familiar squeak and rattle of tracks clearly audible above the din of battle.
Immediately the two-pounder in the alleyway to their left opened fire, but the shot was too long. The mortar teams also fired off several shells, while the Brens chattered. Hawke watched as small explosions of earth and smoke burst into the air around them, but moments later the panzers reappeared. Two of the larger tanks stopped and fired their cannons, while the two smaller tanks hurried forward either side of them firing their machine guns. Bullets spat up the already soft ground of the Rangers’ forward positions, then, raising their aim, a series of bullets clattered along the wall. Hawke flinched, jerking himself clear of the loophole, but Ibbotson, on the Bren, was too late. With a gasp, he was flung backwards against the sangar.
‘Jack!’ cried out McLaren, dropping to his knees beside him. Hawke hurried over with Hebden, and Brens and rifles were now firing furiously at the enemy tanks.
‘Stop firing!’ shouted out Spears. ‘Save your ammo. Keep your heads down and wait until they’re closer.’
McLaren was frantically ripping open field-dressing packs and stuffing them into Ibbotson’s neck.
‘Come on, Jack, come on, mate,’ he muttered as Hawke pulled out a field dressing of his own. Ibbotson was lying back, his eyes blinking, his face already drained of colour. His mouth frothed with blood, incomprehensible words gurgling from his now crimson lips.
McLaren snatched the field dressing from Hawke, but then Spears was beside them. ‘Damn it!’ he cursed, then glancing at Hawke said, ‘Get back to your post.’
Hawke did as he was told as another burst of machine-gun fire rattled along the wall. Flinching, he stood there, his eyes closed, that nauseous feeling once more stirring heavily in his stomach.
‘Johnny!’ said Hebden, a few yards away. ‘Are you all right?’
Hawke nodded. ‘I can’t believe it. Jack was only talking a moment ago.’
They both looked over towards their stricken comrade. Ibbotson had begun to convulse, his legs and body jerking as Spears and McLaren kneeled beside him.
‘Poor devil,’ said Hebden.
Hawke had to look away. He liked Jack Ibbotson – he’d liked him a lot – and now there he was, lying there against their hastily built stone wall, a gash like a cave in his throat, the lifeblood draining out of him, and his body thrashing as though he were possessed. He thought of what Ibbotson had said about his mother – how he was worried should anything happen to him. And now it had – the very worst.
The enemy machine-gunning had stopped, so cautiously Hawke peered out of his loophole. To his surprise, the enemy tanks seemed to be pulling back towards the tree-lined road.
‘What are they doing?’ he muttered quietly to himself and then, peeping through the hole in the brickwork again, realized most of the column that had been moving forward across their view had disappeared. Suddenly, he understood: the panzers had been a diversion, drawing fire while the rest advanced safely behind them.
He glanced back at Ibbotson. The jerking had stopped and Spears now looked up.
‘Hawke,’ he said, ‘and Hebden. We need to move Jack.’
‘How is he, Sarge?’ asked Hebden, slinging his rifle back on to his shoulder.’
‘He’s dead, Bert,’ said Spears.
Hawke realized his mouth had gone dry. A re
newed wave of nausea had settled inside him like a lump of lead. An image of home flashed across his mind and not for the first time he wondered whether he would ever see any of his family again.
22
THE GUNNERS
The afternoon wore on. Across the southern front of the town, the battle was quiet – a bit of shelling, the occasional burst of enemy machine-gun fire, but that was all. Elsewhere, though, the sound of fierce fighting could be heard: first, to the west of the Rangers’ position, where the Glosters held the western approach from Bavinchove, and to the north, now held by the Ox and Bucks. Then the fighting seemed to shift to their left, to the east, as had seemed inevitable from the movement of troops they had seen earlier. Small-arms, guns, the rumble and squeak of tanks, and smoke – lots of smoke rising up through the trees – told of heavy fighting along their own C Company’s front.
Hawke found the minutes passed slowly. At around three o’clock, Hebden took advantage of Lieutenant Farrish’s appearance from the forward positions to ask permission to make some tea.
‘All right, Hebden,’ said Farrish. ‘You can always hurry back, after all.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hebden. ‘It’s sod’s law that the moment the water boils Jerry will show his ugly face.’
‘Then get on with it, Bert,’ said Drummond. ‘I’d rather Jerry did come. All this hanging about waiting is getting on my nerves.’
Hawke felt much the same way. It was, he had discovered, the thought of action that bothered him. Waiting, but knowing that at some point soon the enemy would appear. That was what brought the terror in the pit of his stomach. Once the fighting began, it was different. In the brief engagements he’d had so far, he had not had time to feel afraid. Rather, his body and mind had felt alert, as though some other, completely unfamiliar, part of his brain was taking control.
Hebden had made the tea, and they had all drunk it, and been grateful for it too, but still there was no attack. Not until just after four o’clock did they begin to suspect the battleground might at last be shifting. The fighting had lessened to the west, but the sound of battle was suddenly getting noticeably louder away to their left, and then they could hear shouting and shots from the street behind.
‘Stay here,’ said Spears, hurrying back to the remains of the house. The rear doorway had been cleared, and he now disappeared inside only to reappear a few moments later.
‘Get ready,’ he said as he ran past them and headed through the door on to the ramparts.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ said Chalkie from his position with the Bren. More shots could be heard behind them, followed by a burst of machine-gun fire.
‘D’you think Jerry’s broken through?’ said Drummond, his face ashen.
‘Panzers in the town already?’ said Hebden.
There was another burst of machine-gun fire from away behind them. ‘Ruddy heck,’ said McLaren. ‘I don’t like the sound of this. Where’s the sarge got to?’
‘I’m here,’ said Spears, now standing the doorway. ‘Chalkie, and you, Fletch, you stay here on the Bren. Sid and you other three, come with me.’
Clutching his rifle, Hawke followed. Spears was running along the ramparts towards the gunners manning the two-pounder. As they clambered over the rubble and sandbags protecting the gun, one of the gunners nodded his head behind him and said, ‘What’s the trouble back there?’
‘Jerry tank,’ said Spears, hurrying on down the alleyway.
‘Get the beggar,’ said one of the gunners, patting Hawke on the back. Hawke’s mind raced. So they have broken through, he thought to himself. Just one? Or more? They ran on down the narrow alleyway, their boots stamping loudly in that narrow space. Spears halted them a yard from the end of the alley.
‘Shhh!’ he said, standing still and listening. Rifle shots were cracking from Grand Place and then there was a louder shot, followed by another loud splutter of a machine gun. An engine revved and then they heard the telltale clatter and chink of tank tracks.
‘No one even so much as peep their head out on to the street,’ said Spears. ‘We’re going to wait until it reaches us.’
‘Then do what we did last time?’ said McLaren.
‘Yes. We keep nice and low, then I’ll jump out and drop the grenade in.’
‘What about us?’ said McLaren.
‘You cover me. Move out into the street and make sure we don’t get hit by our own boys or any other Jerries coming down the street.’
The tank was moving closer, rumbling down the road, the squeaking of the tracks getting ever louder. Hawke watched the empty road in front of them intently, his heart thumping in his chest. He gripped his rifle, the wood warm in his clammy hands. How far now? Another burst of the tank’s machine gun, louder than ever in the confines of the narrow street. There was now little return fire. One crack of a rifle, but Hawke guessed the men in the square would be nervous of exposing themselves to the panzer’s machine guns. The squeaking was even closer now – a rolling, thundering beast inching towards them. Hawke swallowed, saw Spears hold out his grenade, ready to pounce and then there it was, filling the view directly in front of them, trundling forward at no more than walking pace.
Spears leaped forward and Hawke followed. A quick scan either side – no Tommies in the square, but figures at the end of the long, straight street. A glance at the tank and Hawke cursed – the side vent was closed – what now? – but Spears was now jumping on to the side of the tank. He gripped a bar on the side, his legs swinging dangerously close to the rolling tracks, then hoisted himself on to the side. Hawke watched open-mouthed and ran after the tank. Spears was trying to hoist himself up and had just gripped the turret when the panzer hit a small mound of rubble, jolting the side of the beast upwards. The force made Spears lose his grip and he was thrown clear, but as he fell, he threw up the grenade and, dropping his rifle, Hawke snatched it with both hands. Everything was happening very quickly and yet the world seemed to have slowed down. All noise had gone. It was just Hawke and the tank. Running a few paces, he leaped on to the back, gripped a box that was fastened on to the hull behind the turret and pulled himself up. Now firmly on the rear of the panzer, he clambered up behind the turret, saw the hatch, then momentarily looked at the grenade, breathed in deeply, and pulled the pin, and yanked at the hatch. Voices in German, a release of foul hot air, and Hawke dropped the grenade and rolled off the back, landing painfully on the road just as the grenade exploded. He gasped, lying on the cobbles as a second explosion erupted, flame and smoke bursting from the turret. The tank slewed, trundled slowly forward and crashed into the side of a house. There were cheers from the direction of Grand Place and he gasped again, grimaced and looked up to see Hebden and Spears beside him, then pulling him to his feet.
‘Good work, Johnny,’ said Hebden.
Tommies from Grand Place were running towards them and towards the knocked-out panzer – Rangers, Hawke saw from the familiar green on black shoulder tabs.
‘Well done, lads,’ said a sergeant. There was a gash across his eye and a face etched with fatigue. He called his men away from the tank. ‘Come on, lads,’ he shouted. ‘We need to get back.’
‘Wait,’ said Spears. ‘What’s going on down there?’ Hawke followed his gaze. The men at the end of the street were Tommies, their helmets silhouetted against the smoke. The sound of frenetic small-arms firing rang out, not only from the end of the road, but from beyond the houses that lined the right-hand side of the street.
‘Jerry’s been attacking since noon,’ said the sergeant. ‘The Ox and Bucks boys have been holding his main assault from around Dead Horse Corner, but how this lad got through, God only knows. We’d taken some wounded up and been scrounging for ammo. Came back and there’s this ruddy great panzer trundling down the street towards us. Thank God you boys were there. I don’t know what happened – how he got through.’
‘There’re Tommies down the street now,’
said Spears.
‘Hopefully any gap’s been closed, although how much longer we can hold on I’m not at all sure. The boys are getting very low on ammo.’ Another fusillade of fire rang out. ‘We really should get back. Are you A Company?’
‘Yes,’ said Spears.
‘Well, good luck.’ He gripped Spears’s hand, patted Hawke on the back, then ran on with his men.
Thick smoke from the burning tank now filled the street, and Hawke began to cough, his throat raw.
‘Come on,’ said Spears. ‘Let’s go.’
Hawke’s shoulder and upper arm hurt where he had fallen, and as they hurried back across the street towards the alleyway he clutched it with his hand and winced in pain. He saw now that his battle blouse had torn and he cursed to himself. Both the rip and his badly grazed arm were forgotten, however, the moment they stepped back into the narrow passageway. From the far end, the two-pounder boomed, but immediately a tank gun responded, the shell screaming down the alleyway and crashing into the walls just above them. Hawke jumped in surprise, ducking instinctively as bits of shrapnel and shattered brick clattered down on him.
Through the dust and smoke he saw Spears running on, McLaren just behind, so Hawke followed, stumbling and nearly falling as he did so. A heavy burst of machine-gun fire stopped them, and then they saw the gun crew sprawled by their two-pounder.
‘Damn it!’ cursed Spears, signalling to the rest to crouch down.
‘Are they all dead?’ said McLaren.
‘No – but their firing days are over,’ Spears replied.
‘Where the hell is that Jerry tank?’ said McLaren.
‘We’d better find out, and quick,’ said Spears. They were just fifteen yards from the gun, and he scampered forward, then beckoned the others. Hawke was suddenly conscious of how heavy his breathing sounded. His ears were playing tricks on him. Three of the men were dead, their chests a bloody mess. A fourth sat slumped behind the gun shield, a gash across his head, his right arm hanging limply.
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