White now stopped firing and Hawke saw him turn towards them and raise his fist in triumph, followed by loud cheers from the ramparts away to their right. And, for that brief moment, the fatigue, the despair, the terrible sights he had witnessed in the past few days were all forgotten and Hawke was consumed by a wave of exultation and relief.
24
BREAK OUT
By half past seven that evening, 29 May, the shelling had at last appeared to have stopped.
‘It’s now been twenty minutes, sir,’ said Major Bullmore, as he and Brigadier Somerset stood on the veranda at the rear of Somer Force Headquarters. The patchy cloud from earlier had largely dispersed, so that above them was a clear, blue sky. Around the shattered town, however, an acrid pall hung heavily, so that with the evening sun bearing down it looked as though a giant yellow veil had been draped across it.
Somerset lit a small cigar he had found in the house and took a sip of his brandy. ‘Good God, look at this place,’ he said. ‘A few days’ fighting and look what’s become of it. Smashed houses, rubble everywhere, telegraph wires strewn across the streets.’
‘Cassel has served us well, sir,’ said Bullmore. ‘We wouldn’t have held on without this position.’
‘It’s a miracle we’ve kept going this long. An absolute miracle. This morning – well, I don’t mind admitting, Bully, I thought we’d not make it through the day. I take my hat off to every single one of our chaps. That the Hun has been unable to make a single sustained breach anywhere, with all their weight of arms and fire-power, has been an extraordinary effort on our part.’
‘I agree, sir.’
‘And they deserve their chance for freedom now that the task set them has been faithfully carried out.’
Bullmore remained silent, but eyed the brigadier carefully.
‘Well?’ said Somerset at length. ‘You don’t suppose we should just stay here, do you?’
‘There’s been no sign of the troop we sent out earlier, sir,’ said Bullmore.
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean they’ve been stopped. They might have reached Winnezeele, then not been able to get back – not in daylight at any rate. Their absence is no reason not to give our boys a chance. Don’t forget, Bully, that this morning you agreed that if we were still here this evening we should break out.’
‘I know, sir, but I can’t feel so optimistic about those Yeomanry we sent off. Odds are they’ve come a cropper. If we surrendered now, at least we would be saving the lives of all the men. The town is surrounded after all. Is it worth risking any more lives when the chances of us getting away are so slight? It took that courier half a day and all night to get here and by all accounts he was lucky to make it. And there was just him, not all the men of Somer Force.’
Somerset turned to face his chief of staff. ‘No, Bully, my mind’s made up. These boys have fought heroically here. To throw in the towel now, without trying to break out would be unfair to them. At twenty-one thirty, we will begin leaving the town. We can tell the unit commanders that there is no longer any need to fight to the last man. If they encounter heavy enemy numbers, then they must know there is no dishonour in giving themselves up. But we will try, Bully, we will try.’ He paused and drew on his cheroot, clouds of blue-grey smoke wafting into the air. ‘The Ox and Bucks hold the north of the town. Send them out first. Then the Glosters, and then the Rangers.’
‘And when do we leave, sir?’
‘With the vanguard. We will leave at the head of our men.’
A few hundred yards away, along the southern edge of the town, four Rangers still stood to by the two-pounder gun that had performed such great service over the past few days. Sergeant Spears was no longer with them – he had returned to 6th Platoon’s positions on the ramparts – but McLaren, and three of his section – Drummond, Hebden and Hawke – had remained by their new post.
After the German attack had been repulsed, they had moved the gun forward again, and the wounded gunner had been stretchered away. Since then, a strange eerie calm had descended over the battleground. The frenetic firing of earlier, the intense noise, had gradually died, until at last the enemy gunners had even stopped shelling for the night. The earlier euphoria had quickly worn off as adrenalin subsided and exhaustion consumed them. Hawke had sat with the other three, perched uncomfortably on a piece of rock that just a few days before had been part of a building, staring out at the still smouldering German tanks. His eyes stung with fatigue, and his young body ached. His upper arm and shoulder, particularly, throbbed painfully. He’d been so proud of his smart appearance when he had first joined the battalion, but now his battle dress was filthy and, on the shoulder, even torn. Lice lived in the seams. He’d not had a proper wash for more days than he could remember. Dark arcs of grime lined the end of his fingernails, while his hair was so thick even a metal comb would have struggled to untangle the knots.
It was just after eight when Spears reappeared, walking casually towards them along the ramparts.
‘All right, boys,’ he said, ‘we’re being stood down.’
‘At last,’ said Drummond.
‘Brew-time,’ said Hebden, perking up and rubbing his hands together.
‘And we’re leaving tonight too.’
‘What?’ exclaimed Hawke.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Spears. ‘The whole garrison. It seems that while we’ve been holding off Jerry, the rest of the BEF have been pulling back to Dunkirk.’
‘Dunkirk?’ said Hebden. ‘Bleedin’ heck. That doesn’t sound good.’
‘We’re being evacuated,’ said Spears. ‘They’re trying to get us all out.’
‘Can’t they use any other ports?’ asked Hebden.
Spears shook his head. ‘Jerry’s got the lot. Calais, Boulogne, Gravelines – you name it.’
Hawke had taken off his helmet and now scratched his head. ‘But, Sarge, if we’re surrounded here, how are we all supposed to get to Dunkirk?’
‘With a great deal of luck, I reckon,’ said Spears. ‘Now hop it. Go and get your kit together and find something to eat. They’re brewing up something back there and there’s some beer too. I’d have thought even you might deserve a drink this evening, Johnny.’ He winked at him.
Relief and happiness at this simple gesture suddenly welled together with his intense exhaustion, and for a moment Hawke thought he might ruin everything because he knew he could easily break down and cry.
Getting to his feet, he had to turn and look away, feeling the tears pricking at the edge of his eyes, and so walked forward a few yards, to the blackened hulks of the tanks they had destroyed earlier. Four panzers – four they had knocked out that day in all! He could hardly believe it had happened. There was a sharp stench across the battlefield – of smoke and cordite and something else, a rather rich, sweet smell. For three days they had fought here at Cassel – first down by the farm and since then here, along this southern edge of the old town. The number of bullets and shells that had been fired in that time was incredible, and yet he was still alive – alive when so many were not. Now they were leaving it all behind and venturing out into the unknown Flanders plain beyond. He was glad it was over and yet he instinctively knew that more trials lay ahead. The Germans could not be everywhere, but how could an entire brigade slip through the net? Even he, a young soldier, knew that the chances of success were slim.
‘Johnny!’ called out Hebden. ‘Come on!’
Hawke waved in acknowledgement and looked out a moment longer at the battlefield. Don’t think about it, he told himself. Soon they would be heading out of Cassel for good. What would happen then, he had no idea. But there was no point, he realized, wasting any energy worrying about it. He would need every last scrap of that just to keep going at all.
Brigadier Somerset left the wreck of the town in the staff car that had brought him to Cassel five days earlier, although, as he turned through the northern gate at around
9.30 p.m. that evening, it seemed to him like a lifetime ago. Behind him, the remaining men of the Ox and Bucks Battalion were beginning their march, lined up in a long column and heading, as he and his staff were, for the road to Winnezeele.
He had wondered whether he and his Somer Force staff should have been marching along with the rest of the men, but the brigade was already now split up and breaking out in its different units. Somer Force was no more, and there was nothing he could do for them other than wish them all the very best of luck. Pretending otherwise would have been pointless.
Even so, he felt a sharp pang of guilt as the car trundled down the cobbled hill and the column of men gradually disappeared from view. He was also overcome by a sense of helplessness. Bullmore had been right: these men didn’t stand a chance. There was no way they could disguise themselves from the enemy – not that number. He sighed heavily and looked out of the window. The sky was still not completely dark – a faint, milky glow shrouded the countryside, so that he could see the outline of passing woods, farms and houses.
And yet, for several miles, the car quietly rumbled on, with not a German in sight. Skirting around Le Coucou, they rejoined the Winnezeele road, passing undetected through the small villages of Le Riveld and Le Temple. Somerset was astounded. Not a soul stirred. Incredible though it seemed, the enemy who had been pressing the town so hard all day appeared to have simply melted away.
‘This is extraordinary, sir,’ said Bullmore, sitting in the back seat beside him. ‘I’m beginning to think you were right. Perhaps that yeomanry troop did get clear away after all.’
Somerset chuckled. ‘It does seem blissfully empty of Huns, I agree.’
Another half-mile passed and Somerset felt his spirits rise further. He had always expected the first few miles to be the most treacherous, yet they had gone five at least already.
‘That’s Winnezeele up ahead, sir,’ said Robson from the front seat. Somerset moved so he could see through the windscreen. Faintly, in the deepening darkness, the silhouette of a church and a number of houses could be seen. Somerset tapped his knuckles on his knee. As they reached the village, he heard an owl hoot and somewhere not far away a dog barked. The place seemed empty, just like the other villages they had passed through.
As the last of the houses slid behind them, Somerset leaned back and closed his eyes. There was still a long way to go, he knew, but there was always confusion in war, and perhaps a car could weave its way through undetected – after all, the Germans had plenty else to think about. Perhaps a lone car would be assumed to be one of theirs. Perhaps even a column of troops, marching at night, would be assumed to be German. Perhaps, perhaps …
‘Sir,’ said Robson, his voice urgent.
Somerset opened his eyes, his heart sinking.
A torch was flashing up ahead and was now turned towards them. The driver rolled the car to a halt and then more torchlight was being flashed through the windows towards them. Somerset squinted and raised his hand to shield his eyes as the doors were opened one by one.
‘Aus!’ one of the men shouted. ‘Machen Sie schnell!’ Out. And be quick about it.
Behind the glare, Somerset could see the outline of a German helmet.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the others. ‘We’ve been caught after all.’ He clambered out of the car. Rough hands pushed him forward. ‘Hände hoch!’ Somerset raised his hands as a rifle barrel was pressed into his back.
A torch shone in his face. ‘I hope you enjoyed your quiet evening drive, Herr Brigadier,’ said the man in heavily accented English. ‘You are from Cassel, are you not?’
Somerset said nothing.
‘Well, we’ve been expecting you. First your panzer men, now you and, before long, I should not wonder, the rest of the garrison of Cassel.’
Somerset cursed inwardly.
Another torch flashed nearby. He saw several vehicles further on and was conscious of being surrounded by a number of enemy troops. Then he saw the face of the man beside him – a lean face, caught in shadow, and with the shoulder tabs, he saw, of a colonel.
‘I must congratulate you on your defence of the town, but it is all over for you now, Herr Brigadier. For you and all your men.’
25
THE AMBUSH
As Brigadier Somerset had planned, the Yorks Rangers were the last battalion to leave. The 2nd Battalion had begun the month with nearly eight hundred men, but were now down to just two hundred and twelve with two of their companies gone altogether. The last ten days of fighting had taken its toll. Even so, a little over two hundred men was still a large number to try to conceal, and Spears had been angered by the decision to break out in company formation.
‘It’s madness, sir,’ he’d said after Farrish had returned from a briefing at Battalion Headquarters. ‘We were barely strong enough to fight when we had the town to help our defence. Out in the open, with no artillery at all and next to no ammo left, we’ve got no chance.’
‘I’m sorry, Spears,’ said Farrish, ‘but those are the orders. The brigadier’s orders, I might hasten to add.’
‘But I thought you said each battalion had been left to its own devices, sir,’ said Spears. ‘If we’re allowed to make our own way as platoons, we might be able to get somewhere.’
‘Spears,’ said Farrish, his irritation mounting, ‘it’s no good having it out with me. Orders are orders. We march out as a battalion and that’s that.’
And so they had, passing through the now silent Grand Place with its stench of burning and decay, the ruined buildings eerily silhouetted against the night sky. It was around half past ten when they finally headed back down the long, narrow street where earlier Hawke had knocked out the enemy tank, and not long after that they had tramped back around Dead Horse Corner, still strewn with rubble, empty casings, smashed wagons and vehicles.
Once down at the foot of the town, where earlier that morning Spears had seen the Germans moving up to attack, they had begun their tramp across country, trekking briskly through fields, down narrow tracks, over dykes and streams and along the thickening hedgerows that marked the Flanders plain. They skirted round a couple of villages and by several farms. Cows lowed, occasionally dogs barked at the sound of the men passing by, but otherwise the night seemed still.
At around 3 a.m., the long column paused at a crossroads of tracks. A company was at the head of the column, behind Battalion Headquarters, with 6th Platoon in the middle, ahead of C Company. The platoon was now just sixteen strong, the notion of sections abandoned now that they were on the march.
The sky was clear and Hawke saw Spears look up at the stars. He followed the sergeant’s gaze – there were hundreds of thousands, twinkling benignly.
Hebden had evidently also seen Spears look up because he said, ‘They’re like old friends, aren’t they? Look, there’s the Plough.’
Hawke looked up. ‘Which one’s that, Bert?’ he asked.
Spears shook his head. ‘Don’t you know?’
Hawke felt a stab of shame and embarrassment. ‘No. I was never taught them.’
‘Shouldn’t have to be taught them,’ said Spears in a low voice. ‘You should want to learn them.’
‘It’s townsfolk, Sarge,’ said Hebden. ‘In the country you’re brought up knowing things like this.’ He patted Hawke on the back.
‘I’m a towny,’ said McLaren, ‘but I know them all right.’
‘Yes, but you’ve been in longer than most of these greenhorns. Look,’ said Spears pointing. ‘The Plough looks like a plough – or like a saucepan to some.’
‘Also known as the Big Dipper,’ added Hebden.
‘Yes,’ said Spears. ‘Those three there are the handle, if you like, and those four in a rough rectangle are the plough or the pan.’
‘Yes, I see it,’ said Hawke.
‘Then move your eyes right a bit,’ added Spears. ‘There’s Cassiopeia. Like a W turned on its side.�
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‘Got it!’ said Hawke with a bit more enthusiasm than he’d intended.
‘Right,’ said Spears. ‘Then you run an imaginary line westwards from the centre star of Cassiopeia to the outer lip of the Plough. Then halfway along that line you’ll see Polaris.’
‘Yes, I can see it,’ said Hawke.
‘That’s the North Star, Johnny,’ said Hebden.
‘Follow that and you’ll be heading due north,’ added Spears. ‘Which is what we’re doing. It’s a brilliant natural compass.’
‘Thanks, Sarge,’ said Hawke.
‘Yes, thank you, Sergeant,’ added Farrish. ‘Very interesting.’
‘Don’t mention it, sir,’ said Spears.
‘Of course, it’s no good when it’s cloudy,’ said McLaren.
‘That’s why I keep an ordinary compass in my haversack,’ said Spears.
Up ahead in the faint starlight, Hawke could see a huddle of officers discussing which way to turn.
Spears had seen them too. ‘They need to go left, sir,’ he told Farrish. ‘Dunkirk is only a little to the west of due north.’
‘I’m sure there are other considerations, Spears.’
They turned right. Spears groaned to himself, wishing they could separate from the rest of the column. It crossed his mind that perhaps he should grab Hawke and one or two others and slip away, but he dismissed such thoughts. For the moment, at any rate, he thought.
However, the column had not been travelling more than five minutes down the track when they suddenly heard furious small-arms and mortar fire half a mile or so up ahead. Faint lines of tracer could be seen.
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