by Right
‘We’ll grab that demolition charge and get out of here,’ Sykes said, and led the way back towards the metal staircase.
Back on the upper level, they again looked in every room, but the space was still secure. They walked over to the central gun position, and Sykes stared out, checking for any enemy troops. The area appeared relatively quiet, though the artillery barrage continued from the adjacent Belgian forts.
‘I’m smaller than you, Dawson. I’ll get them,’ Sykes said.
He leant his Schmeisser against the wall and clambered up and out of the casemate, slid easily through the opening and ducked down out of sight. In a few seconds he reappeared, holding the upper half of the demolition charge – the section that Dawson believed held the plastic explosive – in both hands. He passed it through the opening to the corporal, who took it from him and lowered it onto the floor behind him. Sykes disappeared again, to collect the other part of the charge.
Then a rifle shot rang out, and another, and Dawson clearly heard the impact of the bullets on the concrete walls of the casemate. Sykes suddenly yelled in pain and there was a thud from outside, as if a heavy weight – or a body – had fallen to the ground.
Dawson scrambled forward, thrust his Schmeisser through the opening in the casemate wall and looked around. Directly in front of him, he saw half a dozen indistinct shapes advancing cautiously through the swirling smoke towards the casemate. Below him, Major Sykes was writhing in agony, clutching his thigh, the left leg of his uniform soaked with blood. Beside him lay the lower – and probably the most important – part of the demolition charge.
Dawson barely took the time to aim, just levelled the Schmeisser at the approaching German troops and pulled the trigger in three short bursts. As far as he could see, he didn’t hit anyone, but the unexpected machine-gun fire had the desired effect – the advancing soldiers scattered and dived for cover.
He pulled the trigger again, but the action clicked open after only a couple of rounds had been fired. He’d emptied the magazine. Dawson pressed the button to release it and slammed in a fresh one – Sykes had liberated four spare magazines as well as the weapons themselves from the dead soldiers – and fired another burst.
‘Take the demolition charge,’ Sykes gasped, the voice laced with pain. ‘Leave me here, just get out. Save yourself.’
‘No fucking way,’ Dawson snapped, and then climbed out of the casemate, bent down and picked up Sykes bodily.
‘I just gave you an order, Corporal,’ Sykes said.
‘Yeah? Well, I’m getting hard of hearing. Must be all those fucking grenades going off all around me.’
With the major’s body hanging over his shoulder, Dawson stood up and swung round to face the German soldiers. He’d looped the Schmeisser’s sling over his shoulder, so he could fire it one-handed from the hip, and fired another short burst to make them keep their heads down. Then he manoeuvred himself until Sykes’s head and shoulders were level with the opening in the casemate.
‘Pull yourself inside,’ he said.
A couple of the German soldiers fired their rifles as he said this, but both the bullets missed, hitting the casemate wall and throwing concrete splinters in all directions.
Dawson fired again, trying to keep the bursts short, because he doubted if he could reload the Schmeisser until Sykes had got off his shoulder and crawled inside the casemate.
‘And get a fucking move on. Sir,’ he added, as the major pulled his torso through the opening, his wounded leg dragging behind him.
Sykes screamed with pain as his left thigh hit some obstruction, but after a few seconds he managed to pull himself into the casemate.
Dawson emptied his magazine towards the Germans, snapped in the last full one he had, then bent down and picked up the demolition charge in one hand. Fear lent strength to his arm, and he thrust the charge straight through the hole and pushed it as far as he could. It tumbled away into the darkness to land heavily on the floor. That didn’t worry him – as long as it had missed landing on Sykes, that was all that mattered. The explosive, he was sure, was in the other part of the weapon, so delicate handling wasn’t needed.
Three more shots cracked out, the bullets much closer. Dawson emptied the magazine in short bursts, then dropped the weapon to the ground and dived straight into the opening in the casemate, desperately pulling himself inside and out of danger.
As the German soldiers saw what he was doing, they opened fire again. Two of the rifle bullets crashed into the stepped concrete of the gun position in the casemate, sending red-hot shards of copper searing into Dawson’s right calf as he finally struggled clear.
‘Bugger, that stings,’ he muttered.
Sykes had hobbled a few feet away, and had dragged the top half of the demolition charge with him. He’d also rigged a rough tourniquet around the top of his left thigh, using his belt. Even in the relative darkness of the interior of the casemate, Dawson could see that his face was white and drawn.
‘We’ll talk later about your blatant insubordination, Dawson,’ Sykes said. ‘But in the meantime, thanks.’
‘We’re not out of the wood yet,’ Dawson said. ‘One of those Jerries is bound to lob a stick grenade inside here any minute, unless I can persuade them not to. Can you get yourself to the top of the staircase?’
Without waiting for a response, Dawson picked up the other Schmeisser, stuck the barrel out of the opening in the casemate wall and pulled the trigger, emptying the magazine in short bursts to avoid it jamming: the MP 38 was somewhat temperamental. Then he turned back, grabbed the spare magazines Sykes had left with the weapon and inserted a fresh one. He slung the sub-machine-gun around his neck, picked up both sections of the demolition charge and staggered down the passageway. He passed Sykes about halfway to the top of the staircase, but carried on. He lowered both sections of the charge to the ground by the railing, then went back, hoisted the major onto his shoulder again and jogged back to the staircase.
‘You’re a big, strong ugly bugger, Dawson,’ Sykes muttered.
‘And you’re not – I couldn’t carry you if you were.’
Dawson stopped by the railing, looked down into the darkness below, picked up the lower section of the charge and lifted it over the edge.
‘Is that a good idea?’ Sykes asked, panting with the exertion and probably blood loss as well.
‘We’ll find out in a couple of seconds,’ Dawson replied, and dropped it.
There was a heavy thud as it hit somewhere on the floor below, but that was all.
‘This is the tricky bit,’ Dawson said, pointing to the top section. ‘That’s got the plastic explosive in it. I don’t know how the fuse operates, and I don’t have time to find out now. I’ll have to carry it down and make sure the fuse assembly doesn’t touch anything. If it’s triggered, we’re fucked.’
Sykes nodded. ‘Colourfully put.’
‘You’ll have to hang round my neck while I carry the charge in one hand and hold onto the banister with the other. Just don’t make me laugh.’
Dawson hoisted Sykes onto his back, made sure that the major was clinging on tightly, then grabbed the charge and walked backwards to the top of the staircase. He seized the banister with his free hand and started stepping slowly and carefully backwards.
The strain on his arm was enormous because of the solid lump of the demolition charge, and he was having to concentrate hard on keeping it away from any object that could accidentally hit the fuse and trigger it. Added to that was the dead weight of Sykes on his back. Dawson was a very strong man, but even he found it difficult to handle the descent.
The steel staircase seemed endless. Dawson gritted his teeth and just concentrated on each step, every one of which was taking them nearer to safety. He tried to move as quickly as he could, but the combination of Sykes’s weight and the demolition charge in his hand meant their progress was agonizingly slow. Finally, Dawson stepped off the staircase and onto the concrete floor of the lower level of the casemat
e, and lowered Sykes gratefully to the ground. The major leant against the wall, panting slightly.
At that moment, as Dawson thought they might actually be safe, he heard a metallic clatter from above them, from the passageway that led to the staircase, and moments later a deafening explosion blasted through the casemate. Obviously the Germans had reached the casemate wall and used a grenade to clear their way inside.
‘Bugger,’ Dawson said, his ears ringing from the noise of the blast – neither man had been able to protect his ears from the explosion. ‘They’re right behind us.’
At any moment one of the German soldiers could appear at the top of the staircase and lob a grenade down at them. And if that happened, they’d both die instantly.
He placed the demolition charge on the floor, ran over to the pair of steel doors and started to pull the outer one open. It was heavy, he was exhausted, and it wasn’t easy, but he managed to open it wide enough for Sykes to hobble through.
‘Get in there and wait,’ Dawson ordered. Sykes just nodded. He was in no fit state to react against the orders issued by a mere corporal. The descent of the staircase had taken it out of him, obviously.
As Major Sykes hopped and staggered towards the steel door, Dawson ran back across the room to the foot of the steel staircase, picked up the demolition charge and carried it carefully over to where Sykes was now waiting, in the space between the two steel doors. He bent down and lowered the charge to the ground, then turned to go back and collect the other part of the weapon. He hadn’t seen where it had landed, but it was obviously out there somewhere.
But at that moment he heard a clattering noise and a thud just outside, and immediately guessed the Germans were inside the casemate and had just thrown a grenade down the stairs. They’d made it to the doors just in time.
Dawson seized the handle of the door and pulled it closed. As the edge slammed into the steel frame, the grenade detonated about ten feet away, on the other side of the door. But the steel on the door was so thick that the explosion was nothing more than a muffled ‘crump’, and they felt none of the blast.
‘Wait here,’ Dawson said, though it was obvious Sykes was going nowhere under his own steam. Dawson pulled the remaining stick grenade from his belt, then eased the door open just wide enough to allow him to get out. He unscrewed the cap from the end of the handle, pulled the cord to prime the weapon and then threw it with all his strength up the staircase and into the passageway above.
Then he ran back to the door and pulled it closed again. In seconds, the grenade exploded, the sound again muted by the steel of the door.
Dawson pushed the door and ran across the room once more, searching for the other section of the German demolition charge. All the lights in that section of the casemate had been blown out by the explosions of the grenades, and he had to search blindly in the dark.
His foot hit a hard object, and he thought that was it. He bent down and his hands felt the unmistakable shape of a German steel helmet, the deceased owner still wearing it. Dawson shuddered slightly as his fingers felt the dead man’s features. He moved on.
He circled the passageway unsuccessfully and came back to the body of the dead German soldier.
A torch beam stabbed down in the darkness from the upper level of the casemate, and Dawson shrank back against the wall, directly underneath the metal staircase. He pulled the Schmeisser round and pointed the muzzle upwards, towards the source of the light.
As he did so, he saw the lower section of the demolition charge, lying on the floor no more than a few feet away from him, on top of the dead soldier. When he’d thrown it down from the upper level, it had landed squarely on the German’s stomach. The soft landing had cushioned the impact, but the heavy weight had ruptured the body’s abdomen, blowing out the intestines and soaking the floor in blood.
Dawson glanced up again. The soldier holding the torch was still quartering the area with the beam, looking for a target for a grenade or his rifle or Schmeisser. If the soldier decided to use a grenade, there’d be nothing Dawson could do in that confined space, unless he could get across to the steel door before it exploded.
He paused for a moment, weighing up his options, then made a decision. He reached forward, grabbed the handle of the demolition charge with his left hand and then moved, pointing his Schmeisser upwards and squeezing the trigger as he ran clumsily – the charge wasn’t easy to carry – across the concrete floor.
Dawson heard a noise from above, movement, and then another Schmeisser joined in, the bullets kicking up the dust at his feet as he ran. Ricochets from the bullets were flying everywhere, bouncing off the solid concrete walls and metal fixtures, creating sparks and flashes of flame that vanished almost as soon as they appeared. In such a confined space, firing a high-velocity weapon was almost as dangerous to the firer as the person being aimed at.
Then another weapon joined the fray. Flat, separate cracks sounded, and Dawson looked ahead to see Sykes, his face twisted with pain, hanging on to the edge of the steel door and firing his Webley revolver up at the Germans on the landing.
A bullet tugged at Dawson’s battledress jacket as he ran, and a couple of rounds smashed solidly into the demolition charge, the impact causing him to stumble. The steel door was only feet away, and with a last gasp he sprinted for the opening.
As he dodged behind it, he heard another noise behind him. A soft thudding sound. Then another.
‘Two grenades,’ Sykes said hoarsely. ‘Get inside.’
Dawson dropped the demolition charge on the floor, grabbed the handle of the door and pulled as hard as he could, Sykes trying to lend a hand as well.
But the door hadn’t completely closed when the first of the two grenades exploded less than six feet away, followed a split-second later by the second one.
Chapter 12
10 May 1940
Eben Emael, Belgium
The double explosion was deafening and, even though they were protected behind the massive steel door, the blast knocked both men down. But the pressure wave also slammed against the door, kicking it shut.
Dawson recovered first, ears ringing, and pulled the door completely closed, plunging the space into a silence deepened by the impenetrable darkness. Working by feel alone, he found the central lever and turned it, driving home the massive bolts that securely locked the door in place, and leant back against it. They were safe from the Germans – at least for the moment.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ he muttered, and felt his way across to where Major Sykes lay. The officer hadn’t made a sound since they’d both been blown off their feet by the grenades.
‘You OK, sir?’ Dawson asked, bending over and searching for the recumbent figure.
A beam of light broke through the darkness as Sykes pulled a small torch from his pocket and switched it on.
The major looked up at him. ‘Of course I’m not OK, Dawson,’ he snapped, some of his old fire returning. ‘I’ve been shot, had grenades thrown at me, been carried down a set of stairs like a helpless baby, and the man under my command persistently refuses to obey my direct orders. Now, if you don’t want to find yourself on a charge, get that other door open so we can get the fuck out of here.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Dawson replied, a grin working its way across his face.
He crossed to the inner door, held the Schmeisser by the stock and lifted it to rap on the steel, to summon Verbois or whoever was the other side of it.
‘You do remember the sequence, I hope?’ Sykes asked.
‘Yeah. Three, one, two,’ Dawson said.
‘Good. Get on with it.’
Dawson smashed the metal stock of the sub-machine-gun into the steel door three times, paused for a few seconds, then continued the sequence of the agreed signal. As the sound of the last bang died away, he stood back and waited.
Both men had expected the Belgian troops to open the door within seconds, but nothing happened.
‘I hope they haven’t buggered off,’ Daws
on muttered.
‘So do I,’ Sykes agreed grimly. ‘Try it again.’
Dawson stepped forward and repeated the sequence, with the same result.
‘Maybe they can’t hear it,’ he said. ‘I mean, the stock of this Schmeisser is only a bit of bent metal. I really need something like a hammer.’
Dawson swung the torch beam around, looking for something more substantial to use. Sykes was still holding his Webley revolver, the weapon dangling from his right hand, the lanyard around his neck.
‘That might do it, sir,’ Dawson suggested, pointing at the pistol, and Sykes handed it over.
Dawson unloaded the cylinder and slipped the rounds into his pocket, then held the Webley by the barrel and slammed the butt onto the steel door, repeating the sequence they’d agreed with Verbois. The blows with the heavy pistol made a much louder noise than the Schmeisser had done.
‘That should wake the buggers up,’ Dawson said.
But still there was no response, no sign of the inner door opening.
‘I’m getting a bad feeling about this,’ Sykes said. ‘The Belgians will have heard those grenades going off, and probably the noise of the fire-fight as well. I just hope they didn’t retreat further into the fort.’
‘When you say “retreat”, what you really mean is they might have run away, don’t you?’
Sykes nodded. ‘Two expressions, two slightly different meanings,’ he said.
‘We’re stuck here, then, at least for the moment. I’ll knock on the door again in a minute. Let me just take a look at your leg, sir. Could you hold the torch, please?’
Sykes took it and aimed the beam at his left thigh.
Dawson still had his Lee-Enfield bayonet on his belt, in its scabbard, but that didn’t seem the right tool to use, so he took out a pocket knife, snapped open the blade and sliced through the fabric of Sykes’s trouser leg.
It wasn’t a pretty sight. The high-velocity rifle bullet had torn through the side of his thigh, ripping apart the muscles. The entry wound was tiny, but where the bullet had come out was a hole a couple of inches across, ragged flesh protruding and blood still seeping out, despite the tourniquet. But there was no spurting, no sign of arterial blood.