Right and Glory

by Right

  He hadn’t seen any fuel pumps in either Eben Emael or Wonck, and Boirs was a lot smaller place than either of them.

  ‘Can we make it as far as Brussels?’ Sykes asked. ‘It’s about fifty miles or so.’

  Dawson shook his head. ‘I doubt it,’ he said.

  Sykes turned his attention back to the map, then glanced across at Dawson.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I don’t like it because we don’t know what the tactical situation is, but we’ll have to drive down to the south, to Liège, and see if we can find a petrol pump somewhere there.’

  ‘Or maybe an abandoned car,’ Dawson suggested. ‘I’ve got a length of hose I can use.’

  ‘At a pinch, yes,’ Sykes agreed.

  At Boirs there was no need for any further discussion. Dawson turned the car left, and they started driving south, towards Liège.

  Ahead of them, the signs were ominous. Clouds of smoke were rising from several different locations in the city, though it wasn’t clear whether these were the result of bombing or artillery attacks by the Germans, or ground assault by armour or infantry. The latter would have been bad news, because it could mean that there were already enemy troops on the streets of Liège. That was the last thing they wanted.

  And equally disturbing was the stream of refugees heading straight for them, intent on getting out of the city. That slowed their progress enormously, because the refugees blocked almost the entire width of the road with bicycles and carts and anything else that could be pressed into service to carry their most precious possessions. And it wasn’t just civilians. Various groups of soldiers were also walking westwards away from Liège.

  ‘Are they all deserting?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘No. The Dyle Plan recognizes that the Belgians won’t be able to hold on in this area, and there’s supposed to be a controlled withdrawal to the next defensive line, so that’s probably what’s happening.’

  On the outskirts of Liège, Sykes spotted two soldiers walking along the road among the crowds of civilians, and ordered Dawson to stop the car beside them.

  Recognizing Sykes as an officer, both men gave somewhat shaky salutes, and responded somewhat hesitatingly to the major’s stream of questions, in French. After a couple of minutes, Sykes waved for them to continue on their way, Dawson slipped the car back into gear and moved off again.

  ‘It’s not good news,’ the major announced, ‘but perhaps not as bad as it could be. The German troops have reached the east side of the city, which is what I’d expected. The Belgian soldiers have been ordered to pull back to the west. But some of the bridges across the river in Liège have been destroyed, so the Germans are making slow progress in getting across to this side. The other bit of bad news is that there’s a major evacuation going on – according to those two soldiers most of the population of Liège is heading this way – so I doubt if we’ll be able to find a working petrol pump anywhere. So you probably will have to steal some fuel from a car. I don’t like doing that, but we haven’t got any option.’

  They entered the outskirts of Liège, which seemed strangely empty. They saw a few civilians heading away from the centre, towards the west, but the streets weren’t as crowded as they’d expected. Tram lines ran down the main roads, and a couple of times Dawson had to swerve the staff car around abandoned tramcars, just left in the street.

  ‘Maybe they left them because the power was cut,’ Sykes suggested.

  They also saw a few carts and a handful of dead horses, but no sign of a petrol station or a car they could get some from. Before they’d got too close to the centre of the city, Dawson left the main road and started working his way slowly through the back streets.

  ‘That might do us,’ he said, pointing ahead down a deserted street at a small car that had obviously crashed into a wall and was parked drunkenly, half on and half off, the pavement.

  ‘Good. Stop where we’ve got good visibility,’ Sykes said, checking the Lee-Enfield rifle. ‘I’ll keep watch.’

  Dawson stopped the staff car a few feet from the wreck, walked across to it and unscrewed the petrol filler cap. Then he took the two petrol cans and a short length of hose out of the boot of the staff car, and knelt down beside the other vehicle. He thrust the hose into the fuel tank, blew down it as he listened for the sound of bubbling, which confirmed that that was fuel in the tank, then started sucking. He got a mouthful of petrol as he wasn’t quick enough getting the end of the hose into one of the cans, but spat it out and started filling the can.

  ‘Wouldn’t have a cigarette for a while, Dawson,’ Sykes called, a smile on his face.

  ‘Lucky I don’t smoke,’ Dawson said, spitting again.

  In about five minutes he’d filled both the cans, and lifted up the hose to stop the siphon effect. He emptied the contents of both cans into the staff car’s fuel tank, then returned and sucked the tank dry, which gave him another couple of gallons in reserve.

  ‘Good work, Dawson,’ Sykes said, as the corporal resumed his place behind the wheel of the car. ‘That’ll get us up to Brussels, no problem. Time we had a bit of luck.’

  Then they heard a yell from behind them, a challenge shouted in German, and both swung round to look.

  Less than a hundred yards or so behind them, a three-man German patrol – an NCO and a couple of soldiers – had just walked around the corner from the main road. The two soldiers were aiming their rifles straight at the staff car.

  Sykes’s remark about ‘a bit of luck’ had been somewhat premature.

  Chapter 16

  10 May 1940

  Liège, Belgium

  Dawson rammed the gear lever into first and twisted the steering wheel to the left as he did so. The car lurched away from the kerb, bucking as the rear tyres scrabbled for grip, the engine roaring as it laboured to get the vehicle moving.

  There was a bang from behind them, and one corner of the windscreen suddenly cracked as a bullet speared through it.

  A second shot echoed, and then another. The sudden movement of the vehicle ensured both the German soldiers’ bullets missed their targets, smashing into the wall of the house right beside the staff car. But Dawson and Sykes knew they’d be reloading and aiming immediately.

  Sykes still had the Lee-Enfield rifle lying across his lap, but the injury to his leg meant he couldn’t easily twist around in his seat and aim the weapon properly. So he did the next best thing. He slipped off the safety catch, pointed the rifle back over his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The recoil kicked the weapon backwards in his hands. He had no idea where the shot ended up, and he didn’t care. Firing the rifle just showed the Germans their target was capable of fighting back, that was all. Getting them away from the patrol wasn’t about fighting their way out – they had to make a run for it, and that was down to Dawson.

  ‘Quickly, man,’ Sykes ordered, working the bolt to reload the Lee-Enfield. The spent cartridge case spun out of the breech and flew through the air to land with a clatter on the floor beside his feet.

  Dawson didn’t reply, just concentrated on getting the staff car moving as fast as he could. The road had no turnings for about another 200 yards, but there was a large and very battered lorry parked some seventy yards ahead, on the left-hand side of the road. If he could just get their vehicle on to the far side of that, Dawson knew it would offer them some protection. At the very least, the German soldiers would have to cross to the opposite side of the road to continue firing at them.

  Another well-aimed bullet smashed through the windscreen, right between the two men, and another hit somewhere at the back of the staff car, the thud of its impact clearly audible.

  Dawson immediately swerved to the right to try to make the car as difficult a target as he could, then dodged back to the left again.

  ‘Get us behind that lorry,’ Sykes ordered, pointing ahead at the parked vehicle.

  ‘I’m trying to,’ Dawson snapped, wrestling with the steering wheel and changing up a gear.

  He swung the car
right again, weaving from side to side as much as the fairly narrow street allowed. Then he reached the parked lorry and immediately steered the car behind it, then braked hard.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Sykes demanded. ‘Get us out of here.’

  ‘If we carry on down this street, we’ll never make it. Those Jerries are too good shots. Give me the rifle.’

  ‘You’d better know what you’re doing,’ Sykes muttered, handing over the weapon.

  Dawson grabbed the Lee-Enfield and ran back towards the parked lorry, then dropped flat on the road so that he could see underneath the vehicle. He wound the sling of the rifle around his left arm, positioned his elbows in the familiar tripod position to hold the weapon as steady as possible, then looked at the approaching soldiers.

  At the far end of the street, the three German soldiers were moving, running up the pavement directly towards him. Two of them were carrying Mauser rifles, and the NCO – he looked like a sergeant – had a Schmeisser MP 38 in his hands. The machine-gun didn’t worry Dawson, because it was a very short-range weapon even in expert hands, but the Mausers did.

  He checked his Lee-Enfield to ensure Sykes had chambered another round and that the safety catch was off, then took careful aim, settling his breathing. The leading soldier was heading straight at him, jogging in a straight line with barely any sideways motion at all – an easy target.

  Dawson held his breath, looked over the sights at the German soldier, alert for any deviation in his approach, adjusted his point of aim for the centre of the man’s torso, and squeezed the trigger.

  The German seemed to stumble, his momentum carrying him forwards, but Dawson already knew his shot had been good. The rifle fell from the man’s hands, and then he pitched onto his face and lay still.

  Not for the first time Dawson wondered about the casual ease with which he seemed able to take another man’s life. Aim the weapon, pull the trigger, and another life ended. The first time he’d killed another human being, back in the Warndt Forest, he’d been hopelessly outgunned, fighting for his life with whatever weapons he could find. Since then, he genuinely couldn’t remember the number of times he’d seen an enemy soldier tumble to the ground in front of him, knowing he was the man’s executioner.

  And he was still fighting for his life, fully aware that if he didn’t kill these enemy soldiers, they would most assuredly kill him, without a second thought. Dawson concentrated, forcing his attention back to the task in hand. One man was down, but there were still two to go. He worked the bolt, chambered another round and settled down to aim again.

  The second soldier stopped, looked towards his fallen comrade for a bare second, then he himself dodged to the side, flattening himself against one of the houses, where an alleyway or door offered some protection. The NCO ran across to the opposite side of the street and did the same.

  Dawson knew they’d be trying to work out where the shot had come from, but he also knew it wouldn’t take them long to realize where he had to be.

  He checked his sight picture again. The soldier carrying the Mauser was still visible, or at least a part of him was. Dawson could see the man’s right shoulder and arm, and a part of his face, but with only the iron sights on the Lee-Enfield he wasn’t certain he could hit him. Then he saw the soldier bring the Mauser up to the aim, and immediately rolled sideways, over to his right, into the gutter, a move that brought him directly behind one of the wheels of the parked lorry.

  Before he’d even stopped moving, the soldier fired. The round from the Mauser blasted splinters of stone off one of the cobbles where Dawson had been lying just a second before. At almost the same moment, the German NCO opened up with the Schmeisser, the bullets thudding into the bodywork of the parked lorry, some ricocheting off the road beneath it.

  They obviously knew exactly where he was.

  Dawson flattened himself as much as he could, turning his face towards the road so that the top of his steel helmet pointed in the direction of the bullets. That wouldn’t stop a direct hit from blowing his head apart, but it made him feel better.

  The rattle of the Schmeisser stopped abruptly. Maybe the NCO was out of ammunition, or perhaps the weapon had jammed – the MP 38 wasn’t the most reliable of sub-machine-guns.

  Dawson moved forward a couple of feet, and even further over to the right, pointing his Lee-Enfield around the wheel of the parked lorry, searching for a target.

  The German soldier was working the bolt of his Mauser again – presumably he’d fired another round but Dawson hadn’t heard the sound of the shot over the noise of the Schmeisser’s bursts of fire. Before the soldier could bring his rifle back to the aim, Dawson snapped off a shot that missed its target, but only just. He saw chips of stone scatter from just in front of the German’s face as the bullet ploughed into the bricks of the house. The man flinched and ducked back.

  Dawson reloaded, eased back slightly and swung his rifle round to aim it at the alleyway on the opposite side of the road where the NCO had taken refuge, but the sergeant was completely invisible. There was no point wasting a round, and the enemy soldier he was most worried about was the man with the Mauser – the rifle was far more dangerous to them than the machine-gun – so Dawson turned back to target the remaining soldier again.

  As he did so, another burst of fire echoed off the surrounding houses as the NCO fired his MP 38 again. One of the nine-millimetre bullets ripped through the back tyre on the offside of the lorry, and it blew with a bang that was surprisingly loud. The vehicle crashed down onto the rim of the wheel.

  Dawson cursed, the sudden lurch of the lorry startling him more than the firing of the enemy soldiers, then aimed his rifle again. The German soldier had crouched down, the better to fire his weapon under the lorry, and in doing so he’d moved slightly out of the doorway. That gave Dawson the chance he needed. He adjusted his aim and squeezed the trigger, at the same instant as the German fired at him.

  The bullet from the Mauser tore into the tyre directly in front of Dawson’s face. The carcase ruptured with a massive bang, lumps of tread scattering in all directions, a couple of pieces hitting Dawson in the face, one opening up a cut on his left cheek. But the tyre and wheel had stopped the bullet.

  Further up the street, the German soldier screamed in pain and tumbled backwards, dropping his Mauser and clutching at his right shoulder.

  Dawson scrambled to his feet and ran back down the road. He reached the staff car, handed his Lee-Enfield to Major Sykes and dropped into the driver’s seat.

  About a hundred yards behind them, the German NCO stepped out of cover and opened up with his Schmeisser MP 38. But the range was too great for accurate fire from the machine-gun – it was essentially a very short-range weapon, intended for close-combat.

  ‘You missed one,’ Sykes muttered, as nine-millimetre bullets screamed past them.

  ‘Bastard,’ Dawson snapped, got out of the car, grabbed back the rifle and aimed it down the road.

  The NCO was now clearly visible, his dark uniform silhouetting him against the lighter-coloured brickwork of the houses behind him. Dawson aimed his rifle and squeezed the trigger. But at the moment he fired, the German stepped back into cover, and Dawson’s bullet smashed harmlessly into the wall of the adjacent house.

  Dawson passed the rifle back to Sykes and sat down again. The engine of the staff car was still running, so he rammed the gear lever into first and pulled away from the kerb. Before they’d covered fifty yards, the NCO fired another short burst from his Schmeisser, but none of the bullets even came close to them.

  At the first junction, Dawson swung the wheel to the right and accelerated. Then he immediately hit the brakes.

  There was another German patrol right in front of them.

  Chapter 17

  10 May 1940

  Liège, Belgium

  ‘Shit,’ Dawson muttered.

  Perhaps 200 yards in front, about half a dozen German soldiers were walking towards them, spread across the entire wi
dth of the road, weapons held ready.

  ‘Get back, get back,’ Sykes ordered, raising the Lee-Enfield in readiness. ‘We can’t tangle with them. They’ll cut us to pieces before we got anywhere near them.’

  ‘You got that right,’ Dawson said, swinging the car across the road to turn it round. The road was too narrow to allow him to achieve this in a single manoeuvre, and as the front wheels hit the opposite kerb he engaged reverse and backed the car.

  But the German soldiers had obviously seen what he was doing, and had also realized the car was an enemy vehicle. As Dawson again put the gearbox into first, an opening salvo of rifle shots echoed from behind them.

  ‘Get down!’ he shouted.

  Sykes slid forward in his seat, ducking his head below the level of the sides of the staff car, though how much protection the thin metal of the vehicle would offer him was a matter of opinion.

  Two rounds hit somewhere at the back of the car, and another ploughed explosively through the right-hand side headlamp, deforming the metal and shattering the glass.

  Dawson weaved the car from side to side, keeping the movement as erratic as he could within the confines of the fairly narrow street. More shots sounded, almost a volley, and, despite his evasive action, Dawson both heard and felt two or three more bullets hit the staff car.

  ‘I think that fucking demolition charge might be acting like a bullet-proof shield,’ he said.

  Sykes stared at him. ‘Could they make it explode?’ he demanded.

  Dawson swerved the car again, then shook his head. ‘Nope. Dynamite and gelignite are really stable, until they’re fused. You can hit them with a hammer and nothing’ll happen. Nitro’s a different matter.’

  ‘Yes, but what about the other bit – the lower section. Maybe that contains some kind of new explosive?’

  They reached the end of the road and Dawson cut the corner, driving the car over to the right, away from the remaining member of the first German patrol they’d encountered. No shots followed them as he accelerated away. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, and then grinned at Sykes.