Right and Glory

by Right

  As he accelerated past the German sentries, Dawson glanced at them. Two were looking at him in shock – being fired on by enemy soldiers was one thing, but being shot at by your own side was different – but another one was staring fixedly at the speeding machine, his attention apparently drawn to something low down on the motorcycle. More worryingly, he was also unslinging his rifle.

  As he passed the man, Dawson glanced down, and in an instant realized what the man had seen, and why his suspicions had been raised.

  ‘My uniform,’ he yelled at Sykes. ‘Must have spotted my uniform trousers under this coat. They’re the wrong colour.’

  Dawson risked a quick glance over his shoulder. The German soldier had stepped away from the barrier and was bringing his rifle up to his shoulder.

  The road ahead was crowded with Belgian civilians. The machine-gun fire had frightened and alarmed them. Most of them had stopped walking and stood around in small groups, looking either back towards the road-block or at the speeding motorcycle combination.

  Dawson had to try to throw off the soldier’s aim, so he steered the vehicle directly towards one group of refugees, gambling that the German wouldn’t fire if there was a chance his bullet would miss its intended target and hit one of the Belgian civilians.

  That proved to be a vain hope as the German’s Mauser cracked. The bullet actually passed through the gap between the motorcycle and the sidecar, hitting the end of the cylinder head of the engine as it did so and snapping off a couple of the cooling fins. Then it smashed into the cobbled surface of the road and ricocheted off into the distance, fortunately missing the civilians in front of the motorcycle, who scattered in all directions.

  ‘Fuck, that was close,’ Dawson said, and weaved the machine from side to side, steering around the civilians and trying to put as much distance as he could between the two of them and the German soldiers behind. But he knew they were still well within range of the man with the Mauser.

  Sykes yelled out something incomprehensible to Dawson, a couple of words in French, then shouted it again. As they heard the order, most of the nearby Belgian civilians dropped whatever they were carrying or pulling behind then and flattened themselves on the ground. Obviously Sykes had told them to drop flat.

  Sykes was leaning forward, and as Dawson glanced down he saw what the major was doing. He had released the clip that held the Mauser MG 34 machine-gun onto the mount on the front of the cockpit of the sidecar.

  Grimacing with the effort, his face contorted with the pain from his injured leg, Sykes swung the Mauser around to point behind them. He twisted awkwardly in his seat, turning around as far as he could in the very confined space of the sidecar. He held the weapon by the perforated tube that covered the barrel with his left hand, and grasped the pistol grip with his right.

  As the German soldier brought his rifle back to the aim, Sykes pointed the Mauser machine-gun towards the barrier, keeping the barrel low, and pulled the trigger. He wasn’t aiming directly at the soldier – with the weapon removed from its mount, accurate shot placement would be impossible – but just trying to disrupt his aim.

  As Sykes fired, the muzzle of the weapon lifted with the recoil, and the Mauser made a ripping sound: the weapon fired about 800 rounds a minute. The successor weapon to the MG 34, the Mauser MG 42, later became known as ‘Hitler’s buzzsaw’ or, less politely, as ‘Hitler’s zipper’, because of the sound it made when it fired.

  The brief burst was probably less than a dozen rounds. The first couple struck the road surface well in front of the barrier, but at least one of the following bullets must have hit the German soldier in the leg. He staggered backwards and dropped his rifle, then tumbled sideways to the ground, his hands reaching towards his leg.

  Dawson glanced back as the shots rang out, and realized that Sykes had effectively eliminated the immediate danger from the German sentries. He stopped weaving to throw off the aim of any enemy soldiers behind them, and concentrated on avoiding the Belgian civilians clogging the road, and on putting as much distance as possible behind them.

  ‘Keep going,’ Sykes said, swinging the heavy machine-gun around to point forward again. He reattached the weapon to the mount at the front of the cockpit of the sidecar, checked that it was secure, then leant back in the seat, looking drained and grey. Dawson knew his actions would have robbed him of most of the little strength he had left.

  They were through the road-block and heading into the countryside to the west of Liège, but both men knew they were a long way from being safe. And they still had tens of miles to go before they could possibly reach the relative safety afforded by any Allied forces that might have reached the area.

  Chapter 20

  10 May 1940

  Eastern Belgium

  Dawson stayed on the main road for about twenty minutes, but slowed down as soon as he was well clear of the road-block at the edge of the city, which probably represented the western limit – the front line – of the German advance. Then he pulled off it to the right and drove down a narrow country road towards a village called Verlaine. Dusk was fast approaching, and he found he now needed the motorcycle’s headlight to see where he was going.

  ‘We daren’t stay on that road,’ Dawson said, the noise level diminishing considerably as he slowed down the motorcycle to little more than walking pace, about as fast as he could safely travel on the twisting and narrow road. ‘By now, the Jerries will know that we’ve busted out of Liège. They’ll probably be sending troops after us. We didn’t have enough of a lead to out-run them. There’s another reason as well.’

  ‘What?’ Sykes asked. His voice was weak but the major sounded fully alert.

  ‘I’ve just checked the fuel level, and the tank’s nearly empty. I should have looked at it before I soaked the car with petrol. The last thing we need is to run out of fuel on the main road, with nowhere to run or hide.’

  Sykes nodded. ‘But we still need to keep moving,’ he said.

  ‘I know. We’ll have to dump this bike and find a cart or something like that, some sort of vehicle we can use to keep heading west, while we pretend to be a couple of Belgian peasants.’

  Dawson braked the combination to a stop by the side of the road when they reached the edge of the small village, and both men peered down the main street.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be anybody about,’ Dawson said. With Sykes holding the heavy machine-gun ready for any trouble, he put the motorcycle back into gear and they rode on slowly.

  Verlaine appeared to be an old village, some of the ancient stone buildings looking as if they might even be medieval in origin. It boasted a large church with a prominent spire, positioned on a low hill. It also appeared to be deserted, which was a good thing, because the distinctive rumble of the BMW’s engine echoing off the buildings would have advertised their presence very obviously.

  ‘We need three things,’ Sykes said. ‘Somewhere to sleep, some food – because my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut – and something to drink.’

  ‘And what about the combination?’ Dawson asked. ‘Should we just hide it in a barn or dump it out in the sticks?’

  ‘It’s not good to leave it close to the village. When the Germans find it they’ll take reprisals against the inhabitants – if any of them are left, that is. More pressing is that I can’t walk, so driving it out of the village, dumping it and then walking back isn’t an option.’

  ‘I could leave you somewhere here, get rid of the bike myself and then come back,’ Dawson suggested, but Sykes shook his head.

  ‘We need to stick together – at least for my sake. You’ll need to lift me out of this sidecar. I’ve no idea if I’ll even be able to stand up when you do. Plus we still have to guard the two bits of this demolition charge that have been bouncing around between my legs ever since we left Liège. We’ll have to risk leaving the motorcycle combination here in the village tonight. Once we’ve found a cart or something tomorrow, you can dump the bike. I want to be sure we h
ave a way of getting out of here before we do, though.’

  ‘OK, then,’ Dawson said, and swung the motorcycle combination around in a tight circle to head back the way they’d come. ‘I spotted a small farm at the other end of the village. With a bit of luck I can stash this in one of the barns or outbuildings, and we can probably sleep somewhere there as well. Once I’ve got you settled, I’ll try and scavenge some nosh.’

  It wasn’t much of a farm, just a small two-storey house that appeared to be deserted – or, at least, there were no lights showing in any of the windows that were visible from the road as they approached the property – and beyond it they could see three somewhat dilapidated buildings.

  Dawson pulled the motorcycle to a stop beside the closed gate that barred the way into the farm from the road.

  ‘No sign of life,’ he said, and climbed off the motorcycle to open the gate. When he reached it, he examined it and then turned back to Sykes. ‘It’s locked. There’s a padlock and chain around it, so I guess the occupants have fled.’

  ‘Can you break it?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Just give me a second.’ Dawson pulled out his bayonet, stuck the blade into the hasp of the padlock and levered. For a second or two nothing happened, then the lock gave with a crack and the broken padlock fell to the ground. He unwrapped the chain from around the post and opened the gate wide.

  Then he walked back to the motorcycle combination, put it into gear and drove it through the gateway. As soon as he was well inside the property, he climbed off again, walked back and closed the gate, looping the chain around the post as he’d found it. He secured the ends with the broken padlock, so that from the road it would appear the same as it had previously.

  Dawson drove around to the back of the small house, checking to see that there were no lights visible at the back of the property either, and crossed a small and muddy yard towards the closest, and largest, of the three outbuildings.

  It was a barn, of sorts, the front open to the elements, and with loose hay stacked up against the back wall, away from the entrance. Dawson drove the motorcycle inside, right to the rear of the structure, then turned it round to face the open end of the barn. He switched off the engine, and pushed the combination backwards until the rear bumper was almost against the hay. That way, the machine-gun faced the direction of any possible threat, and if they had to make a getaway on the bike, he wouldn’t need to manoeuvre it first.

  For a moment, he just sat there, listening, but the only sound he could hear was the slow metallic ticking as the motorcycle’s engine started to cool down. Then he climbed off and walked round to the sidecar, where Sykes was trying to lever himself up with his arms.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll lift you out of there,’ he said, and bent down. He grabbed the major under his arms, and slid his other hand under Sykes’s knees, being as gentle as he could. As Dawson straightened up and lifted him out of the sidecar, Sykes cried out with pain, but there was nothing Dawson could do about that.

  He carried the officer over to the hay and laid him down as gently as he could on a level section. The hay was less comfortable than it looked, protruding stalks jabbing into Sykes’s flesh even through the material of the heavy motorcycle coat he was wearing, but it was still marginally more comfortable for him than lying on the floor. And Dawson was sure he could find a blanket or something that he could use as padding.

  With the major lying flat on his back, and as comfortable as he could be in the circumstances, Dawson took a look around their overnight accommodation. It was obviously a building on a working farm – there were implements of various sorts and different types of farming equipment ranged along the walls and on the floor – and the mud in the yard outside showed the marks of both animal hooves and cart wheels. There was a pile of old sacks, which had possibly originally contained grain of some sort, beside a workbench. Dawson picked up half a dozen and carried them back to where Sykes lay, at the rear of the barn.

  He arranged the sacks on the hay close to the major, then helped Sykes move over until he was lying on them, and was slightly more comfortable.

  Sykes felt in his uniform pocket and pulled out another one of the phials of morphine, cracked the top and swallowed the liquid inside. It would take a while to work, but the pain from his injured thigh was worse because of the rough treatment he’d endured during the day.

  ‘I’m going to check out the house,’ Dawson said softly, handing the officer the Schmeisser machine-pistol. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  The major lifted his arm in acknowledgement, but didn’t reply.

  Dawson checked he still had the Browning pistol in his pocket, then took the Lee-Enfield rifle out of the motorcycle sidecar, ensured it was loaded and slung it over his shoulder. He strode across to the open entrance, stopped there and looked in both directions. The only sound he could hear in the quiet of mid-evening was birdsong and, faintly, from somewhere in the distance, the lowing of cattle.

  He crossed over to the rear of the small farmhouse and peered in through the windows, but could see almost nothing inside the building, because all the curtains were drawn and there were only tiny gaps between them. Dawson stepped across to the back door and tried the handle, but it was locked – which was hardly a surprise.

  He retraced his steps and crossed the yard to the other two outbuildings to inspect them, but both were virtual clones of the first one they’d entered – open spaces filled with various types of farming equipment and supplies. There were some fuel cans stacked along one side of the third barn he looked into. He lifted each one, but they were all empty apart from the final one he tried, which stood a little apart from the others. That one felt about half-full, and Dawson uncapped it so he could sniff the contents. The sharp, unmistakable aroma of petrol filled his nose, and he knew that, if all else failed, he could top-up the tank of the motorcycle combination and keep it running for a few more miles yet.

  But, as Dawson’s rumbling stomach seemed to emphasize to him, neither structure contained any form of food or drink. Or, at least, none that he could see.

  He’d spotted a pump in the yard, so getting some water wouldn’t be a problem, but both he and Sykes desperately needed something to eat, and there was only one place he was likely to find any food. If there was nothing in the farmhouse, they’d have to rely on the remains of the compo ration pack they’d been issued with before arriving at Eben Emael, and there was hardly anything left of that. In fact, Dawson had already checked it – it had been labelled ‘Composite Ration Pack Type E’ – and all that was now left of it was a packet of biscuits, three partially empty tins of milk powder, sugar and tea, a bar of soap and a few sheets of latrine paper. Plus a solid-fuel stove. Not exactly the makings of a gourmet dinner, though they would at least be able to have a hot drink.

  Dawson walked back to the farmhouse and stepped across to the rear door. Without hesitation, he rammed the butt of the Lee-Enfield into the small window just above the door handle. The glass shattered instantly, and he broke out the remaining shards from around the edge of the window, then reached through the gap and felt for the lock, hoping to find a key on the inside. But his probing fingers found nothing. Obviously the owners or occupants had locked the rear door from the outside when they left – Dawson had hoped they might have left the building by the other door, leaving the key to the rear door in the lock.

  He’d just have to do it the hard way. He stepped back and kicked out, the sole of his size-twelve army boot striking the door right beside the lock. There was a cracking sound and the door swung open. The force of the blow ripped the striker plate completely off the frame, the lump of metal clattering down onto the tiled floor of the small rear hall of the house.

  Dawson strode forward into the hall, his rifle held ready, just in case there was somebody still in the building. He stood and listened for a moment, but heard nothing to alarm him. He left the door wide open behind him so that the faint moonlight provided some illumination inside the h
ouse. Three doors opened off it, one on either side of him, and the third directly in front, behind a wooden ladder up to the floor above.

  He chose the one on his right, but that led only into a small sitting room, so he backed out and opened the one opposite.

  That opened up to reveal a tiny kitchen. Dawson walked across to the window and pulled back the curtains, then looked around him. Pots and pans were hanging from hooks on the wall above a scarred and scratched working surface, dimly visible in the gloom. On one side of the working surface was a metal jug, half-full of water, and an empty round steel bowl. Opposite that was a black-painted free-standing stove with an open chimney above it. The stove was covered in blue tiles, the steel top obviously used for cooking. On the front was a towel rail and two doors, and Dawson opened both of them to look inside. One was the oven – empty – and the other the fire box, in which a pile of grey-brown ash was visible. He held his hand directly above the ash. There was just the faintest trace of residual heat left in the embers, so he guessed the house had been empty for at least twelve hours. That, perhaps, was good news, because it could mean that the occupants might have left some edible food in the place.

  To one side of the old cooking range was another door. Dawson pulled it open and found himself looking into a pantry, tins and jars and packets stacked neatly on the shelves. Any one of them might have contained something they could eat, but would probably need cooking. Better than compo rations, but not much.

  But as he looked around the kitchen again Dawson realized he and Sykes would be able to eat well without opening any of the containers. Hanging above the stove, suspended from a hook in the open chimney where the smoke would preserve it and keep the flies away, was the remains of a large ham, presumably left there because there wasn’t too much meat still on it. Dawson had seen similar hams in a couple of places since he’d arrived in France the previous year, and knew they were made from an entire leg of pork, air-dried with the bone still in place. And the meat was simply delicious.