Right and Glory

by Right

  ‘Fucking brilliant,’ he muttered, slung his Lee-Enfield from his shoulder and stepped forwards to lift down the ham. He backed out of the chimney carrying his prize, grabbed a couple of tin mugs, a carving knife, and the jug of water with his free hand, then walked out of the house. He crossed the yard back to the open-fronted barn and walked straight to the back of the structure.

  It didn’t look as if Sykes had moved since Dawson had left him, but as the corporal approached he noticed that the major was holding the Schmeisser, the weapon resting on his chest, the barrel pointing straight at him.

  ‘Easy, sir,’ Dawson said. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Good,’ Sykes muttered, and lowered the machine-pistol to his side. ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Definitely, as long as you’re a carnivore.’

  ‘Right now, Dawson,’ Sykes muttered, his voice again slurring as the morphine took hold, ‘I’d turn cannibal if it would get me a decent meal. What have you found?’

  ‘What’s left of a ham, but no wine – we’ll have to make do with tea and some water, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, bugger. I hate tea. But good news about the ham. Give me a hand to sit up, will you?’

  Dawson carefully balanced the ham on the rim of the metal jug to keep it clear of the ground, then helped Sykes manoeuvre himself into a sitting position.

  ‘You should have something to drink first, sir, I think,’ he said, lifting up the ham, and poured some water into the mugs.

  Both men drained the liquid, and Dawson refilled the two mugs. Then he produced the carving knife, cut a piece of ham – more a chunk than a slice – and passed it to the major. He repeated the operation, carving a lump of the meat for himself, and for a minute or so the only sound in the barn was their contented chewing.

  ‘Bugger me, Dawson, that tastes good,’ Sykes said. ‘Any chance of a second helping?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The corporal carved another couple of pieces off the ham.

  ‘No sign of the occupants of the farmhouse, I suppose?’ Sykes asked.

  Dawson shook his head. ‘The building was locked up and deserted, but there was ash from a fire in the kitchen stove that was still just barely warm. My guess is the family left here no later than early this morning, perhaps when the German attack started on Liège.’

  ‘Probably joined the stream of refugees heading west. Did you find a cart or something we can use to get out of here?’

  Dawson shook his head as he cut more slices of meat from the ham. ‘No, nothing. There are a couple of ploughs in one of the other barns, but no sign of horses to pull them. But I did find some petrol in a can in the smallest barn, so we can keep going on the combination for a bit longer, if we can’t find anything better.’

  ‘We might have to. I can’t walk anywhere – that’s for sure – and we need to transport the demolition charge. The machine-gun on the sidecar can be a persuasive argument if we encounter any enemy soldiers.’ Sykes chewed thoughtfully on the last piece of ham Dawson had given him. ‘Better bring that can of petrol in here and fill the tank, just in case we have to get out in a hurry.’

  Dawson nodded. ‘Was going to,’ he said, ‘soon as I’ve finished this. Then I’ll take a look at your wound, to make sure it’s still clean. Then you need to have some rest to get your strength back.’

  When they finished eating, Dawson went out and returned with a petrol can and poured the fuel into the motorcycle fuel tank. Then he took out the tins of tea, sugar and milk powder and found a piece of hard and level ground on which to stand the Tommy’s cooker. This was a circular cooking ring that sat on a tin of solid fuel. Not very efficient, but it was all they had. Dawson set a can of water on it.

  While he waited for it to boil, he checked the bullet wound in Sykes’s thigh – which seemed fine, apart from the heavy bruising left by the German soldier when he’d kicked the major – and settled the officer as comfortably as he could on his bed of hay.

  Sykes drank his tea black and with plenty of sugar, declaring it was barely palatable even then. Dawson added several spoonfuls of milk powder to his mug.

  ‘I’ll take the first watch,’ Dawson said, when he’d finished his drink, ‘but I’ll have to get my head down later or I’ll fall over. I’ll give you a shake at about three, if that’s OK, sir.’

  Sykes nodded, checked that his Webley revolver was right beside him, then lay back and closed his eyes.

  ‘Right,’ Dawson said, taking out his gun oil and pull-through and picking up the Lee-Enfield. ‘I’ll give the rifle a clean, then I’ll go and walk the perimeter, just make sure it’s still all quiet out there.’

  Chapter 21

  11 May 1940

  Eastern Belgium

  Eddie Dawson had half-expected the farm to be assaulted by German troops during the night, such was the apparent speed and competence of the enemy advance and the demonstrable impotence of the Belgian defences. But, as the hours dragged by, he neither saw nor heard anything to alarm him. The village of Verlaine still seemed to be completely deserted.

  But thinking about it – and the one thing he had plenty of that night was time to think about things – he realized the Germans couldn’t possibly have any idea where they were, and might not even be chasing them any more.

  Looking back on what had happened in Liège, their first contact with the foot patrol would have alerted the Germans to the presence of two British soldiers in the city, but their staff car was now a burnt-out wreck with two bodies in it. There was a pretty good chance the Germans would believe the deception. Even if they didn’t, so what? The German forces were occupying an entire country, just one of the first steps in Hitler’s plan to conquer the whole of Europe, so why would they bother about two British soldiers wandering around near the front line?

  When they’d driven through the road-block on the way out of the city they’d exchanged fire with the sentries. It was still possible that the incident would be written off as a case of mistaken identity. Two soldiers on a motorcycle on an urgent mission that meant they didn’t have time to stop. And it was a German vehicle and they had been wearing German riding coats and helmets. The sentry might have seen the colour of Dawson’s uniform trousers, but would any officer believe him? But, again, even if the Germans guessed, so what? In the overall scheme of the enemy’s plan, they were nothing – totally insignificant. A temporary irritation, nothing more.

  But he couldn’t just assume that they’d escaped detection and were no longer in any danger. And it certainly didn’t mean he could get his head down. So he continued with his patrols – over to the gate where they’d entered the property, around the outside of all three barns, and along the edge of the small field that bordered the muddy yard. He did that about twice every hour, varying the timings and the route he walked, because a predictable sentry was probably worse than no sentry at all.

  The night stayed silent and innocent in the pale moonlight.

  At three-twenty, by Dawson’s watch, he knew he’d have to get some sleep or he’d drop off anyway. He walked back into the barn, crossed over to where Sykes lay on his back on his bed of hay, snoring gently, and shook the officer gently by the shoulder.

  ‘Nearly half past three, sir,’ he said quietly.

  Sykes opened his eyes and instinctively started to stretch, an action he stopped abruptly as his wounded leg protested.

  ‘Help me to sit up, will you?’ he asked. ‘If I keep lying down here I’ll probably doze off again.’

  Dawson lifted the major’s shoulders and settled him into as comfortable a position as he could, leaning his back against the hay behind him.

  ‘Anything to report?’

  Dawson shook his head. ‘Nothing. It’s quiet as the grave out there, sir. I’ve been around the farm, but there’s been no noise, no lights, and no sign of enemy troops or even any of the Belgies from the village. I think they’ve all buggered off.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. I’ve still got the Schmeisser here, but give me the rifle as well.
Then you get your head down. I’m not walking anywhere, obviously, but if I hear anything I’ll give you a shake.’

  Dawson handed over the Lee-Enfield with a certain relief. ‘The magazine’s fully charged, sir,’ he said, ‘and there’s one up the spout. The safety catch is on.’

  A few minutes later, the sound of snoring echoed through the barn. Dawson lay on his back, his mouth open. Sykes prodded him with the butt of the rifle. The corporal turned onto his side, the noise diminishing immediately.

  * * *

  A little over four hours later, Sykes prodded Dawson again, but not to stop him snoring. This time he wanted him to wake up.

  Dawson grunted a couple of times, then his eyes snapped open. He glanced at Sykes, then towards the open end of the barn, where the first rays of sunlight were illuminating the upper branches of the trees in the adjacent field.

  ‘Morning, sir,’ he said, and sat up. ‘All quiet, was it?’

  ‘All quiet,’ Sykes confirmed. ‘It’s just after seven. Time we got started.’

  Dawson nodded agreement, stood up and stretched. ‘I’ll check outside and get us some more water,’ he said. ‘I can probably hack another three or four bits of meat off that ham for breakfast.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Sykes said. ‘Not quite what I’m used to in the regimental officers’ mess, but good enough in the circumstances. There’s no chance of any toast, I suppose?’

  ‘Not unless you know how to make bread, sir, no. Everything else in that pantry is in tins and packets. I don’t really think we’ve got time to start cooking anything.’

  ‘Relax, Dawson. Only joking. Ham and water – or even another mug of that bloody awful tea – isn’t a bad start to the day.’

  Dawson picked up the Lee-Enfield, checked it was loaded, with the safety catch on, then slung the rifle over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ll just take a quick look-see, then I’ll get the water,’ he said.

  Dawson was back in under five minutes, the metal water jug in his hands.

  ‘Still no movement, and no sound,’ he reported. ‘It’s like a bloody ghost town out there. Which is good for us,’ he added.

  He carved a couple of chunks of meat off the ham bone, passed one to Sykes and then ate the other.

  ‘Now we have to make a decision,’ Sykes said, when they’d finished their scratch breakfast.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve got a lot of choice, sir. You can’t walk any distance and there’s no cart or anything here. So why don’t we just use what we’ve got?’ Dawson asked. ‘That’s the simplest way out of here. Let’s pull on the German coats and helmets, climb back on the bike, fire it up and head west. If the uniforms don’t get us a clear passage, the machine-gun will.’

  ‘I’m not disputing that. The problem is, we’ve no idea what’s been going on since we shot our way out of Liège. We’ve no intelligence at all. No way of finding out the situation until we actually get back on the main road – if we decide to go that way.’

  ‘You mean we won’t know if it’s the Germans who are in control, or the Belgians, or nobody?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sykes nodded. ‘We know that yesterday afternoon the Germans had arrived in Liège and were taking control of the city. But according to those Belgian soldiers we spoke to, most of the enemy forces were still on the east side of the river, because some of the bridges had been blown up. Overnight, one of three things could have happened. The German forces might have advanced all the way to the Belgian fall-back position, a line running from Antwerp down to Namur, and then on to Givet in France. Or the Belgian forces might have launched a counter-attack and taken back the territory they’d lost.’

  ‘With what we’ve seen so far, that seems pretty bloody unlikely,’ Dawson commented.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘And the third possibility?’

  ‘Some variant of the first two, with the area between Liège and Namur becoming a battle-ground as the two sides face each other.’

  ‘So when we drive back onto the main road, we’ll have no idea if it’s held by German or Belgian troops, or if we’ll be stepping into the middle of a full-scale battle?’

  ‘I think we’d probably hear it if the fighting was that close, Dawson, but yes – that’s right. And whatever colour uniforms we see when we reach the road, wearing German coats and driving a German BMW motorcycle combination won’t necessarily be a good thing. Whoever has control up on that road will certainly be surprised to see us. What we won’t know is whether that surprise will be translated into a volley of rifle shots from some Belgian soldiers or a bunch of orders shouted at us in German. That’s the problem.’

  Dawson grinned at him. ‘So why don’t we avoid going on the road altogether? Keep heading west but stay on the country roads? Or even go cross-country? I think that motorbike would be pretty good on the rough stuff.’

  ‘It would, Dawson. I had thought about that. Two problems: we don’t have a detailed map of the area – the one I’ve got only shows the main roads, not all the little tracks and country lanes – and I don’t know how much punishment my leg can take if the going gets really rough.’ Sykes paused for a moment. ‘But on balance, that might still be our best option. We can navigate by the sun if all else fails. We’ll just have to make sure we ditch the German uniforms and helmets well before we reach the Belgian lines. It would be really ironic to be shot to death by Allied soldiers as we tried to cross over to our own side of the line.’

  Ten minutes later, Dawson helped Sykes to stand up and then settled him in the sidecar as best he could. He passed the major the Lee-Enfield, which Sykes tucked down beside his legs. The machine-gun clipped to the sidecar made the rifle somewhat redundant as either a defensive or offensive weapon. Sykes settled the German helmet on his head and nodded to show that he was ready to go.

  Dawson pulled on the other heavy motorcycle coat, jammed on his helmet and started the bike’s engine. He nosed the machine out of the barn and rode it slowly around the side of the farmhouse. He stopped, removed the chain from the gatepost, swung the gate wide and drove out onto the narrow and unmade road.

  Then he stopped, closed the gate and looped the chain around the post. He glanced at the sun, noting its position in the sky, then checked his watch.

  ‘That’s about north,’ he said, pointing towards the main part of the village they’d driven through the previous evening. ‘So we need to head over in that direction.’ Dawson swung his arm through about ninety degrees, towards a couple of fields.

  ‘And there are no tracks anywhere over there as far as I can see,’ Sykes said. ‘At least to start with, let’s try and stick to some kind of prepared surface. We can go cross-country – through the fields – later, when we might not have any choice.’

  Dawson looked along the poorly surfaced road down which they’d approached the village. ‘We didn’t pass any roads heading that way when we drove here last night,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Or, at least, I don’t remember seeing any.’

  ‘Nor do I. So I suggest you turn right and head north. That’ll take us away from the main road, which is probably a good thing. We might even see a signpost somewhere that will help.’

  Sykes took out the map he’d used the previous day, unfolded it and placed it on his lap. For a few moments he looked down at it, then glanced across at Dawson.

  ‘As I said, this isn’t going to be much use. It doesn’t even show Verlaine, nor this road we’re on right now, so it certainly won’t have any of the even more minor roads on it. But if we do see a signpost somewhere, and the place-name is on the map, I’ll be able to work out approximately where we’re heading. Right, let’s get going.’

  Dawson nodded agreement and pulled the motorcycle goggles down over his eyes. Then he engaged first gear and released the clutch, and steered the combination back towards the centre of the village, retracing their route of the previous evening.

  Again, the village of Verlaine – it would probably have been more accurate to call it a hamlet – appea
red utterly deserted. No people, no farm animals. They didn’t even see a dog or a cat.

  Dawson drove the motorcycle slowly through the village and out the other side, the exhaust note of the big twin-cylinder engine echoing off the deserted houses. The condition of the road deteriorated quite quickly as they left the last couple of houses behind them, and what had been a fairly wide but unmade street through the village soon became just as narrow and twisting as the road to the south of Verlaine had been. The surface went from mud with occasional cobbles to just hard-packed mud, rutted with cart tracks and potholes. Trees grew on both sides. Within a fairly short distance they realized the track was taking them through the outskirts of a wood.

  They rode on for what Dawson estimated was about a mile before they encountered a junction – in reality little more than another track branching off the one they were following – and that was to the right, and would have taken them back towards Liège, which was the last thing they wanted. So Dawson forged on, continuing to the north, or north-west.

  About three or four miles from Verlaine, he suddenly braked the combination to a stop and switched off the engine.

  ‘What is it?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘I think that’s a road dead ahead of us. Looks like a T-junction. I’m going to check it before we try to drive across it.’

  Dawson took the Lee-Enfield from Sykes and walked cautiously up the track, which started widening slightly and also began sloping gently uphill. The wood was much thicker all around them, trees crowding them on all sides. Before he stepped onto what he could now see was a rough cobbled road, Dawson paused and listened intently. But apart from birdsong, he could detect nothing.