by Right
The anti-aircraft barrage continued unabated as the bombs dropped. Then a new and unpleasantly familiar sound intruded.
‘Hear that?’ Dawson asked. ‘That’s a bloody Stuka. They’re sending in dive-bombers as well.’
For a few seconds they couldn’t see the Stukas, but then Dawson spotted about half a dozen of the canted-winged aircraft following each other down in a steep dive, the unearthly scream of their sirens clearly audible even over the noise of the exploding bombs and the continuous firing of the Belgian anti-aircraft guns.
‘They’re getting a bloody pasting over there, that’s for sure,’ Dawson said gloomily, as a second wave of Stukas formed up and then began their attack dive in sequence.
‘Yes,’ Sykes agreed, ‘but the good news is we must now be really close to the Belgian lines. Once we’re the other side of them we’ll be safe. Or safer, anyway.’
‘I know. The trick’s going to be getting through. With all the stick those Belgies are getting, I think they’ll shoot at anything that moves. Including us, if we’re still riding around in this Jerry motorcycle combination.’
Sykes nodded. ‘Yes. We’re going to have to work out how and when to try our luck. We can’t do anything until the bombing stops, obviously, so we’d better find somewhere we can hide out for a while. You said that field to the north was empty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right. We can’t stay here in case those Germans have managed to fix the half-track and are already heading towards us. Let’s go cross-country.’
Dawson climbed back onto the motorcycle, put it into gear and moved off, looking for a gap in the undergrowth wide enough to accommodate the combination. There were various spaces that would do, but Dawson was looking for something else as well. Eventually he made his decision, and swung the motorcycle over to the right-hand side of the track, which puzzled Sykes.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Just hold on, sir,’ Dawson replied. ‘It’s time to muddy the waters a bit.’
He accelerated across to the southern edge of the track and smashed the bike through the undergrowth, driving a hole clean through it and uprooting a shrub. Then he drove the bike hard across the field, spinning the rear wheel for about twenty yards.
Then Dawson almost shut the throttle and motored the combination in a wide, gentle turn, taking care not to leave any marks on the rough grass tussocks until he was right back at the hole he’d driven through the side of the track. With the combination moving at barely walking pace, he eased the machine through the gap and, proceeding just as carefully, rode it right across the track and through the other gap he’d spotted a few yards down on the opposite side.
Keeping the speed down, he continued across the field, hugging the edge of the woodland, until they were well out of sight of the track. Then Dawson eased the combination into the wood itself, picking an area where there were no substantial trees but plenty of shrubs and bushes that would allow them to get the machine out of sight. He swung it round so that it pointed out of the wood, slipped the gear lever into neutral and turned off the engine.
The thunderous explosions of the German bombing, interspersed by the sound of repeated volleys from the rapid-fire anti-aircraft guns of the Belgian defenders, was still deafening.
Dawson climbed off the motorcycle and walked around to the sidecar.
‘Do you want me to give you a hand to get out of there, sir, or are you going to stay put?’
‘I’d rather stay put, but I can’t. I need to have a pee. Quite urgently, actually.’
‘Understood, sir.’
Dawson bent down and lifted Sykes bodily out of the sidecar and helped him stagger across to a tree he could use for support while he urinated. When Sykes had finished, Dawson helped him back over to the combination. The major actually seemed able to put a little weight on his wounded leg.
‘You’re using your left leg a bit more now, sir,’ Dawson said.
Sykes nodded. ‘I’m trying to. It still hurts like hell, but I’ve got used to that now. I know the bone’s intact, so there’s no reason why I can’t start trying to stand up on it.’
‘So what do we do now?’
Sykes leant against the motorcycle saddle and got himself as comfortable as he could before he replied. ‘We get across the Belgian lines. That’s the short answer. The difficult bit is how we do it. The only two things I’m certain of are that we’ll have to use this motorcycle combination or another vehicle, because, although I’m trying to stand on this blasted leg, there’s no way I’m going to be able to walk or run on it for a long time yet.’
‘And the second thing?’ Dawson prompted.
‘We have to do it in daylight. If we try it at night, you’re quite right – the Belgians will shoot first and ask questions later. Other than that, right now I don’t have too many ideas. Any suggestions?’
Dawson shook his head. ‘Not really, no. The first thing we – or rather I – ought to do is try and find out where the Jerries are positioned. The last thing we want to do is try and break through the German lines where they’ve got the highest concentration of troops stationed.’
‘Good thinking. If we did try and break through at that point, it probably would be the last thing we ever did. So what’s your plan?’
Dawson thought for a few seconds. ‘I reckon the first thing is to get you settled somewhere, sir. You can’t lean against that motorcycle all afternoon. Then I need to check that pannier thing on the back of the sidecar, just in case there’s another magazine in it for the Mauser machine-gun. If there isn’t, we might as well ditch the weapon. It’ll be useless to us. Then I’ll grab the Lee-Enfield or the Schmeisser and walk over to the west with your binoculars and a pencil and paper. I’ll keep out of sight and do a bit of spying. I should be able to get at least some idea of their strength and dispositions. When I get back, we can decide what to do and when to do it.’
Sykes nodded. ‘You’re the boss, Corporal,’ he said, his face creasing into a smile. ‘You know what I mean,’ he added.
Ten minutes later, Sykes was propped up against a tree a short distance away from the motorcycle combination, as well hidden from view as Dawson could manage, but the major still had a reasonable view of the immediate area. Beside him was one of their two canteens that Dawson had filled with water at the farm on the outskirts of Verlaine – the other one was attached to Dawson’s webbing – and lying across his lap was the Lee-Enfield rifle, loaded and ready to fire, and with two full loading clips to hand.
When Dawson checked the pannier at the back of the sidecar, he found it didn’t contain a replacement magazine for the Mauser MG 34: it had three of them, all fully loaded. But Dawson and Sykes decided it made better sense not to reload the Mauser, at least, not for the moment. If the combination was discovered by a German patrol, and the weapon was unloaded, it might imply that the vehicle had been abandoned. A reloaded machine-gun could suggest an intention to return, and the Germans might leave a couple of sentries to guard the vehicle, which would scupper their plan good and proper. The last thing Dawson did was pull out the two halves of the demolition charge and conceal them in the undergrowth nearby.
Dawson picked up the Schmeisser machine-pistol – it was a much better close-quarter weapon than his trusty Lee-Enfield, and would be more effective in making any German troops he encountered keep their heads down – gave it a quick but thorough clean, loaded it and slung it over his shoulder, then walked to the edge of the wood and peered out. The fields in front of him were still deserted. He could see no sign of movement from the direction of the track they’d been driving along, so presumably either the German soldiers were still working on their vehicle or they’d followed the tracks he’d made in the field lying over to the south. Or, the thought suddenly occurred to him with an unpleasant rush, they might have driven straight down to the main German force to summon reinforcements to carry out a full search of the area. Then he dismissed the idea. The German forces were massing
to break through the main Belgian line of defence. They’d hardly waste their time and energy mounting an exhaustive search for two lost enemy soldiers. At least, that was what he hoped.
Dawson took a last look back into the wood. The motorcycle combination was far from obvious but, because he knew exactly where it was, he could still see it. But Major Sykes was completely invisible. Dawson gave an encouraging thumbs-up in the direction he thought the officer was hidden, then turned round and stepped forward, keeping to the outskirts of the wood, and hopefully out of sight.
Chapter 24
11 May 1940
Eastern Belgium
The edge of the wood angled more or less north-west, as far as Dawson could estimate, based on the time of day and the position of the sun. That wasn’t really the direction he wanted to go, but it would have to do. He certainly wasn’t going to wander across the open field, exposed to view from all sides.
He was able to move fairly quickly, just because he was within the tree-line and so effectively invisible to anyone outside the wood itself. But he’d only covered about a hundred yards before he realized that the wood was coming to an end. And, in fact, to a point. He kept getting glimpses of the open sky from over to his right. It was soon obvious that there was another field on that side, only a few yards away.
Dawson cut across to his right to check the lie of the land. That edge of the wood was fairly straight, like the side of it he’d been following, but both sides were narrowing towards an apex about thirty yards ahead. On the north wide of the wood lay another field, about the same size as the one to the south, and that, too, appeared to be completely empty.
He continued to the last handful of trees and stopped, still hidden by the undergrowth. Dawson checked in all directions, looking for trouble, while he decided where to go next. The German soldiers, he was fairly sure, were in the next field down to the south, or possibly the one beyond that – the gently undulating landscape meant that he couldn’t see them from his present position. This also meant, obviously, they couldn’t see him.
In front of him, an uneven line of undergrowth – not really thick enough to be called a hedge – ran along the dividing line between the two fields. It didn’t look to him as if the fields were big enough to justify being separated, but maybe they belonged to different farms. The undergrowth petered out after about fifty yards, where another line of stumpy bushes crossed it at right angles before it, too, straggled to an untidy halt. Beyond that, all the way to the next patch of woodland, which was where Dawson needed to get to, was open ground with not a shred of cover.
He looked around, but there were no other routes he could take to reach his objective, just as he’d guessed when he first checked the terrain before leaving Sykes and the motorcycle.
Dawson unslung the Schmeisser from his shoulder and grasped it in his hands. He needed to be ready for any eventuality now he was about to leave the cover afforded by the wood. He took a final glance all around him, making sure no German troops had appeared since the last time he’d checked, then stepped forward cautiously on to the right-hand – the northern – side of the line of growth.
The undergrowth wasn’t tall enough to conceal him if he walked, so he ducked down into a crouch, making sure no part of his body projected above the level of the bushes. He was aware that he would be in view of anyone in the field to the north, but hoped he’d be difficult to spot with the line of tangled undergrowth immediately behind him.
He made his way slowly and steadily to the point where the undergrowth was intersected by the other line of bushes, checking both in front and behind him every few seconds. But he neither saw nor heard anybody. Of course, hearing anything wasn’t easy, because, although the high-level bombers were giving the Belgians a rest – presumably they’d returned to their base in Germany to rearm and refuel – the Stukas were still pounding the Belgian lines in waves. But the Belgians were still putting up a furious defence, their anti-aircraft guns hurling their defiance into the air in the face of the plummeting bombers, an almost constant hammering of explosions that peppered the sky with lethal black clouds of shrapnel.
As Dawson watched, one of the mid-air bursts detonated right in front of the wing of one of the Stukas. The explosion ripped a section of the skin of the wing off, and a blazing fire started instantly in the wing root. The pilot jinked in the opposite direction and tried to pull out of the dive. But it was too late. The aircraft’s nose lifted slightly, then it rolled to the right and plunged to the ground, crashing in a ball of fire, the top of which was visible to Dawson even over the tops of the trees ahead of him.
‘Got the bastard,’ he muttered to himself, but then realized the Belgian anti-aircraft gunners might have actually made the situation on that part of the front line even worse. Instead of just coping with bombs, they were now probably also contending with burning aviation fuel, not to mention the devastating impact of the aircraft itself. But the fact that they’d hit one of the Stukas might make the pilots of the others a bit more cautious. At least, that’s what he hoped.
Before he moved, he checked all around again, but the fields still appeared to be as empty as before. Dawson looked at the seventy yards or so of open ground in front of him. He was fairly sure nobody could see him, but ambling across the field as if he was out for a Sunday afternoon stroll didn’t seem the most sensible way to cover the ground. So he took a deep breath, then erupted from the undergrowth and started to run.
He jigged from side to side as well, presenting as difficult a target as possible, just in case he’d been wrong, and there were enemy troops watching his progress.
But no shots rang out, and he heard no cries of alarm. He ran headlong into the wood on the opposite side of the open field and stopped the instant he was inside the tree-line. For a few seconds he stood there, catching his breath and checking his immediate vicinity, his rifle held ready. Dawson was fit, but no army uniform is designed for sprinting, and he hadn’t had much to eat for the last couple of days, one way and the other.
When he’d got his breath back, he checked the Schmeisser again, an essential reflex action, once more inspected the field he’d just crossed, then set off through the trees towards the field where he’d seen the German soldiers.
As before, he kept just inside the wood, the trees affording him adequate cover. But now he moved much more slowly, because he knew he had to be getting closer to the German lines. Every few feet he stopped dead and scanned all round, looking for anything out of place, for any sign of the presence of the enemy troops.
But it wasn’t until he’d almost reached the edge of that small section of woodland that he finally saw them. A large number of German soldiers milling around in the field to the left of him, all fully armed and clearly ready for combat. A babble of voices reached him – orders and instructions, and conversations between soldiers who were bored, worried or frankly terrified as they waited for something to happen. There were sentries posted around the edge of the field, but none close to his observation point. Or, none that he could see, anyway.
Drawn up in lines, and also obviously just waiting for the order to advance, was a motley collection of commercial trucks, a few civilian cars and several carts, the horses that would be used to pull them tethered on the far side of the field. And there were half-tracks, many with artillery pieces hitched behind them, motorcycle combinations and, more ominously, at least a dozen tanks.
Before Dawson had left Britain the previous year, by which time war with Germany was an inevitability, he’d attended a number of briefings, including several concerned with the recognition of enemy vehicles and weapons. He shaded his eyes and stared at the tanks, recognizing the closest one as a Panzer IV, and the one parked next to it as a Panzer III. The others were only partially visible, but he guessed they were probably models of the same two types. He could see a lot of tanks drawn up in rows. In fact, now he was able to get a proper look at the enemy forces, he realized they didn’t look as if they were preparing
for immediate combat. It seemed more like a forward holding position, where the troops and armour would wait for additional reinforcements before assembling in battle formation to advance on the enemy. And now he could smell cooking as well, and saw several groups of German soldiers carrying mess tins and obviously eating meals.
Dawson made sure he was still unobserved, rested the machine-pistol against a tree trunk, then took out a pencil and paper, licked the end of the pencil and made swift notes about the disposition of the German vehicles he could see, counting the vehicles and trying to get a rough estimate of the numbers of soldiers. Many of these were clad in the black ‘boiler suits’ used by Panzer crews. When he’d finished, he glanced at what he’d written. It seemed a depressingly large and well-balanced force to throw at whatever defences the Belgians had been able to muster. If Sykes had been right about the number of tanks the Belgian army possessed – Dawson thought the major had said they only had about ten of them in total – then the Germans should have no trouble punching a hole straight through the Belgian lines.
And the other thing Dawson knew was he was probably only looking at one small part of the German forces in the area.
He put away his notes, grabbed the Schmeisser and started working his way through the wood to the north-west, towards the next open area, the other part of the same field which ran to the south-west of the woodland, where the Germans might also have been massing their forces. When he got there and peered out cautiously, he found it was almost a repeat of what he’d seen in the first part of the field – a mix of soldiers and vehicles, all clearly just waiting for orders, and for the dive-bombers to finish their deadly work.
Again, Dawson made notes. When they – or rather if they – made it through the lines, the information he’d gleaned would be invaluable to the commander of the defending forces. At least he’d know exactly what he would be facing when the German advance finally started, and knowing the enemy’s strength and disposition was always invaluable, even if it proved to be somewhat depressing knowledge.