Right and Glory

by Right

  The patch of woodland Dawson was sheltering in had German forces on both sides of it, that much he now knew. But he wasn’t any further forward in finding some route that he and Sykes could use to get past them. Going down to the south didn’t seem to be a viable option, because Dawson was almost certain it was the main road between Liège and Namur down there. The Germans would probably be massing their troops on that road when they were ready to continue the invasion. He presumed they were using the open fields either side of the road as additional parking and holding areas for their forces, as he’d just observed in the two fields close to him.

  So the only possible way through, he figured, was to go further north, deeper into the wooded countryside and away from that main road, and hope to find a track they could use somewhere up there. Dawson picked up the machine-pistol again and stealthily began to retrace his steps.

  At the eastern end of the wood he paused for a few seconds to both check his surroundings and get his bearings. Yet again he wished he had a compass to be sure of the direction he should be heading, but without one he would just have to rely on the sun, which in fact he couldn’t see from where he was standing. But what he could see were shadows, and that was almost as good. He hoped.

  Dawson glanced at his watch, then looked at the angle of the shadows cast by the trees on the edge of the wood across the open field in front of him. They suggested that he was looking almost due east, so he needed to turn left ninety degrees and head that way. That didn’t look too bad, as the wood extended for perhaps a hundred yards in that direction. He stepped away from the edge of the undergrowth and started walking.

  None of the woods he’d walked through were particularly overgrown, but the narrow gaps between the trees mean that they wouldn’t be able to ride the motorcycle combination through any of them. What he needed to find was another track, something like the one they’d been following earlier in the day. And he’d only covered about seventy yards, he guessed, when he found one.

  It wasn’t quite as wide as the previous one, but it was more than adequate to cope with the combination. What Dawson now had to do was find out where it went – which hopefully wasn’t directly into some other field being used as an encampment for German soldiers. He kept in the wood to one side of the track, about twenty feet away, which he hoped would be far enough if there were German sentries posted anywhere along it, and started walking. He checked the sun’s position again, from the direction of the shadows he could see, and he estimated he was now heading north-west. Not exactly where he was hoping to go, but close enough.

  The wood got thicker the further he penetrated, the trees bigger and closer together, and the undergrowth denser, which he assumed meant that the wood was older than the others he’d explored. He was making more noise as he walked through it, breaking branches and crushing undergrowth, but making a noise still wasn’t a problem because of the continuing bombing nearby.

  And then, through a gap in the trees over to his left, to the west, he saw more German uniforms, and even the sound of big petrol engines running. He froze in mid-step, then made his way carefully over to that side of the wood, chose a vantage point and looked out.

  After a few moments, Dawson guessed he was probably looking at the far end of the northern part of the field he’d checked before, the second holding area for the German forces. There was the same mix of vehicles and men, and the only obvious difference was that these tanks and trucks were pointing to the south, which was presumably the direction from which they’d arrived. And more vehicles seemed to be arriving all the time, mainly trucks and horse-drawn carts, and a number of half-tracks, many of them towing artillery pieces. He guessed the German plan was to send the invasion force towards Namur using the roads as much as possible, simply because the terrain didn’t favour a cross-country advance: there were too many woods and ditches to make that a viable option. Even the tanks would find getting through the woods difficult or even impossible. Trees made really effective natural anti-tank defences – that was one of the reasons why the French apparently believed the German invasion of their country would come from the Belgian plains, not through the Ardennes Forest.

  And that was a bit of good news. Dawson looked back towards the track. Between the field and the track was quite a substantial stand of timber which would provide a natural, and almost impregnable, barricade against any German attack on them, as long as they stayed on the track. He checked up and down the track, then crossed to the other side. But the forest there was just as thick, and appeared to extend at least fifty yards to the north-east – another natural defence for anyone using the track.

  Just one more question needed to be answered: where did the track go?

  Still keeping away from the track itself, just in case, Dawson plodded onwards, getting deeper and deeper into the forest. Then, as the track curved gently around to the left and then straightened up again, he saw a flash of grey in the distance, and stopped immediately. He moved slightly to one side so he could see better, and brought the binoculars up to his eyes.

  He should have expected it. The Germans were nothing if not thorough, and there was no way they’d not place a guard of some sort on any roads or tracks leading to their next objective. He was looking at a simple road-block. He could see two German soldiers, one armed with a rifle and the other carrying a Schmeisser machine-pistol, and in front of them a wooden trestle that blocked over half the width of the road. It wouldn’t prove a serious barrier to a car or truck, but it was certainly enough to stop a motorcycle combination. The barrier would have to be moved. Unless, Dawson thought, looking more carefully, he could simply ride around it. It really all depended on what the ground was like at the side of the track. But it was a possible escape route, the best way out – in fact it was the only way out – he’d found so far.

  And there was another factor. He glanced up. The sun was high in the sky, rays of light lancing through the tops of the trees and turning the woodland gold and green. It was now early afternoon. He and Sykes had already decided they had to attempt their crossing in daylight, so the Belgian soldiers would be able to see their uniforms and the white flag Sykes would be holding up. Trying to cross the border in the evening – or even worse at night – especially after the pounding the Belgians had been suffering, would simply be too dangerous, almost suicidal.

  Dawson made his decision. They’d have to use the track, and sort out the road-block, one way or the other, when they reached it. He took a last look up the track, fixing the position of the road-block in his mind, then set off back the way he’d come.

  As on his outward journey, he saw nobody and heard nothing apart from the continuing noise of the bombardment of the Belgian defences. That situation continued until he’d almost reached the spot where he’d parked the motorcycle combination. He was probably about a hundred yards away when, even over the noise of the bombs and the rapid-fire guns, he heard a vehicle engine, quite close by.

  Instantly, Dawson froze, looking round to identify the source of the noise. Then he saw it. A German half-track, its nose scarred by numerous bullet holes, was creeping steadily along the edge of the wood towards him. It didn’t take a genius to realize it was the same vehicle Sykes had riddled with machine-gun fire back in the clearing, and that probably meant the Jerries had seen through his spur-of-the-moment deception back on the track. Or maybe they’d investigated the field opposite and found nothing, so now they were checking this one as well.

  Whatever had happened, it didn’t matter. All that was important was that they were here now, right in front of him, clearly still searching. But then Dawson realized something else. The half-track was between him and the motorcycle combination, and they must have missed seeing it. So as long he could stay under cover until it had gone past – and that wouldn’t be difficult – he could get back to Sykes, and hopefully they’d be able to make their escape as soon as the German vehicle had left the area.

  Dawson eased down into a crouch and then lay fu
ll-length behind a bush as the half-track drew closer. He could clearly see the driver and passenger, both staring into the wood as they drove along the periphery, and another couple of soldiers sitting in the flat-bed section of the half-track, and doing exactly the same, their weapons held ready.

  None of the four men spotted Dawson. He waited until the vehicle had driven at least seventy yards behind him before he moved. Then he stood up, and started walking quickly towards his objective.

  But then something struck him. He suddenly remembered there had been six soldiers with the vehicle previously, not four. He didn’t think Sykes had killed any when they’d blasted past it – he’d been concentrating on disabling the half-track. So where the hell were the other two Jerry soldiers?

  Chapter 25

  11 May 1940

  Eastern Belgium

  It was a question that was answered almost immediately. Not in a way Dawson would have hoped.

  He heard a yell from somewhere in front of him and saw a man in a grey uniform standing just at the edge of the wood, maybe fifty or sixty yards away. Dawson instinctively dodged into cover, a split-second before a rifle bullet ploughed through the undergrowth right beside him. A couple of seconds later, another shot rang out and the bullet thudded into the trunk of a tree a few yards away.

  The German tactic was now obvious. They’d sent the half-track on ahead to make the enemy soldiers keep their heads down, then had a couple of soldiers following it about a hundred yards behind, very quietly, so that when the idiot Englishman – that was Dawson, in this case – popped up out of cover and started strolling around, they could shoot him down. The only mistake the Jerry had made was in shouting – presumably for his companion – before he pulled the trigger of his Mauser. If he hadn’t done that, Dawson knew he’d now very probably be lying dead in a pool of blood.

  That could still happen. He had the Schmeisser MP 38 machine-pistol, certainly, but it was a fairly unreliable weapon. At least one, maybe both, of the German soldiers was armed with a Mauser Karabiner 98K rifle, a proper combat rifle that was accurate up to about 800 yards. For the first time he regretted not having taken the Lee-Enfield when he set off on his reconnaissance mission.

  Dawson weighed these facts in his mind, his brain spinning as he figured the angles. If he ran through the wood, sooner or later they’d catch sight of him and, the moment they did so, they’d kill him. The wood wasn’t thick enough for him to get away like that. His only chance, he realized, was to stay hidden and get them closer – a lot closer – to where he’d taken cover, to bring them within range of the Schmeisser.

  He’d only seen one of the soldiers in front of him: the man who’d fired at him and called out. But he knew there were two of them because of the second shot, the one that had hit the tree behind him. Dawson was already caught in the crossfire, and he had no idea where the second soldier was located. In fact, he didn’t even have that much idea where the first one was either, because he’d also ducked down after he fired.

  He had another problem as well. Despite the noise of the bombing and anti-aircraft gunfire, and the sound of the engine of the half-track, Dawson was quite sure the noise of the rifle shots would have been clearly audible to the German soldiers in the vehicle. So he could expect them to join the party any time.

  Dawson waited, the Schmeisser with its bolt back, ready to fire. There was no rate-of-fire selector: the MP 38 was an open-bolt, blowback-operated weapon that only worked in fully automatic mode, but its comparatively slow rate of fire meant short bursts or even single shots were possible if the trigger was only pulled very briefly.

  He scanned the wood ahead of him, desperate to catch any glimpse of either of the enemy soldiers. Dawson drew in a breath and held it, so that not even the sound of his own breathing could spoil his absolute concentration. He swivelled his head from side to side, straining for the slightest sign of movement.

  Somewhere nearby a twig snapped, the sound bizarrely audible even over the continued bombing only two or three miles away, but Dawson couldn’t pinpoint the location. Maybe he could try a little distraction of his own. Keeping hold of the Schmeisser with his right hand, he felt about in the undergrowth beside him for a stone or a length of wood or something. His questing fingers closed around a section of branch about a foot long. He rolled over slightly onto his right side, and lobbed the branch backwards, over his shoulder.

  It landed a couple of dozen feet behind him, and tumbled away into the undergrowth, the noise very audible. But absolutely nothing happened. Obviously the Germans knew that old trick just as well as Dawson. He needed to try something else. He couldn’t afford to wait until they flanked him.

  There was another patch of undergrowth about ten feet to Dawson’s right. Running through it was the substantial trunk of a fallen tree, which might provide a measure of protection against bullets fired from directly in front, which is where Dawson still thought at least one of the soldiers was concealed. He remembered the Browning. If the Jerries thought he only had a pistol they might be tempted to be a bit less cautious. He could only have been in the sight of the German soldiers for a bare second or two, and perhaps neither man had seen the Schmeisser.

  It was worth a try. Dawson took out the Browning, pulled back the slide to load it and aimed it roughly at the spot where he’d seen the German soldier dive for cover. He had no hope of hitting anything. Then he squeezed the trigger, fired a single shot, and immediately leapt to his feet and dived over to his right, flattening himself behind the illusory safety of the fallen log – which, he noticed the moment he could see the wood clearly, was obviously fairly rotten.

  No shots came, but from somewhere over to his left Dawson heard a mocking laugh, followed by a couple of sentences shouted in German. Maybe they’d decided he really did only have a pistol, and was terrified and cornered, firing at random, shooting at shadows. If so, that suited Dawson. He placed the Browning on the ground within easy reach and aimed the Schmeisser to his front.

  Then he saw a grey shape a few yards to one side of where the soldier had ducked down, and a dark object which he knew in an instant was the barrel of a rifle. Dawson tensed, but there was no time to fire. If he tried to bring the Schmeisser to bear he’d never get the first shot off before the German soldier fired his weapon. And the distance was about forty yards – point blank range for a Mauser carbine, approaching the limit of accuracy for the MP 38. Better to let the other man shoot first.

  Dawson rolled to one side and tried to make himself as small a target as possible, down behind the fallen tree trunk. Almost immediately, the German fired, the shot driving splinters of wood off the top of the log within a foot of Dawson’s head. There was no disputing the soldier knew where he was hiding.

  But now Dawson had his chance. It would take the man with the Mauser at least a second or two to reload the weapon. For that brief period of time he was essentially unarmed.

  Dawson raised his head just high enough to sight towards the patch of undergrowth where he’d seen the German soldier, took careful aim with the Schmeisser and squeezed the trigger. Two short bursts, maybe two or three rounds each time.

  He had no idea if he’d hit the soldier or not. No sounds came from that location, but a rifle cracked from somewhere over to his left, and another bullet smacked into the log in front of him. Dawson ducked down again. Rotten wood or not, that old tree trunk was keeping him safe.

  Then another shot sounded. A single round from a rifle, but some distance away. And that was followed by a scream of pain, again from over to the left. And then another shot from directly in front of Dawson, but apparently not aimed at him.

  It didn’t make sense. If the Germans weren’t shooting at him, who were they firing at? Then he realized. He must be closer to the motorcycle combination than he’d thought. Sykes was armed with the Lee-Enfield rifle. It wasn’t just Dawson who was caught in a crossfire, it was the two Germans as well.

  Dawson aimed the Schmeisser again and fired another shor
t burst towards the position of the first enemy soldier. Clearly his first couple of bursts had missed. Then he ducked again, as another bullet slammed into the log. And, moments later, the German fired another shot towards Sykes.

  But this time Dawson saw exactly where he was. He’d have to take a chance, and hope that Sykes had taken out the soldier over to his left. He rose into a crouch, aimed the MP 38 as accurately as he could, and squeezed the trigger. The barrel started to lift after the first short burst. He paused, adjusted his aim and fired again, moving the muzzle slightly left and right so the spread of the bullets covered a wider area. And he kept on firing until the bolt stopped moving and the magazine was empty. He dropped the empty mag to the ground, slotted in a new one and cocked the weapon again. Then he just looked and listened.

  For a few seconds there was no sound in the wood, just the constant background thunder of the bombing and the blasting of the anti-aircraft guns.

  Cautiously, Dawson stared to his left, and straight ahead. Nobody moved. There was only one way to find out what had happened, and that was to go and take a look. He tucked the Browning back into his pocket and eased up into a crouch, the Schmeisser aimed at the spot he’d been firing at. Still no movement. He stood up and ran over to his right, keeping his distance and using the trees for cover, aiming to circle around behind the German soldier.

  He was halfway there when another shot sounded. Dawson dropped flat to the ground, but had no idea where the bullet had gone. As far as he could tell, it had passed nowhere near him.

  After a few seconds, he got back to his feet and resumed his cautious progress.