by Allan Jones
“Of course,” Johnson replied. “This is it, men, make ready.”
The men scrambled into their boots, buttoned tunics, fastened every belt and strap and gathered into a line under the wary eye of Sims’s inspection. Klaussen also readied himself. “Discard everything except what we can chew on the move; check weapons and ammunition and keep those German helmets.”
Sims busied himself among them, ensuring that everything was in order. Klaussen watched him, reassured to note that the man seemed to know his business: he could be sure that there would be no betraying chinks and rattles of equipment once Sims was through.
Klaussen took out a map, unfolded it onto the ground, then stood up, looked at each man in the line and said: “Gather round, men.”
He waited whilst they did so, then began. “When I deserted the German Army, there were three directions I could have taken, each of them offering a likely point at which a man alone could cross the lines. Fortune alone brought me to choose the one at which our paths crossed and I, for one, am glad of it.”
There was a muted chorus of “Hear, hears”.
Klaussen continued, his eyes flicking from face to face. “Now I am stuck with you, and you with me. If we all do our jobs and look out for one another, we may get through this. Soon, when dawn breaks, we move out towards the gunfire.”He turned to Johnson. “Is the gunfire getting louder, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Certainly is,” Johnson replied.
Klaussen turned back to the men, raising his voice a little. “That is good for us; it means the lines are drawing closer, which also means that the Allies are pushing the Germans back, towards us.”
The men cheered, visibly exchanging encouraging smiles and nods.“All we have to do is stroll up to the front, tuck ourselves away and pop up once the battle’s passed.” Johnson added with a grin.
Klaussen laughed grimly. “Not quite as simple as that, but essentially true. Seriously, though, we’ll have to be sharp; we don’t know what’s out there, so every man must be on his toes. Remember your training, keep near hedgerows, avoid being silhouetted against the skyline, keep your eyes peeled for any movement, and, above all, be ready for action at a moment’s notice. Keep the German helmets hanging in the elbow of your weapon-bearing arm; when the time comes to put them on, you may need to be fast. I can’t tell you any further than that as we’ll be playing it by ear. One last thing: good luck to each and every one of you; may you reach your homes and loved ones safely.”
Amidst their reciprocations, he turned to Johnson. “Lieutenant Johnson, who’s your best point man?”
“Clarke, you were a poacher in civvy life, weren’t you?” Johnson addressed the burly man to his right.
“It’s a lie, sir! Me an’ the magistrate wuz allus arguing on it,” Clarke answered with a broad grin. There was laughter all round.
“I think I’ll agree with the magistrate this time. You lead, and be careful; we’ll all be depending on you,” Johnson told him.
“Right you are, sir, you can rely on me, sir,” he answered. Turning to his mates, he added: “Might even sell you a brace of pheasants on the way.”
The men laughed again till they were silenced by a shout from Sims. Klaussen was glad of the men’s cheer, at least his British half was: a sense of humour has its place sometimes. He took Clarke to where he had lain the map and pointed in the direction they would need to take, and explained the kind of terrain they would likely meet. Clarke listened intently, nodded occasionally, asked a few questions, then moved off to where Johnson was beckoning him. Klaussen watched with interest as Johnson spoke quietly in Clarke’s ear, wondering what was being said.
With Clarke in the lead, they walked off into the morning mist; it promised to be a fine day. They moved silently in single file, Sims behind Clarke, Carter behind him. Occasionally, the rearguard turned and walked back, checking the way they had come. Klaussen was looking forward at Clarke just as intently, trusting in his countryman’s skill.
The sound of gunfire drew ever closer as the morning mist cleared. A breeze sprang up, and Klaussen was pleased as it brought the sounds towards them. They had been moving for almost an hour when Klaussen called a halt. They had just traversed a ridge and could see smoke rising from over the next ridge roughly a half mile away. A hedgerow ran across the bottom of the valley below them with a few trees spaced along its length.
Klaussen took his field glasses and studied the hedgerow. There was a deep ditch on the further side of the hedge. He raised the glasses and studied the horizon: the noise of battle reached his ears as he watched, and he saw German troops backing over the ridge, firing at the unseen enemy below them. He shouted to the men and pointed. “Everyone down into that ditch, on the double.”
They ran headlong down the slope and forced their way through the hedge into the ditch and spaced themselves a yard apart. Klaussen hid himself behind a tree, out of the ditch. “Weapons ready! German helmets on! Let them see them when they come near. No-one to fire until I do, then give them everything you’ve got.”
The Germans were falling back. Klaussen watched through the glasses as British soldiers topped the ridge, then the tanks appeared one after another, pausing just below the ridge so that their guns could bear down into the valley and fire at the retreating Germans; then they opened up with their machine guns, decimating the troops further back. The Germans were in full flight, heading for the ditch to the left of Klaussens position. He waited till they were in hailing distance, then revealed himself, shouting and beckoning them to him: “Regroup, Regroup, over here, over here!” He kept repeating it until they wheeled in his direction.
The British soldiers were hard on their heels. Klaussen stood his ground, shouting and waving; then, judging that the range was right, he ducked behind the tree and opened up with his Schmeisser. The others fired almost simultaneously and the Germans were mown down, riddled with bullets, one after another, until none of them remained standing. Klaussen leaped into the ditch and hauled the British coat out of his pack. Hurriedly pulling it on, he yelled: “Cease fire, take cover, British helmets on.”
The men hurried to follow his orders. Klaussen threw his cap into the bottom of the ditch and cautiously raised his head and peered out of the ditch. A line, two or three deep, of British soldiers, had peeled off from the main thrust of the attack to their left, and were approaching, rifles raised. He ducked down.“Lieutenant, raise your helmet up on the butt of your rifle; the rest of you yell that you’re British; but for God’s sake keep your heads down.”
Johnson raised the helmet as the men bellowed out,“British soldiers! British soldiers!”
Klaussen noticed that Sims was lying unconscious in the bottom of the ditch. He was nearly at his side when Clarke stopped him.“Caught him drawing a bead on you, sir, just before you opened fire. Clocked him wiv me rifle butt, as per Mr Johnson’s orders, sir.’ E’s only out for the count.” Klaussen nodded.
“Stop that racket an’ show yerselves,” a voice shouted. Klaussen watched as, signalling for the rest to stay down, Johnson cautiously got to his feet. “Royal Norfolks,” he called, “trying to get back behind the lines.”
A burly sergeant came forward, and at his signal the rest of his men lowered their weapons. “Durham Light Infantry…sir,” he said. “Seems you made it.”
Johnson ordered the rest of the men to stand. Pointing at the German dead, the sergeant said: “We saw this lot go down, thought something funny was going on, came to have a look.” Klaussen remained in the ditch, his back to them, ostensibly tending the unconscious Sims.
A British officer came trotting over, calling as he came. “What’s the hold-up? Keep moving, you men.”
The sergeant shouted back: “Found some strays, sir; Norfolks, they are.”
The officer drew near, and Johnson moved forward to meet him. “Lieutenant Edward Johnson, 1st Royal Norfolks.” He extended his hand.
The officer let his revolver drop to swing on its lanyard and shook ha
nds. “Captain Brierly. How far have you come?”
“Seems like a thousand miles. Are we far from Arras, sir?”
“Five miles, that direction, but it won’t do you any good; they’ve begun to evacuate to Dunkirk. This little show is just to keep Jerry off their backs; we’ll push as far as we can, then we’ll be running hell for leather back to Dunkirk. The navy’s taking everyone back to England; you’ll have to get to Dunkirk as fast as you can to stand a chance.”
Brierly looked at his men and turned back to Johnson. “Can’t stop, must keep pushing the bastards. Good luck to you.” Calling for his men to follow, he ran off to the left to join the rest of the pursuing British. Soon Johnson’s platoon was alone.
Sims woke up, shaking his head to dispel the dizziness. His head hurt and there was a ringing in his ears. He looked round wildly, trying to remember where he was. He heard voices and cautiously raised himself up to peer out of the ditch. They were about twenty yards away: Klaussen and Johnson were speaking together, the others were scattered, visiting the German bodies, collecting anything useful. Sims looked around him for his weapon, but it had gone; he looked over the edge of the ditch again and saw that Carter had two Schmeissers slung over his shoulder.
He cursed under his breath as he realised that his only option now was flight.
“Which way?” he thought. The main battle had been to his left, so he began to crawl in that direction, reasoning that there would probably be the likelihood of picking up a new weapon there; then, if he could get in front of them, he had a chance, wipe them out and make a dash for the coast… then he would be all right.
He looked back over his shoulder; the ditch had curved, so that he was now out of sight of their position. He got to his feet and, crouching low, ran, rehearsing in his mind the story he would tell. They had been ambushed, he had been knocked unconscious. They were all dead when he awoke; he had crawled away when the Germans’ backs were turned. “Near enough,” he thought; “just one little detail to see to.” He was far enough away by now, so he rose up and ran as fast as he could manage.
Johnson called the men together; it was time to move off. They had all replenished their weaponry and were in good spirits. So far, things had gone well for them. Klaussen detached himself and walked back to the ditch and looked in. “Lieutenant,” he called, and Johnson ran to him.“Sims has gone; looks like that way.” He pointed left.
“Shall we look for him, sir?” Johnson asked.
Klaussen pondered. “No,” he said. “If he’s as good a soldier as he thinks he is, he’ll make it on his own.”
“But, sir, he’s capable of anything. We’ll have to watch ourselves.”
“I know, Lieutenant, but one more enemy won’t make much difference. He’ll have to move fast, so we’ll have to be faster. Besides, we can’t waste time trying to catch him. Tell the men to look out for him. Come, let’s move; we can make Arras before nightfall if we hurry.”
They moved off at a smart pace, weapons at the ready, alert for any eventuality. Carter was the first to see the road and the lorry that was driving along it. He called back to the others and sprinted forward, reaching the road in time to make the startled driver slam on his brakes. By the time the others came up, he was in conversation with the driver. Klaussen hurriedly draped the greatcoat over his shoulders, eyeing the British markings on the truck.
“He’s going back to Arras, sir,” Carter informed them, “to get more ammo.”
“You’ll take us with you, Corporal,” Johnson said, striding forward. He looked at Klaussen and added, “Including our prisoner.”
Klaussen shrugged off his coat. The driver’s eyes widened at the sight of the German uniform. “Very good, sir. All aboard; got to get going, can’t ’ang about.”
“The prisoner and I will ride with you, the others in the back,” Johnson said.
They scrambled aboard, Johnson sitting next to the driver, Klaussen nearest the door. “Don’t worry about the prisoner, corporal,” Johnson spoke to the driver, “he’ll be no trouble; he’s… let’s say, a friendly prisoner.”
“As you say, sir,” replied the driver.
“Thought the time was right, Captain Klaussen,” said Johnson. Klaussen shrugged.
Johnson turned to the driver. “We’ve been out of the action for some time; tell me, what’s the latest news?”
“They don’t tell us much, sir, but most of the army is going to Dunkirk. Except us poor sods, that is; sent us in on our tod, us against the whole German army, seems like. French are staying where they are, covering our backs; much use they are mind… the buggers stop to eat every five minutes. Officers an’ all! Don’t seem to have the heart for fighting, if you ask me; just putting up a show.”
“What’s the situation at Arras?” Johnson asked.
“Bit of a mess, sir. It’s being evacuated, civvies an’ all; roads are clogged wiv traffic, us going in and out an’ them just going out.”
Klaussen nudged Johnson and handed him the maps. Johnson held his gaze for a while till understanding dawned. Then he opened the map. He studied it whilst forming his next words. Underneath the map he loosened his pistol in its holster in case of argument. “What’s your name, corporal?”
“Wilson, sir.”
“Well, Corporal Wilson, I’m requisitioning this vehicle and you with it. I’m ordering you to bypass Arras and take us to Dunkirk directly, no stopping.”
The lorry swerved as Wilson looked at Johnson in alarm, but he brought it back under control swiftly. “I been ordered to go back with more ammo, sir,” he protested. “Be letting ’em down if I don’t, sir.”
Johnson drew his revolver and laid it pointedly on his lap. “You let me worry about that, corporal; just drive where I tell you to drive, there’s a good man.”
The sight of the revolver made Wilson’s mouth suddenly dry. “As you say, sir,” he croaked.
Johnson and Klaussen pored over the map, ignoring him. Johnsons’s finger drew a route to Dunkirk along minor roads that avoided Arras, and Klaussen nodded his assent, then leant his head against the window and closed his eyes, suddenly weary, leaving Johnson to direct the driver. He hoped the men in the back were taking advantage of this unexpected respite.
They made the outskirts of Dunkirk by dusk and, after a further two hours of crawling through the traffic, they reached the harbour. The scene was chaos: crowds of soldiers and civilians thronged every street, gridlocked vehicles were being sabotaged and left where they were. The sky was occasionally lit up as bombs exploded, dropped from the aircraft droning overhead. They were bombing the harbour and the beach. MPs were attempting to keep order with their shrill whistles and, against all odds, were keeping the flow to the beach moving, albeit slowly.
The truck could move no further; so, handing Klaussen the greatcoat, Johnson ordered everyone out.“Keep together whatever happens; you too, Corporal Wilson, see that Captain Klaussen comes to no harm. Stay by this lorry till I get back.”
He drew Klaussen aside and whispered. “It’s my guess that the harbour-master’s office is where I need to go. I’ll try to get us away quickly, mention a few influential names. Keep your head down; everyone except the corporal is with you, so watch him. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
He was back two hours later, just in time to intervene in a row between Clarke and two MPs who were intent on moving the men on. He spoke to Klaussen.“Never told so many damned lies in my life, but it worked.” He produced a paper from his breast pocket. “Authorisation to be embarked as top priority, in the name of Lieutenant Aitken, told them Beaverbrook is my uncle.” He grinned. “All of us are to go down the steps next to the harbour-master’s office and board the launch reserved for the top brass.”
He led them off through the throng, the men forming around Klaussen to hide him as much as possible. It took them twenty minutes to reach the steps, where Johnson produced the paper and spoke earnestly to the naval lieutenant in charge, who examined the document, then waved
them through the armed ratings who watched them board the waiting launch with envious eyes, knowing, as they did, that they would probably be the very last to leave.
The launch moved off into the darkness, its lights extinguished, past a burning wreck of a ship and out to the furthest reaches of the harbour, to the waiting destroyer. They scrambled eagerly up the nets and were pulled unceremoniously on board by cheery sailors. Backs were slapped and mugs of tea handed out, each gratefully received.
Johnson grabbed Klaussen by the arm. “Come with me, we’re going to see the captain.” He led the way to the bridge till they were challenged by the bridge guard. Johnson persuaded one of them to fetch an officer and soon a commander appeared. “We have to see the captain, a matter of national importance,” he said, thrusting the paper he carried into the commander’s hand.
The commander held the paper closer to the dim light emanating from the bridge, and examined it closely. Finally, he nodded, and, motioning for them to follow him, stepped back through the door onto the bridge.
He approached the captain and spoke in his ear. The captain turned to regard the pair who still hovered by the door, and beckoned them forward. “Something I can do for you, Lieutenant?” he asked.
Johnson looked at Klaussen.“Show him,” he said. Klaussen peeled off the coat.
The captain looked coolly at the uniform. “Explain if you will please, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, this man saved my life and those of my platoon, he helped get us through the German lines, personally killing quite a few of his countrymen as we did so. He carries intelligence useful to the British war effort, and he hopes to be able to return here someday, fighting on our side. He has surrendered himself to me personally, on his word of honour, and I trust him implicitly. I need him to be kept safe during the trip home as the sight of his uniform could rouse a few tempers here on board.”