The soldier from the sidecar had taken out a pencil and notebook. He wrote slowly and deliberately, his lips moving, then gestured towards the house with his notebook, pointed to the barn, and said something to his comrade that made them both laugh.
In the barn, the section had flattened themselves. Morgan’s hands were over his ears. Bell’s lips were moving. When Peter looked back, the Germans had re-mounted. Without a backward glance, the driver kicked his machine into life, swung it round and disappeared up the slope.
‘Fall in.’ He hoped he didn’t sound too relieved.
Chapter Three
In the peace of Le Haut, he’d decided not to make a beeline for the channel, moving more or less due north: his instinct was they would find themselves heading into the main German force encircling the British. If they hit the coast further west, there were more fishing villages and Germans would be thinner on the ground. He aimed to stick to minor roads and lanes. The Germans were unlikely to be patrolling those, in any numbers at least. They could also march by day. It meant walking for longer, waiting for longer, holding together for longer, trying to survive for longer—but he was sure his course was right. If they could beg, borrow, steal a vehicle … rob a bicycle shop … get the men on tandems …
****
A final series of bends and they were in the main road he’d seen in the cottage’s old map: one lane on either side, straight like a ruler, traditional poplars lining the edge. A sign pointed one way to Bourbourg-St Omer, the other to St Georges. ‘Right turn. Then look out for a lane on the left. Keep going!’
Open-mouthed, the section were scanning the road. It was empty of traffic but its verges looked as if a giant hand had picked up the contents of a junk shop and scattered them there. They were walking past suitcases, ragged bundles of linen and clothing, wicker baskets stuffed with books, pictures, pots and pans; in the hedge lay a churn, on the edge of the road a grandfather clock. Here a rolled tapestry, a broken pram filled with blankets, a collapsed wheelbarrow piled with bulging sacks of flour. There a bicycle, front wheel twisted, with a child’s pushchair in a trailer; a car in the ditch with two mattresses tied to its roof, on the back seat an empty photo-frame.
‘What’s happened, corp?’ asked Smith. ‘We could set up a flea-market and make a packet.’
‘Refugees abandoning their possessions, I imagine. Keep going. We must get off this road.’
Further on, a bomb had dropped. A dozen bodies, men and women, old and young, were beginning to rot in the sunshine, their shredded possessions scattered into the fields. Three French soldiers were among the dead. A cow lay in the middle of the road, belly distended. Not far from the crater, a tractor and trailer had been blown on to their sides; underneath, the blackened bodies of a middle-aged couple and a young girl surrounded by the shredded remains of slaughtered fowls, flies buzzing round them.
Eyes averted, hands over their noses, the section hurried past. A young black and white collie came out of the fields, shivering, tail between its legs, and attached itself to Peter, resisting all his attempts to order it home.
****
The side-road came soon. The signpost said Les Landes Lauriers was the next village.
The collie followed on Peter’s heels. He reached down and pulled its ears; the shivering had stopped, the tail wagged. The side-road acquired a footpath on one side, then on both sides. Detached houses sprang up, their front gardens planted with neatly laid out rows of vegetables. Then they were in a narrow village street, a row of run-down cottages on either side, a bar with chairs stacked on tables, a padlocked cycle repair shop. Everything appeared closed, uninhabited. Were wary eyes watching them from behind the shutters and lace curtains?
Then they were in the centre, and Peter brought them to a halt, dispersing them round the little cobbled square while he checked it.
A primary school, its iron gates closed. A forbidding granite church. Mass on Sunday mornings, First Communion classes at another church in another village. In front of the church, the Great War memorial, the bare-headed poilu clutching a flag, urging himself forward with a fearful grimace; underneath, a list of the fallen, many sharing surnames. And just on a side turning, a shop with a light showing through its low bow-window: Boulangerie Michel – Pains. The collie trotted towards the bread shop, stopping to look round at Peter as if to beckon him on.
A tinny bell rang when he pushed open the door. The wooden racks behind the counter were half-filled with country loaves; the smell of bread made his mouth water. The collie had run in ahead and sat wagging his tail as a tall, middle-aged woman in a white apron, her greying hair tightly drawn into a beaded hairnet, came out to welcome a customer. ‘Totosh?’ She caught sight of Peter. Her jaw dropped.
****
Madame Michel settled the section in an outhouse at the back of the bakery with water, bread and ham. She invited Peter to sit with her in the bakehouse at a table of polished oak planks, and he had coffee, bread, ham and cheese under a heavy ivory crucifix and a wooden carving of Jesus feeding the five thousand.
The Germans had waltzed round the village, she told him, but many villagers had fled before they’d so much as heard a Boche tank or seen a soldier! Of course, she had stayed: was it not her legal duty to ensure a supply of bread? Her brother Gérard was out searching for flour. She put a dish of water and some scraps of meat down for the collie. ‘Totosh should be with his master. They’re devoted.’
‘Where does he live? Totosh attached himself to us on the Bourbourg road.’
‘A smallholding over the main road. A pretty place.’ As far as she knew, there were no German troops in the vicinity. But if Peter and his men wanted to go west, they would have to cross the river which ran not far from the village and the main bridges were either in German hands or blown up. However, there were small bridges, just footways or for animals. She was sure her brother would lead them to one. A crossing by night would be safer, though. She would see about Totosh.
A little later, her brother returned pushing a bicycle laden with sacks of flour, one on the handlebars, one on the crossbar and another hanging on the rack over the back wheel. ‘Did the British army leave you behind?’ Dressed in a dusty blue overall, he was a bigger, burlier version of his sister, his face red under his cap, his eyes nearly hidden in pudgy features.
‘We were in the rearguard. And now we wish to return to England to carry on the fight against the Boche.’
‘”Carry on”, do you say?’
His sister interrupted him. ‘Gérard, it would be best if you see them safely away. Away across the river and on the next stage of their journey.’
They exchanged a glance and he nodded. ‘Very well. A drink and a bite. Then I’ll put these brave English soldiers on their way.’
****
‘Call your men together.’ The shadows were lengthening when Gérard wiped his mouth and pushed his plate and mug away. He took his bicycle and led them through the darkening fields towards the river.
At the edge of a wood thick with beech and ash he halted them. ‘The footbridge is just a little further on from here. On the other side, you follow the path up, go through the gate and turn left. The lane will take you on to the road to Sainte Marie d’Omer. I will go down to the bridge now and make sure it’s clear on both sides.’ He mounted his cycle. ‘If necessary, I can say I am in search of flour.’ He pedalled off down the track.
Peter moved the section back into the cover of the trees. He hadn’t really trusted Gérard, but here they were, at the bridge. He drew on the tranquillity of the wood around him to curb his impatience. His men shifted on the dry leaves; in the distance, the river gurgled and splashed.
****
Gérard’s laboured breathing announced his return, appearing out of the gloom pushing his bicycle up the track. ‘I have seen no one, I promise you. The bridge is yours. Good luck.’ He went on up the track without another word or a look back.
Peter led the way, single file, down to the r
iver, dully silver in the glow of nightfall, with a half-moon just rising. The fast flowing waters eddied and swirled round black rocks in midstream and reed clumps jutting out from the bank. And there was the promised bridge, just wide enough for a single animal at a time, cast-iron rails and wooden planks stretching into the darkness on the other side. They crouched, straining their eyes and ears for signs of life.
All seemed clear, as Gérard had promised. Quiet as the grave. Even so, he sent them across one at a time at ten-second intervals. ‘Twenty yards up the track, spread out, and keep watch.’ Rifles caught the ironwork making it sing; boots clattered on the planking, then were muffled as they hit the far bank.
Peter paused to listen after the last man crossed. Still nothing. He ran over and up the bank. One obstacle less to worry about. Then he saw the three German soldiers, their machine carbines pointing at him as he blundered into his section, on the ground, tin hats off, hands on heads. Disarmed. Captured.
‘Hände hoch! Keinen Unsinn!’
Chapter Four
His momentum had carried Peter almost up to the soldier, an NCO, who had barked the command. He lifted his useless rifle in the air with both hands and lowered it with deliberation to the ground beside him. Then, moving closer, he did the same with the shotgun, lifting it off his shoulder and bending to put it down. As he stood, he seemed to lose his balance, lurching forward, his right hand brushing his puttee. Recovering, he took one more step, his right arm rising.
And slashing down. The NCO dropped his weapon and clasped his hands to his face and neck. Blood oozed between his fingers. The other two soldiers started towards him. White’s bullet-head drove hard into the midriff of one. He fell, doubled up, winded. Roberts’s boot stamped into his face. Johnson began to kick his head. The third soldier ran, dropping his gun. Peter sprinted after him. The soldier was short and fat; his greatcoat impeded his running. A flying tackle brought him down and he squealed with terror as he fell. His helmet rolled away. Straddling him, Peter seized a rock, lifted it with both hands, poised at full stretch, and hammered it down where the neck met the shaven head. And again. And again. And another—but he caught himself and threw the bloodstained rock to one side. The little soldier was dead; his skull smashed.
‘Didn’t we give him a fuckin’ good one. A fuckin’ good fuckin’ kickin’.’ Roberts and Johnson were doing a war dance round the body of the second soldier, kicked to death. White was rubbing the top of his head. ‘I fuckin’ hit him too high, caught his fuckin’ breastbone, didn’ I?’
Where Peter had slashed the NCO’s face and neck with Podger’s razor, he must have cut the artery. The man had died in minutes.
‘Like a Saturday night in Wapping,’ said Smith.
‘Or Finsbury.’
****
The Germans had laid their ambush well, allowing the first four across – of course they’d hung about together – then picking up the remainder one by one as they came up the path. He held back from saying anything about their failure to disperse or even shout a warning. Possibly they’d just accepted capture, even gladly surrendered, welcoming an end to what must seem an endless march in search of the sea through an alien countryside.
You must make men want to be led and led by you, he thought. Could he do that? Lead them to stand and shout “The sea, the sea”? Know the same joy as those ancient Greek soldiers glimpsing the Black Sea at the end of their march, crying out “Thalatta, thalatta”.
‘Lucky you had the slasher, corp,’ said Smith.
Luck wasn’t quite right. He’d slid it into his puttee in case of trouble with Gérard – and for a fleeting moment he thought of going to teach him a lesson à la Podger. What could the baker’s motive have been? That they’d let the French army down? Getting in with the future occupier? Trading them for flour? He looked at the dead Germans, one’s head kicked in, the other’s face and neck a gaping wound. ‘When they don’t report, their unit will come looking. We must get rid of them and get out.’
After they had heaved the bodies and weapons into the river – did he detect a certain wariness towards him, a certain novel alacrity? – he lingered on the bank for a moment wanting to clear his head. He’d felt nothing for the little German; he’d done to him what had to be done with all the strength he could find. Now he needed to think about himself, about that surging violence and coldness, about the man’s terror, about his finally holding back. He plunged his hands into the river’s swirls and eddies, dashing its cold water against his face. As he shook the water from his head and hands, he became conscious of a presence on the bridge—and that he’d left the shotgun up on the slope. Fine example he’d make. Someone crouching? Gérard, come to check they were captive? An animal? Four paws trotting?
Totosh came off the bridge, trailing a piece of rope from his neck. Frenziedly wagging his tail, he ran to Peter, jumping up to lick his face.
‘Bell, you’re i/c dog. Fall in. Single file. Forward.’
Up the path, through the gate, left. Along the lane. The road. A signpost: Sainte Marie d’Omer. The night air was sweet: new grass, rich earth. The half-moon and starlight showed rolling fields on either side of the road, with clumps of trees outlined on the dark horizon. Ahead, at the top of a long hill, he could see a church tower silhouetted against the clear starry sky. Sainte Marie d’Omer. They were exhausted and edgy from lack of cigarettes, tempers flaring. Best lie up before going on. A tumbledown barn offered refuge.
****
‘Good day to you, messieurs les soldats anglais. How can I help our gallant allies?’
To avoid the walk up the hill towards the church, a straight road, no cover, Peter had taken them round the village and in by a back lane, between an ancient graveyard and the mairie, a red brick building, possibly built as a mill. A middle-sized man in a dark suit had just left the mairie and stood placidly smoking a briar pipe, watching their approach,. He had an egg-shaped head, with ruddy cheeks and a small brown moustache. A few strips of dark hair lay flattened over the balding cranium. Small brown eyes took them in expressionlessly. He tapped his pipe on the sole of his left boot.
Peter replied in English, ‘You could kindly help us on our way to the coast.’
‘I am sorry indeed to tell you this, but you have, as you say, missed the bus. The evacuation of your comrades-in-arms is in the direction opposite, from Dunkerque, and the main German force is between you and the port there, if they have not already taken it. Like everything else.’
‘If we can get to another part of the coast, perhaps we can find a boat. And if you can help us, we, your allies, will be eternally grateful. You are the mayor?’
‘My fellow citizens have accorded me that honour. Edouard Lesort. If you and your men will come with me to my place of work, corporal, I will see what can be done. It is better you are not on the street for too long.’
‘Your English is excellent.’
‘My late mother was English and I am told I have an accent from Lancashire, where she was born but I have never visited.’
This was a more substantial village than Les Landes, but as the section followed the mayor a short distance along the main street, it was the utter difference in atmosphere that surprised Peter – as though there were no war, no German tanks roving freely, no broken allied armies, no streams of refugees. The baker, the butcher, the hairdresser, the Lion Vert hotel-bar, the Café des Sports, the tabac, the charcuterie, all were open. Women with shopping baskets gossiped in the street. Pensioners sat at tables in the café entrance. Did they know how perilous the situation was for France?
‘Your village seems undisturbed?’
‘In my capacity as its mayor I have declared it open. Anyway, by good fortune, the fighting has left us alone. German discipline and national spirit have carried them through so fast and so far. Also the few troops we have seen have behaved completely properly.’
‘We must hope that the Germans will be held further south.’
‘I fear that the rot has gone
too far, the corruption of our national character, the loss of our natural values, displacement of our ancient society. France is being defeated from within as much as without. Perhaps, with the right leadership, the nation will find the opportunity to rekindle her greatness of spirit.’
‘Under the leadership of Prime Minister Reynaud?’
‘You are well informed. Possibly. But true patriots await the call of the old marshal.’
‘Marshal Pétain?’
‘The victor of Verdun. Now perhaps again the saviour of France, the true France. But we have arrived.’
By a succession of side streets and alleys they had almost reached the far edge of the village. A notice board on the railings of a substantial villa announced Menuiserie Lesort 1860.
‘Your business?’
‘And my father’s and grandfather’s before me. Cabinet-making and woodworking.’
Off to one side, making a dead end to the street, were three brick and timber workshops and what looked like a garage. The mayor took them into the central workshop, marked Bureau & Atelier 1, fragrant with freshly cut wood. Three elderly workers in blue overalls put down their tools as their employer came in.
‘Chez vous, mes enfants.’
They went to clean their tools and take off their overalls. ‘A demain, papa.’
‘Now please make yourselves at home.’ Lesort indicated the area at the end of the shed where the workers took their meals. ‘I will arrange some refreshments and then see what can be done to get you to the coast. The privy is behind the atelier.’
Peter posted Simmons to take first watch at the window giving on to the street; the rest could put their feet up, rifles within reach. He walked the length of the workshop, running his hands over the freshly planed and turned wood. At one end was a small office. On the wall behind the desk hung a heavy ivory crucifix and a wooden carving of the infant Jesus in a carpenter’s workshop. An old woman in an apron and a young girl in a smock came in bringing jugs of coffee and lemonade, chunks of bread and cheese, ham, sausage, and slices of apple tart as well as two packets of cigarettes, Gauloises in their traditional blue dress.
Innocence To Die For Page 21