‘Buggered if I know. Tell you something else,’ Dawson pointed at the first initial. ‘I’m bloody sure that don’t stand for “John” or “Joe”. It’ll be “Jeremiah” or “Julian” or something. Come on. Let’s get this over with.’
He knocked briskly, waited until he heard ‘Come’ from inside the office, then pushed open the door and stepped inside, Watson right behind him.
The two men marched smartly into the room and, with a simultaneous crash of their leather-soled boots onto the wooden floor, halted right in front of Jayston’s desk.
‘Lance-Corporals Watson and Dawson, sir. Reporting as ordered,’ Dawson snapped.
Jayston nodded. ‘Very good. Stand at ease. And stand easy.’
The two NCOs relaxed slightly, standing with their legs apart and arms behind their backs.
Jayston picked up a sheet of paper bearing a few lines of text typed in capital letters, the standard format for military messages, glanced at it briefly, then dropped it back onto the desk.
‘Right,’ he said, looking up at the two men in front of him. ‘As I said at ENDEX up on the moor, I’ve already received movement orders for the two of you. You’ll both be leaving here in a couple of days.’
‘Together or separately, sir?’
Jayston shrugged. ‘Both, really,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sent separate sets of orders, but you’re both going to more or less the same place.’
‘Can you tell us where, sir? And what we’ve been volunteered for?’ Dawson asked.
‘I really can’t tell you anything about it, Dawson, for operational reasons,’ Jayston replied, ‘but I can say that your tasking will involve a short sea crossing. And I hope you like snails,’ he added, with a slight smile.
‘France, then?’ Watson muttered.
‘I didn’t actually say that,’ Jayston said sharply. He picked up the sheet of paper and looked again at the typed orders. Then he glanced up at Dawson. ‘I’ve been checking your personnel file. You’ve had an interesting career. I didn’t realize you were a Territorial before you joined the Corps.’
Dawson nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Five years I was in the TA. I really enjoyed it – most of the time. There was a lot of bullshit, of course, but that’s the army, isn’t it? Then I lost my job and joining up seemed like the right thing at the time. I didn’t know Adolf bloody Hitler was going to foul up everything so badly.’
‘You were a demolition engineer?’
Dawson shook his head. ‘Not exactly, sir. By trade I’m a quarry and mining engineer.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘The methods used, really, sir. Demolition engineers here in Britain don’t normally use explosives. If you’re demolishing a house, the usual trick is to knock out a few bricks, put wooden piles inside the holes and then set fire to them. That normally weakens the structure enough to make it collapse if you give it a good hard shove. What I was doing was a lot noisier, and a whole lot quicker. In my job, we drilled holes into coal seams or the walls of a quarry, packed the holes with gelignite, then lit the fuse and buggered off somewhere safe. A few minutes later there was a sodding great bang, and the miners spent the next few days picking up the pieces.’
‘Colourful as ever, Dawson,’ Jayston observed with a slight smile. ‘So you’re an expert with explosives?’
‘I know my way round jelly – gelignite – sir, and dynamite and a few others.’
The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s probably why you’ve been picked for this mission,’ he said.
Dawson pricked up his ears. ‘You mean I’ve got to go and blow something up, sir?’
Jayston smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘If I’m reading this right, it’s absolutely imperative that you don’t blow anything up, and especially not what’s referred to in this tasking order.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will, Dawson, you will. And you, Watson. You’re an engineer as well?’
‘Yes, sir, but I’m the real thing – I built stuff, not blow it up. Bridges, mainly, but anything with a steel frame or skeleton…’ He hesitated. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I’ve got a question, sir, about this bloke Hitler and this war we’ve been dragged into, despite what Mr. Chamberlain reckoned when he waved that bit of paper around.’
‘I’ve got one bit of free advice for you, Dawson – never trust a politician or what he says.’
‘Some of the lads was wondering if it might all be over by Christmas. What do you think, sir?’
‘I’ve no idea, but I think you should be prepared for a lengthy conflict, at least as prolonged as the 1914 War, and maybe even longer. Hitler has shown himself to be a competent military leader, and I very much doubt we’ve seen the last of his territorial ambitions. I think his ultimate aim is a Europe forcibly united under a German flag, and even then he might have his sights set on America. Whatever happens, I think we’re in for a few very hard and very bloody years.’
Jayston glanced at his wristwatch, then picked up two sealed brown envelopes from his desk and handed one to each of the two NCOs. ‘These are your orders,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you don’t understand once you’ve read them, come back and see me as soon as possible. Otherwise, go and get your kit packed. You can take two days’ leave now – that’s tomorrow and the day after – so go out and enjoy yourselves, if that’s possible in Catterick. There’ll be a truck here at five thirty in the morning on the sixth to collect both of you. Dismiss.’
The two lance-corporals were almost at the door before Jayston spoke again.
‘Oh, one other thing, Dawson.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘It’s “Jolyon”, actually,’ the lieutenant said with a smile.
‘Of course it is, sir,’ Dawson muttered as he pulled the office door closed behind him.
* * *
It was just after six in the evening of the 3 September 1939, and what later came to be known as ‘The Phoney War’ had just begun.
Chapter 3
7 September 1939
Four days later, Eddie Dawson hitched his rifle onto his shoulder, picked up his kitbag with his left hand and waited. In front of him, about half a dozen British soldiers made their unsteady way down the gangway of a small and rusty freighter that had been pressed into service as a troopship.
Dawson followed them down, stepped onto the stone-built jetty and marched about fifty yards towards the town of Cherbourg itself. He stopped and lowered his kitbag to the ground, glancing back at the troopship with a feeling of profound relief. The crossing had been one of the most uncomfortable twenty-odd hour periods of his entire life, and hadn’t been helped by the fact that he couldn’t swim and was actually terrified of water.
He shrugged and looked around him. It was the first time he’d ever been out of England, and his initial sight of a foreign country wasn’t particularly impressive. As far as he could see, Cherbourg didn’t look a hell of a lot different from Dover.
Now he was on his own. According to the orders he’d been given at Catterick, he had to find a cavalry officer – a Major Sykes of the Royal Scots Greys – and report to him. Then, perhaps, he might find out what he was doing in France.
The quayside was crowded with men – and just a handful of women – wearing uniforms and battledress and coats in a variety of designs and shades, different stripes and badges and colours indicating their nationalities, ranks and regiments. Some were standing in groups, others marching in formation to unknown destinations, directed by bellowing NCOs, while most of the remainder walked about with an air of purpose, several carrying clip-boards, pieces of paper or unidentifiable objects in boxes and bags. Numerous trucks and a few tanks flexed the muscles of their internal-combustion engines, the roar of their big diesel and petrol engines adding a deep bass counterpoint to the constant buzz of conversation, shouted orders and the sounds of marching feet, while their exhausts belched thick clouds of black and blue smoke that hung over the scene to form a persiste
nt noxious miasma.
Around the edge of the dockyard area, several groups of civilians stood and watched the apparent confusion of organized chaos with a world-weary air. A number of them wore dark-blue berets, which immediately identified them to Dawson’s wholly untrained eyes as obvious French locals.
A bellow from behind snapped him out of his reverie.
‘You there! You, the lazy sod just standing about. Move yourself!’
Dawson spun round, grabbed his kitbag and stepped quickly to one side as a squad of men marched past, the senior NCO in charge giving him a nasty look and another mouthful of abuse for good measure.
He shook his head and pulled a buff envelope containing a well-creased sheet of paper out of his pocket. He looked again at the brief typed sentences, a masterpiece of unambiguous military brevity that completely failed to suggest where Dawson might find Major Sykes, other than somewhere at the French seaport.
In fact, Dawson realized, reading the orders once more, all he actually knew was that Major Sykes was an officer in the Royal Scots Greys, a cavalry regiment. But obviously he had to start looking, so he slung the Lee-Enfield on his shoulder, grabbed his kitbag, glanced around again and selected a group of about half a dozen junior officers standing some fifty yards away.
He marched over to them, dropped his kitbag and snapped off the sharpest salute he could manage, encumbered as he was by the rifle.
One of the officers – Dawson could tell from his insignia that he was a lieutenant in an artillery regiment – lifted his swagger-stick to the peak of his cap in a lazy acknowledgement and looked at Dawson enquiringly.
‘Yes, Corporal? What is it?’
‘I’m looking for a Major Sykes, sir,’ Dawson said, pulling the printed order from his pocket and offering it to the lieutenant.
‘Regiment?’ one of the other officers snapped.
‘I’m a Royal Engineer, sir.’
‘Not you, you idiot. I can see what you are. I mean, what regiment is Sykes in?’
‘Sorry, sir. In the Royal Scots Greys, sir. That’s a cavalry regiment.’
The lieutenant looked at Dawson to see if he was being facetious, decided he wasn’t, and grunted. ‘Well, what are you here to do? No work for a sapper around here as far as I know, or not yet anyway.’
A couple of the officers smiled slightly at his remark.
‘I’m an engineer,’ Dawson said. ‘I’ve been sent here to assess something called the Marginot Line.’ That was the only other piece of information his orders had provided him with, and it had left Dawson largely in the dark because he had never heard the name before. But he’d decided it was some kind of defence project because the name was followed by the word ‘fortifications’.
‘The what?’
‘The Marginot Line, sir,’ Dawson repeated. ‘I think that’s what it’s called, and it’s a group of forts.’
‘He means the Maginot Line. The last great hope of the fucking Frogs,’ the lieutenant said, with a sarcastic laugh. ‘So why’s a lance-corporal been sent to France to look at a static defence project that was suggested by a “Marshal of the Nation” but which probably won’t work and cost the French government something like seven billion francs to construct?’
Dawson shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything about that, sir. My orders are only to look at these fortifications and assess them.’
‘Assess what?’
‘How easy it would be to demolish them, I suppose, sir. That’s what I do – I blow things up, sir.’
‘Well, take my advice, sapper,’ the lieutenant said, glancing again at the typed order before passing the paper back to Dawson. ‘If you think the Maginot Line fortifications aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, make sure there aren’t any French about before you tell anyone, because most of les Frogs think their cloches will be quite enough to stop the German advance in its tracks.’
‘“Clutches”, sir?’
‘No – cloches. It means “bell” in French. They’re the armoured steel bits of the Maginot Line that hold all the guns and stuff. There are about fifteen hundred of them altogether.’
‘Right, sir. Thanks, sir. And Major Sykes?’
‘I’m pretty sure that’s him over there,’ the lieutenant said and pointed at a short, dapper-looking officer with a small but perfectly trimmed moustache, a kitbag beside him, who was looking with interest at a couple of Morris trucks that had just stopped on the jetty, their engines rattling and wheezing into silence.
Dawson nodded his thanks, picked up his kitbag again and marched across to the officer. He saluted, and noted the officer’s cap-badge – an eagle standing on a pedestal bearing the name ‘Waterloo’ and a scroll with the words ‘Royal Scots Greys’ below that.
‘Major Sykes?’ he asked, and the officer nodded. ‘I’m Lance-Corporal Dawson, sir,’ he added and proffered the typed orders he’d been given.
For a few moments, Sykes didn’t respond, just took the sheet of paper and read it carefully, then looked at the man standing in front of him. Dawson was just under six feet tall, strongly built with dark hair and features that at first glance appeared to have been hacked from something like granite by somebody using a fairly blunt chisel.
‘You’re late,’ Sykes said, handing back the paper.
‘I know, sir. The troopship was very late arriving here, and I didn’t know where to find you. All I had was your rank, name and regiment, sir.’ Dawson gestured meaningfully at the crowds of soldiers milling around them.
‘You should have used your initiative.’
‘I did. That’s why I’m standing here now. Sir,’ Dawson added, the final word a distinct afterthought.
Sykes stared at him for a moment, then smiled slowly. ‘Good,’ he muttered. ‘I like soldiers with a bit of spirit. I think we’ll get on well, don’t you? Right, let’s go.’
‘Hang on a minute, sir,’ Dawson said. ‘I still don’t have any idea what I’m supposed to be doing over here. All I’ve been told is it’s something to do with this thing called the Marginot Line.’
‘Maginot,’ Sykes said, correcting Dawson’s hard ‘g’ pronunciation. ‘Named after the French Minister of Defence, André Maginot. It’s a line of forts and gun emplacements the French built along their northern and eastern borders. They think it makes their country impregnable to attack by either the Germans or the Italians. It’s our job to see if they’re right, or if it’s just the single most expensive and pointless mistake in the history of modern warfare.’
‘Where is it, then, this line of forts?’
‘Basically, it runs along most of the north-eastern borders France shares with other European nations, from Switzerland to Luxembourg. Obviously that includes Germany, but there’s also a line along the Italian border, and in the north-west it links up with a similar set-up they’ve got in Belgium. Building it was a huge undertaking.’
‘So which bit of the Maginot Line are we going to look at?’
‘Oddly enough, none of it. We’re heading for Lille, but the Maginot Line actually stops near a town called Montmédy, which is miles away, down near Luxembourg.’
Dawson’s face reflected his confusion. ‘So what are we …’ His voice trailed off into silence.
‘It’s simple,’ Sykes explained. ‘The French built this line of forts that finishes at Montmédy, but the reason they stopped there was because the Belgians already had a defensive line that ran all the way from Montmédy to the Channel coast, and another one that ran up the eastern border it shares with Germany. The Maginot Line itself would be a tough nut to crack, but most of the forts along France’s northern border are a relic from the Great War. They’re obviously less secure, and it’s those we’ve been sent here to inspect.’
‘But why me, sir?’ Dawson asked, sounding slightly over-awed. ‘I know my way round gelignite, but I’m just a lance-corporal. I’ve only been in the Corps for a few months. There must be other people better qualified than me.’
Sykes shook his head firmly. �
��Oddly enough, there aren’t. You’ve been sent out here because as far as explosives and demolition work are concerned you’re probably the most experienced person in the whole British army, entirely because of your work in civvy street. Your job is quite simple and straightforward. We want you to look at the way this defensive line has been built and see if destroying parts of it using explosives would be a viable option for the Germans, and if that would allow them to breach the French defences. That’s all. If you think it would be fairly easy to destroy some sections, then maybe the powers that be will try to reinforce the line, but that won’t be our decision.’
‘And will I be reporting to you, sir, or someone else?’
Sykes smiled. ‘To me, Dawson, of course, because I’m the other half of the equation. You’re the explosives expert; I’m the tactics man. My job is to work out if the Germans could bypass or neutralize these defences using some other method.’
‘So it’s just the two of us, then?’
‘Can you drive?’ Sykes asked, an apparent non-sequitur.
Dawson nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Right, then it will be just the two of us. Grab your kitbag and mine, and put them in the back of that truck over there.’ Sykes pointed at the first of the two Morris lorries that had stopped a few yards away. ‘Then get behind the wheel.’
Dawson nodded, picked up both kitbags and deposited them in the rear of the truck as Sykes had ordered, then climbed up into the cab. He stowed his rifle behind the seat where it would be within easy reach, then glanced across at the major, who was already sitting in the other seat, a detailed map of France open on his lap.
‘You’d already arranged for us to use this vehicle, then, sir?’ Dawson asked as the engine spluttered into life.
‘Perhaps “arranged” is putting it a little strongly,’ Sykes replied, another smile on his face. ‘Just get it moving, will you?’
Dawson nodded, engaged first gear and released the clutch. As he did so, he heard shouts from somewhere behind them, shouts that were audible even over the noise of the Morris’s engine, and glanced behind him to see a large sergeant running towards the lorry, gesticulating and shaking his fist.
To Do or Die Page 2