‘That’ll do,’ Dawson said, and climbed over the roots into the partially concealed opening, Watson following behind him.
When both men crouched down, they were completely invisible, except from directly above.
‘What’s on the menu for dinner?’ Watson asked, as they settled down and dusk began turning the surrounding trees into dark and menacing monochrome shapes.
‘That’s the problem, mate. I’ve got one small bar of chocolate in my pocket. What’ve you got?’
‘Sweet FA. Nothing,’ Watson admitted.
‘You’re welcome to share this,’ Dawson offered, pulling out a small foil-wrapped packet from a pocket. ‘We’ll have to find some food tomorrow.’
For a couple of minutes they sat in silence, chewing the chocolate, then Dawson spoke again.
‘I don’t think we can both go to sleep at the same time, Dave, not out here. It’s just after eight now. If you try and get your head down, I’ll wake you up at two, and then we’ll change over. Or would you rather take the first watch?’
Watson shook his head. ‘No, I’m whacked, so I’ll have no trouble getting to sleep now. But are you OK? I mean, can you stay awake for the next six hours?’
‘I’ll do my best, mate. If I don’t think I can keep my eyes open any longer, I’ll give you a shake – fair enough?’
‘Yeah, no problem. God, what I wouldn’t give for a brew-up right now,’ Watson muttered, turning onto his side at the bottom of the hollow and closing his eyes. ‘I’ll probably dream about tea and scran, crap though it usually is.’
Dawson chuckled, then stood up and moved to one side of the hollow, where a protruding root offered a reasonable seat. He checked the Mauser rifle, ensuring that the magazine was fully charged and that there was a cartridge in the chamber, and did the same with his Schmeisser MP 40 machine-pistol. Then he placed both weapons so that they were within easy reach, took his seat on the root and leant back against the trunk of the fallen tree. He scanned all around him, glanced down at Watson, who was already snoring softly, then back out at the darkening forest.
It was going to be a very long and boring night, but, as far as Dawson was concerned, the quieter and more boring it turned out to be, the better.
Chapter 22
13 September 1939
‘What time is it?’ Dawson asked, as Watson shook him by the shoulder.
‘Just gone eight.’
‘Breakfast?’
‘Pull the other one, mate. But it’s time we started moving, I reckon.’
Dawson stood up and stretched his aching limbs. He’d slept quite well, since Watson had relieved him at two in the morning, but the hollow was far from comfortable, and he seemed to have knots in every muscle. But once he started moving, he guessed he’d quickly work out the kinks.
He looked round to check the position of the sun, the light from which was visible, streaming between the trunks of the closely grouped trees. He glanced at his watch, looked back over to the east and nodded.
‘We’ll start with the sun at our backs,’ he said, scanning the horizon in front of him. They were near the edge of the wood, a patchwork of fields and small groups of trees laid out across the wide valley that opened up before them. ‘If we make for that copse over there’ – he pointed – ‘that should be pretty much right: a bearing of about north-west.’
The two men picked up their weapons and the mines, made a careful check of the terrain in front of them, then stepped forward. As they made their way slowly down the slope, moving away from the forest, they kept under cover as much as they could, using the contours of the land to keep out of sight. There were trees and undergrowth and even ditches that they could see in front of them, all of which they could use as they made their way down the hill.
At the bottom of the slope that delineated the edge of the forest was a small stream, little more than a brook, the water trickling down a slope that wound its way through the remaining trees and bushes.
‘God, that looks good,’ Watson muttered. ‘I’m parched.’ He looked round carefully, checking for any danger, then lowered the bag of mines and his machine-pistol to the ground, trotted forward and bent over the clear, fresh water. He cupped his hands, filled his palms with water and drank greedily. Then he did the same again and finally splashed the cold water over his face.
‘Fucking shame we haven’t got a bottle or something,’ he said, as Dawson bent over the stream and took a drink.
‘We’ll have to find something,’ Dawson said. ‘We can’t rely on running across a stream every few hours. Keep your eyes open as we walk through the farmland. Perhaps we’ll find a can or something down there that we can use.’
* * *
By mid-morning they were well beyond the copse Dawson had used for his initial navigation, and now heading in a more northerly direction, working their way through fields and along hedgerows. They were moving as cautiously as ever, checking all around them every few paces, but still they hadn’t seen anyone – not a soldier, or even a farmer or farm labourer. The whole area seemed to be deserted.
They reached the corner of a field, where the hedgerow they’d been using for cover ended, and looked out over the fields in front of them. Most had clearly been cultivated over the year, but had now, at the end of the summer, apparently been abandoned until the spring. But there was still no sign of life, human or even animal.
‘Fucking odd, this,’ Watson commented, staring across the fairly level stretch of land lying to the north. ‘You’d have thought we’d at least see a few cows or sheep or something. It’s as if the whole area’s been evacuated.’
Dawson nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘and I’ve just remembered what Lieutenant Charnforth told us when he gave us that briefing on the tactical situation. He said the Frogs had advanced slowly, against almost no Jerry opposition, and that they’d captured a few villages that had already been evacuated. I think that’s what happened here. The Germans must have seen that the French forces were gathering on the border and decided to pull everyone back a few miles for safety.’
‘Farmers and other civilians as well as soldiers, you mean? And their farm animals too?’
‘Maybe. Or perhaps all these farms just grew crops, not raised sheep or cattle. I don’t bloody know. But I suppose from a tactical point of view a full withdrawal makes sense. With everyone cleared out of this area, when the German army appeared to push the French back over the border, they wouldn’t have to worry about any civilian casualties, because there wouldn’t be any civilians here. And that’s good for us.’
Watson nodded agreement. ‘Definitely, because I’m bloody famished. Let’s find a farmhouse somewhere and see what they’ve got in the larder.’
‘That’s a fucking good idea,’ Dawson said. He looked ahead and all around them, then pointed slightly over to the right of their intended route. ‘I think that’s the roof of a building over there. Let’s head across that way and check it out.’
There was no cover they could use as they crossed the open field, so the two men separated and followed as unpredictable a course as they could, just in case there were any snipers watching them. They weaved from side to side, and varied their pace so that the presented the most difficult targets possible. But there were no shots, no apparent threat, and they quickly reached the far side of the field and gratefully melted into the welcoming gloom and temporary safety of another small stand of trees.
They were then much closer to the building Dawson had spotted and crossed to the edge of the copse to check it out. Ensuring they remained hidden in the trees, the two men stood and stared at their objective.
What Dawson had seen was actually the roof of a small barn, the door of which was facing them and standing open. Inside they could see what looked like various pieces of farm machinery, ploughs and the like, none of them of the slightest interest to the two sappers. But beyond and to one side of the barn was a farmhouse, or a farm cottage, to be exact.
It was fairly s
mall and square, constructed of stone under a tiled roof. It had a central wooden door in the wall facing the two sappers, flanked by one window on either side, with three windows in a line above. There was a second door and window, with two other windows above, in the side wall that they could see at an oblique angle.
‘It looks to me like it’s all locked up,’ Watson murmured, shading his eyes as he looked across at the building. ‘All the windows and doors are closed, and there’s no sign of life.’
‘I agree. That’s good for us. OK, we’ll go quickly but carefully. Leave the bag of mines here in the wood, where we can pick them up later, and we’ll take the rifle and the machine-pistols.’
‘What do we do if there’s anyone inside the house?’ Watson asked, as they got ready to move.
‘We don’t kill civilians,’ Dawson said firmly. ‘If the farmer or his family are in there, the Schmeissers should be enough to persuade them to keep quiet while we take what we need. And we’ll only take food and drink – no looting. If we have to, we can tie them up or lock them in the cellar or something. But let’s hope that the place is as deserted as it looks. OK, Dave. Keep your eyes open, and cover me with the rifle. If you see anything suspicious, when I stop and look back at you, just wave and point at it. But if it’s a Jerry soldier, just shoot him and then we’ll leg it.’
Dawson went first, sprinting across the seventy yards or so of level ground that separated the open barn from the wood. He reached the side of the building opposite the farmhouse and stopped there for a few seconds to catch his breath. Then he crept along the side of the barn and peered around the corner. There was nobody in sight. He glanced back towards Watson, who remained motionless at the edge of the copse, the Mauser rifle held in his hands.
Dawson looked behind him, down the side of the building. Nobody in sight. Then he stepped around the corner and took six swift paces that brought him to the open door. He peered around the door into the barn, then stepped cautiously inside the structure, his machine-pistol held at the ready.
As he’d guessed when he’d studied the building from his vantage point amongst the trees, the barn was full of various types of farm machinery, almost none of which he recognized. More importantly, it was entirely empty of human beings, and had the indefinable air of having been deserted for some time.
Even though he was sure he was wasting his time, Dawson checked everywhere in the building, looking in every corner and behind every piece of machinery, before he relaxed, walked back to the open door and waved for Watson to join him.
‘Empty?’ Watson demanded, as he stepped inside.
‘Yes. No sign of recent activity at all.’
Dawson walked over to one corner of the barn, where he’d spotted a cluttered work-bench. He rested his machine-pistol on the ground and started rooting through the tools he saw there. If both of the farmhouse doors were locked, they were going to need something to force one of them, and something a bit more discreet than a stream of nine-millimetre bullets from one of the Schmeissers.
He found nothing suitable on the bench itself, but hanging on the wall behind it was a short crowbar, twisted and rusty, but still serviceable. That would be ideal. Dawson lifted it off its nail and slipped it into his belt.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get over to the house. Same routine, right? I’ll go first, while you keep watch. Then I’ll cover you from the house.’
The farmhouse was only about forty yards away from the barn, but there was no cover at all between the two buildings, just a wide-open space, the ground rutted and marked with tracks made by wheels and the hooves of animals. In front of the house was a small garden, perhaps used for growing vegetables, bounded by a low hedge, but that was the only cover Dawson could see. And the hedge was very close to the house itself, and would offer only a measure of concealment for him. Anyone looking out of the windows on the top floor of the cottage would probably be able to see him clearly, even if he was crouched down behind it.
‘I’ll make a dash for that hedge,’ he said. ‘Keep your eyes on the upstairs windows, and yell if you see any movement up there.’
Watson moved over to a position from which he had a clear view of the house, lifted the Mauser to cover the building – if there was a soldier up there, he needed the extra accuracy the rifle offered – and nodded.
Dawson stepped out of the barn door, paused for a second to take a swift glance around him, then sprinted towards the farmhouse, dodging and weaving from side to side as he ran.
He made it to the hedge, ducked down and glanced back. Watson was still standing in the doorway of the barn, rifle at the ready, but gave no sign that he’d seen anything to alarm him. Dawson eased up and peered over the hedge at the farmhouse. Everything still looked quiet, so he stood erect, dodged around the end of the hedge, crossed the few feet to the wall of the house itself and flattened himself against it.
Again he looked back at Watson, who simply gave him a thumbs-up sign. Dawson stepped to the corner of the building and glanced at the side door, then strode down to it. He looked round yet again, grasped the door handle, turned it and pushed his shoulder against the old wood. He wasn’t surprised when the door refused to yield, and it was a further confirmation, of a sort, that the place was deserted.
Dawson walked back to the main door of the farmhouse. That, too, was locked, so he retraced his steps. Breaking open the side door would be less obvious than forcing the one at the front of the house, and might even be a bit easier.
He waved to Watson to come across to the house and then, while his colleague kept a lookout, he pulled the crowbar from his belt, rammed the point into the space between the door and the jamb, right beside the handle and lock, and levered. The old door creaked, but held firm, so Dawson changed the position of the crowbar slightly and pushed again. He did that three times and then, with a crack that seemed to echo around the valley, the door gave, slamming open to crash back against the inner wall.
‘Well,’ Watson said, as Dawson tucked the crowbar back into his belt. ‘If there is anyone inside, that should have woken them up, no problem.’
‘The place is empty, Dave. It has to be,’ Dawson said, picking up the MP 40 and leading the way inside. ‘You take upstairs. I’ll do the ground floor.’
Two minutes later, Watson rejoined his fellow sapper, who was standing in the kitchen, a canvas bag on the table in front of him, his machine-pistol next to it. Behind him, the door to the larder stood open.
‘I’ve checked the larder and the store cupboards, and there’s not a lot here, Dave. It looks like the occupants of this place cleared out most of the food before they left. But we will be able to eat. I’ve found three big dried sausages – though fuck knows what they’ve got in them – and a couple of jars with some kind of beans in them. It’s not a lot, but is should keep us going for a day or two. And I’ve grabbed a couple of spoons and a sharp knife.’
‘And we need something to drink out of as well,’ Watson said. ‘Are there any empty jars or anything in there?’
‘Yeah. I picked up a couple of glass jars. They’ve got screw-on lids, so we can use those. Here,’ he said, picking them up and passing them over to Watson. ‘I haven’t filled them yet, but there’s a pump out there in the yard, so why don’t you do the honours?’
Watson carried the two jars outside to a small pump close to the house, cranked the handle until water ran out of the nozzle, then filled the two jars and walked back into the kitchen.
‘I reckon they only hold about a pint each,’ he said, handing the jars to Dawson, ‘but having them means we can refill them in streams or pools.’
Dawson packed the jars away in the canvas bag he’d found. ‘We ought to drink more water right now,’ he suggested. ‘We’ve still got a long way to go, and we’ve had hardly any liquid for the last twenty-four hours.’
‘Good idea.’ Watson stepped into the larder and selected another couple of glass jars that looked reasonably clean. He was heading for the kitchen do
or with them in his hands when he glanced out of the window and froze.
‘Eddie,’ he said. ‘Come here. We’ve got company.’
Chapter 23
13 September 1939
Dawson strode the few paces across the kitchen to the window and looked out’
‘There,’ Watson said, pointing.
About a hundred yards away, a German soldier was walking through the field, his rifle held at the ready. Fifty yards further away was another soldier, and another one beyond him, a small patrol of men walking more or less in line abreast. It was obvious they were searching for something, and Dawson didn’t need too much thought to guess what their object was.
‘Shit!’ he muttered. ‘How many are there altogether?’
‘I can see three, but I’ll bet there are at least a dozen of them.’
‘We can’t fight that many,’ Dawson decided immediately. ‘Not just the two of us, with the weapons and ammunition we’ve got. I’ll bet they’re after us, and they’ve probably been ordered to check all the buildings in this area. We’ll have to barricade the side door and hope they think the farmhouse is still locked up and deserted. Come on.’
Dawson grabbed the canvas bag and put it on the floor, out of sight of the window, then followed Watson out of the room. The lock on the side door was still intact, but the strike plate had been ripped out of the jamb when Dawson had forced the door with the crowbar. They had no time to try and replace it – even if it had been possible to do so.
‘Bugger,’ Watson said, looking at the door. ‘No bolts. That would have been just too bloody convenient. I’ll get a kitchen chair. That should do it.’
He returned a few moments later, carrying a heavy wooden chair. Together, the two men held the door closed, then jammed the back of the chair under the handle and forced the legs as close to the door as they could. If somebody tried the door from the outside, it wouldn’t feel quite as secure as if the lock was still in place, but the door certainly wouldn’t open. All they could hope was that, if the German soldiers did check the security of the farmhouse, they’d be convinced that it was still locked up and empty, and just move on somewhere else.
To Do or Die Page 13