But even before the crack of the grenade’s detonation, Dawson was up and running, running for his life, through the forest to the south, looking for another spot he could use for an ambush.
Shots echoed from behind him, but none came close. He guessed that the Germans soldiers were still stunned by the blast of the grenade and either couldn’t see him or couldn’t aim accurately enough to hit him.
A couple of hundred yards further on, Dawson skidded to a halt at the edge of a small clearing and looked back, but saw no sign of pursuit. He glanced at his watch and checked the position of the sun, to ensure that he was still heading in the right direction, then ran on, trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and the Germans, because he knew they wouldn’t give up the chase. He guessed they were regrouping before they followed him.
And then another thought struck him. Unless the SS officer had positioned a second line of soldiers further south – and Dawson didn’t think there were enough troops to let him do that – he, Watson and Celine were now through the line. There should be no enemy forces in front of them so, as long as they kept moving, and kept moving faster than their pursuers, who should now be more cautious, they had a chance of making it to the border.
Dawson grinned to himself. There were a lot of ‘shoulds’ in that scenario, but for almost the first time since he and Celine had run away from the farmhouse, he thought they had a real chance of making it.
Twenty minutes later, he caught up with the other two. Watson was still walking, largely unaided, and Celine was checking behind them constantly, looking out for any danger.
‘Thank God, Eddie,’ Watson muttered, as Dawson fell into step beside them.
‘Just keep going, mate, and we’ll be OK. How far to the border now, Celine?’
‘Not that far,’ she replied. ‘Maybe two or three kilometres.’
‘That’s less than two miles,’ Dawson mused. ‘About an hour, then. Right, I’ve not seen any Jerries since the shoot-out. I’ll stop somewhere in a few minutes while you two get a bit ahead of me, just in case they’re catching us up.’
A dense clump of bushes provided the most suitable location Dawson could find, and again he settled down, acting as a sniper, to watch for any pursuit. But again the forest seemed quiet. He could neither hear nor see any sign of enemy troops. After about ten minutes, Dawson stood up cautiously and moved on.
‘I think we’ve lost them,’ he said, fifteen minutes later, when he caught up with Celine and Watson once again.
‘Are you sure?’ Celine sounded doubtful, at best. ‘You think they just gave up, after everything?’
‘Maybe,’ Dawson said. ‘They know we’re somewhere in this forest, but they don’t know where. So, at the moment, we have the advantage, not them. They know we’re armed, because I’ve just ambushed them. If they try to move quickly, they know they could run into another hail of bullets or get a grenade thrown at them, so they have to take it slowly. I think we’ve simply out-distanced them.’
‘God, I hope you’re right, Eddie.’ Watson sounded desperate. The pace he and Celine had been walking had obviously taken it out of him.
‘There is maybe another reason,’ Celine suggested, and both men turned to look at her.
‘They could be trying to get ahead of us again, you mean?’ Dawson said.
‘It is possible. I destroy their truck, but they may move quickly through the forest, but to the west, to cut us off before we get to the border. That maybe is why you have seen no soldiers.’
‘Right,’ said Dawson decisively. ‘We can’t be more than about half a mile from the border. We’ll keep going, but a bit slower. Keep your eyes and ears open.’
They covered the next 500 yards or so in complete silence, listening for any sounds that seemed out of place.
Then Celine stopped suddenly and stared over to her right.
‘What is it?’ Dawson hissed.
‘A soldier. I am sure I saw a soldier over there.’
‘How far away?’
‘Maybe a hundred metres. I just saw him through the trees.’
For a moment, Dawson stared in the direction Celine was pointing, then made a decision.
‘We’ll do the same routine,’ he said, unslinging the rifle from his shoulder. ‘There’s enough cover here for me to hide. You two go on and I’ll watch your backs. Take it slowly and quietly, OK?’
Celine nodded and led Watson away, taking advantage of the undergrowth and foliage to avoid being seen, and continued walking steadily towards the border.
Dawson ducked into cover beside a tree, a position that offered him a good view of the wooded area that lay to the west of his position, checked his rifle and prepared the last stick grenade for throwing.
But before he saw any of the soldiers, one of the Germans obviously spotted Celine and Watson. A shout in German was followed by a single rifle shot from the west, and then two more. Dawson still had no target in sight.
He had no idea if either Celine or Watson had been hit, or even killed, but he knew he had to draw the fire somehow.
He sighted roughly where he thought the shots were coming from – difficult in a forest, where the sound tends to bounce off tree trunks – and squeezed the trigger.
Almost instantly, a volley of shots peppered the undergrowth around him, the bullets being fired from at least two positions. It looked as if the Germans had positioned themselves in a north-south line, and the three of them had walked right into the trap.
Dawson snapped off another couple of rounds, but he still had no visible targets. There was really only one course of action left to him. He wriggled backwards out of his hiding place, pulled the cord on the stick grenade, threw it as hard and as far as he could over to the west, then turned and ran, dodging left and right as he did so.
The crack of the grenade exploding was loud in his ears, and was followed almost immediately by volleys of shots. Dawson knew he was presenting a difficult target, running and weaving through the trees, altering his path every couple of seconds, but even so, some of the bullets came very close to him, smashing into the trunks of the trees as he ran past them.
Then he felt a massive blow on the right side of his chest, a blow that knocked him sideways. Dawson tumbled to the ground, rolling over and over on the forest floor, and then lay still, lying flat on his back, his eyes open and staring at the green canopy of leaves high above him.
Chapter 47
16 September 1939
For an instant, Dawson assumed he was dying. The pain in his side was excruciating – it felt as if every rib was broken. He reached around his chest with his left hand, feeling for the blood and the entry wound he was sure were there. But there was nothing to feel, only his tattered battledress jacket.
Then he glanced over at the rifle. The stock was shattered, and the weapon useless. Obviously the bullet fired by the German soldier had smashed into it. That had driven the wood into his side, and the impact probably had cracked a rib or two. But Dawson knew he was lucky to be alive. A couple of inches higher or lower and he’d have been killed.
He peered cautiously over to the west, where the shot had come from, but could see nobody. He couldn’t stay where he was – sooner or later one of the enemy soldiers would run over to him – and he now had virtually no weapons at all. Dawson climbed to his knees, then straightened up cautiously, his breathing shallow as he attempted to come to terms with the pain in his side.
So he ran, because that was the only option left to him. He didn’t run fast, because he couldn’t, but he weaved and ducked and dived as much as possible. Shots followed him, but none hit him.
And then another weapon fired, from somewhere in front of him, and, for an instant, Dawson assumed the worst, that enemy soldiers had somehow worked their way around to cut him off and that he was caught in the cross-fire. Then he realized the shot hadn’t been fired at him, but at the Germans. A few seconds later Dawson hobbled past Celine, who was leaning against a tree and aim
ing her rifle at their enemy.
‘Go,’ she said, and fired another round. ‘Dave is back there.’
The two sappers – both staggering and reeling, but for different reasons – dodged through the forest, desperately searching for sanctuary as the bullets howled around them.
In front of them, the trees grew thicker, and the two men plunged between them, into deeper cover. Almost immediately the sound of shooting seemed to diminish. Dawson knew they were now invisible to the German troops.
They walked on as quickly as they could, then Dawson grabbed Watson’s arm and dragged him to a halt beside a tree.
‘Look there, mate,’ he said, pointing ahead and to the right. ‘Tank traps.’
In the clearing that lay in front of them, rows of vertical steel girders protruded from the ground, like some bizarre farmer’s crop.
‘That must be the Maginot Line, Dave, the first layer of defence. There’ll be minefields and all the rest somewhere in front of us. We’ll have to go carefully, stay in the trees.’
Seconds later, Celine ran up to them and skidded to a halt.
Dawson pointed at the tank traps and opened his mouth to say something, but Celine beat him to it.
‘That is the beginning of the Maginot Line,’ she said. ‘I know where we are now. Follow me.’
She led the way through the wood, keeping close to the larger trees. On one side another open area appeared, and she pointed towards it.
‘That is a minefield,’ she said, and glanced at Dawson, who looked at her quizzically. ‘I saw the French digging the holes two years ago,’ she explained, ‘until they saw me and chased me away.’
She weaved her way through the trees, the two sappers right behind her. Intermittent shots still rang out from behind them, but none of the bullets came close to them.
Then they came to another open area on their right, coils of barbed wire strung across it. On the far side, a low object loomed up, a curved slab of concrete topped with a circular turret from which the muzzle of a heavy machine-gun protruded, and suddenly Dawson realized that they were in France.
‘That’s a Maginot Line fort,’ he said, his voice exultant. ‘We’ve bloody made it!’
‘Not yet,’ Celine snapped. ‘Stay behind me.’
They followed her around the edge of the clearing, keeping to the trees and heavy undergrowth.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dawson noticed movement at the fort and glanced over towards it. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.
‘Celine,’ he called urgently. ‘Stop.’
He pointed at the fort, and they could all see that the turret had traversed to follow them, the barrel of a heavy machine-gun pointing directly at where they were standing.
Dawson lowered his rifle to the ground, and motioned to the other two to do the same. Then all three of them raised their hands to show that they were unarmed.
‘Be a bastard if we were shot now,’ Watson muttered.
They continued walking around the edge of the clearing heading towards the fort, the machine-gun still traversing to follow them.
Then another burst of fire echoed from somewhere behind them and the weapon lifted and pointed back into the forest. It spat a stream of heavy-calibre bullets into the trees, the thunderous roar of the machine-gun drowning out the sound of sporadic rifle fire.
Moments later, the rifle fire ceased altogether. Not even crack German troops fancied their chances against such armament and such a fortification.
Two minutes later, safe in the trees on the French side of the fort, Dawson looked at his fellow sapper and grinned. ‘Bloody safe at last,’ he said. ‘I never thought we’d do it.’
‘I did. I had faith in you – and in Celine, of course,’ Watson replied, turning to look at the girl. ‘Thank God you found her.’
‘Yes. We’d never had done this without you.’
Celine nodded, but didn’t speak, just stepped towards them and kissed each man gently on the lips. She moved back just as an officer and half a dozen soldiers appeared from behind her, their rifles aimed straight at the two British soldiers.
* * *
Two hours later, Watson and Dawson sat side-by-side on a wooden bench in a French army camp, the remains of a decent meal on the table in front of them, Celine sitting opposite them. She’d explained to the French officer what had happened and, once their identities had been established from their paybooks, the two men had been allowed to wash and shave, and then the three of them sat down to eat.
‘What will you do now, Celine?’ Dawson asked. ‘Go back to the farm?’
She shook her head. ‘There is nothing for me there now. I think the Germans will invade Luxembourg though we are neutral. I will stay here in France. Maybe I can help the war effort. And you two? Back to the army, I think?’
‘Yes,’ Dawson said. ‘We’ll have to explain what happened to us – we’ve probably been listed as “missing in action” by now, so we’ll have to sort that out. And I’ve got a bit of unfinished business to attend to back there.’
* * *
As evening was falling, a British army lorry rattled to a stop in the French camp.
Dawson looked at it, then back at Celine. ‘You’ll be OK?’ he asked.
‘I take care of myself, Eddie,’ she replied.
Dawson grinned. ‘I’ve noticed that,’ he said. ‘Maybe we’ll meet again. Perhaps when all this is over.’
‘Perhaps. You never know.’
Celine kissed him again, a lingering embrace that Dawson wished would last forever, then stepped back.
‘You had better go now,’ she said quietly.
The two sappers climbed on board the lorry and lowered their aching bodies onto the hard wood bench seats in the back. They stared behind them as the truck pulled away, Dawson with his eyes fixed on Celine’s face until the vehicle swung round a corner and she was lost to sight.
* * *
A couple of hours after that, having been checked by the medics, who cleaned and rebandaged Watson’s injured shoulder and told Dawson just to take it easy for a few days, they were standing in front of Lieutenant Charnforth in the British army camp just outside Dalstein. Dawson had explained exactly what had happened to them since they’d left the camp to work on the minefield in the Warndt Forest.
‘A good start to your war, you could say,’ Charnforth remarked. ‘You might be interested to learn that – assuming your account of what happened is accurate – the two of you accounted for a higher number of German soldiers killed than the entire French advance into Saarland. And that says something about both you two – and about the French.
‘Now, the Intelligence people will probably want to debrief you over what you saw while you were behind enemy lines, so you’re both to make yourselves available for that. The sergeant will tell you when the Intelligence officers are expected. In the meantime, you, Dawson, will be on light duties for a week to give you a chance to recover. Watson, you’re excused all duties for two weeks, or until the medics give you a clean bill of health. And well done, both of you. It’s good to have you back.’
‘It’s good to be back, sir.’
Chapter 48
16 September 1939
Later that evening, Dawson – still dressed in the rags he’d been wearing when he crossed the Maginot Line and carrying a small kitbag in his hand – left the British army camp by climbing over a fence into the adjoining field and wandered down the road to where the French troops were billeted.
He found a sunny spot not far from the road, tucked the kitbag out of sight, sat down and took out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches. He lit a cigarette and sat there smoking, looking around him with what looked like casual disinterest. In fact, he was taking careful note of the camp routine and looking out for just one man.
The sun had sunk below the western horizon when he saw a small group of officers walking along the road that led to Dalstein, laughing and chatting. Dawson assumed they’d visited the local bar and were
on their way back to their billets.
As the group reached the camp, they split up and went their separate ways. As they did so, Dawson ground out his cigarette under his boot and started walking down the road. About fifty yards in front of him, a slim, dapper officer strode along, whistling a tune. Dawson increased his pace to catch up.
At the sound of his footsteps, the French officer glanced behind him, then stared in astonishment.
‘You!’ he gasped. ‘But I thought—’
‘You thought what, Capitaine de St Véran? You thought the mine you carefully placed in the cleared zone must have killed us? Unluckily for you, my friend Dave Watson – he’s still alive too, by the way – and I are very thorough, and we found it. Or did you think we might have been killed by the German soldiers that you knew were advancing towards the forest?’
‘I didn’t place a mine and I don’t know about the Germans.’ St Véran began a blustering denial, but his eyes told a different story. ‘How dare you address me in such an offensive manner?’
‘I’m not here to argue with you, Capitaine,’ Dawson said. ‘I know the truth and you know that I do. I’m not interested in your feeble excuses.’
‘Then what are you here for?’ St Véran demanded.
‘For this,’ Dawson snapped. ‘To kill you.’
He bent down and in a single fluid movement he drew the Wehrmacht trench knife – the one he’d taken from the dead soldier outside Celine’s farmhouse – and drove the blade deep into the French officer’s stomach.
St Véran gasped in agony, eyes popping from his head and his mouth open in a soundless scream as Dawson worked the blade higher and higher.
‘This isn’t for me and it isn’t for Dave Watson. This is for Tommy Blake and the other British lads that you abandoned along with us in the Warndt Forest, the men who won’t be coming back out because the Germans slaughtered them. That was your fault, you treacherous fucking Frog.’
To Do or Die Page 30