The Triumph

by Christopher Nicole

  The minutes, and the hours, ticked by, while the bombardment continued. Fergus was almost surprised when the darkness turned to grey, and then steadily lightened. Moon pointed. ‘France.’

  Visibility was actually quite good. Fergus rubbed his eyes and peered at the low green countryside in front of him, still some twenty miles away. They were in the Bay of the Seine, and there was land to their right as well, the Cotentin Peninsula, at the seaward end of which was the port of Cherbourg, so important to their plans. Closer at hand, also on their right, was the tiny, drying harbour of St Vaast La Hogue, where the British Navy had once won a famous victory.

  But that was to be the American sector: the beaches were code-named Utah and Omaha, and already he could see, through his glasses, the landing craft surging at the shore, and the smoke rising from exploding bombs, mines and shells. Ahead of him were the British beaches, Gold, Juno and Sword. There too the Landing Craft Infantry were surging through the surf, and there too there was a constant ripple of gunfire.

  He looked over his shoulder. The battleships and cruisers were now behind them, huge grey monsters which continued to belch flame and smoke; somehow the LST had threaded its way past them in the dawn.

  ‘Half an hour,’ Moon remarked, and from the drawer of his chart table took a sealed envelope. ‘Here we are, sir.’

  Fergus slit it. The sheet of paper inside contained but two words. ‘Mickey Mouse,’ he read.

  ‘Definitely an American operation,’ Allack commented.

  ‘Easy to remember. Tell the men, Sergeant Sullivan, that the password is Mickey Mouse. And then tell them to mount up.’ He shook hands with Moon. ‘Thanks for the ride, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Sorry it was so bumpy,’ Moon replied. ‘Mind you shoot straight, sir.’

  Fergus left the bridge and stood on the upper deck for a moment. Below him A Squadron were climbing into their tanks, slapping their hands together — it might have been June but it was extremely chilly — and attempting to chaff each other. He looked left and right, to the other LSTs, where B and C Squadrons would also be getting ready, watched the troopers filing down the ladders to the tank deck, waved at Hartley, who waved back. Then he looked ahead, and felt a slight constriction of the stomach. He could see the beach quite clearly now; it was only a mile away. Thus he could see the bodies dotting it, the shell and mine craters. He could see, too, various wrecked landing craft, lying on their sides half filled with water. And with men. Yet the firing in front of him was dying down, at least coming out to sea. Obviously the infantry had made their lodgement.

  He climbed in beside Mather, remained standing in the open cupola hatch while he looked back up at Moon; he couldn’t see forward because the landing ramp hid the view. The minutes ticked by, and the day grew steadily brighter and warmer. He listened to the noise of men shouting and screaming, mines exploding, bullets whining...inside the well of the LST seemed an entirely different world, of peace and safety.

  Then Moon gave him the signal. ‘Start engines,’ Fergus said into the wireless.

  The tank engines roared and exhaust fumes clouded the air; the peace was over.

  ‘Two hundred yards,’ Moon shouted through his loud-speaker. ‘Depths twelve feet.’

  That would just cover the tank, Fergus thought.

  ‘One hundred yards, depths six feet.’

  Still sufficient to drown in, if trapped inside a tank.

  ‘Fifty yards, depths four feet. Stand by. Stand...’ there was a jarring bump from forward and Fergus was thrown so hard against the rim of the hatch that he lost his breath. Vaguely he was aware that the LST had slewed sideways, and then there was a tremendous explosion.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Mather muttered beneath him.

  Fergus was again dazed, and recovered to a high-pitched screaming sound.

  ‘Oh, God!’ someone was shrieking. ‘Oh, God! Help me, oh, God!’

  Was there a woman on board? Fergus looked back at the bridge, and saw nothing but sea and other ships. He realized that when the LST had struck the underwater obstacle and slewed sideways, the stern had hit a mine. The resulting explosion had blown the stern right off, and half of the bridge as well, and the shrieking noise was Lieutenant Moon, who lay on the deck. But only half of him; there was nothing but a bloody mess below the waist. ‘Oh, God!’ he screamed again.

  The mine had also done for several tanks, and presumably their crews. And the padre, who had been up there with the Lieutenant? Fergus couldn’t tell, amidst the smoke and the noise — and there was nothing he could do about it, anyway.

  He swallowed, and looked in front. Either the explosion or some gallant soul had released the ramp, and it was down; at an angle — the entire LST was at an angle — but still negotiable. He closed the hatch and sat beside Mather.

  ‘Let’s go. A Squadron will disembark,’ he said into the wireless.

  The driver engaged gear, and the tank rolled forward. It seemed to hesitate at the top of the ramp, and Fergus took a long breath. They had only poor Moon’s word for it as to how deep the water was; the beach looked a surprisingly long way away for fifty yards. And floating immediately in front of them, past the end of the ramp, was the dead body of a soldier, on his face, head and legs down, body supported by his lifejacket, rump sticking up at the sky.

  ‘Get this fucking thing moving,’ Fergus bawled.

  The tank shot forward, and the ramp went down beneath it. There was a whoosh of water, which rose to either side. But the ramp had struck bottom. The tank went into the water itself. For a moment Fergus’s vision was obscured, as water flew past the observation slit like spray at sea, then the tank was on the beach.

  And so were nearly all the others, as C Squadron and B Squadron also disembarked; their LSTs had fortunately survived the minefield. In front of them and to either side was a scene of frightening confusion. In the quite boisterous surf was a mixture of men and machines, dead and dying; quite a few of the landing craft seemed to have struck mines, and lay at grotesque angles, half submerged, while bodies surged to and fro on the tide. No one was paying them any attention. Jeeps raced up and down amidst clouds of sand while officers bellowed orders; red-capped military police carefully laid strips of white tape; wounded sat or lay around, bleeding and groaning while field stretcher-bearers tended those they could help; infantry toiled over the dunes as they made their way inland; and over all shells still exploded and occasional bullets whined. Fergus had thought the most horrendous scene he had ever witnessed was the beach at Dunkirk, but this was far worse. The only saving grace was that the aircraft which droned ceaselessly overhead were all on their side.

  He looked back to see Allack standing in the cupola of Sullivan’s tank and waving his beret. Thank God for that, he thought. But as the vehicle splashed ashore the Major gave a curious little pirouette, and fell right out of the hatch and into the water, his body rocked to and fro with all the others.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Fergus said; they had become good friends.

  ‘Well done, Westerns,’ came the voice of Brigadier Manton over the wireless. ‘Colonel Mackinder, take your tanks up that gully on your right. The enemy have been eliminated on this beach. Move inland as fast as possible, but keep in touch with Brigade. Good hunting.’

  ‘Well done,’ Fergus muttered. Presumably losing four tanks to a mine and the regimental adjutant to a sniper was good going, in the general scale of expected casualties. And the padre. Presumably he and Allack would be buried by somebody else, if they were found before they dis-integrated. But if the enemy had been eliminated, who the hell had fired that shot?

  ‘Westerns will advance,’ he said.

  *

  Waved on by MPs, the tanks roared up the beach and into the gully, which might once have been a roadway. Now it was a shell-pitted strip of horror. The Germans defending this beach had not been ‘eliminated’ easily. There were dead British soldiers to either side, and some more wounded as well, gazing at their bleeding stumps of arms and legs with expres
sions of bewilderment. Medics moved about these too, and more MPs were attempting to organize a column of those who could move back to the dressing stations on the beach. To one side was the shattered remains of one of those fearsome bunkers they had been told about, great masses of reinforced concrete tossed about as if they had been clay; intermingled with the wreckage were grey-green figures, lying quietly.

  ‘Do you read me, Sergeant Sullivan?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Loud and clear, sir. Sorry about the Major. Took us by surprise, that did.’

  ‘Close up,’ Fergus told him.

  The tank topped the rise and entered brilliant sunlight, blasting its way through the clouds. Fergus was quite blinded, and threw up the observation hatch. He thrust his head out, and saw a sapper Captain and several of his men standing at the side of the road. ‘Mickey Mouse,’ the Captain said, and saluted.

  For a moment Fergus thought the man had gone mad, then he remembered and saluted in turn. ‘Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘Bear to the left, if you will, sir,’ the Captain said. ‘We know that’s clear.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘Regiment will bear left,’ he said into the wireless.

  They rolled away from the beach, and into the midst of columns of advancing infantrymen. It all seemed rather like manoeuvres, when they were free of the horror and turmoil of the landing. The sun rose steadily into the sky in front of them, apple trees made avenues to either side, and in the distance they saw the roofs of houses.

  Houses meant Germans.

  ‘It’s called Le Hamel,’ explained the infantry Colonel. ‘Filled with Jerries. Can you give them a push? They have machine guns.’

  Fergus had no idea where Brigade was, and he had no adjutant. But he could look over his shoulder and see the tanks of B and C Squadrons rumbling along the road behind him. ‘Stand by,’ he said into the wireless. ‘Your chaps will have to mop up,’ he told the infantryman.

  ‘Happy to do so, old man,’ was the reply.

  The road debouched into an open space before the village, and machine-gun bullets began to spatter in the dust. Fergus sat down and closed the hatch. ‘Full speed,’ he said. ‘And open fire.’

  A Squadron blasted the houses in front of them with their seventy-fives; masonry and woodwork dissolved. French houses, Fergus thought. In Libya the houses had belonged to aliens; here the householders were allies. Hopefully they weren’t in residence at the moment.

  There was a flash of light from the left of them, and then another.

  ‘Brewed, by God!’ Mather said, looking at one of his command on fire. ‘That’s an anti-tank gun.’

  ‘Kill the bugger,’ Fergus snapped, and the gun turned to smother the hidden weapon with fire. Most of the rest of the squadron also concentrated on it, and within seconds the eighty-eight was silenced. So was the firing from in front of them, save for the occasional snipe. The tanks had to form line to roll up the street and debouch into the square, before a hotel. Instantly they were surrounded by men, women, children, dogs and chickens, cheering and clapping; they seemed to emerge from every cellar and every doorway; presumably the families whose houses had been destroyed were amongst them — now they waved German helmets and discarded rifles; from the upstairs window of one house two young men pushed a dead German soldier, so that he fell into the street with scattered arms and legs. The crowd cheered more loudly.

  Fergus threw back the hatch and looked out, and discovered a young woman climbing up the tank. She reached him before he could remonstrate, skirt and loose blouse flying in the wind, legs exposed, while her com-patriots cheered some more, and threw her arms round his neck to kiss him on the mouth.

  ‘I say,’ he protested, and looked over his shoulder. The same thing was happening to Lieutenant Brereton in the following machine. Fergus disengaged himself and dropped back inside, and Mather took his place. Now there were several people sitting on the tank, and a large overspill of red wine began dripping through the hatch. Fergus thumbed the mike. ‘Westerns to Brigade,’ he said. ‘Where are you chaps?’

  ‘Brigade,’ came the reply. ‘Locate yourself.’

  ‘Le Hamel,’ Fergus said. ‘And if we don’t get out of here in a hurry, we’re not going to.’

  ‘Estimate strength of resistance,’ the Brigade Major told him.

  Red wine splashed off Fergus’s head, and he also tasted cider. There was a loud squealing noise. ‘Resistance estimated at several hundred barrels of plonk,’ he said. ‘Reinforced by ditto rough cider and a regiment of nubile young women, anxious to prove it.’

  ‘Move through the village,’ the Brigade Major said.

  ‘Brigade is to either side of you. Assist in clearing bocage beyond. Headquarters will have cider in preference to red wine, but you may retain a sample of third resistance unit if practical.’

  Everyone’s hysterical, Fergus thought. Well, wasn’t he? ‘Keep moving,’ he said into the wireless. ‘Keep moving. Just for God’s sake don’t run anyone down, unless they’re wearing grey.’

  Mather dropped beside him. ‘They’re happy to see us,’ he said.

  ‘So they’ll probably kiss Jerry if he happens to come back, as well,’ Fergus said. ‘Concentrate,’ he told the driver. ‘What the hell is bocage, anyway?’

  It’s the name they give the country around here,’ Mather explained. ‘Rather like the south of England, only more so, if you follow me, sir. Patchwork fields, separated by hedgerows, and sunken lanes. I wouldn’t have thought it was good tank country.’

  *

  Mather was absolutely right. The regiment moved out of the town on a good road, but soon found it blocked by self-propelled guns and by teeming thousands of soldiers, mostly support troops, who had by-passed the German resistance in Le Hamel. Orders drifted in over the radio in profuse confusion, but Fergus finally managed to raise Brigade again.

  ‘Our objective is the village of Ryes,’ Manton told him. ‘Brigade will rendezvous there, and then move on Bayeux. That will cut the Caen-Carentan Road, and is our target for tonight. Move it.’

  Mather was already looking at the map. ‘Ryes,’ he said. ‘Heck, only a couple of miles away.’

  It was only eleven in the morning, but breakfast seemed a long way in the past. And the road in front remained blocked. ‘Down there,’ Fergus said, pointing at a lane leading off which seemed reasonably empty.

  The tank swung to the right and the regiment followed. Within minutes they were in a curving, narrow — they brushed the earth banks to either side — unsurfaced and empty roadway. ‘This is great,’ Mather said. ‘Just as long as we don’t meet anyone coming the other way.’

  Visibility was less than in fog; they could see nothing but the hedgerows to either side. Fergus climbed out of the hatchway and tried standing up, and still could see nothing; he nearly fell off.

  ‘I say, sir, do be careful,’ Mather requested, obviously having in mind that if the Colonel and the adjutant both went astray he might have to take command.

  Fergus climbed back in, and studied his compass; the sun had gone back behind the clouds. They were travelling in a generally southerly direction, which was correct, according to the map; it had to be — behind the earthen banks even the wireless was muted.

  ‘People,’ remarked the driver, after another fifteen minutes.

  ‘Halt,’ Fergus said to his column, and raised the hatch again.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come along,’ said the infantry Major. ‘Oh, ah, Mickey Mouse.’

  ‘Quite,’ Fergus agreed. ‘You have a problem?’

  ‘The bastards are dug in over there, with machine guns. Can’t get at them.’

  Fergus studied the nearest hedge, which was all he could see. Sticking out of it were several pairs of boots.

  ‘First lot up, get it,’ the Major complained. ‘Our Colonel’s one of those. You can’t run through a hedge, you see, sir.’

  Fergus nodded. ‘We’ll see what we can do. A Squadron,’ he said into the wireless, ‘will turn sharp left and flatten that
hedge. And the next one. B Squadron will proceed along the lane and enfilade any enemy positions. C Squadron is in reserve. Wait for the command.’ He popped his head out of the hatch again. ‘Any idea of numbers?’

  ‘Quite a few,’ the Major said. ‘Difficult to estimate, really. Every time we put our heads through that hedge, bingo, somebody’s shot.’

  ‘Quite,’ Fergus said again. He didn’t relish going into action on somebody else’s reconnaissance, at least at this level, but there seemed nothing for it. ‘Well, have your men ready to advance.’ He sat beside Mather. ‘A Squadron, move,’ he said. ‘B Squadron, move.’

  The driver swung the wheel hard left and the tank slewed round and assaulted the bank. In the narrow lane it was necessary to jockey back and forth several times, and from the noise behind them the rest of the squadron were having similar problems. But at last the front went up and so did the gun, pointing at the sky. Branches waved in front of them, crackling and breaking, and machine-gun bullets bounced off the armour. Heat rose around the crew, and there was an outbreak of cursing. By God, Fergus thought, if Jerry has an anti-tank gun handy, he’ll never have a better target. But at last the tracks gripped and the branches began to fall aside. In front of them was a small open field, then another hedgerow. And then another, and another, and another. One of them at least was spitting flame.

  ‘Traverse left, ten degrees, range one hundred yards, fire,’ Mather said.

  The gun exploded, and part of the next hedgerow but one disintegrated. Grey-clad figures fell about. Now the whole squadron was over the rise and shooting, while B Squadron rumbled by to their right. A Squadron crossed the field, clanking and rumbling, guns firing, and mowed down the next hedgerow. Grey-clad figures stood around with their hands in the air.

  ‘Are you there, Major?’ Fergus said into the wireless. ‘Right behind you, sir.’

  At a safe distance. ‘I have some custom for you,’ Fergus said.