Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  And with that she turned and marched off into the night.

  Joe wanted to follow, but his sole remaining grain of commonsense told him that would be bad idea. He wandered off in what he thought was the direction of his billet.

  Chapter Seven

  Germany, 30 March 1940

  The Mercedes passed beneath the archway into a cobbled courtyard and pulled up at a set of steps flanked by two guards in the black uniforms of the SS Leibstandarte, Hitler’s Bodyguard. A tall, grey-haired man in the uniform of a Wehrmacht general stepped out and saluted before going up the stairs, clutching his briefcase to his side. Within the case were a set of plans: maps, train schedules, lists of supply requirements, reconnaissance photos, reports describing the state of readiness of the best divisions of the Wehrmacht.

  Inside the building, a huge blonde officer threw up his right arm and clicked his heels with a crack as the general came in. At end of the hall, two more guards with submachine guns barred the door.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ replied the general laconically, raising his right arm to shoulder level. ‘Is the Fuhrer ready for my briefing Hauptmann?’

  ‘Jawohl, Herr General, he is in the salon with the generals now. Allow me to show you in.’

  The lieutenant swivelled on his heel and marched down the hallway. As he approached, the two guards crashed their jackboots on the marble floor and stood to attention.

  The lieutenant knocked three times, then opened one of the doors, ushered the general through and stepped inside.

  ‘General von Runstedt has arrived mein Fuhrer.’

  He gave the general a salute then turned and closed the door behind him. In the silence the sound of his hobnails striking the polished floor was a metronomic beat that ended after precisely eight steps.

  The room was high-ceilinged and ornate, the walls bedecked with huge mirrors, tapestries and gilt-framed paintings, but the general had no eyes for the décor. His attention was drawn to the group of men clustered around the table in the centre, the highest officers of the Wehrmacht, among them General von Brauchitsch, Commander-in-Chief of the German Army and General Halder, Chief of the General Staff. Amidst them stood a short, unremarkable-looking man with a flick of black hair brushed across his forehead and an unfashionably narrow moustache. The leader of the Third Reich: der Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.

  ‘Ah, von Runstedt, punctual as ever,’ said the Fuhrer, ‘you will recall that some months ago we discussed General von Manstein’s plan for the invasion of the Low Countries. After some initial hesitation, Generals Brauchitsch and Halder have now concluded that it is in fact a feasible plan.’

  Runstedt couldn’t help but notice the look that passed between Halder and Brauchitsch, who had bitterly opposed the plan at the start as extremely risky and likely to end at best in a stalemate like that of 1914.

  ‘I have decided to appoint you commander of HeeresGruppe A which will lead the push through the Ardennes. To make your job easier I have authorised your commanders to give you even more panzers than von Manstein originally had in mind. I am going to be busy in the next few weeks with the invasion of Norway and Denmark, so the three of you will have to work out the details without me. Now general, you have your latest plans with you I see. Perhaps you can show us what we have in store for the rest of this decadent continent, hein?’

  As the man spoke, his black eyes seemed to bore into the general’s head. For a second von Runstedt stood as if mesmerised, the rest of the world forgotten, then ‘der Fuhrer’ looked away and broke the spell.

  ‘Come Herr General, show us your plan of attack.’

  ‘Ja, ja, show us what you have in store for my pilots Herr General,’ came a voice from beyond the table.

  The voice belonged to a large man in a sky-blue uniform that gleamed with decorations. He would have been handsome as a young man, but obesity had come with middle age and his sallow complexion and pouched eyes betrayed some kind of habituation.

  ReichMarschal Goering, ace fighter pilot of the Great War, was now commander of the Luftwaffe, the most feared air force in Europe, Goering was second only in power to the Fuhrer himself, and it oozed from him like ichor from the skin of a toad. That he was an opium addict and a homosexual was known to all in the inner circle of the German high command, but no one dared say anything.

  Ignoring the pompous head of the Luftwaffe, General Runstedt leant over the map on the table, traced the line of the river he was looking for and thrust his finger at the spot that represented a town.

  ‘Mein Fuhrer,’ he announced, ‘after the loss of our original plan in that unfortunate aircraft accident in January, you decided to shift our main point of attack south to the Ardennes. We have now identified the main point of attack.’

  He pointed to an insignificant spot on the map.

  ‘This is where the panzers of HeeresGruppe A will crack open the rotten egg of France, with the help of course from the heroes of the mighty Luftwaffe,’ he added, smiling sarcastically at ReichMarschal Goering.

  The general’s finger rested on a town a mere dozen kilometres inside Belgium, on the far side of the supposedly impassable Ardennes forest; a town that straddled a bend in the river Maas.

  A town called Sedan.

  Chapter Eight

  France, 3 April 1940

  In Roubaix, another few weeks passed and still no war had started. The papers had been calling it a ‘Phoney War’ for months now, without much justification. It hadn’t been phoney for the Poles, their country had been overrun in weeks, despite some valiant defence in places like Poznan, which had held out to the bitter end. Nor had it been phoney for the Danes, or the Norwegians, or for the British soldiers and sailors who’d died defending Norway.

  After months of tutoring under the bibulous influence of Captain Bareau, Joe’s French had progressed. He knew the names of every significant vintage and a dozen ways to proposition a woman; he had picked up some of the patois of Bareau’s home town of Rouen, and his knowledge of Napoleon’s campaigns was more encyclopaedic than he might have wished. Then one afternoon, Captain Bareau failed to show up for their evening session. Joe went to see Major Merrivale.

  ‘Oh Dean, sorry old man, forgot to tell you, Bareau’s been sent to a forward unit, the 55th Infantry Division I gather, some sort of territorial outfit manning the forts on the Belgian border. Second line troops in fortified positions, I imagine they needed a bit of stiffening. Anyway, he tells me you’re making great strides with the Frog lingo, is that so?’

  ‘I’ve certainly learnt a lot sir, there’s no substitute for conversation,’ replied Joe.

  ‘Excellent, excellent, that’s what he told me. He thought it a shame to waste the effort so he’s nominated a replacement tutor, one of the townsfolk. It’s a bit out of order, normally I’d expect him to assign one of his own men, but he tells me that they could move out any day, so better to find someone local.’

  Joe groaned inwardly. He could see himself stuck in some dank house being taught the niceties of grammar by a schoolmaster or the like.

  ‘As I say, a bit unorthodox, but that’s the Frogs for you. Anyway, you’re to report to the Station Café in town at 1500 hours, alright?

  ‘Yes sir, and who should I expect to meet me there?’

  ‘Oh it’s the local schoolmarm, a Miss Benty or something, probably some old spinster, all horn-rimmed glasses and cardigans what? Good hunting then Dean.’

  Joe walked out of the command post wondering to himself. ‘Benty’? Had Bareau pulled some trick to set him up with Yvette? What kind of agony would this be after their last meeting outside ‘Le Chat Noir’?

  Saturday came around slowly. Finally, at 3pm, scrubbed and polished in every detail, he opened the door of the Station Café.

  Yvette was sitting in a booth in the far corner. As Joe approached she looked up and said, ‘Ah. It is you. I thought the name was familiar.’

  ‘Mademoiselle, I had no idea my tutor would be you,’ said
Joe, snatching off his cap.

  Yvette looked at him coldly, ‘No more English Lieutenant, from now on, we speak only French. Comprenez vous?’

  ‘Oui mademoiselle,’ said Joe, noting that she had switched to the French formal style of address. He sat down and looked into her deep brown eyes. They stared back unblinkingly; this was going to be tougher than he’d thought.

  Rather than engaging in conversation as Captain Bareau had, Yvette treated Joe like a schoolboy in a classroom. She would point at an object in the café and ask Joe to name it, write the word down and use it in a sentence.

  After forty minutes of this, Joe was struggling. He couldn’t help gazing at her face as she pointed out and named yet another object. Abruptly, she switched to English.

  ‘Lieutenant, it is not good manners to stare. Did your mother not tell you that?’

  ‘Excuse moi, mademoiselle,’ said Joe, trying to cover his embarrassment, ‘I forgot myself, what were you saying?’

  She pointed at herself.

  ‘Jeune femme, repeat that please.’

  ‘Belle femme,’ said Joe.

  ‘L’homme ennuyeux,’ she said with irritation, pointing at him.

  ‘What does ‘ennuyeux’ mean?’ asked Joe.

  ‘It means you are an annoying man,’ she replied in English. ‘So. Enough for today, I will see you at the same time tomorrow, and you will pay more attention.’

  ‘Mais certainement,’ said Joe, standing.

  As she gathered her papers, he knew he had only one chance.

  ‘By the way miss,’ he said, ‘I didn’t do anything in that brothel, and that’s God’s truth. Ask the Madam herself if you don’t believe me, her name’s Sophie. I just thought you should know.’

  She glared at him furiously, then strode out of the café without a backward look.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, Joe was summoned to the company command post.

  ‘Bad news I’m afraid old chap. Headquarters have instructed me to find room for another lieutenant, and as you’re surplus to requirements, so to speak, you’re the only option I have.’

  Joe was dumbfounded. After months earning himself a place in the company he was to be replaced?

  ‘I want you to know lieutenant, that this appointment was against my wishes. The officer in question, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard, is a nephew of General Gort by marriage and he has been, what you might call, ‘selected’ for this post. Can’t hold that against him, not his fault of course, can’t choose your parents and all that, eh?’

  ‘No, that you can’t Major,’ replied Joe.

  ‘Now, it’s not all bad. Headquarters have a forward signals unit that I’m told is to be attached to our battalion,’ said Major Merrivale. ‘They’re going to work with the regimental artillery boys. At present they’re a bit of an experimental idea and seeing we’ve got you handy, we thought you could take charge of ‘em.’

  ‘Artillery observing sir? Can’t imagine there’s much to it,’ replied Joe.

  ‘Well you can tell us all about it when you return. Quick trip to Blighty to pick these fellows up, then back here. They’re still training, so you might as well get going now and join in. Learn as much as you can, alright? See you in a fortnight.’

  In the morning, Joe found himself on a train to Ostend, followed by a Channel crossing on a navy transport. He spent the next week in a barracks in southern England, learning to use a radio and the signals for summoning artillery. His unit was a group of three men with field radios mounted in backpacks. The idea was that they would act as mobile forward observers and call down barrages on the enemy directly from the front line.

  During the days of being taught about shell trajectories, radio frequencies, codes, call signs, battery life and Morse code, Joe got to know the three men in his team a little. Private James Kelly was a twenty-year-old BBC apprentice who reckoned he had a better chance of learning about radio from the army than from the national broadcaster. He was a Coventry boy and thought the whole thing was a bit of a lark. The second man, Andrew Summerville was a quiet, morose sort of fellow who’d been a government clerk in London before the war. He kept mostly to himself, and when Joe asked him why he’d volunteered for this unit, he said he was a ham radio operator, so it was the obvious choice for him.

  The third one was a Pole named Dobroslaw Jaroslek, who was obsessed with getting revenge on the Germans. He was keen to learn everything and it soon became clear that he was way ahead of the others when it came to things like memorising codes and signals.

  On the eve of their departure for France, they were given leave to go down to the local pub. Joe bought them all a round of best bitter and sat down by Jaroslek. He’d found the other two easy enough to get along with, but this one was hard work. As an officer, he knew he ought to try to break the ice a bit.

  ‘So Dobro, how long’ve you been in England?’ he asked, taking a sip of the tepid beer.

  ‘Since November,’ replied Jaroslek in heavily-accented English.

  ‘So you came over here after the Germans invaded Poland? That must have been a hard trip.’

  ‘Tak, I was lucky. I not hear from my family since.’

  ‘You speak pretty good English.’

  ‘I work for import/export company in Poland before war, I get to know a few words of English; for business.’

  ‘Whereabouts in Poland are you from?’

  ‘Wroclaw. You know Poland?’

  ‘Never been there, but I’m sure it’s a beaut place.’

  ‘It will be when the Germans are gone.’ His voice rose, ‘When do we attack Germany? I sick of waiting, I want to kill Germans.’

  ‘Steady on mate,’ said Joe looking around the room, ‘you’ll put the locals off their beer. We’ll be off soon and I’m sure you’ll get the chance to blow up a few Germans.’

  ‘Soon I hope,’ said Jaroslek, scowling.

  Joe took a deep pull on his pint and turned to Private Summerville who was scratching his ear intently; talking to Jaroslek was hard work.

  ~ ~ ~

  Three days later the truck from Calais dropped Joe and his men in the main square of Roubaix. It was April now, and a spring breeze swirled amongst the dust where roadworks had lifted the cobblestones. He looked around briefly for any sign of a car or truck, then concluded that he was too junior an officer to merit a lift from his regiment.

  ‘Wait here you blokes, I’ll see if I can rouse up some transport.’

  Grabbing his kit bag, he set off across the square, walking around the memorial to the fallen of the Great War that graced its centre. Looking right he saw the first of a convoy of French armoured cars emerge into the square. They were driving way too fast for such a busy area he thought, typical bloody Frogs, no sense whatsoever. He stopped beside the memorial and dropped his bag, preparing to allow the armoured cars to pass, when he saw the door of the patisserie directly across the street open. Yvette stepped out, laughing at something the shopkeeper had said and, without looking, stepped straight out into the path of the lead car.

  Joe’s body acted without thought. He dashed forward and dove towards her in what would have been a classic hip-height tackle on a rugby field. The two of them crashed into the pavement in a tangle of limbs as the column of armoured cars sped past oblivious, leaving a cloud of choking exhaust.

  ‘Yvette, are you alright?’ he cried, kneeling over her prone form.

  She kneeled and coughed, brushing dirt from her clothes.

  ‘What happened?’ she said to the ground, then looked up, ‘oh … it’s you.’

  ‘You were almost run over by the French army Miss, bloody terrible drivers they are. Nothing broken I hope?’ he asked, standing and holding out his hand. Would she take it?

  She took it, then pulled herself up off the ground, straightened up and dusted off her jacket and skirt. As he watched, her poise returned; she straightened and looked up at him.

  ‘Non, merci, I am alright, a few scratches maybe,’ she said, ‘it is per’a
ps my dignity that is bruised.’

  She looked at her reflection in the shop window and tucked an errant curl behind her ear, then turned to him.

  ‘So, you ‘ave returned from England then.’

  A statement, not a question.

  ‘Oui Mademoiselle, I’m back with my regiment.’

  It felt good to speak a fragment of French again, however formal, but as usual, Joe found himself struggling for something to say. He hated small-talk at the best of times, even in his native language; trying to do it in French felt like doing a puzzle blindfolded. After a seemingly interminable pause, he gave up and resorted to English.

  ‘So, how’s the digging going then?’

  Oh how pathetic, he thought to himself, show some guts man.

  ‘We ‘ave found many things in your trenches m’sieur, but I fear what will ‘appen if the Germans come.’

  ‘Oh we’ll take care of the Germans mademoiselle, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I hope so lieutenant, I would ‘ate to ‘ave to abandon our dig to les Boches.’

  Joe couldn’t stand this polite torture any longer: he looked up and down the street, then down at his feet; he took off his cap and played with the badge.

  ‘Lieutenant? What is it?’

  ‘Um, this might sound a bit odd, but … the whole time I was away, I kept thinking.’

  ‘Thinking? Thinking what Lieutenant?’

  ‘I was wondering whether,’ the words came in a rush, ‘whether you would maybe like to have dinner or a drink or something with me, sometime? But I guess you wouldn’t be interested.’

  There, he had said it.

  ‘Well thank you for the invitation Lieutenant,’ she smiled, ‘I could let you stew for a while, but that would be cruel. I ‘ave decided to believe what you told me before you left, and I would very much like to ‘ave dinner with you, but can you get away from your regiment?’

  Joe let out a big sigh of relief.

  ‘Oh that’s no problem, I’m already owed leave. Would Friday night suit?’