by Will Belford
‘Let’s move boys,’ he said to his shattered men, ‘Roubaix is just down the road, and our regiment’s in line there. Wouldn’t be surprised if we find the Old Man sitting in the trenches we dug a few months ago. Let’s go.’
Sure enough, as they climbed the rise beside the river they were challenged by a guard in a foxhole. He took them up to the battalion HQ in the woods. Along the defensive position nothing much had changed; it was almost as if the whole disastrous campaign had never happened, except that some expected faces were missing. On the reverse slope, Yvette’s Roman ruins still lay exposed to the elements. Joe was shown into the command tent.
‘Ah, if it isn’t Lieutenant Dean,’ said Major Merrivale, looking up from his map table. ‘Thought we’d lost you in the mess up along the Dyle; good to see you could join us. Got your platoon with you?’
Joe saluted. ‘Still got a dozen of ‘em sir, lost a lot of men to those tanks on the river. We had nothing to stop ‘em with.’
‘Quite, quite. We’ve passed that on to the brass hats of course, but whether anything will come of it remains to be seen. In the meantime we’ll just have to soldier on with what we’ve got, hmm? Anyway, now you’re here you can take up the flank position where the anti-tank gun is. We’re expected to hold this position until the last minute, then retreat over the bridge and blow it behind us. The sappers have mined the bridge, we just have to get over it in enough time. We leave our positions as soon as it looks like they’ve amassed enough panzers to break through. If we get attacked by infantry we hold them off as long as possible then bolt. Your radio link to divisional artillery still working?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then use it wisely, this company only has two fire missions allocated to it. That clear?’
‘Quite clear.’
‘Very good then, see you on the other side. Carry on.’
‘Major?’
‘Yes Lieutenant?’
‘Have the RAF boys been doing anything much against the Luftwaffe? We haven’t seen a British plane for a few days.’
‘From what I hear Lieutenant they’ve been giving them a bloody hiding. They say that the RAF and the Frogs have shot down nearly a thousand planes. The French have had some heavy losses, but we’ve only lost a few hundred of our fighters, excellent sport I call that.’
‘That’s reassuring sir, after what we’ve seen in the last week.’
Joe fetched his platoon from the mess tent and assigned them foxholes in the woods around the 2-pounder anti-tank gun, placing the Bren gun to give an enfilading fire across the slope. The anti-tank gun was already manned by the support platoon and, after placing his men, Joe introduced himself to them.
‘G’day, I’m Lieutenant Dean. You blokes know how to fire this thing then?’ he asked with a grin.
‘Absolutely Lieutenant,’ grinned the corporal, ‘I’m Corporal Bellamy. Care for a gunnery lesson?’
Joe turned and yelled to his men ‘One Platoon, gather round the gun.’
An hour later, when the platoon had the rudiments of loading, aiming and firing the anti-tank gun, the corporal turned to the men one last time.
‘Remember, it only fires solid armour-piercing shot, no use against anything but tanks or half-tracks, and even then really only effective against tanks if you get a shot on the side under 500 yards range. Any questions?’
‘I’ve got one, corporal,’ called out Sergeant Smythe, ‘from what you’ve told us, this gun the army’s given you is about as useful as a chocolate spanner. Has your wife ever said that this is only fitting, given the cannon that God equipped you with?’
There was a roar of laughter and the corporal’s face reddened.
‘Don’t mind Sergeant Smythe, corporal,’ said Joe, ‘he’s just jealous because he hasn’t had a root in six months. Whenever he drops his pants in a brothel the girls all die laughing.’
To the sounds of more laughter and wisecracks, the soldiers returned to their foxholes. In the west, shadows crept up the slope and soon the landscape was black. Joe gazed east for the millionth time, then surveyed the river behind him and commented to his sergeant.
‘If the sappers blow that bridge at the wrong time we’re buggered Smithy; too early or too late, makes no bloody difference.’
‘Yessir, not sure why we’re not on that side already, why don’t we defend the town?’
‘Something to do with buying more time I suppose, seems idiotic to me, but then what hasn’t been in this war so far?’
‘Indeed sir, indeed. Think we’ll make it out?’
‘You and I have to make sure we do Smithy, and all these poor unfortunate buggers we’re in charge of too. The moment the Major says retreat, we’re legging it.’
Chapter Twenty-three
France, 24 May 1940
The lead panzers were now only fifteen miles from Dunkirk and had begun crossing the Aa River. Reconnaissance reports showed no enemy units of significance ahead of them—the bulk of the French and British armies, over a million men, were to the east, fighting desperate battles with the bulk of the advancing German army. Yet the day before, General von Runstedt had issued a ‘close-up’ order, halting the panzers so the infantry could catch up and secure their flanks. A traditional and cautious general, von Runstedt hadn’t made this decision lightly.
While a few generals like Guderian and Rommel had made it to within striking distance of Dunkirk, they did not have enough fuel or ammunition to defeat another armoured counter-attack like the one at Arras, and their infantry and artillery support was still days away. Runstedt was not prepared to risk losing the precious panzer divisions in an assault in soft ground—they would need them for the coming battle in France. They had no genuine picture of where the French forces were, a flank attack could come at any moment. He had no illusions about the ability of the French to cut his own units off and wipe them out. All of these factors had drawn him to issue the order to halt.
Now, at the headquarters of Army Group A in Charleville, the mood was tense. Generals Halder and Brauchitsch had summoned von Runstedt and overruled his halt order, demanding he surrender command of the panzer divisions in Heeresgruppe A to General von Bolck, the commander of Heeresgruppe B.
‘Now is not the time to stop, von Runstedt, now is the time to strike,’ cried Halder, ‘we’ve come this far, do you want to baulk at the last hurdle?’
‘Herr General, there are many good reasons for the order,’ replied von Runstedt.
‘General,’ interjected von Brauchitsch, ‘there are something in the order of sixty divisions about to be encircled. The British are sending ships to Calais and Boulougne to evacuate their garrisons, we should have no illusions about what the Royal Navy is capable of in that regard at Dunkirk. If we fail to close the loop, how many of those divisions will we have to fight again in the years to come? Do you want that on your conscience?’
‘It is not for me to question the decisions of my superiors,’ replied von Runstedt, ‘I have explained the basis for my order, it is of course entirely your right to revoke it.’
‘Nein. It is not their right,’ came a well-known voice from the doorway. Adolf Hitler strode in to the room, his face red with anger.
‘I appointed General von Runstedt as commander in chief of Heeresgruppe A, whose panzers are the ones we are talking about, ja? This decision to halt is his, and his alone, it will not be overruled.’
‘But mein Fuhrer …’ interjected von Brauchitsch.
‘Nein,’ screamed the supreme commander, ‘that is my ruling. If you wish to question it von Brauchitsch, I will be in my office.’
With that, the small angry man stormed out of the room, leaving a decapitated general staff.
Ten minutes later, von Brauchitsch returned from Hitler’s office.
‘General von Runstedt, as I am your superior officer this is a most regrettable state of affairs, but our supreme commander has instructed me that I must take any request to cancel the halt order to you. How much longer do you ex
pect to halt the panzers?’
‘I will have to think about that Herr General, but it will take several days for our support units to catch up and secure the flanks. I shall let you know as soon as we have examined the logistics. In the meantime, we will continue our attacks in the centre.’
General von Brauchitsch threw his hands in the air and with a look at General Halder, marched to door and slammed it behind him.
~ ~ ~
Late in the afternoon, Joe left the trench line and approached the command post. Major Merrivale was hunched over a map, muttering to himself.
‘Ah Dean, do come in. Fancy a whisky?’
‘Thank you Major,’ said Joe, accepting a tin mug.
‘Sir?’ he said ‘I have a request.’
‘Sir is it? By Jove Dean, it must be serious if you’re addressing a superior officer correctly. What is it?’
‘Major, you’ll recall I went on leave just before the invasion?’
‘You telephoned me from the main assault point Lieutenant, how could I forget?’
‘Well sir, there was a certain young lady…’
‘Ah, ‘La Belle Roubaix’? Yes I’ve heard the story,’ replied Merrivale, savouring a sip from his mug. ‘I suppose Dean, that as you’ve not seen the party in question since then, you want me to grant you leave to go into Roubaix tonight, is that it?’
‘Yes sir, that’s right,’ replied Joe.
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments eh?’ said Merrivale.
‘I’m sorry sir?’
‘Shakespeare lad, Shakespeare. Yes, go, leave granted until midnight unless the Germans attack first, alright? In which case I expect you back here quick smart. Off with you lad.’
‘Thank you sir,’ said Joe, downing his drink and leaping up.
‘Oh heavens man, treat the Laphroaigh with a bit more respect will you? Now hang on a minute, take this with you.’
Merrivale rummaged in a crate, pulled out a bottle of champagne and held it out to Joe.
‘My compliments to the lady,’ said Merrivale with a smile, ‘see you in the morning.’
~ ~ ~
Forty miles to the west, General Erwin Rommel stood in the turret of his command tank and tapped his cane impatiently against his boot. An encrypted radio message had just come in, whose opening codes indicated that it was a high-priority signal direct from General von Runstedt, the commander-in-chief. While he waited for the Enigma operator to decode the whole message, Rommel scanned the horizon with his binoculars.
The tank was sitting partially concealed beneath the spreading boughs of a huge old oak tree, whose leaves provided a welcome respite from the afternoon sun. The armour plate of the tank had become too hot to touch, and inside it was stifling, even with the hatches open.
He cast a critical eye over the tanks scattered across the field. A myriad of different makes, all of which made it all the harder for his mechanics to keep the 7th Panzer Division operational, especially in a breakthrough like this. All repairs had to be carried out in the field overnight so the tanks could continue their push to the sea the next day. Rommel had driven them relentlessly; he’d sworn to himself that his division would be the first to reach the sea.
And they’d done it. Here he was poised to take Dunkirk, just a few dozen miles to the north. Two more days was all he needed to wrap up the entire British army and drive them into the sea. He had the fuel and the ammunition, he had the armour, the only thing he didn’t have was the lousy infantry. The 7th was supposed to be a fully-motorised division, with truck-mounted infantry closely supporting the tanks; a self-contained unit with its own mobile artillery and dedicated squadrons of dive-bombers. The truth was that half of his infantry were on foot, miles behind them.
The signals adjutant emerged from the radio truck, wiped his brow and put on his cap. Seeing Rommel standing in the turret he hurried over with the piece of paper.
‘From General von Runstedt Herr General,’ he panted, reaching up to hand over the message.
Rommel noted the date, 24 May 1940, then rapidly scanned the words. ‘At the direct orders of the Fuhrer, all armoured units are to maintain their positions and wait for supporting units.’
‘Verdammt! Scheissen!’ said Rommel, crumpling the note in his fist.
‘Bad news Herr General?’ inquired the signals adjutant.
‘The worst Willi, the worst. We are to stay here indefinitely. Summon the dispatch riders and prepare a signal to the rest of the division. And get my driver ready, I may be going back to Germany.’
‘Jawohl Herr General,’ replied the adjutant. He saluted and ran to the radio truck.
Rommel stared northwards. ‘We have them surrounded with their backs to the sea. Why the hell is von Runstedt making us stop?’
~ ~ ~
Joe crossed the bridge and passed through the familiar streets of Roubaix. Night had fallen, and even with the town blacked out he knew the way to the street where he’d been billeted, and to Yvette’s house, just a few doors down. He was expecting Uncle Pierre, but it was Yvette who opened the door.
‘Joe!’
She threw her arms around him and kissed him.
‘Come in, come in. Mon Dieu, I thought you were dead. They told me your unit was back ‘ere, but when I asked for you they said that you were missing in action.’
‘Yvette, I only have a few hours,’ began Joe.
‘Have you brought champagne?’ said Yvette, forcing a laugh, ‘wonderful, let us celebrate.’
She walked over to the gramophone, wound the handle and dropped the needle. The soft tones of Sarah Vaughan singing ‘Honeysuckle Rose’ trickled into the room.
‘Joe, let’s forget about the war for a few hours. Here are some glasses, open the bottle, then come and dance with me. Uncle Pierre is at the bar, he won’t be back for hours.’
Later, with the bottle empty and the record ended, she led him upstairs by the light of the remaining candle. In the flickering shadows she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.
‘Now is our time Joe,’ she whispered, ‘say nothing.’
‘I …’ began Joe. She put a finger over his lips.
‘Ssssshhhhh,’ she said, ‘no French, no English, no words.’
She pushed him onto the bed and slowly took off her dress. Unbuttoning his trousers, she kissed his tight stomach then moved down. After a few minutes he grasped her hair and she rose and slid slowly down onto him.
Joe gasped as they joined at last and her hips rose and fell. Her hair caressed his cheek and her breasts pillowed softly on his chest. He drank in her sweet curves, glowing in the flickering candlelight, savoured the scent of her skin and moved with her.
Finally, they were together. Alone. The world receded, and as his back arched and the ecstatic roar came from his lips, she closed her eyes, lay down upon his chest and smiled to herself with satisfaction.
Chapter Twenty-four
France, 26 May 1940
The attack started in the early-morning gloom. A flurry of pops heralded a barrage of mortar shells that straddled the trench, with one direct hit wounding two men. The remains of the platoon huddled in the trench until the barrage stopped, then stood-to on the parapet.
The growing light illuminated a valley filled with mist, through which the sounds of diesel engines could be heard. Joe walked the trench, patting his men on the shoulder, checking that each one had a clean rifle and plenty of ammunition ready to hand. As he returned to his position on the left end of the trench, Major Merrivale came striding along, slapping his riding crop against a gleaming boot.
‘All ready then Lieutenant? Good show. Let’s see if we can hold them for a few hours at least, what? Your platoon is closest to the gun by the way, so if the crew gets hit I want you to man it for me, alright? Jolly good then.’
The Major beamed at Joe and without waiting for a reply, hopped out of the trench and back the way he had come.
Joe shook his head. ‘I’ll never get used to thes
e Pommies,’ he thought to himself. Then shapes began to emerge from the mist and the first German tank started climbing the hill. It was moving slowly, with a squad of infantry crowding behind it for shelter. Joe took a look at it with his binoculars and noticed that there was something different about it from the ones he’d seen before: the machine gun on the hull had been replaced with some sort of stubby barrel, and the paintwork all around the front of the tank seemed to be blackened and peeling.
‘Odd,’ he thought, ‘what the hell is that?’
To his right the anti-tank gun fired. The solid shot ricocheted off the side of the tank’s turret, making the infantry behind it duck, but doing no real damage. The vehicle’s tracks whirled unevenly as it turned towards the gun, then it ground remorselessly onwards up the slope. The gun fired again, but once again the shell bounced harmlessly off the armour plate.
‘Come on you bloody fools, aim,’ muttered Joe, but even as spoke, the tank stopped and a jet of liquid flame erupted from the nozzle on the front. The blazing fuel arced up and into the trees beneath which the anti-tank gun was hidden. In an instant the trees were ablaze and Joe could hear the screams of the gun crew. As he watched, three of them burst from cover and ran down the slope towards the river, beating at their flaming clothes.
‘The cowardly bastards!’ yelled Sergeant Smythe to his left, shaking a fist.
Joe looked around. His men were all staring at the blazing trees with white, shocked faces. He knew that with another burst from that flamethrower they’d all be in the river. Action was the only antidote to fear, he had to do something fast.
‘One and two sections, hear me,’ he yelled, ‘spread out and start sniping at the infantry behind the tank. Use rifles, the Bren will just be a target. Summerville, call down a fire mission on that tank then join me. Three section come with me,’ and he ran along the trench towards the blazing trees.
The tops of the trees were burning and the heat was intense, but as Joe had suspected, the gun was untouched and the ammo crates piled twenty feet behind had not exploded. Corporal Bellamy was lying against the left wheel, his charred uniform leaving him nearly naked. The left side of his body was a revolting mass of blackened, roasted flesh; half his face had melted off, leaving a sticky raw mass where the remnant of an eyeball rolled loosely in its socket. The fingers of his left hand were bloody stumps; yet he was alive and shuddering convulsively in his agony.