by Bodie Thoene
How much longer could the Allied soldiers continue to hold?
38
Save My Sons
With carbines unslung and resting across the saddle bows, bayonets ready like sabers of old, and most importantly, sacks of grenades, Raymond’s column prepared to attack.
The assault was led by the Hotchkiss tanks, rattling along at their top speed of seventeen miles an hour. But close behind were the cadets of the Ecole de Cavalerie.
The artillerymen were between barrages. The officers smoked in the shade while the soldiers stacked shells in preparation for another bombardment.
The Germans looked up, startled, as the tanks rolled out of the forest. The armored machines fired their 37 mm guns, destroying one cannon and blowing the carriage out from under another. The Wehrmacht troops scattered. Some of the officers futilely fired their sidearms at the attackers but were cut down by machine guns.
Raymond heard one lieutenant yell angrily for his men to stand and form a line, then watched the officer turn with bewilderment to face the onrushing rank of horses. He raised his machine pistol, but Raymond shot him in the chest. The German’s gun loosed a burst into the ground as he fell.
The charge tore apart the cannoneers. While the French tanks scuttled in a circle around the perimeter, picking off strays and keeping the Germans from reforming, the horsemen selected their targets.
Raymond chose the cannon farthest away and galloped his bay horse over to it. As he approached, a German soldier who had been hiding behind the gun carriage got up and leveled his rifle. Raymond put the horse into a jump. The front hooves of the bay smashed into the man’s head.
With the horse prancing nervously, Raymond watched as his cadets spread themselves out to each of the gun emplacements. Each student took the sack of grenades and prepared for the destruction they had planned.
When all were ready, Raymond pulled the pin on a grenade, dropped it back into the pouch, and tossed the sack under the cannon. Then he set his mount racing back toward the woods.
When Raymond approached the next emplacement, that cadet did the same maneuver and so on down the line, retrieving the riders and reforming the rank. By the time Raymond had reached the fourth artillery piece, the first explosion shattered the air. The cannon jumped off the ground; the gun bent in half. Then the weapon flipped over on its side and leaned against the ground, propped on its now-useless barrel.
***
Horst’s tank followed the column of armored cars hurrying toward the downstream crossing of the Lys. Sporadic rifle fire pinged against his vehicle’s armor to let him know that the French on the far shore were tracking his progress.
When the line of panzers had covered four of the five miles, Horst was amazed to see the suspension bridge still intact. The needless sacrifice of his men in the continuing frontal assault on the town could cease and a sweeping flank attack substituted.
The next order of business was to secure the crossing and guard it against demolition. Horst knew that, for whatever reason the bridge had not already been destroyed, it would be as soon as the German interest in it became apparent.
That he had reached the correct conclusion too late was demonstrated when the lead armored car exploded in a gout of flame, struck by an antitank round fired from the south side of the river. Horst ordered his remaining machines to swing into line abreast, taking advantage of the cover of the brush to charge the position ahead. Whatever Allied resources had crossed the Lys, they could not be much compared to the armored unit.
Small-arms and machine-gun fire rattled off the German tank. His gunner responded by lobbing a high-explosive round into the clump of trees ahead. The shot was rewarded with the sight of several bodies in British uniforms flying through the air.
“Major,” Horst’s radio operator said, “I have picked up a garbled transmission from our battery . . . something about being attacked.”
It had to be a mistake. The artillery park was well back away from the river, and the Allies had no force across the river unless . . .
“Pivot right ninety,” Horst shouted to his driver. “All units, watch for flank attack!”
Another armored car responding to Horst’s warning swung broadside to the British detachment at the same moment the tank destroyer launched another round. The Kfz-231 was bowled over from the force of the impact, smashing down a tree trunk and ending up on its roof, a smoking ruin.
Ahead was another tank, bearing down on Horst. It was about the right size and shape to be one of the smaller Czech-made Panzer units, but it was coming from the wrong direction. The Hotchkiss tank fired first, an armor-piercing shell that narrowly missed Horst’s turret and flew across the river before splintering an elm.
“Armor-piercing . . . left thirty . . . fire!” Horst ordered.
The round penetrated the front armor of the French tank and divided the body of the vehicle as if an opener had been applied to a tin can. “Major,” the machine gunner reported. “Another Hotchkiss at right ninety.”
The gun of Horst’s tank was already pivoting to track the new threat when the woods suddenly swarmed with horsemen. The machine gunner fired, knocking a rider out of the saddle and disemboweling a horse when the troop swept past, making for the bridge.
“After them! That is why the bridge is still intact!”
***
Raymond could see the bridge ahead beyond the last screen of brush. Machine-gun bullets and high-explosive rounds were tearing up the cover on all sides. He urged his horse to redouble his efforts.
The German tanks and armored cars were racing along the shore to cut them off. The Guardsmen had abandoned their hopeless position and were retreating back across the span. At any second they might detonate the demolition charges.
Behind him the remaining Hotchkiss tank exploded, victim of another German tank. Now there was only a handful of riders jumping over logs and racing death to the remaining link with safety.
Some instinct told him to yank his mount to the side. The obedient horse spun sideways, leaping a ditch just as another shell exploded against a tree trunk where his former path would have carried him.
Raymond felt a searing pain in his leg. He looked down to see that a shrapnel splinter had gouged a furrow in his leg. But worse, it protruded like a spike from the body of his mount. He tried to pull it out, and the horse nickered in agony.
The bay faltered. It stumbled, recovered, stumbled again. “Not yet,” Raymond urged. “Not now! Go! Go!”
The beast responded to this entreaty with a lunge forward, redoubling his efforts to escape the terrible pain.
***
“Left ninety,” Horst ordered. “High explosive . . . fire!”
He aimed at the movement he saw on the north bank, knowing that the suspension bridge would soon be destroyed if he could not prevent it.
The guns of the German panzers reached across the River Lys. Below the fighting drifted the bodies of those who were already done with the battle. German and French together, floating in the amiable comradeship of death, while overhead the machine guns and cannons roared, arguing with each other over the right to claim the river, the crossing, and the fate of France.
***
Andre and his eager Senegalese arrived at the River Lys by the dirt track that led to the suspension bridge and found themselves suddenly immersed in a battle. They unslung their rifles and sprawled forward on their bellies, taking aim across the river.
Below him Andre could see his brother, Paul, preparing to detonate the bridge. Then the air filled with the raining death of the tank rounds fired by the Germans. Andre’s arrival had been spotted and his position targeted.
More armored cars and tanks emerged from the woods, an overwhelming assemblage of force.
The Senegalese troops fired back fearlessly, but their small weapons were no match for the cannons and machine guns of the panzers. Forced into a defensive perimeter, they dug themselves into the hillside and prepared to sell their lives dearly.
***
Paul helped a pair of Grenadier Guards who reached the north side of the bridge carry their wounded comrade off the roadway. Behind them, knots of British soldiers were running back toward the span. They did not bother firing their weapons at the oncoming German vehicles, knowing that the small arms would have no effect on the steel plating.
Paul retreated to the place where the detonation cords came together. “Prepare to fire the charges,” he ordered, realizing as he spoke that he was sealing the fate of Raymond and any of the others who remained across the river.
Suddenly he could see horsemen on the far shore. Behind them shell fire burst among the trees. Paul silently urged them on. He calculated the angle made by the fleeing horsemen and the approaching tanks and knew that the margin was too small, the Germans too close.
Sadly, he turned to the engineer standing by the detonator. “Get ready.”
Across the river, Raymond came into view. Paul could tell that the bay was injured; it staggered and pitched against the post of the tower that suspended the bridge. Raymond slewed around in the saddle, almost toppling off. So he was wounded, too. Paul silently urged horse and rider to hurry, imploring them to get clear.
Raymond had barely reached the north end of the span when his mount stumbled again and fell, pinning the young cadet beneath him. Paul started back toward the bridge when the German tank across the river fired again.
“Blow the—” Paul’s words were cut off as a high-explosive round landed close beside him.
***
Paul lay in a pool of his own blood when Andre reached him. Cradling his brother’s head in his lap, Andre stroked the matted hair and placed his fingers on Paul’s cheek in a gesture of farewell.
Paul, his body shattered, still tried to talk. “Save my boys, Andre.” Then he repeated, “Save my sons.”
The fighting had stopped. The bridge, the detonation cables severed, had not been blown.
Gaston staggered up beside his fellow commander, sinking to his knees at Paul’s side. “Give me a gun,” he cried.
Paul shifted his gaze to the row of German Panzer units covering them from the opposite bank of the Lys.
Gaston clutched Andre’s sleeve. “Give me a gun! I want to die with honor like the others!”
Paul reached out with a bloody hand to touch Gaston’s arm. “It is enough . . . Gaston. Enough.”
Andre looked up at a movement across the river. An officer in the uniform of a Wehrmacht major advanced across the span, carrying a flag of truce.
He stood over Andre and Paul. “I am Major Horst von Bockman, Seventh Panzer. You are the commander?”
“My brother,” Andre replied. “Captain Paul Chardon of the Ecole de Cavalerie.”
The major removed his hat and used it to shield the eyes of the dying man. “Captain, I salute you. Who were the men defending the town?”
Andre replied, “Not men, Herr Major. Five hundred cadets of the Ecole de Cavalerie.”
“Kavalleriekadetten . . . tapfer Soldaten . . . brave soldiers.” Then to Paul, “Your cadets have resisted the Wehrmacht. You have done all that honor demands. Will you not surrender and stop the killing?”
“No!” Gaston said fiercely.
“Wait,” Paul gasped. “Will you . . . let my boys go?”
Andre’s eyes seized those of Horst, locked onto them. “I am a colonel. I will guarantee the surrender of the regular forces if you will let the cadets go.”
Horst hesitated only a moment, then nodded and said with a wry smile, “The Führer would not approve . . . however . . . honor among soldiers permits me no other course. A pity you were not born German.”
“A pity you were not born French.”
“I will allow you a two-hour lead to Dunkirk. You will accompany them. Perhaps we will meet again on another battlefield, Herr Colonel.”
Paul smiled and raised his chin. Looking up at Andre, he said a last time, “Save my sons for France.” Then he died.
***
Lining the road out of Lys, five hundred panzer troops stood at attention as eighty surviving cadets rode past the body of Captain Paul Chardon for the last time.
In contrast to the depleted supplies of the young defenders, the Germans had a full complement of ordnance: grenades, ammunition, and MG-34 machine guns. As the departing warriors filed by, the Wehrmacht soldiers presented arms.
At the head of the troop, Andre glanced down at the body of his brother, then at Major Horst von Bockman. A look passed between the two men, and for a moment, the expression of the German officer softened.
39
Miracle of Dunkirk
On the afternoon of his twenty-first birthday, Badger Cross gave up his hope of strawberries, of rescue, and of life.
David also had a growing sense that the Dunkirk miracle would not be a miracle for him and Badger. The defensive perimeter was shrinking as rearguard troops were pulled back and evacuated. As the German lines crept closer to the men on the beach, the Wehrmacht artillery shelled the enclave at will. When the gray skies cleared and the Luftwaffe returned in force, it was rumored that the end of the rescue effort was very near.
For the moment the skies above the sand were empty of hostile aircraft. The shelling fell silent.
David had not mentioned the strawberries to Badger that morning or the fact that it was the fourth of June, his birthday. Maybe Badger would not remember the date, David hoped. If they could get on a ship—any ship—and back to England, David would buy Badger a field of strawberries!
“It’s quiet,” David said. “They’ve let up.”
“I’m twenty-one,” Badger replied. “Interesting thing, that a bloke could die twenty-one years to the day after he is born.”
“You aren’t gonna die.” David’s tone was firm, but he was thankful Badger could not see the doubt on his face.
“I’m sure of it.” Badger raised his nose as if to sniff the air that smelled of cordite and rotting flesh.
“Sure? All this over strawberries. You’re looney; that’s all.”
“No matter about the strawberries. Today is my day.”
“Shut up, Badger!” David said hotly. “It’s bad luck to talk that way.”
Badger paid no heed to the rebuke. “I saw it. Plain as anything.” He paused and raised his right hand in the air as if he could see a plane circling above him. “I wonder what time of day I was born.”
“Late,” David said gruffly. “Near midnight. Probably it’s not even your birthday yet. Probably you still got hours before you have to have those stinking berries.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Badger turned his head toward the low conversations of a large group of French soldiers who sat in the sand a few feet away. “What are they saying?” Badger asked.
“How should I know?” David was angry. Angry at Badger. Angry at whoever was in charge of the evacuation. Angry at himself for being stupid enough to get shot down.
“They’re saying something about the panzers moving in on us. The SS shoot anyone wounded. You’d better leave me when they come.”
“It would be better if I put my fist in your mouth and smash a few teeth out if you don’t knock it off.”
“I’m just saying. . . .” Badger exhaled loudly. “You’ve been good about all this, taking me with you and all. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”
“I’ll think of something, you putz. When we get back to England, I’ll think of something. Now shut your trap. We’re gonna make it.”
Badger did not reply. He turned his head toward the poilus. “I just wish I knew what they were saying.”
At that instant an American voice spoke from behind the two men. “They’re talking about women. The women they left at home.”
David turned slightly to see an oil-covered, stockily built man wearing the uniform of an American correspondent.
“You American?” David asked.
“Mac McGrath.” The man stuck out a sand-covered paw and pumped David’s ha
nd as if they were meeting on a peaceful street corner in Paris. “Some mess we’re in, huh?”
David jerked his thumb at the press patch on Mac’s shoulder. “You’re neutral, unless you know something I don’t know. Did Roosevelt decide to join our crusade?”
“Not hardly.”
“So what are you doing at Dunkirk? You news guys go wherever you want on both sides of the line, don’t you?”
“I like it better on this side of things,” Mac replied with a bitter laugh.
“You’ve got a death wish. Is that it, pal?” David brushed the sand absently from his hands. “Or are you here for the story?”
“Just not real fond of Nazis. So, what’s your excuse for being here?” The correspondent’s brown eyes were ringed with soot, giving him the appearance of a bandit with a crooked nose.
“I wanted to fly Hurricanes.” David shrugged. “This is my pal, Badger Cross. It’s his birthday.”
“Lousy place to celebrate.” Mac shielded his eyes against the glare of the sun on the water.
“I’ll say,” David said glumly as Mac moved closer. “The army is not real happy with us RAF guys. Can’t say I blame them. They put us at the back of the line. But worse than that, they run us all over the beach and the harbor. We may be the last ones out of this dump.”
“We’re never getting out of here.” Badger sighed. “I told you, Tinman. My birthday . . . and no strawberries.”
Mac snorted. “Real cheerful fella.”
David shrugged again. “Never mind him. He’s crazy.”
Badger wagged his head. “I’m doomed, Mr. McGrath, and you, too, if you stick by me.”
The other solitary souls edged away from Badger at this thought, and shortly Mac, David, and Badger found themselves a very small group indeed.
David explained Badger’s preoccupation with strawberries and cream. “I got the tin of milk,” he told Mac. “I’ve been carrying it around with me. But you can’t find strawberries anywhere around here. But today is his birthday, and it isn’t over yet.”