‘All right, son?’
‘Just about, sarge. ’Cept I’ve just crapped.’
‘Don’t do it again. Where’s the others?’
‘Bunny is just over there and so are the rest,’ Blackie pointed through the smoke. ‘Oi reckon they’re all right. We just got to get to those sand ’ills.’
‘Here we must be just out of Jerry’s line of fire. Once we make a dash for it we may be exposed. So make it fast. Tell the others.’
‘Won’t need to, sarge.’
He went like a monkey across the sand. Harris waved to his men and then shouted for them to go forward. They all ran madly to the cover of the dunes. The German machine-gun fire was late and they got there, panting, heaving, lying against the tussocks of grass, keeping their heads down.
‘Good,’ said Harris. ‘So far.’
‘Where’s their big guns?’ said Gordon. ‘I thought we’d be for it.’
Harris said: ‘That’s what I was afraid of but they’re not playing. The Airborne boys may have targeted them. Overrun them from the rear.’
‘Up their arses,’ said Treadwell.
They inched their way up the sand bank and spread out, crawling low. Blackie was pushing his rifle over the top and firing blindly, keeping his head down below his helmet and the dune. ‘You ain’t ever goin’ to shoot any bugger loike that,’ said Warren. ‘You got to aim at ’em proper.’
Blackie held his rifle up and took another random shot. ‘You never know when you moight be lucky,’ he said.
Harris was conscious of a forward movement from the beach and all along the sand-dunes. Someone fired a red Very light and the flare hung eerily above the long, grey confusion. Harris had no idea what the signal meant but he moved forward through the dunes, calling the others to follow him. Behind them one of the landing-craft struck a mine and flew bodily in the air. Once the explosion and the smoke had cleared he could see and hear men shouting desperately in the water.
He turned away and urged his squad on. May lay still but he said he only had cramp. Peters was staring as if he were in a dream. Treadwell wiped his glasses, Chaffey his nose. They had gone about three hundred yards when firing began ahead. The sandy undulations of the land gave them cover and looking left and right Harris could see other troops pinned down under the machine-gun attack. They waited, keeping below the level of the marram grass. A burst of fire ruffled the ground ahead and they flattened themselves into the sand. When it had finished Blackie whispered, the only time anyone had heard him speak so low: ‘Look ’ere, see what Oi found.’
He held up a sand-covered doll, a ragged little thing but with eyes apparently bright with gratitude. ‘Lost,’ he said.
Warren said: ‘Keep un, take un ’ome for youm kids.’
Blackie grinned and nodded. Then he said: ‘Oi ain’t got no kids.’
A scarlet-faced officer crawled towards them from the right. ‘Sergeant,’ he said to Harris. ‘Any chance of your lads dealing with these bastards? They’re holding us up and you’re nearest.’
‘Yes, sir,’ answered Harris, wondering how.
‘Advance twenty yards,’ said the officer, ‘and you’ll be in grenade range, just about.’ He moved on saying vaguely: ‘Well done.’
Harris was still not sure how it could be done. The enemy had them covered. ‘Ask them ta surrender, sarge,’ suggested Gordon.
‘Thanks,’ grunted Harris. ‘We’ll go around the flanks. Maybe their field of fire is restricted. When we open fire,’ he pointed to Warren, ‘let them have the grenade. You’re the cricket-ball-throwing champion.’
Warren said: ‘I were only second.’
Harris took Treadwell to the right, Gordon went left with Blackie, wriggling through the tough grass and sharp sand. The Germans were in a hollow and had stopped firing. Warren, with his considerable bulk only just below the top of the grass, rolled forward. He stripped off his pack and ammunition pouches. You were not supposed to do that. He was sure they would see him but the Germans remained quiet until they began firing towards the far right.
Harris realised that any covering fire from them would bring the enemy’s attention back. ‘Hold your fire,’ he said and raised his finger above the grass. Warren saw it. The West Countryman took a breath, rose to his knees and then to his big feet. Cursing to himself, he ran forward like a half-crouching rugby player over the soft ground, pulled the pin from the grenade and tossed it overarm towards the middle of the German position. Then he threw himself down, knocking all the breath from his body.
The Mills bomb exploded among the Germans and Harris gave the order to open fire. They swept the position with rifle fire from both flanks. Harris got to his feet and ran while firing the Sten gun from his hip. There was no need. There were five dead Germans lying in the saucer of sand.
‘Good throw, Bunny,’ said Harris. Warren had got on his feet but now sank to the ground as if exhausted. The sergeant patted him on his sweating head. ‘You’ll be getting the Victoria Cross if you’re not careful.’
‘Oi not be goin’ to do that any more,’ vowed Warren. They saw that he was weeping down his big cheeks. ‘Some other bugger can do it next time.’
When it was evening they rested in the farmyard. The farmer’s wife came out and collected all their boots and socks and took them inside the house to dry by a fire. Then a field kitchen caught up with them and ladled out hot stew, jam roll and custard and cups of tea. They began to feel better.
There was an artillery battery of twenty-five-pounders in the field next to the walled farm. ‘I know you,’ a sergeant said to Harris who had walked over to see if they had any spare cigarettes. ‘You’re a gunner. What you doing in this mob?’ They strolled back to the farmyard together.
‘Crawling on our bellies, mostly,’ said Harris. ‘We got transferred to the Hampshires. It was a bad swap.’
‘Been wallowing in it, have you?’ His name was Berry. Harris remembered him from the mess.
‘All day. The boys are knackered.’
The artilleryman had fifty Craven ‘A’ cigarettes, advertised as being good for the throat. He handed them to Harris.
‘Lost anybody?’
‘No, thank God. They’re all still here. Thanks for the fags.’
A boy of about five came from the farmhouse, shyly walked up to the two sergeants and said: ‘Des Allemands.’
They looked at each other. The artillery sergeant said: ‘He wants almonds.’ He started to say: ‘We haven’t got any …’
‘Des Boches,’ corrected the boy.
‘Action stations!’ bawled Harris. His barefooted men picked up their weapons and scattered. Berry ran across the farmyard while the small boy blinked with astonishment. Then, from the back door of the farm came Wehrmacht Sergeant Fred Weber and his friend Gino, also wearing a German Army tunic. They were coated with dust and both carried white flags attached to walking-sticks. Weber also bore a bottle of schnapps and Gino tentatively cradled a football-sized red cheese.
‘Kamerad,’ said Weber. ‘I’m a cook.’ As if he thought it might help, he held up the hand with the single finger.
‘Yes,’ confirmed Gino with a hopeful smile. ‘I assist him.’
‘At least they brought the cheese,’ grinned Harris. The grin was relief. His men came a touch sheepishly from their concealment places. They put down their weapons and relieved the two men of the schnapps and the cheese and gave them what was left of the army stew. It was getting cold but they ate gratefully. Weber whispered to Gino: ‘It could have done with some seasoning.’
Harris allowed each of his men a tot of schnapps and a slice of cheese. The boy came out of the house with some lumps of bread. Harris went in to thank the woman for drying the socks and boots. The farmer, who had appeared cautious, as if he was not sure who they should be helping, pointed to a battery wireless set which he took from the dresser and placed on the middle of the kitchen table. ‘Londres,’ he said. He cupped his hand to his ear. Harris sat down and said: ‘We might as
well hear who’s winning.’
He thought nothing else could surprise him that day but then a smart young German lieutenant came through the door, tall and sharply clean, escorted by a short, mangy-looking private in the South Lancashire Regiment. ‘This Jerry lad says ’e wants to listen to t’ news, sarge,’ he said.
The officer clicked his heels and, Harris thought, just stopped himself saying: ‘Heil Hitler.’ The sergeant indicated one of the chairs. The farmer brought a bottle of calvados and three glasses and put them on the table. He sat down with them. ‘I wouldn’t mind a sup o’ that,’ said the small escort infantryman. The farmer caught his eye and produced another glass. The soldier remained standing, not much taller than his rifle.
The farmer checked the murky wall clock. It was warm in the room because the fire had been lit to dry the boots. ‘Do you mind if we have the window open?’ asked the German officer in perfect English.
‘As long as you don’t jump out of it,’ retorted Harris.
The lieutenant laughed thinly. ‘I will not escape, sergeant. It has taken me half the day to become captured.’
Harris glanced at him. The farmer switched on the wireless but only crackling noises came from it. He shrugged and waited. ‘You’ve been trying to give yourself up?’ Harris said to the German.
‘It has not been easy,’ replied the lieutenant. ‘Getting shot is easy, but not being taken prisoner. But here I am, safe and sound, more or less.’
‘Your English is very good,’ said Harris.
‘Better ’an mine,’ put in the private from the South Lancashire Regiment. ‘It’s like they say about the Virgin Mary, innit, sarge. Like ’er conception. What is it? Immaculate, that’s it, immaculate. That’s ’is English.’
The German glanced at him disparagingly. ‘I went to school in England.’
‘So did I. ’Oly Trinity, Birken’ead,’ said the soldier.
‘Please,’ admonished the German officer. He turned to Harris. ‘In Sussex, in fact. That is where I would like to go now, Sussex, green and pleasant Sussex.’
‘Maybe we’ll build you a special prison camp there,’ said Harris.
‘Don’t take offence, sergeant. I’m glad to be in this situation. I’m probably the first German officer to throw in the towel in Europe. You’ll ship me to England where I shall spend the rest of the conflict in some little discomfort, but not much. Far better than being dead, don’t you think? While you will all be marching on with the war.’ He smiled at their faces. The wireless set came to life.
‘This is the BBC in London. Mr Winston Churchill, the prime minister, has told the House of Commons that all the invasion beaches in northern France have been secured and that American, British and Allied troops are pushing inland.’
The German officer raised his calvados glass to the farmer and to Harris, but he ignored the small Liverpudlian. ‘To victory,’ he said.
The following morning they moved ahead to a red-roofed village, Colomb, which had already been cleared by British paratroops. It was a pleasant walk in the sun after the noise and danger of the previous day. They could still hear the distant uproar of guns along the coast and several times low-flying planes crossed above them, making them dive into the hedgerows. But they had British or American markings. The Luftwaffe was still absent.
They approached the village cautiously in single file at one side of the road, the whole platoon stretched out over two hundred yards. Harris was in the lead of his section and they were the first into the cobbled square.
A group of paratroopers was resting by a small fountain, with the inhabitants in their best clothes standing around them. Two young women had brought trays of coffee and the grimed airborne soldiers were accepting the mugs gladly. ‘Looks like the job’s been done already,’ said Harris.
Beyond the pleasant street and over the roofs of the houses they could see a meadow heavy with buttercups and poppies, and beyond that a church spire. Harris deployed his men along one side of the street, looking over the field through the gaps in the buildings. ‘Bit late, boys,’ said one of the Airborne men. ‘Jerry’s been kicked out of here.’
‘Trust the infantry,’ said another. ‘Oversleeping.’
‘We had to walk,’ pointed out Harris good-humouredly. He remained conscious of his transfer to a foot-slogging regiment. One of the twenty-five-pounders from the artillery battery, which had been in the field next to the farm, was coming into the village pulled by a fifteen-hundredweight. Berry, the sergeant he had recognised, was in the seat beside the driver.
The young women, in their bright peasant skirts and white blouses, asked with polite eagerness if the squad would like some coffee and they went to get it. One of them in a blue apron and white blouse came from a house first, holding a round tray and six mugs. Harris took his first and then Treadwell.
As Treadwell moved to take the coffee and he and the girl stood facing each other, a single, concise shot came echoing from the distance. The bullet went through the girl’s neck and hit Treadwell in the chest. The two strangers fell forward, the soldier lying across the young woman as though to protect her. His glasses fell unbroken to the cobbles. The round coffee tray rolled like a noisy wheel across the street; the cups smashed.
Nobody moved, nobody could take it in. Then Harris shouted: ‘Action! Action!’ and the soldiers ran to cover by the houses and the garden walls on the side of the village over which the shot had come. The paratroops flattened. The villagers screamed and ran. One hysterical woman tried to reach the shot girl but she was held back. A medical orderly with the Airborne men ran at a crouch towards the two young people prostrate in a square of sunshine. Harris shouted to Blackie, his nearest soldier, and sheltered by a wall. Blackie scuttled across the street to the pair. ‘Treadie,’ he choked. Harris crawled to his side. ‘Christ … come on, Treadie!’ Blackie sobbed. ‘You’ll be all right.’ They knew he was not. When the medical orderly turned him over there was a blunt and bloody hole in his chest and no life in his face. The men were looking over their shoulders, trying to see. Blackie spread his hands speechlessly and picked up Treadwell’s glasses.
‘That spire,’ said Harris. ‘That’s where the bastard is. Up in the spire.’
A paratroop sergeant on hands and knees arrived alongside him. ‘My boys will flush him out,’ he said. He looked at the group crouching over the two bodies. The village women were screaming the girl’s name: ‘Marie! Marie!’ but being restrained on the pavement. ‘Hard luck losing one of your lads just like that,’ said the paratrooper.
Harris stared towards the church spire and said: ‘I think we’ll want to get him.’ The sergeant looked at their rifles and Harris’s Sten gun. ‘You’ll have to get a bit closer,’ he said. ‘That’s all of five hundred yards.’
‘We won’t use the rifles,’ said Harris. He strode past the sheltering houses towards Sergeant Berry and the twenty-five-pounder. ‘That one of your boys?’ said Berry. ‘Bad luck, mate.’
‘We’ll get him,’ said Harris grimly. ‘He’s up in that church bloody spire.’ He looked the other sergeant in the face. ‘Can we borrow the gun?’
Berry looked astonished. ‘Borrow it? But we can …’ He realised. ‘Oh, I see.’
Harris said: ‘We’ll look after it. Remember, we’re really gunners.’
‘All right, why not,’ said Berry. He looked over his shoulder. ‘Our officer is still back by the farm. One of the guns got stuck in the ditch. Nobody will notice.’
‘Good. Thanks.’
Harris called to his squad. They ran along under cover of the houses. As they did so another shot sounded. There was a small puff of smoke from the spire, from a single, dark window. ‘Fixed you,’ said Harris.
The men realised what he was doing. They hurried to get the gun prepared for action. Berry’s men watched, astonished. The field gun was swung and trundled to a position at the side of the square, partly concealed but from which they had a clear view of the church. They were swiftly ready.
&
nbsp; Then an old Frenchman strolled calmly along the cobbles. ‘Our church is a little old,’ he pointed out.
‘Our comrade was a little young,’ said Harris. ‘They shouldn’t use churches for sniping.’
The old man smiled in a thoughtful way. ‘The priest is still in bed in his house. He goes back after morning prayers.’
‘This will wake him up,’ said Harris.
The crew were ready. The four crouching men had rehearsed it so many times. ‘Ready … load …’ he recited, returning to the gun. His breath came thickly. Berry was standing under cover, hands in pockets, nodding approval, his men watching near him. Harris snapped orders. The muzzle of the weapon rose, the range was shouted, the aim was sure. ‘Fire!’
The shattering explosion sent pigeons flying and squawking from the village housetops. The sniper had barely disturbed them. A sign outside a shop fell down. People crouched and clutched their ears. The shell struck three quarters of the way up the spire, hitting the single dark window. The top of the spire disappeared in an eruption of smoke and debris and toppled, falling down in three directions.
‘I reckon you got the bugger there, sergeant,’ said Berry. His men began to cheer.
‘I reckon so too,’ said Harris. ‘You can have your gun back now. Thanks.’
He turned and went, with a military stride, to where the dead Treadwell and the girl were lying in the street.
Chapter Twenty-six
By mid-August the battles, still fierce, had moved south, east and west. The Germans had suffered 200,000 dead since D-Day on 6 June, the Allies half that number. Fifteen thousand civilians had died. Paris was liberated on 25 August but there were still nine months of the war to go before the Allied victory.
Summer lay heavily on the station yard, the big trees folding above it. The rooks sounded. Bees and flies buzzed. The yard was empty and dusty when Paget walked out from the station. He was the only passenger to have left the train at Crockbourne.
Wilks brought the taxi creaking around the corner by the loaded horse chestnuts. He stopped. ‘Good morning, Mr Paget, let me take that.’
Waiting For the Day Page 35