by Alan David
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, you just stick close to me when we get into action. I’ll keep an eye on you.’
‘Well, I reckon they’re going to drive us to the nearest railway station and send us all home,’ said Smith, grinning into the darkness.
‘I don’t need a train to get me home,’ said Dave Lloyd. ‘I could walk it from here.’
‘Not after tonight,’ laughed Newman. ‘We’ll likely be on an L.C.T. before dawn.’
‘You’re only jealous,’ jeered Smith. ‘Just because you live a couple of hundred miles from here.’
They huddled together in the close darkness, talking softly to pass the time. There was no thought of sleep. They could only sit and wait. An hour passed, and then they spoke less. Each man wrapped himself in a cocoon of thoughts that shut out the past and the future and knew only the timeless present.
At last they heard a series of doors slamming. Then one by one the trucks began to move. The camp was left behind. It had been their home, but they gave no further thought to it. They had left it, and now it did not exist.
The convoy of trucks purred southwards through the desert of dark streets and seemingly deserted buildings. Then London was behind them, and the suburbs gave way to countryside. They travelled faster now, with military-police motor-cyclists weaving in and out of the long line of trucks. The battalion was on the move.
Dawn came gradually, and the trucks stopped. Spring was well advanced, and each morning now was mild and full of beauty. A faint breeze touched them slightly as they sat dispersed in the surrounding fields and ate haversack rations. Here was the fresh smell and the clean look of Nature at her rising. The red tinge in the eastern sky and the calmness, foretold a warm day.
‘Hey, look!’ cried Newman, and all those who had heard him turned their heads, then looked in the direction in which he was pointing. They watched their transport turn and drive rapidly back the way they had come all night. ‘We should have known,’ Newman moaned. ‘If we’re going anywhere else today we’ll have to walk.’
‘But I haven’t had any sleep,’ Smith protested in mockery.
‘Don’t let a little thing like that worry you,’ laughed Corporal Rawlings. ‘You slept all right the night before. In the near future you’ll get no sleep at all, or it will be one big sleep.’
‘Here comes Wally,’ said Eddie. ‘Now we’ll know something.’
Sergeant Rawlings came from Company H.Q. with Lieutenant Gates.
‘All right, Four Platoon, you’ve had long enough for breakfast. Get ready to move off in five minutes.’
‘Will the trucks be back, Sarge?’ asked Smith.
‘Yes,’ the sergeant replied, ‘but not until this afternoon, and by then we will have marched most of the way to our new billet. We’re going to put our map-reading into practice. We’re going ‘across country. It’s a little further this way than by road.’
There were audible moans from the men.
‘When I was a little boy I always wanted to be a policeman,’ said Newman. ‘I wished I’d joined the force. There’s nothing like flattening the pavements in your own town.’
‘Fall in in sections,’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Three Section leading, Two Section following, and One Section bringing up the rear.’
Other platoons of the company were throwing out their sections, and soon the long columns of khaki filed across the fields like tines of soldier ants.
‘This is a luverly day for a ramble,’ said Lofty Smith. He plucked some honeysuckle from a hedge, and taking off his helmet, threaded it in his camouflage net.
‘Look at Nature Boy,’ grinned Lloyd.
‘He thinks he’s on a Sunday School treat,’ said Newman.
They heard the sound of a tractor, and after climbing through a hedge and jumping a ditch they saw a Land Army girl on a tractor which was pulling ribbed rollers across a field. The girl stopped the tractor when she saw the soldiers, and sat watching their progress. Smith waved to her and shouted : ‘I’ll change places with you.’
‘You can do that, too, Smith,’ said Corporal Rawlings. ‘I’d rather have her along than you any day.’
The girl smiled and waved back. After Three Section had passed her Newman glanced back. ‘In a week’s time the girls we talk to won’t understand English,’ he said.
‘No. They’ve had to learn German for four years.’
‘What makes you think you’ll survive the beaches?’ asked Corporal Rawlings. He turned to glance back along his section. ‘Keep your distance,’ he called. ‘Five yards between each man.’
‘What’s the date today?’ asked Newman.
‘Tenth o’ May,’ Lloyd replied. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing. I just wondered. I’ve lost all track of dates. Wonder how much further we’ve got to go.’
‘Don’t ask me. None of the top brass will have anything to do with me.’ Lloyd grinned.
Smith plucked a piece of grass and stuck it in the gap between his two front teeth. He shoved his helmet back off his forehead, revealing a deep red groove, and he shifted his rifle from one shoulder to the other. ‘Not a soul to be seen,’ he muttered. ‘I reckon this is what they call a secret move.’
Eddie Rawlings was lost in thought. He followed the small figure of his brother Arthur with no conscious thought of doing so. The warm sun beating down was like an extra blanket on a hot night. A skylark went sailing up into the limitless heavens, singing out its heart in happiness and joy. A cock pheasant gave its peculiar call which echoed in the distance. The rustling of the grass under their heavy boots lulled their senses and blended with the faint throbbing of Nature that filled the great stillness and silence of the countryside. The air was like wine, clear and heady, making the very senses dizzy with its freshness, and the crisp smell of the earth and the fields, once experienced, would never be forgotten by those who were to survive the coming battles.
‘How much further do we have to march, Corp?’ shouted Smith.
‘Why should you worry?’ retorted the little corporal. ‘If we keep on like this we’ll be too late for the Second Front.’
Sergeant Rawlings was dropping back from the scouts leading the company. He walked with his brother Arthur for a time, then waited for Eddie to come up.
‘All right, Eddie?’ The sergeant looked fresh and clean, as if he had just stepped off morning muster parade. He eyed Eddie critically, noting the tiredness in the young face, and also the resolute bearing and determination to keep going.
‘Yes, I feel fine, Wally. What about you?’
‘I’m making out, thanks. Are you worried about this Second Front business?’
‘No more than anyone else. So long as I’m with you and Arthur I’m all right. I just hope that you’ll be all right.’
‘Nothing will ever happen to me.’ The sergeant smiled.
‘Only the good die young.’ Warmth flowed through him. He cast a sidelong glance at Eddie that took in the features that were typically Rawlings; somewhat snub nose, very clean features, light brown hair that was inclined to wave, and Eddie’s eyes were a shade of green. He’d be one to turn the heads of a few girls in a year or two, when he had hardened into a man – if he lived long enough, came the bleak, unbidden thought. The sergeant conjured up mental pictures of the rest of his family; four more brothers, and if the war lasted many more years they’d all know the feel of uniforms and the fear of battles.
‘What are you thinking about, Wally?’
The sergeant eyed the small figure of his brother Arthur. They’d spent a few years together in the service, and it had made them more than brothers.
‘Eh, what’s that you say?’
‘I asked you what you were thinking about?’
‘I was just thinking of the day war will be over and we can all go home, covered in medals and glory.’ Wally laughed.
‘More likely to be covered with blood long before the end,’ said Lofty Smith, who had closed the distance between himself and Eddie.
‘What are you doing this close, Smith?’ questioned the sergeant. ‘Get back to your proper distance. You’re putting the whole section out.’
‘Sorry, Sergeant. I just thought you were imparting military secrets.’ Smith began dropping back.
‘Did you comb your hair this morning?’ the sergeant continued, inspecting Smith with a trained eye. ‘Good God, man, you’ve got a real fringe. Is that real hair or coco-matting under your helmet?’
‘Comb my hair!’ Smith said indignantly. ‘Why, I haven’t had my helmet off for three days. And as for my hair, it’s nerves that makes it like that.’
‘Nerves.’ The sergeant tut-tutted. ‘It looks to me as if you’ve just seen the ghosts of the nine blind bastards.’
Eddie chuckled to himself. He felt really light-hearted. He had all he could wish for; good mates and his brothers. There was only one dark spot upon his whole horizon : the Second Front.
They halted at midday for haversack rations, then continued. During the morning the sections had been alert and lively. Now they trailed along quietly, with only an occasional burst of song to break the over-all silence.
It was almost mid-afternoon when Corporal Rawlings, breasting a rise ahead of his section, stood for a moment outlined against a faultless blue sky. He sighed and relaxed at sight of the deep blue of the sea in the distance. To his right the tiny black figures of ‘A’ Company were moving down a series of green slopes to the coast.
‘It can’t be much further now,’ he said as he stepped aside to allow his section to march past. ‘Unless we’re going to swim.’
One by one the men reached the crest, paused to take in the scene before them, and plunged on faster down the slope. They became animated. Tiredness fell from them, and conversation flowed.
‘What about a nice walk after tea?’ Smith enquired of all within earshot.
‘What makes you think you’re getting tea?’ asked Newman.
‘Don’t ask me, ask my stomach,’ Smith grimaced.
They passed through a village, and women and children came out to stare. The sections halted for ten minutes. Three Section squatted in a group upon the grey granite steps of a 1914-1918 war memorial. Eddie sat next to his brother Arthur. They looked at the names inscribed upon the memorial.
‘In a few years,’ said Smith, ‘they’ll be putting up a few thousand new memorials in the villages, and some of our names will be on some of them. Makes you think, doesn’t it? Here we are today, all happy and talking together, and maybe next year at this time some of us will be dead. Someone will say : "Remember Lofty Smith?" and someone else will say, "Who the hell was he?"; then someone will say, "Three Section Dog Company, killed in action twelve months ago," and then someone will say, "Poor bastard".’
‘I wonder if anyone in this village remembers any of these names on here?’ Lloyd touched the rough stone. ‘They were killed thirty years ago. Will anyone remember the dead of this war in another thirty years?’
‘I’d like to be around in thirty years, just to see,’ said Newman.
‘Thirty years is a long time,’ mused Corporal Rawlings, ‘and between now and the time they put your name on a memorial is the second of impact, when a bullet or a bayonet makes you eligible.’
‘You’re a professional soldier, ain’t you, Corp?’ Smith took off his helmet and leaned back against the memorial.
‘Yes. I’ve got in eight years’ service. My time was up last year, but I won’t get out until the war is over.’
‘There’s only one way out,’ said Sergeant Rawlings, coming up and squatting beside Eddie, ‘and that’s with a bullet in you.’
‘What did you join up for, Sergeant?’ asked Lloyd.
‘No prospects in Civvy Street, and — the sergeant reached out a hand and clapped Arthur’s shoulder — I wanted to be with my brother.’
‘You got more service in than the Sarge?’ asked Smith.
‘Two years,’ replied Arthur Rawlings.
‘How come he’s the sergeant then, and you’re only a corporal?’
‘I’ve been busted from sergeant,’ said Arthur.
‘I joined up because I heard my old man talking about the First War,’ admitted Georgie Fenn. He was smoking lazily with an old black pipe clenched between his teeth. ‘Glory, he called it. Honour. King and Country. So I volunteered. I wanted to win the V.C. I saw action in France, and came out through Dunkirk. I didn’t try for no V.C., believe me. Why did I fight? Not for honour. Not for King and Country. Not for Glory!’
‘What did you fight for then?’ demanded Smith.
‘For my blooming life, that’s what,’ said Georgie Fenn.
‘Why are you ready to fight, Smith?’ asked the sergeant.
‘Me? Who said I was ready? I was called up and I’m here, and that’s that, Sarge.’
The sergeant looked at his watch. He glanced along the road. Up ahead the sections were getting to their feet and preparing to move on. ‘All right, men, on your feet. Let’s do a little marching for a change. It’ll do your legs good to get some exercise.’
They limped along until the stiffness had worked out of their muscles.
‘Wonder where we are?’ said Smith.
‘I don’t know,’ replied Eddie. ‘You can’t see the sea now. I think we’re going along the coast.’
‘How far do you think we’ve marched today?’
‘Quite a distance, and most of it over rough country. I’d say we’ve covered twenty-five miles.’
‘That counting the ups and downs?’
‘No.’
They went through another village; just a cluster of white-washed cottages squatting almost haphazardly in the warm afternoon sunshine. The village policeman stood outside the village pub, and he smiled good-naturedly at the remarks slanted at him.
‘Waiting for ‘em to open, mate?’
‘He’s looking for organised crime,’ said Lloyd.
‘No, he’s on the track of Fifth Columnists,’ shouted Newman.
‘Fifth Columnists?’ queried Smith. ‘What about the first four?’
‘Wish I was a policeman,’ said Newman.
‘Don’t start that again,’ said Lloyd.
‘I’m just about ready for tea,’ said Georgie Fenn. He turned and shouted to the Bren Group. ‘Put the kettle on. We’ll have tea in five minutes.’
Sid Heywood, big, ginger-haired and freckle-faced, the current heavyweight boxing champion of the battalion, put up his fingers in a rude gesture.
Just after six that evening Sergeant Rawlings came back along the sections from the platoon Orders Group. He still looked as if he had stepped straight off first morning parade, and Eddie felt a thrill of pride ripple through him. His favourite brother was the smartest soldier in the battalion.
‘We’ll be there in five minutes,’ the sergeant encouraged. Put some swank in it and step lively. Smith, get back to your proper distance or I’ll make you run the rest of the way backwards. Smarten up now. I’ve told every sergeant in the battalion that this is the best platoon, so live up to it.’
Then the sections ahead were slowing, and shortly they came to a wide opening in a high hedge. A sentry box and sentry were to the right of the gap, and a long, white painted pole barrier, counter-weighted at one end with an old sand-filled petrol can, reared its slender length skywards like the barrel of a deserted ack-ack gun. Near the entrance stood Colonel Trainer-Crump and Greasy Joe, the Regimental Sergeant-Major.
‘Well done, men,’ said the Colonel, as the sections filed past him.
‘What about that, then?’ swore Smith, as Corporal Rawlings led the section along a narrow cindered path that led to dozens of black nissen huts set under the covering branches of dark-foliaged trees. ‘Even Greasy Joe was smiling.’
‘Him!’ scowled Newman. ‘His mother used to call him laughing boy.’
Chapter Three
‘NOW the lesson we are going on with this morning,’ said Sergeant Rawlings, with Four Platoon grouped around
him in a half-circle, ‘is called unarmed and close combat. This is a special and invaluable part of your training which is easily learnt, and might well save your lives in the not-too-distant future. You’ve been taught the orthodox methods of killing men. Now we’ll go on with the unorthodox. Remember that all is fair in love and war. There may come a time when some dirty little trick will turn the tables on an enemy who appears to have an advantage over you.
‘Now I am very experienced in this sort of thing, and Corporal Rawlings is an expert in Judo. So this platoon is lucky in that it has the two best instructors in the battalion to train under. You will now proceed to take advantage of our skill. We shall commence with a demonstration.’
Corporal Rawlings shrugged out of his battle order and stepped in front of the platoon. The corporal’s head came level with his brother’s shoulder, and the sergeant pointed out this fact to the men.
‘Any little blokes among you can now take heart. I look big enough to eat the corporal. But watch.’
Stepping back a pace the sergeant suddenly delivered a heavy right-hand punch to the corporal’s head. There was a blur of seemingly confused movement, then the sergeant whirled through the air over his brother’s head. He landed on his back several feet away. He got up grinning and dusted himself down.
‘That was just to demonstrate that the size of a man doesn’t count when it comes to close quarters. What matters is what a man knows, so now you’re all eager to learn. Pair off and spread out. Corporal, you take that half of the platoon and I’ll deal with this half.’
So it went on. Training and more training. The rumours of a Second Front died again as days passed monotonously. There were schemes and attacks and night operations and more weapon training. Off-duty hours were precious and few. The men hardly left camp except on duty. The nearest village was six miles away. The only pub in the village had a No Beer sign in its window for five days out of every seven. The canteen in the camp was a large nissen hut, and the only beverage was Naafi tea.
Practising beach landings from all types of landing craft was fun until the novelty wore off. The days were sunny and warm, and passed in a blur that left little impression in the minds of the men. Training and tactics were soaked into them, and they were nearing the apex of mental and physical fitness. They were ready for the Second Front.