The Battle Done

by Alan David

  Then a grenade exploded just in front of the British line, and the enemy was almost within range. It was getting dangerous, Eddie thought. He had a healthy respect for the enemy potato mashers. Smith shortened his range and fired rapidly across the front of the section positions. His bullets raked the ground, probing bushes and flailing into obvious cover. Several more of the enemy died. More grenades exploded in the open. Eddie saw an arm whirl, and watched a grenade come sailing towards him. He was helpless. He could only watch, and duck if it did not land inside their trench. It dropped only yards short, and bounded forward like a ball. It came to rest only feet away from the bren position, and he and Smith ducked.

  The blast nearly shattered their ear-drums, but they sprang up immediately, and Eddie’s sten cut into the group of enemy rushing forward. One, two, three, fell, and several more were coming in. He pressed his stud to automatic and blazed away, swinging his gun, and the enemy went down like a row of skittles. His own men were throwing grenades now, and dust rose and drifted across their front. The firing was deafening, and the racket set their nerves leaping and their pulses racing.

  There are always some of them who will get through, Eddie thought, and watched closely for the nearest of the enemy. He shot at whatever target presented itself; an arm, a head, a leg protruding from cover. The din was never-ending. The enemy attack flagged. Further back they were stiil coming forward, and out there the bombs from the British three-inch mortars were scouring the fields and the approaches.

  There was no movement forward now by the nearer enemy troops, but they put out a heavy fire from various points in front. The sound of ricocheting bullets among the British swelled. An enemy spandau opened up again, and the matter grew more serious.

  ‘Can you see that spandau, Smudger?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t hit the bastard, or I haven’t yet, at any rate.’ Smith ducked as bullets whined by. He fired another burst, and ducked again.

  Eddie searched for the enemy gun. His own men were holding the first line of the enemy. He saw a stream of tracer suddenly speed towards him from a point to his left, and his eyes watched a dark patch in a hedge. He saw smoke rising from the patch, which he realised was a hole in the hedge. He raised his sten and aimed high and fired a long burst. The spandau stopped firing, then continued.

  ‘You’ve found ‘em,’ said Smith. ‘They’ve just changed gunners, by the sound of it.’

  ‘Give ‘em a going over,’ said Eddie.

  ‘You watch me.’ Smith changed magazines.

  Eddie shot a German who came leaping suddenly forward. A little spurt of joy came to life inside him, appearing through the tightly packed grief in his heart. He snapped a shot at another moving enemy, and suddenly his impassiveness fled. He started trembling. That was for you, Wally, he thought. Tears suddenly blurred his vision, and he shook his head angrily.

  ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ The words boomed in his mind. ‘To Hell with that,’ he thought. ‘I’ll take my own revenge. Get your vengeance through me, dear God!’ He smiled grimly. ‘Not that revenge could help Wally. But the enemy had done it for themselves. Just let them try to surrender!’ He changed magazines, and waited for his targets.

  The enemy attack petered out, and after it was over ‘13’ Company advanced three hundred yards to help consoli¬date the gains made by the battalion. Enemy dead littered the fields. All around them the noises of battle continued unabated. The so-called Big Push was going on.

  At dusk the Blankfolks entrenched to hold their newly-won ground. In the darkness there was considerable movement by the enemy. The tired defenders waited in the pits for a counter-attack. Arthur Rawlings made his way to where Eddie was entrenched.

  ‘You all right, Eddie?’

  ‘Yes, you?’

  ‘I’m a little happier now than I’ve been for some time,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Me, too. I don’t care how long the war lasts now. Today I found the perfect occupation; killing Germans.’

  ‘That’s because the war has become personal,’ said Smith, who was standing beside the bren, watching the front. ‘I enjoyed myself today because your brother died. On the face of it that sounds a nasty statement, doesn’t it? But I was even putting second shots into the wounded as they fell. I hope all those bastards I killed today meet your brother up there in the place where dead soldiers go, and I hope they know that they died because he did.’

  ‘I didn’t know you thought so much of Wally,’ said Arthur.

  ‘He was one of the best,’ said Smith, ‘and God help the bastard who says he wasn’t.’

  After Arthur had gone, Eddie sat in the bottom of the trench and writhed mentally at the thoughts teeming through his mind. It was only now becoming clear to him that Wally was gone for good, and that forever was a very long time. At first he hadn’t believed that his brother was really dead, although he had seen him die. At the back of his mind there had been the unuttered thought that Wally had just gone away, but would be back sometime in the distant future. But now the shock of his death was subsiding and the reality was becoming clearly apparent.

  A deep hatred for the Germans was developing inside him, and the intensity of this feeling left him weak and trembling all day. His memory kept thrusting up pictures of falling enemy soldiers, varied with shots of Wally as he had lain on the stretcher mortally wounded.

  A stinging sensation in his nose foretold of the proximity of tears. They came shortly, running down his cheeks in the darkness, tasting salty on his tongue as he licked at them. Smith, standing beside him, heard one or two half-suppressed sobs, and felt tears prickling in his own eyes. Anger filled him, fed by the knowledge that here was a situation he could do nothing to relieve.

  Come on, you devils, he thought. Just get in the way of my bren. His anger was more on account of Eddie’s distress than the death of the sergeant.

  A night attack went in on another sector, and the Blankfolks heard the familiar sounds of a battle warming up. The sentries kept a strict watch upon their own particular front. But for the Blankfolks the night passed quietly…

  Having declined the offer of the command of Three Section, but taking it over until a replacement could be found, Eddie wished he had accepted the section when the new section commander arrived. Corporal Barsted was a huge, hulking brute of a man, whose moon-face resembled an overripe plum, and his high-toned voice, so out of character with the proportions of his body, was irritating and nerve-racking. His favourite and recurring statement was: ‘I’m a Barsted by name and a bastard by nature’; to which Smith had promptly added, and in the corporal’s hearing, ‘And a bastard by birth’.

  Corporal Barsted took an instant dislike to Eddie, for no apparent reason. His disattachment to Smith was on account of the bren gunner’s remark concerning the corporal’s parentage. Eddie, still mentally suffering from the shock of his brother’s death, spent most of his waking day in a world of his own thoughts, and several times he was guilty of not listening to Corporal Barsted’s instructions, and what Barsted fondly thought was good advice for the bren group in action. Barsted’s dislike of Smith increascd when Smith stepped in to protect a silent Eddie from Barsted’s sarcastic remarks.

  ‘We’ve seen action continuously since D-Day, Corporal Basket, and we’re still alive, which proves that we don’t need advice on how to operate in action. Have you seen action, or have you been watching too many films of us boys?’

  ‘My name’s not Basket, Smith, it’s Barsted.’

  ‘I’m not asking you what they call you,’ said Smith.

  Barsted flexed his big muscles. ‘You trying to be funny?’ he demanded. ‘I ain’t one to let my rank stand between me and a scrap. If you give me any sauce I’ll take off my tunic and belt you from here to Berlin.’

  ‘Me trying to be funny, Corporal?’ Smith grinned disarmingly, but his eyes glinted. ‘No, Bastard, I couldn’t be funny if I tried. I’m just a poor private soldier who’s seen too much action since the sixth of June,
and I’ve got a queer streak inside me that turns me into a naughty little boy every time an ignorant, fat-gutted corporal who’s never seen an angry German, tries to tell me what to do in action.’

  Newman, who had been acting bren Number Two since the death of Rix, sniggered behind his hand. Eddie sat with his back leaning against an outhouse wall, watching Smith. His face was dark and brooding, his eyebrows pulled inwards by a perpetual frown. He only half-heard the spoken words of his comrades, and Barsted’s sarcasm passed completely over his head.

  The Company was in reserve while Able and Charlie Companies were attacking the railway station of a small town. The distant crackle of small-arms fire was insistent, and there was an urgency in its sustained note.

  ‘Are you calling me fat-gutted?’ There were ominous tones now in Barsted’s voice.

  ‘Not me, Corporal. If I was asked to describe you I’d say you were a kipper.’

  ‘A kipper! What the hell are you getting at?’

  ‘You’ve seen a kipper, Corporal?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen a kipper. What about it?’

  ‘A kipper is a two-faced fish with no guts. That’s just how I would describe you, Corporal.’ Smith’s accompanying grin was deceptive.

  Barsted’s expansive face reddened. His thick lips peeled back from his teeth and his broad nostrils flared. ‘Smith, you’re going the right way for a bashing. I’ve seen your sort before. I suppose you’ve lagged behind in a couple of platoon attacks, and now you think you can come the old veteran stuff with me. Well, it won’t work.’ Barsted broke off as he heard the shrill whistle of a shell. He looked about wildly, then threw himself flat. None of the section moved, and the big corporal got up.

  ‘We don’t bother to duck from our own shells, Corporal,’ said Smith, and Newman laughed outright.

  ‘I’m going to watch my chance, and I’ll bust you when I get you right, Smith.’

  Smith looked around. Three Section was on the ground around the outhouse, with platoon headquarters in the farm building. He saw Sergeant Rawlings go into the farm house. ‘I don’t believe in fighting, Corporal. You should save it for Jerry. He likes it.’

  ‘Pah! I might have known you were yellow. I should have known it by the way you shout the odds.’

  ‘You’ve got a loud voice too, Corporal. I’ll bet they can hear you back in Second Echelon.’

  ‘You’re asking for it, Smith. You’re a big bloke, but you ain’t big enough to throw your weight around me.’

  ‘I’ve killed bigger men than you before breakfast, Bastard.’

  ‘You’ll address me by my rank,’ shouted the corporal.

  ‘I did.’ Smith grinned.

  ‘You’re a first class louse, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’ll finish up with some field punishment. You can’t talk to me just how you like.’

  ‘You’re not in Blighty now, Barsted. Out here we don’t pay too much attention to a man’s rank. It’s what he can do in a tight corner that counts, not how many stripes he wears as proof of his creeping abilities.’

  ‘You’re on a charge, Smith. Insubordination. I’ll show you who’s the big man around here. If you take advantage of the sergeant because he’s a smaller man than you, you’ll find me a different proposition.’

  ‘We don’t take advantage of our sergeant, Barsted.’ Smith’s tones hardened. ‘He’s more man in his sleep than you are at your peak.’

  ‘He’s your brother, ain’t he, Rawlings?’ Barsted turned his attention to Eddie. It had suddenly dawned upon him that he had been admonishing Lance Corporal Rawlings before Smith had sidetracked him. ‘Well, it seems that stupidity runs in your family.’

  Eddie looked up. He started trembling.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said your bloody family is stupid. You and Smith are no good together. I’ll see the sergeant-major and get you posted.’

  Eddie sprang to his feet.

  ‘Corporal, if I were you I’d tread very lightly around here until you know how you stand. Now take back that remark you made about my family.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like that in front of the men.’ Barsted half turned away. ‘If you want to make something of it come over here.’

  Eddie seized the corporal’s arm. ‘They’re all mates of mine,’ he said. ‘You said it in front of them, now take it back.’

  Barsted struck Eddie’s restraining hand from his arm. Like a flash Eddie had seized another hold and twisted the corporal’s arm and pinioned him with an arm lock. ‘I could kill you,’ he hissed, while rage flooded him. All the grief he felt suddenly surged upwards in him, and it teetered in his mind like a landslide.

  Smith stepped in and touched Eddie. ‘Let him go, Eddie. I was just playing with him. If he wants any trouble let me give it to him.’

  ‘You’re breaking my arm,’ cried Barsted. ‘If you want a fight just turn me loose. I’ll fight the pair of you.’

  ‘Just listen to me, Barsted.’ Eddie hovered upon the brink of insane rage. Wild impulses were flashing through him. ‘Keep your mouth shut about me and my family in future, and don’t come the big I Am with this section, or you won’t live long enough to see action. I’d put a bullet through you as soon as look at you.’

  Eddie thrust Barsted away from him, and the big corporal went sprawling. He scrambled up, his face reddening as men turned to watch the disturbance.

  ‘It’s not wise for silly little corporals to interfere with fighting men, Corporal Dirty Basket,’ said Smith, keeping a big hand on Eddie’s left elbow.

  ‘I’ll get the pair of you,’ said the corporal. ‘This isn’t the time or place, but watch out. I’ll have you.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting, Corporal, and if you do anything against my mate Eddie, I’ll put a bullet through you myself. That’s not a threat, it’s a promise. You fancy yourself with your mitts. Well, if it’s a scrap you want just wait until we get back on a rest. I’ll use your guts for garters.’

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ promised the corporal. ‘I’m no pushover, Smith. Once I lasted three rounds with Tony Mancini. I’ll teach you a thing or two.’

  ‘Tony Mancini! What Borstal did he escape from? Do you fancy yourself as a boxer, Barsted?’

  ‘I do. I was going places. I’d have been British champion now, if it hadn’t been for the war.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got two pairs of boxing gloves in my kit. They belonged to a soldier and a man. I hate the thought of you defiling them, but I’ll get them out when I have a little time.’

  Arthur Rawlings approached from platoon headquarters. Eddie sat down again. Arthur addressed Corporal Barsted.

  ‘Get your men moving in that direction, Corporal. We’re going up to support Baker Company. They’ve run into a little trouble. Keep to the right and a little behind Two Section, and keep your men well spaced out.’

  The Sections moved forward into smoke and confusion. Smith hugged his bren and thought of Corporal Barsted. The big tool! He had it coming to him. Smith dragged his attention back to reality when a stream of spandau bullets crackled overhead. He flinched when a burst flailed the ground about him, glancing quickly at Barsted to see what the corporal was going to do.

  The battle for the railway station was going furiously. The station buildings themselves had been gutted by shelling, and the smoke blackened ruins had been turned into machine-gun nests and strongpoints by the fanatical Germans. Three hundred yards of flat ground stretched between the pinned-down Baker Company and the railway sidings, and more than one enemy machine-gun covered the area.

  Dog Company went in on the right in a flanking movement that was designed to encircle the railway. They came under heavy fire when they began crossing the many sets of rails. Three Section went to ground in the railway yards. The bren group crouched behind a pile of smouldering sleepers. Corporal Barsted signalled for Eddie to take the group further to the right.

  Smith shook his head when Eddie pointed to a bomb crater forty yards to the right of the pile of sleep
ers. ‘Too open,’ he shouted. ‘We’d never get out of it alive once we got in. Tell the basket to go himself.’

  Corporal Barsted came at a crouching run to his bren group. ‘Get over to the right when I tell you,’ he snarled. ‘See if you bloody heroes can spot the gun pinning us down.’

  ‘If you want him, you go and look for him,’ said Smith. ‘I know when it’s too hot for me to stick up my head.’

  ‘Yellow right through, the lot of you.’ Barsted straightened. ‘I’ll show you how a good soldier fights.’ He made a move as if to peer over the top of the pile of sleepers. Newman grabbed him.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Corp. Listen to the stuff slapping into this pile. Take a tip from us who know. Keep your bloody head down.’

  Barsted jerked away impatiently. ‘Skulking here won’t help us. Get your bren ready, Smith. I’ll find you a target.’

  He stood up and took a quick look over the top of the pile of sleepers. At least a dozen bullets thudded into him, and the impact flung him back and down upon the ground. The bren group looked at the bloody mess that had been Corporal Barsted’s head. None of them registered any feeling.

  ‘His kind never live long,’ said Newman.

  ‘I wonder if he could fight,’ mused Smith. ‘With his hands, I mean.’

  Arthur Rawlings came at a run from the rear. He darted from cover to cover, and the bren group watched his progress. He reached the pile of sleepers and flung himself down, breathing heavily. Sweat was running down his face.

  ‘It’s hot in this quarter,’ he said, turning his eyes to Eddie. ‘You all right?’

  Eddie nodded.

  ‘That’s more than you can say for Barsted,’ said Smith, ‘and he copped it before he had a chance to charge me for insubordination.’