Island Redoubt

by David Roy

  ‘Sergeant!’, he bellowed, sending Hewson into a fumble-panic. He rose to his feet disoriented and unsteady. He’d been dreaming about walking the dog up Scrabo Hill, the air fresh and clear with views across the still waters of Strangford Lough. Now, jarringly, he was back, fighting the might of the German Army. His head hurt and his eyes stung.

  ‘Sir’, he replied brushing down and buttoning his tunic.

  ‘We’ve got a squadron of tanks - Matildas - coming here. We’re getting every man we can find, digging in and stopping the German advance.’ The sergeant nodded, not yet wondering why a brigadier was bothering him with such important information. This was no job for a sergeant.

  ‘So, until I find someone senior to you, you are in charge. Get the men digging as deep as they can go. Round up any mortars, get them sighted. The tanks are going to be over there ready to meet the panzers or troop carriers.’ He pointed to the edge of the wood, an area of dense thicket about seven feet deep. ‘Once we’ve stopped them, we advance and destroy their bridgehead.’

  Hewson thought that it sounded like a tall order for a couple of hundred infantry men and some tanks that hadn’t turned up and yet he felt a surge of adrenaline, such was the officer’s evident self-belief. ‘Right, sir', he said.

  ‘If I thought that the Germans would allow us to rest, I’d surrender now’, said Tony. He swung the pick over his shoulder in an effortless arc but once again struck the pliant, yet firm wood of a root. He was overheard by Corporal Gwilt from section two.

  ‘Fine way to talk’, he muttered.

  ‘It was a joke Gwilty. Take it easy.’

  ‘You’re an NCO now’, said Gwilt. ‘You should be encouraging your men, not spreading dissension.’

  ‘Di-what?’

  ‘Leadership. That’s what required, now.’

  ‘Bollocks. Sure, they know it’s only me. You need to take a fuckin’ powder.’

  Gwilt flew into a rage at that moment, so much so that, had he actually been digging rather than supervising, he would have thrown his pick or shovel to the ground. As it was he reddened and stormed towards Tony.

  ‘And what do you want? A fight?’, said Tony, dismissively. He looked down on the tiny Gwilt.

  ‘I want you to shut your fucking Mick face.’

  ‘Do you now? And you’re the man to make me do it?’ He towered over Gwilt and took a pace forward to emphasise that fact.

  ‘Don’t fucking tempt me, O’ Keefe.’

  The other men stopped digging for a moment. Tommy spoke.

  ‘Right that’s enough. We’ve got the Krauts coming any minute in case you’d forgotten.’

  ‘Fuck the Krauts!’, spat Gwilt, his face twisted into a vicious corner-boy sneer.

  ‘Right then, Corporal Gwilt. Do your worst.’ Tony stood, his hands by his sides in a manner which suggested peace with an underlying current of hostility. He was at once defiant yet submissive. Gwilt was clearly itching to hit him and yet afraid of the pasting he would undoubtedly receive were he to do so. The Dubliner recognised his opponent’s quandary and rather than goading him, tried to give him a means to back out gracefully and with no loss of face….and yet still he stood there; a little bull terrier against a mastiff.

  ‘We haven’t time’, he said.

  ‘Later then’, said Tony with a sneer.

  ‘Show’s over ladies. Back to work’, said Tommy.

  The ground shook and again the men stopped. Sam was up to his knees in a hole, the depth of which was not increasing at a rate which he found entirely satisfactory.

  ‘Tanks’, said Tony.

  ‘For what?’, asked Ronnie.

  ‘Tanks, berk, not thanks’, said Sam. He held his breath after that, hoping that he could discern the type of tank from its engine noise. He couldn’t.

  ‘I hope these aren’t Germans’, said Bill Murdock. He spoke for everyone with that sentiment.

  ‘I can’t make out what direction they’re coming from’, said Sam. Around them other men froze. They leant on their shovels, one or two gingerly bent down to retrieve their webbing and rifle. Their faces registered fear, worry, resignation or nothing at all. Sam swallowed but hardly dared to speak and all the time the rumble grew louder. Little pieces of soil began to tumble back into the trenches like mincemeat falling from the butcher’s table. Tommy put his hand to his mouth and breathed out slowly through his fingers. He looked around for Sergeant Hewson but he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Fuck’, he said. It didn’t help.

  ‘I think it's coming from behind us’, said Sean Mackey, tentatively.

  ‘Y’reckon?’ Tommy sighed again and then said, ‘he could be right y’know.’ Sam pursed his lips but Tony nodded. ‘It is’, he said. ‘Brits!’ and then he said, ‘Fuck me. Look who it is!’ Before they even had time to be fully relieved at the arrival of their tanks, their attention was drawn to something else. From the direction they expected the Germans to come stumbled their platoon commander, Lieutenant Clegg. They’d been in the habit of misplacing these gentlemen of late. First it was Horsley-Palmer at Dunkirk now old Cleggy….

  ‘Bloody hell, sir. Where’ve ya been?’, said Tommy.

  ‘Is that your way of saying welcome back, sir?’, joked the officer. For all his light-heartedness he looked wretched like a man who taken a peep through the doors of Hell. Three Matilda tanks crashed through the undergrowth and halted rocking on their springs as a sergeant dismounted. With urgent shouts and gestures he manoeuvred his charges into defensive positions as the air turned blue with engine fumes. The infantry men looked on at the spectacle, many of them pinning their hopes on the cavalry for their salvation when the Germans made their next appearance. The sudden re-discovery of their platoon commander was forgotten for a minute but he seemed not to mind.

  ‘Those look like proper tanks’, said Sam. The Matildas had proved hard to knock out in France, although in terms of firepower lacked much of a punch, but their presence would harden up their defences and stiffen resolve.

  ‘Aye and if we get some food soon, we might even feel like shooting at the Germans when they arrive.’

  ‘Well they won’t be long, Corporal O’Keefe’, said Clegg. ‘I’ve almost been captured twice just getting here. The Jerries are absolutely everywhere.’

  Sergeant Hewson had returned as they watched the tanks getting in position. ‘Are we surrounded then, Sir?’, he asked, his face creased with concern. The soldiers looked on waiting for their leader’s reply with new respect for the man.

  ‘I wouldn’t say surrounded - it’s all a bit too confusing for that - but they are certainly….’, he paused trying to find the words which properly described the situation, ‘I don’t know…. all over the place. I don’t think you could say that there is a front line.’

  ‘Sir, there’s the Brigadier’, interrupted Tommy. ‘I think he’ll want to hear what you have to say.’

  ‘Right’, said Clegg and made his way over to the senior officer.

  ‘Stand to!’, came the anonymous cry. Hearts beat faster, mouths ran dry. Sam took his helmet off, ran his fingers through his hair and then replaced the helmet, ready for the fight. It began to rain - a soaking drizzle and hands pulled on cocking levers of Brens and Vickers, their actions snapping back into place and slotting a new round into the breach. A hundred oily hands - that thin gun oil - working discordantly and yet with a common purpose. A hundred and more bolts clacked back and forth in a hundred and more 303s. Fingers fumbled with sights and cursory aim was taken at the field of fire each man had been allocated. In the tanks the crews took deep breaths, their guns loaded and peace made with God for those who believed. Their vehicles could go from haven to burning hell in a split second and they all knew men who’d died horribly, trapped, cremated and entombed.

  They also knew that they could turn the tide as they had done, albeit temporarily, at Arras in France. Pin your hopes on the cavalry by all means but hope and pray as well. In their trench, Tony rubbed his chin, his empty stomach for
gotten. Sam nuzzled the stock of his rifle against his cheek and took comfortable aim as if he was on the range. He watched as little raindrops fell onto the working parts, each one a tiny glass mound. Now he could hear the Germans. Guttural shouts over the top of snorting tank engines. The rattle-squeal of tracks added an eerie overtone as the unseen enemy approached.

  He waited for the outline of a German to cross his sight line, expecting the green tunic and the coal scuttle helmet, the Mauser rifle, jackboots, wary look…. but nothing. The shouts still came as the British itched to open fire. Their sounds were the sounds of men searching, prying, poking, prodding. It was as if they knew the British were nearby and just couldn’t find them. The engines idled, branches snapped, then the electric sound of turret being traversed.

  Sam took a moment to look around. Hewson was in the next trench and looked over, shaking his head as if to say, ‘I don’t get it either.’ Sam was surprised to see the Brigadier in another trench, just beyond that of Gwilt and Tom Mahood from the next section. His Webley revolver was drawn - more as a statement of intent than as a serious weapon of war. He too looked anxiously around, but with a glint of pride and determination in his eyes. Suddenly the undergrowth ahead trembled as if it contained a huge beast that was somehow trapped by its cellulose prison. The men leaned forwards in anticipation grasping their rifles more tightly in their wet hands taking that final breath before releasing a shot…. but nothing happened for just long enough for them to relax their guards. Then the top half of a German infantry soldier poked out from a bush - a bemused look on his broad face. He was joined by another and another. A section of men in file - the wrong formation for crossing this ground - approached stealthily but foolishly. Tony shook his head and muttered, ‘Wankers’, just before the first bullets flew. The Germans crumpled like folded card as the concentrated fire of the fusiliers hit them. Some of them died ten times over in an instant…. and then the battle was on.

  The Matildas fired indiscriminately into the undergrowth scoring one hit as evidenced by a secondary explosion and a plume of smoke. The shouts of panicked Germans could be picked out against the volleys of rifle fire tearing the bushes apart and then the enemy burst through. Three Panzer IIIs and some troop carriers lurched out of the undergrowth, their colour scheme all wrong for the countryside in which they operated. To meet them, the Matildas spun on their tracks and closed in opening up at one hundred yards and then seventy-five and fifty. One Panzer was disabled immediately, the other two, their gunners frantic inside their turrets sought to return fire and missed. Still the Matildas closed, pumping shell after shell into the enemy as their Besa machine guns raked the infantry before them. A troop carrier was stopped and then another tank exploded, its turret lifting as if it had been wrenched off like the lid of an enormous paint tin.

  The last tank spun through a hundred and eighty degrees to withdraw, the driver tugging on the steering levers like a maniac, sweat running down his cheeks. Great clouds of blue smoke spewed into the air and the fifteen-ton vehicle seemed to bellow and roar like a bull. The grass beneath its tracks was flattened in a perfect circle but all these manoeuvres were to no avail. A shell from one of the little two pounders smashed into the rear engine covers and the vehicle just died. The crew was trapped inside as machine gun fired spattered the hull and turret. There was no escape and several more shells from the tanks finished off the job. They stopped when the tank burned. Meanwhile one of the troop carriers tried to reverse out of the battle but backed into a tree with such force that its enormous root lifted the rear wheels from the ground and the vehicle became immobilised. The two-pounders demolished the stricken beast. The German infantry were in total disarray. Sam and Tony fired round after round. The Brens chugged, the Vickers tore the undergrowth down like a scythe. And then the Brigadier bellowed, ‘Fix bayonets!’ and the men did so with another surge of adrenaline.

  ‘Charge!’ The men obeyed, going over the top like their fathers had done in France twenty-five years before. They followed the Brigadier, their own spine-tingling cry of ‘Faugh-a-Ballagh!’ rending the air. The remaining Jerries ran or surrendered in complete terror, a few of the latter ending up well and truly stuck in the heat of battle. The Matildas joined the charge, grinding forwards, crushing and killing. Their machine guns spewed bullets like a hose pipe and shells flashed through the air at a zero trajectory. Even the fusiliers kept a wary eye on them as they charged after the Germans.

  The German infantry ran pell-mell through the undergrowth, any hope of surrender abandoned and any hope of turning the tide once more against their enemies but a distant memory. The rout became a test of stamina. Sam followed one soldier, hunting him down like a wounded beast. He turned his head, a white-fear face, a broad, white slash beneath his square helmet, to see his pursuer but the idea of simply turning and firing was long gone. Sam could hear his rasping, gasping breath and the heavy thud of his boots impacting rhythmically on the peaty ground. There was no sign of him stopping. He would let him surrender - there was no doubt in his mind about that. No matter what had happened he’d let him surrender, even if only because he might need that same chance someday. He wanted to deserve that chance if it became necessary - do unto others et cetera. But this bastard wouldn’t stop. He was close to exhaustion. In fact, they both were but the German kept pounding on and on, demented and now uttering a low wailing groan of despair that was broken only by his own breathlessness.

  Sam realised that he could stop, kneel, take aim and bring his man down…. but he didn’t want to. He just wanted to take him prisoner and the other option of letting him go…. well he might regret that if it was this German who eventually shot him at some later date.

  ‘Stop!’, he shouted. He shook his head and kept running just as the enemy soldier ahead did. ‘Fucking stop!’, as if the profanity in a foreign language would make his meaning clearer to the fleeing German. There was no sign of the soldier stopping or tiring beyond the point of utter exhaustion which they had both reached long ago. Sam looked down at his rifle and its bayonet and made a decision…. and just as he did so they burst obliquely out of the wood into the bright clear day. A section of German troops involved in some sort of hurried conference looked round at the two intruders who had stumbled upon them. Every face registered total disbelief and they stood like rabbits in the headlights. Now the German whom Sam had so doggedly pursued stopped and turned.

  Sam slid to a halt, registering the beginnings of a smile - no particular sort of smile, just an ordinary smile - on the face of his prey. His few choices fluttered through his head as if printed on cards in a flashy card trick which was going wrong. The German soldier’s smile stayed part-formed, the relief not yet fully appreciated as Sam’s bayonet sliced easily and cleanly into his chest. As he crumpled, his body weight pulled him off the blade and Sam turned and ran.

  Brigadier Charles Henderson watched as his men pushed forwards, routing the Germans and sending them back towards their landing ground in disarray. At the forefront of this minor but important victory were the Irish Fusiliers but now he had word that his little battle group was to be reinforced by a new mechanised infantry battalion and a tank regiment equipped with Matildas. Indeed, even as he watched the enemy flee, he heard the tanks approaching. He also heard that the RAF had formed a squadron of Gladiator biplanes and Hurricanes, augmented by a flight of Blackburn Skua dive bombers from the Fleet Air Arm, as his air support. Reinforce success was the adage being applied. A victory to prove that their foes could be beaten and to send them back to France might catalyse British resistance.

  He craned his neck to the sound of aero engines and watched three venerable Gladiators closing in on a flight of Stukas. The latter looked the more modern and more formidable plane and yet was a slow, awkward beast with a poor defensive armament. The RAF pilots had four machine guns and plenty of manoeuvrability. The resulting duel took the German crews by complete surprise as they had met no resistance for over a week and had become rather blasé ab
out their sorties over the South coast - this would be a costly lesson.

  The Stukas jinked and swerved, their rear gunners trying to catch the biplanes with even a handful of bullets but the RAF pilots kept on their tails, firing burst after burst, scoring hit after hit. The engines roared and raced as propellers clutched at the thinning air around them and the German pilots realised that their mission would end in failure. One after the other they jettisoned their bombs harmlessly and then turned tail but still the biplanes kept after them. Two of the enemy dive bombers left the battle trailing smoke and oil. Henderson allowed himself a smile and gently clapped his hands as a cheer rose from his men. Success was infectious - he hoped that he could capitalise on their high spirits. He turned to his newly found deputy, a Black Watch major, and spoke.

  ‘If we can get some food for these soldiers and maybe a little drink, we can get after those kraut bastards and do them some damage before they re-organise.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can arrange, sir.’

  A bullet clipped his ear and another smacked past a leaf. A burst of fire from a sub machine gun tore invisible holes in the air above his head and still he kept doing that thing which his body least wanted him to do. He ran. He ran like the devil was on his tail. He ran though his legs ached and felt of nothing but lead. He ran though his lungs said ‘stop’ and his mind fixed on some invisible winning line. Gnarled branches snatched at his face and roots groped woodenly for his ankles to trip or topple. He remembered the same things when he was a lad, running from the boys on the Falls Road. Him and his mate Billy MacAteer, shouting, ‘Shoot the Fenians!’, then running as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse were behind them. They laughed at first as they ran but once it became clear that the Catholic boys were meaner and fitter than they had thought, fear took the place of mirth and they were almost in tears as they finally burst onto Royal Avenue where the well-heeled strolled and browsed and shopped.