by David Roy
This time he didn’t look behind. He fixed his gaze on the path through the woods - a winding path, that he’d made only moments before and he hoped that his pursuers would tire before him or that he’d reach the British lines again at any moment. He tripped over a British corpse, lying in the coarse, roughly-trodden path, its body splayed in an unnatural broken shape and he realised that this wasn’t the same route he had taken at all. He was lost, as if things weren’t confused enough. He heard them call out, sending a chill down his spine for their words were aimed at him but he didn’t understand their meaning. And so he kept running.
He guessed that there were six or seven of them. Would they really follow him for much further and risk running into the British lines? What would he do in the same circumstances? He would stop. And within a few more moments they did just that, contenting themselves with sending a few more ill-aimed bullets after him. He allowed his pace to slacken and then he walked, drawing lungfuls of fresh English air into his heaving chest. He would come to the British lines soon and then he could stop. Moments later he reached safety.
Some oppressed looking cooks bundled out of the back of a truck and began pulling down huge silver metal containers that issued forth a cloud of steam when opened. From the bowels of the truck several crates of beer also emerged and within moments an orderly but eager queue of soldiers had formed, grasping mess tins. As the bulk of his soldiers ate their first meal in some time the Brigadier sent out a tank patrol to find the Germans and to report back to his HQ which was now in the back of a requisitioned truck. Men huddled in their shell scrapes and devoured their food in a silence only broken by the clang of fork or spoon on mess tin.
‘What sort of stew do you think this is?’, said Tony.
‘Don’t care’, said Tommy Martin thrusting his spoon into the food once more.
‘The beer’s not bad either’, said Tony, appreciatively. ‘I just wish that me oul mucker Sam was here.’ He took another slug from the brown bottle and added the following caveat to his feelings about Beattie, ‘Silly bastard.’
‘Reckon the Jerries got ‘im?’
‘I’d rather that was the case, than he was dead.’
That afternoon the newly arrived elements of the battle group moved south to maintain the pressure on the retreating enemy. The Fusiliers and the original Matildas stayed behind, hopefully to rest. Around Weymouth the rout continued and thousands of Germans became prisoners of war but at Portsmouth, Eastbourne and Hastings the enemy succeeded in strengthening their bridgehead, although in the latter region they struggled to make any progress inland.
Tony allowed himself to doze, waking briefly as tiny drops of rain fell onto his face and then drifting off again. The next time he woke it was to the drone of aircraft - lots of them by the sound of it. He shook the sleep from his head and sat up, reaching for his rifle in an instinctive but relatively futile gesture.
‘Air raid?’, asked Ronnie.
‘Dunno’, said Tony pursing his lips and shaking his head. From behind, the anti-aircraft battery opened up sending shells up to meet an unseen enemy. They watched and waited expecting to see the familiar outline of Junkers, Dorniers or Heinkels, instead of which it was the less familiar but just as unwelcome JU52 transport which lumbered into view.
‘Parachutists!’, shouted Lieutenant Clegg, pointing skywards as if they could be anywhere else.
‘It might not be’, muttered Tony. ‘No parachutes yet.’
‘It will be’, said Tommy.
As they watched one of the transports exploded after a direct hit from the ack-ack. A dozen or so bodies, some of them aflame, tumbled from the plane as it fell and then two flights of Hurricanes and a flight of Gladiators began to mix it with the Junkers. Another two, no three of the planes took hits but that still left forty or more intact and then the parachutes did indeed begin to spill out, white flowers blooming suddenly in the blue sky. More of the old-fashioned looking Junkers took hits but by now they had done their job and began making slow turns for home.
‘Remember. Don’t shoot them until they’re on the ground!’, shouted Clegg, his voice not quite as strong as he would have liked. He was on his feet now, a newly issued Sten gun in his hand and fear written across his face.
‘Aye, bollocks’, said Tony a little too loudly. Clegg stared at him and then gestured that they should follow. Elsewhere, platoon sergeants or officers were doing the same thing and the men doubled away a mile to the north where it looked like the Germans would land. They were joined by a platoon of the Home Guard, carrying old Springfield rifles but looking determined to do their duty, just as most of them had in the last war.
Above them the fallschirmjager drifted peacefully to earth like giant dandelions. They watched in alarm as their landing site became over-run with British troops and felt even greater alarm as the first bullets snapped past them. This was against the Geneva convention - they had been told so by their officers. Here and there a parachutist would slump in his harness as a bullet almost silently took his life but there was nothing they could do until they hit the ground.
From there it was almost as horrifying.
‘Stop shooting’ shouted Clegg but the men kept on, sending one round after the other spinning into the sky. Clegg, the only officer on the new battlefield, became frantic, his face twisted in helpless despair. ‘For Christ’s sake stop shooting. It’s against the Geneva Convention!’ The Fusiliers knew all about the Geneva Convention but also knew that dead Germans told no tales. These soldiers would prove to be a formidable enemy once they hit the dirt….and so they kept shooting.
Tony lay on his back, aimed and fired. The parachutist went limp and swung to earth harmlessly. He fired again and missed…. fired again and hit. He noticed Sean Mackey with his Bren supported on a low tree branch firing bursts at the descending Germans.
‘Single shots, Seanie. Pick ‘em off.’ Mackey switched the little lever from automatic to single shot, turning his weapon into a large sniper’s rifle - a task for which it was admirably suited. His first shot missed but his second and third claimed victims as the first Germans, living and dead, hit the English earth. Frantically the surviving fallshirmjager gathered their parachutes in and recovered their firearms hoping to begin the fight but the Fusiliers continued to pour fire into the landing site. They only stopped when their battle cry rose through the noise and about thirty men charged the Germans at bayonet point. Seeing this, others joined in and before long the only things the remaining fallshirmjager could hope for was a quick death.
Tommy and Tony watched from a hundred yards away as the massacre took place. They saw Germans trying to surrender and being bayoneted, their raised hands making the task of killing them just slightly easier and soon not one of them was left. Tony looked over at Clegg, his young face a pale mask of incomprehension, twisted in anguish.
‘They’d have done it to us, sir’, he said, kindly. The officer looked over. He hadn’t served in France.
‘I don’t think they would, Tony.’ Tony was startled to hear the officer sue his first name. For one thing he hadn’t really thought about the fact that their platoon commander might actually know their first names. He was sure that Horsley-Palmer hadn’t known them. What had happened to him, he wondered idly?
‘Well, sir. It’s done now. If we keep it quiet then they mightn’t do it to us when it’s our turn.’ The other fusiliers were now trudging back from the scene of the blood bath. Whatever demons had taken hold of them seemed to have gone into abeyance - at least for a while - and they looked sick and tired. There was no trace of triumphalism. Each man knew that he had done wrong and would have to come to terms with this at a later date if he was allowed to survive.
‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’
‘That’s probably what happened, sir. The Jerries have done some bad things too….and don’t forget they started this.’
Clegg nodded and then spoke again. His tone was that of an inquisitive, sensitiv
e boy. ‘And when you shot them did you think that you were just defending your country?’
‘Actually, I thought I was just defending your country, sir. I’m an Irishman don’t forget, not like the rest of you.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘These are desperate times, sir. We thought it was bad in France but this is worse. We have to stop them in the south or the whole country will go, won’t it?’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘You mean how do I know this when I’m only a lance-corporal?’, said Tony. Clegg sighed. Sergeant Hewson had returned now, having gathered up the remains of their platoon. He looked on quizzically at the exchange between the two soldiers, one a rough-hewn NCO, the other a young, inexperienced officer from a wealthy and privileged background. Tony continued talking. ‘I know it because it’s obvious, sir. And this is no time for niceties. You were called up. Am I right, sir?’ Lieutenant Clegg nodded sadly, as if he were guilty of a crime. ‘Well, you stick by your men and we’ll stick by you’, his tone was kindly rather than patronising. Clegg nodded and sighed then turned to walk away.
‘What was that all about?’, said Hewson.
‘Mr Clegg has a conscience, Sarge.’
‘Great. Where’s your mate Sam Beattie, d’ya think?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘Probably dead’, said Gwilt who had been listening in.
‘Well, if he is Gwilt, and there’s any justice, you must be next.’
‘Fuck’s sake, let’s go’, said Hewson.
Sam had watched the parachutists come down and heard the accompanying sound of small arms fire. He saw the descending Germans being shot like particularly dull-witted game fowl and wondered what type of scene he was going to run into….and with that in mind slowed his pace. He found a tree with a rich, spongy pile of humus and sat heavily with his rifle cradled across his lap. His thoughts were the usual tangle. How could men be killed so brutally when the sun shone? How could the fertile fields of Dorset be allowed to soak up so much human blood and for what exactly? He knew that it didn’t pay to dwell on these things, partly because there was nothing he could do about them and partly because his job was to do and not to think. He was not paid to apply reason to the abominable situations in which he found himself. His leaders fervently hoped that he wouldn’t think too much. Removing his helmet, he rubbed his eyes and blinked, noticing that the gunfire seemed to be dying down. Now just the odd dull pop could be heard and then nothing…. nothing but an eerie silence as if the men who had taken part in the unseen battle had fought themselves a standstill. Underlying his little sojourn into his own mind had been a feeling of guilt and now he tried to convince himself that he could never have made it back to join the battle anyway. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
The Fusiliers re-grouped to lick their wounds. Rifles were cleaned and men smoked or dozed. Clegg seemed to be the officer in charge of their dwindling band until the arrival of a Major who stepped out of a little Bren carrier. He was young but possessed the clipped moustache and confidence of a professional soldier.
‘Who’s in charge?’, he demanded as his transport moved bumpily off without him. Clegg moved forwards and the Major looked at him with thinly disguised contempt - the former’s demeanour smacked of defeat rather than leadership. They exchanged words and then new orders were issued as the tired Ulstermen were drawn into a big huddle.
‘You might be glad to know that we have taken about five thousand Jerry prisoners - so things aren’t going all their own way.’ He smiled but received little in the way of an enthusiastic response. ‘You might also be glad to know that you are going to be given a rest of sorts, as you have been ear-marked to escort these prisoners away from the battle. This should mean a long march for you but we’ve jacked up some food and if nothing else you’ll be safe - safe-ish - for the mean time.’ He looked at the weary soldiers and saw that their spirits needed some lifting. ‘You’ve fought well. You’ve saved the day in fact. You might think that what you’ve done to those Jerry paratroopers was….’, he struggled to find the words for a moment, ‘er.... unfortunate but let’s not think about the rights and wrongs here. This is about the survival of our country. Sometimes we have to do things which we find distasteful. And now you are going to help even more by getting these prisoners away from the battle field. The last thing we want is for them to end up fighting us again.’
‘Where are we taking them, sir?’, asked Sergeant Hewson. The Major smiled.
‘North.’
‘Any particular place, North?’, said Clegg. The smile disappeared. Curiosity from other ranks or NCOs was an occupational hazard but one which should be stifled. The same display of curiosity from an officer - speaking in front of his men, no less, was just plain unwelcome. The truth was he had no idea where the prisoners were going to go and as for feeding them….
He thought that his quandary might be obvious to a junior officer and that awkward questions might be avoided in front of such an audience.
‘We’ll let you know where in good time, Lieutenant’, he said, icily.
The Prisoners
They did not look much like defeated men. Smart and clean-shaven still, they had only been in Britain for a few days. If they were at all chastened their capture at the hands of an enemy they considered to be no match for themselves, then their over-riding, all-consuming arrogance helped them to hide it well. These were some of Hitler’s finest troops, many of whom had fought skilfully and bravely in Poland and France and for whom capture was unthinkable, especially since any reasonable observer would have noticed that the army to which they belonged was winning the battle for Britain. Their discipline and bearing were still impeccable and their officers and NCOs kept perfect, if low key, control of these fighting men. They didn't expect to remain prisoners for long.
Tony watched as parties of stretcher bearers loaded injured men into the pale green pastel interiors of British Army ambulances and as other working parties loaded surrendered weaponry into trucks. Even in defeat they worked hard, if unenthusiastically - good Protestants almost to a man. Days before, the hopelessly psychotic Corporal Gwilt had remarked that they should be fighting with the Germans to rid the world of Catholics - or Fenians as he called them. The jibe was aimed at Tony, of course, but the big man had pretended not to hear. Tony stood and watched the Germans with a detached, if wary amusement, as they passed Mausers, Schmeissers and MG34s hand-to-hand and into the arms of waiting British armourers.
One or two looked in his direction and scowled but the big Dubliner did his best to smile disarmingly. He knew that there was no real justification for gloating - the Germans were still winning - and he didn’t wish to be remembered for the wrong reasons if and when the situations were reversed. A pragmatic theologian might have transferred the following advice to their current situation; ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’
‘It won’t be for long!’, shouted a German.
‘Pardon?’
‘It won’t be for long, Tommy.’ The German was bare headed, his longish dark hair plastered to his fine-boned skull. He looked intelligent like a teacher or even an artist of some kind. Tony wondered if he was an officer - after all, how many ordinary Germans would be able to speak English? But of course, he wouldn’t be loading rifles in this way if he was an officer. They weren’t made to do this type of work.
‘The name’s not Tommy’, he replied facetiously. The German turned again to look at him and shook his head, seeming to at least understand the humour.
‘Joke while you can’, he said. It sounded like a benevolent warning.
‘Thanks. I will.’
‘We will be free again soon enough. There are two Germans divisions down there’, he pointed southwards, ‘and they’ll be over-running this area soon. It’s good that you’re treating us so well. We’ll remember it when it’s your turn.’
‘Ta’, said Tony, with a little wave. He hadn’t realised that Gwilt had been close by an
d listening in. The poisonous little man now spoke, foolish words tumbling from his lips.
‘You’re lucky you don’t get the same treatment that your Paratroopers got’, he said. His face was twisted in a cruel smile and the German looked at him uncomprehendingly. Tony didn’t speak, just gave his head the merest shake. ‘Don’t see many of them amongst the prisoners, do you?’, he continued.
‘Fuck’s sake Gwilt. Willya shut up?’
‘Bollocks’, he said. ‘If it was down to me I’d shoot the bloody lot of them.’ The German was no longer passing weapons along now, forcing the chain to stop and drawing attention to the little exchange between the two British soldiers.
‘Don’t say anything more Gwilt for Christ’s sake. This could be us some day. Someday soon, in fact.’
‘What is he saying?’, asked the German.
‘Nothing’, said Tony.
‘What paratroopers?’
‘Ignore him, Fritz. He’s mad.’
‘Mad?’, said Gwilt angrily. He tried to sneer. 'At least I’m not a defeatist. At least I’m not fraternizing with the enemy.’ Their exchange was increasing in volume. Sergeant Hewson came over. One of the German soldiers walked off to find a German officer.
‘What the fuck is going on, you two?’, asked Hewson.
‘This mad bastard is trying to tell the Jerries what happened to the paratroopers’, he said in a hoarse, urgent whisper, ‘and I’m trying to stop him.’
‘Actually, Sergeant Hewson, this fucking Mick is fraternizing with the enemy….’
‘Yer arse, Gwilt’, sneered Tony, at which point Hewson held up a conciliatory hand.
‘This is not the time gents. Corporal Gwilt take a hike’, he said.
As they spoke a German officer strode over. Gwilt shuffled off, his metaphorical tail between his actual legs.
‘Who is in charge?’, demanded the officer. He was a tall, blond stereotype, guttural of tongue and arrogant. He was either, despised and feared or, alternatively, adored and feared by his troops - there could be no middle ground with such a man.