by David Roy
‘No, sir.’
Henderson had a compass in his chest pocket and a pair of binoculars stuffed down his tunic front. His revolver remained in its holster - as it had done for most of the war…. he knew that this wasn’t really his place - on a recce - and preferred not to think about what would happen to his battle group should he not return. Recce patrols in 1917 were one thing since he had been a mere 2nd lieutenant then. Now it was different matter.
He crept forwards, his back slightly bent and his eyes shifting from the ground, where he checked his footing, to the front where he checked for the enemy. He heard Beattie’s soft footfalls behind him and was reassured by the other man’s presence. He seemed to know what he was doing. For now, the trees formed an impenetrable curtain in three dimensions and it was only once he entered the wood that the curtain would thin out and reveal its secrets - if it held any. He felt that 'heart in the mouth' excitement that a game of soldiers held for him as a child but he couldn’t make any exact comparison due not only to the passage of time but because the original game did not have the possibility for violent death. He turned to look at his stout-hearted companion. The fusilier’s face showed no fear or any emotion at all. Inscrutable - that was the word. He wondered how long he’d been in the Army and if he was due a promotion. God only knew that there’d been enough of that with the massive expansion of the Army and not all of it wisely done; passed-over majors commanding battalions and so on. One he knew of was now a staff officer, when such a thing would have been impossible in peacetime. Mind you, he wouldn’t complain if someone recommended him for promotion to major-general.
His reverie was disturbed by a faint but insistent tapping sound coming from behind. He turned. Fusilier Beattie had stopped and was about to tap the receiver of his sub machine gun a second time to draw his attention. Instead he slowly knelt and pointed to their left into the dark woods. Henderson saw nothing and, making eye contact with the other soldier, frowned and gave a little shrug. Beattie motioned him to kneel and then slowly and silently closed in on him, before pointing again. Sam whispered in the officer’s ear.
‘A personnel carrier. At least one. It’s under a big camouflage net. You can just see the edge of the net coming down from that really big, dark tree in the middle there.’
Henderson could see the tree….and now he could just make out a slightly sweeping black line coming down at an acute angle with the forest floor….and just behind that, little more than a ghost….
‘You’re right. Well done! I’ve no idea how you spotted that. Let’s just get out of this wood. We know that they are here.’ They re-traced their steps and, once out of sight doubled back to the scout car. Already a simple plan was forming in the Brigadier’s mind.
POWs
At Dorchester, confusion reigned. The town centre was out of bounds and empty, its delightful market town persona strangled by the war and its consequences. It seemed to symbolise the fact that Britain was dying. The POWs and their guards got no further than the outskirts and could see nothing more than a few church spires reaching into the sky for some, perhaps unattainable, salvation. There was indeed a POW complex. At least it had been marked out on the ground, some, but not all the requisite fence post had been put in and one layer of wire had been added on two sides - wire to a height of about three feet. Pioneers and some elderly civilian workmen toiled. As they watched another truck of wire turned up and was unloaded.
‘This is no fucking use’, said the sergeant-major. Next to him Hewson nodded. He spoke.
‘Even if the fence was complete, there’s no toilets or accommodation. No food. Nothing.’
‘And this whole place is likely to be over-run in a few days anyway’, he added.
‘Another night in the open?’
‘Without food as well? We’d be better off without these prisoners. We probably should just let them go and free up these men for fighting.’
‘But who do we tell this to? Who the hell is in charge?’
The sergeant-major winced as he saw the same vociferous Wehrmacht officer approaching.
‘Sergeant-major! I hope that this is not our camp!’
‘I’m afraid that it is, sir. Your invasion of our country took us a little by surprise.’
‘My men need food and water and somewhere to sleep.’
‘So do mine. In fact, I am more worried about them than about you or your men.’ The German looked as if he might explode. He said something in his native language, turned and strode off - impotent and angry.
‘Well what the fuck does he expect?’, said the sergeant-major.
‘We need orders. Proper orders. In fact, we need to get them on transport up to Scotland or somewhere. Miles from here. This is going to a complete bloody waste of time if they just get liberated in a day or two’, said Hewson. He was beginning to feel despairing of this situation. He would rather take his chances in the fighting than be lumbered with insoluble problem….and no food. ‘Everyone’s starving, me included.’
‘Right. Take someone with you. Find transport and then find someone who can get us some food and organise trains or trucks to take this lot out of here. I’ll wait for twenty-four hours.’
‘And then?’
‘Christ knows.’
Can you drive, Tony?’, said the sergeant.
‘Not really.’
‘It’s me then.’
‘Yes, sergeant but I’m not too bad on the old map reading’, he said hoping to justify the NCO’s choice of companion.
‘This whole thing is a complete balls-up.’
‘The fog of war. It doesn’t seem to be about big battles or anything like that. You can’t see the enemy there in front of you. All you have to do is shoot them and not get shot yourself.’
‘Wasn’t much like that in France either. No big battles, I mean’, said Hewson. He decided to change the subject. They had walked a few hundred yards towards Dorchester - the only place where they thought they might get transport. ‘I think that there are some British troops in Dorchester still. We’re going to have to beg borrow or steal transport from them.’ As they approached a sentry stepped out and asked them for ID. The two men obliged.
‘Who’s in charge here?’, said Hewson.
‘Fuck knows, sarge’, came the reply in a Glaswegian accent. ‘Alls I know is that the Germans are comin’ and every bastards gettin’ oot. Me too I hope. If ya see anyone, remind them that they’ve left me staggin’ on here.’ The two Ulster men exchanged quick, exasperated glances.
‘So….’, Hewson pursed his lips as if he needed to draw more info from the Scot, ‘who else is around and where are they exactly?’
‘There’s some officers and clerks over in that hoose there’, he said pointing to a large Tudor style farmhouse. ‘They’re burnin’ maps an’stuff. That’s why there’s smoke comin’ oot a yon chimley.’
‘Ta’, said Tony as they strode off to the house.
‘Don’t forget to tell them that I’m here’, shouted the soldier. There was just a trace of a tremor in his voice.
As they opened the door a puff of smoke burst out and they recoiled for a moment, looking into the cloudy gloom. A huge fire blazed in the grate and sundry soldiers and officers threw heaps of papers on to it or wafted smoke away from themselves. Clearly the flue was partly blocked, which explained the thin stream of smoke descending from the chimney pot and the huge clouds of it inside. Men coughed and spluttered as if being gassed and through the murk Tony could see a clerk fighting to open a window.
‘I think we’ll leave the door open’, said Hewson.
‘This must be what hell looks like’, said Tony.
‘Let’s ask about transport’
‘Y’know, sarge, I don’t think that they’re in any position to help us. They think that the Jerries are comin’ and they’re shittin’ themselves. I doubt if they even have transport. Maybe for themselves but not for several thousand Jerry prisoners of war.’
‘Well we need transport for our
selves then, just to get somewhere where we can organise something better.’ Just as he had finished a harsh, strained voice called over.
‘What do you two want?’, asked a captain. He looked bleary-eyed and desperately unhappy.
‘Transport, sir.’
The captain snorted at Sergeant Hewson’s request.
‘We all want fucking transport, sergeant. There is none. What do you want it for?’
‘We need to take some prisoners of war up north.’
‘Prisoners of war!’, exclaimed the officer. ‘The fucking Jerries are about two miles from here! How many POWs have you got?’
‘A few thousand, sir.’
‘What! A few thousand. You’re barking up the wrong tree, man. Let ‘em go for Christ’s sake.’
Bill Hewson pretended he hadn’t heard. He had his orders and would try to carry them out.
‘They need food as well, sir.’
‘Food! Are you fucking listening at all, Sergeant? We’, he prodded his chest and then swung his arm round in an inclusive gesture, ‘we haven’t eaten since yesterday. We have no transport. Why don’t you sit here for a few minutes? The Germans are about to turn up - they’ve got transport. But if you don’t mind, we are going.’ With a light swagger he turned away from the two fusiliers and then bellowed at his troops. ‘Right fuck this burning of maps! Let’s get out of here!’ And with that they left the smoky farm and began their rather chaotic withdrawal.
‘D’ya think we asked the wrong man, sarge?’
‘I think that Rupert had drink taken, Tony.’
They went outside into the sunlight. The lone sentry was clattering up the road after the retreating HQ staff. His boots sparked on the stone cobbles.
‘What a fucking mob!’, said Hewson.
Breakthrough
‘Okay, get onto the RAF. I want a strike on this grid’, he handed a scrap of paper to the signaller and I want to know how long it will take.’ He turned from the lance-corporal sitting at the radio. Corporal Devenny, I need you to round up all the officers and colour-sergeants or staff-sergeants you can find and get them outside this tent at…’, he looked at his watch, ‘1505 hours.’
‘Yessir’, said the clerk.
‘And you Beattie. I want you to get over to the QM staff and ask for a lance-corporal’s stripe. You’ll need cotton and a needle. I’ll get it published in orders and make sure that you get paid for it.’
‘Thanks, sir’, said Sam. He was pleased, despite the generally grim situation in which he found himself.
‘You did bloody well there today. This isn’t an acting promotion you know. How long have you been in the Army?’
‘Over four years, sir.’
‘About bloody time you got promoted.’
Henderson jabbed a finger at the map. He realised that the use of this decisive gesture made him almost a parody of a great leader. Others saw it too but he could back it up with good decision making, courage and strength….and he hoped that this too was apparent to those around him.
‘We know that there is some sort of ambush at this point in the road. My guess is that this is heavily defended, designed to soak up punishment and to take the sting out of any attack we might make. Also, I think that this gives the other German formations further back plenty of warning.’
‘What do you think that the Jerries are doing, sir. I mean why aren’t they attacking?’, asked a Lieutenant. He was young and nervous like the rest of them.
‘I think that they are repairing vehicles, refuelling, re-arming, resting…. whatever. We have had some successful air strikes on their rear echelon and Weymouth has been bombed by the RAF. It has slowed their advance. That’s what I think’, he said, stressing the last word. ‘Now I propose that we are in position here’, he pointed to the thin line of a road on the big map arrayed before them. ‘As soon as we hear that the strike has been completed we rush through and straight down the road towards Weymouth again.’ He paused and surveyed the faces around the table; eight lieutenants, three captains and a major. Six senior NCOs commanded platoons or troops of tanks, in place of wounded or dead officers. He sighed and continued.
‘It’s a simple plan, partly because I like simple plans and partly because I don’t really know what we are going to find down the road. I’m also worried about this. It’s only fair that you should know the situation. The Jerries have made good ground to either side of us. We are already holding a salient and this plan, if it is successful, only makes that salient larger. Basically, we are trying to cause a bit of chaos, get the Germans to divert forces from other parts of the front and give our chaps in other sectors a chance to mount a decent counter-attack.’
‘So, we are expendable, sir’, said one of the captains. He was a Royal Engineer.
‘Hmm. Possibly Captain Hood.’
‘It’s a bit hard to see a way out of this. In a way, even if we are successful in terms of the strategic battle, we personally, are doomed’, said another officer.
‘We are sure to be encircled’, said another of the Captains. ‘We can’t depend on troops from these other hard-pressed sectors to bail us out if they are already struggling.’
‘No’, said the Brigadier. ‘So, what I suggest is that when it all goes wrong or we run out of steam it is every man for himself. It’s not something which I want to countenance. I don’t want this to be a suicide mission - and I don’t think that it has to be by any means - but these are our orders. As a fighting formation and in some cases, as individuals, we are being sacrificed for the greater good. We have to accept that our superiors know best.’
In the event they stopped well before the bend. The tanks were simply too noisy to bring in any closer and it was necessary to have them at the head of the column to punch a hole in whatever resistance remained. At 1600 three Skuas fell gracelessly from the sky, each releasing a five-hundred-pound bomb with pin-point accuracy onto the strip wood. As they peeled away four Gladiators raced over head and strafed the wood with machine gun bullets. They passed over four times and then with a waggle of the wings they flew off. The tanks had already begun to lurched forwards. One stayed on the road, releasing bursts of machine gun fire into the woods whilst another two crunched over a dry-stone wall and made their way to the same target across the field. Each tank ground ahead at about ten mph, firing one or two shells at half imagined targets in the gloom under the trees. One shell struck an unseen German vehicle causing an explosion and fire. Great black whorls of smoke twisted from the tree line, like demons unable to form themselves into their recognisable shapes. The Matildas added their own smoke to the morass and the infantry moved in behind it, bayonets fixed. From the slight rise the Brigadier watched and behind on the road Sam waited to move off, sharing a cigarette with some of the truck drivers.
The gunfire cut through the ongoing drone and clank of the Matilda’s engines and tracks as they ploughed their way to the woods. There they stopped, unable to proceed and pumped bullet after bullet, round after round into the smoke until the infantry men had caught up with them. Then they ceased fire as the foot soldiers cautiously moved through the German positions. Henderson watched some fleeing Germans careering out of the wood and some others emerge from the smoke, their hands raised. He trotted down to the scout car and led the rest of his vehicles to the road to stop parallel to the trees.
‘This’ll do Corporal Beattie’, he said into the intercom. From the driver’s seat Sam smiled as the Brigadier leapt out and disappeared into the wood.
‘What a mess!’, he said, happily. The Lieutenant from the Yeomanry smiled back.
‘Gave 'em something to think about, sir’, he said with a certain boyish enthusiasm. They surveyed the carnage. Dead Germans lay where they had fallen, taken by complete surprise.
‘We did’, said Henderson. He was more reserved in his reply. He surveyed the smoking ruins of a wheeled personnel carrier and the blackened remains of two light tanks. Two small anti-tanks guns lay in connecting pits, one turned over as i
f it had been flipped up by a giant hand. The twisted remains of German soldiers -Panzer grenadiers - lay everywhere. Human flesh, torn and burnt was scattered and awful to see. This was the sort of treatment the Nazis had meted out to the French and Poles. Henderson felt satisfied, even amongst this carnage that he had, in some small way, turned the tables. There could be few better ways at proving the worth of the German tactics than to throw them back in their face which such success. Blitzkrieg. And now he had to pursue his fleeing, disorganised enemies before someone stopped and re-grouped them.
Stuka Attack
They watched as the formation droned overhead. The Germans pointed at the distinctive aircraft and used their nickname, ‘Spaten’ - spade. They seemed happy to see them, even if their Luftwaffe brethren couldn’t offer any real, immediate assistance in their present predicament. The bombers couldn’t free them but just seeing them was indication that the war was being won by Germany. The Heinkels edged through the skies in a loose formation, seemingly unopposed but with some of the larger escort fighters with them lest the RAF pounce. The prisoners idly discussed the war in terms of bombing raids and now and again one of them would look over at their captors to gauge their reaction to events.
They would throw in sundry English words or phrases almost as bait but their guards remained impassive and detached as if they had been told that this would be far more irritating to their charges than any form of sour riposte. When the bombers had passed, the sky was clear, blue and peaceful once more.
There was no particular animosity between the men of the Fusiliers and the Germans - more of a grudging acceptance of each other, bolstered by the fact that they were united in hunger and nicotine craving. Everyone felt weak and if this made the Germans think twice about attempting to escape it also mitigated against the British trying to stop them. By and large, the Germans felt so certain that their column would soon be over-run by their own forces that any attempt at escape was just a reckless and unnecessary risk. That was until the dive bombers came in.