by David Roy
It was like an attack of giant screaming bats. Terrifying for the men of both armies, the bombs did not discriminate on grounds of nationality. Wave after wave of Ju87s dropped a mixture of thousand pounders and 110-pound bombs, their pilots believing that the target was a mass of retreating British soldiers. Captors and captives alike sprinted from what seemed to be the focus point of the attack only to lose their lives as successive aircraft changed their aim slightly to hit the spreading target beneath them. They were already pulling out of dives and speeding away as their bombs ripped apart the frail human structures that they sought to destroy. It would be many months before the luftflotilla responsible learnt of their error, by which time many of the crews had themselves perished.
The men on the ground didn’t react to the piercing screams of the Stuka with their usual alacrity as if hunger had blunted their senses. Some of them only realised what was happening as the first bombs lifted the soil and whatever was on it, high into the air, to come toppling down moments later like bloody brown hail. The remnants of the Irish Fusiliers scattered, every man for himself. Ronnie Sykes watched, horrified, transfixed as Nobby Clark seemed to disappear in a rough red and orange envelope of fire that reached up from the earth with stunning violence whilst he, only really yards away, escaped unscathed. Nobby’s face became etched on his mind - expressionless, innocent, open and honest - snatched away entirely and as if he had never existed. Nothing that he had done had made any mark and he was gone - no body to bury - just gone.
Bill and Sean both died as they sprinted for safety, tripping and slipping in the bones and gore of those who’d died before. It didn’t matter if they were British or German just as it didn’t matter that Bill was a Protestant from Armagh and Sean was a Roman Catholic from County Down; they died together.
Tommy watched as that awkward bastard of a German Captain tried to signal to the dive-bombers. He waved his arms wildly as if that would make any difference to a Stuka pilot falling from the sky at close on four hundred miles per hour, just on the brink of blacking out. Fittingly, the captain disappeared in a withering ball of flame. Tommy was thrown clear by the blast but just felt the warm breath of high explosive brush his skin as he fell, winded but unharmed. He stood, just as another bomb dropped and was knocked sideways into a tree. He gathered himself from the roots of the same tree, checked his body for injuries - there were none - and began running as one bomb and then another hit the ground. There was no judgement involved. Head down and run. Run. Escape. Hope for the best. Don’t think. Run. Maybe, you’ll make it and maybe you won’t….and won’t know anything about it. Run…. but he tripped over something and went sprawling face first into the grass.
‘Tommy’, said the thing he had tripped over. A bomb fell close by.
‘Let's get out of here. On our bellies. Crawl and follow me!’ In that way, Ronnie and Tommy survived.
Bill Hewson and Tony heard, and then saw, the attack.
‘Some poor bastard’s gettin’ it’, said Hewson, impassively. He cut a mildly heroic figure as he removed his helmet and scratched his chin. He was made for these moments. At thirty-four he’d been a soldier for nineteen years, had joined up when many of his own NCOs were veterans of the Great War. He was steeped in the traditions of his regiment and knew what it meant to be a Royal Irish Fusilier. Had it not been for the escapade with the Major O’Hara’s daughter when he was a young man he might also have been a sergeant-major by now. He often thought about it with a wry smile, wondering if it had been worth it and every time he came to the same conclusion; it had been.
‘You don’t suppose it might be our lot, Sarge?’
‘They’re hardly going to bomb their own troops, Tony. Are they?’
‘It looks like the right place, though’, persisted Tony, but Hewson just shook his head. He had other things to worry about. They still hadn’t found a means of transport and he was fast becoming aware of the futility of their task.
‘We can’t really go back now and say that there’s no form of transport to be had, can we?’, said the sergeant.
Tony shrugged and replied. ‘Aye…. but we go on and…. for what?’
The road was next to a car park belonging to a tiny railway station. Everything about it was immaculate. The flower beds were islands of colour still, although the plants required water. The car park and platform looked like they had been swept that day. They looked through the wooden fence next to the platform and then opened the little gate to gain access to the waiting room and station master’s office. There were no signs of life. Perhaps the station master had just nipped out for a paper…. except those normal days had gone, maybe forever.
‘Chocolate, sarge. And fags.’ Tony point to two metal vending machines attached to the wall. Between the two machines, like some sort of moral arbiter, was a poster of Churchill extolling the people to continue the fight. He had been photographed in an army uniform and there was no sign of his trademark cigar. There was a bright patch of paint in the shape of a station name sign - this having been removed to confuse the enemy. Tony found it in a bin later and laughed at the stupidity of removing the plaque from the wall but then leaving it were it could be found. ‘Have ya any change, sarge?’, said Tony patting his pockets to indicate that he personally had none. Bill Hewson checked but found no change either. He couldn’t even remember the last that he had actually spent any money.
‘We’ll be very popular if we go back with a load of swag’, said Tony with a sly grin.
‘Swag! What sort of word is that?’, laughed the sergeant. ‘It would be looting wouldn’t it?’, he added, more seriously.
‘It’s only chocolate and cigarettes. Besides it’s an emergency. If we don’t eat it then the Germans will.’
‘So, we’re just stopping it from falling into enemy hands?’, said the senior NCO. Tony thought about this pointedly for a moment before nodding energetically.
‘That’s right, Sergeant!’
As he spoke he was already in the act of removing his bayonet from its scabbard. He began prizing off the machine's metal front. The cream enamel paint cracked and then splintered, flakes of it dropped onto the spotless platform like bleached leaves. Then with a bang and a resounding shudder the door shot open. Tony jumped out of the way.
‘Wehay!’, he shouted, noisily. Inspired by this, Hewson did the same to the cigarette machine as Tony lifted bars of Fry’s chocolate reverentially from the long slots that held it in place. His stomach rumbled as he imagined himself eating bar after bar after bar….
‘Fags!’, said the sergeant, excitedly.
‘Chocolate!’, said Tony. He realised that they were being childish and chuckled.
‘What?’
‘Us two - like bloody children at Christmas. Still, let’s make the most of it.’
If the tastes of chocolate and nicotine didn’t really complement each other, then neither man said so as they sat in the waiting room, trying to blank the war from their minds. They drank black tea made in the stationmaster’s little kitchen and chatted idly.
‘Really we’re just sabotaging the Jerry’s war effort’, said Tony waving a piece of chocolate in front of his face. ‘He’s probably planned to capture this station just for the fags and chocolate.’ He popped it into his mouth as he finished speaking.
‘Very noble of us’, said Hewson. ‘Just keep it to yourself - I don’t think we’ll be getting any medals for this.’
‘Aye, but we’re going to take some back for the lads, aren’t we?’
‘Oh aye, but they don’t need to know the details of how we came by it.’
‘You forget how nice chocolate tastes when you’ve not had any for a while.’
‘You forget how nice anything tastes when you’ve not eaten for a while. Wouldn’t you rather have a big plate with potatoes, roast beef, carrots and gravy?’
‘Aye, but this isn’t bad to be gettin’ on with.’ Tony craned his neck to look outside. He tensed. From the floor he could see the outline of
a spindly-looking German plane as it passed over the station. ‘I thought I heard somethin’’, he said.
‘What?’
‘Some sort of Jerry plane just passed over. It’s coming back!’, he said urgently pointing. The sergeant followed the line from his finger to the sky. The aircraft was a Fieseler Storch, a gangly spotter plane, able to take off and land on short runways and reconnoitre ahead of advancing troops. ‘Are they looking for us?’
‘I doubt it. They’re just looking for anything. But I think it might mean that some German troops are near.’ As he spoke a sense of hopelessness descended on the older man. They had no chance of organising transport and perhaps, if his assumption about the proximity of the enemy was correct, no chance of getting back to the prisoners. He had to make a decision but there seemed to be no good ones available to him. Every possibility smacked of cowardice or incompetence. Return with no transport? Not return at all? The second option made more sense but was it a form of desertion? The truth was that his years of experience and training hadn’t prepared him for this. It wasn’t that he lacked initiative either - he was simply in a hopeless situation.
‘So, what do we do, sarge?’
With an almost painful sigh he admitted the truth. ‘I don’t know.’
The rumour was that the German Army had made good progress to the east and it was in that direction that the surviving German prisoners ran. They could equally have run to the west but that was a slightly greater distance to be covered. As things stood they could expect to meet up with German units before the day was out. The most northerly infantry division had just taken Salisbury with little opposition and was now being ordered to hook round to the west in order to meet up with the panzer grenadiers closing in on Yeovil. This latter unit had landed, near Plymouth days after the main invasion and had teamed up with a battalion of fallschirmjager, these being amongst the first troops to set foot in England. Battle-hardened now, having crushed the mainly Territorial Army opposition arrayed against them, they pressed east, confident that they could not be stopped. They would close the net and eradicate the British Army presence in the far south of England.
It was reconnaissance elements from these formations that were now carefully creeping into the little village, with its quaint old train station lovingly cared for for many years by Mr Crompton, the proud stationmaster. And now he was gone. The village shop was shuttered and the houses empty. Soon the weeds would take over the well-tended lawns and flowerbeds, destroying the prettier plants that had taken their rightful place. It was an allegory of village life. Someone had even broken into the vending machines on the station platform.
Battle Group Henderson’s last attack
They were cheered by their victory but now faced a new menace. Panic would be spreading through the Germans but it would be measured and easily brought under control. Their commanders knew that they had disciplined troops - maybe they hadn’t faced a reverse like this before but they would come through it, adding the experience to their own personal catalogues of military wisdom. Henderson did not under-estimate the threat posed by the German troops and was all too aware of the precarious foothold of the British in the southern part of England. He wondered if his battle group now offered the sole resistance to the invader in the south.
The Matildas led the way, battened down, each gun loaded and ready for action. The scout car followed and the trucks brought up the rear in a long vulnerable tail. It was a risky strategy - one shell to knock out one tank and the whole road was blocked - but this was the nature of the terrain and this was the only way he could fight. Sam felt he was becoming deafened by the barrage of noise from the huge tank engines as he followed the angular beast on their roaring, clunking, slithering journey. Beside him the Brigadier looked impassive - neither worried nor overly confident - but his mind was working out possibilities and courses of action which might need to be taken…. and as the eighty-eight-millimetre shell tore into the lead tank, reducing it to a smoking hulk blocking the road, one of his plans came into effect.
The remaining tanks fanned out as the infantry dismounted just seconds before shells began to rain down on the trucks. There was little chance of escape from the road. Henderson leapt from the scout car, shouting at Sam to follow him - their transport was stuck in the seized-up convoy. The British infantry streamed forwards as Henderson and the other officers rallied and called and harangued. There was no mistaking the sound of the metal bayonets being drawn as men reached round to seize their wooden handles, in an action that was as resonant of an infantry attack as the battle cry that went up. This was an old-fashioned infantry attack into the face of automatic fire from well-hidden enemy positions. Men fell injured or stunned and then a natural pattern of pepper-potting developed, alternating between covering fire and advancing.
The tanks sent shell after shell into the wood and someone had brought a mortar into action dropping bombs indiscriminately amongst the defenders. Bren guns and a couple of heavy Vickers opened up, making the Germans duck back into their trenches but still their MG34s buzzed horribly, unleashing a flat hail of supersonic metal to cut down the British. Two freshly painted panzers lurched out of the wood to engage the Matilda. Their stubby cannons spat out high-velocity shells knocking out one tank and disabling a second. The latter fought on, hitting but not stopping both of the German tanks and a second shell ended its resistance. Sam noticed that not one single crewman had emerged from any of the stricken vehicles.
British casualties lay everywhere but still the remainder pushed on. The front line of Germans pulled away retreating into the flimsy cover of the wood and another three panzers joined the fight, spraying the ground with machine gun bullets. Sam stuck close to the Brigadier as they entered the wood, leaping over empty trenches. From far behind he could hear the sound of an anti-tank rifle firing at the panzers and cursed at the impossibility of the task that that soldier had been given. He’d be better off not annoying the enemy tank crews with such a pitiful weapon and trying to escape from the cauldron unscathed.
Sam and the Brigadier took cover behind a huge oak.
‘Let’s get some machine gun fire going in here!’, shouted the officer. ‘The rest of you on your bellies. Get in close!’ All the time German bullets whipped through the air although thankfully they had rendered the panzers impotent as the dense wood was too constricting a field of battle for them. Mortar bombs continued to rain down on them and it was with horror that they realised these were being fired from their own lines.
‘Beattie, get back and tell them to stop firing those mortars!’, he shouted. Seeing the fear in Sam’s eyes, he shouted, ‘Go!’ Sam rose to his feet, his back to the tree and prepared to make the dash. He was terrified, more so when he saw a soldier being torn to pieces by shrapnel in front of him. What looked like a hundred wounds picked the man’s flesh from his bones and he collapsed almost unrecognisable as a human…. but it did spur him on to get back with his message.
A bullet plucked at the flailing sleeve of his battledress jacket as he ran pell-mell back the way he and the others had just come. The German tanks had stopped in the field, like squat iron robots conferring on their next move. The quickest way back was to charge past them but it was also the riskiest. Sam made a decision as he drew up to the rumbling engine grills of the rearmost tank - and he hoped that he had the speed and stamina to achieve his new goal. Inauspiciously he slipped and his helmet clanged against the side of the panzer, but then he was off and running like a hare. It was a clear fifty yards before he could get to cover behind a mound that led to a bigger hill and it was just behind this bigger hill that the mortar team had set up. He could still hear the dull thunk of bombs exiting the tube and wondered what on earth possessed them to keep firing….
But already he had sprinted twenty yards and the panzer men were only just alerted to his presence. He heard a turret spin round, its motor whirring and he waited for the line of bullets that would fell him. It would be quick but it was a shame becau
se he had only twenty yards - maybe fifteen to cover. He barely heard the bang but was knocked to one side by the shell which erupted on the bank ahead of him. To one side and slightly forwards it exploded and then he realised that he wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even injured. Maybe he could make it! He gasped for breath as his feet pounded on the turf. That noise seemed to transcend the noise of battle. Maybe the Jerries would assume he was finished…. maybe. He lost his footing again and this time it saved his life as bullets whistled over his prone body. He got to his feet quickly and continued to run. A short burst of machine gun fire hit the bank but it was only five yards and he ran until his lungs burst, leapt and landed on his backside on the other side of the mound. He’d made it but now the tanks began to move forwards as telegraphed by the grinding clunk of their tracks and the harsh taurean roar of their engines. On his belly now, he crawled towards the mortar team. He could just see the outline of their helmets and one man about to drop another bomb. They were firing blind - which explained everything and he shouted.
‘Stop! Fucking stop!’
One of the mortar men looked in his direction, his face a scared, weary mask of incomprehension. As if in a dream he dropped the bomb. It fell down the tube only to be spat out again like a fat blowpipe dart a fraction of a second later.
‘Stop!’, he bellowed and this time was heard. He crawled up to the alarmed mortar men. They looked frightened and confused. They had half guessed that they should no longer be firing but for want of orders….
Their looks of exhausted despair changed even as Sam spoke to them mere terror turning to panic. Sam looked behind him to see one of the panzers awkwardly surmount the mound he had hidden behind only moments before.