The Bridge

by Robert Radcliffe

  As they watched, Georges Gondrée appeared beside the two officers, bearing a tray with bottle and glasses.

  ‘Is that champagne?’

  Thérèse chuckled. ‘He buried it in the yard the afternoon you left, Theodor. A case of the best vintage. And he vowed never to dig it up until the day of liberation.’

  ‘Four years. It seems much longer somehow.’

  ‘Much has happened. To you especially, I sense.’

  He nodded. ‘There’s something I need to ask you, Thérèse.’

  ‘Your lady friend, and where she might be.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have anything to go on?’

  He fumbled at his pocket. ‘I’ve written down what is known, her network and code names, her contacts and areas of operation, details of her last transmissions. There’s a photo too, here…’

  She took the photograph. ‘She’s pretty. I assume Vera Atkins gave you these. A compassionate woman. Do you have anything else?’

  ‘A letter. Undated, brought back to London by courier. It’s personal.’

  ‘Keep it.’ She glanced through the notes. ‘And I’ll do what I can. But she was not of our network. And we have problems of our own.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Jeanette Bolpert is one of them. My waitress, you remember?’

  ‘Of course. She brought me soup on the bridge.’

  ‘She was quite enamoured of you. A talented operative too. Picked up three weeks ago on some trivial infringement, now she’s in the municipal prison in Caen. Along with many others, including several women.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘God knows.’ Her eyes flickered. ‘Especially now the invasion’s begun. The Gestapo can act recklessly.’

  ‘We must get to them somehow. Get to them all.’

  ‘Nacht und Nebel, Theodor. You have heard of this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘One of Hitler’s personal directives. Night and fog. It’s what happens to agents who get caught.’

  CHAPTER 6

  By late morning a form of stalemate was developing. The Germans held a half-mile perimeter around the T-junction; meanwhile, about a hundred 7th Battalion Paras had found their way to the bridge and were gradually replacing Howard’s troops, who retreated to the eastern bank for a much-needed rest. Although rest seemed hard to come by. Firstly Wally Parr drove everyone mad banging away with his anti-tank gun. Next a lone Dornier rumbled overhead and they all had to dive for cover. The plane dropped one bomb, which missed the bridge, then flew away again. Barely had they sat down when shouts were heard and a German gunboat appeared, motoring up the canal from the sea and spraying the scene with machine-gun fire. Wally to his fury couldn’t shoot because the bridge was in the way, so the trusty PIAT was brought up again. A well-aimed shot went straight through the boat’s wheelhouse, whereupon it rammed the bank and burst into flames, its occupants scrambling ashore and hurrying away. Once more the Ox and Bucks men slumped down to rest, but the fighting at the T-junction was growing ominously louder, and sure enough, within minutes seemingly, they were being summoned forward to join the fray once more.

  Theo went with them.

  ‘We need better gen on Jerry,’ Howard told him wearily.

  ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Strength, movements, intentions and so on. Here in town, but also nearer Caen.’

  ‘There was a ferry crossing somewhere upstream. I’ll try there.’

  ‘Don’t take any chances, Trickey, just learn what you can.’

  Yet unknown to Howard the enemy knew little more than he did. Hamstrung by sabotaged communications, a muddled command structure and garbled rumours of mass invasion, Colonel von Luck of the Caen garrison had been waiting all night for permission to advance on the bridge in force. But 21st Panzer, as an elite unit, could only move on the direct orders of the Führer himself, and the Führer was holidaying in Berchtesgaden. Luck’s superior, General Feuchtinger, was away in Paris, Feuchtinger’s boss, Rommel, unusually, was nowhere to be found, and despite endless fruitless phone calls, Luck could find nobody in authority willing to override this order. Nor even show much interest in the seriousness of the situation: ‘Call back in office hours,’ being the typical response. Finally he got through to Berchtesgaden itself, only to be brusquely informed that the Führer was sleeping and certainly not to be disturbed over some trivial scuffle in Normandy. So in the end, hedging his bets and his orders, Luck had moved secondary units into the area to stem any breakout from the bridge, while holding his main force in reserve should Caen itself be threatened.

  Theo set off, leaving the sounds of fighting behind, recrossing the bridge and stealing along the trees lining the eastern bank for a mile until he arrived at the crossing. Searching the bank for the rowing-boat ferry, he eventually spotted it—but moored on the far side. Scarcely pausing, he peeled off his battledress, tied it into a bundle and waded in. The canal was cold but its waters still; he attained the far bank unobserved, re-dressed and set out once more. Crop fields and woodland lay between Bénouville and Caen and by sticking to tracks and paths he was able to close on the city, entering it from the east at Hérouville. All was eerily quiet, deserted of life both civilian and military, and soon he was edging down roads cratered by bombs and strewn with rubble. Water gushed from smashed mains, trees and telegraph poles lay drunkenly askew, some entire streets were impassable, their houses blasted to rubble, while smoke from a thousand fires rose and joined into a single giant pyre, blotting out the sunlight and enveloping the stricken city like fog.

  ‘Psst, rosbif!’ A hissed whisper came from a doorway. Theo stopped. An old man, leaning on a stick, was beckoning him closer. ‘Vous êtes rosbif, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Rosbif?’ Theo queried in French. ‘You mean English?’

  ‘Anglais, oui.’

  ‘Ah… well, yes, I’m English.’

  ‘We are liberated?’

  ‘Not quite, but soon hopefully.’

  ‘God be praised.’ The old man planted stubbly kisses on his cheeks. ‘It took you long enough.’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘But where is your tommy gun?’

  ‘I don’t… I’m on reconnaissance.’

  ‘Oh. And what of your army? We heard it is in Ouistreham.’

  ‘Yes, it landed this morning. It is coming. But where is everybody here? Where are all the people?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Left town. Or hiding in shelters, basements, their cellars.’ He produced a crumpled leaflet. ‘These fell in the night, by the thousand.’

  Theo smoothed the page. Citizens of Caen! it read in French. The Allies are coming; the hour of liberation is at hand. But first we must drive the enemy from your streets and destroy their warmongery. So stay indoors, under cover and in the shelters until the bombardments are over and the all-clear sounds. Vive la France, vive la liberté!

  ‘Tell them to stop,’ the man said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There are hardly any Germans in Caen; they know it’s too dangerous. The main barracks are outside.’

  ‘Outside where?’

  ‘Colombelles and Vimont mainly. Some in Ranville. You must tell them to stop the bombing – you are killing innocent civilians and destroying our homes for no reason. Please tell them.’

  ‘I’ll try. Where’s the prison?’

  ‘West side. Long way. You’ll never make it without getting spotted.’

  Theo pushed on further, but the nearer he drew to the centre, the more people he saw, including armed militia and police patrolling for looters. Then a German half-track sped by followed by a lorry load of troops, and suddenly a lone British soldier skulking in the shadows was becoming conspicuous. And an object of interest.

  ‘Soldat anglais!’ A child shouted with excitement. ‘Over there, Tommy, see!’

  Two figures in grey turned to look. Theo ducked into a doorway.

  ‘Halt!’

  He leaped from the doorway and too
k off, sprinting back the way he had come. A single shot rang out and he felt the bullet hum by; he jinked into an alley and ran on. Then as he fled he heard a different sound, a distant throbbing, as though from hundreds of engines, and moments later a chorus of sirens began wailing around the city, and people outside began running in all directions, gathering their children and scurrying for shelter. The noise grew louder and he glanced up as he ran, glimpsing dozens, scores of tiny silver crosses filling the sky like stitches in a blanket. By the time he reached Hérouville, breathless and sweating, the bombs were already falling again.

  He made his way back to the canal and paddled across in the rowing boat, but then had to make a detour to avoid a foot patrol approaching along the bank. Thirty minutes later, as he was jogging through woodland near Ranville, he was stopped in his tracks by a new sound. At first he thought he was imagining it, straining to hear above the rumble of far-off bombs and ack-ack guns, but then it came again: reedy, resonant, unmistakable. Bagpipes. Somewhere up ahead a Scots piper was playing. He hurried breathlessly on, emerging minutes later on to a road he recognized as the Orne River approach. And there, striding along towards the canal, tall, erect and in perfect time with one another, were three smartly dressed officers, led by a piper. One he immediately recognized as General Gale; the other two were brigadiers. Nobody else was anywhere to be seen.

  ‘Is that a Trickey I spy in the bushes?’ Gale swivelled his head as though on parade. ‘Come along, Private, fall in there!’

  So he fell in. He hadn’t marched, not properly, for years, not since Eisenhower visited 1st Parachute Brigade back in Boufarik. At first it was a shambles; he felt flustered and clumsy, hopping along behind two brigadiers and a general, and struggling to keep time. But after a while, and with no sounds but the stirring song of the pipes and crisp crunch of boots, he began to find his stride, and his rhythm settled, and something long suppressed stirred within him, and as the canal bridge loomed into view he marched more erectly: his chin came up and he began to swing his arms and puff out his chest with the others. And when the men lounging at the bridge saw them, they got to their feet, gawping in disbelief, and began waving and cheering, and some even came to attention and saluted as they passed. Then Major Howard appeared ahead on the bridge, marching out alone to greet them. ‘Parade!’ one of the brigadiers bellowed like a sergeant major. ‘Parade… halt!’ And the five of them stamped smartly to a stop mid bridge, facing Howard who snapped to attention like a guardsman, threw up his hand and saluted.

  ‘General, the bridges are yours.’

  ‘Thank you, Major.’ Gale smiled. ‘You are hereby relieved.’

  Howard grinned. ‘You can say that again!’

  *

  Throughout the afternoon the transfer process went on. More and more troops arrived to bolster defences, the first motorized units appeared along with heavier weapons and artillery, the Germans drew back, content to hold their perimeter but advance no further, and at nightfall the Royal Warwickshires turned up to complete the handover. At which Operation Deadstick was over, mission accomplished, and some twenty-four hours after they’d climbed aboard their Horsas in Dorset, John Howard’s men were at last stood down, fed and rested. Celebrations followed, further boosted by the surprise arrival of Captain Priday and his missing platoon, who’d been cut off after landing at the wrong river.

  Yet the festivities were premature, for though the mission was a textbook success, the Bénouville bridgehead marked the furthest point in the Allied advance for weeks to come, and Caen itself, apart from Theo’s one-man foray, did not see liberation for over a month, by which time it was a shattered ruin.

  ‘Howard tells me you recced the place,’ Gale said to him late that night. ‘That was enterprising.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was on my way back when I met you.’

  ‘So I gather.’ They were inside the burned-out pillbox, which Gale had requisitioned as a temporary CP. Now furnished with radios, table and chairs and lit by a hurricane lamp, he had pinned a large map of Normandy on an easel. ‘Learn anything useful?’

  ‘Only that the main enemy forces are deployed outside the city.’

  ‘21st Panzer, I hear, among others.’

  ‘Yes. I believe they’re at Vimont, here.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Anti-aircraft emplacements were firing around the perimeter. And there’s a lot of damage within the city itself, from the bombing. And civilian casualties.’

  ‘Not much we can do about that. 3rd Infantry was supposed to be taking Caen today; aerial bombardment was a necessary precursor. Hopefully it won’t go on too long.’ He paused, glancing at Theo. ‘He wasn’t that keen on you tagging along, you know. Howard, I mean.’

  ‘I gathered that, sir.’

  ‘But he tells me you’ve been a big help.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you. You seem to have a knack for blending in, you know, getting about unnoticed.’

  ‘I’ve had rather a lot of practice.’

  ‘Indeed. May I ask your intentions? I mean, you’re free to return home with the pilots of course, rejoin Johnny Frost and your 2nd Battalion chums.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But between you and me, they’re not going anywhere. Not for weeks probably.’

  ‘I see.’ Get to her before the enemy do.

  Gale pointed at the map. ‘6th Airborne’s to secure the area east of here and north to Sword Beach. My units are strung out, men and equipment scattered, communications to pot, and the enemy’s pouring in reinforcements by the hour. I could dearly use you here for a while. On my intelligence staff.’

  *

  At dawn next morning, with the sound of renewed shelling and gunfire coming from the Bénouville direction, he threw his rucksack into the back of a truck and set off with Gale’s entourage in the opposite direction. Progress was slow, hampered by traffic coming the other way, stockpiles of stores and equipment littering the roads, and endless columns of men wandering back and forth trying to find their units. The roads too were narrow and winding with tall hedges obscuring any field of view. ‘Ideal ambush country,’ the corporal beside him muttered darkly. After a while they arrived at a village north of Ranville, parked outside an empty house and began unloading. The rest of that day and the next was spent setting up Gale’s HQ, and trying to establish contact with his many outlying units, and also with the main invasion force, currently strung out along the coast five miles to the north. The news from there was that rough seas and unusually high tides were hampering efforts to unload tanks, armoured cars and other heavy equipment, the beaches were severely clogged with vehicles and equipment, the Luftwaffe was bombing and strafing, casualties were mounting and the whole invasion plan was falling steadily behind schedule. Shelling could be heard in that direction, both from enemy artillery moving into the area, and answering fire from ships at sea, and as dusk fell in the evenings the northern sky was spectacularly lit by artillery flashes, star shells and tracer fire.

  Two days went by, then on the third afternoon a harassed-looking aide gave him his first assignment.

  ‘8th Parachute Battalion.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s missing.’

  ‘Missing where?’

  ‘If we knew that, Trickey, it wouldn’t be missing!’

  Further instructions revealed that the battalion had dropped with the rest of the division as scheduled, and was then supposed to position itself in a forested area four miles east of the bridges. But nothing had been heard from it.

  ‘That’s our flank they’re protecting, Trickey, rough country with lots of cover, Jerry’s flooding in from the east, and we’ve reports of heavy skirmishing. We need to find them, get a situation report and establish two-way contact. Got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. And while you’re at it, any gen on enemy strength and movements would be useful. Now, help yourself to kit, rations, a Webley and anything else you need. I’ll get
a driver to drop you in the vicinity.’

  ‘No Webley, and I don’t need a driver. But I’ll take a bicycle if you have one.’

  ‘Bicycle.’

  ‘I’ve found them useful for this kind of thing.’

  ‘Christ, as you please – I think there’s one round the back. But for God’s sake be careful, Jerry’s popping up everywhere.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And, well, listen, Trickey, they’re a pretty raw bunch the 8th, not exactly top notch when it comes to morale and discipline. Never seen action either. In fact Gale had to sack their CO and bring in a new one to knock them into shape.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Former CO of 1st Battalion. Tough nut called Pearson.’

  He found the bicycle, one of the folding type carried by airborne units, loaded it up and set off, following his map towards the location which was a large forested area called Bois de Bavent. Though the rumble of shelling and gunfire on the coast never ceased, patrolling fighters thundered overhead and yet more bombs could be heard falling on distant Caen, the lanes and tracks around him were quiet. His bicycle clattered, birds sang in the hedge and a horse frolicked restlessly in a field; it was reminiscent of a young reservist pedalling in search of Scotsmen four years previously. At Blangy, less than a hundred miles away.