Then at noon came the longed-for breakthrough.
‘Trickey.’ Gale’s door flew open. ‘In here, now.’
Boy Browning had come through. Nobody knew how and nobody dared ask, but two armoured squadrons from the 13th/18th Hussars had been detached from the Caen offensive and were now standing by. Serious armour: Sherman tanks, self-propelled guns, towed artillery, mortar and heavy machine guns, plus a battalion of gunners to man them. The Hussars were at that moment forming up preparatory to moving out. All they needed were the necessary orders, and a guide.
‘They’re assembling here.’ The aide jabbed the map. ‘Saint-Aubin, about a mile north of Bénouville. Here’s the paperwork. A major called Neave’s their CO; a Jeep and driver are waiting outside; go like stink and don’t let anyone hold you up.’
He set off, the driver crashing gears as they sped the short distance from Ranville, first to the Orne bridge, then on, weaving in and out of traffic until they reached the canal bridge.
Which was in the raised position.
He leaped out and ran along the line of waiting vehicles.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked at the barrier.
‘Supply barges coming upstream.’
‘How long?’
‘God knows. Took bloody hours yesterday.’
He stared around. The bridge area was barely recognizable, all but engulfed in the military circus. Checkpoints had been installed; queues of traffic waited to cross; stores and equipment lay everywhere; men marched; NCOs shouted while anti-aircraft guns scoured the sky for bombers. Through drifting fumes he could just make out the café across the canal, a Union flag hanging from one window, bunting fluttering in the eaves. The wrecked German patrol boat lay abandoned in the reeds, and in the landing field the three discarded gliders still remained, broken and forlorn like forgotten toys.
A cluster of metal dinghies was tied beneath the bridge. ‘I’ve got to get across.’
‘You and a thousand others.’ The guard turned away. ‘Now fuck off.’
He slithered down the bank, untied one of the dinghies and pushed into the stream. Angry oaths followed him as he sculled the short distance across, made it unscathed and ran to the café, pounding on the door.
‘Theodor!’ Georges appeared. ‘Dear boy, Thérèse is not here but please come in and wait.’
‘Can’t,’ he panted. ‘Can’t stop.’
‘But she has word, and needs to speak—’
‘No time! I’ll come back. You have a bicycle?’
‘The Boche looted it.’
‘Saint-Aubin. How far?’
‘That way.’ Georges pointed. ‘Less than a mile.’
He ran. A hot sun shone overhead; within minutes he was pouring sweat, his wound had reopened and blood was coursing down his thigh. He tied it off, found a stick and hobbled on; a while later he glimpsed farm buildings at the end of a long road, staggered on, crossed a stream, rounded a bend and there stood the column, a shimmering mirage of green steel, snaking through the village like a slumbering serpent. At the monster’s head, sitting in a deckchair by his tank, was an officer reading a book.
‘Major Neave?’ Theo gasped.
‘Good Lord. Where on earth did you spring from?’
*
It took an hour to coax the column back to the bridge, another hour to cross it, and a third to guide it to the Bréville rendezvous. Theo rode atop Neave’s Sherman, headphones clamped to his ears, impressed by the shuddering power of the machine with its throbbing engine and roving turret, yet concerned at how ponderous an armoured column was, how unwieldy, how reptilian in its slowness. Just getting it into motion seemed to take an age: passing and receiving instructions, packing up, mounting up, starting motors, manoeuvring out and finally setting off. Like a procession of tortoises, everything seemed to happen in agonizing slow motion.
They finally arrived late in the afternoon, rumbling belatedly up the Bréville road to the weary cheers of the waiting Paras. Gale too was visibly relieved, hurrying from his command post to shake Neave’s hand.
‘Very glad to see you, Major.’
‘Delighted to be of service.’
Within minutes he had called a commanders’ briefing.
‘Gentlemen. In view of the late hour, the plan now is to make a night assault. We will do this under cover of an artillery barrage laid down by our friends the Hussars. Who will then follow the infantry in with their tanks.’
Theo listened, feeling the painful throbbing in his thigh, and wondering why the British always sent infantry ahead of the tanks, while the Germans, more successfully, sent them in behind. He surveyed the gathered men, studying their faces. All, with the exception of Neave, looked battle-worn and weary. Under-strength too, with many units without leaders, so being commanded by junior officers or NCOs, some from different battalions. 12th Battalion had no original officers left, he’d learned, and 1st Canadian was being led by someone else’s brigadier.
‘Gen reports any civilians are long gone,’ Gale was saying, ‘so we hit the place hard. The enemy might be on top right now, but they’ve suffered badly and are as tired as we are. Therefore we wait until twenty-two hundred, let them settle for the night, then give them everything we’ve got. With luck we’ll catch them unawares and drive them out before they realize what’s hit them.’
Afterwards he spoke to Theo. ‘What about that leg?’
‘Leg’s fine, sir. Just needs a bandage.’
‘And I need a runner. Up to one more job?’
Otway’s 9th Battalion, or what was left of it, he explained, was holed up in a bombed-out chateau on the edge of town. Various attempts had been made to reach it, but all had failed. Gale needed to re-establish contact. ‘Wait till it gets dark, take two men, load up with as much ammo as you can carry and see if you can get through. Then tell Otway to follow the barrage in with the rest of us. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And head for Jerry HQ. It’s in the mairie behind the church. If we can knock that out everything else will follow.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good.’ They gazed around. Everywhere groups of men sat or lounged, brewing tea, cooking rations or sharing a smoke. Others checked their weapons, filling their webbing pouches with grenades and ammunition, or wiping down their bayonets and daggers. Still more snatched sleep if they could, or simply stared ahead in dazed contemplation. Above them on the hill, small-arms fire was dying out as both sides drew apart to regroup. ‘This has to work,’ Gale murmured. ‘We’ve nothing left if it doesn’t.’
Daylight faded, and so too the fighting as exhausted men downed weapons to feed and rest. Bréville still burned, painting the skyline a smoky orange, flashes lit the northern horizon, and yet another air raid began over Caen. Stealing along a ditch, Theo and his bearers headed for the chateau. As they drew close a break in the overcast revealed a blackened façade, smashed windows and smoking roof.
‘Looks quiet enough,’ one murmured. ‘Can’t see our boys though.’
‘And how do we stop them shooting us?’
Theo studied the approach. Fifty yards of lawn lay between them and the door. Enemy dug-outs could be anywhere, and the Paras inside would be understandably trigger-happy.
‘All right.’ He fumbled for a pouch. ‘One each. We throw, shout and run. In that order. Ready?’
‘Christ.’
‘On my count. One. Pins out.’
Metallic pinging sounds. ‘Jesus.’
‘Two. Three.’
‘WAHO MOHAMMED!’
Flashes lit the night as the grenades exploded, then three figures leaped from the bushes and ran, bellowing their battle cry. A flurry of panicked shooting came from one side, answering fire rattled from the chateau, the figures ran on, bent double with their loads, five seconds more and they were tumbling through the door.
‘My.’ A bandaged face grinned from the shadows. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’
*
The ba
rrage began ten minutes later, the effect, as always, sudden, shocking and spectacular. Opening with the eerie shrieking noises overhead, lightning flashes and ground-shaking explosions followed as 25-pounders, 5½-inch field guns, and the 75-millimetre guns of the Shermans fired simultaneously, hurling red-hot steel into the approaches around Bréville. Sited just yards outside this ring of destruction, the effect on the men in the chateau was stupefying, the whole building quaking as walls shook, windows shattered and clods of ancient plaster rained on them from the ceiling.
‘How long!’ Otway shouted at Theo.
‘Five minutes. Then we follow it up the hill.’
Theo hunched against the wall, feeling it shudder against his back as the shells crashed in. Dust fogged the air; through it barely fifty men sat waiting, all that remained of Otway’s force. Several were too injured to carry on; Otway himself was bleeding from a head wound; all were hungry, exhausted and low on ammunition. Minutes ticked by, the barrage went on, mind-numbing and relentless, and then suddenly, as though from a change of wind, the noise altered and began imperceptibly to recede.
Theo scrambled up. ‘Now would be good, sir.’
Otway led, hurrying down a corridor to a side door and out into the night. Where the barrage was even louder, the explosions blindingly bright as the shells crept ever upward. Fires burned everywhere, smoke rolling down the hill like fog, while overhead moonlight daubed the scene a ghostly grey. Otway set off, running through knee-deep crop towards a group of smashed farm buildings, his men in line behind. Mortar and artillery rounds still fell, craters and shell holes pocked the ground, the whole area was scorched and smoking. Surviving an enemy barrage was a lottery, Theo knew, yet also knew there would be survivors, crouching in their foxholes and dug-outs, their mortars and machine guns at the ready.
They reached the farm unscathed. Beyond it rose two hundred yards of open ground before the houses began. Crouching behind a wall, they watched as the barrage entered town, pummelling its outskirts to rubble like giant fists. Debris flew: masonry, earth, steel, trees, a whole German half-track tossed aloft like a toy. Otway waited, then drew his pistol. ‘Forward the 9th!’ And everyone charged from cover.
They were stopped before they’d gone thirty yards, a hail of machine-gun bullets hosing at them from the houses. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, men began dropping, cut down by the onslaught or throwing themselves to the ground. Theo too dived instinctively into a shell hole, surfacing in time to see Otway, his bandage like a turban, still running, still shouting and waving, then jerk and stumble over. Seconds passed, the shooting went on, he clapped his hands over his head, then a lull came, he looked up, the Germans were running, shifting their MG34s from one house to another. Some Paras rose, ready to go on, but the hailstorm resumed, stopping them in their tracks. The mairie, Gale had said, get to the mairie behind the church. He could see its battered spire through the smoke, tantalizingly near, yet hopelessly far. Then he heard a different sound above the guns, and turning in his shell hole glimpsed two squat shadows rumbling up the hill.
‘Tanks!’ he shouted. ‘Get to the tanks!’ Heads lifted, turning to see. ‘There!’ He pointed, rising to a knee. The leading machine drew near; he waited, timing his moment, then leaped up and ran. ‘Come on!’ Bullets followed him, spattering the ground, but he reached safety, ducking into the Sherman’s lee. Others appeared; he grabbed them, pulling them in, then scrambled up behind the turret and bellowed through the slit. ‘White house, right, one o’clock!’ The turret swivelled, paused, then bucked and the house collapsed to dust. ‘Now left, ten o’clock!’ The turret bucked again; meanwhile, more men arrived, scurrying in from the sides. ‘Stay behind, keep low!’ The tanks rumbled on to a street, following the barrage, now stamping deeper into town, pounding whole areas to dust, exploding houses, shattering streets, incinerating vehicles to vapour. Debris fell on them as bullets pinged off the Sherman; it lurched over a crossroads, turret roving, and slewed to a stop. A pillbox loomed, gun flashes at its window; the turret jerked and the pillbox vanished. Then figures in grey ran from a house, charging at them through the smoke, screaming and shooting like madmen. The Paras stepped out and cleaved them to the ground. They moved on. The church was nearing; then Theo glimpsed a long muzzle poking through a wall; he shouted a warning, but the muzzle flashed, and a thunderous blow struck the Sherman, ramming it sideways and flinging him to the ground. He lay in the dust, deafened and gasping, then hands gripped his arms and a turbaned face swam before him. ‘The church!’ it shouted. ‘This way!’ He struggled up, lurching back to the tank, but it was stranded, one track hanging. Bullets were ricocheting from its flanks, mortar shells thumping all round, and a grenade landed at his feet, fizzing smoke. He kicked it away. ‘Come on!’ Otway shouted, and they set off, the others in tow. He glimpsed the church spire nearing, but more grey figures too, running, kneeling, shooting, and others rushing in from the side, pinning them in a crossfire. Twenty Paras trapped, backed up against the church wall, fighting for life. He glimpsed one, teeth bared, shooting a Vickers from his hip. Another stepped forward and calmly fired a PIAT into a house; others were fixing bayonets; one man, ammo gone, had his fighting knife drawn. The Germans were nearing; Otway dropped one with his pistol. Another grenade landed; Theo stooped and threw it back. Then a monstrous crash exploded behind them and they turned to see the church wall gone, demolished to rubble by a Sherman. Beyond it stood the mairie, squat and square, its swastika flag flying. Snipers fired from its windows, machine guns from the roof. The Sherman fired again, smashing the parapet; the Para with the PIAT fired into a window, then fell to a bullet. ‘Come on!’ Otway urged them forward again. They struggled on, clambering through rubble, moving, shooting, shouting. Another Sherman appeared, rumbling up from the opposite direction, a score of Paras in tow, then to Theo’s astonishment he heard the pipes once again, wailing triumphantly above the tumult as though from a dream. And from out of nowhere they came, fifty strong, heads high, bayonets glinting, charging headlong into the fray, roaring their Highland war cry.
*
By dawn it was over, the fighting finished and Bréville secure. If ruined, with its streets unrecognizable, barely a house left standing, and the church and mairie razed to rubble. The swastika was gone too, replaced by a Union flag – and someone’s blue and white flag of Scotland. Scores were dead on both sides, scores more wounded: orderlies and stretcher-bearers picked their way through the debris searching them out, tending those they could help, covering those they could not. German prisoners were rounded up, but surprisingly few, as it became clear most enemy combatants were either dead or injured. One senior survivor was a major of the Panzer Grenadiers. Theo, exhausted and giddy, was dozing in a bombed-out shop when Gale summoned him to interpret.
‘Keeps muttering some claptrap about his regiment.’ Gale scowled. ‘See what he’s on about, would you?’
Theo duly asked, while the major, his cheek bloody and one arm in a sling, stared back in bewilderment.
‘He says his regiment is finished, sir. He says High Command ordered them to fight to the last, so that’s what they did.’
‘How touching.’
‘He says many good men died here needlessly.’
‘Then he should’ve bloody well surrendered,’ Gale grunted and walked off.
‘No surrender.’ The major watched him go. ‘Es ist verboten.’
‘You are part of 21st Panzer?’
‘What’s left of it. Berlin starves us of reinforcements, replacements, ammunition, food. Rest even.’
‘Generalfeldmarschall Rommel?’
‘He does what he can. But they don’t listen to him.’
Later Theo limped back down the hill with the others. Fires still burned in the grass, tendrils of smoke drifting over the bodies like veils. Halfway down he missed his footing, slumped to one knee and found he couldn’t get up.
‘All right, laddie?’ A voice from behind. A-reet?
‘Could yo
u help me up? My leg’s numb.’
‘That I could.’ The Scotsman grinned. ‘Here, put your arm round my shoulder.’
They moved on down the hill. The man had an unlit cigarette between his lips, his cheeks were soot-blackened, he smelled of tobacco and cordite. His tin hat clanked at his chest, his head now adorned with a green beret with scarlet hackle.
‘You’re Black Watch,’ Theo said. ‘That was you last night, wasn’t it?’
‘It was. Saved your Sassenach backsides too, I’d say.’
‘Yes. Thank you. But what unit are you with? 1 Corps?’
‘1 Corps be buggered, we’re 51st Highland Division!’
‘51st? But…’
‘I know.’ The Scotsman chuckled. ‘It’s taken us four years. But we’re back!’
*
This time it was two weeks in the dressing station. The wound in his thigh, though originally minor, had become infected and was starting to poison him. The divisional MO debrided and cleaned it himself, but when after three days Theo’s fever worsened he realized more drastic action was needed.
‘It’s called penicillin, Trickey. The new wonder drug everyone’s talking about. Marvellous for treating infections, but in short supply so we dispense it sparingly.’
Theo turned away. ‘Save it for the seriously injured.’
‘You are seriously injured.’
The medication began, but the fever worsened, Theo tossing on sweat-soaked sheets suspended between reality and hallucination. Shivering and delirious, he dreamed of steel monsters pursuing him through a forest, the tortured screams of a boy strapped to a chair, and the pounding crash of artillery creeping ever nearer.
Later he dreamed of a woman’s voice. ‘Theodor?’
His eyes slowly opened, and a face swam into view. ‘Grandmother?’
The Bridge Page 11
