In Spite of All Terror

by V M Knox

  Clement told them what he had learned about the training. ‘Doesn’t appear as though there will be much time for sleep. And a word of warning. Expect the unexpected. The army has a habit of arranging surprises for the unwary. Especially after a large meal. You may also encounter rats.'

  ‘I think they will be the least of our concerns,’ Reginald said, stowing his razor and soap in a cup on the shelf.

  Clement was inclined to agree but he didn’t say so. Experience had taught him that the army tested men’s resolve at every opportunity. And it was as much a test of the man as it was the team.

  A whistle cut through the silence. Clement swung his legs over the bunk and stood up. In the pre-dawn light, the corporal was standing in the stable doorway. ‘What is it, Corporal?’

  ‘You need to locate a lorry on the grounds. About a mile south of here. Once you find it, climb aboard and drive it back here. You have one hour.’ The corporal vanished.

  Clement checked his watch; half-past five. He pushed his feet into his boots and tied the laces then stepped outside. A grey-blue light filled the courtyard, but the corporal was nowhere to be seen. In fact, nothing whatever stirred. Peter and Reginald were beside him.

  ‘How do you want to do this, Clement?’ Reginald asked.

  Clement pulled a compass from his pocket, a last minute inclusion as he left the vicarage. ‘Due south is back down the drive we came in by,’ he said. ‘Peter will you make sure everyone is up and that their boots are comfortable. We leave in one minute.

  ‘What do we bring with us?’ Reginald asked.

  ‘As we haven’t yet been issued with weapons, I can only surmise that this is a fitness exercise,’ he said as the men strolled out of the stable.

  ‘Look lively. And form two lines. Hurry up, Stanley!’ Peter shouted.

  Clement stared at the group. Other than Peter and Reginald, Clement didn’t see much enthusiasm for the task. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw a curtain move in an upstairs window, but while he couldn’t see anyone, he felt sure Major Bannon’s eyes were on them. They formed two lines and broke into a slow run, heading south.

  Twenty minutes later Clement signalled for the group to squat in the long grass. He could see the parked lorry under a tree about fifty yards ahead. There was no-one around it.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Stanley said flopping down into the grass beside Clement.

  ‘Quit your whingeing, Stanley or I’ll put you on the bus for Lewes myself,’ Reginald whispered between clenched teeth.

  Stanley’s face flushed.

  Whilst Clement thought Reginald’s comment harsh, it had achieved the desired result. Clement looked back at the lorry. He was about to speak when he heard the motor start. The vehicle drove onto the drive and disappeared among the trees on the right. It was an old trick; one used to test stamina - physical as well as mental.

  ‘Gather round,’ he whispered. ‘They either saw us or heard us,’ Clement said, his eyes flicking to Stanley. ‘We know approximately where it is, but from now on we only use the hand signals we learned last night. No talking and keep low. We will divide into two groups and approach it from both sides. Clive, Stanley and Reginald, you come with me, George, you and Ned go with Peter. And stay off the road.’

  Forty minutes later they drove into the courtyard. Bannon was there, waiting. ‘Well done, Wisdom. You only fell into our trap once.’

  ‘What would like us to do now, Major?’ Clement asked.

  ‘I’ll hand you over to Corporal Davis. He has some intriguing little gadgets for you.’ Bannon left and the team followed the corporal into a wooden hut. In the centre of the space was a long table and on it were a variety of objects some of which Clement recognised.

  ‘This morning we will be handling explosives and learning how not to blow ourselves up,’ Davis was saying. ‘This is a detonator.’ Davis picked up a short aluminium tube about two inches long. ‘Open at one end, they contain a very high explosive used to trigger a main charge, using Safety or Orange line. The fuse is inserted into the detonator and crimped in place. Orange Line contains more gunpowder and burns at a rate of ninety feet per second.’

  Clement looked along the line of men. Every eye was on the corporal, including Stanley’s.

  ‘This makes sense to me, Clement,’ Clive whispered. ‘Not all that running around we did this morning. I understand why we did it, but it still annoyed me. But this!’ Clive said grinning. ‘This is how we’ll kill bloody Germans. As long as I get just two of them I’ll be happy.’

  Clement knew revenge was a powerful motivator and Clive’s face was alive with the emotion. His gaze shifted to Ned, who Clement believed had an equally strong reason for despising Germans. But if Ned hated Germans it wasn’t evident in either his manner or speech. Clement watched Ned’s face; the knitted brow. If Ned did harbour any anger, it was contained within his complete concentration for the task at hand. Clement glanced at the other two older men of the group, Peter and Reginald. He felt vindicated in his selection of these men. While Peter had a natural ability to lead men, Reginald brought a sense of discipline to the group and Ned had the steadying hand of a father. All three, Clement considered, were rational and thorough and would in time be real assets to the group. By lunchtime, George too had demonstrated his abilities. The boy’s need to prove his bravery, even if only to himself, had brought out a dexterity with wires and plastic explosives.

  The early afternoon was spent becoming familiar with their new weapons. Reg, as he now liked to be called, had confirmed his reputation as a marksman and handled the Sten gun as though he was holding a pedigree cat. But the one Clement was increasingly unsure about was Stanley. The lad was a little overweight, always had a flippant comment to make and was invariably the last one to join the group.

  ‘Where’s Stanley?’ Clement whispered to Peter as they walked from the Mess to the unarmed combat lessons on the front lawn.

  ‘Lavatory.’

  ‘He is always last. It’s just not good enough. His cavalier attitude will cause someone’s death, if he’s not careful.’

  Clement heard the crunching of gravel under running feet as Stanley joined them. ‘Stanley, you really must be more punctual.’

  ‘Sorry, Vicar. It won’t happen again,’ Stanley said, his flushed pink face shiny with sweat.

  Clement glanced at Peter. He had heard the empty apology before. ‘You really shouldn’t eat so much, Stanley.’

  A whistle blew. Corporal Davis, who was taking the hand-to-hand combat lesson, was waiting for them. Beside him were several straw-filled dummies in German military uniform. After learning how to dispatch a victim silently from behind, the corporal issued them with their Fairbairn Sykes Commando Knives.

  Clement watched each man holding the dagger, getting used to the feel. He grasped the round tapered handle of his own knife and felt the weight of it in his hand. Its double-sided blade was about eight inches in length. It was a formidable weapon with only one function; silent, immediate death. If the seriousness of what they were doing had not impacted before now, Clement could see the weapon’s transforming effect on the faces of his team.

  Each man then practised using it, swinging and thrusting the lethal blade. But the person who astounded Clement was Stanley. Clement knew that, as a butcher, Stanley could use a knife… but the force with which Stanley plunged the dagger shocked him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the lad. Stanley stood with his feet spread wide, the double-edged blade clenched in a tight fist, stabbing and punching the dummies with incredible ferocity. A stab wound aside, no man would survive Stanley’s powerful blows.

  ‘Interesting, don’t you think, Clement?’ Peter whispered. ‘I’m pleased Stanley is on our side.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Peter.’

  Returning to the stables, each man fell onto his allotted bunk. Perhaps it was the realization of the gravity of their task or just complete exhaustion, or the very real impact of the Auxiliary Unit motto: Ter
ror by Night, but the group were unusually quiet. The evening lecture on Gubbins’s training guide, entitled Nine Points of Guerrilla Tactics, had been short and Clement was grateful. Every muscle in his body ached. And he still had no idea where or what awaited them on the night patrol. He suspected he would learn of their mission during the evening meal.

  At nineteen hundred hours, Clement roused the men, starting with Stanley. Dinner was at nineteen-thirty sharp and lateness or slovenliness were not well regarded. During dessert, Clement received a sealed envelope. He nudged Peter’s arm as he opened the orders. Inside the envelope was a map and their objective. The aim of the night patrol was to locate a specific road and blow up a German vehicle which would be carrying high-ranking German officers. The vehicle was expected on the road between midnight and one o’clock. Clement showed it to Peter then folded the note and placed it and the map into his pocket. ‘Peter, would you tell the men not to eat too much and very little alcohol. And Peter, tell Stanley first.’

  Peter nodded and quietly left his seat to speak to the team.

  Clement checked the time; nineteen-fifty hours. He gazed through the long windows. The sun had not long set and the forest would already be cold and dark. He calculated that it would take them about two hours to reach the designated road.

  At twenty-one hundred hours they returned to the stables where Clement told them of the evening’s assignment.

  ‘I have the map and target for tonight’s patrol,’ he announced, and told them his plan for the exercise. ‘Check your weapons and packs. Make sure you have enough water and ammunition as well as detonators and explosives and be ready to leave in forty minutes.’

  Clement checked his own pack but he knew everything was in order. Sitting on his bunk, he closed his eyes and spent the a few minutes in silent prayer. There had been no time for reflection during the day. His thoughts returned to the men and their suitability for the task and as members of a team. He believed the session on silent killing and the use of the commando knife had been a turning point. The profound consequences of the weapon on victim and attacker had been shared and had brought them together. Clement put his hand to where his clerical collar should have been, feeling less and less like a vicar. But, he consoled himself, his men, no doubt, would be feeling the same about their vocations.

  At the allotted time, Clement assembled the men. Lifting their packs onto their backs and, picking up their Sten guns, they headed out in silence.

  They fell into a mute column with Clement in the lead, then Stanley, George, Reg, Ned, Clive and Peter. Leaving the house on their left, they headed east for the tree line. Clement had decided to wear his Fairbairn Sykes knife strapped to his inner left calf. As he walked, he could feel it rubbing against his flesh. He knew in time he would get used to it.

  They walked in total silence.

  Just before midnight they arrived at the road. Clement selected a section with a long curve for the ambush. Adjacent to the road was a depression surrounded by fallen timbers. Checking the site, he squatted by a hollowed log and shielding the torch light, studied the map.

  ‘George, run a tripwire at head height at this point,’ he whispered.

  ‘Stanley, you and Clive place the charges. Use pressure switches and put two on the road in the tyre tracks about five feet apart.’

  George ran the wire across the road as Clive and Stanley attended to the explosives. Each man then took up a position around Clement in a circle to await the target. He and George occupied the middle ground. In front of Clement, Peter, as second-in-charge, sat beside Ned whose finger rested on the trigger of his Sten gun. Off to Clement’s left was Stanley. To his right was Clive and behind him was Reg. Soon all was quiet. The temperature was decreasing. They waited.

  Clement looked around as the cold seeped into his body, clouding his mind and making him sleepy. Wiping his hand over his face, he signalled to Peter to move silently between the men making sure everyone was awake and alert. One o’clock came and went and still no vehicles appeared on the road. Clement blew a long breath into the night and watched his condensed breath float away on the crisp air. He rubbed at his face, blinking sleep away, and blew hot air over his hands. He signalled again to Peter to do another solo patrol around the area. Ten minutes later, Peter emerged from the trees off to Clement’s right.

  They waited.

  Grey light from the half-moon penetrated the forest floor at odd angles, casting deep shadows across the sector. Nothing moved except the occasional sound of rustling leaves. He had expected the forest to have more noise. Small animals, something. Badgers, at least. The silence was unsettling, but given the number and frequency of explosions at Coleshill, the wildlife had, no doubt, left long ago. Clement looked over the fallen log. He could see Peter and Ned in front of him, lying on the cold earth. Time passed. Nothing happened. He realized the timing had been deliberately wrong. Designed to catch them asleep or heighten the nerves and put them on edge.

  ‘Hurry up and wait’, he repeated the old army saying. He shivered. Behind him, he could hear Reg shifting position in the shallow dugout.

  Two o’clock.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle was unmistakable in the thin, night air. Clement sat up and signalled the men to take up their positions. Ned and George crossed the road and lay under the shrubs opposite, their Sten guns aimed at the point where any single motorcycle rider would encounter the tripwire. The sound grew louder but it troubled Clement. There were two motors; one a diesel - a lorry perhaps - the other, he thought, a car. Sending Reg and Peter further up the track to attend to any other vehicles, Clement lay in the foliage with Stanley. Clive lay off to his right, behind a fallen tree trunk, three grenades lined up beside him.

  As the open-topped car approached, Clement saw a door open and a figure jumped out and ran into the bushes at the side of the road several yards back along the track. In that second, Clement saw Reg rush forward. In one movement Reg had the man on the ground, pinning him to the earth as the car with three straw-filled dummies dressed as German officers ran over the pressure switches. A small explosion, much less than any real targets would ever feel, lit up the dark forest floor. Ned and George strafed the upturned vehicle with machine gun fire as twenty feet away, Peter came out of the shrubs beside the road, his Sten in his grip and pointing the weapon at the driver of the stationary lorry.

  A whistle blew and Major Bannon stepped from the lorry. ‘Well done, everybody. Remove any unexploded devices, then make you way back to the house.’ Collecting Corporal Davis from Reg’s grasp, Bannon climbed back into the lorry and they drove away.

  Clement looked around at the men. ‘Well done, everyone.’ He saw the elation on his team’s faces. It was deserved.

  ‘Collect any charges you laid. George, will you retrieve the trip wire? Again, well done, everyone. Please remember, no talking on our return.’

  Ten minutes later, they headed off silently crossing the forest. Within the hour they were in the fields, the chimneys of Coleshill House visible above the hedgerows.

  Chapter 8

  Thursday 12th September

  When they saw Swindon Railway Station again, they were different men. What they had learned in three days could be condensed into one word: sabotage. What they had become was also one word: assassins. Clement wondered if any of them would ever be the same after Coleshill.

  They climbed aboard the train and settled quickly into two of the compartments. There was little chatter. Clement took a corner seat and rested his head against the window. The train pulled away from the station and soon they were heading south through the countryside.

  Clement opened his eyes and glanced at the men. Ned and George were asleep. Peter and Reg were reading Gubbins’s rules on guerrilla warfare, while Clive and Stanley were playing cards. Clement had known these men for years but he saw them differently now. Living and training beside them had brought a level of familiarity but at the same time, he realized just how little he had ever really know
n about them. He smiled recalling the last lecture they had attended prior to leaving Coleshill. It had been about human psychology. Beverley, the woman who had given the lecture, had asked them to analyse what motivated them. Killing Germans had figured high on the men’s list. But her lecture had made Clement think more deeply about his own life than he had done in years.

  For himself, he had accepted the role Gubbins and Johnny had asked of him because he believed it was his duty. She had asked them to question more fundamental reasons. Clement closed his eyes reflecting on what she had said. Human behaviour was condensed into two prime motivators: the need to be loved and approval. Reg had led a chorus of contemptuous remarks saying that he was there to kill Germans, not understand them. But Clement wasn’t so sure. If you understood what motivated a person, you could manipulate them. It was almost sinister.

  Clement’s mind drifted to his own childhood. He had always believed his father, also a vicar, had never wanted or loved him. The man had habitually stern and disapproving, and after Clement’s mother’s death when he was only fourteen, his father had become remote. Thereafter, Clement saw little of him. Then in ‘14, while Clement was fighting in France, his father died. Now Clement wondered if his long-held belief about his father’s lack of affection for him was, in fact, true. Many men he had known had had strained relationships with their fathers. Did it always manifest itself in bitterness, or even anger?

  He opened his eyes and began to go through what he had learned about the men of his team during the past three enlightening days. Peter Kempton, although now a widower, had had a Jewish mother-in-law who had moved to Germany after Muriel’s death. Peter had heard nothing from her in over a year and had reacted to photographs Beverley showed during her lecture that depicted German brutality. He said that the photographs were designed to arouse anger. Perhaps that was correct. Reg had certainly reacted with an angry outburst about German cruelty. But Peter’s reaction differed from the other men. Peter, always a proud man, had become withdrawn, even sullen, saying that the photographs weren’t true and that Beverley and her kind were using the team as guinea pigs. Clement realized that perhaps Peter’s indignation was not so much hatred for the Germans, as anger towards himself for allowing Muriel to journey to Switzerland alone? Perhaps the photographs were faked. Clement knew the army used arousal to garner men’s emotions. He frowned remembering what they had learned about the Nazi policy towards the Jewish people. He felt sure Peter’s quite understandable reaction was fear for his mother-in-law’s whereabouts. He had tried to engage him in conversation about it, but Peter would not be drawn on the subject.