Now this battle jerkin, it's designed to carry all the things that would normally go into your webbing and your small pack. It has pockets for your water-bottle and pockets for your grenades, your .303 rounds, your side-arm, your fighting knife and your entrenching tool. Someone must have helped me jettison it when I hit the water. If they hadn't done - together all that ammo weighs a ton — I'd have gone down straight to the bottom.
Of course, this does mean I'm now going to have to wade ashore and face the enemy armed with nothing more deadly than a vicious sense of humour. But for the moment, I have more pressing things to worry about - such as the numbing iciness of the water, far, far colder than you'd expect of the Channel in summer.
Then there's the fact that I'm floundering two or three hundred yards offshore, utterly unprotected and vulnerable, in seas fizzing, hissing, splashing and erupting with tracer rounds and shellfire. The grey landing craft streaming past me are oblivious of the human flotsam in their path. And the mangled torso bobbing next to me can only be Price's: I recognise it by the sergeant's stripes on its one remaining arm.
Funny, the tricks the mind plays. Through the screaming of the artillery and the crump of explosions, and the dull roar of the sea water stuck in my ear, it's almost as if I can hear his voice.
'Next time you can blow your sodding Mae West up yourself.'
'Price?' I paddle myself round 180 degrees to find a figure floating just a few feet behind me, his face and uniform so blackened with oil that it's only by his misshapen teeth that I can recognise him.
'Beach is that way,' he says, nodding forwards.
We try to swim shorewards, which isn't easy. Battledress soaked with water drags like a sheet anchor and it's hard to work up a decent kick when your feet are being pulled down by a pair of clodhopping boots. I would try to remove them except I know from experience that the kit you throw away before an action will always come back to haunt you. Boots especially. No one who was on the Eastern Front is ever going to throw away a pair of good, fitting boots.
For all the noise and chaos going on above our heads, it feels strangely peaceful at sea level, as if we're not actually part of the mayhem around us, just idle spectators. Time appears to have frozen. Rising and falling in the swell, I keep getting glimpses of the shoreline: the shattered remnants of once- elegant beachfront houses, the plumes of smoke and flying debris, slow-moving vehicles, little khaki dots scurrying to and fro, but none of these things looks any closer than it did five, ten, twenty minutes ago or however long it is we've been here; my watch has stopped and so has Price's.
We must be making some kind of progress, though, because, as we paddle forward, we encounter more and more floating refugees from our landing craft, most apparently unharmed, all swimming doggedly on. Except, there's a chap just in front of us, in some kind of trouble. His head is lolling and he's paddling round and round in a very slow, gentle circle.
'You all right there?' I call out to him.
'Oh splendid, thanks. Water's lovely once you're in,' he shouts back, in that cheery manner English officers are expected to put on when in extremis. It's Lt. Frost.
'Well, you ain't going to get dry very soon if you go on like that, sir,' says Price. 'You're swimming in circles.'
'Am I, by Jove. What can I be thinking of?'
Price swims next to him. 'Your left arm's at a bit of a funny angle. How are your legs?'
'Do you know, I can't actually feel them. Sergeant, you wouldn't mind checking?'
As Price is rummaging below the water's surface, Lt. Frost lets out an agonised cry.
'Both legs are still there but one of them's broke. You stick with me and Coward and we'll get you to some help.'
'I say, Dick, is that you? Didn't recognise you with your face all black. Seven no trumps!'
'Double!' I say.
'Do you play bridge, Sergeant?'
'No, sir.'
'Jolly well ought to, you know. Marvellous game, isn't it, Dick?'
'Oh, very.'
'But listen, you fellows, haven't you something more important to be getting on with? I'm sure I can manage perfectly well.'
Price shoots me a look I've seen all too often. It translates as: 'Bleeding officers. I ask you. No wonder so many of them never make it.'
'I'm sure you can, sir,' he says. 'Only I was hoping you might give me a bridge lesson.'
'Ah well, in that case, Sergeant — are you familiar with suits? You play rummy, do you . . . ?'
With me tugging on one side, Price tugging on the other and Lt. Frost burbling cheerfully about contracts and high- card point counts and opening bids, we float, paddle and kick slowly shorewards. Whenever a landing craft passes - and some of them come unnervingly close — we wave desperately for help but get nothing but pitying grimaces. All boat crews have had the same strict orders: no one is to stop to pick up stragglers until they've landed their occupants. One might have hoped by now that we'd bump into one of the craft on its way back. But the troublesome fact is, I've yet to see a landing craft actually making the return journey.
Once we've reached the first obstacles it becomes clear why. The whole landing area is a scrapyard of broken, twisted landing craft, burnt-out tanks and floating corpses. Nothing can escape it because all the channels between the mined posts and clusters of Czech hedgehogs are now blocked with wrecked, swamped shipping. When the first assault waves went in, the sea was much lower, which meant that the obstacles were still visible. Now, concealed by the rapidly rising tide, the Germans' Teller mines are ripping the bottoms of almost every vessel that comes in. And somehow, Price, Lt. Frost and I have to negotiate our way through this mess.
We need to strike a delicate balance: swim too near the poles and we risk triggering one of the mines; swim too far away from them and we'll end up crushed by one of the landing craft trying to avoid them. Not, it must be said, that we have an awful lot of choice in the matter. The waves and the undertow are making most of our decisions for us. As we're picking our way through them, we hear cries for help. Looking across to the next channel, about fifty yards away we see a submerged DD tank, only the tip of its turret still visible above the surf, with a crewman standing on top as the waves buffet his legs.
'Help! Someone! Please! I can't swim.'
'Sorry, mate, we've got our hands full,' mutters Price more for our benefit than the hapless tankie's.
'But we can't just leave him there. He'll drown.'
'Please don't abandon him on my account,' says Lt. Frost.
'What good is he to us anyway, now his tank's broke?' says Price.
'Help! Please!' The waves have now reached the tankie's knees.
'Excuse me for a moment, sir, will you?' I say, about to set off towards the tank.
'By all means,' says Lt. Frost. 'You're a good —'
Fellow presumably but he never finishes because his mouth, eyes and ears have filled with water as our whole world turns a murky green and we're being whirled round like socks in a laundromat, hurled we know not where by the vast wave which has hit us broadside, dragged us under, shaken us about and just as suddenly spat us out amid the oily, bloody flotsam of seaweed, and body parts strewn along the shore.
The wave has taken the wind out of me, sucked out my every last drop of strength. I’m lying face down, arms outstretched, too tired even to spit the sand from my mouth or flick off the thousands of tiny hopping things which have begun to congregate on my face and hands. Sand flies, everywhere. The beach is black with them. It's what happens when for four years a seaside resort has been verboten to holiday-makers and it's probably what will happen come the apocalypse: the creepy-crawlies will inherit the earth.
Just above I can hear what sounds like more insect life. A swarm of furious bees buzzing inches from my head, then disappearing into the sand with a tremendous sucking noise.
Twisting to my left, I see Lt. Frost, lying face up, perfectly still, the incoming water lapping at his legs.
'Don't fu
cking move!' comes a scream.
It's Price, keeping himself as low down in the water as he possibly can, clinging on to a post for support.
'I'm perfectly aware what the problem is, Price,' I call back. 'And I'll thank you to remember, as your officer and your employer —'
'I'll thank YOU to remember that you're neither, right this minute. And that, what's more, the correct term of address is Sergeant Price.'
'Sorry, Price, but as you know in my family old habits die hard. When no one else is listening, Price you shall remain.'
'Who said no one's listening?' says Lt. Frost.
'I'm terribly sorry, sir. I thought you were dead.'
'Feel like it, too, Dick. Must say, though, your chat just now has given me the most tremendous fillip. Best gossip I've heard in ages. Are you going to fill me in?'
'Oughtn't we get ourselves out of this mess, first, sir?'
'Oh Lord. Are we in another mess?'
"Fraid so, sir. You might have noticed that dreadful din just above our heads. I'm afraid we've been pinned down by a Spandau.'
'I say, that is a blow. I'd been rather hoping the Hampshires and Dorsets would have dealt with that sort of thing by now.'
'So had we all, sir.'
'Do you have any bright ideas?'
'Well, sir -
'Oi, Coward, if you don't mind, I've got the situation in hand,' says Price. 'Sir, there's not much we can do until Jerry gets bored and finds something else to shoot at. We seem to be below his angle of maximum depression. Do you think you can hold on, sir?'
'I seem to be getting terribly wet.'
'Yes, sir, but if you can just hang on that might be to our advantage. There's a burnt-out Crab not twenty yards up the beach. If we can just play dead till then, we can let ourselves be carried there by the tide.'
Which is exactly what we do. Lying doggo, not even shouting to one another, lest it draw the attention of the machine gunner - who, sure enough, has been distracted by a more active target - we wait for the rising water to lift us up, and the waves to push us to safety.
And a very sensible plan it is too but for one small problem, which becomes apparent when, about half-way towards the cover of the tank, a wave rolls Lt. Frost over on to his front. Having watched him bob face down for some time, struggling with increasing feebleness to right himself, I realise I'm going to have to intervene — and quickly - to stop him from drowning. No sooner have I splashed towards him, though, than the MG is on to us once more. Worse still, the sea has very nearly risen to such a height as to bring us within the scope of the MG's fire.
It's a terrifying weapon, the MG42. That distinctive sound it makes, like ripping cloth, is the sound you get of bullets being fired so close together that the human ear cannot distinguish the individual shots. Which, of course, is why we all so fear it. Our Bren guns might be more accurate, but they're slower to load, and they can only fire a maximum of 600 rounds a minute. The MG42 - or Spandau, as we call it — can fire 1,000 rounds a minute. And being belt-fed, it never seems to run out of ammo.
'Price,' I shout. 'You got us into this mess. For heaven's sake — Hey! Where are you going?'
Price, it seems, has had enough and I'm not sure I can altogether blame him. He didn't choose to be here. He didn't need to be here. He did tell me he wasn't going to save my bacon any more, and now he's been true to his word.
'Just you and me now, is it, eh, Dick?' says Lt. Frost.
'I'm afraid so, sir,' I say, as Price, paddling like a terrapin, pulls surreptitiously out to sea. The Spandau tracks his movements. Doesn't hit him, mores the pity. But at least it buys me just enough time to drag Lt. Frost across the two or three yards of beach to the nearest tetrahedron. Though it doesn't offer us much protection, it will give Lt. Frost something to cling on to and keep his head above water, as the sea rises.
'Well, do call me Jack, won't you?' says Lt. Frost, as I help him hook his good arm round a steel post. Which movement, of course, attracts the machine gunner's attention once more, a stream of 9-mm. bullets whining, ricocheting and sending sparks off the girders just above our heads in the most unpleasant fashion.
'You're a stupid bugger, Dick,' says Lt. Frost, when it's apparent I'm not going to go. 'If by some stroke of luck we manage to get out of this in one piece, I shall put in a jolly good word for you with the CO.'
'Thank you, sir.'
The sea is almost up to our chests now. Before it's too late, and with the greatest difficulty, I reach into my breast pocket and extract the condom in which I have wrapped my letter to Gina.
Lt. Frost furrows his brow bemusedly.
'It's a letter to my girlfriend,' I yell, arms round the tetrahedron for support, my numb fingers wrestling with the slippery knot at one end.
'French, is she?'
'No, English.'
'You sure? Looks like a French letter to me.'
'Oh yes, sir, very good. Sorry, I must have lost my sense of humour.'
I’ve often wondered since how I managed it: frozen fingers; slimy condom; wet pen; nothing to rest the paper on. But when you're convinced these are the last words you're ever going to write to the woman you wished you could have married, you do somehow find a way, don't you?
'MY DARLING,' I scrawl (anything other than block capitals would be too difficult). 'I THINK MY NUMBER'S UP. SORRY IT HAD TO BE THIS WAY. BE HAPPY. LOVE YOU ALWAYS. DICK.' Then I knot it back inside the condom and replace it in my breast pocket where, with luck, it will be found by whoever finds my body.
'Hullo! Who's this?' says Lt. Frost.
Stealthy as a log-shaped crocodile, Price is cruising purposefully towards us, towing something bulky — a wounded man? - by his side. Not quite stealthily enough though, because now the Spandau has directed its fire at him. At first the bullets splash into the water some way beyond him, but now they're drawing closer and closer and -
Oh God.
An awful juddering and the terrible, dull thwack of lead in flesh. Yet still, miraculously, he keeps on coming.
'Brought an old friend,' he announces, keeping his head to the safe side of what I now recognise as the drowned corpse of the DD tank crewman, which he is using as a shield. 'Quick. He's not going to stand up to much more of this.'
I pull Lt. Frost towards our unfortunate human shield who, sure enough, is disintegrating rapidly in noisome shards of flesh and bone and bloodied sinew, much of which ends up all over our faces. Only his leather jerkin is holding him together.
'Do you know what your problem is, Price?' I gasp through a mouthful of gore, when finally we've reached the safety of the brewed-up Crab. 'You're all substance and no damn style.'
But, of course, our problems are far from over. There's a Spandau still gunning for us the moment we break from our cover; there are mortar bombs erupting all over the beach; we've none of us a clue where the rest of our unit is; and we've a wounded man with us who, for all his stiff upper lip and courage, is starting to look extremely shivery and pale.
'We'd better get you a medic, sir. And a nice cup of tea,' says Price.
'Lord, you really WERE Coward's batman,' says Lt. Frost.
'A very, very, VERY long time ago,' says Price.
'Oh very well. I'll go,' I say, taking the hint.
'Poor chap needs one now, not in three days' time,' says Price.
'Bugger off, Sergeant,' I say and, before he can stop me, I'm scuttling along the beach — taking extra care, obviously, to keep the dead tank between myself and the Spandau - for the cover of a promisingly deep-looking shell crater into which I've seen several men disappear, about thirty yards further east.
Diving over the lip and sliding to the bottom, I look up to find myself in the midst of the most extraordinary scene, somewhere between a vicar's tea party and a Bacchanalian orgy. Sprawled around me in various stages of undress, some with no shirts, some minus their trousers, and a couple of unfortunates stark bollock-naked, are a half-dozen members of my commando, being ser
ved tea and biscuits by the padre.
'Another 47. How nice of you to join us!' says the padre, the only one of us who is dry and with his uniform completely intact. I learn later that, of our fourteen landing craft, five have been sunk on the run in and seven others badly damaged, leaving only two fit to make it back to their parent ship. The padre was on one of the lucky ones which not only negotiated the mines and obstacles on the way in, but managed to drop its ramp on dry land, allowing him to step nimbly ashore with something far more useful to soldiers in extremis than prayers, blessings or extreme unction: a hay box full of steaming tea.
'Laugh and you're fooking dead,' says Wragg, who's one of the naked ones.
'Perish the thought,' I say. 'No more would I laugh at such naked magnificence than I would at Michelangelo's David.'
'En't that the famous statue with the very small willy?' says Hordern.
'Hey, it's that fooking water - pardon me, Padre, but if you'd fooking fell in it you'd know what I fooking meant — it's fooking freezing.'
'Methinks our Oily doth protest too much,' says Hordern.
Wragg is bunching his fists to defend his honour when he's interrupted by a terrible cry from the crater lip.
'What in sweet Jesus' name do you think you pederasts are up to? My apologies, Padre - excepting you, sir. Your orders were to clear off the beach immediately!' bellows Lt. Truelove, hands on hips, crotch thrust forward for all the world as if he's about to piss on us.
'We tried, sir, but that Spandau pinned us down and we had no weapons to engage.'
'You're not meant to engage till we reach our objective,' says Lt. Truelove, as the sand a few yards to his right suddenly kicks upwards and that familiar tearing noise rends the air once more. Lt. Truelove sidesteps slightly to the left but remains upright — having worked out in a flash that the burnt-out tank is protecting him from the Spandau's field of fire.
'Now, get your arses off the floor, all of you, and get yourselves to that sea wall over yonder, where you'll find Captain Dangerfield. He's been watching you through his binoculars and he's not impressed with what he's seen so far. Coward, what are you waiting for?'
James Delingpole Page 13
