James Delingpole

by Coward on The Beach (epub)

  'He'd had enough before we even landed,' says Bridgeman.

  'That's enough, Bridgeman,' warns Cpl. Blackwell.

  'Well, he needn't have worried. Mission's off anyway,' says Kemp, casually.

  'Get away,' says Cpl. Blackwell.

  'What? Colonel Partridge give you a private briefing, did he?' says Wragg.

  'Now, don't be stupid. The Colonel's dead.'

  'What? Since when?' says Mayhew appalled. Whatever, Kemp's announcement has certainly had the desired effect. Everyone's sitting up, listening in.

  'Well, if he's not dead, he's definitely missing. Major Dalby's in charge of the mission now.'

  'So. Dalby will do exactly what the Colonel would have done and press on regardless,' declares Calladine.

  On which cue, Marines Hordern and Bridgeman break into the popular musical refrain 'We're pressing on regardless for the Colonel's DSO'.

  'What, without artillery support? Because what I haven't told you yet is that we've got no Forward Observation Officer either,' says Kemp.

  'You're 'aving a laugh,' says Hordern.

  'Yeah, well, you know what they say: "If you can't take a joke you shouldn't have joined."'

  'Crikey, you had me there for a moment, Arfinch. I thought you were serious,' says Dent.

  'Wait till you hear the rest. Not only have we got no colonel, no FOO, but we've got no three-inch mortars neither. Nor any HMGs. Bloke from Heavy Weapons troop says they lost everything on the way in.'

  'Careless sods,' says Hordern.

  'You can talk. Where's your Bangalore?' says Dent.

  'On the sea-bed next to your two-inch mortar, I would imagine.'

  'So when we get to Port-en-Bessin, what are we supposed to use against all them bunkers? Well-aimed pebbles? Sharpened sticks?' Kemp sucks through his teeth, and assumes an expres­sion of world-weary solemnity.

  'Major Dalby's no fool. He's going to look at the evidence before him and say "Sod this for a game of soldiers". And wait till we can get reinforcements.'

  'What reinforcements?' says Calladine.

  'Well, how should I bloody know. I'm not the brigade commander.'

  'Too blooming right you're not,' says Cpl. Blackwell. 'I've been watching you, Kemp, and you know what? All this time you've been talking I haven't seen your lips move once.'

  'Just his arse cheeks, eh, Corp?' says Hordern.

  'Blooming right,' says Cpl. Blackwell.

  'You think we'll press on regardless, then, Corp?' says Mayhew.

  'I do,' says Cpl. Blackwell.

  'It ain't going to be pretty,' says Bridgeman.

  'It ain't,' Cpl. Blackwell agrees.

  'For Jerry, I was thinking,' says Bridgeman. 'One sight of Oily's white legs with all them horrible pimples all over them and he'll be half-way back to Berlin.'

  'If you think it's so funny, Lisa, you give me your trousers, then you'll see how fooking cold it is,' says Wragg.

  'Well, you know where to get 'em, Oily,' says Simpson, nodding over the parapet of the sea wall. 'Yours for the taking.'

  'Fook off.'

  'I'm serious, Oily. If you don't get them there, where are you going to get 'em?'

  'Maybe I'll wait till you cop one,' says Oily.

  'Sorry, mate, that won't be for another sixty years. Why don't you try Yeller? You haven't asked him yet,' says Bridgeman.

  There is sardonic laughter.

  'Ask Yeller what?' I say.

  'Fifteen, twenty yards the other side of this wall there's a dead - what do you say he was, Corp?'

  'A Hauptmann. A captain.'

  'A dead Hauptmann.Oily-sized. With them special baggy britches that German officers have and shiny black boots and everything. Problem is, Oily's worried that if he goes there on his own, he might get himself shot.'

  'I just need someone to cover me, that's all,' Wragg explains. 'These bastards are all too windy.'

  'There are things worth dying for, Oily, but the warmth of your tackle isn't one of them,' says Hordern.

  'I already told you what's in it for you,' says Wragg, exas­perated.

  'Oh ah. The imaginary Luger which even if it exists is bound to be booby-trapped,' sneers Coffin.

  'Go on, Yeller,' says Wragg, almost pleadingly. 'You'd like yerself a Luger, wouldn't you?'

  Without committing myself, I shuffle sideways across the sand towards the sea wall and I take a quick peek over the lip. On the other side is a stretch of road and beyond that what must once have been an elegant parade of fin de siecle seafront houses, now about as inviting as the teeth of a Glasgow tramp. Slumped, face down, in front of one of them is the body of a huge German officer. The holster of his pistol, if he has one, is concealed beneath his bulk. Not, it must be said, that the Luger is the main reason I'm considering this assignment. A decent souvenir's always nice but, right now, I have a far more pressing need: to restore my good name to the section.

  'I'll need a weapon,' I say.

  'You can borrow this,' says Kemp, passing me a Sten gun whose mechanism is still encrusted with the blood of its previous owner. 'I said borrow, mind.'

  'If you're that worried, you can always go yourself,' I say.

  I take another peek over the sea wall. There don't appear to be any dead Tommies in the Hauptmanris vicinity and there has been no sign of any sniper activity, which suggests that this area is more or less clear of enemy.

  'After you,' I say to Wragg.

  He pulls himself up over the wall. I follow. With quick glances left and right and up and down in every window and open door frame, we scuttle across the road. I take position with my back against the wall of a burnt-out house, while

  Wragg goes frenziedly to work on the Hauptmann s jackboots.

  Whether because of rigor mortis or because his legs have swollen, the Hauptmanns jackboots are refusing to slip off without a fight.

  'Are you just going to stand there watching, you booger?' hisses Wragg, sitting down with his legs astride one of the Hauptmanns boots, a foot thrust unceremoniously into the Hauptmann s crotch for the purposes of leverage.

  I signal him with a jerk of my downturned palm to be quiet. I've seen movement in the high window of a mansard roof four houses away, towards the centre of town. A sniper? No. Wragg would be dead by now. An artillery observer, maybe?

  'Unnggh!' grunts Wragg and, for a second, I think he's been shot. But it's just the exertion of getting the first boot off.

  'We've been spotted,' I whisper.

  'I ain't stopping half-way,' says Wragg, working at the other boot.

  Now, from down the road, just out of vision, can be heard the sound of urgent, purposeful footsteps, hurrying for advan­tageous cover.

  'We've got to go!' I say.

  'Give us a hand, then,' he says.

  Looking, all the time, towards the direction of the footsteps, I sidestep at a ginger crouch towards Wragg.

  "Ere. You sit on his leg and I'll pull.'

  I sit reluctantly on the hard, dead leg.

  'There!' says Wragg, holding the second boot in triumph.

  'Let's go,' I say.

  'Trousers first,' says Wragg, reaching down towards the Hauptmann s midriff.

  'Jesus Christ, you'll get us —'

  "Ere,' says Wragg, handing me the blood-congealed object he has just retrieved from beneath the Hauptmann'sbelt. 'Told you he'd have one.'

  I weigh the dark, sticky Luger sceptically, still not alto­gether convinced that it has really been worth the risk, and shove it into my belt. The scurrying of boots has stopped. Keeping down low, now, using the Hauptrnanris body for cover, I scan the empty road with my Sten for any approaching targets. Nothing. But then there's a dull metallic clink, not unlike the sound an LMG makes when it's being cocked.

  'Now!' I hiss to Wragg.

  'I'm done,' he says.

  Before he's even finished speaking, we're back on our feet and racing across the road. It's only a twenty-yard stretch we have to cover, but the few seconds it takes us seem
to last an eternity. Especially when, midway, we hear that familiar 'tonk' 'tonk' 'tonk' that all infantrymen learn to dread. We thought we were going as fast as we could already. But you'd be amazed how much fleeter of foot you become when you've just heard three mortar bombs being fired directly at you. We take the last leg of our journey headfirst at a flying leap, not caring about whatever obstacle we might hit on the other side of the wall because, whatever it is, it's bound to be preferable to the red-hot shards of screaming, burning metal now bursting in the spot where we were lying not ten seconds earlier.

  Wragg and I both land heavily in the sand, winded, but otherwise unhurt.

  Once it's safe, Hordern takes another peek over the sea wall.

  'Come and have a look at this, Rupert. You'll love this,' he says.

  Mayhew peeks over.

  'What am I looking at?'

  'The Hauptmann.'

  'What Hauptmann?'

  'Exactly. Now you understand what a fucker it is that we've lost all our three-inch mortars.'

  As I sit down with my back against the sea wall, wiping the worst of the blood from my battle souvenir, Kemp passes me a mug of tea. So I made the right decision, then.

  Wragg, meanwhile, just can't stop crowing about the glories of his boots.

  'Eh? En't they beauties?' he announces, giving each one of them a kiss. 'None of your riff-raff grenadier numbers, these. They're your proper officer's boots. Handmade, I expect. 'Ere, Arfinch, fancy a sniff?'

  'I can smell 'em from here,' says Kemp.

  'You're just jealous.'

  'I'd rather have Yeller's Luger. 'Ere, Yeller, I'll swap you my Sten for that Luger.'

  'No, thank you.'

  'A Sten and a tin of fags?'

  'You just wait till you see them on,' says Wragg, pulling a leg inside his new britches. 'Then you'll know what jealousy is.'

  'Field grey's never suited me,' says Simpson.

  'The bastard!' says Wragg, yanking his trousers off even faster than he put them on.

  'Don't tell me, the bugger's crawling with crabs?' says Simpson.

  'Worse. Far worse,' says Wragg, grasping a handful of sand and rubbing at the sticky brown mess adhering to his leg. 'The bastard's gone and shat himself!'

  Not long afterwards Sgt. Price returns, scowling.

  'Right, gentlemen, do you want the bad news or the even worse news?' he says.

  There are groans from the men.

  'Sarnt Weaver is still missing which means that, pending his return, I am taking over his section.'

  'And the bad news, Sarge?' says Hordern.

  'We've seventy-six men posted missing, including the CO. Heavy Weapons only have one three-inch mortar and it's missing its sight; Sparks have lost three out of their four long-range wireless sets; we've no HMGs; we've virtually no LMGs; we're short on rifles, Stens, grenades, mortars and ammo; we've still seen neither hide nor hair of our Bren Carrier section. Orders from Major Dalby are to prepare to advance at 1200 hours.'

  'You mean the plan is to press on regardless, Sarge?' says Hordern, glancing at the others with a knowing, cheeky, smile.

  'That's exactly what —' Before Sgt. Price can finish, the whole section is wetting itself with laughter.

  'If you can't take a joke, Sarge, you shouldn't have joined us,' says Kemp.

  Sgt. Price snorts crossly. Then turns to me. 'I need a word.'

  'Sarge, before you give him his bollocking, can I put in a plea of mitigation?' says Wragg, who - such are the exigen­cies of war - has scraped what he can from the Hauptmanris soiled gusset and is wearing the trousers again. 'He risked his life to get me these 'ere trousers —'

  'Did he, fuck. He did it for his Luger,' says Kemp, who would seem to have gone off me again, now that I've proved unwilling to do a trade. Sgt. Price glances at my belt.

  'Does it matter why he did it? He did it, didn't he?' says Mayhew.

  'Ah now, that's a good question, young Rupert. There's some who might say that a commando whose only motivation was the booty he could get his grubby hands on —'

  'Belt up, Kemp,' says Sgt. Price.

  'Just theorising, Sarge.'

  'Well, don't.

  'Yes, Sarge.'

  'Coward?'

  Keeping low, Price and I pick our way carefully through the straggly groups of commandos huddling in the lee of the sea wall. We pass our new acting CO, Eric Dalby — a tall, quiet, affable fellow with a gentle, smiling face - poring over a map with his troop commanders. Capt. Dangerfield looks up and nods at Price, but not at me, his expression sour.

  At last, green berets give way to the tin hats of a company of the Devons, which means Price and I are free to talk without being overheard by anyone from our unit. We sit at the foot of a Bren Carrier - our units have still to arrive, unfortunately — whose crew are listening on the wireless to the BBC announcing the successful opening of the Second Front.

  'Do you believe it? I don't,' jokes one crewman to his mates. 'Nor will I until I’ve seen the evidence with my own eyes.'

  'Then I, your fairy godmother, will make your wish come true!' says another, pretending to swish a magic wand in front of his comrade's face.

  The joker rubs his eyes and blinks. 'Bloody 'ell. Who'd have thought it? The BBC speaks the truth!'

  Sgt. Price scrounges a fag for each of us. He takes a couple of deep drags and stares thoughtfully ahead of him.

  Then he turns to me and says: 'Did I ever tell you before what a stupid sod you are?'

  I laugh. 'Once or twice, I believe. Why? What have I done now?'

  'It's not what you've done, it's what Capt. Dangerfield thinks you've done. Which amounts to the same thing.'

  'But surely you explained to him?'

  'Yes. He thinks I'm just covering your arse.'

  'So what's he going to do?'

  'He wants to lose you as soon as he conveniently can.'

  'But that's outrageous,' I say, making to get up. 'And I shall jolly well tell him so.'

  'You will not,' says Price, with a firm grip on my arm. 'Do you think a troop commander hasn't got enough on his plate, right now?'

  'But it's so unfair!'

  'You always say that. You were saying it even when you were a young lad and I had you cantering on the lunge blind­fold without stirrups to get your balance right. And a fat lot of good it did you.'

  Something about Price's tone of voice bothers me. He never normally gets this wistfully nostalgic.

  'And if you take my advice,' he adds, 'you'll let him lose you and be grateful for it when he does.'

  'What and let him think I'm - a coward.'

  'Well, you are a Coward, ain't you? And I'm sure that's how your mother would like to keep it.'

  'Price, that's terribly unfair bringing Mother into it.'

  'There you go again. Can't you just, for once in your life, take a piece of advice? You're about to be given a chance to escape this bleeding mess.'

  'Like a rat deserting a sinking ship?'

  'At least you've worked out that we're sinking.'

  'Sure, I recognise things aren't ideal. But when has that ever stopped us?'

  'And I'll have less of that, too.'

  'What?'

  'There's no "us" any more. You're an ordinary marine and I'm your sergeant — no more responsible for you than I am for anyone else in the troop.'

  'But I never expected otherwise.'

  'Stubborn bugger, aren't you?' 'Soon as you fall, get back on - that's what my old riding teacher always used to say.'

  Price tries to suppress his smile. Succeeds too: 'So you're not going to take my advice?'

  'I'm sorry, Price, but another thing you taught me was always to keep my word. I promised her I would look after Captain Dangerfield and that's what I must do.'

  'You couldn't look after a bleeding teddy bear.'

  'None the less I gave her my word.'

  'Are we talking about who I think you're talking about?'

  'You know very well who I mean.
'

  'If that young lady told me the sky was dark at night-time, I'd go outside to check. She has no loyalty to you.'

  'How dare you malign her when she's not here to defend herself!'

  'Do you know, before the last war, that's how a lot of fine gentlemen used to talk. Buried quite a few of them myself and do you know what? Before they died, not one of them could remember the great and noble causes they'd come to fight for.'

  'Price, I do know what war's like.'

  'Do you? I wonder sometimes.'

  'Excuse me. 'Ere, Sergeant, excuse me,' calls one of the Bren Carrier's crew. 'Nice of you to join us, and all that, but I think you'd better get a shift on. Your lot's starting moving out!'

  Chapter 11

  Sniper

  Advancing in open file towards hostile territory is never the most relaxing of activities. But if you want to know what real tension is, try doing it without weapons.

  All right, so I've got my Luger; Kemp has got his Sten; Sgt. Price has purloined a Colt .45 from somewhere or other; and two others have managed to retrieve a rifle from one of the casualties on the beach. But in a section of fourteen men, that doesn't constitute what you might call overwhelming firepower.

  'If we make contact,' announces Kemp cheerily, as we make ready to climb over the sea wall. 'We are going to be fucking fucked.'

  'If you make contact,' corrects Sgt. Price, 'you deserve to be fucking fucked. But since you're going point, you'll be able to make sure we don't.'

  'I'm not going point. Why should I go point? Why not Coward?'

  'Because you're the only one with an SMG.'

  'Take it, then, I ain't that attached to it,' says Kemp, offering his Sten with outstretched palms, eyes begging someone, anyone, to be stupid enough to take it. 'Quis? Quis?' he cries, like a schoolboy trying hastily to rid himself of a catapult which has just been used to break the headmaster's window.

  'Oh, for God's sake,' I mutter under my breath, because really, this is too pathetic. 'Ego!'

  I grab his Sten.

  'Cheers, Yeller. I always knew you was a decent bloke,' he worms.

  But before I can take my position at the head of the section, the Sten has in turn been taken off my hands by Wragg.

  'I owe you for me shitty trousers, mate,' he says.

  'Really. Are you sure?'