James Delingpole

by Coward on The Beach (epub)

  Bridgeman is the only one who doesn't laugh.

  Just as the brew is ready, the order comes through to move out, but we'd rather scald our throats than give up such a hard-earned pleasure, so scald our throats is what we do. While I'm relieving myself up against the tall garden wall, Oily comes and stands close next to me. So close indeed, that as he unzips his fly I'm about to make some sort of ribald joke, when he says sotto voce: 'You'd better watch your back.'

  'Bridgeman?'

  He nods.

  'I did have an inkling. What's his beef?'

  'He thinks you killed his mate.'

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'He thinks it was all a plot. He says everyone knows that snipers are always looking out for pistols because it's the sign of an officer. He thinks that's why Price gave him your Luger: to save you because you're Price's mate and kill Arfinch, to punish him for being difficult.'

  'The man's barmy,' I say, though the thought does occur that, yes, this was exactly Price's plan.

  'All the more reason to watch yourself.'

  'Thanks, Oily. Does Sarnt Price know?'

  He nods. 'Bastard knows everything, doesn't he?'

  We form up by troop outside the chateau and set off once more in single file, with the standard five yards between us so as to minimise casualties in the event of an ambush.

  Now that the Bren Carriers have arrived, I've been able to offload the MG42, for we no longer need it. We finally have more than enough weaponry and ammunition of our own with which to engage the enemy. And not long afterwards, as we're proceeding down another sunken road we make our first visual contact with them: three Germans, two with rifles and one with a Schmeisser, scrambling towards us down a hill. We freeze and line the road, as the Germans carry on, oblivious, their weapons still slung over their shoulders.

  Then the one with the machine gun senses something is wrong and starts unbuckling his weapon.

  Too late. From our section, a volley of shots. The one with the Schmeisser collapses, wounded, while the others quickly throw up their hands.

  Being the first live Germans we've seen since landing, they are naturally the subject of considerable curiosity.

  'Scrawny buggers, aren't they?' says Calladine, eyeing the younger of the two riflemen in his ill-fitting fatigues. He can't be much older than sixteen.

  'Aye,' says Wragg, taking a pinch of the boy's triceps. 'We're not going to get much meat off that.'

  The rifleman looks anxiously to his older colleague, who is dressed, not in field grey but in a camouflage uniform. His face is stubbly. He has about him a lean, haunted look. But his most striking feature, the one I notice straightaway, is the circular bruising around his right eye.

  'Was sagt er?' the boy nervously asks his older comrade.

  'Nichts.'

  'What's he saying, Yeller?' says Wragg.

  'I think the lad's a bit worried you're going to eat him,' I explain. 'All that black propaganda they've been fed, there's nothing they'd put past a commando.'

  'Tell him he's not to worry. I've never fancied foreign food.'

  I translate and the boy laughs weakly. But not his comrade, who is looking queasier by the second. And then I notice Bridgeman, just staring at him. Unblinking. His focus all the time on the bruising round the rifleman's eye. Very likely he suspects what I suspect. A suspicion, indeed, which the man's nervous behaviour is doing little to allay.

  Bridgeman needs watching. I'd like to warn Sgt. Price, but Price has gone to recce up the hill with Hordern, Dent and Calladine in case there are more Germans where these came from.

  'Coward. Translation, please,' calls Lt. Truelove, kneeling next to the pallid form of the wounded German.

  I have to bring my ear almost to his blue, bubbling lips to hear what the fellow's saying.

  'He's asking for a cigarette,' I say.

  'Tell 'im they're bad for his 'elf,' someone jokes.

  'Is the doc coming?' I ask Lt. Truelove.

  'On his way.'

  'Only, I think it's a lung injury. A cigarette mightn't do him much good,' I say to Lt. Truelove.

  'Give him one,' says Lt. Truelove.

  'Can anyone spare a cigarette?' I call.

  Wragg steps over to join us. 'Here,' he says, handing me one.

  I place the cigarette between the German's bloody lips.

  'Ey, if I'd known it was for him -' protests Wragg.

  'Just give us a light, Oily, there's a good fellow,' I say.

  He's an old man. Mid-forties, I'd say. In one bloodied hand, he's clutching a photograph of a beaming Fraulein and two children, a boy and a girl.

  'Ihre Familie?'

  The German nods.

  'Who gave him that cigarette?'

  It's the doc, a small, wiry Scotsman, never a fan of smoking at the best of times.

  No one confesses. We just keep out of his way as he flits about his examination like a restless bee, unbuttoning the

  German's tunic to inspect the wounds, feeling his pulse, peering at the carmine froth in the corner of his lips.

  'Is he going to make it, Doc?' says Wragg, with unlikely solicitousness.

  The doctor shakes his head.

  'Well, he won't be needing that, then.' Swift as a darting crane Wragg plucks from the dying German's mouth the half- smoked cigarette. He takes a couple of deep drags — smoking it using the cupped-hands method: to avoid the German's blood touching his lips I suppose - then, seeing the appalled looks several us are giving him, says: 'Oh, for fook's sake. There'll be plenty smoke enough where he's headed.'

  Shortly afterwards the German expires, in my arms.

  'Did he say anything, Coward?' asks Lt. Truelove.

  'Not really.'

  'What was all that stuff at the end?'

  'My children. My children. My darling children. I don't want to die. Why must I die?' I translate.

  It's as if the whole section has suddenly been draped in a blanket of introspection and melancholy. All conversation has ceased. No one can look anyone else in the eye.

  'Coward, old chap,' murmurs Lt. Truelove. 'When I say translate everything, can you please not take it quite so literally.'

  My concern now is for the safety of the two remaining Germans. You might think this rather wet of me but I've been captured too many times not to feel a good deal of empathy when the boot's on the other foot. Of course, prisoners are an encumbrance; of course, they're a drain on manpower and resources; of course, it makes far more tactical sense to shoot them out of hand. But if every soldier had thought that way, I wouldn't have survived the war, nor yet would a good many of my mates, Price included, though it has never been an argu­ment he has found particularly compelling.

  Some idiot has decided to put Bridgeman, of all people, in charge of them. He has been given a rifle with one of the narrow, round-steel 'pigsticker' bayonets we normally only use for opening cans and which he's clearly itching to try on something more squealy and yielding. And those two Germans, God, don't they just know it. One of them, the older one, has become more withdrawn and still and silent, as if so resigned to his fate he's practising for what comes next. The younger one has got it into his head that it's still not too late to befriend his captor.

  'Ich heisse Hans,' he says, in his high-pitched, shaky voice, through a rictus grin. 'Wie heisst du?'

  But Bridgeman isn't having any of it. Every time Hans gestures, Bridgeman jabs at his stomach with a cruel little feint of his bayonet.

  And still Hans goes on trying. 'Nein. Nein. Ich bin dein Freund. Ich heisse Hans . . .'

  'Give him a break, Lisa. He's only a kid,' says Mayhew.

  'So was Arfinch,' says Bridgeman.

  'But look at him. He's never fired a shot in anger in his life.'

  'And now he never will,' says Bridgeman, with soft menace.

  There's a tap on my shoulder.

  'Enough chat. We're going,' says Price, brushing swiftly past.

  I move to catch up with him.

&nbs
p; 'Sergeant, could I have a word,' I say, quietly. 'I'm a little worried about our prisoners.'

  'Well, you needn't be. Bridgeman is escorting them to the rear.'

  'Bridgeman?'

  'You'd rather have him hanging around your back, would you?'

  'No, but -'

  'Good. Then, if you'll excuse me, I've got a section to command,' he says, marching off.

  I look back at the two prisoners. They're a pitiful sight, shoulders hunched like starved vultures, bodies limp, eyes blank. The boy too has now given up the ghost. But when he sees me looking at him, his hands twitch open in what I take for faint, last-ditch supplication.

  Lt. Truelove is standing over the German's body, clutching some slightly bloodied papers.

  'Ah, Coward, how do you fancy getting yourself back in the CO's good books? I found these maps on our late friend. Wondered if you might care to run on ahead and see if HQ troop can find a use for them.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  He hands me the papers. 'Very good, then. Bugger off. What are you waiting for?'

  'I'm a bit worried about the prisoners.'

  'Don't be, it's not your job.'

  'No, sir, I appreciate that but can I be frank? I think Bridgeman holds one of them responsible for the death of -'

  'Yes, I know. Sarnt Price has already explained to me. I've spoken to Bridgeman and he's perfectly aware of the conven­tions on the treatment of prisoners. Now, will you kindly mind your own fucking business and do as you're fucking well told.'

  'Yes, sir. It's just —'

  'Christ. You really think you can do my job!'

  'Sorry, sir. It just occurred that since we lost half our medical orderlies on the way in, an extra stretcher bearer or two might come in handy. And that German boy . . . he's quite skinny but -'

  'Oh, have your fucking way, Coward. If the doc can make use of him, he can have your wretched boy. But not the sniper. The sniper's going back with Bridgeman.'

  'He might not be a sniper.'

  'Don't push your luck, Coward.'

  'Sir.'

  The doc, as I'd suspected, is grateful for the extra help.

  'Danke. Danke. Danke,' the boy murmurs pathetically, pawing at my arm in gratitude, when he realises what I've done for him. I wish he wouldn't. The more he goes on, the more nauseous I feel for what I've failed to do for his friend.

  Desperate to escape the dismal scene - and, most especially, the sniper's terrible blank stare - I accelerate up the line at a jogging pace, in search of HQ troop.

  Needless to say, every marine I pass has something witty to say: 'It'll still be on by the time you get there', 'You're keen', 'Don't work too hard now', 'The beach is the other way', 'Knees up', and so on, so that it ends up feeling more like another training exercise than real warfare. Then, from not at all far ahead, I hear the tearing-cloth sound of a Spandau burst and the scream of men in pain, followed by sporadic rifle and machine-gun fire. And then silence.

  The men I pass are still advancing but with increasing slow­ness and caution. By the time I reach the head of our troop, the Commando has come to a complete halt. I find Capt. Dangerfield in earnest conversation with a medical orderly and one of the lieutenants from Q troop.

  'Still with us, Coward?' says Capt. Dangerfield nastily.

  'Sir, I have some captured documents I'm taking to HQ troop.'

  'Not any more you're not, there's been another hold up. Q troop's been ambushed. They've taken casualties and we need to find some locals, pronto, willing to house them. You speak French?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Then, here's the passage out you wanted.'

  'Sir, I resent -'

  'No need for that, Coward. We all have our breaking point and I don't think any the worse of you for what happened on the beach. But when we move on our objective, I simply can't afford to have people I can't rely on a hundred per cent, you must understand that.'

  'I do, sir, but —'

  'Just do as you're told, Coward, there's a good chap, and I'll be sure to put in a favourable report. You've some wounded men to look after now. That's just as important as anything we're about to do in Port-en-Bessin, wouldn't you say?'

  Chapter 12

  The Deserted Farm

  'What's yer name?' he says. 'Coward,' I say. 'Any relation of Noel?' 'Distant.'

  'So go on, what's he like?'

  'Very droll. But we mustn't talk.'

  'I'm sorry. I always talk when I'm nervous,' he says.

  'Me too but you mustn't be nervous,' I say.

  'I can't help it, I'm worried about me sight,' he says.

  'It'll come back,' I say.

  'How do you know?' he says.

  'It happened to me once,' I say.

  And it came back?' he says.

  'It came back,' I say.

  'Thanks - what did you say your name was?' he says.

  'Coward,' I say.

  'Any relation of Noel?'

  We're moving in file on yet another sunken lane, overgrown and rutted, more like a drover's path than a proper road, which means with luck we shouldn't run into any opposition. If we do, we're in trouble, because one of us is unconscious, two of us are carrying his stretcher, one of us (the chap holding on

  to my back and asking me the irritating questions) is blind and only one of us — me - has his hands free to do any shooting.

  Behind us, in the village of La Rosiere, the firefight is getting hotter — MGs, mortars, small arms, grenades — which is good from our personal point of view, because it'll draw any Germans in the area away from us. But for the purposes of the mission it's a small disaster. That village was supposed to have been cleared two or three hours ago, and not by us, but by the army advancing from the coast. Unfortunately, it appears we've had no option but to waste time, ammo and manpower taking it ourselves. And damnably frustrating it is that I'm not there to help them do it.

  'With 47 on D-Day, were you, by Jove?' I can already imagine them asking me in the Travellers' Club bar, after the war. 'Bet you didn't half feel bucked once you wrested Port- en-Bessin from the grasp of the Hun.'

  'Well, the funny thing is, I never actually got that far,' I'll have to reply. 'My troop commander decided I'd be far more useful looking for shelter for a couple of wounded men, instead.'

  'Quite right too, old boy. They also serve who only carry the wounded. Now, have you met "Tiger" Compton? Let me introduce you. "Tiger" won the VC and three bars in Norway, Alamein, Normandy and Burma . . .'

  If I thought I could get away with it, I might even cut and run back to the action. I'm sure Lumley and Jones, the two stretcher bearers, could do perfectly well without me; as for Charlie Cox, this young fellow who's clinging on to my coat tails like one of the characters from John Singer Sargent's Gassed, he could just as easily clutch Jones's back, couldn't he?

  But then I remember the disconcerting exchange between Jones and Lumley, just after we set off.

  'Pity. We're missing all the fun,' I say, meaning the fire- fight that's going on in La Rosiere.

  'You'll get over it,' says Lumley with a sarcastic inflection which makes Jones chuckle and me wonder, given that we've only just met, what the hell I could possibly have done to offend them. Nasty-looking pair, they are. Lumley has a face like a bloodhound and long, dangly simian arms; Jones is small, dark and angry, like a malign pixie. Half an hour in their company, and you almost look forward to the prospect of being ambushed.

  'We're bunching,' I say. 'How about you give me a twenty- yard lead? Then, if anything happens, you'll have time to get the wounded into cover.'

  'Better stay where we can see you,' says Lumley.

  'If you feel safer that way.'

  'It's your safety we were thinking of more,' laughs Jones, as if it's the world's funniest quip.

  'Yeah. And in case you were wondering,' says Lumley, 'Jonesy's a very good shot.'

  'Christ, what on earth is wrong with these inbreeds?' I'm wondering to myself.

  Cox, the blin
d chap, twigs sooner than I do. But in his innocence, he thinks they're joking.

  'What, you mean in case he tries doing a runner,' he says, with a laugh. 'Like the feller on the beach. You see him, did you? "A" troop, I think he was. LCA's just about to pull off the beach and on this feller hops, bold as brass, trying to hitch his lift back to Blighty. You should have heard Captain Dangerfield. "Give me that bloody rifle," he says, "I'll teach that man a lesson he'll never forget." If it hadn't been for Lieutenant Truelove, I think he might have shot him, too. You not see it, then?'

  'I think . . .' I'm on the verge of telling Cox what really happened when two things strike me. First, it will take far too long. Second, no one will believe me anyway. '. . . no. I didn't.'

  'I did, clear as day,' says Jones and I don't look round but I can feel his eyes boring into my back. 'I'm sure I'd know him if I saw him.'

  'Me too,' says Lumley, with a nasty laugh.

  There's a farm just up the road, according to the map, and it's here that with luck we'll be able to leave our wounded. Rather than approach it from the front, however, I suggest to the others that we recce it first from the rear. It's the sort of place which might easily be being used by German troops as a billet.

  Lumley stays behind with the wounded, in an overgrown hollow at the foot of an old oak, while Jones and I advance cautiously down a narrow track. We find ourselves in a large, fenced enclosure almost waist high with thistles and nettles. Poking up through the middle are some rotting posts and crossbars, and rusting steel drums, the sorry remains of what was probably once a not half-bad cross-country course. No sign of any horse, though, which isn't perhaps so surprising given how desperately the fuel-starved Wehrmacht has come to rely on horse-drawn transport. At one end of the enclosure, there's a stone wall with an ancient door set into it. Jones and I pick our way carefully to the door, sticking close to the stone wall so that we can't be seen from the farmhouse's upper windows. Something about this place seems not quite right.