James Delingpole

by Coward on The Beach (epub)

  By the time Jean and I get back to the foot of Point 72, dawn has begun to break. Far too light, I would suggest, for Jean to risk the return journey.

  'Restes avec nous,' I urge him.

  He shakes his head. 'Mon grand-pere me previent.'

  After making me promise to come and join them both for another drink once the battle's over, he heads off back in the direction of the village.

  'Bon chance, mon brave!' I whisper.

  But he has already vanished.

  It takes me another half-hour's crawling, skulking and creeping to cross the few hundred exposed yards from the Escures—Port-en-Bessin road up the base of Point 72 to the tree line. Once in the cover of the wood, though, I can move much more freely.

  Before long, a bush calls out to me: 'Halt! Who goes there?'

  'It's me, Coward.'

  'Advance and be recognised.'

  I take two careful steps towards the bush.

  'Password?'

  'Um ... oh God, um . . .' All that Calvados has muddied my brain. 'St Michael's Mount.'

  'Stay where you are or I'll shoot,' commands the voice. Then, a little later, I hear him calling back to someone else. 'Sir. Sir. Excuse me, sir. There's someone here, dressed like one of us, says he doesn't know the password. Do I let him in?'

  'If his name's Coward, shoot the bastard!' says a voice.

  There are stirrings in the herbage. A marine appears, his face heavily blacked, his body draped in netting, twigs and leaves, and beckons me with his tommy-gun.

  I pass inside our defensive perimeter to find Lt. Truelove waiting for me.

  Before I can apologise, he pats me on the shoulder.

  'Bad luck, old boy. I did my best for you but I'm afraid Lt. Truelove purses his lips.

  'Oh God, what now?'

  'You've been detailed to escort back the prisoners that

  Corporal Blackwell and Marine Calladine brought in a couple of hours ago.'

  'Prisoners?' I groan.

  'First-rate ones too, apparently. "F' section are milking them now. Such a pity you weren't around to share the credit. And I do mean that, old chap. Others may disagree, but you're not at all a bad soldier. Just a damned unlucky one.'

  'I’ve a feeling that luck might be about to change, sir,' I say passing him Jean's map.

  He stares at it with an expression of puzzlement, then brings it closer to his face to see if that helps. Then examines it from different angles.

  'The German defences, sir. Drawn by a member of the Resistance.'

  'By God they're recruiting them young these days. How old was he? Three? Four?'

  'Chap who drew it doesn't have any hands.'

  'Were the Resistance wise to pick him as their cartographer?' says Lt. Truelove.

  The CO is busy holding an O-group briefing for the troop commanders, most of the NCOs and a man in civilian clothes I don't recognise.

  'And Monsieur Dupont,' he says with a nod towards the civilian, 'has most kindly agreed to guide A and B troops towards the centre of the harbour, bypassing the weapons pits, which are of course the task of X troop. On reaching the harbour mouth they will divide in two, with Captain Dangerfield leading A troop to capture the Western Feature, while Captain Albright -'

  'Sir, excuse me for interrupting, but mightn't this leave their flank fearfully exposed to fire from any German shipping still in the harbour?'

  Far, far too brazen of me, I know. But when not so long

  ago you were an officer yourself conducting briefings just like this, it's quite easy to forget you're now just an ordinary marine whose opinions amount to less than sod all. And besides, dire straits call for desperate measures.

  All eyes turn to me, with a mixture of surprise, devilish amusement and — from Capt. Dangerfield - pure disgust.

  The only person who completely ignores me is Col. Partridge, who looks instead straight at Lt. Truelove and snaps: 'Why is this marine interrupting my O group?'

  'I'm sorry, sir, but he's just back from recce with potentially useful documents. I thought it wise that you should see them straightaway.'

  'Where are they?' barks the CO.

  Lt. Truelove passes Jean's map to the nearest officer — Capt. Albright - who in turn hands it to the CO. The CO studies it with a growing puzzlement similar to that shown a moment ago by Lt. Truelove. I notice the officers edging forward expec­tantly, like schoolboys vying to get a better view of the immi­nent pummelling to death of the class swot by the twelve-stone playground bully.

  'It may need some explaining, sir,' I say, my voice rising in panic. 'The chap who drew it had no hands.'

  'Lieutenant Truelove, has this marine lost his mind?'

  'I don't believe so, sir. He received the information in good faith from a young Frenchman he met in Port-en-Bessin.'

  'He's been to Port-en-Bessin?' says the CO, richly sceptical.

  'Yes, sir,' I say with vehemence.

  'And this Frenchman. Does he have a name?'

  'Lionnet. Jean Lionnet.'

  As I mention the name, the civilian, Monsieur Dupont, snorts derisively.

  'Vous connaissez cet homme?' asks the CO.

  'Oui. C'est un collaborateur,' says Dupont.

  'Hear that, Lieutenant Truelove? He says your marine's informant is a collaborator.'

  'That doesn't mean he's right,' I say, unable to hide my exas­peration.

  'Lieutenant Truelove, could you inform this impertinent marine that Monsieur Dupont is the local gendarme and there­fore in a stronger position to judge the reliability of individuals he has known for years than is someone who bumped into them not ten minutes ago.'

  'I know how to bypass the weapons pits,' I say.

  'As does Monsieur Dupont.'

  'What about the shipping in the harbour?'

  'Lieutenant Truelove, I'm growing rather weary of this marine's presumptuousness. Could you explain to him that as this unit's commanding officer I am privy to all the latest intelligence, including the most recent aerial photographs, and am therefore far better acquainted with the facts than an ordinary marine.'

  'Sir, please, I'm not trying to question your authority. I'm merely asking you at least to consider the possible veracity of new information which, if ignored, might result in wholly needless loss of life.'

  'Lieutenant Truelove, is this marine telling me how to do my job?'

  'I'm sure not, sir.'

  'Only, if I thought he were, I'd be having him charged under Section 42.'

  'Sir, I am sure he thinks he's acting purely for the good of the Commando and if his judgement has been clouded by the strain of recent events, then I'm sure he would like to apolo­gise unreservedly. Wouldn't you, Coward?'

  When I don't immediately say anything, Lt. Truelove gives me a quick, painful little jab of his elbow into the soft of my upper arm. And I know what I should be saying at this point, of course I do. I think I'm on the verge of saying it, too. It's what all the officers' pleading expressions are urging me to do, certainly. 'For God's sake, man,' they're saying. 'This isn't the time or the place.' Nor is it.

  But then, my eyes happen to catch the CO's - it's the first time he's been prepared to hold my gaze, in fact — and I see something there that I don't at all like. That same something, as it happens, which in more extreme form I saw in that idiot in Burma, seconds before I made up my mind that his regi­ment would be better off without him.

  'No, sir,' I say, still looking the CO directly in the eye. 'I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of apologising for any action which I believe is going to spare the lives of my men.'

  'Your men, Coward? I wasn't aware you had been given command,' sneers the CO.

  'Sir, I'll deal with him,' says Capt. Dangerfield stepping forward, face flushed with embarrassment on seeing one of his own troop show him up so badly. 'And perhaps, Doc, if you could spare a moment to look at him —' he adds to the medical officer.

  'This is ridiculous, I don't need medical help!' I say, as Capt. Dangerfield seiz
es the arm that isn't already being held by Lt. Truelove. As they try to drag me away, I turn my face plead­ingly to the assembled officers. 'What the hell are you all playing at? You're supposed to be commandos, capable of independent thought! Will none of you speak out against this folly?'

  'By God, is that alcohol on your breath?' asks Capt. Dangerfield loudly.

  'Drunk too, eh?' says the CO.

  'You bloody idiots! He's going to get you all killed!'

  'That's quite enough of that,' says Lt. Truelove, squeezing my arm so hard I can scarcely breathe.

  Before I'm dragged out of earshot, I just manage to catch the CO murmuring to Major Dalby. '"Good in a tight spot but be careful. He has a habit of shooting COs he doesn't like." That's what Jumbo Watson told me. Damn fool that I am, I thought he was joking…’

  Chapter 15

  Taking Flak

  All too often, when I revisit the grey modern towns of northern Europe — places I knew before the war when they still had their oak-timbered medieval districts and a charm you'd never guess at now — I find myself thinking: 'What a terrible bloody waste. Did our bombers really need to be so brutal; our artillery so thorough?'

  But it's not how any of us felt at the time.

  I remember watching from my vantage point near the top of Point 72 on the afternoon of 7 June as our pre-assault bombardment opened up on this quiet, pretty fishing port and thinking to myself: 'Bravo! Bravissimo! Encore!'

  First to go in (so I learn later from our medic Doc Forfar's official history) is a pair of LCG(L)s — that's Landing Craft Guns, Large, to you, Jack - hammering away at the buildings on the seafront, house by house. You can't see them, from where we're standing, just hear them.

  'Ach,' announces one of my prisoners, optimistically, to his comrades. 'Our flakships are making mincemeat of them.'

  'What?' I want to say to him. 'You'll be lucky if the Kriegsmarine has a single rowing boat afloat anywhere off the coast of Normandy, let alone a bloody flakship!'

  But I don't, obviously, first because I don't want to give away the fact that I speak German, and second because he strikes me as a dangerous type, this flakship fellow. A committed Nazi, a troublemaker and not the sort that one wants to goad any further than is necessary.

  Shortly afterwards, with a sigh like a winded giant, comes the first salvo from the six-inch guns of HMS Emerald, a First War-era cruiser, nicknamed 'the Irish Flagship'.

  'Put that in your pipe, Fritz,' I mutter, treating Herr Flakship to a disdainful toss of the head. He stares insolently back with one of those 'Tomorrow belongs to me' looks the Nazis do so well. Jolly uncomfortable it makes me feel, too, though quite why, I cannot think. Is it that he reminds me of someone I know? Is he planning to engineer a mass breakout?

  If he is, he's with the wrong lot, because most of the other prisoners — twenty-one of them in all, squatting just below me, in a depression encircled with rolls of wire - look more than happy to be hors de combat. As the shelling continues, they chunter to one another morosely, speculating as to the fate of those comrades still trapped in the network of bunkers on the two Features. Even from two miles' distance, you can feel the ground shake. And as her shells rain down remorselessly on the Eastern Feature's defences, you almost start to feel sorry for the Germans who are having to sit, cowering, shaken and deafened underneath.

  'Sweet Jesus. It will be a miracle if anyone survives,' gasps one prisoner.

  'Let die Englander think that. They'll be sorry,' says Herr Flakship with a sly Teutonic smile. He catches my eye and I give him a big dumb smile back. 'Stupid English arsehole thinks I'm being friendly,' he confides to his young friend. I smile more broadly still.

  Suddenly the prisoners become very quiet, assuming the studiedly blank, not-me-gov'nor expressions that POWs tend to adopt before a capricious-looking enemy. Glancing back, I see the rest of my section, armed to the teeth and itching for combat, come to bid me a last goodbye.

  'Anyone fancy a swap?' I call out miserably.

  All morning, while they have been making ready for war — cleaning and recleaning their weapons; sharpening their daggers; being briefed by their troop leaders and section commanders; studying maps; writing final letters; synchro­nising watches; wishing one other luck — I've had to sit here, frustration mounting, like a spare prick at an orgy.

  'What the fook 'ave you got to moan about, you jammy booger?' says Oily, prodding me in the back with the sole of his boot.

  'Important job, guarding prisoners,' says Sgt. Price.

  'Thanks, Price, for that heartwarming platitude,' I reply.

  To my surprise, he doesn't respond with: 'For the last bloody time, it's SARNT PRICE.'

  Nor, when I add sullenly, 'I dare say I'll see you later,' does he come up with that rejoinder he picked up from the Aussies that time in prison in Crete: 'Not if I see you first.'

  Instead, he edges closer and hands me a letter.

  'In case anything happens, this is for the General,' he mutters sheepishly. Then, not meeting my eye, as if as an afterthought, he hands me another letter: 'And this is for Her Ladyship.'

  'What's this? What's this?' I'm thinking to myself, really quite stunned. He's always had a special fondness for my mother, what with the riding and hunting and what have you, so that one I can understand. (Though it does rather put me to shame, given that I haven't yet written anything to dear Ma myself.) As for the one to my father, well, clearly there are all sorts of estate-managerial matters that need tying up. No, the thing that has taken me aback is this 'in case anything happens . . .' caper.

  I mean, of course, in war there's always a fair to even chance that something will happen. But most chaps most of the time have the decency not to mention it except in jest.

  'Something up?' I say.

  Price just forces a scowl and grunts: 'And mind you don't mix them up or there'll be hell to pay!' He turns away and pretends to be busying himself with a final check of his equipment.

  What on earth can have rattled him? Another of his premon­itions? I rather hope not because in the past his forebodings have too often proved spookily prescient. Not that he'd ever acknowledge it: Price doesn't hold with psychic powers, or indeed mumbo-jumbo of any kind. I remember once telling him why it is I never carry photos of my loved ones with me — the people who do, always seem to end up dead — and you should have seen the look he gave me. Since then I've always been careful to keep all my superstitious tics, talismans and rituals to myself.

  'Then I suppose you'd better look after this, Price,' I call out to him.

  He spins round, irritably. 'Eh?'

  I hold out my letter to Gina.

  'Well, if we're going to play the "in case anything happens" game, here's my letter to you-know-who,' I say, to rile him mainly, take his mind off what's coming. Does the trick too.

  'If it says half the rubbish I think it does you're better off burning it,' he snarls.

  'Do you mean the passage where I ask her to instruct my solicitor to pass on all my worldly goods to my dear, friendly, smiling companion-in-arms Sarnt Tom Pr—'

  'Sarky sod,' he says, snatching the letter and slipping it into his battledress. By the time I've thought up a suitable rejoinder, he has already gone, leaving behind only the incipient bruise on my shoulder where he has thumped me with an affectionate knuckle. Now it's the rest of the section's turn to bid their farewell.

  'Hey, Yeller,' says Hordern, leering at my prisoners. 'What's German for "We're off to mess up your mates, good and proper"?'

  'I wish I knew, Hordern, you ass,' I reply with a significant glare. 'But as you've clearly forgotten, I only speak French.'

  Hordern, of course, misses my point completely and is about to put his foot still deeper in it when Simpson chips in: 'Hey, Yeller, I've just thought. You never did finish telling us how loose the girls were round this neck of the woods.'

  'Insatiable,' I reply. 'Quite insatiable.' Got to sound jaunty, even if I don't feel it.

  'Give
'em one from you, then, shall I?'

  'Just isn't fair, is it?' says Mayhew, as ever looking rather awkward as he attempts to sound like one of the boys. 'You stuck up here while the fair ladies of Port-en-Bessin wait to welcome their gallant liberators.'

  'Oh, Yeller's already had his welcome treat. From Mademoiselle in the chateau just now,' says Hordern.

  Ribald laughter.

  'Anyway, he's got plenty to keep him happy up here. What with two dozen strapping Bavarian lads to choose from,' jokes Oily, prompting an evil glare from the bolshie grizzled German, who clearly has understood every word.

  'You want to watch that one, Yeller. He looks like trouble,' observes Oily.

  'Yes, well, if you will insist on goading him,' I say.

  'Quite attractive now I look at him, in his brutal pig-ugly way,' says Oily, making as if to unbutton his flies. 'Do you think I might have time for a quick —'

  'Enough of that, Wragg,' says Cpl. Blackwell. 'Lads, if we don't get to that start line soon, B section will have done all our fighting for us.'

  'Best idea I've heard all day,' says Coffin.

  'Good luck, chaps. Give 'em hell,' I say as they file off.

  Last to go is Calladine, ashen, withdrawn, eyes directed list­lessly at the boots of the man in front of him.

  'Mein Sohn, was birgst du so bang dein Gesicht?' says Herr Flakship in a mock-sympathetic voice. ('My son. Why do you hide your face so anxiously?') It is, as I'm sure you know, a quote from Goethe's 'Erlkonig', in which on a ride across the foggy moors a child is stolen away from his father's arms by the dreaded Alder King.

  '"Siehst, Vater, du den Erlkonig nicht? Den Erlkonig mit Kron und Schweif?'" chips in another of the prisoners. Literate lot, clearly.

  Then together, four or five of them chorus - and I have to stop myself joining in too, because it's such a haunting line: 'Mein Sohn, es ist ein Nebelstreif.'

  My son, it's a streak of mist.

  And with that, we all find ourselves impelled to gaze in the direction of the shelled port, which - not unlike Goethe's father and doomed son — has begun to disappear beneath a fog of smoke, dust and burnt cordite.