James Delingpole

by Coward on The Beach (epub)

  Thickening fire. All but impenetrable now. A huge block­house straight ahead and there's no way around it. We've got to take cover, got to, or we'll be wiped out in moments.

  A trench. Swarming with commandos. Drop down to join them. Something soft underfoot. A dead German. Several dead Germans.

  Still alive. However did I come through that? How did any of us?

  Next to me, Dinning catches my eye. 'I knew your bees would be a problem,' he yells, as a stream of well-aimed Spandau bullets clips the lip of the trench parapet, then buzzes over our heads. He perches nonchalantly on a fire step just beneath and begins changing the steaming barrel on his Bren.

  'Have you ever seen one?' I yell back.

  And I uncurl my right palm and show him. I don't remember having picked it. Or rather I do, but only as if it were in a distant dream. It was when we had to hit the ground after the smoke barrage dissipated. I looked up, and there it was just a couple of inches from my nose - the most magnificent, plump bee orchid in shades of ginger and glowing viridian. Normally, I would never have thought to pluck it. But as I stared at it, I found myself filling with resentment that such a thing could blossom so cheerfully when, just a few yards ahead, a sweet boy was having his intestines incinerated; that this thing would be alive tomorrow, when most of us would surely be dead.

  So I plucked it, to teach it a lesson.

  'I'm afraid I need your botany student, Lieutenant,' shouts a voice behind me.

  I look round. It's Capt. Dangerfield, a Colt .45 in his right hand, a Very pistol in his left. His face is flushed, his expres­sion anxious.

  'Dinning, old chap,' he says. 'On my signal, we're going to have a bash at that blockhouse. Straight in. Firing from the hip. You, me, Haines, Martley and Tomkins. Coward, I want the rest of the troop giving covering fire.'

  'Sorry, I'm coming with you.'

  'Lieutenant Coward, that was an order.'

  'You'll remember that I have a promise to keep.'

  'Then, damn it, come if you must. But, after this, consider yourself absolved. I'm quite big enough to take care of myself.'

  He extends a hand. I clasp it tight.

  'Well, good luck,' he says. 'And if it helps, I'm sorry.'

  'What on earth for?'

  'You know,' he says and before I can say more he's signalling to the four other commandos due to assault the pillbox. They reply with OK signs. Then he signals to Lt. Truelove on the left and Cpl. Blackwell on the right to begin rapid fire on the target. And no sooner has their first burst begun than he's up, with all five of us following, through a gap in the wire and towards that obstacle — a pillbox which can't be more than twenty yards away yet for the next few seconds will seem the most distant place on earth.

  If there's noise, and I'm sure there is, I don't hear it. If there are bullets that come close to hitting me - and I know there are, for I'll later find the graze marks, one on my epaulette, the other on the top of my boot — I don't feel them. My gaze, my concentration, my every ounce of being are all fixed on a single purpose: I must reach that looming concrete bulk and kill its occupants before they kill me.

  So far, it occurs to me with that cold, clear-headed detach­ment which often seems to descend on these occasions, they've been making a pretty poor hash of it. From within the slit, there are plenty of orange muzzle flashes but none of their bullets has yet found its mark, and time is running out for them, for quite shortly now we shall be on them, tossing in our grenades through the embrasure, smoking them out, and showing no mercy as they emerge, spluttering from the rear.

  Capt. Dangerfield was ahead of me, but in the last moment I've edged ahead of him. He's much the faster sprinter, but he slowed his pace, just slightly, to beckon us forward and that was when I pressed home the advantage and now I'm in the lead. Quite what I'm racing for I'm not altogether sure. To reach the blockhouse first? To draw the enemy's fire and die the hero's death that covers my name in glory and — much more important — makes my father and Gina feel utterly dreadful? Buggered if I know. When you're charging an enemy position like this, believe me, you're beyond rational analysis. Either you do or you don't do. There's no time for logic, or consideration or doubt or fear. You're outside reason, outside time, existing purely in the moment. It's an extraordinary feeling. Some soldiers never stop chasing it.

  Then something hard thumps into my right arm and, as I tumble leftwards, I glance round to see what it was — a bullet? A grenade? But it's not, it's Capt. Dangerfield, his left palm outstretched towards me as if he's just given me a hefty shove, perhaps, oh God, the silly brave fool, perhaps because of the dark cylinder of wood and metal which was destined to hit me, but which has now struck him, instead, in his face —

  This is as much as I'm able to see before the momentum of his shove hurls me to the ground and, as I have done so often in training that it has become completely instinctive, I find myself somersaulting over my right shoulder to break my fall, aware that behind me, there has been a flash and a deafening bang.

  For a while, I lie there, winded. Stunned by the blast.

  When I pick myself up and look back I see Dinning on one knee, firing his Bren at the slit in the bunker. And lying next to him, two men, one wounded, one dead.

  From the mouth of the bunker a white flag emerges.

  Dinning stops firing.

  The silence is so sudden and shocking it makes the ears ring.

  The dead man is Capt. Dangerfield.

  I crawl to his body just to be sure. But there's no doubt about it — he took that blast full in the face. Those handsome features are a shredded mess and his head is dripping gore. I lean close to his unhearing ear and whisper: 'My turn to apol­ogise, old man. Sorry. Sorry for everything.'

  I take his bloodied hand in mine, give it a squeeze, and remember with a lurch how warm and vital it felt when in my clasp not two minutes ago. When I let go and look up, I see commandos everywhere. The Germans from the bunker are filing out with their hands on their head; the wounded Martley is being tended by an orderly; from the darkness, from various corners of the enemy bunker system, there are cries of 'Kamerad'. Now an Oberleutnant with a white goatee beard has appeared. I hear him assure Lt. Truelove, in good English, that he will persuade the rest of his men to surrender.

  The Eastern Feature is ours. But I take no satisfaction from this. Dazed and despondent, I stumble back towards the zigzag path, quite oblivious to the 'You all right, mate?'s and the pats on the back offered by the commandos coming in the opposite direction.

  It isn't long before I have the path to myself. At first I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm going. But little by little — and the rational part of me doesn't seem to have been given much say in the matter — a plan is starting to form in my head. Something to do with Price, getting to his body at all costs. Only that way, a little voice is telling me, can I redeem myself.

  Why does redemption lie that way? God knows. I think my brains have taken a knock from the grenade blast that finished off Capt. Dangerfield.

  But it might also have something to do with my instinct for self-preservation telling me I have to retrieve the long letter I've been writing to Gina, so as to stop it falling into the wrong hands. Gina's hands, I mean.

  Heavens, can't you just imagine it? She's just heard of the tragic selfless death of her hero husband, when along through the post comes this letter from the man who she'd sent to save him. And what does this letter say? Why only — after a series of protestations of undying love that may well make her want to bring up her breakfast — that her beloved husband is a prig, a fool and a cad of the first order.

  You'll say that the chances of her ever getting this letter are slim. To which I'll say, even if they're virtually none, that's still not a risk I'm prepared to take.

  The town is empty, save for the dead sprawled in the streets, and the occasional commando patrol. A marine from X troop sneaking a cigarette in a doorway confirms that our rear HQ has been overrun, but that the town
is now pretty much secure. A sudden salvo which sends both of us diving for cover gives the lie to that. It seems to be directed towards the outer harbour, though, not us. We hurry to an upstairs room for a better view.

  There, illuminated by tracer bullets and burning fuel, is the salvo's target. Moored against the harbour's eastern breakwater sit not one but two of those blasted German flakships, both taking hits from a warship - HMS Ursa, I later learn - not far offshore. We're just in time to catch two motor boats bursting into the harbour mouth, Lewis guns blazing. But it looks as if the shells from HMS Ursa have done their job for I don't see any fire being returned. One flakship collapses in the middle, its spine broken. The other slips slowly beneath the surface, till all that can be seen is its bridge.

  'You heard what those bastards did to our lads up on that hill?' says the marine from X troop.

  'My troop copped the worst of it,' I say. Then a thought suddenly occurs. I pull Capt. Dangerfield's letter from my breast pocket and say: 'I wonder whether you might do me a favour. Could you see that this makes it back safely to England?'

  'Mate, if you can survive a frontal assault on that hill there, you can survive fucking anything. Give it to her yourself. I'm sure this girl - Gina Dangerfield, would that be the Captain's sister, poor girl? - will appreciate it a lot more coming from you.'

  I give it to him anyway and make my way across the foot­bridge at the mouth of the inner harbour, past a group of matelots who have disembarked from the two motor boats, and up to the barbed wire at the base of the Rue du Phare. The houses around it are shuttered and dark; the road is silent.

  I pick my way carefully through the wire and begin moving cautiously up the hill, keeping low so as to avoid being skylined, hugging the seaward side of the slope and making for the place where I last saw the bodies of my seven comrades.

  They're still there, of course — it having been far too dangerous in daylight for our medics to try retrieving them (you'd try it for wounded soldiers of course but not dead ones) - all stiff and contorted where they fell.

  The first I can't even recognise. His body is virtually unscathed but when he fell his face must have landed right in front of the nozzle of one of those concealed flame-throwers for his features have been charred beyond recognition.

  A few yards further on I find Calladine, still wearing that awful doomed expression he had on as he filed down from Point 72 towards the start line. He was right, then.

  I'm crawling now. The German positions are so near, you have to. God, we came so close. If it hadn't been for those flakships, we would have taken them easily. And Price and the rest might still be alive. And we might never have needed to storm the Eastern Feature. And instead of all this pain and misery, we'd all be in the port now, together, celebrating. If. If. If.

  In my head, I have a clear snapshot of that vision of hell on the hill the instant before Capt. Dangerfield, Oily Wragg and I turned tail and fled for our lives. The six bodies I have crawled past so far are exactly where I remember them being. But not the seventh.

  Price's is missing.

  Why would the Germans do that, though? If they were going to retrieve one dead body, why not all of them? It doesn't make sense. I must be mistaken. Price must have fallen further round the hill than I remember. Or maybe lower. Or —

  'Hande hoch!'

  Spread-eagled, exposed, utterly undone, I know there's nothing I can do to save myself. The muzzle of my captor's rifle is barely an inch from my face.

  Hands raised I pick myself, slowly, off the ground and turn to look down at my captor. His foxhole — some kind of forward observation position - has been camouflaged so perfectly you'd need almost to fall in before you'd know it was there.

  With a jerk of his rifle, the German indicates that I should climb down to join him. They say the best time to escape is within the first ten minutes of being captured. But I don't even think about resisting as, my captor's muzzle pressed into the small of my back, I'm funnelled through the narrow earthen cleft which connects the OP with the main trench system.

  As we emerge, another German joins us.

  Together, the two men lead me further into the labyrinth of trenches. Fantastically well constructed, I can't help noticing, with sturdy concrete walls and protective overhangs, and neat little dug-outs with beds, chairs, tables and electric lights.

  Finally, we reach a heavy metal door. The lead German rests his rifle against the wall so that he can wrest it open with both hands. An Oberleutnant is just emerging. He looks me up and down. Then observes to my captors: 'Ein anderer!'

  They smile and nod.

  In front of me is another flight of steps. Perhaps for the officer's benefit, I'm pushed down a bit too roughly.

  At the bottom, there's another heavy steel door. My captors indicate that I should open it.

  Inside, an adjutant with wire spectacles is at a desk, method­ically tearing documents into tiny strips. Scarcely looking up, he indicates that I should take a seat on the empty chair in the corner. My captor passes through a heavy curtain into a room next door. I hear him reporting my capture to someone he addresses as Herr Major.

  I try to listen in, but now the adjutant says to the other German, who's standing with his rifle pointing at me: 'Put it away and make him some coffee. It'll be better for you in the end.'

  The guard pulls a sour face but starts to do as he's told.

  Next door, my captor is getting a rocket for leaving his post. And what if there were more commandos where I came from, the Major wants to know. On the Eastern Front, such negligence would be considered a capital offence.

  And why not in France, too, asks another voice - high- pitched, nasty. Perhaps, the voice goes on, so salutary an example would serve to stiffen his comrades' resolve in the final defence.

  'The final defence?' I hear the Major echo, mockingly. I'd like to listen more but perhaps I'm craning my ear too obvi­ously or perhaps the adjutant is more observant than he looks, for he suddenly says: 'Ach, du sprichst also Deutsch?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'You were listening to the conversation,' he says in perfect English.

  'Wishing I could understand it, yes. I get the impression that the poor chap who captured me is getting what we call a right-royal bollocking.'

  'A right-royal bollocking. Such a rich and expressive language you have.'

  'You speak it very well.'

  'I try. But my colloquial English is, I fear, somewhat wanting.'

  My captor, very red-faced, now emerges from behind the curtain, frantically adjusting his helmet and bustling towards the exit as if his life depended on it.

  The other German, meanwhile, has made my coffee, which he serves me in a rather disgusting-looking enamel mug.

  'I'm sorry that we cannot offer you tea but our empire has never extended as far as India. And the way things are now progressing, I doubt it ever will.'

  He's an engaging fellow and I'd dearly love to give his conversation more attention. Problem is, the one next door is rather more pertinent to my future.

  '. . . of course they must be killed,' the high-pitched nasty voice is saying. 'Those are the Fuhrer's orders.'

  'And how will their comrades treat our prisoners, do you think, Herr Hauptmann, when they discover what we have done to theirs?'

  'They are not going to take any prisoners,' replies the high- pitched voice. 'Because we are not going to surrender.'

  'I see,' says the Major.

  'Would you rather that I just remained silent?' the adju­tant asks me.

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I was just dreaming of empire and fine India tea.'

  'No, you weren't, you were listening to the Major and the Hauptmann. Your German is excellent, my friend. But your acting, quite atrocious.'

  I sip my coffee. Revolting. But at least it's hot and warm.

  'It is a pity,' says the German. 'In another world I could have asked you where you learned it and complimented you as you have complimented me. We would ha
ve got on rather well, I think.'

  'We are getting on rather well, aren't we?'

  The adjutant laughs. Then his smile fades.

  'I am sorry,' he says.

  'What on earth for?'

  'If the Hauptmannshould prevail. You may have gathered, he is a committed party member. And as with so many, his heart has been hardened by the Eastern Front.'

  I'm not sure I understand your meaning.'

  'If you don't know, then perhaps it is better you remain in ignorance.'

  The curtain is ripped open. A man in a Hauptmanris uniform appears and studies me with ostentatious contempt. His face, heavily scarred down one side with only a hole where his ear should be, is young but his eyes have the rheumy distance of an old man's and his short hair is grey. I have an awful feeling we've met before.

  With a crook of his index finger, he beckons me in.

  The Major is behind a desk, in front of a brimming ashtray. He lights a cigarette from the stub of its predecessor and eyes me up and down. Friendly enough face, but it's not the Major I'm worried about. The Hauptmann is continuing to stare at me hard. God, I really do know him, I think. When his hair was dark and he still had an ear.

  'Cigarette?' says the Major.

  'Thanks, but I don't,' I lie, which hurts because if there's one thing I do very much need right now it's a restorative puff. Thing is, though, I don't want to do anything that might make Kimmelman recognise me. That's his name. Franz Kimmelman. We served together on the Ostfront and it's a long story which I shall have to tell you another time. Suffice to say that when I left him for dead we weren't the best of friends.

  'Your name?'

  'Coward. Acting-Lieutenant Dick Coward,' I say, extending a hand. 'And you must be . . . ?'

  'Major Thomas Wiesenbach,' he says, not shaking my hand — which doesn't altogether surprise me, but which is a pity none the less. If I'm going to persuade him not to shoot me it would help if we could establish some sort of bond.