Heroes in Normandy

by Alan David

  Sergeant Steine was firing his machine-pistol to Eckhardt’s left. He was very close to Eckhardt and covering him from sporadic fire from the left. Sweat was running into Steine’s eyes and he kept blinking furiously. As he fought his way through the hedge he had a single thought in the back of his bemused mind. He needed another woman. It seemed like a lifetime since he had raped that Italian partisan.

  Eckhardt sprawled out into the open and swung his weapon, triggering it at the enemy soldiers in sight. They had a narrow meadow to cross this time and the enemy were out in the open — about three dozen of them walking slowly in open order from left to right. They turned when vicious fire tore at them, and Eckhardt saw them going down like new-mown hay falling to a sickle. He breathed heavily as he continued to move forward, obeying the last order, and Leun lurched into view on his right, also firing. They kept moving, the remnants of the two platoons pointing the way for the survivors of the Battalion.

  Enemy fire came at them but it was not organized. These enemy troops were reserves moving forward to take part in an assault towards Falaise and they had not expected to be hit in the flank. Eckhardt fancied that he was striking the last of the forward elements of the enemy, and reserves would be coming forward shortly. It looked as if Colonel Dantine had timed his break-out exactly right.

  But there was a limit to what mere flesh and blood could accomplish despite loyalty to duty and the grim determination to carry it out. When Eckhardt lurched forward into the cover of yet another hedge he fell to his knees and hung his head, gasping for air. They had travelled fast under the most appalling conditions, and now they had reached the limits of their endurance.

  Leun dropped to cover beside Eckhardt. They looked at each other through a haze of sweat. Lean’s mouth was agape, his breathing raspy. He shook his head, unable to find the strength to speak, and Eckhardt could only croak when he tried to issue orders. He looked around, saw survivors from his two platoons coming up to join him, and saw Leutnant Reinfeld dragging his left leg. There was a hole in the platoon commander’s trousers just above the knee and blood was pouring from it, staining the greenish cloth.

  Eckhardt, ever mindful of Dantine’s orders, looked farther back and saw the rest of the Battalion coming through the hedge behind. There were quite a number of them, although they were still engaging enemy troops coming forward from the rear. Eckhardt caught his breath, gulped, and pushed himself up.

  ‘Let’s keep moving, Leun,’ he suggested, and they began to fight their way into the almost impassable hedge. It took all their strength to get through, and when they emerged upon the further side there were yet more Canadian troops. Eckhardt cursed in despair. There was no end to this. They were merely pressing on to the last man. Casualties were being sustained every yard of the way, and one could mark their progress by the dead men lying in their tracks. He flattened out and changed magazines, preparing to take on the enemy, and a machine-gun hammered at him.

  Leun threw a grenade which destroyed the enemy gun and its crew. Eckhardt had never seen anyone equal Leun at grenade throwing. He saw the burst of the grenade, the puff of drifting smoke, and began to trigger his weapon. His teeth were clenched, his eyes narrowed, and although he would fight to the last shot he was aware that his eternal optimism was fading. There was no way out of this. They were well and truly trapped, and as soon as the Canadians became aware of the situation they would send reserves to surround them and wipe them out.

  Someone was yelling in a high-pitched voice, and Eckhardt turned to peer towards the rear. He saw Colonel Dantine moving forward and sighed heavily as he pushed himself up and prepared to run towards the next hedge. There was yet another open field to cross, and he wondered how far he would get before he was hit. There was a lot of small arms fire.

  When the survivors of his two platoons were ready and in some semblance of a line he ordered them forward and they moved again, although they were in the last stages of exhaustion. He fired his weapon almost angrily, wondering when they would see the last of the enemy. If only they had been given the chance to meet the enemy on equal terms! The thought flashed across his mind but he stifled it. They were doomed to fight against great odds, and all their bravery and endurance meant nothing. Yet they were filled with the will to survive, and went together at a run across the field, firing at targets which showed, chasing the surprised Canadians to left and right and killing those who remained to fight.

  They ran into a thick hedge, pushed their way through it and stumbled upon a sunken road. Dead Germans lay everywhere, and there was a long column of wrecked vehicles, most of them still smoking and burning. But there was no sign of the enemy and Eckhardt tried to regain his breath. His shoulders slumped as he hurled himself at the hedge in front of him. No matter how many hedges they burst through there was always another waiting for them, and he peered around as he crossed the narrow road with three strides.

  Leun fell and rolled, then staggered to his feet. He fell again and lay still upon his back with his arms flung wide. His mouth was agape, his chest rising and falling, and Eckhardt paused to look back at his father’s old friend. He knew the order about leaving everyone who fell out, but Leun was an exception, he discovered, and half-turned to go to the Sergeant-Major’s side. At that instant he caught a glimpse of movement in the opposite hedge out of the corner of his eye and spun around, machine-pistol lifting. An ominous figure was just visible in the gloom surrounding a large tree.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ a voice yelled in German, and Eckhardt slumped a little when he recognized an SS uniform. ‘Declare yourself!’

  ‘SS Vaterland!’ Eckhardt replied in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Congratulations. You’ve made it out of the bag! Come forward slowly. We’ve got you covered. The enemy haven’t crossed this road yet.’

  Eckhardt peered around, saw other figures in the hedge and recognized their uniforms. He was thankful that they were also SS and had not panicked or they would have opened fire before checking identities. He helped Leun to his feet and together they staggered forward to be identified, along with the rest of his men who came bursting through the hedge. He leaned against a tree when he had passed through the hedge and watched the survivors of the Battalion coming forward. Then Dantine arrived, and there was a tight grin on the Colonel’s face.

  ‘Well done, Eckhardt,’ he congratulated. ‘I knew you could do it if anyone could. That’s why I put you out in front. You obeyed your orders to the letter.’

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ Eckhardt tried to stiffen his weary shoulders, but his knees were trembling and he was having difficulty remaining on his feet. Dantine’s voice sounded as if it were a million miles away, and Eckhardt wondered what lay in the future. They had withdrawn in orderly fashion from Cassino, but here in Normandy they had run for their lives, although they had been under orders to do so. But it was merely the end of a battle, he knew, not the end of the war, and he saluted Dantine and turned to herd the survivors of his Company together, faintly surprised that so many of them had got through.

  There was Sergeant Steine, his face pale, his eyes closed, but still on his feet, and Corporal Sieber was standing motionless with his MG42 across one shoulder. There were other familiar faces, and it seemed strange that some of them were fated to live no matter what happened. But for how. much longer? The odds against them were getting longer. Eckhardt knew that as he called his men to attention and led them at a steady march across the smoking countryside. Already he could forget Normandy because it was in the past, and a good soldier never looked behind. The future stretched out before them, ominous and hopeless, but it was all they had and they would make the best of it.

  If you enjoyed reading Heroes in Normandy, you might also be interested in Both Feet in Hell by Alan David, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David

  Chapter One

  THE night was not dark, for the eastern horizon was stained with a dull living red. Smoke blotted out the
stars and formed an uncertain ceiling over the countryside. The sky was filled with unseen menace as invisible flights of bombers droned overhead. There was the sullen thunder of distant guns. The night breathed with vibrant force.

  The murky streets of the shell torn little French town were throbbing with life. Men moved hesitantly among the rubble and desolation of the houses, flitting through the shadows like animals. Frenzied transport lurched crazily into and out of the town, one stream heading for the front and one stream returning.

  A big 3 ton truck pulled out of the never ending line of traffic, turned into a side street and squealed to a stop. Doors slammed, a tailboard dropped and rattled down, and heavy boots thudded upon treacherous cobblestones, sounding sharp against the background of the ominously muttering guns. Sudden and irregular flashes tattered the uneasy mantle of night.

  ‘Righto, you blokes.’ A hoarse voice shouted a terse command. ‘This is where the East Borderers hang out. Get your kit together and fall in over here. I’ll rouse out the orderly sergeant.’

  Tired men dragged themselves into a group and drooped where they stood. Their conducting sergeant stepped into the shadows and vanished as if he had entered another life. The eight men, replacements, drowsed in a half world of fear and anticipation. They were shocked awake by the bull-like roar of an alert, authoritative voice.

  ‘All right, you Shower. Brace yourselves or you’ll all fall down. Quickly now. Through that door and down into the cellar, and don’t kick over the lamps.’

  Heaving their kit about, the newcomers hurried into the building. They filed down into a cellar and turned, blinking in the poor light of two hurricane lamps, to face the voice that chivvied and cut at them from behind. They saw a big, efficient looking sergeant standing on the fourth step, his craggy face thrust forward as he stared at them, his prominent chin jutting pugnaciously.

  ‘Answer your names,’ he barked, and looked at a sheet of paper in one of his big hands. ‘Lance Corporal Gill.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  ‘Private Gemmell.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  ‘Private Harris.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  ‘Private Haylett.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you, Haylett? You look like a tailor’s dummy that’s stood too near to the fire. Private Hindley.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  ‘Private Knights.’

  ‘Here, Sergeant.’

  ‘I know you’re here, you ugly little man, you. You talk too much. Private Weeds.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  ‘Private Keeler.’

  ‘Sar’nt.’

  The sergeant studied Keeler. Then he looked over the rest of them, gnawing his fleshy lips. He thrust out his chin at them and began to talk, spitting out his words as if they burnt his lips.

  ‘I’m your floggin’ P’toon Sergeant. As from now you’re One Section, Ten Platoon, Able Company, the First Battalion the East Borderers. My name’s Baggott — Sar’nt Basil Baggott, and no dirty cracks or you’ll be doing Jankers until five years after the war. If you’ve never met the biggest Bastard in the British Army, you’re looking at him now; and by the looks of you lot I’m the unluckiest one in any army. On parade or in action you’ll obey my slightest whim at the flogging double, even if the order is to cut your throats, which is what you’ll likely do before I’ve finished with you. But never try to cut mine. I drink monkey’s water because it’s sour, and I pick my teeth with a blood stained bayonet, and if you think that’s tough just wait till I’ve finished with you. You’ll be tougher than the Nine Blind Bastards all rolled into one. Any questions?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Private Weeds. ‘Who are the Nine Blind Bastards?’

  Sergeant Baggott studied the short, dark haired, almost tubby Weeds.

  ‘What refugee camp did you escape from, Weeds? Are you sure you’ve been posted from another mob in the BRITISH army? You aren’t Free French or a Yank, are you?’

  ‘I did all right for three years in the desert, Sergeant,’ said Weeds.

  ‘Yes. Then they sent you home so they could get on and win the war out there. It looks as if I’m going to have some trouble with you, Weeds. Just watch yourself. Now then. We’ve got some organisation in this platoon. There’s bedding here for each of you. Get your kit sorted out and get your heads down. The battalion goes back into the line tomorrow, so make the most of it. Get out of bed when you’re called in the morning, and I’ll be around on first parade to renew our acquaintance.’

  They stood in silence until the sergeant had gone, then they breathed heavily and relaxed.

  ‘Phew, he’s a right bastard,’ said Cyril Hindley. ‘What have we let ourselves in for?’

  These eight were a close knit bunch, having served together in their old regiment for a number of years. They still felt resentment at having been posted away from their own mob, where they had known every one, where their roots were deep. Now they were dumped in the darkness, in the strangeness of a new battalion, to be greeted by an overbearing sergeant who, in their opinion, should have been shot in the first action of this battalion by subordinates who must surely hate him.

  ‘I think the first thing we ought to do is see the Company Clerk about some leave,’ said Charlie Weeds. ‘You always get leave when you join a new battalion.’

  ‘You’ll get leave, you swindler,’ laughed Joe Gill, playfully punching the irrepressible Weeds.

  ‘Leave! I wouldn’t go on leave if they offered to send me,’ said Harry Gemmell. ‘I’ve got no credits. My old woman sees to that. Gawd! If I ever had the luck to be single again I’d never tie myself up to another woman. Let’s get back into action, and maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get my head blown off; and if that happened my old woman would moan about her widow’s pension.’

  ‘You get lucky!’ cried Hindley, sorting through a pile of blankets. ‘Here, Charlie, have these on me. Why, Harry, you’re the luckiest tool in the British army. What about that mortar near Tobruk? Wiped out your section, but it left you kicking. What about the mine the carrier ran over? You were the only bastard to walk away from that. You’ve got some hopes to talk about getting your head blown off. If you fell into a latrine bucket you’d come out smelling of violets.’

  ‘I’m the only jonah here,’ said Alfie Knights, dumping his equipment in a corner. ‘Me and my perishing guts. I was out through the back on coal fatigues when they dished out luck. I shouldn’t be in the army, not with this bad stomach. I should be in a munitions factory, picking up twenty nicker a week. I hope they’ve got a decent M.O. in this mob. My poor guts need some understanding.’

  ‘That ain’t all they need, Alfie,’ said Joe Gill.

  ‘It’s my wife who’s ruined my stomach.’ Alfie pressed both hands gently against his grouchy abdomen. ‘Any similarity between her cooking and the stuff you can eat is purely coincidental.’

  Joe Gill made sympathetic clucking noises. Charlie Weeds grinned.

  ‘Why don’t you put a sock in it?’ Pete Keeler was over six feet tall, and weighed all of fifteen stone. Everything about him was big. His face looked as if it had been rough hewn from, granite by a sculptor using a blunt chisel. His chin was permanently blue with the tenacious stubble of a hair growth that defied the sharpest razor. His hands were like hams, with great bony knuckles, and his thick wrists, protruding from the tight sleeves of his battledress blouse, were black with long hairs.

  Making a bed at Keeler’s side was Hindley, his inseparable companion. Hindley was under average height and weight, and was grey haired, like an old man. He was an old man of thirty one years who had seen action in Spain in ‘thirty-seven, came out at Dunkirk in ‘forty with the survivors of the B.E.F., and had fought the Afrika Korps in the desert for three years. Cyril Hindley was an old young man.

  ‘I’d like to know what’s coming to us in the next few months,’ Keeler said as he got between his blankets, and his voice jarred like an overstrung fiddle.
He was tense inside, and overwound. He had seen just a little too much action in the desert and he couldn’t forget it. To the others he was just tired, but Pete Keeler knew deep inside himself that he was finished. His nerve was almost gone.

  ‘Whatever’s in store, Pete,’ said Hindley, ‘We can handle it.’

  ‘Yes, mate,’ said Keeler, and raised a big hand to his face to stop his lips from trembling.

  ‘Well, he said we would form a Section,’ said Weeds. ‘I reckon we’ll be all right so long as they let us stick together.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since we saw action,’ said Frankie Harris, whom they called Laughing Boy. ‘Listen, you can hear the guns. I’m not looking forward to that again, are you?’

  ‘Forget it,’ advised Joe Gill. ‘We’ve all been in the army long enough to know it’s no good thinking about the future. Let it come and worry about it afterwards, that’s the motto.’

  They settled down to sleep, ears automatically strained to pick up the muttering of the guns, and each brain teemed with the thought of war. Once again they were thrown into the Valley of Shadows, and their lives were forfeit. One by one they drifted into troubled sleep.

  Daylight did not make Sergeant Baggott more handsome as he swaggered around his platoon the next morning. He was a man bigger than Pete Keeler, although not as tall as Hindley’s mate, and he possessed unlimited vigour and energy. His powerful voice was never silent, and there was always a trace of sarcasm in his tones.

  ‘Right, you new men,’ Baggott cried when the rest of the platoon was occupied in one way or another under the super-vision of the corporals. ‘Fall in here. At the double. This isn’t a picnic, Now, Corporal Dunsford, this is your new section, such as it is. Lance Corporal bill, have you seen much action?’