by Iain Gale
The Highlanders muttered thanks and returned to their rifle pits.
Lamb went on, ‘You others, men of my old platoon, it looks as if I’m finally going to get to the General. You’ve been with me through all of this, and thank you for it. It won’t take long. It’s only five miles, lads. Not far. And then we should know where we stand.’
He turned and walked to the house where he had billeted Madeleine the previous night. He found her at the kitchen table looking at a framed photograph that she had taken down from the wall. It was of a family, dressed in their best clothes: a father, mother and two children, a son and a daughter. Seeing him come in, she turned and smiled. He could see that she had been crying. She said, ‘I wonder where they are.’
‘They must have fled. Probably with family.’
‘Not like me. I have no family.’
‘You have me.’
He leant over her and cradled her head in his arms. ‘We’re moving out. Crawford’s sending a guide to get us to the General.’
‘What then?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll wait and see.’
‘Peter, I don’t want to leave you.’
‘Let’s just wait and see what happens, shall we? Come on. We should be on the road.’
Outside the men were waiting. Sergeant-Major McKracken came up to Lamb. ‘Sir, I’ve been thinking, and if you don’t mind I’d really like tae stay on with the other lads. I feel more at home here. I’d rather take my chances with them, if you know what I mean, sir.’
Lamb smiled. ‘Yes, I thought you might, and I know what you mean. Thank you for your help, McKracken. We’ve come through a lot together. I hope you make it back.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
McKracken saluted and walked away towards the Black Watch. Lamb turned back to the men and was surprised to find, standing right behind him, a small, ferret-faced man in Highland headgear, wearing a broad smile. ‘Private McEwan, I presume.’
‘Aye, sir, the very same.’
They set off away from the centre of the little hamlet, heading south west and then turning right and skirting the marsh which defined the area. On the outskirts of Gamaches they took a right turn and hit a main road. McEwan, walking beside Lamb, said nothing. They could hear shellfire to their rear now and McEwan looked back towards his friends. ‘Jerry’s attacking again, sir. Poor lads.’
There seemed no end to the Germans’ resources, and Lamb wondered how long the General’s HQ would remain at the château and indeed if when they got there they might not find that it had already decamped.
It was an easy march in comparison with what they had been through over the past two weeks. Here, within the British lines, there was less evidence as yet of destruction – a few houses destroyed by bombing and some shell holes, but nothing compared to the wholesale destruction they had witnessed. Not for much longer though, thought Lamb. When the Highlanders finally retreated through here, as he knew they must, the German bombs and shells would fall with as much unrelenting fury as they had through the rest of northern France. The houses gave way to open fields, flanked on their right and left by small woods where they could hear songbirds in the trees. It was not until they had been on the road for two hours, as they entered the village of Guerville, that McEwan spoke again, pointing off to the left. ‘It’s doon there, sir. Doon that wee track, o’er there, see. The château.’
He led them off the road and onto a farm track, which ran between two gateposts topped with heraldic beasts. The track snaked round and entered a wood, and as they walked through the trees Lamb began to see evidence of occupation. Two armoured cars of the Lothian and Borders Horse stood out in the fields beyond the woods, and then directly in front of them their path was blocked by two armed sentries. They levelled their bayonet-topped rifles at Lamb and his party. ‘Halt. Who are you?’
McEwan stepped forward. ‘Private Hamish McEwan, Black Watch. From Colonel Honeyman with a message for General Fortune.’
One of the sentries looked at him and seemed to recognise him, but kept his rifle levelled. ‘What’s the password then, Private?’
McEwan smiled and hissed, ‘Bannockburn, you daft numbtie, Macgregor. And have you no seen there’s an officer present.’
The guards lowered their rifles and then brought them up smartly to present as Lamb and his men passed between them. They walked on and Lamb noticed that the path was steadily rising and veering round to the left. He was aware too that the trees grew up a slope and that they were making their way up a hill. Then the trees fell away and the path opened out to a courtyard, on one side of which stood a large château.
Lamb thought it might date from the mid-eighteenth century. It had three tall chimneys and a façade of eighteen tall windows, and on the flagpole which jutted out from the front someone had hung the blue and white saltire of Scotland. The main block was surrounded by a complex of outbuildings and stables, and in the cobbled courtyard stood an assortment of military vehicles: staff cars, dispatch riders’ motorbikes, a Bren carrier and a three-ton truck. They walked across to the main entrance, accessed by a sweeping staircase. Officers of all ranks were standing in groups and pairs, or entering and leaving.
Lamb sensed that his men, not to mention Madeleine, stood out somewhat. He turned to them. ‘You’d better wait out here. McEwan, help me get in there.’
The two sentries on the door recognised McEwan and on his word brushed the two of them through. Inside a large airy, tiled hall was alive with activity. Radio sets, stores of all sorts and furniture were being carried in various directions while officers bearing sheaves of papers walked hurriedly across their path.
Lamb stopped and accosted a captain. ‘Excuse me, sir, can you direct me to the General?’ The man looked at him. ‘He’s in his office. Through the big room on the right, and turn left. Can’t miss it.’
Major General Victor Fortune paced the floor of the grand salon in the Château de la Grande Vallée, and once more tried to make sense of the situation. Close beside him stood his immediate superior, Lieutenant General Sir Henry Karslake, who had arrived half an hour ago bearing a communiqué from London.
Fortune turned to Karslake. ‘You say that London has told you we must stay with the French. No matter what happens? That any withdrawal must be to Rouen?’
‘I’m afraid so, General. It would seem that General Altmayer says he has no reserve with which to replace us. We’re to stay put, sir, until the French tell us to move.’
Fortune was fuming. ‘It’s madness. You mean, sir, I just have to sit here? I’ve just been told that there may be two divisions of Panzers at Buchy.’ He pointed to a large map pinned to one of the panelled walls. ‘That’s here, fifteen miles north east of Rouen. It stands to reason that we must keep our lines of communication open to the coast.’ He turned to the one other man in the room, Major General Beauman: ‘Am I right, Beauman?’
‘Quite right, Fortune. I’ve always thought we should prepare to evacuate if necessary. Of course, Dieppe would have been my choice. Or Le Havre. To retire towards the Seine seems nonsensical.’
Karslake nodded to Fortune, ‘I agree, Victor. And from what you say and information I have received it does seem that an outflanking manoeuvre is more than likely.’
Fortune went on, ‘If the Navy managed to get 300,000 men away at Dunkirk, why the devil can’t they come in and save our mere 12,000 and a few French?’
‘I’m only going by the orders from the Ministry, Victor. London says that we should sit here and take our orders from the French.’
‘If you want my opinion, sir, it is the Prime Minister’s view that if we are allowed to retire to the coast and even seem to be looking to a possible evacuation then the French will not view that well. The French already consider us perfidious, apparently. To pull out the Division now might look like treachery.’ Fortune wrung his hands.
A clerk appeared at the door. ‘Sorry, sir. Signal from General Vyse, sir, liaison at French HQ. Came from London, sir.’
Fortune took the note. ‘It’s from the War Office, to Vyse. “You are to represent to the French Commander-in-Chief in the strongest terms that evacuation between Dieppe and Le Havre cannot be contemplated.” Well, I’ll be . . .’
He placed the note on the table before him and stood, palms resting on its surface. ‘Gentlemen, if we stay here or retire on the Seine I shall lose the entire Division. What the devil are London playing at? What does Churchill want me to do?’
There was a knock at the door and an aide-de-camp entered. ‘Sir, I have a Lieutenant Lamb, here, sir. With an urgent message for you.’
Fortune turned to the ADC. ‘Lamb? I don’t know a Lieutenant Lamb, do I, Thompson?’
The aide shook his head. ‘No, sir. Never seen him before. He did say that he came from Colonel “R”.’
Fortune looked up. ‘Colonel “R”? Well, what are you waiting for? Show him in.’
Lamb entered and, seeing the three staff officers in the room, was unsure at first which was the man he had come so far to find. Then the figure in the centre walked towards him. He was a well-built man, in his late fifties, with piercing eyes and a neat grey moustache. An unremarkable-looking man, Lamb thought, for one who had come to mean so much to him over the past days.
The man said, ‘Well?’
‘General Fortune, sir?’
‘Yes, and you are?’
‘Thank God. Sorry, sir, I mean, Lieutenant Peter Lamb, sir. North Kents.’
‘Are you, by Jove? The Jackals, eh? You’ve a message from “R”, you say?’
‘Sir.’
‘Where did he give you this message?’
‘Twenty days ago, sir, in Tournai. That was the last time I saw him.’
‘How did you get it here? Why has it taken you so long?’
‘It’s a long story, sir.’
‘Well, what’s the message?’
Lamb reached into his battledress pocket and drew out the piece of paper, folded and creased, which he had transferred from one uniform to the other over the past week. He unfolded it and handed it to Fortune.
‘He said to tell you, sir, that no matter what happens you will be evacuated. That should the line fold, or should you be outflanked, you must fall back on Le Havre.’
Fortune read the message and then looked Lamb hard in the eyes. ‘He said that?’
‘Yes, sir. And he said that this will be the case no matter what else you hear. In particular what you might hear from the War Office, sir. Ships have already been assembled to evacuate the Division.’
Fortune looked down at the message again, then smiled at Lamb. ‘You have no idea, Lieutenant, how good that news sounds.’ He turned to Karslake. ‘What d’you say to that, sir?’
‘It would seem that what Whitehall tells us is somewhat different to other information. “R” never gets it wrong.’
Fortune walked across to the map, ‘In that case my mind is made up. We fall back on Le Havre.’
Karslake looked at him. ‘Would it perhaps be prudent, Victor, to at least listen to what the French have to say?’
‘No, sir. It is imperative that we move with the utmost speed. If we sit here we will be surrounded and the entire Divison will be taken prisoner. We move now.’ He paused, reflective. ‘But I will talk to General Altmayer, as you suggest. I will ask him to place us in reserve.
Lamb had listened to Fortune’s conversation with astonishment. He had presumed that the Prime Minister and the War Office were the ultimate authority, but now it seemed there was some other high command whose orders carried more weight. He was staggered too by the very fact of the internal politics. How could they hope to win a war if they had different objectives and goals. Goals which ultimately would cost thousands of lives.
Fortune was speaking ‘We’ll send a signal now and pray that it gets through. You’ve done well, Lamb. What will you do now?’
‘I don’t know, sir. My men are all in. But we can still fight.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Myself and nine men, sir. And a French girl we rescued from the SS.’
Fortune’s eyes widened. ‘That’s all that’s left of your platoon?’
‘Yes, sir. We have come all the way from the Dyle.’
Fortune stared at him. ‘You’re quite a man, Mister Lamb, aren’t you? You and your Jackals.’ He thought for a while, then walked over to Lamb and clapped him on the back. ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight? Mess with us. Get your French girl a bath. Simpson will find her a room upstairs, and I’m sure there’s room in one of the officers’ cottages for you. Your men will find billets. But don’t get too comfortable. I’ll think of something for you to do by the morning.’
Lamb found Bennett and the others waiting outside in the garden. ‘Right, Sarnt. Twelve hours’ leave. Here. See if you can find a billet for the men. Miss Dujolle will be staying in the house.’
‘What’s the plan, sir? Are we going to try and find the Battalion? Are we going home?’
‘I don’t know, Bennett. I just don’t know. It all depends on the General.’
He took Madeleine by the hand and led her towards the house, up the stairs and past the guards. She looked around, taking it all in, bewildered to be inside such a grand country house. ‘Have they just taken it over?’
‘Yes. It’s what happens in wartime.’
‘It’s so big, so grand. My grandmother worked as a maid in such a place. I never thought I would stay somewhere like this.’
He smiled. ‘Come on.’
They climbed the stairs, and at the top, as he had been told by the General’s aide, turned left along a corridor hung with oil paintings of grim-looking Frenchmen, ancestors of the owners, he presumed. It reminded him a little of his ex-wife’s family home in Kent, and for a moment his mind was distracted by thoughts of Julia and Kate. But then Madeleine looked up at him and their faces disappeared. Fourth room on the left, the man had said, and Lamb turned the handle.
Madeleine gasped. She could hardly believe it. The room was high and panelled in two shades of grey. Lace curtains hung at the shuttered windows, which led to a wrought-iron balcony. There was a bed with white sheets, and a bathroom. The General Staff had taken over the château and were doing their best to keep it intact in case the family returned. The reception rooms had suffered worst, being turned upside down to accommodate the needs of the General’s offices, but upstairs the rooms were as elegant as when they had been left by the fugitive family. There were clean, soft towels in the armoires and piles of unopened soaps in paper wrappers.
Madeleine hugged Lamb. ‘Thank you. Oh thank you, my darling. It’s like a dream.’
‘I’m afraid we can’t stay here for long, unless you want to stay with the General Staff, and I don’t know if that would be possible. I imagine even the General will be on the move quite soon. The Germans are moving fast.’
Her smile vanished and she let go of him and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Yes, of course. I know. It’s only an illusion, isn’t it? But can you allow me my little daydream, Peter? Just for a few hours.’
He smiled at her. ‘All right. I’m sorry. For a few hours. Why don’t you have a bath and then we can see what we can find to eat here.’
She went into the bathroom, and as he opened the door to leave he heard her gasp again and giggle with joy.
Lamb descended the staircase and, hearing the sound of voices and laughter, walked towards it. In one of the château’s large reception rooms, he thought it must have been the Morning Room, the officers had set up a makeshift mess and bar, and one of the batmen was acting as steward. Lamb walked in. It was a surreal scene, straight from St James’s. And just as they would have done in their clubs, or the mess, the other officers turned and acknowledged him politely before returning to their conversations. He went to the bar – a line of ammo boxes – and ordered a Scotch and soda from the batman. There was a distant booming from shells to the north, and Lamb knew that the front was being bombarded again. H
e wondered how Crawford and the others were doing, and part of him wished he had not had to leave them to come here. He felt a sudden pang of conscience at the knowledge that he would sleep in a clean bed that night, and eat well.
As he was drinking another officer entered, a Frenchman, although not of the sort he had become used to seeing on the road with the retreating army. This man was neatly dressed in the uniform of a cavalry officer, with baggy breeches, highly polished boots and a Polish-style khaki tunic rather than the normal service dress. On his chest he wore a row of medal ribbons, and at his side hung a cavalry sabre.
The British officers turned and, just as they had with Lamb, smiled at the newcomer. Lamb, at the bar, smiled too. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘Thank you. I will have a whisky soda. Like you. You are Scots?’
‘No, English. But I still drink Scotch. Like the French.’
‘Excuse me. Etienne Charvet. Captain, 4th Cuirassiers.’
‘Peter Lamb, Lieutenant, North Kents. Your regiment fought mine at Waterloo.’
‘Of course.’ The Frenchman raised his glass. ‘Well, chin-chin. To old scores.’
‘To the Entente Cordiale.’
The man shrugged. ‘Is it still cordiale? I don’t think so. You know what my general calls your General Fortune? General Misfortune. But though I know he has no respect, we have great respect for you. For all the Highlanders too. We know these men, these amazons who would rather wear their skirts than trousers.’
He drained his glass and signalled to the batman for a refill for both of them.
‘Let’s drink it while we can, Lieutenant. I have just delivered a report to your generals. The Germans have made a gap in the line twenty-five miles to the south, at Forges. Do you know how they did it? All morning refugees, stragglers and vehicles had been passing through Forges, and your men couldn’t close their roadblocks. Some of our tanks were allowed to go through. Of course they were French tanks, but they had been captured by the enemy. Once through the defences they turned on our posts from the rear. Then they broke through behind with their own tanks. Neufchatel’s in flames, and the enemy’s tanks are on the road to Rouen. You know the battle is as good as lost. We have no reserves and we are outnumbered two to one. How can we win?’
