He’d wait until the Germans were close, but still out of view, then approach the British and warn them they were coming. “Who knows,” he thought, “I might even get the chance of fighting some of those black-clad bastards who were at the barn.”
Vimes kept his own counsel, pleased at the change that had started to come over Alexander since the massacre. He knew, better than anyone, that Alexander wasn’t a coward, despite what the lad might currently think about himself. Vimes also understood how war changed people. His memory of past Emperors and their various testings over the millennia were all there for him to dip into. The Doone family were rarely cowards, but sometimes they needed the right triggers to bring out the best (or worst, he reminded himself sadly in mid-thought) in them. Fortunately, Alexander was definitely not one of the bad ones, otherwise, Vimes might have had some difficult choices to make.
Alexander, his course of action clear, decided to prepare for his meeting with the British. He emptied out the contents of his survival pack and secreted the vials of medical nanites about his person, trusting that at least one would be safe when they searched him. His survival kit would be difficult to explain so he instructed it to flow up his left arm into a thick band which they would be unable to remove. On the beaches, he’d noticed many of the wounded had their limbs immobilised in casts or splints, so he hoped he could pass it off as a splint of some kind should the need arise. His small flechette side-arm was another matter, but as it would only work for him and had no obvious ammunition or barrel, he was confident they might let him retain it if they thought it wasn’t loaded, especially if they took him as an officer of some kind. Satisfied he’d done all that he could, Alexander took a final drink from his flask and waited for the Germans to get nearer.
Half an hour later, the Germans were close enough and Alexander decided to make his move, throwing the pack onto his shoulders. Taking one last look around, he squared his shoulders and began jogging quickly in the direction of the bridge and British, who had almost finished their preparations and were now well dug in. Without the aid of his drones, Alexander would have been hard pressed to spot them and would simply have run straight into their position. Approaching the bridge he slowed, feigning tiredness and slowing to a walk.
“Any moment now,” he thought to himself, feeling his heartbeat quicken and adrenaline surge through his body as he prepared himself for what would happen next.
“HALT! Identify yourself,” a voice shouted out from within the trees lining each side of the bridge approach. Alexander jumped, genuinely surprised, as neither he or the drones had picked out the two soldiers that suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, their projectile weapons pointed directly at him. He raised his arms above his head before being told, mimicking the gesture he’d seen the prisoners use.
One of them chuckled, and without taking his attention from Alexander, spoke to his colleague, “That made him jump, didn’t it Mike? ‘E don’t look German, do ‘e?”
“Nah, got a shade of the tar brush, this one,” Mike replied, “He certainly don’t ‘av fair hair ‘n blue eyes like we seen them ‘av on the newsreels. Big bugger, though.” He nodded towards Alexander, who was watching the eight-inch blade at the end of the weapon very carefully. “Wotcha want, mate? Don’t you know there’s a bloomin war on?”
“Parlez-vous français?” Alexander asked, “pardonnez-moi, mais saviez-vous il y a un grand nombre d'Allemands à venir de cette façon?” telling them there was a large number of Germans coming this way.
“What’d he say, Fred? I got the bit about do we speak Frog, but not the rest of it,” Mike asked.
“He said there’s a large number of Germans coming this way, Corporal and I’d ask you to remember we are a guest in this man's country,” came a voice from the treeline, followed a moment later by a uniformed soldier with the three chevrons on his tunic that Alexander knew denoted some sort of command rank. “Show a bit more respect, that’s a good lad.”
“Yes, Sergeant. I didn’t know you spoke Fro...French.”
“It’s amazing what you pick up after twenty years in His Majesty’s service. Let’s hope you two get the chance to do the same,” he answered, walking over to get a good look at Alexander. He had to look up to meet his eyes, being at least six inches smaller.
“You speak English?” he asked and looked pleased when Alexander nodded. “What are you doing here and what’s this about Germans, then? Be quick about it.”
“I’m trying to get to the beach and evacuate. The Germans are about fifteen minutes away and are heading for this bridge. I’ve managed to keep one step ahead of them. You heard of the SS?” Alexander asked, playing what he hoped would be his ticket to being allowed through, relying on the experienced Sergeant having some knowledge of them.
One of the soldiers spat, “Yeah, murdering bastards.”
“Well, they’re the ones behind me and I’ve already seen what they do to prisoners.”
The Sergeant cast a look at the soldier who had spoken, who mumbled an apology and went quiet. He turned back to look at Alexander, his eyes obviously appraising him. “Yes, we’ve also had the misfortune of crossing their path recently.” The Sergeant’s eyes bored into Alexanders, looking for something, his gut instinct shouting that all was not what it seemed with the young man standing so confidently in front of him, yet at the same time liking what he saw. “Hold still while we search you.”
Alexander raised his arms higher as Fred did a thorough search while Mike kept them both covered with his weapon. Surprisingly, nothing was taken, although the man looked enviously at the ration bars until a stern look from the Sergeant made him put them back. The small side arm was examined and handed to the Sergeant who looked for bullets and a trigger. Finding none, he gave it back to Alexander who reattached it to his belt.
“What’s a big lad like you walking around with a toy gun for, then?” Alexander was asked, “Is it a keepsake?”
Alexander nodded, relieved they hadn’t taken it from him, impressed by the man’s calm yet authoritative manner. “Can I pass through?”
Again, Alexander could see the man appraise him carefully.
“Where are you from, son and what are you doing here?” the Sergeant asked carefully, his eyes never leaving Alexander’s face.
Vimes quickly supplied the missing information to Alexander, hoping he wouldn’t remember to ask where he got it from. Alexander began speaking, “I’m a commercial pilot, based at the Cambrai-Niergnies airfield until the Germans took it. I stole a bicycle and rode towards here until it got a puncture several hours ago. Before everything was destroyed, I heard on the radio that everyone was being evacuated from Dunkirk so decided to make my way there too. There’s nothing left here for me now.”
The Sergeant nodded when Alexander finished. “And your name?”
“Alexander Doone,” he replied, deciding at the last moment to use his real name, “you can call me Alexander.”
“Right then, Alexander, now we are formally introduced, you can call me Sergeant Streeton, of 2nd Battalion, Royal Fusiliers. So, how many Germans are we talking about? Fifty, Hundred?”
“At least two hundred, with artillery support.”
Sergeant Streeton took off his tin helmet and ran his hand through his greying hair, then wiped away the sweat from the leather band inside before putting it back on. “Christ, that’s all we need. Right lad, can you fire a rifle?” he asked.
“If someone shows me. I’m a quick learner.”
“Good. You’ve just volunteered to help us hold those bastards off until we’ve finished mining the bridge.”
“Mining?” Alexander asked, confused by the use of words.
“Blow it up with explosives, lad. You know, undermine? Never mind.” Streeton turned to the two soldiers. Looking at Mike he said, “Run back across the bridge and tell the boys the Germans are coming and to get a move on with the explosives. I want it ready to blow yesterday, then get a spare rifle from the carrier and a box of
cartridges for our friend here.”
The man nodded and ran off, shouting to get the attention of the men on the other side.
He turned to Fred, “take a position about a hundred yards further along the road. Keep your head down and get your arse back here the moment you see the Germans. Understand?”
“Yes Sarge,” Fred replied, before running off to find some cover and look for the Germans as instructed.
The Sergeant turned to Alexander. “You, follow me,” and began walking towards the bridge, just as the sound of incoming artillery could be heard. The Sergeant spun around as the shell flew overhead and landed with a loud explosion on the other side of the river. Small arms fire began to crack out. Back up the road, the soldier called Fred was running back towards them, much faster than he’d left, even though he was half crouching, weaving from side to side as bullets zipped past. Alexander ducked down, unsure what to do, as another shell landed, this time only a dozen yards from his position, blowing him backwards onto the ground, his impact armour going rigid for a few moments as several pieces of shrapnel impacted his body. Slightly winded from the concussion, Alexander picked himself up into a half crouch and looked around. Both the Sergeant and soldier were down, either dead or unconscious and in the distance he could see an armoured vehicle of some kind being driven down the road, firing at him, the bullets kicking up chips of stone and earth nearby.
He ran the few yards over to the soldier called Fred, kneeling down and shaking him, unsure what to look for. Blood was coming from the man’s nose and a large dent in his helmet indicated what had knocked him out. Without thinking, Alexander picked the man up and slung him over his left shoulder, then ran back to where Sergeant Streeton was lying. He reached down and grabbed an arm, then began pulling him quickly to the ditch by the roadside. They all fell into it, safe for a few moments from the bullets zipping around them.
Answering fire came from the other side of the river, where the hidden artillery tubes began their sullen whump, whump and resulting explosions could be heard near the advancing Germans. Alexander quickly checked the Sergeant, who had suffered a nasty looking wound to his stomach, blood already soaking into his tunic and shirt, turning black on the green material. A detached part of Alex’s mind wondered if the colour green had been chosen so as to disguise the colour of blood before he angrily dismissed it and tried to think what to do.
“Other side of the bridge; get to the other side of the bridge,” Vimes sounded in his mind, “you’ve got to do it before it is blown up by the British.”
“Alex,” came the pained voice of the Sergeant as he regained consciousness and took in their situation, “take Fred and get across the bridge before it’s blown. Leave me here. Go.”
A vision of the brave officer back at the pond passed through Alexander’s minds eye and he shook his head. “No, I’m never leaving anyone again. Can you hold onto me?” he asked the man, not waiting for an answer and stooping down to pick him up.
“I think so,” came the reply. Sergeant Streeton wrapped his arms around Alexander's neck and was lifted bodily off the ground as if he was a child. Alexander supported him with his right arm then bent at the knees and picked up Fred by his webbing with his left, straightening up and taking the strain. He leapt up out of the ditch and began running towards the bridge, the two soldiers banging against his legs and chest, slowing him down somewhat. Behind him, the armoured car was now much closer and began firing at them again. As he reached the bridge, Alexander was suddenly shoved hard in the back and forced forward onto his knees, the impact armour temporarily solid. The firing behind him continued as he tried to stand up, lifting the two men, just as a loud explosion indicated the British had managed to take out the vehicle, as did the suddenly silenced guns. Picking up speed, he used a drone to look at the destroyed vehicle behind him. The British shell had landed in the rear passenger section, blowing the eight soldiers in it apart and scattering their bodies all over the road. The driver, in his armoured frontal compartment, had been forced through the small windscreen by the explosion and was clearly dead, lying across the bonnet. Behind it, another half-tracked vehicle had come to complete stop and had disgorged its load of soldiers into ditches where they were assuming firing positions.
Heart pounding, Alexander ran as fast as his rapidly tiring legs would carry him, the crack of small arms fire continuing behind, albeit much lessened now the first vehicle was destroyed. Just as he thought the weight of the men would be too much, helping hands took hold and pulled him off the road and into a makeshift dugout where he sat for a few minutes, trying to get his breath back.
“Keep your ‘ead down, mate, “ one of the soldiers told him, whilst two more pulled the wounded away for treatment. “Jesus Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone run so fast. What’s your name then, Jesse bloody Owen?”
Alex opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the soldier called Mike, bringing him a weapon and a box of, what he assumed was ammunition.
“I hope you are a quick learner, my old son,” he said, briefly ruffling his hair. “Thanks for what you did for Fred and the Sarge, I won't forget that. Now, this is how you load it, see…then you aim and fire, but make sure the safety’s off, alright?”
“How are they?” Alexander asked.
“Fred took a nasty bang to the head but is starting to come out of it, but the Sarge has a nasty belly wound.” Mike lowered his voice, “It doesn't look good, truth be told, and he’s losing a lot of blood.” With that, he scurried away, using the trees as cover, looking for a suitable position to observe what was going on at the bridge.
Another soldier crawled over. “You Alexander?” the man queried, “Stupid question, who else would you be,” he said, answering his own question. “Come with me, Sarge wants a word with you, pronto.”
Unsure what pronto meant, Alexander crawled after him for a dozen yards, the occasional zip of a bullet above reminding him to keep low. In a makeshift depression lay the Sergeant, being worked on by another soldier, who was sprinkling the sulphur powder he’d seen used before over the nasty wound, then packing it with a gauze-like material to try and stem the bleeding which was already soaking through the makeshift dressing.
“That’s all I can do for you here, Sarge,” said the man, “Sit tight and don’t die on me. Want a fag?” proffering a packet of the paper tubes.
Sergeant shook his head, then looked at Alexander and called him over. “I’d shake your hand, son, but I need ‘em both to hold my guts in,” He grimaced, as a wave of pain hit him. “You might be a foreign Johnny, but I knew from looking you was a good ‘un. Twenty years a Sergeant gives you the measure of a man, you know. Look, I need a favour.”
Alexander watched as the man reached with a bloody hand up to a buttoned-down pocket on his breast and tried to open it. He leant forward to help him and pulled out a carefully folded letter, handing it to the Sergeant.
“No, you keep it. That’s the favour. Make sure it get’s to the address on the letter. It’s for me girl, Ena, you see?” And with that, his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell silent.
With trembling hands, Alexander picked up the wrist to check for a pulse. Thankfully, he found one and let out the breath he’d been holding. It was faint and irregular as the man’s heart struggled with the increasing blood loss. He quickly took a vial of battlefield nanites and instructed his survival kit to form an injector, the smart-metal doing as instructed, absorbing the vial and extruding the injector. With Vimes expert help, he quickly gave the nanites instructions what to do and pressed the injector against the Sergeants' neck, releasing them directly into his carotid artery. Immediately they went to work, some cannibalising excess body tissue to create more of themselves, oxygenating the blood and stimulating the body to speed up the healing process, others rushing to the damaged areas and sealing off the damaged blood vessels.
Alexander watched Sergeant Streeton carefully for a few minutes until he saw the pale face begin to regain s
ome colour, a sure sign that recovery had begun. Vimes interrupted his train of thought. “The Germans have reached the bridge and have dispersed into the trees but can’t decide what to do next. I think they are happy to wait another hour until it gets dark and then try to either cross the canal or try and run the bridge.”
Sending one of the drones back towards Dunkirk to check if the route was still open and to look for any Germans who might have got behind them, Alexander instructed the remaining one to watch for any attempts at crossing the canal. The two sides exchanged the occasional salvo of shells from their tubes, then settled back into an uneasy truce of sorts, interspersed with sporadic periods of gunfire. During one of the lulls, the medic came back to check on the Sergeant and Alex could see from the look on his face that he hadn’t expected him to still be alive.
He looked across, “Bloody hell, I didn’t expect Sarge to still be with us. I saw you talk to him and do something. Who are you, Florence bloody Nightingale?” he said, half-jokingly.
The sergeant's eyes opened. “I’m tougher than I look, Private Fletcher, they broke the mould when they made me. What’s the situation?” he asked, gingerly lifting up the dressing and looking at his belly wound. “Doesn’t look half as bad as I first thought. Now, have you blown the bridge or what?
“No Sarge, we hadn’t finished bringing all the wires over to the detonator box and it’s too dangerous for someone to go out there and bring ‘em back now.”
“What do you think’s gonna happen if they bring up one of their Panzer 2’s? We’ll be lucky to hit that with our mortars and once it gets across we can all kiss our arses goodbye.” He coughed, wincing at the pain. “Now go get me a volunteer to fetch the wires.”
Imperium: Revelation: Book Two in the Imperium Trilogy Page 15
