The Steel Fist

by Richard Townsend Bickers

  Taggart bit off what he had nearly said.

  “Thanks to me. Exactly.”

  “For God’s sake drop it now, George. Don’t you want to hear about my revels in Paris?”

  A sheepish grin from Dempster.

  “Sorry. Yes, of course, I’m all ears and envy.”

  “Right. But before I tell you my lurid story, one last word on this... squalid subject you insisted on dragging up.”

  “Yes?”

  “How many more patrols did you do?”

  “Three.”

  “And what happened?”

  “We brought back a prisoner from one, and a Spandau. We had an inconclusive scrap on another. No contact on the third one.”

  “Did you make a bog of any of them?”

  Dempster shook his head.

  “There you are, then. You’ve done twice as many patrols as I have and been in one more battle. Did you have the breeze up again?”

  “Every time. All the time.”

  “That’s the right answer. Anyone who doesn’t feel scared is an insensitive idiot.”

  “You don’t get the wind up.”

  “Thanks for the compliment: so I’m an insensitive idiot, am I?”

  “Do you...?”

  “Of course. So does the Major... and everyone else, if you’d ask them.”

  “No one shows any signs of it.”

  “And nor did you. Everything you’ve told me is totally new to me. I didn’t think you were acting windily and nor did any of my troops.”

  God forgive me for lying my head off. But this is going to be as maudlin as Little Dorrit or Tiny Tim if I don’t shut him up. What a sickeningly morbid mind Dickens had. He’d have been able to write about poor old George with gusto.

  “Really? Honest Injun?”

  “Ug. Isn’t that what Red Injuns are supposed to say?”

  “Well... thanks... sorry to bore you with all that shittiness... so, you’ve been up to amorous escapades in Paris have you, lucky chap? Cutting a wide swath?”

  “Not really: just one blade of grass, if that’s the way to put it. Name of Micheline... petite, brunette... and very, very luscious...”

  Dempster leaned back against the padded settle and a grin appeared on his face.

  * * *

  He might not have been so unconcerned had he been able to eavesdrop on a conversation taking place less than half a mile away. Corporal Fysshe-Smith was generous in sharing his advantages with his comrades in B Company. His mistress had inherited a farm from her husband and was childless. Flattered by the attentions of a man fifteen years her junior, determined not to accept proposals of marriage from any of her local suitors who, she suspected, coveted her farm rather than her body and character, she encouraged her Bernard to bring his friends to meals.

  There were two of them this evening: Udall and a member of Dempster’s platoon who had been in Dempster’s first patrol; and gone out with him again a week later.

  Bernard Fysshe-Smith liked to know all that was going on around him. Officers are a natural topic of discussion among the men they command. Loyalty had kept the members of Dempster’s first sortie tight-lipped. Fysshe-Smith intended to unbutton Private Gallagher’s mouth. Gallagher was a Glaswegian and therefore a born iconoclast. His father, a plumber, had married a South London girl whom he met on holiday in, adventurously, Margate. She had eventually persuaded him to move to Balham when Gallagher, aged fourteen, had left school. At seventeen Gallagher had joined the Territorials. London had contributed nothing to the ginger-headed Gallagher’s accent, which was still pure Gallowgate.

  The widow, Yvette — a coy name for so plump and tall a lady — had fed them on soup, capon, a tart made with her own bees’ honey, and home-made cheese. She had lubricated them with red wine and marc.

  The conversation had covered football, racing, the London music hall, and had now reached current events. Yvette, for whom her lover interpreted, pretended an interest in these topics until the last was broached; when her participation became genuine. It was not long, however, before Fysshe-Smith directed it along a channel at which his interpretation ceased. This was a matter for B Company alone and not even his bedmate could be admitted to the mystique.

  “Remember what Chalky White said that night when we went to get Dempster’s lot out of the shit, Bert?”

  “Chalky talks so bleedin’ much...”

  “I’ll remind you. When Mister Taggart was expecting Dempster to retreat under our covering fire, and he didn’t budge...”

  “Yeah, I remember: ‘Windy sods’. Trust Chalky.” Gallagher, looking owlish in his cups, burped and scowled pugnaciously.

  “We weren’t windy...”

  “It was only Dempster,” Fysshe-Smith said quickly. Gallagher gave him a sullen look, then turned his eyes away and, eventually, nodded; reluctantly.

  “Yon’s a’ richt, but that first time I... we all... thought he’d pissed and shat himself and that was why he couldn’t move.”

  Yvette, with knitted brows, gave up the attempt to follow the Scot’s outlandish accent which totally obscured the few words of English she knew, and began to clear the table.

  “I saw it. So did Mister Taggart.”

  Udall sucked his teeth. “Me, an’ all.”

  “But he was O.K. the next time,” Gallagher looked challenging now. “I was on patrol with him twice more. The second time, we were in that ficht wi’ Jerry when we captured a Spandau and I can tell you Dempster was a braw fichter that night.”

  “Half the blokes on that first patrol wouldn’t go out with him again.” This was a flat statement, but Udall knew that old Fishy — crafty sod — was angling for information.

  “Three of them went sick. You canna have lads on patrol who are going to sneeze and let Jerry know where you are.”

  “They caught cold very conveniently.”

  Gallagher decided that his indiscretion had gone far enough. He was not sure that he had not been guilty of disloyalty.

  “Mebbe it was yon malingerers that were windy. It wasn’t they didna want for tae go oot wi’ Dempster: they just had no stomach for anither patrol at a’.”

  “In which case they’ve got no place in B Company,” Fysshe-Smith said piously.

  Yvette was bending over the table to remove dishes. He caressed her shapely rump and she smiled obliquely at him.

  The two private soldiers exchanged an envious look.

  “Hoo about a little roamin’ in the gloamin’ doon tae the red licht hoose, Bert?”

  “Yeah, I’m on, Jock. Seein’ old Fishy all randy-like’s given me a hard-on you couldn’t bend with a sledge ‘ammer.” Udall turned a mocking smirk on the corporal. “Remember what you said when we came back from the first patrol? You said Dempster would be cool-headed.”

  “Well, so he was, according to Jock.”

  “Yeah. After he’d gone in his pants and learned a lesson from our platoon bloke.”

  * * *

  The boredom of inactivity pressed all the more heavily after the brief period of excitement. Taggart resented the wound that had kept him out of any more patrols. His platoon, deprived of both himself and Sergeant Duff, had patrolled again under the company commander and company sergeant major, both of whom were delighted by the additional opportunities. They had reported that the men had been steady and done well in all respects. From that at least Taggart could derive some pride.

  The entire Western Front stagnated. On 30th October 1939 the R.A.F. had won its first victory when a Hurricane of No 1 Squadron shot down a Dornier 17. Three days later a 73 Squadron Hurricane shot down another. On 23rd November these two squadrons destroyed five Do 17s and two Heinkel 111s. Since then, winter weather had hindered German reconnaissance flights. Now and again one would appear over France and sometimes the R.A.F. was able to intercept it.

  At sea the Royal Navy escorted convoys and attacked marauding U-boats. Taggart thought of them with envy. They were the most active of all the Services at that time.
>
  In March enemy aircraft ventured over France in growing numbers and the fighter squadrons of the Advanced Air Striking Force and the Air Component of the British Expeditionary Force were there to catch them. More than once, Taggart, on a route march or at firing practice at the butts, saw aerial dogfights. Now he began to feel envious of the airmen. What was more, he had heard that although they were officially forbidden to cross the German frontier, they often went as far as 40 miles into Germany to look for a fight.

  If only I could take the platoon across the frontier. It was a daily thought.

  On the evening of 8th April there was a fresh topic of conversation that brought a premonition that the German war machine was about to move from bottom gear towards full speed.

  B Company was on stand-down and the officers arrived in mess just after the 6 p.m. news; to find the ante-room buzzing with talk and everyone who was off duty looking pleased. The Colonel and the Adjutant were the centre of a discussion.

  “Just missed the good news,” the Colonel called to them. “Jerry is trying to land in Norway and Denmark, and one of our destroyers has rammed a heavy cruiser off Trondheim. And one of our subs has sunk a large troop transport in The Skaggerak.”

  “Good show.”

  Major Eugster’s response was automatic and Taggart wondered whether Eugster had any more idea than he himself exactly where either of these places was.

  He also wondered what had happened to the ramming destroyer. Surely the act must have been similar to slinging a half-pint tankard against an iron bathtub. In fact it was later admitted that she, Gloworm, had sunk.

  B Company was on duty in forward positions the next night and heard on a portable radio that the Germans had landed in both Norway and Denmark, and that Copenhagen had fallen.

  On the 10th, still on the defence line along the Luxembourg border, Taggart had a call on the field telephone.

  “Corporal Fysshe-Smith here, sir. I’ve just heard on my wireless that five of our destroyers have been in a battle in Narvik Fjord. And the Liitzow has been badly damaged by submarines in the North Sea. We’ve bombed a Jerry cruiser, the KOnigsberg, in Bergen harbour and sunk it.”

  “Thank you Corporal. And for future reference, no ‘the’ before the name of a naval vessel; and they’re not ‘its’, they’re ‘shes’.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll remember.”

  Taggart, grinning, knew that he would. Corporal Smith garnered every crumb of information that he could to advance his social knowledge.

  14th April. The Colonel, looking as glum as though he had been omitted from a Royal Garden Party, said “One of our brigades has landed in Norway. And the R.A.F. is bombing hell out of the Hun up there.”

  He was a belligerant man, for a stockbroker.

  1st May. Taggart, on stand-down, was roused by Udall with a cup of tea and the information that the British forces in Norway had begun to evacuate during the night.

  “D’you think Jerry’ll have a go at us, now, sir?”

  “Bound to.”

  The hours spent at stand-to along even the neutral frontiers of Luxembourg, Belgium and Holland began now to be fraught with expectation by the whole B.E.F. Bayonet and rifle practice took on an air of reality and urgency.

  Taggart found his senses sharpened by the recollection of his two short, small-scale actions. He smelled again the stimulating odour of burning cordite and heard the exciting smack of his and his men’s bullets striking enemy flesh. He relived the moment when he had taken the two Germans by surprise, killed one and captured the other. He tingled with eagerness to fight again.

  8th May. A conversation with Dempster.

  “Thank God that old fart Chamberlain has resigned, Rodney.”

  “We won’t be any better off if that Holy Joe drip Halifax takes over as Prime Minister. Dreary bores, the pair of them; and about as enterprising as a man juggling with one ball.”

  Dempster, alone again with his platoon, fretted at his sense of inadequacy and uncertainty. He had, for the past three months, been making an effort to erect barriers between himself and the weakness and irresolution he had recognised within, the first time he came under fire. He was more afraid of failing again than of being killed. To show fear and survive would be an intolerable disgrace. He had unrelentingly set himself to banish guilt, to forget the episode, to equip himself mentally for what must come. He knew that he could never again broach the subject with Taggart. He was entirely on his own.

  Taggart was woken from a heavy sleep at four a.m. on 10th May, in a concrete pillbox on the defence line.

  Udall, shoving a mug of tea at him, said “Something’s up, sir. Colonel’s sent for the company commanders.”

  Standing in the door and looking eastward, Taggart could see nothing to cause alarm. But his scalp prickled and he felt the tight spasms in the groin that came before violent and dangerous physical exertion.

  First light had crept over the landscape. Taggart heard aeroplanes in the distance. He supposed they were the enemy on reconnaissance and the R.A.F. on patrol. Perhaps the French and Belgian Air Forces were up there somewhere as well. And the Luxembourgeois... was there a Luxembourgeois Air Force? He could see neither shell nor bomb bursts, nor the effulgence of star shells and Verey lights. He could hear no gunfire.

  The telephone rang and he hurried back from the doorway.

  It was Major Eugster.

  “The balloon’s gone up, Rodney. Rotterdam and The Hague attacked by parachutists. Glider-borne troops have landed right on top of Fort Eben Emael.” The fort was a few miles north of the battalion’s front. “We’re to expect heavy tank attacks and dive-bombing.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “By tomorrow morning, is the Intelligence appreciation.”

  “I take it we’re to hold fast here, sir?”

  “Yes. It looks as though the attack will develop along the whole length of the Luxembourg, Dutch and Belgian borders.”

  So much for The Maginot Line. Hitler had done the obvious and swept around its northern extremity, and to hell with the neutral countries which lay between his armies and France.

  The German Panzer divisions and their dive-bombers were confronted only by a single line of entrenchments, each stretch of trench separated from its neighbours by large tracts of ground where no trenches had been dug. In front of these were barbed wire, tank traps and minefields. From the southern end of the Line ran a natural barrier of hills and mountains as far as Switzerland; reinforced by more wire, concrete bunkers, redoubts, anti-tank obstacles and mines.

  Taggart contemplated the immense weight that would be concentrated behind the punch about to be aimed at the narrow front the battalion was helping to defend. It was not an encouraging reflection.

  Am I going to be taken prisoner in the first few days of real fighting?

  It was an ignominy not to be borne. If the enemy broke through here he would find some way to survive, to keep his liberty, to fall back to the next defence line... and the next... and the one after that: until the Allies could counter-attack and drive the Nazis back whence they came.

  We can’t retreat any further than the Channel coast. Let’s hope we aren’t driven as far. But, if we are, we’ll know it’s the end of running backward and there’ll be only one thing left to us: to hit back hard enough to shove the bastards out the way they come.

  By mid-morning the rumble of artillery and the thud of high-explosive bombs reached the battalion. Hurricanes streaked across the sky. Heinkels and Dorniers flying at 10,000 feet appeared in droves, strongly escorted by Messerschmitt 109s and 110s. He saw the greatly outnumbered British fighters intercept the enemy formations without hesitation and watched burning aircraft tumble from the sky. Through field glasses he estimated that for every six emblazoned with the German cross on wings and fuselage and a swastika on the tail fin, there was only one bearing the R.A.F. roundel and stripes.

  It was a day of tension and anger: anger at the sight of such vast German air strength opposed
by so few British machines; tension engendered by listening to the growing noise of battle and trying to estimate the rate of the enemy’s progress and the moment when shells and bombs would begin to fall on the battalion.

  The only alleviating event of the day was the news that Winston Churchill had been appointed Prime Minister.

  Five

  An hour after dawn on the 11th May the German barrage opened. It did not take long to establish that the rate of fire was forty shells a minute. It continued for an hour. The ground shuddered under the impact. Tall flames leaped where each shell landed, throwing up earth, trees, barbed wire; and sometimes men. Smoke coiled and drifted, the stench of high explosive tainted the air.

  The British artillery replied, its shells screeching overhead or rumbling past with the sound of an express train in a cutting.

  Where were the dive-bombers and tanks which had crushed Poland in five weeks, eight months ago?

  B Company held a 200-yard trench with a sandbagged parapet and a concrete underground command post. Tagart’s No 4 Platoon was at the right of this short front, with No 3 Platoon, under Dempster, on its immediate left.

  When shells fell in A Company’s trench, beyond 100 yards of grassland, Taggart felt the tremor of the concussion through the soles of his boots. He heard orders being shouted and presently saw stretcher-bearers hurrying to the regimental aid post 500 yards in the rear.

  Shells burst short of his own trench and he watched the reaction of his men, his stomach tightening at the thought that the next salvo would probably fall on them.

  The troops stolidly faced their front, some involuntarily ducking when steel fragments whizzed past. He and Sergeant Duff strolled, with as much apparent unconcern as they could muster, from one end of the platoon sector to the other. Nobody spoke. Taggart caught Fysshe-Smith’s eye as the corporal turned for a moment to check that his section was alert. The corporal looked away without showing any recognition.

  At the end of his short stretch of front, Taggart met Dempster, also walking up and down his platoon.