Twenty Five Million Ghosts

by Steve Aitchsmith

  At debrief, Albert said he’d found shelter with a friendly smiling man he’d met in the local public toilet. This nice man was willing to let Albert use his spare bed and bathroom, for which he was grateful, even though the man had an annoying eye tick that looked as if he kept winking at him. A few chuckled at the fictitious debrief information and some made a dodgy comment or two.

  The command team were not stupid, they knew the reports were false. They just went along with it, with the exception of the man who tried to say he’d been disguised as a police kangaroo and kept in a police cage all the time. To him they explained that Australian police do not use kangaroos for anything and then sentenced him on the spot to twenty one days regimental punishments. Nobody tried to be a comedian after that although inventing stories became progressively more difficult. Eventually one smart chap explained he’d sat in a pub drinking and assimilating with the locals. He was commended for his resourcefulness.

  At the end of the debriefing they were informed that they would now be moved to Darwin in the far north. The objective was to protect Australia from any attempt by any other power to take advantage of the recently declared war. It was feared that an unidentified somebody might think to snatch some territory while Britain was busy elsewhere. When things settled down and Australia was fully mobilised they would return to Europe to defeat the Germans.

  Oh, that again, thought Albert.

  On the ship back to Britain, Albert was called to the officer’s mess to speak with a staff administrating Rupert, that being a general nickname for any upper class officer seeking safe privileged passage through the army.

  “Well, Aitchsmith, you are fortunate.” The officer supplied him with tea and scones. “The War Office has agreed that if you wish to manage a civil defence unit or two at home you’ll be permitted to serve a few years after this war to make up your time.”

  “I do not, er, wish, sir.” Albert looked a bit cross.

  “Why not? You are not young and this will be an active war,” explained the officer.

  “It’s not very active at the moment. Has anybody even fired a shot yet?”

  “They will, and when it starts it will be a lot more mobile and faster than the last lot. Your experience is needed, very much so, but age alone will slow you down. We value you, you see.” Rupert passed the butter for the scones.

  “No,” stated Albert. “I will see this out, even if it goes over my time, and afterwards I’ll take my pension. I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but how I plan my service is my affair and nobody else’s.”

  “Fair enough,” conceded the administrator. “One last thing, you don’t have to answer this but I’ve read your record and I’m curious. You were wounded in the trenches and then a POW. Your service before and after has been exemplary. Why, just why have you turned down every promotion that’s been offered to you? Why are you still a private?”

  “Oh. Well, sir. It might not make sense to you, with respect. You see you’re from a class that assumes privilege and advantage. I expect you went to an expensive school and, when it was necessary, had private tutors. You probably then just eased into university and then a commission. It’s what was expected. It’s what you felt that men like you do. I don’t intend to be offensive, I’m just trying to explain. The class I’m from, well, it’s a bit of a result if you have food every day. I will never rise to a rank that will undo the social disadvantage I started with. Therefore, I see no reason to take on the responsibility of managing men, except in the field where sometimes I have to do so just to keep them alive. The point is, sir, I’ll follow orders but won’t try to get above myself. It’s not that I think it’s fair, it’s just that I’ve learned I can’t challenge it.”

  “One day, Aitchsmith. Maybe one day, I think things will change. Thank you.”

  Albert’s views had mellowed some. He still considered himself a pragmatic socialist but now also thought of himself as a humane liberal capitalist at the same time. He was now a pluralist, believing that both ideas had merit and could be balanced against each other.

  He’d grown suspicious of absolute solutions, that’s what this war and the last one were about. He thought that pure socialism was a childish philosophy; it merely replaces a paternalistic ruling elite with a paternalistic state. This way the child could still turn to the parent, now the state, for sustenance. It absolves the individual of responsibility and can only work with a coercive approach to manage those it purports to represent.

  He thought that pure capitalism was a heartless philosophy: Every man for himself and devil take the hindmost; succeed or starve. He questioned the idea about the dictatorship of the proletariat, that was just substituting one ruling class with another. Mob rule was inevitable but it needed to be managed though democratic structures. What was needed was universal suffrage, that stopped the political cycle moving on to rule by elites and tyranny.

  It was the voyage that made him think so deeply, lots of sea and time and not much to do. The officers worked hard to keep the men busy with drills, exercise and games. There was one moment of excitement when lookouts spotted a submarine. Everybody was called to battle stations and the escorting destroyer moved towards the suspected enemy.

  It turned out to be a neutral American which surfaced to show itself and thereby avoid accidental conflict. The captain popped out of the conning tower to wave.

  The war kicked off properly during the long voyage. The ship disembarked all troops at Plymouth and then put back to sea for Dunkirk. The locals mistook Albert and the others for Dunkirk survivors and cheered them wildly.

  The troops were then sent to the far north west of Scotland, presumably to prevent anybody from stealing the whiskey. They spent a pointless and chilly twelve weeks being drilled and having their fitness assessed.

  Albert and five others were ordered to find transport and rush down to an isolated pub near some loch. The publican had phoned to say he had an unknown customer with a rucksack and a funny accent. They entered the pub with bayonets fixed and the publican pointed out the man.

  Faced with six bayonets obviously meaning business at the on guard position, the man smiled. “I say, chaps.” The accent was pure posh rich Rupert. “What is this? I’m on a walking tour before I’m posted. I just wanted a drink, that’s all.”

  Albert offered apologies, after checking papers, but the man would have none of it. He entirely understood and was pleased to see the impressive big chaps the Hun will have to face. He offered to buy drinks but Albert declined, much to the disappointment of the others.

  “That is not a funny accent,” he said to the publican. “That is a posh accent from England. That is a posh officer from England. Mind you, thanks for the run out, we were bored.” The posh officer laughed for some reason.

  “That’s fine, you’re welcome,” said the Scotsman. “It’s a funny accent around here. Come back for a drink when you can.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t recognise the accent. Not just trying to drum up drinkers, are you?”

  “I’m insulted. Come back with all your friends and we’ll talk about it.”

  Albert spent a few years guarding shores, being shipped to various parts of the Middle East or North Africa but all without seeing a single German. They did see two Italians in Libya but they were deserters and happily gave themselves up. The poor Italians were in a confused position for this war. Most of them had serious reservations about Mussolini but at the same time, country is country even if it is wrong and doing stupid things.

  The Italians never really fought with much heart. That wasn’t because they can’t, it was because as a people generally, they didn’t really want to be doing the things they were made to do.

  After too many boring years of postings, missing the fighting and guarding things, Albert’s battalion was posted to Weston-super-Mare and told they were being held in reserve. Something wa
s in the air, quite literally, as they were trained on light anti-aircraft guns, a kind of double barrelled ack-ack.

  Albert met up with his youngest brother, Ed, in the town. They did some family stuff to look after other siblings taking refuge in the seaside community. This went on for a little while before Albert and his mates were all confined to barracks. He had seen the vast amount of ordnance and essential goods being stockpiled and allied troops being held in obscure locations. He had an idea that soon he’d be back to shooting people. He regretted that, he just wanted to complete his time and earn his pension. Still, war is a harsh reality and he’d been lucky so far. In a big war like this that couldn’t last.

  It was apparent that the perimeter of the camp was patrolled and guarded by Ghurkhas. This was an unusual thing, a regiment among the fighting best in the world being employed simply as guards? Because his age, length of service and good reputation gave him a special status, Albert asked to talk with the commanding officer.

  “Sir, we know something’s going on and we know we’ll be briefed in time. It’s just that a few of the lads, me included, find it a bit odd that the Ghurkhas are being used to guard the camp.”

  The officer looked at him with something approaching respect. “You’re a bright and observant man, Aitchsmith. I wish you’d accept some promotion. I trust you but I need your word that you’ll tell nobody and I’ll explain as much as I can.”

  “Yes sir, I give my word.” Albert meant this, his word really was his bond.

  “The troops camped here shall soon be shipped into mainland Europe. That’s why we’re in isolation at this time, to prevent any possible leak of information. You will be sent into the final assault against the most powerful and capable enemy we’ve ever faced. The smallest thing might derail this enterprise. If we fail then we can look forward to decades or more of war or even defeat. Nobody comes in and nobody goes out. This is so important that any breach, any entry or exit will be dealt with extremely. I mean that the person will be shot, there and then. Could you shoot one of your mates sneaking out for a pint, or one of the locals sneaking in to sell cigarettes or milk? You might even know them. The Ghurkhas will shoot them, they don’t know anybody here.” The officer looked stern.

  Albert thanked him, confirmed he would keep his word and returned to his barracks. He informed the others that he couldn’t tell them anything except that they’d be shot if they tried to leave camp. They understood.

  The troops were warned that they had four hours to prepare and would then leave. Most men hurriedly penned final letters and completed short wills as ordered. The letters were all taken by a team of staff officers and the troops informed they would be sent to families and loved ones after the operation was public knowledge.

  They were told to take just the clothes they wore, battle dress with no insignia, and personal weapons. Everything else would be supplied to them. They were then taken by truck to a railway station in Devon where they were loaded onto a train and taken to Southampton. There they were crammed onto a Navy transporter with landing craft strapped to the side.

  “Oh shit,” said one of the men. “Oh shitty shit shit, we’re going to war.”

  “I think we’re going to France, my friend,” Albert replied. “I think we’re going to take the fight to the enemy.”

  “I think we’re going to wish we were somewhere else,” said another man and a few people chuckled.

  Full briefing for the troops took place on the ship once it had sailed. In groups of about one hundred they were addressed by their officers.

  “Men, we go to Normandy where we turn the tables on the Nazis and end this nonsense,” the officer exclaimed and then waited for applause that never came. He looked disappointed but continued, “as we sail we join up with thousands of other ships, squadrons of fighters and gliders towed by bombers will be overhead, fighting ships will clear the path and pathfinders will clear the beaches. We’re going to hit them head on and then hit them again and again until they curl up in agony and surrender Berlin to us. We’re going to break the bastards. Every nation on Earth that counts is with us: The whole of the Empire, the Dominions, the Americans and even volunteers from neutral countries are with us. The French Maquis resistance will disrupt the Germans from within and the French military in exile will storm ashore with us. The Free French will deal with the Vichy traitors as they see fit, we follow a plan to liberate the great country and smash the evil nation.” He sensed that most of the men thought he was being a little too theatrical and decided he should tone down his performance.

  “Do they know this or will they do something unexpected, like try to stop us?” The man who spoke was a short, stocky northerner with patchy white hair and boxing ring features. A colour sergeant standing near the edge looked towards him.

  “Ha,” responded the officer. “We will use the landing craft that you’ve all seen, they will be managed by Navy people, we will charge the beach, take the defences and then press inland when instructed. Our teams will march on the town of Caen and deny it to the enemy. It is tactically essential and once we have it we have Normandy. From there we press on. The landing craft have been fully tested by other troops for function and effectiveness and will work well.”

  “So why aren’t the testers doing this? None of us have even been in one before. Are we just the cannon fodder to open up the front?” The northerner looked defiant.

  “That man,” roared the colour sergeant. “This is not a bleeding discussion; these are bleeding orders. You will stop spreading alarm and despondency and listen to the officer. You will bleeding listen and bleed as you are bleeding told to bleeding bleed. Do you bleeding understand?” A few people laughed.

  The officer laughed as well, he raised a hand to quiet the sergeant. “Thank you, sergeant. I think the point’s fair. You don’t need training on the craft, other people will get you on, get you there and get you off. Once told to do so you just need to attack up the beach, take the defences and then make a brew. I know it won’t be that easy. We will lose a few, we will encounter obstacles, mines, wire and booby traps. You are not cannon fodder but you are the first wave. It’s always hard for the first wave. You have been held in reserve for years, each one of you known for your courage, ability and simple straight forward soldierly fortitude. I know you won’t let us down. You will invade in your normal teams, your team commander, officer or NCO, will direct you. If it helps, I’m not going to sit back here and watch you do your thing, I will be in the first craft and charge ashore with you.” Albert thought that deserved a small round of applause and started one, a few others joined in. This man might be a bit of a twit but he was brave.

  They had sailed just before night. By morning they were almost there. The seas were rough and there was a thick mist hovering over the sea up to a height of at least fifty feet. Shadows of the other ships in this vast armada floated in the cloud surrounding them. From the shore it would have looked like a huge number of sleek grey predators slithering towards land out of the eerie white fog. Anybody able to see above the mist, a hill based shore battery for example, would have seen the masts and towers of the big ships cutting through the billowing cloud.

  Even with the most effective briefing, an individual involved at an operative level in something this size will rarely be fully aware of what’s going on or where. Albert knew that an incredible floating harbour had been towed over for the ships to use. He knew that the various countries would be hitting different beaches on a front a few hundred miles long. He knew he’d been told that the enemy would defend every inch of that stretch of coast with heavy batteries and large troop numbers. His experience told him that was not possible, they simply didn’t have enough men or resources to defend every part of the coast to that extent.

  He later learned of the desperate battles fought by the Americans and Canadians at their beaches. He became aware that much of the British beach faced less
severe, although still formidable, opposition. He discovered to his joy that the part of the beach his team hit faced only token opposition. As the front of the landing craft crashed down and the boat commander told them to attack, he and the others charged ashore against no wire, no mines and just a few rounds fired at them from a handful of Germans a little inland who then fled. In total, this little bit of beach suffered just two casualties as they secured their beachhead. Albert also knew that luck like this wouldn’t last.

  Their armour and heavier guns were brought ashore. Further down the coast he could hear the boom of ships guns supporting attacks on more hotly contested landing points. Because it was obvious that the other beaches would take longer to conquer, the British here were ordered not to advance yet but secure their position and send out scouts to identify local enemy positions. The allies appeared to have complete and sole mastery of the air and not a single enemy aircraft approached Albert’s location.

  About six hours after securing their landing zone, Albert and his gang were in proud possession of their twin barrelled self-motorised ack-ack, an eccentric looking engine carrier with a gun on top. The weapon itself seemed to be a pair of old two-and-a-half-inch two pounders merged into a single double barrelled effort, he’d seen them in the first war. They were now reinvented as an anti-aircraft, or AA, gun and cobbled onto what appeared to be an old tractor body with some thin armour at the front. The allied phonetic alphabet at this time used the word ‘ack’ for A, hence the name ack-ack.

  Albert knew that the gun, or guns, actually originated from an 1890s cavalry transportable field weapon called a Pom-Pom, but thought it best to keep this to himself. He was sure it had been improved since then… he hoped. What next, bows from Agincourt?