The pom-pom, now ack-ack was a typically British re-engineering solution. Limited resources applied with sound engineering principles providing an effective but slightly Heath Robinson result. The barrels rifled and firing at a rate of two rounds per second were hardly comparable to the excellent German Spandau. Still, the thing was mobile enough to deal with an unknown aerial threat and with two barrels that meant four rounds a second exploding into the target.
Without any aircraft to actually shoot at they spent their time checking and rechecking the weapon, their lives might depend on it later. All along this section infantry and armour were ready and eager to press on.
“We launch straight at Caen,” the peripatetic staff officer informed them. It was nice to see that, in this war, the staff command and leadership people were actually working in the battle zone. Albert hoped that this might prevent some of the dafter decisions that were made in the last one.
Most of this advance was like a Sunday drive. No opposition and no problems. Local people cheered them as they passed farms and small hamlets. They were becoming overloaded with wine, bread and cakes. About five miles from Caen they encountered the first serious reply from the defenders.
An unexpected spattering of mortars halted them. Armour moved forward, infantry went into battle formations and mobile guns searched the air for the still non-existent Luftwaffe. The tanks didn’t get far when the lead vehicle just exploded. This halted the column and then small arms and automatic fire came from everywhere, rounds were plinking off of the front armour, the gun base and the side skirts. Albert’s gun team was five men, including the officer. They leapt from the gun and ran for cover into a nearby barn. The confusion and disarray of battle descended immediately.
The hundred yard dash for the wooden building left them in the dishevelled and messy state of fighting soldiers. They couldn’t do much to assist what was now a close quarters battle so they decided to stay put and get back to their gun as soon as they could. They were not well armed, as a gun crew the officer and men all carried revolvers. They had just one rifle between them and that had been left on the gun carrier in the haste to stay alive.
They soon crept out of the barn and took up position by a nearby hedge. A small group of Germans appeared, moving at a crouch about thirty yards away across the field and seemingly trying to outflank some infantry. The crew opened fire with revolvers, the inaccurate low powered weapons were completely ineffective. The Germans issued the ultimate soldiers’ insult at this, they glanced at the group, one of them laughed and then they ignored them.
“Let’s get back to the gun, we can use that on them. The bastard laughed at us.” Albert’s suggestion caused the officer to look thoughtful and then nod. They quickly dashed back towards the carrier. When they were fairly close to it the small German group realised what they were doing. Rifle and automatic fire started to spit around them. Albert thought he preferred the initial insult.
They clambered onto the gun, it appeared unharmed. They released all the safety features, pulled the slides to put rounds in the breaches, swung it round and fired a five second burst. The result amazed them. The rounds were designed to either airburst or explode on impact. They were about six inches long, tipped with hardened steel and contained explosive cores packed with small ball bearings. As the rounds impacted around the Germans they exploded and threw up sods of earth. As the air cleared it was obvious the Germans had been torn to pieces. Albert felt bad about that but they had been trying to kill him.
“Right,” declared the officer, “from here on in we use this as a battlefield weapon. There’s no aircraft so we’re going to become a great big mobile artillery.”
“Don’t fire bursts longer than a few seconds,” cautioned Albert, “that last burst almost tipped the carrier over, we were designed to shoot upwards.”
“Well done,” the officer congratulated him on the observation. “When we can we’ll see if the engineers can do something to prevent that.”
A few infantry dashed down the road and grouped behind them.
“What’s happening?” The officer shouted the question down to them.
“I’m not sure, sir,” one replied, “Jerry has panzers up ahead so I think we’ll probably get orders to fall back soon, for now we’re using you for cover if you don’t mind.”
The officer was about to respond but one of the gun crew yelled down, “it’ll cost you half a crown an hour, three bob if you want a seat.”
“I’ll telegraph my bank manager,” one of them replied and both groups chuckled.
“Panzer,” somebody shouted. In front of them, about a hundred yards away stood the horrifying black spectral Tiger tank. Its gun was facing left but, as it slowly advanced, the turret was swinging round towards them.
“Give it what we’ve got boys, if it doesn’t work, well it’s been a pleasure and thanks for being great.”
“If it does work, I’ll remind you that you said that,” shouted Albert. As the others laughed the ack-ack gun fired, a burst of five seconds. Rest. Another burst just the same. The same amazing result. The Tiger was ripped open at the front and the crew visible only as mince meat in the open and mangled crew compartment. Fire spread rapidly in the now useless metal war monster.
“That’s bloody horrible,” somebody said, “those poor sods.”
“As soon as we can, anybody, spread the word to the other crews. We’ve got a new weapon that we didn’t even intend,” shouted the officer.
Caen raged for nearly two months and came close to trench warfare. The French town was bombed heavily in attempts to break the German’s tenacious defence. Armoured columns crashed together and as always individual infantry fought to the last. This was an atavistic clash of tribes, stone age humanity with the ability to throw more than stones, basic uncivilised and cruel domination of one clan by another.
Albert and his crew were permitted one day of rest after the local victory. They did not enter the shattered town but camped on the outskirts. The day was spent cleaning and servicing the gun. Ammunition was replenished and the engine maintained and fuelled.
In the moments they had to actually rest properly they noticed towns people, mainly women and children but some older men, had come from their homes with wine and cheese. Albert was touched by this; these people had suffered, much of it at allied hands as the place was mauled and pounded to get at the Germans. Still they came with gifts.
The soldiers readily accepted the wine but all declined the food. There is little more uncomfortable to a French person’s ear than an English person torturing their beautiful language. Nonetheless, through poorly accented French and broken English, with a little Franglais thrown in, the troops expressed their gratitude but would not take food. Some soldiers gave the town’s people their own rations. It’s anybody’s guess just how they survived the ruthless bombing, civilians should have evacuated beforehand but the Germans wouldn’t let anybody leave.
They were soon reassigned. These mobile guns, never intended for this use, had become an important part of war planning. The senior staff saw them as able to support infantry or tank groups, vulnerable but more agile big hitters able to pin down the enemy heavy armour. As such, they and three other guns were to make their way several miles south east and join up with the Free French.
The officer briefing them for this new adventure was a hard bitten and harsh looking man, a veteran of both wars and never willing to give an inch to the enemy. He saw a natural friend in Albert and greeted him warmly. Such men are capable of great affection once their rock hard exterior has been negotiated.
“We’re winning,” explained the officer, “but the Germans are very good and keep falling back to regroup and counter. I hate to say it but they really are quite impressive.” The men nodded, nobody had ever said the Nazis couldn’t fight. Part of the problem was that they could fight very well indeed.
The little convey set out at dusk. By morning they were with the French and heading fairly rapidly for Paris. It was rumoured that the Germans might surrender it without a fight. The French were adamant that would not save them, these men were angry and looking to avenge their nation’s defeat; if the German’s would not fight, they had best flee.
Whatever the truth of the rumour, the three panzers lurking about fifteen miles west of the city hadn’t heard it. They burst out from inside fire gutted village houses where they’d secreted themselves. They poured machine gun fire onto the infantry and one of them fired its cannon at the mobile guns. As two of the guns returned fire, one of them was hit and exploded. Albert and his crew were hurriedly turning their weapon to aim at the tanks. Albert felt a sharp blow to the top left of his head and then nothing, just a deathly dreamless lack of being. I no longer think, therefore I am not.
He crawled to consciousness from the familiar pit of emptiness. As his eyes adjusted to the light he was aware of two men in white coats standing by his bed. One of them wore German uniform under his whites and the other British. The German uniform collar had remnants of stitching where badges, presumably swastikas, had been removed.
“I’ve been here before,” croaked Albert. “I woke up to prettier faces last time. Is the war over or do both sides just worry about me a lot?” Both doctors laughed.
This time the doctors were able to explain to him everything that had happened: The exploding gun had sent huge chunks of shrapnel flying towards Albert’s gun. Two of the crew were killed and he was hit in the head. The tiger tanks were destroyed and the column pushed on. He was recovered by a British and French medical team following the column. The Americans provided transport teams for all wounded and they brought him to this field hospital in Caen.
The military hospital was attached to the civilian hospital in order to use surgical theatres and other resources. Although most of Caen was flattened in the battle, the hospital received minimal damage because some brave staff managed to get a large red cross flag onto the roof. That didn’t stop all hits, though, and some damage was done.
The German explained that he was a military doctor captured in the initial invasion. As a highly skilled trauma surgeon he was offered the choice of incarceration in England or work in the field here. He chose to work but only if he was treating soldiers from both sides. When Albert was brought in the doctor was called from the POW field hospital to see if he could save him. The doctor said he was so impressed by the plate fitted to the right side of Albert’s head that he’d fitted another on the left.
“I’m astonished that you are alive,” said the German. “You fought in both wars, no?”
“Yes,” said Albert. “And I had to argue to persuade them both times.”
“You are stupid then, no? Or brave, or maybe it’s the same thing. You’ll be fine after a few weeks. No more wars, eh? There are better things to do in life.”
Albert spent three weeks in the field hospital, a long time in the circumstances. He enjoyed the ministrations of the French nurses and the conversation of the German doctor. When he was discharged he bought a bottle of wine from a nurse and gave it to the doctor.
He was returned to England, Guys hospital in London. He learned that Paris had been declared open by the German governor and fell without much damage. The Free French and resistance inside the city had meted out some severe instant justice to occupiers and collaborator alike.
The German governor, Dietrich von Choltitz, had been ordered to defend or destroy the city. He refused and surrendered his occupancy to the returning French after he declared the city open. Albert felt the man probably deserved some kind of monument in Paris.
Maybe the French felt the same but obviously couldn’t do such a thing for fear of public anger. Although the French were ruthless with the Nazi SS and French collaborators in the city, Dietrich von Choltitz and his troops were regarded with some small respect. After all, he had not only saved lives but had preserved a beautiful and soul repairing city. After the war von Choltitz admitted he’d fallen in love with Paris and wished he’d been born a Parisian.
He also lived with his regret at not opposing the Nazis in the early years. He offered posterity no excuses and said he felt ashamed and offered himself as a warning to the future.
Albert was called to his battalion HQ to meet with a senior staff officer. He entered the room with perfect soldierly indoor marching and sat correctly when requested.
“Well, Aitchsmith, what are we to do?” The officer was about sixty, physically fit and imposing with a first war walrus moustache now turned grey. “The King is concerned that the world may have insufficient silver reserves to keep putting plates in your head. Mr Churchill suggests that you be held in Threadneedle Street as a reserve wealth fund. Your head must be worth hundreds.”
Albert chuckled at the joke and resisted the urge to stupidly ask if both the King and prime minister had really said that. “I thank them both, or you, sir, whoever said that.”
“I have authority here in my hand,” the officer waved a sheet of paper, “to enable forthwith the payment of your pension. It includes a lump sum injury allowance and an additional annual sum added in compensation for your wounds. Should you remain in the army I have ordered that you will not be posted to any theatre of war ever again. It’s up to you, pension or cushy office job, which do you want, you awkward, impressive, unswerving, loyal, insane bugger?”
Albert took the pension; he had achieved his goal. He warmly shook hands with the officer who wished him well and expressed his pleasure that Albert survived.
This being the army, it took two weeks to complete all of the relevant rigmarole to retire. He left the army before the war ended with his pension and his sanity. No small feat, he silently opined to himself.
***
The day before I was due to visit the hospice again, the landline rang at about 5 a.m. Two hours earlier, I’d woken up and, in my half sleep, imagined that outside a misty white cloud enveloped the world. I imagined that my mother was saying goodbye. Morning mist, that’s all it was but I knew this was the inevitable call.
“Hello Dave,” I said without even waiting to verify who it was. I would have sounded weird if it was somebody else.
“Psychic, Steve.” He sounded soul drainingly weary and a little emotional. “You know what I’m calling for.”
“Yeah, when was it?”
“A few hours ago. It was quiet and easy. No pain, no struggle. It was time to let go and she went peacefully.” He sighed.
“It’s a littler earlier than I expected, I should have visited yesterday. I could have but I just chilled out here. I’ll get dressed and drive in to get my dad.” I never mean to sound cold but I can deal with anything without allowing emotion to slow me down. It’s not that I don’t care, I do care enormously. It’s just that uniformed work, army, police, it teaches you to throw a switch in
your head. It switches off your feelings and lets you perform; that’s how you can do what you need to do. The feelings dam up. There’s normally a release later. If the switch is left on for too long the release can be spectacular.
“It’s OK, Steve.” Dave’s touch on humanity, his feel for people and events, his simple understanding strength reached out. “Don’t feel guilty, these things are not fully predictable. It’s a bit earlier than any of us expected. I’ve sent a cab to get your dad, we’ll pay the fare.”
“You don’t need to do that. I’ll reimburse you when I get there. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Can I park?” Driving and parking in London is a massive challenge, that’s why I normally use trains and buses.
I heard him half-sigh and half-chuckle. “Sort out your family at home first. I’ll stay with your dad. Don’t take any chances, drive carefully. Settle yourself down first, have a cup of tea and eat something before you leave. When you get here come into the car park at the back. I’ll let security know that you’re authorised. If there are any problems, don’t kick off with them just get them to come find me. There won’t be any problems.”
“It’s OK,” I said. I explained that Dawn, my wife, was working in Devon for the week, something to do with early years education planning, and Alexandra, my daughter, was fully involved at her university because exams were approaching. “I’ll phone and let them know.” Then a thought struck me: “Hey, were you with her all night? There’s no way you sit with everybody and do that; it’s a hospice, people are passing all of the time.”
“I told you,” he said. “I knew Albert, I like your mum and dad. Besides, it’s for you.”
I didn’t really know what to say. “Thanks.” I was moved by this. I hung up and started to make a cup of tea.
Alexandra will be devastated even though she’s expecting the news. She has my skill, if it is a skill, at throwing the switch. She’s probably seen me do it for years. I hope she’s able to release it slowly and avoid the painful emotional flood. Being a bit of a psychology wiz, she once said to me “Emulate the sociopath but not for too long, the emotional suspension is a fake in the rest of us and as long as it’s recognised as such you can let it all out safely.” True enough; only people with empathy even need to use this trick. I’m sure she’ll be able to do it. It bothers me a little that I may have taught her to bottle things up. Still, Dave told me to not feel guilty, so I won’t.
Twenty Five Million Ghosts Page 10
