by Leo Kessler
Yet time was running out rapidly. He had to make a decision. He called Commander McClintock who was running the rescue operation to him and ordered him to make a personal reconnaissance of the situation.
At twenty minutes past twelve, Commander McClintock signalled Hughes Hallett: ‘No more evacuation possible!’
On board the Calpe, the Canadian staff officers pleaded with Hughes-Hallett to wait a little longer. Two brigades of the Canadian Division had been shattered, with the loss of all their senior officers. They could not bring themselves to leave Dieppe and abandon the leaderless survivors to their fate. But Captain Hughes-Hallett was adamant. Reluctantly he signalled Commander McClintock: ‘If no further evacuation possible withdraw!’
The evacuation fleet began to assemble hastily under the cover of smoke, an umbrella of fighters above them, trying to protect them from the German dive-bombers. Meanwhile Hughes-Hallett made one last attempt to weigh up the situation for himself.
At ten minutes to one precisely, HMS Calpe came out of the smoke cover, her sharp prow cleaving the water, all her four-inch guns firing as if she wished to challenge the whole weight of the German military machine. The Germans answered the challenge readily. Steaming broadsides along the length of that long beach, weaving in and out of the incessant German shell-bursts with spouts of churning white water washing over her decks, the Calpe braved the furious enemy barrage.
The beach was a scene of tortured desolation; it looked as if some elemental force had swept along it, scooping out huge hollows, flinging the petty man-made machines of war from side to side, as if they were toys, tossing the bodies of men high into the air and smashing them down again on to the cruel shingle limp and dead.
Captain Hughes-Hallett shook his head sadly. HMS Calpe swung round, her screws churning furiously, and disappeared back into the smoke screen.
Ten minutes later, all hope gone now, Brigadier Southam sent his final signal. More and more enemy troops were being detrained from Dieppe railway station; the first of his surviving Canadians were beginning to surrender.
Note
1 In 1694. (Transl.)
THIRTEEN
The three Churchills of the Calgary Highlanders’ C Squadron rattled triumphantly towards the Goebbels Battery, unaware that their effort was to no purpose. Through a hole in the smoke screen, the leading tank commander caught a glimpse of the battery with one turret apparently firing at the others. He understood immediately. ‘Say guys,’ he cried excitedly over the radio to the rest of the troop, ‘the commandos must have gotten one of the Jerry guns! Let’s go in and give ’em a hand!’
* * *
Von Dodenburg, cautiously leading the advance through the smoke behind Schulze’s Mark IV, heard them first and knew immediately that they were the enemy.
‘Down!’ he whispered rapidly, as the rattle of the advancing tanks grew louder. The company flopped simultaneously into the drainage ditch at the side of the road leading to the Battery and took up their defensive positions. Von Dodenburg doubled forward, grabbed hold of the towing hook at the back of the Mark IV and swung himself aboard. Swiftly he clambered up on the turret.
‘What’s burning, sir?’ Schulze asked cheerfully, looking up at his dirt-streaked face from within the green-glowing turret.
‘Tanks – enemy tanks,’ von Dodenburg gasped. ‘Look!’ he pointed at the squat shapes beginning to emerge from the smoke.
‘Ouch, my aching eggs!’ Schulze exclaimed, ‘three of the bastards!’ Hastily he pressed his throat mike. ‘Matzi, head for that rise at two o’clock! Move it! Get yer skates on!’ He dug his elbow into the corporal, as the tank increased speed. ‘All right, you Hitler Youth hero, park your heroic keester behind that pop-gun. Sergeant Schulze is going to win you the Iron Cross third class this day.’ He swung round and looked inquiringly at von Dodenburg.
Despite his weariness and anger, von Dodenburg grinned. ‘All right, you big waterfront rogue, you’re in charge. Button her up, I’m going.’ He ran to the edge of the Mark IV. ‘And play it carefully. Don’t get your turnip blown off!’ He dropped lightly over the side.
‘Don’t worry yourself, sir,’ Schulze shouted after him, as the tank rolled up the little hill, ‘Mrs Schulze’s favourite son ain’t gonna let some buck-teethed Tommy put an explosive enema up his peace-loving arse!’
* * *
‘Driver halt!’ cried the leading Canadian tank commander hurriedly as they emerged from the fog and he spotted the German tank in the hull-down position behind the little hill, its long, hooded gun pointing directly at the advancing troop. ‘Traverse left … two hundred yards,’ he ordered. ‘Jerry tank … Fire!’
The Churchill jerked to a halt. Next moment it shook with the shock of the six pounder firing. The smoke swept away and the Canadian could see the white glow of the tracer shell as it curved upwards slightly and slowly, before plunging down. To the right of the German’s turret, the steel glowed a sudden dull red.
‘Jesus H Christ, you’ve hit him, Charley!’ cried the tank commander exuberantly.
‘The bastard won’t brew though!’ shouted the sweating gunner, adjusting his sights frantically. ‘I’ll try to get in the joint between the turret –’
The German 75mm spurted flame. The Churchill rocked violently. A hot acrid blast wave swept through the turret, slapping the commander and the gunner against the wall. The commander shook his head, bemusedly, then recoiled in horror. In the smoking shambles of wrecked equipment at his feet lay a Negro’s head.
Beside him Charley giggled hysterically. ‘Rod –’ he meant the driver, whose headless body was still propped up in its seat, both hands gripping the steering rods – ‘looks like god-dam Al Jolson!’
The tank commander pulled himself together. His face blanched with horrified disgust; he kicked the blackened head into the bottom of the tank, where small tongues of blue flame were already licking out greedily for the main ammunition storage bin. ‘Bale out, Charley!’ he screamed fervently. ‘For Chrissake, bale out!’
The two of them scrambled frantically out of the burning turret. Gasping hysterically, they dropped over the side, straight into Major von Dodenburg’s fire. They died without even knowing who had killed them.
* * *
‘Now the next bastard!’ Schulze cried excitedly.
The corporal, bleeding from the wound in his cheek looked at him numbly, as Schulze rammed home another shell. ‘Eh?’ he queried dully.
Schulze punched him in the ribs. ‘In,’ he rapped, as the breech slapped close.
‘On,’ the corporal retorted. Through his sight, the next Churchill was neatly outlined against the cross-wires.
‘Fire!’ commanded Schulze.
The gunner squeezed the firing bar. Next to him, peering through the periscope, Schulze automatically opened his mouth against the blast so that his eardrums would not burst. The Mark IV jerked back on its rear sprockets. Acrid smoke filled the turret. The blast wave slapped Schulze across his face. He blinked and heard the clatter of the shell case as it tumbled, hot and smoking, to the deck.
Two hundred yards away, the second Churchill had come to a halt too, a gleaming silver hole skewering its side.
Schulze rammed home another shell and slapped the breech lever up. ‘In,’ he cried.
‘On!’
‘Kill the bastard this time – Fire!’
The corporal jerked back the lever. The gun erupted. The shell struck the Churchill squarely in its fuel tank. A sole Canadian dropped from the turret, his overalls a mass of blue flame. Von Dodenburg’s machine-pistol chattered. The Canadian jerked convulsively and then was still. The flames began to eat his body away.
The third Churchill began to reverse into the smoke screen, its commander firing the smoke grenades on the turret as it went. But Schulze, his blood up now, was not going to be cheated of his prey. ‘Matzi-’
‘I know!’ the one-legged driver thrust home low gear.
The Mark IV clattered into the white glo
om after the Churchill, its 75mm turning cautiously from side to side in a forty degree arc, as it sought out its prey.
* * *
A hundred yards away, the commander vehemently cursed the frightened driver. ‘You mother-loving, chicken sob!’ he yelled angrily, as the Churchill swayed from side to side on the rough ground. ‘What in Sam Hill did you wanna go and do that for? We could have took the bastard!’
The driver wasn’t listening. The sweat stood out on his brow in petrified beads, his wide staring gaze was fixed on the smoke behind them, fearful that the German tank might appear at any moment and slaughter them as it had done the rest of the troop.
‘I order you to stop and fight!’ his commander cried, beside himself with rage.
‘Yeah, for Chrissake, Slack-Ass,’ the gunner added, ‘knock it off, willya? I can pin his ears back for sure with the six-pounder.’
‘Here it comes!’ the driver screamed. ‘To the left!’
The commander pressed his eyes to the periscope and saw the Mark IV looming up out of the smoke less than a hundred yards away, its 75mm pointing away from them; it had not yet spotted the fleeing Churchill.
‘Driver – halt!’
Nothing happened. The Churchill continued to bump over the rough cliff-top.
‘Joe, in the name of heaven fire!’ the commander yelled in despair, fumbling for his 38, ‘before the bastard sees us.’
Furiously the gunner spun the turret. The Mark IV slid into his sights, blacking out everything else, it filled his whole world. He could see the great black and white cross, the silver-gleaming shell-hole, every rusty rivet, every oil-dirtied bolt. Holding his breath unconsciously, he raced the wheel of the range drum until it registered one hundred yards.
‘On,’ he snapped.
‘Joe, I order you to halt,’ cried the commander, poking his revolver between his big boots in the general direction of the driver’s head below, ‘or I swear to God, I’ll blow the back of your goddam yellow head off!’ He clicked back the hammer.
‘Hurry!’ the gunner urged fervently, ‘they still haven’t spotted us!’ Still no reaction. ‘All right, you rotten bastard, take this!’ He pressed the trigger.
In those close confines, the revolver’s explosion sounded like cannon fire. The gunner lunged instinctively at the firing lever. The unsuspecting Mark IV disappeared from the round circle of gleaming glass sight as if dragged away by an invisible hand, and a moment later the six pounder’s shell whistled harmlessly into the air, well above the Mark IV, as with the dead driver’s foot jammed down firmly on the gas pedal, the Churchill sailed over the edge of the cliff, her crew screaming helplessly, and crashed into the sea a hundred feet below.
* * *
‘By the docked dick of the Great Rabbi!’ Matz breathed out in a long, awed sigh, as the shell fired by the last Churchill whizzed harmlessly past them to explode somewhere beyond the Battery, ‘that nearly parted our hair for us!’
‘I can’t even move,’ Schulze agreed in low voice. ‘If I did, it would start dripping down me leg!’
Behind them in the smoky gloom, Von Dodenburg rose to his feet and commanded in a low voice heavy with weariness. ‘All right, on your feet, men! Advance, we’re nearly there now.’
FOURTEEN
The Laird sadly watched the last Churchill disappearing into the smoke, leaving behind the two burning wrecks. Instinctively he knew that there would be no further attempt now to break through to them. He sensed too that the whole operation had failed. The RAF had disappeared from the battlefield and from the direction of Dieppe, the sound of firing was dying away.
He sat down on the floor with the rest and told himself that what was left of No. 7 Commando had done its bit. Although the shells they had been firing until the Churchills had arrived on the scene had whizzed harmlessly over the other turrets because they had been unable to lower the big gun sufficiently to hit them, they had prevented the Germans from firing effectively out to sea during the crucial period when the fleet had been assembling for the landing.
The Laird felt very weary. They had been fighting now for over twelve hours. They stank of sweat and cordite. It was over three hours since they had last eaten – a piece of bitter chocolate and a handful of raisins from their iron ration – and they were down to the last drops of water left in their water-bottles. The end, he knew, was not far off.
‘What do you think, sir?’ asked the Snotty at his side.
The Laird turned and slowly wiped the greasy film of sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. ‘Usual cock-up, laddie,’ he said thickly through scummed lips.
‘Do you think we’ll get out?’
‘No.’
‘What if –’
‘We won’t surrender. Look at them,’ he swept his hand around the circle of his men squatting on their heels in the gloom of the bunker. ‘Them lads of mine have lived all their lives in the outdoors, the moors, the hills, the fields. What do you think years behind the wire in the bag would do to them? Besides,’ his voice rose in determination, ‘as long as we hold here we can stop this battery from firing at the Navy boys.’
‘I see,’ said the Snotty tight-lipped, knowing now that the Laird’s words had sealed all their fates.
The Laird opened his mouth to say something to comfort him; then changed his mind. They lapsed into silence and the Laird occupied himself with his own thoughts once again.
He hadn’t told the boy the whole truth of course. It wasn’t just the guns – it was the massacred Commando. He didn’t want to get back to England and start the task of trying to rebuild it with new men. Three years of war had worn him out; he could not face the task of turning green callow youths from the recruiting offices into hardened men. Besides, there were the wives and children of the men who had died left behind on his estate at Dearth. If he survived the war, he would have to face them on every day that dawned and know in his heart that he had been responsible for their men’s death. He couldn’t stand that prospect.
‘Sir.’ It was Curtis, standing look-out.
‘Yes?’
‘Yon Jerries are coming, sir.’
Wearily the survivors of No. 7 Commando rose to their feet and manned the slits.
The Laird peered out. A thin, thoughtful line of men in camouflaged uniforms were walking slowly across the yellow, cropped grass towards the turret, holding their weapons at the port, their eyes fixed on the ground, as if they had lost something. ‘SS, lads,’ he announced.
‘Och, Laird,’ Menzies snarled. ‘Dinna fash yersen about them slopeheads. We can tackle them laddies with one hand tied behind our backs.’
‘Ye ken, Laird,’ Curtis added, ‘we’re behind a bluidy foot of concrete. All them laddies have is a wee bit o’ grass in front of them.’
The Laird’s lean face lit up. ‘Yer right enough there, Jock! Come on, lads. Let’s show em what the bash-on boys of Seventh Commando can do!’ He took careful aim with his rifle and fired.
* * *
‘Keep moving,’ von Dodenburg shouted above the noisy crackle of fire which had erupted from the turret. ‘Keep moving!’
One or two of the Hitler Youth volunteers who had dropped to the parched yellow grass got to their feet and rejoined the line.
‘That’s right, boys,’ von Dodenburg said approvingly. ‘As long as you’re moving you’re safe.’ A slug whined through the air close by him and his voice faltered for a moment. ‘Once they’ve got you stopped, you make a nice juicy target for them. Keep moving now!’
He quickened the pace. If the Tommies had a machine-gun in the turret, they’d open up with it any moment now and that would be the end of his advance; they had to be close enough to the turret before that happened to be able to cover Schulze and Matz in the Mark IV when it appeared on the scene.
‘At the double!’ he yelled suddenly, as he spotted the long dark barrel protruding from one of the slits.
The company broke into an awkward trot. The enemy machine-gun opened up almost w
ithout warning. A man next to von Dodenburg swayed crazily, screaming through the bright arc of blood gushing from his throat. Von Dodenburg felt it soak his shoulder, wet and hot.
‘Come on, you cowards!’ von Dodenburg screamed desperately. ‘Heaven arse and twine, keep going!’
But already men were flinging themselves down everywhere in the shelter of a shallow ditch, fifty metres away from the turret, sobbing and screaming with fear, rage, exhaustion as they hit the ground.
‘Oh, you shitty bastards!’ von Dodenburg cursed as he saw that the company was bogging down, realising that there was nothing he could do about it. He slumped down with the rest, defeated, knowing that now Schulze and Matz would have to take their chance alone.
* * *
Schulze crawled cautiously back to the Mark IV hidden by the slight rise and rejoined Matz who was ecstatically smoking a looted Canadian cigarette.
‘Shit, Schulze,’ he exclaimed, taking the tiny stub of the cigarette out of his mouth, ‘to have a smoke of this stuff is almost as good as shooting your load. We’re in the wrong shitty army –’
‘Trap!’ Schulze cut him short angrily. ‘The CO didn’t make it. Those wet-tails of his got within fifty metres and then they wet their knickers. They dived for cover.’
Matz savoured the last of the cigarette taken from one of the dead Canadian tankers and said: ‘So?’
‘So we’ve got to face up to that crapping great cannon of theirs on our own lonesome.’
Matz nodded. He knew what Schulze meant. When the CO had planned the attack he had hoped that the infantry might have put the big gun out of commission so that the Mark IV could complete the destruction of the bunker in safety. He lowered the tiny stub of cigarette to the ground and placed his boot on it gently. He breathed two streams of blue smoke out of his nostrils. ‘What we gonna do then, Schulze?’
‘We’ll come in from the right flank over there, firing as soon as we cross the top of the ridge.’
