by David Fraser
What he saw was startling.
Unmistakable, menacing, a line of wholly unfamiliar tanks was moving southwards towards them, at a distance of under two kilometres from where Frido stood, on the outskirts of a small village. Between those tanks and his own vehicles and troops another minor road ran parallel to his own. This road was being used by a second company of the Regiment. They, too, were halted. Presumably they, too, had seen what he had seen. Thirty seconds later, two vehicles from the neighbouring company burst into flames simultaneously. Men were leaping from vehicles, diving into ditches and behind walls.
‘Out! Out!’ yelled Frido. He shouted a command or two, aimed at getting his soldiers into some sort of firing positions. He heard a Feldwebel take up the order. It was impossible to drive clear in vehicles – they were jammed in front and had closed up behind. To try to turn would be laborious and suicidal.
‘Out! Out!’
The line of enemy tanks was closer. He could now hear machine gun fire, presumably from the tanks. A vehicle, two behind Frido’s, exploded like a matchbox accidentally ignited. Most of the enemy’s fire seemed to be going high. Men were cowering behind vehicles or in ditches. This was a new and disagreeable experience.
‘Marvell, you speak German. You’re urgently needed for a special job. You’re going to be attached to another brigade headquarters, not ours, to help with on-the-spot interrogation of German prisoners.’
‘German prisoners, sir? I didn’t know we held them in unmanageable numbers!’
His Company Commander did not smile.
‘We may soon. There’s a big action due – a counter-attack. Now get cracking. Here’s where you’re to go. Jephson will drive you down. You’ve got to be there by nine o’clock in the morning at the latest. You’ll be crossing the main refugee routes. Shouldn’t be too bad.’
‘Must I leave my platoon, sir? At this moment?’
‘Stop arguing and get down there. It’s nobody’s fault but yours that you speak fluent German. You know perfectly well every linguist’s name is listed.’
Anthony had spent six months as an officer. His commissioning had been advanced because of the imminence of war and he had been sent to a depot for four months with a large number of other junior officers, all more or less ignorant of military practicalities, duties or traditions, all more or less sceptical of the realism of such knowledge as was being imparted to them. Had war not intervened Anthony was scheduled to serve with his own Territorial soldiers, unskilled perhaps, but familiar certainly. As it was, the inscrutable ways of the Army whisked him away to a large training establishment where raw recruits and equally raw officers of the same Regiment were assembled together in huge numbers and somewhat mistrustful proximity. The winter had been frustrating.
‘I wish to God I could have a platoon of my own! I’d learn much quicker with a little responsibility, rather than theorizing about how to command men and being treated like a delinquent schoolboy!’
‘There’s no demand for more officers at the moment, Marvell. There’s no fighting, no casualties. It’ll come.’
‘Some of us will have rotted from boredom by then.’
‘We’ve got to be patient. The Army’s expanding, new battalions, new divisions. It’ll come.’
And it had come. In March, 1940 Anthony, proud and refreshed, had found himself at last a junior commander in his own right, a warrior among his peers, in a Service battalion, and within weeks that battalion was in France. He had just about come to terms with the men in his platoon and the officers in his battalion when the alarm went on that May morning ten days ago. 10th May. The Germans had invaded Belgium and Holland! The long-awaited enemy offensive had started! The War had begun.
The ensuing days were chiefly noteworthy, in Anthony’s mind, for lack of sleep. Fear, so far, was principally caused by air attacks which had been fierce, sudden and alarming. The battalion had twice been caught by the Luftwaffe on the move in vehicles – a most disagreeable experience, full of noise, explosions, shouts and acrid smells. Astonishingly, there had been no casualties. But all the time, after the first days, they were going back – back through Belgium, back towards the places whence they had started, back, back, back.
Of the German Army, Anthony had seen remarkably little. There were plenty of stories, of course, stories that lost nothing in the telling. It was said that German tanks had fallen in huge numbers on the brigade next door. German infantry appeared to have lapped like flood water round the flanks of a neighbouring division. Anthony had experienced none of these things. There was a good deal of artillery fire but it always seemed rather distant. The campaign had, for the most part, consisted of incessant marching, digging and waiting: accompanied by a great deal of explanation to his sceptical but, by and large, patient men about the destination of the march, the purpose of the digging (‘I know we left the last trenches fifteen minutes after finishing them, O’Halloran. It’ll be different one day. They’ll save our lives’) and the fact that some shrewd operational plan inspired the waiting. It was not always easy.
It would have been a great deal less easy without the aid of his platoon sergeant. In the few weeks of their service together, Anthony had come to the conclusion that Sergeant Chester was probably the best and certainly the nicest man he had ever known. A coal miner in civil life, a reservist who had originally served seven years from the age of sixteen, Chester was strong, very quiet and a mountain of loyal common sense.
They’ll dig fast enough, sir,’ Chester said, ‘when they’ve had a few mortar bombs among ’em. Like B Company.’ For Chester’s stories were gathered by the reliable word-of-mouth network of communication to which every senior noncommissioned officer in the battalion appeared connected, however widely they were dispersed. Chester passed on news only when it was true.
‘Yes, I gather those bangs last night were on B Company. On the canal line.’
That’s it, sir. Jerry mortars. Very accurate they were. Two men and Corporal Jackson copped it.’
They had stood to arms throughout the previous night but although the darkness was full of distant firing nothing had happened on Anthony’s Company front. He had been round the positions in the grey light of a drizzling dawn. Private Verity stood to attention in his slit trench. He wore his groundsheet, for the minuscule waterproof protection it afforded. He also wore an enormous, infectious grin. Verity was very young. He looked about fifteen. Anthony had seldom seen him without a smile. Some NCOs would have been irritated by his unfailing, irrepressible good humour. ‘What have you got to grin about, Verity?’ they would have barked. Not so Sergeant Chester.
‘Verity’s a good lad, sir,’ Sergeant Chester would say. Anthony thought so too. Something touched his heart as he looked into the sodden trench of this young man with his huge smile and his innocent good nature.
‘All well, Verity?’
‘Champion, sir. Will the Jerries attack us today?’
For Verity’s zeal for battle was as unaffected as it was untypical. Mostly the men moved, grumbling but enduring, from one place, one task, one hazard to another. Verity was that curiosity, an enthusiast.
‘I don’t know if they will or not. Anyway, you’ll deal with them, won’t you Verity?’
‘I will, sir!’ More grinning as Verity tapped the butt of his rifle. He was a notably bad shot.
‘Please, God, make me worthy of these people,’ prayed Anthony. ‘I know terribly little, like most of them.’
Withdrawal, thought Anthony, was a muddled, depressing business. There had been exhilaration in that first great bound forward into Belgium on 10th May. Since then, all had been puzzlement, rumour and retreat. And all the time the enemy – despised by the British at the outset as likely to be undernourished, drugged by lying propaganda and lacking in initiative – was assuming in their minds magical proportions. From the first days euphoria and overconfidence began to be replaced by confusion, resentment and, inevitably, disquiet. The resentment fed on anecdote. Allies, both Fr
ench and Belgian, were described in tale after tale as cowardly, ill-disciplined and, most certainly, disloyal. They didn’t want to fight. They preferred the Germans to each other and to the British. Resentment fed, also, on stories about other arms of the British service, invariably unfavourable.
‘Did you hear that, sir? RAF have refused to take on the Jerries until they get a day off?’
‘When we came over, sir, there was a line of hundreds of tanks in the docks. Tank chaps, too. Black berets. Where are they now? Why’ve we seen none of them? Jerry tanks going where they bloody like.’
‘I expect there’s a good plan,’ said Anthony. ‘We can only see a tiny bit of the front. As for the Air Force story, I don’t believe a word of it.’ The men grunted. They liked him. They liked his thoughtfulness, his way of giving them his whole attention, of never seeming patronizing or stuck up. They liked the way he laughed and somehow included them in the joke. They thought him bright, too: able to read a map, able to express himself – to find the way and to convince. They liked all that. It made them feel they were in sound hands. But they wanted to believe that others had betrayed them, let them down. Fear needs scapegoats. And beneath their patient humour the men were beginning to feel unease which was not far from fear, unease which stemmed from a sense that they were part of a machine under imperfect control. This unease could make them more vulnerable to stark physical fear when it came. The individual soldier’s resilience and courage could be, and Anthony sensed it, undermined by mistrust of the powers in whose hands he was.
‘Pity the lads don’t know a bit more of what’s going on,’ said Sergeant Chester. ‘It’s hard for them, like.’
Now perhaps – even probably – there was going to be a fight, and Anthony would command these men in battle. It was 20th May. They had withdrawn to places not far from those whence they had moved forward ten long days ago. A lot of Belgium must have been given up, but it wasn’t the end of the world. As for the rumours of a big break through south of them, south of the Franco-Belgian frontier, behind their right flank, Anthony was sceptical. An elderly officer had said to him at the Depot,
‘Things are never as bad in war as the fellows in the rear areas tell each other. They panic first. I remember March ’18.’
It had the ring of truth. But the Germans seemed to have dealt the French some nasty blows and certainly the Allied plan to hold from the Maginot Line northward, forward of Brussels, had gone up in smoke long ago. Now, however, it looked as if there was going to be a fight.
So that it was the last straw suddenly to be removed from his platoon and sent miles into the blue simply because he could speak German! He made one last attempt to demur.
‘When will I be released, sir? Am I to hand over –’
‘God knows when you’ll be released, Sergeant Chester is perfectly competent to command your platoon, now shut up and get off.’ His Company Commander relented. ‘The CO had a direct order to send you but he told me it will be for under forty-eight hours. Probably only twenty-four, if that. Off with you, and mind you wring the last drop of information out of the Huns!’
Heavy hearted, feeling a deserter, Anthony made his way southward. From his inadequate knowledge of the situation he tried to satisfy the driver’s curiosity.
‘Is it true what they’re saying, sir –?’
‘I don’t know. Now step on it, I’ve got to be there as quick as possible.’ Mercifully they were, as his Company Commander had forecast, crossing the main refugee flight paths.
On arrival at the brigade headquarters to which he was to be attached, more than an hour later than planned, Anthony’s first impression was of a fatigue infinitely greater than his own. He reported himself and was curtly gestured to wait in a corner of the barn where most activity seemed to be. He waited. Waiting was a feature of Army life which even the inexperienced soon learned to accept. After about twenty minutes in the corner of the barn, while officers scurried this way and that, he was surprised to hear his Christian name uttered. Was it conceivable somebody meant him?
‘Anthony!’
Anthony’s face broke into what he felt must be the widest smile it had ever expressed.
‘Robert! What the hell are you doing here?’ It was indeed Robert Anderson. They had not seen each other since one weekend in London, in their early days in the Army. Robert had done his initial training in Scotland. Anthony had had no recent news of Robert’s whereabouts or duties. Now he experienced, for the first time, the ineffable joy of unexpectedly finding a familiar and beloved face, feeling a warmth from sudden association with other, happier times, amongst the confusions, deprivations and anxieties of war.
‘What the hell –?’
‘I’m a Staff Officer! I know – you find that incredible! So do I! Well, I’m a sort of Staff Officer, anyway. Attached. Why are you –?’
Anthony explained his presence.
‘Wonderful! I’ll introduce you –’ Robert took him in hand. ‘They’re very nice here,’ he whispered to Anthony, ‘but they’re absolutely whacked. It’s pretty good chaos, but never mind!’
Ten hours later Anthony was ordered to return to his battalion. Astonishingly, a small truck was travelling northward to Corps Headquarters, passing through the village where (according to the brigade location map which he regarded with misgiving) his own battalion was now deployed. He hitched a lift. As he huddled beside the driver he exhaustedly reviewed the day just over. The driver hummed a tune. He did not feel that the presence of an unbidden second lieutenant imposed silence.
‘You want to go to Vencourt, sir, don’t you?’
‘Yes, it’s where my battalion’s meant to be.’
‘We go through it. Came down that way this morning. Not bad most of the way.’
‘It’s a decent road is it?’
‘Rotten road, like road, sir, if you get me. I mean not too many civvies on it. Refugees. What with them and the Frogs it took us an hour to go three miles yesterday.’
They drove on in the darkness. The road was packed but traffic was moving, albeit slowly.
‘That right what they’re saying, sir, that we’re pulling out?’
‘No, I’m sure it’s not. We’ll sort it all out, I’m sure of that.’
‘Jerries pretty tough, ain’t they, sir!’
‘Yes. But we’ll beat them. In the end.’
Traffic ahead seemed momentarily clearer. Suddenly the driver swore and braked.
‘F– me!’
There was a small knot of people in some sort of uniform on the road ahead. They paid no attention to truck or horn. They appeared to be wearing overalls. One came silently to Anthony’s window. His overalls looked more like pyjamas. They were all over the road, waving their arms. The driver lifted his window flap.
‘Hey! F– off! You’re blocking the f-ing road!’
Vehicles behind him sounded their horns. Several more of the pyjama’d group ran to Anthony’s window. He was aware of grinning, slavering mouths, incomprehensible, whimpering sounds, and fingers scratching at the talc.
‘F-ing loonies!’ said the driver disgustedly. ‘Gaols, loony bins, they’re emptying ’em all!’ He negotiated his way forward without too much scruple and Anthony heard a yelp.
‘Steady! They can’t help themselves, poor creatures.’
‘We don’t want the old Luftwaffe to find us halted here head to tail, neither, do we, sir?’
They drove on. Anthony’s mind went back to the morning.
At first it had seemed as if he was, indeed, wanted for the interrogation of prisoners, that he had not been despatched on a fool’s errand.
‘Get down that lane,’ the Brigade Major said to him suddenly, half an hour after his arrival at the barn. ‘Just down there you’ll find a Military Policeman with some SS prisoners. For God’s sake try to find out what there is in front of us south of the main road. Then we’ll send them back, but if they’ve got anything red hot we need it here and now, not when Division and Corps have digested it.
We’ll all be dead by then.’
‘I’m not sure I know the questions to ask, sir. I speak German but I’m not –’
‘Of course you’re not. You know nothing, our Intelligence Officer’s dead, you’re not a soldier, you’re useless, but you speak German and you just might be better than nothing. Look at this map.’
Anthony did.
‘That’s where we think the Germans have got to.’
Anthony had seen no map like this. He stood, appalled.
‘This is what we’re trying to do. Find out anything you can about the strength of Germans south and east of Arras and where they are. And who they are. Now get down that lane.’ Anthony got.
It was about eleven o’clock in the morning – scorching hot, dusty. Anthony moved as fast as he could. He imagined from what the Brigade Major said that the guarded prisoners were only a few minutes’ walk away. The lane was hedge-lined. It seemed empty. He looked at his watch. God, he’d been walking for eight minutes. Should he run? Was he on the wrong lane? Even if he got some useful information, a thing almost inconceivable, precious minutes would pass before he could bring it back. Should he go back and ask for a despatch rider? He’d probably be instantly shot for disobedience! The Brigade Major had seemed particularly ill-tempered. Then as he walked rapidly down the lane, Anthony saw to his left, in a field, an astonishing sight.
Tanks. British tanks. Lined up facing south. A low ridge to their front. A Corporal on a motorcycle came careering up the lane towards Anthony. As he approached his motorcycle engine stalled. The man jumped off, put the machine on its stand and started, with what looked like energetic expertise, to do something to the engine.
‘F– thing, fourth time today!’ he said to nobody in particular.
Anthony drew level, walking rapidly. ‘Corporal, do you know if there’s a Military Policeman with some prisoners further down this lane?’
‘That’s right, sir. By the first house.’ He seemed to have done something satisfying to his motorcycle and threw his leg over to try another kickstart. Then his attention was caught by the line of tanks in the field beyond the hedge.
