Historian and best-selling author James Holland was born in Salisbury, Wiltshire, and studied history at Durham University. He is the author of numerous historical non-fiction titles and the Jack Tanner fiction series, and presented Battle of Britain: The Real Story on BBC2.
A member of the British Commission for Military History, his many interviews with veterans of the Second World War are available at the Imperial War Museum and are also archived at www.secondworldwarforum.com. Duty Calls: Dunkirk is his first novel for younger readers.
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JAMES HOLLAND
PUFFIN
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
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First published 2011
Text copyright © James Holland, 2011
Maps copyright © Penguin Books, 2011
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-0-141-96112-5
For Ollie Mills
CONTENTS
Glossary
Map of Northern France
Map of Cassel
British Expeditionary Force (BEF)
1. The Road to Cassel
2. Dead Horse Corner
3. The Dogfight
4. The Rescue
5. Pulling Back
6. Thoughts of Home
7. Recce Patrol
8. Reinforcements
9. Sergeant Spears
10. Shattered Dreams
11. Fortress Cassel
12. The Attack
13. Overrun
14. Panzers!
15. Redeployment
16. The Mortar Men
17. Surrounded
18. Silent Night
19. Tea Ration
20. Blitz
21. An Order Too Late
22. The Gunners
23. The Last Assault
24. Break Out
25. The Ambush
26. Escape from the Wood
27. Talking with the Enemy
28. The Hayloft
29. The Canal
30. Dunkirk
31. The Mole
32. Spitfire over the Channel
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
GLOSSARY
adj Adjutant – effectively the battalion administration and operations officer
angels RAF terminology for height in thousands of feet. Angels 10 = 10,000 feet
bandits RAF terminology meaning enemy aircraft
Bren carrier Small-tracked vehicle for carrying infantry
B Echelon Support troops, including mechanics, cooks, transport, etc
BEF British Expeditionary Force
bipod the same as a tripod, but with two legs rather than three
Blighty Nickname for Britain
blood wagon Slang for a squadron transport truck
Boche Slang for German, used mostly in the First World War
char-wallah Anglo-Indian slang for tea maker
clobber Anglo-Indian slang for kit and clothing
CO Commanding Officer
debus get off a bus, truck, lorry, etc.
dekko Anglo-Indian slang for having a look around
div Short for Division
DLI Durham Light Infantry
DR Despatch rider
embus get on a bus, truck, lorry, etc.
entrenching tool a small pick and shovel – part of every soldier’s kit
field glasses Binoculars
frog British nickname for the French
GHQ General Headquarters
housewife a small cotton holdall, containing needles, thread, spare buttons, patches, etc. which rolled up with a tie-pull and was issued to every soldier
howitzer Field artillery gun
Huns Old-fashioned British name for Germans
iggery Anglo-Indian slang meaning to get a move on, to hurry up
in the bag Taken prisoner
IO Intelligence Officer
Jaldi Anglo-Indian slang meaning the same as iggery
Jerry British term for Germans
little jobs RAF terminology for enemy fighter aircraft
Mae West Inflatable life-jacket worn by the RAF
magazine A chamber for holding ammunition – from the French word ‘magasin’, which means ‘store’
MG Machine gun
MO Medical officer
mole a narrow jetty
M/T Motor transport
NCO Non-commissioned officer
panzer German name for a tank
picquet Sentry, or guard, keeping watch for the enemy
pom-pom a quick-firing anti-aircraft gun, either twin or four barrels
port Left-hand side
POW Prisoner of war
RASC Royal Army Service Corps
R/T Radio transmitter
sangar Defensive post built up from the ground when the ground is unsuitable for digging. Usually made from stone
sapper Common name for a member of the Royal Engineers
small arms Pistols, rifles, machine guns
Spandau British name for a German machine gun
starboard Right-hand side
stonk A sustained attack by artillery, which can include field guns and mortars
subaltern Name for a second-lieutenant or lieutenant. Subalterns could also be referred to as ‘Mister’, while a second-lieutenant would also usually be addressed as simply ‘Lieutenant’
tiffin Anglo-Indian slang for lunch, adopted by men who had served in India
Tommy Slang for a British soldier
vics an inverted ‘V’ shaped formation of three aircraft
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Although the BEF was not labelled as such, it was, in effect, a field army. An army is made up of two or more corps (the BEF had three), which in turn comprise two or three divisions. An infantry division includes two or three brigades, which include two or three infantry battalions. A full-strength infantry battalion is made up of 28 officers and 724 enlisted men, which would be divided into one headquarters company of 8 officers and 248 enlisted men, and four rifle companies of five officers and 119 enlisted men. An infantry division would generally have around sixteen thousand men, including the various brigades
plus attached artillery, engineers and support troops (B Echelon). Each rifle company was divided into three platoons of one officer and 36 enlisted men. Platoon Headquarters would include the platoon commander (a subaltern), the platoon sergeant, and five other enlisted men, and one mortar and one anti-tank rifle. The rest of the platoon would be split into three ten-man sections, which would be equipped with one Bren light machine-gun and eight .303 rifles, and which would be commanded by a corporal.
1
THE ROAD TO CASSEL
A little after 7 a.m., Friday 24 May 1940. The sun was already clear in the sky, shining brightly across the flat Flanders landscape. The road from Steenvoorde wound east to west so that as they left the small town the morning sun shone directly into the back of the truck, the sudden brightness jolting a young soldier from his sleep. A very young soldier – only just sixteen, although he was tall for his age and with a few hairs already on his chin that needed shaving, could just about pass for man two or three years older. If there were anything about him that betrayed his age, it was his eyes – deep brown under a mop of thick dark hair that suggested an innocence and lack of worldliness that was very much the case.
Private Johnny Hawke yawned, rubbed his eyes, then, squinting, looked out. The air was fresh and crisp after the rain, the water glinting on the grassy verges either side of the road. Somewhere to the south, desultory artillery fire was booming, dull and heavy, and Hawke felt a lurch in his stomach at this renewed proximity to the front line. Already refugees were trudging alongside the road, most heading towards Steenvoorde. Several cars had been left on the grass verge, evidently out of fuel. Hawke caught the eye of a young boy standing with his family beside a small wooden cart laden with suitcases and belongings, his expression one of exhaustion and resignation. Hawke nodded at him, but the boy just stared back as the truck trundled slowly by. The boy’s father, sleeves rolled up already, pushed his hat back on his head and wiped his brow. Hawke could not help wondering what would happen if the Germans invaded Britain. He thought of his home in Leeds, in Yorkshire. Would the population really all leave their homes with just a few possessions, like these people had? Where were they going, anyway? Surely, he thought, it would be better to stay put. Certainly that’s what Tom – Sergeant Spears – and the rest of the lads seemed to think. All that the refugees were doing, Sergeant Spears had said, was making matters worse – getting in the way, and clogging up the roads, and making it difficult to move troops around.
And, God only knew, it had been a hell of a job getting them this far. Corporal McLaren had told him that it was only around forty miles from Carvin to Cassel, but when they had embussed the previous evening, no one had thought it would take them all night to make the journey. Hawke looked at his wristwatch – one his father had worn in the last war. Oh-seven-ten. Nearly twelve hours! Twelve hours of stops and starts, of complete gridlock as they crossed routes with other British and particularly French units, and endless refugees. And they still hadn’t reached Cassel – not quite.
It had rained the day before and although Hawke had followed the lead of the others and taken his gas cape out of his large pack he had still got damp, particularly on the sleeves and legs of his battledress. As the youngest and newest member of the platoon, he was the last on to the truck and so had to sit nearest the tailgate, where the canvas surround was open to the elements and the cold night air. It had made sleep difficult. Since joining the battalion four weeks earlier, he had noticed how some of the older hands seemed able to sleep anywhere and at any time, but he found it difficult – especially on the hard wooden bench of a truck, in full marching order, being jolted as the Bedford rumbled over every stone, bump and pothole on the road. Eventually, though, his exhaustion had got the better of him. After long hours crawling across the back roads of northern France, he’d somehow drifted off.
How long he had been asleep, he wasn’t sure. Three hours, maybe? Not enough; his eyes stung, and he had a slight, dull headache. Even now his battledress felt damp. He had got used to the thick wool serge but when it was wet it itched and chafed more than usual. Hawke sighed and rubbed his eyes, then gripped his rifle between his legs – a Short Magazine Lee Enfield No.1 Mk 3, with its hard, wooden butt and barrel casing, and ten-round magazine. Eight pounds it weighed and with the best part of sixty pounds worth of kit he was grateful to have been made a rifleman and not one of the three men in the section’s Bren gun team – the machine gun was three times as heavy as the rifle. Hawke liked to think of himself as strong for his age, but carrying full kit was tiring, and even more so when they’d had such little sleep over the past week.
Hawke looked across at Charlie Drummond sitting opposite him, who at eighteen was the second-youngest in the platoon, and saw his head lolling in sleep as the truck rumbled slowly forward. Next to Drummond was Bert Hebden, who caught his eye and smiled, then delved into the top pocket of his battledress for a packet of cigarettes. Hawke liked Hebden. Unlike most of the lads, who nearly all came from Leeds and Bradford, Hebden was a farmer’s son. He could have avoided joining up, since farming was a reserved occupation that exempted him from front-line duty, but Hebden had an older brother and, in any case, explained to Hawke that he felt it was the right thing to do. ‘I don’t want that Hitler chappie coming anywhere near Yorkshire,’ he’d told Hawke, ‘so I thought I’d better do my bit to make sure he don’t.’
Hawke looked out of the back of the truck, and at the rest of the column. There were some twenty trucks in all, a mixture of Bedfords and Morris Commercials, carrying the three remaining companies of the 1st Battalion, the King’s Own Yorkshire Rangers, a little over four hundred men. He brought a hand to the semi-circular black cloth badge on his shoulder, and felt the green stitching that said ‘Yorks Rangers’. Few other regiments had such a distinction on their uniforms; it marked the Rangers out – a Yorkshire regiment with a proud history. His stepfather, Richard, had told him about some of the Rangers’ battle honours. They read like a roll-call of most of Britain’s greatest victories: Blenheim, Ramillies, Quebec, Mysore, Corunna, Talavera, Badajoz, Salamanca, Vittoria, Toulouse, Waterloo – so it went on. Anywhere the British Army had fought during the last two hundred and fifty years, it seemed, the Yorks Rangers had been there too. It was the same regiment his father, John, and stepfather, Richard Mallaby, had fought in during the last war. And it was the regiment of which he, too, was now a part.
Hawke’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the faint whirr of aero engines. Another artillery shell exploded dully to the south, momentarily blocking out the noise, but then he heard the sound more distinctly, and saw Hebden cock an ear too. Leaning out of the back of the truck, Hawke craned his neck. The whirr of engines was louder now and, as he shifted his position, he saw one of the men in the cab of the truck behind them also hoist himself up and crane his neck at the sky.
‘There!’ said Hawke, suddenly spotting a number of dark dots heading towards them from the north-east. He pointed and now Charlie Drummond had woken and was looking too.
‘’Ere,’ said Corporal McLaren, hurrying towards the tailgate and pulling a pair of field glasses from his haversack, ‘mind out the way, lads.’ He peered through his binoculars but already Hawke could see the approaching aircraft were Stukas, their distinct gull wings and fixed undercarriage clearly visible now against the pale blue morning sky.
‘There’s a bleedin’ two dozen of the beggars,’ muttered McLaren, then yelled to the front, ‘Sir! Sarge! Stukas!’
The truck jolted to a stop.
‘Everyone out!’ shouted Sergeant Spears from the front of the Bedford. ‘Quick!’
Hawke jumped down as Spears appeared from the front of the vehicle. He glanced at him, but Spears scowled and said, ‘Go on! ’Op it, or I’ll kick you off the road!’
The whole column had by now come to speedy halt, the trucks all at a standstill as men poured out and clambered up on to the grass verge and across the culverts r
unning either side of the road, then across the fields of young, green corn. Above, the first of the Stukas were peeling off to begin their dives. Soldiers were frantically running, and so too were the civilian refugees. Hawke was conscious of a young woman trying to soothe a screaming child and paused, only for a hand to roughly grab his shoulder.
‘I said, move it!’ snarled Sergeant Spears.
The Stukas screamed down towards them, their sirens whining, rising to a deafening crescendo, one after the other, and then the first bomb exploded and Hawke flung himself on to the ground, brittle young wheat stalks scratching his face, and his gas-mask pack winding him as it was pushed against his chest. He gasped and the earth shook with powerful pulses that lifted him clean from the ground as repeated detonations erupted nearby. Another explosion now ripped the air apart and as grit and soil and bits of stone pattered down on him Hawke dared to glance back at the column. One truck towards the rear of the line was engulfed in flames, while the Bedford in front of it had also caught fire, the grey-green canvas livid with angry orange flames and thick, black smoke billowing into the sky.
The Stukas appeared to have gone, but as Hawke tried to breathe more easily again he heard more of the dive-bombers screaming down on another target a few miles away. His legs felt weak as he shakily stood up. Others were getting to their feet too, and now that he was away from the long line of trucks he saw what the Stukas were bombing. Ahead, up the road, rising out of the softly rolling Flanders countryside was a hill – the only significant hill that could be seen at all in this relentlessly flat countryside. And on top of the hill, just visible amidst the mass of woods around it, stood a town.
‘Will you look at that,’ said a voice and Hawke turned to see Charlie Drummond standing beside him. ‘You know what that place is, don’t you, Johnny?’ A ripple of bombs exploded and the two of them watched the hilltop town disappear under a cloud of rolling smoke and dust.
‘Cassel?’
Drummond nodded, then dusted himself down. ‘No wonder Jerry wants it. Must be the best view for miles and miles – when it’s not covered in smoke, that is.’
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