Spears ordered them back to the truck, but then, as they made their way through the wheat, a flight of four Messerschmitt 109 fighters suddenly roared towards them, low and out of the sun. Barely before a warning could be shouted out, the four planes had opened fire, long lines of soil were punched from the ground as the bullets tore towards them. Hawke had barely thrown himself on to the ground a second time when the aircraft were past them.
He clambered to his feet and watched them climb and bank away to the north, towards the coast. One man from the platoon had been hit – Lance Corporal Bellamy from 3 Section. Spears and Lieutenant Farrish kneeled beside him, Spears hurriedly pulling field dressings from both his and Bellamy’s packs. Hawke watched, mesmerized by the amount of blood streaming from Bellamy’s stomach and by the lance corporal’s waxen-looking face, now drained of colour, except for the blood already running from his mouth. He hardly looked like Bellamy at all.
‘Stop staring, and get over to the truck,’ Spears snapped.
‘Sorry, To– I mean, Sergeant,’ said Hawke.
Spears glared at him.
‘Corporal!’ called out Farrish, seeing McLaren picking up his Bren and slinging it on to his shoulder. ‘Organize the platoon, will you, Corporal? See what help we can give, but get the men over to the truck ready to move out.’
‘Sir,’ said McLaren.
Along the road, frightened refugees were moving forward once more. Hawke noticed how much more tightly parents now held their children to them. A little further back down the road, someone was wailing, a woman, her body rocking as she crouched on the verge. Beside her a man was shouting at the sky, clutching his face in despair. Hawke recognized him immediately – the rolled-up sleeves, the felt hat on his head – and began running towards them, past a dead mule and an abandoned car with a line of bullets running across it. Ten yards from the man, he stopped abruptly. There on the ground was the boy he had seen just a few minutes earlier. The same wide, staring eyes looked up at him, but they were now lifeless, and then he saw the woman’s hands, covered with blood, her sobs of grief and incomprehension jarring the air that was now thick with the black, whirling smoke of the burning lorries.
For a moment, Hawke thought he might vomit. He paused, bent over, his hands on his knees, then, breathing heavily, glanced around. Down the road, the last trucks in the column, those behind the burning lorries, were already reversing clear of the wrecks, while those ahead were starting their engines once more.
‘Johnny!’ he heard someone shout, and looked up to see Charlie Drummond hurrying towards him. ‘Johnny,’ he said again, ‘come on, we’re moving out. Quick!’
Hawke glanced back at the man and woman, then turned and ran, his rifle in one hand, his heavy haversack thumping against his hip. At the tailgate, Bert Hebden offered a hand, which Hawke clasped and then he felt himself being pulled back up on to the truck just as the engine coughed into life.
‘Right,’ said Spears, appearing from round the side of the Bedford. ‘Everyone back on?’ He was wiping blood from his hands as he spoke, his rifle slung over his shoulder. ‘Still feeling brave, then?’ he said, eyeing Hawke keenly.
Hawke swallowed. Anger and humiliation welled deep within him and he felt his cheeks flush.
Spears shook his head. ‘This is no place for kids,’ he muttered, then turned back towards the front of the truck.
Hawke sat there, unable to speak, his fingers clenched ever more tightly round the barrel of his rifle. He was conscious of the eyes of others on him, so turned away, determined they should not see the tears he could feel welling.
2
DEAD HORSE CORNER
Firing continued to the south as the column trundled on its way, the road leading them past several old brick farmhouses and barns and a couple of tall wooden windmills perched on low ridgelines. A mile or so further on, the road began to climb and weave through thick woods of chestnut, oak and plane. Hawke gazed out, unwilling to look any of his comrades in the eye. Tom was such a changed person. He could not understand it. Last summer, he had been so friendly, so open, always laughing and smiling. He had come to think of Tom Spears as his friend.
He felt a nudge in his side and turned to look at Hebden.
‘Don’t worry about the sarge,’ said Hebden quietly. ‘It’s only that he’s got a lot of responsibility, you know.’
Hawke nodded silently.
‘I mean, it’s quite a big deal being platoon sergeant, particularly with men like Mr Farrish as platoon commander. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Lieutenant Farrish will be just fine, but he’s not got the experience of the sarge. We all know it’s Spears who is really running this platoon.’ He scratched his chin, then looked back to where they had come from. From beyond the trees, the smoke from the still-burning trucks was clearly visible. ‘And he did just lose a man, an’ a good one at that. Doesn’t put anyone in the best of moods when one of your men dies on you, you know.’
Hawke nodded and smiled weakly. ‘Thanks, Bert.’
‘And you are a young ’un,’ added Hebden, ‘but I’m sure you’ll do fine. We all admire you for what you’ve done – joining up before you had to and coming out here. Shows a lot of guts, I reckon.’
‘You don’t want to take it personal,’ added Charlie Drummond. ‘He’s sharp with everyone. Just his way.’
Hawke nodded again. It wasn’t true – Spears was not sharp with everyone. Firm and tough, yes, but as willing to share a laugh and a joke as anyone. But just not with me, thought Hawke. Even so, he was glad about what Hebden and Drummond had said.
‘So what does anyone know about this place?’ Hebden asked the rest of the men in the truck.
‘It’s where the Grand Old Duke of York went up the hill,’ said Corporal McLaren.
‘What the ’ell are you talking about, Corp?’ asked Chalkie White, one of the section’s Bren gunners.
‘You know – the nursery rhyme.’
‘The Grand Old Duke of York,’ Hebden sung softly, ‘he ’ad ten thousand men. He marched ’em up to the top of the hill and then he marched ’em down again.’
‘That’s the one,’ said McLaren. ‘Mr Farrish told me. It really happened.’
‘Really? When?’ asked Jack Ibbotson, the section lance corporal.
‘I dunno. Way back. The olden days sometime.’
‘And when ’e was up ’e was up,’ continued Hebden, louder now, ‘and when ’e was down ’e was down, and when ’e was only ’alfway up ’e was neither up nor down.’ He grinned then raised his arms, as though pretending to conduct an orchestra. ‘Oh, the Grand Old Duke of York,’ he sang out, and first Drummond joined him then suddenly everyone was singing too, even Hawke, the humiliation of earlier put to one side. As they sang the rhyme again, they all began to stand up, then crouch down, but on the third time the Bedford turned a sharp corner and they all fell over, cursing and laughing.
‘You bunch of idiots,’ grinned McLaren. ‘Johnny might be the nipper among us, but you all act like bloomin’ eight-year-olds, if you ask me.’
The truck now rumbled to a halt and everyone looked at each other expectantly. Hawke peered out of the back of the truck. They were on a short, straight stretch of cobbled road, tree-lined, which climbed steeply towards the edge of the town. To their left, on the slopes, he saw there was a cemetery: rows of dark tombs – some particularly ornate – densely packed. Hawke sniffed and smelled the sharp, acrid stench of smoke and explosives – and something else too, something sweeter, almost sickly. The Stukas had gone, but their handiwork was still heavy on the air.
Sergeant Spears appeared at the back of the truck. ‘All right, you lot,’ he said. ‘We’re debussing here. Grab all your kit and form up in sections. We’re walking the last bit.’
‘Why’s that, Sarge?’ asked Hebden.
‘Trouble up ahead. The M/T can’t get around it just yet.’
The men clambered down, blinkin
g and squinting in the bright sunlight after the heavy shade given by the dark olive-green tarpaulin over the back of the Bedford. In just a few minutes, however, they were formed up and ready to march. Hawke slung his rifle over his shoulder, adjusted his webbing and, on command, moved off, his sense of pride returning as he listened to the rhythmic drum of B Company’s hobnailed boots on the cobbled stone road.
Yet no sooner had they started than they were halted.
‘Bleedin’ typical,’ muttered Corporal McLaren. ‘Can’t even get going on foot without stopping and bloomin’ starting.’
Already the stench was worsening. Hawke watched Lieutenant Farrish and Sergeant Spears conversing with Major Strickland, the B Company commander, and then there were shouts from up ahead. Spears hurried back towards them.
‘All right, lads,’ he said. ‘We’ve pulled the short straw, I’m afraid. Headquarters and A Company are going on ahead to help set up Battalion HQ and to see what’s here in the town, but we’ve got a bit of a clear-up to do first.’
The men groaned.
‘A French artillery battery,’ Spears continued. ‘I’m afraid those Stukas hit them a bit harder than they hit us.’ Spears glanced at Hawke. ‘Hope your stomach’s stronger than it was back on the road, Private,’ he said.
The smell grew ever stronger as they moved forward, although the first houses on the corner betrayed nothing. Only as they followed the road round was the carnage beyond revealed to them. Hawke could not help but gasp. Along the road the remains of guns, wagons, men and horses were strewn haphazardly. The road was cratered, while beyond, a hundred yards further, a six-wheeled lorry was burning ferociously. Either side several houses had collapsed, rubble spewing on to the street.
‘Jesus, will you take a look at that,’ muttered Bert Hebden. ‘Dead horse corner.’
Hawke’s stomach lurched as he spotted a mule, its teeth bared and eyes wide with terror. Beside the animal, a young French gunner had his arm across its head, as though trying to calm the beast. Both were quite dead, the mule with a huge gash in its side and its innards spread out on to the road. A few yards away lay the torso and legs of another Frenchman, the arms and head completely vanished. Others lay with limbs twisted grotesquely, large stains of blood streaked across the cobbles. Another horse, down on its side, its rear legs trapped by an overturned cart, suddenly began whinnying, and Hebden called to Hawke and Charlie Drummond.
‘We’ve got to put it out of its misery,’ he said.
Hawke followed, nearly slipping on the blood as he hurried after Hebden.
‘All right, girl, all right,’ said Hebden, crouching down beside the terrified animal. He stroked her cheek and she let her head drop. ‘Just stroke her, Johnny,’ said Hebden. ‘Stroke her nose.’ He turned to Drummond. ‘Charlie? Put your rifle to her head, right between the ears and fire, all right?’
Drummond nodded and did so, the crack of the rifle sharp and loud, and the report ringing around the narrow street. The horse sighed and went limp.
Hebden shook his head. ‘I find the animals worse than the men,’ he said. ‘It’s not their ruddy war, is it?’
Hawke stood up and clutched his handkerchief to his mouth. He could not help thinking that it could have been them. The men and animals here had been alive just twenty minutes earlier, but now they were gone, ruthlessly torn and mangled. Not men at all, but meat, like that on the slab in a butcher’s. He swallowed hard and felt the bile churn in his stomach. Please don’t let me be sick, he prayed.
‘Hey, you three!’ shouted Spears from beside a mass of overturned guns and their carriages. ‘Get over here!’
Hawke hurried, grateful for the distraction. The men were trying to right a gun carriage, and Hawke, along with Hebden and Drummond, joined in, heaving at a large upended metal wheel and trailer. Grimacing and straining they at last managed to heave the howitzer upright. Hawke wiped his brow and looked across at the men of C Company as they collected the bodies of the French soldiers and placed them on sacking laid out across the far side of the road. Suddenly, squeaking and the rumble of engines could be heard from up the road towards the main part of the town. For a brief moment, Hawke thought it was the enemy and felt a flush of panic, but then a moment later a Crusader tank appeared round the corner, followed by another and two Bren carriers.
‘Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,’ said Corporal McLaren, pushing back his helmet and wiping his brow.
‘Hooray for the cavalry,’ agreed Ibbotson. He turned to Sergeant Spears. ‘When did this lot get here, then, Sarge?’
Spears shrugged, but Lieutenant Farrish answered for him. ‘They’re from the 13th/18th Hussars, Lance Corporal. They’re part of Macforce too – accompanied General Mason-Macfarlane here last night. Reassuring sight, isn’t it?’
‘Too right, sir,’ grinned Ibbotson. ‘Does that mean we can leave the rest to them, then, sir?’
Farrish smiled. ‘Not quite, but I’d say we shan’t be among this ghastly mess for as long as I’d first feared.’
The lieutenant was right. The tanks and carriers made light work of the carnage, dragging the horses, wrecked wagons and artillery pieces clear of the road, while the Rangers loaded the dead on to the carrier and, with their entrenching tools, did their best to load rubble and earth back into the cratered road. By a little after 9.30 a.m., the grisly task was done and, by now hungry and not a little exhausted, the men of B Company continued on their way at last, marching down a long, narrow street before emerging into a large cobbled square at the heart of the town.
Several buildings in the town square – or Grand Place as it was called – had been hit too, rubble tumbling out on to the cobbles, but although distant shelling to the south could still be heard, Cassel, for the moment at any rate, was quiet.
The men stood restlessly, looking around them. The square was several hundred yards long, but quite narrow, lined by various tall, high-gabled houses. At one end, raised above the houses beneath it, stood the church, while above the square, standing sentinel, was another large timber-framed windmill. There were still civilians in the town, which surprised Hawke – he had assumed almost everyone in northern France was on the move. Or perhaps people were coming here, to Cassel. Maybe they felt safe high on this hill in the middle of the plains. But then he looked at the rubble and timbers of one of the collapsed houses across the square, and shrugged to himself.
Nearby, next to a well in front of an ornate stone building, Lieutenant Farrish and a number of other officers and senior NCOs were conferring. Hawke watched Sergeant Spears among them then saw him stride back towards them.
‘We’ll wait here for a moment,’ he told the platoon. ‘It looks like we’ll get some proper hot grub tonight, but in the meantime some rations will be handed out. Once we’ve had a brew and something to eat we’ll know what positions we’ve got to move into.’
‘Any idea where Jerry is, Sarge?’ asked McLaren.
‘Hammering Hazebrouck still. But he’s not far to the south.’ He nodded in that direction. ‘So make the most of this. I reckon we’ll be busy before the day is out.’
In the couple of weeks since the Germans had first launched their attack, Hawke had been amazed by the speed with which the more experienced men could produce both food and endless cups of tea. Even before rations had been handed out, Bert Hebden and Chalkie White had produced small Primus stoves, and had lit them right by the side of the square and begun boiling mess tins of water, into which had been added generous amounts of tea leaves and sugar pulled from their packs. Johnny watched the water slowly darken. The tea leaves slowly sank, but floating around the water were bits of grass and even tobacco from Hebden’s pocket.
Seeing Hawke peering at it, Hebden grinned. ‘All adds to the flavour,’ he said, then smacked his lips. ‘I’m gasping for a wet.’ He gave the brew a stir with the end of his seventeen-inch sword bayonet.
Soon after, B Echelon men from Batta
lion Headquarters arrived with boxes of rations in thick cardboard cartons, two cartons per section, each containing an assortment of tins of bully beef, Machonochie’s tinned stews, bars of chocolate, packets of plain biscuits, condensed milk and more tea, sugar and cigarettes. Using the marlin spike of his clasp knife, White quickly stabbed a hole in the top of one of the cans of condensed milk and added a generous amount to both mess tins of brewing tea. Meanwhile, two more Primus stoves were produced, lit and tins of bully beef opened. Added to the corned beef were crumbled dry biscuits and a bit of water. In under a quarter of an hour, the whole section not only had an enamel mug each of hot, sweet, tea, but also a thick dollop of bully beef hash in their mess tins.
Hawke had thought he was both hungry and thirsty. The hot tea was instantly soothing but after one mouthful of the hash he stopped. It tasted all right – salty, like all corned beef – but it was the colour and texture that now made him pause. As he was about to put another spoon of the stuff into his mouth, images of dead and dying mules and French gunners came into his mind. All he could think of were the entrails of that first black mule and the severed torso he had seen. He wiped his brow and closed his eyes, dropping the spoon of hash back in his mess tin.
‘You all right, Johnny?’ asked Drummond, squatting down next to him.
‘Yes, yes – fine,’ Hawke replied. Conscious that the others were now watching him, he lifted his spoon again and this time put the pink mashed-up hash into his mouth, chewed briefly and then swallowed.
‘Feeling better now?’ asked Hebden.
Hawke nodded and took a third mouthful, but almost instantly knew that had been a mistake. Once more the dead mule and Frenchman flashed across his mind and at the same time he looked down at the fleshy mush. Bile and nausea welled up in his stomach and he now hurriedly got to his feet, ran across the square and at the edge of a parked carrier, vomited.
Dunkirk Page 2
