Dunkirk

by James Holland

  Hawke watched, rooted to the spot, as Drummond leaned over and grabbed the man. He yanked him up, then dragged him back and laid him at the edge of the field on some grass unsinged by the burning Spitfire.

  At first he saw only a glimpse of the dead man’s face and limp arms. The skin seemed white, like wax, but now he stepped forward and stood over him.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Drummond, pointing to a dark stain on the German’s tunic. ‘Straight in the chest. Right through the heart, I’d say. Good shot, Johnny.’

  Hawke squatted down beside the dead man. His eyes were closed, his face milky white. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief that the man he had killed looked so peaceful, and the bullet had made such a neat and inoffensive wound.

  ‘Well done, Johnny,’ said Hebden. ‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing, you know.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ added Drummond, impatience creeping into his voice. ‘Check his pockets.’

  Hawke glanced at Drummond, then felt the man’s pockets. There was a packet of half-smoked cigarettes in the left-hand breast pocket, and a couple of packets of field dressings in the lower pockets. Then, carefully, Hawke undid the silver-coloured button on the right breast pocket. The field-grey wool was still damp with blood – blood that stained Hawke’s fingers – but he felt inside and his fingers touched two pocketbooks. Carefully pulling them out, he prised them apart and wiped them on the grass then opened the first.

  It was a diary – with a soft green leather binding. At the back were several letters and photographs, which Hawke now looked at. The dead man was smiling with his comrades in one, jackets off, sleeves rolled up. In another he was sitting in a small rowing boat with friends – or were they brothers? – presumably before the war. A third was a picture of him with his family – a formal studio photograph. He recognized the man’s parents in a further picture – a middle-aged couple arm in arm, standing outside a house. Hawke felt a lump rise to his throat, then opened up the front of the diary. There was a name, written in ink: Rudi Wittmann.

  Hawke now looked at the second pocketbook. It was dirty and dog-eared, with the word Soldbuch written on the front in gothic writing. Inside was a photograph of the man and his name and army number. Hawke flicked over a page and saw what he assumed were Rudi Wittmann’s personal details, including a date: 1.v.21.

  His birthday, Hawke thought to himself. That made him just nineteen.

  ‘Will you look at these jackets!’ exclaimed Drummond. ‘Blimey! You can undo the cuff-buttons and everything. And nice lining too – what do we get? A bit of rough old wool and canvas.’

  ‘I quite like our battledress,’ said Hebden. ‘Easier to move about in than that bulky great tunic they’re wearing.’

  Hawke paused, gripping the dead man’s belongings tightly in his hand. This was not how he had imagined war to be. In his imagination, the enemy had always been faceless, almost inhuman, the Nazis especially. But here before him was a boy only a few years older than himself – a boy whose parents and family would soon be ripped apart by the news that their son was dead.

  ‘Come on, Johnny,’ said Drummond. ‘He’s just a Nazi. One less to worry about.’

  Hawke stuffed the pocketbooks into his own top pocket then stood up once more. Hebden put an arm on his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t take it so personally, Johnny,’ he said. ‘What would have happened if you hadn’t fired?’

  ‘I know,’ muttered Hawke.

  ‘He’d have shot you instead. You didn’t kill him. It was the war.’ He shook him gently, then leaned over and hoisted the dead man over his shoulder. ‘Let’s go and find the others.’

  There were ten in all – ten men, all dead, and, Hawke realized, Sergeant Spears had killed nine of them, mowing them down with the Bren. Most had fallen in the brook, a narrow and quite shallow stream, but, Hawke realized, Spears had been canny to wait until the men were crossing, their balance wavering as they waded through the water and stepped on stones and rocks, before opening fire. They were now laid out side by side on the far bank.

  ‘Jump to it, you three,’ Spears said as Hawke, Hebden and Drummond crossed the brook themselves. ‘We need to get a move on.’

  ‘I thought we had to bury them, Sarge,’ said Hebden, laying Wittmann down beside his dead comrades.

  ‘We’ll do that on the way back. It’s darker in the woods than out here. We’re going to need all the light we can get.’

  They set off again, this time in a wide arrowhead formation across the field towards the wood. There was still no sign of the enemy, but on reaching the trees they found plenty of signs of activity: spent ammunition cases, vehicle and tank tracks, and old ration packets. Spears led them along one set of tracks until they reached the far side of the wood, then halted them once more. The tracks headed away from them, following an old road that ran south.

  ‘All right, boys,’ he said, ‘I think we’ve seen enough. Let’s get those Jerries buried and head on back.’

  ‘Sergeant?’ said Hawke, standing beside Spears.

  Spears turned and looked him.

  ‘Why would the Germans up stumps and fall back like that?’

  Spears pushed his helmet on to the back of his head and rubbed his brow. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t. It makes no sense to me. No sense whatsoever.’

  8

  REINFORCEMENTS

  As Sergeant Spears and his patrol of Yorks Rangers were following the tracks made earlier by the enemy, a Humber Snipe staff car and two Morris Commercial trucks wound their way round the now cleared Dead Horse Corner, then, with a grind of gears, rumbled on along the cobbled road as it straightened towards the centre of the hilltop town.

  Sitting in the back, anxiously watching the road, was Brigadier the Honourable Nigel Somerset, and his Chief of Staff, Major Harry Bullmore. The brigadier was forty-six, and, until nine days earlier, had been a lieutenant-colonel and a commander of 2nd Battalion, the Gloucestershire Regiment. But then 145 Brigade’s commander was sent home – officially, because he had fallen ill, but unofficially because he had simply not been up to the job. In a trice, Somerset had climbed two ranks and been made acting brigadier. With the jump in rank came the jump in responsibility: instead of commanding a single battalion of eight hundred men, he was now commanding three battalions as well as artillery, engineers and other units that made up a brigade.

  It had been a bewildering and exhausting couple of days. Two nights earlier, the brigade had been manning positions along the River Escaut in Belgium, on the northern front, but then orders had arrived to retreat to what was now called the Gort Line, named after the commander of the British Expeditionary Force, General Lord Gort. They had reached their new positions some miles back along the French-Belgian border in the early hours of 23 May, and had debussed and begun digging in, only for new orders to arrive telling them that French troops would be relieving them immediately. But, far from arriving within the hour, the French had not appeared until later that afternoon.

  It had been a shock to see them as they trundled down the road past Brigade Headquarters, dressed in all manner of uniforms, and any semblance of marching discipline completely gone. Some were pushing small carts and even babies’ prams. Somerset had watched appalled as on several occasions men had stepped out of rank, entered houses and reappeared with stolen bicycles and once even a chicken.

  As the French had moved in, so the brigade had pulled out, ordered into reserve, where Somerset hoped his exhausted men might be given a day or two’s well-earned rest. It had been another long and difficult journey, through the night, all the way to the village of Nomain, just to the south of Lille. Somerset had been given a new billet in a house in the village, but had barely put his head down on his bed when new orders had arrived telling him to hurry with his brigade to Calais, where the British garrison there was being besieged. His task was to try to relieve it.

  Troop transports had not arrived until late that aft
ernoon. All day, they had been hanging about, waiting to get going to Calais. It had given the men a chance for a rest, but then, just as the RASC men had arrived with transport, a staff officer from 48th Division had appeared at Brigade Headquarters and personally handed Somerset a note from Major-General Thorne, the division commander, overriding the orders to try to relieve Calais.

  ‘You are to proceed to Cassel,’ the note told him. ‘We do not know where the enemy are, but we hope you will get there first.’

  ‘What about Calais?’ Somerset had asked the captain from Division.

  ‘Calais’s not expected to hold, sir,’ the captain had replied.

  Somerset had nodded, dumbfounded. This was dire news. If Calais was about to fall, then the whole of the BEF would soon be completely surrounded. And if that happened – well, it did not bear thinking about.

  Since then there had been yet another change of orders – or an amendment, at any rate. His brigade was now not only to defend Cassel, but Hazebrouck too. Well, now he was here – or, rather, he and Brigade Headquarters. God only knew how long it would be before the rest of them arrived. Travelling under cover of darkness meant they were spared any aerial attack, but the roads were even more clogged than they were in daytime.

  The town seemed quiet enough, but whether that was because the Germans had not reached them or because they had already overrun the town, he could not know. Brigadier Somerset sighed.

  ‘What do you think, Bully?’

  ‘Can’t see any Jerries yet, sir.’ He craned his head out of the window. ‘No swastika on top of the church.’

  Somerset sighed again and quietly shook his head. ‘What a mess. What a damned mess.’

  A couple of hundred yards further on, a British soldier – easily identifiable in his helmet – stepped out into the road.

  ‘Thank goodness,’ muttered Somerset. ‘So we’ve got a place to defend, at any rate.’

  His driver slowed and the soldier waved them towards an open gate in a high wall. The Snipe turned into a small courtyard, which was dominated on three sides by a substantial and elegant townhouse. As the Snipe came to a halt, the brigadier’s door was opened, and when he stepped out on to the gravel he was confronted by a young lieutenant snapping smartly to attention.

  ‘Welcome to Cassel, sir,’ said the lieutenant. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’

  The brigadier glanced at Major Bullmore, now getting out of the other side of the car, raised an eyebrow and said, ‘Ready to face the music, Bully?’

  ‘I think so, sir,’ said Bullmore.

  Passing through the chateau’s entrance, they entered a hallway from which a wide staircase wound its way to the next floor, but the lieutenant led them to their left, into a large, high-ceilinged drawing room. At the far end, near some open French windows, several men stood around a large mahogany table on which had been laid several maps.

  ‘Brigadier Somerset, General,’ the lieutenant announced.

  General Mason-Macfarlane looked up and, seeing Somerset, smiled and strode towards him.

  ‘Brigadier – my dear chap.’ He held out his hand and gripped Somerset’s firmly.

  ‘General,’ said Somerset. ‘I’m afraid I’m only the advance party. The rest of the men won’t be here for a few hours yet.’

  ‘Battling through roads heavy with refugees and French soldiers, no doubt,’ said Mason-Macfarlane. ‘No one predicted just how hard it would be to manoeuvre through Flanders. After all, it’s flat, and has an extensive road network. Just goes to show that you can plan all you like but something vital always seems to be overlooked. Anyway, what about a drink? I’ve got Scotch or there’s a rather good Calvados.’

  ‘Scotch, thank you, General,’ said Somerset, ‘and one for Major Bullmore here too, thank you, sir.’

  Mason-Macfarlane nodded to a junior staff officer then led Somerset over towards the table. The brigadier glanced around him. Large portraits dating back several hundred years hung from the walls, although there was also a painting of Marshal Foch, French commander in the last war, hanging above the fireplace. Elegant settees and ornate armchairs filled the room, while through the open windows was a stone balcony and beyond clear views to the countryside stretching far to the south.

  ‘Hell of a view, isn’t it?’ said Mason-Macfarlane. He was lean-faced, in his fifties, with neat hair silver at the sides and an equally silvery and trim moustache. Dark, keen eyes followed Somerset’s gaze. ‘The saying goes that one can see a hundred villages and twenty towns from up here in Cassel. I haven’t had a chance to count, but actually I can well believe it. Of course, it makes this place a great defensive position.’

  Somerset nodded and stepped out on to the balcony. He really could see for miles. The general was right – this was a fine defensive position. No enemy could arrive without being spotted clearly beforehand, that was for sure, despite the number of woods and trees that lay at the hill’s base and beyond.

  ‘Am I to understand that I will be serving under your command, sir?’ said Somerset, stepping back inside.

  ‘Good Lord, no.’ Mason-Macfarlane chuckled. ‘No, I’m needed elsewhere. Macforce is being disbanded, but although I’m taking some of my units I am leaving you the First Yorks Rangers. They’re a three-company battalion – one of their companies got separated as they fell back from the Brussels-Charleroi Canal a few days ago, which has apparently now been attached to the DLI in Fifth Div.’

  ‘Any chance of getting them back, sir?’ asked Somerset.

  Mason-Macfarlane raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘What do you think? But the three companies you’ve got have barely fired a shot yet – although they had a small exchange earlier this morning – and they’re about ninety per cent strength. So far they’ve been mainly to-ing and fro-ing across Flanders.’

  ‘And any idea where the Germans are, sir? I have to admit, it was with some trepidation that we climbed the road up to the town. I was half expecting to be halted by Huns.’

  ‘Really?’ said the General. He looked surprised. ‘You have been told about the halt order, haven’t you?’

  Somerset frowned. ‘Halt order? Er, no, sir – what halt order?’

  Mason-Macfarlane shook his head. ‘That’s ridiculous – I’m so sorry, Somerset. I just assumed – but then how foolish of me. I should know by now that lack of information is proving our fatal flaw in this damned battle.’ He sighed and rubbed his forehead. ‘This morning, just before eleven-thirty hours, we intercepted a German signal ordering all German panzer troops to the south to halt and remain behind the Le Bassée Canal.’

  ‘What? That’s incredible. But why? They’ve got us absolutely where they want us.’

  ‘Quite – I know. It’s an extraordinary decision. It’s even more extraordinary when one considers that a lot of their troops had already advanced beyond the Le Bassée Canal. It’s meant they’ve actually had to fall back.’

  Somerset chuckled. ‘So the Germans are retreating. Well, well.’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes. It was incredible. This morning we were being stonked quite heavily and then suddenly it stopped as they packed up and fell back south.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I know – they could have rolled us over here if they’d attacked in strength today. It may be a good place to defend, but there’s only so much one can do against superior fire-power and when they hold the skies. I suspect they’re getting cold feet. Surprised by the speed of their own advance.’

  ‘Have you told your men?’

  ‘No, and Gort wants to keep it that way. It’s a matter for senior commanders only. Obviously they know the enemy have fallen back but they don’t need to know any more.’

  Somerset shook his head in wonder. ‘It still seems incredible. They must think we’re stronger than we really are.’

  ‘Maybe, because our situation is certainly pretty dire. The fact of the matter is we have almost no tank
s whatsoever, ammunition is getting low, rations are running out and we’re almost completely trapped apart from a narrow strip of coastline. The Dutch have surrendered, and the Belgians have already ceded two-thirds of their country – no one expects them to hold out for too much longer. If they throw in the towel, then we’ll be left with Dunkirk and that’s about it. And the French – well, the speed and level of their collapse has been astonishing. It’s terrible to admit it, but their commanders have lost all control. They’re too old – relics of the last war. They’d planned for a repeat of the trenches and attrition of 1914 to 1918 – I suppose we all had, to a degree – and now that it’s not happened, they’re lost. They’re like rabbits caught in headlights. I saw General Georges the other day and it was as though he were suffering from shell-shock. The fellow broke down in front of us and started weeping.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Somerset.

  Mason-Macfarlane sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Somerset, I’m not trying to depress you, but it’s important you know the real picture. On the other hand, we have been given a breather. France is finished, but there’s hope yet for the BEF. In fact, it gives us a chance to escape. I’m not sure whether I should be telling you this, but the commander is preparing to evacuate. They’re already sending back the useless mouths.’

  Somerset nodded. ‘I see,’ he said.

  ‘Gort has got a continuous line along the northern flank but not enough men for the south. So he’s doing the next best thing and establishing a series of strong points. The idea is that these will hold while the bulk of the BEF falls back to Dunkirk.’

  Somerset nodded slowly as the reality of the task began to sink in.

  ‘Do you know how long we need to hold out here?’

  Mason-Macfarlane took a sip of his whisky. ‘Just as long as you can.’ He paused and eyed Somerset carefully. ‘We don’t know how long this halt order will be kept in place. You don’t need me to tell you this, but you have to make the most of it.’