Somerset nodded again and stroked his chin. ‘When do you leave, sir?’
‘Now – that is, this evening. You’re here now, your men are on their way, and I know I can leave Cassel in very capable hands. I know you won’t let your country down, Brigadier.’
‘No, sir.’ Somerset drained his glass. ‘But it seems we don’t have a minute to lose. With your permission, sir, could you spare one of your staff officers to show me around first?’
‘Absolutely.’ He beckoned over a young captain with bright ginger hair and a trim moustache. ‘Captain Stratton will do so. Stratton,’ he added, turning to the captain, ‘I want you to brief Brigadier Somerset.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Stratton is a sapper by trade – a good fellow. He’ll be able to give you a decent ground brief.’
‘Thank you,’ said Somerset. ‘In the circumstances I would certainly appreciate an engineer’s judgement.’
Stratton bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement, and then the general cleared his throat, patted his pockets and said, ‘Well, best of luck, Somerset.’ He held out his hand and Somerset gripped it firmly.
‘Thank you, sir. You too.’
Somerset saluted then turned and left, with Stratton and Bullmore in tow. Outside in the courtyard, dusk was falling. A dove cooed soothingly nearby. The air was fresh and cool. It was quiet too. Quiet now, thought Somerset, but for how much longer? He turned and smiled at Bullmore and Stratton, clapping his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.’
‘Right, chaps, we’ve got work to do. Stratton – lead on. Should we walk or take the car?’
‘It’s not a big place, sir, but in the interest of time, the car might be helpful.’
‘Absolutely.’
His driver saluted and opened the rear door of the Snipe for the brigadier. Somerset stepped in and sat back in the seat, his mind racing. He knew he needed to convey a sense of confidence to all his men, but it was something he did not feel himself. Mason-Macfarlane’s grim picture of the situation had shocked him. He had known things were not going well, but he had not appreciated it was quite so bad. But far worse was the stark reality of the task his new force here at Cassel had been given. They were the sacrificial lambs, given an impossible task of holding off the enemy. There could be no question of cutting and running. They would have to stand and fight, but eventually they would be able to stand and fight no longer.
And by that time, if they weren’t already dead, they would inevitably be taken prisoner.
9
SERGEANT SPEARS
After the patrol had safely returned, Sergeant Spears had reported to Second-Lieutenant Farrish, armed with a collection of Soldbuchs, letters and even a fold-up map of the area. Farrish had been delighted – maps were in short supply, and they had been relying on French motoring maps that the battalion commander had bought in a shop in Lille before the offensive had begun.
‘The writing is a bit hard to decipher on some of these,’ said Farrish as they sat around an old wooden table in the kitchen of the farmhouse. Above them, a large part of the plaster had fallen when a shell had landed on the roof above earlier. The remains of the plaster had been roughly cleared up from the stone floor below but the whole room was covered in a thin film of dust, apart from the table, which the two men had lightly wiped with a rag.
‘Ah,’ said Farrish, holding up a letter. ‘This chap is in confident mood. The French have been surrendering in droves and are in full flight. The battle to cross the Meuse was a hard one, but since then they have been advancing fifty kilometres a day. Fifty kilometres? What’s that – thirty-odd miles?’
‘About that, sir,’ said Spears. ‘I didn’t know you could read German, sir.’
‘Yes, well – a bit. I studied it at school and did an exchange with a boy from the Black Forest. Andreas Deichmann. God knows what happened to him. For all I know he’s fighting against us now.’
‘What was it like? Germany, I mean?’
Farrish thought for a moment. ‘Actually, for the most part it wasn’t so very different from home. The family were decent enough and we boys came and went as we pleased. It’s a beautiful part of the world and Andreas and I went hiking in the hills, or we’d go canoeing, or out on our bicycles – all outdoor kind of pursuits – and really had a splendid time. I liked him – as straight as you or I really. But then you’d go into the town – they lived near Freiburg, which is a picture-postcard Black Forest town – and you’d see all these swastikas all over the place and Nazis left, right and centre and that made you sit up a bit. It was quite intimidating.’
Spears smiled ruefully. ‘A bit different from England.’
‘You can say that again,’ agreed Farrish. ‘At home you see the odd bobby in his inoffensive odd-shaped helmet and armed with nothing more than a truncheon, but over there you’d see soldiers and police with all sorts of firearms. The swastika just looks sinister too.’
‘I suppose it does,’ agreed Spears. ‘Blood red and that strange black symbol.’
‘Apparently it’s an old Norse rune,’ said Farrish. ‘Or so my German family told me. But it wasn’t just the flags, to be honest. There were also posters up all over the place, with anti-Jewish proclamations and occasionally you’d see a shop that had been forcibly shut down and you’d realize the owners had been Jewish. That made you feel a bit uncomfortable too. And then there was the radio – Nazi marches blaring out and all this propaganda. Andreas’s family liked what Hitler had done in terms of building up employment and improving things, but I wouldn’t say they were die-hard Nazis or anything. Andreas used to call the radio “Goebbels’s Gob” after the Nazi propaganda man.’ He chuckled at the memory.
‘He’s still shooting his gob off now,’ said Spears.
‘Yes. Most Germans seemed to believe every word he said, but coming from Britain where we’re all a bit more questioning, I couldn’t help wondering how much he was saying was actually just hot air.’ He paused and scratched his eyebrow. ‘Although, having said that, they seem to have lived up to their boasting so far.’
He put down the letter and rifled through the collection of Soldbuchs.
‘Anything of any interest, sir?’ asked Spears.
‘Not much. These are their paybooks. They were all from the Fifty-seventh Panzer Pioneer Battalion. Pionere,’ he pronounced. ‘That’s what the Jerries call engineers. These chaps were all sappers, Spears.’
Farrish bundled them together. ‘I should get these up to Battalion.’ He looked out of the window. ‘It’s getting dark but we should probably do that tonight. Send Braithwaite, will you?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Spears paused a moment then added, ‘I know he’s the platoon runner, sir, but do you think we should send someone else with him?’
‘Yes, good idea. Sort that out, then I suggest you try and get some kip. Jerry might have pulled back today, but I doubt that’s the last we’ll see of him. We all need to get what rest we can while we can.’
Spears nodded, and pushed back his chair.
‘And, Sergeant?’ said Farrish as Spears stood up.
‘Sir?’
‘Well done today. You did well. Really well. We’re lucky to have you in this platoon.’
Spears nodded again in acknowledgement then took his leave and stepped back out into the yard.
It was only when he had found Braithwaite and Stubbs and was about to give them the bundle of German papers that he realized there were nine rather than ten Soldbuchs. He thought for a moment, but then decided to send the two men on their way immediately. There was still some light but not much and it would help the men to make the most of what still remained without delay. However, having sent them off, he then went looking for Hawke.
He found him in the orchard at the back of the farm. As he approached, Hawke saw him and quickly tried to hide what was in his hands.
‘Give them to me,’ said Spears, hol
ding out his hand.
‘What, Sergeant?’ said Hawke.
‘What you took from the German you shot earlier.’
Hawke paused for a moment, his young face downcast, then slowly held out the collection.
Spears looked through them briefly then took out a box of matches and, cupping his hands, struck one and set the flame against the bundle.
‘What are you doing?’ said Hawke in alarm.
Spears ignored him, watching the flames rise and carefully holding the collection between his finger and thumb. The photographs curled and blackened. Then he said, ‘I’m doing you a favour.’ He glanced across at Hawke who was now standing beside him, an expression of anguish across his face.
‘First,’ said Spears, ‘you were supposed to hand these in. I could have you put on a charge for that. Second, it’ll do you no good looking at these things.’ He let go of the burning booklets and dropped them on to the grass, then turned to face the boy. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘the first one is always the worst, but you’ve got to forget him now. You wouldn’t be here now if you hadn’t killed him.’ He clapped Hawke on the arm. ‘Go and find the others. Talk to them, put what happened out of your mind and then get some kip.’
Hawke nodded.
‘Good lad. Now, be off with you.’
Hawke turned. ‘Thank you, Tom.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant.’
Spears watched him go and sighed, then ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his eyes. That boy, he thought. He had better things to think about than to be wasting time worrying about Johnny Hawke. Spears tramped through the orchard, the scent on the air fresh and crisp, then checked the sentries. Tobacco smoke and the faint whiff of food drifted across the yard. Men were huddled in the outbuildings or talking quietly. Spears looked up into the sky now twinkling with the first stars, then headed back into the farmhouse.
‘Ah, Spears,’ said Farrish as he entered the kitchen. ‘You’re still up? Well, I’m going to turn in myself, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Spears. He was quite relieved. Farrish was all right – he liked him well enough and he was certainly better than some subalterns he had served under. He made sure everyone knew he was the officer and commander of the platoon, but at the same time he was not too proud to take advice. Spears was grateful for that, but at the same time, it did mean that the lieutenant leaned on him heavily, dependent on his greater experience. That meant that for so much of his time Spears had to make sure the men were all right, and that Lieutenant Farrish was all right, and that everyone knew what they were supposed to be doing and that morale was as good as possible and that no one was shirking. It was a relief to have a few moments to himself at last. A few moments in which he could reread his letters from Maddie and then write a few lines to her himself.
The last mail had come on 9 May, a day before the battle had begun, and there had been five for him then, written over a week. Most talked of life at the farm where she was now working as a Land Girl. Spears had been brought up in the country, within shouting distance of the sea at Scarborough, but Maddie’s family were townsfolk. It made him smile to think of her on a farm and to read about her wonderment at the sights and sounds and smells she was facing daily. Her freshness – her genuine goodness – was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place. She was appreciating the seasons more, she told him – and who wouldn’t after the winter they had just had? By God, Spears thought to himself, it had certainly been cold, but it was summer now, and although the nights were still chill, the days were long and mostly warm. There had only been a couple of days’ rain since the Germans had attacked.
He thought of Maddie and wished he could be with her – wished he could see her gentle oval face with her deep brown eyes and dark, almost black hair. It was uncanny how much her young brother looked like her, but in many ways that just made it worse. Maddie was closer to him because of Johnny and yet tantalizingly as far away as ever. Worse than that, having him in the platoon reminded him of just how beloved the youngest member of the Hawke family was. How they would never forgive him if anything happened to Johnny. Oh, he knew they would never openly blame him, that Maddie would say that it was their fault that he had joined up in the first place, but they would blame him all the same. Of course they would. It would be impossible not to. No one would ever mention it, but it would be there, lurking underneath, gnawing away at them all.
They had put him on a pedestal, he knew: Maddie, then Johnny, then the rest of the family, just like they had their long-dead father. Spears tried to be a good person, to do the best by his family, his men and Maddie, but he did not believe he was the hero that Hawkes seemed to think he was.
And yet he did feel partly responsible for Johnny’s joining the army. If only he had been more discreet, and had talked less of his adventures in India and elsewhere. Johnny had lapped up every word – and he, the older man, had enjoyed it, glad to have an appreciative audience. How could he have known then that Johnny would run away, and with a new name and a packet of lies behind him, to join the army? And not any old regiment but the Yorks Rangers. Spears shook his head – it had never occurred to him last summer that a fifteen-year-old would do such a thing.
He had been on his way to France by the time he had learned what had happened. Johnny had sent them a letter, which had arrived after two days of mounting panic back at their home in Headingley. Once in France there had been little Spears had been able to do. Maddie had appealed to him as though he alone possessed the ability, wherewithal and influence to get their little brother home, but, without a name or even a hint of where he was, that had been impossible.
And so it had continued through the autumn and winter. While neither Germany nor the western powers had seemed prepared to make the first move, the war had developed into a waiting game – and that was all he could tell Maddie and her family to do too. So long as Johnny was training and the war was quiet, they had nothing to worry about. But what if the fighting begins? Maddie had written to him. It hasn’t yet, Spears had replied sometime in the middle of April. They’re not going to send boys like him over here, so try not to worry.
But then they had. A savage winter in tented accommodation had taken its toll on the battalion. Three men had been invalided out with a combination of pneumonia and severe frostbite in B Company alone. That had been back in February and March and then, weeks after the requests for replacements had been made, three new recruits had arrived out of the blue, straight from training down in Kent. It had been 1 May and suddenly there was Johnny Hawke, one of the new boys, clambering down from a fifteen hundredweight truck, a big grin on his face and saying, ‘Tom, hey, Tom!’
It made Spears wince to think about it even now. Seeing Johnny like that had made him freeze. For a moment he’d been barely able to move or speak.
‘Johnny,’ he had said at last in a low voice, ‘what the hell are you doing here?’
‘I joined up, didn’t you know?’
‘Oh yes, I knew all right, but I didn’t know you’d join the Rangers. And I didn’t know you were coming here.’
Hawke had still been grinning from ear to ear. ‘A stroke of luck, though, joining B Company. I really hoped I’d be with you and now I am. I can’t believe it!’
‘Johnny, you’re fifteen! What the hell were you thinking?’
The boy’s face had suddenly looked crestfallen. ‘I’m not. I was sixteen yesterday. Aren’t you pleased to see me?’
‘No, Johnny, I’m not. Your family have been worried sick. We’re at war here – this is no place for boys.’
He could see Hawke swallowing hard, the hurt etched across his face.
‘But I’ve proved myself,’ he said. ‘I went through training just like anyone else. I’ve worked hard. I’m a good shot. I’ll prove it to you, Tom.’
‘No you won’t,’ Tom told him. ‘You’re coming with me. Training doesn�
��t mean anything – it’s experience that counts and you haven’t got any – not of life and certainly not of being a soldier.’
‘What do you mean? Where are we going?’
‘I’m taking you to see the platoon and company commanders and then I’m going to make sure you get put on the first boat home.’
‘No!’ Hawke exclaimed. ‘No, Tom, you can’t! I’m old enough now. Please, Tom, please, let me stay – I won’t let you down, I promise I won’t.’
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’re not old enough.’ He turned and looked at him. ‘You don’t know anything,’ he growled, ‘and it’s not Tom – it’s Sergeant Spears to you, Private, and you’ll do as you’re damn well told.’
Lieutenant Farrish had been of much the same opinion as Spears, as had Major Strickland, but the adjutant had insisted on referring the matter to the Battalion commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Beamish. However, the colonel had not been available to see them until the following afternoon, by which time Hawke had been allotted to McLaren’s section – after all, that was why the replacements had been sent in the first place – and with a sinking heart Spears could see which way the wind was now blowing.
The interview between Major Strickland, Lieutenant Farrish and the Battalion commander was then put back a further day, by which time both men, although still broadly of the same opinion as Spears, had already got used to having Hawke around. It did not help that although Hawke looked young he was taller than most and, with his dark brows and the first signs of hair on his chin, certainly could pass for someone two or three years older. Yet whenever Spears looked at the boy all he saw was those deep brown eyes and an expression of enthusiastic and wide-eyed innocence.
Damn it, he had thought, he doesn’t stand a chance.
On his return from meeting the colonel, Farrish had taken Spears aside, away from the collection of bell tents where the company was bivouacked, although the sergeant already knew what he was going to say.
Dunkirk Page 8
