Dunkirk

by James Holland

  In addition to his infantry, he also had the carriers and light tanks of the Fife and Forfar Yeomanry and 1st East Riding Yeomanry, brigade engineers and a battery of nine anti-tank guns and fifteen two-pounders. These were hardly the most destructive of guns, but they were better than nothing and, handled well, they would be able to knock out some of the enemy tanks at least.

  Brigadier Somerset stood up and stretched his back. ‘I think we’re safe for today,’ he said. ‘Jerry always likes to attack in the morning. But we’ve got to expect an attack tomorrow. It would be too much to hope for another day of quiet.’

  ‘I agree, sir.’

  ‘Do you think we can hold him, Bully?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, sir.’

  ‘One thing’s for certain. It’s going to be hard fight. A damned hard fight.’ He wandered over to a sideboard and poured himself and Bullmore two stiff whiskies. ‘Here’s hoping we get through it, Bully,’ he said, raising his glass, ‘although I can’t help feeling like a condemned man.’

  ‘Your great-grandfather survived the Charge of the Light Brigade, sir.’

  Somerset smiled. ‘What? Are you suggesting I might have lucky genes?’

  ‘Here’s hoping, sir.’

  ‘Luck,’ said the brigadier and downed his whisky. ‘We’re going to need a barrelful of it.’

  12

  THE ATTACK

  Shortly after 7 a.m. on Monday 27 May, a formation of nine Stuka dive-bombers arrived in the skies over Cassel. From their positions at Oxelaëre, the men of 6th Platoon watched the aircraft circle, faint black dots in the sky at first, then peel off and dive, the engines whining and sirens screaming. Growing in size as they fell from the sky, they then pulled out of their dives, one after another, as a series of bombs fell over the town. In moments the bombs were exploding, the detonations causing trembles in the ground that could be felt even a mile away from where the Rangers were watching.

  ‘I always thought we’d pulled the short straw being stuck out here,’ muttered McLaren, watching from the back of the windmill, ‘but now I’m not so sure.’

  Hawke was standing beside Hebden at the top of the steps of the mill, by the open door. Since arriving at the farm they had been able to clearly see the town behind them, up beyond the line of woods and trees, perched on the top of the hill, standing sentinel over them. Now, however, it was disappearing behind a swirling, rising cloud of smoke. Another bomb exploded, a particularly loud crack. Hawke jerked a little.

  Hebden grinned at him. ‘That was a big one, Johnny, I’ll admit.’

  A loud crash of tumbling masonry could now be heard drifting down from the hill.

  Hawke pulled his tin helmet a bit closer over his head.

  Inside the windmill, McLaren counted off the Stukas one by one. In just a few minutes, the attack was over, the enemy planes turning and droning away eastwards until they were out of sight and then out of earshot too. Smoke continued to shroud Cassel, however.

  ‘I wonder if this is the start of something,’ said Hebden, turning back to face the woods away to their front.

  As another pair of shells screamed overhead, Spears now strode across the yard towards the mill and began climbing the steps. ‘All right, boys,’ he said, ‘the show’s over. Let’s keep watching the front, all right?’

  No sooner had he said this than a shell whooshed overhead with a thunderous scream and exploded on the lower slopes of the town. Hawke instinctively ducked, then, with Hebden, quickly stepped back inside the mill, as though the wood-framed structure would give them any protection against such a missile. More shells followed in rapid succession, the charge of the field guns firing them reaching the ears of the men a couple of seconds later.

  In the yard and the orchard to the rear, men were quickly getting to their feet, looking to the sky anxiously, grabbing webbing and rifles. Lieutenant Farrish had emerged from the farmhouse and rushed into the long barn facing south, while Sergeant Spears had run from the mill and was hurrying among the men, telling those off duty to quickly stand to. Returning a short moment later to the mill, Spears clambered up the stairs, stepped inside and, with his binoculars, moved to the window beside Ibbotson, who was manning the Bren.

  ‘Do you think this is it, Sarge?’ asked Drummond. ‘D’you think Jerry’s about to attack?’

  Spears continued to peer through his binoculars, then eventually said in a quiet voice, ‘Jerry’s bombed Cassel from the air and now he’s shelling the place. Now what do you think?’

  The shelling continued, the guns firing from a broad front to the south.

  Lieutenant Farrish appeared in the doorway, then ducked himself as another shell hurtled above them.

  ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, ‘I could even see that one fly over.’ A moment later it crashed into the hill behind them. ‘They’ve not quite got the range yet.’

  ‘They will, sir,’ muttered Spears.

  ‘Can you see anything, Sergeant?’ asked Farrish.

  ‘No, sir, but can you hear that – between the shells?’ He cocked his ear slightly towards the direction of the woods to the south.

  Farrish listened. So too did Hawke, standing up now behind Ibbotson and Spears. A faint squeak and a dull rumble. Hawke felt his mouth go dry.

  ‘Tanks?’ said Farrish.

  ‘Yes, sir. Those field guns are firing over the advance. It won’t be long now.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We shouldn’t keep too many men up here, sir. A Bren team and someone keeping watch, but that should be it. A direct hit on this, and there won’t be a lot left.’

  Farrish stood still, his brows knotted, as though unsure what to do. ‘Yes – yes, you’re right, Sergeant,’ he said at length. ‘Let’s keep a half-section here, and get the rest of the men into position around the barns and farmhouse.’

  Spears nodded, then turned to McLaren. ‘Sid, get Fletcher up here with White and Ibbotson, the rest of you down to the barn.’

  McLaren nodded. ‘Come on, you lot,’ he said, ‘you heard what the sarge said.’

  Hawke followed the rest mutely out of the mill and across to the barn, his hands gripped tightly round his rifle. Firing slits had been cleared along the barn’s long southern wall – the cement chipped away with their bayonets and the bricks pushed out. Sun was already streaming through these embrasures, highlighting the many dust particles floating idly in the still barn air. There were wooden cattle stalls along this far wall, and in the opposite corners lay a mass of old farming machinery and tools. It was from this barn that two days earlier they had pulled two wooden carts and, turning them over on to their sides, had used them as barricades across the main entrance into the yard.

  Hawke stood beside a loophole in the wall and peered out. Nothing. Ahead stretched empty fields and the woods beyond. The cockerel crowed and somewhere from a tree nearby a wood pigeon cooed. As the minutes passed, so the nervous tension that had gripped them gradually melted away. Desultory artillery fire continued, but of the enemy there was not a sign.

  The men soon became restless. After an hour, the lieutenant gave permission for one man in each section to prepare a brew of tea for the rest. After two hours, Hawke was struggling to stay awake. Staring out of his loophole, waiting for an enemy who seemed never to appear began to be mesmerizing. The sun was high and bright, the sky clear, and contrasted starkly with the gloom of the barn, so that he found it increasingly hard to focus on the outside world to their front.

  But then, a little before 10.30 a.m., he was sure he saw something move in the woods some five hundred yards away.

  ‘Bert, Charlie,’ he hissed to Hebden and Drummond either side of him. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘What?’ said Drummond.

  ‘Movement – in the wood,’ said Hawke.

  Drummond squinted through his hole in the wall. ‘You’re imagining things, Johnny.’

  Just then they heard the hollow clunk of mortars bein
g fired in rapid succession, followed by the whistle of the mortar shells hurtling through the air and then a rapid burst of machine-gun fire.

  ‘Blimey!’ exclaimed Drummond. Hawke instinctively ducked again, but most of the mortar shells landed away to their left, towards the main part of the village.

  Yet more mortar shells followed and this time they were directed at the farm. The first two landed well forward of the farm, and were followed by another burst of raking machine-gun fire, which this time clattered against the barn, the bullets pinging and zipping as they ricocheted off the brickwork. More mortars came, this time much closer, while the third round hit the farmhouse and the roof of the barn with a deafening crash. Two men at the far end screamed, dust and smoke poured through the hole and wood and tiles clattered to the ground. Men began coughing and spluttering, while a corporal in 2 Section cursed, and yelled at his men to help those hit. Hawke glanced down the barn and saw one man sprawled on the floor, spotlighted by the shaft of bright sunshine pouring down through the now gaping hole in the roof.

  For a moment, Hawke just stood and stared, unable to comprehend the speed with which that man had been cut down. His fingers tightened round his rifle. Glancing at Drummond, he saw his friend swallow hard. The barn reeked of cordite and smoke. Men were coughing and spluttering, and swearing angrily.

  ‘Th-this is a hopeless position,’ stammered Drummond. ‘We haven’t got a chance.’

  ‘All right, steady, boys,’ said Spears, now entering the barn. More mortars whistled down and Hawke was amazed to see that as they landed, this time behind the farm, Spears did not even flinch.

  ‘Keep watching forward,’ called out the sergeant.

  Hawke peered through his loophole again, straining his eyes towards the woods. He could not see any movement at all now, but between the short, sharp bursts of machine-gun fire and the whine and crash of falling mortars, the squeak and rumble of tanks and heavy machinery could be heard ever more clearly.

  The mortars were falling further towards the village again and Hawke allowed himself a brief sigh of relief. Wiping his brow, he was surprised to discover his head was damp with sweat and yet he did not feel especially hot. His mouth felt parched, so he took his water bottle from his belt. His hands were shaking.

  Come on, he told himself, get a grip on yourself. He glanced at Hebden, whom he saw had noticed his unsteady hands. Hebden winked at him reassuringly.

  ‘So we’ve just got to stand here and watch those Jerries march towards us,’ said Drummond. ‘What the hell is the point of that?’

  ‘Ours not to reason why,’ said Hebden cheerfully.

  ‘Well, it should be,’ snapped Drummond. ‘What on earth can we hope to achieve here?’

  Minutes passed, but still there was no sign of the enemy, just the whistle and crash of artillery and mortar shells and the chatter of machine guns. In the brief lulls, they could hear further firing away to the east and west.

  ‘That settles it, then,’ said Hebden. ‘This is a proper attack all right.’

  One of the wounded men was groaning, then cried out as two others lifted him from the rubble and put him on a stretcher. Hawke turned and watched as he was carried past, his face ashen with dust but streaked with dark blood.

  ‘Look!’ said Drummond suddenly, and peering back through his loophole Hawke saw them too: tanks away to their left, emerging through the woods in the direction of the village. Behind them, soldiers followed, tiny stick-like figures, half crouching. Several bursts of Bren gun fire chattered and Hawke saw some men fall. Were they hit or just ducking out of the line of fire? He wasn’t sure, but he continued watching, mesmerized. He had seen newsreel footage of the Germans in Poland, but now here they were for real, and not in monochrome, but full vivid colour. Although he was now witnessing a battle for himself he still felt as though he were merely an observer, watching it as he had the newsreel, and was not a part of it at all.

  Sergeant Spears had seen the tanks too, and now ran across the yard to the farmhouse. He knew their own role was to slow down the enemy advance and to gain precious minutes, but one company was simply not enough and a single platoon even less so. Braithwaite, the platoon runner, had already been sent off to get instructions from Company HQ, but it had been twenty minutes and there was still no sign of him. If they left it much longer, it would be too late.

  Clambering up the old wooden staircase, he found Farrish beside the Bren gun team in a bedroom at the front of the house. The bed had been pushed out of the way, the rug rolled up, while a stool from the dressing table had been moved to the window and was now being sat on by the Bren gunner.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘can I have a word?’

  Farrish turned and nodded. ‘What is it?’ he said, walking over to Spears.

  ‘There’s still no sign of Braithwaite.’

  Farrish sighed and looked at his watch. ‘No.’

  ‘And there are Jerry tanks advancing towards the village.’

  Farrish rubbed his face, then looked at Spears. ‘We can’t fall back yet. Not without word from Company HQ and not without having fired a shot.’

  Firing could now be heard further to their left. Spears moved to the window overlooking the yard and beyond, towards the village of Bavinchove.

  ‘It looks like the Ox and Bucks are coming under attack in Bavinchove,’ he said. ‘If we’re not careful, sir, we’re going to be completely cut off and no use to anyone.’

  ‘Well, what the devil do you suggest?’ snapped Farrish.

  ‘Send two more runners and tell them to be back here within twenty minutes at the absolute latest. It should only take around five minutes to reach Company HQ if they’re quick.’

  Farrish nodded. ‘All right. God, what a mess.’

  Spears hurried back out of the farmhouse and across the yard to the barn. ‘Hawke, Drummond – here, quick.’

  Spears saw the startled expression on Hawke’s face, the eyes wide with a combination of apprehension and disbelief. He understood because he’d been a boy soldier once himself.

  ‘Yes, Sarge?’ said Drummond.

  ‘Listen carefully,’ said Spears as another shell hurtled overhead. ‘I want you to run to Company HQ – and I mean run – and find out whether there are plans to pull back, then run as fast as you can back again. If you can’t get through for any reason, then come straight back.’

  The two nodded.

  ‘And if this place is being overrun by the time you get back then turn and head for Cassel. Understood?’ Another nod of the head. ‘Now go!’

  Spears watched them tear out of the yard. He hoped he had done the right thing. Instinct told him they should all leave now, before it was too late, but he hoped that if they were overwhelmed sooner than expected then at least the boy would have a sporting chance of getting back to Cassel. On the other hand, where the hell was Braithwaite? Not for the first time, he wished Hawke was back in England – safe, and where he would no longer be an unwanted millstone round his neck.

  Hurrying across the yard, he ran up the steps into the windmill.

  ‘What can you see, lads?’ he asked.

  ‘Jerries, Sarge,’ said Ibbotson. ‘Look – heading for the village, and over there to our right. I reckon they’re hitting Bavinchove. Maybe Zuytpeene too.’

  Spears stood at the edge of the window and looked out. Tanks and infantry were pressing forward, slowly inching their way across the fields. He saw a section of men crouching along the hedgerow some four hundred yards south from the centre of Oxelaëre. A mixture of rapid-firing German guns and the slower chatter of the Bren rang out, while the dull crumps of field guns and the whine of the shells and subsequent explosions sent reverberations through the wooden floor beneath him. He looked out again and this time saw grey figures emerging from the woods directly ahead of them.

  ‘There’re Jerries in front of us now too,’ he said.

  ‘Good God,’ mutte
red Chalkie White.

  Ibbotson pulled back the cock on the Bren with a sharp click.

  ‘Steady, Jack,’ said Spears. ‘They’re still more than five hundred yards away.’

  ‘The Bren’s got the range, though, Sarge.’

  ‘Not effective range, though. A big difference. If you fire now, your bullets will drop short and all you’ll do is alert them to where you are. Wait until they’re four or even three hundred yards, allow a bit of height and then mow them all down.’ He patted Ibbotson lightly on the back and hurried back out, hoping he would reach the men in the barn before they opened fire. In training he had always preached the importance of waiting, of holding fire until the maximum effect of their bullets could be achieved. But battle made men impetuous, and once one fired he knew the rest would follow.

  To his relief the men seemed to be holding their nerve. Corporal Bradley, 2 Section commander, had been badly wounded when the mortar shell hit the roof and he was pleased to see McLaren standing by the Bren crew.

  ‘Hold off, boys,’ he said, then peering through a loophole next to McLaren realized they could barely see the enemy from ground level. ‘Hold your fire until Jerry gets much closer,’ he said. ‘Make every bullet count.’ He turned to McLaren. ‘Good work, Sid.’

  ‘Jerry’s going to get a nasty shock here, Sarge,’ said McLaren.

  Spears grinned, then moved down the line. Fifteen men, waiting, poised, rifles at the ready. He could see the tension etched on their faces. The fear too. He watched Private Miller, one of McLaren’s boys, trying to open his magazine pouch, his fingers quivering.