THE MORTAR MEN
As the remnants of 6th Platoon reached the ramparts, there was still no further movement from the woods below, just intermittent but regular artillery and mortar fire. Of the old ramparts there was now little more than an imprint – a path that led round the edge of the town, but the long brick wall that divided the ramparts and the walled gardens of the buildings behind had been well prepared with loopholes knocked out of the brickwork. Forward of the ramparts, on the kitchen gardens and allotments on the ground immediately in front, slit trenches had been dug, and a small amount of wire had been laid across their front. There were a few trees, chestnuts and horse chestnuts, which offered a certain amount of protection and cover, but the allotments overlooked a shallow lip, which gave the position both a degree of concealment while at the same time providing a good view of the woods and surrounding villages below.
It was along this area in front of the ramparts that the company’s two-pounder anti-tank guns and mortars were positioned, dug into the ground between the newly tilled vegetable patches and fruit cages, and between which, straddling a fifty-yard front, 6th Platoon were now deployed.
Between them, Lieutenant Farrish and Sergeant Spears positioned their men, now made up of two sections – Alf Addington and the remainder of B Company had been allocated to A Company Headquarters. The platoon had a forty-yard front, covering two houses behind them. 1 Section was positioned just to the right of the alleyway down which they had arrived, on the open ground in front of the ramparts.
‘I don’t understand, Corp,’ Hawke said to McLaren as they were retrieving new boxes of ammunition from the cellar of the house behind. ‘Why are we positioning ourselves in front of the ramparts? Wouldn’t it make more sense to place them here, in the gardens or the houses themselves?’
McLaren passed Hawke a metal tin of twelve Bren magazines.
‘It’s a balancing act,’ said McLaren. ‘You see, the problem with buildings is that for the Jerry gunners these provide a much bigger and more obvious target. Say you’re firing from the first floor and a shell hits the roof, you have the whole ceiling collapse on you. If a shell lands on the ground, on the other hand –’
‘It absorbs much of the blast,’ said Hawke.
‘You’re learning, Johnny,’ said McLaren. ‘Although only as long as you’re below ground level, which is why the lads occupying this ground before us very kindly dug us some nice deep slit trenches.’ They both climbed the steps of the cellar. ‘It was different at the farm. That was an outpost and, although we were getting a little bit of mortaring, most of the heavy stuff was being aimed at the town. Brick and stone is good for defence against small-arms, but nothing much bigger. Trust me, when a shell hits, it’s not just the bits of shrapnel from the exploding shell casing that causes the problem, it’s a thousand jagged shards of stone and brick too. Clods of soil are a pain in the backside, but they rarely rip your guts open.’
Hawke carried his magazine box down through the walled garden and out over the ramparts on to the ground below. A three-inch mortar crew was sitting in a round pit, about eight feet wide and long, and four feet deep, the excavated earth all around them. Three men sat in the pit, their battle blouses discarded and draped over mortar ammunition boxes.
‘You the corporal who helped take out those Jerry panzers?’ one of them asked McLaren.
McLaren nodded. ‘And this lad here took out a fair few Jerry soldiers.’
Hawke felt himself redden.
‘Oh yeah,’ said another, ‘with that mad sergeant.’ He held up a pair of binoculars. ‘We were watching it all. Grandstand view from here, see.’
‘I reckon that’s given us a bit of a respite, so we owe you one.’
‘Cheers,’ said McLaren.
They moved on a further twenty yards to where Ibbotson, Chalkie White and Fletcher were already in their own machine-gun nest, a similar sized pit, the Bren positioned on its bipod over the lip.
‘Here you go, boys,’ said McLaren as he put down a tin of magazines, and squatted beside them. ‘Hm. A good field of fire from here.’ He looked out towards the south and Hawke followed his gaze. From the woods below there was still no sign of any activity, but beyond the still smoking village of Oxelaëre, small clouds of dust could be seen moving across the endlessly flat landscape.
‘Look at all that dust,’ said Hawke.
‘Probably the enemy moving up.’
There was still heavy firing going on to the west and east of the town. From the direction of Zuytpeene it was particularly loud, the chatter of small-arms cutting across the still midday air. Hawke looked either side of him, at the line interspersed with weapons pits, Brens and mortars pointing outwards, down the hill, and a little further on, on the road leading into the square near Battalion HQ, a two-pounder anti-tank gun, protected by a screen of rubble.
‘Come on, Johnny,’ said McLaren, ‘we’ve positions to prepare.’
Around two o’clock in the afternoon, Hawke sat next to Hebden in the slit trench they were sharing, the soil piled around them and compressed at the front into a lip over which they could look down the hill. They had inherited the pit, but, with their entrenching tools, had deepened it and created seats at either end and at the back so that they could sit in reasonable comfort. They had eaten too, each pair taking it in turns to heat the last of their rations over a Primus set up in the walled garden of the house behind them. The whole platoon was now well spaced out: three Bren teams, with pairs of riflemen in between, and with the company’s mortar crews behind them.
Hawke had picked up some more five-round clips of ammunition and had cleaned his rifle – it was now the only part of himself and his equipment that was clean. His battledress was filthy – mud-stained, blackened and beginning to stink of sweat and grime. It was starting to itch too and he shuffled and wriggled in his earth hole.
‘It’s probably lice,’ said Hebden. ‘I found a few of the beggars on my jacket earlier.’
‘That’s all I need,’ muttered Hawke.
‘Here, take it off a moment.’
Hawke undid the buttons on his shoulder straps, eased the webbing down over his arms, then unbuttoned the serge jacket and passed it to Hebden, who peered at it intently.
‘Yes – here you are,’ he said, pointing to the seams along the shoulders and under the arms. ‘Not too bad – I’ve seen worse.’
Hawke looked closely and saw several tiny mites crawling along the line of the seams. ‘No wonder I’m itching, then,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry – I can sort that out for you.’ Hebden pulled out a box of matches, lit one and ran the flame along the edge of the seams.
‘Don’t set fire to it, Bert,’ said Hawke.
Hebden winked. ‘I won’t.’ He lit a second match, repeated the procedure, then passed the jacket back. ‘Now give me your shirt.’
Hawke had just taken it off and passed it to Hebden when Spears appeared beside them, crouching down at the edge of their slit trench.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he demanded.
‘He’s got lice, Sarge,’ said Hebden before Hawke could answer.
‘I can see what you’re doing, Hebden,’ Spears snarled, ‘but I want to know why this couldn’t wait until later. Jerry might attack at any moment.’
‘It won’t take a moment, Sarge – I’m nearly done.’
Spears looked at Hawke. ‘I’d be surprised if you didn’t blind the enemy.’
Hawke looked at his white-skinned torso. The ribs were showing at his sides – he’d not noticed that before.
‘Just put your uniform back on – now!’
Hebden flicked away the match and passed back the shirt. ‘All done,’ he grinned. ‘You wouldn’t want us to be distracted by itching lice, would you, Sarge?’
‘Just concentrate on what’s in front of you,’ said Spears, then hurried back to his own slit trench.
T
he smell of singed wool now mingled with the odour of sweat and dirt, but Hawke quickly forgot all about it, for no sooner had he dressed again than the Bren next to him opened fire and Spears shouted out, ‘Enemy at eleven o’clock!’
Hawke slapped his helmet back on his head and, hastily grabbing his rifle, quickly scanned the ground ahead of him, his heart hammering in his chest. Soldiers were flitting between the trees that extended from the woods and making their way along the low hedgerows that divided the field below them. He felt his hands tighten round his rifle and his mouth go dry. Dull nausea filled his stomach. Behind, a row of trees covered the road that linked Oxelaëre to the eastern side of the town and the sound of tanks and vehicles could be heard rumbling along.
Hebden fired off a single shot and cursed. The Bren spat out another burst, while behind them mortars began firing, the shells falling into the barrel with a dull clunk and then discharging with a louder crash. From below, the faster-firing enemy machine guns were rattling, while their mortars began raining down on the Ranger’s positions.
‘Damn mortars!’ muttered Hebden. ‘You can never tell where they’re going to land.’
One mortar shell crashed into the houses behind them, another fell just in front of their positions, and Hawke ducked and then felt grit and soil clattering down on his tin helmet. The stench of cordite and explosive charge was sharp and acrid on the air, and again Hawke felt his throat catch. He spotted a German running between the trees, aimed, allowing plenty of lead, but the man disappeared behind some thicket. The noise was immense. Enemy artillery shelling began again, the missiles hurtling over and exploding behind them.
Suddenly, Spears was up and darting from slit trench to slit trench. ‘Don’t fire unless you’re sure you’re going to hit,’ he said as he reached Hebden and Hawke. ‘Save your ammo. Leave the firing to the MGs and mortars.’ He scuttled off once more, but then another mortar shell landed some twenty yards away and to his horror Hawke saw Spears fall flat, as though hit.
‘No!’ he called out, but then once the debris had landed Spears was up again and dashing for his own slit trench. Hawke briefly closed his eyes. His heart was still pounding, his hands shaking.
‘It would take more than an enemy mortar to knock out the sarge,’ said Hebden. ‘I reckon that one’s got some kind of guardian angel protecting him.’
Four tanks were now making another attempt to storm the hill, the squeaking and grinding of their tracks audible between the crash of mortars and rattle of small-arms. Three were the slightly larger models, with a narrow gun in the turret, while the fourth was, Hawke saw, the same as the smaller ones with machine guns they had knocked out earlier.
Behind them, the two-pounder positioned at the mouth of the alleyway opened fire. Hawke could see its tracer base and thought the shell would hit the lead tank, but at that moment the panzer lurched into a small trough in the land and the shell passed over it and landed in the ground beyond. Unfortunately, the tracer had given away the gunners’ position and the enemy tank now adjusted its direction, swivelled its turret and opened fire. The shell smacked into the wall above the ramparts only ten yards from the two-pounder, but the two-pounder fired again, and this time the shell hit the tank, but bounced off its armour below the turret.
‘Did you see that?’ exclaimed Hawke.
Hebden nodded, but then both ducked again as another mortar crashed not ten yards away.
‘Urghh!’ cried out Hebden. ‘They’re getting closer!’ More grit and soil rained down on them, but then they raised their heads and peered out. In the Bren pit, they were changing magazines, while a little further along, just in front of a lone horse chestnut, were Drummond and Foxton. Hawke saw Drummond now look across and run a finger across his throat.
The enemy panzers were getting closer. The lead tank now opened fire again, this time the shell crashing into the building above the covered alleyway, but the two-pounder responded again. The tank moved off, and then a second rumbled up in line. The gunners continued their duel, the tanks moving, stopping, then firing, and the two-pounder somehow continuing unscathed, even though the panzers’ shells seemed to be crashing perilously close. One even exploded in the mound of rubble and sandbags stacked up in front of it, but although the gun disappeared briefly behind a cloud of dust and smoke, when it settled, the gunners replied with another round.
‘By God, it’s getting close,’ mumbled Hebden. The mortaring had lessened momentarily. The Bren teams were firing again, their bullets pinging off the tanks. Another duel had begun between one of the other panzers and a two-pounder further along to the right, while the third had pressed further east, towards C Company’s lines, and the fourth had begun to open fire with its machine guns, raking the ground in an arc. Hawke saw an A Company Ranger stand up in his slit trench and fire a Boys anti-tank rifle. The .55-calibre bullet hit the turret but the panzer’s machine guns replied immediately and a second later the Ranger fell backwards, his arms splayed as the bullets cut him down.
The lead panzer was now just a hundred yards away. A strange calm settled over Hawke. His heart-rate had dropped and, although his ears were ringing, his hands had stopped shaking. With the enemy machine-gun fire, most of the men had ducked below the surface but he now leaned out of his slit trench, his head as low as he could make it, and aimed his rifle at the larger vent to the side of the turret. The gunners fired again, this time aiming lower, and at last the shell caused some damage because the track snapped and unravelled and the tank lurched to a standstill. Hawke’s aim had altered, and as he readjusted the tank fired another shell towards the two-pounder. Hawke felt his finger stroke the trigger. Breathing in, he held his breath and, having allowed enough aim-off, fired.
The Enfield pressed hard into his shoulder. There was no sound of any bullet strike and for a moment Hawke thought he must have missed altogether.
‘Did you get it?’ asked Hebden.
‘I’m not sure,’ Hawke replied.
The two-pounder fired again, hitting the tank in the wheels a second time. The metal beast jolted and then the hatch opened and two of the crew clambered out. Immediately, the Bren opened fire. One of the tank men tumbled off the hull with a cry, while the second managed to get a few yards before also being cut down. From A Company’s lines, the men cheered, but now the second of the larger tanks opened fire again, hitting the rubble protecting the two-pounder positioned on the right on the road below Battalion Headquarters. Dust and grit rolled into the sky and the tank moved forward, heading straight towards 6th Platoon’s positions, the third panzer close behind.
Hawke aimed again, focusing on the open viewing vent. The panzer paused, swung its turret a few yards so that it seemed to be pointing directly at them. Hawke squeezed the trigger but his shot was too high, and then the tank fired. Hebden had already ducked, but Hawke felt the whoosh of the cannon shell just inches above his head, then immediately it exploded behind him. Someone cried out, but at the same time the two-pounder at the alley’s entrance fired again, hitting the tank, now no more than fifty yards away, and penetrating the metal shell between the hull and the turret. The upper half of the tank exploded, the turret fragmenting into a thousand pieces of lethal metal. Hawke ducked again and shards of metal fizzed into the soil mounded up around them. Gingerly, he lifted his head again. A man was screaming behind him and, turning, Hawke saw the mortar crew had gone. The barrel of the 3-inch mortar lay twisted some yards behind, one of the men had lost both his legs and was sprawled, dead, beside the blackened pit, while a second man lay half out, his eyes wide.
Without thinking, Hawke scrambled out of his slit trench. Hebden called him back, then, cursing, followed, but as Hawke neared the wounded man he felt his stomach lurch. A dark hole in the man’s stomach glistened, while in his reddened hands were his entrails. It was the mortar man who had spoken to them earlier. He had been cheery then, his grin revealing several missing teeth, but now his mouth was covered with blood
and wild eyes were staring aghast at his guts spilling out from him. Fully conscious, he was desperately trying to hold them in.
‘Help me,’ the man stammered.
‘What do we do? What do we do?’ Hawke asked Hebden.
‘All right, mate,’ said Hebden, swallowing hard, ‘we’ll get you help.’
Hawke glanced around. The fourth tank was reversing, but another shell from the two-pounder smacked into its wheels and the track rolled off. The tank veered. Spears was now hurrying, crouching, towards the smashed mortar pit.
‘Get back, you two!’ he shouted. ‘Get back now!’ He pulled Hawke by his shoulder. ‘Damn it, Hawke! Do you want to get yourself killed?’
‘He needs help!’ Hawke burst out.
‘I can see that, Private!’ snarled Spears. ‘Now do as I damn well say!’
Hawke scurried back as the stricken panzer opened fire in a wide arc. Flattening himself on the ground, he felt momentary panic but then two shells, fired from both two-pounders, one after the other, smashed into it and exploded, knocking the turret clean into the air. A moment later, Hawke heard a single pistol shot behind him. Turning, he saw Spears look up, defiance in his eyes, the man beside him now dead.
Hawke tumbled back into the slit trench, his mind reeling. Hebden was now tumbling in beside him, his face ashen.
‘I’ve seen some sights since I’ve been out here,’ he jabbered, ‘and I thought my stomach was pretty hard. But that …’ He let the sentence trail.
Hawke said nothing. His hands were shaking again, his heart pounding and his ears were ringing. Directly in front of them, not thirty yards away, were the smouldering remains of the leading panzer. Along to the right, stood the second, while further down the hill was the third. Three out of four tanks destroyed. Behind him, the bloody remains of the mortar crew lay dead and mangled. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke and death. Where was the enemy? Suddenly everything had gone quiet, so that all he could hear was the shrill ringing in his ears.
Dunkirk Page 15
