‘Did you feel scared?’
‘Did you?’
Hebden nodded. ‘At times. At times I was bleedin’ petrified. Not all the time, though. Not when we were busy firing down at the farm. I was concentrating on shooting and making sure my aim was good – I didn’t have time to feel scared.’
‘I felt scared at times,’ Hawke admitted. He smiled, wondering whether he was admitting too much, and said, ‘My hands kept shaking.’
Hebden laughed. ‘Mine too. And that horrible feeling in the stomach?’
‘Yes!’
They were silent a moment, then Hawke said, ‘Do you think about home much?’
Hebden scratched his cheek. ‘I did yesterday. There was too much time to think about things, wasn’t there? You can’t help it sometimes, though. My dad and my brother will be thinking about cutting the hay around now, and I used to love hay-making. It meant the start of summer, and that smell – warm and sweet and fresh. Not like the horrible stink here. I miss that and I wish I could be there, but feeling homesick isn’t the answer. We’re here and that’s all there is to it.’
‘I’ve been trying to write,’ said Hawke. ‘I keep getting out my paper and starting and then putting it down again.’ He took his pads from the inside of his battle blouse. ‘There’s so much I’d like to say, but I can’t.’ He read the first few lines to himself.
Dear All,
I hope you are all well. I am doing fine. The weather has been warm although it’s raining now, which is not very nice. We’re a bit short of food, but I went out into the town this evening with Tom, Bert and Charlie and we found enough. It was a good meal in the end. Bert and Charlie are in my section and are good friends. Bert always manages to look on the bright side, but I think Charlie wishes he was back home. He is a brilliant footballer and could have played for Sheffield United if it weren’t for the war. Jerry seems to have gone to ground today.
He had stopped there.
‘It’s tricky,’ said Hebden as Hawke took out his pen and held it poised. ‘We can’t say much because the censors will get jumpy, and you can hardly write about those poor mortar lads getting blown up, and nor do you want to say that you’ve been shelled and shot at all day, because you don’t want to worry them. And if you can’t say any of that there’s not much you can say, is there?’
‘No, just a few lines about the weather and how you hope they’re doing all right.’ Hawke sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m bothering anyway. It’ll probably never reach them now.’
‘You could always keep a diary, or a journal,’ suggested Hebden.
‘I thought we weren’t allowed to.’
‘Who would ever know? Some of the lads are keeping diaries. The corp is.’
Hawke thought for a moment. ‘Maybe I will, then.’ He held his pen still poised, but then they heard the distant thrum of aero engines and both looked up, scanning the skies.
‘Theirs,’ said Hawke.
‘I think you’re right. Jerry planes sound different. You’re getting good at this, Johnny.’
‘There!’ said Hawke, pointing to the south-east. ‘See. Tiny dots.’
‘Got them,’ said Hebden. ‘On their way to the coast, probably.’
The aircraft disappeared into cloud, then emerged once more, drawing ever nearer. Hawke began counting them. ‘Twenty,’ he said. ‘I can see twenty,’ and then as they drew even closer, he said, ‘They’re not Stukas. They’re twin-engine bombers. Ju Eighty-eights, I think.’
The aircraft were quite low in the sky, no more than four or five thousand feet, their bulbous noses and twin engines now clearly visible. Suddenly, they began to drop height, not as dramatically as a Stuka, and with no screaming siren, but diving all the same.
‘God help us,’ muttered Hebden, ‘but I think they’re heading for the town. They’re heading straight for us, Johnny.’
All along A Company’s front, those on watch were calling out and pointing frantically. From the building behind them, Hawke could hear shouting, a crash of something being flung hastily to one side, and then Spears yelling out for the men to take cover.
Hawke looked at Hebden. His eyes were wide, fear etched across his face.
‘Got that feeling in your stomach?’ Hebden asked.
Hawke could only nod. And not just his stomach. His whole body had tensed rigid. He looked back up at the sky, saw the Junkers hurtling towards them, their engines screaming and then the bombers were over them and clusters of dark shapes were tumbling from their bellies, innocuous looking, but whistling towards them. One load, then two, then three, four, five bombs screaming towards them. Hawke braced himself. He wanted to grab Hebden’s hand, but instead clutched his rifle to him, hugging it, his teeth clenched.
And then the bombs began to explode.
The noise was deafening, an enormous rippling roar of high explosives detonating, of tumbling stone and rock and timber. The ground shook and juddered, the soil in their slit trench crumbling around them. Hawke clutched his hands over his head and clenched his teeth as first one, then another Junkers roared almost directly over his head, the pale blue undersides streaked with oil, the black crosses stark and menacing.
Merryweather was firing, but the bombers roared onwards, banking south of the town and beginning to climb once more. Yet more bombs fell, the whistling even closer now, and then there was an ear-splitting crash as a bomb struck the house behind them while several more fell in a row that cut across A Company’s front.
Hawke could no longer hear. His head had gone numb, but he was vaguely aware of seeing huge fountains of soil and stone erupting into the sky. He wanted to scream and to yell, but no sound came out. Earth was crashing down upon him, clattering on to his helmet, peppering his shoulders and filling the slit trench. Bits of mud were in his mouth, he could hardly move, and the ground was convulsing even more. Another bomber thundered overhead and then from behind them came another sudden crash and Hawke hunched his shoulders ever more tightly, curling himself as small as he could.
It was all over in just a few minutes. As the last bombs exploded, the enemy planes flew on, and Hawke looked up through the swirling clouds of dust and smoke to see their ghostly shapes rapidly turn from giant terror machines to innocuous gnats in the sky, and then disappear altogether. His ears were ringing shrilly. He moved an arm, and then another, and looked across at Hebden, half buried. Hebden glanced back, disbelief across his face, then began easing himself out of the loose soil and earth. Hawke did the same, and as the dust and smoke began to settle he stood up, looked around him and saw what devastation had been caused in just those brief minutes.
Part of the roof had collapsed, while much of the adjoining building had gone entirely. Where before there had been a building several hundred years old there was now just a gaping hole from the first floor upwards. Hawke’s ears still rang, but his hearing was returning.
‘My God,’ said Hebden, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Are you all right, Johnny? I can’t believe we’re still alive.’
‘I’m fine,’ mumbled Hawke. He patted himself down again.
‘We need to dig out our slit trench,’ said Hebden.
Hawke nodded and began tugging at his entrenching tool. He still felt dazed, his senses disorientated, but then he heard voices – shouts – from the house and so stopped and clambered out of the trench. ‘We should see if they need help,’ he said, then stumbled and fell.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Hebden, climbing out too, and helping Hawke back to his feet. For a moment they stood and stared – at the rubble, at the smoke, at the buildings beyond in the town that were on fire and billowing smoke – and then as they staggered towards the ramparts, they saw Spears at the doorway into the walled garden.
He was covered in dust and there was a cut on his face below his right eye.
‘Sarge!’ Hawke called out.
‘You two are all righ
t, then?’ he said.
‘Somehow,’ said Hebden. ‘We were coming to help. What about everyone else?’
‘Not sure yet,’ said Spears. ‘But stay where you are. I’m going to send some of the others out. We need to keep watching our front. Remember last time their bombers came over, Jerry attacked soon after.’
What Spears had not told them was that he had already seen enemy troops moving into their assembly areas. Just before the bombers came over he had been watching with Lieutenant Farrish from the attic window. Large formations of tanks, armoured cars, motorcycles and lorried infantry had been gathering to the south and east. At the sound of the approaching aircraft, he had turned to Farrish and suggested they move quickly. Kicking Miller and Ashworth, who had been on midnight watch, awake he and Farrish then hurried downstairs and ordered everyone to take cover in the cellar.
They all knew a bomb had hit the building. They had heard it whistling down, had felt the whole building judder as it hit and heard the crash of falling brick and stone. Once the raiders had passed, Spears had been the first to climb the cellars stairs to see how much damage had been caused.
He’d been able to open the door into the hallway, which had been a good start, and after briefly looking around and seeing nothing but dust and large chunks of fallen plaster, had climbed the stairs to the first floor. There Spears discovered that only the roof and attic rooms had been hit. Clouds of choking dust still filled the corridors, but the staircase to the attic had gone. It occurred to him that he had not seen either Ashworth or Miller in the cellar.
Spears approached the wrecked staircase carefully, but there was suddenly another cascade of rubble. Stepping back just in time, he was nonetheless showered with dust and plaster and a piece of falling wood gashed his face. Cursing, he then thought of Hawke, and ran back down to call into the cellar that the ground floor appeared to be safe. Then he hurried out through the walled garden and to the door, where, thank God, he saw Hawke and Hebden, both apparently in one piece.
Standing in the doorway now, he glanced across at the Bren pit. The bombs had cratered and churned up the platoon’s front, but to his relief Merryweather and Grimshaw were now busily dusting themselves down and checking the Bren.
‘Dig out your trenches,’ Spears called out after Hawke and Hebden, ‘but keep watching the front. And jump to it too. We’ve no time to waste.’
Lieutenant Farrish and the rest of the men were now emerging from the house, dazed expressions on their faces. Then one of the men pointed to the pile of rubble that had spewed out into the garden. Others followed, and hurried over to where an outstretched arm was sticking up from under the brick and stone.
Damn it, damn it, thought Spears, running forward. Reaching the pile of debris, he began moving the rubble away from the dust-covered arm.
‘Oh no,’ muttered Farrish, standing beside him. ‘Miller or Ashworth?’
Spears nodded. ‘I think so, sir.’
Farrish turned and looked to the south. ‘We need to get the men to stand to, Spears,’ he said. ‘And we should also send a runner to Captain Astell, don’t you think? In case he hasn’t had word that the enemy might be about to attack.’
‘Good idea, sir. Send someone along the ramparts.’
As Farrish took out his notebook, Spears shouted out, ‘One Section, get moving this rubble, Two and Three Sections stand to below the ramparts! At the double!’
Men stumbled forward, the section leaders urging their men on. Spears turned back to Farrish. The lieutenant’s hands were shaking so much he could barely write. ‘Damn it all,’ he cursed. ‘I’m fine, I know I’m fine. Just a bit disorientated, that’s all.’
Spears took out his hip flask and offered it to the lieutenant. ‘Here, sir.’
Farrish looked at it, paused a brief moment, then took it and had a swig. ‘Calvados,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Spears.’ He gasped, then smiled faintly. ‘That’s better.’ Handing back the flask, he began to scribble his note. ‘Enemy massing to south and south-east,’ Farrish said as he wrote. ‘Imminent attack seems likely.’ A moment later, both Ashworth and Miller were discovered lying on top of each other under the rubble. Both were quite dead.
‘That means we’ve now lost nine dead and two wounded in three days,’ said Farrish as the bodies were pulled clear. Apart from the vivid streaks of blood, both were covered in chalky dust, as though a bag of flour had been dropped on them. So crushed were their bones, it took three men each to lift them.
‘That’s a third of our men,’ said Farrish. He took off his tin helmet and ran his hands through his hair. ‘And down below we’ve got God only knows how many Germans getting ready to attack.’
Guns suddenly rang out from the plain below, followed by a volley of screaming shells, scything through the air towards them. Farrish flinched and hastily put his helmet back on his head. As the first shells crashed into the town behind them, more guns opened fire, pulses throbbing through the ground below them, the noise of shells screaming over and exploding ear-splittingly loud.
The battle had begun.
21
AN ORDER TOO LATE
The men of 6th Platoon were not the only ones who had taken refuge in one of the town’s many cellars. Late the previous evening, Somerset had moved his headquarters to a more protected building near Mount Cassel, formerly a casino, and the moment the first bombs began to fall, the brigadier and his staff had hurried down into the large, musty underground vaults, and then, when the raiders had passed, they brought down tables, chairs and even cabinets. From now on, the cellars would play host to the brigadier’s command post.
The shelling had only just begun when a dusty and exhausted despatch rider arrived and was hastily brought before the brigadier.
‘This fellow’s come from GHQ, sir,’ said Captain Robson as the despatch rider descended the steps behind him.
The man saluted and passed Somerset a note.
‘You managed to get through,’ said Somerset.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the despatch rider, lifting his goggles on to his helmet and wiping his face.
Somerset read the note.
1445, 28.5.40
Evacuate Cassel soonest. Dunkirk evacuation well underway.
You have achieved your mission. Good work.
Gort, OC BEF
The brigadier read it again, as above more shells crashed into the town. Sprinkles of grit and dust fell from the roof as one shell exploded not far way. Somerset knew he should be feeling a sense of enormous relief and pride, and yet it was with anger and frustration that he said, ‘This is dated yesterday afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the despatch rider. ‘I couldn’t get through. To the north of here it’s thick with Jerries. I had to spend most of the night in a ditch. I got here as soon as I could.’
Somerset nodded. ‘It’s not your fault.’ He clenched his fist, swallowed hard, and turned to Captain Robson. ‘Get this man a drink, will you?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Robson.
As the despatch rider followed Robson, Somerset led Bullmore back to the map table.
‘It’s ridiculous,’ he hissed. ‘It’s taken nearly eighteen hours to get here. We could have been gone last night.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Damn communications. We’re all fumbling around in the dark.’ He shook his head. ‘How could those fools send us into war without enough radios? I mean, damn it all, Bully, how many men are we going to lose today as a result?’
‘Will you tell the commanding officers, sir?’ asked Bullmore.
‘Yes. But no one else. I don’t want the men to know. They need to concentrate on getting through today.’
‘Clearly we’ve got to wait until the cover of darkness, sir,’ said Bullmore, ‘but I just wonder whether perhaps we could speak to the despatch rider. If he got through this morning, maybe we could send some men out to recce the best route out of here.�
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‘We can talk to him, certainly.’ He called the despatch rider back over. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Corporal Brand, sir.’
‘And which way did you come, Brand?’
‘I zigzagged all over the place, sir,’ said Brand.
‘And did you see many Germans? Are they everywhere or concentrated in certain places?’
‘It’s hard to say, sir, because the enemy’s on the move, but they’re mostly sticking to the main roads. I got through by weaving my way along tracks and back roads.’
‘Show me on the map.’
Brand leaned over, his finger to his mouth. ‘Here, sir,’ he said after a moment’s pause. ‘I came through Winnezeele, Le Temple and Le Riveld. Small little villages and I didn’t see any Jerries in any of them.’
‘Winnezeele,’ said Somerset. ‘That’s about six miles to the north-east.’
A commotion at the top of the stairs caused the brigadier to pause and look up.
‘Sir,’ said Robson, hurrying back down into the cellar with another officer behind him. ‘Major Farrell, sir, from the Ox and Bucks.’
‘Brigadier,’ gasped Farrell as he reached the bottom of the steps. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘What is it, man?’ barked Somerset. As Farrell emerged into the light, he saw the major was covered in blood and small globs of flesh.
The Gendarmerie,’ he said, ‘the cellar took a direct hit. Everyone there has been killed.’
‘How many?’
‘I’m not sure. The commander, most of Battalion Headquarters.’
Somerset sighed then ordered one of the clerks to help Farrell get cleaned up.
‘A lucky escape, sir,’ said Bullmore as Farrell staggered back up the steps. ‘Could have been us.’
‘Yes,’ said Somerset, rubbing his brow. He cursed then brought a fist down hard on the table. ‘We’ve got to do all we can to escape from here,’ he said. ‘I think you’re right, Bully. Let’s send out a troop now from the East Riding Yeomanry. Brief them to try to reach Winnezeele and see whether there’s an escape route still open. The Huns can’t be everywhere all at once. There must be a chance. There must be.’ He sighed again. ‘There has to be.’
Dunkirk Page 19
