‘What’s going on, Sarge?’ Fletcher asked him. ‘Do you think that’s some of our lads?’
‘I’d put good money on it,’ Spears replied.
The column halted again, the men chattering agitatedly, then a minute later the head of the column came back down the track. In the faint milky light, Spears saw the battalion commander. Back they went, turning left back at the crossroads of tracks as Spears had originally suggested.
Half an hour later, with no let-up in the fighting going on away to their right, the first grey streaks of dawn were lighting the horizon in the east. In an hour, Spears knew, it would be quite light. His unease began to grow. Two hundred men, tramping across the north France countryside behind enemy lines … What were they thinking? His thoughts turned to Maddie. He pictured her face – so innocent, so gentle. The possibility that he might not see her again made his heart lurch. Somehow, he had to get back. He and Maddie’s little brother.
Drummond had a blister.
‘You should’ve taken more care over those dykes,’ said McLaren.
‘I didn’t mean to slip,’ he grumbled. ‘I thought I’d jumped clear.’ Instead, as he’d cursed out loud at the time, his whole foot had got soaked and both his foot and the boot it was in had swollen and started rubbing.
‘You’ll just have to put up with it for the time being, Charlie,’ said McLaren.
‘I’m hardly going to throw in the towel because of a blister,’ he muttered. ‘But it still hurts. And we’ve barely started.’
‘Think of Blighty,’ said Hebden. ‘Think of playing your first match for Sheffield United.’
‘Not with this foot,’ grumbled Drummond.
‘Just imagine it,’ continued Hebden. ‘It’s a full crowd – a local derby against Leeds. You’ve only been on the pitch a few minutes, and the ball is passed to you. Suddenly you see that up ahead there’s a man out of position. It’s a wonderful opportunity. You sidestep round the first player, dummy your way past a second and now the goal is only thirty-five yards away and, although two defenders are converging towards you, you know you have a chance. You kick the ball with all your might. It arcs through the air like a bullet. The crowd watches, open mouthed, barely daring to breathe. The keeper stretches, but the shot’s too good – the ball whistles past his outstretched fingers and finds the back of the net. You’ve scored and the crowd rises to its feet and cheers.’ He hoisted his arms.
Hawke laughed, and even Drummond began to chuckle.
‘“This new lad, Drummond,” the old men say to themselves, “I like the look of him. And apparently he marched all the way to Dunkirk with a fiendish blister. Shows determination that does. And you need determination to make it big in football. Determination and guts.”’
They were all laughing now, even Spears.
Then suddenly machine guns and small-arms were firing at them, lines of tracer zipping across the open fields to their right and front. Men cried out and fell and now mortar shells were raining down too. Hawke felt a hand push him hard to the ground and turned to see Spears beside him as they lay on the grassy bank at the edge of the track. A flare fizzed into the sky, burst and crackled, bright magnesium lighting up the sky around them.
Hawke frantically pulled his rifle to his shoulder, his body tense and his heart drumming. Two hundred yards away, to the north-east, stood the outline of a farm and he could now see the outline of several armoured cars, trucks and other vehicles. Machine-gun tracer was coming in short, sharp bursts from the farm and from behind the hedgerow either side of the house and outbuildings.
The track was lower than the level of the field in front of them, the grassy bank offering some cover, but a number of men had been cut down by the first murderous enemy salvo. Beside Hawke, Spears was cursing furiously. Men were returning fire, but the column had been thrown into confusion.
‘What do we do now?’ Drummond cried out.
‘Keep our heads,’ muttered Spears. He was looking around him. Behind them, the other side of the track, the ground continued to fall away gently towards a wood, no more than a couple of hundred yards away. ‘That’s where we need to be,’ he said. ‘In there.’
‘Spears!’ called out Farrish. ‘Is anyone down your end?’
‘No, sir,’ Spears replied. ‘We should get to that wood, sir.’
‘Let me find Captain Astell,’ came the reply. No sooner had he said this, however, than to their left they saw that men were already crawling away from the track and scurrying towards the wood, and then a captain from Battalion Headquarters was among them, crouched low, and saying, ‘Fall back to the wood! Colonel’s orders are to fall back!’
Another flare fizzed into the sky and burst, prompting a further furious tirade of enemy fire. A number of men clambering clear of the track were caught, bodies jerking forward.
‘All right, chaps!’ called out Farrish. ‘Sixth Platoon, let’s move!’
‘Keep low!’ hissed Spears, ‘And stick near me!’
Hawke nodded. The sky was continuing to lighten, but still only faintly, and as the flare died they crawled across the track, rolled over into the field and not until they had gone twenty yards or more did they get on to their knees and feet and then begin to run.
Hawke was conscious of some figures running beside him. ‘Bert! Charlie!’ he called out.
‘Just run, Johnny!’ Hebden replied.
Hawke did so. A mortar shell landed not far behind him, earth and grit pattering into his back. Above his head, bullets fizzed and hissed, but the edge of the wood was close now. Glancing either side of him, he saw other men running furiously. One fell – did he trip or was he hit? – and Hawke faltered and stumbled himself, but as he hit the ground he felt a hand grip his webbing and pull him back up to his feet, and turning he saw Spears.
‘Go on!’ urged Spears, and Hawke ran on, his lungs tight in his chest, his legs aching and sweat running down the side of his face, until at last he reached the trees. Bullets crackled through the branches and leaves above but as he hid behind a fat beech, he gasped, bent over, his hands on his knees.
‘My God!’ spluttered Hebden. Hawke saw that he and Drummond were both sheltering behind another beech a few yards away, then he spotted McLaren and Fletcher and White. We’ve all made it, he thought. So too had Lieutenant Farrish and Merryweather and Grimshaw and several others from the platoon. Farrish began to carry out a head count. Only one man was missing: Collins, from 3 Section.
‘Anyone see Collins?’ asked Farrish.
No one had. Farrish cursed. ‘Damn it!’ he muttered, looking back out towards the field they had just crossed. ‘Collins!’ he called. ‘Collins!’
There was no answer, but now someone was calling out, ‘A Company to me! A Company to me!’ from deeper inside the wood.
‘Sir?’ said Spears.
Farrish looked one last time out across the field, then nodded. ‘Come on, then.’
They found Captain Astell and a number of A Company men in a small clearing a short way inside the wood. Hawke looked up through the dense canopy of branches and saw the lightening sky, although within the wood the early morning light remained murky. The firing had died down but the Germans were mortaring the wood, the missiles crashing into the trees and exploding with violent bursts of orange light.
‘The situation’s obviously not very good,’ said Astell, then flinched as a mortar shell exploded not more than fifty yards away. ‘I’m going to try to find out what orders are from Battalion, but my instinct is that for the time being we should keep in our platoons. We’re not going to be able to move out of here until the Germans scoot off and that seems unlikely to happen while they know we’re all hiding in these woods.’ He pulled out a whistle from his breast pocket and held it up. ‘When I blow this three times, that’s the signal for us to form up together again, all right?’ Heads nodded. ‘Good. In the meantime, try to find a good place to hide. I’m afraid it
may be a long day. Good luck to you all.’
Farrish led the remnants of 6th Platoon deeper into the wood. Several times they bumped into other groups of Rangers, but eventually they stopped among some oaks. A large beech tree had fallen and lay sprawled between the aged oaks, its underside offering a screen from any hunters and incoming shells. There was a good covering of undergrowth too – bracken, newly in leaf, and brambles.
‘This is a good hideout,’ said Hebden, sitting crouched beside Hawke. ‘We did well to find this.’ Around the wood, the mortaring continued.
‘I wish it wasn’t so damp underneath, though,’ muttered Drummond.
‘Better to have a wet backside than to be blasted to hell by Jerry,’ said McLaren, ‘so stop moaning.’
An hour later, the sun had risen, so that at last they could see the size of the wood. It was, Hebden reckoned, risking getting up and looking around, about twelve acres.
‘Not big enough,’ muttered Spears.
Soon after, the mortaring stopped and German troops began calling out, ‘Kamerad! Kamerad!’
Hawke brought his knees closer into his chest and huddled tightly next to the rest of the men. Crouching there, it was hard to tell whether the Germans were venturing deep into the wood, but it was clear enough that they were rounding up a number of the men. Occasionally, shots rang out, and once there was a sustained drum of machine-gun fire.
‘Do you think they’re shooting the men they’ve taken prisoner?’ asked Fletcher, his face ashen.
Spears shrugged. ‘Keep quiet, Fletch, and you might never have to find out.’
Nearby, there was movement and they froze, but then whoever it was scurried away again. Germans were still shouting out and then, a little distance away, they heard a single voice call out clearly, in English. ‘Come out! Come out, Tommies! Hitler is winning the war. You are beaten. Come out, or we will shell this wood and you will all be killed. Lay down your arms and come out!’ There was a pause and then they heard him call out the same words again, further away this time.
Hawke looked at the others, anxious to see in their faces what they were thinking. The lieutenant seemed to be wrestling with his conscience, knotting his hands together, his face taut. Spears had closed his eyes, while others looked around.
‘Maybe we should chuck it in,’ said Merryweather. He looked around at the others. ‘I mean, let’s face it. We’re surrounded. We’ve not even gone ten miles from Cassel yet, and we’ll never get to Dunkirk in time, even if we do get out of here.’
Hawke saw that a couple of the men were nodding in agreement.
‘What do you all think?’ said Farrish.
‘They’re bluffing,’ said Spears. ‘I’m not surrendering. Not to a bunch of goose-stepping Nazis.’
Farrish cleared his throat. ‘And I’m not going to either. But I think if anyone feels strongly that their best chance of survival is to throw in the towel, then it would be unfair of me to stop you. You’ve all fought damn well these past few days. You would have nothing to feel ashamed about.’
For a moment there was silence. Hawke looked at the others, but no one moved. Not even Merryweather.
‘Bleedin’ heck,’ muttered Merryweather at last. ‘All right, I’ll stay too.’
For about twenty minutes there was silence. No birdsong, despite the time of year, no shouts, no firing of enemy guns. Just the rustle of leaves above them as a gentle breeze blew.
And then the shelling began.
26
ESCAPE FROM THE WOOD
The shelling continued all morning and on into the afternoon: mortars and field guns, lobbing shells of various sizes. To begin with, the barrage was intense, branches tumbling to the ground, lethal shards of wood flying through the air, and a choking, acrid smell of smoke. The men of 6th Platoon huddled tightly, placed handkerchiefs made damp with water over their mouths and felt the vibrations and pulses of the detonating shells shimmer through their bodies. A nearby oak was hit, and with a loud snap and groaning tear, a large branch thundered down. Hawke saw it falling and closed his eyes, tucking his head further towards his chest, but to their relief it landed across the fallen beech without touching a single one of the platoon. Its branches had since provided them with even greater protection.
The Germans did not keep up the intensity of shelling, however, and soon the whistle of incoming shells became more sporadic, so that by early afternoon the men had begun picking at the few rations they’d managed to bring with them and even move out briefly in order to relieve themselves. Occasionally, they heard engines revving from the direction of the farm, but, otherwise, enemy activity seemed to be lessening, and by mid-afternoon, the shelling had stopped altogether. At around four o’clock, Spears volunteered to carry out a quick reconnoitre, and returned soon after.
‘I don’t reckon there’s that many of us left in here,’ he said. ‘I only saw a handful of men.’
‘What about Captain Astell?’
Spears shook his head. ‘I didn’t see him, sir.’
Farrish scratched his face. He had scrupulously shaved every single day while they had been at Cassel, but now, for the first time, a thin shadow of a beard was starting to show. ‘So, to all intents and purposes, we’re now on our own.’
‘If you ask me, it’s better that way, sir. The fewer there are of us, the easier it will be to avoid capture.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. God only knows what would have happened if we’d not been ambushed last night, but it was hard to see how we could have ever got very far.’
Spears said nothing.
‘What about Huns? See any movement?’
‘No, sir. I reckon they’ve packed up. Got bigger fish to fry.’
‘Should we try to make a move, then?’
‘Perhaps we should wait until dusk. From now on, I think we should move by night and rest up by day. And now the shelling’s stopped we’d all do well to try and get some kip first.’
Farrish agreed and for the first time that day Hawke moved from the tight space beneath the fallen beech, and with his greatcoat taken out of his pack and draped over him, lay down and closed his eyes. He had felt tense and anxious all day, which had helped keep him alert, but now that the shelling had stopped extreme exhaustion descended over him once more. The ground was far from smooth, the damp of the forest floor filled his nostrils, and the lice in his uniform were beginning to bother him again. Yet, despite these discomforts, he had barely closed his eyes before he was fast asleep.
A hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Hawke opened his eyes, momentarily disorientated. The wood was darker now.
‘Time to get going,’ said Spears.
‘Yes, Sarge,’ said Hawke sitting up. His whole body seemed to ache, but his shoulder especially. He rubbed it, then his eyes, and got to his feet, rolling up his greatcoat and putting it back in his pack. He felt better for the sleep, but his stomach groaned with hunger. All he had left was a packet of hard biscuits, which he retrieved from his haversack and began to chew slowly. Hard, dry and largely tasteless, but food, nonetheless.
It was nearly nine o’clock. Hawke had been asleep for almost five hours, he realized – almost the longest stretch of continuous sleep he’d had since arriving at Cassel. He yawned as the men stood around waiting to move.
‘So what are the odds of us surviving the night?’ said Drummond.
‘Good,’ said Hebden. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about it.’
‘Really?’ said McLaren. ‘Why’s that?’
‘A sixth sense. We deserve a bit of good fortune.’ Hawke could see his smiling teeth in the dim light.
‘Well, let’s stop talking about it and get a move on,’ said Spears.
They moved off but at the wood’s edge met another small party of five men. Hawke immediately recognized Matherson and Spencer, the two stretcher bearers.
‘Where have you lot appeared from?’ Far
rish asked them.
‘We were with Battalion Headquarters,’ said Matherson.
‘Where are they now?’
‘In the bag. Jerry picked them up this morning.’
‘You saw this?’
‘With my own eyes. We were hiding. Jerries walked right past, but they didn’t see us, thank God. Colonel Beamish and most of his staff were taken away.’
Farrish shook his head and sighed heavily. ‘Then we really are on our own.’
Hawke glanced around at the rest of the men. They were all looking at the lieutenant, expressions of uncertainty and anxiety etched on their faces. Farrish breathed in deeply again.
‘And have you seen anyone else?’
‘No, sir,’ said Matherson. ‘But they captured a lot of our lads. We moved around all morning dodging the shells and the Jerry soldiers. We’ve just been wondering what to do next, and now you lot turn up, sir.’
‘Then you’d better come with us.’ Farrish shot a glance at Spears.
Hawke felt himself tense as they stepped clear of the wood and began walking across an open field, heading north. It was still not entirely dark and with every pace Hawke’s heart seemed to thump harder. They were stretched out in a line, abreast, and any enemy troops lying in wait would have a perfect target, the men silhouetted against the sky. Hawke gripped his rifle. Spears, he saw, was holding his rifle in his hands. Unlike some of the men, who preferred to keep theirs slung over their shoulders, Hawke had kept his in his hands, like Spears. He gripped it tightly now, scanning the darkening world around him with keen eyes.
But there was no sudden burst of enemy fire, no tracer criss-crossing lethally towards them. Spears’s hunch, it seemed, had been right. For several hours they pressed on, heading north, crossing fields and following tracks. Every so often, Farrish would halt them and look at his map, an old Michelin road map he had bought before the war and which he had had the good sense to bring out to France with him.
Dunkirk Page 23
