Alfie Lewis Box Set

by Thomas Wood

  “Get up. They’re Brits!”

  Warily, we did as we were told, half expecting to see a German uniform that had done a great impersonation of Charlie unexplainedly. Instead, what we were met with was a toothy grin, as the figure began fidgeting around, placing his steely black revolver firmly back in its holster. His holster was attached to the rest of his webbing, with a slot for his compass and an attachment for his binoculars, as well as more essential things such as water and ammunition.

  As he extended his hand out to meet mine, I caught sight of the three pips on his shoulder, he was a Captain. I snapped a quick salute which he quickly waved away like a bee had just invaded his personal space.

  “Sorry about that one boys,” he said courteously, “you had my lads a tad jumpy, you see. Glad we’re terrible shots.” He began chortling away, taking each one of us by the hand as the moustache that adorned his top lip began attacking his face viciously.

  “Come on in,” he said as he turned away from us, not even giving any of us the opportunity to speak, “I’ll show you round.”

  As if the Captain’s acceptance of us was some sort of signal, men began to trickle out of all the buildings connected to the courtyard that we now found ourselves standing in. Some came from the barn on the far side of the yard, a few emerged from the farmhouse itself, while one man even popped out from the arched gateway that led out into a wooded area.

  The farmhouse and courtyard buildings formed a horse shoe shape, the only open side facing out towards the farmer’s fields, the very way we had just stumbled in from.

  I began to notice the sandbagged windows that I had not seen as we made our way across the field, with the barrels from Bren guns poking nervously out of a few of them. There were no other weapons dangling from the rest of the windows, just pairs of eyes attached to binoculars and a couple of sharpshooters loitering inside the windows waiting patiently for their prey.

  I thanked the heavens that we hadn’t been subjected to a volley from the Brens or snipers or there would have been no way that we would have survived for much longer. I wondered who had fired the shot that had sent us into a panic and whether or not he would be reprimanded for it. I wondered if the men in these buildings had seen us as we entered the farmhouse and watched as figures danced around in the windows searching for food and pondered even, if they had seen Red freeze right at the moment we had needed him the most.

  The Captain caught me staring at the barrel of one of the Brens. “Pinched from a burnt-out carrier if you can believe it. All the men inside were dead, but the gun was practically untouched. My boys think it’s a good luck charm.” The moustache began violating his top lip once more.

  This officer seemed like he had thrown all pomp and circumstance out of the window, which was probably just as well because Red suddenly piped up with an aggressively toned question.

  “What are you doing here?” it sounded more like a school teacher who had caught a dawdling schoolboy than a soldier addressing an officer, but the Captain ignored the blatant insubordination and carried on as normal.

  “We have been ordered to form a rear-guard action for those who are being evacuated,” replied the Captain, matter of factly.

  “You mean people are going home, Sir?” I asked quizzically.

  “That’s what they’re saying,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “but, we aren’t. We’ve been told to hold up an enemy advance for as long as possible to let as many of our boys get home.” He didn’t seem to care that it was unlikely he would make it home and I couldn’t help but think that his sentiment was not shared by all of the men on this farm.

  “So, what happens to you lot, Sir?” Evans suddenly chipped in.

  “What do you mean, ‘you lot?’” questioned the Captain. “You lot are staying with us now as well!” he retorted, a sly grin creeping across his face.

  My heart sank. Ever since we had been forced to ditch our tank and make our way through the retreat on foot, I had never really expected to make it home, in fact, I had never really expected to see another British soldier for a very long time, but for some reason, it was a fact that had never fully sunken in. It was a fact that I didn’t really want confirmed in this way. I would either be killed here, or I would be captured. They were my only two options now. At the same time, I felt almost relieved, at least I had a superior officer above me now who would decide my fate, I hadn’t much liked the experience of being the one in control of my own destiny.

  At least if I was killed now, I would be able to blame Captain Owens rather than myself. The Captain continued to show us around, but I knew that not one of us was really paying too much attention. How could we when we had just found out this would be it for us? We might have known it for a long time but now it seemed confirmed, whatever happened here, whatever the outcome, our war would end here.

  Captain Owens eventually handed us over to a rather rough looking sergeant, his eyes puffed up due to lack of sleep and dark bags sagging under his eyes, the weight of which seemed to be dragging his whole face to the floor. His face was muddied, and his cheek was stained with dried, browning blood, which fought for room with the layer of grime and stubble that pushed its way out for some air and sunshine.

  A cigarette dangled limply from his mouth and had begun to peel slightly as it had clearly sat in his sopping mouth for a little too long. Silently, he withdrew a packet from his pocket and motioned to each of us to take one. Red was the only one who obliged.

  “Sure?” he asked, “You’re gonna need one in a minute.”

  We watched curiously as the Sergeant gave Red a light, letting the warm glow from the tip of the cigarette act as his sign to withdraw his arm and lighter, but he failed to light his own. He slung his rifle over his shoulder and grunted, “Follow me.”

  His gruff, unpolished voice was far from the hushed, gentle tones of the Captain as he continued on with our tour of the area.

  “I’m Sergeant Lambert. You’ll be holed up with my lads in the farmhouse, on the top floor.”

  He guided us to the door of the farmhouse, like a prefect who would rather not have the duties of guiding the new kids around the school. Stopping at the door, his cigarette bobbed up and down as he spoke once more.

  “Through there, up the stairs, don’t bother stopping for food or touching the rations. Supplies are due to be handed out in a few hours. Make yourselves at home lads.”

  He turned and marched away from us, leaving us all slightly dumbfounded, before making his way to the other side of the courtyard and in through a hole in the wall of the barn.

  Obediently, we entered the farmhouse and stepped into what could only be the kitchen, the focal point of the entire building. Where elaborate, home grown breakfasts were once served, was now a browned sheet on which lay a body, sweating and silently shivering, the moisture dripping off his body being soaked up by the compliant sheet underneath. His lower leg was a mangled fusion of flesh, bone and fabric, twisted together in a sick cocktail.

  We had been in the room for no more than a second when I realised that I should have taken Sergeant Lambert’s offer of a cigarette. The putrid, sickly smell of the man’s predicament was vomit inducing and, judging by the amount of blood on the floor, more than one man had been stretched out on this table, causing the concoction of smells to really assault my nostrils like nothing ever before. The maggots began creeping up from the stone tiles, having an absolute blast of a time as they wriggled around trying to find some more flesh they could feast upon.

  The medical orderly that stood dabbing away at the man’s forehead with a blood-stained cloth, allowed his cigarette to dance around his mouth as he muttered the words, “Septicaemia,” he shrugged, “not a thing we can do.”

  “You should head upstairs,” he nodded towards the staircase, initiating our trudge over the blood-soaked floor and over to the stairs.

  As we staggered up the stairs, a few muddied faces turned to acknowledge our arrival with a grunt, but for the most part, each fi
gure sat quietly staring out over the barren landscape, rifles tucked loosely under the shoulder for comfort. A choking, toxic cloud seemed to linger in the room, clear enough only if I were to crawl around, as long monotonous drags of multiple cigarettes were expelled into the room’s atmosphere.

  “Over there,” spoke one of the faceless figures, pointing to a corner of the room where sacks had been hastily stuffed with hay. I felt over the moon at the sight of such comfort and had to resist every urge to just throw myself down as I was and sleep for three or four days straight.

  “Go on, get some rest. We’ll wake you when it’s your turn up ‘ere.”

  Tiredness is a funny thing, you reach a certain point in your fatigue where you almost forget about it, but then, when you are so close to being able to get a rest, a wave of tiredness washes over you like nausea, incapacitating you to such a degree that even I was able to fall asleep with my full kit on, and a steel helmet as my pillow.

  It felt like I had been asleep for less than a minute when I was brutally awoken by an older looking corporal who began pushing the toe of his boot into my forehead gently, “Wakey wakey, Sir. It’s your turn up front now.”

  The ragged looking corporal grinned a toothless grin at me, his patchy stubble displaying the first signs of middle age grey, with a hint of his youthful brown stubble that I was certain he was longing for. He continued to wake the other two up and, as they groggily stirred, I noticed that he had the obligatory unlit cigarette limply dangling from the corner of his mouth.

  The cigarette stayed in his mouth even after he had put his head down to sleep, and before I could ask him any questions he was snoring gently, the cigarette threatened to shoot into the back of his throat at any second.

  As we collected our kit, the three of us made our way over to the front window of the farmhouse, and as the dipping sunlight signified the start of dusk, I took comfort from the warmth of the failing sun as it kissed my face through the open windows. I felt quite peaceful for the first time in days, like I now had someone else in charge of me, someone else took charge of Red and Evans, we were somewhere we could sleep and eat, somewhere we could even admire the landscape.

  The field looked marvellous as the sunlight caressed its every groove and furrow, completely flat and almost untouched by human architecture, running for what seemed like ages before being met by the now distant forest. The distant perimeter of the field was marked by the trees and did so as far as I could see both to our left and to our right.

  The road that we had been following loosely, solitarily ran forebodingly through the middle of the fields, just passing the farm to the left and on into what I assumed would be a village or hamlet to our rear.

  Evans began fidgeting to my left, adjusting his kit and generally just trying to make himself more comfortable. As I looked across at him, the tenderness of his skin, particularly around his eyes told me that he had been crying. His skin had turned a vibrant red and I could just about make out the bloodshot eyeballs burning brighter than they had done for the last couple of days.

  He quickly tried rubbing them intensely, only succeeding in making them burn brighter than they had done before.

  I went to tap him on the shoulder, “Are—”

  “Did anyone else just see that?”

  16

  I redirected my gaze away from Evans’ tear stained face and towards the figure who was perched to my right, now fiddling around with his rifle and rocking the safety catch forward.

  A few excited voices began sparking up and it seemed that the general consensus was that there had been an armed figure, that had emerged momentarily from the treeline, before scurrying straight back into the forest. Someone must have alerted the Captain, either that or he had an incredible sixth sense, as he suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Keep fingers away from triggers this time gents. It’s likely to be the enemy, but we need to make sure.”

  This was the kind of advance that I had been trained in, not the defence. We had been taught how to approach a building across open ground and, if it was the enemy, it was likely that they would use some sort of armour to assist them across the field. The infantry would tell their armour the situation; an open field lay ahead of them, with a farmhouse at the end which is very likely to be an enemy stronghold. The armour would advance a few hundred yards ahead of the infantry and would engage the farmhouse and then, when the infantry was close enough, they would fan out from behind the tanks and engage the small arms fire that we would pour down on them. That’s what I would expect them to do anyway.

  I thought about making my meanderings known to the Captain, but I kept them to myself as I was certain he had had enough dealings with the enemy already to know that is what they would do, if they had the armour to back them up.

  I turned my attention to the field, and scanned the horizon accompanied by the sweeping barrel of my rifle. From where we were situated, we had a good view across the fields and we would be able to see them coming, unless a thick fog decided to descend. I would have gone so far as to suggest that the snipers up in the roof would have been able to see them prepare on the edge of the forest, making use of their magnified sights that perched on the top of their rifles.

  I wondered why the man had emerged from the forest and suddenly retreated. If he was an enemy soldier, it seemed like the most ridiculous thing to do; alerting the enemy to your whereabouts. But I also began to wonder if it had been done on purpose? Had it been done to scare us? To make us aware of the enemy’s presence and hope that we would run away before the time of their planned advance?

  On the other hand, it could have been a lone British soldier, or even a Frenchie, totally lost and bewildered about which way to go next. Maybe he had seen the field and decided crossing that much open ground wasn’t worth the risk and so had retreated back into the forest in search of a safer option. If that was the case, the chances were he would be back again before too long.

  In my heart of hearts though, I knew that the figure that had been spotted would have been a German soldier, and the reason he had poked his head out from the forest was totally irrelevant. The German advance was coming, and we were the only people around that would be there to stop it. We knew they were coming and they knew we would be here. It was an odd kind of stalemate that we found ourselves in.

  Despite the fear and apprehension that began to conquer my every thought, I realised that I also had a confidence in myself. Not necessarily to survive the onslaught, but to get the job done to the very best of my ability. I hadn’t fired many shots in anger from a rifle in my life, but the times that I had been out rabbitting back home, made me sure of myself that I was a good shot, and that I would be able to bring down many of the vile enemy soldiers that would soon be heading my way.

  I turned round to see who it was that was muttering behind me, met by the glaring gaze of both Captain Owens and Sergeant Lambert.

  “What do you reckon Lieutenant?” queried Lambert, whereupon I stumbled to my feet to avoid feeling like a child receiving a severe reprimand.

  I explained my theory of what an armoured attack may look like, which both the Sergeant and the Captain seemed to mull over for a while.

  “My concern is Sir,” I muttered, “We’re losing light fast, if they start to move up in the darkness, we can’t really afford to have half our guns asleep on sacks of hay.”

  “What do you reckon?” asked the Captain, his eyes not removing themselves from the field, but Sergeant Lambert knew exactly who he was addressing.

  “A stand to, Sir?”

  “Issue the order Sergeant.” There was a youthful glint in the Captain’s eye and, despite his aging outward appearance with baggy eyes and bedraggled moustache, he seemed like a young lad who had just received his first ever England cap.

  His wide, blue eyes, the youngest of all his features, began darting about all over the place, as if he was visualising where to place his various weapons and men in the heat of battle. I h
oped that he was doing the same as I was, planning for the worst-case scenario, which would be if a few hundred tonnes of tank began rolling towards us.

  I heard the screams of “Stand to!” begin to echo around the farm, and the simultaneous scraping and chiming as kit was dragged onto backs and rifles made ready.

  At around three in the morning, I began to make out voices chattering away at the top of the stairs, with only the odd word making its way to my ears without being jumbled up in the night.

  “Patrol…”

  “Retreat…”

  “…I’m not so sure that’s a good idea…”

  The voices were almost like ghosts to me and for a while I wondered whether or not they were real, until one began to sound out much clearer than all the others.

  “Lieutenant Lewis? Join us out here would you?”

  It was dark at the top of the stairs; the little natural light being absorbed greedily by the upstairs room before it could hit the staircase. I could not see the faces of Captain Owens or Sergeant Lambert, but I could sense they wouldn’t be smiling if I was able to see them, the air was tense.

  “Could I ask a favour of you Lieutenant?” I let him explain himself and knew before he even started that there would be no way of me even trying to refuse the favour that he was to put before me. It would not be a favour at all, more of a choice of obeying or disobeying an order from a superior officer, a choice that he knew as well as I did wouldn’t really be a choice at all. His favour was a direct order.

  After being released by the Captain to go and make ready, I could not help but feel sick to the very pit of my stomach as to what I had just agreed to do.

  The Captain’s demeanour had made it even worse. He didn’t strike me as the kind of man that got nervous very often, and that it would take something drastic to make him behave in the manner that he did that night. The explicit nerves that the Captain showed on that night, did absolutely nothing to curb my own fretfulness about what lay ahead.