Heronfield

by Dorinda Balchin

Turning his horrified eyes away from the corpse of the man who had survived the Somme only to die beneath a French hedge twenty years later, Tony picked up the Lee Enfield and moved on. He glanced over his shoulder to see Jim and Phillips, each with one of Smith’s arms around their shoulders, half carrying, half dragging the man whose left leg trailed uselessly behind him. Tony turned again and fixed his gaze on the wall ahead, which separated this field from the next. If they could get over that, they would be able to use its cover to reach a small wood further away from the road.

  The tank gun spoke again and another section of the hedge exploded, but this time no one was hurt. Tony reached the wall and paused for a moment to regain his breath then, as he flung himself frantically upwards, bullets thudded into the stone, showering him with chips but leaving him unharmed. He landed safely on the other side and looked up to see Smith being pushed over the wall by his companions, amidst much cursing and swearing. Grabbing the young soldier by the voluminous material of his greatcoat, Tony dragged him down into the comparative safety of the wall, and the last two surviving members of their party quickly followed. Phillips was bleeding from a wound in the arm, but seemed not to notice it as he helped Jim lift Smith to his feet and, head down, made for the safety of the woods.

  The gun roared again and a section of the wall behind them was demolished, but the Germans could not see them and were obviously loathe to waste ammunition on the gamble of perhaps getting another lucky shot. So, after two minutes of running with the fear of an explosion that never came, the four men entered under the eaves of the wood.

  Once under the protective cover of the trees, the small party stopped to regain their breath and tend their wounded. Smith's leg had been shattered above the knee and was bleeding profusely. The small party had used all of their emergency field dressings after the Stuka attack, and so the wound was dressed with a strip of cloth torn from Tony's shirt; a rough splint was improvised from the branch of a tree and a crutch fashioned from a forked branch. Then they turned their attention to the flesh wound on Phillips’ right arm, which was soon bound up. When the splinter was pulled from Tony's cheek, it began to bleed again but soon stopped as he pressed his handkerchief against it. Jim was the only one who had escaped unscathed, and he watched as Tony uneasily turned Watson's Lee Enfield over in his hands.

  "Do you know how to use that?"

  Tony nodded. "We often went shooting at home, and I'm sure I can handle this. It's just that..." He paused for a moment and looked back towards the road. "Well, this isn’t how I’d planned to get a gun. I'd rather be unarmed and still have Watson here with us."

  Jim nodded. "It’s never easy to lose a fellow soldier." He too gazed back at the road. "At least it must have been over instantly, and he would have felt no pain."

  As they looked back at the road they saw movement, as the crews of the three damaged tanks set to work on repairs. The three commanders spoke together in a huddled group before moving back round the bend and out of sight of the British soldiers. Moments later the sound of tanks revving up reached them, and there was a crash as one of the behemoths forced its way through the confining hedge and trees into the field. It moved slowly across the pastureland, by-passing the stricken tanks, before regaining the road through the gap in the hedge caused by the shell which had killed Watson. The remaining tanks followed the first through the field, and Jim smiled grimly.

  "We obviously did a fair amount of damage if they’re not waiting until the repairs are finished." His voice was grim. "That's three less tanks to bother our boys while we’re re-grouping. Now," he stood as he spoke and helped ease Smith, grimacing in pain, to his feet, "let's get moving and try to meet up with the rest of our lot at Dunkirk."

  They spent the night huddled around a fire to ward off the chill May night air, greatcoats pulled tightly around their shoulders, weapons and gas masks close at hand. Tony woke in the small hours to the damp and chill of the night. He stretched stiffly before placing more wood on the embers of the dying fire, then lay on his back to gaze up at the star-studded sky above. There was not a cloud in sight and the stars sparkled like diamonds. Tony though wistfully of the many nights he had camped out with David before the war, with nothing to disturb his nights save the hoot of an owl or the rustling of some small creature hunting in the undergrowth. Now all that his imagination would allow him to see was the torn and bloodied body of Watson. There was the sound of movement and he reached hurriedly for the Lee Enfield rifle beside him as an increasingly familiar fear gripped him. When he recognised the slim frame of Jim Briggs, he let go of the rifle and relaxed.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  Tony shook his head. “No. I was thinking about Watson.”

  Jim sat beside him and gazed sightlessly into the flames, his mind reliving the last few hours.

  “I know it was your first action Tony, and you did well. You should be proud of yourself.”

  Tony shrugged. “At times like this you do what you have to.” He looked across at Jim and frowned. “What I don’t understand though, is how you could just leave Watson there.”

  Jim turned towards Tony and, for the first time, the younger man saw the pain which the more experienced soldier had been hiding from him.

  “It’s as you say. We do what we have to do. If we’d stopped to bring him away more of us could have been injured or killed; and he wouldn’t have wanted that. He’ll be found and buried, whether by the French or the Germans we’ll never know. But they will take care of the body, just as we will if we find a German dead beside the road and time permits it.”

  “I guess you’re right, but it doesn’t ease the pain.” Tony sighed as he looked across at the sleeping soldiers. “War isn’t what I’d expected it to be. I was so excited last September, so eager to fight. Now, after the last few days, I look back and can’t recognise the boy who thought like that.”

  Jim nodded. “War makes us grow up. Fast.” He laid a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Now try to get some sleep, we’ve a long way to go tomorrow.”

  The young lieutenant lay down and wrapped his greatcoat tightly around himself to keep out the cold as Tony nodded. “I’ll sleep soon.”

  He sat for a while longer gazing up at the stars. Although he had not even officially joined the army, here he was, an accepted member of a combat group, desperately searching for a way back to the retreating BEF and safety. The war was not turning out how he had expected it would. There was none of the glory he had read about in his boyhood, none of the excitement, only pain and death and the cold of the night. He hoped that the war would not last long. At last he lay beside the fire and drifted into a fitful, troubled sleep.

  4

  It took them five days to reach Dunkirk, moving slowly because of the wounded Smith and Phillips, and because of the need to stay hidden from the enemy who were now close on their heels. For some reason the German tanks seemed to have slowed their advance and did not pass the small group of men, but there was always a chance of being spotted by the Stuka patrols and their days were filled with apprehension and fear. On the third day they reached their own lines and watched as Smith was whisked off ahead of them by field ambulance; Phillips, although his wound was slight, could have gone too, but decided to stay and walk the rest of the way with Tony and Jim.

  The road was thronged with people. Children pulled boxes on wheels, the boxes laden to overflowing with their few possessions; old folks mixed with women and children; and now and then a group of French soldiers would be seen, as weary and dejected as the rest. They now knew that General Lord Gort had ordered a full retreat towards Dunkirk as the victorious German army gradually moved closer on all sides save that of the open Channel coast. Whenever they stopped to rest and talk with other retreating soldiers, they were assured that there would be ships at Dunkirk to take them back to England. But there were so many soldiers! How would they find enough ships? And what about the civilians?

  Tony felt as though he had been retreatin
g with the soldiers for most of his life. He was no longer concerned by the looting he saw; at least things were taken without violence. He himself had acquired the odd loaf of bread and piece of cheese from deserted houses where the food would only have rotted if left. Yet, no matter how much a soldier he felt, he could not get used to the constant strafing by Stukas. They attacked in the same manner as before, shallow shrieking dives which sprayed the road with bullets, tight climbing turns and then back again from the opposite direction. Now people ceased to help those they did not know, saving themselves for friends and family; few had the energy, or means, to be of assistance to the wounded, the lost, the insane. Burning vehicles littered the road and the smells of burned flesh, rubber and metal were everywhere, clogging the throat and making breathing difficult. The men spoke little, for their throats were raw and they were bone tired. The only thing keeping them going was the blind hope of Dunkirk and a boat home.

  They saw the pall of smoke above Dunkirk long before they reached the port. The air above them was frequently filled with aircraft, mostly German, which seemed to be bombing and strafing something on the edge of the land. Somehow the civilians were being weeded out by the military police, who directed the soldiers onwards, but the roads were still crowded and progress was slow. At last they reached the outskirts of the town, and made their way towards the sea on a tidal wave of helpless humanity. Then they were there, on the promenade, and stopped in stunned surprise. The sight that greeted their eyes was so unexpected that they could barely take it in. The long beach was a seething mass of waiting soldiers, wounded and weaponless, though the new arrivals could not see what they were waiting for.

  "My God!" Phillips spoke in an awed whisper. "The whole bloody army is 'ere! 'Ow the 'ell are we supposed to get away?"

  Jim shook his head. "God knows! Though something must be planned or we wouldn't be waiting here like this. Come on," he led the way down onto the beach as he spoke, "let's see if we can find someone who can tell us what's going on."

  They found a young lieutenant, directing new comers to move along to make room for others who followed close behind. His uniform was filthy, his face drawn and haggard, but he seemed to know what was going on so they stopped to talk to him.

  "It's called Operation Dynamo,” he explained. "The navy has been ordered to pick us up off the beaches and take us back home. From what I've heard and seen they weren't ready for anything like this, and only had about forty destroyers available."

  "Forty! But it will take weeks for them to get us off!" Jim was appalled at the prospect and the young lieutenant shook his head.

  "That's just it though. They started picking us up three days ago and I've seen all kinds of ships - destroyers, personnel carriers, fishing trawlers, even paddle wheelers and Thames barges. It seems they put out a call for all available shipping and even the local yacht clubs have turned out." He shook his head again, as though still unable to accept the enormity of it all. "Many of the boats out there are manned by civilians, and many of them have made upwards of half a dozen trips already. Look, another lot’s coming in now." He pointed down the beach and the newcomers peered through the clouds of smoke in an attempt to see what was happening.

  Then they saw them. Boats of all shapes and sizes moving into the beach under cover of the smoke. Soldiers rose wearily to their feet and formed orderly queues out into the water where they were helped aboard. Those too far away to have a chance of boarding this time just shuffled a little closer to the sea, then sat down to continue their wait. It was all so quiet, so orderly, like waiting to embark on a summer pleasure cruise.

  "You say it's been like this for three days?" Tony was incredulous.

  The lieutenant nodded, then seemed to notice for the first time that Tony was not in uniform.

  "Are you a civilian?"

  "Yes."

  The young officer looked uncomfortable. "I'm afraid we're only allowed to take troops off from here. You can't go with us."

  Tony felt a cold knot of fear in his stomach and his hands began to shake. Not go? Would they really just leave him behind to be picked up by the Germans? He knew that would mean imprisonment until the end of the war and he felt sick. Why had he not gone with his grandmother from Saint Nazaire? He must have paled at the thought of what might lay ahead of him, for he felt a comforting hand on his shoulder as Jim spoke.

  "Don't worry Tony, you're coming with us." He turned to his brother officer and explained. "This man has been with us through Stuka attacks and helped us to ambush a convoy of Panzers. He took part in the action and his grenade helped disable one of the tanks. He also helped to carry a wounded soldier out of enemy held territory to where he could get medical aid. I say he should get the same chance as the rest of us."

  The young lieutenant nodded. "He's one of us all right if he's done all that, uniform or not." He turned to Tony and smiled. "See if you can get hold of a greatcoat or something to make you look more like a soldier, then you and your mates can move on down the beach. Just be patient and take your turn when it comes. Though heaven knows when that will be."

  With that he turned away and began wearily to direct the next group of newcomers.

  "Come on." Jim led his tired companions further along the beach as he spoke. "This way looks as good as any."

  Above the muffled sounds coming from the beach, the unmistakable sound of diving Stukas filled the air as they started to move. All around them men dived for cover beneath the promenade wall. Further down the beach, where there was no cover, men crouched in shallow fox holes scraped out of the sand. Some just sat and waited, praying that this time the gouts of sand thrown up by machine gun bullets would not reach them. Bombs fell, throwing huge fountains of sand into the air, and the ground shook.

  The attack only lasted a few minutes, although it seemed like hours to the vulnerable men on the beach, then the planes moved swiftly away to re-arm in preparation for their next attack. The men sat up, shaking off a loose covering of sand, and Phillips looked round at the calm acceptance of the men on the beach. Some soldiers were already carrying the dead up towards the promenade. They no longer needed a place on the ships. Others were treating their wounded companions in the open.

  "Some of these men have been here for days. God knows how they can stand it,” Phillips said to no one in particular as two men carried a dead comrade past them. Jim stood up.

  "Can we have his coat please? I'm afraid he won't be needing it any longer."

  The two privates looked hesitant.

  "Is that an order, sir?"

  Jim shook his head. "No, but our companion here will need something warm tonight if it gets cold."

  The two men thought for a moment, then nodded and stripped the coat from the body.

  "Here you are, sir."

  Jim took the coat with a word of thanks and held it out to Tony. The young man looked at the dead soldier with half of his head blown away, then back at the coat. The collar was still wet with his warm, sticky blood and Tony shook his head, praying that he would not disgrace himself by being sick.

  "I can't wear a dead man’s coat."

  "It's the only way you're going to get one, and you won't get off the beach without it."

  Jim still held out the offending article and finally, reluctantly, Tony reached out and took it.

  5

  David sat in the cockpit of his Spitfire, the roar of the Merlin engine filling his ears, as he followed closely on the tail of his flight commander. At last the coast of France came into sight. This was it, the moment of truth. Yet David felt no fear as he approached his first taste of battle, just an intense exhilaration at the thought of the contest ahead of him. As the planes approached the black pall of smoke which hung like a shroud over the beaches of Dunkirk, he looked down at what he could see of the shattered remnants of the British Forces. They all seemed so remote, spread out down there before him like ants at a summer picnic, as though the retreat was part of another world. He did not stop to think about
the fact that this was a fight to the death.

  "Look out! 109's!"

  The voice through the intercom startled him and David looked wildly about. Then he saw it. A Messerschmitt Bf 109E, grey and evil-looking with the black crosses along its sides. With the sound of his blood pounding in his ears, David turned towards the enemy plane, hoping to approach it unseen. He wondered if the opposing pilot was also facing combat for the first time. The German must have seen him approaching from behind for the plane began to turn a tight circle to the right, and David followed it. His whole being seemed to be concentrated on the plane as it tried to evade him, and David could see the pilot crouched in his cockpit, as though to urge extra speed from his machine. Then the 109 was in his gun sight. With hands slick with sweat, holding his breath in utter concentration, David pressed the trigger which set his eight machine guns roaring, and he watched the flash of his bullets as they ripped into the wing and tail-plane of the 109. Suddenly David felt bullets thudding into his Spitfire and his stomach churned with fear.

  "For God’s sake, look out behind you!" a voice yelled through the intercom as David swerved away to the left.

  Out of the corner of his eye David saw another Spitfire in a steep dive on an intercept course with the German plane that he had been attacking. His comrade fired and hit the 109 with a burst of gunfire which tore off the left wing and caused the Messerschmitt to plummet towards the earth in a spiraling dive. David did not have time to see if the pilot bailed out, as he turned to fire on the plane which was pursuing him. Two rapid bursts of machine gun fire and he saw smoke pouring from the German aircraft. His fear was suddenly replaced with a wild exhilaration. He felt he could do anything. He had shot down his first enemy aircraft, and now the whole world lay before him. Then he looked at his instrument panel and noticed his fuel gauge. He spoke into the radio.