by Will Belford
‘I will ‘ave to check with my uncle m’sieu. I shall let you know by Thursday, oui?’
‘Thursday then, and please call me Joe.’
‘Very well then Joe. Until Friday then … and Joe? Thank you for saving my life.’
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then slipped away around the corner of the patisserie.
Joe stood in a daze staring into the window. What the hell? He had asked; she had said yes—it had been easy, too easy—she could still cancel. Perhaps she was just being polite? But no, she had kissed him. His cheek still tingled from the soft pressure of her lips, as if someone had pushed a marshmallow against his flesh.
He crossed to the memorial and picked up his kitbag. The names of the fallen stared out at him. Cut into the marble only twenty years before, the letters were sharp and clear. He looked under ‘B’ and found three Bendines: E, A and C. Were any of them her relatives? Father? Uncles? Perhaps he would ask her on Friday.
Kelly was grinning at him as he walked to the station entrance. Summerville was staring across the square to the alley where Yvette had disappeared. Jaroslek was digging in his kitbag.
‘Friend of yours Lieutenant?’ asked Kelly.
‘That would be none of your bloody business Private, but yes, as a matter of fact, she is. Come on, let’s get walking, perhaps someone will pick us up on the way.’
Chapter Nine
Germany, 1 May 1940
General Heinz Guderian had been waiting for this moment half his life and finally, thanks to the extremist Adolf Hitler and his party of thugs, his dreams had been realised. The defeated German army of 1918 had risen again, and not just as a small group of demoralised veterans, but a fresh force of enthusiastic young volunteers, imbued with the fervour of Nazism and the belief that they were a superior race. Guderian could take or leave the beliefs of the Nazi Party about racial superiority, as far as he was concerned they were a means to an end, and that end was creating the most effective armed force the world had ever seen.
Under the Treaty of Versailles that the victorious allies forced upon Germany in 1918, the country had been banned from having tanks or an air force. Guderian’s professional career since the Great War had amounted to years of practising with ridiculous cardboard tanks and imaginary air support. Despite these setbacks, one thing had dominated his thinking: attack. While the French abandoned the offensive philosophy that had cost so many French lives early in the Great War, Guderian had adopted the offensive as his modus operandi.
Along with generals Rommel and von Manstein, Guderian was an exponent of the combined-arms offensive. His idea of an attack was a massed formation of tanks, with its own supporting artillery and truck-mounted infantry, co-ordinated with airpower and concentrated in a Schwerpunkt: a ‘point-of-force’ against the defensive line. Through overwhelming force they would pierce the defences and wreak havoc behind the lines, before racing forward and vanishing into the enemy’s rear, sowing confusion and doubt about where they were and where they would strike next.
That was the idea; the reality was different. An operation with this degree of co-operation between tanks, infantry, artillery and the Luftwaffe was a new idea for the German army. When Guderian first considered how it might work there was no Luftwaffe, only gliders in which the fighter pilots of the future trained under the guidance of World War One aces such as Hermann Goering.
Throughout the lean years of the 1920s and 30s, Guderian had clung grimly to his army career, convinced that this was his calling and that his time would come. And now, in 1940, as he prepared his plan for the offensive into Belgium, he knew it had all been worthwhile. The French army was supposed to be the greatest in the world, but he knew its weaknesses. A few of their officers, Colonel de Gaulle for instance, had grasped the importance of concentrating mobile forces, but most of them were so hide-bound by the fear of a German attack that they could only think in terms of the static defences that had saved them in the Great War.
Instead of concentrating their tanks, the French had scattered them in penny-packets around the countryside, so for them, mounting an armoured counter-offensive was almost impossible. This was just as well, because Guderian knew that, technically anyway, the French tanks were more than a match for his panzers. Most of his tanks were obsolete Mark I and II models armed only with machine guns or a 20mm cannon; he had only a few of the newer Mark IIIs and IVs. These newer models were good, but still lightly-armed and armoured compared with the French B1bis, a 40-ton monster with a 75mm gun in the hull and a 37mm gun in the turret.
Guderian knew that the key was mobility: strike hard and fast and move on; advance at all costs, regardless of the flanks. And why? Because nothing was more terrifying than the prospect of enemy tanks loose in your rear areas, destroying artillery emplacements and HQ units, obliterating supply columns and cutting off the frontal units from reinforcement. This was the French nightmare and Guderian planned to play on it to the full.
Guderian’s role was to lead Heersgruppe A through the heavily-wooded Ardennes forest, cross the Meuse River at the fortress city of Sedan and slice across the south of Belgium, a manoeuvre that would cut the French armies in Belgium off from their supply lines. Meanwhile, Army Group B would thrust through the centre, north of the Ardennes, and Army Group C would strike directly into Holland.
It all sounded implausible enough in theory, and in training it had been a disaster. Every combined arms exercise they tried had ended in farce, with units getting lost, arriving late or not at all, or turning up without enough fuel to advance. Having failed every dress rehearsal, the invasion of Belgium was going to be a true case of ‘getting it right on the night’. Fortunately, German officers had been trained to act on their own initiative, to carry out their orders in whatever way they thought best.
Guderian had rammed home to his troops the absolute importance of getting through the forested hills of the Ardennes, across the Meuse, and into open country by the morning of the fourth day. All units were allocated quantities of methamphetamine sulphate, so they could keep advancing day and night, without needing to sleep. Guderian knew that this kind of artificial stimulant would not keep his men going forever, but he was gambling that once they crossed the Meuse, some of them would be able to sleep while others drove: by then, the resistance would have been broken.
Invasion day was just nine days away. Soon his theories would be tested. Despite the obstacles, Guderian was quietly confident. After all, he had been planning this for over a decade.
Chapter Ten
France, 2 May 1940
When Joe arrived at the company’s forward command post, Major Merrivale greeted him warmly.
‘Welcome back old man, good to have you back. Your replacement hasn’t gone down too well with your old platoon by all accounts, but nothing we can do about that. You’ll stay in charge of the signals boys. You must have learnt something about it over the Ditch eh?’
‘A bit Major,’ replied Joe with disappointment.
‘I’m sure we can put those skills to good use here. Shouldn’t worry though old chap, if the Germans attack I imagine there’ll be a command for you somewhere soon enough. Good junior officers tend to be in short supply after a battle I find, they have this unfortunate tendency to lead men into enemy fire, what?’
‘Well, report to the adjutant and I’ll see you here at 0900 with your men. We have a little exercise arranged for you.’
Although he chafed at the prospect of running around sending radio signals, Joe realised it could be worse. He could probably make a more useful contribution to the battalion calling in artillery than he could leading a platoon, but it meant that he was less likely to see action. He also missed the company of his platoon. They were a mixed lot of blokes from the Midlands, but they’d treated him with respect while he’d been their officer.
Leaving the HQ, Joe walked down the line of entrenchments towards the wall where they had dug in those months before. He greeted Private Farmer who was on g
uard duty, and turning a corner of the trench came upon Corporal Smythe sitting on a crate of rifle ammunition, punching open a can of bully beef with his bayonet.
‘That’s not the regulation way to use that weapon soldier,’ said Joe, ‘you’ll the take the point right off it.’
‘Well look who’s here fellas, it’s the Aussie himself.’ cried the corporal, leaping up, smiling from ear to ear.
‘How are you sir? Come back to the platoon ‘ave you? Oh beggin’ your pardon sir,’ he grinned, throwing a parade-ground salute.
Joe grinned at him. He’d never asked his men to salute him and he knew Smythe was taking the micky.
‘I’m bloody good Smithy, but sorry to disappoint you, I’ve been detached and assigned permanently to the artillery observers. You’re stuck with the new boy.’
Corporal Smythe’s face fell. ‘Bloody ‘ell that’s terrible bad news sir, terrible.’
He leant in and whispered conspiratorially into Joe’s ear.
‘This fellow Fisher-Pollard they’ve given us is a bleedin’ child still playin’ with ‘is toy soldiers sir, ‘asn’t a clue, keeps talkin’ about glory and bayonet charges and quoting bits of Wellington or some other fancy-arsed old fart. He says the battle of Waterloo was fought not far from ‘ere and that we’ll give the Germans a dose of what we gave the French a hundred years ago. I reckon he’s daft, problem is, he’ll get us all killed. The men have given ‘im a nickname, which is never a good sign, they call ‘im The Pollock, after the fish, you know? But I’m forgetting me’self sir,’ he said suddenly in a normal voice, stepping back and throwing another elaborate salute with a look over Joe’s shoulder.
‘Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir,’ said Smythe, ‘may I introduce our former officer Lieutenant Dean?’
Joe turned and beheld a tall and skinny young man in a uniform identical to his own. He had a beak nose, the standard-issue Sandhurst ginger moustache, ruddy skin and watery blue eyes.
‘Dean eh? Been gallivanting around in Blighty I gather, come to see some action have you old man? This platoon’s a sorry bunch as I’m sure you’ll recall, no idea about spit and polish, but I’ll soon have ‘em whipped into shape, isn’t that so Corporal Smythe?’
‘Oh yes Lieutenant, no doubt about it,’ replied the corporal quickly.
‘Gather you’ve been assigned to the observers, Dean?’ sniffed Fisher-Pollard, ‘Probably more suited to you as a colonial I suppose, rather than a frontline infantry company.’
‘Oh yes Lieutenant, no doubt about it,’ replied Dean, mimicking Smythe’s accent. ‘Enjoy the platoon, but do me a favour, try not to get ‘em all killed in the first assault eh? See you in the mess.’
Joe tipped Corporal Smythe a wink and turned away.
‘I say old man,’ sputtered the voice behind him, ‘just what do you mean by that comment, eh?’
Joe just waved and walked off. The sun was setting and he had more important things to worry about than Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard. He had a dinner date.
~ ~ ~
She was standing by the memorial in the square, throwing pieces of bread for the pigeons. As Joe jumped off the truck and it pulled away, the boys in the back hooted and whistled, making her look up. He took off his peaked cap and crossed the street with long strides.
‘Bonsoir m’sieu, and what brings you to this little town?’ she said, throwing another morsel to the pigeons and affecting unconcern at his presence.
‘Yvette … you look ‘magnifique’,’ he said. And it was true. She was wearing a pale blue dress that made her brown eyes even darker, a bit of eyeliner and lipstick brought out the contours of her face, while her hair cascaded over her shoulders.
‘Why thank you Lieutenant … what was your name again?’ she teased, ‘of course, Dean. Shall we go to dinner Lieutenant Dean?’ and with that she held out her arm.
Covering his surprise, Joe stepped forward and folded his arm inside hers, and together they walked around the square towards the restaurant.
As they walked he inhaled the scent of her, and of her perfume; indulged in the softness of her hand; marvelled at her profile, walking calmly along looking straight ahead.
Beside him, her heart was a timpani. She had only offered him her arm because she was trembling. From the corner of her eye she took in his crisp uniform, the gleaming brass belt buckle, the sheen of his boots. Suddenly it came to her that she’d never walked in this square on a man’s arm before, despite constant requests from the local boys.
‘It’s strange what the prospect of war can do to people,’ she said, only realising a split second later that she had voiced her thoughts aloud.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ said Joe, wondering where this line of conversation could be leading.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said lightly, ‘I was just thinking aloud. Now tell me Joe, which restaurant do you want to go to? We are spoiled for choice: there is Le Meridien over there and of course the Station Café.’
‘I’ll have to let you decide Yvette, I have no idea about these things, I’m just a cove from the country after all.’
‘Le Meridien then, they ‘ave a bigger menu.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ said Joe, whose diet had consisted mainly of British army bully beef, overcooked cabbage and ships biscuits in various combinations for some months now.
As they entered the restaurant, the patrons all turned to look: the matrons sending disapproving glances; the teenage girls giggling; the men eyeing Yvette’s shape approvingly and the wives and girlfriends sending daggers at her. She ignored it all; she was quite simply the most striking girl in the place and everyone knew it.
A waiter showed them to a table in the window overlooking the square. Outside, the last of the sun was inflaming a gauze of cirrus stretched across the sky.
‘So, ‘ow was England?’ she enquired, scanning the menu.
‘Bloody wet, if you’ll pardon the expression, I’ve never seen so much rain.’
‘Was it terrible?’
‘Boring as blazes. I reckon the worst thing about this war is being forced to sit around and do nothing. It gives you time to think about it, and it doesn’t make the human race look too great does it?’
‘Oui, I have not a lot of sympathy for the ‘uman race. Sometimes I wonder why I am so intent on digging up its past, per’aps I have some childish idea that the past was better than today?’
‘Well with Adolf just over the border you’ve probably got a point, although I expect the Romans were a pretty nasty lot.’
‘May I take your order?’ interrupted the waiter.
A glass of burgundy and a bowl of onion soup later, Joe felt a little more at ease and took a moment to reflect that here he was, in France, sitting in a restaurant, drinking wine with the most fabulous girl he’d ever met. War had some unexpected consequences. ‘You’ve come a long way for a farmer’s kid from South Australia, mate,’ he told himself, ‘question is, what does she see in you?’
‘That soup was extra grouse,’ said Joe appreciatively.
Across the table, Yvette soaked up the last of her soup with the bread and noticed him looking at her. She looked up into his eyes.
‘What is it Joe?’
‘I just wanted to tell you Yvette, that you’re … well, you’re a beautiful woman. Perfect in fact,’ he finally got out.
She laughed, ‘Perfect? Oh Joe, how little you know about me.’
She raised her chin and looked inquisitively about the room, exposing her long neck, ‘Now, where is our main course? Ah here it comes, what good fortune.’
The waiter laid the plates, and delicious, herb-laden aromas rose around them. He filled their glasses and she raised hers in mock toast,
‘To Lieutenant Dean, the man sent from the other side of the world to save all womankind from despair.’
She took a healthy draught of the wine, and began to eat. Joe wasn’t sure whether she was making fun of him again or not. He concentrated on the rare steak in front of him.
> ‘So, Mister Dean,’ she said after a mouthful of wine, ‘tell me about your childhood.’
‘My childhood?’
‘Oui. You must ‘ave had one, non? ‘Ow else can you explain your French? Start with your parents.’
‘Well, my father was a captain in the Australian army in the Great War. He met Mum when he was stationed near Fromelles. When the war ended they got married and she came back to Australia with him and then … well, I came along, and my brother Matt. We lived on a sheep farm in the Barossa Valley in South Australia. Strangely enough, there are lots of Germans there, they’ve been there for a long time. As the saying goes,’ Joe added with a laugh, “Some of my best friends are German.”
Yvette frowned slightly.
‘So your mother taught you French and presumably taught you ‘ow to speak to women, while your friends taught you German,‘ said Yvette, ‘what did you father teach you?’
‘My father? He showed me how to ride a horse, mend a fence, shear a ewe, fix an engine. He also taught me how to shoot, and a few other things he learnt in the army. He always wanted me to go into the army of course, although Mum didn’t. But enough about me. Tell me about these Romans,’ said Joe, lifting his knife and fork.
He didn’t want to get into an account of his life on the farm, it was firmly in the past now. Furthermore, despite regular raps on the knuckles as a child, his table manners had never been perfect, and he was hoping to distract her so she wouldn’t notice his lack of sophistication.
She began to speak about the history of the area a few thousand years before, then stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.
‘Joe, that is the butter knife, this is the one you need.’
She leant over the table and gently removed the knife from his hand, then handed him the right one from beside his plate. Joe tried hard not to stare at the movement of her breasts under the fabric of her dress, and took a gulp from his wine glass to cover the moment. Across the table her eyes twinkled in gentle amusement at his discomfort.
