Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  Joe yelled at Jaroslek and Jensen, ‘You and you, stretcher him over the river to the aid post, Harnock, bring up one of those ammo crates, Henley and Jackson, get on the traces and traverse the gun to the left. Summerville, where the hell is Summerville? We need that barrage, now.’

  ‘Back in the trench sir,’ yelled Private Part.

  ‘Damn the man, where the hell is he? He’s got the blasted radio and we need that artillery,’ muttered Joe as he crawled forward into the trees.

  The man known as Summerville was not calling down a barrage. It had never been Hagan Schmidt’s mission to participate in pointless rearguard actions against the overwhelming German forces. Finding himself with the British army in France he’d decided to stay out of the firing line.

  Although he could have disappeared at any time, he’d spent the last week marching with this isolated British platoon. He’d stuck it out because, if the Abwehr’s long-term plan to get him inside British Signals GHQ was to work, he’d have to get back to the main force and back to England. When the panzers assaulted the river position though, he decided enough was enough. As the flamethrower tank attacked, he ran towards the left-hand end of the trench. The next platoon had already pulled out and a private came running around the corner of the trench towards him, eyes white with fear.

  ‘Message to your officer,’ yelled the man over the explosions, ‘we’re pulling back across the bridge, we’re blowing it in five minutes. Pass that on will you?’

  Hagan nodded, and as the man turned, he lifted his Lee-Enfield rifle and shot him in the back. The lifeless body crumpled into the bottom of the trench. Hagan carefully smeared blood from the corpse across his face and shoulder, then stepped over the body and made his way down the trench.

  He ran down the hill to the bridge, where the sergeant in charge of the sappers stopped him. Behind him the firing had lessened to the occasional crackle of small arms fire.

  ‘Are you the last of ‘em then?’ demanded the sergeant.

  Hagan knew he had to convince this man that all was lost.

  ‘They have a flame tank,’ he screamed, ‘they’ve wiped out the platoon, everyone is … is … burning.’

  ‘Alright mister, calm down and get over the bridge, now,’ yelled the sergeant.

  Hagan stumbled over the bridge, holding his arm as if wounded. On the far side he hurried into the familiar streets of Roubaix and ducked out of sight between two houses. As he made his way further into the town, he heard the boom of the bridge going up behind him and smiled quietly to himself.

  Now, if only the Jewess had not been evacuated. He pulled the long rifle bayonet from its scabbard and turned down her street.

  ~ ~ ~

  Across the river, the flamethrower tank returned to its original path, confident that the gun had been silenced. It was getting dangerously close to the trench where Joe’s few remaining men were firing. Either another burst of flame or a close assault by the infantry was imminent. As Joe watched, another tank emerged from the mist at the base of the hill, then another. Shells started landing behind the trench and a machine gun opened up on the far flank. Overhead a German fighter plane zoomed past in a blast of engine noise.

  ‘Getting hot here boys,’ he yelled, ‘keep out of sight.’

  Private Harnock returned breathlessly with the crate of shells, and loaded one into the breech of the 2-pounder. Joe got behind the gun sight and peered through it. He grabbed the traversal wheel and talked himself through the steps that Corporal Bellamy had explained only the day before. He owed it to him to get it right.

  Another bracket of mortar shells exploded to his left and the tank guns opened up on the trenches in a series of crashing blasts. He could barely hear himself think.

  ‘Left more, left more, wait,’ he yelled over the bedlam, ‘OK, left a bit more. Now what was that bit about elevation that Bellamy was telling us?’

  ‘’E said you’ got to allow for more than you fink, Lieutenant,’ yelled Jackson from behind him, ‘e said aim over the top o’ the taa-git’.

  Joe wound the elevation wheel until the site line hovered above the tank commander’s hatch.

  ‘Alright, get back everyone,’ he yelled, then pressed the firing pedal.

  The gun boomed and kicked upwards with the recoil. The shell screamed across the open space and sailed clear over the top of the tank.

  ‘Bugger it, load up,’ He lowered the barrel with a single twist of the elevation wheel. When the breech slammed shut he pressed the pedal again and another shell sped across the field. This one connected with the tank just above the track and ricocheted off with a loud crack. Nothing seemed to happen, the tank just kept rolling forward.

  ‘Blast it, bloody thing’s useless. Gimme another round Jacko.’ As the breech clanged shut, Joe closed one eye and stared through the sight again. ‘Left a bit more … stop.’ A loud clanging sound inches before Joe’s face made him jump. Private Jackson dived to the ground beside him.

  ‘One o’ those Gerry machine gunners has spotted us sir, might get a bit warm here soon.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on ... sit on this you bugger.’ He pressed the pedal again. In a tongue of flame the shell blasted out of the muzzle and smashed through the side of the flamethrower tank just under the turret. The tank lurched to a halt and a plume of smoke rose out of the hatch above the driver. The tank commander appeared in the hatch atop the turret, struggling to climb out and screaming. He emerged with both legs on fire and fell off the side beating frantically at the flames.

  Then the tank exploded. The turret flew straight up into the air on a plume of orange flame and pieces of flaming shrapnel rained down in all directions. The infantry behind the tank were blown flat like flowers in a hurricane; one of them rose briefly, then collapsed. For a moment there was silence, then the machine guns of the tanks following behind began their staccato rattle and three shells fell around the gun in quick succession.

  Joe and his men pressed themselves into the dirt and covered their ears against the hideous blast of the exploding shells. The ground rolled beneath them and they were showered with clods of earth. Looking up, Joe saw that the gun was intact.

  ‘Come on, one more shot, one more,’ Jackson ran to the ammo box, thrust in a shell and slammed the breech closed. Henley didn’t move. He lay groaning beside Harnock’s silent body, oozing blood from a score of shrapnel wounds.

  ‘Jacko, help me swing her right will you?’ yelled Joe, pushing on the breech mechanism. They pushed the barrel around. Shredded leaves rained around them and bullets whined off the gun shield as Joe lined up the next tank.

  The tank was only forty yards away now and stationary. Joe could see the commander’s head in its black cap poking out of the turret observing the fall of his shot and talking into his radio mike.

  ‘OK you filthy bastard, this one’s for Harnock.’ He pressed the pedal. The shell blasted across the short distance and shredded the rear bogey wheel. The track unravelled like a line of knitting.

  Now mortar rounds were landing in front of the gun position and marching up the slope towards them.

  ‘Sir,’ yelled Jackson urgently.

  ‘I see ‘em Jacko, let’s go. Help me get Henley will you?’

  Bent double, they raced back to where the two men lay. Harnock was obviously dead, his torso was a mass of blood and bone. Joe checked Henley for a pulse, nodded, and grabbed the unconscious man’s feet. Private Jackson grabbed his shoulders and they dragged him into the woods. Behind them, the mortar shells bracketed the gun and the boxes of ammunition exploded.

  ‘Get him back to the riverbank and along to the bridge can you?’ yelled Joe, ‘I’m going back to the trench line.’

  ‘Yes sir, and sir?’ Jackson yelled breathlessly, ‘Well done sir, you’ll get a medal for that.’

  Joe waved him aside, ‘Bloody hell, we’ve got to get out first. Get moving.’

  With that, Joe raced through the woods and into the trench line. Down the slope the German tank attac
k had faltered briefly, but now that the gun was silenced, the metal monsters were coming up again, pausing every twenty yards to send a shell into the slope around the trench. On the right flank, the German infantry had almost reached the wood. Joe passed his Bren gunner, Private Part, who was firing short bursts, keeping the German infantry in the folds of the ground. A few yards away, Lance-Corporal Clark was taking careful shots with his Lee-Enfield.

  ‘Keep it up men, good work,’ said Joe as he passed. ‘Not long now, get ready to move. Sergeant Smythe? Report.’

  ‘Three shrapnel injuries, one serious, taken to the aid station, only ‘arnock killed so far, thanks to you stoppin’ that flamethrower tank sir, nice shooting.’

  ‘Beginner’s luck Smithy, beginner’s luck. Any news from the Major? He can’t surely think we can hold this position?’

  ‘Nothing yet sir, shall I send a runner?’

  ‘No, I’ll go myself, someone has to tell him the right flank is stuffed. Get the men up the trench and ready to bugger off Smithy, we’re not dying here.’

  Bent double, Joe sprinted towards the Major’s post at the left-hand end of the trench, stepping over the body of a man who’d been shot in the back. In the next section he was expecting to find Three Platoon, but the trench was empty but for ammo boxes, bodies and spent shell casings.

  ‘What the hell?’ muttered Joe, ‘where the blazes are they?’

  He ran on, hearing the firing intensify behind him. The end of the trench ran into the woods that covered the crest of the hill. Still he had seen no-one. Ducking into the command dugout Joe almost tripped over the smashed radio lying on the floor. The dugout was empty. Then a massive explosion rocked the earth and flung him to the floor.

  Picking himself up, Joe walked through the dugout and found himself looking down at the river and the bridge.

  He gaped: where the bridge had stood were only the shattered stumps of the brick supports and swirling green water.

  ~ ~ ~

  Coming to the town square, Hagan cautiously checked the four corner roads. There was no sign of the British, they seemed to have abandoned the town. No one was about, the townsfolk being sensible enough to stay indoors and wait for the Germans to arrive.

  Hagan had seen the Jewish girl coming and going often enough to know where she lived. He dashed across the square and up the road, sidled up to the doorway and knocked urgently.

  ‘Qui est là?’ a gruff male voice replied.

  ‘It’s me, Joe,’ Hagan said urgently in his best attempt at an Australian accent, ‘the Germans are comin’, open up.’

  A bolt shot and the door creaked open.

  Lifting the bayonet, Hagan kicked the door in and swarmed inside. Professor Bendine fell awkwardly against the kitchen table and Hagan wasted no time thrusting the point of the bayonet deep into his guts, twisting it brutally, the pulling it out and stabbing again.

  Pierre screamed horribly as the cold steel pierced his innards. Finally, Hagan pulled out the red dripping blade and the man collapsed to the floor clutching at his belly and crying out in pain.

  ‘Oncle?’ came a voice from upstairs, ‘Êtes-vous bien?’

  Yvette came to the top of the stairs and stared down in horror. Hagan stared back up.

  The screaming began.

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘Well I’ll be buggered,’ said Joe, looking at the remains of the bridge, then ducked as a stream of bullets crashed into the trees above his head. Behind him, German infantry were moving from tree to tree, firing as they went. Joe jumped into the trench and back the way he had come.

  A German tank reared up and ground to a halt at the lip of the trench. Joe raced past it and turned a corner of the trench just as a row of bullets buried themselves in the dirt wall behind him. Where the trench entered the woods, the remnants of the squad were sniping at the German infantry.

  ‘Smithy! Smithy!’ he yelled as he ran, gasping with the effort.

  ‘Time to go sir?’ called Sergeant Smythe as Joe came into view.

  ‘Yes, get everyone down to the river. The rest of the company’s pissed off and they’ve blown the bloody bridge.’

  The colour drained from the sergeant’s face.

  ‘The yellow bastards!’

  ‘Leave your guns, dump your kit, into the river, now,’ yelled Joe.

  Joe counted his men as they scrambled towards the water. Lance-Corporal Jensen and Private Jaroslek had presumably got the wounded Henley over the bridge before it was blown. That left just six now: Smythe, Lance-Corporal Clark, Privates Jackson, Wellesley, Kelly, Part, and Summerville. Where the hell was Summerville?

  The remnants of the squad slipped down the muddy bank and threw themselves into the river. The current grabbed them and pulled them off downstream. Behind them, the first German tank halted at the crest. The position was taken and a white victory flare soared into the sky from the German positions. In the muddy flow, the British soldiers struggled to keep their heads above water. As the river curved around to the left, the current forced them towards the opposite bank where low ground had created a patch of swamp overgrown with bulrushes. One by one, they hauled themselves out and into the rushes.

  Collapsed in the shallow water, Joe caught a glimpse of the trails of fighter planes dog-fighting far above him. As he watched, one of them began to spin downwards like an autumn leaf, smoke streaming behind it. The plane fell silently and disappeared below the horizon. Death was everywhere it seemed.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Sergeant Smythe poked his bare head through the rushes. His uniform was black with mud and bright blood dripped from a cut on his forehead.

  ‘Yes Smithy, I’m here. Did anyone cark it?’

  ‘We all made it except Summerville sir,’ he replied, ’no one’s seen ’im since the start of the attack.’

  ‘Let’s hope he got out. Seven of us then. Let’s find our company, perhaps they’ll have some replacement rifles for us too, eh?’ Joe peered cautiously through the rushes at the opposite bank, where a truck had pulled up at the end of the ruined bridge.

  ‘What the hell are the Nazis doing?’ he asked.

  Where the bridge had collapsed into the river, German soldiers were swarming out of the truck and hauling out lengths of metal sheeting.

  ‘Sappers building a quick-and-dirty bridge sir. The span just fell straight into the water, all they need to do is put some planks on the stumps. They’ll be over in ‘alf an hour if they’re not interrupted. Why isn’t anyone firing on ’em from the town?’

  ‘I don’t know Sergeant, but we’d better find out. Let’s get in there.’

  A few minutes later the depleted and weapon-less squad bolted from cover and leapt the low wall that separated the town from the river. A few shots followed them, but most of the Germans were too pre-occupied to notice.

  Joe ran to the town square, expecting to find the British HQ, but the place was deserted.

  ‘Smithy, take the men to our old billet and see if there are any weapons left behind will you? Meet me here in ten minutes,’ then he walked up to the hotel de ville and pushed his way in through the front door.

  The entrance hall was empty, as was the main chamber, but Joe found the mayor in his office in his full ceremonial uniform, unfolding a red and black flag. The man dropped the flag abruptly when Joe entered.

  ‘M’sieu. Mon Dieu. You scared me ‘alf to death. What are you doing ‘ere, I thought les Anglais had all gone?’

  ‘Well they left us on the other side of the bloody river didn’t they?’ snarled Joe. ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘At least an hour ago m’sieur, straight after they blew up our bridge. Your Major said something about being ordered to join the evacuation. They ‘ave abandoned this line of defence it would seem. They must ‘ave thought you were all dead.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe. And now you’re getting ready to welcome your new conquerors eh? Must be something of a habit around here I suppose.’

  The mayor shrugged. ‘M’sieur, my father was mayor before
me when les Boches occupied this town in 1914. What can you do? We ‘ave lost. You British could not protect us, nor could the Belgians, nor our own gallant tirailleurs.’

  ‘Yeah, alright, we’ll be off too, but tell me one thing, have all the townsfolk gone? Is anyone except you still here?’

  ‘Why, they are all ‘ere m’sieu. Where would they go? England? Ha! Even the British Navy would not have enough ships to take all of France.’

  A shiver ran down Joe’s spine.

  ‘What about Yvette Bendine? Surely she’s had the sense to go?’

  ‘I do not know m’sieu, per’aps she has, per’aps she has not, but I would not recommend that you waste anymore time here. I doubt les Boches will be held up for long by the river.’

  ‘Good luck to you then,’ said Joe and ran out of the building. Surely Yvette couldn’t be stubborn enough to have stayed?

  ~ ~ ~

  As he ran across the square to Yvette’s uncle’s house, Joe couldn’t help but see the curtains being pulled aside then dropped in the houses as he passed. Clearly the local people had resigned themselves to being occupied by the Germans.

  Gasping for breath, he turned the corner into the familiar lane and heard a scream from the back of the house. He pushed at the door and almost fell over as it opened before him. Inside, Pierre Bendine lay moaning against the wall in a red pool, his shirt saturated with blood. The scream came again from the kitchen.

  Slipping on the bloodied tiles, Joe raced into the kitchen. For a moment he could not comprehend what he saw.

  Yvette was bent face down over the kitchen table, her skirt thrown up around her waist, while Summerville stood behind her, a bayonet at her throat, thrusting himself into her.