Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  The thud of distant artillery fire could be heard from the direction of the gathering gloom.

  ‘Once it gets darks we’ll gunbarrel it towards the sound of the guns, alright Smithy? How’s the head mate?’

  With one eye covered by a stained field dressing, his clothes encrusted in brown dried blood, the sergeant looked more like some demented Arabian thief from a storybook than a British NCO.

  ‘Not bad sir, throbs a bit when we move quick, but altogether not too bad. Can’t ‘ear much through this ear though.’

  ‘Stout fella,’ said Joe, ‘might be temporary eh? Let’s hope so.’

  There was long silence as they trudged on across yet another muddy field. Joe could sense himself settling into a black despond; all he could think of was the long line of torn and bleeding bodies, the last of his own squad among them, lying abandoned in the ditch at the farmhouse. He decided to make some attempt at conversation to keep their sprits up.

  ‘Where you from Smithy?’

  ‘Me sir?’ asked Smythe in surprise, dragged from his own thoughts, ‘why Staffordshire originally of course sir, I’m in the Staffordshire Rifles, ain’t I?’

  ‘Yes Smithy, but I know bugger-all about England, Staffordshire could be the moon as far as I know,’ replied Joe with exasperation.

  ‘Well sir,’ said Smythe patiently, realising he might as well be explaining British geography to a child, not that he knew much about it himself, ‘I’m from a farm near a small town called Tittensor, about ten miles north o’ Stafford, closer to Stoke-on-Trent really, but I’ve been in Birmingham for the last few years.’

  ‘A farm eh? What do you farm?’

  ‘Cows sir, dairy cows,’ replied Smythe, ‘family’s got about sixty of ‘em,’ he added proudly.

  ‘Sixty, is that all?’ asked Joe, who was used to Australian herds of many hundreds.

  ‘That’s a big ‘erd for the district sir,’ said Smythe aggrievedly, ‘one o’ the best for many a mile.’

  ‘I’m sure it is Smithy,’ said Joe, tugging at a boot, ‘you know I came from a farm too, we had six thousand sheep.’

  ‘Surely you’re pullin’ me leg sir,’ said Smythe with a grimace, ‘six thousand? I don’t mean any disrespect, but that’s a bit far-fetched.’

  ‘It’s absolutely true,’ said Joe, ‘but they were running on ten thousand acres of bone-dry grass. It’s not like here mate, nothing’s green down there, it never bloody rains you know. I remember it rained for a couple of days just before I left for Duntroon, and before that it hadn’t rained for three years.’

  ‘That’s just daft sir,’ replied Smythe, ‘bloody daft.’

  ‘You’re probably right Smithy, you’re probably right, and by the way, if we’re going to get out of this it would probably help if we get past the formalities. I’m Joe, not ‘sir’ and while I know your name from the roster, we’ve never been introduced have we?’

  Joe stopped and held out his hand.

  ‘Joe Dean.’

  The sergeant pulled himself up and took Joe’s hand in a firm shake.

  ‘Morton Smythe.’

  ‘Morton? Stone the crows, if it’s alright with you Morton, I’ll call you Smithy. So why’d you join the army mate?’

  ‘A little problem back in Birmingham sir,’ said Smythe cagily.

  ‘Got the milkmaid pregnant did you?’ asked Joe with a grin.

  ‘Not exactly sir, it was more about money than women,’ replied Smythe, ‘I was looking at spending a bit of time in Her Majesty’s ’otel if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Oh. Well, that’s your business I suppose mate, I won’t pry any further. We’d better get going, we’re not gunna get any dinner sitting round here, that’s for damn sure.’

  ‘Towards the guns sir?’ asked Smythe.

  ‘Towards the guns it is, Smithy, and don’t call me sir,’ he said.

  ‘If it’s all the same to you sir, it’s easier if I do,’ replied Smythe. ‘Can’t go calling an officer by ‘is first name when we get to the army can I?’

  ‘Fair point,’ said Joe, thinking that “if” was more appropriate than “when”, ‘good to see you’re thinking positively there Mr Smythe. Let’s go.’

  Before leaving the farmhouse, they had quickly searched some of the bodies and retrieved a compass, a medical kit and two half-full canteens. This had been a hideous experience, but Joe was glad they had done it as he checked the compass in the last of the daylight and continued westwards.

  Many hours of hard walking later, they crawled into cover in another wood. They had been caught on barbed wire fences, tumbled into bogs, barked their shins on fallen trees, scratched themselves in a hundred places, but had slogged on, helping each other through the difficult patches. At one point, blundering about in the darkness, they’d stumbled onto a sunken road where a column of horse-drawn artillery was resting. In the darkness, the artillerymen’s uniforms had looked French, and Joe had been about to climb down when he heard an exchange in guttural German.

  By the time sky began to turn grey, both men were wet, cold, hungry, thirsty, sore and exhausted. Shock, anger and most of all, fear, were powerful motivators, and despite all the obstacles, the sound of the guns was now much closer. They could also hear engines from somewhere to the south.

  ‘Getting close to the front mate. Christ, I’m so weak I couldn’t blow the froth off a beer. How about a kip here in these woods eh?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask Lieutenant.’

  The sergeant was swaying slightly and on his last word he crumpled to the ground. Joe caught him as he fell and laid him down, then lay down beside him. Now they had stopped moving, the sweat cooled rapidly, and within a minute Joe was shivering. A minute later he was asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  France, 28 May 1940

  Yvette tried not to look in the direction of her uncle’s stiffening body. She’d given up trying to pick the lock on the handcuffs hours before and now sat there like a steer in a slaughterhouse, staring into space, trembling with fear. In her imagination Joe came bursting through the door to rescue her, but she knew that was not going to happen. He was gone, probably dead by now.

  Footsteps. The door handle rattled and she looked up fearfully as the hated Schmidt entered the house, carrying a bag.

  He sat down and pulled out a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a half-cheese. Then he pulled out his Luger pistol and unlocked the handcuff.

  ‘Eat.’

  She needed no urging. She hadn’t eaten for more than a day and her stomach was cramping from hunger. As she crammed down the bread and cheese, the German watched her and toyed with his gun.

  ‘Your fellow Jews my dear, do you know where they are going?’ he intoned. ‘A lovely little town in Bavaria called Dachau. The Jews that go there are sorted into two categories: useful and useless. The useful ones are worked until they die; the useless ones are gassed and burned in great incinerators. Now, you do understand that I can have you sent there any time I choose, don’t you?’

  Yvette nodded.

  ‘So then, my little Jewish slattern,’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘don’t do anything stupid or you’ll find yourself in a hell worse than anything you’ve ever dreamt of. If you do everything I say, I’ll even arrange for someone to come and get rid of that,’ he added, gesturing at her uncle’s corpse.

  ‘Now my dear, you are going to discover what we Germans mean when we say we are the Master Race. It is time for you put that body of yours to work serving your new masters, do you understand me?’

  Yvette concentrated on cramming as much cheese into her mouth as she could.

  The whisper turned to a demented scream: ‘Verstehen Sie?’

  She nodded. He had her at his mercy now, she reasoned, but he would have to make a mistake eventually. Sooner or later she would have the chance to escape, she just needed to take things one step at a time. All that was required was patience.

  ~ ~ ~

  The hillside was green and ve
rdant, the sun beat on Joe’s bare back and on the splendour of Yvette’s naked body. Then the sound of engines and voices interrupted. A swarm of Germans surrounded them and dragged her away. He screamed at them and struggled against the men pinning his arms, but the roaring engines drowned out his voice. A German officer whose face was somehow familiar held a gun to Yvette’s head. Joe screamed. The man pulled the trigger and she crumpled to the ground. Joe screamed. The officer advanced on Joe, pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.

  Joe awoke abruptly to find Sergeant Smythe shaking him urgently and saying ‘Sssshhhhhh’ as quietly as possible.

  ‘Bugger me Smithy, that was a terrible bloody dream,’ whispered Joe, clutching at his sergeant’s arm. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nazis down there on the road. We didn’t pick our spot too well sir, we’re only thirty yards from a friggin’ bridge if you’ll pardon my French. I can ‘ear them talking in that filthy bloody lingo of theirs. You were makin’ a lot o’ noise sir, thought it best to wake you up’.

  ‘You did well Sergeant, do you think they heard me?’

  ‘Can’t be too careful sir, shall we scarper from ‘ere? I reckon it’s about midday from where the sun is. I’ve just ‘ad a quick look, there’s a pretty big river just on the other side o’ this wood and the bridge looks like the only way across. Maybe we can move a bit closer and get across once this lot move on.’

  ‘Sounds like the plan Smithy, lead on.’

  They crept through the trees. They were at the top of a steep bank that plunged down forty feet to a brown river. The river was no more than thirty yards wide, but from their training exercises Joe knew these rivers had a tendency to be deceptively deep and fast-flowing. To their left, German trucks and horses and carts were crossing a stone arch.

  ‘I don’t fancy our chances swimming,’ said Joe, ‘let’s get closer so we can make a quick run for it when this lot passes over. Did you see any sentries?’

  ‘No sir, perhaps they’re all in too much of a hurry to get to the front.’

  They crawled closer through the woods. A fold in the ground gave them a good hiding spot with a view of the bridge. The engine noise was louder here as the trucks changed down a gear to cross the narrow bridge. As Joe and Smythe got into position, a German infantryman covered in dust, with goggles pushed up onto his head, climbed over the crest of the hill, unbuttoned his flies and began urinating against a tree just feet away, his back to the two fugitives.

  Joe looked at the sergeant, pointed at the German and drew his hand across his throat. Joe’s hands trembled with fear at what he was about to do. He’d slaughtered plenty of sheep, and he’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat, but practising on dummies and sneaking up on a man and killing him with your bare hands were a world apart. Joe swallowed and forced himself to his knees. He got to his feet quietly, then leapt up and raced towards the German, Smythe close behind. As the man fumbled with his flies, Joe’s arm came around his neck from behind and dragged him backwards and down onto the ground. The man fought wildly and tried to scream, but Joe rolled him over onto his stomach and Smythe forced his head into the leaf litter. Joe rose and dropped his knee into the man’s back, put both hands under the chin, then twisted sideways with all of his strength.

  There was a loud crack and the man stopped struggling.

  The two men looked at each other over the corpse as the adrenaline thundered in their ears. Joe knew what his sergeant was thinking: what now?

  ‘We need his motorbike and another uniform,’ whispered Joe. ‘Have a quick look will you?’

  While Joe stripped the body, Smythe peered over the edge of the cleft.

  ‘We’re in luck Lieutenant, it’s a sidecar combo. There’s another bloke sittin’ in the sidecar. This bloke left ‘is rifle leanin’ up against the bike. Might be handy.’

  Joe struggled into the German’s clothes, leaving the boots.

  ‘I’ve got this cove’s bayonet. I’ll come from behind and try to stick the other one with it. The uniform might give me an extra second. If that doesn’t work, come and help me, okay?’

  ‘Gunther? Was ist los?’ came a voice from the road.

  Joe crept to the left through the woods and made his way to the edge of the road. The convoy had passed and the road was empty. Ten yards to his right, the sidecar combo was pulled up on the verge, facing away from him. The man in the sidecar had his feet up on the front and was unhurriedly pulling off one of his boots.

  ‘Gunther? Raus, gehen wir!’ he called again.

  Joe checked where his shadow fell, then stole out of the undergrowth and crept up behind the man, his bare feet making no sound in the dust. When he was within a yard, the man sensed something and turned suddenly .

  ‘Was ist ...?’ he said, confused by the uniform, then Joe leapt and thrust the bayonet with all his force into the man’s chest. It caught on a rib and slid downwards, slicing through the uniform and scoring the man’s flesh.

  The German screamed and struggled to get out of the sidecar, but Joe threw a vicious left-handed punch into his chin. As the man flew backwards, Joe followed the punch with an undercut jab of the bayonet into the exposed throat. Blood jetted out and the German fell into the sidecar, gurgling and clutching at his throat. Joe pounced on him, thrusting with the bayonet again and again, oblivious to the man’s screaming. His mind was filled with images of Yvette being raped, and of the wall in the farmyard.

  Seconds later, Sergeant Smythe was pulling urgently on his arm.

  ‘It’s alright sir, ‘e’s dead. I reckon you can stop now.’

  Only then did Joe realise that screams had been his. Screams of rage brought on by the sight of blood and the fierce urge for revenge that had been kindled when he and the rest of the soldiers had been lined up for slaughter, like so many pigs.

  Joe looked dazedly at the blood on his hands.

  ‘Christ Smithy, what came over me?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it now sir, let’s get ‘im off the road and get goin’ shall we? Before the next lot come along.’

  They hauled the body up the slope and over the crest, then stripped the uniform. There was lot of blood on it and quite a few stab holes.

  ‘Tell you what sir, ‘ow about you get the bike goin’ and I’ll go and give this lot a quick wash in the river? Meet you on the other side.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea Smithy, put it on and we’ll use it as ruse, pretend you’ve been injured and just drive straight through everyone. If we’re flagged down, we’ll just have to bluff or shoot our way through, I doubt my German’s up to getting us through a checkpoint. What do you think?’

  ‘I think we’ll be shot as spies, sir.’

  ‘Well we’d better not stop then,’ said Joe.

  Five minutes later they were speeding east, Joe riding, Sergeant Smythe in the sidecar, wiping off the remaining blood and checking that the MG34 mounted on the front was loaded, cocked and ready.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  England, 29 May 1940

  The telephone rang in Dr Smith’s house just after midnight. It was the Admiralty, seeking confirmation that his boat was ready and asking him to be prepared to put to sea in four hours.

  The doctor grabbed his sea bag and headed for his boat. He’d registered as a small boat owner after hearing an appeal from the Admiralty on the BBC two weeks earlier. No mission had been specified, only ‘expressions of interest’ were solicited.

  The doctor went to his motor yacht Constant Nymph that was moored at Isleworth. He knew he was supposed to take the yacht down the Thames to Sheerness, but he couldn’t do that without a permit.

  There were other small boats assembling at the wharf, so he tied up and hopped over to the nearest yacht.

  ‘Any idea what’s happening?’ he asked the man on board.

  ‘No more than you I suppose. Apparently some naval chap is going to come along and tell us what to do and give us a permit to do it. Fancy a smoke in the meantime?’

  The tw
o yachtsmen sat down and had a companionable cigarette, which covered a few minutes. Then they waited. And waited.

  Three hours later they had their permits and were allowed to set off downriver. Across the Channel, the beaches at Dunkirk were becoming crowded with men.

  ~ ~ ~

  The motorbike and sidecar passed a number of German units advancing up the road, mostly horse-drawn supply vehicles, the tail-end-charlies of any advance. As they neared each lumbering column, Joe leant on the horn, gunned the engine and yelled ‘Raus! Raus!’ the way he had heard the Germans yell it so many times in the past few days.

  They shot past on the edge of the road, sending up clouds of dust and leaving the cart drivers coughing and cursing in their wake. There was one nervous moment when they approached a crossroads manned by military police, but Joe simply accelerated into the crossing, horn blaring, yelling himself hoarse, nipping between a truck and a petrol tanker coming from the right. They cleared the intersection in a stream of German abuse and Joe gunned the engine.

  In an hour they covered nearly twenty miles of picturesque Belgian countryside. Green fields stretched off on both sides, streams edged with willows and crossed by stone bridges raced past behind them. Smythe unearthed some rations from the sidecar, and they rapidly devoured the bread and sausage and washed it down with a flask of schnapps. Above them, the sky was criss-crossed with vapour trails as the RAF and French air forces fought their desperate battles against the Luftwaffe. More than once they passed the blackened or still-smoking remains of German aircraft. Clearly the Allied fighters were taking their toll.

  As they moved east, the character of the troops they were passing began to change. Now they were driving past lines of infantry, tramping in step and singing their marching songs. A section of tanks held them up briefly as it manoeuvred across a bridge, and as Joe surveyed the countryside around, he heard a battery of heavy artillery firing from a wood on their right.