by Will Belford
‘Not far now, eh sir?’ yelled Smythe over the crash of the cannons, nodding in the direction of the guns.
‘Can’t be more than a few miles to the front Smithy,’ yelled Joe, ‘We’re going to have to chance our arm a bit, you ready for a bit of a blue?’
‘Ready when you are sir,’ replied the sergeant.
‘Let’s go and slice some real German sausage then,’ said Joe with a grin, gunning the engine.
As he pulled out to overtake the tanks, a horn blared behind them. Joe threw the handlebars to the right and bumped through the roadside ditch as a staff car roared past them. In the back seat, his peaked cap set at a jaunty angle, was the officer who had ordered the massacre, the man who had taken Yvette away: Richter.
‘It’s him Smithy,’ yelled Joe, putting the bike in gear and gunning it back onto the road.
‘What are you doin’ sir?’ yelled the sergeant.
‘I’m gunna kill the bastard, that’s what I’m doing,’ screamed Joe over his shoulder.
‘Oh shit,’ said Sergeant Smythe to himself.
~ ~ ~
The staff car raced on ahead, its horn clearing a path in the crowded road, soldiers standing aside the moment they saw the twin swastikas flapping on the front mudguards. No one wanted to get in the way of the SS.
Joe ate dust as he kept the bike as close behind as he dared. When the car abruptly took a right turn down a side road he almost missed the turn, braking frantically and dragging the handlebars around just in time.
He felt Smythe tug on his left arm.
‘Sir, are you sure this is a good idea, what with us being in Hun uniforms an’ all.’
‘They’ve already shot us once Smithy, we’re immune now,’ yelled Joe, ‘and besides, that murdering bastard has to die, get that MG ready.’
Smith cocked the gun and fired a test burst into the bushes as they sped off down the side road. The gun was working, but the car was half a mile ahead now and Joe accelerated hard to catch up. As the bike neared the car he gave a nod and the sergeant opened up with the MG. At the sound of the bullets, Richter ducked and then turned to see what was going on. He signalled frantically, but as the bullets continued to pound into the car he ducked out of sight beneath the seat.
The car drove on, so far unaffected by the hail of bullets. Smith lowered his aim and went for the tires. Just as the bullets burst the left rear tire, the car turned a corner into the square of a small town. German tanks and armoured cars were lined up on both sides of the road and the car screamed to a halt.
Sizing up the situation in a heartbeat, Joe twisted the throttle and accelerated through the town square. Looking around he could see Richter climbing out of the car pointing, and yelling at the soldiers gathering around.
‘I think we may have some company soon Smithy. Nice shooting though mate, almost got the bloody bastard. Bugger it, where does this road go?’
The road was winding up a low wooded hill and the bike was slowing.
‘Company alright sir,’ yelled Smythe, pointing back to where the road they had just travelled led to the village. Two armoured cars were climbing the hill at speed, the Nazi officer standing in the turret of the first. They were clearly gaining on the bike.
‘Bugger and damnation,’ said Joe looking behind him, ‘We’ll never out-climb them in this thing.’
‘Crest comin’ up sir,’ warned Smythe.
Joe turned back to the road as the bike roared over the crest of the hill and was airborne for a few seconds before crashing down onto the dirt. Below them, the road wound erratically down the hill towards yet another small river. They could see German infantry crossing the bridge in marching formation. On the far side, the dark shapes of tanks crouched on the edges of the road.
‘What now?’ asked Smythe.
‘Can’t go back, hold onto your hat,’ called Joe. He hadn’t ridden a motorbike like this for years; he was starting to enjoy himself.
He jabbed his thumb onto the horn button and howled down the slope towards the bridge. As they neared the approaches, German infantry scattered off the road yelling obscenities at them.
~ ~ ~
They bumped over the bridge and overtook the tanks climbing the far slope. A tank commander yelled something that Joe couldn’t hear and then they were speeding down a straight road lined with poplar trees. Up ahead another tank unit was spread out on either side of the road and they could see infantry moving forward out in the fields.
They turned a corner and a hundred yards ahead was a military police checkpoint: a Kubelwagen pulled half across the road and two FeldPolizei standing in the gap. Sergeant Smythe cocked the machine gun and sighted. Joe slowed down as they approached to give him a better shot. When they were twenty yards from the checkpoint, one of the policemen stepped forward and held up his hand. Smythe squeezed the trigger and the dust shook from the bike as the gun rattled viciously and sent a stream of bullets smashing into the MP and his companion.
As they manoeuvred past the bodies, shells began to fall on the road behind them and Joe accelerated. The bike was rocked by a shell landing a few dozen yards away and clumps of earth and shrapnel clattered around them.
‘That’s Brit artillery. Not far now.’ he yelled.
The German soldiers astride the road were hugging the ground, desperate to avoid the shellfire as the motorbike howled through the smoke and flash and thunderous roar of the barrage. Joe found himself whooping with excitement as he wrestled the bike around a corner and down a hill towards a canal. There was a tank facing towards them on the bridge; it was a Matilda II, and behind it Joe could see men in khaki racing back across the bridge.
Suddenly machine gun bullets were blasting into the bike. Joe braked and pulled right and the bike bumped and crashed into the ditch, throwing him over the handlebars and into a bush. Sergeant Smythe was bashed against the machine gun and thrown halfway out, then the bike was silent, on its side, one rear wheel spinning, the front mangled beyond repair.
The two men clambered free of the wreckage.
‘Anything broken Smithy?’ asked Joe, nursing a badly-sprained left arm and bleeding from a dozen cuts and scratches.
Sergeant Smythe grinned a bloody smile, ‘Los a toof I fink sir, bu’ I’ve ‘ad worse sir.’
‘How are we going to get down there without getting shot by those British tankers do you think?’
The sergeant looked down the hill.
‘Tank’s pulling back over the bridge. They must be going to blow it.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, I’m not swimming another river, let’s get down there. Quick, take your shirt off, perhaps they might get the idea we’re not Germans.’
The two men pulled off their shirts and stumbled down the hill. As they neared the bridge Joe pulled off his singlet, began waving it over his head and started yelling ‘British. We’re British. Don’t shoot you bastards. We’re British, don’t shoot.’
They stepped onto the bridge and stopped with their hands up. Wires ran along the edge of the road and up over the parapet. It was ready to blow alright.
‘You two men,’ came a huge voice from the opposite bank, ‘If you’re British, you’ll understand this: that bridge will blow in thirty seconds.’
They bolted, sprinting across the span. They only had to cover thirty yards, but in their dazed and bruised condition it seemed like a mile. Well beyond the bridge, engineers cowering in foxholes yelled encouragement.
‘Come on boys, you can make it. Run!’
As they crossed onto the far side there was a roar behind them and they were lifted by an invisible hand and tossed about like leaves. Pieces of masonry showered around them, but they were oblivious.
Chapter Twenty-eight
France, 31 May 1940
The first thing Joe noticed when he awoke was pain. His body ached all over and he hadn’t even moved yet. He was in a tent of some kind and the red glow of sunset (or was it sunrise?) was shining in through the flap. He tried to sit up, but lifti
ng his head sent shrieking pains down his neck. He decided not to do that just yet.
‘Ah, you’re with us again, excellent.’
The voice came from a man in the uniform of a British major who was standing in the doorway to the tent.
‘I’m Major Dennis. The men tell me you were yelling in English but with some sort of accent they couldn’t recognise when the bridge blew. So who are you then?’
‘Lieutenant Dean sir,’ replied Joe, ‘Australian Army, on exchange, assigned to the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles.’
‘An Aussie, eh? You certainly picked a bad time to volunteer for an exchange.’
‘Sir, may I ask how Sergeant Smythe is?’
‘The chap who was with you? He’s alright, woke up about an hour ago. His head’s a bit of a mess though. Where did you two spring from then?’
‘Captured two days ago at Roubaix, transported to a farm where there was a company of Royal Norfolks who’d been forced to surrender. I need to report sir, that there was a massacre.’
‘Massacre? What do you mean?’
‘The Germans lined us all up in a farmyard sir and turned machine guns on us. Smythe and I were the only survivors. Six of my men were killed and the whole company of Norfolks. They walked around afterwards shooting the wounded in the head. I can only assume that the two of us were so covered in blood they took us for dead. There was a German officer there who’d arranged our transport from Roubaix, I suppose he had the whole thing worked out in advance. And another thing, they rounded up all the Jews in the town and were putting them on a cattle train.’
‘Where did this massacre happen?’
‘In a little town called Le Paradis.’
‘Paradise? How ironic. Can you describe this officer. What was his uniform like?’
‘When he interrogated me, he told me his name was “Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter. He was in a special camouflage uniform with a double-s insignia on the collars and a skull symbol on his cap.’
‘Hmm, yes, we’ve heard a few stories about this fellow and his unit. We gather they’re part of some new elite SS division called ‘Totenkopf’, which means ‘Death’s Head’. Typical bloody Teutonic nonsense, but this is the first we’ve heard of a massacre. How many men were killed do you say?’
‘Maybe a company. I recognised their commander, Major Ryder, he got out of a truck just before they lined us all up. He was killed, I have his compass. By the way, where am I and what time is it?’
‘Oh you’re in an aid station about a mile behind the river you crossed. It’s 1800 now, you’ve been out for a few hours. This is the HQ of the Coldstream Guards. We’ve been given the job of keeping the sausage-eaters in this sector away from Dunkirk. Feeling alright are we?’
‘Nothing broken I think.’
‘You don’t say ‘sir’ much do you Lieutenant?’
‘Sorry sir, I guess we colonials are a bit casual.’
‘Well never mind, get some rest. Unless there’s a miracle we’ll be pulling out of here tonight and heading for the beaches. The Frogs are going to take over our positions. I’ll send for Smythe shall I? Oh, and find time to write me a report of this massacre will you? As much detail as you can remember about time, place, date, anything you can recall about the German unit that did it. We can’t let them think they can do that sort of thing to the British Army and get away with it.’
Some hours later, with their cuts and bruises bandaged and a bottle of rum to dull the pain, they hitched a lift on a Bren carrier heading for Dunkirk. The night was lit by the flashes of artillery bursting over the horizon ahead of them. Over the noise of the carrier’s engine they could hear the shells screaming overhead like express trains.
‘Looks like they’re copping it up there Lieutenant,’ commented Smythe as another salvo passed over.
‘Us too in a few minutes,’ answered Joe, ‘this ain’t the British Army’s greatest moment is it? We can’t take a trick. Strewth, it’s been a bloody balls-up from start to finish.’
‘I’m sorry about your lady sir, the one in Roubaix,’ said the sergeant quietly.
Joe stared at the flashes. He’d been running on adrenaline since they killed the two Germans in the wood and stolen the motorbike. Now he had nothing to do but sit and think. Images of Yvette being raped by Summerville and then dragged off by the Nazis filled his mind. Never had he felt so utterly powerless. It drained him of energy while filling him with hatred and despair. To be running away while she was being taken off to an uncertain fate was too much for Joe to cope with: his mind refused to deal with it. All his life he had given as good as he got, and now he had no way to cope with being in a position of such helplessness.
‘God only knows what’ll happen to her. Hear me Smithy, I’m going to find Summerville and that other German bastard one day and when I do, they won’t die easily.’
‘I ‘ope you do find ‘em sir, and I hope I’m there when you do.’ The sergeant paused awkwardly, then spoke up in a brighter tone ‘That was some ride we ‘ad wasn’t it sir? I won’t forget that in a hurry.’
‘No, and I don’t think we’ll forget that farmyard in a hurry either, eh Smithy? Those bloody cowardly bastards. By Christ we had the luck of the devil.’
‘Sir, the way I see it, you’ve got more lives than a black cat. I’m sticking with you sir, I reckon I might just get through this war that way.’
‘Let’s shake on that Sergeant Smythe: you stick with me, I stick with you. You might regret that decision you know.’
Joe held out his right hand. Smythe took it and they shook.
‘Let’s also shake on getting that murdering German bastard.’
They shook hands again, Smythe winced.
‘Sorry Smythe, we’re both a bit stuffed aren’t we?’
‘Nothin’ a stay in old Blighty won’t fix sir. We didn’t get shot in anythin’ important yet, that’s the main thing. Nothin’ short of a bloody miracle.’
The carrier lurched through the empty streets of a town. The houses were decked with white sheets, showing the invaders that the populace had surrendered, and British equipment lay abandoned everywhere. The carrier swung around trucks and other vehicles left haphazardly behind. The sound of the shelling was growing louder by the minute.
Joe sniffed the air.
‘Smell it?’ he asked.
‘What’s that sir?’ said Smythe.
‘The sea. We’re within coo-ee now.’
‘Sun’s comin’ up sir,’ replied the sergeant, nodding back eastwards where a grey light was creeping over the sky.
Ten minutes later, the carrier jolted over a bridge and they could see the sand dunes half a mile ahead across a patch of marsh. To the south a pall of oily black smoke dominated the skyline. A road sign beside the bridge said ‘Dunquerque’.
They passed the last line of defences, some foxholes dug in along the riverbank, then the carrier was climbing a track through the dunes. As they nosed over the crest, the dunes receded, revealing an appalling scene.
The growing daylight was throwing shadows across a beach strewn with wrecked vehicles and wrecked men. Flak guns, their barrels blown, lay scattered on the sand like steel palms. Trucks, carriers, every kind of military vehicle sat haphazardly on the sand; boxes of supplies and ammunition were heaped at random and between them, thousands of soldiers were arrayed in long lines, standing patiently awaiting salvation. At the south end of the beach, the pier pointed out into the water, ships lined up on both sides. Beyond it, the burning oil tanks of the port could be seen beneath the dense tower of smoke that rose miles into the sky.
Out to sea, ships of all shapes and sizes floated. Some of the smaller vessels were making their way into the beach to where the endless queues of men met the water’s edge. A lot of them seemed to be civilian boats: pleasure cruisers, ferries, barges, even yachts. Further out, Joe could make out the shapes of destroyers, cruisers and passenger liners. Closer inshore, the wrecks of the unlucky ones that had been hit by German bombers or artillery la
y stranded on the sand.
As the sun rose, a cloudless sky gazed serenely down upon the broken remains of the British Expeditionary Force, and out of that sky, black specks began to dive. Their forms became recognisable as Stuka dive bombers, even as the awful scream of their sirens grew audible.
As the first bombs rained down, the German artillery continued to fire and shells came buffeting overhead to explode among the lines of men, throwing up showers of sand. With each approaching bomb or shell, the men would scatter and throw themselves to the sand, only to stand up and re-join the queue after the danger had passed. Occasionally a direct hit would send bodies flying like rag dolls and the medical teams would have more work to do, stretchering wounded men off to the huge sanatorium behind the beach where the surgeons plied their scalpels.
‘Jesus Christ Smithy, would you clap your peepers on that. I hope I never have to see anything like this again.’
‘It’s a right shooting gallery ain’t it sir? What do you reckon we should do?’ asked Smythe.
‘Not much chance of finding our unit in that lot, even if any of them made it this far. I don’t know about you but I don’t much fancy standing around in a line down there waiting to be killed. What do you say we stick with the Coldstreamers if they’ll have us?’
‘Look at that lot sir,’ said the sergeant, pointing down the beach.
A group of horses, maybe two dozen of them, was galloping through the shallows, eyes rolling, mouths flecked with foam. Some still wore the traces of the ammo carts they had been hauling.
‘Driven mad by the shellfire I suppose,’ said Joe. Even as they watched, a shell burst in the air above the pack, leaving two horses struggling brokenly, the water foaming pink around them, while the others scattered then re-formed a herd and continued their race to nowhere.
‘Poor buggers, someone ought to put ‘em out of their misery,’ said Joe. And with that he was off and running down the dune.
