Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  As he neared the horses he could hear their screams through the concussion of the bursting shells. Casting about him, he saw the body of a soldier killed in a recent salvo.

  ‘You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you mate?’ he said grimly, pulling the man’s bayonet from its scabbard.

  He walked into the surf to where the closest horse was thrashing and screaming piteously. The shrapnel from the airburst had torn gaping holes in its flanks through which the ribs and shredded intestines were clearly visible. Joe had slaughtered countless sheep on the farm. A horse was a little bigger than he was used to, but he expected the principle was the same.

  ‘Easy girl, easy,’ he said, putting his hand on its head and searching the neck for the vein pulsing under the skin. The horse calmed momentarily at the sound and the touch and in that moment, Joe plunged the bayonet into its neck and pulled hard, severing the jugular. The horse screamed again and its hooves beat upon the water, but within a few seconds its massive heart pumped out its remaining lifeblood and the noble head fell back into the water.

  Joe surged through the water to the other horse. This one had both of its hind legs blown clean off below the knees and was just lying in the shallow water waiting for death.

  ‘All over now girl, rest easy,’ said Joe, kneeling in the water. The small Channel waves lapped coolly over his legs as he repeated his work with the bayonet. As he stood from the grisly task, a strange sensation in his back made him turn suddenly.

  Behind him, filling the sky was the evil shape of a Messerschmitt 109. Even as he registered its presence, flames flickered along the wings and he threw himself flat behind the horse’s corpse. The twin line of machine gun bullets tore up the water on either side, sending up fountains of spume, then the machine blasted overhead only metres above the waterline, its engine screaming as it hauled itself to a safer altitude.

  ‘Bloody bastard! Gutless prick!’ yelled Joe. He stood and picked his way back up the beach to where Sergeant Smythe was waiting.

  ‘Thought you was a goner that time sir, I was yellin’ like crazy but you didn’t ‘ear me. What made you turn around?’

  ‘Dunno Smithy. My back just felt a bit odd, itchy or something. Christ I’m getting sick of being shot at.’

  ‘Plenty more where that came from sir, the Navy boys are letting fly again.’

  Out in the Channel the guns on all the naval vessels had started booming and the bursts of the flak shells could be seen high above where a squadron of JU88 bombers was approaching.

  ‘Wonder what’s happened to the RAF? They were all over ‘em inland.’

  As they watched, the lead JU88 was hit and simply disintegrated. There was a cheer from the beach, but the second bomber made it through unscathed and dropped its bomb. The deadly shape plummeted down and landed square on the foredeck of a corvette. The boom rolled across the beach as pieces of shattered metal flew upwards. Flames burst out, and as the crew rushed to the hoses, a second bomb hit the rear of the vessel, plunging it underwater and tossing men over the side. The stricken corvette settled in the water and began to sink by the stern as the crew raced for the boats.

  ‘Poor bastards. Guess we won’t be getting out on that boat, eh Smithy? Bugger it, there’s no point in sticking around here waiting to get killed, we might as well go and see if we can shoot some Nazis. Let’s go.’

  Joe and Smythe found the first abandoned truck that had fuel and drove back to the canal line. When they arrived the Guards major was sitting outside a patisserie that was miraculously intact, eating a croissant and looking at the far side of the canal through a set of binoculars. Next door, guarding the entrance to the battalion HQ, a Coldstreamer private stood ramrod straight as if he were about to present arms to the King on Empire Day.

  ‘Ah you two fellows again. Didn’t find the temptations of the seaside to your liking eh?’

  ‘Bit quiet for us sir,’ replied Joe ‘we like a bit of excitement don’t we Smithy?’ said Joe.

  ‘Well you won’t find it here Lieutenant. The Luftwaffe and the artillery seem intent on plastering the beaches and this area is relatively calm.’

  ‘What’s going on Major?’ asked Joe, ‘aren’t the Germans attacking?’

  ‘We’re not entirely sure Lieutenant. They were certainly giving us a good hammering yesterday and we were expecting a major tank assault today, which would have finished us for sure, but there’s no sign of them. They seem to have stopped attacking right around the perimeter.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve got cold feet sir?’ put in Sergeant Smythe.

  ‘We can certainly hope so Sergeant, although the defence we’ve put up here in Belgium would scarcely justify it, but you never heard me say that.’

  ‘Say what sir?’ grinned the sergeant.

  ‘Well seeing as you’re here, I might as well use you. I have an undermanned support section with some machine guns who could use a few men. Will that do?’

  ‘Bloody oath Major. Do you have a couple of rifles?’ replied Joe. The major looked a little taken aback at Joe’s words, but he took it in his stride.

  ‘You colonials, I’ll never get used to it. Yes, Lieutenant, one thing we’re not short of is weapons and ammunition, they’re lying around everywhere.’

  He gestured at a pile of boxes inside the patisserie.

  ‘Take your pick. You’ll be in Lieutenant Shaw’s platoon, and please consider yourself one of his men for purposes of rank Lieutenant. If he gets hit I’ll expect you to take over of course.’

  ‘Righto Major, we’ll be off then.’

  ‘Get yourselves something to eat first, you may not get another chance if the Germans attack. These croissants are excellent.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  France, 3 June 1940

  Joe and Sergeant Smythe shared the watch with their new-found unit, but there was no movement that day from the German positions across the canal. After two days of constant shelling and infantry assaults, all was quiet. Even the artillery had stopped firing and by sunset an unfamiliar silence had descended over the battlefield. The occasional explosion shattered the quiet as British engineers destroyed piles of abandoned equipment, but from the Germans there was no sound. The night was faintly illuminated by the glow of burning buildings in the town, and while they could see German soldiers moving about on the far bank, there didn’t appear to be any kind of concerted activity.

  At 0400 the major dropped into the trench.

  ‘Okay you fellows, time to go, I’m reliably informed that there’s only one more destroyer coming in at dawn and we Lilywhites are going to be on it. You’ve got an hour to get down to the beach and get in the queue.’

  ‘What about the Germans sir, who’s going to stop them crossing?’ asked Joe.

  ‘A French unit will take over our positions just before dawn. They’re all volunteers who reckon they’d rather stay and fight the Germans than go over to England. Stout fellas, we’re lucky to have them, so let’s not let them down. Join the company and get down to the beach now.’

  The Coldstream Guards were forming up quietly by company in the street two hundred yards from the canal. Joe and Smythe tagged on to the end of the company line and they marched off in good order with their weapons.

  A lieutenant walking the line spotted them and asked ‘Who are you fellows?’

  ‘Lieutenant Dean and Sergeant Smythe of the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles,’ replied Joe, ‘we got separated from our unit, your Major Dennis took us in at the bridge.’

  ‘Aah, you’re the two who ran the bridge at the last minute? Lucky for you we picked a fuse a bit longer than normal eh? Right you are then, we’ll see if we can get you on a boat.’

  This time as they breasted the dunes with the sun at their back the view was different. The long lines of men had shrunk, although many thousands of soldiers, mostly French were still milling about in confusion with no hope of escape. Some still stood hopefully on the lines of trucks driven into the water at low tide to form makeshift piers. B
eside the main pier a destroyer burned fiercely, a gaping black hole in its side; further out to sea, the superstructure of wrecks showed forlornly above the water. The flotilla that had covered the sea the day before was reduced now to just a few naval vessels and a handful of smaller boats.

  ‘Looks like the show’s almost over,’ said Sergeant Smythe as they plodded through the sand, wending their way through the wreckage of the British Army. As they neared the water, the stench of unburied bodies arose from the water’s edge, where corpses flopped in the shallows. The sunrise had revealed another cloudless sky, but these men saw none of it.

  ‘Alright you lot,’ came the stentorian voice of what could only be a Regimental Sergeant Major, ‘order arms, head of the line starting from this tank. The major wants to talk to you.’ After a minute of shuffling into place the expected order came: ‘Attennnn-shun.’ The major strolled around the end of the line with his swagger stick and took up a position in front of the ranks of dog-tired men.

  ‘Soldiers of the Coldstream Guards, you have fought bravely but the time has come for us to leave. We are expecting a navy corvette to take us off in half an hour, so be ready. We will not be taking our weapons, so on the RSM’s order you will take out your rifle bolts and throw them into the ocean as far as you can. Ditch any and all extra equipment. We will be boarding through small boats that will come in to the beach, so when I give the order the front of the line will enter the water. Each boat can take fifty men at most, so I will count you off. If we are fired upon, do not leave your place in the line, you’re just as likely to get hit over there,’ he gestured vaguely up the beach, ‘as you are right here. I look forward to seeing you all in England. RSM, carry on.’

  ‘Sah. ‘talion … At ease. Stand easy.’

  Joe noticed that the disciplined drill of the men was unchanged. They could have been on a parade ground rather than standing in the ashes of the biggest defeat in British military history. He supposed that this was one reason why they called the Coldstream Guards an elite regiment. This regiment was the oldest in the British army and had fought in every major campaign in imperial history. Their courage and tenacity was the stuff of legend. Joe could only imagine the ignominy they must have felt at having to retreat, to run off the Continent and leave it to the terrors of the Germans.

  He found himself thinking of Yvette. Where had they taken her? Was she still alive? Would he ever see her again? Questions without answers. They were both caught up in events that dwarfed the individual, rendering any sense of personal destiny meaningless. Every moment required a conscious effort to ward off despair.

  ‘Right you lot,’ said the RSM, ‘I think we’ll have a song to pass the time. Jones, lead off with Siegfried Line will you?’

  A private near the centre of the line started the first verse in a fine tenor voice, and the men around Joe began to sing.

  ‘We're going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, Have you any dirty washing, mother dear? We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line If the Siegfried Line’s still there.’

  As the melody gathered strength, Joe heard another sound above it: the drone of aero engines. A line of six bombers passed overhead and a clutch of black shapes tumbled out of them. The bombs bracketed the battalion, sending showers of sand over the lines of men. Miraculously, not a single bomb made a direct hit. A few men fell, pierced by shrapnel, to be taken up by the stretcher bearers, but the rest of the men sang on oblivious. Another flight of six planes came over but these ones turned their attentions on the corvette that was now approaching the beach. Geysers of water shot skyward as the bombs plunged into the water, but the brave little vessel carried on and, even as the anchor was loosed, Joe could see the boats going down over the side.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up Sergeant, but I think our ride has arrived.’

  ‘Bloody ‘ope so sir, if you’ll pardon me French, I can’t stand this bloody singing,’ replied the sergeant.

  Joe looked at him. His ear wound had re-opened at some point and he had lost a lot of blood, most of which had soaked into his uniform. His face was pale as the sand, and the sling holding his wounded arm was filthy and shredded. He’d escaped death and fought his way here through an entire German army and was still a long way from home, with little chance of survival, yet here he was making jokes. Joe shook his head; no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long if it had men like this to fight for it.

  An interminable hour later, a little civilian motor launch called Constant Nymph picked them up, and they clambered up the nets on the side of the corvette to a deck already jammed. Men in khaki covered every surface. They were all clearly ready to drop: filthy, unfed, wet, demoralised. Then the engines started up, black smoke poured from the funnel and the corvette turned towards England, a foaming wake rising behind its stern.

  There was a ragged cheer at this and someone called out ‘Three cheers for the Navy, hip-hip-hip hurrah!’ The three cheers crashed out and as they subsided, a naval ensign appeared on a balcony off the bridge above them.

  ‘Char’s up on the fo’csle,’ he called out to the crowd, ‘if you can get in a line you might get lucky and get a mug of it.’

  ‘Hey Ensign,’ called out one of the soldiers, ‘thanks for picking us up.’

  The man in blue smiled and called out ‘You’re in the hands of His Majesty’s Royal Navy now mister, safest place you’ve been in your whole bleedin’ life I imagine. We’ll have you back in Blighty by tonight.’

  On the beach, thousands of French and wounded British soldiers were left behind. They watched the corvette pull out to sea and gazed expectantly through the drifting smoke and the wreckage of destroyed vessels, through the blasts of artillery shells and bombs, hoping for a glimpse of the next ship that would take them off this hellish beach, off this lost Continent.

  They were still looking hopefully out to sea an hour later when the German planes disappeared and the shells stopped falling. Men stared around themselves in bewilderment. In the silence, the sounds of sobbing and groaning mingled with the susurration of the waves as they lapped their burden of corpses up, and then down.

  Then a new sound came to their ears; a sound they had all heard before and feared and hated; the sound that represented the Germans’ new way of war: squealing tank tracks. Along the dunes at the back of the beach, German infantry appeared, sighting their rifles down into the crowd, setting up machine guns and mortars. Where the road ran behind the beach near the town, a line of tanks rolled into position, their guns lowered.

  The battle for Belgium was over. Now the battle for France could begin.

  ~ ~ ~

  At 5pm that evening, Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay presented his report on Operation Dynamo to the Prime Minister.

  ‘Over 330,000 men rescued you say Ramsay?’ said Winston Churchill, sipping from his brandy balloon, ‘a damned fine effort, damned fine. The Royal Navy to the rescue once again, hmm? We’re told that Corporal Hitler is planning to invade once he’s taken France, so I’ve been working on a little speech for tonight to make our position quite clear. What do you think of this for a conclusion?’

  He stood and adjusted his dressing gown, glared down at the manuscript and pronounced in a sonorous voice.

  “We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender.”

  ‘I think it will do Prime Minister,’ replied the Vice-Admiral, ‘I think it will do admirably.’

  ‘God bless you man, and all your sailors,’ replied Churchill, ‘now, do you fancy a cigar?’

  ~ ~ ~

  Yvette clutched the jacket tightly around her. After nearly two days cuffed to the radiator, she was in excruciating pain, striving to find a position that gave even slight relief to her screaming joints. Hagan Schmidt had unlocked the handcuff just twice so she could eat and use the bathroom at gunpoint. He
r left wrist was bruised from the handcuff and her bones and flesh ached from being unable to get comfortable in any position.

  She had not slept, and the only thing keeping her sane was the desperate hope of a chance to escape. The second time he unlocked the cuff she’d tried to grab the gun, but he was expecting the move and beat her into bloodied submission with the butt of the pistol. Then he’d raped her again, all the while calling her names like ‘dirty Jewess slut’ and ‘kike whore’.

  The day and night after the beating he didn’t come at all, and Yvette huddled in the house, weeping and crying out for help, in agonies of thirst. No one came.

  The next evening she heard a car pull up outside and the door opened. Schmidt came in wearing a black uniform and cap, looking every inch the Nazi officer.

  ‘Get up,’ yelled Schmidt, advancing on her.

  This time she was better prepared. She had been practising what she would do in this moment, hour after hour.

  He bent down and unlocked the cuff, and as he pulled her up roughly by the arm, she slumped back and he overbalanced slightly. He looked up and raised an arm involuntarily to steady himself, and she took the opportunity to jab the stiffly pointed fingers of her right hand into his exposed throat with all her strength.

  He reeled back against the kitchen table, choking, clutching at his throat and fumbling for his pistol. Yvette scrambled up and kicked him viciously in the groin. He doubled over in pain.

  ‘Bastard!’ she screamed, ‘Bastard!’ and grabbing the cast-iron frying-pan from the stove, smashed it into his head, opening up a bloody gash in his forehead above his right eye. She hit him again and again and again, until he hit the ground, then, sobbing and heaving for breath, she dropped the pan with a clang.

  Looking about her she gathered up some clothes, a blanket, a greatcoat and the last of the bread and cheese. She found her uncle’s old army-issue water bottle in the cupboard and filled it. Taking Schmidt’s pistol, Yvette threw the meagre collection of possessions into a bag and took a last look around. The German hadn’t moved. She ran out of the house by the back door.