Blood and Blitzkrieg

by Will Belford

  Huddled in the toilet, Yvette heard the front door open and the sounds of German boots stomping in.

  ‘What is going on officer?’ asked the woman innocently.

  ‘We’re looking for a British officer who has escaped from our custody,’ replied a German in heavily-accented French.

  ‘Well he’s not here,’ said the woman, ‘only my niece, she’s in there.’

  The boots came towards Yvette and the toilet door was flung open, revealing a German lieutenant staring down at her. He couldn’t have been more than 19.

  ‘Ach, entschuldigung sie bitte fraulein,’ he sputtered in embarrassment, then closed the door.

  Five minutes later, the last of the boots left and Yvette emerged.

  ‘It is not safe to continue,’ said the old woman, pushing her towards the door, ‘you’ll have to come back another time.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Non, if we are caught they will hang us both you little fool, now get out.’

  ‘My money…’

  The woman thrust the 200 francs into her hand and slammed the door on her. Out in the street, the Germans had moved on and all the doors were closed once again.

  Yvette walked down the lane towards the docks. She put a hand on her belly, but there was no tangible or visible sign of the child growing inside her. Yet.

  Chapter Two

  Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, August 1940

  The first week of training in the Scottish Highlands had been the most agonising experience of Joe’s life. Worse than the cross-country trek he and Smythe had endured to get to Dunkirk, worse than being strafed in the water of the Channel. At least that was how Joe felt until they began the second week.

  Seven days of running up mountains in full kit carrying a rifle had stripped away whatever spare flesh he may have had. Flopping exhausted to the ground at midnight of each day, he’d slept like the dead until dawn.

  That was the first week. Now in the second they were only being allowed two hours sleep each night before being kicked awake by a sergeant and forced to keep moving. Joe had gone beyond exhaustion into a tight, personal world of pain, where just putting one booted foot in front of the other required all of his willpower. Many times he had been on the verge of giving up and surrendering to the sergeant, but each time his pride had forced him to persevere.

  With each endless day the platoon had become more strung out, as each man struggled with his own demons. Five had dropped out, unable to take the strain, and were already on a train back to their units. Only the thought of the shame and ignominy those men must be feeling kept Joe moving.

  After de-training in the bitter city of Glasgow, they’d travelled by truck to a nameless town in the Highlands and pitched camp in an ancient fort. Along with Joe and Smythe there were thirty other volunteers, all of whom quickly regretted their decision to volunteer for this ‘special duty’.

  The instructors wouldn’t talk to any of them except to bark orders, and there were few even of those. On the first day, a Scottish sergeant-major lined them up in full kit and announced that ‘For the next few weeks you’ll be climbing some mountains, make sure ye enjoy the view. Now, take out your compasses. See where it points north? That’s where you’re going. Off ye go.’ The recruits had stood bewildered until the sergeant–major made the order clear.

  ‘Get moving NOW!’

  The platoon had simply started walking north across country, country that became steeper and rougher with each day, until on the fourth day they crossed a major ridgeline and started down the other side. Joe had lost count of how many mountains he’d traversed; the last few days were a blur of gorse, heather, rain, mist, mud, grey rocks and agony. All he’d been thankful for was they were doing it in summer, not winter. That, and the companionship of Sergeant Smythe.

  The two of them had stuck together throughout the ordeal, and that was the only reason they’d made it. When one fell, the other picked him up; when one said he couldn’t go on, the other waited, then picked him up and pushed him on; when one asked to be put out of his misery the other beguiled him with tales of hot food and hot women. Despite the best efforts of the trainers to separate them, they’d found each other again on one mountainside or another, and stumbled onwards.

  Then abruptly, it ended.

  Descending a hill studded with outcrops of wet black slate, they stumbled across a road heading north-east and decided to follow it. Crossing a stone bridge, Joe saw a village ahead with an army truck parked on the side of the road. The instructors were standing around it smoking.

  ‘So, Mr Dean and Mr Smythe,’ said the Scottish sergeant-major, as Joe stumbled up to them, ‘you made it then. Good work lads. Here, have a whisky. Welcome to the Commandos.’

  He proffered a hip flask and Joe managed to gulp down a few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor before the world turned grey and he collapsed in a heap on the road.