The Battle Done

by Alan David

  The Battle Done

  Alan David

  © Alan David 1958

  Alan David has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1958 by Brown Watson Ltd.

  This edition published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David

  Chapter One

  THE three-ton British army truck sped southwards with singing tyres along the first-class road that led to London. A second-lieutenant sat in the cab beside the driver, and in the back, singing lustily, and for the most part out of tune, were eighteen privates, reinforcements for the First Battalion The Royal Blankfolk Regiment. This was the middle of April, 1944, and a high blue sky and warm sunshine combined to make an atmosphere that lulled all thoughts of war.

  ‘Well, that’s our training finished,’ shouted big, raw boned Lofty Smith. ‘What a relief to get away from Sergeant Thompson. Gawd! I hope they haven’t got any like him in the Blankfolks.’ Smith removed his dull, khaki-coloured steel helmet, and his thick fingers swept away the beads of sweat that clung to his forehead. ‘What’s the Blankfolks like, Rawlings? It’s your county regiment, ain’t it? Yours and Newman’s. Fancy a county regiment down here in the Smoke! I’m glad I’m a Londoner, ain’t you, Lloyd?’

  ‘I am,’ responded the small, fair-haired Dave Lloyd, gazing absently at the sun-drenched landscape through which they were passing. ‘I only live a fourpenny bus ride from where the Blankfolks are billeted.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Smith, smoothing his shock of thick black hair mechanically, as the breeze ruffled it. ‘The Blankfolks are Swedebashers ain’t they, Rawlings?’

  ‘They are called that among other things,’ said Eddie Rawlings as he grinned at Ben Newman.

  These two were almost neighbours in a coast resort in East Anglia, and were undeniably proud of their County Regiment and its history. Rawlings, like the rest of his comrades, was barely twenty, and was fresh-faced, lightly built but tall. He wore the first faint suspicion of a pencil-line moustache, which was secretly admired and envied by Smith, whose expansive countenance was the scene of a natural phenomenon in that his lantern jaw showed signs of feverish hairy growth but his upper lip remained indomitably virgin territory.

  ‘There’s one good sergeant in the Blankfolks,’ Rawlings went on, ‘and that’s my brother Wally.’

  ‘Good job us four mucked in together,’ said Smith. ‘Now we’ll all have friends in high places. The Company Commander isn’t a cousin, is he?’

  ‘No.’ Rawlings grinned. ‘But my brother Arthur is a corporal in the same Company, and four years ago my father was Regimental-Sergeant-Major of the Second Battalion at Dunkirk.’

  ‘Where’s your old man now?’ Smith regarded Rawlings in a new light.

  ‘He was invalided out in ‘41; got badly wounded at Dunkirk.’

  ‘And you’ve got two brothers who are a sergeant and a corporal,’ mused Smith. ‘Don’t forget your mates, Eddie, when your brothers claim you into their platoon. Me, Lloyd and Ben are your mates, aren’t we?’

  Eddie looked at Ben Newman, who possessed black curly hair that was envied by Smith, and handsome, swarthy features that gave him an Italian appearance. He glanced at the pink cheeks and clean complexion of Dave Lloyd, and then at the rugged face of the beaming Smith.

  ‘We’re all mates,’ Eddie said softly.

  ‘D’you know something?’ said Smith. ‘If I had Lloyd’s face, Newman’s hair and Rawlings’ tache, I’d be a handsome man.’

  ‘You’re not twenty-one yet, Smudger,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘Oh no!’ Smith thrust forward his jaw as he caught the implication. ‘Just tell me something a man can do that I can’t?’

  They were entering a built-up area now.

  ‘I know the place where the Blankfolks are billeted.’ Lloyd spoke softly. He rarely raised his voice above the normal speaking volume, and that was one of the reasons Eddie Rawlings liked him. ‘It’s not far now. We’ll soon have a home.’

  The First Blankfolks were quartered in black-roofed huts that were dotted untidily about under trees on a common. Barbed-wire formed a perimeter, and the new arrivals bunched at the tail-board of their vehicle to stare about them when they jumped down stiffly from the truck.

  ‘Come along then. Fall in. This is Dog Company, the First Blankfolks, not a Girl Guides’ Rally,’ a loud voice cut through their sightseeing, and Eddie Rawlings thrilled as he recognised his brother’s voice.

  They fell in quickly, glancing curiously at the sergeant who confronted them. They wondered if he would be their new sergeant, and if so, what kind of a man he was. The Platoon Sergeant is a god, and the morale and sentiments of an infantry platoon are governed by the nature and temperament of their sergeant. The sergeant saluted Lieutenant Gates, who had come down with the reinforcements.

  ‘Sergeant Rawlings, sir. Four Platoon, Dog Company.’

  ‘I’m Lieutenant Gates, Sergeant. Take care of the men, I’ll report to the Company Office. Here’s a list of their names. They are all for this company.’

  ‘I know, sir. They are all for my platoon, which you will command, sir.’ The sergeant smiled. He was amazingly brown-skinned, and his teeth flashed and his eyes looked startlingly clear as they swept over the young, intent faces of the new men. The sergeant was a big man, and looked a lot older than his twenty-four years. A single row of medal ribbons upon his left breast gave a splash of colour to his drab khaki.

  ‘He’s as brown as a nigger,’ whispered Smith, standing in the rear rank next to Private Rawlings.

  ‘That’s my brother,’ Eddie said happily, ‘and you’d be brown if you’d spent four years in India.’

  ‘Stop that talking in the ranks,’ snapped the sergeant. He stepped closer to the front rank. ‘You all look like soldiers,’ he said softly, ‘and you may think that you are soldiers, with your primary and corps training behind you. But after you’ve been with us for a week or two you’ll realise that up to yet you have learned very little about soldiering.’ He paused and sent his gaze over their attentive faces.

  At that moment Eddie Rawlings felt tremendously happy. Here he was at last with the Blankfolks. There, before all his mates, stood his brother Walter; the brother he cared for most of all his six brothers. Walter had always been someone special to Eddie, and now Walter was eyeing him curiously without recognising him, for the last time they had met, Eddie had been a twelve-year-old schoolboy. Now the sergeant was glancing down the list of names, and he looked up again swiftly.

  ‘What’s your name, soldier?’ he rapped.

  ‘Edward Rawlings, Sergeant.’

  The sergeant gave the command to open order march, then walked through the ranks. He halted when he reached his brother and eyed him critically. His eyes smiled, although his face did not relax.

  ‘Do you write home regularly, Rawlings?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Parents all right?’

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Good. I’ll talk to you later.’ The sergeant passed on to Smith. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Smith, Sergeant.’

  ‘Get a haircut, Smith.’

  Facing them once more, S
ergeant Rawlings was about to give the order to close order march when a corporal emerged from the nearest hut and approached the men. The sergeant waited, then said : ‘Inspect the rear rank, Corporal Rawlings.’

  Corporal Rawlings was small and dark, his eyes a deep brown. At twenty-five his black hair was already thinning and receding. He walked along the rear rank and passed his younger brother, who maintained a straight face to his front. Arthur went out to the sergeant.

  ‘Well?’ prompted the sergeant.

  ‘They look all right, Wally. Bit young, but they’ll do.’

  ‘Don’t you know one of your own brothers when you see him?’

  ‘Brother?’ Arthur Rawlings swung round and stared at the rear rank.

  ‘There he is, standing next to the tall chap who looks as if he is afraid of the regimental barber.’

  ‘Is it one of the boys?’ queried the corporal. ‘I haven’t seen any of them in nearly ten years.’

  ‘Yes, it’s Eddie, We’ll talk to him in a moment.’ He raised his voice. ‘Squad, ‘shun. When I give you dismiss, fall out and file into the hut behind you. Dismiss!’

  They turned smartly to the right and filed into the hut.

  ‘Pick any one of these empty beds,’ said the sergeant. ‘Take a five minutes’ break. Then we’ll get your bedding. You’ll start training tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought we’d just finished training, Sergeant,’ said Smith.

  ‘You may think so.’ The sergeant smiled. ‘But now you’re with the battalion you’ll find that you haven’t started yet.’

  Sergeant and corporal converged upon their brother, and there was much back-slapping and sizing up between them. ‘I would have passed you in the street,’ said Arthur.

  ‘I knew you and Wally straight away,’ Eddie grinned.

  ‘Well, we’re glad to have you with us.’ Wally put a heavy hand upon Eddie’s shoulder. ‘But just remember that on parade is on parade, and then I’m Sergeant Rawlings and you stand to attention when I speak to you.’

  ‘Okay, Wally.’

  ‘Right. Now let’s get on the job.’ He raised his voice. ‘Fall in outside in three ranks. Hurry it up lads, and we’ll soon get you settled in. You’ve got to blanco your kit for parade in the morning. . .’

  The newcomers saw the rest of Four Platoon that evening; mostly older men who had seen action at Dunkirk with the Second Battalion, and there were also darker-skinned men who had served in India before the outbreak of war with this First Battalion.

  Four of them, Georgie Fenn, Billy Rogers, Sid Heywood and Albert Rix, occupied the beds nearest the end of the hut where Sergeant Rawlings was quartered in a small separate room, and down at that end also lived Corporal Rawlings. It was obvious that the sergeant and his brother and the four privates were old comrades, and when they spoke among themselves they used a jargon, picked up in India, that was totally foreign to the newcomers.

  ‘You can move next to me,’ Arthur Rawlings told Eddie. ‘I’ll be able to keep an eye on you.’

  On the following morning Major Taylor-Ray, commanding ‘D’ Company, gave a talk to his new men. His words were received with mixed feelings.

  ‘To put it bluntly, you men are Second Front material. In the weeks to come you will receive training that will perfect you as part of the mightiest army ever prepared for invasion and war. You must make up your minds now that you will train hard and in earnest, for when we are put ashore upon some European beach we will come up against the toughest and most ruthless soldier in the world; the German. He is your enemy, and at this very moment he is training to oppose us wherever we land, and you can bet a week’s leave that he is leaving nothing to chance. So we must all knuckle down and work hard. I know some of you must think that you’ve had enough training. Forget that idea, as your N.C.O.s have different opinions about that. So, I welcome you to this Company, and now let us get down to work.’

  Training : handling, firing and practising with the rifle, sten, bren, grenades, two-inch mortar, anti-tank weapons; map reading, tactics, trench digging, fire orders, field craft, observation, movement by day and movement by night, mock attacks by section, platoon, company and battalion; defence, attack, bayonet, unarmed and close-fighting, marching, running, doubling, field signals and field cooking, how to do this and that and what not to do, efficiency and initiative tests, and discipline.

  Four Platoon was divided into three sections numbered One, Two and Three, and Eddie contrived that he and Smith, Lloyd and Newman remained together. Sergeant Rawlings put them into Three Section as riflemen. Arthur Rawlings was the Section Commander. The rifle group was made up of Eddie, Smith, Lloyd, Newman, Billy Rogers and Georgie Fenn. The bren group consisted of Lance-Corporal Pickering, also second-in-command of the section, Sid Heywood, number one on the gun, and Albert Rix, his number two.

  As the days passed the newcomers got to know their latest comrades and their N.C.O.s, and close living and training welded them together in comradeship. Sergeant Rawlings proved to be an efficient instructor, and a capable leader. He was strict but just. The platoon commander, Lieutenant Gates, was tall and blonde, always cheerful, and had the interests of his men at heart. He never spared himself in his efforts to boost their morale.

  Eddie Rawlings had never known a happier time. The long hours of training, getting wet and weary daily, did not touch him in the slightest. He was with his brothers, especially the sergeant, and that was all that mattered. Time had no meaning. All his waking hours were spent in the company of his friends and his brothers, and he was satisfied.

  April passed and May set in. The days slipped by like grains of sand running through an egg-timer. Talk of the Second Front faded, revived, then faded again.

  ‘It stands to reason,’ argued Smith, when he and most of Three Section sat in the bar of the local pub, which had become the off-duty headquarters of the platoon. ‘They won’t start the Second Front until the summer is over. You don’t think they’ll let us have warm weather to fight in, do you? It’ll be rain and mud and snow for us Glory Boys.’

  Sergeant Rawlings and his corporal brother entered the bar, and Eddie slipped from his seat to greet them. He took Wally’s arm and led him to the bar.

  ‘What’ll you have? And you, Arthur?’

  ‘Just one, then,’ said the sergeant, ‘then we’ll get going. Everyone is ordered back to camp. We’ve got something special on for tonight.’

  The buzz of conversation ceased as the word went round. The civilians in the bar winked and nodded knowingly. The Second Front. It won’t be long now.

  Sergeant Rawlings drank his pint of black-and-tan at a gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Arthur lumped his pint-pot back on the counter.

  ‘Come on, one more.’

  Their glasses were refilled and they drank again. ‘What’s it all about?’ Eddie queried. ‘Is this it? Are we going to move?’

  ‘They wouldn’t tell me that, Eddie.’ Sergeant Rawlings smiled. ‘But we’ll find out in good time.’ He put down his glass and faced his men. ‘Come on, chaps. Everyone move out. Back to camp. It’s early closing tonight as far as we’re concerned.’

  With much grumbling the Blankfolks began to file out. A white-haired old man, well past seventy, called out to them in a quavering voice : ‘Good luck to you, boys. God bless you.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ said Arthur Rawlings, and fishing in his pocket he pulled out a half-crown. ‘Have a couple on me, Pop, and drink to the Blankfolks, the boys who marched to glory.’

  The coin rang sharply upon the marble-topped table, and as the old man picked it up the door closed behind the sergeant. A comparative silence settled over the now almost empty bar.

  ‘I’ll miss ‘em,’ said the fat barmaid, taking her hand out of the till to wipe away a hastily summoned tear. ‘They were good lads, all of them.’

  ‘Aye,’ replied the old man, holding the silver coin. ‘They’ll all go, but not all of them will come back.’ He looked at the half-crown resting in his
gnarled palm. ‘God bless them all,’ he muttered wistfully.

  Chapter Two

  THE camp was in darkness, but not asleep. There was bustle and confusion. Men were scurrying and blundering around. Transport in the car park had their engines ticking over. In all the huts there was the same scene : men packing kit.

  ‘All right, Four Platoon,’ shouted Sergeant Rawlings. ‘Into the billet and get your kit packed, we’re pulling out tonight. It’s another moonlit flit.’

  ‘Yeah, without the moonlight,’ came a voice out of the darkness. ‘What a life! I picked up a luverly bit of stuff tonight. Smashin’. I fixed her up for a date on Friday. Now this ‘appens. I wish I’d met her last week. She’ll think I turned her down.’

  ‘Write to her from where we’re going,’ advised the sergeant.

  ‘I don’t know her address,’ moaned the unfortunate. ‘Just my ruddy luck. She was like a film star. She ‘ad…’

  ‘Never mind the details,’ cut in the sergeant. ‘Get into the hut and start packing.’

  By midnight the men were seated in their transport. They were silent now, having resigned themselves to the unknown. This sort of thing was part of a soldier’s life.

  ‘I wonder where we’re going,’ whispered Eddie. He did not know why he was whispering, and all around him in the darkness the others were whispering. For a moment the thought came to him that this was just a dream, but the hardness of the rifle in his hands and the feel of his pack straps cutting into his shoulders made him aware of the reality, and a momentary spasm of fear sparked through him.

  This was the first step towards the Second Front. When the trucks moved out there could be no going back. Each man would begin the march, either long or short as planned for him by destiny, and there would be no stopping until he had met his fate, in whatever guise it came.

  Then the fear left him. Time was a barrier between now and the awful moment of splashing ashore upon some enemy beach; but time was ticking away. Eddie roused himself, aware that his brother Arthur was speaking.