by Alan David
‘They’re ready to go, sir,’ said Greasy Joe to the Colonel. ‘They’re trained to a hair.’
Nerves became stretched as the days passed, and tempers shortened. Smith came to blows with Sid Heywood, the heavyweight boxing champion, and surprised everyone and Heywood by ably holding his own in a very good display of skilful boxing.
‘You’re pretty good, young Smith,’ said the champion, helping Smith up from where a wicked right hook had deposited him. ‘Let’s forget our quarrel. There’s a lot I could teach you.’
‘There’s a lot I want to learn,’ replied Smith.
Smith and Heywood became inseparable, and such was Smith’s desire to learn and Heywood’s energy and willingness to teach, that one or the other of them always bore signs of their obsession.
It became difficult for the N.C.O.s and officers to devise means of presenting training programmes that held the interest of the men, and it became increasingly clear that much more training would detract the keen edge from the mighty sword that was intended to liberate Europe.
But the training went on, and again the subject of the Second Front loomed large in their minds. Everywhere there were signs for the observant. Rumour was rife. More and more battalions of men were moving into southern England and concentrating into Army Groups in the coastal areas. The Allies were poising for the first great blow, and far above the quiet military preparation the air forces were carrying out their own remote and ceaseless battles. Thousand-bomber raids were commonplace. Saturation and precision bombing were phrases that appeared in the newspapers read by eager troops, and the same thought dwelt in many minds : there won’t be much left for us.
Sergeant and Corporal Rawlings took it in turn after parade hours to give extra instruction in unarmed combat and Judo to Eddie.
‘You can never have too much training in this sort of thing,’ the sergeant stressed. ‘Mastery of these tactics build up self-confidence in you, and they can save your life.’
The sergeant and Eddie were upon a greasy patch at the rear of their nissen hut. Eddie was holding a rifle with bayonet fixed.
‘Now I’ll show you what to do when you are unarmed, and confronted by a Jerry with rifle and bayonet. Put your scabbard on the bayonet in case of accident. Now, lunge at me.’
Eddie found this type of fighting appealing, and worked hard to absorb an expert knowledge of the particular skills of both his brothers. As time went on he found himself able to deal with an enemy equipped with any type of weapon. He could break an arm, stun, maim or kill quickly and silently, using any of a dozen methods picked up from his brothers. He learned the dozen or so vulnerable points on the human body which, when attacked, brought instant disability to the victim.
The month of May terminated, and fateful June appeared upon the calendar. It can’t be much longer, was the general verdict, and the last days passed quickly as time moved on and history was recorded in blood and deeds.
Not for glory, thought Eddie Rawlings, lying in his bed after lights out. He conjured up a picture of Georgie Fenn, snoring three beds away. Funny how someone could coin a phrase, utter it, forget it, and it would stick in the mind of at least one of the listeners. Not for glory! There was something satisfying in that simple phrase. It illuminated the opinion of the infantryman. It stripped war of its false grandeur. Battles were undeserving of honour when the cost was so high in life and blood.
Eddie squirmed, sleepless, in his narrow bed as the teeming thoughts whirled in his brain. He stared up into the close darkness. Please, God, he prayed, let Wally and Arthur come through. Dear Wally and little Arthur! Take care of my brothers. Think of my parents, and of all their struggles in toil and poverty and scraping to raise their large family. Let the family circle remain intact. Please, God!
He drifted into a troubled sleep, and came back to reality with a crash when the lights were switched on and the Orderly Sergeant came stamping down between the two rows of beds, shouting and banging to rouse the sleeping men.
‘Stand to, Four Platoon. Get out of bed and pack. The battalion is moving out in an hour. Jump to it. Anyone not ready to move in thirty minutes will get left behind, and tomorrow is the day they’ll be dishing out medals over there.’
They tumbled out of bed with the ease that comes of long practice. They dressed hurriedly and packed. Most of their kit had been packed and ready for days. Battle order was donned and rifles taken out of the racks.
‘What do you reckon it is?’ asked Newman.
‘I dunno,’ replied Lloyd, and tired eyes peered blinking from one tired face to another as everyone asked the same question.
‘Just another night op.,’ said Corporal Rawlings.
Sergeant Rawlings appeared, and the men turned to him eagerly for news. ‘There’s a truck outside,’ he told them. ‘Pass your kitbags outside and get them stowed aboard it. Then fall in outside in three ranks. We’re doing another moonlit flit.’
‘What’s the time, Sarge?’ asked Smith.
‘Nought four hundred hours, and put on your tin hat, Smith, before I send for the barber.’
Tiredness was a sour taste in the mouth, an emptiness in the stomach, and an irritable manner. Unwashed faces felt uncomfortable, and khaki serge was rough and chafing at the neck and cuffs. A succession of orders were shouted and obeyed : ensure that all water bottles are filled; clean the billets, collect haversack rations, and so on, until everyone was hurrying about attending to seemingly endless chores.
Trucks sped about, shattering the stillness of pre-dawn with their raucous engines. The companies formed up in their respective lines, then marched to the dining-hut for breakfast.
‘This is a bloody army,’ swore Smith. ‘I’ve packed my eating irons and mug in my kitbag.’
‘Which left camp half-an-hour ago in the company transport,’ said Newman.
‘You know the regulations,’ said Corporal Rawlings. ‘Knife, fork and spoon in your small pack. You won’t see your kitbag again until you land on foreign soil.’
‘I can’t wait until then before I eat,’ protested Smith.
‘You can share mine, Smudger,’ said Eddie, and Smith amused his comrades by attempting to eat porridge with Eddie’s fork.
It was dawn when the companies marched out of the camp. The early morning was dull, and there was a slight drizzle of rain. They marched in silence, depressed by the weather and their lack of sleep. They followed a hilly coast road, and very often caught glimpses of the sea on their left. The weather brightened, and soon a strong sun chased away the drizzle and low cloud. They marched, with breaks every hour, for the rest of the morning, and about mid-morning they were ordered off the road to allow a long convoy of troop-laden trucks to pass.
‘Yah, get out and walk,’ they yelled as each vehicle passed. ‘Call yourselves soldiers! Call yourselves fighting men!’
‘You want to be like us,’ shouted Smith, giving the V-sign to every truck that whirled by. ‘We’re the Blank-folks. The Blankfolks march to glory.’
‘And every other mob does it the easy way,’ said Lloyd.
‘It makes you think,’ said Smith, when they had halted at midday. ‘Here we’ve been marching for seven hours. We think they forgotten us, with every other beggar riding in style. But when we stop for grub up comes a ruddy great truck with hot tea for the boys. It’s marvellous, the disorganised organisation of the British Army; the orderly chaos.’
‘No one’s forgotten,’ said Corporal Rawlings. ‘Why do you think we’re marching while other mobs ride?’
‘We’re not clairvoyant, Corp,’ said Lloyd. ‘You tell us.’
‘We’re not what?’ asked Smith, puckering his face. ‘Hey, you tell me what that means before you say I am or I ain’t, Lloyd.’
‘I think it’s a good sign that we’re marching,’ resumed the corporal. ‘It’s to do with this organisation that Smith was nattering about. Those bods who are riding easy and taking the mickey out of us are the suicide boys. They’ll be first there. We’re t
he lucky ones. We’ll march all the way, and get there in time to walk ashore when all the beaches have become back areas. That’s what I call planning.’
‘You’ve got some hopes,’ said Newman. ‘We’ll do some quiet walking ashore, I don’t think.’
‘The trouble with you, Newman,’ said Smith, ‘you’ve got a pessimistic outlook on life, and we’re all blooming optimists, we live with you.’
‘Lend me your pen, Lloyd,’ Newman said. ‘I want to write a letter home.’
‘Girlfriend?’ queried Smith.
‘No, my mother. What’s the date today?’
‘Date!’ echoed Smith. ‘I don’t even know what month it is !’
‘Today’s the fourth of June,’ said Eddie.
‘And we haven’t got a very nice day for it,’ said Corporal Rawlings. ‘See all the white caps on the waves out there? If we’re on our way to start the Second Front then we’re in for some rough landings.’
The shrilling of a whistle brought them to their feet, donning equipment and hastening to gather their kit. Newman cursed as he stuffed his writing materials into his small pack. The companies began moving off again, their sections stringing out in single files along the road.
‘I feel like Felix the Cat,’ said Lloyd.
‘I fail to see the resemblance,’ said Newman. ‘What did Felix do?’
‘He kept on walking,’ said Eddie, grinning. ‘We had a kiddie’s mug in the house when I was a youngster, and it had a picture of Felix on it, and over his head was written the words, "And he keeps on walking still".’
‘Oh,’ said Smith, chuckling. ‘Then I’m a Felix, too. Hey, Corp, are you a Felix? Ah, here’s the Sarge. Sarge, do you remember that little mug with Felix on it?’
Sergeant Rawlings looked up at the sky, then at Smith.
‘Sun’s hot today,’ he remarked, and there was laughter from the section. The sergeant went on to the head of the section and marched along beside Arthur.
‘Keep it to yourself, Arthur, we’re embarking today. I’ve just come from Orders Group. The story is that we are to take part in a full scale mock invasion, but I have my doubts about it being an exercise. Anyway, we’ll see when the time comes. If it is the real thing, keep an eye on young Eddie. You’ll be in a better position to do that than I.’
The corporal nodded. He turned to look back at Eddie, who caught his eye and smiled.
‘I’d feel better if he wasn’t with us,’ Arthur said shortly.
The sergeant shrugged. He looked ahead at the moving files of men marching tirelessly to — what? Some were dying, he thought sadly, dying right now even while they were laughing and joking. But time was running out, and some of them would die when their time came. For a moment he visualised the coming landings, and a coldness settled in his stomach, for he had seen aerial photos of the German coastal defences. God help anyone in the first waves, he thought.
About mid-afternoon the leading scouts entered a quiet little coast town and led the way to the wharves. There the quietness had been dispelled. Craft of all sorts and sizes were moored to the quays, and lines of soldiers were embarking. The warm sun packed heat in the crowded spaces around the fish markets. There was an air of expectation, but no bustle and confusion. Every man had practised embarking and landing many, many times, and not a thing could go wrong now. Every procedure seemed agonizingly long-drawn-out and unnecessary.
Red-capped military policemen, smart in their white blancoed webbing, formed a cordon around the entire area, and they became the butt for many coarse jokes and mocking, which they bore in silence. At times they were over-polite to their charges, a fact that was noticed by the quick-witted Smith.
‘This must be the real thing, boys,’ he said. ‘Did you hear how those two monkeys spoke to us? They’ve got guilty consciences because we’re going and they’re not.’
‘I wish I’d joined the police force,’ said Newman.
‘They know we’re going off to fight for our country,’ said Smith.
‘For our lives,’ said Georgie Fenn.
‘For our country,’ resumed Smith, ‘and they’ll know that they’ll be safe in Blighty, whatever happens to us. They’ll spend the rest of the war in this little town, and they’ll worry every day in case they’re sent to the Front.’
‘I wouldn’t mind staying here and worrying about that every day,’ said Newman. ‘But they don’t worry about us. Not them. They belong to the You Jack Club.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Smith.
They filed up a gangway and stepped upon the close decks of a Landing Craft Infantry. On the troop deck they dumped their kit and settled down. This was a world of muffled sound, and the smell of engines, oil and grease.
‘Roll on one year today,’ said Smith. ‘Gawd, how many more are they going to pack down here? One good thing; first on last off.’
‘If we’re hit by a bomb or shell nobody’ll get off,’ said Newman. ‘We’re like sardines.’
‘You’re cheerful today,’ grinned Lloyd, nudging Eddie.
‘I was just thinking,’ said Newman. ‘This water we’re on stretches right round the coast and laps on our own beach back home.’
‘Laps on your beach!’ said Smith. ‘What do you think the sea is, Newman, a thirsty greyhound? It’s no good getting sentimental now, mate. It’s too late for that. You should have thought of it before and gone down the mines.’
‘What do you think it will be like?’ Newman asked. ‘Anyone here ever been on an invasion before?’
‘I was on the evacuation from Dunkirk,’ said Georgie Fenn. ‘If this Second Front is anything like that was then Gawd help us.’
‘Get out your mouth organ, Albert,’ Corporal Rawlings said to Rix, his Bren Number Two. ‘Give us a lively tune to cheer up old Newman. Play, "We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried line".’
Albert Rix took a thin red box out of his haversack, and opening it, produced a double-reed harmonica. He tapped it absently against his palm, played a few tentative chords, ran up and down the scale, then looked around at his mates.
‘Well, what should I play?’ he asked.
‘Can you play Faraway?’ asked Smith.
‘Come on, don’t be daft. What do you want?’
‘I don’t know what the others want,’ said Smith, ‘but I’d like seven days’ leave.’
Someone mentioned a tune and Rix began playing. The mournful notes wailed plaintively like a lost soul in Purgatory, and Eddie Rawlings stretched himself out, turned his face to the iron wall and wrapped himself in his thoughts. His spirits sank as the quivering notes cut into his sentiment. He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly weary, but sleep wouldn’t come. He lay listening to the harmonica, thinking of the dark, uncertain future.
Chapter Four
THE air was stuffy, and men lay around in various attitudes of rest. Some had stripped off their shirts, and others still wore their battle order. Newman was one of these latter, and Smith who had sat musing for an hour, suddenly came back to reality and began his usual chaffing.
‘Newman wants to be the first off the boat,’ he said. ‘Take off your equipment, mate. You’ll never be able to swim if the boat sinks.’
It was evening, and a sudden tremor ran through the craft. Men stiffened, and sat silently listening. Eddie, looking at the opposite bulkhead, saw it dip slowly then rise again. They heard the steady throbbing of powerful engines.
‘We’re moving,’ said Newman. ‘Here we go.’
‘I’m going to clean this again,’ said Smith, picking up his rifle. ‘I don’t want it to pack up on me when the shooting starts.’
The Channel was rough. The hundreds of oddly assorted craft concentrated in the narrow stretch of water between England and France lurched and rolled sickeningly in the darkness of a rough June night. There was complete and deathly silence. All engines were still, and the blackness was intense. Sea-sickness was rife among the huddled troops, and they lay uncaring in the heaving, dimly lit interiors of the
landing craft. Now they gave no thought to the enemy waiting ashore. They groaned and cursed the sea and the ships, and vomited into the black bags issued to them for that purpose.
At midnight the silence was threatened by the thundering of distant explosions. The men perked up. Was this it? Was it about to start? The noise sounded strangely ominous to the waiting men. It continued through the rest of the darkness.
‘God, it’s a long night,’ whispered Eddie. He was unaffected by the violent motions of the boat, but looked pityingly at his less fortunate comrades. Much more of this, he thought, and the assault troops wouldn’t be able to walk ashore, let alone fight a well-armed, fanatical enemy.
Arthur Rawlings looked at his younger brother.
‘You feeling all right, Eddie?’
‘Yes thanks, Arthur. How are you?’
‘I’ve travelled in my young life, Eddie. I’m used to it.’
The corporal looked at Lloyd’s pasty face, and glanced at Smith, who was strangely silent, sitting with his legs drawn up and his head resting upon his knees. ‘These chaps will be glad to get ashore.’
Eddie breathed deeply. The stale atmosphere seemed suddenly overpowering. He felt oppressed, and fear and excitement, long dormant in him, were beginning to stir. He dropped his head to his knees and closed his aching eyes. He relaxed limply against the unyielding metal at his back, and his head rolled slackly with each violent motion of the vessel.
Then he raised his head and looked at his brother. The engines were throbbing again, and the tossing lessened as the boat got under way. He opened his mouth to speak, but tremendous explosions overwhelmed them. Men seemed to freeze as the entire might of the naval bombarding forces opened fire. The ears were shocked. Speech was impossible. Nerves pulsated under the hammer blows, and the landing craft began to push into the shore.
