by Alan David
‘A year! Christ! Three hundred and sixty-five days more of this horror. We’ll never live through it.’ Newman sounded really shocked. ‘What about this round-the-clock bombing?’
‘Not having the effect we hoped for,’ said the corporal. ‘The Russians are doing well,’ said Smith.
‘On American supplies,’ said the corporal, ‘and transported to the Russians by our navies at a very high cost.’
‘Not a year,’ said Newman. ‘We’ve got Jerry by the short hairs.’
‘Only he doesn’t know it,’ said Lloyd.
‘And doesn’t want to know it,’ said Eddie.
‘Yes.’ The corporal nodded slowly and sadly. ‘It’ll be a hard damned grind right to the end.’
‘The Luftwaffe is kaput,’ said Newman.
‘So they say,’ said the corporal. ‘But the other day I saw a dead Jerry get up and run.’
Now what the hell does that mean? wondered Smith. A formation of Typhoons streaked very low overhead, their powerful engines roaring defiance and superiority.
‘Tank busters,’ said Smith. ‘They’re the boys.’
Sergeant Rawlings came back.
‘Finished?’ He looked around. ‘They’re deep enough. Smith, Newman, report to Corporal Stanton, Two Section. There’s a job of unloading ammo. Take you about half an hour.’
‘Okay, Sarn’t. I don’t mind how long it takes.’ Smith grinned. ‘I like work. That’s why I volunteered.’
Casualties were coming back along the road. Khaki-coloured ambulances were predominant among the traffic moving in both directions. There were columns of infantry marching forward, and Smith remarked upon the fact.
‘More fodder moving up. It’s about time they realised that there are more battalions in France than just the Blankfolks.’
A sudden ear-stinging crash brought everyone jerking around, and they saw a small agitated puff of black smoke just above the ground a hundred yards away. Even as they looked another bomb exploded sixty yards nearer. Everyone jumped for his trench, and they remained below ground for an hour while Jerry plastered the entire sector.
Then a terrific British artillery barrage crashed down, and when it lifted, the enemy fire had ceased.
It was really pleasant in the fields in the warm sunshine. The troops sat around and talked, washed their clothes and their bodies, cleaned their weapons, wrote letters home and improved their dugouts. Several days passed, and there was a rumour of a big push. The company prepared to move forward.
Just before dawn the ominous roar of many aeroplanes was heard, passing overhead in the greyness in endless procession. Bombs burst in the distance and the earth quaked. British artillery opened fire, and continued firing for the rest of the morning. German batteries returned fire spasmodically, almost futilely in the face of the overwhelming Allied effort.
‘D’ Company was deployed in sections among the cornfields, and they smoked and chatted in the bright sunlight. The time passed slowly as they waited to go forward. The afternoon dragged by. Then they began marching forward.
Several times they had to take cover while German mortars fired at them, but at dusk they dug in without getting into the forward line. They were still in reserve. A stream of casualties had been coming back all day, but very little news of the battle came with them. Enemy salvoes of shells landed very close during the night, and the troops stayed below ground.
On the following morning the sections marched forward. The battalion advanced on a narrow front, following a good first-class road. Ditches lined the road, and the grass verges on both sides were topped by sparse hedges. Shelling against the enemy was heavy, with very little stuff coming back. Several times there was the awful sound of Moaning Minnie, and the crack and burst of dozens of shells sent the men plunging recklessly into the ditches. The road and its verges were pitted with small craters, and it was obvious that the enemy had it under observation.
‘D’ Company left the road and struck across the fields. Able Company followed a little to the left. A hill reared up behind some trees, and shells were bursting upon the top of the hill. In the ditches round and about were crouching some dirty-looking and exhausted British troops. They gave the thumbs up sign as the Blankfolks filed by, but they said very little. They had been in continuous action for two days.
An anti-tank gun was cracking off shots from somewhere in the vicinity, hidden among the hedgerows, but able to spot the enemy. Spandaus were firing intermittently, with the noises of other small arms occasionally swelling the concerted chatter.
The hill was the objective; grassy slopes almost bare of any cover, and the copse on the crest smoking and burning and broken under the hammer blows of artillery fire. ‘D’ Company formed up in a flower-strewn meadow behind the last hedge between them and the objective. Shells were still exploding on the crest, smashing the trees, ripping up the earth, pounding the Germans. The infantry waited in their timeless fear. Their turn would come. Their part would be played, and further back the Aid Posts and the Dressing Stations were waiting for the first of the casualties.
Eddie crouched in a dry ditch, oblivious of his surroundings. He didn’t want to go up the hill. It would be sheer and bloody slaughter. It was hopeless! There must be a better way than sending flesh and blood into the face of machine-gun fire. That lesson should have been learned in the Great War. It would be a sheer waste of staunch British blood, of friends and mates and comrades. Please, God, let my brothers come through all right, he prayed. Then came the order to advance.
They covered the first one hundred flat bare yards of cratered meadowland to the accompaniment of British machine-guns giving overhead covering fire. The slope slowed them, had them panting and gasping under the weight of their equipment and weapons. They doubled forward, flinching inwardly as they waited for the spandaus to hit at them. Step by step, yard by yard they moved forward, fear tightening inside them, helpless now in the grip of the battle, rushing on to whatever Fate had in store for them on this day. Then the spandaus opened fire.
They were the masters of this hill, the spandaus. They were sited to cross-fire and sweep every foot of the slopes, and the running, khaki-clad figures tumbled so ridiculously, so bloodily as the German bullets seared into them. The slopes became a shambles of blood and broken bodies, of whirling tracer and drifting smoke and terrible flesh-shattering explosions. Englishmen fell, cursing the slopes and the machine-guns, sobbing and gasping, nerveless fingers clutching at the warm sunlight, and their blood flowed from their ghastly wounds. They fell in heaps, writhing and rolling, men screaming in agony and shouting in hopelessness, cursing God and praying to him, whimpering in pain, anger and fear. The attack faded, with the survivors hugging the ground, pressing themselves down, eyes closed and weapons forgotten in this merciless world of the crackling bullet.
Mortars scourged the top of the hill, seeking out the machine-gun positions one by one and obliterating them. Trees crashed and Germans died. The spandaus fell silent. The top of the hill was obscured by smoke. Man-made smoke billowed up from bombs fired from British mortars, blinding the strong defenders, the Germans, the cold-blooded killers who had enslaved half the world and murdered millions of innocent people in order to control their own ill-gotten gains.
The leaders of the shattered sections called to their men and prepared for another advance. The grass was wet with thickening blood. Bodies lay limp and carelessly arranged in death. The wounded screamed for aid, and the sun shone warmly from a blue sky. This was holiday weather, and the many craters and dead men were sadly out of keeping with Nature’s neatness.
Eddie lay on his back in a shell crater. His left leg was cramped, for Smith’s entire weight was upon it. Corporal Rawlings lay on his side, half buried under Newman. They lay still, a jumble of limbs and weapons, but living, breathing, with bodies unshattered and blood unspilled. The machine-guns were silent. Somewhere in the dreaded open, on the vulnerable slopes, someone was screaming hoarsely, repeating the same horrifying word
s over and over again, blaspheming God and foe in his agony.
Smith moved. His boots scraped painfully along Eddie’s shin. Smith kicked Newman in the face as he edged up and peered out of the crater. Corporal Rawlings thrust Newman aside and picked up his sten.
‘Prepare to advance,’ he said.
‘Are you darn well crazy?’ shouted Newman. His face was bloodless, his eyes wild. ‘It’s murder. It’s hopeless.’
‘Our last order was to take this hill. We’ve got to go on.’
‘What are the others doing?’ Newman grabbed Smith’s leg. ‘I’ll bet they’ve all pulled back.’
‘By the looks of it they’re all dead,’ said Smith, sliding back into the crater. ‘There are dozens of our blokes lying out there.’
The corporal moved up to take a look. A spandau rattled harshly as men began to move again. Eddie sat up. He had no clear recollection of having gained this shelter. His first thought was for his brother Wally. He joined Arthur at the lip of the crater and looked around at the slopes.
‘There’s half the company lying out there,’ Arthur said bitterly.
Baker Company was moving up further to the left, and as they ascended the slope the spandaus opened fire once more. Hundreds of bullets swept down over them, deluging the grass-covered slopes. Corporal Rawlings touched each of his men in turn.
‘Come on, we’re going up a bit further.’
‘Don’t be bloody daft,’ shouted Newman. ‘Listen to the spandaus. It’s murder. We’ll never get to the top. The higher we go the further we’ve got to get back. Let’s hang on here until it’s dark. Then we’ll get out.’
‘Shut up, Newman, you’re always blasted well moaning.’ Smith picked up his rifle. ‘I’m ready to go, Corp.’
‘We’ll have to move forward in short rushes,’ said Corporal Rawlings. ‘If we can get a little higher we’ll be able to give the others a little covering fire.’
‘What good are rifles against spandaus?’ cried Newman. ‘We’ll all be killed.’
‘Are we any different from the poor devils already dead?’ shouted Smith. ‘Come on, Corp, you lead, and I’ll go first.’
Corporal Rawlings jumped up and ran forward. His eyes searched ahead for cover, and he flung himself down in a slight dip in the slope. Cones of bullets cracked into the slope about him as Smith and Eddie, running together, tumbled down beside him. A moment later Newman fell down beside them.
The hideous chatter of spandaus filled the whole world. Frail flesh cringed. The hill itself shuddered. Bombs crashed down on the crest, killing Germans, but still the slopes were swept by the deadly fire of the machine-guns. All the approaches were deluged by fire and leaden death.
Baker Company took refuge below the remnants of Dog Company. The second attack bogged down. The spandaus were still the masters.
Corporal Rawlings ran forward again, a lone figure moving upwards, and a burst from a vigilant spandau gunner ripped the sten from Arthur’s grasp. The little corporal dropped, and Eddie, half frozen with horror, heedless of the enemy fire, ran forward and dropped down beside his brother.
‘Arthur, are you all right?’
‘Yes. But that was a close one. Hey, get your bloody head down, you young fool.’
‘Do you think Wally’s all right?’
‘Don’t worry about Wally.’ The corporal put an arm on his brother and pulled him into cover. ‘He’s an old soldier.’
‘Long service can’t stop bullets.’ Eddie looked at the crest. ‘If anything’s happened to Wally I’ll kill every Jerry up there with my bare hands.’
‘You’ll have to reach ‘em first. Can you drag in my sten from where you are? Don’t show yourself, for God’s sake, or you’ll get a dozen bullets in you.’
Eddie reached the sten and passed it to his brother. The corporal found it useless. He tossed it aside.
‘Good job I know Judo,’ he said.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get close enough for you to use it?’ Eddie squirmed around and peered down the slope. ‘Now look at that madman Smith. He’s firing at the crest with his rifle. He’ll have all the Jerries on the hill firing back at him in a minute. Hey, Arthur, there’s Wally.’
The corporal looked down the slope, and he smiled when he saw the platoon sergeant moving forward with the survivors of the other two sections. Good old Wally! Keep it up. The sections were moving forward slowly, half firing at the crest while half moved. The battle recommenced.
Eddie watched the sergeant with cold fear in his heart, expecting at any moment to see his brother fall riddled, but the sergeant came on, and Baker Company was advancing behind.
A dozen yards they gained, and paid for it with blood and life. Just a small hill, a pimple of the earth, but men died in their attempts to take it from the dogged enemy. The Germans were fanatical, utterly without fear. They were soldiers, good soldiers, and they fought hard and the hill was on their side.
The Battalion Commander received orders to press his attack upon the hill. Dog Company, he knew, was in a bad way, with Baker little better. Able had attempted a costly assault from the left flank, but failed when they came under the heavier fire that was like a curtain across the upper slopes.
Colonel Trainer-Crump ordered Charlie Company to move in from the right flank, and soon the hillside reverberated to the sound of swift gunfire.
Three-inch mortars lobbed bombs upon the upper slopes, wrecking the copse on the crest, but still the spandaus covered their fields of fire, and the attacking infantry fell in the face of the machine-guns.
Allen, Four Platoon’s two-inch mortarman, was busy duelling with a spandau that had caused many of ‘D’ Company’s casualties. Twice he had dropped a bomb within feet of the gun’s position, and several times he had been forced to cover when the enemy retaliated. Then he received a call for smoke, and the spandau got him with a burst as he was reaching for his bombs.
Sergeant Rawlings studied the crest. He judged the range to the copse to be two hundred yards. He glanced over at Three Section, and spotted his two brothers. So they were still alive, he thought grimly. But he couldn’t see their bren group.
Corporal Rawlings had missed his bren, and looked around for Corporal Pickering, Heywood and Rix. He spotted big ginger Heywood a little later, running forward on the left, and the faithful Rix was there behind him with the spare magazines for the bren. There was no sign of their corporal.
Heywood was firing his bren from a crater, and the spandau dominating Four Platoon suddenly ceased to fire. Corporal Rawlings jumped up and led his section forward. On the right the sergeant called to the rest of the platoon and ran forward.
‘Into them, men. At the double. Let’s get at them. Double. At the double.’
Men scrambled up, bitter men who had watched their comrades die, furious men who had been pinned down helplessly under the hell of concentrated machine-gun fire. They ran up the slopes, Dog and Baker Companies together, cheering and shouting to rouse themselves to killing pitch. Now there were less and less bodies falling to the spandaus. Now the brens fired upwards and the sections fired volleys as they advanced. Fifty yards remained; fifty short steps, and the lines of khaki pressed upwards.
Corporal Rawlings, weaponless, exhorted his men to run faster. The top was very near, with the trenches and fresh earthworks of the enemy plainly visible. There were Germans, big, tough SS troops in the trenches, and small arms crackled. Eddie saw a German raise an arm to throw a grenade, and he paused in his stride and shot the enemy, who fell to the bottom of his trench. A few seconds later the grenade exploded harmlessly.
Now the brens and rifles had definite targets at which to fire. Now the Germans were falling, and the attack surged in with a roar of fury, a shout of joy. Now the spandaus were useless, and bayonets glinted as men crashed together.
Eddie caught his first German still in his trench. His bayonet ripped open the enemy’s throat. Eddie shouted. He jumped the trench, almost beside Smith. A German was lunging forward, shout
ing defiance, his face twisted with hatred, a long bayonet stabbing in for English flesh. Smith parried him to the left and delivered a stunning butt stroke which crashed metallically against the German’s helmet. Eddie braced himself and his bayonet slid into the grey cloth covering the enemy belly. He kicked the German aside and leaped over the body and ran on.
Germans were fleeing now from the fury of the British. Shouting continued among the shattered and twisted trees, yelling and cheering and screaming that stirred the blood and set the pulses leaping. Not many prisoners were taken. There was no time for that, and little inclination…
Chapter Seven
DARKNESS covered the ravaged land, an uncertain darkness that was gapped and torn by brilliant flashes, and on the distant horizon there was a huge red glow like some unnatural sunset. The hill was quiet after the action of the day. The many wounded had received attention, and the dead had been collected together at the bottom of the hill. Eddie had seen them just before nightfall; two silent rows of blanketed figures shrouded for the grave, with big black boots poking up the bottom of each blanket. Dead, useless men who had played their part before dying. Now they were finished, merely a fatigue for the burial party.
Eddie had counted sixty-seven dead, and now in his dugout he sat hunched and lost in thought. Sleep was impossible. His head ached intolerably. He felt utterly spent. He kept his eyes closed, and in the darkness he could yet see the bright sunlight on the hill and hear the deadly stuttering of the machine-guns. The entire battle was re-enacted in his mind, and he squirmed unconsciously and clenched his hands.
Stand-to next morning was tense. The night had passed quietly, but the thought of a counter-attack was uppermost in most minds. There was a rumour of thirty Panzers coming forward, but nothing materialised. From the slit trenches on the top of the hill it was possible to look over a great distance of enemy held territory, and tenseness left most of the men when they saw no sign of the enemy.
