by Alan David
Then the hill was blasted by a vicious mortar attack, and the men huddled below ground for two hours while the crest was engulfed in smoke. When it was over they emerged and took stock of the fresh damage. There were two casualties in One Section.
Sergeant Rawlings came to Three Section. He spoke with his brother Arthur for a time, then called to Eddie. ‘Corporal Pickering was killed yesterday, Eddie, as you know. I want you to take over the bren group. You’re to put up a tape. How’d you like that?’
‘I don’t know what the I/C bren group has to do.’
‘You’ll always be under orders from Arthur. He’ll put you wise.’
‘I’ll do it then,’ said Eddie.
‘Good. Come with me and change your rifle for a sten.’ They moved away from the section positions, and Sergeant Rawlings installed his brother with the bren group. Big ginger Sid Heywood grinned after the sergeant had departed.
‘Nothing like having relatives in high places, Eddie boy. You’ll be a sergeant in next to no time at this rate.’ Then seeing the expression that crossed Eddie’s face, Heywood grinned. ‘I’m only kidding you, mate. Here, gimme your tunic and I’ll sew on the tapes for you. You may not know it but I did twelve years in the R.N. before the war. I was the neatest stitcher in the Home Fleet.’
‘How come you joined the army then?’
Eddie removed his tunic. Heywood reached into his small pack and brought out his housewife. He grinned at the newest lance corporal in the platoon.
‘You’ve heard the broadsides from the big ships when they shelled Caen. Well, they don’t miss once they’ve got your range, and I didn’t fancy a salvo down my neck. These little mortars are bad enough, but those big shells! You don’t stand an earthly.’
Albert Rix took out his mouth organ. He tapped it, blew a few chords, then grinned at Eddie. ‘You don’t mind, Corp?’ he asked.
‘Not at all.’ Eddie grinned back. ‘That’s the first time I’ve been called by my new rank. Now I know how a bride feels the first time she’s called Missus.’
‘You’ll do, young Rawlings, I mean Corporal,’ said Heywood. ‘Here’s your tunic. Just look at the stitching and admire it. You don’t see stitching like that nowadays.’
Eddie inspected his bren gunner’s handiwork, and admitted that it was fine work. He looked at Heywood’s big, bony knuckled hands, and seeing the look, Heywood grinned.
‘A bruiser’s dukes, ain’t they?’
‘What do you think of Smith as a boxer?’
‘A bit wild, but he’s got it in him. He’ll come to hand shortly. I’m teaching him infighting now. He’s picking it up, but he’s got the instincts of a slugger. One good thing, he can punch his weight.’ Heywood stood up. ‘Hey, Smudger,’ he called. ‘Come on over and we’ll have a session.’
Smith came across, and he and Heywood moved back from the trenches. Eddie watched them. Smith was good, but Heywood was the master. Several of the men were above ground, some on fatigues and others lounging in the sunshine. The fields around the hill, where the surviving Germans of yesterday’s battles had retreated, were carpeted with yellow flowers. Down there a British patrol moved furtively along a hedgerow.
Suddenly there was a shrill whistle in crescendo. Men shouted warnings and dived for cover. Eddie, watching the two boxers, saw Heywood drop his guard and look up just as Smith swung a punch. The punch dropped Heywood, and Smith, unaware that he had rendered Heywood almost senseless, jumped for cover as shells exploded in the company area. The terrible cracks of the bursting shells, the thick dust that brought momentary darkness and the acrid stench of the exploding charges was a nightmare that lingered in the mind. The echoes faded and the dust settled. Men stood up cautiously.
Smith was shouting, and Eddie sprang out of the trench, and ran to where Sid Heywood lay motionless, soaked in blood. His battledress was in rags upon him. His right leg was terribly shattered, almost severed at the knee, and the leg was bent in such a fashion that his booted foot rested upon his stomach. Blood was pumping from the ghastly wound, thick clotting blood that gleamed dully on the bright green grass.
Smith was shouting incoherently, kneeling beside his sparring partner. Shocked beyond comprehension, Eddie pulled out the wounded man’s field dressing and attempted to staunch the flow of blood from the ghastly wound. Stretcher bearers came up. One of them tut-tutted. The other opened his first-aid kit and gave Heywood an injection of morphia.
Eddie was horrified to see Heywood’s eyes open. The orderly was examining the wound. One of them pulled out his jack-knife and slashed through the inch or two of flesh by which the leg was hanging. They applied compresses, put Heywood upon the stretcher, and carried him away. One of them looked back.
‘You can bury that leg, mate,’ he called.
Eddie sat back on his heels and stared at the gory thing clad in a black boot and bloody grey sock. His stomach heaved. He wiped his blood-sticky fingers in the grass and hurried away to get a shovel. . .
‘It was my fault,’ Smith said morosely.
‘No it wasn’t,’ said Eddie. ‘I was watching. It was just one of those things.’
‘You’ll want another bren gunner,’ said Smith. ‘Tell the sergeant I want the job. I’ll get some of the bastards for Sid. Do you think he’ll live? God, those orderlies are inhuman swines. Did you see the way he cut off Sid’s leg?’
‘There was only a bit of skin holding it on. It had to come off. They couldn’t get at the wound properly with it hanging in the way. Don’t think about it, Smudger. It won’t help you and it won’t help Sid.’
Smith became the Number One on the section bren. He began to chafe for action. He cleaned the light machine-gun almost continuously. Eddie watched him. Smith was bitter, and Eddie knew he was blaming himself for Heywood’s wound.
There was an increase in the British shelling. Someone reported seeing Panzers. Then the Germans commenced a barrage that was accurate and soul destroying. The crack of exploding mortar bombs was never-ending. Men crouched lonely and mindless under the buffeting. Earth and the more lethal shrapnel pattered down like rain.
Small-arms fire became apparent, sounding almost childish in comparison with the shelling. The sound brought men to their parapets, handling weapons. Braving the flying death, some of them stared down at the enemy-held fields, and there saw a terrific tank battle in progress. There were over thirty Tigers and Panthers, and British Shermans and Cromwells were milling around. Burning tanks littered the fields. Artillery concentrations threw up earth among the enemy armoured vehicles. German troops were coming forward in files, skirting the tank battle, angling for the hill. The tempo of firing quickened.
A tremendous volume of small-arms fire broke up the advancing enemy. But small groups came on in short rushes, and they took shelter in the ditches and crawled along the hedges. Let them come close, thought Smith, and then they’ll get a taste of what we had yesterday. But the enemy infantry skulked in their concealment, awaiting the outcome of the tank battle.
The German fire power was weaker than that of the British, but their armour was thicker. Armour-piercing shells from the Cromwells were bouncing off the tough steel hides of the enemy monsters. Red flame mingled with black smoke. Half-an-hour slid by, and it was a sad day for the British infantry watching their tanks battling against superior odds. The funeral pyres marking the end of our tanks were many. But their staunchness told in the end. The German tanks slowly lost their initiative.
‘They’re running,’ cried Smith. ‘They’ve had enough.’
Suddenly they were aware that it was raining. It had been raining for many minutes, but no one had noticed. Trickles of water turned the soft earth into glutinous mud. Clothing became saturated, and felt cold and soggy to the flesh. Eddie crouched in his trench and hunched his shoulders, the water soaking through his trousers and his socks, filling his boots. He shivered, cold and uncomfortable. Spirits sank and confidence fled. The rain was numbing. Smith had covered his groundsheet over the br
en. He sat staring at the toes of his muddy boots, and water dripped steadily from the end of his long nose. For once his unruly hair was well and truly plastered.
The rain fell throughout the morning. It continued during the afternoon. The enemy commenced another barrage that crept inexorably towards the British positions. The barrage went on for an hour, then stopped. The British saw the reason. Forty enemy tanks, with countless enemy support, were advancing across the fields.
Smith wrung out his streaming hair with his thick fingers. He put on his steel helmet and grimaced at Eddie. ‘It’s bloody uncomfortable,’ he said.
The fields now were rain soaked, and the tanks were soon in trouble. They bogged down rapidly, and observers for the guns busied themselves with fire orders for the British artillery. Shells crashed down among the helpless monsters, raising smoke that soon obscured the fields.
This was the pattern of war in Normandy; probing, attack and counter-attack. The battle plan lagged in some of the sectors. Rough weather in the Channel had delayed the landing of supplies, and congestion on the beaches had endangered the time schedule.
The little battles for the fields and hedgerows continued with increasing fury, and each field retained lifeless bodies as mute testimony of the war that had passed on. The days of June and July slipped by, and the Germans managed to contain the Allies in Normandy. But the unlimited resources of the western powers piled up on the beaches and in the back areas.
The First Blankfolks were relieved, and moved back to regroup and rest. Replacements arrived; young soldiers barely out of their youth, fresh-faced and keen to fight. They met youngsters of about their own age who some¬how seemed older and wiser and more assured; and the newcomers wondered about action and battle, and marvelled that it could make a youth grow into a man in only a matter of days.
‘You’ve got to hand it to our artillery,’ said Lloyd. He and most of Three Section were seated in the cool shade of an orchard. The sky, veined to their gaze by the branches and twigs of the fruit trees, was a deep blue, ploughed by the white vapour trails of many Allied aircraft flying to and from the front. The air was warm and the afternoon idle. The battalion was dispersed in the meadows surrounding a semi-ruined village. The only grim reminders of war were the lines of wrecked trucks on the road, the distant rumble of artillery and the slight mounds marked with simple white crosses that were dotted here and there in unexpected corners.
‘What are you trying to give away?’ Smith opened an eye.
‘Give away!’ Lloyd looked blank.
‘Yes. You said you’ve got to hand it to the artillery. ‘What? Let’s see if I can use it first.’
‘I was talking about our artillery. They certainly clear a place when they get started. Look at that village. Not a house has escaped damage. I’ll bet any Jerry troops who survived that barrage didn’t offer much resistance when our boys went in.’
‘I wish it was all over,’ said Newman. He was stripped to the waist, and sat darning a pair of socks. Corporal Rawlings was cleaning his sten, and Eddie was working on the spare barrel of the bren.
‘We’re making history,’ said Smith, propping himself up on one elbow. ‘You’ve got to hand it to us. We’re the Boys. We have done some fine things in the last two months.’
‘All right, Smith.’ Sergeant Rawlings stepped from behind a tree. ‘They’re not giving medals away today. You’re the only one not working on your kit. What are you doing, resting on your laurels?’
‘I’m resting, Sarn’t, but not on laurels. It’s bloody hard, anyway. I’ve cleaned the bren, Sarn’t. It sparkles like the teeth of a buck rabbit. There ain’t a cleaner weapon in the whole Brigade.’
‘I’ll be the best judge of that. Give me the piston group.’ The sergeant examined the mechanism. His face gave no indication of his thoughts. Then he looked down, and his blue eyes searched Smith’s rugged face. He handed back the piston group. ‘Do me a favour, Smith.’
‘Certainly, Sarn’t.’
‘Do you like gardening?’
‘Not exactly, Sarn’t. It’s too much like digging slits. Of course, we had a window box back home, and once I grew some lovely radishes in it. What do you want me to do?’
‘Just get your shovel and dig that piston group out of the dirt it’s buried in. I’ll be back in half-an-hour. I’ll expect the bren to sparkle like the front teeth of two buck rabbits, and don’t let me catch you lounging about next time or I’ll have you digging air raid shelters until grub up.’
‘Okay, Sarn’t. Leave it to me. You needn’t come back in half-an-hour, you know. I’ll do the job properly. You’ll wear yourself out running about checking up on me. Why don’t you find yourself a nice little corner and have a quiet little sleep. It will do you the world of good.’
The sergeant grinned. Then his face grew serious. ‘Smith, you know about the no looting order as well as anyone else.’
‘I ain’t been looting, Sarn’t.’
‘Well, you must have taken it from a civvy home. You can’t kid me that your mother sent it out to you.’
‘Send me what, Sarn’t? My old lady’s a queer one. Perhaps she did send it to me. What are you talking about ?’
‘That pile carpet.’
‘I beg your pardon, Sarn’t. What pile carpet?’
‘The one you’re wearing instead of hair.’ The sergeant turned and walked away between the trees, smiling as laughter followed him. He shook his head slowly. That was a good section there. He’d hate to lose any more of them.
There were two replacements in Three Section; Private Ransome, a small, dark haired youngster with a ready smile and quick patter, and Private Dover, about thirty years old, a great hulking farmer’s boy from the countryside of Blankfolk. Ransome settled down quickly with the platoon, but big, awkward Dover, with his size twelve boots, kept himself to himself. He did not joke with Smith nor listen with sympathy to Newman’s grousing. He had the greatest respect for N.C.O.s, and was a good soldier, but he was uncommunicative, and at times sullen. The section, with the exception of Smith, after several friendly overtures, decided to leave him alone. They answered him civilly whenever he spoke, which was seldom, but never forced their company nor their conversation upon him. Smith, with a Cockney’s wit and friendly manner, tried to chaff Dover into friendship but failed, so his mockery became more pointed.
‘You’ve never seen moving pictures, have you, White Cliffs?’
Dover, writing a letter which, judging by the expression on his face, was a form of torture, paused in his efforts to put his thoughts into words and looked silently at Smith who sat opposite, now lazily rubbing his duster over the breech block of the bren.
‘What’s the Black Market, Dover?’
‘That’s where they sell African slave girls,’ quipped Lloyd.
‘What’s a spiv, Dover?’
‘That’s Russian for knife,’ said Lloyd.
‘Had you ever been on a train before you joined the army ?’
Dover chewed the end of his pencil. He looked down at his half written letter, and wriggled his toes in his big boots. He looked back at Smith, who was grinning. He opened his slack-lipped mouth to speak.
‘Farmer’s boy, ain’t you, Dover? What did they call you back home, the Village Idiot?’
‘To hell with you,’ said Dover.
‘My Gawd, it talks.’ Smith spoke in mock awe. ‘The bloody creature is alive. What about coming down to the village tonight for a drink, Dover? You can buy the first round.’
‘Oi don’t berleerve in drinkin’,’ said Dover. ‘Now hold yaar row, boiy, Oi’m wroitin’ a lartter ‘ome.’
Smith subsided in a gust of laughter.
‘The yeomen of England,’ he said to the rest of the section. ‘Dover’s idea of a good night out is a penn’orth o’ chips from the van that calls at the village once a week.’
‘I stayed in a village once,’ said Lloyd. ‘Their idea of excitement was walking down to the church once a week and reading the list
of hymns to be sung on Sunday.’
Sergeant Rawlings came back. He shook his head when Smith held up the bren parts for inspection. ‘You can forget that. Everyone pack your kit. We’re going forward tonight.’
‘Let Dover go first,’ said Smith. ‘His boots’ll do the work of four flail tanks.’
Chapter Eight
BEFORE dawn the next morning the First Blankfolks took over forward positions. The morning turned warm as the sun rose. They settled in their trenches and stared out across strange fields. An occasional mortar bomb broke the silence, or the sudden thump of a sniper’s bullet. Aircraft, all friendly, roared overhead. The men, tired by the night march, were lulled by the sunlight, made sleepy by the caressing rays of warmth. They rested.
Later the Germans came; tanks with infantry creeping behind. The forward platoons of the Blankfolks opened fire. Now the peace and stillness was gone. Battle raged, and the serenity of those peaceful days spent in the back areas was dispelled by hot action. The first attack was broken. Artillery fire shattered the enemy’s armour. The defensive small-arms fire broke up the enemy infantry formations.
The day passed; a glorious summer day that had been marred by German aggressiveness. Now it was evening, and a delightfully refreshing shower of rain pattered down. Smith stood in his hole with his large pink tongue sticking like a lily pad out of his upturned face.
‘When’s the Big Push coming off?’ Smith asked Lance Corporal Rawlings.
Eddie shrugged. He spread his groundsheet over his hunched shoulders, tilting his head back so that his steel helmet would keep the rain from trickling down the back of his neck.
‘I don’t care when it happens,’ he said tiredly. ‘All I want is a good night’s sleep.’
‘You get one in, mate. I’ll call you if I need you.’ Smith settled himself beside his bren and stared out into the closing darkness. Damn the rain, he thought. It was making enough noise to waken the dead. It could certainly cover the stealthy movements of a crawling, sneaking foe.
