by Alan David
Five hours later, a little rested, the First Blankfolks were on the move again. They marched back along the lanes and roads, passing fields in which lay some of their fallen, recrossing fields where a few short hours ago they had fought to turn the enemy. Hour after hour passed, with nothing visible but the shape of the man in front, bobbing and moving forward. There was nothing but lurching forward, tired and stiff and cramped, splashing through the puddles, bowed and aching under the weight of weapons and equipment. The only defence against the wearying night, the discomfort and fatigue, was their strange drift into a walking half-sleep. The soldier marched at night in a lulling cocoon of unawareness that spread layers of deadening half-thought between himself and reality. The night passed.
A barrage started before dawn and the men became fully alert. They halted and crouched in trenches and ditches at the sides of the roads; hundreds of men silent and deathly tired, shaky through the lack of sleep, and apprehensive now a new day was dawning, which had to be survived.
‘I thought we’d been marching away from the Front,’ said Smith. ‘If I’d known we were only moving to another sector I’d have stayed where I was. I’m not particular about which part of France I die in.’
The others silently agreed.
The barrage intensified, the flashes brilliant in the half-light, the thuds and rumbling never ending. The greying night was split by the bright light. All over the fields the guns were firing their programmes. This was timeless Hell.
Dawn died, and with it the barrage. The first attack of the day went in with the last salvoes, moving through the flame stabbed smoke. Tanks rolled forward, and supporting troops, in shadowy files, moved into position. The desolate wilderness of the Front now lay stark under the strong sunlight. Battle continued in the ravaged fields, with the men who had marched all night falling, dead and wounded, as the attack got under way. Small-arms fire swelled in crescendo.
Sergeant Rawlings came hurrying down the line of his platoon. He had shaved somehow, and looked efficient and reassuring to his hollow-eyed men.
‘No undue moving around,’ he told them. ‘It’ll get dangerous as the day goes on. This is the situation. Yesterday we cracked Jerry’s defences. Today we’re going to bust him wide open. The Americans on our right have smashed through, and there’s one of their armoured divisions roaring through France at full speed. We’re getting Jerry on the run, lads. Now get dug in, for you know what mortars are. We’re staying back in reserve, or until they’ve got a bit of nasty work that wants doing. Get all the rest you can, men, we may need it.’
The morning, for the First Blankfolks, passed quietly. It was the turn of another battalion to take the brunt of the advance. Rations were brought up. Most of the men managed to sleep at some time during that day, crouching in their dug-outs, and in the late afternoon they formed up and moved on. The countryside showed all of the awful signs of war, and there was mute evidence of the fury of the barrages and the bombing raids. Casualties were coming back in a stream of ambulances. The roads were littered with burnt-out vehicles, and the hedges boasted of all the flotsam of war that remained after the tide of battle had flowed on.
The Big Push was going fine, pushing through the German lines. The advancing troops pushed on fast, giving the enemy no chance to recover, and the Blankfolks moved up behind the attack, dusty in the warm sunlight, taking over enemy country, consolidating the Allied gains that were costing so much in human life and blood.
The day passed, and the next, and the offensive continued. The armoured spearheads probed and advanced deeper into the enemy defences, driving on, always pointed towards the still distant borders of the Third Reich itself. The fourth day dawned and the attack slowed, with all objectives taken on schedule. The Germans smashed their reserves upon the buttresses of Allied consolidation, then the counter-attack fizzled out. The First Blankfolks found themselves holding a forward area.
July ran its course, furious and bloody, and slipped from the calendar. August showed its dates, and the Allies, poised upon their newly-won ground, unleashed their armies to continue the offensive.
The First Blankfolks were tired, battle-drunk men, exhausted both mentally and physically by the ceaseless fighting they had experienced throughout the entire campaign. Not for them the joy of victory, the thrill in routing the enemy. All they knew was the desire for peace, the rest from battle, clean clothes and good food. But they fought on with grim determination, sometimes roused by rumour, or overcome by the fear that they might die with victory in sight.
Chapter Nine
‘WHAT are you going to do when the war is over?’ asked Smith.
‘I haven’t given it any thought,’ Eddie replied. ‘But you are always on about it, Smudger. What are you going to do?’
‘Me ? Oh, I don’t know. Stay away from wars, that’s certain.’
‘Ever thought about staying on in the army?’
‘Me? Not on your life, mate.’
‘Are you worried about this patrol tonight?’
‘Not much. You?’
‘No more than usual. I’m glad you’re on it, and my brothers.’
‘And Lieutenant Gates. He’s a good bloke. Looks after us.’
‘I heard this morning that the battalion has had over two hundred casualties since D-day.’
‘And that’s not bad, considering some of the battles.’ Smith rubbed dust on his face to darken his skin. ‘The sergeant says I’m to snatch the prisoner,’ he said happily. ‘I’m the boy for the job.’
Eddie smiled. It was late afternoon in the second week of August. Ten men were preparing to go out on one of the ceaseless patrols. A prisoner was required for interrogation. Smith was genuinely pleased. His job was to snatch the prisoner. Smith liked that kind of patrol.
It was dark when they moved off; Mister Gates, Sergeant Rawlings and Three Section. All were dark-faced and silent, moving slowly and well spaced out. Mister Gates the leader, the guide: his the job to take ten men into the darkness and danger of No-Man’s-Land, and to bring them back safely, with one exception, a prisoner. As he led the patrol Mr. Gates ran over all the details in his mind.
He had spent all day with the subject, had been to the O.P. to plan a route, and checked aerial photographs. He had passed on all relevant information to his men, and each man knew his job, and what was expected of him. They followed him now like sheep, obeying every signal quietly and quickly. They were like puppets attached to him by strings, the way they moved and followed him.
It was dark, but with enough light from the moon sailing above the clouds. They walked steadily, weapons at the ready, alert and tense. Gates knew his route. He kept to the shadows of the hedges, his mind busy with thoughts of the business in hand.
An occasional flare startled them, and each time they froze in unnatural positions until the light died. Once Eddie was caught in the act of climbing a wire fence, and he lay on the top of it like a cat, tense and scared, wondering if the enemy could see him, and feeling that a million eyes were staring and levelling weapons at him.
Gates was almost cheerful as he followed the invisible route he had planned in his mind. Here was the hedge with the tall tree in it. Now the stream. He went across with two men while the rest of the patrol crouched in the long grass. It was an ideal spot for an enemy ambush, but there was nothing to alarm them. He signalled to the patrol, and they crossed cautiously.
Another flare sailed up into the night. They crouched, wet to the waist, and Gates grinned to himself, thanking the enemy for the light that helped him pick out his landmarks. There was the desolate ruin of a cottage. He knew where he was. He had marked that place in his mind. When the flare died he moved on, and the patrol followed, each man alert.
Eddie carried the bren, for Smith, selected to snatch the prisoner, carried Mr. Gates’ revolver, the platoon commander having Eddie’s sten. There was an air of unreality about the whole thing, thought Eddie. It didn’t seem real that there were enemy soldiers out here in the da
rkness. Eddie recalled the rehearsal that afternoon. It had been a complete mess. British soldiers, he mused silently, must be the most optimistic troops in the world.
They were moving along a lane now, treading lightly on the grass verges, and Eddie kept sharp observation at the rear. The Germans were cunning…
The men dropped flat in response to a signal from the patrol commander. Mr. Gates moved forward alone. The men crouched in the shadows and waited. Minutes ticked by slowly. It seemed they lay there for an eternity, watching and listening, reflexes hair-triggered for the unexpected and, when the unexpected came, its suddenness paralysed them momentarily.
The great car-stinging crash of a mine — the brilliant white flash that left their eyes blind for minutes afterwards — the fading echoes. A voice, calling out in German, excited. Then silence so complete it hurt.
The patrol stayed down, unable for the moment to think or act. Everyone was trying to puzzle out the significance of the explosion. They all thought that Mr. Gates had blown himself up. Sergeant Rawlings waited, each passing moment stealing just a little confidence from him. A chill clutched his heart, and icy tremors were short-circuiting against his spine. Ten minutes fled, and the patrol commander did not return. Nerves that had been ragged by the explosion began to resettle. The sergeant began to appreciate the situation.
A faint noise brought ominous hostility into the night. Boots were making swishing noises in long grass. At first the sergeant thought it was Mr. Gates returning. Then he realised that there were more than one pair of boots. The patrol lay as if dead, hardly breathing, straining fingers clutching weapons. Sergeant Rawlings counted twenty-five pairs of boots passing along the other side of the hedge under which they were crouching. They were moving in the direction of the British Line.
Many minutes passed, and nobody dared to move. The sergeant was torn by indecision. He was uncertain of the platoon commander’s fate. He certainly realised that the patrol was a failure as far as snatching a prisoner was concerned. But what should he do now? There was a platoon of the enemy somewhere along the route back to safety, and that complicated matters greatly. Would there be a chance of snatching one of them? He tossed the idea about in his mind. But twenty-five Jerries made heavy odds. He crawled beside his brother Arthur.
‘What do you make of it?’ he whispered, with his lips close against his brother’s ear.
‘Gates is done for, that’s certain,’ the corporal declared. ‘Jerry wouldn’t stand on his own mines. We ought to get out of this, Wally.’
‘All in good time. There are some loose Jerries about. One wrong step—’ The sergeant broke off. His alert eyes had detected a slight movement of a dark patch. A very soft noise came to his ears. The short hairs lifted on his neck. He placed a warning hand upon his brother. Sweat broke out on his forehead. God, he thought, we’ve walked into something tonight. It came to him then that he should have taken the patrol out straight after the explosion.
Then he consoled himself with the thought that that was what the Germans would expect them to do. Perhaps that was why those twenty-five Germans had moved down the other side of the hedge.
The sergeant kept his eyes riveted upon the dark patch. He had begun to imagine that he had dreamed of the movement when he spotted it again. Sweat broke out afresh on his brow. This was a bad spot. Those twenty-five Jerries could be doubling back on their tracks right now, or deploying across the retreat route. The movement came again. The sergeant was thankful that he and the patrol were in the shadows of the hedge. He watched the dark patch become a blotch as it advanced, then take on the familiar outlines of a man. The sergeant tensed. He drew his bayonet, gripping it tightly in his right hand. Then he relaxed and returned his weapon to its sheath and crawled forward. He had recognised Lieutenant Gates.
Corporal Rawlings helped his brother drag the obviously badly wounded officer into the shelter of the hedge. In response to the sergeant’s quiet questions Gates, speaking jerkily and with the greatest difficulty, told what had happened.
‘I was approaching the crossroads. . . scared an animal, a goat, it was. . . it ran ahead of me, and BOOM. . . a mine in the grass. . . went off in my face almost. . . done some damage to my chest I think. . . I’m done for. . . bleeding badly, and it keeps coming up from inside.’ Gates sagged, and Sergeant Rawlings tried to examine the officer’s wounds. ‘Leave me alone,’ said Gates. ‘Won’t do any good. Listen. . . German patrol came up. . . one came through the hedge near me. . . saw the remains of the goat. . . heard him telling the rest of them. They were satisfied.’
‘Yes, they passed us.’ The sergeant was relieved. ‘We’d better try to get you back as quick as we can.’
‘No.’ Gates spoke fiercely. ‘Make a detour. There’s a bridge over. . . the cross-roads, beyond the cross-roads is a river. . . sentry at the bridge. Take him, and get me on your way back.’
‘I’ll leave a man with you, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter. . . I’m finished.’
‘Ransome, stay here with Mr. Gates. Do what you can for him. We’ll pick you up on the way back. Keep awake and keep silent at all costs. Don’t forget that Jerry patrol about somewhere.’ The sergeant was in command of the situation now. ‘The rest of you follow me.’
They left the lane for fear of mines, and crossed the fields, angling for the dark shelter of a copse. In the copse, which they quickly searched and found devoid of the enemy, Sergeant Rawlings took stock of the situation. Arthur Rawlings touched his arm.
‘We’re a man short. Smith’s not with us.’
‘What? Where the hell is he? Who’s the last man?’
‘Eddie. He says Smith was in front of him a short time ago. Now he’s gone.’
‘Well, we can’t worry about Smith. Come on, let’s go and get our prisoner.’
There was too much light for them to walk across the fields openly. They moved stealthily along the hedges, and presently saw the bridge and the glinting, moon-shimmering river.
‘I’ll go on alone from here,’ said the sergeant. ‘If there is only one sentry then I can handle him. Cover me, though.’
‘Right. Good luck.’ The corporal signalled for the patrol to take up positions covering the bridge.
Sergeant Rawlings crawled forward. He strained his eyes to search the shadows, trying to pick out the sentry. In the back of his mind, and dragging his thoughts from full concentration was the worry of the missing Smith. Then he tensed. A figure was coming from the bridge, a figure that was queerly hunched and bulky. The sergeant crouched and waited tensely. The burdened figure approached, and it was with mixed feelings that Sergeant Rawlings recognized Smith, with what obviously was the sentry on his back. He sighed and waited until Smith was level with him.
‘Smith,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Smith lowered his load to the ground and crouched beside it. His teeth flashed in his darkened face. ‘You made us jump, Sarn’t,’ he complained softly.
‘It’s nothing to what I’ll make you do when I get you back to the platoon, Smith.’
‘Don’t be like that, Sarn’t. I got the sentry for you. I figured it would be better for one man to go in than the whole patrol.’
‘I’ll deal with you later, Smith. Come on, let’s get him back to the rest of the men.’
With the sergeant’s help Smith got the prisoner back across his shoulders. Sergeant Rawlings led the way back to the patrol. The prisoner was dropped again.
‘Is he out?’ asked Corporal Rawlings, bending to inspect the German.
‘Course he’s out. They always are when I hit ‘em,’ Smith said proudly.
‘He’s more than out,’ went on the corporal. ‘You used more than your fist, Smith.’ Arthur turned to the sergeant. ‘He’s dead, and he’s been bleeding like a stuck pig.’
Sergeant Rawlings inspected the prisoner with growing dismay. ‘He’s dead all right. You bloody idiot, Smith. You’ve mucked up things properly. You stabbed him. How the hell did you think they could quest
ion a dead Jerry?’
‘Stabbed him?’ Smith began laughing. The sergeant grasped his shoulder and shook him fiercely.
‘What’s the bloody joke? I can’t see anything to laugh at. We’ve still got to get a prisoner. In all my days as a soldier I’ve never seen anything like this. You dozey devil, Smith.’
‘The other one’ll be all right, Sarn’t.’ Smith was still laughing under his breath. ‘I only knifed the first one to shut him up quick. I laid out the other one with my right and kicked him in the head. I left them both lying together while I had a look around, and I must have picked up the wrong one when I came back. Gawd, I’ll never live this down.’
‘Come with me quickly,’ rapped the sergeant. ‘The other one might come round at any minute and give the alarm. Come on, Smith. You can laugh in the morning, if any of us ever see daylight again.’
They hurried back towards the bridge, forsaking caution, and Smith forged ahead loudly. The sergeant had to pull him up.
‘Take it easy, Smith. You’re not on a cross-country run. There are some Jerries about somewhere, probably looking for us. Make a little less noise and keep to the shadows. Now carry on.’
‘You ain’t going to charge me with anything, are you, Sarn’t?’
‘We’ll discuss that later. Now get on. Let’s have that other Jerry.’
Smith found his other victim, still unconscious in the long grass where he had been put. He was about to hoist the man across his shoulders when the sergeant stopped him.
‘I’ve had enough of you for one night, Smith. Let me have a look at him. It’s likely you’ve killed this one as well.’
‘I hope I haven’t, Sarn’t.’
‘So do I, Smith.’ The sergeant made a rapid examination, and sighed his relief. ‘He’ll do, Smith. Get him across your shoulders and go quietly. I’ll cover you.’
‘There’s no one I’d rather have covering me, Sarn’t.’ Smith heaved the unconscious enemy across his shoulders.
