by Alan David
Newman and Lloyd looked at him compassionately as he passed them. ‘Take the bren down to the wall and cover us,’ Eddie directed as he left them. He reached Smith and stood looking down at his brother with eyes that for a moment were unseeing.
Smith had unfastened the sergeant’s blouse. Eddie dropped to his knees. At that moment he felt as if he were standing back out of his own body and watching this scene as a stranger.
Arthur was unconscious. His sten was lying beside him. Four little patches of blood stained his shirt, all of them on his right side. Two were close together in the stomach just below the bottom rib. Another was in his chest, level with the solar plexus, and the fourth was in the shoulder. Blood spread rapidly from the wounds, soaking the khaki and gleaming dully as it congealed.
‘I’ll get a stretcher,’ said Smith. He stood up. ‘Stretcher bearers,’ he shouted, his voice echoing. ‘Stretcher bearers.’
Eddie shook his head. They wouldn’t be needed. He knew as if he were an eminent surgeon. Blood was flecking Arthur’s pale lips, gathering there, thickening. There were rattling sounds in his throat as his shattered lungs filled with choking blood. Arthur quivered. His right hand trembled violently, touching the unfired sten. His finger nails drummed a tattoo of death upon the inanimate metal. His jaw dropped and blood and dark pieces of lung and wreckage gushed from his mouth, spraying over Eddie’s arms and knees. The noises in his throat intensified. Arthur kicked jerkily, moaning softly, and half-rolled onto his side. He fell back and was dead. Blood dripped slowly from his wounds.
Eddie shut his eyes. He gripped his sten tightly in his hands. Sobs shook his chest, but did not pass his lips. Tears squeezed themselves between his tightly-closed eyelids. There were no sane thoughts in his mind.
Presently he opened his eyes. Lloyd and Newman were at the wall, watching the farmhouse. Smith stood nearby, looking down at the two brothers. Eddie could hear the thudding of feet as the other sections came forward. The afternoon sun was warm upon his bowed shoulders.
He began removing Arthur’s personal belongings from the body, putting them into his pockets. Then he sat upon his heels and stared down at the blood-spattered figure, taking in each minute detail. He took the walkie-talkie set, its straps stained with blood, and slipped it upon his own shoulder. He stood up.
‘Let’s get the section moving,’ he said softly to Smith. ‘We’ve got to get on to the farm.’
He walked a few paces with Smith, then stopped, and went back. He picked up Arthur’s sten, leaving his own in its place. Then he turned abruptly and walked fast to catch up with Smith. As he stepped over the wall again he looked back once at the dark heap that was half hidden by the long grass, surrounded by pretty yellow flowers. The toes of two big boots stuck up forlornly to mark his brother’s last resting place.
Eddie faced the farmhouse that was two hundred yards away. He waved his arm and Three Section began to advance. They moved into extended line to cross the last field between them and the farm. Silence pressed down all about them. As they drew nearer the harsh rattling of machine-guns broke out, loud and frightening in the stillness of the warm afternoon. Here and there figures fell from the ranks like torn rag dolls.
There were no sounds of war in Eddie’s mind. Bullets beat about him like leaden rain. He ignored them. I’m alone now, he thought. Poor Arthur! I never thought as much of him as I should have done. I was too taken up with Wally. Poor Wally! Arthur, I loved you, too! If you’re in Heaven now you’ll know that!
Someone tugged at his arm, pulling him to cover. It was Smith. Eddie shook his head like a boxer trying to throw off the effects of a heavy right to the chin. He looked around to find his section huddling in a ditch one hundred yards from the farm. Streams of bullets were churning up the field as the enemy in the farm buildings put down their full defensive fire.
‘How did we get this close,’ cried Eddie.
‘You walked in and we followed,’ said Smith. ‘Pull yourself together and watch out or we’ll all be killed.’
Tears ran down Eddie’s face, and he brushed them away with his sleeve. He looked around. ‘Bren group, give us covering fire to that ditch ahead.’
Lloyd took command of the bren group, and soon Smith was firing rapidly in short bursts. Eddie called to the rifle section to follow him. He sprang up and ran forward. The racket of small-arms was deafening. Brens of other sections were aiming at the farm buildings. Eddie led his men into a ditch that was less than a hundred yards from the farmhouse.
‘Ten rounds rapid fire,’ he ordered, and as six rifles cracked sharply the bren group came running forward.
A two-inch mortar lobbed bombs at the buildings. The advancing section lay watching the results before going in. The first bomb fell thirty yards short. The next fell ten yards to the right. It was infuriating to watch the bombs exploding harmlessly.
‘Take that weapon from that mortar man and give him a bloody toffee apple,’ shouted Smith. ‘Eddie, you’ve got the piat up here with you. Turn it on the house and smash the beggars out.’
The piat-man got his bombs ready. At one hundred yards the house was a target impossible to miss. The first bomb went clean through a bedroom window. A machine-gun firing from there ceased to operate.
‘Good boy,’ shouted Smith. ‘Now knock down the front door so we can walk in.’
The next anti-tank bomb exploded in the doorway.
‘Advance,’ shouted Eddie, and they sprang up and went forward. They came under fire again, and some of the men went to ground. Others followed the steadily running Eddie. A man fell screaming and was left behind. Smith strained himself to catch up with Eddie. He fired his bren at windows and doors as he ran. The house was burning now, throwing up thick smoke that drifted lazily into the sky.
Eddie was crying silently as he ran. Poor Arthur! Poor little Arthur! Smashed to pieces by that spandau. Half-an-hour ago he was alive and well. Now he was dead. Lloyd cried out and dropped to the ground, and Newman had to jump over him to avoid tripping. Newman looked back. Lloyd held up his already wounded left arm. It was broken now, by a bullet. Lloyd looked at it in amazement. It didn’t hurt. He couldn’t feel a thing. He sat and looked at the section running forward. His heart went with them, but he felt no inclination to go on. He felt sick deep inside. After a moment he got up cautiously and started going back. He’d find a dressing station or something.
Smith was swearing. His feet were sore. He could hardly lift the muzzle of his bren to fire at the windows, and the recoil of the light machine-gun nearly overbalanced him. This was one bloody grind after another.
Eddie watched the earth spurting up in front of him. Bullets were doing that, but he didn’t care. Let them kill him as well! They’d taken Arthur and Wally. Damn them! Curse them! He ran faster. He couldn’t really feel grief now. His lungs were almost bursting with the fast pace. Oh, God, let me kill some more of them before they get me, he prayed.
A potato masher blasted in front of the house. The German who threw it crumpled over the window sill with bullets from Eddie’s sten in him. Smith was running level with Eddie. His bren was firing rapidly, spraying the front of the house, the windows and the doorway. Flames were spurting through the roof, through great jagged holes in the tiles. Smoke danced hazily. Inside the house someone was screaming in agony.
A spate of firing from the house forced Smith to seek cover. He dropped behind a low mound and lay panting. To hell with it, he thought. I give up. What the hell am I trying to bust my gut for? He looked round for Eddie.
Eddie was also behind the mound, in the act of throwing a grenade. Smith watched. It was a good throw, and the bomb exploded in the doorway. The riflemen came running forward, throwing themselves flat as heavy fire was directed at them.
Spandau fire was still heavy. Smith listened to its hideous chatter. We’re not going to get into there without losing a lot of men, he thought. He risked a look over the mound, then ducked quickly. Something clanged against his steel helmet and s
creamed away into space. Bastard! thought Smith.
Eddie looked about for his section. Men were on the ground here and there, waiting for something to be done about the spandau. ‘Open fire,’ Eddie shouted. ‘Smudger, get some fire going into the house. For God’s sake get moving.’
Smith cursed. He thrust the muzzle of the bren over the top. of the mound and fired short bursts. He kept his head low. I’m not rushing them this time, he thought. This war’s nearly over. I’m not going to throw my life away. He looked again as he heard Eddie shouting.
‘Give me some covering fire and I’ll rush them,’ Eddie said.
‘You can’t do it,’ Smith replied. ‘It’s all of thirty yards to that front door.’
Eddie looked for the piat team. They were crouching, ready, several yards away. Eddie motioned at the house.
The anti-tank team busied themselves. Four bombs were fired, and after the fourth Eddie held up his hand and jumped up. He ran forward, calling his men. Smith cursed again and followed swiftly. Why the hell do I like you so much? he wondered. You’ll get me killed in the end.
A rifle cracked from somewhere inside the house, and Eddie felt his right arm deaden. He dropped his sten, and stopped to pick it up. Smith reached the house with a muttered prayer, and ran in through the charred doorway. His bren began thudding loudly.
Blood was running down Eddie’s right arm, dropping from his fingertips. He ran into the house. Smith was already up the stairs, boots pounding, bren firing. Eddie had the greatest difficulty in holding his sten. He felt weakness grappling to overpower him, and strengthened himself with the thought of his two dead brothers. He pushed open a door and shouldered his way into a room.
A rifle crashed in his face, and the bullet fanned his cheek before burying itself deep into the door post an inch from his right ear. He returned fire instinctively, a long burst that raked all the room as he swung his muzzle.
A grenade thundered overhead, and bits of ceiling and floor-boards fell in upon Eddie. He could hear Smith’s hoarse voice yelling. Then it was lost in the blaring of shots. Eddie took stock of his own situation. He crossed the empty room, stepping over a body, and paused at a door. A bullet smashed through the centre panel, and Eddie sprang to one Side. One of his riflemen came into the room. Eddie took out a grenade and withdrew the pin.
Before he could move the door was opened and a German stick grenade came hurtling into the room. Eddie hurled his own bomb into the enemy room as he threw himself flat. He dropped behind the body of the German he had killed upon entering the room and pressed himself flat.
This is it! he thought, and in the fleeting seconds before the grenade exploded he heard Smith’s boots pounding down the stairs. Then the rocking thunder of the bomb wiped out all sense. Eddie’s eyes blurred. A tremendous white light erupted about him. He was only dimly aware of the choking, whirling blast before he blacked out. . .
Smith hesitated on the stairs as two quick bomb blasts shook the house. Someone was playing for keeps, he thought, and ran down the rest of the stairs and into the ground floor room. He tripped over an almost unrecognisable body partially clad in tattered khaki rags, and stopped, with sudden fear clutching at his heart.
‘Eddie,’ he shouted. ‘Eddie.’
Strong fumes stung his eyes, and he coughed hoarsely. He lowered his bren and bent to peer at two more bodies on the other side of the wide room. Newman came in, exclaiming in horror as he approached Smith.
‘This is Eddie.’ Smith saw stripes on the sleeve of the figure furthest away.
‘Is he dead?’
‘He should be.’ Smith kept the concern he was feeling out of his voice. He bent over Eddie and rolled him gently onto his back. He noted the blood-soaked right arm. He took hold of Eddie’s left wrist. ‘Pulse is beating,’ he said. ‘He’s not dead yet, and that’s something to be glad about. Shout for a stretcher while I do up his arm.’
‘Hadn’t we better finish clearing the house?’
‘Are we the only bloody soldiers in the British Army? The house is cleared. Get a ruddy stretcher, and hurry up before the damned house falls in on us.’
Newman ran out of the house. Smith could hear him outside, shouting for stretcher bearers. While he waited, Smith bared Eddie’s right arm, inspected a bullet wound just below the elbow, and bound it up.
‘You’ll be all right now,’ he said to his unconscious comrade. ‘You’ll be out of it, and that’ll be a bloody good job. You’ve had enough on your mind. It’s a wonder you haven’t gone raving mad. Both your brothers dead. Some people have all the luck. Still, the bloody grenade should have killed you, but you’re not touched, so someone up there must be on your side.’
Two stretcher bearers came in. Eddie was lifted and placed on the stretcher. Smith watched silently while one of the orderlies carried out a quick examination.
‘You’ve just got to say that he’ll be all right,’ said Smith. ‘He’s had two brothers killed within a month of each other. One of them died only half-an-hour ago.’ There was a silence. ‘Well?’ he demanded as they picked up the stretcher and started out of the house. ‘Is his condition a military secret?’
‘He’ll live. Badly concussed. He ought to know better than to lie down beside a bomb. Them things are dangerous.’
‘Take good care of him,’ Smith warned. ‘He’s a personal friend of mine. I’ll hold you responsible for his health.’ He turned to Newman. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s get back into action. Got plenty of full mags?’
‘Can’t you hear?’ asked Newman. ‘The shooting’s finished. It’s all over in this neck of the woods.’
‘One of these days it’ll be over for good,’ said Smith, ‘and that’ll be the day.’
Newman laughed. ‘You’ve got some hopes. Come on, let’s get out of here. The ceiling’s alight, and it’s starting to fall in. Listen. Some beggar out there is calling for ‘D’ Company men. Roll on a long time.’
‘Roll on death,’ said Smith.
They walked out of the fiercely-burning house and joined a group of soldiers. Someone was laughing. Someone else was telling a joke. The sun shone warmly, and shimmered through the heat haze that enveloped the house. Smith fell in at the end of the line. He slung the bren across one shoulder and stood at ease, rubbing his eyes.
‘I don’t half feel tired, mate,’ he said to Newman.
In the distance a machine-gun rapped suddenly, and a string of echoes fled across the countryside, fading into nothing.
‘There you are,’ said Newman. ‘The war ain’t over yet, not by a long chalk.’
‘It’s over for some people,’ Smith said softly. ‘It’s over for some of the boys, mate.’
They began to advance…
If you enjoyed reading The Battle Done, you might also be interested in Both Feet in Hell by Alan David, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Both Feet in Hell by Alan David
Chapter One
THE night was not dark, for the eastern horizon was stained with a dull living red. Smoke blotted out the stars and formed an uncertain ceiling over the countryside. The sky was filled with unseen menace as invisible flights of bombers droned overhead. There was the sullen thunder of distant guns. The night breathed with vibrant force.
The murky streets of the shell torn little French town were throbbing with life. Men moved hesitantly among the rubble and desolation of the houses, flitting through the shadows like animals. Frenzied transport lurched crazily into and out of the town, one stream heading for the front and one stream returning.
A big 3 ton truck pulled out of the never ending line of traffic, turned into a side street and squealed to a stop. Doors slammed, a tailboard dropped and rattled down, and heavy boots thudded upon treacherous cobblestones, sounding sharp against the background of the ominously muttering guns. Sudden and irregular flashes tattered the uneasy mantle of night.
‘Righto, you blokes.’ A hoarse voice shouted a terse command. ‘This is where the East Borderers ha
ng out. Get your kit together and fall in over here. I’ll rouse out the orderly sergeant.’
Tired men dragged themselves into a group and drooped where they stood. Their conducting sergeant stepped into the shadows and vanished as if he had entered another life. The eight men, replacements, drowsed in a half world of fear and anticipation. They were shocked awake by the bull-like roar of an alert, authoritative voice.
‘All right, you Shower. Brace yourselves or you’ll all fall down. Quickly now. Through that door and down into the cellar, and don’t kick over the lamps.’
Heaving their kit about, the newcomers hurried into the building. They filed down into a cellar and turned, blinking in the poor light of two hurricane lamps, to face the voice that chivvied and cut at them from behind. They saw a big, efficient looking sergeant standing on the fourth step, his craggy face thrust forward as he stared at them, his prominent chin jutting pugnaciously.
‘Answer your names,’ he barked, and looked at a sheet of paper in one of his big hands. ‘Lance Corporal Gill.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Gemmell.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Harris.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Haylett.’
‘Sergeant.’
‘What’s the matter with you, Haylett? You look like a tailor’s dummy that’s stood too near to the fire. Private Hindley.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Knights.’
‘Here, Sergeant.’
‘I know you’re here, you ugly little man, you. You talk too much. Private Weeds.’
‘Sar’nt.’
‘Private Keeler.’
‘Sar’nt.’
The sergeant studied Keeler. Then he looked over the rest of them, gnawing his fleshy lips. He thrust out his chin at them and began to talk, spitting out his words as if they burnt his lips.
