by Alan Evans
Ward stood beside the outside door with Peyraud beside him. As Lockwood retreated Beare pointed at Driscoll and Nicholl. “Into the trees and be ready to cover us.” And to Ward, “Then you, sir, and the old—gentleman. O.K.?”
Ward nodded. He noticed the slight hesitation in Beare’s voice before he produced the word ‘gentleman’, and wondered what had been on the tip of his tongue before the sergeant had remembered that Peyraud understood English.
Driscoll and Nicholl slipped out through the door and ran crouching, zig-zagging across the white stretch of moonlit open ground, vanished in the black shadow of the trees. Ward waited, then followed them out, pulling Peyraud along by the arm. The old man skidded in the snow but Beare steadied him and started to hurry him across the open ground towards the trees. They were half-way there when three German soldiers ran around the corner from the front of the house. Beare pushed Peyraud and Ward towards the trees, stopped and pointed the Thompson. He saw one of the men go down then Driscoll and Nicholl opened up from the trees. Lockwood joined him and they fired together. A second man fell and the third ran back around the corner of the house. Lockwood said, “They must be bloody barmy, charging about like that!”
Beare agreed. “They must have thought we’d pulled out already. Off you go.” And Lockwood ran towards the wood where Ward crouched with Peyraud in the shadow of the trees.
Together they watched the sergeant’s arm swing, and an instant later yet another incendiary grenade burst inside the kitchen. The entire end of the house was an inferno. Of the human remains to be found there in the morning, who would think it important to prove that one of them was not Peyraud?
Beare arrived panting in the darkness under the trees, the others rose and they set off. They moved in single file again, winding between the trees, Ward, Nicholl, then Driscoll and Lockwood with Peyraud between them, finally Beare. Peyraud was puffing but keeping up the hurrying pace, lifted along on Lockwood’s arm.
They circled the rear of the house. Through breaks in the trees Ward saw the flashes of firing still from the cliff-top where the Freya stood but he thought their intensity was diminishing. Dent and Baldry must have seen the house in flames and should be pulling back now. The fire was spreading, the whole roofline now a leaping, roaring blaze as the ancient timbers burned and sparks streamed upward with the billowing smoke.
They came on the track that ran through the wood from the house up to the Freya. Nicholl crossed, then Driscoll. Ward was about to follow when he saw figures against the dirty red light cast by the burning house. There were men on the track, close and coming quickly, their silhouettes jerking as they trotted up the shallow incline. Ward crouched and glanced behind him, saw Lockwood pull Peyraud down then get in front of him, training his Thompson. The three of them faded into the shadows. Ward could see no one but he knew Beare was somewhere in the darkness and ready. He faced forward, leaned left shoulder against a tree and waited.
The men passed within feet of him and he counted them: six. He could hear their laboured breathing, see it smoking on the cold air. Two wore big coal-scuttle helmets but the others were bare-headed and one was without a tunic, wore only a shirt. They carried rifles across their chests and their faces were grey smudges as they passed one by one across the sights of his Thompson. He prayed that none of the commandos would fire. It would be one action they would certainly win, a perfect ambush at close range, but at the expense of giving away their position. They had to get Peyraud out, that was all that mattered.
The last of the soldiers disappeared up the track and Ward let out the long-held breath, Peyraud sneezed behind him and Ward twitched at the sound of it, thankful that it had come too late to betray them. He rose, hurried Peyraud across the track and saw Beare trotting after him. Ward moved deeper into the trees, to the head of the file again and they moved on.
The light of the burning house was always on their left hand as they worked around it. Ward reckoned they were getting close to the bridge that carried the road across the stream. Already Peyraud was wheezing and frequently stumbling. He was too old for this pace.
Ward saw moonlit open ground ahead and the line of the garden wall. He halted the file with an outstretched hand, moved forward alone. He stood at the wall, close in its shadow, found a foothold and was able to look over the top. Below and to his left lay the narrow stone bridge. Beyond it Catherine would be waiting. He heard the rush of the stream as it was funnelled and creamed into white water under the arch of the bridge. The road dipped down the opposite side of the gully from the top of the cliffs, crossed the bridge, then swung away to his left and inland towards the house. He could not see the house but the flames lit the sky. There was no sentry visible on the bridge but he could have taken cover. There was still sporadic firing from the direction of the house.
He retraced his steps, beckoned Nicholl and led the file on, moving right, away from the house and the bridge, until trees lifted outside the wall. They climbed it then, lifting the old man bodily and passing him down the other side, and went on into the cover of the trees. They were out of sight of the bridge. The gully, with the tumbling stream threading the bottom of it, was on their left hand now. It swung right and there Ward halted them again.
He waited, called softly: “Catherine?” A moment later she emerged from the shadows. Her eyes widened when she saw Peyraud, but she made no comment. The moonlight filtering down through the branches lit the planes and hollows of her face as Ward looked down at her. She gave him a quick smile.
Before them the cliffs stood against the sky on either side of the gully that lay below and in shadow, clothed thickly in bracken. And between the cliffs was the sea.
Ward’s eyes lifted again, searching, and Beare’s voice came low at his side, “I don’t see it.” He was talking of the pill-box, somewhere near the cliff-top across the gully. Ward shook his head, turned and searched instead the shadows under the trees. Beare said, “I’ve put sentries out but you won’t see ’em from here.”
Ward could not. There was only Peyraud sitting in the snow with his back against a tree, Catherine crouched beside him. Ward joined them. Peyraud was breathing quickly, raggedly, his head back against the tree and face up-turned as he fought for breath.
Ward said softly, “Monsieur can rest a little.” He touched the girl’s arm. “Catherine?” He led her back to where Beare stood looking out across the gully and asked her, “Can you show us the pill-box?”
She shook her head. “I only came as far as the house.” And Jean had been unable to pin-point the machine-gun nest.
Ward nodded. “All right. Will you wait with the old man?”
“Yes.” Then she added, “I think Monsieur Peyraud is not well. I think he has not eaten well and, being a prisoner—We must not go so quickly.”
Beare’s head turned at that. Ward said, “We may have no choice. He can rest now but it won’t be for long.”
The girl nodded. “I understand.” She went back to crouch by Peyraud.
Beare muttered, “We’ll carry the old feller if we have to. No sense in taking him back to snuff it.”
No sense at all, they needed Peyraud alive and well. Aside from that, Ward knew he would have to answer to himself for the old man’s life. He said, “Dent and Baldry should have been here by now.” If they had broken off the action at the Freya when the house was set alight. If they were alive.
Beare grumbled agreement. “They’re late.”
There was no question of waiting for them, let alone seeking them. Ward and his party had to get away with Peyraud—if they could. He said, “We’ll give the old man a minute to get his breath back.” And he hated to abandon the other two.
Catherine was fighting fear. She had steeled herself to set up the landing lights, meet and guide the raiding party. She had not, could not have imagined the rest of it, the ear-battering din and the dark terrors of her journey alone through the forest to this place.
She whispered words of encouragement to Peyraud
but she watched Ward where he stood with Beare. She had gathered that half the raiding force had been lost. At the time she hadn’t considered the significance of that: only now did she realise the enormous odds faced by the handful of men around her. She and Henri had counted the German garrison and put it at fifty—or more. These few men had successfully attacked that garrison and seized Peyraud…but now they had to make their way down to the beach under the eyes of the men in the pill-box, somewhere high on the opposite slope. And the responsibility to get them through rested on Ward.
*
He said, “The pill-box. We know it covers the beach and we know we can’t get off while it’s functioning so we’ve got to shut it up. If it covers the beach then we have to assume it doesn’t cover the gully. So one party goes after the pill-box while the rest start down the gully. We can’t hang about here.”
Beare nodded. “Jerry’ll start moving out from that house soon and he’ll come this way. I’ll take Nicholl and fix the pill-box.” He pressed: “Time’s about up, sir.”
Then he grabbed Ward’s arm and pulled him down, pointed. Ward saw movement in the shadows under the trees, a hand flapping a signal. Beare whispered, “Driscoll! He’s heard something!”
The German section they evaded as it passed on the track? Ward could hear movement now, the soft crunch of boots on snow and an irregular scraping. Then a voice called softly, hopefully, “Arsenal?”
The voice was Sergeant Dent’s, and immediately Driscoll gave him the other half of the password: “Rangers!”
A shadow advanced through the trees. “Thank Christ, you’re still here! Baldry’s copped one!” The shadow became two men, Dent struggling along with one arm around Baldry’s waist, Baldry’s arm across his shoulders. The pilot was half-carrying the commando whose legs floundered as he walked. Beare took him and laid him down with his back propped against a tree. Dent, sweating, wiped a hand across his face. He said, “Top o’ the right leg. I put a dressing on it best I could. Had a hell of a job getting him down the hill!”
Beare lowered his head over the leg, peering, and Baldry asked between gasps, “Is it—all right?”
Beare answered, “Could’ve been worse. A few inches higher would’ve spoiled your dirty weekends. The dressing looks O.K.” He straightened and turned to Ward. “I think we’ve got to move, sir.”
That they had. Apart from those dead in the house there were fifty-odd Germans hunting them now. Ward gave his orders and they moved out.
Beare and Nicholl, making for the pill-box somewhere up on the other side, went down towards the stream while Ward led the others in file along the steadily descending side of the gully. He could hear the grunts of pain as Baldry was humped along between Dent and Lockwood in the middle of the file, the puffing and stumbling of Peyraud, clinging to Catherine Guillard’s arm. Driscoll was at the tail and watching for any pursuit.
They had covered two hundred yards when a challenge came from high across the gully, a hoarse bellow. Ward threw himself down in the bracken, thinking, They’ve spotted Beare! But when the machine-gun flickered across the gully he heard the whip-crack! of bullets passing close overhead. He and his party were the target.
He turned on his side, worked the Verey signalling pistol out of the pocket of his smock and loaded it. As he did so he shouted, “Sergeant Beare! They’ve brought at least one gun out of the pill-box to cover the gully! I’m going to draw their fire and give you a chance to get up there! The rest of us will push on to the beach!” They had to get Peyraud to England.
His shouting brought another sweeping burst from the machine-gun but the tracers were still high. Then Beare’s voice came back, “Right! Move fast an’ keep your head down, sir! You’re a big target!”
Yet another burst, but again over Ward so they still hadn’t fixed Beare’s position. Ward pointed the pistol at the sky, fired, dropped it and grabbed the Thompson. The Verey light burst brilliant red, high above the beach and drifted slowly down. That was the signal to bring in the landing craft, and it might distract the machine-gun for long enough…
He pushed up and bolted down the hill towards the stream. He ran with long, leaping strides, neck-or-nothing. The stream came up towards him and he heard the whip-crack! again, behind him now but very close. When only yards from the stream he stumbled, slipped in the snow, fell forward and rolled over the bank to plunge into the icy water.
He crashed in feet first and up to his waist, spray bursting around him. He waded frantically forward, arms swinging wildly to give him momentum, the current pushing at him and rocks turning under his boots. He could see the machine-gun now, flickering up on the side of the gully and he flailed desperately towards the cover offered by the far bank, threw himself into it.
He crouched there panting for a few seconds, getting his breath back and his wits together. One hand was twisted in the wet stems of bracken bordering the stream, the other held up the Thompson. He kept his head down as Beare had told him. “You’re a big target!” Ward knew it. When he broke from cover again he would move as fast as he could but this time, struggling up the side of the gully, he would be slower. Maybe last time the steep fall of the ground had saved him. Maybe next time the machine-gunner would set his sights correctly. Ward was a seaman, not a soldier, and knew he was not trained for this.
He waited as the gun fired again and the burst kicked a trail of spouts along the surface of the stream. When it stopped he would go.
Maybe he would never see Catherine again.
The gun fell silent. He kicked up, scrambled out on to the bank and started running, bent over and weaving, waiting for the bullets. But instead there came a long ripple of muzzle-flashes high along the hill’s crest, the separate bursts blending into one rattling clamour. It was punctuated by the thump of grenades and he saw them bursting below the crest where the machine-gun fired—or had fired. It was still silent.
Beare’s voice bellowed up the gully, “Cease fire!” In the hush that followed he called, “Arsenal?”
“Rangers!” The answer came from the top of the slope. Ward halted, panting, and saw men appear there, dropping like bouncing balls down the side of the gully towards the stream. He thought, Peter Madden! Thank God! Everything would be all right now.
He turned and went down to the stream again, waded across, scrambled up the bank and Dent appeared above him, helped him over the edge. A Thompson fired close by and the pilot warned, “Keep down! Jerry’s up at the top o’ the gully!”
Ward crawled into the bracken. The firing was heavy now, from the pursuit at the head of the gully and the British falling back towards the beach. He asked, “Where’s the old man?”
“That French bit took him away. Soon as you set off they started crawling under cover of this stuff.” Archie Dent flicked at the bracken and it shed snow in glistening powder. “Lockwood took Baldry. Driscoll’s just up the slope a few yards.” He called, “O.K. Mike?”
“O.K.”
Ward heaved himself up. Driscoll sprawled in the bracken a few yards away, Thompson at his shoulder. There were flashes of small-arms fire from the forest at the head of the gully but they seemed pale against the red glow from the blazing house behind them. The raiders were filtering back on both sides of the stream, moving singly in short rushes from cover to cover. Ward saw Beare make a short run then sprawl again to fire up the gully.
Ward copied him.
They fell back to the beach, moving singly. Ward left Archie Dent and Driscoll to hold a position just above the beach while he went down to it. The mouth of the gully was closed by barbed wire but a gap had been cut by Lockwood. He passed through to the beach.
There were two landing-craft, a cable’s length offshore and steadily butting in. They must have seen the flames from the burning house and already been closing the beach when Ward fired the Verey light. The Brens mounted aboard them were firing, sending tracers sliding in high flat arcs towards the head of the gully. Ward stood with his boots on shingle, one arm wrapped aroun
d Peyraud. He glanced across the old man at Catherine and said, “Just a few more yards.” The words were meant for both of them.
The first landing-craft grounded and the ramp splashed down. The section of infantry aboard streamed ashore and raced up the beach to form a defensive screen. Ward set Peyraud and Catherine on the ramp and shouted to the seaman at the head of it. “Take good care of him! He’s what we came for!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Ward turned and trotted back up the beach. He crouched by the kneeling lieutenant commanding the defensive screen and watched as the raiders came through one by one. At the last came Beare with Nicholl—and Peter Madden.
Beare lifted a hand as he passed and growled, “Bloody good stuff, sir.”
Ward went with Madden down to the boats. Peter looked exhausted, still breathed heavily and sweat ran down his face despite the cold. He said, “Dropped more than a mile away. Had to double most of it. Bloody nuisance. Where’s Tim Gregson?”
Ward told him and Peter said sickly, “He was engaged to a girl in Bristol. Cracking girl.” He fell silent then.
They were aboard the landing-craft, the screening infantry withdrew, the ramps were hauled up and the boats went astern, the Brens still raking the gully. Ward sought out Catherine and Peyraud where they sat right aft and sank down beside the girl.
Archie Dent’s voice came disembodied out of the darkness: “Here, it’s my birthday!”
Silence, then Ward said, “Many Happy Returns.”
Dent answered, “Not of that bloody lot!”
There was laughter in the boat and Ward joined in, over-loud, reaction gripping him.
They had done it. Peyraud with his vital knowledge was on his way to England. Ward thought about Peter Madden and his party, who had saved the whole enterprise from disaster because without them Ward’s little band could never have captured the pill-box before the pursuit caught up with them. Madden and his group had run, at night, for a mile through strange enemy-held countryside, had carried their arms and equipment, and had fought a decisive action at the end of it. Ward thought commandos were amazing men. And one of them, Sergeant Beare, had said, “Bloody good stuff, sir.”
