by Thomas Wood
As he barked though, they became more than young men, as they simultaneously swung their rifles from their shoulders, and made their weapons ready. The sound of weapons cocking, and rounds being chambered was unmistakable, the noise travelling further and clearer on account of the otherwise peaceful surroundings.
None of the men appeared as though they had done all that much training as, not only did it take them a long time to make their weapons ready, not one of them seemed to know what to do next.
One held his rifle with one hand, down by his side, while the others awkwardly held them across their bodies, as if this was their first ever time on a firing range.
I knew that the others behind me had already heard the bolts as they had clicked home and brought a round into the breech, but I had to make absolutely sure that they were ready.
I pulled my Sten gun from my shoulder and gently brought it round to the front of my body. I felt, rather than heard, the same leather slings as they brushed over the clothes of the men behind me. They were ready too.
“Everyone ready?” I whispered, looking back towards them, just to make sure. Even in the dim light I made out each head bobbing up and down in the affirmative. “Good.”
“Are they still coming?” a voice breathed down the canal of my ear.
“Yes. About thirty metres away now.”
The body turned away from me and I could hear him shuffling around as he relayed the news to the other figures waiting patiently behind me.
“We need to find a way out of this,” breathed another voice from somewhere in the darkness.
Shooting our way out did not seem like this particular gentleman’s cup of tea. It was quite fair, I thought, as it meant that the likelihood of being able to return to the railway shed for another go was increased, and there was no reason to believe that we had been spotted, yet.
The German officer stopped where he was, as he surveyed the scene and spoke to a tall soldier at his shoulder. I took the opportunity to duck backwards and hear what it was the others were whispering about.
“We could try and get over the tracks and into the field on the other side. It’s in a slight depression so for the first few metres we would be hidden. We could crawl until we were confident that the mist would hide our withdrawal.”
There was an uneasy silence, on all sides. The German officer was still stood where he had stopped, as his accomplice pointed out something to him on the far side of the station. His silhouetted body seemed almost as tense as mine.
“Hey, Jean. What do you think?” I almost forgot to acknowledge Mike as he appeared at my shoulder, I was that focused on committing the officer’s face to my memory. I wanted to know everything that he had done, glean everything that he had learned. If I was about to fight this man, I wanted to know his weaknesses.
I looked down at Mike, who had seemed to shrink in recent weeks, his hair as long and wavy as ever, slicked back to perfection even on a night such as this. His eyes twinkled in the darkness, as his haste for a decision, which had made him one of the best pilots I had known, burned ferociously in his stomach.
“It’s a risk,” I rasped back to him, as I noticed the men behind him shuffling their feet like a worked-up bull.
“Johnny,” he said, breaking into English for the first time in days. “Our whole time in this wretched country has been a risk. What harm can one more do?”
“I’m not sure I’d like to find out.”
“So, what? You’re going to sit in here and hope that Herr Hund out there isn’t going to come in here?”
Herr Hund. I liked that.
I didn’t take too much longer to think.
“Yeah, I know, Mike. I know. What’s the plan then?”
One of the Frenchmen began to serenade me with his dulcet tones, quite out of kilter with the situation that we were in. Nevertheless, his voice was serious and sinister, as he explained the basic, but fraught plan of bolting from the shed and into the field on the other side of the railway line.
“All without being seen? Easy,” I remarked, the sarcasm really only hitting home with Mike.
I watched as the other men scarpered to the far side of the shed, preparing to pull themselves through a meagre window and out into the night.
Disconnecting myself from them, I turned my attention back to the chinless German, who had slowly started to make his way to the railway shed once more. I could make out his voice now, which was not too dissimilar to his bark; gruff and aggressive with no hint of sympathy.
I turned quickly to the men stacked up on the far wall.
“Go. Now,” I mouthed, as I leapt towards them myself.
3
The window through which the others had all disappeared was only chest height, but I still had an awful time of trying to pull myself through. I caught my shirt on something, and I winced as the ripping of the fabric tore through the whole shed.
Someone must have heard it, as a faceless figure appeared on the other side of the window and began hauling me through, just as I heard the first echoing voices begin to bounce off the inside of the shed.
A few torch beams began to flicker and flash around the crates, that all stood stock still and refused to give up our little secret. I was certain that one flashlight had just caught the sole of my shoe as it disappeared through the window.
There was little time to feel relief that I had made it that far, as I immediately began to prepare myself for what lay ahead. I had taken part in many a sports day sprint in my schooldays, but none was as perilous and life-threatening as the one that I had started to face down.
The other men had already dashed off, not wanting to loiter around any longer than was strictly necessary, and I realised that the faceless figure that had pulled me through the window was Mike, as his distinctive running figure made off into the darkness.
As his flailing arms began to make distance between us, I could just see another figure as he slid down the bank on the other side of the railway track. So far, so good. Four out of the five of us had made it to the ditch at the edge of the field.
Now, it was my turn.
I pushed off the wall with a gasp, my Sten flashing backwards and forwards in front of my eyes as I pumped my arms hard, taking as wide a stride as I possibly could without tearing a muscle.
Every thought that had plagued my mind vanished, as all I could think about was putting one foot down solidly in front of the other, and straining with all my might to see anything that might try to trip me up.
All of a sudden, I realised what it was the officer’s accomplice had been pointing out to him as they had stood and admired the scene. A brilliant flash of light, quite unlike anything I had ever seen before suddenly erupted from behind me and just off to my right, before it steadied itself and ignited my path.
I sidestepped a hole that would have broken my ankle, as I focused more than ever on making sure one foot landed in front of the other.
The giant torch held its gaze over me for a second longer, allowing the gunner to get his eye in and begin to release his fury.
The ground around me suddenly erupted, dirt and stone flicking up and chipping away at my skin. Then, as if the man could not control the weapon, rounds began sailing way above my head, the tracer rounds leaving a mark in the sky like a paintbrush.
After a few short bursts however and the man was able to bring the weapon under his control, and the deep, booming noise of the machine gun faded out, as the sounds of rounds far too close for comfort began to thud in all around me.
In desperation, as the rounds began to dance between my feet, I threw myself to the ground with a grunt, the wind being smacked from my lungs with a sledgehammer. I still carried on moving, crawling with earnest to get to the other side of the railway line.
I kept waiting for the inevitable sting of a round that had hit its target, the furious pain followed by the overwhelming disbelief. But it didn’t come. So, I kept on crawling. The German kept on firing.
My
shirt was ripped even more by the grating gravel upon which I crawled, and soon I felt the grit grinding into my skin and the wounds that subsequently opened. I felt large swathes of my skin being ripped from my body and great chunks of flesh simply falling away. But still, I knew I had to keep crawling.
I was trying my hardest to keep my profile as low as possible, simultaneously trying to make sure that I moved as quickly as I could. Up until that point my plan had worked, and I had no intentions of changing something that had been so successful.
A mouthful of dirt greeted me as I lifted my head, the machine gunner coming perilously close to severing my head from the rest of my body. But I felt instantly calmer, as I saw the flashes of light up ahead that told me that I had not been left behind. Quite the contrary, my companions were fighting for me.
Their bursts were short and sharp, but enough to divert the aim of the machine gunner away from me and onto their own heads, the earth around them spitting from left to right as he sprayed in their direction.
Their bursts of fire disappeared, before the gunner turned his attention back to me, repeating the whole process two or three times.
For the second time in as many minutes, I found myself being dragged, two pairs of hands this time had gripped my shirt and were pulling me towards them, the fabric tearing uncontrollably as they did so.
I fell down the bank head first, my fall cushioned by something soft and damp, the unmistakable stench of cow’s muck telling me all that I needed to know. I had made it to the field.
“Almost as good as my dear mother’s cooking!” Mike shouted, seeing what I had pasted around my mouth.
I did not know if it was the thought of eating the muck that did it, or the exertion of crawling that had my chest screaming, but I emptied the contents of my stomach at my feet, much to the delight of a guffawing Mike.
“Any danger of you helping us out any time soon?” he shouted, the bellows of his lungs almost as loud as the popping of weapons that seemed to scream from every conceivable direction.
The rapport of weapons bounced off anything that was solid around the station, giving off the impression of ten times the guns that there actually were.
That didn’t matter though, the machine gun that continued to rattle was dangerous, not to mention the small arms fire that was also beginning to chatter our way.
I pulled the Sten up and buried it into my shoulder firmly, just brushing the trigger at first before snapping away at it aggressively. Proudly, it bucked and kicked, flinging rounds to the enemy.
It made me feel better to fight back for a change, the taste of vomit almost leaving my mouth as a result. I made sure to keep my bursts short and sweet, levelling my weapon after each one to prevent the rounds from sailing high above the Germans’ heads.
I finished firing off an entire thirty-two round magazine and dropped down further into the ditch, as I pulled the disjointed magazine from its well and fed in another one.
A momentary awe washed over my body, as I stared at the winking weapons and the men’s faces that flashed up behind them. It was quite a sight to behold, and I wondered if any of the pursuing Germans were having the same thoughts as I was.
Just as I fired off the next few rounds from my Sten, a morbid wail began to sound, drooling at first before gathering pace and confidence. I could not see anyone, but I pictured the sight of the man who had grabbed the handle of the siren and had begun to turn it enthusiastically, to warn everyone in the vicinity of the obvious attack.
But I was certain that I could hear something else in the background. Another siren, some distance away, rising and falling at different intervals to the one at the train station. Flustered, I looked across the line, the same, panic-stricken faces staring back at me.
If the Germans were calling for reinforcements in the town, then we may as well have turned the weapons on each other now.
There was an increase in the chattering of weapons, and I busied myself with discharging the last of my few precious rounds, but I could not ignore the fact that the distinctive bark of the German officer could be heard over all the commotion.
Something had got the Germans riled up too, more than a group of five infiltrators ever could.
The blinding light next to the machine gun suddenly stopped, the gunner keeping his finger depressed on the trigger for a second or two afterwards.
Darkness descended upon us all once again, with only a few pot-shots in the dark and the shouts of furious men to break up the silence.
We knew that they were edging their way towards us, and every bone in my body was urging me to turn and run through the muck-filled field. But something was stopping me from doing so.
There was a noise, a rumble, as if we had awoken some sort of sleeping giant, that was growing louder and more impatient until the ground quivered with such a ferocity that I thought the ground was about to open up.
“Air raid!” called one of the Frenchmen, a grin so broad that I wondered if he knew that their target was likely to be on his country’s soil. As he shouted, the station lights were doused, and I could feel every muscle constrict as I prayed that they would pass us by.
The aircraft overhead had certainly brought us some good luck, but if my track record was anything to go by, then they had been briefed to bomb a well-fertilised field next to École-Valentin’s only railway station.
“Shh!” I hushed across the line of shadows, holding my finger up to my lips desperately. The Germans knew where we were, but I didn’t want to give them the opportunity to begin firing at the mystical noises that had emanated from somewhere behind the mound.
Row after row of planes continued to thunder overhead, so loud and rich that I could not tell what kind of aircraft they were, never mind how many engines. I guessed that collectively, there was somewhere in the region of two hundred of them.
Mike began to fumble around in his satchel, as if searching for a family heirloom that had been entrusted to him personally. However, it wasn’t a diamond necklace or precious letter, but something far more valuable to us.
Five, primed and ready Mills bombs, dropped to us a month or two before, were passed out along the line.
Mike and I had received extensive training on how to throw these things, in fact, we had been training for years in the St John’s College first eleven cricket team, but the men beside us had received only verbal instruction. I prayed that they could remember it all, down to the last syllable.
German voices began to holler into the darkness, as they realised that the bombers’ payload was not destined to fall on their heads that night. Instead, they were too busy themselves with hunting down the five men that had been seen a few moments before.
“Ready?” Mike rasped, receiving only quick, aggressive nods in return. “Okay then. Pins out.”
We did as we were told, keeping the lever depressed to stop the striker from setting the thing off prematurely.
Mike began to count down from five, his left hand outstretched and clear to all of us. It seemed to take him an age before he got down to one, by which time I could hear the boots of the Germans over the gravel, as they cautiously closed the distance between us.
Mike’s hand disappeared and, with an arcing, straight arm, I tossed my Mills bomb into the darkness, and ran.
4
I was beginning to think that maybe Mike and I had been together for too long. We had known each other for the best part of seven years now and, for the last three and a half, had spent almost every day together, fighting the Nazi war machine in some capacity.
But, over the last couple of months, where our relationship was required to intensify to an almost unfathomable degree, we found each other not only fighting together, but depending on one another. There was a distinct difference.
The difference was that, when we were under fire, there was no other person that I would rather trust but, take away that excitement, that utter exhilaration, and Mike’s company was beginning to grate on me slightly.
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br /> “So, all these bombings…I know that we haven’t really copped it where we are, but it’s got me thinking…I suppose that someone, somewhere, is really feeling the fury of our bomber boys and…”
His voice continued to waffle on in much the same vein as it had done. His deep, commanding voice was as strong as ever, and far too early for my brain to comprehend on such an early morning.
It was easy for me to imagine my life without him, even just for a split second. Not so long ago it had become a reality, even if it was a fabricated divorce, just to further our war effort. I knew that had it been the case I would miss him tremendously, and I realised how much like a brother he had become.
I myself had never had a brother, but this was what I pictured it would be like. Frustrating, anger-inducing, yet loving and with a bond so durable that it could never break.
“…And what with the new bombs being developed all the time, it’s only going to get worse…”
I looked at his face for a moment. It was hard to believe it as I stared at him but, had we been blood brothers, then we would likely have been twins. There was only a matter of months between the two of us in age, and yet, his muddied and rugged face spoke of a life of hardship, longevity.
It was only then that I realised that I had not looked in a mirror myself for a long while, and figured that there was a good possibility that I looked the same, perhaps even worse.
My face felt waxy and greasy as I wiped down the side of my cheek, half expecting a layer of green grime to rub off on my palm as I did so. I could feel the weight of my skin, heavy on my shoulders and drooping like an old man’s, as I realised that the exhaustion within was quite quickly disseminating itself across my exterior.
It made me wonder for how much longer I could continue like this. I would surely need some kind of a break soon.
As we walked together, my mind became nothing but a sheet of white, a totally blank canvas. It was something that I had never thought possible before, with hours of rabid meanderings running around my mind, particularly in the summer sun of a South East England RAF base.
