by Thomas Wood
I began launching my arms around like a madman, wildly gesticulating at the Lieutenant.
“Get on the Lewis guns now!” I screamed. My voice was so strained that it pained me as I screeched at him, I could have done with a pint of cold water to soothe my aching vocal chords. Normally, I would have felt hideously ashamed at screaming at my superior, but this time I felt entirely justified, the Lieutenant on the other hand seemed shell shocked for a moment, before ducking back inside.
I reached the tank, but my legs wanted to carry on running, I was going too fast to stop now. I clattered into the side of the tank with a clang, nearly knocking myself out. I had no time to feel and evaluate the pain, so I yanked myself into the relative safety of Doris.
The smoke had cleared from the cabin, and an almost fresh air had replaced it, although the smell of fumes and grease permanently lingered. I snatched my helmet from my seat at the front of the tank and plonked it on with such a force that I gave myself a pounding headache. I sniffed sharply, a futile attempt at gaining some composure, before throwing myself towards my seat in the tank and took up position on the small machine gun that poked bravely from the front.
I forced the revolver down the waistband of my trousers.
There was an eerie calmness inside the tank. Lieutenant Harper had been smoking and a well annotated map lay nonchalantly on top of the engine. The only thing that seemed to be missing from this retreat was the sound of a gramophone scratching as it started up, churning out some of Harper’s favoured pieces of music. He knew we couldn’t stand it, yet he was an officer, and it was their job to wind us up, and so, his gramophone would take pride of place in his billet, somehow always coming through the action completely unscathed. Rounds hadn’t quite started hitting Doris yet, but it wouldn’t be long before she was thrust sacrificially in between us and a barrage of bullets once again.
We shook violently as a six-pound round was pushed forcefully down the barrel and I could just make it out as it burst a short distance away. I watched as Bill Ash, a man who I would have deemed too large to squeeze into a steel container, leant forcefully into the aiming rod of the gun, grunting with exertion as it traversed round. The six-pounder was a funny thing, a whacking great gun that took up the majority of the tank, and capable of wreaking death and destruction on so many. But it was operated with a small trigger, a pistol grip that would have looked more at home on Lieutenant Harper’s Webley than on a giant ex-naval weapon.
The Lieutenant began firing rounds off to my right, in controlled two round bursts. He caught me looking over at him.
“We don’t have much ammo left, maximum damage, minimal rounds,” he was cool and level headed, like a serial killer who was used to dismembering bodies at the flick of a trigger. His crystal clear, British accent was frustrating, not a syllable seemed out of place when he spoke. It seemed appropriate though, as he had been allowed to go to Sandhurst early, his father being very high up in the chain of command. He was earmarked for greater things, greater things than perishing in a metal box surrounded by working class oiks that is. He was absolutely determined, committed to fighting his way out of every situation and forcing his way up that ladder if he had to.
He finished off the rounds he had in the Lewis in a prolonged, uninterrupted burst, tapping the Lewis gun affectionately, indicating it was now under my command. I shuffled around the tank, catching my head on one of the protruding steel beams, clanging on my helmet and not helping my headache in the slightest.
I smashed a plate-like drum on top of the Lewis, wiggled it so it fell into place and hammered it down with my fist. Pulling the cocking handle let out a satisfying clunk. As I did so, the recognisable twang of rounds ricocheting off the side of the armour, resounded its ghostly toll.
I followed his command to the letter, aiming vaguely at the dark mass that seemed to be moving up ahead, the ball mechanism squeaking gently as I manoeuvred the weapon around.
“Where are the others?!” came a shriek, and I felt my finger twitch on the trigger, startled. My heart fell to my knees, I’d forgotten about them.
“Somewhere up on the ledge there, where that front rank is now!” I’d charged so hard, focused so desperately on the caricature, that I had neglected to look behind to check on the progress of my other three crewmates. There wouldn’t have been much I could have done, armed only with a puny revolver, but I felt responsible regardless.
“And Jack?!”
The following silence was all we had needed to hear. In the space of five minutes we had lost half of our crew, including our most experienced mechanic and, our best chance of getting out of here with Doris.
“They’re gone then, forget about them,” the Lieutenant was getting colder by the second. I suddenly lost all sense of guilt and was intensely happy that I was on the inside of this tank, with the Lieutenant, and not left on the outside. But then again, I was on the inside with Harper and I wondered how long it would be before he shot me and himself to stop us being captured.
“Eric, get up on the six-pounder, get everything out,” he seemed to barely raise his voice, it was almost inaudible above the harshness of the clamour around us. Rounds tinkled delicately on the floor as they spat their way out of the breech, as rounds thumped into the armour that was protecting us.
What he had been doing before I didn’t know, but our second mechanic, Eric, instantly leapt up, with a renewed sense of purpose, and positioned himself behind the gun. I could see him struggle out of my periphery as he heaved a round up and into the breech.
Bill let out another round, and an odd tinging filled my eardrums as he opened up the breech, a red-hot case clattering to the floor. Suddenly Bill shrieked, and he flew backwards, colliding with the back of the sponson which he occupied. I heaved my way over to him, steadying myself on the beams and rivets around me. The heat of the engine still emanated defiantly from the centre of the tank, even though it had been unused for a while now.
“Get the breech shut!” Bill screamed at me as he lay spread out, completely incapacitated. I slammed it shut as I heard more rounds hurtling up the barrel of the gun, as the volume of bullets from outside intensified greatly. Bill was already losing a great amount of blood, and, as he clutched his shoulder, he gave me a grunt of encouragement to get back to the Lewis. His hands had already been stained scarlet by the waterfall that now began to trickle down his tunic. His body shook as he began to cough up more blood than I had ever seen before, as if he was violently retching and trying to be sick. The blood began dribbling down his body and began convening, unceremoniously on the floor of the tank.
“Go,” he hissed at me as I stood staring at the gaping wound in his shoulder. I gripped his arm with enthusiasm before turning my back on him and heading to the front of the tank.
I felt good as I pulled the Lewis gun out of its slumber and just as I ran out of rounds, Eric released a deadly dart. The whole world seemed to lurch backwards as it was expelled, throwing me off my footing and sending my knee plummeting into the concrete-like steel below.
I picked up another dish and used all my energy to push myself back up to standing. I let my leg hover momentarily, as I reloaded, trying to rest it before sending shockwaves back up my leg when the pressure of bodyweight was reapplied.
Wincing slightly, I took a wider stance as I fired off a few more rounds, preparing myself for the next earthquake in little Doris. The Lewis gun kicked and bucked in my hands, my left hand attempting to steady the rabid wolf as it threw itself around. A rush of air flicked my protruding hair about as it tried to suck in oxygen and the moving parts caused a slight breeze.
The rounds intensified as I began to see more figures appearing from the woods. They had changed movements, they weren’t coming down the track anymore, they had spread out into the woods and were flanking us. They continued to move as one, like a wave, stubbornly continuing towards the shore. As quickly as one man fell, and a gap opened up, it would be replaced by another slate grey uniform, identi
cal to the last.
“Bill’s dead!” came the cry, but I had no option but to ignore it, and keep the pressure on the sea of grey ahead of me. I didn’t have the opportunity to work out who had screamed it, it could have even been a German voice for all I knew, I just kept my finger depressed on the trigger.
We were dangerously low on ammunition. I had one full magazine left before the Lewis became obsolete. I could see three rounds for the six-pounder. Soon we would be without ammunition and surrounded.
My mind briefly flicked to what would happen. There were only two outcomes to this situation right now. We died, which I didn’t much fancy. Or we surrendered. And surrender simply wasn’t an option for us anymore. We’d come too far.
To my right I heard the Lieutenant curse as he threw his Lewis upwards, giving up the protection of our flank, letting it dangle limply out of its peephole.
“I’m out!” he exclaimed in total frustration, the first time he had raised his voice so far.
I kept my Lewis buried into my shoulder, letting it abuse me and bully my joints. Rounds trickled on the floor repetitively and the smell of cordite hung in the stagnant air.
I was beginning to make out facial features and individual characteristics as I ran out of ammo. Eric fired off the last of his rounds. Letting go of the Lewis, I pulled sharply on the two levers that operated the steel flaps, I wanted to make sure they were firmly closed.
“That’s it then,” Eric piped up.
“Let’s try and get this thing moving, shall we?” said Lieutenant Harper, I couldn’t knock him for his fierce determination, he desperately wanted to climb that ladder of promotion. The fact of the matter however was this, we needed a total crew of eight to drive this beast, four of us needed just to get the engine going, and, the last time I had checked, only four of us now occupied this particular tank, and one of them was dead.
Loyally, Eric heaved at the engine as we took up position at the front, in our unpadded and uncomfortable seats. It was nice to take some weight off my knee for a moment though.
The engine spluttered into life, before weakly giving up seconds later, blessing us all with an upheaval of emotions.
I felt sick to the very pit of my stomach as the rounds that Doris had so valiantly repelled for so long began to subside. Subside into a silence.
We sat there panting, as I shut my eyes and let the sting of the grease run its course. I thought of home. My wife, who I had barely seen since we were married, would soon forget me, forget my face, as I became another life lost in France. She would soon be widowed, at such a young age too. I’m sure tears would have formed in my eyes, had they not felt so dry and irritable.
The crack of a revolver forced my eyes open.
“We take as many with us as possible.” I briefly amused myself with the idea that slogan lessons were taught in the first week at Sandhurst, as almost all the officers I’d met seemed to have a catchphrase for every occasion.
I shifted my weight over to one side as I retrieved the revolver from my waistband. His blind patriotism and warrior like determination was draining yet inspiring. The revolver was cold, a blessed relief to the clammy and dampened hands that it was welcomed by. My hands slipped over the grip as I caressed its every groove.
The sound of my heart, thumping in my ears, began to subside, as the effects of the adrenaline began to pass, a paralysing sense of fear now caught up with me. I began to notice all the aches and pains that emitted from every part of my body, and it became more and more of a struggle to ignore them.
Wiping my hands on my trousers, I took up position under a cover, designed to fire through when the enemy clambered on top, as did Eric. The Lieutenant camped out by the door.
I pulled my tunic off, wanting to be comfortable when I died at the very least. I settled down into a perch, directly underneath, ready to jump up and flick open the hatch, surprising all of our uninvited guests. My knee was in total agony, a piercing pain shooting up my thigh. My mouth was bone dry and a tiny wheeze was escaping from my mouth with every breath. There was a calmness about me though. One that I had not experienced before. I was accepting that I was minutes from death.
I wiped the greasy hair that clung to my forehead with the back of my hand, a layer of dirt and grime attaching itself as I did so.
The ticking of the Lieutenant’s watch and the ringing in my ears was slowly replaced with harsh whispers. I was surprised we could hear them at first, but that surprise was quickly replaced by a paralysing fear, a terrifying realisation of death.
They knew we were in here. No ammo. Low on energy. Low on fighting spirit.
I imagined God watching the scene unfold before him. A group of German soldiers all surrounding Doris, notches and blemishes all over her from the punishments of angry ammunition. Their weapons raised in anticipation of the enemy hopping out in surrender, all slightly too young and too nervy around the trigger area of their rifles. The growling officer would smugly march us off into captivity or leave us in a ditch with a crater in the back of our skulls for taking so many of his men. The scene unfolding before God would be catastrophic, waiting for the right time to pull me off His earth, leaving a trail of utter devastation behind.
9
6th June 1944
00.22 hours
A silence engulfed us once again. A moment of almost disbelief. We had done it; the bridge was ours.
I stood outside, propped up on the front door, with my clearing partner by my side.
For another soldier, this would have been a moment of triumph, a time to relish in, to refine my storytelling in preparation for the years of dinner parties after the war. But the incessant tapping of the machine gun was still rattling around the inside of my head, showing no signs of stopping, not even to reload.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The immortal scream of the Pole echoed around my empty mind at intervals, halting any sense of jubilation or pride.
“Len, by the way,” he muttered, as he thrust a cigarette packet under my nose. He had no facial features, none of them did, they had all disappeared under layer upon layer of face cream, it was almost a competition to see who could pack the most on. His face looked muddied and filthy, just the way he would have wanted it, but his eyes burned brightly against the dark pigment.
“I was in stick number one, what about you?” He gave the cigarette packet a little shake. I could have died alongside this bloke, and yet I hadn’t even known his name.
I pursed my lips as if I was going to answer but hesitated. Obliging, I pinched at a cigarette with bloodied fingernails. They had browned slightly, but some of the dirt began to rub itself into the cigarette as I twirled it in between my fingers, inspecting them.
The cigarette shook gently in my hands as a quiver slowly took hold.
“Here,” he muttered again before dousing my hands in water from his canteen before mimicking the motion of wiping them down my legs.
Again, I silently obliged, before taking his offer of a light. The familiar smell of smoke calmed me, sending me to a place far from where I was standing. The first time I had smelled smoke was at school, the changing rooms to be precise, after my first attempt at playing rugby.
“You’re good Chambers,” he grunted, “a natural talent.” I could only nod my approval at the sports teacher, I was bewildered by his apparent compliment. A few minutes later and he was belting me once again for disobedience, his favourite method of “building character.”
Men smoked, a couple spoke to a local who had appeared like a meerkat, wanting to get a peek at the liberation. He staggered around, embracing and cheering as many of his liberators as he could, his face smattered with ample face cream by the time he had finished. Some busied themselves by retrieving ammunition, fixing radios or requisitioning enemy weapons. A couple even dished out a few bars of chocolate liberated from a dead German’s pack.
I turned down the offer of chocolate. I felt uneasy. I had helped kill a man, I had taken a life. I had become a mur
derer. We were no better than them, they killed, but we killed, I hadn’t even offered him the chance to surrender.
I pushed my index finger into my breast pocket, and felt for my chocolate bar I kept stashed away. Its solid form comforted me as I withdrew.
“You’re one of our glider boys, right?” He didn’t wait for a reply, but began thanking me and the other lads in the regiment for getting them down safely and calmly. He didn’t know the half of it.
Letting out my last puff of smoke with an exaggerated sigh, I flicked it across the dirt track and rubbed my face. I had only experienced a few minutes of combat and already I felt battle hardened. Although, I couldn’t tell the difference between being battle hardened and downright scared.
Len could sense my apprehension. For some reason he had adopted me, he had seen a necessity to take me under his wing and guide me in my first experience of war. He was young, I supposed all of us were, but he struck me as one who had been in battle before. He seemed like he knew exactly the kind of thing he’d have to deal with, and he seemed able to cut away from what had just happened and carry on talking about his girlfriend.
People were always taking me under their wing, especially from day one in the army. During training for the invasion, one particular man, Company Sergeant-Major Baker, had stuck in my mind. He seemed like a kindly fellow, always keeping a watchful eye over training, and making a point of asking individuals how they were. I knew it was something he had been told to curtail, but it seemed inherent in him, like he simply couldn’t stop. As I thought of him, I wondered what he was doing tonight, surely he was part of this Op, possibly in the second wave, but he would be involved somewhere along the line, most people I met were in some way.
“Come on mate, let’s hop to it.” I couldn’t for the life of me place his accent. One moment he was Home Counties, next he was a broad Brummie, but then he had sounded like a boy from the Valleys. I made a mental note to ask him, as soon as I felt ready to talk again.
