Motherland (14 page)

After this nothing will ever be the same again. I am about to be transformed. Out there in the darkness there waits for me an
enemy
, men who wish me harm, who will try to hurt me, even though they know nothing about me. And will I try to hurt them? Of course. And because of this, nothing will ever be the same again.

He settles down at last into a doze. All along the benches men grunt and mutter in their sleep, as the craft maintains its course straight ahead. The flotilla, no longer in single file, is spread out over the surface of the night sea, seeming almost not to be moving.

Suddenly there comes a streak of bright light to the northeast, and a flare explodes in the sky. It drops slowly down, illuminating the water’s surface.

‘What the fuck was that?’

Men jerk out of sleep to watch.

Brilliant green streaks arc up into the sky, followed by red
streaks, rising, cresting a curve, falling and fading to nothing. There follow bright white silent shell bursts, and shooting stars of gold, and more lazy leaping arcs of dazzling red.

‘Tracer! Some bugger’s hit trouble!’

The landing craft has neither slowed nor deviated from its course. Now the men on board hear the bark of ack-ack guns from the French coast.

‘Sounds like Jerry’s woken up.’

‘That’ll be fun for us.’

*

The men of 40 Commando are halfway through transferring from the
Locust
to their landing craft when the tracer battle lights up the sky. Colonel Phillips is on the bridge with the navy team, trying to make out what’s happening.

‘Not good,’ he says. ‘There goes our surprise.’

Wireless traffic between HMS
Calpe
and HMS
Berkeley
reveals that the easternmost craft in the fleet, Number 3 Commando’s boats, have run into a German tanker and its escort. Orders are to continue according to plan.

Phillips leaves the gunboat last of his men, jumping down into the fourth landing craft. The
Locust
is to accompany them all the way, short of the beach itself.

‘Don’t worry about it, boys!’ says Phillips, standing in the craft so all can see him. ‘It’s only 3 Commando screwing up.’

Soft laughter ripples through the boats.

‘Let’s go.’

The four barges set course for the coast of France, joining almost two hundred others now spread over a line eight miles wide. Ed Avenell is in 2 Boat commanded by Titch Houghton. The diminutive major stands up in the bow as they pick up speed.

‘Plenty of time yet, boys,’ he says. ‘We’re to get into position offshore, then we wait for the order to go in.’

As the glow of dawn appears to the east, the naval barrage opens up, according to plan. The eight destroyers pound the coastal defences for ten minutes, filling the air with the scream and glare of high explosive. At the same time there comes a distant singing in the sky as the squadrons of Spitfires arrive, escorting the Boston bombers. At 0530 hours the barrage ceases, and the main assault on the beaches begins.

*

Larry waits in his landing craft a little way off the beach, dazed by the bombardment, unable to see anything ahead other than his fellow soldiers. The barge heaves and lurches on the tide. All round, the darkness is fading into light. Bostons rumble low overhead, laying a trail of thick white smoke along the beach. Tank landing craft come surging past, first in line for the assault. He hears the boom of guns open up, followed by the rattle of light weapons. On either side other assault craft wait for the signal to advance. The men in his boat are tensed, ready to go. The sound of gunfire grows louder all the time, a ceaseless refrain now, but nothing can be seen through the smoke. Then comes the deep hollow boom of a big gun.

‘Howitzer!’ murmurs a voice. ‘Six-incher.’

Tracer bullets flash across the sky ahead. Somewhere in the dawn shadows, in the white smoke, the battle has already begun. Then at last, in response to some unheard command, the engines pick up speed and the barge surges forward. A loud cheer goes up from the men. A sergeant in the bows starts up a progress report.

‘Five hundred yards … I can see the beach … Three hundred … Smoke’s lifting …’

The smoke is being swept away in long streamers by a westerly wind. In the dawn light the beach appears before them, with the town beyond. All along the shore, landing craft stand beached on the shingle. Beyond, between the sea-line and the town, a dozen or so box-like objects are spread out, crawling slowly. Between them the pale grey beach is in constant eruption, like the surface of a heated pan of porridge. Each bursting bubble emits its small puff of smoke, which arises and disperses on the wind.

‘Brace, lads! Here we go!’

The landing craft smashes into the sandbar and every man lurches forward. The ramp falls and the lead men are out, floundering in shallow water. Larry sees only the men ahead, and he follows in his turn, possessed by one passionate desire, to move, to be in action.

He jumps, sinks in the water, hits the pebble ridge, scrambles to find a footing, feels the shingle skid beneath his weight. Round him men flounder and fall, thrashing the water with their arms. A spout of seawater rises up before him, and a shockwave hits him in the face, stinging his eyes. His boots won’t grip the seabed, he struggles to advance, but with each downward kick he feels himself slipping back. Then a wave comes in and lurches him forward, and all at once he’s climbing, he’s up onto the beach proper, and he’s tramping over the spreadeagled body of a man.

Shocked more by the touch than the sight he stops and looks round, bewildered, unable to make sense of what he sees. A man nearby throws himself over on one side. Ahead a man is crawling, groaning as he goes. Beyond there are figures to be seen scattered here and there over the beach, crouched or toppled. The sounds round him are deafening, irregular, inescapable. Men come
heaving past him, loaded down with packs and weapons, firing as they go.

Who are they shooting at? There’s no sign of the enemy. Only these puffs of smoke, these eruptions in the pebbles.

Ahead a tank is thrashing its tracks, struggling to make way over the slippery beach. A shrill whine, a violent bang, and the tank kicks over onto its side, ripped apart by an artillery shell. There are men running past Larry again, as the next wave of troops streams out of the landing craft. A mortar lands in their midst, hurling them to the ground. Larry too, unbalanced by the blast, falls forward onto his arms. Somewhere nearby a man is screaming.

‘Buddy! I need a hand here! Buddy!’

The rattle of machine-gun fire comes and goes. Bullets ping on stones. Larry lies still, thinking. Their orders are to take the Casino. He can see the Casino from where he lies. Much of the fire that pins them down is coming from its windows. It would be suicidal madness to charge across the open beach into those guns.

Between himself and the promenade wall he counts seven disabled tanks. As for men, there are too many to count, and more are falling all the time. What is the purpose of this? Why have they been sent ashore unprotected into heavy enemy fire, to capture a heavily defended Casino for which they have no use?

The men around him who’ve not been hit are up again and struggling forward. Larry too staggers to his feet and lurches forward, not because there’s any sense to it, but because this is what the others are doing. He finds that his progress is slow and flailing, as if he’s still running in water. I must be in shock, he
thinks. Then the beach erupts before him, and he feels the sting of a thousand tiny pebbles. His ears ring, his skin trickles with wetness. Ahead of him stands a man with blood shooting out of his neck and shoulder, pierced by shell splinters, toppling slowly forward into the crater formed by the mortar.

There are hundreds of men advancing up the beach, but Larry has the sensation of being alone. Gone are the orderly ranks and lines of army life. Here there is only howling space, sudden danger, and the deep rolling surge of the sea.

He drives himself on up the beach, flinching with every screaming shell or whining bullet that passes, and so reaches one of the abandoned Churchill tanks. It’s shed its tracks in its desperate efforts to claw its way over the pebbles, and now stands sideways on to the promenade. Larry crawls up close and sinks to the ground, resting his back against its steel flank, taking cover from the machine guns that strafe the beach. From this position he can see the waves of men still spilling from the assault landing craft, still charging the beach into the withering enemy fire.

Now for the first time he understands that he is almost paralysed by fear. Until this moment the shock of being under fire has driven out all other thoughts. Now in the comparative safety of his one-walled fortress he understands that he will certainly be injured, that he’ll maybe die, and he feels his guts melt with terror. Fear turns out to be physical, a rebellion of the body, the refusal to do anything that will take him closer to danger. He would burrow himself into the ground if he could. He has become an animal who has nowhere left to run, and so has frozen into immobility.

Then after a little time the fear too passes. In its place comes a strange detachment. He watches the aircraft circling high above,
like starlings turning to follow their leader. He sees the sun climb into the sky. He thinks how meaningless it all is, the explosions and the killing, the winning and losing. He thinks of his father, and how there’s something he needs to tell him, but he can’t remember what it is. He thinks of Kitty, and her sweet smile, and how he’d like to tell her how much he loves her. But it’s too late now, because he’s going to die. He finds he’s not afraid of dying after all, it turns out just to be another thing that happens. You think you’re in control of your life but really all you can do is accept what happens with a good grace.

I’m not fighting any more.

Not meaning fighting as a soldier, fighting in a war, God knows he’s done little enough of that. He’s no longer fighting for life. Whatever that instinct or passion is that chooses life at all costs has slipped away, overwhelmed by fatigue and fear. So the fear hasn’t left him after all, it’s merely taken this new form, of loss of will. Like a dog that accepts its master’s blows in silence, hoping by lack of opposition to win reprieve.

I’ve surrendered, Larry thinks. Take me prisoner. Take me home. Let me sleep.

There comes a roar overhead and the shadow of low-flying bombers, and then the smoke rolls down the beach. Larry gazes at the veil of whiteness that curtains him in his refuge and pretends to himself that now he’s safe after all.

*

General Roberts on the command ship HMS
Calpe
receives a steady stream of messages from the assault forces, many of which contradict each other. Some of the Calgary regiment’s tanks are reported to have broken into the town itself. A platoon of the RHLI has fought its way up to the six-inch gun before the
Casino. 4 Commando are back on their mother ship after successfully destroying the coastal battery behind Varengeville. The Royals have suffered heavy losses on Blue Beach, which remains exposed to the Berneval guns, but the RAF still have air supremacy, and the Essex Scottish, following the RHLI, are ashore in the centre. Reports are coming in that the beaches have been cleared. With all the information the commander has at his disposal it makes sense to commit his reserve forces. The objective remains the outright capture of the port. Fresh troops, sweeping past the units who have done so much to break the enemy’s resistance, will tip the balance of the day.

‘Send in the reserves now.’

The order is transmitted to the landing craft standing offshore, holding seven hundred men of the Fusiliers Mont-Royal, and three hundred and seventy men of 40 Commando. The smokescreen hangs heavy over the sea and shore as the barges line up and make their approach.

On Ed Avenell’s boat the order is received with a cheer.

‘About fucking time!’

For three hours now they’ve sat helpless as shells from shore batteries have passed overhead, or into the water nearby, while from the distant beach has come the ceaseless chatter of gunfire. Now at last they can go about their business.

The four boats of the commando advance in line with each other, forming the last wave after the Fusiliers. They pass through the smokescreen and out into sunlight, and so get their first clear sight of the beach, barely a hundred yards ahead. They see the Fusiliers landing, scrambling onto the beach, falling, hit by the relentless crossfire. They see mortars plop down and blow men away like dolls. They see the shells of the big howitzers rip up
the beach. And most of all they see the countless corpses that lie all the way from the water to the promenade.

Ed Avenell, rising to his feet, preparing to jump, sees all this and knows that he is participating in a cruel and bloody joke.

‘This is fucking insane!’

Colonel Phillips understands that a terrible mistake has been made. He pulls on a pair of white gloves so that his signalling hands can be seen by the other boats, and standing tall in the bow he shouts and gestures the command to go back.

‘Turn about! Turn about!’

As he signals his order a bullet strikes him in the forehead, killing him instantly. Number 2 Boat, running a little ahead, does not see the signal. The others turn back.

Titch Houghton, eyes on the beach, shouts to the men in Number 2 Boat, ‘Stand by! This is it!’

The barge shudders to a stop and the commandos spring out, guns in firing position. Moving at speed they lope up the beach, spreading out as they go. Whatever plan there was has been overtaken by events. They’re hunting enemy to kill.

Now there are silver Focke-Wulf 109s up in the sky as well as the Spitfires of the RAF. As the Spitfires run short on fuel and turn for home the Focke-Wulfs fly low, strafing the men on the beach. Ed Avenell, fuelled by a toxic mixture of frustration and rage, storms the promenade wall, firing from a Bren gun as he goes. The enemy are nowhere to be seen, but their shells and bullets are everywhere. Racing down an empty street, shooting as he goes, he shouts, ‘Come on out, you bastards!’ A sniper fires at him from a house, and catching a glimpse of him at an upper window, he swings back, spraying bullets.