The Black Jackals (5 page)

From the front seat of the carrier a man in a black beret addressed them, ‘Hallo. You chaps falling back? We must be covering you. 2nd RDG. Who are you?'

Lamb spoke. ‘North Kents, sir.'

‘Really? North Kents? Your mob have been through here already. Quite a while ago. Badly shot up, some of them. You'll need to hurry to catch them, though. Any wounded?'

‘Yes, three, as a matter of fact. One bad. We left them with the Guards.'

‘We're under orders to carry them back if we can. See what we can do, old man. Pip pip.'

With that he waved his hand and the carrier and its three tanks rumbled past them towards the front. Lamb couldn't help thinking that to the officer it still seemed like some big game. And the man seemed to be enjoying it.

He turned to Bennett. ‘Looks as if we'll have to hurry if we want to catch up.'

They moved around the edge of the wood and as they hit the road on the other side found a long column of British infantry moving in the same direction, towards the rear. The men's expressions said it all. Many of them had bandaged heads and limbs and the few trucks which drove with them were packed with wounded. Lamb stopped. They all did. But it was Corporal Mays who spoke for them all. ‘Oh, my good God.'

Lamb stared. It seemed as if for an instant the entire British army was on the road, ‘pulling back'.

Bennett could see his face. ‘It's not good, sir, is it?'

‘No, Sarnt. It's not good at all. But I don't think we'll join their party. I think we'll go south west. Just as quick to Tournai that way.'

‘And a much prettier road, I'd guess, sir. Without that lot's long faces.'

‘You'll never see a happy retreating army, Sarnt. Come on. If we're lucky we'll be there by tomorrow. Or in Brussels. You never know.'

The sergeant laughed. But Lamb knew that there was no real mirth in it.

The high sun beat down on the dusty road and, even where the tall poplars that lined its sides offered shade, sent shafts of light across the surface in bright white lines. The land lay flat about them, with a distant low horizon punctuated here and there with the steeples of village churches. On either side the crops crew tall in the fields and cattle stood in the meadows. On the grassy banks of the road the cornflowers bloomed. They had passed close to the north of the town of Wavre, and Lamb, consulting the motoring map of northern France he had had the foresight to purchase in London on embarkation leave, had thought it best, in view of the large numbers of refugees and soldiers on the other road, to stay on their own and hug the edge of the woods to the west of the town. But now they were back out in the open and, he thought, horribly vulnerable to air attack. They had trained for it, of course. This was the future of warfare, after all. But none of them had ever experienced the reality. For all he knew there might be German planes heading towards them at that very moment, ready to rain down bombs and strafe them with machine-gun fire as they walked along through the bucolic scene, just as they had done in Poland and Holland. And he had no idea as to where the RAF might be. But he was not prepared to trust that they would be directly above his head whenever the German dive-bombers struck.

‘Keep your ears open for enemy bombers, all of you. Listen out. You'll hear them before you see them.'

Even though it was coming on to 3.30 in the afternoon it was, supposed Lamb, a hot day even for this time of year in northern France. They had spent the night in an empty barn and he could not get the stench of stored manure out of his nostrils. The men too were aware of the smell, which, although they had not had any direct contact with the muck, seemed to have permeated their clothes. He knew too that, after five hours of marching, the men would be sweating uncomfortably in their thick battledress, just as he was. But at least it wasn't raining. To be retreating was bad enough, but a soldier retreating through the pouring rain was never the happiest man in the world. He wondered where the other platoons in his company might be, and for that matter Company HQ. And what of Bourne and Long? He wondered whether they too were as lost as he, and attempting to rejoin the battalion. What a bloody mess. Suddenly weary, he spoke. ‘Sarnt Bennett, let's give them a rest.'

‘All right, you lot. Fall out and take a rest.'

The men moved to the side of the road, removed their packs and sat on them, most of them flipping open breast pockets to take out a packet of Woodbines or Gold Flake. Others lay back in the sunshine, feeling its warmth now as welcome rather than oppressive. They were hungry and thirsty and they all needed a shave, but at least they were safe. Lamb opened a pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case packed with Craven As – a wedding present from Julia, engraved on the lid with both of their initials. He took one out, tapped it twice on the tin and lit up, enjoying the bitter taste as the smoke circulated through mouth and nose.

He turned to Bennett, who was lighting his own cigarette. ‘How are we off for rations, Sarnt?'

‘We're all right, sir. Down to about two days' worth a man, I should say. That's bully and biscuit mainly.'

‘Well, that should do us. I dare say we'll find the Company soon. Or even the Battalion. They can't be more than a day's march ahead of us.'

‘Hope so, sir. The men are feeling a bit adrift.'

‘Well, Captain Fortescue assured me that they withdrew along this road. So the best we can do is follow them. 'Fraid you've only got me for now.'

Bennett smiled. ‘That'll do us, sir.'

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground, grinding it out with the sole of his boot before opening the map case that hung at his side and drawing out the precious road map. He opened it up and peered at a square. Bennett joined him. ‘We're here, by my reckoning, just south of Brussels. Seems that the order is to regroup at Tournai, which is here. About thirty miles away.' Giving one edge of the map to the sergeant, Lamb pointed at the square. ‘There's a village up ahead. Looks like Rixensart. Reckon we might even find the Company there, Sarnt. They can't have gone too far.'

‘Looks hopeful, sir.'

‘Right then. Let's get them up.' He folded the map and replaced it in the case.

Bennett yelled, ‘Come on, lads. On yer feet. Let's keep going.'

There were a few groans and one comment of ‘slave driver' and ‘don't he know there's a war on' from unknown grumblers that earned a shout from Corporal Mays. But without much trouble the platoon got back on the road.

The town that lay ahead of them was nothing remarkable. The countryside quickly gave way to a street lined with small terraced houses typical of the region. There was a church to the right and on the left a large open area of parkland that at one point he thought might have belonged to a château.

Lamb scanned the street and saw no one. No civilians, and certainly no sign of any military personnel. He turned to Smart, who was behind him with the RT. ‘Bit strange, Smart, don't you think?'

They entered in textbook formation with Corporal Mays and No. 1 section up front, then twenty-five yards behind Lamb's HQ group, including Valentine and Briggs. Then came Sergeant Bennett with the mortar crew, and finally the two other sections each led by a lance corporal, one either side of the road, Valentine's bringing up the rear.

Lamb slowed the pace and they walked into the town. Still there was no sign of the inhabitants.

Smart spoke. ‘Looks like they've upped sticks and gone, sir. Perhaps they knew we was coming.'

It certainly looked as if the population had left in a hurry. A few bags had been forgotten and stood forlorn outside a house whose door swung on its hinges.

Papers blew across the street and a cat crossed his path. He looked up and saw that most of the houses had been shuttered, although what use that might have been, had it been the Germans and not his platoon who had arrived, he could not think.

Bennett came up. ‘They've gone, sir. Everyone. Cleared out. Not long ago, neither. Coffee's still hot in the pots.'

‘Yes, Sarnt. So it would seem. Smart, any joy with the RT?'

‘Nothing, sir. Dead as a doornail.'

‘I suppose there's nothing to be done but to carry on, Sarnt. Our chaps must have come through here in a hell of a hurry.'

‘Perhaps that's why the civvies all cleared out, sir, if they saw the British army running away like that, sir. Well, stands to reason they'd want to leg it too.'

Lamb knew that he was right. ‘Tournai is due west. We'll take a left turn here, Sarnt.'

Bennett barked the order as if he were on the parade ground at Tunbridge Wells, and his words echoed through the silent streets. The men wheeled down the road past the park and were soon clear of the houses and in open countryside once again.

On they marched, crossing a major road packed with civilians heading north west towards Brussels. They reminded Lamb of the people on the bridge, of the little girl with the doll and the pretty young woman in the red skirt, and again he felt the shame boiling inside him. As they waited for a gap in the column, the men stared at the refugees and Lamb realised that the sight would have an irreversible effect on their morale.

He turned to Bennett. ‘Can we get a song together? Might gee up the men as they march.'

‘Think we can manage it, sir. Stubbs is our best singer. What shall we have?'

‘Oh I don't know. Something from the last war, perhaps? “Tipperary” or “Pack up Your Troubles”?'

‘What about “The Siegfried Line”, sir? That's a good 'un. The lads like that.'

‘All right, Sarnt. Make it that one then.'

Bennett went over to Stubbs, who was carrying the 2-inch mortar on his shoulder, and had a quiet word in his ear. Within seconds, as they at last began to cross the main road, edging with care through the civilians, he had begun to sing:

Without prompting the men joined in, all of them familiar with the words of the song which had filled the cinema screens on their last leave. Lamb, though, felt its full irony. Nevertheless he joined in, singing as loudly as he could so that the men would hear him. When the song was over Thompson started up another, ‘Run Rabbit Run', a real crowd-pleaser. In the chorus Smart yelled ‘bang' at the appropriate place and raised a smile. They were in better spirits now, he thought, and it made the distance seem less.

Looking ahead, through the lines of grey refugees, Lamb thought that he saw a figure in a helmet. Then another. He could see rifles now and shouted to Bennett, ‘Soldiers. Up ahead. Can you see? What are they?'

Both men looked hard through the milling throng of civilians and past the horses, carts and vehicles. It was true. There were soldiers, and the first thing he saw was the colour of their uniforms. Khaki. Lamb smiled with relief and recognised their helmets as British. ‘It's all right, Sarnt. They're ours.'

The men were dawdling along in front of them, moving even slower than the refugees, and Lamb and his men were able to catch up with them quickly. He accosted the last of them, a corporal: ‘Corporal.'

The man spun round and, recognising an officer, saluted before yelling out to his mates, ‘Oi, get the Sergeant. There's an officer here.' The other men came running.

There were six of them, but it became instantly apparent that they were not from the same unit. As the sergeant made his way back, Lamb spoke to the corporal. ‘Who are you?'

‘Stanton, sir. Lancashire Fusiliers. We're all sorts really. Lost our units.'

‘Right, Corporal Stanton. Well, we're adrift too. You'd best fall in with us for the time being.'

The sergeant, a Scot, had arrived by now and saluted Lamb. ‘Sergeant McKracken, sir, 1st Royal Scots. Got knocked out up near Limal by a shellburst, sir, and when I came to the platoon had gone. You've met Corporal Stanton, sir, and then there's another from his mob, Driscoll. Then there's two from the North Staffs, Blake and Mitchell, and there's Archer. He's a gunner. Gone a bit deaf – from the shelling, sir.'

‘Has he? Well, we're pretty much in the same boat, Sergeant. We're North Kents. My name's Lamb. Lost our people at Wavre. We're heading south west. Same as you, judging from your choice of route. Can I meet your men?'

McKracken nodded. ‘Of course, sir.'

They walked across to where the five men were standing. As Lamb approached, three of them, Stanton, Driscoll and Blake, stood to attention. Lamb noticed that the other two did not – Archer, clearly on account of his deafness. The other man looked up and with a sullen, ash-grey face stared at Lamb, who put on a smile and spoke. ‘Good morning. Seems as if you men are in the same boat as us. Gone adrift. Well, I intend to find our unit, and the best thing would be for you to fall in with us. Sarnt McKracken here agrees. Who are you? Corporal Stanton, I know you already.'

One by one the others introduced themselves with name, rank and serial number: ‘Driscoll, Private, sir. Lancashire Fusiliers. Me and the Corporal here got lost when Jerry attacked on the Dyle. Had to keep low and when it blew over we couldn't find the unit.'

‘Blake, sir, Private, North Staffs. Same with us, sir, really. Our RSM told us to stick to the Bren in our trench, and we did just that. Shot up a few Jerries. Didn't we, Taff? But they just kept coming, sir. We was about to pull out when an officer comes over and tells us to hang on. Says reinforcements is coming up the line. So we hung, on, didn't we, Taff?' He turned to the ashen-faced man, who looked at him blankly. ‘But no one came. Not a soul. Officer must have got it wrong.'

The other man spat suddenly and looked up at Lamb. ‘Mitchell, sir, North Staffs. Like Blake says, an officer told us that we'd be relieved, but we never were. Ran out of ammo, and then we scarpered. Passed all our mates, killed. No reinforcements. Nothing.' The man stared again at the ground. Lamb turned to the last man, the gunner: ‘And you, you must be Archer.'

The man looked up and frowned. ‘Sorry, sir. Can't hear a blind thing. Gone deaf, see? On account of the shelling. Can't hear a thing, sir.'

Lamb nodded his head. ‘Yes, I see.' He patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Not to worry. Stick with us. You'll be all right.'

He turned to McKracken. ‘Well done for getting them together, Sarnt. They seem in good spirits. All save one.' He gestured to Mitchell.

‘Yes, sir. I'll keep my eye on him.'

‘Jolly good. You'd better see my sergeant.' He turned. ‘Sarnt Bennett!'

Bennett arrived. Lamb spoke quietly to him. ‘Six odds and sods to join us, Sarnt Bennett. They're either hopelessly lost or they're deserters. But I'll give them the benefit of the doubt. They don't look like bad sorts and they seem keen to go on, in any case. But keep your eye on them.'

Bennett smiled: ‘Very good sir. I'll treat them just as if they were my own.'

With their newly acquired ‘odds and sods' in tow, they pushed on across the fields, on roads that at times seemed no more than dust tracks. Another small town appeared, La Hulpe, but it too was deserted. They were climbing steadily now along a natural ridge and by Lamb's compass were moving west by south west. He felt the pain in his heel with each step but said nothing. Smart, though, could see him wince. The pain in his back where he had been hit by the tree was also proving a hindrance to marching, and he hoped it did not presage anything serious. He knew too that he must keep up the pace for the men if they were to make any ground before nightfall. He was taking them west and then had thought it best to head north towards Brussels.