The Black Jackals (4 page)

As the thought crossed his mind he saw the small grey figures moving in the wake of the tanks, which began to rumble forward towards the river bank. He put his field glasses to his eyes and picked up the figure of an officer in a peaked cap, shouting at the infantrymen, urging them on with his hand. Against all probability they were advancing to attack. Lamb smiled. Someone somewhere in the enemy higher command had obviously decreed that this crossing had to be taken, and taken by a certain time. That was the German way, and nothing in the field manual could stop that order. Lamb knew that it would be the death warrant for some of the men out there behind the tanks. As many as he could kill, he thought. ‘Sarnt Bennett. Here they come.'

He turned to the men in his immediate vicinity. ‘Open fire. Make them all count.'

At once the slit trenches became a frenzy of action as the men fired at their chosen targets, loosing off round after round against the German infantry. Lamb could see figures falling now as the men in grey tried to tuck themselves in behind the tanks. But still some were left exposed to be picked off by the keen-eyed British riflemen. And even as the infantry fell the German tanks continued to fire as they advanced, and the shells crashed in. Now their machine guns had opened up from the tanks and there was sub-machine gun fire too coming in from a handful of infantry that had found some cover on the opposite bank.

Corporal Mays came running at a crouch up to Lamb's slit trench, enemy bullets raking the ground around his feet, and threw himself flat on the earth. ‘Sir, Austin's copped it. Jerry machine gun, sir. We've got to get out of here, Mister Lamb.'

Lamb nodded. Yes, that was enough, he thought. Enough for the poor devils who had died on the bridge. Now they could go. ‘Yes, Corporal. Find Sarnt Bennett. Tell the men to pull back. Keep as low as possible, don't look back and run as fast as you can to the woods. We'll form up on the other side of them, behind cover, and get back to Battalion.'

‘Sir.'

The man took off, and Lamb turned back to the enemy. The lead tanks had lined themselves up and were pouring shellfire into their positions. There was a cry from along the line and Lamb was aware of a man tossed into the air like a puppet amid a cloud of earth and debris. He saw Bennett to his left.

The sergeant shouted over the noise, ‘Runner from Company, sir. Battalion says to disengage and get back. There's a barrage coming down to cover our withdrawal, and CO says that unless we want to be under it we'd better move. We've to fall back through the Guards, sir.'

Lamb managed a smile. He knew that he had done all that he could.

He waved the men back out of the trenches and saw them follow Bennett into the woods. Then he took a last look at the great grey monsters as they loosed off another barrage, and then at last turned towards the rear. The shells were crashing around him now, hitting trees and ripping off their branches. Lamb began to lengthen his pace, but he had not gone two yards before something hit him hard on the back like a hammer blow, knocking the breath from him, and he was briefly aware of being shoved forward, face down in the mud. And then his world went black.

The first thing that Lamb saw as his vision returned was a man's face. His mouth felt horribly dry and he tried to ignore the cracking headache that was pounding inside his skull and to focus on the face. The man had a moustache, slicked-back hair and was wearing a monocle. Lamb had never seen the man before. For one awful moment his mind was filled with images of German villains from the pictures: Conrad Veidt or Raymond Lovell. He presumed that he had been captured and that this must be a German officer.

But then the man spoke and instantly he knew that he was safe. ‘I say, old chap, well done. We thought for a moment you might be a gonner.'

He turned away and towards the door flap of the small tent in which Lamb could now see he was lying. ‘Sarnt-Major, fetch that brandy in here, will you. The Lieutenant wants a drink.'

An RSM entered and filled the tent with his huge presence. Lamb was aware of his peaked cap, the cheese-cutter peak pressed flat against his nose. The next moment a gentle hand was lifting Lamb's throbbing head from the camp bed on which he was lying and then another hand placed a tin cup to his mouth, tilting it so that he could drink. He sipped and felt the raw liquid burn its way down his throat. He coughed, almost retched and shook his head. The pain swelled, and he stopped. The man laughed. ‘That's it. Good man. Knew you'd be better for a sharp'ner. Bit of a narrow squeak you had, eh? Thank you, Sarnt-Major.'

Lamb was aware of the big man executing a perfect about turn and, as his vision became clearer, was able to look more closely at his saviour. The officer was a thin man with a hawk-like nose and, when combined with these features, what seemed an unlikely cheery smile. As Lamb managed to sit up he extended his hand.

‘Fortescue, Captain, Second Coldstream. Detached from 1 Div HQ.' He paused. ‘And you are?'

Lamb had spotted the three crowns on his shoulder. ‘Peter Lamb, sir. North Kents. Thank you, sir. I mean, I presume you saved my life.'

The captain smiled and shrugged. ‘Nothing at all, old man, no trouble. Absolute pleasure. Couldn't leave you there, could we? Jerry would have put you in the bag. Glad to have you aboard. You're damned lucky. It's not every man gets hit hard in the back with half a tree and lives to tell the tale. That last shell burst was damned close too. Seems to have hit you on the arm and the leg.'

‘No, sir. Actually those are from earlier.'

‘Well, you have been knocked about a bit, haven't you? Have another sip of the old brown stuff.'

Lamb sat up and drank a little more of the brandy. The pain in his head was slightly less but now the throbbing in his arm where he had been hit was beginning to nag again. ‘My platoon, sir. Where are they?'

‘I think my Sarnt-Major's found most of them. Few of them knocked about a bit. That last salvo did for a couple, I'm afraid. Lucky we were there, to your rear.'

‘Sorry, sir?'

‘We came in from the woods. Managed to hold off Jerry long enough to get you chaps out. Though what the devil you were doing there in the first place Gawd only knows. We were told you'd pulled out. We're the rearguard, you see.'

‘Rearguard?'

‘Absolutely. That's us. Rearguard. Last in, last out. Incidentally, why were you there? We were told you'd all pulled back.'

Lamb considered his answer carefully before giving it. ‘Think I must have misread the order, sir. I was quite certain that it said “hold until relieved”.'

The captain smiled and paused. ‘You're either very brave, Lieutenant, or very stupid. I'd prefer to believe that it might be the former. In normal circumstances I should probably write this down and inform your CO. But these are hardly normal circumstances, are they?'

‘No, sir.'

‘We are a rearguard, Lieutenant. We are retreating
per se
, and as far as I'm aware the entire British Expeditionary Force might be coming with us.'

Lamb looked at him askance. ‘Sir?'

‘We've been told to cover a retreat. As far as the river Lescaut. But if you want my opinion we might have to fall back a little further.'

‘How far, sir?'

‘That's anyone's guess, I'm afraid. Gawd knows. I most certainly don't. All I know is that we're the Johnnies with the unenviable task of seeing that the rest of you Territorials make it out alive and to the next defensive line. Or as many of you as we can find.'

Lamb recoiled for a moment. This was not what he had expected. He had come out here to drive back Hitler. Had presumed that the BEF would at least put up a fight for a good deal longer than this. And there it was again, the dig heard so often in the mess. For all his bravery, he was still a Territorial, at least in the eyes of men like Captain Fortescue, regular soldiers. He was determined, though, that by the end of this business he would be treated with the same respect as them. But the man was not spiteful, merely a stickler for protocol. All that you would expect from the Guards, he thought. And, what was more, for all Lamb knew he had saved his life.

He looked about himself and took in his surroundings. He was sitting in some sort of command post, with a wireless set, discarded packs and various miscellaneous pieces of equipment, on the edge of a copse looking out across an open field. He pondered the captain's words again. Covering a retreat. Surely it would not happen that quickly.

There was a pause in which the Coldstream officer stared disconsolately at the ground and twiddled a stick in the earth floor of his command post in an attempt at the regimental insignia.

Lamb broke the silence. ‘Excuse me, sir. My men?'

‘Ah yes, of course, right ho. Let's find your mob and then you can get on your way, eh?' He turned to bark an order in a voice that Lamb thought would have been well suited to the King's Birthday Parade at Horse Guards: ‘Sarnt-Major, find the North Kents, if you will. I'm pleased that we managed to get most of you out. You number three corporals, one sergeant and seventeen men, if my Sarnt-Major's right, and he's never been known to be wrong.'

‘I don't remember much of what happened.'

‘Hardly surprising when a bloody great tank shell goes off ten yards behind you. You're lucky to be alive, Lieutenant.'

‘Are many wounded?'

‘Yes. I do remember one man in a pretty bad state. Lost his foot. And a couple of other minor casualties. One of the NCOs too.'

‘My sergeant?'

‘No. Not him. He's sound. One of your corporals, though. Wound to the face. Nothing much really. Deal of blood. But he seemed damned put out about it. Funny sort of cove. Quite unlike your usual ranker. Educated, if you get my drift, and far too lippy by half.'

‘Valentine.'

‘Was that his name? Funny sort of name too. Take my advice, Lieutenant, and pack him off on an officer training course the first chance you get. That sort are never anything but trouble. Far too willing to express an opinion. Men aren't intended to have opinions. They can think what they damn well like, of course, but they should never express opinions. Yes, make him an officer. I should.'

Lamb smiled. ‘He seems disinclined towards promotion, sir.'

‘Disinclined? Just sign the form man and the army will do the rest. Disinclined, my Aunt Fanny. He'll be an officer and bloody well like it. Disinclined indeed.'

Lamb had no desire to continue the conversation and so quickly changed the subject. ‘Did the Jerries get across the river, sir?'

‘They've stopped pushing forward for the present but, yes, you might say it is in their hands. They've taken a fair pummelling, though. Our big guns gave them a bloody nose. Saw one of their tanks go right up. Bit of a Horlicks down there all round, though, isn't it?'

‘Yes, bit of a Horlicks, sir.'

‘Dozens of dead Jerries, of course, but women and children too. Seems that someone must have pressed the button and blew the bridge sky high when it was packed with civilians. Bloody shame. Poor devils. I wonder who gave the order.'

Lamb said nothing but groaned inwardly and heard Valentine's words again. Surely it's what anyone in his place would have done, wasn't it? They were his orders.

The captain was speaking again. ‘I expect there'll be a Board of Enquiry. Generally is. Don't know if anyone can be bothered, though, at the moment, with all this going on. Your Divisional General won't be pleased. Montgomery. Known him all my life. Family friend. Half hoped that I might bump into him down here. And he takes no prisoners, I'll tell you that. But he can't abide waste of life. A soldiers' soldier, d'you see. No problem at all with killing armed men. All for it, in fact. Killing the enemy. But he won't have civilians hurt at all. Quite right too, of course. Who would? Something to do with something or other he saw in the last bash. Feel sorry for the poor bugger who gave the order to blow the bridge. Wasn't you, I suppose?'

Lamb looked away. ‘Er, no, sir. I can safely say I didn't push anything.'

‘That's lucky then. I should get yourself back to your battalion if you can find it. Last I heard they were heading for Tournai. But you never can tell in this sort of scrap where they'll pitch up. Things seem to change all the time at the moment, don't they?' He pointed to Lamb's arm. ‘I'd get that properly seen to, if I were you. Our MO's had a look at it, but you never know. Funny things, arms.'

There was a commotion outside. ‘Anyway, that'll be your men now. Good to have met you, Lieutenant. Remember me to your general, if you see him.'

‘I shall, sir. Thank you.'

‘Here's your soldier servant. Cheero.'

Captain Fortescue left the tent and Smart saluted him and entered. ‘Soldier servant? That me then, sir?'

‘Yes, Smart, that's you, except we call you a batman. You're only a servant to the Guards.'

Lamb managed to get to his feet and, helped by a gentle arm from Smart, left the tent. Outside the men had been drawn up by Sergeant Bennett, and they made a welcome sight. Lamb counted three lines of seven including the mortar team. He saw Thomson standing to the right with his anti-tank rifle. Six casualties. It looked as if Mays's section had suffered worst.

‘Well done, Sarnt. Who've we lost?'

‘Austin, Joyncey and McCarthy all bought it, sir. Hale and Smith are wounded. Corporal Valentine's got a scratch on his face, sir, and Peters is wounded bad, sir. Don't think he'll make it through the night.'

‘Thank you, Sarnt. I'll see him in a moment.' He turned to the men. ‘Gather round.'

As the men drew closer he continued: ‘Seems that we're in a bit of a fix. Company HQ seems to have fallen back to Tournai, so we're going to follow them.'

There was a voice from the second rank. Wilkinson. ‘Are we retreating, sir?'

‘No, Wilkinson. We're not retreating, just pulling back to regroup so that we can counter-attack.' He looked at his watch. It was nearing 2 p.m. ‘Right, we'll march till 1800 hours, then make camp. If we get a step on we might even catch up with Company HQ.'

‘Or Brigade, sir.'

‘Or Brigade, Tapley. Thank you. All right, Sarnt Bennett. Take me to the wounded.'

They had lain the men beneath the shade of some trees close to the company transport. A number of guardsmen were standing about the vehicles talking and clicked smartly to attention, saluting as Lamb appeared. The three men were lying on blankets. Hale was sitting up puffing on a Woodbine. Smith was staring at the sky. Peters, though, was lying with his head on one side and as Lamb approached he noticed that his eyes, though wide open, were staring vacantly into the middle distance. His skin was drained of colour. Death could not be far off. He went to the less badly wounded first. ‘Hale. You look well enough to be up and about. Where did they get you?'

‘Leg, sir. Went clean through the ankle, sir. Can't walk, sir.'

Lamb nodded. ‘Don't worry. They'll get you out all right. You'll be back in Blighty before us. What about you, Smith?'

Smith looked up at Lamb and smiled. ‘Shoulder, sir. Bloody great bit of shrapnel. Hurts a bit.'

‘I bet it does. You'll be home soon.'

He walked across to Peters. Bennett whispered to him. ‘Stomach wound, sir. MO's had a look. It's not good, sir. Got his liver too.'

Lamb knelt down by the boy's head. ‘Peters. I know you can hear me. They think you'll be fine, old chap. Is there anyone you'd like me to write to to tell them you're on your way back home?'

Peters moved his lips and tried to turn his head, but Lamb noticed the grimace of pain that passed across his ashen face. ‘Don't try to move, old chap. Just tell me or the sergeant here. Just a name.'

The boy's mouth moved again and Lamb bent close so that his ear was close to Peters's mouth. He heard a word. ‘Mother.'

‘All right, old chap. I got that. You rest now.'

Getting to his feet Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘He hasn't got long, Sarnt. Make sure that the Guards give him a decent burial and mark the grave. I'm sure they will.'

He walked back across the camp and noticed as he did how neatly it had been set up in the short time the Guards had been there. That was one thing you could always say of the British army: they knew how to lay out a camp. Latrines in the right place, tent lines and vehicle park, command post set back from the front, trenches well dug in and supported. It was exemplary. He reached the men, who were standing at ease and shuffled to attention as he arrived.

‘As you were. All right. Corporal Mays, Briggs, Valentine. Let's get going.'

Observed closely by the Coldstreamers, they left the camp, in as orderly and Guardsman-like a file as they could manage. The Guards saluted as they passed and were acknowledged. Behind them the noise of gunfire spoke of the speed of the German advance.

They had not gone far when they crossed a railway line and found themselves on the edge of a wood. There was a noise of engines, and without further warning a carrier roared towards them through the undergrowth to their right and then following it around the flank of the wood came three light tanks with British markings.