The Black Jackals (6 page)

He saw a signpost pointing to the left off the road and for a reason he couldn't fathom the names it bore struck him as curiously familiar: Lasne, Plancenoit.

Then as he looked, he was transported back to officer training classes in Tonbridge, to a young man seated at a desk studying long-distant British victories. Plancenoit. That was it. Wasn't that the name of the village on the left flank of another British army? The village through which the Prussians had advanced to save the day and grant them victory over another tyrant. His men were marching onto the field of Waterloo. Smiling, he signalled to Bennett to come up. The man was nonplussed as to his grin.

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Sarnt Bennett, do you have any idea where we are? Where exactly we're going, I mean?'

‘On the road to Tournai, sir?'

‘Yes, of course we are, but here. Right here. Do you realise where we are right now?'

‘Can't say as I do, sir.'

‘Waterloo, man. We're on the battlefield of Waterloo.'

The sergeant smiled. ‘Are we, sir? Well, I'll be . . . Shall I tell the men, sir? It might buck them up.'

‘Yes, go ahead, Sarnt. Why don't you tell them? Anything to keep their spirits up, and we'll need to stop soon enough anyway.'

They were in Plancenoit now and walking past the little church with its walled graveyard before turning right down a hedge-lined avenue. After a few minutes, and after a steady climb uphill beneath a canopy of branches, they emerged onto a plain. Away to the west the sun was sinking on the horizon, sending a glow across fields high with green corn and barley. To their left the landscape opened out before them and he could see the centre of what had been Wellington's line. The men, although they had been informed by Sergeant Bennett as to where they were, seemed largely oblivious to the significance of the place and carried on marching along the crest of the ridge.

Valentine, however, approached Lamb wearing his usual, irritating grin. ‘Quite a coincidence, sir, isn't it? Us being here.'

‘Yes, Corporal. I can't say that I'd been expecting it.'

‘To tell the truth, sir, I think we are a little off course.'

‘You do?'

‘A little too far south, sir. In fact I suspect that we're actually in the French sector.'

Lamb cursed. Might he have allowed the romantic idea of being in this place to divert him from their purpose? Worse than that, he seemed to have been caught out by Valentine.

They were nearing a crossroads now. It occurred to Lamb that it must surely be Wellington's crossroads – his command post, at the centre of the ridge where the British infantry had stood against Napoleon. Up ahead he could see a lorry, and around it a group of soldiers.

Lamb counted six of them and whispered, ‘All right, Corporal, get ready.'

As the shadowy figures ahead noticed them, Lamb's men froze and readied their weapons. He drew his revolver and waved the platoon forward as they began to edge away into a loose battle formation. He was trying to look more closely now at the men by the lorry in the half light, to make out the shape of their helmets, the easiest giveaway to their nationality. And then he saw to his relief that they were the distinctive bowl-shaped helmets of the French ‘poilus'. ‘All right, men, they're French. Seems you must be right, Valentine.'

He moved to the front of the column and walked on. The French soldiers looked round and, seeing the shallow helmet of the British Tommy, did not bother even to pick up their guns, which lay piled against the side of the vehicle. One of them walked towards Lamb, and as they got closer to one another he opened a cigarette case. ‘Cigarette?'

Lamb noticed that he wore the insignia of an officer. A lieutenant of infantry. He reached out and took one of the precious cigarettes. Filterless, Turkish. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.'

The man spoke in good English. ‘Etienne de Noyon, 116th Infantry. We did not expect to see you English down here. You are lost?'

‘Yes, I suspect that we are. Sorry, Peter Lamb, North Kents. We've become detached from our unit. I don't suppose they've come this way?'

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I don't think so. But then we've been here ourselves for barely two hours and we've seen a few Tommies.' He laughed and lit their cigarettes. ‘What d'you think? We're supposed to be a road block, but how can we do that with one truck and six men?'

Lamb raised an eyebrow. ‘That's bad news. In that case we are lost.' The sun was sinking faster now. ‘Is there somewhere near here we can bunk down for the night? A barn?'

‘There's the farmhouse, of course. It's all shut up, though.'

He laughed and took a long drag of the cigarette before speaking. ‘It's the farm that you British held out against us for so long back then. You know where we are?'

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Funny, isn't it?'

The Frenchman laughed. ‘Yes. Even funnier for me because then the Boche were on your side.'

Lamb smiled at him. ‘I don't think we'd get much sleep there anyway. Too many ghosts. Anywhere else?'

‘There is another house up there past the crossroads. Opposite the big farm. To the north. But I think another British officer is staying there already. Curious that two of you should come here on the same day. Perhaps you know him. He came with a driver in a car.'

Lamb looked puzzled. What on earth was a staff officer doing so far south? And without an escort? ‘Thank you. We'll take that road and try our luck. At least it's in the right direction.'

The French man clicked his heels and bobbed his head. Lamb returned the compliment. ‘
Bonne chance
. Wish us luck with our road block.'

They turned right at the crossroads and continued for a short way between steep banks to either side. Then, as the road evened out, they saw on the right the walls of a farm and, opposite, a small group of houses, two cottages and what looked like a barn. In one of the houses a light was burning at the window against the blackout. It was as good as any a place to stop, and they were with friends.

Lamb turned to Bennett before walking on alone towards the door. ‘All right, Sarnt. We'll bivouac here.'

‘You heard the officer. Off the road. Unsling yer packs. We're making camp.'

‘What's up, Sergeant?' It was Stubbs.

‘We're stopping here for the night, lad. Mister Lamb's orders.'

‘Funny place to stop, innit? Like an old shack. We sleeping 'ere? Don't feel good.'

‘Officer knows best, Stubbs. Less of your lip. This is a historic place anyway. Waterloo.'

‘I thought that was a railway station.' Johnson now.

Massey answered him. ‘You're just pig ignorant, you are.'

‘You shut it, Massey, or I'll give you bloody ignorant.'

Bennett stepped in. ‘Right, you two. Stow it, both of you, or you'll be on a charge. Stubbs, get a brew on. Johnson, you get some stew going. Massey, find some kindling.'

Lamb could hear them as he made his way up the road. He stopped before the door and knocked three times. There was a commotion within and he heard the click of a rifle bolt. His pistol was still drawn and he kept it at the ready.

There was a shout: ‘Who's there?'

Lamb, feeling rather foolish, could think of nothing better to do than answer: ‘Lieutenant Lamb. North Kents.'

The door opened and he found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle. To his intense relief, though, he also saw that it was held by a British soldier. A sergeant. Seeing his face and uniform the man smiled and lowered his gun. ‘Sorry, sir. Can't be too careful these days, can you.' The man saluted.

Lamb shook his head and returned the salute. ‘No, Sergeant. You can't. Incidentally, though, what would you have done if I'd said I was a German?'

‘Shot you, sir. Through the door, sir. Then scarpered.'

‘Lucky me.'

There was a shout from behind the sergeant. ‘Dawes, who is it? That French fella again? We could do with a drop more of that brandy he found us before.'

The sergeant half-turned. ‘No, sir, it's not the French officer, sir. It's a British officer, sir.'

The room was poorly lit, by the light of just two candles which burned in the necks of two empty wine bottles. It was a humble farmhouse, sparsely furnished and with little in the way of decoration save a single framed engraving and a small black wooden cross which hung above the fireplace in which the miserable remains of an attempt at a fire burned. Moving aside, the sergeant revealed a dining table laid for dinner for one, on the opposite side of which was seated a British officer. Judging from the three pips and a crown at his shoulder, he was a brigadier.

He smiled at Lamb. ‘I say, hello. You're one of us. Who are you?'

Before replying, Lamb took in the sight before him. Even in his youth as a subaltern on the Somme and in Paschendaele, Brigadier Julian Meadows, ‘Dewy Meadows' to his chums, had never been what one might have called a small man, and what Lamb had presumed might be the universal hardships of soldiering over the past few weeks appeared to have had little effect upon a figure happily formed by years of lunches with similarly clubable fellows and which still swelled the fabric of his cleverly tailored Savile Row service dress. His corpulent form was topped off by an almost bald head, save for a circlet of bright white hair at the temples and a similarly white moustache which splayed out from his top lip. The brigadier burped but managed to suppress the noise and dabbed at his moustache.

‘Lieutenant Peter Lamb, sir, North Kents. 6th Brigade. Were trying to get back to our unit.'

The man looked at him in surprise. ‘You're adrift, then?'

‘Sir.'

‘Same here, my boy. My driver took a wrong turn and we've ended up in this midden of a place. Still, the fodder's not at all bad. My driver managed all this.' He waved his hand expansively over the table which, Lamb now noticed, was laid with ham, cooked meat, wine, brandy and half a roast chicken. ‘Bloody good cook. Bloody rotten driver. I suppose you realise where we are?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Funny really. Particularly with the Frogs here too. Like the old days, eh?'

‘Yes, sir. It must be. I wonder if you'd have any idea, sir, where the rest of my brigade might have got to?'

The man looked at him. ‘What? No, can't say that I have. You'd be best to keep going north. Probably catch up with them somewhere.'

‘Catch up with them?'

‘Yes, generally the entire army's heading north. New plan. Don't suppose you've heard. Frogs seem to be about to throw in the towel. Never did have any staying power. Not after the last lot.'

He looked closely at Lamb. ‘Too young for that, I suppose. Weren't you?'

‘Yes, sir. But my father served. In the Dardanelles.'

‘Dardanelles. That wasn't a war, man. Bloody holiday compared to the Western Front. This is where we fought in hell. Right here. In Belgium. Mud and blood, my boy. Mud and blood.'

Stifling his anger, Lamb replied, ‘Yes, sir, I believe it was hell here.'

The brigadier nodded sagaciously, pleased that the young man appeared to agree with his assertion.

‘Yes. Quite awful. I'm heading west myself. Pressing engagement. In fact I wonder whether you couldn't be of some use to me. I've a message here from my opposite number on the French staff which simply must get to GHQ soonest. You couldn't oblige and ensure it gets there? Just give it to the senior officer of whichever regiment or brigade HQ you next encounter. He'll do the rest, I'm sure. That's how it works, you see.'

Lamb was dumbstruck. A prior engagement? The man was talking as if he were late for a regimental dinner. ‘Wouldn't it be better if you were to take it yourself, sir?'

‘Nonsense, man. I'm a Brigadier. Better things to do than deliver messages.'

‘But it was given into your hand by the French, sir.'

The officer suddenly grew very serious. ‘Precisely. And now I'm giving it into your hand, Lieutenant. Now you get it to GHQ by whatever means you find necessary. That's an order.'

‘Sir.'

‘Any more of that claret?'

‘Right away, sir.'

The brigadier smiled at Lamb. ‘Care for a drink?'

‘Don't think I should, sir. Do you?'

‘Nonsense. Course you should. All officers should drink, what? Should all be able to drink and to get drunk. But not violent. D'you see? That's for the men. Have a drink, Lamb.'

And so Lamb sat down at the table and had a drink with the brigadier and made small talk. They spoke of home and of cricket and the brigadier talked of hunting in Somerset and racing at Newmarket and of his London club in St James's which had ruined its windows with ghastly blackout blinds and he told Lamb how hard it was now to get really good Cognac, and at length after his second glass of wine Lamb managed to persuade the brigadier that his presence really was needed with the platoon and after an interminable goodbye left the house and pulled the door closed behind him.

Lamb stood and breathed in deeply. After the fug of the room the night air was cool and sweet and he felt suddenly alive. He began to walk south, back towards the battlefield.

At the crossroads the French lieutenant and his men were chatting and laughing. One of them had cranked up a gramophone and a recent popular song by Jean Sablon cut through the night:

Walking to a bank of the sunken road, Lamb saw in the moonlight the silhouette of a British tin hat and recognised at once the angular profile beneath it. ‘Evening, Tapley.'

The man who was standing sentry swiftly extinguished his cigarette. ‘And a fine one, sir. Have you seen the stars?'