Hill 112, p.34
Hill 112, page 34
‘Yes, who are you?’
‘DLI.’
‘What’s the password?’
‘How the fook should I know?’ The neighbouring regiment was from a different brigade.
‘Reckon you’ll do, lads,’ Jenkins called, beckoning to them.
The sergeant and his men had come over from the field, obviously pleased with themselves, as were all the others. By now the prisoners were smoking British cigarettes or drinking from British canteens. All were very eager to please. The wounded man was patched up and a crude stretcher made from their rifles, bolts removed, and their camouflaged ponchos. A quick discussion with the Durhams’ sergeant confirmed that they had swept through the area and dealt with the few Germans to get this far. That seemed good enough for Mark to take 17 Platoon back to the Company.
10.05 hrs, in reserve near Battalion HQ
‘B Company are pinned down,’ Captain Price explained. ‘The Durhams are trying to get at the MGs that are doing it, but it isn’t easy. Still, they’re holding, but they need more men and most of all they need ammunition. Seventeen Platoon will help them out.’ The captain had to shout over the 3″ mortars firing from their weapons’ pits beside them. ‘The CSM is bringing up ammo now. If you can get through, we’ll send a carrier with more.’
Mark nodded. After all the Army would not want to lose an expensive carrier when he and his men were there to act like canaries in a coal mine. There was a long, rolling field that rose to a low crest, just high enough to hide a man, then dipped before rising again towards B Company’s slit trenches. Mark was not sure how much of it was visible to the enemy. The CSM arrived, and along with him came men with tea as well as the ammunition.
‘Get this down you.’ CSM Samson was a larger than life character, jovial and ferocious in turn. Mark sipped from a mug and coughed. There was a large dose of rum in the tea. He could see his men perking up, starting to grin as they took the bandoliers and boxes of rounds. ‘You might want these.’ Samson was not tall, but built like a brick oven. He had a Bren gun in each hand.
‘Lovely,’ Jenkins said, slinging his Sten gun. ‘You know how to use one of these, lad?’ he asked Evans.
‘Yes, sarge.’
‘Sarge? Hark at him, and barely out of nappies. Take it then, boyo.’ He tossed one Bren gun to Evans, who staggered back as he caught it, and then took the other himself. ‘Let’s have some mags.’ The sergeant turned expectantly to Mark, who recognised the expression. This was the NCO’s ‘Sir, I am wording this as a suggestion, but we both know that it isn’t and that I’m right, and you’d be a bloody fool if you say no.’ ‘Reckon we might send one section up each hedge. We hang back and follow in the middle, with the two inch, these Brens and the PIAT. That way if they hit any group, the other two can cover them.’
‘Good idea.’ It was. ‘Just what I was thinking of doing.’
Within ten minutes they were ready to go. Five minutes later everyone hugged the dirt as mortar rounds went off in the field. When the smoke cleared, they began to go forward again, until machine guns started to scythe through the long grass. It was not closely aimed, but sweeping fire that meant that getting hit or being safe was largely a matter of chance. From then on, they crawled, inch by inch, and clung to the earth for dear life whenever the bullets came close.
A carrier appeared, racing towards them from where they thought B Company was. Mark stuck his head up and saw the little vehicle flung onto its side by a hit. It began to burn. None of the men inside were moving. Then a burst of machine gun fire flicked aside the grass just ahead of him and he pressed his face to the ground.
10.50 hrs, A Company
British shells sailed overhead and burst out of sight, behind the spur in front of their position. Over to the left, a couple of panzers stood amid the corn and sprayed what was left of A Company with machine gun fire, adding a shell whenever the mood took them. There were more panzers beyond them, part of the hammer blow that had pushed some of the Scottish Borderers back. Others were surrounded, clinging on somehow or other. On the other side a single Panther now and then drove up over the crest, shot for a bit and then reversed out of sight. British tanks fired at it each time, which was why it did not stay, but so far had failed to persuade it not to come back.
There was no contact with B Company and the line back to HQ had been cut so that the field telephone was useless, while the wireless set was riddled with shrapnel so also US.2 The only link was the RA captain’s set, so messages to Battalion had to be relayed and took time to get there and back. Not that anyone minded, for only the barrages had stopped the Germans – so far at least. There were plenty of Germans behind the forward hedge and the crest, just out of sight, and no doubt plotting mischief.
Judd had yet to fire, but found himself nervously emptying a magazine and then reloading the bullets one by one. They had seen scarcely any Germans, but had been pounded again and again by mortars, by shells, by the Moaning Minnies, and skimmed over by bullets. Both the six-pounders had been destroyed. Seven Platoon had been on the front left of the position, until the Germans overwhelmed them. They were now back in the rear; at least a lance corporal and five men called 7 Platoon were digging desperately at the far end of the field. Eight Platoon had vanished – killed, captured or managed to escape, no one really knew.
A salvo from medium artillery burst in the air, the big jagged lumps of the shells raining down. O’Connor grunted and was staring at his left arm, because the hand had been cut off and was dangling by a thin strip of skin.
‘I’m hit,’ he said. Judd had noticed that men nearly always said that when they were wounded. It did not sound real, was not what he had expected, but that was what they did. He tied off the wound.
‘Better get back, mate,’ Griffiths said, and they helped O’Connor out of the trench and watched as he half jogged, half staggered back past Company HQ. Judd held his breath, fearing another batch of shells, but they did not come and O’Connor disappeared from sight.
A moment later, Spandaus began to rake their position, two from the right and another from the left, with the panzers adding their fire. Judd cowered against the side of the trench, hearing the rounds snap by above him. Men were shouting, a strange unrecognisable cry and the machine guns at last relented. Grenades went off, one close to them, but somehow Judd forced himself to crouch and took hold of the Bren. There were a dozen or more men rushing at them from the front, firing sub machine guns or throwing stick grenades.
The Bren hammered out. Judd stopped, shifted aim, squeezed the trigger again. Griffiths’ Sten gave its high pitched clatter and others were shooting. The men in their camouflaged smocks and helmets began to tumble and fall.
‘Look out, Judd. Watch the left!’ Buchanan’s voice carried over the confusion and shooting. Judd glanced left, saw five men coming from that side. He hefted the Bren, brought it to his shoulder rather than steadying the bipod, put three bullets into the leader, who fell, but the man behind was shooting, the bullets flying wide. Someone grunted, and the German was heading straight for him, only a few yards away, his mouth open as he screamed. He seemed to be ten foot tall and built like Goliath.
The Bren had pulled up because he had struggled to hold it when it fired. Judd took just an instant, which seemed to him like an age, and steadied himself, and aimed before he shot again. Bullets were going past. A bright red mushroom sprouted on the SS man’s smock, then another and another. The man’s arms waved as if in spasm, but he kept running and screaming. More bullets struck, tearing at the man’s body, but still he came on.
Judd saw the man come at him, flying through the air, landing on top and knocking him down onto the floor of the trench. There was the bang of a grenade, very close, and Judd’s ears were ringing. His face was covered in blood, his tunic wet and stinking.
The German did not move.
‘Help me!’ Judd called out to Griffiths. There was no answer.
He struggled to push the German off, but the man’s dead weight pressed down and he could not shift the body. The firing slackened and then died away. No one was shouting anymore.
‘Come on, mate, get him off me,’ Judd begged. No one replied and he lay there, unable to move.
After a while, someone began to lift the dead SS man. Judd pushed, felt the body moving, so rolled it to the side so that he could just squeeze out, his back pressed against the side of the trench.
‘My, he’s a big son of bitch,’ Buchanan said. Once Judd had got his breath back and could move more easily, they somehow managed to lift the corpse and tip him out onto the grass.
Griffiths sat at the far end of the slit trench. A hole that seemed tiny and unimpressive was in the centre of his forehead and his eyes stared at whatever the dead stared at. There was not much blood, whereas Judd was bathed in it, like a butcher in a slaughterhouse.
‘Well, we held them,’ Buchanan said.
11.55 hrs, in support of D Company
James felt naked out in the open. None of the shells were landing close at the moment, but there were enough craters to show that this could easily change. He beckoned to Whitefield and walked backwards, guiding him. There was just a narrow patch of field where they ought to be out of sight of any of the German tanks. Behind Whitefield came Martin, with Dove bringing up the rear. James had not wanted the Firefly to hang back so had put it in the middle.
This was it. He held up his hands, and once the Sherman stopped, he clambered up the front and got into the turret.
‘Baker Three to Three Able and Charlie. We’re in dead ground here, but once we’re past that tree they can see us. The Jerries are putting in another attack. There are twelve to fifteen hornets at seven hundred yards on our left, but they don’t know we’re here. So, we go fast. When I stop and turn left, you do the same. We’ll be right on their flank. Give ’em five rounds of AP, and then clear off as fast as we can. Understood?’
The two sergeants acknowledged.
‘Driver, advance, fast as you can.’
‘Right, boss.’
‘For what we are about to receive,’ Thomson intoned.
The Sherman bumped as it raced at a good thirty miles an hour across the field. Whitefield always seemed able to coax the engines to give just a little more.
‘Now, hard left!’ Hector II slewed around.
‘Shit,’ Collins whispered, even though he had been told what to expect. At least a squadron’s worth of Panthers were rolling forward to attack the Glamorgans. Yet for all his shock, he went mechanically about his task, training the gun even before James gave the fire orders. He stamped on the co-ax button and tracer winged its way towards one of the closest German tanks. It fell short, so he adjusted and once it was on the panzer he stamped the other button and the 75mm crashed out. Martin and the Charlie tank fired at the same moment, Dove slightly later.
James was counting in his head, and each shot felt like it took an age. The Germans were reacting, spreading out, some stopping, some turning the whole tank or just the turret towards the new threat. One was quicker off the mark than the rest and James watched as the high wheat parted in the wake of the speeding shell, which drove into the earth and sent up a spray of dirt about twenty yards in front of them.
Collins fired the fifth shot.
‘Driver, hard left and get us out of here!’
Another AP round came at them, its glowing tip passing in between Martin’s Firefly and James’ Sherman. Then they were back out of sight.
‘Skipper,’ Whitefield began. ‘I may have to warn you that that sort of thing is against the rules of the Drivers, Co-Drivers and Associated Workers’ Union.’
‘Thanks, I’ll bear it in mind.’
Sergeant Dove interrupted negotiations. ‘Three Able to Baker Three, permission to stay here. I think I can do some good, over.’
James hesitated before replying. Officers were supposed to be decisive and have all the answers, but he needed a moment.
‘Baker Three to Three Able, please repeat request, over.’
‘Three Able to Three Baker. Request permission to stay here. I can nip forward now and then and make life hard for them, over.’
‘Permission granted, Three Able. But come when I call, we may need you. … And watch out. Not sure they’ll fall for it again, out.’
12.15 hrs, A Company’s position in the five sided field
‘Now that is an Uncle Target,’ Buchanan said, his voice full of admiration. There was smoke rising in the distance, a sign of the deluge of big shells from the entire artillery of an Army Corps all coming down at once. They were hammering the German assembly areas and that was good, but not likely to give a quick result.
‘Do you miss being a Gunner, sir?’ Judd asked. His Platoon commander had stayed with him in the slit trench, because he ‘might as well be here as anywhere else’. They had lifted Griffiths out, with considerably more respect than the German, but they had done it to give themselves space.
‘That’s an odd question, son. … No, no, it’s not out of place. Just odd. Like, shouldn’t you be an officer?’
‘The Commissioning Board didn’t think so, sir. RTU.’ Judd chuckled at the memory – Returned to Unit did not seem to matter much now. ‘They didn’t like me saying no when they asked me whether I would always obey an order without question.’
‘Really, they feared you were a mutinous dog out to spread revolution!’
‘I said that it depended on the order. If someone told me to cover a doorway and shoot anyone who came out, and then a woman holding a baby appeared, of course I wouldn’t obey!’
‘Huh, Selection Boards.’
‘Are they better in Canada, sir?’
‘Coop’ Buchanan gave a slow smile. ‘Nope,’ he said.
‘Oh, you know about the nickname?’
‘Yup.’
‘And don’t mind?’
‘Some of the things officers get called are a lot worse. I served under a major known as Dickhead Dickens. ’Sides, I like Gary Cooper.’ The lieutenant fished out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Judd, who shook his head. ‘No? Good for you. … You got a girl, Judd? Know you don’t write to one.’
‘No, not really.’ Judd thought of Anne, of the handful of nights out, the few eager fumblings, where her eagerness wore off a lot faster than his and she made things very clear. Beautiful woman though – and maybe the smartest person he had ever met. ‘No. One day, I hope. If we…’ There was no point finishing the sentence.
‘Yup.’ Buchanan was silent for a while, enjoying his smoke. His eyes never stopped moving, although it did not take long to take in the tiny position held by 9 Platoon. ‘You should have a family. Kids are just… well, they make everything have a point to it. Work, even the War, I guess.’ He fished inside his tunic and produced a photograph of his wife and three children, one a babe in arms.
‘Lovely children,’ Judd said after looking for a moment. Most children looked alike to him, and these glared at the camera. ‘And your wife is very beautiful.’ That was not a lie, for she had dark eyes and a lively expression rare in photographs.
‘Hey, you find your own girl!’ Buchanan accepted the picture back, stared with fond reverence for a moment, and then stored it with great care. ‘We want more kids one day. Maybe six or seven, even ten.’ He sniffed. ‘I guess Rosie does all the work, but she’s as keen as I am.’ He noticed Judd’s expression. ‘Yes, my wife’s name is Rosemary and, yes, I used to be a Mountie. Will go back too – afterwards. But no, neither of us can sing worth a damn and her family is Irish not Indian.’
‘You’re very lucky, sir.’
‘Coop’ smiled. ‘Yup,’ he said.
A surge of mortar bombs made them hunch down. It was followed by tank engines, getting closer every moment. There were five Panthers driving past to their left, turret tops just visible over the hedge, dust spuming up from their wide tracks.
Then the Panthers turned and came at them. Up close their long guns reached over the hedge.
The PIAT team set up, launched a bomb which went off in the hedge without reaching the tank’s thick armour. A moment later machine gun bullets smashed the gunner’s face and spun his loader around. With a great flash a 75mm shell followed, the explosion ripping the men apart.
Another tank halted at the hedge, the gun depressed and it fired at such close range that the sounds merged into one. Three men from the forward section died in a moment as the HE went off inside their slit trench.
Buchanan had a smoke grenade and threw it. Holdworth was shouting, had another grenade in his hand, until he vanished as the shell scoured out their trench, pulverising the sergeant and the runner who was beside him. One moment they were there and the next they were gone.
‘Get back!’ Buchanan yelled at what was left of 9 Platoon. ‘Back to the trees!’
Judd hesitated, not sure whether he was supposed to stay with the officer or let him go first.
‘Goddammit, run!’ ‘Coop’ shouted and pulled himself out of the trench.
Judd did not have his pack and did not stop to retrieve it. He grabbed Bessie the Bren, hauled the gun round and threw it out of the back of the trench. Then he climbed out and ran, grabbing the gun by its handle as he went, and ran on, the gun’s butt bouncing against the grass. A shell exploded to his left, showering him with earth, the blast making him lurch sideways, and he dropped the Bren. Machine gun bullets, led by green tracer, flew towards him and he yelped like a child and ducked down, almost falling back into a trench again.
Judd ran. He did not look back, he certainly did not go back, and not enough of his mind was working to zigzag. Men he knew were running with him, in front, alongside and behind and no one even glanced at each other. They all sprinted, eyes wild, mouths open to gulp for air, aware of nothing save their terror and the drive to flee. Few still had weapons, none their small packs, and a fair few undid their belts and tried to pull off their webbing and pouches.
