Hill 112, p.5
Hill 112, page 5
Once they reported in and started to move, James continued. ‘Item, how is Sunray?’ The army’s odd codename for a commander seemed all the more incongruous at the moment.
There was hissing, garbled noise across the airwaves, before a Scottish voice answered. ‘Bad sir, really bad… Oh Christ, hold him, man.’
‘Do what you can, out.’
There were no more shots, no sign of other enemies, and James had to wonder at the courage or folly of a lone soldier willing to take on eight tanks with just his rifle.
James waited and nothing more happened. Still, they could not be sure. ‘Pass me the Sten and a couple of grenades,’ he said over the intercom. ‘Collins, you do the same. Co-driver, come up and take over the seventy-five.’ He was about to order some of the other crews to dismount when he saw a corporal climb out of one of the Stuarts, sub machine gun in hand. Other men in the other Recce tanks were doing the same, and now that they were outside he could not reach them over the radio. Instead, he jumped out to join them, keeping the hull of the Sherman between him and the house. His back was already slick with sweat, for his clothes had dried out and having overalls on top of the battledress was proving to be very hot. He licked his lips, found himself touching the spot over his breast pocket, although since he had a Mills bomb in his hand he could not feel anything at all apart from the metal pressing against him.
Five minutes of cautious movement brought them to the front door of the house. Collins kicked it open; James jumped through, Sten gun ready, rather than a grenade, because he had made up his mind that there were no more enemies and feared that he might kill civilians. His boots crushed shattered glass from a window and the air was thick with dust. No one was in the hall or any of the rooms. Upstairs, in the remnants of a bedroom, was what was left of the German soldier, head missing, along with his right arm and most of his shoulder. Flies already buzzed over him, and over the blood spattered across the bed clothes.
‘We got the Jerry,’ Collins said nervously, his boot prodding at broken china on the bare floorboards. Next to it was a framed picture of a rather severe looking couple, neither smiling as they stared at the camera.
James had seen bombed out houses during the Blitz; the destruction, the chemical reek of explosives mingling with the musty smell of torn apart furniture and walls was all very familiar. Yet never before had he been responsible for smashing up someone’s home. It did not seem real even now.
‘Right, back to the tanks,’ he told Collins and the others. One of the Recce men was carrying a pillowcase stuffed with something or other, and James supposed that he ought to stop any looting, save that he knew that he would be a hypocrite after ordering Collins to shoot the house up. He did nothing, mainly because the realisation was at last coming home. With Symonds down, he was in charge.
Symonds was still alive, at least so far, but had lost a lot of blood and there was probably more coming out in spite of the two dressings they tied around his neck. James sent him back on the rear deck of his Honey, the loader cradling the captain in his arms, while the gunner took command and guided the driver. They went at high speed, for the Stuarts had an engine originally meant to power a fighter plane, and whatever else you could say about them they were fast. They vanished down the road, a plume of dust marking their progress, but at best it would be three or four miles before they were likely to find a dressing station, and they might have to go all the way back to the beach. Symonds had been so pale, unable to speak or move on his own, that it was hard to see him lasting.
‘Baker Three to all stations. Form up on me. Three Troop behind me and Item behind them. We had better push on.’ James felt that he ought to go first, although that was not what their training taught. He could sense how on edge everyone was. Symonds had seemed indestructible, and now he was gone, and their lives were all in the hands of a twenty-year-old subaltern. ‘Keep your eyes peeled, out.’
James had adjusted the commander’s seat so that he could sit and have just his head out of the hatch. Less, and it was hard to see. He had also fished his helmet out and put it on. It was designed to fit with headphones, but it was still heavy and uncomfortable. Glancing back, he noticed that several men were wearing them.
‘Driver, advance,’ he ordered Whitefield.
The Sun was lower in the sky, but this was June and the days were long. There were still pairs of fighters roaming around above them, but they seemed higher up now than earlier.
The tanks went steadily, slower than before. Even so their tracks still churned up plenty of dust from the unmetalled road.
19.55 hrs, Camp B43, Sussex
‘See you there, Billy?’ Griffiths asked.
Judd nodded. ‘Just want to finish my tea.’
There were in the NAAFI, and the hubbub of low conversation told of men contented after an ample dinner and copious amounts of tea. Say what you like about the Army – and given the opportunity most of them could say plenty – it fed you. One of Judd’s chief memories of the years before he had joined was of hunger – constant, insidious hunger. Soldiers ate better than civilians, at least in terms of quantity. There was not much flavour in powdered egg and whatever mysterious ingredients had gone into the pie they had had this evening, but there was plenty of it and the chips had been good. That was something even Army cooks could not mess up.
Judd felt full and he felt well. All in all, after over a year of training he was a little taller and certainly heavier, but the weight was all muscle. He doubted that he had ever been as fit in his life and he had always taken training seriously, whether for cricket, tennis or in later years boxing. The discovery that he had a good record at these things meant that the battalion had got him to play rugby, which he just about understood, as well as football and hockey, which he did not. Army logic was that if you were good at one sport, you must surely be good at everything else. He was not, but that did not seem to matter and he was still chosen no matter how badly he performed.
‘I’ll see you there,’ Griffiths said. ‘You’ve got twenty minutes. Don’t want to keep Rita waiting, do you?’
Judd smiled dutifully. The cinema was showing some new American musical, in colour no less. It was bound to be full of the sentimental songs that the rude and licentious soldiery lapped up – and it starred Rita Hayworth. What was it someone said preoccupied the British soldier: the ‘Three Fs’ of food, football and – if you wanted to be polite – females. ‘I’ll be along. Keep me a seat.’
The NAAFI was clearing, with most heading off to see the picture. Others were clustering in one corner, starting seriously on the beer, but they were still fairly quiet and for the moment the place was calm. Peace, quiet, and least of all solitude, were not something the Army was good at. Judd liked films, even if musicals were not his favourite, and even if all the cigarette smoke in the air would mean that everyone watched the screen through a haze. For the moment, if he tried hard, he could almost ignore the tobacco scent here in the NAAFI, and the tinny music in the background, and revel in as much quiet as he was likely to get. He cherished these moments.
‘Hullo, Judd.’ One of the staff was coming round to mop the tables. A short, plump woman who was always chattering away, Judd could not remember her name, although knew her by sight. ‘Did you hear about Evans? Mr Crawford’s batman in C Company?’ NAAFI staff got to know the troops on a base very quickly.
Judd shook his head.
‘Caught deserting… Poor kid. They shouldn’t call up weak little things like that. I mean, how’s he going to cope fighting the Germans? Couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag that one. And now he’s in… Oh, pardon me for living, I’m sure,’ she said as Judd sprang to his feet and turned away.
‘Sorry, lass. Just remembered I’m on guard,’ he lied.
‘I’ll forgive you this once.’ She gave him a wide grin. Her teeth were not a good colour. ‘Don’t you get put in jug as well!’ She laughed. ‘That’s good that is. Judd in jug!’
‘Send it in to ITMA,’ Judd suggested over his shoulder, boots echoing on the polished floor as he hurried away. He was worried, for a few weeks ago he and Evans had been left out in the wilds during an exercise, tasked with guarding a broken down carrier. That was an important task, for no doubt a black market in Bren gun carriers was thriving these days, but orders were orders, even though whoever had given the order had promptly forgotten about all them, so that it was not until the next day that someone showed up to relieve them. He had never met Evans before that, but with so much time inevitably they had talked a fair bit, and gradually the lad had opened up and told Judd things he had never told anyone else. He could not help thinking that this all might have something to do with some of the dark stories the boy had told.
There were clusters of soldiers chatting and smoking outside the NAAFI and Judd searched the faces for the right person.
‘Hey, Billy-boy, got a fag?’ Hutton from HQ Company was fond of the joke, as well as being someone who always seemed to know what was happening. He was perfect, and did not need any prompting.
‘What, no? Mean git. You heard about three seven four Evans? Tried to do a runner. Well, can’t blame him, what with the invasion. You must have heard that on the news? All those bombs, all those ships blasting the shore. Hell, someone could get hurt. Odd thing is he took a revolver with him and a dozen rounds.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to wait for us to be sent,’ someone suggested. ‘He’s off to call Hitler out.’ The man switched to what he felt was an American drawl. ‘See here, pardner, this here Berlin ain’t big enough for the both of us. Go for your iron.’ He mimicked a quick draw, his thumb coming down a few times as if his hand was a gun, then raised it and blew imaginary smoke away from the tip of his finger. ‘Evans, the fastest gun in the Valleys.’
Judd nodded and ignored their calls as he hurried off. He knew he was right, and the lad was not running from anyone, but had probably wanted to do the bravest and most terrible thing he could imagine.
Mark Crawford was a good friend, one of the best, and a decent fellow. He was also Evans’ platoon officer, and that was the point. Mark was an officer while Bill Judd was a humble private, although he had never really mastered the humble bit. Officers and other ranks, that was how the Army worked, with a divide almost as strong as a Hindu caste. In a sensible, reasonable world, he could just call on his old friend, explain what he knew and help Mark make sure that the authorities understood. Instead, this was the Army, and apart from that the world was busy tearing itself to shreds so could hardly qualify as sensible.
Proper procedure was to see 9 Platoon’s sergeant and request to see the officer, leading to an interview with the lieutenant, a request to see the Company Commander, and then eventually get permission to speak to Crawford in C Company. It would probably happen, for most of the men involved were sensible, and a soldier had his rights, but at best the process would only start in the morning and would take hours at the very least, especially as they were due to go on another route march. Judd wondered what to do, then saw a tall, stately figure striding across the track ahead of him.
Judd worried about a lot of things, and one of them was whether or not he would be brave when the time came, and whether he would let anyone down. Even at nineteen, childhood dreams of heroism struck him now as thin and unlikely. Yet somehow he walked forward, stiffened his shoulders and turned the walk into a march, before halting and coming to attention.
‘Permission to speak, sir.’ Judd was a praying man, at least at times during his life, but this was akin to slapping the Divinity on the shoulder with a hearty, ‘How are you, me old mucker!’
The Regimental Sergeant Major stopped and stared at him. There was a faint trace of surprise and perhaps a raised eyebrow, which was more emotion than RSM Roach usually displayed.
This was madness, pure madness, and Judd knew that he was quivering as he stayed to attention, the muscles in his thighs twitching. He noticed Griffiths and a couple of others from the section off in the shadow beside a Nissen hut. Their mouths were hanging open.
‘Well, Judd, what have you got to say?’ Roach rarely spoke very loudly, though his shout was believed to carry for miles and be capable of uprooting trees.
Judd tried to answer. His mouth was dry, his tongue like sandpaper. ‘Yes, sir,’ he croaked, fully expecting to be put on a charge or at least told that if he had nothing better to do with his time then the sergeant major would soon find something for him. He had visions of a blunt knife and a mountain of potatoes, or a little flannel and orders to clean the latrines.
‘Out with it, lad.’
‘Sir, it’s about Evans, sir. Three seven four Evans, sir. I think I know what this is about. Please, sir, it’s important, sir. It’s not what everyone thinks.’ He was on the edge of hysteria, picturing his younger self in the headmaster’s study. ‘He’s not running, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘No, sir. He just wants to shoot his father.’
The eyebrow went up a fraction of an inch.
‘Come with me, lad, but first, straighten your ruddy hat! Now then, forward march, left, right, left, right, get those arms up – who do you think you’re waving to!’
21.50 hrs, inland from GOLD Beach
The sky to the west was a blaze of reds and golds as the Sun started to set. Soon it would be dark, although they were not so far from home that this would happen too quickly and instead the light would fade gradually. James could not remember for certain, but he thought that there was no Moon tonight.
Tanks were not supposed to operate in the dark. In the daytime it was hard enough to see out, even with the hatches open. At night it was impossible, and at the same time the tanks were big shadows, easy for anyone on foot to spot against the sky. They were vulnerable, terribly vulnerable to infantry with bazookas or bold enough to climb up and drop a grenade into a hatch.
Their little force had not reached its objective. No, that was not quite fair, for James was in charge and he had decided not to try. As he led the column, they had come to a rise and just as his Sherman was breasting it, there was a snap in the air above his head as something steamed past at high speed. Bullets were pattering against the gun mantlet and just ahead of him.
‘Driver, reverse,’ he barked as he ducked his head down, and only then did he hear the boom of the gun and the mad, tearing sound of machine guns. Whitefield must have sensed the order before he spoke, because he shifted straight into reverse and they went back. Thankfully, everyone was keeping to proper distances, so there was plenty of space behind them. In seconds the Sherman was back behind the low rise, and James could no longer see the wooded hill half a mile to the north of the road. There was an anti-tank gun up there, along with infantry, and he was lucky that the enemy had fired too soon because, if they had waited, they would have had a much better target.
Luck only went so far. The other LCT had carried an observation tank, with powerful radios so that the Royal Artillery officer riding in it could call in the batteries, but it had not got ashore after the collision. He had no other link with the gunners, let alone the ships’ guns, who could easily have pulverised the wood where the enemy were positioned. There were fighters overhead, fewer now that the day was ending, and none appeared to have seen the ambush. If they had had infantry with them, as had been the plan, then he reckoned that there was a good chance that they could have cleared the ridge. Without them it was hopeless, little more than suicide.
James gave up on the objective. He had no idea whether or not the Canadians had got there to meet them, for no one had thought to give them a common frequency on the radios. Hopefully they were not left out on a limb by his failure to rendezvous with them.
They pulled back a few hundred yards to a walled orchard, and spread the tanks out so that they formed a box, guns over the top of the old stone wall. The Germans had not followed them, not yet at least, and did not seem to have mortars or guns on call. One man from each crew went outside to act as sentry, doing a two-hour stag7 before being relieved. Another was given a turn to sleep, while the rest sat in their positions inside the tanks, waiting in case of attack. It was going to be a long and nervous night.
His own Sherman was in the corner of the orchard closest to the enemy, overlooking a paddock where five mares were grazing and rolling in the dust. As dusk was falling, another horse appeared from somewhere, a stallion.
‘He’s a big ’un,’ Whitefield commented. ‘Probably a bit slow, but might be decent over the sticks.’ James suspected that the Londoner could not tell one horse from another, let alone mare from stallion.
Collins was trying to sleep in the driver’s position, Albright was on guard outside, so Whitefield had come up to man the gun with the co-driver, Miller, as loader.
As they watched, the stallion proceeded to mount each of the mares in turn, and, apart from murmurs of wonder and admiration, Whitefield said little.
‘Like a Yank in Piccadilly after dark,’ he said when all was over.
It was a strange way to close the first night of the invasion. Later, with the night, came German bombers, or at least so James had to assume. Behind them, the darkness over GOLD Beach was filled with tracer arcing up into the sky. There was no way of telling how many bombers there were, whether they hit anything, or if any were brought down. Still, it was a more colourful and restrained display than the morning’s barrage.
1 Two hours ahead of Greenwich Mean Time.
2 A Landing Ship Tank was capable of carrying some 500 tons of vehicles and equipment and landing them directly onto a beach.
3 Royal Armoured Corps.
4 Landing Craft Assault were small and designed to carry the three dozen or so men of an infantry platoon.
