Reckoning, p.14
Reckoning, page 14
part #1 of The Scottsdale Series
“I do, sir,” Grant said. “No time like the present.”
“Precisely. So let’s do it by killing some of these bastards, ok? Prepare those mines. The rest of you, fall in and wait.”
He turned to Davenport. The man was rock steady and that was what was needed now. Gripping his arm, Scottsdale gave him his instructions. “Remember the abandoned farmhouse we came to after the woods? Take the French and go there; don’t stop for anything. We’re going to hold the Germans up. Understood?”
“Yes, sir. How long should I wait?”
Scottsdale had been thinking of this. Part of him wanted to send the French ahead to the canal but he was reluctant to let them go completely. “Give us an hour. If we’re not back, make for the canal.”
“And if the worst should happen?” Helene asked softly.
“If the worst happens, then run," Scottsdale replied vehemently. "Run and hide. Listen to Davenport. Get across that canal and if you can’t, go south, anywhere away from those bastards over there.” He felt an overpowering need to embrace her, to feel her against him just once but he savagely thrust aside the impulse. It laid a further goad to his rising anger; anger at how tired he was, anger at Griffin and anger at the Germans. But just for a moment they had the advantage – he knew the Germans were coming and where they were coming. He had the men and the will to inflict pain and he relished the idea. Looking at the faces of the section, he saw his determination reflected; they were ready too. It was time to stop running.
13
“I want two fire positions, in those two houses.” The houses stood at the junction with the road that came from the east. “Aim for the drivers first, follow with grenades. Two groups. Sergeant Grant, your group take the second truck. My group take the lead truck. Questions?” The men were silent, a few nods as they looked intently at Scottsdale. “Good. The key here is to hit hard and move, no hanging about. Fire and manoeuvre. We keep drawing them back towards the square and away from the canal. That’s what will give the French the time to get clear.” He looked at Grant. “Are we ready at the square?”
“All set, sir,” Grant confirmed.
“Good. I want to give them such a bloody nose that they back off,” Scottsdale continued. “That’s our chance; if we hit them hard enough it will give us a fighting chance of slipping away too.” In truth, he wasn’t sure how practical a plan that was, but it was all he had. “Now, let’s go, quickly now.”
They hurried into position, throwing glances towards the growing dust trail that was fast approaching. Scottsdale watched the civilians disappearing before joining the men; he prayed they would be reunited. Sergeant Grant led his group across the road while Scottsdale and his group battered down the door to their house, cautiously entering a living room that overlooked the road. It was a cramped space, tables, chairs and stools squashed together. A large fireplace dominated one wall and a grainy picture of a family posing proudly was propped on a rudimentary mantelpiece. Briefly, he flicked the button on the large wireless set that sat on a table, but no sound came. A circle of black dust surrounded the large coal bucket propped up next a small woodpile. Scottsdale moved through into a small kitchen at the back, pausing briefly to look upstairs; nothing stirred, and he gave the place a cursory look over. At the back was a small kitchen with a view over the garden. He opened the back door which gave out onto a neatly planted patch of vegetables and flowers. At the bottom a path ran back to the road through the village. Glancing back over this shoulder to check where the men were, he quickly took the opportunity to relieve himself, wondering again at the body’s reaction to impending combat.
Back inside, he saw the men were making ready, knocking through the front windows and constructing places to site their weapons. Anyone glancing in their direction would be unlikely to see them in the shadows and, if they were seen, Scottsdale hoped it would be too late. Following suit, he settled down and sighted down his rifle, feeling the comforting solidity of the butt against his cheek. Steadying his breathing, his gaze travelled down the road, imagining the trucks coming into view. Lifting his head, he looked across the road, noting that Grant and his men were out of sight. Their signal would be Scottsdale’s men opening fire.
They didn’t have long to wait. Scottsdale’s pulse leapt as a truck crawled into view. Beside him Marsh shifted, cocking the Bren gun that was cradled into his shoulder. Dalton carefully arranged a couple of spare magazines on the floor and then unslung his own rifle. Scottsdale licked his lips and focused on slowing his breathing, ignoring the now familiar taint of nausea and adrenalin that greeted the enemy. No matter how prepared he was, it was always there, clutching at his gut. Yet he had learnt that alongside it was the driving, elemental force of combat that flushed his system and allowed him to operate; the imminent intensity of a life and death struggle, the need to take life to survive, buried the terrible fear. And whilst the time that now ticked by felt endless, he knew, too, that it would later resolve into the smallest of sequences and minutes.
He stared intently down the road as the sickly cough of the engine grew louder. The blunt nose of the truck crawled towards them, a thousand yards away. Scottsdale gritted his teeth; now he wanted it to close quickly so they could act. The faintest tremor shook his hand and he instinctively clenched his fist. He could make out figures in the lead truck, the first targets. Without taking his eyes from it, he gave his final instructions. “Remember, Marsh and I target the driver. Everyone else on the truck itself.”
“Yes, sir,” Marsh replied, his voice tight.
Scottsdale shifted to stop his leg shaking and squinted at the truck. It was taking forever. He looked away and back to the truck. Without question, it was slowing to a halt. He felt the first flickering of alarm. “What the hell is he doing?”
***
Schiller tapped his knee repeatedly, craning forward to peer through the dirty windscreen. “Come on, let’s get a move on!” he snapped at the driver. He’d torn through the chateau earlier, rousting the men onto the trucks but their progress had felt painfully slow. The trucks were requisitioned, and he chafed at their lack of speed; away from the main arteries it was quieter but also much slower going on the rough roads. They’d stopped to ask several German units if they’d seen or heard any small groups but had only been met with blank looks. The idea that the British would slip through his fingers was tormenting him. Their escape was a personal affront and the mission was becoming less important than the need for him to purge this stain to his competence by recapturing – or killing – Scottsdale.
He had ordered them to use Annay as the base for their search as it was nearby the woods where the dead sentry had been found. They would form a picket line and hope to scoop up the British as they tried to cross, using small parties to flush them out. He had given serious consideration to interrogating the local population, but he didn’t have the men to do a proper search. If he had gotten this wrong then the British would escape, but he prayed fervently that in short order they would recapture the French and Scottsdale would be dead.
Rademacher noticed his restlessness. “They can’t be far away,” he said.
Schiller’s instinct was to ignore him, but he relented; there was little point in antagonising a man with Rademacher’s connections. “I don’t doubt it, but the problem is if I’ve read this wrong. They could be further away or even crossed over by now.”
“It would not go well for either of us if that were the case.”
“I understand that all too well, Herr Doktor.”
“Good. I have too much riding on this to accept failure. We must end this.”
“We will, but I want to make sure this is done right this time.”
“I thought you were happy we have enough men to deal with this?”
“I am, but it’s not just a question of numbers. A few men can quickly even that up.”
Rademacher raised his eyebrows in surprise. “After our previous conversation, I’m surprised at your timidity.” He gestured through the windshield. “Regardless, we’ve almost arrived.”
Biting back his anger, Schiller peered forward towards Annay. He frowned. Casualties didn’t concern him particularly, but other than the main road this was the only route into Annay, making it a perfect site for an ambush. Moving at speed into unreconnoitred land chafed against his military instincts; he knew how swiftly panic could spread. They’d already suffered casualties and rushing headlong into the village risked further losses they could ill afford. Military good sense didn’t end regardless of the rage he felt. “We have to stop,” he said aloud, not to anyone specifically but to confirm the decision he had just made.
“Stop?” Rademacher queried.
“Yes.” Schiller leant over to the driver. “Stop the truck! Now!” The driver bought the truck to a shuddering halt, shunting them forward and back. Schiller gave him a murderous look before jumping down, cutting off Rademacher’s questions with a curt, “Wait here.” He strode to the back of the truck where Scharführer Schultz threw up a smart salute.
“Orders, sir?”
Schiller had been considering this. “We need to scout the village, but fast. There’s no time for a proper reconnaissance so get a couple of men and send them up the road. Got it?”
Schultz snapped out orders and two men jumped down. Moving gingerly, they set off down the road in short, sharp bursts, pausing in doorways and behind cars for shelter. Schiller watched them, understanding their fear. They were being sent forward, exposed and hemmed in, to trigger a trap. If the enemy were here, they were dead men; if not, they would live. On such a chance the two soldiers now sweated, desperately trying to sense any danger ahead of them. Schiller felt no pity; this had to be done and done it would be.
The crack of a rifle shattered the morning stillness. Schiller felt a grim satisfaction at being proven correct. “Down from the trucks!” he roared, and the rest of the men leapt down from the trucks. Bullets were zipping past them, but it was at an extreme distance and he roughly yanked one soldier upright who had taken shelter. “Get up!” he roared, pulling the man forward. Looking back to the road, he noted that the two soldiers had nearly reached the junction before they’d been shot down. They lay in the road, arms outstretched, and he surmised that the British were waiting there. “Spread out,” he ordered. “Schultz, your men down the road, the rest of you round the flanks.” The British may fall back now their trap had been sprung but he felt a fierce exhilaration; they were here, that was all that mattered. He had found them and now he would finish this and bury Lieutenant Arthur Scottsdale.
***
Scottsdale cursed as he saw the two soldiers cautiously moving toward them. He gnawed his lip, considering the idea of falling further back as he was eager to use the slim advantage that surprise gave them. Yet there was a risk in doing so; the Germans could turn right at the junction towards the canal and the civilians and that was unacceptable. Their only job now was to lure the Germans toward them and away from the French. They were the flame and Schiller was the moth that had to be burnt. In doing so, they may well extinguish their own light, but it would have meaning and that gave him heart. So he would trigger the trap and bring the German fury onto them.
“Wilkins, you’re on the second soldier,” he instructed. “Marsh, when we fire, start targeting those trucks.” They nodded, and Scottsdale turned his attention to Sergeant Grant and his group across the road. Now the Germans had sent a reconnaissance party forward, Scottsdale would fire and then pull back immediately; he needed Grant to be right behind him so, carefully, he rose to his feet and went to the window and waved across the road. With relief, he saw Grant materialise. Through a quick mime, Scottsdale managed to convey his plan. With a final thumbs up, Grant disappeared and Scottsdale resumed his kneeling position, looking down the road.
Very carefully he lined up his rifle on the leading German, resting the rifle barrel on the window sill. He gently brushed off the broken glass that fell to the floor with a tinkle. The sun had risen higher and was sending its warm light into the soldier’s face. So much the better, Scottsdale thought. Beside him, Wilkins shifted his weight, his breathing audible. The Germans were closing, only a hundred yards away. In the distance the trucks stood waiting. Everyone was waiting, holding their breath, to find out the judgement on the two men. Scottsdale felt their fear and understood it. Such was the pitiless logic of war; sacrifice two to save more.
He aimed at a point just above the man’s belt and briefly thought of Major Carter. God would not save this man today. Gently, he squeezed the trigger, feeling the kick in his shoulder. Several birds were startled and flapped away, squawking their protest. A moment later Wilkins fired too, joined by the chatter of the Bren as Marsh opened up. Scottsdale looked up to see the first German slump to his knees, holding his stomach, before toppling forward, helmet spilling into the road. His comrade across the road joined him, cut down by Wilkins. Down the road, Marsh snapped out bursts at the trucks which, ant like, had sprung into life, men pouring out of them and beginning to hop forward. It was enough. Scottsdale stood and waved to Grant, who emerged and sprinted across the road with his group. Puffs of dirt dotted the road as the Germans returned fire and bullets smacked into the house, but they all made it inside safely across.
“Time to leave, gentlemen,” Scottsdale said and led the way into the garden, following the path he’d noted earlier back to the village square. A glance to his left showed the coal scuttle helmets of the German infantry working their way through the fields behind the road and a faint shout went up. Immediately, rifle fire spat towards them but, keeping low, they emerged onto the road and jogged back towards the square which lay off the road. As they neared, Scottsdale slowed and held up his hand, beckoning Grant to him.
“Show us the way, Sergeant,” Scottsdale said. “And I suggest everyone pay attention, otherwise they’ll be losing a leg shortly.”
Grant led them forward. He had laid several mines in and around the entrance to the square, marking them with stones which he now removed. If even one of them went off it would give the Germans pause for thought. The square itself was a rough oval shape, with houses crowding around most of it before opening out onto the fields behind Annay. A general store, shabby café and bakery sat alongside the town hall, a faded tricolour lying limp on its front. It seemed deserted, but Scottsdale expected that, and he led them towards one of the larger houses at the far end of the square. It gave a good view of the entrance and at least backed onto the fields that led towards the woods, giving them an outside chance of escape; a chance that would depend on their wits and a lot of luck.
Scottsdale gestured to the door and Marsh nodded, handing off his Bren. He took a breath and crashed a heavy boot into the door which gave readily. Moving inside, it took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. Levingston had moved furthest when a sudden furious flapping of feathers and alarmed squawks of a pair of chickens assailed him. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, waving the animals off. Just as he had gotten control of the chickens, he was faced with a pair of frightened faces. “Civilians, sir,” he called out and Scottsdale strode through.
“Get out!” he snarled. He couldn’t afford to be polite, the civilian’s lives depended on it. “Allez vite! Pendle show them the door, now.”
“Our chickens, Monsieur,” the man said imploringly as he was ushered towards the door.
Looking around, Scottsdale saw Marsh had a firm grip of the birds. “Give the man his chickens.”
Marsh shifted. “Seems like we may need them more, sir, if -”
“God dammit, Marsh, don’t argue with me!” Scottsdale shouted and yanked the chickens out of his hand. He ushered the Frenchman out and told him to run fast and far. “Now, let’s get this place ready. Levingston, Wilkins, upstairs. If you see any Germans, don’t wait, shoot them.” He turned to the rest of their group. “Marsh, Dalton, get the Bren sited, rest of you find a vantage point. Go.”
Levingston and Wilkins clattered upstairs; the tinkle of glass from broken windows was almost immediately replaced by the sharp report of a rifle. Scottsdale went to the bottom of the stairs, shouting up. “What can you see?”
“Coming in through the fields and gardens behind the houses across the road, sir!” Wilkins shouted back. The crack of the rifle rang out again. “Loose order, a platoon looks like. We’re keeping their heads down.”
Scottsdale went back to the living room. If the Germans were still coming it meant they thought that Scottsdale had the French – and meant the Germans hadn’t found them. That part of the plan at least seemed to be working.
A shout sounded from the front and he hurried into the living room. “Company, sir,” Pendle said. Scottsdale peered out of the window. He couldn’t see anything and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Just saw one of ‘em pop his head round then withdraw it sharpish,” Pendle explained. “And I definitely heard trucks, so I reckon they’ve brought the rest of the blighters up.”
“Good. If you see them, give them hell.”
Pendle spat out the window. “Right you are, sir.” He paused. “Could murder a brew though.”
Scottsdale smiled. “You and I both, Private.” Patting him on the shoulder, he conferred with Grant who had found some bread. Scottsdale took the proffered offering. “Thank you, Sergeant. Get whatever you can.”
“Will do, sir.” Grant scratched his chin. “They don’t appear in any hurry, do they?”
Scottsdale had been pondering this too. “No and when I wonder why I don’t like any of the answers.”
“Nor do I.”
“Whatever the reason, we need to be ready. What’s out the back?”
“Gardens, sir, either side. Looks like an orchard behind and then fields all the way to the woods.”
“That’s our fall back then. And we can’t wait too long, or they’ll surround us. So be ready on my signal. We’ll hold them here as long as we can and then we’re gone.”
