Reckoning, p.21
Reckoning, page 21
part #1 of The Scottsdale Series
Scratching his face, Scottsdale went in search of clean water, but a shout interrupted his search. “Officers to report!” Grimacing, he crammed his cap on and jogged over to the convent that served as battalion headquarters where the rest of the officers had gathered.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Major Carter boomed. “Why a good one I hear you ask? A bloody good question! We are surrounded by the enemy; our backs are to the sea and the food around here is execrable!” There were a few rumbles of laughter. “But that’s fine by me. We’re a fighting regiment and twenty odd years ago our fathers were killing Germans here and by God, we’re going to do the same.”
He paused to take out a cigarette, patting his pockets before Captain Revie came forward and proffered a lighter. “Obliged to you, John,” Carter said. “Now, just south of here, the 2nd Division has been fighting hard to hold back the Germans. The Norfolks and the Royal Scots in particular have been in the thick of it, and intelligence says that they’ve come up against several armoured divisions, including the SS-Totenkopf, a ruthless bunch of bastards by all accounts. Their sacrifice is keeping the corridor to Dunkirk open so it’s absolutely vital work. Today they need our help.” Carter moved to a board that displayed a large map of the area.
“We are here,” he said, indicating La Doulieu. “And the enemy have had the bad manners to reach as far as Estaires, here. Between us is Vierhourt, which is the main jumping off point for the roads to the coast and into the rear of our forces. We can’t allow them to take it.” He grinned. “Now, even the dimmest amongst you will have noted that it isn’t far from here. They must be stopped and it’s up to us to do it.”
A muted rumble of conversation broke out at the news. “Gentlemen!” Carter said, raising his arms for quiet. “Specifically, we will occupy the crossroads at Vierhourt, setting up a blocking force and denying it to the enemy.” He turned to point at Captain Revie. “John, C Company will lead on this. You’ll have a couple of platoons from B Company to make up your numbers. It’s incredibly important we do this. If the Germans get through, then they’ll roll right up the backsides of the BEF; and I’m sure you’ll agree that isn’t fun for anyone.”
“Is there a chance the Germans will simply bypass the town, sir?” asked an officer, also airing the widespread fear that they would be surrounded and cut off.
“Unlikely. Although they’ve shown that tactically they want to avoid getting bogged down, they need possession of Vierhourt for their armour. It’s the roads, you see. That’s their best chance of stopping us getting out at Dunkirk.”
McDonald raised a hand. “Who’s in the town now, sir?”
“No idea,” Carter said brusquely. “There are lost units everywhere, so there may even be some friendly forces around. However, if the enemy are there, we are to expel them. If not, to fortify it.”
“Are we expecting tanks, sir?”
“Oh I should think so. Intelligence – if we can grace them with that description – says the 3rd Panzer Division and SS-Totenkopf are concentrated locally, so yes, absolutely.”
“Can we expect any gun support?”
“Yes, we’ve got some of the Norfolk Yeomanry and their guns. Not as many as I want, but it’s better than nothing.” Scottsdale and McDonald shared a look. Any anti-tank guns would be priceless in stopping an armoured German thrust.
Carter’s tone became serious. “Listen, this isn’t the best party we’ve ever been invited to. We’ll be outnumbered and quite probably out gunned. But it’s one I wouldn’t miss for all the tea in China.”
“Easy for him to say,” McDonald muttered to Scottsdale.
“What’s that, Jock?” Carter enquired.
“I said I can’t wait, sir,” McDonald said, raising his voice.
Carter joined in the chuckling. “Spoken like a true Scotsman! We’ve got an important job to do and I’m sure you’ll all be up to the mark.” He smacked his palm for emphasis. “The enemy presses forward on every side so we must buy time to withdraw. If it comes to it, I expect every man to fight to the last round. And if that does transpire then the sacrifice will be in the finest traditions of this regiment and the British Army.”
The officers absorbed this in silence, considering that message. Scottsdale pictured that summer in La Rochelle before the war; how carefree he’d been and how unimaginable this world was then.
“How long do we have to hold, sir?” Captain Revie asked.
“Best information I have is rest of today and possibly tonight. Ultimately, we’re still falling back, but we need to buy some more time.”
The briefing broke up and the platoon commanders huddled round Captain Revie. They scanned the only map to hand; during planning it hadn’t been considered necessary to provide comprehensive maps of this area. Instead, they had some detailed maps of Belgium and had become increasingly reliant on Michelin maps liberated from hotels to know the local ground.
“Arthur, your boys will lead,” Captain Revie instructed. “We’ll set up our HQ in the centre and push out defences onto the roads leading into the town. We’ll need the gunners for that.”
“When are they arriving, sir?”
“Any minute now. You get moving, we’ll follow shortly.”
Scottsdale and the men clambered into the Bren carriers and set off immediately. A few minutes later the lorries followed, containing the remainder of the company, along with the anti-tank guns. Scottsdale savoured the wind in his face that took away the lingering smell of burning and horse shit. Around them was a flat landscape of farmland, an occasional row of tall cypress trees dissecting the horizon. Everywhere were pillars of smoke that marked a burning tank or village.
They snuck across countryside, away from the major roads but even here the roads were crowded with refugees. Several times they had been forced to a stop until they’d cleared a path through. In one case, a man remonstrated furiously with them until he suddenly broke down, sobbing; it was a deep, anguished noise and the reason for his pain became apparent. Under a sheet in his cart lay a woman and a child, their blank stares mute witness to their fate. Scottsdale stared down, a sudden jagged pain in his stomach as Helene’s face came to him. Rage and guilt washed over him, a rising tide that constricted his throat.
“Move the cart, Sergeant, now,” he said harshly. He approached the Frenchman. “I’m sorry for your loss, Monsieur.” The man waved a hand dismissively. And rightly, Scottsdale thought. There was no cure for that pain. He pushed thoughts of Helene away; he had to lead, not to remember.
A sign told him that Vierhourt was close and he gnawed his lip, considering the situation. He turned to Sergeant Grant, shouting to be heard above the noise of the engine. “When we debus, we’ll secure the crossroads and set an outer perimeter.”
“I’ll give the Boys rifle to Marsh, sir,” Grant suggested. “It’ll need someone steady. Dalton can take the Bren with Pelham.”
“Good,” Scottsdale agreed. The Boys rifle was effective against lightly armoured tanks and vehicles, albeit at a close range, and would be a useful ally to the anti-tank guns. “Make sure he’s got cover and support as they’ll target him.”
“Understood, sir. We’ll give -”
“’Ware aircraft!” Their heads snapped up to scour the sky above and behind them. “Coming in from behind!”
Scottsdale picked out the dark spec in the sky. It had to be German. The only planes they’d seen had seen in weeks were German.
“Everyone off the road!” he roared. “Move! Move! Get into the field and find cover!”
The men scattered. Some went to ground in the ditch along the road, but Scottsdale hauled them up. “Not here, get into the fields!” His heart was pounding, and he looked up as a deep roar swamped them, the plane flying low over their heads. The distinctive glasshouse nose of the Heinkel He-111 swept by, its machine gun chattering. “Down!” Scottsdale shouted, flinging himself to earth, but they weren’t the target. The bomber swept on and the plane jumped ever so slightly as two bombs wobbled out of its undercarriage. It was targeting the lorries carrying the rest of the men. The first bomb detonated with a flat crack but fell wide of the road. The lead lorry emerged from the smoke just as the second bomb detonated, and the back of the lorry leapt into the air before thumping back to ground. It veered wildly, tyres screeching before coming to an abrupt halt.
Scottsdale raised himself up, wiping down his battledress. He watched the Heinkel warily as it climbed away towards the east. “Anyone hurt?” he shouted but no answering shout occurred, and he puffed his cheeks in relief. The bomber was probably returning to base and seeing their little convoy had taken a chance to jettison its final payload.
“I am getting royally sick of being fucking bombed,” Wilkins said sourly.
“You and me both,” Pendle replied.
The lorry was being examined but had escaped serious damage and Scottsdale turned away, eager to get going again. He urged the men up and they clambered back aboard the carriers, setting off as fast as the roads allowed. Closing on Vierhourt fast, he felt the familiar tightening in his gut. “Concentrate now!” he hollered and the soldier manning the vehicle mounted Bren cocked the weapon and crouched low. Before today, Vierhourt was a sleepy place but now its position gave it importance and Scottsdale swallowed. Clusters of houses appeared, and they passed a neatly tended cemetery. He read the sign on the gates as they passed – Tombes de Guerre de Commonwealth.
The road narrowed, houses crowding either side. Neat gardens and flower boxes decorated the compact houses, but the closer the they got to the centre, the greater the visible damage. Several houses had been destroyed, probably by bombs, and they had to swerve around piles of rubble several times. Cars caught up in the maelstrom were blackened by fire and a dog bared its teeth at them as it slunk away; it had been tugging at something hidden by a low wall. A dead horse added to the sense of gloom and the men gripped their rifles tight. They trundled on, aiming for the church spire that rose up and marked the centre of most towns. As they did so, the houses became larger, faded orange brick walls marking their boundaries.
Scottsdale tensed as they rolled forward and came to a halt in an open square. He read the sign: Place de la Mairie. He wondered who Marie had been. Ahead of them a squat church sat solidly in the morning sun. A variety of houses, shops and hotels crowded around. A road cut through left and right, while he could see another disappearing off behind the church. This was the crossroads. He looked around. The Hotel de Ville was a grand building, resplendent in the sunshine. That would be their HQ but for now his responsibility was to push out checkpoints onto each of the main roads leading to the square. Sergeant Grant came to stand with him, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. “Not a mouse stirring, sir,” he observed.
“Thankfully. But I’m sure that won’t last long.”
“Life’s rarely that good,” Grant agreed.
“So let’s get the men busy.” He pointed south. “That’s where they’ll most likely come from.”
“Or they’ll try and flank us.”
“At some point yes, but first they’ll try to gain possession like us. Either way, I want checkpoints on each of those roads. How many Brens have we got?”
“Three, sir.”
“And four roads. Let’s assume that they aren’t coming from the north and share out the Brens with the parties on the other roads. We’ll have the carriers here until we know where the main assault is from.”
“I’ll form three parties, sir, and get them going.”
“Good. The rest of us can start fortifying the town hall.” Scottsdale gnawed his lip. They would be spread painfully thin, but they had to hold.
Grant threw a salute and soon groups of men moved off to take position. In the square, Scottsdale directed the remainder to start building a barricade and fortifying the Hotel de Ville; abandoned cars, carts and the chairs and tables from a café were all loaded together to form a defensive line in front of the town hall. Scottsdale paused, laying a hand on the faded brickwork still warm from the summer rays. He imagined Helene enjoying a drink in the sun and winced. And though he wished it didn’t, Schiller’s face, came to him too. A tremble of rage flickered inside him. Fear too, which never went away, but what he would need shortly was a killing rage.
From the upstairs window of the Hotel de Ville, Marsh shifted the Boys anti-tank rifle against his shoulder to a more comfortable position. Its elongated barrel poked forward, ending over five feet from where Marsh lay. The slide mounting and padded butt were designed to help absorb the savage recoil from each 0.55mm round but it was universally disliked for the kick. It needed a strong man to manage and Marsh sighted moodily down the barrel. Behind him Pendle lay stretched out on a large four poster bed.
“Bloody odd this,” he said, wriggling around.
“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Marsh replied sourly.
“Some chance of that. Can’t get comfortable on all this at all.” Tutting, Pendle sat up and swung his feet onto the floor, leaving dirty mud across the sheets. “It’s too soft.” Picking up his rifle, he peered out of the window. Distant woods and farmland stretched further off while below he could see men strengthening the barricade. He frowned thoughtfully. “Reminds me a bit of where I’m from round here. Do you know Chelmsford at all?”
“Not really,” Marsh replied. “Had a cousin who lived that way though.”
“Never mind that,” Wilkins interjected. “Why do we keep getting the worst jobs? Chasing Frenchies and now stuck out here.”
“Because we’re here, that’s why,” replied Pendle.
Wilkins glanced at him and shook his head, popping a cigarette in his mouth. “Give us a light,” he said to Marsh, who also lit up.
Settling himself back behind the Boys, Marsh exhaled through his nose. “What I’d give to be back in Ilford.”
“Ilford? Knew lovely girl there once,” Pendle said wistfully. “Blonde hair, lovely curves.”
“I’m sure she was a rotter,” Marsh said.
“Nah, she was lovely, really was. And very generous with her affections. Spent most of our time in bed.”
“Sounds like the kind of girl I’d like to know,” Wilkins said.
“Oh she was lads. Should have married her!”
Wilkins began to reply but the distinctive sound of a Bren gun cut through the air. They tensed, and Watkins scrambled forward, raising his rifle.
“Oh Christ,” Marsh whispered. The Bren sounded again, intermingled with the pop of rifle fire.
“There’s the answering fire,” Wilkins observed, licking his lips. “Not long now.”
Downstairs, Scottsdale waited nervously. “Into positions!” he shouted and strode to the centre of the square, peering anxiously south where the firing had come from. A shout sounded, and he hurried forward with Grant, meeting a panting solider heading towards them.
“Report?” Scottsdale demanded.
“Germans, sir,” the private panted.
“I know they’re Germans, Phillips – what strength?” Scottsdale said impatiently.
“Couple of armoured cars and motorcycles, sir. Looked like a scouting party. We caught them by surprise and knocked off a couple of the motorcycles before they withdrew.”
“Well done. Anything else, report back to me immediately.” Scottsdale turned to Grant. “And so it begins.
“And so it does, sir.”
They were interrupted by a shout and turned to see that the rest of the company were arriving, the trucks pulling up in the square. Thank God, Scottsdale thought to himself, and walked over to Captain Revie, who climbed down from the lead truck.
“Hello, Arthur. Situation?”
“We’ve just had first contact, sir, a small scouting party from the south. I’ve set up roadblocks on the main roads in but we’re thin on the ground.” He indicated the town hall. “I thought this would be our falback, sir.”
“Good.” Revie thought for a moment. “Listen, I want you to take the guns and form a strong blocking force on the road from Estaires; that’s where we can expect their main thrust from. Catch them before they even get here, so push out and find a good place. Clutton can advise you where to site his guns.”
“Clutton, sir?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Clutton is in charge of the anti-tank guns. I want you to hold as long as you can, give them a bloody nose, then fall back. Alright?”
“Yes, sir,” Scottsdale replied, his heart sinking a little at the idea of pushing out toward the enemy. At least they would have the protection from the guns. He moved off to gather the men, gazing around Vierhourt. The little estimanet, with its table and chairs outside for customers to sip their aperitif in the sun; the imposing town hall, martial tricolour rising lazily in the summer breeze; the butcher’s shop with its smiling cartoon pig welcoming custom. Such an ordinary place, he thought. Yet appropriate too. Death, after all, was ordinary. It made no distinction and took them all, one way or another. The only difference now was how quickly it was catching up.
20
“Hello, I’m Clutton, 257 Battery, Norfolk Yeomanry. Although in truth, we can’t even muster enough for a troop – that’s four guns – I’m afraid.” He had sandy hair and an easy-going manner. “Glad to have you with us.”
“Scottsdale, 2nd Essex. Glad to help and to be honest, the men will be delighted to have some gun support. How effective are they?” he asked as they walked over to where Clutton’s 2-pound guns were being prepared.
