Iain Gale - The Black Jackals

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?’