Iain Gale - The Black Jackals

The colonel looked at him and smiled. ‘So you managed to give Jerry a bit of a bloody nose, didn’t you?’

‘Well, we did manage to cut up a column pretty badly, sir. Three days ago.’

The colonel looked at him, narrowing his eyes. ‘Well done, Lamb. Good work. You might even get a gong.’

The colonel was still smiling but Lamb worried that he might know about the civilian deaths. He wondered whether he should explain it, but did not know what he could say. He froze, waiting for the inevitable ‘but’. Instead the colonel beamed at him. ‘Yes, damn good work, eh, Simpson?’

‘Yes, sir. Damn good.’

The colonel turned back to the note before handing it to the major, who handed it back. After a while the colonel folded it up and laid it on the desk. He stared at it for a while and then looked at Lamb, fixing him with deep brown eyes. ‘Have you read this?’

‘No, sir. Of course not. Absolutely not.’

‘No. You wouldn’t, would you? Silly of me. But I think you’d better have a look now as you’re here, before I give it to the General whenever I find him, seeing as you went to the trouble of getting it here.’ He handed the piece of paper to Lamb. ‘Go on then, man.’

Lamb took it and looked. It was headed in French: ‘Headquarters 1st Army’ and bore the insignia of the French military. It was dated 16 May. It read:

‘No information. Communications cut. All liaison unworkable. Rear areas blocked with convoys and wrecked columns. Petrol trains ablaze. Utter chaos.’

Lamb looked up from the paper at the colonel. ‘The Brigadier told me it was urgent. I thought it must be information about the enemy.’

‘It was urgent. Two days ago. Not any more, though. Meadows hasn’t a clue. It just tells us what we already know. The German First Panzer Division under Guderian have broken through at Amiens and cut off the French 1st and 9th Armies. To put it bluntly, we’re surrounded.’

The major walked away from the table and stared out of the window at a desolation which mirrored the destitution in his soul.

Lamb gazed at the colonel: ‘Christ. I’m sorry, sir. But I mean . . . God help us.’

‘Yes, God help us, Lamb. Although I doubt whether even he can now.’

The colonel pointed to the map. ‘In four days we’ve been pushed back sixty miles. And that’s only in the north. At least here we’re making a stand. It’s taken Guderian’s Panzers less than three days to reach Amiens. Another two and he’ll be at the sea. 7th Panzer Division are closing on Arras with the 5th, and the 6th and 8th are pushing through the centre. As far as we can tell. But, to be perfectly frank, they could be anywhere.’

Lamb looked down at the map as the colonel’s hands swept across it, and instantly saw the extent of the disaster.

The colonel went on, ‘The Germans have been training for this for years. They’re fighting fit and they damn well know it. And what have we been doing, Lamb? We’ve been sitting on our fat backsides doing sweet Fanny Adams.’ There was real bitterness in his voice. ‘Britain is a great country, Lamb. The greatest in the world, with a strong, resolute people and a powerful Empire. But look at the men you brought out here. Look at the British army. Our soldiers.’

Lamb frowned and began to speak, ‘My sergeant, sir . . .’

‘Yes, I dare say your sergeant’s a good man, and a few others besides him. But what of the rest? Think about it.’

‘They’re a good bunch, sir. Loyal as they come.’

‘I’ve no doubt as to that, Lieutenant. But just how fit are they?’

Lamb bristled. ‘They can march, sir. And they can fight.’

‘But can they march and fight one after the other, laddie? Hitler’s Nazis can do that. That’s why they’ve come sweeping through Belgium. That’s why we’re sitting here fifty miles back, trying to work out what we can do and waiting for their damned tanks to roll into town.’

It was hard to argue against the colonel’s logic. It backed up everything Lamb had seen so far.

‘Lamb, your men, our men, this army. The good few aside. You must see, they’re gutter scrapings, the victims of the depression. It’s not just the army that’s been starved of resources. The entire country’s been living on subsistence rations. Save for a privileged few. Me and Meadows included, if you want. And where are most of those fat cats now? On the General Staff.’

Lamb knew he was right. Many in his regiment were men laid off before the General Strike, or their sons – men who had been brought up on thin porridge and meat just once a week, men who had been offered the promise of a future they never saw, and little else. They were underfed and ill-educated. He was leading the legacy of the last twenty years. He thought of the brigadier with his roast chicken and brandy.

The colonel continued: ‘I tell you, Lamb, something’s got to be done. And fast. D’you know one of our major problems? Our tanks’ guns can’t penetrate their tanks’ hull armour. Not even the new Matildas have a real chance, and most of the others only have machine guns. And have you seen what these new 88-millimetre guns of theirs can do to one of our tanks? They were designed as anti-aircraft guns, for Christ’s sake, and the Jerries have started using them against our armour. We haven’t a chance. We’re the worst-trained, worst-equipped army ever to be sent by Britain to fight on foreign soil. And that’s saying something for the nation that fought in the Crimea and the Afghan wars.’

Lamb was taking it all in. He looked closely at the map. Saw the blue pencil lines marking the British and French corps and divisions. It was true. They were cut off and being pushed closer and closer towards the French coast.

‘Won’t the French be able to break through and cut the German lines? What about their tanks?’

The colonel sighed. ‘It would be good to think so, and in the last lot they might have done just that. But this French army is very different to the one I fought alongside in ’17. They’re sick of war. The French have all but thrown in the towel, and Churchill knows it.’

Lamb wondered how the colonel was able to know what the Prime Minister thought and began to realise that he might be something more than a mere colonel.

The colonel looked over the piles on his desk and found another piece of paper. He handed it to Lamb. ‘Here, read that now. Then tell me your thoughts.’

Lamb read. On writing paper headed ‘British Broadcasting Corporation’ it was dated 18.30 hours, 14 May. That was three days ago.

For immediate broadcast to the nation: All small boat owners are requested to present themselves with their vessels as quickly as possible to a representative of the Admiralty.

He frowned, ‘I’m sorry, what does it mean, sir?’

‘What do you think it means?’

‘It sounds as if we might be trying to get together a sort of people’s navy. All the boats we can get.’

‘Yes, that’s about it.’

‘But why would we do that? Unless . . . But that’s ridiculous.’

‘Yes. I think you’ve got it now. We’re preparing to evacuate the entire army, or whatever there might be left of it. We want to take them off the beaches back to England.’

‘The entire army, sir?’

‘That’s right. As many as we can. Frogs, too, if we can.’

‘Can it be done?

He took a long pause. ‘No one’s ever tried. There are two schools of thought. Gort’s behind it. Think the PM is too. The Frenchies aren’t keen, though. As you might have guessed.’

‘Where can we manage it?’

‘The Channel ports. We had thought of Calais alone but it would seem that we need Boulogne and Dunkirk too. If we can get the small craft onto the beaches we might be able to ferry the men out to the Navy.’