Iain Gale - The Black Jackals

He yelled again, ‘Wait for it, lads. It’s the infantry we’re after. Wait for the . . .’ He had not finished his sentence when there was a whoosh from the opposite bank and a shell flew towards them, hitting the bank just to their front, its explosion sending up a cloud of earth and foliage. ‘Keep down. Keep your eyes on the road.’

Another shell flew in, closer now, and there was a yell as a shard of shrapnel hit one of the platoon. Lamb kept looking at the road. The tanks had pulled up now and were just sitting there, lobbing their shells across the bank. Of course, he thought, there’s no need for them to move forward. They think they can just blast us out, and they probably can. They must know we don’t have any heavy weapons.

Two more shells came crashing into the position, and one hit home. Lamb looked at where it had landed and was aware of a jumble of bloody bodies and the noise of men in agony. He wondered whether he had been foolish to stay here. Perhaps they should have pulled back as Battalion had ordered. Perhaps the colonel knew best after all. Lamb began to doubt himself, and then banished the thought. Something inside him said that they had to make this count. They had to take out some of the enemy to atone for killing the civilians, except now he had been responsible for the death of his men. Perhaps, he thought, it’s too late. They have us pinned down. How can we retire now? If only their infantry would come forward.

As the thought crossed his mind he saw the small grey figures moving in the wake of the tanks, which began to rumble forward towards the river bank. He put his field glasses to his eyes and picked up the figure of an officer in a peaked cap, shouting at the infantrymen, urging them on with his hand. Against all probability they were advancing to attack. Lamb smiled. Someone somewhere in the enemy higher command had obviously decreed that this crossing had to be taken, and taken by a certain time. That was the German way, and nothing in the field manual could stop that order. Lamb knew that it would be the death warrant for some of the men out there behind the tanks. As many as he could kill, he thought. ‘Sarnt Bennett. Here they come.’

He turned to the men in his immediate vicinity. ‘Open fire. Make them all count.’

At once the slit trenches became a frenzy of action as the men fired at their chosen targets, loosing off round after round against the German infantry. Lamb could see figures falling now as the men in grey tried to tuck themselves in behind the tanks. But still some were left exposed to be picked off by the keen-eyed British riflemen. And even as the infantry fell the German tanks continued to fire as they advanced, and the shells crashed in. Now their machine guns had opened up from the tanks and there was sub-machine gun fire too coming in from a handful of infantry that had found some cover on the opposite bank.

Corporal Mays came running at a crouch up to Lamb’s slit trench, enemy bullets raking the ground around his feet, and threw himself flat on the earth. ‘Sir, Austin’s copped it. Jerry machine gun, sir. We’ve got to get out of here, Mister Lamb.’

Lamb nodded. Yes, that was enough, he thought. Enough for the poor devils who had died on the bridge. Now they could go. ‘Yes, Corporal. Find Sarnt Bennett. Tell the men to pull back. Keep as low as possible, don’t look back and run as fast as you can to the woods. We’ll form up on the other side of them, behind cover, and get back to Battalion.’

‘Sir.’

The man took off, and Lamb turned back to the enemy. The lead tanks had lined themselves up and were pouring shellfire into their positions. There was a cry from along the line and Lamb was aware of a man tossed into the air like a puppet amid a cloud of earth and debris. He saw Bennett to his left.

The sergeant shouted over the noise, ‘Runner from Company, sir. Battalion says to disengage and get back. There’s a barrage coming down to cover our withdrawal, and CO says that unless we want to be under it we’d better move. We’ve to fall back through the Guards, sir.’

Lamb managed a smile. He knew that he had done all that he could.

He waved the men back out of the trenches and saw them follow Bennett into the woods. Then he took a last look at the great grey monsters as they loosed off another barrage, and then at last turned towards the rear. The shells were crashing around him now, hitting trees and ripping off their branches. Lamb began to lengthen his pace, but he had not gone two yards before something hit him hard on the back like a hammer blow, knocking the breath from him, and he was briefly aware of being shoved forward, face down in the mud. And then his world went black.

Chapter 3

The first thing that Lamb saw as his vision returned was a man’s face. His mouth felt horribly dry and he tried to ignore the cracking headache that was pounding inside his skull and to focus on the face. The man had a moustache, slicked-back hair and was wearing a monocle. Lamb had never seen the man before. For one awful moment his mind was filled with images of German villains from the pictures: Conrad Veidt or Raymond Lovell. He presumed that he had been captured and that this must be a German officer.

But then the man spoke and instantly he knew that he was safe. ‘I say, old chap, well done. We thought for a moment you might be a gonner.’

He turned away and towards the door flap of the small tent in which Lamb could now see he was lying. ‘Sarnt-Major, fetch that brandy in here, will you. The Lieutenant wants a drink.’

An RSM entered and filled the tent with his huge presence. Lamb was aware of his peaked cap, the cheese-cutter peak pressed flat against his nose. The next moment a gentle hand was lifting Lamb’s throbbing head from the camp bed on which he was lying and then another hand placed a tin cup to his mouth, tilting it so that he could drink. He sipped and felt the raw liquid burn its way down his throat. He coughed, almost retched and shook his head. The pain swelled, and he stopped. The man laughed. ‘That’s it. Good man. Knew you’d be better for a sharp’ner. Bit of a narrow squeak you had, eh? Thank you, Sarnt-Major.’

Lamb was aware of the big man executing a perfect about turn and, as his vision became clearer, was able to look more closely at his saviour. The officer was a thin man with a hawk-like nose and, when combined with these features, what seemed an unlikely cheery smile. As Lamb managed to sit up he extended his hand.

‘Fortescue, Captain, Second Coldstream. Detached from 1 Div HQ.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’

Lamb had spotted the three crowns on his shoulder. ‘Peter Lamb, sir. North Kents. Thank you, sir. I mean, I presume you saved my life.’

The captain smiled and shrugged. ‘Nothing at all, old man, no trouble. Absolute pleasure. Couldn’t leave you there, could we? Jerry would have put you in the bag. Glad to have you aboard. You’re damned lucky. It’s not every man gets hit hard in the back with half a tree and lives to tell the tale. That last shell burst was damned close too. Seems to have hit you on the arm and the leg.’

‘No, sir. Actually those are from earlier.’

‘Well, you have been knocked about a bit, haven’t you? Have another sip of the old brown stuff.’

Lamb sat up and drank a little more of the brandy. The pain in his head was slightly less but now the throbbing in his arm where he had been hit was beginning to nag again. ‘My platoon, sir. Where are they?’

‘I think my Sarnt-Major’s found most of them. Few of them knocked about a bit. That last salvo did for a couple, I’m afraid. Lucky we were there, to your rear.’

‘Sorry, sir?’

‘We came in from the woods. Managed to hold off Jerry long enough to get you chaps out. Though what the devil you were doing there in the first place Gawd only knows. We were told you’d pulled out. We’re the rearguard, you see.’