Iain Gale - The Black Jackals

‘No, Wilkinson. We’re not retreating, just pulling back to regroup so that we can counter-attack.’ He looked at his watch. It was nearing 2 p.m. ‘Right, we’ll march till 1800 hours, then make camp. If we get a step on we might even catch up with Company HQ.’

‘Or Brigade, sir.’

‘Or Brigade, Tapley. Thank you. All right, Sarnt Bennett. Take me to the wounded.’

They had lain the men beneath the shade of some trees close to the company transport. A number of guardsmen were standing about the vehicles talking and clicked smartly to attention, saluting as Lamb appeared. The three men were lying on blankets. Hale was sitting up puffing on a Woodbine. Smith was staring at the sky. Peters, though, was lying with his head on one side and as Lamb approached he noticed that his eyes, though wide open, were staring vacantly into the middle distance. His skin was drained of colour. Death could not be far off. He went to the less badly wounded first. ‘Hale. You look well enough to be up and about. Where did they get you?’

‘Leg, sir. Went clean through the ankle, sir. Can’t walk, sir.’

Lamb nodded. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll get you out all right. You’ll be back in Blighty before us. What about you, Smith?’

Smith looked up at Lamb and smiled. ‘Shoulder, sir. Bloody great bit of shrapnel. Hurts a bit.’

‘I bet it does. You’ll be home soon.’

He walked across to Peters. Bennett whispered to him. ‘Stomach wound, sir. MO’s had a look. It’s not good, sir. Got his liver too.’

Lamb knelt down by the boy’s head. ‘Peters. I know you can hear me. They think you’ll be fine, old chap. Is there anyone you’d like me to write to to tell them you’re on your way back home?’

Peters moved his lips and tried to turn his head, but Lamb noticed the grimace of pain that passed across his ashen face. ‘Don’t try to move, old chap. Just tell me or the sergeant here. Just a name.’

The boy’s mouth moved again and Lamb bent close so that his ear was close to Peters’s mouth. He heard a word. ‘Mother.’

‘All right, old chap. I got that. You rest now.’

Getting to his feet Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘He hasn’t got long, Sarnt. Make sure that the Guards give him a decent burial and mark the grave. I’m sure they will.’

He walked back across the camp and noticed as he did how neatly it had been set up in the short time the Guards had been there. That was one thing you could always say of the British army: they knew how to lay out a camp. Latrines in the right place, tent lines and vehicle park, command post set back from the front, trenches well dug in and supported. It was exemplary. He reached the men, who were standing at ease and shuffled to attention as he arrived.

‘As you were. All right. Corporal Mays, Briggs, Valentine. Let’s get going.’

Observed closely by the Coldstreamers, they left the camp, in as orderly and Guardsman-like a file as they could manage. The Guards saluted as they passed and were acknowledged. Behind them the noise of gunfire spoke of the speed of the German advance.

They had not gone far when they crossed a railway line and found themselves on the edge of a wood. There was a noise of engines, and without further warning a carrier roared towards them through the undergrowth to their right and then following it around the flank of the wood came three light tanks with British markings.

From the front seat of the carrier a man in a black beret addressed them, ‘Hallo. You chaps falling back? We must be covering you. 2nd RDG. Who are you?’

Lamb spoke. ‘North Kents, sir.’

‘Really? North Kents? Your mob have been through here already. Quite a while ago. Badly shot up, some of them. You’ll need to hurry to catch them, though. Any wounded?’

‘Yes, three, as a matter of fact. One bad. We left them with the Guards.’

‘We’re under orders to carry them back if we can. See what we can do, old man. Pip pip.’

With that he waved his hand and the carrier and its three tanks rumbled past them towards the front. Lamb couldn’t help thinking that to the officer it still seemed like some big game. And the man seemed to be enjoying it.

He turned to Bennett. ‘Looks as if we’ll have to hurry if we want to catch up.’

They moved around the edge of the wood and as they hit the road on the other side found a long column of British infantry moving in the same direction, towards the rear. The men’s expressions said it all. Many of them had bandaged heads and limbs and the few trucks which drove with them were packed with wounded. Lamb stopped. They all did. But it was Corporal Mays who spoke for them all. ‘Oh, my good God.’

Lamb stared. It seemed as if for an instant the entire British army was on the road, ‘pulling back’.

Bennett could see his face. ‘It’s not good, sir, is it?’

‘No, Sarnt. It’s not good at all. But I don’t think we’ll join their party. I think we’ll go south west. Just as quick to Tournai that way.’

‘And a much prettier road, I’d guess, sir. Without that lot’s long faces.’

‘You’ll never see a happy retreating army, Sarnt. Come on. If we’re lucky we’ll be there by tomorrow. Or in Brussels. You never know.’

The sergeant laughed. But Lamb knew that there was no real mirth in it.

Chapter 4

The high sun beat down on the dusty road and, even where the tall poplars that lined its sides offered shade, sent shafts of light across the surface in bright white lines. The land lay flat about them, with a distant low horizon punctuated here and there with the steeples of village churches. On either side the crops crew tall in the fields and cattle stood in the meadows. On the grassy banks of the road the cornflowers bloomed. They had passed close to the north of the town of Wavre, and Lamb, consulting the motoring map of northern France he had had the foresight to purchase in London on embarkation leave, had thought it best, in view of the large numbers of refugees and soldiers on the other road, to stay on their own and hug the edge of the woods to the west of the town. But now they were back out in the open and, he thought, horribly vulnerable to air attack. They had trained for it, of course. This was the future of warfare, after all. But none of them had ever experienced the reality. For all he knew there might be German planes heading towards them at that very moment, ready to rain down bombs and strafe them with machine-gun fire as they walked along through the bucolic scene, just as they had done in Poland and Holland. And he had no idea as to where the RAF might be. But he was not prepared to trust that they would be directly above his head whenever the German dive-bombers struck.

‘Keep your ears open for enemy bombers, all of you. Listen out. You’ll hear them before you see them.’

Even though it was coming on to 3.30 in the afternoon it was, supposed Lamb, a hot day even for this time of year in northern France. They had spent the night in an empty barn and he could not get the stench of stored manure out of his nostrils. The men too were aware of the smell, which, although they had not had any direct contact with the muck, seemed to have permeated their clothes. He knew too that, after five hours of marching, the men would be sweating uncomfortably in their thick battledress, just as he was. But at least it wasn’t raining. To be retreating was bad enough, but a soldier retreating through the pouring rain was never the happiest man in the world. He wondered where the other platoons in his company might be, and for that matter Company HQ. And what of Bourne and Long? He wondered whether they too were as lost as he, and attempting to rejoin the battalion. What a bloody mess. Suddenly weary, he spoke. ‘Sarnt Bennett, let’s give them a rest.’