The Black Jackals (12 page)

‘What the hell do they think we're going to do then? Sit here and drink wine? We're winning, aren't we? Why don't we attack?'

Fender shook his head. ‘I don't know, sir. It seems crazy to me too.'

‘You see, Fender, our strategic orders are to strike out into France, not back up here.' He dragged his finger across the map. ‘Here. The master plan. I think we should obey those orders, don't you.'

‘Yes, of course, sir. But perhaps we shouldn't leave the rest of the division, the battalion.'

Kessler shrugged. ‘All right, my friend, I'll wait two days here. We'll refit and rearm. Maybe we'll even kill a few Englishmen. But if we haven't got orders to move west by then I will not be answerable for my actions. I'll tell you something, Fender. I intend to be the first officer in this battle group to reach the Seine or the coast, whichever comes first, and no one, not even Herr General Rommel himself, is going to beat me. Besides I've got a bet on it with Major Freidrich. Five hundred Reichsmarks that I get there first. If we win I'll buy every officer in the company a bottle of champagne. The finest in Paris.'

Kessler laughed. ‘I'm having a good war, Fender. First Poland, now France. The Führer has fulfilled his promise.' They had worked hard to achieve it, and Rommel had accomplished miracles. The Wehrmacht had never been stronger – an army risen from the ashes of disaster and economic ruin in 1918. He was a proud soldier, from a military family. Fighting was in his blood, and with it the ancient code of honour by which the Prussian army had lived for two hundred years and more. He admired Hitler for not having tried to interfere with that. Oh, he had his own private army, his SS, but Kessler knew that it was the regular army, the Wehrmacht-Heer, that was the backbone of Germany's fight.

His own company had done particularly well. Of the fifteen tanks at the start of the campaign, in Number 2 Company, 2nd Battalion, 25th Panzer Regiment in Hoth's 7th Division under Rommel, there were twelve still serviceable, although only six had not been hit at all.

‘Look here. D'you see how we're strangling them? If we carry on like this we could be by the sea in a day. They're finished.' He made a circle with his hands. ‘Then we just tighten the noose and the whole British and French armies are ours. There has never been a more brilliant campaign. Not even Frederick the Great himself could have done it. What a time! What an hour to be German! The world is ours, Fender. God is with us, the Führer is with us and no one can stop us.'

All day they had been moving across the fields, and for a day before that. They had left the barn at nightfall on the 23rd, as he had planned, and moved steadily back towards the road, picking it up slightly further north. The girl was surprisingly fit and hardly held them back, and they had started out at a good pace. Their journey had not been without trouble. Twice they had encountered, moving in the opposite direction, small columns of straggling British and French troops, with and without officers, who seemed without purpose. Lamb had moved on quickly past them, remembering from his officer training lectures how easily loss of morale in one unit could infect another. On two other occasions the whine of engines in the skies above them had prompted a scramble for the roadside ditch and they had watched from cover as dive bombers zeroed in on some unlucky target to right or left. Now, though, the difficulty was moving through the pitch black while remaining on constant alert, and it had taken its toll. He could see that they were flagging.

It had been Lamb's original plan only to move at night. But it had occurred to him that time was of the absolute essence if they were to beat the Panzers to the Somme, and so as day broke he had spoken to Bennett, and they had carried on. Actually they were hardly marching now, more walking or loping along. It was close to four in the afternoon and he could feel the men's tiredness as they reached a sign reading Béthune. Going through the outskirts, they decided to skirt the town to the east. Finally, Lamb called a halt. They were on a long straight road, lined with trees, barns and small houses, most of them boarded up. A column of French tanks, with a few infantry stragglers, was moving slowly but steadily ahead of them in the same direction, which Lamb guessed was north east.

‘We'll halt here for ten minutes, Sarnt. Where are we?'

‘The sign says Essars, sir. Wherever that is.'

Lamb took out his map and looked at the area around Béthune. Essars was on the north-east side. ‘There should be a canal and a bridge. We've gone too far east. We need to get back on the road.'

But before they could retrace their steps Lamb saw two figures approaching them – an officer and a sergeant, both of them wearing British battledress.

Lamb said, ‘Let me talk to them, Sarnt. They look right enough but you can never be too careful. Jerries get up to all sort of tricks.'

Lamb walked towards them, hand close to his holster, and saw that both of theirs were still buttoned. The sergeant was a thin man with a moustache, the officer short and wearing a peaked service cap.

As he got closer the officer stepped forward with an extraordinary nonchalance. ‘Hello. Lieutenant Petrie, Royal Berwicks. We hold the crossing back there. Old bridge. Got it mined for detonation. Who are you?'

‘Lamb. North Kents.'

‘Pleased to have you.' He looked at Lamb's men: ‘Bit of a hotchpotch, aren't you?' Then he noticed the girl: ‘I say, you've got a civvie in tow. A woman.'

How observant of you, thought Lamb, but said nothing except: ‘Yes. Her village was attacked by the SS. I think they shot her family. She's pretty shaken up.'

Petrie grimaced. ‘Yes. We've been getting all sorts of reports in about them. Rumours flying everywhere. Apparently they're shooting our men in cold blood if they surrender. Do the same if I catch them.'

Would you? Lamb wondered. And would he, now? Probably, after the scene he had witnessed at Aubigny. Lamb knew the Berwicks by reputation – a hard-bitten, old-fashioned regular regiment without the luxury of a Territorial battalion. Petrie, by the look of him, was typical of their officers: a dedicated lifetime soldier, most probably with a poor opinion of the ‘part-time' additions to the army's officer class. So far, though, he seemed happy enough to accept Lamb.

Petrie went on, ‘As I said, you're more than welcome, old chap. We need all the hands we can get. Expecting Jerry to turn up any day. Can't really understand why he hasn't yet, but we're ready for him when he does. We've dug in well and burnt every barge we could find. Go over the bridge and past the sentries. My command post's in the old village hall in the
centre ville
. Can't miss it. Got a tricolour outside. That should be a good enough place for your young lady to get some rest. You really do all look quite done in.'

Lamb smiled and thanked him, and together they made their way up the road and crossed the bridge into the little town. Part of Lamb's mind told him that they should continue to make their way to Etaples and then towards General Fortune, but Petrie's words had cut into him. They did all look done in, and he owed it to the men to rest them, even if it meant the possibility of getting caught up in another battle, defending another bridge. That was what this campaign seemed to be all about to him: holding bridges before blowing them sky-high. They were the tactics of despair, and they all knew it.

They found the Hôtel de Ville with little trouble, and after Bennett's brief negotiation with an Irish orderly sergeant Lamb managed to get them a small back office to themselves. The men collapsed to the floor with exhaustion. Lamb took care to offer the only seat in the place to Madeleine, and then he too lay down. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head to the left and by chance finding her face. She was remarkably beautiful, he thought, and even as he did so he felt instantly ashamed. She was smiling at him now, and he smiled back before turning his face away and staring into space – wondering about his feelings and desperately hoping that he wasn't falling in love with this French girl. They would have to lose her soon. It could not be far to her cousin's house near Etaples. If they could get away from here tomorrow they might even make it by nightfall. He wanted rid of her. She had no part in their war anyway and was a hindrance, despite her physical fitness. No one wanted a woman with them in a fight. Did they? One more day with her – that was all they would have. That, he thought, was all he could take to stop himself feeling anything more. And he so desperately wanted not to feel anything for her.

Evening came and Lamb's men began to stir. He felt rested and saw that Madeleine had fallen asleep in the chair. A battledress top was hanging apparently unwanted on a hook, and Lamb got up and draped it around her shoulders. Then he roused the slumbering Bennett and left the room as the men began to rise with the usual chorus of farts and snorts. Outside the air was cool and they could hear the water of the canal as it splashed against the concrete sides of the embankment.

Madeleine came out through the door and had joined him before he realised it. ‘Have you got a cigarette?'

‘Of course.'

Lamb felt inside and took out the case, opening it for her. She shivered. ‘Would you be kind and light it for me? I'm a little cold. I really don't want to take my hands out of these pockets.'

He picked the cigarette from the case and placed it between his lips, then took out his lighter and flicked the spark until the end was glowing. Then, very carefully and trying very hard not to make anything out of a situation already charged with latent sexuality, he placed it between her lips, and knew at once that he had failed. The sooner they got her to her cousin's house, he thought, the better.

She took a hand from her pocket and removed the cigarette before speaking. ‘Thank you for helping me. I don't know what I would have done.'

He smiled. ‘Lucky for you we came along. But we'd better get you to your cousin soon. You shouldn't be here, in the front line.'

‘I like it here. It feels right – to be with the men who are fighting to save my country. Give me a gun and I'll kill some of the Boche bastards too. I could, you know.'

Lamb laughed. Yes, he thought, I do believe you could.

A man came running up the road from the direction of the canal. ‘Mister Lamb, sir. Mister Petrie says can you please come and see him on the other side of the canal, sir.'

Madeleine took the cigarette from her lips and dropped it to the ground before standing on it. ‘You must go to your friend. You are needed.' She turned and walked back into the town hall.

Lamb watched her go. Watched the moonlight on the backs of her legs and the way that her thin dress clung to the contours of her body. His head was buzzing with his sudden desire for her, and all sorts of unanswered questions. The Somme seemed a very long way off, but the Germans were not going to come this night. And so they would leave tomorrow. He would square it with Petrie: explain about the colonel and the message for General Fortune. The lieutenant seemed reasonable. But for tonight he would face the task in hand as best he could. He turned to the runner. ‘Thank you. Tell the lieutenant I'll be with him presently.'

Lamb stared out over the canal and shouted to Bennett, who was standing with a group of NCOs from Petrie's men:

‘Sarnt Bennett, have one last look, will you. Get our lot into shape and get them to dig in along the canal as best they can. I want everything used as barricades. Everything. Anything you can find.'

He walked away from the town hall towards the canal and reached the bridge. Looking south, he saw that Petrie and his company sergeant-major were on the far side, discussing arcs of fire. He walked onto the bridge and had just reached Petrie when a dispatch rider came roaring up the road from the south. He stopped his bike by the three men and, dismounting, to Lamb's astonishment ignored Petrie, lifted his goggles and handed Lamb a note: ‘You in command here, sir?'

‘Not exactly, no.'

‘Oh, sorry, sir. My mistake. Anyway. Message from Brigade. General Gort's given the word for the rest of us to fall back to the canal from Arras. Seems the Jerries are coming up from the south. Right behind us. That's it, sir.' And then the man was gone.

Petrie spoke. ‘Extraordinary man. Well, that's it then. They've driven a bloody great wedge between us and the rest of the French and our chaps to the south. What d'you think?'

‘It looks that way. They've cut the whole force in two. I suppose that now we've really got to hold this place, at least until we know all the Arras lot are safe.' Damn, he thought, seeing his chances of slipping off the following morning ebbing away.

‘Yes. Looks like it. Your lot dug in?'

‘They're about it right now. My Sarnt's seeing to that. I wonder how long they'll be.'

‘Who? The Arras mob?'

‘No, the Jerries. I'll bet they get here first. Nothing to stop them. This is the front line now. Think I'll get back. My Sarnt's promised me a mug of some sort of stew he's put together with our French friend. Beans and tomatoes liberated from someone's garden.'

‘Sounds good. Let me know if you've any to spare.'

‘Incidentally, why did you call me over?'

‘Well, it's the most extraordinary thing really. Probably nothing. But everything was deathly quiet. Then we heard a dog barking, didn't we, Sarnt Major? Quite far away. S'pose it must have been that dispatch rider just now upset them.' As he spoke there was another noise, a bark. ‘Listen. There you are. There it is again. Closer now, wouldn't you say, Sarnt Major?'

‘Yes, sir. Definitely closer, sir.'

There were more dogs barking now, and by the sound of it they were getting closer. Then Lamb heard the noise change. It was not barking any more but more like a growling, getting alternately louder and softer. He turned to Petrie and looked puzzled, and then it dawned on him. It was the sound of soldiers marching on a tarmac road. He said, ‘Christ. They're Jerries.'

Petrie, more from instinct than anything else, fired the Very pistol he was holding into the night sky and a white flare shot up, revealing two lines of German soldiers moving steadily up the long road to their south. ‘God. Run.'

As one, Petrie, Lamb and the CSM turned and sprinted back across the bridge, expecting at any moment to feel a bullet in their backs. But no shot came. Instead they heard shouts and splashes and as they reached the far end and turned back to look they saw that the Germans had not followed them at all but jumped into the canal, fearful of their own lives.

The three men continued to run. Lamb saw Bennett. ‘They're here. The Jerries. Get the Brens set up. And the mortar.'

Bennett snapped into action. ‘Valentine, Mays, get your men in the dugouts. Perkins, get ready with the mortar. The rest of you, hold your fire till I say so.'

Lamb saw Petrie standing close to the edge of the canal. He seemed to be doing something to the Very pistol. Lamb realised he was trying to eject the spent cartridge and remembered that the signal for blowing the bridge was a white flare followed by a red. It seemed, though, that the white one had stuck. He could see the Germans now, climbing back up out of the water and the embankment and beginning to regain the far end of the bridge. He shouted at Petrie: ‘Quick man. They're coming over.'

Petrie pushed and pulled at the weapon to no avail, and then in desperation he bashed it hard against his thigh. There was a click and the spent cartridge tumbled out of the pistol. Fumbling in his haste, Petrie loaded the red one and raised the gun again towards the sky. The trigger slid back and a red flare shot up above the town. Petrie ran, as did Lamb, and both men threw themselves with the others into the shelter of a sandbagged dugout just as a huge explosion tore open the night.

The bridge flew up into the air, sending massive concrete boulders bouncing like bales of hay around what had been the road.

Lamb turned to Petrie. ‘I think that's what they call “the nick of time”.'

‘Thank God.'

‘I shouldn't breathe too soon. They're bound to try again. They don't give up, you know.' Even as he spoke they heard the sound of small-arms fire coming from the far side of the bridge. Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Sarnt-Major, give them the mortar, but be sparing with the ammo. Just give them a taste of it.'