The Black Jackals (21 page)

‘You want us to go through it, sir?'

‘No, it's too dense for us to keep formation. We should carry on up the road. But just be alert. If they see us coming they'll jump us before we see them.'

‘Sir.'

They had gone a little further when there was a rustling noise in the woodland off to their left, immediately followed by a shout: ‘Halt. Who goes there? Friend or foe? Don't move.'

They froze. It was a British voice, a deep, growling British voice, with a heavy Scottish accent. And to Lamb, at that moment, it was the sweetest sound he had ever heard.

Ahead of them, in the trees, they heard the unmistakable, gut-wrenching sound of the bolt of a rifle being drawn back. The voice came again. ‘Who goes there? Answer or I'll shoot you.'

Bennett replied, ‘Friends. We're British, with a Jerry prisoner.'

‘Who are you?'

‘The Jackals, mate. We're a bit adrift.'

There was a short pause, and then another voice, English this time. Home counties. An officer, thought Lamb. ‘Advance and be recognised. And no funny business. We've got you all covered.'

For the first time in days Lamb felt himself relax. Which was a little absurd, as at that moment several guns were apparently trained on him. He hissed an order at Bennett, and slowly they walked from the road across and into the edge of the wood. It seemed that, against all the odds, they had made it to the Scots. They walked forward carefully through the under-growth, still keeping up the pretence that Lamb was a prisoner, until at last the branches ahead of them parted to reveal two British infantrymen and an officer, a lieutenant, standing with their weapons pointed directly at them.

The officer spoke. ‘If you're part of the Jackals, I should say you're a bit adrift. They're up at Dunkirk, last I heard from the French, with the rest of the BEF. Everyone apart from us. The Navy's trying to get them off and back to England.'

So it was true, thought Lamb. They were going to try it, just as the colonel had predicted. Now he realised just how important his own message was. For soon, apart from POWs, the 51st Division would be the only British troops left in France.

Bennett spoke. ‘Yes, sir, we lost our battalion up at Wavre, two weeks ago.'

‘I say, then you are lost. But what the devil are you doing down here, and how did you acquire that?' He pointed at Lamb.

Lamb realised that now was the time to reveal himself. He walked forward and said, ‘Actually I acquired them, Lieutenant, in Kent, about a year ago. Lieutenant Peter Lamb, Royal North Kents.'

The Scottish officer gawped. ‘Good God. You're English.'

‘Yes, I'm afraid so. And, by the sound of your men, you're Scots.'

‘Geordie Crawford, 1st Black Watch.'

‘So you are part of the 51st?'

‘That's us. Strung out along this bloody river. Sorry, seems strange telling that to a German. Where's your uniform?'

‘Missing. I don't suppose you could fix me up?'

‘I'm sure we can scrounge something for you at Battalion. We'd better take you in for debriefing.'

‘Well, actually, I was rather hoping to get to General Fortune.'

Crawford laughed. ‘You want to see the General? I'm afraid he's not here. Why do you need to see him? Perhaps you are a Jerry after all.'

Lamb ignored the comment. ‘I have a message for him. Rather important.' He felt impatient but knew there was nothing he could do about it.

Crawford seemed both intrigued and amused. ‘Well, let's start off with the colonel, and perhaps then, after he's seen you, we can work our way up to the top brass.' He looked at the motley group of men. ‘Is this all you've got?'

‘All that's left of my platoon, yes, and a few odds and sods. We had a bit of a rough time getting here.'

He noticed Madeleine. ‘And a girl. Good God. Who's she?'

‘It's a long story. The SS murdered her family.'

‘You'd better come along to HQ. We're pulling out of here anyway later this morning.'

Leaving one of the privates on picket duty, Crawford and the other man led them further into the woods, here and there encountering other Highlanders in their distinctive Balmoral bonnets. The position seemed very sparsely occupied, and Lamb thought of the mass of German men and vehicles they had recently passed through.

Crawford turned to Lamb. ‘So, extraordinary journey you must have had.' He paused. ‘You're from Kent, you say?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'm a bit of keen cricketer. Went to see them play a few times at Canterbury when I lived in London. What was the name of that tremendous wicket-keeper of yours? You know. He played in the last test against South Africa last year.'

Lamb was aware that this was a test, but he didn't mind. The lieutenant was only doing his job. In fact he was rather flattered that he made such a passable Nazi. Luckily he knew the answer. ‘I think you mean Les Ames. The only man to score 100 runs before lunch. He's in the RAF now.'

Crawford smiled. ‘Yes, of course, Les Ames. How could I forget that name?'

They left the wood after a few hundred yards and, slipping down onto the road, carried on for more than a mile until they came to a village. Save for the cricketing conversation, Crawford had said nothing throughout the journey and had ignored the curious looks they were given by the few British soldiers they encountered.

Now, though, he turned to Lamb. ‘This is Lambercourt. Our front line proper starts here. I shouldn't really tell you any of this, as you haven't been debriefed, but I reckon you're who you say you are. And in any case, if we decide that you aren't, we'll just shoot you.'

Lamb hardly felt reassured. ‘Thank you.'

They found the Battalion HQ established in the town hall. Crawford left the private outside with Lamb's men and Madeleine, and took Lamb into the building.

The CO, Colonel Honeyman, a genial-looking man with huge eyebrows and a moustache to match, was sitting at a desk in the mayor's office, with his batman, a signals officer and the RSM standing close by. He looked up. ‘Geordie. Good to see you. I say. Bagged a Jerry?'

‘Not exactly, sir. This is Lieutenant Lamb, of the Black Jackals.'

‘Good heavens. Are you sure? Looks damn like a Jerry.'

‘In my opinion, sir, he's the real thing. He knew that Les Ames was wicket-keeper for Kent.'

The colonel shrugged. ‘Where have you come from, Lieutenant?'

‘From Wavre, sir, by way of Tournai and Arras.'

‘Arras, eh? Did you see the counter-attack?'

‘Yes, sir. We took part in it.'

‘Did you, by God? Bloody shame. That's quite a march. How long did it take you?'

‘Two weeks, sir, almost to the day.'

The colonel rubbed at his chin. ‘Sarnt-Major, ask this man a question. One of your good ones.'

‘Righto, sir.' The RSM thought long and hard, and after a couple of minutes turned to Lamb. ‘All right, sir. Please would you be so kind as to tell me the name of the cleaner in ITMA?'

The colonel looked heavenward.

Lamb laughed. ‘Mrs Mopp, of course. “Can I do you now, sir?” Got any more, Sarnt-Major?'

The RSM blustered. ‘Who plays Sophie Tuckshop then, sir?'

‘Hattie Jacques.'

The colonel looked at the RSM. ‘Well, is he right? You don't suppose that I listen to that bloody show?'

‘Quite right, sir. He's quite right.'

‘Thank God for that. Now, Lamb, tell us how you got here. And make it quick.'

So in the space of the next twenty minutes Lamb gave a somewhat condensed account of their journey south. He mentioned the fight at the Dyle, his meeting with the colonel, although not the content of the message, the fight at Arras and his capture of Kurtz, the atrocity at Aubigny and meeting Madeleine, and lastly the raid on the air base. He was careful, of course, not to include mention of the civilians on the bridge or his treatment of Captain Campbell.

He finished and, as soon as he had, thought to himself that the whole story sounded so far fetched they would probably not believe him and shoot him as a German spy.

Honeyman looked at him. ‘And the Jerries you came through, how many would you say? What sort of strength are we up against?'

Lamb thought for a moment. ‘Hard to say, sir, but they're pretty thick on the ground. Must be at least two divisions, perhaps more.'

The colonel nodded and looked serious. ‘You are an extraordinary man, Lamb. And I don't know why – your story sounds more like some Boy's Own adventure rather than war – but I'm inclined to believe you. And if the RSM and Lieutenant Crawford here both vouch for you then you're probably who you say you are. You say you have a message for General Fortune from this colonel in Tournai?'

‘Yes, sir. It's absolutely vital.'

‘Well, General Fortune's down at St Leger. That's some seven miles south of Blangy. About thirty miles from here.'

‘How soon can I get to him, sir?'

‘Can't you just give me the message, Lieutenant?'

‘I'm sorry, sir. The staff officer who gave me the message told me that it was only to be delivered to General Fortune himself.'

The colonel bristled. ‘Then I'm afraid I can't really help you at the moment. I have the very pressing matter of holding the line against the enemy.'

‘But sir, with respect, I don't see what that has to do with my getting the message to General Fortune. If you could just spare a man to show me the way, and perhaps a truck or a car.'

The colonel smiled indulgently and sighed. ‘Lieutenant Lamb, the 51st Division is currently holding eighteen miles of the front line. Do you know what that means? Normally we would expect a division to hold four miles. We have to do more than four times that with no prepared positions. My battalion is holding two and a half miles of that front, all the way from Toeuffles to Miannay.' He indicated the two towns on the map. ‘That's proportionately the same. And we have another problem here. We are under French command. Now the French are not all bad. I'm not saying that. Fought alongside them in the last show. But how can I be expected to work under French command? I'm sorry, Lamb, I just can't spare anyone at present. In fact I was rather hoping that you and your men might join us here. We can use everyone we can get.'

‘Sir, with respect. This message . . .'

The colonel silenced him. ‘Lieutenant. I have said my piece and you have had your time too. And that's an end to it at present. I have promised to try to get you to GHQ just as soon as it becomes possible. I can do no more than that.'

Crawford coughed. ‘There is the girl, sir.'

‘The girl? Oh, the girl. Well, she'll have to stay here at HQ, of course, and take her chances along with the rest of you.'

Lamb spoke. ‘There is the question of my uniform, sir. I lost it in the fight at the airfield.'

‘Oh yes, can't have you wandering around dressed like that. Might get yourself shot, eh? The RSM here should be able to fix you up with something. Won't be Savile Row, of course, and we don't have hyenas on our buttons, either, but at least it will look better than that rubbish you're wearing.' He turned to the RSM. ‘The lieutenant here looks about Mister Watson's size, Sarnt-Major. Wouldn't you say?'

‘Very good, sir.'

Lamb knew that it was futile to continue pleading his case. And he was weary too. He had done everything earthly possible to get the colonel's message through to General Fortune, and he had fallen, it seemed, at the final hurdle. Of course he would do it. But he could see that it was quite impossible to achieve anything now. Nor could he simply run off to the GHQ at St Leger, as they had done at Essars. For one thing he had no idea how to find it, despite his map; for another he knew that without someone from Honeyman's command to accompany him he would simply have no hope of getting to the general. Better to stick it out here for another day or so, get some rest and endear himself to the colonel in the hope that it might speed his actions.

Together, he and Crawford left the little office and walked into the street. The sun was high in the sky now and the others were sitting on the steps of two houses and on their packs on the cobbles near the entrance to the town hall. Seeing Lamb, they got to their feet.

‘Sarnt Bennett, looks as if we'll be staying here for a few days. Try and find the men billets and something a little more private for Mademoiselle Dujolle.'

Crawford nodded. ‘We can find you somewhere. I'll have a word with the battalion quartermaster. I'm sorry, Lamb. I know how important it is to you to get to the general, but you can see the situation here. The colonel has his hands tied. Don't worry, stick with us, we'll find some way of getting you to him. And you'd best take Mademoiselle Dujolle with you when you go. This is no place for a woman.'

Lamb smiled. ‘Yes. I know you're right. But you haven't seen her in action. I've seen grown men take fright more easily.'

‘Well, you might as well keep her with you here for the present. As the colonel said, we're sitting in reserve so the French can attack the bridgehead with their tanks. It's General de Gaulle's idea. He's one of the better French commanders. So that why we're here, strung out like washing on a line. Holding the sector. That's why you bumped into our pickets out in the wood. We're pulling back to the village. Haven't the support weapons to do anything else. We're only good for a reserve. Mind you, if the attack fails then ten to one the Jerries will counter-attack us here.' He fell silent, contemplating the unpleasant prospect of being outnumbered. ‘Still, I expect that General Gort will send reinforcements over soon enough. That's what we're counting on, at least. If we can just hold the Jerries off that long.'

Lamb could not help but admire his optimism, but with the colonel's words in his ears he knew that Crawford's hopes were probably not what the War Office had in mind for General Fortune's command.

Crawford turned to go. ‘Well, I'd better get back and pull the platoon out of the wood. I suppose you're with us now. Glad to have you. I'll see you back here then. And Lamb, I really should get that British uniform from the RSM if I were you, before someone takes a pot shot.'

Lamb laughed. ‘I meant to ask you. Who's Mister Watson?'

‘Jimmie Watson. Subaltern in C Company. That is, he was. Bought it at the canal three days ago. Shot through the head by a sniper. But I think the colonel was right. His battledress should fit you perfectly.'