The Black Jackals (29 page)

Lamb knew he was right. That was why the French had collapsed, and he hoped that when it came to her turn to face the Germans, perhaps on her own soil, the British people would not have the same feelings.

They were on the east side of the town now, and after a climb found themselves by a medieval church surrounded by a walled cemetery. Lamb spotted several men in Balmorals holding the perimeter and hailed them, ‘Who are you?'

A sergeant answered, ‘Pretty much all that's left of 1st Black Watch, sir. There's an ammo dump up here, sir. Rations too. But you'd better be quick, sir. We've just found it, and my lads are pretty nifty at scrounging.'

Lamb saw an officer moving between the gravestones, a subaltern from A Company whom he last recalled seeing at the regimental dinner. ‘Where's your CO?'

‘No idea, Lieutenant. Haven't seen him for hours. Think he was caught at Brigade. Could be in the bag.'

‘What about Lieutenant Crawford?'

‘Last I heard he was getting it bad at St-Pierre with what was left of C Company and then we lost touch with them.' He turned to his men, and Lamb watched with interest as he organised the perimeter defences of the cemetery, placing the men with care and fortifying whatever he could with stones, debris and anything that came to hand. He thought of Crawford. What a terrible loss he was.

Lamb had grasped at some faint hope that he might still be alive. He was sure now that Crawford must be dead. He moved through the cemetery with the NCOs close behind and found just beyond it a laager of trucks filled with food and ammunition that was being carried away by the Highlanders. ‘Right, men. Sarnt Bennett, Valentine, Mays, Sarnt Buck, get what you can and distribute it to the men. We need whatever we can find.'

Turning back to the officer he shouted above the increasing din of shellfire and the hum of thousands of voices, ‘You waiting for a boat?'

The man nodded. ‘Yes, but it looks like it could be a long wait. A tug came in with some drifters at about midnight but the Jerries spotted her and opened up. I saw four of them go down, then they cleared off. A destroyer came in a little after that but it sailed along the coast to the east. I reckon that's our best bet. But for now we're not going anywhere.'

As he spoke a German battery opened up on the cemetery. The men began to shelter in the lee of the gravestones and tombs while shells burst against the cemetery walls.

Lamb turned to the officer. ‘What's your name?'

‘Maclachlan. Jamie Maclachlan.'

‘Peter Lamb. We met in your mess. Do you want to get away?'

‘Of course, but we've orders to stay.'

‘Don't be mad, man. The whole place will be full of Jerries in a couple of hours. If you want to get off, I've got a boat coming in. You can all come with us. But you'll have to hurry. Place called Veules les Roses, about three miles from here to the east. Go past the town and slip down the gullies to the beach.'

Maclachlan thought about it. ‘Well, it would seem better than being shot or captured. All right, we're with you.'

Lamb turned to Bennett. ‘Sarnt, Mister Maclachlan will be joining us. You're in command of the company until I get back. And remember, if you come across any other useful officers or NCOs try to bring them along.'

‘Sir. Where are you going, sir?'

Lamb smiled. In the heat of getting the men up to the eastern perimeter he had not had time to get to the one place that had been at the forefront of his mind. But now, thanks to the colonel, he knew where General Fortune's HQ was located. ‘I'm going back down to the town. There's someone I've got to find.'

The way back into the town was easier than the journey out had been, and Lamb was able to move quickly on his own, even against the tide of soldiers.

He walked past a crowd that had gathered around two French lorries which had been hit by shellfire and overturned, blocking the road. While the British, under a doughty corporal of the Gordons, were attempting to heave them off the road to open the way to traffic, the French were trying to pull the dead and wounded from the wreckage, and it was not hard to see that in the absence of officers or provosts a fight was about to break out. Lamb decided to avoid it and circled round as the first punches were thrown.

He hurried on down the rue des Ramparts and turned left towards the town hall. Men wandered past him in groups or on their own, some of them clutching the contraband they had found in abandoned shops: tins of chocolate, bottles of wine. One man was carrying four waterproof coats, another a whole cheese. To add to the misery it began to rain.

A piper was playing in the middle of the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville, and around him dozens of Scottish soldiers had sat down to listen. And there, among the falling shells and the pipes, Lamb felt a strange, resigned calm. As he watched two other pipers joined in a pibroch, a lament for the dead: ‘The Flowers of the Forest'. The tune changed quickly to another: ‘The Barren Rocks of Aden', one of the tunes that had endeared them to the French when they had landed here, only five months ago. Lamb stood and stared, and then one of the watching men stood up and began to hum. ‘Come on. Gie us a reel.' One of the pipers began to play faster, and then the others joined in and soon some of the Highlanders were dancing with each other.

Lamb shook his head. Either it was folly, or it showed incredible strength of spirit. He preferred to think it was the latter. Leaving the dance behind, he walked across the bridge that separated the inner harbour for the outer and found himself in the west of the town.

A British soldier, a young lieutenant, came running at him with wild eyes. ‘Have you heard? There's a ship coming in. Get out. Get down to the pier.' The man rushed past, gabbling his message, and from his vantage point Lamb looked to see if it was true or just another hopeful fantasy. What he saw was not a ship but French soldiers, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, and above them on the cliffs muzzle flashes from German guns as they fired down onto the beach.

It was clear to him that the town had split in two now, and while the Germans were gaining a foothold in the west the east was still held by the Highlanders. He realised that, if he was right, by crossing the bridge he was dangerously close to the Germans. Lamb dodged between doorways, walked up one street and was met by a German. There was no clear perimeter. He ran left and again through a maze of small alleyways along the backs of the quayside houses. Then, dodging out again onto the quay, he ran down some steps until he was on the jetty by the boats, which had been here since the start of the war. He heard a voice calling from behind him: ‘Come up. Come up here.' It was English, but with an accent. Lamb turned, thinking it might be a French officer addressing him, and then he saw a group of German soldiers led by an officer calling down to men on the other side of the bridge. ‘Come up. Up here, Tommy. You're safe now.' As Lamb watched, men on his side of the bridge, French and British, began to lay down their weapons and climb up the pier.

The garrison was surrendering, and the night, though getting darker, was lit up. Flames from the burning town reached high into the night sky like darting fingers, and all the time the darkness was torn by the sound of small-arms fire. Every few minutes another explosion signalled another hit by one of the German guns, but the most prevalent sound that met Lamb's ears was that of men's voices – a constant hum that told him that what had once been organised brigades, regiments, companies and platoons was now little more than a rabble. An ugly rabble.

Moving south now towards the general's repositioned HQ, Lamb passed a cinema, its posters still in their now smashed glass frames.
Le Jour se leve
, with Jean Gabin, had been the last film playing when the cinema had been shuttered and padlocked. But the doors had been smashed open and a dozen drunken French soldiers had ripped out the red plush velvet seats and were sitting in them on the quayside, drinking stolen wine and brandy.

Lamb drew his revolver and walked past them without comment, on past the grand hotels and villas, until he found the station. Another half mile took him alongside a municipal park in which more soldiers had made camp. Then off to the right, up a smart tree-lined drive, he saw a building guarded by a line of British infantry. This was a modest villa, built close to the local church. Lamb walked up. ‘Is this General Fortune's HQ?'

The sergeant, a poker-faced Glaswegian, replied, ‘Sorry, sir.'

‘I need to see him. Lieutenant Lamb.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. No one in or out without authority. That's our orders.'

‘Sergeant, I need to see General Fortune. Now.'

He saw a face behind the sentries. Captain Thompson pushed through. ‘It's Lamb, isn't it? You can let him through, Sergeant. I'll vouch for him.'

‘Thank God. Is the general here?'

‘Yes, but I'm afraid it's almost all up for us. Between you and me, I don't think we're going to get away.'

Lamb, knowing that he must not mention the colonel or the beach at Veules, said instead, ‘Miss Dujolle, is she here?'

‘Yes, she's in the basement with the MO and some medics. She's done well, Lamb. Good to have her with us. The general's in here.'

They found Fortune standing staring out of the window at the burning town.

He turned when they entered and Lamb saw instantly that his features were changed. The pressures of the last few days had etched themselves deeply into his face, which was sallow, almost corpse-like. He managed a smile. ‘Lamb, how good to see you. What to all this though, eh? Well, perhaps there's still a chance, eh?'

‘Perhaps, sir.'

Both knew that they were lying.

Fortune turned to his aide. ‘Thompson, you have ordered that all stores and equipment be destroyed? Everything.'

‘Yes, sir. Just as you said.'

‘Only personal weapons to be carried. And the bagpipes, of course.'

Lamb said, ‘I came to say goodbye, sir.'

‘Think you'll get away?'

‘I intend to try, sir. With my men. If we can.'

Fortune came across and grasped his hand firmly. ‘Well, good luck then, Lieutenant. Let's hope you make it back. Who else is going to be left to command? Whoever gets back from this mess, we're going to need men like you.'

‘Good luck to you, sir.'

Fortune shrugged. ‘My luck, as you can see, has run out. Goodbye, Lamb.' He turned away, and as Lamb was leaving with Simpson, added, ‘Oh, you'll find Miss Dujolle downstairs in the basement. Lovely girl. Brave too. Seen a lot.'

As Simpson had directed him, Lamb walked down the stone stairs to the basement. They were lined with bandaged soldiers, and the place reeked of blood, sweat and ether. From the dimly lit cellar rooms around him came moans punctuated by the occasional scream. Lamb walked past them, catching glimpses of men undergoing surgery. In a small room towards the end of the corridor he found her. She was standing at an operating table, with her head down, concentrating. A man lay on the table, half his face cut by shrapnel. A military surgeon, a captain, was probing the wound, removing shards of metal shrapnel and glass.

As Lamb entered Madeleine looked up, and instantly he caught her gaze and saw the sharp breath as she noticed him. He felt invigorated, transported from the scenes of horror around him. He smiled, and the doctor, who had also looked up, shot him a quizzical look. ‘Yes? What is it?'

‘I came for Miss Dujolle, sir. Rather urgent, I'm afraid.'

Madeleine looked at him with pleading, anxious eyes and shook her head. The doctor replied, ‘Well, Lieutenant, this is rather urgent, as you can probably see. Can't it wait? Suture, please.'

Madeleine handed him one. Lamb nodded, ‘Yes, I'm sorry,' then left and waited outside. After ten minutes she emerged, drying her hands. She looked exhausted, her face grey and drawn.

Lamb asked, ‘Will he live?'

‘Yes. But he's lost an eye and he'll never talk again. But he'll live.'

‘I hear you've been a wonderful nurse'.

She looked at him. ‘Oh Peter, if you'd only seen them. All so young.'

‘Come on, we've got to go.'

‘But I'm needed here.'

‘Madeleine, come on. It's our only chance. The Germans will be here soon. We can get away.'

She hesitated, but only briefly, and then went with him up the stairs. In the hall he made her put on a heavy soldier's greatcoat and a tin hat, pushing up her hair beneath the brim.

‘There, a British soldier if ever I've seen one.'

Outside, they pushed past the sentries and walked back into the town through the chaos, and Lamb was glad of her disguise. They began to walk up the same road he had come on, and then, realising that would take them towards the German sector, he changed tack and cut across behind the station to the east side.

There was a shout from behind them: ‘Open fire,' and a crackle of shots rang out. He knew what it meant. The rearguard was engaging the enemy, who must now be perilously close to the south of St Valéry. There were more shots, then machine guns and grenades as the enemy responded. A British officer's voice rang out: ‘Every man for himself!'

Lamb grabbed Madeleine and, keeping her close by his side, started to run up through the streets towards the eastern perimeter. They made for the church where he had encountered the Black Watch and were moving steadily towards the east cliffs when Lamb saw a flash from above and ahead of them. A stream of red and white tracer bullets crossed the night sky over their heads, and instinctively he pushed Madeleine down to the ground ahead of him. ‘Jerry machine gun. They must have taken the churchyard. I just hope Maclachlan got away first. That means they've cut off Veules from St Valéry, on the coast at least.'

Another machine gun opened up, raking the beach behind them. Clearly the Germans were up there in some force. ‘We'll have to strike inland and then come round to Veules that way.'

They edged round a wall, got to their feet and walked back into the town a little way before climbing up again on a road leading further inland. Soldiers, mostly French, were still streaming into the town, and Lamb told Madeleine to pull up the collar of her coat.

At the top of a hill they left the town and headed into open countryside. The outskirts were strewn with abandoned vehicles and Lamb was just contemplating trying to start one of the trucks when his eye caught something in a ditch up ahead. He climbed down into the ditch and with an effort managed to lift a motorcycle up and onto the road. He cast a brief look down at its dead owner, a British dispatch rider, and climbed back out. Righting the bike, he sat on it and tried the kick start. Nothing. Damn, he thought. He kicked again, and again no response. A third time, and amazingly the Royal Enfield growled into life.

Lamb smiled at Madeleine. ‘Come on. Get on, grab hold of me and hold on for dear life.' She climbed aboard and he turned the bike, let out the throttle and they moved fast along the road. The countryside sped past them in the night and the wind pushed Lamb's goggle-less face back. It felt impossibly good. He shouted to Madeleine, ‘We'll be there soon now. Hold on,' and cranked up the speed.

They drove through open farmland and to their left the fog-hung sea stretched away from the cliff road. After two or so miles up ahead Lamb could make out the silhouettes of buildings. If he remembered correctly from the map, that would be Manneville, and once they were through there a left turn would take them back up to Veules.

He was driving without a headlight, but as they drew closer he could see signs of activity and then he heard a shot, followed by others. Rifles mostly, and pistols. Hoping that the noise of the engine would be drowned by the now constant gunfire, he carried on driving, and as he reached the first of the buildings, a farmhouse on the left of the road, he slewed the bike off the road and stopped. He pushed down the stand and dismounted, before helping Madeleine off. Then, pistol in his hand, he pushed her behind the cover of a farm wall and began to walk forward on his own. He could make out a silhouette up ahead, a man kneeling behind a wall, staring away from him. Lamb pointed the gun at his back and, seeing the helmet was British, called out, ‘I've got you covered. Who are you?'

Without turning the man replied, ‘Mullens. Major, Kent Yeomanry, attached RHA. Who are you?'

‘Lieutenant Lamb, North Kents, sir. Thank God.'

The man turned and smiled at him, overjoyed to see a fellow officer from the same county. ‘We've a bit of a fight on our hands, Lieutenant. Village is full of Jerries, but we've got to get through. We were told there were boats at Veules, and this is the only way.'

‘Yes, we're headed there too, sir.'

‘We?'

‘I have someone with me, wounded. Back there, in cover. What's your plan, sir?'

‘None. We've got them surrounded. I guess there's only a platoon in there. Perhaps a half company. I've about 150 men. There's only one problem.'

‘Sir?'

‘We only have revolvers.'

‘I'm sure we'll manage it, sir.'

The major smiled. ‘Shall we, then?'

Lamb nodded. ‘After you, sir.'

The major yelled across the farmyard and Lamb saw a hand wave back: ‘Sarnt-Major. On my word.'

Mullens paused for a moment, flipped open the chamber of his revolver to check the bullets and, closing it, shouted: ‘Charge!' before bursting out from behind the wall. Lamb was up and with him, running as fast as he could across the wide farmyard, yelling some nameless word remembered from bayonet drill in Tonbridge. Rifle bullets sang in the air around them and hit the ground at their feet, but in seconds they closed on the Germans on the other side, firing as they went. Lamb saw a German go down in front of him, the bullet smashing into his shoulder, and another, shot in the face. The night was alive with screams, British battle cries and the shrieks of the wounded. It was all over in a matter of minutes. Lamb stood, his heart pumping and temples throbbing above a pile of corpses. One man, wounded in the thigh, had thrown down his gun and was holding his hands in the air. Lamb motioned him to his feet and checked him for grenades.