Walcot

At his signal, the vehicle engines started up. The bottom of the LCT grated against shingle.

‘Come on!’ shouted Montagu. ‘Forward the Buffs!’ He jumped into the spray. You followed, the troops behind you. The heaving water came up to your thighs, intent on impeding you. Shingle crunched underfoot. You were too intent on watching for possible opposition ashore to notice the cold of the water.

There was no opposition on the beach, only a French officer awaiting you by a pick-up truck. As you, Captain Travers and two Red Caps directed the traffic from the landing craft into line on the sand, shouting to the soldiers to muster on a road just above the low cliffs, Montagu marched briskly towards the French officer. They saluted each other, then shook hands. They hurried to the pick-up to send out wireless messages to base across the Channel, confirming that you had landed unopposed.

You marshalled the small invading force in order on the road, with scouts out and alert and all Churchills sending out blue exhaust. Two sandy roads divided, with a wood on one side of the main road and a field with cows grazing on the other. Some distance away was a house with a barn beside it, the whole making a disturbingly peaceful picture.

The major, returning from the French pick-up, said to you in an aside, ‘Chap doesn’t speak Urdu, or much English, but it seems we should get a move on. We proceed via Rouen. There’s a straight road from Rouen to Paris, but we may encounter refugees en route.’

‘Move immediately, Sir?’

‘What else? Get on with it, Fielding.’

As you climbed into your tank, a faint siren blast sounded from across the water. Your supply ship was turning, leaving France to make the return journey back to England. At that point you felt isolated. You thought there were perhaps half a million British troops on French soil, many engaged in battles with the Wehrmacht, but none of them were anywhere near your detachment. You prickled with a sense of peril and excitement.

The vehicles rolled. You began the trek south-west on the more important road. Almost immediately, you encountered refugees. Many were on foot, travelling in families, fathers pushing prams loaded with provisions and cooking utensils; some were in cars of ancient vintage, with mattresses tied to the roof; some had carts, farm carts of various sizes, drawn by horses, with bedraggled sons and daughters of farmers who were trudging alongside the turning wheels. This was what the great French nation had been brought down to.

The road you were taking was raised above the level of the surrounding fields to prevent it from flooding. Many refugees had problems getting up on the road from the fields; carts had to be heaved with a united effort, babies and small children had to be carried, grandmothers had to be pushed, cars in some cases to be abandoned. It was a terrible scramble, involving shouting, cursing and screaming. The fear was always that Stukas would fly over and strafe the crowds. Fortunately none appeared; the skies remained clear.

But your progress was painfully slow. Some refugees, travelling on foot, seized the opportunity to climb on the sides of the tanks for a brief respite. You did not have the heart to order them off. Captain Travers had the passengers of his tank turned away.

Your company had landed at dawn. Cloud had blown away, leaving blue skies. Just before one o’clock you arrived at the town of Yvetot, to find much of it in flames following a German bombing raid. A mixed bunch of soldiers and gendarmes was barring entrance to the town.

Major Montagu handed over command to Captain Travers and went on foot to order the mayor to give us permission to pass through. He returned after ninety minutes, during which time the men had ‘brewed up’. One of the men handed you up a mug of tea. Montagu looked grim. The mayor had been injured by a bomb blast and his harried second-in-command had no control over affairs. He claimed that bomb craters had closed the streets and there was no road open to Rouen: you would have to turn back.

The Major had persuaded or forced the man to sign a piece of paper, which he waved at the soldiery on guard. A large blond Frenchman wearing an old-fashioned helmet came forward and bellowed at the gendarmes to let the British tanks through.

Moving slowly along the shattered streets, you all had your first close glimpse of the destruction brought by the war Hitler had wished upon you. It was a still day. Smoke lay like layers of mist, generated by buildings reduced to smouldering wrecks. A car burned quietly, its driver hanging dead from its open door.

The hospital had suffered a direct hit. Injured persons were lying under blankets in the grounds, with unharmed people thronging about, nursing the dying, weeping, or trying to administer medicines or water to the wounded. A young boy was crawling on hands and knees towards the church, dragging a bloody leg.

The church and its grounds were crowded with frightened people; nuns went among them, smiling and gentle, to soothe or to pray. Two men in uniform were dragging a corpse towards the cemetery. When they saw your vehicles, they stopped and stood rigidly to attention, saluting your unit until every tank had passed.

All shops were closed. A once cheerful main street was completely dead. A queue had formed outside the shutters of a boulangerie. There were no signs of looting.

The number of bomb craters had been exaggerated. Your tanks experienced greater difficulty negotiating the rubble of collapsed houses strewn across the thoroughfare. It took two hours before you had picked your way through Yvetot, and were on the road to Rouen – or ‘the road to ruin’, as the troops put it.

What were you thinking at the time? Do you remember?

I hardly thought. Oh, I suppose I was relieved in a way to see the devastation, the suffering. I told myself that this was how it had always been, that this was simply part of the tragic human condition. Or maybe I thought all that later, when there was time to think, when I was in prison.

Were you aware that this was a peak moment in your life?

No – for once I was totally preoccupied by the present.

You were not more than a kilometre down the road, and were passing through a grove of poplars lining each side of the road, when three Stukas came roaring overhead. The bombs they dropped whistled as they fell, to add to the terror of the attack.

No order was needed for you to dive for cover under or beside your vehicles. Hapless refugees fled to either side of the road among the tall trees, to crouch in ditches. Fortunately, the bombs did little damage, exploding in nearby fields.

‘Stay where you are,’ Montagu shouted. ‘The blighters are liable to come back.’

Indeed the planes did come back. They wheeled and returned from the north-west, flying low down the road, machine guns blazing. Many refugees were hit; several were killed. Some did not die outright; screams of pain and terror rang out long after the planes had gone.

You heard a dog yelping terribly with pain. Suddenly it was silenced.

You had First Aid kits with you, and administered what help you could to the injured. A peasant woman, herself with a badly damaged shoulder, sat nursing a dead child. Over and over, in a choking voice, she cried, ‘Putain de bordel de merde! Putain de bordel de merde!’ You let her drink from your water bottle.

A ragged hound was lapping up blood on the road. You kicked it aside. The scene was one of chaos, of splinters, of ruined limbs. A horse lay struggling in its death agonies, entangled in reins. It had broken a wheel of the cart to which it was attached. One of your troop, a young soldier called Palfrey, put his rifle to the horse’s head and shot it. He helped three men to cut the horse free and drag its body and the ruined cart to the side of the road. An adolescent girl, seemingly unharmed, was leaning against a tree, covering her face, weeping.

Your wireless operator called to the major. An RT message awaited him. Montagu beckoned you to follow him. You stood by the wireless truck while he spoke intermittently in an incomprehensible language, all the while watching the chaos nearby. He finally pronounced an English ‘Out’, and returned the handset to the operator. He locked his hands behind his back and spoke quietly to his two officers, Captain Travers and you.

‘I thank God that a comrade of mine is in the Southampton HQ. We once took a holiday in Ootie together. We can bolo in clear Urdu to each other. Security is maintained – I doubt many Huns bolo Urdu.

‘The news in whatever language is extremely poor, gentlemen. Advanced German Panzer columns have overwhelmed Amiens and Abbeville, on the River Somme. In case you don’t know, those cities are not too far distant from here; about sixty miles.’

He nodded towards the north-east.

‘Now the Panzers are heading this way. We aren’t making the progress we had anticipated. The Germans are making the progress we did not anticipate. We are in some danger of being cut off. The Prime Minister of France, Paul Reynaud, is talking of giving up the struggle.’

‘I always said the French were a bunch of cowards,’ said Travers. He was a wiry man with a lean, hard face, handsome in its way. You had always found him reserved and unfriendly. ‘I’ll wager they lose their nerve.’

Montagu frowned, but let the remark pass. ‘If France packs it in, we shall have a few problems on our hands. Indeed, we have some already.’ The nod of his head was directed towards your men, who were standing in front of their vehicles, rifles pointed at a group of ten or more men and a woman, who were attempting to take possession of the two supply lorries.

One of the soldiers fired his rifle in the air, low over the heads of the advancing group.

The major removed his hands from behind his back and marched briskly to where his men stood. He addressed the French mob in English. He told them that you were a detachment going to help defend their capital city, that their actions threatened to upset military plans, and that the Boche were closing in rapidly on their position.

‘In other words, clear off, the lot of you!’

Whether the refugees understood what he said was doubtful. But his firm, reasonable and authoritative voice had its effect. The mob slunk away and returned to help their wounded comrades.

‘Danke schön,’ said Montagu calmly, turning back to you officers. ‘Now then, I have received orders for a slight change of plan. Somewhere to the west of here lies the city of Rennes, in Brittany. About one hundred and seventy miles away as the crow flies. There’s a firm in Rennes called Colomar, part British-owned. Their HQ is on the Place de Bretagne, a main square, thik hai?’

‘What’s all this to do with us, Major?’ Travers asked.

Montagu continued as if he had not heard the question.

‘Colomar currently hold three-million-pounds-worth, sterling, of industrial diamonds. We don’t want this haul to fall into German hands. You, Fielding, what are industrial diamonds used for?’

You replied, ‘They are essential for the manufacturing of machine tools, and tools necessary for making armaments.’

‘Full marks. The way the war is going, we do not want these diamonds falling into German hands, for obvious reasons. Our orders are for one of us to press on immediately to Rennes, take charge of the diamond stock, and to transport it to Saint Nazaire, a port on the south coast of Brittany at the mouth of the River Loire. I gather there may be some difficulty in persuading the company to hand the diamonds over. However, we are armed and they are not. A persuasive point.’

He stood there sturdily in the middle of the road, looking at you.

‘Rennes is a long way from home. Why is it up to us, for God’s sake?’ asked Travers.

‘Because we are on the spot, Captain. We happen to be British troops farther to the south than other units.’ He spoke briskly, before turning to you.

‘Fielding, you are young and brave, I am delegating you the task of taking one of the vehicles and collecting the diamonds from Colomar.’

You asked why there was this sudden change of plans.

‘Better ask the fornicating Germans that.’ Montagu continued with his instructions.

‘You will drive with the diamonds, going like the clappers, to St Nazaire in the south, where a Royal Naval ship will deliver you and the valuables back to Britain.’

You were horrified. ‘Why me, Sir?’

As you asked the question, you remembered the OCTU report in a stray roster you had caught sight of. There lay a summary of your qualities: ‘6ft 2ins. Good-looking, good accent. Knows how to handle knife and fork. Officer material.’ Nothing was said there about a capacity to collect diamonds from a distant French city.

‘Why not Captain Travers, Sir?’

Montagu gave a low growl.

‘Captain Travers has a poor opinion of our French allies and does not speak French. You do speak French, Lieutenant. You are young and foolhardy. You will do well.’

‘But, Sir … well, I can’t deal in diamonds, Sir. I’m a Socialist.’

In a quiet voice, Montagu said, ‘Don’t be a bloody fool, Fielding. There are larger issues at stake than your political conscience. The whole continent of Europe totters on the very brink of falling to Hitler’s armies. Britain will then stand alone. We need those industrial diamonds and so do the Huns. We must secure them. Take one of the gharies and two volunteers and a Bren gun and off you go. Jaldhi!’

‘Not my tank, Sir?’

‘The ghari is much faster. Stop arguing and go, will you?’

‘What’s the name of the ship I have to rendezvous with, Sir?’

‘You’ll find out when you get there. Starting from now!’

You stood poised to move. But there was a further question, born of the danger you were all in.

‘What about you, Sir?’

Montagu gave you a rictus that passed for a smile. ‘The rest of us will continue on to “Gay Paris” as ordered. The way you are going, away from the immediate combat, should be less dangerous. If you get a move on.’

You found yourself reluctant to leave the presence of this forceful officer. ‘Hope you make it, Sir.’

Montagu put his hands behind his back and stuck his chin in the air. ‘I rely on the motto of the Montagus, forged on the Khyber Pass, Numquam wappas – Never backwards!’

11

Carnage on the Road

The vehicle Major Montagu referred to as a ghari was a five-ton lorry. Among the few supplies loaded into the back of it sat Private Furbank, manning the Bren gun. Private Pete Palfrey was driving the ghari. You swung yourself up into the front seat beside him.

You were entering the hilly country to the south of Bernay, where no refugees filled the roads – where indeed it seemed there were no inhabitants. Signs of human occupation were few – a barn here, an old tractor there, a dilapidated house with a picket fence. Apple trees lined the road, in full blossom, turning hedges white and pink. But not a man with a spade, not a woman hanging out washing, not a child leading a dog along. It was as if the tribes of mankind, having finally got things going, had themselves gone.

Here the spring had come, in contrast to the carnage you had witnessed in Yvetot, the season announced in the trumpets of daffodils by roadsides, and not only there. Cuckoos called from nearby hills. Other birds sang, warbling from tree to tree. The spring enfolded them with its calming presence.

And it rained. It was but a shower. You kept on driving.

Dusk was falling by the time you reached a tiny village on a crossroads, by name Monnai.

‘Stop here,’ you told Palfrey. He drew up at the side of the little street, where the houses crouched against the pavement, looking as if they had closed for the duration of the war.

Furbank came round to the window and asked where you all were.

You responded with an order. ‘You two go and find if there’s somewhere we can eat. Keep your rifles ready for trouble.’

Palfrey said, ‘We don’t speak the local lingo, Sir.’

‘Use gestures,’ you replied. ‘Go!’

You were feeling shocked beyond words. You could not rid your mind of the images of carnage on the road, of bodies stripped of clothing and skin, blood-red and glistening, like something in a butcher’s window. The horror of it would not leave you. Yet you feared it would one day leave you. It was your new knowledge – knowledge that in fact you had known all along – that scared you; that there were madmen loose in the world, that people were meat. You were disgusted with … well, with everything, including yourself. You vowed you would be a vegetarian from now on. Nevertheless, you were feeling hungry.

Furbank and Palfrey came back with a big, red-faced man, his face fringed by a line of beard. He wore a striped sweater and a pair of old corduroy trousers.

You opened the ghari door to him. He put out a beefy hand in welcome. You shook it. He said he understood you were English. You agreed, in your graduate French. He declared that he knew only two words of English, ‘coffee’ and ‘wine’. He laughed at his own shortcomings. You followed suit. He said that if you and your men would do him the honour, he and his wife would like to give you some supper.

You were grateful and accepted.

He asked you what your vehicle was called. You answered ‘Ghari’, for you had taken to Major Montagu’s Urdu for ‘lorry’. The Frenchman said he now knew three words of English. ‘Ghari!’ he said. You had to drive the ghari off the road to his orchard.

The man’s wife was a kindly woman who, directly she saw your pallor, brought you and your companions glasses of calvados. You felt slightly better. She provided you with a good solid meal and a rich red local wine to go with it. You were given cushions on which to lay your heads in the ghari; you already had blankets. You were parked in the man’s orchard, surrounded by blossom. After that generous meal, you all slept well. Your sleep was mercifully dreamless.

The French couple were up even earlier than you in the morning. They gave you croissants and cups of strong coffee for breakfast. You thanked them for their kindness. You would come and see them and repay their hospitality when the war was over.

They stood and waved in the road until you were a good quarter kilometre away. You feared for them when les Boches arrived.

You made good time. Sometimes the roads seemed almost deserted, apart from the odd farm cart; at other times they were busy and you had to pull over to the right-hand side of the road. At one point, on a road lined thickly with trees, you encountered a considerable body of French motorized troops, heading towards the north-east. The commander of the troop was suspicious. He halted the column and came to inspect you.

You climbed slowly from the ghari and saluted him. He was a tall man with a withered face and a black military moustache. He returned your salute and asked who the devil you were. You replied in French that you were a British detachment on a mission to Rennes. He told you you were going the wrong way to meet the Boche.

You explained your mission. He said that the Germans would never get as far as Rennes. But there was a whisper of doubt in his voice. You exchanged a few remarks about the enemy, and you stressed the fact that the British were fighting alongside their allies. He became more cordial. His name was Capitaine Philippe de la Tour, commander of a Breton battalion advancing to engage the enemy. He offered you a Gaulois. You stood together in the road, smoking. He remarked on how young you were. He was thirty-two.

The trees branching overhead were still. Everyone waited for you. Except the Boche.

The capitaine was friendly and curious. He inspected the interior of the five-tonner. Finally, he asked if there was anything he could do to assist you. You mentioned petrol. He had two men bring up two full jerry cans to stow in the rear of the ghari. He enquired if you had French money. You were forced to admit you had none. He tut-tutted and summoned his paymaster, who was made to pay out five hundred francs, which he did with a bad grace.

You were most grateful. You shook hands. The capitaine embraced you, for you were comrades-in-arms. You saluted smartly before he turned away and marched briskly back to his vehicle. It seemed as if your heart rose to your throat and almost choked you.

That night, you were somewhere near Fougères. You did not know where anywhere was, or how far it was, for all signposts had been removed – an indication that someone, if not the capitaine, must believe the Germans might get this far. The countryside was broken and wooded. You pulled into a firebreak between tall beeches. You ate Army iron rations and settled down to sleep on the boards of the ghari.

The sound of distant explosions roused you from sleep. You climbed out quietly, so as not to awaken Palfrey and Furbank, to see what was to be seen. The trees cut off all distant vision. They stirred uneasily in an increasingly strong breeze. Planes were flying overhead. A town further along the road was getting strafed, presumably Fougères. You were sleepy and climbed back to your blanket.

Suddenly Palfrey was shaking you.

‘Wake up, Sir! There’s a dogfight going on. Wake up!’

You were cold and heavy. Only gradually did you become properly alert. The roar of aero engines brought you to your senses. You climbed out after Palfrey. Furbank was standing with his back against the ghari, looking up at the dull dawn sky. His face was grey and drawn, as if he had aged twenty years overnight.

One flickering searchlight was probing the air. A number of planes were manoeuvring, spurting paths of tracer. Slow French fighters were taking on the speedier Messerschmitts. From the ground, it all looked harmless.

You watched in fascination as a plane was hit. It began to spiral earthwards, with a tail of flame.

‘It’s one of ours,’ you said, almost to yourself.

The burning plane flattened out, as if the pilot were recovering control. Still it flew lower and lower.

‘Look out!’ yelled Furbank.

The plane crashed through the tops of nearby trees at great speed, flaming, flaming, as it rushed towards where you stood.

Did you run? Who could remember in that moment of extreme terror? – All you recall is that gigantic fiery thing, like vengeance itself, disintegrating as it sped through saplings, smashing into your lorry, spewing flame and metal all about.

You were hit by a fragment of metal. You went down. Terrible noise. Then the crackle and crash of everything burning.

Into the silence and blackness came strange dreams, incoherent, confused and confusing. Gradually you realized you were recovering consciousness. You could not move.

There was a roof overhead. You were lying in a hut of some kind. You thought you were at home. You could hear the sound of water. You believed you were a boy again, back at Walcot.

You passed out.

When consciousness closes down, all manner of other senses occupy the darkened stage of your mind. These are, in many cases, deeply rooted myth figures, inherited from a long phylogeny, the roots of which precede the human. If only you could examine them! But the net of consciousness is not there to effect a capture.

Slowly the dark tide receded. You sprawled on the very shores of awareness, taking in little or nothing.

You found that someone – and this was real – was lifting your head in order to give you a drink. It was not always water he presented you with. Sometimes it was milk.

You became more able to take in your surroundings. It was not unlike a baby being born. You were conscious of pain. You struggled to sit up. You were alone in something much like a cowshed, covered with an old army greatcoat. Beyond the open shed door lay woodland, where sunshine was visible in slices amid the dense foliage.