Blood and Blitzkrieg Page 2

  The reference to ‘you colonials’ was just typical, thought Joe to himself. If he had to endure another snub from some toffee-nosed Sandhurst graduate he thought he’d explode. What did they think he was going to do? Steal the regimental silverware?

  ‘Bloody Poms,’ he cursed, then set off for the barracks.

  Chapter Two

  France, 11 November 1939

  The column of trucks drove into the town square and were waved to a halt by an MP with a baton.

  ‘What unit is this?’ asked the MP.

  ‘1st Company, 2nd Battalion, 2nd Staffordshire Rifles,’ replied the lieutenant in the passenger seat, ‘What town is this?’.

  ‘Roubaix,’ replied the MP, consulting his clipboard officiously. ‘2nd Battalion … here you are, you’re to continue through to the eastern side of the town and bivouac in the woods north of the road where it crosses the river; it’s about a mile from here down that road there. There’s been some sort of mix up, so your adjutant won’t have billets arranged for you until tomorrow.’

  He pointed to the road diagonally across the square. The trucks crunched into gear and rolled across the cobblestones. As the third truck passed the MP, one of the men inside leaned out of the back and called out.

  ‘Hey redcap, don’t stand too long in the sun, your clipboard might get a tan.’ There was a sound of chortling from the truck and the MP fumed as the driver gunned the motor and sped off across the square.

  The source of the voice sat down and rubbed his hands together, ‘God I hate those bloody ruffians, as soon as hit you as say hello.’

  ‘Yeah well, you will keep getting into fights though Corporal Smythe,’ said Joe to his corporal.

  The truck slowed as the column entered a narrow street, then stopped abruptly. The corporal nudged his neighbour in the ribs and pointed out the rear of the truck.

  ‘Get an eyeful o’ that.’

  Passing behind the truck was a dark-haired girl. Although her dress was a modest one, it could not hide what lay beneath from the imaginations of the soldiers. She was examining something in her hand and seemed oblivious to the world around her. A chorus of ribald whistles and lewd comments rose from the men in the truck, and the girl looked up suddenly, the colour rising to her cheeks.

  ‘Hey, you lot,’ yelled Lieutenant Dean, ‘Pipe down. Can’t you see you’re embarrassing the poor girl?’

  ‘Crikey Lieutenant,’ said Private Jackson, a small coal miner from Stone, ‘are you the bleedin’ chaplain too now? Please sit down sir, you’re ruinin’ the view.’

  ‘You bastards need to learn some bloody respect, and I’m the bloke to teach it to you, anytime you want.’ He glared at them and turned to the girl.

  ‘Sorry Miss,’ said Joe, ‘these boys get a bit boisterous at times, but they mean well.’

  ‘I am sure they do officer,’ she replied in English, ‘but thank you for coming to my rescue.’ She looked at him intently for a split second, then with a ‘Bonjour m’sieur’ she passed out of sight behind the canvas cabin of the truck.

  ‘She liked the look of you, Lieutenant,’ said Private Harnock, ‘you could get a leg over there if you play your cards right.’

  ‘Watch your bloody mouth Private, or I’ll put you on a charge,’ snarled Joe, but he stored away the memory of her eyes looking straight at him; no, straight into him. Hers was a face that was hard to forget and he wanted to remember it as clearly as possible. He suspected that once the guns started firing, the memory of a girl could make all the difference.

  The truck lurched and picked up speed. The houses of Roubaix began to flash by and they passed the old city wall and found themselves once again out in the fields of northern France.

  Joe couldn’t get used to the green. Where he came from in South Australia, grass was straw-coloured and grew in spiky clumps. The earth underneath it was orange and the only green was the khaki leaves of the gum trees. France seemed like some enchanted land from a fairy tale, full of verdant pastures, fat cows, dense forests and deep rivers. He’d never seen anything like it, and his eyes automatically assessed the details of the farms they passed, taking in the fencing, the buildings, the animals, all the tiny signs of the way life was lived here; here, where it rained all the time.

  They crossed a bridge and the truck began to slow. Beside the road Joe saw a field where the earth had been disturbed—some sort of trench system had been dug, and what looked like the foundations of a building uncovered—soil was piled up in heaps, and shovels and brooms were lying about unattended. The view changed abruptly as the truck turned off the road and stopped. The voice of the Company Sergeant Major came from the front of the column: ‘Everybody out, form up.’

  The men clambered out with their equipment and dressed line in front of the vehicles. Major Merrivale came down the line and stood in the centre a few yards in front of them.

  ‘Alright men this is the drill. We’re staying here in France until the Germans invade, unless they come through Belgium, in which case we’ll be going in there. That could happen tomorrow or next year, we don’t know. When they come it’s our job to delay them as long as we can as far forward as possible, then pull back in good order to our prepared positions here. So dig in well, you can expect Gerry to invade at any time so look sharp. We’re arranging your billets in the town now. Platoon leaders, briefing at CHQ in five minutes, I’ll give you a lift. Carry on CSM.’

  The lieutenants got into the staff car. A short distance eastwards the driver turned into a driveway and accelerated up to a farmhouse nestled among a cluster of barns and fenced enclosures. Cattle stood in the fields, contentedly chewing; clouds glided serenely across the sky; swallows flitted among the flowers dotting the fields.

  A French soldier saluted the car as it pulled up. In the kitchen, four officers were seated around the table, enjoying the farmer’s hospitality. The table was piled high with country fare: a mound of pink goose-liver pate; a golden pie the size of an anti-tank mine; a bowl of steaming potatoes dripping with butter and sprinkled with parsley and chives, and a host of small bowls containing all manner of delicacies. As they entered, the French officers stood as one.

  ‘Major Mairrrrivale? asked their captain, clasping a glass of red wine in his left hand and saluting with the right.

  ‘Indeed sir,’ replied Merrivale, ‘and you must be Captain Bareau. Please don’t let us interrupt, sit down and finish your meal.’

  ‘But you must join us Major. Caporal, a seat for the English gentlemen. Allow me to introduce my officers: Lieutenants Ouvert, Henri and Emery.’

  ‘An honour gentlemen. Allow me to introduce Lieutenants Jameson and Ferguson, and this is Lieutenant Dean; he’s from Australia of all places, but he tells me he speaks a bit of your language.’

  ‘Australie? Vous êtes loin de chez, lieutenant,’ said the French officer.

  ‘Oui Capitan,’ replied Joe, removing his cap.

  Major Merrivale looked from one to the other, not understanding a word.

  ‘Excuse moi, Major,’ apologised Bareau, ‘I am forgetting my manners. I was just saying “ ‘e is a long way from home” ne’ cest pas? Please sit. A glass of wine?’

  When they had all taken their seats, he pushed a jug and glasses towards them. When their glasses were filled, he raised his own.

  ‘My friends, a toast. To France.’

  They downed their wine and re-filled the glasses.

  The farmer’s wife, standing at the sink amidst piles of dirty pots, cast a disgruntled glance at her husband who shrugged, as if to say, ‘What can I do?’

  Captain Bareau leant forward conspiratorially and said:

  ‘So, my English friends, what are we going to do about les Boches. Eh?’

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘I gather from today’s lunch that you have basic French and a bit of German is that right Dean?’ asked Major Merrivale as they returned to their unit.

  ‘Yes Major, my mother was French, she married my father when he was over here for the las
t war. She taught me French so she’d have someone to speak to in her own language. I’ve forgotten a lot of it though, it’s been a few years.’

  ‘How do you explain the German then?’ asked the major, frowning.

  ‘I grew up in the Barossa Valley in South Australia, there are lots of Germans there, they’ve been there for decades. A lot of my neighbours had German parents and I picked up a bit of it hanging around with them. Not enough to pass as a sausage-eater though sir.’

  ‘Hmmm, we’ll have to see about that. I think you might be more valuable to the war effort somewhere other than in a frontline battalion. Interested in brushing up your language skills?’

  ‘I’ll do whatever you think is best.’

  ‘Right then, I’ll arrange for a language tutor and we’ll see if we can’t get you a bit more fluent, in Frog at least. German might be a bit harder to arrange.’

  Passing the command post the following day, Joe found Captain Bareau waiting outside.

  ‘Ah lieutenant, just the man I wanted to see. Major Merrivale has asked me to find someone to tutor you in French and I thought, why leave such a magnificent task to mere enlisted men? Come, let us find a bar with some suitable vin rouge and we will begin, non? On y va.’

  ‘Avec plaitir mon Capitan,’ replied Joe.

  ‘Bon. Bon.’ smiled the captain, throwing an arm around the Australian’s shoulders.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, the company packed up their tents and were driven into town. The company adjutant gave each lieutenant a list of addresses and numbers, it was up to the junior officers to allocate their men to each house.

  Joe knocked on the door of his assigned house, number 12 Rue de Livre, and a woman he guessed to be in her forties opened the door.

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘Bonjour Madame, je suis Lieutenant Joseph Dean. I am to be billeted with your family.’

  ‘Yes, of course, please come in. Your room is just here,’ she replied in halting English, showing him a small un-decorated bedroom, ‘my son’s old room.’

  ‘My name is Helena Lasalle, and here is my husband, Francois, he is the town doctor.’

  Joe shook hands with the doctor, a rotund man with small hands and a pencil moustache.

  ‘M’sieu, it is a pleasure to have you in our house,’ said the doctor, ‘please consider it your own while you are here.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ said Joe, ‘but I’ll only be here to sleep, I’ll try to keep out of your way as much as possible. Right now I have a parade to attend, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just drop my kitbag and be off.’

  ‘Before you go,’ said Helena, producing a key from her apron, ‘you will need this.’

  Joe left and started down the street to round up his men. As he neared the corner, the front door of a house opened and the girl he’d seen in the square emerged.

  ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle,’ he said, lifting his hat as he passed.

  ‘Good morning officer,’ she replied, then watched him until he turned the corner.

  ~ ~ ~

  ‘Corporal Jensen, get the men to gather round will you?’ asked Joe, standing atop the low ridge where they’d been ordered to dig in.

  ‘Yes sir,’ replied the Lance-Corporal, ‘Ah sir, Privates Henley and Harnock reported sick this morning sir, something they ate last night apparently.’

  ‘Sick eh? Well get everyone else together in five minutes.’

  ‘Very good sir. Oi. You lot. Gavver ‘round, the officer wants a word.’

  The thirty men of the platoon gathered around Joe, wondering what to expect from the Australian. He was still something of an unknown quantity and their lives were in his hands—what had they taught him about infantry combat, down there on the far side of the world? Would he get them all killed?

  ‘Alright fellas,’ Joe announced, ‘we’ve been given the left flank, up with the Frogs over there in that wood. This means we’re gunna be mostly in the open, so pick some positions behind the wall along the top of the ridge. Put a Bren on each end and when the Gerry tanks come, stay out of their way, you can’t hurt ‘em with a rifle. Let’s get to it.’

  He strode off along the ridge to a position in the centre of the area he’d been assigned to defend. In front of him, a pasture sloped down to a road that crossed the field and wandered off out of sight behind a clump of trees to his left. To his right, the wood obscured any sight of the French forces.

  He looked around, gauging the lines of fire and looking for the folds in the land that enemy infantry would use to advance on his position. He also looked behind, knowing that he would probably be forced to retreat if the Germans came with tanks. At the foot of the reverse slope was the curious network of ditches he’d seen from the truck as they arrived. The ditches were in a fairly contained area and didn’t appear to serve any purpose, but followed symmetrical lines. Fifty yards beyond, the river wound its way past the town.

  ‘I wonder what that’s all about?’ Joe mused, then thrust in his entrenching tool and turned the first sod of dark earth.

  ‘Stop!’ came a cry from below.

  It was the voice of a woman, and in English.

  He turned and saw the girl from his street hurrying up the slope towards him. She’d exchanged the dress for a pair of breaches and a French army tunic that must have dated from the Great War, but there was no mistaking that figure.

  She came to a stop a few feet below him. Her hands were covered in dirt and a wisp of hair had escaped from her bandanna. In her right hand she held a curious object encrusted in rust and earth.

  ‘You cannot dig ‘ere Lieutenant,’ she said emphatically.

  ‘G’day mademoiselle,’ he replied with a smile, ‘may I ask why not?’

  ‘This is the site of an ancient Roman fort, and this ridge you are about to defile is the outer rampart. It will be full of artefacts, skeletons, middens, all priceless relics that will tell us ‘ow these Romans lived.’

  He grinned. ‘You seem to know a lot about it mademoiselle. Are you an archaeologist?’

  ‘Non, or at least not yet, I am only a school teacher but I am studying. My uncle is the famous Professor Bendine, per’aps you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I know nothing of archaeology, and I’m also sorry because I have orders to entrench here and if I disobey them I’ll be court-martialled and maybe shot.’

  ‘You cannot dig ‘ere.’ she said, her cheeks reddening.

  Dean noticed that the men had gathered nearby and were standing around in postures of disinterest, eavesdropping on the conversation and eyeing the girl appreciatively.

  ‘You lot,’ he cried, turning on them, ‘quit perving and get to work.’ This was becoming tiresome. He turned to the girl and shifted his cap onto the back of his head.

  ‘Mademoiselle, I’m afraid you’ll have to take this up with my commanding officer, Major Merrivale, he’s the one standing behind that truck over there. But I’ll tell you what: if we dig up anything of interest, we’ll put it aside and you can sift through it. How about that?’

  She glared at him indignantly.

  ‘This is a travesty m’sieu, do you understand that you cannot simply “dig up” these things? We ‘ave to dig carefully, noting which object is in each level of the strata. It is no use just digging up artefacts; if we don’t know what period they are from they are meaningless.’

  ‘Well I’m sorry ma’am,’ said Joe curtly, she was certainly pretty, but he had to maintain his authority in front of the men, ‘there’s a war on, my men have to protect themselves and this is where we’ve been ordered to dig.’

  ‘Hmph. I will speak to le Capitan. Good day to you sir.’

  She strode off up the line of soldiers, who all stopped and stared at her as she passed. Private Jackson let out a loud wolf-whistle behind her.

  ‘Enough of that,’ yelled Dean, now thoroughly irritated, ‘Sergeant Harris, take that bugger’s name. The next man who insults a civilian will be on a charge. It may not feel like it, b
ut we’re at war here, so show some bloody discipline. Now get digging, and don’t come crying to me tomorrow if Fritz blows your ears off because your foxhole wasn’t deep enough.’

  ~ ~ ~

  As the sun sank behind them that evening, Dean climbed out of his trench and surveyed the scene. His men had been digging all day and had done a good job of making the ridge defensible against any kind of infantry attack from the east. Loopholes had been bashed through the stone wall and the two Brens provided a crossfire that would mean death for any man trying to climb the slope. Along with the two dozen rifles and the light mortar, his platoon could lay down a fire that would stop the most determined attack, unless the enemy had a lot of artillery support. Or planes. Or tanks.

  It was the tanks that concerned Dean. He only had three of the Boys .55 calibre anti-tank rifles, and his men had only fired them twice in training against stationary targets. The company had recently been issued a French 25mm Hotchkiss anti-tank gun, which was on the right flank, but the crew hadn’t had much chance to practice firing it. He knew the French had a couple of other 25mm guns in the woods, but he didn’t know whether either of them covered the approaches to his position.

  He contemplated his hands: while digging, the web of skin linking his thumb and index finger on his right-hand had been caught under the metal where the blade met the shaft. A tiny wound, but by God it stung at the moment.

  ‘Excuse moi, Lieutenant,’ came a soft voice behind him.

  He looked up. The workclothes of the day had been replaced by a dress, and two gold rings gleamed amidst the curls beneath her earlobes. In the glow of the setting sun she looked like a gypsy from the stories his mother had told him as a child.

  ‘Oh, g’day.’

  ‘I think I owe you an apology Lieutenant.’

  ‘Oh please don’t worry about it mademoiselle, you have your job to do, I have mine. But here, I’ve got something for you.’

  He knelt and dug into the pack lying at the lip of his foxhole, pulling out a rusted length of metal, vaguely cross-shaped.