The Black Jackals. Iain Gale

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СКАЧАТЬ is due west. We’ll take a left turn here, Sarnt.’

      Bennett barked the order as if he were on the parade ground at Tunbridge Wells, and his words echoed through the silent streets. The men wheeled down the road past the park and were soon clear of the houses and in open countryside once again.

      On they marched, crossing a major road packed with civilians heading north west towards Brussels. They reminded Lamb of the people on the bridge, of the little girl with the doll and the pretty young woman in the red skirt, and again he felt the shame boiling inside him. As they waited for a gap in the column, the men stared at the refugees and Lamb realised that the sight would have an irreversible effect on their morale.

      He turned to Bennett. ‘Can we get a song together? Might gee up the men as they march.’

      ‘Think we can manage it, sir. Stubbs is our best singer. What shall we have?’

      ‘Oh I don’t know. Something from the last war, perhaps? “Tipperary” or “Pack up Your Troubles”?’

      ‘What about “The Siegfried Line”, sir? That’s a good ’un. The lads like that.’

      ‘All right, Sarnt. Make it that one then.’

      Bennett went over to Stubbs, who was carrying the 2-inch mortar on his shoulder, and had a quiet word in his ear. Within seconds, as they at last began to cross the main road, edging with care through the civilians, he had begun to sing:

      ‘We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line.

      Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear?

      We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line, Cos the washing day is here . . .’

      Without prompting the men joined in, all of them familiar with the words of the song which had filled the cinema screens on their last leave. Lamb, though, felt its full irony. Nevertheless he joined in, singing as loudly as he could so that the men would hear him. When the song was over Thompson started up another, ‘Run Rabbit Run’, a real crowd-pleaser. In the chorus Smart yelled ‘bang’ at the appropriate place and raised a smile. They were in better spirits now, he thought, and it made the distance seem less.

      Looking ahead, through the lines of grey refugees, Lamb thought that he saw a figure in a helmet. Then another. He could see rifles now and shouted to Bennett, ‘Soldiers. Up ahead. Can you see? What are they?’

      Both men looked hard through the milling throng of civilians and past the horses, carts and vehicles. It was true. There were soldiers, and the first thing he saw was the colour of their uniforms. Khaki. Lamb smiled with relief and recognised their helmets as British. ‘It’s all right, Sarnt. They’re ours.’

      The men were dawdling along in front of them, moving even slower than the refugees, and Lamb and his men were able to catch up with them quickly. He accosted the last of them, a corporal: ‘Corporal.’

      The man spun round and, recognising an officer, saluted before yelling out to his mates, ‘Oi, get the Sergeant. There’s an officer here.’ The other men came running.

      There were six of them, but it became instantly apparent that they were not from the same unit. As the sergeant made his way back, Lamb spoke to the corporal. ‘Who are you?’

      ‘Stanton, sir. Lancashire Fusiliers. We’re all sorts really. Lost our units.’

      ‘Right, Corporal Stanton. Well, we’re adrift too. You’d best fall in with us for the time being.’

      The sergeant, a Scot, had arrived by now and saluted Lamb. ‘Sergeant McKracken, sir, 1st Royal Scots. Got knocked out up near Limal by a shellburst, sir, and when I came to the platoon had gone. You’ve met Corporal Stanton, sir, and then there’s another from his mob, Driscoll. Then there’s two from the North Staffs, Blake and Mitchell, and there’s Archer. He’s a gunner. Gone a bit deaf – from the shelling, sir.’

      ‘Has he? Well, we’re pretty much in the same boat, Sergeant. We’re North Kents. My name’s Lamb. Lost our people at Wavre. We’re heading south west. Same as you, judging from your choice of route. Can I meet your men?’

      McKracken nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’

      They walked across to where the five men were standing. As Lamb approached, three of them, Stanton, Driscoll and Blake, stood to attention. Lamb noticed that the other two did not – Archer, clearly on account of his deafness. The other man looked up and with a sullen, ash-grey face stared at Lamb, who put on a smile and spoke. ‘Good morning. Seems as if you men are in the same boat as us. Gone adrift. Well, I intend to find our unit, and the best thing would be for you to fall in with us. Sarnt McKracken here agrees. Who are you? Corporal Stanton, I know you already.’

      One by one the others introduced themselves with name, rank and serial number: ‘Driscoll, Private, sir. Lancashire Fusiliers. Me and the Corporal here got lost when Jerry attacked on the Dyle. Had to keep low and when it blew over we couldn’t find the unit.’

      ‘Blake, sir, Private, North Staffs. Same with us, sir, really. Our RSM told us to stick to the Bren in our trench, and we did just that. Shot up a few Jerries. Didn’t we, Taff? But they just kept coming, sir. We was about to pull out when an officer comes over and tells us to hang on. Says reinforcements is coming up the line. So we hung, on, didn’t we, Taff?’ He turned to the ashen-faced man, who looked at him blankly. ‘But no one came. Not a soul. Officer must have got it wrong.’

      The other man spat suddenly and looked up at Lamb. ‘Mitchell, sir, North Staffs. Like Blake says, an officer told us that we’d be relieved, but we never were. Ran out of ammo, and then we scarpered. Passed all our mates, killed. No reinforcements. Nothing.’ The man stared again at the ground. Lamb turned to the last man, the gunner: ‘And you, you must be Archer.’

      The man looked up and frowned. ‘Sorry, sir. Can’t hear a blind thing. Gone deaf, see? On account of the shelling. Can’t hear a thing, sir.’

      Lamb nodded his head. ‘Yes, I see.’ He patted the man on the shoulder. ‘Not to worry. Stick with us. You’ll be all right.’

      He turned to McKracken. ‘Well done for getting them together, Sarnt. They seem in good spirits. All save one.’ He gestured to Mitchell.

      ‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep my eye on him.’

      ‘Jolly good. You’d better see my sergeant.’ He turned. ‘Sarnt Bennett!’

      Bennett arrived. Lamb spoke quietly to him. ‘Six odds and sods to join us, Sarnt Bennett. They’re either hopelessly lost or they’re deserters. But I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. They don’t look like bad sorts and they seem keen to go on, in any case. But keep your eye on them.’

      Bennett smiled: ‘Very good sir. I’ll treat them just as if they were my own.’

      With their newly acquired ‘odds and sods’ in tow, they pushed on across the fields, on roads that at times seemed no more than dust tracks. Another small town appeared, La Hulpe, but it too was deserted. They were climbing steadily now along a natural ridge and by Lamb’s compass were moving west by south west. He felt the pain in his heel with each step but said nothing. Smart, though, could see him wince. The pain in his back where he had been hit by the tree was also proving a hindrance to marching, and he hoped it did not presage anything serious. He knew too that he must keep up the pace СКАЧАТЬ