The Black Jackals. Iain Gale

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СКАЧАТЬ Knew you’d be better for a sharp’ner. Bit of a narrow squeak you had, eh? Thank you, Sarnt-Major.’

      Lamb was aware of the big man executing a perfect about turn and, as his vision became clearer, was able to look more closely at his saviour. The officer was a thin man with a hawk-like nose and, when combined with these features, what seemed an unlikely cheery smile. As Lamb managed to sit up he extended his hand.

      ‘Fortescue, Captain, Second Coldstream. Detached from 1 Div HQ.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’

      Lamb had spotted the three crowns on his shoulder. ‘Peter Lamb, sir. North Kents. Thank you, sir. I mean, I presume you saved my life.’

      The captain smiled and shrugged. ‘Nothing at all, old man, no trouble. Absolute pleasure. Couldn’t leave you there, could we? Jerry would have put you in the bag. Glad to have you aboard. You’re damned lucky. It’s not every man gets hit hard in the back with half a tree and lives to tell the tale. That last shell burst was damned close too. Seems to have hit you on the arm and the leg.’

      ‘No, sir. Actually those are from earlier.’

      ‘Well, you have been knocked about a bit, haven’t you? Have another sip of the old brown stuff.’

      Lamb sat up and drank a little more of the brandy. The pain in his head was slightly less but now the throbbing in his arm where he had been hit was beginning to nag again. ‘My platoon, sir. Where are they?’

      ‘I think my Sarnt-Major’s found most of them. Few of them knocked about a bit. That last salvo did for a couple, I’m afraid. Lucky we were there, to your rear.’

      ‘Sorry, sir?’

      ‘We came in from the woods. Managed to hold off Jerry long enough to get you chaps out. Though what the devil you were doing there in the first place Gawd only knows. We were told you’d pulled out. We’re the rearguard, you see.’

      ‘Rearguard?’

      ‘Absolutely. That’s us. Rearguard. Last in, last out. Incidentally, why were you there? We were told you’d all pulled back.’

      Lamb considered his answer carefully before giving it. ‘Think I must have misread the order, sir. I was quite certain that it said “hold until relieved”.’

      The captain smiled and paused. ‘You’re either very brave, Lieutenant, or very stupid. I’d prefer to believe that it might be the former. In normal circumstances I should probably write this down and inform your CO. But these are hardly normal circumstances, are they?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘We are a rearguard, Lieutenant. We are retreating per se, and as far as I’m aware the entire British Expeditionary Force might be coming with us.’

      Lamb looked at him askance. ‘Sir?’

      ‘We’ve been told to cover a retreat. As far as the river Lescaut. But if you want my opinion we might have to fall back a little further.’

      ‘How far, sir?’

      ‘That’s anyone’s guess, I’m afraid. Gawd knows. I most certainly don’t. All I know is that we’re the Johnnies with the unenviable task of seeing that the rest of you Territorials make it out alive and to the next defensive line. Or as many of you as we can find.’

      Lamb recoiled for a moment. This was not what he had expected. He had come out here to drive back Hitler. Had presumed that the BEF would at least put up a fight for a good deal longer than this. And there it was again, the dig heard so often in the mess. For all his bravery, he was still a Territorial, at least in the eyes of men like Captain Fortescue, regular soldiers. He was determined, though, that by the end of this business he would be treated with the same respect as them. But the man was not spiteful, merely a stickler for protocol. All that you would expect from the Guards, he thought. And, what was more, for all Lamb knew he had saved his life.

      He looked about himself and took in his surroundings. He was sitting in some sort of command post, with a wireless set, discarded packs and various miscellaneous pieces of equipment, on the edge of a copse looking out across an open field. He pondered the captain’s words again. Covering a retreat. Surely it would not happen that quickly.

      There was a pause in which the Coldstream officer stared disconsolately at the ground and twiddled a stick in the earth floor of his command post in an attempt at the regimental insignia.

      Lamb broke the silence. ‘Excuse me, sir. My men?’

      ‘Ah yes, of course, right ho. Let’s find your mob and then you can get on your way, eh?’ He turned to bark an order in a voice that Lamb thought would have been well suited to the King’s Birthday Parade at Horse Guards: ‘Sarnt-Major, find the North Kents, if you will. I’m pleased that we managed to get most of you out. You number three corporals, one sergeant and seventeen men, if my Sarnt-Major’s right, and he’s never been known to be wrong.’

      ‘I don’t remember much of what happened.’

      ‘Hardly surprising when a bloody great tank shell goes off ten yards behind you. You’re lucky to be alive, Lieutenant.’

      ‘Are many wounded?’

      ‘Yes. I do remember one man in a pretty bad state. Lost his foot. And a couple of other minor casualties. One of the NCOs too.’

      ‘My sergeant?’

      ‘No. Not him. He’s sound. One of your corporals, though. Wound to the face. Nothing much really. Deal of blood. But he seemed damned put out about it. Funny sort of cove. Quite unlike your usual ranker. Educated, if you get my drift, and far too lippy by half.’

      ‘Valentine.’

      ‘Was that his name? Funny sort of name too. Take my advice, Lieutenant, and pack him off on an officer training course the first chance you get. That sort are never anything but trouble. Far too willing to express an opinion. Men aren’t intended to have opinions. They can think what they damn well like, of course, but they should never express opinions. Yes, make him an officer. I should.’

      Lamb smiled. ‘He seems disinclined towards promotion, sir.’

      ‘Disinclined? Just sign the form man and the army will do the rest. Disinclined, my Aunt Fanny. He’ll be an officer and bloody well like it. Disinclined indeed.’

      Lamb had no desire to continue the conversation and so quickly changed the subject. ‘Did the Jerries get across the river, sir?’

      ‘They’ve stopped pushing forward for the present but, yes, you might say it is in their hands. They’ve taken a fair pummelling, though. Our big guns gave them a bloody nose. Saw one of their tanks go right up. Bit of a Horlicks down there all round, though, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes, bit of a Horlicks, sir.’

      ‘Dozens of dead Jerries, of course, but women and children too. Seems that someone must have pressed the button and blew the bridge sky high when it was packed with civilians. Bloody shame. Poor devils. I wonder who gave the order.’

      Lamb said nothing but groaned inwardly and heard Valentine’s words again. Surely it’s what anyone in his place would have done, wasn’t it? They were his orders.

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