

# Blood and Blitzkrieg

Will Belford

By Will Belford

Published by Will Belford at Smashwords.

Copyright 2013 The Style Merchants Pty Limited.

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# Glossary

AIF: Australian Imperial Force

BEF: British Expeditionary Force

Bren: The standard light machine gun of the British army, named after the Czechoslovakian town of Brno where it was originally designed.

CHQ: Company Headquarters

Condor Legion: German volunteer unit that fought in the Spanish Civil War on the side of Franco's Fascists.

CSM: Company Sergeant-Major

Feldpolizei: Military police

Feldwebel: Sergeant

Fritz: British Army slang for the Germans

Goldfish: Tinned herring

"Gott mit uns": God is with us

HauptFeldwebel: Company Sergeant Major

Hauptsturmfuhrer: Assault Unit Leader, SS equivalent of Captain

Heeresgruppe: Army Group

Hotel de ville: Town hall

JU88: Junkers 88, a versatile twin-engined plane used as a bomber, reconnaissance plane and night-fighter and throughout the war.

Kubelwagen: Four-wheel-drive car, German equivalent of the Jeep.

Les Pantalons Rouge: "The Red Trousers", nickname for the French Infantry of the war of 1870, still in vogue in 1914.

Low heel: Australian slang for a prostitute.

MGB: Motor Gun Boat

MO: Medical Officer

MP: Military Policeman

NCO: Non-commissioned officer (lance-corporals, corporals, sergeants)

Oberst: Colonel

Oberstleutnant: Lieutenant Colonel

OKW: Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the German High Command.

Poilus: French infantry, literally 'hairy ones'.

Rosbif: "Roast beefs" a French expression for Englishmen dating back to the 1700s.

Stosstruppen: Shock troops

Stubble hoppers: Foot infantry

Stuka: The infamous JU87 dive bomber with its distinctive inverted gull-wings and dive sirens spread terror, especially amongst civilian populations. The term is an abbreviation of the German word for dive bomber: Sturzkampfflugzeug.

Sturmpioneren: Assault engineers armed with flamethrowers and satchel charges.

Tirailleurs: Skirmishers

Untermenschen: Sub-humans, literally 'under men'.

Unteroffizier: Non-commissioned officer

# Acknowledgements

Plenty has been written about this part of the Second World War, but it's not a 'popular' period in fiction, probably because of the seemingly never-ending series of defeats the Allies suffered. Yet it is in their defeats, their recovery and their eventual victory that countries like Great Britain and Australia find so much of their martial history. The battle for the Low Countries and France was short and brutal, and the Allies fought a lot harder than history has generally acknowledged. It seemed to me that it was a piece of history that deserved another look. I'm just glad I didn't have to live through it.

I'd like to thank all the people who reviewed this book for me, and particularly Peter Gifford (aka Universal Head) for his cover design, his critical editing and his help with the title. I'd also like to acknowledge the immense contribution to the history of this period of a few authors, without whose work this story would have been impossible to tell.

Hugh Sebag-Montefiore's epic work 'Dunkirk – Fight to the Last Man' (Penguin 2007) is an immensely detailed and immaculately researched account of the whole campaign that led to the evacuation from Dunkirk. There's no better account that I've seen, and I'm immensely indebted to this book for providing a lot of the background for the events in which Joe becomes embroiled.

Karl-Heinz Frieser's work 'The Blitzkrieg Legend' (Naval Institute Press 2005) is a detailed technical examination of the German invasion. Its analysis of the methods of the Blitzkrieg and the reality behind critical aspects of it such as the breakthrough at Sedan and the 'Fuhrer's Halt Order' provided a side of the story that was completely new to me.

Andre Maurois' first-hand account 'The Battle of France', (Austin & Sons 1940), written while he was the French Official Observer attached to the British army, was an invaluable source of verbatim accounts that are often absent from history books.

'The Private Diaries of Paul Baudouin' (Eyre & Spottiswood, 1948) was a useful source of information about the machinations of the French government and high command.

I hope you enjoy 'Blood and Blitzkrieg'.

# Prologue

Belgium, 20 May 1940

The last of the dive-bombers was only a speck in the sky above them, but they could already hear the beginnings of the awful scream that heralded its attack. Huddling under the overhang of the trench, Lieutenant Joe Dean clawed at the soil and tried to burrow in like a mole.

The banshee wail rose rapidly as the bomber hurtled out of the sky in a near-vertical dive. When the ear-splitting shriek had reached an unbearable pitch, the plane released its 500-pound bomb and hauled itself sluggishly out of the dive, airbrakes fully extended. The bomb continued straight down and plunged into the trench a score of yards from Joe's position. The blast made the earth shake and a shower of dirt rained down upon the soldiers cowering in terror in their holes.

'Christ,' muttered Joe to himself, 'thank God that was the last, one more of those and we'd have been finished.'

He crept up to the edge of the trench and surveyed the scene: to the south, the bomb had blown a crater thirty feet wide right across the trench. The breeze was blowing the smoke from the explosion slowly west, across a field of red poppies punctuated by dark craters. To the east, across the river Dyle, he could make out the Stuka winging its way back to Germany above the treetops.

A fly settled to drink from Joe's sweaty cheek and buzzed as he swatted at it. His ears were ringing from the pressure of the detonation, but apart from that it was strangely quiet; no orders were being yelled out, nothing.

'Sergeant Harris, report please. Anyone hurt?' called Joe, taking off his helmet and shaking out the dirt.

A man with three stripes on his sleeve came scrambling along the trench 'One killed, eight wounded, two seriously Lieutenant,' replied Sergeant Harris breathlessly in a thick Glaswegian brogue.

'Who bought it?' asked Joe.

'It was The Pollock,' interjected Corporal Smythe, 'I mean, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir. Direct hit: not much left of 'im. It was definitely 'im though, I found a left 'and with a ring on it. You remember that shiny weddin' band 'e was always showin' off? At least 'is fiancé won't have to put up with 'im for the rest of 'er life now.'

'Stone the crows Smithy,' replied Joe, 'the bloke might have been a bit of a silvertail, but bloody hell mate, he's just been killed.'

'Shall I put the corporal on a charge sir?' asked Sergeant Harris.

'Bugger that,' replied Joe with the relief of the man who hasn't been hit, 'put him on burial detail. What'd you call him Smythe? "The Pollock", what is that?'

'It's a sort of fish sir,' replied Corporal Smythe.

'A fish eh?' replied Joe, 'well he certainly had bad luck, if it was raining soup he'd have only had a fork.'

'Aye well, 'e was a right fool,' replied Smythe, 'anyway, this means that you're in command of the platoon sir.'

'True enough. Harris, can you get the wounded stretchered along the commo trench to HQ for me? And by the way corporal, you almost copped it yourself, have a look at your tin hat.'

Corporal Smythe pulled off his soup-plate and gaped at the scar that a piece of shrapnel had scored across the side of the helmet.

'I never even felt it,' he said.

'Let's hope the one that gets you is that painless then, eh?' said Joe.

Joe directed his voice along the trench.

'Platoon, muster on me. Quickly now.' Two dozen forms detached themselves from the sides of the trench and scurried towards him.

'Okay you blokes, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard was hit by that bomb, which means that I'm in command. There's nothing left of the Lieutenant, and why? Because he didn't dig his trench deep enough. Think about that for a few seconds: I don't want to be scraping any of you off my boots after the next attack, so have a lash at it and dig deep.'

'I'm no expert, but I'll bet ten pounds that little entrée from Herr Goering's flying poofters is just the start for today. You can bet your balls that the Nazis will be here within the hour. They'll probably have tanks, but we can't do anything about those, so if you see any, get the hell out of their way and stay under cover. When the infantry arrive we'll see how well they fare against our machine guns. Beating the Poles and the Belgians is one thing, trying to beat us will be different. In the meantime, dig deeper, clean your rifle, check your ammo, and when you've done all that, do it again and keep doing it until I say otherwise. Got it?'

'Yes Lieutenant,' replied a few voices.

'What did I say?' Joe yelled.

'Yes Lieutenant!' the men yelled back.

'Righto then, get to your posts.'

Joe made his way along the trench, patting a man on the back here, having a quick word with one there. He'd been with these men long enough now to get to know them. Being an Australian had made him an item of curiosity at first, but he remembered all their names now and he was pretty sure he'd earnt their respect. Even so, he couldn't be certain that they'd follow him when the decisive moment came. No junior officer could.

'Commandin' a platoon in the British Army again sir?' said Private Billy Simpson, his Irish accent so thick Joe could barely understand him, 'Not a bad effort for a colonial, sir.'

'Yeah well you'd better look out Billy, I'm your commanding officer now, and I can have you broken anytime I want,' replied Joe, grinning. He suddenly realised that he'd better report the situation to the Major, and was heading down a communications trench to the rear when an explosion blew him into the dirt. More blasts followed, the screams of descending shells audible for a few seconds in between each ear-pounding explosion.

He clung desperately to the earth as the shells smashed in and tore the ground all around him. Death was close. He was scared.

'You're in a trench.' he yelled to himself. 'They need a direct hit. They have to get a direct hit, you're safe unless they get a direct hit, direct hit, direct hit.'

He recited the lesson to himself over and over as the deafening roar intensified and he found himself screaming the words as he cowered full-length, eyes screwed shut, hands over his ears, mouth filled with earth.

Then, just as abruptly, the shells stopped falling and a whistle was blowing shrilly to his left.

'They're coming, stand to, stand to, they're coming,' yelled a disembodied voice.

Joe struggled to his feet and ran up the trench to his position. Grabbing his rifle he peered over the parapet. Out in the flowery fields beyond the river, dark shapes were moving. They looked like huge beetles mowing a path through the fields.

Panzers.

# Chapter One

England, 23 October 1939

Lieutenant Joe Dean had spent months on the _Empress of Australia_ , travelling from Adelaide to Portsmouth. To call the voyage tedious would be an understatement, the biggest excitement being the news of the German invasion of Poland, announced when they were a week out from Bombay. The mostly civilian passengers had been in a ferment about the possibility of a U-boat sinking them before they reached Home. Despite their fears, they made it to the English Channel, where a Royal Navy motor gun boat guided them into port.

Having volunteered for an officer exchange, Joe had been keen to get to England and become part of what he considered a 'real' army. The Australian army had a glorious, if somewhat short tradition, but there was no denying that it was small, ill-equipped and parochial. The officer school at the Royal Military College Duntroon in Canberra produced first-class light infantry officers, but what Joe wanted was experience in a fully-equipped professional army.

He stepped onto the dock and dropped his kitbag. After reading about England ever since he was a child, and having chafed to get here, it felt surreal finally to have arrived. Predictably enough, it was raining. A fresh breeze blew the drizzle into his face as he took in the feverish activity of the major dockyard of the British Empire, now at war with Nazi Germany.

As Joe was watching a crane lowering crates of depth charges into a destroyer, a small man with ginger hair and the twin stripes of a corporal on his sleeve approached him and saluted.

'Scuse me sir, but you wouldn't be Lieutenant Dean from Australia would you?'

'Yeah, that's me Corporal. Who are you?'

'Smythe sir,' said the man, giving a quick salute, 'I've been sent to collect you and take you to the barracks sir.'

'Barracks?' said Joe, 'Of which regiment? I've been given no orders, nothing.'

'So I'm told sir, so I'm told. You've been assigned to the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles sir, it's a new regiment, but none finer I'm sure,' said the man with what Joe thought might have been a wink, 'I'm your batman sir.'

Joe held out his hand and, after a moment's hesitation, the man took it and gave it a strong shake.

'Pleased to meet you Smythe, let's go.'

Joe swung his kitbag onto his shoulder. The corporal stood as if paralysed.

'Ah sir, would you like me to carry that for you?'

'No, I can manage.'

'It's just that, some of the other officers might get the wrong idea sir, when we arrive, if you know what I mean.'

'No Corporal, I've got no bloody idea what you mean but I'm sure you can explain it to me on the way. Is it just me or is that wind cold enough to freeze the balls off a bullock?'

'Cold sir?' said the corporal, with a laugh, 'this is as good as it gets in winter 'ere sir, positively 'ot by English standards.'

'Are you fair dinkum mate?' asked Joe, wiping the rain from his brow.

'Sorry sir, not exactly sure what you mean.'

'Never mind, let's get out of this bloody wind.'

## ~ ~ ~

A week later, on the first clear night since he'd arrived, Joe left the mess and walked between the barrack huts out to the parade ground. Looking up, he took in the myriad stars of a northern hemisphere sky alien to him. He lit a cigarette and tried to identify some of the constellations he'd read about.

'Lieutenant Dean,' came a cry from across the parade ground. The voice was familiar: Major Merrivale, the company commander. Dean stubbed out the cigarette and walked toward the voice. He threw a rough salute and stood to attention.

'Yes Major?'

'At ease man, at ease. You've heard we're joining the BEF in France?'

'Yeah, the boys are pretty chuffed about it, they've been earbashing each other ever since you told 'em.'

'Earbashing? Oh, of course, yes, well they were all born since the last war. No amount of stories on Daddy's knee are going to prepare you though, eh?'

'No, I guess not.'

'Questioning the wisdom of your decision to exchange are you?'

'No, absolutely not. I expect the boys at home will be here soon now anyway.'

'I wouldn't be surprised Lieutenant. But in the meantime, I am issuing you with a warning order to move. We have orders to embark from Dover the day after tomorrow, so kindly get your men ready will you? We'll be travelling down overnight, so you've got until 2300 to get everything ship-shape.'

'Yes Major.'

'Very good. Briefing in Dover at 0700, tell the others will you? And Dean, try to make a bit more effort to get on with your fellow officers. They need to know they can rely on you and vice versa. Oh, and try to remember to say 'sir' to superior officers. I know it doesn't come naturally to you colonials, but it will make your life in this army a lot easier. Good night to you.'

'Good night Major,' replied Joe.

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 last 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, but 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.

'I think it might be an old dagger. Hard to tell, but it still has a hilt.' He pointed to the crossbar at one end and held it up to her. Her eyes were shining and a smile played across her lips.

'Oh Lieutenant, we 'ave not found anything like it. C'est magnifique.'

He pointed to a series of shapes lying on an army blanket.

'My boys found a few other bits and bobs, we've laid them out over here. You're welcome to them, no use to us. I'm afraid we didn't manage to record—what did you call it?—the strata they were in though.'

She knelt in the dirt, examining each object before moving on to the next. The soldiers had found more in one day than she had unearthed in six months of painstaking excavation. She was also finding the presence of the officer quite distracting—he talked to her as if he'd known her for years—it was all a bit too familiar, and quite enticing.

'Most of the items seem to be in, 'ow do you say? Good condition? Of course, we have no idea what point in the Roman occupation they are from, but it is better than nothing. It is very good of you, 'ow can I repay you?'

'Well, you could tell me your name,' said Joe. He'd realised that just standing next to this girl made him feel good, he wasn't going to let her leave without something to show for it.

She blushed suddenly. 'Of course, 'ow rude of me, we 'ave not even been introduced. I am Yvette Bendine. And you?'

'My name's Joseph Dean, but everyone back home calls me Joe.'

'And where is 'ome Joseph?'

'Well I come from South Australia, but I guess the British army's my home for the moment.'

'Well Joseph, I will show these to my uncle, 'e will be overjoyed.'

'Of course. I've got a bag for them if you like.'

'Merci Lieutenant. Let us hope that the Germans will not come this way. If they do we will not evacuate, it would mean leaving our work to these Allemand barbarians. Now I must be going, thank you again.'

She smiled, then turned and headed down the slope towards the town.

He watched her until she was out of sight. Only when he returned to his trench did he realise she'd left the Roman dagger behind.

# Chapter Three

Germany, 19 December 1939

General von Manstein stared out of the bunker's gunport at the Belgian fortifications. The banks of the river rose steeply to a field of barbed wire, behind which a minefield covered by machine guns made any approach a death sentence.

'Hmmm, the usual defensive rubbish, eh Herr Oberst?' asked the most brilliant general in the German army. 'How would you get across there if you had to?'

The Sturmpionier colonel standing beside him coughed nervously.

'I'd request an artillery barrage to clear the wire, bring some tanks up to give covering fire, and put a second barrage of smoke down in front of the gun positions. Then I'd send a platoon across in boats with mine detectors to clear a channel. After that, a few men with flamethrowers and demolition charges could clear the bunkers under cover of some machine guns. We could be across in an hour.'

'Very good, but what if your artillery was not available?' queried the general.

'Then we'd do it all under fire. I'd have to send more men across to flank the gun pits and hope for some air support to suppress them. We'd take much heavier losses, but we'd still be over in a few hours.'

The general smiled grimly at the young man's confidence. His experiences attacking similar positions in the Great War left him with no illusions of how effective machine guns firing into minefields and wire could be. Still, the young man had a point: close-up support from tanks, artillery and aircraft made all the difference. It was all about co-ordinating everything carefully, something that the Australian Jew, General Monash, had worked out in 1918 to good effect against the Hindenburg Line.

The colonel interrupted his reverie.

'Herr General, please excuse my impertinence, but may I ask why you are here overseeing an infantry assault? I would have thought you'd be in charge of a PanzerArmee.'

'Indeed Herr Oberst, an excellent question. Let us retire to the hotel in Bitburg for a schnapps and I will tell you.'

During the journey in the staff car, von Manstein ruminated on the years since the Great War. He had studied Monash's attack, the last of several successful assaults the Australian engineer had made. The Australians had broken through the Siegfried Line where all others had failed, using an organised and patient attack, concentrating all of their force on a single point. Monash had given his tanks, artillery, aircraft and infantry specific tasks and insisted that they stay in communication so they could adapt to the inevitable delays and confusion of an assault.

General von Manstein knew that Monash had not had an easy time of it—like many generals before him he'd had to spend nearly as much time fighting political battles as he had planning the attack—yet his meticulous planning had paid off: the Australians punctured the Siegfried line and advanced twenty miles in just three days, further than the entire Allied army had managed in nearly four years.

'This might sound petty Herr Oberst,' said von Manstein, 'but I fear I am the subject of what you might call professional jealousy. A few years ago I presented a plan for an attack on Belgium and Holland. I believe that the French and British want to fight in Belgium, where the Dutch and Belgians can add weight. Combined, the Allied armies far outnumber the Wehrmacht. In theory, fighting from prepared defensive positions they should be unbeatable. But there is a way to defeat them. Of course, I can't tell you all the details, but we might as well pass the time. You're familiar with the Schlieffen Plan of the Great War?'

'Ja, naturlich Herr General,' replied the colonel, nodding.

'My plan is loosely based on the Schlieffen Plan,' said von Manstein, 'but with massed formations of tanks leading the way and going as fast as they can, whether the infantry can keep up or not. In my plan, three Army Groups, consisting of tanks, infantry, artillery and tactical air support strike across Belgium and Holland for the coast. Army Group C in the north goes for Antwerp, Army Group B in the centre heads for Brussels, while Army Group A in the south comes through the Ardennes forest, drives west to the Channel and separates France from Belgium.'

Manstein's plan depended on the French advancing the bulk of their army into Belgium to defend the Dyle River east of Brussels. This so-called 'Dyle Plan' was well-known to von Manstein due to the efforts of German spies. His plan was to cut off the Dutch in the north from the Belgians with Army Group C and defeat them first. While this was happening Army Group B would engage the Belgians, the French and the British in running battles on the Belgian plains. Meanwhile, to the south, Army Group A would slice a 'sickle cut' beneath the French forces, breaking their lines of communication with France and trapping them in Belgium.

'But what about the flanks Herr General,' interjected the colonel, 'would not the French reserves drive north from Paris and cut the panzers off once they had advanced?'

'That is exactly what many officers in the General Staff believe will happen, but it will not. Why? Because the whole French army will already be in Belgium and will themselves be cut off by the panzers' advance.'

'How can you be so certain?' asked the colonel.

Von Manstein tapped his aquiline nose and smiled.

'They will be in such a panic, they will commit their whole reserve to try to contain the situation early. It's what I would do if I were in their place, and if I were French,' he added with a wry smile.

The whole plan depended on aggressive movement, and disregarded the military maxim of defending your flanks. In von Manstein's plan there was neither the time nor the manpower to defend flanks—after a week the flanks would be hundreds of kilometres long anyway—the key was speed: break through and reach the English Channel so quickly that the French wouldn't even know what was happening, or where the German forces were.

It was a daring plan, but when von Manstein had presented it to the Chiefs of Staff in 1939 he had been ridiculed. General Halder, the most senior general in the army, saw to it personally that the plan was buried, and that von Manstein was transferred to command of an infantry force.

'Being a good military strategist does not necessarily make you a good politician, verdammt,' muttered von Manstein to himself.

'I beg your pardon Herr General?' asked the colonel.

'Nothing, nothing, Herr Oberst. I think your attack plan would be a good one, it's simple. Simple plans work best, because there's less to go wrong, remember that. Good luck if we ever decide to invade.'

The car pulled up and the colonel saluted.

Standing in the main street of the picturesque German town, von Manstein breathed deeply and gazed west for a moment. He knew that the high command were planning to invade Belgium and Holland any day now. Furthermore, his contacts at headquarters had told him that Hitler had resurrected his plan, and the Chiefs of Staff were now enthusiastic about it. The question was, would they stick to it? Or would some fool tamper with it and ruin everything?

# Chapter Four

France, 22 December 1939

At Captain Bareau's insistence, the French lessons were conducted in the local tavern. Three afternoons a week, Joe would start out concentrating, but after downing the best part of a bottle of _vin rouge_ , he would find increasingly difficult to focus on details like formal and informal forms of address.

'You see Lieutenant,' said Captain Bareau, apparently unaffected by the wine, 'there is nothing like a French woman. They have what you would call a 'double standard'. When they are young they are happy to be the mistress of a successful married man; as they get older they yearn to be married and once they are they demand fidelity from their husbands, even though they have no right to expect it, having denied it to other wives. And so they grow bitter as they age and lose their beauty, and before you know it you are married to a woman like your Dickens's Madame DeFarge, knitting as she watches the guillotine rise and fall.'

Joe's head was befuddled with wine and the fumes of the strong Gauloises they had been smoking since they sat down. He was struggling to follow the captain's complex French sentences. The bar had filled up and the din of the other patrons was making it hard to hear his tutor. Above all he wanted fresh air and a drink of water. He struggled for the right sentence structure.

'So what you're telling me then Captain, is that under no circumstances should I marry a French woman, I should just have a series of mistresses?'

'Ah ha. Oui mon ami, but to have a mistress you must first be married. It is a beautiful paradox ne' cest pas? Only the French could have invented it.'

The door of the bar swung open and Yvette Bendine came in, carrying a basket in one hand. She walked from table to table, leaning down to speak quietly with each group. At each table the men dug in their wallets and produced money which she accepted graciously and placed in the basket.

Joe's eyes followed her intently and the Captain smiled.

'You have noticed 'la belle' of Roubaix then Lieutenant? Along with every other man here. She is stunning is she not? A bouquet of heartbreak. She comes. Quick, get some money ready.'

After a brief laughing conversation at the next table, Yvette approached the two men. They both stood as she neared the table.

'Capitan,' she said, inclining her head modestly.

'Mademoiselle, enchanté, allow me to introduce my fellow officer all the way from Australie, Lieutenant Joe Dean.'

Yvette smiled briefly at Joe and held out her hand to the captain.

'The lieutenant and I have already met, mon Capitan. His men are turning my precious excavation into a trench.'

'In that case Mademoiselle, he owes you a favour. Lieutenant, I order you to empty your wallet into the young lady's basket, for the sake of the orphans of Roubaix, of which there will be many more before this war is over.'

'It is my duty, mon Capitan,' replied Joe, dropping his last bills into the basket in the name of duty, and looking the girl right in the eye.

'Merci m'sieur,' said Yvette in a little sing-song voice, then whisked away to the next table.

Joe sat down with heavy sigh. Was she mocking him?

'Ah, you are in love Lieutenant, non? How old are you? Twenty-one maybe? It is a disease that afflicts all men of your age, but there's no doubt she is something special. I wish you luck in your pursuit. Something tells me many have failed before.'

Captain Bareau savoured a sip of wine and smacked his lips.

'Now then, what we need is some cheese.'

He signalled to the barman and called out a request that Joe should have understood, but he was watching the girl as she moved from one table to the next, flirting just a little with every man in the room, making each one feel he was somehow special.

# Chapter Five

Belgium, 10 January 1940

Luftwaffe Major Helmuth Reinberger had received orders to be at OKW forward headquarters in Cologne, by nine the next morning. The orders stated that officers attending were expressly forbidden to fly, but that night in the mess at Loddenheide airfield, he had met Major Hoenmanns. After a few lagers, the major had mentioned that he was flying to Cologne the next day and offered him a lift.

'I need to get my uniforms laundered, and that is my wife's duty,' said Hoenmanns, 'mind you, it's the only conjugal duty she will do these days. Fortunately,' he added with a wink, 'I have a little fraulein off base here to take care of that.'

Hoenmanns' domestic arrangements and infidelities were of little interest to Reinberger, but the offer stood. He pondered the delays caused by the troop trains marshalling around Cologne for the assault on Belgium—he had next-to-no-chance of getting to the meeting on time that way, he should have left that afternoon.

With his orders not to fly ringing in his ears, Major Reinberger swallowed his beer.

'I accept your offer. 9am then? Alles gut.'

It was 10am by the time they left the ground, and the headwind blowing from the west slowed the tiny Messerchmitt 108's airspeed to little more than 70 knots. The sun had filled the windscreen when they took off, but now they were entering a fog and the ground below was becoming shadowy and indistinct.

Reinberger pulled one of the earmuffs off his ear and leaned over to where Major Hoenmanns held the joystick.

'How long now?' he yelled over the roar of the engine only a few feet in front of them.

'Ten minutes?' shrugged Hoenmanns, flashing the fingers of his left hand twice, 'I'm surprised we haven't seen the Rhine already.'

Nervously fingering the pigskin briefcase on his lap, Reinberger looked down again. The fog had thickened. He tapped Hoenmanns on the shoulder and gesticulated downwards with this thumb.

'Get below this fog,' he yelled, 'we need to know where we are.'

The major pushed the stick and the ME108 fell rapidly towards the earth. Passing through 300 metres they abruptly cleared the fog, to find themselves over white fields, with no river in sight.

'Where the hell are we?' Reinberger yelled to Hoenmanns.

Reinberger stared out the cockpit window. He had spent many hours reviewing aerial maps of the border of France and Belgium, planning the co-ordination of Luftwaffe sorties with advance units in the forthcoming invasion. The reconnaissance photos he had studied were taken in summer; now the land was covered in snow and none of it looked familiar. After a few minutes his eyes picked out the curve of a river beneath them. He studied the river with a worm of doubt gnawing at his mind. Was it the Rhine? Was it the Meuse? Then he recognised a distinctive bow in the river.

'Turn around.' he yelled at Hoenmanns, pointing down at the river, 'I think we're over Belgium.'

'What?' screamed Hoenmanns over the noise of the engine.

Reinberger pointed down and howled 'Belgium!' into his ear.

Hoenmanns blanched. He altered course south-east, then opened a side window in the side of the cockpit glass and stuck his goggled face into the slipstream to get a better view. In his haste to find out where they were, his arm bumped the fuel line switch to 'Off'.

After a few seconds the note of the engine climbed, coughed once, cut back in, hiccoughed, then cut altogether, leaving only the sound of rushing wind.

Reinberger stared at the pilot. The man was frantically flicking switches and seemed to be in a panic.

'Put your belt on and brace yourself,' yelled Hoenmanns as he pitched the plane forward into a glide. He quickly scanned the ground for a clear field, then noted the wind direction from the smoke of a farmhouse chimney a few hundred metres ahead: it was blowing across the field, not ideal.

He lowered the flaps and struggled to wind down the landing gear, making the plane wobble as it descended. Major Reinberger closed his eyes and gripped the briefcase.

The ME108 approached the field at just above stalling speed and the major pushed it down slowly. They ghosted over some telegraph wires, then the ground came up with a rush and the plane hit between two poplars that sheered off the wings with a tremendous crash. The cockpit glass exploded into a thousand fragments and the two men were thrown about as the plane bounced once, then smashed into a thicket and came to a stop.

There was silence, but for the ticking of the cooling engine.

The owner of the field looked up from his cows and took a puff on his pipe. The plane had left a smear across his lower paddock and come to rest in the hedgerow beside the road. The pilot was clambering out of the wreck, lucky for him.

The farmer trudged off towards the shattered plane, puffing slowly. A sunbeam poked through the clouds, and he gazed across towards the Meuse River glinting in the distance. A man in uniform emerged from the plane, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead, and came running up to him. He had a briefcase in his right hand.

'Wo sind wir?'

Clearly the man was a German, so the farmer replied in German.

'Belgische, Mechelen.'

'Have you got a match?' asked the German, his pale face making the blood appear bright crimson.

Thinking he wanted a cigarette to calm his nerves after the crash, the farmer reached into his coat pocket and produced a match.

'Danke,' muttered the man and raced to the hedge that lined the field. As the farmer watched, the man pulled a sheaf of paper from the briefcase and struck the match with shaking hands. After a sputter, the match caught and he began burning the documents a page at a time. Blackened flakes were rising in the morning air as the first Belgian army patrol arrived.

## ~ ~ ~

'The documents retrieved from the aircraft were a complete plan for the invasion of the Low Countries,' said the officer from British military intelligence. 'They indicate that the Germans are ready to attack at any time, striking from the north with the aim of capturing the Channel ports.'

'What?' exploded General Gort, the commander of the British Expeditionary Force. 'Well surely they'll have to change their blasted plans now they know we've got this lot.'

'Maybe,' interjected General Huntziger, commander of the French 2nd Army, 'but what if they don't? What if they have done this deliberately so they can observe our troop movements? Our preparations are designed to counter just such an invasion, and in the last twenty-four hours we have mobilised right under the noses of German reconnaissance planes. If they didn't know our plans before, they know them now.'

'Well if these plans are a decoy they've done a good job faking it,' replied General Gort, 'this is a complete invasion plan, it must have taken months of work.'

'We have already moved our armies up to our border with Belgium on the basis of this intelligence,' said the French general, 'surely the Belgians must allow us to move into position in their country now, or are we expected to pull our forces back again?'

'I fear General,' said Gort, 'that it will be the latter. Until the Germans invade we are all in the hands of the politicians.'

'Bah.' said the Frenchman, 'we should have invaded Germany months ago. What are we doing cowering here? Les Pantalons Rouges of my father's generation would have taken the Rhineland by now. We are all turning into old women and no good will come of it.'

## ~ ~ ~

Hagan Schmidt hated women.

His mother had ignored him from the day he was born, handing him to an ancient nanny called Mrs Kahn, who smelt of stale cabbage and had a wart on her chin that sprouted hairs. When he was disobedient, she would beat him with a cane then lock him in the dark space beneath the stairs for hours at a time.

On his fifth birthday, when he accidentally soiled his pants, Mrs Kahn had grabbed him by the ear and hauled him up two flights of stairs to the bathroom, her nails drawing blood in the process and leaving permanent scars that itched when the weather was dry.

His parents were rarely there to hear his cries for help and would not have heeded them anyway. When he had tried to tell his mother how awful the nanny was, she had slapped his face and told him not to be insolent to his superiors.

He didn't like men much either. His days at school had been filled with teasing, beatings and bastardry that had left him resentful and mistrustful of everyone. And why? Because he was not one of _them_. Not a poor boy, not by any means, but not from a 'landed' family. His father, Heinz Schmidt, was a Ruhr industrialist who'd made a fortune supplying the German army with artillery shells during the Great War. Armed with his fortune, Heinz Schmidt had set about trying to buy his way into the German aristocracy, with predictable results.

Clever overseas investments had protected the family against the roaring inflation of the Weimar Republic during the 1920s. After failing to get the boy into any of the better German schools, Schmidt sent his son to an elite British boarding school, attended mainly by the sons of British aristocrats. There he had been tormented from day one for being German and being a commoner. For Hagan it had meant years of misery, and when Adolf Hitler's Nazi Party came to power in Germany it got even worse.

In 1936, Hagan finally graduated and returned home. He'd kept an eye on what had been going on in Germany in his absence, and before he even visited his parents in their Dusselfdorf mansion he went straight to the local SS barracks, asking to join up.

When they discovered he spoke English, the SS passed him on to the Abwehr, the Nazi Secret Intelligence Service. There, a man he knew only as 'Colonel Huber' began training him to be a spy. The colonel and his team worked on refreshing Hagan's English and French, and began teaching him Polish.

Hagan had a gift for language, and coupled with his paranoia, this made him a natural for the job, but he had a weakness: women. His humiliation at the hands of his mother and his nanny had created in him a compelling urge. He needed to have women at his mercy, to force his power upon them, to make real the fantasies of revenge he'd concocted as a boy while imprisoned in the darkness beneath the staircase, or cowering under the blows of the school bullies.

In December 1938, while on leave from the training camp near Wurttemburg, he raped and murdered a local barmaid who refused his advances. The Abwehr had to intervene and cover it up, claiming that the girl was actually a Jew hiding under false papers and had been killed resisting arrest. When her parents protested they were warned to keep quiet or be deported to a labour camp.

A few months later, he took to a second girl with a knife, not realising that she was the daughter of the local Nazi member. Hagan was arrested and given up to the German justice system. By this time though, it was June 1939, and the Nazis were planning their invasion of Poland. Instead of being sentenced as a murderer, Hagan was plucked from prison by the Abwehr, promoted, then infiltrated into Poland to lay the groundwork for the invasion, and murder on a scale never before seen.

Now he was back at Abwehr headquarters being briefed for his next mission: England.

'This war will last a long time Hagan,' Oberst Huber had said, 'and if we don't destroy the British Army early on, we will have to fight them many times before we defeat them. We need someone who has training and experience in their signals from the inside. Once you are established, we will have you transferred into Army Intelligence headquarters.'

'How will you arrange that sir?'

'It's never guaranteed, but our spies do have some influence over unit placements in their army. You're most likely to go to a headquarters unit. There's a small chance you may be assigned to a frontline unit, we'll try to avoid that, but there's only so much we can do.'

'A frontline unit? What use will I be there?' asked Hagan.

'Not as much as we would like, but if that happens, you will just have to stick it out and make the best of it. Eventually you will be rotated back to England. Besides, having some combat experience will be a feather in your cap at the British GHQ. Now, your alias. Do you want to be English or Polish?'

## ~ ~ ~

Joe could recall the soft cadences of his mother's voice as if she were standing beside him.

'Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six...'

Despite being on the far side of the world, Gabrielle Dean had made sure that her first child grew up speaking enough French that she could still have a conversation in her own language. English was all very well, but it didn't have the fluid elegance of French. Her husband George couldn't see the point.

'Where's he going to use French here for heaven's sake?' he'd said one day. 'We'd be better off teaching him German now they've let 'em all out of the internment camps. Who's he going to talk to except you?'

'If he only ever speaks French to me that will be enough,' replied Gabrielle, 'it is not as if you are interested in speaking it anymore, is it mon cherie,' she added playfully, 'now you have your French bride?'

George had picked up more than a few words while stationed in France with the AIF in the Great War. He'd learnt enough to be civil to the French officers, and enough to court and marry the local beauty, but that was soon forgotten once they'd returned to Australia; there wasn't much use for French on 60,000 acres of sheep station.

'Perhaps he can train the kelpies to respond only to French commands,' chuckled George, 'that'd go down well at the Sheep Show.'

Joe had wondered what his mother had seen in his father. Certainly, he must have been a strapping lad in 1916, but he'd have needed some powerful charm to entice her to leave her family and go all the way to Australia, to live in a wooden house with a tin roof in the back of beyond. The Barossa Valley was only a day's ride from Adelaide, but it might as well have been the moon as far as she was concerned; a hot, dry moon.

Mind you, George Dean was a decent man, who took an interest in his two sons. Some of Joe's friends had fathers who'd belt them as soon as look at them, and mothers who didn't care whether they had shoes or not when they came to school. His parents were different: they'd put their heart and soul into Joe and his little brother Matthew.

One night at the kitchen table, shortly before leaving for Duntroon, Joe had asked his mother about this as she dressed some mutton ribs.

'When the Australians came to Fromelles they were like giants,' she reminisced. 'French men were so small, but the Australians, we'd never seen anything like them. They were all brown and healthy with beautiful broad shoulders, they seemed so huge and carefree. Before the battle anyway,' she said reflectively.

'Your father used to come to our farm to buy milk for his men, and he and I would go to the barn to fill his containers. It never occurred to me until later that it was strange for a Captain to do such a menial task. By then ...' she shrugged, 'I had already fallen in love.'

She sighed and looked at her first baby, whose diet of mutton had made him grow over six feet tall. A confident young man, the image of his father when she had met him.

'And now I have two big Australian boys of my own. I really must write to Claudette and see how her twins are getting along.'

'Do you miss her?' asked Joe.

'My sister? Of course. I have always hoped to return to France one day and who knows, perhaps we will? I do hope you get to see it Joe, it is a truly beautiful place. Green, not like here.'

'I'm sure I will Mum,' said Joe, 'one day, I'm sure I will.'

# Chapter Six

France, 7 March 1940

The British were dug in and ready to fight, but then—nothing happened. The Germans didn't come, and two long, dull months passed. Months of hard winter spent mostly outside, digging entrenchments, filling sandbags, checking fields of fire, drilling, marching miles in the dark in full kit, sweating and freezing simultaneously.

The shared experience of hardship had given Joe an opportunity to get to know the other two lieutenants in his company a little better. James Jameson and Arthur Ferguson, the 'Sons' as Major Merrivale liked to refer to them, were both from solid middle-class English families, sons of a banker and a factory manager. Like most men in their early twenties, they enjoyed a drink, and after particularly hard exercises, Joe had been able to offer them the hospitality of the doctor's wine cellar, which had been warmly received.

When they had first arrived at Roubaix, the major had stressed to his officers the importance of keeping the men busy at all times.

'This may be called a "Phoney War" now,' he'd said, 'but it will get real enough pretty darn quickly when the Germans finally decide to get off their backsides and invade. I want this regiment to be the fittest, best-trained, best dug-in and readiest when that moment arrives. It's up to officers like you to give me what I want. I don't care how you do it, but God help you if I find any sloppiness. We're at war gentlemen, it may not feel like it, but we are. I will inspect your troops every week. Dismissed.'

Joe had never been that interested in the 'toy soldier' approach of making sure every boot shone and every belt buckle gleamed. To him, soldiering was all about shooting accurately, moving quietly, flanking the enemy, using the tactics they'd taught him at Duntroon. The British army was a professional force, but it still had a lot of ideas that, to Joe's eyes, seemed to date to the previous century when they'd been defending the British Empire against native uprisings, so Joe had sought permission from the Major to do things a little differently.

Instead of endless drilling and polishing of brass, his platoon had spent much of their winter at the rifle range, crawling about in the swamps that lined the nearby river, going on route marches and, in their free time, playing rugby. With 30 men at his disposal, Joe had created two teams and they played for 80 minutes twice a week, with four training sessions in between. Every week he switched the players around, so everyone got to play on a team with everyone else in the platoon.

The games were pretty rough-and-ready affairs, with Joe acting as referee, but the spirit of competition had spread from the field to their other activities, so whether they were digging a trench or straggling through the last mile of a route march, the men competed despite themselves. The competition was particularly fierce at the rifle range. After some indifferent shooting early on, the platoon had increased its average hit rate by more than fifty percent. Joe had set the standard by firing three bull's-eyes in a row at the one target. Years of shooting foxes, wild pigs and kangaroos had given him an unerring eye and a stationary target was simply too easy. His men, many of them city-bred, had none of his innate skill or training, but under his guidance they were getting better.

They took to shooting at birds and he showed them how to lead the target. After a few weeks most of them could get at least half their shots in the bulls-eye, while Private Wellesley and Lance-corporal Clark had developed into reasonable marksmen. They all had '303-eye' in various degrees, a bruise under the right eye from where their thumbs had struck over and over again as they pulled the bolt to reload the bullets that were .303 of an inch wide. They also spent many hours pulling their Lee-Enfield rifles apart cleaning them and putting them back together, in all kinds of weather and without notice. Joe had woken his men several times in the middle of the night and forced them outside to strip their weapons in the dirt, clean them and re-assemble them.

After one particularly cold 4 am route march with packs, Lance-Corporal Jensen had come to him before the morning parade. Joe was sitting outside the command post whistling to himself as he cleaned the rifle he'd requisitioned from the regimental stores. Although as a junior officer he was expected to go into battle with a pistol, he'd decided to keep his eye in with a real gun. Each morning he spent ten minutes stripping and cleaning it, working the bolt, then when he was satisfied it was clean he tracked birds, taking imaginary shots. He was pulling the brush through the barrel for the third time when Jensen appeared.

'Sir, the men are complaining about these night-time drills, especially the gun cleaning. They reckon they know how to do it now, so why keep tormenting them?'

'They won't be complaining if their guns jam when Fritz is attacking,' replied Joe curtly, inserting the brush one more time, 'they'll be dead. Tell 'em that for me will you Corporal? And Corporal?'

'Yes sir?' asked Jensen, turning.

'Tell 'em to clean their guns again, now. Firing range after parade, any man who misfires will be on a charge. And whoever it was who came to you to complain, he's cockatoo tonight.'

'Come again sir?'

'Sentry duty. Don't you Poms know anything?'

'Right you are sir,' said Jensen with a grin.

## ~ ~ ~

During those icy months Joe had run into Yvette on the street several times and they had made polite conversation. He usually walked away cursing himself for all the witty, interesting comments that he hadn't made. Once, on the sole sunny day they'd had during February, she'd ventured into the diggings behind his entrenchments. He was deepening the trench with his men, shirts off and sweating despite the cold. She'd sat and watched them from a distance, and when he waved she'd waved back.

Then in the first week of March, the regiment was finally given a few days' furlough, and descended upon the town like a plague of locusts. The local brothel became notorious overnight and the bars were full of drunken Tommies starting brawls at the slightest provocation and bringing the redcaps running with batons. Five of Joe's platoon were on charges; one of them hadn't yet awoken from an alcoholic stupor, but that was nothing compared with the Glaswegians of the Queen's Own Cameron Highlanders. An MP had told him the week before that "once they've got into the French brandy, the only way to control that lot is to handcuff them, tie them to stakes in the ground and leave them overnight until they sober up." Joe's platoon were tame compared to that and he was grateful for it.

The air in the tavern was blue with cigarette smoke and on the piano in the corner a private was thumping out 'Lili Marlene', barely audible above the yammering of dozens of soldiers given leave: leave to get drunk; leave to do something other than soldiering; leave to get their hands on a woman for the first time in months.

Joe turned to Ferguson.

'Hey Massey, you're cashed up, it's your round.'

'Massey? What the hell?' asked Ferguson.

'Massey-Ferguson, the tractor makers,' said Joe.

'Tractors? I've never ridden a tractor in my life.' remonstrated Ferguson, smoothing his moustache.

'You got a mousetrap in your pocket? It's your round.'

As Ferguson made his way to the bar, the door opened and the spring breeze swirled in, sending a chill through the room.

'Close the bloody door,' called Joe, 'were you born in a tent?' He turned to see Yvette walk in, and felt his heart start to beat a little faster as she walked right across the crowded room to him.

'Miss Bendine. I wasn't expecting to see you here.'

'In this tavern m'sieur? You know I come 'ere to ask for money for the orphanage. After nine o'clock I find the men here are more generous than usual.'

'I reckon they'd give their shirts to any cause you support mam'selle.'

'Aah Lieutenant, there is no need for, what do you call it 'flattairry'? she replied. Despite herself, she felt girlishly happy at the compliment.

'Would you care to make some small contribution yourself?' she asked, holding out her basket.

He thought about the back pay he was owed and what he had in hand—three shillings a day didn't go far as an officer in His Majesty's army—then dug into his pocket and pulled out his last shilling piece.

'This is all I have money-wise right now, but I've been doing a bit of work on this if you'd like to have it,' said Joe producing the Roman dagger from his boot.

She took it from him and examined it. Clearly he'd spent a lot of time carefully cleaning it, without losing any of the remnants or chipping away fragments. She glanced up and noticed him watching her intently.

'You 'ave done a good job with this m'sieur,' she said with a smile, 'per'aps you should be an archaeologist.'

Joe glowed, it made all his hours of finicky brushwork worth it.

'Thank you for this,' she continued, 'and for your donation. I will make sure that the children 'ave something special, per'aps new boots?'

'Tres bon,' said Joe.

'Vous parlez Francais?' she asked, with surprise.

'Only schoolboy French,' said Joe, grinning.

Corporal Smythe materialised on his left and nudged his arm.

'Excusin' me sir, but we best be off if we're goin' to be in our billets before curfew.'

'Yeah, righto Corporal, get the men together will you? I'll see you outside. Bonsoir Miss Bendine.'

'Bonsoir lieutenant, et merci,' she said holding up the Roman relic.

Joe turned and pushed through the door into the street. The spring air blew the smoke out of his lungs in an instant and he stood admiring the town square with its neat buildings, each one older than his whole country.

'Lieutenant?' it was her voice, quieter now, hushed to suit the silence of the night outside the hubbub of the tavern.

'Miss Bendine?'

'Please, call me Yvette. May I call you Joseph? It is so much nicer than 'Lieutenant'.'

'Miss, you can call me Joe, Joseph, anything you like, as long as it's not Josephine.'

She laughed, a tintinnabulation. Steam framed her lips momentarily.

'Joe then, but only if you stop this "Miss", and give me my name too.'

'Yvette,' he said, 'it's a beautiful name.'

She was about to reply when the door of the tavern burst open abruptly and a soldier came flying out, sprawling onto the cobblestones. The members of Joe's platoon soon followed, either ejected by Belgian soldiers or Corporal Smythe.

Joe threw a smile at Yvette, then hauled the first man up by his collar and dragged him off up the road.

'Get moving cobber, before you get yourself in a stoush with the MPs.'

'Perr-aps I will see you again Lieutenant Joe?' she called as he receded into the darkness.

'Peut-être,' he called with a wave.

## ~ ~ ~

She looked at the photograph again. The resemblance was uncanny. She put it down and went back to cleaning the pieces of an old Roman helmet.

She had her uncle's tools out on the workbench and had already spent an hour blowing and brushing encrusted dirt off the decayed bronze. Now she was probing some of the cracks with a thin piece of wire to remove residual dirt. With meticulous care, she enticed the grains of soil out of the nooks and crannies, then took her work out into the sunlight to examine it. She acknowledged that she was a perfectionist—her approach to archaeology demonstrated that only too clearly—but no matter how perfect the man, none had ever really interested her before. The local boys from the town and the farms were all unsophisticated and had held no interest. The few intelligent men she had met, friends of her uncle, had either been too old or too academic. They'd had nothing to offer, and on the face of it, neither did this Joe Dean. So why could she not get him out of her mind? What did she even really know about him?

She knew that he was polite, but managed to be slightly insolent, no—not insolent, cheeky—at the same time; she knew that the way he looked at her made her feel like a woman rather than a girl. She knew that where most men were over-awed by her appearance, he clearly wasn't, despite the flattery. It was almost as if she had to prove to him that she wasn't just a thirteen-year-old, and that sparked her spirit of competition. She knew that he had a physical presence she found irresistible; after she'd seen him that sunny afternoon digging with his shirt off she'd been shocked to find herself day-dreaming about his long back and his arms, glistening with sweat. She also knew that he'd be gone just as soon as the Germans attacked.

As she lit the stove to start preparing dinner, she wondered if soldiers ever had time off.

## ~ ~ ~

'Hey Convict, you coming with us tonight?' called Jameson as Joe walked into the officer's mess.

'Where are you off to Irish?' asked Joe.

'Nowhere special,' replied Jameson, 'just into town for a drink.'

'Count me in, all this digging's given me a thirst that would kill a camel.'

'Surely you're not digging Dean?' asked Major Merrivale, 'that's what your men are for, officers don't dig, it's undignified, if you'll pardon the pun.'

'I don't mind a bit of hard work Major,' replied Joe, 'where I come from we mend a lot of fences and bore drains and the like. Besides, I find the men work harder if I get amongst it.'

'They won't like it you know,' said Merrivale, 'British soldiers have always expected their officers to be a cut above them.'

'Well sir, I reckon they don't think much of me anyway because I'm a colonial, so it can't get much worse. At least this way they know that I'm prepared to get my hands dirty; it's not like I'm asking them to do something I wouldn't do myself. Isn't that the first principle of being a junior officer, Major?'

'Absolutely right Dean, something I insist upon. You need to lead by example, but you have to keep some distance as well. If they think you're one of them they won't respect you, and if they don't respect you, how can you expect them to follow you when you charge the enemy? Think about it, won't you. You fellows better get going and remember, we have an inspection tomorrow.'

Down at the local café that night it was a pleasantly warm evening, and, after dining on _boeuf bourgignon_ , the three young officers decided to finish their wine in the courtyard.

'Do you think the Nazis are going to come at all?' asked Jameson.

'What I want to know is why the bloody French haven't invaded Germany,' said Ferguson. 'What do they think they're doing? Sitting in the Maginot Line hoping the Germans will just walk in front of their guns? They should have attacked months ago.'

'I'm with you Massey,' said Joe, 'we could have knocked them for six by now.'

'Oh to hell with that and to hell with the war,' said Jameson angrily, 'let's forget about it for a night and go and get some French crumpet. Who's for the Black Pussy?'

They downed their wine and set off up the road to a house in a side road that was frequented by officers of all the regiments based around the town. 'Le Chat Noir' was one of several brothels that had sprung up shortly after the British troops arrived, and been doing a roaring trade ever since. The enlisted men's house, on the other side of Roubaix, had a queue stretching around the block, as bored young French girls were mounted by one pent-up Tommy after another, often several to a room.

The Black Cat was a little more sophisticated.

Tonight, sitting on the window seat, Madame Sophie saw the three officers coming towards her door. Two of them she knew: Jameson and Ferguson. Her girls called them _les enfants_ because they were so inexperienced; neither had the faintest idea what to do with a woman.

The third one was new. He was long of limb, slender, and moved with the easy grace that bespoke a life on horseback.

'This will be interesting,' said Madame Sophie as she lowered the curtain.

Joe's companions pushed through the door as if they owned the place, swaggering with a knowing attitude that seemed to Joe somehow over-acted. He brought up the rear, a foot taller than the other two, silent and dark.

Inside, the décor was opulent: chaise longues and plush armchairs lay in yellow pools of light from low-hanging lampshades. A haze of cigar and cigarette smoke almost obscured the bar along the back of the room, behind which a large and ugly woman of indeterminate age was polishing glasses. Lurking beneath the acrid bite of the tobacco lay a hint of some musky, animal odour. At the tables, young girls wearing nothing but G-strings and high heels lounged, talking to young British and French officers whose eyes were bulging from their heads. In one corner, Django Reinhardt's guitar tinkled from a Bakelite radio, where a girl in a negligee danced slowly with a colonel more than twice her age.

A woman in a black silk dress stood up from the window seat and came towards them waving a cigarette in a long ivory holder. As she crossed the floor she managed to combine an air of authority with a blatant sensuousness that captured Joe's attention immediately.

'Aaaaah, les enfants Jam'son and Ferg'son. Why have you abandoned my poor girls to these wolves for so long?' cried Madame Sophie, gesticulating with her cigarette at the other patrons, 'Maria and Jacqueline have been calling out for you, "Enough of these farting old generals," they cry, "where are the young men?" And here you are at last. It has been weeks gentlemen, weeks, what has kept you from my young women, and who, pray tell, is this?'

She cast her eyes squarely upon Joe, who looked at the floor, unable to meet the challenge of her gaze.

'He is shy, ne' cest pas? Perhaps my girls can loosen him up a little. Who would you suggest Jam'sonn? Anna? Perhaps he would like something a little more robust, Eleanor perr'aps?'

'We are all in your expert hands Madame Sophie,' said Jameson, trying to sound sophisticated.

'Well then Lieutenant,' she said to Joe, 'Eleanor is upstairs, the second door on the right. I think you will find her diverting.'

Suddenly her voice hardened and her right hand shot out.

'She will be five francs, s'il vous plait.'

Tempted as he was, Joe knew he didn't want his first time to be with a prostitute, but he also didn't want the other lieutenants to suspect that he'd never been with a woman. He decided that boldness was the only course open to him.

'I think I'll pass on Eleanor,' said Joe, 'I'd rather have a drink with you Madame. You two, go ahead.'

'Oh come on Convict.' remonstrated Ferguson, 'what's the matter? Afraid you won't be able to get it up?'

'Piss off Massey,' said Joe, pulling a condom out of his pocket and flicking it at him, 'here, have a franger on me.'

Jameson laughed drunkenly and thrust some money into Madame Sophie's hand.

'I'll have her if he won't. You don't know what you're missing Joe, Eleanor's got an amazing set of lungs on her.'

Madame Sophie clicked her fingers and another of the nearly-naked girls sidled up to Ferguson, put her arms around him and led him up the stairs.

'I see you are a little different from the others Lieutenant,' said Madame Sophie, 'come and have drink with me and explain why that is, hmm?' She took Joe's hand and seated him at the bar, where two glasses of absinthe quickly materialised.

Although it was hard to tell her age under the make-up, Madame Sophie was unquestionably an attractive woman. Dead straight black hair—was it a wig? Joe wondered—fell all the way to her hips and though her face was lined, the wrinkles in her forehead were mostly horizontal, not vertical, betraying a life of laughter rather than frowning.

'So, you prefer boys, is that it, Mr...?'

'What the hell?' spluttered Joe, spilling his drink down the front of his uniform.

'Girls then, but none of mine it would seem,' she said, handing him a cloth, 'what is wrong with them soldier boy?'

'I'm just not interested in low heels,' said Joe, wiping himself.

'Aaah, you're a virgin, is that it? Saving yourself for that special girl,' replied Madame Sophie, clasping her hands and gazing mockingly upwards as if to the heavens, 'that's so sweet, I applaud your decision. Here, have another drink, you're clearly not an Englishman, it's a nice change to have someone other than _rosbifs_ in here.

'Now,' she whispered, leaning in close and confronting him with a vertiginous cleavage, 'tell me about yourself.'

'Me? What do you want to know about me?' asked Joe, getting a noseful of a strong floral perfume as he forced himself to look away from her chest.

'For a start, who it is you're so besotted with that you can resist Marie or Isobel over there so easily,' said the Madame with a grin.

'Oh, just a sheila back home,' lied Joe, unwilling to reveal much to this woman who was, frankly, terrifying and alluring at the same time. He coughed and felt in his pockets for a cigarette.

'How about you tell me how you wound up in this place,' he continued.

'You want to know my story? Ha, it's been while since any man cared to asked.'

She lit his cigarette with a gold lighter and sipped her drink.

'Very well then, seeing that you are about as conversational as a clam, I will do the talking. When I was young I was a chorus girl in La Pigalle.'

'La Pigalle?' queried Joe.

'Pig Alley you would call it, it's the red-light district of Paris,' said Madame Sophie. 'As I got closer to thirty I could see that my days on the stage were numbered, so with some difficulty, I set up my own little operation. As you can imagine, well no you probably can't, avoiding the attention of the law and the gangs was not easy. I focussed on only the wealthiest of men—politicians, bankers, industrialists—many of whom had paid to enjoy me when I was dancing. Now I was too old for their tastes, but there was no shortage of young girls desperate to earn a living who could satisfy them.'

'You? Too old?' said Joe, who was now feeling the effects of the absinthe.

'Ha,' laughed Madame Sophie pushing him in the chest, 'you're trouble aren't you? Anyway, when the British came I decided to move here for the winter. Selling sex to young men who are away from home and have nothing to do is, well, not a challenge. Naturally I only serve officers; they have the real money, not the common soldiers, they're just rutting animals full of diseases. My girls are clean, they dress properly, and they take English lessons during the day.'

'You seem to have it all worked out Madame,' said Joe, 'what'll you do when the Germans arrive?'

'Why, stay in business of course, back in Paris,' she replied, 'Germans, Englishmen, Frenchmen, they are all the same once they take off their clothes, and they all want the same things, no matter what language they demand it in. Where are you from anyway? I cannot place your accent.'

'Australia,' said Joe, 'the other side of the world.'

'Aah, this might explain why you look so much healthier than the others,' laughed Madame Sophie, 'it is sunny there, no?'

'Yep, hot, dry and there are no chorus girls either,' said Joe, who was beginning to like Madame Sophie.

At that point Jameson appeared at the top of the stairs, adjusting his tie. He came down and joined them at the bar.

'Feeling better now eh Jam'sonn?' asked Madame Sophie, giving him a kiss on the cheek, 'was Eleanor to your liking?'

The British lieutenant blushed.

'Yes Madame, yes indeed,' he turned and looked up the stairs, 'now where the hell is Ferguson?'

'Oh he always goes a bit longer than you,' said Madame Sophie, 'according to the girls he likes to talk for a while before he gets up the courage to have his way with them. They think it's quite cute.'

'Well, err,' started Ferguson, clearly not expecting to wait around in the brothel now his business was done, 'I guess I'll be off then. You coming Dean? No? See you tomorrow then.'

Two hours later Joe reeled out of the brothel reeking of absinthe. Unaccustomed to the powerful liquor, he'd drunk far too many of the small glasses before he stood up and realised just how drunk he was. When Madame Sophie had tried to drag him off to her bedroom he'd only barely been able to maintain the presence of mind to fend her off and stumble to the door.

He leant against the wall in the pool of red light from the lantern above the doorway, the world spinning. As the cold night air blew some of the fug out of his brain, he heard a voice.

'Joe, is that you?'

He lifted his head and tried to uncross his eyes and focus, then groaned inwardly. Of all the people who had to see him here.

'Joe, tell me you did not just come out of there?'

'Yvette,' he mumbled, 'what... what are you doing out at this hour?'

'I 'ave been collecting at the tavern, while you 'ave been in this... this place.'

'No,' he slurred, 'it's not what it looks like, I didn't...'

'I had hoped you might be different, but clearly I was wrong,' she fanned the air, 'Mon Dieu, you stink of liquor and cheap perfume.'

'All I did was talk,' said Joe, feeling like he wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

'Oh, so that's what you do in a whorehouse is it? Talk? A likely story.'

And with that she turned and marched off into the night.

Joe wanted to follow, but his sole remaining grain of commonsense told him that would be bad idea. He wandered off in what he thought was the direction of his billet.

# Chapter Seven

Germany, 30 March 1940

The Mercedes passed beneath the archway into a cobbled courtyard and pulled up at a set of steps flanked by two guards in the black uniforms of the SS Leibstandarte, Hitler's Bodyguard. A tall, grey-haired man in the uniform of a Wehrmacht general stepped out and saluted before going up the stairs, clutching his briefcase to his side. Within the case were a set of plans: maps, train schedules, lists of supply requirements, reconnaissance photos, reports describing the state of readiness of the best divisions of the Wehrmacht.

Inside the building, a huge blonde officer threw up his right arm and clicked his heels with a crack as the general came in. At end of the hall, two more guards with submachine guns barred the door.

'Heil Hitler!'

'Heil Hitler,' replied the general laconically, raising his right arm to shoulder level. 'Is the Fuhrer ready for my briefing Hauptmann?'

'Jawohl, Herr General, he is in the salon with the generals now. Allow me to show you in.'

The lieutenant swivelled on his heel and marched down the hallway. As he approached, the two guards crashed their jackboots on the marble floor and stood to attention.

The lieutenant knocked three times, then opened one of the doors, ushered the general through and stepped inside.

'General von Runstedt has arrived mein Fuhrer.'

He gave the general a salute then turned and closed the door behind him. In the silence the sound of his hobnails striking the polished floor was a metronomic beat that ended after precisely eight steps.

The room was high-ceilinged and ornate, the walls bedecked with huge mirrors, tapestries and gilt-framed paintings, but the general had no eyes for the décor. His attention was drawn to the group of men clustered around the table in the centre, the highest officers of the Wehrmacht, among them General von Brauchitsch, Commander-in-Chief of the German Army and General Halder, Chief of the General Staff. Amidst them stood a short, unremarkable-looking man with a flick of black hair brushed across his forehead and an unfashionably narrow moustache. The leader of the Third Reich: der Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler.

'Ah, von Runstedt, punctual as ever,' said the Fuhrer, 'you will recall that some months ago we discussed General von Manstein's plan for the invasion of the Low Countries. After some initial hesitation, Generals Brauchitsch and Halder have now concluded that it is in fact a feasible plan.'

Runstedt couldn't help but notice the look that passed between Halder and Brauchitsch, who had bitterly opposed the plan at the start as extremely risky and likely to end at best in a stalemate like that of 1914.

'I have decided to appoint you commander of HeeresGruppe A which will lead the push through the Ardennes. To make your job easier I have authorised your commanders to give you even more panzers than von Manstein originally had in mind. I am going to be busy in the next few weeks with the invasion of Norway and Denmark, so the three of you will have to work out the details without me. Now general, you have your latest plans with you I see. Perhaps you can show us what we have in store for the rest of this decadent continent, hein?'

As the man spoke, his black eyes seemed to bore into the general's head. For a second von Runstedt stood as if mesmerised, the rest of the world forgotten, then 'der Fuhrer' looked away and broke the spell.

'Come Herr General, show us your plan of attack.'

'Ja, ja, show us what you have in store for my pilots Herr General,' came a voice from beyond the table.

The voice belonged to a large man in a sky-blue uniform that gleamed with decorations. He would have been handsome as a young man, but obesity had come with middle age and his sallow complexion and pouched eyes betrayed some kind of habituation.

ReichMarschal Goering, ace fighter pilot of the Great War, was now commander of the Luftwaffe, the most feared air force in Europe, Goering was second only in power to the Fuhrer himself, and it oozed from him like ichor from the skin of a toad. That he was an opium addict and a homosexual was known to all in the inner circle of the German high command, but no one dared say anything.

Ignoring the pompous head of the Luftwaffe, General Runstedt leant over the map on the table, traced the line of the river he was looking for and thrust his finger at the spot that represented a town.

'Mein Fuhrer,' he announced, 'after the loss of our original plan in that unfortunate aircraft accident in January, you decided to shift our main point of attack south to the Ardennes. We have now identified the main point of attack.'

He pointed to an insignificant spot on the map.

'This is where the panzers of HeeresGruppe A will crack open the rotten egg of France, with the help of course from the heroes of the mighty Luftwaffe,' he added, smiling sarcastically at ReichMarschal Goering.

The general's finger rested on a town a mere dozen kilometres inside Belgium, on the far side of the supposedly impassable Ardennes forest; a town that straddled a bend in the river Maas.

A town called Sedan.

# Chapter Eight

France, 3 April 1940

In Roubaix, another few weeks passed and still no war had started. The papers had been calling it a 'Phoney War' for months now, without much justification. It hadn't been phoney for the Poles, their country had been overrun in weeks, despite some valiant defence in places like Poznan, which had held out to the bitter end. Nor had it been phoney for the Danes, or the Norwegians, or for the British soldiers and sailors who'd died defending Norway.

After months of tutoring under the bibulous influence of Captain Bareau, Joe's French had progressed. He knew the names of every significant vintage and a dozen ways to proposition a woman; he had picked up some of the _patois_ of Bareau's home town of Rouen, and his knowledge of Napoleon's campaigns was more encyclopaedic than he might have wished. Then one afternoon, Captain Bareau failed to show up for their evening session. Joe went to see Major Merrivale.

'Oh Dean, sorry old man, forgot to tell you, Bareau's been sent to a forward unit, the 55th Infantry Division I gather, some sort of territorial outfit manning the forts on the Belgian border. Second line troops in fortified positions, I imagine they needed a bit of stiffening. Anyway, he tells me you're making great strides with the Frog lingo, is that so?'

'I've certainly learnt a lot sir, there's no substitute for conversation,' replied Joe.

'Excellent, excellent, that's what he told me. He thought it a shame to waste the effort so he's nominated a replacement tutor, one of the townsfolk. It's a bit out of order, normally I'd expect him to assign one of his own men, but he tells me that they could move out any day, so better to find someone local.'

Joe groaned inwardly. He could see himself stuck in some dank house being taught the niceties of grammar by a schoolmaster or the like.

'As I say, a bit unorthodox, but that's the Frogs for you. Anyway, you're to report to the Station Café in town at 1500 hours, alright?

'Yes sir, and who should I expect to meet me there?'

'Oh it's the local schoolmarm, a Miss Benty or something, probably some old spinster, all horn-rimmed glasses and cardigans what? Good hunting then Dean.'

Joe walked out of the command post wondering to himself. 'Benty'? Had Bareau pulled some trick to set him up with Yvette? What kind of agony would this be after their last meeting outside 'Le Chat Noir'?

Saturday came around slowly. Finally, at 3pm, scrubbed and polished in every detail, he opened the door of the Station Café.

Yvette was sitting in a booth in the far corner. As Joe approached she looked up and said, 'Ah. It is you. I thought the name was familiar.'

'Mademoiselle, I had no idea my tutor would be you,' said Joe, snatching off his cap.

Yvette looked at him coldly, 'No more English Lieutenant, from now on, we speak only French. Comprenez vous?'

'Oui mademoiselle,' said Joe, noting that she had switched to the French formal style of address. He sat down and looked into her deep brown eyes. They stared back unblinkingly; this was going to be tougher than he'd thought.

Rather than engaging in conversation as Captain Bareau had, Yvette treated Joe like a schoolboy in a classroom. She would point at an object in the café and ask Joe to name it, write the word down and use it in a sentence.

After forty minutes of this, Joe was struggling. He couldn't help gazing at her face as she pointed out and named yet another object. Abruptly, she switched to English.

'Lieutenant, it is not good manners to stare. Did your mother not tell you that?'

'Excuse moi, mademoiselle,' said Joe, trying to cover his embarrassment, 'I forgot myself, what were you saying?'

She pointed at herself.

'Jeune femme, repeat that please.'

'Belle femme,' said Joe.

'L'homme ennuyeux,' she said with irritation, pointing at him.

'What does 'ennuyeux' mean?' asked Joe.

'It means you are an annoying man,' she replied in English. 'So. Enough for today, I will see you at the same time tomorrow, and you will pay more attention.'

'Mais certainement,' said Joe, standing.

As she gathered her papers, he knew he had only one chance.

'By the way miss,' he said, 'I didn't do anything in that brothel, and that's God's truth. Ask the Madam herself if you don't believe me, her name's Sophie. I just thought you should know.'

She glared at him furiously, then strode out of the café without a backward look.

## ~ ~ ~

The next day, Joe was summoned to the company command post.

'Bad news I'm afraid old chap. Headquarters have instructed me to find room for another lieutenant, and as you're surplus to requirements, so to speak, you're the only option I have.'

Joe was dumbfounded. After months earning himself a place in the company he was to be replaced?

'I want you to know lieutenant, that this appointment was against my wishes. The officer in question, Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard, is a nephew of General Gort by marriage and he has been, what you might call, 'selected' for this post. Can't hold that against him, not his fault of course, can't choose your parents and all that, eh?'

'No, that you can't Major,' replied Joe.

'Now, it's not all bad. Headquarters have a forward signals unit that I'm told is to be attached to our battalion,' said Major Merrivale. 'They're going to work with the regimental artillery boys. At present they're a bit of an experimental idea and seeing we've got you handy, we thought you could take charge of 'em.'

'Artillery observing sir? Can't imagine there's much to it,' replied Joe.

'Well you can tell us all about it when you return. Quick trip to Blighty to pick these fellows up, then back here. They're still training, so you might as well get going now and join in. Learn as much as you can, alright? See you in a fortnight.'

In the morning, Joe found himself on a train to Ostend, followed by a Channel crossing on a navy transport. He spent the next week in a barracks in southern England, learning to use a radio and the signals for summoning artillery. His unit was a group of three men with field radios mounted in backpacks. The idea was that they would act as mobile forward observers and call down barrages on the enemy directly from the front line.

During the days of being taught about shell trajectories, radio frequencies, codes, call signs, battery life and Morse code, Joe got to know the three men in his team a little. Private James Kelly was a twenty-year-old BBC apprentice who reckoned he had a better chance of learning about radio from the army than from the national broadcaster. He was a Coventry boy and thought the whole thing was a bit of a lark. The second man, Andrew Summerville was a quiet, morose sort of fellow who'd been a government clerk in London before the war. He kept mostly to himself, and when Joe asked him why he'd volunteered for this unit, he said he was a ham radio operator, so it was the obvious choice for him.

The third one was a Pole named Dobroslaw Jaroslek, who was obsessed with getting revenge on the Germans. He was keen to learn everything and it soon became clear that he was way ahead of the others when it came to things like memorising codes and signals.

On the eve of their departure for France, they were given leave to go down to the local pub. Joe bought them all a round of best bitter and sat down by Jaroslek. He'd found the other two easy enough to get along with, but this one was hard work. As an officer, he knew he ought to try to break the ice a bit.

'So Dobro, how long've you been in England?' he asked, taking a sip of the tepid beer.

'Since November,' replied Jaroslek in heavily-accented English.

'So you came over here after the Germans invaded Poland? That must have been a hard trip.'

'Tak, I was lucky. I not hear from my family since.'

'You speak pretty good English.'

'I work for import/export company in Poland before war, I get to know a few words of English; for business.'

'Whereabouts in Poland are you from?'

'Wroclaw. You know Poland?'

'Never been there, but I'm sure it's a beaut place.'

'It will be when the Germans are gone.' His voice rose, 'When do we attack Germany? I sick of waiting, I want to kill Germans.'

'Steady on mate,' said Joe looking around the room, 'you'll put the locals off their beer. We'll be off soon and I'm sure you'll get the chance to blow up a few Germans.'

'Soon I hope,' said Jaroslek, scowling.

Joe took a deep pull on his pint and turned to Private Summerville who was scratching his ear intently; talking to Jaroslek was hard work.

## ~ ~ ~

Three days later the truck from Calais dropped Joe and his men in the main square of Roubaix. It was April now, and a spring breeze swirled amongst the dust where roadworks had lifted the cobblestones. He looked around briefly for any sign of a car or truck, then concluded that he was too junior an officer to merit a lift from his regiment.

'Wait here you blokes, I'll see if I can rouse up some transport.'

Grabbing his kit bag, he set off across the square, walking around the memorial to the fallen of the Great War that graced its centre. Looking right he saw the first of a convoy of French armoured cars emerge into the square. They were driving way too fast for such a busy area he thought, typical bloody Frogs, no sense whatsoever. He stopped beside the memorial and dropped his bag, preparing to allow the armoured cars to pass, when he saw the door of the patisserie directly across the street open. Yvette stepped out, laughing at something the shopkeeper had said and, without looking, stepped straight out into the path of the lead car.

Joe's body acted without thought. He dashed forward and dove towards her in what would have been a classic hip-height tackle on a rugby field. The two of them crashed into the pavement in a tangle of limbs as the column of armoured cars sped past oblivious, leaving a cloud of choking exhaust.

'Yvette, are you alright?' he cried, kneeling over her prone form.

She kneeled and coughed, brushing dirt from her clothes.

'What happened?' she said to the ground, then looked up, 'oh... it's you.'

'You were almost run over by the French army Miss, bloody terrible drivers they are. Nothing broken I hope?' he asked, standing and holding out his hand. Would she take it?

She took it, then pulled herself up off the ground, straightened up and dusted off her jacket and skirt. As he watched, her poise returned; she straightened and looked up at him.

'Non, merci, I am alright, a few scratches maybe,' she said, 'it is per'aps my dignity that is bruised.'

She looked at her reflection in the shop window and tucked an errant curl behind her ear, then turned to him.

'So, you 'ave returned from England then.'

A statement, not a question.

'Oui Mademoiselle, I'm back with my regiment.'

It felt good to speak a fragment of French again, however formal, but as usual, Joe found himself struggling for something to say. He hated small-talk at the best of times, even in his native language; trying to do it in French felt like doing a puzzle blindfolded. After a seemingly interminable pause, he gave up and resorted to English.

'So, how's the digging going then?'

Oh how pathetic, he thought to himself, show some guts man.

'We 'ave found many things in your trenches m'sieur, but I fear what will 'appen if the Germans come.'

'Oh we'll take care of the Germans mademoiselle, don't you worry.'

'I hope so lieutenant, I would 'ate to 'ave to abandon our dig to les Boches.'

Joe couldn't stand this polite torture any longer: he looked up and down the street, then down at his feet; he took off his cap and played with the badge.

'Lieutenant? What is it?'

'Um, this might sound a bit odd, but... the whole time I was away, I kept thinking.'

'Thinking? Thinking what Lieutenant?'

'I was wondering whether,' the words came in a rush, 'whether you would maybe like to have dinner or a drink or something with me, sometime? But I guess you wouldn't be interested.'

There, he had said it.

'Well thank you for the invitation Lieutenant,' she smiled, 'I could let you stew for a while, but that would be cruel. I 'ave decided to believe what you told me before you left, and I would very much like to 'ave dinner with you, but can you get away from your regiment?'

Joe let out a big sigh of relief.

'Oh that's no problem, I'm already owed leave. Would Friday night suit?'

'I will 'ave to check with my uncle m'sieu. I shall let you know by Thursday, oui?'

'Thursday then, and please call me Joe.'

'Very well then Joe. Until Friday then... and Joe? Thank you for saving my life.'

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, then slipped away around the corner of the patisserie.

Joe stood in a daze staring into the window. What the hell? He had asked; she had said yes—it had been easy, too easy—she could still cancel. Perhaps she was just being polite? But no, she had kissed him. His cheek still tingled from the soft pressure of her lips, as if someone had pushed a marshmallow against his flesh.

He crossed to the memorial and picked up his kitbag. The names of the fallen stared out at him. Cut into the marble only twenty years before, the letters were sharp and clear. He looked under 'B' and found three Bendines: E, A and C. Were any of them her relatives? Father? Uncles? Perhaps he would ask her on Friday.

Kelly was grinning at him as he walked to the station entrance. Summerville was staring across the square to the alley where Yvette had disappeared. Jaroslek was digging in his kitbag.

'Friend of yours Lieutenant?' asked Kelly.

'That would be none of your bloody business Private, but yes, as a matter of fact, she is. Come on, let's get walking, perhaps someone will pick us up on the way.'

# Chapter Nine

Germany, 1 May 1940

General Heinz Guderian had been waiting for this moment half his life and finally, thanks to the extremist Adolf Hitler and his party of thugs, his dreams had been realised. The defeated German army of 1918 had risen again, and not just as a small group of demoralised veterans, but a fresh force of enthusiastic young volunteers, imbued with the fervour of Nazism and the belief that they were a superior race. Guderian could take or leave the beliefs of the Nazi Party about racial superiority, as far as he was concerned they were a means to an end, and that end was creating the most effective armed force the world had ever seen.

Under the Treaty of Versailles that the victorious allies forced upon Germany in 1918, the country had been banned from having tanks or an air force. Guderian's professional career since the Great War had amounted to years of practising with ridiculous cardboard tanks and imaginary air support. Despite these setbacks, one thing had dominated his thinking: attack. While the French abandoned the offensive philosophy that had cost so many French lives early in the Great War, Guderian had adopted the offensive as his _modus operandi_.

Along with generals Rommel and von Manstein, Guderian was an exponent of the combined-arms offensive. His idea of an attack was a massed formation of tanks, with its own supporting artillery and truck-mounted infantry, co-ordinated with airpower and concentrated in a _Schwerpunkt_ : a 'point-of-force' against the defensive line. Through overwhelming force they would pierce the defences and wreak havoc behind the lines, before racing forward and vanishing into the enemy's rear, sowing confusion and doubt about where they were and where they would strike next.

That was the idea; the reality was different. An operation with this degree of co-operation between tanks, infantry, artillery and the Luftwaffe was a new idea for the German army. When Guderian first considered how it might work there was no Luftwaffe, only gliders in which the fighter pilots of the future trained under the guidance of World War One aces such as Hermann Goering.

Throughout the lean years of the 1920s and 30s, Guderian had clung grimly to his army career, convinced that this was his calling and that his time would come. And now, in 1940, as he prepared his plan for the offensive into Belgium, he knew it had all been worthwhile. The French army was supposed to be the greatest in the world, but he knew its weaknesses. A few of their officers, Colonel de Gaulle for instance, had grasped the importance of concentrating mobile forces, but most of them were so hide-bound by the fear of a German attack that they could only think in terms of the static defences that had saved them in the Great War.

Instead of concentrating their tanks, the French had scattered them in penny-packets around the countryside, so for them, mounting an armoured counter-offensive was almost impossible. This was just as well, because Guderian knew that, technically anyway, the French tanks were more than a match for his panzers. Most of his tanks were obsolete Mark I and II models armed only with machine guns or a 20mm cannon; he had only a few of the newer Mark IIIs and IVs. These newer models were good, but still lightly-armed and armoured compared with the French B1bis, a 40-ton monster with a 75mm gun in the hull and a 37mm gun in the turret.

Guderian knew that the key was mobility: strike hard and fast and move on; advance at all costs, regardless of the flanks. And why? Because nothing was more terrifying than the prospect of enemy tanks loose in your rear areas, destroying artillery emplacements and HQ units, obliterating supply columns and cutting off the frontal units from reinforcement. This was the French nightmare and Guderian planned to play on it to the full.

Guderian's role was to lead Heersgruppe A through the heavily-wooded Ardennes forest, cross the Meuse River at the fortress city of Sedan and slice across the south of Belgium, a manoeuvre that would cut the French armies in Belgium off from their supply lines. Meanwhile, Army Group B would thrust through the centre, north of the Ardennes, and Army Group C would strike directly into Holland.

It all sounded implausible enough in theory, and in training it had been a disaster. Every combined arms exercise they tried had ended in farce, with units getting lost, arriving late or not at all, or turning up without enough fuel to advance. Having failed every dress rehearsal, the invasion of Belgium was going to be a true case of 'getting it right on the night'. Fortunately, German officers had been trained to act on their own initiative, to carry out their orders in whatever way they thought best.

Guderian had rammed home to his troops the absolute importance of getting through the forested hills of the Ardennes, across the Meuse, and into open country by the morning of the fourth day. All units were allocated quantities of methamphetamine sulphate, so they could keep advancing day and night, without needing to sleep. Guderian knew that this kind of artificial stimulant would not keep his men going forever, but he was gambling that once they crossed the Meuse, some of them would be able to sleep while others drove: by then, the resistance would have been broken.

Invasion day was just nine days away. Soon his theories would be tested. Despite the obstacles, Guderian was quietly confident. After all, he had been planning this for over a decade.

# Chapter Ten

France, 2 May 1940

When Joe arrived at the company's forward command post, Major Merrivale greeted him warmly.

'Welcome back old man, good to have you back. Your replacement hasn't gone down too well with your old platoon by all accounts, but nothing we can do about that. You'll stay in charge of the signals boys. You must have learnt something about it over the Ditch eh?'

'A bit Major,' replied Joe with disappointment.

'I'm sure we can put those skills to good use here. Shouldn't worry though old chap, if the Germans attack I imagine there'll be a command for you somewhere soon enough. Good junior officers tend to be in short supply after a battle I find, they have this unfortunate tendency to lead men into enemy fire, what?'

'Well, report to the adjutant and I'll see you here at 0900 with your men. We have a little exercise arranged for you.'

Although he chafed at the prospect of running around sending radio signals, Joe realised it could be worse. He could probably make a more useful contribution to the battalion calling in artillery than he could leading a platoon, but it meant that he was less likely to see action. He also missed the company of his platoon. They were a mixed lot of blokes from the Midlands, but they'd treated him with respect while he'd been their officer.

Leaving the HQ, Joe walked down the line of entrenchments towards the wall where they had dug in those months before. He greeted Private Farmer who was on guard duty, and turning a corner of the trench came upon Corporal Smythe sitting on a crate of rifle ammunition, punching open a can of bully beef with his bayonet.

'That's not the regulation way to use that weapon soldier,' said Joe, 'you'll the take the point right off it.'

'Well look who's here fellas, it's the Aussie himself.' cried the corporal, leaping up, smiling from ear to ear.

'How are you sir? Come back to the platoon 'ave you? Oh beggin' your pardon sir,' he grinned, throwing a parade-ground salute.

Joe grinned at him. He'd never asked his men to salute him and he knew Smythe was taking the micky.

'I'm bloody good Smithy, but sorry to disappoint you, I've been detached and assigned permanently to the artillery observers. You're stuck with the new boy.'

Corporal Smythe's face fell. 'Bloody 'ell that's terrible bad news sir, terrible.'

He leant in and whispered conspiratorially into Joe's ear.

'This fellow Fisher-Pollard they've given us is a bleedin' child still playin' with 'is toy soldiers sir, 'asn't a clue, keeps talkin' about glory and bayonet charges and quoting bits of Wellington or some other fancy-arsed old fart. He says the battle of Waterloo was fought not far from 'ere and that we'll give the Germans a dose of what we gave the French a hundred years ago. I reckon he's daft, problem is, he'll get us all killed. The men have given 'im a nickname, which is never a good sign, they call 'im The Pollock, after the fish, you know? But I'm forgetting me'self sir,' he said suddenly in a normal voice, stepping back and throwing another elaborate salute with a look over Joe's shoulder.

'Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard sir,' said Smythe, 'may I introduce our former officer Lieutenant Dean?'

Joe turned and beheld a tall and skinny young man in a uniform identical to his own. He had a beak nose, the standard-issue Sandhurst ginger moustache, ruddy skin and watery blue eyes.

'Dean eh? Been gallivanting around in Blighty I gather, come to see some action have you old man? This platoon's a sorry bunch as I'm sure you'll recall, no idea about spit and polish, but I'll soon have 'em whipped into shape, isn't that so Corporal Smythe?'

'Oh yes Lieutenant, no doubt about it,' replied the corporal quickly.

'Gather you've been assigned to the observers, Dean?' sniffed Fisher-Pollard, 'Probably more suited to you as a colonial I suppose, rather than a frontline infantry company.'

'Oh yes Lieutenant, no doubt about it,' replied Dean, mimicking Smythe's accent. 'Enjoy the platoon, but do me a favour, try not to get 'em all killed in the first assault eh? See you in the mess.'

Joe tipped Corporal Smythe a wink and turned away.

'I say old man,' sputtered the voice behind him, 'just what do you mean by that comment, eh?'

Joe just waved and walked off. The sun was setting and he had more important things to worry about than Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard. He had a dinner date.

## ~ ~ ~

She was standing by the memorial in the square, throwing pieces of bread for the pigeons. As Joe jumped off the truck and it pulled away, the boys in the back hooted and whistled, making her look up. He took off his peaked cap and crossed the street with long strides.

'Bonsoir m'sieu, and what brings you to this little town?' she said, throwing another morsel to the pigeons and affecting unconcern at his presence.

'Yvette... you look 'magnifique',' he said. And it was true. She was wearing a pale blue dress that made her brown eyes even darker, a bit of eyeliner and lipstick brought out the contours of her face, while her hair cascaded over her shoulders.

'Why thank you Lieutenant... what was your name again?' she teased, 'of course, Dean. Shall we go to dinner Lieutenant Dean?' and with that she held out her arm.

Covering his surprise, Joe stepped forward and folded his arm inside hers, and together they walked around the square towards the restaurant.

As they walked he inhaled the scent of her, and of her perfume; indulged in the softness of her hand; marvelled at her profile, walking calmly along looking straight ahead.

Beside him, her heart was a timpani. She had only offered him her arm because she was trembling. From the corner of her eye she took in his crisp uniform, the gleaming brass belt buckle, the sheen of his boots. Suddenly it came to her that she'd never walked in this square on a man's arm before, despite constant requests from the local boys.

'It's strange what the prospect of war can do to people,' she said, only realising a split second later that she had voiced her thoughts aloud.

'I'm not sure what you mean,' said Joe, wondering where this line of conversation could be leading.

'Oh, nothing,' she said lightly, 'I was just thinking aloud. Now tell me Joe, which restaurant do you want to go to? We are spoiled for choice: there is Le Meridien over there and of course the Station Café.'

'I'll have to let you decide Yvette, I have no idea about these things, I'm just a cove from the country after all.'

'Le Meridien then, they 'ave a bigger menu.'

'Sounds good to me,' said Joe, whose diet had consisted mainly of British army bully beef, overcooked cabbage and ships biscuits in various combinations for some months now.

As they entered the restaurant, the patrons all turned to look: the matrons sending disapproving glances; the teenage girls giggling; the men eyeing Yvette's shape approvingly and the wives and girlfriends sending daggers at her. She ignored it all; she was quite simply the most striking girl in the place and everyone knew it.

A waiter showed them to a table in the window overlooking the square. Outside, the last of the sun was inflaming a gauze of cirrus stretched across the sky.

'So, 'ow was England?' she enquired, scanning the menu.

'Bloody wet, if you'll pardon the expression, I've never seen so much rain.'

'Was it terrible?'

'Boring as blazes. I reckon the worst thing about this war is being forced to sit around and do nothing. It gives you time to think about it, and it doesn't make the human race look too great does it?'

'Oui, I have not a lot of sympathy for the 'uman race. Sometimes I wonder why I am so intent on digging up its past, per'aps I have some childish idea that the past was better than today?'

'Well with Adolf just over the border you've probably got a point, although I expect the Romans were a pretty nasty lot.'

'May I take your order?' interrupted the waiter.

A glass of burgundy and a bowl of onion soup later, Joe felt a little more at ease and took a moment to reflect that here he was, in France, sitting in a restaurant, drinking wine with the most fabulous girl he'd ever met. War had some unexpected consequences. 'You've come a long way for a farmer's kid from South Australia, mate,' he told himself, 'question is, what does she see in you?'

'That soup was extra grouse,' said Joe appreciatively.

Across the table, Yvette soaked up the last of her soup with the bread and noticed him looking at her. She looked up into his eyes.

'What is it Joe?'

'I just wanted to tell you Yvette, that you're... well, you're a beautiful woman. Perfect in fact,' he finally got out.

She laughed, 'Perfect? Oh Joe, how little you know about me.'

She raised her chin and looked inquisitively about the room, exposing her long neck, 'Now, where is our main course? Ah here it comes, what good fortune.'

The waiter laid the plates, and delicious, herb-laden aromas rose around them. He filled their glasses and she raised hers in mock toast,

'To Lieutenant Dean, the man sent from the other side of the world to save all womankind from despair.'

She took a healthy draught of the wine, and began to eat. Joe wasn't sure whether she was making fun of him again or not. He concentrated on the rare steak in front of him.

'So, Mister Dean,' she said after a mouthful of wine, 'tell me about your childhood.'

'My childhood?'

'Oui. You must 'ave had one, non? 'Ow else can you explain your French? Start with your parents.'

'Well, my father was a captain in the Australian army in the Great War. He met Mum when he was stationed near Fromelles. When the war ended they got married and she came back to Australia with him and then... well, I came along, and my brother Matt. We lived on a sheep farm in the Barossa Valley in South Australia. Strangely enough, there are lots of Germans there, they've been there for a long time. As the saying goes,' Joe added with a laugh, "Some of my best friends are German."

Yvette frowned slightly.

'So your mother taught you French and presumably taught you 'ow to speak to women, while your friends taught you German,' said Yvette, 'what did you father teach you?'

'My father? He showed me how to ride a horse, mend a fence, shear a ewe, fix an engine. He also taught me how to shoot, and a few other things he learnt in the army. He always wanted me to go into the army of course, although Mum didn't. But enough about me. Tell me about these Romans,' said Joe, lifting his knife and fork.

He didn't want to get into an account of his life on the farm, it was firmly in the past now. Furthermore, despite regular raps on the knuckles as a child, his table manners had never been perfect, and he was hoping to distract her so she wouldn't notice his lack of sophistication.

She began to speak about the history of the area a few thousand years before, then stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.

'Joe, that is the butter knife, this is the one you need.'

She leant over the table and gently removed the knife from his hand, then handed him the right one from beside his plate. Joe tried hard not to stare at the movement of her breasts under the fabric of her dress, and took a gulp from his wine glass to cover the moment. Across the table her eyes twinkled in gentle amusement at his discomfort.

'Joe? I'm sorry, do not let the cutlery worry you. Few women will notice if you use the dessert spoon for the soup.'

'Except you of course Yvette,' he countered, 'and you are the only woman I want to notice.'

She laughed again and looked out the window.

Joe was in a terrible state of indecision. Apart from offering her arm, it seemed she'd given him no sign that she even liked him much. The dinner was drawing to a close: it was now or never.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Joe leaned forward and looked her in the eye.

'Yvette, this might be a bit what we call 'forward', but, I've got a week's leave coming up and I was thinking that... oh hell, it's impossible, forget it,' he tailed off.

'What Joe,' she asked, fanning the tiny flame of hope that still flickered, 'you were thinking what?'

He spoke quickly, hoping to get it all out before the inevitable refusal.

'I was thinking that if you had the time, maybe we could go on some sort of trip; visit some of these Roman ruins you were talking about. Is there anywhere within a day or two of here you've always wanted to go?'

She clapped her hands, laughed delightedly and reached across the table to take his hands.

'A trip? There is nothing I would rather do. 'ow about we go to Diekirch? I've always wanted to see the ruins of the baths there.'

'Diekirch? Where is it?' Joe didn't care if it was in Antarctica, he had asked her and she had agreed to go, he couldn't believe his luck.

'It's in the far east of Belgium, well Luxembourg really, in the foothills of the Ardennes. You can get there in a day on the express train. It's supposed to be a beautiful place.'

'Sounds perfect,' said Joe, raising his glass, 'to Diekirch then.'

Suddenly her face fell, 'Ah Joe, it is not so easy. My uncle will probably insist on a chaperone. You will 'ave to come and meet him.'

She clinked her glass on his.

'I would so much like to go to Diekirch with you Joe; it all depends on mon oncle.'

'Mon oncle then,' said Joe with a smile, and downed his glass in one gulp.

## ~ ~ ~

'I needn't remind you Dean that this document is Top Secret,' said Major Merrivale, 'your job is not to read it but to encode it. The Brigadier requested this himself, his signals truck caught fire yesterday, so you men are the only unit around here with the skill and the equipment.'

'Why are we enciphering it Major?' asked Joe, 'surely this sort of information wouldn't be transmitted by radio?'

'I'm told it's a deception measure. All the forward-deployment orders transmitted to British units so far have been false, designed to fool Gerry into thinking we're going to advance east. We'll be going north of course, to cover Brussels, but the real orders haven't been distributed until now. This is just another in a long stream, but to maintain consistency it needs to be transmitted tonight.'

'We'll get onto it Major.'

In the signals tent, Hagan Schmidt was trying to memorise the British signals manual and codebook. His English was good, but even so it was a struggle to remember the word-based sections of the codes, made even harder by the images of the Jewish girl in the town that kept filling his head.

She was a sweet morsel and he wanted her. He wanted her submitting to him, screaming with desire as he held her down and pounded her until she begged him to stop. Of course that would never happen, she had eyes only for the Australian lieutenant and it was quite clear what those eyes saw when she looked at him. He'd watched them closely, as he'd been trained to watch everyone. Nothing escaped him.

Now, sitting in the signals tent, he cursed for the hundredth time Oberst Huber, whose idea it had been to 'embed' him into British Army Headquarters. Sure enough, he'd been assigned to a frontline unit, and here he was, stuck in a tent in Belgium of all places, when he should have been firmly ensconced in the British signals headquarters.

He looked up as Joe entered.

'We've got a job mate. You know the drill. Encipher it using tonight's codes, then give it to me to check and I'll send it. Billy Simpson's outside on guard. He won't let anyone in, and you're not to leave this tent until you're finished. I'll be back in a couple of hours.'

Joe left him to it and walked back into town to have dinner.

Inside the tent, Schmidt began enciphering the document. After completing just a few lines he had to contain himself when he recognised it for what it was: the order of battle for the whole BEF. This was gold, a far greater find than anything he could have laid his hands on in the Army Headquarters back in England, and it had just fallen into his lap. He simply had to get hold of the complete document and transmit it to Germany. Could he both copy it and encipher it in an hour?

He grabbed a piece of spare paper and shuffled it underneath the page he was encoding onto. Then he started, pressing as hard as he could to make a clear impression on the sheet underneath. He would have plenty of time to decode it later.

Joe returned to the tent after consuming a decent _coq au vin_ and the rest of the bottle not used in the chicken. He'd given a few shillings of his weekly pay to his hosts and he certainly couldn't complain that they were making his stay there anything but pleasant. Walking back over the bridge with the sun setting behind him, well-fed and well-watered, a post-prandial cigarette filling his lungs, he felt pretty comfortable.

'All done then?' he asked, walking into the tent.

'Nearly sir, five minutes?'

'Okay, I'll have fag. Call me when you're done.'

Schmidt stuffed the impressions into his pocket, left the tent and handed the enciphered version to Joe.

'Finished.'

'Thanks, see you in the morning.'

'Yes sir.'

Schmidt walked down the slope and crossed the bridge into town, He felt as if his pocket was on fire and his back itched, but as he turned the corner into the main street he knew he'd got away with it.

# Chapter Eleven

France, 5 May, 1940

Switching off the torch, Hagan Schmidt crept up the trench line to where the sentry should have been, stopped and listened carefully. The sound of snores carried gently across the night air from the dugout to his left.

He tip-toed into the dugout to find Private Simpson fast asleep on the bunk. The radios were sitting on a platform dug into the wall. Schmidt moved quietly over and grabbed the nearest one. Stepping out of the dugout, his foot landed in a pile of empty cans that some careless soldier had failed to bury. The clatter sounded to him like a thunderclap and he froze. There was a snuffle and a cough from inside the dugout, then silence. After a few seconds, the snores recommenced. Watching his feet, Schmidt moved on until he reached the edge of the woods. He crept in through the trees to a pitch-black gully, where he squatted in the shadows and switched on the radio. As the valves warmed, their orange and purple glow outlined the edges of the case and the backs of the dials.

He pulled the decoded order of battle from his coat pocket, set the frequency dial and gave the call sign.

'Norden, this is Doberman, come in, over.'

'Norden receiving you Doberman, over.'

Schmidt began reciting the patterns of numbers from the pages, but he had barely begun when he heard footsteps.

'Who goes there?' came the voice of Private Farmer: the timid challenge of an uncertain man alone in the darkness.

Cursing, Schmidt stood up.

'It's only me Farmer.'

'What the hell are you doing out here? You're on duty in two hours, shouldn't you be getting some sleep?' asked Farmer. He was standing on the edge of the gully, his rifle pointing down, the strap over his shoulder.

'Didn't the Lieutenant tell you? We have a combined exercise with the French divisional artillery tonight, I got here early to test my frequencies,' lied Schmidt, pointing to the radio.

'I've not heard anything about any combined exercise, but I thought I heard someone talking German, 'Heinz Zvy Dry' and all that, like they were telling us about the other day,' said the suspicious sentry.

'I was speaking French, it sounds a bit like German,' said Schmidt, wondering how he could get rid of the accursed pest. Perhaps intimidation would work.

'Farmer, when I passed the guard post before, I heard you snoring. You want the Major to find out about that?'

'Asleep? Not me.' replied Farmer indignantly, 'I must have been having a piss out the back when you went past. You heard Simpson, he's having a sleep before it's his turn. Anyway, you're not supposed to be out here mister, exercise or no exercise.'

Schmidt couldn't believe his ill-luck. Over the horizon, the biggest invasion the world had ever seen was preparing, and here he was, poised to provide critical intelligence to the German High Command, arguing with an English peasant. The man's petty officious manner reminded him of the bullies who'd tormented him at his English public school, and he could feel the blood rising in his face and the adrenalin sparking his nerves. He told himself to stay calm and think, just as Colonel Huber had taught him.

'This is all well out of order,' said Farmer, 'you know the rules, it's curfew after 9 o'clock unless you've got a pass, and if you're on sentry, you're either walking the trench or in the dugout. Otherwise I might shoot someone by mistake. Now you'd better get back to the dugout and we'll forget the whole thing, alright?'

'Alright Farmer, just give me a moment to get the radio on my back will you? It's heavy.'

Then the radio crackled and the voice came in German, 'Doberman, horen sie mich?'

'What the... ?' said Farmer, staring at the radio.

Schmidt realised that it was too late. Even if he could explain this away to Farmer, in the morning the fool would certainly report what he'd seen in the woods: the radio switched on, signals coming in "what sounded like German to me sir." An explanation would be demanded and there was no plausible explanation. He'd been careless, and underestimated the enemy. The enemy would have to pay for that mistake.

Schmidt lunged upwards and hauled with all his strength on the end of the rifle. The strap pulled Farmer forward and he toppled over the edge of the gully, landing hard on the rocks and dropping the rifle. Schmidt was on him in an instant, his hands around the throat, thumbs pushing deep into the flesh, fingers clawing at the back of the man's neck. Farmer struggled fiercely to escape the terrible chokehold and managed to dislodge one of Schmidt's hands, but the German was stronger and he was on top. By the time Farmer got a grip on his attacker's throat he was too far gone and his struggles weakened as his body was starved of oxygen.

Dripping with sweat, Schmidt looked up from the murderous task and checked around him. There was no one; no alarm; nothing. He slumped to the ground as the adrenaline surge abated. What now? He couldn't get rid of the body. He'd have to make it look like an accident, then return the radio to the dugout before Simpson woke up, and finish the transmission later.

Farmer was lying on his back. Schmidt rolled him over, grasped his head and twisted it with all his strength until he heard a crack. He cast about him in the darkness. At the foot of the slope there was a tree whose branches forked a few feet off the ground. He had an idea.

## ~ ~ ~

Joe shielded his eyes from the rising sun as he peered down into the gully where Private Farmer's lifeless body lay. Simpson had found him only minutes before and come running straight to Joe with the news. It looked like the man had come out here in the dark, missed his footing on the edge of the gully and fallen. By some incredibly bad stroke of luck his head had landed in the crook of a tree when he fell. It looked like he'd broken his neck; certainly his head was at an unnatural angle.

'What the hell was he doing out here in the bloody pitch-dark? Having a slash?' asked Joe.

'He was on guard, maybe he heard something sir and decided to investigate,' said Simpson, feeling guilty because he'd been asleep when it happened. He'd missed his watch because Farmer hadn't woken him, and now he was on a charge for dereliction of duty.

'What'd he hear for heaven's sake, an owl? Stone the bloody crows, we're not even at war yet and we've lost a man. What was he thinking?'

'Dunno sir,' said Simpson miserably, 'will I get his things together sir?'

'Yes do that,' replied Joe, 'but first I have to report to the Major, we'll have to get the blasted MPs to deal with this.'

He turned and walked up the slope to find Summerville waiting at the edge of the wood.

'What the hell is it Summers?' said Joe. He was angry. Angry that a man in his platoon had died needlessly, pointlessly, without even firing a shot.

'You need any help moving him sir?' asked the private.

'Nah, the redcaps'll deal with it, haven't you got radio drill with the arty boys now?'

'Yes, five minutes, I just thought I'd offer to help.'

'Well go and get your radio, forget about Farmer, he's gone.'

Joe walked over the bridge and back into town. Something was niggling at his mind, but he had a train to catch that night, and plenty to organise before then.

An hour later at the command post, a Military Police Captain approached him.

'Lieutenant Dean?' he enquired, 'I believe Private Farmer was one of your platoon sir.'

'Yep, poor bugger.'

'I'm sorry to have to tell you this sir,' replied the Sergeant, 'but it looks like he didn't die by accident.'

'What do you mean?' said Joe.

'His neck was broken alright sir,' said the sergeant, 'but the doctor reckons it was done by twisting it, not by falling into the crook of that tree. He says the only way a neck could be broken like that is if it was twisted through 180 degrees. Most likely way for that to happen is if someone twisted it. Also, there are marks that suggest he was strangled.'

'Strangled? So it's murder then?' asked Joe incredulously.

'It seems so, that's what we'll be investigating anyway sir. We'd appreciate a bit of your time and then we'll talk to all your men, see if we can find out a bit more of what was going on last night. We're especially interested in Private Simpson sir, he was the last person to see Farmer alive. Thing is sir, that's usually the most likely suspect you see.'

'Well tell me what you need sergeant,' replied Joe 'I'm supposed to be going on leave tonight. I suppose I'll have to cancel that.'

'No need for that sir, you can't do much for us anyway. Lieutenant Jameson has confirmed that you were with him all evening. We'll have a report for the Captain by sundown tomorrow.'

'Well go easy on Simpson will you?' said Joe, 'I've already lost one man, I need him to fight Germans.'

'We'll bear that in mind sir,' said the sergeant, He saluted and walked away.

# Chapter Twelve

France, 8 May 1940

The radio was heavier than it looked and the straps chafed Joe's shoulders as he trudged up the side of the hill. A hundred yards on either side of him, Kelly, Summerville and Jaroslek were already settled in their observation points, while a few miles behind them, the 25-pounders of the regimental artillery were loading coloured smoke shells into their barrels.

Reaching the top of the hill, Joe swung the radio down and sat in the grass. To the east, farmland stretched away, undulating gently and dotted with copses of conifers. Off in the distance a herd of cows grazed contentedly in the sunshine; in the field below him a large cross had been whitewashed onto the grass.

With a few minutes until the exercise began, Joe sat back and enjoyed the peace and quiet. His thoughts turned to Farmer. Who could have murdered him and why? The MPs' investigation had been inconclusive. Simpson had no motive and was clearly terrified enough to say anything, while the rest of the platoon had been asleep in their billets, at least according to their own accounts. In short, they had nothing. Farmer's family would receive a letter from Major Merrivale saying he'd died in a training accident.

Realising there was no end to these speculations, Joe switched on the radio and tuned it to the agreed frequency.

'Hammer One this is Bluebird One, are you receiving me? Over.' The radio crackled then a tinny voice replied, 'Loud and clear Bluebird.' Joe asked the same question with minor variations four times until he was satisfied that all four observers had communication with himself and the battery.

'Hammer One, episode begins at GNE34.'

'GNE34, roger.'

A few seconds later a shell whistled over his head and landed in the field below him, to the right and beyond the white cross. Blue smoke jetted skyward and drifted towards him on the breeze.

'Correction. Two North, Three West.'

'Two North, Three West, roger,' crackled the radio and seconds later another shell arced over and landed within two yards of the cross.

'On target, fire for effect,' said Joe into the mouthpiece.

A full salvo of shells screamed over Joe's head and he covered his ears as they burst in the field. The cross was obscured in a dense cloud of red smoke.

'Direct hit Hammer One. Bluebird Two, your call.'

Joe put the mouthpiece down and listened in as each of his signallers went through the routine, firing at their own targets. Each time they got a Fire For Effect within two shots. The British gunners were good. Of course, they'd had plenty of time to lay the guns and get familiar with the maps and co-ordinates; he hoped they would be that accurate if his men had to call down a barrage in a battle.

Joe was about to pack up his radio when he heard a burst of what sounded like German come across the air. He bent his ear to the headphones and heard it again.

'Zwei und vierzig, dreizehn, ein und achtzig, funf.'

It was definitely German and even though his German was a bit rusty, Joe could tell it was a series of numbers being read as quickly as possible. He checked the frequency dial: he'd bumped it to a new frequency. He shrugged, the airwaves were open to anyone, and in this part of Europe he could be hearing a Dutch radio station announcing a train timetable. He walked down the hill and waited by the truck for his men. Kelly and Summerville came loping along the road from the south, a few minutes apart, but after five minutes there was still no sign of Jaroslek.

'What the hell's Dobro doing?' asked Joe.

'Maybe he's having a call of nature,' said Summerville. 'Why don't you call him on the radio? Never mind, here he is.'

Jaroslek came around the corner of the road, hobbling and grimacing.

'What the hell kept you? Doing some spine-bashing?' asked Joe.

'I fall over and sprain ankle,' the Pole replied, 'I not walk so fast.'

'Better get the MO to have a look at it when we get back to town. Get in.'

## ~ ~ ~

That evening, Joe paid a Uncle Pierre a visit and, to his surprise, found himself walked down to the local bar for a drink. Pierre Bendine was a tall, rapier-thin man with coal-black hair and a bushy moustache. He reminded Joe a little of his father. They walked in silence across the square to a set of steps that descended beneath a café. Cigarette smoke and the sound of conversation rose to greet them as they went down into a long, domed bar, whose tables flickered with the light of candles in red glasses.

Pierre indicated the nearest booth and went to the bar, returning with two glasses of green fluid.

'Pernod. Salut.' he said, and downed the green drink in a gulp.

'Cheers,' replied Joe and did the same.

After several rounds of this, Pierre got down to business.

'Why are you here Lieutenant?'

'I want to ask your permission to take Yvette out.'

'I mean in France and in the British Army.'

'I went in a competition at officer school for an overseas posting and won. It was the only chance to get ahead, there was nothing happening in the Australian army.'

'So you are ambitious eh? That is good I suppose, though it is likely to get you and a lot of your men killed. And just what do you think you have to offer Yvette?'

'Well, not a lot I suppose, except that I'm in love with her and would do anything for her.'

'Ah, "in love", the young are so romantic,' said Pierre, then called to the barman, 'Arnauld, deux Pernod s'il vous plait.'

'I can't help my age m'sieur, any more than you can.'

'True enough Lieutenant. I don't suppose it would be fair to ask what your plans for the future are; who here can answer that question with the Germans just over the border, hmmm?'

'M'sieur, I only want to be the best officer I can be and get through whatever is coming, alive. But if you'll permit me, I have never known anybody like Yvette and, well, I love her.'

'And she tells me you want to take her away, eh? To some love nest in Diekirch of all places. And why should I agree to this escapade?'

'Well m'sieur, if you don't agree I'll respect your decision, but Yvette's not a little girl anymore, it's ultimately up to her.'

'So. You are showing proper respect by asking me in lieu of her father. This is good, but first you must understand a few things about Yvette my friend. Let me tell you a story.'

Pierre lit a cigarette and sipped his Pernod.

'Twenty years ago in this town there were two people much in love: a beautiful young Jewish girl called Anna, daughter of the banker, and a dashing young cavalryman called Emile, son of a local doctor. They wanted to marry, but her family wouldn't hear of it because he was a Roman Catholic and only a poor junior officer. Then the Germans came. Emile fought bravely for three years and won many medals. He returned home on leave in January 1918, and of course, spent the night with Anna before returning to the Front. A few months later, he was killed defending his post against the last great German assault.

'By that stage, Anna had discovered she was pregnant. When she heard Emile was dead she went berserk and screamed for three days. She never really recovered. Then, when the child was born, her parents refused to accept it as their grandchild. The whole town turned against them, so they moved to Boulogne the next year to escape the scandal. How is all this relevant you ask? The young cavalryman was my brother Emile. My two other brothers, Alphonse and Charles were in the same regiment and were also killed in that last offensive. I only survived because I had been assigned to the artillery.

'I took Anna and her daughter in; what else could I do? When the girl was twelve her mother finally lost her mind completely. They found her lying on her husband's grave, not far from here. She had cut her wrists.'

'Bloody hell.' muttered Joe.

'Oui. It was hard to explain to Yvette why her mother had abandoned her. She did not speak to anyone for a year. The year she finished school she came to me and said she wanted to be an archaeologist like me. I told her there was no such thing as a female archaeologist, but she wouldn't hear of it and I would find her sitting in her room reading my books at all hours of the night. She applied herself to the study and to learning languages, which is why her English and German are so good. Most serious archaeology has been done by the French and Germans you know, but the British have managed to steal many of the results. All of this came at a price of course: she has always been independent and strong-willed, but never what I would call happy.

'What I am going to tell you now you may not want to hear, but you need to know: Yvette has never had anything to do with any of the local boys. She has spurned every single one of them, scorned them for mere farm boys.'

'But that's what I am,' said Joe.

'I know Lieutenant, so why is she so interested in you, do you think?'

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photograph of a handsome young man in dress uniform athwart a black horse. In the background was the town square of Roubaix. It was not the uniform or the horse that drew Joe's eye though, it was the face: he could have been looking at a photo of himself or his brother.

'This is Yvette's father when he was twenty years old, she took this picture in 1918 when he was here on leave; he returned to the Front the same day. It is the last picture ever taken of him. It usually sits beside Yvette's bed.'

Joe studied the face. The resemblance was uncanny.

'So you think she's falling in love with me because I look like her father? Is that what you reckon?' said Joe, somewhat put out.

'I don't claim to know her mind Lieutenant,' replied Pierre, 'only that she has never shown interest in any man before. Then suddenly you come along from the other side of the world, looking like her father, dressed in a uniform of the same rank. You're just like every young officer I've ever known who doesn't think he can be killed, but she doesn't know that. All she knows is that by some mystery, her father's spirit is back in her life.'

'But I'm not her bloody father,' cried Joe, appalled at the thought.

'Of course not, you want to make love to her, as would any man, she is beautiful, non? You are perhaps the only man who will ever get that chance Lieutenant; is it my job to stand in the way? Since she met you she has been smiling and even singing while she does the washing. Sacre Bleu! It is unheard of. There is more to this than just a similarity of features, she clearly sees something in you she has not seen before.

'War is coming and Hitler is not a man who believes in love or honour or respect. He understands only hatred. The few things that survived the last war will be utterly destroyed by the Germans this time. Yvette is half-Jewish, how will she conceal that from them? If you can make her happy for a short time before it all starts then I wish you luck Lieutenant, but hear me: if you intend just to use her and throw her away like a typical soldier, then I would rather you just returned to your unit now and forgot about her. The last thing she needs is to feel abandoned twice.'

Joe drained his Pernod and looked Pierre straight in the face with a grim expression.

'I told you mister,' said Joe with menace, 'I love her. What part of that do you not understand?'

Pierre laughed and slapped Joe on the shoulder.

'Ah-ha, a bit of aggression from the Australian bushman, eh? I was wondering when it would come out. Now, let's see how you handle your liquor. Arnauld. Bring us the bottle.'

Two hours later, they stumbled up the stairs, crashing into the walls, Pierre singing 'The Wild Colonial Boy' in cracked English.

At the top, he turned to Joe and put his hands on his shoulders.

'I hope you fight as well you drink my friend. Now, Lieutenant Dean, you must realise that this is all most unusual. Normally I would of course refuse to allow this assignation, but we are at war. War renders the social conventions that we live by meaningless. So take Yvette to Diekirch if she wants to go, make her a woman if you must, but bring her back in one piece, oui? Adieu.'

With that, he turned and lurched off across the square, singing in a cracked voice.

'There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Doolan was 'is name, of poor but honest parents, 'e was born in Castlemaine ...'

Joe shook his head and started up the road to his billet. He had succeeded, but he was going to pay for it in the morning. He looked at his watch, it was just after midnight; the little date square showed an eight.

'The 9th of May, 1940 eh? And here I am in the bloody British Army, in France and in love. Who'd've thought it?' Joe slurred to himself as he lurched drunkenly along the road.

# Chapter Thirteen

Luxembourg, 10 May, 1940

At exactly 0400 hours, the Unteroffiziers walked around the tents in the woods yelling at the tops of their lungs 'Raus! Raus! Parade in drei minuten.'

Along the line, panzer grenadiers struggled half-awake into their hob-nailed boots, donned helmets, grabbed their rifles and tumbled out to form up in the darkness. In one tent, Private Reiner Schemmel muttered to his comrade.

'Ach, they'll have us shooting at people next. What is it about German officers that they insist on making life miserable for poor foot-soldiers?'

Private Erich Grensch, ignored his marching companion's grumblings and buckled his belt, running his hand over the 'Gott mit uns' inscription under the buckle for luck. Erich had carried and loaded the ammunition into his friend's MG34 Spandau machine gun throughout the Polish campaign, and before that in Spain with the Condor Legion. He was used to Reiner complaining: it was a foot soldier's right to complain after all, indeed, his only right. When did anything good ever happen to a foot soldier? You were either being ordered to 'charge for glory', which meant leaving a nice safe hole and advancing into enemy fire, or being told to 'hold your ground to the last man', or more often, to do some pointless training exercise to 'keep up your morale' and 'stop you getting restless'.

Outside, Erich and Reiner aligned themselves on the unit's scratch, touched the shoulder of the man on their right to get their spacing, then stood with feet apart, left hand down, right hand on the rifle strap, staring forward into the darkness. The HauptFeldwebel came down the line, counting the men and ensuring their spacing and trim was exact. When he reached the end of the last platoon he turned on the spot, stamped a boot down and shouted 'All men present and accounted for, sir.'

A line of tanks faced the men. These were the latest models, the Panzer III and IV, and their shapes loomed menacingly out of the pre-dawn gloom, seeming to the men shivering in the cold to be the embodiment of demons, risen from some frozen hell.

The Oberst of the regiment walked out on to the impromptu parade ground and climbed up onto the turret of one of the tanks.

'Panzer Grenadieren, Achtung!' yelled the HauptFeldwebel, and a thousand jackboots stamped in perfect unison.

'Men of the 1st Panzer Division, Panzer Grenadiers.! Today, you are privileged to be the leaders of the Fuhrer's next great step in his vision for a Germanic future. Many of you have been tested in battle in Poland and have proven yourself to be worthy of the title 'veteran'. Today you will have the opportunity to add to your glory and the glory of your regiment, because today we finish what we started in Poland.

'One hour from now you will be the first unit to invade Belgium. Behind you lies the might of the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. We will fall upon those unsuspecting Flems and Walloons and drive them before us to the sea, then we will turn south and show the French that 1918 was no victory for them at all, only a postponement of the inevitable. Today you follow in the footsteps of your forebears, many of whom trod these same roads to victory in 1870.

'You men are the spearhead of the most powerful force in the history of the world. I expect you to drive through any and all opposition put before you. And when I say _drive through_ , that is what I mean. We will not be stopping to mop up defenders, we leave that to the stubble-hoppers who will be walking behind us. General Guderian likes to keep things simple, so he has given me just two orders. Only two, but they are orders that I think you will all understand.'

The officer drew a piece of paper from his pocket and paused for effect.

'His first order is about how you must fight. He says "Smash them, don't tickle them!"

That brought a cheer from the assembled troops.

'His second order is about what you must achieve: "In three days to the River Meuse, on the fourth day across the Meuse." I want you to repeat that to yourselves until it is etched in your brain. You will either cross the Meuse four days from now or you will be dead. Alles klar? Let us go then and write a new history in these Belgian fields, the history of the Third Reich. Sieg Heil!'

'Sieg Heil!' roared the ranks of soldiers, 'Sieg Heil!'

'Grenadiers, mount up,' yelled the Hauptmann.

'Grenadiers, mount up,' yelled the HauptFeldwebel, and at his command, the men broke ranks and raced to the half-tracks parked alongside the road. One by one, the engines burst into life, while across the road, the black-uniformed tankers started their engines and began clawing their heavy beasts onto the road.

Within the hour the clearing was empty of vehicles and the field staff were packing up the tents, loading the last of the fuel barrels and ammo crates and taking the reverse-swastika down from the flagpole. By the time the earth had rolled a few degrees towards the sun, the campsite was nothing but trampled grass and tracks in the dirt.

## ~ ~ ~

The overnight express carried Joe and Yvette in a velvet cloak to the city of Luxembourg.

The further the train had taken them from Yvette's home town, the more excited she had become. After dinner they had lain together in the cramped bunk of the sleeper. They had kissed, touched, talked. She had felt him, pressing hard against her lower back as he cupped her breasts and kissed her neck, but they both knew that it was not the time.

A connecting train took them further east into the hills of the Ardennes, and an hour after sun-up, they pulled into Diekirch.

'Smell that,' cried Joe, stepping down onto the platform and taking a deep breath. The air was redolent of pine needles, brisk and refreshing after the stuffy train carriage. He held out his hand to Yvette as she stepped down, looking about her keenly.

With Joe lugging their bags, they wandered out of the station and into the main street. To the right, the road curved south and crossed over a small river on a stone bridge; to the left, the street rose gently up the hill until it disappeared into the forest. On both sides, hotels, cafés, bars and shops of all kinds lined the street and people promenaded in the morning light, looking into windows, stopping for coffee. It was Friday, and all were enjoying the prospect of the coming weekend.

'Oh, isn't it beautiful Joe? Quick we must drop our bags so we can sit 'ere and watch the people. What was the 'otel called again?'

'Hotel Bitche,' said Joe, 'Funny sort of name that. Who'd call a hotel after a female dog?'

'Silly. It's a town in France not far from 'ere where they 'ave a big fortress. It's famous for 'olding out against a German siege in 1870; and it's pronounced 'beach' by the way,' she corrected without malice.

Joe watched her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't care how you pronounced it. God she was gorgeous, it was impossible he could be here with her. It was also hard to believe that this animated beauty was the solitary girl her uncle had described a few nights before.

'Joe?' she said, clutching his hands, 'do you know I've never been this far from 'ome before? Even with Uncle Pierre. Look at all the people, is it not fabulous?'

Their hotel was a three-story building with a turret room overhanging the street. After the night in the train they were both hungry with expectation, and the woman at reception eyed Joe suspiciously while she listened to Yvette's explanation that he was a distant cousin visiting from Australia. She accepted his money readily enough though when they booked two adjacent rooms.

She handed over two keys and pointed up the stairs saying something Joe found incomprehensible.

'She has given me the turret room and you the one beside it,' said Yvette in English, 'do you think she suspects?'

'I'm sure she suspects, but do I give a bugger? Non.' said Joe, following her hips as she sashayed up the staircase.

They had breakfast at a café near the bridge, where the chatter of the passersby mingled with the babble of the river and the creak of the old mill's water wheel. Occasionally a horse and cart laden with farm produce would clop by on its way to market, the farmer encouraging the swaying beasts with a prod.

Looking up from his breakfast, Joe asked, 'What do you say we go for a ride in the hills? Then we can come back to town for lunch and have a look at these ruins of yours after that.'

Yvette smiled, 'Perfect, but let's keep some energy for later cherie.'

Joe gulped, then laughed at himself.

'You forget, I'm a soldier, I'm as fit as a Mallee bull and I can go for days without sleep.'

'Per'aps this is just so much "soldier talk",' she replied, 'I shall 'ave to find out for myself.'

Joe paid and they strolled down the pavement arm-in-arm. Passing a _Photographique_ , Yvette peered into the window.

'I've never had my picture taken. Have you?'

'Once, at Duntroon, do you think they're open?'

She rapped on the door and a small man in a waistcoat opened the door.

'Oui?' he said, blinking at them owlishly from behind thick glasses.

Yvette spoke to him rapidly in French and he bowed and waved them into his shop. Minutes later they emerged clutching an envelope with four copies of a sepia-tone picture of the two of them, smiling and happy.

Joe pulled out one of them and looked at it in the light.

'You're one hell of a girl Yvette,' he said.

'And you are a 'andsome man Lieutenant Joe, give me one of those.' She grabbed one of the pictures and tucked it into her handbag, then reached up and kissed him.

'I will keep that for the long and lonely nights when you leave me to fight the Germans.'

'Let's not talk about that Yvette, it may never happen.'

'Whatever you say Joe,' she said, smiling up at him. She stood on tiptoes and gave him another lingering kiss, then turned and stared down the street as if nothing had happened.

'Now then, where can we find some 'orses?'

Half an hour later they set off on horseback up the eastern road and into the forest.

After a few minutes of climbing, the conifers began to throw their shade over the road and the noise of humanity faded behind them. The only sounds were the clopping of their horses' hooves and the sighs of the wind in the trees. Occasionally a turn in the road would reveal a clearing with a farm on it, or a bridge crossing one of the many narrow streams that cut their way through the hillside. The road was only wide enough for a single vehicle, and when a truck turned towards them at a crossroads up ahead, they had to step their mounts onto the verge to let it pass.

'Guten morgen. Danke.' called the driver with a wave.

'Was that German?' asked Joe.

'Oui,' said Yvette, 'this part of Belgium has changed 'ands so many times in wars, the locals around 'ere are ... 'ow do you say, 'mixed up'?'

She pointed at the road sign at the intersection.

'See? The town over that way is called 'Bettendorf' but this way we 'ave 'Larochette'. German and French, but all Belgian.'

'How far away is the border do you think?'

'Only a few miles I expect. Why? Are you thinking of attacking Germany by yourself?'

'Oh, just curious,' said Joe, 'I've never seen a real German before, outside South Australia that is.'

'Well per'aps we should 'ave a look at one before you 'ave to start fighting them, eh?' and with that she dug in her heels and took off down the road, showering him with clods of earth.

A short, hard ride later, she spotted a track on the left that climbed up through the woods and took it at a canter. From the crest there was a sweeping view to the east.

'From what I remember of the map, the border is the River Sure just down there,' she said, pointing to a bridge in the distance that was flanked by a pair of small huts painted with red and white diagonal stripes. Wooden poles painted in the same pattern and fitted in hinged emplacements lay across the road at waist height.

There was no fence, no visible guards and no sign that the country on the other side was at war with Britain and France.

Tying up their sweating horses in a shady spot, they stepped off into the woods and wandered south along the ridgeline. Despite the intimacy of the train, Joe felt like some nervous schoolboy, and looked for an opportunity to take her hand. Finally he was rewarded by a fallen tree across the vague path they were following. He leapt over the log and held out his hand to her.

She appraised him for a moment, then reached out and took his hand, saying, 'Why thank you m'sieur, you are tres gallant.'

Her hand was dry, reassuring—like his mother's hand had been—but the squeeze she gave his palm as she stepped from the log was anything but motherly. He glanced at her and she turned the full force of her smile upon him, then she dropped his hand and bolted up the slope like a wild filly.

'Race you,' she called over her shoulder, 'last to the top 'as to pay.'

He chased her up the hill towards a cleared area on the hilltop, presumably where loggers had taken the tallest trees some time before. Here the sun pushed away the cool of the forest with dazzling force. She burst into the light ahead of him, the sudden contrast leaving hourglass shapes on his eyelids when he blinked. She turned, breathless, to face him.

'Ha, I won. Now you 'ave to pay. My price is, 'mmm, what should it be I wonder?'

She cupped her chin in her hand and looked him up and down for a moment. He blinked, and shielded his eyes.

'I need to think about this,' she pronounced, 'let us sit.' And with that, she folded herself up like a cat, cross-legged in the long grass. Joe squatted, then lay down beside her, propped on an elbow. He pulled at a grass stalk and chewed it. They gazed eastwards in silence, out over the deep carpet of trees. A crow flew across the vista, cawing loudly its descending cadence of the dying man: 'Aaaach... uurrrch... ouuuuwrrgh.'

'I love that bird,' said Joe, 'we have the same ones back home, but something's different here, I've been trying to work it out. I reckon it's the light, it's more yellow or something. Then again,' he said, picking another grass stalk, 'maybe the sky is a different blue?'

'You're quite the philosopher aren't you Joe?' said Yvette, turning and touching his cheek, 'do the girls look different here too?'

She leant over and kissed him softly on the mouth, then crushed her lips against his. Filling his hands with her hair, he pulled her back into the grass and rolled onto her, crushing her with a delicious weight.

'You can have the prickles on _your_ back,' she said laughing, rolling him over and straddling him. She opened his shirt, and took in the breadth of his tanned shoulders, noticing a strangely-shaped gold ring on his dog tag chain as she did so.

'What is this ring?' she asked, as she ran her hands over his chest.

'Long story, I'll tell you later,' said Joe, kissing her on the neck.

'As you wish, mystery man.'

She kissed him again, and started undoing the buttons of her shirt, looking into his dark eyes all the while.

Then the world intervened.

~ ~ ~

It was a kind of muted shriek; the sound of metal on metal. Joe sat up abruptly and peered down into the shadows of the valley to their right.

'What is it Joe?'

He was sitting with the aspect of a hunting dog: ears cocked, nose raised, sniffing the wind, staring into the shadows as if there were a rabbit hiding in the bushes.

'Christ, I dunno, a sound I wouldn't expect to hear.'

'What sound?'

Then it came again, longer this time, a kind of tortured screech like steel fingers on a blackboard.

'It sounds like a tank,' said Joe, picking her up from his lap and placing her on the grass, 'I'd better have a dekko.'

'Oh Joe, why? Surely there are Belgian tanks here, we're near the border after all,' said Yvette with a little frustration, as he stood.

'I'm curious. Perhaps you'd better stay here.'

'Non. If you go, I go.'

'Alright, but we may have to do the lizard.'

'Lizard?' asked Yvette, mystified.

'Crawl,' said Joe, pointing at the grass.

'I am not afraid of a bit of dirt,' said Yvette, 'am I not an archaeologist? Besides, what am I going to do 'ere by myself?'

They crept into the cool shadow of the trees and started down the hill in the direction of the sound. They heard it again several times as they descended, louder each time. As they neared the bottom of the hill, they could make out the road below them, heading east-west. Suddenly Joe grabbed Yvette's arm and pulled her down into the grass.

'There! Do you see it?' he whispered, pointing down and to their left.

She pulled some stalks of grass aside and peered out. Through the trees she could see a grey shape sitting on the road facing west. As she watched, it lurched forward abruptly and the source of the screeching sound became clear—it was the metal tracks along the side of the thing—squealing as they rolled over the runner wheels. An ugly, modern sound. On the steel side of the monster she could see the distinctive black cross of the Wehrmacht.

Then a file of soldiers in grey-green uniforms emerged from the trees beside the road and marched past the tank, arms swinging, the corporal at the rear calling time, 'Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier, Eins, Zwei, Drei, Vier'. Behind the soldiers a truck appeared, then another tank.

'What are the Germans doing 'ere?' whispered Yvette, 'This is Belgium. Belgium is neutral.'

'Not any more by the looks of things,' replied Joe, 'let's get a better view.' They crawled through the grass towards a large boulder a few yards to their right and climbed up onto it.

From this vantage point they could see something that the long grass had hidden: the road was crowded with vehicles and guns of every shape and size and more were arriving as they watched. Off to the east, an unending line of tanks, half-tracks and trucks towing guns was making its way steadily down the road.

'The bastards have finally moved,' said Joe, 'this must be the vanguard, they would have gone through that poxy guard post like a dose of salts. What's the bet no one in Belgium has woken up to this yet?'

'Joe, I think we should get out of here, now. If they notice us we will be...'

'Up the creek without a paddle, you're right. Let's get out of here.'

They were climbing back up the way they had come when a cry came from behind them.

'Achtung! Halt. Halten sie!'

They turned to see a German soldier pointing up the hill towards them.

'Let's get a wriggle on,' muttered Joe and sprang forward, pulling Yvette with him. They clambered up the hill, grasping rocks and branches for support, slipping on pine needles and barking their shins on rocks.

A shot came from below. The bullet hit a nearby boulder with a crack, spraying chips of rock over them.

'Bugger this,' cried Joe, as they re-doubled their efforts. They finally reached the clearing and sprinted across it, gaining the woods on the other side as another shot ripped a strip of bark off a tree trunk behind them.

Joe risked a look behind. A squad of German soldiers was racing across the clearing behind them.

'Bloody hell, run girl, run!' he cried to Yvette, and they pelted through the grass, lungs bursting. As they crested the ridge more bullets cracked around them, then they were on the downhill slope and they could see the horses, standing hobbled by the path.

As Yvette mounted, Joe turned to see a German corporal waving his men to a stop at the top of the slope. They knelt and took aim.

He gave Yvette's horse a smack on the rump that sent it careering down the road, with Yvette hanging onto the mane, her feet struggling to find purchase in the stirrups. Leaping onto his own horse, Joe dug in his heels and cracked the reins.

'Ha. Ya. Get moving girl. Ha!'

As the surprised horse leapt forward, a fusillade of shots crashed over his head, tearing a shower of leaves out of the trees on the far side of the road. They had fired too fast and too high. He heard the ratchet clack of the rifle bolts as the soldiers reloaded, then another volley threw up fountains of dust around him as he galloped up the road, over the hill and out of sight.

Yvette was waiting for him on the far side, sweat dripping down her face.

'Go, go, go' he yelled as he thundered past her. She pulled her horse around and bolted after him and they galloped breathlessly away, leaving a cloud of what had been neutral Belgian dust, hanging in the air.

## ~ ~ ~

'I have to report this to someone,' said Joe as they rode back into Diekirch, 'Where the hell's the nearest Belgian army HQ around here?'

'Per'aps the local police will know? Oh, look Joe.'

Yvette pointed across the street to where an olive-green staff car had just pulled up. An elegant young woman stepped out, followed by a portly grey-haired man in the uniform of a high-ranking Belgian army officer.

'The mistress, we must assume,' said Yvette, 'this officer may not want to talk to you right now.'

'Screw that, those Germans are only a few miles away, he'll never live it down if he gets caught having a matinee with the mistress at a time like this. I might need some help here, can you translate for me?'

He urged his horse across the street to where the officer and his consort were about to enter a brasserie.

'Excuse moi, mon General,' cried Joe, reigning in his mount with a whinny. The officer looked up at him in disbelief and responded with a torrent of vehement French.

'I didn't catch all that, what did he say?' asked Joe to Yvette.

'e says "Oo the 'ell are you and what do you mean by getting in his way?" '

'Tell him... hang on, let's get off these bloody horses.'

They dismounted and Joe passed the reins to Yvette.

'Tell him there's a couple of regiments of German stormtroopers with tanks and artillery advancing through the woods about ten miles from here.'

Yvette turned to the officer and emitted a long stream of French. He caught the phrases 'les Boches', 'dix kilometres', but the rest was too fast for him to keep up.

The officer looked at Joe again, and laughed dismissively.

'Tell him I'm a Lieutenant in the British Army on leave.'

'I've told him that,' said Yvette, 'he doesn't believe it.'

Joe dug in his pocket and, pulling out his army ID card, thrust it in the officer's face.

'Look, I'm fair dinkum mate,' he said, 'there are Nazis coming and they'll be here inside an hour. What are you going to do about it? Don't you think you should alert someone or at least check yourself?'

Yvette tried to translate, but the officer raised his arm curtly and taking his mistress's arm, pushed past them into the restaurant.

'So much for that,' said Joe despondently, 'we have to do something. Where's a telephone? Do you think you could raise my HQ?'

'If you know their number I can try,' said Yvette, 'let's go to the station, they'll have a telephone. Maybe there'll be a train. Joe, we need to get out of here.'

Minutes later Joe was speaking to Major Merrivale.

'Yes, that's right Major, at least a battalion of infantry, with artillery and tanks. How many? I saw six tanks sir and as many guns, yes that's right, inside Belgian territory, they'll be here any minute, I've got to clear out. But sir, they're invading... yes sir, you make a good point sir.'

Joe turned to Yvette with a despairing look.

'Well that was stupid, I could've guessed it. He wants me to return immediately, he says there's an airfield not far from here, I'm supposed to get a lift with the bloody Belgian air force to Brussels.'

'Ah merde,' she said, taking his hand, 'can we not escape somewhere for just one day? Everyone will know soon enough. Is your duty so precious?'

His immediate response was refusal, but as he looked into her upturned face an urge roiled deep inside him. She watched his face anxiously as he stared into the middle distance. A gulf of vertigo, nausea and suffocation suddenly yawned between them.

'I've been given an order Yvette, we're at war remember?'

'And this order, that you brought upon yourself by calling Major Mishelle or whatever 'is name is, it is more important than me?'

Joe's mind leapt back to the clearing: the comforting sun; her weight on his loins; the cushion of her breasts.

He shook his head, 'Yvette, nothing is more important to me than you. I'm in love with you... I'm not a bloody poet, how can I tell you? But I can't just ignore the Germans.'

She took a deep breath to steady herself, then looked at him.

'Stop, Joe. I 'ear you. This is bigger than you and me. There is a train leaving for Brussels in fifteen minutes, I bought us tickets while you were on the phone. I will catch it alone. Per'aps when you get back you will 'ave time to show me again 'ow you feel. Then we will go to whatever fate the Germans decide for us.'

He took her in his arms and kissed her.

'I love you Yvette,' he gasped, pulling her hips against him.

'And I love you Joe. Now, go and catch your plane.'

# Chapter Fourteen

France, 11 May 1940

With reports indicating that the Germans were advancing on a broad front across Holland and Belgium, the British High Command summoned its divisional commanders to a briefing at headquarters in Lille. There General Gort, Commander of the British Expeditionary Force, addressed his officers.

'Gentlemen, as you know, the plan to defend France calls for us to advance into Belgium and take up positions on the so-called "Dyle line",' said Gort, pointing to a spot on the map, 'behind the Dyle River to the east of Brussels.'

'The bulk of the French army will also move into Belgium, going as far north as Breda in Holland. The intention is to link up with the Dutch and Belgian armies and present a solid front to defeat the Germans before they even reach French soil. Personally I think this idea is a load of rubbish. By advancing we are abandoning all our carefully constructed defensive lines and will be forced to fight in the open. There is no possibility the Frogs will make it to Breda and even if they do, I'd put money on it that the Germans will find a way in down south.'

'Why do it then General?' queried a staff officer.

'General Gamelin insists that it is essential and has committed thirty divisions to what he calls his "left-swing manoeuvre",' replied Gort. 'For political reasons we have been obliged to accept this plan. Our position is right in the centre defending Brussels. It's bloody Waterloo all over again. You all have your orders, I expect you to carry them out and set an example to the French, yet again, of how to fight. That's all, I'll see you all in Belgium tomorrow. Good luck.'

So, on the 11th of May, while the small BEF force prepared to advance to Brussels, the whole might of the French army, except for those units garrisoning the Maginot Line, began to move into Belgium.

At the British headquarters, General Gort was worried—worried about the French army and the strategy the French generals had insisted he adopt. He lit a cigarette and pondered the problem as he strode around the plank and trestle arrangement that was his desk.

He knew that the French army was supposed to be the greatest army in the world. "Forged in the anvil of the Great War", made up of men filled with the élan of their fathers and grandfathers, armed with some of the best tanks, planes and artillery ever made. Yet Gort knew there was something rotten at the heart of the French army. Despite solid morale amongst the enlisted men, he'd seen something different in the attitudes of the senior officers: a defensive malaise had supplanted the sprit of audacity and advance that had characterised the men he'd known during the Great War. He'd seen how defeatism and bureaucracy had burrowed their way in. It was clear that corruption and mismanagement had left crucial frontier defences incomplete or unmanned. Gort was appalled at how many simple things had been ignored, like minefields and radio networks to co-ordinate the infantry, artillery and the tanks. Worse still, the French tank force had been dispersed in penny-packets, rather than concentrated in powerful mobile divisions. Gort knew that, after months of 'Phoney War', in which the French had sat behind their borders rather than attacking Germany, morale was at rock-bottom. He'd heard that at some border points on bridges over the Rhine river, guards had even struck up conversations and shared cigarettes with the Germans on the other side.

Gort stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. Was he the only person who realised the fundamental doctrinal errors that had rendered virtually impotent one of the mightiest armed forces ever assembled, before it even fired a shot? The pity of it was that many of the French general staff were weak-willed men, lost in the glories of old wars; unable to adapt to technological changes that had revolutionised weapons; incapable of re-assessing their own assumptions.

He cursed and looked at the map again. The French strategy was to fight in Belgium, a strategy that rested on one stubbornly-held assumption: that the Ardennes forest was impassable to tanks. With access to France through Luxembourg denied to them by this mountainous wooded terrain, and the French-German border protected by the supposedly impenetrable Maginot Line, the Germans would have to come across the open plains of Holland and Belgium. The theory was that they could be met head-on by a superior force and defeated.

The only problem was that the Germans hadn't made the same assumption. Their tanks were approaching, across the plains of Holland and Belgium certainly, but they were also coming through the Ardennes.

General Gort picked up the phone.

'Get me the Prime Minister,' he said. If the French persisted with their strategy of sending their entire army into Belgium, the British would need a contingency plan.

# Chapter Fifteen

Belgium, 12 May 1940

The men in khaki poured out of the trucks. While the sergeants bellowed orders and the platoons unloaded their equipment, the lieutenants gathered at the major's car. He spread a map of the area on the bonnet and pointed out their position with his swagger stick.

'This is us, here's the road, there's a stream on our left flank that runs to the Dyle River and a Frog battalion on our right, here. Beyond them there's a thick wood about a mile deep that runs seven miles southwest. Unless he goes around that, which is a sizeable detour, Gerry has to come through here. That's why we've been put here.'

'Remember, this is a delaying action. We're only here to give the units in France time to get into position this side of Brussels. We are not expecting to stop Gerry, just slow him down a bit, which means that we will be making a strategic withdrawal to positions beyond the Dyle at 0300 the day after tomorrow. Early reports indicate that the German tanks are bypassing strongly-defended positions and leaving them to their infantry. We will leave the tanks alone as much as possible and go for the mounted infantry that will be riding behind them. Is that clear?'

'Yes Major,' replied the assembled officers.

'Sir,' said Joe, 'if there's a river to our left and Frogs and woods to our right, the panzers won't have any option but to go straight through us, are we not to fire on them at all?'

'No, concentrate on the infantry. One platoon, you take the left, Two you take the centre, Three you take the right. Lieutenant Dean, you speak this bloody Frog lingo don't you? Come with me, I've got to introduce ourselves to the Frogs here so they don't shoot us by mistake. One more thing gentlemen, this is the first time in combat for this regiment, I don't expect you to stop the Gerry tanks, but by God I expect you to give their infantry a hiding. Dismissed.'

Joe had finally made it to Roubaix after a seemingly interminable flight in an ancient Belgian transport. The plane had dropped him in Tournai, and he'd spent a miserable few hours trying to find some transport back to Roubaix. The local barracks was in a panic over the news that the Germans had invaded all across Belgium and Holland, and no vehicle could be spared. After waiting for hours, he'd eventually stolen a bicycle and covered the twenty-odd miles to Roubaix at breakneck speed, arriving just as his regiment was moving out of its familiar entrenchments.

Bundled into the back of a truck with his platoon, Joe had watched Roubaix vanish into the distance as they travelled east all night, finally stopping at midday in a small town south of Brussels.

While they were waiting to move on, a German fighter plane had come screaming out of nowhere at rooftop height, machine guns and cannon blazing. The rear truck took a few cannon rounds and was instantly a mess of shattered metal, with blood dripping over the sides and pooling under the axles. Three men were killed and five badly wounded, along with one of the local girls who had come out to see the troops go past. She was hit by a bullet that took most of her left leg off; she wouldn't be chatting up the soldier boys anymore.

This first encounter with war and the horror of airpower left a deep impression on the men: the suddenness of the attack, the noise and the appalling violence wrought upon their fellows. Men, who moments before had been personalities, chatting and joking, were now mangled piles of bone and offal, while the wounded screamed in agony until the morphine took effect. Bright blood splattered the dust and unidentifiable pieces of flesh were scattered across the road.

Major Merrivale came scowling down the line of trucks and yelled at the crowd of soldiers, gaping at the ruins of the lorry.

'You men, stop gawping and mount up. You've seen your first dead bodies now. Good. Don't think you can consider yourselves soldiers yet, you need to kill some Germans first, now let's get moving. Lieutenant Dean?'

'Yes Major?'

The major walked over and lowered his voice.

'I don't want the men thinking too much about what is going to happen to them. Get 'em into another truck, now.'

'Yes Major,' gulped Joe.

He was still in shock himself; he would have been in that truck if he hadn't hopped out a minute before to ask directions. One of the men in his squad, Private Powell, had been sitting in the truck talking to a friend when the attack came. He'd been disembowelled by a cannon shell, and Joe felt responsible.

'Pull yourself together man,' snapped Merrivale, 'set an example for God's sake. Were any of 'em yours?'

'One.'

'That's one _SIR_ , you bloody convict. Forget about him, he's gone, there'll be plenty more in the next few days. Do you think these are the first men to die for their country? You've got a tradition to live up to, even if you are an Australian. Now get your men into another truck, the medics will take care of this lot.'

As the trucks pulled away from the shambles, Joe couldn't take his mind off the sight of the bodies of the men he'd known. As the day wore on they crouched fearfully in the truck, expecting to be strafed or bombed at any moment, but after that attack they hadn't seen a single German plane all day. Where was the Luftwaffe?

# Chapter Sixteen

Belgium, 13 May 1940

The German 1st Panzer Division arrived at the banks of the Meuse during the early hours. Erich and Reiner dug a foxhole on the edge of the woods as ordered, and laid down covering fire across the river with their MG34, while successive waves of SturmPioneren and Stosstruppen inflated their boats and rowed out across the dark waters.

The fire from the French artillery and machine guns was savage. Even firing blind, the so-called 'second-line fortress troops' of the French 55th Infantry Division inflicted severe casualties on the first German assault, but two hours after dawn, everything changed.

Three days of marching through the Ardennes and fighting without sleep had completely ruined Erich's sense of reality. Only the amphetamine pills issued to every soldier before the jump-off had kept him going. After a few unsatisfactory hours of sleep, he awoke to find Reiner brewing coffee on a tiny kerosene burner.

'What time is it?' he asked. Out in the river, a French 75mm shell deafened them as it sent up a fountain of water.

'About eight in the morning mein freund,' replied Reiner. 'No rain. As good a day as any to die trying to cross a river under artillery and machine gun fire.'

'Bloody pessimist,' muttered Erich, 'what day is it then?'

'The 13th of May. Another auspicious omen wouldn't you say? "Three days to the Meuse, on the 4th day, across the Meuse", at least it's not a Friday,' said Reiner, pouring the bitter brew into battered metal cups.

Erich sat up and sipped the scalding fluid. His whole body ached and his head was fuzzy with pills and lack of sleep; the coffee helped and after a minute he cocked his ear to one side.

'Can you hear something Reiner?' he enquired.

'Do you mean the artillery, or the machine guns?'

'No above all that. Engines. Planes I think.'

The distant buzz of aero engines grew louder, while across the river, Sedan sat patiently, watching the river flow. The buzz grew into a roar that filled their ears, then far above them, the shapes of aircraft appeared above the trees. As they watched, the planes toppled into a steep dive revealing the distinctive inverted gull-wing shape of the Stuka dive bomber.

The awful rising scream of dive sirens came to their ears and across the river, Sedan was abruptly engulfed in explosions.

'Gross Gott, it's the Luftwaffe,' screamed Erich over the thunderous din.

Clouds of yellow dust towered into the air and the shock wave came rolling across the water, flattening the two panzer grenadiers into their foxhole. The two men huddled below the earth as the bombs fell without letup. As one flight of bombers passed over, another took its place, pounding the Sedan river front into devastation.

Reiner tried to count of the number of raids, but gave up after reaching three-hundred. They lay in their foxhole numbed, covering their ears: how could anyone survive that? The bombing continued hour after hour, getting progressively heavier if that were possible, until around midday the onslaught petered out. Looking over the lip of the foxhole, Erich could see nothing of the town— it was totally obscured by dust and smoke— only the flashes of the few bombs still falling indicated where ground level was.

Then silence descended. Nothing moved but the settling dust.

Three hours later, it began again, and at 4 o'clock a raid consisting of hundreds of planes came over. During the hiatus, Eric and Reiner had dug their foxhole two feet deeper and now they sat there smoking cigarettes and playing cards, ignoring the bombing as best they could. There was no conversation, neither of them could hear a thing over the concussion of the bombs, but inwardly, each was thanking their God that they were on this side of the river. Finally, as the light was fading, the last plane passed over and they peered out at the destruction.

'Privates Schemmel and Grensch!' came the voice abruptly through their dulled ears; it was Leutnant Fuchs, the battalion hard-ass. He came striding up to the foxhole as if it were a beautiful day for a walk.

'Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,' they both replied instinctively, leaping up and saluting.

'Infantry assault in funf minuten, panzers to start crossing at nightfall. Now, pay attention: General Guderian has decided he needs to be on the other side of the river to supervise the breakthrough after we take the town. Oberstleutnant Bolck has told him that joyriding in canoes on the Meuse is not permitted at this time of year, but the general is determined. For reasons mere mortals like myself fail to understand, you two have been given the honour of rowing him over once the far bank is secure. Be sure not to sink or be hit by artillery. You have twenty minutes to get your boat inflated and in the water. Schnell!'

## ~ ~ ~

All was quiet at the 55th Infantry Division headquarters at Fond Dagot, a few miles behind Sedan. Captain Bareau stood outside smoking companionably with a group of his fellow staff officers.

'No sign of the Boches on this side of the river yet apparently, despite the aerial bombardment,' mused Captain Bareau, 'I wonder where they are?'

The commander, Colonel Fernand Chaligne, took a last puff of his Gitanes and ground it under his booted heel.

'I expect they're still trying to fill the punctures our machine gunners have put in their inflatable boats. Getting across a river in the teeth of a fortified position like Sedan won't be easy, even if they have bombed it, our men are well entrenched in bunkers.'

They gazed north-east, towards the fortress town. Although they were half a dozen miles to the rear, the sound of artillery shells exploding sporadically carried clearly on the night air. Then they heard another sound. It was a combination of engines being over-revved, men crying out, guns firing, horses whinnying. It was the sound of panic. Then around the corner from the east came a disorderly mob of men, machines and animals, jockeying for position on the road, clambering over each other in their terror.

As the first men streamed past, the officers stood aghast. Some of the men were carrying suitcases, those few still bearing weapons were firing them aimlessly into the air, their faces white with terror. Trucks sped past, festooned with soldiers like flies on a corpse; motorcycle combinations laboured along under a burden of four or five men; terrified horses were flogged along by three men; every conceivable mode of transport had been commandeered, and all with one intent: flight.

After the initial shock, Colonel Chaligne spotted a Lieutenant of Artillery riding on the running board of one of the cars and strode down to the road.

'What the hell is going on Lieutenant?' he called as the car passed by.

'Run!' yelled the panic-stricken officer, 'Les Boches are coming. Their tanks are chasing us. Save your lives.'

The colonel turned to the staff officers.

'We must stop this rout now or there will no division at all in an hour. Bareau, find some trucks, or cars or anything and block this road.'

The officers stared for a moment, stricken by the panicked column passing before them.

'MOOOOVE!' screamed the colonel, and they scattered in all directions.

By the time Bareau manoeuvred the second truck across the road, the stream of men had thickened to a torrent. With a barrier behind him, Colonel Chaligne pulled out his pistol and stood in front of it.

'I will personally shoot the next man who passes this truck, ' he shouted, 'I repeat, I will personally shoot the next man who passes this truck. Do you hear me? I will kill you if you pass this truck.'

The soldiers stumbling up before him halted and eyed the pistol he was waving. One called out 'There's only one of him, he can't stop us all.'

The colonel fired a shot into the air.

'The next one is for you, you deserting scum,' said the colonel, pointing his pistol at the man. Then he climbed on to the truck and addressed the growing crowd, whose flight had been stopped by the roadblock.

'Listen to me,' the colonel yelled. 'What are you men? Are you French soldiers or little girls who run away at the first sign of danger? You say there are German tanks coming, is it not your duty to fight them? Is that not why you were in position? Yet you have abandoned your guns and abandoned your pride. You are the 55th Infantry Division and you are here to fight. Would you rather die fighting to defend your country, or be hanged as cowards and deserters?'

The men stood silent, not daring to meet this mad colonel's eye. Didn't he realise that the panzers were coming?

'You have one chance to redeem yourselves. Stop this madness now and no more will be said about it, but if you pass this truck you will forever be branded as traitors to France.'

The men at the front stood shame-faced as, behind them, the rest of the fleeing unit came to a halt. There was nowhere to go, the colonel had made that quite clear. Not that it mattered, thought Colonel Chaligne, the division was in no shape to fight now. There was clearly no option but to retreat.

# Chapter Seventeen

France, 14 May 1940

Pierre Bendine switched off the radio and sighed. The Germans were coming again. What was wrong with those people that they needed to invade their neighbours every second generation? 1870, 1914, now 1940, was there no end to it?

And this time it would be worse than before, he knew that. The last time the war had been limited to a narrow front. Times had been hard, but the civilians had been mostly left alone. From what he knew of Hitler and his cronies, this time it would be quite different, especially for Jews like him.

What to do? Flee to England? America? None of them had any particular love for the Jews. Three of his German Jewish archaeologist friends had gone to America in the last few years, but they had faced incredible obstacles to get into the 'home of the brave and the land of the free'. Even Great Britain would not accept you just because your life was threatened on the basis of your race. It seemed that no one wanted Jews.

Palestine then. But how to get to Palestine? Catch a train to Marseilles and hope for a ship? He didn't have the money, and anyway, who would greet him there? What would he do? It would be throwing away everything he'd worked for, and for what? An uncertain future in a country populated by Arabs who hated him and his people.

Yvette came down the stairs, her eyes red from crying.

'Yvette, what's wrong?' asked her uncle.

'I told you, the Germans are coming,' she said.

'Yes, I've just heard the announcement. There'll be panic of course.'

'Uncle, what are we going to do?'

'Nothing. We'll stay here and try to remain unnoticed. We're well-liked, and we don't look particularly Jewish, the townspeople will look after us. Where's Joe?'

'Joe has returned to his unit. They moved out two days ago.'

'I see,' said Pierre, 'I hope you said goodbye. You realise that he's unlikely to come back don't you?'

'Oh uncle don't say such things,' cried Yvette, 'I know he will come for me, I know it. He promised me he would.'

With that, she stormed up the stairs to her room and slammed the door.

Her uncle gazed at the picture of his brother on the mantelpiece. He recalled a similar promise being made twenty years before.

## ~ ~ ~

The French dispatch rider leant into the turn and accelerated down the driveway between the rows of poplars. His uniform was coated with dust and he coughed through the scarf over his mouth. At the end, the driveway opened into a turning circle with a fountain in the centre. Beyond the fountain stood the vast and elegant chateau Vincennes; the French flag over the main entrance hung lifeless in the baking air, and the two guards on duty at the steps sweated in the noonday sun.

A French staff officer in gleaming cavalry boots emerged and eyed the dusty rider inquisitively. The rider saluted without dismounting and handed the officer a package from his satchel.

'Dispatches for Generalissimo Gamelin from the 55th Infantry Division at Sedan, sir.'

'Very good, when were these issued to you?'

'Yesterday at noon sir.'

'Noon? You mean it's taken you a whole day to get here from Sedan? Did you stop overnight for heaven's sake?'

'No sir, the roads are crammed with refugees sir, nothing's moving much, not even motorbikes.'

'I see. So, where is the 55th?'

'I'm not sure where they are now sir, but when I left them they were heavily engaged with German armoured units west of Sedan and about to retreat.'

'Hmmm,' said the officer, drawing a sealed envelope from inside his tunic, 'these orders to the division probably won't be much use then, but deliver them anyway.'

'Very good sir.'

A private came down the steps and a placed a small cage containing a pigeon on the top step. Reaching into the cage, he grasped the bird and tossed it into the air. The pigeon fluttered momentarily then got a grip on the air and sped off northwards.

'Sir, may I ask a question?' said the dispatch rider.

'Of course,' replied the officer, as the private walked back inside.

'Why has the Generalissimo chosen this chateau as his command centre sir, when it has no telephone?'

'That is a question many of us have asked ourselves private, I believe it has something to do with the quality of the wine cellar. Now get going, you are our telephone for the moment.'

As the rider pulled his throttle and accelerated away, the captain gazed after him. 'Why indeed private, why indeed?'

Inside, the cream of the French high command were crowded around the map table. General Gamelin looked up as the captain entered with the dispatch case.

'At last, some news from the Front. What have our gallant soldiers to say Capitan Girard?'

'These are from the 55th Infantry Division at Sedan sir. General Lafontaine reports that his men have been assaulted by air for an entire day, attacked by infantry and panzers at night and have now retreated against his orders and despite all his efforts to stop them. He adds that his command post has been overrun and requests that the air force be assigned to his sector, as they are experiencing continual dive-bombing. He has counterattacked, but has lost seventeen tanks to aerial attack alone.'

'Retreat?' harrumphed the aged general, 'Well that is rather sudden, we only advanced two days ago. Can he not dig in?'

'Apparently the advance units of the German armoured forces have already driven past him sir. When the Belgians decided to retreat yesterday they left his flank unguarded and the Germans drove through the gap last night. He says there are German armoured columns loose in his rear area, and the roads are so crammed with refugees that no progress can be made forward or back. Unless the situation in his rear and on his left can be contained, he will have to abandon his horse-drawn artillery to be able to move south at all.'

'But this is intolerable,' said Gamelin, wiping his brow with a handkerchief, 'that is the fourth such report we have had today.'

The general turned to the assembled officers.

'Gentlemen, we clearly have no sense of where the front line is anymore. This map we are looking at does not reflect reality. The Germans are beating us. How do you recommend we direct our units?'

'Generalissimo,' said one general, 'we must protect Paris. We should dig in along the Marne where we stopped the Boches last time.'

'Non,' interjected a tall colonel called de Gaulle. 'We must counter-attack immediately with those units, thrust up into the German centre and cut off their lead units. If they are behind the 55th they must be miles from their supply units and they have no flanking defences, if we strike now we can envelope two whole panzer divisions.'

'And leave the nation's capital undefended from those same units?' cried a general, 'What is to stop them turning south and taking Paris while our armies are fighting in Belgium?'

'Most of our forces are already in Belgium, General,' said de Gaulle, 'it's getting them back to France that concerns me. If we don't attack the Germans on their flanks now, they will bring in support units and cut us off from our units in Belgium.'

'Gentlemen, gentlemen,' cried Gamelin, 'let us not argue, we have plenty of time to make this decision. Let us adjourn for lunch and see if any more news arrives. There's a particularly fine Chateau Lafite I've been looking forward to.'

The generals and their aides shuffled out to the dining room, where waiters were pouring glasses of chilled Sancerre to go with the salmon mousse entrée.

The captain who'd received the dispatch walked over to the map and found the flags marking the 55th Division, and the 10th Division that was in reserve behind it. He looked at the situation as described in the last dispatch: the 55th had been guarding Sedan, only about 50 kilometres north of the point where the Maginot Line ended. If that division retreated, it left a clear gap in the extreme southern end of the line, right where the borders of France and Belgium met. The 10th Division's job was to plug just such a hole in the line.

He removed the 55th Division marker and looked at the map again: if the roads really were blocked by refugees as the dispatch rider had said, the 10th Division and the other reserves were too far back to plug the gap in time. With the 55th division gone, there was nothing to stop the German panzers punching right across southern Belgium and cutting off the French army from France.

He shrugged, returned the 10th Division's flag to its position and headed out to the dining room. He was only a staff captain, what possible influence could he exert in this exalted company?

## ~ ~ ~

In the headquarters of the French Northern Air Defence zone, General Billotte, the commander of the French 1st army group appealed to the local commander of the French air force General Francois d'Astier de le Vigerie and General Tetu, commander of the Tactical Air Forces.

'The Germans are building a pontoon bridge just south of Sedan and another further north at Houx,' explained Billotte, pointing at the map, 'if they complete them they can get their whole panzer army across in less than two days. Do you understand what this means? This is the critical moment in the battle. Victory or defeat will depend on those bridges.'

'I understand, we will send every bomber we have. I will also ask the British what they can do,' replied le Vigerie. 'But we cannot hit both. Which bridge is more important?'

Looking at the map and the dispositions of the German units, General Tetu said 'Concentrate everything on Sedan. Priority between Sedan and Houx is at a million to one.'

A few hours later General le Vigerie called on British Air Marshal Arthur Barrett in Chauny and explained the situation.

'We need every bomber we can get for this mission Air Marshal,, what can you offer us?'

'After yesterday's losses I'm not supposed to be flying at all,' replied Barratt gruffly, 'especially against what sounds likely to be the most heavily defended target in Belgium.'

'Let me be sure you understand the gravity of the situation,' said le Vigerie, 'General Billotte described it to me thus: "Victory or defeat is passing over those bridges."

Barratt looked into his eyes.

'Very well, I will send six Battles at dawn. Let me have the targets.'

'Be sure to send me the pilots' reports when they return won't you?' asked le Vigerie.

'That won't be necessary,' replied Barratt, 'there won't be any reports, since none of them will return.'

## ~ ~ ~

That night, less than two kilometres south of Sedan, German engineers pulled their last metre of planking out the truck and laid it across the river. They had created a single lane that was expected to carry the entire _Heeresgruppe_ A into Belgium. With no more bridging equipment available, and no other way across, the entire _Sichelschnitt_ would be stuck on the wrong side of the river if the makeshift bridge was hit a by even a single bomb.

When General Guderian heard the bridge was completed he leapt to his feet and called for his officers.

'Get two companies of panzers and grenadiers across immediately, then start moving the flak guns. When the French air force discovers this bridge tomorrow, all hell will break loose.'

By dawn, through inhuman effort and superb organisation, Guderian had seven flak battalions in position around the bridge. More than 300 anti-aircraft guns, the biggest concentration of flak guns ever seen, protected a narrow strip of planks bolted together floating on tin boats. Across those planks, the tanks, half-tracks and trucks of the 1st, 2nd and 10th Panzer Divisions were streaming, at a rate of nearly a thousand vehicles every hour.

Many of the AA guns, mostly 20mm and 37mm light cannons, were positioned on a hill about a kilometre and a half northwest of the bridge. Seventy years before, French cavalry had charged from here into the mouths of the German artillery batteries in the Battle of Sedan of 1870. A huge monument atop 'Cavalry Hill', as it was known, had commemorated the valour of those long-dead Frenchmen for decades. Now as the sun rose, the long shadow of the monument fell on the thin barrels of the German guns as they readied themselves for the aerial onslaught they knew would be coming.

## ~ ~ ~

In his headquarters west of Sedan, General Flavigny looked at the bulge in the French line on the map before him, then glared at General Brocard, the officer in charge of the French 3rd Armoured Division. It was 5am and his mood had not been improved by the lukewarm cup of coffee his adjutant had just provided.

'Twelve hours you say? Twelve hours to ready your tanks for a counter-attack? Why so long?'

'Well mon General, many of them have used their fuel reserves to get to the positions you ordered yesterday, so they need to be refuelled. It will take five or six hours to get the fuel bowsers to all of them and fill their tanks. Then it will take them at least two hours to move to the starting line, south of Bois du Mont Dieu. Then they will need to be refuelled again. Twelve hours is, if anything, an optimistic estimate.'

'Why do they need to be refuelled twice?' demanded Flavigny, 'they have a range of 180 kilometres do they not? I am only asking them to move 60.'

'Oui mon General,' replied General Brocard patiently, 'they can go up to 180 kilometres on roads, but in practice this theoretical range is not achieved unless conditions are ideal. If the tanks have to negotiate obstacles or go off-road, they use up their fuel far more quickly. If they are to be ready for an attack on Sedan they will need full fuel tanks or they risk becoming immobilised in the midst of the battle. I should also point out, mon General, that there are other factors: my men have not completed their training, their tanks have only the most basic of radio communications and there are no skilled personnel to repair the tanks when they break down. All of these things add up.'

'Very well, enough excuses, get them moving. When can they be at the start line?"

'4pm perhaps?' replied Brocard.

'That is too late for an attack, we need them there sooner,' said Flavigny.

'It simply cannot be done mon General,' said Brocard, 'but the days are long, if we have concentrated by 4pm there will still be four hours of daylight in which to attack. That is plenty of time.'

'Non, it is too risky,' said Flavigny, 'we will have to postpone the attack until the morning.'

'But sir,' remonstrated Brocard, aghast, 'If we wait until dawn the Boches will have reinforced the position. We believe there is only a single infantry regiment holding the town. We must strike now and destroy their bridgehead.'

'I am being asked to lead an army corps into battle with less assistance than is normally allocated to the commander of a battalion,' said Flavigny. 'Non, it is too risky, the attack is postponed until tomorrow. Now listen, in case of a night attack I want you to re-distribute your tanks to guard the strategic crossroads across our divisional front. Put groups of three, two light tanks and one heavy, at each intersection. They will act like corks on the German advance.'

'General, an hour ago I passed on your orders to concentrate for a counter-attack. That will take twelve hours. If I now countermand that order and spread my tanks out, we will have the same problem concentrating them all tomorrow for the counter-attack,' argued Brocard. 'They are not cavalry, how will I get fuel to them all?'

'Find a way General, that is why you are a General.'

## ~ ~ ~

The first French bombers appeared over Sedan shortly before dawn. They had already lost several of their number to German fighters on the way, and a depleted squadron of just eight Morane dive bombers approached the pontoon bridge. As the bombers dived in at low level with incredible daring, the flak guns opened up, throwing up a steel curtain of exploding metal that shredded each plane well before it came close to reaching the target. With each hour, two or three French air raids came, and the Germans shot them down one after the other. By early afternoon the French had lost five bombers without a single bomb hitting the bridge.

Reiner Schemmel and Erich Grensch were sitting in a machine gun emplacement near the east end of the bridge trying to eat, when General Guderian strode past out to the middle of the bridge. He stood there waving on the endless convoy of trucks and tanks hurrying across.

'He's mad, I tell you,' said Grensch, 'as if that stunt getting across the Meuse in a rubber boat wasn't bad enough. Nearly got us killed. Now look at him.'

'It's called leadership Erich,' replied Reiner, 'an abstract concept that you probably wouldn't understand.'

Suddenly a six-wheeled staff car lurched to stop beside them and a distinguished looking man in a general's uniform stepped out.

'Christ that's Runstedt, get up, quick.'

The two men stood and saluted. General von Runstedt returned the salute gravely.

'A busy day here it would seem gentlemen. Have you seen the general?'

'Ja Herr General,' replied Erich, pointing to the middle of the bridge, 'he's just over there.'

The two generals met in the middle of the bridge, amidst the thunder of diving planes, exploding bombs and the cacophony of multi-barrel flak guns.

'Greetings General,' yelled Guderian over the din,

'Is it always like this here?' yelled back von Runstedt.

'So far, yes.' replied Guderian.

'Sir!' chorused Erich and Reiner, who had followed the senior general onto the bridge.

'Was ist?' asked Guderian.

'Raid!' yelled Reiner, pointing at a French twin-engine Potez bomber that was flying at almost water level straight towards them.

The four men ran for the safety of the bank, as behind them the flak guns lining the bridge created an invisible steel wall directly in front of the speeding bomber. As it entered the hail of flak shells the plane simply disintegrated, the pieces throwing up a long line of fountains in the river.

## ~ ~ ~

At 3:30pm, Sergeant Reg Winkler took off in his Fairey Battle with four other planes. After the six Battles in the dawn sortie had all returned unharmed, the RAF had decided to make one all-out raid in the afternoon, committing seventy-one Battles and Blenheims to a single raid.

The German fighters that had chased them since they took off had been kept at bay by their Hurricane escort, but as they neared the bridge, Winkler's wireless operator and rear gunner, Len Clarke, spoke through the intercom.

'Gerry fighters are buzzing off sergeant.'

Even as he spoke the Battle was rocked by a nearby explosion and fragments of the flak shell rattled against the plane with the sound of pebbles being dropped into a tin can.

There was only a moment to be afraid though, as Len Clarke pushed the slow single-engined bomber into a steep dive. Looking through the rear of the canopy, Len saw another Battle hit by flak and fall sideways out of sight, smoke streaming from its engine.

As the four bombs left the racks the Battle leapt upwards, then took a flak shell square in the engine. Hungry flames leapt into the cockpit.

Reg Winkler slid back to the canopy and stood up, 'Bale out, and make it snappy.'

Len needed no urging. He jumped and pulled the ripcord of his parachute. As he drifted down, around him he could see the rest of the squadron being annihilated.

Back at Chauny, Air Marshal Arthur Barrett awaited the news. By 5pm he knew the bitter truth. Of the seventy-one bombers the RAF had sent on that raid, only thirty-one returned. Not one of them had managed to hit the bridge.

By nightfall on the 14th of May, the Germans had moved 60,000 men and 22,000 vehicles across the river. The entire 1st Panzer Division was now racing through the gap in the French defences and on into the plains of Belgium.

# Chapter Eighteen

France, 15 May 1940

For General Flavigny the day dragged interminably. Reports arrived every half hour of German breakthroughs and further delays in getting his tanks into position. It seemed that as soon as one of them was refuelled it broke down.

Brocard reported by messenger that he could only muster 27 of his 61 heavy tanks and that some of them still needed refuelling. There was now no way he could attack before 1500 hours, nearly a whole day later than originally planned.

Flavigny strode up and down, frustrated by his inability to carry out his orders. They had specifically required him to counter-attack _en masse_ immediately "with the most brutal energy and in utter disregard of casualties". Yet here he was with his hands tied by mere logistics. Surely the attack he had ordered that morning would succeed? He'd told his 213th Infantry Regiment to secure the heights at Bulson, and given them tank support. Battle reports had already shown that the French tanks, particularly the Somua S35 and the Char B1 were more than a match for the panzers. The shells of the 37mm guns mounted on most of the German tanks simply bounced off the heavy armour of the French tanks. Yet for all their invulnerability, they were useless unless he could engage them with the enemy. It was becoming clear that in this war, mobility was more important than heavy armour.

At 1300, his adjutant came in.

'Some officers of the 213th Infantry Regiment would like to speak with you sir.'

'Very well, show them in.'

An hour later, Flavigny walked outside and looked up despairingly at the sky. The officers he'd seen were broken men. One captain had described in terror how the Germans had smashed their attempt at a counter-attack.

'No orders came sir, so we waited,' recounted the captain. 'When the order finally arrived we started advancing, but that was about four hours later than we were expecting. Then we were slowed by the state of the roads: mon General, it is one huge jam of vehicles and civilians trying to get away. When we finally reached our starting line, the 205th regiment that was supposed to support us was nowhere to be found, and although we knew the tanks were coming, they were also late. By the time we had advanced to the ridge before Bulson, the Germans were already in the town.'

'What happened then?' asked Flavigny, 'did you press the attack?'

'Oui. When the tanks arrived we attacked, but the Germans had already brought machine guns and anti-tank guns over the river. When our first assault faltered they counter-attacked with panzers. Our tanks fought bravely and destroyed many German tanks, but they were picked off by anti-tank guns and the survivors had to retreat. While the tanks were fighting on our left flank, we were attacked on the right by flamethrowers. They forced us into the woods and many men surrendered rather than be burned to death. We only escaped because the woods caught fire and the smoke covered our retreat.'

Flavigny pondered everything he'd heard that day. It was nearly 14.30 now, the main armoured counter-attack was due to start in half an hour. It had to succeed, or the front was broken.

Then General Paul Bertin-Boussu, the commander of the 3rd Armoured Division's tank brigade walked into the headquarters. Flavigny looked up in astonishment.

'What are you doing here?' he asked incredulously, 'are you not about to attack?'

'The attack cannot start at 1500 hours because the tanks have not yet taken on supplies,' replied the general, 'furthermore, there are only eight Char B1s available.'

'You have an order. Carry it out!' spluttered Flavigny. 'You have twenty of the light Hotchkiss tanks, attack with those.'

Bertin-Boussu looked at the man before him. He was clearly beyond reason. Attacking a panzer division with so few tanks was an utterly futile gesture that would only lead to men dying pointlessly. He turned to go.

'As you say, mon General,' replied. He had no intention of ordering the attack.

And so the last chance for a concentrated counter-strike on the bridgehead at Sedan passed by.

## ~ ~ ~

A telephone was ringing and was ignored. It stopped, rang again and was ignored. Then came the knocking on the door.

The man rolled over and clung to the remnants of his dream—a pleasant one involving a curvaceous young woman and several bottles of champagne—but it was no good, the knocking didn't stop.

Winston Churchill, waking on only his fifth day as Prime Minister of Great Britain, groaned and thumbed his temples to assuage his hangover. He slowly hauled himself into a sitting position and growled 'Come.'

His bodyguard entered and stood at the door.

'Well, what the hell is it? What bloody time is it?' grumbled Churchill.

'It's 0730 sir,' replied his bodyguard, 'Mr Churchill sir, the French Prime Minister is on the phone, he says it's urgent.'

'Reynaud up at 7.30? It must be urgent then. Alright, put him on.'

'Very good sir.'

Moments later, Churchill picked up the telephone beside the bed, and a voice spoke in accented English.

'We have been defeated.'

Churchill didn't reply. He'd only just woken. He couldn't fathom what Reynaud was talking about: the invasion of Belgium had only started two days ago.

'We are beaten; we have lost the battle,' came the voice.

'Surely it can't have happened so soon?' asked Churchill in disbelief.

'The Front is broken near Sedan,' replied Reynaud, 'they are pouring through in great numbers with tanks and armoured cars.'

'Very well then,' said Churchill, 'I expect I will have to come over and see for myself.'

He hung up the phone and, for a moment, stared at the floor. France, declaring itself defeated after just two days? What could have happened? What had gone wrong? Most importantly, what did this mean for the British troops in Belgium, his best, his only army?

He rang the bell beside his bed. The time had come to go to war.

# Chapter Nineteen

France, 16 May 1940

The Char B1 tank lumbered down the centre of the road. French infantry huddled behind it, peeking around the flanks for a sight of the enemy. German machine gun and rifle fire clattered against the tank's frontal glacis plate like hailstones on a roof and ricocheted harmlessly away.

In the ruins of the village, soldiers from both sides crouched in the rubble, surrounded by the punctured and flayed bodies of their comrades. Boys of 19 and 20 had been shot, bayoneted and blown apart by hand grenades in brutal hand-to-hand combat. The German assault on Stonne had met stubborn resistance, with every building being taken, lost and recaptured, only to be lost again hours later. In two days of vicious close-quarter fighting the village had already changed hands nine times. After days of advancing against pockets of weak resistance, the Germans had been stunned by the ferocity of the French defence and had been forced to dig in, just to hold their gains against the constant counterattacks.

Now the French were giving them a dose of their own medicine: tanks. And not the small, lightly-armoured types that mostly equipped the Wehrmacht, these were monsters with two cannons and a machine gun.

Erich and Reiner had been cut off from their grenadier unit and found themselves in a ruined house with a _Panzerjaeger_ anti-tank squad.

'You can protect our left flank against the _poilus_ ,' said the Feldwebel in charge of the 37mm gun.

'Jawohl,' replied Erich, taking a position in the shattered bricks with his MG34, covering the approach from the next house.

'I can hear engines. Ready? Roll the gun out,' yelled the Feldwebel to his men.

The crew of three grabbed the gun trails and pushed the small cannon into position, its barrel protruding through a hole in the wall.

'Target 100 metres, take aim and fire when ready.'

A private squinted through the gunsite, adjusted the elevation wheel, then pressed the firing lever. The shot crashed out and the gun reared on its wheels, the trails thrusting into the rubble piled behind them.

The shell slammed into the front of the French tank, and bounced harmlessly away, leaving a silver scar in the painted metal.

The crew ejected the shell, thrust a fresh round into the breech and the gun roared again. The shell struck the tank's hull and bounced off again.

'Again,' cried the Feldwebel, 'try the turret.'

The gun layer adjusted his aim and pulled the lever again. This time the shell hit the turret right on the gun mantle, but the shell whistled off into space. Now the tank stopped and began to turn, lining up its hull-mounted gun with the location of the anti-tank gun.

'They've spotted us. Aim for a track, quick,' urged the Feldwebel.

The gunner fumbled with the controls and fired again, but once again the shell bounced off the heavy armour.

'Get out of here,' screamed the Feldwebel, 'they're going to fire.'

The crew leapt up and raced for the back of the house. Seconds later a tongue of flame erupted from the tank's hull gun and the front wall of the house disintegrated. A million brick fragments pelted Erich and Reiner as they cowered behind the far wall. Choking dust rolled over them, leaving them coughing and gasping for air.

Behind the tank, the French infantry cheered. After running from the panzers for days, their own tanks were finally hitting back.

Reiner crawled over to Erich, who had been blown onto his back and was half buried under smashed brickwork.

'Are you alright Erich?' he yelled, still deafened by the explosion.

Erich nodded and struggled out from under the bricks.

'Let's go before they decide to storm the building,' he replied, 'no point in dying for this _scheisse_ town.'

'Come on you two,' called the Feldwebel, 'crawl over here, get on with it, the tank's advancing.'

Wincing at the sharp points of the shattered bricks, Erich and Reiner dragged their MG34 out of the building and made a dash towards the edge of town. Back on the road, the French tank accelerated and began rolling forward, firing methodically into each house. Behind it a second tank appeared. Within minutes the German infantry along the road had abandoned their useless anti-tank guns and were in full retreat.

For the moment, Stonne remained in French hands, but it couldn't last: the Luftwaffe was coming.

## ~ ~ ~

Smoke from the cigar swirled upwards, insinuating itself into the cloud that obscured the ceiling. The French officer sitting across the table steepled his fingers and drew in a breath. Generalissimo Gamelin, in charge of the entire French army, was about to ask a favour, something he was not used to doing.

Across the table, flanked by two officers in khaki uniforms with red and gold braid on their epaulettes, sat a large man in a navy suit. The cigar was stuck between his teeth and as the man puffed at the rolled leaf, fresh plumes of smoke rose into the air.

'M'sieur Churchill, can you not spare us your fighter planes for one more month? Without their cover the Luftwaffe will destroy our columns as they retreat to France. Can you sit aside and watch the destruction of the glorious French army?'

'Retreat?' guffawed the British Prime Minister. 'You can't seriously be talking about retreat already? You have nearly a million men under arms. They can't all be in Belgium. The Nazi tanks must be almost out of fuel by now. Man the Marne forts with the reserve and launch a counter-attack.'

The small French general only looked at him despairingly. Exasperated, Churchill switched to his imperfect French.

'Ou est la masse de manoeuvre?'

The general spread his hands and shrugged, 'Aucune'.

'What?' said Churchill, rising from his seat, 'No reserve? What happened to it?'

'We sent it into Belgium two days ago,' replied Gamelin, 'it is part of the rest of the French army now,' he added miserably, 'cut off by the Germans.'

'My God,' muttered Churchill almost to himself, 'then it really is hopeless. France is going to fall, it is only a matter of time. How did it come to this in just a few days?'

'What can I say? Inferiority of numbers, inferiority of equipment, inferiority of methods.' The generalissimo paused. 'And the RAF m'sieur? You see now how desperately we need them.'

'My dear general, if France is to fall, we have to think of our defences in England. If the Germans have the Channel ports we will need every plane and every pilot to prevent an invasion. We have already committed all but a handful of our squadrons to France and we do not have enough planes to defend England. The RAF will be leaving France at the first opportunity.'

The general leapt to his feet, his face reddening.

'So France is to be thrown to the wolves then? After all our two countries endured together in the Great War, Britain will abandon its ally to the Hun?'

Wrenching the cigar from his teeth, Churchill banged the table.

'You sir, are the commanding general of the French army, supposedly the greatest army in the world. If anyone is responsible for this... this debacle, it is you. Do not lay your own failure at the feet of England, look to the future of the country you have laid low through your own poor decisions. The RAF leaves on my order.'

With that, the British Prime Minister stood and turned to leave, stopping only to deliver a final retort.

'Good day to you sir, pray that history is kind to you.'

The French general and his officers watched the suited man and his generals leave the room.

'Well gentlemen, what are we to do? What are we to do?' asked Generalissimo Gamelin, wringing his hands.

## ~ ~ ~

Just kilometres away in the French Foreign Ministry, Prime Minister Reynaud, having been in his position only two months, was now facing a difficult decision. He had never had a great deal of faith in Gamelin as a general, but the man's incompetence had been brought into sharp focus in the past few days. On the night of the 12th, with German tanks bypassing General Corap's defences all along the southern front, Gamelin had somehow managed to sleep soundly for nine hours. Having failed to appreciate the significance of the German method of attack, he had then blundered the attempt to get his troops back from northern Belgium in time, condemning half the French army to captivity. Only the night before, in his report to the government on the state of the defences, he had said, 'The front is broken and many of our divisions are cut off. As for Paris, I disclaim all responsibility from now.' This, from the commanding general of the French Army, less than a week after the invasion had started.

Reynaud knew he had to get rid of the man, but who should replace him? General Corap had allowed his entire 9th army to fall into ruin in the face of the German attack in the south, and would have to be sacked; General Billotte would have been perfect, but he had been killed in a car accident of all things; General Huntziger was cut off in Belgium. The only man available in whom Reynaud had any faith was General Weygand, and he was in Morocco.

Reynaud turned to his assistant.

'Get Weygand on a plane here, right now.'

He looked out the window. Gamelin's comment about Paris had leaked out, and the government departments were like disturbed ant heaps. On the manicured lawn of the courtyard below him, a vast pyre had been built, from which flames leapt dozens of feet into the air. Out of the windows on every floor, clerks were frantically hurling bundles of classified documents into the courtyard, where other staff raked them into the flames. He'd heard that the pillar of smoke could be seen all across the city. God only knew what that was doing for civilian morale.

If Weygand could get here in time maybe they would be able to hold the Germans off. In the meantime, he needed to plan what the French government would do if Weygand failed.

# Chapter Twenty

France, 20 May 1940

Only ten kilometres from the border with Belgium and Luxembourg, deep below the fields of Longuyon, lay Fort Fermont. At the northern tip of the Maginot Line, the fort covered the main roads heading east to Longwy, west to Montmedy and south to Verdun and Metz.

From ground level the fort was almost invisible: a few concrete casemates and scattered domes that would rise out of the ground to bare their cannon or machine guns. Twenty metres below ground level though, the fort stretched for miles, and was home to 600 men, one of whom, Private Henri Dupont, sat staring into blackness. The power had gone out again and Henri couldn't see his hand before his face. He wondered how the coal miners could stand it, being underground, knowing their only real hope of getting out was the lift. Henri longed for daylight and fresh air, but there was no chance of that: the Germans were outside the fort.

The underground barracks was alive with rumours. He'd heard that a large German force had attacked Fort La Ferte only twenty kilometres away and wiped out the entire garrison. Only a few days before one of their own patrols had not returned. Twenty-five men: Captured? Killed? Who knew? That was the trouble with being underground, you had no idea what was going on in the outside world.

The lights came back up to a dull yellow glow and Henri jumped as the alarm began ringing. In the corridors around him, men came to life and started running to their posts. Henri quickly climbed the ladder into the stuffy concrete room where the fort's main artillery were situated: two 75 mm guns mounted in a rotating turret. Taking his place beside the ammunition loader with his fellow loader Private Jean Roussin, Henri looked quizzically at his sergeant, who was holding the command phone to his ear.

'A German supply convoy is approaching along the Longwy road,' said Sergeant Luc Bigeard, 'I am awaiting the order, prepare to fire.'

Henri pulled open the first cannon's breech and hauled on the chain that lifted the heavy shell into position. Manoeuvring the shell carefully forward, he pushed it into the maw of the gun, swung the breech closed and locked it. Meanwhile, Jean repeated the operation for the other gun.

'Ready to fire,' called Henri.

'Ready to fire,' said Sergeant Bigeard into the telephone, 'stand back.'

An electric engine buzzed and the entire platform holding the two guns began to rise. The cannons swung around, their barrels rising slightly, then Henri could see daylight through the gaps where the barrels protruded through the armoured turret.

A signal buzzed and the two cannons fired together, crashing back on their recoil cylinders then sliding up again into position. Henri and Jean unlocked the breeches on both guns, ejected the shells and loaded fresh ones.

'Ready to fire,' announced the sergeant through the intercom.

The cannons crashed out again, and Henri and Jean began the steady rhythm of re-loading. They fired nearly a hundred rounds before the order came to cease fire.

'Well done men, good work,' said Bigeard.

'Let's hope we hit something,' replied Henri.

'The way this war is going we should be happy we got to fire at all,' said Sergeant Bigeard, 'I expect this fort will have to surrender soon, we've been completely outflanked.'

'Surrender?' said Henri in horror, 'surely not?'

'Well what else can we do if there are no targets for us to fire at?' said the sergeant, 'This fort hasn't seen a lot of action has it? Why would the Germans attack us from the front when they can come in from the back and stay out of the line of fire of our guns? I don't understand why we haven't already retreated.'

'Sergeant, you'd best not speak like this, it's defeatist,' said Jean in alarm.

'Defeatist?' said Sergeant Bigeard, 'realistic is more like it.'

Henri shook his head in disgust and began tossing the shell cases down the chute in the floor. He couldn't believe that mighty France could be defeated that easily. He refused to believe it.

## ~ ~ ~

The British colonel slammed the phone down in frustration.

'Bloody useless Frogs!' he exploded. 'First the Germans are in Louvain and we must counter-attack there, now they're near Ypres and we must hit them there. How the hell are we supposed to counter-attack if we don't know where the damned enemy is?'

The main hall of the hotel de ville had been turned into a makeshift headquarters: tables were strewn with maps, and radios squawked, the static punctuating the rumble of voices. The officers of the 4th Battalion of the 7th Royal Tank Regiment were waiting to hear whether they were to advance or retreat.

A radio operator took off his headphones and carried a note over to his C.O.

'Panzers spotted in force approaching Arras by God,' said the colonel. 'Saddle up boys, it's time we did some fighting. Captain Valentine, get your recon men up the road to Arras now, it'll only take you ten minutes. I want to know what type of tanks Gerry has, how many and where, and whether there's any infantry in support.'

The captain saluted and ran from the room. Behind the town hall his squadron of six Humber armoured cars were parked alongside the road.

'Let's go, let's go,' he yelled, running across the road, 'Panzers spotted in Arras, we need numbers, types and positions. Move it.'

Nearby, the commander of the 3rd tank company, Captain James Tanner, climbed into the turret of his Matilda II heavy tank and checked that his signal flags were in place. He still couldn't believe that these tanks, the best the British Army had, did not carry radios. When he wanted to signal to his troop he had to stick his head out of the turret and wave the flags to make the most rudimentary of signals: 'Advance left', 'Engage the enemy', 'Withdraw'. This was fine on an exercise range, what would it be like under fire on a battlefield?

He'd tried to instil the principles of initiative and independent action in his commanders, but the Matildas were so slow that any kind of action was difficult. Designed as an infantry support tank, the Matilda had nearly three inches of armour on the front and sides and was impregnable to all known anti-tank guns, but as a result, it had a top speed of only nine miles an hour. On top of that, most of the tanks were armed with a light 2-pounder gun that only fired solid armour-piercing shells. One tank per squadron carried a 3-inch howitzer instead that fired only high-explosive shells and was designed as mobile artillery for the infantry. The theory was that the anti-tank gunners would keep the enemy tanks away while the howitzer tank backed up the foot-soldiers.

That was the theory. In the chaos of the last few days, any kind of theory had been abandoned. The tanks had driven this way, then that, and still had not actually encountered the enemy. Tanner wondered if today was the day he would finally see some action. At his order, the Matilda lumbered forward down the road towards Arras, into the dust of the armoured cars. The rest of the tanks of the squadron fell in behind and, in finest cavalry tradition, the armoured fist of the British Army drove off to meet the enemy.

Of the 88 tanks that attacked that day, only 28 would return.

# Chapter Twenty-one

Belgium, 21 May 1940

Right across Belgium, the Allied forces fought bitter defensive actions, only to find themselves outflanked and forced to retreat again and again. Days of constant movements since the breakthrough had brought Joe's regiment to a new position west of Brussels, behind the Escaut River. It was not a well-prepared defensive position, but they'd done what they could with limited time.

Northwards, the trench zig-zagged towards a curve of the Escaut river, whose waters sparkled in the sunshine. Over those sparkling waters they could see the panzers coming for them again, grinding their way towards the river. Behind them, German infantry were disembarking from their half-tracks and disappearing into the folds of the ground.

'No green conscripts these bastards,' Joe thought to himself. He looked up and down the trench: men clutching their weapons knelt in firing positions on both sides of him. Twenty yards to his left the Bren gunner was training his weapon and tightening his trigger finger.

'No firing,' yelled Joe. 'Everybody get out of sight. The gunners in those tanks can't see far, get out of their way and let them go past. Our job is to get the infantry, alright? Sergeant, make sure the men leave the bloody tanks alone.'

Then the artillery came down. Heavy mortars, fired from nearby and viciously accurate; then 150-millimetre cannon, fired from miles behind the lines, the explosions bigger than the humbled soldiers thought possible. For two hours they scrabbled and gasped in the dirt as the blasts shook the ground and showered them with earth; two hours of hideous violence trying to shred and tear their pathetic bodies; two hours of men disintegrating, men disembowelled and dismembered, left screaming for their mothers in an agony of blood and dirt.

When the barrage finally lifted and they looked up, the tanks were floating across the river on pontoons. Two had already reached the bank and groups of German infantry were leaving their inflatable boats and racing up in support.

'Get some artillery on them,' Joe yelled to Private Kelly.

As the first ranging shot fell on the riverbank, an MG34 began to chatter and mortar shells started raining on the trenches once again; amidst the ear-shattering din of explosions, the squeal of tank tracks and the thrum of heavy diesel engines grew to a clamour around them.

'Where's that bloody artillery?' screamed Joe over the racket.

'I've just called Fire For Effect sir,' yelled Kelly, 'should be any second now. We'd better get down, there's not much distance between us and the ranging shot.'

Across the field, the lead tank nosed through the grass, its turret swinging from side to side. To Joe it looked like a monstrous goanna clawing along, sniffing for carrion with its tongue, threatening with silent menace.

Then a whistling sound heralded the British artillery and the whole field erupted in smoke and flames. The ground shook and huge gouts of dirt were flung skywards as the 25-pounder shells bracketed the ranging shot. The guns were bang on target, and the two tanks that had crossed the river took direct hits.

'Nice work Ned,' yelled Joe, clapping Kelly on the shoulder.

Then the barrage ended as suddenly as it had begun. As the smoke cleared they heard an engine roar, and the snout of a Panzer II emerged from the haze and began moving forward, its machine gun stabbing out at the trench line. Private Simpson began firing slowly at it with the Boys anti-tank rifle, but the .50-calibre shells just bounced off the front of the tank like split peas. The tank drove up to the trench and lunged across, its engine racing in low gear as the tracks grabbed at the loose earth and dragged it up and over the other side. To Joe's left, another beast lurched across the gap, but this one turned its turret and sent down a stream of bullets, followed by a high-explosive shell that blew in one side of the trench.

Joe threw himself down as screams came from his left. A third tank had crossed the trench directly above the Bren gun position, and the trench was collapsing. He saw Mason the gunner screaming, clawing at the soil trying to clamber out from under the grinding tracks, but the walls of the trench crumbled under the terrible weight and his screams cut off abruptly. The 20-ton beast gunned its engine and climbed out, leaving a red smear in the dirt as it drove on.

Joe stared, appalled, his gorge rising in his throat. Adrenaline coursed through him, screaming at him to run. It was a sensation he'd felt before, and abruptly the scene changed. Joe found himself face-to-face with the wild sow and her piglets that he'd run to ground in the bush when he was fifteen. The sow was huge, the size of a Great Dane, with bunches of muscles, thick black bristles and curved tusks. She'd stared at Joe with her small eyes and pawed at the ground, then put her head down and charged.

Armed only with a sharpened stick, Joe felt his heart belting at his ribs. His veins were bursting, his stomach was a cavernous hole and his bowels turned to hot water. Joe had never felt like this before, but he knew what it was: fear. Fear of death, fear of being torn apart, sliced and left to bleed to death slowly and painfully.

Then the sow was upon him and everything returned to lightning speed. With the massive sow just a foot away, Joe sidestepped, dodging the deadly tusks, and threw himself to the ground. He looked up to find the beast had turned in its own length and was charging back at him even as he rose. Falling back, he held the stick up, bracing one end against the ground as his father had told him. The sow ran right onto it with a high-pitched squeal and kept coming, right up the spear, giving him some savage gashes on his left arm and shoulder as she thrashed about. Joe pulled himself out from under her bulk and watched as she rolled and screamed in her death throes.

Coming out of his trance, Joe's hand went to his webbing and pulled off a grenade. He turned to his right where another tank was negotiating the trench, engine roaring. Taking his Webley pistol from its holster, Joe ran towards the tank. He had felt the fear; he had recognised it; now he had to overcome it. On a mechanical level, his mind was cold now, clear and lucid, but under the surface it was the slave of a ravening creature, mad with rage and focused on one purpose: revenge for his murdered gunner.

He ran up to the churning tracks and, pulling the pin, thrust the grenade into the slowly grinding spokes of the rear bogie. Throwing himself back and down, he covered his ears and a second later felt the thud of the concussion as the bomb exploded. Pieces of shrapnel scattered around him and he turned to see the tank's track rolling off the front wheel as the engine whined in protest at the sudden lack of resistance.

A shot fountained the dirt inches in front of his face and he looked up to see a German pulling the bolt on his rifle to reload. Joe turned, took aim with his Webley and shot the man in the chest. He disappeared over the lip of the trench without a sound. Joe looked around: most of the tanks had crossed and his surviving men were now standing at the parapet, firing at the infantry following up behind.

'Good boys. Give it to the bastards!' he yelled, although he could barely hear his own voice above the racket of the battle.

He ran to the collapsed foxhole and found the Bren gun and a bag of ammunition, intact, but covered in a mass of intestines, blood and flesh. Swallowing hard, he wiped the gore away, checked the gun, cocked it, placed it and looked for a target. Sixty yards in front, two Germans were worming their way forward through the grass; to his right another pair were setting up a machine gun on a tripod behind a tree.

To his left, a German stood up and swung his arm back to lob a stick grenade towards the trench. Joe loosed off a short burst that sent the man and grenade tumbling. By the time the grenade exploded, Joe had turned to the machine gun team and was laying down a suppressing fire of short bursts, keeping their heads down.

That didn't stop the German riflemen though. Bullets started to come in from all angles, kicking up dirt around the muzzle flash of the Bren. Somewhere to his left he could hear a man screaming horribly over the rattle of gunshots, explosions and straining diesel engines.

'Sergeant Harris? Harris?' Joe yelled, looking about him. He grabbed the heavy Bren and the ammo bag, ducked around the corner of the trench and tripped over a leg, sprawling headlong in the dirt.

Hauling himself up, Joe put his hand right into the soft, pureed brains of Sergeant Harris. He gagged, then threw up violently all over the corpse. Coughing out the acid vomit, Joe rolled away and huddled in the trench, retching and shaking with terror. His bowels loosened and a stream of warm shit tricked down his left leg. The wounded man nearby was still screaming and the explosions were coming closer now, shaking the earth. Joe closed his eyes tight; he wanted to be anywhere else but here; he wanted to be with Yvette; he wanted to be at home with his mother; he wanted to be anywhere else, but a familiar voice calling from far away made him open his eyes.

'Lieutenant Dean, Lieutenant Dean.'

He closed his eyes again, then forced himself to open them. 'Whose voice is that?' he wondered, 'it's Corporal bloody Smythe.'

'Lieutenant. Where the bloody 'ell are you?'

'Here Smithy,' he called out.

'Sir, we need to get some fire onto that MG. You need to rally the men sir.'

Joe took a deep breath and swallowed. He looked around him for the ammunition and found the Bren loader's canvas bag, half buried. He pulled out the curved cartridge cases and laid them on the side of the trench, then plucked out the empty magazine and thrust in a fresh one.

'I need a loader,' he yelled, looking up again to see dozens of Germans racing from cover to cover, seemingly immune to the rifle fire coming from the trench. He started to lay down an angling fire: a burst to the right, burst to the left, a burst straight ahead, sweeping one way then the other. The Germans hit the ground, but the bullets continued to come his way. The machine gunner was always the first target.

Two grenades soared from the trench to his right and burst in clouds of dust and shrapnel around the German MG team. The rapid-fire bursts stopped abruptly, but the rifle bullets continued to thud into the earth around him.

'We're going to be overrun in a minute,' Joe thought to himself and made a decision.

'Smithy,' he yelled, 'get the men down the commo trench and into the woods, I'll give you some covering fire. By the way, Harris just bought it, you're a sergeant now.'

He clicked in another magazine, moved a few yards right and resumed his pattern of fire. The sound of rifle fire around him died out as the platoon retreated behind him. He risked a look behind him: the tanks were a couple of hundred yards past now and driving on, oblivious to the firefight going on behind them.

'If we're lucky, we might just make it,' Joe muttered. He stopped firing, reloaded and, bent double, moved towards the centre where the communications trench led towards the cover of the trees. Private Billy Simpson was sprawled there on his back in a puddle of blood, his left leg blown off above the knee, his body riddled with shrapnel punctures, hands still clutching the useless Boys anti-tank rifle. His blue Irish eyes stared sightlessly into the summer sun.

Then the Germans stopped firing; the sudden silence was deafening.

'Here they come,' thought Joe, placing his last grenades on the parapet in front of him. Sure enough, after about 30 seconds of silence, a fusillade of rifle fire descended on the spot he had been in a minute before and grenades burst around the area. Simultaneously, a dozen Germans soldiers leapt up on the far flank and rushed forward under the covering fire of another machine gun.

Joe opened up on them with the last magazine in one long burst, then pulled the pins on the grenades and tossed them in the general direction of the charge. Without waiting to see the effect, he bolted down the trench to the rear. He glanced at his watch: the Germans had defeated them in just three minutes. He could only hope the rest of the company could do better than his platoon.

## ~ ~ ~

Watching the attack from the rear, General Heinz Guderian nodded in satisfaction as his panzer grenadiers cleared the trench and waved their half-tracks forward.

'Drei minuten Hans,' he commented to the officer beside him, 'Not a bad effort eh? These Tommies are easier than we thought. We will cross the river on schedule.'

'Ja, Herr General, although that was only one platoon with no anti-tank weapons and they still managed to immobilise one tank. I suspect they would give a tougher fight in better defensive positions.'

'No doubt you are correct Colonel von Luck, we must try to avoid those fights, ja? Now, what do your armoured cars and the Luftwaffe tell us about what is in front of us?'

'Since your breakthrough at Sedan the Belgians have retreated _en masse_ and the British and French armies that advanced into Belgium are now cut off from their lines of communication. The British are retreating, but we can expect to encounter forces in strength, including armoured units. The British 1st Division has a regiment of heavy tanks that are advancing north-east towards Arras as we speak. The French tanks are distributed among their infantry divisions and we have seen no indication of them massing so far.'

'Your opinion, Luck?'

'I believe we should continue the advance Herr General. Nearly every unit we have encountered has broken eventually in the face of the panzers and the dive-bombers. If the French and British continue to advance into Belgium, General Rommel will divide them in the centre while we cut them off from the south. Of course, this will leave us with no flank protection from any other French units in the south that do not advance and any Belgian units in the north that might counter-attack. It is a risk, but I believe it is one we can take.'

'Very good Colonel, my thoughts exactly, this is no time to be half-hearted. Especially as von Runstedt has told me that if we fail to advance quickly enough we will be ordered to stop until the footsloggers can catch up. Nein, we must advance as if chased by a thousand devils. Adjutant, how far behind are our fuel tankers? Thirty miles? Not good enough, get on the radio and gee them up, we cannot afford to stop now.'

'I will look forward to your report tomorrow, Colonel.' Guderian threw a salute and climbed into his Kubelwagen.

'Drive on,' he commanded. The driver engaged the gears and steered past the wreckage of the British trench. Crows were already descending to the feast.

## ~ ~ ~

'Can you believe it Hermann?' asked Hitler incredulously, 'to think that we could repeat what we did in Poland against the combined armies of France, Britain, Belgium and Holland? Four with one blow. The Dutch have surrendered, the Belgians are barely hanging on, most of the French army is cut off in Belgium and in total disarray, and now the British are cornered with their backs to the Channel.'

Leaning against the fireplace, Goering surveyed the glorious paintings that covered the walls of the room, and sipped from his brandy balloon.

'Ja Adolf, it will go down in history as the greatest military victory of all time. Students will read of it with awe and ask "How did they do it?" and this is something we need to discuss – whose victory is it?'

'Whose victory?' objected Hitler, 'Clearly it is my victory, the victory of Adolf Hitler.'

'Ja, naturlich, but I have been hearing from various circles that the Wehrmacht high command are claiming the laurels for themselves, that this victory was solely due to their strategic genius, that this was a victory for the generals. They even seem to be downplaying the role of the mighty Luftwaffe, and why? Why else than because my glorious air force is not part of their army, but the creation of the Nazi Party.'

'Claiming the laurels for themselves?' said Hitler with raised eyebrows, 'But I had to force this campaign upon them, Halder and Brauchitsch didn't believe it could be done.'

'Mein Fuhrer, the British should not be allowed to escape, but if you let the Wehrmacht take Dunkirk, then I believe that this idea will be hard to stop. After all, it will have been the army that dealt the final blow. Halder and Brauchitsch will be the heroes of all Germany, they may even be able to threaten your position.'

There was a moment's silence as the Fuhrer digested this idea and its possible consequences.

'What do you propose then Hermann?' queried the Fuhrer.

'Let the final victory go to the only truly Nationalist Socialist force we have—the Luftwaffe. My pilots can destroy the British on their beach and in their boats, then the victory will be indisputably yours.'

'Hmm, a worthy idea Hermann,' said Hitler, 'I will think on it. Thank you for letting me know, I am going to visit the high command at Charleville tomorrow. Now show me the designs of your latest planes.'

As they bent over the table, Goering smiled to himself. The chiefs of the Wehrmacht had needed putting in their place for some time. They were in for an unpleasant surprise.

# Chapter Twenty-two

France, 23 May 1940

The sun was high overhead, bathing the field of lucerne, well advanced in its growth, ready for the cows to eat, but the cows on this farm were all dead: obscene inflated corpses, whose legs pointed stiffly in the air.

The bodies of men sprawled across the field in random postures: arms and legs flung carelessly; surrounded by a detritus of helmets, packs, rifles, and assorted military rubbish. It looked like any other field in Flanders on that day, or on a similar day little over twenty years before, the main difference was that these soldiers were not dead, they were sleeping. Sleeping in a deep heat that soaked into their bones; sleeping in a silence made all the more quiet by the twitterings of tiny birds and the songs of the insects they sought; sleeping the sleep of true exhaustion, the exhaustion shared by new mothers and old soldiers; the exhaustion that, on awakening, feels as if you have slept but a few minutes; sleeping, in the case of this platoon, for the first time in days.

Waking with the sun blazing into his eyelids, Joe lit a cigarette and shielded his eyes against the glare. It had been a tough few days for everyone, and there would be tough years ahead for the mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters of the men who had not survived them; on both sides. His head was overflowing with images of his men dying: screaming as the tank tracks crushed them into paste; clutching uselessly at the blood rushing from holes torn in their bodies by bullets and shrapnel; open-mouthed and weeping soundlessly as their skin, crisped black by flames, sloughed off in sheets; and those who had simply vanished like Lieutenant Fisher-Pollard, vaporised in one explosion or another.

There were only eleven of them left now, and Joe walked through the names in his mind: Sergeant Smythe, Lance-Corporal Clark, and privates Jaroslek, Jensen, Harnock, Summerville, Henley, Jackson, Part, Wellesley and Kelly.

They had become separated from the rest of the battalion in the chaos of the retreat from the attack on the Escaut. Twenty of his men had been killed or so badly wounded that they had either been abandoned to the Germans or evacuated 'to the rear', whatever that meant. By his estimation, the rear meant the English Channel, which was now only, what, 50 miles behind them? Not a lot of solace to be found there. He'd been thinking about that too, about how he and his men were going to escape, whether they could stay alive long enough to find the battalion. And if not? Well in that case he said to himself, 'You're going to have to find yourself a way out by yourself, because the front is falling to pieces around you, and not a man in this army cares a damn about getting you out alive, they don't even know you exist.'

His reverie was interrupted by the cigarette burning his fingertips. He flicked it away, realising that he'd turned it to ash in only three drags. Fumbling in the packet he pulled out the second last stick and held it up to the sunlight.

'What small comfort you bring,' he said aloud, 'but better than none.' He struck a match and sucked hard on the cigarette, feeling the smoke sear the back of his throat and roil around his lungs. What was that quote his father had always repeated about tobacco? "It has no discernible effect until you are deprived of it." He was right about that. The prospect of no tobacco was bleak; and inevitable, it seemed to be the only thing the retreating soldiers had taken with them.

Not for the first time, Joe wondered what he was doing here. The throb of the sun beating into his upturned face made him suddenly sick for home: for the endless plains, vast horizons and cloudless skies of South Australia. His moment of nostalgia was dashed, as always, by the realities of the present, and he sucked harder on the cigarette and ground the butt beneath his boot. He pulled out the picture of him and Yvette, now crumpled and battered. It seemed like it had been taken in another world, a world that no longer existed. He kissed her face and tucked the picture into his breast pocket, next to his heart. He knew he was being sentimental, but what else was he to do?

The watch on his wrist showed five minutes to twelve. Time to get moving. He roused the men; the Germans wouldn't be sleeping, he knew that much, and they couldn't be far behind now, in fact the panzers were probably way in front of them already, but that couldn't be helped. There was nothing much you could do against them with a rifle, they just drove through you or over you or around you and, without an anti-tank gun, there was no stopping them. It seemed almost beyond belief that no one in the high command had thought fit to issue any decent kind of anti-tank weapon to the infantry. The Boys anti-tank rifle was pathetic, it couldn't penetrate anything from the front except a truck. They were supposed to have tanks to defend them against enemy tanks, but Joe had only seen British tanks once a few days earlier: a company of Matildas parked beside the road, waiting to go forward as the infantry had marched past.

The tankers had looked confident. The men had joked about how it was probably a good feeling having a few inches of steel between you and the bullets, but then, a few miles down the road they had passed the blackened shell of a French tank that had been hit by a German bomber. The men in that tank had had no chance. One second everything was normal, the next they found themselves in a maelstrom of burning petrol and exploding ammunition. They'd died trying to crawl out of the tiny escape hatches and the skin of their eyeless faces was tight across their bones, their hands clutched in grim claws. The smell of charred flesh was reminiscent of a pork dinner, and several of his platoon had thrown up their meagre breakfast in the ditch beside the road. Clearly the British tankers had seen it too, but still, they looked confident.

'Braver men than me,' thought Joe, and put a throbbing foot in front of the other throbbing foot, leaving a small impression in the fine dirt of Flanders. Behind the straggling platoon, the breeze whipped up dust devils that danced around the wrecked tank, covering the bodies of the French teenagers inside with the only shroud they were likely to receive.

Joe knew that they were in no-man's land now, they hadn't seen any British troops for days. He'd lost count of the number of defensive positions he'd passed where French and British soldiers responsible for keeping the corridor to Dunkirk open had died defending their positions. It was only by staying well away from the roads and moving at night that they'd avoided the Germans. It was a nerve-racking journey, punctuated by close calls and nervous moments hiding in woods and barns, hoping to remain undetected. Finally he'd allowed the men to sleep in the waist-high lucerne, reasonably confident the Germans wouldn't see them.

It seemed that the demon of defeat had settled into the souls of the army commanders. All around them on both sides of the road was the wrack of Retreat: abandoned trucks; discarded jerry cans; empty bully beef tins; ammo cases; the occasional disabled artillery piece, its barrel blown into the shape of a half-peeled banana; piles of officers' baggage thrown aside; disabled tanks and of course, bodies. Bodies everywhere. Bodies of civilians, and French and Belgian infantry, rotting and bloating in the sun. Bodies stinking foully, oozing liquids and being devoured by ants, crows and the occasional dog. They'd even seen a pig rooting around in the carcass of a French soldier and Joe had shot it out of sheer revulsion. There was no shortage of ammunition, it was lying around everywhere. There was a shortage of soldiers to fire any of it though. Joe guessed that most of the army was ahead of them, heading for the coast. He wasn't certain why they were retreating instead of trying to help the French. The only explanation that made any sense was that the Germans had been pushed back and the British weren't needed anymore, and you only had to look around to see that that certainly wasn't the case. Perhaps the British were merely regrouping to launch a counter-attack?

'Where are we going Lieutenant?' called out Private Wellesley, now the platoon's Bren gunner. He claimed to be a direct descendant of the Duke who had led the British to victory over Napoleon at Waterloo.

'A lovely seaside resort Duke, the sort of place you've been dreaming of ever since you got here: you'll be able to get full as a tick on red wine while you perve on the birds in swimming costumes. Who knows, you might even score one between the posts.'

This brought a laugh from the rest of the platoon, at Duke's expense of course. Joe was pleased to hear the laughter, it meant his men hadn't yet reached the point of despair at which everything loses its humour. He noticed that Summerville wasn't laughing, but then he realised that he'd never seen the man laugh. At least he still had his radio with him. Whether there would be any artillery support to call on was questionable; artillery needed time to set up and register co-ordinates, a difficult thing to do when you're retreating.

'What's this wonderful place called then Lieutenant?' asked Private Part, Duke's dedicated ammo carrier, who was called Cock because of his unfortunate name and was desperate to become a Lance-Corporal.

'It's called the English Channel, Private, the Ditch to you, ever been there?'

'Not me sir, I'd never been out of Staffordshire before this.'

'Well I reckon it'll be a bloody memorable visit. Maybe you'll have a chance to send your mum a postcard. Has anyone got any tinned goldfish left?'

The soldiers marched on.

At the next crossroads, Joe saw British uniforms up ahead and told his men to wait in the field. He pushed his way into the crowd of refugees that clogged the roads in all directions. All around him the civilians of Belgium were dragging their meagre possessions on their backs in desperate flight from the Germans. It was as if the whole population had emptied itself onto the roads.

There were women with strollers and crying babies, children of all ages, old men pushing overburdened carts and in the midst of it all, soldiers and vehicles of four armies trying to get to their allotted positions or simply trying to get to the coast; the crossroads was a Babel of French, English and Dutch.

Joe pushed his way through to a British MP standing to one side observing the chaos.

'Morning corporal, nice to see a British face again. This is a bloody balls-up isn't it? Which way to the coast?' asked Joe.

'Down that road there sir,' said the MP, pointing across the milling throng of displaced civilians, 'you're heading for a town called Dunkirk. The next town along the road is Roubaix .'

'Roubaix?' asked Joe incredulously. 'Are we really only that far from the coast?'

'Yes sir, our mob and the Frogs have set up a defensive perimeter along the canals. The Staffordshire Rifles are manning the line at Roubaix at present, I'm sure they'll be 'appy to see you sir, now if you'll excuse me... Oi, you Monsewer. Yes you with the cart. Get that bloody thing off my road you idiot, I've got a convoy coming through here in five minutes. Move it.'

The MP surged into the crowd to where a horse and cart was trapped by the surging people and grabbed the horse's rein. The civilian driver started beating at him with the whip and swearing in colourful French. The MP pulled out his whistle and blew a shrill blast that brought his fellow redcaps running to his aid.

As Joe returned to his unit he heard the buzz of aero engines and instinctively fell flat in the field. Two Messerschmitt 109s appeared as if from nowhere and dove on the jammed crossroads, their machines guns and cannon firing. Thousands of bullets and cannon shells flayed the packed mass of refugees with terrifying violence, the projectiles hammering into the defenceless civilians as they struggled to escape the death-dealing machines. The screaming engines and machine guns lasted only two or three seconds, but as the two planes pulled up and flew off for more victims, they left behind a sea of blood, agony and bewilderment. People who, only days before, had been leading peaceful lives on the farms and in the many small towns of Belgium, lay torn and shredded, limbs blown off, ragged holes blasted in their soft flesh, innards spilling into the dirt. Amidst the screams of the wounded, mothers clutched dead babies to their breasts, while children wandered in a daze and parents searched the bodies hoping, not to find their children.

'Oh God, why? Why you Nazi bastards?' Joe screamed at the planes, now mere dots in the sky.

He turned his back on the pitiful scene. It was just one of hundreds they'd witnessed in the past few days, making their way across Belgium only to find themselves back where they'd started from: Roubaix. Was Yvette still there he wondered? Probably. She was not the type to pack up and leave just because the Germans were coming.

'Let's move boys,' he said to his shattered men, 'Roubaix is just down the road, and our regiment's in line there. Wouldn't be surprised if we find the Old Man sitting in the trenches we dug a few months ago. Let's go.'

Sure enough, as they climbed the rise beside the river they were challenged by a guard in a foxhole. He took them up to the battalion HQ in the woods. Along the defensive position nothing much had changed; it was almost as if the whole disastrous campaign had never happened, except that some expected faces were missing. On the reverse slope, Yvette's Roman ruins still lay exposed to the elements. Joe was shown into the command tent.

'Ah, if it isn't Lieutenant Dean,' said Major Merrivale, looking up from his map table. 'Thought we'd lost you in the mess up along the Dyle; good to see you could join us. Got your platoon with you?'

Joe saluted. 'Still got a dozen of 'em sir, lost a lot of men to those tanks on the river. We had nothing to stop 'em with.'

'Quite, quite. We've passed that on to the brass hats of course, but whether anything will come of it remains to be seen. In the meantime we'll just have to soldier on with what we've got, hmm? Anyway, now you're here you can take up the flank position where the anti-tank gun is. We're expected to hold this position until the last minute, then retreat over the bridge and blow it behind us. The sappers have mined the bridge, we just have to get over it in enough time. We leave our positions as soon as it looks like they've amassed enough panzers to break through. If we get attacked by infantry we hold them off as long as possible then bolt. Your radio link to divisional artillery still working?'

'Yes.'

'Then use it wisely, this company only has two fire missions allocated to it. That clear?'

'Quite clear.'

'Very good then, see you on the other side. Carry on.'

'Major?'

'Yes Lieutenant?'

'Have the RAF boys been doing anything much against the Luftwaffe? We haven't seen a British plane for a few days.'

'From what I hear Lieutenant they've been giving them a bloody hiding. They say that the RAF and the Frogs have shot down nearly a thousand planes. The French have had some heavy losses, but we've only lost a few hundred of our fighters, excellent sport I call that.'

'That's reassuring sir, after what we've seen in the last week.'

Joe fetched his platoon from the mess tent and assigned them foxholes in the woods around the 2-pounder anti-tank gun, placing the Bren gun to give an enfilading fire across the slope. The anti-tank gun was already manned by the support platoon and, after placing his men, Joe introduced himself to them.

'G'day, I'm Lieutenant Dean. You blokes know how to fire this thing then?' he asked with a grin.

'Absolutely Lieutenant,' grinned the corporal, 'I'm Corporal Bellamy. Care for a gunnery lesson?'

Joe turned and yelled to his men 'One Platoon, gather round the gun.'

An hour later, when the platoon had the rudiments of loading, aiming and firing the anti-tank gun, the corporal turned to the men one last time.

'Remember, it only fires solid armour-piercing shot, no use against anything but tanks or half-tracks, and even then really only effective against tanks if you get a shot on the side under 500 yards range. Any questions?'

'I've got one, corporal,' called out Sergeant Smythe, 'from what you've told us, this gun the army's given you is about as useful as a chocolate spanner. Has your wife ever said that this is only fitting, given the cannon that God equipped you with?'

There was a roar of laughter and the corporal's face reddened.

'Don't mind Sergeant Smythe, corporal,' said Joe, 'he's just jealous because he hasn't had a root in six months. Whenever he drops his pants in a brothel the girls all die laughing.'

To the sounds of more laughter and wisecracks, the soldiers returned to their foxholes. In the west, shadows crept up the slope and soon the landscape was black. Joe gazed east for the millionth time, then surveyed the river behind him and commented to his sergeant.

'If the sappers blow that bridge at the wrong time we're buggered Smithy; too early or too late, makes no bloody difference.'

'Yessir, not sure why we're not on that side already, why don't we defend the town?'

'Something to do with buying more time I suppose, seems idiotic to me, but then what hasn't been in this war so far?'

'Indeed sir, indeed. Think we'll make it out?'

'You and I have to make sure we do Smithy, and all these poor unfortunate buggers we're in charge of too. The moment the Major says retreat, we're legging it.'

# Chapter Twenty-three

France, 24 May 1940

The lead panzers were now only fifteen miles from Dunkirk and had begun crossing the Aa River. Reconnaissance reports showed no enemy units of significance ahead of them—the bulk of the French and British armies, over a million men, were to the east, fighting desperate battles with the bulk of the advancing German army. Yet the day before, General von Runstedt had issued a 'close-up' order, halting the panzers so the infantry could catch up and secure their flanks. A traditional and cautious general, von Runstedt hadn't made this decision lightly.

While a few generals like Guderian and Rommel had made it to within striking distance of Dunkirk, they did not have enough fuel or ammunition to defeat another armoured counter-attack like the one at Arras, and their infantry and artillery support was still days away. Runstedt was not prepared to risk losing the precious panzer divisions in an assault in soft ground—they would need them for the coming battle in France. They had no genuine picture of where the French forces were, a flank attack could come at any moment. He had no illusions about the ability of the French to cut his own units off and wipe them out. All of these factors had drawn him to issue the order to halt.

Now, at the headquarters of Army Group A in Charleville, the mood was tense. Generals Halder and Brauchitsch had summoned von Runstedt and overruled his halt order, demanding he surrender command of the panzer divisions in Heeresgruppe A to General von Bolck, the commander of Heeresgruppe B.

'Now is not the time to stop, von Runstedt, now is the time to strike,' cried Halder, 'we've come this far, do you want to baulk at the last hurdle?'

'Herr General, there are many good reasons for the order,' replied von Runstedt.

'General,' interjected von Brauchitsch, 'there are something in the order of sixty divisions about to be encircled. The British are sending ships to Calais and Boulougne to evacuate their garrisons, we should have no illusions about what the Royal Navy is capable of in that regard at Dunkirk. If we fail to close the loop, how many of those divisions will we have to fight again in the years to come? Do you want that on your conscience?'

'It is not for me to question the decisions of my superiors,' replied von Runstedt, 'I have explained the basis for my order, it is of course entirely your right to revoke it.'

'Nein. It is not their right,' came a well-known voice from the doorway. Adolf Hitler strode in to the room, his face red with anger.

'I appointed General von Runstedt as commander in chief of Heeresgruppe A, whose panzers are the ones we are talking about, ja? This decision to halt is his, and his alone, it will not be overruled.'

'But mein Fuhrer...' interjected von Brauchitsch.

'Nein,' screamed the supreme commander, 'that is my ruling. If you wish to question it von Brauchitsch, I will be in my office.'

With that, the small angry man stormed out of the room, leaving a decapitated general staff.

Ten minutes later, von Brauchitsch returned from Hitler's office.

'General von Runstedt, as I am your superior officer this is a most regrettable state of affairs, but our supreme commander has instructed me that I must take any request to cancel the halt order to you. How much longer do you expect to halt the panzers?'

'I will have to think about that Herr General, but it will take several days for our support units to catch up and secure the flanks. I shall let you know as soon as we have examined the logistics. In the meantime, we will continue our attacks in the centre.'

General von Brauchitsch threw his hands in the air and with a look at General Halder, marched to door and slammed it behind him.

## ~ ~ ~

Late in the afternoon, Joe left the trench line and approached the command post. Major Merrivale was hunched over a map, muttering to himself.

'Ah Dean, do come in. Fancy a whisky?'

'Thank you Major,' said Joe, accepting a tin mug.

'Sir?' he said 'I have a request.'

'Sir is it? By Jove Dean, it must be serious if you're addressing a superior officer correctly. What is it?'

'Major, you'll recall I went on leave just before the invasion?'

'You telephoned me from the main assault point Lieutenant, how could I forget?'

'Well sir, there was a certain young lady...'

'Ah, 'La Belle Roubaix'? Yes I've heard the story,' replied Merrivale, savouring a sip from his mug. 'I suppose Dean, that as you've not seen the party in question since then, you want me to grant you leave to go into Roubaix tonight, is that it?'

'Yes sir, that's right,' replied Joe.

'Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments eh?' said Merrivale.

'I'm sorry sir?'

'Shakespeare lad, Shakespeare. Yes, go, leave granted until midnight unless the Germans attack first, alright? In which case I expect you back here quick smart. Off with you lad.'

'Thank you sir,' said Joe, downing his drink and leaping up.

'Oh heavens man, treat the Laphroaigh with a bit more respect will you? Now hang on a minute, take this with you.'

Merrivale rummaged in a crate, pulled out a bottle of champagne and held it out to Joe.

'My compliments to the lady,' said Merrivale with a smile, 'see you in the morning.'

## ~ ~ ~

Forty miles to the west, General Erwin Rommel stood in the turret of his command tank and tapped his cane impatiently against his boot. An encrypted radio message had just come in, whose opening codes indicated that it was a high-priority signal direct from General von Runstedt, the commander-in-chief. While he waited for the Enigma operator to decode the whole message, Rommel scanned the horizon with his binoculars.

The tank was sitting partially concealed beneath the spreading boughs of a huge old oak tree, whose leaves provided a welcome respite from the afternoon sun. The armour plate of the tank had become too hot to touch, and inside it was stifling, even with the hatches open.

He cast a critical eye over the tanks scattered across the field. A myriad of different makes, all of which made it all the harder for his mechanics to keep the 7th Panzer Division operational, especially in a breakthrough like this. All repairs had to be carried out in the field overnight so the tanks could continue their push to the sea the next day. Rommel had driven them relentlessly; he'd sworn to himself that his division would be the first to reach the sea.

And they'd done it. Here he was poised to take Dunkirk, just a few dozen miles to the north. Two more days was all he needed to wrap up the entire British army and drive them into the sea. He had the fuel and the ammunition, he had the armour, the only thing he didn't have was the lousy infantry. The 7th was supposed to be a fully-motorised division, with truck-mounted infantry closely supporting the tanks; a self-contained unit with its own mobile artillery and dedicated squadrons of dive-bombers. The truth was that half of his infantry were on foot, miles behind them.

The signals adjutant emerged from the radio truck, wiped his brow and put on his cap. Seeing Rommel standing in the turret he hurried over with the piece of paper.

'From General von Runstedt Herr General,' he panted, reaching up to hand over the message.

Rommel noted the date, 24 May 1940, then rapidly scanned the words. 'At the direct orders of the Fuhrer, all armoured units are to maintain their positions and wait for supporting units.'

'Verdammt! Scheissen!' said Rommel, crumpling the note in his fist.

'Bad news Herr General?' inquired the signals adjutant.

'The worst Willi, the worst. We are to stay here indefinitely. Summon the dispatch riders and prepare a signal to the rest of the division. And get my driver ready, I may be going back to Germany.'

'Jawohl Herr General,' replied the adjutant. He saluted and ran to the radio truck.

Rommel stared northwards. 'We have them surrounded with their backs to the sea. Why the hell is von Runstedt making us stop?'

## ~ ~ ~

Joe crossed the bridge and passed through the familiar streets of Roubaix. Night had fallen, and even with the town blacked out he knew the way to the street where he'd been billeted, and to Yvette's house, just a few doors down. He was expecting Uncle Pierre, but it was Yvette who opened the door.

'Joe!'

She threw her arms around him and kissed him.

'Come in, come in. Mon Dieu, I thought you were dead. They told me your unit was back 'ere, but when I asked for you they said that you were missing in action.'

'Yvette, I only have a few hours,' began Joe.

'Have you brought champagne?' said Yvette, forcing a laugh, 'wonderful, let us celebrate.'

She walked over to the gramophone, wound the handle and dropped the needle. The soft tones of Sarah Vaughan singing 'Honeysuckle Rose' trickled into the room.

'Joe, let's forget about the war for a few hours. Here are some glasses, open the bottle, then come and dance with me. Uncle Pierre is at the bar, he won't be back for hours.'

Later, with the bottle empty and the record ended, she led him upstairs by the light of the remaining candle. In the flickering shadows she put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

'Now is our time Joe,' she whispered, 'say nothing.'

'I...' began Joe. She put a finger over his lips.

'Ssssshhhhh,' she said, 'no French, no English, no words.'

She pushed him onto the bed and slowly took off her dress. Unbuttoning his trousers, she kissed his tight stomach then moved down. After a few minutes he grasped her hair and she rose and slid slowly down onto him.

Joe gasped as they joined at last and her hips rose and fell. Her hair caressed his cheek and her breasts pillowed softly on his chest. He drank in her sweet curves, glowing in the flickering candlelight, savoured the scent of her skin and moved with her.

Finally, they were together. Alone. The world receded, and as his back arched and the ecstatic roar came from his lips, she closed her eyes, lay down upon his chest and smiled to herself with satisfaction.

# Chapter Twenty-four

France, 26 May 1940

The attack started in the early-morning gloom. A flurry of pops heralded a barrage of mortar shells that straddled the trench, with one direct hit wounding two men. The remains of the platoon huddled in the trench until the barrage stopped, then stood-to on the parapet.

The growing light illuminated a valley filled with mist, through which the sounds of diesel engines could be heard. Joe walked the trench, patting his men on the shoulder, checking that each one had a clean rifle and plenty of ammunition ready to hand. As he returned to his position on the left end of the trench, Major Merrivale came striding along, slapping his riding crop against a gleaming boot.

'All ready then Lieutenant? Good show. Let's see if we can hold them for a few hours at least, what? Your platoon is closest to the gun by the way, so if the crew gets hit I want you to man it for me, alright? Jolly good then.'

The Major beamed at Joe and without waiting for a reply, hopped out of the trench and back the way he had come.

Joe shook his head. 'I'll never get used to these Pommies,' he thought to himself. Then shapes began to emerge from the mist and the first German tank started climbing the hill. It was moving slowly, with a squad of infantry crowding behind it for shelter. Joe took a look at it with his binoculars and noticed that there was something different about it from the ones he'd seen before: the machine gun on the hull had been replaced with some sort of stubby barrel, and the paintwork all around the front of the tank seemed to be blackened and peeling.

'Odd,' he thought, 'what the hell is that?'

To his right the anti-tank gun fired. The solid shot ricocheted off the side of the tank's turret, making the infantry behind it duck, but doing no real damage. The vehicle's tracks whirled unevenly as it turned towards the gun, then it ground remorselessly onwards up the slope. The gun fired again, but once again the shell bounced harmlessly off the armour plate.

'Come on you bloody fools, aim,' muttered Joe, but even as spoke, the tank stopped and a jet of liquid flame erupted from the nozzle on the front. The blazing fuel arced up and into the trees beneath which the anti-tank gun was hidden. In an instant the trees were ablaze and Joe could hear the screams of the gun crew. As he watched, three of them burst from cover and ran down the slope towards the river, beating at their flaming clothes.

'The cowardly bastards!' yelled Sergeant Smythe to his left, shaking a fist.

Joe looked around. His men were all staring at the blazing trees with white, shocked faces. He knew that with another burst from that flamethrower they'd all be in the river. Action was the only antidote to fear, he had to do something fast.

'One and two sections, hear me,' he yelled, 'spread out and start sniping at the infantry behind the tank. Use rifles, the Bren will just be a target. Summerville, call down a fire mission on that tank then join me. Three section come with me,' and he ran along the trench towards the blazing trees.

The tops of the trees were burning and the heat was intense, but as Joe had suspected, the gun was untouched and the ammo crates piled twenty feet behind had not exploded. Corporal Bellamy was lying against the left wheel, his charred uniform leaving him nearly naked. The left side of his body was a revolting mass of blackened, roasted flesh; half his face had melted off, leaving a sticky raw mass where the remnant of an eyeball rolled loosely in its socket. The fingers of his left hand were bloody stumps; yet he was alive and shuddering convulsively in his agony.

Joe yelled at Jaroslek and Jensen, 'You and you, stretcher him over the river to the aid post, Harnock, bring up one of those ammo crates, Henley and Jackson, get on the traces and traverse the gun to the left. Summerville, where the hell is Summerville? We need that barrage, now.'

'Back in the trench sir,' yelled Private Part.

'Damn the man, where the hell is he? He's got the blasted radio and we need that artillery,' muttered Joe as he crawled forward into the trees.

The man known as Summerville was not calling down a barrage. It had never been Hagan Schmidt's mission to participate in pointless rearguard actions against the overwhelming German forces. Finding himself with the British army in France he'd decided to stay out of the firing line.

Although he could have disappeared at any time, he'd spent the last week marching with this isolated British platoon. He'd stuck it out because, if the Abwehr's long-term plan to get him inside British Signals GHQ was to work, he'd have to get back to the main force and back to England. When the panzers assaulted the river position though, he decided enough was enough. As the flamethrower tank attacked, he ran towards the left-hand end of the trench. The next platoon had already pulled out and a private came running around the corner of the trench towards him, eyes white with fear.

'Message to your officer,' yelled the man over the explosions, 'we're pulling back across the bridge, we're blowing it in five minutes. Pass that on will you?'

Hagan nodded, and as the man turned, he lifted his Lee-Enfield rifle and shot him in the back. The lifeless body crumpled into the bottom of the trench. Hagan carefully smeared blood from the corpse across his face and shoulder, then stepped over the body and made his way down the trench.

He ran down the hill to the bridge, where the sergeant in charge of the sappers stopped him. Behind him the firing had lessened to the occasional crackle of small arms fire.

'Are you the last of 'em then?' demanded the sergeant.

Hagan knew he had to convince this man that all was lost.

'They have a flame tank,' he screamed, 'they've wiped out the platoon, everyone is... is... burning.'

'Alright mister, calm down and get over the bridge, now,' yelled the sergeant.

Hagan stumbled over the bridge, holding his arm as if wounded. On the far side he hurried into the familiar streets of Roubaix and ducked out of sight between two houses. As he made his way further into the town, he heard the boom of the bridge going up behind him and smiled quietly to himself.

Now, if only the Jewess had not been evacuated. He pulled the long rifle bayonet from its scabbard and turned down her street.

## ~ ~ ~

Across the river, the flamethrower tank returned to its original path, confident that the gun had been silenced. It was getting dangerously close to the trench where Joe's few remaining men were firing. Either another burst of flame or a close assault by the infantry was imminent. As Joe watched, another tank emerged from the mist at the base of the hill, then another. Shells started landing behind the trench and a machine gun opened up on the far flank. Overhead a German fighter plane zoomed past in a blast of engine noise.

'Getting hot here boys,' he yelled, 'keep out of sight.'

Private Harnock returned breathlessly with the crate of shells, and loaded one into the breech of the 2-pounder. Joe got behind the gun sight and peered through it. He grabbed the traversal wheel and talked himself through the steps that Corporal Bellamy had explained only the day before. He owed it to him to get it right.

Another bracket of mortar shells exploded to his left and the tank guns opened up on the trenches in a series of crashing blasts. He could barely hear himself think.

'Left more, left more, wait,' he yelled over the bedlam, 'OK, left a bit more. Now what was that bit about elevation that Bellamy was telling us?'

''E said you' got to allow for more than you fink, Lieutenant,' yelled Jackson from behind him, 'e said aim over the top o' the taa-git'.

Joe wound the elevation wheel until the site line hovered above the tank commander's hatch.

'Alright, get back everyone,' he yelled, then pressed the firing pedal.

The gun boomed and kicked upwards with the recoil. The shell screamed across the open space and sailed clear over the top of the tank.

'Bugger it, load up,' He lowered the barrel with a single twist of the elevation wheel. When the breech slammed shut he pressed the pedal again and another shell sped across the field. This one connected with the tank just above the track and ricocheted off with a loud crack. Nothing seemed to happen, the tank just kept rolling forward.

'Blast it, bloody thing's useless. Gimme another round Jacko.' As the breech clanged shut, Joe closed one eye and stared through the sight again. 'Left a bit more... stop.' A loud clanging sound inches before Joe's face made him jump. Private Jackson dived to the ground beside him.

'One o' those Gerry machine gunners has spotted us sir, might get a bit warm here soon.'

'Hang on, hang on ... sit on this you bugger.' He pressed the pedal again. In a tongue of flame the shell blasted out of the muzzle and smashed through the side of the flamethrower tank just under the turret. The tank lurched to a halt and a plume of smoke rose out of the hatch above the driver. The tank commander appeared in the hatch atop the turret, struggling to climb out and screaming. He emerged with both legs on fire and fell off the side beating frantically at the flames.

Then the tank exploded. The turret flew straight up into the air on a plume of orange flame and pieces of flaming shrapnel rained down in all directions. The infantry behind the tank were blown flat like flowers in a hurricane; one of them rose briefly, then collapsed. For a moment there was silence, then the machine guns of the tanks following behind began their staccato rattle and three shells fell around the gun in quick succession.

Joe and his men pressed themselves into the dirt and covered their ears against the hideous blast of the exploding shells. The ground rolled beneath them and they were showered with clods of earth. Looking up, Joe saw that the gun was intact.

'Come on, one more shot, one more,' Jackson ran to the ammo box, thrust in a shell and slammed the breech closed. Henley didn't move. He lay groaning beside Harnock's silent body, oozing blood from a score of shrapnel wounds.

'Jacko, help me swing her right will you?' yelled Joe, pushing on the breech mechanism. They pushed the barrel around. Shredded leaves rained around them and bullets whined off the gun shield as Joe lined up the next tank.

The tank was only forty yards away now and stationary. Joe could see the commander's head in its black cap poking out of the turret observing the fall of his shot and talking into his radio mike.

'OK you filthy bastard, this one's for Harnock.' He pressed the pedal. The shell blasted across the short distance and shredded the rear bogey wheel. The track unravelled like a line of knitting.

Now mortar rounds were landing in front of the gun position and marching up the slope towards them.

'Sir,' yelled Jackson urgently.

'I see 'em Jacko, let's go. Help me get Henley will you?'

Bent double, they raced back to where the two men lay. Harnock was obviously dead, his torso was a mass of blood and bone. Joe checked Henley for a pulse, nodded, and grabbed the unconscious man's feet. Private Jackson grabbed his shoulders and they dragged him into the woods. Behind them, the mortar shells bracketed the gun and the boxes of ammunition exploded.

'Get him back to the riverbank and along to the bridge can you?' yelled Joe, 'I'm going back to the trench line.'

'Yes sir, and sir?' Jackson yelled breathlessly, 'Well done sir, you'll get a medal for that.'

Joe waved him aside, 'Bloody hell, we've got to get out first. Get moving.'

With that, Joe raced through the woods and into the trench line. Down the slope the German tank attack had faltered briefly, but now that the gun was silenced, the metal monsters were coming up again, pausing every twenty yards to send a shell into the slope around the trench. On the right flank, the German infantry had almost reached the wood. Joe passed his Bren gunner, Private Part, who was firing short bursts, keeping the German infantry in the folds of the ground. A few yards away, Lance-Corporal Clark was taking careful shots with his Lee-Enfield.

'Keep it up men, good work,' said Joe as he passed. 'Not long now, get ready to move. Sergeant Smythe? Report.'

'Three shrapnel injuries, one serious, taken to the aid station, only 'arnock killed so far, thanks to you stoppin' that flamethrower tank sir, nice shooting.'

'Beginner's luck Smithy, beginner's luck. Any news from the Major? He can't surely think we can hold this position?'

'Nothing yet sir, shall I send a runner?'

'No, I'll go myself, someone has to tell him the right flank is stuffed. Get the men up the trench and ready to bugger off Smithy, we're not dying here.'

Bent double, Joe sprinted towards the Major's post at the left-hand end of the trench, stepping over the body of a man who'd been shot in the back. In the next section he was expecting to find Three Platoon, but the trench was empty but for ammo boxes, bodies and spent shell casings.

'What the hell?' muttered Joe, 'where the blazes are they?'

He ran on, hearing the firing intensify behind him. The end of the trench ran into the woods that covered the crest of the hill. Still he had seen no-one. Ducking into the command dugout Joe almost tripped over the smashed radio lying on the floor. The dugout was empty. Then a massive explosion rocked the earth and flung him to the floor.

Picking himself up, Joe walked through the dugout and found himself looking down at the river and the bridge.

He gaped: where the bridge had stood were only the shattered stumps of the brick supports and swirling green water.

## ~ ~ ~

Coming to the town square, Hagan cautiously checked the four corner roads. There was no sign of the British, they seemed to have abandoned the town. No one was about, the townsfolk being sensible enough to stay indoors and wait for the Germans to arrive.

Hagan had seen the Jewish girl coming and going often enough to know where she lived. He dashed across the square and up the road, sidled up to the doorway and knocked urgently.

'Qui est là?' a gruff male voice replied.

'It's me, Joe,' Hagan said urgently in his best attempt at an Australian accent, 'the Germans are comin', open up.'

A bolt shot and the door creaked open.

Lifting the bayonet, Hagan kicked the door in and swarmed inside. Professor Bendine fell awkwardly against the kitchen table and Hagan wasted no time thrusting the point of the bayonet deep into his guts, twisting it brutally, the pulling it out and stabbing again.

Pierre screamed horribly as the cold steel pierced his innards. Finally, Hagan pulled out the red dripping blade and the man collapsed to the floor clutching at his belly and crying out in pain.

'Oncle?' came a voice from upstairs, 'Êtes-vous bien?'

Yvette came to the top of the stairs and stared down in horror. Hagan stared back up.

The screaming began.

## ~ ~ ~

'Well I'll be buggered,' said Joe, looking at the remains of the bridge, then ducked as a stream of bullets crashed into the trees above his head. Behind him, German infantry were moving from tree to tree, firing as they went. Joe jumped into the trench and back the way he had come.

A German tank reared up and ground to a halt at the lip of the trench. Joe raced past it and turned a corner of the trench just as a row of bullets buried themselves in the dirt wall behind him. Where the trench entered the woods, the remnants of the squad were sniping at the German infantry.

'Smithy! Smithy!' he yelled as he ran, gasping with the effort.

'Time to go sir?' called Sergeant Smythe as Joe came into view.

'Yes, get everyone down to the river. The rest of the company's pissed off and they've blown the bloody bridge.'

The colour drained from the sergeant's face.

'The yellow bastards!'

'Leave your guns, dump your kit, into the river, now,' yelled Joe.

Joe counted his men as they scrambled towards the water. Lance-Corporal Jensen and Private Jaroslek had presumably got the wounded Henley over the bridge before it was blown. That left just six now: Smythe, Lance-Corporal Clark, Privates Jackson, Wellesley, Kelly, Part, and Summerville. Where the hell was Summerville?

The remnants of the squad slipped down the muddy bank and threw themselves into the river. The current grabbed them and pulled them off downstream. Behind them, the first German tank halted at the crest. The position was taken and a white victory flare soared into the sky from the German positions. In the muddy flow, the British soldiers struggled to keep their heads above water. As the river curved around to the left, the current forced them towards the opposite bank where low ground had created a patch of swamp overgrown with bulrushes. One by one, they hauled themselves out and into the rushes.

Collapsed in the shallow water, Joe caught a glimpse of the trails of fighter planes dog-fighting far above him. As he watched, one of them began to spin downwards like an autumn leaf, smoke streaming behind it. The plane fell silently and disappeared below the horizon. Death was everywhere it seemed.

'Lieutenant?' Sergeant Smythe poked his bare head through the rushes. His uniform was black with mud and bright blood dripped from a cut on his forehead.

'Yes Smithy, I'm here. Did anyone cark it?'

'We all made it except Summerville sir,' he replied, 'no one's seen 'im since the start of the attack.'

'Let's hope he got out. Seven of us then. Let's find our company, perhaps they'll have some replacement rifles for us too, eh?' Joe peered cautiously through the rushes at the opposite bank, where a truck had pulled up at the end of the ruined bridge.

'What the hell are the Nazis doing?' he asked.

Where the bridge had collapsed into the river, German soldiers were swarming out of the truck and hauling out lengths of metal sheeting.

'Sappers building a quick-and-dirty bridge sir. The span just fell straight into the water, all they need to do is put some planks on the stumps. They'll be over in 'alf an hour if they're not interrupted. Why isn't anyone firing on 'em from the town?'

'I don't know Sergeant, but we'd better find out. Let's get in there.'

A few minutes later the depleted and weapon-less squad bolted from cover and leapt the low wall that separated the town from the river. A few shots followed them, but most of the Germans were too pre-occupied to notice.

Joe ran to the town square, expecting to find the British HQ, but the place was deserted.

'Smithy, take the men to our old billet and see if there are any weapons left behind will you? Meet me here in ten minutes,' then he walked up to the hotel de ville and pushed his way in through the front door.

The entrance hall was empty, as was the main chamber, but Joe found the mayor in his office in his full ceremonial uniform, unfolding a red and black flag. The man dropped the flag abruptly when Joe entered.

'M'sieu. Mon Dieu. You scared me 'alf to death. What are you doing 'ere, I thought les Anglais had all gone?'

'Well they left us on the other side of the bloody river didn't they?' snarled Joe. 'When did they leave?'

'At least an hour ago m'sieur, straight after they blew up our bridge. Your Major said something about being ordered to join the evacuation. They 'ave abandoned this line of defence it would seem. They must 'ave thought you were all dead.'

'Yeah, maybe. And now you're getting ready to welcome your new conquerors eh? Must be something of a habit around here I suppose.'

The mayor shrugged. 'M'sieur, my father was mayor before me when les Boches occupied this town in 1914. What can you do? We 'ave lost. You British could not protect us, nor could the Belgians, nor our own gallant tirailleurs.'

'Yeah, alright, we'll be off too, but tell me one thing, have all the townsfolk gone? Is anyone except you still here?'

'Why, they are all 'ere m'sieu. Where would they go? England? Ha! Even the British Navy would not have enough ships to take all of France.'

A shiver ran down Joe's spine.

'What about Yvette Bendine? Surely she's had the sense to go?'

'I do not know m'sieu, per'aps she has, per'aps she has not, but I would not recommend that you waste anymore time here. I doubt les Boches will be held up for long by the river.'

'Good luck to you then,' said Joe and ran out of the building. Surely Yvette couldn't be stubborn enough to have stayed?

## ~ ~ ~

As he ran across the square to Yvette's uncle's house, Joe couldn't help but see the curtains being pulled aside then dropped in the houses as he passed. Clearly the local people had resigned themselves to being occupied by the Germans.

Gasping for breath, he turned the corner into the familiar lane and heard a scream from the back of the house. He pushed at the door and almost fell over as it opened before him. Inside, Pierre Bendine lay moaning against the wall in a red pool, his shirt saturated with blood. The scream came again from the kitchen.

Slipping on the bloodied tiles, Joe raced into the kitchen. For a moment he could not comprehend what he saw.

Yvette was bent face down over the kitchen table, her skirt thrown up around her waist, while Summerville stood behind her, a bayonet at her throat, thrusting himself into her.

A primeval growl rose in Joe's throat and he threw himself across the room.

Summerville pulled Yvette back and pointed the bayonet into her throat.

'Halt! Or she dies now.'

Joe stopped, panting with shock and fatigue. Yvette stared at him, eyes wild with terror.

'You ... what the... ?' stammered Joe, dumbfounded.

'Silenz!' yelled the man he knew as Summerville. 'Now, I'm going out of this door behind me now,' whispered Hagan. 'If you move a centimetre I cut her pretty little Jewish throat, verstehen sie?'

Joe raised his hands and breathed hard, trying to calm himself. His eyes were moving from the tip of the bayonet to Yvette's terrified eyes to Summerville's bright blue eyes. He knew he needed to focus on those eyes, but his chest was thumping and his ears were ringing.

'Let her go you bastard,' he said as quietly as he could.

'Very well, catch,' said Hagan. He threw Yvette forward onto the table and ducked out the door, slamming it behind him. She slumped to the floor.

Joe knelt and gathered Yvette into his arms.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,' he cried, crushing her in his arms.

He held her tight. Long minutes passed as she wept into his shoulder, then he gently pulled her face up to his and looked into her swollen eyes.

'Joe, my uncle, he needs a doctor. Joe, you must 'elp!'

'Yvette, we must get away from here, the Germans are nearly here, you must come with me now.'

'But mon oncle. Please, tell me 'e is still alive?'

She crawled across the floor, to where Pierre lay clutching at the holes in his skin. Bright blood pulsed out between his fingers with every heart beat.

'I'm sorry Yvette,' said Joe desperately, kneeling beside her, 'but I don't think he's going to make it, and they'll kill you too unless you come with me now.'

'Non,' said Yvette as she took her uncle's hand and stroked his brow. There was a finality in her voice that struck at Joe's heart.

'What do you mean no? You can only expect more of the same, we have to go. Now.'

'Non, I will not leave,' said Yvette. She looked across the horrid floor at him, her beautiful face bruised and streaked with tears and blood.

'Joe, it is too late. Everything is gone. You cannot save me anyway, you cannot even save yourself. I am sure there is worse to come than what 'as 'appened here. Get away while you still can.'

There was a discreet cough from the doorway.

'Ah... sir?'

Joe turned to find Sergeant Smythe standing behind him in an unfamiliar apologetic stance. Peering through the door were the rest of the squad.

'We really oughta get goin' sir,' he said, 'them Gerry engineers are already over the river and the rest are crossing on inflatable boats.'

Joe stared at him as if he were a stranger.

'Come on sir, time to go now.'

The sergeant came in close, and Joe glared at him, sightless. Smythe knelt down beside him and spoke quietly and gently into Joe's ear, as if he were a wounded animal about to be put down.

'Sir, you can't 'elp the lady anymore, you've got a responsibility to your men sir. I'm sorry sir.'

He stood up.

'Sorry ma'am. Come on sir.'

'Go, Joe,' said Yvette in a broken voice.

Joe stood, stumbled, his knees locking up. Smythe grabbed his arm to keep him from falling.

'OK boys, let's get back to the square and find a truck or something,' said the sergeant, 'Looks like the Lieutenant is AWOL for the moment. Where the 'ell is Summerville by the way? Anyone seen him?'

As they pulled him away, Joe stared at Yvette and tears sprung from his eyes, leaving pink trails in the dust on his face. She crouched by her uncle and put her arms around him, then looked fearfully at the doorway, wondering what fresh horror would come through it next.

## ~ ~ ~

As Joe's squad rounded the corner, a dozen Germans crept into the square and took up cover positions around the train station. A second squad followed, then another, and within a few minutes the square was swarming with enemy troops.

Joe shook himself and looked around. He pushed his rage and despair deep, deep down inside and forced himself to think. He had seven men, all wounded to some degree, unarmed, cut off from his company. Was there any chance of escape? Behind them he heard the sound of boots on cobblestones and suddenly knew it was hopeless. He turned to his men.

'Sorry boys. Perhaps if we'd left immediately...'

'Hande hoch!'

A German with a machine pistol coming up the side street had seen the group in khaki standing on the corner. They raised their arms and stood, disconsolate. The man with the gun let out a stream of high-speed German. They looked at him blankly. Joe stepped forward and spoke in halting German.

'Ich bin der commandant. Wo sind ihren Offizier?'

The German eyed him uneasily; he seemed nervous, covering eight men with just one machine gun. He looked behind Joe and raised his voice.

'Unteroffizier! Hier bitte!'

A man with the three stripes of a Feldwebel came over from a nearby halftrack.

'Ja Privat? Englanders ja? Gut.' He turned to Joe.

'Sie sind der Leutnant? Ja? Gut. Kommen sie,' and gestured towards the town hall.

'Wait,' said Joe, 'my men stay here,' pointing at his men and gesturing at the ground.

'Ja, ja, ihren menschen hier gestehen. Alles is richtig ja?' The German sergeant beamed at him.

Joe scowled at him and turned to his men.

'I'll be back in a minute. Hide your rings and watches in your socks or your jocks if you want to keep them. And keep your mouths shut whatever any of these bastards says, even if he speaks English. Is that clear?'

'Yes sir,' replied his men.

'Good boys, we'll be out of this soon. Okay you Nazi bastard, let's go.'

The German smiled again and pointed towards the town hall.

## ~ ~ ~

Yvette looked out of the door. The street was empty. She ran to the end of the block where the local doctor lived and banged on the door. The curtains in the window were pulled aside a fraction and the doctor's wife peered out, then opened the door.

'What is it Yvette?' she said in an urgent whisper, looking around fearfully, 'You should not be outside, the Germans are here.'

'Helena, my uncle needs help, he's been stabbed,' said Yvette, 'please, he's bleeding everywhere, he needs a doctor or he'll die!'

'Francois,' called the woman over her shoulder, 'come quickly, Pierre Bendine needs you.'

The doctor came out in his shirtsleeves with his bag.

'What is it Yvette?'

'Come quickly, my uncle is hurt.'

Once the doctor had cut Pierre's shirt away and seen the true nature of the wounds he knew it was hopeless. The bayonet had penetrated in three places low in Pierre's side, piercing his intestines and slicing up into the left lung. With every breath, a foul mixture of blood and faeces bubbled out of the ragged tears in Pierre's torso, to join the puddle spreading on the floor. This was not the sort of wound people recovered from.

'Pierre, can you hear me?' asked the doctor. Pierre just groaned.

'I'm going to give you something for the pain, alright?' He reached into his bag for the morphine and a syringe.

'Will he be alright doctor?' asked Yvette urgently.

'Come with me child,' he said, leading her into the kitchen.

'Yvette, I'm afraid your uncle's wound is mortal,' said the doctor. 'I can stop the bleeding, but he will still die, it will just take days, one, maybe two, of agonising infection before it happens. Even if we had a hospital in this town they could not help him. I am so sorry.'

'Doctor Lasalle, for God's sake, isn't there anything you can do to save him?' pleaded Yvette.

'All we can do is make him comfortable. I will give him something to make him sleep. Truly Yvette, there is nothing you can do for him. I am sorry my dear.'

Yvette returned to her uncle and put her arms around him, tears rolling down her cheeks. The doctor filled his syringe to the brim with morphine. It was a lethal dose—there was no point prolonging the agony—he'd known Pierre all his life, who'd have thought it would end like this?

He pushed the needle into the dying man's vein and depressed the plunger.

'There, he will sleep now, make him as comfortable as you can right there, don't try to move him. I'll come back tomorrow.'

A hammering on the door made them both jump. The door swung open and three German soldiers with rifles walked in.

'Aus, jetz,' the first one shouted, pointing at them and then the door, 'Raus!'

'Do as they say Yvette, don't argue,' said the doctor. He picked up his bag and walked through the door. Yvette followed, casting a terrified glance at the slumped form of her uncle.

In the street outside a truck was parked. Beside it, a short fat man in a leather trenchcoat was examining a clipboard. He pointed at Yvette and two of the soldiers grabbed her arms and started to drag her around to the tailgate of the truck.

'Non! What are you doing?' shrieked Yvette, 'Doctor Lasalle, help! Help me!'

One of the soldiers slapped her brutally across the face, then the two of them pushed her up into the truck and jumped in after her.

'Alles gut, vierzehn Juden,' said the man in the trenchcoat, ticking something on his clipboard.

'You must be Doctor Lasalle,' he continued in French, 'the town records show no evidence of Jewish blood in your family, lucky for you. Guten tag, Herr Doktor.'

When the doctor returned home he put his bag down and sat at the table.

'Is Pierre alright my dear?' asked his wife.

'He will be dead by now, his wound was mortal. I gave him morphine.'

'Mon Dieu, that is terrible news,' said his wife.

'Forget Bendine, he is dead and his niece has been taken away by the Nazis. We cannot be seen associating with people like that anymore.'

'What?' she asked incredulously, 'people like what?'

'Jews,' he replied.

'Oh Francois, you can't be serious, you've known Yvette all her life.'

'I'm perfectly serious Helena. We will be accused of harbouring them next, and our lives will be forfeit. From now on, we don't know any of the Jews in this town.'

## ~ ~ ~

The mayor's office looked the same as it had half an hour before, but for two things: the Nazi reversed-swastika flag hung where the tricolour had been, and the mayor was nowhere to be seen. In the seat behind the mayor's desk, a German officer sat, his boots up on the varnished surface, a smoking cheroot in one hand and a glass of cognac in the other. Beside him, two soldiers with machine pistols covered the room.

As Joe was marched in, the officer drew on the cigar and took a deep pull of the cognac. He puffed out the smoke in a series of ostentatious rings that glistened in the beams of sunlight coming through the windows. Joe could see the motes dancing in the turbulence of the man's breath.

'Zo. Ein Englander,' stated the officer, taking another draw on the cigar.

'Australian actually. Lieutenant Joe Dean.'

'Surely you are not going to keep your serial number a secret Lieutenant?' asked the German in good English. He laughed to himself then translated. His men laughed dutifully.

'76429309, and much good may it do you,' replied Joe, trying to sound braver than he felt.

'Come come Lieutenant, you say you are from Australia? You must have swum a long way to get here. Please, take a seat. Unless I am much mistaken, you are the man who defended the riverbank after the rest of your company fled and blew the bridge, richtig?'

'We were the last across if that's what you mean.'

'Ja. A gallant effort. You destroyed my flammenwerfer panzer, I am annoyed about that. You also disabled another tank and your men killed two of mine and wounded four more. You must have held us up for at least, what would you say men, half an hour?'

He looked around at his guards and translated for them. Once again they laughed dutifully.

'We did what we could in the circumstances,' said Joe sullenly.

'Ja, you fought well, I could do with a leader like you in my battalion. Someone who is prepared to take a risk. But I am sure you are not interested in fighting for the glorious German Wehrmacht are you Lieutenant?'

'I'd sooner drink a pot of your piss Captain, or Major or whatever the fuck you are,' replied Joe.

'Ja. The kind of response my father told to me expect from people of your country. He fought the Ossies not far from here in the last war you know, at Passchaendale; he captured many of them. He was amazed at how disrespectful the Australians were to the British officers.'

'Passchaendale eh? Then was he there when the Aussies blew up Hill 60 and overran the German positions? Did they take him prisoner too?'

'Regrettably not, he was wounded manning a machine gun against a bayonet charge, after most of his men had been killed. He was found after the counter-attack with a bayonet sticking out of his chest, barely alive. He was taken to Germany and has had difficulty breathing ever since. But enough of these memories, what are we to do with you?'

'Whatever you want, I imagine,' said Joe.

'Ach, if only it were that simple Lieutenant. You see, despite what you have heard about us, we of the Wehrmacht still abide by the rules of war, ja? Unfortunately, I have no option but to turn you over to the Feldpolizei for transportation to the nearest Stalag. Feldwebel, lock the Lieutenant and his men up in the local police cells for the moment. Who knows? The Gestapo may want to speak to them.'

'What about my men?' Joe interjected, 'some of them are wounded. We need a doctor, food, water.'

'Ja, ja, you will have them, now go.' The German waved him away.

An hour later, Joe found himself staring out of the barred window of the police lockup. The police station adjoined the train station and the cell's only window looked out into the square at ground level. His men were all crammed into the cell next door, a separation that the Feldwebel had said was 'required under the terms of the Geneva Convention.' Required under the terms of "whatever we damn-well please" Joe had thought at the time, but there was no point in arguing. The local doctor had come and bandaged his men's wounds and the guards had thrown in some bread and water, so they were as comfortable as they were likely to get.

'Now what?' thought Joe, staring at the cobbles in front of his face. Unless he could concoct some sort of scheme to escape, he had to resign himself to the possibility of being a prisoner of war. Who knew how long this war would last? The way the French and British had collapsed it could well be over in a few months. His father had told him about men who'd been taken in 1914 and kept in a cage for the whole four years of the war. He didn't think he could stand that.

A truck with loudhailers mounted on it pulled into the square, followed by a Kubelwagen. Two men got out of the car, a tall one in a mottled camouflage uniform with an officer's cap, and a short fat one in a black leather overcoat that was too big for him. They disappeared into the town hall. A few minutes later they came out again and one of them signalled to a soldier on the truck. The loudhailers crackled to life and a stream of German-accented French poured forth. The message ran for about a minute then repeated itself, over and over again. After a few minutes, doors began to open around the square and the townsfolk came cautiously out.

Before long a crowd of several hundred had gathered at the town hall steps and the recording was switched off. In the sudden silence the mayor came out onto the front porch of the town hall with the German officer who had interviewed Joe. He began to speak, and while Joe's French was not up to a full translation, the message seemed to be that if they co-operated they would not be harmed. The crowd soon dispersed.

'Fellas?' called Joe through the window, 'they're going to send us to a prison camp. As you know it's our duty to try to escape, but we're only going to do that if we all make it without any of us getting killed. We've lost enough men from this unit, I don't want any of you to die needlessly now. Seems to me our best chance will be when they move us. They'll have to put us on trucks or a train or something, so we'll just have to stay alert for a chance. If it comes, it'll come suddenly, so you'll need to be ready to run at a moment's notice, alright?'

'Sure Lieutenant,' replied Smythe from the adjoining cell, 'we'll be ready, don't you worry.'

Joe smiled at the confidence in the man's voice. He only hoped that he had sounded that confident – he knew their chances of escape were almost nil. If they were to get away it would have to be in the next day, before the Germans overran the entire countryside and cut off all routes to the sea. Fortunately, none of his men were completely disabled by their wounds, they could all walk at least.

He started as the door to his cell clanged open. Joe turned to see the two men he'd seen in the square walk in, a guard taking up position with his rifle behind them. The first man was tall and lean and had the look of a professional soldier. His uniform's collar bore a Death's Head and a double-'S' symbol. The other was short, overweight and had the sort of ruddy complexion that comes from too much beer and sausage and not enough exercise. Despite the summer heat, he was still wearing his over-sized black leather coat; a soldier he clearly was not.

The tall one looked at Joe with total lack of interest, as if this was just the first of many people he would question that day, then suddenly barked out 'Name, Reihe, Seriennummer?'

'Joe Dean, Lieutenant, 76429309,' replied Joe.

'Sprechen sie Deutsche eh?' said the man with a sneer, 'Well then, now we have got the formalities out of the way, perhaps you will tell me your company, battalion, regiment, brigade, the names of your commanders and your orders?'

'I'm not allowed to do that, as you know.'

'Ach, well, it was a worth a try, eh Hans?' said the man, turning to his colleague. The other man grunted non-committally; he didn't seem the type to have a large vocabulary.

'We don't really care anyway Englander, whatever unit you were in has been destroyed and its remnants are running to the coast with their tails between their legs, just waiting for a panzer to put a bullet in their backs. Your precious British regiment will no longer exist within two days. You have been utterly defeated.'

'Spare me the bloody speech Adolf, you're not telling me anything I don't already know.'

The man's face reddened suddenly.

'My name is not Adolf, _Arschloch_ , it is Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter. You and your men will be transported to a stalag tomorrow. Goodbye Englander, for you the war is over.'

The cell door slammed, leaving Joe to the solitary agony of his thoughts.

# Chapter Twenty-five

France, 27 May 1940

Dawn saw the squad lined up in the square, facing east, blinded by the rising sun. None had slept well, or at all, and they looked the worse for wear: unshaven, unwashed, uniforms muddy and stained, bloody bandages covering heads and limbs. They looked like what they were: defeated soldiers.

On the other side of the square, a line of townspeople appeared, herded by a few armed guards. Joe saw with a shock that Yvette was in the group. They lined up only twenty yards away. Yvette kept her eyes to the ground. Beside her stood a young mother Joe knew by sight, with her two daughters, all of three and five years old.

'What the hell's going on Smithy?' Joe asked his sergeant.

'Beats me sir, what's special about this lot?'

As the townspeople approached the centre of the square, the two men who'd visited Joe in the cell sauntered down the steps of the town hall, the short one carrying a clipboard. There was a third man with them, dressed in a bloodied British army uniform.

'Bloody 'ell sir, it's Summerville!' said Smythe.

'Somehow, I don't think that's his real name mate,' said Joe, amazed at his own sense of calm, 'he's played us good and proper. Bastard's as cunning as a shithouse rat.'

He had a sensation of watching a ship being blown onto a reef; there was nothing he could do but watch.

The short fat German held up his clipboard and began to call out names. As each name was read out and the person signalled their presence he marked the sheet. Joe heard him read out 'Yvette Bendine' and thought he had never heard the beautiful name so mangled as this German had done. Yvette said 'Oui' quietly and another tick was placed on the sheet. At this, Summerville said something to the tall German, who nodded. When the fat man had gone through the list to his satisfaction he launched into a stream of rapid German, then pulled a bag from the pocket of his coat. He walked down the line and handed out something to each person. Joe craned his neck to see what it was: some sort of yellow cloth patch.

The man gestured to his shoulder and chest then stepped back. The tall one stepped forward. He spoke in French, but although Joe could not catch all the words, his tone was clearly one of hatred and disgust and as he talked he became increasingly agitated. He walked down the line, occasionally stopping to yell at an individual. When he reached Yvette he made some comment in German to Summerville, then reached out and squeezed one of her breasts. A red mist filled Joe's head and he leapt from his spot like a panther, covered the gap in seconds and threw himself on the officer, punching, kicking, screaming. The guards were taken completely by surprise and Joe landed a few solid blows to the officer's face before they succeeded in prising him off and hauling him away with some heavy blows from their rifle butts.

The German rose in a rage, blood streaming from his lip.

'Schweinhunden Englander! What is she? Your sweetheart? That was a big mistake mein freund,' and with that he launched a series of fierce punches to Joe's midriff, followed by an uppercut to the chin that left him sagging in the arms of the guards. They then dropped him to the cobbles and put in a few vicious kicks of their own for good measure.

'Count yourself lucky I don't just shoot you right now, Jew-lover,' screamed the Nazi through bloodied teeth. 'In Germany you would be hung for less. It's as well that we of the pure race don't sully ourselves with Jewish filth, or I'd hand that bitch over to my men for some fun right here and now. Feldwebel, find out where the truck we organised for these prisoners has got to and get them out of here. The rest of you, get these Jewish scum onto the train and be quick about it.'

'Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter, we were instructed to feed the civilians first, the journey to Dachau is long,' said the Feldwebel.

'Feed them? Waste good German food on Jews?' The man's voice rose to a shriek, 'Get them on the train now or you can join them Feldwebel. With that beak of yours, you look a bit Jewish yourself. And leave that one here,' he said, pointing at Yvette.

The sergeant blanched and issued a curt order to his men. The guards prodded the townspeople with their rifles and yelled out 'Raus! Raus! Schnell!'

As the group moved off toward the train, a truck drove into the square and pulled up nearby. The guards jumped down and lowered the tailplate, then gestured at the British squad to get on. Hauled from the cobbles by two soldiers, Joe caught one last terrified glance from Yvette as he was hauled up into the truck by his men. The man they'd known as Summerville had grabbed her arm and was pulling her away. Then the truck turned the corner and she was gone.

Minutes later they were rattling across the makeshift bridge. Joe saw the burnt-out shell of the flamethrower tank sitting on the slope they had defended. That battle seemed like years ago. And what had it gained them? He'd failed to defend the town, failed to get his men out in time and failed to protect Yvette. And now she was in the hands of that foul, raping spy. Her uncle was probably dead and God knew what would happen to the rest of the Jews in the town. The Germans had been persecuting their own Jews for years, and now they were visiting it upon the conquered people too.

Joe held his head in his hands and despaired.

## ~ ~ ~

Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay read the final part of the message from the Admiralty in disbelief.

'It is imperative that Operation "Dynamo" be implemented with the greatest vigour with a view to lifting 45,000 of the BEF from Dunkirk within two days, after which it is probable that evacuation will be terminated by enemy action. Operation to start at 1857.'

Ramsay had expected to receive the order, but not so soon. They were not ready, and now they never would be. The chances of getting 45,000 men off a long shelving beach under enemy artillery and aerial bombardment, without losing a host of irreplaceable ships in the process, were not good.

He picked up the telephone on his desk and called a number.

'It's on,' he said.

'Very good sir,' came the reply.

The Vice-Admiral hung up and stared at the map on the wall. It showed the three routes the ships could take from Dover to avoid the minefields. Route Y, the longest at 87 sea miles, curved northwards past Nieuport then curled back in along the French coast; Route X, at 55 sea miles cut through the middle but was only open to ships with a shallow draught; Route Z, the most direct, was just 39 sea miles, but it would probably be under German artillery fire for much of the journey near the French coast. Ramsay shrugged. Artillery? The ships would be under attack from the air from the moment they left port. By all accounts the RAF had acquitted itself well over France, at least until the Prime Minister had recalled them to defend England. Surely Winston would allow them over the Channel to defend the Navy? As a former Sea Lord, if anyone understood the importance of defending the Royal Navy, it was Churchill.

The admiral stood and walked down to the Operations Room. Better to occupy the mind with action of some sort. In the Channel ports, klaxons were sounding and sailors were running to their stations; he didn't want to think about how many of them would never return.

## ~ ~ ~

The truck bumped on, the sun beaming down, happy to illuminate the tragedy unfolding below. The roads that only yesterday had been jammed with refugees, were now crowded with German vehicles of every shape and description: supply trucks, petrol and water tankers, staff cars, tank recovery vehicles and of course, horses and carts by the thousand bringing food and ammunition forward. This was an organised and mechanised army on the advance.

At intersections, military policemen with crescent-shaped badges around their necks directed traffic with typical German efficiency, and the truck rarely stopped for more than few minutes. Sitting near the tailgate, Joe nursed his bruises and stared miserably at the sea of field-grey uniforms around the truck; there was no chance of escape through that lot.

'Where do you think they'll take us Lieutenant?' asked Lance-Corporal Clark, whose left hand was a bloodied bandage covering multiple shrapnel wounds from a stick grenade.

'Some camp in Germany I expect,' Joe replied. 'We've got to avoid getting taken that far east though, once we're in Germany it'll be a lot harder to get out. Keep alert if we leave the main road.'

The truck decelerated, then halted and there was a loud exchange in German from the direction of the cabin. One voice was shouting, the other sounded as if it were losing the argument. A few moments later the truck started up and turned on to a dirt road leading north. After a few minutes it turned right and sped up.

'We're heading east again,' thought Joe, 'where to now?'

Ten minutes later they pulled up and the driver came around, dropped the tailgate and gestured at the two guards with them.

'Raus! Raus!' yelled the guards, gesturing with their rifles.

They jumped out of the truck to find themselves in a field adjoining a large stone farmhouse. German soldiers armed with Schmeisser submachine guns stood around at various points, and an MG34 on a tripod had been set up facing the wall. Its barrel covered them menacingly as they gazed around.

Joe noticed that these soldiers were in the same sort of mottled camouflage uniform he'd seen on the officer in Roubaix, rather than the usual field-grey of the Wehrmacht troops they'd been fighting. Were they some sort of elite unit? Guard unit? Who knew?

When the last man was out of the truck, the driver jumped in, gunned the engine and drove off at high speed.

As the guards in the camouflage uniforms pushed and prodded them over to the wall with their gun butts, the sound of marching boots came from the entrance to the walled farmyard. Joe turned to see almost a whole company of British solders marching in from the road. They were disarmed and in a sorry state, clearly having been fighting for days, but their commander, marching at the front, set a good example and they were all in step. Joe recognised him as Major Ryder, the commander of the Royal Norfolks' 2nd battalion, an officer he'd met once at a regimental signals meeting. For a moment Joe was proud to be associated with such a fine body of men.

With a flurry of commands, accompanied by kicks and smacks with rifle butts, the company was lined up with Joe's men against the farmyard wall. Several men had recently bloodied faces and two of them nursed broken arms. A German lieutenant came down the line counting out the men, and made a note of the total in a black notebook.

'I don't much like the look of that sir,' said Sergeant Smythe, nodding across the field to where the Germans were setting up another machine gun on a tripod. 'Surely they can't mean to shoot us all sir?'

'Hell Smithy, even the Nazis wouldn't shoot unarmed prisoners of war, it's against the Geneva Convention.'

'Beggin' your pardon sir, I doubt this lot've ever 'eard of the Geneva Convention.'

A Kubelwagen turned into the courtyard and an officer jumped out. When he saw his face, Joe turned aside and stepped behind the man next to him.

'Don't look now Smithy, but that's the bastard from Roubaix that I hit. Richter.'

The officer stood in front of the British soldiers, his legs apart, hands on hips. With his polished black boots and peaked cap he could have looked either ridiculous or menacing; the muzzles of the machine guns behind him made him menacing.

Death had arrived in this field and the smell of fear began to rise from the men in khaki.

'Soldiers of Britain,' announced the German officer, 'you have fought well, but you have lost. You will now be taken to POW camps for the rest of the war. We are gathering you here in preparation for the march back to Germany. We need to conduct some identity checks so we can confirm to your government and your families that you are still alive. This will not take long. Please stand to attention.'

With that, he stepped behind the two machine guns, clicked his heels and threw out a Hitler salute.

'Heil Hitler!'

At the sound of the name of their Fuhrer, the soldiers behind the two guns pulled their triggers. At 20 yards range, 800 high-velocity rounds-per-minute crashed into the row of British soldiers, blasting holes in flesh, pulverising intestines, tearing bone and splashing the brick wall behind with gouts of bright blood. Men screamed and fell, their legs cut from beneath them by the metal storm, their chests and stomachs abruptly flayed.

Anticipating what was coming, Joe threw himself down at the sound of the first shot, his face landing painfully in a patch of nettles. The man beside him received four shots in the abdomen and collapsed over him, his entrails spewing all over Joe in a ghastly cascade. Within seconds the guns fell silent, leaving only the screams and groans of dying boys. An order rang out, followed by the metallic scrape of bayonets being drawn from scabbards and clicked onto rifles.

Joe cowered beneath his neighbour's carcass. Purplish-blue intestines lay across his face and runnels of hot blood poured over him. With the taste of blood and shit in his mouth, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Footsteps came towards him. A shot crashed out nearby. Joe took a second deep breath through his nose and tried to relax and make himself utterly still. The pounding of his heart was so loud, surely someone other than him must hear it.

A second shot exploded right beside him and he screamed silently at himself not to flinch. Rampant terror turned his bowels to hot liquid and he clenched tightly. To soil himself now would mean certain death. A fly crawled over his left eyelid. He could feel all six of its tiny feet, sticking momentarily in the congealing blood.

A shadow blocked the sun and the fly buzzed away in irritation. The shadow paused, then moved on. There was a scream of terror followed by the squelching thud of a bayonet being slammed into flesh. Another shot. A scream. A groan of agony. Another shot. Three more rapid shots.

Silence.

Then a whistle blew, a voice yelled a series of harsh commands and Joe could hear the familiar sounds of gun tripods being dismantled and equipment being thrown into trucks.

Time was a snail. He concentrated on keeping his breathing as shallow as possible, and on ignoring the flies that were now clustering on his face and hands, gorging on the freshly spilled blood. Engines revved and gears engaged. Within a few minutes the farmyard was silent but for the frenzied buzzing of flies. Joe waited. When he could stand it no longer he forced himself to wait a few more minutes, as he had when he was back home fishing with his German friends in Australia, numb with boredom, sitting by a stream hoping for a bite from a trout.

The sun beat down. A bird tweeted. After what seemed like hours, he opened one eye.

In his immediate vision lay Private Jackson's contorted body, smothered beneath another man, his eyes closed, face unmarked, a hole in his neck draining blood. Joe risked turning his head slightly for a further look: the courtyard was empty of Germans. He listened intently for a minute, then rolled over and knelt amidst the pile of corpses. He forced himself to think.

'Lieutenant?' came a croaking voice. Joe started and looked around. Sergeant Smythe waved feebly at him from under a body.

'Smithy, for the love of God, you're alive.'

'You 'it sir?'

'No, by some bloody miracle. You?'

'I copped one in the 'ead somewhere sir, do you think you could take a look?'

Joe crawled through the disgusting mess of bodies to Smythe. There was a mass of blood covering the left side of his head and his entire shirt was drenched in it. He wiped it away with his sleeve to reveal the sergeant's left ear, torn in two and shredded by the bullet's impact.

'Christ mate, you nearly bought it there. Only half an inch in it.'

'Let's get out of 'ere, eh Lieutenant?'

'Too bloody right Smithy. Can you stand?'

While the sergeant got to his feet, Joe peered around. There didn't seem to be any Germans about. He noticed the bodies of Private Wellesley and Private Part, sprawled in the dirt, their limbs tangled together in an obscene embrace. Clark, Jackson, Kelly and Jaroslek lay nearby.

'All of them, by Christ. Let's get out of this hellhole. We've got to get back so we can at least report this. What was that bastard's name again?'

'Somethingfuhrer Rik-ta, I think you said sir,' said Smythe, clutching at his shredded ear.

'Remember that name Smithy, you never know, we might catch the bastard one day.'

And with that, Joe turned and vomited copiously against the wall.

## ~ ~ ~

Dusk, and the two fugitives had put almost five miles between themselves and the horrid farmhouse. They had stopped to rest in a wood after a few hours that had pushed them to their limit, hours running bent double across open fields and crawling through ditches. There was no possibility of getting anywhere near a road, so they put the sun at their backs and went straight across country, avoiding whatever buildings they saw. It had started raining and they were both stupid with fatigue and suffering from shock.

The thud of distant artillery fire could be heard from the direction of the gathering gloom.

'Once it gets darks we'll gunbarrel it towards the sound of the guns, alright Smithy? How's the head mate?'

With one eye covered by a stained field dressing, his clothes encrusted in brown dried blood, the sergeant looked more like some demented Arabian thief from a storybook than a British NCO.

'Not bad sir, throbs a bit when we move quick, but altogether not too bad. Can't 'ear much through this ear though.'

'Stout fella,' said Joe, 'might be temporary eh? Let's hope so.'

There was long silence as they trudged on across yet another muddy field. Joe could sense himself settling into a black despond; all he could think of was the long line of torn and bleeding bodies, the last of his own squad among them, lying abandoned in the ditch at the farmhouse. He decided to make some attempt at conversation to keep their sprits up.

'Where you from Smithy?'

'Me sir?' asked Smythe in surprise, dragged from his own thoughts, 'why Staffordshire originally of course sir, I'm in the Staffordshire Rifles, ain't I?'

'Yes Smithy, but I know bugger-all about England, Staffordshire could be the moon as far as I know,' replied Joe with exasperation.

'Well sir,' said Smythe patiently, realising he might as well be explaining British geography to a child, not that he knew much about it himself, 'I'm from a farm near a small town called Tittensor, about ten miles north o' Stafford, closer to Stoke-on-Trent really, but I've been in Birmingham for the last few years.'

'A farm eh? What do you farm?'

'Cows sir, dairy cows,' replied Smythe, 'family's got about sixty of 'em,' he added proudly.

'Sixty, is that all?' asked Joe, who was used to Australian herds of many hundreds.

'That's a big 'erd for the district sir,' said Smythe aggrievedly, 'one o' the best for many a mile.'

'I'm sure it is Smithy,' said Joe, tugging at a boot, 'you know I came from a farm too, we had six thousand sheep.'

'Surely you're pullin' me leg sir,' said Smythe with a grimace, 'six thousand? I don't mean any disrespect, but that's a bit far-fetched.'

'It's absolutely true,' said Joe, 'but they were running on ten thousand acres of bone-dry grass. It's not like here mate, nothing's green down there, it never bloody rains you know. I remember it rained for a couple of days just before I left for Duntroon, and before that it hadn't rained for three years.'

'That's just daft sir,' replied Smythe, 'bloody daft.'

'You're probably right Smithy, you're probably right, and by the way, if we're going to get out of this it would probably help if we get past the formalities. I'm Joe, not 'sir' and while I know your name from the roster, we've never been introduced have we?'

Joe stopped and held out his hand.

'Joe Dean.'

The sergeant pulled himself up and took Joe's hand in a firm shake.

'Morton Smythe.'

'Morton? Stone the crows, if it's alright with you Morton, I'll call you Smithy. So why'd you join the army mate?'

'A little problem back in Birmingham sir,' said Smythe cagily.

'Got the milkmaid pregnant did you?' asked Joe with a grin.

'Not exactly sir, it was more about money than women,' replied Smythe, 'I was looking at spending a bit of time in Her Majesty's 'otel if you know what I mean.'

'Oh. Well, that's your business I suppose mate, I won't pry any further. We'd better get going, we're not gunna get any dinner sitting round here, that's for damn sure.'

'Towards the guns sir?' asked Smythe.

'Towards the guns it is, Smithy, and don't call me sir,' he said.

'If it's all the same to you sir, it's easier if I do,' replied Smythe. 'Can't go calling an officer by 'is first name when we get to the army can I?'

'Fair point,' said Joe, thinking that "if" was more appropriate than "when", 'good to see you're thinking positively there Mr Smythe. Let's go.'

Before leaving the farmhouse, they had quickly searched some of the bodies and retrieved a compass, a medical kit and two half-full canteens. This had been a hideous experience, but Joe was glad they had done it as he checked the compass in the last of the daylight and continued westwards.

Many hours of hard walking later, they crawled into cover in another wood. They had been caught on barbed wire fences, tumbled into bogs, barked their shins on fallen trees, scratched themselves in a hundred places, but had slogged on, helping each other through the difficult patches. At one point, blundering about in the darkness, they'd stumbled onto a sunken road where a column of horse-drawn artillery was resting. In the darkness, the artillerymen's uniforms had looked French, and Joe had been about to climb down when he heard an exchange in guttural German.

By the time sky began to turn grey, both men were wet, cold, hungry, thirsty, sore and exhausted. Shock, anger and most of all, fear, were powerful motivators, and despite all the obstacles, the sound of the guns was now much closer. They could also hear engines from somewhere to the south.

'Getting close to the front mate. Christ, I'm so weak I couldn't blow the froth off a beer. How about a kip here in these woods eh?'

'Thought you'd never ask Lieutenant.'

The sergeant was swaying slightly and on his last word he crumpled to the ground. Joe caught him as he fell and laid him down, then lay down beside him. Now they had stopped moving, the sweat cooled rapidly, and within a minute Joe was shivering. A minute later he was asleep.

# Chapter Twenty-six

France, 28 May 1940

Yvette tried not to look in the direction of her uncle's stiffening body. She'd given up trying to pick the lock on the handcuffs hours before and now sat there like a steer in a slaughterhouse, staring into space, trembling with fear. In her imagination Joe came bursting through the door to rescue her, but she knew that was not going to happen. He was gone, probably dead by now.

Footsteps. The door handle rattled and she looked up fearfully as the hated Schmidt entered the house, carrying a bag.

He sat down and pulled out a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine and a half-cheese. Then he pulled out his Luger pistol and unlocked the handcuff.

'Eat.'

She needed no urging. She hadn't eaten for more than a day and her stomach was cramping from hunger. As she crammed down the bread and cheese, the German watched her and toyed with his gun.

'Your fellow Jews my dear, do you know where they are going?' he intoned. 'A lovely little town in Bavaria called Dachau. The Jews that go there are sorted into two categories: useful and useless. The useful ones are worked until they die; the useless ones are gassed and burned in great incinerators. Now, you do understand that I can have you sent there any time I choose, don't you?'

Yvette nodded.

'So then, my little Jewish slattern,' his voice dropped to a whisper, 'don't do anything stupid or you'll find yourself in a hell worse than anything you've ever dreamt of. If you do everything I say, I'll even arrange for someone to come and get rid of that,' he added, gesturing at her uncle's corpse.

'Now my dear, you are going to discover what we Germans mean when we say we are the Master Race. It is time for you put that body of yours to work serving your new masters, do you understand me?'

Yvette concentrated on cramming as much cheese into her mouth as she could.

The whisper turned to a demented scream: 'Verstehen Sie?'

She nodded. He had her at his mercy now, she reasoned, but he would have to make a mistake eventually. Sooner or later she would have the chance to escape, she just needed to take things one step at a time. All that was required was patience.

## ~ ~ ~

The hillside was green and verdant, the sun beat on Joe's bare back and on the splendour of Yvette's naked body. Then the sound of engines and voices interrupted. A swarm of Germans surrounded them and dragged her away. He screamed at them and struggled against the men pinning his arms, but the roaring engines drowned out his voice. A German officer whose face was somehow familiar held a gun to Yvette's head. Joe screamed. The man pulled the trigger and she crumpled to the ground. Joe screamed. The officer advanced on Joe, pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger.

Joe awoke abruptly to find Sergeant Smythe shaking him urgently and saying 'Sssshhhhhh' as quietly as possible.

'Bugger me Smithy, that was a terrible bloody dream,' whispered Joe, clutching at his sergeant's arm. 'What's up?'

'Nazis down there on the road. We didn't pick our spot too well sir, we're only thirty yards from a friggin' bridge if you'll pardon my French. I can 'ear them talking in that filthy bloody lingo of theirs. You were makin' a lot o' noise sir, thought it best to wake you up'.

'You did well Sergeant, do you think they heard me?'

'Can't be too careful sir, shall we scarper from 'ere? I reckon it's about midday from where the sun is. I've just 'ad a quick look, there's a pretty big river just on the other side o' this wood and the bridge looks like the only way across. Maybe we can move a bit closer and get across once this lot move on.'

'Sounds like the plan Smithy, lead on.'

They crept through the trees. They were at the top of a steep bank that plunged down forty feet to a brown river. The river was no more than thirty yards wide, but from their training exercises Joe knew these rivers had a tendency to be deceptively deep and fast-flowing. To their left, German trucks and horses and carts were crossing a stone arch.

'I don't fancy our chances swimming,' said Joe, 'let's get closer so we can make a quick run for it when this lot passes over. Did you see any sentries?'

'No sir, perhaps they're all in too much of a hurry to get to the front.'

They crawled closer through the woods. A fold in the ground gave them a good hiding spot with a view of the bridge. The engine noise was louder here as the trucks changed down a gear to cross the narrow bridge. As Joe and Smythe got into position, a German infantryman covered in dust, with goggles pushed up onto his head, climbed over the crest of the hill, unbuttoned his flies and began urinating against a tree just feet away, his back to the two fugitives.

Joe looked at the sergeant, pointed at the German and drew his hand across his throat. Joe's hands trembled with fear at what he was about to do. He'd slaughtered plenty of sheep, and he'd been trained in hand-to-hand combat, but practising on dummies and sneaking up on a man and killing him with your bare hands were a world apart. Joe swallowed and forced himself to his knees. He got to his feet quietly, then leapt up and raced towards the German, Smythe close behind. As the man fumbled with his flies, Joe's arm came around his neck from behind and dragged him backwards and down onto the ground. The man fought wildly and tried to scream, but Joe rolled him over onto his stomach and Smythe forced his head into the leaf litter. Joe rose and dropped his knee into the man's back, put both hands under the chin, then twisted sideways with all of his strength.

There was a loud crack and the man stopped struggling.

The two men looked at each other over the corpse as the adrenaline thundered in their ears. Joe knew what his sergeant was thinking: what now?

'We need his motorbike and another uniform,' whispered Joe. 'Have a quick look will you?'

While Joe stripped the body, Smythe peered over the edge of the cleft.

'We're in luck Lieutenant, it's a sidecar combo. There's another bloke sittin' in the sidecar. This bloke left 'is rifle leanin' up against the bike. Might be handy.'

Joe struggled into the German's clothes, leaving the boots.

'I've got this cove's bayonet. I'll come from behind and try to stick the other one with it. The uniform might give me an extra second. If that doesn't work, come and help me, okay?'

'Gunther? Was ist los?' came a voice from the road.

Joe crept to the left through the woods and made his way to the edge of the road. The convoy had passed and the road was empty. Ten yards to his right, the sidecar combo was pulled up on the verge, facing away from him. The man in the sidecar had his feet up on the front and was unhurriedly pulling off one of his boots.

'Gunther? Raus, gehen wir!' he called again.

Joe checked where his shadow fell, then stole out of the undergrowth and crept up behind the man, his bare feet making no sound in the dust. When he was within a yard, the man sensed something and turned suddenly .

'Was ist ...?' he said, confused by the uniform, then Joe leapt and thrust the bayonet with all his force into the man's chest. It caught on a rib and slid downwards, slicing through the uniform and scoring the man's flesh.

The German screamed and struggled to get out of the sidecar, but Joe threw a vicious left-handed punch into his chin. As the man flew backwards, Joe followed the punch with an undercut jab of the bayonet into the exposed throat. Blood jetted out and the German fell into the sidecar, gurgling and clutching at his throat. Joe pounced on him, thrusting with the bayonet again and again, oblivious to the man's screaming. His mind was filled with images of Yvette being raped, and of the wall in the farmyard.

Seconds later, Sergeant Smythe was pulling urgently on his arm.

'It's alright sir, 'e's dead. I reckon you can stop now.'

Only then did Joe realise that screams had been his. Screams of rage brought on by the sight of blood and the fierce urge for revenge that had been kindled when he and the rest of the soldiers had been lined up for slaughter, like so many pigs.

Joe looked dazedly at the blood on his hands.

'Christ Smithy, what came over me?'

'Don't worry about it now sir, let's get 'im off the road and get goin' shall we? Before the next lot come along.'

They hauled the body up the slope and over the crest, then stripped the uniform. There was lot of blood on it and quite a few stab holes.

'Tell you what sir, 'ow about you get the bike goin' and I'll go and give this lot a quick wash in the river? Meet you on the other side.'

'I've got a better idea Smithy, put it on and we'll use it as ruse, pretend you've been injured and just drive straight through everyone. If we're flagged down, we'll just have to bluff or shoot our way through, I doubt my German's up to getting us through a checkpoint. What do you think?'

'I think we'll be shot as spies, sir.'

'Well we'd better not stop then,' said Joe.

Five minutes later they were speeding east, Joe riding, Sergeant Smythe in the sidecar, wiping off the remaining blood and checking that the MG34 mounted on the front was loaded, cocked and ready.

# Chapter Twenty-seven

England, 29 May 1940

The telephone rang in Dr Smith's house just after midnight. It was the Admiralty, seeking confirmation that his boat was ready and asking him to be prepared to put to sea in four hours.

The doctor grabbed his sea bag and headed for his boat. He'd registered as a small boat owner after hearing an appeal from the Admiralty on the BBC two weeks earlier. No mission had been specified, only 'expressions of interest' were solicited.

The doctor went to his motor yacht _Constant Nymph_ that was moored at Isleworth. He knew he was supposed to take the yacht down the Thames to Sheerness, but he couldn't do that without a permit.

There were other small boats assembling at the wharf, so he tied up and hopped over to the nearest yacht.

'Any idea what's happening?' he asked the man on board.

'No more than you I suppose. Apparently some naval chap is going to come along and tell us what to do and give us a permit to do it. Fancy a smoke in the meantime?'

The two yachtsmen sat down and had a companionable cigarette, which covered a few minutes. Then they waited. And waited.

Three hours later they had their permits and were allowed to set off downriver. Across the Channel, the beaches at Dunkirk were becoming crowded with men.

## ~ ~ ~

The motorbike and sidecar passed a number of German units advancing up the road, mostly horse-drawn supply vehicles, the tail-end-charlies of any advance. As they neared each lumbering column, Joe leant on the horn, gunned the engine and yelled 'Raus! Raus!' the way he had heard the Germans yell it so many times in the past few days.

They shot past on the edge of the road, sending up clouds of dust and leaving the cart drivers coughing and cursing in their wake. There was one nervous moment when they approached a crossroads manned by military police, but Joe simply accelerated into the crossing, horn blaring, yelling himself hoarse, nipping between a truck and a petrol tanker coming from the right. They cleared the intersection in a stream of German abuse and Joe gunned the engine.

In an hour they covered nearly twenty miles of picturesque Belgian countryside. Green fields stretched off on both sides, streams edged with willows and crossed by stone bridges raced past behind them. Smythe unearthed some rations from the sidecar, and they rapidly devoured the bread and sausage and washed it down with a flask of schnapps. Above them, the sky was criss-crossed with vapour trails as the RAF and French air forces fought their desperate battles against the Luftwaffe. More than once they passed the blackened or still-smoking remains of German aircraft. Clearly the Allied fighters were taking their toll.

As they moved east, the character of the troops they were passing began to change. Now they were driving past lines of infantry, tramping in step and singing their marching songs. A section of tanks held them up briefly as it manoeuvred across a bridge, and as Joe surveyed the countryside around, he heard a battery of heavy artillery firing from a wood on their right.

'Not far now, eh sir?' yelled Smythe over the crash of the cannons, nodding in the direction of the guns.

'Can't be more than a few miles to the front Smithy,' yelled Joe, 'We're going to have to chance our arm a bit, you ready for a bit of a blue?'

'Ready when you are sir,' replied the sergeant.

'Let's go and slice some real German sausage then,' said Joe with a grin, gunning the engine.

As he pulled out to overtake the tanks, a horn blared behind them. Joe threw the handlebars to the right and bumped through the roadside ditch as a staff car roared past them. In the back seat, his peaked cap set at a jaunty angle, was the officer who had ordered the massacre, the man who had taken Yvette away: Richter.

'It's him Smithy,' yelled Joe, putting the bike in gear and gunning it back onto the road.

'What are you doin' sir?' yelled the sergeant.

'I'm gunna kill the bastard, that's what I'm doing,' screamed Joe over his shoulder.

'Oh shit,' said Sergeant Smythe to himself.

## ~ ~ ~

The staff car raced on ahead, its horn clearing a path in the crowded road, soldiers standing aside the moment they saw the twin swastikas flapping on the front mudguards. No one wanted to get in the way of the SS.

Joe ate dust as he kept the bike as close behind as he dared. When the car abruptly took a right turn down a side road he almost missed the turn, braking frantically and dragging the handlebars around just in time.

He felt Smythe tug on his left arm.

'Sir, are you sure this is a good idea, what with us being in Hun uniforms an' all.'

'They've already shot us once Smithy, we're immune now,' yelled Joe, 'and besides, that murdering bastard has to die, get that MG ready.'

Smith cocked the gun and fired a test burst into the bushes as they sped off down the side road. The gun was working, but the car was half a mile ahead now and Joe accelerated hard to catch up. As the bike neared the car he gave a nod and the sergeant opened up with the MG. At the sound of the bullets, Richter ducked and then turned to see what was going on. He signalled frantically, but as the bullets continued to pound into the car he ducked out of sight beneath the seat.

The car drove on, so far unaffected by the hail of bullets. Smith lowered his aim and went for the tires. Just as the bullets burst the left rear tire, the car turned a corner into the square of a small town. German tanks and armoured cars were lined up on both sides of the road and the car screamed to a halt.

Sizing up the situation in a heartbeat, Joe twisted the throttle and accelerated through the town square. Looking around he could see Richter climbing out of the car pointing, and yelling at the soldiers gathering around.

'I think we may have some company soon Smithy. Nice shooting though mate, almost got the bloody bastard. Bugger it, where does this road go?'

The road was winding up a low wooded hill and the bike was slowing.

'Company alright sir,' yelled Smythe, pointing back to where the road they had just travelled led to the village. Two armoured cars were climbing the hill at speed, the Nazi officer standing in the turret of the first. They were clearly gaining on the bike.

'Bugger and damnation,' said Joe looking behind him, 'We'll never out-climb them in this thing.'

'Crest comin' up sir,' warned Smythe.

Joe turned back to the road as the bike roared over the crest of the hill and was airborne for a few seconds before crashing down onto the dirt. Below them, the road wound erratically down the hill towards yet another small river. They could see German infantry crossing the bridge in marching formation. On the far side, the dark shapes of tanks crouched on the edges of the road.

'What now?' asked Smythe.

'Can't go back, hold onto your hat,' called Joe. He hadn't ridden a motorbike like this for years; he was starting to enjoy himself.

He jabbed his thumb onto the horn button and howled down the slope towards the bridge. As they neared the approaches, German infantry scattered off the road yelling obscenities at them.

## ~ ~ ~

They bumped over the bridge and overtook the tanks climbing the far slope. A tank commander yelled something that Joe couldn't hear and then they were speeding down a straight road lined with poplar trees. Up ahead another tank unit was spread out on either side of the road and they could see infantry moving forward out in the fields.

They turned a corner and a hundred yards ahead was a military police checkpoint: a Kubelwagen pulled half across the road and two FeldPolizei standing in the gap. Sergeant Smythe cocked the machine gun and sighted. Joe slowed down as they approached to give him a better shot. When they were twenty yards from the checkpoint, one of the policemen stepped forward and held up his hand. Smythe squeezed the trigger and the dust shook from the bike as the gun rattled viciously and sent a stream of bullets smashing into the MP and his companion.

As they manoeuvred past the bodies, shells began to fall on the road behind them and Joe accelerated. The bike was rocked by a shell landing a few dozen yards away and clumps of earth and shrapnel clattered around them.

'That's Brit artillery. Not far now.' he yelled.

The German soldiers astride the road were hugging the ground, desperate to avoid the shellfire as the motorbike howled through the smoke and flash and thunderous roar of the barrage. Joe found himself whooping with excitement as he wrestled the bike around a corner and down a hill towards a canal. There was a tank facing towards them on the bridge; it was a Matilda II, and behind it Joe could see men in khaki racing back across the bridge.

Suddenly machine gun bullets were blasting into the bike. Joe braked and pulled right and the bike bumped and crashed into the ditch, throwing him over the handlebars and into a bush. Sergeant Smythe was bashed against the machine gun and thrown halfway out, then the bike was silent, on its side, one rear wheel spinning, the front mangled beyond repair.

The two men clambered free of the wreckage.

'Anything broken Smithy?' asked Joe, nursing a badly-sprained left arm and bleeding from a dozen cuts and scratches.

Sergeant Smythe grinned a bloody smile, 'Los a toof I fink sir, bu' I've 'ad worse sir.'

'How are we going to get down there without getting shot by those British tankers do you think?'

The sergeant looked down the hill.

'Tank's pulling back over the bridge. They must be going to blow it.'

'Oh for God's sake, I'm not swimming another river, let's get down there. Quick, take your shirt off, perhaps they might get the idea we're not Germans.'

The two men pulled off their shirts and stumbled down the hill. As they neared the bridge Joe pulled off his singlet, began waving it over his head and started yelling 'British. We're British. Don't shoot you bastards. We're British, don't shoot.'

They stepped onto the bridge and stopped with their hands up. Wires ran along the edge of the road and up over the parapet. It was ready to blow alright.

'You two men,' came a huge voice from the opposite bank, 'If you're British, you'll understand this: that bridge will blow in thirty seconds.'

They bolted, sprinting across the span. They only had to cover thirty yards, but in their dazed and bruised condition it seemed like a mile. Well beyond the bridge, engineers cowering in foxholes yelled encouragement.

'Come on boys, you can make it. Run!'

As they crossed onto the far side there was a roar behind them and they were lifted by an invisible hand and tossed about like leaves. Pieces of masonry showered around them, but they were oblivious.

# Chapter Twenty-eight

France, 31 May 1940

The first thing Joe noticed when he awoke was pain. His body ached all over and he hadn't even moved yet. He was in a tent of some kind and the red glow of sunset (or was it sunrise?) was shining in through the flap. He tried to sit up, but lifting his head sent shrieking pains down his neck. He decided not to do that just yet.

'Ah, you're with us again, excellent.'

The voice came from a man in the uniform of a British major who was standing in the doorway to the tent.

'I'm Major Dennis. The men tell me you were yelling in English but with some sort of accent they couldn't recognise when the bridge blew. So who are you then?'

'Lieutenant Dean sir,' replied Joe, 'Australian Army, on exchange, assigned to the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles.'

'An Aussie, eh? You certainly picked a bad time to volunteer for an exchange.'

'Sir, may I ask how Sergeant Smythe is?'

'The chap who was with you? He's alright, woke up about an hour ago. His head's a bit of a mess though. Where did you two spring from then?'

'Captured two days ago at Roubaix, transported to a farm where there was a company of Royal Norfolks who'd been forced to surrender. I need to report sir, that there was a massacre.'

'Massacre? What do you mean?'

'The Germans lined us all up in a farmyard sir and turned machine guns on us. Smythe and I were the only survivors. Six of my men were killed and the whole company of Norfolks. They walked around afterwards shooting the wounded in the head. I can only assume that the two of us were so covered in blood they took us for dead. There was a German officer there who'd arranged our transport from Roubaix, I suppose he had the whole thing worked out in advance. And another thing, they rounded up all the Jews in the town and were putting them on a cattle train.'

'Where did this massacre happen?'

'In a little town called Le Paradis.'

'Paradise? How ironic. Can you describe this officer. What was his uniform like?'

'When he interrogated me, he told me his name was "Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter. He was in a special camouflage uniform with a double-s insignia on the collars and a skull symbol on his cap.'

'Hmm, yes, we've heard a few stories about this fellow and his unit. We gather they're part of some new elite SS division called 'Totenkopf', which means 'Death's Head'. Typical bloody Teutonic nonsense, but this is the first we've heard of a massacre. How many men were killed do you say?'

'Maybe a company. I recognised their commander, Major Ryder, he got out of a truck just before they lined us all up. He was killed, I have his compass. By the way, where am I and what time is it?'

'Oh you're in an aid station about a mile behind the river you crossed. It's 1800 now, you've been out for a few hours. This is the HQ of the Coldstream Guards. We've been given the job of keeping the sausage-eaters in this sector away from Dunkirk. Feeling alright are we?'

'Nothing broken I think.'

'You don't say 'sir' much do you Lieutenant?'

'Sorry sir, I guess we colonials are a bit casual.'

'Well never mind, get some rest. Unless there's a miracle we'll be pulling out of here tonight and heading for the beaches. The Frogs are going to take over our positions. I'll send for Smythe shall I? Oh, and find time to write me a report of this massacre will you? As much detail as you can remember about time, place, date, anything you can recall about the German unit that did it. We can't let them think they can do that sort of thing to the British Army and get away with it.'

Some hours later, with their cuts and bruises bandaged and a bottle of rum to dull the pain, they hitched a lift on a Bren carrier heading for Dunkirk. The night was lit by the flashes of artillery bursting over the horizon ahead of them. Over the noise of the carrier's engine they could hear the shells screaming overhead like express trains.

'Looks like they're copping it up there Lieutenant,' commented Smythe as another salvo passed over.

'Us too in a few minutes,' answered Joe, 'this ain't the British Army's greatest moment is it? We can't take a trick. Strewth, it's been a bloody balls-up from start to finish.'

'I'm sorry about your lady sir, the one in Roubaix,' said the sergeant quietly.

Joe stared at the flashes. He'd been running on adrenaline since they killed the two Germans in the wood and stolen the motorbike. Now he had nothing to do but sit and think. Images of Yvette being raped by Summerville and then dragged off by the Nazis filled his mind. Never had he felt so utterly powerless. It drained him of energy while filling him with hatred and despair. To be running away while she was being taken off to an uncertain fate was too much for Joe to cope with: his mind refused to deal with it. All his life he had given as good as he got, and now he had no way to cope with being in a position of such helplessness.

'God only knows what'll happen to her. Hear me Smithy, I'm going to find Summerville and that other German bastard one day and when I do, they won't die easily.'

'I 'ope you do find 'em sir, and I hope I'm there when you do.' The sergeant paused awkwardly, then spoke up in a brighter tone 'That was some ride we 'ad wasn't it sir? I won't forget that in a hurry.'

'No, and I don't think we'll forget that farmyard in a hurry either, eh Smithy? Those bloody cowardly bastards. By Christ we had the luck of the devil.'

'Sir, the way I see it, you've got more lives than a black cat. I'm sticking with you sir, I reckon I might just get through this war that way.'

'Let's shake on that Sergeant Smythe: you stick with me, I stick with you. You might regret that decision you know.'

Joe held out his right hand. Smythe took it and they shook.

'Let's also shake on getting that murdering German bastard.'

They shook hands again, Smythe winced.

'Sorry Smythe, we're both a bit stuffed aren't we?'

'Nothin' a stay in old Blighty won't fix sir. We didn't get shot in anythin' important yet, that's the main thing. Nothin' short of a bloody miracle.'

The carrier lurched through the empty streets of a town. The houses were decked with white sheets, showing the invaders that the populace had surrendered, and British equipment lay abandoned everywhere. The carrier swung around trucks and other vehicles left haphazardly behind. The sound of the shelling was growing louder by the minute.

Joe sniffed the air.

'Smell it?' he asked.

'What's that sir?' said Smythe.

'The sea. We're within coo-ee now.'

'Sun's comin' up sir,' replied the sergeant, nodding back eastwards where a grey light was creeping over the sky.

Ten minutes later, the carrier jolted over a bridge and they could see the sand dunes half a mile ahead across a patch of marsh. To the south a pall of oily black smoke dominated the skyline. A road sign beside the bridge said 'Dunquerque'.

They passed the last line of defences, some foxholes dug in along the riverbank, then the carrier was climbing a track through the dunes. As they nosed over the crest, the dunes receded, revealing an appalling scene.

The growing daylight was throwing shadows across a beach strewn with wrecked vehicles and wrecked men. Flak guns, their barrels blown, lay scattered on the sand like steel palms. Trucks, carriers, every kind of military vehicle sat haphazardly on the sand; boxes of supplies and ammunition were heaped at random and between them, thousands of soldiers were arrayed in long lines, standing patiently awaiting salvation. At the south end of the beach, the pier pointed out into the water, ships lined up on both sides. Beyond it, the burning oil tanks of the port could be seen beneath the dense tower of smoke that rose miles into the sky.

Out to sea, ships of all shapes and sizes floated. Some of the smaller vessels were making their way into the beach to where the endless queues of men met the water's edge. A lot of them seemed to be civilian boats: pleasure cruisers, ferries, barges, even yachts. Further out, Joe could make out the shapes of destroyers, cruisers and passenger liners. Closer inshore, the wrecks of the unlucky ones that had been hit by German bombers or artillery lay stranded on the sand.

As the sun rose, a cloudless sky gazed serenely down upon the broken remains of the British Expeditionary Force, and out of that sky, black specks began to dive. Their forms became recognisable as Stuka dive bombers, even as the awful scream of their sirens grew audible.

As the first bombs rained down, the German artillery continued to fire and shells came buffeting overhead to explode among the lines of men, throwing up showers of sand. With each approaching bomb or shell, the men would scatter and throw themselves to the sand, only to stand up and re-join the queue after the danger had passed. Occasionally a direct hit would send bodies flying like rag dolls and the medical teams would have more work to do, stretchering wounded men off to the huge sanatorium behind the beach where the surgeons plied their scalpels.

'Jesus Christ Smithy, would you clap your peepers on that. I hope I never have to see anything like this again.'

'It's a right shooting gallery ain't it sir? What do you reckon we should do?' asked Smythe.

'Not much chance of finding our unit in that lot, even if any of them made it this far. I don't know about you but I don't much fancy standing around in a line down there waiting to be killed. What do you say we stick with the Coldstreamers if they'll have us?'

'Look at that lot sir,' said the sergeant, pointing down the beach.

A group of horses, maybe two dozen of them, was galloping through the shallows, eyes rolling, mouths flecked with foam. Some still wore the traces of the ammo carts they had been hauling.

'Driven mad by the shellfire I suppose,' said Joe. Even as they watched, a shell burst in the air above the pack, leaving two horses struggling brokenly, the water foaming pink around them, while the others scattered then re-formed a herd and continued their race to nowhere.

'Poor buggers, someone ought to put 'em out of their misery,' said Joe. And with that he was off and running down the dune.

As he neared the horses he could hear their screams through the concussion of the bursting shells. Casting about him, he saw the body of a soldier killed in a recent salvo.

'You don't mind if I borrow this, do you mate?' he said grimly, pulling the man's bayonet from its scabbard.

He walked into the surf to where the closest horse was thrashing and screaming piteously. The shrapnel from the airburst had torn gaping holes in its flanks through which the ribs and shredded intestines were clearly visible. Joe had slaughtered countless sheep on the farm. A horse was a little bigger than he was used to, but he expected the principle was the same.

'Easy girl, easy,' he said, putting his hand on its head and searching the neck for the vein pulsing under the skin. The horse calmed momentarily at the sound and the touch and in that moment, Joe plunged the bayonet into its neck and pulled hard, severing the jugular. The horse screamed again and its hooves beat upon the water, but within a few seconds its massive heart pumped out its remaining lifeblood and the noble head fell back into the water.

Joe surged through the water to the other horse. This one had both of its hind legs blown clean off below the knees and was just lying in the shallow water waiting for death.

'All over now girl, rest easy,' said Joe, kneeling in the water. The small Channel waves lapped coolly over his legs as he repeated his work with the bayonet. As he stood from the grisly task, a strange sensation in his back made him turn suddenly.

Behind him, filling the sky was the evil shape of a Messerschmitt 109. Even as he registered its presence, flames flickered along the wings and he threw himself flat behind the horse's corpse. The twin line of machine gun bullets tore up the water on either side, sending up fountains of spume, then the machine blasted overhead only metres above the waterline, its engine screaming as it hauled itself to a safer altitude.

'Bloody bastard! Gutless prick!' yelled Joe. He stood and picked his way back up the beach to where Sergeant Smythe was waiting.

'Thought you was a goner that time sir, I was yellin' like crazy but you didn't 'ear me. What made you turn around?'

'Dunno Smithy. My back just felt a bit odd, itchy or something. Christ I'm getting sick of being shot at.'

'Plenty more where that came from sir, the Navy boys are letting fly again.'

Out in the Channel the guns on all the naval vessels had started booming and the bursts of the flak shells could be seen high above where a squadron of JU88 bombers was approaching.

'Wonder what's happened to the RAF? They were all over 'em inland.'

As they watched, the lead JU88 was hit and simply disintegrated. There was a cheer from the beach, but the second bomber made it through unscathed and dropped its bomb. The deadly shape plummeted down and landed square on the foredeck of a corvette. The boom rolled across the beach as pieces of shattered metal flew upwards. Flames burst out, and as the crew rushed to the hoses, a second bomb hit the rear of the vessel, plunging it underwater and tossing men over the side. The stricken corvette settled in the water and began to sink by the stern as the crew raced for the boats.

'Poor bastards. Guess we won't be getting out on that boat, eh Smithy? Bugger it, there's no point in sticking around here waiting to get killed, we might as well go and see if we can shoot some Nazis. Let's go.'

Joe and Smythe found the first abandoned truck that had fuel and drove back to the canal line. When they arrived the Guards major was sitting outside a patisserie that was miraculously intact, eating a croissant and looking at the far side of the canal through a set of binoculars. Next door, guarding the entrance to the battalion HQ, a Coldstreamer private stood ramrod straight as if he were about to present arms to the King on Empire Day.

'Ah you two fellows again. Didn't find the temptations of the seaside to your liking eh?'

'Bit quiet for us sir,' replied Joe 'we like a bit of excitement don't we Smithy?' said Joe.

'Well you won't find it here Lieutenant. The Luftwaffe and the artillery seem intent on plastering the beaches and this area is relatively calm.'

'What's going on Major?' asked Joe, 'aren't the Germans attacking?'

'We're not entirely sure Lieutenant. They were certainly giving us a good hammering yesterday and we were expecting a major tank assault today, which would have finished us for sure, but there's no sign of them. They seem to have stopped attacking right around the perimeter.'

'Maybe they've got cold feet sir?' put in Sergeant Smythe.

'We can certainly hope so Sergeant, although the defence we've put up here in Belgium would scarcely justify it, but you never heard me say that.'

'Say what sir?' grinned the sergeant.

'Well seeing as you're here, I might as well use you. I have an undermanned support section with some machine guns who could use a few men. Will that do?'

'Bloody oath Major. Do you have a couple of rifles?' replied Joe. The major looked a little taken aback at Joe's words, but he took it in his stride.

'You colonials, I'll never get used to it. Yes, Lieutenant, one thing we're not short of is weapons and ammunition, they're lying around everywhere.'

He gestured at a pile of boxes inside the patisserie.

'Take your pick. You'll be in Lieutenant Shaw's platoon, and please consider yourself one of his men for purposes of rank Lieutenant. If he gets hit I'll expect you to take over of course.'

'Righto Major, we'll be off then.'

'Get yourselves something to eat first, you may not get another chance if the Germans attack. These croissants are excellent.'

# Chapter Twenty-nine

France, 3 June 1940

Joe and Sergeant Smythe shared the watch with their new-found unit, but there was no movement that day from the German positions across the canal. After two days of constant shelling and infantry assaults, all was quiet. Even the artillery had stopped firing and by sunset an unfamiliar silence had descended over the battlefield. The occasional explosion shattered the quiet as British engineers destroyed piles of abandoned equipment, but from the Germans there was no sound. The night was faintly illuminated by the glow of burning buildings in the town, and while they could see German soldiers moving about on the far bank, there didn't appear to be any kind of concerted activity.

At 0400 the major dropped into the trench.

'Okay you fellows, time to go, I'm reliably informed that there's only one more destroyer coming in at dawn and we Lilywhites are going to be on it. You've got an hour to get down to the beach and get in the queue.'

'What about the Germans sir, who's going to stop them crossing?' asked Joe.

'A French unit will take over our positions just before dawn. They're all volunteers who reckon they'd rather stay and fight the Germans than go over to England. Stout fellas, we're lucky to have them, so let's not let them down. Join the company and get down to the beach now.'

The Coldstream Guards were forming up quietly by company in the street two hundred yards from the canal. Joe and Smythe tagged on to the end of the company line and they marched off in good order with their weapons.

A lieutenant walking the line spotted them and asked 'Who are you fellows?'

'Lieutenant Dean and Sergeant Smythe of the 2nd Staffordshire Rifles,' replied Joe, 'we got separated from our unit, your Major Dennis took us in at the bridge.'

'Aah, you're the two who ran the bridge at the last minute? Lucky for you we picked a fuse a bit longer than normal eh? Right you are then, we'll see if we can get you on a boat.'

This time as they breasted the dunes with the sun at their back the view was different. The long lines of men had shrunk, although many thousands of soldiers, mostly French were still milling about in confusion with no hope of escape. Some still stood hopefully on the lines of trucks driven into the water at low tide to form makeshift piers. Beside the main pier a destroyer burned fiercely, a gaping black hole in its side; further out to sea, the superstructure of wrecks showed forlornly above the water. The flotilla that had covered the sea the day before was reduced now to just a few naval vessels and a handful of smaller boats.

'Looks like the show's almost over,' said Sergeant Smythe as they plodded through the sand, wending their way through the wreckage of the British Army. As they neared the water, the stench of unburied bodies arose from the water's edge, where corpses flopped in the shallows. The sunrise had revealed another cloudless sky, but these men saw none of it.

'Alright you lot,' came the stentorian voice of what could only be a Regimental Sergeant Major, 'order arms, head of the line starting from this tank. The major wants to talk to you.' After a minute of shuffling into place the expected order came: 'Attennnn-shun.' The major strolled around the end of the line with his swagger stick and took up a position in front of the ranks of dog-tired men.

'Soldiers of the Coldstream Guards, you have fought bravely but the time has come for us to leave. We are expecting a navy corvette to take us off in half an hour, so be ready. We will not be taking our weapons, so on the RSM's order you will take out your rifle bolts and throw them into the ocean as far as you can. Ditch any and all extra equipment. We will be boarding through small boats that will come in to the beach, so when I give the order the front of the line will enter the water. Each boat can take fifty men at most, so I will count you off. If we are fired upon, do not leave your place in the line, you're just as likely to get hit over there,' he gestured vaguely up the beach, 'as you are right here. I look forward to seeing you all in England. RSM, carry on.'

'Sah. 'talion... At ease. Stand easy.'

Joe noticed that the disciplined drill of the men was unchanged. They could have been on a parade ground rather than standing in the ashes of the biggest defeat in British military history. He supposed that this was one reason why they called the Coldstream Guards an elite regiment. This regiment was the oldest in the British army and had fought in every major campaign in imperial history. Their courage and tenacity was the stuff of legend. Joe could only imagine the ignominy they must have felt at having to retreat, to run off the Continent and leave it to the terrors of the Germans.

He found himself thinking of Yvette. Where had they taken her? Was she still alive? Would he ever see her again? Questions without answers. They were both caught up in events that dwarfed the individual, rendering any sense of personal destiny meaningless. Every moment required a conscious effort to ward off despair.

'Right you lot,' said the RSM, 'I think we'll have a song to pass the time. Jones, lead off with Siegfried Line will you?'

A private near the centre of the line started the first verse in a fine tenor voice, and the men around Joe began 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 If the Siegfried Line's still there.'

As the melody gathered strength, Joe heard another sound above it: the drone of aero engines. A line of six bombers passed overhead and a clutch of black shapes tumbled out of them. The bombs bracketed the battalion, sending showers of sand over the lines of men. Miraculously, not a single bomb made a direct hit. A few men fell, pierced by shrapnel, to be taken up by the stretcher bearers, but the rest of the men sang on oblivious. Another flight of six planes came over but these ones turned their attentions on the corvette that was now approaching the beach. Geysers of water shot skyward as the bombs plunged into the water, but the brave little vessel carried on and, even as the anchor was loosed, Joe could see the boats going down over the side.

'Don't get your hopes up Sergeant, but I think our ride has arrived.'

'Bloody 'ope so sir, if you'll pardon me French, I can't stand this bloody singing,' replied the sergeant.

Joe looked at him. His ear wound had re-opened at some point and he had lost a lot of blood, most of which had soaked into his uniform. His face was pale as the sand, and the sling holding his wounded arm was filthy and shredded. He'd escaped death and fought his way here through an entire German army and was still a long way from home, with little chance of survival, yet here he was making jokes. Joe shook his head; no wonder the British Empire had lasted so long if it had men like this to fight for it.

An interminable hour later, a little civilian motor launch called _Constant Nymph_ picked them up, and they clambered up the nets on the side of the corvette to a deck already jammed. Men in khaki covered every surface. They were all clearly ready to drop: filthy, unfed, wet, demoralised. Then the engines started up, black smoke poured from the funnel and the corvette turned towards England, a foaming wake rising behind its stern.

There was a ragged cheer at this and someone called out 'Three cheers for the Navy, hip-hip-hip hurrah!' The three cheers crashed out and as they subsided, a naval ensign appeared on a balcony off the bridge above them.

'Char's up on the fo'csle,' he called out to the crowd, 'if you can get in a line you might get lucky and get a mug of it.'

'Hey Ensign,' called out one of the soldiers, 'thanks for picking us up.'

The man in blue smiled and called out 'You're in the hands of His Majesty's Royal Navy now mister, safest place you've been in your whole bleedin' life I imagine. We'll have you back in Blighty by tonight.'

On the beach, thousands of French and wounded British soldiers were left behind. They watched the corvette pull out to sea and gazed expectantly through the drifting smoke and the wreckage of destroyed vessels, through the blasts of artillery shells and bombs, hoping for a glimpse of the next ship that would take them off this hellish beach, off this lost Continent.

They were still looking hopefully out to sea an hour later when the German planes disappeared and the shells stopped falling. Men stared around themselves in bewilderment. In the silence, the sounds of sobbing and groaning mingled with the susurration of the waves as they lapped their burden of corpses up, and then down.

Then a new sound came to their ears; a sound they had all heard before and feared and hated; the sound that represented the Germans' new way of war: squealing tank tracks. Along the dunes at the back of the beach, German infantry appeared, sighting their rifles down into the crowd, setting up machine guns and mortars. Where the road ran behind the beach near the town, a line of tanks rolled into position, their guns lowered.

The battle for Belgium was over. Now the battle for France could begin.

## ~ ~ ~

At 5pm that evening, Vice-Admiral Bertram Ramsay presented his report on Operation Dynamo to the Prime Minister.

'Over 330,000 men rescued you say Ramsay?' said Winston Churchill, sipping from his brandy balloon, 'a damned fine effort, damned fine. The Royal Navy to the rescue once again, hmm? We're told that Corporal Hitler is planning to invade once he's taken France, so I've been working on a little speech for tonight to make our position quite clear. What do you think of this for a conclusion?'

He stood and adjusted his dressing gown, glared down at the manuscript and pronounced in a sonorous voice.

"We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills. We shall never surrender."

'I think it will do Prime Minister,' replied the Vice-Admiral, 'I think it will do admirably.'

'God bless you man, and all your sailors,' replied Churchill, 'now, do you fancy a cigar?'

## ~ ~ ~

Yvette clutched the jacket tightly around her. After nearly two days cuffed to the radiator, she was in excruciating pain, striving to find a position that gave even slight relief to her screaming joints. Hagan Schmidt had unlocked the handcuff just twice so she could eat and use the bathroom at gunpoint. Her left wrist was bruised from the handcuff and her bones and flesh ached from being unable to get comfortable in any position.

She had not slept, and the only thing keeping her sane was the desperate hope of a chance to escape. The second time he unlocked the cuff she'd tried to grab the gun, but he was expecting the move and beat her into bloodied submission with the butt of the pistol. Then he'd raped her again, all the while calling her names like 'dirty Jewess slut' and 'kike whore'.

The day and night after the beating he didn't come at all, and Yvette huddled in the house, weeping and crying out for help, in agonies of thirst. No one came.

The next evening she heard a car pull up outside and the door opened. Schmidt came in wearing a black uniform and cap, looking every inch the Nazi officer.

'Get up,' yelled Schmidt, advancing on her.

This time she was better prepared. She had been practising what she would do in this moment, hour after hour.

He bent down and unlocked the cuff, and as he pulled her up roughly by the arm, she slumped back and he overbalanced slightly. He looked up and raised an arm involuntarily to steady himself, and she took the opportunity to jab the stiffly pointed fingers of her right hand into his exposed throat with all her strength.

He reeled back against the kitchen table, choking, clutching at his throat and fumbling for his pistol. Yvette scrambled up and kicked him viciously in the groin. He doubled over in pain.

'Bastard!' she screamed, 'Bastard!' and grabbing the cast-iron frying-pan from the stove, smashed it into his head, opening up a bloody gash in his forehead above his right eye. She hit him again and again and again, until he hit the ground, then, sobbing and heaving for breath, she dropped the pan with a clang.

Looking about her she gathered up some clothes, a blanket, a greatcoat and the last of the bread and cheese. She found her uncle's old army-issue water bottle in the cupboard and filled it. Taking Schmidt's pistol, Yvette threw the meagre collection of possessions into a bag and took a last look around. The German hadn't moved. She ran out of the house by the back door.

In the evening gloom she ducked between the houses and made for the edge of town. By nightfall she had swum the river and was sitting shivering in an abandoned British dugout on the edge of the woods, looking down on the ruins of her Roman excavation.

'What now?' she wondered to herself.

## ~ ~ ~

Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter looked at the pitiful lines of defeated soldiers. Behind him in the sanatorium, thousands more groaned and died in agony as the few doctors and nurses who had stayed behind tried desperately to save them. Richter had no thought for wounded Allied soldiers. He was thinking about the medal that the Fuhrer would hang around his neck. Surely he could expect at least an Iron Cross for his unit's actions? With that bit of tin around his neck the women would be swooning for him. French, Belgian, German, it really made no difference.

He laughed to himself. He was an officer in the mightiest army the world had ever seen, he could do as he pleased, take what he wanted and no one could do anything about it. It was going to be a good war. Chuckling to himself he turned to see Hagan Schmidt approaching unsteadily, his head swathed in bandages, a large cotton patch secured over his right eye.

'Ah Hagan, what has happened to you?'

'I was set upon in the street by some French deserters,' lied Schmidt. They took my eye, but they are paying for their crime now.'

'Unfortunate,' replied Richter, 'still, you see before you the fruits of your labour,' he smirked, gesturing at the devastated beach, 'you are better able to understand the plans of your masters in the Abwehr now, hein?'

'Ja,' replied the spy, 'I am only wondering whether they are going to tell me it would be more 'realistisch' if I were to return to England on one of those pathetic little yachts they were using. Mein Gott, what is the Royal Navy reduced to?'

'I fear the Royal Navy may be better equipped for deep water Hagan. Anyway, who cares? We are soldiers, not sailors. What have you done with the Jewish bitch by the way?'

'I have sent her to Dachau,' lied Schmidt again, 'but not before I had some sport with her.'

Richter shuddered. His ideas of racial purity didn't stretch to screwing Jewish girls, however attractive they might be. This Hagan fellow didn't seem to have the same scruples.

'Dachau eh? That's the last we'll see of her then,' he replied. 'I will be celebrating our victory with my men tonight and perhaps enjoying some of the local French talent, would you care to join us?'

'Nein danke,' replied Schmidt, 'I have another Jewess who needs some education in Germanic superiority.'

'Really Hagan,' said Richter with a sniff, 'should you be dallying with the untermenschen like this? I'm not sure the Fuhrer would approve.'

'Maybe so Hauptsturmfuhrer, but a piece of advice if I may offer it: never let your Nationalist Socialist ideals prevent you from taking what you want. We are the master race, everything is ours for the taking. Guten abend.'

'Guten abend mein herr,' replied the officer.

As the injured spy walked away, Richter reflected on what he had said and realised that he had just been thinking exactly the same thing himself. Why did it sound so ugly in the mouth of another?

Below him on the sand, the lines of captured men shuffled forward.

## ~ ~ ~

The corvette was well across the Channel by the time full daylight arrived. Seated near the bow, the two men could see ahead of them the white cliffs where the green grass of England fell abruptly into the sea.

'Looks like we're home and hosed Smithy,' said Joe.

'I 'ope so sir, I'm never 'appy on the water, I can't swim too well.'

Suddenly the pom-pom guns on the side of the corvette began booming again and the men looked up in terror as the scream of a Stuka became audible over the crashing flak guns. With nowhere to go, they could do nothing but watch, horrified, as the plane fell out of the sky towards them.

The Stuka pulled out of its dive as a 20mm shell exploded under the engine, but it was too late, it had already released its bomb, which fell directly onto the maindeck amidships and exploded with tremendous force. Joe and Smythe covered their heads as debris and parts of bodies rained down around them. A chunk of metal the size of a cricket ball struck Joe's head a glancing blow, knocking him over and opening a gash from which the blood poured. The whole ship was shaking like a house in an earthquake, and flames were leaping out of the wreckage that was all that was left of the centre of the ship.

'She's going down, everyone off,' screamed a naval officer, distinguishable only by his enormous voice, as his uniform had been almost entirely burnt off. He turned and dived into the water, where slicks of diesel from the ruptured fuel tanks were now bubbling to the surface.

Joe cast about him through the blood streaming down his face. There was a life belt still attached to the railing behind him. He grabbed and it threw it over Smythe.

'Let's go mate,' they climbed over the railing and jumped into the seething ocean.

The water was shockingly cold and it seemed to take Joe an age to rise to the surface. When he burst into the air beside the stricken vessel, men were jumping into the sea all around him. He swam a few strokes and saw Smythe floating a few yards away, moaning quietly. He struggled over to him and started dragging him away. A series of explosions ripped through the corvette and it seemed to crumple in the middle, as if it were a paper boat that had absorbed too much water. Men were still leaping into the sea, some screaming horribly as they beat at the flaming oil that writhed around them.

Joe looped an arm through Smythe's life belt, lashed himself on with the rope, then started kicking. By the time the corvette settled into the water he had gained enough distance to avoid being sucked under. The ship shuddered, then abruptly slid beneath the water, leaving only a flaming oil slick dotted with drowned men.

A Messerschmitt 109 zoomed in from the east, flying low over the waves. As it neared the men struggling in the icy water, the pilot fired his machine guns. Unable to move, the men dived under the water, desperate to escape death. After a few passes the pilot must have run out of ammunition or enthusiasm for cold-blooded killing; he pulled up and banked towards France, taking the lives of a dozen more young British soldiers with him.

Joe fought the waves of exhaustion that washed over him as frequently as the waves of the Channel. Despite the cloudless sky, the water was freezing and the waves big enough to swamp a man who didn't have much strength left. Fingers of cold started working their way up his legs and his will to hold on to Smythe and the life belt began to ebb. Smythe was not making any sound now. After surviving everything they'd been through, only to be thwarted at the last minute seemed too cruel to Joe. He had tried his best, but now he had nothing left.

He toyed with the idea of letting go. What would happen? He'd sink like a stone and his body would be eaten by the fish. This didn't seem such a bad thing, really. The sun was rising over the waves in a red blaze and, as his grip loosened, Joe thought about the sunrises he'd seen out on the wide plains of South Australia and smiled. The water didn't feel cold anymore, none of it mattered, it was going to be alright. He let go of Smythe's life belt.

# Chapter Thirty

England, 12 June 1940

Someone was mowing the lawn with a push-mower. It was a sound that Joe recognised well, having spent many hours mowing the lawn around his family's house with just such a mower. He could never see the point himself, why not just let a few sheep through the fence once a month or so and let them eat it down?

His father had been adamant, it had to be mown, standards had to be maintained. He also insisted on whitewashing the rows of stones that lined the pathway to the front porch. All of this seemed pointless to a teenage boy who just wanted to be out riding his horse and shooting rabbits, but there was no getting out of it.

'Am I home then?' wondered Joe sleepily, his eyes fluttering.

'Sir, Mr Dean, are you awake Sir?'

Joe opened his eyes to see that he was lying in a bed in what could only be a hospital. Sitting beside him was a man whose bright blue eyes had a somewhat manic expression only partly obscured by a large bandage wrapped around his forehead. Behind him was a tall and pretty nurse, whose blonde hair escaped from under her cap, framing her face in a way that Joe found immensely interesting.

'E's awake! We never thought you'd come 'round Sir, 'ow are you feeling?'

'And who the hell are you, mate?' croaked Joe.

'Why it's me, Smiffy, your sergeant, Mr Dean. Don't you remember? Surely you remember Dunkirk?'

'Dunkirk?' he asked.

'Yes that's right, that corvette we were on got 'it by a bloody Stuka, then we got strafed by one o' them MessyShit fighters o' theirs. I thought we'd bought it then, and I must've dropped off for a while. Next thing I knew an MGB was haulin' us out. But sir, that was a week ago, you've been out to it the 'ole time, we thought you were, well you know...'

Joe moved his head and swore as a bolt of agony shot through his neck.

The nurse leaned forward and put an arm on Smythe's shoulder.

'Now Sergeant, we mustn't excite him,' her voice was soft, 'he needs to rest and get his strength back. You can come and see him in a few hours. And besides, you're not in great shape yourself.'

For the first time Joe took in the heavy bandage around Smythe's left leg and the crutches he had stacked against the bed.

'How are you then, Sergeant?' he croaked.

'Oh you know 'ow it is sir, can't complain, copped this leg wound when the ship blew up and my balance ain't too good at the moment. Might've lost the leg they say if the shrapnel had been a few inches to the left.'

'The Sergeant will be fine in a few weeks Lieutenant, and now I want you to rest. I'll bring you some broth in a minute. Sergeant?'

She held out her hand and Smythe reluctantly gathered his crutches, tipped Joe a wink and hobbled off up the corridor.

Joe experimented with each limb one at a time, starting with his left leg. Everything seemed to be in working order until he got to his head. His neck was virtually immobilised by a stiff plaster collar, and when he moved his head, pain suffused his temples. He lay back and closed his eyes.

He wondered who the blazes this Smith character was and what the hell he had been blathering about. Bombed by Stukas, strafed by Messerschmitts, picked up by an MGB, what the hell was he on about? The last thing he remembered was being in a hotel with a beautiful girl in some European town or other. That was a nice thought. For a minute he wondered who she was and how he'd ended up with her, then he fell asleep and dreamed.

He dreamed of home, and Black Friday. A week of forty-degree heat baking the earth dry had spawned the wind. The fire started in the bush over the ridge at World's End. Sun through a shard of broken glass? Some fool dropping a cigarette? Who knew? Within an hour, the flames were beyond anyone's control.

Eucalyptus smoke turned the sky orange as the fire raced beneath the gum trees where hardened seeds awaited the rejuvenating flames. As it climbed the Hallelujah Hills, the fire grew in intensity. It crossed the ridge, leapt into the crowns of the trees on the lower slope and became a firestorm of exploding balls of eucalyptus gas.

Down in the valley on Emu Downs, George Dean smelt the fire long before he saw it. He dropped the ewe he was crutching and went out of the shed, shielding his eyes from the brutal glare and the dust.

Outside, the iron windmill was a blur, dust was flying everywhere and sheets of corrugated iron on the roof were lifting and banging. The sheep in the yard were shifting about, bunching up and making nervous bleats. Small wonder: up in the hills, fingers of grey smoke pointed directly towards them, the flames were clearly visible in the treetops, and a low and ominous roar reached his ears.

'Ah Christ, ten minutes if we're lucky,' he muttered to himself, 'should've cleared those bloody trees around the house.'

He yelled across the yard to the house, 'Gabrielle. Fire coming, close all the windows and fill the bath, I'll get the pump out.'

He ran to the shed, dragged out the hand-pump and attached the canvas hose to the water tank. It hadn't rained for months and the tank was only a third full. He hoped it would be enough.

Joe had received the phone call while he was sitting in a class on bayonet drill at Duntroon. Given bereavement leave, it took him four days to get to South Australia, by which time the police had buried what was left of his parents down near the creek.

'Smoke inhalation' was what the local constable had said, and if the state of the farm was anything to go by, Joe could only pray that their deaths had been that merciful.

He walked down to where the creek bed curved around. He remembered when he was a small boy it had flowed during winter most years. Given some consistent rain it would become a billabong one day. Since he'd turned twelve though, he'd hardly seen water in the creek at all. It was certainly dry now, and the two whitewashed crosses stood out against the charred stumps of grass and the ash of the leaf litter.

Joe stood before the graves and felt nothing. How could these two piles of dirt be all that remained of his mother and father? He squatted and tossed some of the red soil onto the mounds. It was impossible. He walked back up the hill to where the constable was sitting patiently on the chopping block, smoking a cigarette.

The shearing shed was a blackened pile of timbers, the only thing still upright was the steel structure of the shearing drive, the wheels hanging from the shaft, disfigured by the fierce heat.

The yards were littered with the corpses of ewes, where they'd huddled together, unable to escape the smoke. The stench of roast mutton drifted in from the north paddock to mingle with the acrid smell of burnt hardwood. The house had fared little better. The corrugated sheets lay twisted and broken thirty yards away. Once the wind took the roof off, the fire had free rein to gut the place.

Joe pushed open the front door, scorched, but still on a hinge, and stood in what had been the kitchen. The fire had consumed everything but the bricks of the chimney and the iron stove. He crunched through the wreckage to the bathroom, his feet raising clouds of ash which re-settled silently.

This was where they'd found them, lying together in the cast-iron bath. The bath was untouched, a bit blackened on the top, but perfectly serviceable. Joe turned away and stepped outside. Although his chest felt tighter than a snare drum and he was choking on his own breath, he couldn't summon any emotion, let alone cry.

'Seen enough?' said the constable.

'Has anyone told my brother?'

'Couldn't track 'im down, know where he is?'

'He's in Queensland, Longreach I think. That was where we last heard from him anyway. S'pose I'd better write to him.'

'Whatcha gunna do?' asked the constable.

'Reckon I'll be selling. I've only got a year to go before I finish officer school,' said Joe, gazing out towards the hills from which death had come so quickly. 'Wonder whether Matt would want to come back and farm this place?'

'Rather him than me,' said the constable, 'give you a lift?'

'Yeah, thanks,' said Joe.

'They found these by the way,' said the constable digging in his pockets, 'someone thought you might want 'em.'

He dropped a pair of scorched dog tags and a misshapen wedding band into Joe's hand.

## ~ ~ ~

Andre Lamont, a local dairy farmer, had found her lying wet and bedraggled, asleep under a tree. He'd taken her to his farmhouse, where his wife Susanne had fed her and given her some fresh clothes.

'What will you do now?' asked Andre.

'I don't know. Clearly I can't go back to Roubaix,' replied Yvette.

'You can stay here as long as you like,' said Susanna, 'as far as the Germans are concerned you could be our daughter or our niece, we look enough alike.'

'That will work until they start asking for papers and searching for me,' said Yvette, 'I don't know whether I killed that German or not, I was in too much of a hurry to get away. If he's still alive...'

'Last night in the tavern there was talk of a resistance,' said Andre, lighting a cigarette.

'A resistance?' said Yvette, suddenly alert.

'Oh husband, don't go filling the poor girl's head with silly ideas,' scolded Susanna.

'I'm only saying,' continued Andre, 'that there was talk of it. There are people who are prepared to keep fighting even though our army has surrendered.'

He spat on the cobbled floor of the kitchen, earning a frown from his wife.

'You must take me to them,' said Yvette, 'I want to kill Germans.'

'What nonsense you talk child,' interjected Susanna, 'you're just a girl.'

'Non,' replied Yvette, 'I think after what has happened in the last few days I have earned the right to be called a woman. And I want revenge, for myself and for my uncle and for the people they took away on that train.'

'This is madness,' cried Susanna, 'if you're captured you'll be tortured and then put against a wall and shot.'

'And what exactly have I got to lose now?' said Yvette quietly, 'apart from my life?'

Andre took a long draw on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

'Tomorrow I will take you to the man who was talking in the tavern. He told us he was a staff captain, of all things. Let us hope for your sake he is not working for the Germans.'

As she lay in bed that night, Yvette thought of the moment she had shared with Joe on the hilltop. It all seemed so childish now: a distant time; a naive time; a before time; a time when love had meant everything.

She no longer recognised that time. Now there was no room in her heart for love, only vengeance.

## ~ ~ ~

'Hold on to my arm Smithy, that's it, grab hold. Now, have a go without the crutch. You've only got to make it to the chair.'

Smythe steadied himself, put his weight on his left foot and leant hard on Joe. He took a deep breath and dropped the crutch, then moved his right foot forward six inches and placed his weight on it. Suppressing a grimace, he moved the left foot, then the right and staggered across the lawn to the wheelchair sitting under the willow, where he swivelled and collapsed. Sweat had broken out on his forehead and he rubbed at the ankle of his left foot.

'Grouse effort Smithy, you'll be running inside a week I reckon.'

'Whatever you say sir,' replied the sergeant through gritted teeth. 'How's your rehabomination comin' along then?'

'The doc told me this morning that physically I'm OK, nothing broken, incredibly, some bad bruises and sprains only. My brain's taken a bit of a beating though, concussion or something, some part of it's all inflamed. He reckons that if I rest a bit longer it'll calm down, but there's some chance I'll have blackouts or some kind of fit if I get over-excited.'

'You'd better stay away from Nurse Leslie then,' chuckled Smythe.

'Ha bloody ha Mr Smythe.'

'Have you 'eard that bloke screaming in the middle of the night?' asked Smythe, 'Crikey, he must be 'avin' bad dreams.'

'Screaming? No I must have slept through it.'

'Lucky for you. 'e kept calling some French girl's name, least I suppose it was a name, went on and on. I think they gave him shot of something to shut 'im up in the end. Maybe this place was a nuthouse before the war and 'e's still 'ere. So when do you reckon they'll let us out?'

'Come now gentlemen, it is nearly lunchtime.' Nurse Leslie walked behind Smythe and gently pushed the wheelchair along the lawn towards the ramp beside the hospital entrance.

'We will miss all of you boys when you leave us,' she said, her blue eyes looking at Joe.

Joe had been flirting with Nurse Leslie ever since he'd woken up and realised that he was in England. She was in charge of the rehabilitation ward where Joe had spent most of the last few weeks, helping Smythe to get back on his feet. A piece of shrapnel had sliced through his left calf muscle and straight through his shin bone. The cast was about to come off and the doctor was confident that he would make a full recovery. The nurse was learning French, and Joe's conversations with her, punctuated by scraps of atrocious French he could not recall ever having learnt, had given them both a great deal of pleasure.

This time though, Joe had no witty reply. 'Well, we'll come back when the war's over, eh Smithy? Any news lately?'

'France has fallen and Marshal Petain has set up a government in Vichy. France is all German now apparently. Now, how is your head? Any blackouts today?'

'Nah, not so far, everything's fine, I feel pretty good.'

'Except you still can't remember anything from the last few months?'

'Nup. Last thing I remember was being in a hotel before the whole shooting match started.'

'That is definitely not a good sign, you will need take care or the memory loss may be permanent.'

'As long's I can remember you Nurse Leslie, that's fine with me.'

'Oh you,' she blushed and pushed him in the chest, 'come on then, help me get him up the ramp.'

## ~ ~ ~

The man in the black uniform walked up and down the line of civilians, his arms behind his back, looking intently at each person. Behind him, soldiers hefted machine guns and stared into the middle distance, seemingly oblivious.

'You are all enemies of the Reich,' screamed the officer, 'You have all conspired to betray the sacred mission of the Fuhrer and for this you will pay.'

Joe noticed a girl in the line. Despite the indignity of the situation, she held herself erect with a proud bearing. She looked familiar. The officer noticed her too. He walked up to her and grabbed her by the hair, twisting her head cruelly, then slapped her face viciously.

Joe leapt forward but found himself unable to move, as if his limbs were pinioned.

'You, you pretty little thing, will set an example for the rest of them so they know what to expect if they step out of line again.'

He pulled his pistol from its holster and waved it in front of her face. She spat in his eye.

The man choked but didn't let go, he lashed her viciously across the face with the pistol, leaving blood streaming from her cheek. Joe screamed and struggled to free himself.

The officer pulled the girl upright and thrust the pistol's barrel into her mouth. Suddenly, Joe knew who she was.

'Yvette! Yvette!' screamed Joe.

The officer pulled the trigger and stepped away as the body crumpled.

'Finish it,' he snarled to the men. The machine guns opened up.

'It's alright, it's alright, it's only a dream Joe, only a dream.'

Nurse Leslie was on the side of the bed, sponging his head with a damp cloth.

Joe turned and found he still couldn't move. His arms and legs were held down with leather restraints.

'What the hell's this?' he said.

'It's for your own good Joe. When you have these dreams you scream and thrash about so terribly, the doctor was afraid you would injure yourself.'

'Christ, I didn't come down in the last shower, something pretty bad must have happened. Am I losing my mind?'

'No, it's just a concussion, but a bad one. Perhaps when you get your memory back these nightmares will stop? Here, I will untie you.'

'Thank you,' said Joe. 'You know I still only know you as Nurse Leslie,' said Joe, 'aren't you going to tell me your name?'

'The doctor advised me not to tell you this, but my name is Yvette,' she replied.

Joe had gone rigid. The colour had drained from his face and he was staring into space as if seeing something denied to mere mortals.

'Joe,' she was close, whispering in his ear, 'you have been screaming my name night after night. What happened? Tell me.'

'Oh Christ help me, it's all coming back,' whispered Joe, tears streaming down his face.

'Tell me Joe, tell me what happened.'

'What time is it?' he asked.

'3am'.

'Hold me Yvette, I'm cold.'

She lay down beside him and wrapped herself around his back. She ran her hands softly over his forehead and shoulders and he started to talk. He talked for hours, until, eventually, he stopped and just lay there, rigid.

'It will be alright Joe, it will be alright,' she whispered over and over, as if by repetition it could be made the truth.

Gradually, the tension in the soldier's body loosened, and his head dropped heavily onto the pillow.

As his breathing became steady, Yvette stared at the window. Outside, the black night was turning grey.

# Chapter Thirty-one

England, 19 June 1940

The British officers stood before the podium, some still with arms in slings, or struggling to stay upright on crutches or new prosthetic limbs.

A little way down the line, a general and a major were escorting a third officer in a Field Marshal's uniform. He had a lined face and prominent ears and Joe thought he looked vaguely familiar.

'Who's this geezer?' he whispered to the officer beside him.

'That's King George the Sixth,' hissed the man in an irritated tone.

'The King himself eh?' thought Joe, 'you've come a long way boyo.'

'Lieutenant Joe Dean,' called the RSM and Joe took a step forward.

'For acts of exemplary gallantry during active operations against the enemy in the defence of Belgium,' read the major, 'Lieutenant Joseph Dean of His Majesty's Australian Imperial Force is awarded the Military Cross.'

The king pinned the medal to Joe's chest and said 'You're a l-l-long w-w-way from h-h-home, L-Lieutenant. W-w-well d-done sir.'

'Thank you, your Majesty,' replied Joe, then, as instructed, flung his best salute and stepped back into line.

An hour later he met Smythe in the Elephant and Castle. Smythe was now nearly fully healed and able to walk without crutches, but Joe found him nursing a pint of bitter with an unhappy expression.

'What's up Smithy?' asked Joe, slapping him on the back, 'You look like an emu's kicked your dunny down.' It was then that Joe noticed his friend's sleeve: it had only two stripes.

'Your field commission wasn't approved sir,' said Smythe, I'm back to bein' a corporal. But hang on, what's this bit o' tin on your shirt sir?'

'It's a Military Cross Smithy, the King himself stuck it on there. Makes me wonder how anyone knew what went on over there that they could decide to give me a medal. Did you have anything to do with it by any chance?'

'Well sir, I might've mentioned one or two things when I was bein' debriefed.' replied the corporal. 'Our 'ole company was wiped out sir, they want to know what 'appened in those sorts of situations I gather.'

'Well it's bloody hard lines that I should get this and you be put back to corporal,' said Joe. 'Don't worry mate, I'll get that sorted out if it's the last thing I do. They must be short of experienced sergeants for heaven's sake.'

The door of the pub swung open, and in walked Major Merrivale.

'Ah, Dean and Smythe, I was told I might find you here. Congratulations on your medal Dean, jolly good show, you met the King himself I gather? Excellent. Now listen Smythe, I was having dinner with a fellow officer at Black's, he's in the War Office, and he mentioned your name. It seems there's been a mix-up with your promotion. The base wallahs don't like it when promotions aren't done through the usual channels, messy things like people being killed in action tend to upset their nice neat books. I've had a word with a few people though, and they've assured me that you'll get your third stripe back.'

'Why that's wonderful news sir, thank you,' said Smythe.

'Did you hear that we managed to get more than three hundred thousand men back to Blighty?' said the major, 'incredible isn't it?'

'Unbelievable,' said Joe, 'can we buy you a celebratory drink Major?' asked Joe.

'Love to, but I don't have the time,' replied Merrivale. 'Do you know Dean, that besides losing your whole platoon, we lost another forty-three men, killed, captured or missing? I've got to put a whole new company together and I was hoping I could rely on you two to help me.'

'Well of course...' began Joe.

'Unfortunately,' continued the Major, 'I've received a request to release both of you from my command for a temporary assignment. You're to report to army HQ here in London tomorrow at 0800. That clear?'

'Righto Major, but what's it all about?' asked Joe.

'No idea, officially,' replied Merrivale, 'it was all hush-hush, but I'd imagine it might have something to do with your language skills. Report to the barracks in Stafford when you've finished whatever it is they want you to do. Best of luck to you both then, goodbye and thank you for everything you did over there, you were lucky to survive.'

The major saluted and walked out, leaving Joe and Smythe scratching their heads.

'Language skills?' said Smythe, 'I can barely speak English.'

'No point in wondering want the army wants,' said Joe raising his pint, 'let's get pissed Smithy.'

## ~ ~ ~

The next day found two severely hung-over men sitting in the waiting room at the Army Headquarters building, an imposing stone edifice near Whitehall.

After an hour of painful waiting, a lieutenant opened a door across the hall and beckoned to them.

Inside, a colonel glowered at them from behind a desk.

'Made it back from Belgium then?' he enquired.

'As you can see sir,' replied Joe.

'Ah, an Australian. I remember your type from '18. I hope you fight as well as your forebears did.'

Joe couldn't see the point of this needling. He felt as if his blood had turned to sand and someone were probing behind his right eye with a knitting needle. He wanted this over so he could go and die quietly in a darkened room.

'What are we here for sir?'

'In a hurry Lieutenant?' replied the colonel, 'I can smell the booze coming off you both in waves. Sit down and I'll let you in on a little secret.'

'At the PM's orders, we're forming a special unit called the Commandos. Its job is to conduct raids wherever the enemy is and strike terror into the Germans. The PM specifically wants us to create a reign of terror all along the French coast. He's calling it 'Butcher and Bolt'. Now, I've heard a bit about you two, I'm told you held off the assault of a German armoured battalion with one platoon, then escaped from a massacre at a town called Le Paradis?'

'That's right sir,' said Joe, 'we were lucky.'

'Indeed Lieutenant, from what I hear luck seems to follow you around—Napoleon would have made you a general—but I'm afraid this is the best I can do. How would you like a chance to kidnap or assassinate Hauptsturmfuhrer Richter?'

Joe's heart leapt at the hated name.

'Like?' he said, 'I'd give my right arm. What about you Smithy?'

'I'm with you sir.'

'I was hoping that would be your response. Now, our sources in occupied France tell us that Richter's unit is being rested in a town called Wissant, supposedly for the next month. It's a coastal village directly across the Channel from Dover, so we thought we'd have crack at the bastard. Can I count on you both to volunteer?'

'Yes sir,' replied Joe, and Smythe nodded.

'Excellent. You'll start your training tomorrow. See the duty officer outside, he'll tell you where to report. And gentlemen? We may never get another chance to bring this murdering bastard to justice, so don't bugger it up, alright? Dismissed.'

The next day found Joe and Smythe swaying along on a train with six other men, heading for Glasgow. The conversation revealed that they came from all sorts of different units, but they had one thing in common: they were off to join Winston Churchill's new elite fighting force: the Commandos.

###

# So what happens next?

Thank you

A big "Thank You" from me for reading _Blood and Blitzkrieg_ , I hope you enjoyed it. Joe's adventures will continue in the next book, _Butcher and Bolt_. In the meantime, enjoy the first two chapters on the following pages.

Who is Will Belford?

Will Belford is a professional writer with twenty-five years of experience as technical and marketing writer, and director of Style and Syntax Pty Ltd (http://www.styleandsnytax.com.au)

Will is also a musician who has played in numerous bands, the most recent being The Telltales (http://wwwthetelltales.com)

Will lives near Sydney, Australia, with his wife, three children and a rapidly-depleting wine cellar. You can contact Will online at:

willbelford.com

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Smashwords

# Butcher and Bolt

The second instalment in the Joe Dean series.

# Chapter One

Calais, France, 3 August 1940

The room was not clean, and the woman was more witch than midwife, but there hadn't been a lot of choice. When she'd realised she was pregnant, Yvette had despaired. Either the child was Joe's, who was gone, probably killed or captured at Dunkirk; or it was the unwelcome spawn of the many rapes the Nazi spy Schmidt had subjected her to.

Either way, the child would be a bastard born of war that would only remind her of everything she had lost. She wanted nothing to do with it, and so she had knocked on the door of the small house in a disreputable part of the town, and now found herself lying on a table while this horrible old woman poked around between her legs.

'How long?' asked the crone, picking some dirt out from under a fingernail.

'I last bled three months ago.'

'You are sure about doing this?'

'Oui.'

'Very well then. This will hurt, but it's important that you don't flinch or move at all. If you do, you will bleed to death. Do you understand?'

'Oui. Just get it over with will you?'

'First the money,' said the woman, holding out her hand.

Reaching for her bag, Yvette counted out 200 francs and handed them over.

'Bon. Now, we begin.'

The woman went to the stove where a pot was boiling and drew a foot-long piece of wire from the water. Yvette eyed it with mounting fear as she came over to the table.

'Now, open your legs as wide as you can girl, and don't move.'

Yvette closed her eyes and parted her knees. When she felt the hot metal slide into her body she flinched involuntarily. The woman leaned over and slapped her viciously across the face.

'Do not move if you want to live.'

Yvette clung to the edge of the table and gritted her teeth as the wire pushed deeper inside her.

'You must be strong,' she thought to herself, 'this is no worse than the rape that caused it.'

She heard a truck pull up outside in the street, and the sounds of boots hitting the pavement. Doors were being thrown open and people were crying out. Then there was a loud banging on the door and a voice yelling in German.

'Aufmachen! Aufmachen!'

The woman cursed, withdrew the wire and dropped it into the cutlery drawer beside the sink.

'Get off there and get into the toilet,' she hissed at Yvette.

Huddled in the toilet, Yvette heard the front door open and the sounds of German boots stomping in.

'What is going on officer?' asked the woman innocently.

'We're looking for a British officer who has escaped from our custody,' replied a German in heavily-accented French.

'Well he's not here,' said the woman, 'only my niece, she's in there.'

The boots came towards Yvette and the toilet door was flung open, revealing a German lieutenant staring down at her. He couldn't have been more than 19.

'Ach, entschuldigung sie bitte fraulein,' he sputtered in embarrassment, then closed the door.

Five minutes later, the last of the boots left and Yvette emerged.

'It is not safe to continue,' said the old woman, pushing her towards the door, 'you'll have to come back another time.'

'But...'

'Non, if we are caught they will hang us both you little fool, now get out.'

'My money...'

The woman thrust the 200 francs into her hand and slammed the door on her. Out in the street, the Germans had moved on and all the doors were closed once again.

Yvette walked down the lane towards the docks. She put a hand on her belly, but there was no tangible or visible sign of the child growing inside her. Yet.

# Chapter Two

Somewhere in the Scottish Highlands, August 1940

The first week of training in the Scottish Highlands had been the most agonising experience of Joe's life. Worse than the cross-country trek he and Smythe had endured to get to Dunkirk, worse than being strafed in the water of the Channel. At least that was how Joe felt until they began the second week.

Seven days of running up mountains in full kit carrying a rifle had stripped away whatever spare flesh he may have had. Flopping exhausted to the ground at midnight of each day, he'd slept like the dead until dawn.

That was the first week. Now in the second they were only being allowed two hours sleep each night before being kicked awake by a sergeant and forced to keep moving. Joe had gone beyond exhaustion into a tight, personal world of pain, where just putting one booted foot in front of the other required all of his willpower. Many times he had been on the verge of giving up and surrendering to the sergeant, but each time his pride had forced him to persevere.

With each endless day the platoon had become more strung out, as each man struggled with his own demons. Five had dropped out, unable to take the strain, and were already on a train back to their units. Only the thought of the shame and ignominy those men must be feeling kept Joe moving.

After de-training in the bitter city of Glasgow, they'd travelled by truck to a nameless town in the Highlands and pitched camp in an ancient fort. Along with Joe and Smythe there were thirty other volunteers, all of whom quickly regretted their decision to volunteer for this 'special duty'.

The instructors wouldn't talk to any of them except to bark orders, and there were few even of those. On the first day, a Scottish sergeant-major lined them up in full kit and announced that 'For the next few weeks you'll be climbing some mountains, make sure ye enjoy the view. Now, take out your compasses. See where it points north? That's where you're going. Off ye go.' The recruits had stood bewildered until the sergeant–major made the order clear.

'Get moving NOW!'

The platoon had simply started walking north across country, country that became steeper and rougher with each day, until on the fourth day they crossed a major ridgeline and started down the other side. Joe had lost count of how many mountains he'd traversed; the last few days were a blur of gorse, heather, rain, mist, mud, grey rocks and agony. All he'd been thankful for was they were doing it in summer, not winter. That, and the companionship of Sergeant Smythe.

The two of them had stuck together throughout the ordeal, and that was the only reason they'd made it. When one fell, the other picked him up; when one said he couldn't go on, the other waited, then picked him up and pushed him on; when one asked to be put out of his misery the other beguiled him with tales of hot food and hot women. Despite the best efforts of the trainers to separate them, they'd found each other again on one mountainside or another, and stumbled onwards.

Then abruptly, it ended.

Descending a hill studded with outcrops of wet black slate, they stumbled across a road heading north-east and decided to follow it. Crossing a stone bridge, Joe saw a village ahead with an army truck parked on the side of the road. The instructors were standing around it smoking.

'So, Mr Dean and Mr Smythe,' said the Scottish sergeant-major, as Joe stumbled up to them, 'you made it then. Good work lads. Here, have a whisky. Welcome to the Commandos.'

He proffered a hip flask and Joe managed to gulp down a few mouthfuls of the fiery liquor before the world turned grey and he collapsed in a heap on the road.

