Reckoning Read online

  Do Not Call Me, Father

  Anonymous, 1942

  (Son to father…)

  Do not call me, father. Do not seek me.

  Do not call me. Do not wish me back.

  We’re on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.

  On we fly on wings of thunder, never more to sheath our swords.

  All of us in battle fallen – not to be brought back by words.

  Will there be a rendezvous? I know not.

  I only know we still must fight.

  We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore to see light.

  (Father to son…)

  Farewell then my son. Farewell then my conscience.

  Farewell my youth, my solace, my one-and-only.

  Let this farewell be the end of a story

  Of solitude past which now is more lonely.

  In which you remained barred forever from light,

  From air, with your death pains untold.

  Untold and unsoothed, never to be resurrected.

  Forever and ever an 18 year old.

  Farewell then.

  No trains ever come from those regions,

  Unscheduled and scheduled.

  No aeroplanes fly there.

  Farewell then my son,

  For no miracles happen, as in this world

  Dreams do not come true.

  Farewell.

  I will dream of you still as a baby,

  Treading the earth with little strong toes,

  The earth where already so many lie buried.

  This song to my son, then, is come to its close

  1

  France, 22nd May 1940

  “I think he had rather serious intentions towards us, Sergeant.” Head cocked, Lieutenant Arthur Scottsdale gazed down at the body that lay spreadeagled before them. Sergeant Grant glanced at his Lieutenant and back to the German. Deciding a response was not required, he chose to remain silent. The dead man represented the end of the enemy’s advance party and his inexplicable decision to charge had met with its inevitable end; he’d been cut down.

  As his exhausted men were chivvied into moving out again, Scottsdale paused to take a sip of blood warm water, gazing out over the fields slumbering in the sunshine. The mournful lowing of cattle that hadn’t been milked drifted towards him; their owners had fled. It was a landscape that felt timeless, yet modernity had come, violently, to this world. A babble of French voices and crying children filled the air. It reminded him of summer holidays and the murmur that accompanied large crowds relaxing at the beach. That was before everything changed and now it was the sound of thousands of refugees crawling along with their possessions loaded on carts, horses and wheelbarrows. Cooking pots, mattresses, clothes, chairs, tables, pictures, tools, pets, all snatched up from the approaching chaos. Heads bowed, they trudged towards the coast and an illusion of safety. Scottsdale saw a great frightened line, a dark stain upon the farmland, families mixed up, an occasional soldier intermingled, and in the background was black smoke and the thunder of guns.

  He shook his head in frustration. Only a week ago he and the rest of the 2nd Battalion, The Essex Regiment, had marched into Belgium to finally face the German army. Everywhere they went, smiling people had offered their praise, their food and their thanks; it had been all Scottsdale could do to keep his men sober. The cynics among the men observed sourly that they only gave free food and drink to the condemned, but it didn’t dent Scottsdale’s determination. His initial nerves had given way to excitement at the prospect of impending action and the cheering civilians had been a validation, that what they were doing was right. Yet those same people now fled, sometimes so quickly their meals lay cooling on the table and the British Expeditionary Force was running with them.

  Taking off his helmet he wiped away the trickle of sweat that snaked down his cheek. Standing a shade over six-foot-tall, his uniform sat slightly awkwardly on his lean frame. Where once he had taken such care to avoid the slightest blemish, his battledress was now ingrained with dirt. The dust was everywhere, accentuating an angular face that framed a pair of alert brown eyes. He automatically swept his dark brown hair back before replacing his helmet. In his early days in the mess a senior officer had advised him to use brylcreem – “much smarter, old boy” – but he had refused, instinctively distrustful of being told to conform; they would take him to him as he was, not a version of himself presented for their benefit.

  Shifting on his swollen feet, he pressed a hand into the dull ache that had made a permanent home in the small of his back. His busy mind noted this in a detached manner, focused only on the need to reform with battalion; to somehow get out of this mess and get home alive. As he pondered their next move, some of the refugees slowed, heads turning to the sky. His instinctive irritation was swiftly replaced by a stab of fear as he heard the first screams. People began throwing themselves into ditches and fleeing into the surrounding fields. Scottsdale found the dark spec coming impossibly fast out of the blue sky. The grating whine of the Messerschmitt Bf 109 liquid-cooled, inverted-V12 aero engines grew bolder as it swept in, the deep chatter of its dual synchronized machine guns sparking panic. Here and there a soldier defiantly, pointlessly, raised a rifle to fire back but Scottsdale was helpless as he saw a family found by the fire, their brief cries cut off by a sudden, bloody death. He closed his eyes and cursed. He was no longer excited.

  ***

  Gathering his platoon together, Scottsdale spoke urgently. In the chaos on the roads they’d lost touch with the rest of the battalion, but a harassed dispatch rider had finally given him directions.

  “Grab a drink,” he began. “We’re heading for Meurchin where we’ll get further orders. What we need now is speed – anything you don’t need, drop. We have to get back to battalion. And if I find anyone looting, I promise I will take you out and shoot you myself,” he growled. There was a muted chuckle from the men and Scottsdale glared at them. “I mean it. If you get left behind to become breakfast for a panzer so be it, but I have to tell the Army why. And I hate dealing with the paperwork.” In truth, his concern for private property had been steadily eroding under the twin pressures of German attack and spares supplies, but he was concerned that someone could get left behind in the chaos. He felt the responsibility of getting his men home keenly and knowing his soldiers, at the first opportunity they’d be scavenging. “We leave in five minutes,” he continued. “Sergeant Grant?”

  Grant materialised next to him. “Yes, sir.”

  “Check equipment and rations and see if you can get anything useful from this mess,” he said gesturing to the variety of abandoned equipment that littered the area.

  Sergeant Grant turned his steady gaze on the platoon, who shifted before him. “Right you lot. You heard the officer. Wilkins, Marsh, go and have a look at that pile. Rest of you, check your water. Anyone short, come to me. And make sure your weapons are clean and ready. I’ll be checking.”

  The men looked back expectantly. “That means now,” Grant barked, and the men dispersed quickly. Safely out of earshot, the grumbling of tired men rippled through the summer air.

  “Bloody Frogs,” Private Wilkins muttered. Ever reliable for the pessimism of his opinions, his expectations of war and of foreigners had been satisfactorily fulfilled since their arrival. “We’ve barely seen any fucking Germans and all we keep doing is retreating; never any good relying on the bleeding French – no wonder we’re on our tod marching back.”

  “And bugger all to eat either,” Private Marsh groused as he settled the Bren gun over his shoulder.

  “Pipe down the both of you,” Corporal Davenport interjected cheerily. “It may never happen.”

  Marsh snorted. “I think you’ll find it already has, Corp,” he observed. br />
  Scottsdale ignored them and consulted his map. “Let’s go,” he ordered, and they struck off from the main road. The long grass brushed their legs and the sounds of refugees and engines momentarily faded. He idly picked a piece of grass and snapped it in half while even the usual coarse conversation of the platoon quietened. Scottsdale followed the path of a butterfly that merrily pranced ahead of them before turning to glance back at the men. Exhaustion was etched on their faces and he instinctively straightened his aching back. He was anxious to lead by example and not only that, but to lead well. Grimacing, he recalled the cavalier attitude of some of the officers, who blithely dismissed the men as little more than sacrificial lambs destined for death. Scottsdale had forced himself to calm his impulsive anger at their attitude and now shook his head to clear the memory, turning instead to their current plight.

  Wild rumours were circulating and only snatches of reliable information had trickled down, but it was clear that something was terribly wrong. Having travelled briskly into Belgium, the 2nd Essex spent an unnerving few days in reserve on the outskirts of Brussels. The volume of refugees was ominous, but more sobering was the bombardment of the city. Scottsdale had watched in some fascination as tracer fire arced lazily into the night sky, but the accompanying drumbeat of falling bombs was more sinister, as were the results. So great was the glare from the burning city, the battalion motor transport didn’t have to use their headlights as they travelled through the night. His unease was made worse by their constant retreat; all their briefings had focused on the need to move forward and fight in Belgium, yet over the last week they had been marching steadily back to France. This was not, however, to be viewed as a retreat, as Scottsdale had found out during a recent briefing. “It’s not a retreat, it’s a withdrawal,” the brigade Intelligence Officer had corrected him sternly.

  “Can’t say it makes much difference when you’re being shot at by the Luftwaffe, sir,” Scottsdale remarked.

  “Don’t be impertinent, Scottsdale. We’re withdrawing and that’s how you shall describe it.”

  The traditional beginning of a British Army campaign, Scottsdale thought; the strategic withdrawal.

  They’d barely been able to snatch a few hours of sleep as they fell back, the towns they passed - Aspelare, Zottegem, Bellegem Boos and Seclin - blurring into one long sleep-deprived march. Several times they’d been strafed and bombed as they struggled along the congested roads. It was Scottsdale’s first taste of enemy action and it had been both exhilarating and terrifying. Vivid images stuck in his mind; the foreleg of a cart horse neatly sliced off by shrapnel, its shrieks of agony as shocking as the cries of wounded soldiers; an unmarked nun sitting on the kerb, stone dead, clasping a frightened, crying, six-year old girl in her arms. Men and transport lost contact and limped in each evening. Among it all, groups of French soldiers drifted back in a disorganised mass, surly and many throwing away their equipment. A panicked undercurrent was palpable among both soldiers and civilians, and he’d worked hard to ensure their own unit cohesion remained as they struggled to stay in touch with the battalion. He could scarcely believe more men hadn’t been lost.

  A shout ahead interrupted his reverie and he breathed a sigh of relief. As the gentle sun of the evening warmed them they had at last found the outposts of battalion. Sore and weary they moved through the lines, the inevitable taunts and catcalls of the early arrivals following them. Scottsdale went to report to Major Carter who had established his headquarters in a large manor house. He had taken over the battalion a few days into the German offensive after the colonel in charge had been invalided out. In stark contrast to most, Carter was virtually immaculate.

  “Scottsdale. You’re late,” he boomed. A head shorter than Scottsdale, his squat frame bristled as he stared at Scottsdale. “Where the bloody hell have you been? You look bloody awful.”

  Scottsdale threw a tired salute. “We were held up by the refugees, sir. The Royal Army Service Corps directed us off the main road but we ended up even worse off.” He paused. “The Germans are strafing the columns, sir.”

  “Yes, I heard, disgusting behaviour,” Carter growled. “Causing chaos, Scottsdale, absolute chaos and I can’t abide it!” As the Major spoke, Scottsdale couldn’t help but think that Carter was actually enjoying himself. He radiated a bullish energy, but his concern for the men under his command was genuine and well known.

  “Well?” Carter’s voice cut into Scottsdale’s ruminations and he realised he’d been staring at his commanding officer without speaking. “You’re staring at me like a particularly backward child,” Carter continued.

  “Er, yes, sir,” Scottsdale said lamely.

  “Are you addled, Scottsdale? Have you contracted some particularly virulent strain of VD? No? Well, now that you’ve finally deigned to join us, you’re to rejoin Captain Revie and C Company on the canal. The Germans are bloody everywhere, and we expect contact shortly.”

  Scottsdale couldn’t conceal his astonishment. “The Germans are already here, sir?” Rumours had filtered through about how far the Germans had penetrated, but if they were being thrown into a defensive line here the situation was far worse than he’d thought.

  “Yes, you pea brained fart, they’re already here. That’s why we’re guarding it!” Carter rubbed his hands together. “We and the rest of 25 Brigade are now part of what the great high chiefs have dubbed the ‘canal line’; which is essentially scraping together anyone who can walk and throwing them along a line of canals running all the way from here to the coast. The Germans have gotten loose to our south, like a fox among French chickens. They’ve turned our flank and reached the coast at Abbeville already.”

  Scottsdale gaped. “Christ, sir.”

  “He has nothing to with it, just the usual mix of complacency, incompetence and a determined enemy. Ironic really when you consider the signal circulated by General Gort yesterday.”

  Intrigued as to what the commander of the BEF was saying, Scottsdale picked up the piece of paper Carter slid towards him and began reading. “’News from the south reassuring. We stand and fight. Tell your men.’” Scottsdale looked up. “That’s an interesting way of interpreting ‘reassuring’, sir.”

  “Indeed, Scottsdale! In less than two weeks they’ve punched a hole through the French and reached the sea, all the while chuckling their Teutonic heads off as our army waltzed into Belgium; hence why we’ve been falling back so fast. They’ve cut us off from the rest of France and there’s bloody Panzers everywhere.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible they’ve made it so far, so fast, sir,” Scottsdale said, shaking his head. “There’s so much defeatism and panic out there. I can’t understand why they don’t seem able to stand and fight. This is their country for God’s sake.”

  “I tend to agree,” said Carter grimly. “But they’re badly led and being sat behind a bloody great fortification does tend to dent your optimism when the enemy simply drives round you. Nevertheless, our Tank Brigade counter attacked at Arras yesterday and although they ran into Rommel’s Panzers and were beaten back, by all account we gave them a bloody nose.” He eyed Scottsdale speculatively. “Do you know what ‘Gott Mit Uns’ means?”

  “I believe it’s ‘God is With Us’, sir,” Scottsdale opined.

  “Very good, Scottsdale,” Carter said in mock amazement. “Apparently you weren’t just gazing at your teacher’s titties during school. Yes, the Germans wear it on their belt buckles and I’m sure they’re currently thinking He is indeed. But when they get here, the good Lord above will have nothing to do with it. Herr Hitler has had his fun. We hold the canal.”

  "Yes, sir. Standing our ground will be a relief.”

  “Good. We’ve been allotted a front of about four miles to hold and you’ll find C Company down at Pont-a-Vendin, a mile south of here. We’re to guard it while the engineers blow the bridges. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now bugger off.” As Scottsdale turned to leave Carter
stopped him. “Glad to have you back, Arthur.”

  “Glad to be back, sir,” Scottsdale replied meaningfully.

  Scottsdale gathered the men and set off for Pont-a-Vendin, a sleepy town that huddled in the crook of the elbow created by the Deule canal turning south then east. Sending Sergeant Grant to find the rest of C Company, Scottsdale took in the feverish activity around him. Barges were being dragged into the middle of the canal and burned, their furious owners remonstrating with the Royal Engineers. Scottsdale sympathised – the barges were their livelihoods – but they had to be destroyed lest they afford the Germans a means to cross. Streams of refugees continued to appear, desperate to get across the canal ahead of the advancing German columns, but Scottsdale felt a degree of confidence; the canal was a significant obstacle. Around him emplacements were being constructed, rifle pits dug, and houses fortified. Food and ammunition were stockpiled. A Bren gunner on watch carefully wiped the glistening barrel of his gun with a rag while his mate puffed a cigarette. Sergeants were bellowing instructions and obscenities with Sergeant Grant’s growl rising above the din.

  “No, Pendle, not like that! If the Germans don’t kill you – which would be a fucking miracle – then I will! Move!” The sound was reassuringly familiar, and Scottsdale allowed himself a brief grimace of satisfaction as he went to find company headquarters and report.

  There he ran into Lieutenant McDonald, universally known as Jock despite his innate Englishness. “Ah, there you are, Scottsdale,” McDonald said. “Was wondering if Jerry had you. How are you getting on?”

  From the distance came the rumble of artillery fire. Scottsdale sat down wearily. “Don’t look now, Jock, but I think we’re being followed.”