The Black Jackals

Bennett smiled. ‘That’ll do us, sir.’

He finished his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground, grinding it out with the sole of his boot before opening the map case that hung at his side and drawing out the precious road map. He opened it up and peered at a square. Bennett joined him. ‘We’re here, by my reckoning, just south of Brussels. Seems that the order is to regroup at Tournai, which is here. About thirty miles away.’ Giving one edge of the map to the sergeant, Lamb pointed at the square. ‘There’s a village up ahead. Looks like Rixensart. Reckon we might even find the Company there, Sarnt. They can’t have gone too far.’

‘Looks hopeful, sir.’

‘Right then. Let’s get them up.’ He folded the map and replaced it in the case.

Bennett yelled, ‘Come on, lads. On yer feet. Let’s keep going.’

There were a few groans and one comment of ‘slave driver’ and ‘don’t he know there’s a war on’ from unknown grumblers that earned a shout from Corporal Mays. But without much trouble the platoon got back on the road.

The town that lay ahead of them was nothing remarkable. The countryside quickly gave way to a street lined with small terraced houses typical of the region. There was a church to the right and on the left a large open area of parkland that at one point he thought might have belonged to a château.

Lamb scanned the street and saw no one. No civilians, and certainly no sign of any military personnel. He turned to Smart, who was behind him with the RT. ‘Bit strange, Smart, don’t you think?’

They entered in textbook formation with Corporal Mays and No. 1 section up front, then twenty-five yards behind Lamb’s HQ group, including Valentine and Briggs. Then came Sergeant Bennett with the mortar crew, and finally the two other sections each led by a lance corporal, one either side of the road, Valentine’s bringing up the rear.

Lamb slowed the pace and they walked into the town. Still there was no sign of the inhabitants.

Smart spoke. ‘Looks like they’ve upped sticks and gone, sir. Perhaps they knew we was coming.’

It certainly looked as if the population had left in a hurry. A few bags had been forgotten and stood forlorn outside a house whose door swung on its hinges.

Papers blew across the street and a cat crossed his path. He looked up and saw that most of the houses had been shuttered, although what use that might have been, had it been the Germans and not his platoon who had arrived, he could not think.

Bennett came up. ‘They’ve gone, sir. Everyone. Cleared out. Not long ago, neither. Coffee’s still hot in the pots.’

‘Yes, Sarnt. So it would seem. Smart, any joy with the RT?’

‘Nothing, sir. Dead as a doornail.’

‘I suppose there’s nothing to be done but to carry on, Sarnt. Our chaps must have come through here in a hell of a hurry.’

‘Perhaps that’s why the civvies all cleared out, sir, if they saw the British army running away like that, sir. Well, stands to reason they’d want to leg it too.’

Lamb knew that he was right. ‘Tournai is due west. We’ll take a left turn here, Sarnt.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Have you any dirty washing, Mother dear?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McKracken nodded. ‘Of course, sir.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, sir. I’ll keep my eye on him.’

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

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

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

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

He saw a signpost pointing to the left off the road and for a reason he couldn’t fathom the names it bore struck him as curiously familiar: Lasne, Plancenoit.

Then as he looked, he was transported back to officer training classes in Tonbridge, to a young man seated at a desk studying long-distant British victories. Plancenoit. That was it. Wasn’t that the name of the village on the left flank of another British army? The village through which the Prussians had advanced to save the day and grant them victory over another tyrant. His men were marching onto the field of Waterloo. Smiling, he signalled to Bennett to come up. The man was nonplussed as to his grin.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Sarnt Bennett, do you have any idea where we are? Where exactly we’re going, I mean?’

‘On the road to Tournai, sir?’

‘Yes, of course we are, but here. Right here. Do you realise where we are right now?’

‘Can’t say as I do, sir.’

‘Waterloo, man. We’re on the battlefield of Waterloo.’

The sergeant smiled. ‘Are we, sir? Well, I’ll be . . . Shall I tell the men, sir? It might buck them up.’

‘Yes, go ahead, Sarnt. Why don’t you tell them? Anything to keep their spirits up, and we’ll need to stop soon enough anyway.’

They were in Plancenoit now and walking past the little church with its walled graveyard before turning right down a hedge-lined avenue. After a few minutes, and after a steady climb uphill beneath a canopy of branches, they emerged onto a plain. Away to the west the sun was sinking on the horizon, sending a glow across fields high with green corn and barley. To their left the landscape opened out before them and he could see the centre of what had been Wellington’s line. The men, although they had been informed by Sergeant Bennett as to where they were, seemed largely oblivious to the significance of the place and carried on marching along the crest of the ridge.

Valentine, however, approached Lamb wearing his usual, irritating grin. ‘Quite a coincidence, sir, isn’t it? Us being here.’

‘Yes, Corporal. I can’t say that I’d been expecting it.’

‘To tell the truth, sir, I think we are a little off course.’

‘You do?’

‘A little too far south, sir. In fact I suspect that we’re actually in the French sector.’

Lamb cursed. Might he have allowed the romantic idea of being in this place to divert him from their purpose? Worse than that, he seemed to have been caught out by Valentine.

They were nearing a crossroads now. It occurred to Lamb that it must surely be Wellington’s crossroads – his command post, at the centre of the ridge where the British infantry had stood against Napoleon. Up ahead he could see a lorry, and around it a group of soldiers.

Lamb counted six of them and whispered, ‘All right, Corporal, get ready.’

As the shadowy figures ahead noticed them, Lamb’s men froze and readied their weapons. He drew his revolver and waved the platoon forward as they began to edge away into a loose battle formation. He was trying to look more closely now at the men by the lorry in the half light, to make out the shape of their helmets, the easiest giveaway to their nationality. And then he saw to his relief that they were the distinctive bowl-shaped helmets of the French ‘poilus’. ‘All right, men, they’re French. Seems you must be right, Valentine.’

He moved to the front of the column and walked on. The French soldiers looked round and, seeing the shallow helmet of the British Tommy, did not bother even to pick up their guns, which lay piled against the side of the vehicle. One of them walked towards Lamb, and as they got closer to one another he opened a cigarette case. ‘Cigarette?’

Lamb noticed that he wore the insignia of an officer. A lieutenant of infantry. He reached out and took one of the precious cigarettes. Filterless, Turkish. ‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’

The man spoke in good English. ‘Etienne de Noyon, 116th Infantry. We did not expect to see you English down here. You are lost?’

‘Yes, I suspect that we are. Sorry, Peter Lamb, North Kents. We’ve become detached from our unit. I don’t suppose they’ve come this way?’

The Frenchman shrugged. ‘I don’t think so. But then we’ve been here ourselves for barely two hours and we’ve seen a few Tommies.’ He laughed and lit their cigarettes. ‘What d’you think? We’re supposed to be a road block, but how can we do that with one truck and six men?’

Lamb raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s bad news. In that case we are lost.’ The sun was sinking faster now. ‘Is there somewhere near here we can bunk down for the night? A barn?’

‘There’s the farmhouse, of course. It’s all shut up, though.’

He laughed and took a long drag of the cigarette before speaking. ‘It’s the farm that you British held out against us for so long back then. You know where we are?’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes, of course. Funny, isn’t it?’

The Frenchman laughed. ‘Yes. Even funnier for me because then the Boche were on your side.’

Lamb smiled at him. ‘I don’t think we’d get much sleep there anyway. Too many ghosts. Anywhere else?’

‘There is another house up there past the crossroads. Opposite the big farm. To the north. But I think another British officer is staying there already. Curious that two of you should come here on the same day. Perhaps you know him. He came with a driver in a car.’

Lamb looked puzzled. What on earth was a staff officer doing so far south? And without an escort? ‘Thank you. We’ll take that road and try our luck. At least it’s in the right direction.’

The French man clicked his heels and bobbed his head. Lamb returned the compliment. ‘Bonne chance. Wish us luck with our road block.’

They turned right at the crossroads and continued for a short way between steep banks to either side. Then, as the road evened out, they saw on the right the walls of a farm and, opposite, a small group of houses, two cottages and what looked like a barn. In one of the houses a light was burning at the window against the blackout. It was as good as any a place to stop, and they were with friends.

Lamb turned to Bennett before walking on alone towards the door. ‘All right, Sarnt. We’ll bivouac here.’

‘You heard the officer. Off the road. Unsling yer packs. We’re making camp.’

‘What’s up, Sergeant?’ It was Stubbs.

‘We’re stopping here for the night, lad. Mister Lamb’s orders.’

‘Funny place to stop, innit? Like an old shack. We sleeping ’ere? Don’t feel good.’

‘Officer knows best, Stubbs. Less of your lip. This is a historic place anyway. Waterloo.’

‘I thought that was a railway station.’ Johnson now.

Massey answered him. ‘You’re just pig ignorant, you are.’

‘You shut it, Massey, or I’ll give you bloody ignorant.’

Bennett stepped in. ‘Right, you two. Stow it, both of you, or you’ll be on a charge. Stubbs, get a brew on. Johnson, you get some stew going. Massey, find some kindling.’

Lamb could hear them as he made his way up the road. He stopped before the door and knocked three times. There was a commotion within and he heard the click of a rifle bolt. His pistol was still drawn and he kept it at the ready.

There was a shout: ‘Who’s there?’

Lamb, feeling rather foolish, could think of nothing better to do than answer: ‘Lieutenant Lamb. North Kents.’

The door opened and he found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle. To his intense relief, though, he also saw that it was held by a British soldier. A sergeant. Seeing his face and uniform the man smiled and lowered his gun. ‘Sorry, sir. Can’t be too careful these days, can you.’ The man saluted.

Lamb shook his head and returned the salute. ‘No, Sergeant. You can’t. Incidentally, though, what would you have done if I’d said I was a German?’

‘Shot you, sir. Through the door, sir. Then scarpered.’

‘Lucky me.’

There was a shout from behind the sergeant. ‘Dawes, who is it? That French fella again? We could do with a drop more of that brandy he found us before.’

The sergeant half-turned. ‘No, sir, it’s not the French officer, sir. It’s a British officer, sir.’

The room was poorly lit, by the light of just two candles which burned in the necks of two empty wine bottles. It was a humble farmhouse, sparsely furnished and with little in the way of decoration save a single framed engraving and a small black wooden cross which hung above the fireplace in which the miserable remains of an attempt at a fire burned. Moving aside, the sergeant revealed a dining table laid for dinner for one, on the opposite side of which was seated a British officer. Judging from the three pips and a crown at his shoulder, he was a brigadier.

He smiled at Lamb. ‘I say, hello. You’re one of us. Who are you?’

Before replying, Lamb took in the sight before him. Even in his youth as a subaltern on the Somme and in Paschendaele, Brigadier Julian Meadows, ‘Dewy Meadows’ to his chums, had never been what one might have called a small man, and what Lamb had presumed might be the universal hardships of soldiering over the past few weeks appeared to have had little effect upon a figure happily formed by years of lunches with similarly clubable fellows and which still swelled the fabric of his cleverly tailored Savile Row service dress. His corpulent form was topped off by an almost bald head, save for a circlet of bright white hair at the temples and a similarly white moustache which splayed out from his top lip. The brigadier burped but managed to suppress the noise and dabbed at his moustache.

‘Lieutenant Peter Lamb, sir, North Kents. 6th Brigade. Were trying to get back to our unit.’

The man looked at him in surprise. ‘You’re adrift, then?’

‘Sir.’

‘Same here, my boy. My driver took a wrong turn and we’ve ended up in this midden of a place. Still, the fodder’s not at all bad. My driver managed all this.’ He waved his hand expansively over the table which, Lamb now noticed, was laid with ham, cooked meat, wine, brandy and half a roast chicken. ‘Bloody good cook. Bloody rotten driver. I suppose you realise where we are?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Funny really. Particularly with the Frogs here too. Like the old days, eh?’

‘Yes, sir. It must be. I wonder if you’d have any idea, sir, where the rest of my brigade might have got to?’

The man looked at him. ‘What? No, can’t say that I have. You’d be best to keep going north. Probably catch up with them somewhere.’

‘Catch up with them?’

‘Yes, generally the entire army’s heading north. New plan. Don’t suppose you’ve heard. Frogs seem to be about to throw in the towel. Never did have any staying power. Not after the last lot.’

He looked closely at Lamb. ‘Too young for that, I suppose. Weren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. But my father served. In the Dardanelles.’

‘Dardanelles. That wasn’t a war, man. Bloody holiday compared to the Western Front. This is where we fought in hell. Right here. In Belgium. Mud and blood, my boy. Mud and blood.’

Stifling his anger, Lamb replied, ‘Yes, sir, I believe it was hell here.’

The brigadier nodded sagaciously, pleased that the young man appeared to agree with his assertion.

‘Yes. Quite awful. I’m heading west myself. Pressing engagement. In fact I wonder whether you couldn’t be of some use to me. I’ve a message here from my opposite number on the French staff which simply must get to GHQ soonest. You couldn’t oblige and ensure it gets there? Just give it to the senior officer of whichever regiment or brigade HQ you next encounter. He’ll do the rest, I’m sure. That’s how it works, you see.’

Lamb was dumbstruck. A prior engagement? The man was talking as if he were late for a regimental dinner. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you were to take it yourself, sir?’

‘Nonsense, man. I’m a Brigadier. Better things to do than deliver messages.’

‘But it was given into your hand by the French, sir.’

The officer suddenly grew very serious. ‘Precisely. And now I’m giving it into your hand, Lieutenant. Now you get it to GHQ by whatever means you find necessary. That’s an order.’

‘Sir.’

‘Any more of that claret?’

‘Right away, sir.’

The brigadier smiled at Lamb. ‘Care for a drink?’

‘Don’t think I should, sir. Do you?’

‘Nonsense. Course you should. All officers should drink, what? Should all be able to drink and to get drunk. But not violent. D’you see? That’s for the men. Have a drink, Lamb.’

And so Lamb sat down at the table and had a drink with the brigadier and made small talk. They spoke of home and of cricket and the brigadier talked of hunting in Somerset and racing at Newmarket and of his London club in St James’s which had ruined its windows with ghastly blackout blinds and he told Lamb how hard it was now to get really good Cognac, and at length after his second glass of wine Lamb managed to persuade the brigadier that his presence really was needed with the platoon and after an interminable goodbye left the house and pulled the door closed behind him.

Lamb stood and breathed in deeply. After the fug of the room the night air was cool and sweet and he felt suddenly alive. He began to walk south, back towards the battlefield.

At the crossroads the French lieutenant and his men were chatting and laughing. One of them had cranked up a gramophone and a recent popular song by Jean Sablon cut through the night:

J’attendrai, le jour et la nuit, j’attendrai toujours ton retour.

J’attendrai, car l’oiseau qui s’enfuit vient chercher l’oubli, dans son nid, Le temps passe et court en battant tristement dans mon coeur si lourd

Et pourtant, j’attendrai ton retour.

Walking to a bank of the sunken road, Lamb saw in the moonlight the silhouette of a British tin hat and recognised at once the angular profile beneath it. ‘Evening, Tapley.’