Weaver (19 page)

More fire rained on the vehicles. It didn’t come at random. The tank-busting shells were always targeted first at the lead vehicles in the column and the last, leaving the column trapped and ripe for further attack.

‘India,’ Ernst said.

The Unteroffizier snorted. ‘We’re going a bit slow, Gefreiter, but we’re not that lost.’

‘No. I mean, India is where the English learned this tactic, knocking out the lead and rear vehicles. How infantry can strike at a mechanised column. It’s just what the Indians used to do to them in the Raj. I picked that up during our training in France.’

Kieser said, ‘After the way they fell over at Dunkirk I never thought the English would fight this hard. Inch by bloody inch, eh, boys?’

The Unteroffizier said, ‘But we’re still rolling, lads, that’s the thing to remember. The English are bastards, but we’re worse. Right? The column’s forming up again. Let’s get back in the truck.’

Cautiously Ernst and the others clambered out onto the road surface. The units that had gone scouring into the hillside returned to the road, the burned-out tanks were being shoved aside by the heavy-lift vehicles, and the lorries’ engines were coughing to life. A couple more vehicles lost, Ernst thought, and a bit more of their precious fuel used up.

The fuel was surely the crucial factor. The column had had no resupply since a convoy of fuel trucks had come up from the coast before it left Uckf
ield. There had been none of the supply dumps they had been promised, and not a single filling station had been found to contain a drop of unadulterated petrol. Already the fuel shortage was affecting the operation. Trucks had been abandoned, their tanks siphoned empty and their loads distributed among the surviving vehicles, and the flame tanks, so useful in country like this, had been neutered.

And even as he climbed back up onto the bed of his truck Ernst heard the drone of aircraft engines. The air war over the south coast had been going on all day; occasionally he glimpsed the metallic glint of a plane, or saw the bright colours of tracer fire. But this new engine noise, growing louder, was coming from behind him, from the north. He turned. A flight of Blenheims was sweeping down on the column, like predatory birds. Already the first sticks of bombs were falling from their bellies.

‘Oh, shit,’ said Kieser wearily.

Commands were barked out. ‘Get out! Get to cover!’ ‘Get those anti-aircraft guns deployed!’

Once again the column had to scatter; once again Ernst found himself in a ditch. The planes were slow, but the convoy had no cover; the Luftwaffe was evidently otherwise engaged.

‘Christ!’ Kieser shouted. ‘How do they know where we are?’

‘They’ve got radio direction finders,’ Ernst yelled back. ‘That’s how they know. And all these bloody partisans in the hills are reporting in every time we take a piss.’

The planes dipped lower, their machine-guns spitting fire, the bombs splashing craters into the road, and men began to scream. Ernst cowered in the dirt, burrowing into English autumn leaves, pulling his helmet low over his head.

The wooden blocks glided silently across the ops table, mirroring the blood and horror that must be unfolding out in the English countryside right at this moment. Gary wondered if these calm Wrens had night-mares.

He glanced at the big clock on the wall. Already it was almost two p.m.

‘It’s working,’ Mackie said. ‘It’s only bloody working. Look, can you see - there’s a lot of detail, but just concentrate on the Panzer divisions. You have the Tenth heading off east towards Ashford, and the Fourth pushing for Lewes. Well, they’re so far from any support they might as well go back home. But the main thrust, the main line of breakout, is coming from the Seventh and Eighth, pushing up from the Sussex coast towards Guildford. Just where we want them.’

There was a fuss around the ops table, and the Wrens started sliding their blocks across the map with increasingly frantic haste.

‘And it’s starting,’ Mackie said. ‘Our counterattack. About bloody time.’

‘Request leave to return to my unit, sir.’

‘Of course, Corporal. I’ve ordered a car for you. Tell Monty to give old Hitler one from me! Sergeant Blackwell?’

‘Sir. This way, Corporal...’

So Gary was led out of the bunker, bundled into a staff car, whisked out of the base, and rushed along roads crowded by troops and supply vehicles. There were a few civilians, fleeing north and west from the threatened towns of Sussex and Hampshire, the usual dreary parade of women and children and old folk. But such was the urgency now, and the volume of military assets on the move, that police, MPs and ARP wardens were peremptorily shoving the civilians off the road. It was all vividly real, after the monasticism of the ops room.

‘Quite a show, isn’t it, mate?’ shouted Sergeant Blackwell, over the roar of the engines. He was a bulky man with a fat, shaven neck, and what sounded to Gary like a strong London accent. ‘You pick up a lot down in that ops room. We’re putting up a fight. But it’s all we’ve got, isn’t it?’ Blackwell looked over his shoulder. ‘What we have in the field right now. I mean, this is all there is, between the Nazis and London. Has to work, doesn’t it, Corporal?’

‘I guess so.’

The car rushed on, taking Gary back to his unit.

It was around five in the afternoon when the full-scale English assault at last fell on them. It came from the west.

The column broke again. The infantry dug in, scrambling for ditches and abandoned English foxholes. The engineers laboured to set up the field guns, and the Panzer tanks charged west, off the road, their big guns roaring.

Ernst and Heinz Kieser found themselves in an abandoned Home Guard pillbox, splashed with blood and stinking of cordite and smoke. Through a ragged slit in the scorched concrete, Ernst could see the open country the English were coming from. He saw vehicles, tanks, and scurrying troops, advancing amid the detonations of shells and the rattle of small-arms fire. This was not local defence; this was not the Home Guard. This was the English army, kept in reserve since the invasion; this was the counterattack they had been expecting all day.

And while the battle was joined on the land, over Ernst’s head the aerial war was raging. It was clear that the English air force must be attacking the German advance, all along the roads back to the south, hoping to slice up the columns and then destroy the isolated elements. But now the English bombers and fighters were at last challenged by flights of Messerschmitts roaring up from the south, and Stuka dive bombers screamed down on English emplacements. The air was full of streaking planes and the howl of engines and a lacing of fire - and, from time to time, a plume of smoke, an explosion in the air, the distant drifting of parachutes. A three-dimensional war, then, in the air and on the land.

Ernst knew roughly where he was. Suffering from the attrition of the defenders’ assaults, vehicles failing one by one for lack of fuel, the dwindling column had managed to push on through the towns of Haywards Heath and Horsham. The countryside was becoming progressively easier, less intensively mined, lighter and sparser defences at the crossroads and bridges and rail junctions. Now they were only a few miles south of Guildford, their target for the day, though they were far behind schedule. And if only they could go just a little further, if only they could reach the line of the Thames, the country would be open before them.

This was the crux. Ernst had the feeling that both sides were pouring all they had into this one conflict zone, that here was the spearhead, the assault that would make or break the German invasion of England.

There was a loud explosion, directly above Ernst’s head. He flinched, grabbing his helmet. An English plane, a Hurricane by the look of it, had taken a strike. Its tail was gone, its right wing crushed, and it was heading straight for the ground, spinning like a corkscrew. Ernst saw the pilot struggle to get out of his cockpit, a tiny figure clambering desperately. The plane speared down, falling somewhere behind the German line, and an explosion rocked the ground.

A shadow passed over Ernst’s face. He turned to look through the slit in the pillbox. Somebody was looking right back at him, not a foot away, through the thickness of the concrete. He had crept up while Ernst was distracted by the plane. The man’s hand was raised. He held a grenade.

Kieser saw the same thing. ‘Oh, shit!’ His rifle cracked. A bullet ripped past Ernst’s ear and slammed into the Englishman’s hand, and one of his fingers burst in a shower of blood. He screamed.

Kieser’s heavy hand slammed down on Ernst’s back. ‘Down, man!’

The explosion made the pillbox shudder. Leaves and bits of dirt were thrown up and then rained down.

On their bellies, they scrambled around the wall of the broken pillbox. The English soldier lay on his back, cradling a shattered hand. Kieser stuck the muzzle of his rifle in the man’s face. ‘Hello, goodbye,’ he said in his broken English.

‘Fuck you.’ The English laughed, though tears rolled down his cheek with the pain of his hand. ‘Fuck you for Peter’s Well. And Wisborough Green. And Rotherfield. And Bethersden. And—’

Kieser’s fist slammed into his jaw. ‘And fuck you for Versailles.’

‘Pretty boys!’ They glanced over. Unteroffizier Fischer, crouching in the dirt, was waving. ‘Leave him for the mop-up units. We’re moving on.’

They scrambled back towards him. The three of them huddled by the side of the road, crouching, flinching from the shell fire and the bursts of automatic fire that sporadically raked the column. But the column was forming up again, the tanks and trucks lumbering back onto the road.

Kieser shouted, ‘Unteroffizier? Are you serious?’

‘That’s the order. Listen to me. The English have fielded everything they’ve got, but we’re still standing. And what’s left of the second wave is heading our way. Always reinforce success - isn’t that what the Fuhrer says? And we’re the spearhead. Let the English slice away at our rear, let us lose half our bloody vehicles for lack of fuel - what of it? Mobility, that has been the key to this war -
our
mobility. If Seventh Panzer can only get into Guildford, with us following up - it’s only a few more miles - if just a few of us can only get that far tonight, then we will have a chance of establishing a bridgehead. And tomorrow, when the English are exhausted, we can consolidate. Do you see?’ He grinned. ‘The order has come from Guderian himself, it is said. Berlin is sceptical, but Berlin is far away. What a man! Come on, get back into the truck.’

So, with the air war screaming overhead and the English assault continuing furiously from the left, the column roared on towards Guildford, led by the remnants of Seventh Panzer. The English shells hailed all around, and one by one the trucks and tanks and field guns were knocked out, and othe
rs died from lack of fuel, yet the rest simply closed up and moved on. The English desperately tried to throw up road blocks, even shoving their own vehicles across the road, but the tanks simply smashed through.

For Ernst this was a dash through hell. The men in the troop carriers could do nothing but cower, each of them waiting for the bit of shrapnel or the sniper bullet or the automatic-weapons burst from some English plane that would end his life. But they whooped and roared as the truck clattered over the pocked road, throwing them around like toys in a box, and Ernst found it impossible not to join in. This was madness. They wouldn’t have the fuel even to drive back to the coast. But maybe, just maybe, this bold stroke was going to work, the English defences would be scattered and the Battle of England won.

But now they approached a crossroads. A mesh fence had been thrown across it, with barbed wire and a few tank traps. Ernst expected the Panzers simply to blast this lot out of the way and move on. He was astonished when the Panzers slowed with a grinding of their huge gears, and his own truck squealed to a stop.

Ernst exchanged a look with Heinz Kieser. Kieser just shrugged.

Unteroffizier Fischer jumped down to the road surface, and Ernst followed. The fence stretched to left and right across the road, and off into the fields beyond. A flag, a Stars and Stripes, flew boldly from a pole rising from beyond the fence. A single soldier armed with an automatic weapon stood right before the muzzle of the lead Panzer. He was short, burly, with belt and straps heavy with grenades and ammunition clips. His uniform looked crumpled. Apparently fearless, he was chewing gum.

There was a sign fixed to the fence, neatly lettered. Ernst squinted to make it out:

‘Shit,’ said Unteroffizier Fischer. ‘We’re going to have to pass this back up the line. Even Guderian can’t declare war on America on his own initiative. Churchill. That wily bastard must have something to do with this. Shit, shit.’

The American soldier grinned. In English he called, ‘Can I help you guys?’