Walcot. Brian Aldiss
to be a military secret.’
With feeble sarcasm, Bertie said, ‘Don’t want Adolf Hitler to know where our Second Lieutenant Steve Fielding is, do we? Might lose the war because of it.’
You sipped the sherry, before saying you were sorry to barge in in the middle of an argument, but had no wish to be drawn into it.
‘Your aunt is spending too much money, that’s all,’ said Bertie, pettishly. ‘That’s it and all about it. She doesn’t know there’s a war on. She can’t get it into her head. It’s not an argument, it’s a fact. I’m not made of money.’
‘This stingy nonsense is just because I took Joyce up to London in the hols and bought her a new party dress.’ Violet sighed and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘Not a big deal. In any case, the dress was a bargain.’
‘Bargains, bargains. That’s all you ever think of.’
Turning away from her husband towards you, Violet said, ‘What kind of father grudges his daughter a new party dress?’
‘Yes, and what else? In the middle of a war –’ Bertie was red in the face.
‘We went to see a flick. So what?’
‘Oh, have you seen The Grapes of Wrath?’ you asked her.
‘Oh, we wanted something light. We went to see Bob Hope and Bing Crosby in Road to Singapore. Ever so funny. They make a great comedy pair.’
‘And sat in the best seats, of course,’ sneered Bertie.
‘I’d better be going,’ you said. You were trying to suppress anger and disappointment.
Bertie thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, saying nothing. Violet accompanied you to the front door. She said she was sorry about the way things were. She gave you a fleeting kiss on the cheek and wished you well. Turning back as she was closing the door you saw tears in her eyes.
‘Goodbye, my darling,’ she called. You felt pretty irritated.
The sea was slightly choppy. A chilly wind blew, driving cloud before it. The landing craft, with their freight of troops, tanks, guns, lorries and other support vehicles, lurched towards the French shore. It was the 20th May. German forces had already made huge incursions into France. In 1940, the war was going the Germans’ way.
This detachment of the Tank Corps, known to some as ‘Montagu’s Marauders’, were to act as reinforcements. After landing, their orders were to move immediately to supplement the defence of Paris. They were about to land on the beaches of Fecamp, a village between Dieppe and Le Havre.
As the ramp of the lead LCT came down, waves surged over it. You stood in the bows, wishing there was some way to stop looking pale. Major Hilary Montagu gripped your elbow, declaiming in a firm voice, ‘A mighty wave Odysseus overbore: Quenching all thought, it swept him to the shore.’
You looked at him in puzzlement. Montagu already had his binoculars to his eyes, and was searching the shore for signs of activity.
‘The Odyssey, old chap. Translated by someone or other. Have you never read The Odyssey? The world’s greatest book. Tut-tut.’
You said nothing. Montagu was your superior officer, recently returned from India, where he had been in command of a company of Gurkhas on the North West Frontier. A lean and civilized man with a sudden temper which made him feared by both men and officers, Montagu had adopted a somewhat fatherly attitude towards you, for which you were grateful, telling yourself you could stand patronizing. You were so young.
At his signal, the vehicle engines started up. The bottom of the LCT grated against shingle.
‘Come on!’ shouted Montagu. ‘Forward the Buffs!’ He jumped into the spray. You followed, the troops behind you. The heaving water came up to your thighs, intent on impeding you. Shingle crunched underfoot. You were too intent on watching for possible opposition ashore to notice the cold of the water.
There was no opposition on the beach, only a French officer awaiting you by a pick-up truck. As you, Captain Travers and two Red Caps directed the traffic from the landing craft into line on the sand, shouting to the soldiers to muster on a road just above the low cliffs, Montagu marched briskly towards the French officer. They saluted each other, then shook hands. They hurried to the pick-up to send out wireless messages to base across the Channel, confirming that you had landed unopposed.
You marshalled the small invading force in order on the road, with scouts out and alert and all Churchills sending out blue exhaust. Two sandy roads divided, with a wood on one side of the main road and a field with cows grazing on the other. Some distance away was a house with a barn beside it, the whole making a disturbingly peaceful picture.
The major, returning from the French pick-up, said to you in an aside, ‘Chap doesn’t speak Urdu, or much English, but it seems we should get a move on. We proceed via Rouen. There’s a straight road from Rouen to Paris, but we may encounter refugees en route.’
‘Move immediately, Sir?’
‘What else? Get on with it, Fielding.’
As you climbed into your tank, a faint siren blast sounded from across the water. Your supply ship was turning, leaving France to make the return journey back to England. At that point you felt isolated. You thought there were perhaps half a million British troops on French soil, many engaged in battles with the Wehrmacht, but none of them were anywhere near your detachment. You prickled with a sense of peril and excitement.
The vehicles rolled. You began the trek south-west on the more important road. Almost immediately, you encountered refugees. Many were on foot, travelling in families, fathers pushing prams loaded with provisions and cooking utensils; some were in cars of ancient vintage, with mattresses tied to the roof; some had carts, farm carts of various sizes, drawn by horses, with bedraggled sons and daughters of farmers who were trudging alongside the turning wheels. This was what the great French nation had been brought down to.
The road you were taking was raised above the level of the surrounding fields to prevent it from flooding. Many refugees had problems getting up on the road from the fields; carts had to be heaved with a united effort, babies and small children had to be carried, grandmothers had to be pushed, cars in some cases to be abandoned. It was a terrible scramble, involving shouting, cursing and screaming. The fear was always that Stukas would fly over and strafe the crowds. Fortunately none appeared; the skies remained clear.
But your progress was painfully slow. Some refugees, travelling on foot, seized the opportunity to climb on the sides of the tanks for a brief respite. You did not have the heart to order them off. Captain Travers had the passengers of his tank turned away.
Your company had landed at dawn. Cloud had blown away, leaving blue skies. Just before one o’clock you arrived at the town of Yvetot, to find much of it in flames following a German bombing raid. A mixed bunch of soldiers and gendarmes was barring entrance to the town.
Major Montagu handed over command to Captain Travers and went on foot to order the mayor to give us permission to pass through. He returned after ninety minutes, during which time the men had ‘brewed up’. One of the men handed you up a mug of tea. Montagu looked grim. The mayor had been injured by a bomb blast and his harried second-in-command had no control over affairs. He claimed that bomb craters had closed the streets and there was no road open to Rouen: you would have to turn back.
The Major had persuaded or forced the man to sign a piece of paper, which he waved at the soldiery on guard. A large blond Frenchman wearing an old-fashioned helmet came forward and bellowed at the gendarmes to let the British tanks through.
Moving