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