looked about himself and took in his surroundings. He was sitting in some sort of command post, with a wireless set, discarded packs and various miscellaneous pieces of equipment, on the edge of a copse looking out across an open field. He pondered the captain’s words again. Covering a retreat. Surely it would not happen that quickly.
There was a pause in which the Coldstream officer stared disconsolately at the ground and twiddled a stick in the earth floor of his command post in an attempt at the regimental insignia.
Lamb broke the silence. ‘Excuse me, sir. My men?’
‘Ah yes, of course, right ho. Let’s find your mob and then you can get on your way, eh?’ He turned to bark an order in a voice that Lamb thought would have been well suited to the King’s Birthday Parade at Horse Guards: ‘Sarnt-Major, find the North Kents, if you will. I’m pleased that we managed to get most of you out. You number three corporals, one sergeant and seventeen men, if my Sarnt-Major’s right, and he’s never been known to be wrong.’
‘I don’t remember much of what happened.’
‘Hardly surprising when a bloody great tank shell goes off ten yards behind you. You’re lucky to be alive, Lieutenant.’
‘Are many wounded?’
‘Yes. I do remember one man in a pretty bad state. Lost his foot. And a couple of other minor casualties. One of the NCOs too.’
‘My sergeant?’
‘No. Not him. He’s sound. One of your corporals, though. Wound to the face. Nothing much really. Deal of blood. But he seemed damned put out about it. Funny sort of cove. Quite unlike your usual ranker. Educated, if you get my drift, and far too lippy by half.’
‘Valentine.’
‘Was that his name? Funny sort of name too. Take my advice, Lieutenant, and pack him off on an officer training course the first chance you get. That sort are never anything but trouble. Far too willing to express an opinion. Men aren’t intended to have opinions. They can think what they damn well like, of course, but they should never express opinions. Yes, make him an officer. I should.’
Lamb smiled. ‘He seems disinclined towards promotion, sir.’
‘Disinclined? Just sign the form man and the army will do the rest. Disinclined, my Aunt Fanny. He’ll be an officer and bloody well like it. Disinclined indeed.’
Lamb had no desire to continue the conversation and so quickly changed the subject. ‘Did the Jerries get across the river, sir?’
‘They’ve stopped pushing forward for the present but, yes, you might say it is in their hands. They’ve taken a fair pummelling, though. Our big guns gave them a bloody nose. Saw one of their tanks go right up. Bit of a Horlicks down there all round, though, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, bit of a Horlicks, sir.’
‘Dozens of dead Jerries, of course, but women and children too. Seems that someone must have pressed the button and blew the bridge sky high when it was packed with civilians. Bloody shame. Poor devils. I wonder who gave the order.’
Lamb said nothing but groaned inwardly and heard Valentine’s words again. Surely it’s what anyone in his place would have done, wasn’t it? They were his orders.
The captain was speaking again. ‘I expect there’ll be a Board of Enquiry. Generally is. Don’t know if anyone can be bothered, though, at the moment, with all this going on. Your Divisional General won’t be pleased. Montgomery. Known him all my life. Family friend. Half hoped that I might bump into him down here. And he takes no prisoners, I’ll tell you that. But he can’t abide waste of life. A soldiers’ soldier, d’you see. No problem at all with killing armed men. All for it, in fact. Killing the enemy. But he won’t have civilians hurt at all. Quite right too, of course. Who would? Something to do with something or other he saw in the last bash. Feel sorry for the poor bugger who gave the order to blow the bridge. Wasn’t you, I suppose?’
Lamb looked away. ‘Er, no, sir. I can safely say I didn’t push anything.’
‘That’s lucky then. I should get yourself back to your battalion if you can find it. Last I heard they were heading for Tournai. But you never can tell in this sort of scrap where they’ll pitch up. Things seem to change all the time at the moment, don’t they?’ He pointed to Lamb’s arm. ‘I’d get that properly seen to, if I were you. Our MO’s had a look at it, but you never know. Funny things, arms.’
There was a commotion outside. ‘Anyway, that’ll be your men now. Good to have met you, Lieutenant. Remember me to your general, if you see him.’
‘I shall, sir. Thank you.’
‘Here’s your soldier servant. Cheero.’
Captain Fortescue left the tent and Smart saluted him and entered. ‘Soldier servant? That me then, sir?’
‘Yes, Smart, that’s you, except we call you a batman. You’re only a servant to the Guards.’
Lamb managed to get to his feet and, helped by a gentle arm from Smart, left the tent. Outside the men had been drawn up by Sergeant Bennett, and they made a welcome sight. Lamb counted three lines of seven including the mortar team. He saw Thomson standing to the right with his anti-tank rifle. Six casualties. It looked as if Mays’s section had suffered worst.
‘Well done, Sarnt. Who’ve we lost?’
‘Austin, Joyncey and McCarthy all bought it, sir. Hale and Smith are wounded. Corporal Valentine’s got a scratch on his face, sir, and Peters is wounded bad, sir. Don’t think he’ll make it through the night.’
‘Thank you, Sarnt. I’ll see him in a moment.’ He turned to the men. ‘Gather round.’
As the men drew closer he continued: ‘Seems that we’re in a bit of a fix. Company HQ seems to have fallen back to Tournai, so we’re going to follow them.’
There was a voice from the second rank. Wilkinson. ‘Are we retreating, sir?’
‘No, Wilkinson. We’re not retreating, just pulling back to regroup so that we can counter-attack.’ He looked at his watch. It was nearing 2 p.m. ‘Right, we’ll march till 1800 hours, then make camp. If we get a step on we might even catch up with Company HQ.’
‘Or Brigade, sir.’
‘Or Brigade, Tapley. Thank you. All right, Sarnt Bennett. Take me to the wounded.’
They had lain the men beneath the shade of some trees close to the company transport. A number of guardsmen were standing about the vehicles talking and clicked smartly to attention, saluting as Lamb appeared. The three men were lying on blankets. Hale was sitting up puffing on a Woodbine. Smith was staring at the sky. Peters, though, was lying with his head on one side and as Lamb approached he noticed that his eyes, though wide open, were staring vacantly into the middle distance. His skin was drained of colour. Death could not be far off. He went to the less badly wounded first. ‘Hale. You look well enough to be up and about. Where did they get you?’
‘Leg, sir. Went clean through the ankle, sir. Can’t walk, sir.’
Lamb nodded. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll get you out all right. You’ll be back in Blighty before us. What about you, Smith?’
Smith looked up at Lamb and smiled. ‘Shoulder, sir. Bloody great bit of shrapnel. Hurts a bit.’
‘I bet it does. You’ll be home soon.’
He walked across to Peters. Bennett whispered to him. ‘Stomach wound, sir. MO’s had a look. It’s not good, sir. Got his liver too.’
Lamb knelt down by the boy’s head. ‘Peters. I know you can hear me. They think you’ll be fine, old chap. Is there anyone you’d like me to write to to tell them you’re on your way back home?’
Peters moved his lips and tried to turn his head, but Lamb noticed the grimace of pain that passed across