But in the middle of all this, it was still England, and those civilians who hadn't fled were carrying on with their lives. Once Gary saw a tank detachment stopped to allow a farmer to drive his cows across the road for milking. Cows!
They came to an abandoned German position behind a crossroads, a complex of interconnected slit trenches protected by a minefield. The sappers had marked out a safe path with white tape. Gary saw a gruesome monument lying in the road: a human leg blown clean off at the knee, the booted foot shredded. Somebody had paid dearly for the path he followed now.
Danny Adams was poking in the dirt. 'Over here, lads. The trench has been pretty much stripped, but I think there are weapons. See, buried in the dirt where the wall collapsed?'
Gary went to see. 'Panzerfausts.' They had been trained up on these; it turned out that a panzerfaust's rocket-propelled grenade, designed to take out a tank, did a good job of smashing in the walls of a house.
'Come on, let's dig them out. I'll call for a truck.'
The trench itself was a bit of a mess, when Gary got into it. Grenades had clearly been used, you could see the cratering in the trench walls. Most of the bodies were intact, more or less, killed by the blast, but some had been ripped apart, and you had to watch where you stepped. In one place Gary saw that one fellow had fallen over another when he died, with bits of medical kit scattered around, bandages, syringes, even a stethoscope.
'A doctor,' Willis said. 'Killed as he treated another man, you think?'
'Looks like it.'
'Odd, isn't it? He stayed to do his duty, and got killed for it. Sort of thing that rather proves there's no God. Now then-' Using his rifle barrel as a scoop, he got hold of the stethoscope. 'That's a souvenir you don't see every day.'
'Yeah,' Dougie Skelland growled. 'You can use it to find out if you've got a fucking heart, you faggot.'
Danny Adams said, 'Shut up and get these panzerfausts stacked.'
X
5 July
By midnight, as the fourth of July gave way to the fifth, the retreat was in full flight.
They were kept marching through the night, in the pitch dark, moving on south step by step, following the little English country lanes. The dark was the only cover they had, from the planes that buzzed constantly overhead and from the heavy English guns. They weren't allowed so much as a torch beam to see their way forward, and Heinz was slapped down when he tried to light his cigarettes. So it was a question of stumbling forward in the dark, endlessly tripping over tarmac churned up by tank treads, and everybody bumping into each other with soft curses.
By the time the dawn seeped into the sky, Ernst was exhausted. Practically since the softening-up bombardment it had been twenty-four hours of this clumsy, uncoordinated flight, when you were barely able to rest either physically or mentally, not for a moment. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and for hours had had nothing to drink but water from his canteen, refilled from brackish puddles in the ditches. In the grey dawn light, as the hulking, grimy shapes of the men coalesced around him, he felt unreal, distant, as if he were watching some black-and-white cinema film.
At about nine o'clock in the morning they heard a roar of engines, a rattle of treads coming from the rear. They rushed for cover, thinking that the Allied army had overtaken them. But the column's lead tank was a Tiger. The men emerged from cover, their legs splashed with mud and dew.
The vehicles drew to a halt, pulling off the road into bits of cover. The column was a ragtag bunch, a couple of tanks, some self-propelled guns, and a chain of open-backed trucks crowded with troops. The men clambered down. The troops swapped cigarettes; one man passed around a bottle of sloe gin he had stolen from a farmhouse. Officers, NCOs and feldgendarmerie from the column and the infantry units stood in a huddle, negotiating. Most were Wehrmacht, but some of them were SS, and others, very agitated, wore the brown uniforms of the Party. Mechanics worked at one of the trucks, whose exhaust smoked blackly. It was clearly breaking down, so they siphoned off its fuel and stripped it of its tyres and spark plugs and other parts, cannibalising it. What they could not reuse they began to wreck, systematically.
Men stood by the vehicles, or leaned against trees, their rifle butts on the ground. They all had blackened faces. You could see that some of them were asleep standing up. For a moment it was calm, no engines running, not even a distant buzz of aircraft engines to disturb the peace. It was a fine morning, if misty. Ernst breathed in the scent of honeysuckle.
'It was just like this after Stalingrad,' Heinz muttered.
'What was?'
'The retreat. Our front just collapsed. So it is here. No coordination, no proper communication. The calmer officers trying to impose a bit of organization. Just a headlong flight, really.'
Fischer approached them. 'You keep talking like that, Kieser, and we'll leave you with that broken-down truck.'
Ernst asked, 'So what's going on, Unteroffizier?'
'The hauptmann over there says the Americans have broken through at Faversham. Their tanks are heading for Canterbury, and then on to Folkestone. It will all be over by nightfall.'
'They have learned the art of blitzkrieg,' Heinz said without emotion.
'They will find nothing but rubble left of Canterbury. And there's talk of a fighting withdrawal, making a stand at the Hastings bunker. I think-'
There was an explosion, out of nowhere.
Ernst dived for cover behind a truck. Fischer almost landed on top of him, his heavy bulk thudding into the dirt. Bits of twisted metal clattered from the truck's body, and a wall of dust and heat swept over them. There was a stink of petrol and oil and rubber.
When the shock wave had passed, Ernst twisted sideways and looked out, under the truck's body. One of the tanks was burning, still sitting where it had been parked. Flames shot out of its open hatch. Ernst could smell oil smoke and cordite, and the sour, awful stench of burning flesh. But then another explosion broke open the tank turret further, and Ernst had to duck again. Now there was a rattle of machine-gun fire.
One of the officers from the motorised column came running by, a Schmeisser machine pistol in his hand. 'Partisans! Fucking partisans! X Company with me, we'll clean these bastards out. The rest of you stay under cover.' So Ernst huddled with Fischer under the truck, while the troopers stormed the resistance hold-out. There was a crackle of small-arms fire, the chatter of machine guns, the thump of grenades – and screaming, plenty of that.
But even as men fought and died Fischer dug a pack of field rations out of his pocket. It was wrapped in a bit of newspaper, one of the last editions of the Albion Times, with a picture of Goebbels' visit. Fischer unwrapped the paper and handed Ernst a bit of army bread. Ernst had some water in his canteen, so he got that out to share. 'Quite a picnic,' Fischer said, chewing on his bread. 'We must do it again-'
Another explosion, and a clatter of shrapnel against the truck sides.
After that Ernst thought he might have slept for a while, despite the extraordinary situation.
At last they were called out of hiding. Men emerged from the vehicles and the ditches, and slowly began to form up into marching order once again.
Heinz nudged Ernst. 'Come on. Let's take the chance and go and see how those partisans have been living.'
They crept forward, past the burned-out tank.
The auxiliaries' bunker had been broken open by grenades. SS men were rifling through the junk. Built of railway sleepers and corrugated iron, it was quite extensive, with rooms and tunnels, and bits of equipment scattered everywhere – weapons, tinned food, paraffin lamps, radio gear. Bodies were curled up in the ruins. One SS man picked up a thick booklet marked 'Countryman's Diary 1939'; it seemed to contain instructions on sabotage and guerrilla warfare.