The Sins of the Father (The Clifton Chronicles, #2)(35)

‘I’m not interested in what Sergeant Harris thinks,’ said Fisher. ‘I give the orders and you’ll carry them out. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Giles said as he slammed down the phone.

‘I could always kill him, sir,’ said Bates.

Giles ignored him as he loaded his pistol and attached six hand grenades to his webbed belt. He stood up so that both platoons could see him, and said in a loud voice, ‘Fix bayonets and prepare to advance.’ He then stepped out from behind his cover and shouted, ‘Follow me!’

As Giles began to run across the deep scorching sand with Sergeant Harris and Corporal Bates only a stride behind him, he was greeted with yet another volley of bullets and wondered how long he would survive against such overwhelming odds. With forty yards still to cover, he could see exactly where the three enemy dugouts were situated. He snatched a hand grenade from his belt, removed the pin and tossed it towards the centre dugout, as if he was returning a cricket ball from the deep boundary into the wicketkeeper’s gloves. It landed just above the stumps. Giles saw two men fly into the air, while another fell back.

He swung round and hurled a second grenade to his left, a definite run-out, because the enemy’s firepower suddenly dried up. The third grenade took out a machine gun. As Giles charged on, he could see the men who had him in their sights. He took his pistol out of its holster and began to fire as if he was on a shooting range but this time the bullseyes were human beings. One, two, three went down, and then Giles saw a German officer lining him up in his sights. The German pulled the trigger just a moment too late, and collapsed on the ground in front of him. Giles felt sick.

When he was only a yard from the dugout, a young German dropped his rifle on the ground, while another threw his arms high into the air. Giles stared into the desperate eyes of the defeated men. He didn’t need to speak German to know they didn’t want to die.

‘Cease fire!’ screamed Giles, as what was left of 1 and 2 sections quickly overwhelmed the enemy positions. ‘Round them up and disarm them, Sergeant Harris,’ he added, then turned back to see Harris, head down in the sand, blood trickling out of his mouth, only yards from the dugout.

Giles stared back across the open terrain they had crossed and tried not to count the number of soldiers who had sacrificed their lives because of one man’s weak decision. Stretcher bearers were already removing the dead bodies from the battlefield.

‘Corporal Bates, line up the enemy prisoners in threes, and march them back to camp.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Bates, sounding as if he meant it.

A few minutes later, Giles and his depleted band headed back across the open ground. They had covered about fifty yards when Giles saw Fisher running towards him, with 3 Section following in his wake.

‘Right, Barrington, I’ll take over,’ he shouted. ‘You bring up the rear. Follow me,’ he ordered as he led the captured German soldiers triumphantly back towards the town.

By the time they reached the Majestic Hotel, a small crowd had gathered to cheer them. Fisher returned the salutes of his brother officers.

‘Barrington, see that the prisoners are interned, then take the lads off to the canteen for a drink; they’ve earned it. Meanwhile, I’ll report to Major Richards.’

‘Can I kill him, sir?’ asked Bates.





17

WHEN GILES came down for breakfast the following morning, several officers, some of whom he’d never spoken to before, went out of their way to shake hands with him.

As he strolled into the mess, several heads turned and smiled in his direction, which he found slightly embarrassing. He grabbed a bowl of porridge, two boiled eggs and an out-of-date copy of Punch. He sat alone, hoping to be left in peace, but a few moments later three Australian officers he didn’t recognize joined him. He turned a page of Punch, and laughed at an E.H. Shepard cartoon of Hitler retreating from Calais on a penny farthing.

‘An incredible act of courage,’ said the Australian on his right.

Giles could feel himself turning red.

‘I agree,’ said a voice from the other side of the table. ‘Quite remarkable.’

Giles wanted to leave before they . . .

‘What did you say the fellow’s name was?’

Giles took a spoonful of porridge.

‘Fisher.’

Giles nearly choked.

‘It seems that Fisher, against all odds, led his platoon over open terrain and, with only hand grenades and a pistol, took out three dugouts full of German soldiers.’

‘Unbelievable!’ said another voice.

At least Giles could agree with that.

‘And is it true that he killed a Hun officer and then took fifty of the bastards prisoner, with only twelve men to back him up?’

Giles removed the top of his first boiled egg. It was hard.

‘It must be true,’ said another voice, ‘because he’s been promoted to captain.’

Giles sat and stared at the yolk of his egg.

‘I’m told he’ll be recommended for a Military Cross.’

‘That’s the least he deserves.’

The least he deserved, thought Giles, was what Bates had recommended.

‘Anyone else involved in the action?’ asked the voice from the other side of the table.

‘Yes, his second in command, but I’m damned if I can remember his name.’