WESTERN WAYS 3
Jim’s third stripe had only come through a fortnight before, but that stripe was all the runner needed to see.

“Boss says he’s going to throw the towel in, Sarge. Stand ready to disable weapons and break cover, but at his command only”

Dinger Bell was the first to speak, as always.

“Fucking Nora, why?”

The runner shrugged.

“Sent a few lads out on a shufty, and they say the Krauts have got round the back of us with some of their armoured cars. No way round them. Pass it on, Sarge; I’ve got to go”

Jim looked down the line of shell scrapes that followed the north/east bank of the canal. The sappers were supposed to have blown all the bridges, so how had the buggers got armour round behind them?

“Pass the word along the line, Dinger. Keep it down, though. Boss might change his mind”

A Spandau fired at something, the sound like tearing paper rather than the rattle of a Bren, and it was indeed coming from behind them. Jim winced, shrinking down into his scrape as the machine gun was followed by a rapid series of crumping explosions as a mortar barrage struck, once again from behind. Bollocks. Two minutes later, a white flag went up down the line to Jim’s left, and the shouts came: “Cease fire! Pass the word!”

The sudden silence felt eerie, until it was broken by his officer’s plummy tones, shouting something in French, and then in German. A group of the enemy rose from behind the ruins of a small building about thirty yards beyond the canal, as two of Jim’s bosses walked slowly forward to the edge of the water. A German officer, from his peaked cap, walked out with the first group and called across to Mister Neville.

“I thank you for your attempt at my language and appreciate your courtesy, but perhaps it will be easier to arrange things in English? What are you offering, sir?”

“I need your assurances first, sir. That my men will be treated properly in accordance with the terms of the Geneva Convention. We are aware that such has not always been the case”

The German officer shrugged, and while his reply was pleasant in tone, there was still a little edge to it, something unsaid that Jim knew he was missing.

“Whom am I addressing? I will stress that the Wehrmacht is honourable in all things”

“I am the Officer commanding this unit. Captain Benjamin Neville”

“Thank you, Captain Neville. I am Hauptmann Albach, so we are of similar rank, No dishonour to you. I am grateful for your offer, as it will avoid more needless death and injury. You are aware that we have motorised units to your rear; they will come forward shortly. Please tell your men to relax in the meantime—perhaps brew a cuppa char?”

The German saluted in the conventional way before turning and walking back to cover, seeming unconcerned at the risk of being shot. Mister Neville sagged, almost as if someone had cut his strings, before turning to his own side, clearly doing his best to show similar bravado.

“All men are to spike their weapons!”

He muttered something else to his attendants, and once more the message came by runner: burn everything apart from personal effects and AB64. Jim turned to his boys, feeling more than a little lost.

“You heard him! Get a brew on, burn any maps or anything else to fuel it. Pull your bolts from your bundooks and toss them in the canal. If you can manage it, smack something in the muzzle or the breech. Don’t leave anything for the Jerries. And thanks, lads. You’ve done well today”

There were mutters, mostly obscene, that they obviously hadn’t done well enough, but the tea was welcome, along with the bully and biscuit burgoo the lads pulled together from the last of their rations, expecting that jerry would take anything left in their packs. Along with a couple of the others, Jim managed to smash the stock of his rifle against the stone of the towpath, the bolt already at the bottom of the canal. As the last of the stew went down, there was a roar of engines and a clatter of tracks: the Germans were there.

There were two armoured cars, huge six-wheeled things in a dark slate-grey with a large frame aerial over the top, plus three tanks, the first Jim had actually seen close up. They looked pathetic, not that much bigger than a carrier, and he almost laughed at them before remembering what he had done to his weapon. Jerry wasn’t the one waving the white flag, after all. In response to Mister Neville’s commands, the whole unit paraded in two ranks, and that was when Jim understood why Neville had made his choice, for around a quarter of their original number were missing. Neville had a quiet conversation with his new German friend, and after a sharp nod, the man walked over to one of the armoured cars, whose commander was leaning out of the top, all in black with silver skulls on his collar. Neville turned back to the men.

“Captain Albach has called for stretchers to be brought forward, as well as transport. We will need bearers for those wounded who cannot walk. W.O. 2 Kerr will tell off men after the Germans have finished…”

Mister Neville looked lost, but after a quick shake of his head, he continued.

“The Germans will now search you. This will not be resisted. They will also take your AB64 pay books. I am assured that this is only for formal registration via the Red Cross as prisoners of war under the rules of the Geneva Convention, and that they will be returned after interrogation. That is all, apart from my own words: I am sorry, boys. You have made me a proud man today, proud to serve with you. True fusiliers all. My hopes go with you all: see you back home when this is all over”

He turned away, still doing his best to keep his head up, and two of the black-uniformed men started to go through his pockets. While a couple of motorcycle combinations and several infantrymen covered the squaddies with their weapons, other Germans moved forward to search the lads. As one of them went through Jim’s pockets, taking his AB64, he suddenly jumped back, swinging his Schmeisser to point at his chest. There was a click as he cocked it, and then he was yelling.

“MESSER! MESSER! GIB MIR MESSER!”

“What are you jabbering about?”

“MESSER!”

Dinger called across.

“Keep it slow, Sarge. You forget your gully!”

Jim felt his heart almost stop, as he placed both hands carefully on top of his head, turning slightly so that the enemy soldier could reach his right hip. He could almost smell the weapon so close to his head, but the German simply snatched out the bayonet before stepping quickly backwards, breathing rapidly. Jim nodded, as a German NCO put a calming hand on his man’s soldier, muttering something in German. Albach walked quickly over, clearly sensing trouble.

“Was passiert hier?”

The NCO launched into rapid German, showing Albach the bayonet, all eighteen inches of it, and the Captain laughed out loud before saying something that left the two soldiers snorting. He then turned to Jim.

“I have pointed out, Sergeant, that an item nearly half a metre in length that was hanging from your belt is not exactly ‘concealed’. Please be so good as to advise your comrades, who may have forgotten such minor items as ammunition, grenades…”

He turned the weapon in his hands, appraisingly.

“Or bayonets. My man may wish this as a keepsake. Your orders, please.”

Jim drew a breath, choosing his words with care, then called as loudly as he could manage without blurring his words.

“Just nearly got shot, lads. I forgot my bayonet. If you have yours on you, or anything such as spare rounds, Mills bombs, whatever, put it on the ground and step back three paces. Now!”

There was a shuffle, as several other bayonets clattered to the ground, along with some clips of .303 rounds. No grenades, thank God. His heart was still pounding, though, even as they finally formed column of twos and marched off to captivity after the told off bearers had loaded the more seriously wounded into the lorries. It was a long march, back over the canal by way of one of two well-made temporary bridges, the other one with nose to tail German traffic. Mister Neville had been absolutely right to give in, Jim realised.

Their destination was in the edge of a wood, clearly a plantation from the regular spacing of the trees, where a wired enclosure had been set up. They settled down on the ground, many falling fast asleep immediately, exhaustion finally prevailing over fear. Jim found a tree to sit against, and despite his situation, he found hie eyelids dropping.

“ALLEN, JAMES ROBSON!”

He jerked awake, only then realising sleep had claimed him, and looked around in confusion. A Jerry was standing by the entrance to their enclosure, waving a pay book. Once more, he called out Jim’s name, and he stumbled to his feet.

“Komm mit!”

Dinger shouted to him a she went.

“If they shoot you, Sarge, bagsy your boots!”

“Oh, fuck off, lad!”

He followed the German soldier to a tent, another walking behind with one of the ubiquitous Schmeissers, and the first one waved him in, after saluting and heel-clicking to the officer seated inside. Captain Albach, yet again.

“Ah! Sergeant Allen? Good. Do take a seat, do. Tea? Not the best, I am afraid, as my tross is only just getting established again”

“Tross?”

“Um… Baggage train? Support units?”

“Oh, aye. Tea, if you have it”

Albach handed him his AB64, with a smile, calling out instructions to an orderly.

“I had my man arrange these in alphabetical order, Sergeant. After all, we Germans are rather well-known for our love of order and structure in things. Tell me, do you know Durham City at all well?”

“I’m sorry? Um, name, rank, serial number, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Sergeant. Ah, your tea is here. Yes, the Convention specifies those three, but I am a civilised man, and it would be nice to converse in more pleasant ways than those that involve high explosives or bullets. So, are you familiar with the City?”

Jim sipped from the tin mug, and the tea was a little sweet for him, but not that bad. Albach continued chatting.

“I was a Divine, Sergeant. I studied theology at St Chad’s in that city. Your regiment is from the neighbouring county, and I am simply curious as to how things are since I answered the call of my own country. I remember we would gather in the Shakespeare, on Saddler Street, hoping to see some of the ghosts”

He laughed, with clearly happy memories.

“Some of—No! MANY of my fellow students had a greater interest in the other sort of spirits. Gaudeamus igitur, Sergeant, iuvenes dum sumus”

“Sorry? I only speak English, sir”

“Latin, Sergeant. Let us therefore rejoice, while we are young”

He carried on in a similar manner for some time, which puzzled Jim, but he didn’t seem pushy, so he dared to ask a question of his own.

“No offence meant, Captain, but I don’t see the point of this chat”

“None taken, my friend. It is simply that it helps my English remain current, as well as allowing me to reminisce about happier times. I hope to return there one day, once this unpleasantness is over. Our countries are not natural enemies, after all. Besides…”

He grinned, and was suddenly a decade younger.

“One of your comrades might be indiscreet!”

Jim was escorted back to the compound, as the next name was called, feeling absolutely confused by his treatment. What had been the point of it all?

A few days later, he was feeling more comfortable, as things started to move in ways more to his expectation. Five days of marching had brought the unit to a railhead, where a long train of cattle wagons was waiting, obviously for them and a large number of other British and French soldiers. There was straw on the wooden floorboards, three buckets for sanitary use, and shortly after Jim’s arrival, the train was chuffing to the East, thirty men to a wagon.