‘We’re on our way, men,’ he says. ‘You’ve been told this is another training exercise. Well, it isn’t. This is the real thing.’
A great shout goes up from the mass of soldiers, followed by hoots and cheers. The officers look at each other and grin.
‘Our destination is Dieppe. We will land at dawn, hold the port for a maximum of twelve hours, and withdraw. This is not an invasion. This will be the very first reconnaissance in force of the enemy mainland. The port of Dieppe is well defended. This isn’t going to be a picnic. But it’s our first chance in this war to get a poke at the Hun. So let’s see we give him a poke he won’t forget.’
The men cheer again. Roberts departs, to repeat his short speech on the next ship in the great armada.
Larry retreats to the wardroom, where he and the crowd of other officers are joined shortly by Brigadier Wills. Orders are now opened and given out, complete with maps, schedules, and aerial photographs. Jevons talks them through the plan.
‘RAF air cover will be in place by dawn. Naval bombardment of the beaches will begin at 0510 hours. At 0520 hours our landing craft will hit Red Beach, here. Our mission is to seize and hold the Casino, which is here.’
Larry listens attentively. The plan is so detailed, so specific, that it has an air of inevitability. But what is it all for? Why are they to attack this fortified port, and then go home again? All round him, beneath the grave faces and the air of businesslike concentration, he feels wild pulsing excitement. They’re going into battle. No one asks to measure the risk against the reward. All they require is the assurance that the cause is just.
‘Just point us at ’em,’ the men say, ‘and leave us to do the rest.’
Larry feels it too, but he doesn’t yet understand it. All he knows is it’s nothing to do with love of England, or hatred of Germany. He isn’t on this mission because he wants to die for his country. He’s here because his whole world is on the march, and it has become impossible to stand on the margins and watch the parade go by. He sees on the faces of the men around him the same conviction that possesses him: we’re on our way at last.
*
Shortly after midnight the fleet enters a minefield. The order goes out for all men to inflate their lifejackets. The command ship, the Hunt-class destroyer HMS Calpe, enters the minefield first, following the channel cleared by navy sweepers. The convoy falls in behind, guided by the faint green lights of marker buoys.
Larry stands at the ship’s rail on the open deck, now packed tight with silent men. All watch the white froth of the ship’s wake as the engines drive them fast through the danger zone.
‘The old man’s gone through first,’ says a voice. ‘He’s got guts, give him that.’
‘They lay these magnetic mines,’ says another. ‘You don’t have to hit them. They come and hit you.’
‘Just like me and the girls.’
‘Me, I’m old-fashioned. I like to hit the girls first.’
Subdued laughter ripples outwards in the night. The ship veers suddenly to starboard and the men fall silent. Then the ship veers again, to port. A light on the water ahead comes nearer, and then passes away into the darkness.
A bell jangles. Voices and laughter break out again. The troopship is safely through the minefield. The tension lifts. Brigadier Wills, doing the rounds, finds Larry still leaning on the rail.
‘Try to get some sleep,’ he says.
‘Yes, sir, I will,’ says Larry.
‘Good to have you along. The boys appreciate it.’
Larry finds a space to lie down below deck, but he knows he won’t sleep. He’s in a state he’s not experienced before, a strange combination of stillness and intense inner excitement. He takes out a cigarette and lights it, noticing now that all round him glow the tips of other cigarettes. He inhales deeply, and feels a tingling sensation pass through his body, followed by a deep powerful languor. Unthinkingly he gives a sigh of pleasure. His neighbour says out of the darkness, ‘Always fresh,’ and Larry follows up with a laugh, ‘And truly mild.’ The slogan of the Sweet Caps he smokes these days, to show his solidarity with the Canadian forces. As he exhales he can see the cigarette smoke shivering in the air above him, shaken back and forth by the vibrations of the ship’s engines.
*
The river gunboat Locust emerges from the minefield in its turn, following the long line of troopships and landing craft. Three hundred and seventy officers and men of 40 Commando are crowded onto the narrow deck, either asleep or sitting still and breathing evenly to conserve energy. The commanding officer, Colonel Phillips, is reviewing the maps and photographs of White Beach, and familiarising himself with the layout of the town beyond.
‘You know what Dieppe’s famous for?’ says Ed Avenell. ‘Dirty weekends.’
‘You should know, Ed,’ says Abercrombie.
Ed smiles and says nothing.
Breakfast is served early, just before two in the morning. Beef stew, bread and butter and marmalade, and coffee. The officers eat in silence.
At fleet rendezvous point new orders are received from Operational Command. Phillips announces that 40 Commando is to be held in reserve. A groan goes up from the men.
‘What are we, fucking nursemaids?’
‘We’re to wait for the Canadians to clear the main beach.’
4 Commando’s job is demolition. By the time they’re through, not one port facility will be left operational. Joe Phillips doesn’t like the new orders any more than his men. Commandos are raiders, trained to move fast and light. They’re not assault troops.
‘Try to get some sleep,’ he tells the men.
Ed Avenell remains on deck, leaning on the stern rail, watching the long line of the fleet behind them. Here Phillips finds him, as he does his rounds.
‘Biggest naval operation of the war,’ he says.
‘Looks like it,’ says Ed.
‘You’ve not told the boys you got hitched.’
‘No,’ says Ed.
‘You don’t want any special treatment.’
‘That’s about it, sir.’
Titch Houghton joins them.
‘Lovat and his boys will be ready to go in about now,’ he says.
4 Commando are to make a night landing on Orange Beach to the west, while Durnford-Slater’s 3 Commando makes for Yellow Beach and the big guns of Berneval.
‘Has Lovat taken his bloody piper?’ says Phillips.
‘Of course,’ says Titch Houghton.
‘I don’t like this reserve bullshit. It means we go in by daylight.’
*
At three in the morning, as required by the complex timetable of the operation, the men of the RHLI form up below decks in their platoons to prepare for the transfer to landing craft. They wear their netted tin hats. The inflated Mae Wests beneath their tunics give them all powerful chests. They carry Brens, Stens and rifles over their shoulders, hand grenades on their belts, knives at their hips. Larry Cornford, armed like the rest, takes his place in the line for Number 6 boat, and waits for the man in front of him to move.
This is what his entire life has become: waiting, moving, waiting again, always in lines, carried along by the great machine of which he is one tiny part. Now the lines begin to move up onto deck, where the night is still dark. Ahead men are climbing ladders into the slung barges, great black masses against the starlit sky. Larry follows in his turn, jumping down onto the benches that run the length of the craft. Men are ahead of him, and all the time more men are piling on after him, and soon he finds himself pushed towards the back of the starboard bench. A voice hisses at him, ‘Sit crossways! Face forward!’ Shortly he is wedged tight on the bench between the packs and weapons of other men.
The barge lurches and swings. The davit gear emits its high-pitched whine. The side of the ship rises above them. Then comes the slap of the water as the long steel craft settles, and the throb of the engine starting up.
A voice from above calls, ‘You’re on your own now, boys! Giv
e ’em hell!’
The landing craft chugs away from the mother ship, taking its place in a line of other assault craft. The coast of France is still fifteen miles to the south-east, two hours and more away.
Larry gazes at the steersman in his armoured box over the bow, and hears the ping-ping of the engine-room telegraph. These are navy boys, their job is to ferry the assault troops, not to take part in the attack.
I’ll be in the attack. I will fight.
This extraordinary fact has filled his being since he left England. Every single moment since then, however tedious, however uncomfortable, has been charged with intensity. All this time is before. Nothing has prepared him for the feelings he now experiences. It’s not fear, not yet. The danger he faces has no reality yet. Nor is it that state he’s heard talk of, called battle exultation. He feels sharp, as if all his being has been sharpened to a single point. Gone are all the usual little complications of life. He has no thoughts of his family or friends, no memories of his life gone by. Nothing but this landing craft, the pressure of the man behind him, the juddering of the engine, the twinge of cramp in his leg, the smell of spray on the air, the stars above, and it – the battle to which they sail.
After this nothing will ever be the same again. I am about to be transformed. Out there in the darkness there waits for me an enemy, men who wish me harm, who will try to hurt me, even though they know nothing about me. And will I try to hurt them? Of course. And because of this, nothing will ever be the same again.
He settles down at last into a doze. All along the benches men grunt and mutter in their sleep, as the craft maintains its course straight ahead. The flotilla, no longer in single file, is spread out over the surface of the night sea, seeming almost not to be moving.
Suddenly there comes a streak of bright light to the northeast, and a flare explodes in the sky. It drops slowly down, illuminating the water’s surface.
‘What the fuck was that?’
Men jerk out of sleep to watch.
Brilliant green streaks arc up into the sky, followed by red streaks, rising, cresting a curve, falling and fading to nothing. There follow bright white silent shell bursts, and shooting stars of gold, and more lazy leaping arcs of dazzling red.
‘Tracer! Some bugger’s hit trouble!’
The landing craft has neither slowed nor deviated from its course. Now the men on board hear the bark of ack-ack guns from the French coast.
‘Sounds like Jerry’s woken up.’
‘That’ll be fun for us.’
*
The men of 40 Commando are halfway through transferring from the Locust to their landing craft when the tracer battle lights up the sky. Colonel Phillips is on the bridge with the navy team, trying to make out what’s happening.
‘Not good,’ he says. ‘There goes our surprise.’
Wireless traffic between HMS Calpe and HMS Berkeley reveals that the easternmost craft in the fleet, Number 3 Commando’s boats, have run into a German tanker and its escort. Orders are to continue according to plan.
Phillips leaves the gunboat last of his men, jumping down into the fourth landing craft. The Locust is to accompany them all the way, short of the beach itself.
‘Don’t worry about it, boys!’ says Phillips, standing in the craft so all can see him. ‘It’s only 3 Commando screwing up.’
Soft laughter ripples through the boats.
‘Let’s go.’
The four barges set course for the coast of France, joining almost two hundred others now spread over a line eight miles wide. Ed Avenell is in 2 Boat commanded by Titch Houghton. The diminutive major stands up in the bow as they pick up speed.
‘Plenty of time yet, boys,’ he says. ‘We’re to get into position offshore, then we wait for the order to go in.’
As the glow of dawn appears to the east, the naval barrage opens up, according to plan. The eight destroyers pound the coastal defences for ten minutes, filling the air with the scream and glare of high explosive. At the same time there comes a distant singing in the sky as the squadrons of Spitfires arrive, escorting the Boston bombers. At 0530 hours the barrage ceases, and the main assault on the beaches begins.
*
Larry waits in his landing craft a little way off the beach, dazed by the bombardment, unable to see anything ahead other than his fellow soldiers. The barge heaves and lurches on the tide. All round, the darkness is fading into light. Bostons rumble low overhead, laying a trail of thick white smoke along the beach. Tank landing craft come surging past, first in line for the assault. He hears the boom of guns open up, followed by the rattle of light weapons. On either side other assault craft wait for the signal to advance. The men in his boat are tensed, ready to go. The sound of gunfire grows louder all the time, a ceaseless refrain now, but nothing can be seen through the smoke. Then comes the deep hollow boom of a big gun.
‘Howitzer!’ murmurs a voice. ‘Six-incher.’
Tracer bullets flash across the sky ahead. Somewhere in the dawn shadows, in the white smoke, the battle has already begun. Then at last, in response to some unheard command, the engines pick up speed and the barge surges forward. A loud cheer goes up from the men. A sergeant in the bows starts up a progress report.
‘Five hundred yards … I can see the beach … Three hundred … Smoke’s lifting …’
The smoke is being swept away in long streamers by a westerly wind. In the dawn light the beach appears before them, with the town beyond. All along the shore, landing craft stand beached on the shingle. Beyond, between the sea-line and the town, a dozen or so box-like objects are spread out, crawling slowly. Between them the pale grey beach is in constant eruption, like the surface of a heated pan of porridge. Each bursting bubble emits its small puff of smoke, which arises and disperses on the wind.
‘Brace, lads! Here we go!’
The landing craft smashes into the sandbar and every man lurches forward. The ramp falls and the lead men are out, floundering in shallow water. Larry sees only the men ahead, and he follows in his turn, possessed by one passionate desire, to move, to be in action.
He jumps, sinks in the water, hits the pebble ridge, scrambles to find a footing, feels the shingle skid beneath his weight. Round him men flounder and fall, thrashing the water with their arms. A spout of seawater rises up before him, and a shockwave hits him in the face, stinging his eyes. His boots won’t grip the seabed, he struggles to advance, but with each downward kick he feels himself slipping back. Then a wave comes in and lurches him forward, and all at once he’s climbing, he’s up onto the beach proper, and he’s tramping over the spreadeagled body of a man.
Shocked more by the touch than the sight he stops and looks round, bewildered, unable to make sense of what he sees. A man nearby throws himself over on one side. Ahead a man is crawling, groaning as he goes. Beyond there are figures to be seen scattered here and there over the beach, crouched or toppled. The sounds round him are deafening, irregular, inescapable. Men come heaving past him, loaded down with packs and weapons, firing as they go.
Who are they shooting at? There’s no sign of the enemy. Only these puffs of smoke, these eruptions in the pebbles.
Ahead a tank is thrashing its tracks, struggling to make way over the slippery beach. A shrill whine, a violent bang, and the tank kicks over onto its side, ripped apart by an artillery shell. There are men running past Larry again, as the next wave of troops streams out of the landing craft. A mortar lands in their midst, hurling them to the ground. Larry too, unbalanced by the blast, falls forward onto his arms. Somewhere nearby a man is screaming.
‘Buddy! I need a hand here! Buddy!’
The rattle of machine-gun fire comes and goes. Bullets ping on stones. Larry lies still, thinking. Their orders are to take the Casino. He can see the Casino from where he lies. Much of the fire that pins them down is coming from its windows. It would be suicidal madness to charge across the open beach into those guns.
Between himself and the promenade wall he coun
ts seven disabled tanks. As for men, there are too many to count, and more are falling all the time. What is the purpose of this? Why have they been sent ashore unprotected into heavy enemy fire, to capture a heavily defended Casino for which they have no use?
The men around him who’ve not been hit are up again and struggling forward. Larry too staggers to his feet and lurches forward, not because there’s any sense to it, but because this is what the others are doing. He finds that his progress is slow and flailing, as if he’s still running in water. I must be in shock, he thinks. Then the beach erupts before him, and he feels the sting of a thousand tiny pebbles. His ears ring, his skin trickles with wetness. Ahead of him stands a man with blood shooting out of his neck and shoulder, pierced by shell splinters, toppling slowly forward into the crater formed by the mortar.
There are hundreds of men advancing up the beach, but Larry has the sensation of being alone. Gone are the orderly ranks and lines of army life. Here there is only howling space, sudden danger, and the deep rolling surge of the sea.
He drives himself on up the beach, flinching with every screaming shell or whining bullet that passes, and so reaches one of the abandoned Churchill tanks. It’s shed its tracks in its desperate efforts to claw its way over the pebbles, and now stands sideways on to the promenade. Larry crawls up close and sinks to the ground, resting his back against its steel flank, taking cover from the machine guns that strafe the beach. From this position he can see the waves of men still spilling from the assault landing craft, still charging the beach into the withering enemy fire.
Now for the first time he understands that he is almost paralysed by fear. Until this moment the shock of being under fire has driven out all other thoughts. Now in the comparative safety of his one-walled fortress he understands that he will certainly be injured, that he’ll maybe die, and he feels his guts melt with terror. Fear turns out to be physical, a rebellion of the body, the refusal to do anything that will take him closer to danger. He would burrow himself into the ground if he could. He has become an animal who has nowhere left to run, and so has frozen into immobility.