enemy at bay, not your rockets or your flying bombs.'
The doctor sighed.
'Ah well,' he said, again, and this time it was a positive sigh of despair, 'perhaps you're right. I wouldn't know about these military matters...'
Two days later we heard that he had put a bullet through his head. I often wondered if the Old Man's remarks had perhaps been too much for him to take. At first sight we weren't exactly a bunch to inspire much confidence. It must have shaken him pretty badly to think he was reliant upon men like us to win the war.
The alert sounded, shrill and anxious. They were coming at last. A horde of khaki-dad soldiers, leaping over the barbed wire, showering us with grenades, preceded by rolling waves of fire. Through the flames we could see their bayonets glinting. Their objective was to take position 112 . An order from General Montgomery, who was bent on capturing Caen at all costs, even if it meant losing a whole Scots division. Position 112 was soon to become a second Hill of Golgotha.
The Scotsmen came on at the head of the attack. On either flank were armoured divisions. Gregor was manning the 81-mm. mortar, which he used like a machine-gun. He had lost his helmet, and his face was black with smoke, marked here and there by channels of sweat. Major Hinka, his empty coat-sleeve stuffed into his pocket, had taken over a heavy machine-gun and was sending off salvoes of bullets into the oncoming mass of infantrymen. He was assisted by one of the medical orderlies. Neither man said a word; their mouths were set in hard lines, their uniforms caked with mud.
Little John was preparing two hand-grenades at the same moment. Both exploded the instant they reached their destination. Little John had never yet been known to fail where hand-grenades were concerned. As for me, I was having trouble with my machine-gun. It was a model I particularly disliked. In my experience you inevitably spent more time tinkering with the wretched thing than actually firing it. On this occasion, as on so many others, a bullet had become jammed in the loading device. With a shrill curse I yanked the bayonet out of my rifle and began jabbing it at the offending bullet. It had no effect whatsoever, except, perhaps, to push it further in. Fortunately Porta came to my rescue.
'Get out of the way, you silly sod! '
He elbowed me to one side, and seconds later waved me back to a gun that was now in perfect working order. During those few seconds the suicidal Scotsmen had made headway and were now a swirling mass of colour before us. Red, green, blue, yellow... so pretty, and so dangerous! They were all yelling like maniacs, hurling themselves forward over the barbed wire; regardless of the relentless hail of grenades and machine-gun fire. Montgomery evidently wanted Caen very badly indeed. The Scotsmen died in their hundreds on the barbed wire. The armoured divisions were crucified in their burning tanks. Yet still they came on, because Caen had to be taken.
The section holding the ground on our immediate right flank was in danger of being wiped out. There was hand-to-hand fighting in the narrow trenches. Our neighbours were putting up a desperate battle for their lives with bayonets, rifle butts and knives, and if they fell we knew that we should be next on the list. Major Hinka turned for a moment from his machine-gun. He waved his arm, imperiously, and shouted something that was lost in the general uproar. We knew what was required. He didn't have to repeat himself.. Barcelona turned his gun towards the trenches and sent a steady stream of fire into the midst of the fighting mob. Friend and foe alike were slaughtered. There was no room for sentiment on the Hill of Golgotha. From somewhere a little further up the line we saw a white flag raised: an old grey vest waving uncertainly from a rifle. We saw a small group of Canadians move in upon it. Saw them motion to the surrendering Germans to leave their shelter and to line up along the edge of
The doctor sighed.
'Ah well,' he said, again, and this time it was a positive sigh of despair, 'perhaps you're right. I wouldn't know about these military matters...'
Two days later we heard that he had put a bullet through his head. I often wondered if the Old Man's remarks had perhaps been too much for him to take. At first sight we weren't exactly a bunch to inspire much confidence. It must have shaken him pretty badly to think he was reliant upon men like us to win the war.
The alert sounded, shrill and anxious. They were coming at last. A horde of khaki-dad soldiers, leaping over the barbed wire, showering us with grenades, preceded by rolling waves of fire. Through the flames we could see their bayonets glinting. Their objective was to take position 112 . An order from General Montgomery, who was bent on capturing Caen at all costs, even if it meant losing a whole Scots division. Position 112 was soon to become a second Hill of Golgotha.
The Scotsmen came on at the head of the attack. On either flank were armoured divisions. Gregor was manning the 81-mm. mortar, which he used like a machine-gun. He had lost his helmet, and his face was black with smoke, marked here and there by channels of sweat. Major Hinka, his empty coat-sleeve stuffed into his pocket, had taken over a heavy machine-gun and was sending off salvoes of bullets into the oncoming mass of infantrymen. He was assisted by one of the medical orderlies. Neither man said a word; their mouths were set in hard lines, their uniforms caked with mud.
Little John was preparing two hand-grenades at the same moment. Both exploded the instant they reached their destination. Little John had never yet been known to fail where hand-grenades were concerned. As for me, I was having trouble with my machine-gun. It was a model I particularly disliked. In my experience you inevitably spent more time tinkering with the wretched thing than actually firing it. On this occasion, as on so many others, a bullet had become jammed in the loading device. With a shrill curse I yanked the bayonet out of my rifle and began jabbing it at the offending bullet. It had no effect whatsoever, except, perhaps, to push it further in. Fortunately Porta came to my rescue.
'Get out of the way, you silly sod! '
He elbowed me to one side, and seconds later waved me back to a gun that was now in perfect working order. During those few seconds the suicidal Scotsmen had made headway and were now a swirling mass of colour before us. Red, green, blue, yellow... so pretty, and so dangerous! They were all yelling like maniacs, hurling themselves forward over the barbed wire; regardless of the relentless hail of grenades and machine-gun fire. Montgomery evidently wanted Caen very badly indeed. The Scotsmen died in their hundreds on the barbed wire. The armoured divisions were crucified in their burning tanks. Yet still they came on, because Caen had to be taken.
The section holding the ground on our immediate right flank was in danger of being wiped out. There was hand-to-hand fighting in the narrow trenches. Our neighbours were putting up a desperate battle for their lives with bayonets, rifle butts and knives, and if they fell we knew that we should be next on the list. Major Hinka turned for a moment from his machine-gun. He waved his arm, imperiously, and shouted something that was lost in the general uproar. We knew what was required. He didn't have to repeat himself.. Barcelona turned his gun towards the trenches and sent a steady stream of fire into the midst of the fighting mob. Friend and foe alike were slaughtered. There was no room for sentiment on the Hill of Golgotha. From somewhere a little further up the line we saw a white flag raised: an old grey vest waving uncertainly from a rifle. We saw a small group of Canadians move in upon it. Saw them motion to the surrendering Germans to leave their shelter and to line up along the edge of
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