a trench, drop their weapons, place their hands behind their backs. We heard the order given to fire. A sergeant raised his Sten-gun and the men in grey fell one after another to the ground.
'Bastards! ' screamed the Legionnaire, at the top of his voice.
With a quick jerk of the head to Porta and Little John he called them up to a quick and apparently decisive conference. Next moment, Porta had dragged a tattered vest off the nearest dead body, attached it to his rifle and was slowly crawling out into no-man's-land towards the group of Canadians, now victoriously sheltering in their victims' burial trench. Behind Porta crept Little John and the Legionnaire, pulling the flame-thrower with' them. Porta agitated his grey flag and called out to the Canadians. I saw the sergeant with the Sten-gun stand up, smiling, in the trench. I saw him prepare to fire. Before his finger could press the trigger, two events took place almost simultaneously; the flame-thrower went into action and Porta hurled a grenade into the trench. The Canadians were wiped out within seconds.
'That'll teach the bastards,' muttered the Legionnaire, as he arrived back at my side. 'They won't try that trick again in a hurry.'
I had no time to congratulate him: enemy tanks were bearing down upon us. A tight formation of Churchills and Cromwells, which had already broken through our front line. We did our best with the anti-tank guns, but all round us men were abandoning their positions and scattering before the oncoming tanks. Major Hinka shouted to us to use the Goliaths. These were a type of mini-tank, radio-controlled, each containing 100 kilos of explosive. Willingly we hurled these useful little weapons into the midst of the enemy. They had evidently not come across them before. The first two Goliaths, looking small and harmless pulled to a halt before an advancing company of soldiers. It must have seemed that owing to some mechanical fault they were unable to proceed any further. The enemy were plainly puzzled. At first they treated them with some caution, and then, as nothing happened, they grew bolder and began to move in upon them. Someone pulled out a camera and took a photograph; someone else, very daring, put out a hand and touched; from there it was but a short step before some foolhardy spirit put out a boot and fetched one of the Goliaths a hearty kick.
A few of the men at once dived for cover, but the company clown sat squarely on top of a second mini-tank and started vigorously on the chorus of 'Tipperary'... It was at that moment that Barcelona pressed the plunger. The Goliath exploded in a vast spout of flame, roaring its way into the air and carrying a motley assortment of humanity with it.
'Stupid buggers,' grumbled the Legionnaire. 'Like a load of kids, have to go and touch at everything... Never mess about with unidentified objects... You'd think that would be elementary, wouldn't you?'
Seventy enemy tanks went up altogether. And seventy tank crews were burnt to cinders. But Caen had to be taken, and always there were more tanks in reserve. The fighting went on for eighteen hours, with the usual hideous losses on both sides. At the end of that time we neither knew nor cared what was happening to Caen. Did it stand, or had it fallen?
'I couldn't give a tinker's cuss,' said Barcelona.
'And who the hell wants it, anyway?' complained Porta. I certainly don't!'
Within seconds of speaking they had both fallen to the ground and were sound asleep. The rest of us dropped down beside them like a house of cards collapsing. Who the hell wanted Caen, anyway? Porta didn't. I didn't. Only Montgomery wanted it, as far as I could see. And for all I cared at that moment, he could have it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Many unknown Frenchmen, members of the Resistance, gave-their support to the invading forces, and the exact number of those who lost their lives was never known.
Some while before the invasion took place, London had quite coolly requested that the
'Bastards! ' screamed the Legionnaire, at the top of his voice.
With a quick jerk of the head to Porta and Little John he called them up to a quick and apparently decisive conference. Next moment, Porta had dragged a tattered vest off the nearest dead body, attached it to his rifle and was slowly crawling out into no-man's-land towards the group of Canadians, now victoriously sheltering in their victims' burial trench. Behind Porta crept Little John and the Legionnaire, pulling the flame-thrower with' them. Porta agitated his grey flag and called out to the Canadians. I saw the sergeant with the Sten-gun stand up, smiling, in the trench. I saw him prepare to fire. Before his finger could press the trigger, two events took place almost simultaneously; the flame-thrower went into action and Porta hurled a grenade into the trench. The Canadians were wiped out within seconds.
'That'll teach the bastards,' muttered the Legionnaire, as he arrived back at my side. 'They won't try that trick again in a hurry.'
I had no time to congratulate him: enemy tanks were bearing down upon us. A tight formation of Churchills and Cromwells, which had already broken through our front line. We did our best with the anti-tank guns, but all round us men were abandoning their positions and scattering before the oncoming tanks. Major Hinka shouted to us to use the Goliaths. These were a type of mini-tank, radio-controlled, each containing 100 kilos of explosive. Willingly we hurled these useful little weapons into the midst of the enemy. They had evidently not come across them before. The first two Goliaths, looking small and harmless pulled to a halt before an advancing company of soldiers. It must have seemed that owing to some mechanical fault they were unable to proceed any further. The enemy were plainly puzzled. At first they treated them with some caution, and then, as nothing happened, they grew bolder and began to move in upon them. Someone pulled out a camera and took a photograph; someone else, very daring, put out a hand and touched; from there it was but a short step before some foolhardy spirit put out a boot and fetched one of the Goliaths a hearty kick.
A few of the men at once dived for cover, but the company clown sat squarely on top of a second mini-tank and started vigorously on the chorus of 'Tipperary'... It was at that moment that Barcelona pressed the plunger. The Goliath exploded in a vast spout of flame, roaring its way into the air and carrying a motley assortment of humanity with it.
'Stupid buggers,' grumbled the Legionnaire. 'Like a load of kids, have to go and touch at everything... Never mess about with unidentified objects... You'd think that would be elementary, wouldn't you?'
Seventy enemy tanks went up altogether. And seventy tank crews were burnt to cinders. But Caen had to be taken, and always there were more tanks in reserve. The fighting went on for eighteen hours, with the usual hideous losses on both sides. At the end of that time we neither knew nor cared what was happening to Caen. Did it stand, or had it fallen?
'I couldn't give a tinker's cuss,' said Barcelona.
'And who the hell wants it, anyway?' complained Porta. I certainly don't!'
Within seconds of speaking they had both fallen to the ground and were sound asleep. The rest of us dropped down beside them like a house of cards collapsing. Who the hell wanted Caen, anyway? Porta didn't. I didn't. Only Montgomery wanted it, as far as I could see. And for all I cared at that moment, he could have it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Many unknown Frenchmen, members of the Resistance, gave-their support to the invading forces, and the exact number of those who lost their lives was never known.
Some while before the invasion took place, London had quite coolly requested that the
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