finding one without grave damage. Granger, with Hawkins gun pointed into the darkness as cover, peered into the gloom to see how Hawkins faired as he moved silently from mutilated body to body. Although only gone a few minutes, George was getting nervous and only the return of his friend caused him to be at ease. Heavily laden, Hawkins skipped back into view, his hands as full as he could manage. He flopped down with his pickings and displayed them for his friend's delectation. Fumbling at a sodden radio which had somehow survived the battle, George was more interested in the hefty Bren machine gun that Hawkins had recovered with accompanying ammo crate.
“If this radio works, my dad's King George.” Hawkins stated as he assessed the large box before him. Dialling in the appropriate frequency range and ensuring the receiver was still functioning, he called for a response. Granger waited with baited breath for Hawkins to begin dialogue but his wait was a long one.
“There's nothing there. Don't know if it's the radio or just the fact that no one is responding.” Hawkins huffed and puffed.
“Not entirely unexpected.” His pal added.
“To be honest, mate...” George was about to deliver bad news and Hawkins knew it.
“...We wouldn’t get pick up anyway with an assessment of the immediate area. We'll have to move up the beach and scout the German emplacements.”
Hawkins raised his eyebrows but knew his corporal was right. If they were going to endanger themselves by surveying the ground, the cover of night was the best time to do it.
“OK.” The Yorkshire man replied in agreement. It was not often that Granger got a call wrong and he trusted him.
The Commando's readied their weapons and brushed themselves down. Still damp and uncomfortable, they crouched in readiness to hug the rocks all the way to the small road which ran from the very top of the beach.
“Where are you going?” A whispering voice was heard and to Hawkins' and Granger's astonishment, they looked down to see a pair of bright white eyes staring at them in the moonlight.
“Jesus, he's awake.” Hawkins whispered, partly in relief, part in annoyance that he had been absent whilst others had been vigilant.
“We're going to recce the beach head. Are you injured?” George inquired.
“I don't know.” Came the whimpering reply.
“Obviously not then.” Hawkins blasted, yet kept his voice whisper quiet.
“Get your side-arm out then, Private.” Granger ordered. The young soldier began to whimper and whine like a frightened child and the Commando's knew that he would be a heavy burden if not an impediment to their safety.
“Oh, hell. This kid's not in a state to do anything. Leave him here.” Hawkins suggested. The Corporal blew his cheeks out and realised that Hawkins was right.
“What's your name?” Granger asked.
“Beach, Sir.” The youngster replied.
“Nice, well Beach, I suggest you sit tight and keep your mouth firmly shut. We will be back in the next hour.” Granger stated.
“But...but...how will I know it's you?” Beach inquired, his terror clearly visible in his eyes.
“Just don't shoot anything unless it's speaking German, is shooting at you, or eating a schnitzel.” Hawkins added unhelpfully.
*
Hawkins and Granger scurried up the beach, hugging the dark form of the rocks behind them; their footfalls were the only things that could be heard as the unusual silence remained. As they neared the grassy dunes and the road that ran west to Arromanches, the bodies of their fallen brothers-in-arms were fewer. By the time they had gathered themselves behind the ridge of the dunes, there were no signs that any of the Allied soldiers had even made it that far. In the space of a hundred yards, many hundreds of young men had been killed and the evidence suggested that they themselves were the only surviving members of their force.
Beyond the dunes and along the road to the East, there appeared to be some kind of small
“If this radio works, my dad's King George.” Hawkins stated as he assessed the large box before him. Dialling in the appropriate frequency range and ensuring the receiver was still functioning, he called for a response. Granger waited with baited breath for Hawkins to begin dialogue but his wait was a long one.
“There's nothing there. Don't know if it's the radio or just the fact that no one is responding.” Hawkins huffed and puffed.
“Not entirely unexpected.” His pal added.
“To be honest, mate...” George was about to deliver bad news and Hawkins knew it.
“...We wouldn’t get pick up anyway with an assessment of the immediate area. We'll have to move up the beach and scout the German emplacements.”
Hawkins raised his eyebrows but knew his corporal was right. If they were going to endanger themselves by surveying the ground, the cover of night was the best time to do it.
“OK.” The Yorkshire man replied in agreement. It was not often that Granger got a call wrong and he trusted him.
The Commando's readied their weapons and brushed themselves down. Still damp and uncomfortable, they crouched in readiness to hug the rocks all the way to the small road which ran from the very top of the beach.
“Where are you going?” A whispering voice was heard and to Hawkins' and Granger's astonishment, they looked down to see a pair of bright white eyes staring at them in the moonlight.
“Jesus, he's awake.” Hawkins whispered, partly in relief, part in annoyance that he had been absent whilst others had been vigilant.
“We're going to recce the beach head. Are you injured?” George inquired.
“I don't know.” Came the whimpering reply.
“Obviously not then.” Hawkins blasted, yet kept his voice whisper quiet.
“Get your side-arm out then, Private.” Granger ordered. The young soldier began to whimper and whine like a frightened child and the Commando's knew that he would be a heavy burden if not an impediment to their safety.
“Oh, hell. This kid's not in a state to do anything. Leave him here.” Hawkins suggested. The Corporal blew his cheeks out and realised that Hawkins was right.
“What's your name?” Granger asked.
“Beach, Sir.” The youngster replied.
“Nice, well Beach, I suggest you sit tight and keep your mouth firmly shut. We will be back in the next hour.” Granger stated.
“But...but...how will I know it's you?” Beach inquired, his terror clearly visible in his eyes.
“Just don't shoot anything unless it's speaking German, is shooting at you, or eating a schnitzel.” Hawkins added unhelpfully.
*
Hawkins and Granger scurried up the beach, hugging the dark form of the rocks behind them; their footfalls were the only things that could be heard as the unusual silence remained. As they neared the grassy dunes and the road that ran west to Arromanches, the bodies of their fallen brothers-in-arms were fewer. By the time they had gathered themselves behind the ridge of the dunes, there were no signs that any of the Allied soldiers had even made it that far. In the space of a hundred yards, many hundreds of young men had been killed and the evidence suggested that they themselves were the only surviving members of their force.
Beyond the dunes and along the road to the East, there appeared to be some kind of small
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