Monday 9th September
Lewes Railway Station was cold and a lazy wind had accompanied the early light. Stamping his numb feet, Clement drew his overcoat around him and stared at the heavy, damp fog hanging like a shroud over the valley. Behind him, the towering barbican of Lewes Castle loomed above the High Street. His gaze settled on the parapet. A thousand years had passed since a foreign power had successfully invaded. It was a proud history and one to cling to when fear and hopelessness tried to conquer. He pushed the thought from his mind with a silent verse of Onward Christian Soldiers.
Peter joined him. ‘Morning, Clement. All the men are here. Except one,’ Peter said nodding towards the huddled group of men, chatting.
‘Really? Who?’ Clement said as the smoke of the approaching train became visible.
Within minutes people from the waiting rooms were gathering on the platform. Hurrying through the crowd ran Stanley Russell, his face florid.
‘Sorry I’m late, Vicar.’
Clement felt a frown crease his forehead. ‘Just get aboard, Stanley. Don’t be late again.’
‘Right you are,’ Stanley grinned.
Clive Wade stood beside him. ‘He’ll be late for his own funeral, that one.’
Clement pursed his lips. He watched Stanley board the train, hoping his decision to include the boy wasn’t a mistake. Clement took his seat, his mind still on Stanley. The next few days would sort the lad out, one way or the other.
Peter had already boarded and seconded two compartments for them. Spirits were buoyant and excitement kept the men chatting. They stowed their few possessions and within minutes the train pulled away.
It was mid-afternoon when they walked down the road, away from Swindon Station. Clement scrutinized the waiting cars and lorries, searching for a military vehicle. Parked to one side of the station was a three-ton truck marked with the GHQ Home Forces insignia, a lion rampant and the unit identification number 490. Clement walked towards it as the driver’s door opened and a man in a corporal’s uniform jumped down.
‘Captain Wisdom?’ the man asked.
Clement nodded.
‘I am to take you directly to Coleshill House, Sir. Major Bannon is expecting you,' the corporal said.
Clement opened the passenger door and climbed aboard as the men threw their packs into the rear of the lorry then climbed in. The engine roared and the lorry pulled away from the station precinct.
‘Are there any activities planned for this evening, Corporal?’ Clement asked recalling his military training prior to the last war. In his mind he could hear the gravelly voiced Drill Sergeant of long ago telling the new recruits to form a circle of equal sides. He smiled at the recollection.
‘Major Bannon’s the one to speak to, Captain.’
Clement had hoped to have forewarning about any activities planned for the remainder of the day but the corporal remained unforthcoming. The army had a habit of springing exercises on the unwary.
Coleshill village sat atop a long ridge with a commanding view over the surrounding countryside. At the top of the ridgeline the vehicle left the main road and entered the estate through a pair of tall ironwork gates. Clement glanced at the passing meadows. On both sides of the drive were fields with stands of mature trees. Off to the east was the dense foliage of a forest. A few minutes later Clement saw Coleshill House, a beautifully proportioned four-storey mansion.
‘The big house is for the officers. And the two old girls who live there,’ the corporal told him.
‘The owners are still in residence?’
‘Elderly sisters, Sir. And their dogs. All other ranks are in the stables. Major Bannon regrets that due to you coming mid-week, there is no room for you in the big house.’
‘It suits me,’ Clement said. ‘Actually, I’m a vicar. My boss was born in a stable because his parents encountered the same fate.’
The corporal smiled. ‘Let’s hope the Lord didn’t have to worry about rats.’
Clement shuddered; the furry little bodies and their smell were instant reminders of the trenches. As the truck pulled up in a courtyard at the side of the big house, a man in a major’s uniform approached them.
‘Sorry I wasn’t there to meet you, Wisdom,’ the major said. ‘Bannon is my name. Corporal Davis will show your men where to put their things and where you can get a cup of tea. We will assemble at nineteen hundred hours in the house.'
‘I understand I am also in the stables, Major?’
‘Sorry about that Wisdom. Full up this week,’ Bannon said, but there was no additional reason provided.
‘Will there be any training this evening, Major?’
‘Dinner is at nineteen thirty hours,’ Bannon said. ‘And tonight there will be an address by the Colonel followed by a lecture on intercommunication. Tomorrow we begin in earn-est. It’s a full programme, Wisdom. Usually we see recruits on weekends, but your group is a bit of an exception. Colonel Gubbins has given your sector top priority. You’re from East Sussex, I understand?’
Clement nodded. ‘What will we be learning?’
‘Explosives in the morning. Unarmed combat in the afternoon, then a lecture on guerrilla tactics and after supper a lecture on the Jerry army. Then it’s a night patrol, I’m afraid.’
While the major spoke, Clement watched the corporal herd his men into the two-storey stable buildings.
‘And Wednesday?’
Major Bannon turned to face him. ‘On your second day we teach you about your Operational Bases, where you will be living once Jerry arrives. And then it’s putting the theory into practise. Normally the groups leave in the afternoon but Gubbins wants your group to learn a bit more about our clandestine enemy.’
‘Is there a reason for that?’ Clement asked.
‘You’re pretty close to the coast there, Wisdom. It could be that you will encounter enemy spies. Best to know how to recognize them. And what to do with them when you do. Your lecturer for that session is a civilian…and a woman. Comes from a family in your line of work, actually. Then there will be your assessments in the evening. So you will be leaving us on Thursday morning.’ The major smiled. ‘Remember Wisdom, you never know who you’re talking to. We have a slogan for that: The Enemy is Always Listening. Well, I’ll leave you to settle in. See you in the house at nineteen hundred.’
‘Sir,’ he replied, saluting.
‘We don’t salute here, Wisdom. Not a habit we encourage in our line of work. Remember Nelson.’
Clement watched Major Bannon walk away then followed the team into the stables. Inside were rows of timber bunks. Each had a rolled-up mattress and between each structure were a small cabinet and shelf. No adornment of any kind graced the walls or floors. Peter had the men stowing their few possessions.
Clement told them what he had learned about the training. ‘Doesn’t appear as though there will be much time for sleep. And a word of warning. Expect the unexpected. The army has a habit of arranging surprises for the unwary. Especially after a large meal. You may also encounter rats.'
‘I think they will be the least of our concerns,’ Reginald said, stowing his razor and soap in a cup on the shelf.
Clement was inclined to agree but he didn’t say so. Experience had taught him that the army tested men’s resolve at every opportunity. And it was as much a test of the man as it was the team.
A whistle cut through the silence. Clement swung his legs over the bunk and stood up. In the pre-dawn light, the corporal was standing in the stable doorway. ‘What is it, Corporal?’
‘You need to locate a lorry on the grounds. About a mile south of here. Once you find it, climb aboard and drive it back here. You have one hour.’ The corporal vanished.
Clement checked his watch; half-past five. He pushed his feet into his boots and tied the laces then stepped outside. A grey-blue light filled the courtyard, but the corporal was nowhere to be seen. In fact, nothing whatever stirred. Peter and Reginald were beside him.
‘How do you want to do this, Clement?’ Reginald asked.
Clement pulled a compass from his pocket, a last minute inclusion as he left the vicarage. ‘Due south is back down the drive we came in by,’ he said. ‘Peter will you make sure everyone is up and that their boots are comfortable. We leave in one minute.
‘What do we bring with us?’ Reginald asked.
‘As we haven’t yet been issued with weapons, I can only surmise that this is a fitness exercise,’ he said as the men strolled out of the stable.
‘Look lively. And form two lines. Hurry up, Stanley!’ Peter shouted.
Clement stared at the group. Other than Peter and Reginald, Clement didn’t see much enthusiasm for the task. From the corner of his eye he thought he saw a curtain move in an upstairs window, but while he couldn’t see anyone, he felt sure Major Bannon’s eyes were on them. They formed two lines and broke into a slow run, heading south.
Twenty minutes later Clement signalled for the group to squat in the long grass. He could see the parked lorry under a tree about fifty yards ahead. There was no-one around it.
‘Thank goodness for that,’ Stanley said flopping down into the grass beside Clement.
‘Quit your whingeing, Stanley or I’ll put you on the bus for Lewes myself,’ Reginald whispered between clenched teeth.
Stanley’s face flushed.
Whilst Clement thought Reginald’s comment harsh, it had achieved the desired result. Clement looked back at the lorry. He was about to speak when he heard the motor start. The vehicle drove onto the drive and disappeared among the trees on the right. It was an old trick; one used to test stamina - physical as well as mental.
‘Gather round,’ he whispered. ‘They either saw us or heard us,’ Clement said, his eyes flicking to Stanley. ‘We know approximately where it is, but from now on we only use the hand signals we learned last night. No talking and keep low. We will divide into two groups and approach it from both sides. Clive, Stanley and Reginald, you come with me, George, you and Ned go with Peter. And stay off the road.’
Forty minutes later they drove into the courtyard. Bannon was there, waiting. ‘Well done, Wisdom. You only fell into our trap once.’
‘What would like us to do now, Major?’ Clement asked.
‘I’ll hand you over to Corporal Davis. He has some intriguing little gadgets for you.’ Bannon left and the team followed the corporal into a wooden hut. In the centre of the space was a long table and on it were a variety of objects some of which Clement recognised.
‘This morning we will be handling explosives and learning how not to blow ourselves up,’ Davis was saying. ‘This is a detonator.’ Davis picked up a short aluminium tube about two inches long. ‘Open at one end, they contain a very high explosive used to trigger a main charge, using Safety or Orange line. The fuse is inserted into the detonator and crimped in place. Orange Line contains more gunpowder and burns at a rate of ninety feet per second.’
Clement looked along the line of men. Every eye was on the corporal, including Stanley’s.
‘This makes sense to me, Clement,’ Clive whispered. ‘Not all that running around we did this morning. I understand why we did it, but it still annoyed me. But this!’ Clive said grinning. ‘This is how we’ll kill bloody Germans. As long as I get just two of them I’ll be happy.’
Clement knew revenge was a powerful motivator and Clive’s face was alive with the emotion. His gaze shifted to Ned, who Clement believed had an equally strong reason for despising Germans. But if Ned hated Germans it wasn’t evident in either his manner or speech. Clement watched Ned’s face; the knitted brow. If Ned did harbour any anger, it was contained within his complete concentration for the task at hand. Clement glanced at the other two older men of the group, Peter and Reginald. He felt vindicated in his selection of these men. While Peter had a natural ability to lead men, Reginald brought a sense of discipline to the group and Ned had the steadying hand of a father. All three, Clement considered, were rational and thorough and would in time be real assets to the group. By lunchtime, George too had demonstrated his abilities. The boy’s need to prove his bravery, even if only to himself, had brought out a dexterity with wires and plastic explosives.
The early afternoon was spent becoming familiar with their new weapons. Reg, as he now liked to be called, had confirmed his reputation as a marksman and handled the Sten gun as though he was holding a pedigree cat. But the one Clement was increasingly unsure about was Stanley. The lad was a little overweight, always had a flippant comment to make and was invariably the last one to join the group.
‘Where’s Stanley?’ Clement whispered to Peter as they walked from the Mess to the unarmed combat lessons on the front lawn.
‘Lavatory.’
‘He is always last. It’s just not good enough. His cavalier attitude will cause someone’s death, if he’s not careful.’
Clement heard the crunching of gravel under running feet as Stanley joined them. ‘Stanley, you really must be more punctual.’
‘Sorry, Vicar. It won’t happen again,’ Stanley said, his flushed pink face shiny with sweat.
Clement glanced at Peter. He had heard the empty apology before. ‘You really shouldn’t eat so much, Stanley.’
A whistle blew. Corporal Davis, who was taking the hand-to-hand combat lesson, was waiting for them. Beside him were several straw-filled dummies in German military uniform. After learning how to dispatch a victim silently from behind, the corporal issued them with their Fairbairn Sykes Commando Knives.
Clement watched each man holding the dagger, getting used to the feel. He grasped the round tapered handle of his own knife and felt the weight of it in his hand. Its double-sided blade was about eight inches in length. It was a formidable weapon with only one function; silent, immediate death. If the seriousness of what they were doing had not impacted before now, Clement could see the weapon’s transforming effect on the faces of his team.
Each man then practised using it, swinging and thrusting the lethal blade. But the person who astounded Clement was Stanley. Clement knew that, as a butcher, Stanley could use a knife… but the force with which Stanley plunged the dagger shocked him. He couldn’t take his eyes from the lad. Stanley stood with his feet spread wide, the double-edged blade clenched in a tight fist, stabbing and punching the dummies with incredible ferocity. A stab wound aside, no man would survive Stanley’s powerful blows.
‘Interesting, don’t you think, Clement?’ Peter whispered. ‘I’m pleased Stanley is on our side.’
‘I’m inclined to agree with you, Peter.’
Returning to the stables, each man fell onto his allotted bunk. Perhaps it was the realization of the gravity of their task or just complete exhaustion, or the very real impact of the Auxiliary Unit motto: Terror by Night, but the group were unusually quiet. The evening lecture on Gubbins’s training guide, entitled Nine Points of Guerrilla Tactics, had been short and Clement was grateful. Every muscle in his body ached. And he still had no idea where or what awaited them on the night patrol. He suspected he would learn of their mission during the evening meal.
At nineteen hundred hours, Clement roused the men, starting with Stanley. Dinner was at nineteen-thirty sharp and lateness or slovenliness were not well regarded. During dessert, Clement received a sealed envelope. He nudged Peter’s arm as he opened the orders. Inside the envelope was a map and their objective. The aim of the night patrol was to locate a specific road and blow up a German vehicle which would be carrying high-ranking German officers. The vehicle was expected on the road between midnight and one o’clock. Clement showed it to Peter then folded the note and placed it and the map into his pocket. ‘Peter, would you tell the men not to eat too much and very little alcohol. And Peter, tell Stanley first.’
Peter nodded and quietly left his seat to speak to the team.
Clement checked the time; nineteen-fifty hours. He gazed through the long windows. The sun had not long set and the forest would already be cold and dark. He calculated that it would take them about two hours to reach the designated road.
At twenty-one hundred hours they returned to the stables where Clement told them of the evening’s assignment.
‘I have the map and target for tonight’s patrol,’ he announced, and told them his plan for the exercise. ‘Check your weapons and packs. Make sure you have enough water and ammunition as well as detonators and explosives and be ready to leave in forty minutes.’
Clement checked his own pack but he knew everything was in order. Sitting on his bunk, he closed his eyes and spent the a few minutes in silent prayer. There had been no time for reflection during the day. His thoughts returned to the men and their suitability for the task and as members of a team. He believed the session on silent killing and the use of the commando knife had been a turning point. The profound consequences of the weapon on victim and attacker had been shared and had brought them together. Clement put his hand to where his clerical collar should have been, feeling less and less like a vicar. But, he consoled himself, his men, no doubt, would be feeling the same about their vocations.
At the allotted time, Clement assembled the men. Lifting their packs onto their backs and, picking up their Sten guns, they headed out in silence.
They fell into a mute column with Clement in the lead, then Stanley, George, Reg, Ned, Clive and Peter. Leaving the house on their left, they headed east for the tree line. Clement had decided to wear his Fairbairn Sykes knife strapped to his inner left calf. As he walked, he could feel it rubbing against his flesh. He knew in time he would get used to it.
They walked in total silence.
Just before midnight they arrived at the road. Clement selected a section with a long curve for the ambush. Adjacent to the road was a depression surrounded by fallen timbers. Checking the site, he squatted by a hollowed log and shielding the torch light, studied the map.
‘George, run a tripwire at head height at this point,’ he whispered.
‘Stanley, you and Clive place the charges. Use pressure switches and put two on the road in the tyre tracks about five feet apart.’
George ran the wire across the road as Clive and Stanley attended to the explosives. Each man then took up a position around Clement in a circle to await the target. He and George occupied the middle ground. In front of Clement, Peter, as second-in-charge, sat beside Ned whose finger rested on the trigger of his Sten gun. Off to Clement’s left was Stanley. To his right was Clive and behind him was Reg. Soon all was quiet. The temperature was decreasing. They waited.
Clement looked around as the cold seeped into his body, clouding his mind and making him sleepy. Wiping his hand over his face, he signalled to Peter to move silently between the men making sure everyone was awake and alert. One o’clock came and went and still no vehicles appeared on the road. Clement blew a long breath into the night and watched his condensed breath float away on the crisp air. He rubbed at his face, blinking sleep away, and blew hot air over his hands. He signalled again to Peter to do another solo patrol around the area. Ten minutes later, Peter emerged from the trees off to Clement’s right.
They waited.
Grey light from the half-moon penetrated the forest floor at odd angles, casting deep shadows across the sector. Nothing moved except the occasional sound of rustling leaves. He had expected the forest to have more noise. Small animals, something. Badgers, at least. The silence was unsettling, but given the number and frequency of explosions at Coleshill, the wildlife had, no doubt, left long ago. Clement looked over the fallen log. He could see Peter and Ned in front of him, lying on the cold earth. Time passed. Nothing happened. He realized the timing had been deliberately wrong. Designed to catch them asleep or heighten the nerves and put them on edge.
‘Hurry up and wait’, he repeated the old army saying. He shivered. Behind him, he could hear Reg shifting position in the shallow dugout.
Two o’clock.
The sound of an approaching vehicle was unmistakable in the thin, night air. Clement sat up and signalled the men to take up their positions. Ned and George crossed the road and lay under the shrubs opposite, their Sten guns aimed at the point where any single motorcycle rider would encounter the tripwire. The sound grew louder but it troubled Clement. There were two motors; one a diesel - a lorry perhaps - the other, he thought, a car. Sending Reg and Peter further up the track to attend to any other vehicles, Clement lay in the foliage with Stanley. Clive lay off to his right, behind a fallen tree trunk, three grenades lined up beside him.
As the open-topped car approached, Clement saw a door open and a figure jumped out and ran into the bushes at the side of the road several yards back along the track. In that second, Clement saw Reg rush forward. In one movement Reg had the man on the ground, pinning him to the earth as the car with three straw-filled dummies dressed as German officers ran over the pressure switches. A small explosion, much less than any real targets would ever feel, lit up the dark forest floor. Ned and George strafed the upturned vehicle with machine gun fire as twenty feet away, Peter came out of the shrubs beside the road, his Sten in his grip and pointing the weapon at the driver of the stationary lorry.
A whistle blew and Major Bannon stepped from the lorry. ‘Well done, everybody. Remove any unexploded devices, then make you way back to the house.’ Collecting Corporal Davis from Reg’s grasp, Bannon climbed back into the lorry and they drove away.
Clement looked around at the men. ‘Well done, everyone.’ He saw the elation on his team’s faces. It was deserved.
‘Collect any charges you laid. George, will you retrieve the trip wire? Again, well done, everyone. Please remember, no talking on our return.’
Ten minutes later, they headed off silently crossing the forest. Within the hour they were in the fields, the chimneys of Coleshill House visible above the hedgerows.