The Maple and the Blue: From tragedy to triumph in war-torn skies... by Patrick Larsimont

Author:Patrick Larsimont [Larsimont, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sapere Books
Published: 2023-12-21T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Speeding down the steep hill towards Dieppe, the Bentley hit a thick bank of smoke with the distinctive stink of cordite high explosives. As it cleared, the scale of destruction it revealed was utterly mind-boggling.

Slowing down to make their way through rubble-filled streets, just a few walls were above shoulder-height. Through the choking brume, they glimpsed shadowy groups of grey-clad troops, but advanced unchecked. It was only once they neared the harbour that the road ahead was blocked by a burning vehicle. It was a Daimler Dingo scout car that had been hit by an anti-tank PAK shell, which had ripped it open like a sardine can. The vehicle’s rubber tyres were burning, filling the ruined street with sooty smoke. One of the car’s crew was hanging from his hatch, painfully still and with flames licking at his charred uniform. The side of the Dingo had the word ‘BEEFY’ painted on it, a suitably nauseating description of the smell that was emanating from the carnage.

They could advance no further, so had no choice but to abandon Daisy to her fate. They crept forward and took shelter behind a brick wall freshly pockmarked with shrapnel strikes. On the other side of it, angry German voices and dogs barked above the crackle of flames and the occasional gun report. A ragged line of wet men appeared through the smoke, some with their hands in the air, others with mushroom-shaped Canadian helmets on their heads. Several were shoeless, others wore no trousers, and none appeared to be armed. It dawned on Jox that they must have kicked off their equipment when their landing vessels had sunk offshore. These men had swum through the churning surf to get to the beach, reaching the shoreline in no shape to fight.

They limped along in dejected clusters, the stupefied looks on their faces speaking of their shell shock. A few held up exhausted brethren, whilst the worst of the wounded were carried in blankets, unconscious heads lolling. Those that were too far gone were simply abandoned by the roadside.

Their captors could be identified by the weapons they carried, and the two large dogs on long leather leashes. Harsh guttural voices screamed at the prisoners as a stocky German in an oversized greatcoat approached a lad who towered over him and clubbed him between the shoulder blades with the butt of his rifle. The boy’s bright blond hair was still wet from his swim for survival. Tears were streaming down his face, tears of fear and shame. As he groaned in pain, the Alsatians began a growling, snapping frenzy.

Fisken roared with fury and rushed past Jox, charging the assailant like a Viking berserker. He launched himself at the boy’s attacker, kicking out with his heavy flight boots. At the same time, he swung a wooden-handled screwdriver, partner to the one Jox had found in the garage. His blow connected with the back of the German’s helmet with the resounding clang of dense wood striking metal. He struck again at the downed Jerry, twitching on the cobblestones like a dying fish.

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