Episode 13: Retreat
Do you know a worthless reject who became a company commander?
And if I told you all of this happened in the span of a single day, would you believe me?
I believe it.
Because this is my story.
Having gone from Platoon Leader of the Rejects to Company Commander in a single night, I felt my mind go completely blank.
Good God, me? A company commander? To a damn reject who can't even look after himself?
If I could have refused, I would have.
But there was no other officer in the company besides me.
The situation in the other companies was much the same.
Because quite a few officers had been killed in yesterday's battle, the regiment was currently suffering from a shortage of officers.
A fortune among misfortunes: I had Sergeant Gates.
Although his rank was below mine, he was a veteran among veterans with far more seniority and experience than me—a man I could rely on.
Thankfully, as if finding me unreliable himself, when I asked him to take on the role of deputy company commander, he accepted readily despite his surprise. His reaction suggested that such a request itself was quite unexpected.
I don't know what reaction he had expected from me, but for now, I decided to handle the matters at hand.
There was no time to delay for even a moment.
The unit was preparing to retreat once more.
The German advance was so rapid that even headquarters had issued orders for each unit to retreat at their own discretion.
Now that defeat was certain, we had to break free from the enemy's grasp as quickly as possible.
The final destination was Dunkirk, just as I had expected.
"Hey, just leave that!"
"Uh, but Sergeant, this is fairly important…."
"You idiot, we don't even have a tank—what are you going to do with spare parts? Sell them to a junk dealer for pocket money? It's just wasting space, so throw it away."
Just as expected. Sergeant Gates commanded the soldiers with great efficiency and led the withdrawal.
As if he had rehearsed it beforehand, he gave orders skillfully, explaining in person what needed to be done, what to leave behind, and what to bring.
I stood beside him, pretending to be solemn with my hands clasped behind my back.
That was what Sergeant Gates had requested of me.
"Lieutenant, please don't go anywhere and just stay by my side. I will give the orders, is that understood?"
Others might think it beneath an officer's dignity, but I had never possessed any dignity to begin with, so I didn't care.
Anyway, thanks to Sergeant Gates, the withdrawal was finished quickly.
Once the work was done, it was my turn to step up.
Even if I was treated like a borrowed sack of barley, it wasn't as though I did nothing.
"Sir, 1st Company is ready to withdraw!"
"Is that so? I suppose you're fast because you're short on men. Move out first. The other companies aren't ready yet."
The battalion commander ordered us to depart first without a moment's hesitation upon hearing my report.
Returning to the company, I relayed the battalion commander's orders exactly as given and shouted to the driver who had already seated himself behind the wheel and started the engine.
"Move out! Our job here is done!"
Our job here was done.
All that remained was to leave for Dunkirk.
***
The road to Dunkirk was not easy, as expected.
Refugees and retreating stragglers filled the roads, clinging to everything that moved and clamoring to be taken along.
There were times when we had to clear roads blocked by carriages and luggage abandoned by refugees, and times when the truck got stuck in a muddy track and we groaned for hours to finally pull it free.
But above all, the greatest enemy was the German aircraft.
Because the Germans held air superiority, we couldn't take our eyes off the sky the entire way to Dunkirk.
Who knew when a Bf 109 or a Stuka would emerge from behind the clouds and riddle us with machine-gun fire?
If you wanted to live, you had to stay alert at all times.
The battlefield was a place where even the smallest mistake or moment of carelessness could cost you your life.
Once, the engine was rattling, so I pulled the vehicle over to work on it when I spotted an airplane approaching from afar.
At first, I thought it was an enemy aircraft and was startled, but looking closely, instead of an Iron Cross on the wings, there was a marking of three overlapping circles.
It wasn't a Bf 109 but an RAF Hawker Hurricane.
"Don't worry, boys. That's a friendly."
The soldiers, who had been flustered by the sudden appearance of the airplane, relaxed at hearing it was a friendly.
But no sooner had I finished speaking than the plane lowered its nose and flew straight toward us.
And it opened fire on us with its machine guns.
"W-what?!"
No, what the hell? Why was it shooting at us?
Fortunately, not a single soldier was killed by the bullets it fired.
Having been suddenly attacked by a friendly aircraft, we were bewildered, not knowing what was going on.
Sergeant Gates, who had taken cover behind a tree, shouted at me as if in protest.
"What is this, Lieutenant! Is that really a friendly aircraft?"
Th-this is strange. It was definitely a friendly….
For a moment, I wondered if I had made a mistake and mistaken an enemy plane for a friendly one.
If that were true, there had never been such utter humiliation.
Above all, my standing, which had already hit rock bottom, would never recover.
When my thoughts reached that point, my vision blurred with panic, and I could only think that I was truly done for.
However, thank heavens, it was definitely a friendly aircraft, not an enemy.
Because when it turned, the RAF insignia painted on its tail was clearly visible.
"Look at the tail! It's definitely friendly!"
"Then why is that thing attacking us, its own allies?"
I know, right. Why?
Why was it attacking us, its own allies?
Could it be mistaking us for the enemy?
Thinking about it, it was entirely possible.
From the pilot's perspective in the air, it must have been difficult to distinguish whether we on the ground were friend or foe.
Moreover, if it was a greenhorn pilot with no combat experience, it wouldn't be strange for him to want to shoot at anything he saw.
If that were the case, there was only one method left.
Proving that we were not the enemy—that was the only way.
"Everyone stand up and wave your clothes! Wave them!"
I stood up, took off my cap, clutched it in my hand, and waved it wildly.
At first the soldiers looked at me like I was crazy, but soon understanding my intent, they took off their garments and waved them frantically.
Fortunately, there was no further mistaken attack.
The Hurricane, which had been approaching to attack us again, soon raised its nose and flew off toward the eastern sky.
It seemed to have realized, albeit late, that we were friendlies.
Immediately after the fighter disappeared into the clouds, I breathed a sigh of relief over my pounding heart.
Whew. That took ten years off my life, seriously.
I'd nearly lost both my life and my dignity—both of my rabbits, as it were—but I had narrowly avoided a major disaster.
And through this incident, there was an unexpected gain.
"That was remarkable, sir."
"Hm, what was?"
"Making that kind of judgment in such a brief moment. I see you in a new light, truly. I never knew you had such courage, sir."
"Hahaha…!"
That I had gained even a little of Sergeant Gates's trust?
Sure enough, compared to just a few minutes earlier, the gazes of the soldiers looking at me had changed somewhat.
There were still looks that found me unreliable, but it wasn't the feeling of being dismissed as a hopeless, useless officer like before.
There was still a long way to go, but the fact that I had taken even one step forward was something.
A thousand li begins with a single step, as they say.
Way to go, me!
"Alright, alright! We've rested enough, so we need to move again! Is the repair done?"
"Five more minutes!"
"Good, we depart in five minutes! Take care of your business beforehand! Anyone who says they need to piss in the middle of it dies by my hand, got it?"
"Yes, Sergeant!"
Accompanied by Sergeant Gates's spirited shout, the column began to move again.
***
"We have lost."
Seated among his staff, Lord Gort, John Vereker, Commander-in-Chief of the British Expeditionary Force, muttered in a gloomy voice.
Upon hearing his words, the staff officers hung their heads or looked up at the ceiling.
Defeat.
That single word echoed in their hearts and tore at them.
Could there be any word heavier, or any more accurate to describe the situation?
Probably not.
The allied French army was being treated like a borrowed sack of barley, and Belgium and the Netherlands need not even be mentioned.
The relatively trustworthy British army had also suffered heavy blows and was on the verge of collapse. The surviving units were all rapidly retreating.
Meanwhile, German armored vehicles were not far from entering Paris.
Whether news of this had spread, panic was already spreading through Paris like an epidemic.
Every day, people were abandoning their homes and fleeing to safer countryside, to the south.
"Henry."
Lord Gort called his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Henry Fowley.
"Yes, my lord."
"Transmit this to the entire army immediately. The attack orders issued a few days ago are all canceled."
"All of them… did you say?"
"Yes. Further attacks are meaningless. They will only increase our losses."
"…."
"And all forces will retreat immediately to the Atlantic coast. Then they will board ships from the homeland and leave this place. That is my order. Do you understand?"
"Understood, my lord."
As Lieutenant Henry left the meeting room to deliver the orders, Lord Gort picked up his teacup.
The black tea inside had already gone cold, but he drank it without minding.
The black tea tasted especially bitter today.
It was not merely because he had not added sugar.
One of the staff officers who had been sitting quietly, watching for an opportunity, slowly raised his hand.
Lord Gort nodded.
"Speak."
"My lord, then what becomes of our plans going forward?"
"Plans? Plans, you say…. Did I not just say? We return to the homeland."
He set the teacup down on its saucer.
Ripples formed on the surface of the tea.
"And after that…."
"I do not know. I feel as though I might die from the problems before my eyes alone. What comes next depends on Hitler's plans. If that man attempts a landing in Britain, our task will be to stop it. If he devises another plan, our plans will change as well. That is all I can say."
The staff officer who had asked the question hung his head again.
But Lord Gort's gaze had already left the staff officers and fixed upon the large map of Europe hanging on the wall.
"We must inform the Prime Minister. That we too must withdraw now, lest we end up like France. He will understand."
He rose from his seat and picked up the military cap he had set aside.
The staff officers all stood as well.
"Let us end the meeting here. After all, it is about time we returned home."