The Shackles of Freedom

From the first enemy shelling that morning, the 7^th battalion fought with great spirit, gaining precious time for the Dunkirk evacuation. When the order was received that positions were to be held at all costs, and that there would be no further withdrawal, Richard and his fellow soldiers faced the grim prospect that this just might be the end.

‘Where’re the bastards all coming from?’ shouted Jack, his words barely discernible above the noise of mortar and shell-fire.

‘Keep your bloody head down, idiot,’ Richard shouted back.

‘They’re fucking everywhere.’

‘I know. Jesus Christ, that was close. Keep firing, Jack.’

‘They’ve got to let us withdraw now.’

‘No such bloody luck. Anyway, thought we were going to send the bastards running home scared?’

‘Three o’ them to one of us? Not to mention stacks of bloody weapons and tanks. They’ve got everything. To think I believed our fucking propaganda.’

‘It’s what we all wanted to believe, bonny lad.’

‘Matey’s quiet. You all right, Phil?’ Jack turned to see his friend lying with a gaping wound in his shoulder, poppy red blood seeping down to his elbow, and his circular steel helmet askew. ‘Jesus Christ, mate.’

‘I’m…all right. Just…keep firing. I’m okay.’

Richard looked at Phil, shocked. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered under his breath. Seeing his friend lying bloodied made Richard’s stomach lurch sickeningly. He coughed and spat out the dust that he had unavoidably breathed in, an increasingly dense layer of which had risen into the air around their position.

An aura of death hung in the air all along the Front as the British Army continued to pour out its blood to try and stem the advancing Germans. But Richard had no time to dwell on the increasing number of casualties. Glancing back to check on Phil, Richard’s eyes lingered for a moment on his blood, now dusted with grime, and darkening to a tired copper brown.

There was no respite. The Germans had pushed over the canal around Hollebeke to the north, and then swarmed around the village of Houthem which became an island, cut off from the rest of the 7^th battalion.

‘Jesus Christ, we’re surrounded,’ Richard said horrified.

‘What the fuck do we do now?’ Jack voiced the thoughts of his comrades.

Then their Sergeant hollered hoarsely.

‘Men, make for that house over there. Go.’

‘Easier said than bloody done,’ Jack muttered.

He and Richard hoisted Phil up between them. Keeping low and ducking instinctively at the sound of the gunfire that seemed to accompany their every step, they reached the house.

‘Bloody hopeless, that’s what this is,’ Jack said, panting.

‘Just get inside,’ Richard said urgently, helping Phil into a comfortable position.

Without warning a mortar burst a few feet away from Richard. He was flung across the room. The roof collapsed on top of him, cross-beams pinning his legs. A heavy cloud of dust and smoke filled the house. As it began to recede, Richard coughed and spat out dust and debris from his mouth. He heard others doing the same but could see little. Dazed, he tried to move but without success. He heard shouting. He tried to call out but could only croak.

Suddenly he heard a voice near him.

‘Hurt bad, pal?’ the voice enquired.

‘Not too bad. Can’t move my legs though.’

‘Hang on. I’ll get these beams off you.’

Richard heard some grunting and swearing, as his comrade tried to move the beams. He wondered who it was. From his accent a Scot, perhaps Glaswegian? As he suddenly felt the weight lift from his legs, he swapped thought for action.

To his relief he could stand. Inspecting his legs he found no sign of injury but his right leg was nevertheless painful. He turned round to thank his rescuer but he was gone. At his sergeant’s urgent bidding Richard hurried from the house. Everyone else had already gone.

With those unhur