Chapter 5

NUGENT IN FRANCE 1940

PARIS APRIL 1940

Frank Nugent strolled along the Rue Saint-Severin in the balmy Parisian spring sunshine to meet his old friend Harry Wharton. Harry, seated outside a restaurant in a small square, rose to greet his old Greyfriars chum. Both were dressed in their smart lieutenant’s uniforms. The city was full of men in uniform, mostly French although with a smattering of British. They were part of the British Expeditionary Force sent to bolster the French left against the expected German invasion. They sat down, ordered two Anis, and received their menus. The war had been in progress for several months although there was little hint of it in the French capital. Paris seemed to be just as Harry remembered it from three years before. 

There had been little or no fighting on the French/German borders. This odd situation was referred to, derisively, as the “Phony War” or “Sitzkrieg”. The allies anticipated the Germans invading Belgium and swinging to their left to attack France from the north, a reprise of the “Schlieffen” plan of the Great War. Little credence was given to Ribbentrop’s guarantee of neutrality extended to Belgium in 1937. The French and British forces were to advance into Belgium once the Germans invaded. This was unknown to the soldiers building and manning the fortifications along the “Gort” line, named after the Commander-in-Chief of the BEF, on the French /Belgian border.

 Once they had settled in and sipped their drinks, they compared notes. Harry was attached to a unit just west of Menin whilst Frank Nugent had had a more interesting time.

At Greyfriars he had shown an aptitude for shooting, winning prizes at Bisley after he left. Whilst Harry had gone to Cambridge Nugent, joined a local legal firm, qualifying as a solicitor. He continued to play football and cricket, becoming a stalwart of the local sports club carrying out much of the donkey work required – the fixture arranging, manning the bar, etc. His enthusiasm exceeded his ability and was a second 11 man in both sports, making only occasional appearances for the top teams. 

He was called up at the outbreak of war as a member of the TA. In December 1939, he was dispatched to France with the BEF. It had been a miserable winter, but unlike Harry, facing neutral territory, Nugent had had a short time on the Maginot Line confronting the Germans.

“Why were you selected to be a sniper?” asked Harry.

Frank smiled ruefully “Once my C.O. learned of my shooting ability he asked for a demonstration. When I impressed him, he asked me to become a sniper for the unit. I can’t say I was enthusiastic, but he told me it was my duty, so what could I do?”

“Not keen then?”

“Would you be? There’s more to it than I ever suspected. It’s not just a matter of sneaking about taking pot shots at Germans,”

“Isn’t it?”

Nugent explained that besides his abilities as a sharpshooter, his skill at orienteering, developed at Greyfriars and kept up after he left, made him doubly valuable. As a sniper his primary job was to disrupt the enemy by taking out enemy soldiers, where possible, senior officers. But aside from this he was expected to carry out reconnaissance using acquired skills for concealment allowing him to get near to enemy formations and report back.

“We go out in pairs, or at least that’s the way we did it when exploring the German lines. I was with a chap called Dusty Haire, a poacher from Boston,”

“Surely not. The ‘Lincolnshire Poacher’?”

“Yes – I know! Naturally his fieldcraft had to be superb to conceal himself from landowners, gamekeepers, etc. Rather, a useful skill in this line of work. They instructed us to go out on reconnaissance and collect intelligence, not to shoot at Germans unless absolutely necessary,”

“The last thing you’d want in a war,” remarked Harry.

“Yes, it’d be very rude,” chuckled Frank in response. “I learn a lot from Dusty. There aren’t any training courses, so he’s been my trainer.” 

In the Great War there had been organised sniper units, but the discipline had fallen into disuse during the inter-war years. 

Much had to be relearned. Normally snipers hunted in pairs, secreting themselves in different positions maximising the “killing” area and providing cover for each other. Dusty emphasised the absolute necessity of planning a safe escape route.

“Once when we were lying doggo, I felt a sharp pain in my leg, and I started up and gave a small cry. He had stuck the tip of a knife into me and said, ‘You’re dead, mate. You must be prepared to be silent and still for hours. Even if you get cramp or stung by a bee, don’t move. What you just did could have got you killed’. And he’s right,”

“Good luck, Frank. A dangerous business,”

“Also, soldiers hate snipers. It’s a risky business getting caught. Geneva Convention rules don’t always apply,”

“At least you’ve seen action,” said Harry “We’ve been on endless manoeuvres and training. It’s frustrating just waiting for the Nazis to make a move.”

“Well until they do, let’s enjoy ourselves in the Parisian sunshine and let the future take care of itself,” replied Frank with a cheery smile.

“I’ll drink to that,”

Frank Nugent took a deep breath, exhaled, raised his Lee Enfield rifle to his shoulder and looked along the sightline. He was heavily camouflaged, blacking on his face, and wearing a standard battledress with pieces of foliage attached. His rifle was, apart from the end of the barrel, concealed under a piece of green canvas. His position overlooked a Belgian Road just to the east of Brussels and a likely route for German reinforcements. He had taken up position shortly after daybreak. His limbs creaked from two hours of remaining still on the branch of a tree within a small copse. Then he heard a motor vehicle coming along the road…. 

The German move into Belgium had been long expected. Despite their pointless maintenance of neutrality, there had been advance cooperation between the allies and the Belgians in planning for the invasion. As soon as the Germans crossed the Belgian border, on the 10th of May, the British forces, including Frank and Harry, advanced to the river Dyle, near Brussels. The BEF took position in the centre between the Belgians on the left (north) and the French on the right. When Frank’s unit had taken up its position, they ordered him to proceed east to report on the German movements and cause whatever disruption he could. Enemy bombing had injured his proposed partner during the move and although Frank was sorry that he was wounded, was not sorry that he was left to his own devices. On receiving his orders thought to himself – Yes, one man to disrupt the German Army and said, with a grin, that he’d do his best to throw them back to Germany.

“That’s the spirit,”

He set off before dawn walking across fields where he could hug tree lines or walk along ditches. He felt isolated and vulnerable. He had walked for three hours, avoiding abandoned villages. Overhead Luftwaffe fighters and bombers travelled to the west and he could hear the crump of bombs as they attacked Allied positions. He had, from his map, chosen a road that ran on an east-west axis the route, he presumed German forces, would take. 

Around a corner came an armoured car which Frank, having studied German military vehicles, identified as an SKD-221, on reconnaissance. The driver and commander/gunner were both concealed behind the light armour, which Frank doubted he could penetrate. He kept his head down and let it pass unhindered. It confirmed that German forces were coming this way, so he decided to bide his time and await developments. Another 90 minutes passed. His body ached with the strain of remaining still while balancing his rifle on a fork of the branch. Then he saw, coming around the corner, several hundred yards away, a line of German infantrymen. Many had taken off their top tunics and rolled up their shirtsleeves in acknowledgment of the warm May weather and knowing that they were several miles from the battle lines. He scanned the soldiers at the front, looking to see if he could identify any officers, his primary target. Frank smiled to himself – what chance a Field Marshall walking at the head of an infantry battalion? But he had no time to ponder; as they came within easy firing range to 300 yards, he spotted a Leutnant on the left side of the advancing troops. He moved his rifle in his direction and lined him up in his sights. His target cooperated by pausing and standing still to light a cigarette. Frank tightened his grip on the trigger; stopped breathing and fired. The German’s head rocked back. He was knocked off his feet, and Frank knew he had killed him. Pausing momentarily, as the Germans scattered, he drew back the bolt, reloaded and fired off five quick shots as they dived for cover. He was unsure if he hit anyone else and didn’t wait to see. Slipping off the tree and crouching down, he made his way across the fields along a line of trees shielding him from the road while volley of shots was fired at the spot he had just vacated. They were ill directed, and Frank was well away by this stage. He ran until he was sure he was not being followed then slowed until he came to a small village. It was abandoned, its inhabitants having fled before the invaders. Slumping beside a wall in a small orchard and, panting from his exertions, waited for his heartbeat to slow. He was shaking uncontrollably. He put this down to the shock of having killed another human being and the tension of his first action. Taking a long drink of water, he composed himself, and set off back to his unit. 

Upon his return, after two days, there was a heavy artillery duel between the British and Germans near Louvain to the right of his unit. He watched as the Luftwaffe mounted raids with light bombers and, more unnerving, Stuka dive bombers with sirens wailing as they plummeted towards the ground, discharging their bombs. Frank’s unit was to the south of Louvain and not involved in the battle. There was an air of concern, at the news that the Germans had broken through on their right, taken Sedan and crossed the Meuse river. The Germans surprised the French by concentrating their main attack force, and most of their armour, against the lightly defended Ardennes region. The French had assumed, incorrectly, that the rough terrain, with extensive forests, rolling hills and ridges was unsuitable for mechanised forces. 

“We’re in danger of being cut off from our forces to the south and being blocked off from withdrawing to the west,” said his worried commander.

“What’s to be done?”

“What’s to be done, Nugent? What’s to be done? We keep on bloody fighting, that’s what. We can’t hold the line here. Our forces are counterattacking at Louvain, but the French are coming under severe pressure to our right,” was the irritable response of a man exhausted and under serious stress.

“Sorry, sir.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” came the emollient response. “Get some rest. You’ll need it. You’re to stay here and harry the enemy as we redeploy. We’re pulling out tonight and taking up a line along the river Lasne. Not much of an obstacle, but there you are,”

“But our line isn’t broken, and we have our defences here,”

“The French on our right are pulling back exposing our flank,” was the curt response. 

Pulling out a map he indicated a point. “This is where we plan to set up our HQ. You should stay here for a couple of days doing what you can. Stockpile ammo and food somewhere and then rejoin us,”

“Good luck, Nugent,” He ended abruptly.

“Thank you, sir,” 

Frank was in the field again, behind the German lines. His regiment had retreated, and he had remained concealed as the Germans advanced to the west. He cautiously approached a crossroad, paused and took up a concealed position on a slight rise, giving him a decent view of three of the approaches. He observed a single German soldier, whom he hadn’t initially noticed, emerge from a hiding place just on the junction, walk to the middle of it, and look along the line of one of the converging roads and return. He emerged again a few minutes later and repeated the procedure. Initially puzzled, Frank realised he was there to guide enemy forces in the proper direction. Positioning himself for a clear shot the next time he emerged Frank shot him dead. He then dashed to the crossroads, grabbed the body, and dragged it into undergrowth and concealed it before returning to his position to await developments. As he regained his composure, he realised that, to his surprise, on this occasion he felt no compunction about his kill. He supposed his scruples had dissipated, having been “blooded”. Additionally, the sight of German fighters strafing defenceless Belgian refugees had hardened his attitude towards the enemy. 

Eventually, coming from the direction the German soldier had been looking, he could hear wheels, horses and clanking of harnesses. Over the low hedgerow, he saw several heavy artillery pieces, each being pulled by six horses, a teamster riding a lead horse. He drew breath as they approached into his clear line of sight and within range. He picked the lead teamster and fired. The target reeled back and sprawled over the flank of the horse; a head shot. His horse reared in panic and the other teamsters jumped off theirs as the soldiers walking beside the convoy went to ground or sheltered behind the horses. As quickly as Frank reloaded, the potential targets disappeared. He let loose three shots into the road surface, in quick succession, close to, although avoiding the horses to panic them. His first shot ricocheted off the road and hit the nearside horse in the flank causing it to let out an agonised scream. His inspanned companion tried to run off and the other horses in the team set off in a panic. With the drag of the injured horse the team couldn’t run straight, careered off to the left and into a deep ditch dragging the artillery piece which toppled over and onto the soldier on its nearside. The ditch became a melee of screaming horses, struggling soldiers and the heavy gun on its side. Frank paused a moment in horror at the hellish scene before sliding back from his position and making his way along the pre-planned escape route. A volley of shots flew harmlessly past him. 

He twice took up position in promising locations without being able to pinpoint a target. His food was running low, so he made his way to the defensive line at Lasne over twenty miles away. Progress was slow and for much of the time he had to stay concealed. He reached the Lasne, only to discover that the Germans had preceded him. Waiting until nightfall he forded the river, scarcely more than a stream, and headed to the southwest, assuming that the allies had fallen back to the Gort line. The next morning taking cover he could see the Luftwaffe planes heading westwards and he followed them. He mostly kept well away from the roads, but sometimes glimpsed massive amounts of abandoned or destroyed Allied equipment shunted to the side. Also mingled amongst the wreckage were the bodies of both soldiers and civilians caught by relentless and indiscriminate air attacks. 

By now Frank was out of water and hadn’t eaten for two days so instead of bypassing, as he had been doing, the next village he cautiously approached a house on its outskirts set back from the road. The village had been abandoned, its hapless inhabitants fleeing west or south or anywhere to escape “les Bosche”. He cautiously entered through the unlocked back door. There was no sign of occupants. Scattered around were the sad remnants of ordinary life – a table covered in a cloth, a child’s toy, beds unmade in the haste to leave. As carefully as he looked, he could find no food. A hand pump in the kitchen produced a thin flow of fresh water. Having slaked his thirst and filled his water bottle, he again looked in vain for any food. Others had preceded him. He found a door to the basement and, more in hope than expectation, made his way down. Here he found the remains of a wine cellar. It had been looted and several broken bottles were lying on the ground but, surprisingly, there were still dozens stored in racks against the far wall. Lifting four he made his way back upstairs. His Swiss army knife, which included in its repertoire a small corkscrew, he used to open a bottle. He had read that wine contained several hundred calories so, he reasoned, would give him the energy needed to continue. Finding a beer stein, he filled it with the red liquid and sat luxuriating in a soft armchair in what had been the “good” room. He took a long drink coughing on the strong bitter liquid. Over the next hour he rested and sipped at his wine as if on holiday before, having finished the bottle and with a sigh, he got up. He took three further bottles, wrapped them in a piece of fabric, and stored them in his knapsack. Maybe it was the calorific value of the wine, or maybe not, but Frank felt much cheerier and energised. The slog westwards seemed less daunting. 

As he left through the back door, he heard a solitary motorcycle slow and come to a halt in front of the house. Why he chose to stop just there, Frank couldn’t work out then or later, but perhaps influenced by the wine, made an instant decision. Putting a round into the breach and looking round the corner took aim. From less than 50 yards, he would never miss. He ran to the road, pulled the rider out of the way, concealed him behind a wall, and mounted the bike. After a few seconds he had worked out how to ride it and, initially cautious, and then with increasing confidence, sped along the straight road. The weather was balmy, and he enjoyed the experience enormously, as if he had left the war behind. It soon caught up, however. In front of him he saw a platoon of German soldiers walking in a leisurely fashion, in shirtsleeves, weapons slung over their shoulder in the same direction of travel. Frank drew in a breath. He would be upon them shortly and made a split-second decision to bluff his way through. The soldiers looked over their shoulders, disinterestedly, and made a gap for him to pass. Frank put his head down to reduce his profile and make his identity less obvious and accelerated. As he did so, the Germans at the rear shouted curses at him for his inconsideration. Only as he was passing through them did he hear the shout “Englander” but in the time it took them to engage their weapons Frank sped up even further and the shots that followed him were ill aimed as he rounded a corner and safety. He slowed and sighed a deep breath of relief and drove on with greater caution. Care was also needed because more and more frequently abandoned equipment littered the road. He also noticed the smell of decomposing and, in some instances, of burnt flesh, human and animal, all of which brought home the terrible reality of the cost of battle. German planes flew overhead, and he could now see in the distance, Stukas, peeling off from formation and plunging towards the ground before veering up again. He estimated that Allied forces must be about 10 miles away, so he proceeded with even greater caution. 

It was as well because in the next village he came across German military vehicles blocking the road. He just had time to make a sharp left turn into onto a dirt road and drive off unnoticed. The track however ended up at a small farmhouse and with no obvious alternative he hid the bike in an outhouse before investigating the abandoned main house. It was approaching dusk, so he decided to rest up and take stock. There was no food here either, but on investigating at the rear he found a henhouse and found several eggs. These he ate raw, washing them down with a half a bottle of wine. 

As he sat on a chair in the old high-ceilinged farmhouse kitchen, he reviewed his situation. He estimated he must be 50 miles to the west by now. He decided he’d just keep on in the same direction and, hopefully evading the enemy, by travelling off road, come across friendly forces. After another meal of raw eggs and red wine, he and his bilious stomach set off across fields by the light of the moon. Eventually he could see, in the distance, the towers of Tournai Cathedral seeming to glow in the bright moonlight. The city was being shelled and bombed by the Germans. He carefully circuited around the streets of an industrial urban area in the north of the city until he came across a group of 6 British soldiers. He greeted them as long-lost friends.

“Thank God I’ve come across you. I’ve been walking for days,”

“Haven’t we all?” came the surly reply from a Corporal.

Ignoring the incivility, he asked, “Where are our lines?” 

“If you find out, please tell us. Our last orders were to assemble at Lille. Then we got separated from our unit,”

“Do you know where the Light Sussexes are?”

“Were they part of 50th division? If so, they’ve gone ahead of you. The Germans are surrounding us and we’re moving back towards the channel ports is the rumour,”

“Then we had better make a move. Corporal, what rations do we have?”

“Rations, sir? We haven’t eaten in the last 24 hours,”

Frank looked at the bedraggled group, sporting several days of facial hair, weary looking and footsore as he realised, he must look the same.

Frank pulled out a packet of cigarettes and passed them round. He didn’t smoke himself but kept a couple of packs on him for barter. The mood lightened. They were from the Durham Light Infantry and they enlightened him, as best they knew what had been happening in the last week. None of it was good.

“Time to move to Lille then. Have you got a map?”

“Yes, sir. We’re heading that way,”

Four hours later they came to Tourcoing, outside Lille, and met up with an officer of the RASC.

“You’re lucky,” He said “I can put you on one of the last transports moving out. Get a move on,”

They gladly boarded and the corporal complained.

“Look at this. An old Thorneycroft lorry with solid tyres from the last lot. No wonder we’re losing if this the best we can do.”

Frank produced more cigarettes and a bottle of wine, making himself even more popular. The lorry, travelling on its own, rattled and bumped at a steady 20 miles per hour to the accompaniment of curses from the rear.

“It’s better than walking boys,” said the unnamed corporal. 

They drove through the night unmolested but at the first sign of dawn a marauding Messerschmitt 109 spotted them, swooped down and opened fire. Whether the driver lost his nerve or was hit was unclear, but the lorry veered sharply to the left and after trundling a few yards off the road struck a tree with a bone shattering impact. The manoeuvre, intentional or otherwise, may have saved them from worse as, although shaken up, the passengers were uninjured. The driver however was killed having taken the full brunt of the impact.

“Poor sod” was his only epitaph delivered by the corporal and, apart from taking his red identity tag, was left as he was, and they continued on foot.

Getting nearer to Dunkirk, they saw aircraft after aircraft from the Luftwaffe making their way in the same direction. Each time they passed they, unnecessarily, dove for cover as the fighters and bombers headed to attack the allied forces on the beaches. They could now hear the crump of bombs and the rattle of machine guns.

“Where’s the bloody RAF?” the corporal voiced what everyone was thinking.

What was left unsaid was the question of how, faced with the German advance and air power an evacuation could succeed.

Before they could reach the beaches, there was one further obstacle. The Coldstream Guards. As they approached, a major challenged them.

“Who is the senior officer here?”

“I suppose I am, sir,” volunteered Frank “But we’re a group of disparate soldiers from different units. I’m from the Sussexes and there are Durhams and assorted others,”

The major looked at him and spotted the sniper insignia.

“Good shot, are you lieutenant?”

“I’d like to think so,” 

The major nodded and then addressed the rest of the soldiers.

“Men, marshalling officers will direct you towards the beaches. You’ll have to walk, and you’ll likely come under fire from enemy aircraft. Before you go leave behind any decent guns, you may have and ammunition. Every scrap is needed here. Good luck,”

He then turned to Frank and asked his name.

“I’m sorry, Frank, but I’m going to ask you to stay. We need people to disrupt the enemy and provide us with intelligence as to their movements. You see how crucial our role is here. The navy is doing all it can to evacuate our lads, but they need time. That’s our job. You can help by disrupting, even if only a little, the German advance. Every second you and we can hold them off means more of our chaps escape. It’ll mean we’ll be last off or even that we won’t make it out and face capture. But you understand it’s vital that we should hold this perimeter as long as we can,”

“I understand, sir. I’ll do my best,”

“Good man. Get rested. Draw rations and such ammunition as you need and report back at 2000 hours,”

Twenty-four hours later Frank found himself once again concealed on a branch looking along the line of a road leading towards Dunkirk. Earlier he had positioned himself in a building on the outskirts of a small village. He took a couple of shots at an approaching truck which, to his exasperation, missing the driver. He barely escaped as German soldiers doubled behind the building and shot at him as he made good his escape. This time he was happier with his hiding place. He didn’t have to wait long for a line of vehicles headed by an armoured car to approach his position. The commander was standing up with his torso in full view. Frank smiled at this display of misplaced confidence. He took aim, fired, and saw the German reel back with the force of the impact.

Frank’s head seemed to explode. He felt a hammer blow on his right hip and was propelled off the branch. Falling several feet to the ground, his left shoulder took the full impact of the fall. The pain from his hip and shoulder caused a red sheet to appear before his eyes as he gasped for breath. His rifle had flown out of his grasp and lay a few feet to his left. He tried to move to retrieve it but his legs refused to work so with great effort he attempted to roll over so he could use his good arm. As he did so, a black boot stood on the rifle. Frank exhausted by the effort rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. Then an extraordinary thing. The pain disappeared and a feeling of contentment washed over him. He was back in number one study in the Remove passage in Greyfriars. His best friend Harry Wharton, football captain, was saying to him.

“Come along, Frank. No slacking. You’ve finally made the team for the big one. The Rookwood game.”

Frank smiled and then opened his eyes. Looming over him looking down was the expressionless face of a German infantryman. As the German raised his rifle and pointed it straight at him, Frank stared straight into his blue eyes, looking for a sign of compassion.

He saw none.