Zero Hour Trilogy: Well Past Trouble

Book 0: Zero Hour Trilogy

by Rob Lofthouse

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

Well Past Trouble is the last in the Zero Hour trilogy and sees Robbie and his men's endurance, spirit and bond tested to their limits. March, 1945 - With the Germans in retreat, the Allies begin to look toward the ultimate prize: Berlin. But first they must cross the heavily-defended Rhine into Germany's industrial heartland. In the savage fighting for this crucial gateway, Robbie Stokes and his airborne division must drop into enemy territory and hold off German reinforcements. Exhausted after fighting through France and the Netherlands it falls to Robbie to lift his company for one final operation and the push into Germany. But despite his experience, nothing he's seen yet can prepare him for what they find as the Germans retreat and their cruelty is revealed. The end is insight, but Robbie and his men will have to fight every inch of the way.

Release date: July 7, 2016

Publisher: Heron Books

Print pages: 117

Sample

Cold.

It was all I could think about. It made me want to stop breathing. Each intake seemed to draw the cold down inside me, chilling my core. I was shivering despite being in full fighting gear topped off with a greatcoat. We huddled together in the back of the truck as it bumped and weaved through the darkness of the Ardennes forest. I drifted off. As we approached our destination, a small village called Tellin, a spine-shattering jolt from a pothole pulled me from my miserable slumber. The lorry ground to a halt, not for the first time. Everyone groaned. We were all dreading having to get out in the open again. My hands were still stinging with the cold from previous efforts to push the trucks out of the ditches into which they had sunk. Each time one of the vehicles got stuck, Serjeant Major Jackson organized a team for pushing duty. Jackson was no respecter of rank, everyone being expected to help out. And this time was no different, since above the howling wind, I heard shouting, cab doors being opened and slammed, then boots crunching on the frozen, snow-packed road, as they made their way to the rear of our lorry.

The back door opened. ‘Serjeant Wardle?’ yelled Jackson above the din of the blizzard.

‘Yes, sir?’ Sean responded.

‘The lead truck is also stuck now, blocking the way. Get your blokes out. We march from here.’

This announcement was greeted with a mixture of groans and ironic cheers. ‘That’s enough,’ said Sean. ‘Out. Corporal Stokes, I need them ready to march in three minutes, and if anyone’s left any kit, then I’m holding you responsible.’

We clambered from our frozen mobile tomb like old men. There was general grumbling which I knew I ought to put a stop to, but I didn’t. The stripes still rested strangely on my arm, and part of me still thought like a private. I turned to Private Dougie Chambers beside me. ‘Fancy giving the truck a sweep for anything left, mate?’ He nodded and I climbed down over the tailboard, grateful that despite my promotion we had managed to remain mates.

It hadn’t been so easy with all the others. I looked over at a group casually passing cigarettes around and sighed inwardly. Another battle, another test. Part of me felt too bloody tired and cold for it, but I knew I had to confront them. Their insolence was aimed at me. ‘Private Richards!’ I called over at the group and they broke open, the bulky figure of Bob Richards emerging from the centre. ‘Put that tab out and help Chambers sweep the truck. I don’t want any equipment left behind. The rest of you, load up and get ready to move out.’

For a moment no one reacted, the scene like a movie that had stopped, and then Sean Wardle came round the side of the truck and everyone started moving at once. Bob Richards smiled as he passed me and I cursed under my breath, wishing Sean hadn’t arrived. It was only going to make things harder next time.

*

It was January 1945 and we’d been back on the continent for a month trying to catch up with the rest of our battalion, which was being hammered by a German counteroffensive. The Germans had been retreating pretty steadily for months. Operation Market Garden around Arnhem in the Netherlands may not have succeeded, but the sheer numbers of Allied troops in France had taken their toll and forced the Germans back. But in December the Nazis had struck back through the dense Ardennes forest and fought the Allies, to a standstill. And C Company of the 2nd Battalion of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry had been called forward to help break the deadlock.

I hadn’t been enthusiastic. It wasn’t so much the thought of going back to the front that bothered me; it was that I wasn’t going back with my old company. The battalion, with the exception of our headquarter elements consisted of four companies, A to D. I’d fought with D in Normandy and had been looking forward to being reunited with them, seeing some old friends and hearing the news. However, I’d barely had time to get my bearings after coming back from the Netherlands before Al Grimes, my old colour serjeant from Normandy, had taken me aside and explained that C Company was being sent into action and would need to be reinforced from the other companies. I was going in with them, and with a promotion to corporal. He’d said it so quickly, I hadn’t time to take it in before I’d been marched off to meet my new comrades.

I don’t know whether I was still sick from Arnhem, or whether it was all just too new, but I made a mess of it. I hadn’t acted like a corporal, and there’d been a bad feeling from the start. Looking back, I wonder if anything I’d said would have made a difference. Some of them hadn’t wanted an outsider, and they’d made that very clear from the start. After forty-eight hours of being ignored and battling for respect, I was ready to hand my stripes back, and then Serjeant Sean Wardle and Private Dougie Chambers had walked in, fresh off the train to join C Company, come to join the party and save my sanity. Suddenly, I wasn’t the only new boy in a company of strangers.

I tried my best to pull the collar of my greatcoat up high enough to shield my face, but the cold still stung my skin. I smiled ruefully to myself as I realized I’d take a glider drop over this any day. Visibility on the road was severely reduced. I could just make out Sean’s group about twenty metres ahead as I began to hear the thunder of tank fire. I couldn’t tell whether the tanks were ours.

Someone made a joke about Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, and a few of the section laughed. It sounded good, and I wished I could be a part of it, but I wasn’t. Instead I growled at them to be quiet as we arrived at the outskirts of Tellin. I knew from my map that the village lay a few kilometres east of our target, Bure. The wind dropped, though the snow still fell heavy and constant. The flakes muffled sounds and there was a sense of calm about the place. We followed the main road into the centre of the village and gradually became aware of the night sky to the east glowing orange. Tracer from tank rounds and machine guns flicked skyward. It was coming from Bure and sounded like hell. The loud thuds and crumps of artillery rolled through. I could only dread what awaited us, not envying the paras there.

As we arrived in the dimly lit village square of Tellin, my stomach turned. In the semi-darkness I could just make out small groups of troops with walking wounded and carrying stretcher casualties. Dimmed by red filters, their torches guided them towards what I could only imagine was an aid station in some small shops, crude lighting set up inside. We continued on through the square, keeping to what we thought was the road, but ankle-deep slush and snow was everywhere, so it was hard to see what we were walking on.

Sean called a halt on the eastern outskirts of the village. Jeeps and universal carriers approached, bringing more wounded, and we moved into a long ditch to the left of the road, which mirrored a second ditch on the right. I flinched as tanks on open high ground began firing shell after shell into Bure. On the other side of the road, steep wooded slopes were getting hammered with artillery, but was it enemy artillery or ours?

On the road I could just make out the dark profile of two Sherman tanks. They crept forward, their tracks making one hell of a racket. One tank suddenly rocked back on its suspension in a flurry of sparks, and the deafening impact of a projectile made my ears ring. The tank began to smoulder instantly; I could see its crew bailing out. The other tank rattled back in reverse as fast as the conditions allowed. A projectile screamed in from the direction of Bure, just missing the reversing tank, before whizzing off into the unknown.

The crew of the stricken tank slid into the ditch we were shivering in. They were puffing and panting, their grimy faces gleaming with sweat. Their thick parkas and tank overalls looked a damn sight warmer than our smocks and greatcoats. They calmed their nerves with cigarettes, and we all just sat there, watching the flames take hold of their dead mount. The flames looked rather welcoming in the cold, but no one was going to approach the tank to take advantage of their warmth.

Serjeant Major Jackson appeared close to us, in the middle of the road. ‘Let’s get moving, C Company, we’ve got work to do.’ He wasn’t even wearing a greatcoat or gloves, just a smock over his battledress. With both hands on his Sten sub-machine gun, he didn’t give as much as a shiver. I’m not sure if he was immune to the cold or just putting on a brave face for the boys, but it impressed me either way. We scrambled up from the ditch, some having to be pulled out. I slipped and a gloved hand reached down to drag me up. I couldn’t see who it was, but I knew Dougie was ahead, and I wondered if perhaps I had made more friends than I thought.

The fires of Bure drew closer. Among the sound of mortar rounds smashing into the woods above us, I could now make out occasional bursts of MG 42 machine-gun fire. Ditches still ran down both sides of the road. A Sherman tank was stuck in the left-hand ditch, nose deep in sludge and snow. A further Sherman appeared on the road and both crews started to attach tow ropes to drag out the beleaguered tank. As we passed the tank crews, I could just make out the first of the outbuildings and cottages that marked the edge of Bure. The buildings didn’t look in such bad shape, and I could make out red torch filters bobbing and weaving all over the place. Sean brought the column to a halt, and we instinctively sought the protection of the left-hand ditch once more.

The snow was falling even thicker, more heavily than I had ever seen before. The wind dropped to almost nothing. I could hear flames crackling and popping as they consumed a roof. The crunch of mortars still sounded in the tree canopy above us. I still had no idea who was shelling the higher ground, but there had to be someone up there. Somewhere in the village a flak gun spluttered into action. Shattering glass and the crunch of disintegrating roof tiles and masonry announced its impacting rounds. A tank shell hit, the vibration of its detonation rippling through us. So much for the rumour of the Germans being as good as finished. I heard tank tracks, slowly getting louder, but couldn’t see the source of the sound.

Another universal carrier appeared, moving almost at a crawl, carrying more stretcher casualties. They were wrapped in blankets, curtains and whatever else the medics could salvage to keep them warm. Medics clung to the vehicle, each with one hand holding a plasma bottle aloft connected to a patient by a thin rubber hose. Walking wounded followed the carrier in two columns, wrapped in whatever they could find to keep the cold night out of their broken frames. Some of the wounded were German. Blood-soaked bandages were evidence we had treated them, but none had the luxury of a blanket or other covering. Berlin seemed a million miles away. I wondered if the war would ever end. Some C Company boys made their way over to the wounded, lighting cigarettes for them, often wedging the smokes between bloodied lips. None of the Germans were given cigarettes. It was a change I’d noticed since Normandy. Back then a wounded German was a fellow soldier; now he was the enemy. We’d all seen too many horrors in this war.

‘Section commanders up front,’ someone said, a hushed message passed from the front of the column. I scrambled out of the ditch, watching other section commanders follow suit. We followed the snow-covered road to. . .