My legs are starting to cramp from the six
long hours I've spent in my fox hole, and I grunt as I painfully readjust my position. Dew collects in a puddle at the bottom of
my fighting position, turning it into muddy sludge. I squint out across the three hundred meters
in front of me. There's nothing to spot but the tree line
and the occasional deer scampering along, completely oblivious to the hundreds of British
rifles aimed in its general direction. Somewhere on the other side of those trees
is Jerry, full of vinegar and hate and hellbent on a fresh try at another great war. This old Hitler fellow has been working Germany
up into quite the fit o'er the last decade, and weeks ago the dam finally broke with German
forces pouring into Poland. To the surprise of nobody the Communists joined
them, those poor Polish sods caught between two great big hammers. Shame they didn't then go after each other,
would've been a rather nice turn of events if the krauts and the reds started going at
it, wouldn't it? Britain and France were quick to declare war
on Germany, and ipso facto here I am and here I've been for several weeks now, wetting my
sodding pants in ditch water waiting to fight an enemy that has yet to materialize. I've been bamboozled. They're calling this the phantom war. Not a single German unit has made itself seen
on the western front. I thought there was a bloody world war on
and turns out all the fighting's in Finland, the Russian Reds getting themselves a proper
bruising trying to overrun the small nation. To hell with it. If the damned Krauts aren't going to act like
a proper civilized people and get this bloody war started at last, then I'll just have to
go to the war in Finland. Command is asking for volunteers to aid the
Finnish defense, and the Russians may be communists but at least they have the good sense to fight
when they damn well say they're going to do so. I never really liked cold weather, most of
my years in the service were in India, but if that's where the fighting is well then
hell's bells that's where I belonged. I've had enough of sitting around in a hole
like a potted plant. A day later I'm on a truck, part of a small
convoy en route to a Belgium port so we can load up and ship up north. We're no sooner over the French-Belgium border
than our lead lorry comes to a screeching halt. Suddenly the officer in charge of this show
hops out screaming,yelling at us to turn around immediately, the Krauts are on the attack. Finally! The war is on at last. You can feel war long before you can see it. It's down in your belly, a pulsing, rhythmic
beating deep in your guts. It's only as you draw closer that you realize
it’s not in stomach, it’s the heavy artillery, shells weighing dozens of pounds and packed
with high explosives laying waste to man and machine alike. The dull thumps become more well defined the
closer you get to the fighting. The closer you get to hell itself. We pass by blood wagons hustling down the
road towards the rear areas, packed with casualties. Overhead fly boys zip past, their engines
screaming as they race to the front. Somewhere up there in the clouds a duel is
taking place, and I don't know much about fighting in the sky, but I'm grateful for
the RAF's efforts to keep Jerry's bombers off our necks. There's enough high velocity death in the
air already, and we can finally see the effect of dozens of high explosive shells chewing
up the landscape ahead of us. We pass by our own guns now, giving back as
good as they're getting. It's incredible to believe anything could
survive caught between these two great bombardments. We never make it to the front though, our
lorries get commandeered to haul casualties out. Streams of armored trucks, tanks, and other
assorted vehicles run past us in long, unbroken lines. Something is very wrong- the war is ahead,
not behind. Then we're finally given the news: a retreat
has been called. The Germans have pushed through the Ardennes,
a terribly thick forest that nobody would ever have believed could be crossed with giant
columns of tanks. And yet the damned Jerries did just that. Clever bastards. The Ardennes was held by only a small French
force- the difficult terrain and dense forest should have made a major German troop movement
through the area impossible, or at least slow and easy to detect, giving us plenty of time
to respond and shore up defenses. But the blasted Germans managed to evade detection
and get as many as eight divisions through the Ardennes before anyone even realized what
was going on! I haven't fired a single bullet yet and we're
already in full retreat. We've been on foot for two days now, but the
Germans are relentless, and it's hard to blame them- they've got the bulk of the British
Expeditionary Force with its back up against the sea. I heard the Navy's scrambling to gather enough
vessels together for a withdrawal, but if they aren't fast enough the bulk of Britain's
fighting forces in Europe are going to be destroyed. I came here lookin' for a fight, instead I'm
facing a slaughter, but all this damned running don't sit too well with me. If I don't do something there won't be much
left of the British army to retreat with even if the blasted Navy gets its ships in order. Retreat may be the correct tactical choice,
but it is something that weighs heavy on a man's heart, saps his strength and destroys
his morale. We won’t be feeling that weight today though. When you get experienced enough you learn
to read the fear on a man's face, and what it means, because not every fear is the same. In some you got the yellow-bellying aching-and-quaking
fear that makes a man want to surrender the moment his life is seriously in danger - better
known as cowardice. In others though you got the fear of death,
the fear of bodily harm and injury. This is a rational fear, a fear you can fight,
a fear who's grip you can break. I inspect the men under my command, and it's
these men I seek out. I aim to break the grip of fear on my men,
and besides, I haven't even gotten to fight in this bloody war yet. Late at night we slip out of camp. We're miles from the coast yet, but we've
been marching steadily backwards for days, the German army nipping on our heels the whole
way. It's only the constant fighter cover overhead
that's kept Jerry from pushing us out to sea already, and the Royal Air Force is paying
dearly for it, losing dozens of pilots a day. Those glorious bastards. I have chosen not to disobey but to reinterpret
my order to retreat. I shall comply per the intent of the order,
if not the letter. During the day, my men and I follow the British
withdrawal ever rearwards, but as we do we make note of the terrain we pass, eyeing potential
ambush sites. At night we abscond from the general forces,
slinking away into the dark and retracing our steps back towards the Germans. The Germans march along confidently without
bothering to check for mines, booby traps, or other sinister surprises. That costs them dearly, for my men and I make
a sport of crawling forward under the cover of darkness to mine our route of retreat. Some we lay out to target men. Others we place to destroy their vehicles. We also sabotage roads and bridges, using
explosive charges to create deep furrows that vehicles cannot cross, or toppling sections
of bridges- ideally with Krauts currently on them. I aim to make the war personal for the Germans. My men and I slip through their lines in the
dead of night, we find the camps of German scouts and ambush them. Often we don't fire a shot, the work done
by blade and strangulation wire. Beneath each German corpse we leave a little
gift. Once a fellow comes along to collect the body
of their countryman they find their surprise - a grenade with the pin pulled that they
triggered when the body was moved. The men have nicknamed it the two-for-one
special, and I approve. It is decidedly ungentlemanly warfare, but
when you’ve just started your second world war of the century, well I’d consider that
to be anything but gentlemen like behavior. We may own the night but by day the Germans
are relentless. It is a race to the sea and both sides know
it. The Germans push forward aggressively, determined
to drive us into the sea while our navy tries to gather the needed flotilla of ships to
rescue the Expeditionary Force. The fate of Britain itself hangs in the balance,
the empire will be unable to replace the massive force should it be destroyed and that would
likely be it, the war would become unwinnable. Each day the fighting is much the same. Artillery comes screaming out of the sky,
smashing into our positions.. Under cover of the heavy guns, Panzers come
streaming forward, supported by dismounted infantry. Our anti-tank guns open up on the lumbering
German war machines, and the rest of us do our best to keep the infantry from overrunning
us. A good old fashioned British stiff upper lip
has seen what could have been a strategic catastrophe, become an orderly and coordinated
withdrawal. The Germans push, but can find no opening
to exploit, British infantry repelling each assault despite the mounting casualties. Still, retreat wears on a man's soul, and
morale is close to breaking. With morale broken, the orderly fighting withdrawal
will threaten to turn into a strategic disaster as lines of men flee for their lives, discipline
overtaken by the most primal of human emotions: fear. We have avoided this disaster for the time
being, but the tension amongst my men is clear- fear gnaws at the heart of the British Expeditionary
Force. On my back is a bloody heavy claymore, don't
remember now where I picked up the silly old thing but it's come to suit me. In front of us, a German patrol has unknowingly
strayed directly into our hidden position. An attack on this patrol will give us away,
and any survivors will be able to redirect artillery or Panzers onto us. Yet I know what my men need now more than
safe rescue off the mainland- and thats' a sodding victory. I stand, exposing myself fully to the German
patrol, and with a great big wallop of a roar I brandish the giant sword as I rush forward. I'm not sure who's more stunned, my men or
the Germans, but a moment later I'm glad to hear the roaring of British rifles opening
up. Germans fall where they stand, and I continue
rushing forward, my rifle long forgotten, sword in hand. A German radio operator looks up in terror
as I come howling down upon him, the receiver already to his lips. He never gets the chance to radio our position
in, my claymore separating his head from his shoulders in one swing. The victory is small, but its effects on the
men are immediate. Morale has returned, and the men take to slapping
me on the back, recounting the story of my looney charge across the battlefield, giant
sword in hand. As the tale is told and retold, I slay not
one radio operator, but four German soldiers. Then, half of the German patrol, wicked blade
cutting through the Kraut ranks like a hot knife through butter. They even take to calling me by a nickname
- Mad Jack. I let the men have their tall tales, not for
mine own glory but for the benefit it has on their spirits. The war's been on for almost six weeks now,
and we've been in full retreat for almost half that time! The British army has barely seen combat and
already its nose has been well and proper bloodied. Let the men have their stories if it gives
them something to bolster their mood and keeps them fighting back with me at night. The mass exodus is finally under way, a flotilla
of vessels ranging from navy ships to civilian pleasure yachts all commandeered to rescue
Britain's army in Europe. Now we dig in for a proper fight, knowing
that the fate of our comrades is upon our shoulders. The Germans are like a hungry shark, they
can smell blood in the water. The Panzers come at us each day, and each
night I lead my ambushes on German patrols. It is on one that we’re spotted and I find
myself pinned down by a machine gun nest. A hundred yards behind me I can hear my men
shouting for me to crawl to them. I survey my situation- a hundred yards to
my men, twenty five to the machine gun. The math is simple, and besides, I’m a bit
tired and crawling that far just for safety seems like a hell of a lot of work. So I crawl forward instead, using the cover
of thick bushes and the occasional shell hole to conceal myself. The German machine gunner is sweeping the
battlefield in wide arcs. I'm just a few yards away now, when I stand
and take a running start, tossing a grenade that arcs perfectly into the machine gun nest. A moment later, the gun and its operator are
no more. The men cheer, and I wave them on back to
the rear. Best to withdraw while we have the opportunity. As I hurry back though I spot something - it's
a bicycle, muddy and a bit roughed up but none the worse for wear. Why walk back to friendly lines when one can
bike instead? I pick up the bicycle, and placing a German
officer's cap I've taken as a trophy on the front headlight, I pedal my way to safety. Entering friendly lines there's a cheer from
the boys, already tales of my charge against the machine gun are spreading. I'm stopped by an officer, I’m sure I’ll
get a mouthful about regulation uniforms and non-approved tactics, but no, there’s not
anger but a worried look in his eyes - “Old chap, you seem to have some blood on your
neck there” he says. I wipe my hand and to my surprise, he's right. Hell's bells, I've been shot through the neck,
that damned Kraut got one in right before the end after all. I make my way to the medical tent, but shoo
away the surgeon's concerns- there's men bleeding and dying right there in the tent with us
who need his attention far more than I. I settle for a quick bandage and some antiseptic;
far as I see it, if the wound was meant to kill me then it would have by now. After much debate, I do finally agree to his
request that I be shipped out for proper medical treatment. I may be leaving Europe early, but I've got
my reasons. Someone up the chain has heard of my creative
re-interpretation of the order to retreat, and much to my surprise rather than reprimand
me or possibly court martial me, they've requested that I investigate an opportunity to continue
waging what has been officially termed, 'ungentlemanly forms of warfare'. Britain may be out of Europe, but it's by
no means out of the fight, and it has plans to return. Perhaps if the blasted Americans get their
heads out their arses and hop across the pond, we can return sooner rather than later. For now though, I look forward to my new assignment,
even if I have to leave France early. They're calling them 'commandos'- soldiers
who'll be returning to Europe early and slipping behind enemy lines to perform all sorts of
dastardly deeds. I look around the civilian pleasure yacht
overloaded with war casualties and touch the bandage on my neck. Dastardly deeds sounds like something I'll
very much enjoy inflicting upon the Germans. I’ll make them whisper my name in fear around
campfires and in beer halls. Mein Gott, they’ll say when they see me,
it’s Mad Jack.
