naked to the waist. The shooting of men that have surrendered goes against all laws of military conduct . . .’
Father Lamb paused, looking blindly out of the window.
‘It was clear to your father that the SS were in command of Wormhout. If your pa and his men surrendered, they too, would be massacred. He ran back and urged Vickers to retreat, to get the
men away, to retreat if they could, but Vickers, quite simply, did not believe what your pa said he’d seen. Vickers said such a thing was impossible, that no massacre had happened. He
instructed the company to stay and hold the position. Horrified at the fate that would befall his men, your father argued with Vickers and again urged both Vickers and his own men to leave. Vickers
accused him of inciting cowardice and desertion. Your pa grew more forceful in his argument. Vickers said he had no choice but to report your pa to HQ. A report was filed against your
father.’
Father Lamb turned from the window and spoke directly to the children.
‘In a desperate attempt to save the useless sacrifice of the lives of the men he loved, and thinking nothing of his own reputation, again your father begged his men to retreat. In front of
his own men he was arrested, led at gunpoint to the dairy building and locked in. A while later, with nothing but their bayonets to defend themselves against the flood of black tanks, Vickers
surrendered. Through a window your pa saw the SS line his men up, strip them and herd them into a barn. He heard the machine guns and he heard their cries.’
Father Lamb’s eyes clouded, ‘Later, much later, he managed to break out of the dairy and make his way to the barn. Every man was dead except Vickers, who was badly wounded. Your
father dragged him out. For a while they lived off raw potatoes and water from puddles. At some point, a Frenchwoman took Vickers in and nursed him. Your pa made his way home through France, Spain,
and then to England from Gibraltar. Nothing has been heard of Vickers.’
Father Lamb knelt stiffly on the floor at their feet, took the letter and read, ‘Wolfie, Dodo, I
did
encourage my men to retreat, I
did
disobey my commanding officer, I
did
incite desertion . . . But I did that for what I believed to be the right reason. Unless I can prove that the massacre occurred, there’s little chance of my winning my case.
Until the bodies of my men are found, there is only the hope that Vickers is alive somewhere and will one day prove my story. As far as I know, he is the only possible survivor.’
Many letters followed, but it was what Father Lamb explained to them that day that helped Dodo’s anger with Pa evaporate, that made Wolfie’s pride in his father burn with a fiercer
flame, that helped them both endure the private scorn, the public glare, that was to come.
Chapter Eighteen
Hettie propped Dodo’s painting on the mantel. Wolfie, on the floor, amidst a heap of wrapping paper, was spellbound, as if seeing Hero for the first time, by the candour
of his eyes, by the confidence, the assurance of the carriage of his head. How fast that baby face had changed. When had it become that of a beautiful young horse?
Wolfie held Pa’s parcel in his hands. He’d saved that till last, but still he made no move to open it, spellbound by the beauty of his horse.
‘It’s not your brush strokes he’s so astonished by,’ whispered Hettie to Dodo. Wolfie longed, they all knew, to send the picture to Pa. Wolfie bit his lip, bent his head
and unfolded Pa’s card.
Dear Wolfie,
You’re ten today. I wish I could see you to know what you are growing up to be. Are you still the explosion of a child that you were? Do you still leap like a
gadfly from one thing to another? Are you still impatient as the dawn? Be impatient with the world, Wolfie, but never be impatient with a horse.
It’s not easy to find a present when you’re under arrest but I’m proud to give you my saddlebag. This is the bag that Captain
Father Lamb paused, looking blindly out of the window.
‘It was clear to your father that the SS were in command of Wormhout. If your pa and his men surrendered, they too, would be massacred. He ran back and urged Vickers to retreat, to get the
men away, to retreat if they could, but Vickers, quite simply, did not believe what your pa said he’d seen. Vickers said such a thing was impossible, that no massacre had happened. He
instructed the company to stay and hold the position. Horrified at the fate that would befall his men, your father argued with Vickers and again urged both Vickers and his own men to leave. Vickers
accused him of inciting cowardice and desertion. Your pa grew more forceful in his argument. Vickers said he had no choice but to report your pa to HQ. A report was filed against your
father.’
Father Lamb turned from the window and spoke directly to the children.
‘In a desperate attempt to save the useless sacrifice of the lives of the men he loved, and thinking nothing of his own reputation, again your father begged his men to retreat. In front of
his own men he was arrested, led at gunpoint to the dairy building and locked in. A while later, with nothing but their bayonets to defend themselves against the flood of black tanks, Vickers
surrendered. Through a window your pa saw the SS line his men up, strip them and herd them into a barn. He heard the machine guns and he heard their cries.’
Father Lamb’s eyes clouded, ‘Later, much later, he managed to break out of the dairy and make his way to the barn. Every man was dead except Vickers, who was badly wounded. Your
father dragged him out. For a while they lived off raw potatoes and water from puddles. At some point, a Frenchwoman took Vickers in and nursed him. Your pa made his way home through France, Spain,
and then to England from Gibraltar. Nothing has been heard of Vickers.’
Father Lamb knelt stiffly on the floor at their feet, took the letter and read, ‘Wolfie, Dodo, I
did
encourage my men to retreat, I
did
disobey my commanding officer, I
did
incite desertion . . . But I did that for what I believed to be the right reason. Unless I can prove that the massacre occurred, there’s little chance of my winning my case.
Until the bodies of my men are found, there is only the hope that Vickers is alive somewhere and will one day prove my story. As far as I know, he is the only possible survivor.’
Many letters followed, but it was what Father Lamb explained to them that day that helped Dodo’s anger with Pa evaporate, that made Wolfie’s pride in his father burn with a fiercer
flame, that helped them both endure the private scorn, the public glare, that was to come.
Chapter Eighteen
Hettie propped Dodo’s painting on the mantel. Wolfie, on the floor, amidst a heap of wrapping paper, was spellbound, as if seeing Hero for the first time, by the candour
of his eyes, by the confidence, the assurance of the carriage of his head. How fast that baby face had changed. When had it become that of a beautiful young horse?
Wolfie held Pa’s parcel in his hands. He’d saved that till last, but still he made no move to open it, spellbound by the beauty of his horse.
‘It’s not your brush strokes he’s so astonished by,’ whispered Hettie to Dodo. Wolfie longed, they all knew, to send the picture to Pa. Wolfie bit his lip, bent his head
and unfolded Pa’s card.
Dear Wolfie,
You’re ten today. I wish I could see you to know what you are growing up to be. Are you still the explosion of a child that you were? Do you still leap like a
gadfly from one thing to another? Are you still impatient as the dawn? Be impatient with the world, Wolfie, but never be impatient with a horse.
It’s not easy to find a present when you’re under arrest but I’m proud to give you my saddlebag. This is the bag that Captain
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