"The mysterious processes of war were carrying the Fifth Battalion, as if on a conveyor belt, towards it destiny. Somewhere in an office a folder was being taken from a steel cabinet, a great mechanical card-index was whirring, teletypers were clacking their frantic messages; harassed, middle-aged brigadiers were sitting round long oak tables adding up battalions and divisions, fumbling with slide-rules, running nicotine stained fingers down the columns of ammunition tables. A thousand clerks and typists were working overtime, irritably and impersonally as if it were an income tax collection that employed them, instead of the destiny of six hundred sunburned men idling in their shirtsleeves on a hillside above the sparkling channel."
This is a remarkable novel, and the sense that the officers and men of the Fifth Battalion, Wessex Regiment, are being propelled forward by forces outside their control is palpable throughout. Alexander Baron builds up a picture of the battalion and its personalities with skill and sensitivity, and by the time they land on D-Day, we've gotten to know Sergeants Shannon and Ferrissey, Corporal Shuttleworth, Privates Charlie Venables and Alfie Bradley, and others. More than that, we've gotten to know and appreciate, and more than that, grown quite fond of, the battalion as a unit. Baron's own wartime experiences shine through his narrative, and the time spent waiting before embarkation provides some of the most memorable passages in the book:
"They had never expected it to be like this; sitting on the grass, in the sunshine, with the ships spread across the sea below and the calm voice coming to them through the silence; the voice calm and quiet as if this were just another training scheme ahead of them. Stolid and steady men themselves, for the most part, they had nevertheless secretly imagined that this would be a moment of inspiration, of brave words, of stirring, farewell messages from the high and mighty. Still, it felt good to be sitting there on the hot grass, elbow to elbow with your mates, listening, with a first, faint fluttering of excitement starting somewhere inside you."
"The men were fit; their strength surged exulting in their veins. They were trained, they were armed and equipped as they had never been before. They were confident, and all their excitement vanished. They were calm now, and outwardly indifferent, waiting without impatience or foreboding. They gave themselves up to the summer and passed their days in a stupor of content, drugged with sunshine, anaesthetised by the scent of blossoming flowers, lazy and languid and enchanted by the richness that was coming to life all round them. The dizzy hours and days reeled past them as they slept in the sun, lulled by the drone of bombers and of bumble bees."
The Battalion is like a family, or a well-tuned machine, and the setting is pastoral, almost idyllic. But the reader knows what is to come, and that knowledge hangs over each chapter like gathering storm clouds. At times, reading about their lives, worries and hopes for the future, it is almost possible to forget what these men are preparing for, and that makes the shock all the greater when it comes. In writing about D-Day itself and the campaign in Normandy, Baron's prose is spare and almost detached. Death plucks men seemingly at random, with no care as to whether they are a character we have grown to love or not. The action at the close of the book, during the latter phase of the campaign in early August, is one of the most memorable and heart-rending portions of war fiction I have read. It captures perfectly the effort and sacrifice required to grind out victory in North West Europe, as our beloved Fifth Battalion is torn to pieces. The fate of many of those we know best is left deliberately unclear and ambiguous at the end, though it is impossible to escape the awful dread that they are all dead. All that remains is the same numb feeling that afflicts the Fifth Battalion's battered survivors:
"Among the rubble, beneath the smoking ruins, the dead of the Fifth Battalion sprawled around the guns which they had silenced; dusty, crumpled and utterly without dignity; a pair of boots protruding from a roadside ditch; a body blackened and bent like a chicken burnt in the stove; a face pressed into the dirt; a hand reaching up out of a mass of brick and timbers; a rump thrust ludicrously towards the sky. The living lay among them, speechless, exhausted, beyond grief or triumph, drawing at broken cigarettes and watching with sunken eyes the tanks go by....The earth and the air shook with their passing. The upflung dust rolled away, to right and left, in two white screens, and settled, in fine, grey veils, upon the upturned faces of the dead. The humped, crouching silhouettes of the tanks covered the white road for miles. Still gathering speed they rumbled on, a black, dotted line reaching out across the map, towards Germany."