Under Fire and Fury

“Morning, Sir,” Archer replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Six hours of rest will do that. What’s the situation?”

Pembroke gestured for him to sit on a rickety chair near the desk. He leaned forwards, his tone softening. “First things first. Hargroves is gone. Artillery strike yesterday morning. Ellis has taken over the battalion. It’s…been a rough 24 hours.”

Archer absorbed the news with a tightening in his chest. Hargroves had been a steady hand, and his loss left a hole that felt larger than just the chain of command. He let out a slow breath. “How’s Ellis holding up?”

Pembroke rubbed a hand over his stubble, his eyes briefly dropping to the map on the desk. “He’s doing his best, but you know how it is. Taking over in the middle of all this—it’s a thankless job. He’s steady though, and he’s doing what he can, same as the rest of us.”

Pembroke continued, “but the battalion’s taken a beating. We’re spread thin, morale’s shaky, and Jerry’s massing for another push.” He tapped a hand on a hand sketched map, drawing Archer’s attention to a cluster of markings.

Archer reached into his battledress pocket, feeling the familiar weight of the flask Pembroke had given him back in Armentières some three weeks ago. He pulled it out, unscrewed the cap, and offered it across the desk. “Here, and how you holding up?”

Pembroke’s eyes lit up briefly with a glimmer of humour.

“I’m good. You still carrying this thing around?” Pembroke hesitated for only a moment before taking the flask and raising it slightly in a quiet toast.

“To Hargroves,” he said, his voice softening. He took a measured sip, letting the warmth spread through him before handing it back.

“And to the poor bastards holding the line,” Archer raised the flask and returned the flask to his pocket. The gesture was small, but it seemed to lift a fraction of the weight hanging over the room.

Archer leaning towards the desk, his jaw tightening. “What’s the latest?”

Pembroke leaned back, his voice dropping lower. “Situation’s dire. Ellis has us stretched across these positions, but if Jerry breaks through here, it’s a clear road to Cassel’s centre. The chapel’s one of the last defensible spots on this flank. They’ll hit it hard—and soon.”

He paused, running a hand over the map.

“The orders from brigade are clear, Tom. We’re to hold the line—last man, last round. There’s no fallback, no reinforcement. We’re buying time for the lads heading to Dunkirk, and that means every minute we hold, matters.”

Archer exhaled slowly, the weight of the words pressing on him. He already knew the stakes, but hearing them spoken aloud, made them feel heavier—more real. Hold the line to the last man, the last round. The words weren’t new to him, but their finality settled on his shoulders like a stone. He thought of his men—Mallory, Jacks, Matthews, and the others—men who had trusted him through hell and back. How many of them would be standing when the last round was spent?

Pembroke, his face grim, turned back to the map, tapping a thick, smudged pencil against the marked positions. “Right, listen up. You’re moving into the chapel and cottages here,” he said,

tracing the defensive line with the pencil. “That flank is critical, and if Jerry gets through it, we’ll lose the whole eastern side of the town. Battalion’s thin as it is—this position’s got to hold.

“You’re taking 6th Platoon in to reinforce the position. You’ll also take on what’s left of 8th Platoon—they’ve been chewed up, down to about twenty men. Their officer didn’t make it, and Sergeant Wilkins has been holding things together.” Pembroke paused, his sharp eyes settling on Archer. “What about your lot? How’s 6th Platoon holding up?”

“Well, as of this morning, we’re fourteen, including myself, Sir,” Archer replied, his tone grim but steady. “We lost six during the mission. One wounded—he’s been evacuated.”

Pembroke frowned, his jaw tightening as he processed the numbers. “Bloody hell, Tom. Six. That’s a hell of a price.” Archer held Pembroke’s gaze; his voice was quiet but resolute. “We’ve had hard days, Sir. No different to anyone else.” His expression hardened as he straightened. “But the men are ready. They’ll do what’s asked of them.” Pembroke studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before nodding and turning back to the map. The weight of their conversation lingered for a beat, but when he spoke again, his tone had shifted—brisk, measured, and all business.

“Right. Artillery support is available, but there are restrictions.” He tapped the map again, tracing the defensive positions. “We’ve got a battery of 25-pounders covering the area, but they’re stretched. We can’t waste shells—we’re running low as it is. Priority targets only.” He pointed to the chapel, his voice firm. “Ellis has the final say on all artillery requests. There’s a field phone set up at the chapel—it connects directly to me here, and up to Battalion HQ. You need something, you call me first, and I’ll push it up the chain. But don’t expect miracles.” Pembroke looked back at Archer with a sharp expression.

“What’s your ammo situation?”

Archer hesitated, “Er, not great. We’re running low, Sir. Maybe thirty rounds per rifle on average, two Bren magazines for each of the Brens. We scrounged what we could through the night, but it’s not much.”

Pembroke’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he let out a heavy breath. “It’s better than I expected, but it won’t last if Jerry pushes hard. I’m pretty sure they will, Tom. That chapel is key, and they know it.”

       “We’ll stretch it,” Archer said simply, his voice was steady, trying to absorb the information as its being relayed. “What about Jerry’s movements?”

Pembroke sighed, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “They’ve been probing us all night, feeling for weak spots. You can expect more of that today—machine-gun fire, mortars, and probably a heavier push during the day. If they bring armour, well…” He trailed off for a beat before continuing. “Let’s just hope they don’t.” Pembroke gave a grim smile. “The bigger picture is survival, if we’re lucky. Brigade’s relying on Cassel to keep Jerry bottled up as long as we can. It’s the linchpin of the withdrawal. Lose this, and we lose the corridor to Dunkirk. That’s why we’re stretched so thin—we’re holding the bloody door open for everyone else to get through.” Archer’s gaze drifted to the map, his eyes tracing the thin lines marking their defensive positions. “And if we don’t?”

“Then the Channel’s full of Tommies who didn’t make it,” Pembroke replied bluntly. “But let’s not think that far ahead, eh?” Archer nodded firmly.

“Understood, Sir.” With that, Archer turned to leave. “Good luck, Tom!” Pembroke called out.

To which Archer responded. “Good luck to you too, Sir.” He turned for the doorway, the shifting light playing over the maps and papers, making them ripple with a ghostly unease.

Outside, the night loomed, heavy and waiting. Archer

approached the platoon who were gathered along an old brick wall of the schoolhouse. He called Mallory, Jacks, and Wilson over. “Here’s the situation,” he began quietly, his voice low but firm. “We’re reinforcing 8th Platoon at the chapel. They’re chewed up, down to twenty or so men. Wilkins is holding them together, but morale’s shaky, and Jerry’s massing for a push. We’re low on ammo, artillery’s restricted, and there’s no fallback.”