Darkest Hour (12 page)

Retreat.
A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand
it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line
with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his
reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles
behind the Senne. He cursed to himself. It was a shambles, a bloody shambles.

A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in.
'Rusty's back, my lord.'

'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.

Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression
of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was
only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out,
then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'

'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse
than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has
the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being
made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff
officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all
the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'

'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'

Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord.
Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'

'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we
need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'

'But you did get to speak to him about the
withdrawal?'

Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders
right away - have you not received them?'

'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said
Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'

'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared
his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going
back to the Escaut.'

Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'

'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the
Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall
back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the
nineteenth. Those are the orders.'

'And did you speak to him about the roads?'

'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do
about them.'

'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his
silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some
very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with
refugees and we'll have the Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the
Luftwaffe
bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'

'I asked him the same question, my lord. He said we'd
have to find a way.'

'Imbecile,' muttered Gort.

'There's more, my lord,' added Eastwood.

Gort stared back at him.
Let's have it,
then.

'It's to the south. German mechanized columns have not
only broken across the Meuse, they're pushing towards Laon and St Quentin.'

Gort stood up again to return to the map, and made
rough measurements with his fingers. 'If they do that they'll have gone more
than forty miles in a day! It's impossible - surely the French Ninth and Second
Armies can hold them? I hate to say this, but I'm beginning seriously to doubt
the fighting qualities of our French allies. Not something I'd have said about
them during the last show.'

For a moment, no one spoke. Gort's mind raced. To the
north, the Dutch had already surrendered. The Belgians were struggling and the
French Seventh Army had had to fall back to adjust for the collapse of the
Dutch. But what struck him now was the terrible realization that the German
thrust in the north had been nothing more than a feint. The main effort was to
the south, through the Ardennes.

'We've been humbugged, by God,' he said, eyes glazed.

'Yes, my lord,' said Eastwood.

'And our entire plan has been based on Jerry making
his main effort through the Low Countries.' He clutched the back of his chair
as the shock of what was unfolding spread through him. 'All right, thank you,
Rusty,' he said, in a voice of weary resignation. 'Issue the relevant orders
right away.' Eastwood saluted and left.

When he had gone, Gort clenched one hand tightly on
the back of his chair, then smacked the table, shock replaced by anger.

'This is not good enough, not good enough at all! One
order is all I've had from Billotte in the past twenty-four hours. One order! I
mean, for God's sake, would he ever have bothered to let me know the rest of
the plan for withdrawal if I hadn't sent Rusty down there? Blubbing's no good.
What's needed is decisiveness, clear thinking and attention to detail.' He
snatched at the telephone. 'Here, Henry. Try to get through to Billotte now.'

Pownall took the phone while Gort paced the large and
mostly unfurnished room. His chief of staff began to speak in French, calmly at
first, then with increasing impatience. Eventually he replaced the receiver.
'Billotte's not available, my lord. Apparently neither he nor his chief of
staff are at their headquarters any longer.'

'Then get me Gamelin, damn it.'

Pownall nodded. After several conversations he again
replaced the receiver. 'It seems Gamelin is with Monsieur Reynaud and the Prime
Minister in Paris.'

'Keep trying, Henry. I refuse to believe that the combined
armies of France, Belgium and Great Britain can do nothing about this. A major
counter-attack is needed - and fast - not retreat. Someone must be organizing
this.'

'The problem is communication - or rather, I should
say, lack of it. We simply don't have enough radios.'

'No, Henry, that's only part of it. The main problem
is that these damned French generals won't make decisions. Keep trying
Billotte. Somehow we have to put some spine into these bloody Frogs and get
them to mount a serious counter-attack. I mean, for God's sake, what's Corap's
army doing? Standing by and watching?'

'They're certainly not doing much fighting.'

'Then it's about bloody time they did!' shouted Gort,
anger and frustration spilling into his words. He breathed deeply. He could
barely believe what was happening - the incompetence, the lack of leadership,
the bare-faced panic . . . Throughout his career in the Army, he had prided
himself on his ability to make decisions and to lead men. In 1918 it had won
him a Victoria Cross, and after the war had helped propel him to become the
youngest ever chief of the Imperial General Staff. When Britain had sent an
army to France at the outbreak of war, it had been Gort who was appointed to
command it. Throughout his career, he had always gone forwards. Yet now he was
going backwards. The unthinkable preyed on his mind: that despite their vast
number of men and machines, the French could well lose the battle.

And if that happened, Britain might fall with them.

The column was halted at just after four o'clock that
afternoon at a village called Quenast and the men dropped down onto the grassy
verge at the side of the road. Sergeant Tanner had assumed they would travel at
least part of the way by train or truck, but instead T Company had been left to
march all the way from Calais to Tournai, some eighty-six miles. Admittedly,
their kitbags and large packs had been left with the two trucks that made up
the company transport, but with a rifle, a stuffed haversack, rolled gas cape,
respirator bag, full ammunition pouches, entrenching tool, bayonet and sundry
other items in their pockets, each man still had to carry equipment that
weighed the best part of forty pounds. Despite this, they had managed the march
to Tournai in three and a half days, and there, they had finally met up with
the rest of 1st Battalion, who, with much of 13th Brigade, had been moving
north to Belgium from near Le Havre.

That had been early in the afternoon the day before,
and since then they had tramped a further forty miles. It had been one of the
hardest marches Tanner had ever done, not because of the distance but because
of the traffic. The roads had been choked with troops, tanks, trucks, cars, motorbikes
and thousand upon thousands of refugees. Some had simply been walking in what
they were wearing, but others carried their lives in their hands, many
struggling with the weight of suitcases and bags. Tanner saw horses, donkeys
and even cattle with cases and belongings piled high on their backs. It had
reminded him of refugee columns he had seen in Waziristan; they had been a
pathetic bunch then, but he was sickened to see such scenes in Europe. Most
were on foot, but a few had inched their way through the throng in cars. Tanner
had lost sight of the number of vehicles he had seen ditched by the edge of the
road, presumably having either overheated or run out of fuel. And the dust!
Many of the roads had not been metalled and in the dry early-summer sun, with
God only knew how many wheels, tracks and boots pounding down, the surface had
turned to a fine powder that swirled and settled on clothes, found its way into
socks and chafed feet, up nostrils and into the throat and eyes.

The further west they had travelled, the more they
heard the sounds of battle ahead and in the sky above. That morning they had
watched numerous enemy bombers fly over. Some miles away an anti-aircraft
battery had opened fire, dull thuds resounding through the ground on which they
walked. Tanner noticed that those new to war flinched and stopped to gaze in
wonder as the shells exploded in black puffs. At one point, German bombers had
been engaged by British fighters. One bomber had been hit and had dived out of
the formation, trailing smoke. At this, the men had cheered.

An hour ago, Stukas had attacked a column some miles
ahead. They had heard the sirens and the bombs. Refugees had fled to the side
of the road, but Tanner had yelled at the men to keep their discipline.
'They're bloody miles away!' he had shouted. 'Keep going!'

He was as glad as the rest of them for the pause now,
enjoying the lightness across his shoulders.

'Any idea where we are, sir?' he asked Lieutenant
Peploe, as he unscrewed the lid of his water-bottle.

Peploe wiped his brow with a green spotted handkerchief,
then took out a battered paper map. It was his own - the company had not been
issued with any - and fifteen years old, but accurate enough.

'We're twenty miles or so south of Brussels, I think,'
he said at length. 'A few miles ahead of us is the Brussels-Charleroi canal. I
can't see the river Senne, though, which was where I thought we were heading.'

A staff car, making the most of the sudden clear
stretch of road, thundered past, more clouds of dust swirling in its wake.

'Stupid sodding bastard,' cursed McAllister. 'Watch
where you're bloody going!'

Sykes wandered over to stand in front of Tanner and
Peploe. 'Any news, sir?'

Peploe shook his head. 'I'm sure we'll be here for the
night, though - or close by, at any rate.'

'Good,' said Sykes, 'because my men are fed up.
They're all moaning like mad. "Corp, me feet ache. Corp, I've got another
blister." I've 'ad enough.' He grinned, then took out a comb from his top
pocket and smoothed his hair. 'The village looks pretty empty.'

'They've all scarpered,' said Tanner. 'Should have
stayed put. These refugees are a bloody nuisance.'

'It's a terrible sight,' said Peploe. 'What an awful
thing to have to do - leave one's home. I mean, where are they heading anyway?'

'Can't help thinking they'd be better off at 'ome,'
said Sykes. 'Didn't really see any in Norway, did we, Sarge?'

'No - they must have been made of sterner stuff.'

Suddenly a plaintive bellowing struck up somewhere
close behind them.

'Christ! What the 'ell's that?' said Sykes.

Tanner got to his feet. 'Cows, Stan. There's a field
of them here.'

'They need milking,' said Peploe, scrambling upright.
'Their udders are full and they're in pain.'

'I can see a dozen, sir,' said Tanner.

Peploe looked up and down the road. With no sign of
any imminent movement, he said to Tanner, 'See if anyone knows how to milk a
cow.'

'Bell was brought up on a farm, sir,' said Tanner,
'and I know what to do.'

'Good. Ask the others too.'

The only other man raised on a farm was Corporal
Cooper of 2 Section, so the four men climbed over a gate a short way up the
road and began to milk the cows, which had redoubled their agonized mooing.

Sykes had followed and stood beside 'Tanner as he
knelt on the ground, stroked the side of a black and white Friesian and began
to pull at the teats. 'We'd be better off putting bullets to their heads,' the
sergeant muttered. 'We might be helping the pain now, but what about tomorrow
morning - or evening?'

Sykes watched the milk squirting into the grass. 'Bit
of a waste too.' He looked up. 'There's the farm over there.'

'Go and have a snoop. See if anyone's about.'

Tanner had moved on to another beast by the time Sykes
returned.