Darkest Hour (23 page)

'Scared, is he?' said Tanner, as he joined Peploe.
Above, clouds were building and a cool breeze now blew across the yard.

'They saw the Germans earlier too,' Peploe told him,
'and they've heard the sound of battle for the past two days. They're going to
keep out of the way until the storm passes. He said he didn't want any Germans
finding out he'd helped the British.'

'Confident, the Belgians, aren't they?'

'I did tell him we weren't going to stay, but he
wasn't having any of it.'

Tanner's idea to lie low in the wood - suggested to
the OC by Lieutenant Peploe - had been agreed by Captain Barclay, and the
company now headed back down the road, leaving Tanner and Private Smailes in
the tower to keep watch for any movement to the south.

They were relieved an hour later and, on reaching the
wood, Tanner was pleased to see that sentries had been placed around the
encampment and that their arrival was challenged. He gave the password, then
heard his name called. He turned to see Slater, the company quartermaster
sergeant, push through the bracken towards him. 'Tanner,' he said again, in a
low, gravelly voice.

'What is it?'

'The CSM wants to see you.'

What about?
'Tell him I'll come and find him as soon as I've
reported to Mr Peploe.'

'He said you were to come now.'

Tanner looked at the two young sentries, then at
Smailes. 'All right,' he said. 'Smiler, tell Mr Peploe I'm with the CSM and
I'll be back soon.' He was sure Blackstone wouldn't try anything now - not with
so many witnesses to his whereabouts - but as he followed Slater, he unslung
his rifle from his shoulder and carried it in his hand.

They found Blackstone sitting beneath an oak tree some
way from the rest of the company. 'Ah, Jack,' he said, making no effort to get
up.

'What do you want?' snapped Tanner. 'Make it quick,
whatever it is.'

Blackstone smiled. 'Jack, don't be like that, please.
I want us to make up. I've been too quick to antagonize you, I realize that,
and I'm sorry.'

'For God's sake,' said Tanner, 'what do you want,
Blackstone?'

'I want us to get along, Jack. I tried to put the past
behind us when you first arrived in Manston but you wouldn't take the olive
branch.'

'And why should I now, after all you've done?'

'What have I done, Jack?'

'You know damn well.'

Blackstone shook his head. 'All right, so maybe I've
been a bit sharp towards you in front of the boss, but I can't have you
undermining
my
authority, can I?'

'So who locked me in the storeroom?' He glared at
Slater. 'And who took a shot at me on the bridge yesterday?'

Blackstone looked incredulous. 'You think I tried to
kill you?' He laughed as Slater shook his head with equal disbelief. 'You're joking?'

'I saw you by the bridge. It had to be you who shot
me.' He was conscious, suddenly, of how spurious the accusation now sounded.

'Jack, that's madness. There were bullets flying
around everywhere. Anyone could have hit you. Yes, I fired off a few rounds,
but I was trying to hit those Jerries on the ridge. Your mind's playing tricks,
my friend.'

Tanner tightened his grip on his rifle.

'Trust me, Jack, the last thing I want is to see you
out of the way.' He stood up now. 'I need you.'

'Jesus,' muttered Tanner.

'Hear me out, Jack. I know I've got the men eating out
of my hand. They respect me and think I'm a good bloke. Most of them don't like
you too much but they respect you as a soldier. And you're good, Jack, I'll
give you that. Now, our problem is that the boss is an idiot who doesn't know
his arse from his tit.'

Almost the same words Mac
used.
Tanner's heart sank.

'It's largely because of Captain Barclay,' Blackstone
continued, 'that we're in this mess.'

'It wasn't his fault the rendezvous changed.'

'But it was his fault that we had to go and get his
brother-in-law when the French were far closer, and it was certainly his fault
that we took so long to move out of those positions. We were late for the
rendezvous. We should have left with Captain Wrightson and Ten Platoon. And why
we're heading to Arras when it's clear most of the BEF must be further north
from here, God only knows.'

'I thought he did whatever you told him,' said Tanner.

'He did. But - dare I say it, Jack? - he hasn't been
so keen on listening to me with you and Mr Peploe around. He's started to think
for himself and look what's happened as a result.'

'That's bollocks,' said Tanner. He held Blackstone's
eye. 'So what is it you're suggesting? Get to the bloody point.'

'I think we should split up. Let the boss and

Lieutenant Bourne-Arton take Eleven Platoon and you,
me and Lieutenant Peploe take Twelve Platoon. There are too many of us at the
moment. It's hard to get food and transport. And that's what we need -
vehicles, so we can get out of here and find the rest of the BEF.'

Tanner took out his cigarettes and realized he had
only two left.
Damn
, he thought, lighting
one. He had to admit, there was something in what Blackstone said; the idea had
crossed his mind as well.

'I'm asking you to back me up on this, Jack, that's
all. Try to persuade Mr Peploe.'

'I'm tired,' he said, 'and I'm going to have a kip.
But I'll think about it.'

Leaning against the cobweb-hung brickwork of the
tower, Corporal Sykes peered out of the hole in the roof, a cold breeze
brushing his face. A cigarette was cupped in his hand between thumb and
forefinger. Now, urreptitiously, he brought it to his mouth. He knew he
shouldn't be smoking while on watch, especially not when he was standing in an
OP that could be seen for quite a distance, but he had to do something to keep
himself awake.

Smoke swirled into the night air as he exhaled. The
countryside, so different at night, was swathed in a low creamy light. The
horizon could easily be seen against the night sky, as could a line of trees
away to the right of the village. A barn owl screeched, but otherwise the world
beyond the tower was still and seemingly at peace.

On the other side of the rickety gallery, Private Bell
strained his eyes towards the wood a couple of hundred yards away in which the
remainder of the company were bedded down for the night. Sykes peered at his
watch.

Five past midnight - less than an hour before they
were due to move off again. He yawned, and returned to staring at the unmoving
night.

It was a faint rumble that first caught his attention,
and then, as he brought Tanner's binoculars to his eyes, he saw, silhouetted
against the horizon, a number of motorcycles heading west.

'What's that, Corp?' said Bell, hurrying across the
gallery.

'Motorcycles,' said Sykes. 'And not ours neither.' He
passed over the binoculars. 'They're like the ones we saw yesterday,' he said.
'Sidecar and machine-gun.' He took the binoculars back and saw the lead
motorcycles turn off the main road and head straight for the village.

'Bugger it,' said Sykes. 'Tinker, we ought to get down
from here. If we need to scarper in a hurry we don't want to have to muck
around with rotten old ladders in the dark.'

'Too bloody right we don't, Corp,' agreed Bell.

'All right - you go first,' said Sykes. As Bell
lowered himself onto the ladder, Sykes peered through the binoculars one last
time and saw a larger column rumbling into view along the ridge beyond the
village - armoured cars and trucks too. There they came to a halt, the low
rumble of their engines audible on the still night air.

Bell was at the foot of the ladder and Sykes followed.
As he reached the first floor he heard two motorcycles heading out of the
village towards them.

'Come on, Tinker,' he said, groping for the stairs,
'we need to get out of here fast.'

In pitch darkness, not daring to turn on a torch, they
scrambled down the stairs as quickly as they could, only for Bell to trip at
the bottom and stumble into Sykes. 'Sorry, Corp,' he said.

At that moment, they heard the motorcycles slow, then
turn into the farm, under the archway and into the yard, thin slits of light
from their headlamps casting a dim glow. With the door onto the yard ajar,
Sykes watched breathlessly. The first motorcycle stopped and he saw the rider
jump off and approach the door of the farmhouse, the motorcycle's engine still
ticking over.

You won’t find anyone there
, he
thought.

The machine-gunner in the sidecar covered his comrade,
weapon at the ready, while the second motorbike circled the yard, then also
stopped. This time the man in the sidecar jumped out and, with a torch, looked
at the outbuildings that lined the yard.

'Bugger it,' mouthed Sykes.

'What?' whispered Bell. 'What are they doing?'

'Shut your gob,' hissed Sykes. Carefully, he drew his
rifle to his waist and, clutching the bolt, silently, slowly, drew it up and
back, wincing as it clicked into place. The German was getting nearer, but he
was out of sight. Doors were opened, boots clicked on stone, voices rang out.
The man had had his weapon slung across his back, and Sykes prayed it had
remained there. His heart pounded. Footsteps. Any moment now, the door would
open. Sykes tightened his grip on his rifle and his finger caressed the cold
metal trigger.

Around fifty miles away to the west, as the crow flew,
Major-General Henry Pownall knocked on General Lord Gort's door at his command
post at Wahagnies.

'Come!' called Gort from his desk. He had been studying
a number of sitreps that had reached his tactical headquarters from his various
liaison officers with the French Army; they had not made encouraging reading.

'General Billotte has just arrived, my lord,' said
Pownall.

'At last, Henry.' Gort smiled. The British commander
was a big man - more than six foot tall, barrel-chested, with a broad, full
face and a trim, bristly moustache. 'This will be quite a novelty,' he said,
with heavy irony, 'a rare opportunity to speak man to man with one's commanding
officer.'

'Quite so,' agreed Pownall. 'Shall I bring him
straight in?'

'Absolutely.'

A minute later Billotte entered with Major Archdale,
his British liaison officer, limping behind him. Billotte removed his kepi and
extended a hand to Gort.
'Mon cher general
,' he said.

He looked exhausted, Gort thought, and old. Why were
all the French generals so aged? Billotte was - what? In his mid-sixties? And
yet to look at him now, white-haired and with large bags under his eyes, he
would pass for more than seventy. Gamelin was sixty- seven, he knew, while
Georges was sixty-five. To command armies one needed experience, yes, but
energy too. A commander in the field could expect long days and short nights,
huge pressure and the difficult, frustrating responsibility of making decisions
of great importance, often with insufficient information. Lack of sleep and the
nature of the job were both exhausting, physically and mentally draining, which
was why one needed a stout constitution and age on one's side. Gort, at not
quite fifty-four, was fit and spry, but not so sure he would be able to say the
same a dozen years on. It was no wonder the French were struggling. Generalship
was not, Gort believed, a job for elderly men.

'Eh bien, mon general
,' said Gort, smiling broadly and holding Billotte's
gaze with his pale grey eyes. '
Quest-ce que vous
avez a me dire?’
He pointed to a simple chair opposite his
makeshift desk.

Billotte
sat down with a heavy sigh. '
Je nai plus de reserves, pas de plan et peu d'espoir.'

For a moment, Gort gazed at him blankly.

Major Archdale coughed. 'He says he has no reserves,
no plan, and little hope, my lord.'

'I think we understood, thank you, Osmund,' said
Pownall.

'Someone get the general a drink,' said Gort. 'Scotch,
or some brandy, if he would prefer. Then perhaps, Archdale, the general could
outline to us what is happening with the rest of his armies. And while I fancy
my French isn't bad, it might be better if you do interpret, if you don't
mind.'

'Yes, my lord,' said Archdale.

Gort listened as Billotte, slumped in his chair, a
large glass of brandy in hand, recounted his day's events. He had sacked Corap,
commander of the Ninth Army, and replaced him with Giraud; the new Ninth Army
commander was now missing, however, and his headquarters at Le Catelet, near
Cambrai, had been overrun. Cambrai had fallen a few hours earlier. That thrust,
south through the Ardennes, had broken the back of the Ninth Army and proved a
devastating blow.
'Contre les panzers je ne peux rien faire
,'
he said, over and over.
Against the Panzers, there is nothing I can
do.
There were, he reckoned, nine or ten German panzer divisions
in this thrust, against which he felt powerless. He now stood up and walked to
the map hanging on the wall. With his finger, he etched a line to where the
Germans had now advanced: thirty-two miles from Amiens and just twenty from
Arras. He had ordered counter-measures, he told them, which, he hoped, would
force the Germans back and enable French and British troops in the north to
link up once more with French troops to the south of the German thrust. Just what
his counter-measures were, Billotte did not explain.