Darkest Hour (26 page)

'Hep?' he shouted. 'Are you all right?'

'Just about,' came the reply.

'Can you see anything?'

'I can't now but I could a moment ago. The tower
collapsed all right, Sarge.'

Tanner laughed.
Perfect.

His plan had worked. The company had its transport.

Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had been fast asleep in
the farmhouse when he was woken by the commotion. He had flung on his shirt,
breeches and boots and had been about to hurry downstairs when the explosion
had occurred. The bright glare had lit up the house and yard and he had
stopped, frozen momentarily to the spot. Shards of stone, brick and grit
peppered the farmhouse, tinkling on the roof and against the walls; a
window-pane smashed, then another, while outside in the yard, the deafening
thunder of collapsing masonry seemed to engulf the farm, shaking the house to
its foundations.

By the time Timpke had grabbed his belt and holster,
then run downstairs with a hurricane lamp and out into the yard, a choking
cloud of dust filled the air, trapped, so it seemed, by the surrounding
buildings and walls. Men were racing from the house and barns; some were
coughing and spluttering, others crying out in agony.

It was hard to see what damage had been done or how,
but he strode forward, clutching his lamp, and nearly tripped over a damaged
motorcycle. Cursing, he stepped aside. Torches - electric and flame - now
glowed through the swirling dust. Timpke put a handkerchief to his mouth and,
reaching the entrance, paused, aghast. The archway, tower and parts of the
adjoining stable blocks had been completely destroyed. All that was left was a
jagged pile of rubble, wood and brick. A motorcycle and sidecar lay nearby,
bent and skewed, almost completely covered with fallen brickwork.

'Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said a voice next to him.

Timpke neither spoke nor moved, his face rigid with
fury.

'Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said the voice again, and this
time Timpke turned towards his adjutant, Hauptsturm-fuhrer Kemmetmuler.

'What happened?' He spoke quietly, slowly.

'Sabotage, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. And the men who did
this stole the trucks left outside the farm. I've radioed to One Company and
they'll give chase.'

'Stop them, Kemmetmuler. It's dark and they won't be
able to catch them. We don't want to lose any more men or vehicles.'

He punched a fist into the other hand. 'Whose platoon
was on guard duty this evening?'

'Untersturmfuhrer Reichmann's, Herr Sturmbann-fuhrer.'

'Bring him to me. We'll do what we can now for the
injured, but we'll clear up this mess at first light. I shall be in the
farmhouse. And post more guards.'

By the time he was back in his temporary battalion
headquarters inside the farmhouse, Timpke was still numb. He sat down at a dark
oak dining-table, took out his silver cigarette case and, tapping the end of a
Turkish cigarette, realized his hands were shaking - so much so that he
struggled to light it.
How could this have happened? How?
It was not possible: the area was clear of enemy - this part of southern
Belgium was in German hands now. And, in any case, there had been guards posted
around the farm. How could any saboteurs have got through such a cordon? He
smashed his fist on the table.

There was a knock and Kemmetmuler came into the room.
He had brought Untersturmfuhrer Reichmann with him. The young platoon commander
clicked his boots together and saluted. He looked clean, Timpke thought - too
clean. Apart from a smear of dust on one sleeve of his tunic and a smudge of
dirt across his cheek, he was unblemished.

Timpke sat back in his chair, leaving Reichmann
standing stiffly to attention.

'I've been wondering,' said Timpke slowly, his voice
betraying his anger, 'how any saboteurs could get to this farm, steal four
trucks, then blow up an entire tower and half of two buildings undetected. How
can this be, when I gave express orders for there to be a guard on this entire
compound?' He stood up and walked towards Reichmann. 'Perhaps, Reichmann, you
could tell me how you had your men deployed.'

Reichmann was shorter than Timpke, a thick-set young
man with dark eyebrows and a heavy forehead. His hair was shaved at the sides
but slicked back with pomade underneath his field cap. Timpke smelled sour
alcohol on his breath.

'I used Unterscharfuhrer Liebmann's group, Herr
Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Just one group?'

'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. With my approval, he
placed two men in the tower, two men by the archway, two men at the front and
three others watching elsewhere.'

'Where exactly?' said Timpke.

Reichmann swallowed hard. 'Around the farm, Herr
Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Where they cannot have been watching very closely,
can they?' He leaned over the table a moment, clutching the edge with both
hands. 'One group,' he said, louder now, 'of which I am beginning to think half
must have been sleeping.'

'It was dark, sir. The men were watching, but it was
night.'

'Not good enough, Reichmann. Good God, your men have
ears, do they not?'

'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, but—'

'Be quiet, Reichmann! This is the battalion headquarters
and, quite apart from the personnel, we have important equipment and vehicles
here. Do you have any idea how hard Brigadefuhrer Eicke had to work to get our
vehicles? Most of the
Wehrmacht
troops still use
horses and their own two feet. Do you understand how fortunate we are to have
these vehicles? And you go and lose not one but
four?
And that does not include those damaged here.'

He had tried to contain his rage, to speak with a
controlled calm, but standing in front of him was this disgrace of an officer
- an ugly brute with a bad accent and the stench of wine on his breath. Had all
that training, and all those lectures, been for nothing?

Timpke clenched his fist and drove it into Reichmann's
stomach. The man gasped and staggered backwards.

'Has it not entered your thick skull, Reichmann, that
we are in only recently captured enemy territory? How could it not? And yet you
have the stupidity and nerve to deploy a mere group of ten men. And you have
been drinking. It is unbelievable - you, an officer, a man supposed to set an
example.' He punched Reichmann again, then took out his pistol, a
wooden-gripped Luger P08, and pointed it at Reichmann's forehead.

'It was j-just some wine, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,'
gasped Reichmann. 'I'm not drunk, I swear.' His eyes were wide with fear.

Timpke eyed him with disgust. 'Give me one good reason
why I should not shoot you here and now.'

Beads of sweat had formed on Reichmann's forehead. 'I
- I - I thought a group would be enough.'

Timpke lowered the pistol, saw the relief cross
Reichmann's face, then whipped the barrel hard down on the side of his head.
Reichmann cried out with pain and shock and collapsed on to the floor, blood
pouring from a long gash.

'Idiot Swabian,' said Timpke. 'Where did you come
from, Reichmann? How do people like you manage to be officers? A thick-skulled
imbecilic camp guard and a poor one at that.' He kicked him in the ribs, and
then again as Reichmann writhed in pain. Timpke looked up at Kemmetmuler. 'Ask
Division to transfer this man. I have no use for him. Send him back to the
camps.' He turned back to Reichmann. 'Get up,' he said, 'or I swear I'll shoot
you.'

With blood pouring down his face, Reichmann staggered
to his feet and clutched the table for support.

'Now,' said Timpke, 'you will take me to
Unterschar-fuhrer Liebmann. He is still alive, I take it?'

Reichmann clutched his wound. 'Yes, Herr
Sturmbannfuhrer.' Wincing, he led Timpke and Kemmetmuler from the house to the
yard, where men were trying to clear rubble under the light of a few torches
and lamps. Passing his staff car, Timpke noticed, with renewed anger, that the
Audi had a dent in the front wing and the windscreen was smashed.

Reichmann tried to call Liebmann, but his throat
caught and he began to cough.

'Unterscharfuhrer Liebmann!' shouted Kemmetmuler.
'Liebmann!'

They waited a moment, straining their eyes at the
throng of men moving around the yard. A tall man stumbled forward, his uniform
grey with dust. Seeing Timpke and Kemmetmuler, he stopped and saluted. His eyes
turned to the half-crouching figure of Untersturm-fuhrer Reichmann. Timpke saw
him blink anxiously.

'Come closer, Liebmann,' said Timpke.

Liebmann took a step forward. Timpke leaned towards
him and sniffed. There was wine on this man's breath too.

'So you have been drinking?' said Timpke, his voice
quiet once more.

Liebmann glanced again at Reichmann. 'Just a little
earlier on, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'I think it must have clouded your judgement.'

'No, sir, I swear, I—'

'Then why were four vehicles stolen from under your
nose, Liebmann? Why was the enemy able to take four vehicles
and
blow up the tower? Four vehicles and how many dead?'

'At least eight, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said
Kemmetmuler.

'Well, make that nine. Reichmann, you will now shoot
this man.'

Liebmann's eyes darted between Timpke and Reichmann,
panic etched across his face. 'No,' he said, 'please, no.'

Reichmann turned his bloodied face to Timpke. 'Shoot
him?'

'Yes, Reichmann, shoot him. He has been drinking and
he has failed not only me but the entire battalion. I am court-martialling him
and passing instant judgement. And, as punishment, you will carry out his
execution. Now.'

'But - but he's one of my men, Herr Sturmbann-
fuhrer!'

'Precisely. Let this be a lesson to you. Now do it.'

'No,' said Liebmann again. 'Please, Herr Sturmbann-
fuhrer, I implore you.'

'Reichmann - now! Or I'll shoot you too.'

With fumbling fingers, Reichmann tugged at his leather
holster and pulled out his P38. His hand shook as he held the pistol, then he
convulsed and began to sob.

'Oh, for God's sake,' snapped Timpke. 'You had no such
qualms in Poland. You were happy enough to shoot people there.'

'Please,' said Liebmann, falling to his knees.

'Last chance, Reichmann,' said Timpke. 'One, two—'

'I'm sorry, Hans,' sobbed Reichmann, blood and tears
running down his face. Shakily, he raised the gun to the side of Liebmann's
head.

'Three,' said Timpke. Liebmann was staring at him
numbly. A single pistol shot rang out, the report echoing around the yard. The
side of Liebmann's head flew into the air. Eyes still staring at Timpke,
Liebmann toppled over on to the ground.

There was silence, except for Reichmann's now
uncontrollable sobbing.

Timpke looked around at the men, their taut faces
outlined in the glow of the lamps. They had all stopped working and were staring
mutely at the scene before them.

'Let that be a lesson to all of you,' said Timpke.
'Orders are to be obeyed. No more drinking and no more shirking. Is that
understood?' He glared at them, then strode back into the house.

Across the bridge Kershaw, who had been leading, had
pulled over and let Tanner pass. Turning left down the track that led along the
riverbank, Tanner had initially seen no sign of the rest of the platoon and had
just begun to worry that Peploe's prediction had been right when, up ahead, he
had spotted dim figures scuttling into the side of the road.

Moments later he drew up alongside the head of the
line of prostrate men taking cover either side of the road.

'Good morning, sir,' he said, shining his torch at
Captain Barclay, who was trying to shield his eyes.

'Tanner?' said Barclay, dumbfounded. 'Good God, man,
what the devil are you doing?'

'We've got some transport, sir,' said Tanner.

Barclay got to his feet and stared open-mouthed at the
line of four trucks, their engines ticking over in the quiet night air.

'We should load everyone up quickly, sir. I suggest
that for the moment, sir, everyone piles onto the truck nearest them. It'll be
a bit of a squeeze, I'm afraid.'

Barclay nodded dumbly.

Now Blackstone pushed past the OC and stood beside the
cab of Tanner's lead truck. 'Quite a haul, Jack,' he said. 'Good of you to keep
me informed.' He glowered at him, then hurried on down the line, helping men up
from the bank and ordering them onto the trucks.

Tanner knew what Blackstone was saying:
You still don't trust me.
Well, no, he didn't. He
sighed, then stood up and peered into the back. 'All right, Hep?' he said.

'Yes, Sarge,' said Hepworth, 'although these Jerry MGs
don't half get hot quick. I can still feel the heat from the barrel.'