Darkest Hour (32 page)

Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had woken at first light
to find his command post still in disarray. The tower had completely collapsed,
as had half of the barns at either side, and there were no fewer than
twenty-six casualties. Yet although his command car had been badly damaged by
falling masonry, three of the motorcycles and the two armoured cars inside the
yard were largely unscathed and, it seemed, in running order. Furthermore, in
the cool light of dawn, a route was quickly established through a gate at the
back of the yard, leading out onto a pasture and around the walled confines of
the farmstead to the road. Leaving the dead and wounded at the farm, with a
small burial detail, he had then marched the remainder into the village where
they had rendezvoused with the rest of 1 Company and the panzer squadron, in
the square by the church, just after five.

Scouting the area in the fresh first hours of
daylight, with Timpke in the radio scout car, they had found a largely deserted
stretch of countryside. Timpke's mood had begun to improve. With his head clear
of the turret and the breeze in his face, he had enjoyed the chance of
activity; he felt like a warrior of old, looking down from his high position, a
hunter sniffing out the enemy.

They had spotted a stranded unit of French colonial
troops in the small town of Solesmes. Calling in 2 and 3 Companies, they had
stealthily approached like lions stalking their prey. With the bridge and
routes from the town blocked, they had rushed upon the Frenchmen in the square
and captured them with barely a shot fired. It had been almost ridiculously
easy, as though the French had been waiting to be taken. More than seventy
Moroccans had been captured - but a far more important booty had been the three
Citroen troop trucks.

Late in the morning, a signal had come through
informing him that the whole division was now moving west, while his own orders
had been to push on through Cambrai, cross the Escaut and, in direct support of
Major-General Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, to probe west towards St Pol, some
thirty-five kilometres west of Arras. Shattered vehicles had littered the
countryside near Cambrai - some civilian, others military. The roads had been
busy, too, with both refugees and retreating French troops. Timpke had driven
on - several motorcycles in front, another two armoured cars and three
half-tracks behind - past one long column of French and North African soldiers,
as many as eighty strong. What a pathetic bunch of men they had been: exhausted
and demoralized, with sagging shoulders and leaden feet. Timpke had been
disgusted. They were a disgrace to their country. Not one man had so much as
aimed his rifle at them as they had rolled past.

Progress had been swift. By early afternoon they had
been south-west of Arras and had passed some of 7th Panzer's lead units. It had
been a proud moment for Timpke. At last his men - men of the SS-Totenkopf -
were in the van of the German advance. Not long after, as they pushed north
towards Aubigny, they saw, ahead, a large formation of French forces in
retreat. The road to Abbeville was dense with horse-drawn and motorized columns
heading west. Watching the procession, Timpke's contempt grew. The lead
motorcycle now turned and slowly rolled up to the radio car.

'How are we going to get across, boss?' asked
Untersturmfuhrer Ganz.

'We push straight through them,' Timpke replied. 'Let's
get the panzers to help. Two Group is only a few kilometres away. They can
bulldoze their way through and the rest of us will follow.'

Ganz grinned. 'Good idea, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

The four fast-moving Czech-built Panzer 38s of II
Armoured Pursuit Group were quick to join them and, rattling and squeaking,
made their way noisily to the front of Timpke's leading reconnaissance column.
Advancing in line abreast, two on the road, and two on the grassy verge at
either side, in full view of the trudging French forces ahead, they opened
fire with their twin MG37 machine-guns and 37mm cannon, raking the French
column with bullets and shells. The sound of the firing ripped through the air.
Startled soldiers yelled, horses whinnied; a truck ploughed off the road and
caught fire; a group of frightened horses bolted across a field near Timpke's
relentlessly advancing panzers. A few men fired shots towards them, but the
bullets pinged off the tanks' armour harmlessly.

Calmly, steadfastly, the tanks reached the road, and
then, tracks clanking, they turned to face the mangled ends of the severed
French column, crushing several carts and fallen Frenchmen as they did so.
Watching this scene of carnage with satisfaction, Timpke then gave the order
for the rest of his column to follow. There was barely any sign of resistance
from the French - perhaps they were too stunned and devastated by what was
happening to them to respond - and so, calmly, the SS men rumbled on over the
debris. Timpke saw blood spreading across the road, and the mashed remains of
what, a few minutes before, had been a horse and living soldiers. Stupefied,
disbelieving faces stared up at him amid the cries and wails of the dying and
wounded. Then a Frenchman cursed and raised a rifle, aiming towards him. The
man's defiant shout had acted as a warning, though, and Timpke quickly drew out
his Luger, aimed, then squeezed the trigger. A shot of no more than ten metres,
and even though the scout car had been moving, the single bullet hit the man
square in the forehead and he collapsed, bulging eyes glaring back angrily at
his killer. Timpke felt a wave of renewed exhilaration sweep over him.

As they neared Aubigny, they drew some enemy fire - a
few machine-guns chattered as they crested a ridge overlooking the shallow
valley, but it was wildly inaccurate. By the time shells were being fired
towards them, Timpke had withdrawn his men to a safe distance; his instructions
were to reconnoitre only.
Enemy north of Scarpe, but in disarray and
retreating to south of Aubigny,
he signalled back to Division.

Having sent the message from his radio car, he was
about to push west towards St Pol when another signal arrived, recalling his
entire reconnaissance battalion back to the southern Arras area, where they
were to screen the roads and villages south of the city. At the same time, the
rest of the Totenkopf would be moving up from Cambrai that evening. More
refugees and troop stragglers flooded the roads, and although at times they

dogged their progress, the open countryside allowed
them, for the most part, a long view ahead, enabling them to avoid the more
congested roads. Once again progress had been rapid.

'Boss,' called Schultz, Timpke's radio operator, as
they reached the rail stop at Beaumetz, twelve kilometres south-west of Arras,
'another signal for you.'

Timpke lowered himself from his standing position in
the turret to the hot belly of the scout car. 'What is it?' Immediately sweat
was running down his neck; even with the vents open, it was warm and clammy down
there and the air smelled strongly of oil, metal and body odour.

'It's from Obersturmbannfuhrer Geisler, sir,' said
Schultz, passing him a hastily scrawled note.

Timpke
snatched it and stood up, the evening breeze refreshingly cool on his face.
Rec. Bn. to remain
screening south of Arras. Stubaf Timpke to report to
7
Pz Div CP Vis-en- Artois
1900 hrs. 04 Geisler.

Timpke glanced at his watch. Nearly 1810 - less than
an hour to make his way through too many villages and along too many winding
country roads to reach Rommel's command post almost halfway along the
Arras-Cambrai road. But it had to be done. Leaving Kemmetmuler in charge, he
took his scout car and two machine-gun- carrying motorcycle outriders, and set
off, speeding along the country lanes of Artois through seemingly deserted
villages - Riviere, Ficheux and Mercatel. Only when they reached
Neuville-Vitesse, where they found the centre of the village clogged with
refugees, was their progress slowed.

The irony of the village's name was not lost on
Timpke, but he failed to find any humour in it. 'Get out of the way!' he
shouted.
'Vite vite!'
Frightened and angry
people scuttled clear of the motorcycles as the riders gunned the throttles. As
the vehicles inched forward through the village, their path began to clear, but
up ahead, as the road narrowed past the church, a rickety cart, piled high with
belongings, blocked the route.

Timpke yelled at the occupant. The old man, wearing a
battered felt hat, shrugged -
I'm going as fast
as I can.
Again Timpke ordered him to hurry, but the old man just
shook his head.

'Not good enough,' Timpke told him. 'I haven't time
for this. Sturmmann Reigel,' he called, to the lance- corporal manning the
machine-gun in the sidecar of the motorcycle in front of the scout car, 'shoot
the man and his horse.'

Reigel drew back the bolt on his MG34, then opened
fire with a three-second burst. Around fifty bullets, at a velocity of 755
metres per second, sliced across the horse and cart, then raked the man.
Neither beast nor man knew a thing about what was happening to them; in the
first second of fire both were dead, the man almost cut in half by the power of
the bullets. There was a dull thud as the horse collapsed onto the road,
followed by a loud crash as the movement caused the cart to yaw, a wheel to
buckle and break and the entire wagon to tumble over.

While the onlookers were stunned into horrified
silence, Timpke ordered Reigel and his rider to grab the thick tow-rope wound
around the front of the scout car and loop it onto the cart. That done, the
vehicle reversed, the rope grew taut and then, with a jarring, scraping sound,
the horse and cart were dragged clear of the road to the side of the square,
the corpse of the man rolled and pummelled among the bloody remains.

'Good,' said Timpke. 'Let's move.' He lowered himself
back into the scout car and studied his map, away from the breeze.

'Why did we open fire, boss?' asked Schultz. 'I didn't
see. Trouble with the locals?'

'A foolish old man was in our way and wouldn't move,'
replied Timpke. He wiped his brow and neck with a handkerchief, and took off
his field cap. 'He was nothing - a nobody. What are the lives of one old man
and an ageing horse, Schultz? We are at war, and the sooner it's over, the
sooner our own men will stop being killed. If shooting an ancient Frenchman
saves the life of a young German, I'll do it.'

They reached the long, straight road to Cambrai, found
it largely clear of traffic, and arrived in Vitry with time to spare. At a fork
in the road a number of vehicles were parked. There was a large cafe-bar,
outside which stood a half-track and an eight-wheel armoured car. More
half-tracks - most towing artillery pieces - armoured cars, trucks and
motorcycles lined both sides of the road through the village. Timpke paused in
his scout car, then spotted Brigadefuhrer Eicke's Adler, with its distinctive
SS numberplate.

He clambered out and strode towards the bar. The end
of the building was painted with a giant advertisement for Stella Artois beer
and Timpke realized how thirsty he was. Opposite, he noticed, at the fork in
the road, stood a memorial to the dead of the last war, crested by a statue of
a dying soldier clutching a French flag. He was gazing at it when he heard his
name called and turned. Standartenfuhrer von Montigny, the division
chief-of-staff and Ia, was standing at the entrance to the bar.

'Good evening, Herr Standartenfuhrer,' said Timpke,
raising his arm in salute. Von Montigny stepped towards him and they shook
hands. 'We've seen a few more dying
poilus
today,' he went on, nodding towards the memorial. 'It seems the French are on
the run.'

Von Montigny smiled. 'You've done well today, Otto.
Papa Eicke's pleased.'

Good
,
thought Timpke.
They don't know about the loss of the trucks at Hainin.

'But tomorrow we fight the British,' said von
Montigny, 'and they might be a tougher nut to crack.'

As they passed the half-track, Timpke peered into the
open back where several men were tapping away at encoding machines, wearing
headphones. Leaning over the signals men, however, stood a man wearing the red-
striped breeches, plaited triple cord shoulder straps, and red and gold collar
tabs of a major-general. As he looked up, Timpke saw that an award hung close
to his collar: the blue and gold Maltese cross of the Pour le Merite - the
'Blue Max', Germany's highest award for valour in the last war. He had a
handsome face - a square, resolute jaw, full lips and grey eyes that seemed
both determined and intelligent. Timpke knew immediately who he was.

'Von Montigny,' said the general, his lips breaking
into a smile. 'I'll be inside in a few moments.' His eyes turned to Timpke, who
saluted. Major-General Rommel nodded in acknowledgement.

Inside the bar there were only a few staff officers,
their faces grimy with dust and oil. Friedling and Goetze, commanders of the
Totenkopf Regiments 2 and 3, were drinking beer with Brigadefuhrer Eicke. They
greeted Timpke warmly and put a bottle into his hand. Cigarette smoke swirled
about the room, mixing with the smell of beer and sweat. Regiment 1, it seemed,
had had a busy day, and although the division had suffered its first combat
losses, many more Frenchmen had been killed and captured. Eicke was pleased.