Darkest Hour (47 page)

'I wouldn't like to say, sir, it's not my place, but I
wouldn't be surprised if the Belgians feel rather as we all do about the
French. Perhaps they think it's better to fight with their backs to their coast
than retreat towards France.'

'You think they'll throw in the towel?'

Archdale shrugged. 'It may come to that. More than
half their country's already in enemy hands. General Blanchard has gone to
Belgian GHQ, though. Perhaps he can put some steel into them.' He didn't seem
convinced.

'And what's the mood at Blanchard's HQ? Tell me
frankly. Is it any better now that Billotte's gone?'

'There's faith in Weygand, my lord, but General
Blanchard is the same man he was before.'

'In other words, no commander at all.'

Archdale looked apologetic.

The telephone on Gort's desk rang and he dismissed
Archdale, then picked up the receiver. It was General Adam, commander of III
Corps, whose troops were earmarked for the southern counter-attack. 'Tell me
some good news,' said Gort, trying to sound cheerful.

'I wish I could, my lord,' said the general. 'I've
just been to see Altmayer. He told me he can only provide one division for the
attack.'

'One?' Gort began to laugh.

'Sir?' said Adam.

'But, my dear Adam,' said Gort, 'that
is
good news. Don't you see? We'll have to call off the
attack. It can't possibly succeed - one division! My God, it's unbelievable.
Yesterday it was four plus two hundred tanks. Now the best the French can offer
is one lone division!'

He rang off and strode next door to see Pownall.
'Henry!' he said. 'Do you know how long I've been agonizing over what to do
about our northern flank? I've had a call from Adam saying the French are only
planning to put in one division!'

'Surely not?'

'It's true. So that's made my decision for me. Brookey
can have his two divisions. Get Franklyn up here smartish. We need to stop
Fifth Div from moving south and get them and Fiftieth up to plug the line
between Ypres and Commines right away.'

'Of course, my lord,' said Pownall, 'but what about
Blanchard?'

'We'll tell him that, because of this, the attack
would be doomed to fail and we'll no longer play a part in it. It's no more
than giving them a dose of their own medicine.'

'What about the PM and the war cabinet?'

'Don't get 'em involved. They'll only throw a spanner
into the works. They've asked me to command the BEF and that's what I'm doing -
commanding, damn it. We'll simply present it as a
fait accompli.'

'Very wise, my lord. In any case, we don't have enough
ammunition to carry out such an attack. I was never very keen on the idea.' He
shook his head wearily. 'The whole thing really is a first-class mess, and
what's frustrating is that I don't think it's much of our making.'

'I agree, Henry. But it's important that, from now on,
we think for ourselves. We can't rely on our allies, and I think we may have
just saved the BEF from annihilation. What we must do now is ensure that as
many of our boys as possible are saved - saved to fight another day.'

'You mean the evacuation, my lord?'

'Yes, Henry, I do. We've talked about it as a
possibility, but now it's a necessity. I've no doubt we'll still lose a great
many men, but we have to think about getting our forces to the coast, making
sure that as many as possible are lifted off the beaches and taken safely back
to Britain. A staged withdrawal to the coast - here.' He stood up and pointed
to the stretch between Dunkirk and Nieuport on the wall map. 'We might have
stemmed the flow for a while, but we must be realistic. We cannot stay here in
northern France without being surrounded - Hitler's tanks aren't going to lie
idle. His armies are closing in on the Belgians and they've got Calais in the
bag. There's no other direction for us to go.' He stroked his chin. 'You know,
Henry, it's funny but for days past - and particularly the last few hours – I’ve
been agonizing over the right thing for us to do. I’ve felt quite paralysed, if
I'm honest. But now everything seems perfectly clear. It's time to look after
ourselves. It's our only course.'

Three a.m., Monday, 27 May. In driving rain, D Company
clambered aboard three trucks of 8th Battalion's Troop Carrying Company,
parked, with engines running, in the main square at the north end of Carvin.
They were thirty- hundredweight Bedford OYs, large enough to take the
forty-eight remaining Rangers plus a section from 8th DLI.

'Come up front with me, Tanner,' said Peploe, holding
the dark green door open for him.

Silently, Tanner hauled himself aboard, rain dripping
from his tin hat, his MP35 clanging against the door frame as he settled on the
canvas seat. There was a musty smell - of damp canvas, oil, rubber and stale
tobacco - but at least it was dry in the cab. He thought of the men at the back
of the truck, the open canvas covering. Hepworth would be cursing.

'Leave the window open, will you, mate?' said the
driver, an RASC corporal. 'Otherwise we'll get steamed up in here.'

Rain continued to spatter Tanner's face. From the
south a gun boomed, but it was quieter again now: the Germans had never liked
fighting at night.

'Where are we going, Corporal?' asked Peploe.

'Steenvoorde, sir. It's not too far - forty miles at
most. As long as the roads aren't too clogged we should be there for
breakfast.'

A few shouts and barked orders came from the squares,
then the corporal ground the truck into gear and they lurched forward. Tanner
smoked a cigarette, then took off his helmet, rested his head against the door
and closed his eyes. His body was jolted by the movement of the lorry, his ears
alive to the thrum of the engine and the rhythmic squeak of the wipers.

It had been a day and a half of orders and counter-
orders. Late on the twenty-fifth, they had been stood down, the attack across
the canal cancelled, with no explanation as to why. Of course, they had been
relieved, but Tanner had felt irritated too - all that tension and apprehension
for nothing. But something had been afoot, for all night heavy shelling had
continued from both sides of the La Bassee canal, and had continued as dawn had
broken. No shells had fallen near their own positions but there had been an
enormous explosion to their right. Later they discovered the gasworks at
Libercourt had received a direct hit. As the morning had worn on, machine-gun
and mortar fire had been heard to the south; rumours had spread that the enemy
had crossed the canal and were advancing.

The Rangers had watched 8th DLI's carrier platoon
rumble off, rattling down the main road, heading to the south edge of Carvin.
The men were restless and fidgety, especially when the French battalion in the
woods opposite had begun to move out. No one had seemed to know what was going
on, but all the time the sound of guns and small arms was drawing closer
although, in those woods, still frustratingly out of sight. Above, enemy reconnaissance
aircraft had circled ominously. Soon the bombers would arrive.

Orders to move came a little before nine o'clock. They
were to head to Camphin a few miles to the north. No sooner had the lead
companies moved off along the main road than the dive-bombers had swooped,
engines and sirens screaming, dropping their bombs on the column. The Rangers,
the last to leave, were unharmed to a man, but several vehicles had been put
out of action and the road was badly cratered. Some of the men had been quite
shaken. Tanner noticed that a couple - Verity from Sykes's section and Dempster
in Cooper's - were a bit bomb happy, cowering more than the others and taking
longer to recover their composure. They'd all have to keep an eye on them. Yet
it was interesting that a dozen Stukas had attacked their column and only four
from A Company had been wounded. Two trucks had been destroyed and another's
radiator and front tyres had blown, but the damage had been comparatively
light, all things considered. As Tanner was increasingly aware, Stukas were not
especially accurate despite their alarming sirens. The biggest inconvenience
had been the craters in the road - it had meant they had been ordered to debus
and then tramp cross-country on foot while the M/T had been forced to risk
going through the centre of Carvin, which had been coming under regular and
heavy shellfire.

They had reached Camphin in one piece, and, at last,
out of range of enemy guns. Immediately the men had been ordered to dig in yet
again, at the edge of the village, but after they'd made slit trenches, new
orders arrived. The Rangers were to join B Company of 8th DLI and occupy
Provin, a village a few miles to the west where 9th DLI were now based. With
the men grumbling about pointless digging, they set off again. When they
finally reached Provin, there had been no sign of 9th so they had been sent
back to Carvin, where the rest of 8th was now attacking beside the French and a
couple of platoons from 5th Leicesters who had somehow become detached from
the rest of their unit.

Footsore, hungry and in no state to fight, the Rangers
had reached the edge of Carvin as a storm broke overhead. Guns boomed, their
reports mixing with the cracks of thunder. In the pouring rain, the Durham and
Yorkshire men had headed south towards the fighting, scrambling over the rubble
and fallen masonry of destroyed houses. The shriek of shells could now be
heard, whooshing like speeding trains through the rain-drenched air. And then,
ahead, they had seen trucks and cars, tanks and carriers, all crammed with men.

'My God, is that the enemy?' Barclay had asked, wiping
rain from his face.

'No, sir,' Tanner had replied. 'They're French.'

Silently, they had watched them trundle past. Most
were Moroccans, who glared at the Tommies. Their officers seemed dejected.
Tanner could hardly blame them - their country was falling. Defeat hung in the
air. Thunder continued to crack. For the first time since he'd arrived in
France, he'd begun to think they might never get out.

Not long after, the rest of the battalion had fallen
back too. Shelling had continued with nightfall but the enemy had not stormed
the town, and shortly after midnight, word reached them that they would be
pulling out - and this time not falling back a few miles. Rather, they were
being transferred to the northern flank. Out of one cauldron and into another.

Now Tanner sighed and sat up. Through the faint beam
of the blinkered headlights, he could see the rain and, just ahead, the tail of
the lead truck, with Captain Barclay, Blackstone, the rest of Company
Headquarters and 11 Platoon. He had avoided Blackstone as much as possible,
which in itself had been frustrating. It wasn't in his nature to shirk
confrontation, but dealing with Blackstone was like facing a boxer who forever
moved about the ring - always there, in your face, but upon whom it was
impossible to land a punch. In truth, they had been on the move so often in the
past couple of days that there had been little need for their paths to cross,
but Tanner was ever mindful that unfinished business lay between them. He had,
however, detected a subtle change in the men's attitude towards the CSM - at
least in 12 Platoon. If any of the lads had resented the CSM's early departure
from the battlefield at Arras, they had not said so; Blackstone had made it
clear to them that it was thanks to him and Slater, bravely dodging roving
enemy panzers, that the French tanks and carriers had made it to Warlus to
rescue them. Yet Tanner had noticed that the men had been less effusive about
him, not so quick to laugh if he stopped to speak to them.
Blackstone.
Always at the back of his mind, a menace he
was unable to shake off. Tanner thumped a clenched fist into the other palm.
Well, they might be losing the battle, but somehow, some way, he would nail
him.
If it's the last thing I do.

They reached Steenvoorde at around eight a.m., halting
in the cobbled town square. Peploe and Tanner got out of the cab, and while the
lieutenant went to speak with Barclay, Tanner ambled to the back of the truck,
lighting a cigarette on the way. McAllister was playing cards with Hepworth and
Chambers, but most of the others were just sitting on the wooden benches that
ran down each side of the carriage. Their faces were dirty and smudged with
rain. Those old enough to shave had two days' growth of beard. Clearly they
were tired and fed-up.

'What's going on here, Sarge?' said Sykes, getting
down beside him.

'This is Steenvoorde. It's where we're supposed to
be.'

'Apart from us an' the Durham lads it seems deserted.'

'Probably some cock-up,' said Tanner. 'Maybe the
front's moved.'

Ten minutes later, Peploe reappeared. 'We're off
again,' he said.

'Where to now, sir?' asked Sykes.

'Not far. A couple of miles the other side of town.'

Once they were back in the cab Peploe confided,
'Colonel McLaren's furious. He'd been expecting someone at least to meet us.
Apparently some of our boys are at Cassel, a few miles further on, so he's
ordered us to dig in and hide up halfway between the two while he tries to find
out what on earth's going on.'