Darkest Hour (48 page)

The road between Steenvoorde and Cassel was heavy with
refugees, the same sad mass of people trudging to nowhere in particular so long
as it was away from the fighting. Slowly the trucks jerked forward.

'Get out of the bloody way!' yelled the driver, as a
cart blocked the road, his cheery bonhomie of the early hours long since gone.

'Shouting at them's hardly going to help,' said
Peploe. 'They're homeless, the poor sods. Here,' he added, taking out his
silver cigarette box, 'have a smoke and calm down.'

'Sorry, sir,' said the corporal, accepting. 'It's so
bloody frustrating. I've had it up to here with refugees. If these people had
all stayed at home, maybe we'd have been able to get around a bit better, like,
and we wouldn't be losing this sodding war.'

He took them to the edge of a dense wood west of
Cassel and there they got out. They were at the end of the line, several
hundred yards to the left of A Company. The trucks reversed into an equally
clogged track a short distance further on, then turned back in the direction of
Steenvoorde. As the Rangers tramped across an open field towards a hedge a
hundred yards or so from the road, Tanner watched the vehicles chug slowly
through the mass of people.

They began to dig in yet again, this time in an L
shape, facing south and west, behind a hedge on one side and a brook on the
other. Soon they heard gunfire to the south-west and west. Once, a cloud of
smoke drifted over the wood, but their view of Cassel, and whatever fighting
was occurring there, was blocked. In a short time, Tanner and Smailes had dug a
two-man slit trench big enough to lie down in. In Norway Tanner had cursed the
useless- ness of the latest standard-issue entrenching tool for its lack of
pick on the reverse end of the spade, but here, in the rich, soft Flanders
clay, it did the job well enough, especially since Tanner had sharpened the
edge so that it would cut better through turf. He was also pleased to see
Lieutenant Peploe digging his own slit trench again. He was never too proud to
get his hands dirty and Tanner liked that in him. 'Do you need a hand, sir?'
Tanner asked, his own dug deep enough.

'It's all right, thanks, Sergeant,' Peploe replied. It
was no longer raining and between breaks in the cloud the sun shone warmly. He
paused to wipe his brow. 'Go along the line and check the chaps are all right,
will you?'

'Yes, sir.' Tanner wandered down the line of freshly
dug trenches, pausing first by McAllister and Chambers.

'Any idea how long we're here, Sarge?' said
McAllister, his Bren already set up.

'No, Mac. Not the faintest.'

'It must be time to move on again now, isn't it,
Sarge?' said Chambers, manning the Bren with McAllister. 'I mean, now that
we've dug in an' all.'

'Just you keep watching ahead of you, Punter.'

He walked on, pleased to see how quickly the men had
completed the task. They had staggered themselves well, making good use of
natural cover; the Brens of each section were positioned in such a way that
each gave the other covering fire. And he'd not said a thing. They had done it
almost without thinking. Tanner smiled to himself. Three weeks ago, half of
these boys had been little more than raw recruits. They were fast becoming
soldiers.

He paused by Verity, who had dug a deeper hole than
any of the others and was squatting inside it, his hands clasped around his
rifle.

'Are you all right, Hedley?' Tanner asked him.

'Fine, Sarge.'

Tanner offered him a cigarette.

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Verity, taking it.

Tanner lit both. 'Do you bowl anything like him,
then?'

'Hedley Verity?' He grinned sheepishly. 'I wish,
Sarge. I try, though. I can certainly turn it a bit. Mind you, I've seen him
play.'

'I'd pay good money to do that.'

'Last summer at Headingley when Yorkshire won the championship
for the third time on t' trot,' said Verity, brightening. 'Sarge, it was
brilliant. He got a five-for that day. I live in Leeds, see, and it's only a
short way to the ground.' His expression dropped. 'Seems like an age ago now.'

'Well, I've always been a Hampshire supporter, it
being the nearest county to Wiltshire.'

'Wiltshire?' said Verity. 'Is that where you're from?'

'Born and bred.'

'So why are you in the Rangers, Sarge?'

'It's a long story.'

Verity thought for a moment. Then, smiling once more,
he said, 'Well, Sarge, since you're a Ranger, you really should switch
allegiance. Yorkshire are the best side in the country by a mile.'

Tanner patted his shoulder. 'All right, Hedley, maybe
I will.'

As the morning wore on, the enemy shelling grew louder,
but by early afternoon it had quietened again as the fighting appeared to move
south. The Rangers ate what was left of their half-rations and remained in
their positions, waiting.

'Sir,' Tanner asked Peploe, 'don't you think we should
try to find out what's going on? It's too quiet for my liking.'

Peploe thought about it. 'It's after three,' he said
eventually. 'Maybe - yes. Let me go and see the OC.' He returned a short while
later with orders for them to sit tight. 'He said someone would have told us if
they wanted us to move.'

But when another hour had passed and there was still
no communication from the rest of the 8th DLI, Barclay agreed to send a runner
over to A Company to find out what was going on. A quarter of an hour later the
OC came to Peploe. He was fuming. 'I don't bloody well believe it,' he said. 'A
Company's damn well gone and buggered off without us.'

'Really, sir?' said Peploe. 'Are you sure they haven't
just moved back or forward a little?'

'No - they've gone!' He took off his cap and mopped
his brow. 'It's unbelievable. The buggers have gone and forgotten us - and
they've taken all the damned M/T.'

'Must have been when that shelling was going on,' said
Tanner. 'We'd have heard them otherwise.'

'Well?' said Barclay, looking at Peploe.

'What, sir?'

'What do we do, damn it? I mean, I can only think of
two things. Either we stay here or we head back towards Steenvoorde.'

'As I understood it, sir,' said Peploe, 'we were never
supposed to be here in the first place. Major McLaren moved us here while he
tried to find out where the rest of the brigade was supposed to be.'

'They certainly can't have gone west, sir, because
we'd have seen them,' added Tanner, 'and we were heading for the northern
front, weren't we? But we're at the southern front here. At least, it sounded
like it.'

Barclay nodded. 'All right, then,' he said. 'We'll
pack up and head back to Steenvoorde. See what we can find out there. Get your
men ready, lieutenant.' He shook his head. 'Honestly, it's unbelievable. The
whole thing's a complete cock-up.'

A quarter of an hour later, they were marching, not
along the road but through a field beside it. Refugees stared at them with a
mixture of resignation and resentment. To the south, guns were firing again.
Tanner noticed a young woman with two children flinch in alarm, then her
daughter began to cry. He wished she would stop.

' 'Ere, Sarge,' said Sykes, alongside him. 'Just
thought you should know - the lads in Eleven Platoon are getting really fed
up.'

'Aren't we all?'

'Yes, but they're blaming Captain Barclay.'

'How do you know?'

'I've been walking just behind some of them, listening.
It's Blackstone, Sarge - he's been telling them that the OC's nerves are
frayed.'

'You heard them say that, Stan?'

'Clear as day. They believe it too. And, what's more,
they're not all that happy about it neither.'

'Bloody hell,' muttered Tanner. 'That's all we need,
mutiny in the ranks.' Something made him pause to listen. Then Sykes heard it
too.

'Aircraft.'

Both men stopped to scan the sky. 'There!' said
Tanner, pointing to the east beyond Steenvoorde. A formation of aircraft was
already beginning its initial dive, the roar of engines louder with every
second. In moments the now familiar gull-wing and locked undercarriage of the
Stuka was clear. Tanner counted twelve. 'Where are the bastards heading?' he
said.

'Looks like directly at us,' said Sykes.

'I doubt it. I bet they're on the way to Cassel. They
know we've got troops around there.'

'Come on, boys!' Barclay shouted from the front of
their small column. 'Let's show the bastards!'

All too quickly, men were unslinging their rifles.
Tanner saw a Bren gunner from 11 Platoon bring his machine-gun into his hip and
aim it skywards.

'No,' said Tanner. 'No!' He ran to Peploe. 'Sir,
you've got to get the men to put their weapons down.'

Already a Bren was chattering. Rifle shots were
cracking out.

'Sir, please!' said Tanner again. 'We're sitting ducks
out here. These things are like wasps - there's no point in making them angry.
In any case, it's a waste of ammo. We'll never hit them at that height.'

Peploe looked at him -
yes, you’re right
- then yelled, 'Lower your weapons -
lower your
weapons!'

But it was too late. Some men from 11 Platoon heard
him but others continued to fire, their bullets hurtling harmlessly into the
sky. The Stukas were almost past when two peeled off and, rolling over, dived
towards them, their death wail growing louder and louder until the planes were
almost upon them, their sirens and engines seeming to envelop those on the
ground below. On the road, women and children screamed and men shouted in
panic, while the Rangers ran for what little cover they could find.

'Just get down and keep still!' shouted Tanner, and
dropped to the ground.

As the Stukas pulled out of their dives, two lone
bombs whistled towards them. The first fell on the far side of the road, the
second fifty yards into the field in which the Rangers had been marching.
Tanner saw two men thrown into the air by the blast. But the dive- bombers had
not finished. Both were now banking sharply and turning back. Tanner watched as
Captain Barclay got to his feet then, too late, realized the Stukas were
swooping towards them again. Tanner could see the bombs still hanging under
each wing, but they were not going to drop those. Instead, the first opened
fire with a two-second burst of his machine-gun. The pilot's angle of attack
was not quite right, but as he swung across the road, bullets scythed through
the hedge, kicked up spits of earth, and the captain spun around, his arms
flung into the air, and collapsed. As the first aircraft hurtled past, the
second opened fire with another brief burst, this time hitting two more
Rangers. And then they were gone, climbing away to the west. In the distance,
towards Cassel, the rest of the Stukas were now diving, their sirens screaming.

Frightened civilians were dusting themselves down and
getting to their feet, but as far as Tanner could tell, not a single one had
been hit. He saw Peploe and Blackstone get to their feet and run towards
Barclay. Tanner ran to two others who had been hit. The first was dead, the
second nearly so. His face was white as chalk, and dark blood frothed at his
mouth. He had been hit by at least three bullets - one in his leg, one in his
stomach, the last in his chest.

Ross was running towards the crater of the second bomb
and, leaving Smailes with the dying man, Tanner followed. There were two
casualties. The first, Walker, a young fair-haired lad, was lying on the
ground, saying, 'Am I alive? Am I alive?'

'Yes, you are, mate,' said Ross, 'but let me look at
you.'

Tanner, meanwhile, had hurried to the second. He found
him on his belly, and felt for a pulse. There was none. Tanner rolled him over.
There was no obvious mark on him. He took off the man's helmet, and pulled open
his battle-blouse and shirt, but still nothing. 'The bloody fools,' he
muttered. Others had reached them now.

'What's the damage, Sarge?' said Sykes.

'Three dead. Walker seems to be fine. A lucky escape.
Get the bodies back to the edge of the field,' he said. 'Iggery, all right?'

Now he ran to the prostrate Captain Barclay. Peploe
was kneeling beside him, Blackstone and Slater standing over him. As Tanner
reached them, Peploe looked up. 'He's gone.'

Tanner saw the stain of blood spreading across
Barclay's chest. The flush in his cheeks had gone, leaving his skin pale and
waxen. He crouched beside Peploe. 'There's three others dead, sir. I've told
the men to bring them to the edge of the field. I suggest we carry them into
the town.'

In a state of numb silence, the men tramped back into
Steenvoorde and laid the four dead men by the church. The town was eerily
quiet. There were no troops, although civilian refugees were now passing
through. The priest emerged from the church and told them that a number of
British soldiers had been there earlier and had headed out on the
Poperinghe-Ypres road.

'But if I remember rightly,' said Blackstone, as they
stood outside the church, 'that means they went east. The coast is that way.'
He pointed. 'We should head north.'