Darkest Hour (59 page)

He fired again towards the men approaching the
cottage, then saw several make a gap in the hedge into the garden, then more
hurrying through. 'Go on,' he muttered, then called, 'Stan, they're in the
cottage garden.'

Sykes stopped firing and pulled the magazine from the
top of the weapon. He crawled across the floor to Tanner. 'I've got to see
this.'

A moment later a huge explosion ripped apart the sky
and the cottage disappeared behind a livid ball of flame. For a brief moment,
the firing along their section of the line stopped as soldiers on both sides,
caught off-guard by the detonation, paused to take cover from the debris.
Quickly, Tanner brought his rifle to his shoulder and picked off another
handful of startled enemy soldiers.

'I reckon that was one of my better ones.' Sykes
grinned. 'Nice little bang, that.'

The Germans' assault faltered, as men took cover in
the fields and behind buildings further back from the road, towards L'Avenir.
It gave the defenders a brief chance of a breather. The Brens cooled, more
magazines were loaded, and Tanner sent Ellis and Kershaw downstairs to find
some food and drink. They returned a short while later with several tins of
bully beef, condensed milk, a tin of jam and some biscuits. Tanner opened one
of the cans of milk, drank some, then crushed a handful of biscuits into the
remainder and added a large dollop of jam. Stirring it all together, he began
to spoon it hungrily into his mouth. 'I needed this,' he said.

Peploe appeared, clutching several bottles of wine.
'You should all have a swig,' he said, then went over to Tanner. 'You all
right?'

'Yes, thank you, sir,' said fanner. He sat down
against the wall, his helmet on his knee.

'I've some good news. Captain Moresby's been up to see
us from Battalion. We're withdrawing tonight.'

Tanner sat up. 'Tonight? When?'

'At ten o'clock.'

'Twenty-two hundred,' repeated Tanner. 'A little under
three hours.'

'Yes, and then straight to Dunkirk. Apparently in the
east we've already pulled back to the border.'

'Bloody hell - I'd not thought about the rest of the
line.'

'It's hard to when there's so much going on in front
of us,' said Peploe. Three mortar shells in quick succession burst on the far
side of the farm. No one flinched.

'Jerry'll have at least another attack in him, don't
you think?' said Tanner, after a gulp of wine. 'How is it down on the canal?'

'We're holding up. Ross has lost three men, though.
Direct hit from a mortar. Dempster's been hit in the shoulder.'

'And Verity?'

Peploe shook his head. 'Poor fellow. We've moved him
to the back of the house - he's properly bomb-happy.'

'It can happen to anyone, I suppose,' said Fanner.
'So, we're down to the last twenty men.'

'And ammunition's a bit low.' He turned to Sykes.
'That was good work in the cottage, Corporal.'

'Thank you, sir. And we've got a few jelly bombs prepared
in the vehicles too.'

'Jelly bombs?'

'Gelignite, sir,' said Sykes. 'The sergeant here takes
a pot-shot with a tracer round and boom - up they go.'

Peploe smiled.

Tanner looked at his watch. 'Nineteen twenty,' he
said. 'Well, every minute that passes . . .'

'It's going to be tight, though, isn't it?' said
Peploe.

'Yes,
sir. It is.'

The enemy renewed their attack shortly after eight
o'clock. More mortars had been brought up and the enemy's approach was in part
masked by a barrage of shells aimed towards the canal. Miraculously, they all missed
the crumbling remains of the farmhouse, and because many landed in the canal or
the waterlogged fields behind, their effect was significantly reduced.
Nonetheless, more enemy troops than ever were now working their way forward,
some attempting to bring anti-tank guns with them, but the Boys, on the first
floor now, and some sniping from Tanner knocked them out. Suddenly, a
platoon-scale attack burst out on the canal road to their left - the men had
clearly managed to creep along the adjoining track - but Sykes had spotted them
and got most of them with his Bren. It was the weapon's last gasp: the firing
pin had completely worn away.

'We need another,' said Tanner. 'Billy,' he turned to
Ellis, 'find the lieutenant and get another Bren up here.'

Ellis turned to go, but as he did so a bullet caught
him in the shoulder. 'I'm hit!' he cried, and fell to the floor.

'Christ, Billy,' said Tanner, beside him. 'Stan - and
you, Kay,' he said to Kershaw, 'get him out of here and fetch a Bren.' He
ripped out two packets of field dressings. The bullet had gone clean through
Ellis's shoulder, but although he was bleeding profusely and his face was
ghostly white, he was breathing regularly. 'You'll be all right, Billy,' said
Tanner, pulling open the young man's battle-blouse and pressing the dressings
to his wound. 'It's missed your lung. Brave lad. Someone give me another field
dressing.' Sykes handed him a pack and he wrapped it round Ellis's shoulder and
under his armpit, then tied it in a tight knot.

'Sorry, Sarge,' mumbled Ellis, and passed out.

Tanner left him and returned to the window. More men
were crawling through the corn, so all he could see were the tops of their
helmets and the green stalks moving. Another Spandau was firing at the house
now, lines of tracer arcing slowly, then seemingly accelerating as they smacked
into the walls. The burst stopped, and Tanner poked his head around the edge of
the window. More lines of tracer pumped towards the house, but this time he had
the machine-gun marked. It was by a willow next to the track to the left. A
hundred and eighty yards, he reckoned.

'Mac!' he called.

'Sarge?'

'I need you to fire a burst at eleven o'clock, a
hundred and eighty yards away. There's a Spandau by a willow tree,' he said, as
he adjusted his scope and pulled back the bolt.

'Got it, Sarge.'

'On three - one, two, now!'

Swinging around to the window, his rifle butt already
into his shoulder, he found his target, aimed, fired, and saw the man behind
the weapon slump forward. A second shot, and another machine-gun crew had been
silenced.

Sykes and Kershaw returned - with another Bren - but
by now ammunition was running critically low. Tanner glanced at his watch and
was astonished to see that it was nearly nine. Where had the time gone? Mortars
continued to crash towards their positions. He wondered what was going on
elsewhere - whether the Coldstreams were holding their part of the line - or
those either side of them, for that matter. The light was fading, although the
sky above was still clear, and away to their right, the last tip of the sun,
deep orange, cast its rays across the flooded fields and canal. Tanner cursed
the lack of cloud: it would have been almost dark now, had there been the low
grey skies of a few days before.

He fired another magazine from his rifle, then turned
to see a lone box of twelve Bren magazines. He delved into his pouches and
discovered he had just twenty rounds, plus ten tracer rounds. 'Is that all
we've got left?' he called.

'Yes, Sarge,' said Kershaw.

'Well, get downstairs iggery and find some bloody
more.'

He continued firing but when Kershaw got back, ten
minutes later, he was empty-handed. 'That's it, Sarge,' he said. 'Mr Peploe
says there's no more spare boxes left.'

'Bollocks,' muttered Tanner. Outside, the light was
fading fast, but the enemy continued to press forward.

'Sarge!' called Sykes. 'Look. Two o'clock. They're
reaching the vehicles.'

Tanner strained his eyes into the gloom. German troops
were hurrying to the edge of the road now. Some were hit by fire from the
canal, but many more were reaching the cover of the abandoned British vehicles.

Sykes left his Bren and rolled over towards 'Tanner.
'Go on, then, Sarge, now's the time.'

'Hold on a moment longer,' said Tanner. At the side of
the window he brought his rifle to his shoulder and peered through the scope
until he spotted the first pack of gelignite resting on the near-side wheel
arch of an abandoned Morris Commercial truck. He swept along the row of
vehicles, making sure he could see each of the prepared jelly bombs. Emptying
his magazine, he replaced it with two clips of tracer he'd prepared earlier and
pressed them down into the breech.

'There's more reaching them, Sarge,' hissed Sykes.

'All right.' He turned to Bell. 'Tinker, go down and
find Mr Peploe. Tell him to make sure everyone gives whatever they've got the
moment the jelly bombs blow. You've got less than a minute, so iggery.'

'Yes, Sarge,' said Bell, disappearing down the stairs.

'Stan,' continued Tanner, 'get back to the Bren and be
ready to fire. Mac!' he called. 'Be ready to open up when I say. Boys,' he
added, turning to Chambers and Kershaw, 'get whatever grenades you can and go
downstairs. When I tell you to throw, hurl 'em across the canal.'

Tanner aimed his rifle at the furthest of the jelly
bombs, then fired. As the first exploded, he swept his rifle past several
others, and fired again. Another blast erupted, detonating the charges in the
vehicles at either side. Tanner moved along the line to the first jelly bomb
and fired again, hitting the gelignite, which exploded immediately. In the
space of five seconds, the vehicles along an eighty-yard front were a cascading
tumble of flame and oily black smoke.

'Fire those Brens now!' shouted Tanner, to McAllister
and Sykes. He picked up his German MP35, squatted by the window and fired off
four of his remaining magazines. 'Now grenades!'

A devastating wave of explosives and bullets poured
across the canal. Tanner fired at any figure he could see through the rapidly
descending dusk. The Brens continued, with short, sharp bursts of fire. By the
road, vehicles burned and men screamed. A blazing man staggered towards the
canal but was shot before he reached the water. Tanner continued to fire. His
shoulder ached, and a blister was swelling on his trigger finger. His throat
was as dry as sand, his nostrils burning from the acid stench of cordite.

Sykes's Bren stopped, then McAllister's. Tanner delved
into his pouch - just two clips left.

'I'm done, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'That's it. No more.'

All along the line, the firing lessened as though
every soldier had released their last rounds at precisely the same time.
Overhead, a flurry of artillery shells screamed, but apart from the still
burning vehicles and the occasional mortar shell, the front was strangely
quiet. Tanner strained his eyes, staring across the canal to the fields and
tracks beyond. The poplars and willows stood dark now against the last glimmer
of light. 'Where are they?' he said. 'Where are the bastards?' And then against
the glow of the burning trucks, he saw several figures moving - in the
direction they had come. The enemy was falling back.

Tanner let himself slide to the floor. It was 2145.
Fifteen more minutes and they could leave this bloody place. He closed his
eyes, then felt for his water-bottle. There were only a few drops in it, which
he swallowed, savouring the soothing fluid as it trickled down his throat.

'Sarge!' said a voice, and there was Chambers. 'We're
going! We're falling back to the beaches!'

At a little after five thirty a.m. on Sunday, 2 June,
Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell was leading B Flight on their first patrol of the
day over Dunkirk. Since the weather had improved, the bulk of the evacuation
had taken place during the night and for the past two days fighter patrols had
been concentrated at dawn and dusk when Allied shipping was either approaching
or leaving Dunkirk. Even at first light, it was easy enough to see the port
almost from the moment their Hurricanes rose into the sky - or, rather, the
huge plume of smoke that stood permanently above it. This morning, however, a
haze hung over the Channel, shielding the vast expanse of northern France and
Belgium that could normally be seen stretching away from them as they approached
the French coast.

Still, the smoke was a useful visual marker. Over the
Channel, Lyell had led his six aircraft up to eighteen thousand feet, heading
north-east to avoid the worst of the glare from the rising sun, then turned
inland before heading back west with the sun behind them.

'This is Mongoose Leader,' he said, speaking over the
R/T, 'make sure you all keep your eyes peeled.'

He had been back for more than a week. From Arras, he
had been given a ride to Lille-Seclin and from there passage in a Blenheim to
England. Then he'd got a lift to London and caught a train to Manston. His
return had been marked by a sensational night in the pub, in which his pilots
had made it touchingly clear that they were very pleased to see him come back
from the dead. After two more days - spent hanging around the airfield with a
bandage round his head - the MO had given him the all- clear to fly. A
brand-new Hurricane had arrived, which he had immediately claimed as his own,
and with 'LO-Z' painted on the fuselage, he had been back in the air leading
the squadron once more.