Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  'Not too bad. The stitches itch a bit.' He touched the hard scab and the loose end of the thread. 'You seen the CQS yet today?'

  'He came down with the trucks. So no.'

  Tanner thought for a moment. 'Tell me again, Stan, you did hear voices in the store last night, didn't you?'

  'Yes, but it wasn't much and it was quite low. I'm not sure I could identify anyone from what I heard. But it did sound like a Yorkshire accent.'

  'Could have been anyone from up north - there's probably Yorkshiremen in the ack-ack units and in the RAF as well as our lot.' Tanner felt for his cigarettes. 'Damn it, Stan. Damn those bloody bastards. We're never going to nail them, are we?'

  Sykes shrugged. 'Don't know, Sarge. If we keep our wits about us .. .'

  Tanner tapped one end of his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Sykes, then placed another between his lips. Turning out of the breeze to cup a match, he had just successfully lit his cigarette when Lieutenant Peploe joined them.

  'I suppose you two are old hands at this sort of thing.' He pulled out his own cigarettes.

  'I wouldn't say that, sir,' said Sykes. 'Only the second time for me. That last trip was a bit hairy, wasn't it, Sarge? I hope we don't get another torpedo.'

  'You were torpedoed?' said Peploe, bleakly.

  'Not us, sir, no. A supply ship. We lost most of our kit, guns and transport. But we'll be all right. Be in Calais before you know it.'

  Peploe gazed at the shrinking English coastline. 'I know people have been doing this for centuries, but it's quite a thing to find oneself a part of it - you know, leaving home and heading off to war. I don't mind admitting I feel apprehensive.'

  'It would be strange if you didn't, sir,' said Tanner.

  'Still,' Sykes put in, 'I'm glad to be getting away from Manston.'

  'Yes,' said Peploe. He coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sykes, but would you mind giving me and Sergeant Tanner a moment?'

  'Course, sir. Let me go and check how the lads are doing.' He raised his cigarette in acknowledgement and left them.

  'Sorry about that, Tanner, but I feel we've barely spoken today, apart from to issue orders and so on.' He took off his cap and the breeze ruffled his unruly hair. 'I just wish we were leaving in better circumstances. This matter with the Poles, I promised we'd get to the bottom of it and I haven't been able to.'

  'We couldn't have known we'd be sent to France so soon, sir.'

  'Even so ...'

  'I know, it doesn't seem right, but we've got other things to worry about now and the platoon to look after.'

  'It's the thought that those responsible are with us here, on this ship. It makes my blood boil.'

  'Maybe they're still in Manston, though, sir. Perhaps they weren't from our company, after all. Could have been RAF or the ack-ack lads.'

  'I thought you were convinced CSM Blackstone was behind it.'

  'I'm not so sure. I might have been wrong about that.'

  'Why the change of heart?'

  'I can't explain. Just a hunch. But the point is, sir, we know it's definitely not anyone from this platoon. If we make sure our men go about their business in the right way, we'll be fine.'

  Peploe smiled. 'Perhaps you're right, Sergeant.'

  Tanner flicked his cigarette into the sea. He wished he could believe what he'd just told the lieutenant. Perhaps the killers really were back in Manston, and perhaps the platoon could look after itself. Yet the unease that had accompanied him almost from the moment he had arrived at Manston had not left him. Rather, it had grown. A hunch, he had told Peploe, a sixth sense, some instinct he couldn't really explain but that had saved his neck on a number of occasions. The problem was, it was only telling him one thing: that up ahead lay trouble.

  Chapter 6

  Thursday, 16 May. At the ornate brick-walled, grey- roofed house in the quiet French village of Wahagnies that had become his command post, General Lord Gort was struggling to maintain his composure and ruminating that high command could be a lonely business, especially when one's French superiors repeatedly failed to communicate orders.

  With exaggerated frustration, he pushed back his chair and, not for the first time that morning, stood up to peer at the large wall map that hung next to the simple trestle table that was his desk. The quarter of a million troops that comprised the British Expeditionary Force - and which were under his command - were sandwiched within a narrow finger that, at the front line, was no more than fifteen miles wide. To the north were the Belgians, to the south General Blanchard's French First Army - and both, it seemed, were crumbling.

  Gort glanced at his watch - 10.25 a.m. - and then, as if doubting its veracity, he looked at the clock above the mantelpiece. It told him the same. It was six days since the Germans had launched their attack, yet twenty-five minutes earlier he had received orders to fall back fifteen miles to the river Senne. Retreat! It was incredible. His men were in good order and in good heart and had only just reached the apex of their advance. The enemy who had dared show their faces had been sent scuttling. He had seen the high spirits of his men for himself. Not so the French on the British right, it seemed. General Billotte had assured him that the North African division was one of the best in the Ninth Army, yet the previous day the Germans had blown a five-thousand-yard breach in their line. Gort had offered the immediate transfer of a brigade to help, but this had been turned down, dumbfounding him. Instead, he had had the gut-wrenching task of issuing orders for I Corps to swing back a few miles to keep in line with Blanchard's divisions. And now this.

  Retreat. A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles behind the Senne. He cursed to himself. It was a shambles, a bloody shambles.

  A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in. 'Rusty's back, my lord.'

  'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.

  Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out, then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'

  'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'

  'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'

  Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord. Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'

  'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'

  'But you did get to speak to him about the withdrawal?'

  Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders right away - have you not received them?'

  'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'

  'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going back to the Escaut.'

  Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the nineteenth. Those are the orders.'

  'And did you speak to him about the roads?'

  'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do about them.'

  'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with refugees and we'll have the
Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the Luftwaffe bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'

  'I asked him the same question, my lord. He said we'd have to find a way.'

  'Imbecile,' muttered Gort.

  'There's more, my lord,' added Eastwood.

  Gort stared back at him. Let's have it, then.

  'It's to the south. German mechanized columns have not only broken across the Meuse, they're pushing towards Laon and St Quentin.'

  Gort stood up again to return to the map, and made rough measurements with his fingers. 'If they do that they'll have gone more than forty miles in a day! It's impossible - surely the French Ninth and Second Armies can hold them? I hate to say this, but I'm beginning seriously to doubt the fighting qualities of our French allies. Not something I'd have said about them during the last show.'

  For a moment, no one spoke. Gort's mind raced. To the north, the Dutch had already surrendered. The Belgians were struggling and the French Seventh Army had had to fall back to adjust for the collapse of the Dutch. But what struck him now was the terrible realization that the German thrust in the north had been nothing more than a feint. The main effort was to the south, through the Ardennes.

  'We've been humbugged, by God,' he said, eyes glazed.

  'Yes, my lord,' said Eastwood.

  'And our entire plan has been based on Jerry making his main effort through the Low Countries.' He clutched the back of his chair as the shock of what was unfolding spread through him. 'All right, thank you, Rusty,' he said, in a voice of weary resignation. 'Issue the relevant orders right away.' Eastwood saluted and left.

  When he had gone, Gort clenched one hand tightly on the back of his chair, then smacked the table, shock replaced by anger.

  'This is not good enough, not good enough at all! One order is all I've had from Billotte in the past twenty-four hours. One order! I mean, for God's sake, would he ever have bothered to let me know the rest of the plan for withdrawal if I hadn't sent Rusty down there? Blubbing's no good. What's needed is decisiveness, clear thinking and attention to detail.' He snatched at the telephone. 'Here, Henry. Try to get through to Billotte now.'

  Pownall took the phone while Gort paced the large and mostly unfurnished room. His chief of staff began to speak in French, calmly at first, then with increasing impatience. Eventually he replaced the receiver. 'Billotte's not available, my lord. Apparently neither he nor his chief of staff are at their headquarters any longer.'

  'Then get me Gamelin, damn it.'

  Pownall nodded. After several conversations he again replaced the receiver. 'It seems Gamelin is with Monsieur Reynaud and the Prime Minister in Paris.'

  'Keep trying, Henry. I refuse to believe that the combined armies of France, Belgium and Great Britain can do nothing about this. A major counter-attack is needed - and fast - not retreat. Someone must be organizing this.'

  'The problem is communication - or rather, I should say, lack of it. We simply don't have enough radios.'

  'No, Henry, that's only part of it. The main problem is that these damned French generals won't make decisions. Keep trying Billotte. Somehow we have to put some spine into these bloody Frogs and get them to mount a serious counter-attack. I mean, for God's sake, what's Corap's army doing? Standing by and watching?'

  'They're certainly not doing much fighting.'

  'Then it's about bloody time they did!' shouted Gort, anger and frustration spilling into his words. He breathed deeply. He could barely believe what was happening - the incompetence, the lack of leadership, the bare-faced panic . . . Throughout his career in the Army, he had prided himself on his ability to make decisions and to lead men. In 1918 it had won him a Victoria Cross, and after the war had helped propel him to become the youngest ever chief of the Imperial General Staff. When Britain had sent an army to France at the outbreak of war, it had been Gort who was appointed to command it. Throughout his career, he had always gone forwards. Yet now he was going backwards. The unthinkable preyed on his mind: that despite their vast number of men and machines, the French could well lose the battle.

  And if that happened, Britain might fall with them.

  The column was halted at just after four o'clock that afternoon at a village called Quenast and the men dropped down onto the grassy verge at the side of the road. Sergeant Tanner had assumed they would travel at least part of the way by train or truck, but instead T Company had been left to march all the way from Calais to Tournai, some eighty-six miles. Admittedly, their kitbags and large packs had been left with the two trucks that made up the company transport, but with a rifle, a stuffed haversack, rolled gas cape, respirator bag, full ammunition pouches, entrenching tool, bayonet and sundry other items in their pockets, each man still had to carry equipment that weighed the best part of forty pounds. Despite this, they had managed the march to Tournai in three and a half days, and there, they had finally met up with the rest of 1st Battalion, who, with much of 13th Brigade, had been moving north to Belgium from near Le Havre.

  That had been early in the afternoon the day before, and since then they had tramped a further forty miles. It had been one of the hardest marches Tanner had ever done, not because of the distance but because of the traffic. The roads had been choked with troops, tanks, trucks, cars, motorbikes and thousand upon thousands of refugees. Some had simply been walking in what they were wearing, but others carried their lives in their hands, many struggling with the weight of suitcases and bags. Tanner saw horses, donkeys and even cattle with cases and belongings piled high on their backs. It had reminded him of refugee columns he had seen in Waziristan; they had been a pathetic bunch then, but he was sickened to see such scenes in Europe. Most were on foot, but a few had inched their way through the throng in cars. Tanner had lost sight of the number of vehicles he had seen ditched by the edge of the road, presumably having either overheated or run out of fuel. And the dust! Many of the roads had not been metalled and in the dry early-summer sun, with God only knew how many wheels, tracks and boots pounding down, the surface had turned to a fine powder that swirled and settled on clothes, found its way into socks and chafed feet, up nostrils and into the throat and eyes.

  The further west they had travelled, the more they heard the sounds of battle ahead and in the sky above. That morning they had watched numerous enemy bombers fly over. Some miles away an anti-aircraft battery had opened fire, dull thuds resounding through the ground on which they walked. Tanner noticed that those new to war flinched and stopped to gaze in wonder as the shells exploded in black puffs. At one point, German bombers had been engaged by British fighters. One bomber had been hit and had dived out of the formation, trailing smoke. At this, the men had cheered.

  An hour ago, Stukas had attacked a column some miles ahead. They had heard the sirens and the bombs. Refugees had fled to the side of the road, but Tanner had yelled at the men to keep their discipline. 'They're bloody miles away!' he had shouted. 'Keep going!'

  He was as glad as the rest of them for the pause now, enjoying the lightness across his shoulders.

  'Any idea where we are, sir?' he asked Lieutenant Peploe, as he unscrewed the lid of his water-bottle.

  Peploe wiped his brow with a green spotted handkerchief, then took out a battered paper map. It was his own - the company had not been issued with any - and fifteen years old, but accurate enough.

  'We're twenty miles or so south of Brussels, I think,' he said at length. 'A few miles ahead of us is the Brussels-Charleroi canal. I can't see the river Senne, though, which was where I thought we were heading.'

  A staff car, making the most of the sudden clear stretch of road, thundered past, more clouds of dust swirling in its wake.

  'Stupid sodding bastard,' cursed McAllister. 'Watch where you're bloody going!'

  Sykes wandered over to stand in front of Tanner and Peploe. 'Any news, sir?'

  Peploe shook his head. 'I'm sure we'll be here for the night, though - or close by, at any rate.'

  'Good,' said Sykes, 'be
cause my men are fed up. They're all moaning like mad. "Corp, me feet ache. Corp, I've got another blister." I've 'ad enough.' He grinned, then took out a comb from his top pocket and smoothed his hair. 'The village looks pretty empty.'

  'They've all scarpered,' said Tanner. 'Should have stayed put. These refugees are a bloody nuisance.'

  'It's a terrible sight,' said Peploe. 'What an awful thing to have to do - leave one's home. I mean, where are they heading anyway?'

  'Can't help thinking they'd be better off at 'ome,' said Sykes. 'Didn't really see any in Norway, did we, Sarge?'

  'No - they must have been made of sterner stuff.'

  Suddenly a plaintive bellowing struck up somewhere close behind them.

  'Christ! What the 'ell's that?' said Sykes.

  Tanner got to his feet. 'Cows, Stan. There's a field of them here.'

  'They need milking,' said Peploe, scrambling upright. 'Their udders are full and they're in pain.'

  'I can see a dozen, sir,' said Tanner.

  Peploe looked up and down the road. With no sign of any imminent movement, he said to Tanner, 'See if anyone knows how to milk a cow.'

  'Bell was brought up on a farm, sir,' said Tanner, 'and I know what to do.'

  'Good. Ask the others too.'

  The only other man raised on a farm was Corporal Cooper of 2 Section, so the four men climbed over a gate a short way up the road and began to milk the cows, which had redoubled their agonized mooing.

  Sykes had followed and stood beside 'Tanner as he knelt on the ground, stroked the side of a black and white Friesian and began to pull at the teats. 'We'd be better off putting bullets to their heads,' the sergeant muttered. 'We might be helping the pain now, but what about tomorrow morning - or evening?'