'What on earth are you doing, Tanner?' said Barclay. 'Christ, man, we don't want to be stopping.'
'Fuel, sir. We should fill up while we can.' He jumped out of the cab as the others drew up behind him.
'Fuel? We can't just take it,' said Barclay. 'Those pumps will be locked or switched off, surely?'
Tanner walked round the front of the truck to examine them. They were electric rather than manual, but the nozzles were padlocked.
'There,' said Barclay, now out of the truck with Peploe beside him, 'what did I tell you? Come on, we're wasting time and unnecessarily exposing ourselves.'
'Sir, just give me a minute.' Before Barclay could reply, he ran off towards the last truck in the line.
'What's up, Sarge?' said Sykes, as Tanner reached the cab.
'I need you for a moment.'
Sykes followed him back to the pumps where Captain Barclay was still pacing impatiently.
'Come on, Tanner,' said the OC, 'let's get going.'
'Please, sir, just a moment more.' He turned to Sykes. 'Get these padlocks off, will you, Stan?'
'Certainly, Sarge,' said Sykes, casting an apprehensive glance at the captain. Delving into his breast pocket, he pulled out his skeleton key and, in moments, had the first padlock undone. Grinning at Lieutenant Peploe, Tanner took the nozzle and pulled it over to the barrel tank under the seat while Sykes undid the second padlock. The pump rumbled and fuel ran into the tank.
'How the devil did you do that, Corporal?' asked Barclay, clearly baffled.
'An old trick, sir,' said Sykes, then returned to his truck.
'Look, Tanner,' said Peploe, beside him, 'that window up there.' He pointed to the quarters above the garage.
Tanner saw a face peering out nervously through a narrow gap between the curtains. 'He thinks we're Jerries,' he said, as Kershaw drove his truck along the other side of the pumps. 'No wonder the Germans are finding it so easy to roll everyone over. You've only got to mention Stukas or see a black cross and everyone makes a run for it.'
'You have to admit they do seem rather good, though,' said Peploe. 'I mean, look at Poland and Norway.'
'I've seen the newsreels from Poland, sir,' said Tanner, as he replaced the nozzle and stepped back into the cab, Peploe clambering in beside him. He started the Krupp and rolled it forward to allow the next truck to fill up. 'Lots of Stukas and tanks and so on. And I saw pictures of the Polish cavalry too. They were on horseback, waving swords. I reckon any modern army could have beaten them.'
'What about Norway, though?'
'The Norwegians were rather like the Poles only they had even less kit,' Tanner replied. 'We hardly had any guns, any armour and almost no air force. It was easy for the Germans - just a skip across the Baltic. They could keep themselves better supplied. But don't forget it's still going on, sir.'
'We're going to lose there, though, aren't we?'
Tanner took out his packet of German cigarettes, offered one to Peploe, then helped himself. 'All I'm saying, sir,' he said, as Peploe struck a match, 'is that everyone seems to have got it into their heads that the Germans are somehow better than everyone else. But I don't believe it. I reckon if our boys and the Frogs stood still for a bit, rather than scarpering back to the next line at the first sign of trouble, we'd soon give them something to worry about. I thought the French had the biggest army in the world - at least, that's what a French officer once told me.'
'You may be right, Sergeant, and hopefully, if we find the battalion again, we can do exactly as you suggest.'
Tanner grinned. 'We've just got to find them, haven't we, sir?'
Captain Barclay stepped up into the cab. 'Right, Sergeant,' he said. 'You've got what you wanted - full tanks all round. Now let's get a bloody move on.'
It was now nearly half past three on the morning of Monday, 20 May. The town of Valenciennes lay a couple of miles ahead.
'Strange smell,' said Peploe, sniffing.
'Burning, sir,' said Tanner. 'There's been a fire nearby, I'd say.'
'Damn great river running through this place,' said Barclay, 'by the look of it on the map, at any rate, and the road south follows its course pretty much. I'm afraid it's not a part of France I know - but the name's ringing a bell for some reason. Have a feeling our chaps may have been here in the last war.'
'The river - what's it called?' asked Peploe.
Barclay peered more closely. 'The Escaut. Hang on a minute - we crossed it further north on our way to the front.'
'I remember it, sir,' said Peploe. 'And I remember thinking it was quite a major natural barrier then.'
A natural barrier. Tanner cursed himself. Of course! He thought of the map again - where had that line been marked? Between Le Cateau and Cambrai, and Cambrai was not far south from where they were now. His mind raced: if Cambrai was the limit of the enemy's advance so far then the town must either be almost or already in German hands. Think, he told himself. Think. They had heard fighting the previous afternoon and had seen enemy troops - yet it was at least fifteen miles back that they had last glimpsed any sign of Germans. But neither had they met any French. None - no night-time leaguers, no troop movements, no army vehicles. Nothing at all. Because they had already fallen back.
'Sir,' he said, to Captain Barclay, 'I'm sorry - I should have thought of this earlier - but I think we might run into French troops at any moment.' He slowed and brought the Krupp to a halt.
'How can you possibly know that, Tanner?'
'Because we heard fighting earlier - yesterday afternoon, sir - and we've seen no sign of either enemy or Allied troops since Quievrain. The French must have gone somewhere and the most obvious place is behind a natural barrier like the Escaut. But Valenciennes is quite a big town, and you said the river runs right through it. That means they'll almost certainly defend it - or, at least, the approaches to the river.'
'And we need to cross the Escaut to get to Arras,' added Peploe.
'Yes, sir.'
'So when they see a column of four German trucks they'll think the enemy's trying a stealthy night-time attack.'
'Exactly, sir.'
'You have to admit, sir,' added Peploe, 'that it would be a bit annoying to have come this far only to get mown down by our own side.'
Barclay looked down at the map again in silence, his brow furrowed.
He doesn't know what to do, thought Tanner. 'Sir, I have a suggestion.'
Barclay sighed. 'What is it?'
'We avoid Valenciennes, sir. My guess is that it may well be thick with French forces but also refugees. We haven't seen any in the countryside but I'd have thought a big town is the first place they'll all have headed. Surely we can turn south, avoiding the town, then cut west towards Denain?'
Barclay nodded. 'Yes. Might take a bit more time, but there are certainly the roads to it.'
'Then when we reach the river we'll park the trucks and approach a bridge on foot. Hopefully it won't have been destroyed yet.'
'And then?' said Barclay.
'We shout across, asking for safe passage.'
Barclay was silent a moment, then sighed heavily. 'Yes. I was, er, going to suggest much the same. All right, Tanner. Let's get moving again.'
It was almost light by the time they reached the edge of the village of Neuville, a mile or so south of Denain. Behind, the sun was rising once more, spreading its golden rays across the flat countryside, the air sharp and fresh. Dew and the night's rain glistened on the grass and in the hedgerows, but ahead, to either side of the village, they could see a thin mist rising from the river.
Tanner drove slowly into the village, then stopped by a tall-spired church, the other three trucks pulling to a halt behind him.
'Right, sir,' he said. 'If Mr Peploe would accompany me, we'll head towards the bridge.'
'Very well,' said Barclay. 'I'll tell the rest of the men.'
'Ready, sir?' Tanner asked Peploe.
The lieutenant nodded. The village was quiet, although in the trees the
birds were in full song. Tanner listened and his heart lifted. He hadn't heard a May dawn chorus since he'd left England eight years before, yet the sounds were as familiar to him now as they had been when he was a boy. He wished he could return to that life - a life that seemed so completely apart from the one he had led ever since. Yet, even so, he knew that his childhood - those precious years in Alvesdon with his father- had moulded him into the man he had become. A lifetime ago now, and it only needed the sound of a blackbird singing at dawn to carry him back, bringing to his mind a thousand details as fresh and vivid as ever. One day perhaps.
A sweet smell filled the air.
'Delicious,' murmured Peploe. 'Someone's baking. I've been to France a few times and the fresh bread and croissants first thing in the morning are one of the best things about it. I'm tempted to forget Arras and spend the rest of the day in that bakery.'
Tanner smiled. 'It's reminding me how hungry I am.'
'Well, perhaps after we've cleared our passage across the river, we can come back and pay it a quick visit.'
They had walked around a shallow bend in the road and now saw the river directly ahead at the end of the main village road. On the far side a single house loomed spectrally out of the mist.
'Hang on a minute, sir,' said Tanner. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, which he tied to the end of his rifle.
Holding it high, they moved towards the bridge. A road ran either side of the river, which they now saw was not as wide as they had first thought. Barges were moored along the bank. The bridge, it seemed, was part of a lock system. The Escaut had been turned into a canal.
'Not at all what I was expecting,' said Peploe. He cupped his hands around his mouth, about to holler across the river, then Tanner saw vague figures on the far side and, a moment later, a spurt of orange flame. Two bullets flew over his head as he dived to the ground, pulling Peploe with him, then two more. He heard Peploe gasp and felt the lieutenant's body go limp. Oh, no. Damn it all, no.
Chapter 13
Another short burst of machine-gun fire spat out, the bullets zipping over Tanner's head as he crouched next to Lieutenant Peploe, the report echoing off the buildings along the village street.
'Stop!' shouted Tanner. Then, trying frantically to remember the phrase card he had been given, he added, 'Nous sommes anglais! Nous sommes anglais/' He raised his rifle with its white handkerchief into the air and waved it from side to side.
The firing stopped and now he heard voices - French? - from the far side of the river, then from behind him.
Still hidden behind the bend in the road, Captain Barclay called, 'Peploe, Tanner, are you all right?'
'Lieutenant Peploe's hit, sir,' Tanner yelled back. The lieutenant's face was ashen and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his right temple. At the side of the helmet there was a hole where a bullet had entered - a glancing blow, but enough to penetrate the steel. Tanner put his ear to Peploe's mouth, heard shallow breathing, then felt for a pulse. Thank God.
'Tanner?' It was Barclay's voice again.
To his right, a man was now emerging from a house - thick white moustache, black jacket and cap. He held up his arms. 'Arretez! Arretez votre fusillade/'
Carefully Tanner eased off Peploe's helmet and heard something drop. On the cobbles beside him he found a spent bullet. Quickly he parted Peploe's thick flaxen hair and saw, to his relief, that the bullet had only cut his head, not penetrated.
The Frenchman was now beside him, crouching. His face was deeply tanned and lined, a two-day grey beard flecking his cheeks. The soldiers were across the bridge now, hurrying towards them.
'Imbeciles!' said the man. 'lis sont nos allies.'
Tanner stood up. 'Nous sommes anglais,' he said again, to a young clean-shaven French lieutenant.
The lieutenant took out his pistol, stepped forward and pointed it at Tanner's stomach. 'There are no British here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'They are to the north and west.'
'We are, sir,' said Tanner. 'We got detached from the rest of our battalion on the Brussels-Charleroi canal a couple of days ago.'
'And you made it here? Nonsense! You are lying.'
'It's true, sir. Yesterday evening we discovered some Germans between Mons and Valenciennes and managed to take some of their vehicles.'
The French officer laughed. 'You expect me to believe that? What do you take me for? No, you are Germans - fifth columnists.' There was triumph on his face. Tanner groaned to himself. Hell, he thought. That's all we need.
'Tanner? Tanner!' Barclay again. Tanner turned and saw Captain Barclay with Blackstone, McAllister, Ellis and several others advancing cautiously down the street.
'Tanner!' called Captain Barclay again, as half a dozen French soldiers raised their rifles.
The French lieutenant followed their gaze and, at that moment, Tanner thrust forward with his left forearm, knocking the officer's gun away from his stomach. Then, with his right, he grabbed the pistol. The startled lieutenant had no time to react before Tanner had brought his left arm tight round the Frenchman's throat and dug the pistol into his side.
'Tell your men to drop their weapons,' hissed Tanner, fractionally lessening his grip around the man's throat to enable him to speak. 'Now!'
'Jetez vos armes!' he gasped. The men did as they were ordered, a mixture of fear and anger in their eyes.
'And tell your men on the other side of the bridge to cease firing.'
Tanner loosened his grip a fraction more, but pressed the barrel of the pistol more firmly into the Frenchman's side.
'I'm sorry, sir, but I swear we are who we say we are,' said Tanner in his ear. 'British soldiers from the First Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, Thirteen Brigade, Fifth Division, British Expeditionary Force. We are trying to reach British Headquarters in Arras and want safe passage across the Escaut.'
'Don't shoot, please,' said the lieutenant.
'I won't,' said Tanner.
'Monsieur, s'ilvous plait,' said the older man, looking up at Tanner with an appalled expression, 'votre ami . . .' He swept his hand downwards and Tanner saw that Peploe had opened his eyes and was clutching the side of his head.
'Tanner, what the devil's going on? What's happened to Peploe?' said Captain Barclay, now hurrying up to them, anger and indignation etched across his face.
'Our allies opened fire on us, sir,' said Tanner, 'and Lieutenant Peploe was hit in the head.'
'Good God!' Barclay knelt down beside the still prostrate lieutenant.
'I reckon he'll be all right, sir,' added Tanner. 'This French officer thinks we're German fifth columnists. He was going to shoot, so I'm afraid I was forced to disarm him and order the others to lower their weapons.'
'Fifth columnists!' snorted Barclay. 'What absolute rot!' He stood up again and faced the French lieutenant. 'Now look here,' he said, 'we're who we say we are. British soldiers. Please take us to your superior officer.' He pointed down to Peploe. 'This man needs attention.'
'Sir,' said Fanner, loosening his grip and allowing the Frenchman to stumble free, 'perhaps show him some documents.'
His face reddening, Barclay said, 'Very well.' From the breast pocket of his battle-blouse, he produced his identity card, dog-tags and a letter from his wife. 'Here. Will this convince you?' He pointed to the address in Pateley Bridge. 'There. Do you think Fd have all this lot if I was a bloody Hun spy?'
The French sous-lieutenant peered at the letter, then at the pale pink military identity card with its different types of ink, its Leeds stamp and photograph. Tanner then showed him his own AB64 paybook, careful not to reveal the German packet of cigarettes as he delved in his pocket.
The Frenchman's face now flushed. 'Er, sir, pardon. It seems I was mistaken.' Triumph had been replaced by contrition. 'I am very sorry, but we have been warned repeatedly to keep a watch for fifth columnists and we have seen no other British troops.' He now stood up straight and saluted. 'Sous-Lieutenant Marais, Tenth Pi
oneer Company of the Fourth Infantry Regiment, Fifteenth Division, Four Army Corps.' He turned briskly and snapped some orders to the men behind, who, with an eye on Tanner, gingerly picked up their rifles, then bent over Peploe and lifted him carefully.
'What happened?' mumbled Peploe. Then his eyes opened and he saw the French soldiers. 'Who are you?'
'Don't worry, sir,' said Tanner. 'You took a blow to the head but you'll be fine.'
'Follow me,' said Marais. Then he turned to Tanner and held out his hand. 'My pistol, Sergeant, if I may.'
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