Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  At the BEF command post at Wahagnies, twenty miles north-east of Arras, General Lord Gort left his spartan office, went down the stairs and into the large drawing room, now busy with numerous staff officers, liaison officers and clerks working from makeshift trestle-table desks. The clatter of typewriters and the collective hubbub of different conversations filled the room. Dust particles hung faintly in the air, illuminated in the sunlight that shone through the tall french windows; cleaning the building after requisitioning it from the owners had not been a high priority and, in any case, Gort's large command post staff had brought their own dust and dirt with them.

  Careful to make sure he looked as fit and energetic as ever, he strode purposefully towards one of his aides-de- camp and said, 'Get someone to bring a bite of lunch out to me in the garden, will you?'

  'Right away, sir,' the ADC replied, getting to his feet.

  'Good man.' Gort nodded to the others, said, 'Carry on, carry on,' then walked briskly to the glass doors, stepped out onto the terrace and trotted across the lawn to the bottom of the garden where, beneath a large cedar and out of sight of the house, there stood a wooden bench. Sitting down, he rubbed his hands over his face and allowed himself a wide yawn. For a moment, he gazed at the small pond in front of him. At its centre stood a stone cherub, discoloured with age, whose mouth emitted a trickle of water. In the murky pond, goldfish showed intermittent flashes of golden-orange. Somewhere near by a wood pigeon cooed soothingly.

  Lord Gort sighed and yawned again, then briefly closed his eyes. Damn it, he was exhausted. He reckoned he'd had about two hours' sleep last night, and not much more the night before. But that was only the half of it: since 10 May, from the moment he had been awake to the moment he had gone to bed, he had been on the go constantly, trying to organize his forces, attempting to get some sense from Gamelin, Georges, Billotte and the rest of the French high command, sending missives and orders, meeting with commanders and liaison officers, seeing the troops, and trying to keep London informed of increasingly confused events.

  A bee hummed lazily in front of him and he followed its path enviously. It had been a devil of a morning. Up at five with the news that the chief of the Imperial General Staff himself, General Ironside, was about to visit. At six o'clock on the nose, Tiny Ironside had walked in, blustering as usual, to hand-deliver a personal message from the war cabinet. At the conference soon after he had pointed to the map hanging in Gort's office and announced that the entire BEF should withdraw southwest to Amiens, closer to their lines of supply. 'We've all agreed this plan,' he had announced. 'Churchill and the cabinet were unanimous.'

  Gort had patiently pointed out that it was not the war cabinet who were commanding the BEF and explained that to leave their positions on the Escaut en masse and move the best part of a hundred miles directly across the flanks of the German panzers' advance was not merely impossible but plain suicide. Of course, the CIGS had quickly come round to his point of view, but this, Gort felt, should have been perfectly clear to him back in London. What Gort had offered to do, however - and he'd been thinking about it since his meeting with Billotte the previous night - was use his two reserve divisions, the 5th and 50th, for a counter-attack south of Arras and the river Scarpe to the east of the town. If the French mounted a similar attack from the south, Gort had suggested to the CIGS, it might be possible to close the gap that had been punched by the German panzer divisions between the Allied armies north of Arras and the Scarpe, and those south of the river Somme.

  It was a positive plan at least - one that promised aggressive action rather than passive defence, and Ironside had seized it wholeheartedly, just as Gort had known he would. The CIGS had immediately headed straight off to see Billotte and Blanchard, taking Pownall with him, determined to put some resolve into the French commanders and persuade them to join in Gort's proposed attack.

  Gort took off his cap with its red band and laid it on the bench beside him, ran his hand over his largely bald head, then closed his eyes, letting the May sunshine warm his face. He wondered how Ironside and Pownall were getting on. It was essential that the French should play ball but his conversation with Billotte the previous evening had left a deeply unfavourable impression.

  Perhaps they could yet turn it around but all morning he had been unable to banish the niggling suspicion that the French had shot their bolt completely. Once again, he found his thoughts returning to what now seemed a horrible inevitability: evacuation of as much of the BEF as possible.

  A cough brought him from his thoughts and he opened his eyes to see a young RASC lance-corporal holding a metal tray on which there was a bottle of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and chocolate. 'Your lunch, sir.'

  'Thank you,' Gort replied. He indicated the bench. 'Just put it down there, will you?'

  The orderly left him and Gort continued to sit where he was, drinking his beer and eating the cheese and bread. This end of the garden was a peaceful haven: warm, softly scented and alive with the calming sounds of early summer. Nonetheless, the soothing ambience could do nothing to relieve the gloom that swirled in the British commander-in-chief's head - a gloom that would only deepen as the afternoon wore on.

  Chapter 14

  Around the time that General Lord Gort was eating his lunch, D Company, 1st Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, finally reached BEF Headquarters. It was not, as Captain Barclay had assumed, in Arras itself, but centred around a chateau in the small village of Habarcq, some seven miles to the west.

  They had learned as much on entering the city where, in the town hall, they had found the headquarters of the town's garrison. A Welsh Guardsman had redirected them, having confessed he had no idea where 13th Brigade were, or 5th Division, and least of all the 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers. Captain Barclay had cursed irritably, but Lieutenant Peploe, who had woken as the truck rumbled over the broad cobbles of the Grande Place, had been glad of the brief detour into the town. Despite a splitting headache and light-headed- ness, he had been sufficiently compos mentis to wonder at the reconstructed beauty of an ancient town that he had seen before only in a selection of picture postcards taken soon after the last war - which his mother had brought back after a visit to find his uncle George's grave. He remembered them well: the squares of broken buildings, the piles of rubble and, not least, the skeletal town hall and its damaged belfry. Now, however, it was as though the postcards had depicted a lie. Arras had emerged, phoenixlike, from the wreckage, as splendid and opulent as it must have been a hundred or more years before.

  Peploe followed Captain Barclay and Lieutenant Bourne-Arton unsteadily through some impressively ornate iron gates to the side of the chateau, then along a gravel pathway to the main entrance of the white-stone building. The place seemed a hive of activity. Doors opened and closed, staff officers hurrying to and fro with an air of grave intent. Phones rang, typewriters clacked, orders were barked. The three men were told to wait in the hall and did so in silence, watching the comings and goings until, after about a quarter of an hour, Captain Barclay stood up and began to pace.

  'Now look here,' he said eventually, accosting a pale subaltern, 'how much longer are we going to have to wait? We've got an injured pilot who needs proper medical care and we need to know where we can find the rest of our battalion. Damn it, surely someone here can point us in the right direction.'

  'What unit are you, sir?' asked the subaltern.

  Barclay sighed. 'D Company, First Battalion, King's Own Yorkshire Rangers.'

  'All right,' said the subaltern. 'I'll send an MO.'

  'And what about the rest of First Battalion?' said Barclay, his mounting frustration showing in his tone.

  'Just a moment, sir,' said the subaltern, and disappeared.

  'For God's sake,' muttered Barclay.

  It was a further twenty minutes before the medical officer arrived, apologizing for keeping them waiting.

  'Take the MO to Lyell, will you, Lieutenant?' said Barclay, to Bourne-Arton.


  'Right away, sir.' Bourne-Arton led the doctor outside to the trucks.

  'Let's hope that's the last we've seen of him,' muttered Barclay.

  'Your brother-in-law, you mean, sir?' said Peploe.

  'Yes. Bloody pain in the arse. Wish I'd left him in that damned field. The CSM was right.'

  'You couldn't have left him there, sir.'

  Barclay tapped a foot on the stone floor. 'Hm. Did it for my sister, not for him. Put men's lives at risk. Held everything up.' He began to knead his hands together. 'I put my family before the needs of the men and what thanks did I get? None.'

  'I think you're being a bit hard on yourself, sir,' said Peploe. 'After all, we've made it here in one piece.'

  Barclay said nothing, instead pacing the hall, his boots clicking on the bare stone floor. Peploe wished he would stop. His head throbbed and pulses of pain coursed down his neck. What he needed was quiet, not the frenetic pacings of his OC.

  At the point when he thought he could bear it no longer, a tall, slim man in his late thirties, with an immaculately groomed appearance, trotted down the main staircase and said, 'Sorry to keep you, gentlemen.' He held out a hand to Barclay. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Rainsby. Do follow me.'

  He led them back up the stairs, along a short corridor and into a room with a large window. Peploe peered out and saw their German trucks parked beneath the horse- chestnuts on the far side of the road. The men were chatting and smoking, others making the most of the pause to snatch some sleep. Beyond, the avenue of trees continued, sloping down through undulating lush pasture.

  Barclay cleared his throat and Peploe turned to the half-colonel standing in front of them behind a makeshift desk.

  Waving them towards two mismatching chairs, Rainsby offered cigarettes, then sat down behind his desk. 'Sorry to keep you.' He smiled genially. 'As you can see, it's pretty busy here - Jerry's probing not far to the south and it may be that we have to ship out at any moment.'

  'Surely not, sir,' said Barclay, startled.

  Rainsby steepled his fingers. 'Hopefully not. One of the problems is that the picture is so confused. But Cambrai has fallen and the enemy has now punched a wedge of about twenty-five miles between us here in the north and the French forces to the south.'

  'Surely some kind of pincer movement is what's needed,' put in Peploe. 'A joint counter-attack from north and south.'

  Rainsby smiled. 'Exactly, and that's precisely what we're hoping to do. This place is still home to GHQ, but also Frankforce, created by the C-in-C as of this morning under Major-General Franklyn - the best part of two divisions, plus tanks from First RTR and various other units. I'm GS03 Operations - planning tomorrow's little show.' He paused. 'We've been admiring your haul of German trucks.'

  'We're trying to find the rest of our battalion, sir,' said

  Barclay. 'We lost them as we pulled back from the Brussels-Charleroi canal. We had a bit of a ding-dong with the enemy, which held up our retreat rather. By the time we'd forced them back, the rest of the battalion had already moved out.'

  Lieutenant Peploe smiled to himself.

  Rainsby raised a hand - say no more - and unfolded a map. 'Easily done,' he said, 'and you're hardly the only ones to have become separated from their units.' He put down the map and picked up another sheet of paper. 'Yorkshire Rangers, Yorkshire Rangers,' he mumbled, running his hand down the page. 'Yes, here we are. Thirteenth Brigade have been ordered to the Scarpe. Not so very far from here, actually. They're on their way there now. They're to hold the line at Vitry-en-Artois.'

  'That's excellent news, sir, thank you,' said Barclay, pushing back his chair.

  Rainsby chuckled. 'Not so fast, Barclay. I'm afraid you're not going to rejoin them just yet.'

  'Why ever not, sir?'

  'Because tomorrow we'll be launching a counter-attack west and south of Arras. Enemy panzers are now pressing to the south. Our task is to push them back. Fifth Div are going to stay put on the Scarpe, but the main attack will come from Fiftieth Div, plus tanks of First RTR.'

  'Then surely we should head to Vitry-on-whatever-it- was, sir.'

  'The thing is, Barclay, the job on the Scarpe is mostly static, but you chaps have turned up with your four very decent trucks. We could, of course, simply take them from you, but I rather think it would be better to attach you to the 151st Brigade for this operation. We want our infantry to be able to keep up with the tanks, you see.'

  'And what infantry will there be, sir?'

  'Two attacking battalions - Eighth and Sixth DLL'

  'The Durham Light Infantry, sir?' Barclay looked appalled.

  'Yes. A damn good regiment.' Rainsby smiled. 'Look, it's the most marvellous opportunity for you to show us what you chaps can do. A successful counter-attack like this will do wonders for the name of the regiment. And for you, too, Captain.'

  Peploe smiled to himself again. Rainsby had certainly got the measure of Barclay.

  'Very well, sir,' said Barclay, his back stiffening. 'If those are our orders, then of course we'll carry them out to the best of our abilities.'

  'Good man,' said Rainsby, rising from his seat. 'Here are your instructions.' He handed over a sheet of paper. 'Make your way to Vimy - a smallish village a few miles north-east of here. General Franklyn's setting up his command post there. In fact, I'll be heading there myself shortly. You should ask for the brigade-major. Fellow called Clive. Any questions?'

  'We'll rejoin the battalion after this battle?'

  'Absolutely.'

  Rainsby took them back to the hall, shook their hands and wished them luck, then skipped up the stairs again.

  So, thought Peploe, as they headed to the waiting men and trucks, we go into action tomorrow. So far he had not felt particularly frightened, but that was because the two small pieces of action he had taken part in had happened suddenly; he hadn't had time to think about what was happening. Now, however, there was most of the afternoon and the night to wait - and this time it would be a proper attack, not a light skirmish or brief exchange of fire. His stomach churned and his throat felt tight.

  Tanner and Sykes were asleep when Peploe stepped up into the cab of the Opel, but both men woke instantly.

  'How's the head, sir?' asked Sykes.

  'Not too bad, thank you, Corporal.' He cleared his throat. 'We've been temporarily assigned to join the Eighth DLL'

  Tanner raised an eyebrow.

  Peploe found himself sighing heavily. 'We're going to be part of a major counter-attack tomorrow.'

  Tanner nodded. 'Good. About time. Perhaps I'll be able to get my hands on another Jerry sub-machine-gun.' He grinned at Sykes.

  A few minutes later they rumbled off. Peploe stared out at the rolling countryside, the fields green with young corn. Where was his uncle buried? Somewhere near Arras - the scene of such bitter fighting more than twenty years before. They drove past a cemetery, not British but French, row upon row of white crosses stretching away from the road. Peploe swallowed, then glanced at Tanner, who was smoking a cigarette and gazing at the thousands of graves too. What he was thinking, Peploe couldn't tell. Tanner was a difficult man to read. Was he scared? He had barely batted an eyelid at the news that they would soon be going into battle. If anything, he seemed to relish the chance - Sykes too. Extraordinary. He was glad that the sergeant would be alongside him tomorrow. Damned glad.

  At four twenty p.m. on 20 May, General Lord Gort fixed his pale eyes on General Billotte's liaison officer from Army Group 1 in Lens, Capitaine Melchior de Vogue. Outside, the afternoon had grown grey, a gathering blanket of cloud now blocking out the sun and all but a few faint patches of summery blue so that, despite the tall windows, the room was quite dark. A cool breeze ruffled some of the papers on Gort's desk.

  'Capitaine,' said Gort, 'thank you for coming.' He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at de Vogue. 'Do you know what this is?'

  'No, my lord,' replied de Vogue.

  'It's a sitrep informing me that a handful of German adva
nce tanks and infantry have taken Cambrai without a fight. Tell me it's not true.'

  De Vogue shifted his feet uneasily. 'I am afraid it is, my lord.'

  Gort sighed. 'But how can that be? All the garrison had to do was stand firm and they would have driven off the enemy.'

  'It was the dust, my lord.'

  'Dust?' Gort spluttered.

  'Er, yes, my lord,' said de Vogue. 'The enemy advanced on a broad front causing a huge cloud of dust. The garrison there thought the attackers were part of a far larger force than was reality.'

  Gort could hardly believe what he had heard. 'And is the French Army now refusing to fight?' he asked.

  'No, my lord, of course not.'

  'Capitaine de Vogue,' said Gort, 'when I tell British soldiers to attack, they attack. So why haven't French forces counter-attacked and retaken Cambrai?'