He looked out of the cab at the hordes of refugees taking cover by the side of the road and in the young woods covering the slopes of the ridge, then realized that the arrival of the Stukas had, in fact, been something of a godsend, enabling Lieutenant Bourne-Arton, who was driving, to reach the little hamlet quickly and just as the enemy attack finished.
The place heaved with troops, most of whom, Peploe thought, were exhausted. Directed to Battalion Headquarters - the village bar - they found Lieutenant- Colonel Beart and his battalion officers already in conference.
'Ah, come on in,' said Beart, ushering them to join the half-circle gathered around him. 'You're the company from the Yorkshire Rangers, aren't you?'
'Yes, sir,' said Barclay. 'We've been attached to you because we've got four Jerry trucks.'
Peploe cringed at the obvious pride with which Barclay announced this.
Beart smiled. 'Good. Then you can come under command of Captain Dixon in A Company.' He pointed to an officer several years younger than Barclay.
'How d'you do?' Dixon shook hands with each man in turn. 'Good of you to join us.'
'Right,' continued Beart. 'So, Dix, you've got a scout troop of motorcycles from the Northumberland Fusiliers, a platoon from 260th Ack-Ack Battery, a carrier platoon less one section and our new friends from across the border in Yorkshire. Captain Dixon will lead the advance guard. Dix - over to you.'
Dixon cleared his throat. 'We're going to get going at eleven hundred, then RV with Seven RTR's tanks at the village of Maroeuil.' He turned to Barclay. 'Have you fellows been issued with maps?'
'Yes,' said Barclay, pulling his from his map case. 'Yesterday, from GHQ.'
'Good show,' said Dixon. 'If you have a look you can see we're here.' He pointed to his own map. 'Here's Maroeuil, about four miles away to the south-west, and our start line for the attack is this road, eight miles further south here, running south-west from Arras to Doullens. Beaumetz is the place to keep in mind. There's been plenty of Jerry activity spotted south of there, so they're definitely lurking about. A question of flushing the buggers out.'
'Our chaps are all in Neuville at the moment,' said Barclay.
'Well, that's all right. We'll pick you up on the way. You've got a radio, have you?'
'No, I'm afraid not.'
'It'll be all right, Dix,' said Lieutenant-Colonel Beart. 'We'll just have to make do. Where exactly are you in Neuville, Captain?'
'By a large French Great War cemetery, sir,' said Barclay.
'And unless I'm much mistaken, that's en route to Maroeuil, isn't it?' He clapped his hands. 'Good. Well, that all seems clear enough. The rest of the battalion will follow the advance guard. One bit of bad news, though, is that we don't have any rations. Have your chaps eaten anything today, Captain?' he asked Barclay.
'They've breakfasted, sir.'
'That's something. Anyway, I'm sorry but it's those buggering refugees again. The food wagons have been held up. I hate to send fellows into battle on empty stomachs but it can't be helped.'
Beart dismissed them soon after, wishing them a cheery good luck. As Peploe followed Barclay and Bourne-Arton back to the Krupp, he couldn't help feeling that the attack plan seemed rather hastily cobbled together. It was as though a lot was being left to chance. He still had a headache, but now nausea assailed him. As a pair of collared doves cavorted above them, he wondered whether he would still be alive at the day's end. Funnily enough, the debacle with Tanner had taken his mind off things. Ever since he'd been driven past the shell-holes of Vimy Ridge, however, the prospect of battle had been brought back into sharp focus. Fighting - killing or being killed - had seemed so remote on the day he'd joined up, full of youthful determination to play his part in ridding the world of Hitler. It had been easy to be brave then and to enjoy the sense that he was undertaking something rather noble and heroic. He'd imagined himself to be rather like a Crusader in the stories he had enjoyed as a boy, leaving his weeping mother for the Holy Land. But those shell-holes and the endless cemeteries had been an all-too-real reminder of what war could be like. And now this rather haphazard battle-plan. If he was honest, he still had no idea what they were supposed to be doing or what to expect. All he knew was that he was scared stiff.
The Durhams' advance guard rendezvoused successfully with D Company and the Rangers' trucks fell into line behind the motorcycle scout troop, two command cars, a radio car and two trucks towing two-pounder anti-tank guns, trundling at a snail's pace along a narrow road to Maroeuil. Away to their left they could see the tip of the belfry at the heart of Arras. In between and at either side of them lay open, undulating farmland.
Tanner's mood was slowly improving. He hoped that in confronting the men he had convinced them; it had made him feel better, at any rate. The awfulness of those moments when he had been under arrest in a damp scullery was past. Ahead, he could see Maroeuil being bombarded lightly from the south-east. The whistle of the shells could be heard faintly above the rumble of the vehicles, followed by a dull thud and a thin cloud of dust erupting clear of the buildings. His heart beat faster and he had a familiar sensation in his stomach and throat. Nerves, certainly, but excitement too. Fighting was exciting and, in the thick of it, his senses keen, he found it exhilarating.
Away to his right he could see the lonely ruins of a church, high on the skyline. He knew his father had fought around here - it had been 1917, he remembered - and had often talked to him about it. Now he recalled that there had been a spring offensive at Arras that year. Now, just twenty-three years later, he was marching on the same ground, ready to fight the same enemy. His father had died eight years before and not a day went past when Tanner didn't think of him. His dad had been his best friend as well as his father. Tanner smiled, remembering.
By the time they reached Maroeuil the shelling had stopped. Tanner was surprised to see some dead Germans in the village - where had they come from? - but despite vehicle congestion, the advance guard pressed on so that by twenty past two they had reached the edge of Duisans, the next village on their route to the start line of their attack.
The sounds of battle were growing more intense. Away to the west, tank and artillery fire could be heard. As they descended from a shallow ridge into the village, a bullet, then several more, fizzed above them from the wood to their right.
'Look,' said Sykes, pointing to his left. Crawling over a field up the small hill on the far side of the village were three 'I' tanks, Matilda Mark IIs with their more-than-three inches of armour. Between the sounds of gunfire, they could hear them, metal squeaking and clanking. It was such a high-pitched sound, yet with it came a deep, low rumble, promising bulk and heaviness.
More sniping whipped around them from the wood, but as they reached the centre of the village, the buildings shielded them from fire. A shell whistled overhead, and passed harmlessly above the village to explode in open country.
Ahead, a DLI officer was talking to Barclay; a minute later, the company runner came up to their cab. 'We're going to push on. We're to follow those tanks towards Warlus.'
'What about the enemy in those woods?' asked Tanner.
'B Company's being hurried forward to deal with them.'
'And why are the enemy here anyway? We haven't reached the start line yet.'
'Don't ask me. I'm just the messenger.'
They pushed on, following the three 'I' Matildas as they rumbled slowly out of Duisans and onto higher, more open country. Ahead to the south lay the village of
Warlus, the slate spire of its church poking out above the trees and houses nestled around it. The anti-tank guns were unhitched and set up, then the leading cars of the advance guard turned back to Duisans.
The company runner appeared again. 'We're to stay here. They're trying to bring up more guns.'
'Make your mind up,' muttered Sykes.
To their right they could see vehicles and figures on the ridge a mile or so away. Then field guns opened fire suddenly from away to their left.
'What the hell's going on?' asked Peploe. They could hear shells hurtling over, their whistle and moan as they cut through the sky, then a series of dull crashes.
'Whose guns are those?' asked Peploe.
'Ours, I think,' said Tanner. 'They're stonking it before we go in.'
'And what about them to the right?' asked Sykes. 'Are they Jerries?'
Tanner took out his binoculars. 'I reckon they are, yes.'
'Well, I don't know about you two,' said Peploe, 'but I haven't the faintest idea what's going on. All I know is I feel bloody exposed up here.'
'I agree, sir,' said Tanner. 'Let's get everyone out until that stonk's over.'
No sooner were the men on the track, shaking their legs and stretching, than a faint rumble that soon became a roar filled the sky. Looking up, they saw waves of bombers flying over, like a giant swarm of locusts. Moments later, bombs were falling on the eastern edges of Arras, clearly visible to their left.
'Christ - look at them all!' exclaimed Peploe.
'I've counted eighty already,' said Sykes. Soon Arras disappeared under a pall of smoke. The ground shook and the sound was deafening - but all the while the British gunners continued to rain shells on Warlus and the ridge beyond. Now the church spire had disappeared under a haze of dust.
Another company of Durhams, loaded into Bren carriers, arrived on the track from Duisans, and as the artillery barrage stopped, they were ordered forward.
A few rifle shots cracked out as the advance guard entered the village, but as the smoke and dust drifted away, it became apparent that the village was empty of enemy troops. There was heavy artillery and machine- gun fire from the south and south-east, however, beyond the ridge. They paused again by a track that led towards the church. Ahead, the road climbed sharply to the next ridge and now a Mark VI light tank sped down it, a cloud of dust following in its wake. Tanner watched with interest as it stopped near them and the man in the turret hopped out. Lieutenant-Colonel Beart now arrived in his car, climbed out and the tankman hurried over to him. He was pointing behind him, showing Beart the map, then nodding furiously. A moment later, Beart called Barclay over.
'Something's up,' said Tanner, lighting a cigarette and coughing. He got out his water-bottle and drank.
Beart was now back in his car as Barclay walked purposefully towards Peploe.
'What is it, sir?' Peploe asked.
'A devil of a job, I'm afraid. Our tanks are attacking Wailly, a couple of miles to the south-east of here.'
'I can hear them,' said Peploe.
'Yes, and you can hear enemy guns too.' He took out his map. 'It seems Jerry's got a lot of guns here, Point Three, and is stopping our advance. The tanks can't get near them. Colonel Beart wants us to send one platoon over to take out as many of those guns as possible. They reckon there are four of them, and I want you and your platoon to do it, Peploe.'
Tanner noticed Barclay couldn't look him in the eye.
Peploe swallowed. 'Very well, sir.'
'Beyond this ridge is the village of Berneville, and Point Three is across the Arras-Doullens road ahead of you. I can't tell you much more than that. It's a lot to ask, I know, but. . .'
Peploe nodded. 'We'll go straight away, sir.'
'Sooner the better.' Barclay held out a hand, which Peploe took. 'Well, you'd better be off, then. Good luck, Lieutenant.'
Two trucks and thirty-six men set off immediately, the Opels labouring as they climbed the hill. As soon as they crested the ridge, past a large water-tower, they saw drifts of smoke, and the sound of battle was suddenly closer and clearer in front of them to their left.
'There!' said Tanner, pointing to a cluster of trees on the next ridge. 'They're firing from that copse. You can see the muzzle flashes.'
A moment later a shell came down in the field just fifty yards to their right, sending up a huge fountain of earth. From behind, the men shouted as bits of stone and mud landed on and among them.
'Damn it!' shouted Tanner. 'I didn't even hear that coming. What the hell was it?'
'Everyone all right?' yelled Peploe.
'Keep bloody driving, Stan,' said Tanner. 'We need to get into this village quickly.'
The road led them down to where tightly packed buildings on each side of the street shielded them from enemy gunners. It wound left, then right out of the village, still hidden from the crest of the brow ahead by trees and banks.
'We're going to have to stop, sir,' said Tanner. 'We won't get much further in these.'
Peploe nodded. 'Pull in before the end of that line of trees, Corporal,' he said to Sykes.
The road was sunken, running between ten-foot-high verges at either side. The men got out of the trucks, then, in sections, spread out either side, and walked briskly up the gently rising ridge. As they reached the Arras-Doullens road, they stopped. Inching forward with Peploe, Tanner took out his binoculars. A track, lined by hedges, led up to a farm, about two-thirds of a mile ahead. To the left of that there was a clump of trees. The enemy guns they had to capture were somewhere within it. Tanner breathed in deeply. It was possible, he reckoned. Just about. But it wouldn't be easy.
Chapter 16
It had been around three o'clock when Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had first heard the sounds of battle to the north - dull thumps, the faint rip of machine-gun fire - and immediately his heartbeat had picked up. An impatient sense of anticipation gripped him. Where were the enemy? What was happening? He experienced a stab of irritation that, yet again, 7th Panzer might be getting all the action. They had been instructed to follow Totenkopf Infantry Regiment 3 with the battalion's Panzer 38s, but infantry and artillery units of 7th Panzer were also using the same narrow roads and, with the additional weight of refugees, progress had been agonizingly slow. For several hours they had been forced to wait in the village of Mercatel, a few miles south of Arras, until Regiment 3 appeared.
The reconnaissance battalion had made the most of the wait to refuel and collect more ammunition for their tanks from a pre-prepared supply dump. Once Timpke had overseen this, however, there had been nothing to do but wait in the village square. The smell of petrol, diesel and hastily heated rations filled the still air. He stood by his command car, an olive-grey French Army Citroen, taken the previous day in Solesmes, watching with mounting frustration as the gunfire came closer. The tepid coffee in his tin cup rippled with every boom, and he could feel the explosions pulsing beneath his feet.
He was drumming his fingers on the roof of the car and smoking French cigarettes - he had run out of Turkish - when another staff car pulled in alongside him, the rubber tyres rolling noisily across the cobbles. An army major stepped out of the passenger seat and asked for a light. 'We're not used to moving in such a big force,' he explained, gesturing towards the vehicles crawling through the village as Timpke pulled out his lighter. 'Two divisions are on the move today - so far it's been one regiment spearheading at any one time - so there's a lot more traffic than usual.' Some infantrymen were shouting at a family in a cart, trying to cross the road at the far end of the square. 'And too many damned refugees,' he added.
'Shoot at them,' Timpke suggested. 'I find that gets them moving.'
The major looked aghast. Then, clearly having decided that Timpke was joking, broke into a smile. 'Perhaps we should.'
'You should,' said Timpke, flatly. 'It would save a lot of time.'
The major smiled again, thanked him for the light, then got back into his car and drove on.
Regiment 3 arrived soon after and, having cut in front of a company of 7th Panzer infantry, Timpke's reconnaissance force followed on behind. As they progressed into open farmland beyond the village, he could see clear to Arras, some six kilometres to the north-east. A large formation of bombers thundered over and attacked the city. Black puffs of anti-aircraft barrage dotted the sky, then mushrooms of smoke rolled into the air as the bombs detonated. Nearer, though, he could hear tank and artillery exchanges. Suddenly, from over a shallow r
idge behind them, a number of tanks appeared and opened fire at the column of vehicles behind them. Timpke found himself flinching as an ammunition truck blew up less than a kilometre back, the jagged sound catching him by surprise. So, too, he saw, did Kemmetmuler, sitting beside him.
'A flank attack,' said Kemmetmuler. 'What's going on? I thought we were the ones attacking.'
There was pandemonium as vehicle after vehicle was hit. Artillery and anti-tank crews tried frantically to unhitch their guns and retaliate. Above, a Feisler Storch lolled over and dropped a small canister.
'A message!' said Timpke. 'Stop!' From the scout car behind them, one of his men hurried over to where it lay in a field of young wheat. He found it soon enough and ran back and handed it to Timpke. He unscrewed the tin, pulled out the note and read, Strong enemy armoured forces advancing. 'I think we'd already gathered that.' He screwed up the piece of paper. 'The idiots. Wait here, Kemmetmuler.' He jumped out of the Citroen, slamming the door behind him, and hurried over to the scout car. 'What's the news, Schultz?
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