'Someone scarpering?' asked McAllister.
'Hopefully to fetch some bloody relief,' muttered Tanner.
'It's not looking good, is it, Sarge?' said Sykes. 'We should all bloody well scarper if you ask me.'
Tanner sighed. 'I know, but we've been given specific orders to stay.'
Fighting continued in the wood, while mortars fell regularly on the village. Several houses were burning, so the crisp night air grew heavy with smoke. Apart from occasional bursts of machine-gun fire, the enemy were quiet to the south. Tanner checked on the rest of the men and, as he was doing so, heard engines turning over. None would catch. Again, they whined, like bleating sheep, but none would start. Bloody hell.
'Sounds like our vehicles are on the blink, sir,' he said, as he reached the lieutenant once more.
'I might go and find out what's happening,' said Peploe. 'It seems pointless to stay here.'
'Who exactly is in charge, sir? Who gave the orders to stay put?'
'I'm not sure. I was given my orders by Captain Barclay.' As though this had confirmed his thoughts, he said, 'Yes, I'm going to head back quickly into the village. See what's what. All right with you?'
'Yes, sir. Good idea.'
Peploe slipped away, but was back within twenty minutes.
'I saw Captain Barclay,' said Peploe breathlessly. 'He's in a bit of a dither, I'm afraid. Colonel Beart's been found - he's wounded in the leg and should be all right - but Captain Barclay's now the most senior fit and able officer. They think Captain Dixon's dead and the OC of D Company's missing. Anyway, the posts have been forced out of the wood, so to the east and south-east there's just a skeleton force holding the perimeter of the village.'
'And us.'
'Yes.'
'What about the vehicles?'
'That's what's really got the OC. They won't start. It seems someone's taken the rotor arms out of the distributors.'
'Sabotage. Must be one of the prisoners. What's happened to them?'
'I don't know. I must admit, I'd forgotten about them.' 'And where the bloody hell are Blackstone and Slater?'
'Presumably still guarding the prisoners. They weren't with Captain Barclay.'
'Damn it all,' muttered Tanner. 'Does the OC have a plan?'
'He does now.' Peploe chuckled. 'Did you hear that vehicle go off about half an hour ago?'
'Yes.'
'It was an armoured car - one of the DLI's - attempting to get help, or so the OC told me. I suggested to him that we wait here until midnight and if there's still no sign of help we evacuate on foot.'
'And he agreed?'
'Er, not entirely.'
Tanner sighed. 'Bloody hell. And I'm absolutely starving.'
'Here,' said Peploe, passing him his hip-flask. 'I managed to get a refill in Givenchy. Nothing like as good as the single malt I brought out with me, but when in Rome, eh?'
Tanner took a swig. 'What is it, sir?' he asked.
'Calvados. It's French - made from apples.' He took a swig himself. 'Cheers, Sergeant. Here's to getting out alive.'
Tanner's exhaustion was growing but he knew he had to keep awake and alert, and make sure the men did too. Twice he shook Hepworth, while he had to cajole, back- slap and urge the others to think not of food and sleep but of Jerries pouncing on them if they weren't watchful. Time seemed to have slowed, and he found himself repeatedly looking at his watch. Desultory mortar fire fell on the village, but otherwise the front remained quiet.
Yet with every passing minute, Tanner felt sure their chances of escape were melting away. His cheek still hurt, his lip kept splitting and his ribs - no, his entire body - ached. Fighting was tiring. What wouldn't he do for a bed?
Eleven o'clock passed, then eleven thirty. So no one's coming. But then, just before midnight, they heard the tell-tale squeak and rumble of tanks approaching the village from the north.
'Hear that, sir?' said Tanner.
'Yes,' said Peploe. 'What do you think? Friend or foe?'
'I'm hoping it's the bloody cavalry - if it's Jerry, he's acting out of character.'
'Well, you go this time, Tanner.'
'All right, sir.'
'Fingers crossed.'
Tanner hurried down the road, exhaustion forgotten. The centre of the village glowed from another burning house so that the vehicles, dark and looming, were silhouetted against the flickering light. Several Durham men stood around, smoking and flinching every time another mortar hurtled over.
'Seen any officers?' Tanner asked them.
'Your skipper's in the church, mate,' said one.
The sound of tanks grew louder, then Tanner heard other vehicles rumbling with them. He ran down the road, and there, two hundred yards ahead, a column of tanks was approaching, their bulky shapes silhouetted against the now dull glow of the sky. Not British but French. He recognized them as the same models he had seen earlier that day in Neuville-St-Vaast. Thank God. He turned and ran to the church.
He found Captain Barclay sitting on a pew at the front. A number of candles had been lit.
'Sir?' said Tanner.
'Sergeant Tanner,' said Barclay. 'I was just trying to think and, er, offering a few prayers. Silly, probably, but I thought it might help.' He scratched the back of his neck.
'It might have done, sir. Some French tanks are here.'
'Really?' said Barclay, surprised. 'I must say, I'd always hoped there was a God.' He tapped his foot on the stone floor. 'There's a bunch of civvies down below, you know. They've been praying all night.'
When Tanner and Captain Barclay hurried outside, the tanks were in the centre of the village, and rolled to a halt by the other vehicles.
'Bonsoir.' A French officer saluted. 'We heard you were in difficulty,' he said in English, 'so we have come to take you out.'
'But my orders are to stay here and defend this village,' Barclay replied.
Tanner clutched his head in exasperation. 'But, sir, we haven't got a hope of holding out.' He counted six tanks and two tracked troop carriers. 'There are two entire enemy divisions out there.'
Barclay ignored him. Instead he turned to the Frenchman and asked, 'Where have you come from?'
'From Duisans. A German tank formation attacked from the north-east but they have moved further east now. Your battalion is still holding the village but they will be falling back soon, I think.'
'And what are your orders?'
The French officer shrugged. 'To help you.'
'Very well. We stay.'
'Sir - please,' said Tanner.
'No, Tanner. I'm the senior officer and those are my orders. Our armoured attack will no doubt take place in the morning. If we lose this ground they'll have to start all over again.'
'But, sir, how do you know there's going to be any more armour?'
'These boys are here, aren't they?' Barclay snapped. 'Now get back to your platoon, Sergeant.'
A renewed barrage of mortar fire fell on the village as Tanner loped back up the road. At one point, he flung himself to the ground as a mortar crashed forty yards from him. Then another building was burning, angry flames crackling into the sky.
'It's madness, sir,' he told Peploe, on his return. 'We're getting stonked to hell, all part of Jerry's softening-up process. Keeps us awake, hopefully causes a few casualties and frays nerves. At first light they'll send over some Stukas, and when they've gone they'll storm the place with all guns blazing. To stay here now is suicide.'
'All right, Tanner,' said Peploe, 'but this is a hell of a stonk. I reckon we're safer here than in the village. Let's wait for it to die down and then I'll talk to Captain Barclay.'
Mortars continued to rain on the village and more houses blazed. Tanner's agitation and anger grew. He knew the men felt much the same.
'This is madness, Sarge,' said Bell. 'Let's pack up and get the hell out of here.'
'Calm down, Tinker,' he said, moving on down the line.
'I'm cold and damp, tired and hungry, Sarge,' said Sykes. '
I wouldn't mind so much if I could see the point of it. Has the OC gone mad, then?'
'God knows.'
But at one a.m. news came that they were to move back into the village. One of the French carriers rumbled forward to hitch up the twenty-pounder while, muttering and cursing, the Rangers walked back down the road, rifles at the ready, circling regularly to check that no one was following them. At least a dozen houses were now ablaze and the centre of the village was lit up as though by gas-lamp. One of the captured SS trucks was also burning, destroyed by a direct hit. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and rubber.
Men were taking cover by the vehicles, some DLI, others from 11 Platoon. Peploe told the men to wait and set off in search of Captain Barclay.
'Bloody hell, Sarge,' said Sykes, beside him. 'We need to get everyone together and bugger off sharpish. Where's old Barclay?'
'God knows,' said Tanner. He lit one of Timpke's cigarettes. 'And where's Blackstone? I can't believe he's been patiently guarding those SS-wallahs all this time.'
'There's one way to find out,' said Sykes.
Another mortar crashed near the church as they hurried across the road and into the yard. The place was dark, the glow of the flames shielded there by the walls and height of the barn. Slowly, Tanner pushed open the wooden door, which creaked on its hinges. 'Hello?' he called. Silence answered him.
'They've been moved, I reckon,' said Sykes.
'Hang on, Stan. What's that smell?' He felt into his pack, took out his torch and switched it on.
'Oh, my God,' said Sykes. 'Christ alive, what's happened here?'
'They've been shot, Stan. They've been bloody shot.'
'You mean murdered, Sarge.'
Tanner shone his torch across the prostrate bodies. Buttons undone, pockets rifled. Jesus.
'Blackstone?' said Sykes.
'Who the bloody hell else would have done it?' Tanner snapped. 'That bastard - that absolute bastard! And where the hell is he?' He strode out of the barn and back across the yard.
Two more mortars fell, one a short way behind them, another further on. Tanner ducked, but continued towards the vehicles. Barclay was there now, cowering beside one of the French tanks, Peploe too. The French officer was gesticulating - Let's go, Monsieur Capitaine.
'Sir,' Tanner said directly to Barclay, 'where are Blackstone and Slater?'
'Good God, man, can't you see I'm busy? How the devil should I know?'
'Sir,' insisted Tanner, 'they had taken charge of the prisoners. But they're not in the barn. The prisoners are and they've been shot, sir.'
'What the devil are you talking about?' said Barclay.
'Oh, Christ, no,' said Peploe. 'All of them?'
'Yes,' said Tanner. 'Every single one.'
'Show me.' Peploe turned to Barclay. 'Sir, you should come too.'
Tanner saw the panic in Barclay's face. The OC was struggling - it was clear as day. He doesn't know what to do. And now this.
'Yes - yes, all right,' he snapped. His right eyelid was twitching.
They ran back across the road and over to the barn. Once more, Tanner shone his torch upon the dead SS men.
'No,' murmured Peploe. Barclay retched and vomited,
then left them. Tanner and Peploe followed, but he waved them away, hurrying back across the road. Tanner watched him lean against one of the German half-tracks, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. Then he took a swig from his water-bottle, straightened and went to the tanks.
'Sir?' said Peploe, walking towards him.
'What, Lieutenant?' Barclay's hand gripped the edge of the French tank.
'The best part of forty Germans have been shot. What are we going to do about it?'
'We're going to leave.'
'But I thought you wanted to stay here.'
'I've changed my mind. We'll withdraw. Back to Chateau Duisans. Help round up the men.'
'But, sir, we can't just leave those bodies there.'
'And what else do you propose we do, Lieutenant? Bury them? How long will that take?'
'But you must find out who did this. Those men were murdered, sir.'
'Yes, but what can I do about it?' He was shaking now, his voice rising. 'We're being mortared like mad and we've lost God knows how many men. I simply can't think about that now.'
'Sir, when Tanner left those men, the CSM and Sergeant Slater were guarding them.'
Barclay looked at him with a mixture of anger and incredulity. 'Blackstone? You're saying he did this? He wasn't responsible.' He turned to Tanner. 'I do hope, Sergeant, that this is not some warped retaliation for what happened earlier.'
'Sir, really,' said Peploe. 'Sergeant Tanner hasn't accused anyone. But where are they? You have to admit it's odd they're not here.'
'Not at all,' said Barclay. 'I sent them back with Lieutenant Worthington from A Company and four of his men an hour or more ago. They took the DLI's armoured car. Worthington thought he and his little group were the only survivors of A Company. I told him he should try to get help, but he seemed a bit washed out so I told Blackstone and Slater to go with them. I wanted someone I know and trust for such a task. And, frankly, it seems to have paid off because our French friends have now arrived.'
'That doesn't mean anything, sir,' said Peploe.
'Look here,' said Barclay, prodding Peploe in the chest, 'you listen to me. Those men are dead and I cannot undo that, but I have to make sure as many of our troops get out of here as possible. That's my main concern, not the fate of forty enemy dead. You may not approve, but I can't help that. Now, get your men ready, Lieutenant. Check the far side of the church and chateau grounds for stragglers. We leave in five minutes.'
Peploe glared at Barclay. 'Yes, sir,' he said, and shouted to the men to load themselves onto the tanks and into the carriers. Tanner began to follow, then ran to the church and into the manor-house gardens. One of the outbuildings was on fire. Moving between the trees to the edge of the house, he saw figures and shouted, only to realize they were not British but German. Running for the cover of a tree, he crouched and peered around. The light of the flames was in front of him, not behind. Inexperienced enemy troops had not grasped that they were silhouetted in perfect clarity. He could see them, moving forward, half crouching between the trees. How far away were they? Forty yards? He unslung the sub-machine-gun and glanced at the length of the muzzle. It wouldn't be much use at distances of more than that but at thirty yards, he reckoned, it should do the job perfectly. 'Come on,' he whispered to himself. There were only a few - ten, perhaps, a patrol, nothing more. Cautiously, they continued forward, and then, when the lead man was just ten yards away, Tanner stepped around the tree and opened fire. He saw four men drop immediately while others dived for cover. He took a grenade from his haversack, pulled the pin and hurled it. Seconds later it exploded and a man cried out. Tanner fired another burst then ran back, through the trees and bushes, past the church until he saw the six tanks and carriers. Another mortar shell crashed behind him, near the church, but he barely flinched. He saw Sykes and Hepworth clinging to one of the tanks and Sykes held out an arm. The engines were running, clouds of exhaust fumes mixing with smoke and cordite.
'Come on, Sarge!' Sykes shouted. Tanner gripped his hand and hauled himself aboard the iron body of the tank. A moment later, it jolted and moved off.
'Not before time,' said Tanner, breathing heavily. 'Not before bloody time.'
Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke had watched their departure. He had hidden in an abandoned house opposite the vehicles. It had a strong, deep cellar in which he had sheltered during quiet periods, while on the ground floor there was an open window from which he could see and hear what was going on without being spotted.
A short while before he had been congratulating himself for successfully disabling the vehicles - it had been almost ridiculously easy. No one had been around - no guards - and it had been dark, too, unlike now with so many houses blazing. Then, to his annoyance, he had heard first one, then two
vehicles start up and head northwards. He had not spotted them earlier - they must have been parked in a different part of the village. Nonetheless, he had remained optimistic that the bulk of the small British garrison would be trapped.
Such hopes had fallen away when the French tanks had turned up. However, watching from an open ground- floor window, Timpke had followed events with mounting incomprehension. Why had those Tommies not left immediately? Then he had seen the officer in charge and had recognized a man promoted beyond his capabilities. The fool had been paralysed by the weight of responsibility on his shoulders and unable to make a decision.
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