Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  Then the dead prisoners had been discovered, and from that moment on, the Tommy officer had not been able to leave soon enough. He's walking away from it. Timpke's anger had risen once more. He had seen Tanner standing beside two officers and then, as men had loaded themselves onto the tanks, run off towards the church and disappear from view. As the engines started and still he saw no sign of Tanner, his hopes rose. He was sure he had heard gunfire from beyond the church, but then that tall figure had emerged from the gloom, running towards the tanks. An arm was outstretched and Tanner had scrambled on.

  'No!' hissed Timpke to himself. 'No!' In a kind of stupor, he had walked out of the house and stood in the middle of the road, watching the last of the vehicles disappear from view, until all he could hear of them was the faint squeak and rattle of tracks. Then a mortar shell whistled over and landed on the roof of the big barn where so many of his dead comrades still lay. A moment later, a second and then a third followed. In what seemed like no time at all, the building was aglow, angry flames rising from the broken roof, wooden timbers cracking and spitting.

  Timpke felt the rotor arms in his tunic pocket under his camouflage smock. At least he had his vehicles back, but that was small consolation. Only one thing would give him peace, and that was revenge. Revenge for his humiliation. Revenge for his dead comrades. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.

  It was a slow journey. Near the edge of the village, the survivors from Warlus had had to stop to clear burning debris from the road but, thankfully, they had met no resistance. It was still dark by the time they reached Duisans, but the stench of battle was heavy on the air. The chateau and village were now deserted; whatever had remained of B and C Companies had clearly fallen back.

  On they trundled, back up the ridge that ran between Duisans and Maroeuil where earlier they had seen British tanks advancing. By the time they rumbled into Neuville-St-Vaast, the first streaks of dawn were creeping over the horizon. Smoke still drifted over Arras, but the distant tower of the belfry still stood. Despite the discomfort of sitting on the back of a moving French tank in the crisp cold of early dawn, Tanner dozed, imagining a big plate of bacon, egg and bread fried in beef dripping, as he and his father had eaten when he was a boy. When he woke again, it was nearly six and they had driven back over Vimy Ridge and come to a halt in Vimy village.

  Seventy-four men and officers were all that remained of nearly three infantry companies, an anti-tank battery and a carrier platoon. Exhausted, they slid off the tanks, scrambled out of the carriers and collapsed at the side of the road. Men milled about. Vehicles - trucks, carriers and several cars - lined the road beneath a row of young horse-chestnuts. Tanner smoked the last of Timpke's cigarettes as Captain Barclay and the lieutenant headed off towards Brigade Headquarters.

  'What happens now?' Sykes asked Tanner. It would be another sunny day, and the air was filled with birdsong.

  'God knows. Hopefully get some grub.' Several of the men were already asleep, stretched out on the dewy grass beneath the horse-chestnuts. Tanner wondered when the fighting would start again. Enemy bombers would be over soon, and those two German divisions would be gearing themselves up for the next surge forward. It was supposed to have been a counter-attack - an attempt to push the enemy back, but here they were, one day on, in exactly the same place as they had started, but with good men dead, wounded and taken prisoner. In their own company, they were now down to just two officers; 11 Platoon were short of eighteen men - half their number. He wondered whether Timpke had been among the dead in the barn; he'd not seen him, but then again he'd not looked that hard either. But, Christ, all those bodies. Prisoners were a pain in the backside when you were busy fighting, but killing them in cold blood - he could barely believe it, even now. He closed his eyes. No doubt Blackstone would turn up, winking and slapping the lads on the back, everyone's mate. The murdered Germans would be swept under the carpet while the accusations of rape would be brought to the fore. And, overhead, the Luftwaffe would be swirling, diving and dropping their bombs. Damn them. Barclay was a bloody fool. How could he not see through Blackstone? Good leadership required many things but the ability to judge character was one; another was the guts to take clear-headed decisions. Squadron Leader Lyell had been right: the captain was a hopeless soldier.

  Sykes nudged him now. 'The lieutenant's coming.'

  Tanner glanced up and saw Peploe approaching.

  'Tanner,' he said, 'come with me a moment, will you?'

  Tanner stood up and went to him. Dark circles surrounded Peploe's eyes and a growth of gingery beard covered his chin. It was amazing, Tanner thought, how much fighting a war aged people.

  'Captain Barclay wants to talk to us,' said Peploe, 'with Blackstone.'

  'Bloody hell.'

  'He wants to clear the air.'

  Tanner eyed him, expecting to see an ironic smile, but the lieutenant's face was set hard.

  They found Captain Barclay and CSM Blackstone standing outside a bar that had evidently been requisitioned as part of 151st Brigade's headquarters.

  'Ah, there you are,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth. His eyelid flickered and he rubbed it self-consciously.

  'Morning, Jack,' said Blackstone. 'How's the head?' He circled a finger around his own face.

  Tanner didn't answer. 'You wanted to see me, sir.'

  'Yes, all three of you, actually,' said Barclay. 'We've had a difficult twenty-four hours and we've probably got some difficult days ahead. Jerry's snapping at our heels and we've lost some damn good men.'

  Tanner wished he'd get to the point.

  'Now, I know that you, Tanner, and the CSM are not exactly friends, but I want you to bury the hatchet. I don't want to hear any more about this girl or the dead prisoners.'

  'But, sir,' interrupted Peploe, 'you can't just sweep it under the table. Forty men were murdered.'

  Barclay smoothed his moustache. 'Blackstone has given me his solemn word that neither he nor Slater had anything to do with it, and his word is good enough for me.'

  'But Tanner's word wasn't good enough for you yesterday morning.'

  'I've told you, Lieutenant, that I consider both matters closed.'

  'We handed over guarding the prisoners to some of the DLI lads,' said Blackstone.

  'Who?' Peploe asked. 'Don't you think we should be speaking to their commanding officer?'

  'Colonel Beart's been sent to hospital,' said Blackstone.

  'For God's sake, someone must have taken over - Major McLaren. He was second in command yesterday. Sir, war or not, it was an appalling crime that cannot go unpunished. I mean, damn it, I thought we were fighting to stop the tyranny of the Nazis. Condone this and we prove ourselves no better than they are.'

  'Peploe, my dear fellow,' said Barclay, attempting a more placatory approach, 'the Durhams have lost nearly half their men. Their OC is in hospital and two company commanders are in the bag. I hear Sixth Battalion has suffered similar losses. How well do you think it will go down if we march in there accusing their men of slaughtering forty Nazis - and, let's face it, they were all SS men, the very worst of the worst. I know this probably sounds a bit cold-hearted but, personally, I can't help feeling the world is better off without them.'

  Tanner saw the flush in Peploe's cheeks. The lieutenant's jaw tightened and for a moment Tanner wondered whether he should simply steer him away before he did something he might later regret.

  'Shame on you, sir,' said Peploe at last. He swallowed hard. 'Because we are at war and because of the situation we find ourselves in, I will continue to serve under you to the best of my ability. But I want you to know, here and now, that when we get home I shall be reporting this disgraceful episode and I will make sure the perpetrators are caught and that justice is done.'

  'That, of course, is your prerogative,' said Barclay, stiffly. 'But now I want you, fanner, and you, Blackstone, to shake hands.'

  Blackstone thrust out his hand, smiling amiably at Tanner.

  'Christ alive,'
muttered Peploe.

  'Tanner?' said Barclay.

  'Is it an order, sir?'

  'Yes, damn it, it is.'

  Tanner held out his hand and felt Blackstone's grip it.

  'Good,' said Barclay, smiling at last. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?' He stuffed his pipe back into his mouth, relit it, and then, as sweet-smelling tobacco wafted around him, he said, 'Now we've got that straight, I can give you our orders. We're to join the line between here and the Canadian war memorial on the left of Eighth DLI, or what remains of them. They're covering the line all the way up to Givenchy.' He cleared his throat. 'We lost a lot of tanks yesterday and there's going to be no more offensive action for the time being. Our job is to stop the enemy getting any further.'

  'I thought we were going to rejoin the rest of the battalion, sir,' said Tanner.

  'Nothing doing, I'm afraid. They're still down on the Scarpe to the east of Arras, but with the DLI's losses, we're to stay and help them. In any case, we no longer have any M/T.'

  'And what about food?' asked Tanner. 'The lads haven't had anything since yesterday morning.'

  'Eighth DLI's B Echelon have set up a kitchen a short way back up the road in the wood. We've been ordered to pass through it, rather than using roads - Brigade's expecting heavy air attacks. We're to pick up rations on the way to our positions. All clear?'

  Tanner and Peploe nodded.

  'Oh, and one last thing,' added Barclay, 'I've made CSM Blackstone Eleven Platoon commander. He's taking over from Lieutenant Bourne-Arton with immediate effect.'

  Tanner willed himself not to look at the triumph on Blackstone's face, but something within compelled him to do so. Standing a little way behind Barclay, Blackstone lit a cigarette and, as Tanner glanced at him, he smiled and winked - just as Tanner had known he would.

  Chapter 19

  Four thirty p.m., Thursday, 23 May: orders had arrived that D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers, along with A and D Companies of 8th Battalion, the Durham Light Infantry, were to move out of the young woods at Petit Vimy along the ridge to Givenchy, and from there to join the line on the right of the rest of 8th Battalion to the north-west of the village.

  It was raining, and had been since mid-morning, alternating between drizzle and a heavier, more persistent downpour. Some of the men wore their green oilskin anti-gas capes as mackintoshes, but Tanner felt too restricted in his so he had put on his leather jerkin. It meant his body was dry still but the damp serge of his trousers and battle-blouse sleeves scratched his skin.

  The weather did nothing to improve his mood. Being forced to shake Blackstone's hand had been a humiliation too far. Back at Manston he had promised himself he would make no concessions until he felt the man had earned his respect and trust. Now he had been ordered to renege on that vow and forced to shake hands with a man who, two days before, had had him beaten up, who had accused him of rape, and who had possibly shot more than forty prisoners in cold blood. A man, he had once felt certain, who had already tried to kill him at least twice before. To make matters worse, Barclay had made it quite clear that he felt Tanner and Lieutenant Peploe were being difficult and churlish, rather than Blackstone. Tanner had not expected effusive praise, but he felt he had acquitted himself well enough on the twenty-first; he and the platoon had done everything asked of them, and more. In contrast, Blackstone had kept his head down and scuttled off at the first available opportunity. That alone had hardly merited promotion.

  Blackstone had clearly been preying on Peploe's mind too. The lieutenant had made no secret of his disgust. 'I shouldn't be saying this to you, Tanner,' he had fumed, as they had walked back to rejoin the platoon, 'but the OC is treating this like some bloody playground spat. I swear on all I hold dear that I will not let this matter drop. When we get home, I'm going to make sure it's properly investigated.' Since then, Peploe had been subdued, not at all the cheerful, easy-going man Tanner had come to like and respect.

  In truth, however, it was not only Blackstone and the weather: for nearly two days now they had heard increasingly heavy gunfire to the south, from the eastern side of Arras, where they supposed the rest of the battalion were still dug in, and from far to the west. Moreover, it seemed that the Luftwaffe had singled them out for particular punishment. Enemy aircraft had buzzed over almost continually. Already that day they had been dive- bombed twice. The trees of the young wood, just twenty years old, had offered some protection, as had their hastily dug slit trenches, but the attacks grated on the nerves. Every time a Stuka dived, screaming, or a Junkers 88 flew over, roaring, the men crouched into the earth - which was wet and muddy with all the rain - and prayed no bomb would land on them. Lethal shards of splintered wood and shrapnel hissed over their heads, while clods of soil and fragments of stone clattered on top of them, rattling their steel helmets and working their way down the back of their necks.

  They had seen no British or French aircraft.

  'Where's bloody Lyell and his lot?' Sykes had muttered at one point. 'Surely he's back by now?'

  'Just like sodding Norway,' McAllister had complained. 'Why does Jerry always seem to have more of everything than us?'

  'Search me,' said Sykes.

  'I'll tell you what's really getting on my nerves,' McAllister had said. 'It's this place. Graves everywhere and sodding shell-holes. The sooner we're out of here the better. Gives me the creeps.'

  Tanner agreed. His father had fought nearby and wouldn't have thought much about his son being bombed on the same stretch of troubled land that had been battled over some twenty years earlier. Through the trees near Petit Vimy, they had seen the tall, white Canadian war memorial. It was a stark reminder that Tanner could have done without.

  And they were losing - the German gains could no longer be seen as mere temporary setbacks; rather, Tanner recognized, the British had most probably been plunged into an irreversible defeat. He had sensed it in Norway, and he sensed it again now. Of course, he had little idea of what was really going on, but he'd put money on it that few of the top brass did either. There never seemed to be enough forces in the right place to stem the flow. Lieutenant Peploe had told him they would be attacking south of Arras with a composite force of more than two divisions, but there had been nothing of the sort. As far as he had been able to tell, there had been two infantry battalions, a handful of tanks and some field and anti-tank guns. Where had the rest been? And what could they possibly achieve now? They were sitting on this ridge, supported by a few anti-tank guns, being bombed and blasted and waiting for Jerry to bring himself up to strength. It was hopeless.

  It was still raining as they set off, in companies, platoons and sections, heads bowed and gas capes glistening, through the woods towards Givenchy. They passed across the Canadian national park, with its warnings of unexploded shells, then wove past the memorial and towards Givenchy. As they trudged down the ridge, Tanner noticed an anti-tank gun battery to the south-east of the village, below the memorial, and was struck by how poorly camouflaged it was. An easy spot for any reconnaissance plane, even on a rainy day.

  It was as though the Luftwaffe had read his thoughts. They were nearing the edge of the village when he heard the familiar rumble of aero-engines, faint at first, then growing rapidly in volume, until two dozen Junkers 88s swooped low out of the cloud. 'Take cover!' he shouted. Men flung themselves into the sodden grassy bank at the side of the road. A moment later, bombs were falling, a brief whistle then an ear-splitting crash as they exploded. Tanner lay on the trembling ground, his hands over his ears. A bigger detonation now ripped the air. More bombs whistled. One man was screaming. Some in the village were firing, shooting rifles and Brens. The ground shuddered again and Tanner pressed his head to it, breathing in the scent of wet grass and earth.

  The bombers were soon gone, disappearing into the cloud. Tanner, with the rest of the men, got to his feet, brushing off damp blades of grass, and gazed at the village, now shrouded in a veil of dust and smoke. Several houses were burning,
flames flickering through the haze. In the centre of the village a column of angry black smoke swirled. Cries and shouts could be heard.

  Up ahead, from A and D Companies, orders were barked. Blackstone gave the command for the Rangers to fall in, and they stood there for a few minutes, watching the flames, hearing timber burn and masonry collapse while Captain Barclay went forward for further instructions. He reappeared a short while later, his face set, and spoke with Blackstone and Peploe.

  'What's happening, sir?' Tanner asked, as Peploe rejoined the platoon.

  'A and D Companies are moving into position cross-country avoiding the village. We're to go in and help clear up.'

  'Better than sitting still in the rain, I suppose.'

  In places it was hard to get through. A number of houses had disintegrated, rubble spewing across the road. The men worked their way around it and eventually reached the centre of the village. The church was still intact, but half a dozen homes around it had been destroyed. Choking dust and smoke filled the air. Tanner wetted his handkerchief, then tied it round his mouth, encouraging the others to do the same. Near the square, where he had been attacked three days before, the blackened skeletal frame of a truck smouldered while at either end of it two more vehicles were ablaze. A sudden gust swept down the street and the flames leaped, black smoke billowing into the sky. Soldiers and civilians were coughing and stumbling about, disoriented. An officer - a signals captain from 5th Division - was scrabbling at bits of fallen brickwork. 'Come on, give me a bloody hand!' he yelled. 'My men are under this lot.'