Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  'You mean the evacuation, my lord?'

  'Yes, Henry, I do. We've talked about it as a possibility, but now it's a necessity. I've no doubt we'll still lose a great many men, but we have to think about getting our forces to the coast, making sure that as many as possible are lifted off the beaches and taken safely back to Britain. A staged withdrawal to the coast - here.' He stood up and pointed to the stretch between Dunkirk and Nieuport on the wall map. 'We might have stemmed the flow for a while, but we must be realistic. We cannot stay here in northern France without being surrounded - Hitler's tanks aren't going to lie idle. His armies are closing in on the Belgians and they've got Calais in the bag. There's no other direction for us to go.' He stroked his chin. 'You know, Henry, it's funny but for days past - and particularly the last few hours – I’ve been agonizing over the right thing for us to do. I’ve felt quite paralysed, if I'm honest. But now everything seems perfectly clear. It's time to look after ourselves. It's our only course.'

  Chapter 20

  Three a.m., Monday, 27 May. In driving rain, D Company clambered aboard three trucks of 8th Battalion's Troop Carrying Company, parked, with engines running, in the main square at the north end of Carvin. They were thirty- hundredweight Bedford OYs, large enough to take the forty-eight remaining Rangers plus a section from 8th DLI.

  'Come up front with me, Tanner,' said Peploe, holding the dark green door open for him.

  Silently, Tanner hauled himself aboard, rain dripping from his tin hat, his MP35 clanging against the door frame as he settled on the canvas seat. There was a musty smell - of damp canvas, oil, rubber and stale tobacco - but at least it was dry in the cab. He thought of the men at the back of the truck, the open canvas covering. Hepworth would be cursing.

  'Leave the window open, will you, mate?' said the driver, an RASC corporal. 'Otherwise we'll get steamed up in here.'

  Rain continued to spatter Tanner's face. From the south a gun boomed, but it was quieter again now: the Germans had never liked fighting at night.

  'Where are we going, Corporal?' asked Peploe.

  'Steenvoorde, sir. It's not too far - forty miles at most. As long as the roads aren't too clogged we should be there for breakfast.'

  A few shouts and barked orders came from the squares, then the corporal ground the truck into gear and they lurched forward. Tanner smoked a cigarette, then took off his helmet, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes. His body was jolted by the movement of the lorry, his ears alive to the thrum of the engine and the rhythmic squeak of the wipers.

  It had been a day and a half of orders and counter- orders. Late on the twenty-fifth, they had been stood down, the attack across the canal cancelled, with no explanation as to why. Of course, they had been relieved, but Tanner had felt irritated too - all that tension and apprehension for nothing. But something had been afoot, for all night heavy shelling had continued from both sides of the La Bassee canal, and had continued as dawn had broken. No shells had fallen near their own positions but there had been an enormous explosion to their right. Later they discovered the gasworks at Libercourt had received a direct hit. As the morning had worn on, machine-gun and mortar fire had been heard to the south; rumours had spread that the enemy had crossed the canal and were advancing.

  The Rangers had watched 8th DLI's carrier platoon rumble off, rattling down the main road, heading to the south edge of Carvin. The men were restless and fidgety, especially when the French battalion in the woods opposite had begun to move out. No one had seemed to know what was going on, but all the time the sound of guns and small arms was drawing closer although, in those woods, still frustratingly out of sight. Above, enemy reconnaissance aircraft had circled ominously. Soon the bombers would arrive.

  Orders to move came a little before nine o'clock. They were to head to Camphin a few miles to the north. No sooner had the lead companies moved off along the main road than the dive-bombers had swooped, engines and sirens screaming, dropping their bombs on the column. The Rangers, the last to leave, were unharmed to a man, but several vehicles had been put out of action and the road was badly cratered. Some of the men had been quite shaken. Tanner noticed that a couple - Verity from Sykes's section and Dempster in Cooper's - were a bit bomb happy, cowering more than the others and taking longer to recover their composure. They'd all have to keep an eye on them. Yet it was interesting that a dozen Stukas had attacked their column and only four from A Company had been wounded. Two trucks had been destroyed and another's radiator and front tyres had blown, but the damage had been comparatively light, all things considered. As Tanner was increasingly aware, Stukas were not especially accurate despite their alarming sirens. The biggest inconvenience had been the craters in the road - it had meant they had been ordered to debus and then tramp cross-country on foot while the M/T had been forced to risk going through the centre of Carvin, which had been coming under regular and heavy shellfire.

  They had reached Camphin in one piece, and, at last, out of range of enemy guns. Immediately the men had been ordered to dig in yet again, at the edge of the village, but after they'd made slit trenches, new orders arrived. The Rangers were to join B Company of 8th DLI and occupy Provin, a village a few miles to the west where 9th DLI were now based. With the men grumbling about pointless digging, they set off again. When they finally reached Provin, there had been no sign of 9th so they had been sent back to Carvin, where the rest of 8th was now attacking beside the French and a couple of platoons from 5th Leicesters who had somehow become detached from the rest of their unit.

  Footsore, hungry and in no state to fight, the Rangers had reached the edge of Carvin as a storm broke overhead. Guns boomed, their reports mixing with the cracks of thunder. In the pouring rain, the Durham and Yorkshire men had headed south towards the fighting, scrambling over the rubble and fallen masonry of destroyed houses. The shriek of shells could now be heard, whooshing like speeding trains through the rain-drenched air. And then, ahead, they had seen trucks and cars, tanks and carriers, all crammed with men.

  'My God, is that the enemy?' Barclay had asked, wiping rain from his face.

  'No, sir,' Tanner had replied. 'They're French.'

  Silently, they had watched them trundle past. Most were Moroccans, who glared at the Tommies. Their officers seemed dejected. Tanner could hardly blame them - their country was falling. Defeat hung in the air. Thunder continued to crack. For the first time since he'd arrived in France, he'd begun to think they might never get out.

  Not long after, the rest of the battalion had fallen back too. Shelling had continued with nightfall but the enemy had not stormed the town, and shortly after midnight, word reached them that they would be pulling out - and this time not falling back a few miles. Rather, they were being transferred to the northern flank. Out of one cauldron and into another.

  Now Tanner sighed and sat up. Through the faint beam of the blinkered headlights, he could see the rain and, just ahead, the tail of the lead truck, with Captain Barclay, Blackstone, the rest of Company Headquarters and 11 Platoon. He had avoided Blackstone as much as possible, which in itself had been frustrating. It wasn't in his nature to shirk confrontation, but dealing with Blackstone was like facing a boxer who forever moved about the ring - always there, in your face, but upon whom it was impossible to land a punch. In truth, they had been on the move so often in the past couple of days that there had been little need for their paths to cross, but Tanner was ever mindful that unfinished business lay between them. He had, however, detected a subtle change in the men's attitude towards the CSM - at least in 12 Platoon. If any of the lads had resented the CSM's early departure from the battlefield at Arras, they had not said so; Blackstone had made it clear to them that it was thanks to him and Slater, bravely dodging roving enemy panzers, that the French tanks and carriers had made it to Warlus to rescue them. Yet Tanner had noticed that the men had been less effusive about him, not so quick to laugh if he stopped to speak to them. Blackstone. Always at the back of his mind,
a menace he was unable to shake off. Tanner thumped a clenched fist into the other palm. Well, they might be losing the battle, but somehow, some way, he would nail him. If it's the last thing I do.

  They reached Steenvoorde at around eight a.m., halting in the cobbled town square. Peploe and Tanner got out of the cab, and while the lieutenant went to speak with Barclay, Tanner ambled to the back of the truck, lighting a cigarette on the way. McAllister was playing cards with Hepworth and Chambers, but most of the others were just sitting on the wooden benches that ran down each side of the carriage. Their faces were dirty and smudged with rain. Those old enough to shave had two days' growth of beard. Clearly they were tired and fed-up.

  'What's going on here, Sarge?' said Sykes, getting down beside him.

  'This is Steenvoorde. It's where we're supposed to be.'

  'Apart from us an' the Durham lads it seems deserted.'

  'Probably some cock-up,' said Tanner. 'Maybe the front's moved.'

  Ten minutes later, Peploe reappeared. 'We're off again,' he said.

  'Where to now, sir?' asked Sykes.

  'Not far. A couple of miles the other side of town.'

  Once they were back in the cab Peploe confided, 'Colonel McLaren's furious. He'd been expecting someone at least to meet us. Apparently some of our boys are at Cassel, a few miles further on, so he's ordered us to dig in and hide up halfway between the two while he tries to find out what on earth's going on.'

  The road between Steenvoorde and Cassel was heavy with refugees, the same sad mass of people trudging to nowhere in particular so long as it was away from the fighting. Slowly the trucks jerked forward.

  'Get out of the bloody way!' yelled the driver, as a cart blocked the road, his cheery bonhomie of the early hours long since gone.

  'Shouting at them's hardly going to help,' said Peploe. 'They're homeless, the poor sods. Here,' he added, taking out his silver cigarette box, 'have a smoke and calm down.'

  'Sorry, sir,' said the corporal, accepting. 'It's so bloody frustrating. I've had it up to here with refugees. If these people had all stayed at home, maybe we'd have been able to get around a bit better, like, and we wouldn't be losing this sodding war.'

  He took them to the edge of a dense wood west of Cassel and there they got out. They were at the end of the line, several hundred yards to the left of A Company. The trucks reversed into an equally clogged track a short distance further on, then turned back in the direction of Steenvoorde. As the Rangers tramped across an open field towards a hedge a hundred yards or so from the road, Tanner watched the vehicles chug slowly through the mass of people.

  They began to dig in yet again, this time in an L shape, facing south and west, behind a hedge on one side and a brook on the other. Soon they heard gunfire to the south-west and west. Once, a cloud of smoke drifted over the wood, but their view of Cassel, and whatever fighting was occurring there, was blocked. In a short time, Tanner and Smailes had dug a two-man slit trench big enough to lie down in. In Norway Tanner had cursed the useless- ness of the latest standard-issue entrenching tool for its lack of pick on the reverse end of the spade, but here, in the rich, soft Flanders clay, it did the job well enough, especially since Tanner had sharpened the edge so that it would cut better through turf. He was also pleased to see Lieutenant Peploe digging his own slit trench again. He was never too proud to get his hands dirty and Tanner liked that in him. 'Do you need a hand, sir?' Tanner asked, his own dug deep enough.

  'It's all right, thanks, Sergeant,' Peploe replied. It was no longer raining and between breaks in the cloud the sun shone warmly. He paused to wipe his brow. 'Go along the line and check the chaps are all right, will you?'

  'Yes, sir.' Tanner wandered down the line of freshly dug trenches, pausing first by McAllister and Chambers.

  'Any idea how long we're here, Sarge?' said McAllister, his Bren already set up.

  'No, Mac. Not the faintest.'

  'It must be time to move on again now, isn't it, Sarge?' said Chambers, manning the Bren with McAllister. 'I mean, now that we've dug in an' all.'

  'Just you keep watching ahead of you, Punter.'

  He walked on, pleased to see how quickly the men had completed the task. They had staggered themselves well, making good use of natural cover; the Brens of each section were positioned in such a way that each gave the other covering fire. And he'd not said a thing. They had done it almost without thinking. Tanner smiled to himself. Three weeks ago, half of these boys had been little more than raw recruits. They were fast becoming soldiers.

  He paused by Verity, who had dug a deeper hole than any of the others and was squatting inside it, his hands clasped around his rifle.

  'Are you all right, Hedley?' Tanner asked him.

  'Fine, Sarge.'

  Tanner offered him a cigarette.

  'Thanks, Sarge,' said Verity, taking it.

  Tanner lit both. 'Do you bowl anything like him, then?'

  'Hedley Verity?' He grinned sheepishly. 'I wish, Sarge. I try, though. I can certainly turn it a bit. Mind you, I've seen him play.'

  'I'd pay good money to do that.'

  'Last summer at Headingley when Yorkshire won the championship for the third time on t' trot,' said Verity, brightening. 'Sarge, it was brilliant. He got a five-for that day. I live in Leeds, see, and it's only a short way to the ground.' His expression dropped. 'Seems like an age ago now.'

  'Well, I've always been a Hampshire supporter, it being the nearest county to Wiltshire.'

  'Wiltshire?' said Verity. 'Is that where you're from?'

  'Born and bred.'

  'So why are you in the Rangers, Sarge?'

  'It's a long story.'

  Verity thought for a moment. Then, smiling once more, he said, 'Well, Sarge, since you're a Ranger, you really should switch allegiance. Yorkshire are the best side in the country by a mile.'

  Tanner patted his shoulder. 'All right, Hedley, maybe I will.'

  As the morning wore on, the enemy shelling grew louder, but by early afternoon it had quietened again as the fighting appeared to move south. The Rangers ate what was left of their half-rations and remained in their positions, waiting.

  'Sir,' Tanner asked Peploe, 'don't you think we should try to find out what's going on? It's too quiet for my liking.'

  Peploe thought about it. 'It's after three,' he said eventually. 'Maybe - yes. Let me go and see the OC.' He returned a short while later with orders for them to sit tight. 'He said someone would have told us if they wanted us to move.'

  But when another hour had passed and there was still no communication from the rest of the 8th DLI, Barclay agreed to send a runner over to A Company to find out what was going on. A quarter of an hour later the OC came to Peploe. He was fuming. 'I don't bloody well believe it,' he said. 'A Company's damn well gone and buggered off without us.'

  'Really, sir?' said Peploe. 'Are you sure they haven't just moved back or forward a little?'

  'No - they've gone!' He took off his cap and mopped his brow. 'It's unbelievable. The buggers have gone and forgotten us - and they've taken all the damned M/T.'

  'Must have been when that shelling was going on,' said Tanner. 'We'd have heard them otherwise.'

  'Well?' said Barclay, looking at Peploe.

  'What, sir?'

  'What do we do, damn it? I mean, I can only think of two things. Either we stay here or we head back towards Steenvoorde.'

  'As I understood it, sir,' said Peploe, 'we were never supposed to be here in the first place. Major McLaren moved us here while he tried to find out where the rest of the brigade was supposed to be.'

  'They certainly can't have gone west, sir, because we'd have seen them,' added Tanner, 'and we were heading for the northern front, weren't we? But we're at the southern front here. At least, it sounded like it.'

  Barclay nodded. 'All right, then,' he said. 'We'll pack up and head back to Steenvoorde. See what we can find out there. Get your men ready, lieutenant.' He shook his head. 'Honestly, it's unbelie
vable. The whole thing's a complete cock-up.'

  A quarter of an hour later, they were marching, not along the road but through a field beside it. Refugees stared at them with a mixture of resignation and resentment. To the south, guns were firing again. Tanner noticed a young woman with two children flinch in alarm, then her daughter began to cry. He wished she would stop.

  ' 'Ere, Sarge,' said Sykes, alongside him. 'Just thought you should know - the lads in Eleven Platoon are getting really fed up.'

  'Aren't we all?'

  'Yes, but they're blaming Captain Barclay.'

  'How do you know?'

  'I've been walking just behind some of them, listening. It's Blackstone, Sarge - he's been telling them that the OC's nerves are frayed.'

  'You heard them say that, Stan?'