Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  'Clear as day. They believe it too. And, what's more, they're not all that happy about it neither.'

  'Bloody hell,' muttered Tanner. 'That's all we need, mutiny in the ranks.' Something made him pause to listen. Then Sykes heard it too.

  'Aircraft.'

  Both men stopped to scan the sky. 'There!' said Tanner, pointing to the east beyond Steenvoorde. A formation of aircraft was already beginning its initial dive, the roar of engines louder with every second. In moments the now familiar gull-wing and locked undercarriage of the Stuka was clear. Tanner counted twelve. 'Where are the bastards heading?' he said.

  'Looks like directly at us,' said Sykes.

  'I doubt it. I bet they're on the way to Cassel. They know we've got troops around there.'

  'Come on, boys!' Barclay shouted from the front of their small column. 'Let's show the bastards!'

  All too quickly, men were unslinging their rifles. Tanner saw a Bren gunner from 11 Platoon bring his machine-gun into his hip and aim it skywards.

  'No,' said Tanner. 'No!' He ran to Peploe. 'Sir, you've got to get the men to put their weapons down.'

  Already a Bren was chattering. Rifle shots were cracking out.

  'Sir, please!' said Tanner again. 'We're sitting ducks out here. These things are like wasps - there's no point in making them angry. In any case, it's a waste of ammo. We'll never hit them at that height.'

  Peploe looked at him - yes, you’re right - then yelled, 'Lower your weapons - lower your weapons!'

  But it was too late. Some men from 11 Platoon heard him but others continued to fire, their bullets hurtling harmlessly into the sky. The Stukas were almost past when two peeled off and, rolling over, dived towards them, their death wail growing louder and louder until the planes were almost upon them, their sirens and engines seeming to envelop those on the ground below. On the road, women and children screamed and men shouted in panic, while the Rangers ran for what little cover they could find.

  'Just get down and keep still!' shouted Tanner, and dropped to the ground.

  As the Stukas pulled out of their dives, two lone bombs whistled towards them. The first fell on the far side of the road, the second fifty yards into the field in which the Rangers had been marching. Tanner saw two men thrown into the air by the blast. But the dive- bombers had not finished. Both were now banking sharply and turning back. Tanner watched as Captain Barclay got to his feet then, too late, realized the Stukas were swooping towards them again. Tanner could see the bombs still hanging under each wing, but they were not going to drop those. Instead, the first opened fire with a two-second burst of his machine-gun. The pilot's angle of attack was not quite right, but as he swung across the road, bullets scythed through the hedge, kicked up spits of earth, and the captain spun around, his arms flung into the air, and collapsed. As the first aircraft hurtled past, the second opened fire with another brief burst, this time hitting two more Rangers. And then they were gone, climbing away to the west. In the distance, towards Cassel, the rest of the Stukas were now diving, their sirens screaming.

  Frightened civilians were dusting themselves down and getting to their feet, but as far as Tanner could tell, not a single one had been hit. He saw Peploe and Blackstone get to their feet and run towards Barclay. Tanner ran to two others who had been hit. The first was dead, the second nearly so. His face was white as chalk, and dark blood frothed at his mouth. He had been hit by at least three bullets - one in his leg, one in his stomach, the last in his chest.

  Ross was running towards the crater of the second bomb and, leaving Smailes with the dying man, Tanner followed. There were two casualties. The first, Walker, a young fair-haired lad, was lying on the ground, saying, 'Am I alive? Am I alive?'

  'Yes, you are, mate,' said Ross, 'but let me look at you.'

  Tanner, meanwhile, had hurried to the second. He found him on his belly, and felt for a pulse. There was none. Tanner rolled him over. There was no obvious mark on him. He took off the man's helmet, and pulled open his battle-blouse and shirt, but still nothing. 'The bloody fools,' he muttered. Others had reached them now.

  'What's the damage, Sarge?' said Sykes.

  'Three dead. Walker seems to be fine. A lucky escape. Get the bodies back to the edge of the field,' he said. 'Iggery, all right?'

  Now he ran to the prostrate Captain Barclay. Peploe was kneeling beside him, Blackstone and Slater standing over him. As Tanner reached them, Peploe looked up. 'He's gone.'

  Tanner saw the stain of blood spreading across Barclay's chest. The flush in his cheeks had gone, leaving his skin pale and waxen. He crouched beside Peploe. 'There's three others dead, sir. I've told the men to bring them to the edge of the field. I suggest we carry them into the town.'

  In a state of numb silence, the men tramped back into Steenvoorde and laid the four dead men by the church. The town was eerily quiet. There were no troops, although civilian refugees were now passing through. The priest emerged from the church and told them that a number of British soldiers had been there earlier and had headed out on the Poperinghe-Ypres road.

  'But if I remember rightly,' said Blackstone, as they stood outside the church, 'that means they went east. The coast is that way.' He pointed. 'We should head north.'

  'Hold on a minute,' said Peploe. 'I'm the only officer now and I'll decide what we do.'

  'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone. 'But in case you hadn't noticed, we're getting a beating. What can forty-four men do to help? Do you really think we can stop the rot? I say we head to the coast. For all we know, the rest of the battalion's already there.'

  Peploe stared at him. 'Don't speak to me like that. Show some bloody respect.'

  'We've got to go north, sir. It's obvious.'

  'I'll decide that, Sergeant-Major, not you. Now go and organize a burial party, will you? We can't do anything until we've got these poor men buried. Right away.'

  Blackstone gave him a half-hearted salute, then issued orders to the men. 'More digging, I'm afraid, lads,' he said. 'Not too deep, because they won't be here for ever. Get to it now, and I'll make it up to you later.'

  'Jesus,' Tanner muttered to Peploe. 'What a bloody mess.'

  'I'm going to have my hands full with Blackstone, I can see,' said Peploe. He took off his tin hat and ran his hands through his hair. 'It seems so incredible that the captain should be dead. A bloody silly thing to do, I know, and he had his faults, but he was a decent sort, really.'

  Tanner didn't want to think about Barclay or any of the other three dead men. Now was not the time to be worrying about them; it had happened and couldn't be undone. Rather, quick, firm decisions had to be made. 'We need a map, sir. We don't have one of this part of Flanders.'

  'I know. It's ridiculous.' He sighed. 'Bloody hell. We're in a bit of a fix, aren't we?'

  'We'll be fine, sir. We just need to think calmly and clearly.'

  Peploe glanced at the priest, who was hovering around the men as they dug the graves. 'Hold on a moment, Sergeant,' he said, then strode over to the man. Tanner watched them talk, then cross the cobbled road to a small house. A few minutes later Peploe came out again and hurried back to where Tanner was waiting with Sykes and the rest of Sykes's section.

  'I've got a map,' said Peploe, as he reached them. 'It's only a road map and about ten years old at that, but it's better than nothing. Sykes, will you and your chaps give me and the sergeant a moment?'

  'Course, sir,' said Sykes, moving his men a short distance away.

  Peploe opened out the map and held it up.

  'Ypres is almost due east from here, sir,' said Tanner, 'about fifteen miles away, and Poperinghe's about half that.'

  'No huge distance, then.'

  'No. The DLI must have gone in that direction.'

  'And while Blackstone's quite right in as much as we're hardly going forward, no one's mentioned anything to us about falling back to the coast yet.' He rubbed an eye. 'We've been attached to 151st Brigade and my instinct is that we should at least try to find them.
We're bound to run across some British troops eventually, if not Eighth DLI. And if we don't, or if we find ourselves approaching the enemy, we can take another view then, surely?'

  'All the guns we've heard today have been from the south and west, not the east, sir. I agree with you. I think we should make for Poperinghe and Ypres.'

  'But we'll take the back roads. We don't want to get ensnared in more refugee traffic.'

  'Good idea, sir.'

  Blackstone now came over to them. 'Sir,' he said to Peploe, 'if you're going to consult Sergeant Tanner, you should discuss things with me first.'

  'Yes, all right. We're going to head for Poperinghe and Ypres and try to find the rest of the brigade,' said Peploe, stiffly.

  'What a surprise,' said Blackstone. 'I might have known that whatever I said Jack would say the opposite.'

  'It wasn't Tanner's decision. It was mine. Sergeant- Major, I really don't want to have to remind you again about insolence. I'm the officer in charge, and I've made up my mind. We're not running back to the coast - those are not our orders. Our orders are to stand and fight with Eighth DLI and the 151st Infantry Brigade.'

  Blackstone reddened. It was the first time Tanner had seen him look really angry since he'd arrived at Manston. 'Very well, sir,' he said slowly, as though he was trying to control his fury. 'But everyone's hungry. I would strongly suggest we don't march for too long.'

  'It's half past four now. We'll march for a couple of hours and see how far we get.'

  Guns boomed out again to the west. Faintly, in the distance, small arms could be heard. More aircraft buzzed overhead, but this time they were high, mere specks in the sky. Tanner flicked away his cigarette, took out his water-bottle and had a swig. The enemy were closing in and the net was tightening. The lieutenant had made the right decision, he was certain, but not all the men would agree. He had a feeling Blackstone might find willing listeners should he make clear his own views on the matter. Bollocks.

  'Cheer up, Sarge,' said Sykes, walking over to him. 'It might not happen, you know.'

  Tanner smiled. 'Maybe not, Stan.'

  'We've got ourselves out of tight spots before.'

  'Always look on the bright side, don't you?'

  'I try to, Sarge. I reckon we've still got some fight in us yet.'

  'I'm sure we have.' He patted Sykes's shoulder. 'But it's not Jerry I'm so worried about.' He nodded towards Blackstone. 'It's him.'

  From the edge of Creton Farm, Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke peered through his binoculars down the track to the neighbouring house, some two hundred metres away. Beside him, at the back of the brick farmhouse, stood his half-track, a single motorcycle and sidecar, and a large French Somua tank, now daubed with the German cross and, on its front, the Totenkopf death's head. Kemmetmuler and others from his battalion headquarters were waiting behind the cover of the farmhouse while his old friend Hauptsturmfuhrer Knochlein stood beside him. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon and the day had turned grey, with a light drizzle.

  'I'm certain I saw a white flag, Fritz,' Timpke told Knochlein.

  'It's about time those Tommies gave up.'

  'Order another burst and see what happens,' suggested Timpke.

  Knochlein stepped back and signalled to the men spread out on either side of Creton Farm, and Timpke watched them signal in turn to the men beyond, then heard several bursts of machine-gun fire. They had the place surrounded, so it was just a matter of time before the British troops still in the Duries farmhouse were forced to give up - after all, their ammunition couldn't last for ever. Nonetheless, they had caused far too many casualties. That was the problem of fighting in this flat, open countryside - there was never enough cover. Every time Knochlein's men scrambled to their feet, more rifle and machine-gun fire rang out and another good soldier collapsed to the ground.

  Timpke had been asked to help here at Paradis only half an hour earlier by Regiment 2's commander, Sturmbann-fuhrer Fortenbacher. On hearing that Knochlein's company were bearing the brunt of the Tommies' resistance, he had decided to come forward in person with his battalion headquarters from nearby Le Cornet Malo, which had just fallen. He had reached Creton Farm only a few minutes before but now it seemed his men were hardly needed.

  As the firing died down, he stared again through his binoculars, and this time there was no doubt: what looked like a white towel was tied to a pole.

  'They're definitely surrendering, Fritz.' He shook his friend's hand. 'Well done.'

  Knochlein grinned, then signalled to his men with a wave, urging them forward. A spontaneous cheer rang out as his troops now picked themselves up from where they had been lying in the fields and ditches round about and ran towards the battered remains of Duries farmhouse. Timpke put away his binoculars then strode quickly back to his half-track. There he took off his helmet, replacing it with his cap. Keeping on his camouflage smock with his replacement Luger - taken from a dead comrade - at his waist, he began to walk down the track towards the scene of the Tommies' resistance. He wondered how many prisoners there might be - forty-two at least, he hoped.

  It had, he reflected, been a hard few days - even frustrating at times - but he couldn't deny that he'd enjoyed it. From the moment his comrades had found him in Warlus early on 22 May, his fortunes had improved. Pressing north-west, they had swept all before them until they had reached the La Bassee canal. And during that thrust towards Bethune, he had been able to recoup some of his earlier losses, including the Somua, captured intact and undamaged.

  Then had come the order - from the Fuhrer himself, so rumour had it - for the advance to halt. At the time, it had seemed inexplicable - and certainly no reason had been given. Eicke had been furious: he had personally led Regiment 3 across the canal and had won a hard- fought and costly bridgehead, only to be ordered back. Timpke had never seen Papa Eicke so mad, and had his own reconnaissance troops been involved in the assault he would have shared their commander's dismay and fury.

  Since the halt order had been rescinded the previous day, however, the entire division had been in action. Timpke's task had been to assist whichever of the attacking units needed his help. A company had been assigned to each of the three infantry regiments. Timpke and his battalion headquarters had roved between them, hacking cross-country in his half-tracks from Hinges to Locon to Le Cornet Malo and now Paradis.

  As he approached the Duries farmhouse, he saw the Tommies being directed onto the track. They were bloodied, unshaven and exhausted, hands clasped on their heads. With rifles and sub-machine-guns pointed at them, they were pushed and prodded into a line. In contrast, Knochlein's men were bright and fresh, laughing, sharing cigarettes, enjoying their moment of victory. Timpke smiled. He shared their exhilaration. Victory was sweet, as he had known it would be, but so was revenge, and as he walked along the column of prisoners he counted them. Forty-one, forty-two - he had barely reached halfway. So much the better.

  He counted ninety-nine men of the Royal Norfolk Regiment - it was a shame they were not Yorks Rangers but that would have been too much to hope for. He stopped a young Untersturmfiihrer who was directing his men.

  'Are you in charge of these prisoners?' Timpke asked.

  'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. I'm taking them to the field beside Creton Farm to search them.'

  'Good,' said Timpke. He watched the column trudge past, then followed until they had been led down a right- hand fork in the track into the field next to the farm. Seeing Knochlein, he now called to him.

  Knochlein waited, watching as his men began to search the prisoners. 'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer - you wanted me?'

  'I do, Fritz,' said Timpke, putting an arm round his shoulder. 'You may have heard what happened to some of my men the other day.'

  'The Tommies put them in a barn and shot them.'

  'They were prisoners of war, Fritz - they were my men. Shot in cold blood.'

  'I'm sorry. The bastards who did that should pay for it.'

  'You know, Fritz, I survived that
massacre of my comrades. I was lucky. But I swore then that I would avenge it. They were my men, sure, but they were also Totenkopf men. Your comrades too.'

  Knochlein faced him. 'You want me to shoot these Tommies now?'

  'Yes, Fritz. The British must pay for what they did. This will show them that in future they must not mess with the Totenkopf. That if they play dirty we will play dirty too, but twice as harshly.'

  Knochlein nodded. 'You're right, Herr Sturmbann-fuhrer. The Tommies dishonoured us and they must pay the price.'

  Timpke smiled. Knochlein had always been impressionable. He had known the simple fellow would agree. 'Good,' he said. 'I knew you'd understand, Fritz. I'll have the vehicles moved, then we can line them up against the farmhouse. Get a couple of machine-guns prepared.'

  'Right away, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.' His eyes glinted. 'Yes. It's the justice our comrades deserve.'