Darkest Hour (14 page)

Downstairs, in the officers' dining room, he found his
company commanders, Saalbach, Beeck and Hardieck, already there, drinking
ersatz coffee.

'Look at his face,' laughed Saalbach. 'Our boss is
happy at long last! I'd begun to think we'd never see you smile again, Herr
Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Part of Army Group A! It couldn't be better. With
luck we'll be at the van with von Rundstedt.' Timpke slapped Hardieck's back,
then smacked a fist into his open hand. 'At last!'

A little under seventy miles away as the crow flew,
Sergeant Tanner had also woken early. In contrast to Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke,
however, Tanner had slept well. After eight years in the Army, he had long ago
become accustomed to the lack of a mattress or other home comforts; and a bed
of straw in a warm barn in May was considerably more comfortable than countless
other places where he had spent the night.

However, it was not long before he, too, was feeling
increasingly agitated. By seven, orders had arrived for D Company to move up to
the canal, on a line to the south of the village of Oisquercq, yet he had still
heard nothing about his promotion and transfer to B Company. With mounting
irritation, he had woken the rest of the platoon, chivvied them to their feet,
made sure they had breakfast - and still there had been no word.

'An oversight, I'm sure,' said Lieutenant Peploe, as
the platoon stood in the yard drinking their morning brew. 'Let me find out
what's going on from Captain Barclay.'

Yet the lieutenant had been unable to speak with him
before they had moved off, so twenty minutes later, when the platoon had begun
the three-mile march to the canal, Tanner was still a platoon sergeant in D
Company.

'I expect the appointment had to be approved by
Colonel Corner,' said Sykes, as they marched through the village. 'Maybe even
Brigadier Dempsey. And there are lots of troops to move and other things to do.
You know 'ow it is, Sarge.'

Tanner scowled. 'Bollocks, Stan. They've changed their
mind - I know they have.'

'Course they 'aven't,' said Sykes, then added, 'but if
they 'ave, at least you've got some good men in your platoon here.'

Tanner glared at him.

'I'm not saying you're right, Sarge.'

'I am, though. I can feel it in my bones.'

'And you like Mr Peploe, don't you? He seems a good
sort.'

'Look, just stop talking about it, will you?' snapped
Tanner.

They were now almost through the village. Ahead,
Tanner could hear a grinding rumble. High above, a flight of aircraft thrummed
over to disappear into thick white cloud. Soon after, they crossed a railway
line, then turned onto another road where they were unexpectedly confronted by
a mass of British vehicles and troops heading towards them.

'Jesus - will you look at that?' muttered Sykes.
'What's going on here?'

'Must be One Corps falling back,' said Tanner. 'They
were due to do it last night.'

'Then why are we heading in the opposite direction?'
said Hepworth, from behind him.

'Why do you think, Hep?' said Tanner.

'Dunno, Sarge.'

Tanner sighed. 'Use your bloody loaf and stop asking
stupid questions.'

'But, Sarge—' Hepworth protested, but Tanner cut him
off.

'We've got to guard the canal and make sure Jerrv
doesn't get across too easily and harry those boys' retreat.' He knew he had
sounded irritable but, really, he thought, Hepworth should know better by now.

The company was halted as a long column of fifteen-
hundredweight trucks trundled past, choking dust swirling into the air. The
Rangers could see the soldiers through the open tarpaulins at the back of each
truck Most seemed sullen, faces long, cigarettes hanging from their mouths.
Several carriers whirred past too.

'You're going the wrong way!' one man shouted at them.
A few of his fellows laughed but, Tanner noticed, not many.

Eventually the column disappeared in a haze of dust.
Coughing and spluttering, the platoon continued its march, dropping down a
long, gentle slope into the village of Oisquercq, where they rejoined the rest
of the battalion. More carriers and trucks were crammed along the roads that
led into and out of the village. Troops milled around. NCOs shouted. Tanner
wondered which group was from B Company, but then they moved on again, past the
church and onto a tree-lined path that led out of the village between a
single-track railway line and the banks of the broad waterway that was the
Brussels-Charleroi canal.

'Some barrier this,' said Sykes. It was at least sixty
yards wide, filled with dark, murky water. Opposite, fields rose away towards a
long, thick wood, which dominated the horizon overlooking the canal.

Just south of the village, by a white-painted brick
station house, the company was halted again, the runner appearing soon after.
'The men to stand easy, platoon commanders and sergeants for a meeting with
Captain

Barclay,' he said, as he
reached Peploe and Tanner.

The two men followed him. Barclay, Captain Wrightson
and CSM Blackstone were standing in the shade of the station house, examining a
rough, hand- drawn map. Blackstone looked up briefly at their arrival, then,
once the others had arrived, turned to Barclay. 'Everyone's here, sir.'

Except Sergeant Wilkes
, thought Tanner, with a stab of alarm.

'Good,' said the captain, then cleared his throat.
'We're going to dig in along these banks from here to that farm up ahead on the
bend in the canal.' Set back from the water, it was some five hundred yards
away from where they were standing. Tanner noticed there were troops there.
'That farm,' said Barclay, 'marks the end of the BEF's line and the start of
the French First Army. It's currently occupied by a battalion of the Second
North African Infantry Division. Ten Platoon will dig in on our left, here,
towards the village, Eleven Platoon in the centre and Twelve between them and
the French.' He looked at Lieutenant Peploe. 'But try to avoid the French. I
know we're allies, but we do our thing and they do theirs. What's more, their
men are all bloody wogs, and apparently even the officers are a shifty bunch,
hardly to be relied upon. Spoke to a chap back in the village - a major in A
Company, actually - who says the French First Army have been an absolute bloody
shower so far. One of the main reasons we're making a general withdrawal is
because their part of the line collapsed as soon as Jerry showed up.' He tapped
the side of his nose. 'But that's strictly
entre nous,
all right?' He looked at the men then said, 'Good. All clear? Any questions?'

'Yes, sir,' said Peploe. 'How long are we expected to
stay here?'

'Not long. We're not quite sure where Jerry is, so I
can't say for certain, but probably we'll fall back tonight. We'll be taking up
the rear once the rest of the corps arc clear. Anything else?'

'Yes, sir,' said Peploe.

Barclay made little attempt to hide his impatience.
'Yes, Lieutenant?'

'Last night, sir, you said that one of our sergeants
would be joining B Company.'

'Yes, Lieutenant, and so they have.'

Tanner felt a hollowness in his stomach.
So I was right. The bloody bastards.

'But, sir, Sergeant Tanner is the most experienced
sergeant in the company by some margin. That posting should be his.'

'Careful, Peploe,' said Barclay. 'It's not your place
to tell me who gets promoted from this company.' He shuffled his feet. 'There
are a few question marks over Sergeant Tanner. That episode back at Manston,
for example - shooting at Squadron Leader Lyell. And last night, I hear, he
seriously undermined the authority of the CSM.'

Tanner groaned inwardly, saw Peploe glance at him -
what's this? -
and then, to his mounting fury, Blackstone
grinning at him triumphantly.
Of course.
He should have known Blackstone would use that to his advantage.

'Now how would it look, Lieutenant, if I recommend a
sergeant to join B Company as a newly promoted platoon sergeant-major and they
find they've got a trouble-maker on their hands? Hm?'

Tanner watched Peploe's pale face redden with
indignation. 'Very well, sir, but I'd like it made clear here and now that I do
not believe Sergeant Tanner is a trouble-maker of any kind and that I, for one,
am glad to have him in my platoon. I think he's been treated appallingly.'

Tanner looked at his feet, embarrassed by Peploe's
impassioned outburst.

'That's enough, Peploe,' said Captain Wrightson.

'Yes,' added Barclay. 'I've made my decision and
that's an end to it. Now, get to your men and start digging in right away.'

As they walked back, Peploe said, 'I'm sorry, Tanner.
That's a bloody outrage.'

'Thank you for standing by me, sir. I appreciate it.'

'It's wrong, Tanner. Quite wrong. The man's a first-
rate arse.' He tugged at his mop of thick hair. 'Shouldn't be saying things
like that to you, I know, but it's true.'

Tanner could think of stronger words, but kept them to
himself. Instead he said, 'We've got a platoon of good lads, sir.'

'That's true enough.' He looked at Tanner. 'Do you
mind me asking what happened last night between you and the CSM?'

Tanner told him. Peploe listened. Then he said, 'Well,
Sergeant, I'm sorry, and between you and me, I think you were probably right. I
know I like the odd glass, but I'm sure the men would have got themselves
drunk. If it's any consolation at all, though, I meant what I said back there.
I'm glad you're still with us. I fancy we've got a testing time ahead.'

Tanner agreed. He had said nothing to the lieutenant
but the scenes of retreat were horribly familiar to him. True, there were more
vehicles than there had ever been in Norway, but the expressions on the faces
of the men were those he had seen a few weeks before: fed up, resigned,
exhausted. Men whose confidence in their commanders had been shaken.

A roar of aero-engines made him look up. Above, a
dozen German bombers, no more than eight thousand feet high, were droning over,
seemingly unchallenged. And that was another thing, thought Tanner. Once more
the
Luftwaffe
appeared to rule the sky.
He'd seen barely a French or British plane since they had arrived in France. He
had never thought too much about air power, but he reckoned he had seen enough
to know one thing: that whoever ruled the sky would probably win the battle on
the ground. Sighing heavily, he pushed back his helmet and wiped his brow. The
lieutenant was surely right. Things did not look good.

Although fanner had seen few Allied aircraft, they had
been operating in the skies above since the Germans had made their move a week
before. In fact, together the RAF and French Army of the Air had many more
aircraft than the
Luftwaffe.
However, most of
these were either back in England or scattered over France, so that at the
front, the Germans did have superior numbers, and especially in the northern
sector operating over Flanders. Not only that, all too many French and British
aircraft that had been available had already been shot down and even more
destroyed on the ground; which was why at first light that morning, Squadron
Leader Charlie Lyell had learned that 632 Squadron would, from now on, be one
of six Hurricane squadrons that would fly daily to an airfield in France and
there operate alongside what remained of the RAF's Air Component.

Lyell had led the squadron over to Vitry-en-Artois in
northern France where 607 Squadron were already operating. Pandemonium had
greeted them. Shortly before their arrival, the
Luftwaffe
had paid a call so that as the squadron circled over the battered airfield,
plumes of thick smoke were still rising into the sky. The grass runway was
pockmarked with bomb craters, full of soil and pulverized chalk. As Lyell
turned in to land he could see the remains of a Hurricane still burning
furiously, its blackening wings spread out against the ground, its fuselage
nothing more than a fragile skeleton. He had hoped he had sounded confident and
authoritative - nonchalant, even - when he warned the others to mind out for
craters, but his heart had been pounding and his breathing had quickened.
Christ
, he had thought. It was not what he had imagined
at all.

No sooner had they refuelled than they had been sent
back into the air, ordered to patrol a line 'Louvain- Namur'. Armed only with a
rough map, he had led the squadron of two flights north-east over Belgium, uncertain
whether or not they were in the right place.

Nonetheless, having climbed to fourteen thousand feet
he had spotted what he thought must be Mons and Charleroi, two grey stains
among the green patchwork of Flanders, and had then turned due east. It was
just as he was leading the squadron towards what he hoped was Namur that
Sergeant Durnley had spotted a formation of two dozen Stukas emerging from a
large bank of white cloud. The enemy formation was heading west, away from
them, and several thousand feet below. It had been almost too good to be true
and Lyell had immediately led the squadron round and into line astern, then
ordered a Number One Attack.