Darkest Hour

Tanner tapped one end of his packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Sykes, then placed another between his lips. Turning out of the breeze to cup a match, he had just successfully lit his cigarette when Lieutenant Peploe joined them.

'I suppose you two are old hands at this sort of thing.' He pulled out his own cigarettes.

'I wouldn't say that, sir,' said Sykes. 'Only the second time for me. That last trip was a bit hairy, wasn't it, Sarge? I hope we don't get another torpedo.'

'You were torpedoed?' said Peploe, bleakly.

'Not us, sir, no. A supply ship. We lost most of our kit, guns and transport. But we'll be all right. Be in Calais before you know it.'

Peploe gazed at the shrinking English coastline. 'I know people have been doing this for centuries, but it's quite a thing to find oneself a part of it - you know, leaving home and heading off to war. I don't mind admitting I feel apprehensive.'

'It would be strange if you didn't, sir,' said Tanner.

'Still,' Sykes put in, 'I'm glad to be getting away from Manston.'

'Yes,' said Peploe. He coughed. 'I'm sorry, Sykes, but would you mind giving me and Sergeant Tanner a moment?'

'Course, sir. Let me go and check how the lads are doing.' He raised his cigarette in acknowledgement and left them.

'Sorry about that, Tanner, but I feel we've barely spoken today, apart from to issue orders and so on.' He took off his cap and the breeze ruffled his unruly hair. 'I just wish we were leaving in better circumstances. This matter with the Poles, I promised we'd get to the bottom of it and I haven't been able to.'

'We couldn't have known we'd be sent to France so soon, sir.'

'Even so ...'

'I know, it doesn't seem right, but we've got other things to worry about now and the platoon to look after.'

'It's the thought that those responsible are with us here, on this ship. It makes my blood boil.'

'Maybe they're still in Manston, though, sir. Perhaps they weren't from our company, after all. Could have been RAF or the ack-ack lads.'

'I thought you were convinced CSM Blackstone was behind it.'

'I'm not so sure. I might have been wrong about that.'

'Why the change of heart?'

'I can't explain. Just a hunch. But the point is, sir, we know it's definitely not anyone from this platoon. If we make sure our men go about their business in the right way, we'll be fine.'

Peploe smiled. 'Perhaps you're right, Sergeant.'

Tanner flicked his cigarette into the sea. He wished he could believe what he'd just told the lieutenant. Perhaps the killers really were back in Manston, and perhaps the platoon could look after itself. Yet the unease that had accompanied him almost from the moment he had arrived at Manston had not left him. Rather, it had grown. A hunch, he had told Peploe, a sixth sense, some instinct he couldn't really explain but that had saved his neck on a number of occasions. The problem was, it was only telling him one thing: that up ahead lay trouble.

Chapter 6

Thursday, 16 May. At the ornate brick-walled, grey- roofed house in the quiet French village of Wahagnies that had become his command post, General Lord Gort was struggling to maintain his composure and ruminating that high command could be a lonely business, especially when one's French superiors repeatedly failed to communicate orders.

With exaggerated frustration, he pushed back his chair and, not for the first time that morning, stood up to peer at the large wall map that hung next to the simple trestle table that was his desk. The quarter of a million troops that comprised the British Expeditionary Force - and which were under his command - were sandwiched within a narrow finger that, at the front line, was no more than fifteen miles wide. To the north were the Belgians, to the south General Blanchard's French First Army - and both, it seemed, were crumbling.

Gort glanced at his watch - 10.25 a.m. - and then, as if doubting its veracity, he looked at the clock above the mantelpiece. It told him the same. It was six days since the Germans had launched their attack, yet twenty-five minutes earlier he had received orders to fall back fifteen miles to the river Senne. Retreat! It was incredible. His men were in good order and in good heart and had only just reached the apex of their advance. The enemy who had dared show their faces had been sent scuttling. He had seen the high spirits of his men for himself. Not so the French on the British right, it seemed. General Billotte had assured him that the North African division was one of the best in the Ninth Army, yet the previous day the Germans had blown a five-thousand-yard breach in their line. Gort had offered the immediate transfer of a brigade to help, but this had been turned down, dumbfounding him. Instead, he had had the gut-wrenching task of issuing orders for I Corps to swing back a few miles to keep in line with Blanchard's divisions. And now this.

Retreat. A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles behind the Senne. He cursed to himself. It was a shambles, a bloody shambles.

A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in. 'Rusty's back, my lord.'

'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.

Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out, then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'

'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'

'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'

Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord. Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'

'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'

'But you did get to speak to him about the withdrawal?'

Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders right away - have you not received them?'

'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'

'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going back to the Escaut.'

Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'

'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the nineteenth. Those are the orders.'

'And did you speak to him about the roads?'

'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do about them.'

'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with refugees and we'll have the Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the Luftwaffe bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'