'Un moment,' he said, leaving them to wait in the yard while he hurried inside.
Barclay clicked his tongue against his teeth. 'For God's sake,' he muttered.
Tanner looked around. Stacks of ammunition boxes stood near a shed across the yard; a staff car and a motorcycle were parked to one side. Coloured troops, in strange dark red woollen caps, double-breasted tunics and knee-high strapped leggings, walked past. The French mountain troops in Norway had had superb uniforms - far better than anything the British had been given - but Tanner was surprised by how old-fashioned these colonial troops were, as though they were from an earlier era. He moved back a few paces and saw a larger yard at the rear of the building where a number of vehicles - trucks, armoured cars and infantry tractors - were lined up. He was watching men loading boxes onto the back of a truck when his attention was caught by two men speaking animatedly, white Frenchmen, officers, wearing large khaki berets.
'What are they saying, Peploe?' said Barclay, softly.
Peploe listened, 'They're talking about the bridge, sir, that and the lock system by it. They must be sappers. They've laid charges but one thinks they haven't put down enough explosive.'
One of the officers, older than the other, turned now and saw them, shook his head in frustration and hurried off.
'They're expecting Jerry, then,' said Barclay. 'What do they know that we don't?'
For God's sake, thought Tanner. Couldn't the OC see the signs? Captain Barclay was clearly a bigger fool than he'd thought.
The sous-lieutenant now reappeared with a tall, good- looking officer in his late thirties. 'Commandant du Parc,' explained the lieutenant.
'I am second-in-command here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'How can I be of assistance?'
Peploe explained in French. Du Parc replied.
'They were about to send a party out themselves,' Peploe translated to Barclay, then smiled, 'but they're only too happy to let us take on the task.'
'But your men must be quick. Captain,' said Commandant du Parc in English once more. 'Les Bockes' he added, 'they are coming soon, I think.'
'Does he have intelligence of this?' Barclay asked Peploe.
Du Parc laughed as Peploe repeated the question. 'No, but the sky, the aeroplanes that come over to have a little spy on us ... la retraite of our men across le canal. Of course les Boches will be coming.' He chuckled again. 'It is obvious.'
Course it bloody is, thought Tanner, and saw Barclay redden.
Commandant du Parc spoke to Peploe again.
'He says we should cross the bridge over the lock,' said Peploe, 'just round the bend in the river. His men can give us covering fire should it be necessary - as can our chaps, sir. He'll also send us an escort to the bridge.'
'Merci, Commandant,' said Barclay.
Du Parc bowed slightly, then spoke to the sous-lieu- tenant, who hurried back into the farmhouse. A moment later he reappeared with another junior subaltern, a thin- faced lad with a poorly grown moustache. Du Parc spoke to him, then the young French officer turned to Tanner.
'Shall we go?'
'Bonnechance' said du Parc.
Barclay and Peploe saluted. Barclay looked at his watch. 'Right, Sergeant,' he said to Tanner. 'Get Squadron Leader Lyell back here and be sharp about it.'
Just then an aircraft roared over the building from behind them, making them all flinch and duck. It was so low that they could see the black crosses on the pale blue underside of the wings. Men shouted and a machine-gun began to chatter but the twin-engine Junkers 88 climbed lazily over the hill in front of them, banked along the ridge then disappeared.
'Merde,' muttered du Parc.
'Why didn't it drop any bombs?' asked Barclay.
Tanner's patience snapped. 'It's a reconnaissance plane, sir. They've been coming over all morning.' He turned his back on the captain and strode off. 'Come on, boys,' he said. 'Iggery. We need to get a move on.'
As they stepped out of the yard he looked up at the wooded ridge above them. It was still and peaceful, quiet in the warm early-summer afternoon. For how much longer?
Chapter 8
They said little as they hurried towards the bridge. It was further than Tanner had appreciated - three-quarters of a mile, at least - and he wished he had asked whether there was a boat at the farm they could use. He also felt a stab of irritation that the Frenchmen had not offered one of their many vehicles to take them the short drive. Christ, they had enough of them. But they were twitchy, that had been clear. The Germans were pushing them back, and retreat sapped confidence - he'd seen it in Norway - like rot setting in. Reversing it was damnably hard.
Commandant du Parc had been expecting the Germans to attack at any moment and Tanner suspected the Frenchman was right. He hoped they still had time to fetch Lyell safely but it was best to be prepared so he had insisted that each of his small rescue party bring plenty of ammunition. Every man was now carrying four Bren magazines as well as at least half a dozen clips of rifle bullets. He had also shoved half a dozen Mills bombs into their haversacks and respirator bags.
'You don't need a sodding gas-mask, Billy,' he had told Ellis. 'Get rid of it and stuff the bag full of ammo instead.'
'I thought this was supposed to be a cinch,' Hepworth had grumbled.
'And so it will be, Hep,' Tanner had replied, patting him on the back. 'Just in case, hey?'
He now noticed that Hepworth, carrying the Bren on his shoulder, was lagging. He trotted back to him, took the machine-gun and slung it over his own shoulder instead. 'Come on, Hep. Stop being such a bloody old woman.'
'I'm still knackered from a five-day march.'
'Did he grumble this much in Norway, Sarge?' asked Ellis.
'He was worse,' said Sykes, whose eyes were on the field where the pilot lay. 'The squadron leader's still up there, Sarge,' he added, as Tanner came alongside him. 'Look.'
Tanner used his spare hand to raise his binoculars. 'He's still lying down, too,' he said, pausing briefly to steady his view. 'Bastard better not be dead.'
At the bridge the French lieutenant ushered them past the sentries, then left them. The lock was deep, perhaps as much as forty feet. Under the bridge there was a kind of gallery from which observers could watch traffic approaching or moving in and out of the lock.
'This'll take some blowing,' said Sykes. 'It's a big old piece of engineering.'
'There's certainly nothing like this on the Rochdale canal,' said Hepworth, unable to resist peering over the rails to the viewing gallery and the water below.
'Move your arse, Hep,' said Tanner.
The five men hurried across. Just beyond the canal lay the original tributary of the river Senne - clearly the Belgian navvies had been unable to widen the river into the shipping canal it had become along the stretch towards Brussels.