Darkest Hour

The men groaned. 'Another hour, sir?' said Hepworth. 'I'm going to need a stretcher soon.'

'It's all right for you, Hep,' muttered McAllister. 'You haven't had to carry a sodding great Bren.'

'Listen, Mac,' said Tanner, putting an arm round McAllister's shoulders, 'I know you're fed up. We all are - it's dispiriting, trudging backwards - but remember Norway? We had it tougher there, didn't we? And we had our fair share of arseholes to carry too.'

McAllister smiled ruefully. 'That Frog lieutenant, Chevannes. You're right, Sarge - he was worse than the squadron leader.'

'Come on. Another hour and we can put our feet up. That's not so long.'

'Suppose so, Sarge.' He got up. 'All right, then. Get it over and done with, eh?'

It was approaching five o'clock by the time they had dropped down into the valley and crossed the poplar- lined river that snaked its way sleepily through the Flanders countryside. They marched on beside a thick wood, then emerged into open country. Less than a mile ahead the village with the church spire was clearly visible. Before that, however, there was a farm, and Captain Barclay called a halt. As the men marched through an aged brick archway into the yard, chickens clucked and scurried about, a dog barked lazily, and a number of fat geese waddled towards them honking loudly.

While Lieutenant Peploe and Captain Barclay went to find the owner, Tanner had a look round. The farm and outbuildings were protected by a wall, while a rickety tower stood above the archway.

'Bloody nice old place this, Sarge,' said Sykes, beside him.

'It is, Stan. I might go and have a dekko from up that tower - looks like a damn good OP to me. I don't like being down in this valley - can't see much. It was better when we were on that ridge.'

'Good idea, Sarge. I'll come with you.'

There was a door beside the archway. 'They opened it and found a staircase. It led straight up to another door that then opened into the tower. It was dusty inside, old straw strewn across wooden floorboards.

'Christ,' Sykes whistled. Some pigeons fluttered from their perch, making the two men jump. Fifteen feet above them there was a wooden gallery, then the roof. Sunlight poured through holes where tiles had fallen away, highlighting a million dust motes swirling in the still, musty air. A ladder in the corner went up to the gallery.

'Careful, Sarge,' said Sykes, as Tanner began to climb. 'That ladder don't look too safe to me.'

'It'll be all right,' said Tanner. Despite the woodworm, he reached the gallery and peered through a hole in the roof. Away to the west, in the distance some dozen miles away, he could see Mons. Ahead of him lay the village and beyond, as the ground gently rose, a railway, then a road on which traffic appeared to be moving. Good. He tried to remember the map. The Mons-Cambrai road, it had to be, and from Cambrai it was no great distance to Arras. If they could get a ride to Cambrai that would be something. Delving into his respirator bag, he took out his binoculars and peered through them.

What he saw made his heart sink and his stomach lurch. 'Jesus,' he muttered. 'How the hell?' A long column of grey tanks was rolling through the Flanders countryside, with armoured cars and artillery pieces.

'Stan!' Tanner called down. 'Get yourself up here.'

'What is it?' asked Sykes.

'Come on up and you'll see.'

Sykes clambered gingerly up the ladder and stood beside Tanner, who passed him the binoculars.

'Look up on that ridge beyond the village. A mile or so away.'

'Blimey!' said Sykes. 'Sweet bloody Nora! It's the flamin' Jerries. How on earth did they get there?' He turned to Tanner. 'And how come there's that many of 'em just there?'

'Don't ask me, Stan.' More dull explosions rumbled from the south-west. 'Jesus,' he said. 'We've been thinking it's bombs we've been hearing, but what if it was fighting?'

'Perhaps that's where those Frogs was heading earlier.'

'Well, if Jerry's already taken the land to the south of here, they aren't going to get very far, are they?'

'Christ, Sarge, do you think we're surrounded?'

'I don't know. Let me think a moment.' He looked again, and then scanned to the north as well, from where they had just come. Nothing. 'No, I'm sure we're not,' he said at length. 'Think about it. We've not heard much fighting behind us, have we? I reckon those Jerries must have just punched a hole to the south. No wonder those French scarpered so bloody quickly yesterday. The whole of their line must have been collapsing. But we've not seen anyone today, have we? No, Stan, I'm sure we're not surrounded yet.'

'But I thought the Germans were attacking to the north and that was why we moved into Belgium.'

'Maybe they're doing both - a two-pronged attack.'

'Which means we're stuck in the middle.'

Tanner rubbed his chin. 'Christ, what a bloody mess. If only we had a radio. I can't believe they sent us out here without one. How can anyone possibly know what the bloody hell's going on?' He sighed, took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his dark hair. 'We should have a quick think about what to do.'

'Can't rely on Captain Barclay.'

'Or Blackstone.'

'The men won't be happy about moving again.'

'I'm not so sure we should move. If someone stays up here in the tower, we can hopefully get some scoff, then decamp to that wood. With the village between us and that ridge, they won't be able to see us and they don't seem very interested in heading this way. We get some kip in the wood and move on again at midnight, as the captain suggested. You stay here for the moment, Stan, and I'll go down and talk to Mr Peploe. Perhaps he can persuade the OC it's our best course of action.'

'All right, Sarge.' Sykes peered through the binoculars again. 'But I'll tell you what I'm thinking.'

'What?' said Tanner, as he began to descend the ladder.

'That we're going to have a hell of a job getting out of this mess. I told myself we wouldn't let Norway happen again but now I'm not so sure. Those bastards are whipping us good and proper.'

'We're not beaten yet, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Never say die.'

Where the SS Totenkopf were now concentrated to the west of Philippeville, south of Charleroi, there was no shortage of radio sets, telephones or even decoding machines. If anything, Brigadefuhrer Eicke and his staff had too much information; from what they were hearing, it sounded as though all of France and the Low Countries were folding up before the Wehrmacht's panzers - and before the Totenkopf would have a chance to show the rest of the Reich and, indeed, the world what they were capable of.

For Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke, it had felt as though the frustrations would never cease. A tantalizing promise of action would be dangled before them, only for them to discover it was still as far from their grasp as ever. Since leaving Aachen they had struggled across eastern Belgium, battling against endless refugees, pathetic citizens fleeing their homes. Timpke had tried to overcome the problem by sending his motorcycles on wide searches for better routes, but other than going cross-country - which the bulk of the division could not do - there was no alternative. He wondered where the mass of people thought they were heading. Why were they so terrified? Timpke wondered what Belgian and French propaganda had been like to prompt such a mass exodus. Of course, it was unfortunate for those caught up in the crossfire of fighting, but for the vast majority, if they had stayed in their homes, they would have been quite safe, and would soon find themselves peaceably absorbed into the Greater Reich, the lucky devils!