Bell was at the foot of the ladder and Sykes followed. As he reached the first floor he heard two motorcycles heading out of the village towards them.
'Come on, Tinker,' he said, groping for the stairs, 'we need to get out of here fast.'
In pitch darkness, not daring to turn on a torch, they scrambled down the stairs as quickly as they could, only for Bell to trip at the bottom and stumble into Sykes. 'Sorry, Corp,' he said.
At that moment, they heard the motorcycles slow, then turn into the farm, under the archway and into the yard, thin slits of light from their headlamps casting a dim glow. With the door onto the yard ajar, Sykes watched breathlessly. The first motorcycle stopped and he saw the rider jump off and approach the door of the farmhouse, the motorcycle's engine still ticking over.
You won’t find anyone there, he thought.
The machine-gunner in the sidecar covered his comrade, weapon at the ready, while the second motorbike circled the yard, then also stopped. This time the man in the sidecar jumped out and, with a torch, looked at the outbuildings that lined the yard.
'Bugger it,' mouthed Sykes.
'What?' whispered Bell. 'What are they doing?'
'Shut your gob,' hissed Sykes. Carefully, he drew his rifle to his waist and, clutching the bolt, silently, slowly, drew it up and back, wincing as it clicked into place. The German was getting nearer, but he was out of sight. Doors were opened, boots clicked on stone, voices rang out. The man had had his weapon slung across his back, and Sykes prayed it had remained there. His heart pounded. Footsteps. Any moment now, the door would open. Sykes tightened his grip on his rifle and his finger caressed the cold metal trigger.
Chapter 11
Around fifty miles away to the west, as the crow flew, Major-General Henry Pownall knocked on General Lord Gort's door at his command post at Wahagnies.
'Come!' called Gort from his desk. He had been studying a number of sitreps that had reached his tactical headquarters from his various liaison officers with the French Army; they had not made encouraging reading.
'General Billotte has just arrived, my lord,' said Pownall.
'At last, Henry.' Gort smiled. The British commander was a big man - more than six foot tall, barrel-chested, with a broad, full face and a trim, bristly moustache. 'This will be quite a novelty,' he said, with heavy irony, 'a rare opportunity to speak man to man with one's commanding officer.'
'Quite so,' agreed Pownall. 'Shall I bring him straight in?'
'Absolutely.'
A minute later Billotte entered with Major Archdale, his British liaison officer, limping behind him. Billotte removed his kepi and extended a hand to Gort. 'Mon cher general,' he said.
He looked exhausted, Gort thought, and old. Why were all the French generals so aged? Billotte was - what? In his mid-sixties? And yet to look at him now, white-haired and with large bags under his eyes, he would pass for more than seventy. Gamelin was sixty- seven, he knew, while Georges was sixty-five. To command armies one needed experience, yes, but energy too. A commander in the field could expect long days and short nights, huge pressure and the difficult, frustrating responsibility of making decisions of great importance, often with insufficient information. Lack of sleep and the nature of the job were both exhausting, physically and mentally draining, which was why one needed a stout constitution and age on one's side. Gort, at not quite fifty-four, was fit and spry, but not so sure he would be able to say the same a dozen years on. It was no wonder the French were struggling. Generalship was not, Gort believed, a job for elderly men.
'Eh bien, mon general,' said Gort, smiling broadly and holding Billotte's gaze with his pale grey eyes. 'Quest-ce que vous avez a me dire?’ He pointed to a simple chair opposite his makeshift desk.
Billotte sat down with a heavy sigh. 'Je nai plus de reserves, pas de plan et peu d'espoir.'
For a moment, Gort gazed at him blankly.
Major Archdale coughed. 'He says he has no reserves, no plan, and little hope, my lord.'
'I think we understood, thank you, Osmund,' said Pownall.
'Someone get the general a drink,' said Gort. 'Scotch, or some brandy, if he would prefer. Then perhaps, Archdale, the general could outline to us what is happening with the rest of his armies. And while I fancy my French isn't bad, it might be better if you do interpret, if you don't mind.'
'Yes, my lord,' said Archdale.
Gort listened as Billotte, slumped in his chair, a large glass of brandy in hand, recounted his day's events. He had sacked Corap, commander of the Ninth Army, and replaced him with Giraud; the new Ninth Army commander was now missing, however, and his headquarters at Le Catelet, near Cambrai, had been overrun. Cambrai had fallen a few hours earlier. That thrust, south through the Ardennes, had broken the back of the Ninth Army and proved a devastating blow. 'Contre les panzers je ne peux rien faire,' he said, over and over. Against the Panzers, there is nothing I can do. There were, he reckoned, nine or ten German panzer divisions in this thrust, against which he felt powerless. He now stood up and walked to the map hanging on the wall. With his finger, he etched a line to where the Germans had now advanced: thirty-two miles from Amiens and just twenty from Arras. He had ordered counter-measures, he told them, which, he hoped, would force the Germans back and enable French and British troops in the north to link up once more with French troops to the south of the German thrust. Just what his counter-measures were, Billotte did not explain.
Then, having said his piece and drained his glass, the army group commander shook Gort's hand once more, fixed his kepi back on his head and left.
Pownall made to leave too, but Gort pointed to the chair Billotte had just vacated. 'Sit down, sit down,' he said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, 'I think, Henry, we can safely conclude that General Billotte has shot his bolt. It's incomprehensible but the man really doesn't have a plan at all, does he?'
'As he himself admitted, my lord.'
'I hoped at first he hadn't meant it.'
'You've seen the reports from the liaison officers?' asked Pownall. He took out his pipe, deftly stuffed some tobacco into it and lit it, amid a swirling cloud of sweet- smelling smoke.
'Yes, I have. I was reading them before the general arrived. Not very encouraging.' He stood up and faced the map behind him. 'He's talking of counter-measures, by which I'm assuming he means a counter-attack to close the gap punched by the panzers. But I'm not at all sure he's got the reserves he needs - not where he wants them, at any rate.'
'You don't think it can be closed, my lord?'
'Do you, Henry?'
'I agree he didn't seem very confident.'
'An understatement.' Gort held his hands together and tapped his chin with them. 'I have to say, Henry, the situation is worse than I'd thought.'
'Our chaps have reached the Dendre in good order,' said Pownall, 'and they'll be at the Escaut tomorrow. But there's certainly a complete void on our right. Between us and the Boche there is nothing but a few disorganized fag-ends of French units, as far as I can make out.'