Dixon cleared his throat. 'We're going to get going at eleven hundred, then RV with Seven RTR's tanks at the village of Maroeuil.' He turned to Barclay. 'Have you fellows been issued with maps?'
'Yes,' said Barclay, pulling his from his map case. 'Yesterday, from GHQ.'
'Good show,' said Dixon. 'If you have a look you can see we're here.' He pointed to his own map. 'Here's Maroeuil, about four miles away to the south-west, and our start line for the attack is this road, eight miles further south here, running south-west from Arras to Doullens. Beaumetz is the place to keep in mind. There's been plenty of Jerry activity spotted south of there, so they're definitely lurking about. A question of flushing the buggers out.'
'Our chaps are all in Neuville at the moment,' said Barclay.
'Well, that's all right. We'll pick you up on the way. You've got a radio, have you?'
'No, I'm afraid not.'
'It'll be all right, Dix,' said Lieutenant-Colonel Beart. 'We'll just have to make do. Where exactly are you in Neuville, Captain?'
'By a large French Great War cemetery, sir,' said Barclay.
'And unless I'm much mistaken, that's en route to Maroeuil, isn't it?' He clapped his hands. 'Good. Well, that all seems clear enough. The rest of the battalion will follow the advance guard. One bit of bad news, though, is that we don't have any rations. Have your chaps eaten anything today, Captain?' he asked Barclay.
'They've breakfasted, sir.'
'That's something. Anyway, I'm sorry but it's those buggering refugees again. The food wagons have been held up. I hate to send fellows into battle on empty stomachs but it can't be helped.'
Beart dismissed them soon after, wishing them a cheery good luck. As Peploe followed Barclay and Bourne-Arton back to the Krupp, he couldn't help feeling that the attack plan seemed rather hastily cobbled together. It was as though a lot was being left to chance. He still had a headache, but now nausea assailed him. As a pair of collared doves cavorted above them, he wondered whether he would still be alive at the day's end. Funnily enough, the debacle with Tanner had taken his mind off things. Ever since he'd been driven past the shell-holes of Vimy Ridge, however, the prospect of battle had been brought back into sharp focus. Fighting - killing or being killed - had seemed so remote on the day he'd joined up, full of youthful determination to play his part in ridding the world of Hitler. It had been easy to be brave then and to enjoy the sense that he was undertaking something rather noble and heroic. He'd imagined himself to be rather like a Crusader in the stories he had enjoyed as a boy, leaving his weeping mother for the Holy Land. But those shell-holes and the endless cemeteries had been an all-too-real reminder of what war could be like. And now this rather haphazard battle-plan. If he was honest, he still had no idea what they were supposed to be doing or what to expect. All he knew was that he was scared stiff.
The Durhams' advance guard rendezvoused successfully with D Company and the Rangers' trucks fell into line behind the motorcycle scout troop, two command cars, a radio car and two trucks towing two-pounder anti-tank guns, trundling at a snail's pace along a narrow road to Maroeuil. Away to their left they could see the tip of the belfry at the heart of Arras. In between and at either side of them lay open, undulating farmland.
Tanner's mood was slowly improving. He hoped that in confronting the men he had convinced them; it had made him feel better, at any rate. The awfulness of those moments when he had been under arrest in a damp scullery was past. Ahead, he could see Maroeuil being bombarded lightly from the south-east. The whistle of the shells could be heard faintly above the rumble of the vehicles, followed by a dull thud and a thin cloud of dust erupting clear of the buildings. His heart beat faster and he had a familiar sensation in his stomach and throat. Nerves, certainly, but excitement too. Fighting was exciting and, in the thick of it, his senses keen, he found it exhilarating.
Away to his right he could see the lonely ruins of a church, high on the skyline. He knew his father had fought around here - it had been 1917, he remembered - and had often talked to him about it. Now he recalled that there had been a spring offensive at Arras that year. Now, just twenty-three years later, he was marching on the same ground, ready to fight the same enemy. His father had died eight years before and not a day went past when Tanner didn't think of him. His dad had been his best friend as well as his father. Tanner smiled, remembering.
By the time they reached Maroeuil the shelling had stopped. Tanner was surprised to see some dead Germans in the village - where had they come from? - but despite vehicle congestion, the advance guard pressed on so that by twenty past two they had reached the edge of Duisans, the next village on their route to the start line of their attack.
The sounds of battle were growing more intense. Away to the west, tank and artillery fire could be heard. As they descended from a shallow ridge into the village, a bullet, then several more, fizzed above them from the wood to their right.
'Look,' said Sykes, pointing to his left. Crawling over a field up the small hill on the far side of the village were three 'I' tanks, Matilda Mark IIs with their more-than-three inches of armour. Between the sounds of gunfire, they could hear them, metal squeaking and clanking. It was such a high-pitched sound, yet with it came a deep, low rumble, promising bulk and heaviness.
More sniping whipped around them from the wood, but as they reached the centre of the village, the buildings shielded them from fire. A shell whistled overhead, and passed harmlessly above the village to explode in open country.
Ahead, a DLI officer was talking to Barclay; a minute later, the company runner came up to their cab. 'We're going to push on. We're to follow those tanks towards Warlus.'
'What about the enemy in those woods?' asked Tanner.
'B Company's being hurried forward to deal with them.'
'And why are the enemy here anyway? We haven't reached the start line yet.'
'Don't ask me. I'm just the messenger.'
They pushed on, following the three 'I' Matildas as they rumbled slowly out of Duisans and onto higher, more open country. Ahead to the south lay the village of
Warlus, the slate spire of its church poking out above the trees and houses nestled around it. The anti-tank guns were unhitched and set up, then the leading cars of the advance guard turned back to Duisans.
The company runner appeared again. 'We're to stay here. They're trying to bring up more guns.'
'Make your mind up,' muttered Sykes.
To their right they could see vehicles and figures on the ridge a mile or so away. Then field guns opened fire suddenly from away to their left.
'What the hell's going on?' asked Peploe. They could hear shells hurtling over, their whistle and moan as they cut through the sky, then a series of dull crashes.
'Whose guns are those?' asked Peploe.
'Ours, I think,' said Tanner. 'They're stonking it before we go in.'
'And what about them to the right?' asked Sykes. 'Are they Jerries?'
Tanner took out his binoculars. 'I reckon they are, yes.'