Regiment 3 arrived soon after and, having cut in front of a company of 7th Panzer infantry, Timpke's reconnaissance force followed on behind. As they progressed into open farmland beyond the village, he could see clear to Arras, some six kilometres to the north-east. A large formation of bombers thundered over and attacked the city. Black puffs of anti-aircraft barrage dotted the sky, then mushrooms of smoke rolled into the air as the bombs detonated. Nearer, though, he could hear tank and artillery exchanges. Suddenly, from over a shallow ridge behind them, a number of tanks appeared and opened fire at the column of vehicles behind them. Timpke found himself flinching as an ammunition truck blew up less than a kilometre back, the jagged sound catching him by surprise. So, too, he saw, did Kemmetmuler, sitting beside him.
'A flank attack,' said Kemmetmuler. 'What's going on? I thought we were the ones attacking.'
There was pandemonium as vehicle after vehicle was hit. Artillery and anti-tank crews tried frantically to unhitch their guns and retaliate. Above, a Feisler Storch lolled over and dropped a small canister.
'A message!' said Timpke. 'Stop!' From the scout car behind them, one of his men hurried over to where it lay in a field of young wheat. He found it soon enough and ran back and handed it to Timpke. He unscrewed the tin, pulled out the note and read, Strong enemy armoured forces advancing. 'I think we'd already gathered that.' He screwed up the piece of paper. 'The idiots. Wait here, Kemmetmuler.' He jumped out of the Citroen, slamming the door behind him, and hurried over to the scout car. 'What's the news, Schultz?
'The enemy is also attacking strongly across the Arras-Doullens road towards Wailly. We're to move on towards Beaumetz and, with Regiment 2, push the enemy back towards Berneville and Warlus,' Schultz told him, handing him a hastily scribbled wireless message.
Timpke looked again at the enemy tanks. They were out of range, and seemed interested only in the 7th Panzer column directly in front of them. He unfolded his map, his eyes running over the mass of roads, villages, rivers and contours. They were five kilometres from Beaumetz and there were thick woods to the west of Berneville that would offer good cover for an attack. He could see now that the enemy armour must have swept in an arc southwards from the west of Arras; if General Rommel's artillery could stem this advance then the Totenkopf, swinging their forces wide, could outflank the enemy tanks and come round the back, ensnaring them in a deadly trap.
He took out his binoculars and looked again at the tanks crawling across the fields to the north-east. British, he reckoned. Some appeared only to have machine-guns, but others were jabbing away with their heavier guns, small flashes of fire appearing from their muzzles. Thick black smoke and flames were billowing from the 7th Panzer column behind; he could hear screams and shouting too. But already German anti-tank guns were responding and he saw now that one of the smaller British tanks had been hit.
'Schultz,' he said, climbing into the turret of the scout car, 'get a signal out. I want the battalion to rendezvous on the Arras- Doullens road to the east of Beaumetz and then we'll attack towards Berneville.'
It was already past four o'clock. With luck they'd be in position sometime after five.
'Kemmetmuler!' he shouted to his adjutant. 'I'm going to stay in the scout car.' He wanted to be able to see clearly, which was impossible from the low, recessed seats of the Citroen. He ordered the column forward once more, drumming his fingers on the metal top. A memory had entered his thoughts: he had been sixteen, at a deer-shoot on his uncle's estate in Bavaria. He remembered the excitement of spotting his first stag, of watching it come closer to him. He could almost smell again the thick resin of the firs around him. And he remembered the intense thrill of capturing it in his sights, of squeezing the trigger and watching it drop to the ground, dead. He had dreamed of that moment from the instant his uncle had invited him to shoot, and when it had come, he had not been disappointed. His triumph had been every bit as thrilling as he had hoped. The Tommies might have caught the Wehrmacht boys off guard, but soon they would find themselves hunted. Timpke grinned. A stag or dead Tommies, what was the difference? He was looking forward to experiencing again the sensation of triumph that had been so indelibly imprinted on his memory.
Twelve Platoon crossed the main Arras-Doullens road in sections, one man at a time. It was not a true crossroads: the men had to dash, crouching, diagonally some forty yards to their right to reach the track. Artillery fire was booming regularly, as well as from the wooded copse ahead. British tanks still lumbered down the crest to the east of Berneville, and they could hear others firing even closer.
Tanner had led the men across the road, then ducked down against the track's bank. A hawthorn hedge grew from the top on the left-hand side, but it was sparse and intermittent on the right. The road was sunk below the hedge line, but only by a few feet. As he was taking this in, Lieutenant Peploe dropped down beside him, breathing heavily.
'This side'll be all right, sir,' said Tanner. 'We'll have to crouch, but we should be able to reach the edge of the farm undetected. We don't know what's behind that ridge, though. There's a village, but we've no idea whether Jerry forces are down there, and whether it's simply a battery up in that copse or a mass of infantry taking cover and waiting to counter-attack.'
'I see,' said Peploe. He bit at a fingernail.
'And I can't quite see where that other gun's firing from.' He pointed towards the right.
'I suppose there's only one way we're going to find out.'
Tanner smiled. 'Yes, sir. I think you might be right.' The track ahead rose gently towards the farm, just under a mile away. Peering through the hedge, he could see the farm buildings - the track turned left sharply towards them near the top of the ridge and he wondered what cover the buildings might offer at that point; it depended on whether the track ran behind or in front of them. Bloody hell. If only they had a proper map rather than the hasty sketch Peploe had made from Captain Barclay's. It was a tall order.
Once the men were safely on the track, they moved off once more, Tanner and Peploe leading with sections following, spread out but now hugging the left. It was back-breaking work, bent double all the way, rifles and Bren in hands, ammunition pouches and packs bumping against bodies. Then, just a couple of hundred yards from the top of the ridge, they reached a railway line, a single track of old, rusting rails running across their path and parallel with the Arras-Doullens road below. Tanner had not spotted it before and, again, cursed the lack of a map. Would the enemy see them as they crossed it? He peered through his binoculars. The guns were firing ever more regularly now, the blasts sending tremors through the ground. Lying flat, he wriggled forward to the edge of the track. A British tank, some three hundred yards away to their left, had almost reached the railway, but had been hit. It was one of the more heavily armoured Matilda IIs, but it was burning, smoke and flames gushing from the turret. He wondered whether the crew had got out. Probably not. Poor bastards. He looked again at the copse but while he could see muzzle flashes and hear the guns ever louder, he couldn't distinguish a single enemy soldier.
'If we can't see the enemy, sir,' said Tanner, 'then hopefully he can't see us.'
'Then we must make a dash for it, Tanner,' said Peploe. He sighed. 'Come on, then.'