Darkest Hour

'And us.'

'Yes.'

'What about the vehicles?'

'That's what's really got the OC. They won't start. It seems someone's taken the rotor arms out of the distributors.'

'Sabotage. Must be one of the prisoners. What's happened to them?'

'I don't know. I must admit, I'd forgotten about them.' 'And where the bloody hell are Blackstone and Slater?'

'Presumably still guarding the prisoners. They weren't with Captain Barclay.'

'Damn it all,' muttered Tanner. 'Does the OC have a plan?'

'He does now.' Peploe chuckled. 'Did you hear that vehicle go off about half an hour ago?'

'Yes.'

'It was an armoured car - one of the DLI's - attempting to get help, or so the OC told me. I suggested to him that we wait here until midnight and if there's still no sign of help we evacuate on foot.'

'And he agreed?'

'Er, not entirely.'

Tanner sighed. 'Bloody hell. And I'm absolutely starving.'

'Here,' said Peploe, passing him his hip-flask. 'I managed to get a refill in Givenchy. Nothing like as good as the single malt I brought out with me, but when in Rome, eh?'

Tanner took a swig. 'What is it, sir?' he asked.

'Calvados. It's French - made from apples.' He took a swig himself. 'Cheers, Sergeant. Here's to getting out alive.'

Tanner's exhaustion was growing but he knew he had to keep awake and alert, and make sure the men did too. Twice he shook Hepworth, while he had to cajole, back- slap and urge the others to think not of food and sleep but of Jerries pouncing on them if they weren't watchful. Time seemed to have slowed, and he found himself repeatedly looking at his watch. Desultory mortar fire fell on the village, but otherwise the front remained quiet.

Yet with every passing minute, Tanner felt sure their chances of escape were melting away. His cheek still hurt, his lip kept splitting and his ribs - no, his entire body - ached. Fighting was tiring. What wouldn't he do for a bed?

Eleven o'clock passed, then eleven thirty. So no one's coming. But then, just before midnight, they heard the tell-tale squeak and rumble of tanks approaching the village from the north.

'Hear that, sir?' said Tanner.

'Yes,' said Peploe. 'What do you think? Friend or foe?'

'I'm hoping it's the bloody cavalry - if it's Jerry, he's acting out of character.'

'Well, you go this time, Tanner.'

'All right, sir.'

'Fingers crossed.'

Tanner hurried down the road, exhaustion forgotten. The centre of the village glowed from another burning house so that the vehicles, dark and looming, were silhouetted against the flickering light. Several Durham men stood around, smoking and flinching every time another mortar hurtled over.

'Seen any officers?' Tanner asked them.

'Your skipper's in the church, mate,' said one.

The sound of tanks grew louder, then Tanner heard other vehicles rumbling with them. He ran down the road, and there, two hundred yards ahead, a column of tanks was approaching, their bulky shapes silhouetted against the now dull glow of the sky. Not British but French. He recognized them as the same models he had seen earlier that day in Neuville-St-Vaast. Thank God. He turned and ran to the church.

He found Captain Barclay sitting on a pew at the front. A number of candles had been lit.

'Sir?' said Tanner.

'Sergeant Tanner,' said Barclay. 'I was just trying to think and, er, offering a few prayers. Silly, probably, but I thought it might help.' He scratched the back of his neck.

'It might have done, sir. Some French tanks are here.'

'Really?' said Barclay, surprised. 'I must say, I'd always hoped there was a God.' He tapped his foot on the stone floor. 'There's a bunch of civvies down below, you know. They've been praying all night.'

When Tanner and Captain Barclay hurried outside, the tanks were in the centre of the village, and rolled to a halt by the other vehicles.

'Bonsoir.' A French officer saluted. 'We heard you were in difficulty,' he said in English, 'so we have come to take you out.'

'But my orders are to stay here and defend this village,' Barclay replied.

Tanner clutched his head in exasperation. 'But, sir, we haven't got a hope of holding out.' He counted six tanks and two tracked troop carriers. 'There are two entire enemy divisions out there.'

Barclay ignored him. Instead he turned to the Frenchman and asked, 'Where have you come from?'

'From Duisans. A German tank formation attacked from the north-east but they have moved further east now. Your battalion is still holding the village but they will be falling back soon, I think.'

'And what are your orders?'

The French officer shrugged. 'To help you.'

'Very well. We stay.'

'Sir - please,' said Tanner.

'No, Tanner. I'm the senior officer and those are my orders. Our armoured attack will no doubt take place in the morning. If we lose this ground they'll have to start all over again.'

'But, sir, how do you know there's going to be any more armour?'

'These boys are here, aren't they?' Barclay snapped. 'Now get back to your platoon, Sergeant.'

A renewed barrage of mortar fire fell on the village as Tanner loped back up the road. At one point, he flung himself to the ground as a mortar crashed forty yards from him. Then another building was burning, angry flames crackling into the sky.

'It's madness, sir,' he told Peploe, on his return. 'We're getting stonked to hell, all part of Jerry's softening-up process. Keeps us awake, hopefully causes a few casualties and frays nerves. At first light they'll send over some Stukas, and when they've gone they'll storm the place with all guns blazing. To stay here now is suicide.'

'All right, Tanner,' said Peploe, 'but this is a hell of a stonk. I reckon we're safer here than in the village. Let's wait for it to die down and then I'll talk to Captain Barclay.'

Mortars continued to rain on the village and more houses blazed. Tanner's agitation and anger grew. He knew the men felt much the same.

'This is madness, Sarge,' said Bell. 'Let's pack up and get the hell out of here.'

'Calm down, Tinker,' he said, moving on down the line.

'I'm cold and damp, tired and hungry, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'I wouldn't mind so much if I could see the point of it. Has the OC gone mad, then?'

'God knows.'

But at one a.m. news came that they were to move back into the village. One of the French carriers rumbled forward to hitch up the twenty-pounder while, muttering and cursing, the Rangers walked back down the road, rifles at the ready, circling regularly to check that no one was following them. At least a dozen houses were now ablaze and the centre of the village was lit up as though by gas-lamp. One of the captured SS trucks was also burning, destroyed by a direct hit. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and rubber.