Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke had watched their departure. He had hidden in an abandoned house opposite the vehicles. It had a strong, deep cellar in which he had sheltered during quiet periods, while on the ground floor there was an open window from which he could see and hear what was going on without being spotted.
A short while before he had been congratulating himself for successfully disabling the vehicles - it had been almost ridiculously easy. No one had been around - no guards - and it had been dark, too, unlike now with so many houses blazing. Then, to his annoyance, he had heard first one, then two vehicles start up and head northwards. He had not spotted them earlier - they must have been parked in a different part of the village. Nonetheless, he had remained optimistic that the bulk of the small British garrison would be trapped.
Such hopes had fallen away when the French tanks had turned up. However, watching from an open ground- floor window, Timpke had followed events with mounting incomprehension. Why had those Tommies not left immediately? Then he had seen the officer in charge and had recognized a man promoted beyond his capabilities. The fool had been paralysed by the weight of responsibility on his shoulders and unable to make a decision.
Then the dead prisoners had been discovered, and from that moment on, the Tommy officer had not been able to leave soon enough. He's walking away from it. Timpke's anger had risen once more. He had seen Tanner standing beside two officers and then, as men had loaded themselves onto the tanks, run off towards the church and disappear from view. As the engines started and still he saw no sign of Tanner, his hopes rose. He was sure he had heard gunfire from beyond the church, but then that tall figure had emerged from the gloom, running towards the tanks. An arm was outstretched and Tanner had scrambled on.
'No!' hissed Timpke to himself. 'No!' In a kind of stupor, he had walked out of the house and stood in the middle of the road, watching the last of the vehicles disappear from view, until all he could hear of them was the faint squeak and rattle of tracks. Then a mortar shell whistled over and landed on the roof of the big barn where so many of his dead comrades still lay. A moment later, a second and then a third followed. In what seemed like no time at all, the building was aglow, angry flames rising from the broken roof, wooden timbers cracking and spitting.
Timpke felt the rotor arms in his tunic pocket under his camouflage smock. At least he had his vehicles back, but that was small consolation. Only one thing would give him peace, and that was revenge. Revenge for his humiliation. Revenge for his dead comrades. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.
It was a slow journey. Near the edge of the village, the survivors from Warlus had had to stop to clear burning debris from the road but, thankfully, they had met no resistance. It was still dark by the time they reached Duisans, but the stench of battle was heavy on the air. The chateau and village were now deserted; whatever had remained of B and C Companies had clearly fallen back.
On they trundled, back up the ridge that ran between Duisans and Maroeuil where earlier they had seen British tanks advancing. By the time they rumbled into Neuville-St-Vaast, the first streaks of dawn were creeping over the horizon. Smoke still drifted over Arras, but the distant tower of the belfry still stood. Despite the discomfort of sitting on the back of a moving French tank in the crisp cold of early dawn, Tanner dozed, imagining a big plate of bacon, egg and bread fried in beef dripping, as he and his father had eaten when he was a boy. When he woke again, it was nearly six and they had driven back over Vimy Ridge and come to a halt in Vimy village.
Seventy-four men and officers were all that remained of nearly three infantry companies, an anti-tank battery and a carrier platoon. Exhausted, they slid off the tanks, scrambled out of the carriers and collapsed at the side of the road. Men milled about. Vehicles - trucks, carriers and several cars - lined the road beneath a row of young horse-chestnuts. Tanner smoked the last of Timpke's cigarettes as Captain Barclay and the lieutenant headed off towards Brigade Headquarters.
'What happens now?' Sykes asked Tanner. It would be another sunny day, and the air was filled with birdsong.
'God knows. Hopefully get some grub.' Several of the men were already asleep, stretched out on the dewy grass beneath the horse-chestnuts. Tanner wondered when the fighting would start again. Enemy bombers would be over soon, and those two German divisions would be gearing themselves up for the next surge forward. It was supposed to have been a counter-attack - an attempt to push the enemy back, but here they were, one day on, in exactly the same place as they had started, but with good men dead, wounded and taken prisoner. In their own company, they were now down to just two officers; 11 Platoon were short of eighteen men - half their number. He wondered whether Timpke had been among the dead in the barn; he'd not seen him, but then again he'd not looked that hard either. But, Christ, all those bodies. Prisoners were a pain in the backside when you were busy fighting, but killing them in cold blood - he could barely believe it, even now. He closed his eyes. No doubt Blackstone would turn up, winking and slapping the lads on the back, everyone's mate. The murdered Germans would be swept under the carpet while the accusations of rape would be brought to the fore. And, overhead, the Luftwaffe would be swirling, diving and dropping their bombs. Damn them. Barclay was a bloody fool. How could he not see through Blackstone? Good leadership required many things but the ability to judge character was one; another was the guts to take clear-headed decisions. Squadron Leader Lyell had been right: the captain was a hopeless soldier.
Sykes nudged him now. 'The lieutenant's coming.'
Tanner glanced up and saw Peploe approaching.
'Tanner,' he said, 'come with me a moment, will you?'
Tanner stood up and went to him. Dark circles surrounded Peploe's eyes and a growth of gingery beard covered his chin. It was amazing, Tanner thought, how much fighting a war aged people.
'Captain Barclay wants to talk to us,' said Peploe, 'with Blackstone.'
'Bloody hell.'
'He wants to clear the air.'
Tanner eyed him, expecting to see an ironic smile, but the lieutenant's face was set hard.
They found Captain Barclay and CSM Blackstone standing outside a bar that had evidently been requisitioned as part of 151st Brigade's headquarters.
'Ah, there you are,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth. His eyelid flickered and he rubbed it self-consciously.
'Morning, Jack,' said Blackstone. 'How's the head?' He circled a finger around his own face.
Tanner didn't answer. 'You wanted to see me, sir.'
'Yes, all three of you, actually,' said Barclay. 'We've had a difficult twenty-four hours and we've probably got some difficult days ahead. Jerry's snapping at our heels and we've lost some damn good men.'
Tanner wished he'd get to the point.
'Now, I know that you, Tanner, and the CSM are not exactly friends, but I want you to bury the hatchet. I don't want to hear any more about this girl or the dead prisoners.'
'But, sir,' interrupted Peploe, 'you can't just sweep it under the table. Forty men were murdered.'
Barclay smoothed his moustache. 'Blackstone has given me his solemn word that neither he nor Slater had anything to do with it, and his word is good enough for me.'