'But Tanner's word wasn't good enough for you yesterday morning.'
'I've told you, Lieutenant, that I consider both matters closed.'
'We handed over guarding the prisoners to some of the DLI lads,' said Blackstone.
'Who?' Peploe asked. 'Don't you think we should be speaking to their commanding officer?'
'Colonel Beart's been sent to hospital,' said Blackstone.
'For God's sake, someone must have taken over - Major McLaren. He was second in command yesterday. Sir, war or not, it was an appalling crime that cannot go unpunished. I mean, damn it, I thought we were fighting to stop the tyranny of the Nazis. Condone this and we prove ourselves no better than they are.'
'Peploe, my dear fellow,' said Barclay, attempting a more placatory approach, 'the Durhams have lost nearly half their men. Their OC is in hospital and two company commanders are in the bag. I hear Sixth Battalion has suffered similar losses. How well do you think it will go down if we march in there accusing their men of slaughtering forty Nazis - and, let's face it, they were all SS men, the very worst of the worst. I know this probably sounds a bit cold-hearted but, personally, I can't help feeling the world is better off without them.'
Tanner saw the flush in Peploe's cheeks. The lieutenant's jaw tightened and for a moment Tanner wondered whether he should simply steer him away before he did something he might later regret.
'Shame on you, sir,' said Peploe at last. He swallowed hard. 'Because we are at war and because of the situation we find ourselves in, I will continue to serve under you to the best of my ability. But I want you to know, here and now, that when we get home I shall be reporting this disgraceful episode and I will make sure the perpetrators are caught and that justice is done.'
'That, of course, is your prerogative,' said Barclay, stiffly. 'But now I want you, fanner, and you, Blackstone, to shake hands.'
Blackstone thrust out his hand, smiling amiably at Tanner.
'Christ alive,' muttered Peploe.
'Tanner?' said Barclay.
'Is it an order, sir?'
'Yes, damn it, it is.'
Tanner held out his hand and felt Blackstone's grip it.
'Good,' said Barclay, smiling at last. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?' He stuffed his pipe back into his mouth, relit it, and then, as sweet-smelling tobacco wafted around him, he said, 'Now we've got that straight, I can give you our orders. We're to join the line between here and the Canadian war memorial on the left of Eighth DLI, or what remains of them. They're covering the line all the way up to Givenchy.' He cleared his throat. 'We lost a lot of tanks yesterday and there's going to be no more offensive action for the time being. Our job is to stop the enemy getting any further.'
'I thought we were going to rejoin the rest of the battalion, sir,' said Tanner.
'Nothing doing, I'm afraid. They're still down on the Scarpe to the east of Arras, but with the DLI's losses, we're to stay and help them. In any case, we no longer have any M/T.'
'And what about food?' asked Tanner. 'The lads haven't had anything since yesterday morning.'
'Eighth DLI's B Echelon have set up a kitchen a short way back up the road in the wood. We've been ordered to pass through it, rather than using roads - Brigade's expecting heavy air attacks. We're to pick up rations on the way to our positions. All clear?'
Tanner and Peploe nodded.
'Oh, and one last thing,' added Barclay, 'I've made CSM Blackstone Eleven Platoon commander. He's taking over from Lieutenant Bourne-Arton with immediate effect.'
Tanner willed himself not to look at the triumph on Blackstone's face, but something within compelled him to do so. Standing a little way behind Barclay, Blackstone lit a cigarette and, as Tanner glanced at him, he smiled and winked - just as Tanner had known he would.
Chapter 19
Four thirty p.m., Thursday, 23 May: orders had arrived that D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers, along with A and D Companies of 8th Battalion, the Durham Light Infantry, were to move out of the young woods at Petit Vimy along the ridge to Givenchy, and from there to join the line on the right of the rest of 8th Battalion to the north-west of the village.
It was raining, and had been since mid-morning, alternating between drizzle and a heavier, more persistent downpour. Some of the men wore their green oilskin anti-gas capes as mackintoshes, but Tanner felt too restricted in his so he had put on his leather jerkin. It meant his body was dry still but the damp serge of his trousers and battle-blouse sleeves scratched his skin.
The weather did nothing to improve his mood. Being forced to shake Blackstone's hand had been a humiliation too far. Back at Manston he had promised himself he would make no concessions until he felt the man had earned his respect and trust. Now he had been ordered to renege on that vow and forced to shake hands with a man who, two days before, had had him beaten up, who had accused him of rape, and who had possibly shot more than forty prisoners in cold blood. A man, he had once felt certain, who had already tried to kill him at least twice before. To make matters worse, Barclay had made it quite clear that he felt Tanner and Lieutenant Peploe were being difficult and churlish, rather than Blackstone. Tanner had not expected effusive praise, but he felt he had acquitted himself well enough on the twenty-first; he and the platoon had done everything asked of them, and more. In contrast, Blackstone had kept his head down and scuttled off at the first available opportunity. That alone had hardly merited promotion.
Blackstone had clearly been preying on Peploe's mind too. The lieutenant had made no secret of his disgust. 'I shouldn't be saying this to you, Tanner,' he had fumed, as they had walked back to rejoin the platoon, 'but the OC is treating this like some bloody playground spat. I swear on all I hold dear that I will not let this matter drop. When we get home, I'm going to make sure it's properly investigated.' Since then, Peploe had been subdued, not at all the cheerful, easy-going man Tanner had come to like and respect.
In truth, however, it was not only Blackstone and the weather: for nearly two days now they had heard increasingly heavy gunfire to the south, from the eastern side of Arras, where they supposed the rest of the battalion were still dug in, and from far to the west. Moreover, it seemed that the Luftwaffe had singled them out for particular punishment. Enemy aircraft had buzzed over almost continually. Already that day they had been dive- bombed twice. The trees of the young wood, just twenty years old, had offered some protection, as had their hastily dug slit trenches, but the attacks grated on the nerves. Every time a Stuka dived, screaming, or a Junkers 88 flew over, roaring, the men crouched into the earth - which was wet and muddy with all the rain - and prayed no bomb would land on them. Lethal shards of splintered wood and shrapnel hissed over their heads, while clods of soil and fragments of stone clattered on top of them, rattling their steel helmets and working their way down the back of their necks.
They had seen no British or French aircraft.
'Where's bloody Lyell and his lot?' Sykes had muttered at one point. 'Surely he's back by now?'