The day had brought little cheer. Following on from the news that the Channel port of Boulogne had fallen the day before, it now seemed that Calais was all but in German hands too. His promised 1st Armoured Division, attempting to move north from Cherbourg, had made no headway. Supplies of everything, but especially food and ammunition, were running low. General Dill, deputy CIGS, had arrived, and let him know that the BEF was being criticized at home for its performance. Throughout the day, disquieting news had reached them from the northern front, where it seemed the Belgian line was deteriorating; apparently, Belgian forces were drifting northwards towards the river Scheldt - reports suggested that a gap was developing between them and the British. Then, half an hour ago, details of some German documents captured by a British patrol on the river Lys, on the northern flank, revealed that the enemy intended to bolster its front there and attack between Ypres and Commines - precisely at the link between BEF and Belgian forces. If reports of the gap were true, the Hun would be able to outflank the BEF in the north with potentially catastrophic consequences.
Gort studied the mass of roads, towns, villages, rivers and canals - images and names that were now so familiar to him. His forces were dangerously overstretched, of that there could be no doubt, and even though they had intercepted the extraordinary message that German troops had halted their attack towards Merville and Dunkirk, it was clear this respite could not last.
Lord Gort fingered his trim moustache and cast his eyes towards his southern flank. General Weygand had demanded there be a properly co-ordinated counterattack southwards - with which the War Office had concurred - but only a few days earlier he had attempted precisely the same thing at Arras, and, as he had feared, their allies had barely contributed. Admittedly Weygand seemed to have a bit more verve than poor old Gamelin, but Gort was loath to push two divisions into the attack unless he knew for certain that the French would honour their commitments to the battle, especially now that his northern front was so shaky. And therein lay the quandary that had troubled him this past half-hour: should he let down his French allies and move 5th and 50th Divisions north to bolster his front there, or should he go ahead with the Weygand plan in the hope that, this time, the French would pull their weight? Damn it. He sat down at his desk, put his hands together and stared ahead.
A knock on his door startled him. 'Come,' he said.
'Excuse me, my lord,' said Major Archdale.
Gort motioned him to a seat. 'What news from Army Group One? How are their battle plans?'
'Down to three divisions, not four, my lord.'
'So already they're reneging. Give me strength.' Gort sighed. 'You know, Archdale, I've had a damned rum deal from our allies. The Dutch copped it from the start, but the French and the Belgians - you can't get a straight answer from 'em. The French are always complaining that they're too tired to fight, their staff work's a bloody disgrace, and there's been no firm direction or proper coordination whatsoever from the high command. Now I hear that the Belgians are drifting away and that a dangerous gap is emerging between our chaps and them. Tell me this, why are the Belgians retreating north? If they fell back southwards, they'd be able to preserve a decent front and lines of communication.' He felt himself flush, but was too angry to care - too frustrated by the impossible position in which he was placed, everyone pulling him in different directions, the Belgians tugging him north, Weygand urging him south, Churchill and the war cabinet sticking their oar in. 'Well, Archdale?' he said.
'I wouldn't like to say, sir, it's not my place, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Belgians feel rather as we all do about the French. Perhaps they think it's better to fight with their backs to their coast than retreat towards France.'
'You think they'll throw in the towel?'
Archdale shrugged. 'It may come to that. More than half their country's already in enemy hands. General Blanchard has gone to Belgian GHQ, though. Perhaps he can put some steel into them.' He didn't seem convinced.
'And what's the mood at Blanchard's HQ? Tell me frankly. Is it any better now that Billotte's gone?'
'There's faith in Weygand, my lord, but General Blanchard is the same man he was before.'
'In other words, no commander at all.'
Archdale looked apologetic.
The telephone on Gort's desk rang and he dismissed Archdale, then picked up the receiver. It was General Adam, commander of III Corps, whose troops were earmarked for the southern counter-attack. 'Tell me some good news,' said Gort, trying to sound cheerful.
'I wish I could, my lord,' said the general. 'I've just been to see Altmayer. He told me he can only provide one division for the attack.'
'One?' Gort began to laugh.
'Sir?' said Adam.
'But, my dear Adam,' said Gort, 'that is good news. Don't you see? We'll have to call off the attack. It can't possibly succeed - one division! My God, it's unbelievable. Yesterday it was four plus two hundred tanks. Now the best the French can offer is one lone division!'
He rang off and strode next door to see Pownall. 'Henry!' he said. 'Do you know how long I've been agonizing over what to do about our northern flank? I've had a call from Adam saying the French are only planning to put in one division!'
'Surely not?'
'It's true. So that's made my decision for me. Brookey can have his two divisions. Get Franklyn up here smartish. We need to stop Fifth Div from moving south and get them and Fiftieth up to plug the line between Ypres and Commines right away.'
'Of course, my lord,' said Pownall, 'but what about Blanchard?'
'We'll tell him that, because of this, the attack would be doomed to fail and we'll no longer play a part in it. It's no more than giving them a dose of their own medicine.'
'What about the PM and the war cabinet?'
'Don't get 'em involved. They'll only throw a spanner into the works. They've asked me to command the BEF and that's what I'm doing - commanding, damn it. We'll simply present it as a fait accompli.'
'Very wise, my lord. In any case, we don't have enough ammunition to carry out such an attack. I was never very keen on the idea.' He shook his head wearily. 'The whole thing really is a first-class mess, and what's frustrating is that I don't think it's much of our making.'
'I agree, Henry. But it's important that, from now on, we think for ourselves. We can't rely on our allies, and I think we may have just saved the BEF from annihilation. What we must do now is ensure that as many of our boys as possible are saved - saved to fight another day.'
'You mean the evacuation, my lord?'
'Yes, Henry, I do. We've talked about it as a possibility, but now it's a necessity. I've no doubt we'll still lose a great many men, but we have to think about getting our forces to the coast, making sure that as many as possible are lifted off the beaches and taken safely back to Britain. A staged withdrawal to the coast - here.' He stood up and pointed to the stretch between Dunkirk and Nieuport on the wall map. 'We might have stemmed the flow for a while, but we must be realistic. We cannot stay here in northern France without being surrounded - Hitler's tanks aren't going to lie idle. His armies are closing in on the Belgians and they've got Calais in the bag. There's no other direction for us to go.' He stroked his chin. 'You know, Henry, it's funny but for days past - and particularly the last few hours – I’ve been agonizing over the right thing for us to do. I’ve felt quite paralysed, if I'm honest. But now everything seems perfectly clear. It's time to look after ourselves. It's our only course.'