Chapter 20
Three a.m., Monday, 27 May. In driving rain, D Company clambered aboard three trucks of 8th Battalion's Troop Carrying Company, parked, with engines running, in the main square at the north end of Carvin. They were thirty- hundredweight Bedford OYs, large enough to take the forty-eight remaining Rangers plus a section from 8th DLI.
'Come up front with me, Tanner,' said Peploe, holding the dark green door open for him.
Silently, Tanner hauled himself aboard, rain dripping from his tin hat, his MP35 clanging against the door frame as he settled on the canvas seat. There was a musty smell - of damp canvas, oil, rubber and stale tobacco - but at least it was dry in the cab. He thought of the men at the back of the truck, the open canvas covering. Hepworth would be cursing.
'Leave the window open, will you, mate?' said the driver, an RASC corporal. 'Otherwise we'll get steamed up in here.'
Rain continued to spatter Tanner's face. From the south a gun boomed, but it was quieter again now: the Germans had never liked fighting at night.
'Where are we going, Corporal?' asked Peploe.
'Steenvoorde, sir. It's not too far - forty miles at most. As long as the roads aren't too clogged we should be there for breakfast.'
A few shouts and barked orders came from the squares, then the corporal ground the truck into gear and they lurched forward. Tanner smoked a cigarette, then took off his helmet, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes. His body was jolted by the movement of the lorry, his ears alive to the thrum of the engine and the rhythmic squeak of the wipers.
It had been a day and a half of orders and counter- orders. Late on the twenty-fifth, they had been stood down, the attack across the canal cancelled, with no explanation as to why. Of course, they had been relieved, but Tanner had felt irritated too - all that tension and apprehension for nothing. But something had been afoot, for all night heavy shelling had continued from both sides of the La Bassee canal, and had continued as dawn had broken. No shells had fallen near their own positions but there had been an enormous explosion to their right. Later they discovered the gasworks at Libercourt had received a direct hit. As the morning had worn on, machine-gun and mortar fire had been heard to the south; rumours had spread that the enemy had crossed the canal and were advancing.
The Rangers had watched 8th DLI's carrier platoon rumble off, rattling down the main road, heading to the south edge of Carvin. The men were restless and fidgety, especially when the French battalion in the woods opposite had begun to move out. No one had seemed to know what was going on, but all the time the sound of guns and small arms was drawing closer although, in those woods, still frustratingly out of sight. Above, enemy reconnaissance aircraft had circled ominously. Soon the bombers would arrive.
Orders to move came a little before nine o'clock. They were to head to Camphin a few miles to the north. No sooner had the lead companies moved off along the main road than the dive-bombers had swooped, engines and sirens screaming, dropping their bombs on the column. The Rangers, the last to leave, were unharmed to a man, but several vehicles had been put out of action and the road was badly cratered. Some of the men had been quite shaken. Tanner noticed that a couple - Verity from Sykes's section and Dempster in Cooper's - were a bit bomb happy, cowering more than the others and taking longer to recover their composure. They'd all have to keep an eye on them. Yet it was interesting that a dozen Stukas had attacked their column and only four from A Company had been wounded. Two trucks had been destroyed and another's radiator and front tyres had blown, but the damage had been comparatively light, all things considered. As Tanner was increasingly aware, Stukas were not especially accurate despite their alarming sirens. The biggest inconvenience had been the craters in the road - it had meant they had been ordered to debus and then tramp cross-country on foot while the M/T had been forced to risk going through the centre of Carvin, which had been coming under regular and heavy shellfire.
They had reached Camphin in one piece, and, at last, out of range of enemy guns. Immediately the men had been ordered to dig in yet again, at the edge of the village, but after they'd made slit trenches, new orders arrived. The Rangers were to join B Company of 8th DLI and occupy Provin, a village a few miles to the west where 9th DLI were now based. With the men grumbling about pointless digging, they set off again. When they finally reached Provin, there had been no sign of 9th so they had been sent back to Carvin, where the rest of 8th was now attacking beside the French and a couple of platoons from 5th Leicesters who had somehow become detached from the rest of their unit.
Footsore, hungry and in no state to fight, the Rangers had reached the edge of Carvin as a storm broke overhead. Guns boomed, their reports mixing with the cracks of thunder. In the pouring rain, the Durham and Yorkshire men had headed south towards the fighting, scrambling over the rubble and fallen masonry of destroyed houses. The shriek of shells could now be heard, whooshing like speeding trains through the rain-drenched air. And then, ahead, they had seen trucks and cars, tanks and carriers, all crammed with men.
'My God, is that the enemy?' Barclay had asked, wiping rain from his face.
'No, sir,' Tanner had replied. 'They're French.'
Silently, they had watched them trundle past. Most were Moroccans, who glared at the Tommies. Their officers seemed dejected. Tanner could hardly blame them - their country was falling. Defeat hung in the air. Thunder continued to crack. For the first time since he'd arrived in France, he'd begun to think they might never get out.
Not long after, the rest of the battalion had fallen back too. Shelling had continued with nightfall but the enemy had not stormed the town, and shortly after midnight, word reached them that they would be pulling out - and this time not falling back a few miles. Rather, they were being transferred to the northern flank. Out of one cauldron and into another.
Now Tanner sighed and sat up. Through the faint beam of the blinkered headlights, he could see the rain and, just ahead, the tail of the lead truck, with Captain Barclay, Blackstone, the rest of Company Headquarters and 11 Platoon. He had avoided Blackstone as much as possible, which in itself had been frustrating. It wasn't in his nature to shirk confrontation, but dealing with Blackstone was like facing a boxer who forever moved about the ring - always there, in your face, but upon whom it was impossible to land a punch. In truth, they had been on the move so often in the past couple of days that there had been little need for their paths to cross, but Tanner was ever mindful that unfinished business lay between them. He had, however, detected a subtle change in the men's attitude towards the CSM - at least in 12 Platoon. If any of the lads had resented the CSM's early departure from the battlefield at Arras, they had not said so; Blackstone had made it clear to them that it was thanks to him and Slater, bravely dodging roving enemy panzers, that the French tanks and carriers had made it to Warlus to rescue them. Yet Tanner had noticed that the men had been less effusive about him, not so quick to laugh if he stopped to speak to them. Blackstone. Always at the back of his mind, a menace he was unable to shake off. Tanner thumped a clenched fist into the other palm. Well, they might be losing the battle, but somehow, some way, he would nail him. If it's the last thing I do.