As the firing died down, he stared again through his binoculars, and this time there was no doubt: what looked like a white towel was tied to a pole.
'They're definitely surrendering, Fritz.' He shook his friend's hand. 'Well done.'
Knochlein grinned, then signalled to his men with a wave, urging them forward. A spontaneous cheer rang out as his troops now picked themselves up from where they had been lying in the fields and ditches round about and ran towards the battered remains of Duries farmhouse. Timpke put away his binoculars then strode quickly back to his half-track. There he took off his helmet, replacing it with his cap. Keeping on his camouflage smock with his replacement Luger - taken from a dead comrade - at his waist, he began to walk down the track towards the scene of the Tommies' resistance. He wondered how many prisoners there might be - forty-two at least, he hoped.
It had, he reflected, been a hard few days - even frustrating at times - but he couldn't deny that he'd enjoyed it. From the moment his comrades had found him in Warlus early on 22 May, his fortunes had improved. Pressing north-west, they had swept all before them until they had reached the La Bassee canal. And during that thrust towards Bethune, he had been able to recoup some of his earlier losses, including the Somua, captured intact and undamaged.
Then had come the order - from the Fuhrer himself, so rumour had it - for the advance to halt. At the time, it had seemed inexplicable - and certainly no reason had been given. Eicke had been furious: he had personally led Regiment 3 across the canal and had won a hard- fought and costly bridgehead, only to be ordered back. Timpke had never seen Papa Eicke so mad, and had his own reconnaissance troops been involved in the assault he would have shared their commander's dismay and fury.
Since the halt order had been rescinded the previous day, however, the entire division had been in action. Timpke's task had been to assist whichever of the attacking units needed his help. A company had been assigned to each of the three infantry regiments. Timpke and his battalion headquarters had roved between them, hacking cross-country in his half-tracks from Hinges to Locon to Le Cornet Malo and now Paradis.
As he approached the Duries farmhouse, he saw the Tommies being directed onto the track. They were bloodied, unshaven and exhausted, hands clasped on their heads. With rifles and sub-machine-guns pointed at them, they were pushed and prodded into a line. In contrast, Knochlein's men were bright and fresh, laughing, sharing cigarettes, enjoying their moment of victory. Timpke smiled. He shared their exhilaration. Victory was sweet, as he had known it would be, but so was revenge, and as he walked along the column of prisoners he counted them. Forty-one, forty-two - he had barely reached halfway. So much the better.
He counted ninety-nine men of the Royal Norfolk Regiment - it was a shame they were not Yorks Rangers but that would have been too much to hope for. He stopped a young Untersturmfiihrer who was directing his men.
'Are you in charge of these prisoners?' Timpke asked.
'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. I'm taking them to the field beside Creton Farm to search them.'
'Good,' said Timpke. He watched the column trudge past, then followed until they had been led down a right- hand fork in the track into the field next to the farm. Seeing Knochlein, he now called to him.
Knochlein waited, watching as his men began to search the prisoners. 'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer - you wanted me?'
'I do, Fritz,' said Timpke, putting an arm round his shoulder. 'You may have heard what happened to some of my men the other day.'
'The Tommies put them in a barn and shot them.'
'They were prisoners of war, Fritz - they were my men. Shot in cold blood.'
'I'm sorry. The bastards who did that should pay for it.'
'You know, Fritz, I survived that massacre of my comrades. I was lucky. But I swore then that I would avenge it. They were my men, sure, but they were also Totenkopf men. Your comrades too.'
Knochlein faced him. 'You want me to shoot these Tommies now?'
'Yes, Fritz. The British must pay for what they did. This will show them that in future they must not mess with the Totenkopf. That if they play dirty we will play dirty too, but twice as harshly.'
Knochlein nodded. 'You're right, Herr Sturmbann-fuhrer. The Tommies dishonoured us and they must pay the price.'
Timpke smiled. Knochlein had always been impressionable. He had known the simple fellow would agree. 'Good,' he said. 'I knew you'd understand, Fritz. I'll have the vehicles moved, then we can line them up against the farmhouse. Get a couple of machine-guns prepared.'
'Right away, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.' His eyes glinted. 'Yes. It's the justice our comrades deserve.'
Five minutes later, they were ready. The big Somua had rattled out of the way, and the half-tracks, while two machine-gun crews had set up their MG34s, with full belts of ammunition feeding into the breeches. Timpke stood with Knochlein behind the machine-guns, watching the British prisoners being marched towards the farmhouse. The Untersturmfuhrer leading them now came towards them. He looked nervous, his eyes shifting between the prisoners and the officers before him. Timpke stared at him. It is an order. Do it. The Tommies at first seemed not to know what was going on, but then some spotted the machine-guns facing them and panic spread among them.
When the first of the British soldiers had reached the end of the brick building, Knochlein glanced at Timpke, who nodded. A moment later, an order was barked and the machine-guns opened fire.
Chapter 21
Somehow they had managed to get lost. Thick cloud had rolled in, the sun had disappeared and, with it, the opportunity to navigate their way easily due east. Before long, it had begun to drizzle, and the flat, featureless Flanders landscape had been consumed by a dull mist. The inaccuracy of their road map had compounded their difficulties. The Rangers had certainly avoided refugees but instead had found themselves tramping a web of tracks and narrow roads, none of which seemed to correspond with what was shown on the map.
After a couple of hours, and still no sign of Poperinghe, Tanner was frustrated. He prided himself on his sense of direction yet, to his extreme annoyance, he had lost his bearings - not that he wanted to admit this to the lieutenant who, he knew, was feeling much the same. The men's spirits had been low when they had left Steenvoorde, but now they were plummeting rapidly. Heads were dropping, feet were dragging; there was grumbling among the ranks. Just one more crossroads, another couple of hundred yards, Tanner kept telling himself.
'Sarge,' said Sykes, after they had been tramping for nearly three hours, 'we've got to stop. Old Blackie'll be feeding off this one. Admit defeat, and let's stop for the night.'
Tanner nodded. 'All right, Stan.'
The lieutenant agreed, but added, 'Let's keep going for another half-hour. Poperinghe can't be far now.'
But no cluster of buildings or high-spired church appeared through the mist. Poperinghe remained as elusive as ever, so when, at just after eight o'clock, a large white farmstead loomed ahead, Peploe called a halt.
'Chaps, I'm sorry this has been a difficult afternoon,' he said to them, from the road leading to the farm. 'The lack of a good map and particularly the weather haven't helped. I'd hoped to get us to Poperinghe, but it's not to be, so we'll stay here for the night.'