Major-General Alexander sat opposite him, eating with measured precision and making polite small-talk with Brigadier Leese as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He looked utterly imperturbable, and Gort thanked God he had accepted Montgomery's advice and relieved General Barker of command of the rearguard. Monty had been right: Barker was a hopeless case. At conference the night before the general had seemed nervy and Gort had noticed his hands shaking. When he had spoken, he had gabbled and told a poor joke about dining soon in a Schloss overlooking the Rhine. Gort had originally chosen Barker for the job because he had been the most expendable of his generals; he had accepted that most of the rearguard might eventually be forced to surrender and taken into captivity, but there had been something rather galling about hearing Barker's passive acceptance of their fate. The rearguard was made up of fine fighting men, and while their surrender had to be considered, it most certainly did not have to be accepted as inevitable. Monty had pointed out that in Alexander he had a first- class divisional general, with a calm and clear brain; he wouldn't flap or be rushed into making hasty decisions. With him in charge, Monty had urged, there was no need for anyone to surrender.
Gort took a sip of his wine. He didn't much like Monty - he was an irritating, conceited little man - but he knew his stuff, and when it came to organization there was no one to beat him. The way he had moved 3rd Division overnight to cover the gap left by the Belgians had been stunning. And Monty wasn't a bad judge of character either - as he watched the man in front of him, he felt certain his remaining troops within the bridgehead were in the safest possible hands.
Even so, he hardly envied Alexander the task. After lunch he handed him handwritten notes of the orders he had given him earlier. Alexander was to remain under the command of the French Admiral Abrial, whom Gort believed to be out of his depth physically and metaphorically; he knew the admiral hadn't emerged from his bunkers in Bastion 32 since the crisis had begun. Furthermore, it had been agreed by the French and British governments that French troops should share the chance for evacuation, an order with which Gort instinctively disagreed. Not for the first time, he had cursed the French as he had written those instructions. Only one French general had agreed to fight on at Dunkirk - de la Laurencie with his III Corps; that damned fool Blanchard had sacrificed his entire army at Lille. He couldn't help feeling that the war would be a lot more straightforward once the French were out of the fight.
Gort led Alexander into the palace drawing room; for the past couple of days it had been his office. He offered him a cigar and brandy. Then, as they puffed out clouds of smoke, he said, 'There's far too much politicking going on, Alex, with London trying to placate Paris and so on. HMG thinks it's essential that we're seen to be helping the French to the last. You'll find Abrial's a decent enough fellow but, like so many French commanders, not really in touch with the reality of what's going on here. You must be respectful but firm with him. Yes, we'll help the French escape, but your prime task is to defend the bridgehead for as long as possible in order to allow the most men to get away. We've done well so far - more than I'd ever hoped - but we mustn't throw in the towel now.'
'I understand,' said Alexander. 'How long should I hold the perimeter? I've toured First Division's sector and the men are keen and reasonably well stocked, but they won't be able to hold out for long. Thankfully, the Hun seems only to be attacking in any kind of strength from the east, but that won't last.'
'That's for you to judge, Alex. Only you can make that call now.'
Near by, several bombs exploded, shaking the palace. From the drawing room, Gort saw high plumes of sand thrust into the air. Alexander barely flinched.
'Good luck,' said Gort, holding out his hand. 'May God be with you and I pray you may return safely to Britain.'
'Thank you, sir,' said Alexander. 'I'll do my best.'
Dawn, Saturday, 1 June. Tanner had done no more than catnap and at three a.m. had woken for good. He helped himself to some breakfast in the farmhouse kitchen, then roused the rest of the slumbering men and told them to get some food inside them. Half an hour later, with the first hint of dawn streaking the horizon to their left, he walked up and down their line, making sure the men were awake, alert and at their posts. Enemy troops had been spotted moving into position the previous evening and long-range artillery had opened fire soon after. Desultory shellfire had continued ever since, screaming over their heads towards the coast.
Now he accompanied Lieutenant Peploe to the attic where McAllister and Chambers were waiting beside their Brens. Ahead, the fields beyond the canal were shrouded in mist. A row of poplars half a mile to the south rose spectrally above it against the pink and pale orange early-morning sky.
'Another beautiful day,' said Peploe.
'Those bastards are out there, though,' said Tanner. 'If they've got any bloody sense they'll attack now, while they've got some cover. This'll burn off soon enough.'
But, apart from continued artillery fire, the enemy did not attack and when, at around eight o'clock, the mist lifted, they saw, to their amazement, large numbers of German infantry standing several hundred yards away in the waterlogged fields of young corn.
'Bloody hell,' said Tanner, bringing his binoculars to his eyes. 'They're digging in. They've got spades, not rifles. Mac, Punter, five hundred yards - get firing!'
Both Brens opened, spewing bursts of bullets. To begin with, they fell short, cutting into the corn in front of the startled enemy, but both men adjusted them and Tanner watched as German troops were mown down. Men fell to the ground, some hit, others desperate to find cover in the corn, but Tanner kept the two machine-guns firing until he could see no further movement.
Cordite from the Brens filled the attic, and several empty magazines now lay on the bare wooden floor. Tanner delved into his haversack, took out his Aldis scope and fixed it to his rifle.
'I can see Germans moving into those cottages six hundred yards in front of us,' said Peploe, his binoculars held to his eyes. He turned to Tanner. 'Time for some sniping?'
'Absolutely, sir.' Tanner was already poking the barrel of his rifle through a hole in the roof. He could see two small guns being brought up, infantry scampering behind them, most with rifles but others with machine-guns. He aimed at one of the gunners, pulled back the bolt, made adjustment for the range and squeezed the trigger. The man fell back, and the others threw themselves onto the ground. Tanner pulled back the bolt again, saw a machine-gunner run forward, and pulled the trigger again. He, too, stumbled to the ground. 'Mac,' he said, 'wait for my word but get a bead on the approach to that cottage ahead, all right? I reckon it's six hundred yards, but the moment I give the word, open fire.'
'Yes, Sarge.'