A shell thudded into the breastwork just below them.
‘There’s another tank in range, sir.’ It was Lieutenant Dodds, who had acquitted himself well in battle so far. ‘Have a look, sir.’
Rydal peered over the parapet. There was indeed a German panzer squatting in the street belching fire at their position. And another. And another. Rydal had abandoned the last of his anti-tank guns in the Gare Maritime. There was nothing he or his men could do apart from wait to be pummelled into submission.
A bullet whistled past his ear and struck stone behind him. The German infantry were getting closer all the time.
‘I could take some men and try to disable it, sir,’ said Dodds. ‘Those houses to the left are still unoccupied.’
Rydal swept his binoculars towards the street Dodds pointed to. He could see grey figures crouching and running barely fifty yards away from them.
‘They would be occupied by the time you got there.’
Colonel Rydal scanned the devastated town. The Germans on three sides were closing in. There were Germans above him and the sea behind. There was nowhere to run. It was time.
‘Mills, get me Brigade,’ Rydal said to the wireless operator. He would inform the brigadier that he was about to surrender. He wondered who among his officers spoke German. De Lancey. He could have used de Lancey these last three days.
‘Mr Dodds, organize a white flag.’
The look of disappointment, almost shame, on Lieutenant Dodds’s face as he looked at his CO touched Rydal. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
Dodds pulled himself to his feet.
And a bullet ripped out the back of his head.
55
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
27 May
Calais taken yesterday with thousands of prisoners of all nationalities.
Moved north to attack Dunkirk, but given another order to hold off. Why? It’s a mystery. We could see a mass of ships off the coast — not just Royal Navy warships, but also little civilian boats. They are taking the British Army off the beaches. It is so frustrating! Unless we do something now, they will get away!
Who knows how many British soldiers have escaped?
Pall Mall, London, 27 May
The Civil Servant was waiting in Alston’s favourite corner in the club library. He looked uncharacteristically flustered.
‘I don’t have long, I must be back in Downing Street in half an hour,’ he said.
‘What’s happening?’ Alston asked.
‘Halifax has taken the gloves off. He is arguing for sending peace feelers out through the Italians. He’s also asking the Italians what it will take to keep them out of the war. He’s pushing hard in the War Cabinet.’
‘And how is Winston taking it?’
‘He’s pushing back. Chamberlain is supporting Churchill for now.’ Chamberlain was important. Although Chamberlain’s reputation with the general public was low, the Conservative Party still respected him; most of them regretted ditching him for Churchill. ‘Halifax is threatening to threaten to resign.’
‘Threatening to threaten?’ said Alston.
‘You know what I mean,’ said the Civil Servant. ‘Halifax will never take the direct route when an indirect route is possible. But he means it.’
‘Excellent!’ said Alston. Churchill would not survive a minute without Halifax’s support.
‘The two of them are talking in the Downing Street garden as we speak. And there’s something else.’
‘Yes?’
‘Churchill is going to ask Chamberlain if he objects to Lloyd George joining the government.’
‘Lloyd George will refuse,’ said Alston. He had discussed timing with the old fox; Lloyd George had no intention of being co-opted into a failing government. Halifax had lost his nerve. Chamberlain had lost the country’s confidence. Hoare was ambassador in Spain. There were no other major politicians in British politics. Apart from Lloyd George. They would have to turn to him for Prime Minister, and Alston would be right there with the old man.
‘Now, I must be going,’ said the Civil Servant.
‘Thank you for keeping me so well informed,’ said Alston.
He sat alone in his leather armchair in the library, thinking. Tomorrow or perhaps the day after, Churchill would fall. The twenty-ninth would be the day to act. But where was the Duke of Windsor?
Alston hadn’t heard from Lord Oakford, or from his travelling companion Constance, since they had left Paris four days earlier. Alston’s sources at the Foreign Office had told him that the duke had arrived in Biarritz. Perhaps something had happened to Oakford and Constance on their journey across France? A delay? An accident?
He hated the idea of something happening to Constance. He depended on her so much for things his wife couldn’t give him, or his political friends for that matter. When his triumph came, he wanted to share it with her. He wasn’t quite sure how that would work, but there had been prime ministers with mistresses before.
The thought excited him.
There was the duke to think about. It would be much better for Oakford to persuade him face-to-face that he should return to England, but if Oakford hadn’t made it, then Alston would have to risk a telegram.
He shifted to a writing desk in the library and composed something brief and unambiguous.
‘SIR YOU ARE REQUIRED URGENTLY AT HOME STOP LEAVE 28TH STOP PLANE WAITING FOR YOU AT BIARRITZ AERODROME STOP ALSTON’.
Wiltshire
It had been a long, long voyage from Bordeaux, and it wasn’t over yet. Conrad had managed to get a place on a cargo ship from Durban which had diverted to Bordeaux to pick up passengers. The ship had room for sixty passengers, but there were at least three hundred on board. Conrad found himself a few square feet of deck on which to lie.
The journey had taken thirty-six hours. The ship had dumped its passengers in Falmouth, before continuing its scheduled voyage to Liverpool. From Falmouth, Conrad had had to fight for a place on a train to Exeter, and then on to London.
He had had plenty of time to think. About his father, most of all. How was he going to tell his mother what had happened? She was a brave woman, but Millie’s death had hit her hard. And of course he would have to tell her his own part in his father’s death. He hoped she wouldn’t blame him; she knew Lord Oakford and his pig-headed determination to achieve peace at any costs better than anyone else.
And his father had been foolish, typically foolish. He was living proof that a pacifist could be brave; he had been willing to sacrifice his life for what he believed in. Indeed willing to dare his son to shoot him. What kind of father was he?
A courageous, stupid, fanatical, bad-tempered, principled, treacherous father. That’s what kind.
How could Conrad live with a dead father like that?
How could he live without him?
Of course, as Veronica had pointed out, Conrad was now the new Viscount Oakford. Conrad didn’t want the bloody title. It was his father’s. Or Edward’s. As far as Conrad was concerned, even bloody Reggie could have it; he’d love to be lord-of-the-bloody-manor. Conrad just wanted his family back.
He had hastily discussed with Madame de Salignac what to do with his father’s body. She had suggested burying him in the local village churchyard. Conrad had agreed, but on condition that Constance Scott-Dunton was buried somewhere else, anywhere else, just not next to his father. He imagined taking his mother there after the war. What he couldn’t imagine was what kind of country France, or Britain for that matter, would be when the war eventually ended, and whether that would be in several years’ time or just a couple of weeks.