Darkest Hour

Chapter 10

Saturday, 18 May, was a long day for the men of D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers, and one in which tempers had begun increasingly to fray; it had started shortly after midnight and had continued as dawn had given way to morning, and morning to midday. They had not seen a single British soldier, let alone the rest of the battalion, but their route had been dogged by people. Countless numbers of refugees - men, women and children, the elderly and even infirm - had appeared on the roads the moment the sun had risen and had seemingly increased with every passing hour. Their plaintive questions and appeals for help got on the nerves of the men and reminded them that they were heading backwards from the Germans too: running away from the enemy.

Above, aircraft had droned, mostly formations of enemy planes rather than British or French. Behind them, and to the south, they occasionally heard muffled explosions and the distant crump of guns. Around noon, they reached a crossroads in the middle of the flat, wide countryside just to the north of Mons, and were forced to watch as a French column turned onto the road, heading south towards France. The troops' progress was painfully slow. Carriers, guns, lorries and other trucks crammed with soldiers inched their way through the refugees, the men shouting at them to move out of the way. Tanner saw a woman on a bicycle hit by the wing mirror of one lorry - it only clipped her, but she tumbled into the side of the road. She got to her feet, waving a fist and cursing.

Their own small column was halted while the French troops passed on their way, the men moving off the road and collapsing onto their backsides in a field of green corn. The air was thick with dust, fumes and the misery of Belgian civilians struggling to escape the Germans. Away to the south, they heard the faint dull thud of explosions.

'Bombers?' Peploe asked Tanner.

'Must be.' Tanner gestured at the crawling French vehicles. 'Worth asking them for a ride, sir?'

'Nothing ventured,' said Peploe. In front of them, a staff car had ground to a halt while a man with a laden wooden cart battled to get his mule over the crossroads. The French officer was yelling at him, and Tanner smiled as Peploe interrupted. The response was an irate torrent of abuse.

'Nothing gained,' said Peploe, ruefully, as he rejoined Tanner and the rest of the platoon. 'They're heading to St Quentin anyway, which is too far south for us. Apparently every transport is already chock-full of men. He reckoned we'd be quicker on foot - although he didn't express it quite as politely as that.'

'Bloody Frogs,' said Tanner. 'I'll remember that next time one of them asks me for help.'

'Sir,' said Sykes as he came over to Peploe, 'surely we could ask the Frogs to take the squadron leader?'

'They didn't seem very keen to help, I'm afraid,' Peploe replied. 'I did ask.'

'But if Captain Barclay tried?' suggested Sykes. 'And perhaps a different Frog officer?

'It would certainly be good to offload him, sir,' said Tanner to Peploe. 'It's not as if he's been particularly grateful. He's complained more than the men have.'

'All right,' said Peploe. 'I'll ask Captain Barclay.'

Tanner, Sykes and several others watched Peploe pick his way through to Barclay. They saw the captain shake his head, despite Peploe's best efforts to persuade him otherwise.

'Nothing doing, I'm afraid,' said Peploe as he rejoined them a few minutes later. 'The French have their hands full.'

'Bollocks, sir,' said Sykes. 'We saw him - he didn't even ask them.'

'I'm sure he has his reasons,' said Peploe.

At this point Tanner spotted McAllister muttering to Bell and Ellis, and gesticulating covertly at the OC. When he noticed his sergeant's eye on him, he stopped immediately.

Tanner turned back to Sykes and Peploe. 'The lads are fed up. We need to watch morale, I reckon.'

'They are, Sarge,' agreed Sykes, 'me an' all. The sooner we get to Arras the better.'

By afternoon, as they continued west of Mons, the numbers of refugees had thinned, but progress was no faster because the effort of marching for the best part of sixteen hours was taking its toll. Feet were sore, legs ached and stomachs were empty. To the east and south, more dull explosions ruffled the air.

'Some poor bastards are gettin' a pastin',' said Sykes, as Tanner tramped alongside him.

Tanner looked up to the sky. 'Nasty amount of bombers been going over.'

'Where's ours, Sarge? That's what I'd like to know.'

'You and me the same, Stan. Looks one-sided from down here, doesn't it?'

Just before four o'clock they stopped for their hourly ten-minute breather. They were on a low ridge of woods and open farmland, overlooking a river valley to the south. Tanner lit a cigarette and regarded the men, most of whom had lain down on the grassy verge. Several had their eyes closed, almost asleep already. He felt tired too, and hungry; his stomach groaned. All day they had had nothing but scraps they had scrounged on the way - a bit of bread and some cheese but nothing that could be considered a proper meal.

'Sarge.' Sykes quickly ran his comb through his hair and replaced his helmet. 'They're almost done in, Sarge. If you're worrying about morale, we need to lie up for a bit. It's one thing trekking on and on when you haven't got any choice in the matter, but the Jerries don't seem that close behind us, do they? I think that's what's getting to everyone a bit.'

'I know, Stan, and we need some bloody scoff, too. Mr Peploe's talking to the OC about it now. Hopefully this'll be almost it for a while.' He picked out a farm not far away. 'Don't see much wrong with trying there.'

When Peploe rejoined them, however, he told them the OC wanted to push on a bit further first.

Tanner sighed. 'Bloody hell, sir. How much further, exactly?'

'Not far. Can you see that village over there?' He pointed to a church tower that poked up through the trees a few miles away, on the far side of the river. 'He wants us to find food there, then lie up.' He turned to the men. 'Another hour, boys, that's all. Then we'll get food and you can all have a sleep.'

The men groaned. 'Another hour, sir?' said Hepworth. 'I'm going to need a stretcher soon.'

'It's all right for you, Hep,' muttered McAllister. 'You haven't had to carry a sodding great Bren.'

'Listen, Mac,' said Tanner, putting an arm round McAllister's shoulders, 'I know you're fed up. We all are - it's dispiriting, trudging backwards - but remember Norway? We had it tougher there, didn't we? And we had our fair share of arseholes to carry too.'

McAllister smiled ruefully. 'That Frog lieutenant, Chevannes. You're right, Sarge - he was worse than the squadron leader.'

'Come on. Another hour and we can put our feet up. That's not so long.'

'Suppose so, Sarge.' He got up. 'All right, then. Get it over and done with, eh?'

It was approaching five o'clock by the time they had dropped down into the valley and crossed the poplar- lined river that snaked its way sleepily through the Flanders countryside. They marched on beside a thick wood, then emerged into open country. Less than a mile ahead the village with the church spire was clearly visible. Before that, however, there was a farm, and Captain Barclay called a halt. As the men marched through an aged brick archway into the yard, chickens clucked and scurried about, a dog barked lazily, and a number of fat geese waddled towards them honking loudly.

While Lieutenant Peploe and Captain Barclay went to find the owner, Tanner had a look round. The farm and outbuildings were protected by a wall, while a rickety tower stood above the archway.

'Bloody nice old place this, Sarge,' said Sykes, beside him.

'It is, Stan. I might go and have a dekko from up that tower - looks like a damn good OP to me. I don't like being down in this valley - can't see much. It was better when we were on that ridge.'

'Good idea, Sarge. I'll come with you.'

There was a door beside the archway. 'They opened it and found a staircase. It led straight up to another door that then opened into the tower. It was dusty inside, old straw strewn across wooden floorboards.

'Christ,' Sykes whistled. Some pigeons fluttered from their perch, making the two men jump. Fifteen feet above them there was a wooden gallery, then the roof. Sunlight poured through holes where tiles had fallen away, highlighting a million dust motes swirling in the still, musty air. A ladder in the corner went up to the gallery.

'Careful, Sarge,' said Sykes, as Tanner began to climb. 'That ladder don't look too safe to me.'

'It'll be all right,' said Tanner. Despite the woodworm, he reached the gallery and peered through a hole in the roof. Away to the west, in the distance some dozen miles away, he could see Mons. Ahead of him lay the village and beyond, as the ground gently rose, a railway, then a road on which traffic appeared to be moving. Good. He tried to remember the map. The Mons-Cambrai road, it had to be, and from Cambrai it was no great distance to Arras. If they could get a ride to Cambrai that would be something. Delving into his respirator bag, he took out his binoculars and peered through them.

What he saw made his heart sink and his stomach lurch. 'Jesus,' he muttered. 'How the hell?' A long column of grey tanks was rolling through the Flanders countryside, with armoured cars and artillery pieces.

'Stan!' Tanner called down. 'Get yourself up here.'

'What is it?' asked Sykes.

'Come on up and you'll see.'

Sykes clambered gingerly up the ladder and stood beside Tanner, who passed him the binoculars.

'Look up on that ridge beyond the village. A mile or so away.'

'Blimey!' said Sykes. 'Sweet bloody Nora! It's the flamin' Jerries. How on earth did they get there?' He turned to Tanner. 'And how come there's that many of 'em just there?'

'Don't ask me, Stan.' More dull explosions rumbled from the south-west. 'Jesus,' he said. 'We've been thinking it's bombs we've been hearing, but what if it was fighting?'

'Perhaps that's where those Frogs was heading earlier.'

'Well, if Jerry's already taken the land to the south of here, they aren't going to get very far, are they?'

'Christ, Sarge, do you think we're surrounded?'

'I don't know. Let me think a moment.' He looked again, and then scanned to the north as well, from where they had just come. Nothing. 'No, I'm sure we're not,' he said at length. 'Think about it. We've not heard much fighting behind us, have we? I reckon those Jerries must have just punched a hole to the south. No wonder those French scarpered so bloody quickly yesterday. The whole of their line must have been collapsing. But we've not seen anyone today, have we? No, Stan, I'm sure we're not surrounded yet.'

'But I thought the Germans were attacking to the north and that was why we moved into Belgium.'

'Maybe they're doing both - a two-pronged attack.'

'Which means we're stuck in the middle.'

Tanner rubbed his chin. 'Christ, what a bloody mess. If only we had a radio. I can't believe they sent us out here without one. How can anyone possibly know what the bloody hell's going on?' He sighed, took off his helmet and ran his fingers through his dark hair. 'We should have a quick think about what to do.'

'Can't rely on Captain Barclay.'

'Or Blackstone.'

'The men won't be happy about moving again.'

'I'm not so sure we should move. If someone stays up here in the tower, we can hopefully get some scoff, then decamp to that wood. With the village between us and that ridge, they won't be able to see us and they don't seem very interested in heading this way. We get some kip in the wood and move on again at midnight, as the captain suggested. You stay here for the moment, Stan, and I'll go down and talk to Mr Peploe. Perhaps he can persuade the OC it's our best course of action.'

'All right, Sarge.' Sykes peered through the binoculars again. 'But I'll tell you what I'm thinking.'

'What?' said Tanner, as he began to descend the ladder.

'That we're going to have a hell of a job getting out of this mess. I told myself we wouldn't let Norway happen again but now I'm not so sure. Those bastards are whipping us good and proper.'

'We're not beaten yet, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Never say die.'

Where the SS Totenkopf were now concentrated to the west of Philippeville, south of Charleroi, there was no shortage of radio sets, telephones or even decoding machines. If anything, Brigadefuhrer Eicke and his staff had too much information; from what they were hearing, it sounded as though all of France and the Low Countries were folding up before the Wehrmacht's panzers - and before the Totenkopf would have a chance to show the rest of the Reich and, indeed, the world what they were capable of.

For Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke, it had felt as though the frustrations would never cease. A tantalizing promise of action would be dangled before them, only for them to discover it was still as far from their grasp as ever. Since leaving Aachen they had struggled across eastern Belgium, battling against endless refugees, pathetic citizens fleeing their homes. Timpke had tried to overcome the problem by sending his motorcycles on wide searches for better routes, but other than going cross-country - which the bulk of the division could not do - there was no alternative. He wondered where the mass of people thought they were heading. Why were they so terrified? Timpke wondered what Belgian and French propaganda had been like to prompt such a mass exodus. Of course, it was unfortunate for those caught up in the crossfire of fighting, but for the vast majority, if they had stayed in their homes, they would have been quite safe, and would soon find themselves peaceably absorbed into the Greater Reich, the lucky devils!

And it was not only refugees who had hindered their progress but Wehrmacht soldiers - troops on their way to the front. Timpke had personally seen Brigadefuhrer Eicke stand up in his command car and berate footsore German soldiers, yelling at them to clear off the road and let his superior, mechanized Waffen-SS division forge ahead. Timpke had smiled: Papa Eicke was an example to them all.

They had reached their concentration area at a village west of Philippeville earlier that afternoon and Eicke had immediately called together his staff officers and unit commanders in an orchard beside a river. There he had read out the sitrep that had just arrived. It had already proved a morning of dramatic advance for General von Rundstedt's Army Group A. General Guderian's 2nd Panzer Division had captured St Quentin earlier that morning, while just after midday, the 1st Panzer Division had reported having crossed the river Somme; 6th Panzer was engaging French armour at Le Catelet, while Major- General Rommel's 7th Panzer Division had recently taken Le Cateau and was now pushing towards Cambrai.

Timpke's heart sank, and he couldn't help turning away to rest his head despondently against the trunk of a gnarled apple tree. A breeze ruffled its leaves and the lengthening grass beneath them. Nearby, wood pigeons cooed rhythmically, as though they hadn't a care in the world.

'Don't look so despondent, Otto,' said Eicke. 'It's not all bad news.'

Suddenly, Timpke was aware that the division's senior officers were all staring at him. He gazed at Eicke, at his cap with the death's head above the braid, the peak so low it almost covered those pale eyes of his. His thin- lipped mouth was turned up at one side - a half-smile that signalled to Timpke that he was a favoured son, a man after my own heart.

'Forgive me, Herr Brigadefuhrer,' said Timpke. 'I just want there to be something left for us to do.'

Eicke smiled. 'As do we all. Otto. And, as it happens, we have been asked to help Panzer Group Hoth who are concerned that Major-General Rommel is overreaching himself. In Seventh Panzer's rapid advance to Cambrai they have simply swept past a number of towns, and we are now to follow up behind and secure them. I want your reconnaissance battalion and Infantry Regiment 1 to carry out this role. Yes, it's a limited operation, but trust me, even the feeble-hearted poilus will counter-attack at some point. They've been knocked off balance, caught with their trousers down, but they'll get back on their feet. An army of that size has to. In a moment, I want you and Standartenfuhrer Simon to sit down with the 04 and he will brief you about what I want your reconnaissance boys to do. The rest of us must be patient a short while longer. That's all, gentlemen.'

As Eicke strode towards the manor house that stood beyond the orchard, Timpke made his way to the division's 04 staff officer, Obersturmbannfuhrer Geisler.

'Follow me,' said Geisler, leading Timpke and Standartenfuhrer Simon towards the house. 'Hopefully, we've got an operations room set up by now.' They crossed the orchard and passed through an old door, half falling off its hinges, which led to a courtyard and the manor house. Trucks and other vehicles had been parked in the orchard and all along the road, but more trucks and staff cars were now crammed in front of the newly requisitioned house. Inside, Geisler showed Timpke and Simon into what, until an hour before, had been the dining room. Generations of the owners' family looked down on them, several soldiers from centuries past. One, in an eighteenth-century wig and blue velvet jacket, clutching the hilt of his sword, appeared to sneer, his lip curled with contempt. Ha, thought Timpke. Well, we're here now.

Geisler rolled out a large map across the table. 'We're here,' he said, pointing to the tiny village. 'Here's Avesnes, Le Cateau and St Quentin,' he added, placing a finger on each in turn. 'And here's the Somme. This is where General von Kleist's panzers are leading the charge. Up here are General Hoth's two panzer divisions. Rommel's is now here at Cambrai.' He turned to Simon. 'Herr Standartenfuhrer, we need your Regiment 1 to clear these towns.' He pointed to the map. 'St Souplet, L'Arbre de Guise and Catillon. Enemy troops are still dug in around Mauberge, but you are to bypass them.'

Simon peered through his wire-framed round glasses at the map, then busily made notes.

'And the reconnaissance battalion?' asked Timpke.

'Also avoid Mauberge,' said Geisler, 'but probe north between Cambrai and Valenciennes and be on hand should the Standartenfiihrer need you.'

Timpke nodded. 'So I'll spread out my companies.'

'Exactly,' said Geisler. 'Have a look around - get the lie of the land. See which bridges are still available, and what damage has been done. We need to know the best routes to the front. The boss wants us to move very quickly the moment we're ordered to do so.' He pulled out his pocket watch. 'It's not quite a hundred kilometres from here to Cambrai, so it would be best to move straight away. Get near to the front tonight, and the boss wants you to use your time well from the moment it's light enough tomorrow morning. Clear?'

'Perfectly, Herr Obersturmbannfuhrer.'

Within half an hour, the Totenkopf's reconnaissance battalion was on the move, heading west in company formation, motorcycles and armoured scout cars leading, followed by motorized infantry, half-tracks towing their 37mm and 50mm anti-tank guns, and the Skoda tanks of the panzer squadrons.

It was with the 1st Company that Timpke now travelled in his staff car, following in the wake of the motorcycles as they sped north-west along the French- Belgian border, the roads, for once, blissfully free of refugees. He drummed his hand against his leg, bit at a nail, then glanced back at the column of armoured cars and trucks behind, swirling clouds of dust following in their wake. I'm leading them into combat, he thought, with satisfaction. At that moment, he felt invincible.

A young couple lived at the farm with their three small children and the farmer's mother. Although they were quick to sell the Rangers some food - cheese, bread and even two pigs - it was clear that the farmer and his wife were terrified, and within an hour of the Tommies' arrival they were gathering their family and a couple of suitcases into their truck.

Seeing this, Lieutenant Peploe went over to them. The farmer, with an agitated expression, casting anxious glances at the men now crowding the yard, spoke animatedly, then put the vehicle into gear and drove out through the archway.

'Scared, is he?' said Tanner, as he joined Peploe. Above, clouds were building and a cool breeze now blew across the yard.

'They saw the Germans earlier too,' Peploe told him, 'and they've heard the sound of battle for the past two days. They're going to keep out of the way until the storm passes. He said he didn't want any Germans finding out he'd helped the British.'

'Confident, the Belgians, aren't they?'

'I did tell him we weren't going to stay, but he wasn't having any of it.'

Tanner's idea to lie low in the wood - suggested to the OC by Lieutenant Peploe - had been agreed by Captain Barclay, and the company now headed back down the road, leaving Tanner and Private Smailes in the tower to keep watch for any movement to the south.

They were relieved an hour later and, on reaching the wood, Tanner was pleased to see that sentries had been placed around the encampment and that their arrival was challenged. He gave the password, then heard his name called. He turned to see Slater, the company quartermaster sergeant, push through the bracken towards him. 'Tanner,' he said again, in a low, gravelly voice.

'What is it?'

'The CSM wants to see you.'

What about? 'Tell him I'll come and find him as soon as I've reported to Mr Peploe.'

'He said you were to come now.'

Tanner looked at the two young sentries, then at Smailes. 'All right,' he said. 'Smiler, tell Mr Peploe I'm with the CSM and I'll be back soon.' He was sure Blackstone wouldn't try anything now - not with so many witnesses to his whereabouts - but as he followed Slater, he unslung his rifle from his shoulder and carried it in his hand.

They found Blackstone sitting beneath an oak tree some way from the rest of the company. 'Ah, Jack,' he said, making no effort to get up.

'What do you want?' snapped Tanner. 'Make it quick, whatever it is.'

Blackstone smiled. 'Jack, don't be like that, please. I want us to make up. I've been too quick to antagonize you, I realize that, and I'm sorry.'

'For God's sake,' said Tanner, 'what do you want, Blackstone?'

'I want us to get along, Jack. I tried to put the past behind us when you first arrived in Manston but you wouldn't take the olive branch.'

'And why should I now, after all you've done?'

'What have I done, Jack?'

'You know damn well.'

Blackstone shook his head. 'All right, so maybe I've been a bit sharp towards you in front of the boss, but I can't have you undermining my authority, can I?'

'So who locked me in the storeroom?' He glared at Slater. 'And who took a shot at me on the bridge yesterday?'

Blackstone looked incredulous. 'You think I tried to kill you?' He laughed as Slater shook his head with equal disbelief. 'You're joking?'

'I saw you by the bridge. It had to be you who shot me.' He was conscious, suddenly, of how spurious the accusation now sounded.

'Jack, that's madness. There were bullets flying around everywhere. Anyone could have hit you. Yes, I fired off a few rounds, but I was trying to hit those Jerries on the ridge. Your mind's playing tricks, my friend.'

Tanner tightened his grip on his rifle.

'Trust me, Jack, the last thing I want is to see you out of the way.' He stood up now. 'I need you.'

'Jesus,' muttered Tanner.

'Hear me out, Jack. I know I've got the men eating out of my hand. They respect me and think I'm a good bloke. Most of them don't like you too much but they respect you as a soldier. And you're good, Jack, I'll give you that. Now, our problem is that the boss is an idiot who doesn't know his arse from his tit.'

Almost the same words Mac used. Tanner's heart sank.

'It's largely because of Captain Barclay,' Blackstone continued, 'that we're in this mess.'

'It wasn't his fault the rendezvous changed.'

'But it was his fault that we had to go and get his brother-in-law when the French were far closer, and it was certainly his fault that we took so long to move out of those positions. We were late for the rendezvous. We should have left with Captain Wrightson and Ten Platoon. And why we're heading to Arras when it's clear most of the BEF must be further north from here, God only knows.'

'I thought he did whatever you told him,' said Tanner.

'He did. But - dare I say it, Jack? - he hasn't been so keen on listening to me with you and Mr Peploe around. He's started to think for himself and look what's happened as a result.'

'That's bollocks,' said Tanner. He held Blackstone's eye. 'So what is it you're suggesting? Get to the bloody point.'

'I think we should split up. Let the boss and

Lieutenant Bourne-Arton take Eleven Platoon and you, me and Lieutenant Peploe take Twelve Platoon. There are too many of us at the moment. It's hard to get food and transport. And that's what we need - vehicles, so we can get out of here and find the rest of the BEF.'

Tanner took out his cigarettes and realized he had only two left. Damn, he thought, lighting one. He had to admit, there was something in what Blackstone said; the idea had crossed his mind as well.

'I'm asking you to back me up on this, Jack, that's all. Try to persuade Mr Peploe.'

'I'm tired,' he said, 'and I'm going to have a kip. But I'll think about it.'

Leaning against the cobweb-hung brickwork of the tower, Corporal Sykes peered out of the hole in the roof, a cold breeze brushing his face. A cigarette was cupped in his hand between thumb and forefinger. Now, urreptitiously, he brought it to his mouth. He knew he shouldn't be smoking while on watch, especially not when he was standing in an OP that could be seen for quite a distance, but he had to do something to keep himself awake.

Smoke swirled into the night air as he exhaled. The countryside, so different at night, was swathed in a low creamy light. The horizon could easily be seen against the night sky, as could a line of trees away to the right of the village. A barn owl screeched, but otherwise the world beyond the tower was still and seemingly at peace.

On the other side of the rickety gallery, Private Bell strained his eyes towards the wood a couple of hundred yards away in which the remainder of the company were bedded down for the night. Sykes peered at his watch.

Five past midnight - less than an hour before they were due to move off again. He yawned, and returned to staring at the unmoving night.

It was a faint rumble that first caught his attention, and then, as he brought Tanner's binoculars to his eyes, he saw, silhouetted against the horizon, a number of motorcycles heading west.

'What's that, Corp?' said Bell, hurrying across the gallery.

'Motorcycles,' said Sykes. 'And not ours neither.' He passed over the binoculars. 'They're like the ones we saw yesterday,' he said. 'Sidecar and machine-gun.' He took the binoculars back and saw the lead motorcycles turn off the main road and head straight for the village.

'Bugger it,' said Sykes. 'Tinker, we ought to get down from here. If we need to scarper in a hurry we don't want to have to muck around with rotten old ladders in the dark.'

'Too bloody right we don't, Corp,' agreed Bell.

'All right - you go first,' said Sykes. As Bell lowered himself onto the ladder, Sykes peered through the binoculars one last time and saw a larger column rumbling into view along the ridge beyond the village - armoured cars and trucks too. There they came to a halt, the low rumble of their engines audible on the still night air.

Bell was at the foot of the ladder and Sykes followed. As he reached the first floor he heard two motorcycles heading out of the village towards them.

'Come on, Tinker,' he said, groping for the stairs, 'we need to get out of here fast.'

In pitch darkness, not daring to turn on a torch, they scrambled down the stairs as quickly as they could, only for Bell to trip at the bottom and stumble into Sykes. 'Sorry, Corp,' he said.

At that moment, they heard the motorcycles slow, then turn into the farm, under the archway and into the yard, thin slits of light from their headlamps casting a dim glow. With the door onto the yard ajar, Sykes watched breathlessly. The first motorcycle stopped and he saw the rider jump off and approach the door of the farmhouse, the motorcycle's engine still ticking over.

You won’t find anyone there, he thought.

The machine-gunner in the sidecar covered his comrade, weapon at the ready, while the second motorbike circled the yard, then also stopped. This time the man in the sidecar jumped out and, with a torch, looked at the outbuildings that lined the yard.

'Bugger it,' mouthed Sykes.

'What?' whispered Bell. 'What are they doing?'

'Shut your gob,' hissed Sykes. Carefully, he drew his rifle to his waist and, clutching the bolt, silently, slowly, drew it up and back, wincing as it clicked into place. The German was getting nearer, but he was out of sight. Doors were opened, boots clicked on stone, voices rang out. The man had had his weapon slung across his back, and Sykes prayed it had remained there. His heart pounded. Footsteps. Any moment now, the door would open. Sykes tightened his grip on his rifle and his finger caressed the cold metal trigger.