Darkest Hour

Chapter 12

Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had been fast asleep in the farmhouse when he was woken by the commotion. He had flung on his shirt, breeches and boots and had been about to hurry downstairs when the explosion had occurred. The bright glare had lit up the house and yard and he had stopped, frozen momentarily to the spot. Shards of stone, brick and grit peppered the farmhouse, tinkling on the roof and against the walls; a window-pane smashed, then another, while outside in the yard, the deafening thunder of collapsing masonry seemed to engulf the farm, shaking the house to its foundations.

By the time Timpke had grabbed his belt and holster, then run downstairs with a hurricane lamp and out into the yard, a choking cloud of dust filled the air, trapped, so it seemed, by the surrounding buildings and walls. Men were racing from the house and barns; some were coughing and spluttering, others crying out in agony.

It was hard to see what damage had been done or how, but he strode forward, clutching his lamp, and nearly tripped over a damaged motorcycle. Cursing, he stepped aside. Torches - electric and flame - now glowed through the swirling dust. Timpke put a handkerchief to his mouth and, reaching the entrance, paused, aghast. The archway, tower and parts of the adjoining stable blocks had been completely destroyed. All that was left was a jagged pile of rubble, wood and brick. A motorcycle and sidecar lay nearby, bent and skewed, almost completely covered with fallen brickwork.

'Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said a voice next to him.

Timpke neither spoke nor moved, his face rigid with fury.

'Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said the voice again, and this time Timpke turned towards his adjutant, Hauptsturm-fuhrer Kemmetmuler.

'What happened?' He spoke quietly, slowly.

'Sabotage, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. And the men who did this stole the trucks left outside the farm. I've radioed to One Company and they'll give chase.'

'Stop them, Kemmetmuler. It's dark and they won't be able to catch them. We don't want to lose any more men or vehicles.'

He punched a fist into the other hand. 'Whose platoon was on guard duty this evening?'

'Untersturmfuhrer Reichmann's, Herr Sturmbann-fuhrer.'

'Bring him to me. We'll do what we can now for the injured, but we'll clear up this mess at first light. I shall be in the farmhouse. And post more guards.'

By the time he was back in his temporary battalion headquarters inside the farmhouse, Timpke was still numb. He sat down at a dark oak dining-table, took out his silver cigarette case and, tapping the end of a Turkish cigarette, realized his hands were shaking - so much so that he struggled to light it. How could this have happened? How? It was not possible: the area was clear of enemy - this part of southern Belgium was in German hands now. And, in any case, there had been guards posted around the farm. How could any saboteurs have got through such a cordon? He smashed his fist on the table.

There was a knock and Kemmetmuler came into the room. He had brought Untersturmfuhrer Reichmann with him. The young platoon commander clicked his boots together and saluted. He looked clean, Timpke thought - too clean. Apart from a smear of dust on one sleeve of his tunic and a smudge of dirt across his cheek, he was unblemished.

Timpke sat back in his chair, leaving Reichmann standing stiffly to attention.

'I've been wondering,' said Timpke slowly, his voice betraying his anger, 'how any saboteurs could get to this farm, steal four trucks, then blow up an entire tower and half of two buildings undetected. How can this be, when I gave express orders for there to be a guard on this entire compound?' He stood up and walked towards Reichmann. 'Perhaps, Reichmann, you could tell me how you had your men deployed.'

Reichmann was shorter than Timpke, a thick-set young man with dark eyebrows and a heavy forehead. His hair was shaved at the sides but slicked back with pomade underneath his field cap. Timpke smelled sour alcohol on his breath.

'I used Unterscharfuhrer Liebmann's group, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Just one group?'

'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. With my approval, he placed two men in the tower, two men by the archway, two men at the front and three others watching elsewhere.'

'Where exactly?' said Timpke.

Reichmann swallowed hard. 'Around the farm, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Where they cannot have been watching very closely, can they?' He leaned over the table a moment, clutching the edge with both hands. 'One group,' he said, louder now, 'of which I am beginning to think half must have been sleeping.'

'It was dark, sir. The men were watching, but it was night.'

'Not good enough, Reichmann. Good God, your men have ears, do they not?'

'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, but—'

'Be quiet, Reichmann! This is the battalion headquarters and, quite apart from the personnel, we have important equipment and vehicles here. Do you have any idea how hard Brigadefuhrer Eicke had to work to get our vehicles? Most of the Wehrmacht troops still use horses and their own two feet. Do you understand how fortunate we are to have these vehicles? And you go and lose not one but four? And that does not include those damaged here.'

He had tried to contain his rage, to speak with a controlled calm, but standing in front of him was this disgrace of an officer - an ugly brute with a bad accent and the stench of wine on his breath. Had all that training, and all those lectures, been for nothing?

Timpke clenched his fist and drove it into Reichmann's stomach. The man gasped and staggered backwards.

'Has it not entered your thick skull, Reichmann, that we are in only recently captured enemy territory? How could it not? And yet you have the stupidity and nerve to deploy a mere group of ten men. And you have been drinking. It is unbelievable - you, an officer, a man supposed to set an example.' He punched Reichmann again, then took out his pistol, a wooden-gripped Luger P08, and pointed it at Reichmann's forehead.

'It was j-just some wine, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' gasped Reichmann. 'I'm not drunk, I swear.' His eyes were wide with fear.

Timpke eyed him with disgust. 'Give me one good reason why I should not shoot you here and now.'

Beads of sweat had formed on Reichmann's forehead. 'I - I - I thought a group would be enough.'

Timpke lowered the pistol, saw the relief cross Reichmann's face, then whipped the barrel hard down on the side of his head. Reichmann cried out with pain and shock and collapsed on to the floor, blood pouring from a long gash.

'Idiot Swabian,' said Timpke. 'Where did you come from, Reichmann? How do people like you manage to be officers? A thick-skulled imbecilic camp guard and a poor one at that.' He kicked him in the ribs, and then again as Reichmann writhed in pain. Timpke looked up at Kemmetmuler. 'Ask Division to transfer this man. I have no use for him. Send him back to the camps.' He turned back to Reichmann. 'Get up,' he said, 'or I swear I'll shoot you.'

With blood pouring down his face, Reichmann staggered to his feet and clutched the table for support.

'Now,' said Timpke, 'you will take me to Unterschar-fuhrer Liebmann. He is still alive, I take it?'

Reichmann clutched his wound. 'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.' Wincing, he led Timpke and Kemmetmuler from the house to the yard, where men were trying to clear rubble under the light of a few torches and lamps. Passing his staff car, Timpke noticed, with renewed anger, that the Audi had a dent in the front wing and the windscreen was smashed.

Reichmann tried to call Liebmann, but his throat caught and he began to cough.

'Unterscharfuhrer Liebmann!' shouted Kemmetmuler. 'Liebmann!'

They waited a moment, straining their eyes at the throng of men moving around the yard. A tall man stumbled forward, his uniform grey with dust. Seeing Timpke and Kemmetmuler, he stopped and saluted. His eyes turned to the half-crouching figure of Untersturm-fuhrer Reichmann. Timpke saw him blink anxiously.

'Come closer, Liebmann,' said Timpke.

Liebmann took a step forward. Timpke leaned towards him and sniffed. There was wine on this man's breath too.

'So you have been drinking?' said Timpke, his voice quiet once more.

Liebmann glanced again at Reichmann. 'Just a little earlier on, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'I think it must have clouded your judgement.'

'No, sir, I swear, I—'

'Then why were four vehicles stolen from under your nose, Liebmann? Why was the enemy able to take four vehicles and blow up the tower? Four vehicles and how many dead?'

'At least eight, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer,' said Kemmetmuler.

'Well, make that nine. Reichmann, you will now shoot this man.'

Liebmann's eyes darted between Timpke and Reichmann, panic etched across his face. 'No,' he said, 'please, no.'

Reichmann turned his bloodied face to Timpke. 'Shoot him?'

'Yes, Reichmann, shoot him. He has been drinking and he has failed not only me but the entire battalion. I am court-martialling him and passing instant judgement. And, as punishment, you will carry out his execution. Now.'

'But - but he's one of my men, Herr Sturmbann- fuhrer!'

'Precisely. Let this be a lesson to you. Now do it.'

'No,' said Liebmann again. 'Please, Herr Sturmbann- fuhrer, I implore you.'

'Reichmann - now! Or I'll shoot you too.'

With fumbling fingers, Reichmann tugged at his leather holster and pulled out his P38. His hand shook as he held the pistol, then he convulsed and began to sob.

'Oh, for God's sake,' snapped Timpke. 'You had no such qualms in Poland. You were happy enough to shoot people there.'

'Please,' said Liebmann, falling to his knees.

'Last chance, Reichmann,' said Timpke. 'One, two—'

'I'm sorry, Hans,' sobbed Reichmann, blood and tears running down his face. Shakily, he raised the gun to the side of Liebmann's head.

'Three,' said Timpke. Liebmann was staring at him numbly. A single pistol shot rang out, the report echoing around the yard. The side of Liebmann's head flew into the air. Eyes still staring at Timpke, Liebmann toppled over on to the ground.

There was silence, except for Reichmann's now uncontrollable sobbing.

Timpke looked around at the men, their taut faces outlined in the glow of the lamps. They had all stopped working and were staring mutely at the scene before them.

'Let that be a lesson to all of you,' said Timpke. 'Orders are to be obeyed. No more drinking and no more shirking. Is that understood?' He glared at them, then strode back into the house.

Across the bridge Kershaw, who had been leading, had pulled over and let Tanner pass. Turning left down the track that led along the riverbank, Tanner had initially seen no sign of the rest of the platoon and had just begun to worry that Peploe's prediction had been right when, up ahead, he had spotted dim figures scuttling into the side of the road.

Moments later he drew up alongside the head of the line of prostrate men taking cover either side of the road.

'Good morning, sir,' he said, shining his torch at Captain Barclay, who was trying to shield his eyes.

'Tanner?' said Barclay, dumbfounded. 'Good God, man, what the devil are you doing?'

'We've got some transport, sir,' said Tanner.

Barclay got to his feet and stared open-mouthed at the line of four trucks, their engines ticking over in the quiet night air.

'We should load everyone up quickly, sir. I suggest that for the moment, sir, everyone piles onto the truck nearest them. It'll be a bit of a squeeze, I'm afraid.'

Barclay nodded dumbly.

Now Blackstone pushed past the OC and stood beside the cab of Tanner's lead truck. 'Quite a haul, Jack,' he said. 'Good of you to keep me informed.' He glowered at him, then hurried on down the line, helping men up from the bank and ordering them onto the trucks.

Tanner knew what Blackstone was saying: You still don't trust me. Well, no, he didn't. He sighed, then stood up and peered into the back. 'All right, Hep?' he said.

'Yes, Sarge,' said Hepworth, 'although these Jerry MGs don't half get hot quick. I can still feel the heat from the barrel.'

Tanner switched on his torch and flashed it around the vehicle. There were two bench seats on either side, which, he guessed, could take eight or ten men in all. Then he sat down again and shone the torch at the dashboard. It was simple, with an explanation of the gears and different drive options on a plate. Further along was another plate. So it's a Krupp. Next to him he saw a flat leather case, picked it up and opened it. Inside, he discovered some maps. He smiled to himself as he opened the first. Jesus, those Jerries were careless bastards. There was Mons and, to the south, Mauberge. Further to the west Le Cateau, Cambrai and St Quentin were all circled. Between Cambrai and Le Cateau a line had been drawn in thick pencil and beside it the number seven, written with a line across the stem of the figure, and then 'Pz'. 'Seventh Panzer,' he mouthed to himself. 7th Panzer what? Division, brigade? Corps? His eyes rested briefly on Mons again and then he scanned the map immediately to the west of the town. Where the hell were they? There was the river, and the road they had been on the previous afternoon. Then he found two possible roads that led south across the river, but only one showed woodland in the right place. Just below a village was marked as Hainin.

'Sergeant Tanner,' said a breathless voice beside him, 'how very splendid it is to see you again.'

Tanner turned to see Lieutenant Peploe climbing up beside him. 'Morning, sir.' He grinned. 'Are we ready to go?'

'Almost. Just setting up the other Bren and making sure the squadron leader's safely aboard. Captain Barclay's going to join us.'

'And Blackstone?'

'He's at the rear with McAllister, Ellis and the rest of Company Headquarters.'

Other men were now clambering into the back, the truck rolling slightly as they did so.

'Where did you find that?' said Peploe, spotting the map.

'Kindly left by Jerry. Look, sir,' he said, pointing to the tiny circle made by the closed beam of his torch, 'we're here. There's the village, and there's the road on which Sykes and I saw the German convoy yesterday.'

Peploe peered at it. 'Ye-es,' he said. 'So this is the river Haine.'

'We need to keep a wide berth around Hainin, sir,' said Tanner. 'I suggest we follow the road along the river, then cross here at Montroeul-sur-Haine. That's - what? - five miles or so, and then we can head south and rejoin the main road to Valenciennes at Quievrain.'

'Isn't that a bit risky? The enemy's already been seen on that road.'

'But it's quick, sir, and it's dark. Jerry might have changed his habits, but in Norway he liked to knock off during the night. If we do see any enemy, I reckon we'll get through - especially if we tell everyone to wear field caps and not helmets. German field caps look much the same as ours. Why would they suspect anything?'

'You don't think the word would be out?'

'Maybe. But it's a bit embarrassing for whoever's in charge. If I'd had four trucks nicked from under my nose, I know what I'd do. I'd keep quiet about it.' He pointed at the pencil markings on the map. 'If these are correct, sir, then Jerry's not at Valenciennes yet. He was just using this road as a means of getting near the front, which from this map seems to be further south. I reckon we can get through Valenciennes, then push on through this place - Denain - on to Douai and then to Arras.' He measured the distance with his finger and thumb. 'About sixty or so kilometres - what's that? Forty-odd miles. With clear roads we'll do it in a couple of hours.' He glanced at his watch. It was now just after two in the morning. 'We could be in Arras before the war starts again, sir.'

'All right, Tanner,' said Peploe, as Tanner took off his pack and set it beside him on the seat. 'You've convinced me. I'll suggest it to the OC.'

A moment later, Captain Barclay joined them. 'Damn me, Tanner, I take my hat off to you,' he muttered, shaking his head in wonderment.

'Sir, the previous owners very decently left us their map,' said Peploe. He held it open on his lap. 'I'd like to suggest this route - here.'

Barclay peered over as Peploe explained the plan, fingers tracing lines on the map. The captain followed, wearing a glazed expression.

'Good,' he said. 'Carry on, then.'

Peploe leaned behind him and said to the men in the back, 'Make sure you keep watching the truck behind, all right?'

'Well said, Peploe,' muttered Captain Barclay.

Tanner put his foot on the clutch, shoved the stick into first gear, took his other foot off the brake and the truck rumbled on into the Belgian night.

It soon began to rain, only lightly at first, then rather more heavily. Those in the Opels were under cover, but Tanner's Krupp had no covered cab or canvas tarpaulin to strap over the back. There was a single wiper on the driver's side of the windscreen, which Tanner soon discovered how to switch on, but although it worked well enough, it hardly helped make driving along dark, narrow roads any easier; as it was, the narrow slits of light from the blinkered headlamps cast only a small amount of light on the road ahead.

Tanner lifted his collar and temporarily swapped his field cap for his rimmed helmet, and then asked Peploe to take out his leather jerkin.

'Damn this rain,' muttered Captain Barclay.

'I reckon it's doing us a favour, sir,' said Tanner, as Peploe handed him the serge-lined jerkin. 'Even more likely to keep the Germans indoors.'

'Let's hope you're right, Sergeant.' The captain had been so quiet that Peploe had asked if he was feeling all right. Barclay had snapped that he was fine, then fallen back into deep thought. Now, however, he seemed to be rediscovering his voice. 'Where are we now, Peploe?' he asked. 'I can see something ahead.'

'Here, sir,' said Peploe. He switched on his torch directly over the map and pointed. 'That's the village of

Montroeul-sur-Haine. In a few miles we join the main road.'

'Should be easier driving then, sir,' said Tanner.

'All right. I'll take the map from now on,' said the captain, snatching it.

'Of course, sir,' said Peploe.

'And, Tanner, grateful though I am, I don't want you going off on your own again. Is that clear?'

'Yes, sir,' said Tanner.

'Actually, I gave them permission, sir,' said Peploe.

'Yes, well, even so,' said Barclay. 'Remember that I'm in charge, not either of you. I don't like being kept in the dark. Makes me look foolish in front of the men.'

'Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,' said Tanner, mechanically, then cleared his throat. 'They were SS, sir.'

'SS? Are you sure?'

'Yes, sir. There are SS symbols on the numberplate and the men had a skull and crossbones on their collar.'

'Typical bloody Nazis,' muttered Barclay. 'Christ, that's all we need.'

'They didn't seem much to worry about, sir. We got in and out of there with barely a fight. They had good kit, mind you. The two I saw wore a kind of speckled camouflage smock and helmet liner. And I took this off one of them too.' He unslung the stubby firearm and passed it across Peploe to Captain Barclay.

'What is it?' said Barclay, handling it.

'It's a sub-machine-gun, sir,' said Tanner. 'It's got a perforated air-cooled barrel, like the other MGs, and a magazine that must take thirty rounds or so.'

'Did you get any ammunition?' asked Peploe.

'I took what was on him.'

'Good,' said Barclay. 'I'll hang on to it. Might come in useful.'

'You don't think Tanner should keep it, sir?' said Peploe. 'Spoils of war and all that?'

'No, I don't,' said Barclay. 'Really, I hope you're not questioning my authority, Peploe.'

'Of course not, sir.'

Damn, thought Tanner. He'd been looking forward to trying it out.

They passed through the village, Tanner once more replacing his helmet with his field cap. The place seemed deserted; not a light showed. An owl looped in front of them, making Tanner start while Captain Barclay cursed and put a hand to his heart.

They were travelling slowly, only fifteen miles an hour at times, but it was better to drive carefully than crash off the road and damage one or more of the vehicles, yet the slow-going was frustrating. Tanner stared ahead into the night, his eyes strained, and suddenly felt tired. It was always the same: once the excitement of combat had worn off, exhaustion swept over him. And the wiper was doing him no favours with that rhythmic swipe of rubber, back and forth, and a mesmerizing squeak. He shook his head, pinched his leg, and breathed in deeply. 'The air smelled so fresh: rain on dry soil, an evocative aroma that reminded him of his childhood, a summer storm, running for the shelter of the woods and the comforting sound of rain pattering against the leaf canopy.

A few miles on, they crossed a railway line, then reached the small town of Quievrain. It, too, was quiet, but in the town square there were several vehicles: an armoured car and several half-tracks, the black crosses on their sides just visible.

'Christ,' mumbled Barclay. 'What do we do now?'

'Nothing, sir,' said Tanner. As they drove past they saw two men, shoulders hunched under their greatcoats, smoking cigarettes. Tanner waved and they waved back.

'Fortune favours the bold, eh, Tanner?' grinned Peploe.

'More often than not, sir.'

Once through the town, they joined the main road to Valenciennes and, as Tanner had hoped, the going immediately became easier. Soon after, they reached the French border. There was a border post, but it was deserted. Tanner jumped out, lifted the barrier, and they drove on, through quiet and villages. As they passed through another village, Tanner was forced to swerve violently to avoid a refugee family and their loaded cart, but for the most part it seemed that, with the onset of darkness and the arrival of rain, the war had shrunk away. Soldiers had crept into their billets, and refugees had sought shelter, halting their aimless wandering.

Nearing Onnaing, the rain relented and the moon emerged once more, bathing the surrounding countryside in a faint milky monochrome. Tanner saw a garage, white petrol pumps glowing luminously in the dark. Pulling off the road, he drew up alongside them.

'What on earth are you doing, Tanner?' said Barclay. 'Christ, man, we don't want to be stopping.'

'Fuel, sir. We should fill up while we can.' He jumped out of the cab as the others drew up behind him.

'Fuel? We can't just take it,' said Barclay. 'Those pumps will be locked or switched off, surely?'

Tanner walked round the front of the truck to examine them. They were electric rather than manual, but the nozzles were padlocked.

'There,' said Barclay, now out of the truck with Peploe beside him, 'what did I tell you? Come on, we're wasting time and unnecessarily exposing ourselves.'

'Sir, just give me a minute.' Before Barclay could reply, he ran off towards the last truck in the line.

'What's up, Sarge?' said Sykes, as Tanner reached the cab.

'I need you for a moment.'

Sykes followed him back to the pumps where Captain Barclay was still pacing impatiently.

'Come on, Tanner,' said the OC, 'let's get going.'

'Please, sir, just a moment more.' He turned to Sykes. 'Get these padlocks off, will you, Stan?'

'Certainly, Sarge,' said Sykes, casting an apprehensive glance at the captain. Delving into his breast pocket, he pulled out his skeleton key and, in moments, had the first padlock undone. Grinning at Lieutenant Peploe, Tanner took the nozzle and pulled it over to the barrel tank under the seat while Sykes undid the second padlock. The pump rumbled and fuel ran into the tank.

'How the devil did you do that, Corporal?' asked Barclay, clearly baffled.

'An old trick, sir,' said Sykes, then returned to his truck.

'Look, Tanner,' said Peploe, beside him, 'that window up there.' He pointed to the quarters above the garage.

Tanner saw a face peering out nervously through a narrow gap between the curtains. 'He thinks we're Jerries,' he said, as Kershaw drove his truck along the other side of the pumps. 'No wonder the Germans are finding it so easy to roll everyone over. You've only got to mention Stukas or see a black cross and everyone makes a run for it.'

'You have to admit they do seem rather good, though,' said Peploe. 'I mean, look at Poland and Norway.'

'I've seen the newsreels from Poland, sir,' said Tanner, as he replaced the nozzle and stepped back into the cab, Peploe clambering in beside him. He started the Krupp and rolled it forward to allow the next truck to fill up. 'Lots of Stukas and tanks and so on. And I saw pictures of the Polish cavalry too. They were on horseback, waving swords. I reckon any modern army could have beaten them.'

'What about Norway, though?'

'The Norwegians were rather like the Poles only they had even less kit,' Tanner replied. 'We hardly had any guns, any armour and almost no air force. It was easy for the Germans - just a skip across the Baltic. They could keep themselves better supplied. But don't forget it's still going on, sir.'

'We're going to lose there, though, aren't we?'

Tanner took out his packet of German cigarettes, offered one to Peploe, then helped himself. 'All I'm saying, sir,' he said, as Peploe struck a match, 'is that everyone seems to have got it into their heads that the Germans are somehow better than everyone else. But I don't believe it. I reckon if our boys and the Frogs stood still for a bit, rather than scarpering back to the next line at the first sign of trouble, we'd soon give them something to worry about. I thought the French had the biggest army in the world - at least, that's what a French officer once told me.'

'You may be right, Sergeant, and hopefully, if we find the battalion again, we can do exactly as you suggest.'

Tanner grinned. 'We've just got to find them, haven't we, sir?'

Captain Barclay stepped up into the cab. 'Right, Sergeant,' he said. 'You've got what you wanted - full tanks all round. Now let's get a bloody move on.'

It was now nearly half past three on the morning of Monday, 20 May. The town of Valenciennes lay a couple of miles ahead.

'Strange smell,' said Peploe, sniffing.

'Burning, sir,' said Tanner. 'There's been a fire nearby, I'd say.'

'Damn great river running through this place,' said Barclay, 'by the look of it on the map, at any rate, and the road south follows its course pretty much. I'm afraid it's not a part of France I know - but the name's ringing a bell for some reason. Have a feeling our chaps may have been here in the last war.'

'The river - what's it called?' asked Peploe.

Barclay peered more closely. 'The Escaut. Hang on a minute - we crossed it further north on our way to the front.'

'I remember it, sir,' said Peploe. 'And I remember thinking it was quite a major natural barrier then.'

A natural barrier. Tanner cursed himself. Of course! He thought of the map again - where had that line been marked? Between Le Cateau and Cambrai, and Cambrai was not far south from where they were now. His mind raced: if Cambrai was the limit of the enemy's advance so far then the town must either be almost or already in German hands. Think, he told himself. Think. They had heard fighting the previous afternoon and had seen enemy troops - yet it was at least fifteen miles back that they had last glimpsed any sign of Germans. But neither had they met any French. None - no night-time leaguers, no troop movements, no army vehicles. Nothing at all. Because they had already fallen back.

'Sir,' he said, to Captain Barclay, 'I'm sorry - I should have thought of this earlier - but I think we might run into French troops at any moment.' He slowed and brought the Krupp to a halt.

'How can you possibly know that, Tanner?'

'Because we heard fighting earlier - yesterday afternoon, sir - and we've seen no sign of either enemy or Allied troops since Quievrain. The French must have gone somewhere and the most obvious place is behind a natural barrier like the Escaut. But Valenciennes is quite a big town, and you said the river runs right through it. That means they'll almost certainly defend it - or, at least, the approaches to the river.'

'And we need to cross the Escaut to get to Arras,' added Peploe.

'Yes, sir.'

'So when they see a column of four German trucks they'll think the enemy's trying a stealthy night-time attack.'

'Exactly, sir.'

'You have to admit, sir,' added Peploe, 'that it would be a bit annoying to have come this far only to get mown down by our own side.'

Barclay looked down at the map again in silence, his brow furrowed.

He doesn't know what to do, thought Tanner. 'Sir, I have a suggestion.'

Barclay sighed. 'What is it?'

'We avoid Valenciennes, sir. My guess is that it may well be thick with French forces but also refugees. We haven't seen any in the countryside but I'd have thought a big town is the first place they'll all have headed. Surely we can turn south, avoiding the town, then cut west towards Denain?'

Barclay nodded. 'Yes. Might take a bit more time, but there are certainly the roads to it.'

'Then when we reach the river we'll park the trucks and approach a bridge on foot. Hopefully it won't have been destroyed yet.'

'And then?' said Barclay.

'We shout across, asking for safe passage.'

Barclay was silent a moment, then sighed heavily. 'Yes. I was, er, going to suggest much the same. All right, Tanner. Let's get moving again.'

It was almost light by the time they reached the edge of the village of Neuville, a mile or so south of Denain. Behind, the sun was rising once more, spreading its golden rays across the flat countryside, the air sharp and fresh. Dew and the night's rain glistened on the grass and in the hedgerows, but ahead, to either side of the village, they could see a thin mist rising from the river.

Tanner drove slowly into the village, then stopped by a tall-spired church, the other three trucks pulling to a halt behind him.

'Right, sir,' he said. 'If Mr Peploe would accompany me, we'll head towards the bridge.'

'Very well,' said Barclay. 'I'll tell the rest of the men.'

'Ready, sir?' Tanner asked Peploe.

The lieutenant nodded. The village was quiet, although in the trees the birds were in full song. Tanner listened and his heart lifted. He hadn't heard a May dawn chorus since he'd left England eight years before, yet the sounds were as familiar to him now as they had been when he was a boy. He wished he could return to that life - a life that seemed so completely apart from the one he had led ever since. Yet, even so, he knew that his childhood - those precious years in Alvesdon with his father- had moulded him into the man he had become. A lifetime ago now, and it only needed the sound of a blackbird singing at dawn to carry him back, bringing to his mind a thousand details as fresh and vivid as ever. One day perhaps.

A sweet smell filled the air.

'Delicious,' murmured Peploe. 'Someone's baking. I've been to France a few times and the fresh bread and croissants first thing in the morning are one of the best things about it. I'm tempted to forget Arras and spend the rest of the day in that bakery.'

Tanner smiled. 'It's reminding me how hungry I am.'

'Well, perhaps after we've cleared our passage across the river, we can come back and pay it a quick visit.'

They had walked around a shallow bend in the road and now saw the river directly ahead at the end of the main village road. On the far side a single house loomed spectrally out of the mist.

'Hang on a minute, sir,' said Tanner. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, which he tied to the end of his rifle.

Holding it high, they moved towards the bridge. A road ran either side of the river, which they now saw was not as wide as they had first thought. Barges were moored along the bank. The bridge, it seemed, was part of a lock system. The Escaut had been turned into a canal.

'Not at all what I was expecting,' said Peploe. He cupped his hands around his mouth, about to holler across the river, then Tanner saw vague figures on the far side and, a moment later, a spurt of orange flame. Two bullets flew over his head as he dived to the ground, pulling Peploe with him, then two more. He heard Peploe gasp and felt the lieutenant's body go limp. Oh, no. Damn it all, no.