Darkest Hour

Chapter 13

Another short burst of machine-gun fire spat out, the bullets zipping over Tanner's head as he crouched next to Lieutenant Peploe, the report echoing off the buildings along the village street.

'Stop!' shouted Tanner. Then, trying frantically to remember the phrase card he had been given, he added, 'Nous sommes anglais! Nous sommes anglais/' He raised his rifle with its white handkerchief into the air and waved it from side to side.

The firing stopped and now he heard voices - French? - from the far side of the river, then from behind him.

Still hidden behind the bend in the road, Captain Barclay called, 'Peploe, Tanner, are you all right?'

'Lieutenant Peploe's hit, sir,' Tanner yelled back. The lieutenant's face was ashen and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his right temple. At the side of the helmet there was a hole where a bullet had entered - a glancing blow, but enough to penetrate the steel. Tanner put his ear to Peploe's mouth, heard shallow breathing, then felt for a pulse. Thank God.

'Tanner?' It was Barclay's voice again.

To his right, a man was now emerging from a house - thick white moustache, black jacket and cap. He held up his arms. 'Arretez! Arretez votre fusillade/'

Carefully Tanner eased off Peploe's helmet and heard something drop. On the cobbles beside him he found a spent bullet. Quickly he parted Peploe's thick flaxen hair and saw, to his relief, that the bullet had only cut his head, not penetrated.

The Frenchman was now beside him, crouching. His face was deeply tanned and lined, a two-day grey beard flecking his cheeks. The soldiers were across the bridge now, hurrying towards them.

'Imbeciles!' said the man. 'lis sont nos allies.'

Tanner stood up. 'Nous sommes anglais,' he said again, to a young clean-shaven French lieutenant.

The lieutenant took out his pistol, stepped forward and pointed it at Tanner's stomach. 'There are no British here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'They are to the north and west.'

'We are, sir,' said Tanner. 'We got detached from the rest of our battalion on the Brussels-Charleroi canal a couple of days ago.'

'And you made it here? Nonsense! You are lying.'

'It's true, sir. Yesterday evening we discovered some Germans between Mons and Valenciennes and managed to take some of their vehicles.'

The French officer laughed. 'You expect me to believe that? What do you take me for? No, you are Germans - fifth columnists.' There was triumph on his face. Tanner groaned to himself. Hell, he thought. That's all we need.

'Tanner? Tanner!' Barclay again. Tanner turned and saw Captain Barclay with Blackstone, McAllister, Ellis and several others advancing cautiously down the street.

'Tanner!' called Captain Barclay again, as half a dozen French soldiers raised their rifles.

The French lieutenant followed their gaze and, at that moment, Tanner thrust forward with his left forearm, knocking the officer's gun away from his stomach. Then, with his right, he grabbed the pistol. The startled lieutenant had no time to react before Tanner had brought his left arm tight round the Frenchman's throat and dug the pistol into his side.

'Tell your men to drop their weapons,' hissed Tanner, fractionally lessening his grip around the man's throat to enable him to speak. 'Now!'

'Jetez vos armes!' he gasped. The men did as they were ordered, a mixture of fear and anger in their eyes.

'And tell your men on the other side of the bridge to cease firing.'

Tanner loosened his grip a fraction more, but pressed the barrel of the pistol more firmly into the Frenchman's side.

'I'm sorry, sir, but I swear we are who we say we are,' said Tanner in his ear. 'British soldiers from the First Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, Thirteen Brigade, Fifth Division, British Expeditionary Force. We are trying to reach British Headquarters in Arras and want safe passage across the Escaut.'

'Don't shoot, please,' said the lieutenant.

'I won't,' said Tanner.

'Monsieur, s'ilvous plait,' said the older man, looking up at Tanner with an appalled expression, 'votre ami . . .' He swept his hand downwards and Tanner saw that Peploe had opened his eyes and was clutching the side of his head.

'Tanner, what the devil's going on? What's happened to Peploe?' said Captain Barclay, now hurrying up to them, anger and indignation etched across his face.

'Our allies opened fire on us, sir,' said Tanner, 'and Lieutenant Peploe was hit in the head.'

'Good God!' Barclay knelt down beside the still prostrate lieutenant.

'I reckon he'll be all right, sir,' added Tanner. 'This French officer thinks we're German fifth columnists. He was going to shoot, so I'm afraid I was forced to disarm him and order the others to lower their weapons.'

'Fifth columnists!' snorted Barclay. 'What absolute rot!' He stood up again and faced the French lieutenant. 'Now look here,' he said, 'we're who we say we are. British soldiers. Please take us to your superior officer.' He pointed down to Peploe. 'This man needs attention.'

'Sir,' said Fanner, loosening his grip and allowing the Frenchman to stumble free, 'perhaps show him some documents.'

His face reddening, Barclay said, 'Very well.' From the breast pocket of his battle-blouse, he produced his identity card, dog-tags and a letter from his wife. 'Here. Will this convince you?' He pointed to the address in Pateley Bridge. 'There. Do you think Fd have all this lot if I was a bloody Hun spy?'

The French sous-lieutenant peered at the letter, then at the pale pink military identity card with its different types of ink, its Leeds stamp and photograph. Tanner then showed him his own AB64 paybook, careful not to reveal the German packet of cigarettes as he delved in his pocket.

The Frenchman's face now flushed. 'Er, sir, pardon. It seems I was mistaken.' Triumph had been replaced by contrition. 'I am very sorry, but we have been warned repeatedly to keep a watch for fifth columnists and we have seen no other British troops.' He now stood up straight and saluted. 'Sous-Lieutenant Marais, Tenth Pioneer Company of the Fourth Infantry Regiment, Fifteenth Division, Four Army Corps.' He turned briskly and snapped some orders to the men behind, who, with an eye on Tanner, gingerly picked up their rifles, then bent over Peploe and lifted him carefully.

'What happened?' mumbled Peploe. Then his eyes opened and he saw the French soldiers. 'Who are you?'

'Don't worry, sir,' said Tanner. 'You took a blow to the head but you'll be fine.'

'Follow me,' said Marais. Then he turned to Tanner and held out his hand. 'My pistol, Sergeant, if I may.'

Tanner handed it to him, holding his gaze - I would have killed you - then turned to the old man, now standing beside the road watching the troops head over the river.'Merci, Monsieur,' he said, offering his hand. The old man took it, then heaved a big sigh.

'J'ai fait partie de la derniere guerre. A Verdun. C'etait terrible. La guerre est monstrueuse.' He shook his head and turned sadly away.

Marais's company commander, Capitaine Marmier, an apparently less impetuous man, brushed aside concerns about fifth columnists, apologized profusely and insisted Marais drive Peploe to the 4th Infantry Regiment field dressing station. In the meantime, he urged Captain Barclay to bring the vehicles and the rest of D Company across the bridge and to wait at his command post, a roadside house a short distance from the river on the western side.

Tanner left Barclay and Blackstone with him, then walked back to fetch the vehicles. Ten minutes later, having fended off numerous questions about what had happened, he brought the Krupp to a standstill outside the French company headquarters, jumped down from the cab, crossed the road and went into the house.

'Ah, Tanner,' said Barclay, as he was led into Marmier's makeshift office. He was sitting in an old high-backed wooden chair across the desk from Capitaine Marmier. Both men were smoking cigars, with small cups of coffee in front of them. 'Our hosts are kindly going to feed us. As soon as Peploe's back, we'll be on our way.'

Tanner nodded. 'Merci, Capitaine.''

'You're very welcome, Sergeant.' Tanner guessed he was, like Barclay, about thirty. He had a lean, cleanshaven face, with dark skin and intelligent eyes, although he had yet to put on his jacket; instead he sat in his breeches, shirt and braces - It is only five o'clock, though.

'We've been swapping intelligence,' said Barclay, his mood clearly much improved. 'Capitaine Marmier is most interested to learn there are SS units in the area. Apparently there is still fighting to the south, but Four Corps have been told that the Escaut is the front line now in this area. French Five Corps holds the line to Douai and then our chaps are along the river Scarpe to Arras.'

The Scarpe. The name rang a bell in Tanner's mind. Yes, he remembered now. It was there, near Arras, that his father had once fought, back in the last war, with the Wiltshires. Tanner cleared his throat. 'I was wondering, sir, whether they might have some paint - white preferably.'

'Paint, Tanner? What in God's name for?'

'For the trucks, sir. To cover up the German markings on the numberplates and write our own name on the bodywork. We're back behind Allied lines now, sir. We don't want people thinking we're Jerries.'

'Yes, of course,' said Marmier, before Barclay could reply. He called, and a moment later an NCO appeared. Marmier spoke with him, then turned back to Tanner. 'Follow him. He's the company quartermaster. He has some paint.'

When Tanner returned to the trucks armed with a brush and a tin of white paint, a number of French troops were examining them. He noticed several pointing at him as he approached. Ignoring them, he walked over to the Krupp, where he found Hepworth and Verity both fast asleep despite the hubbub around them. Good. It was important to sleep whenever possible. Ten minutes here, half an hour there: it could make all the difference.

He painted over the two SS runes on the numberplate beneath the radiator, then daubed 'Yorks Rangers' on the bonnet and, in even larger letters, 'BEF' beneath it. Then he did the same on the wooden side boards before turning his attention to the truck behind.

Squadron Leader Lyell still sat in the Opel's cab. 'Sergeant,' he called, as Tanner painted new markings on the bonnet.

Tanner stopped, then went to the window.

'So we're back behind Allied lines,' said Lyell. 'We've almost made it.'

'A little way to go yet but, yes, hopefully, sir.'

Lyell eyed him thoughtfully. 'Do you know why I chose to become a pilot, Tanner?'

'No, sir.'

'I'll tell you. It was because I wanted to fly, of course, but not just so I could see the world from the sky or even because of the thrill of it - though it is a thrill. It was also because I was damned if I wanted to bother with the spit and polish and crap that comes from being in the other services. I know I have men under my command, but it's not like old Hector and his company of infantrymen. We're a team, all right, but we're individuals too. We pilots live by different laws, different codes of conduct. Not quite so much yes-sir, no-sir, or cap-doffing, if you know what I mean.'

Tanner wondered why he was telling him all this. 'I see, sir,' he said.

Lyell hadn't finished. 'When you shot my tyre out back at Manston, I decided you must be just like all those other bloody hare-brained infantry types - following orders to the letter, with no imagination, no ability to think for yourself.'

'I'm sorry you thought so, sir,' said Tanner.

'Well, I don't any more. You're a rare bird - a bloody competent soldier. My brother-in-law . . .' He shook his head. 'You know, I've always thought he was a bit of a prig, albeit a good-natured one, but he's harmless enough in day-to-day life. Worked quite well for his father - they've a family business in Harrogate, you know - but hopeless as a soldier. Doesn't have a clue.'

'It's new to a lot of the men, sir,' said Tanner. 'There's a big difference between training and doing it for real. It takes time to learn.'

Lyell chuckled. 'Certainly a bit different from the weekend soldiering he was doing before the war. A few drills, a few marches and a few shots on the firing range, plus a two-week camp every summer. And now this.'

'He's got us here in one piece, hasn't he?' said Tanner.

'Now you're being disingenuous, Sergeant. No, I've learned something these past couple of days, which is what I wanted to say to you in this rather long-winded way - that is, I now realize I shouldn't tar you all with the same brush. Some of you do actually think for yourselves - you especially. That I'm not in some Jerry bag is down to you, Sergeant. And if I get safely to Arras, that will also be largely down to you. I've been an ass and, I suspect, a pain in the arse to you all. Frustration, I'm afraid, and exasperation. Shouldn't ever have allowed myself to be knocked out of the sky. Fed up with all the dithering, and angry that I'm not leading my squadron. No excuse, but an explanation - of sorts, at any rate.'

'Don't mention it, sir.'

'And one other thing, Tanner.'

'Sir?'

'We can forget about the car.'

'I already had, sir.'

They were on their way again before eight. They had been delayed for several hours but, if he was honest, Tanner had been glad of the pause. He'd been fed - French Army rations, but a lot better than some of the food he'd eaten in his time - and had even managed to get some sleep, stretching out in the back of the Krupp while they waited for Lieutenant Peploe's return. Moreover, it had given them a chance to reorganize themselves. Captain Barclay, Blackstone and the rest of Company Headquarters had taken command of the Krupp, while the two platoons had been split between the three Opels, with Sykes, Tanner and Lieutenant Peploe up front in the cab of the truck following the Krupp.

Peploe had come back to them in good shape, all things considered: he'd been shot in the head but all he had to show for it were a bad headache, mild grogginess, four stitches and a bandage. 'The French MO reckoned the bullet had lost a lot of velocity by hitting the helmet at the side,' Peploe told Tanner and Sykes, as they drove off towards Douai. 'He thinks it spun round the lining where it eventually ran out of puff and fell out.'

'It didn't fall out, sir. At least, not straight away.' Tanner reached into his pocket and took out the squashed bullet. 'Here you are, sir. A little memento.'

'Well, what do you know? Thank you, Sergeant.'

'You're a lucky man, sir. Maybe you're one of the charmed ones. What do you reckon, Stan?'

'Oh, definitely, sir,' agreed Sykes, winking. 'Some people have it - the Luck - and others don't. Just one of those things.'

'Oh, I'm not so sure about that.' He chuckled. 'But it's certainly a comforting thought.'

Soon after, the lieutenant was asleep, his head resting against the door, snoring lightly.

Tanner took out the German cigarettes, lit two and passed one to Sykes.

'Cheers, Sarge.'

Tanner stared out at the softly rolling Flanders countryside. Away from the road, on a shallow crest, he could see a couple of villages - a knot of houses and a church spire sticking out above the roofs; small, tight communities not so very different, he supposed, from the village where he had grown up. And now the war was cutting a swathe through them and people were leaving their homes in droves. He wondered what the inhabitants of Alvesdon would do if the Germans ever reached Britain. Would they run? He hoped not.

'Sarge?' said Sykes. 'I've been meaning to ask. How did you get those two guards last night? I never heard a sound.'

Tanner smiled. 'It was pretty straightforward, actually,' he said. 'I knew we had surprise on our side. They weren't expecting anything and they made it easier for me by splitting up so I could confront each in turn. Forearm tight round the neck to smother the voicebox, then a short sharp stab in the kidney. They were both dead before they knew what was happening. I learned a long time ago that the kidneys are the place to go for if possible.'

'Why's that?'

'Ever been hit there?'

'Yes.'

'And it hurt, right?'

'Like hell.'

'Exactly. Shove a bayonet in one and the pain is so intense the body packs it all in immediately. The brain can't take it and neither can the heart. And it's not particularly messy.'

Sykes nodded. 'I'll remember that, Sarge.' He was quiet for a moment. 'By the way, did you smell burning near Valenciennes?'

'Yes - why?'

'Seems the population fled just after the balloon went up and then the French Army moved in. Anyway, they weren't best behaved and managed to set alight a huge fuel dump that caused a massive fire in the centre of the town. So we could have gone through there after all.'

'Bloody Frogs,' muttered Tanner.

The road was soon filled with refugees again, the same trail of wretched civilians traipsing along, some on foot, others on carts, a few in vehicles. The road had clearly been busy for some time now. All along it there was human detritus: bags, suitcases - some flung open - paper, even books lined the verges. Here and there a shirt or dress was caught in a bush or on a branch and flapped helplessly in the breeze. There were cars and other vehicles too, run off the road and abandoned. Those too exhausted sat or lay on the grass - mostly the elderly and children, the former gazing outwards with blank disbelieving expressions, the latter often crying, tears streaming down grubby cheeks, anxious parents trying vainly to comfort them.

A few miles short of Douai, a Citroen in front of them, laden too high with cases and bags, swerved to avoid a mule that had wandered into the middle of the road. The string holding the load snapped and everything tumbled down across the road. A flustered middle-aged man wearing spectacles and a Homburg got out to collect his cases and put them back.

'Bloody sensible that,' said Sykes. 'Why the hell doesn't he pull off the road and sort himself out there?'

Captain Barclay was now standing up in the Krupp yelling at the hapless man. 'Come on, Stan, let's give the poor sod a hand,' said Tanner.

They jumped down from the cab, collected the remaining cases, and put them on the verge.

'Merci, messieurs,' said the man, pushing his spectacles back up his nose.

Tanner pointed to his car and motioned to him to move it.

'Ah, oui, oui,' said the man, tapping his head apologetically, and got in.

The aircraft was upon them almost before anyone had a chance to react - a faint whirr and then a deep-throated roar as it sped towards them.

'Get down!' yelled Tanner, diving to the ground. For a split second he thought the aircraft might pass without firing. But as it thundered overhead, no more than a hundred feet above them, the Messerschmitt's machine- guns opened up, two lines of bullets scything along the road ahead, the first just inches from him. A splinter of stone clattered against his helmet and nicked the edge of his ear. Then the fighter flew on, climbing slightly, and disappeared over a line of trees.

'So that's a 109,' said Sykes, as he and Tanner dusted themselves down.

'You two all right?' asked Captain Barclay, fifteen yards behind them in the Krupp.

'Fine, sir,' said Tanner, dabbing at the blood from his ear. 'Bloody close, though, eh, Stan?'

'Reckon he was aiming for our lot, don't you?'

Tanner shrugged. 'Maybe - and just overflew slightly.'

A curious smell now hung heavy in the air: a cloying stench of oil, petrol, dirt and blood. Ahead they heard wailing. The mule that had caused the hold-up in the first place lay sprawled across the road, its owner bent over it sobbing. Further on there were more dead, and a boy was screaming, the sound jarring Tanner's head. 'Jesus,' he muttered.

Then Sykes saw the Citroen. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'Look, Sarge. The bastard.'

Following his gaze, Tanner saw a line of bullet holes across the car. The driver was slumped, lifeless, across the steering-wheel. Blood ran down the bonnet in front of him.

Poor sod. Tanner was vaguely aware of Blackstone barking orders to the men.

The men of D Company did what they could. They handed out field dressings to the wounded and put the worst injured into the backs of the trucks to take them to hospital in Douai. The Krupp shunted the car, mule and cart off the road, with the stray cases and other belongings.

Before the German pilot's attack the men's mood had been good, buoyed by food and rest, and by the knowledge that they were nearing British forces. Now, however, they cleared away debris, wreckage and broken bodies sombrely, speaking little. It was the boy that got to Tanner most. Repelled by his screams yet compelled to go to him, Tanner had found him - no more than ten years old, he guessed - with his leg nearly severed. His parents were crouched beside him, almost demented with grief and by their inability to help him.

'Smiler!' shouted Tanner, as the platoon medic tended an elderly lady further back. 'I need you here now!'

Smailes hurried over and put his hand to his mouth as he saw the boy. 'He - he's not going to make it, Sarge,' he stuttered. 'He's lost too much blood already.' A dark stain covered the grass beneath him.

'Just do something,' snapped Tanner. 'You've got morphine, haven't you?'

Smailes nodded.

Wide frightened eyes stared up at the two soldiers. Smailes drew the morphine, flicked the end of the needle, then stuck it into the boy's arm. A few moments later, the child's eyes flickered and finally closed.

Tanner walked back towards the truck, the convulsive sobbing of the boy's parents ringing in his ears.

'Come on, Tanner, chop, chop!' said Captain Barclay, as he walked past the Krupp. 'The road's clear. We need to get a move on.'

'Yes, sir,' he replied, making no effort to hurry.

'Come on, Sergeant,' called Blackstone. 'Didn't you hear the captain? Run!'

To hell with him. Tanner ignored him.

'Tanner!' called Blackstone.

He looked up and saw that Lieutenant Peploe, Sykes and the men behind were watching him and this sudden altercation with Blackstone. Damn! He turned slowly to face Captain Barclay and the CSM.

'Oh, for God's sake,' muttered Lyell from the front of Barclay's vehicle, 'you're acting like bloody kids.'

'Sergeant Tanner, did you not hear what the captain said?'

Tanner sighed. 'Yes, Sergeant-Major.'

'And you thought you'd ignore what Captain Barclay ordered you to do?'

Tanner said nothing. He knew he was trapped. No matter what he said, Blackstone would use it to humiliate him further.

'What was that? I didn't quite hear it, Sergeant,' said Blackstone.

'I apologize, sir,' he said to Captain Barclay.

'No respect, Tanner, that's your problem,' said Barclay. 'Think you can do it all on your own. Now apologize to the CSM here, and then I want you to run to your truck. We're wasting valuable time.'

Tanner clenched and unclenched his fists, swallowed, then turned his face up to Blackstone and forced himself to say, 'Sorry, Sergeant-Major.'

'Get back to your truck, Sergeant,' Blackstone said, in a voice loud enough for all those in the truck behind to hear, 'at the double!'

'I'm sorry about that,' said Peploe, as Tanner got back into the cab. 'That was completely unnecessary.'

'They're just flexing their muscles, Sarge,' added Sykes.

Tanner took out a German cigarette and lit it. 'Let's just get to Arras,' he said.

At the BEF command post at Wahagnies, twenty miles north-east of Arras, General Lord Gort left his spartan office, went down the stairs and into the large drawing room, now busy with numerous staff officers, liaison officers and clerks working from makeshift trestle-table desks. The clatter of typewriters and the collective hubbub of different conversations filled the room. Dust particles hung faintly in the air, illuminated in the sunlight that shone through the tall french windows; cleaning the building after requisitioning it from the owners had not been a high priority and, in any case, Gort's large command post staff had brought their own dust and dirt with them.

Careful to make sure he looked as fit and energetic as ever, he strode purposefully towards one of his aides-de- camp and said, 'Get someone to bring a bite of lunch out to me in the garden, will you?'

'Right away, sir,' the ADC replied, getting to his feet.

'Good man.' Gort nodded to the others, said, 'Carry on, carry on,' then walked briskly to the glass doors, stepped out onto the terrace and trotted across the lawn to the bottom of the garden where, beneath a large cedar and out of sight of the house, there stood a wooden bench. Sitting down, he rubbed his hands over his face and allowed himself a wide yawn. For a moment, he gazed at the small pond in front of him. At its centre stood a stone cherub, discoloured with age, whose mouth emitted a trickle of water. In the murky pond, goldfish showed intermittent flashes of golden-orange. Somewhere near by a wood pigeon cooed soothingly.

Lord Gort sighed and yawned again, then briefly closed his eyes. Damn it, he was exhausted. He reckoned he'd had about two hours' sleep last night, and not much more the night before. But that was only the half of it: since 10 May, from the moment he had been awake to the moment he had gone to bed, he had been on the go constantly, trying to organize his forces, attempting to get some sense from Gamelin, Georges, Billotte and the rest of the French high command, sending missives and orders, meeting with commanders and liaison officers, seeing the troops, and trying to keep London informed of increasingly confused events.

A bee hummed lazily in front of him and he followed its path enviously. It had been a devil of a morning. Up at five with the news that the chief of the Imperial General Staff himself, General Ironside, was about to visit. At six o'clock on the nose, Tiny Ironside had walked in, blustering as usual, to hand-deliver a personal message from the war cabinet. At the conference soon after he had pointed to the map hanging in Gort's office and announced that the entire BEF should withdraw southwest to Amiens, closer to their lines of supply. 'We've all agreed this plan,' he had announced. 'Churchill and the cabinet were unanimous.'

Gort had patiently pointed out that it was not the war cabinet who were commanding the BEF and explained that to leave their positions on the Escaut en masse and move the best part of a hundred miles directly across the flanks of the German panzers' advance was not merely impossible but plain suicide. Of course, the CIGS had quickly come round to his point of view, but this, Gort felt, should have been perfectly clear to him back in London. What Gort had offered to do, however - and he'd been thinking about it since his meeting with Billotte the previous night - was use his two reserve divisions, the 5th and 50th, for a counter-attack south of Arras and the river Scarpe to the east of the town. If the French mounted a similar attack from the south, Gort had suggested to the CIGS, it might be possible to close the gap that had been punched by the German panzer divisions between the Allied armies north of Arras and the Scarpe, and those south of the river Somme.

It was a positive plan at least - one that promised aggressive action rather than passive defence, and Ironside had seized it wholeheartedly, just as Gort had known he would. The CIGS had immediately headed straight off to see Billotte and Blanchard, taking Pownall with him, determined to put some resolve into the French commanders and persuade them to join in Gort's proposed attack.

Gort took off his cap with its red band and laid it on the bench beside him, ran his hand over his largely bald head, then closed his eyes, letting the May sunshine warm his face. He wondered how Ironside and Pownall were getting on. It was essential that the French should play ball but his conversation with Billotte the previous evening had left a deeply unfavourable impression.

Perhaps they could yet turn it around but all morning he had been unable to banish the niggling suspicion that the French had shot their bolt completely. Once again, he found his thoughts returning to what now seemed a horrible inevitability: evacuation of as much of the BEF as possible.

A cough brought him from his thoughts and he opened his eyes to see a young RASC lance-corporal holding a metal tray on which there was a bottle of beer and a plate of bread, cheese and chocolate. 'Your lunch, sir.'

'Thank you,' Gort replied. He indicated the bench. 'Just put it down there, will you?'

The orderly left him and Gort continued to sit where he was, drinking his beer and eating the cheese and bread. This end of the garden was a peaceful haven: warm, softly scented and alive with the calming sounds of early summer. Nonetheless, the soothing ambience could do nothing to relieve the gloom that swirled in the British commander-in-chief's head - a gloom that would only deepen as the afternoon wore on.