Darkest Hour

Chapter 14

Around the time that General Lord Gort was eating his lunch, D Company, 1st Battalion, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, finally reached BEF Headquarters. It was not, as Captain Barclay had assumed, in Arras itself, but centred around a chateau in the small village of Habarcq, some seven miles to the west.

They had learned as much on entering the city where, in the town hall, they had found the headquarters of the town's garrison. A Welsh Guardsman had redirected them, having confessed he had no idea where 13th Brigade were, or 5th Division, and least of all the 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers. Captain Barclay had cursed irritably, but Lieutenant Peploe, who had woken as the truck rumbled over the broad cobbles of the Grande Place, had been glad of the brief detour into the town. Despite a splitting headache and light-headed- ness, he had been sufficiently compos mentis to wonder at the reconstructed beauty of an ancient town that he had seen before only in a selection of picture postcards taken soon after the last war - which his mother had brought back after a visit to find his uncle George's grave. He remembered them well: the squares of broken buildings, the piles of rubble and, not least, the skeletal town hall and its damaged belfry. Now, however, it was as though the postcards had depicted a lie. Arras had emerged, phoenixlike, from the wreckage, as splendid and opulent as it must have been a hundred or more years before.

Peploe followed Captain Barclay and Lieutenant Bourne-Arton unsteadily through some impressively ornate iron gates to the side of the chateau, then along a gravel pathway to the main entrance of the white-stone building. The place seemed a hive of activity. Doors opened and closed, staff officers hurrying to and fro with an air of grave intent. Phones rang, typewriters clacked, orders were barked. The three men were told to wait in the hall and did so in silence, watching the comings and goings until, after about a quarter of an hour, Captain Barclay stood up and began to pace.

'Now look here,' he said eventually, accosting a pale subaltern, 'how much longer are we going to have to wait? We've got an injured pilot who needs proper medical care and we need to know where we can find the rest of our battalion. Damn it, surely someone here can point us in the right direction.'

'What unit are you, sir?' asked the subaltern.

Barclay sighed. 'D Company, First Battalion, King's Own Yorkshire Rangers.'

'All right,' said the subaltern. 'I'll send an MO.'

'And what about the rest of First Battalion?' said Barclay, his mounting frustration showing in his tone.

'Just a moment, sir,' said the subaltern, and disappeared.

'For God's sake,' muttered Barclay.

It was a further twenty minutes before the medical officer arrived, apologizing for keeping them waiting.

'Take the MO to Lyell, will you, Lieutenant?' said Barclay, to Bourne-Arton.

'Right away, sir.' Bourne-Arton led the doctor outside to the trucks.

'Let's hope that's the last we've seen of him,' muttered Barclay.

'Your brother-in-law, you mean, sir?' said Peploe.

'Yes. Bloody pain in the arse. Wish I'd left him in that damned field. The CSM was right.'

'You couldn't have left him there, sir.'

Barclay tapped a foot on the stone floor. 'Hm. Did it for my sister, not for him. Put men's lives at risk. Held everything up.' He began to knead his hands together. 'I put my family before the needs of the men and what thanks did I get? None.'

'I think you're being a bit hard on yourself, sir,' said Peploe. 'After all, we've made it here in one piece.'

Barclay said nothing, instead pacing the hall, his boots clicking on the bare stone floor. Peploe wished he would stop. His head throbbed and pulses of pain coursed down his neck. What he needed was quiet, not the frenetic pacings of his OC.

At the point when he thought he could bear it no longer, a tall, slim man in his late thirties, with an immaculately groomed appearance, trotted down the main staircase and said, 'Sorry to keep you, gentlemen.' He held out a hand to Barclay. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Rainsby. Do follow me.'

He led them back up the stairs, along a short corridor and into a room with a large window. Peploe peered out and saw their German trucks parked beneath the horse- chestnuts on the far side of the road. The men were chatting and smoking, others making the most of the pause to snatch some sleep. Beyond, the avenue of trees continued, sloping down through undulating lush pasture.

Barclay cleared his throat and Peploe turned to the half-colonel standing in front of them behind a makeshift desk.

Waving them towards two mismatching chairs, Rainsby offered cigarettes, then sat down behind his desk. 'Sorry to keep you.' He smiled genially. 'As you can see, it's pretty busy here - Jerry's probing not far to the south and it may be that we have to ship out at any moment.'

'Surely not, sir,' said Barclay, startled.

Rainsby steepled his fingers. 'Hopefully not. One of the problems is that the picture is so confused. But Cambrai has fallen and the enemy has now punched a wedge of about twenty-five miles between us here in the north and the French forces to the south.'

'Surely some kind of pincer movement is what's needed,' put in Peploe. 'A joint counter-attack from north and south.'

Rainsby smiled. 'Exactly, and that's precisely what we're hoping to do. This place is still home to GHQ, but also Frankforce, created by the C-in-C as of this morning under Major-General Franklyn - the best part of two divisions, plus tanks from First RTR and various other units. I'm GS03 Operations - planning tomorrow's little show.' He paused. 'We've been admiring your haul of German trucks.'

'We're trying to find the rest of our battalion, sir,' said

Barclay. 'We lost them as we pulled back from the Brussels-Charleroi canal. We had a bit of a ding-dong with the enemy, which held up our retreat rather. By the time we'd forced them back, the rest of the battalion had already moved out.'

Lieutenant Peploe smiled to himself.

Rainsby raised a hand - say no more - and unfolded a map. 'Easily done,' he said, 'and you're hardly the only ones to have become separated from their units.' He put down the map and picked up another sheet of paper. 'Yorkshire Rangers, Yorkshire Rangers,' he mumbled, running his hand down the page. 'Yes, here we are. Thirteenth Brigade have been ordered to the Scarpe. Not so very far from here, actually. They're on their way there now. They're to hold the line at Vitry-en-Artois.'

'That's excellent news, sir, thank you,' said Barclay, pushing back his chair.

Rainsby chuckled. 'Not so fast, Barclay. I'm afraid you're not going to rejoin them just yet.'

'Why ever not, sir?'

'Because tomorrow we'll be launching a counter-attack west and south of Arras. Enemy panzers are now pressing to the south. Our task is to push them back. Fifth Div are going to stay put on the Scarpe, but the main attack will come from Fiftieth Div, plus tanks of First RTR.'

'Then surely we should head to Vitry-on-whatever-it- was, sir.'

'The thing is, Barclay, the job on the Scarpe is mostly static, but you chaps have turned up with your four very decent trucks. We could, of course, simply take them from you, but I rather think it would be better to attach you to the 151st Brigade for this operation. We want our infantry to be able to keep up with the tanks, you see.'

'And what infantry will there be, sir?'

'Two attacking battalions - Eighth and Sixth DLL'

'The Durham Light Infantry, sir?' Barclay looked appalled.

'Yes. A damn good regiment.' Rainsby smiled. 'Look, it's the most marvellous opportunity for you to show us what you chaps can do. A successful counter-attack like this will do wonders for the name of the regiment. And for you, too, Captain.'

Peploe smiled to himself again. Rainsby had certainly got the measure of Barclay.

'Very well, sir,' said Barclay, his back stiffening. 'If those are our orders, then of course we'll carry them out to the best of our abilities.'

'Good man,' said Rainsby, rising from his seat. 'Here are your instructions.' He handed over a sheet of paper. 'Make your way to Vimy - a smallish village a few miles north-east of here. General Franklyn's setting up his command post there. In fact, I'll be heading there myself shortly. You should ask for the brigade-major. Fellow called Clive. Any questions?'

'We'll rejoin the battalion after this battle?'

'Absolutely.'

Rainsby took them back to the hall, shook their hands and wished them luck, then skipped up the stairs again.

So, thought Peploe, as they headed to the waiting men and trucks, we go into action tomorrow. So far he had not felt particularly frightened, but that was because the two small pieces of action he had taken part in had happened suddenly; he hadn't had time to think about what was happening. Now, however, there was most of the afternoon and the night to wait - and this time it would be a proper attack, not a light skirmish or brief exchange of fire. His stomach churned and his throat felt tight.

Tanner and Sykes were asleep when Peploe stepped up into the cab of the Opel, but both men woke instantly.

'How's the head, sir?' asked Sykes.

'Not too bad, thank you, Corporal.' He cleared his throat. 'We've been temporarily assigned to join the Eighth DLL'

Tanner raised an eyebrow.

Peploe found himself sighing heavily. 'We're going to be part of a major counter-attack tomorrow.'

Tanner nodded. 'Good. About time. Perhaps I'll be able to get my hands on another Jerry sub-machine-gun.' He grinned at Sykes.

A few minutes later they rumbled off. Peploe stared out at the rolling countryside, the fields green with young corn. Where was his uncle buried? Somewhere near Arras - the scene of such bitter fighting more than twenty years before. They drove past a cemetery, not British but French, row upon row of white crosses stretching away from the road. Peploe swallowed, then glanced at Tanner, who was smoking a cigarette and gazing at the thousands of graves too. What he was thinking, Peploe couldn't tell. Tanner was a difficult man to read. Was he scared? He had barely batted an eyelid at the news that they would soon be going into battle. If anything, he seemed to relish the chance - Sykes too. Extraordinary. He was glad that the sergeant would be alongside him tomorrow. Damned glad.

At four twenty p.m. on 20 May, General Lord Gort fixed his pale eyes on General Billotte's liaison officer from Army Group 1 in Lens, Capitaine Melchior de Vogue. Outside, the afternoon had grown grey, a gathering blanket of cloud now blocking out the sun and all but a few faint patches of summery blue so that, despite the tall windows, the room was quite dark. A cool breeze ruffled some of the papers on Gort's desk.

'Capitaine,' said Gort, 'thank you for coming.' He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at de Vogue. 'Do you know what this is?'

'No, my lord,' replied de Vogue.

'It's a sitrep informing me that a handful of German advance tanks and infantry have taken Cambrai without a fight. Tell me it's not true.'

De Vogue shifted his feet uneasily. 'I am afraid it is, my lord.'

Gort sighed. 'But how can that be? All the garrison had to do was stand firm and they would have driven off the enemy.'

'It was the dust, my lord.'

'Dust?' Gort spluttered.

'Er, yes, my lord,' said de Vogue. 'The enemy advanced on a broad front causing a huge cloud of dust. The garrison there thought the attackers were part of a far larger force than was reality.'

Gort could hardly believe what he had heard. 'And is the French Army now refusing to fight?' he asked.

'No, my lord, of course not.'

'Capitaine de Vogue,' said Gort, 'when I tell British soldiers to attack, they attack. So why haven't French forces counter-attacked and retaken Cambrai?'

De Vogue cleared his throat, then said quietly, 'There has been no order to counter-attack.'

'Good God, man, why the devil not?' said Gort, bringing his hand down hard on the table. His voice rose. 'In the last war, the French Army was proud and fearless.

Any one of the commanders would have taken it upon themselves to throw out a weak advance guard like the one that took Cambrai yesterday. When is the French Army of old going to stand up and fight? When? Because if they don't start doing so, Capitaine, the Germans will get to Abbeville and Calais and then I will have no choice but to fall back on Dunkirk and sail my men back to England. I'm not prepared to lose my forces trying to defend a country that's already given up. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Now, go back to General Billotte and tell him we need Blanchard's First Army to attack simultaneously tomorrow. Much as it pains me to say this, I think it's probably our last chance.'

When de Vogue had gone, he picked up his telephone and had himself connected to Captain Reid, his liaison officer at Blanchard's First Army Headquarters. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

'Hello, sir,' said a voice eventually, the line crackling with static.

'Reid?' said Gort. 'I want you to take down a message.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Ready? It runs as follows: "If this attack - i.e. the counter-attack tomorrow - is unsuccessful, we cannot remain longer in a position with our flank turned and German penetration proceeding towards the coast. Stop." Have you got that?'

'Yes, sir,' said Reid.

'Good. Relay it to Blanchard, and make sure that Billotte and Weygand see it too.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gort hung up the receiver and breathed out heavily.

Ironside and Pownall had gone to stiffen the French commanders' resolve in person; he had spoken more than plainly to de Vogue; now he had sent a further message that he hoped would jolt them into action. He could do no more. But if the French failed them tomorrow, he would have to start preparing the evacuation. He had told de Vogue it was their last chance - and that had been nothing less than the truth.

Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had woken at first light to find his command post still in disarray. The tower had completely collapsed, as had half of the barns at either side, and there were no fewer than twenty-six casualties. Yet although his command car had been badly damaged by falling masonry, three of the motorcycles and the two armoured cars inside the yard were largely unscathed and, it seemed, in running order. Furthermore, in the cool light of dawn, a route was quickly established through a gate at the back of the yard, leading out onto a pasture and around the walled confines of the farmstead to the road. Leaving the dead and wounded at the farm, with a small burial detail, he had then marched the remainder into the village where they had rendezvoused with the rest of 1 Company and the panzer squadron, in the square by the church, just after five.

Scouting the area in the fresh first hours of daylight, with Timpke in the radio scout car, they had found a largely deserted stretch of countryside. Timpke's mood had begun to improve. With his head clear of the turret and the breeze in his face, he had enjoyed the chance of activity; he felt like a warrior of old, looking down from his high position, a hunter sniffing out the enemy.

They had spotted a stranded unit of French colonial troops in the small town of Solesmes. Calling in 2 and 3 Companies, they had stealthily approached like lions stalking their prey. With the bridge and routes from the town blocked, they had rushed upon the Frenchmen in the square and captured them with barely a shot fired. It had been almost ridiculously easy, as though the French had been waiting to be taken. More than seventy Moroccans had been captured - but a far more important booty had been the three Citroen troop trucks.

Late in the morning, a signal had come through informing him that the whole division was now moving west, while his own orders had been to push on through Cambrai, cross the Escaut and, in direct support of Major-General Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, to probe west towards St Pol, some thirty-five kilometres west of Arras. Shattered vehicles had littered the countryside near Cambrai - some civilian, others military. The roads had been busy, too, with both refugees and retreating French troops. Timpke had driven on - several motorcycles in front, another two armoured cars and three half-tracks behind - past one long column of French and North African soldiers, as many as eighty strong. What a pathetic bunch of men they had been: exhausted and demoralized, with sagging shoulders and leaden feet. Timpke had been disgusted. They were a disgrace to their country. Not one man had so much as aimed his rifle at them as they had rolled past.

Progress had been swift. By early afternoon they had been south-west of Arras and had passed some of 7th Panzer's lead units. It had been a proud moment for Timpke. At last his men - men of the SS-Totenkopf - were in the van of the German advance. Not long after, as they pushed north towards Aubigny, they saw, ahead, a large formation of French forces in retreat. The road to Abbeville was dense with horse-drawn and motorized columns heading west. Watching the procession, Timpke's contempt grew. The lead motorcycle now turned and slowly rolled up to the radio car.

'How are we going to get across, boss?' asked Untersturmfuhrer Ganz.

'We push straight through them,' Timpke replied. 'Let's get the panzers to help. Two Group is only a few kilometres away. They can bulldoze their way through and the rest of us will follow.'

Ganz grinned. 'Good idea, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

The four fast-moving Czech-built Panzer 38s of II Armoured Pursuit Group were quick to join them and, rattling and squeaking, made their way noisily to the front of Timpke's leading reconnaissance column. Advancing in line abreast, two on the road, and two on the grassy verge at either side, in full view of the trudging French forces ahead, they opened fire with their twin MG37 machine-guns and 37mm cannon, raking the French column with bullets and shells. The sound of the firing ripped through the air. Startled soldiers yelled, horses whinnied; a truck ploughed off the road and caught fire; a group of frightened horses bolted across a field near Timpke's relentlessly advancing panzers. A few men fired shots towards them, but the bullets pinged off the tanks' armour harmlessly.

Calmly, steadfastly, the tanks reached the road, and then, tracks clanking, they turned to face the mangled ends of the severed French column, crushing several carts and fallen Frenchmen as they did so. Watching this scene of carnage with satisfaction, Timpke then gave the order for the rest of his column to follow. There was barely any sign of resistance from the French - perhaps they were too stunned and devastated by what was happening to them to respond - and so, calmly, the SS men rumbled on over the debris. Timpke saw blood spreading across the road, and the mashed remains of what, a few minutes before, had been a horse and living soldiers. Stupefied, disbelieving faces stared up at him amid the cries and wails of the dying and wounded. Then a Frenchman cursed and raised a rifle, aiming towards him. The man's defiant shout had acted as a warning, though, and Timpke quickly drew out his Luger, aimed, then squeezed the trigger. A shot of no more than ten metres, and even though the scout car had been moving, the single bullet hit the man square in the forehead and he collapsed, bulging eyes glaring back angrily at his killer. Timpke felt a wave of renewed exhilaration sweep over him.

As they neared Aubigny, they drew some enemy fire - a few machine-guns chattered as they crested a ridge overlooking the shallow valley, but it was wildly inaccurate. By the time shells were being fired towards them, Timpke had withdrawn his men to a safe distance; his instructions were to reconnoitre only. Enemy north of Scarpe, but in disarray and retreating to south of Aubigny, he signalled back to Division.

Having sent the message from his radio car, he was about to push west towards St Pol when another signal arrived, recalling his entire reconnaissance battalion back to the southern Arras area, where they were to screen the roads and villages south of the city. At the same time, the rest of the Totenkopf would be moving up from Cambrai that evening. More refugees and troop stragglers flooded the roads, and although at times they

dogged their progress, the open countryside allowed them, for the most part, a long view ahead, enabling them to avoid the more congested roads. Once again progress had been rapid.

'Boss,' called Schultz, Timpke's radio operator, as they reached the rail stop at Beaumetz, twelve kilometres south-west of Arras, 'another signal for you.'

Timpke lowered himself from his standing position in the turret to the hot belly of the scout car. 'What is it?' Immediately sweat was running down his neck; even with the vents open, it was warm and clammy down there and the air smelled strongly of oil, metal and body odour.

'It's from Obersturmbannfuhrer Geisler, sir,' said Schultz, passing him a hastily scrawled note.

Timpke snatched it and stood up, the evening breeze refreshingly cool on his face. Rec. Bn. to remain screening south of Arras. Stubaf Timpke to report to 7 Pz Div CP Vis-en- Artois 1900 hrs. 04 Geisler.

Timpke glanced at his watch. Nearly 1810 - less than an hour to make his way through too many villages and along too many winding country roads to reach Rommel's command post almost halfway along the Arras-Cambrai road. But it had to be done. Leaving Kemmetmuler in charge, he took his scout car and two machine-gun- carrying motorcycle outriders, and set off, speeding along the country lanes of Artois through seemingly deserted villages - Riviere, Ficheux and Mercatel. Only when they reached Neuville-Vitesse, where they found the centre of the village clogged with refugees, was their progress slowed.

The irony of the village's name was not lost on Timpke, but he failed to find any humour in it. 'Get out of the way!' he shouted. 'Vite vite!' Frightened and angry people scuttled clear of the motorcycles as the riders gunned the throttles. As the vehicles inched forward through the village, their path began to clear, but up ahead, as the road narrowed past the church, a rickety cart, piled high with belongings, blocked the route.

Timpke yelled at the occupant. The old man, wearing a battered felt hat, shrugged - I'm going as fast as I can. Again Timpke ordered him to hurry, but the old man just shook his head.

'Not good enough,' Timpke told him. 'I haven't time for this. Sturmmann Reigel,' he called, to the lance- corporal manning the machine-gun in the sidecar of the motorcycle in front of the scout car, 'shoot the man and his horse.'

Reigel drew back the bolt on his MG34, then opened fire with a three-second burst. Around fifty bullets, at a velocity of 755 metres per second, sliced across the horse and cart, then raked the man. Neither beast nor man knew a thing about what was happening to them; in the first second of fire both were dead, the man almost cut in half by the power of the bullets. There was a dull thud as the horse collapsed onto the road, followed by a loud crash as the movement caused the cart to yaw, a wheel to buckle and break and the entire wagon to tumble over.

While the onlookers were stunned into horrified silence, Timpke ordered Reigel and his rider to grab the thick tow-rope wound around the front of the scout car and loop it onto the cart. That done, the vehicle reversed, the rope grew taut and then, with a jarring, scraping sound, the horse and cart were dragged clear of the road to the side of the square, the corpse of the man rolled and pummelled among the bloody remains.

'Good,' said Timpke. 'Let's move.' He lowered himself back into the scout car and studied his map, away from the breeze.

'Why did we open fire, boss?' asked Schultz. 'I didn't see. Trouble with the locals?'

'A foolish old man was in our way and wouldn't move,' replied Timpke. He wiped his brow and neck with a handkerchief, and took off his field cap. 'He was nothing - a nobody. What are the lives of one old man and an ageing horse, Schultz? We are at war, and the sooner it's over, the sooner our own men will stop being killed. If shooting an ancient Frenchman saves the life of a young German, I'll do it.'

They reached the long, straight road to Cambrai, found it largely clear of traffic, and arrived in Vitry with time to spare. At a fork in the road a number of vehicles were parked. There was a large cafe-bar, outside which stood a half-track and an eight-wheel armoured car. More half-tracks - most towing artillery pieces - armoured cars, trucks and motorcycles lined both sides of the road through the village. Timpke paused in his scout car, then spotted Brigadefuhrer Eicke's Adler, with its distinctive SS numberplate.

He clambered out and strode towards the bar. The end of the building was painted with a giant advertisement for Stella Artois beer and Timpke realized how thirsty he was. Opposite, he noticed, at the fork in the road, stood a memorial to the dead of the last war, crested by a statue of a dying soldier clutching a French flag. He was gazing at it when he heard his name called and turned. Standartenfuhrer von Montigny, the division chief-of-staff and Ia, was standing at the entrance to the bar.

'Good evening, Herr Standartenfuhrer,' said Timpke, raising his arm in salute. Von Montigny stepped towards him and they shook hands. 'We've seen a few more dying poilus today,' he went on, nodding towards the memorial. 'It seems the French are on the run.'

Von Montigny smiled. 'You've done well today, Otto. Papa Eicke's pleased.'

Good, thought Timpke. They don't know about the loss of the trucks at Hainin.

'But tomorrow we fight the British,' said von Montigny, 'and they might be a tougher nut to crack.'

As they passed the half-track, Timpke peered into the open back where several men were tapping away at encoding machines, wearing headphones. Leaning over the signals men, however, stood a man wearing the red- striped breeches, plaited triple cord shoulder straps, and red and gold collar tabs of a major-general. As he looked up, Timpke saw that an award hung close to his collar: the blue and gold Maltese cross of the Pour le Merite - the 'Blue Max', Germany's highest award for valour in the last war. He had a handsome face - a square, resolute jaw, full lips and grey eyes that seemed both determined and intelligent. Timpke knew immediately who he was.

'Von Montigny,' said the general, his lips breaking into a smile. 'I'll be inside in a few moments.' His eyes turned to Timpke, who saluted. Major-General Rommel nodded in acknowledgement.

Inside the bar there were only a few staff officers, their faces grimy with dust and oil. Friedling and Goetze, commanders of the Totenkopf Regiments 2 and 3, were drinking beer with Brigadefuhrer Eicke. They greeted Timpke warmly and put a bottle into his hand. Cigarette smoke swirled about the room, mixing with the smell of beer and sweat. Regiment 1, it seemed, had had a busy day, and although the division had suffered its first combat losses, many more Frenchmen had been killed and captured. Eicke was pleased.

Soon after, Rommel swept in and asked the officers to gather round an old table on which he spread a map of Arras and the surrounding countryside. Taking off his cap, he followed a few imaginary lines with his finger.

'My plan, gentlemen, is now to thrust northwards, towards Lille. The bulk of both our divisions have caught up at long last, we have received new supplies of fuel and ammunition and we can afford to launch this next thrust with far more men than we have done so far.' There were a few amused glances. 'Tomorrow Seventh Panzer, led by Oberst Rothenburg's Twenty-fifth Panzer Regiment, will push west of Arras and try to capture the bridges over the river Scarpe at Acq - here.' He pointed to the village, some ten kilometres north-west of Arras. 'Two rifle regiments, the Sixth and Seventh, will follow, while the Totenkopf will thrust on our left flank and take the bridges at Aubigny.' He turned to Timpke. 'I understand you reached Aubigny this afternoon, Major?'

Ignoring Rommel's use of Wehrmacht rank rather than Waffen-SS, Timpke cleared his throat and said, 'Yes, Herr General. We came under some inaccurate machine-gun fire, followed by a few howitzer shells, but nothing much. The river looked narrow there, too. Fordable in places, I'd say.'

'In any case,' said Rommel, 'the Scarpe to the northwest of Arras is far smaller than it is east of the city - and considerably less well defended. We will encircle the city from the west and sever the British lines of communication.'

'What about aerial support?' asked Eicke.

'The Luftwaffe has been bombing the area and will continue to do so this afternoon and tomorrow morning.' He stood up. 'Any more questions?' He looked at Eicke. 'Thank you, Brigadefuhrer, for joining us. How you deploy your men is, of course, entirely up to you.' Briefly, he was silent. 'We have yet to come up against the British so do not underestimate them. But we have achieved great things so far. Fortune, momentum and, of course, experience are now with us. They are formidable attributes, especially when combined.' He smiled and his face, stern and patrician a moment before, now softened. 'Good luck, gentlemen. Tomorrow will be an exciting day.'

As Rommel left the bar, Timpke drank from his bottle of beer. The general's men might not have come up against the British, but Timpke had - those swine had taken four of his vehicles from under his nose, and had killed and wounded a number of his men. A renewed flash of anger swept over him as he recalled the events of the previous night. Well, he would have his revenge. No Englander would enjoy such success against him or his men again, he promised himself.

D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers, had made it to Vimy, had found the brigade-major and been sent promptly to the nearby village of Givenchy, near the base of Vimy Ridge, where they were told to lie up. At dawn the following morning they were to form up back in Vimy, where they would join the right-hand column attacking south.

It meant the men had a long afternoon and evening to kill. Tanner had seen they were nervous, jittery, even - Christ, he felt nervous himself. The feverish atmosphere that consumed the village hadn't helped. There were apprehensive locals - the parish priest among them - and exhausted, frightened refugees with their sad collection of worldly belongings, and not all were pleased to see British soldiers around the church and mairie, or to find army trucks parked between the lime trees in the square. Above, enemy aircraft had buzzed and swirled, prompting panic among the civilians. When, that evening, several Junkers 88s had swept over low, dropping their bombs on the village, pandemonium had erupted. No one had been hurt, but the hysterical sobbing from one young woman in particular had been unsettling.

'Can't someone shut that silly bitch up?' muttered McAllister, casting resentful glances in her direction. They were spread out in a corner of the church, some cleaning their weapons, some playing cards, others trying to sleep on the hard wooden pews.

'Poor girl's probably lost everything,' said Sykes. 'Come on, Mac, how would you feel if your home was bombed?'

'I'd write the Hun what did it a thank-you note,' said McAllister. 'Bloody hovel, my place is.'

They laughed.

'Actually, now you mention it, I wouldn't mind them flattening my old place either,' Sykes grinned.

'I've just remembered, Mac,' said Tanner. 'You're saving up for that house in Harrogate, aren't you?'

'I am, Sarge. I'm not going back to Bradford. I've got two pounds six and six so far.'

'You'd better stop playing Stan at cards, then.'

Blackstone was standing beside them. 'All right, boys?'

'No, Sergeant-Major,' said McAllister. 'That woman crying - it's getting on our nerves.'

'Leave it to me, Mac,' he said, and walked up to the front of the church where several other civilians were crouched around her.

'What's he up to?' said McAllister.

Tanner now got up from the pew on which he was lying and watched Blackstone squat beside the woman. His back was towards them so it was hard to tell what he was doing, but almost immediately the sobbing stopped, and a few minutes later the woman, surrounded by several others, stood up and walked out of the church.

'Well, I'm damned,' muttered Sykes.

"Ere, sir!' McAllister called to Blackstone, who was following the procession. 'What did you say to her?'

Blackstone came over. 'Told her it was her lucky day and that I'd see her behind the church in ten minutes.' The men laughed. 'Actually, I gave her a slug of cognac and a few francs. Booze and money, lads - it's what makes the world go round.' He grinned. 'Ready for some heroics tomorrow, Jack?'

Tanner said nothing, so Blackstone turned back to the others, shrugged - what's his problem? - winked and sauntered outside.

'He's a funny bloke, isn't he?' said Hepworth.

Ha bloody ha, thought Tanner. He wondered where Blackstone had got the cognac and francs from - knowing him, they'd probably been stolen. He lay down again on the pew and closed his eyes.

He was awake the moment Hepworth shook his shoulder, although momentarily disoriented. It was dark now in the church, the only light cast by several rows of candles beneath the pulpit. He sat up and looked at his watch-2215. 'What is it?'

'The OC wants to see you, Sarge.'

'Where is he?'

'In the bar across the far side of the square.'

Tanner stood up, slung his rifle over his shoulder, then went out of the church, round the front of the building and into the square. It was quiet now. Tanner wondered where all the refugees had gone - he supposed they had either moved on or taken shelter somewhere in the village; in the mairie, perhaps, or in some of the abandoned houses. Christ knows. He walked across the road and to the bar. But there was no sign of Captain Barclay so he stepped back outside and began to walk back across the road towards the trucks.

He was conscious of movement at either side of him, but before he could react, three men had leaped at him, the first hitting him hard with a wooden cudgel across the stomach. He gasped as the breath was knocked out of him and doubled up, only for a second man to knock him to the ground, where his head was saved from slamming against the gravel by the rim of his tin hat. He grabbed one man's legs, yanked hard and pulled him over. Then he swung his fist into the man's jaw, momentarily surprised to see, in the dim light, that the fellow wore civilian clothes. Hands clasped his neck and hauled him away. He thrust his arm backwards, heard the man gasp, but the third figure punched him in the stomach, then again across the face. Tanner tasted blood and pain coursed through him. His rifle had fallen from his shoulder and now he kicked out in front of him as, with his left hand, he felt for his sword bayonet. The man behind still had him tightly by the neck, then a blow connected with his kidney, making him cry out in pain.

'Oi, stop that!' said a voice, followed by a single revolver shot into the air. The effect was immediate: his neck was released, Tanner fell back on to the ground, and two assailants ran off down the street, their footsteps ringing out in the evening quiet. The third got to his feet groggily and ran off too.

'Good job I turned up, Jack.'

Tanner's spirits fell further. Bloody Blackstone. 'Thanks,' he muttered, getting slowly to his feet. He leaned back against one of the Opels and felt his face. His cheekbone was cut and his lip was bleeding. His stomach and side were bruised, too, but the damage might have been worse. He had survived harsher beatings than this one.

'What the bloody hell was all that about?' asked Blackstone, now beside him.

'God knows,' muttered Tanner. 'They just jumped on me.'

'Here,' said Blackstone. 'Have a swig of this.' He passed Tanner a bottle of cognac and Tanner drank, the liquid stinging his mouth and burning his throat.

'Thanks,' he said again.

'Don't know what would have happened if I hadn't shown up,' said Blackstone. 'Three against one. Could have been nasty.' He struck a match, whistled, then lit a cigarette. 'Whoah! You're a pretty sight, Jack.'

'I'll live,' said Tanner.

'Reckon you owe me one now, though.'

'Oh, here we go,' snapped Tanner. 'What do you want?'

'No need to be so touchy. Christ, I save your bloody life and you're having a go at me already.'

'Just spit it out.'

Blackstone chuckled. 'It's a simple thing, really, Jack.' He moved a step closer. Tanner smelt the mixture of tobacco and brandy on his breath. 'Start being a bit friendly, like. As I said to you the other night, I run this company, all right? We do things my way, not yours and Mr Peploe's.'

'Jesus,' said Tanner, 'is that what this is about? You and your sodding little fiefdom?' He laughed croakily.

'Will you start being a good boy, Jack?' said Blackstone. 'You're causing me all manner of trouble.'

Tanner's fists clenched and he stiffened. 'You set this up, didn't you?'

Blackstone moved even closer to him. 'I've tried, Jack, tried to be nice, tried to be friendly. Offered olive branch after olive branch. I'm telling you now. Do as I ask, Jack. Life will be better for everyone if you do.'

Tanner pushed him away. 'Bugger off, Blackstone, will you?'

'I'm not warning you again.'

Tanner straightened, then pushed past him.

'Very well, Jack,' said Blackstone, after him. 'On your head be it.'