Darkest Hour

Chapter 18

When Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke came round he couldn't understand where he was or how he'd got there. He was lying on straw and it was dark - not completely but enough for him to realize he must have been out for several hours. His head was pounding with a sharp, throbbing pain.

He saw that he was in a large old barn. Aged, dusty beams, hewn and fitted together centuries before, hung above him. He could smell dust and straw, but something else too - something sweet and cloying. For a moment he couldn't think where he had come across it before. Then, pushing himself up on his elbows, he gasped. Bodies - lots of them. Totenkopf men. His mind raced. Not ten yards from him Schultz lay on his back in a large dark pool of blood. And there were others he recognized too. No, he thought. They've shot my men.

Suddenly he heard voices - English ones - and saw two men standing in shadows by the open door. Soundlessly, he lay down again and closed his eyes.

'It's Tanner, all right,' said one of the men.

'Sergeant Tanner,' said the other. 'And Corporal Sykes. They've murdered the lot of them. And look.' The man kicked something - a weapon. 'Tanner was carrying one of these earlier.'

'Tanner,' said the first man. 'How could he do this?'

Timpke heard them leave, but waited where he was for a few minutes. His brain reeled. He had overseen a number of executions in Poland but the victims had been partisans, resisters and Jews. That was one thing, but to kill fellow soldiers in cold blood - it was incredible, horrifying, beyond comprehension. And it had been Tanner, the piece of scum who had sat with him so coolly in his scout car. He had recognized then that Tanner was a hard man, but now he had done this. Him and that small, wiry man who had disabled the radio. Sykes. When he dared to get up, he staggered as he saw the dead. Some stared up at him, their eyes still open; others lay on top of their comrades. Flies buzzed around, gorging on the blood. Timpke clutched his head, staggered again, then turned towards the entrance. A sub-machine-gun lay on the dirt floor. He bent down and picked it up to examine the markings. Yes, there could be no doubt. Two circles and a square inside, with the letters W-SS, engraved on the breech. A Bergmann MP35 Mark I. Exactly like the one Tanner had taken from him.

Leaving it where it was, he reached the door, looked around, saw no one, and ran across the yard to the farm's main entrance. Carefully peering around the gateway, he saw the end of his scout car parked across the road. To his surprise, no one was around. For a moment, he crouched in the shadows, thinking. It was almost dark; above him, the first stars were twinkling. He could hear occasional gunfire from the north, but he was certain the Tommies still held the village. He wondered why the rest of the battalion hadn't followed and attacked as he had ordered Beeck. But then, of course, they would have realized that he and the bulk of Company 3 had been taken prisoner. Units of Regiments 2 and 3 would have caught up; any orders Beeck tried to implement would have been overruled. They would have probed forward this evening, would send out patrols tonight and then, having made sure a sufficient weight of fire was in place, would attack the following morning. Yes. That's what's happened. If the Tommies remained where they were, they would have no chance.

And then a plan took shape. All he had to do was disable the vehicles. If he did that, they would struggle to get away. And he wanted them to stay. He wanted them to stay so that he could exact his revenge on this Unteroffizier, Tanner.

So long as Tanner and Sykes were not killed, they would almost certainly end up as prisoners of war. Then he would take personal charge of them. There would be no simple bullet to the head - no, Timpke was already planning something far more drawn out than that. He allowed himself a thin smile. The mere thought of it helped lift his spirits.

It was around ten o'clock when Sykes heard movement. He lay stock still until he heard a chink about fifteen yards in front. He hissed at McAllister to hold his fire, then carefully pulled a grenade from his haversack, drew out the pin and lobbed it over the hedge. The night air was so still that he heard it land with a dull thud among the young shoots of corn and a few seconds later it exploded with a blinding crack of light. A man cried out and fell backwards. Then McAllister opened up with the Bren.

A moment later a German machine-gun fired from just below the ridge. Bullets whizzed above them, splintering the tops of the hedge, then mortars were falling, but exploding some distance behind them.

More small-arms fire came from the direction of the wood to the south-east, then mortars.

'Give them another burst,' Sykes told McAllister, 'just in case.'

Tanner joined them, crouching beside Sykes.

'I think it's only patrols, Sarge,' said Sykes.

'Maybe. Sounds to me like they're trying to clear that wood of our posts, though.' More mortar shells fell and a tree now caught fire. They could hear the spit and crackle of burning timber. A flickering orange glow shone from the southern end of the wood and shouts rang out, followed by yet more mortars and small arms. Then, from the village, they heard an engine and the sound of a vehicle driving away.

'Someone scarpering?' asked McAllister.

'Hopefully to fetch some bloody relief,' muttered Tanner.

'It's not looking good, is it, Sarge?' said Sykes. 'We should all bloody well scarper if you ask me.'

Tanner sighed. 'I know, but we've been given specific orders to stay.'

Fighting continued in the wood, while mortars fell regularly on the village. Several houses were burning, so the crisp night air grew heavy with smoke. Apart from occasional bursts of machine-gun fire, the enemy were quiet to the south. Tanner checked on the rest of the men and, as he was doing so, heard engines turning over. None would catch. Again, they whined, like bleating sheep, but none would start. Bloody hell.

'Sounds like our vehicles are on the blink, sir,' he said, as he reached the lieutenant once more.

'I might go and find out what's happening,' said Peploe. 'It seems pointless to stay here.'

'Who exactly is in charge, sir? Who gave the orders to stay put?'

'I'm not sure. I was given my orders by Captain Barclay.' As though this had confirmed his thoughts, he said, 'Yes, I'm going to head back quickly into the village. See what's what. All right with you?'

'Yes, sir. Good idea.'

Peploe slipped away, but was back within twenty minutes.

'I saw Captain Barclay,' said Peploe breathlessly. 'He's in a bit of a dither, I'm afraid. Colonel Beart's been found - he's wounded in the leg and should be all right - but Captain Barclay's now the most senior fit and able officer. They think Captain Dixon's dead and the OC of D Company's missing. Anyway, the posts have been forced out of the wood, so to the east and south-east there's just a skeleton force holding the perimeter of the village.'

'And us.'

'Yes.'

'What about the vehicles?'

'That's what's really got the OC. They won't start. It seems someone's taken the rotor arms out of the distributors.'

'Sabotage. Must be one of the prisoners. What's happened to them?'

'I don't know. I must admit, I'd forgotten about them.' 'And where the bloody hell are Blackstone and Slater?'

'Presumably still guarding the prisoners. They weren't with Captain Barclay.'

'Damn it all,' muttered Tanner. 'Does the OC have a plan?'

'He does now.' Peploe chuckled. 'Did you hear that vehicle go off about half an hour ago?'

'Yes.'

'It was an armoured car - one of the DLI's - attempting to get help, or so the OC told me. I suggested to him that we wait here until midnight and if there's still no sign of help we evacuate on foot.'

'And he agreed?'

'Er, not entirely.'

Tanner sighed. 'Bloody hell. And I'm absolutely starving.'

'Here,' said Peploe, passing him his hip-flask. 'I managed to get a refill in Givenchy. Nothing like as good as the single malt I brought out with me, but when in Rome, eh?'

Tanner took a swig. 'What is it, sir?' he asked.

'Calvados. It's French - made from apples.' He took a swig himself. 'Cheers, Sergeant. Here's to getting out alive.'

Tanner's exhaustion was growing but he knew he had to keep awake and alert, and make sure the men did too. Twice he shook Hepworth, while he had to cajole, back- slap and urge the others to think not of food and sleep but of Jerries pouncing on them if they weren't watchful. Time seemed to have slowed, and he found himself repeatedly looking at his watch. Desultory mortar fire fell on the village, but otherwise the front remained quiet.

Yet with every passing minute, Tanner felt sure their chances of escape were melting away. His cheek still hurt, his lip kept splitting and his ribs - no, his entire body - ached. Fighting was tiring. What wouldn't he do for a bed?

Eleven o'clock passed, then eleven thirty. So no one's coming. But then, just before midnight, they heard the tell-tale squeak and rumble of tanks approaching the village from the north.

'Hear that, sir?' said Tanner.

'Yes,' said Peploe. 'What do you think? Friend or foe?'

'I'm hoping it's the bloody cavalry - if it's Jerry, he's acting out of character.'

'Well, you go this time, Tanner.'

'All right, sir.'

'Fingers crossed.'

Tanner hurried down the road, exhaustion forgotten. The centre of the village glowed from another burning house so that the vehicles, dark and looming, were silhouetted against the flickering light. Several Durham men stood around, smoking and flinching every time another mortar hurtled over.

'Seen any officers?' Tanner asked them.

'Your skipper's in the church, mate,' said one.

The sound of tanks grew louder, then Tanner heard other vehicles rumbling with them. He ran down the road, and there, two hundred yards ahead, a column of tanks was approaching, their bulky shapes silhouetted against the now dull glow of the sky. Not British but French. He recognized them as the same models he had seen earlier that day in Neuville-St-Vaast. Thank God. He turned and ran to the church.

He found Captain Barclay sitting on a pew at the front. A number of candles had been lit.

'Sir?' said Tanner.

'Sergeant Tanner,' said Barclay. 'I was just trying to think and, er, offering a few prayers. Silly, probably, but I thought it might help.' He scratched the back of his neck.

'It might have done, sir. Some French tanks are here.'

'Really?' said Barclay, surprised. 'I must say, I'd always hoped there was a God.' He tapped his foot on the stone floor. 'There's a bunch of civvies down below, you know. They've been praying all night.'

When Tanner and Captain Barclay hurried outside, the tanks were in the centre of the village, and rolled to a halt by the other vehicles.

'Bonsoir.' A French officer saluted. 'We heard you were in difficulty,' he said in English, 'so we have come to take you out.'

'But my orders are to stay here and defend this village,' Barclay replied.

Tanner clutched his head in exasperation. 'But, sir, we haven't got a hope of holding out.' He counted six tanks and two tracked troop carriers. 'There are two entire enemy divisions out there.'

Barclay ignored him. Instead he turned to the Frenchman and asked, 'Where have you come from?'

'From Duisans. A German tank formation attacked from the north-east but they have moved further east now. Your battalion is still holding the village but they will be falling back soon, I think.'

'And what are your orders?'

The French officer shrugged. 'To help you.'

'Very well. We stay.'

'Sir - please,' said Tanner.

'No, Tanner. I'm the senior officer and those are my orders. Our armoured attack will no doubt take place in the morning. If we lose this ground they'll have to start all over again.'

'But, sir, how do you know there's going to be any more armour?'

'These boys are here, aren't they?' Barclay snapped. 'Now get back to your platoon, Sergeant.'

A renewed barrage of mortar fire fell on the village as Tanner loped back up the road. At one point, he flung himself to the ground as a mortar crashed forty yards from him. Then another building was burning, angry flames crackling into the sky.

'It's madness, sir,' he told Peploe, on his return. 'We're getting stonked to hell, all part of Jerry's softening-up process. Keeps us awake, hopefully causes a few casualties and frays nerves. At first light they'll send over some Stukas, and when they've gone they'll storm the place with all guns blazing. To stay here now is suicide.'

'All right, Tanner,' said Peploe, 'but this is a hell of a stonk. I reckon we're safer here than in the village. Let's wait for it to die down and then I'll talk to Captain Barclay.'

Mortars continued to rain on the village and more houses blazed. Tanner's agitation and anger grew. He knew the men felt much the same.

'This is madness, Sarge,' said Bell. 'Let's pack up and get the hell out of here.'

'Calm down, Tinker,' he said, moving on down the line.

'I'm cold and damp, tired and hungry, Sarge,' said Sykes. 'I wouldn't mind so much if I could see the point of it. Has the OC gone mad, then?'

'God knows.'

But at one a.m. news came that they were to move back into the village. One of the French carriers rumbled forward to hitch up the twenty-pounder while, muttering and cursing, the Rangers walked back down the road, rifles at the ready, circling regularly to check that no one was following them. At least a dozen houses were now ablaze and the centre of the village was lit up as though by gas-lamp. One of the captured SS trucks was also burning, destroyed by a direct hit. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and rubber.

Men were taking cover by the vehicles, some DLI, others from 11 Platoon. Peploe told the men to wait and set off in search of Captain Barclay.

'Bloody hell, Sarge,' said Sykes, beside him. 'We need to get everyone together and bugger off sharpish. Where's old Barclay?'

'God knows,' said Tanner. He lit one of Timpke's cigarettes. 'And where's Blackstone? I can't believe he's been patiently guarding those SS-wallahs all this time.'

'There's one way to find out,' said Sykes.

Another mortar crashed near the church as they hurried across the road and into the yard. The place was dark, the glow of the flames shielded there by the walls and height of the barn. Slowly, Tanner pushed open the wooden door, which creaked on its hinges. 'Hello?' he called. Silence answered him.

'They've been moved, I reckon,' said Sykes.

'Hang on, Stan. What's that smell?' He felt into his pack, took out his torch and switched it on.

'Oh, my God,' said Sykes. 'Christ alive, what's happened here?'

'They've been shot, Stan. They've been bloody shot.'

'You mean murdered, Sarge.'

Tanner shone his torch across the prostrate bodies. Buttons undone, pockets rifled. Jesus.

'Blackstone?' said Sykes.

'Who the bloody hell else would have done it?' Tanner snapped. 'That bastard - that absolute bastard! And where the hell is he?' He strode out of the barn and back across the yard.

Two more mortars fell, one a short way behind them, another further on. Tanner ducked, but continued towards the vehicles. Barclay was there now, cowering beside one of the French tanks, Peploe too. The French officer was gesticulating - Let's go, Monsieur Capitaine.

'Sir,' Tanner said directly to Barclay, 'where are Blackstone and Slater?'

'Good God, man, can't you see I'm busy? How the devil should I know?'

'Sir,' insisted Tanner, 'they had taken charge of the prisoners. But they're not in the barn. The prisoners are and they've been shot, sir.'

'What the devil are you talking about?' said Barclay.

'Oh, Christ, no,' said Peploe. 'All of them?'

'Yes,' said Tanner. 'Every single one.'

'Show me.' Peploe turned to Barclay. 'Sir, you should come too.'

Tanner saw the panic in Barclay's face. The OC was struggling - it was clear as day. He doesn't know what to do. And now this.

'Yes - yes, all right,' he snapped. His right eyelid was twitching.

They ran back across the road and over to the barn. Once more, Tanner shone his torch upon the dead SS men.

'No,' murmured Peploe. Barclay retched and vomited,

then left them. Tanner and Peploe followed, but he waved them away, hurrying back across the road. Tanner watched him lean against one of the German half-tracks, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. Then he took a swig from his water-bottle, straightened and went to the tanks.

'Sir?' said Peploe, walking towards him.

'What, Lieutenant?' Barclay's hand gripped the edge of the French tank.

'The best part of forty Germans have been shot. What are we going to do about it?'

'We're going to leave.'

'But I thought you wanted to stay here.'

'I've changed my mind. We'll withdraw. Back to Chateau Duisans. Help round up the men.'

'But, sir, we can't just leave those bodies there.'

'And what else do you propose we do, Lieutenant? Bury them? How long will that take?'

'But you must find out who did this. Those men were murdered, sir.'

'Yes, but what can I do about it?' He was shaking now, his voice rising. 'We're being mortared like mad and we've lost God knows how many men. I simply can't think about that now.'

'Sir, when Tanner left those men, the CSM and Sergeant Slater were guarding them.'

Barclay looked at him with a mixture of anger and incredulity. 'Blackstone? You're saying he did this? He wasn't responsible.' He turned to Tanner. 'I do hope, Sergeant, that this is not some warped retaliation for what happened earlier.'

'Sir, really,' said Peploe. 'Sergeant Tanner hasn't accused anyone. But where are they? You have to admit it's odd they're not here.'

'Not at all,' said Barclay. 'I sent them back with Lieutenant Worthington from A Company and four of his men an hour or more ago. They took the DLI's armoured car. Worthington thought he and his little group were the only survivors of A Company. I told him he should try to get help, but he seemed a bit washed out so I told Blackstone and Slater to go with them. I wanted someone I know and trust for such a task. And, frankly, it seems to have paid off because our French friends have now arrived.'

'That doesn't mean anything, sir,' said Peploe.

'Look here,' said Barclay, prodding Peploe in the chest, 'you listen to me. Those men are dead and I cannot undo that, but I have to make sure as many of our troops get out of here as possible. That's my main concern, not the fate of forty enemy dead. You may not approve, but I can't help that. Now, get your men ready, Lieutenant. Check the far side of the church and chateau grounds for stragglers. We leave in five minutes.'

Peploe glared at Barclay. 'Yes, sir,' he said, and shouted to the men to load themselves onto the tanks and into the carriers. Tanner began to follow, then ran to the church and into the manor-house gardens. One of the outbuildings was on fire. Moving between the trees to the edge of the house, he saw figures and shouted, only to realize they were not British but German. Running for the cover of a tree, he crouched and peered around. The light of the flames was in front of him, not behind. Inexperienced enemy troops had not grasped that they were silhouetted in perfect clarity. He could see them, moving forward, half crouching between the trees. How far away were they? Forty yards? He unslung the sub-machine-gun and glanced at the length of the muzzle. It wouldn't be much use at distances of more than that but at thirty yards, he reckoned, it should do the job perfectly. 'Come on,' he whispered to himself. There were only a few - ten, perhaps, a patrol, nothing more. Cautiously, they continued forward, and then, when the lead man was just ten yards away, Tanner stepped around the tree and opened fire. He saw four men drop immediately while others dived for cover. He took a grenade from his haversack, pulled the pin and hurled it. Seconds later it exploded and a man cried out. Tanner fired another burst then ran back, through the trees and bushes, past the church until he saw the six tanks and carriers. Another mortar shell crashed behind him, near the church, but he barely flinched. He saw Sykes and Hepworth clinging to one of the tanks and Sykes held out an arm. The engines were running, clouds of exhaust fumes mixing with smoke and cordite.

'Come on, Sarge!' Sykes shouted. Tanner gripped his hand and hauled himself aboard the iron body of the tank. A moment later, it jolted and moved off.

'Not before time,' said Tanner, breathing heavily. 'Not before bloody time.'

Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke had watched their departure. He had hidden in an abandoned house opposite the vehicles. It had a strong, deep cellar in which he had sheltered during quiet periods, while on the ground floor there was an open window from which he could see and hear what was going on without being spotted.

A short while before he had been congratulating himself for successfully disabling the vehicles - it had been almost ridiculously easy. No one had been around - no guards - and it had been dark, too, unlike now with so many houses blazing. Then, to his annoyance, he had heard first one, then two vehicles start up and head northwards. He had not spotted them earlier - they must have been parked in a different part of the village. Nonetheless, he had remained optimistic that the bulk of the small British garrison would be trapped.

Such hopes had fallen away when the French tanks had turned up. However, watching from an open ground- floor window, Timpke had followed events with mounting incomprehension. Why had those Tommies not left immediately? Then he had seen the officer in charge and had recognized a man promoted beyond his capabilities. The fool had been paralysed by the weight of responsibility on his shoulders and unable to make a decision.

Then the dead prisoners had been discovered, and from that moment on, the Tommy officer had not been able to leave soon enough. He's walking away from it. Timpke's anger had risen once more. He had seen Tanner standing beside two officers and then, as men had loaded themselves onto the tanks, run off towards the church and disappear from view. As the engines started and still he saw no sign of Tanner, his hopes rose. He was sure he had heard gunfire from beyond the church, but then that tall figure had emerged from the gloom, running towards the tanks. An arm was outstretched and Tanner had scrambled on.

'No!' hissed Timpke to himself. 'No!' In a kind of stupor, he had walked out of the house and stood in the middle of the road, watching the last of the vehicles disappear from view, until all he could hear of them was the faint squeak and rattle of tracks. Then a mortar shell whistled over and landed on the roof of the big barn where so many of his dead comrades still lay. A moment later, a second and then a third followed. In what seemed like no time at all, the building was aglow, angry flames rising from the broken roof, wooden timbers cracking and spitting.

Timpke felt the rotor arms in his tunic pocket under his camouflage smock. At least he had his vehicles back, but that was small consolation. Only one thing would give him peace, and that was revenge. Revenge for his humiliation. Revenge for his dead comrades. Revenge. Revenge. Revenge.

It was a slow journey. Near the edge of the village, the survivors from Warlus had had to stop to clear burning debris from the road but, thankfully, they had met no resistance. It was still dark by the time they reached Duisans, but the stench of battle was heavy on the air. The chateau and village were now deserted; whatever had remained of B and C Companies had clearly fallen back.

On they trundled, back up the ridge that ran between Duisans and Maroeuil where earlier they had seen British tanks advancing. By the time they rumbled into Neuville-St-Vaast, the first streaks of dawn were creeping over the horizon. Smoke still drifted over Arras, but the distant tower of the belfry still stood. Despite the discomfort of sitting on the back of a moving French tank in the crisp cold of early dawn, Tanner dozed, imagining a big plate of bacon, egg and bread fried in beef dripping, as he and his father had eaten when he was a boy. When he woke again, it was nearly six and they had driven back over Vimy Ridge and come to a halt in Vimy village.

Seventy-four men and officers were all that remained of nearly three infantry companies, an anti-tank battery and a carrier platoon. Exhausted, they slid off the tanks, scrambled out of the carriers and collapsed at the side of the road. Men milled about. Vehicles - trucks, carriers and several cars - lined the road beneath a row of young horse-chestnuts. Tanner smoked the last of Timpke's cigarettes as Captain Barclay and the lieutenant headed off towards Brigade Headquarters.

'What happens now?' Sykes asked Tanner. It would be another sunny day, and the air was filled with birdsong.

'God knows. Hopefully get some grub.' Several of the men were already asleep, stretched out on the dewy grass beneath the horse-chestnuts. Tanner wondered when the fighting would start again. Enemy bombers would be over soon, and those two German divisions would be gearing themselves up for the next surge forward. It was supposed to have been a counter-attack - an attempt to push the enemy back, but here they were, one day on, in exactly the same place as they had started, but with good men dead, wounded and taken prisoner. In their own company, they were now down to just two officers; 11 Platoon were short of eighteen men - half their number. He wondered whether Timpke had been among the dead in the barn; he'd not seen him, but then again he'd not looked that hard either. But, Christ, all those bodies. Prisoners were a pain in the backside when you were busy fighting, but killing them in cold blood - he could barely believe it, even now. He closed his eyes. No doubt Blackstone would turn up, winking and slapping the lads on the back, everyone's mate. The murdered Germans would be swept under the carpet while the accusations of rape would be brought to the fore. And, overhead, the Luftwaffe would be swirling, diving and dropping their bombs. Damn them. Barclay was a bloody fool. How could he not see through Blackstone? Good leadership required many things but the ability to judge character was one; another was the guts to take clear-headed decisions. Squadron Leader Lyell had been right: the captain was a hopeless soldier.

Sykes nudged him now. 'The lieutenant's coming.'

Tanner glanced up and saw Peploe approaching.

'Tanner,' he said, 'come with me a moment, will you?'

Tanner stood up and went to him. Dark circles surrounded Peploe's eyes and a growth of gingery beard covered his chin. It was amazing, Tanner thought, how much fighting a war aged people.

'Captain Barclay wants to talk to us,' said Peploe, 'with Blackstone.'

'Bloody hell.'

'He wants to clear the air.'

Tanner eyed him, expecting to see an ironic smile, but the lieutenant's face was set hard.

They found Captain Barclay and CSM Blackstone standing outside a bar that had evidently been requisitioned as part of 151st Brigade's headquarters.

'Ah, there you are,' said Barclay, taking his pipe from his mouth. His eyelid flickered and he rubbed it self-consciously.

'Morning, Jack,' said Blackstone. 'How's the head?' He circled a finger around his own face.

Tanner didn't answer. 'You wanted to see me, sir.'

'Yes, all three of you, actually,' said Barclay. 'We've had a difficult twenty-four hours and we've probably got some difficult days ahead. Jerry's snapping at our heels and we've lost some damn good men.'

Tanner wished he'd get to the point.

'Now, I know that you, Tanner, and the CSM are not exactly friends, but I want you to bury the hatchet. I don't want to hear any more about this girl or the dead prisoners.'

'But, sir,' interrupted Peploe, 'you can't just sweep it under the table. Forty men were murdered.'

Barclay smoothed his moustache. 'Blackstone has given me his solemn word that neither he nor Slater had anything to do with it, and his word is good enough for me.'

'But Tanner's word wasn't good enough for you yesterday morning.'

'I've told you, Lieutenant, that I consider both matters closed.'

'We handed over guarding the prisoners to some of the DLI lads,' said Blackstone.

'Who?' Peploe asked. 'Don't you think we should be speaking to their commanding officer?'

'Colonel Beart's been sent to hospital,' said Blackstone.

'For God's sake, someone must have taken over - Major McLaren. He was second in command yesterday. Sir, war or not, it was an appalling crime that cannot go unpunished. I mean, damn it, I thought we were fighting to stop the tyranny of the Nazis. Condone this and we prove ourselves no better than they are.'

'Peploe, my dear fellow,' said Barclay, attempting a more placatory approach, 'the Durhams have lost nearly half their men. Their OC is in hospital and two company commanders are in the bag. I hear Sixth Battalion has suffered similar losses. How well do you think it will go down if we march in there accusing their men of slaughtering forty Nazis - and, let's face it, they were all SS men, the very worst of the worst. I know this probably sounds a bit cold-hearted but, personally, I can't help feeling the world is better off without them.'

Tanner saw the flush in Peploe's cheeks. The lieutenant's jaw tightened and for a moment Tanner wondered whether he should simply steer him away before he did something he might later regret.

'Shame on you, sir,' said Peploe at last. He swallowed hard. 'Because we are at war and because of the situation we find ourselves in, I will continue to serve under you to the best of my ability. But I want you to know, here and now, that when we get home I shall be reporting this disgraceful episode and I will make sure the perpetrators are caught and that justice is done.'

'That, of course, is your prerogative,' said Barclay, stiffly. 'But now I want you, fanner, and you, Blackstone, to shake hands.'

Blackstone thrust out his hand, smiling amiably at Tanner.

'Christ alive,' muttered Peploe.

'Tanner?' said Barclay.

'Is it an order, sir?'

'Yes, damn it, it is.'

Tanner held out his hand and felt Blackstone's grip it.

'Good,' said Barclay, smiling at last. 'That wasn't so hard, was it?' He stuffed his pipe back into his mouth, relit it, and then, as sweet-smelling tobacco wafted around him, he said, 'Now we've got that straight, I can give you our orders. We're to join the line between here and the Canadian war memorial on the left of Eighth DLI, or what remains of them. They're covering the line all the way up to Givenchy.' He cleared his throat. 'We lost a lot of tanks yesterday and there's going to be no more offensive action for the time being. Our job is to stop the enemy getting any further.'

'I thought we were going to rejoin the rest of the battalion, sir,' said Tanner.

'Nothing doing, I'm afraid. They're still down on the Scarpe to the east of Arras, but with the DLI's losses, we're to stay and help them. In any case, we no longer have any M/T.'

'And what about food?' asked Tanner. 'The lads haven't had anything since yesterday morning.'

'Eighth DLI's B Echelon have set up a kitchen a short way back up the road in the wood. We've been ordered to pass through it, rather than using roads - Brigade's expecting heavy air attacks. We're to pick up rations on the way to our positions. All clear?'

Tanner and Peploe nodded.

'Oh, and one last thing,' added Barclay, 'I've made CSM Blackstone Eleven Platoon commander. He's taking over from Lieutenant Bourne-Arton with immediate effect.'

Tanner willed himself not to look at the triumph on Blackstone's face, but something within compelled him to do so. Standing a little way behind Barclay, Blackstone lit a cigarette and, as Tanner glanced at him, he smiled and winked - just as Tanner had known he would.