Darkest Hour

Chapter 19

Four thirty p.m., Thursday, 23 May: orders had arrived that D Company, 1st Battalion, the Yorkshire Rangers, along with A and D Companies of 8th Battalion, the Durham Light Infantry, were to move out of the young woods at Petit Vimy along the ridge to Givenchy, and from there to join the line on the right of the rest of 8th Battalion to the north-west of the village.

It was raining, and had been since mid-morning, alternating between drizzle and a heavier, more persistent downpour. Some of the men wore their green oilskin anti-gas capes as mackintoshes, but Tanner felt too restricted in his so he had put on his leather jerkin. It meant his body was dry still but the damp serge of his trousers and battle-blouse sleeves scratched his skin.

The weather did nothing to improve his mood. Being forced to shake Blackstone's hand had been a humiliation too far. Back at Manston he had promised himself he would make no concessions until he felt the man had earned his respect and trust. Now he had been ordered to renege on that vow and forced to shake hands with a man who, two days before, had had him beaten up, who had accused him of rape, and who had possibly shot more than forty prisoners in cold blood. A man, he had once felt certain, who had already tried to kill him at least twice before. To make matters worse, Barclay had made it quite clear that he felt Tanner and Lieutenant Peploe were being difficult and churlish, rather than Blackstone. Tanner had not expected effusive praise, but he felt he had acquitted himself well enough on the twenty-first; he and the platoon had done everything asked of them, and more. In contrast, Blackstone had kept his head down and scuttled off at the first available opportunity. That alone had hardly merited promotion.

Blackstone had clearly been preying on Peploe's mind too. The lieutenant had made no secret of his disgust. 'I shouldn't be saying this to you, Tanner,' he had fumed, as they had walked back to rejoin the platoon, 'but the OC is treating this like some bloody playground spat. I swear on all I hold dear that I will not let this matter drop. When we get home, I'm going to make sure it's properly investigated.' Since then, Peploe had been subdued, not at all the cheerful, easy-going man Tanner had come to like and respect.

In truth, however, it was not only Blackstone and the weather: for nearly two days now they had heard increasingly heavy gunfire to the south, from the eastern side of Arras, where they supposed the rest of the battalion were still dug in, and from far to the west. Moreover, it seemed that the Luftwaffe had singled them out for particular punishment. Enemy aircraft had buzzed over almost continually. Already that day they had been dive- bombed twice. The trees of the young wood, just twenty years old, had offered some protection, as had their hastily dug slit trenches, but the attacks grated on the nerves. Every time a Stuka dived, screaming, or a Junkers 88 flew over, roaring, the men crouched into the earth - which was wet and muddy with all the rain - and prayed no bomb would land on them. Lethal shards of splintered wood and shrapnel hissed over their heads, while clods of soil and fragments of stone clattered on top of them, rattling their steel helmets and working their way down the back of their necks.

They had seen no British or French aircraft.

'Where's bloody Lyell and his lot?' Sykes had muttered at one point. 'Surely he's back by now?'

'Just like sodding Norway,' McAllister had complained. 'Why does Jerry always seem to have more of everything than us?'

'Search me,' said Sykes.

'I'll tell you what's really getting on my nerves,' McAllister had said. 'It's this place. Graves everywhere and sodding shell-holes. The sooner we're out of here the better. Gives me the creeps.'

Tanner agreed. His father had fought nearby and wouldn't have thought much about his son being bombed on the same stretch of troubled land that had been battled over some twenty years earlier. Through the trees near Petit Vimy, they had seen the tall, white Canadian war memorial. It was a stark reminder that Tanner could have done without.

And they were losing - the German gains could no longer be seen as mere temporary setbacks; rather, Tanner recognized, the British had most probably been plunged into an irreversible defeat. He had sensed it in Norway, and he sensed it again now. Of course, he had little idea of what was really going on, but he'd put money on it that few of the top brass did either. There never seemed to be enough forces in the right place to stem the flow. Lieutenant Peploe had told him they would be attacking south of Arras with a composite force of more than two divisions, but there had been nothing of the sort. As far as he had been able to tell, there had been two infantry battalions, a handful of tanks and some field and anti-tank guns. Where had the rest been? And what could they possibly achieve now? They were sitting on this ridge, supported by a few anti-tank guns, being bombed and blasted and waiting for Jerry to bring himself up to strength. It was hopeless.

It was still raining as they set off, in companies, platoons and sections, heads bowed and gas capes glistening, through the woods towards Givenchy. They passed across the Canadian national park, with its warnings of unexploded shells, then wove past the memorial and towards Givenchy. As they trudged down the ridge, Tanner noticed an anti-tank gun battery to the south-east of the village, below the memorial, and was struck by how poorly camouflaged it was. An easy spot for any reconnaissance plane, even on a rainy day.

It was as though the Luftwaffe had read his thoughts. They were nearing the edge of the village when he heard the familiar rumble of aero-engines, faint at first, then growing rapidly in volume, until two dozen Junkers 88s swooped low out of the cloud. 'Take cover!' he shouted. Men flung themselves into the sodden grassy bank at the side of the road. A moment later, bombs were falling, a brief whistle then an ear-splitting crash as they exploded. Tanner lay on the trembling ground, his hands over his ears. A bigger detonation now ripped the air. More bombs whistled. One man was screaming. Some in the village were firing, shooting rifles and Brens. The ground shuddered again and Tanner pressed his head to it, breathing in the scent of wet grass and earth.

The bombers were soon gone, disappearing into the cloud. Tanner, with the rest of the men, got to his feet, brushing off damp blades of grass, and gazed at the village, now shrouded in a veil of dust and smoke. Several houses were burning, flames flickering through the haze. In the centre of the village a column of angry black smoke swirled. Cries and shouts could be heard.

Up ahead, from A and D Companies, orders were barked. Blackstone gave the command for the Rangers to fall in, and they stood there for a few minutes, watching the flames, hearing timber burn and masonry collapse while Captain Barclay went forward for further instructions. He reappeared a short while later, his face set, and spoke with Blackstone and Peploe.

'What's happening, sir?' Tanner asked, as Peploe rejoined the platoon.

'A and D Companies are moving into position cross-country avoiding the village. We're to go in and help clear up.'

'Better than sitting still in the rain, I suppose.'

In places it was hard to get through. A number of houses had disintegrated, rubble spewing across the road. The men worked their way around it and eventually reached the centre of the village. The church was still intact, but half a dozen homes around it had been destroyed. Choking dust and smoke filled the air. Tanner wetted his handkerchief, then tied it round his mouth, encouraging the others to do the same. Near the square, where he had been attacked three days before, the blackened skeletal frame of a truck smouldered while at either end of it two more vehicles were ablaze. A sudden gust swept down the street and the flames leaped, black smoke billowing into the sky. Soldiers and civilians were coughing and stumbling about, disoriented. An officer - a signals captain from 5th Division - was scrabbling at bits of fallen brickwork. 'Come on, give me a bloody hand!' he yelled. 'My men are under this lot.'

Tanner hurried over to him. 'Sir,' he said, looking at the wreckage, 'there's nothing we can do.'

'Can't just leave 'em here,' he said, and Tanner noticed the tears that streaked the grime on his face.

'Sir,' he said again.

The officer stood up and stared at the sky. 'The murdering bastards,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I had six good men in that house.' He picked up a broken brick and hurled it.

In the main square there were several large bomb craters. A few women were screaming while an old lady knelt outside the church, praying. Tanner saw Peploe and went to him. 'Sir, what are we supposed to be doing? We can't clear all this rubble.'

'God knows.' He looked up as Captain Barclay and a major approached.

'Peploe, this is Major McLaren,' said Barclay. 'He's taken over as battalion commander of Eighth DLL'

Peploe and Tanner saluted.

'You can help the wounded,' said McLaren, 'but I don't want you wasting too much time here.' He nodded towards the burning vehicles. 'Bastards hit an ammunition truck. Fifth Div artillery were passing through - damned unlucky timing.' His eyes rested on the debris. 'In any case, there are still enough of them to sort this place out.

I'd rather you were in position on D Company's flank.' He looked at his watch. 'Half an hour, no more. Jerry's only a few miles away so we might see some action later.'

It was a grim task collecting the dead and wounded. Tanner found an old man weeping over his wife, who had lost a leg, shorn clean off. He and Smailes had lifted her but she had died as they tried to hoist her into their arms. Then Smailes had been called to the anti-tank battery on the south-east of the village and Tanner followed with Corporal Cooper's section. Several large craters now pockmarked the field where they were positioned. Two of the guns had been put out of action, and one of the gun crews had been blown to smithereens, body parts flung in a wide arc to hang in trees and hedgerows. One young gunner was wandering about, his face and body covered with another man's blood. Two of Cooper's men vomited and Tanner couldn't blame them: it was one thing seeing an animal torn to pieces, quite another a human and a comrade. They'll get used to it. He certainly had, and while Smailes administered what help he could, Tanner removed bits of flesh from the hedges and branches near the guns, placed them in a pile a short distance away, then covered them with soil and stones from the craters.

'Thanks,' said an ashen-faced lieutenant. 'Very good of you.'

'It's easier for me, sir,' said Tanner. 'I didn't know them.'

The lieutenant swallowed. His uniform and face were filthy. 'It was all s-so sudden. One minute they were there, the next they'd g-gone.'

'They wouldn't have known a thing about it, sir.'

The lieutenant nodded. 'No. I suppose not.'

Tanner offered him a cigarette from a packet he had been given at Petit Vimy. He took it gratefully, but his hands were shaking so much he could hardly put it into his mouth.

'We'll help get the wounded back, sir.'

They took six men to the church, which had become a temporary field dressing station. Tanner had just helped set down a gunner with a bad groin wound when he saw Sykes and Hepworth carrying the body of a young woman. Her face, clothes and dark hair were covered with dust but even so he recognized her immediately. 'That's the girl,' he said, as they laid her down on the ground.

'Which girl?' asked Hepworth.

'Mademoiselle Lafoy,' said Tanner. Dark blood had matted her hair and run down her face. 'The girl who accused me.'

'It's a shame, Sarge,' said Hepworth, 'but at least she can't testify against you no more.'

'For God's sake, Hep,' snapped Tanner. 'I'd far rather have seen her alive and found out who persuaded her to set me up.'

'And for how much,' added Sykes.

'Yes. I wonder what it would take to persuade a hungry, homeless girl to do that.' The rain, which had stopped for a short while, now began again. Fat drops landed on her face and arms, cleaning away the powdery layer of dust. Tanner looked away, and heard Blackstone order everyone to fall in.

'Come on, boys,' he said. 'Let's get going, iggery, eh?'

Later that evening there was another air raid, but by that time D Company was dug into the north-west of Givenchy, and the bombs were directed further along the ridge. At ten, orders arrived that they were to hold Vimy Ridge to the end. Twenty minutes later, enemy tanks were reported to be no more than six hundred yards away. They heard the squeak and rattle of tracks but it was too dark to see. The men were restless and jittery but Tanner reckoned they were safe until the morning. Then just after midnight new orders arrived. They were not going to hold the ridge after all: instead they were to head back to a new line of defence behind the La Bassee canal, some ten miles to the north-east.

Wearily they got to their feet, gathered their kit and tramped back through the woods, Bren carriers clattering through the trees on their flank covering their withdrawal. At Petit Vimy, trucks and transport were waiting for them. Desultory gunfire boomed across the night, but otherwise the violence of the previous day had been left behind. Tanner sat at the back of a large fifteen-hundredweight Bedford, Sykes beside him. The rain had stopped and a dense canopy of stars twinkled above them. Tanner's clothes were still damp and he shivered. Behind them, he could hear carriers wheeling about, but of the enemy panzers there was no sign. By one a.m. on Friday, 24 May, the column was trundling down through Vimy, vehicles nose to tail. A snail's pace, but better than walking through the night on exhausted legs.

Withdrawing again, thought Tanner. Even so, he was glad to be getting away from that place, a part of France that seemed haunted by death. He lit a cigarette and smoked it in silence, watching the pale smoke disperse into the cool night air. When it was finished, he flicked away the stub, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

By mid-morning on the twenty-fourth, the men of D Company were digging in yet again, this time in a large, thick wood a mile or so behind the La Bassee canal near the main road between Carvin and Libercourt, some fifteen miles north-east of Arras. Still attached to 151st Brigade and the 8th Durham Light Infantry, they were told to rest there for as long as possible. However, no sooner had they begun to dig their new slit trenches than they were joined on the opposite side of the road by large numbers of French troops, who had moved in with the Luftwaffe seemingly on their tail like a swarm of angry bees. The planes began dive-bombing and strafing almost immediately.

'Some bloody rest this,' muttered Sykes, as 'Fanner squatted with him in their slit trench.

'Could be worse, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Could still be raining. And at least we're getting our rations.'

The delivery of food had done wonders for the men's mood. Earlier, near Carvin, they had been given breakfast in a disused factory. This had been followed by the establishment of B Echelon's kitchens and the smell of tinned stew floating to them through the wood. Much to Tanner's relief, supplies of cigarettes had also arrived.

By evening that day, enemy air activity had melted away and the sound of the guns to the south lessened until a strange quiet descended over the wood - so much so that as dusk was falling, Tanner heard faint birdsong a short distance away. 'Hear that, sir?' he said to Peploe, as they walked along the platoon lines. 'It's a nightingale. I haven't heard one since I was a boy.'

Peploe smiled. 'They didn't have them in India, then?'

'No, but they always used to sing back home. At least, there was one part of a wood where you could always hear them. Especially at this time of year - May and early June.'

'It's always been my favourite season on the farm - the leaves on the trees out at last, everything so damned green and lush, the whole summer stretching ahead. And cricket. Lots and lots of cricket. You play, Sergeant?'

'I do, sir. Love the game. That was one thing that linked India with home - and, of course, in India, you could play pretty much all year round.'

'And here we are getting bombed and strafed and shot up. I must have been mad to join up.' He grinned. Tanner was glad that his mood had improved. 'Still,' Peploe added, 'at least it's quiet tonight.'

'And we should make the most of it, sir. God knows what'll happen tomorrow.'

The following day began with orders that rations were to be cut by fifty per cent. Then, early in the afternoon, came the news that another counter-attack was to take place: 5th and 50th Divisions, with four French divisions, would thrust southwards towards Cambrai, which meant 151st Brigade would be very much involved. The first obstacle - a preliminary to the main attack that would go in the following day - was to get back across the La Bassee canal in the face of what was expected to be heavy enemy opposition. By four in the afternoon, a troop-carrying company had arrived, dispersing its trucks and vehicles through the wood ready to move the men forward to the start line of their night-time assault.

Tanner never enjoyed the hours before an attack. Apprehension gnawed at him, replacing hunger with an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. He cleaned his weapons - his rifle and the MP35 - then cleaned them again, and took on more ammunition, although less was available than he would have liked. He checked his kit, smoked and brewed mugs of sweet tea. He knew the others were in the same boat - if anything, they were probably more nervous than he was; scared, even. Certainly their drawn, pale faces suggested so.

A little under twenty miles away, as the crow flew, General Lord Gort was reaching a decision that would reprieve the Yorkshire Rangers and all those troops involved in the proposed attack. Three days earlier he had moved his command post to the small village of Premesques, north-west of Lille. The British commander-in-chief and his advance staff had occupied a rambling old house in the heart of the village. Now, in a wood-panelled ground-floor room, with thick beams and a low ceiling, Gort was staring at the maps of northern France and Belgium that had been hung on the walls when he had moved in.

The day had brought little cheer. Following on from the news that the Channel port of Boulogne had fallen the day before, it now seemed that Calais was all but in German hands too. His promised 1st Armoured Division, attempting to move north from Cherbourg, had made no headway. Supplies of everything, but especially food and ammunition, were running low. General Dill, deputy CIGS, had arrived, and let him know that the BEF was being criticized at home for its performance. Throughout the day, disquieting news had reached them from the northern front, where it seemed the Belgian line was deteriorating; apparently, Belgian forces were drifting northwards towards the river Scheldt - reports suggested that a gap was developing between them and the British. Then, half an hour ago, details of some German documents captured by a British patrol on the river Lys, on the northern flank, revealed that the enemy intended to bolster its front there and attack between Ypres and Commines - precisely at the link between BEF and Belgian forces. If reports of the gap were true, the Hun would be able to outflank the BEF in the north with potentially catastrophic consequences.

Gort studied the mass of roads, towns, villages, rivers and canals - images and names that were now so familiar to him. His forces were dangerously overstretched, of that there could be no doubt, and even though they had intercepted the extraordinary message that German troops had halted their attack towards Merville and Dunkirk, it was clear this respite could not last.

Lord Gort fingered his trim moustache and cast his eyes towards his southern flank. General Weygand had demanded there be a properly co-ordinated counterattack southwards - with which the War Office had concurred - but only a few days earlier he had attempted precisely the same thing at Arras, and, as he had feared, their allies had barely contributed. Admittedly Weygand seemed to have a bit more verve than poor old Gamelin, but Gort was loath to push two divisions into the attack unless he knew for certain that the French would honour their commitments to the battle, especially now that his northern front was so shaky. And therein lay the quandary that had troubled him this past half-hour: should he let down his French allies and move 5th and 50th Divisions north to bolster his front there, or should he go ahead with the Weygand plan in the hope that, this time, the French would pull their weight? Damn it. He sat down at his desk, put his hands together and stared ahead.

A knock on his door startled him. 'Come,' he said.

'Excuse me, my lord,' said Major Archdale.

Gort motioned him to a seat. 'What news from Army Group One? How are their battle plans?'

'Down to three divisions, not four, my lord.'

'So already they're reneging. Give me strength.' Gort sighed. 'You know, Archdale, I've had a damned rum deal from our allies. The Dutch copped it from the start, but the French and the Belgians - you can't get a straight answer from 'em. The French are always complaining that they're too tired to fight, their staff work's a bloody disgrace, and there's been no firm direction or proper coordination whatsoever from the high command. Now I hear that the Belgians are drifting away and that a dangerous gap is emerging between our chaps and them. Tell me this, why are the Belgians retreating north? If they fell back southwards, they'd be able to preserve a decent front and lines of communication.' He felt himself flush, but was too angry to care - too frustrated by the impossible position in which he was placed, everyone pulling him in different directions, the Belgians tugging him north, Weygand urging him south, Churchill and the war cabinet sticking their oar in. 'Well, Archdale?' he said.

'I wouldn't like to say, sir, it's not my place, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Belgians feel rather as we all do about the French. Perhaps they think it's better to fight with their backs to their coast than retreat towards France.'

'You think they'll throw in the towel?'

Archdale shrugged. 'It may come to that. More than half their country's already in enemy hands. General Blanchard has gone to Belgian GHQ, though. Perhaps he can put some steel into them.' He didn't seem convinced.

'And what's the mood at Blanchard's HQ? Tell me frankly. Is it any better now that Billotte's gone?'

'There's faith in Weygand, my lord, but General Blanchard is the same man he was before.'

'In other words, no commander at all.'

Archdale looked apologetic.

The telephone on Gort's desk rang and he dismissed Archdale, then picked up the receiver. It was General Adam, commander of III Corps, whose troops were earmarked for the southern counter-attack. 'Tell me some good news,' said Gort, trying to sound cheerful.

'I wish I could, my lord,' said the general. 'I've just been to see Altmayer. He told me he can only provide one division for the attack.'

'One?' Gort began to laugh.

'Sir?' said Adam.

'But, my dear Adam,' said Gort, 'that is good news. Don't you see? We'll have to call off the attack. It can't possibly succeed - one division! My God, it's unbelievable. Yesterday it was four plus two hundred tanks. Now the best the French can offer is one lone division!'

He rang off and strode next door to see Pownall. 'Henry!' he said. 'Do you know how long I've been agonizing over what to do about our northern flank? I've had a call from Adam saying the French are only planning to put in one division!'

'Surely not?'

'It's true. So that's made my decision for me. Brookey can have his two divisions. Get Franklyn up here smartish. We need to stop Fifth Div from moving south and get them and Fiftieth up to plug the line between Ypres and Commines right away.'

'Of course, my lord,' said Pownall, 'but what about Blanchard?'

'We'll tell him that, because of this, the attack would be doomed to fail and we'll no longer play a part in it. It's no more than giving them a dose of their own medicine.'

'What about the PM and the war cabinet?'

'Don't get 'em involved. They'll only throw a spanner into the works. They've asked me to command the BEF and that's what I'm doing - commanding, damn it. We'll simply present it as a fait accompli.'

'Very wise, my lord. In any case, we don't have enough ammunition to carry out such an attack. I was never very keen on the idea.' He shook his head wearily. 'The whole thing really is a first-class mess, and what's frustrating is that I don't think it's much of our making.'

'I agree, Henry. But it's important that, from now on, we think for ourselves. We can't rely on our allies, and I think we may have just saved the BEF from annihilation. What we must do now is ensure that as many of our boys as possible are saved - saved to fight another day.'

'You mean the evacuation, my lord?'

'Yes, Henry, I do. We've talked about it as a possibility, but now it's a necessity. I've no doubt we'll still lose a great many men, but we have to think about getting our forces to the coast, making sure that as many as possible are lifted off the beaches and taken safely back to Britain. A staged withdrawal to the coast - here.' He stood up and pointed to the stretch between Dunkirk and Nieuport on the wall map. 'We might have stemmed the flow for a while, but we must be realistic. We cannot stay here in northern France without being surrounded - Hitler's tanks aren't going to lie idle. His armies are closing in on the Belgians and they've got Calais in the bag. There's no other direction for us to go.' He stroked his chin. 'You know, Henry, it's funny but for days past - and particularly the last few hours – I’ve been agonizing over the right thing for us to do. I’ve felt quite paralysed, if I'm honest. But now everything seems perfectly clear. It's time to look after ourselves. It's our only course.'