Darkest Hour

Chapter 20

Three a.m., Monday, 27 May. In driving rain, D Company clambered aboard three trucks of 8th Battalion's Troop Carrying Company, parked, with engines running, in the main square at the north end of Carvin. They were thirty- hundredweight Bedford OYs, large enough to take the forty-eight remaining Rangers plus a section from 8th DLI.

'Come up front with me, Tanner,' said Peploe, holding the dark green door open for him.

Silently, Tanner hauled himself aboard, rain dripping from his tin hat, his MP35 clanging against the door frame as he settled on the canvas seat. There was a musty smell - of damp canvas, oil, rubber and stale tobacco - but at least it was dry in the cab. He thought of the men at the back of the truck, the open canvas covering. Hepworth would be cursing.

'Leave the window open, will you, mate?' said the driver, an RASC corporal. 'Otherwise we'll get steamed up in here.'

Rain continued to spatter Tanner's face. From the south a gun boomed, but it was quieter again now: the Germans had never liked fighting at night.

'Where are we going, Corporal?' asked Peploe.

'Steenvoorde, sir. It's not too far - forty miles at most. As long as the roads aren't too clogged we should be there for breakfast.'

A few shouts and barked orders came from the squares, then the corporal ground the truck into gear and they lurched forward. Tanner smoked a cigarette, then took off his helmet, rested his head against the door and closed his eyes. His body was jolted by the movement of the lorry, his ears alive to the thrum of the engine and the rhythmic squeak of the wipers.

It had been a day and a half of orders and counter- orders. Late on the twenty-fifth, they had been stood down, the attack across the canal cancelled, with no explanation as to why. Of course, they had been relieved, but Tanner had felt irritated too - all that tension and apprehension for nothing. But something had been afoot, for all night heavy shelling had continued from both sides of the La Bassee canal, and had continued as dawn had broken. No shells had fallen near their own positions but there had been an enormous explosion to their right. Later they discovered the gasworks at Libercourt had received a direct hit. As the morning had worn on, machine-gun and mortar fire had been heard to the south; rumours had spread that the enemy had crossed the canal and were advancing.

The Rangers had watched 8th DLI's carrier platoon rumble off, rattling down the main road, heading to the south edge of Carvin. The men were restless and fidgety, especially when the French battalion in the woods opposite had begun to move out. No one had seemed to know what was going on, but all the time the sound of guns and small arms was drawing closer although, in those woods, still frustratingly out of sight. Above, enemy reconnaissance aircraft had circled ominously. Soon the bombers would arrive.

Orders to move came a little before nine o'clock. They were to head to Camphin a few miles to the north. No sooner had the lead companies moved off along the main road than the dive-bombers had swooped, engines and sirens screaming, dropping their bombs on the column. The Rangers, the last to leave, were unharmed to a man, but several vehicles had been put out of action and the road was badly cratered. Some of the men had been quite shaken. Tanner noticed that a couple - Verity from Sykes's section and Dempster in Cooper's - were a bit bomb happy, cowering more than the others and taking longer to recover their composure. They'd all have to keep an eye on them. Yet it was interesting that a dozen Stukas had attacked their column and only four from A Company had been wounded. Two trucks had been destroyed and another's radiator and front tyres had blown, but the damage had been comparatively light, all things considered. As Tanner was increasingly aware, Stukas were not especially accurate despite their alarming sirens. The biggest inconvenience had been the craters in the road - it had meant they had been ordered to debus and then tramp cross-country on foot while the M/T had been forced to risk going through the centre of Carvin, which had been coming under regular and heavy shellfire.

They had reached Camphin in one piece, and, at last, out of range of enemy guns. Immediately the men had been ordered to dig in yet again, at the edge of the village, but after they'd made slit trenches, new orders arrived. The Rangers were to join B Company of 8th DLI and occupy Provin, a village a few miles to the west where 9th DLI were now based. With the men grumbling about pointless digging, they set off again. When they finally reached Provin, there had been no sign of 9th so they had been sent back to Carvin, where the rest of 8th was now attacking beside the French and a couple of platoons from 5th Leicesters who had somehow become detached from the rest of their unit.

Footsore, hungry and in no state to fight, the Rangers had reached the edge of Carvin as a storm broke overhead. Guns boomed, their reports mixing with the cracks of thunder. In the pouring rain, the Durham and Yorkshire men had headed south towards the fighting, scrambling over the rubble and fallen masonry of destroyed houses. The shriek of shells could now be heard, whooshing like speeding trains through the rain-drenched air. And then, ahead, they had seen trucks and cars, tanks and carriers, all crammed with men.

'My God, is that the enemy?' Barclay had asked, wiping rain from his face.

'No, sir,' Tanner had replied. 'They're French.'

Silently, they had watched them trundle past. Most were Moroccans, who glared at the Tommies. Their officers seemed dejected. Tanner could hardly blame them - their country was falling. Defeat hung in the air. Thunder continued to crack. For the first time since he'd arrived in France, he'd begun to think they might never get out.

Not long after, the rest of the battalion had fallen back too. Shelling had continued with nightfall but the enemy had not stormed the town, and shortly after midnight, word reached them that they would be pulling out - and this time not falling back a few miles. Rather, they were being transferred to the northern flank. Out of one cauldron and into another.

Now Tanner sighed and sat up. Through the faint beam of the blinkered headlights, he could see the rain and, just ahead, the tail of the lead truck, with Captain Barclay, Blackstone, the rest of Company Headquarters and 11 Platoon. He had avoided Blackstone as much as possible, which in itself had been frustrating. It wasn't in his nature to shirk confrontation, but dealing with Blackstone was like facing a boxer who forever moved about the ring - always there, in your face, but upon whom it was impossible to land a punch. In truth, they had been on the move so often in the past couple of days that there had been little need for their paths to cross, but Tanner was ever mindful that unfinished business lay between them. He had, however, detected a subtle change in the men's attitude towards the CSM - at least in 12 Platoon. If any of the lads had resented the CSM's early departure from the battlefield at Arras, they had not said so; Blackstone had made it clear to them that it was thanks to him and Slater, bravely dodging roving enemy panzers, that the French tanks and carriers had made it to Warlus to rescue them. Yet Tanner had noticed that the men had been less effusive about him, not so quick to laugh if he stopped to speak to them. Blackstone. Always at the back of his mind, a menace he was unable to shake off. Tanner thumped a clenched fist into the other palm. Well, they might be losing the battle, but somehow, some way, he would nail him. If it's the last thing I do.

They reached Steenvoorde at around eight a.m., halting in the cobbled town square. Peploe and Tanner got out of the cab, and while the lieutenant went to speak with Barclay, Tanner ambled to the back of the truck, lighting a cigarette on the way. McAllister was playing cards with Hepworth and Chambers, but most of the others were just sitting on the wooden benches that ran down each side of the carriage. Their faces were dirty and smudged with rain. Those old enough to shave had two days' growth of beard. Clearly they were tired and fed-up.

'What's going on here, Sarge?' said Sykes, getting down beside him.

'This is Steenvoorde. It's where we're supposed to be.'

'Apart from us an' the Durham lads it seems deserted.'

'Probably some cock-up,' said Tanner. 'Maybe the front's moved.'

Ten minutes later, Peploe reappeared. 'We're off again,' he said.

'Where to now, sir?' asked Sykes.

'Not far. A couple of miles the other side of town.'

Once they were back in the cab Peploe confided, 'Colonel McLaren's furious. He'd been expecting someone at least to meet us. Apparently some of our boys are at Cassel, a few miles further on, so he's ordered us to dig in and hide up halfway between the two while he tries to find out what on earth's going on.'

The road between Steenvoorde and Cassel was heavy with refugees, the same sad mass of people trudging to nowhere in particular so long as it was away from the fighting. Slowly the trucks jerked forward.

'Get out of the bloody way!' yelled the driver, as a cart blocked the road, his cheery bonhomie of the early hours long since gone.

'Shouting at them's hardly going to help,' said Peploe. 'They're homeless, the poor sods. Here,' he added, taking out his silver cigarette box, 'have a smoke and calm down.'

'Sorry, sir,' said the corporal, accepting. 'It's so bloody frustrating. I've had it up to here with refugees. If these people had all stayed at home, maybe we'd have been able to get around a bit better, like, and we wouldn't be losing this sodding war.'

He took them to the edge of a dense wood west of Cassel and there they got out. They were at the end of the line, several hundred yards to the left of A Company. The trucks reversed into an equally clogged track a short distance further on, then turned back in the direction of Steenvoorde. As the Rangers tramped across an open field towards a hedge a hundred yards or so from the road, Tanner watched the vehicles chug slowly through the mass of people.

They began to dig in yet again, this time in an L shape, facing south and west, behind a hedge on one side and a brook on the other. Soon they heard gunfire to the south-west and west. Once, a cloud of smoke drifted over the wood, but their view of Cassel, and whatever fighting was occurring there, was blocked. In a short time, Tanner and Smailes had dug a two-man slit trench big enough to lie down in. In Norway Tanner had cursed the useless- ness of the latest standard-issue entrenching tool for its lack of pick on the reverse end of the spade, but here, in the rich, soft Flanders clay, it did the job well enough, especially since Tanner had sharpened the edge so that it would cut better through turf. He was also pleased to see Lieutenant Peploe digging his own slit trench again. He was never too proud to get his hands dirty and Tanner liked that in him. 'Do you need a hand, sir?' Tanner asked, his own dug deep enough.

'It's all right, thanks, Sergeant,' Peploe replied. It was no longer raining and between breaks in the cloud the sun shone warmly. He paused to wipe his brow. 'Go along the line and check the chaps are all right, will you?'

'Yes, sir.' Tanner wandered down the line of freshly dug trenches, pausing first by McAllister and Chambers.

'Any idea how long we're here, Sarge?' said McAllister, his Bren already set up.

'No, Mac. Not the faintest.'

'It must be time to move on again now, isn't it, Sarge?' said Chambers, manning the Bren with McAllister. 'I mean, now that we've dug in an' all.'

'Just you keep watching ahead of you, Punter.'

He walked on, pleased to see how quickly the men had completed the task. They had staggered themselves well, making good use of natural cover; the Brens of each section were positioned in such a way that each gave the other covering fire. And he'd not said a thing. They had done it almost without thinking. Tanner smiled to himself. Three weeks ago, half of these boys had been little more than raw recruits. They were fast becoming soldiers.

He paused by Verity, who had dug a deeper hole than any of the others and was squatting inside it, his hands clasped around his rifle.

'Are you all right, Hedley?' Tanner asked him.

'Fine, Sarge.'

Tanner offered him a cigarette.

'Thanks, Sarge,' said Verity, taking it.

Tanner lit both. 'Do you bowl anything like him, then?'

'Hedley Verity?' He grinned sheepishly. 'I wish, Sarge. I try, though. I can certainly turn it a bit. Mind you, I've seen him play.'

'I'd pay good money to do that.'

'Last summer at Headingley when Yorkshire won the championship for the third time on t' trot,' said Verity, brightening. 'Sarge, it was brilliant. He got a five-for that day. I live in Leeds, see, and it's only a short way to the ground.' His expression dropped. 'Seems like an age ago now.'

'Well, I've always been a Hampshire supporter, it being the nearest county to Wiltshire.'

'Wiltshire?' said Verity. 'Is that where you're from?'

'Born and bred.'

'So why are you in the Rangers, Sarge?'

'It's a long story.'

Verity thought for a moment. Then, smiling once more, he said, 'Well, Sarge, since you're a Ranger, you really should switch allegiance. Yorkshire are the best side in the country by a mile.'

Tanner patted his shoulder. 'All right, Hedley, maybe I will.'

As the morning wore on, the enemy shelling grew louder, but by early afternoon it had quietened again as the fighting appeared to move south. The Rangers ate what was left of their half-rations and remained in their positions, waiting.

'Sir,' Tanner asked Peploe, 'don't you think we should try to find out what's going on? It's too quiet for my liking.'

Peploe thought about it. 'It's after three,' he said eventually. 'Maybe - yes. Let me go and see the OC.' He returned a short while later with orders for them to sit tight. 'He said someone would have told us if they wanted us to move.'

But when another hour had passed and there was still no communication from the rest of the 8th DLI, Barclay agreed to send a runner over to A Company to find out what was going on. A quarter of an hour later the OC came to Peploe. He was fuming. 'I don't bloody well believe it,' he said. 'A Company's damn well gone and buggered off without us.'

'Really, sir?' said Peploe. 'Are you sure they haven't just moved back or forward a little?'

'No - they've gone!' He took off his cap and mopped his brow. 'It's unbelievable. The buggers have gone and forgotten us - and they've taken all the damned M/T.'

'Must have been when that shelling was going on,' said Tanner. 'We'd have heard them otherwise.'

'Well?' said Barclay, looking at Peploe.

'What, sir?'

'What do we do, damn it? I mean, I can only think of two things. Either we stay here or we head back towards Steenvoorde.'

'As I understood it, sir,' said Peploe, 'we were never supposed to be here in the first place. Major McLaren moved us here while he tried to find out where the rest of the brigade was supposed to be.'

'They certainly can't have gone west, sir, because we'd have seen them,' added Tanner, 'and we were heading for the northern front, weren't we? But we're at the southern front here. At least, it sounded like it.'

Barclay nodded. 'All right, then,' he said. 'We'll pack up and head back to Steenvoorde. See what we can find out there. Get your men ready, lieutenant.' He shook his head. 'Honestly, it's unbelievable. The whole thing's a complete cock-up.'

A quarter of an hour later, they were marching, not along the road but through a field beside it. Refugees stared at them with a mixture of resignation and resentment. To the south, guns were firing again. Tanner noticed a young woman with two children flinch in alarm, then her daughter began to cry. He wished she would stop.

' 'Ere, Sarge,' said Sykes, alongside him. 'Just thought you should know - the lads in Eleven Platoon are getting really fed up.'

'Aren't we all?'

'Yes, but they're blaming Captain Barclay.'

'How do you know?'

'I've been walking just behind some of them, listening. It's Blackstone, Sarge - he's been telling them that the OC's nerves are frayed.'

'You heard them say that, Stan?'

'Clear as day. They believe it too. And, what's more, they're not all that happy about it neither.'

'Bloody hell,' muttered Tanner. 'That's all we need, mutiny in the ranks.' Something made him pause to listen. Then Sykes heard it too.

'Aircraft.'

Both men stopped to scan the sky. 'There!' said Tanner, pointing to the east beyond Steenvoorde. A formation of aircraft was already beginning its initial dive, the roar of engines louder with every second. In moments the now familiar gull-wing and locked undercarriage of the Stuka was clear. Tanner counted twelve. 'Where are the bastards heading?' he said.

'Looks like directly at us,' said Sykes.

'I doubt it. I bet they're on the way to Cassel. They know we've got troops around there.'

'Come on, boys!' Barclay shouted from the front of their small column. 'Let's show the bastards!'

All too quickly, men were unslinging their rifles. Tanner saw a Bren gunner from 11 Platoon bring his machine-gun into his hip and aim it skywards.

'No,' said Tanner. 'No!' He ran to Peploe. 'Sir, you've got to get the men to put their weapons down.'

Already a Bren was chattering. Rifle shots were cracking out.

'Sir, please!' said Tanner again. 'We're sitting ducks out here. These things are like wasps - there's no point in making them angry. In any case, it's a waste of ammo. We'll never hit them at that height.'

Peploe looked at him - yes, you’re right - then yelled, 'Lower your weapons - lower your weapons!'

But it was too late. Some men from 11 Platoon heard him but others continued to fire, their bullets hurtling harmlessly into the sky. The Stukas were almost past when two peeled off and, rolling over, dived towards them, their death wail growing louder and louder until the planes were almost upon them, their sirens and engines seeming to envelop those on the ground below. On the road, women and children screamed and men shouted in panic, while the Rangers ran for what little cover they could find.

'Just get down and keep still!' shouted Tanner, and dropped to the ground.

As the Stukas pulled out of their dives, two lone bombs whistled towards them. The first fell on the far side of the road, the second fifty yards into the field in which the Rangers had been marching. Tanner saw two men thrown into the air by the blast. But the dive- bombers had not finished. Both were now banking sharply and turning back. Tanner watched as Captain Barclay got to his feet then, too late, realized the Stukas were swooping towards them again. Tanner could see the bombs still hanging under each wing, but they were not going to drop those. Instead, the first opened fire with a two-second burst of his machine-gun. The pilot's angle of attack was not quite right, but as he swung across the road, bullets scythed through the hedge, kicked up spits of earth, and the captain spun around, his arms flung into the air, and collapsed. As the first aircraft hurtled past, the second opened fire with another brief burst, this time hitting two more Rangers. And then they were gone, climbing away to the west. In the distance, towards Cassel, the rest of the Stukas were now diving, their sirens screaming.

Frightened civilians were dusting themselves down and getting to their feet, but as far as Tanner could tell, not a single one had been hit. He saw Peploe and Blackstone get to their feet and run towards Barclay. Tanner ran to two others who had been hit. The first was dead, the second nearly so. His face was white as chalk, and dark blood frothed at his mouth. He had been hit by at least three bullets - one in his leg, one in his stomach, the last in his chest.

Ross was running towards the crater of the second bomb and, leaving Smailes with the dying man, Tanner followed. There were two casualties. The first, Walker, a young fair-haired lad, was lying on the ground, saying, 'Am I alive? Am I alive?'

'Yes, you are, mate,' said Ross, 'but let me look at you.'

Tanner, meanwhile, had hurried to the second. He found him on his belly, and felt for a pulse. There was none. Tanner rolled him over. There was no obvious mark on him. He took off the man's helmet, and pulled open his battle-blouse and shirt, but still nothing. 'The bloody fools,' he muttered. Others had reached them now.

'What's the damage, Sarge?' said Sykes.

'Three dead. Walker seems to be fine. A lucky escape. Get the bodies back to the edge of the field,' he said. 'Iggery, all right?'

Now he ran to the prostrate Captain Barclay. Peploe was kneeling beside him, Blackstone and Slater standing over him. As Tanner reached them, Peploe looked up. 'He's gone.'

Tanner saw the stain of blood spreading across Barclay's chest. The flush in his cheeks had gone, leaving his skin pale and waxen. He crouched beside Peploe. 'There's three others dead, sir. I've told the men to bring them to the edge of the field. I suggest we carry them into the town.'

In a state of numb silence, the men tramped back into Steenvoorde and laid the four dead men by the church. The town was eerily quiet. There were no troops, although civilian refugees were now passing through. The priest emerged from the church and told them that a number of British soldiers had been there earlier and had headed out on the Poperinghe-Ypres road.

'But if I remember rightly,' said Blackstone, as they stood outside the church, 'that means they went east. The coast is that way.' He pointed. 'We should head north.'

'Hold on a minute,' said Peploe. 'I'm the only officer now and I'll decide what we do.'

'Yes, sir,' said Blackstone. 'But in case you hadn't noticed, we're getting a beating. What can forty-four men do to help? Do you really think we can stop the rot? I say we head to the coast. For all we know, the rest of the battalion's already there.'

Peploe stared at him. 'Don't speak to me like that. Show some bloody respect.'

'We've got to go north, sir. It's obvious.'

'I'll decide that, Sergeant-Major, not you. Now go and organize a burial party, will you? We can't do anything until we've got these poor men buried. Right away.'

Blackstone gave him a half-hearted salute, then issued orders to the men. 'More digging, I'm afraid, lads,' he said. 'Not too deep, because they won't be here for ever. Get to it now, and I'll make it up to you later.'

'Jesus,' Tanner muttered to Peploe. 'What a bloody mess.'

'I'm going to have my hands full with Blackstone, I can see,' said Peploe. He took off his tin hat and ran his hands through his hair. 'It seems so incredible that the captain should be dead. A bloody silly thing to do, I know, and he had his faults, but he was a decent sort, really.'

Tanner didn't want to think about Barclay or any of the other three dead men. Now was not the time to be worrying about them; it had happened and couldn't be undone. Rather, quick, firm decisions had to be made. 'We need a map, sir. We don't have one of this part of Flanders.'

'I know. It's ridiculous.' He sighed. 'Bloody hell. We're in a bit of a fix, aren't we?'

'We'll be fine, sir. We just need to think calmly and clearly.'

Peploe glanced at the priest, who was hovering around the men as they dug the graves. 'Hold on a moment, Sergeant,' he said, then strode over to the man. Tanner watched them talk, then cross the cobbled road to a small house. A few minutes later Peploe came out again and hurried back to where Tanner was waiting with Sykes and the rest of Sykes's section.

'I've got a map,' said Peploe, as he reached them. 'It's only a road map and about ten years old at that, but it's better than nothing. Sykes, will you and your chaps give me and the sergeant a moment?'

'Course, sir,' said Sykes, moving his men a short distance away.

Peploe opened out the map and held it up.

'Ypres is almost due east from here, sir,' said Tanner, 'about fifteen miles away, and Poperinghe's about half that.'

'No huge distance, then.'

'No. The DLI must have gone in that direction.'

'And while Blackstone's quite right in as much as we're hardly going forward, no one's mentioned anything to us about falling back to the coast yet.' He rubbed an eye. 'We've been attached to 151st Brigade and my instinct is that we should at least try to find them. We're bound to run across some British troops eventually, if not Eighth DLI. And if we don't, or if we find ourselves approaching the enemy, we can take another view then, surely?'

'All the guns we've heard today have been from the south and west, not the east, sir. I agree with you. I think we should make for Poperinghe and Ypres.'

'But we'll take the back roads. We don't want to get ensnared in more refugee traffic.'

'Good idea, sir.'

Blackstone now came over to them. 'Sir,' he said to Peploe, 'if you're going to consult Sergeant Tanner, you should discuss things with me first.'

'Yes, all right. We're going to head for Poperinghe and Ypres and try to find the rest of the brigade,' said Peploe, stiffly.

'What a surprise,' said Blackstone. 'I might have known that whatever I said Jack would say the opposite.'

'It wasn't Tanner's decision. It was mine. Sergeant- Major, I really don't want to have to remind you again about insolence. I'm the officer in charge, and I've made up my mind. We're not running back to the coast - those are not our orders. Our orders are to stand and fight with Eighth DLI and the 151st Infantry Brigade.'

Blackstone reddened. It was the first time Tanner had seen him look really angry since he'd arrived at Manston. 'Very well, sir,' he said slowly, as though he was trying to control his fury. 'But everyone's hungry. I would strongly suggest we don't march for too long.'

'It's half past four now. We'll march for a couple of hours and see how far we get.'

Guns boomed out again to the west. Faintly, in the distance, small arms could be heard. More aircraft buzzed overhead, but this time they were high, mere specks in the sky. Tanner flicked away his cigarette, took out his water-bottle and had a swig. The enemy were closing in and the net was tightening. The lieutenant had made the right decision, he was certain, but not all the men would agree. He had a feeling Blackstone might find willing listeners should he make clear his own views on the matter. Bollocks.

'Cheer up, Sarge,' said Sykes, walking over to him. 'It might not happen, you know.'

Tanner smiled. 'Maybe not, Stan.'

'We've got ourselves out of tight spots before.'

'Always look on the bright side, don't you?'

'I try to, Sarge. I reckon we've still got some fight in us yet.'

'I'm sure we have.' He patted Sykes's shoulder. 'But it's not Jerry I'm so worried about.' He nodded towards Blackstone. 'It's him.'

From the edge of Creton Farm, Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke peered through his binoculars down the track to the neighbouring house, some two hundred metres away. Beside him, at the back of the brick farmhouse, stood his half-track, a single motorcycle and sidecar, and a large French Somua tank, now daubed with the German cross and, on its front, the Totenkopf death's head. Kemmetmuler and others from his battalion headquarters were waiting behind the cover of the farmhouse while his old friend Hauptsturmfuhrer Knochlein stood beside him. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon and the day had turned grey, with a light drizzle.

'I'm certain I saw a white flag, Fritz,' Timpke told Knochlein.

'It's about time those Tommies gave up.'

'Order another burst and see what happens,' suggested Timpke.

Knochlein stepped back and signalled to the men spread out on either side of Creton Farm, and Timpke watched them signal in turn to the men beyond, then heard several bursts of machine-gun fire. They had the place surrounded, so it was just a matter of time before the British troops still in the Duries farmhouse were forced to give up - after all, their ammunition couldn't last for ever. Nonetheless, they had caused far too many casualties. That was the problem of fighting in this flat, open countryside - there was never enough cover. Every time Knochlein's men scrambled to their feet, more rifle and machine-gun fire rang out and another good soldier collapsed to the ground.

Timpke had been asked to help here at Paradis only half an hour earlier by Regiment 2's commander, Sturmbann-fuhrer Fortenbacher. On hearing that Knochlein's company were bearing the brunt of the Tommies' resistance, he had decided to come forward in person with his battalion headquarters from nearby Le Cornet Malo, which had just fallen. He had reached Creton Farm only a few minutes before but now it seemed his men were hardly needed.

As the firing died down, he stared again through his binoculars, and this time there was no doubt: what looked like a white towel was tied to a pole.

'They're definitely surrendering, Fritz.' He shook his friend's hand. 'Well done.'

Knochlein grinned, then signalled to his men with a wave, urging them forward. A spontaneous cheer rang out as his troops now picked themselves up from where they had been lying in the fields and ditches round about and ran towards the battered remains of Duries farmhouse. Timpke put away his binoculars then strode quickly back to his half-track. There he took off his helmet, replacing it with his cap. Keeping on his camouflage smock with his replacement Luger - taken from a dead comrade - at his waist, he began to walk down the track towards the scene of the Tommies' resistance. He wondered how many prisoners there might be - forty-two at least, he hoped.

It had, he reflected, been a hard few days - even frustrating at times - but he couldn't deny that he'd enjoyed it. From the moment his comrades had found him in Warlus early on 22 May, his fortunes had improved. Pressing north-west, they had swept all before them until they had reached the La Bassee canal. And during that thrust towards Bethune, he had been able to recoup some of his earlier losses, including the Somua, captured intact and undamaged.

Then had come the order - from the Fuhrer himself, so rumour had it - for the advance to halt. At the time, it had seemed inexplicable - and certainly no reason had been given. Eicke had been furious: he had personally led Regiment 3 across the canal and had won a hard- fought and costly bridgehead, only to be ordered back. Timpke had never seen Papa Eicke so mad, and had his own reconnaissance troops been involved in the assault he would have shared their commander's dismay and fury.

Since the halt order had been rescinded the previous day, however, the entire division had been in action. Timpke's task had been to assist whichever of the attacking units needed his help. A company had been assigned to each of the three infantry regiments. Timpke and his battalion headquarters had roved between them, hacking cross-country in his half-tracks from Hinges to Locon to Le Cornet Malo and now Paradis.

As he approached the Duries farmhouse, he saw the Tommies being directed onto the track. They were bloodied, unshaven and exhausted, hands clasped on their heads. With rifles and sub-machine-guns pointed at them, they were pushed and prodded into a line. In contrast, Knochlein's men were bright and fresh, laughing, sharing cigarettes, enjoying their moment of victory. Timpke smiled. He shared their exhilaration. Victory was sweet, as he had known it would be, but so was revenge, and as he walked along the column of prisoners he counted them. Forty-one, forty-two - he had barely reached halfway. So much the better.

He counted ninety-nine men of the Royal Norfolk Regiment - it was a shame they were not Yorks Rangers but that would have been too much to hope for. He stopped a young Untersturmfiihrer who was directing his men.

'Are you in charge of these prisoners?' Timpke asked.

'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. I'm taking them to the field beside Creton Farm to search them.'

'Good,' said Timpke. He watched the column trudge past, then followed until they had been led down a right- hand fork in the track into the field next to the farm. Seeing Knochlein, he now called to him.

Knochlein waited, watching as his men began to search the prisoners. 'Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer - you wanted me?'

'I do, Fritz,' said Timpke, putting an arm round his shoulder. 'You may have heard what happened to some of my men the other day.'

'The Tommies put them in a barn and shot them.'

'They were prisoners of war, Fritz - they were my men. Shot in cold blood.'

'I'm sorry. The bastards who did that should pay for it.'

'You know, Fritz, I survived that massacre of my comrades. I was lucky. But I swore then that I would avenge it. They were my men, sure, but they were also Totenkopf men. Your comrades too.'

Knochlein faced him. 'You want me to shoot these Tommies now?'

'Yes, Fritz. The British must pay for what they did. This will show them that in future they must not mess with the Totenkopf. That if they play dirty we will play dirty too, but twice as harshly.'

Knochlein nodded. 'You're right, Herr Sturmbann-fuhrer. The Tommies dishonoured us and they must pay the price.'

Timpke smiled. Knochlein had always been impressionable. He had known the simple fellow would agree. 'Good,' he said. 'I knew you'd understand, Fritz. I'll have the vehicles moved, then we can line them up against the farmhouse. Get a couple of machine-guns prepared.'

'Right away, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.' His eyes glinted. 'Yes. It's the justice our comrades deserve.'

Five minutes later, they were ready. The big Somua had rattled out of the way, and the half-tracks, while two machine-gun crews had set up their MG34s, with full belts of ammunition feeding into the breeches. Timpke stood with Knochlein behind the machine-guns, watching the British prisoners being marched towards the farmhouse. The Untersturmfuhrer leading them now came towards them. He looked nervous, his eyes shifting between the prisoners and the officers before him. Timpke stared at him. It is an order. Do it. The Tommies at first seemed not to know what was going on, but then some spotted the machine-guns facing them and panic spread among them.

When the first of the British soldiers had reached the end of the brick building, Knochlein glanced at Timpke, who nodded. A moment later, an order was barked and the machine-guns opened fire.