Darkest Hour

Retreat. A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles behind the Senne. He cursed to himself. It was a shambles, a bloody shambles.

A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in. 'Rusty's back, my lord.'

'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.

Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out, then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'

'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'

'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'

Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord. Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'

'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'

'But you did get to speak to him about the withdrawal?'

Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders right away - have you not received them?'

'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'

'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going back to the Escaut.'

Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'

'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the nineteenth. Those are the orders.'

'And did you speak to him about the roads?'

'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do about them.'

'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with refugees and we'll have the Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the Luftwaffe bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'

'I asked him the same question, my lord. He said we'd have to find a way.'

'Imbecile,' muttered Gort.

'There's more, my lord,' added Eastwood.

Gort stared back at him. Let's have it, then.

'It's to the south. German mechanized columns have not only broken across the Meuse, they're pushing towards Laon and St Quentin.'

Gort stood up again to return to the map, and made rough measurements with his fingers. 'If they do that they'll have gone more than forty miles in a day! It's impossible - surely the French Ninth and Second Armies can hold them? I hate to say this, but I'm beginning seriously to doubt the fighting qualities of our French allies. Not something I'd have said about them during the last show.'

For a moment, no one spoke. Gort's mind raced. To the north, the Dutch had already surrendered. The Belgians were struggling and the French Seventh Army had had to fall back to adjust for the collapse of the Dutch. But what struck him now was the terrible realization that the German thrust in the north had been nothing more than a feint. The main effort was to the south, through the Ardennes.

'We've been humbugged, by God,' he said, eyes glazed.

'Yes, my lord,' said Eastwood.

'And our entire plan has been based on Jerry making his main effort through the Low Countries.' He clutched the back of his chair as the shock of what was unfolding spread through him. 'All right, thank you, Rusty,' he said, in a voice of weary resignation. 'Issue the relevant orders right away.' Eastwood saluted and left.

When he had gone, Gort clenched one hand tightly on the back of his chair, then smacked the table, shock replaced by anger.

'This is not good enough, not good enough at all! One order is all I've had from Billotte in the past twenty-four hours. One order! I mean, for God's sake, would he ever have bothered to let me know the rest of the plan for withdrawal if I hadn't sent Rusty down there? Blubbing's no good. What's needed is decisiveness, clear thinking and attention to detail.' He snatched at the telephone. 'Here, Henry. Try to get through to Billotte now.'

Pownall took the phone while Gort paced the large and mostly unfurnished room. His chief of staff began to speak in French, calmly at first, then with increasing impatience. Eventually he replaced the receiver. 'Billotte's not available, my lord. Apparently neither he nor his chief of staff are at their headquarters any longer.'

'Then get me Gamelin, damn it.'

Pownall nodded. After several conversations he again replaced the receiver. 'It seems Gamelin is with Monsieur Reynaud and the Prime Minister in Paris.'

'Keep trying, Henry. I refuse to believe that the combined armies of France, Belgium and Great Britain can do nothing about this. A major counter-attack is needed - and fast - not retreat. Someone must be organizing this.'

'The problem is communication - or rather, I should say, lack of it. We simply don't have enough radios.'

'No, Henry, that's only part of it. The main problem is that these damned French generals won't make decisions. Keep trying Billotte. Somehow we have to put some spine into these bloody Frogs and get them to mount a serious counter-attack. I mean, for God's sake, what's Corap's army doing? Standing by and watching?'

'They're certainly not doing much fighting.'

'Then it's about bloody time they did!' shouted Gort, anger and frustration spilling into his words. He breathed deeply. He could barely believe what was happening - the incompetence, the lack of leadership, the bare-faced panic . . . Throughout his career in the Army, he had prided himself on his ability to make decisions and to lead men. In 1918 it had won him a Victoria Cross, and after the war had helped propel him to become the youngest ever chief of the Imperial General Staff. When Britain had sent an army to France at the outbreak of war, it had been Gort who was appointed to command it. Throughout his career, he had always gone forwards. Yet now he was going backwards. The unthinkable preyed on his mind: that despite their vast number of men and machines, the French could well lose the battle.

And if that happened, Britain might fall with them.

The column was halted at just after four o'clock that afternoon at a village called Quenast and the men dropped down onto the grassy verge at the side of the road. Sergeant Tanner had assumed they would travel at least part of the way by train or truck, but instead T Company had been left to march all the way from Calais to Tournai, some eighty-six miles. Admittedly, their kitbags and large packs had been left with the two trucks that made up the company transport, but with a rifle, a stuffed haversack, rolled gas cape, respirator bag, full ammunition pouches, entrenching tool, bayonet and sundry other items in their pockets, each man still had to carry equipment that weighed the best part of forty pounds. Despite this, they had managed the march to Tournai in three and a half days, and there, they had finally met up with the rest of 1st Battalion, who, with much of 13th Brigade, had been moving north to Belgium from near Le Havre.

That had been early in the afternoon the day before, and since then they had tramped a further forty miles. It had been one of the hardest marches Tanner had ever done, not because of the distance but because of the traffic. The roads had been choked with troops, tanks, trucks, cars, motorbikes and thousand upon thousands of refugees. Some had simply been walking in what they were wearing, but others carried their lives in their hands, many struggling with the weight of suitcases and bags. Tanner saw horses, donkeys and even cattle with cases and belongings piled high on their backs. It had reminded him of refugee columns he had seen in Waziristan; they had been a pathetic bunch then, but he was sickened to see such scenes in Europe. Most were on foot, but a few had inched their way through the throng in cars. Tanner had lost sight of the number of vehicles he had seen ditched by the edge of the road, presumably having either overheated or run out of fuel. And the dust! Many of the roads had not been metalled and in the dry early-summer sun, with God only knew how many wheels, tracks and boots pounding down, the surface had turned to a fine powder that swirled and settled on clothes, found its way into socks and chafed feet, up nostrils and into the throat and eyes.

The further west they had travelled, the more they heard the sounds of battle ahead and in the sky above. That morning they had watched numerous enemy bombers fly over. Some miles away an anti-aircraft battery had opened fire, dull thuds resounding through the ground on which they walked. Tanner noticed that those new to war flinched and stopped to gaze in wonder as the shells exploded in black puffs. At one point, German bombers had been engaged by British fighters. One bomber had been hit and had dived out of the formation, trailing smoke. At this, the men had cheered.

An hour ago, Stukas had attacked a column some miles ahead. They had heard the sirens and the bombs. Refugees had fled to the side of the road, but Tanner had yelled at the men to keep their discipline. 'They're bloody miles away!' he had shouted. 'Keep going!'

He was as glad as the rest of them for the pause now, enjoying the lightness across his shoulders.

'Any idea where we are, sir?' he asked Lieutenant Peploe, as he unscrewed the lid of his water-bottle.

Peploe wiped his brow with a green spotted handkerchief, then took out a battered paper map. It was his own - the company had not been issued with any - and fifteen years old, but accurate enough.

'We're twenty miles or so south of Brussels, I think,' he said at length. 'A few miles ahead of us is the Brussels-Charleroi canal. I can't see the river Senne, though, which was where I thought we were heading.'

A staff car, making the most of the sudden clear stretch of road, thundered past, more clouds of dust swirling in its wake.

'Stupid sodding bastard,' cursed McAllister. 'Watch where you're bloody going!'

Sykes wandered over to stand in front of Tanner and Peploe. 'Any news, sir?'

Peploe shook his head. 'I'm sure we'll be here for the night, though - or close by, at any rate.'

'Good,' said Sykes, 'because my men are fed up. They're all moaning like mad. "Corp, me feet ache. Corp, I've got another blister." I've 'ad enough.' He grinned, then took out a comb from his top pocket and smoothed his hair. 'The village looks pretty empty.'

'They've all scarpered,' said Tanner. 'Should have stayed put. These refugees are a bloody nuisance.'

'It's a terrible sight,' said Peploe. 'What an awful thing to have to do - leave one's home. I mean, where are they heading anyway?'

'Can't help thinking they'd be better off at 'ome,' said Sykes. 'Didn't really see any in Norway, did we, Sarge?'

'No - they must have been made of sterner stuff.'

Suddenly a plaintive bellowing struck up somewhere close behind them.

'Christ! What the 'ell's that?' said Sykes.

Tanner got to his feet. 'Cows, Stan. There's a field of them here.'

'They need milking,' said Peploe, scrambling upright. 'Their udders are full and they're in pain.'

'I can see a dozen, sir,' said Tanner.

Peploe looked up and down the road. With no sign of any imminent movement, he said to Tanner, 'See if anyone knows how to milk a cow.'

'Bell was brought up on a farm, sir,' said Tanner, 'and I know what to do.'

'Good. Ask the others too.'

The only other man raised on a farm was Corporal Cooper of 2 Section, so the four men climbed over a gate a short way up the road and began to milk the cows, which had redoubled their agonized mooing.

Sykes had followed and stood beside 'Tanner as he knelt on the ground, stroked the side of a black and white Friesian and began to pull at the teats. 'We'd be better off putting bullets to their heads,' the sergeant muttered. 'We might be helping the pain now, but what about tomorrow morning - or evening?'

Sykes watched the milk squirting into the grass. 'Bit of a waste too.' He looked up. 'There's the farm over there.'

'Go and have a snoop. See if anyone's about.'

Tanner had moved on to another beast by the time Sykes returned.

'It's deserted,' said Sykes. 'There's chickens and geese wandering about. Cats too, and a couple of dogs tied up on chains. They all look very sorry for themselves.'

'For God's sake,' muttered Tanner. When he had finished milking the second cow he went to the lieutenant.

'That place is empty, sir,' he said, jerking a thumb towards the farm, 'and there's two dogs chained up. Shall I set them free or shoot them?'

'Set them free. They'll probably eat the chickens but at least it'll give them a chance.'

Tanner and Sykes did so, then rejoined the others. The milking completed, they walked back to the road, where the remainder of the platoon was still resting.

'I found that more depressing than anything I've seen all day,' said Peploe. 'I know civilians are innocent but we humans are to blame for all this. The animals have no say at all, and to leave them like that, well, it's cruel.'

Just then two shots rang out, the second followed instantly by the yelp of a dog. A few moments later CSM Blackstone was walking purposefully down the road towards them. 'We're moving into the village, sir,' he said, as he approached Peploe. 'T Company are to billet in this farm here. Officers and senior NCOs in the house, junior NCOs and ORs in the outbuildings.'

'What was that shooting, CSM?' Peploe asked.

'Two stray dogs, sir.'

'On whose orders?'

'Colonel Corner's, sir, which presumably came down from Brigade. All dogs to be shot. Can't have them running astray and going feral on us.' He glanced down the road, then turned back to Peploe. 'There's an officers' meeting in fifteen minutes, sir, with the divisional OC. Battalion HQ is in the large house next to the church.'

There was a weary cheer from the men at the news they would be marching no further that night. Slowly they got to their feet, slung rifles over shoulders and hitched packs and haversacks back onto their webbing. Peploe headed off to Battalion Headquarters, leaving Tanner in charge of the platoon. When he saw 12 Platoon, ahead, set off through the village to the farm, Tanner led his men through the field and into the yard. As he had hoped, they were the first platoon in the company to reach their billet.

He scouted the buildings and chose a large, high- pitched barn for his men. Just outside in the yard there was a well, while inside, at one end there were old carts and farm equipment, and along one wall a series of wooden stalls. Above, he found a hay loft, in which there was still plenty of last year's hay and straw. He put his kit in one of the stalls, called the men in and ordered them to bring down some straw to sleep on.

He had just got his own makeshift bedding ready when there were shouts from across the yard. Hurrying out, he saw a number of men running to a small storehouse. Shouts and cheers floated out to him. Tanner strode over. The men had broken open a large vat of cider they had discovered in an outhouse off the yard. 'What the hell do you think you're doing?' he shouted. 'Get out now, all of you.'

'But, Sarge,' said one of the men, 'the CSM said we could take anything we found outside the house.'

'Come on, Sarge,' said another. 'You can't begrudge us a little drink.'

'I can and I do,' said Tanner. 'First, this is theft. Second, we might be fighting tomorrow and, believe me, you don't want a hangover then. All of you, get out. Now!'

Grumbling, and with angry glances of resentment, the men shuffled out. Tanner waited for the last to go, then went inside and did his best to put the room back in order.

A few minutes later, a shadow fell across the threshold. 'How dare you undermine my authority like that?' said Blackstone.

'That wasn't my intention,' said Tanner, facing him squarely. 'I didn't believe you'd have let the men drink freely when we're so close to the front, so I stopped them until I'd had a chance to speak to you and confirm that you'd given them permission.'

Blackstone smiled mirthlessly. 'Are you suggesting I don't know my own men?'

'I'm not suggesting anything, CSM. I'm saying that to let exhausted men drink the local Belgian hooch and get themselves puggled when we could be called on to fight the enemy at any moment is hardly sensible.'

Blackstone took a step towards Tanner, and pushed him in the chest. Tanner stiffened with anger. 'Always the bloody same with you, isn't it, Jack?' said Blackstone. 'Pushing your nose in where it's not wanted, thinking you know it all. The lads deserve a bit of grog. It won't harm them and I don't need you putting your sodding little paw in and telling me how to run the company.'

'I don't have to listen to this,' said Tanner, moving towards the door. But Blackstone blocked him.

'Oh no you don't, Jack. I haven't said you can leave.'

'For God's sake, you can't tell me you're thinking of the men. You're just currying favour - showing them what a good bloke you are. If you really worried about them, you'd make sure they got their heads down and were bright and fresh for tomorrow.'

At this, Blackstone grinned. 'Oh dear, Jack, you really don't get it, do you?' He leaned closer and hissed, 'I told you, I'm the one in charge around here and I mean it.'

'I ought to knock you down right now,' snarled Tanner.

'Go ahead and try, Jack.' He stepped aside and Tanner, his face taut with rage, pushed past him.

Damn it, damn it, damn it! He needed to calm down, he knew, because right now anger could get the better of him. He went across the yard, making for the field, hoping to find somewhere quiet to regain his composure.

'Ah, Tanner, there you are!'

Tanner turned to see Lieutenant Peploe emerge from the farmhouse. Swallowing hard and taking a deep breath, Tanner walked towards him, saluting as he reached him.

I’ve got good news,' said Peploe. 'That is, good news for you but rather disastrous for me.' He took off his cap, squinted, and put it back on again. 'We've now been officially absorbed into First Battalion. As of now, we're D Company, although we're going to lose our fourth platoon.'

'It's under strength anyway, sir, so that won't make much difference.'

'Yes, but it's going to join B Company and be brought up to two full sections. And this is where you come in. There aren't enough officers, so someone needs to be promoted to platoon sergeant-major and take command of that platoon. It's a WO III post.'

Tanner felt his mood lighten. 'And move across to B Company?'

'Yes. As you're the senior sergeant in the company it'll almost certainly be you.'

There was no denying he was the senior sergeant - and by some margin too.

'I see, sir,' he said. He wanted to laugh with relief. Of course, he'd be sorry to leave Sykes and the others, and even Lieutenant Peploe, but the chance to get well away from Blackstone was like the answer to his prayers.

'Bloody hard luck on me, though,' added Peploe, 'but I can see that you more than deserve your chance.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'And you've done a good job getting everyone settled in. I'm afraid it's still a bit unclear what's going on but it seems the French First Army have been getting into trouble to the south of here and so have the Belgians to the north ever since the Dutch surrender, so although our chaps have been doing well, we've all got to fall back to keep in line with the others. Tomorrow we're moving up not to the river Senne but to the Brussels-Charleroi canal. We're going to hold the line there while the rest of One and Two Corps fall back through our position. It wasn't clear to me at first which was the canal and which was the river, but I found them both on my map eventually.'

'At least you've got a map, sir. The lack of them seems to be a feature of this war.'

Tanner left Peploe and went back to the barn, where he lay down on the straw and closed his eyes. He had joked with the lieutenant about the maps but, really, it was no laughing matter. He couldn't shake off the thought that, once again, the Army had been sent to fight a campaign without the right tools for the job. He reminded himself that at least this time they were better equipped. He had seen plenty of guns - heard them too - and there seemed to be transport on the roads, even if they had been made to march. Nonetheless, it had been a disquieting couple of days - today especially, with the refugees clogging the roads, and enemy aircraft appearing to dominate the skies. And the British Army was on the retreat - again.

Tanner chided himself. Just get on with it, man. There was no point in worrying about matters that were beyond his control. Instead he thought about the platoon he would soon be commanding. A life without Blackstone, now that was a prospect to lift the spirits. This evening, or perhaps the next day, he would be free of the man.