Darkest Hour

Chapter 7

For Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke the past week had been one of deep frustration and mounting agitation. For two whole days the division had remained at Ludwigsburg, vehicles and kit at the ready, waiting for the signal to move. The order had finally come the previous Tuesday, 12 May, but having sped north of Cologne, then west through Aachen to the Belgian border, they had gone no further. In the meantime, Timpke and his colleagues had had to listen to wireless bulletins proclaiming the sweeping successes of the Wehrmacht and the Luftwaffe. In the north, crucial forts had been captured in Belgium; Rotterdam had been bombed and after four days the Dutch had capitulated. As if that was not galling enough, Army Group A had made even more dramatic and far-reaching progress. It seemed General Guderian's panzers had achieved total surprise as they had attacked through the thick forests of the Belgian Ardennes. The gutless French had crumbled, so that the tanks had managed to cross the river Meuse - a crucial obstacle to have overcome - and had swept all before them.

They had not been idle - Eicke had made sure of that, insisting that his commanders keep the men busy, something with which Timpke agreed entirely. None of his men had seen front-line action: most had been former camp guards and SS reservists, and although they had trained continually since the end of the Polish campaign, Timpke was determined that until they were in a position to draw on combat experience, they should fall back on rigid discipline instead. For four days, as they had waited in the rolling border country, Timpke had drilled them, sent them on long marches and given them rifle practice, as well as despatching them on manoeuvres and making them practise their codework and radio telegraphy. He had also made them clean, re-clean, then clean again their vehicles, weapons and uniforms. On two separate evenings, he had sat the men on the banks of a shallow hill overlooking the camp and had lectured them on one of his favourite subjects, National Socialist and SS ideology, reminding them that the German Reich was rising, phoenix-like, from the ashes of despair into the greatest nation the world had ever known. It was their destiny that they, the chosen ones, should be the elite of this new Aryan order.

Then had come the news that Rommel and Guderian had advanced as much as forty miles the previous day, Thursday, 16 May. Forty miles! An advance of that speed was unheard of. A strange anxiety had gripped Timpke. Surely it wouldn't all be over before the division had been thrown into the line. It couldn't be, yet as every day passed, with reports of outrageous gains made, Timpke became increasingly concerned that the Waffen-SS would be ignored once again by the Wehrmacht, left to idle out the campaign in their makeshift camp on the Belgian border.

Although he was not a man who had ever needed much sleep, he had slept particularly badly that night; outside, it had been warm and humid, but his mind had been unable to put aside the news of the day's fighting. Major-General Rommel's 7th Panzer Division had reached Avesnes, only thirty-five kilometres south of Mons. Timpke had never heard of the place before, and had been stunned when he had discovered just how far into northern France the town was. On the map, the French coast had seemed impossibly close to the leading panzers. The huge extent of the German thrust was astonishing, and he had been struck by a wave of despair. Soon the war would be over, and the Wehrmacht would take all the credit.

Unable to clear such thoughts, he had risen, washed and shaved, then turned to his desk, keeping himself busy by writing further company training exercises. As a consequence, he had already been up for several hours when the company clerk knocked at the door shortly after seven. Entering, he had handed Timpke a note.

Timpke read it, grinned, then crunched the paper into a ball and threw it away.

'Good news, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer?' his orderly, Sturmann Reinz, asked.

'Most definitely,' Timpke replied, putting on his jacket. 'Very good news indeed.'

Downstairs, in the officers' dining room, he found his company commanders, Saalbach, Beeck and Hardieck, already there, drinking ersatz coffee.

'Look at his face,' laughed Saalbach. 'Our boss is happy at long last! I'd begun to think we'd never see you smile again, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'

'Part of Army Group A! It couldn't be better. With luck we'll be at the van with von Rundstedt.' Timpke slapped Hardieck's back, then smacked a fist into his open hand. 'At last!'

A little under seventy miles away as the crow flew, Sergeant Tanner had also woken early. In contrast to Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke, however, Tanner had slept well. After eight years in the Army, he had long ago become accustomed to the lack of a mattress or other home comforts; and a bed of straw in a warm barn in May was considerably more comfortable than countless other places where he had spent the night.

However, it was not long before he, too, was feeling increasingly agitated. By seven, orders had arrived for D Company to move up to the canal, on a line to the south of the village of Oisquercq, yet he had still heard nothing about his promotion and transfer to B Company. With mounting irritation, he had woken the rest of the platoon, chivvied them to their feet, made sure they had breakfast - and still there had been no word.

'An oversight, I'm sure,' said Lieutenant Peploe, as the platoon stood in the yard drinking their morning brew. 'Let me find out what's going on from Captain Barclay.'

Yet the lieutenant had been unable to speak with him before they had moved off, so twenty minutes later, when the platoon had begun the three-mile march to the canal, Tanner was still a platoon sergeant in D Company.

'I expect the appointment had to be approved by Colonel Corner,' said Sykes, as they marched through the village. 'Maybe even Brigadier Dempsey. And there are lots of troops to move and other things to do. You know 'ow it is, Sarge.'

Tanner scowled. 'Bollocks, Stan. They've changed their mind - I know they have.'

'Course they 'aven't,' said Sykes, then added, 'but if they 'ave, at least you've got some good men in your platoon here.'

Tanner glared at him.

'I'm not saying you're right, Sarge.'

'I am, though. I can feel it in my bones.'

'And you like Mr Peploe, don't you? He seems a good sort.'

'Look, just stop talking about it, will you?' snapped Tanner.

They were now almost through the village. Ahead, Tanner could hear a grinding rumble. High above, a flight of aircraft thrummed over to disappear into thick white cloud. Soon after, they crossed a railway line, then turned onto another road where they were unexpectedly confronted by a mass of British vehicles and troops heading towards them.

'Jesus - will you look at that?' muttered Sykes. 'What's going on here?'

'Must be One Corps falling back,' said Tanner. 'They were due to do it last night.'

'Then why are we heading in the opposite direction?' said Hepworth, from behind him.

'Why do you think, Hep?' said Tanner.

'Dunno, Sarge.'

Tanner sighed. 'Use your bloody loaf and stop asking stupid questions.'

'But, Sarge—' Hepworth protested, but Tanner cut him off.

'We've got to guard the canal and make sure Jerrv doesn't get across too easily and harry those boys' retreat.' He knew he had sounded irritable but, really, he thought, Hepworth should know better by now.

The company was halted as a long column of fifteen- hundredweight trucks trundled past, choking dust swirling into the air. The Rangers could see the soldiers through the open tarpaulins at the back of each truck Most seemed sullen, faces long, cigarettes hanging from their mouths. Several carriers whirred past too.

'You're going the wrong way!' one man shouted at them. A few of his fellows laughed but, Tanner noticed, not many.

Eventually the column disappeared in a haze of dust. Coughing and spluttering, the platoon continued its march, dropping down a long, gentle slope into the village of Oisquercq, where they rejoined the rest of the battalion. More carriers and trucks were crammed along the roads that led into and out of the village. Troops milled around. NCOs shouted. Tanner wondered which group was from B Company, but then they moved on again, past the church and onto a tree-lined path that led out of the village between a single-track railway line and the banks of the broad waterway that was the Brussels-Charleroi canal.

'Some barrier this,' said Sykes. It was at least sixty yards wide, filled with dark, murky water. Opposite, fields rose away towards a long, thick wood, which dominated the horizon overlooking the canal.

Just south of the village, by a white-painted brick station house, the company was halted again, the runner appearing soon after. 'The men to stand easy, platoon commanders and sergeants for a meeting with Captain

Barclay,' he said, as he reached Peploe and Tanner.

The two men followed him. Barclay, Captain Wrightson and CSM Blackstone were standing in the shade of the station house, examining a rough, hand- drawn map. Blackstone looked up briefly at their arrival, then, once the others had arrived, turned to Barclay. 'Everyone's here, sir.'

Except Sergeant Wilkes, thought Tanner, with a stab of alarm.

'Good,' said the captain, then cleared his throat. 'We're going to dig in along these banks from here to that farm up ahead on the bend in the canal.' Set back from the water, it was some five hundred yards away from where they were standing. Tanner noticed there were troops there. 'That farm,' said Barclay, 'marks the end of the BEF's line and the start of the French First Army. It's currently occupied by a battalion of the Second North African Infantry Division. Ten Platoon will dig in on our left, here, towards the village, Eleven Platoon in the centre and Twelve between them and the French.' He looked at Lieutenant Peploe. 'But try to avoid the French. I know we're allies, but we do our thing and they do theirs. What's more, their men are all bloody wogs, and apparently even the officers are a shifty bunch, hardly to be relied upon. Spoke to a chap back in the village - a major in A Company, actually - who says the French First Army have been an absolute bloody shower so far. One of the main reasons we're making a general withdrawal is because their part of the line collapsed as soon as Jerry showed up.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'But that's strictly entre nous, all right?' He looked at the men then said, 'Good. All clear? Any questions?'

'Yes, sir,' said Peploe. 'How long are we expected to stay here?'

'Not long. We're not quite sure where Jerry is, so I can't say for certain, but probably we'll fall back tonight. We'll be taking up the rear once the rest of the corps arc clear. Anything else?'

'Yes, sir,' said Peploe.

Barclay made little attempt to hide his impatience. 'Yes, Lieutenant?'

'Last night, sir, you said that one of our sergeants would be joining B Company.'

'Yes, Lieutenant, and so they have.'

Tanner felt a hollowness in his stomach. So I was right. The bloody bastards.

'But, sir, Sergeant Tanner is the most experienced sergeant in the company by some margin. That posting should be his.'

'Careful, Peploe,' said Barclay. 'It's not your place to tell me who gets promoted from this company.' He shuffled his feet. 'There are a few question marks over Sergeant Tanner. That episode back at Manston, for example - shooting at Squadron Leader Lyell. And last night, I hear, he seriously undermined the authority of the CSM.'

Tanner groaned inwardly, saw Peploe glance at him - what's this? - and then, to his mounting fury, Blackstone grinning at him triumphantly. Of course. He should have known Blackstone would use that to his advantage.

'Now how would it look, Lieutenant, if I recommend a sergeant to join B Company as a newly promoted platoon sergeant-major and they find they've got a trouble-maker on their hands? Hm?'

Tanner watched Peploe's pale face redden with indignation. 'Very well, sir, but I'd like it made clear here and now that I do not believe Sergeant Tanner is a trouble-maker of any kind and that I, for one, am glad to have him in my platoon. I think he's been treated appallingly.'

Tanner looked at his feet, embarrassed by Peploe's impassioned outburst.

'That's enough, Peploe,' said Captain Wrightson.

'Yes,' added Barclay. 'I've made my decision and that's an end to it. Now, get to your men and start digging in right away.'

As they walked back, Peploe said, 'I'm sorry, Tanner. That's a bloody outrage.'

'Thank you for standing by me, sir. I appreciate it.'

'It's wrong, Tanner. Quite wrong. The man's a first- rate arse.' He tugged at his mop of thick hair. 'Shouldn't be saying things like that to you, I know, but it's true.'

Tanner could think of stronger words, but kept them to himself. Instead he said, 'We've got a platoon of good lads, sir.'

'That's true enough.' He looked at Tanner. 'Do you mind me asking what happened last night between you and the CSM?'

Tanner told him. Peploe listened. Then he said, 'Well, Sergeant, I'm sorry, and between you and me, I think you were probably right. I know I like the odd glass, but I'm sure the men would have got themselves drunk. If it's any consolation at all, though, I meant what I said back there. I'm glad you're still with us. I fancy we've got a testing time ahead.'

Tanner agreed. He had said nothing to the lieutenant but the scenes of retreat were horribly familiar to him. True, there were more vehicles than there had ever been in Norway, but the expressions on the faces of the men were those he had seen a few weeks before: fed up, resigned, exhausted. Men whose confidence in their commanders had been shaken.

A roar of aero-engines made him look up. Above, a dozen German bombers, no more than eight thousand feet high, were droning over, seemingly unchallenged. And that was another thing, thought Tanner. Once more the Luftwaffe appeared to rule the sky. He'd seen barely a French or British plane since they had arrived in France. He had never thought too much about air power, but he reckoned he had seen enough to know one thing: that whoever ruled the sky would probably win the battle on the ground. Sighing heavily, he pushed back his helmet and wiped his brow. The lieutenant was surely right. Things did not look good.

Although fanner had seen few Allied aircraft, they had been operating in the skies above since the Germans had made their move a week before. In fact, together the RAF and French Army of the Air had many more aircraft than the Luftwaffe. However, most of these were either back in England or scattered over France, so that at the front, the Germans did have superior numbers, and especially in the northern sector operating over Flanders. Not only that, all too many French and British aircraft that had been available had already been shot down and even more destroyed on the ground; which was why at first light that morning, Squadron Leader Charlie Lyell had learned that 632 Squadron would, from now on, be one of six Hurricane squadrons that would fly daily to an airfield in France and there operate alongside what remained of the RAF's Air Component.

Lyell had led the squadron over to Vitry-en-Artois in northern France where 607 Squadron were already operating. Pandemonium had greeted them. Shortly before their arrival, the Luftwaffe had paid a call so that as the squadron circled over the battered airfield, plumes of thick smoke were still rising into the sky. The grass runway was pockmarked with bomb craters, full of soil and pulverized chalk. As Lyell turned in to land he could see the remains of a Hurricane still burning furiously, its blackening wings spread out against the ground, its fuselage nothing more than a fragile skeleton. He had hoped he had sounded confident and authoritative - nonchalant, even - when he warned the others to mind out for craters, but his heart had been pounding and his breathing had quickened. Christ, he had thought. It was not what he had imagined at all.

No sooner had they refuelled than they had been sent back into the air, ordered to patrol a line 'Louvain- Namur'. Armed only with a rough map, he had led the squadron of two flights north-east over Belgium, uncertain whether or not they were in the right place.

Nonetheless, having climbed to fourteen thousand feet he had spotted what he thought must be Mons and Charleroi, two grey stains among the green patchwork of Flanders, and had then turned due east. It was just as he was leading the squadron towards what he hoped was Namur that Sergeant Durnley had spotted a formation of two dozen Stukas emerging from a large bank of white cloud. The enemy formation was heading west, away from them, and several thousand feet below. It had been almost too good to be true and Lyell had immediately led the squadron round and into line astern, then ordered a Number One Attack.

The enemy dive-bombers spotted them too late, and although arcs of tracer fire curled up to meet Lyell as he led the attack, the aim had been wide and the bullets stuttered past harmlessly. The Stukas broke formation hurriedly, but they still provided rich pickings. Lyell was surprised by how slow and cumbersome they seemed. On his first pass he was certain he hit one and then, glancing behind to see the squadron still attacking in turn, spotted a lone Stuka banking hard to port so followed suit. His first burst of fire overshot, but on his second, now right behind it and closing faster than he had at first realized, the bullets struck home. Then, to his astonishment, the enemy machine exploded, disintegrating beside him as he sped past. Bits of aluminium clanged against his canopy, making him duck his head involuntarily.

And another surprise: in a trice the immaculate attack formations they had practised over and over again had broken up into a swirling melee of aircraft and individual battles. Gone, too, was radio discipline as his pilots whooped and cursed, shouted and chattered, deafening screeches reverberating through Lyell's headset. Aircraft tumbled from the sky, with trails of smoke following them but, to his surprise, it appeared to clear of aircraft as quickly as it had filled. As Lyell banked again and tried to bring himself back into the fight, he found the sky almost deserted. He tried to call his squadron back together but it was no use: several of his pilots were now miles away. Deciding that the patrol would have to be forgotten, he ordered the squadron to make their way back to Vitry instead.

He was one of the first to land. A sensation of intense exhilaration settled over him. That he had been responsible for the deaths of at least two people did not bother him, he was glad to discover, yet as he tried to light a cigarette on the way to Dispersal, he discovered his hands were shaking and his knees weak.

The others returned in dribs and drabs. Two had flown halfway to the German border, it seemed. Derek Durnley, who had spotted the formation in the first place, had not returned at all, last seen heading east; Robson had got completely lost and had eventually rung through from Lille-Seclin, some twenty miles away from Vitry. Most claimed to have shot down at least one Stuka, and although 607's intelligence officer eventually accepted claims of just six confirmed kills, this did little to dampen the pilots' buoyant spirits.

They had been due to fly back to Manston at noon, but with Durnley missing, Robson still grounded at Lille-Seclin and half of their Hurricanes still to be refuelled, rearmed and patched up, Lyell waited a while longer at the airfield. Robbo was finally back by half past two, but just as they were about to get going, a request reached Dispersal for another flight to provide top cover for a bombing mission on German positions east of Brussels. When Lyell was asked if 632 Squadron could help, he agreed immediately.

Half an hour later, at nearly half past three that afternoon, he was conscious that the exhilaration had gone, replaced by a wave of fatigue and irritation. Rendezvous with the bombers - a flight of Blenheims - over Brussels at 1520 hours. Well, he could see what he assumed must be Brussels, but there was no sign of any Blenheims or, indeed, any bombers at all.

'This is Nimbus Leader calling Bulldog Leader,' he said, over his R/T for the third time that minute. 'We're over RV at angels fourteen, over.' But still there was nothing. 'All right, boys,' he said to the others. 'This is Nimbus Leader. Make sure you keep your eyes peeled. Let's go round again. Over.'

He pushed the stick over to port, the horizon swivelling, then pulled back, his stomach lurching as the Hurricane banked and began its turn. Looking round, he was pleased to note both Walker and Nicholls tucked in close behind him. Then he glanced downwards again, hoping to see a sign of the bombers - the familiar outline of the Blenheims, or the sun glinting on a canopy. He cursed. Where the hell were they?

Lyell straightened and began to fly westwards again, the glare making him squint even through his tinted goggles. Looking back over his port wing, he glanced at the vic of Flying Officer Newton's Blue Section, some forty yards behind, and spotted the last man in the formation, Sergeant Baird, peel off and dive out of the formation, smoke trailing. Stunned, he hardly heard Newton's screech over the R/T as he shouted after his friend.

A deafening crack, and despite the tightness of his Sutton harness, Lyell was pushed up out of his seat and smacked his head against the canopy. The choking smell of cordite filled the cockpit, as more cannon shells exploded. Jesus! He'd been hit, but where? Thrusting the stick to one side, he yanked it back into his stomach as a Messerschmitt 109 hurtled past.

'Jesus Christ!' shouted Lyell. His mind froze. Christ, Christ, think! Panic coursed through him, and then his brain cleared. Turning the stick to starboard, he half rolled the aircraft and tried to dive out of the fray, but then a second burst raked his machine. A large chunk of his port wing was punched out and the control column was nearly knocked from his hand. Lyell gasped. Clutching the stick firmly again, he heard the engine splutter, felt the Hurricane lurch, then begin to dive. The engine screamed, the airframe shook and more smoke poured into the cockpit. The altimeter spun anticlockwise. Six thousand feet gone just like that! Grimacing into the rubber of his oxygen mask, Lyell gripped the stick with both hands, pressed hard on the rudder and dragged the stick back into his stomach until - thank God - the Hurricane levelled out.

He pulled back the canopy. As he did so, the smoke rushed out, sucked into the clear air. Frantically, he looked around him. Ahead, away to the west, he could see contrails and tiny dots as aircraft wove and tumbled around the sky - but it seemed no Messerschmitt had chased him down. With cold sweat trickling down his neck, he glanced at the dials in front of him. Oil pressure falling, manifold pressure dropping: confirmation of what he already knew - his aircraft was dying. A deep, grinding sound came from the engine in front of him. It was losing power fast. 'Jesus Christ, oh, Jesus bloody Christ,' he said, despair sweeping over him. He was not sure what to do - try to glide towards home until the engine completely died, or bale out now? But he didn't want to bale out. The idea of leaping from his stricken aircraft terrified him. What to do?

Lyell glanced in his mirror and jolted. A 109, like a giant hornet, flashed through his line of vision and, a second later, more bullets ripped through his fuselage, through the floor, between his legs, into the control panel and the underside of the engine cowling. With a loud crack, the engine gusted a new burst of black smoke and seized, the propeller whirring to a limp turn.

'Oh, my God!' he cried. For a moment his mind was blank. He couldn't think what he was supposed to do. Ahead, the Messerschmitt was banking, circling again. His heart was thudding, his whole body trembling. He looked below to the never-ending patchwork of fields, woods and snaking silver rivers, and thought how far away they looked. I don't want to jump out, he thought, to plunge head first into an unknown sky.

The aircraft was dropping. I haven't long, he thought, and glanced at his altimeter. Six thousand feet. He had to do it - he had to do it now. Trembling fingers. Radio leads, oxygen plugs, the clip on his Sutton harness. He closed his eyes, pushed the stick over and felt himself lift out of the seat, but as he began to slide out of the aircraft something caught and his head smashed against the gun- sight. Now the Hurricane was diving, falling almost vertically. Frantically, Lyell felt behind him, heard something tear and then he was tumbling free, the ground hurtling towards him. The ripcord, the ripcord. He grabbed it with his gloved hand and yanked. Please, he prayed. The wind was knocked out of him and his arms almost pulled from their sockets as the parachute opened. Thank God, he thought. Thank bloody God. He could see his Hurricane plunging towards the ground, impossibly small already. Any moment now, he thought, and there it was - a burst of bright orange light and the dull crump of an explosion. His face was wet - why? - and the ground was rushing towards him now. There was a river, and he wondered whether he would fall into the water. But, no, he was drifting on the far side of it, to fields that rose towards a wood. Lyell braced himself for the impact.

The men of D Company, the King's Own Yorkshire Rangers, had watched the dogfight in the skies above them. Sergeant Tanner, sitting beside Corporal Sykes's freshly dug two-man slit trench, had looked up as soon as he had picked up the faint hum of aero-engines. Then, when he had heard the distant chatter of machine-guns and cannons, he had delved into his respirator bag and pulled out his binoculars, a pair of Zeiss brass Dienstglas 6x30, which he had taken from a German officer in Norway; it was about his only souvenir of that campaign. Admittedly they were a bit scratched, but he didn't mind too much about that; at least he no longer had to use his Aldis scope for this purpose.

Although the platoon had dug in behind a line of thick bushes between the canal, a narrow brook and the railway, the view above was clear enough. Tanner had been watching the sky carefully for most of the day. 'That morning he had seen a number of enemy aircraft, mostly lone twin-engine machines he had recognized as aerial reconnaissance. They were, he knew, the harbingers of a forthcoming attack; it would not be long before German ground forces appeared over the crest of the hill facing them. And the enemy would want the skies cleared - no wonder they were trying to drive off the Allied planes now flying overhead.

'Come on, get out . . . get out,' he muttered, as he followed a Hurricane spiralling from the sky. Nearby some spent cartridge cases tinkled as they fell into the trees behind them.

'I reckon he's a croaker, Sarge,' said Sykes.

'Well, he's certainly not going to get out now,' said Tanner. They lost sight of the Hurricane but a few moments later they heard the crash - a sharp crack followed by a dull boom. 'I tell you, I'm bloody glad I'm not flying around in those,' he added.

He had then shifted his gaze back to the swirl of aircraft, and spotted another Hurricane diving out of the fray with a Messerschmitt swooping down on it from behind. 'Watch out, you dozy sod,' Tanner said. Then he heard the Hurricane's engine splutter and die and saw the aircraft begin to fall. 'Not another one - Jesus.' He trained his binoculars and fixed a bead as the Hurricane curved out of the sky. When the stricken aircraft was at no more than three or four thousand feet, he started. 'I remember those squadron markings.'

'What are they?' Sykes asked.

'LO. LO-Z.' He handed his binoculars to Sykes. 'Here, have a dekko.'

Lieutenant Peploe joined them, shielding his eyes as he gazed up at the Hurricane. 'That's 632 Squadron.'

Sykes whistled. 'Well, what do you know? You're right, sir. Can see them clear as day.'

'And that Hurricane up there is Lyell's,' Peploe added. 'LO-Z was his plane.'

'Look!' shouted McAllister, from the neighbouring slit trench. 'He's got out!'

They watched Lyell's deadweight figure plummet, then a white parachute balloon open.

'Thank God for that,' said Sykes.

'He's drifting,' said Tanner. 'Stupid bastard's going to end up the wrong side of the sodding canal.'

Wordlessly, they watched Lyell descend until he hit the ground about five hundred yards up the hill on the far side, directly opposite the French on the Rangers' right and a short distance from the line of thick wood.

They watched breathlessly as the parachute silk flopped to the ground.

'Is he moving, Sarge?' said Sykes.

'I'm trying to see,' Tanner answered, as he peered through his binoculars. Lyell seemed to be lying lifelessly in the meadow. 'I can't tell whether he's alive or dead.'

They could all see him now.

'It looked like he'd come down all right,' said McAllister.

Tanner shrugged. 'Maybe he's concussed. Or broken his leg or something.'

'Should we shout to him or what?' said Sykes.

'We should go and see Captain Barclay,' said Peploe. 'Tanner, you come with me.'

Company Headquarters had been established in the white station house set back from the canal and beneath a high bank that overlooked the single-track railway. A field telephone had been set up but, Tanner noticed, as they went into the house, there was no sign of a radio transmitter.

'Where's Captain Barclay?' Peploe asked one of the men squatting by the field telephone.

'Out the back, sir. Him and Captain Wrightson.'

They found the two officers sitting at the foot of the bank. Both had mugs of tea, and Barclay had his Webley on his lap, an oily rag beside it.

'Peploe,' said Barclay, flicking away a fly from his face. 'All dug in?'

'Yes, sir. Sir, it's about the Hurricane that's just come down.'

'What Hurricane?'

'The dogfight, sir.' Peploe looked at Barclay as though he was mad. 'The one that's just been going on above us.'

Barclay faced Wrightson. 'Oh, yes, we heard that. Machine-guns going off and so on. I hadn't realized a plane had come down.'

'At least two, sir,' said Tanner.

Barclay glanced at him briefly - you again - then returned to Peploe. 'What about them?'

'A pilot's landed on the far bank, sir,' continued Peploe, 'opposite the French. We're not sure if he's alive, but the thing is, sir, I think he may be your brother-in- law.'

'What?' Barclay took his pipe from his mouth. 'What are you talking about? It can't be Charlie.'

'His plane had the same squadron markings, sir. LO-Z. That was Squadron Leader Lyell's personal aircraft.'

'But how on earth could you tell?'

'Sergeant Tanner was watching through binoculars, sir. He saw the markings on the fuselage.'

CSM Blackstone appeared in the doorway at the back of the house. 'What's going on, sir?' he asked.

'It seems my brother-in-law's been shot down and is lying on the far bank. Tanner saw the code on the Hurricane as it came down.'

Blackstone snorted. 'With respect, sir, I find it hard to believe that Sergeant Tanner could possibly see that from down here. Sure you're not just trying to get back into the OC's good books, Tanner?'

'I know what I saw,' said Tanner.

'Sir, who the pilot is - surely that's irrelevant,' said Peploe. 'I just wanted to let you know that it might be Squadron Leader Lyell and to ask your permission to send a team of men to fetch him. Since he's opposite the

French I thought I should clear it with you and also ask their permission. There's a bridge just round the bend in the river,' he added. 'We could cross there - or even go over the one at Oisquercq.'

Barclay nodded. 'Yes,' he said. 'All right. You speak Frog, don't you, Peploe?'

'A little, sir.'

'Good. Then let's get the men ready and speak to the French commander at the farm.' He turned to Tanner. 'But I think it only fair that once we've cleared it with the Frogs you go and get Squadron Leader Lyell, Tanner. A chance to make amends for your indiscretion back at Manston, eh?'

Tanner swallowed hard, his face rigid with the effort of controlling his irritation. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I'd be glad to.' He meant that, at least: it would give him an opportunity to gather his bearings. It was hard when you were travelling along roads with high hedgerows, through villages and woods, to get much of a picture of the land around. With the tree-lined fields and the woods behind them, Tanner had only a vague sense of how this part of the Belgian countryside fitted together. The slope on which Lyell had landed would, he guessed, give him a clear and far-reaching view back towards their own lines.

'How many men do you think you need?' Peploe asked.

'Three should do it, sir. Two to carry him, if necessary, and two to watch our backs.'

'All right. Who do you want to take?'

'Sykes, sir, with Hepworth and Ellis.'

'Why don't you take Lance-Corporal Smailes as well?'

'He's done the medic's course?'

'Yes.'

'Good thinking, sir. I don't think there's time to go to Battalion for stretcher-bearers.'

'Just get on with it, Sergeant,' snapped Barclay. 'The poor man could be dying in agony for all we know. I want to mount this rescue operation right away.'

When they reached the farm, they were stopped by North African troops who stared at them sullenly, with pointed rifles, until a young sous-lieutenant came over and ordered his men to lower their weapons. Apologizing, he led them to Battalion Headquarters at the main farmhouse.

'Un moment,' he said, leaving them to wait in the yard while he hurried inside.

Barclay clicked his tongue against his teeth. 'For God's sake,' he muttered.

Tanner looked around. Stacks of ammunition boxes stood near a shed across the yard; a staff car and a motorcycle were parked to one side. Coloured troops, in strange dark red woollen caps, double-breasted tunics and knee-high strapped leggings, walked past. The French mountain troops in Norway had had superb uniforms - far better than anything the British had been given - but Tanner was surprised by how old-fashioned these colonial troops were, as though they were from an earlier era. He moved back a few paces and saw a larger yard at the rear of the building where a number of vehicles - trucks, armoured cars and infantry tractors - were lined up. He was watching men loading boxes onto the back of a truck when his attention was caught by two men speaking animatedly, white Frenchmen, officers, wearing large khaki berets.

'What are they saying, Peploe?' said Barclay, softly.

Peploe listened, 'They're talking about the bridge, sir, that and the lock system by it. They must be sappers. They've laid charges but one thinks they haven't put down enough explosive.'

One of the officers, older than the other, turned now and saw them, shook his head in frustration and hurried off.

'They're expecting Jerry, then,' said Barclay. 'What do they know that we don't?'

For God's sake, thought Tanner. Couldn't the OC see the signs? Captain Barclay was clearly a bigger fool than he'd thought.

The sous-lieutenant now reappeared with a tall, good- looking officer in his late thirties. 'Commandant du Parc,' explained the lieutenant.

'I am second-in-command here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'How can I be of assistance?'

Peploe explained in French. Du Parc replied.

'They were about to send a party out themselves,' Peploe translated to Barclay, then smiled, 'but they're only too happy to let us take on the task.'

'But your men must be quick. Captain,' said Commandant du Parc in English once more. 'Les Bockes' he added, 'they are coming soon, I think.'

'Does he have intelligence of this?' Barclay asked Peploe.

Du Parc laughed as Peploe repeated the question. 'No, but the sky, the aeroplanes that come over to have a little spy on us ... la retraite of our men across le canal. Of course les Boches will be coming.' He chuckled again. 'It is obvious.'

Course it bloody is, thought Tanner, and saw Barclay redden.

Commandant du Parc spoke to Peploe again.

'He says we should cross the bridge over the lock,' said Peploe, 'just round the bend in the river. His men can give us covering fire should it be necessary - as can our chaps, sir. He'll also send us an escort to the bridge.'

'Merci, Commandant,' said Barclay.

Du Parc bowed slightly, then spoke to the sous-lieu- tenant, who hurried back into the farmhouse. A moment later he reappeared with another junior subaltern, a thin- faced lad with a poorly grown moustache. Du Parc spoke to him, then the young French officer turned to Tanner.

'Shall we go?'

'Bonnechance' said du Parc.

Barclay and Peploe saluted. Barclay looked at his watch. 'Right, Sergeant,' he said to Tanner. 'Get Squadron Leader Lyell back here and be sharp about it.'

Just then an aircraft roared over the building from behind them, making them all flinch and duck. It was so low that they could see the black crosses on the pale blue underside of the wings. Men shouted and a machine-gun began to chatter but the twin-engine Junkers 88 climbed lazily over the hill in front of them, banked along the ridge then disappeared.

'Merde,' muttered du Parc.

'Why didn't it drop any bombs?' asked Barclay.

Tanner's patience snapped. 'It's a reconnaissance plane, sir. They've been coming over all morning.' He turned his back on the captain and strode off. 'Come on, boys,' he said. 'Iggery. We need to get a move on.'

As they stepped out of the yard he looked up at the wooded ridge above them. It was still and peaceful, quiet in the warm early-summer afternoon. For how much longer?