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 Bar
clay 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?
Chapter 8
They said little as they hurried towards the bridge. It was further than Tanner had appreciated - three-quarters of a mile, at least - and he wished he had asked whether there was a boat at the farm they could use. He also felt a stab of irritation that the Frenchmen had not offered one of their many vehicles to take them the short drive. Christ, they had enough of them. But they were twitchy, that had been clear. The Germans were pushing them back, and retreat sapped confidence - he'd seen it in Norway - like rot setting in. Reversing it was damnably hard.
Commandant du Parc had been expecting the Germans to attack at any moment and Tanner suspected the Frenchman was right. He hoped they still had time to fetch Lyell safely but it was best to be prepared so he had insisted that each of his small rescue party bring plenty of ammunition. Every man was now carrying four Bren magazines as well as at least half a dozen clips of rifle bullets. He had also shoved half a dozen Mills bombs into their haversacks and respirator bags.
'You don't need a sodding gas-mask, Billy,' he had told Ellis. 'Get rid of it and stuff the bag full of ammo instead.'
'I thought this was supposed to be a cinch,' Hepworth had grumbled.
'And so it will be, Hep,' Tanner had replied, patting him on the back. 'Just in case, hey?'
He now noticed that Hepworth, carrying the Bren on his shoulder, was lagging. He trotted back to him, took the machine-gun and slung it over his own shoulder instead. 'Come on, Hep. Stop being such a bloody old woman.'
'I'm still knackered from a five-day march.'
'Did he grumble this much in Norway, Sarge?' asked Ellis.
'He was worse,' said Sykes, whose eyes were on the field where the pilot lay. 'The squadron leader's still up there, Sarge,' he added, as Tanner came alongside him. 'Look.'
Tanner used his spare hand to raise his binoculars. 'He's still lying down, too,' he said, pausing briefly to steady his view. 'Bastard better not be dead.'
At the bridge the French lieutenant ushered them past the sentries, then left them. The lock was deep, perhaps as much as forty feet. Under the bridge there was a kind of gallery from which observers could watch traffic approaching or moving in and out of the lock.
'This'll take some blowing,' said Sykes. 'It's a big old piece of engineering.'
'There's certainly nothing like this on the Rochdale canal,' said Hepworth, unable to resist peering over the rails to the viewing gallery and the water below.
'Move your arse, Hep,' said Tanner.
The five men hurried across. Just beyond the canal lay the original tributary of the river Senne - clearly the Belgian navvies had been unable to widen the river into the shipping canal it had become along the stretch towards Brussels.
They nipped down the bank to a track that ran beside the large turning circle in the canal below the lock, then hurried along it by the water's edge. Tanner led them up the bank and through a meadow to another track beside some farm-workers' cottages. As they reached a thick hedge on the far side, he paused.
'It's the field above, I'm sure,' said Sykes, reading his thoughts.
'Yes - but we need to find a way through this. It's denser than it looked from the other side.' To Tanner's right, the hedge seemed to thicken into a copse, so he led them to the left and, sure enough, at the field's corner found an open gate and a track that led up the side of the meadow. Feeling the sun behind him, he looked through his binoculars again and saw the prostrate pilot a couple of hundred yards ahead, the blue of his uniform trousers just visible through the grass.
'There he is,' he said.
'Is he moving?' asked Sykes.
'No. Come on. Let's go and get him, dead or alive.'
The meadow was already thick with wild flowers - a wet April and a warm first two weeks of May had seen to that. The grass was two foot high in places, Tanner noted, and caught at their feet, making it hard to walk through. It was no wonder they could hardly see Lyell now.
The men were no more than twenty yards from the immobile body when he moved suddenly, pushing himself up on his elbows.
'Jesus, you made me jump,' said Lyell. 'Thank God you're not Germans.'
So he wasn't dead or even dying, thought Tanner. 'Sorry, sir,' he said. 'We've come to rescue you.'
Lyell looked at the blood on his hand and his face twisted with obvious pain. 'I think I've been out cold,' he muttered. 'Only came to a few minutes ago. Christ, my bloody head hurts.'
'We'll get you back to our lines and then an MO can attend to you, sir,' said Tanner.
'How long have I been out?'
Tanner looked at his watch. 'It's just gone five now and we watched you come down about twenty past four. So, that's three-quarters of an hour.' Tanner now stepped up beside him. 'Squadron Leader Lyell, is it just your head or are you hurt anywhere else?'
Lyell looked at him sharply. 'How the devil d'you know my name?'
Tanner pushed his helmet back. 'We met at Manston, sir.'
'You!' exclaimed Lyell. 'What the bloody hell are you doing here? Don't tell me I've survived only to be shot at again by a mad Tommy.'
Tanner couldn't help smiling. 'You're not drunk in charge of a vehicle this time, sir. We're with the rest of the battalion, dug in along the far side of the canal.'
Lyell struggled to suppress a cry of pain. There were beads of sweat and blood on his brow and a dark gash
near the top of his forehead. 'My bloody head.'
'Lads, keep your eyes peeled,' said Tanner. Then, with Smailes, he squatted beside Lyell.
Lyell winced. 'I survive Christ knows how many bullets and cannon shells, then hit my head trying to bale out.'
Smailes placed his hands gently around the cut on the squadron leader's head. Immediately he yelled with pain. 'Christ, man! Jesus, aargh! Get your sodding hands off me.'
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