'General Billotte has just arrived, my lord,' said Pownall.
'At last, Henry.' Gort smiled. The British commander was a big man - more than six foot tall, barrel-chested, with a broad, full face and a trim, bristly moustache. 'This will be quite a novelty,' he said, with heavy irony, 'a rare opportunity to speak man to man with one's commanding officer.'
'Quite so,' agreed Pownall. 'Shall I bring him straight in?'
'Absolutely.'
A minute later Billotte entered with Major Archdale, his British liaison officer, limping behind him. Billotte removed his kepi and extended a hand to Gort. 'Mon cher general,' he said.
He looked exhausted, Gort thought, and old. Why were all the French generals so aged? Billotte was - what? In his mid-sixties? And yet to look at him now, white-haired and with large bags under his eyes, he would pass for more than seventy. Gamelin was sixty- seven, he knew, while Georges was sixty-five. To command armies one needed experience, yes, but energy too. A commander in the field could expect long days and short nights, huge pressure and the difficult, frustrating responsibility of making decisions of great importance, often with insufficient information. Lack of sleep and the nature of the job were both exhausting, physically and mentally draining, which was why one needed a stout constitution and age on one's side. Gort, at not quite fifty-four, was fit and spry, but not so sure he would be able to say the same a dozen years on. It was no wonder the French were struggling. Generalship was not, Gort believed, a job for elderly men.
'Eh bien, mon general,' said Gort, smiling broadly and holding Billotte's gaze with his pale grey eyes. 'Quest-ce que vous avez a me dire?’ He pointed to a simple chair opposite his makeshift desk.
Billotte sat down with a heavy sigh. 'Je nai plus de reserves, pas de plan et peu d'espoir.'
For a moment, Gort gazed at him blankly.
Major Archdale coughed. 'He says he has no reserves, no plan, and little hope, my lord.'
'I think we understood, thank you, Osmund,' said Pownall.
'Someone get the general a drink,' said Gort. 'Scotch, or some brandy, if he would prefer. Then perhaps, Archdale, the general could outline to us what is happening with the rest of his armies. And while I fancy my French isn't bad, it might be better if you do interpret, if you don't mind.'
'Yes, my lord,' said Archdale.
Gort listened as Billotte, slumped in his chair, a large glass of brandy in hand, recounted his day's events. He had sacked Corap, commander of the Ninth Army, and replaced him with Giraud; the new Ninth Army commander was now missing, however, and his headquarters at Le Catelet, near Cambrai, had been overrun. Cambrai had fallen a few hours earlier. That thrust, south through the Ardennes, had broken the back of the Ninth Army and proved a devastating blow. 'Contre les panzers je ne peux rien faire,' he said, over and over. Against the Panzers, there is nothing I can do. There were, he reckoned, nine or ten German panzer divisions in this thrust, against which he felt powerless. He now stood up and walked to the map hanging on the wall. With his finger, he etched a line to where the Germans had now advanced: thirty-two miles from Amiens and just twenty from Arras. He had ordered counter-measures, he told them, which, he hoped, would force the Germans back and enable French and British troops in the north to link up once more with French troops to the south of the German thrust. Just what his counter-measures were, Billotte did not explain.
Then, having said his piece and drained his glass, the army group commander shook Gort's hand once more, fixed his kepi back on his head and left.
Pownall made to leave too, but Gort pointed to the chair Billotte had just vacated. 'Sit down, sit down,' he said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, 'I think, Henry, we can safely conclude that General Billotte has shot his bolt. It's incomprehensible but the man really doesn't have a plan at all, does he?'
'As he himself admitted, my lord.'
'I hoped at first he hadn't meant it.'
'You've seen the reports from the liaison officers?' asked Pownall. He took out his pipe, deftly stuffed some tobacco into it and lit it, amid a swirling cloud of sweet- smelling smoke.
'Yes, I have. I was reading them before the general arrived. Not very encouraging.' He stood up and faced the map behind him. 'He's talking of counter-measures, by which I'm assuming he means a counter-attack to close the gap punched by the panzers. But I'm not at all sure he's got the reserves he needs - not where he wants them, at any rate.'
'You don't think it can be closed, my lord?'
'Do you, Henry?'
'I agree he didn't seem very confident.'
'An understatement.' Gort held his hands together and tapped his chin with them. 'I have to say, Henry, the situation is worse than I'd thought.'
'Our chaps have reached the Dendre in good order,' said Pownall, 'and they'll be at the Escaut tomorrow. But there's certainly a complete void on our right. Between us and the Boche there is nothing but a few disorganized fag-ends of French units, as far as I can make out.'
Gort was silent for a time, locked in deep thought. 'As I see it, Henry,' he said at length, 'we have three options. First, we can help Billotte counter-attack and try to push the Germans back. But, as we've discovered, he has apparently no plan whatsoever as to how we can achieve this, and we don't even know what troops he's got for such an operation. Second, we could swing all our forces back to the Somme, to the south, but that's assuming the Germans don't thrust any further and that we've got time to make such a move. It would have the advantage of enabling us to retreat on our lines of communication, but it would also mean deserting the Belgians.'
Pownall relit his pipe. 'You think neither option is practicable?'
'I don't see that they are.'
'And the third?'
Gort sighed. 'The third option, Henry, is to withdraw the BEF to the Channel ports as a preliminary to evacuation.'
'Evacuation?' Pownall took his pipe from his mouth. 'The entire BEF?'
Gort turned away from the map and began to pace the room. 'Yes, Henry - or as much of our force as possible. If the French don't buck up pretty damn quickly, the Germans will be, victorious. Good God, look what they've achieved already! We can't do it alone here. Our boys have done all we've asked of them, but they can't work miracles. My responsibility is first and foremost to Britain and the men under my command. If France falls, who do you think will be next for Hitler? We're going to need every man available, so to send three hundred and fifty thousand to prison camps in Germany won't help our cause, will it?'
'No, but - good God, it'd mean leaving the battle at the time the French will most need us.'
'I can't help that. I need to speak to my corps commanders. Henry, tomorrow morning I want you to get Brookey, Barker and Adam over here, and convene a staff conference first thing to plan such a withdrawal. I still hope it may not come to this - the French may buck up, you never know - but we must be prepared. We have to have a plan, Henry, even if they do not.'
'By God, what a night,' said Pownall, now staring gloomily at the large wall map of northern France and the Low Countries. 'How awful it is to be allied to such a temperamental race.'
At the farm, Sykes held his breath, but his heart was hammering. Behind him, Bell moved and something chinked - his water-bottle against his bayonet, perhaps. It was a small noise but to Sykes, waiting by that partially open door, it had seemed horribly loud. The approaching German soldier was just yards away now.
Please, God. Sykes's whole body was tense.
Voices - orders. Then footsteps and, to his relief, Sykes saw both men go back to their motorcycles. So maybe there is a God after all, he thought. Gunning their throttles, the noise ripping apart the stillness of the night, the soldiers sped back through the archway and up the road towards the village.
'Quick!' said Sykes. They dashed out into the yard, ran between two outbuildings, and helped each other over the wall into the orchard.
They sprinted without stopping all the way to the wood, gave the right password - 'Chur
chill' - and, using the light of a filtered torch, made their way to 10 Platoon's bivouac area. There they found Tanner asleep on a patch of soft moss at the foot of a large oak, wrapped in his gas cape and leather jerkin.
'Sarge! Sarge!' hissed Sykes, shaking his shoulder.
Tanner opened his eyes immediately and sat up, pulling off his cape. 'What time is it?' he asked. 'And what are you two doing here? Who's at the tower?'
'It's twenty past midnight,' said Sykes. 'Germans came to the farm, Sarge, men on motorcycles, and there's a whole lot more in the village. I wondered whether you'd all heard them.'
'Not in these woods. Amazing how much trees deaden noise. Have you told anyone else?'
'No, Sarge.'
Tanner packed away his cape but kept on the jerkin, and grabbed his rifle. 'They must have been doing a quick recce of the place. I wouldn't be surprised if more of them come back. A big empty farm is always going to make a good billet. Let's find Mr Peploe.'
The lieutenant was woken and Sykes told him what they had seen.
'Sir, I'd like to go and have a look,' said Tanner. 'It may be that we can get some transport.'
'All right.' Peploe nodded.
'And I'd like to take Sykes with me, sir. He knows the way through the orchard.'
Peploe agreed. 'Just make sure you're back before one.'
The two men had not gone halfway across the field between the wood and the orchard before they heard more vehicles, and this time not just motorcycles.
'Good,' whispered Tanner.
They ran on through the orchard and up to the wall. The voices and clamour of several men mingled with the growl of engines until, one by one, the vehicles were turned off. They heard laughter from one of the stables, then two sets of footsteps just the other side of the wall. Then voices from the road and a flickering torch beam.
Both men fell to the ground, barely daring to breathe. A match was struck; a man said something, then he and his companion walked away.
'We need to see what's in the yard,' whispered Tanner, his battle-blouse and jerkin damp with dew.
'Give it a few more minutes, Sarge.'
Tanner turned his watch face to the stars: 0040. They couldn't afford to wait long. A couple of minutes passed, then a couple more. The voices faded until the farm seemed quiet.
'All right,' whispered Tanner. 'I'm going for a look- see.' Taking off his helmet, he stood up and peeped cautiously over the wall. The yard was a place of shadows, not a single light to be seen. Above, cloud covered the moon, but there was a faint glow - enough for him to make out the dark shapes of vehicles parked in the yard. Tanner cursed and sat down again. 'It's too dark. Damn.' Then the half-moon began to slide from behind a cloud, and Tanner was on to his feet again. Now he could see more clearly: a staff car, half a dozen motorcycles with sidecars, two small infantry trucks, an armoured scout car and a half-track. He sat down beside Sykes. 'Not bad,' he whispered, 'but not enough for more than seventy men.'
'We should check the road,' suggested Sykes. 'Maybe there're vehicles parked there.'
'Good thinking.'
They crept along beside the farm wall until they reached the road. Then, Sykes on his stomach and Tanner squatting, they peered round. Ha! thought Tanner, and nudged Sykes triumphantly. Lined up along the road, to either side of the archway, there were four trucks, three of which looked like Opel troop carriers.
They were uncovered, wooden-sided, and with ample room for twenty men in each. A fourth, at the far side of the archway, was smaller, with a sloping bonnet and, curiously, six wheels. It would be a squeeze, but the four would be enough.
'Come on, Stan,' whispered Tanner. 'Let's get back.'
As they hurried across the field in silence, Tanner thought about how best to take the vehicles. It had to be a simple operation, the emphasis, as ever, on surprise, but also speed. They needed to get in quick, steal the trucks and be gone again. Yes. That could work. He smiled to himself as the plan took shape in his mind.
Then his thoughts turned to Blackstone, who was proving more of an enigma than Tanner wanted to admit. There had been times since joining the company when he had been convinced that Blackstone was as evil a bastard as ever - and worse: that he was a murderer and wanted Tanner dead. He knew what he had seen on the bridge: Blackstone apparently aiming his rifle directly at him before lowering it. At that moment he had been as sure as a man could be that Blackstone had shot him. But now - well, now he wasn't so certain. The CSM had seemed so genuine in his denial when they'd talked earlier, and Tanner had to accept that the evidence he had built against him was circumstantial. There were no hard facts.
Tanner now wondered whether his knowledge of him in India - his intense dislike of him back then - had warped his view of the man these past ten days. Perhaps he had been too quick to see the worst in him, too ready to assume that Blackstone was at the heart of every bad deed he had witnessed. He still disliked the fellow, but was he himself guilty of trying to fit what scant evidence there was of these crimes around what he knew of Blackstone? Had he lost the ability to view matters objectively? All his life he had trusted his gut instinct, his sixth sense; it had saved his life a number of times. But now that gut instinct kept changing. By law a man was innocent until proven guilty; and Tanner could prove nothing. Not conclusively, at any rate.
Tanner sighed. And there was Blackstone's proposal, too. A few hours before he had been inclined to agree with the CSM's plan, but that was when the company had been without transport. If the vehicles could be successfully stolen, it would be better, he was certain, for them to stay together. But he doubted Blackstone would see it that way. No, the CSM would regard it as another deliberate act of defiance. Bloody hell, thought Tanner. It was hard enough fighting a war against the Germans without engaging in another among his own company. Perhaps, it now occurred to him, Blackstone didn't need to know - not for the time being, at any rate.
Past the sentries and back into the wood. The men were all awake now, packed up and ready for another long, gruelling day's march. They were quiet, senses still dulled from sleep, their mood sombre.
'In the nick of time,' muttered Lieutenant Peploe, as they reported to him. 'The OC wants us to form up by the edge of the wood in five minutes.'
'Sir,' said Tanner, in a low voice, 'there's enough transport, but we need to wait another hour.'
'We don't have another hour, Sergeant. We're leaving now.'
'I've got an idea, sir.'
'Go on.'
'With your permission, I'd like to take Sykes's section.
You go with the rest of the platoon, and once we've got the vehicles, we'll catch you up.'
'How will you know where to find us?'
'We'll come with you to the forming-up point and find out where Captain Barclay intends to lead us. Then we'll slip away.'
Peploe thought for a moment. 'I'm uneasy about it, Tanner. I've a feeling the OC would be against it, or else he'd want the whole company involved.'
'That would complicate things, sir. It has to be a small group acting quickly.'
'I see that, which means doing it behind the OC's back. Other grounds for concern? Well, I have a horrible feeling that if we part company in opposite directions in the middle of night, with Jerry lurking here, there and everywhere, it's the last we'll see of each other, which, frankly, would be a damn shame.' He took off his cap and tugged at his hair. 'On the other hand, it'd be madness to pass up such a golden opportunity. Does it have to wait an hour?'
'I was thinking that Jerry might be asleep by then . . . Sod it, sir. What if we go now? If we pull it off you'll have barely got over the bridge by the time we're finished. I'm presuming you'll be turning left down the road that runs alongside the river?'
'I'll make sure we do. In which case, all right, Sergeant. Go now.'
'You sure, sir?'
'Not a hundred per cent, no.' He held out his hand and Tanner took it. 'Good luck. Hopefully, I'll see you in a short while. Otherwise your ab
sence will take some explaining.' He headed back to the rest of the platoon, waiting patiently for him in a nearby clearing.
Tanner clapped Sykes on the back. 'Right, Stan, get your section together and we'll be off.'
Sykes switched on his filtered torch, called over his men and brought them into a semi-circle. Tanner looked into their ghostly faces: McAllister, Hepworth, Bell and Kershaw - good men, who had all served with him and Sykes in Norway - and the new lads: Ellis, Chambers, Verity, Rhodes and Denning.
'What's this, Sarge?' said McAllister. 'Why aren't we going with the others?'
'We're going to get some transport,' said Tanner. He saw Hepworth's face fall. 'Don't worry, Hep, this'll be a cinch and it'll make our lives a lot easier. Not only that, it means our chances of getting out of this fix will be much higher too. So cheer up.'
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