Tanner hurried over to him. 'Sir,' he said, looking at the wreckage, 'there's nothing we can do.'
'Can't just leave 'em here,' he said, and Tanner noticed the tears that streaked the grime on his face.
'Sir,' he said again.
The officer stood up and stared at the sky. 'The murdering bastards,' he said, his voice cracking. 'I had six good men in that house.' He picked up a broken brick and hurled it.
In the main square there were several large bomb craters. A few women were screaming while an old lady knelt outside the church, praying. Tanner saw Peploe and went to him. 'Sir, what are we supposed to be doing? We can't clear all this rubble.'
'God knows.' He looked up as Captain Barclay and a major approached.
'Peploe, this is Major McLaren,' said Barclay. 'He's taken over as battalion commander of Eighth DLL'
Peploe and Tanner saluted.
'You can help the wounded,' said McLaren, 'but I don't want you wasting too much time here.' He nodded towards the burning vehicles. 'Bastards hit an ammunition truck. Fifth Div artillery were passing through - damned unlucky timing.' His eyes rested on the debris. 'In any case, there are still enough of them to sort this place out.
I'd rather you were in position on D Company's flank.' He looked at his watch. 'Half an hour, no more. Jerry's only a few miles away so we might see some action later.'
It was a grim task collecting the dead and wounded. Tanner found an old man weeping over his wife, who had lost a leg, shorn clean off. He and Smailes had lifted her but she had died as they tried to hoist her into their arms. Then Smailes had been called to the anti-tank battery on the south-east of the village and Tanner followed with Corporal Cooper's section. Several large craters now pockmarked the field where they were positioned. Two of the guns had been put out of action, and one of the gun crews had been blown to smithereens, body parts flung in a wide arc to hang in trees and hedgerows. One young gunner was wandering about, his face and body covered with another man's blood. Two of Cooper's men vomited and Tanner couldn't blame them: it was one thing seeing an animal torn to pieces, quite another a human and a comrade. They'll get used to it. He certainly had, and while Smailes administered what help he could, Tanner removed bits of flesh from the hedges and branches near the guns, placed them in a pile a short distance away, then covered them with soil and stones from the craters.
'Thanks,' said an ashen-faced lieutenant. 'Very good of you.'
'It's easier for me, sir,' said Tanner. 'I didn't know them.'
The lieutenant swallowed. His uniform and face were filthy. 'It was all s-so sudden. One minute they were there, the next they'd g-gone.'
'They wouldn't have known a thing about it, sir.'
The lieutenant nodded. 'No. I suppose not.'
Tanner offered him a cigarette from a packet he had been given at Petit Vimy. He took it gratefully, but his hands were shaking so much he could hardly put it into his mouth.
'We'll help get the wounded back, sir.'
They took six men to the church, which had become a temporary field dressing station. Tanner had just helped set down a gunner with a bad groin wound when he saw Sykes and Hepworth carrying the body of a young woman. Her face, clothes and dark hair were covered with dust but even so he recognized her immediately. 'That's the girl,' he said, as they laid her down on the ground.
'Which girl?' asked Hepworth.
'Mademoiselle Lafoy,' said Tanner. Dark blood had matted her hair and run down her face. 'The girl who accused me.'
'It's a shame, Sarge,' said Hepworth, 'but at least she can't testify against you no more.'
'For God's sake, Hep,' snapped Tanner. 'I'd far rather have seen her alive and found out who persuaded her to set me up.'
'And for how much,' added Sykes.
'Yes. I wonder what it would take to persuade a hungry, homeless girl to do that.' The rain, which had stopped for a short while, now began again. Fat drops landed on her face and arms, cleaning away the powdery layer of dust. Tanner looked away, and heard Blackstone order everyone to fall in.
'Come on, boys,' he said. 'Let's get going, iggery, eh?'
Later that evening there was another air raid, but by that time D Company was dug into the north-west of Givenchy, and the bombs were directed further along the ridge. At ten, orders arrived that they were to hold Vimy Ridge to the end. Twenty minutes later, enemy tanks were reported to be no more than six hundred yards away. They heard the squeak and rattle of tracks but it was too dark to see. The men were restless and jittery but Tanner reckoned they were safe until the morning. Then just after midnight new orders arrived. They were not going to hold the ridge after all: instead they were to head back to a new line of defence behind the La Bassee canal, some ten miles to the north-east.
Wearily they got to their feet, gathered their kit and tramped back through the woods, Bren carriers clattering through the trees on their flank covering their withdrawal. At Petit Vimy, trucks and transport were waiting for them. Desultory gunfire boomed across the night, but otherwise the violence of the previous day had been left behind. Tanner sat at the back of a large fifteen-hundredweight Bedford, Sykes beside him. The rain had stopped and a dense canopy of stars twinkled above them. Tanner's clothes were still damp and he shivered. Behind them, he could hear carriers wheeling about, but of the enemy panzers there was no sign. By one a.m. on Friday, 24 May, the column was trundling down through Vimy, vehicles nose to tail. A snail's pace, but better than walking through the night on exhausted legs.
Withdrawing again, thought Tanner. Even so, he was glad to be getting away from that place, a part of France that seemed haunted by death. He lit a cigarette and smoked it in silence, watching the pale smoke disperse into the cool night air. When it was finished, he flicked away the stub, closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep.
By mid-morning on the twenty-fourth, the men of D Company were digging in yet again, this time in a large, thick wood a mile or so behind the La Bassee canal near the main road between Carvin and Libercourt, some fifteen miles north-east of Arras. Still attached to 151st Brigade and the 8th Durham Light Infantry, they were told to rest there for as long as possible. However, no sooner had they begun to dig their new slit trenches than they were joined on the opposite side of the road by large numbers of French troops, who had moved in with the Luftwaffe seemingly on their tail like a swarm of angry bees. The planes began dive-bombing and strafing almost immediately.
'Some bloody rest this,' muttered Sykes, as 'Fanner squatted with him in their slit trench.
'Could be worse, Stan,' said Tanner. 'Could still be raining. And at least we're getting our rations.'
The delivery of food had done wonders for the men's mood. Earlier, near Carvin, they had been given breakfast in a disused factory. This had been followed by the establishment of B Echelon's kitchens and the smell of tinned stew floating to them through the wood. Much to Tanner's relief, supplies of cigarettes had also arrived.
By evening that day, enemy air activity had melted away and the sound of the guns to the south lessened until a strange quiet descended over the wood - so much so that as dusk was falling, Tanner heard faint birdsong a short distance away. 'Hear that, sir?' he said to Peploe, as they walked along the platoon lines. 'It's a nightingale. I haven't heard one since I was a boy.'
Peploe smiled. 'They didn't have them in India, then?'
'No, but they always used to sing back home. At least, there was one part of a wood where you could always hear them. Especially at this time of year - May and early June.'
'It's always been my favourite season on the farm - the leaves on the trees out at last, everything so damned green and lush, the whole summer stretching ahead. And cricket. Lots and lots of cricket. You play, Sergeant?'
'I do, sir. Love the game. That was one thing that linked India with home - and, of course, in India, you could play pretty much all year round.'
'And here we are getting bombed and strafed and shot up. I must have been mad to
join up.' He grinned. Tanner was glad that his mood had improved. 'Still,' Peploe added, 'at least it's quiet tonight.'
'And we should make the most of it, sir. God knows what'll happen tomorrow.'
The following day began with orders that rations were to be cut by fifty per cent. Then, early in the afternoon, came the news that another counter-attack was to take place: 5th and 50th Divisions, with four French divisions, would thrust southwards towards Cambrai, which meant 151st Brigade would be very much involved. The first obstacle - a preliminary to the main attack that would go in the following day - was to get back across the La Bassee canal in the face of what was expected to be heavy enemy opposition. By four in the afternoon, a troop-carrying company had arrived, dispersing its trucks and vehicles through the wood ready to move the men forward to the start line of their night-time assault.
Tanner never enjoyed the hours before an attack. Apprehension gnawed at him, replacing hunger with an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. He cleaned his weapons - his rifle and the MP35 - then cleaned them again, and took on more ammunition, although less was available than he would have liked. He checked his kit, smoked and brewed mugs of sweet tea. He knew the others were in the same boat - if anything, they were probably more nervous than he was; scared, even. Certainly their drawn, pale faces suggested so.
A little under twenty miles away, as the crow flew, General Lord Gort was reaching a decision that would reprieve the Yorkshire Rangers and all those troops involved in the proposed attack. Three days earlier he had moved his command post to the small village of Premesques, north-west of Lille. The British commander-in-chief and his advance staff had occupied a rambling old house in the heart of the village. Now, in a wood-panelled ground-floor room, with thick beams and a low ceiling, Gort was staring at the maps of northern France and Belgium that had been hung on the walls when he had moved in.
The day had brought little cheer. Following on from the news that the Channel port of Boulogne had fallen the day before, it now seemed that Calais was all but in German hands too. His promised 1st Armoured Division, attempting to move north from Cherbourg, had made no headway. Supplies of everything, but especially food and ammunition, were running low. General Dill, deputy CIGS, had arrived, and let him know that the BEF was being criticized at home for its performance. Throughout the day, disquieting news had reached them from the northern front, where it seemed the Belgian line was deteriorating; apparently, Belgian forces were drifting northwards towards the river Scheldt - reports suggested that a gap was developing between them and the British. Then, half an hour ago, details of some German documents captured by a British patrol on the river Lys, on the northern flank, revealed that the enemy intended to bolster its front there and attack between Ypres and Commines - precisely at the link between BEF and Belgian forces. If reports of the gap were true, the Hun would be able to outflank the BEF in the north with potentially catastrophic consequences.
Gort studied the mass of roads, towns, villages, rivers and canals - images and names that were now so familiar to him. His forces were dangerously overstretched, of that there could be no doubt, and even though they had intercepted the extraordinary message that German troops had halted their attack towards Merville and Dunkirk, it was clear this respite could not last.
Lord Gort fingered his trim moustache and cast his eyes towards his southern flank. General Weygand had demanded there be a properly co-ordinated counterattack southwards - with which the War Office had concurred - but only a few days earlier he had attempted precisely the same thing at Arras, and, as he had feared, their allies had barely contributed. Admittedly Weygand seemed to have a bit more verve than poor old Gamelin, but Gort was loath to push two divisions into the attack unless he knew for certain that the French would honour their commitments to the battle, especially now that his northern front was so shaky. And therein lay the quandary that had troubled him this past half-hour: should he let down his French allies and move 5th and 50th Divisions north to bolster his front there, or should he go ahead with the Weygand plan in the hope that, this time, the French would pull their weight? Damn it. He sat down at his desk, put his hands together and stared ahead.
A knock on his door startled him. 'Come,' he said.
'Excuse me, my lord,' said Major Archdale.
Gort motioned him to a seat. 'What news from Army Group One? How are their battle plans?'
'Down to three divisions, not four, my lord.'
'So already they're reneging. Give me strength.' Gort sighed. 'You know, Archdale, I've had a damned rum deal from our allies. The Dutch copped it from the start, but the French and the Belgians - you can't get a straight answer from 'em. The French are always complaining that they're too tired to fight, their staff work's a bloody disgrace, and there's been no firm direction or proper coordination whatsoever from the high command. Now I hear that the Belgians are drifting away and that a dangerous gap is emerging between our chaps and them. Tell me this, why are the Belgians retreating north? If they fell back southwards, they'd be able to preserve a decent front and lines of communication.' He felt himself flush, but was too angry to care - too frustrated by the impossible position in which he was placed, everyone pulling him in different directions, the Belgians tugging him north, Weygand urging him south, Churchill and the war cabinet sticking their oar in. 'Well, Archdale?' he said.
'I wouldn't like to say, sir, it's not my place, but I wouldn't be surprised if the Belgians feel rather as we all do about the French. Perhaps they think it's better to fight with their backs to their coast than retreat towards France.'
'You think they'll throw in the towel?'
Archdale shrugged. 'It may come to that. More than half their country's already in enemy hands. General Blanchard has gone to Belgian GHQ, though. Perhaps he can put some steel into them.' He didn't seem convinced.
'And what's the mood at Blanchard's HQ? Tell me frankly. Is it any better now that Billotte's gone?'
'There's faith in Weygand, my lord, but General Blanchard is the same man he was before.'
'In other words, no commander at all.'
Archdale looked apologetic.
The telephone on Gort's desk rang and he dismissed Archdale, then picked up the receiver. It was General Adam, commander of III Corps, whose troops were earmarked for the southern counter-attack. 'Tell me some good news,' said Gort, trying to sound cheerful.
'I wish I could, my lord,' said the general. 'I've just been to see Altmayer. He told me he can only provide one division for the attack.'
'One?' Gort began to laugh.
'Sir?' said Adam.
'But, my dear Adam,' said Gort, 'that is good news. Don't you see? We'll have to call off the attack. It can't possibly succeed - one division! My God, it's unbelievable. Yesterday it was four plus two hundred tanks. Now the best the French can offer is one lone division!'
He rang off and strode next door to see Pownall. 'Henry!' he said. 'Do you know how long I've been agonizing over what to do about our northern flank? I've had a call from Adam saying the French are only planning to put in one division!'
'Surely not?'
'It's true. So that's made my decision for me. Brookey can have his two divisions. Get Franklyn up here smartish. We need to stop Fifth Div from moving south and get them and Fiftieth up to plug the line between Ypres and Commines right away.'
'Of course, my lord,' said Pownall, 'but what about Blanchard?'
'We'll tell him that, because of this, the attack would be doomed to fail and we'll no longer play a part in it. It's no more than giving them a dose of their own medicine.'
'What about the PM and the war cabinet?'
'Don't get 'em involved. They'll only throw a spanner into the works. They've asked me to command the BEF and that's what I'm doing - commanding, damn it. We'll simply present it as a fait accompli.'
'Very wise, my lord. In any case, we don't have enough ammunition to carry out such an attack. I was never very keen on the idea.' He shook his
head wearily. 'The whole thing really is a first-class mess, and what's frustrating is that I don't think it's much of our making.'
'I agree, Henry. But it's important that, from now on, we think for ourselves. We can't rely on our allies, and I think we may have just saved the BEF from annihilation. What we must do now is ensure that as many of our boys as possible are saved - saved to fight another day.'
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