Five minutes later, they were ready. The big Somua had rattled out of the way, and the half-tracks, while two machine-gun crews had set up their MG34s, with full belts of ammunition feeding into the breeches. Timpke stood with Knochlein behind the machine-guns, watching the British prisoners being marched towards the farmhouse. The Untersturmfuhrer leading them now came towards them. He looked nervous, his eyes shifting between the prisoners and the officers before him. Timpke stared at him. It is an order. Do it. The Tommies at first seemed not to know what was going on, but then some spotted the machine-guns facing them and panic spread among them.
When the first of the British soldiers had reached the end of the brick building, Knochlein glanced at Timpke, who nodded. A moment later, an order was barked and the machine-guns opened fire.
Chapter 21
Somehow they had managed to get lost. Thick cloud had rolled in, the sun had disappeared and, with it, the opportunity to navigate their way easily due east. Before long, it had begun to drizzle, and the flat, featureless Flanders landscape had been consumed by a dull mist. The inaccuracy of their road map had compounded their difficulties. The Rangers had certainly avoided refugees but instead had found themselves tramping a web of tracks and narrow roads, none of which seemed to correspond with what was shown on the map.
After a couple of hours, and still no sign of Poperinghe, Tanner was frustrated. He prided himself on his sense of direction yet, to his extreme annoyance, he had lost his bearings - not that he wanted to admit this to the lieutenant who, he knew, was feeling much the same. The men's spirits had been low when they had left Steenvoorde, but now they were plummeting rapidly. Heads were dropping, feet were dragging; there was grumbling among the ranks. Just one more crossroads, another couple of hundred yards, Tanner kept telling himself.
'Sarge,' said Sykes, after they had been tramping for nearly three hours, 'we've got to stop. Old Blackie'll be feeding off this one. Admit defeat, and let's stop for the night.'
Tanner nodded. 'All right, Stan.'
The lieutenant agreed, but added, 'Let's keep going for another half-hour. Poperinghe can't be far now.'
But no cluster of buildings or high-spired church appeared through the mist. Poperinghe remained as elusive as ever, so when, at just after eight o'clock, a large white farmstead loomed ahead, Peploe called a halt.
'Chaps, I'm sorry this has been a difficult afternoon,' he said to them, from the road leading to the farm. 'The lack of a good map and particularly the weather haven't helped. I'd hoped to get us to Poperinghe, but it's not to be, so we'll stay here for the night.'
It was a large, rambling place of whitewashed brick and grey slate, built around three sides of a square, with a narrow moat-like pond running along one edge. The farmhouse itself had a high-pitched roof, with a collection of different-sized barns and outbuildings, presumably added on at differing times but which, over the years, had moulded together, and now spread round the inner yard.
As the Rangers walked across the flat wooden bridge over the pond and into the yard by the front of the house, a few chickens scurried about - an encouraging sign. As Peploe approached the main door, a man appeared. Wearing a dark jacket and well-cut trousers, with thick greying hair and a moustache, he gazed defiantly at the exhausted, footsore and hungry men before him.
Immediately Peploe stepped up, offered his hand, and began to speak to him in French. Tanner watched carefully, trying to gauge the farmer's response. A shrug, a finger pointing towards one of the barns.
'Do you think he's playing ball, Sarge?' said Sykes, beside him.
'I don't think he's got much choice. But Mr Peploe's a well-brought-up fellow. I'm sure he's asking very nicely.'
Now they saw Peploe smile, shake the farmer's hand, then trot back down the steps. 'Monsieur Michaud is kindly allowing us to stay here tonight,' he told the men. 'He suggests we stay in the long barn, which is mostly empty except for straw and hay. He's going to see what food he can find, and we'll cook in sections. The well water in the yard comes from a natural spring so it's perfectly safe to drink and, indeed, wash and shave with. We'll sort out food now, but try to clean up a bit and then we can get some rest.' He glanced around at them. 'All right, dismissed.'
The farmer offered them cheese, milk, half a dozen old chickens and a bag of the previous season's apples and potatoes. Men from each section were issued the rations, then left to cook a meal, either on Primus stoves or on small fires made with logs from the woodshed. The drizzle had stopped, but it was cool, the air damp, as the men huddled round their fires and stoves. Savoury aromas soon wafted across the yard, mixing with the smell of straw and animal dung, reminding Tanner of how hungry he was. Seeing the lieutenant standing by the entrance to the farm, he wandered over to him.
'We should post some sentries, sir,' he said.
'Oh, yes - I suppose we should. I hadn't thought of that.'
'Shall I sort it out?'
'Thank you, Tanner - yes, please.'
As Tanner turned, Peploe added, 'I think morale's picked up a bit now, don't you?'
Tanner smiled. 'I'd say so, sir, although it'll be even better when they've eaten.'
He had just organized the sentries when he heard a vehicle approaching. Stepping out into the road he saw a British ambulance driving towards him. As the truck drew level, the driver, a sergeant with a Red Cross armband, leaned out of the window.
'Boy, am I glad to see you,' he said. 'We're horribly lost. Any idea where we are?'
Tanner looked at him, then at the passenger sitting next to him, a woman wearing the grey uniform of a Queen Alexandra's nurse and a tin hat. She stared at him as though she recognized him, then caught his eye, smiled and looked away.
'Er, not entirely sure, I'm afraid,' he said. 'We're lost too. We were trying to get to Poperinghe.'
'You stopping here for the night, then?'
'Yes. Where are you headed?'
'Ypres. We've been on the go non-stop since yesterday evening, taking wounded blokes up to Dunkirk and back. This is our third run but we were trying to be clever and avoid the civvies on the roads. The plan backfired rather.'
'Same happened to us,' said Tanner. 'Have you any idea what's going on at the moment?'
'Has anyone?' He grinned ruefully. 'The evacuation's begun.'
'Evacuation?' said Tanner. 'Really?'
'Yes. From Dunkirk. Bloody mayhem there - you've never seen anything like it. Men are falling back and making straight for the coast while other divisions hold the Jerries back. Yorkshire Rangers, eh?' he said, looking at the black and green shoulder flash on Tanner's battle- blouse. 'We had one of your lot in the ambulance this morning.'
'Where from?' said Tanner eagerly.
'Just south of Ypres somewhere. Wijtschate, I think it was.'
Tanner pushed his helmet to the back of his head. 'How many are they hoping to lift?'
'Search me. Not too many, looking at the place. Dunkirk's been badly knocked about. The port's absolutely had it.' He turned to the nurse beside him. 'What do you think, Lucie? Shall we stop here tonight? No point getting even more lost and we need a rest.'
She yawned. 'Yes, let's. I'm done in. I won't be any use to anyone until I've slept.'
The medic turned back to Tanner. 'Something smells good.'
'We're just cooking some food up now. Ma'am, I'm sure there's room in the farmhouse for you - and your name was?' he asked the sergeant.
'Greenstreet, Jim Greenstreet. And this is Lucie Richoux of the QAs.' He held out a hand.
Tanner shook it. 'You all right dossing down with us in the barn, Jim?'
'Perfect, mate.'
Despite the now fading light, Nurse Richoux received a fair number of stares and glances as she stepped out of the ambulance. Tanner introduced her and Sergeant Greenstreet to the lieutenant. 'The evacuation's begun, sir,' Tanner told him. 'It sounds like First Battalion is one of the units helping to keep a corridor open until the rest have passed through. I bet that's wher
e 151st Brigade were heading - to help keep the Jerries at bay in the Ypres area.'
'Christ,' said Peploe. 'I can hardly believe it. It's not even been three weeks.' He sighed heavily. 'So we were right, then, to head in the direction of Ypres.'
'Sounds like it, sir.'
'Then we'd better try and join them tomorrow. Or at least look for them.' He knocked on the farmhouse door and ushered the nurse forward. 'We'd better make the most of this rest.'
By half past ten the men, Tanner included, were asleep in the barn, their appetites sated. One man, though, was still very much awake. Sergeant-Major Blackstone couldn't sleep. Instead, he lay on the straw drinking a bottle of wine he'd taken earlier in Steenvoorde. The news of the evacuation was the final straw - and still that bloody upstart of a lieutenant wanted them to head to Ypres in the morning. Peploe, Tanner and Sykes - the trio seemed bent on ruining everything. He'd had the whole company eating out of his hand - especially that idiot Barclay. The captain had been just the sort of man Blackstone had wanted as OC. A weak character, suggestible and easily persuaded.
It had been almost ridiculously easy, Blackstone reflected. He'd laid it on pretty thick that he was a highly experienced soldier while subtly yet repeatedly reminding Barclay of his own shortcomings. He'd won over the men in no time, through a combination of charm, easy-going affability and sudden savage threats. A tried and tested formula. In no time at all he'd been running the show, enjoying an easy life and a satisfying amount of power. And when they were thrust into action, as he had known at some point would surely happen, it had been his intention to steer them - and, of course, himself - away from the fray. He saw no reason to get himself killed for King and country when plenty of others were willing to do so.
And there had been rich pickings, too. He'd been building quite a nice little nest egg. When the war was over, he planned to retire in style. It was by chance that he had discovered Slater's criminal past but the two men had quickly come to a working agreement. Blackstone's influence created opportunities that Slater's criminal mind could exploit. Together they were quite a team. The fuel racket at Manston had proved particularly lucrative.
Then Tanner had turned up. Damn him to hell. He'd been just the same in India - full of misplaced honour and tediously incorruptible. Of all the sergeants in the world, why had Tanner had to join his nice little set-up? He'd groaned the moment he'd seen him again and his forebodings had been justified. Everything had started to go wrong the moment the bastard had arrived and started sniffing around their fuel scam. He'd tried charm, he'd tried threats - Christ, Slater had tried to kill him and that interfering sidekick of his in the stores at Manston - but the idiot wouldn't take the hint. He'd taken a shot at Tanner on the canal but he'd never been much good with a gun and had missed. Then he'd suggested they split up the company. For once, he'd thought he'd got through to him, but Tanner had gone and spoiled everything with his damned heroics. Next, Blackstone had bribed that silly French bitch to accuse Tanner of rape and that hadn't worked either. Then Slater had killed all those SS monkeys in an attempt to implicate him. Blackstone had balked at the idea, but it had been a good plan - and, anyway, they had been SS Nazis. Who was going to mourn them? The first part had been to make sure Barclay and the rest of the company remained in the village. With a bit of talk to the captain about duty and honour and obeying his orders to the letter, that had been easy enough. The second part of the plan was to wake the unconscious SS officer and talk about Tanner loudly; and the third was to make sure he and Slater got the hell out of there - which they had by telling the OC they were going to get reinforcements. It had all been working perfectly until they'd discovered another vehicle had got away - and that the stupid bastards in it had got reinforcements. Rather than Tanner being left to a slow, painful death at the hands of the SS, his nemesis had turned up again with the rest of them the following morning. Blackstone had felt like shooting him down there and then.
Now he got up and walked out of the barn into the yard, still clutching the bottle. It was a still, cool night, with just the hint of a breeze. For a moment, he wondered whether he and Slater should take the ambulance and scarper with the loot they'd acquired since they'd been in France, but he knew that wasn't the answer. After Warlus, he wouldn't make the same mistake of assuming the lads would all end up dead or captured. In any case, the survivors would be bound to report them. No, he needed to get the boys on his side, which he'd been working hard at the past few days. He reckoned he'd done quite well, too, but with the lieutenant now in charge, his authority had been weakened. And he was all too aware that most of them, especially those in Peploe's platoon, still respected Tanner. Somehow he needed to get Peploe out of the way. Yes. Peploe first, and then he'd sort out Tanner once and for all.
A light at the top of the house caught his attention and he looked up to see the nurse standing at the window in her underclothes, drawing the thick curtains. He felt his loins stir and took another glug of wine. An idea occurred to him - a plan that would not only get rid of Peploe, but would allow himself a bit of fun with the girl. There were, as far as he knew, only four people in the farmhouse: the farmer and his wife, the lieutenant and the nurse. He took another glug of wine. Courage, lad. This little plan might just work. A bit reckless, perhaps, but the wine was making him feel so, and the sight of the girl had awakened in him the urge to find female company. Let's see what Ted makes of it. Returning to the barn, he trod softly among the snoring men and woke Slater, who followed him silently outside.
'All right,' said Slater, once Blackstone had explained his plan. 'But we should leave it another hour. Make sure everyone's properly asleep.'
'All right. You can have the girl after I'm done.'
'Not my type,' muttered Slater. 'And there's a shotgun in the kitchen. I saw it earlier. I'll get that and I've got the captain's Webley too.' He grinned. 'Hang on a minute. I bet there are supplies in that blood-wagon. Some chloroform could come in handy.'
Blackstone chuckled. 'I like it. I'll go and talk to the sentries outside the front while you have a little rummage.'
It was a quarter to midnight when they crept into the dairy next to the house and, from there, found some steps and an open door that led into the kitchen. Using their torches they soon spotted the shotgun resting in a corner by an old oak dresser. Both barrels were loaded. Slater smiled. 'They were always going to be,' he whispered. 'After all, this is a time of war.'
They trod softly up the stone stairs. From the landing there were a number of rooms but they had already guessed from the open windows they had seen in the yard where the farmer and his wife, and the lieutenant, were sleeping. Stealing down the corridor, Blackstone saw, to his relief, that the lieutenant's door was ajar. He listened and heard his slow, rhythmic breathing, then nodded to Slater. Putting on his respirator, Slater took out a two-ounce tube of chloroform and entered the room. Blackstone waited breathlessly, but half a minute later Slater reappeared, taking off his gas mask. 'He's out for the count. You go and get him, then have your oats,' he whispered. 'I'll sort out Mr and Mrs Farmer.'
Lieutenant Peploe was laid out on his bed, still wearing his trousers and shirt. Blackstone listened to the faint breathing, then hoisted him onto his shoulders with a gasp, staggered out of the room and up the second flight of stairs to the top of the house. He was hot and breathing heavily by the time he got there, and, he realized, his senses weren't quite as keen as he would have liked. He'd had too much of that damned wine. He shook his head, then moved towards the door at the end of the short passage.
It opened before he had reached it, and there, before him, was the nurse, hastily buttoning the neck of her dress. 'What's the matter?' she asked. Her dark hair, he noticed, was cut short and hung to her shoulders. She had a trim, shapely figure.
'It's the lieutenant,' he said. 'He's unwell.'
She switched on the corridor light, then glanced up at him guardedly. 'All right,' she said. 'Put him on the bed.'
He did so
, then stood back. At that moment, there was a commotion from below. The farmer's wife screamed, then there was a crash and the farmer himself began to shout.
'My God, what on earth's going on?' said the nurse, alarm in her voice.
'Never you mind,' said Blackstone, grabbing her wrist.
'Let go of me!' she shouted, but Blackstone had both her wrists now and pushed her to the floor. She was wriggling and kicking as he heard Slater and the farmer thumping up the stairs.
'You nearly done, Will?' Slater called.
'No, I'm bloody not,' he gasped. 'Keep still, will you, lass?'
'Too bad,' said Slater. 'I'm coming up.'
Blackstone saw the girl's eyes widen as Slater entered the room. Turning, he saw his friend's hand was over the farmer's mouth and the shotgun was pressed to his side. Now he flung the man against the wall, then calmly pulled the trigger. Plasterwork fell as Monsieur Michaud slumped to the floor. Blackstone was momentarily stupefied, then felt a violent pain in his groin. Rolling over in agony, he was conscious of the nurse jumping to her feet and running out of the room.
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