Darkest Hour sjt-2

by James Holland

  'You saved my life - thank you.'

  'I've never been more terrified.'

  'You're very brave.'

  'We need fresh clothes,' she said, 'but I daren't go out. I've used up my courage quota for one night.'

  Tanner stood up, stumbled, then steadied himself. 'Wait here,' he said. 'Don't move a muscle. I'll be as quick as I can but I must find out what's going on.' He crept out of the door at the back of the farmstead, then saw he was beside the long barn in which they had been resting. He paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark.

  In moments, shapes emerged - the looming bulk of the house, trees and bushes, stars reflected in the pond. He made his way back down the track, round the house and into the yard. The ambulance had gone and there were no longer any lights on in the house - had Blackstone and Slater left? It seemed likely but he couldn't be certain. He ran to the yard, entered the barn and found no one there. Yet his kit and rifle were. He put on his webbing over his wet shirt, felt in his pack for his torch and switched it on, then hurried back across the yard and into the house. Immediately he heard banging and muffled shouts from the kitchen.

  'Help! Get us out! Help!'

  Tanner went into the kitchen, shone his torch and saw that the dresser had been moved in front of the cellar door. He moved it clear, then smashed the door with the butt of his rifle until at last it swung free. He shone his torch on the stairs. 'Stan?' he said, seeing his friend. 'What the bloody hell's been going on here?'

  Despite the pain in his head, Tanner's spirits were higher than they had ever been since he'd arrived at Manston. Blackstone and Slater had gone. An enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

  He ordered the fire in the kitchen to be relit, brought Lucie in from the barn and led her to a chair in front of the fire. Then he detailed Corporal Cooper to organize a burial party for the bodies of Monsieur and Madame Michaud. Everyone else was sent back to the barn. They would rest until morning, he told them, by which time he hoped Peploe might have recovered. Sergeant Greenstreet had agreed to remain with the lieutenant, who was already showing groggy signs of coming back round to consciousness.

  Having overseen the burial of the farmer and his wife, Tanner staggered back into the kitchen, where he found Lucie wrapped in a rug and warming herself by the fire; her uniform hung over a chair.

  'There's some brandy on the table,' she said. 'You should have a glass. It'll do you good.'

  Tanner poured himself a tumbler, then sat in an armchair next to her. 'I'm sorry about what happened,' he said. 'Those two have been making life very difficult for some time. I just couldn't nail anything on them. But I'm truly sorry you should have been caught up in it.'

  'It was frightening but, actually, he'd barely laid a finger on me before I hit him hard between the legs.'

  'A good place to go for - it's always painful,' said Tanner.

  'Yes, well, it did the trick. Far more upsetting was seeing Monsieur Michaud killed like that. I've seen some terrible things since coming to France and I've got a strong stomach, these days, but that was just so - so brutal, so cold-blooded.' She shivered.

  Tanner sipped his brandy, the liquid searing the back of his throat. Christ, his head throbbed. He gazed at the flames and noticed steam coming from the thick serge of his still-wet trousers and shirt, then saw that Lucie was staring at him. He met her gaze and smiled. She was undeniably pretty - slight, with large deep-brown eyes. There was vulnerability in them, he thought. 'Richoux,' he said. 'Jim said your name was Richoux. Doesn't sound very English.'

  'It's not. My father's French. My mother's English, though, and I was sent to school in England. But I think of myself as French, really. It's home. And now it's overrun with Germans.'

  'What will you do if France falls?'

  'Go back to England, I suppose. I joined the QA in London,'

  'And what about your parents?'

  'They're still here. At least, I hope they are. We live near Cherbourg - I don't think the hysteria's reached there yet.' She sighed. 'You should take off those wet clothes and let them dry. I must look at your head - you might need a couple of stitches.'

  'Maybe,' he mumbled. He took off his webbing, then undid his boots and put them before the fire.

  'And the rest,' said Lucie. 'Don't be shy on my account.'

  He knew she was right; wet clothes were to be avoided if at all possible. He needed to be fit in the days to come. Even so, he felt self-conscious as he took off his trousers, then his shirt.

  'What happened to you?' she asked, seeing the mottled yellow and purple bruising across his right side.

  'Nothing much - a bullet graze and a bit of a kicking. All thanks to those two.' He yawned. 'Maybe we should get some rest now. There are plenty of bedrooms upstairs.'

  'Yes, you're right. But I'd rather not go back to that room at the top.'

  'Of course not,' said Tanner, standing up. 'Come on. We'll find you a room on the first floor.'

  They crept upstairs. The house was still once more, the only sound the gentle snores coming from Peploe's room.

  'That's Jim,' whispered Lucie. 'I've heard him snore even louder than that.'

  The bedroom door opposite was open. It was the same room from which Slater had thrown Tanner. The window was still open, and there was a large, unused bed. 'Why don't you sleep here?' he suggested. 'I'll get your kit from upstairs.'

  'Thank you.'

  He returned a minute later. 'Goodnight,' he said, having placed her kit on the bed.

  'Sergeant,' she said, 'just let me look at your head first. Really-I should.'

  Tanner sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of his near-nakedness. Lucie knelt behind him, her delicate fingers parting his hair. He winced as she touched the wound.

  'Sorry,' she said. 'It does need a couple of stitches. There's no point leaving it open and letting it get infected. And you've some old stitches too that should be taken out. What have you been doing?'

  'Soldiers tend to get bashed about a bit,' he said.

  'But not usually by your own side.'

  'You'd hope not.'

  She delved into her surgical haversack, took out a syringe and a phial, then a rolled cloth pouch that reminded him of his housewife. 'I'm just going to give you a small injection of procaine,' she said. 'It'll numb your head a bit.'

  'Good,' said Tanner. 'You can give me a big one if you like.'

  She laughed, a soft, infectious sound. 'Just keep your head still. This won't take long.'

  When she had finished, she ruffled his hair, then put away her surgical scissors and thread. Something made him linger, then turn to her. She gazed at him a moment, then ran her hand across his cheek. 'You remind me very much of someone,' she said. 'Someone I used to know.' She leaned towards him, lips parted, and kissed him. 'Stay with me,' she breathed. 'Stay with me tonight.'

  Chapter 22

  Six p.m., Tuesday, 28 May, Wijtschate, Belgium. What was left of D Company, the Yorkshire Rangers, stood sheltering at the edge of a wood a short distance from the village. The passage of shells could be heard easily amid the crumps and sharper detonations, whistling as they hurtled through the air. Short but plentiful bursts of machine-gun fire and the lighter explosions of mortars indicated that this was not merely an exchange of artillery fire but that front-line infantrymen were actively engaged against one another. Every so often a larger shell - a 105 or 155 - exploded and the men felt the ground below them shake. Despite the damp and the rain that still threatened, the air was heavy with cordite, burning and dust. Wijtschate, once a pretty Belgian village, had had the misfortune to find itself on the front line twice in the space of twenty-five years. In the Great War it had been destroyed and now it was on its way to being destroyed again. Several houses were burning; many more had crumbled. Shell craters pocked the road that

  led into the village square. Ahead, a column of men were picking their way through the rubble of a collapsed building. Another shell hurtled over, this time from the western si
de - British gunners.

  Tanner looked up as a despatch rider sped down the road a hundred yards in front of them and turned into the farmhouse that was now home to 13th Brigade Headquarters. A few minutes later another motorcycle raced off. Messengers had been coming and going - by motorcycle, bike and on foot - at regular intervals. Taking out a cigarette, he glanced at the men. They looked fed up. It had rained on and off for most of the day, and although gas capes were more or less waterproof, they couldn't stand up to prolonged rain. Moreover, they were hot, especially when marching. Tanner had discarded his hours earlier, but now his uniform was damp again. Khaki serge was certainly warm and strong, but when wet it was heavy, scratchy and a bugger to dry. Tanner wondered why he'd bothered to put his trousers in front of the fire the night before, and pleasanter thoughts of Lucie sprang into his mind. She'd been a sweet girl - passionate, too - but there had been a wistfulness about her he'd not been able to put his finger on. Perhaps it was just the war - and the inevitable loss of France. They had left her and Sergeant Greenstreet in Poperinghe, and he wondered whether he would ever see her again; he hoped so. She had got under his skin more than he had expected. The girl who had saved his life.

  The roads had been heaving all day, with French and British troops going in the opposite direction from their own small band. Their progress had prompted numerous jibes: 'You're heading the wrong way!' 'Dunkirk's the other direction!' It had got on their nerves and more than once Tanner had questioned whether he and Peploe had made the right decision. The men had carried on marching, standing aside to let vehicles through, weaving past troops and civilians, but by the middle of the afternoon, heads were sagging. At least the lieutenant was fit, apparently none the worse for the crack on his head. 'I must have a very thick skull,' he had joked.

  He and Peploe had inevitably talked about Blackstone and Slater. Peploe was of much the same opinion as Tanner - that their flight was a weight off his mind. Tanner wondered where they were now. Back in England already? It wouldn't have surprised him.

  'Don't worry, Sergeant,' Peploe had told him that morning, 'they're facing a life on the run now. I swore I'd make sure they paid for what they did in Warlus and I mean it even more now. And if for any reason I don't make it back and you do, you must promise me you won't let them get away with what they did.'

  Tanner had promised. He wondered what had become of the Pole, Torwinski. Christ, but that seemed a long time ago now. And Lyell? Had he made it back?

  A hundred yards away the column of men had now halted by Brigade Headquarters. Tanner guessed there were two hundred or more. He watched them fall out, collapsing wearily on the side of the road, and wondered what Peploe was up to. He glanced at his watch as two shells landed only a few hundred yards away. 'Come on, Mr Peploe. Either let us dig in or get us out of here.'

  The brigade staff had been pleasantly surprised when Lieutenant Peploe had walked in and announced his arrival with thirty-three other ranks.

  'You're just in time,' said Captain Ross, one of the Brigade staff officers. 'The Yorkshire Rangers have just been pulled back.' He explained that every battalion in the brigade was horribly depleted, including the 1st Yorkshire Rangers. Since D Company had been left by 1st Battalion on the Brussels-Charleroi canal, the brigade had not been idle, having seen fierce fighting east of Arras and almost continually since then. For two days, the entire 5th Division had been fighting desperately to hold the canal line between Ypres and Commines; 13th and 17th Brigades had managed to stave off every German attack, but not without crippling casualties. 'It's been one bloody crisis after another,' he said. 'You've heard about the Belgians, I suppose?'

  'No, sir.'

  'They've thrown in the towel. Yesterday evening, just like that. The whole of Third Div had to move last night from south of here to north of Ypres to fill the gap in the line. They did it, though. Bloody miracle.'

  There was a feverish atmosphere inside the farmhouse. Brigade staff had been whittled down to a bare minimum, which meant every man had more work than he could reasonably manage. A map was spread on a table in the kitchen and Peploe saw the brigadier and his GSO 1 standing over it. Despatch riders hurried in and out, delivering and taking messages. Every so often a shell landed uncomfortably close and the house shook. Peploe noticed a pile of plaster on the floor in the kitchen. And there was an almost choking quantity of cigarette and pipe smoke.

  Another despatch rider came in and passed a message to the brigadier, who read it with a faint smile. He was a lean-faced man, with slightly hooded, intelligent eyes and a fair moustache. Looking up, he noticed Peploe and extended his hand. 'Hello,' he said. 'Brigadier Dempsey. And who are you?'

  'Second Lieutenant John Peploe, D Company, First Battalion, Yorkshire Rangers. How do you do, sir?'

  'D Company were cut off from the rest of the battalion eleven days ago, sir,' said Ross. 'They fought alongside Eighth DLI at Arras and on La Bassee canal, got cut off again, but have eventually found us here.'

  'That's rather impressive, Peploe,' said Dempsey. 'I think most people in your boat would have hot-footed it straight to Dunkirk.' He scratched the back of his neck. 'I'm afraid poor comms have been one of the biggest failings in this campaign. Anyway,' he smiled, 'while I hate to make you go back the way you came, that's exactly what I'm going to do. We're about to withdraw - it seems we've done what was needed here, thank goodness, and we're now the last in the line. Most of the brigade are to head to the river Yser and from there fall back within the Dunkirk perimeter, but the Yorkshire Rangers are being transferred.'

  'To where, sir?'

  'First Guards Brigade. You see, Lieutenant, although your lot are down to just over two hundred and fifty men, that's a bit more than the Wiltshires and quite a bit more than the Inniskillings and Cameronians. Just luck, really - the Yorkshire Rangers have had a less busy time than the other battalions in the brigade. Your task will be to help hold the Dunkirk perimeter until all the other troops have safely passed through.'

  'And been evacuated.'

  'Well, that's the general idea at any rate,' continued Dempsey. 'I'm sorry, it's rather a devil of a job.'

  'There's M/T waiting a couple of miles from here on the far side of Mount Kemmel,' added Ross. 'It'll be a bit of a squeeze, but better than walking, I'd say.'

  'And when will we be leaving?' asked Peploe.

  'We're expecting Colonel Corner and the battalion at any moment.'

  Brigadier Dempsey shook Peploe's hand. 'Good luck, Lieutenant,' he said, 'and pass on my best wishes to your men. I hope our paths cross again.'

  The journey north was desperately slow. The thirty-four men of D Company as well as a much depleted seven- man platoon from A Company were crammed into one Bedford OY truck, and since the A Company platoon commander, Lieutenant Lightfoot, was one of the seven, Tanner was forced to squeeze into the back with the rest of the other ranks. Every road they took was clogged with troops, and while the British tried to head north, the French, many of whom travelled by horse-drawn cart, seemed to be cutting across them to the west. And still there were refugees with their barrows and carts, bicycles and pitiful piles of belongings. It was as though the whole of northern France was on the move.

  Poperinghe had looked badly knocked about when D Company had passed through earlier, but by dusk it was worse. Rubble had spilled into the streets and had been only partially cleared, while the main bridge across the canal was cratered in two places. British sappers were trying to repair it while around them the traffic ground to a confused halt. From the back of the truck, Tanner peered out at the darkening skies and prayed the Luftwaffe had called a halt for the day; they would find rich pickings in Poperinghe.

  By the time they had eventually got through the town, it was dark. Progress was hardly much faster, however, the truck jerking forward, then frequently coming to a halt, sometimes for a few minutes, often for much longer. As the first streaks of dawn appeared, it was clear that the battalion's column had become separated, so that
when they eventually halted for good at Rexpoede, a village half a dozen miles south of the perimeter, C Company and half of B Company had been caught up in the traffic stream heading for Dunkirk and were nowhere to be seen. Instead of supporting the 1st Guards Brigade with two hundred and fifty men, they were now only around a hundred and forty strong.

  Tanner had barely slept - the crammed, jolting truck had been too much even for him. All the men were exhausted but especially those from the rest of the battalion. He watched the men of A Company lead off. Most would have been just boys a few weeks before but nearly three weeks of war had aged them - three weeks of marching hundreds of miles, of being shelled, bombed and shot at, of retreating, of getting too little sleep and not enough food. Dark rings framed hollow eyes; smudges of oil and grime covered their faces. Uniforms were filthy, and often torn. They stank, too.

  Ahead lay countryside that was as flat as a board. Rows of poplars and willows lined the hundreds of dykes and waterways. Here and there red-brick farmhouses rose against the skyline. Above, thunderous skies rolled - rain again in the air - while on the horizon, for all to see, there were thick clouds of oily smoke, drifting high above the coastline.