had been comparatively light, all things considered. As Tanner was increasingly aware, Stukas were not especially accurate despite their alarming sirens. The biggest inconvenience had been the craters in the road - it had meant they had been ordered to debus and then tramp cross-country on foot while the M/T had been forced to risk going through the centre of Carvin, which had been coming under regular and heavy shellfire.
They had reached Camphin in one piece, and, at last, out of range of enemy guns. Immediately the men had been ordered to dig in yet again, at the edge of the village, but after they'd made slit trenches, new orders arrived. The Rangers were to join B Company of 8th DLI and occupy Provin, a village a few miles to the west where 9th DLI were now based. With the men grumbling about pointless digging, they set off again. When they finally reached Provin, there had been no sign of 9th so they had been sent back to Carvin, where the rest of 8th was now attacking beside the French and a couple of platoons from 5th Leicesters who had somehow become detached from the rest of their unit.
Footsore, hungry and in no state to fight, the Rangers had reached the edge of Carvin as a storm broke overhead. Guns boomed, their reports mixing with the cracks of thunder. In the pouring rain, the Durham and Yorkshire men had headed south towards the fighting, scrambling over the rubble and fallen masonry of destroyed houses. The shriek of shells could now be heard, whooshing like speeding trains through the rain-drenched air. And then, ahead, they had seen trucks and cars, tanks and carriers, all crammed with men.
'My God, is that the enemy?' Barclay had asked, wiping rain from his face.
'No, sir,' Tanner had replied. 'They're French.'
Silently, they had watched them trundle past. Most were Moroccans, who glared at the Tommies. Their officers seemed dejected. Tanner could hardly blame them - their country was falling. Defeat hung in the air. Thunder continued to crack. For the first time since he'd arrived in France, he'd begun to think they might never get out.
Not long after, the rest of the battalion had fallen back too. Shelling had continued with nightfall but the enemy had not stormed the town, and shortly after midnight, word reached them that they would be pulling out - and this time not falling back a few miles. Rather, they were being transferred to the northern flank. Out of one cauldron and into another.
Now Tanner sighed and sat up. Through the faint beam of the blinkered headlights, he could see the rain and, just ahead, the tail of the lead truck, with Captain Barclay, Blackstone, the rest of Company Headquarters and 11 Platoon. He had avoided Blackstone as much as possible, which in itself had been frustrating. It wasn't in his nature to shirk confrontation, but dealing with Blackstone was like facing a boxer who forever moved about the ring - always there, in your face, but upon whom it was impossible to land a punch. In truth, they had been on the move so often in the past couple of days that there had been little need for their paths to cross, but Tanner was ever mindful that unfinished business lay between them. He had, however, detected a subtle change in the men's attitude towards the CSM - at least in 12 Platoon. If any of the lads had resented the CSM's early departure from the battlefield at Arras, they had not said so; Blackstone had made it clear to them that it was thanks to him and Slater, bravely dodging roving enemy panzers, that the French tanks and carriers had made it to Warlus to rescue them. Yet Tanner had noticed that the men had been less effusive about him, not so quick to laugh if he stopped to speak to them.
They reached Steenvoorde at around eight a.m., halting in the cobbled town square. Peploe and Tanner got out of the cab, and while the lieutenant went to speak with Barclay, Tanner ambled to the back of the truck, lighting a cigarette on the way. McAllister was playing cards with Hepworth and Chambers, but most of the others were just sitting on the wooden benches that ran down each side of the carriage. Their faces were dirty and smudged with rain. Those old enough to shave had two days' growth of beard. Clearly they were tired and fed-up.
'What's going on here, Sarge?' said Sykes, getting down beside him.
'This is Steenvoorde. It's where we're supposed to be.'
'Apart from us an' the Durham lads it seems deserted.'
'Probably some cock-up,' said Tanner. 'Maybe the front's moved.'
Ten minutes later, Peploe reappeared. 'We're off again,' he said.
'Where to now, sir?' asked Sykes.
'Not far. A couple of miles the other side of town.'
Once they were back in the cab Peploe confided, 'Colonel McLaren's furious. He'd been expecting someone at least to meet us. Apparently some of our boys are at Cassel, a few miles further on, so he's ordered us to dig in and hide up halfway between the two while he tries to find out what on earth's going on.'
The road between Steenvoorde and Cassel was heavy with refugees, the same sad mass of people trudging to nowhere in particular so long as it was away from the fighting. Slowly the trucks jerked forward.
'Get out of the bloody way!' yelled the driver, as a cart blocked the road, his cheery bonhomie of the early hours long since gone.
'Shouting at them's hardly going to help,' said Peploe. 'They're homeless, the poor sods. Here,' he added, taking out his silver cigarette box, 'have a smoke and calm down.'
'Sorry, sir,' said the corporal, accepting. 'It's so bloody frustrating. I've had it up to here with refugees. If these people had all stayed at home, maybe we'd have been able to get around a bit better, like, and we wouldn't be losing this sodding war.'
He took them to the edge of a dense wood west of Cassel and there they got out. They were at the end of the line, several hundred yards to the left of A Company. The trucks reversed into an equally clogged track a short distance further on, then turned back in the direction of Steenvoorde. As the Rangers tramped across an open field towards a hedge a hundred yards or so from the road, Tanner watched the vehicles chug slowly through the mass of people.
They began to dig in yet again, this time in an L shape, facing south and west, behind a hedge on one side and a brook on the other. Soon they heard gunfire to the south-west and west. Once, a cloud of smoke drifted over the wood, but their view of Cassel, and whatever fighting was occurring there, was blocked. In a short time, Tanner and Smailes had dug a two-man slit trench big enough to lie down in. In Norway Tanner had cursed the useless- ness of the latest standard-issue entrenching tool for its lack of pick on the reverse end of the spade, but here, in the rich, soft Flanders clay, it did the job well enough, especially since Tanner had sharpened the edge so that it would cut better through turf. He was also pleased to see Lieutenant Peploe digging his own slit trench again. He was never too proud to get his hands dirty and Tanner liked that in him. 'Do you need a hand, sir?' Tanner asked,
