Darkest Hour

'Blimey, Sarge,' said Sykes, once they were out of earshot. 'I've never seen a general before. He certainly looked the part, didn't he?'

'He was a damned good brigadier, I'll say that for him.'

'What did you do then, Sarge,' asked Ellis, 'to get your MM?'

'Nothing much, Billy.'

'I'd love to have a ribbon on my chest,' Ellis went on. 'Sets you apart, doesn't it?'

'Trust me, Billy, you don't want to worry too much about gongs. Lots of people get ribbons they don't deserve and many more don't get the ones they should've got. It's a bloody lottery. Just concentrate on doing your job and keeping alive. Much more important than glory-hunting.'

Bren teams had been placed all along D Company's front and there were two in the attic of the house. Tiles had been knocked out of the roof in several places and two tables, one from downstairs and one hastily knocked together in a shed at the back, brought up for the Brens to rest on. An old wooden bucket had been filled with water for cooling the Bren barrels. Meanwhile, the Lewis gun had been set up on the first floor of the barn behind the farmhouse. Stockpiles of ammunition were left beside the weapons or in freshly dug cavities beside the trenches. Along the canal, the abandoned vehicles were set on fire. Each charred chassis still offered decent cover for the enemy, Tanner thought, but less so than before. At around six o'clock that evening, once the last of the stragglers appeared to have passed through, the bridge was blown.

A couple of hours later Tanner stood with Lieutenant Peploe in the attic of the farmhouse. Gunfire sounded to the east, dull and persistent. Behind, black smoke still rolled high above Dunkirk. Tanner had been watching a dogfight from the dormer window to the rear, high above the town where the sky was clear, blue and free of smoke; he had seen a German fighter plunge into the sea. It had been the first enemy plane he had seen come down in France. Perhaps the RAF boys were learning.

Now he and Peploe were at the front of the farmhouse, peering through binoculars at a calm summer's evening. Long lines of poplars were bursting into leaf and the evening sun shone on the watery fields, casting dramatic reflections.

'We're ready, aren't we?' said Peploe.

'I think so, sir,' said Tanner.

'I just wish they'd get on with it. All this waiting - it's getting on my nerves, rather.'

'I can live with it. I want those bastards to leave it as long as they can. With every hour that passes, we can get more men away. The more that get away, the better the chance we have of making it home.'

'You're right, but you have to admit the waiting's the worst part.' He bent and pulled a bottle of French white wine from the Bren cooling bucket and offered it to Tanner. 'It's tres rustique, I'm afraid, but serves its purpose.'

Tanner smiled. 'Thanks.' He took a glug, and then, as he passed it back, he saw something glint in the distance. Immediately he brought his binoculars to his eyes again. Ahead, several miles away, he spotted movement - vehicles - and wished now that he and Sykes had blown the roads even further back.

'Can you see them, sir?' he said. 'Dead ahead.'

'Christ,' said Peploe. 'Ignore what I said a few moments ago.'

'Don't worry, sir. I'll doubt they'll attack tonight. They'll be setting up their artillery, that's all. I reckon we can expect some shells but the infantry won't attack, I'm sure. Patrols, perhaps, but that'll be it.'

A short while after, a few shells did follow, but fell beyond their position. Later, once darkness had fallen, they heard small-arms fire from the area around the bridge.

'Damn me,' said Peploe, 'the idiots are using tracer. Look at it, Tanner - you can see lines of the stuff sparking across the canal. Why would they do that? All they're doing is giving their positions away.'

But Tanner saw it differently. Cunning bastards. 'They want us to fire at them, sir. They're just testing the strength of our defences and working out where our blokes are.' He turned to the lieutenant. 'Sir, if they open fire on us, I think we should tell the men not to respond. Not unless we see or hear them trying to cross the canal. I'm certain this isn't a major attack.'

'All right, Tanner. Quickly, then.'

Tanner was crouching along the trench to the right of the farmhouse when the enemy opened fire on their positions. Small bursts of machine-gun fire zipped above their heads, but in their trenches the men were quite safe.

'Don't fire back!' hissed Tanner to Corporal Ross. 'Don't let any of the lads fire back.'

He was impressed by how well the men maintained their fire discipline - not a single shot was returned and, within twenty minutes, the enemy had slithered away from the canal. In the east, towards Furnes, the artillery continued to sling shells through the night, but for the Yorkshire Rangers, the hours of darkness slipped past quietly. Hours that brought them closer to a possible withdrawal.

By morning, the vehicles and guns Tanner had seen moved into place had gone. He couldn't understand it. All night he had been bracing himself for a heavy assault, but while the battle seemed to have intensified to the east, the fields to their front seemed as empty and calm as they had the previous morning. It was another bright early- summer's day, warm again, too. The water levels had risen higher and now, behind them as far as the coast, the countryside had become a large, shallow lake, through which roads and houses, lines of trees, farms and churches could be seen. It was difficult country through which to attack. Their defences were good and the twenty-yards- wide canal provided a superb anti-tank ditch.Yet they were only thirty-four strong in their part of the line; the entire battalion had fewer than two hundred men, and he had heard the Coldstreams had barely more. It was probable that equally hard-pressed infantry companies and battalions were holding the line all the way from Bergues to the coast, yet soon the might of the German forces, flush with their sweeping victories, would be upon them. Through the gap in the roof, Tanner peered through his binoculars, but saw nothing. He went down to one of the bedrooms, lay on an empty bed and closed his eyes. If Jerry was going to make them wait, he'd get some sleep.

Six miles away, General Lord Gort was eating his last meal on Belgian soil. It might have been a sunny summer's day, and it was true that he was having a half- decent lunch in the not unattractive surroundings of the Belgian king's summer palace at De Panne, but his heart was heavy as he toyed with his food. He had been ordered home to Britain, lest the Germans use his possible capture for propaganda, but to leave before his men ran against