speak in French, calmly at first, then with increasing impatience. Eventually he replaced the receiver. 'Billotte's not available, my lord. Apparently neither he nor his chief of staff are at their headquarters any longer.'
'Then get me Gamelin, damn it.'
Pownall nodded. After several conversations he again replaced the receiver. 'It seems Gamelin is with Monsieur Reynaud and the Prime Minister in Paris.'
'Keep trying, Henry. I refuse to believe that the combined armies of France, Belgium and Great Britain can do nothing about this. A major counter-attack is needed - and fast - not retreat. Someone must be organizing this.'
'The problem is communication - or rather, I should say, lack of it. We simply don't have enough radios.'
'No, Henry, that's only part of it. The main problem is that these damned French generals won't make decisions. Keep trying Billotte. Somehow we have to put some spine into these bloody Frogs and get them to mount a serious counter-attack. I mean, for God's sake, what's Corap's army doing? Standing by and watching?'
'They're certainly not doing much fighting.'
'Then it's about bloody time they did!' shouted Gort, anger and frustration spilling into his words. He breathed deeply. He could barely believe what was happening - the incompetence, the lack of leadership, the bare-faced panic . . . Throughout his career in the Army, he had prided himself on his ability to make decisions and to lead men. In 1918 it had won him a Victoria Cross, and after the war had helped propel him to become the youngest ever chief of the Imperial General Staff. When Britain had sent an army to France at the outbreak of war, it had been Gort who was appointed to command it. Throughout his career, he had always gone forwards. Yet now he was going backwards. The unthinkable preyed on his mind: that despite their vast number of men and machines, the French could well lose the battle.
And if that happened, Britain might fall with them.
The column was halted at just after four o'clock that afternoon at a village called Quenast and the men dropped down onto the grassy verge at the side of the road. Sergeant Tanner had assumed they would travel at least part of the way by train or truck, but instead T Company had been left to march all the way from Calais to Tournai, some eighty-six miles. Admittedly, their kitbags and large packs had been left with the two trucks that made up the company transport, but with a rifle, a stuffed haversack, rolled gas cape, respirator bag, full ammunition pouches, entrenching tool, bayonet and sundry other items in their pockets, each man still had to carry equipment that weighed the best part of forty pounds. Despite this, they had managed the march to Tournai in three and a half days, and there, they had finally met up with the rest of 1st Battalion, who, with much of 13th Brigade, had been moving north to Belgium from near Le Havre.
That had been early in the afternoon the day before, and since then they had tramped a further forty miles. It had been one of the hardest marches Tanner had ever done, not because of the distance but because of the traffic. The roads had been choked with troops, tanks, trucks, cars, motorbikes and thousand upon thousands of refugees. Some had simply been walking in what they were wearing, but others carried their lives in their hands, many struggling with the weight of suitcases and bags. Tanner saw horses, donkeys and even cattle with cases and belongings piled high on their backs. It had reminded him of refugee columns he had seen in Waziristan; they had been a pathetic bunch then, but he was sickened to see such scenes in Europe. Most were on foot, but a few had inched their way through the throng in cars. Tanner had lost sight of the number of vehicles he had seen ditched by the edge of the road, presumably having either overheated or run out of fuel. And the dust! Many of the roads had not been metalled and in the dry early-summer sun, with God only knew how many wheels, tracks and boots pounding down, the surface had turned to a fine powder that swirled and settled on clothes, found its way into socks and chafed feet, up nostrils and into the throat and eyes.
The further west they had travelled, the more they heard the sounds of battle ahead and in the sky above. That morning they had watched numerous enemy bombers fly over. Some miles away an anti-aircraft battery had opened fire, dull thuds resounding through the ground on which they walked. Tanner noticed that those new to war flinched and stopped to gaze in wonder as the shells exploded in black puffs. At one point, German bombers had been engaged by British fighters. One bomber had been hit and had dived out of the formation, trailing smoke. At this, the men had cheered.
An hour ago, Stukas had attacked a column some miles ahead. They had heard the sirens and the bombs. Refugees had fled to the side of the road, but Tanner had yelled at the men to keep their discipline. 'They're bloody miles away!' he had shouted. 'Keep going!'
He was as glad as the rest of them for the pause now, enjoying the lightness across his shoulders.
'Any idea where we are, sir?' he asked Lieutenant Peploe, as he unscrewed the lid of his water-bottle.
Peploe wiped his brow with a green spotted handkerchief, then took out a battered paper map. It was his own - the company had not been issued with any - and fifteen years old, but accurate enough.
'We're twenty miles or so south of Brussels, I think,' he said at length. 'A few miles ahead of us is the Brussels-Charleroi canal. I can't see the river Senne, though, which was where I thought we were heading.'
A staff car, making the most of the sudden clear stretch of road, thundered past, more clouds of dust swirling in its wake.
'Stupid sodding bastard,' cursed McAllister. 'Watch where you're bloody going!'
Sykes wandered over to stand in front of Tanner and Peploe. 'Any news, sir?'
Peploe shook his head. 'I'm sure we'll be here for the night, though - or close by, at any rate.'
'Good,' said Sykes, 'because my men are fed up. They're all moaning like mad. 'Corp, me feet ache. Corp, I've got another blister.' I've 'ad enough.' He grinned, then took out a comb from his top pocket and smoothed his hair. 'The village looks pretty empty.'
'They've all scarpered,' said Tanner. 'Should have stayed put. These refugees are a bloody nuisance.'
'It's a terrible sight,' said Peploe. 'What an awful thing to have to do - leave one's home. I mean, where are they heading anyway?'
'Can't help thinking they'd be better off at 'ome,' said Sykes. 'Didn't really see any in Norway, did we, Sarge?'
'No - they must have been made of sterner stuff.'
Suddenly a plaintive bellowing struck up somewhere close behind them.
'Christ! What the 'ell's that?' said Sykes.
Tanner got to his feet. 'Cows, Stan. There's a field of them here.'
'They need milking,' said Peploe, scrambling upright. 'Their udders are full and they're in pain.'
'I can see a dozen, sir,' said Tanner.
Peploe looked up and down the road. With no sign of any imminent movement, he said to Tanner, 'See if anyone knows how to milk a cow.'
'Bell was brought up on a farm, sir,' said Tanner, 'and I know what to do.'
'Good. Ask the others too.'
The only other man raised on a farm was Corporal Cooper of 2 Section, so the four men climbed over a gate a short way up the road and began to milk the cows, which had redoubled their agonized mooing.
Sykes had followed and stood beside 'Tanner as he knelt on the ground, stroked the side of a black and white Friesian and began to pull at the teats. 'We'd be better off putting bullets to their heads,' the sergeant muttered. 'We might be helping the pain now, but what about tomorrow morning - or evening?'
Sykes watched the milk squirting into the grass. 'Bit of a waste too.' He looked up. 'There's the farm over there.'
'Go and have a snoop. See if anyone's about.'
Tanner had moved on to another beast by the time Sykes returned.
'It's deserted,' said Sykes. 'There's chickens and geese wandering about. Cats too, and a couple of dogs tied up on chains. They all look very sorry for themselves.'
'For God's sake,' muttered Tanner. When he had finished milking the second cow he went to the lieutenant.
'That place is empty, sir,' he said, jerking a thumb towards the farm, 'and there's two dogs chained up. Shall I set them free or shoot them?'
'Set them free. They'll probably eat the chickens but at least it'll give them a chance.'
Tanner and Sykes did so, then rejoined the others. The milking completed, they walked back to the road, where the remainder of the platoon was still resting.
