Darkest Hour

travelling along roads with high hedgerows, through villages and woods, to get much of a picture of the land around. With the tree-lined fields and the woods behind them, Tanner had only a vague sense of how this part of the Belgian countryside fitted together. The slope on which Lyell had landed would, he guessed, give him a clear and far-reaching view back towards their own lines.

'How many men do you think you need?' Peploe asked.

'Three should do it, sir. Two to carry him, if necessary, and two to watch our backs.'

'All right. Who do you want to take?'

'Sykes, sir, with Hepworth and Ellis.'

'Why don't you take Lance-Corporal Smailes as well?'

'He's done the medic's course?'

'Yes.'

'Good thinking, sir. I don't think there's time to go to Battalion for stretcher-bearers.'

'Just get on with it, Sergeant,' snapped Barclay. 'The poor man could be dying in agony for all we know. I want to mount this rescue operation right away.'

When they reached the farm, they were stopped by North African troops who stared at them sullenly, with pointed rifles, until a young sous-lieutenant came over and ordered his men to lower their weapons. Apologizing, he led them to Battalion Headquarters at the main farmhouse.

'Un moment,' he said, leaving them to wait in the yard while he hurried inside.

Barclay clicked his tongue against his teeth. 'For God's sake,' he muttered.

Tanner looked around. Stacks of ammunition boxes stood near a shed across the yard; a staff car and a motorcycle were parked to one side. Coloured troops, in strange dark red woollen caps, double-breasted tunics and knee-high strapped leggings, walked past. The French mountain troops in Norway had had superb uniforms - far better than anything the British had been given - but Tanner was surprised by how old-fashioned these colonial troops were, as though they were from an earlier era. He moved back a few paces and saw a larger yard at the rear of the building where a number of vehicles - trucks, armoured cars and infantry tractors - were lined up. He was watching men loading boxes onto the back of a truck when his attention was caught by two men speaking animatedly, white Frenchmen, officers, wearing large khaki berets.

'What are they saying, Peploe?' said Barclay, softly.

Peploe listened, 'They're talking about the bridge, sir, that and the lock system by it. They must be sappers. They've laid charges but one thinks they haven't put down enough explosive.'

One of the officers, older than the other, turned now and saw them, shook his head in frustration and hurried off.

'They're expecting Jerry, then,' said Barclay. 'What do they know that we don't?'

For God's sake, thought Tanner. Couldn't the OC see the signs? Captain Barclay was clearly a bigger fool than he'd thought.

The sous-lieutenant now reappeared with a tall, good- looking officer in his late thirties. 'Commandant du Parc,' explained the lieutenant.

'I am second-in-command here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'How can I be of assistance?'

Peploe explained in French. Du Parc replied.

'They were about to send a party out themselves,' Peploe translated to Barclay, then smiled, 'but they're only too happy to let us take on the task.'

'But your men must be quick. Captain,' said Commandant du Parc in English once more. 'Les Bockes' he added, 'they are coming soon, I think.'

'Does he have intelligence of this?' Barclay asked Peploe.

Du Parc laughed as Peploe repeated the question. 'No, but the sky, the aeroplanes that come over to have a little spy on us ... la retraite of our men across le canal. Of course les Boches will be coming.' He chuckled again. 'It is obvious.'

Course it bloody is, thought Tanner, and saw Barclay redden.

Commandant du Parc spoke to Peploe again.

'He says we should cross the bridge over the lock,' said Peploe, 'just round the bend in the river. His men can give us covering fire should it be necessary - as can our chaps, sir. He'll also send us an escort to the bridge.'

'Merci, Commandant,' said Barclay.

Du Parc bowed slightly, then spoke to the sous-lieu- tenant, who hurried back into the farmhouse. A moment later he reappeared with another junior subaltern, a thin- faced lad with a poorly grown moustache. Du Parc spoke to him, then the young French officer turned to Tanner.

'Shall we go?'

'Bonnechance' said du Parc.

Barclay and Peploe saluted. Barclay looked at his watch. 'Right, Sergeant,' he said to Tanner. 'Get Squadron Leader Lyell back here and be sharp about it.'

Just then an aircraft roared over the building from behind them, making them all flinch and duck. It was so low that they could see the black crosses on the pale blue underside of the wings. Men shouted and a machine-gun began to chatter but the twin-engine Junkers 88 climbed lazily over the hill in front of them, banked along the ridge then disappeared.