Darkest Hour

listened and his heart lifted. He hadn't heard a May dawn chorus since he'd left England eight years before, yet the sounds were as familiar to him now as they had been when he was a boy. He wished he could return to that life - a life that seemed so completely apart from the one he had led ever since. Yet, even so, he knew that his childhood - those precious years in Alvesdon with his father- had moulded him into the man he had become. A lifetime ago now, and it only needed the sound of a blackbird singing at dawn to carry him back, bringing to his mind a thousand details as fresh and vivid as ever. One day perhaps.

A sweet smell filled the air.

'Delicious,' murmured Peploe. 'Someone's baking. I've been to France a few times and the fresh bread and croissants first thing in the morning are one of the best things about it. I'm tempted to forget Arras and spend the rest of the day in that bakery.'

Tanner smiled. 'It's reminding me how hungry I am.'

'Well, perhaps after we've cleared our passage across the river, we can come back and pay it a quick visit.'

They had walked around a shallow bend in the road and now saw the river directly ahead at the end of the main village road. On the far side a single house loomed spectrally out of the mist.

'Hang on a minute, sir,' said Tanner. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief, which he tied to the end of his rifle.

Holding it high, they moved towards the bridge. A road ran either side of the river, which they now saw was not as wide as they had first thought. Barges were moored along the bank. The bridge, it seemed, was part of a lock system. The Escaut had been turned into a canal.

'Not at all what I was expecting,' said Peploe. He cupped his hands around his mouth, about to holler across the river, then Tanner saw vague figures on the far side and, a moment later, a spurt of orange flame. Two bullets flew over his head as he dived to the ground, pulling Peploe with him, then two more. He heard Peploe gasp and felt the lieutenant's body go limp. Oh, no. Damn it all, no.

Chapter 13

Another short burst of machine-gun fire spat out, the bullets zipping over Tanner's head as he crouched next to Lieutenant Peploe, the report echoing off the buildings along the village street.

'Stop!' shouted Tanner. Then, trying frantically to remember the phrase card he had been given, he added, 'Nous sommes anglais! Nous sommes anglais/' He raised his rifle with its white handkerchief into the air and waved it from side to side.

The firing stopped and now he heard voices - French? - from the far side of the river, then from behind him.

Still hidden behind the bend in the road, Captain Barclay called, 'Peploe, Tanner, are you all right?'

'Lieutenant Peploe's hit, sir,' Tanner yelled back. The lieutenant's face was ashen and a trickle of blood ran down the side of his right temple. At the side of the helmet there was a hole where a bullet had entered - a glancing blow, but enough to penetrate the steel. Tanner put his ear to Peploe's mouth, heard shallow breathing, then felt for a pulse. Thank God.

'Tanner?' It was Barclay's voice again.

To his right, a man was now emerging from a house - thick white moustache, black jacket and cap. He held up his arms. 'Arretez! Arretez votre fusillade/'

Carefully Tanner eased off Peploe's helmet and heard something drop. On the cobbles beside him he found a spent bullet. Quickly he parted Peploe's thick flaxen hair and saw, to his relief, that the bullet had only cut his head, not penetrated.

The Frenchman was now beside him, crouching. His face was deeply tanned and lined, a two-day grey beard flecking his cheeks. The soldiers were across the bridge now, hurrying towards them.

'Imbeciles!' said the man. 'lis sont nos allies.'

Tanner stood up. 'Nous sommes anglais,' he said again, to a young clean-shaven French lieutenant.

The lieutenant took out his pistol, stepped forward and pointed it at Tanner's stomach. 'There are no British here,' he said, in heavily accented English. 'They are to the north and west.'

'We are, sir,' said Tanner. 'We got detached from the rest of our battalion on the Brussels-Charleroi canal a couple of days ago.'

'And you made it here? Nonsense! You are lying.'

'It's true, sir. Yesterday evening we discovered some Germans between Mons and Valenciennes and managed to take some of their vehicles.'

The French officer laughed. 'You expect me to believe that? What do you take me for? No, you are Germans - fifth columnists.' There was triumph on his face. Tanner groaned to himself. Hell, he thought. That's all we need.

'Tanner? Tanner!' Barclay again. Tanner turned and saw Captain Barclay with Blackstone, McAllister, Ellis and several others advancing cautiously down the street.

'Tanner!' called Captain Barclay again, as half a dozen French soldiers raised their rifles.

The French lieutenant followed their gaze and, at that moment, Tanner thrust forward with his left forearm, knocking the officer's gun away from his stomach. Then, with his right, he grabbed the pistol. The startled lieutenant had no time to react before Tanner had brought his left arm tight round the Frenchman's throat and dug the pistol into his side.

'Tell your men to drop their weapons,' hissed Tanner, fractionally lessening his grip around the man's throat to enable him to speak. 'Now!'