The men of D Company did what they could. They handed out field dressings to the wounded and put the worst injured into the backs of the trucks to take them to hospital in Douai. The Krupp shunted the car, mule and cart off the road, with the stray cases and other belongings.
Before the German pilot's attack the men's mood had been good, buoyed by food and rest, and by the knowledge that they were nearing British forces. Now, however, they cleared away debris, wreckage and broken bodies sombrely, speaking little. It was the boy that got to Tanner most. Repelled by his screams yet compelled to go to him, Tanner had found him - no more than ten years old, he guessed - with his leg nearly severed. His parents were crouched beside him, almost demented with grief and by their inability to help him.
'Smiler!' shouted Tanner, as the platoon medic tended an elderly lady further back. 'I need you here now!'
Smailes hurried over and put his hand to his mouth as he saw the boy. 'He - he's not going to make it, Sarge,' he stuttered. 'He's lost too much blood already.' A dark stain covered the grass beneath him.
'Just do something,' snapped Tanner. 'You've got morphine, haven't you?'
Smailes nodded.
Wide frightened eyes stared up at the two soldiers. Smailes drew the morphine, flicked the end of the needle, then stuck it into the boy's arm. A few moments later, the child's eyes flickered and finally closed.
Tanner walked back towards the truck, the convulsive sobbing of the boy's parents ringing in his ears.
'Come on, Tanner, chop, chop!' said Captain Barclay, as he walked past the Krupp. 'The road's clear. We need to get a move on.'
'Yes, sir,' he replied, making no effort to hurry.
'Come on, Sergeant,' called Blackstone. 'Didn't you hear the captain? Run!'
'Tanner!' called Blackstone.
He looked up and saw that Lieutenant Peploe, Sykes and the men behind were watching him and this sudden altercation with Blackstone.
'Oh, for God's sake,' muttered Lyell from the front of Barclay's vehicle, 'you're acting like bloody kids.'
'Sergeant Tanner, did you not hear what the captain said?'
Tanner sighed. 'Yes, Sergeant-Major.'
'And you thought you'd ignore what Captain Barclay ordered you to do?'
Tanner said nothing. He knew he was trapped. No matter what he said, Blackstone would use it to humiliate him further.
'What was that? I didn't quite hear it, Sergeant,' said Blackstone.
'I apologize, sir,' he said to Captain Barclay.
'No respect, Tanner, that's your problem,' said Barclay. 'Think you can do it all on your own. Now apologize to the CSM here, and then I want you to
Tanner clenched and unclenched his fists, swallowed, then turned his face up to Blackstone and forced himself to say, 'Sorry, Sergeant-Major.'
'Get back to your truck, Sergeant,' Blackstone said, in a voice loud enough for all those in the truck behind to hear, 'at the double!'
'I'm sorry about that,' said Peploe, as Tanner got back into the cab. 'That was completely unnecessary.'
'They're just flexing their muscles, Sarge,' added Sykes.
Tanner took out a German cigarette and lit it. 'Let's just get to Arras,' he said.
At the BEF command post at Wahagnies, twenty miles north-east of Arras, General Lord Gort left his spartan office, went down the stairs and into the large drawing room, now busy with numerous staff officers, liaison officers and clerks working from makeshift trestle-table desks. The clatter of typewriters and the collective hubbub of different conversations filled the room. Dust particles hung faintly in the air, illuminated in the sunlight that shone through the tall french windows; cleaning the building after requisitioning it from the owners had not been a high priority and, in any case, Gort's large command post staff had brought their own dust and dirt with them.
Careful to make sure he looked as fit and energetic as ever, he strode purposefully towards one of his aides- de- camp and said, 'Get someone to bring a bite of lunch out to me in the garden, will you?'
'Right away, sir,' the ADC replied, getting to his feet.
'Good man.' Gort nodded to the others, said, 'Carry on, carry on,' then walked briskly to the glass doors, stepped out onto the terrace and trotted across the lawn to the bottom of the garden where, beneath a large cedar and out of sight of the house, there stood a wooden bench. Sitting down, he rubbed his hands over his face and allowed himself a wide yawn. For a moment, he gazed at the small pond in front of him. At its centre stood a stone cherub, discoloured with age, whose mouth emitted a trickle of water. In the murky pond, goldfish showed intermittent flashes of golden-orange. Somewhere near by a wood pigeon cooed soothingly.
Lord Gort sighed and yawned again, then briefly closed his eyes. Damn it, he was exhausted. He reckoned he'd had about two hours' sleep last night, and not much more the night before. But that was only the half of it: since 10 May, from the moment he had been awake to the moment he had gone to bed, he had been on the go constantly, trying to organize his forces, attempting to get some sense from Gamelin, Georges, Billotte and the rest of the French high command, sending missives and orders, meeting with commanders and liaison officers, seeing the troops, and trying to keep London informed of increasingly confused events.
