Darkest Hour

Barclay tapped a foot on the stone floor. 'Hm. Did it for my sister, not for him. Put men's lives at risk. Held everything up.' He began to knead his hands together. 'I put my family before the needs of the men and what thanks did I get? None.'

'I think you're being a bit hard on yourself, sir,' said Peploe. 'After all, we've made it here in one piece.'

Barclay said nothing, instead pacing the hall, his boots clicking on the bare stone floor. Peploe wished he would stop. His head throbbed and pulses of pain coursed down his neck. What he needed was quiet, not the frenetic pacings of his OC.

At the point when he thought he could bear it no longer, a tall, slim man in his late thirties, with an immaculately groomed appearance, trotted down the main staircase and said, 'Sorry to keep you, gentlemen.' He held out a hand to Barclay. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Rainsby. Do follow me.'

He led them back up the stairs, along a short corridor and into a room with a large window. Peploe peered out and saw their German trucks parked beneath the horse- chestnuts on the far side of the road. The men were chatting and smoking, others making the most of the pause to snatch some sleep. Beyond, the avenue of trees continued, sloping down through undulating lush pasture.

Barclay cleared his throat and Peploe turned to the half-colonel standing in front of them behind a makeshift desk.

Waving them towards two mismatching chairs, Rainsby offered cigarettes, then sat down behind his desk. 'Sorry to keep you.' He smiled genially. 'As you can see, it's pretty busy here - Jerry's probing not far to the south and it may be that we have to ship out at any moment.'

'Surely not, sir,' said Barclay, startled.

Rainsby steepled his fingers. 'Hopefully not. One of the problems is that the picture is so confused. But Cambrai has fallen and the enemy has now punched a wedge of about twenty-five miles between us here in the north and the French forces to the south.'

'Surely some kind of pincer movement is what's needed,' put in Peploe. 'A joint counter-attack from north and south.'

Rainsby smiled. 'Exactly, and that's precisely what we're hoping to do. This place is still home to GHQ, but also Frankforce, created by the C-in-C as of this morning under Major-General Franklyn - the best part of two divisions, plus tanks from First RTR and various other units. I'm GS03 Operations - planning tomorrow's little show.' He paused. 'We've been admiring your haul of German trucks.'

'We're trying to find the rest of our battalion, sir,' said

Barclay. 'We lost them as we pulled back from the Brussels-Charleroi canal. We had a bit of a ding-dong with the enemy, which held up our retreat rather. By the time we'd forced them back, the rest of the battalion had already moved out.'

Lieutenant Peploe smiled to himself.

Rainsby raised a hand - say no more - and unfolded a map. 'Easily done,' he said, 'and you're hardly the only ones to have become separated from their units.' He put down the map and picked up another sheet of paper. 'Yorkshire Rangers, Yorkshire Rangers,' he mumbled, running his hand down the page. 'Yes, here we are. Thirteenth Brigade have been ordered to the Scarpe. Not so very far from here, actually. They're on their way there now. They're to hold the line at Vitry-en-Artois.'

'That's excellent news, sir, thank you,' said Barclay, pushing back his chair.

Rainsby chuckled. 'Not so fast, Barclay. I'm afraid you're not going to rejoin them just yet.'

'Why ever not, sir?'

'Because tomorrow we'll be launching a counter-attack west and south of Arras. Enemy panzers are now pressing to the south. Our task is to push them back. Fifth Div are going to stay put on the Scarpe, but the main attack will come from Fiftieth Div, plus tanks of First RTR.'

'Then surely we should head to Vitry-on-whatever-it- was, sir.'

'The thing is, Barclay, the job on the Scarpe is mostly static, but you chaps have turned up with your four very decent trucks. We could, of course, simply take them from you, but I rather think it would be better to attach you to the 151st Brigade for this operation. We want our infantry to be able to keep up with the tanks, you see.'

'And what infantry will there be, sir?'

'Two attacking battalions - Eighth and Sixth DLL'

'The Durham Light Infantry, sir?' Barclay looked appalled.

'Yes. A damn good regiment.' Rainsby smiled. 'Look, it's the most marvellous opportunity for you to show us what you chaps can do. A successful counter-attack like this will do wonders for the name of the regiment. And for you, too, Captain.'

Peploe smiled to himself again. Rainsby had certainly got the measure of Barclay.

'Very well, sir,' said Barclay, his back stiffening. 'If those are our orders, then of course we'll carry them out to the best of our abilities.'

'Good man,' said Rainsby, rising from his seat. 'Here are your instructions.' He handed over a sheet of paper. 'Make your way to Vimy - a smallish village a few miles north-east of here. General Franklyn's setting up his command post there. In fact, I'll be heading there myself shortly. You should ask for the brigade-major. Fellow called Clive. Any questions?'

'We'll rejoin the battalion after this battle?'

'Absolutely.'

Rainsby took them back to the hall, shook their hands and wished them luck, then skipped up the stairs again.

So, thought Peploe, as they headed to the waiting men and trucks, we