Darkest Hour

go into action tomorrow. So far he had not felt particularly frightened, but that was because the two small pieces of action he had taken part in had happened suddenly; he hadn't had time to think about what was happening. Now, however, there was most of the afternoon and the night to wait - and this time it would be a proper attack, not a light skirmish or brief exchange of fire. His stomach churned and his throat felt tight.

Tanner and Sykes were asleep when Peploe stepped up into the cab of the Opel, but both men woke instantly.

'How's the head, sir?' asked Sykes.

'Not too bad, thank you, Corporal.' He cleared his throat. 'We've been temporarily assigned to join the Eighth DLL'

Tanner raised an eyebrow.

Peploe found himself sighing heavily. 'We're going to be part of a major counter-attack tomorrow.'

Tanner nodded. 'Good. About time. Perhaps I'll be able to get my hands on another Jerry sub-machine-gun.' He grinned at Sykes.

A few minutes later they rumbled off. Peploe stared out at the rolling countryside, the fields green with young corn. Where was his uncle buried? Somewhere near Arras - the scene of such bitter fighting more than twenty years before. They drove past a cemetery, not British but French, row upon row of white crosses stretching away from the road. Peploe swallowed, then glanced at Tanner, who was smoking a cigarette and gazing at the thousands of graves too. What he was thinking, Peploe couldn't tell. Tanner was a difficult man to read. Was he scared? He had barely batted an eyelid at the news that they would soon be going into battle. If anything, he seemed to relish the chance - Sykes too. Extraordinary. He was glad that the sergeant would be alongside him tomorrow. Damned glad.

At four twenty p.m. on 20 May, General Lord Gort fixed his pale eyes on General Billotte's liaison officer from Army Group 1 in Lens, Capitaine Melchior de Vogue. Outside, the afternoon had grown grey, a gathering blanket of cloud now blocking out the sun and all but a few faint patches of summery blue so that, despite the tall windows, the room was quite dark. A cool breeze ruffled some of the papers on Gort's desk.

'Capitaine,' said Gort, 'thank you for coming.' He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at de Vogue. 'Do you know what this is?'

'No, my lord,' replied de Vogue.

'It's a sitrep informing me that a handful of German advance tanks and infantry have taken Cambrai without a fight. Tell me it's not true.'

De Vogue shifted his feet uneasily. 'I am afraid it is, my lord.'

Gort sighed. 'But how can that be? All the garrison had to do was stand firm and they would have driven off the enemy.'

'It was the dust, my lord.'

'Dust?' Gort spluttered.

'Er, yes, my lord,' said de Vogue. 'The enemy advanced on a broad front causing a huge cloud of dust. The garrison there thought the attackers were part of a far larger force than was reality.'

Gort could hardly believe what he had heard. 'And is the French Army now refusing to fight?' he asked.

'No, my lord, of course not.'

'Capitaine de Vogue,' said Gort, 'when I tell British soldiers to attack, they attack. So why haven't French forces counter-attacked and retaken Cambrai?'

De Vogue cleared his throat, then said quietly, 'There has been no order to counter-attack.'

'Good God, man, why the devil not?' said Gort, bringing his hand down hard on the table. His voice rose. 'In the last war, the French Army was proud and fearless.

Any one of the commanders would have taken it upon themselves to throw out a weak advance guard like the one that took Cambrai yesterday. When is the French Army of old going to stand up and fight? When? Because if they don't start doing so, Capitaine, the Germans will get to Abbeville and Calais and then I will have no choice but to fall back on Dunkirk and sail my men back to England. I'm not prepared to lose my forces trying to defend a country that's already given up. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, my lord.'

'Now, go back to General Billotte and tell him we need Blanchard's First Army to attack simultaneously tomorrow. Much as it pains me to say this, I think it's probably our last chance.'

When de Vogue had gone, he picked up his telephone and had himself connected to Captain Reid, his liaison officer at Blanchard's First Army Headquarters. He drummed his fingers impatiently.

'Hello, sir,' said a voice eventually, the line crackling with static.

'Reid?' said Gort. 'I want you to take down a message.'

'Of course, sir.'

'Ready? It runs as follows: 'If this attack - i.e. the counter-attack tomorrow - is unsuccessful, we cannot remain longer in a position with our flank turned and German penetration proceeding towards the coast. Stop.' Have you got that?'

'Yes, sir,' said Reid.

'Good. Relay it to Blanchard, and make sure that Billotte and Weygand see it too.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gort hung up the receiver and breathed out heavily.

Ironside and Pownall had gone to stiffen the French commanders' resolve in person; he had spoken more