than plainly to de Vogue; now he had sent a further message that he hoped would jolt them into action. He could do no more. But if the French failed them tomorrow, he would have to start preparing the evacuation. He had told de Vogue it was their last chance - and that had been nothing less than the truth.
Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had woken at first light to find his command post still in disarray. The tower had completely collapsed, as had half of the barns at either side, and there were no fewer than twenty-six casualties. Yet although his command car had been badly damaged by falling masonry, three of the motorcycles and the two armoured cars inside the yard were largely unscathed and, it seemed, in running order. Furthermore, in the cool light of dawn, a route was quickly established through a gate at the back of the yard, leading out onto a pasture and around the walled confines of the farmstead to the road. Leaving the dead and wounded at the farm, with a small burial detail, he had then marched the remainder into the village where they had rendezvoused with the rest of 1 Company and the panzer squadron, in the square by the church, just after five.
Scouting the area in the fresh first hours of daylight, with Timpke in the radio scout car, they had found a largely deserted stretch of countryside. Timpke's mood had begun to improve. With his head clear of the turret and the breeze in his face, he had enjoyed the chance of activity; he felt like a warrior of old, looking down from his high position, a hunter sniffing out the enemy.
They had spotted a stranded unit of French colonial troops in the small town of Solesmes. Calling in 2 and 3 Companies, they had stealthily approached like lions stalking their prey. With the bridge and routes from the town blocked, they had rushed upon the Frenchmen in the square and captured them with barely a shot fired. It had been almost ridiculously easy, as though the French had been waiting to be taken. More than seventy Moroccans had been captured - but a far more important booty had been the three Citroen troop trucks.
Late in the morning, a signal had come through informing him that the whole division was now moving west, while his own orders had been to push on through Cambrai, cross the Escaut and, in direct support of Major-General Rommel's 7th Panzer Division, to probe west towards St Pol, some thirty-five kilometres west of Arras. Shattered vehicles had littered the countryside near Cambrai - some civilian, others military. The roads had been busy, too, with both refugees and retreating French troops. Timpke had driven on - several motorcycles in front, another two armoured cars and three half-tracks behind - past one long column of French and North African soldiers, as many as eighty strong. What a pathetic bunch of men they had been: exhausted and demoralized, with sagging shoulders and leaden feet. Timpke had been disgusted. They were a disgrace to their country. Not one man had so much as aimed his rifle at them as they had rolled past.
Progress had been swift. By early afternoon they had been south-west of Arras and had passed some of 7th Panzer's lead units. It had been a proud moment for Timpke. At last his men - men of the SS-Totenkopf - were in the van of the German advance. Not long after, as they pushed north towards Aubigny, they saw, ahead, a large formation of French forces in retreat. The road to Abbeville was dense with horse-drawn and motorized columns heading west. Watching the procession, Timpke's contempt grew. The lead motorcycle now turned and slowly rolled up to the radio car.
'How are we going to get across, boss?' asked Untersturmfuhrer Ganz.
'We push straight through them,' Timpke replied. 'Let's get the panzers to help. Two Group is only a few kilometres away. They can bulldoze their way through and the rest of us will follow.'
Ganz grinned. 'Good idea, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer.'
The four fast-moving Czech-built Panzer 38s of II Armoured Pursuit Group were quick to join them and, rattling and squeaking, made their way noisily to the front of Timpke's leading reconnaissance column. Advancing in line abreast, two on the road, and two on the grassy verge at either side, in full view of the trudging French forces ahead, they opened fire with their twin MG37 machine-guns and 37mm cannon, raking the French column with bullets and shells. The sound of the firing ripped through the air. Startled soldiers yelled, horses whinnied; a truck ploughed off the road and caught fire; a group of frightened horses bolted across a field near Timpke's relentlessly advancing panzers. A few men fired shots towards them, but the bullets pinged off the tanks' armour harmlessly.
Calmly, steadfastly, the tanks reached the road, and then, tracks clanking, they turned to face the mangled ends of the severed French column, crushing several carts and fallen Frenchmen as they did so. Watching this scene of carnage with satisfaction, Timpke then gave the order for the rest of his column to follow. There was barely any sign of resistance from the French - perhaps they were too stunned and devastated by what was happening to them to respond - and so, calmly, the SS men rumbled on over the debris. Timpke saw blood spreading across the road, and the mashed remains of what, a few minutes before, had been a horse and living soldiers. Stupefied, disbelieving faces stared up at him amid the cries and wails of the dying and wounded. Then a Frenchman cursed and raised a rifle, aiming towards him. The man's defiant shout had acted as a warning, though, and Timpke quickly drew out his Luger, aimed, then squeezed the trigger. A shot of no more than ten metres, and even though the scout car had been moving, the single bullet hit the man square in the forehead and he collapsed, bulging eyes glaring back angrily at his killer. Timpke felt a wave of renewed exhilaration sweep over him.
As they neared Aubigny, they drew some enemy fire - a few machine-guns chattered as they crested a ridge overlooking the shallow valley, but it was wildly inaccurate. By the time shells were being fired towards them, Timpke had withdrawn his men to a safe distance; his instructions were to reconnoitre only.
Having sent the message from his radio car, he was about to push west towards St Pol when another signal arrived, recalling his entire reconnaissance battalion back to the southern Arras area, where they were to screen the roads and villages south of the city. At the same time, the rest of the Totenkopf would be moving up from Cambrai that evening. More refugees and troop stragglers flooded the roads, and although at times they
dogged their progress, the open countryside allowed them, for the most part, a long view ahead, enabling them to avoid the more congested roads. Once again progress had been rapid.
'Boss,' called Schultz, Timpke's radio operator, as they reached the rail stop at Beaumetz, twelve kilometres south-west of Arras, 'another signal for you.'
Timpke lowered himself from his standing position in the turret to the hot belly of the scout car. 'What is it?' Immediately sweat was running down his neck; even with the vents open, it was warm and clammy down there and the air smelled strongly of oil, metal and body odour.
'It's from Obersturmbannfuhrer Geisler, sir,' said Schultz, passing him a hastily scrawled note.
Timpke glanced at his watch. Nearly 1810 - less than an hour to make his way through too many villages and along too many winding country roads to reach Rommel's command post almost halfway along the Arras-Cambrai road. But it had to be done. Leaving Kemmetmuler in charge, he took his scout car and two machine-gun- carrying motorcycle outriders, and set off, speeding along the country lanes of Artois through seemingly deserted villages -
