Darkest Hour

'Not the Stukas, Sarge - all those bloody graves.' He pointed to the French cemetery. Row after row of white crosses stretched from the road to the ridge beyond. 'There must be thousands and thousands of 'em.'

Tanner wandered over to the small British cemetery that lay beside the French one and lit a cigarette. From the village, now that the Stukas had gone, he could hear tanks, their tracks squeaking. Soon six French light tanks were turning off the main village road towards them.

As the last one passed, Tanner stepped across the road behind it and walked to the other side of the trucks. From the far side of the Opel he could hear a group of men from the platoon talking.

'Well, I still reckon old Blackie's a good sort,' said McAllister. 'He said that bird swore the sarge had had his way with her.'

'What I don't see is why she'd lie about it,' said Bell.

'You reckon he did it, then?' said Ellis.

'I dunno,' said Hepworth. 'Maybe it was someone else. Maybe she got it wrong. It was dark, weren't it?'

Tanner clenched his fists, banged his right hand hard against the side of the truck, then walked round to confront them. A hush fell over the men as he stood before them. For a moment he glared at them, his pale blue eyes staring at each man in turn.

'Sarge, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—' began Hepworth.

'Shut up, Hepworth,' Tanner snarled. 'Listen to me, all of you. I know what you've heard, so I'm going to say this to you once. It's true that I was attacked last night and it's true that some French woman has accused me of raping her.' He eyed them all in turn. 'I did no such thing. You've had your gossip but I don't want to hear another word about it. Today we're going into battle and, believe me, when the shells start falling and the machine-guns are firing, this bollocks will seem very unimportant. What will matter is making sure we beat those bastards and that you come through it in one piece.' He stared hard at McAllister. 'Don't believe everything the CSM says, Mac. Remember this: I've known him a lot longer than you have.'

McAllister's eyes darted about nervously. His cheeks flushed. 'Sarge—' he said.

'Forget it, Mac,' said Tanner. 'Just don't let me down today, all right?'

Lieutenant Peploe could hardly bring himself to speak to Captain Barclay as they drove towards Petit Vimy. He knew the captain was not a bad man, but he also recognized some fundamental failings in the fellow. He was impressionable, not a natural leader of men, probably not terribly bright either. Or, at least, not someone who could think quickly on their feet. No wonder Blackstone had such a hold over him. That confidence, that breezy charm and quick mind - those were useful tools for someone like the CSM.

He looked out of the cab at the hordes of refugees taking cover by the side of the road and in the young woods covering the slopes of the ridge, then realized that the arrival of the Stukas had, in fact, been something of a godsend, enabling Lieutenant Bourne-Arton, who was driving, to reach the little hamlet quickly and just as the enemy attack finished.

The place heaved with troops, most of whom, Peploe thought, were exhausted. Directed to Battalion Headquarters - the village bar - they found Lieutenant- Colonel Beart and his battalion officers already in conference.

'Ah, come on in,' said Beart, ushering them to join the half-circle gathered around him. 'You're the company from the Yorkshire Rangers, aren't you?'

'Yes, sir,' said Barclay. 'We've been attached to you because we've got four Jerry trucks.'

Peploe cringed at the obvious pride with which Barclay announced this.

Beart smiled. 'Good. Then you can come under command of Captain Dixon in A Company.' He pointed to an officer several years younger than Barclay.

'How d'you do?' Dixon shook hands with each man in turn. 'Good of you to join us.'

'Right,' continued Beart. 'So, Dix, you've got a scout troop of motorcycles from the Northumberland Fusiliers, a platoon from 260th Ack-Ack Battery, a carrier platoon less one section and our new friends from across the border in Yorkshire. Captain Dixon will lead the advance guard. Dix - over to you.'

Dixon cleared his throat. 'We're going to get going at eleven hundred, then RV with Seven RTR's tanks at the village of Maroeuil.' He turned to Barclay. 'Have you fellows been issued with maps?'

'Yes,' said Barclay, pulling his from his map case. 'Yesterday, from GHQ.'

'Good show,' said Dixon. 'If you have a look you can see we're here.' He pointed to his own map. 'Here's Maroeuil, about four miles away to the south-west, and our start line for the attack is this road, eight miles further south here, running south-west from Arras to Doullens. Beaumetz is the place to keep in mind. There's been plenty of Jerry activity spotted south of there, so they're definitely lurking about. A question of flushing the buggers out.'

'Our chaps are all in Neuville at the moment,' said Barclay.

'Well, that's all right. We'll pick you up on the way. You've got a radio, have you?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'It'll be all right, Dix,' said Lieutenant-Colonel Beart. 'We'll just have to make do. Where exactly are you in Neuville, Captain?'

'By a large French Great War cemetery, sir,' said Barclay.

'And unless I'm much mistaken, that's en route to Maroeuil, isn't it?' He clapped his hands. 'Good. Well, that all seems clear enough. The rest of the battalion will follow the advance guard. One bit of bad news, though, is that we don't have any rations. Have your chaps eaten anything today, Captain?' he asked Barclay.

'They've breakfasted, sir.'

'That's something. Anyway, I'm sorry but it's those buggering refugees again. The food wagons have been