Darkest Hour

'Hold on, sir,' said Tanner. He was looking again at the enemy vehicles speeding along the Doullens-Arras road. 'I've just had a bit of an idea.'

Chapter 17

Sturmbannfuhrer Timpke had managed to assemble most of his battalion to the east of Beaumetz as planned, if somewhat later than he had hoped. Once again, the narrowness and lack of roads had been the problem: his motorcycles and armoured cars - even his half-tracks - couldn't cross the soft, rich clay of the open fields. Metalled roads and firm tracks were the limit of their capabilities - and this was the case for most of the division. He had been thankful that neither the French nor the Tommy bombers had spotted their long columns on the march.

He had, however, identified three passable approaches to Berneville from the south. One track ran diagonally from Beaumetz, while a few kilometres along the Doullens-Arras road, a further track and a metalled road led off at ninety degrees directly into the south of the village. He sent Company 1 from Beaumetz and his P38 tanks off across the fields beside them, then led his remaining two companies along the main road to Arras.

And thank goodness he had, because no sooner had they got going than shells were hurtling over from the ridge to the south-east. From his position in the turret of his scout car, Timpke had been startled by the unexpected explosion a few hundred yards to the north. If that had been a ranging shot, the shells that followed had soon found their mark, hitting part of Regiment 3's column pushing north from Beaumetz.

Timpke had soon spotted the source of the shellfire: a big 88mm flak gun stuck in a copse a couple of miles away. Typical wooden-headed Wehrmacht gunners getting carried away. The shelling didn't last long: someone had obviously pointed out the error of their ways, but to the north of Beaumetz a number of vehicles were burning, thick black smoke pitching into the air.

Wearing a wireless headset, he heard Schultz's voice crackle in his headphones from below. 'Boss, Company One are nearing the western end of Berneville. They're not drawing enemy fire.'

'Good. Order them to keep going. Where are Totenkopf Regiment Two?'

There was a pause. 'They're advancing from Simencourt, boss, along the ridge to the north of Berneville. At least six vehicles were hit by that gun.'

'Those gunners should be shot.'

As they had reached the first track into the village from the main road, he had ordered Company 2 to break from their column and advance along it. No sooner had he done so than he had heard the sound of aero-engines and, scanning the sky, spotted two dozen Stukas approaching from the east. They were flying low, one swarm of twelve aircraft stacked above another, only a few thousand feet high. For a brief moment Timpke had felt a stab of panic that they might attack their columns, but then, one by one, sirens screaming, the planes peeled off, dropping their bombs on Berneville and the ridge behind it.

'Schultz,' said Timpke, 'we'll halt until the dive- bombers have done their work. Relay the order.'

'Yes, boss,' Schultz replied. 'Company One and the panzers want to wait where they are too.'

'Agreed. But as soon as the Stukas go, get them into the village.'

When the dive-bombers finally left, smoke hid the village and the ridge. To the west, however, Timpke could see infantry pressing towards the village - men from Totenkopf Regiment 2. Mortar shells were exploding, machine-gun and small arms cracked, their tinny reports echoing across the open fields. Timpke sniffed - burned wood and rubber - as though to confirm the acrid stench of battle. He ordered his men forward once more, and a few hundred metres further on his small lead column of Company 3 turned off the Doullens-Arras road and sped towards the village.

Ahead, his motorcycles had stopped. A man had raised his hand, beckoning them on. Two others were getting out of their sidecars. Then Timpke saw them: two Opel trucks with white paint daubed across the bonnets. He knew instantly what they were — there could be no doubt.

His scout car halted in front of them and he got down, his anger rising once more. The numberplates had been painted over, but the SS runes were only partially hidden. Jaw clenched, he strode around both vehicles, looking with disgust at the British names written crudely upon them. Yorks Rangers, BEF. Stolen at dead of night and abandoned at the first sign of a fight. He glanced up the road to the village. Where were those men now, he wondered. In Berneville still, or dead, pulverized by the weight of the Stuka attack? Or had they fallen back further already? Dead or alive, he vowed, he wanted those men, those Yorks Rangers who had dared to take these vehicles from him.

'Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, look,' said one of his men now.

Timpke turned back to the direction from which they had come and saw two Krupp infantry carriers rumbling down the road towards them.

'Our friends in the Wehrmacht,' said Timpke, walking back to his vehicle. 'If they think they're going to drive on ahead of us, they're very much mistaken.'

Timpke was getting into the scout car as the first of the Krupps pulled up alongside. To his surprise, one of the Wehrmacht men leaped from the vehicle onto his armoured car. He glimpsed the pale eyes of his assailant, then the man swung his forearm round his neck, choking him, kneed him in the side so hard that Timpke gasped with searing pain, and jabbed a pistol into the small of his back.

It had been so quick and unexpected that none of Timpke's men had had time to react.

'Hande hoch!' a man was shouting from the Krupp. 'Hande hoch!'

One of Timpke's men tried to swing round the machine-gun on his sidecar, but at a quick tap from the MG in the Krupp he jerked backwards with a cry. The rest now put their hands slowly in the air, stunned. Timpke felt the arm against his throat slacken, so that although the muzzle of his own Luger was still pressed hard against his kidney, he was able to turn enough to look at his attacker. His eyes widened. The man had a battered face, a cut on his cheek and lip and severe bruising. He wore a German helmet but, he now saw, a khaki uniform, not field grey. And on his shoulders the curved black patches bore two words in green stitching: Yorkshire Rangers. Timpke curled his lips into a snarl, then shook his head. No! It wasn't possible! How could they have been caught out like this? If only his men following had looked at these Tommies more carefully. German helmets - helmets! Timpke groaned. Surprise - it was one of the golden lessons of warfare, and he had let himself and his