number of executions in Poland but the victims had been partisans, resisters and Jews. That was one thing, but to kill fellow soldiers in cold blood - it was incredible, horrifying, beyond comprehension. And it had been Tanner, the piece of scum who had sat with him so coolly in his scout car. He had recognized then that Tanner was a hard man, but now he had done this. Him and that small, wiry man who had disabled the radio. Sykes. When he dared to get up, he staggered as he saw the dead. Some stared up at him, their eyes still open; others lay on top of their comrades. Flies buzzed around, gorging on the blood. Timpke clutched his head, staggered again, then turned towards the entrance. A sub-machine-gun lay on the dirt floor. He bent down and picked it up to examine the markings. Yes, there could be no doubt. Two circles and a square inside, with the letters W-SS, engraved on the breech. A Bergmann MP35 Mark I. Exactly like the one Tanner had taken from him.
Leaving it where it was, he reached the door, looked around, saw no one, and ran across the yard to the farm's main entrance. Carefully peering around the gateway, he saw the end of his scout car parked across the road. To his surprise, no one was around. For a moment, he crouched in the shadows, thinking. It was almost dark; above him, the first stars were twinkling. He could hear occasional gunfire from the north, but he was certain the Tommies still held the village. He wondered why the rest of the battalion hadn't followed and attacked as he had ordered Beeck. But then, of course, they would have realized that he and the bulk of Company 3 had been taken prisoner. Units of Regiments 2 and 3 would have caught up; any orders Beeck tried to implement would have been overruled. They would have probed forward this evening, would send out patrols tonight and then, having made sure a sufficient weight of fire was in place, would attack the following morning.
And then a plan took shape. All he had to do was disable the vehicles. If he did that, they would struggle to get away. And he wanted them to stay. He wanted them to stay so that he could exact his revenge on this
So long as Tanner and Sykes were not killed, they would almost certainly end up as prisoners of war. Then he would take personal charge of them. There would be no simple bullet to the head - no, Timpke was already planning something far more drawn out than that. He allowed himself a thin smile. The mere thought of it helped lift his spirits.
It was around ten o'clock when Sykes heard movement. He lay stock still until he heard a chink about fifteen yards in front. He hissed at McAllister to hold his fire, then carefully pulled a grenade from his haversack, drew out the pin and lobbed it over the hedge. The night air was so still that he heard it land with a dull thud among the young shoots of corn and a few seconds later it exploded with a blinding crack of light. A man cried out and fell backwards. Then McAllister opened up with the Bren.
A moment later a German machine-gun fired from just below the ridge. Bullets whizzed above them, splintering the tops of the hedge, then mortars were falling, but exploding some distance behind them.
More small-arms fire came from the direction of the wood to the south-east, then mortars.
'Give them another burst,' Sykes told McAllister, 'just in case.'
Tanner joined them, crouching beside Sykes.
'I think it's only patrols, Sarge,' said Sykes.
'Maybe. Sounds to me like they're trying to clear that wood of our posts, though.' More mortar shells fell and a tree now caught fire. They could hear the spit and crackle of burning timber. A flickering orange glow shone from the southern end of the wood and shouts rang out, followed by yet more mortars and small arms. Then, from the village, they heard an engine and the sound of a vehicle driving away.
'Someone scarpering?' asked McAllister.
'Hopefully to fetch some bloody relief,' muttered Tanner.
'It's not looking good, is it, Sarge?' said Sykes. 'We should all bloody well scarper if you ask me.'
Tanner sighed. 'I know, but we've been given specific orders to stay.'
Fighting continued in the wood, while mortars fell regularly on the village. Several houses were burning, so the crisp night air grew heavy with smoke. Apart from occasional bursts of machine-gun fire, the enemy were quiet to the south. Tanner checked on the rest of the men and, as he was doing so, heard engines turning over. None would catch. Again, they whined, like bleating sheep, but none would start.
'Sounds like our vehicles are on the blink, sir,' he said, as he reached the lieutenant once more.
'I might go and find out what's happening,' said Peploe. 'It seems pointless to stay here.'
'Who exactly is in charge, sir? Who gave the orders to stay put?'
'I'm not sure. I was given my orders by Captain Barclay.' As though this had confirmed his thoughts, he said, 'Yes, I'm going to head back quickly into the village. See what's what. All right with you?'
'Yes, sir. Good idea.'
Peploe slipped away, but was back within twenty minutes.
'I saw Captain Barclay,' said Peploe breathlessly. 'He's in a bit of a dither, I'm afraid. Colonel Beart's been found - he's wounded in the leg and should be all right - but Captain Barclay's now the most senior fit and able officer. They think Captain Dixon's dead and the OC of D Company's missing. Anyway, the posts have been forced out of the wood, so to the east and south-east there's just a skeleton force holding the perimeter of the village.'
'And us.'
'Yes.'
'What about the vehicles?'
'That's what's really got the OC. They won't start. It seems someone's taken the rotor arms out of the distributors.'
'Sabotage. Must be one of the prisoners. What's happened to them?'
'I don't know. I must admit, I'd forgotten about them.' 'And where the bloody hell are Blackstone and Slater?'
