cigarette in acknowledgement and left them.
'Sorry about that, Tanner, but I feel we've barely
spoken today, apart from to issue orders and so on.' He took off his cap and
the breeze ruffled his unruly hair. 'I just wish we were leaving in better
circumstances. This matter with the Poles, I promised we'd get to the bottom of
it and I haven't been able to.'
'We couldn't have known we'd be sent to France so soon,
sir.'
'Even so ...'
'I know, it doesn't seem right, but we've got other
things to worry about now and the platoon to look after.'
'It's the thought that those responsible are with us
here, on this ship. It makes my blood boil.'
'Maybe they're still in Manston, though, sir. Perhaps
they weren't from our company, after all. Could have been RAF or the ack-ack
lads.'
'I thought you were convinced CSM Blackstone was
behind it.'
'I'm not so sure. I might have been wrong about that.'
'Why the change of heart?'
'I can't explain. Just a hunch. But the point is, sir,
we know it's definitely not anyone from this platoon. If we make sure our men
go about their business in the right way, we'll be fine.'
Peploe smiled. 'Perhaps you're right, Sergeant.'
Tanner flicked his cigarette into the sea. He wished
he could believe what he'd just told the lieutenant. Perhaps the killers really
were back in Manston, and perhaps the platoon could look after itself. Yet the
unease that had accompanied him almost from the moment he had arrived at
Manston had not left him. Rather, it had grown. A hunch, he had told Peploe, a
sixth sense, some instinct he couldn't really explain but that had saved his
neck on a number of occasions. The problem was, it was only telling him one
thing: that up ahead lay trouble.
Chapter 6
Thursday, 16 May. At the ornate brick-walled, grey-
roofed house in the quiet French village of Wahagnies that had become his
command post, General Lord Gort was struggling to maintain his composure and
ruminating that high command could be a lonely business, especially when one's
French superiors repeatedly failed to communicate orders.
With exaggerated frustration, he pushed back his chair
and, not for the first time that morning, stood up to peer at the large wall
map that hung next to the simple trestle table that was his desk. The quarter
of a million troops that comprised the British Expeditionary Force - and which
were under his command - were sandwiched within a narrow finger that, at the
front line, was no more than fifteen miles wide. To the north were the
Belgians, to the south General Blanchard's French First Army - and both, it
seemed, were crumbling.
Gort glanced at his watch - 10.25 a.m. - and then, as
if doubting its veracity, he looked at the clock above the mantelpiece. It told
him the same. It was six days since the Germans had launched their attack, yet
twenty-five minutes earlier he had received orders to fall back fifteen miles
to the river Senne. Retreat! It was incredible. His men were in good order and
in good heart and had only just reached the apex of their advance. The enemy
who had dared show their faces had been sent scuttling. He had seen the high
spirits of his men for himself. Not so the French on the British right, it
seemed. General Billotte had assured him that the North African division was
one of the best in the Ninth Army, yet the previous day the Germans had blown a
five-thousand-yard breach in their line. Gort had offered the immediate
transfer of a brigade to help, but this had been turned down, dumbfounding
him. Instead, he had had the gut-wrenching task of issuing orders for I Corps
to swing back a few miles to keep in line with Blanchard's divisions. And now this.
Retreat. A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand
it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line
with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his
reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles
behind
'Sorry about that, Tanner, but I feel we've barely
spoken today, apart from to issue orders and so on.' He took off his cap and
the breeze ruffled his unruly hair. 'I just wish we were leaving in better
circumstances. This matter with the Poles, I promised we'd get to the bottom of
it and I haven't been able to.'
'We couldn't have known we'd be sent to France so soon,
sir.'
'Even so ...'
'I know, it doesn't seem right, but we've got other
things to worry about now and the platoon to look after.'
'It's the thought that those responsible are with us
here, on this ship. It makes my blood boil.'
'Maybe they're still in Manston, though, sir. Perhaps
they weren't from our company, after all. Could have been RAF or the ack-ack
lads.'
'I thought you were convinced CSM Blackstone was
behind it.'
'I'm not so sure. I might have been wrong about that.'
'Why the change of heart?'
'I can't explain. Just a hunch. But the point is, sir,
we know it's definitely not anyone from this platoon. If we make sure our men
go about their business in the right way, we'll be fine.'
Peploe smiled. 'Perhaps you're right, Sergeant.'
Tanner flicked his cigarette into the sea. He wished
he could believe what he'd just told the lieutenant. Perhaps the killers really
were back in Manston, and perhaps the platoon could look after itself. Yet the
unease that had accompanied him almost from the moment he had arrived at
Manston had not left him. Rather, it had grown. A hunch, he had told Peploe, a
sixth sense, some instinct he couldn't really explain but that had saved his
neck on a number of occasions. The problem was, it was only telling him one
thing: that up ahead lay trouble.
Chapter 6
Thursday, 16 May. At the ornate brick-walled, grey-
roofed house in the quiet French village of Wahagnies that had become his
command post, General Lord Gort was struggling to maintain his composure and
ruminating that high command could be a lonely business, especially when one's
French superiors repeatedly failed to communicate orders.
With exaggerated frustration, he pushed back his chair
and, not for the first time that morning, stood up to peer at the large wall
map that hung next to the simple trestle table that was his desk. The quarter
of a million troops that comprised the British Expeditionary Force - and which
were under his command - were sandwiched within a narrow finger that, at the
front line, was no more than fifteen miles wide. To the north were the
Belgians, to the south General Blanchard's French First Army - and both, it
seemed, were crumbling.
Gort glanced at his watch - 10.25 a.m. - and then, as
if doubting its veracity, he looked at the clock above the mantelpiece. It told
him the same. It was six days since the Germans had launched their attack, yet
twenty-five minutes earlier he had received orders to fall back fifteen miles
to the river Senne. Retreat! It was incredible. His men were in good order and
in good heart and had only just reached the apex of their advance. The enemy
who had dared show their faces had been sent scuttling. He had seen the high
spirits of his men for himself. Not so the French on the British right, it
seemed. General Billotte had assured him that the North African division was
one of the best in the Ninth Army, yet the previous day the Germans had blown a
five-thousand-yard breach in their line. Gort had offered the immediate
transfer of a brigade to help, but this had been turned down, dumbfounding
him. Instead, he had had the gut-wrenching task of issuing orders for I Corps
to swing back a few miles to keep in line with Blanchard's divisions. And now this.
Retreat. A terrible word. He knew the men wouldn't understand
it. Why should they retreat when they were holding their own? He traced a line
with his finger from Louvain to Brussels, then pointed towards III Corps, his
reserve, who were still spread out along the river Escaut some forty miles
behind
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