the Senne. He cursed to himself. It was a shambles, a bloody shambles.
A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in.
'Rusty's back, my lord.'
'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.
Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression
of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was
only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out,
then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'
'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse
than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has
the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being
made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff
officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all
the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'
'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'
Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord.
Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'
'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we
need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'
'But you did get to speak to him about the
withdrawal?'
Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders
right away - have you not received them?'
'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said
Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'
'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared
his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going
back to the Escaut.'
Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'
'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the
Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall
back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the
nineteenth. Those are the orders.'
'And did you speak to him about the roads?'
'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do
about them.'
'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his
silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some
very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with
refugees and we'll have the Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the Luftwaffe bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'
'I asked him the same question, my lord. He said we'd
have to find a way.'
'Imbecile,' muttered Gort.
'There's more, my lord,' added Eastwood.
Gort stared back at him. Let's have it,
then.
'It's to the south. German mechanized columns have not
only broken across the Meuse, they're pushing towards Laon and St Quentin.'
Gort stood up again to return to the map, and made
rough measurements with his fingers. 'If they do that they'll have gone more
than forty miles in a day! It's impossible - surely the French Ninth and Second
Armies can hold them? I hate to say this, but I'm beginning seriously to doubt
the fighting qualities of our French allies. Not something I'd have said about
them during the last show.'
For a moment, no one spoke. Gort's mind raced. To the
north, the Dutch had already surrendered. The Belgians were struggling and the
French Seventh Army had had to fall back to adjust for the collapse of the
Dutch. But what struck him now was the terrible realization that the German
thrust in the north had been nothing more than a feint. The main effort was to
the south, through the Ardennes.
'We've been humbugged, by God,' he said, eyes glazed.
'Yes, my lord,' said Eastwood.
'And our entire plan has been based on Jerry making
his main effort through the Low Countries.' He clutched the back of his chair
as the shock of what was unfolding spread through him. 'All right, thank you,
Rusty,' he said, in a voice of weary resignation. 'Issue the relevant orders
right away.' Eastwood saluted and left.
When he had gone, Gort clenched one hand tightly on
the back of his chair, then smacked the table, shock replaced by anger.
'This is not good enough, not good enough at all! One
order is all I've
A knock at the door. Major-General Pownall came in.
'Rusty's back, my lord.'
'Well, send him in, Henry,' snapped Gort.
Major-General Eastwood strode in, a rigid expression
of barely concealed anger on his face, and saluted sharply. Sensing there was
only bad news to come, Gort sat down behind his makeshift desk. 'Spit it out,
then, Rusty. Give me your best volley.'
'I'm sorry, my lord,' Eastwood began, 'but it's worse
than we thought. They're like rabbits hypnotized by a damned stoat. No one has
the first idea of what's really happening. There are no clear decisions being
made, and Billotte's HQ is about to up sticks yet again. There were staff
officers running hither and thither, trying to pack up and get going, and all
the while no proper appreciation or plan being developed.'
'So Archdale wasn't exaggerating?'
Eastwood rubbed his eyes wearily. 'No, my lord.
Billotte's falling to pieces. He burst into tears on me.'
'For God's sake,' muttered Pownall. 'That's all we
need. First Blanchard and now the Army Group commander too.'
'But you did get to speak to him about the
withdrawal?'
Eastwood nodded. 'Yes. He assured me he'd send orders
right away - have you not received them?'
'Only that we're to fall back to the Senne,' said
Pownall. 'Came through about half an hour ago.'
'Only then? But I left his HQ before nine.' He cleared
his throat. 'That's only the first part of the retreat, my lord. We're going
back to the Escaut.'
Gort groaned. 'The old Plan E.'
'Yes, sir,' said Eastwood. 'We're to fall back to the
Senne tonight, pause there, and on the night of the eighteenth/nineteenth fall
back again to the river Dendre and complete the withdrawal to the Escaut on the
nineteenth. Those are the orders.'
'And did you speak to him about the roads?'
'Yes, my lord. He said there was nothing he could do
about them.'
'Damn it!' Gort sat back in his chair, and stroked his
silvery moustache. 'It took three and a half days to reach the Dyle after some
very careful planning and when the roads were clear. They're now heaving with
refugees and we'll have the Germans snapping at our heels all the way, with the Luftwaffe bombing us. How does he expect us to do it?'
'I asked him the same question, my lord. He said we'd
have to find a way.'
'Imbecile,' muttered Gort.
'There's more, my lord,' added Eastwood.
Gort stared back at him. Let's have it,
then.
'It's to the south. German mechanized columns have not
only broken across the Meuse, they're pushing towards Laon and St Quentin.'
Gort stood up again to return to the map, and made
rough measurements with his fingers. 'If they do that they'll have gone more
than forty miles in a day! It's impossible - surely the French Ninth and Second
Armies can hold them? I hate to say this, but I'm beginning seriously to doubt
the fighting qualities of our French allies. Not something I'd have said about
them during the last show.'
For a moment, no one spoke. Gort's mind raced. To the
north, the Dutch had already surrendered. The Belgians were struggling and the
French Seventh Army had had to fall back to adjust for the collapse of the
Dutch. But what struck him now was the terrible realization that the German
thrust in the north had been nothing more than a feint. The main effort was to
the south, through the Ardennes.
'We've been humbugged, by God,' he said, eyes glazed.
'Yes, my lord,' said Eastwood.
'And our entire plan has been based on Jerry making
his main effort through the Low Countries.' He clutched the back of his chair
as the shock of what was unfolding spread through him. 'All right, thank you,
Rusty,' he said, in a voice of weary resignation. 'Issue the relevant orders
right away.' Eastwood saluted and left.
When he had gone, Gort clenched one hand tightly on
the back of his chair, then smacked the table, shock replaced by anger.
'This is not good enough, not good enough at all! One
order is all I've
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