'And what infantry will there be, sir?'
'Two attacking battalions - Eighth and Sixth DLL'
'The Durham Light Infantry, sir?' Barclay looked appalled.
'Yes. A damn good regiment.' Rainsby smiled. 'Look, it's the most marvellous opportunity for you to show us what you chaps can do. A successful counter-attack like this will do wonders for the name of the regiment. And for you, too, Captain.'
Peploe smiled to himself again. Rainsby had certainly got the measure of Barclay.
'Very well, sir,' said Barclay, his back stiffening. 'If those are our orders, then of course we'll carry them out to the best of our abilities.'
'Good man,' said Rainsby, rising from his seat. 'Here are your instructions.' He handed over a sheet of paper. 'Make your way to Vimy - a smallish village a few miles north-east of here. General Franklyn's setting up his command post there. In fact, I'll be heading there myself shortly. You should ask for the brigade-major. Fellow called Clive. Any questions?'
'We'll rejoin the battalion after this battle?'
'Absolutely.'
Rainsby took them back to the hall, shook their hands and wished them luck, then skipped up the stairs again.
So, thought Peploe, as they headed to the waiting men and trucks, we go into action tomorrow. So far he had not felt particularly frightened, but that was because the two small pieces of action he had taken part in had happened suddenly; he hadn't had time to think about what was happening. Now, however, there was most of the afternoon and the night to wait - and this time it would be a proper attack, not a light skirmish or brief exchange of fire. His stomach churned and his throat felt tight.
Tanner and Sykes were asleep when Peploe stepped up into the cab of the Opel, but both men woke instantly.
'How's the head, sir?' asked Sykes.
'Not too bad, thank you, Corporal.' He cleared his throat. 'We've been temporarily assigned to join the Eighth DLL'
Tanner raised an eyebrow.
Peploe found himself sighing heavily. 'We're going to be part of a major counter-attack tomorrow.'
Tanner nodded. 'Good. About time. Perhaps I'll be able to get my hands on another Jerry sub-machine-gun.' He grinned at Sykes.
A few minutes later they rumbled off. Peploe stared out at the rolling countryside, the fields green with young corn. Where was his uncle buried? Somewhere near Arras - the scene of such bitter fighting more than twenty years before. They drove past a cemetery, not British but French, row upon row of white crosses stretching away from the road. Peploe swallowed, then glanced at Tanner, who was smoking a cigarette and gazing at the thousands of graves too. What he was thinking, Peploe couldn't tell. Tanner was a difficult man to read. Was he scared? He had barely batted an eyelid at the news that they would soon be going into battle. If anything, he seemed to relish the chance - Sykes too. Extraordinary. He was glad that the sergeant would be alongside him tomorrow. Damned glad.
At four twenty p.m. on 20 May, General Lord Gort fixed his pale eyes on General Billotte's liaison officer from Army Group 1 in Lens, Capitaine Melchior de Vogue. Outside, the afternoon had grown grey, a gathering blanket of cloud now blocking out the sun and all but a few faint patches of summery blue so that, despite the tall windows, the room was quite dark. A cool breeze ruffled some of the papers on Gort's desk.
'Capitaine,' said Gort, 'thank you for coming.' He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it at de Vogue. 'Do you know what this is?'
'No, my lord,' replied de Vogue.
'It's a sitrep informing me that a handful of German advance tanks and infantry have taken Cambrai without a fight. Tell me it's not true.'
De Vogue shifted his feet uneasily. 'I am afraid it is, my lord.'
Gort sighed. 'But how can that be? All the garrison had to do was stand firm and they would have driven off the enemy.'
'It was the dust, my lord.'
'Dust?' Gort spluttered.
'Er, yes, my lord,' said de Vogue. 'The enemy advanced on a broad front causing a huge cloud of dust. The garrison there thought the attackers were part of a far larger force than was reality.'
Gort could hardly believe what he had heard. 'And is the French Army now refusing to fight?' he asked.
'No, my lord, of course not.'
'Capitaine de Vogue,' said Gort, 'when I tell British soldiers to attack, they attack. So why haven't French forces counter-attacked and retaken Cambrai?'
De Vogue cleared his throat, then said quietly, 'There has been no order to counter-attack.'
'Good God, man, why the devil not?' said Gort, bringing his hand down hard on the table. His voice rose. 'In the last war, the French Army was proud and fearless.
Any one of the commanders would have taken it upon themselves to throw out a weak advance guard like the one that took Cambrai yesterday. When is the French Army of old going to stand up and fight? When? Because if they don't start doing so, Capitaine, the Germans will get to Abbeville and Calais and then I will have no choice but to fall back on Dunkirk and sail my men back to England. I'm not prepared to lose my forces trying to defend a country that's already given up. Do I make myself clear?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Now, go back to General Billotte and tell him we need Blanchard's First Army to attack simultaneously tomorrow. Much as it pains me to say this, I think it's probably our last chance.'
When de Vogue had gone, he picked up his telephone and had himself connected to Captain Reid, his liaison officer at Blanchard's First Army Headquarters. He drummed his fingers impatiently.
'Hello, sir,' said a voice eventually, the line crackling with static.
'Reid?' said Gort. 'I want you to take down a message.'
'Of course, sir.'
'Ready? It runs as follows: "If this attack - i.e. the counter-attack tomorrow - is unsuccessful, we cannot remain longer in a position with our flank turned and German penetration proceeding towards the coast. Stop." Have you got that?'
'Yes, sir,' said Reid.
'Good. Relay it to Blanchard, and make sure that Billotte and Weygand see it too.'
'Yes, sir.'
Gort hung up the receiver and breathed out heavily.
Ironside and Pownall had gone to stiffen the French commanders' resolve in person; he had spoken more than plainly to de Vogue; now he had sent a further message that he hoped would jolt them into action. He could do no more. But if the French failed them tomorrow, he would have to start preparing the evacuation. He had told de Vogue it was their last chance - and that had been nothing less than the truth.
Sturmbannfuhrer Otto Timpke had woken at first light to find his command post still in disarray. The tower had completely collapsed, as had half of the barns at either side, and there were no fewer than twenty-six casualties. Yet although his command car had been badly damaged by falling masonry, three of the motorcycles and the two armoured cars inside the yard were largely unscathed and, it seemed, in running order. Furthermore, in the cool light of dawn, a route was quickly established through a gate at the back of the yard, leading out onto a pasture and around the walled confines of the farmstead to the road. Leaving the dead and wounded at the farm, with a small burial detail, he had then marched the remainder into the village where they had rendezvoused with the rest of 1 Company and the panzer squadron, in the square by the church, just after five.