The Black Jackals (14 page)

Kessler shrugged. ‘Maybe we should, but it's not our fight. I was told to deny the canal to the British, not to attack it. Remember? General von Rundstedt's order was quite specific this morning. “Do not attack. Allow the infantry to catch up.” So we sit tight here. Besides, that's not our sector. That's the SS up there. Totenkopf Division. Theodor Eike's men. The precious SS. Do you want to help them? Would they help us?'

Faller looked away, ‘I don't know. But they're still Germans. And they're dying, sir. Don't you think we should . . .'

‘I think perhaps that you should shut up, Lieutenant. We'll help them when we're told to, not before. I don't want to risk my tanks in some other man's battle, and neither does the Führer. I'm sure the SS can handle the situation quite well. The general is saving us for the big attack on the Somme. Save your energy, you'll need it soon enough.'

The moment had come which he had been dreading, and it was no easier than he had imagined. Standing outside the little office at the rear of the town hall, he felt as if he were thirteen again, waiting outside the headmaster's study at Tonbridge, knowing full well what would happen when he entered. Fearing the worst, he had placed Bennett and the rest of the men in key positions around the town close to the town hall and had entrusted Madeleine to Corporal Mays. His stomach felt hollow and his mouth dry. He knocked on the door.

From within came an imperious voice. ‘Enter.'

Lamb turned the handle. Thirteen again.

Captain Campbell was seated at what had been the mayor's desk, writing a report on the situation that morning. He looked up and saw Lamb. ‘Oh, Lieutenant. It's you. That was damned good work your men did yesterday. First class. We'll be ready for them when they come again, eh?'

Lamb smiled. ‘Well, that's just it, sir. You see that's why I'm here.'

‘What do you mean, that's it? Why
are
you here?'

‘I'm afraid I have other orders, sir, and much as I'd love to stay and help with the defence of the town, and I appreciate how much you need our support, those orders state that I must move west.'

The captain stared at him, open-mouthed. ‘What? What exactly are you trying to tell me?'

‘Simply that I have orders to proceed to the south west, sir, with a message for General Fortune who commands the 51st Division. That division should by now be in position on the Somme.'

Campbell laughed. ‘Lieutenant, if this is some sort of a junior officer's joke then it's in very poor taste.'

‘This is no joke, sir. I'm afraid that we have to go.'

‘We?'

‘Me and my men, sir.'

The captain shook his head, ‘No, no, no. That's simply not possible. We need every man we can get here. I have forty-eight miles of canal to defend with barely 100 men. Your orders are to remain here and assist in that defence.'

Lamb shook his head. ‘I know, sir, and I'm really very, very sorry, but I am obeying a direct order from a colonel attached to the General Staff.'

Campbell narrowed his eyes. ‘Which colonel? What's his name?'

‘I'm afraid I don't know that, sir. I only know him as “Colonel R”.'

‘Lamb. Now I know you're pulling my leg. That's a character from a bloody cheap novel, isn't it? You surely don't expect me to believe that, do you? Credit me with a little more intelligence.'

‘I've never been more serious, sir. It was an order given to me in Arras by a man who told me he was a colonel on the General Staff, and I have no doubt that it was genuine. His 2iC was a Major Simpson, if that means anything.'

Again Campbell shook his head. Then he stared hard into Lamb's eyes. ‘Show me the order.'

‘Sir?'

‘The written order, man. Show it to me, and perhaps I'll start to believe you. Mind you, it'll make no difference to my orders.'

‘Sorry, sir, but my instructions are to show that order to no one but General Fortune.'

Campbell shook his head. ‘You're in the realms of fantasy, man. General Fortune commands 51st Division and he's moving south, last I heard. Doesn't make sense. This is the worst pack of lies I've ever heard and the worst excuse I've heard for anyone trying to shirk a fight with the enemy. You Territorial johnnies have no stomach for a fight. I've seen enough of you – weekend soldiers who can't believe their bad luck. That's what it is, I tell you. You saw some blood spilt yesterday and that put the wind up you and now you want out of it. Well, Lieutenant, that's not going to happen. And now I am giving you a genuine order, a counter-order, and that is to stay here and help defend this position.'

‘Sir, with due respect you know that you cannot possibly countermand an order from a superior officer.'

Campbell shrugged. ‘I've told you, Lieutenant, I don't believe you. I believe you are attempting to desert in the face of the enemy. You're a coward, man.'

Lamb bristled, his years as a lawyer suddenly returning to him. ‘Sir, if that is an accusation then I refute it categorically. I have just helped you repel an attack by the enemy, risking what few men I have left under my command. I would ask you to retract your accusation, sir.'

Campbell stared at him. ‘I really don't know what to make of you, Lamb. I can only conclude that you're mad – mad to even contemplate getting through the German lines on some wild goose chase to find a general who may not even be where you are told he is heading for. Or mad enough to try getting through enemy territory to save your skin. I think I'm inclined to believe the latter.'

‘I'm very sorry to hear that, sir, because whatever your opinion of my story I'm leaving, with my men.'

Campbell, his face red with anger, stood up and pressed his fists hard down on the table. ‘Then I shall have you arrested for desertion.'

‘I don't think so, sir.'

‘No? How the devil will you stop me?'

‘I have sixteen men, sir, all armed, at strategic points around the centre of the town.'

‘You're threatening me? That's mutiny. You'll all be shot.'

‘No, sir, I'm making a request to be allowed to obey an order from a superior officer. I'm simply doing my duty.'

Campbell began to move around the desk. ‘I'm going to find my Sarnt-Major. You'll see how we deal with mutiny in the regular army.'

Lamb drew his pistol. ‘That would not be wise, sir.' He shouted, ‘Sarnt Bennett.'

The door opened and Bennett entered, his rifle at the ready. ‘Sarnt Bennett, place Captain Campbell under arrest, please. The charge is preventing an officer from doing his duty. If he tries to escape you have my permission to shoot him.'

Bennett rested his gun on his hip, its barrel pointing directly at Campbell's chest. ‘Very sorry, sir. Orders is orders.'

Lamb left the room and closed the door, then, moving quickly out of the town hall into the yard at the rear of the building he found that, as he had ordered, Madeleine was already sitting in the central position in the cab of a three-ton truck. ‘Right. That's the first part done. I'm off to get the others.'

Systematically he moved around the town centre, pausing beside each of his men to whisper the order to get back to the truck. Finally he returned himself and found them all safely in the rear. He went back into the town hall and found Campbell still under guard. ‘Well done, Sarnt. Any trouble?'

‘No, sir. The Captain's been very good.'

Lamb reached into his pocket and found the length of rope he had scrounged earlier from a neighbouring office, then, reaching behind Campbell, he bound his hands together at the back of the chair. The captain made no attempt to resist, but, red with rage, hissed at Lamb: ‘This is an outrage. You won't get away with this, Lamb. I'll have you shot. The lot of you. Damned amateurs. You're no more than common criminals.'

‘I don't think so, sir. I really hope that you make it out of this mess. If I know the enemy, he'll probably try to outflank you. Have a look at your map and see if there's a narrow crossing anywhere up or downstream of the canal. That's where they'll try for, then work their way along the bank. That's my guess anyway. Just a bit of advice, sir.'

Campbell stared goggle-eyed, unsure what to make of what he was being told, and as he did so Lamb stuffed a piece of torn shirting into his mouth as a gag. ‘Sorry, sir, but we need a few minutes to get away. I'm sure they'll find you before long. I do apologise, sir. I really wish you had believed me. It's perfectly true.'

They left Campbell, red faced and fuming, trying to edge his chair towards the door, which Lamb then closed and locked, pocketing the key.

‘They won't find him for a while. Should give us enough time. Right, into the truck.'

Lamb climbed into the driver's seat and Bennett into the left side of the cab, squeezing in beside Madeleine, who smiled at them both, relieved at their return. Lamb pressed the starter button and pushed down on the accelerator and the vehicle roared into life. ‘All right, here we go. They'll wonder where we're off to, but don't worry, no one will try to stop us.'

He inched forward up the street and turned from the town square onto the road which led south, past two sandbagged positions. The men peered out at them, but did and said nothing. Lamb opened up the throttle, changed from second to third with a whine of gears, and pushed the truck faster down the road away from the town hall past more groups of soldiers, just as puzzled as the first. Within minutes they were out of the town and driving through tree-lined terrain on the north bank of the canal.

Bennett turned to Lamb. ‘Well done, sir.'

‘Thank you, Sarnt. I do feel sorry for Captain Campbell, though.'

Bennett smiled. ‘Perhaps you should have shot him, sir. Calling us amateurs like he did.'

Lamb returned the smile. ‘Thank you, Sarnt. I'll pretend I didn't hear that last remark.'

‘Very good, sir. But you might have done us all a favour.'

‘You do know that I would never actually have done it, don't you?' He smiled again, and Bennett grinned, unconvinced.

The truck was moving faster now, passing isolated groups of infantry dug into the bank, and on their left machine-gun and mortar pits.

Lamb had devised a new plan to get to General Fortune, presuming that his division had by now actually made it to the Somme. They would drive down the canal on the British side and cross when the opportunity showed itself. That would be the tricky bit, driving across the bridge observed by the enemy. But they had not heard any firing from the left of the line and he wondered whether the Germans had yet stationed anyone in that sector or whether whatever unit was there might be under orders to rest and recuperate until attacked. Also, he hoped that they would be so nonplussed to see a British truck driving towards them that it would be a little time before they opened fire. Whatever the case it was worth a gamble, and really their only hope of breaking out. To have gone on foot would have been hopeless: slow and vulnerable. The truck at least gave them speed and surprise. Once through the forward enemy lines, his plan was to go hell for leather through the reserve and make now not for Etaples but the town of Hesdin, further to the south. There was no point trying to get Madeleine to her cousin. She would just have to come with them. On foot, even before he realised they were behind enemy lines, he had calculated that the journey via Etaples would take them a good three days. Now, with the transport, they might be able to cut that in half, even with Germans all around. Of course, if they could pinch an enemy vehicle, that would be the best solution. In an olive green Bedford they would stick out like a sore thumb.

He turned his head slightly, keeping his eyes on the road. ‘Everyone all right in the back?' There was an answering groan. He knew that his driving was more suited to his beloved old Triumph motorbike than this truck, but he was determined to push her to her limits and make every second count. ‘That's fine then. Right, hang on all of you. Hesdin here we come.'

It was approaching noon when Major Manfred Kessler sat down to eat. Today, 26 May, was his birthday, his twenty-fifth, and he had decided, given the lull that had descended on their sector of the battlefield and their order not to engage the enemy, that it might be appropriate to have a little celebration. So the Major's batman, Hans, had set up a table made from two ammo boxes alongside the command tank, and at this Kessler now sat, a full glass of good local red wine in his hand, the bottle on the table. The news was good from the northern front. The Belgians, it seemed, were about to surrender, and then they would sweep across and cut the British off from the sea. France would be in the bag and he, Manfred Kessler, would be covered in glory. He would take his Panzers away from this stinking canal and down to the Seine into the green fields of Normandy.

His second-in-command, Hauptman Fender, had just proposed a toast to his health and the other officers present, his three lieutenants, were giving three cheers. How clever of Hans, he thought, to find a chicken. The man was a miracle worker. The plump bird now sat, perfectly roasted, in the centre of the table and the men eyed it greedily, waiting for their commander's order to eat. Kessler smiled at them all, put down his glass and was on the point of giving the command when the most extraordinary thing happened. There was a sudden shout from the picket he had placed on the narrow bridge to their front over the canal, and suddenly, on the road to their left, there appeared a British army truck, travelling at a speed which suggested its driver must have some experience with racing cars.

Kessler stared at it for an instant as it hurtled past and then sprang to his feet, knocking both the wine and the precious chicken onto the ground. ‘Did you see that? What the hell was that? They were British. My God. Open fire, you fools. Stop them.'

But it was too late. By the time the tank commanders had climbed aboard their vehicles and the turrets had even begun to traverse, the olive-green truck had long left the laager behind.

Kessler swore at the wine which had stained his neatly pressed uniform breeches and shouted to Fender, ‘Quick, radio through to Brigade. No, call Divisional HQ. Tell them that the British are breaking out. No. Tell them that they have broken out.'

‘How many shall I say, sir? In what strength?'

Kessler looked at him. ‘I don't know.' He ran across to the guard post. ‘Are there any more? How many? Any tanks?'

A voice answered him from the sandbags, ‘Nothing, sir. It's all quiet.'

What the devil were the British doing? One solitary truck, hurtling through their lines at breakneck speed, straight into the rear echelons of the Corps? It was madness. Unless of course it was some sort of secret weapon. Or an assassination team, making for the General Staff. His mind was racing.