Lamb looked down at the map as the colonel’s hands swept across it, and instantly saw the extent of the disaster.
The colonel went on, ‘The Germans have been training for this for years. They’re fighting fit and they damn well know it. And what have we been doing, Lamb? We’ve been sitting on our fat backsides doing sweet Fanny Adams.’ There was real bitterness in his voice. ‘Britain is a great country, Lamb. The greatest in the world, with a strong, resolute people and a powerful Empire. But look at the men you brought out here. Look at the British army. Our soldiers.’
Lamb frowned and began to speak, ‘My sergeant, sir . . .’
‘Yes, I dare say your sergeant’s a good man, and a few others besides him. But what of the rest? Think about it.’
‘They’re a good bunch, sir. Loyal as they come.’
‘I’ve no doubt as to that, Lieutenant. But just how fit are they?’
Lamb bristled. ‘They can march, sir. And they can fight.’
‘But can they march and fight one after the other, laddie? Hitler’s Nazis can do that. That’s why they’ve come sweeping through Belgium. That’s why we’re sitting here fifty miles back, trying to work out what we can do and waiting for their damned tanks to roll into town.’
It was hard to argue against the colonel’s logic. It backed up everything Lamb had seen so far.
‘Lamb, your men, our men, this army. The good few aside. You must see, they’re gutter scrapings, the victims of the depression. It’s not just the army that’s been starved of resources. The entire country’s been living on subsistence rations. Save for a privileged few. Me and Meadows included, if you want. And where are most of those fat cats now? On the General Staff.’
Lamb knew he was right. Many in his regiment were men laid off before the General Strike, or their sons – men who had been brought up on thin porridge and meat just once a week, men who had been offered the promise of a future they never saw, and little else. They were underfed and ill-educated. He was leading the legacy of the last twenty years. He thought of the brigadier with his roast chicken and brandy.
The colonel continued: ‘I tell you, Lamb, something’s got to be done. And fast. D’you know one of our major problems? Our tanks’ guns can’t penetrate their tanks’ hull armour. Not even the new Matildas have a real chance, and most of the others only have machine guns. And have you seen what these new 88-millimetre guns of theirs can do to one of our tanks? They were designed as anti-aircraft guns, for Christ’s sake, and the Jerries have started using them against our armour. We haven’t a chance. We’re the worst-trained, worst-equipped army ever to be sent by Britain to fight on foreign soil. And that’s saying something for the nation that fought in the Crimea and the Afghan wars.’
Lamb was taking it all in. He looked closely at the map. Saw the blue pencil lines marking the British and French corps and divisions. It was true. They were cut off and being pushed closer and closer towards the French coast.
‘Won’t the French be able to break through and cut the German lines? What about their tanks?’
The colonel sighed. ‘It would be good to think so, and in the last lot they might have done just that. But this French army is very different to the one I fought alongside in ’17. They’re sick of war. The French have all but thrown in the towel, and Churchill knows it.’
Lamb wondered how the colonel was able to know what the Prime Minister thought and began to realise that he might be something more than a mere colonel.
The colonel looked over the piles on his desk and found another piece of paper. He handed it to Lamb. ‘Here, read that now. Then tell me your thoughts.’
Lamb read. On writing paper headed ‘British Broadcasting Corporation’ it was dated 18.30 hours, 14 May. That was three days ago.
For immediate broadcast to the nation: All small boat owners are requested to present themselves with their vessels as quickly as possible to a representative of the Admiralty.
He frowned, ‘I’m sorry, what does it mean, sir?’
‘What do you think it means?’
‘It sounds as if we might be trying to get together a sort of people’s navy. All the boats we can get.’
‘Yes, that’s about it.’
‘But why would we do that? Unless . . . But that’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes. I think you’ve got it now. We’re preparing to evacuate the entire army, or whatever there might be left of it. We want to take them off the beaches back to England.’
‘The entire army, sir?’
‘That’s right. As many as we can. Frogs, too, if we can.’
‘Can it be done?
He took a long pause. ‘No one’s ever tried. There are two schools of thought. Gort’s behind it. Think the PM is too. The Frenchies aren’t keen, though. As you might have guessed.’
‘Where can we manage it?’
‘The Channel ports. We had thought of Calais alone but it would seem that we need Boulogne and Dunkirk too. If we can get the small craft onto the beaches we might be able to ferry the men out to the Navy.’
‘So we are running away then.’
‘If we are going to be able to continue to fight this war then we have to save what’s left of the BEF. The French are sunk. I have that on the highest authority. And I do mean the highest. There is no way that we can hope now to meet and repulse a German attack in the north. We can only retreat to victory.’
‘So are you telling me that I should make my way to the Channel ports, sir?’
The colonel shook his head. ‘No, I shouldn’t do that if I were you. You seem a very able soldier and I am going to give you what may well be the best piece of advice you’ll get in this war. Get yourself and your men away to the west. There’s no point in going any further north. Jerry’s already cut our communications and you’ll never get through, but he’s still chasing our tails to the west. Besides, up there you’ll be one among tens, hundreds of thousands scrabbling for a place on those boats at Dunkirk. No, laddie, the west is your best bet. If I were you I’d duck down to Arras and then head for the Somme. You’ll still find Jerries, but there may not be quite so many of them.’
‘The Somme, sir?’
‘Not the old battlefield. Further downstream, towards the coast. I know it seems unlikely, but we’ve a division heading down there now. Pulled away from the Saar yesterday. 51st Highland, General Fortune. The original plan was that if this situation arose and the French could be rallied then it would be the nucleus of a fresh BEF. But to be perfectly frank it looks increasingly unlikely that the French will stand at all. So it’s likely that we’ll have to get the Scots off as well. Just ten thousand of them. Should be easier there than with the half million up at Calais and Dunkirk.’ He paused and stared at Lamb. ‘Actually, I’ve an idea. Lamb, I want you to do something for me. And this really is vitally important. Not like Meadows’s nonsense. Communications are shot to pieces or near as dammit with General Fortune’s HQ, and we have no way of letting him know the situation. I want you to take him a message, from me.’
He looked across at the major. ‘Simpson, write this down please, will you?’
He looked back at Lamb and paused, then said, ‘Tell him that the Jerries have cut us off at Amiens and the French look as if they’re about to give in. Or pretty damn soon. If that happens tell him we’re going to get them all away. All of his division. The plan is to get them off from Le Havre. Tell him that they should hold out on the Somme until further notice and bear in mind that Le Havre needs to be kept accessible. The French might order him south – he’s under their command – but if he has to fall back he should