Dawson woke, cold and shivering in the grey pre-dawn light, to the sound of clattering mess tins and shouted orders. He sat up, his body stiff and aching from the unyielding steel that had formed his mattress for the night, and looked around. Major Sykes was lying in his sleeping bag at the far end of the truck, a rhythmic chorus of gentle snores showing that he was still asleep – an officer’s privilege, Dawson thought briefly.
He pulled on his trousers and tunic – he’d slept in his shirt and underwear against the cold – and climbed down from the Morris, his mug and mess tin in hand. The other trucks were bulky black shapes that loomed out of the cold grey mist blanketing the field, reducing visibility to perhaps fifty yards. Dawson shivered and wandered over to the closest group of soldiers.
‘Any chance of a brew, lads?’ he asked.
‘Yes, mate, just help yourself.’
Dawson nodded his thanks and filled his mug from their kettle. ‘I thought France was supposed to be warm,’ he muttered, as he took his first mouthful. ‘This feels fucking cold to me.’
‘It feels fucking cold because that’s what it is,’ the soldier said. ‘This bit of France isn’t that much further south than the Isle of Wight, and that’s fucking cold too. I know – I’ve been there.’ He glanced up at Dawson. ‘You’re with that officer, aren’t you? That dapper little bugger?’
Dawson suppressed a grin – that was an entirely recognizable description of Major Sykes – and nodded.
‘But you’re a sapper and he’s cavalry, and that’s like chalk and cheese. He hasn’t got his horse here, so you can’t be in charge of the hay or shovelling its shit, so what the hell are you doing with him?’
‘Right now,’ Dawson said, Sykes’s warning of the previous day ringing in his ears, ‘I’m his driver and bag carrier, and probably his batman too. I’d better take him some tea now, I suppose. But what exactly I’ll be when we finally get to Lille, I’ve no idea.’
Dawson washed out his mug, poured tea into it and added a dash of tinned milk. He walked back to the Morris truck and peered over the tailgate. Sykes was sitting up, running his fingers through his dishevelled hair.
‘Morning, sir,’ Dawson said. ‘Tea,’ he added.
‘Thank you. Is that smoke or mist I can see outside?’
‘Mist, sir. It’s bloody cold and damp, and you can only see for a few yards. I think the lads have got breakfast going. Can I bring you something?’
‘Thank you, no. I’ll drink this tea, which is foul, by the way, then I’ll go and see the convoy leader and find out what his plans are.’ Sykes took another sip. ‘I don’t know what it is about tea in the British army. It’s strong and thick and far too sweet, and tastes absolutely disgusting with tinned milk in it. In fact, it’s probably one of the most revolting drinks known to man, but every soldier seems to love it.’
‘It keeps up morale, sir.’
‘I don’t know about morale, but it certainly keeps me up all night if I drink it late in the evening.’
After Sykes had left the truck, Dawson joined the others for breakfast, then did his best to wash, shave and clean his teeth – none of them particularly easy in the circumstances. Once he’d finished, he dragged one of the jerry-cans out of the back of the truck and emptied its contents into the Morris’s fuel tank, and finished the process with about a quarter of another can. Then he climbed up into the cab of the truck and sat there, waiting for Sykes to come back.
It was another quarter of an hour before the major returned, looking pink and freshly shaved, so Dawson guessed the officer’s ablutions had been rather more satisfactory than his own. Sykes glanced around him and then, when he spotted Dawson in the cab, he nodded, walked round to the passenger door and hauled himself inside.
‘You’ve put some fuel in?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir. The tank’s full.’
‘Good man. Right, the officer in charge reckons the convoy will head out in about half an hour, just to give this mist a bit of time to lift, so you can relax for a few minutes.’
Just over thirty minutes later, Dawson heard whistles blowing, then a clattering sound, and looked out through the windscreen. The visibility was noticeably better, and a puff of blue smoke close to one of the trucks showed that the driver had just started the engine. Then another one fired up, and a third.
‘Looks like we’re ready to roll,’ Dawson remarked, and Sykes nodded agreement.
As the last truck moved forward and headed towards the road, Dawson engaged first gear and followed it, the lorry bouncing and lurching over the uneven ground. Once they reached the tarmac, he accelerated to catch up with the last vehicle in the convoy, then held position about fifty yards behind it as the trucks headed east along the fairly narrow road.
‘We should make Lille by early this afternoon,’ Sykes stated, his head bent over the French map again. ‘It’s only about a hundred miles, so it shouldn’t take us more than around three hours, even on these roads.’
‘Do you speak French, sir?’ Dawson asked.
Sykes nodded. ‘Yes. That’s one of the reasons why I’m sitting here now.’
The convoy drove through Neufchâtel-en-Bray, the large number of unfamiliar vehicles again the subject of curious scrutiny by some of the local residents. But this time there was no cheering, and no waving flags, just silent, almost unfriendly, stares.
‘These Frenchies don’t seem very pleased to see us,’ Dawson remarked.
‘That’s because they aren’t, and because this is not a simple situation. There’s a large body of people here in France who don’t see the Germans as their enemies. In fairness, they don’t regard them as their friends either, but more as neutral partners. Some of them would be quite happy to see a French-German alliance, so they’re probably not impressed that France has declared war on Germany, or with the sight of British army lorries driving through their towns.
‘They’re deluded, of course. I’m quite sure Herr Hitler will have a list of priorities, and taking over France – and Belgium, of course – will be fairly near the top. An alliance with a neutral France wouldn’t work because the Germans will have to launch their invasion of Britain from the French channel ports, so they have to defeat the French first.’
‘You think Hitler will invade us, then?’
‘He’ll certainly try, Dawson, there’s no doubt about that.’
Dawson absorbed that unwelcome information in silence, then changed the subject. ‘What do we do when we get to Lille, sir?’
‘We find the appropriate senior Frog and ask him to show us where the nearest fort is.’
‘And they do know we’re coming, sir?’ Dawson asked. ‘I mean, they are expecting you?’
‘Not exactly,’ Sykes replied, with a grin. ‘My boss sent an official request to his French opposite number, or at least to the officer he thought might fit the bill, but he hadn’t had a reply by the time I left. So you could say the French have been advised about our visit, but they haven’t actually approved it.’
Dawson nodded, wondering how much of a problem that was likely to be. Major Sykes, he decided, was the kind of officer who got things done by sheer force of personality and his obvious willingness to bend whatever rules were in force at the time – the fact that they were still driving around France in a truck that was technically stolen was proof enough of that. It would be interesting to see just how his particular brand of improvisation fared when he was confronted by a bunch of French army officers, who might regard Sykes and his mission in a very different way.