Rivalry

Mission three: A chequered retreat

The British general staff, including lord Gort and General Howard Franklyn, had overseen the last of the civilian evacuation of the territory surrounding Arras. They had watched the hope in the Civilians's eyes, present since the allied forces had first mustered in the great town die like a baby bird that had been shot by a marksman, having left the nest for the first time. All were afraid, although some demanded to remain in Defense of their home. The air strikes had gotten nearer and nearer, the sounds of the ferocious battle carrying ever louder on the wind. 

Franklyn had been in conference with Gort for the last half hour, hurriedly relaying events and devising the inevitable retreat. 

"I hate it! I hate this feeling!" Said lord Gort in a rare moment of disclosure. Unprofessional, perhaps, but understandable in the circumstances. This loss meant far more than a simple defeat. 

"Of what, sir?" Franklyn looked up from the map at which he had been staring for the last twenty minutes, a vein bulging in his forehead. 

"Of being trapped in this incessant cycle of loss and retreat, of being powerless to stop the enemy. All the while our boys are fighting heroically. And all just to buy time. I feel at fault, Harold! All this time I was fixated on this conflict, convinced it was going to be a repeat of the Great War. My Error has cost us the campaign. If you could call it that."  He paused in his speech to take a breath, his face red from exertion. "I'm clearly too old for this sort of thing. We need new, fresh brains in command, ones that can adapt to this mad warfare. Of course this abomination would come from the minds of those Fascists..." he spat on the floor.

Harold looked equally pensive. It had started with the veritable destruction of their lines in the Ardennes, the Enemy having pushed over fifty armoured divisions at lightning speed. They had been caught completely off- guard. It had been chaos for days. By the time they had even received word that the Germans were through, the area was devastated, and they had already left it in the dust. And now, despite the courage of the men in battle, they had been completely out manoeuvred, and outclassed. Franklyn had heard ever increasing, concerning rumours about the tactical prowess of their foe. One name in particular had caught his attention, having been mentioned by one of his colonels earlier that day. 

As the situation stood now, continued battle was absolutely out of the question. They must retreat to the coast, or risk encirclement and brisk annihilation. Something bad had happened in the chain of command in the left column, and again even he had no idea what it was, thus making the decision for him.  He knew this, and yet...

"To be powerless. To be vulnerable. It feels incomprehensible to have one's destiny out of one's control. One might compare us to chickens in a coop, waiting to be slaughtered." Said Gort with a bitter laugh. The revulsion this insight stirred in Franklyn threw him back to his senses. There was a war on, this was no time to be a philosopher!

"For goodness's sake! We're only a chicken in a coop if we behave like one!  No matter how many mistakes we make, no matter how many losses we incur, we will only lose our humanity when we abandon all hope, and wait for the jaws of death to close around us! Until that day comes, when the forces of good give up and do nothing, then we must continue to do our duty."

Gort looked shocked, but slowly came to agree. "Good god, you're right! What the hell was i thinking! There's still a fight to be had, and a score to settle whether we like it or not. I won't be the one in command when we make the hun's job easier!"

"Well said sir!"

"We May not win this time, but by jingo, we'll give the bastards a bloody fight! Now, how to you propose that we extricate ourselves from this situation with the pincer threat?" 

" we're already pulling out as fast as we can. At least falling back to the coast will shorten our supply lines somewhat." Said General Franklyn wryly. Gort examined the map thoughtfully. Despite his somewhat loose control of his emotions, he was in charge for a good reason. His experience both tactical and strategic operations was unparalleled.

"Look here, Harold. The problem facing us is this dark area of intelligence, which is the flank of the left column. I say get some boots on the ground to see what's going on, and then get them the hell out of there. But a rout is the last thing we want on our hands, so get a Chequered retreat organised."

"It's a pity it went so wrong in the early phases." Commented Franklyn, having agreed with Lord Gort's suggestion. "It was like one minute we had taken the enemy by surprise, and succeeded in taking out scores of their vehicles,  and the next no one knew what was going on! I couldn't get a word of sense out of those who I could get in touch with, and that was only one or two of the junior officers I had stationed there!"

"Whatever it is, I think we'll have to assume the worst. Say, a key officer going missing. Who did you put in charge of the advance?" Gort enquired. 

A slow realisation dawned on the General. Colonel Maybury's men had just returned, but missing the Colonel himself. They had said that he had led the withdrawal, but had hurled himself back into the fray as soon as his orders had allowed. He had even gone in the direction of the left flank... where that Lieutenant 's Company should have been. 

"Mark Crosse, sir. Lieutenant." 

"Capable, was he?"

"Extremely. In fact, he was the brains behind the offensive tactics that gained us the early advantage. He seemed to understand the aims of the operation better than anyone else, so I put him in charge of it. If anyone was crucial enough to cause disruption on this scale, it's him. Loyal too. Far too fired up about fighting the krauts to just disappear."

"Some underhanded trick of the enemy's then. Pray that he escapes with his life, at the rate it's going, we'll need him. Now, i've tried to get ahold of London, but now it seems that they're having a bloody political crisis! I warned Chamberlain, I told him that Hitler was not to be trusted! Apparently he's resigning as we speak." 

"No surprises there." Harold saluted and left rapidly to issue the new set of orders. He got back into his car and propelled it hurriedly towards the front. We have our backs to the wall. It's all or nothing now. 

And as the vestiges of the British expeditionary force retreated, alongside the French army, they knew in their hearts that it was only a matter of time. Dunkirk and Calais loomed, and Franklyn's greatest fears were coming to fruition: that it would not be the enemy that was responsible for their downfall, but their own terror and disunity.