Their jackboots planted easy on the soft carpet of grass as they stepped with the apprehension unknown into the wood line. Led by a Sergeant armed with a submachine gun, the group of 10 scanned every part of the still vegetation ahead for the slightest irregularity.

The thought wasn’t lost on them. It was the second time in just over 20 years that Germany had invaded France. And they were doing what their comrades then did. Patrol. Only back then it was over a grassless expanse known as no man’s land in soggy mud coated uniforms, with doubt of what the future held against the hated British and French.

Churchill with longbowNow there was none of that. Their uniforms were as clean as when they first crossed the border. And, save for some weak, useless resistance, they were rolling up their traditional enemies in a combined arms march that was hurling them back to the English Channel in record time. It was early morning in May, 1940. Another dawn for the Blitzkrieg.

A force jerked the sergeant backwards spilling his weapon. He turned round at his men as he began to fall, blood squirting from his left eye socket under the arrow which killed him. He collapsed onto his face, weight breaking its wooden shaft as the muzzle flashes sent rounds in to the remaining group.