Archer ducked under the low doorway of the old schoolhouse, the air inside stale with sweat and smoke. The room was dimly lit, a single oil lamp casting flickering shadows over the maps and field orders strewn across a battered desk. Captain Pembroke looked up from his notes, his face drawn but breaking into a faint smile when he saw Archer. “Tom,” Pembroke said, waving him closer. “You’re looking better than I expected after what you’ve been through.”

“Morning, sir,” Archer replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Six hours of rest will do that. What’s the situation?”

Pembroke gestured for him to sit on a rickety chair near the desk. He leaned forward, his tone softening. “First things first. Hargroves is gone. Artillery strike yesterday morning. Ellis has taken over the battalion. It’s…been a rough 24 hours.”

Archer absorbed the news with a tightening in his chest. Hargroves had been a steady hand, and his loss left a hole that felt larger than just the chain of command. He let out a slow breath. “How’s Ellis holding up?”

Pembroke rubbed a hand over his stubble, his eyes briefly dropping to the map on the desk. “He’s doing his best, but you know how it is. Taking over in the middle of all this—it’s a thankless job. He’s steady, though and he’s doing what he can, same as the rest of us,”

Pembroke continued “but the battalion’s taken a beating. We’re spread thin, morale’s shaky, and Jerry’s massing for another push.” He tapped a hand on a hand sketched map, drawing Archer’s attention to a cluster of markings.

Archer reached into his battledress pocket, feeling the familiar weight of the flask Pembroke had given him back in Armentières some three weeks ago. He pulled it out, unscrewed the cap, and offered it across the desk. “Here and how you holding up.”

Pembroke’s eyes lit up briefly with a glimmer of humour. “I’m Good, you still carrying this thing around?” Pembroke hesitated for only a moment before taking the flask and raising it slightly in a quiet toast.

“To Hargroves,” he said, his voice softening. He took a measured sip, letting the warmth spread through him before handing it back.

“And to the poor bastards holding the line.” Archer raised the flask and returned the flask to his pocket. The gesture was small, but it seemed to lift a fraction of the weight hanging over the room.

Archer leaning toward the desk, his jaw tightening. “What’s the latest?”

Pembroke leaned back, his voice dropping lower. “Situations dire. Ellis has us stretched across these positions, but if Jerry breaks through here, it’s a clear road to Cassel’s centre. The chapel’s one of the last defensible spots on this flank. They’ll hit it hard—and soon.”

He paused, running a hand over the map.

“The orders from Brigade are clear, Tom. We’re to hold the line—last man, last round. There’s no fallback, no reinforcement. We’re buying time for the lads heading to Dunkirk, and that means every minute we hold matters.”

Archer exhaled slowly, the weight of the words pressing on him. He already knew the stakes but hearing them spoken aloud made them feel heavier—more real. Hold the line to the last man, the last round. The words weren’t new to him, but their finality settled in his shoulders like a stone. He thought of his men—Mallory, Jacks, Matthews, and the others—men who had trusted him through hell and back. How many of them would be standing when the last round was spent?

Pembroke, his face grim, turned back to the map, tapping a thick, smudged pencil against the marked positions. “Right, listen up. You’re moving into the chapel and cottages here,” he said, tracing the defensive line with the pencil. “That flank is critical, and if Jerry gets through it, we’ll lose the whole eastern side of the town. Battalion’s thin as it is—this position’s got to hold.”

“You’re taking 6th Platoon in to reinforce the position. You’ll also take on what’s left of 8th Platoon—they’ve been chewed up, down to about twenty men. Their officer didn’t make it, and Sergeant Wilkins has been holding things together.” Pembroke paused, his sharp eyes settling on Archer. “What about your lot? How’s 6th Platoon holding up?” “Well, as of this morning we’re fourteen, including myself, sir,” Archer replied, his tone grim but steady. “We lost six during the mission. One wounded—he’s been evacuated.”

Pembroke frowned, his jaw tightening as he processed the numbers. “Bloody hell, Tom. Six. That’s a hell of a price.” Archer held Pembroke’s gaze, his voice quiet but resolute. “We’ve had hard days, sir. No different to anyone else.” His expression hardened as he straightened. “But the men are ready. They’ll do what’s asked of them.” Pembroke studied him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before nodding and turning back to the map. The weight of their conversation lingered for a beat, but when he spoke again, his tone had shifted—brisk, measured, and all business.

“Right. Artillery support is available, but there are restrictions.” He tapped the map again, tracing the defensive positions. “We’ve got a battery of 25-pounders covering the area, but they’re stretched. We can’t waste shells—we’re running low as it is. Priority targets only.” He pointed to the chapel, his voice firm. “Ellis has the final say on all artillery requests. There’s a field phone set up at the chapel—it connects directly to me here and up to Battalion HQ. You need something, you call me first, and I’ll push it up the chain. But don’t expect miracles.” Pembroke looked back at Archer, his expression sharp. “What’s your ammo situation?” Archer hesitated, “Er not great we’re running low, sir. Maybe thirty rounds per rifle on average, two Bren magazines for each of the brens, we scrounged what we could through the night, but it’s not much.” Pembroke’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he let out a heavy breath. “It’s better than I expected, but it won’t last if Jerry pushes hard. I am pretty sure they will, Tom. That chapel is key, and they know it.” “We’ll stretch it,” Archer said simply, his voice steady.

Archer, Trying to absorb the information as its being relayed. “What about Jerry’s movements?” Pembroke sighed, rolling the pencil between his fingers. “They’ve been probing us all night, feeling for weak spots. You can expect more of that today—machine gun fire, mortars, and probably a heavier push during today. If they bring armour, well…” He trailed off for a beat before continuing. “Let’s just hope they don’t.” Pembroke gave a grim smile. “The bigger picture is survival, if we’re lucky. Brigade’s relying on Cassel to keep Jerry bottled up as long as we can. It’s the linchpin of the withdrawal. Lose this, and we lose the corridor to Dunkirk. That’s why we’re stretched so thin—we’re holding the bloody door open for everyone else to get through.” Archer’s gaze drifted to the map, his eyes tracing the thin lines marking their defensive positions. “And if we don’t?” “Then the Channel’s full of Tommies who didn’t make it,” Pembroke replied bluntly. “But let’s not think that far ahead, eh?” Archer nodded firmly. “Understood, sir.” With That Archer turned to leave “Good Luck Tom!” Pembroke called out, to which Archer responded, “Good Luck to too Sir.” “s Archer stepped toward the doorway, the flicker of an oil lamp threw long shadows across the walls, making the pinned maps and reports seem to writhe like restless ghosts. Outside, the night loomed, heavy and waiting.

Archer approached the platoon, who were gathered along an old brick wall of the school. He called Mallory, Jacks, and Wilson over. “Here’s the situation,” he began quietly, his voice low but firm. “We’re reinforcing 8th Platoon at the chapel. They’re chewed up, down to twenty or so men. Wilkins is holding them together, but morale’s shaky, and Jerry’s massing for a push. We’re low on ammo, artillery’s restricted, and there’s no fallback.” Mallory’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the words. “Wilkins, you say?” he muttered, a faint note of familiarity breaking through. “Stubborn bastard—he’ll be holding that lot together with spit and curses.” Archer gave a curt nod. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t have to do it alone.” Jacks frowned. “No fallback? What…?” Archer cut him off, his voice firm but calm. “Last round. Last man.” The words hung heavy in the air. All four men exchanged a look, the full weight of the order settling over them as they tried to digest what it meant. Archer left the NCOs and walked over to Matthews, pulling him aside. “Matthews,” Archer began quietly, his tone firm but not unkind. “You’ve done a hell of a job so far, but there’s no need for your… particular set of skills now. I want you to get out—make your way to Dunkirk.” Matthews’ face darkened, and he shook his head sharply. “Not a chance, sir. You think I’m leaving you lot here?” Archer’s gaze held steady, his voice dropping lower. “Corporal, we’ve had orders to stand to the last. This is no longer your fight. I want you to get out. Get home.” “Sir!” Matthews snapped, his voice rising slightly before he caught himself. “I’ve fought alongside you and these men more than once, and I’m not going to turn my back now. Not when it matters most.”

For a moment, Archer just stared at him, the pride he felt for the man surging through him like a charge of electricity. Words felt inadequate. Instead, he reached out and gripped Matthews’ shoulder firmly. “Thank you,” Archer said quietly, the two simple words carrying all he couldn’t express.

The first hints of dawn crept over the horizon as Archer led 6th Platoon toward the chapel. The sky was a muted grey, streaks of pale light clawing through the lingering darkness. The air felt heavy, carrying the acrid tang of smoke and cordite, the remnants of yesterday’s bombardment. Each step brought them closer to the battered remains of the Norman chapel, its once-proud stone walls now pockmarked and fractured from shellfire.

The land around it bore the scars of war. Craters marred the earth like festering wounds, pools of stagnant water shimmering faintly in the dim light. The remnants of a stone cottage slumped to one side, its roof collapsed, and blackened beams still smouldering faintly as if reluctant to admit defeat. Scattered debris littered the ground—spent casings, torn uniforms, and the shattered remnants of furniture dragged from homes to fortify defences.

Archer’s eyes flicked to the chapel itself as it came into view. Its bell tower, though still standing, had lost half its height, jagged edges reaching skyward like broken fingers. The stained-glass windows were gone, replaced by gaping holes that offered fleeting glimpses of movement inside—Wilkins’ men preparing for whatever the morning might bring. Nearby, trenches had been hastily dug, their earthen sides sagging from rain and overuse, while makeshift barricades of sandbags and wooden carts formed a defensive perimeter around the stone buildings.

The air was unnaturally still, save for the distant crackle of small-arms fire and the occasional rumble of artillery far to the east. It was the kind of silence that hung like a shroud, unnatural and waiting to be broken. Archer tightened his grip on his rifle. “Steady now,” he murmured, the men behind him moving like shadows among the ruins, bracing for the inevitable storm.

As they approached the battered perimeter, Archer scanned the trenches and barricades. Movement stirred from within the chapel—shapes of men, tired but determined, huddled behind the crumbling walls. “Looks like Wilkins has been busy,” Mallory murmured beside him, his eyes sweeping over the makeshift defences. Archer nodded, his gaze hard. “Let’s see what we’re walking into.”

As they reached the edge of the chapel’s perimeter, Archer spotted a figure rising from one of the trenches—a broad-shouldered man with a stocky build, his uniform caked in dirt and sweat. Sergeant Wilkins. Wilkins climbed out of the trench with a tired grunt, helmet slanted to the back of his head. His face was lined with exhaustion, but his sharp gaze remained steady as it landed on Archer and Mallory. “Lieutenant,” he said simply, giving Archer a nod of acknowledgment. His voice was hoarse, worn thin by shouting orders and the dust of the trenches.

“Wilkins,” Archer replied, matching his tone. Wilkins turned briefly to Mallory, a flicker of recognition breaking through his weariness. “Mallory.” “Wilkins,” Mallory returned with a curt nod, his expression tight but familiar. “Still holding the fort, then?” “Still breathing, if that counts,” Wilkins replied, a hint of dry humour creeping in before his face settled back into its hardened lines. “And you? I half-expected to find you laid up by now.” Mallory snorted faintly. “You know me better than that.” Archer stepped into the conversation, “Sergeant, what’s the situation?”

Wilkins let out a quiet grunt before turning his attention back to Archer. “Last count this morning we are twenty men. There exhausted but who ain’t.” He gestured vaguely toward the chapel and surrounding defences. “We’ve been shoring up where we can, but Jerry’s been probing us since last light. It won’t hold much longer without help.” Wilkins ran a hand over his stubbled jaw, his eyes flicking to the chapel and the rough perimeter beyond.

Mallory glanced at the trenches and makeshift barricades—sandbags sagging, craters gaping open in the earth, and the shattered remnants of a stone wall. “Looks like you’ve had a time of it,” he said gruffly. Wilkins shrugged, the movement stiff. “You can say that but we’re still here, aren’t we?”

Wilkins led the way, gesturing toward the stone wall as they moved along the perimeter. “This is the main line,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady. “The wall runs most of the way around the chapel, but as you can see”—he pointed to a gaping hole where jagged stones crumbled into the earth—“it’s not what it used to be. That’s where they’ve been testing us, probing for weaknesses. The lads have been doing their best to patch it, but we’re stretched thin.”

He paused at a section of the wall reinforced with sandbags and broken beams, gesturing toward the far edge of the position. “7th Platoon is dug in over there, about fifty yards along that line.” He pointed toward a cluster of craters and rough barricades. “They’re holding the western approach. Not much better off than us, but they’ve got decent sightlines across the fields. Lost the platoon sergeant yesterday.” Mallory responded obviously knowing the man “Campbell?” Wilkins said nothing but just nodded to confirm.

Wilkins moved further along, pointing toward a shallow trench that connected to the rear of the chapel. “Headquarters Platoon’s just behind us, tucked into those trees near the old schoolhouse. They’re the fallback point if things really go south, but we’re not supposed to count on that.” “What about the other companies?” Archer asked, scanning the horizon as the faint light of dawn crept over the landscape. “A Company’s on the northern side of the town, near the main road. They’ve been taking the brunt of it—Jerry’s been hitting them with everything he’s got. If they hold, it’ll be a bloody miracle.” Wilkins’ voice dipped slightly, a note of concern creeping in. “B Company’s spread thin along the southern perimeter. Last I heard, they were holding, but they’ve had to pull back twice already. As for C Company, they’re covering the western flank near the hill. It’s quieter over there for now, but if Jerry tries to swing around, they’ll be the first to know.”

Wilkins stopped, turning back to Archer with a grim look. “It’s a patchwork, sir. Everyone’s just holding on by their fingernails, but this chapel? It’s the keystone. If we lose it, the whole eastern side collapses, and Jerry will roll straight into Cassel.” The sergeant continued, leading Archer toward the rubble of a nearby cottage. “Like I said, we’ve got the Vickers on the left flank, covering the lane. The Brens are split between the gaps in the wall and the flanks. Ammo’s thin, but we’ve made every shot count so far.” “And the barbed wire?” Archer asked, his eyes flicking to the faint glint of wire strung haphazardly across the front of their position. “It’s not much, but it slows them down enough for us to get a shot off.” Wilkins sighed, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. “That’s the picture, sir. A patchwork and prayers, but we’re still standing.”

Archer absorbed the information, his gaze drifting over the battered landscape. The jagged lines of trenches, the craters gouged into the earth, and the faint glint of helmets in the growing light painted a picture of a force stretched to its limit. He clenched his jaw.

Archer crouched near the wall, running a hand along the jagged edge of a shell-blasted section. His sharp eyes scanned the terrain beyond—churned earth, broken trees, and the faint glint of barbed wire strung haphazardly in the distance. The rise leading to the chapel gave them the advantage of high ground, but it also made them a clear target.

“What’s your ammunition status?” Archer asked, his tone steady but sharp.

Wilkins replied grimly, “Twenty rounds per man if we stretch it, three full belts—750 rounds—for the Vickers. The Brens are down to three mags each, maybe less. We’ve been stripping rounds off the lads who… won’t need them anymore.”

He turned to Mallory, his voice low but firm. “Alright, here’s how we set it up. This wall is our anchor—Wilkins’ lads have done what they can, but we’ll reinforce it. Get the boys digging shallow trenches along this line, about twenty feet apart. We’ll need overlapping fields of fire.

Archer glanced toward the rubble of the cottages. “Drop one of the Brens. We don’t have enough ammo for four. Put one here, covering this gap in the wall—it’ll work with the Vickers to create a crossfire. If Jerry pushes straight up the rise, they’ll be caught between the two.” He continued, his tone decisive, “Get Pritchard up in what’s left of the bell tower. Best shot we’ve got—he can pick off their officers and NCOs before they reach us.” Wilkins, standing nearby, exchanged a brief glance with Mallory, a flicker of approval crossing his face. This officer knew what he was doing.

Archer straightened, his gaze sweeping over the rise again. “They’ll hit us head-on, no question. The high ground makes it hard for them to manoeuvre, but it also means they’ll throw everything at us to take it. Mortars, machine guns, the lot. If we hold here, though, we can bleed them dry before they get close, if we can get them in a bottleneck, we make life extremely unpleasant for them.”

The Lieutenant continued, his tone measured but firm. He pointed toward the left flank, where the remnants of a stone cottage sat crumbling against the edge of the line. “Position two riflemen and a Bren team there. They’ll have a good line of sight to anything moving near those trees. That spot’s exposed, so make sure they dig in properly and keep their heads down.”

He turned his attention to the right, where the gaps in the wall created vulnerabilities. “Get a section to dig in along those gaps,” Archer said firmly. “Use rubble, sandbags—whatever you can find to shore them up. Make sure the men stay low and keep their positions tight. If Jerry tries to force his way through, we’ll need to make every shot count.”

Wilkins gestured toward the Vickers. “The machine gun’s our strongest point, but if they hit us with a heavy push, it’ll be the first thing they target.” Archer nodded, his gaze drifting to the well-dug emplacement where the Vickers rested, its barrel angled down the lane. “You’re right—they’ll try to take it out fast. But with the Bren covering the left and the riflemen dug in along the wall, we’ll add layers of fire to that position. If they push hard, the crossfire will break their momentum before they can get close enough to overwhelm it.” Wilkins tilted his head, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered the adjustments. “And if they send armour?” “We’ll adapt,” Archer replied, his tone steady. “and hope we can get the arty in.”

Archer continued. “The rise gives us the advantage. Their vehicles will be slower coming up, and the machine gun will have time to focus its fire on any infantry support. If we hold the line long enough, Jerry will have to rethink their approach.”

Wilkins grunted, his face still set with concern. “It’s about buying time,” Archer said firmly. “We don’t need to stop them cold—just slow them enough to hold this flank.”

As the words left his mouth, Archer felt the weight of their reality pressing down on him. Buying time. It sounded simple, even logical, but he knew what it truly meant—holding this battered stretch of ground against a force far better equipped and unrelenting in its advance. The rise gave them an edge, but it also made them a glaring target. The thought of mortars raining down, of tanks grinding their way up the slope, filled his mind with images of men caught in the open, scrambling for cover that didn’t exist.

He shifted his stance, his gaze sweeping over the battered landscape. The chapel’s crumbling walls and the sagging trenches offered little reassurance. This wasn’t a fortress—it was a patchwork defence, held together by determination and desperation. His men were good, capable, but they were tired, low on ammo, and stretched thin. How long could they realistically hold?

Archer forced the thoughts aside, tightening his grip on his rifle. This wasn’t the time for doubt. “We’ll make them pay for every inch,” he said quietly, almost to himself, before turning his attention back to Wilkins.

“Let’s get everyone in place. We’ll dig in, reinforce where we can, and be ready when they come,” he added, his voice steady despite the storm building in his mind.

Wilkins, his expression tight as he absorbed the plan. Without a word, he adjusted his helmet and glanced once more at the battered rise beyond the wall. “I’ll get the lads sorted,” he said, his tone resolute but low, almost to himself. He shifted his rifle in his hand and strode toward the nearest group of men, his silhouette blending into the gritty haze of the morning light. The air hung heavy, the quiet unnerving, as Archer watched him go. Mallory stepped up beside him, his face set and unreadable. “He’s a solid one,” Mallory said. “Knows what’s coming, though.” “So do we,” Archer replied quietly, his gaze fixed on the jagged horizon. Mallory lingered a moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the first streaks of daylight painted the sky. “Quiet now,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Too bloody quiet.”

Archer scanned the rising ground, his jaw tightening as he took in the battered defences and the churned earth beyond. The silence felt unnatural, oppressive, as if the entire battlefield was holding its breath. His thoughts lingered on his men—Mallory, Jacks, Matthews—and the faces of those who wouldn’t be standing with them today.

The faint breeze stirred the scorched grass, carrying the acrid scent of gunpowder and the promise of more to come. Archer adjusted his helmet, his grip tightening on the rifle slung over his shoulder. “This is it,” he thought, the weight of the fight ahead settling squarely on his shoulders. With a glance back toward the chapel, he straightened. “We hold here,” he murmured under his breath. “No matter what.” Archer knew it wouldn’t be long no