Tramp in Armour

ELEVEN Sunday, May 26th

General Storch stormed into the Lemont farmhouse which was his temporary headquarters, his voice preceding him down the narrow passage.

‘Meyer! Where are you?’ He reached the entrance to the room serving as his office, closed the door quickly and took off his cap. ‘Ah, there you are! What has gone wrong?’ He was talking rapidly as he strode to a table clothed with a large-scale map of the area. ‘I have just heard that you have sent an instruction countermanding my order.’

‘Only provisionally, sir.’ Colonel Meyer stood up behind the table and screwed the monocle into his eye, his expression worried. This was going to be another bad night.

‘But it was only an hour ago that we went over the order together – the order to attack at dawn, at 04.00 hours. That road to Dunkirk is only three inches under the waterline in spite of the fact that the French opened the sluice gates at Gravelines – so what has happened since?’

Meyer picked up the message form from the table and held it out for the general to read, but Storch ignored it, stripping off his gloves, his voice urgent.

‘You’ve read it, so tell me.’

‘It’s a message from GHQ, which came in after you’d left, sir. It was because of this that ,I issued my order – to be confirmed later subject to your approval.’

‘What are the armchair lot up to now?’

‘The message is not complete – it was garbled in transmission. We’re still having trouble with the wireless but I’m sure the meaning is clear.’

‘We haven’t much time,’ the general reminded him, examining the map as he spoke.

‘It orders us to halt on the waterline, to stay where we are now. General von Bock will attack the BEF from Belgium. I gather that General von Rundstedt is worried about the condition of the tanks, and that’s why he’s halting us.’

‘May I see it?’ Storch took the message and read it through several times, then looked up cynically. ‘It doesn’t really say all that – and it’s certainly garbled.’

Meyer took a death breath. ‘When I was talking to Rundstedt on the field telephone several days ago in your absence he explained his views – he wishes to preserve the armoured forces for the coming battle against the French south of the Somme.’

‘Yes, I remember.’ Storch hardly seemed to be listening. ‘I have just heard from Keller that this submerged road is not covered by the enemy – our patrol advanced halfway along it before dark without meeting any opposition. I’ve had the patrol pulled back to Lemont for the night.’

‘On the surface it does look promising,’ Meyer reluctantly agreed.

‘Actually, the road is under the surface.’ Storch flashed a confident smile and it made Mayer feel even more exhausted to see the general looking as though he had just risen from an excellent night’s sleep. ‘So the road to Dunkirk really is open, Meyer. Even allowing for a cautious passage by our tanks the advance forces will be inside Dunkirk two hours after dawn. And once we have Dunkirk the whole BEF is in our hands -over a quarter of a million men.’

‘But the message from GHQ…’ Meyer began.

‘I think we can deal with this. It’s badly garbled and the most recent order we received was quite clear – advance up the coast and seize the ports. That is what we shall do – we shall seize the last port. Dunkirk.’

‘I have asked the wireless operator to try and get through to obtain clarification.’

‘Then we shall have another confused reply which will make matters worse. Cancel the request for clarification.’

He waited while Meyer picked up the phone and gave the order, replacing the receiver reluctantly.

‘What is really worrying you, Meyer?’

‘I’m bothered about the huge concentration of ammunition at the dump. In this confined area inside the waterline…’

‘You have sufficient for the operation?’

‘Too much really…’

‘We can never have too much.’ He pulled his cap on firmly. ‘So we record the receipt of this latest message as being so garbled that it is meaningless. And now you can send off the confirmatory copy of my order to attack to Advanced Headquarters. We should be able to spare one staff car from our entry into Dunkirk. Send off the car within the hour.’

The colonel swallowed. Storch had now covered himself completely. By the time the staff car reached Advanced Headquarters the Panzers would be on the move along the partially submerged road.

‘Our rear, sir,’ Meyer persisted. ‘It is hardly protected at all, everything is facing north and east.’

‘Precisely! The British are in front of us, Meyer, not behind us. We advance at dawn as planned.’

The clock on Meyer’s desk registered 12.10 am.

Racing through the night, the transporter weaved steadily from one side of the road to the other and then back again as ^ Reynolds struggled desperately to prevent the German, truck from passing them. Again, the crisis had arisen with hardly any warning. Barnes checked his watch. 12.15 am.

Reynolds had warned them that headlights were coming up behind them very fast and that he thought it was another truckload of German soldiers. A sixth sense had told Barnes that it was highly unlikely that they would be able to repeat their previous deception and then he heard the horn blowing. The horn had gone on blowing ever since, and for a while the truck had been content to stay on their tail.

‘Sounds as though he’d like a word with us,’ said Colburn.

‘I’m sure he would,’ replied Barnes grimly.

‘I don’t see how they could have cottoned on to us.’

‘The road-block we smashed up. Someone must have sounded the alarm and sent this lot after us.’

Reynolds glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘He’s going to try and pass us.’

‘Don’t let him.’

So Reynolds had started weaving the giant vehicle backwards and forwards across the road, blocking the track’s path each time it attempted to move up. Colburn had been surprised that they hadn’t opened fire, but Barnes had pointed out that behind the cab stood a tank with a 70-mm armour-plating and that the Germans must realize there was a tank aboard from the shape of the tarpaulin. They must also have realized that machine-pistol fire would scarcely scratch the plating, let alone penetrate the full length of the tank to reach the cab. And that, Barnes supposed, was why they were so anxious to pass – so that they could send a blast of bullets into the cab from the front. It couldn’t go on like this much longer, he was quite sure. They had to do something about that truck. He explained his plan briefly to them and then he opened the door and threw it back flat against the side of the transporter. The horn behind them was still blowing like a banshee. He went out backwards, holding on to the upper door frame while his right foot stepped inside the metal climbing rung. Looped over his shoulder, the machine-pistol didn’t help his balance and at the speed they were travelling the wind velocity buffeted bis body like a minor hurricane and tried to tear him away from his precarious grip. He stayed there for a second and wondered whether he was in full view of the truck, but the tarpaulin-shrouded tank was acting as a screen. Very carefully he sent his left foot out into space, feeling for the deck behind the cab. The foot felt nothing as the transporter lurched sideways and he nearly came off. There were too many things to cope with at once – keeping his grip, anticipating the violent swerves of the transporter, feeling around for the deck – and all the time the wind rush tore savagely at his body. This was worse, far worse, then he had expected. It was taking him all his time to hang on. Then his shoulder wound began to throb viciously and suddenly he felt dizzy and his head started to swim. That decided him. All or nothing. Gritting his teeth he made a supreme effort, lifting his left leg high, bringing it down where the deck should be. His foot hammered down on hard flat wood. He let go with his left hand and grabbed for die tarpaulin rope, praying that it was firmly attached to the rear of the cab. He pulled at the rope and when it held firm he let go with his right hand, his whole weight suspended from the rope now. At that moment the transporter swerved again and the violence of the momentum hurled him outwards.

His body described a complete arc of a hundred and eighty degrees, his left foot pivoting under him, his hand sliding down the rope, then his body slammed back against the tank with fearful impact and he ended up facing outwards, still clutching the rope with only his left hand as his right foot scrabbled for a hold on the deck. For several seconds he hung there helplessly, dazed with pain because when the swing of the arc had brought him round to crash backwards against the covered hull the first point of impact which took the shock was his wounded shoulder. Waves of dizziness trembled through his brain, a feeling of sickness welled up, and beyond it all the guns boomed, the horn shrieked, and the transporter swayed crazily from side to side. He was done for, he couldn’t summon up enough will-power to do anything but hang on. He fought down the sickness, tasted salty blood in his mouth where he had bitten through his lip, and then he felt Jacques grasp him, one hand round each upper arm. The grip steadied him while he grasped the rope with both hands, hauling himself in between the cab and the rear of the tank. Then, he flopped forward on the canvas over the engine covers and lay quite still, gulping in great breaths of air, desperately fighting for self-control as his wound screamed at him. He was vaguely aware that Jacques was lying beside him next to the turret. And all the time the vehicle swayed insidiously from side to side under him as he tried to push away the feeling that he was blacking out.

It was a terrible struggle to recover quickly, to get his choking breath back to normal, to push under the blinding waves of pain, but two things stimulated his recovery – the rush of fresh air and the insistent shrieking of the horn which continually alerted him of the imminent danger. Telling Jacques to keep flat he forced himself up on his knees, scooping up a ridge of tarpaulin to conceal his position. Then he extracted two spare magazines from his pockets, rested them behind the ridge and lowered himself flat, the machine-pistol next to his shoulder. Clubbing his fist he gave the agreed signal, banging three times on the rear of the cab.

The transporter stopped weaving and pulled over to the right side of the road, still moving at high speed, allowing free access for the truck to pass. I’ve got to get this just right, Barnes told himself. Head down until the exact moment when the covered part of the truck is alongside us – the part which sheltered the troops inside. No need to fire at the driver at once -I want to get the lot – and they won’t shoot at Reynolds from their own cab for fear he swerves into them. He kept his head down and heard the truck coming up as Reynolds drove well into his own lane. The truck was coming up with a roar. He felt the transporter lift slightly as they started going uphill. Now! He flattened the canvas ridge with the gun muzzle and his heart sank – the truck was much farther past than he had expected, the cab already beyond Reynolds, the covered side spread out in front of him. Pressing the trigger he swivelled the gun methodically low down along the canvas wall, just above the wooden side, sweeping the muzzle in slow arcs. Empty! He was ramming in a fresh magazine when Jacques called out: a German soldier peered round the end of the truck, machine-pistol aimed. Barnes fired, the man fell into the road as Barnes swivelled the muzzle back again, his finger pressing steadily on the trigger, a stream of bullets ripping and tearing through the canvas along one continuous strip. At that moment Reynolds took a hand.

The road was climbing an embankment up to a bridge and the driver gave the pre-arranged signal, two long blasts on his own horn. Barnes shouted to Jacques to hold on tight and braced himself for the impact as the transporter began to speed up and edge across the road, moving ahead of the truck as it shifted its course to hit the truck broadside on. They were close to the summit when the German driver lost his nerve, swerving away when the colossus was only inches from him.

Lifting his head Barnes saw the truck spin over sideways, falling from view. As they went over the bridge he heard a muffled thump, a boom, and then flames flared in the night behind them. The petrol tank had gone. The next thing he heard was a terrifying shriek of brakes, the transporter’s brakes.

The view from the cab was frightening. Reynolds had heard the stutter of Barnes’ gun, had concentrated half his attention on that final manoeuvre which had destroyed the truck, then he was sweeping over the bridge at high speed. The road was going down now and he saw what faced him in a flash. Head-, lights blazed on a stone wall dead ahead, a right-hand turn at the bottom. Then the headlights were swinging wildly as he desperately tried to negotiate the unexpected hazard, braking, turning, going straight through the wall with a tremendous smash, the immense weight of the vehicle piercing the wall like butter. The whole transporter shuddered, knocking aside a small tree, skidded across the garden, then it stopped.

Barnes lay still for a moment, collecting himself, still clutching the machine-pistol. He had been warned by the shriek of brakes and he had been saved by the pillow of spare canvas between himself and the rear of the cab, and his own body had saved Jacques when the lad was thrown against him. They got up cautiously, like men expecting a limb to fall off, and Colburn was waiting for them at the foot of the open cab door, his pistol under his arm, blood oozing from a cut on his forehead and gash on the back of his left hand. He said they were little more than scratches.

‘Is Reynolds all right?’ asked Barnes.

‘Reynolds is all right,’ said Reynolds from the cab. ‘I don’t know why, but he’s all right. Probably only because he was inside this brute – we went through that wall like going through paper. I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he added, ‘but I was concentrating on the truck and when we got over the bridge the wall was on top of me. And by the way, this job,’ he banged the wheel, ‘is a write-off. So it’s back to Bert now.’

‘You did damned well. No one could have survived in that truck – I riddled it before you bounced it over the edge and then the petrol went up – but I’ll go back and make sure in a minute. It’s a good job you braked when you did – we wouldn’t have gone through that like paper.’

He pointed to the house. Barely six feet beyond where the transporter had pulled up stood an ancient three-storey mansion. All the windows were broken, a wall creeper almost covered the front door, and the garden in which the transporter rested was knee-deep in weeds. No one had lived there for a long time, which was probably just as well: opening the front door to find a tank transporter in the garden could be a disconcerting experience. Reynolds tried the engine several times but it refused to function, and while Barnes went back over the bridge Colburn and Jacques helped the driver to pull the tarpaulin off Bert.

Barnes approached the bridge with caution. Reaching the top he crouched behind the wall and peered over the edge to where the wrecked truck was still on fire. There was no sign of life but there was every sign of death. The vehicle had landed with its wheels in the air and by the light of the flames he saw huddled shapes lying in the grass, but the only thing which moved was the flames. Few of the men in the back could have survived the murderous fire of his machine-pistol, and any who did would have perished when the truck tumbled down the steep embankment. He doubted whether anyone was alive when the petrol tank blew. When he turned round to walk back he froze, his taut nerves trying to cope with the fact that a new crisis was at hand.

Headlights were coming down the road from the opposite direction. They were still some distance away but he gained the impression that they were approaching at speed. Running down the slope he heard the welcome sound of Bert’s engines starting up, but they still had to lower the ramp and bring Bert down it, and he knew there wouldn’t be time to do that before the oncoming vehicle arrived. Colburn must have seen something in his face because he asked the question immediately.

‘More trouble?’

‘I’m not sure. There’s something coming down the road from the north – on its own.’

‘We’d better set up an ambush. I’ll take the other side of the road…’

‘No, stick with me – otherwise we may end up shooting each other. Jacques, tell Reynolds to switch off his engine and sit tight. You get behind the end wall of the house and stay there. Come on, Colburn…’

The vehicle was quite close now and it sounded like a car, but it was still hidden by the bend in the road, and it was still travelling at high speed. They ran a short distance into the garden, stopping at a point where an undamaged section of the wall was shoulder-high. Peering over the wall-top beyond the bend Barnes saw that the headlights were quite close. He ducked out of sight and heard the car begin to lose speed as the headlights reached the bend. Well, they wouldn’t get far once they turned the corner and found half the wall strewn in their path. He looked back and wasn’t too happy to see that the glow of fire beyond the bridge clearly silhouetted the transporter with a British tank nestling on its deck.

‘I think it’s stopping,’ Colburn whispered.

‘It’s bloody well going to have to.’

‘It may be a civilian.’

‘Only people like Jacques are mad enough to drive about in battle zones.’

He timed it carefully, keeping low as the car crawled round the bend and then pulled up, its engine still ticking over. As he lifted his head he heard a clash of gears and the car began to reverse back round the bend. He had a quick impression -a black Mercedes staff car, the hood back, a German soldier driving and beside him an officer in a peaked cap clutching something to his chest. It was almost beyond the bend now, reversing rapidly. He lifted the machine-pistol, cradled it into his. shoulder, and rested the barrel on the wall-top. Aiming about two feet above the headlights he fired. One long burst. He heard a brief shatter of breaking glass and the car went crazy, still reversing but snaking from side to side. He fired again, arcing the gun. The car swung wildly sideways, crashed its rear into the wall and halted, its headlights shining on the opposite wall. The engine had stopped.

The driver was hunched over the wheel, head and shoulders drenched in blood. The passenger-seat door was open and the officer lay in the roadway on his back, capless, arms outstretched, staring up at the stars. A few feet from his right hand lay a half-open briefcase, the case he had clutched so firmly to his chest when the emergency had arisen. Barnes checked the officer, whose chest was torn with the bullets where the arc had moved across him and lifted one shoulder. He was a major, a dead major. Picking up the briefcase, Barnes took out a paper while Colburn examined the rear seat; holding the paper in front of the headlights he grunted.

‘This is your pigeon. You said you could speak German, Colburn, can you read it as well? This looks as though it could be interesting.’

‘Let me have a look.’

He scanned the lines briefly and then looked up, his face very serious.

‘This is interesting. It’s a battle order and this copy is for some Advanced Headquarters. Let me check it again to make sure I’ve got it right.’

‘This staff car can tell us something;’ said Barnes thoughtfully. ‘They can’t possibly be expecting anyone coming up from this direction or else it wouldn’t be travelling without escort. We may surprise the bastards yet.’

‘This document[6] is going to surprise you, Barnes. The German 14th Panzer Division is going to attack Dunkirk at dawn. They’ve found some secret road to the port just under the water – the whole area must be flooded along that part of the front as far as I can gather. Apparently this road is built up from the surrounding countryside so it’s only a few inches under the floods.’

‘Does it give the start-line for the attack?’

‘Yes, the funny thing is it’s Jacques’ home town – the attack is being launched from Lemont at 04.00 hours.’

Barnes knew that at the eleventh hour he had found his worthwhile objective. He checked his watch. 12.25 am.

‘We’ll forget about Calais,’ he said. ‘Jacques is going to take us home.’

‘It gives the name of the general who’s leading the attack.’

‘Really?’ Barnes wasn’t too interested as they hurried back to the transporter.

‘Yes. A General Heinrich Storch.’